Bringing the Spice Back

Following the recent retirement of Mr. Posh Spice* from professional soccer/football, and since I love the Spice Girls unabashedly, I feel obliged to dedicate a post to their creed: GIRL POWER.

There are times in every woman’s life (maybe men go through something similar?) when she feels an urge to surround herself with awesome women. I say the urge should be heeded and embraced. Especially when you can’t remember the last time you spoke to those awesome women, much less spent quality time with them.

Such was my situation, and I felt bad. Thus, I’ve been trying to fix it.

I started on Friday night, by going with my friend Meghann to see Dierks Bentley and Miranda Lambert in concert. We ate dinner at Nexus Brewery (Albuquerque people, if you haven’t eaten there yet, go immediately) and then headed over to the Isleta Amphitheatre for the show. We spread a blanket on the grass, kicked our shoes off, drank over-priced beer, and had quality catch-up time. We laughed over each other’s man stories, people-watched, and successfully kept the blanket and our shoes from getting blown away by the wind. Oh, and the concert was fantastic (Miranda Lambert? Now THAT’S girl power!).

On Sunday, my sister Erin and I ran the World’s Toughest 10k. The race is almost entirely uphill, so the name probably isn’t too far from the truth – but we had fun! We ran side-by-side most of the way, in matching hot pink tank tops. She finished 4th woman overall, and I was 5th. One guy in the finish area even commented that we made a good team. We (graciously, of course) agreed.

That afternoon, I had the privilege of accompanying my friend & expectant mom Melanie to Babies ‘R Us to get her gift registry started. Between thoroughly testing various glider chairs — after all, one must be thorough — and the intoxicating power of the registry gun, we both had a splendid time.

On Tuesday, after a quick run to get the workday off me, I grabbed a bottle of wine and sailed across town to my friend Emily’s apartment. Emily and I are Sex and the City kindred spirits, and we had said for months that we needed to get together and have an SATC party. That evening, we finally just DID it. We did the show proud: Emily whipped up some delicious fish tacos and cosmopolitans, and we kicked back, chatted, and watched one of the best TV shows ever for a good two to three hours. P.S.: Texans know how to make a cocktail.

Wednesday was Meghann’s birthday, which of course required celebrating. We met up at one of our favorite local spots, The Barley Room, with another friend, Cherise. We sat out on the patio, drank some Batch 19, inhaled delicious food, and rang in Meghann’s birthday in a manner that I’m coming to appreciate: by just relaxing. We ended the evening by doing what we should have been doing all along – we made an actual appointment for our next get-together. None of this ambiguous “Let’s do this more often” fluff.

Because girl time = good time. And we all need more of that.

* No offense to David Beckham or his impressive athletic skills. Also, Mr. Beckham, if you’re reading this, and have any single brothers, please let me know.

Choices

Last Thursday, I was tired. Just plain tired. With my social life’s recent shot in the arm (a positive thing, right?), my once-sharp vigilance over my bedtime had disappeared, but wake-up time remained at the same pre-dawn hour. Add to that a string of uber-draining days at work, plus my realization that I had committed the absolute sin of forgetting a friend’s birthday, and the result was: ARGH.

By the end of that day, I was leaning more and more towards skipping my post-work run in favor of a nap and beer. I worried, quite sincerely, that on that day, if a driver or fellow pedestrian did anything to irk me, I might actually resort to violence. Gotta love those days.

Before I made my final decision, I visited www.runnersworld.com to see if Kristin Armstrong had published her weekly blog post yet, since I can generally count on her writing for a mood boost. Lo and behold, she had! And, as usual, she hit the nail on the head: Stuck in a tough patch? Do a hill workout, immediately. Read for yourself: http://www.runnersworld.com/runners-stories/equilibrium.

Thoughts of napping and beer began to recede. As did thoughts of “Okay, I’ll just do two or three miles.” They were replaced by thoughts of “Well, I was going to run to Simms Park Road – why don’t I take a page from the Armstrong Book of Wisdom and run to that road, then up it?” Curving and climbing a little over a mile into Albuquerque’s Northeast Heights, Simms Park Road is what I like to call a “big girl” hill. The times I’ve done repeats on it, I’ve done 3, and that suffices.

Filled with a new determination, I threw on my running clothes and got to trotting. No repeats today; I just wanted one challenging climb, where I could unload mental ballast along the way, and let go of the last of it when I reached the top and took in the scenery.

I reached the base of the hill and started up. As I climbed, I found myself dwelling on the things that had been bothering me, and not in any productive way – it just made me grumpy. I remembered that Kristin had written about praying as she ran along, and I gave that a try. I said prayers of thanks. I said prayers for friends and family members. I said a prayer for the lady cyclist who called out “Good job!!” as she pedaled past me that day. And multiple times, I prayed the words intoned by, again, Ms. Armstrong, in earlier posts: Thank you for hills and the strength to climb.

I don’t know how quickly I ran up that hill. I probably would have run faster if I had let the day’s frustration and anger fuel my strides, but you know what? I’m glad I didn’t. I got to the top, took a few breaths, and turned around, ready to let the scenery sink in and work its therapeutic magic.

I didn’t need it. I was already there.

Talk about an “Aha!” moment.

After enjoying the view for a few token beats (it is a great view, and deserves appreciation) I jogged back down the hill and back home.

No nap, no beer. Just a little restored equilibrium.

Run for the Zoo

With four races – a half-marathon, a 10k, a competitive 5k, and a fun run 5k – Albuquerque’s Run for the Zoo could easily become the very thing for which it raises money.

Not so.

Although I’ve run the 10k a few times, I abstained from running any of the races this year since I’m still easing back after my marathon. My sister Erin, however, ran the half-marathon, which meant I got to play one of my favorite running roles: cheerleader! Just, um, without any herkies or cartwheels.

Erin and I picked up her race packet on Saturday afternoon and found the packet pick-up scene crowded, but well-managed. A couple of changes I’ve noticed over the last several years: one, the packet pick-up moved from a local sports store to a hotel. BIG improvement, as picking up my packet at the sports store was starting to feel a little too much like Lord of the Flies. At the hotel, there was an actual line to get bib numbers! And people respected it! Second change: there’s now a mini pre-race expo. Say the words “pre-race expo” and I always get giddy, even if it’s just a couple of vendors. Running shopportunities = bliss.

We didn’t buy anything, but we made it through the experience smoothly. That evening, we went out to dinner at Farina Alto, where I, staunchly loyal sister that I am, vicariously carbo-loaded on delicious pizza.

The race’s start time the next morning was 7 am. It demanded an early wake-up call, but doing the first race of the day also meant that we had our pick of the parking. No stress there whatsoever. We meandered to the starting area. More wins for the Run for the Zoo: ample porta-potties, and a start line and finish line that are close, but not on top of each other. The main hub of activity is contained to several blocks: just about perfect.

Now the weather…well, nothing’s perfect. From year to year, the weather at this event see-saws more violently than a pair of six-year-old boys. This year, the temperature was great, but the wind was…character-building [I say “character-building”; my sister probably has more colorful language for it].

I delivered Erin to the starting line and saw her off. My intention was to trot to a couple points along the course to cheer her along, but that plan got scrapped once I realized that only the very beginning and very end of the race were easily accessible to spectators. Oh well. I got in a few miles’ run, narrowly avoided getting lost [don’t laugh, Albuquerque residents, it IS possible to get lost downtown!], and snagged a prime finish line vantage point. Erin rolled in, with me hollering and wishing I had pom-poms, as the 7th overall woman, and 2nd in her age group!

More points for the Run for the Zoo: easily accessible beverages and snacks in the finish area, free coffee for EVERYONE (not just the runners), rapidly-posted race results, and rapidly-distributed awards. No forced milling around, no “technical glitch” delays. Beautiful.

One of the best parts of the Run for the Zoo is that runners get free admission into the zoo that day. We didn’t take advantage of that this year – breakfast burritos were calling our names, and then Erin had to head back to Alamosa – but maybe next year. As long as the cheetahs don’t look at us runners too hungrily.

Cheers to the New Mexico BioPark Society for putting on a great event!

Runners in Zumba Land

I drove towards the Maple Street Dance Space in downtown Albuquerque on Saturday morning, a little flutter in my belly. Was this Zumba thing really a sound idea? Was I about to make a giant fool of myself?

The feeling didn’t dissipate as I circled what I knew to be the right block. Where was this place? Was I supposed to just magically find it, like the train platform that Harry Potter and his friends used when they went to Hogwarts?

Luckily, before I tried to run through any walls, I saw my friends Katrijn and Courtney. Katrijn would be leading our Zumba class; Courtney, like me, was a first-timer.

We all walked into the dance studio (which had a discrete entrance, but not as secret as I had originally suspected). As we waited for the session before us to end, I looked around in appreciation. Not like I know much – or anything – about dance spaces, but this one seemed nice: simple, but spacious. Maybe I wouldn’t knock anyone out with my flailing limbs after all!

About a dozen other students filtered in, and our class began, with Courtney and I placing ourselves strategically in the back row.

What followed was an hour of hip-shaking, arm-swinging, quick-stepping, sassy…fun!

It didn’t matter that my legs were bewildered the entire time (“Um, we’re used to just running in a straight line. What is all this hopping and gyrating about?”). Katrijn led us skillfully and patiently, and thankfully gave us water breaks. We danced to catchy music, laughed at ourselves, and clapped after every song (I dunno, it just felt right). I didn’t feel embarrassed when my feet couldn’t quite keep up or if my arms waved errantly. It reminded me of yoga, where everyone is concentrating so much on themselves that they don’t notice the actions – or missteps – of anyone around them. I can’t remember the last time exercise felt so festive!

Verdict: I like Zumba, and I would do it again. Not to mention it sure felt good to re-awaken those endorphins with some sustained activity. So good, in fact, that I decided to make the next day Reunion Day. Reunion with what or whom, you ask?

RUNNING!

Getting back to the running life on Sunday felt especially appropriate for two reasons: 1) The utterly spectacular weather, and 2) My friend Randy’s stellar performance at a Florida triathlon that morning. Randy (owner of the ABQ Running Shop, remember?) has been trying to get his pro card for a while now. I don’t know all the details, but when you get a pro card, it essentially means you’re an awesome triathlete. Well, with this latest race, he got it!!!

The happy news gave me the final motivation I needed to lace up my running shoes and head out the door after a 12-day hiatus. It wasn’t poetic or particularly Earth-moving; I trotted three miles and it took at least two of them to work the kinks out of my legs. A Runner’s World cover girl I was not. But I was back out there!

Would it have been wrong to clap at the end, Zumba style?

I Cannot Tell a Lie…

…I love post-marathon recovery time.

I’m not one of those runners that gets itchy when separated from running for more than 48 hours. In fact, to sustain my love for running, I deliberately shoo it out of my life every once in a while.

Post-marathon life has felt like one gigantic exhale. I’ve tucked away my foam roller and massage stick, weaned myself off the ibuprofen, and let a few dust particles settle on my training log. I don’t get anxious if I stay up past 9:30. It felt strange at first, but soooo good. Liberating.

I don’t know if it was some sort of reaction to the events in Boston or what, but after the marathon, I had all this weird energy. Energy that needed spending. You know when you’re tired, but still feel a stubborn restlessness? That was it. I don’t remember feeling that way after other marathons, but Lord knows every marathon is different.

I’ve been spending that energy. I went out with a friend on a weeknight, and stayed up past my bedtime. I attended a Pampered Chef party. I visited Lowe’s, went on a plant shopping spree, then came home and planted what I fondly call my “Patio Ranchito.” Fingers crossed that the plants flourish, because my mouth is watering already at the thought of home-grown peppers and herbs.

But all planting and no play makes Shannon a dull girl, no? After getting my hands satisfactorily dirty, I washed up, pulled on my boots and went out to a country bar with three friends. After a couple of Shiner Bocks and a few high-spirited numbers played by the band, the following happened:

1) I rode a mechanical bull.
2) I attempted two-stepping.

The bull ride was FABULOUS. I’d had reservations about it, but with my marathon [i.e. concerns about injury] behind me, and seeing that the bull was encased by cushiony mats akin to a moonbounce, I put my fears aside. I slung myself on that thing, and I’m proud to say I stayed on for longer than 8 seconds!

The two-stepping was…well…I stunk. Luckily, my dancing partner could two-step quite competently, and was very patient. I’m just glad I didn’t step on his feet – and it turns out, a lackluster dance experience isn’t so different from a lackluster running experience. I want to try it again and do better, darn it!

After the bull-riding and two-stepping [and, ahem, staying out past 1 a.m.; my training self was squeaking in panic, but I shushed her up], that restless energy still buzzed under my skin. Fortunate, since I had agreed to crew for my friend Charity at a hot air balloon event the next morning. I’ll just say that strong coffee is a wonderful, wonderful thing. And I got to enjoy another benefit of post-marathon recovery time: after everyone finished their flights, I could actually hang out and enjoy the tailgating, rather than my usual routine of relaxing briefly, then dashing off to do my run.

I’ll get back to running soon. Very soon.

Until then? I think I hear a beginner’s Zumba class calling my name. Heaven help us.

Boston

The story of the 2013 Boston Marathon deserves to have more than just its tragic ending told.

I’ll get to that ending, but first, I want to give the race’s positive aspects – and there were many – their due.

My parents and I arrived in Boston on Saturday. Our hotel, the Hyatt Regency, stood within walking distance of everything we needed – beautiful! That evening, we ate at the Union Oyster House, the oldest continuously-operating restaurant in the nation. I gazed longingly at the shellfish being consumed all around me, but played it safe with broiled scrod. Still delicious.

On Sunday, we went to mass (not the “marathoner’s mass,” but a good one nonetheless, with the priest reminding us that we are capable of much more than we think) and then ventured to the pre-race expo. Whoa. I’d forgotten what really big expos are like. We wandered around and bought a couple things; when our eyes had glazed over sufficiently, we headed back to the hotel. Dad went for a run, Mom and I relaxed, and then it was time for…pre-marathon dinner! In Boston, this means a trip to the North End, a.k.a. Pasta Heaven. That evening, I found new appreciation for homemade pasta. And cannoli. But all good carbo-loading must come to an end, and the next day was…

Marathon Monday!

Seemingly, and rightfully, everything associated with the Boston Marathon gets described as “something to see at least once in your lifetime.” This begins with the buses pulling away from Boston Common. Dozens of buses, all in a single line, tasked with delivering over 25,000 runners to the mild-mannered town of Hopkinton. It’s awe-inspiring. And then, the Hopkinton staging area itself: such fertile ground for utter chaos, but somehow, things stay organized, and every runner lands in their assigned starting corral. Again, awe-inspiring.

And then the race actually starts.

I won’t go into much detail about my own race experience – at this point, it seems trivial. The weather was magnificent. The fans, as they always do in Boston, set a new standard for cheering. I owe a special thanks to God and my foam roller, because eight days prior, I tweaked my knee and wasn’t certain I’d be able to run 26.2 miles at all. My finishing time was 3:15:52. My legs were screaming, but my knee stayed quiet. I was grateful.

After finding my parents in the family meet-up area, I was cold, my body hurt, and, per Hal Higdon’s “27th mile” rule, I knew I needed to keep moving. So after a couple quick photo ops, we walked [ok, I didn’t walk; I wobbled] back to our hotel, about a mile and a half or so from the finish line.

Shortly thereafter, my friend Tara called. “Are you okay?” –“Um, yeah.” – “Are you in your hotel room? Turn on the news.”

Oh.

Oh.

I’ve read things like “the marathon has been ruined” and “running is broken.”

I disagree.

Two thoughts keep running through my mind. One: Yes, the Boston Marathon is the oldest marathon in the world, with prestige and high visibility. Whoever is responsible for this horror knew that.

But do they know anything about runners? Do they know anything about marathoners? Do they know anything about the Boston Marathon?

Remember the tornado in Joplin, Missouri a couple years ago? There was supposed to have been a race there. It got cancelled…but many registrants showed up anyway to help with community clean-up. Same goes for last year’s New York Marathon. Running, in spite of being such an individual sport (or maybe because of this?), is one closely-knit community. We help each other.

Runners are also tough, and resilient. When we train for marathons, we put in months of work. We voluntarily put our bodies, minds and spirits through tests of sometimes-nightmarish rigor. We have bad runs and get over them. We have injuries and get over them. We soil ourselves in every way imaginable, and see others doing the same, and we get over it. We share water, food, toilet paper, elation, and despair. We keep on running. And the Boston Marathon? It’s been around for 117 YEARS. That is commitment. That is resilience.

Whoever is responsible for this doesn’t know us at all.

The second thing that I keep thinking about is what happened after those explosions. I have never witnessed such an outpouring of support and concern – not just directed at me personally, but everywhere, by everyone (major kudos, by the way, to the Hyatt Regency staff, who treated us marathoners and our families like 24-karat gold).

What happened in Boston is atrocious. But if there’s any sort of lesson, any sort of positive speck that I’m taking from this, it is that PEOPLE CARE.

I have plenty of jaded moments, thinking how disconnected we’ve become as a society, thinking how ego-centric people are, myself included. I’m ashamed that it took something like this to make me realize the error of this attitude.

The truth is: despite widespread cynicism, there still is community, there still is connection. To paraphrase my favorite movie, “Love, actually, is all around us.”

Running isn’t broken. Marathons aren’t ruined. They are, however, in need. They need prayer, and they need people. Resilient people. People with quiet yet ferocious tenacity. People who the word “unwavering” doesn’t even begin to describe. People who keep at something, not for attention or any grand, showy purpose, but simply because it’s part of who they are.

I don’t know about the rest of you runners, but I know a person or two just like that.

Let’s keep running.

Countdown To Beantown

I just remembered…

I’m running the Boston Marathon!

It’s easy, during training, to get distracted by the process. We pick a race, we register, and we get down to business. We choose a training plan. We keep track of our workouts and mileage with…I admit…sometimes freakish attention to detail. We studiously consume produce of varying colors, use foam rollers and massage sticks, and are probably more aware of bedtime than the parents of a toddler. Ok, almost, for that last one [I know many parents of toddlers. God bless them.].

I’ve been doing each of these. Scarily, I could probably find the tart cherry juice and spinach at my grocery store blindfolded. So those moments when I remember the point to all this, which have grown more frequent as April 15 draws nearer, seem positively magical.

Boston!

The race has so much history and so many stories, someone could teach a college course about it, if they don’t already.

In the last few weeks, several people have asked me if I’m excited. I’ve smiled and gamely said “Yeah!” but with lots of other things vying for my brain’s attention: stuff at work, stuff at home, not to mention plenty more training miles to run. No sense tempting fate by getting too excited too early, right?

But now? Forget tempting fate. I’m excited.

This will be my third time running Boston, but that doesn’t make it any less of an event. It just means I know some really, really great things to look forward to. Things like my family’s tradition of eating at the Union Oyster House on Saturday night (don’t worry, I abstain from the shellfish), and at one of Boston’s 87,000 [rough estimate] scrumptious Italian restaurants on Sunday night. Things like the marathoners’ Mass on Sunday, where the priest says a blessing over all the runners present, and where the organist has been known to play the Chariots of Fire theme. Things like the bus ride to Hopkinton.

Oh my Lord, the bus ride! The last time I rode that bus, the majority of the passengers were women. We had a great time with plenty of chatter and laughter, and then…well, let’s just say the bus ride got a little long, and those buses don’t come equipped with toilets. There was nearly a mutiny. Luckily, we arrived in Hopkinton, with its beautiful Porta-Potties, just in time – warm-up sprints are good before a marathon, right?

I’m even looking forward to the race course. I’m looking forward to testing my mental strength and tapping into the restraint required to not go crazy in the first 12 miles. I’m looking forward to running past the ladies of Wellesley, whose vocal chords could make everyone from Mike Ditka to Bob Knight tremble. I’m looking forward to the Newton hills, to beer-fueled frat boys hollering “support” from rooftops, and to turning one of the finest corners in all of runningdom: from Hereford onto Boylston. Here, if nothing else, 117 years of running, give or take thousands of New Englanders, will carry all of us marathoners across the finish line.

Am I excited? Yup.

Let’s do this thing.

Hope

From what I’ve read so far, the book of Jeremiah does a commendable job of depicting a stereotypical “Old Testament God.” There are lots of warnings and ignorings of warnings, not to mention punishing, repentance, backsliding, and more punishing.

I had a solid reason for delving into this book as part of my “Read the Bible in no particular order” project. I know I did. But frankly, it’s pretty grim stuff. As I’ve made my way through it, I’ve kept thinking to myself, “Good Grief, is this book ever going to change its tune?”

Then I read Chapter 31!

A couple of snippets:

“For I will turn their mourning into joy, Will comfort them, And make them rejoice rather than sorrow. I will satiate the soul of the priests with abundance, And my people shall be satisfied with My goodness, says the Lord.” – v. 13-14

“Thus says the Lord: ‘Refrain your voice from weeping, And your eyes from tears; For your work shall be rewarded, says the Lord…There is hope in your future.’” – v. 16

Hope!

I read that chapter and smiled, relieved and comforted (and happy for the Israelites, who finally caught a break). It was the night before Easter Sunday – how’s that for timing? Then, at Mass the next morning, Father Charles told the congregation in his Homily: “Hope has dawned!”

Again: hope.

I could write all day long and never cover all the symbolism and significance of Easter. So many grand nouns, so little time: Awakening. Resurrection. Rebirth. Faith. Life. Revelation.

I like this one: Opening.

On Easter and the days following it, we open. We open our minds to the possibility of miracles. We open our hearts to the idea of triumph, of faith being rewarded. We open our eyes to the splendor all around us – no doubt helped by the colors of early Spring blossoms, pretty Easter dresses, all those pastel Easter eggs and of course the oh-so-yummy candy.

Even if you aren’t the church-going type, doesn’t the world as a whole just seem to lighten and brighten on Easter?

I am so very, very glad to have celebrated this day in the midst of marathon tapering. Easter arrives, with its joy and brightness, after a period of preparation, sacrifice, maybe some introspection. It is at once a restoration and validation of hope. Sound familiar, runners?

From a morale standpoint, Easter is one spectacular marathon training aid.

Talk about eye-opening: as I dressed for a recent run, I realized that in the blink of an eye – when I publish this post, it’ll be just over a week – I’ll be milling around in Hopkinton, Massachusetts with thousands of other runners. We’ll all feel restless and excited. Some of us will be focused on a PR, some of us will be thankful simply to be there, some of us will have stomachs so nervous it feels like the butterflies are having a knot-tying contest. We will probably all be looking forward to sampling Samuel Adams’ 26.2 brew after the race. Or during. Whatever.

One thing for certain? All of us will hope.

And that’s a tremendous thing.

Happy tapering to all you April marathoners out there!

It’s All Good

I came upon all three of these quotes within 36 hours:

“Things don’t have to be perfect or ‘all,’ they just need to be what you want.” – It is pretty.

“When we wait to be perfect, we wait too long.” – Kristin Armstrong

“Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.” – Voltaire

Little pieces of brilliance, all of them, but encountering them in such quick succession felt…overpowering. Overpowering in a really, really cool way.

I saw the last quote soon after I finished an 18-mile run. Immediately, bells of recognition started jingling in my brain. The run had not been perfect: a steady headwind had blown in my face for approximately 8 miles, and I had ducked into a gas station bathroom just as much to thaw out as to tend to personal needs. But honestly? Despite the wind, the run was good. My legs felt okay, and the last few miles were downright enjoyable (okay, so I had the wind at my back at that point. Minor detail.). Who was I to not relish the good just because it wasn’t perfect?

I have less than three weeks until my marathon. At this point, the goal shifts from mileage, intensity, proper recovery, and the like, to simply: Get to the starting line in one piece.

It’s a time to just hold steady and stay the course (clichés, but true). It’s also a time for reflection. Was my training perfect? No. Was it good? Am I happy with it? YES. I hit higher weekly mileage than I ever have before. I did all the long runs, did speed work and some hill work, and I’ve had no [knocking on wood like crazy here!] side-lining injuries. I have incredibly supportive friends and family, a huge blessing.

I’m going to take all of this goodness and run with it. Literally.

There’s more to taper time, though. Taper time means a return to that other kind of life – when there’s actually time and energy to do stuff after running! Dishes, laundry, cleaning, spending time with friends – they get done!

The quotes above carry weight in these areas, too. Getting stuff done is awesome. Re-gaining, or maintaining, diligence when it comes to housework, career, even love life is highly commendable. But do any of these need to be absolutely perfect? How often do we let a metaphorical headwind keep us from enjoying otherwise solidly-good circumstances?

In marathon training, we work hard for months – and then you know what we get to do? We get to enjoy it. We take a break from all that striving, and we get to say to ourselves, “Good has been done here.” The scaling-back in mileage helps our bodies and minds recover in order to achieve optimal performance on race day.

If we didn’t taper, if we didn’t give ourselves a break and take time to look back with satisfaction, look forward with confidence, and look around the present with calm contentment, what would happen?

Give yourself a break today. Enjoy all of the good.

This isn’t Perfect Friday, after all.

Happy Easter, everyone.

The Saguaro Special

The drive from Albuquerque to Phoenix, if you take I-40 West to 17 South, is one of abrupt scenery changes. One minute you’re surrounded by rolling hills; the next, by vast plains; the next, snow-dappled mountains; and finally but just as suddenly, landscapes of towering saguaro cacti as you descend into the Valley of the Sun.

Phoenix!

My memory is one big happy jumble.

Soon after our arrival, Meghann and I felt compelled to pay a visit to the Arizona Biltmore Resort. It’s every bit as classy as it sounds, but not so much that a pair of dusty travelers couldn’t enjoy a martini on the patio. Talk about a perfect way to unwind after a day of driving!

Friday was Escape From Civilization Day. On a friend’s recommendation, we made tracks for Tom’s Thumb trail in the McDowell Mountain Preserve for some good hiking, good scenery, and some up-close-and-personal time with saguaros. We found all three, and got a surprise that I still can’t get over – just how much greenery Phoenix boasts.

We still had the main reason for our trip ahead of us: BASEBALL. Our first game was on Friday night: the Colorado Rockies (my favorite team) versus the Cincinnati Reds, at the Reds’ Spring Training home field of Goodyear Park. The night did not disappoint, especially when the Rockies won. Even better, there were fireworks after the game. Fabulous!

On Saturday morning I had to take off my vacation shoes and put on my marathon-training shoes. With luck and a little reconnaissance, I’d found a running route – the Arizona Canal path. I started from the Biltmore Resort and just did an out-and-back, which was refreshingly simpler than I had anticipated. Who says you can’t do a 20-mile waterside run in the middle of the desert? There was even a porta-potty along the way, which God knows I always appreciate.

With the run completed, it was time for…MORE BASEBALL! Our game for that afternoon was the L.A. Dodgers versus the Texas Rangers, at Surprise Stadium (yes, there’s a town called Surprise). I don’t know if it was from my run or Spring Training fever, but I have never tasted better hot dogs. Plus, to the delight of us folks used to desert xeriscaping, we were instructed to park in a grassy field. Sandals came off immediately, and after the game, the field turned into one huge picnic. Food, games of catch everywhere…I swear I could hear John Mellencamp singing.

With visions of baseball diamonds still dancing in our heads, we decided to see if we could get tickets for that night’s meeting of the San Francisco Giants and Cleveland Indians. We could. And that place was packed. At one point, Meghann and I stood on the concourse near homeplate, munched our snacks, just people-watching…and saw the most exciting 9th inning either of us has ever witnessed in person. AND…more fireworks!

The next morning, we dawdled. We were sad to leave, but we still had a little something to look forward to: a stop in Winslow, Arizona on the way home. If you’ve never heard of it, listen to the Eagles’ “Take It Easy.” Yup, we stood on that corner. For lunch and some non-musical history, we walked up the street to La Posada Hotel, a beautiful place built in 1930. We enjoyed a delicious lunch of corned beef sandwiches in their restaurant (it was St. Patrick’s Day, after all!) and meandered around the grounds, but eventually had to return to the highway.

For a few days, we had shaken off the all-too familiar dust of stress, fatigue, and (at least in my case) chronic grumpiness, and replaced it with that lovely dust which only exists off the beaten path.

Couldn’t ask for much more than that.

Parallels

Historically, the Boston Red Sox have played their home opener on the day of the Boston Marathon. The timing works perfectly: masses of baseball fans, jubilant with hope for the season ahead, stream out of Fenway Park just as marathoners begin to make their way past it.

I don’t know if that’s still the case, but either way I like the parallel: right now, as thousands of ball players prepare for the 2013 season of America’s favorite pastime, thousands of runners are preparing for the 2013 staging of America’s oldest marathon.

Considering all of this in hindsight, it seems delightfully fitting that a couple months ago I took my friend Meghann up on her idea of going to watch baseball’s Spring Training in Arizona this weekend – the last weekend before my marathon tapering starts. The whole notion has a fun, kind of All-American feel to it. Like pie.

Just a coincidence, then, that I was seized by the urge to make pie this past weekend? I made two: cherry (my first-ever cherry pie!) and Girl Scout Cookie Pie (very similar to pecan pie, only with coarsely-chopped Samoa and Tagalong cookies instead of pecans).

I don’t know about you, but unless I’m seriously pressed for time, I like making my own pie crust. I don’t claim to be an expert at it – my pies will probably never make the cover of Southern Living magazine – but there’s just something so satisfying about knowing a crust was shaped by my hands and not Sara Lee elves or whoever.

Anyway, it occurred to me, as I gingerly transferred lattice pieces from wax paper to pie, that making pie crust isn’t so different from marathon training. It takes focus and attention to detail. Tricks and nuances are learned with the gaining of experience. The process as a whole really isn’t terribly difficult; it just takes a little effort. And love. If you don’t love running, you probably won’t toe the starting line of any marathon, and if you aren’t willing to put love into that pie crust, you may as well just head straight for the freezer aisle at the grocery store.

With both marathon training and pie crust wrangling, it’s easy to get overly stressed. So, so easy. Doubts pop up: Have I run enough miles? Did I cut the dough enough before adding the liquid? Those intervals weren’t as fast as I wanted. WHY does this dough keep TEARING?? And so on, until you’ve worked yourself into a full-fledged, shall we say, state. I have been there. It’s not pretty. And it tends to frighten dogs and small children.

But it’s avoidable! It all comes back to the old theme of faith. We have to have faith in the finished product. Chances are, barring a catastrophe like an oven that suddenly decides to malfunction, or freakishly hot race-day weather, things will turn out fine. We have to keep breathing, shrug off that unpleasant run or stubborn lattice crust, and simply trust. Even if it means stepping away from the kitchen for a few moments, or taking a quick road trip to tread something other than that same old running path.

Me? I’m going to watch some baseball.

Opening a Window

One of my favorite days of the year is the first day that I can throw open my living room window. No heater or air-conditioner running – just fresh air wafting in; the first stirrings of Spring. I know Winter hasn’t yet had its last say, and yes, Albuquerque’s “fresh air” does carry its share of dust, but still – it’s just so refreshing.

It’s a rare treat when you get an entire weekend like that.

On Saturday morning, I eased out of bed and shuffled across my apartment to peer at the outside thermometer. Forty degrees! And with the sun warming its engines, this would be my first long run in ages where I wouldn’t need a third layer, or even a head covering. Happiness!!!

After waking up my body somewhat and breakfasting on toast with honey (my new favorite pre-run nosh), I velcroed my fuel belt and headed into the sunshine. I don’t know if it was the weather, or the fact that I upped my Gu intake to two packs, but the run went better than expected. Two days prior, I had done what I call my “semi-long” run of the week, and had been pleased with that. Saturday morning’s distance was 20 miles – a distance that always checks my gut, no matter how many marathons I run. So imagine my surprise when I found my legs actually had energy in the last few miles!

When I finished that run, it was like opening a window for my spirit and legs and brain all at once. Coupled with Thursday’s run, it was a breath – no, a breeze – of fresh air in my training log: that first promise of efforts coming to fruition, that first real suggestion that things really will work out fine.

The good vibes continued after the run. That afternoon, I went to pick up my Pampered Chef order from the party I’d attended a couple weeks ago. It felt like another Christmas! Then I headed over to the Albuquerque Convention Center to catch some of the action at the USA Track & Field Indoor National Championships. I swear, the clanging of the bell for the final lap is one of the most exciting sounds in the world.

After the meet (and after my heart stopped doing its sympathy racing), I met my friend Tara at Zacatecas, a Mexican place neither of us had tried yet. Between the margaritas (I felt compelled to test Kristin Armstrong’s theory on the anti-inflammatory properties of tequila), the yummy food, live music, and the fun that always accompanies a girls’ night out, we were favorably impressed by the place.

And Sunday? The fresh air kept a-blowin’. I slept in, watched an episode of “Downton Abbey” in my pajamas, went to church, and went for a shake-the-legs-out run in (more happiness!!) capris. I thought my bare-calved legs would break into a jig of their own accord. Then back to the track meet, where I got to see the young phenom Mary Cain run…well…like a phenom. So cool.

Eventually, the air did cool off, and I had to close the window. But it will open again soon.

Wishing all of you an open window and a little fresh air, however they happen.

Celebrating

For Christmas I received a book called Amazing Things Will Happen, by C.C. Chapman. It’s one of those books written to help you kick-start your life. My favorite chapter so far is called “Celebrate Success of All Sizes,” in which Mr. Chapman notes, “We are taught to celebrate major milestones. New jobs, babies, and awards are always a good place to start. But what about the smaller victories that might happen daily? Why are we not celebrating those?”

What a great question. Think of all the negativity permeating the world. People love to complain. We gripe about work, about traffic, about the weather – no matter what season. Take a peek at your Facebook feed. How many positive, uplifting posts do you see?

I know it happens in running. If a race doesn’t go exactly to our liking, it’s incredibly easy to find ourselves mentally, if not verbally, pointing out excuses, a.k.a. the negatives. “That headwind stunk.” “The race was poorly organized.” “I got a cramp.” “What, no gourmet meal after the race??!”

All of this sometimes gets labeled as “healthy venting,” and maybe it is. To an extent. But what about venting good stuff instead of the bad so often? It’s not easy, especially with folks all-too-ready to write off an optimist as a “Pollyanna” with a little smirk on their faces. Optimism requires a combination of thick skin, resilience, and a liberal splash of plain old-fashioned stubbornness.

I like finding things to be happy about. I went out to buy a new pair of running shoes last week and, after a bit of an ordeal (Note to self: next time, don’t wait until the last minute!), finally folded my exhausted body into my car, new shoes safely beside me. Victory! Unfortunately, that evening I didn’t have the energy to do much celebrating beyond some cursory inhalation of that always-wonderful new-shoe aroma, but two days later, when I actually ran in the shoes…ahhhhh. My feet did their own celebrating.

There are plenty of other running-related victories out there to relish. New PR’s are obvious, but when we encounter a less-than-ideal race as noted above, if we try, chances are we’ll find something good to pull from it. Maybe it was our longest race ever. Maybe we made a new friend. Maybe they had beer at the finish. And it doesn’t even have to be a race. How about celebrating our highest-ever weekly mileage, or a cool new shirt, or the fact that we even went for a run after a truly garbage day at the office?

Outside of running, there’s even MORE to celebrate. I know all the “National days” (i.e. National Pancake Day, National Margarita Day, National Procrastination Day, etc.) have become kind of a joke, but I for one celebrated National Cherry Pie Day with gusto.

With awards shows, the NCAA championships, early signs of Spring, and everything else happening this time of year, some folks roll their eyes and keep their head down, but others leap at all these chances to break out a new outfit, throw a shindig, or just…you know…be happy.

For those people, the leapers, I’ll borrow the words symbolized by the swoosh on my new shoes: Just do it.

Loosening Up

There I sat in the ice bath. I sang along loudly to a song I didn’t know very well that was playing on the radio, waving my hands around in time to the music, all in an effort to distract myself from the mildly alarming purply-gray bloom on my fingernails.

Now that’s Saturday morning entertainment!

It occurred to me, as I wiggled my toes to make sure I still could, that one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned in 31 years is the importance of not taking myself too seriously. This lesson applies particularly to my running – and, as indicated above (*shudder*), everything I do that’s related to it.

We runners all know the value of loosening up our legs. We loosen up before a run, after a run, after a long plane ride, after sleeping, while we’re sleeping…well, you get the idea. But what about loosening up the rest of ourselves?

My friend Charity invited me to a Pampered Chef party. I accepted her invitation; then immediately, nagging little thoughts started whining through my brain: The party is on a Friday night. I’ll be skipping yoga for the second week in a row. Will I have the energy to go to a party? Will I get enough sleep for my long run on Saturday morning? It will mean eating “treats” two nights in a row, with a Valentine’s Day indulgence on Thursday and then the yummy dessert that Pampered Chef parties always feature…

Then my Guardian Angel of Reason rolled her eyes, stepped in and told me to hush up and get over myself.

I love it when that happens!

I started looking forward to the party. I got a Sweetheart Shake from Sonic on Valentine’s Day after that day’s run, and consumed it so quickly and rapturously that I think my brain was just a frozen solid brick for a good few minutes. I took Friday completely off from exercise – no running, no yoga. It felt lovely and right – maybe because I’m getting into peak training mileage territory now, and my body frankly just needed a rest.

And the party was great. If you’ve never experienced Pampered Chef, I HIGHLY recommend it. I find ogling high-quality kitchen toys almost as intoxicating as stepping into a running shop, and when I get to taste scrumptious food made with said kitchen toys and hang out with a fun group of people to boot? Not a bad way at all to spend a Friday night.

I chowed down on a fajita, fresh salsa, rice, beans, and warm-from-the-oven chocolate-caramel skillet cake. I drank a small but potent margarita – or maybe it just seemed potent because it was the first liquor to cross my lips since somewhere around the start of training? Anyway, everything tasted terrific. To top it off, I finally gave in to a culinary crush I’ve had for years, and bought a mandoline, a.k.a “the ultimate slicer.”

When I got home, I wasn’t quite bedtime-sleepy yet, so I relaxed with a book till 10. That’s right, I actually stayed up to see a double-digit hour. I let myself sleep in till 7 the next morning…

…And proceeded to have my best long run in weeks.

The Middle

The end of this week marks the official end to my first half of marathon training. I am smack-dab in the middle of it.

“In the middle of it”: usually not a phrase associated with positive feelings, right? We say “in the middle of it,” “in the thick of things,” “surrounded,” sometimes “past the point of no return,” all to mean the same thing. And they all tend to generate the same reaction: Yikes!

But they don’t have to. Being in the middle means we can choose any side, any perspective we like. Right now, I’m setting my focus on the good side of the middle: the calm, steady side; the non-skittish side; the quietly determined side. Maybe the Switzerland side?

Think of all the examples of sublime middleness that life has to offer. When we’re little, where do we feel safe and secure? With a parent on either side of us – in the middle. On a roller coaster or aboard a ship, where is the most stable ride? In the middle. Amidst a raging hurricane, where does the calm lie? You got it.

The middle doesn’t have to bring stress or despair. Take this week, for example. Lent started with Ash Wednesday. First of all, whoever came up with the idea of Ash Wednesday as opposed to, say, Ash Monday or Ash Saturday, was positively brilliant. To place one of the holiest days on the Church’s calendar directly in the middle of the week, thereby giving people reason to pause their busy schedules for a little bit of quiet reflection before continuing on? The concept isn’t just holy; it’s healthy.

[Side note: Huge kudos to the minister from St. Chad’s Episcopal Church who stood along a pedestrian path on Wednesday, distributing ashes to interested runners, walkers, and cyclists passing by].

Second of all, this year’s Ash Wednesday happened to not just be flanked by its usual neighbor, Fat Tuesday, but also by Valentine’s Day. Ahhh…lovely feasts of indulgence, both of them. And not that I have anything whatsoever against chocolate, King Cake, chocolate, wine, or chocolate, but it was kind of nice to have the cushion of Ash Wednesday there in the middle. Again: a little bit of quiet reflection. Pausing. Breathing. Letting everything digest. And then moving on to the next phase.

What I’m aiming for right now is to be in the middle not only physically, but mentally. Some use the expression getting “centered” – I suppose they’re the same. As various parts of my life spin and swirl, as pressure systems both internally and externally-created rise and fall away, I want to find the “eye” within myself – and live there. Able to see all perspectives and remain calm, remain quietly determined, in my marathon training and in everything else.

In Stephen Ambrose’s book Band of Brothers, there’s a passage in which Lieutenant (eventually Major) Richard Winters informs his soldiers, “Men, there’s nothing to get excited about. The situation is normal; we are surrounded.”

At ease.

And Happy Valentine’s Day!

Management

Every round of marathon training means going back to school. Some lessons are new; others don’t sink in the first time…or ten…and require re-learning.

A common theme I’ve encountered in these lessons is management. Certain kinds, like time management, stand out. Others are more subtle, but that does not mean they can be ignored.

Energy Management. The more marathons I run, the more I value the conservation of energy (cheers, Sir Newton!). I love sleep as never before, whether it’s grabbing a catnap or finally, gratefully, tumbling into bed at the end of the day at the raucous hour of…er…9:30. I also love sitting. I know, I know – according to magazines, if you sit for more than approximately four minutes per day, you may as well just buy your casket right now. But I’ll tell you: after a long or tough workout, followed by what I call “leg maintenance exercises,” then showering, preparing dinner, cleaning, and any other necessary tasks, the act of sitting feels almost sinfully good.

And why do I appreciate sleeping and sitting so much? No, it’s not to ensure I have enough energy to run – running is a non-negotiable for me right now. It’s to ensure I have enough energy to give as much as I can to my running, so that I can, in return, receive all that it has to offer. Physically, mentally, emotionally. And it offers a lot.

Faith Management. I don’t necessarily mean faith in God, although with Bible verses like Corinthians 1:24-26 (“Do you not know that those who run in a race all run, but one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may obtain it…Therefore I run thus: not with uncertainty.”), I intend to keep God in my running. What I mean more is faith in The Training Plan. I’ve learned this is vital in all stages of training. At the beginning, when I’m shuddering at all those weeks of increasing mileage – I must have faith that those miles will not break me, but make me stronger, in due time. In the middle, when I’m questioning how much more my legs can take, how much bigger my appetite can possibly get, how my training compares to everyone else’s – I must have faith that my legs will be fine, my food intake is necessary and appropriate, and that everyone uses different training plans and comparing mine to theirs is pointless. And at the end, when I’m hovering at the starting line, all thoughts suspended – I must have faith in myself. Period.

Fun Management. Arguably the most important. Training for months means drudgery will happen. Thus, I’ve learned to get fun wherever I can, such as:

• Wearing clothes that make me happy (I like hot pink and *occasionally* splurge on Lululemon or Oiselle).
• Doing interval workouts anywhere BUT a track.
• Seeking out scenic, less “utilitarian” routes for non-interval and non-long-run days.
• Encouraging others, even if it just means smiling and waving at a stranger(s) during a run. It makes a difference, I swear.
• Taking my training blinders off once in a while. This March, I’m going with my friend Meghann to watch Major League Baseball’s Spring Training for four days. Running will be tricky, but I’ll figure something out. I’m not agonizing about it.

What are you the manager of in your life?

P.S. Thank you to http://miles4moms.wordpress.com for my second Liebster Award nomination. I’m honored!

My Mat, My Self

After a months-long hiatus from hot yoga, I returned to the studio. Or, as some call it, the “Hot Room”: site of muscle-straining, face-reddening, and ego-humbling.

My friend Courtney, who first introduced me to hot yoga, had also taken a little break from it. She found a new place, Cloud 9 Divine, that was closer to both of our homes and a wee bit less expensive than our previous studio. I agreed to her suggestion that we give it a shot, and we set a date.

Part of me was eager. With my marathon training kicking into high gear, I need a good cross-training activity, and yoga is faaaabulous for that. Plus, I got a new yoga mat for Christmas, and as we all know, new toys must be played with. The other part of me, however, was very mindful that I hadn’t donned my yoga pants since, oh, September? I could feel my IT band reflexively assume the position of a turtle in defensive, tight-as-a-drum, ain’t-nobody-pulling-me-out-of-my-shell-for-nothin’ mode. Eeep.

I clearly recalled the blissful parts of yoga. I also clearly recalled some moments I can only describe as god-awful. As Back-to-Yoga Day approached, though, the positive outweighed the negative, and I found myself feeling nothing so much as simple curiosity. How would this go?

I got my answer on Saturday morning. The question changed from “How will this go?” to “How could I have doubted this?”

Not that the class was easy. I can think of lots of words to describe hot yoga, and I don’t think a single one of those will ever be “easy.” But it was…affirming.

Courtney and I arrived sufficiently early to sling our mats in a prime spot: the back edge. And it’s a good thing we did, because that room filled up, and filled up fast. A few people got turned away, which stinks for them, but reassured Courtney and I . Popularity = quality, or something.

The affirmation continued as class started. We knew the poses, or most of them, so that part wasn’t scary. The physical part of yoga, especially hot yoga, is all about the breathing. I repeat [for my own benefit, really]: All. About. The breathing. I tried to make that my focus throughout class. Just remember how to breathe, Shannon. Inhale, expand. Exhale, contract. Repeat. Also, don’t tip over.

Our instructor, Heather, did a commendable job of keeping the class upbeat, telling stories and jokes, playing music, and adeptly weaving in those stellar little yoga lessons along the way: Forgiveness. Moving forward. Leaving the past behind. Breathing.

Just when I started having fantasies about sticking my face directly into my refrigerator at home, it was time for the final pose, shavasana, a.k.a. my favorite pose. As I lay sprawled on my back, just breathing (Inhale, expand. Exhale, contract.) and listening to Heather’s intonements, I felt that old familiar sense of well-being from my sweaty toes to the matted ends of my ponytail.

To make things even better, as Courtney and I walked back out to our cars, a cool, steady drizzle was falling. How often does that happen in Albuquerque??

Muscle-straining, face-reddening, ego-humbling: Yep. But also: body-strengthening, mind-cleansing, and spirit-boosting.

It’s nice to be back.

To the Dads

My friend Emily (the triathlete, remember?) lost her dad two weeks ago. I can’t even imagine how she and her family feel or what they are going through; I am in awe of the strength and perspective she has displayed.

Perspective: so easy to forget, and so often, unfortunately, re-gained only when we or someone close to us faces a loss. Emily’s loss has given my own perspective a swift kick in the rear with regard to a group of people far too often taken for granted: dads.

When I ‘m driving around, I think “What if Dad hadn’t been there to help me research and shop for a new car?” When I’m out running, I think “What if Dad hadn’t been there to introduce me to this, one of the true loves of my life?” As I’m writing this very blog post, I think “What if Dad wasn’t there to encourage my writing?”

I’m blessed beyond measure with a fantastic dad. I’m also blessed to know lots of other fantastic dads – my brothers and friends who have become dads; the ones I feel like I know through stories my friends, like Emily, have told me; and ones I’ve merely read about, but deserve recognition nonetheless.

That said, I’d like to propose a toast, or a simple moment of appreciation, to all the great dads out there and the things they do.

Here’s to the dads…

- Who change diapers.

- Who help with the 2 a.m. activities babies seem so fond

- Who stand on the sidelines of a race their wife is running, and help a toddler(s) hold up a huge sign that reads “GO MOMMY.”

- Who play with their kids.

- Who get their kids involved in some sort of athletic activity at a young age.

- …and who are athletic/active themselves, setting an example.

- Who patiently read the same bedtime story every night for weeks on end [to my own Dad: remember The Monster at the End of This Book?].

- Who help with kitchen table/eat-your-vegetables discipline.

- Who take their kids to places of historical significance.

- Who attend all of their kids’ sports games, recitals, school plays, etc.

- Who take their kids camping.

- Who take their kids on college tours in high school.

- Who teach their kids how to work a grill.

- Who tell their daughters they look pretty.

- Who show their sons how to treat women.

- Who tell stories…and possibly the best jokes ever.

- Who help with dinner (and yes, opening a bottle of wine or fetching your wife a beer most certainly does count as helping with dinner).

- Who tell their kids they’re proud of them.

- Who remember to take pictures, even when we roll our eyes.

- Who unfalteringly give their kids guidance and emotional support, no matter how old those kids get.

Here’s to you guys. Let’s all raise a glass, shall we? And remember what you appreciate about your dad.

Reinforcement

Huddled with my peers at the start of the 3M Half Marathon, I chuckled and asked myself, “Who says prayers don’t get answered?”

The weather forecast for race morning throughout the previous week had threatened scattered showers — particularly ominous when the temperatures were predicted to hover in the 30s and 40s. Thus, after a consistently mild but overcast Friday and Saturday in Austin, I found myself uttering a prayer on Saturday night: “Let it be however cold and windy you want tomorrow morning, God, but please keep the rain away.”

Sunday morning: Cold. Windy. But CLEAR. Let the church say [with numb extremities] Amen!

Then we were off: me, my friend Jax, and over 6,000 other runners. As testimony to 3M’s quality as an event, registration for this year’s race was reportedly higher than 2012 by about 400 people. I definitely noticed this increase at the pre-race expo and in the starting area, but hey, the more, the merrier — especially in Austin, one of the best runner towns in America.

I had come to Austin unsure of whether I would race 3M or just kind of train through it. Maybe my run on Friday, clad blissfully in shorts and a tank top before the arrival of the cold front, went to my head, or maybe it was the delectable Austin food, or sea level giddiness, but I decided for better or worse to go for it. To quote Joan Benoit Samuelson, “When it comes to running, I don’t dwell on it. I just do it.”

So I flung myself at 3M, and landed in the finish chute with 1:27:25 blinking across the clock. I don’t care who you are or how fast you run, no one can tell me that it doesn’t feel cool when the announcer calls your name as you cross that finish line. I didn’t run a PR, but did run my second-fastest half marathon ever — no complaints here!

I didn’t really mentally process that information right away, though, as I was preoccupied with two things: putting clothes on (I swear it was colder at the finish than at the start) and locating Jax amidst the throngs. We found each other, exchanged a shivering hug, did a cursory stumble through the post-race festivities, and quickly agreed that we needed a) the indoors and b) food.

My mom, aunt and cousin, who had done an admirable job as support crew, readily obliged, and we all went over to Kerbey Lane to warm up and fill our bellies. I don’t know if I’ve ever enjoyed a hot mug of coffee so much in my life.

Reinforcement comes in all kinds of forms. It can be physical — reminding your legs that they DO know how to race; or eating pumpkin pancakes and eggs and bacon till you’re drowsy. It can be mental — reuniting with a friend who inspires you to at once strive and be careful to not lose the fun, in everything. And it can be emotional — being with family, period.

Reinforcement steadies and strengthens us for the future. When we have reinforcements, we can’t help but to go forward with a little more confidence. Because after all, who says prayers don’t get answered?

Liebster-ing Off to Austin

One of the coolest things about blogging is discovering and reading the blogs of other people, especially people with interests similar to yours. And sometimes, if the stars align just so…when you discover their blog(s), they discover yours! And when the stars REALLY align just so, someone out there might just nominate your blog for a nifty award.

Side-stepping for just a moment, yes, I am very excited about my upcoming trip to Austin, TX this weekend. I can’t wait to see my aunt and my mom and my cousin. I can’t wait to see my friend Jax, who I haven’t seen since June of 2011 — we’ll both be running the 3M Half Marathon (yep, I am also very excited about that). I can’t wait to hang out — and run — at sea level, in a place where they actually have moisture in the air. I can’t wait to perhaps coincidentally meet Kristin Armstrong and become lifelong friends (haha, a girl can dream, no?). Don’t even get me started on the food in Austin. Do not either get me started on the fact that yes, I can smell the tantalizing leather aroma of stores full of new, shiny cowgirl boots all the way from out here in Albuquerque.

I am absolutely certain that it will be a spectacular weekend, and I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. But that’s not what this post is about.

To go back to the subject of awards, I have been nominated for one!! The award is called the Liebster Award. In case you’re not fluent in German (I sure am not, which must thrill all those German ancestors of mine), Liebster is the German word for “beloved” or “dearest”. I am extremely flattered, and would like to send a big thank you to runningyogamom.blogspot.com for nominating me. Proper etiquette for award nominations stipulates that I spill a little bit of guts to you all, so….here goes. I’ve just eaten a dinner involving hot chile and a margarita, though; consider yourselves warned.

The Liebster Award Rules of Engagement:
1. Write 11 random facts about yourself.
2. Answer the 11 questions by the person who nominated you.
3. Create 11 new questions.
4. Nominate 11 bloggers and mention them in your post.
5. Thank the person that nominated you and tell the people you’ve nominated.

11 Random Facts About Me:

– I like to buy my bananas in bunches of five. I do not know why.
– My first marathon was New Orleans’ Mardi Gras Marathon in 2004.
– I don’t currently own anything starting with “i” [iPod, iPad, etc.]
– It’s hard for me to go into a movie theatre empty-handed…usually I get a Sprite or something.
– I collect refrigerator magnets.
– I love crossword puzzles.
– My favorite meal is shrimp ‘n grits.
– I’ve lived in five states (although I only really remember three…too young for the others).
– I’ve never been to Las Vegas.
– I love going to festivals of any kind.
– If I come across an episode of “Friends” on TV, I must watch it.

Questions passed to me:
1. Who is your biggest fitness influence? Paula Radcliffe
2. Yoga or Pilates? Yoga
3. Favorite candy? Toss-up between Twix and Butterfinger
4. HGTV or DIY Network? ESPN
5. Favorite snack? Greek yogurt
6. Rainbow Brite or Strawberry Shortcake? oooh gonna go with Rainbow Brite
7. Do you have a tattoo? Yup! Sunflower on my right hip.
8. How old were you when you got your ears pierced? Ha! My ears aren’t pierced.
9. One food you would never give up, ever. – Meat.
10. Favorite book? Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.
11. How many pairs of flip-flops do you own? Six at last count.

My questions for whomever wants to answer:
1. What are two items that are always in your refrigerator?
2. Do you prefer to exercise indoors or outdoors?
3. Have you ever been on a cruise?
4. What is your favorite Disney movie?
5. Besides water, if you could only consume one beverage for the rest of your life, what would it be?
6. What’s the longest distance you’ve ever run?
7. How many James Bond movies have you seen?
8. What is your favorite vacation place?
9. If you were a Thanksgiving side dish, what would you be?
10. What was the last non-grocery store you shopped at?
11. If you could participate in any athletic event, what would it be?

My nominees:
Blowin’ Around
Belles and a Whistle
C’est la Vie Cuisine
A Crisis Averted
It Is Pretty.
Lavender Parking
Endorphins Junkie
Tight Laces in 50 Places
Ask Lauren Fleshman
Orangette
Mile Markers

There you go. Thank you again to runningyogamom.blogspot.com for the nomination. Go check out those blogs I’ve nominated — they are terrific. And if anyone else out there is racing this weekend, whether 3M or another race, good luck to you and have fun!

The Redcoats Are Coming!

…No, wait, that’s just my nose.

It wasn’t part of the plan to begin training for the Boston Marathon while battling a case of the sniffles — particularly with another race, the 3M Half Marathon, right on the horizon. But this time of year, there’s only so much that one immune system can withstand.

Good news prevails, though: the sniffles are retreating, AND it’s a brand new year! Between the start of the new year and the start of marathon training, I can feel the buds of optimism growing in me. And I’m pretty sure that’s not just DayQuil haze.

2013 arrived genially. On December 31st, I picked up my sister and her husband from the airport (they stayed in Virginia a little longer than I did), and then went for a run. I had done a long run the day before, so this was an opportune time for one of those “contemplative” runs. You know, one of those runs where you peacefully reflect on the previous year with quiet gratitude…while also trying not to slip on ice or get hit by cars. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a very poetic experience, but it was a solid end-of-year run nonetheless.

After the run, we all went out for a scrumptious New Mexican feast at Garduno’s, then came back to my apartment for the long march to midnight. We’re talking about a crowd for whom 10 pm is a late bedtime. Luckily, we had those marvelous inventions, television and DVDs, to help us, and some homemade orange chocolate chip bread to nibble on, and by golly we saw that ball drop.

We started off the new year with, surprise, a run (after sleeping in to recover from that strenuous evening). As far as New Year’s runs go, I loved it. The morning was chilly but bright, and we decided to go exploring. We did a loop, with me choosing the first half and sister Erin suggesting the second half. We ran along Camino de la Sierra, which in that part of Albuquerque is the last paved street before you reach the dirt of the foothills. In other words, the street is…not flat. But on that clear morning, with snow on the mountains and sunshine on our faces? I couldn’t have picked a better run to kick off 2013. Not to mention, it inspired me: for this round of marathon training, I do believe I’ll incorporate hill workouts on a regular basis. See what Heartbreak Hill has to say about that come April!

I’m thinking now is the time to encourage those buds of optimism, gently, with love. I have my goals for the future, but they’re fairly quiet right now. They don’t evoke bombast and intimidation and dread; they make me happy, and I look forward to achieving them in due time with some good old-fashioned work.

In due time. Right now, I’m slicing a piece of orange chocolate chip bread and watching “When Harry Met Sally” (my traditional New Year’s movie). I’m looking forward to 3M and plotting more hill runs. I’m beginning 2013 with a smile on my face, and I wish the same to you.

As for the redcoats? Don’t worry about them. They’re cool. And they have really good tea.

T-I-M-E

Remember five minutes ago, when it was Thanksgiving?

 

Someone once said that the way you spell love is “T-I-M-E.” You make time for who and what you love. I’m thinking of this as I realize that I’ve spent the entire month of December running around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off.

 

I know I’m not the only one in this zoomy zone. It’s not always fun – yes, I realize that it’s self-imposed – but looking at my calendar and my home, it seems that all this frenetic activity serves a purpose: to cull that which we love from that which just isn’t important.

 

To illustrate: a snapshot of my life recently.

 

• Saturday and Sunday mornings: Jingle Bell Balloon Rally
• Saturday afternoon: Eight-mile run in the foothills
• Saturday evening: Dinner & movie with a wonderful friend, who graciously made sure I didn’t fall asleep during The Hobbit
• Sunday afternoon & evening: 2012 Festival of Baking with my friends Tara and Randy [our yield this year: peanut butter blossoms; fudge; sugar cookies; white chocolate cranberry cookies; peanut butter chocolate balls; chocolate crinkle cookies; and a peppermint brownie tart. GLORIOUS.]
• Monday morning: Up at 4:15 a.m. to run before work, in anticipation of dinner with another wonderful friend that evening

 

And so on. Do I love all of these? Yes. But the pace kind of makes me want to stop, drop and do a spontaneous Peaceful Warrior yoga pose.

 

Looking around my apartment, now, makes me want to just laugh. Do I have Christmas decorations up? Heck yeah! Have I done laundry recently? Nope! Do I have clothes from pre-dawn wake-up calls scattered evvvvverywhere? Yep! Do I care? Nope!

 

See what I mean about the hustle and bustle serving a purpose?

 

Stepping back to take note of the things I apparently love – the things I make t-i-m-e for – brings to light one of the things I really and truly appreciate most of all: the discipline to hit the brakes. I say “discipline” because sometimes it’s really friggin’ hard.

 

I’m the kind of person that, when I’ve established a schedule of things that “need” to get done, I am determined to stick to it. Militantly. And things do get done, and I feel efficient and proud of myself. But you know what else happens? I start losing my mind. And I get too tired to enjoy much of anything. Hence: hitting the brakes. This can mean sitting down to just listen to holiday music on the radio, or watching a movie without multi-tasking, or driving around to look at Christmas lights.

 

I’ve learned to appreciate all of these, and I encourage all you other hustle-and-bustlers to do the same. Want to strike a spontaneous Peaceful Warrior pose? Do it!  Want to just stop washing that baking sheet and have some cocoa with a splash or three of Captain Morgan? Do it! It will save your sanity.

 

Soon I’ll be heading East for Christmas with my family. There won’t be a schedule. There won’t be alarm clocks. I’ll probably lose track of what day it is.

 

Funny, when you’re surrounded by ones you love, how that whole t-i-m-e thing becomes just a natural rhythm you don’t even notice.

 

Merry Christmas, everyone!

 

Festival of Baking

Sunset Sessions

This is the time of year when many of us runners are frankly just trying to eke out a run whenever we can. Between gift-shopping, card-mailing, house-decorating, dessert-baking, travel-planning, and, oh yeah, all the day-to-day stuff that still needs tending, our running shoes can rapidly take on such a wistful, lonely look that we may as well hang a sprig of mistletoe over them.

 

And did I mention fewer hours of daylight? Talk about runner humbug!

 

There’s one thing, though, that keeps me from saying “Forget it!” and just cruising, doing little eggnog-fueled token runs from now until the return of Daylight Time. Actually two things: a half-marathon in January, and a full marathon in April.

 

I seem to have a happy-go-lucky mental block when it comes to registering for wintertime or early spring races. I always forget that I don’t like training in cold darkness. My happy-go-lucky Registration Self says “Let’s run this race! It’s fun! We’ve set a PR on that course before! Do it! Do it!”  And my Realistic Self, blinded by all that optimism, says “Hmm…okay! Yeah! Let’s do it!”

 

Enter a time called “now,” when my post-work routine consists of driving home as fast as legally possible, throwing on approximately whatever running clothes my hands touch first, twisting up something that might pass for a ponytail, and hurling myself out the door for the daily battle that sounds cooler than it is:  Me vs. The Darkness. I also face the lesser skirmishes of: Me vs. Second-guessing my judgment of how many layers I needed, and Me vs. My runny nose.

 

I don’t know about you, but just writing about it makes me want to swap my big comfy sweatshirt for a running jacket and painter gloves…oh I can’t even write that with a straight face.

 

So why do it? Why go around humming “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Training” instead of simply running a holiday 5k wearing a Santa hat and jingle bells (not that there’s anything wrong with that; I admit to having a leopard-print Santa hat in my closet) and calling it a season?

 

I get the answer during each and every one of my weekday runs. They’re mostly out-and-backs, and every time I reach the turnaround – usually faster than necessary due to fretting about the impending darkness – my attention is seized, almost physically, by the sunset. New Mexico is blessed with consistently gorgeous ones, and they always hold my gaze (and my stride) for at least a few beats.

 

The sunsets seem to say “Relax. You might be cold and stressed out and tired, but look at the beauty of what’s right in front of you, with vibrant colors virtually reaching out to touch you: the horizon.”

 

The beauty of the horizon!

 

That’s what winter training is for: to prepare for what lies on the horizon and beyond. To give back to those vibrant colors with some vibrance of our own.

 

If you’re training for a race right now, I raise a tall glass of eggnog to you. But you have to find your own Santa hat.

 

Photo Credit: http://www.landintheusa.com

Gallup-ing Off

Holiday season, baking season, retail season; call it what you will, but one activity knows no season:

 

The road trip.

 

After a physically and emotionally topsy-turvy kind of week, I needed one. Badly. Luckily, I had one already lined up – accompanying my friend Charity to Gallup, NM for the Red Rock Balloon Rally. A couple hours’ drive, a weekend away from Dodge, and a strong dose of the world of hot air balloons? Sounded like good medicine to me.

 

Along with our other crew member, Cyndie, we left Albuquerque on Friday afternoon. We cruised westward, passing casinos, the Continental Divide, and mesas that looked like paintings. I half-expected to look to my right and see a cattle drive in full swing, or look to my left and see a family of coyotes.

 

We arrived at Gallup’s Red Lion Hotel, unloaded Charity’s truck, and got her registered as an official Rally Pilot. Then, after a dry run to locate Red Rock State Park (when we first began to realize that Gallup’s road and landmark signs are stink-o), our stomachs demanded food. This led us to El Rancho: a restaurant/hotel that reportedly dates back to 1937, with celebrity pictures to prove it. I’m a sucker for nostalgia, so I loved the place. And the tasty burrito and margaritas didn’t hurt.

 

Saturday morning’s wake-up call came, in typical balloon fashion, dark and early. Thankfully, the hotel started their continental breakfast early for the balloonists, so we could face the sunrise fully fed and caffeinated. The day was gorgeous. Cold, but not uncomfortably so, clear, and – most importantly – calm. After getting the go-ahead at the pilot briefing, everyone got to work unloading, unwinding, fastening, and finally, inflating.  Everything was going well with our balloon (named Blew By You)…and then Charity said she thought I should go up with her.

 

My reaction: Yaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!

 

I’ve had several hot air balloon rides, each of them awesome, but this one especially so because it was my first ride with Charity. Now, she is a fairly new pilot, but floating in the air that morning, I could have sworn she had decades of experience. I took a couple photos, moved out of the way as needed, and dutifully watched out for other balloons, power lines, etc. Our landing was as gentle as a feather.

 

Once our chase crew caught up to us, we packed up Blew By You and returned to the park. I will say this about the rest of the day: my running stamina is pretty good…but my tailgating stamina? NOT what it used to be. Oh well. Even if exhausting, days with balloonists are fun.

 

Sunday dawned with a slightly more ornery wind than Saturday. Not so conducive to navigating balloons around large rock formations. The flights got cancelled – such is ballooning.

 

After filling our bellies at the end-of-rally banquet, we checked out of our hotel and headed home. We had a little car trouble along the way, so it took slightly longer than planned – by the way, thank God for caravans!! – but everyone made it back safe and sound.

 

I collapsed on my couch immediately after entering my apartment, looked at the bags that no way would get unpacked that evening, and felt a smile tugging at my mouth.

 

Yup.  Good medicine.

 

Flying in the lovely Red Rock State Park:

 

 

Leave It

My brother Chris has a dog named Roscoe, who, though highly energetic and playful, is very well-trained. When Chris gives Roscoe the command of “Leave it,” Roscoe does just that, whether it’s dropping a toy during a game of fetch, or not touching something icky during a walk in the woods, or stopping in his tracks when running full-tilt. It’s pretty cool.

 

I’ve had that “Leave it” command kicking around in my head the past few days. I had a lovely Thanksgiving in Alamosa with my sis and her hubby. We ate scrumptious food, went hiking, went running, stalked a local deer herd [or did they stalk us? Hmm.] and generally had a good time.

 

Then we all got bitten by a stomach bug.

 

It was gross.

 

Mentally, I progressed through several stages. Stage One: indignation. Hello, what happened to my kick-butt immune system that has not let so much as a cold penetrate its defenses since December of 2010?? Stage Two: resignation. Uggghhhhh.  Stage Three: practicing philosophy whilst curled up on my couch under an enormous blanket, nibbling Triscuits and watching back-to-back episodes of “NCIS.”  Tony DiNozzo is one handsome –

 

No wait, that’s not the philosophy I meant to talk about.

 

I think our bodies sometimes know things that our minds don’t – or at least, that our minds don’t accept. There we are, cruising along in our lives, chock full o’ confidence: confidence in our ability to balance everything; in our fitness; in our control. And then, no matter how well we think we have reinforced ourselves, life pounces (in my case, a germ, but it could be anything), and…splat. So much for control.

 

And the kicker of it all? How often does it happen that when we’re sick, we don’t think about our health, or about doing what it takes to recover, but rather about the other stuff in our lives? As I laid there like a rag doll in bed, and again as I sat on my couch, these little nagging thoughts kept circling my brain like one of those miniature train sets: You have laundry to do! You have bills to pay! You need to go grocery shopping! You need to write this week’s blog post! You need to unpack! You should go outside for fresh air! You are LOSING the fitness you were just getting back!

 

Well, my body put those thoughts pretty quickly in check: the exertion of shuffling out and back to collect my mail felt comparable to running a 10k, and the very thought of lugging laundry around or using the mental energy required to pay a bill had me eyeing my bathroom again.

 

I started to gain some sense.

 

It was okay to relax. It was okay to get nine-plus hours of sleep. It was okay to let laundry, bills, and groceries slide a day or two (it’s not like I was eating much anyway). Giving my running shoes a break for a couple days wouldn’t kill them, or me, or my over-all fitness level. I even learned to appreciate some smaller things in life – let me say right now that the people who invented Saltines, Triscuits and Ginger Ale do not receive nearly enough in royalties.

 

When your body says “Leave it,” it’s best to do just that.

 

The handsome and talented Roscoe.

 

Turkey With a Little X-C

Thanksgiving is all about spending time with family, whether biological or otherwise, so I suppose it’s only fitting that for Thanksgiving 2012 I should tell you about an experience I got to have thanks to my big sister.

 

Erin is an assistant coach for a kids’ running group in Alamosa, Colorado, called the Penguins. The Penguins are currently competing in the Junior Olympics Cross-Country meets – they cruised through their State meet, and the National meet is next month. Last weekend was the Southwestern Regional meet, held at Albuquerque’s own Balloon Fiesta Park.

 

While my sis went in her official capacity, her husband and I tagged along essentially as gofers – to distribute race numbers and pins, help with warm-ups, cheer, etc. I figured there would likely be lots of trotting around, so I wore running togs (besides, opportunities to run on a huge field blanketed with plush grass come few and very far between in the Duke City, so I wasn’t about to miss my chance due to unsuitable garb).

 

I’ll say this right off the bat: 1) any day spent almost entirely in running clothes can never be a bad one, and 2) it’s been too long since I’ve gone to a cross-country meet.

 

Our day started early; we arrived at the park around 7 am to prepare for the first race at 8. It was cold – Albuquerque supposedly got up to 60 degrees that afternoon, but as anyone familiar with Balloon Fiesta Park will tell you, the park’s temperatures stay about 10 or 15 degrees cooler than other parts of town. This led to lots of layering, coffee/cocoa-drinking, and some good-natured grousing from the spectators, but darned if it wasn’t prime weather for cross-country racing.

 

Since the ages of the runners ranged from around 8 to 18, there were a lot of races. And since delays occurred, as delays will do at most big meets, it stretched into a …rather long day. At one point, I slouched on the ground between races, fantasizing about coffee and gazing enviously at a young runner stretched out on a chair, a couple of blankets draped over him, fast asleep.

 

No matter! It was a fun day. I jogged alongside everyone from 3^rd-grade girls to middle-school boys during their warm-ups, which was awesome, not to mention extremely entertaining. I made a couple jokes and laughed at others, and wondered to myself, “Will these kids still be running 10 or 20 years from now? Who knows?” I do know that I loved watching the races, and seeing the tired but determined look that I know has etched itself on my own face so often. I loved watching parents hug their kids after they crossed the finish line. I loved watching and hearing the young runners be so supportive of each other. I loved that the Penguins’ coach, “Coach D,” spoke to so many of his runners individually about their races, even though I can’t imagine how chaotic his day must have been.

 

I loved, and continue to love, the fact that being around it all made me want to go for a run like right now.

 

Running is a gift that keeps on giving…and for this, I give many, many thanks.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

If James Bond Was a Runner…

…he’d be a miler. I believe this very firmly. The distance seems right for him: anything shorter and he wouldn’t bother; anything longer he probably wouldn’t have time to train for properly, what with his job and all the traveling he does. Seriously, though, just imagine what a cool runner James Bond would make. Or better yet, a race director. Those races would go off flawlessly. They would be models of efficiency. And the goodie bags would contain super-nifty running gadgets, like packets of Gu that double as reflectors you could wear when running in the dark. O the possibilities! Running’s classiness would have no choice but to ratchet up a few points.

 

After seeing Skyfall, the newest Bond installment, I’ve actually been thinking that the world in general, not just running, could stand a good strong dose of 007. Not the man himself, obviously, or his cohorts, but the spirit of it all. Guns and violence and the incessant stream of pesky villains plotting mass destruction notwithstanding, how great would it be if people started acting a little more like the characters in a Bond movie? The good guys, that is. The bad guys all tend to be nuts, and things generally don’t work out well for them anyway, so let’s just disregard them.

 

The men and women of Ian Fleming’s world are intelligent. They are resourceful. They dress, if not impeccably, then tastefully, always. They display tenacity and guts under every circumstance. They always seem to have a drink nearby, and always generously offer to share even if they despise their company, but no one ever gets sloppy. Everyone has a different role – spy, boss of the spy, tech person, curious damsel – and though they rarely understand each other, they eventually accept that nothing will get accomplished successfully without everyone working together.

 

Breaking it down further between the sexes: the men, even if they sometimes act like baffling jerks, would have an excellent grasp of basic manners and chivalry. In the end, they would actually turn out to be pretty great, yet still retain some alluring mystery.  They would drink simple yet classy drinks – no Red Bull and vodka, no rum and Diet Coke.  They could operate any vehicle, ever. They would know how to fight – with their fists – but only if they really, really had to.

 

The women would be smart. They wouldn’t take garbage from anyone, not even a suave, cunning British guy in a tuxedo. They would drink whisky and have their own boats. They could smoothly sashay around in a formal gown, acting casual and sophisticated, with a gun(s) strapped to their leg. They, too, would know how to fight, if they really, really had to.

 

Do I wish I could land a spot in a Bond flick? Heck yeah! First, however, they would need to find a role for a woman who prefers jeans to dresses, who wears high heels approximately six times per year, who would usually take a beer or glass of wine over anything containing vodka, who would dream of owning a boat if she lived near actual water, and if she really, really has to, knows how to…er…run.

 

Oh well. A girl can dream, can’t she?

Lingering

Summer isn’t ready to relinquish its grip on Albuquerque just yet.

 

Occasionally, an autumnal tinge will appear – my pepper plants outside will look a little faded, or I’ll have to slip on gloves before leaving for work in the morning – but these tinges don’t last long. My plants still produce fruit, and those gloves I wear in the morning get firmly stuffed away for the ride home.

 

We may have turned our clocks back, but the warmth of the sun is lingering. And I for one have no problem with that.

 

I went for a hike on Sunday along Trail #365 in Albuquerque’s foothills. I figured there probably wouldn’t be many more weekends amenable to hiking in shorts and a t-shirt, so I wanted to get out and sooooak it up. Not to mention the effect of taking a few days off from running, plus doing loads of housework the day before: I wasn’t quite in cabin fever territory, but my condition was borderline.

 

Apparently, lots of other people had the same idea. The little parking lot by my favorite trailhead was jam-packed, and SUVs adorned with bikes and driven by ruthless-eyed ladies already circled predatorially. I hustled my Corolla out of there and parked in a neighborhood nearby. There’s nothing that odd about a woman clomping along a residential sidewalk in hiking shoes, is there?

 

Once on the trail, the slight annoyance I had felt over some since-forgotten trifle melted away, as usually happens in the foothills. I realized happily, as I tripped over a rock (but didn’t fall, thank you very much!) that this was a pretty great moment. Here it was, November, and the first day of “Standard,” a.k.a. “early darkness,” time, with golden-foliaged trees shimmering, and temperatures were in the 60s! And I was lucky enough to be out amid it all.

 

I didn’t even mind all the mountain bikers that jolted by in blurs, or that I had to stop a couple times to makeshift-shorten the straps on my bag (Shannon’s Trail Rule #4: Always carry more hairbands than you think you’ll need). I let myself walk a little further than I had planned – my excuse being that I was looking for the perfect rock on which to eat my sandwich. On the way back, I loitered, sidling off the trail a few times to send text messages to a friend, something I do not normally do. Usually, my cell phone experiences hikes from a dark pocket in my backpack, where it resides for emergency use only. Ah well. The hike got even more social when I saw my friend Rachel on her bike; we chatted for a few minutes, then went on our separate sunny-skied ways.

 

And finally, one of my favorite parts of the hike? On a whim, I had thrown on my Buffalo Bills t-shirt – it was Game Day, after all – and I met three, count them, THREE other Bills fans. In New Mexico, that is downright weird.

 

I know cold weather lurks right around the corner. But what with my plants still blooming, my windows still flung open, fellow Bills fans cruising around town, and God knows what other surprises out there, I’m happy to let this warmth linger as long as it wants.

 

Stages

I saw the Lion King musical last weekend. It was FANTASTIC. If you haven’t seen it already, I highly recommend it. Watching the actors pour their hearts into their songs and dialogues struck a chord in me. It gets me every time I attend a live theatrical performance: a combination of stirred-up emotions (yes, I cry at songs in musicals); total absorption in a world created by people I could walk right up to and poke (don’t worry, I’ve never actually done that…yet); and raw, unfiltered envy.

 

I do not enjoy being the center of attention. I don’t like standing on a stage, having lots of people just…watching me. So I’ve always admired people who can unhesitatingly bounce out there and use their passion – for music, dancing, drama, poetry, whatever – to fling themselves at their audience.

 

I carried that admiration/vicarious energy into Albuquerque’s Day of the Tread Half Marathon on Sunday. I hadn’t trained very hard for the race; I hadn’t even been certain that I would be able to run it at all. When it turned out I could, I decided to just go for it and see what happened, training be hanged. It was one of those decisions you make in the first mile that seems positively brilliant until you hit the last mile. Suddenly, opponents ease past you like a breeze, and you think, “Um, weren’t my legs functional just a minute ago?” Oh well.

 

I don’t regret how I ran that race, though. I was running with my sister, I felt good, and Mother Nature absolutely preened that day in full October glory. How could I not revel in it for as long as possible? How could anyone not?

 

Maybe I’m wrong about my distaste for stages. Is it possible that every race course is a stage, and we runners (sorry, Shakespeare) are just actors on it? The asphalt, grass, dirt, or track comprising a race course may not be the Globe Theatre, but how many of us use our passion for running to fling ourselves at the world? Instead of costumes, we wear numbered bibs, but they have the same effect.

 

A race course, like a stage, demands that you open up and give of yourself. It’s a test, yes, but isn’t it also a celebration? Maybe you won’t set a world record, maybe the audience won’t adore you, but they will at least be able to witness your passion. And that is something. To paraphrase Steve Prefontaine, “To give anything less than everything is to sacrifice the gift.”

 

I know there are runners out there who haven’t raced in a long time, or have never raced at all. I know they have their reasons, but I say this to them: Come out! Let that little light of yours shine so brightly that it completely blinds the doubter in your head. You might feel scared at first, but don’t worry – a touch of stage fright is natural, and it won’t even begin to come close to the surge you’ll feel when a total stranger cheers for you, or when you overhear a kid on the sideline say, “They’re running so fast!” or when you cross that finish line.

 

You might even make someone in the crowd feel a little bit of raw, unfiltered envy.

Kristin Armstrong, The Best Friend I’ve Never Met

I’ve had this post simmering on a mental back burner for quite a while. I’ve been trying to figure out how to write it, hesitating out of fear that I wouldn’t convey my message clearly enough or eloquently enough. I didn’t really know what my exact message would even be.

 

But two blog posts, by two separate women, published on the same day, gave me the sharp prod I needed to get off my butt and say something. One was  http://bloomingmiles.com/2012/10/19/inspiration, by Blooming Miles. The other was http://milemarkers.runnersworld.com/2012/10/how-the-light-gets-in/, by the subject of this post, Kristin Armstrong.

 

We all know Kristin’s ex-husband (or “wasband” as she says), Lance, has been all over the news. Some of you may not know that Kristin was implicated in USADA’s recent in-depth report on Lance and his former teammates.

 

I generally try to keep my blog on the lighter side, but I don’t feel like being funny or witty right now. I feel like standing up for a friend.

 

I don’t know if the allegations against Kristin are true, or if any of the other assorted rumors I’ve heard about her are true. Nor do I really care. To be clear, I’ve never met the woman. I’ve only read her blog and two of her books, but I will tell you (type/write to you?) with a straight face, that they’ve changed my life.

 

Kristin and I don’t have much in common – she’s 41, divorced, the mother of three, and lives in Austin. I’m 31, as yet unmarried, with no children, living in Albuquerque. But there are few people in the world who I would rather meet. Based on the comments posted on her blog, I know I’m not the only woman who feels this way.

 

Kristin is one of those rare women who can teach you, encourage you, and rekindle your faith in yourself without sounding one bit preachy.  She’s like a yoga instructor, only she uses her pen and her running shoes instead of mats and Warrior poses [actually, she alludes to yoga lessons fairly frequently in her writing. No coincidence there, I’m sure].  It’s hard for me to read anything by Kristin and not stand up a little straighter afterwards. Thanks to her, I’ve become more appreciative of the gift of running. I’ve become more appreciative of my friends, my family, and my own abilities, both running and otherwise. Her book Work in Progress made me more aware of, and attentive to, my faith (one thing we do have in common is that we’re both Catholic). I’ve loaned her books to multiple friends and family, and couldn’t begin to guess how many times I’ve forwarded her blog to someone having a rough day. I don’t see any of that ending any time soon.

 

In short, I’m a fan.

 

Do I think she’s flawless? Do I think there’s no way she could have ever participated in questionable activities?

 

Absolutely not.

 

Last year, I wrote a post about grown-up heroes: people, famous athletes or not, who aren’t perfect. Who never claim to be perfect. Who do not point fingers, place blame, or speak with rancor. People who merely seek to improve themselves as humans, graciously and with a little dignity. People who are brave enough to share their efforts at doing so with others.

 

For me, Kristin Armstrong is one of those people.

Super Sweet!

The best gifts are the unexpected ones. You know, when someone surprises you with flowers, or when you get a letter or postcard in the mail (yes, mail, not e-mail) from a friend you haven’t heard from in ages. Or when you go for your first run after a hiatus, and the weather just happens to be absolutely perfect, as though God Himself has blessed your return to running. And it’s funny how these little unexpected gems always seem to come at exactly the right moment, when you’re struggling to keep a smile on your face and faith in your heart.

 

Imagine my delight, then, when at the end of a looong work day, I opened my e-mail and discovered I’d been nominated for the Super Sweet Blogging Award from a fellow blogger!

 

Not only do I feel hugely honored for the peer recognition, but I admit that this makes me feel a wee bit nostalgic for my college days. We didn’t have Facebook back then, so we spent countless hours filling out surveys (covering a wide gamut of topics) and forwarding them on to our friends. Gleeful procrastination across campus flourished.

 

At any rate, I’ll do my best to comply with Super Sweet Blogging Award etiquette.

 

The rules:

 

1. Thank the person who nominated you. Many thanks to Yoga With Maheshwari, who writes a wonderful blog about yoga (obviously) and life in general. Check it out at: http://yogawithmaheshwari.wordpress.com/

 

2. Answer 5 questions.

• Cookies or Cake?  Yes. Oh, I have to actually choose? Cookies, then, simply because they do not require any serving utensils. Grab, chomp, commence bliss.
• Chocolate or Vanilla? Chocolate. In any form. I don’t turn up my nose at milk chocolate or white chocolate or dark; there’s room for all of them in my heart. I will say, though, vanilla extract is a staple of my cupboard, as it tends to only increase the tastiness of any recipe.
• What is your favorite sweet treat?  I’m going to differentiate here. My favorite thing to make is pie. Pie is fantastic: it can be either sweet or savory. It is its own vessel – certain pies can just be picked up and eaten by hand. And you can tell the season by what kind of pies are being served!  Not to mention, learning to wrangle pie crusts will inspire you to invent all kinds of fun new swear words. What could be better?? Now, my favorite sweet thing to eat? Bananas foster. Simple. Delicious. And there’s fire.
• When do you crave sweet things the most?  Between supper and bedtime. I struggle to accept vegetables as a dessert or night-time snack.
• If I had a sweet nickname what would it be? I have no idea. I once watched an episode of “Backyardigans” with my niece in which one of the characters was a Pie Samurai. That would actually be extremely cool – if not as a nickname, then definitely the name of a bakery.

 

3. Pay it forward: the Baker’s Dozen Nominees (in no particular order). I’ve picked 13 blogs, because that’s a “baker’s dozen,” no? I consider them all “Super Sweet” and definitely worth a visit!

 

Blowin’ Around

Belles and a Whistle

It Is Pretty.

Luv What You Do

Fit and Feminist

Determined. To Be

Running and All Things Considered

Bucket List Publications

Endorphins Junkie

Chocolate Fuelled

Lavender Parking

Bad Angel Rules for Running

Run DMT

 

Balloon Republic

Albuquerque is in the midst of its version of Mardi Gras: the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta. Businesses have hung banners welcoming hot air balloonists and offering Fiesta specials.  During flight hours, local police officers turn a relatively forgiving eye to traffic violations as chase vehicles rumble pell-mell around town with their diesel engines. Invariably, crisp autumn weather chooses to alight for good at some point during these nine days. Not to mention the balloons themselves, which on occasion do actually stop traffic. Hey, when you gotta land, you gotta land.

 

It’s a magical time.

 

I’m lucky enough to serve on the crew of a balloon called Blew By You, piloted by my friend Charity [another example of local Fiesta spirit: when she purchased, shall we say, “some” bottles of champagne for post-flight tailgating, the cashier commented, “Oh, you must be a balloonist.”].

 

This is Charity’s second Balloon Fiesta as a full-fledged Pilot. She is one of the coolest women ever. Let me tell you, having witnessed her smash the hot air balloon glass ceiling – and I imagine glass ceilings are even harder to smash when they float hundreds of feet above the earth – and being able to hang out with her now, confidence radiating from her trademark pigtails down to her boots?  Pretty freaking awesome.

 

Charity has introduced me to the world of ballooning and its tightly-knit group of inhabitants. There’s nothing quite like it. These are people who wake well before dawn for an activity that, depending on the exact strength of the wind, may or may not even happen. Then they launch into the sky, again at the mercy of the wind, or, if they’re chase crew, launch onto the roads, at the mercy of…well…roads. Then, assuming balloon and crew reunite successfully, the gear gets packed up and everyone makes their way back to the launch site, where snacks and beverages of allll kinds are enjoyed, usually, yes, before 10 a.m.

 

I had the opportunity to spend time in this world all day on Saturday. And when I say “all day,” I mean not my usual routine of showing up; helping with launch, chase, and pack-up; and leaving shortly thereafter. I mean we arrived at the launch field before 6 a.m. and left after the fireworks show that night. Whew!

 

Yes, it was a long day. But the terrific thing about balloonists is how quick they are to embrace you, literally and figuratively – hugs abound (like I said, it’s a tightly-knit group), and everyone has smiles, refreshments, and stories to share. It’s really, really hard to have anything short of a rollicking time. Don’t get the wrong idea, though; these folks are also some of the most sensible and protective people I’ve ever met. They have the conviction to not fly if it is NOT SAFE, even when it means disappointing lots of tourists. They have the compassion to help another pilot in need. They keep an eye on each other’s children. They have the wherewithal of Bear Grylls, and they can fashion a downright fabulous tailgate party so fast it would make Martha Stewart’s head spin.

 

I’m looking forward to spending more time in the world of ballooning. And if you’ve never paid it a visit, what are you waiting for?

 

Some photos from an Evening Glow:

 

Everything’s Better With Chocolate

I registered for Albuquerque’s Hot Chocolate 15k immediately upon hearing of its existence. My wise sister Erin told me about it, and my response mirrored hers: “Running? Chocolate? Yes.”

 

My excitement was tempered shortly thereafter when I heard about D.C.’s version of the Hot Chocolate 15k. That event achieved fame, for, er, unfortunate reasons. So I approached race weekend warily.

 

The weekend started well; packet pick-up went smoothly. The goodie bag included a snazzy windbreaker instead of the usual t-shirt, and everyone got free samples of … yes … CHOCOLATE. As Erin and I munched pretzels and licked chocolate fondue off our fingers, I said “You know, I really like this event so far.”

 

Race morning arrived and in the blink of a bleary eye (okay, maybe a few blinks) we were parked in a prime spot downtown. The three of us – Erin’s hubby gallantly served as our escort during the run, by which I mean “ensured we didn’t bee-line for the chocolate and possibly injure other people before the race even started” – joined the runner-masses. Bravo, by the way, to the lady dressed as a cup of cocoa, complete with marshmallows. I don’t know if the marshmallows were real, but what a glorious mid-race snack that would have been.

 

The 5k began without a hitch, and then it was our turn. I didn’t have any particular goal in mind for this race – I had just run a half marathon two weeks prior, so I wasn’t sure how my legs would do. Erin was amenable to my “let’s just see how we feel” philosophy, so that seemed settled.

 

With the announcer’s promise of as much chocolate as we could handle after the race [poor silly man; he’s never seen me in Ghirardelli Square], we took off. I loved the course. It circled around Old Town, went by the zoo, through cute residential neighborhoods, and straight through the heart of downtown. Each turn was ridiculously well-marked, which I appreciated. Orienteering during a race is not my cup of tea.

 

We ran a wee bit faster than anticipated. It was the classic “Well, I could stand to ease off a little, but she’s not slowing down, so I won’t slow down,” which continued for roughly the entire race.  But we survived! And got 5^th and 6^th place among the women! I beat my sis by one second. You can’t coach desire for chocolate.

 

After doing the requisite finish area stagger-dance, we followed what seemed an irresistible gravitational pull.  Before I quite realized it, I was clutching the famous Finisher’s Mug. The mug was divided into sections: one section, pretzels and marshmallows. Another section, a banana. Another section: gooey, wonderful chocolate fondue. And the middle section? A snug nest for a cup of cocoa.

 

Not too shabby for a cool-down snack.

 

One thing that really impressed me, other than the refreshments, was the swift, efficient distribution of awards. No one had to wait around for a formal ceremony. Not many races can say that.

 

I didn’t stress about the Hot Chocolate 15k. I kept my expectations fairly low, and was VERY pleasantly surprised.  Like when you find more fudge at the bottom of a sundae. Or when you find chocolate in the middle of a peanut butter cookie. Or a chocolate-covered cherry.

 

You get the idea.

 

Doors

After almost three weeks’ separation from yoga, I returned to the studio with some trepidation. Luckily, though, my first class back went okay, and my body, finally soreness-free after my half marathon, appreciated the re-awakening.

 

“You have to release the bad stuff to be able to accept the good,” said Katie, the instructor. I liked that. As her words filtered through the sweat and through my concentration on sucking in my tummy, I was reminded of the saying, “When one door closes, another opens.”

 

What would happen if, instead of all these doors opening and closing, we just have one door that stays open? The good would breeze in; the bad would drift out. Nothing would be absolutely closed, shut off, never to be attained again. I know, closure can be helpful and sometimes even vital. But in my life, at least, I’ve noticed lately that seemingly closed doors aren’t closed very securely, or even closed at all. They’re more like those swinging saloon-style doors.

 

I don’t see this as a bad thing.

 

My friend and co-worker of five years, Cherise, left our office last week for greener pastures at another job. Now that felt like a door swinging shut. In the years we’ve worked together, she’s become one of my best friends, and I’m going to hugely miss having her within paper clip-throwing distance eight hours a day. But it’s a comfort knowing that the door can swing right back open – she still lives nearby, so we can get together now without the stress and mental exhaustion of work. Kinda nice, actually.

 

Doors swing in my running life, too – namely, the Boston Marathon. I ran it in 2005 and 2006, and felt content to leave it at that for a while. Sometime in the last few months, though…the itch returned. I don’t know if it was learning that marathon studs Kara Goucher and Shalane Flanagan will be there, or my dad mentioning it at a family gathering (he loves Marathon Monday). Maybe it was knowing that I ran my as-yet-unbroken marathon PR at Boston. At any rate, I found myself circling September 10 on my calendar and arranging to take that morning off from work.

 

Rational judgment, and several friends, told me firmly I would get in with no problem, given my qualifying time, the marathon’s new staggered registration system, the position of the moon, etc. Did that prevent me from being jumpier than a cottontail bunny come 8 a.m. Mountain Time that Monday?  *&%# No!! I hunched before my computer like a horse jockey, clicking Refresh…Refresh…until mercifully the registration page popped up. Even more mercifully, I successfully completed the process without anything crashing. But the stress wasn’t quite over; I had registered, but as the BAA sternly reminded me, my entry pended their verification of my qualifying time. A few slightly tense hours later, I finally got the acceptance email.

 

Exhale.

 

So the door to Ma Boston has swung open again.

 

Also on my list of swinging doors? My dinner last week with a friend I hadn’t seen in over a year (it was lovely) and my aforementioned return to a yoga routine. Add everything up, and you have a heckuva lot of door-swinging going on.

 

I’m enjoying the breeze.

Camino Real

The morning of the Santa Fe to Buffalo Thunder Half Marathon dawned…well, it wasn’t dawn, actually. It was 4:20 a.m. when my alarm went off. Shaking off the cobwebs of an anxiety dream involving a broken hairband, I kicked out of bed and lurched towards the stack of meticulously-arranged clothes. Decision-making on a race morning, much less before 5 a.m.? Um, no.

 

Shockingly, I managed to leave my apartment at exactly the time I had planned. I had eaten half of my breakfast, a banana, at home and munched the other half, a bagel, as I drove north. I reached the Buffalo Thunder Resort/Casino at about 6:15, right on schedule. Nothing like race day adrenaline to make a pre-dawn road trip feel easy!

 

I boarded a shuttle bus that took me and a crowd of other runners (exuding the typical combination of nerves, sleepiness, and excitement) to the starting area at Santa Fe’s Fort Marcy. After prompt toilet reconnaissance, I ambled around a little, smeared on sunblock, and nearly ran right into…my friend Emily! She’s the one whose triathlon I watched last weekend, and she phenomenally returned the favor by making the drive to be my support crew. After hugging and giddiness, I did a warm-up jog (she held my sweats bag, people! Now that is a friend.). Then we headed over to the starting line. I did some pre-race bouncing around while Emily people-watched, played paparazzi, and graciously tolerated my nervous babbling.

 

The race started, with the signal given by Mr. Billy Mills. If you don’t know who he is, Google him right now.

 

I had done my homework on this race; I knew there was some uphill early on, followed by a lot of downhill. I let myself have PR dreams, which were bolstered by picture-perfect weather on race day.

 

Well, it turns out the first two miles tilt almost entirely uphill. Ok, fine, that prevents people – i.e. yours truly – from going out too fast. But geez!

 

Then came the downhill. Lovely downhill! On and on, downhill! I ran along, glancing up occasionally to appreciate the gorgeous vistas in the distance. This half marathon was, admittedly, one of the most scenic courses I’ve run in recent memory.

 

Everything was roses until the 10^th or 11^th mile. My quads suddenly realized the pounding they were taking. After so much downhill, a blip of an overpass felt like a mountain. I waved good-bye to a PR but pressed on, still confident in breaking 1:30.

 

Until I saw the hill – this time, a legitimate one – leading up to the finish line. I had some very un-ladylike thoughts towards the race director. But then, as I shoved myself up the hill, who should I see (and hear) but Emily!! Shrieking up a storm that made me so happy I actually mustered a smile as I ran past. Another definition of “true friend”: someone who supports you even when you look like death on a plate.

 

My finishing time was 1:30:14. Not bad, in retrospect – especially since, as I write this, I’m more sore than I was after my last marathon.

 

Lesson learned: just because a course has lots of downhill doesn’t make it easy. I also learned that you forget how utterly wonderful it is to have a support crew until you actually have one. So to Emily, and to all you friends of runners out there who come out to cheer, schlep our stuff, and peel our oranges, thank you, thank you, and thank you.

 

My Triathlete Friend

An oft-repeated theme in my blog is going to a race as a spectator in order to motivate myself.

 

There’s a reason: it works. Also, it’s fun.

 

On Sunday, my friend Emily competed in her first triathlon. A little background: Emily moved to Albuquerque from Houston about a year ago. She was awesome from the get-go, but decided to make herself even more awesome by doing a triathlon. Her target: the Patriot Sprint Triathlon, in nearby Rio Rancho. She trained her tail off, and took “nutritious eating” to a new level. I watched her like a Mother Hen, but luckily Emily is sensible in addition to awesome, and didn’t veer into worrisome eating territory. She even tapered properly. Come race day, that girl was ready.

 

I knew I would go and cheer for her, partly because she doesn’t have family in Albuquerque to act as support crew, but mainly because I think debut triathlons (debuts of any kind of race, really) are a BIG DEAL. When I found out the triathlon was just a week before my next race, the Santa Fe to Buffalo Thunder Half-Marathon, I got even more excited. Motivation for pre-race week!

 

On Sunday morning, I drove out to Rio Rancho, and everything worked out great. I found Emily before the start – she was pumped, with no visible anxiety or inclinations to pre-race nervous vomiting. Lucky girl.  When starting time drew near, I headed into the pool area. What is it about the smell of chlorine that makes me feel exactly like a fidgety kid at a swim lesson?

 

I kept a sharp eye on Emily as she moved through the swim line, because once someone joins the sea of thrashing – er, gracefully swimming – bodies, forget about finding them.  I cheered as she completed her laps, and did some shrieking and flailing as she exited the pool area. I didn’t carry any cowbells this time; I was pretty certain that cowbells in an enclosed area would annoy even me. Then she took off on her bike, and I took the opportunity to do a little running around the neighborhood. I concluded that “Rio Rancho,” roughly translated, means “Uphill. Downhill. Nothing flat.” Oh well. Still a pleasant change of scenery.

 

I caught the end of Emily’s bike stage, and cheered alongside her for the first part of her run. I turned around at a random point, telling her I’d meet her again near the finish (hey, at least I didn’t say “May the odds be ever in your favor!”).  I scuttled back to station myself elsewhere, and before I knew it, she came breezing along. She wasn’t cussing or foaming at the mouth: good signs! I trotted alongside her briefly, cheerily told her to kick it in (thankfully, she didn’t punch me) and hurried to the other side of the finish line.

 

Not only was she smiling afterwards – although she did have colorful words for the course’s hills – but she already wants to do another triathlon. And she’ll do it. After all, you don’t mess with Texas, even if you’re a triathlon.

 

As for me?  I’m going to take the determination I witnessed and let it marinate in my bones. It may be taper time for the physical part of my training, but not at ALL for the mental part.

 

God, I love races!

Tourist Vision

There’s nothing like having visitors.

 

My parents just ended what I like to call their Annual Southwestern Pilgrimage. For the past several years, around Labor Day Weekend, they’ve spent a few days with me, then with my sister in Alamosa, Colorado, or vice versa.  I have a sneaking suspicion that they time their visits to escape the steamy late summers of Virginia, but no matter. I love it when they come.

 

I love it partly because at no other time does my apartment reach the cleanliness that it does immediately before a Mom Visit. Everyone with out-of-town moms (or maybe it applies to in-town moms, too) knows what I mean. She doesn’t comment, but she sees. Ohhhhh she sees.

 

I also love just having family around. People who don’t need to be charmed, people who can share stories from decades ago…people who quite simply have the same blood, in the same room as you.  It’s a comforting feeling, one that I find myself appreciating more and more as I get older.

 

But I think my favorite thing about my parents’ annual visit is playing tourist. I’ve lived in Albuquerque a little while now and I know the town pretty well, but often it’s not till I have visitors that I remember to make time for Albuquerque’s cool stuff. Stuff like the Sandia Tram, and the museums, and all our great restaurants. The familiar works its way into the mix as well – do you know how fabulous it feels to share my favorite trails in the foothills with people who I know will appreciate them as much as I do??

 

My “Albuquerque Spirit” lingered after Mom and Dad left for Alamosa.  I went to the Bernalillo Wine Festival for the first time in years with my friend Charity. It was a long, hot afternoon, but we had a terrific time. We visited nearly all the wineries’ tents, and each came away with a couple bottles. I had instructed myself beforehand to not buy anything, but darn if an afternoon of wine-tasting doesn’t just have a way of loosening purse strings!

 

At the end of the day, Charity mentioned she had an extra ticket to an Albuquerque Isotopes game the next evening, and asked if I wanted to go. I said yes. The Isotopes are our AAA baseball team, the park is lovely, the games are tons of fun, and I don’t go nearly enough.

 

Again, we had a terrific time.  I met some of Charity’s balloon pilot friends, who are a riot. I enjoyed my traditional baseball game meal of a foot-long hot dog and draft beer – ok, and Dippin’ Dots for dessert – and watched as the Isotopes WON in the final inning! Not just that, but with that victory, they clinched the Division Championship. The players danced ecstatically, spraying champagne all over the place, dowsing their manager with a cooler of water – the works.  Not just that, but as a special treat, there were fireworks after the game. America’s favorite pastime? YES.

 

To quote Ferris Bueller, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”  I think the same goes for the easily-overlooked streets where we live; our everyday surroundings.

 

Play tourist for a day or two and see what happens.

A Run of Many Colors

When I signed up for Albuquerque’s Color Run, it was with the understanding that I would aim to have nothing but fun. First of all, if you’re racing for a PR, how can you get gloriously covered in paint, which is the whole point? Secondly, I signed up as part of a team with two friends from work (our team name was “Cake or Death”). Part of the fun of running as a team is to actually, you know, run as a team.

 

Run as a team we did. The day before the race, Teammate Emily threw the idea of tutus onto the table (hand-sewn tutus, no less!). Having never run in a tutu before, or more accurately having never worn a tutu before, ever, I immediately supported the idea. Nothing makes a race a party like a tutu.

 

We all met up on Color Run Morning in downtown Albuquerque, not far from the starting line. After a paper cup mimosa toast, the donning of the tutus (I felt like a princess, and a never-to-be-disclosed amount of happy squeaking ensued), and a sufficient number of “before” pictures of us in our pristine white clothing, we headed for the action.

 

I’ll be honest; I wasn’t certain how the Duke City would receive the Color Run. Sure, we have some fit folks scampering around town, but a big organized event like this? I wondered, would people actually come? Would the race organizers and local volunteers have any idea of what they were doing?

 

Answers:  YES, and [hallelujah] YES!

 

Thousands of people showed up. And refreshingly, despite the numbers, I never saw any crowd ugliness. No tense impatience, no sniping amongst runners. With no official race clock, with beautiful weather and with bright cheery colors floating through the air, really, why would anyone get cranky?

 

We traipsed along the course, my teammates and I, soaking up the festivity of it all. At every paint station, we slowed to allow ourselves a better coating in the technicolor dust clouds.  We cheered for each other and the people around us, we capered in our tutus, we probably looked insane but didn’t care. We crossed the finish line with linked arms. It was awesome.

 

Then, after snagging bottles of water, we discovered that the color stations along the course had just been a warm-up. We stumbled upon…The Color Throw. Picture a mosh pit at a rock concert, only a happy, benevolent mosh pit. Now picture most “moshers” with packets of paint powder in their hands. Now picture a dramatic countdown, and the release of all that powder.

 

Oh my Lord. Color got everywhere. In my ears. In my pigtails. On my eyelashes. I’ll just say that my sports bra wasn’t much of a barrier, and leave it at that. My teammates and I danced to the music and flung paint, and cheered along with the rest of the crowd at a marriage proposal that happened on stage (she said yes).

 

We parted ways I think a tiny bit rueful that not even the funnest (yes, “funnest” is a word) day at work could top that. And I get that – a headband and paint-spattered tank top probably wouldn’t go over well in the office.

 

But just try and take away my tutu.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Value of a Bad Workout

I know, I know, I’ve written a lot lately about yoga. I promise this week’s official, regularly-scheduled post, to come in a few days, will not mention it one bit.

 

But for now, a little post that I felt compelled to write after tonight’s hot yoga class.

 

I don’t go in much for over-dramatizing discomfort during exercise. Running, for example: a run into a steady headwind builds character. A run where you discreetly take advantage of accommodating shrubbery is an adventure. A run where you have to wait for a bloody nose to clot is a little annoying, but easily brushed off. Same goes for face-planting on a trail.

 

It takes a lot for me to say “That run was bad.”

 

Tonight’s yoga class was bad.  Maybe I set myself up for it — I went on a long run yesterday morning, I didn’t sleep well last night, and today was a long, aggravating day at work. I thought about not going and just taking an all-out rest day from exercise. But then I told myself, “Yoga was made for days like these! All that centering and breathing and sweating will totally get my head right.”

 

Ha. Ha. Ha.

 

I was doing okay…until I wasn’t. We were in the middle of a series of standing positions when I had to sit down. And stay there.  I tried to stand and coax myself into following along with the class several times, but always, after a couple [hopeful! optimistic!] moments…back down.

 

I know yoga is all about finding peace with yourself. Baloney. I felt like crap. I felt like a wuss compared to the rest of the class, and I caught myself quietly snuffling a couple times (I assumed the “peaceful warrior pose,” a.k.a “trying to hide in plain sight” for a good while), which made me feel even worse. By the time the end of class rolled around and the instructor was talking about positive affirmations, which I usually eat right up, I was telling myself “Almost…done.”

 

After doing a semi-controlled stagger out of the studio, I found my friends Courtney and Emily, who had also been in class, sitting on the ground against the wall. I crumpled down beside them in tears. Whether they stemmed from unhappiness or relief, I have no idea. It turns out that none of us had had much fun. We all just sat for a little while, drinking water, griping and joking and trying to find positives as we recovered in the (thank God) cooler evening air.  It’s been a long time since I’ve just sat against a wall with friends, doing nothing in particular, but making each other feel better. It was nice.  Maybe that was the lesson to be learned here.

The Yoga Instructor

“Be grateful for what you can do, and be grateful for what you can’t do.”

 

With those words, Katie the Fabulous Yoga Instructor ended class today. I was relaxing in corpse pose (no really, that’s its name; the Yoga-ese term is “shavasana”) and reflecting on my first hot vinyasa class. And by “reflecting,” I mean “collecting my breath,” because I seriously doubt much analytical thought goes on at the end of any hot yoga class.

 

I’ve gone to four hot yoga classes now, but like I said, this was my first vinyasa. “Vinyasa” essentially means moving around more. I was a tad bit nervous beforehand –  that whole trying-new-things idea – but I’m glad I went, especially since the class was in the middle of a weekday. That meant less people in the studio. Ahhh… the simple pleasure of not having to graze any of your neighbors’ body parts.

 

The other cool thing about a smaller class, and really about going to any class on a semi-regular basis, is that you get to know the instructor(s) better, and vice versa.

 

Having a good yoga instructor is AWESOME. This woman Katie has taught most of the classes I’ve attended. I went up to her after my third hot yoga class to say thank you. It seemed the right thing to do after yet another experience of finding humility, focus, humility, and in the end, after more humility, a shiny new layer of self-confidence. Or, as Katie put it, “facing your s***.”

 

She smiled and we introduced ourselves, and then she immediately asked, “You’re a runner?” Actually it wasn’t much of a question. The hamstrings and IT bands of us runners tend to speak for themselves, no?  Brushing aside my embarrassment over my inflexibility, she trotted me right over to my mat and showed me several yoga positions that are fantastic for the IT band and hamstring.  I felt like I had my own personal coach!

 

When I went to today’s class, Katie remembered me and said, “I’m so glad I learned that you’re a runner; now I know what to focus on with you.”  Part of me thought “Oh Lord, now I’m going to get singled out, ugh,” but another part of me thought, “COOL. This yoga stuff really will make me a better, stronger runner! It’s not just a sweaty bunch of hooey!”

 

As class progressed with Katie leading us through the positions, she occasionally called out, “So-and-so, this one is good for you” and moved on. No pressure to get it perfect the first time; just a casual heads-up. When I heard my name, I half-smiled, half-grimaced, because my IT band was…well, you know what happens when you try to give a dog medicine and the dog doesn’t want it? That was my IT band. Still, I appreciated having instruction with a little personal touch.

 

Hot yoga, no matter what the style, is challenging. It kicks my butt every time I go, but I have no interest in quitting. Instructors who weave humor, education, and insight into class make it absolutely worth it for me to go and push my limits. I leave every class confident that I’m becoming stronger both as a person and as a runner.

 

Here’s to Katie and all the instructors like her.

Dog Days

I got back from Jacksonville late Sunday afternoon. That morning was a blur of alarm clocks and the quiet packing of last-minute toiletries. I ate one last breakfast beside my nephew in his high chair and watched one last episode of “My Little Pony” with my niece, and left quickly after all the hugs to avoid getting too teary-eyed.

 

Flying into Albuquerque, I reminded myself of its positive points, like my friends here, the phenomenal running, endless skies, and unbeatable margaritas. It helped…a little. I don’t know if it was a re-manifestation of the earlier departure-from-family sadness, or exhaustion from a day of travel, or both, but by the time the satellite parking shuttle at the airport delivered me to my car, I was in a full-fledged cranky snit.

 

I knew what I needed: a reset run. Brushing aside travel fatigue, when I got home I dropped my bags, threw on running clothes, and headed out. The run didn’t perform any miracles – it was actually quite unremarkable, although I did sweat considerably less than during my Florida runs – but it helped my mindset start moving towards the right track. Okay, I’m back in Albuquerque now, running one of my usual routes with the usual cars passing by. The usual breeze puffs along. The ever-reliable prairie dogs and cotton-tail bunnies sprint around doing their afternoon workouts. Looks like it might rain later. We need it. Slowly but surely re-establishing my New Mexico stride.

 

I’m still working on it (I’m writing this with a not-fully-unpacked bag in the living room and a pile of dishes in the sink) but that seems to be going around, the re-establishment of stride. Here in Albuquerque, schools started up this week. Kids and parents are gradually settling back into academic routines, and commuters are settling back into dealing with more traffic. I live right next to a high school whose marching band starts practice right as I’m leaving for work. I don’t envy my neighbors trying to sleep at 6:40 a.m., but I kind of love hearing the rousing tunes as I walk out to my car.

 

Between vacations and transitions and re-adjustments, all this…activity makes me wonder about the expression “the dog days of August.” Do they exist anymore? Those days that render you a hot, tired, unmotivated lump for days on end?

 

My body is chirping “Yes!” to that right now, because I just finished an interval workout during which my legs felt like absolute lead. Yuck. My mind, resentful that it has to be productive at work again, frankly doesn’t feel too differently.

 

I want to jump back into things. Really, I do. I want to finish unpacking, wash dishes, do laundry, and plan my next hot yoga visit. I’m just not in any hurry. After all, that stuff isn’t going anywhere…and when I’m not at work or running, none of that holds the appeal of watching a Netflix movie or reading the Michener novel I just started. Not even close.

 

So maybe the dog days of August do still exist. Maybe it’s just a matter of moderation. Like any dog, they can get out of control if we let them. But sometimes, pausing to just pet them for a little while is exactly what we need.

Inner Coastal

Vay-cay-shun.

 

VACATION!

 

I’ve been in Jacksonville for a week now, with a couple days left before I have to get on the big silver bird and fly back to the desert.

 

My only plan for this retreat was that I would spend the first few days with my friend Hillary (her birthday last week was the primary catalyst for the trip) and the rest of my time with family — my brother, his wife, their kids, a.ka. my Very Adorable Niece and Nephew, and my parents, visiting from Virginia. More tenuous plans included at least one trip to the beach; not letting my running fall completely by the wayside (a  little bit of wayside is fine); and sneaking in some Olympics viewing.

 

Life without every minute planned is wonderful. Sleeping in? Perfectly okay. Staying up past midnight, then setting my alarm for 6 am to watch the women’s Olympic marathon, then immediately afterward heading out for a run in the rain? Also perfectly okay. Settling into a slow, easy pace for the rest of the day as the sunshine and humidity upshift into high gear? The best.

 

Ah, the humidity. Jacksonville is blessed by water everywhere. There’s the Atlantic Ocean, the St. Johns River, the Intracoastal Waterway, and countless little creeks, canals, and neighborhood lakes. It has rained every day of my visit. I LOVE IT.

 

Side note: Thank you, eVOLV Fitness of New Mexico, for the hot yoga classes that primed my sweat glands in the week before this trip. Seriously. Thank you.

 

Back to the lack-of-plan thing. See, that’s the beauty of vacation: the meandering has seeped right on over into my writing. Anyway, the casual pace has let me a) better enjoy the company of people who I haven’t seen in way too long, and b) take time to reminisce a bit about the 3-years-and-change I spent living here. Three years, two apartments, five marathons, lots of friends, lots of memories.

 

I moved to Jacksonville four months after graduating from college. It’s where I had my first “grown-up” job and made “grown-up” friends — friends who knew how to have fun but also dispensed advice, wisdom and the occasional “What the hell were you thinking?” Hey, I was 23!

 

Hillary and I ask each other, “Have we really known each other almost nine years already?” I look at my niece and ask myself, “Is she really getting ready for first grade already?”

 

I dunk myself in the Atlantic in my sports bra and running shorts after a long, sticky beach run. I drive along a residential street under oaks draped with Spanish moss. My fabulous friend Bobbi and I sit and chat late into the night while soaking our feet in her backyard hot tub.  I laugh with my family at my toddler nephew when he pauses mid-playtime to check out women’s beach volleyball players on TV. My niece and I take turns hurdling down a poolside water slide after analyzing the outfits of rhythmic gymnastics competitors. I remember what it’s like to turn on the air-conditioning just to drive across a parking lot. I think rain-spattered thoughts of life on the coast.

 

Reality will set in on Sunday when I go back to New Mexico, but for now, I’m soaking up this vacation life every way I can.

Warm It Up

I didn’t quite know what to expect from my first hot yoga experience. I’d taken sporadic yoga classes before, but never in an environment where, according to my friend Courtney, my “toes would sweat.” Forget any concern over the fact that I’m about as flexible as uncooked pasta. My goal here, frankly, was to not faint or puke.

 

Luckily, Courtney had advised me on best practices for hot yoga preparation. Turns out they’re not that different from pre-race preparation. Don’t eat anything crazy the night before. Hydrate. Eat something light-ish a couple hours before class. Hydrate more. Bring towels, water, and for the love of everything holy, wear sweat-wicking clothes.

 

I drove to the yoga studio dressed in, essentially, a running outfit, trading socks and shoes for flip-flops. I armed myself with a mat, three towels (two for class, one for the car), a bottle of water, and a mantra of “Just…keep…breathing.”

 

I met Courtney and another friend outside the studio. We signed in and staked out places for our mats. It was warm in there, but the door was open – kind of a warm-up to the W-A-R-M-up.

 

Then the door closed. No turning back! The instructor, a curly-haired woman named Katie, started class without fanfare. She had music playing for us – fairly common, but new to me. I liked it, especially considering it was not relaxing, spa-type music, but classic rock: the Rolling Stones, the Doors, CCR. There’s nothing like doing a warrior pose while “Paint it Black” churns into your ears. At least I think it was “Paint it Black.” My ears were pretty soggy by then.

 

I did fine for a while. To my relief, the positions weren’t extremely difficult – no handstands or pretzel-like twists. The main challenge/focus of hot yoga seems to be, well, the heat. It didn’t take long for sweat to start beading and rolling down every inch of my body. My fingers got pruney. I eventually had a towel crumpled at each end of my mat, for wiping off my hands, face, feet, ponytail, and the mat itself – that thing gets slippery.

 

I wish I could say that I sweated, stretched, pointed my toes and engaged my core without missing a beat for the entire class.

 

Ohhhhh not so.

 

Although I never needed to full-on sit down and rest (Hooray!), I did take a few “just stand there and take three deep breaths” moments, since I suspected no one wanted to see a demonstration of the lesser-known “Pancake Pose.” But thankfully, nearly everyone was doing the same. There was a vibe of “We’re all in the same sweat-filled boat, so if you need a breather, for Heaven’s sake, take one.”

 

Lying there, sodden, in the final resting pose, I thought to myself, “Hard? Yes. Helpful to my running? Probably. Worth doing again? YES.”

 

My friends cheered for my survival. Buoyed by their support and maybe a sweat-logged brain, I squished over to the front desk and signed up for more classes.

 

Do I expect to make it through hot yoga without any breathing breaks anytime soon? No. Will I successfully touch my heels to the ground in downward dog anytime soon? Good LORD no. But sweating so much that I have to put a towel over the driver’s seat for the ride home… well, living in arid New Mexico, it feels great.

 

Ye Olde Comforte Zone

You can’t spell “routine” without r-u-t.

 

I’ve honed my daily routine to such a fine degree that when I step back to examine it, it looks almost comical. On weekdays, I have my mornings timed nearly down to the minute. My wake-up times and bedtimes don’t vary much between weekdays and weekends. I run on a regular basis, and I love it, but when asked recently what else I do for fun, I… floundered.

 

I’ve become a boring person. Oh dear.

 

I dwell in my comfort zone. The thing is, comfort zones need puncturing every once in a while. While my routine is oh-so-comfortable, it doesn’t really get me anywhere. Prosperity doesn’t equal growth, and I want to grow. The itch I feel to stretch, pull and strain those comfort zone limits has progressed from mosquito bite-level to poison oak rash.

 

And isn’t summertime made for that? For adventure? Kids go to summer camp to meet new people, see new things, learn new skills, and develop new interests. Grown-ups go on vacation and happily let go of their usual routine, but how often do we really push/break out of our comfort zones in those situations? What do we do, order a cocktail we’ve never tried before? Whoa. Slow down.

 

Grown-ups have just as much of a right as kids do to meet new people, see new things, learn new skills, and develop new interests. Summer is great for this simply because of the weather and longer days. Possibilities for “comfort zone challenges” are endless: training for a first marathon. Introducing yourself to any sport, running or otherwise. Going on a camping road trip. Finally mastering that grill you got last spring. The sky is the limit!

 

I always say that I love trying new things. I want to act more on that. I want to make myself more open to new ideas and suggestions that Routine Shannon would shrink from and/or laugh at, saying, “Yeah, RIGHT.” Maybe even do things that downright freak Routine Shannon out just a little.

 

Maybe it was climbing a fourteener that kindled a little adventurous spark in my belly, but I’ve started taking baby steps of boldness. On a hike last weekend, I met a guy who gave me his phone number, and I actually called him the next day. My friend Courtney has been inviting me to come to a hot yoga class with her, and this Saturday I’m going to go.  Eeep! I’m starting to sweat just thinking about it.

 

Yes, they’re baby steps. But they’re steps!

 

Comfort zones are lovely. They help us feel secure and safe, and allow us to nestle in the idea that we have our own special, specific place in the world. But if we step out of them, shake the dust off of them, spin them around, and give them a little more room to grow before returning to them… wouldn’t that be even better?

The Pikes Peak Redemption

You know when you become attached to a goal that you just can’t shake? When, no matter how arbitrary the goal, you come to the conclusion that you won’t be a complete person until you attain it? That was me when I decided to make this the Summer of the Summit.

 

My original plan, if you remember my post from a month ago, was to hike to the top of Mt. Yale for my birthday. That didn’t quite work. But, in accordance with that stubborn goal unshake-ability, I couldn’t just shrug and say, “Oh well. Fourteeners are hard.” I wanted to try another mountain.

 

My sister, a.k.a. Sacajawea, suggested Pikes Peak. It would be a long hike to the summit, approximately 13 miles, but she firmly believed we could do it. I had never visited that part of Colorado, so the idea sounded good to me.

 

A little research assured us that it was safe to do the hike (Pikes Peak’s base town is Manitou Springs, which got evacuated during the Waldo Canyon wildfire). We picked a date: Sunday, July 15.  But then we had to worry about rain. Colorado and New Mexico are currently actually seeing sprouts of a monsoon season, which is fabulous, but increases the likelihood of afternoon thunderstorms on high peaks. We closely monitored the Pikes Peak forecast (thank you, www.14ers.com!), and wavered a little, but ultimately the chance of storms dipped low enough to satisfy our nerves.  Game on!

 

We drove to Manitou Springs, a cool little town bustling with tourists, on Saturday afternoon. We saw big signs thanking firefighters – hard to believe the town was totally empty just weeks ago. After checking in at a motel [we nixed camping due to sparse campgrounds, the possibility of late rain, and the O-dark-hundred hour we would be waking up the next morning], we drove around Garden of the Gods, making mental notes to return for a longer visit. Then we scarfed calzones at Savelli’s and turned in for the evening.

 

We got up at 4 a.m. on Sunday, breakfasted on Clif Bars, and scooted off from the trailhead just after 5. We had brought headlamps, but didn’t need them – the gray pre-dawn light provided ample visibility. Ready, set, hike!

 

There were tons of people on the trail, of all ages. Everyone went at their own pace, from the “keep ‘er steady” hikers like us, to nutty – er, admirable – runners trotting back and forth. We leap-frogged with a group who started around the same time as us, which became pretty amusing. You’d think that a lot of trail traffic would get annoying, but it really didn’t. Everyone was friendly. We all followed the rule of “if someone is coming up behind you, move aside, let them pass, and enjoy a little micro-break for yourself” and it worked beautifully. People encouraged each other. Maybe it was the weather, which stayed magnificent the entire day and never even hinted at rain, or maybe it was collective gratitude that the wildfire had spared the trail, but it just felt good out there.

 

Not to say that it was easy. Breathing at 14,000+ feet requires extra effort no matter how you slice it, and it’s not like the trail got flatter towards the top. Frankly, I relished those micro-breaks when people passed us. But we pressed on, thankfully without the high winds we experienced on Mt. Yale. We saw a pika (sort of a chipmunk/prairie dog hybrid); we leap-frogged a couple more times with our buddy group; we caught a glimpse of Pikes Peak’s famous Cog Railway starting its descent; and then, six hours after starting…we were THERE!

 

 

My first fourteener summit was everything I thought it would be. I gave a victorious shout of some sort and hugged my sister, and we took obligatory pictures at the “trail’s end” sign.  Then we trooped inside the Summit House/ Visitors’ Center, where we were greeted by an unmistakable, heavenly aroma. I was mildly concerned that I was hallucinating, but sure enough…they sell donuts at the summit of Pikes Peak. And after a 13-mile uphill hike, yes, they are the best *&$# donuts IN THE WORLD.

 

 

We ate our packed lunches, bought a Pikes Peak magnet, and soaked up the views that inspired Ms. Katharine Lee Bates to write “America the Beautiful.” The Cog Railway returned us to civilization, where we shuffled back to the car, got gas for its tank and large coffees for ours, and drove back to Alamosa.  We walked to a local brewpub for dinner, where we ate like tired but happy zombies.

 

I ordered a celebratory beer to go with my burger, and couldn’t even finish it – and didn’t mind one bit.

 

           

The Tour de France, Translated

Vive le Tour!

 

My inner cycling groupie has stepped out front and center. Not because I’m any good at riding a bike – I don’t even own one, and when I do ride, God forbid I should need to stop, turn, dismount, breathe, etc. – but because I love to watch it.

 

I only started watching the Tour de France two years ago, so I’m still learning. I’ve noticed, though, as I seek out other Tour fans, that a LOT of the general, non-cycling public has these and only these frames of reference for the Tour: 1) Lance Armstrong, 2) doping, and 3) skinny dudes with shaved legs in flashy outfits.

 

So, if you’re curious about the Tour but don’t care to watch NBC Sports for four-hour stretches, here’s the knowledge I’ve gleaned so far. If any aficionados are reading this, please correct me if necessary.

 

THE TOUR: This is its 99^th year. The Tour starts around the beginning of July and lasts for 23 days. The first day is the “prologue”; you then have 20 “stages,” with two rest days sprinkled in. The course of the Tour changes every year, although certain stage courses do get repeated. The Tour always ends in Paris. The stage courses vary from flat terrain to mountains and don’t always stay in France – this year, for example, the Tour started in Belgium and included a foray into Switzerland. The length of each stage varies; this year’s Tour totals 3,497 kilometers. Residents along the stages express their Tour spirit like so:

 

          

 

 

THE TEAMS: There are 22 teams, each with nine riders. Rarely will a team’s riders all share the same nationality. Teammates support each other throughout the Tour, and generally work for the benefit of the team leader, a.k.a. the main star of the team. This year, Team Sky has two stars, Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish, which is rare and being analyzed ad nauseam.

 

THE RIDERS: Most of the riders travel in a pack called the Peloton. Early in every stage there’s a “breakaway” or “escape,” consisting of a few bold riders – but the Peloton almost (almost) always catches up, and that stage’s top contenders take over. This changes for time trial stages, in which riders go one at a time, but there are only a couple of those per Tour. Important note: not every rider is trying to win the Tour. As stated above, most of them are working to support someone else. Raw deal, maybe, but they all know the situation, and some riders, known as “domestiques” (servants, fitting!) are renowned as invaluable helpers –George Hincapie and Jens Voigt, to name a couple.

 

THE JERSEYS: The jerseys work on a points system, and generally change hands several times throughout the Tour. The yellow jersey, or maillot jaune, goes to the overall points leader. Those aiming for the yellow are “GC” (General Classification) riders – those are the guys trying to win the Tour. The green jersey goes to the top sprinter. Sprinters know they won’t win the Tour, so they try to just win as many stages as possible, especially the flatter ones. Then there’s the polka-dot jersey, for the best climber, a.k.a. “King of the Mountain,” and the white jersey, for the best young rider. The GC riders and the sprinters typically get the most attention. Big GC names this year include defending champion Cadel Evans and Bradley Wiggins; big sprinter names include Mark Cavendish, Andre Greipel, and Peter Sagan.

 

THE COMMENTATORS:  I have to mention Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen. These guys have called the Tour de France for over a decade, and they’re a huge reason I love watching it. They not only discuss what’s going on during every stage, but provide really cool history and trivia about each stage’s towns, sights, and cycling in general. They banter with each other and aren’t afraid to openly criticize or show concern – when Phil says “Oh dear,” it ain’t good.

 

This year’s Tour lasts until July 22. Check it out; it’s more entertaining than you might think, and you might just be inspired to put on a flashy outfit, do a workout, and speak in a British accent.

Pour One Out

Summer. It’s a magnificent season, with long vacations, splashy pools, swirly frozen yogurt, and sharp-cracking baseball bats. All easy things to embrace, no?

 

It is not always such an easy season in which to embrace running. Sure, you have lots of daylight hours and you can get a good tan out there, but man does air-conditioning get cozy. And flip-flops are so much airier than running shoes.

 

More frequently than I care to admit, I come home from work these days really, really wanting to just lie down and take a nap. Or relax on my couch, turn on the TV, and watch other people doing athletic things during the Olympic Trials and Tour de France. The other day, my car’s thermometer said 101 degrees when I climbed in after work, and when I got home after 20 minutes of driving with the air-conditioner blasting, it said 104. How does that even happen??

 

My point is, when the world is in vacation mode, it’s easy to skip workouts. And so I’ve developed what I call the “Pour One Out” rule.

 

I can’t remember if I came up with the Pour One Out rule in the middle of a long run or after a liberal quantity of wine. It could’ve been either. Anyway, it goes like this: on days when you suffer from an acute lack of motivation, think of a person or people in your life who you know would give anything to be able to run. Maybe you know someone who’s sick, or injured, or someone who has to work late. Maybe you know a brand-new runner-mom who’s recovering from the ultramarathon known as childbirth. Think of that person, and run one mile for them. Just one, at whatever pace you want. Then see how you feel after that, and proceed from there. You’ll have gotten at least a little exercise, and if you still don’t feel like running, you can call it a day. Want a sneaky Jillian Michaels-style option? Run the one mile out, so you have to run another mile to return home.

 

If you complete the first mile and can’t decide whether to keep going, just think of other people who could use a mile poured out for them. Chances are you know more than one. For the past couple of weeks, when I’ve been internally whining about the heat in Albuquerque, I tell that inner whiner to hush, and remind myself that about five hours north up I-25 in Colorado Springs, countless runners sit restlessly at home or are confined to treadmills because of smoke, ash, and Lord knows what else in the air. Instead of cursing the heat as I run along, I’m grateful for the chance to be running outside, period. Do I still fantasize about finding a lemonade…or margarita…stand during my run? Well, yeah. But with a little perspective, sweat and dust and a parched throat lose some of their swagger.

 

Next time the force that is summertime, or any other force, has you locked in its tractor beam and tries to keep you from running, try just pouring one out for the people who can’t be there. It will make whatever drink you pour out for yourself afterwards taste even better.

Celebrating a Tidal Title

Last weekend was the 40^th anniversary of Title IX. On June 23, 1972, Congress decreed that “No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance.”

 

To commemorate that anniversary, Nike unleashed a campaign called “The Power of IX.” You may have seen this ad:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1ighxU1vYw. It is the most moving, inspirational commercial I’ve seen in years.

 

Usually, I prefer to avoid thinking about politics, but that ad campaign, plus reading a great op-ed piece by President Obama, got me thinking: What is the power of IX?

 

There’s the sports aspect. Growing up, I never thought about not getting to play sports because of my gender. I played soccer, basketball, softball, even tennis (er, briefly) and finally laced up my first running shoes, and never once did I hear “Well, but you’re a girl…that’s not for you.” I just accepted it as the natural order of things.

 

Then I learned a little history. As running ingrained itself into me, I read up on its pioneers, especially the women. There was Kathrine Switzer, who ran the 1967 Boston Marathon registered androgynously as “K. Switzer”; the race director tried (unsuccessfully) to physically remove her from the course. How about Ingrid Kristiansen, who remains the only runner ever to simultaneously hold the world record in the 5k, 10k, and marathon? And of course Joan Benoit Samuelson, the first women’s Olympic marathon champion in 1984. When Joan was a newbie runner, she would stop and pretend to be picking flowers whenever a car passed.

 

We’ve come a long way, baby.

 

But Title IX covered more than just sports. It also opened up opportunities in all kinds of careers. Not only can girls stride confidently onto playing fields now, but into the academic world and beyond that, the business world. Math? Science? Running had Joan Benoit Samuelson; science had Sally Ride. Interestingly, even though girls have stormed playing fields, they haven’t stormed (as much) the fields of science, technology, engineering and math – a.k.a. STEM. Do we need more female role models in those fields? Or is it that there are role models; they’re just not on medal podiums or Wheaties boxes? I don’t know. If any ladies reading this are pursuing STEM careers, hats off to you. You are awesome.

 

Maybe the best gift of Title IX is the power of recognition. With Title IX, women can look back at those pioneers with respect and admiration, not curiosity or scorn. We recognize them with gratitude for creating opportunities we now just accept as, like I said, the natural order of things. Title IX also gives us the power to recognize…yes…men! In 1972, most lawmakers were men, yet an enlightened group of them realized the error in keeping women from sports, from politics, from “hard” careers. Here’s to those men. Here’s also to the men who support us women in our forays into all of those arenas: family members, spouses, everyone. Cheers.

 

The Power of IX? I think we’ve only just begun to see it. In the next few months, I’m sure we’ll all get sick and tired of politics – but the piece of politics called Title IX? That one did good.

Me and the Mountain

If you read last week’s post, you know what this week’s will be about. If not, here’s a quick catch-up: to celebrate my 31^st birthday, I wanted to try climbing a mountain over 14,000 feet high – a fourteener, in hiker lingo. I enlisted the help of my mountain-savvy sister and her husband, who live in Alamosa, Colorado. We decided we’d tackle Mt. Yale – it’s not far from Alamosa, and my sis figured it would be relatively beginner-friendly.

 

We arrived at Collegiate Peaks Campground (Mt. Yale shares a swath of the Sawatch Range with Mts. Princeton, Harvard, and Columbia) late Saturday afternoon. We pitched our tents, strolled the campground, did a quick reconnaissance trip to the trailhead, ate supper, and hit the hay early like responsible little hikers. The night’s temperatures dropped a bit lower than expected, but we managed to catch some Z’s before the birds started warbling wake-up calls.

 

We went on a super-short “wake up the legs and lungs” run, broke camp, and scarfed down a delicious breakfast of homemade banana bread, peanut butter, and honey. Then… on to the mountain!

 

I wasn’t nervous so much as excited and curious. I knew the hike would be challenging, but well, I was fit, right? I run long distances, I live at high altitude, and gosh darn it, I have willpower. So off we went, into the wilderness.

 

 

The first leg wasn’t bad. We had soft, fragrant pine needles under our feet, and a rollicking brook flowing parallel to the trail. We had to cross that brook several times, which made me gulp a little because of my notorious clumsiness, but the crossings were all thankfully splash-free.

 

We kept on climbing. The temperature dipped and we noticed a small breeze, but nothing surprising – hey, it’s a mountain. We put on long sleeves, slurped some more water, and continued.

 

And then I learned a very important lesson:  Above treeline, things get real.

 

Treeline, in case you’re wondering, is the point on a mountain where the trees just…stop. Some really cool things about this part of the mountain: Every way you turn, you see views that justify every patriotic song ever written. You can see marmots, high-altitude cousins of groundhogs, scuttling their plump little selves between rocks. You can tell yourself you’re that much closer to the summit.

 

Some ugly things about this part of the mountain: Lack of trees = total exposure. That little breeze turned into a gust that eased up approximately three times. It blew sideways and carried our breath directly away from us – fun, when the air was already thin! And proximity to the summit meant, on this mountain anyway, rocks. As in, scrambling over them. I’m generally okay with heights, but testing my balance? Different story. Again, that whole clumsiness thing. I get spooked.

 

Things came to a head about a half-mile or so from the summit. Between the wind, and getting spooked by rock-scrambling, and those two things combining to make normal breathing a chore, I hit a wall. Not like a marathon wall. This was harder than any marathon I’ve ever run. Mountains don’t have aid stations, or big crowds to cheer at you, and there’s certainly no “just put one foot in front of the other” mentality. You do that, and you could put one foot in front of the other right over a cliff.

 

In that moment, I did what I’ve staunchly refused to do during even my toughest marathons. I sat down and cried.

 

It sucked.

 

But that’s why God invented big sisters: to soothe you, calm you down, and help you remember that little skill called breathing.

 

So I got up, wrinkled my nose defiantly in the direction of the summit, and told myself I could DO this!

 

Except I hit the wall again. This time, I was clinging to a rock like it was my firstborn. I was mad at myself and mad at the wind and frustrated and tired. My sister, bless her, calmed me down again. I sat there (still grasping the rock just a little), looked up the trail, and saw more of the same. Rocks, wind, misery. My body said “We can probably do this, we have the stamina!”  My mind said, “No.”

 

That really sucked.

 

I told my family I was ready to turn around. We did an about-face and started the trek back down. I was disappointed, but took some comfort in knowing we had still climbed a considerable distance – higher than Wheeler Peak, New Mexico’s tallest mountain. Not a bad mountain-climbing debut, I suppose. We also had some marmots pop out to greet us, one of which I swear actually posed for my camera.

 

 

Getting back below treeline was FABULOUS. Protection from the wind! Warmer temperatures! The thrill of being alive! We tromped back down the mountain, stopping twice for snack breaks. The afternoon warmed up a lot, but luckily, no sneaky thunderstorms typical of fourteeners crept up on us.

 

We finished the hike mid-afternoon and bee-lined to the aforementioned brook, where we took our shoes off and gave our feet the most heavenly soaking that I, personally, have ever experienced. Then we headed back to Alamosa, stuffed our faces with pizza and hummingbird cake, and breathed a collective “ahhhh.”

 

To sum up: It was one of my best birthdays ever. I’m still trying to sort out all the lessons I learned from Mt. Yale. And…I kinda want to try another one.

 

Joyful June

There comes a point in every woman’s life when she decides whether she wants to start fibbing about her age, or celebrate every inch and second of her birthday.

 

At this point, a woman must search her soul, closely examine the reflection in the mirror, plumb the depths of her heart, and at last muster up the will to say, “Screw it! I’m doin’ both!”

 

It’s this kind of nobility that I seek.

 

Before I start officially fibbing about my age, though, I’ll truthfully tell you all that I’m turning 31 this year. For some reason, this birthday feels just as important as turning 30 did – maybe because calendar months never go past 31? I dunno.

 

At any rate, the occasion demands celebration. I know at least my very-fabulous hot air balloon pilot friend Charity (go check out Blowin’ Around) agrees with me; she supports the idea of BIRTHDAYS (as opposed to birthdays). I try to get my other friends on board with the birthday enthusiasm idea.  It’s a work in progress. I want to say to them, “You are allowed to celebrate yourself.”

 

This year I’m taking it a step further:  I’ve embarked on a project I call “Joyful June,” which entails doing something fun every day this month, no matter how small. I’ve painted my nails. I’ve met friends for dinner. I’ve gone on cool hikes. I got sushi when I was too tired to cook. I went to San Francisco and lost a piece of my heart to my newest nephew. I ran on Stinson Beach and felt like a puppy who’s been let off leash. I walked through the doors of the exorbitant-yet-EXQUISITE Lululemon for the first time, took a deep breath, and let myself spluuurge on new running clothes. I ran across the Golden Gate Bridge with my dad.

 

The project has been working well so far. The big reason I’m doing it, other than my birthday, is that each year, when June becomes July, I’ve kicked myself for not having given my favorite month its due attention. I love June. June is that magical month in Albuquerque when a breeze turns from an annoyance into a saving grace. June is the month when people say “Ahhh…summertime” but before they say “Uggggh, where the *&##@ is autumn?” June is when mouth-watering summer produce starts popping up aplenty at grocery stores: cherries! Corn! Peaches that you have to eat over the sink!

 

Sensational, festival-filled, blueberry-pie-in-the-sky JUNE.

 

So what am I going to do on my actual birthday? I’m going to combine three of my most-loved things: 1) travel, 2) family, and 3) trying something new. I’m heading up to Colorado, where I’ll meet up with my sister and her husband. We will then drive a little ways, make camp, and climb…a 14er! I’ve hiked up mountains before, but none over 14,000 feet high [14er, get it? Oh those clever, original frontiersmen]. Who knows what will unfold? I just hope I don’t get knocked over the edge of a cliff by a chipmunk gone berserk.

 

In any case, it will be a birthday to remember.

 

** Special Note to my Dad: HAPPY FATHER’S DAY to a great man who encourages his kids to climb every mountain. Love, Shannon.