Busy Trip, No Triathlon Training, etc.

Yesterday I ran a seven minute mile in 100 degree heat. I don't know what I was thinking. It was actually about 7:30, the mile. And I'm sure I could have been faster in better conditions. When I decided I wanted to do a sub-eight minute mile, I wasn't thinking about the temperature outside. Luckily, I took my water bottle and it was full of ice.

After the all out mile, I ran two more. But the heat nearly had me sick. So I had to walk often and ended up only doing the three miles in 28 minutes. It was a terrible time. I'm trying to find out how well I might do in the triathlon I signed up for. Anyway, I didn't get to exercise much on the Utah trip, though I ran four miles one day (it was very difficult, what with the elevation difference).

All in all, it was a busy trip (photos). I actually feel worse physically than I did before I went. I feel better mentally, however.

I told my mom on the trip that I no longer plan on sleeping well when I go home. It used to be different, back before the introduction of grandkids. Now the grandkids wake up and scream and throw things on the linoleum above the room I sleep in while I'm visiting. They're genuine busybodies. I used to think I had a lot of energy to kill, but then I met Dani's twins, Ellie and Emma and they have outdone me.

But Jack, the twins' brother, has gotten older and his vocabulary has also grown and now we have great conversations. On this trip Jack told his dad that we're buds. It's weird how a kid makes you want to be a hero. Or, in my case, a heroine. Except I've never really been fond of that distinction, so let's go back to hero.

Jack makes me want to be a hero. I imagine it's how a parent feels, and in that case, it must be ten times harder to be a "mean" parent (in the parlance of the child). But sometimes you have to have the big picture in mind, right? For me it's not too hard to be mean occasionally because I know that I'll leave and the kid will most likely forget me in favor of his or her toys.

One of the things that I talked about with Jack was his brand new cousin Isabelle. For some reason Jack didn't want his other cousin Clayton (Anji's boy) to look at or be near her. She was laying in her car seat carrier thing (I'm still not sure about all the baby paraphernalia) and Clayton came over to look at her and Jack put his arm up to block him. It was a very subtle move. I didn't know kids could be so subtle.

I said to Jack, "Why'd you do that? Don't you want Clayton to see her?"
And Jack shook his head and said, "No."
"Why not?" I asked him.
"Because she's too precious. You have to be careful with her."

I'm not kidding. He really said that. I think Jack is four. And then he touched her cheek really softly and I told him that he's very good. This all went on beneath the attention of the adults, except for me because I still have all those great childlike qualities about me. Essentially, I'm on their level.

I'm not sure what Jack thought Clayton might do to Isabelle the baby, accidentally hit her or something, maybe (not that Clayton is violent or anything. So far I've seen no evidence that any of them are vicious children). Kids live in their own world, you know, and they see things adults don't see. Like when an adult leaves the kids' room and all the toys come to life and have a tea party with the child. Of course, as the child grows older these tea parties become less frequent, until, eventually, the toys no longer come to life because the kid's an adult. You know what I'm talking about.

On Sunday, Abby, my sister Kelly's first daughter (Isabelle is the second), got a birthday cake. Basically the cake was a naked Barbie doll. Jk jk. The doll was only naked underneath all the frosting because, get this, the cake WAS the doll's clothes. You've never seen a kid happier about a cake, a doll, or a box ("I, I, I think it's a box!"). She absolutely loved the attention and I can only assume that this is because of my sister's overindulgent parenting.

I had my cell phone out to take pictures so I could send them to Stoker, and Abby noticed and said, "Take a picture," in a very adorable, childlike voice. She has a bit of lisp—also adorable. Take note that the command to "take a picture" is only acceptable when coming from a child. Please don't use this one on me next time we hang out, otherwise I'll be forced to deck you.

Running in 100 Degree Heat and Other Stories

I went running in the hottest heat ever. I mean, hottest for me. It was 104 degrees yesterday. It might have been 103. And some parts of the run might have been even hotter because the blacktop's always hotter. I avoid really black blacktop roads as often as possible.

But the people of Tennessee have a thing for resurfacing roads. And the roads around my apartment are the blackest and the hottest because landscaping is the most important thing to the management. Not quality walls and paint on the inside of the apartments (our walls are like fax paper -- bump the wall and it leaves a black mark), rather things you can see like the gorgeous pool and the willows and pines.

On the run I thought to myself that if it was going to be this hot and this long without rain, I might as well move back to Arizona, where the plants and animals have adapted for survival in such extremes. Here in Tennessee the trees are dropping their leaves, the grass is brown, and I don't even want to wonder if the animals are surviving. But I do. In fact, because of my concern I've put a big bowl of water on the deck in case the birds get thirsty. Lame, I know, but the water in the nearby pond looks poisonous to me. I bet it's full of anti-freeze and vile green algae.

I'm not really sure if the birds are using my makeshift birdbath, but I hope they are. I worry about them. On my run it was the quietest it's ever been. Once in a while I'd hear a cricket, and at one point I heard a rustling in the woods. I stopped and looked for what was causing the noise. It was a gray squirrel (speaking of, check out this funny blog entry about an urban squirrel at war with humans) climbing around in the dead leaves. I wonder if he was looking for some water, because . . . I know a deck nearby . . .

In case anyone (anyone?) has been tracking my running progress for this month's goal, I haven't done too well. For about two weeks it's been extremely hot and uncomfortable. The heat is so draining it's sapped my desire to run. Yesterday I drew the line. To hell with caution! And I put on my running clothes and headed to the clubhouse to run on the treadmill.

But my apartment complex sucks! They closed the pool AND the workout room, because, you know, the indoor portion of the pool is closed too and blah blah blah. As soon as I move out, I'll be sure to post the NAME of the apartment complex so people who are moving to Tennessee and need an apartment, will know just how inhospitable the employees are at this particular joint.

So anyway, I was in my running clothes already and that's why I ran outside. There were only a few diehard runners like myself out there. Rain, sleet, snow, 104 degrees . . . that's us. We'll run in any temperatures, at any time of day!

It's not too bad, you know. I prefer 100 degrees and 30% humidity to 85 degrees and 50% humidity. I ran with my ice water and poured a good portion of it on me instead of in me. Good advice for running in extreme heat is to have two water bottles. One for drinking and one for splashing on your face and back.

The Evil, Evil Tick

I just put my running shoes on, getting ready to go for a run. About a minute later I was standing in the bathroom putting some ointment on my finger (I think it almost killed me last night -- an infected hangnail or something). I looked down and there on my ankle sock (they're running socks, ok?), was the biggest damn TICK ever.

It's raining now, so I can't go running. Not that I'm afraid of a little rain. A little lightning, yeah. It's thundering out there too or else I'd be out pounding the pavement. Oh, and here in Nashville, it usually isn't just a little rain. It's usually like a monsoon.

So I'm sitting here waiting for the storm to pass, feeling itchy and worried about ticks. My last run was on Sunday. How long has that tick been waiting in my shoe? And how many OTHER ticks have I brought in on my shoes or clothes and not known it? I know I said in this post that I'd obsessively check for ticks after every run. But I haven't been doing that. So now I'm obsessing about all the ticks that could be hiding in my closet, where I keep my shoes. Do I need to check the cats for ticks, now? Oh crap. That stupid, stupid tick.

I like bugs, ok? I'm a bug kind of person. At one time I actually thought I'd be an entomologist (along with every other career imaginable, except prison guard or politician). So I'm not afraid of bugs. I don't scream when I see them unless they startle me. The tick on my sock? Scary as hell. I washed it down the sink. I ran the water for about five minutes. A few minutes later, I ran it again for ten minutes. I'm sorry, I know there's always a water shortage everywhere except the few places where it's flooding, but that tick was monstrous. It needed to be drowned.

When it stops raining, I'll go for a run and think about ticks. When I come back from my run, I'll make sure there are no ticks in or on my shoes. I'll check my clothes. I'll drown any ticks that come near me. I will, so help me. You know ticks spread Lyme disease, right? For about a week I'll obsess about any marks on my skin that resemble a bug bite. It's going to be awesome.

My Hypochondria: Lyme Disease, and Meningitis

I can't bend my neck and touch my chin to my chest without terrible muscular pain. All my life if I had a stiff neck my mother would say to me, "Well, can you touch your chin to your chest? Ok, good, you're fine then. It's just a stiff neck." When asked what else it would be, she'd say something about spinal meningitis. I had no idea what that was, but it sounded horrible.

And my mom wonders why I'm a hypochondriac. Honestly, it's like accusing someone of being an alcoholic all the time and then being surprised to find out that they have a problem with alcohol. I don't think I started out worried that I was going to die of cancer or AIDS.

What child isn't saturated with information about all the diseases and dangers of living? And it's not complete information, either. It's just enough to make you really worry if you have even one symptom associated with a certain disease. Like the stiff neck. Turns out, the chin to chest test should be done when you're lying down and you should be able to do it without raising your legs (from WebMD).

Last summer Stoker and I went camping. Well, we tried anyway. It was over the Fourth of July and it turned out to be hotter than the bayou outside--even in the middle of the night! We're mountain people (I really love to say that) and it's typical to experience a hot day and then a cool night in the mountains or the desert. Not so in the south. Plus, in all my life, I have never seen more bugs than that night except in the Temple of Doom. Bugs are great in the daylight, when you can see where they are, but when you find a giant spider having dinner on your backpack, it's disturbing.

So, we went home instead of camping. We hadn't been able to sleep and I'm pretty sure there were potato bugs (I've always called them this, in fact they are woodlice) in my sleeping bag and gigantic crane flies inside the tent. It didn't matter that we kept things zipped up. They found a way in.

Potato bugs (I'm going to keep calling them potato bugs for sentimental reasons) weren't the only thing I was sharing with that night. I had two ticks. They were tiny, devilish, and looked like small moles. I don't think they bit me. But after that, I worried I was going to catch Lyme disease.

I remember when I was a kid, there was a television commercial about Lyme disease. Some famous girl from some contemporary sitcom did the advertisement. I'm probably the only one who remembers it. The girl came on and talked about what a devastating disease Lyme disease is and how easy it is to catch it. Most people don't even know they have it. Something like that, and then please give us some money for Lyme disease research. Very depressing.

I don't think I have Lyme disease. At least, I got through that run-in with the ticks last summer. We're all okay. Except the ticks, we drowned them. But Stoker and me, we're fine. We still go outside. It's probably a stupid idea, but I run through tall grass on my daily run. Apparently, ticks hang out on the tips of blades of grass, waiting, the way hobos wait for a train. As an animal or person passes by, the ticks hop on board . . . like a hobo . . .

Last week, this mysterious bruise appeared on the back of my thigh. I had recently read that tick bites looks like a mosquito bite, a bruise, or a bulls-eye. A few days later, my neck starts hurting. Meningitis can be caused by Lyme disease. Look it up!

Ok, so I'm pretty sure my stiff neck isn't because of an infection. I'm pretty sure I've been turning the air conditioner down too low at night, and lately Stoker has really been hogging the blankets. This morning I woke up with only a corner of the blankets covering my lower back. And I was all curled up in a ball, like I was cold. So, I blame Stoker. Ha ha.

He came in to wake me up and I said, "I think I know why I've been having a stiff neck." And he asked why. I said, "Because for some reason, I never have any covers." And he was like, "So, uh, is that my fault? Are you blaming me?" He didn't say it defensively, just with that kind of sweet, resigned tone, as though I always find a way to blame him for everything.

And I won't lie to you. It usually goes that way. I don't know, it's something programmed into the female. I remember when my sister Dani was pregnant the first time, and really close to being done with it. Jason, her husband, would tell my family that occasionally Dani would shoot him these piercing glances, as though she blamed him for her suffering. And she did. Because, it was HIS fault she had that parasite growing in her. It was really funny. Guess you had to be there.

So, don't worry. I try to overcome my tendency to blame Stoker (stupid stereotypes, I blame the stereotypes!). It only happens when I'm grouchy. It's true of him, too, you know. When he gets grouchy, mainly. But usually he's perfect.

Also, don't worry, I'm trying to overcome my hypochondria. It's just hard to find a balance with that. You don't want to worry too much and go crazy with worry, but you also don't want to ignore what you're body is telling you. I guess I could always check for ticks. Obsessively.

Death in the Morning, Death on the Highway

I came across a juvenile rat snake on my run this morning. He was coiled on the side of the road, near the grass. What I love best about running outside is all the other lives going on around me. I keep track of the animals I've seen and where I see them. It's like knowing who your neighbors are and understanding what your neighborhood is about.

Snakes are beautiful, quiet, and invisible until I almost step on them. Some people would say they're sneaky and dangerous, and while some snakes are, others are simply another life trying to make a go of it in their little niche.

When I come across a snake in my path, I like to stop and look at it, to admire it's beauty. I also wait for it to get off the path so I can be sure that it doesn't get stepped on or run over by a bike, or in some instances, a car. Not on my watch, at least.

This morning I stopped near the rat snake. He looked gorgeous and fine, until I saw the ants crawling around his mouth. I touched his body with my shoe and he still felt soft, but he didn't coil up or move away from me. So I touched his side with my finger, and he was really soft. I don't know what happened to him. He must have been run over even though there wasn't much evidence of that. Except for the ants, his body looked perfect.

I continued on my run and when I passed the snake again, I picked him up by the tail and moved him into the grass. He wasn’t stiff at all, like I had imagined he would be. I wished I could show him more respect, but at that time that was the best I could do. As a child, my sisters and I often buried the dead animals we found in our yard. But when I was young, I had seen little of death. Now I see it everywhere and if I buried all the dead animals I come across, I'd be burying something every day.

It always hurts when I see an animal that has needlessly died by human hands. I feel responsible, even though I haven't personally killed them. I'm responsible in that I use the roads that move the cars to and from places and it is on the road that I see the most death. Nearly every day there's an animal crushed beyond recognition on the side of the road. I don't understand why it is always on the side of the road.

But my mind plays it out. Driver spots possum crossing the road, driver swerves to the right to miss the possum, at the same time the possum darts quickly to the right to escape the car. That is where they meet, on the side of the road. It never ends well for the possum, but the human can drive away. I hope the driver cries, at the very least.

When I see the dead, I wonder who they have left behind. Have they left reliant young? Nature is cruel, I know, and as an old friend once told me (a Navajo), "Things die, Nik." Still, I can't help but wonder—as Barry Lopez expresses in "Apologia," found in the book, About This Life—"Who are these animals, their lights gone out? What journeys have fallen apart here?"

Running with Pepper Spray

It sucks to be a woman.

Wait, hear me out. I read stuff in the news like this, and I think, "Oh crap, I'm going to have to start carrying a gun and enroll in martial arts classes." Or something. Does anything work?

Seriously. When I run, I take a can of pepper spray. But is that enough? And as I run, I look passers-by in the face, so they know I'm not afraid and so I know what they look like. I'm hardly friendly, even though some people are very polite. I'm thinking about getting a big dog to take with me. A scary dog. And I'm considering getting tattoos and spiking my hair so that I look scary and uninviting.

Ok, the last bit isn't true. But it really bothers me that the world isn't safe. That a woman can't go for a walk somewhere without worrying that a man might decide to oh I don't know, rape then kill her.

I understand that choice is an essential part of life and that we should all be allowed to evolve at our own pace, and that a person should not be condemned before they've done something; or rather, a person might have evil thoughts now and then, but they might not act on their thoughts, so it wouldn't be right to pronounce a verdict until a crime is committed. Otherwise we'd all be in trouble.

Even so, I can't help but feel that so many bastards deserve to be banished to a penal colony before they kill. It really sucks to go through an entire life with the knowledge that men will always and forever be physically stronger than you. That's why I need to get a gun and some tattoos. And I guess that's one advantage to being a really butch woman. Maybe. Is it? Who knows.

Run: Don't be Veal

I started running again in January. It's been an on again/off again love affair for me ever since I was a child. As a child I just ran for the hell of it. You know, like kids do. They'll run over to their friend's house and then back home, just because running is how you get places when you're a kid. It kills me.

On my daily runs I go past a YMCA and there's often an AYSO soccer game going on. I look at the kids and think, "Oh man, those were the days," because I used to be in AYSO. And they probably look at me and think, "Why the hell is that lady running like that?" The kids these days swear a lot. And yes, I'm at the age where kids call me lady. As in "old lady ____" who runs the amusement park and tried to scare everyone away by rigging sheet-ghosts on the carousel.

The kids wonder why I'm running because they run as a matter of nature. They don't understand that when you get old, your body is heavier and running is harder. Life gets harder too and often a body sits more than it walks or runs. We grow from children who die for the chance to go outside in the hot weather to play on the Big Toy or get a game of kickball going, to adults who sit like veal in cages in air-conditioned office buildings. And while some of us get to look out windows, others of us only have Office Windows and Explorer as our links to the outside world. We feel our muscles growing soft and fatty (did you know your body can store fat in your muscles and organs if you're too inactive?), we look at our once muscular, shapely legs and see the pock-marks of blubber cells beneath the surface, and wonder, "Why have I let this happen?"

And that's part of the reason this old lady runs. When I was twenty-two and a junior in college, I ran out of fear that if I didn't, I'd gain that freshman twenty (or is it sophomore twenty?) everyone talked about. I didn't really gain anything until I was twenty-six and an entry-level copy writer. See? I had become veal. Something I had gone to great lengths (three years of graduate school) to avoid.

Inevitably I landed in a cubicle. And my legs grew soft and my stomach became flabby. No matter what I did, that 32 ounce Dr. Pepper every morning took its toll. I guess you can't drink 600 calories every day at a sedentary job, and only exercise three days a week after work and expect to keep the lean, trim figure you had during college. During college I walked everywhere, sometimes up Old Main hill twice a day. It was rough.

So, I'm running again. At first it sucked. At first my legs felt like cement blocks, they screamed with every step, and a mile was like murder. I felt like a fraud, like, "What the hell, who am I kidding? This isn't me anymore." But now it is. It's better. Sometimes I think I could run forever, on days when the humidity isn't a beast and the sun isn't a wench. Even then, once I get into it, four miles doesn't feel like too much for my basic run.

I've just challenged a bunch of people to beat me to 150 miles*. I'm no ultra-marathoner, but I kind of hope to be someday. I didn't get into the St. George marathon, but maybe I'll still be able to run it, and from there I have some other Everests to conquer.


p.s. Don't EAT veal, either.


*Anyone who wants to JOIN THIS CHALLENGE, let me know. It starts May 15th. The catch is you have to do it through the Nike+ ipod feature. So, get a Nano or something, buy the Nike+ sensor, and start running! The winner gets $100 on me.

Weather Report: Nashville, Cold as a Witch's _____

I feel cheated. Ripped off. Faked out. Et cetera. For about two or three weeks in March, we experienced a warming trend. A hideous testament of global warming. But I loved it. It had me shoving my coats, gloves, scarves, and jackets into a storage bin. Temperatures were getting into the high 80s (at least that’s what my internal thermometer said). Suddenly it turned viciously cold, plummeting into the mid-20s at night and the 30s in the day, with arctic winds frosting things up (these are all my personal estimates, and I’m sure this sounds fabulous to people who live in Minnesota, but I’m in Nashville). A hilarious in-your-face swipe at the global warming theory*.

What do I want to do when it gets that cold? That’s right, sulk. The wind is cruel and terrible, burning my ears and making my eyes tear up when I try to ride my bike or run. So, there goes my training.

I don’t know why the quick weather change has got me so down in the dumps, but it does. It really chaps my hide.


*What gets me about the global warming theory is that scientists (whoever they are) seem to expect things to stay the same. They expect their expectations about how, when, where, why, and who (?) to be met by Mother Nature. Fools.

Today's Forecast: Buckets o' Rain

Smart. I just went out to the gas station to get a drink and am now sitting here in my soaked clothes. It's ridiculous and itchy. Running in Doc Martens is stupid, in case you're ever tempted to run in a pair. It's really bad for the tibialis anterior (yes, I looked that up on Wikipedia). I'm from Utah where rain like you get in Tennessee is unheard of. A person can get away without an umbrella in most rain storms in Utah. Today, in my soaked clothes, in my cubicle where the air conditioner is constantly on (we're stationed in the library of the publishing house and you have to keep the humidity low and I guess the temperature at a steady 65 degrees[?]), I might end up with hypothermia.

Oh yeah, that Arc'teryx jacket I have? Not a rain jacket.