Mom, butt plugs, and the Autobahn

This vending machine was spotted while using a restroom off the Autobahn. Oddly enough, it reminded me of my mother.

Some quick background: My mother was a true specimen of eccentricity. She also got a bit batty in her old age. She never had a functional transmission between the brain and tongue at any age.

Moving forward: My parents are over at my brother's house. (Both of them are in their 80's at this point.) Mom starts leafing through the Austin Chronicle that was lying around and discovers the, ahem, interesting ads in the back. The Chronicle is the local free rag, complete with offbeat local news, personals, ads for escorts, and ads for sex toys. The purveyors of sex toys apparently have a generous ad budget, and spend it on large ads replete with photos. My poor brother walks into the room, and Mom greets him with, "What's a butt stopper?" After recovering from the initial shock and confusion, he figured out what she was asking and says some vague things about different strokes for different folks, then suggests that she call the advertiser and ask, as he has no personal experience.

And she does.

None of us were privy to that conversation, but she reported that the man who answered the phone was very polite and explained fully how a butt plug was used. This seemed to mollify her. To my knowledge, she never asked my brother about any sex toys again. It is entirely possible this wasn't her last conversation with the advertiser, though. We will never know.

Mixed bag

Seeing as how we don't expect to be working in the office any time soon, my employer is encouraging us to go in and pick up any personal items that we may want/need at home. As a safety precaution, we have to schedule our visit. Mine was today.

I don't know which emotion was prevalent; there were several all jumbled up together in a mildly unsettling stew. The parking lot was virtually empty. The only cars parked around my building were those belonging to the landscapers. Guess I may as well park in the convenient Handicapped spot, since no one is here! Grabbed a box from the pile that was thoughtfully placed outside our department's door, and went in. Lights were off, as expected, no weirdness yet. That changed as soon as the lights came on.

Seeing everyone's work area, with everyone's personal touches, immediately made me homesick. I work with a great group of people, we enjoy each other's company, and work very well together. I miss our face-to-face conversations, brainstorming a work issue, comparing notes from the weekend, laughing about something silly. It's going to be a long time before we enjoy each other in person again. Damn.

Birthday streamers still hang from the ceiling, pens and papers are still scattered on people's desks, pictures are still tacked up, the group jigsaw puzzle is still on a desk in an unclaimed cube, the dishtowel is still draped over the counter like someone just finished up their lunch dishes. Is this the zombie apocalypse? The little things are now intimate glimpses of absent humanity. Disconcerting.

Of course, my work area was still a pigsty. I cleared out my food supply (oops! guess the crows will enjoy all these stale snacks!) and threw away some stuff. The oranges on my desk continue to dehydrate nicely, and quite impressively.

It hit me when I found the mummified teabag in my coffee cup. The memory of my last day working there was as fresh as ever.

I remember flying out of there, stress levels through the roof, terrified by the events of that day. That morning, March 3, Paula's sister had awakened with a fever, struggling to breathe. By the time I left, around 2pm, Marianne had been ventilated, isolated, and heavily sedated. The day had been a flurry of constant text message updates, each one worse than the previous. The COVID storm was in its early stages, steadily brewing, but wasn't completely taking over our lives just yet. Here in Seattle, there was obvious concern over the outbreak at a nursing home in Kirkland, but none of us work in healthcare, and none of us are in a nursing home, so no need to worry, right?

That Tuesday, the brewing uneasiness became a full-on body-slam of concern, dread, fear, and apprehension of possible impending loss. As Marianne's story continued to parallel the COVID story, we all realized that we needed to take ourselves out of circulation and quarantine until we got her test results. Friday afternoon we were notified she was negative. Saturday she passed a little before 4pm, and a splendid rainbow appeared just out her hospital window. (Looking back, we are all highly suspicious of her test results. Many false negatives were occurring then, and her trajectory was a classic case. Thankfully, none of us got sick. Who knows.)

By the next week, businesses were shutting down. Offices like ours are now full of abandoned detritus, the silly stuff we all cart in to make the place a bit more comfortable and personal. I left some things, brought some things home, threw away some things. The orange mummification project? Stayed at work. The medals from all the races I had completed since starting that job? Those came home.

I look forward to starting a new collection of medals and dried produce. Meanwhile, I'm gonna find out if crows like stale wasabi peas.

Hood to Coast: A Story

File under "Strange things that happen during relays":

Despite everyone's best efforts, it is darned near impossible to stay organized with 6 severely sleep-deprived humans trapped in a van for upwards of 30 hours. Everyone is juggling a bag of items for use during the event (multiple pairs of running shoes, dry clothes to wear in between runs, personal food, safety vests/headlamp/blinkers for the night runs, toothbrush, baby wipes, etc.), and a bag for after the event (clean street clothes, mainly), and a sleeping bag. Throw in a couple of coolers, mass quantities of water, and any shared food, and the vehicle gets pretty busy.

I have a decent system of what needs to stay with me and what can float around in the back. My during-race backpack has three compartments, but is about ready for the fabric recyclers. The compartments exist, but the interior has shredded enough that stuff mingles together at the bottom. It still functions, though, and is just the right size, so I keep insisting on trying to use it.

It is now time to retire that backpack.

Every time I started rooting around in there for something I had put into a particular compartment, I came up with the lone pair of emergency clean underwear. Given that I lived in a pair of compression running shorts for the event, the message from The Universe was somewhat obvious. But The Universe wanted to make sure I got the hint.

During my last run (a wonderfully easy 4.2-miler), I'm trotting along, enjoying the scenery and the cool misting rain, and I spot something in the grass next to the road. Could it be? Noooo. But yes, it is.

A clean-looking pair of errant women's bikini underwear.

Then, when the woman who ran after me finished her segment, she told me that SHE had seen a pair of seemingly-clean ladies briefs in the grass.

Message received and acted upon.

Ragnar Northwest Passage: 200 miles of silliness

It takes a particular kind of crazy to enjoy a relay. You are signing up to spend ~30+ hours with 5 other people that you may or may not know, go without sleep or decent food, and run a total of anywhere between 15-18 miles. Throw in the added joy of living in a van that comes to resemble the aftermath of a small child eating breakfast, climbing all over each other's sweaty stuff, and it's a heck of a fun way to get to make new friends.

For the uninitiated, here's how a relay works:

• They're usually around 200 miles total, divided into 36 segments.
• Teams consist of 12 runners, 6 to a van.
• Each runner runs three times, for a total of anywhere from 13-18 miles.
• Runners go sequentially, and pass a wristband "baton" at defined exchanges, and cycle through the team. For example, I was runner #9, so ran leg #9 (6.8 miles), #21 (2.2 miles), and #33 (6.8 miles).
• Every 6th runner passes the wristband to the first runner in the next van, so each van drives to the next major exchange, and uses the waiting time to eat and rest.
• There is no stopping until the finish, so yes, you run through the night.

A big part of the fun is coming up with silly (often crude) team names, decorating the vans, and sometimes even wearing some sort of costume. Many teams create magnets with their names and "tag" other vans at the exchanges. "Chafing the Dream" was one of my favorites. "12 Hotties and a Squatty Potty" definitely had the best costumes.

This relay started at the Peace Arch up by the Canadian border, wound down along the coast, through Anacortes, across Deception Pass, and down Whidbey Island to end at Langley, WA. It was a beautiful course, hilly with lovely views, and a delight to run. In van 2, I barely knew one runner, and had never met the other four. We were four women and two men, early 40s to 57 (me). All of us were experienced runners; our paces ranged from 9:30 to 11:00 miles. We were not a fast group. The race starts Friday morning (start time depends on your projected paces), and you have until 9pm Saturday to finish. Our first runner started at 6:45am Friday, and we were projected to finish around 7:30pm Saturday.

Things went well through the first several sets of exchanges. My first run was mostly downhill, through some beautiful forest, on a 2-lane state road. Though hot, the 6.8 miles went by quite nicely. We cycled through the first 12 legs, and arrived in Burlington some time in the early evening. We used the time to get some pizza, then went to the van exchange for showers and rest. I was so tired I didn't care about the showers. (Why bother? Just gonna stink again in a few hours anyway!) Threw a bag on the ground and dozed for about 1.5 hours, but the noise level was far from sleep-inducing. We were on our way again around midnight. My second leg started at 1:45am and was short and flat, in downtown Anacortes. Two down, one to go!

At 5:40 am, we handed off the wristband to van 1. By this time, we were sharing fantasies about finding breakfast and passing out, in that order. Our swearing had begun to significantly increase, as we got slaphappy and more comfortable with each other. Despite vastly different backgrounds, we had begun bonding quite well. Nic is a seriously badass obstacle course racer, and Ryan and Severin aren't far behind. Ryan and Severin know each other from work, and have raced with Nic before. They were also our fastest runners. Donna is from New Jersey, so we had some good laughs about being East Coast assholes (she knew all about driving in Boston and being a Masshole driver). Marilou is a small package stuffed with a huge amount of honey badger, doing obstacle racing as well as a lot of endurance running events.

So, we're all dying to find real food and sleep, and figuring we have about 4.5 hours. It's 5:40 in the morning, most of us got zero sleep at the last van exchange, and last night's pizza had long worn off. That's when the shenanigans started up.

Runner #1 departed, and someone from van 1 makes an announcement: "We did the math, and it's going to take you guys 7.5 hours to do your last set of runs. We don't want to wait that long for you to finish (at the finish line). We're going to skip one run and leapfrog some others, so that we don't take much time. You guys need to find a way to shorten the time. Come up with a plan and tell us what it is when we get back with our last runner. See ya!"

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Seriously? Wrong on so many levels. To enumerate the level of effed-up-ness:

1. You just robbed us of our food and sleep break. You're going to be back in 2.5 hours, so there's no time to go find food. Nothing nearby is open. You also just shorted us on sleep time. Awesome.
2. The entire point of doing a relay is to tough it out and complete the challenge, not short-circuit it because you "don't want to wait". Go sign up for a 5k if you don't want to wait. Waiting is part of the deal.
3. Unless someone is injured or sick, there is no excuse for skipping a leg. Even someone IS injured or sick, it's up to the other team members to figure out who is going to cover for them and do their runs.
4. You just blew any possibility of having a legitimate time and ranking with other teams. No, we weren't going to win anything, but I'd still like to have an accurate time and see how we stack up against other teams.

My vote was to just run our legs and make them wait 7.5 hours. After venting a bit, we did all agree that we wanted to run our legs, but were willing to try to compromise somehow. Marilou and I both checked out of that conversation and threw a bag on the ground and promptly fell asleep for 1.5 hours, while the others stayed up and hashed out possibilities. They came up with a plan to leapfrog some legs, so that two runners were going at the same time. Our "official" time was already blown to hell, so why not. Apparently Ragnar is ok with leapfrogging. I rather doubt they're cool with simply skipping legs, but as long as I run my legs and get my swag, I'll deal.

At 8:30 we were ready to, waiting for runner #6 to arrive. That's when we got the text announcing that they were going to get some coffee before dropping off runner 6 to start her hour-long run. Are. You. Kidding. Me. So now we have to sit around for ANOTHER hour, when we could have been sleeping. Unbelievable. How about bringing US some coffee too, while you're at it? And food. You didn't happen to see any food while you were chillaxing, did you?

We sent Ryan off at 9:30, for his long 10.5 mile run. After a few minutes, we left to drop Severin off to start her long 9.5 mile run. When we passed Ryan, we got the wristband from him and gave it to Severin. We dropped her at the beginning of her leg (end of Ryan's), then waited for Ryan to arrive. He got done, and we went to fetch Severin and start runner 9, myself, and 10, Donna. I finished and we drove to Donna's finish. She was late because she was so sleep-deprived and hungry that she was quite addled, and missed a turn somewhere, turning her 5-mile run into a 7-mile run. She got back on track and came in strong. We sent Marilou off on her 3-miler, then Nic got started on his (and ours) last run of the event, 6 miles and change. Almost done!

We went to the finish, and waited for Nic so that we could run the last tenth of a mile in with him. At last he came chugging around the corner, refusing to slow down or take a walk break. He led us to the finish, and we all celebrated being done! Collected our medals, picked up some food, then headed for the car to share in the caramel apple pie they had picked up during my run. YUM. Nothing was better than sharing that pie around the hood of the van. It was a delicious end to two long days and cemented our bond. Van 2 rocks!

Finally got home to a lovely shower around 8:30pm Saturday. Paula made me a gigantic gin and tonic to enjoy while showering, and it was as heavenly as the soap.

I already have the team name for next time: All Lubed Up and Ready to Go. (It's not what you think: Google "runners, chafing, bodyglide".)

Zelda the Christmas cabbage: A story of rebirth

It was 2014, nearing Christmas in Indiana. Snow was a regular occurrence, and the Polar Vortex was a miserable, wretched presence. I was waiting out my last holiday season in the Midwest, busily packing boxes and (somewhat unsuccessfully) trying to purge stuff. The apartment was in total chaos, and decorating for Christmas was not high on the list of priorities.

Then I cleaned the fridge.

I found Zelda tucked into a far corner, forgotten and abandoned, quietly awaiting rescue. Some weeks previous, I had purchased a head of purple cabbage with the intention of actually eating it. Apparently I had cut it in half and shoved one half back into the fridge, where it was promptly forgotten. December 4, I found a remarkably well preserved half-head of cabbage nesting back behind the beer and other essentials. Zelda was placed in a plastic pan of things-to-be-thrown-into-the-woods-to-compost next to the sink, along with some soggy cat kibble, coffee grounds, and other unfortunate produce.

The next night, I noticed something quite odd. There was a not-unattractive growth from her center! She was beginning to sprout, or bolt. Is this temporary? What happens if I just let her go? Will she keep growing? Why isn't this thing rotting?

By day 4, Zelda had been moved to her own container, along with the kibble. I watered her, and the cabbage runoff fostered a festive relationship with the kibble. The resulting mold resembled a snow-covered cobblestone walkway. Her stalk continued to gain height, and by day 10, she exploded with green buds. The cats finally noticed her, and tried their best to ignore this strange new plant. It was clear that some small Christmas decorations were in order. I found some tiny ornaments and sparkly garland. Begrudgingly, Paula agreed to let me move her to Seattle, if she was still around by moving day in a month.

By day 19, the green buds had bloomed into a riot of yellow flowers. She was definitely more holiday-like, with her purples and yellows and ornaments and garland, but something was missing. She needed lights.

I found some cheapo lights and cut a string down to Zelda length. The first attempt promptly blew the entire string, but the second attempt worked beautifully. By now, both cats were throwing her lots of side-eye and giving her a wide berth. They were spooked. Remarkably, her scent hadn't reached human-detectable levels, but it was obvious that her developing aroma did not appeal to felines.

Zelda's beauty peaked on Christmas eve. She was now sporting a spectacular Gene Simmons tree topper, and was in her glory. However, it was clear that her base was beginning to break down. Her perfume was mildly pungent, now noticeable by humans. Paula enthusiastically rescinded her permission to move Zelda with us. The cats were nervous around her. The end was near.

Christmas day, Zelda was relegated to the deck. I apologized as I carried her out. Paula showed the proper amount of grief. The cats were relieved. The cursed Polar Vortex returned, and Zelda was frozen by nightfall.

Though Zelda's second life was brief, it was spectacular. She was an intriguing experiment in resurrecting produce. Subsequent attempts have failed: the banana found at the bottom of a backpack was impressively mummified but quite dead, and the orange in the back of the desk drawer is in month 6 of shriveling hardness, but shows no signs of afterlife.

Merry Christmas, Zelda!

Just a cat

Why does this hurt so much? You were just a kitty.


True, you were the most charming little creature ever, making up for your lack of smarts with a personality that was always open to love, both giving and receiving. You would purr madly if someone simply looked at you, and really turn up the volume when you were directly addressed by name. "Hello, Sally!" would launch you into a blissful fit of tail-twitching, purring, and loving, wide-eyed looks. You about exploded when you saw a brush, and would purr so hard you chirped. I will always miss hearing your fan belt slip.

And no, you never did figure out how to meow, though you could scream if put in the shower. You tried and tried, and never mastered the art of the meow. That mouth would open, a barely-audible grunt would come out, but no meow. Seeing that pink mouth silently open wide always made me laugh. Except when it made me cry, during your last ride to the vet.


You weren't the brightest kitty around. We would joke that it took you two days to notice when we were gone on trips. Yet you dictated the play rules of the house: when, where, with whom, and for how long. You gave Harry a slap-down after you had finally had enough of him trying to hump you (despite him being more than twice your size), and you controlled him ever after. Later, when the decrepit adoptee Pandora tried to push you around, you didn't give an inch. You did this with class, by simply holding your ground and refusing to budge. She misses you, you know. She is currently wandering the house, meowing for attention (completely unlike her).

When you fell in love with Meerkat Manor, I fell even more in love with you. Watching you watch the meerkats was supremely entertaining. Realizing that you didn't like to watch repeat episodes was a mind-blower.


No amount of change or chaos fazed you. You just went with the flow, never freaked out, and stuck close by. We thoroughly enjoyed taking you and Harry on our 2400-mile road trip. While Harry lived in one lap or another, you found the perfect spot between us to curl up and snooze, and accept offerings of love. We never had to worry about you bolting when we got in and out of the car. You trusted us to keep you safe.

I know we teased you about your girth, but you were the cutest road kill ever, and we loved rubbing your ample belly. When that belly evaporated, it broke our hearts, for that meant things were very, very wrong. I prefer to remember you in your tubby glory.



You have left a far bigger hole than I anticipated, my little Goober kitty. You were my Peanut, The Goob, my wide-eyed cat that always looked a bit surprised, and very kitten-like. I will miss sliding my legs under your slumbering (and heavy) body, while you slept so deeply you didn't budge. While losing you is horrible, I know you are far more comfortable now. I'm so glad that your ashes are joining Harry's over an apple orchard in Yakima. Run free and happy, and without pain, my precious little friend.

Half Marathon for Climate: Magnificent Fail

This blog post was originally going to be about running three half marathons in three weeks, but after Saturday's race, it's now much more interesting. The first two races, the Snoqualmie Valley Half (beautiful) and the Rock n Roll Seattle 5K and half (fun), were enjoyable and well-organized.

Half #3 of 3 was the Half Marathon for Climate. I chose this one because it was close to home, was a nice course, and the finish was a couple of blocks away from our favorite local brewery. This one was such a stunning implosion of failures that it's hard to know where to begin. The spectacular scale of the cluster-f**ked-upness makes this post run long. It might be faster to list what went right.

• Shirts were there.
• Food truck was there, and the food was free, as promised.

Here's the short version of what went wrong.

• No bibs. Didn't matter, there was no way to time anyone anyway.
• No information about anything.
• Four water stops, unmarked. The temperature was pushing 90 after a season of low 60's.
• No crossing guards or course monitors.
• No course markings.
• Where the hell is the finish? Not where advertised, and not marked.
• No promised free beer (or I couldn't find it).
• No medical staff.
• Website jacked up on Monday following the race.

Here's my theory. A group of 20-somethings (who are arrogant enough to think they already know everything, because the 20's are worse than puberty) are sitting around drinking and bitching about politics. Someone says, "Hey, why don't we put on a race to raise funds for an environmental cause?" OK, that's a laudable idea. Only problem is, no one in the group has ever run a race. No one in the group has any runner friends. No one in the group has seen a running magazine. No one in the group has ever even spectated at a race. No one in the group has the slightest clue. They throw together a decent, if information-lacking, website, set up a way to take people's money, find one (only one, of the many) available websites to advertise on, print shirts, and think they're done.

Seriously. That's what it felt like. I would put more thought into planning a block party.

I found this event on the biggest local running calendar, seattleruns. It looked reasonably legit, but I wasn't going to pay $75 for it. I contacted the organizer, and asked if she could use some pre-race help in exchange for a discount. Sure! Paypal $40. That's a little odd, but it's a donation, and I figured I'd register in the morning. (Usually they send you a promo code and you go register online using that code; other times you register with paper forms the day-of.) Just show up at 8:30 for a 10:00am start.

But.

I get dropped off, and there's one small canopy set up, some piles of shirts on the ground, and a totally-lost friend of hers who has zero idea about anything, but is friendly enough. I don't know if he was simply kept completely out of the loop or if he is extraordinarily inattentive, but whatever. After we stand around for ten minutes or so, the organizer comes screaming up with a tire that is hissing air and quickly going flat. Her passenger (who seems to have it together more than she), hops out and trots off with another volunteer to find water for the water coolers. What happened to the tire? Apparently she hit a curb on the way over. WTF. Ummm. Ok. She runs off to a mechanic to get the spare put on the car, but is gone forever, with less than an hour and a half before the start and nothing set up, and no one there that has any idea what's going on.

Meanwhile, there are no water sources to be found. We are at a city park, and the water spigots require some sort of key tool to open, and no employees are around. Friend-With-A-Clue and Volunteer load some of the coolers into Volunteer's car, and take off for friend's house (3 miles away) to fill the coolers. They also are gone forever.

By now it's approaching 9am, and people are starting to show up. Lost Friend then informs me that some email went out the night before about bibs not arriving in time. She had suggested to him that we randomly assign numbers to people, write it on their hand or something, and collect times that way. It's unclear to me what any of this was supposed to accomplish, as I see zero evidence of any timing mechanism. Sigh. I have already concluded that the day was going to be a massive cluster, and that the best I could do was calm folks down and have them join me in a no-pressure training run.

I spent my time informing people about the lack of bibs, and if they cared about their time, they should just keep track of it (most of us had phones or watches), and inform (whoever) at the (wherever) finish. Legitimate questions are being asked, and Lost Friend is deer-in-the-headlights. Is there a gear check? [What's that?] Are there timing mats? [Huh?] Is the finish marked? Is the course marked? [I don't know.] How many water stops are there? How are you getting people back to the start (it was a point-to-point)? [Blank stare.] Are.You.Shitting.Me?

After about a half hour of foolishness (and by now many more people are standing around confused and annoyed), I finally tell Lost Friend to call the organizer and find out some of these things. Her car has a flat, but her phone should be working. Sheesh. Answers are somewhat insufficient, but we get a little more information. Finally, the organizer shows up, all atwitter. She is just beginning to realize she has massively screwed up, but it's unclear to me that she fully understands the magnitude just yet.

In addition to all of this insanity, the weather was a major concern. It's been a cold year here in Seattle. Highs have been in the 60's. I can count on one hand how many days we've had over 70. Today it was supposed to get up to the 90's, and the run didn't begin until 10am. Not only hot, but also a lot of non-heat-conditioned runners. Between the 10K and the half, about 200 people had signed up. Water is a serious concern on a day like this. I was grateful that I had brought a (full) water bottle with me. Many people had done the same, but many had not, and it was a major issue. Four stops in 13 miles was nowhere near enough hydration for a day like today.

Finally we are rounded up into a gaggle, and told to start. Ummm. Ok. May as well be out for a solo run.

The course was wonderful, and could be a very nice event, if properly done. It was along a Rails-to-Trail path that runs along Lake Washington, and though it is urban, it's beautiful with plenty of trees and scenery. It's a shared path, with cyclists and pedestrians alike. At least it's hard to get lost…until the finish, or the split if you're running the 10K. I have no idea when the 10K course branched off. Shrug.

The day is heating up, so pacing is very important. I started out slow, and never sped up. Three miles go by. Where the hell is the water?? If I didn't have mine with me, I would be suffering by now.

Somewhere after 4.5 miles, I see the organizer and someone else standing by the path with some bottles of water and Gatorade. Of course, they're on the other side of the bike part of the path, so runners have to get in the way of cyclists if they want water. I'm not sure many people even saw her there. I still had plenty of water, so I kept going.

Just before mile 7, I spotted some random coolers stacked by the side of the road, with some paper cups. Of course there was no trash can, so people were trying to at least keep all of the empty cups in a pile. I drank up, filled up my bottle, shook my head at the incompetence, and got on my way.

I don't remember if there was another stop before mile 11, but by then it was really heating up. I had passed a beautiful public pool a few miles back and seriously considered trotting over there and jumping in, but had refrained. Now I was eyeballing the private boat launches into Lake Washington and considering a quick dip. Instead, I just reminded myself that I was only two miles out and slowed down more, still shaking my head.

I never did see any course monitors at any of the road crossings (required by law here in Washington state), or any course markings anywhere. There was no indication of where we were supposed to leave the path and head toward the still-mysterious finish. I guess it was asking too much to go get some chalk powder and draw some arrows or write "Climate runners this way" on the pavement. There was another runner standing around there, waiting for her son, and she told me to leave the path and turn right onto the street. (I really hope her son wasn't lying somewhere with heat stroke, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.) I exited the path, and headed towards the advertised finish, which was at the Community Center.

Got to the Community Center, and no one was there. Crickets. What in the holy f**k. Walked across the street to a local brewery, drank a large glass of cold water, and sat down in the shade, totally pissed off. Two other runner-looking types walked by, and said something that made it clear they had participated. They had somehow missed all of the water stops until mile 11 -- I honestly don't know how they finished. I commented that I couldn't find the bleeping finish, and they said, "Oh, it's right back there a block or two." Seriously? I walked right by it? Went back a couple of blocks and sure enough, there was a food truck parked in a business parking lot (NOT the Community Center), and a few stray runners standing around. Absolutely zero signage. Of course, there was NO medical staff anywhere at any point during the day. Didn't see the organizer, Lost Friend, Volunteer, or Friend-With-A-Clue either. I don't know where they were. Never did find the promised free beer, but as hot as it was, I didn't even care.

The so-called finish wasn't at the Community Center, but it WAS across the street from our favorite local brewery, so I grabbed my free food and shirt, and wandered over to the brewery to lay on their sofa before puking or passing out. By now my calves were completely seized up due to lack of electrolytes, and I really didn't want to pass out on the sidewalk. After laying there for a few minutes, I cooled down, the legs stopped seizing, and I felt pretty good after using their restroom to wash the crust of salt off my face.

I was extremely grateful that all I had to do was call my sis-in-law, who lives about 1.5 miles away. My car was parked at her house, so she came over, we enjoyed a beer, went and got some more food, then went home. The people who had parked at the start (13 miles away, remember) had to find the organizer (or someone, I have no idea how it worked), and call Lyft for a ride back to their car. Completely half-assed.

Oh, and I never registered, so haven't been on any of the follow-up mailing lists. Go figure.

Course: Outstanding.
Event: On a score of 1-5, zero.

The Importance of Kindness

Today brings two seemingly unrelated items:

• I am blessed to live with one of the kindest humans out there.
• Our plumber died suddenly last night.

Paula is now the facilities manager of the house and in her duties as such, she ran across Chuck, who was a friend of the random landscaper that she had found.

Serendipity being what it is, Chuck came along just as we were discovering major plumbing issues. Between clearing stubborn sewer clogs, replacing cracked sewer pipes, installing toilets, and other miscellaneous whatnot, he has saved us thousands of dollars. He was temporarily unemployed (he'd worked for some major industrial company, like a shipbuilder or something, I don't even know), so we came along at the perfect time for him as well.

I never met Chuck, but he and Paula spent several long days working together at the house. Apparently they bonded more than either of us had considered.

This morning, Paula received a text at 6:20am or so. When she loudly exclaimed, "Oh NO!", I knew it wasn't good. It was Chuck's wife, informing her that Chuck had suddenly passed away at 2:50am this morning. She told Paula that she (Paula) had made his week last week, and that he was very fond of her. He had been working with his son on some jobs, and she told Paula that the son would finish whatever Chuck had started. She also said that there would be no funeral, as that was not Chuck's style, but there would be instead a BBQ to celebrate his life, and that she would let Paula know the details.

I am struck by the power of a seemingly unimportant connection. While I was thrilled to have a good (and affordable) plumber to call, I never met him, so I never made a human connection with him. Paula, being Paula, immediately befriended him somehow, and the two developed a bond that meant more than probably either of them realized. He obviously sang her praises to his wife; she spoke very highly of him to me. I am pleased and touched that Paula can be a source of comfort to a total stranger: Chuck's wife felt compelled to reach out to Paula and wants to meet her, at what has got to be one of the worst times of the woman's life.

I have two takeaways from this:

• Never underestimate the power of humanity.
• Don't be an asshole and squander a potential opportunity to add a bright spot to the world.

Peace.

Half #75: 3M Austin Half Marathon

There's a reason this one is called "Down hill to downtown" – the overall elevation gain is negative. Oh sure, there's some slight inclines, but nothing that qualifies as a hill. The declines are equally mild, but pleasantly noticeable. It's a good race if you want to set a PR.

I had no such ambitions; I just wanted to see how it felt to do 13 miles on a couple of months of decent training. I haven’t been remotely prepared for an event since the end of 2014, and was anticipating a pleasantly suck-free race. Even though I did a number of events in 2015 (a marathon, six half-marathons, and a few shorter runs), I was woefully under-prepared for almost all of them. It was time to actually enjoy one, start to finish. It was encouraging that the 12K's of Christmas run in December had gone very well, even though I was wearing a "borrowed" pair of test shoes. (FYI, Brooks Ghost running shoes feel great!) I was in town to visit my elderly mother and other family, so a Sunday morning run fit in nicely.

Typical of January in Austin, the weather was great. 30-something to start, warming to low-50s by the time I finished. Perfect running weather! There was no strategy for this one. I have misplaced my Garmin, and in my morning grogginess, forgot to even put on the FitBit. I was taking a risk by wearing my Newtons, which I had only run in a couple of times in the past year. As I was crawling into bed the night before, too tired to go out again, I realized I had forgotten to buy any food for a pre-race breakfast. Dammit. Scrounged around and found a protein bar in my luggage, so that was breakfast. My training runs had only been 3-5 miles, so I didn’t know how I would feel after that. Just gonna take it as it comes, since I was already half-assing it anyway.

I enjoyed eavesdropping and watching the sun rise while we all waited to start at 7am. A chilly breeze was threatening to kick up and become uncomfortable, but thankfully it never took hold. I put myself in the back of the 2:20 group, and tried to wake up. At some point I realized I had checked my sunglasses with my jacket. Sigh. The half-assery continues. At least I had remembered to put on pants.

Finally we were on our way. And it felt great. I was passing a lot of folks, but figured that would come to an end before too long -- it always does. But it felt good to start that way, especially when the vast majority of people that I passed were obviously at least twenty years younger than me!

Passed the 5K mat and course clock, and was pleased. Since I was gadget-free (due to my own incompetence), and there were almost no course clocks, I had no idea how I was actually doing, only that it felt good and I was still passing people. 5K in 31:something... I'd overheard someone earlier comment that it took six minutes to get to the start line, so I was doing pretty close to 10-minute miles. My treadmill runs had been considerably slower, so I was pleased with that pace.

The race is point-to-point, beginning up in Northwest Austin and finishing just shy of the Capitol building. The course isn't particularly scenic, but it's pleasant enough and well-supported. The neighborhoods are fun, with locals offering up anything from bowls of Gummi bears to small cups of Shiner Bock. I gave the Shiner some thought, but decided against it. That was around mile 6 or so, and I just wasn’t awake enough to find it appealing. Guys, can you move the beer down to mile 11?

Hit the 10K mat at an hour and a handful of minutes, deducting six, hmmm, pretty close to an hour (1:01:31). Maintaining the pace, great! Not long after that I caught and passed the 2:15 pace group. Can I possibly catch the 2:10 group? Not likely. Took a gel around mile 8, and choked that down. It was stiff, like it had been out in the 30-degree weather all night, so was the consistency of thick paste. Eating it, I was a squirrel with peanut butter and it took a few tries. But it's calories.

The clock at 9 miles was under 1:30. Seriously? How is that happening? Well, I guess I AM still passing people...consistently. Is it possible that I will PR today? Not gonna kill myself trying, but will push a little harder than I had planned and see what happens. Was noticeably tired by now, but still felt good, didn't hurt anywhere, and was still passing people. Why not? By mile 11 I did have to start taking walking breaks (until then I had only walked at aid stations), and was very very tired for mile 13. Tried not to walk, but was just running out of gas. Was still passing people when I did run, but needed those breaks.

Wonder how I'm doing for time? Never did catch the 2:10 group, but...

Rounded the last corner, and saw the finish clock getting close to 2:15…which meant I MIGHT break 2:10. Awesome! Forced myself to trot it in, and finished with a very respectable time of 2:09:35. Just under 10-minute miles. How did that happen? Couldn’t remember exactly what my PR was, but knew I was close. Didn’t beat it, but was close. Hey, I'll take it! Not a bad result for a no-expectation day!

Collected the medal (which is pretty cool), obligatory banana, water, etc., and found Shirley. Wandered into the nearby Starbucks with all the other finishers and relaxed a bit. Spent the rest of the afternoon yelling at my mother (she’s deaf as a post sometimes), then caught my flight back to Seattle.

The next day, I verified that my current PR is 2:07:56, so I missed it by a minute and a half. Not too shabby. This was half-marathon #75, but only my third under 2:10.

Overall: Course is easy and pleasant enough. Event is very well-managed, with about 6500 runners. Swag is interesting: an eclectic assortment of 3M products. Plenty of water stops, Nuun for electrolytes (not any nastier than other drinks of that ilk), gels around mile 8. Where there are spectators, they're laid-back and fun. The finish is very nice, in front of the Museum of Texas History with the Capitol as a backdrop. I didn't take the shuttle back to the start, but it looked like there were plenty of buses, and I didn't notice any long lines waiting for them. If you happen to be in town, do it!

2015: Moving On

I've been intending to write a retrospective on 2015 for some time, but have struggled to work up any enthusiasm about it. Why? Though off to a rough start, it was far from a crappy year. Overall, it was reasonably balanced between good and bad, and had many lessons to offer. My soulmate and I had finally accomplished our long-term dream of moving to the Seattle area: I should be ecstatic, right? There was much good about last year. So why my reticence to reflect, and great happiness to see the departure of 2015?

I think it starts with trying to define things as either "good" or "bad". The "good" things can be incredibly stressful, and the "bad" can be incredibly bittersweet. When either is a significant life event, it's often so stressful that it's hard to sort out exactly how to feel. I spent most of 2015 puzzling on this, and have concluded that the only possible way to feel is...alive. I feel like I have emerged from a not-unpleasant cave of emotions and turmoil and aimlessness. And while it wasn't totally unpleasant, it wasn't in the least bit gratifying or life-inspiring. It just was part of the typical set of a first-world 50-something life's challenges.

I've been extraordinarily lucky for many, many years. For most of my life, actually. For the most part, gain has outweighed loss. I've been able to merrily go along my way, not sweating the losses because there simply wasn't that much to deal with. Oh sure, the typical nonsense, like failed relationships, lousy jobs, fender-benders, other whatnot, as well as the more important losses that come with living on this planet. Losing dear friends over the years has been hard, but acknowledged as a price to pay for living long enough, and is the only truly crappy thing about getting older.

So what was different about 2015?

Ya know that popular "top ten" list of life's stressors? Those major life events that most of us experience at one time or another? Yeah, that one. Some items on that list are harder than others but, one at a time, can be managed. Not so easy when you blow through half the list in a six-month period – even if they are the least stressful items on the list.

• Unemployment? Check.
• Major move across the country (and lose social network)? Check.
• Death of a loved pet? Check.
• Death of a revered parent? Check.
• New job? Check.
• Run through the wringer by a mortgage company? Check.
• Moving into new (purchased) home? Check.

Whew. Not all bad, not all good. All very stressful. And yes, all first-world problems. I had to keep reminding myself of that.

I wish I could say I handled it all well, and didn't let it throw me into a not-so-great place, but that would be lying. I lived in a weird place of bittersweet: sad but grateful to have experienced such an amazing father; torn between throwing a pity party and realizing how ridiculously lucky I am for so many things; thrilled to be living in the Pacific Northwest but not feeling at home; excited about meeting new people while being socially isolated; equally excited about running and biking in this beautiful place yet not motivated to train.

That bittersweet place enveloped me like a fog. The emotions were a thick, viscous mess that swirled unpredictably (Is this what depression feels like? PMS on steroids?), and sadness (but not pessimism) permeated everything. I knew my father wasn't going to live forever, but had a minimal support system in which to grieve: no routines, no social outlets where I could just forget about it for a while, no distracting job. My Seattle family was wonderful, but what I was feeling was too much to dump on anybody. Paula was extremely patient with me, and we churned through it.

After completely blowing an interview for a job that was mine for the taking (because I'd had a meltdown that morning and was too foolish to reschedule), I decided enough was enough. Time to wrap up the grieving and move into a more positive place: that's what my father would have wanted. Time to apply the weird-ass energy generated by the maelstrom of mixed emotions towards something more productive. Signing up for some runs or triathlons would have been perfect, but I had no income (yet) and those things aren't cheap. Aaargh. What to do?

Well let's think about this. Living in the present is free. Enjoying the company of my mate is free (or close to it, depending what we decide to do with ourselves). Enjoying the year-round green and the glorious sunsets literally steps from my door is free. Getting outside is free. Being optimistic about finding a job is free.

And I got a job! After a 20-minute phone conversation, no less. Funny how that positive thinking stuff works, huh? Still wasn't doing so great about exercising and eating properly (and feeling it – bleah), but hey, at least I could afford to do some things that were good for the soul. Did some races, enjoyed being active around other people, fantasized about getting my running mojo back.

Fast-forward to the Labor Day half-marathon. Ooooh my running shorts are WAY too tight – they've never been this tight. And my thighs are rubbing together. What the hell? And this flat low-key half-marathon is KILLING me. The photos are dreadful. I look like I'm wishing for a technical issue, perhaps a shoe blowout or massive bout of diarrhea, so I can quit. OK that's it. No more.

Found a great CrossFit gym (where they are all about finding workarounds and aren't a bunch of meatheads), bought a good rowing machine and used it, and started forcing myself to do short, pathetic walks/trots/jogs several times a week, hating every minute and loathing my pathetic-ness. After a couple of months, CrossFit got easier and a lot less exhausting. Rowing became less torturous. Running still sucked, but hey, one thing at a time.

Finally, sometime in December, I ran 5 miles, and IT DIDN'T SUCK. OMG. It actually felt good. How is that possible? Thank gawd. I was beginning to worry how much longer it was going to take to find that errant mojo. I'm still not getting on the bike trainer, but it's set up and ready to go. That'll happen...not sure when, but soon. CrossFit is now my run warmup: go to CrossFit, then go run a minimum of three miles. When not preceded by CrossFit, run at least five miles. And while I'm still not at pre-2015 running pace, I'm getting closer all the time. The heart rate isn't maxing out anymore. It. Feels. Good.

So. I head into 2016 in a much more positive space, even though some things are still seriously lacking. I still need to make friends here (but I now have a plan), I still need to get my butt back on the bike saddle, still need to do more exploring of trails, still need to improve the eating habits (sigh), but...it'll happen. Meanwhile, I'm still absorbing the many more lessons of the past year, from a much healthier place.

It's all good. 2015, you can suck it. 2016, let's go kick some ass.

In Memoriam: Austin Marathon 2015

I had absolutely no expectation of running a marathon any time in the first few months of 2015. The year had already been quite busy. The first two weeks of January were consumed with packing for a long-distance move. The rest of the month was filled with driving from Indianapolis to Seattle and unpacking, along with searching for a job. In addition, my eldest kitty finally reached the end of his year-long decline, and we had to say goodbye January 31.

The first weekend in February I decided it was time to get down to Texas to visit my parents. I hadn’t been since Thanksgiving, and I knew my ailing father (congestive heart failure and COPD) had been struggling more than usual lately. He was getting ever nearer the end, but he had already held on far, far more longer than any doctor would have dared dream, so I was feeling only a little more anxious than usual. The plan was to fly down there mid-week, depending on availability of seats. My dear brother, who has been looking out for both parents for years, sent some concerning texts early in the week, so Wednesday afternoon I went ahead and purchased a ticket to Austin. By this time, I knew my Pop was likely having his last ride on the downward side of the roller-coaster he’d been on for so long, but still didn’t expect to lose him for another few days. I landed in San Jose early Thursday morning to find a text from my brother.

Ugh. Now it’s a race to say goodbye. Dammit. Of course the flight was 20 minutes late and we had a never-happens Easterly headwind, so I just had to cross my fingers that I wouldn’t miss him. Thankfully, Pop was still alive, and was keeping his promise to hold on until I got there.

He was clearly miserable, laying in his recliner, covered in blankets just trying to be as comfortable as possible. By now he was too weak to speak with any voice, but he was completely present and aware of his surroundings. He was able to rouse and open his eyes, and we said our goodbyes. He told me he was proud of me, and said “I love you” many times, to everyone. His mind was there until the end.

He gave up the fight and died at around 6:30pm Thursday. He had defied the odds for many, many years and had far surpassed many doctors’ expectations. His will to live was extraordinary, and we had benefited from that will for a very long time. He never stopped smiling and finding joy in being alive, no matter the circumstance.

So how does this relate to the marathon? Well, Friday I decided to do the marathon, after the following conversation with my brother.

Me: I don’t know which to do, the full or the half.
Bro: Are you trained for a marathon?
Me: [Laughing] Oh heck no!
Bro: But you can do a half, easy, right? Isn’t that like a long training run?
Me: Yeah...I can get through a half without too much trouble.
Bro: Well, a full would probably be really good at burning off stress. Would give you more time.
Me: Oh what the hell. Gonna hurt anyway.

I had packed a minimal set of running clothes, in the hopes of getting a training run in, but no fuel belts or gels or any other typical racing items. The route is laid out such that if, by mile 12, I was severely hurting and needed to bail, I could simply turn off and finish the half. Given that my “training” had essentially consisted of 4-5 30-minute or so trots around Seattle and zero bike training for two months, my expectations were quite low. I just wanted to finish. My father had always enjoyed my spontaneous (lack of planning) nature, and got a kick out of the fact that his baby girl does endurance events, so he would have loved it that I just decided to do this race to remember him and try to burn off some grief.

Somehow I survived, resisted the urge to turn right at mile 12, and trotted to the finish line. My slowest marathon ever, but I finished. I had five hours and 44 minutes to reflect on how lucky I was to enjoy my father’s presence for 53 years. The day was pleasant, I was surrounded by several thousand people who each had their own story, and it was easy to enjoy being alive.

This one was for you, Pop. I love you.

Sorry For Your Loss

"I'm sorry for your loss." These words seem so trite when they don’t apply to you. I’ve heard these words many times, as I’m a huge fan of TV programs whose characters often utter these words. (You know the ones: CSI, Law & Order, etc.) As a viewer, I’ve felt that these words sound so contrived and empty, and have wondered if it was better to say nothing at all.

I've concluded that it isn't.

My sweet and cherished father passed away two weeks ago, and many people have said, "I'm sorry for your loss." And it has mattered. It helps. It doesn't matter if I'm close to the person uttering those words, or if they're a new acquaintance, or if they even knew my father. It helps.

This seemingly trite phrase conveys far more than the simple words. It conveys a visceral understanding of something that happens to all of us: we all lose people we love. It’s unavoidable, yet we rarely speak of it. We don't talk about grief, or sadness, or how we suddenly deeply miss the person at the most inopportune times. We don’t talk about how surreal it feels, how hard it is to truly believe that we will never see or speak with the person again, how blindingly final the death is.

Yet it's a universal experience. None of this is unusual or special. It just is. And everyone who lives long enough shares the pain. "I'm sorry for your loss" is an acknowledgment that the pain goes to your core and there's not a damned thing you can do about it besides outlast it. It's an acknowledgment that this is a shared experience that ranks at the bottom of human existence. And it's a reminder that we all suffer together, in different ways and at different times, and that we all empathize and care for each other.

Saying nothing is denial of reality.

So. Please. When we know there's nothing we can do to help, say "I'm sorry for your loss." In its own small, but significant way, it helps.

Group hugs, on the other hand...um, no!

Serendipity Epitomized: Bourbon Chase 2014

I'm not normally calendar-impaired, but occasionally it happens. I've spent much of my life "winging it", and this past weekend was a marvel of serendipity and the value of human connections. I don't recommend winging everything, and it's definitely a personality preference, but sometimes it's fun to just refuse to worry about ANYTHING and trust that things will work out. And if they don't...deal with it. At least there'll be no "what if" going on.

Due to my inability to read a calendar, about a week and a half out I realized that I was indeed free and available to do the Bourbon Chase. For those that haven't had to suffer through my gushing about this event, it is a 200-mile relay that stops at every distillery on the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky (there are many more that are not part of the official trail). It starts at Jim Beam, near Louisville, and finishes in downtown Lexington approximately 30 hours later. I've done this event three times, and I wasn't doing well with the idea of missing out this year for no good reason. This just wouldn't do.

Thankfully the Bourbon Chase people have a very efficient online bulletin board, where teams and runners can find each other. Sunday, five days before the race, I went online and found a team that sounded like a good candidate: happy with a slower runner (10:00 pace), all female (a first for me), a great team name (the Bourbonettes), and focused on enjoying the experience. By Sunday night, I was speaking with the team captain, Liz. While some members knew each other, most did not. This will be fun!

For those who have never done a relay, the logistics can get confusing. The Chase is 200 miles, and makes stops at Woodford Reserve, Wild Turkey, Heaven Hills, Four Roses, and Maker's Mark. It also passes through several quaint small towns along the way, and is a great way to see a lot of the Kentucky bourbon and horse country. This year there were 400 teams, and most teams had 12 runners. Like most teams, we had two vans with six runners each, and each runner had to run three legs, for a grand total of 36 segments. At the end of each leg, a wristband with a chip in it was handed off to the next runner. The average total mileage for each runner was 13-18 miles, with some legs longer (and harder) than others. I was runner #11, so was in Van 2. Three of us were Chase veterans; three were not.

Since Van 2 didn't have to be anywhere until after noon, I drove down to Louisville early Friday morning. One of the runners lived in Louisville, and could recommend a very safe place to leave my car: the parking lot across from a police station in an historic and relatively quiet part of town. Perfect! However, she was in Van 1 and had to leave Louisville before 6am, so I still had to hook up with my people somehow. Another runner flew in from Pennsylvania Thursday night and would be picking up our rental van Friday morning, then heading over to Lexington to pick up everyone else. She swung by to fetch me, and we rode together. Yet another runner lived in Lexington, where we picked up the rest of our crew. Time to head to Maker's Mark, get checked in, explore the distillery, and wait for runner #6 to arrive.

The team's first runner left Jim Beam at 9:45am Friday morning. Sometime after 2:30pm runner #6 arrived, handed off the wristband, and Van 2 was on our way. We cheered our incoming and outgoing runners, hopped into the van, and headed for the next exchange point. Now we would REALLY start getting to know each other, find out how accurate our pace estimates were (and how dependable we were as runners), and how well everyone did with lack of sleep.

Thankfully, we had a drama-free group. Everyone was there to do their part, have a good time, and make the most of the experience as a team. We breezed through our first six legs, with everyone having a good run. All of us either ran at pace or faster, and between the two vans we built a 35-minute lead on our estimated time. The predicted severe weather held off, and all we got was a few hours of rain. The runners in Van 1 had to deal with the worst of the rain, but everyone was happy it wasn't miserably cold and lightning. We handed off the wristband around 8pm, and went off in search of food and sleep.

Danville, KY is home to two major runner exchanges, and they have embraced the invasion of white vans and tired/hungry runners. The Hub coffee shop stays open overnight, and not only sells wonderful coffee, but very good sandwiches. It stays swamped with business all night long. This was the earliest I've ever been there -- years past it's been well after midnight. We got fed, and I ordered an extra sandwich for later. The local high school was renting out floor space in their gym for $5/head, so we went over there to attempt to sleep for a few hours. They had wrestling mats out, so we joined the other folks in their sleeping bags and laid down to rest.

We heard the heavy rain on the roof around midnight, when we needed to be getting up and ready to go. Oh joy. This could be a messy night. I don't think any of us slept, but we had all dozed some and enjoyed laying down and spreading out for a bit. Our lovely hosts had coffee and snacks, so we loaded up and headed out to the next exchange...and were thrilled that the rain had stopped. A quick check of the radar showed that the bad weather was done for the duration. We would be dry from now on, and the temp was going to stay perfect for running, in the 50's. Hooray! Life is good.

Somewhere in the night we ended up parking right behind some friends of mine from Indianapolis. I had no idea where they were, and they saw me first. Turned out they had grossly over-estimated how long it would take them, and they were going too fast. The race directors were holding them back for two hours before letting them run again, so they were cooling their heels. (Race organizers want all the teams to finish within a certain window Saturday afternoon/evening, and they plan aid station hours accordingly.) It was a remarkable coincidence to see them at all. They were staying positive, but were bummed about having to kill so much time.

Side note: Each year the race has a theme: this year it was disco. Some teams went all-out decorating their vans. We saw this team's vans throughout the race, and laughed every time. They had lights mounted to illuminate the disco balls, and one was playing disco music through a loudspeaker all night long. Very impressive.

Now we were running on narrow country roads with no lights whatsoever, aside from whatever light we were carrying and the occasional headlights of vans moving on to the next exchange. It was wonderful. This is truly horse country, and most of these roads aren't much more than a car-width wide. They wind around and through and up and down hills throughout farmland, and the area (in the daylight) is quite beautiful. Running at night in such a quiet, dark area is a very peaceful experience. You occasionally see the tail-light of another runner up ahead, or the headlamp of one catching up and passing, and that's it. Not even shadows, it's so dark. I finally had to hold my headlamp in my hand to better see the road ahead, and loved it. I knew I was almost there when I saw Four Roses illuminated up ahead on a hill. Handed off the wristband and helped myself to a bourbon ball (chocolate with bourbon inside). My first leg had been a 10k, this one was 5.3 miles, and it felt quite good. All of us had a good run, and handed off the wristband to Van 1 at Wild Turkey around 6am or so.

A couple of us passed out in our sleeping bags in the van and slept through Wild Turkey. Before I knew it, we were parked at a Cracker Barrel that was close to the next exchange. Even though I had inhaled my second sandwich at some point in the night, I figured it'd be a good idea to eat again. We had some breakfast, I ran into my Indy friends again on my way out of the restaurant, exchanged hugs, and went back out to the van to sleep some more. I've never gotten so much sleep at this event, and it was quite nice!

Our last set of legs began around 11am or so, and by now everyone was feeling the lack of sleep. Even though we all had good runs, they were far more painful than the previous legs. Finally I handed off the wristband to our last and final runner, and we headed to the finish line to run in the last hundred feet with her. The finish is in downtown Lexington, and the streets are closed for a giant outdoor party. Another team member lived about two blocks away, so we parked the van there and walked over. Before long our finishing runner rounded the bend, and the team followed her across the finish line. Go Bourbonettes! We finished just under 30 hours, in 29:49:06. That was good enough for 5th out of 16 Female Open teams, not bad for a group that wasn't even really competing! Now it was time to have some bourbon.

We were issued wristbands with four tabs to redeem for samples, and ushered into a giant tent. Tables lined the perimeter, and all of the participating distillers were handing out samples. I ran into my Indianapolis friends again, who offered a place to stay in Frankfort, about 30 minutes away. I really wanted to drink without worrying about driving, so I declined. The van was only two blocks away, I knew from experience that the bench seats were pretty comfortable, and I had my sleeping bag, so that was always an option. My teammates couldn't offer any space, but it wasn't too cold and I just didn't care where I slept. I wanted bourbon samples and food.

A little later, still in the very crowded bourbon tent, I looked up and saw two people from last year's team. I didn't even know they were running this year! They're both from Chicago, and had just done the race with only eight people, due to dropouts and injuries. Yikes. That's a lot of hard running. They had a room at the Hilton across the street, and had plumbing and a floor to offer. Sold! We enjoyed some more bourbon, then I headed to the room for a shower (which was a little slice of heaven). I went back out for dinner and another bourbon sample (friends gave me their unused tabs), then gave up and called it a night. My roommates were out until later, but I was too sound asleep to notice when they came back. Slept ten hours on the floor and made up for the previous two days' lack of rest. Thank you Brian and Jessica!

Sunday morning, I met the driver of the other van and we got on our way. I drove our van back to Louisville, got a ride to my car, then went to see a friend who lives about 30 minutes away in southern Indiana. We had a good visit, she fed me a wonderful pot-roast meal, and I headed home to my bed and two happy cats. Of course, once I got into my bed, I couldn't sleep. Go figure. Kill Bill 2 is always entertaining.

I'm not known for obsessing over details, but this was probably one of the most half-assed things I've done in a long time. I didn't plan anything beyond the bare minimum needed for the immediate future, and it somehow seemed to work. Solutions kept dropping into my lap, at the right time. Let's hear it for serendipity!

How to Go Broke on a $25 Bike Ride: Wabash River Ride

So I think I'm being all smart and clever when I sign up for a $25 bike ride. I needed to get a last long training ride in, and I really don’t like riding long distances alone, on an unsupported route. I'm old enough to be paranoid about getting hit by a car out in the middle of nowhere, and lying for who knows how long in a ditch next to some cornfield before any help arrives. For this reason, recreational supported bike rides are very appealing. They aren’t races so you go at your own pace, there’re food and drink stops on the course (so you don’t have to drag along food and worry about having enough fuel to finish), they’re conducive to riding with friends, and the best part: there are usually plenty of SAG vehicles roaming the course, looking to help anyone who might be in trouble. The feeling of security is complete.

A friend, Lisa, told me about this one, put on by a cycle club in a city about 50 minutes from home. She also needed to get a last 100-mile ride in. Neither of us was interested in trying to go fast; we just wanted to cover the distance and spend the time in the saddle. We both wanted a riding companion and they were only charging $25, so this was perfect. Let’s do it!

We were a little later getting going than we had hoped, but finally got on our way and had a very enjoyable morning. A third companion, Mary, rode with us for the first part of the day, then went her own way after about 35 miles. We took our time, pushed each other just enough to do some work, and took advantage of all the food/drink stations. The day passed uneventfully, and the tedium of almost 8 hours of riding was greatly relieved by the company. The ride was on Indiana country roads with little automobile traffic, so we could ride long stretches side-by-side and chat, a welcome break from most long-distance riding.

All was well until mile 97.5. We had been coming down a nice long descent for the last couple of miles, and it had just started to flatten out a little. Both of us were very ready to be done and back at the car. Lisa was perhaps 20 yards ahead of me, and no one else was within sight (riders were spread out by this point). We were just starting to pedal again, after enjoying the restful coast down the hill.

By the time I saw it, it was too late. Lisa had seen it, but hadn’t had enough reaction time to warn me about it. She passed closely, but avoided it.

A giant, rusted bolt lying directly in our path.

By the time I saw it, I had enough time to stop pedaling and start feathering my brakes, while running directly over it. It was perpendicular to my front wheel, so I was hopeful that I’d just roll over it, or worst-case scenario, get a flat. When I heard the explosive blow-out, I wasn’t surprised. “Oh great, a flat, but at least I’m almost home. No worries.” But it did feel strange, and I immediately unclipped one foot and started getting the other unclipped, while continuing to brake. The last time something like this happened (June 2013), I had a heck of a time staying upright, so was prepared to have to struggle again.

Surprisingly, there was no swerving, I just skidded to a stop on the rim of the wheel. Hooray!

Meanwhile Lisa, who was ahead of me and heard all this going on, was yelling back at me to make sure I was ok. She figured that since she didn’t hear any swearing or crashing sounds that I must be alright. I yelled back that I was fine, just had a flat. But it HAD sounded like a massive blowout. She thought both tires had blown, it was so loud. She turned around and came back while I climbed off the bike and moved to the side of the road. We were both astounded by what we saw.

We were even more astounded when I tried to pull the bolt out – it didn’t budge. Oh my. It was embedded so deeply into my wheel (the rim, not the tire), that as the wheel came around, the bolt slammed into my brake assembly and stopped the wheel cold. No wonder I was skidding! Since we were so close to the car and I was obviously fine, she went on ahead while I waited. In the short time it took her to get ready to come fetch me, two SAG vehicles stopped. Everyone got out, oohed and ahh’d at it, then got me and the bike loaded up and took me back. Back at the ride’s start/end, there was another ogling session, as anyone who saw it immediately called other people over to look. There was universal agreement that I was incredibly lucky. No argument there.

On the way home, I started mentally preparing myself for the repair bill. The bike shop was suitably impressed, and asked if they could keep the bolt for their collection of road hazards. After they pulled it out, I felt even more lucky. If that thing had hit ANYTHING besides my tire, it could have been very, very ugly. If it had hit my leg, it would have been catastrophic, with many many months of recovery. Scary stuff.

As I had feared, the wheel was ruined for road riding. The bolt had punched a good hole in it, dangerously compromising its structural integrity. Sigh. Wheels come in sets, so while I could have simply replaced the rear one, the darned things are priced in sets and I may as well upgrade while I’m at it. The impaled wheel was fine for use on an indoor trainer, so I put a trainer tire on it and kept it. Since I’m relocating to Seattle in a few months, where all riding is hill riding (very much unlike Indianapolis), I replaced the cassette with one that’s intended for climbing, with more gears. A pittance compared to the wheels. The brake assembly was questionable: when the bolt came around and slammed into it, it bent the piece holding the entire thing together. Ok for non-sudden stops, but not ok if I really needed it. Add new brakes to the list (of course those come in sets as well).

I’ve since ridden a handful times on the new wheels/gears, and am very happy with them. The wheels are lighter, more nimble and responsive, and the gearing makes Indiana rollers a piece of cake. Seattle will be an entirely new class of hills to conquer, but at least I’m well equipped now.

And I’ve already used the trainer wheel on the other bike, when I was too lazy to change a tire at 5:30 in the morning.

Total bill: $1140
Cost of walking away unscathed, albeit with a thinner wallet: Priceless

DFL > DNF > DNS: Redman 140.6

Toughest. Day. Ever.

Where to begin? The machine-wash heavy-load-cycle swim? The headwind on the bike that forced everyone to use hill-climbing gears? The unseasonably high heat and humidity? The Redman is a locally owned event in Oklahoma City, and features a half and full-iron triathlon. I did the full, because apparently there is something broken in my brain. But that’s a topic for another day.

Short story: It was brutal, wretchedly so at times, but thanks to the incredibly tolerant and patient organizers/volunteers, I finished. Dead last, an hour 20 minutes after the 17-hour cutoff, but I finished.

Long story follows.

Pre-Race

My sherpa, Suzanne, took the train up from Austin and met me in Oklahoma City. I had flown in earlier in the day, and checked my bike as baggage, using a sturdy cardboard shipping box that was designed to be used 5-6 times. This was my 3rd time using it. When I picked it up at baggage claim, I noticed that one seam wasn’t taped shut, and the box felt more flimsy than it should have. Did I seriously space out so badly that I didn’t tape it all up and didn’t notice while getting it to the airport in Indianapolis? Opened the box, and found the culprit: our wonderful TSA people had opened the box to inspect it. Apparently they’re not taught to leave things as they find them, so they didn’t bother to tape the box back up as it was, which severely compromised its structural integrity. Oh great. Pulled the bike out and put it back together, and it was intact. Except…why is the chain catching when I move the pedals? The chain guard was bent back into the chain. Sheesh. At least that is a very easy fix, and there are mechanics at the race site. I’ll let them deal with it. Was glad that was the only thing wrong, given TSA’s ineptitude at box-taping.

Friday we did a little sightseeing, then went to check myself and the bike in at the race site. The wonderful people from Schlegel’s bike shop were able to bend the chain guard back to its proper position and tighten everything down appropriately. (I had forgotten to throw the Allen wrench set into my bag.) All was well.

Race Morning

Got up at the relatively late time of 5:30am, ate the customary Greek yogurt/honey/blueberry breakfast, and headed out with all of my gear bags. Parking was a 20-minute walk away, and Suzanne had planned on dropping me at transition, then parking the car and walking over. Neither of us was thrilled to arrive and find that the road was completely closed, and everyone had to walk, carrying all their stuff. Great, there goes 20 minutes of valuable time. Since this was a full, and most of us were changing clothes between events, we had a swim-to-bike bag and a bike-to-run bag, and dropped those into tubs in the changing tent. The two special needs bags for halfway points on bike and run went into two other tubs. I put my nutrition on my bike, pulled on the wetsuit, and started getting mentally ready to swim 2.4 miles.

The Swim

Joined the herd of swimmers, and we all noted the stiff wind and the choppy water, and wondered how the wind was going to affect the bike. The water was choppy, but it really didn’t look as bad as Kansas, which had been whitecaps. It wouldn’t be restful, but I had swum in worse. I was in the second wave of swimmers, so we got started quickly. We walked out through some mud to the first buoy and waited for the start signal.

Then we all realized just how choppy it really was. There were swells. There were waves coming from every direction. There was no pattern to the chop, just random blasts of water to the face. It was impossible to get into any kind of rhythm, as it didn’t seem to matter when or on what side you breathed, it was difficult not to take in water. The course was a giant triangle marked by buoys, and we were to keep all the buoys on the left. The half-iron people swam once around it, the full-iron did it twice. The water was pushing everyone around very badly and it was tough to sight the buoys. The chop was bad enough that you couldn’t just lift your head up slightly to look; you had to lift it way up to see over the chop, or to avoid a snoot full of water. It was mentally exhausting, because you couldn’t just put the head down and swim, or you’d end up way off course. I did NOT want to swim any extra strokes in that mess.

I fought off calf cramps (legs took turns), mostly successfully, accepted the fact that this was going to be a mental game (because I knew the body was capable if the mind willed it), and slogged along for two hours. It was a relief to finally hit that last buoy and be able to stand up and walk it in. A volunteer was standing in the water nearby and asked if I needed help – most of us were a bit lightheaded when we first stood up – I told her no, I was peeing, and she may not want to come in any closer. She just laughed knowingly and said I wasn’t the first. It was nice to see Suzanne there and we chatted a bit as I walked to the changing tent. [Later found out they had pulled 12 people from the water, most of them disoriented and panicky. In addition, one of the buoys had drifted and we swam closer to 3 miles instead of the expected 2.4. That made me feel better about my two-hour slog.]

T1

Wow those volunteers were amazing! They had bath towels for us, grabbed our bags, dumped everything out, and packed up all our nasty stuff when we were done changing. I pulled on my bike shorts, jersey, shoes, helmet, drank some more calories, and took off. Was pleased that my T1 time was around eight minutes. Actually felt good when I left on the bike, and immensely grateful to be out of that washing-machine water.

The Bike

The course was two 56-mile loops, with plenty of gentle rollers, a few longer inclines, and a good amount of flat. Not a bad course, nothing extreme. The first 30 or so miles were uneventful. As the day heated up, however, the wind picked up and there were some pretty strong crosswinds. I could feel it pushing me to the side fairly regularly, but was glad it was at least a crosswind and not a headwind. That is, until we turned into one of the longest legs of the course. Then the headwind was incredibly annoying and physically tiring. There were aid stations every ten miles or so, and I stopped at all but two and either stood up or got off the bike entirely and topped off my fluids. I wasn’t particularly aware of being hot, but I was getting crusty from salty sweat and made an effort to stay hydrated. The aid stations all had either salt tablets or electrolytes, and I made a point to take those regularly. The volunteers were super cheerful and encouraging, and extraordinarily helpful. They couldn’t wait to bring us whatever we needed, be it a banana, cold water, Gatorade, bags of ice, whatever.

The police on the course deserve a special shout-out, as they held traffic to let us pass. Even with them there, I was cut off twice by inattentive drivers. I saw the first one coming and was able to just slow down and let him pass, but the second one went out of his way to be an idiot. I was almost home, probably around 105 miles, when he decided it was wise to cut over into the bike lane (which was marked off by cones), start to make a right turn, then stop dead in front of me. I had to hit the brakes hard enough to skid a little, but was able to avoid him. The cop was so pissed he kicked at the car as they finally started moving away. He was swearing loudly at them, too. My hero! The police were only supposed to be out until 4:30, but they stayed until the last few of us stragglers finished up around 6pm. It was really nice to see them there and know I didn’t have to fend for myself through some pretty busy intersections near the end.

T2

It was nice to see Suzanne’s smiling face when I pulled in from the bike. I had not expected to see her until maybe some time on the run, so that was a nice surprise. After eight hours on the bike fighting winds, I was spent. My leg extensors were completely shot, exhausted from pulling my legs up for so long. Once again, the wind required far more mental effort than otherwise, and like the swim, the ride had become a mental game. I was seriously considering the possibility of dropping down to the Aquabike category (swim/bike only) and calling it a day. In addition to being mentally and physically exhausted, (I realized later) the heat had drained quite a lot of energy.

As before, the volunteer in the changing tent was amazingly helpful and cheerful. As I changed into my running clothes, I made a comment about trying to beat the run cutoff. The volunteer then said something that was music to my ears: the race directors want everyone who starts the run to finish, and will stay out there until the bitter end. They’d even stayed until 2-3am in years past, waiting for people to finish. Wow. Ok, that made it easier to decide to stick it out and see what happened. Maybe my legs will recover and I’ll be able to jog some. As it was, I only had six hours 15 minutes to finish by the 17-hour cutoff, and feeling the way I did, I knew that would be a challenge. Tried to drink more calories, but the gut was having none of it. So I took the bottle with me and headed out, hoping the gut would settle down and I could take in more fuel while walking.

The Run

A total misnomer. There was no running. I joined the hordes of walking wounded, and started lap 1. I tried very hard not to think about the fact that I would have to pass this way three more times, and walked as fast as I could. The gut was hurting by now, and I fought off nausea for the first 6.5 miles. Made it to the turnaround and went back out for round 2, not sure if I was going to be able to finish this thing or not. Finally around mile 8.5 I was getting pretty woozy, and thought about a friend’s "involuntary nap in someone’s lawn" during Ironman Louisville (JD, sound familiar?). Decided if I didn’t sit down in the grass I would be doing the same thing. I sat, and promptly puked up everything I had taken in since getting off the bike. Everything. Nasty, but I sure did feel better! A couple of runners very kindly stayed with me for the few minutes it took to get my legs back, and one of them walked with me a bit to make sure I was really ok (I was).

At mile 11 I was finally ready to try to eat something again, but needed to sit down first. The volunteers were simply amazing (this station was manned by members of the local running club, the Landrunners). One kind soul was very encouraging. She noted that I felt cool (not a great sign) and forced me to try something new. They had baby dill pickles at all of the aid stations. I’ve seen this before, and it’s never sounded good. Sure did sound good now! Saltines and pickles seemed to stay down fine, so I did the remaining 15 miles grabbing a pickle or two at each aid station, an occasional saltine, and washing it down with plain water. Stomach felt fine for the rest of the evening.

My legs also had recovered completely from the bike ride, but by now my feet were ruined for running. I was wearing Newtons, which are very much designed for at least a slow trot, NOT for walking. For those not familiar with Newtons, they have lugs on the sole, on the front of the foot. This encourages a mid-sole strike and a lean forward. They’re wonderful for anything faster than a walk. However, if you walk in them, they’re pushing your heels back into the sole and applying more pressure to the ball of your foot than a normal shoe. This resulted in giant hot spots covering the entire pad of both feet, and deep blisters on my heels. The hot spots felt like giant blisters, and the heels just plain hurt. This all started around the time I puked, so I had to stagger more than half the marathon. I’m sure I looked like I’d been hit by a car.

The day's carnage was evident. I knew I was likely last, but I was not the only one missing the cutoff. About 30 yards past an aid station, I came upon a runner who was clearly not doing well. He told me he was woozy, and I guided him to the grass to sit down. He sat/fell in the grass, but was conscious. I told him to sit there while I staggered back to the aid station on screaming feet. Thankfully they had a golf cart there and gave me a ride back to the man. By then he was standing, unsteadily, with two other people holding him up. I knew he had help, so I continued on my way. I don’t know if they loaded him into the cart or not. I’m not sure he finished.

By the fourth turnaround I was really depressed and pissed off. Damn this was miserable. What the hell is WRONG with me? This just flat-out sucks, big time. Had to laugh when I came upon skunk #3 though, and watched it scurry back into the woods. Now wouldn’t THAT just cap off a truly wretched day?

With close to three miles to go, I knew I’d seen the last of the other late finishers. The SAG wagon caught up to me and followed me for the rest of the way, lighting the path quite nicely. The driver told me there’d been more than 70 DNFs between the half and the full (did not finish). Wow. This is a small race, so I knew that was a very high rate indeed. OK, I guess I can be a little less pissed at myself and be grateful I was able to keep moving. Suck it up, buttercup, and get this thing DONE!

Staggered in to the finish with my SAG escort. Poor Suzanne was still there waiting for me, and I finally crossed the finish line at 1:45am, 18 hours 20 minutes and 53 seconds after going into the water that morning. Oh it felt good to finish, but could I please sit and take my shoes off? The dawgs were screaming pretty loudly by then, but I felt surprisingly good otherwise.

Collected all my swag, marveled at all the genuinely supportive people that were still there, thanked them profusely for hanging around, and retrieved my stuff. One wonderful man gave me a ride to the car, and we chatted about the day. He was in charge of the swim, and also was caught off guard by how much worse it was than expected. Like us, he had looked at the water and thought it would be choppy but not scary. He said it became immediately apparent that it was going to be a tough day, as people were struggling shortly after starting. He pulled one guy out within the first few hundred yards who was swimming in circles. He’d become so disoriented that he couldn’t even tell them what year it was. Yikes.

This one was far, far more mental than physical. My body wanted me to stop, and many times I had to mentally check in and assess. Every time, it was clear that while I was hurting, I wasn’t doing any serious damage, and the body was capable of continuing. The REAL issue was mental. I was mentally tired early on, and constantly tried to reset throughout the day. When I started the bike, I forced myself to forget the swim. When I got to the turnaround and had to face the winds again (oh I really was wishing I'd signed up for the half), I just took a deep breath and tried to forget about the first bike loop. By the time I was truly hating life on the run, I was simply in too deep to quit. Especially when all those people were hanging around so I could finish! So even though I didn’t do it in the "official" 17-hour time frame, I did it, it still counts, and I still got the same swag as the first finisher. That works for me!

Stats

129 finishers/38 DNF
Swim: 2:08:58 (~2.8 miles, maybe more?)
T1: 8:46
Bike: 8:19:19
T2: 8:13
Run: 7:36:10
Total time: 18:20:53

Really, the only time that’s completely out of whack for me is the run. Not so bad! Everything else is a little slower than I had hoped, but not by much. Seven of us missed the cutoff, and I was only 8 minutes behind the one in front of me. I was surprised to find out it had gotten up to 88 and very humid. Well no wonder I was sapped off the bike. It's been a very cool year and I'm simply not used to that kind of heat. FYI: I shipped the bike back through the local bike shop, ground. Am avoiding the primates at TSA from now on!

Oh, and the title of this post? DFL (dead bleeping last) > DNF (did not finish) > DNS (did not start)