The Hurricane in My Pocket

I know, MIA again.

All you missed was my dumb ass move trying to pick up a 22 year old Lacrosse goalie and I threw out my back the day I ran my last 22 miler and started my 2 week taper for ING.

Lesson here is to never ever try to pick up someone who can lift you above their head no matter how strong you think you are-- cause guess what? You are a runner and you use your body to move through space; not stop objects and people hurtling through space.

Dumb. Ass.

Another lesson might be to not drink so much beer so that you are so drunk you think you can pick a person who weighs twice as much as you do.

Either way, I think though the lesson of just not picking up people might be the way to go. Stay tuned, I got more lessons.

And guess what?

Tomorrow is ING marathon. This has been the best and worst taper I have ever done. I had to lay on my back unable to move for 2 straight days and then unable to run for another 3. By the end of the week though I managed to somehow squeeze a total of 23 miles. I also swam 2 miles and went to yoga. Definitely not the week I had planned, but I was happy to be back running.

But then Monday I had to be all crazy and bend over and try to pick something up off the floor and re-injured my back. I decided to ignore that and ran 10 miles. It was okay. But I dialed back my week anyway and only ended up running 22 miles total. I did squeeze in a 22 mile bike ride, 1200 yd swim and an hour of yoga too. But still so much less than I usually do or have done in the past before a marathon. I still feel off but can't decide if it is just taper madness or I am permanently crooked. And fat too. Stupid Samoas.

Another free lesson: Don't eat girl scout cookies during the taper when you are not running so much.

So anyway, the hurricane that is in my pocket. . .This idea has been with me ever since December 26th and Ryan and I went to see Drivin n Cryin at The Tabernacle. We were there with some long time friends of ours from middle school and high school. I remember when they started singing Let's Go Dancing turning to Tisha and told her that the song had my most favorite lyric of any song ever. First off, I am such a lush and if you hear me start waxing romantic about anything you should totally call me on my bull shit. Especially since I don't have a favorite anything. I just love too many things; I cannot choose. But truthfully, the lyric really does appeal to me and it is one of my favorite songs. You know, one of like 200.



I really do love this song and this idea of the potential hurricane and that it is just waiting there in your pocket. Can you imagine? Having that sort of power, right there at your hip; ready to be unleashed on the world.

Right, I know what you men are thinking. But I'm a girl. So I really don't know.

And I know that a hurricane is not really a good thing to have happen to you, to where you live but to be the hurricane or have the power to hold a hurricane and unleash a hurricane whenever you want. Well, I think that's enviable. So I really hope there is a hurricane in my pocket tomorrow. I hope that I am the hurricane not the victim of a hurricane. . .

But I don't know.

I am fallible at my predictions; worse than the weather man on TV. And I've had such bad voodoo the past year. I am just hoping for a little race day magic tomorrow and trying to read all the portending signs. Like yesterday, as I ran my final run, I was feeling good and finishing big up the hill before my house Spoon's Underdog came on my shuffle.
You see, Spoon is playing at the Tabernacle tonight and I badly wanted to go but good race mojo is not made at concerts. Regardless though, the random play of the Underdog I am reading as part of the impending forecast: The Tabernacle is about 1/4 mile from the start/finish of ING. Right where I will be toeing the line; standing under cloudy, rain laden skies with a hurricane in my pocket. And I am just hoping, okay praying that I have a New Orleans Saints at the Superbowl kinda day tomorrow. I am channeling that image of Tracy Porter and hoping that as I come into that final stretch that I can pull that hurricane out of my pocket and run pointing and smiling under the finish line banner; finally leaving behind the bad voodoo I picked up in New Orleans last May. Which by the way, most important lesson: never ever take a picture of a voodoo shop. Inside or outside. No kidding.