Hills, Like White Elephants: GA ING 2010 Marathon Race Report

Prologue:
This is my third time sitting down to write my 2010 GA marathon story. It has been 3 weeks since I ran ING and I think I can finally write what I have long wanted to say. This is not to say that I am so full of myself that I really think anyone cares or wants to know-- or doesn't already know for that matter-- how the marathon went. But I need to tell it.

Just so I can move on.

For me a good story is one that first and foremost entertains. Second, I like a story I can chew on, taste. You know, one that may not necessarily inspire--though that is the ideal-- but at the very least beg a thought. So when I come to write at my blog those are my intentions: first to entertain, second to leave the reader with something to think about.

My favorite compliment, well favorite after being told I am thin or pretty or funny, is when someone brings up something I wrote. Even if they didn't agree with it, like it, say something nice or whatever, I know--just by them remembering it and mentioning it-- that something I had to say stuck with them beyond words on a page, (or screen if you are the hair splitting type.) That is huge. And it let's me know that. Me? I. Was in your brain-- whether you liked it or not. And well, that's a little bit of power, don't you think? (Hmmm, maybe THAT is the hurricane I am looking for . . .)

So, the first time I started writing my race story I was bored by the second paragraph. And surely if I was bored writing it I was fairly certain you would be bored reading it. So I quit on it. Set it aside.

Now, I like to tell stories. Anyone who has ever met me will be the first to say they are not all good. And if you are long time reader of this blog you know first hand that I am not afraid to tell a long ass boring story. Sometimes, okay a lot of times, it is just Nat wanting to hear herself talk about herself. And I will warn you, this is a little bit of that.

The marathon story though, I think we all know that is always one of my favorite stories to tell. I want to do it justice. I want to tell it right and if I am being honest, I do want my little 26.2 mile journey to inspire because, well, the marathon does inspire me. It is always a story and that story, no matter how it plays out does have a viable end. It is up to you, the runner, to reach that end--the finish line-- and live to tell that story and all the delicious details. And I have to say that one of the very things that motivated me during the marathon three Sundays ago when I was most ready and so desperate to quit, was that I really wanted to see how the story that day ended. That kept me going. Well, one of many things that kept me going. And that day, I needed a lot of things to keep me going.

Let me tell you. That was one hell of a "story" I ran. But trying to tell about it has some how been harder, even more painful that the 3 hours and forty one minutes and some odd seconds it took to run the damn thing.

On my second writing I thought for sure I could do it. Ryan was out of town, the kids were occupied--Carmella with a play date and Beau with a 250 piece Lego Star Wars model. There were no excuses! I had time to write. . .

As I sat down to write I found myself going down the same path as before and not exactly telling the story. I was frustrated. Beau, next to me with his gazillion Lego pieces spread out around him, was also frustrated. He wanted my help. I told him that putting a gazillion tiny puzzle pieces together to form a rocket ship was too frustrating for me and would just make me cranky, okay, crankier. I tried to tell him that doing the hard work himself would make him feel good-- proud in the end. But even as I said that I knew that wasn't exactly true.

Hadn't I worked my ass off these past months through injury, illness and training? Pushing myself through long training runs in subfreezing temperatures. Running even when I didn't always want to. Didn't I do the hard thing? Hadn't I earned myself a good race? Wasn't I due? And while I will I admit that finishing did feel good--mostly because it was over-- it wasn't what I expected. It was not the catharsis that I was looking for, the denouement that I really, really needed.

How in the hell was I going to write a feel good race report about a race that left me feeling not so good, still so un, undone?

So for awhile I decided the answer was that I wasn't going to write about it. I mean really, couldn't we just leave it that it sucked, it hurt and I am just fat, old and slow.

The problem of course is that writing is a little like running for me. I always feel guilty that I am not writing. For some reason, and I have had this in my head at least since I was in middle school is that I am suppose to be writing. I promise you, no one ever told me that I needed to or should be writing. Just like no one ever told that I should be a runner. But not doing those two things causes me a great of deal of guilt and inner turmoil when I don't do them. And most of the time, I just live with it. I get by.

So the not writing has nibbled at me to no end. The other day I went out for my first long run since the marathon and I realized that problem was not about me having to write about a bad race but rather one of me trying to write what I didn't know about. Funny how the simplest answer is often the right answer. I know. I've heard it a thousand times over. You know it, don't you?

Say it with me now: write what you know. . .

And that is when I realized that I needed to write about the elephant in the room. The one that has been hanging out with me for the past 8 months . That I need to write about my white elephant and say the things I that haven't said. Because that is my story. The story that has been hurting me, troubling me and has kept me away from blogging. And for certain, if you have made it this far you've probably figured out that the only thing I am borrowing from Hemingway is his title.

The Race: Ga ING Marathon 2010. Marathon #11 for me

I had gone to the expo Friday afternoon. The kids and I chilled at home and went to bed early. Ryan was turkey hunting and had taken the dog with him. Saturday I was to drop the kids off after lunch at Bubbles and Poppy's to spend the night. Ryan would be picking the kids up Sunday when he got back in town. So the next 2 days were mine to think only about me and my little race and of course, the best part, the after race festivities.

Saturday morning I did wake up with a new and weird pain/sensation in my left hamstring. I stretched and jumped up and down and figured that it was not a muscular injury but something nerve related. I even thought it was most likely just in my head, you know, pre race nerves. So I did a little yoga and while I felt off and had some issues with the left side I figured again, just in my head.

After lunch I dropped the kids at my in law's. Pulling in the driveway I grabbed the mail and the first thing I noticed was a big yellow enveloped addressed to the Parent's of Beau Fischer with "confidential" stamped across the front. Though surprised to have it so soon I knew exactly what it was.

In January I had demanded that the school evaluate Beau for a learning disability. Bet you didn't know you could do that. I didn't either until his teacher, in brief passing, mentioned that he "might be a candidate for retention." When she said that I was at first devastated and then I was very, very angry.

Had I not asked repeatedly in kindergarten if Beau should repeat kindergarten?
Yes, I had.
And had I not told them that both Ryan and I had been retained in 3rd grade and I did not want to hold my child back after kindergarten?
Had I not asked all.the.damn.time. if they saw signs of ADHD or dyslexia?
Since these things tend to run in families and Ryan, his mother and his brother all have Dyslexia and I was diagnosed at age 6 with ADHD? Never mind the fact that children with phonological processing disorders, like Beau has, almost always have some other disability that impacts their learning wouldn't it make sense to assume that rather than he was just "young".

Why, yes, as a matter of fact I do think I mentioned all of these things -- all.the.time.

But until January I was always assured that he was fine, just a little behind in reading-- but because of his speech issues this was somewhat expected. They felt with some extra help he would just catch up. All the while I had been working with Beau nearly an hour everyday after school and riding Beau's ass to straighten up his act.

I have to wonder, if the intention was always to retain him why was he, why were we, bothering to work so hard? I mean if your going waste someones time and make them do it all over again why ask them to bust their asses like it is going to make one damn bit of a difference?

So I insisted that before I would even consider him to be retained they must evaluate him to see if ADHD or some other language based learning disability was impacting his progress at school. I could see the writing on the wall and the "he is immature" crap wasn't flying with me. This MY child we are talking about and you are not going to rob him of a year of his life even if he is just 6 years old. I do not care that his birthday is July 28th and the cut off is September 1st. I know the immature story well having both the luck of having ADHD and also a July birthday. It doesn't matter. If you have a learning disability that is not being addressed you are not going to outgrow it and waiting another year to figure it out and address it just a waste of time. Beau's time. Why set him up to under achieve his entire life when what he needs is some special intervention, instruction or so be it, medication? You think repeating a year is going to cure that?

They tried the "well he is making progress, why don't we wait six weeks and then re evaluate?" spiel but I was having none of it and insisted on the evaluation. They told me the evaluation would be complete by mid April.

So I was not expecting it in mid March. And certainly not in a yellow envelope on the Saturday the day before my marathon when I was home all alone. I contemplated opening it. Knowing that what I might read might me a little sad. It occurred to me that it might be better to wait until after my marathon, in case the evaluation was really upsetting. But I just couldn't not open it. I told myself that no matter what Beau would still be the Beau I know and whatever the evaluation said would not change that.

So of course I read it and while I didn't understand all of it I did get the gist. Beau is ADHD and it is severely impacting his life at every facet. I knew this. I've always known this. But of course, I didn't want it and seeing it made no more denying or wondering if I was wrong after all. What I really wanted was it say that Beau had been pretending. That he is so smart that this is all trick he is playing on everyone for his own entertainment. That really, he is a genius. So gifted that we are all a joke to him. But no. That is not what it said.

Unfortunately, Beau is like me. And I think, I can safely say, that as parents we only want our children to inherit our gifts not our baggage. And certainly not the very thing that has burdened us our entire lives, making us question our validity as a person. If life is an uphill battle then having ADHD is a life spent trying to shortcut that hill but finding that instead you always, always run the longest zigzagged tangent to reach the top. That is if you even make it to the top. And if you do? The downhill slope is even longer, even steeper and more treacherous.

I was six when I was diagnosed with ADHD. Apparently, as my mother tells the story, she was called in on my 3rd day of first grade and pretty much told that if I was not medicated I would not be able to make it through school. So, to me, it is ironic that I had to jump through hoops and beg to get Beau's diagnosis which is, apparently, equally as obvious.

I hated, even at age 6, Ritalin. I often would pretend not to take it and would, of course, always be figured out no matter how hard I tried to fake it. My personality was so different on/off medication. My parents tried some of the alternative methods but the only thing that ever worked for me was Ritalin. It was, literally, the difference between flunking out of school or making honor roll. There was no in between for me.

I even had F's in behavior without it. God bless the patience of my sixth grade English teacher Mr. Wright. My parents tried the first quarter without Ritalin and Mr. Wright, determined to make it okay for me, tried so many different things. The final straw was when he moved me to a place in the classroom where no one was sitting next to me because there was no one I wouldn't talk to. So, I made up an imaginary friend: Fred. Mr. Wright was so obliging of my imaginary friend that he would even grade Fred's tests and answer all the questions that "Fred" would ask. Of course, Fred and I both got F's because I was rushing through not only my work but Fred's as well. Finally, Mr. Wright had a chat with me about maybe it was time for Fred to stay home and by that point Fred was already gone and I was back on the Ritalin and did well the rest of the year. And so it went, for 15+ years of my life--all the way until I finished (finally) undergraduate school--I would try school without the aid of Ritalin. And the results went like this, always: fail classes, go back on Ritalin, catch up and make straight As. My first quarter of high school I failed 3 classes and got d's and c's in the other classes. It took Ritalin and making A's and B's and taking extra classes to get my GPA up to a 3.0 by the time I graduated. Only thing I can say for myself is thank God I can take a standardized test like nobody's business or I would have never gotten into college. And I will say I am most proud that I made it through graduate school and made a 3.7 GPA without ANY medication. But like I said, only took me 15 or so years of being medicated to figure out how to do that.

And obviously, somehow I survived but I am hardly a success story. And of course, why would I want this for my child? Why would anyone?

After reading the evaluation and before I let myself completely lose my shit I did the one thing I always do when I need answers: I Google and go look at books. I sat for an hour in Borders on the floor in front of the learning disability shelf glancing through every book they had on ADHD. I don't know what I was looking for. I've lived with the disorder my entire life. I don't think there is a single book out there is going to tell me anything that I don't already know.

Okay, I do know what I was looking for. I was looking for the chapter where it would tell me that Beau is going to be okay. That my child is not going to have a life long struggle. That he won't be running zigzag uphill forever his life too. I wanted to read the sentence that said your child will lead a blessed existence.

But where, for anyone, is that ever written?

And I did realize that enough in the bookstore to collect myself and made it to my car before I lost myself to a sea of tears and blubbering hiccups as I drove myself home. I cried til I had no more tears and I finally decided I was done with it. I drank 2 beers, wrote a wistful blog about hoping for a hurricane, ate my dinner, set 3 alarms and crawled into bed at 8:30.

Of course I didn't sleep. And at midnight I got up and took a Tylenol. My hamstring still felt funny and because of all my crying I had a raging headache. Then I commenced laying in bed waiting for 4 am to come. I was eager to run. Hopeful even. Thinking, ridiculously, that if I could conquer all the hills that ING threw at me and run a good race, - then Beau could too. My mind is simple and confused and sometimes the equation x +y equals whatever the fuck I want it to. Okay?

So on to the race! I know, finally, huh? It is a marathon. . .

I was up at 3:58 am because oversleeping is something I rarely do and I hate to be awakened by alarms. I might have some problems with my attention span but my body has time nailed down. I went about my routine and since I had packed two days prior it was a pretty effortless morning. Especially since I had no kids, husband or dog to worry about. I was in the car at 5:15 am headed to my sister's. Pulling out of the driveway I wrote HTFU on my arm, deciding that today, if there was ever a day, I was gonna need a motto.

I arrived at my sister's as planned at 6 am. Pookie was again running the half--I have yet to convince her of the awesomeness of the marathon. Her bff from childhood, Leah, was also running the half--her first, and new girl Caroline was running the half as well. Oddly, Pookie and I were dressed exactly alike in our black skirts and white singlets. It was not planned but alas, how it often happens.
Here is me and the other girlies: Caroline, Leah, Me and Pookie.

Wes, as usual was our handler. He was tired (read hungover) from his race the day before. He is crit dude.Not so sure about his outfit here. I think he was confused and thought by marathon we meant safari. Nice compression socks!

On the ride to the start we discussed finish line plans. It was suppose to rain so I didn't count on anyone staying to see me finish; especially since they were all doing the half. Even on my best day and their worst an hour is still too long to ask people to wait for you in the rain and cold. I told them that I wasn't feeling it and I would be lucky to go under 4. They laughed at me and said don't you always run under 4? Yes, most times I do but I've learned, when it comes to the marathon, expectations are not your friend. Anything can happen. So we left it with I would text when I finished and we would figure out a meeting spot then. I wasn't worried. I figured I would find away home somehow--assuming, I could get myself to the finish line.

Wes dropped us in front of CNN with about 35 minutes until start time. I still had to drop my bag at gear check so I decided to jog the bazillion miles to the park. Okay it was like one but geez could they have made any more of maze at the start . . .

I made it to bag check and then scoped out the potty lines. Uhm, yeah I wasn't waiting in that. I popped a squat behind a dumpster near some guys and not far where I saw some rent-a-cops chatting. Renegade am I!!! This is the beauty of wearing a skirt. I can almost make it look like I am tying my shoe but really? I am peeing! I had similar talent in 6th grade when I was like the only girl who didn't wear a bra and could completely change for gym without anyone seeing my underwear or rather, lack there of. My talents? Many and varied.

I pushed through the ridiculous crowd up to corral c. Then I excused and pardoned myself to the front of the corral. I spotted the 1:40 half pace sign and fell in near it. At the same time I saw my friend Greg. I pinched his ass as a way to say hello. He startled but then rolled his eyes when he saw it was me. Then I realized I was standing next to Nora. All happy! My biking riding peeps. Actually, Greg is also my 5am swim buddy too. I tried to be hopeful but really I was not. I tried the it is going to be an AWESOME day self talk! Which by this point, I have to say is total bullshit. Sometimes I think it is going to be an awesome day and it is and other times I will still think this and it totally sucks big giant ass.

The night before I had printed out a bunch of pace bands: 3:25, 3:30 3:35 and even, insanely, for shits and giggles: 3:19. I threw them all in the trash on the way out the door to the race. So I had all these splits bouncing around in my head. I do, after all these marathons of going for 3:30 have the 8 min mile splits by heart. For whatever reason this year the only marathon pace groups were 3:40, 4 hours and I think 4:15. Since I, of course wanted to PR and having run 3 times sub 3:45 (my BQ time) on this course I felt the pace groups were not of much help and that my best bet was to not see any of them.

I decided my best game plan (if you can call 3 minutes before the gun formulating your game day plan a plan) was to stay behind the 1:40 pace group until they went off around 7 miles and try to hit the half in under 1:45. I figured I can always hobble out a 2 hour half for a BQ at worst case (or you know, just quit) but under 1:45 for the first half would still give me the opportunity to possibly PR.

As we waited for the start I bemoaned that I wasn't cold. I had trained happily all winter in the freezing temps and have come to realize that my body performs much better in the freezing and dry than in the cool and humid. At the start it was around mid 50's and humid. I was, quite frankly, a little warm in my singlet, skirt and calf compression sleeves. I was glad I left the arm warmers behind but I knew I was going to be hot anyway.

I never remember how it starts; whether there is gun or someone just tells us to go. In bigger races it really doesn't matter since I am never on the front of the line. I just know to go when the crowd goes. You move forward like cattle trying to get out of the holding fence to a greener pasture. And it is funny--not haha funny, but funny peculiar-- because there is always a bit of congestion. Again, borrowing the cattle analogy, everyone tries to push through the gate opening; all wanting to be the first cow out. Only in a race it is just the start line and the road hasn't narrowed like a gate opening would but nevertheless everyone still gets all jacked up on each other trying to get across the line and hit their watch at the same time. And I would guess, considering the congestion, that most runners when asked this question: Can you run and chew gum at the same time? Would have to say no since most of them can't seem to start their watch as they cross the start line without slowing or stopping. And yes, since I have ADHD I can run and start my watch at the same time without slowing down at all. Small gifts people, there are small gifts associated with ADHD and multitasking stupid stuff is one of them.

I always feel like I am holding my breath until I get across --and maybe I am-- but there is always a freeing, even relaxing moment when you find yourself finally on the race course; on the other side of that line.

I love that the ING marathon starts in the dark. You can still see because of all the street and building lights but I love running, at least in my mind, into the light. It doesn't happen all at once but as those first miles go by you are getting into the day little by little and leaving the night, the darkness behind. And I just think that is a very optimistic way to start a race. That is good race chi; even if you aren't feeling the good race chi yourself.

But I don't worry too much about how terrible I feel in the first mile. I try never to think about running for at least the first few miles ever because they are almost always terrible. If I can get to the place in my mind where I can forget that I am running by the time I need to actually think about running I am already in a rhythm and feeling the good vibrations. Unfortunately though during the first mile I immediately knew I was off. Something just wasn't right. I tried hard to ignore it. Tried to tell myself that my body would loosen up and it would all be good.

So I ignored the ache in my left hip, the tingling in my lower back where I had injured it two weeks before and my always argumentative and tight left Achilles. I wanted to think about other things, positive things and disassociate from the uncomfortableness but I was just sad and I couldn't let my mind think about the thing that was heavy on it.

Everyone always talks about how 90% of running is mental and I absolutely believe that. And never is this more true than in the marathon. Your greatest competition in a marathon is not the people you run against or the time on the clock but it is yourself. Ultimately, in the marathon, it comes down to how well you can argue against the negative self talk that will arise as the race progresses. Unfortunately for me during ING, not only was I having the internal battle in the first 10k but I was on the losing end of the argument.

I kept my eye on Greg who was going for sub 1:40 and tried to stay behind him and the dudes with the 1:40 pace sign. My first split was okay, about like last year around 7: 30. In fact I think I pretty much ran exactly has I had last year until about mile 8 or 9. At least that is what I remember thinking at the time.

I should say that I don't have a Garmin or even a traditional runner's watch. I have a watch I found around the house bought at some drugstore with unfortunately large start/stop/reset buttons that apparently I hit and reset or pause the time on. This leads me to believe that I must run like how Phoebe did in the Friend's episode that made Rachel too embarrassed to run with her. I also have a knack, because of this spastic style, for hitting the emergency stop button on the treadmill in the middle of my interval sprints. That is always awesome too.

Some what luckily, and also later unluckily, the course had clocks at about every split. So I got to spend the first few miles trying to reconcile the time on my watch with the time on the clock. I figured that I was about 20 or seconds behind the clock but I was never too sure of this. What would have probably helped me most was if I had just noted the actual time of day on my watch when I started. But I didn't do that. Instead I got to have fun doing math for my marathon.

Around 4 miles I usually feel good. Like my body finally gets on board with the program of running a marathon-- or maybe that is just when the endorphins kick in. Either way this was not the case that day. Even still, I was maintaining a good pace. From my calculations I was running around a 3:23 marathon finish time. This is of course, probably, too fast for me but really, nothing that I haven't done in many marathons. So at this point I am still entertaining that a PR, which would be sub 3:28, might actually happen . . .

Problem was that around 4 miles I was NOT feeling good. In fact, I was feeling worse. I had this new sensation in my right thigh along with my achy left hip and tight lower back. After struggling last fall with ITBS in my left leg I knew the pain well. Only I have never had in my right leg. I kept my pace and puzzled over the next 2 miles over what it meant. Yay! Something new to think about. Bad news is that it never works well for me to think about me while running.

My guess was that my stride was off. I wondered if it would correct itself or would it get worse, as ITBS pain usually does. There wasn't much I could do about it and decided I would still stick to my plan of getting to the half in under 1:45. I was able to maintain my pace but I knew that unlike last year it felt much harder to do this pace. It wasn't a heart rate thing so I didn't think I was going to eat the paste but it just wasn't comfortable. And if I have learned anything from the marathon-- no matter what your pace is-- that first half shouldn't feel hard or uncomfortable.

Sometime after 6 miles and before the half split I came to an aid station. My mom was working it and I was really happy to see someone I knew. I yelled out hi! And told her I felt awful and she said I looked good. Lies I am sure but I was glad that my misery wasn't apparent.

I will say I was doing very well with my nutrition. This was my 11th marathon and countless run over 20 miles so if nothing else I have my nutrition for running down. I had had a GU along miles 5-6 ( I divide it up, little bits over the span of a mile) and had hit every aid station I had come to with water and a little Gatorade. I was feeling hot but nothing I couldn't handle. But my body was not comfortable. Mostly that pain in my right thigh was most bothersome. I felt like my right leg was slapping the ground hard. My left Achilles, which had bothered me at the start, though was loose and was feeling better. My left hip still ached and my lower back would spasm every now and again. But most of all my heart, it just wasn't with me. It was heavy with self pity, mommy worry, and ultimately, failure--for me and for Beau.

It was then that I picked a new mantra--do the hard thing. Thinking about Beau and knowing that having ADHD, while not the most devastating diagnosis in the world, does mean that you have to make yourself do things all the time that hard for you and seemingly effortless for others--you know, like sitting still, paying attention, maintaining focus (long enough to get through a ridiculously long blog post. . .)

So even though I wanted to NOT run, and wanted to quit right then--in mile 8--I knew that I couldn't. For one thing I had no more marathons on my schedule until late next fall. I could not let myself go through another year of training without seeing one to completion even if it meant not PRing or even meeting my B goal of getting another Boston Qualifier.

While I had been okay about having taken a DNF at the Atlanta marathon in November I knew that ING was sort of my last stop. I had to finish. Also, I just wasn't at the point where the pain and discomfort really warranted quitting. My stride was off and I was quite uncomfortable but I still entertained that it could get better. My pace, though uncomfortable and harder than it should have been, was still good--I was still running sub 3:28 pace. I knew I wouldn't be able to hold it forever but honestly, 26.2 miles is a long way to go. Over that sort of distance a lot can change; nothing, especially only 8 miles in, is certain. Quitting then would have been giving up too early. Besides I had done a 13 mile run the week before( longest run since my back injury) so I KNEW I could run at least that far. Beyond that though . . .

So I became committed to doing the hard thing, for Beau. At some point I reasoned that I will have to explain everything to Beau. And by way of that I will tell him (sagely so, I am sure) that everyone in this world has obstacles, things they must overcome. I will tell him that some of us wait our whole lives to find out what our obstacle is, but some us, like me, like Beau-- get find out earlier. We get the gift of knowing what we are fighting against. We have the upper hand in that regard. And, I figure, if I want my child to do the hard thing everyday then I better have at least one specific example of where I did the hard thing and saw something through to the end.

In mile 8 I also realized I had stopped my watch since it had read 52 minutes for at least the last mile. This was sort of a downer because just having a running clock to go by gives me a distraction. Now I had to depend solely on the clocks placed at the splits and extrapolate the math from there. This meant that I would not have a constant math distraction but one that would only show up every 8-9 minutes or in some cases when there wasn't a clock even longer.

It was somewhere in mile 10 when I realized I had to let the PR pace go. It just wasn't going to happen.The pace was just too hard. I don't train by heart rate but I do have a pretty good idea of how my marathon pace should feel. And it was just feeling too hard. It shouldn't have, my training ( I think) was solid. Whether it was the warmer temperature, my recent back injury or because the pain I was feeling was causing my heart rate to be higher than it usually is-- it was just not going to be my day to have my race. You know, the hurricane in my pocket race. It wasn't going to happen--no matter how much I wanted it to be my day.

The next few miles were a total blur. I think it started to rain but I hardly noticed it other than that it made me feel a little cooler. I was mostly absorbed on not walking and just getting to the half split. I had another GU and did my best to try and fix my stride. By this point my right quad felt like it had a knot the size of a tennis ball in it. Periodically I would reach down and push hard on the spot, which did absolutely nothing.

As much as I would like to say I managed to keep my shit together I didn't. I was just running along--through I guess Decatur at that point-- and was totally miserable and crying. Thank goodness it was raining so no one could tell I was crying because for me the absolute worst thing that can happen to me when I am crying is for someone to ask me what is wrong. It always makes me feel even worse because then I have to add embarrassment to my litany of whatever reasons of why I am crying.

I was so happy to hit the half point. The clock said 1:42 and while I didn't know what I was going to about the next 13.1 miles I still had to run I was just so happy to have finished the first 13.1 and met my time goal. If nothing else, I thought, at least I ran a pretty good 13.1 miles for the day. And even met part of my plan.

And like last year when I hit the half I ducked into the open porto potty. I didn't really have to go but I just needed to be alone for second. Away from the marathon. I have no idea how long I was in that porto potty but it was enough time that I talked myself out quitting for the 100th time in the past hour and tried to stretch out my right quad that was in a complete knot. Stretching proved yet another pointless endeavor because the ankle over knee stretch sent my back muscles into a spasm. Frustrated, I started crying again which was immediately replaced by a string of cuss words because of the glance at the HTFU on my arm and Simon and Garfunkel's The Boxer that was playing on my shuffle:
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that layed him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains


So, it wasn't a clearing but a porto potty and I am not a boxer by any means but at that second I was sure feeling like I had had the shit kicked out me as if I had gone head to head with Ali. I was angry but I am a fighter. I am a fighter I told myself and I ran back out onto the course to continue to fight for more than what was just a silly race. Sometimes, if you want to do something-- finish something-- you have to figure out a way make it more important that in reality it is.

And so, with the ideals of Pr and sub 3:30 gone I headed into the Druid Hills section of the course. It is rollers. Up and down. And I ran when it didn't hurt so horribly to run. I did have some good moments. Some fleeting periods where I thought I could maybe recoup my race but then the pain would be horrible and I would have to walk. Walking is the absolute worst! You not only get passed by people you passed a few minutes before but because they are running and you are walking you feel almost like you are going backwards. And the walking is even worse when you have to walk up a hill. And there is a reason why this area of Atlanta is named Druid Hills. I've yet to see a Druid in there but hills? Oh yeah. In past years I have loved this section and actually have run it really well.

Not this year. I did not love it but I did make it my best effort to run the uphill if I was able and save my walking for other areas. I also tried to be encouraging to others in this section.

I personally felt like a lost cause and was just set on somehow finishing. My discomfort increased the more I ran and while I was in total misery I was somewhat in awe at how horrible it all was. A part of me, okay a big part of me, really wanted to see how it played out. I entertained a few different versions in my head: there is of course the obvious crawling across the finish line scenario. Then there was the collapsing on the course. In that scenario I wondered if people would just run by and ignore me or maybe I would get lots of sympathy and attention. You know me, I hoped for the latter.

Yet I still ran on and finally found myself at Piedmont Park but I was absolutely dismayed upon the scene running into the park. I knew there had been course adjustments so that the full marathoners wouldn't have to run with the half marathoners but I was very unhappy about the methodology in the park to make that happen. There was this crazy out and back loop. You could see it--it was like a maze of white temporary fences with orange tape. This is also the portion the first winner of the marathon left out. He, of course got DQ'd. He says it was because he followed the pace car but really I bet he just didn't want to run that part. I know I didn't.

But I did and it was at that point that both my feet went completely numb. I was pissed. I thought: this is the final straw. My back hurts, my hip huts, my right quad is useless, I have a headache and now I can't feel my feet. I ripped my headphones out of my ears because everything was just irritating more than I could stand for that second. I slowed again to walk and just went a long cussing in my head, hating on the world more than I even thought was possible. I thought: That's it. I'm gonna call Wes to come get me. I pulled out my phone and looked along the park to see where I could tell him to come get me. And it hit me. That if I wanted to quit I was going to have to walk at least a mile to even get to a place where Wes could pick me up. Then I would probably have to wait another 20 to 30 minutes. And who quits a marathon at 22.5 miles with HTFU on their arms?

So I put my ear buds back in my ears. Staying Alive by the Bee Gee's was playing and I figured at least that much was true. Then I saw the the leader of the 3:40 pace group. That was not happiness for me. That meant that I had to really really HTFU if I wanted my Boston Qualifier. And that is when I told myself that really, I was doing the best I could that day. I wasn't flaking out, as I have done in the past. It wasn't success but if I was being honest with myself, it was the best I could do that day. I was doing the hard thing. Sadly I was getting my ass kicked by a course that I have run much more successfully in the two years prior but on that day I was giving the best I could. And really, that is all anyone can ever ask of themselves. And I told myself, next year would be a better year. Oddly it made me happy that as miserable as I was and as much as I was hating my race that I still wasn't giving up on the marathon.

Running up some hill in mile 23 I came up on my friend Kirk. He was looped out and while he said hi to me and seemed to listen as I prattled on alongside him as we inched painfully up the last of the slow hill hell to the finish line it was a few minutes before he realized that he really did know me. I felt again a little surge of getting 'er done and I picked up the pace, leaving Kirk behind.

I leap frogged those last miles with a variety of runners and mostly tried to stay ahead of the 3:40 pacer I had seen in the park on that out and back portion. I knew at that point that I was over a 3:40 finish but still under 3:45. Doing math at that point proved impossible. And even though I was running I felt like I might as well have been crawling for how slowly those last miles were passing. I know it took me about 35 --give or take minutes to go from Piedmont Park to the finish line but it felt longer than the whole first half of the race had taken me to run. Time was just moving ridiculously slow. It was Twisted Ankle all over.

In the last mile and half the 3:40 pacer finally caught me. We chatted and he tried to encourage me, thinking I was part of his group, that I would go under 3:40. I was too tired and hurt too much to try to explain any of it to him. He surged on and I was in the middle of the pace group but at that point I couldn't tell who was a part of it and who wasn't. I did make me feel better that everyone, except that pacers, looked pretty miserable. At one point a girl, in the last mile, stopped and started walking. I had been doing the exact same thing since the half point but I snapped her to "Get moving! You are almost done! You have this!" She looked at me in absolute shock so I must have had my mean Nat voice on. I had meant to be encouraging but from her expression I could tell it did not come across that way. So I decided no more talking, just get it done.

Around this point I recognized one of the runners I had been leap frogging with as Christian from Run 100 miles. We have never met personally but I know of him because we have lots of mutual friends and I have read his blog. He seemed pretty focused and my back was killing me so I didn't say anything. I have always run the last mile of every marathon I have run but about a half mile from the finish my back started spasming and I had to walk. I had the talk again and checked my arm, HTFU, and told myself less than 5 minutes if I would just run. I could see Christian up ahead, since he was running and I was walking he had manged to put some distance between us. He became my focal point. I chased him down. In the end he still beat me, crossing the finish line a second before me but he reeled me in. I introduced myself to and congratulated him on a great race. It was a PR day for him. So congrats!

I was happy to finish but it was not that same "I did it!" feeling I usually have. But I guess they can't all be great. While I wasn't proud of my time or at all how I ran I was proud of myself for doing the hard thing. I guess the life lesson here is sometimes you work your ass off, you can cry a bazillion tears and sweat like you deserve it and the result can still be a let down. The way I am choosing to see things is that even if I fail I am still better for having tried. It is still more than a lot of people ever do. And that's right, everything is a competition. And if it is a race for who tries and fails the most, I might very well have the gold in that race.


I left the finish area and headed towards the very far away bag check. It was nice, albeit still quite uncomfortable, to not have to run anymore. I could see where the bag check was and mentally navigated from my vantage point the shortest route to it. However a volunteer informed me that this was the exit to the park. I could not go this way. The shortest way. She explained, that I had to go further down the sidewalk to the entrance. At first I thought she was kidding so I just stood there. She again explained where I had to go and I said "but then I have to walk up a hill to get where I want to go." She seemed not to understand how terrible that was for me so I sighed and shuffled towards the entrance turning down the bananas that were being offered to me the whole way to the bag check. I must have looked pretty awful or exactly like a monkey for the number of times someone tried to give me a banana in the span of the 10 minutes it took to walk to bag check.

I managed to get my bag and then realized that I wasn't going to be able to put my pants on without twisting into a pretzel from cramping. (Right, but I hate bananas.) Bending over just was not something I was capable of. Being cold would just be easier. Finally, I reconciled misery and easy. Better than hard and miserable, right?

Wes texted me to meet him in the Tabernacle's parking lot. Oh, hell. I looked over the grassy field of the park, past the black wrought iron fence to yet another hill to walk up. I like hills, really I do but I was just done with them. I wanted at that second as I tin man walked towards Luckie Street to my waiting ride at the top of the hill, was to pull the fabric of Atlanta and straighten her crooked ass out. Then fold her up neatly in a prefect square that would fit in my pocket. Like a map. A simple, flat, easy to read-- even easier to traverse--map.


Epilogue:
Regarding that white elephant. Wikapedia says this:
To possess a white elephant was regarded (and is still regarded in Thailand and Burma) as a sign that the monarch reigned with justice and power, and that the kingdom was blessed with peace and prosperity. The tradition derives from tales which associate a white elephant with the birth of Buddha, as his mother was reputed to have dreamed of a white elephant presenting her with a lotus flower, a symbol of wisdom and purity, on the eve of giving birth. Because the animals were considered sacred and laws protected them from labor, receiving a gift of a white elephant from a monarch was simultaneously both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because the animal was sacred and a sign of the monarch's favour, and a curse because the animal had to be retained and could not be put to much practical use, at least to offset the cost of maintaining it.


Similarly, some people say that ADHD is both blessing and curse. I definitely agree. I do enjoy having more natural energy and having a mind that jumps the tracks allows for some pretty cool out of the box ideas to pop in my head. The trouble lies in harnessing all that energy and those wild lightening thoughts. So I think it is a fair analogy to compare the struggles that come with living with ADHD as to being the owner of a white elephant. It is a gift but until you figure out exactly how to use that gift, make it work for you-- it will remain a curse. Unfortunately, I am still working on that part.

And to tie this back to the marathon and take a parallel step to about a fellow runner who has a white elephant of his own and always impresses me. My friend Jon Obst is a fantastic ultra runner who happens to have type 1 diabetes. He finished 7th at this year's ING running 2:45. It is knowing people like Jon and others who have the odds stacked against them and see them come out triumphant tells me that the white elephant is really what you make of it: burden or just a decoration that makes you a little more sparkly than everyone else. I think it really is a choice and a matter of perception.

I know that this was a ridiculously long race report and probably one of the least entertaining to read. I apologize because I feel I may have misled in my earlier assertion that I think a story should be entertaining. Certainly, I am a person that likes to laugh and strives to be funny but it has been hard to find humor in something that just hasn't always been so funny to me. I have spent a huge portion of my life trying to hide my ADHD, even being ashamed of it and often flat out denying it. And I am not saying I am all the sudden flag waving proud and ready to shout it out at every opportunity: I just don't want my son to grow up questioning his intelligence, his value as a human being like I did. So I had to put it out there. And it just seemed easiest to cushion it in between the hills of the GA ING marathon. Thanks for reading.

Some after race pictures:
This is Shannon. She is a chiropractor. I went to see her after the race and she took an x-ray of my pelvis. And guess what? The left one side was higher and forward. So I was crooked after all. My stride really was off. She fixed me up. I am still a bit crooked but it has all been better.
Leah celebrating after her first half marathon:


Alexis is going to be a marathon runner when she grows up.
Caroline and Pookie
I gave Wes the best wedgie ever. That's what happens when your underwear is hanging out of your pants.

Beer really does make everything better, even a not so great race.

So yeah . . .

Full on boring long ass detailed and rambling on to no end race report is coming. Promise!

Forgive me, I am still having a bit of a pout fest. Sunday was not my best day. Going to a chiropractor --first time ever--tomorrow to see what I did to my back/hip. My left hip is like a bowl of Rice Krispies it is popping so much and I feel crooked. Could be in my mind but I feel like I got this weeble when walk and never mind about the wobble that I feel when I run. . .

For those who care just to know the time and none of the boring self absorbed whiney ass details:

Natalie Fischer #343

Age: 38 Gender: F

Distance	MARARTHON!!
Clock Time	3:41:36
Chip Time	3:41:12
Overall Place	297 / 2153
Gender Place	45 / 739
Division Place	6 / 136
Age Grade	63.2%
Half	1:42:30
Divtotal	137
Sextotal	749
Pace	8:27

Sigh, at least I qualified for Boston but man was I ever unhappy how hard I had to fight for it. I think 2009's 3:29 and 2008's 3:38 were easier on me. I will, however, still maintain 2007 as the reigning toughest year on the ING course for me and this is only because I did not have to the medical tent on Sunday. There, is, always next year. I am already signed up.

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.

Dead Beaver Says "What?"

In continuing with the theme from my last post I wanted to talk about conversations with my father that make me uncomfortable.

Just kidding.

But I did have a phone message from him today that said: Natlee (he says my name wrong) I have to go buy frozen cat food.(My mom buys special cat food for her hypoallergenic cats that I am allergic to.)Then I am going to the American Girl Doll store to buy Carmella some doll? I think it is the Doll of the Year or maybe it is the world. . . Call me so I don't buy the wrong doll. . .

Poor guy sounded so defeated. But that is what happens when my mom is finishing work for a show.

But really? My dad in the American Girl Doll store? You have to know him but it gave me a great big laugh. I mean, this is the guy that told me he would sew swans onto my jeans rather than shell out the money for designer Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. So I had to swim like 3 miles just so he would buy me some.

So yeah, anyway. . . it is almost Carmella's 9th birthday. This year she and her Bff opted to have a joint party since their birthdays are 6 days apart. They picked to have the party at the Bff's house. Fine.By.Me!

BUT! Bff's mom is crazier than I am. Really. There are those people. She is an artist and having grown up with an artist for a mom I know what that means. It means you must have the most awesome and creative and labor intensive parties possible. So yeah, we made American Girl Doll beds.

When Bff's mom called me last week to tell me that she had come up with a great idea for the party I tried to be encouraging and realistic about her ambitious doll bed project. She assured me it would be easy. (I've heard this before with my own mother when had to make the invitations, favors, floral arrangements and I can't remember what else for my wedding. Pain in the ass is, what I've discovered it means when artists say "easy." Just like when trail runner's say, "Nat, you are going to love this trail. It is really neat." It is code for muddy, steep as hell and I am so NOT going to love it.) I know the artist line of thinking: it is what I call the Bob the Builder mindset. You know: We can make it!
But me?
I think, really?
Just cause we can; should we?

Let me tell you, in case you are entertaining any idea like this, the answer is no. The answer is ALWAYS no. If you can afford to pay someone else to make or do something-- then you should. Pay them. For crissakes, at the very least, you are helping the economy. Which, does everyone else hear-- at least once a day-- "well, it's this economy".

So I say: Help it! Don't make your own stuff. Save America! Spend your money!!!

But because I am poor and because I know too many artists and am related to too many engineers I always find myself making something.

Let me tell you. My talents? They lay in ideas (see blog head quote) and in bossing people around, organizing people, short cutting and in embellishing. Tiny details, measuring and putting crap together they do not.

But whatever. Yes, I can make it. If I have to. . .

Two days before the party I started receiving texts from the bff's mom saying stuff like "Who the hell's idea was it to make doll beds?"

So I knew come party day. I would be making doll beds. And that is what I did last night. Thankfully the party was smaller --from the original 8 down to 6 girls-- so only 6 beds had to be made. But I was there until midnight--assembling, nailing, designing, cutting, hot-gluing and stapling doll beds together for 6 little girls. Six adorable little girls that I love! Who, while they did help some, were all thrilled and proud of their each individual bed. They all complimented and admired one another's--as if they had put the whole thing together themselves.


So yep, it was worth it but man, kid birthday parties wear me out!

And so, therefore, today I had no desire to go out and do my mid length run. I've struggled all week with low mojo. But I've gotten my run workouts done. Some cross training I've let slide.I always have a bare minimum goal that I must meet. This week it was 50 miles. So today I had to at least run 6 miles to meet that.

After Ryan yelling at me to get on with it because he wanted to go out to lunch eventually I sucked it up--after MUCH procrastinating- and headed out for my run.

Not even a quarter mile in it began sleeting. I told myself I deserved it for not HTFU earlier and said I can do six miles. But then I went right which meant instantly I was adding 2 miles onto my six mile loop. So then, I was committed to at least 8 miles in this crappy cold sleety weather.

See how I trick myself?

See my little games?

They are dumb but they work. I am so stupid I can trick myself. (Note, this may not work on more intelligent people, just saying. )

Then, as it often happens, I was feeling good so I headed out for my 10 mile loop which because of my extra 2 miles would mean I was doing 12 miles today. Which was my original goal. See how sneaky I am?

Yay, me! (And, I ended up adding on 2 more miles so I totally tricked myself into 14. Only my already sore and pissed of Achilles tendon is the wiser.)

So, really, it was all fine. Sleet wasn't terrible. My pace was actually great and I felt good. I was just trucking along and headed back home with five or so miles to go. I noticed up ahead a dark spot off to the side of the sidewalk. Figured it was debris from all the recent rain. But once I was within a few feet my brain registered BEAVER!!!

Holy crap and what the F . . .?

On the freaking sidewalk, across the street from the Greek Orthodox church and almost a quarter of a mile away from a body of water was a freaking beaver. A BEAVER!

I thought it was alive and it scared the bejesus out of me.
Do beavers bite?
What the hell is it doing on the sidewalk in the middle of the suburbs?
Do they get rabies?

I stood 10 feet away and took this picture:

The beaver didn't move. Even after I threw a stick at it. So I ventured closer and took this picture. Not sure why it is smaller other than that the camera on my phone sucks:
I inspected the beaver and it didn't look like it had been hit by a car. More like it was just frozen. So I don't know what happened to it but it was pretty weird. It looked, posed and like any second it would simply cross the street.

I texted the picture to Ryan who texted back: Is that dead beaver?

And thankfully I am coordinated enough to text back "yes" while running. My talents? Many and varied. Again, though not with measuring and cutting wood.

Then he texted back: Get the pelt. We can sell it.

The thought of it's this economy came to mind again as I envisioned, briefly, turning back, grabbing the beaver and running home. Money in my pocket! I could use that! F . . . Peta! I considered, the thought of me running the final 5 or so miles home carrying a dead beaver and my bet? My bet was that no one would even think to question someone running down the sidewalk with a dead beaver clutched to her chest. Not in this economy.

Desperate times, people. Desperate times.

Still here. Getting it done. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time.

Conversations with my mother that make me uncomfortable . .

My mom is on Facebook. She's made some friends on Facebook. They have some conversations and she learns some new things.

Things that I know about but maybe either think that my mom should already long know about such things and that we absolutely do NOT need to talk about. Or rather, more specifically, at this point in my life think these sorts of conversations are ones that she and I no longer need to have. Like, maybe we could have discussed these things when she was the teacher and I was the student, but definitely not vice versa. And DEFINITELY not conversations I want to have with my mother on the near eve of when I will soon be having such conversations with my own daughter.

But then I drink beer (of course) and she drinks too much wine (of course) and my dad is cooking fish and she gets tipsy from too much painting and too little food and too much wine and too much boredom and she calls me. And the conversation evolves from the Torres Tire Store fire and Beau's tutoring to something else entirely.

That's right baby. I'm talking about sex. Or really, the vajayjay. . .

So my mom has gone and gotten herself a lesbian friend. And this lesbian friend shared this site with her.

My mom wants to know why in the world would a woman spend that kind of money on their vajayjay when they could be spending it on something that people would see--like their face? Why???!!!! When no one is ever going to see that?

I have no answer for her. Okay, I might have a thought or two on why but really, with my mother? I don't want to go there.

So then, we-- over the phone-- look at some of the other procedures. . .

She jokes that if she were to become a "born again" virgin (like this one friend of mine who claimed way back in college to be one) that she would totally have the hymenplasty. But then we talk about, "why would anyone want to have that?"

Awkward!

Especially extra awkward when we then swap the extra stitch episiotomy stories.

Oh.MY.Gawd!!!!

To change the subject, I joke that maybe dad would like it if she would have the G-shot/G-spot Amplification done. And she responds that she doesn't know what the G Spot is and that Dr. Geard probably removed that part too. According to her, "he removed a lot."

Oh MY Gawd.

So of course the awkwardness is too much and her fish is now ready and Ryan is embarrassed listening in on my phone conversation anyway, so we hang up. Ryan cautions me against blogging about it, listing ramifications, but really, keeper of good judgement I am not. . .

For tomorrow, I am going to go run for a few hours in a snow storm with the ultra runner Jon Obst who will be running for 27 HOURS in a snow storm to "celebrate" his 27th birthday.

So you would think, when my mother wants to call me and discuss possible procedures on one's vagina? She knows what the fall out might be.

Soul Singing

Home bound
Tired of running town to town
Tired of my heart turned upside down
Now my life's a smile not a frown . . .

You got my soul singing my soul singing . . . from Soul Singing by The Black Crowes

Yesterday I ran my long run. No big deal and nothing really blog worthy about that fact. Last few years I've been doing a long run about every week of the year except in the summer months then maybe it was one every few weeks. This past fall though I started doing the 3 hour run sometimes twice a week and well, that just didn't work out so well for me. Not saying it wouldn't work for some people but for this late-to-discover-running-thirty-eight-year-old-mother-of-two-who-once-shattered-her-pelvis-and-still-a-bit-crooked it just didn't pan out.

But I do so love the 3 hour run. It is what gets my "soul singing".

Okay, not totally true. I really, really hate the first hour of the 3 hour run. I will procrastinate the heck out of starting it and then for the first seven miles I think about not doing it, cutting it short and sometimes just calling this whole running thing quits. I obsess during those early miles about every little thing: I might be too cold, this or that hurts, I am running too slow, I am tired, my outfit is all wrong, the hills are, somehow, steeper today than they were last week, I hate all my ipod music, and nothing feels quite right. But then I am at Walgreens and run in, pee, have Gu, some water from their fountain and I return to the sidewalk feeling better than when I started and now with a "can do!" attitude. For that second hour I run a little too fast and only worry a little about how much that is going to hurt me in the final hour.

Usually in that second hour I stop to buy Gatorade and the man behind the counter at the gas station on Johnson Ferry and Roswell Road alternately will either call me crazy, tell me I am beautiful or suggest that I should run to his house in Lawerenceville (which according to him is 24 miles from the store)and be his wife. On days when I look a little miserable he offers me a ride to his house in Lawerenceville. I don't know his name and he doesn't know mine but for once a week for over the past two years he has been a staple of my 21 mile weekly run.

By the end of the second hour or beginning of the third I usually have a low point. Sometimes, when I don't have it, I worry. I worry because that means catastrophe could be just around the corner. Like earlier this year when in the middle of mile 20 my ankle started hurting and it took me over 20 minutes to limp the final mile home. Agony.

So there is a little bit of comfort when the discomfort comes. Sure I have a bit of a pity party when it arrives but then I get "done" with myself and dig in. I know the best is about to come once I climb out of the valley of darkness. I know this is all self created but getting to triumph over adversity once a week really does help me deal with everything else that comes my way in the rest of my life. So yeah, basically, the long run helps me cope. Once upon a time Ritalin was the drug that made me right; now running is that drug. But that is a boring story for another time.

I love arriving at mile 17. Four miles to go. And now, it is mostly downhill until the final mile and half and at that point I won't care about running up a hill or three. It is always (unless catastrophe strikes) in the those final 30 so minutes that my soul starts its song. Sure I am spent, my hips a little achy, my hamstrings beyond annoyed with me and it would be completely impossible for me to make a sudden movement right or left but it is like my body is locked into running and it isn't going to stop until I get home. I love everything and I am so freaking happy! And it is so funny because at this point I am running on the same road I ran out on and only a few hours earlier I really, really hated this road and everything in the world. Funny how much your perspective can change on a three hour tour.

And always, always-- no matter if it is my regular 21 or I went crazy and ran 25 miles-- I run as hard and fast as I can manage up the final hill to my house. And, I will admit, many times to throwing up my arms and inwardly, okay sometimes outwardly, cheering for myself. And nearly every time as I get to my house I think about cartwheeling across my lawn to my front door. But, again, I am not too sure about my coordination for any movement other than running. So of course, I just slow down and walk happily into my house. But the cartwheels, or if I am really ambitious, the aerials? In my mind I did them. That is how I feel. And I guess if you have never cartwheeled or done an aerial or a flip then you just don't know how awesome and cool that feeling is: that spinning, for a split second, sideways, upside down and all round through the world feeling. That is how I feel after a long run.

But now I am sad.

The major artery that makes my perfect 21 mile run possible is closed. They are taking the bridge out on Sewell Mill Road. It will be out until June. They have a detour but if I follow it puts my run over 22 and I will have to run along Roswell Road. And that means I will have to switch sides just so I can be on the sidewalk to get to Old Canton (which a small portion of right there doesn't have sidewalk). That's no good. Never mind that is a just an ugly stretch to have to run along. Plus, I really like running down Providence Rd and Bill Murdock Rd and past the neighborhood I grew up in before I moved to Roswell. I always have a new memory from when I was little pop in my head. It is a nice little surprise and a great diversion.

So I've been searching for a new route. I tried one out yesterday. And it was too long--just over 23 miles. I was thinking though if it worked out I could just do it every 2 weeks and do a 16 mile run on the week in between.

The route took me from my house in East Cobb to Historic Roswell and back. But the Roswell stretch of Shallowford Road has no sidewalk and the soft shoulder is scary. Too many big trucks never mind the big hills. The hills though would be find if I had sidewalk. But running up that big of hill and having to look at the ground so I don't twist my ankle and fall into incoming traffic is just too stressful. Then the coming back along highway 92 is just sucky. 92 is always a wind tunnel. So this route is, sadly, no good.

For me a good running route-- from my house-- will be side walked and it needs to be a big loop that forces me to do the run (if I have to run past my house or have the opportunity to cut it short I probably will.) It also needs to have places I can stop to pee and get water. I don't like having to carry stuff and this is the suburbs; I can't just pee in someone's front yard. But those are just the basics. Ideally a good route will be somewhat scenic. Running along a 4 lane road past strip malls is not scenic in my opinion.

So I am still searching. I haven't looked into a route that will take me out towards Marietta or Woodstock so that could be an option. . .

Pet Peeve

Oh, surely I have many but on facebook my friend Lin asked today "What really annoys you?" in his status update. Of course, probably not unlike most people, a lot of stuff annoys me. Some stuff more on some days and then on other days I can be pretty mellow about most things.

No really, I can be.

Believe it or not I've actually had people describe me "as laid back." I know, I too just assume those people--the ones who think I might be laid back-- are really bad at reading people. But, I'm just making a point that, I--moi-- have come across as laid back. That there are apparently some people in this world that think of me as easy going. And to me that suggests that those people--the ones who think of me as "laid back"-- probably think I don't get annoyed about much. And of course, they would be wrong. But again, I think we already agreed that these were not the most astute people ever anyway.

Wait.
Did you see that?
Did you see how I was sort of polite about basically calling some people stupid?


Wait.
Was that annoying?
A little?

Well, truthfully I too find that annoying but I am use to it. It is a Southern woman thing after all. Southern women are awesome at insulting someone in such a way that it sounds exactly like a compliment but really what just happened is that they called you a slut when they said "You are such, a (insert thoughtful seeming pause) free spirit."

Right, I know. I'm not really all that good at it and admittedly I am often tricked by it too. This is why I avoid ladies luncheons and anything that involves a committee of women. You know they are speaking English but you are never sure what is really being said because it is smushed under some pleasant adjectives and said in polite and syrupy voice. But one quick trick in helping you decode the intention is be on the look out for conversations that start with "Bless her heart". You hear that and just know that something unkind is about to be said about someone.

Okay but that isn't what really annoys me. I know, the whole tangent thing I do can be very annoying. I can't help it. I just have so many useless things to convey! I would hate for you to miss one single thing. Do you know my nickname is Pooh? No? Well it is and there really is a Tao of Pooh and all I am saying is that later? There might be a quiz. So yeah, all these tangents are key information. So pay attention and don't skip ahead.


So anyway. . . as soon as I read Lin's question I KNEW what really, really annoys. I mean, this is something that never fails to annoy me. More so than when someone nearly causes me to rear end them when they pull out in front of me and then proceed to drive 10 miles under the speed limit. More than that.

My number one pet peeve is the cult of the little dog. And maybe this is just an Atlanta thing, or a northern suburb thing but it seems like every single time I am in a TJ Maxx or Target or Trader Joes there is some woman--and no it is never the same woman--in there with her little scraggly haired with bows lap dog in a shopping cart. And no, it is not the same dog. Just the same type of dog. You know it: the little dogs, the lap dogs. The ones with an outfit on and a froufrou hair cut and most likely they have that nasty black stuff under their eyes that little dogs all seem to have. More often than not the little dog is sitting on a pillow.

To be clear. I don't have a problem with people owning these types of dogs or wanting to dress them up or fix their hair (you know some people put colored streaks in their dog's hair?) or essentially treat them like a child. I don't even mind little dogs. I don't want one for myself but little dogs aren't the problem. I've decided that what I really have issue with is the women who own these dogs and treat them like an accessory to their outfit.(I have NEVER seen a man out shopping with his little dog and I have yet to see anyone pushing their Boxer or Golden Retriever dressed up in a shopping cart at Trader Joes.) I don't understand why they think it is okay to bring these dogs where it is totally inappropriate to have an animal. Aside from a service dog I can not find a single reason at all why you would take your dog to shop for clothes or groceries (or, for that matter, why you would want to.)

It is totally obnoxious and presumptuous to bring your dog into a clothing or grocery store and subject people who maybe don't want to be around dogs to be around dogs. And don't even try the "I feel the same about your loud and wild children in public" argument. No way. Not the same. At all. Unlike a child you can leave your dog unattended at home. You can even put them in a crate. My understanding is that DEFACS has some issues with crating children so that is not an option for parents like it is dog owners. Also, some people are highly allergic to dogs. People, while highly annoyed by children, are never allergic to them.

I am so tempted to dress up Lola and put bows in her hair and put her in a shopping cart and peruse the racks at TJMaxx. Wonder what would happen? Forget that it would be totally impossible for me to sneak my 60lb husky under my jacket and quietly squire her into a shopping cart as I imagine the little dog ladies do. I am fairly certain I wouldn't make it cross the store's thresh hold with Lola. Pretty sure if I show up with Lola at Trader Joes, or any store other than Pet Smart, we would be asked to leave the moment we entered. And I think if they wouldn't let me shop with my big dog then that would be discrimination if they are allowing customers with little dogs to shop with their dog. I mean, come on! What about the shopping rights of big dogs and their owners? Certainly, as a US citizen, nothing should annoy me more than discrimination!

And I guess maybe that is the crux of what annoys me about the cult of the little dog, or rather their female owners. These women, in toting their little dogs everywhere with them, suggests to me that they believe they are above the rules. That smacks of self proclaimed elitism and elitism-- especially unearned and assumed-- is always distasteful to me: always, annoying.

Feel free to list your pet peeve.

Some stuff that I've been liking . . .

I am taking the day off--from running and exercise. I did actually do some work today (Carrie 4th quarter stuff coming your way!) and did some laundry, cleaning and other totally uninteresting and non self-rewarding activities. This is my planned cut back week but I have some tendonitis (hopefully nothing serious) and am going the way of less is more; but this is way less than I even planned. Plus, I just feel kind of crappy today. My goal for the year is to run healthy so a day off it is.

I am, however, trying to be a consistent blogger so I am going to post even though I ain't got much to say.

But you know me.

I can always figure out something to say (past few months notwithstanding) . . .

I thought I would list some of the random stuff I have been using lately and really like. This is probably more girl directed but you never know, might be something here for the boys-- or at least maybe some gift ideas for the most awesome women in your lives.

I mentioned in my Poodle Revisited post that I had a MRSA infection under my eye. This happened because I scratched the skin on my under eye (right along the socket, just above the cheekbone). Tiniest scratch ever. This was at the end of October when I was nursing that ITBS and was at the gym a lot. My doctor thinks I probably picked up the infection there. So what started out as a tiny scratch turned into a very scary infection that the doctor was afraid that if I had I waited any longer to treat it I would have been in danger of losing my eye. The whole left side of my face was so swollen it obstructed my vision and I had a fever. Despite this I still argued with him when he tried to prescribe me Levaquin . I just couldn't risk tendon rupture after all my ITBS woes. He agreed to give me Omnicef for 2 weeks so long as I came in every few days so he could check my eye. Luckily the Omnicef worked. But man what a pain in the ass to go to the doctor that much.

While the infection completely cleared up it unfortunately left an ugly, raised, red and bumpy mark. My friend Chris (Oh no! The pressure to update your blog!) advised me on using some eye cream (I was all what is this eye cream stuff you speak of?) but ultimately all the eye cream I tried made my eyes really puffy and didn't help the scar. I was afraid to try Mederma so close to my eye--especially since the skin is so thin there. I also hate spending lots of money on face products that I don't know if they will work and will probably give me an allergic reaction.

See, here is me and Chris at The Cult (awesome concert by the way) about a week after my eye infection healed. Right eye, red mark. I deleted all the pictures where it looked really scary.

On a whim I decided to try a moisturizer instead. I know it probably sounds crazy but I have never used moisturizer. At least not regularly. Crazy, because a woman my age should probably have found "her moisturizer" 20 years ago. But no. Not me. See, ever since I became an adult I have been plagued by adult acne (oh, the irony). The older I get the worse it seems to get (wrinkles and zits! Awesome!) So the idea of adding to the oil factory on my face wasn't something I thought wise. But let me tell you I've been using Aveeno Positively Radiant Daily Moisturizer for almost 2 months now and my skin looks better than it has in, well, forever. And, best of all, I have not had to use any other acne products (and believe me, I've tried them all except Acutane) and have had no significant breakouts either. It's crazy. Ryan also loves this stuff too. Best of all the mark under my eye from the infection has gotten so much better. I can hardly see it. There is still a mark but it isn't raised or bumpy or as dark. For less than $16 this stuff is totally worth a try. I use it twice a day.

Next up is Phubby. This is a wrist "cubby". Carmella gave this to me. Totally her find. She picked it up at a gift shop in Callaway Gardens. She and Beau went for the weekend last spring with Bubbles and Poppy and she wanted to get me a present since I always bring her gifts when I go on vacation without her. How sweet is she?

Anyway, I have used this to death. It is awesome to carry Gu's, phone, lip stick, ID, money etc. I can stuff a lot of stuff in there! It has totally opened up my running wardrobe since I am no longer pocket dependent. However, a word of advice, you might want to put your cell phone in a ziplock. On a long trail run this summer-- when it was like 95 degrees-- I sweated so much I shorted out my cell phone that was in the phubby. That may have been a fluke thing since I always forget to bag my phone and I haven't had any issues with sweat or even rain. But just saying I don't think it is water proof.

Next is the second best Christmas gift I received this year.

Oh, what was first?

Why, my Frye Belted Harness boots of course!(I have a boot fetish.) My other boots are sad cause they aren't getting any play time.
But my 2nd favorite is just as great and is a hit at parties. My most thoughtful sister-in-law and brother-in-law gave Ryan and I our own personal breathalyzer for Christmas. My other brother-in-law (Wes) currently holds the high record of .26. The record, which I am sure won't hold, was set at the Band of Horses concert on Dec 30th. Which I should say the best part of that concert was for final encore they sang We are the World with a bunch of other local musicians (I think I saw the guy from the Whigs up there) and it was totally lost on the young hipsters that dominated the crowd.
I found this video from the following night:


My final current love of late is the Ulta make up kit Bubbles gave me for Christmas. I am pretty boring when it comes to make up: always with the nudes and the neutrals. But this kit is awesome! It has so many colors and they go on really nice--not flakey. My only complaint is that it doesn't have a mascara and that I can't take the lip gloss with me. But a really great kit if you want to experiment with different colors and not for a bad price either since it is just under $20.

No list of likes would be complete without at least one dislike.

Okay. So this is a pretty unusual thing. I had never even heard about it-- never mind seen one in person until New Year's Eve when I was out for my final run of 2009.
Have you seen one before?

Know what it is?

No?

Well, it is a runner's trap.


Horrible, horrible contraption.

I know, I KNOW, it looks totally innocuous. All simple in it's circular design. Don't be fooled. It may look like a metal ring but make no mistake. This trap can cause some serious damage. At all costs you must avoid the runner's trap and under no circumstances try to step through the circle. If you attempt this your front toe may lift part of the ring and it will effectively (and swiftly) lasso your ankles and bring you down. Hard. One second you are enjoying, wait, celebrating your final miles of 2009 and the next second your chin is within a mila inch of the concrete and your entire body weight is supported by your right knee and thigh and wrists. Oh believe me, you get up fast. It is a crowded intersection. And you try to act all cool and not freak out about the blood streaming down your legs, possible broken wrist and jog tuck tailed home. Oh yeah, you are going to be feeling that tomorrow and for weeks after wards. But don't worry, by some time mid month the bruises and scabs on your hands, knee and wrist will almost all be totally gone.

Good, f-ing riddance 2009.

Number One Reason NOT to Drink the Coffee at My Parent's House

Warning:
Possible offensive or at the very least crude content that might leave some scarred for life (especially if you have actually drank coffee at my parent's house.)


A week and half ago Atlanta got hit with a "snow storm". The quote marks are for the readers who live in areas where they actually have snow storms with snow. (I wouldn't want to offend anyone having just started back blogging and all.) But those who have not ever experienced a southern snow you need to know that in Atlanta any amount of snow, no matter how little, is reason for the world to shut down and for people to forget all driving skills. This year, though the snow accumulation was laughable, there really was ice on the roads and it made for some pretty scary driving over in my parts.

Exhibit A: Carmella and Beau playing the street across from my house. Complete sheet of ice.

As the member of a family where it is genetically ingrained that you must attempt to drive in all adverse conditions no matter how ill advised I drove over to my Mom's to pick her up so we could run at the Leita Thompson trail. The Leita trail is about 2 miles from her house and 7 miles from my house. I had contemplated running to the Leita but it did seem a little crazy to run 14 miles (round trip) just so I could run a few loops on the soft, groomed, snow covered Leita trails (longest loop is 2.5 miles and the max I can stand to run that loop is 4 times, usually I'm just good for 2 though). Plus, as I discovered the next day when I did run from my house that the sidewalks were very treacherous. So driving actually proved a better choice. I know many people chose to take the "snow" day off from workouts or opted to go to the gym as the temps were in the single digits but we so rarely get "snow" that I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to run in it. Who knows when Frosty is gonna show again. Gotta run and have some fun before it all melts away, right?

Snow, for us Southerners is a precious novelty. I feel like I am in a fairy tale running through the snow. Silly, I know, but don't forget: I've lived here my whole life and have been logging 50+ miles a week on the same roads for over 4 years now. Snow is a free change of scenery.

Leita trail about a mile in (clockwise):

Me and Lola heading out:

Frozen pond at the midway point on the trail:

Mom and Lola:

Mom and I had a lovely run and on the way back to her house I asked her if she had any coffee. I was out and didn't feel like stopping at the store. She only had whole beans. Oh, never mind I said, I don't have a grinder. . .

Oh, she said, I have a back up coffee maker with a grinder. You can have it. (Score!)

I know you are thinking, "back up coffee maker"? Okay, so there are 4 important things to know here about my parents:

1. They are very serious about their coffee. Annoyingly serious. Growing up 2 things we were never out of were coffee and wine.

2. My dad LOVES to buy kitchen appliances and gadgets.

3. They actually have another "back up coffee maker".

4. Yes, this makes it damn near impossible to ever buy my parents gifts. Except wine. You can, apparently, never have too much wine.

Said "back up coffee maker" that I scored:

After a lesson from her how to make a great cup of coffee, I left Mom's happy from my run and with a bag of coffee beans, a new coffee maker, a waffle iron, some beer, some potatoes, and some ketchup. (Yeah, so I remembered there were a few other things I needed to get at the store.)

I tell you what.

The shopping at my parents is good! And cheap. (Hello free! Pleased to meet you!) However, it does require some patience; like how I am waiting for them to decide that they don't really want that big flat screen that they just bought or for mom to figure out already that the wardrobe in their room really isn't the right piece for them. . .

Ryan was really excited about our new coffee maker too; especially once he figured out he could program it. And while I love that I can wake up and have coffee hot, ready and waiting--the thing sounds like the space shuttle taking off in my kitchen and serves dually as an alarm clock. The not so good part about that is at 5:30 am when I don't need to get up until 6 am. Why 5:30 am? Because Ryan ambitiously thinks he is going to be ready and leaving the house before 6 am. But typically at 5:30 am I am in the process of smacking him for the 3rd time in 27 minutes to get up and turn off the f-ing snooze.

Ryan also has been a little frustrated by the coffee but for a different reason. He thinks the coffee is weak. Therefore, I am of the belief that he is just not adding enough beans but he isn't convinced. When he found out today that my mom was coming over because my sister was coming over to do my hair he told me to ask her again how to make a "great cup of coffee." But then he changed his mind and said, never mind, ask your sister. Then he when out to do boy stuff since there was going to be a bunch of women coloring their hair here.

I totally had forgotten the story until, in mid foil and in all seriousness, I asked my sister how to make a great cup of coffee. I was thinking Ryan had told me to ask her because she and Wes have a similar coffee maker (also a previous back up coffee maker's of my parents.) But when she busted out laughing and commented that she hadn't ever told the story to mom; I suddenly remembered.

And so now we have reached the part of my story where an alternate title for this post has occurred to me: Reason #4,602 Why Not to Live in Your Parents House After College.

Pookie was about 24, doing the moved-back-into-Mom-and-Dad's-house-what-am-I-going-to-do-after-college bit. Now, first you must understand that my parents do not by any means have a small house but even though it is a larger house you are able to hear everything going on in the kitchen no matter where you are in the house. You actually come to believe, if you are in another area of the house, that once people enter my parent's kitchen they begin screaming at each other to converse. It is that clear and that loud. Pookie's bedroom at the time was at the farthest upper most point from the kitchen and one morning, surely fresh in from a hard night of partying most clearly overheard this unfortunate exchange between my parents:

Mom: Beau! This coffee is amazing! What did you do to it?

Dad: I put my dick in it.