So today at the office we had this breakfast potluck thing. The word “potluck” directly translates to bring the most delicious foods you can possibly find but make sure they are high enough in fat and carbs and grease and sugar to kill a small herd of elephant, because no one will live through this anyway. And I go in thinking, with my bran muffins and fruit salad that I am awesome. I have this thing licked. I do not need fourteen breakfast burritos, because I have bran.

People are laying out their contributions in the form of coffee cakes and egg casserole things and doughnuts and bagels and low-fat cream cheese (hilarious, right?) and all I’m thinking is here I sit with my fruit and my bran and, heck, it is all good. I mean, there was even biscuits and gravy there, people, and I didn’t flinch. Fruit. Bran. Good. And regular!

Then, as people start saddling up to the counter like you might to a bar after a long day, oh, I don’t know, herding cattle or bringin’ in the nets, I see one last person come over and set down a 9×13 dish of bacon. BACON. Nine inches by thirteen inches of fried, crispy, stacked-on-top-of-itself-there-is-so-much-of-it bacon. Now, I know due to dislike (please), or religion, or allergies (as if), or diet (stop), or down right insanity some people don’t get excited about bacon. I am not those people. I have often said the entrance to my heaven has a bacon buffet right at the door. I like it that much.

That said, I do not eat a lot of bacon. Bacon, you see, is my potato chip: one is not an option. And today, the day before I go to chub club where they’ll tell me these last few pounds are going to be with me forever so we might as well just get married and live happily ever after, I have bacon. Which, of course, becomes a deep, meaningful experience for me and before I know it, burritos sound good. And cheese. Lots of cheese. And after this plateful, which was breakfast and lunch’s allotment of food all at once, I realize that bacon isn’t just evil because it’s so wonderful all in and of itself. It’s evil because it is the gateway food. One slice of bacon and, brother, you are conquering that buffet like some bad-ass pirate after booty. Except your booty is bacon.

Which brings me to what happened next: I left work an entire two hours early just to get away from food. And I took my bacon booty right to the gym. Where I would redeem myself. Yep.

So I’m running on the treadmill and I decide I need to get lots of mileage in to make up for my bacon weakness. So I’m running and I’m running and before I know it, five miles have passed. (Sidebar: Okay, so not really before I know it. Really, it was quite long and all I had to watch was politics on CNN, or Fox, or whatever every other television station because this is all we care about right now. That combined with the guy that kept clapping every time Hilary Clinton appeared on one of the screens about drove me insane. Insane and nearly right back to the bacon.) So I’m pretty happy with myself and I’m on the treadmill and think, okay let’s make this an even six so we can get to the weights. And, because I’m now my own personal hero in my bacon defiance, I up the treadmill speed.

Then (last paragraph, promise), something happens to the treadmill. The belt just speeds up, and makes this weird noise. People are looking, my legs are flying. Faster, faster, faster. I can’t keep up. What am I going to do? And what is that burning smell?! Before I know it, the belt is shredding under my feet. It’s there, flapping in the breeze of it’s own speed. I try to move and grab the handrails to pull myself off this death trap, and my foot gets caught up a little in the flapping belt. And I sort of trip, and half way into the trip I awkwardly grab one hand rail while the rest of my body flies backward. At this point I’m at least three-quarters airborne (read: not in control of a damn thing) and so I go flying, with one leg still perched on the shredded belt, into the mirrored wall behind me. The thud is so loud I believe people in Europe could hear it. I am not sure which made more noise, my body hitting the wall, or the sound I made when it did.

(I lied.) So by now the entire gym is around me and, just like in high school when I slipped on ice and knocked the wind out of myself and couldn’t breathe, the hottest possible man you could ever imagine (think all the good-looking men you know of combined in one person) walks over to me, puts one hand on my back and the other on my arm and asks me if I’m okay. The words that come out of my mouth are something like “huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Fine. Just my luck. Ha ha ha.” The words I’m thinking in my head? Damn bacon.

I have had enough. I packed up my down coat last night and put it in it’s cute little storage bag. It is not coming out again. Spring is one week away. Winter can kiss it. I am not tempting fate, I’m just telling winter how it’s gonna be.

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 Note:  I have changed the comment approval on this site.  You now need to have had a previously approved comment in order to comment again.  Otherwise, your comment will go through moderation.  Because I liked Spam as a kid, but I don’t now.

Well, I was supposed to guest blog over at Bre’s place today, but, alas, something is preventing me from doing that. For whatever reason, logging in is not possible. Which irritates me because I should be able to figure this out, and I can’t. I suppose it should be some consolation that others are having a similar issue, but it’s not. I hate when I can’t figure things out. And, moreover, when I have to ask for help or admit that I can’t do something. Hate it. Sorry Bre, I am a bad blogging sub.

And I was going to talk about handbags and everything! Just imagine what we’re all missing.

Speaking of not being able to figure things out on my own (hate that. Did I mention that already?), now might be a good time to talk about weight loss. Or, in particular, my weight loss. A week or so ago, I mentioned I’d get around to talking about this weight loss program that I tried– and, that surprisingly, has worked. So far. Anyway, I know this isn’t the first time I’ve talked about losing weight. In fact, over 2007 I lost a good amount on my own. Part of that was recovering from a knee injury and, in turn, becoming more active again. Another part of that was waking up and taking stock of what I really wanted my body to be, what I wanted it to be capable of. So I lost weight. And it was great and I was happy. But, like many, many, people, there is always that last bit you can never seem to lose. Whether your last bit is five, ten, fifteen or fifty, it’s every bit annoying as those first pounds, or even more so. I felt this, in a big way.

I didn’t really know exactly what my last bit was, I just knew I wanted to get rid of it. But every time I tried, I just couldn’t get over a certain bump in the road. I’d lose a few, then gain it back. Or lose a few and then nothing. And then probably gain it back. It’s like a merry-go-round that never really gets going.

So, about a month ago, I was talking to my friend Carrie. Carrie is amazing. Carrie is a clinical psychologist and an avid adventure racer. You take one look at Carrie and admiration is flowing out of every part of you. You look at Carrie and weight loss is the last thing that comes to mind. Carrie is stunning. So when she told me she joined Weight Watchers to lose the ten pounds she could never get rid of, my jaw hit the floor. If she needs to lose ten pounds, what the heck am I going to do? But you know, Carrie did it. And then, in her go-getter style, she convinced me I could, too. It wasn’t just Carrie, it seemed the good ol’ WW, the one I’ve admittedly made fun of in the past (because points? What the heck is that about?), was popping up all around me. Friends, coworkers, other bloggers, they were all giving it a try.

So I sucked it up and got over myself and registered. The first week, I lost four pounds, then a couple more, then a couple more. Now I’m near that “last bit” I thought I had and just beginning to realize that there’s probably a little more to go than I thought. “Fat hides on runners,” Carrie said. While I don’t know that this is true for all runners, I can’t deny that I’m pleasantly surprised with how this is going. Even though I ate every last bit of my frozen yogurt over the weekend, I’m still sticking with it. It seems worth it, even though I’m paying money. Even though I had to ask for help. I felt like I wouldn’t be doing it “on my own” but, you know, I am. That feels like enough.

And what feels even better, what gives me that last bit of motivation I need on a dead-tired Monday night, is that it’s easier to run without those pounds, too. Maybe I’ll schedule that marathon yet.

Where’s Waldo?

Have you seen this?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rt3NfymWlss

As someone who just watched all three Bournes a few weeks ago, I can’t help but love it.

Unless you count the relay, I have not really been the inspired runner lately. I know for regular visitors to this site this comes as a huge surprise being as I’ve only complained about running and the cold since late November. Okay, and possibly before that, too. For someone that claims to love running so much, I am far from the sport’s poster child right now. The thing I can’t help doing when I feel like this, which is probably every six out of seven runs lately, is look for inspiration. It’s got to be somewhere, right? I mean, there are people out there running all over the place and loving it. Why not me, too? I just have to find it, that nudge to keep going. And to like it.

All this hatin’ on running does motivate me in another way, though. Since the only thing I’ve become really good at lately is avoiding homework (don’t worry, Mom, I am still doing it), I’m finding other things to occupy my time. Last month, the good folks over at VOICE, asked me if they could send me a book called The Monsters of Templeton. I agreed, and waited for the book to arrive. And waited. And then waited more. (Mom, this is the time in which I did my homework.)

Finally, after several weeks of, I’m sure, touring the guts of the U.S. Postal Service, the book arrived. I was through the first few chapters in a day. The author, Lauren Groff, does a stunning job of constructing a would-be complicated story into defined, relatable characters that cross time and generations. Reading about this town, Templeton, and it’s people brings you home into your town, your people. Generally a little daunted by mysteries, I found Groff’s way of weaving in and out of the mysteries of Templeton to be just enough. I can’t help but summarize my opinion of the book by saying it does the things a good novel ought to: It will both take you away, and make you feel a little, too.

And, as an added bonus for me, there are a group of runners that have a strong presence in The Monsters of Templeton. Groff introduces these runners, The Running Buds, with the following:

“We run; we like to run; we have run together for twenty-nine years now; we will run until we can run no more. Until our hips click and shatter apart, until our lugs revolt and bleed. Until we pass from middle age into old age, as we once passed from youth into middle age. . . We run in the morning, when the beauty of our town gives us pause. When it is ours and ours alone. . .”

And there might be some of that inspiration I was looking for, right where I wasn’t looking.

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The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff is available in stores and online now.

Thank you to EveryWomansVoice.com for inviting me to review, once again.

In talking about the election:

- Choices are no longer simple in this country. If you feel like there’s a lot of weighing of options, it’s because there is. We have to think carefully. Pay attention to the entire picture, not just one candidate.

- There are no celebrities in Congress or the House, remember that.

In talking about my food choices:

- So you had ice cream for dinner. There are worse things. Tomorrow you will have salad. (And I did.)

In talking about the state of my house:

- When school is finished, you will not remember the dirty toilet.

I cannot believe how long it’s taking me to feel “normal” again after that relay. I mean, so what if I sat on a plane for two hours, slept in a strange bed, rode in a van for around 30 hours, ran three times in that 30 hours, slept in that same van, slept in a sleeping bag on the ground and on a gymnasium floor, then hiked for three hours the following day, and then got back on a plane for two hours. So what. That should not bother me. I should not feel like I’m 100 years old. I should be recovered by now.

But I’m not, and it doesn’t seem like that long ago when all of that would not have bothered me. Now I have to see a chiropractor and massage therapist just to feel good again.

It was all worth it, though. All the pain and the sweat and the recovery was worth the wonderful time spent with great people. People I want to tell you a little about.

Number one, The Engineer. You know the person that always has a plan? That’s her. You know the person that has every document you need in a binder, color collated, bound and waterproof? That’s her. You know the person that knows everything that’s going to happen, everything that you’re going to do before you know? That’s her. And for a relay, or really anything in life, this is the kind of person you want around. Well, that and the fact that she’s hilarious and though is shocked at the choice words you just used at the end of your all-up-hill run, six hours later you’ll hear those same words come out of her mouth. After she runs over a skunk in the middle of the night, and wakes the entire van with a scream followed by a stench that wouldn’t leave us for the rest of the trip.

Number Two, The One That Almost Got Away. From the team, that is. Apparently, he almost backed out at the last minute but then didn’t, because someone else did. Apparently, he was worried this would interfere with Ironman training (it probably did). Apparently, he did it anyway, and at a pace 1:30 – 2:00 faster than he said he would. Apparently that’s how you do it. And when you see glowing eyes in the bushes on your night leg, apparently you just speed up.

Number Three, The Joiner. This was our sub. This was our last-minute, we-don’t-have-a-clue-who-you-are-but-we-need-a-body person. This was the guy that showed up to our pre-race dinner in a buttoned up shirt and a Blackberry. This was the guy that would set the precedent for trouble you could get into in thirty hours. See: Disconnecting a street lamp to give us a nice, dark break. See: Asking a mounted police officer if he’s seen the WHoR (Women High on Running) van. See: Approaching a group of men on the side of the road inquiring about their low-rider, and where he could get one. All this from a four-time Ironman finisher, CEO, father of four.

Number Four, The Videographer. If you see any footage of me cursing a desert hill on the internet, thank him. If you see a YouTube clip of me attempting a cartwheel on the side of a highway with a semi approaching, thank him. If you see anything that looks a little like a running relay but more like six grown adults losing their minds, thank him. And also thank him for running 7:00 miles on an injury.

Number Five, The European. Not because he’s really European, but when you have a teammate running around in a black bandana, gas station sunglasses, no shirt and knee-high black socks, you have to tell people something. When you have a teammate approaching workers on the side of the road and asking them, in Spanish, how much they would charge to run the rest of our legs for us, you have to tell people something. When you have a teammate running barefoot in the Arizona heat, bringing other runners beer, you have to tell them something.

And then there was me. I’m not sure what I could have been called. I went out and ran exactly how I said I would. I was not faster or better or funnier or more outstanding than I said I’d be. I was just glad to be a part of it, and to be with my friends. Though I’m still in pain, and though my body reminds me I’m getting too old to sleep on the ground, I’m ignoring it. Because we all have a role to play. We all have a space to fill and place to do it. And the fun will always over shadow the pain and recovery. Those will go by the wayside, fade into time with only the good remaining in memories.

Except for that skunk—I don’t think anyone will ever forget about that skunk.