I realize that by just concentrating on the [expletive!] water bugs in my last post that it may seem to some that I didn’t really have anything else to say about the trip, and that I didn’t really appreciate being able to go. Neither of those is true. In fact, I can hardly explain here or anywhere just how fortunate I feel—both this time and every time— when I get to return from a trip to my favorite place and tell stories about it.  I know every day that I’m lucky.

With each trip, it does become a little to easy for me to just expect to love it, to expect it to feel the way it does. I expect to spend time with friends, to meet new friends, to have a great time and remember, with each and every visit, just what it is I value in my life.

And this:

Ooof, I just looked at this post. It’s really long.  Here’s the thumbnail version:  I stayed in a cabin on the beach. There happened to be cockroaches in the cabin. I did not like it AT ALL, but in the end, I forgive the beach. Oh yes, I forgive the beach.

Here I am, on a Wednesday, as usual, ready to sit down and write about my latest life revelation… kidding. Yes, I have had several, and the only people more tired of that than me is probably you.  So! Instead! I also just remembered that this time about ten days ago, I was on my seventeen billionth drink of the day, right in front of my mother, because I had slept outside on the beach all night in intermittent rain. And got eaten by mosquitoes and, I’m certain, no less than 400 other kinds of sand-dwelling bugs throughout the night.

So let me back up. A couple weeks ago, my mother and I took a trip to the Virgin Islands. It’s no secret around here that I have a slight addiction and it’s sort of my Life List to get everyone I know and love down there with me at some point in my life, both individually and as one huge-ass group. But, in all the times I’ve visited over the years, my mother has never been along for the ride. The furthest into the Caribbean we’ve gone together was the Bahamas, and that happened to be during spring break (I was already past the “spring break! wooo!” age)  and I was pretty sure at that point my mother thought every beach bar was only about getting drunk and seeing who could dance on the bar first.  (Okay, so she isn’t too far off on that one.)

Nonetheless, we finally got to take our trip a couple weeks ago, and as part of my wanting to try to pack multiple experiences into eight days, I asked her if she’d be up for staying in a beach cabin for a night or two. She was.  I went to every length I could to tell her how this “cabin” would be: real beds, refrigerator, electricity, no A/C, screens, slight breeze, steps from the beach, etc.  Very basic, but livable, especially for just a couple days.  She, surprisingly, was up for it.

We arrived on the island at about noon, dropped our things in our beach cabin, and went out to explore (read: immediately find all of my favorite bartenders and friends).  We then came back to the cabin, showered, changed, and went to the barbecue at the beach bar just steps from where our cabin was.  It’s a heck of a set up, right?  There is never a moment wherein I forget just how blessed I am to experience these things.  And while we’re at it, if you’ve never attended a traditional Caribbean beach bar-type barbecue, get that on your Life List as soon as possible. Unless you hate amazing food. And people. And laughter. And music. And pretty much all good things in this world. Do it, immediately.

After we were stuffed full with fish, ribs, chicken, and seven million traditional side dishes, we slowly shuffled our way back to our cabin, still hearing the music of the barbecue along with the soft waves on the beach in the background. It couldn’t have been more perfect sleeping conditions, and with just 3 hours of sleep the night before, I could not wait to sleep. I unlock the cabin door, step inside, flip on the light, walk about two steps to put my bottled water in the fridge, look down at one of the beds, and see the biggest @#$%! cockroach I have ever seen in my life.  Okay, deep breath. Don’t make mom panic.  “Um, what is that?” I ask, hoping I am hallucinating.

I can handle a lot of things, I KNOW bugs and critters come with the territory in the tropics. It’s a fact of life. Geckos, mosquitoes, sand fleas, and yes, even cockroaches happen. That’s how it is.  But, Lord help me, I cannot bear the thought of sleeping among cockroaches. So I breathe deeper.

“It’s definitely a cockroach,” my mom says, and so I freak out a little, try to kill it, of course miss and don’t kill it at all, and now it’s under the bed.  Okay, well it can run away. It will go out. There’s just one.

Except, no.

There’s not just one. I go over to my bag, to pull out my clothes, and there’s more.  THERE’S LIKE FIVE MORE.  And if I were the kind of person that used expletives on her blog, this is where you’d see a lot of EXPLETIVES ON THIS BLOG.  I couldn’t take it, people.  And although she was much more calm than me, my mother couldn’t take it either.  Then, I remembered!  This wasn’t my first time in a beach cabin, and I knew just what to do!  Several years ago I stayed in a beach cabin with friends while on a trip to Hawaii. Hawaii, also the tropics, also no stranger to the cockroach. And, yes, they were in the cabin.  Our solution? Sleep with the lights on. Cockroaches scatter when exposed to light. They do not like it. And in Hawaii, that solution worked.

So then that was going to be our solution here, too. We would just keep the light on.  Okay, fine. So we clean out every last corner of our bags, shake out every piece of clothing, reseal it all, and get ready for bed.  Just as we think we’ll maybe get some sleep tonight, THE [EXPLETIVE] POWER GOES OUT. ON THE WHOLE [EXPLETIVE] ISLAND.

Seriously? Yes, seriously.

By some miracle of intelligence, I had brought flashlights on this little adventure, so I got them out immediately, in the dark, feeling like things were crawling on me the entire time, and there my mom and I sat, staring at each other, sitting on the ends of our beds, flashlights in hand, wondering what we were going to do next.  By this time, the music has ended. People are stumbling to their beds, and on and island of only a few hundred people, and at past 10:00 p.m., we were out of luck.  There was going to be no one to help us figure out what do to. We had to be our own heroes. And so we sat.

I knew, because of past experiences with power outages on this island, that not only was this the usual, but the idea of the power coming back on that night was a pipe dream. Yes, there are some generators, but not here and certainly not on order at 10:00 p.m. for two women who are gagging themselves over the sight of some measly bugs.  And yes, I know some people would have just gotten over it, but I couldn’t, we couldn’t. I knew just how many cockroaches I’d seen, and that thought wasn’t going to leave my mind that night, or ever.

Finally my mom looks at me, stands up, and says “Get your sheet and pillow, we’re going to the beach.” The thought had crossed my mind, sure. My first instinct was to get the heck out of there. But I knew what waited in the sand, too. All those other creatures I’d mentioned, the sand fleas, the MOSQUITOES, they were all out there waiting, too.  But, what choice did we have?  I couldn’t stay up through another night, and I’d sooner die than sleep in pool of cockroaches, and so we sprayed ourselves down in bug spray, wrapped ourselves in our sheets like burritos, and tried to sleep on two chaise lounge chairs just a few feet from the ocean.

It sounds kind of nice, right? Kind of fun, adventurous even, right? And I guess it was. I mean, there were some light intermittent rain storms, and yes, there were bugs, and that beach was desserted as I often find myself wishing every beach were.  The only light were two or three mast lights reflecting in the bay, and the bright, bright moon when a rain cloud wasn’t blocking it. It was nice. But it was also pretty rough, and unplanned, and would have been a lot better had I had a really strong drink before heading out there.

We made it through the night though, and as usual, I ended up with all the mosquito bites and again only about 3 hours of sleep.  A little later in the morning, we walked down the beach, and my favorite beach bartender and friend put his arm around me and said “You look like you had a rough night.” I looked up at him and said “cockroaches” which is how just ten days ago at this time, I was on my seventeen billionth drink of the day, right in front of my mother, because I’d slept outside on the beach all night in intermittent rain.

We moved into a real room, sans bugs, the following night.  I do not blame the island, nor the cabin owners, nor the people that have stayed there cockroach-free in the past. I only blame myself, my wimpy, wimpy self.

The End.  THE [EXPELTIVE] END.

I know Christmas and holiday times bring out a lot of optimism and wonderment in people (except when you’re at the mall. So help you if you are at the mall), but I tend to be like that a lot of the time. It is kind of how I’ve lived so far, thinking “what if?” and then, more often than not, actually seeing things fall into place. I’m doing a lot of that today, because I just cannot see any other way. If the whole world doesn’t know by now, not to say that the whole world cares, I’ve been out of a regular gig (JOB) for over six weeks now.

Although this was all my choice, it’s not without it’s moments of panic. Planning and reassurance aside, sometimes it’s all I can do to keep myself from FREAKING OUT. I mean the kind of freaking out only reserved for emergencies, but in my mind, there’s a really thin line between EMERGENCY and CALM DOWN, STUPID, it’s all going to work out. I live on that line a lot.

But I think I also picked the best time of year to live on that line, because everyone around me is a little more optimistic and reassured, too. Even if I am in a panic and flailing around in the streets come January 2nd, right now I’m okay.

In my world, it’s Christmas! No need to panic, for there are cookies and snowmen and lights!

(The above three photos taken at the Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas earlier this month. The majority of the display is created from flowers and live plants. It is phenomenal, if you ask me.)

And there are also baked goods galore around here, as I’m sure there are where ever you are, too. My plan: eat them all. Yes, I know. But in all practicality there is a chance I will have to live outdoors soon and I’m thinking I’m going to need the extra layers of warmth. And, man, Key Lime Cookies can provide that layer, let me assure you!

Alright, truth be told, I really don’t think I’m going to be living on the street. That is the optimistic part of me, the part of me that knows it’s going to work out. And by “it” I mean a lot of things. Number one being my immediate future. In spite of how crazy it sounds.

In the mean time, I cannot help but party a little.

There’s nothing like a pile of dirty dishes and a tub full of empty wine bottles to make you feel like it’s all going to work out, right?

So that’s why I can easily think of a What If list. In spite of it sounding stupid and crazy and being within moments of a freak out, I still feel so close to that What If that I can almost touch it.

I hope your holiday, whatever it may be, is full of optimism and dirty dishes. And maybe some cookies and wine.

(sorry for the tiny photos)

That’s just how life feels today, like a waterfall.

NOTE: This post was meant for Tuesday, November 10. Apparently it did not post yesterday, which means I’m not a good NaBloPoMo’er. But I did have a kick-ass going away party, so I will participate in that instead. I shall call it: NaBloPartyMo. Because that party was so great that it’s good for a month. At least. The End.

*Note: The pictures in this post have disappeared. It’s probably going to be a lot more boring without them– I’m working on figuring it out. Sorry!

When I woke up Saturday morning, I almost immediately found myself wishing for a torrential downpour. Or even better, lightning. Thunder. Tornado warnings. Snow!  Anything to give me a legitimate excuse to not start the race. I felt very good, my legs felt fine, no stomach issues, all was well. But in my mind, I still somehow wanted out of it. I had cold feet, to say the least.

But, lo, it was a perfect morning. It was warm, still, quiet. I got out of bed, dressed in my running clothes/mountain gear (which means I brought gloves in addition to the rest of my summer running clothes), checked and double checked my lists, ate breakfast, and headed out.

I arrived early, which gave me a good place to park and I just sat in my car for a while, listening to the radio and watching the sun come up over the mountains. By the time it was time to get out of the car, I actually felt ready. I got everything together, made a porta-potty stop, checked my sweat check bag, and met up with some girlfriends. I was ready to get started. Ansty, you might say.

The second wave began at 7:30, so the sun was already warm, and by the first mile, it was hot. By the time the race course reaches the actual trail, runners are somewhat spread out better. This is a good thing as once you reach the first couple miles of switchbacks, the trail is all single track and it becomes very difficult to pass.  At one point I found myself trailing a little old man who just kept shouting “ON YOUR LEFT!” I just sneaked past right along with him, hoping everyone would think oh, look at that nice girl racing with her grandfather when the reality was, this guy was going to beat me so I might as well take advantage of him for a while.

About three miles in I knew something wasn’t right. Last weekend I did the first 6.5 miles of the course and felt fine. Great, in fact. It gave me confidence for the race. I was going to be okay.  But not Saturday, no, not at all. Instead, Saturday, my legs felt heavy and weak. I felt fatigued long before I’d expected. I was keeping a good pace, paying attention to my breathing, doing everything “right.”  Yet, it didn’t matter. My legs felt like lead.

After about mile four, I just concentrated on making the cutoff times. I had to be more than half way through the race (6 miles from the finish) at 3:00 hours. I made it at 2:35 with a few breaks in between. I was feeling okay. The next cutoff was just over 10 miles in (3 miles from the top), which had to be reached by no later than 4:15.  I made it at 4:00.

Between those two points, my already heavy legs started to cramp.  First, it was in my calves.  Then, my feet. A mile later, I cramped in my hips and my shins. If I stopped for a minute, they went away. If I moved too slow, I cramped like crazy. If I moved too fast my legs would fatigue and start to tremble.  Something was wrong.

Just after I passed the last cut off point, with three miles to go, I stopped on the side of the trail.  A woman passed me and softly wispered “if you have Gu, take a Gu.” (Sidebar: For those that don’t know, Gu is an energy gel commonly used in endurance sports. I use it a lot, because the thought of chewing food when my heartrate is over 160 is something I cannot stomach.)  Had I not actually seen that woman, I would have thought the trees or the wind were sending me a message.

I had been paying close attention to fuel and hydration up until that point. I thought as long as I was going so slow, I might as well try to do everything else right.  But for whatever reason, I listened to that woman, and I took another Gu. About ten minutes later, it must have kicked in. I felt much better. I was still cramping, though plenty hydrated, but I felt less fatigued. That lasted about a mile, which, in my case, was nearly 45 minutes.

The last three miles of this race took me two hours. It is a fact that the last three miles of this race are the hardest, but two hours is extensive.  The last time I did this race those last three miles took me just over an hour. But this time, it was much, much harder. I knew I wasn’t trained like I was last time, so I tried not to compare, but slogging up those hills, I couldn’t help but feel like I was on a death march.

Briefly, I stopped to take a few pictures:

x

A gentleman passed me as I was taking them and remarked about the beautiful weather we’d had.  It’s true, we’d gotten very lucky. Aside from a very brief dark cloud and hail storm, the skies were clear and sunny. Being that the weather can change at 14,000′ by the second, I couldn’t help but take in the view.

x

I thought as long as I was going so slow, I might as well remember it with some pictures. And, for what it’s worth, the AT&T signal was crystal clear. At that moment I felt like I could fall over and die and no one would notice* but, go figure, I could have called 9-1-1.

x

Less than a mile from the top, there’s a section of the trail called The Sixteen Golden Stairs. Essentially there are rocks and boulders stacked, somewhat naturally, in the form of stairs. I’ve never counted, but from what I hear the ’sixteen’ actually references the number of switchbacks that contain these “stairs.” Otherwise, I think it’d be more like The Nine Billion Golden Stairs. And in my head at that point, because I’d stopped thinking clearly long before then, I was renaming them The Rocks That Made My Legs Fall Off. Creative, I know, but 14,000′ WILL STEAL YOUR BRAIN.

Perhaps one of the cruelest things about this race is that from about mile 6 and beyond, you can hear everything going on at the top of the mountain. You can hear cheering, you can hear finishers being announced, and the closer you get, the more encouraging it is. Except that you never actually get there.

Once I realized I wasn’t going to come in under 5:00 I thought about maybe just trying to come in under 6:00. I watched the time, but not closely. I stopped and talked to other runners when I wanted to. I helped an older gentleman with a cramp. I let a Search and Rescue guy massage my calf (perhaps the only part of those last three miles that did not suck). I was just doing what I could.

Once you’ve made the last cutoff (with 3 miles to go) you are not off the hook.  You still have to reach the summit and cross the finish line by 6:30.  No, they won’t turn you down the mountain but if you’re not there, you’ll DNF. I hadn’t been through all that, hadn’t watched my own legs twitch and seize up as if they weren’t attached to my body to DNF, so I did what I could. At some point I looked up just as my picture was being taken and the photographer says “three minutes from the top.” My watch said 5:58.  I had been on that damn mountain for almost six hours and all I could think of was that next three minutes.

And  he was right. I crossed the finish line with an official time of 6:01 and change. Holy crap. All I could think was holy crap.

After getting my medal, I turned around and watched a couple other people finish. I didn’t know them, of course, but there’s something special about that bond that goes on at the back of the pack, as you leap frog one another for a couple hours, pat each other on the back, and stop to make sure everyone is relatively okay. Never having laid eyes on them before, it now becomes imperative to insure their well-being.

After a few hugs and tears, I collected my sweat check bag, my finishers jacket, and went inside the summit house and met up with some friends. Some old, some new. I had a Coke, which I’ll only ever drink after a race, and some fries. So help me, that was the best Coke and fries to ever grace this planet.

I have a lot more I could add here— as you can imagine, six hours makes for a lot of stories— but I’ll save it for now. In the end, I did it. And I suppose that’s all I’d really hoped for all along.

*In reality, no one could fall over and die up there without notice. The volunteers in this race are nothing short of amazing, and at that point it’s mostly El Paso County Search and Rescue looking out for everyone’s well-being. They watch from points all over the trail, through binoculars, communicating by radio, just to make sure everyone is alright. It is a great feeling, when you’re out there having a really rough day, to know someone’s looking out for you.

]]> http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/2009/08/17/my-2009-pikes-peak-tale-six-hours-of-me-wondering-what-the-hell-i-was-doing/feed/ 10 http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/2009/08/06/i-hit-no-one-in-the-head-accidentally-or-on-purpose/ http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/2009/08/06/i-hit-no-one-in-the-head-accidentally-or-on-purpose/#comments Fri, 07 Aug 2009 03:19:44 +0000 LesleyG http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/?p=1378

I cannot lie, traveling with children was every bit as challenging as I thought it would be.  Or more so. It has taken me three days, and several pots of coffee just to feel like I’ve caught up with life, muchless recovered. But it wasn’t tiring in the ways I thought it would be, which is to say I wasn’t frazzled or harried, irritated or stressed.

I was transported.

I know, I know. It sounds cheesy and ridiculous and you may even not believe me.  Because, more than likely, you’ve traveled with children and, therefore, you know the real truth. But I’m telling you, it was wonderful and it was real.

Already a week ago today, I picked up my cousins on their door step and brought them to my house for the night to prepare for an early flight. I barely slept that night, afraid of not waking up on time and missing our 6:00 a.m. flight. And beyond that, I was nervous for things to go well.  Not go well in the sense of on-time flights, nervous in the sense that I was just certain at some point in the four days someone was going to a) throw up, b) miss their mommy, c) get lost, d) throw up, or e) throw up. From the moment I woke them up at 4:00 in the morning, telling them it was time to go to the airport, they were wired.

They were wired the entire time, really. Mostly because they are so young. I expected that.  What I hadn’t quite comprehended is how wired you must be, at any age, when you are flying on a plane for the first time. When you’re in a rental car for the first time. When you’re in a hotel for the first time. When you see the beach FOR THE FIRST TIME. I expected excitement, interest, enthusiasm even.  What I didn’t expect was the sheer fascination, and the way it would completely grab me right along with them.

That was the tiring part, the part where I’d experienced everything before, and yet was getting to experience it for the first time. Sure, there were times when I had to remind them to use inside voices, but I also had to remind myself that those voices, those reactions, were raw and genuine. And once I got used to it, it was all I could do to not join in with them. Saturday we spent the entire day at the beach, and although everyone knows I’m gratefully no stranger to that, it was brand new at the same time. I had honestly forgotten how incredible the waves are, the stinging taste of saltwater, as they just keep rolling in and out again and again.

For that, I owe my cousins. I am so thankful for this experience, for them teaching me the value in the strange, the frightening, and the new. For reminding me of the lure of adventure and that sometimes, it is perfectly okay to scream out loud when you’re happy.

For them, I pledge to not forget that. I will not forget to be amazed. I will take in my environment. I will find amusement in subtle things. I will be fascinated by seaweed and riding in the front seat. I will complain when it’s time to go to bed, rather than wish I were already in it. I will eat ice cream. I will remember what it feels like to have someone adore me for exactly who I am and assure me that I, in fact, am very cool.

.

Whenever I’m traveling, I look around at people traveling with children and think… well, I don’t really think, actually. I just shrink away and hide. It stresses me out to think about it. While not having any children of my own, I have lived enough of life to know that even leaving the house with children can be a production. They need things. And stuff. And lots of it. So when people attempt to leave the city, or the state, or the country with kids, I don’t understand it. How do they manage? How do they remember everything? How do they plan? HOW DO THEY MAINTAIN THEIR SANITY? It scares me.

In spite of all this, however, tomorrow I’m going to face one of my fears and leave, out of the city, out of state, on a plane, on my own, with two children. As I type this now, I can feel my nerves standing on end. Instead of being the innocent bystander, watching the either well-oiled or chaotic machine that is a traveling family, I will be that. I will be the woman with not enough hands, dropping things, hitting you in the head with a backpack as I walk down the aisle, all the while not using my inside voice, no doubt.

These kids though, these boys, they are so worth it. I’ve written about them a few times before, and most recently when they tried to school me on the basketball court. No matter how fast they get older (and, my gosh, it is fast) and how smart they think they are, I adore them. They are so much fun. So when the opportunity came along that I could do something for them—something really great—I took it.

Aside from a little freaking out about the traveling and the keeping track of children, and not being able to just fall asleep on a random airport chair like I do when I’m traveling alone, I cannot wait. We’re headed to the West coast, wherein we’ll schlep too much stuff around, pose for photos like tourists, pay too much for bad food, and exhaust ourselves. It should be nothing short of magical.

So if you see a woman, traveling with two kids that don’t look like her, and she’s a little stressed, and looks like she’s perhaps wearing a baseball cap for the third day in a row, and she accidentally hits you in the head with a backpack, be kind to her, to them.  They are embarking on a lot of First Times. Like seeing the ocean. Like flying on a plane. Like trying to not lose someone else’s child in an international airport.