I didn’t really know who I was, physically, in college. I mean, I didn’t really know who I was for the most part in college, but as an exerciser (person who exercises?), I knew even less. I knew I liked it, but that’s about it. While not sedentary, I wasn’t a super star athlete in high school, and mostly I just really liked doing something. I liked moving. I also had no motivation from my body as, you know, I didn’t eat to remain or not remain a certain way. I didn’t think about it in the same way. (Don’t worry, I still found plenty of time to say mean things to myself about my body, things it would take me years to overcome, I just didn’t so much connect that to Big Macs, is what I’m saying.)

I did physical exercise for fun. And that kind of continued in college, in a less organized way. I went to lots of aerobics classes (shut up, step aerobics was huge in ‘99, people), and I’d go for a sporadic run every now and then. I liked doing stuff. It wasn’t until I was out of college until I figured out how much I needed it. Which is when I started running. I was twenty-two years old.

Last month, February, which marked itself with several other events that don’t need to be revisited, was also the ten year anniversary of when I started regularly running. It was my Runniversary.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m only 32 (eye roll), but having committed to something and it making me both continually happy and crazy and thrilled and grateful for the course of a decade seems pretty huge. There are few other things in life I’ve loved this long, and suffice it to say no other things that are not living things, that I have found such a home in. It feels really good to celebrate that, if only in my heart.

Today, the first week of March, it is 65F degrees here in Colorado. I went out for a run before a noon yoga class and took some time to think about what the last ten years have been like, and how this one constant thing I do all on my own has brought me so much. Friends, travel, relationships, solace, peace, worn out treadmill belts, love, frustration, time, pain, joy, fun– it has all been there, wrapped up in countless pairs of shoes and miles I’ve never really been good at keeping track of. I have done short races, some longer races, relays and been on teams. I have medals and photos and more wonderful memories than I deserve. I have not only called myself a runner but have been doing it long enough to be able to realize what an incredible gift that is.

It has been a good ten years and I am so grateful. I hope I get ten more.

Since the weekend, I’ve been pretty vocal on Twitter about the flooding in Nashville.  I’m going to assume you’ve heard about it by now, although I talked to a friend just yesterday who hadn’t, so I know it’s possible.  For me, though, this hits close to home. Along with having friends in Nashville—friends who are safe, thankfully—I simply love that town.

Today I’ve reposted below a post from about a year ago when I was in Nashville to run the Country Music Marathon. I took a lot of photos that trip, and although the post is long, it conveys my genuine thrill and appreciation for the city.  A good part of the post focuses on my visit to the Grand Ole Opry, which looked like this when I was there:

And yesterday morning, looked like this:

It just makes my heart sink.

And yes, I know there are other things going on in the world, in our country. I know this.  And I know if any city can come together and recover, it’s Nashville.

In the coming days and weeks, there will be a lot of ways to help. I hope if you can help, you will.  It’s a special place, people.  And you can see a little of why I think so, below.

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Nashville: The other parts not about the running

Lest anyone believe that my trip to Tennessee was all about running and emotions and accomplishment, I’d like to point out that I came away with about 40 race day photos, and about 240 from the rest of the trip. Or there’s the fact that nearly two weeks later I’m still talking about food, like okra.  Man, okra is good stuff.

Anyway, I did some walking around Nashville, and some touristy stuff.  Oh, and let’s just face it, I love the touristy stuff.  My last trip to Nashville was all business (and by that I mean I immediately got high on sweet tea and didn’t take a lot of pictures) so it was nice to do some lookin’ this time around.

There was food, like the Pancake Pantry:

And mark my words right now, I think my grandmother’s twin was our waitress.  I don’t know where she came from, but she was the sweetest woman and I felt like maybe if I dripped something on my chin while eating she would have come over, spit on a napkin, and wiped my face for me.

Or maybe I just love her because she brought me sweet potato pancakes:

I restrained myself from eating all five the day before a marathon, but my lands, I could have.

We also drove the race course, as I mentioned in my race report, and my favorite thing about that had to have been how bright GREEN the entire city was. I was so happy to be in the midst of springtime at a moment when it was actually snowing here in the Rockies.

And then of course I had to hang out the car window and get all kinds of other photos, only some of which actually came out.

The day after the marathon was a bit of a different story.  I wanted to keep moving, but I was slow. Very, very slow.  While my friends went museum-ing, I did my own walking tour. Slowly.

But that’s probably also what allowed me to notice things I otherwise may not have noticed, like this:

I love Dolly. LOVE her.  As in I dressed as her for Halloween twice as a kid. There are three people on this Earth wherein my knees would go weak upon seeing, and she’s one of them.  She’s a genius, and hilarious.

And then of course I had to do some window shoppin’:

And some bar hoppin’:

And some star gazin’:

And some… okay, never mind, that’s getting old.

But I’m not gonna lie, I loved it.  I really do love country music. I love other music, too, of course but country music is good stuff. Let me know if you want to argue with me about that. Pack a lunch.

Maybe it’s just because I was moving so slowly, but there just seemed to be a little bit of charm around every corner.

And then we went to lunch.  At the Loveless Cafe. Can you say fried food?

Which is where the okra came in.  And the sweet tea.

…of which I had gallons.   Normally, I’d have limited myself a bit, but that’s the beauty of the day after a marathon: all the fried food you want. Sorry, that’s just how I see things.

Just a couple more stops.  Hold on, we can make it.  We can do it together! Someone sing Kum Ba Yah already.

Things have been a little, I don’t know, busy lately. Busy isn’t even the right word, but I don’t know how to put it into words.  Aside from all the blah blah blah of getting life in order, convincing myself to work on some things while putting off others, and generally having many of the thoughts and feelings more appropriate for a 20-year-old than a 30-year-old, I will save you the long story.

Looking for some perspective, I went back four years ago from today, just to look at who I was that day. I can’t say I specifically remember April 2006, but looking back on that post, it was a very different time, for me.  It was also a different time in my work, a time when I could not have imagined the last year that brought me to where I am now.

Nonetheless, I want to share that post, because above all else, it reminded me of the simple fact of how the things we do in our lives prove that while we change, we also remain very much the same.

Work has been ridiculously busy lately. And it’s not going to let up. We’re working on a huge project that will go on for several months. I’m really getting into it and learning new things all the time. It’s like I have night-before-an-exam brain; there’s so much information in my mind, it actually feels full. Really really full.

In the tech world, we like to give everything an acronym or an abbreviation. Instead of saying Database Administrator, we say DBA. Instead of saying Asynchronous Javascript and XML, it’s AJAX instead. You get the idea. Today I gave this project it’s new official acronym: MOS. Massive Overhaul of Shit. That’s what it is. Everything must be brutally scrutinized and analyzed and reviewed. Everything is changing. I’ve never been involved in something so huge. Granted, we’re not changing the world. We’re just changing the way thousands of people see it.

As a result of Project MOS, I’m becoming Work Girl. It’s scary. Work Girl doesn’t have time to clean her house. Work Girl doesn’t remember to call her friends. Work Girl eats on the go. She doesn’t have time to go to the bathroom, much less go for a run. I feel so guilty, too. I haven’t run in two days. Oh, big deal, you might say. But for a runner who also happens to be an anal planner, it’s serious.

Just to paint a picture of how my day looked, I’ll give you a little play-by-play. Alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m. I sleep till 5:15. I drag my butt out of bed and eventually, out of the house by 6:00 a.m. I get to work at 6:20 (good commute time). I spend the next nine hours in a meeting. No, not meetings, a meeting. Yes, it took 7 adults 9 hours- minus the 13 minutes I spent eating my lunch at my desk while responding to email- to make decisions on Project MOS. I spent about 2 hours after the meeting trying to make sense of our decisions and then send out the notifications that were my responsibility before anyone had a chance to change their mind. You gotta jump on that crap, seriously.

I still felt like a slacker even though I worked my hiney off all day long.

The one thing that did make the day worth all the crap was this note from my boss (one of many (bosses, not notes)):

Great work today. I hope you know how important you are to this project!

But then it was followed by this:

See you at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow. We need to get things in order before the weekend! Thanks!

And then I had chips and salsa and a margarita for dinner. You can’t do everything perfect in one day. The world would stop rotating.

I like that girl… “Work Girl.” She was enjoying work. She was excited. She was in a good place.  I also know, though, that I don’t want to go back to that.  I was there, I did well, I learned, I was forever changed.  And I was meant to move on from it.

Beyond that, I do not know. It will probably be a good four years again before it all makes sense.

I will say, however, that I really need to go back to using the word “hiney” in everyday conversations.  Why did I ever stop that?

It was my full intention, laptop in hand (read: carry-on) as I boarded the plane, to keep up with blog posting while I was away last week. And I did do that. For one day. Thank you. That was Friday the 22nd, and oh, look here we are over a week later and I am finally finding it in me to catch up. And if this were Twitter, I would end that statement with a hashtag something like #geewherehaveweheardthisbefore, because we most definitely have heard this before.

It’s just that I have such an easy tiiimmme unplugging, you know?  Yeah, I know, your heart breaks for me. Moving right along.  Because this trip, though somewhat planned, turned out to be even so much more than I knew. And I want to retell it. In parts.  You’re welcome.

The Point of the Trip

Now then, the point of the trip itself: Operation Sneak Onto An Island. I actually didn’t call it that, but I should have, because that’s what I had to do. And the whole point of that was that two friends of mine, I’d call them island friends, although they live stateside most of the time like me, you, and the rest of us that freeze several months out of the year. But I met my friends on the island, and therefore they are island friends. And they were having an anniversary celebration, complete with a vow renewal ceremony. Because they were married there, and they wanted to celebrate there, ten years later. (And those last several sentences, and likely those that follow, would give my college English professors a heart attack.)

My friends, the ones having an anniversary, were celebrating on Friday the 22nd, and they invited me months and months ago, when I was still employed and restricted from vacation time (ah, those were the days!), and basically had zero hope of being able to attend. It was a sad thing when I had to turn down that invite. But! Then I quit my job, and became a full-time, temporary loafer, so no longer was I tied down.  Combine that with an unheard of low fare alert I received just a few weeks before the actual date of the event and a couple of other veerrrryy generous friends who allow me to bunk with them more often than I deserve, and the surprise covert operation was a done deal.

Keeping this secret was so difficult for me. It meant not saying anything on my blog, and therefore Twitter, or Facebook or to any mutual friends (minus a few in on the covert operation). A little reaffirmed fact about me: I can keep a “bad” secret with me until death, but ask me to keep a fun secret and I am impossible. But when I got to show up and surprise my friends, and then be a part of their celebration, it was worth it.

It was the home of these same friends I brought my friends down to stay in back in October for my 30th birthday, you might remember, and well, just like the island itself, it can be a magical place.

It was a beautiful celebration in a beautiful place, and I’m certainly better for having been part of it, not to mention friends with all these wonderful people whom I met completely by timing and chance.

Speaking of Timing and Chance

Here’s where the story gets even more interesting.

I arrived on the island the night before my friends’ celebration, which meant that all of the 21st I was either in an airport or on a plane. Somewhere between 10 and a billion hours of voluntary torture is what it takes to get down to the Caribbean from the Western U.S., and my lands as worth it as it is, it kicks your ass. There is no other way to put that, it just plain kicks your ass. And because of my secret, I couldn’t complain about any of it on the Internet. I know, right?!

On the last leg of my trip, in the Miami airport (which, in my opinion, has not moved out of the category of AWFUL in over a decade) I collapsed on a vinyl chair and drank what was probably my fiftieth caffeinated beverage of the day. A couple sat down next to me along with another man, and before long I saw that they were smart, because they were drinking beer. We started chatting, and I’d noticed the girl had a long garment bag with her, which could only mean one thing: Island Wedding.

Soon we found out we were not only on the same flight but sitting in the same row on the plane, where I did join in the beer drinking after all. We talked about the islands, about weddings, about love, about life. It was great. And I only had one beer, so I know it really must have all been real.

I also know it was real because at this point, I know that’s just how things happen in the islands. It just is. Whether you’re there, on your way, or somewhere in between, when that place is involved I’m telling you, good things and good people just come into the picture. I can’t explain it, I don’t necessarily want to, but I know it’s true. So when the happy couple, who I’d learned were actually eloping, asked me to take photos of their wedding, I was not entirely surprised. Shocked? Yes. Intimidated? Yes. Questioning their sobriety? Yes.

Long story short, though, they were sober, I was sober, and I went out two days later and photographed their very beautiful, very quiet, very perfect island wedding ceremony. We sailed to a small island, just the couple, the captain and his first mate, and me.  It was a beautiful day, and I was grateful for the invite.  And that day, I also got to put “Photographer” in the field for occupation on a customs form, which was a highlight I won’t soon forget.

Serendipitous, I tell you.

Stranded in the Islands

Three days later, after beaching and hiking and generally finding absolutely nothing to complain about all day every day, it was time for my quick trip to end.  I woke up at five in the morning, my friend (bless her!) drove me across the island, I caught a ferry, caught a taxi, went through customs, and ended up in the airport. Kids, it is a long day just getting to the airport, and you’re not even on the plane yet.

I’ve tried various ways of explaining this next part, but I can’t seem to do it better than I did in the emails I sent to a couple friends when they asked, paraphrased, HOW THE HELL DO YOU GET STUCK IN THE TROPICS? My response, below:

The plane I was supposed to leave on broke, something about a cooling fan, so they couldn’t go anywhere (fine by me, the pilot says no and I’m totally cool with that, right?) but the thing is, to even get to the airport I have to take a car ride across the island, then a ferry, then a taxi from the dock to the airport, and then deal with customs, which is fake as compared to most customs, but nonetheless, customs, and then sit in an airport with, literally, no PA system (at least one that can be heard). IF YOU CAN IMAGINE.

So, when someone says the flight’s not leaving and they’ll either book you on a later one (maybe) or one the following day it’s like, um, NO, because what you went through just to get there (not to mention packing up the flip-flops and breaking out the parka) is just not worth going all the way back for 12 hours. So, since I was going to be coming back anyway, I demanded it be at least a 48-hour extension.  And by “demanded” I mean spoke very kindly, smiled, and observed all cultural and customary manners. Ha.

And that’s how I got to spend a couple more days “stranded” in the Caribbean. I was staying with friends, so they gladly took me back in. Which is something I will never figure out as long as I live, how I got friends such as these. Crazy. Serendipitous. All of it.

The End.

Until next month.

I know this for sure: once I start cleaning my house, I cannot stop. There is something to this whole “get your house in order” thing, I will tell you that.  Yesterday I was stuck inside a tangled web of computer/electronic/whydowehavethiscrap wires for two hours. Although everything was up and running afterward (success!) it still looks as messy as it ever did, and annoys me as much as it did before.  Moral of the story: don’t rearrange your office, no good can come of it.

I have to say, I do like this “work at home” thing. Or, in my case, “get ready to work at home” thing. It’s relaxing, it makes me like my home, and I get to sit inside and look directly out a window instead of at a cube wall. Win, no?

The thing is, I need practice. I am so easily distracted, so ready to dream off to some other place, that I cannot be trusted.

As good as the view from home is, I think of other things. Views out of other places and other windows, or lack of windows, as the case may be:

Out other front doors. Or lack of doors, as the case may be:

I realize this doesn’t deserve any sympathy, and I’m not looking for it.  But at the same time, I have to wonder: am I ever going to be good at sitting still and concentrating for any length of time?

I’m going to go with NO.

I know too much. I’ve seen too much. It’s hopeless.

I’m forever distracted.

What a shame.

A couple weeks ago, I went to Madison, Wisconsin to run a marathon.  I ran in a skirt, with a guy friend of mine, also in a skirt.  It was a little much, even for me.  But that’s not the point.  The point is, I never got around to forcing anyone to look at the photos from Madison.  Which you should.  Because I liked it there.

So dim the lights, sit back, relax, pretend you’re in someone’s basement in the 80’s, and look at my vacation pictures.  And like it. Or something.

I loved the water. I always love water. That is the one thing missing from Colorado.  Well, that and sub-tropic temperatures nine months out of the year. Which is also something missing from Wisconsin, I think.  Darn.

Madison is the capital of Wisconsin.  Did you remember that from your grade school days?  Because I didn’t, and insisted it was Milwaukee.  Right up until I saw the capital building.  Which is when I went back to taking pictures instead of talking.  Stick with what works, that’s what I always say.

They also love red there. Like, um, really love it. Like if I loved anything as much as they love red you’d talk about me behind my back.  I think it’s like some kind of school thing.  Yeah, and probably that it gets so dang cold in the winter that they have to paint everything red just to remember what hot looks like.

Between that and beer, I guess that’s how they survive winter.

Either that, or they just stand next to this guy:

I’ll bet he never gets cold, playin’ that hot, hot Jazz all day long.

Okay, I made that up. And it was a little weird.

Or it’s possible they go here:

Because we are all majorly stunned that Lesley found the only tiki bar in the Northern U.S., right?  Yes, it is shocking.

My friends had to drag me away. Away from the wafting scent of Bahama Mamas, nonetheless.

(And if you’re terribly annoyed by that apostrophe right now, then you and I, my friend, are not that different.)

Instead, I settled for ice cream.   Yeah, who’s on the summer diet bandwagon?  Not me, apparently.

But they were at least honest about it:

I just loved that mid-west charm.

I can definitely see myself going back again.  There are at least 30-40 days out of the year where I’d be able to survive in less than seventeen layers of clothing.

If only the running part were as easy as the tourist part.

Yesterday I attended the funeral service of my friend that passed away last week. As most services go, it was beautiful and touching and appropriate, and I’m always moved by turn out. Perhaps that should be a given, but time taken come together to appreciate a person, a life, is like no other time we spend. There is nothing like the end of a life, and the celebration of that life, to force examination of your own. While I know this is no secret to anyone, the fact that we’re stopped in our tracks often only by extremes is a strange concept to me. Forgive me if I’m stating the obvious, but if rambling weren’t my specialty, I’d hardly have a blog.

Ironic, also, yesterday another friend of mine, also a coworker, gave birth to a brand new baby girl. In the weeks leading up to the birth, someone put together a pool at work guessing the time, date, gender, etc. of the baby.  Everyone tossed in five dollars, and the person closest would win about a hundred dollars. Of more than twenty people, no one guessed June 2nd. There were guesses for the 1st, and the 3rd but nothing on the second. When the news spread, that the new baby would be born on that day, no one had to say a word.  We knew who chose that day.  And so life was celebrated yesterday, in more ways than one.

It occured to me yesterday, while the thoughts of saying goodbye and welcome flooded my mind, that we treat these moments with such fragility. We are extra tender to those that are hurting. We are careful and quiet with those that are new.  We are more patient, more kind, and more calm. The priority of the situation is crystal clear, and in those moments nothing is more important.

I hope to learn something from this. I hope to keep it with me.  I hope to remember that the fragility of life— the miracle that I can work, run, jump on a plane to a far off place, even think of these words— occurs every day. The fact that I can love, be loved, hold on, let go, move forward, and look back is not just in moments, it is constantly possible. We are always moving within the bounds of a very fragile life, and I think we owe it to ourselves to remember that as we make our way.

In the weeks leading up to this marathon it became pretty clear to me that if I wanted to complete it, I was going to have to find a new definition of “normal” running for myself. It would now include walking. No longer would it include fast downhills. I had to accept it. Somehow, I did accept it and though I knew that was smartest at the time, I am not sure I really had any idea how much it would help me during the race, and not just physically.

It’s been ten days since the race now, so my memory may not be what it was, but nonetheless, having done a few of these before, I know there are some details about those days that you just don’t forget.

The day before the race went nothing like I’d thought. I was out more and moving more than I would have liked, and then the group I was with decided to drive the course, which was not something I felt necessary (I know people like doing this, and feel it helps them, but I could honestly care less. I like seeing it on race day, so sue me) but nonetheless we drove it.  At least I was sitting down.

Dinner on race night also happened later than I’d hoped, as did bedtime.  I looked at the bright side: having dinner later prevented me from being hungry at 10:00 p.m. due to a 4:00 p.m. meal.  See that optimism?

Race morning, 4:30 a.m. wake up. I was feeling ready. A little part of me just kept quietly shouting (if that’s even possible) that it was time to “get this thing over with!” That helped.  I got dressed, did all the pre-race necessary things, and we left the hotel about 6:00 for the 15-20 minute drive into Nashville.

The race started at 7:30 and we arrived about 6:30 to the corral area which left a good amount of time for port-a-potty stops, drinking some water, and chilling out.  It was about 68 degrees at that time.

At 7:30 I was in my corral and being that there were 14 corrals ahead of me, my race started closer to 7:55. I didn’t mind this at all as I like to be up a while before I run. I’m a morning person. I don’t like to talk or argue or be bothered, mind you, but I do like being up.

I crossed the start line and by mile 1, I was sweating.  I knew it was going to be a hot day. This course is FULL of hills, rolling, beautiful, soon-to-be-killer hills, and it wastes no time initiating you.  On the third or fourth downhill, my left knee started talking to me. I was scared.

Miles 2-5 were pretty. There was city scenery, more rolling hills, and then the course wraps into the Belmont area. My word, I could look at front porches all. day. long. And this area did not disappoint.  The trees folded over the streets providing shade, the water stations were stocked, and the bands were playing good music. I felt good.

At mile 6 I walked a bit to take my first gel and right around that time my running partner needed a bathroom break.  She was pretty fast, and I just walked up a side street and back down to keep moving. I am a good running partner, don’t you think? Miles 1-10 were also dedicated to individuals in my family, so I was too distracted to be bothered by a small bathroom break. I was too busy focusing my energy on that person, and how they’ve likely rolled their eyes at my running in the past.  I love my family.

Miles 7-10 still felt easy for me, and I was shocked. I hadn’t planned to run without walking for those first 10 miles, but if it came easy to me, I was just going to get the thing over with.  At the beginning of mile 11 a huge hill loomed and I decided to take my first walk break.  I passed a bank clock around mile 12-13 (I think) that said 84 degrees.  It was around 10:00 a.m.

During mile 12, the half marathoners split from the full.  At that point I was a) very hot, b) getting tired, but c) still fine. I was .009% tempted to cut to the half, but I think everyone has a tinge of that, right?  You think, for just a moment, how much easier your day could be.  You gaze over, see all those people so much closer to done, and you wonder.  And then you keep going, because you know what you’re there to do.

Some of these middle miles were dedicated to close friends of mine, new friends, life-long friends, and some other causes I felt warranted a mile.  I have to say, there’s nothing that will help you ignore a little ITB pain like thinking of your oldest childhood friend and of how you can both still laugh at the same things you have been since the 5th grade. Or those friends that make the great drinks. Or those ones that let you text message them just to whine. Those friends are great. Or, you know, those blogging friends.  They’re pretty awesome, too.

I continued with strong run/walk intervals through mile 18, stopping a bit longer for another gel break, and water.  This is the first race I’ve ever done wherein I felt the need to not only drink water but douse myself in it.  In fact, somewhere around mile 15 I walked directly into a sprinkler with no regard for who was around.  It was pointing into the street, but even if it had been in someone’s garden, I would have seen it as being there for me.

I took every opportunity to run through sprinklers, which is more fun looking back than it seemed at the time. At that time, it seemed like it was purely for survival.  Now, it seems kind of nostalgic and fun.  I’ve never given birth, but I have to wonder if that pain so many women say they “forget” after child birth isn’t very similar to that of a marathon. I cannot think of a reason I’d do more except that somehow the joys outweigh the pain, and then looking back, somehow even the pain looks good.

I don’t remember much about mile 19 except that it ended with a very steep downhill section of about 30 yards.  Maybe not even that, and maybe that wasn’t even mile 19? I’ll never know.  All I do know is that from about 10 yards before, I could see this hill and noticed people walking down backwards. I TOTALLY COPIED THEM.  And thank God I did, because when I turned around to walk forward again, on the last bit of steep hill, my legs nearly gave out.  Lesson learned: watch those ahead of you and copy them. It’s against everything you’ve ever been taught, and yet will not steer you wrong at mile 19 of a very slow marathon. Promise.

In mile 20, I was also reminded that I committed the biggest, worst possible runner’s sin: I tried something new on race day.  Moreover, I tried new clothes on race day. MOREOVER, I tried a running skirt!  I know, I know. This seems so stupid. I know this, I’ve made the mistake only once before, but I did it anyway. I was scared of being too hot, and I was scared of looking too fat. I know, the logic astounds you.  But actually, it worked out fine.  I used body glide, and I was fine.  Someone was watching out for me, I’m certain.  I’d also pinned my mile dedication list to the skirt, which is only hilarious when I tell you that I pinned it upside down—a laminated piece of paper no larger than a business card—and every time I needed to read what was assigned to the next mile, I had to lift my skirt. It was like my mile marker salute. I’m sure the crowd appreciated it.

Mile 21 was dedicated to a group of running friends of mine, many of which without I’d probably have quit running a long time ago.  They remind me that all running is good, all races are worth it, and that friends will get you through.  They remind me to take risks, to gamble, hence the 21.  This was also where I started really feeling my left IT band, which was a nice addition to the pain my right IT band had been feeling for a couple miles before then.  Balance.  Yeah, I really needed my friends at that point.

Mile 22 was hard.  I was mostly walking by that point, though I was having a good time with the people around me.  There was a guy whose name was Jeremy that I’d been leap-frogging with since mile 15 or so.  Apparently he was the person I’d completely cutoff while stepping in front of a sprinkler with no regard for those around me.  Who knew? “HOTMUSTHAVEWATERMUSTBECOOLERHOTHOTHOTDYINGWATERPLEASE,” would have been what I said had I any ability to form words at all and had I known someone was actually there.

And no, I was not astute enough to ask Jeremy his name, nor did he tell me, because it was on his shirt.  Note to men: put your name on your shirt at races. Don’t make a girl work for it, because I promise you she is too damned tired to care. And she’ll steal your water.

Mile 22 was also dedicated to a friend of mine who’s been battling pancreatic cancer for nearly a year now.  This was really hard for me to think about, because I feel like my friend has gotten such a raw deal.  His cancer wasn’t detected early, his doctors weren’t initially diligent, and his family has been so overwhelmed. It is so unfair and it makes me angry, completely and irrationally angry. I wanted to be strong in mile 22, because in my mind if I was being strong during that mile, that would give Tom more strength.  And Tom needs strength right now. Please, please if you remember nothing else about this report, remember the importance of early detection. If something is wrong do not stop until you get answers.

In making my mile dedication list, I stopped at mile 23.  It’s always been one of those numbers for me, being that I was born on the 23rd, and when I see it somewhere like on a clock or in any sequence, I pause.  This 23 was dedicated to turning 30.  I was hurting, it was hot, I was not aware of a whole lot going on around me, but somewhere in those minutes of mile 23 I remember thinking that 30 is going to be great.  And then I took some more water, walked by a woman singing a Kathy Mattea song all by herself on the stage with just a guitar, and I tried to keep going.  I don’t remember much else about that. But yeah, yay for 30!

By the time mile 24 hit, I was quite certain I’d never been more hot in my life.  My legs felt heavy, there was no shade to be found, and my IT bands, knees, and calves seemed to articulately feel every bump or hint of camber in the road. Mile 24 was dedicated to another friend of mine, Lynn.  It’s a little unusual calling people friends you’ve only met once, but sometimes life brings us to people and we’re certain that knowing these people, whether it be for moments or forever, has a purpose.

I met Lynn in December of last year on my last-minute, need-sanity-now island trip. Lynn and her husband, Ben, are friends of another friend of mine, and we all shared a lunch. That was it, just lunch. But they made an impression on me, as kind people often do, and I knew I was thankful to know them.  Lynn was diagnosed with breast cancer in February, and since then has been on the very scary, challenging roller coaster that a diagnosis like that brings. Two weeks after her diagnosis, though, Lynn ran a road race called 8 Tuff Miles held annually on St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands. And came in 7th in her age group. Basically, she kicked ass. And then she returned home post-race to show more courage than I could ever dream of having.

As I looked at my list, and saw the name on mile 24, my throat closed a little.  I breathed deep, turned back, saw my new-found friend Jeremy trotting up beside me, I gulped hard and said “I need to run this part.”  So I did, so we did.  The great thing about strangers is that you never know how they’ll come through for you, even when they have no idea they are doing it.  Mile 24 had a few of those, and I’ll never forget it.

By mile 25, I needed to stop for water again. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t dragging at this point, but somehow it seemed okay.  The last two miles in a marathon can seem like the longest miles of your life, but they can also seem totally doable.  Somehow, though your body wants to rebel, your mind remains logical somewhere deep inside and you know you can finish.

Through mile 26, people were lining the course, screaming, shouting, and it was pretty great.  I believe only 4% of my brain was actually listening to them, but that 4% was appreciative.  There was only .2 left in the race, and my leap-frogging buddy spoke up one last time.  ‘Well, I guess it’s time to finish this,” he said. And off we went.

I crossed the finish line around five and a half hours, and with the delayed start, I had no idea what my real finish time was. I didn’t care.  Someone handed me a bottle of water, someone else put a medal around my neck, and then someone handed my a sponge soaked in ice water (I wanted to kiss her, but I restrained myself).  “At least you’re smiling,” she said, and indeed I was.  Somewhere between delirium and satisfaction there is happiness, that’s for sure.

I bumped into Jeremy one last time and we hugged it out, because friends you find on a course seem to skip those initial awkward stages of friendship and go right for the hugging.

“Thanks so much, Jeremy. I couldn’t have done it without you,” were all the words I could come up with.

“Have a blessed life, Lesley,” was what he said back.

Still panting I muttered “done.”  In more ways than one.

I have really been a bit of foodie lately, and because that’s not normally me (hello, plain scrambled eggs) I’m going to blame it all on one brunch I had a week and a half ago. I don’t know if was because I was traveling, but we all know food is better then, right?  I mean, come on, I don’t really care for turkey sandwiches at home but put me in some far-off place where there are pretty things to see and wonderful people and excitement and that sandwich goes from meat on bread to oh be still my heart, I now live for this meal.

My trip to New York (this is the last look-at-my-vacation-slide-show-y’all post, I promise) was planned in all of about one hour and thought up merely an hour before that. The trip itself was also quick, and for that I’m the most sorry because there are things I would have liked to have done, and people I would have liked to have met (like you and you) and talked men or running with, but I was there something like forty-five hours. No where near enough.

I did get to one blogger meet-up, though, and I’m so very grateful for it!  You see, of all the people I’ve met from the internet (gee, that sounds interesting doesn’t it? Stories for other days, I tell you!) I have never met someone from this little corner. I’ve become very close with a lot of you, discussing break-ups and weddings and colonoscopy procedures, and yet, we’ve never looked each other in the eye.  While I realize this is more common than I’m probably giving it credit for, it’s still a really amazing phenomenon to me.

I’m not really sure how long ago it was, or what sparked my interest but sometime in the last year or so, I started reading a blog called As I Was Saying written by Dingo. She talked about running, yes, and this very well might have been what sparked my interest, but to be honest there are a thousand million blogs that talk about running now, so for me to have stuck around, there was obviously more to it.  First, Dingo is hilarious.  I strive to one day have that kind of wit, I tell you. Not to mention the Photoshop skills.  (By the way, Dingo, we need to have a conversation about that.  I have some people I need to frame coerce kindly ask to do what I want.)

It worked out that Dingo and I emailed one another at just the right time and we were able to schedule a Sunday brunch. I felt so uptown already. (We don’t do a lot of brunching around these parts, which is a damn shame.)

We met at a place on the Upper West Side called Good Enough to Eat, and oh, daddy, was it. Or at least it was to me, and judging by the never-ending line outside, I’ve been brainwashed with the best of ‘em.

We had waffles:

Pancakes:

And, hold me, pumpkin french toast:

And as you might notice on all the plates, there was a little cup of butter. Except instead of ordinary butter, or even whipped butter, it was strawberry butter. I don’t know why I was so enthralled by this, or why I apparently still am, but my gosh, people, strawberry butter on pumpkin french toast, topped with a pear compote and maple syrup is a very perfect meal.  If there was only one brunch left in my lifetime, I’m glad it was that one.

But more than that, it was such a cool experience meeting Dingo. She’s even more interesting and funny and outgoing than I’d imagined and even laughed it off when I complained about my flat, flat humidity-laden hair. (Yes, I know it was just March and it gets so much more humid than that in New York, but I live in a desert, my hair is used to conducting electricity on a daily basis!) I feel like I should return again soon just so we have more time to talk. It’s fun to make a connection with someone in person after a year of reading their blog and then find out that hey, you really do get along with them. I’d even venture to say, and this is pretty huge, that it’s better than strawberry butter.