Night run...

Run, girl, run.

Glaring white-on-black-on-white. Crystalline drifts meeting filthy slushy sidewalks meeting snow-choked roads and bitter-blackened patches of asphalt. Along the route, the shadows of tree branches intertwine, interlace, gently paling fingers against the bright-white snowpack, made dense by footfall throughout the day. Shoe patterns emerge, boots and sneakers and here and there a worn bike tire tread, signs of life before my shuffling footfalls along this way. The world in its glaring polarity seems flattened, vanquished, as if the snow came down and rooted itself in so deeply it pulled its surroundings down into the earth, and we all became a part of one dimension. I shuffle a bit more hastily, dragging out my breaths in their usual one-two-three-one-two-three waltz-like pattern. Even after so long not running, my breath and pace return with ease, glide in like old friends who’ve strayed far too long. My body checks in. Heart, okay, lungs, unhappy but okay, shoulders need to loosen, body is too tight, needs to untense itself. Needs to remember. Remember the roads that stretched over 26 miles or so, the disheartening end that one long run finally had to come to. The times it did more. The times it did almost as much. The time it will do nowhere near as much, this time, this place, it needs to know, it can relax.

Relax.

Pressure’s off. Nobody’s watching, timing, looking, shouting, waving cheering or even mildly interested in what you’re doing. Anyone else out who even notices you on this godforsaken evening might raise their eyebrows a bit, might be inclined to ponder your mildly questionable sanity, but that’s the most they’ll do. If they even notice. The little runner in black pants and a white jacket, shuffling along the moonscape-like linear dimension of this eerily false winter-world. The goal is simple, driven by a direct and basic need. To run. To run. To run!!!

It simply had to be done, it simply had to be accommodated. After eight p.m. be damned, the body simply had no will left for the runaway mind, already out playing footfalls along the vacant paths, the distant wilderness, the opaque red-grey sky, its charcoal flatness blistered by wraiths of smoke from woodburning fireplaces, thousands of them lit and stoked all over town tonight. The body would not but the mind could. Would. And eventually, had to.

Run, girl, run. Get out there into that flattened skyscape, that planar world you long to be in, melt into, absorb, hold inside. Hold it in. And run.

Why Am I In Hell?

What on Earth did I do to deserve this? I am in HELL!!! Pure, unadulterated FedEx Shipping Hell!!! Aaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhh!!!

Y O U

This was me. This isn't me right now. This isn't how I feel. This isn't who I am. I've gone from bold and brave and fearless to terrified, trembling and tearful.

Who am I?

Where am I?

How can I possibly undo this?

Postrace Report

Given my general dissatisfaction with how the race was run, I'm just going to publish the email I sent to Jeff Mason and Amy Smith, the Race Director and Volunteer Coordinator, respectively. Personally though, I love that course and I had fun running it and it was a really good time. Seeing Jack up there waiting for me at the chute was really sweet. And the volunteers were, as always, SO encouraging, empowering, loving, warm and wonderful. Thank you Boulder Marathon volunteers!!!

I have to admit I'm pretty bummed. Saturday: the Expo? There was an Expo? Aside from a Bear Naked tent, I saw no signs of anything resembling an Expo. While I'm sure Clinica Campesina appreciated all of the work you did for them, for those of us who paid upwards of $98 to participate in this race, we'd rather see some things done for us as well. 5K finisher medals? Really? A 5K is a walk in the park...at the very least, finisher's medals should have been varied based on what race you ran, not all the same. Last year's were nothing to write home about, but at least they were somewhat distinctive, (blue ribbons for the half and gold for the full) and if you're going to sink so much funding into them, why not make something that participants are proud to wear? I don't want to wear a medal after running a marathon and have someone ask me how my 5K went. Maybe it's just me, but it seemed insulting. Oh, and the goody bags that were supposed to be so spectacular had...a couple of promotional fliers for things like Gatorade Endurance and a hat and a tee shirt and a pint glass. Nowhere close to as good as last year's.

Sunday: The course itself was great; the volunteers were wonderful cheerleaders and there was water, Gatorade and Clif Shots aplenty. A little more variety would be nice...but otherwise, the course was great. However, when I got to the finish...

Nobody announced my name at the finish line...at all!!! What a major bummer that was. I mean, I know I'm slow, but come on, man. That's one of the best feelings in the world, and it got totally squashed for me. In fact, the only person--aside from me--who seemed to notice I finished was my friend Jack, who came to pick me up and snapped a few pictures. Amy, you did see and congratulate me, thank you.

And then I find out you're out of finishing medals. So no medal. The 5K finishers got medals but there were none for the last 40 or so marathoners. You guys underordered for a race that reached its capacity a month in advance last year; what on earth were you thinking? Food was scarce, if even available and difficult to find to the point where we just left. After running 26.2 miles, you don't want to have to walk all over to get food. Whatever my "beverage ticket", "meal ticket" and ticket with all my info was for, I still have them, so I hope you don't need them. The music was mediocre at best, and far too loud--and this is coming from someone who regularly brings cotton and expensive earplugs to shows so that the amps don't blast my eardrums into oblivion. Oh, and since nobody seemed to be taking down times, I came in around 5:48:11. I did get my Avery beer and was happy about that, and I did finish. So that was good. But everything else was...well, lacking, to say the least. Even now, when clicking on the "get the most up-to-date race info here!" link on the homepage gets me to...th same email I received from you a week ago.

On top of which, I receive an email from Timberline Timing Systems--the only company I know of to even attempt to collect a $30 fee for NOT turning in your chip after the race, are you KIDDING ME?--today that said times were posted. So I checked by bib number. My numbers weren't there. I checked by name. My numbers weren't there. I was exceedingly careful to run over every mat and get the okay from the volunteers and race officials that my data had been collected. So...? I don't get my splits because these supposedly amazing timers totally suck? Grrrrreeeeeeeaaaaattt...

I have to say, this was pretty disappointing. The GoLite sponsorship was sorely missed; they made great shirts that you can actually wear to run a full marathon in, not cotton ones that you can't. Maybe at least there will be some cool shots whenever brightroom posts them...otherwise, better luck next year, guys. I know you were trying to make a lot of changes and turn it into an awesome, differently-styled race but instead it was a different, poorly-organized race without enough food or drinks or fun stuff at the end. Like a finisher's medal.

Regards,
Dondi

17 Hours and counting...

The day before…

There are three “R’s” that need to be accounted for: rest, relaxation, rejuvenation. Perhaps a fourth: reflection. And let’s not forget the all-important: regurgitating. I consider myself fortunate that as weird as my eating habits are and stomach can be, I rarely get butterflies so bad I have to take advantage of that fifth “R”.

So I’m nervous, and trying to stay mellow and focused. Doing a load of laundry with my race gear in it. Planning my “utility belt”, as Jack calls it: the shorts I wear with pockets sewn in around the waistband so that I can carry salt tablets, Shot Blox, extra sunscreen, etc. What will go in which pocket to best balance out the weight. Should I attempt to carry my cell phone? What am I going to do with my warm-ups once I get to the course? Will anyone show up to cheer me on, see me off, watch me finish, besides the announcer and the race staff and volunteers? Will I finish?

My feeling on that last question is, if I have to crawl there, I will finish. To say my training has been less than optimal would be quite an understatement. But no complaints. Rather, I’m just glad I’ll get to go do it. I love to run, and I think it’ll be a great race this year. Regardless, I’ll stay strong.

And keep smiling. :)

Thanks for reading…

Dondi

180 Minutes of Purgatory

I know some yogis and yoginis who would be sorely disappointed in me for saying such things but truthfully, two Bikram's classes back-to-back are pretty freakin painful. Which is why I am sitting here now with every type of ice pack I've got, from Boo Boo Buddies to bags of frozen corn, strapped to various joints. At some point I'll ease my aching body into a shower and then maybe a bath. Until then I figure I've built up my endurance for the day and so should be solidly ready for a long run tomorrow. The idea of which is already making my aching joints cry...

23 more days til the marathon...

I WON A FREAKIN KAYAK!!!

ON my birthday! For more details email me; here are some pics. I LOVE it & can't wait to hit some whitewater in it.

Concussed...

So, yeah, basically, concussions suck.

Never having had one before, I am profoundly amazed and have a great new understanding of how important my brain is. Not that the grasp of cranial function as a necessary element to…umm…well…life…is beyond me, but I never really knew, as I think most of us (neurosurgeons, ER technicians, PAs, nurses and the like exempted) probably never really know, just how important that grey matter is until we mess with it. Or rather, have to cope with someone else messing with it, specifically a pro or weekend-warrior (“wannabe”) riding East on the Goose Creek Trail just east of the underpass at 28^th near Valmont, where aforementioned nameless asshole tried to kill me, then yelled at me, then took off, leaving me completely shocked and totally unprepared for what I was about to deal with. (If you are that asshole and reading this somehow jump-starts some feeling of morose sorrow for what you’ve put me thru please, by all means, contact me.)

By the time I got to the park for our team-building activity, it was clear that things were not okay. My vision was blurring, my head was killing me (high impact collision with a bicycle helmet’ll do that), and I was really, really, really nauseous. I could barely make my way around the field and finally one of my supervisors took me to the nearby hospital, where a CT scan revealed no broken bones but the severe swelling of my cro-magnon looking forehead and bridge of my nose, as well as my relative lack of coherence and general dysfunctionalism (beyond the norm, friends and fam; I was in pretty bad shape) revealed I had a moderate concussion. Left with a ton of morphine in my system and no easy way home, I was dialing my friend Bryce to see if he could come and give me a lift when the same supervisor, Dawn, came to pick me up, drove me to get my prescription, drove me to a convenience store, then drove me home, schlepped (with the help of another wonderful colleague) my bike and pack up three flights of stairs to my apartment, and after I thanked them a zillion times, took off. My friend Mike came down from Longmont to spend the night with me despite a 6am catering shift for him the next day. So far the Whole Foods job is working out beautifully; Mike, Dawn and my other colleague who helped me that night (whose name I am not remembering due to my head injury) as well as everyone I’ve seen since have been wonderfully accommodating and have gone way out of their way to make sure I’m healing. What wonderful colleagues to have. Special kudos for Mike for working the catering shift AND then having to go to his PT job; there is a place in heaven for that man, to say the least, for staying up with me (as I was terrified of sleeping for fear of not waking up) and keeping my life interesting throughout the night. It was definitely an interesting night.

Since then I took the next day off of work; tired, miserable and incapable of focusing on anything really without seeing double I spent the whole day sleeping, crying, and taking the pain meds that the ER doc gave me. Friday morning I felt better and tried to go to work; “tried” being the operative word as I worked about half my shift and then was forced to go home by persistent nausea and headache. With no end in sight, I resolved to let my body heal, rest and ice and do whatever I needed to that would help, and try to stay as calm as possible.

It’s Saturday evening now and I am feeling much better, though am glad that I am not working again until Monday evening because I’ll be rock star-quality by the time I get back to slinging groceries, which is exactly what I want to show my new employer. So the moral of the story is: rest. rest. rest. Even when you can feel the calories adding millimeters to centimeters to inches around your waistline because you aren’t working out, rest. You can’t speed recovery of a brain injury, and trying to do so just makes things worse. Keep an eye out on the bike paths and if you see an bum jerk ridnig around Boulder on aerobars only with a blue helmet, white-blue-red-and-black kit, a terrible attitude, and a really nice red roadbike, tackle him and get his info for me, would you? There’s a $1500 hospital bill I’d like to send his way…

Thanks for reading.

-Dondi

His Hero

It’s been a good day today.

I applied for two jobs that both look good, followed up on my Whole Foods interview—again—and cycled about 30 miles around town doing errands and appointments. Bought some rather healthy food at Safeway to make myself dinner. Returned some materials to the library for a friend. Saw my doctor. Chill day so far…

And then I ran into a neighbor I know from my days at Ideal Market, who told me I was his son’s hero. His son is an adorable little boy, maybe 6 or 7 years old, and apparently they’d seen me out running first near our apartments and then out at the Boulder Reservoir. The little boy was apparently blown away that I had run so far—it is a considerable distance—and told his dad I was his hero.

Now, I haven’t actually run all that way. I’ve done a marathon and definitely have done my share of higher-mileage training for the marathon, but I knew I didn’t run out to the Rez. So I let him know that, and he smiled and winked at me, “It’ll be our little secret. My son thinks so highly of you.” What had actually happened was that they saw me on two different runs the same day…first a run around the neighborhood and then out at the Rez. I wasn’t really planning the second run, but a friend was headed out there to swim and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to run out there. I especially loved that when the little boy saw me the second time he said, “I bet she’s not even out of breath!”

I probably was, but it was a wonderful story anyway.

Reflection

I started working for Wild Oats on August 22, 2000. If I'd made it to this August 22 it would have been 7 years there.

Instead, I turned in my resignation on Thursday afternoon and was severanced out, with pay, thru the 13th. The way my boss's boss explained it, I had 2 weeks of paid vacation.

The way I see it, they were doing everything possible to fire me. This is not your standard-issue "my-boss-is-an-asshole" rant. This is me. Anyone who knows me knows better than to believe I did a piss-poor job. The ends didn't justify the means anymore. So I resigned and was pretty much booted out. Figures.

The way I see it, I had a few hours to say goodbye to people I'd known for years. A few hastily-scrawled emails to vendors. A lot of hugs, and a few tears. A phone call to a dear friend who came to my office to help me get my stuff home. A couple of bags and boxes. It's amazing how little space 7 years really occupies.

So...onto bigger and better things. If I don't adopt this attitude, I will start crying.

Good bye, everyone...and remember...do one brave thing today...

...then run like hell!!!

~Dondi

Stress Is Curling My Hair

OK, no, but seriously now...

It IS making me do really crazy things. Like trash a 5-mile run because I was so distracted I wasn't pacing myself effectively and checlked them up to "junk miles". Like try to go to bed earlier, wake up earlier, do more things earlier. Like getting in some strength training here and there. Becoming better friends with one of my neighbors who likes to run at the rez (and even attempting to keep up with him during our first outing together! And I did! But I think he was probably being nice to me...) and even agreeing to a--gulp--7:30 a.m. Sunday morning run. No going out after closing up the shop for me; I'll be heading home from Origins Saturday evening to some kava kava and an early bedtime. For an early run. On a Sunday.

Not that I was a partier (party-er? somehow, partier never looks right to me...) in my previous life or anything. But work has stressed me to the point where I am running for the sheer relief of being consumed by an activity that isn't work. Call it escapism. Call it whatever you want...I call it sick. Pathetic. A bit frightening.

But, also...strengthening. Renewing. Reinforcing. Quieting and, incredibly, slowing. Reassuring and peaceful. And as a result of this insanity, I'm growing, and changing, and realizing I am capable of extraordinary things. Like trying to hear more of my friends' stories. Listening to their laughter. Trying to contribute instead of overtaking. Maybe it's progress, maybe not. But it sure feels good. When I'm at work I feel exhausted, faded, washed-out, done. Tired. Weary. When I run, my heart, my eyes, my smile is open. I'm laughing out loud (much to the dismay, no doubt, of the pros running circuits along the same bike path) and my faith in the world is renewed.

Enough that with registration for the 2007 race filling, I stake my claim by registering for the Boulder Backroads Marathon again. Finishing is still the only real goal. But...could that be New York, gleaming in the distance? Or is it...Boston?

...just sweet...

Edie seemed a little unsettled when i put her to bed the other night after I tucked her in, so I sat with her and stroked her hair and sang to her until her eyes started to fall heavily closed all on their own. I was singing Jack's adaptation of "The Song of the Wandering Aengus", by William Butler Yeats, and my voice does neither the poem nor the song Jack created from the poem justice, but it seemed to calm this beautiful little girl and begin to put her to sleep...

...sweet...

Bitter...sweet?

So my director, who I think is on my side, calls me into her office this afternoon for what I think is a routine update meeting, which actually turns into a "you're going to get fired in two weeks if you don't shape up" meeting. And all I can think is, this is SUCH bullshit.

First of all, I've been busting my ass on this project. I have the permanent marker marks all over my hands to prove it. But instead of getting recognized for my productivity, I get, "You had that dentist appointment Monday," and "You were on the phone with a vendor who called you on your cell during your lunch break," and that's just not okay. So, the appointment that was scheduled two months ago I should've rescheduled because my boss--who is out of town--has too much testosterone to admit that this is a personality conflict and I'd be better placed in another department? Wha...?

And so I just nod and grimly smile. What am I supposed to do at this point? Leap, and the net will appear? Or the void will swallow me...at least then I'll get some quietude...

Baby-sitting

I met Howard and Jen through Jack, and my life has been infinitely more blessed because of them (and him, for that matter, but that’s another blog for another day…) and their unique and beautiful presences. What an honor it is to allow me to care for their children.

Jen and I have the same conversation every time I baby-sit for her children. I think she overpays me, and she explains that she couldn’t possibly pay me enough. Round and round we go. One of these days, she’s going to get genuinely pissed off at me. At least that’s what I worry about.

But how can I tell her what an honor and joy it is to take care of her two lovely lovely little ones, what beautiful children they are, what peace and calm and absolute joy I get from cuddling with Edie, putting her to bed, knowing that she knows me and feels safe with me. How it feels when Gabriel lets a bit of his guard down and curls up with me for storytime, how cool it is that I can talk to him at some level about Star Wars, enough, at least, that when it’s time for bed and the stories have all been read he tears out of his shirt and indiscriminately requests that I scratch his back while he drifts off. How much joy comes out of that moment for me, that he feels safe (enough), loved (enough), protected (enough), secure (enough) to ask me to stay, to love him a little, in whatever way he’ll let me? How can I tell her what an honor it is to be with her children, know that she and her husband can go out and enjoy an evening together, alone, as a couple, as themselves, really get to enjoy each other, knowing—really knowing—that their children are safe and loved and adored and protected, how do I tell this woman who in about the first seven minutes of knowing her had already stitched her family into my heart: Howard, Jen, Edie and Gabriel. Assorted pets (Lucy and Willy, the dogs, Annie, the cat, Gup-gup, the fish, Coco, the guinea pig…am I missing anyone here)...how can I tell her how much I love them all?

Most especially, these two precious little gems. One eleven, one seven. Dark, dark hair and blue blue blue eyes. Sprinkles of freckles on their noses. Children are easy to love; they're also easily detestable, but Gabe at his worst with me is just a notch or two on the wrong side of hyperactive and Edie...you can't help but love Edie. You can't help but love Gabe for that matter; even when he's acting out he's still a good kid (this is, of course, based on my knowing this family for less than a year and no doubt missing a substantial majority of Gabe's less-than-promising moments...but you just know he's a good kid, just occasionally acts rotten to keep me on my toes, it seems). These children are so beautiful and so loving, how could I possibly not love them?

When I carry Edie to bed and get her settled in, she coos and smiles at me, and it’s as if she can see right into me, right through me. Her eyes flutter when I kiss her forehead and tell her good-night, tell her to have sweet dreams, tell her I love her. Because I do. When Gabe pulls the blanket over his head as I try to drop a kiss good-night onto his forehead, then lowers it, his eyes dancing, both teasing and imploring. So I kiss him good night and tell him to have sweet dreams, smiling, tell him I love him.

Because I do. And so they sleep snuggled warm and tired in their beds, and I head down to hang out with the menagerie that will now keep me company, until Howard and Jen come home.

How did I get so freakin BUSY???

Monday: Double shift (Oats 8:30 to 5:45ish, Origins 6-9:30ish)
Tuesday: Oats til 5:30; Bikram's 6:30 to 8
Wednesday: Double Shift
Thursday: Oats til 5:30ish; running with Rick at the rez
Friday: Double shift
Saturday: Origins 10-4, baby-sitting for Howard and Jen 6:30ish til...
Sunday: long run at rez...and maybe...stillness?

You know it's getting bad when you're wondering when you can possibly fit in meditation...

"Leap and the net will appear..."

It's a nice idea, as a testament to your faith. A principle by which one tries to live. A notion that in and of itself comprises part of your belief system, or just a phrase you try to keep in mind, to give you a bit of perspective.

When it dictates your life and rules over it like a fascist dictator, on the other hand, it's absolute torture. When it means you don't have any firm ground to stand on, that every component of your life is in limbo all at the same time, that you've leapt and now you're in a state of freefall and can't see the net and can't see the net and can't see the net...well, it becomes increasingly difficult to believe it will appear.

Please, please, please let it appear...

BolderBoulder 2007

She Warmed Up. She Started. And By God, She Finished.

She also managed to prove that the bigger you are, the harder you fall. As a kid, it would’ve been minor, a skinned knee, a skinned hand, a lot of dramatic sniveling, and then Mommy would kiss it and make it all better.

When you are twenty-five years old, however, and forget that in order to overcome massive obstacles like a crumbling curb, you need to pick up your feet, it’s major. You’ve got that much further to fall! Ooops.

This year’s Bolder Boulder was definitely better than last year in terms of time (I think), quality, feeling in general, etc. Jack came out to cheer me on at the intersection near our apartment complex where the race passes through. I gave him a quick high-five and felt an incredible sense of warmth and love and happiness. That he’d get out of bed at 7:30 in the morning and stand there waiting for me to pass meant the world to me. It so warmed my heart that the permasmile I slap on when I’m running a race, workout, anything, was even bigger than usual. At the advice of one of my favorite triathletes, the 2006 World Long Distance Champion Bella Comerford, I try to remember to “stay tough, and keep smiling”, as she wrote to me in an email before the marathon last year. And so I stayed tough. And kept smiling. Even through the fall.

About a mile or so from where Jack and I had slapped hands (he stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, smirking cutely and shaking his head, then reached his hand out once I extended mine…I later found out he was only semi-conscious; just goes to show how euphoric the runner’s high really is…you can mistake a friend’s expression, which is really brought on by his being in a state of half-awake, half-asleep, for perfectly-placed mischievousness) I was running up 20^th Street when my brain apparently lost touch with my basic running skills and I fell. I tripped on a section of crumbling curb and went straight down, solidly skinning both knees and my left hand. The residents gathered in the yard in front of which I fell immediately started towards me, but I sprang up too quickly, brushing myself off and announcing to them, the other spectators, the volunteers, and about 200 of my fellow BolderBoulderites that I was okay, I was fine, no big deal, just a stupid mistake. Every volunteer after that, it seemed, asked if I needed help. My fellow runners expressed concern here and there. Basically, anyone who’d either seen me fall or saw the results of it. Aside from being profusely embarrassed I was constantly reminded of it. But stopping the race? Hell, no! It was a couple of scratches, minor abrading, no big deal. I finished. Legs stretched out mightily from the top of Folsom thru the chutes at the finish, I suddenly realized that a) I was selling myself WAY short on capacity in terms of what I was able to do, and would therefore have to work on improving my cowardly baby steps to becoming faster and faster, and b) now that I was finished, I could probably use some medical assistance. I walked over to a paramedic I saw and asked for a band-aid. He eyed me warily, then nearly jumped when I showed him my knees and hustled me over to the medical tent. Sidenote: I am so grateful that the only time, thus far, knock on wood, that I’ve had to visit the medical tent was for severely abraded knees and a skinned palm, nothing more serious. A woman came up with her daughter and the girl was suffering severe dehydration; she was pale-grey colored and visibly shaking. They were laying her down to rest and giving her water as the paramedic who worked on me finished iodining and bandaging my knees and hand. At that point, I had glanced at my injuries a few times but was more interested in scanning the crowd for signs of my friends and figured I’d let the medic do his job.

When I got home, however, and undressed to shower, it was an entirely different story. My hand was pretty okay, just a couple of nicks, and my right knee was slightly-to-moderately abraded. My left knee, however, which I’m assuming took the brunt of the fall (I barely remember falling, just one second running along fine smiling and the next second feeling the unmistakable sensation of road-and-crumbled-concrete-and-sand-and-gravel against skin, and then jumping to my feet again and starting to run), has a NASTY goose egg on it and a substantial abrasion. Now I know why so many cyclists shave their legs. The cut is not pretty for sure, but it’s the horrible bruising that I’m really worried about. Oooops…

And I will write more later, as I am exhausted and a little cranky. Mostly just tired, but I need some fluid replenishment myself and I want to see what goodies are in my BolderBoulder bag this year…they’ve been getting progressively worse over the last four years, for sure. Sidenote: why is it that the sunscreen companies can create sunscreen that won’t get in your eyes but will invariably get in your mouth? I’ve Listerine’d twice now and still can’t get that detestable taste from my mouth….eeeewwwwww…

Several days later…

Well, my cardiovascular system may have recovered from the 10K but my knees are just starting to mend. Along with nasty scrapes on each one I’ve got some terrific bruising going on, especially on the left one. I found out my time was one hour, twelve minutes and fifty-four seconds…two days after the run, when they collected data from everyone’s electronic shoe tag and posted it all to the website and got it up and running—no pun intended—as 50,000-plus users tried to access it all at once. When Seagate can’t keep a website up…well, just goes to show what happens when you have a few score-thousand people trying to login to it. I exchanged a few entertaining emails with my friend Gregory who’d also run the race with his fiancé and several of their friends, but alas, as much as we cursed and damned the site it didn’t do us any good. Seagate finally got it going yesterday afternoon and I checked my results last night, laughing audibly when they came up and I realized I only did better than last year by about three minutes. Well, a sprinter I’m not, that’s for sure.

The goodies weren’t so bad although “nutritious” would be a stretch…the most nutritious item in the bag was, as usual, the produce item, which instead of an orange or apple was a tiny bag of baby carrots this year. I dug into those immediately. The rest of the bag’s contents remain in the bag, on the floor or my living room. As big a fan of junk food as I am, the words “Breakfast” and “Cookie” just don’t go together in my vocabulary.

So, onward and upward…I’ll start running again in a few days, when it doesn’t re-open the scabs on my knees every time I bend them. I’ve been thinking I should attend a Bikram class but then I start thinking about the postures, there are definitely a few that would hurt my abraded joints like hell. And te sweat pouring into them probably wouldn’t help either. So I’m restlessly resting, eager to get moving again, semi-twitchy with a virus only athletes—or those of us struggling to be athletes—get when we can’t train for a few days, general restlessness. But man, what a race. While I understand why the frenzy surrounding the BolderBoulder every year send the rest of my fellow Boulderites packing for a long weekend anywhere BUT here…I don’t have a car, so traffic isn’t a concern. I don’t have to fly in, drive up, find a place to stay…just take off about half an hour before my start time to the starting line, slap on a smile, and enjoy my run.

Coca-Cola to Buy Vitaminwater...

Among the many disturbing headlines I spotted in the NYT digest I receive in my work mail inbox every day, this was the most terrifying. Not the war in Iraq (I've seen so many "we lost xx number of troops today and xx number were severely wounded and are listed in critical condition" that I've become, sadly, rather desensitized to it), not the fact that our "elected" leader made a buffoon of himself yet again when he stated that Queen Elizabeth was here for our country's bicentennial in 1776, not the record numbers of people being slaughtered, publicly or privately, by military coups, angry ethnic wars or religious strife. The most terrifying was the fact that Coke is buying Vitaminwater.

For those of you who don't know, Vitaminwater is exactly what it says it is: water enhanced with vitamins. It comes in many different varieties and flavors, and is a great alternative to, well, Coke, Pepsi, and other carbonated soft drink beverages. For your information, Odwalla is also owned by Coca - Cola, see the following link for more information on that acquisition.
http://www.9news.com/news/article.aspx?storyid=70760

Now, I don't drink Odwalla juices because I prefer Naked. I DO drink Vitaminwater because they provide excellent postworkout refreshment and electrolyte replenishment.

I am also a Coca Cola FIEND. This has tapered off significantly, especially as I've been introduced, through my part-time job at Origins as well as my boyfriend's love for tea, but it's still there. In fact on my desk right now there's a Nalgene of filtered water, a glass of Pom Wonderful's new Lychee White Tea, and a 12-ounce can of Coke. Call me a hypocrite.

The issue I have is with the fact that the manufacturer of a product thst removes rust better than commercial rust remover (the Mythbusters proved this one) is now making all-natural juices and electrolyte replacement beverages (and for the record, I prefer Gatorade to Recharge, though they're both great...I think that's ingrained from when I was in sixth or seventh grade and that was the only option we had for electrolyte replacement). The way I see it, it's only a matter of time because high fructose corn syrup starts sneaking its way into your Mango Tango and Dragon Fruit drinks. I think I'll stick with Naked for now.

My Love Affair With Lilacs

My boyfriend probably thinks I am crazy, and understandably so. But still...

Every spring since we moved to Colorado in 1995, right around the end of March thru the beginning of May, I waited, captivated by the blooms which, though tiny and furled, would soon open to release the most magical scent, the most beautiful flowers, in colors ranging from pure white to the palest lavender to bright fuchsia and beyond. The blooms would last a month or so, eventually, as all spring flowers do in the arid heat of the Colorado summer, fade, crumple and die. As I sit here writing this today there is a vase full of tiny white lilacs—my favorite; their scent is so sweet. There’s another, larger, vase on the middle of my coffee table. One in the bathroom. Two in my bedroom. I can’t get enough of them. And yes, they droop and die quickly in my vases, no matter how tenderly I try to handle them or how carefully I monitor their fresh water; they very simply need their bushes, the mother plants they were so unkindly snipped from at the giddy greed of my shears.

I don’t remember lilacs in New Jersey, but that’s where Mom remembered them from, and her eyes would grow wide as she told us of these incredible bushes that lie dormant for most of the year and then, for only a short time, burst forth with the most beautifully-scented, heavenly flowers. I was enraptured, and couldn’t wait for the lilacs to start blooming. It was no secret that the relationship between my mother and I was, at best, strained, though while I outwardly maintained my standard-issue adolescent angst, rudeness, brattiness and outright cruelty towards my mother and sister, I inwardly ached for my mother’s approval, my sister’s confidence. The confidence that would grow between Emily and I had to grow from a wary trust, and by the time she began confiding in me I was completely blown away. I was honored and terrified, what do I do now? Oh my God, she actually loves me and respects me and wants my opinion! Oh, shit! But that’s another post, for another day.

My relationship with my mother, on the other hand, was absolutely awful. I cried myself to sleep at night because I couldn’t make her understand where I was coming from, she was totally against me, she always took Emily’s side, she…take your pick of horrible motherly sins, they utterly destroyed me at times. I can’t say for sure because I haven’t asked, but I wonder now, now that I’m an adult—well, more of an adult, anyway—and our relationship has grown into a deeply loving and respectful friendship, if she cried herself to sleep those nights too. Not knowing the answer, I’m still confident it’s probably “yes”.

My mother’s birthday is April 17, prime time for lilac picking. The awesome part about lilac picking is that while many people grow them in their own private lawns and would rather not have them violated by a skinny little teenager with a pair of shears and a heart set on procuring the luscious flowers for her mother’s surprise birthday present, they also grow all over the place, wild. One entire main avenue near our house was nothing but lilac blooms for five or six blocks, and so, on the morning of April 17, I would set my alarm super-early (Mom’s an early riser, so getting anything done before she gets up requires some thoughtful planning in advance) and, by six o’clock in the morning was riding my bicycle along Drake Road in Fort Collins, clipping the beautifully fragrant, silky branches and dropping them into the knapsack I’d brought along for this express purpose. When Mom got up that morning, she was greeted by a sleepy, but smiling, oldest daughter, a gigantic bouquet of lilacs and a Happy Birthday card. She hugged me tight and thanked me and kissed me, and for a moment, everything was okay.

I took advantage of this tactic every year I lived in Fort Collins for Mom’s birthday and then again for Mother’s Day, and she was always delighted, although I’m sure the surprise wore off pretty quickly. And of course they died quickly, drooping and wilting in their vases until they finally had to be discarded, mournfully.

I’m not a typical Boulderite. That is, I ride my bike absolutely everywhere, but it’s because I have no other option, save my feet or the bus (which is absurdly expensive), or maybe a taxi (even more expensive). I eat well because I work for a natural-foods company. I take Bikram yoga classes because I love them…that’s all, pure and simple. But I also love Coca-Cola and junk food and until recently was a smoker and imbibed alcohol on a fairly regular basis (these two habits have been cutoff entirely…smoking for good, drinking for awhile, at least, if not forever). So the conclusion I’m about to draw here digs a bit deep for parallels, so you’ll have to excuse what I see as completely obvious, but will probably come off as sounding like your standard-issue Boulderite fruitcake, yet another resident of the city known as “ten square miles surrounded by reality”. But I don’t really care. It’s my blog, and I get to say whatever I want here, and if you’re reading this, you can form your own opinions. Anyway. At this point in my life I see a unique relationship between the lilacs I would pick for her, and the relationship we struggled through during my teenage years. When removed from its “mother” or the mother plant, the lilac draws its nutrients however it can: a vase filled with water, the ground if it’s been carelessly torn down. But without the mother plant, the thriving organism that gives it life, allows its blooms to unfold and open to the sun, strong, hardy blooms ready to take on the world, or at least, produce magnificent scents and beautiful flowers until they grow dormant again until the next year. This relationship, looking back, was not unlike my relationship with my mother. The further away I got from my mother, the more I wilted, the more I drooped, fell apart, because angry and depressed and enraged and gave up. But the moments that we were connected, the times that I felt our closeness so tangibly it made me cry, were the times I felt the strongest, the most myself, the best about my life and my happiness.

So, call me a crazy Boulderite. I don’t care. My love affair with lilacs will continue for the rest of my life. As will my love for my mother.

BolderBoulder 2007

Well here it is just 19 days shy of the 29th BolderBoulder, the 10k race that draws thousands of people into Boulder for just one weekend, and then they all leave again. I am starting to wonder given my growing dread of running if I can prep for this race by cycling and yoga alone. Ohyeah, right, it's a 10k RUN. Duh.

I need to get my arse in gear. This is almost embarrassing. The hundred's not going to happen and neither is my humble desire to complete a marathon in each of the months of June, July and August and then do the Boulder Backroads Marathon again in September. I guess we shall see...maybe I'll just run the course in June, July and August in prep for September. That could be cool.

I really need to get on board with training, it's just been wearing on me and I have too much energy and not enough to do with it all. Youth is wasted on the young, I suppose...

Does a Wannabe Trailrunner S*** In The Woods?

You bet we do! Holy cow, I've had plenty of runs where "holding it" really meant hauling to the end where I could safely empty the contents of my bowels into the nearest Port-a-Potty but this time...this time...there I was...out at the Boulder Reservoir...the closest ANYTHING civilization-esque being a house at the end of a half-mile long driveway. So it was either...sprint that hafl mile, praying someone was home the whole time, beat on their door, desperately try to convince them (if they were home) that I wasn't a lunatic, just out doing an eighteen-mile run and suddenly had the urgent need to evacuate my bowels, stat, hope that they would believe me AND not mind the lack of delicacy of the subject at hand, and allow me to use their restroom or there was...the ditch. Slightly hidden by a bare-branched tree (no spring leaves to cover up yet), about two feet down, a nice little incline from the road to the lip of the ditch givine me enough room (I hoped, I hoped) for cover. Grateful for the fact that my allergies require that I run with the equivalent of several boxes of Kleenex stuffed into the pockets of my gear, I dropped trou, squatted, and let loose.

Oh, come on now, it wasn't THAT bad. It wasn't like I some great diarrheaic fountain pouring out of me, just your average poop, no big deal. Until I saw the car. The car stopped at the stop sign at the T-intersection where every other car I'd seen while running along this route thus far turned the other way. The car that would, of course, luck of the Irish combined with luck of the ill-fated endurance athlete (I never knew there was such luck until this moment; the luck of the Irish I've been a victim of my entire life), turn this way. In my direction. I had maybe a block or two before they'd see me. I quickly draped my Nike jacket around me to cover as much flesh as possible without shitting all over the damned thing as well, and hung my head as the vehicle lumbered slowly by. I peeked up just in time to see an elderly couple staring at me, aghast. Whoops. Looks like I didn't do a good enough job of covering up.

Afterwards I resumed my run as qucikly as possible. I felt...lighter, less encumbered, for sure but oddly, animalistic. I even kicked a bunch of dirt off of the road to cover my scat and dug a crude hole in which I placed my used toilet paper, then carefully covered it and weighed it down with a rock. I felt suddenly like my cat, a bit, and in some weird way understood now why she felt the need to cover her scat. There were some sort of primal feelings in me that had been dormant my whole life, but suddenly and very strangely were awakened. I looked around me, at the dirt roads, at the multi-million dollar houses and ranches, at the communities bordering the edges of the foothills, and for the first time I realized just how far we've come, us humans, this singular and entirely-too-complex species I belong to. I sort of wondered, as I eased into my regular pace and my breathing regulated itself, had we really evolved or were we moving backwards? When did partial nudity (okay, people, the most theu could have seen were the sides of my behind and thighs) and disposal of waste become this clandestine act? And why did we allow it to become so? I pondered it for awhile and then, suddenly, as Ricky Martin's "She Bangs!" started blasting through my head I realized: Dondi, you're pondering the evolution of shit. A wide grin spread over my face, my head cleared, and I kept on truckin. There was a nasty hill I was about to encounter, and my concentration definitely needed some refocusing. I put my head down, increased my awareness of my heart rate, breathing and foot strike, and plodded on down the road.

I Must Learn To Love My Life

God, you'd think after knowing "The Secret" and trying to put it into action I'd be more positive. I just deleted the last five posts because they are so bloody negative. So I am going to start over...and practice better...and be more positive. Lookout world, here I come...

xoxo
Dondi

I'm Back!

When I checked my gmail account this afternoon after spending a grueling hour calling vendors and stores, that was the very first email I saw. I could've shot through the roof, I was so happy, and I tried to contain my very obvious excitement from the vendors being escorted past my cubicle to a conference room by my VP ("nothing to see here, folks, nothing to see here"). "I'm Back!" was penned by my wonderful darling friend Matt, a college buddy who made International Law a much more interesting class, joined me in poking fun at (and becoming friends with) our TA in American Foreign Policy, introduced me to the finer pleasures of the Irish carbomb, spent countless hours with me totally intoxicated and yelling about Reagan at Conor O'Neills, possesses the world's most gorgeous blue eyes and fantastic grin, and completely broke my heart by joining the Army and go to Afghanistan.

Fortunately great friendships, not unlike great loves, last even through heartbreaking decisions made by one party or the other. The last time I saw Matt we went to Conor's and dropped back a few carbombs, then up to Dillon to stay at his brother and sister-in-law's place and ski one of the most fun resorts in Colorado. Being around Matt, and Ryan and Jill too, always imbued me with a sense of total happiness. These are some of the most genuine, kind, loving, warm and intelligent people I've ever known. I took him to the airport to go back to Chicago and then, a few days later, he left for Afghanistan. Fuck, man. That seems like forever ago...and it was only Thanksgivingish 2005...

Here we are at Conor O'Neill's over a year ago...the last time I saw my dear friend...and now he's HOME!!!














Can't wait to see you, babe. I am so happy you're home.