Emily Smiles

A drunk driver nearly destroyed my family's Christmas. My mother and sister, who are incredibly close, haven't seen each other in years. Our extended family and friends joined forces to make it possible for my mom to visit Emily, who moved to Charlotte several years ago to be closer to our (now deceased) father while he battled cancer. When Dad died last October, Emily decided to stay in Charlotte. She'd made friends and our Dad's side of the family lives close by, and a move wasn't financially viable, to say the least. When my mother's best friend offered to use her frequent flyer miles to buy a ticket for Mom to go see Emily, the rest of us figured out how to make it work. A neighbor is taking care of her dogs; her sister sent some money so that they could buy groceries while Mom was there. Emily, working two jobs, can barely make ends meet and my mother's meager government disability stipend barely covers her living expenses. My boyfriend and I arranged to drive Mom to and from the airport. Emily couldn't even take time off while Mom was there; they visited around my sister's considerable work schedule. But we were all so happy that Mom was going to get to see Emily; we all knew it would be the best Christmas gift they could possibly receive.

They had barely arrived at home on Christmas Eve when the drunk driver of a Trans Am hit Emily's car. He smashed into it so hard that he shoved it some 30 feet down the street; the car is so badly totaled that they can't move it anywhere (right now it's blocking a driveway). We can't even scrape together enough money to have the car towed anywhere, and her insurance company picked a fight with her when she called them to report the accident last night. The driver fled the scene but miraculously a neighbor was outside when it happened, saw the whole thing, and got the guy's plate number...then went to Emily's door to let her know her car had just been destroyed. My mom is leaving tonight and instead of spending these last few hours together enjoying each other's company they are calling around frantically for help to get Mom to the airport. Emily has to work a thirteen hour day tomorrow and will have to take buses two hours there and back. She's a 24-year old bright spot of sunshine and good humor in the lives of everyone who knows her; there is not a more compassionate, vivacious, beautiful person in the world than Emily Barrowclough. She has also lived through some horrific incidents in her very young life, from being the victim of an armed home robbery while living in Colorado to the death of our father to losing a dear friend in Charlotte to a heroin overdose just this past year. She's such a good, kind, loving person; I don't know why these terrible things keep happening to her.

I spent my Christmas Day today setting up a donation fund for her so that she can get some help securing transportation. Please consider donating to the Emily Smiles Fund (there is a donation button at the top right on this blog). Thank you.

This...Is Frostnip

The word "Frostnip" sounds adorable. Like Jack Frost's puppy, or the latest winter cocktail. It's also fun to say (oh, just try it, you know you wanna: frost-nip, frost-nip, frost-nip...okay, okay, that's enough). It is NOT fun, however, to actually deal with.

Frostnip is the first stage of frostbite (ahh, logic in pseudo-scientific terminology). eMedicineHealth.com describes it as such: "When only the surface skin is frozen, the injury is called frostnip. Frostnip begins with itching and pain. The skin then blanches and eventually the area becomes numb. Frostnip generally does not lead to permanent damage because only the top layers of skin are involved. However, frostnip can lead to long-term sensitivity to heat and cold." Doesn't sound like fun, does it? Well, fortunately, I only skimmed the surface of potential frostnip myself today, biking to work in -10 degree weather.

In my defense, I don't have a car, taking the bus system would have taken 30-45 minutes and increased my carbon-footprint guilt, and since I didn't really pay attention to the deep freeze that began yesterday and apparently continues to consume Colorado tonight (at this posting, it's -2.6 degrees outside) I figured I'd get the usual sunny Colorado day-after-a-weekend blizzard weather to deal with on my ride to work: cold, bracing, but not really freezing. Never again will I make such an assumption.

As usual, I prepared my messenger bag and my bicycle, threw on the lovely fleece I usually ride to work in, and headed out to greet the day. The roads were still covered in packed snow, and as I descended the staircase from my third-floor apartment, bike and bag in tow, I was paying much more attention to my footfalls, as a slip would be quite simple to sustain and likely have dire consequences, than I was to the weather. Having safely descended, I jumped on my bike, pulled my hat a little lower, and wobbled carefully into the rightmost set of tire tracks on the road. This is a Boulder thing, and I don't suggest trying it elsewhere. In Boulder, they will grimace, scowl, shake their fists, curse and sometimes roll down windows to scream at you but they will not, if you are on a bicycle and they in a car trying to pass you, actually hit you. At least not on purpose. While I feel a little bad knowing I'm a slow-moving obstacle that the clenched-teeth SUV-driving, Starbucks-latte gulping, Bluetooth-headset wearing driver behind me really wishes he could just mow down, I reconcile such thoughts with, wait a minute, I am making up for that douchebag's carbon Bigfoot print with every jam forward onto my crank. He can kiss my arse. And they get a break in traffic, and they go around. Big deal.

Today, however, I had no such thoughts, because I had no time for such thoughts, because my lungs were not functioning. I was forcibly separated from my bicycle for a few days last week as it underwent a tube change and was a bit terrified, thinking, oh my God, it's only been a few days and my lungs are burning like they're on fire, and my skin is frozen, and my progress is pathetic. Yes, I was in slippery. slidey snow but I usually make better time than this! Then I realized I could hear myself breathing over the music on my Nikepod, and my breathing terrified me even more. Think of a severe case of tuberculosis in the 19th century, something like Doc Holliday on his deathbed. Then put it on several shots of espresso and amphetamines. That's what I sounded like. A caffeinated TB patient. On top of this, my fleece jacket, usually a great top layer because it allows some breathability while keeping me somewhat warm, was performing about as well as a fishing net. I was chilled to my bones and panting rapidly. No good could come from this, and I seriously started worrying about my health.

I eventually made it to work and it wasn't for another hour that I discovered exactly how frigid the air outside was. I think we had a high of 4.3 degrees today. Without any proper gear--though I had some in my bag, at least a Gore Tex jacket to overlay my fleece with, had I known it was that cold--including a balaclava or some similar attire to keep the arctic air from being sucked straight into my lungs, I was literally killing potentially hundreds of alveoli in my lungs with every breath. I was informed of this by my colleague Alice, who has an impressive breadth of knowledge on this subject, as I sat at my desk beside her wheezing tremendously. The shot of albuterol I sent down my airway once I got to work probably didn't help. I found out later that the temperature was around -10 degrees while I was riding. No wonder. My face was bright red thanks to the very earliest stages of frostnip, and my hands and arms didn't fully warm for about half an hour.

When I got home after work--my loving boyfriend picked me up and we left the bike in the rack for the night--I looked in the mirror for the first time and noticed that my cheeks were dotted with red bumps and blotches where blood vessels had frozen and then restarted during and after my frozen ride to work. I didn't take these until a few hours later, and it's gone down considerably, but anyone who knows me knows my cheeks and ears aren't generally this red:




So, lessons here: Even the gentlest nip of frost is unpleasant. Check the weather report before you leave to bike to work...and, well, um, don't bike to work in negative 10 degree weather! But if you must, layer as much as you can. Your body will thank you. Mine is still dodgy, but I'm sure it'll come around eventually.

Denver Half Marathon Race Report

October 19, 2008

What do you get when you pair 5623 runners with about a hundred port-a-potties?

Really long lines.

That said, it’s about the only major executive-level complaint I have about the Denver Marathon. Then again, when you have a former Boston Marathon race director designing the course, it’s sort of expected that that level of organization is included with your race fee. The fact that there were nowhere near enough port-o-lets at the race’s start/finish to accommodate the runners was kind of a bummer. I don’t expect to find thousands of temporary toilets on the grounds of Civic Center Park, but surely a few more wouldn’t have hurt.

We were pretty much left to fend for ourselves on the course, as well, although since it toured through several parks in greater downtown Denver, there were a few more toilets available around the course…but there were very few. Outside of port-a-johns, you could head into a local business along the route and hope for sympathy.

How did my race report get so toilet-centered? Well, to say my digestion was suffering on race day would be the understatement of the millennium. My stomach was so bad that I couldn’t even imagine starting without going to the bathroom; when the starting gun went off and the lines for the toilet disappeared, I stood my ground and fled into the next open toilet. I’m not used to this. My digestion has been one thing I’ve always had going for me: races, training runs, whatever, my stomach has never been an issue before. That morning, however, my tummy was NOT having it. As a result, I started running about ten minutes late…and departed the start line just ahead of the sweeper truck.

OK, so, that aside…Colorado in autumn is absolutely gorgeous, for the most part. There’s a chance you can get bogged down in snow, but it’s pretty slim, and on October 19, Colorado’s fall spectacular was on display. I ran the Denver Marathon under crystal-clear skies and warming temps as the sun came up to illuminate the gorgeous fall colors: aspen and oak and crab apple and mulberry trees all in the midst of their annual showcase in brilliant golds and oranges and reds and yellows. I feel extraordinarily blessed to call this part of the world home, especially at this time of year.

The entire course is paved, and ran through sections of LoDo and downtown Denver, including Coors Field, the newly redesigned Denver Art Museum, City Park and Cheesman Park, along with scads of beautiful older-Denver neighborhoods. The race started and finished at Civic Center Park, near the state Capitol building. Both races follow the same course; the marathon course splits off and weaves through several other historic areas and a couple of extra parks, then loops back and rejoins the main course about a mile before the finish. Finishers were directed by ever-helpful and friendly race volunteers and personnel into separate chutes for the half- and full-marathon, and the reception at the finish was phenomenal: to already be running a gorgeous course on a beautiful day just feels fantastic; to feel so beloved by the hundreds of cheering fans at the finish, especially those already-finished runners who stick around to cheer for us back-of-the-packers.

The course was well-stocked with Gatorade and water, and surprisingly not quite as well-stocked for nutrition otherwise. Personally, I didn’t mind the single aid station offering Clif Shots—I can’t stand gels and pack my own sustenance—at mile 7, and for a half-marathon, you really can get away with very little if any nutritional complements, but looking at the course map I only saw one other aid station for Clif Shots, at mile 17. Perhaps less nutrition is better, but it seemed kind of lacking to me. Since I didn’t run the full, however, I’m in no place to comment: volunteers often bring their own snacks and generously share them with dogged marathoners, a courtesy I have always appreciated.

Speaking of volunteers…the volunteers for the race were exceptional, as usual, and cheered and enthused and encouraged us all on, even me, barely ahead of the race-walkers. The awesome attitude and charm of race volunteers and spectators never fails to amaze me; I think the sidelines at any road race are possibly the best evidence for the social and supportive nature of humans available. Runners are crazy: we get up at absurd hours and then go exert ourselves for an extended amount of time, so that we can cross that finish line, beat that PR, get that metal trinket handed out at the finish and then mill around with a bunch of fellow crazy, sweaty people afterwards to chow down on bagels, burritos, bananas and beer (alliteration unintentional, but amusing). But what of the people who aren’t running, who show up to support us, to hand us water and Gatorade, to sweep up millions of little paper cups and cheer us on and take our pictures and carry our crap for us? I can really only offer my enormous gratitude and thanks to every spectator and volunteer present, not the least of which goes out to my awesome boyfriend/sherpa/personal photographer/cheerleader/sideline therapist/motivator Jeremy.

The police presence was commendable as well. Having to blockade substantial areas of main streets and neighborhoods can’t be easy, but they not only assisted the runners wholeheartedly, they would smile and nod or cheer us on as well. What a great feeling. I’m sure that closing roads for this race seemed like small potatoes to them after hosting the Democratic National Convention, but I still really appreciate their candor and cheery attitude.

While the course is “relatively flat” there are some hillier sections that made me really thankful for being residentially acclimated to life at 5000 feet. I’d recommend getting here a few days in advance, if possible, so as not to be stymied by the less-than-flat sections, if coming from sea level to run this race. It’s nowhere near as hilly at the Boulder Marathon but still might warrant acclimatization for runners from sea level. It’s much easier to haul up those hills without feeling like you’re breathing through a straw.

Miscellany: McDonald’s was a title sponsor, which simultaneously doesn’t surprise me and makes me cringe. Nothing like America’s greatest championer of obesity promoting an athletic event. There was a huge Team In Training presence, which I always enjoy seeing and am starting to think hard about joining, or at least running a race or two with; I really admire this organization. Finally, there was a woman at mile four holding a McCain/Palin sign. OK, the political situation was driving most of us crazy to begin with, and escaping it through running doesn’t work anymore as myriad lawn signs are posted everywhere. I don’t need anyone else’s political assertions injected into my race as well. Granted, it was more of a run than a race for me, but I still think it was annoying, at best. I was there to run, not evaluate my political conscience…apparently a $102 race fee can’t get you away from the die-hards.

Speaking of what that $102 fee included…the race packets were pretty pathetic: lots of shiny advertisements, a beverage that couldn’t possibly pass muster as a sport drink, and a cotton t-shirt. Because we runners love to wear cotton so much. I really think there oughta be some sort of universal stipulation for giving race participants synthetic race shirts. The finishing medals were really nice though; you kind of felt like an Olympian considering the heft and size of the things.

All in all it was a beautiful race that gives a nice scope of Denver for out-of-state entrants, and a great reminder for us residents of the wealth of awesome running routes we enjoy year-round. If you’re considering a Mile High marathon, I strongly endorse this one.

http://www.denvermarathon.com

Sick...

In the wake of Senator Obama's visit to Colorado, in high spirits and enjoying the mellifluous peace that we were going to secure a leader for this country whose work as President would be revolutionary, ingenious, historically significant, one huge black mark crashed through my day today.

It started with a Fox News report (how better to know my enemy than to read their news?) on a couple of white supremacists arrested by the FBI for attempting to enact a plot to kill Senator Obama as the "final target" on a list of 88 murders and 14 decapitations of black people. The list includes black schoolchildren. Apparently no one is too young for the psychotic notions of super-racists.

Are you listening to me?!?!?! SCHOOLCHILDREN!!! What is going on here? As much as I hate to say it, Senator Obama is probably more aware of the dangers to his life and the liabilities facing the decision he made to run for President than any other Presidential candidate in history...the only reason being that we are NOT a coclor-blind population. As much as we would like to say we are, we're not. I don't think I'm exaggerating in saying that any non-Caucasian person in this country has a sense of that, grows up with it, understands it. We'd love to be. But we're not. Let's get honest here.

One particularly terrifying, and yet somewhat gratifying, part of the New York Times article I picked up on the would-be killers: "The two men “planned to drive their vehicle as fast as they could toward Obama shooting at him from the windows,” according to an affidavit filed in federal court in Jackson, Tenn., by an agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Mr. Obama has no plans to be in Tennessee, and the affidavit does not make clear whether the men had picked a location for an attack."

Terrifying because: people are actually planning to try to assassinate Obama. I remember remarking on the presence of the Secret Service at the Denver rally, "What's the worst thing that could happen right now?" and all of us nodding and reluctantly acknowledging the horror of that idea.

Gratifying because: the FBI is really ON TOP OF IT. They caught onto these guys before their plan even reached an advanced stage. Also because they're so clearly ignorant morons that they wouldn't have gotten far...drive their vehicle as fast as they could and shoot at Obama through the windows? Um, last I knew, the Secret Service had that plan anticipated, and clearly thought out, and had plenty of contingency plans to deal with such an incident. Obama didn't have plans to campaign in Tennessee, and while future development might show they intended to strike elsewhere, all we know now if that they were planning this attack from home turf.

And then...nauseating, because...how does anyone, anywhere, anytime, justfiy killing children?

Obama/Biden 08. Vote!

Law of the American Jungle

First, there was the pre-dawn wake-up call, our alarms clattering noisily, rousing us from our comfortable slumber. Our bodies didn't want to respond at all. Being up this early was completely foreign on this day of the week, and they didn't like it one bit. Somehow, we got ourselves to the bus on time.

Then it was the bus ride to Denver, packed in with crowds of people RTD doesn't usually see on this line, during this day of the week. The decision had been sent down from dispatch, our driver informed us, to run more buses that day. We'd secured seats and were still trying to wake up, and I pitied--though not enough to give up my seat, selfish child that I can be--those who had to stand for the entire hourlong ride.

Then there was the wait in the line, which moved every so often, only to reveal more line. Finally we neared the park. There were metal detectors to pass through, Secret Service and Denver Police officers patting people down, coins and phones to remove from pockets, bags to be searched. A woman beside me groaned, remembering her artificial knee. Making our way through the park, we stopped at what was then the edge of the crowd, a good 60-70 yards from the podium. We grumbled about having a lousy view and prepared for our next wait. It would be another hour and a half before the rally even began, and the crowds were packing in.

Standing on my tiptoes, I could only see if a few hundred people tilted their heads just so. And even then, only a glimpse of the podium, the teleprompter, the speaker. Bitter-cold breeze blowing. Feet stamping. Trying to warm up.

By the end of the day, we were sunburned. Fatigued. Cold. Achy. Claustrophobic.

Faced with an imminent need to empty our bladders.

And yet, the Law of the American Jungle still applied: stay calm, and share your bananas. We weren't necessarily calm; it was a political rally, for goodness' sake, "calm" isn't the point. But we were joyful. We were exuberant. We were smiling and joking and laughing. We were befriending those around us, sharing the latest negative-campaigning gossip, heartily congratulating a woman nearby when she said she was a lifelong Republican who not only had converted but was out helping with voter regiatration, getting people to early voting, helping in any way that she could. A woman forgot her camera, so she gave me her email address so that I could send her our pictures. She and her friends shared their trail mix with us when they broke it out. We all laughed over the $150,000 wardrobe scandal, we shored up our reserves and we discussed tactics to get our friends and loved ones who were Republican or undecided to consider our candidate. It was awesomely Democratic; as far as I can tell, the only thing Republicans do when they rally--in, thankfully, waning numbers--is shout crude, vitriolic psycho-babble like "Drill, baby, drill!" Republican gatherings look like the crowd at the AARP claims office: a bunch of old angry white men. Democratic gatherings have a decidedly more American flavor: people of every shape, size, color, age, sexual orientation, you name it, are there. The rally was actually representative of the American population, rather than representative of Old Johnny's Cronies. Moving on...

When our local politicians took the stage, we cheered them on. When they incited the crowd for responses, we hollered readily. My boyfriend, the designated photographer, snapped dozens of photos, mostly of a sea of people, a podium, a figure speaking, and a huge white building as the backdrop. He snapped pictures of the Secret Service snipers on the roof of the county building, and we all murmured acknowledgment that if the absolute worst were to happen, that's what they were there for.

And then he took the stage, and the crowd roared. Gracious, brilliant, and inspiring, we listened as he outlined his promise for change, his heartfelt gratitude for our presence, and yes, a bit of tearing into his opponent. But mostly, his hopes for our great nation. His plan to wean us from foreign oil without bankrupting the seas and poisoning the environment, to free us from the burdensome toils of the broken healthcare system, to get us out of this horrid downward-spiraling economy. To alleviate the middle class of the fear of foreclosures for a few months, until people can get back on their feet and begin paying their mortgages.

His speech was profoundly eloquent, yet humbled; he was spirited, passionate and driven without sinking to the depths the Republicans have in their attacks on him. He took a few shots at McCain but mostly he talked about what he was going to do, not what his opponent was not going to do. His hopes and dreams for our country, not his opponent's, or how wrong they are, or how evil he is. Which for me, would be difficult (which is, among other reasons, why I won't be making a bid for the White House anytime soon).

He encouraged us, and his enthusiasm was infectious. He spoke with such integrity and honesty that I found myself, 3/4 of the way through his speech, swallowing a big lump in my throat, brushing away tears, out of nowhere. And then at the end, he thanked us all. Imagine that: he thanked us.

Nine days. Nine electoral votes. Please, Colorado, my adopted home, don't let me and the other 100,000+ people gathered in support of Barack Obama today down. Don't give in to terror tactics and fears drummed up by the same crazy people who brought us the last eight years of economic horror, war, corporate buyouts, healthcare crises, and abject terrorist activities carried out in the name of this country. It can be better, and he can make it so.

Elect President Barack Obama.

Profoundly Influential: RIP William R. Barrowclough

My little sister Emily called me at 5:30 this morning. When I picked up she assumed she'd woken me and said something about it being two hours earlier here and apologizing for waking me up, but I'd been up for at least an hour and a half by then and was only planning on writing this blog and doing some online work. We got to talk for about twenty minutes--a rarity between me and Emily, in part because of the distance between us and in part because of the distance between us. She lives 2000 miles away, but she might as well be on the moon. Our lives are as separate as they could possibly be, and while this saddens me at my egotistical, self-indulgent faux core, it makes my heart a little warmer and my soul a little happier knowing that she's well, she's doing okay, her life is good. She amazes me: she has been through just about every terrifying circumstance and situation possible, from watching friends commit suicide as early as junior high to our father's death a year ago today and way above and beyond even that spectrum which, to me, is pretty broad. Some of the events I know of, some I probably don't, and some I only have sketchy details of, either from our worry-stricken mother or much more casual conversations with Emily where she tells me everything she can but mostly tells me she's going to be okay. I believe her, because she's survived everything. She absolutely blows me away. She's my hero and my best friend, in many ways, my confidante and my absolute favorite person to do just about anything with, and at the same time, I often feel like I don't know her at all: don't know the people in the pictures she posts on myspace or facebook, don't know the friends she's made in Charlotte, don't know what her work is like, who she gets along with there, if she likes her boss, if she gets any fulfillment from what she's doing...and she doesn't know most of this stuff about me. So hearing from her, especially this morning, was really good. I got some bad news I was otherwise unaware of, and I got some good news: I got to hear her order her morning coffee (a small skim mocha with an extra shot, from a coffee shop run by Habitat for Humanity near where she works), got to hear her thanking people and the apologetic sorry-I'm-on-the-phone sound in her voice when she was talking to people at the coffee shop and had me on the line (it's the same tone my voice takes on), got to hear her ripping a little into Sarah Palin, which I enjoyed greatly, though shortly, since I dominated the conversation from then on with a recount of a recent karma spree and then she had to go because she was at work, but it was still good to hear from her. I'm pretty sure every day would be a little bit better if I heard from Emily, because every day I do is.

Our father died a year ago today, which was the original subject of this blog post. At this time--especially at this time, with the political and economic mayhem currently taking place in our country and possibly the most important Presidential election in United States history about to unfold--I wish Dad were still alive, but there isn't a day that goes by that I don't. When big things happen: Emily goes through something tough (any of the things I will be broadly and blandly vague about because I know she doesn't want me writing about them on my blog), another member of our very close, very small family struggles with alcohol and drug abuse, I'm unemployed for a month and horribly depressed by it, I have a seizure because of an accidental overdose of a supposedly safe medication, I meet and move in with the love of my life, we learn to live on a dollar-eighty-seven or so a week because we're so badly in the hole and in such poor shape to do anything about it, my major love before now gets married, I turn 27 years old, my sister turns 24, and somewhere in the middle of that we miss a birthday: Dad would have been 68 this year, and the stress of missing him on that day buckles my knees at work and leaves me clutching the counter in front of me, eyes and mouth filling all at once. There's a sense of drowning that accompanies profound grief, and I wonder how many people have experienced that, have written or talked or expressed it aloud, the intense fury of an internal storm so big that for a moment it threatens the life and safety of the whole ship, and just when you begin to pull apart at the seams, it calms. The winds die down, you stop feeling like your guts are trying to escape their worldly anchors and you move on, limping, sometimes, slightly. You can breathe and see again, though sometimes through a glimmer of tears, and you know that you're going to survive, even though it seemed like--only a moment ago--the hole in your life was going to cave in and swallow you forever. The absence of a parent, of a father. Like I'm qualified to write about this. Well, I am absent a father, so I guess that qualifies me. For a year now. It actually happened on a Sunday; it was Sunday, October 7, 2007, and I had been waiting for the phone call all weekend. They'd told me on Thursday or Friday that his systems were shutting down, and that his liver was failing completely. That was when it really hit me: my dad is going to die, it's going to happen soon, and there's nothing I can do about it. I am thousands of miles away from my family while this is happening and so I can't even be there with him. He told me the whole time he was going to beat it, and so, like everything else he ever told me, I couldn't believe it when it wasn't absolutely, undeniably true. When I was a kid, my dad always told me how much he loved me, how beautiful I was. I wasn't much for combing my hair or keeping clothes pretty--I was a tomboy from the start, and Emily too, and he loved that--so I wasn't really much for mirrors, either, and until I was a gape-toothed, stringy-limbed preadolescent, I'd never really looked in one. When I did, I was horrified. I remember thoroughly feeling that I was intensely, terribly ugly, with my gapped teeth and enormous glasses and upturned piglike nose, my chapped lips and my lack of chest, or nubs, or anything that would positively identify me as woman. I was so, so ugly, and infuriated with my father: how dare he lie to me like that! He told me my whole life how I was so beautiful, and I wasn't, not at all, not even a little!!! I wa sso angry about it I never brought it up with him. And I feel like I lost a huge chunk of my innocence that day.

Of course, I grew up...and now, at 27, can feel beautiful, even when I am feeling fat and ugly and wretched and even when other people are telling me how wretched I look or am acting, and I can be quite wretched, and I know this, and I've moved beyond the mirror that haunted me through puberty and stalked me well into teenhood, and I can handle the fact that while I'd like to lose 20 pounds to be in better shape as a runner, I am still in damned good shape as a 5'7", 155-lb. woman. I can see more of what my father really meant when I was growing up and less of what I saw in that terrible mirror, but I still feel the zing of that betrayal, the shock of that realization. It was the same way I felt on October 4, 5, and 6 of last year: numbed, but true, I was coming to terms with the fact that my father was dying. And so when my brother called me to give me the news, when I first heard his cracking voice through the receiver of my phone, saying, "Don?" and me "Yeah?" and he "He's gone." and heard the pitched sob he held back from crying out into the phone to me, maybe because he was holding his baby son, maybe because he didn't want to break down and was trying to hold it together for me, maybe because he was already flush with tears and had seen his world tear apart already as he watched our father take his last breaths, he held it back, and the world came undone anyway. The most important thing my dad ever told me: I'm going to beat this, was no longer true, and while I tried very hard to see the beauty inside of it: he wasn't sick anymore, he wasn't hurting anymore, he wasn't in pain anymore, he was in a better place, he was going to heaven or to meet God or to an afterlife that would be such a great improvement over this one, while I try to see that beauty to this day, I still feel shocked, betrayed, undone, that he left us. He left us, dammit! How dare he! And I stomp my selfish, egotistical foot and think of everything he's missed in my life since: meeting the love of my life, dealing with the shakiest employment year I've ever had, standing up to my cruel and deceitful boss at my former employer and winning, having a seizure, getting fatter than I've ever been, realizing how much Jeremy really loves me, and is willing to put up with, for me, my 27th birthday, my introduction to and love for the world of aerial arts, training for my third marathon, the 2008 election and the possibility of real hope and change, and the very real possibility of the horror of four MORE years of Republican hell, or even, I daresay, eight. Hockey season starting, autumn in Carolina and Colorado, telling him how much I miss him on the phone, talking politics in heated discussions that last for hours and leave both of us with grumbly tummies as our dinners have gone cold but full of mindful inspiration and joy, that we could come together and talk and agree and disagree and love each other so much over something so important. And so unimportant. Next to something like the former love of my life, the only man I loved enough to bring home to South Carolina to meet my entire family, all the siblings and my father, the importance of that, and of letting him go entirely, of finding out that my old love, who had long since had found his true love, was getting married, got married, sent me wedding photos. He missed that! He missed Bob's wedding. How dare he! How dare he!

And then I think of the things he's going to miss: my wedding, my children, if I ever have any, the same for Emily, the rest of the years of my life, and I start to feel very young and upset and confused. And selfish. And I cry and yell and scream even though it doesn't do any good, and even though I know it's never going to do any good. The print publication of my first writing. The actual upcoming election, and his vote, that won't be counted in it. The chance to meet, get to know, affirm the love of my life, admire him, enjoy his company, welcome him into our family. The pictures from Bob's wedding. My third marathon. My workdays at the medical center, and Emily's at her medical center, and hundreds and hundreds of New Jersey Devils games to come. And I break.

I should have taken today off: if I had any kind of option to do so, I would have. I'm a teary disaster, and a teary disaster who needs a shower and fresh clothes and a few minutes to think and maybe read my email and the news before heading off to work for the day, and since I'm running out of time--and for the sake of my loyal readers, who may or may not have doggedly followed me through this one--I'll end this here and go do that. It's 6:55 in the morning in Colorado, and the sun is coming up. Dad died in the middled of the afternoon, so he was still alive a year ago now. I wonder what he was thinking, or feeling, or seeing. I wonder--selfishly--if he knew how much I love him, and how much I would miss him. I wonder if he was sad, or upset, or in pain, and I hope he wasn't, because no matter how great the struggle, how mighty the storm, how ferocious the waters that swirl around us become, the sun keeps coming up, the days keep passing and, amazing though it seems, life goes on, even without him. My dad loved life so much it's hard for me to believe he let go easily. But I hope, kind of, in the end, that he was at peace with it. I'm not; well, sometimes, I am, but most of the time I'm not, and I have the rest of my life to ferociously love and be unwilling to let go of, to fight for and work for and struggle for and make peace with, to enjoy and contemplate and always, always find the beauty in.

After my brother called me and we spoke a little, after talking to my sister awhile, a year ago this afternoon, I went outside with my camera and took pictures of the day. It was a marvelous fall day in Colorado, and a storm was blowing in, the winds mightily whirling the turning leaves and wintering branches of trees about, and I took photos of the storm, of the trees, of the bright shining sun, of everything in the world around me changing, always, into something even more beautiful.

I love you, Daddy. I love you so much.

a rare photo of all of the siblings together: left to right, my stepsister Heather, my half-adopted sister Gerie, my half-brother BJ, me, my little sister Emily, at BJ's house after our father's memorial service last year

PS While I realize it's probably impossible, especially after reading this last rather warped and warbled view of things, to convince anyone of this: I am as equally thrilled at the times I did have with my father, if not more so, as I am about all of the things I miss about him, and will miss sharing with him. More on that later...have to run to work now...

Declaring A Winner

This evening millions of Americans tuned in to NBC for the official broadcast of the debate between vice Presidential candidates Democratic Senator Joe Biden and Republican Governor Sarah Palin. Within moments after, and likely during the entirety of the debate, the pundits were spitting and snarling, tearing apart the attacks and the defenses, the weapons and the malfeasances. Doing what pundits do: generating a lot of hubbub about a nicely intelligent, rather surprisingly well-presented debate. What pisses me off, of course, is "who won?"

The answer will undoubtedly be Sarah Palin. This doesn't bother me as much as the reason for the answer, though. Sarah Palin won because she didn't suck.

She didn't falter--as badly as she has in the past--and she didn't coin anymore cheesy catch phrases. She didn't present herself as irrational, illogical or even incapable. And this, my friends, was enough to make her "win".

Right. She didn't suck. So she won. Joe Biden presented--as usual--a well-developed, clearly outlined--if sometimes muddled with varied interests and concerns--argument, but he won't be declared the winner, because his opponent, who was expected to, as she has in the past few weeks, make political gaffe after gaffe, continue to do so. And she didn't.

When we declare the winner of a debate by the degree of improvement from lack of intellect and logic to ability to recite facts, names and dates, occasionally drop a crowd-pleasing line for the good ol' boys, and continue to mispronounce "nuclear" in an apparent attempt to change Merriam-Webster's pronunciation of the word to George W. Bush's, over the polished, professional and brilliant oration of a seasoned political genius, we have declared ourselves a population dominated by its most blatant stupidity. No longer interested in effecting change or creating actual reform, we hang onto blunted catch phrases and repetitive commentaries, and we declare ourselves an educated mass. We are satisfied with the collective input of the lowest common denominator, and it will be reflected by the generations to come.

Musings...

"All we are saying...is give peace a chance..." This was my ringtone for a few weeks until it started to drive me nuts. Further proof that in times rife with Republican-driven tension, even John Lennon can make a person batty. I remind myself that there are people out there battier than myself, and kinder, and also wiser and more honest, like my mother, and my sister, and Anne Lamott. But as each one of these women have been fond of saying--especially when the herd seems like it's all in a big frenzy, and everywhere you look teeth grit and grip in snarl, and dust billows from thunderous hooves, and foam lathers in the corners of curled lips, ready with the next vociferous reproach--these are the times we have to remember, as my mother, and my sister, and Annie, have all reminded me, that that's the great thign about us all being part of the same tribe: we can't all go crazy on the same day. Or something like that. When one of my colleagues, deeply fearful of the coming election, goes door to door throughout the high country registering voters--or getting doors slammed in her face, which I absolutely cannot believe, and for this reason am glad I am not along with her, because I think that if I saw just one snide, angry, nasty person--or at least snide, angry and nasty for that moment; like all of us, they're probably generally sane, and kind, and good--I would probably beat on their door until they opened it, and then punch them in the face, or stomp on their foot, or throw dirt at them, or enact some other violence that would likely get me arrested and do my colleagues work no further good. And this is why she is knocking on doors, and I am writing blog posts.

Meanwhile...the numbers are in...

While John McCain and Sarah Palin (the bulldog and the beauty queen, respectively or irrespectively...you decide) continue to follow the same party tactic that effectively granted Bush a second term in office--repetition, repetition, repetition--in touting their efforts towards political unity, "bipartisanship" has apparently taken on a new meaning. As in, "we'll say whatever we have to in order to buy your partisanship".

I've been trekking about the web; these numbers are taken from sites for The New York Times, MSNBC, Fox News, CBS, and The Washington Post on demographics at the Democratic National Convention and the Republican National Convention:

Women
A colleague of mine recently asked, "How could any woman possibly vote Republican?" Good question. At the DNC women made up 49% of the attending delegates. RNC statistics boast a paltry 32%. Sixty-eight percent of this party's delegates are men. Oh, but I'm sure they have an understanding of women's issues equal to that of women themselves...after all, they're the ones who keep sending our children to Iraq.

Blacks
Even the black Republicans can't believe the dearth of representation in their party. As quoted in the September 4 Washington Post article "In a More Diverse America, A Mostly White Convention": "It's hard to look around and not get frustrated," said Michael S. Steele, a black Republican and former lieutenant governor of Maryland. "You almost have to think, 'Wait. How did it come to this?' "

I almost wish the numbers didn't back Steele up so well: after a decade of strident efforts to reach out to minorities culminating in an almost-impressive 7% of black delegates at the 2004 RNC, the GOP's minority courting seems to have fallen by the wayside in 2008: only 1.5% of the delegates attending the Republican National Convention were black. That's 36 out of 4500. Wow. Apparently their partisanship was a little pricey for the Republicans this year...or perhaps simply unworthy.

Blacks made up 23.4% of delegates at the Democratic National Convention. 'Nuff said.

Hispanics
I was a little bummed at the representation of the fastest-growing minority group in America at this year's DNC, and I don't think my party did this community justice with a representation that only made up roughly 12% of Democratic delegates. I think we can do better.

We still better-than-doubled the representation of Hispanics at the RNC, however, although more liberal estimates are coming in at about 7%. Most news sources report Hispanic representation at the RNC around 5%.

Asians
Asian representation was prototypically low for both parties, although again statistics of the DNC show a greater-than-double turnout than the RNC: 4.1 - 4.6% representation in Denver, and 1.8 - 2% participation in St. Paul.

Overall, whites made up roughly 60 - 67% of the delegates at the Democratic National Convention. The most conservative estimates of white delegates at the Republican National Convention come in above 90%.

Who represents you?

Sounding Off

Are the pundits, pollsters and proletariat starting to get on anyone else's nerves these days? We live under an oppressive regime, allow ourselves to be controlled by fear and apathy, willfully give up civil liberties in return for greater bureaucracy and repression, and we're going to endorse another four to eight years?!?!?! Jeremy and I are looking into options to work and live abroad should the McCain-Palin ticket actually succeed. We're done. We've had it. As my dear wonderful grandmother, a lifelong Republican who changed her party for this election, said, "Enough is enough."

And what I really don't get about this whole thing is why we are still buying into the same old tired nonsense that's entirely responsible for skyrocketing healthcare costs, massive pharmaceutical influence in politics, the abrupt failure of the housing market and the plodding recession we are, apparently, doomed to wander through until we have a President we can believe in. When's the last time we had one of those? Oh, right, it was a little over eight years ago, when Clinton presided over the greatest period of economic prosperity in the history of the United States.

Don't give me that Republican malarky about how George H.W. Bush was responsible for creating that economy. Like everything else, the global marketplace turns on a whim these days; people sink money into markets they believe in. When there's nothing to believe in, the market fails. Proof positive: George W. Bush's delinquent economy. Clinton's brilliant balancing of the budget and creation of a federal surplus. Oh my God...and it took less than a year to undo, as Bush said, hey, let's pretend to care for the people and "share" the money with them! WHat did we get? A check for $300. Wow.

And I'm sick of the public terror created around the concept of socialized healthcare. Oh my God, they're almost four-letter words, aren't they? "Socialized healthcare"...I was reading the Rocky today, a really stupid thing to do during an election year as they fly their Republican Red like it's Economic Doomsday Pride week and they're celebrating. One more idiot talking about the terrors of a socilized system where doctors are at the beck and call of the federal government and they won't be allowed to practice where they want and healthcare will be sub-standard and...oh, no, my heart pounds just thinking about what terrors may come from a healthcare system steeped in socialist ideas.

And then I remember, oh, wait, all of the systems in this country that are socialized, and that we are so grateful for. Like the fire department. Police services. Post office. The military. And let's not forget the most recent arm of the federal government, created by the esteemed anti-big-government George W., the Department of Homeland Security. That one I'm not so grateful for, but mostly because the passing of the Patriot Act brought with it a mandate on pseudoephedrine, and I now have to take a rectal exam to get my allergy medication from my pharmacist.

But that aside...another comment in today's Rocky instructed us crazy radicals to ask Europeans what they thought of their healthcare, and its petulant tone led me to believe they'd all agree thta socilized healthcare was the modern-day equivalent of the bubonic plague upon their fair societies. Funny, I don't know a lot of Europeans, but one I do know pretty well, who now lives in the United States, owns his own business, and through the growth of his business provides jobs for Americans, laughs when I've asked him if he'd become a US citizen and looks at me like I've lost my mind. All he has to do is start talking about how much healthcare would cost him in this country, when he simply has to fly back to France and be taken care of for free. Now, given the escalating costs of jet fuel, I'm sure it's not exactly "cheap", but when you consider the astronomical cost of US healthcare, I bet that plane ticket is well worth the expenditure.

And let's get to that, there, too. Last night unknown-before-last-Thursday Alaskan governor Sarah Palin, while waxing rhapsodic about running mate John McCain's war buddies, made yet another attempt to malign that great shining beacon of liberalism and intelligence who happens to be running for President and whose win will ensure MY future stake in this country, dropped as low as to rail on him for supporting a withdrawal from dependency on foreign oil AND offshore drilling. As if there isn't another alternative. As if you have to be FOR one, and AGAINST the other, or the equation fails altogether. Give me a break. This kind of logic is, well, it's entirely faulty. Unsecure. Failing. Oh well let's just say it: she's LYING TO YOU, PEOPLE!!! Leave it to the American public to actually buy into such a farce. How about alternative energy expenditures? Exploration of sources of fuel that don't rely on fossil fuels? Well, there's an idea...but it's not enough to invest the American Dream in, even when you throw in the fact--FACT!!!--that any tapping of offshore reserves won't benefit us for at least a decade, and your precious Wallybucks are still going to be grimly parted with to fill your enormous, gas-guzzling SUV. Aren't you glad you bought that Expedition after all?

Race Report: Boulder Marathon 2007

Reposting my race report from last year...

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.

Oh my, it's time again for the Boulder Marathon...

I sincerely hope it's better than last year, but I really think Race Director Jeff Mason is going to trip over his own ego and self-aggrandizement. From his "blast" emails:

"Year 2" of the Boulder Backroads (2000) was one of the most memorable races in my life. The weather was beyond belief. 464 of us finished the marathon, and the conditions were miserable - it snowed the night before. I wasn't planning on racing the event, as I was training for Vegas that next winter and Boston (again) the next spring (never went under 2:30 in Boston, but pulled off 2:41, brutal). I set the alarm clock for 4am. What the heck, this might be the day to run the distance with Steve Krebs, and let the chips fall where they may. As I sat in the warmth of the car waiting for the call to the starting line, I saw that all of the other "hard cores" were there. It was going to be a race. I figured I had a secret weapon, however, as I had 20 years experience in nordic ski racing, so the cold didn't bother me. I took off at the gun and hammered the first 20 miles in the icy, mucky, water. (and some of it was slow going, as we ran on the canal north of the "Res" and, as the second runner out on this part of the course, there was an inch of fresh snow!) What a day that was. The only guy ahead of me was off the Romanian Olympic Team, he was gone from the start. It was all the Colorado "has been's" fighting for bragging rights. The icy water kicking up on my hamstrings made them completely tie up by mile 23, and I had to literally stop and stretch them several times just to be able to keep running. I finished in 2:49 and change. Krebs closed fast in the last few miles and I held him off at the finish. He returned the favor by beating me the next time we raced. We agreed it was one of the best races either of us had ever run.

So, we all have our Backroads stories. When I was running for CU, back in the mid-80's, we used to go out there in cross-country practice and run "repeat miles". 10 separate mile repeats averaging 4:44 pace type thing. Jog back to the start and do it again, over and over. I will never forget having the opportunity to run with some of the best runners in the country. Memories I will never forget. The fastest CU guys would average 4:30 per mile. So yes, you can run fast on the backroads! And remember that the course record out there for the marathon is an astounding 2:23. (Silvio).

My proudest accomplishments in running and nordic skiing happened when I was in high school, as I competed at a national level at the two sports at the same time. I basically competed in races year 'round. In high school, I won 7 City Championship Titles at Denver South High School, (1981-1983). I won the DPS mile championship two years, won three city titles in the 2-mile, and two city titles in cross country - and placing second in another. Ran 9:39 for the 2 mile, placing 2nd in State as a senior. Ran under Jerry Quiller at CU. Varsity athlete in nordic skiing and running. As a high school nordic athlete, I won several age-group Colorado state championships, competed in the Junior Olympics seven times, and was a 4-year letterman for CU skiing, lettered in CU track and cross country running, finished 23rd in the Big 8 in cross country senior year. Our team won Big 8's, districts, and finished 5th at NCAA's.

I'm not the kind of guy who advertises who I am, and what I am all about. If I was, I could have sent this to you a year ago.

Instead he chose to send it to us now. Nice of him.

The most recent "blast" referenced a sponsor incorrectly within the first few lines...Teko Socks of Boulder became Teck Socks.

I tried to work with Jeff on the marathon and for my efforts, which were exhaustive, received belittlement, rudeness and have now been totally cutoff. For sourcing a vendor he seemed excited to work with, as it would have generated massive exposure for the race, who he hasn't spoken to since the agreement I brokered between them, for calling my credibility into question with that. For spending 4 hours walking around in the rain after Boulder's infamously enormous 10k the Bolder Boulder with his "cards" that had no information on them...the race logo on one side and an art print on the other...and handing them to every runner I saw.

Reportedly, the artist who created that print for Jeff hasn't been paid either.

The race course can be brutal: almost no shade for those 26.2, and if the finish is as disappointing as it was last year...well, register for the race and see for yourself...just don't hold your breath to hear your name called at the finish line...

Maybe you're cool with supporting a race with a director who makes up for his lack of experience and brash ego by blaming it on the former race director and founder of the Boulder Backroads Marathon, by pointing fingers and avoiding responsibility, by flagrantly lying and backing out of agreements he makes, but I'm not. I'll be reposting my race report from last year to this blog once I can find it...I deleted it after Jeff implored me to, after I thought he was a better man or at least a better RD than he demonstrably, repeatedly is.

Landing In Insurance

The words "I work at an insurance brokerage" have leapt out of my mouth enough times now that I am actually beginning to believe them. I suppose that's probably a good idea, since they're paying me, and I spend rather exorbitant amounts of time there.

It's definitely a nice change. To go from dealing with customers to working with customers is truly, genuinely awesome. To answer the phone and know, somewhat blissfully, that it's not going to be someone asking me about shipping rates to Portugal for a Saturday Express package--which I, somewhat proudly, was never really able to answer except to tell them to call 1800GOFEDEX or connect them with my Shipping Specialist--or how much it's going to cost them to print an 18"x24" color graph and mount it on foam-core for some presentation they needed to have it ready for...yesterday. It's a qualitatively different interaction when they're calling to find out if their $2million insurance policy was approved by the carrier, or how much their premium is going to blow up if they decide they're not going to quit smoking (or skydiving or bungee jumping or scuba diving, for that matter...). For one, they're infinitely more concerned about their life insurance than they are about their color copies. Two, they don't look down on me. Three, if they do, they don't usually show it. At least not yet.

Regardless, I have yet to encounter, hear about or discuss anything near the condescension with which customers treat employees at office-printing-and-packing shops. You really would think they'd be nicer: after all, if they're due to present in court tomorrow and their entire case is riding on the mock-up they're counting on you to produce, you'd think a little bit of consideration is in order. After all, it wouldn't take much for a disgruntled, walked-all-over, spent-the-whole-day-trying-to-bite-their-tongue-and-grin-and-bear-it employee at FXK to just delete a project. Or the files associated with said project. "Ooops."

This doesn't happen, of course, at least not in my experience there. Which, I'm grateful to say, is over and done with now. Yay!

Aerial Acrobatics, Anyone?

It all began so innocently. My first Valentine’s Day with Jeremy, a holiday neither of us are fond of, presented the opportunity to attend a Devotchka concert. My first. (His first? Maybe his first. Maybe not.) Anyway, I was really excited that they were playing in Boulder, though slightly soured on the idea of actually doing anything on Valentine’s Day, that Hallmark Horror steeped in tiny pastel chalky candies (that, incidentally, my sweet tooth craves, and I buy them by the bag, but refuse to have anything further to do with the holiday) and ugly velvet boxes of smudgy chocolates. Oh, the shame…but, then, it was the only opportunity for some time to see Devotchka live, as they embarked on their European tour on March 18.

March 18 ended up being an interesting day for me, and it was tied into the Devotchka show. Incredibly enough, the Universal whimsy that seems to conduct my life is as steeped in irony as February 14 is with tackiness. March 18 found Devotchka on an airplane bound for London…and me sitting prettily upon a knot my instructor taught me to tie about five feet up in the air, a knot of filmy polyester fabric strips, two to be exact, each hanging from a rotating caster high above us on the ceiling at the Boulder Circus Center. Moving cautiously about my self-made swing a few times in the air, warily pressing limbs out against the fabric, trying to see how I could move—and finding out quickly how I could NOT—using the fabric like a fluid trapeze.

The concept of aerial fabric art was introduced to me at the show on Valentine’s Day as, during one song of their set, two lithe women utilized two long strips of blood-red fabric suspended from high above the stage to snake their way up and down above the band on either side of the stage. Lengthy series of twists and turns, locks and knots up and down the fabric would culminate in shocking drops and frozen midair splits. The audience gasped and pointed, watched with bated breath. I looked at Jeremy and said, “I have to learn how to do that.”

Well leave it to Boulder to be the only city this size that would offer the option of learning aerial fabric art from not one, but two aerial arts companies. Both Aircat Aerial Arts and Frequent Flyers offered adult beginner aerial fabric classes. I chose Aircat Aerial Arts and a month later joined two other young women shyly attending our first aerial fabric class at the Boulder Circus Center.

Our instructor and Aircat’s founder and director, Cathy Gauch, is petite, lithe and beautiful to watch. Her instructions were clear and firm, and while it soon became evident that I needed to gain about 500% upper body strength to even be able to climb the fabric (I can’t even pull myself up once! I am such a wimp!), I still loved every minuet of class. My fellow classmates were friendly and encouraging, though I’m easily the worst out of the group. The more advanced students in the class—of about 12, only 3 of us were brand-new—were welcoming and supportive and really, really kind. So despite my own klutziness and severe need to get into better shape, I had a blast in class. I met Jeremy afterwards absolutely glowing, bubbling over with excitement…even though my hands were red and blistering and my whole torso was throbbing with exhaustion from all of the irregular activity. Once back home I climbed into a steaming bath tub with my journal to write about the class…and on the way in, caught my face in the mirror. Quite pink still from the exertions of learning to knot, lock and trying to climb the fabric, edged with little blonde wisps that escaped my ponytail all aroung my hairline, my face was still grinning ecstatically. Exactly the way it was when I caught myself in the mirror sitting on my knot during class.

Ahh, yeah...

(from January 15, 2008)

So aside from the wind, which was incredibly helpful going out, which meant coming back was beastly, my run tonight was phenomenal. As most first ones are…I’ll probably hate myself for doing this to myself tomorrow, but for tonight, I feel awesome. Settled. Balanced. Unfettered. Calmer, clearer, and more focused. All of these awesome things I’ve been missing out on all winter.

Jack once remarked that sleep was his Prozac; if I had to draw a comparison to an anti-depressant, I’d have to say that running is mine. I haven’t smiled so much, so hard, so steadily, in a long time.

Gotta keep on truckin’…

January 26, 2008

Running in Westminster. The Dry Creek Trail or, as I like to call it, the Hotel Trail. Not too shabby till now, hours later, as my knees remind me what a total WEAKLING I truly am. Sitting here at Jeremy's, it's as though some sort of informal contest a la pain is unraveling as each of us moving from prone to standing positions and moving about the apartment produces pronounced creaks, cracks and groans.

He wins. I don't have any injuries as old as his. :)

Keep on...keeping on (sigh)

I need an LOL kitty for this one...


moar funny pictures

The Boy

OK so...a bit much wall here but keep scrolling down...
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...ahh here he is! Ladies and gentlemen, my beautiful boyfriend Jeremy. "Lucky" doesn't begin to describe my fortune in love at this point...he is a truly incredible man, a remarkable individual. I am sooo richly blessed...