Pack and Go

Right now, as I type this out, I am supposed to be excitedly zipping up my suitcase. I'm leaving my little rental dollhouse in a few hours for a vacation. To a tropical island location with beachside cabana. Alone.

Aaaaaaaand I can't focus.

This has been my life the past ten months or so; my inability to focus and the ensuing feelings of unsettledness and dissatisfaction with everything have rendered me a wreck. I can't make sense of anything, I have no Clarity. And this Winter, especially, I've been dealing with that stale feeling that comes with too many snowcloud-covered days, the days that tarnish the shiny bits that normally give glint when the Winter sun decides to come out. What's a girl to do? 

Go on another retreat? YES. In the Winter of Her Discontent? YES. Someplace warm, with myriad distractions, but also with myriad stretches of sand and sea for solitude and serenity? YES. Mission: Tropical Retreat? YES.

So it was back in the late Fall when I started planning. This retreat, though, required a bit more planning than a summer camping retreat: there were airlines and car rentals and accommodations to figure out. And it cost more than a tank of gas, campsite fees, and a cooler full of food. Way more. Like, more than I probably should have spent. But hey, there are worse things that could happen besides the cable getting shut off while I'm gone, right? 

These past few weeks have been spent avoiding responsibilities in favor of coming to terms with leaving everyone and everything I know to go away. Far, far away. Alone. 

Yes, Alone. 
Necessarily so.
Again. 
Every time. 

As my departure date has approached, I've had to think about what I'd actually be doing during this sojourn: What would I need? What would I pack? How much could I fit in that small carry on suitcase? Well for starters, I'd need some distractions for the travelling portions, so books (special thanks to Magheen for a particularly poignant selection) were packed and music was downloaded to the ol' iPhone. I knew I'd be spending some time reflecting and writing, so I packed a journal (a beautiful one from my friend, Winga). I'd also be spending ample time on the beach, and in went not one, not two, but five bikinis. (Yes, bikinis. Yes, I'm *gulp* over 40. I'm not that awful to look at, I don't think.) And then some warm weather clothes were rolled up and smooshed in. Flip flops. The smallest bottle of sunscreen. A fleece top to soothe my sure-to-be-sunburned shoulders during the evening hours. Jewelry (girls love jewelry, right?) consisted of some important things: a collection of bracelets- of freshwater pearls, of garnet beads, of prayer beads ("they're the color of your eyes," a friend told me); and of favorite necklaces, reminders of love in silver pendant form. And then the business of everyday life went in, all the soaps and potions that keep me feeling ready for the daily grind, let me feel pretty, sometimes, even. So much stuff for one person!

I stopped packing to switch the laundry around, and during this pause, I consulted my checklist, answered a few text messages, scanned Facebook, and then realized I haven't eaten anything today except trail mix, had nothing to drink except coffee. I'm leaving in only 6 hours now, and it is finally hitting me that I'm embarking on my first real vacation in over 18 years. Eight. Teen. Years. And I can't move from my spot on the couch, can't finish folding the laundry, can't stop whatever the fuck that feeling is that gets caught in my throat and produces tears. Eyes closed, eighteen years of another lifetime gets compressed and moved along behind my eyelids, complete with PowerPoint slide transitions and sloppily edited soundtrack. And again, so much stuff for one person!

Deep breath in, exhale. Hands cover eyes and wipe cheeks dry. Hands push me up off the couch, feet move me towards the kitchen. Coffee maker is set, another handful of trail mix, a gulp of water. Back to the task at hand.

As I finished packing all of my things, I thought about how this layering of tangible daily assets into a bag is directly mirrored with our internal assets: the layers we put on our bodies- clothing, jewelry, perfumes? These are the visible marks of Our Memories, the way they are interconnected and layered upon each other; they are Our People, the layers of connections they represent, from the food we've eaten together, the music we've listened to together, the books we've read and discussed- all of it. What is here now and what we've collected on our journeys, what we've kept up in front of our minds for a short while, and what we've branded on our hearts...the symbolism of all of these layers? These things get packed up and get to come along on our adventures whether we like it or not, and so we are really never alone. And my suitcase is filled, and my alarm clock is set for 2:30 am, and I am ready to go on an adventure Alone, but not.

Not Alone.
Not this time.
Not next time.
Not ever.

There is a smile on my face as I cover up with down comforter and quilt, and for the knowledge that all the Loves of My Life are just as excited and anxious as I am for morning to get here. They're packed and ready to go. They've got the big bottle of sunscreen, they've got the FJ fueled up and ready to go. They are wringing their hands. They are reflecting and putting pen to page, they are waiting for me at my cabana, lounging in the hammock, waiting for their turn to use the outdoor shower after sand and surf get all up in their business. They are collecting my mail, eating the perishable food left in the fridge, keeping the sidewalk clear of snowcloud tears. Too much stuff for only one person- thank goodness there are so many of them to help!

Mission: Tropical Retreat is nearing Go Time. The Clarity I've been looking for is maybe the acceptance of Right Now; of going Alone, but Not; of figuring out that I get to choose which memories only stay for a little while as opposed to getting branded on my heart; of falling through the ice and only getting bruised and chilled; of being grateful for so much stuff for only one person; of all the Loves of My Life, no matter if they believe me when or how I say I love them; and of allowing myself to Give Love without promise of anything in return. 

That's my theory, anyway. I'm going to pack and go- I'll let you know what I find. 
Until next time, friends.

It Ain't Easy Bein' Green

"...a mass of tiny green things that looked like little stones or crystals, 

each one about the size of a grain of rice.

They were extraordinarily beautiful, and there was a strange brightness about them, 

a sort of luminous quality that made them 

glow and sparkle in a most wonderful way."

-Roald Dahl, James and the Giant Peach

Do you know this quote? This part of the story? It is one of my favorite parts of the book, when things are just about to start happening to James. The green creature seeds- so pretty, so fascinating- just looking at them offers the promise of having what your heart desires most. The caveat? The magic is worked on whatever or whomever they first meet. Poor James. And even us, when we see things like this, reflections of our desires, we can't help but be myopic. 

My life is full of friends. They are all glow and sparkle. I use them to fill my days with joy, I use them as sounding boards, I use them as a repository of giving- of my knowledge or time or listening ears and heart and mind. I think they use me for the same things. Also, I'm a pretty decent cook. So, having these people around me, not judging me, keeping me safe, has been deeply humbling. How do you sufficiently thank the people who sustain you? One day at a time. And yet-

I had an experience recently that involved an impromptu counseling session, a massage, and a renewed focus on meditation. Last month I was feeling run down and totally out of sorts. My mind was still adjusting to my new knowledge (or re-discovery) of Self from my retreat, and my body was beginning to show signs of the stress manifesting in my life. What stress, exactly? I mean, I had just come off a three-week hiatus, no? Yes, and I still had too much going on in my head. What to do? Arrange for a massage with my favorite Buddhist Hippie Sage? YES. 

It was a Sunday morning, early, and I met him at his work space. It was one of the last best days of summer, and so I was already feeling wistful (Summer! Do! Not! Go!), but the sun was still warm, and I could wear a skirt and flip flops and thought I'd go to the beach after my session. Little did I know where the day would take me.

Me and the BHS started talking, me relaxing a bit from the long drive, both of us feeling each other out, trying to gauge mindset, making small talk in between these silent assessments. The BHS sat in the corner, cross legged in a recliner; I sat cross legged on top of the massage table. Both of us had our hands rested on our knees. I must have looked a state. The BHS says to me as our conversation moves from one topic to the next, "Honey, do you have any love in your life?" 

Now, my modus operandi is to analyze and be intellectual rather than emotional. Oh, the walls we build in the name of Avoidance! My hands instinctively went up to cover my face and catch tears. 

Yes. No. I don't understand.

We talked about my life and the people I held on to and marveled at- those people who are my tiny green crystals, all luminous and willing to share their magic with me. Three hours spent talking (okay, me crying and listening, really) followed by a massage passed. Deep questions, strong hands. Catharsis. My body needed this. My mind was only partially ready, but I felt calmed if not spent. I went home that night with a quiet determination to pay attention to my Core Friends, my Luminous Seeds.

" 'Something is about to happen,' he told himself. 'Something peculiar is about to happen at any moment.' He hadn't the faintest idea what it might be, but he could feel it in his bones that something was going to happen soon. He could feel it in the air around him...in the sudden stillness that had fallen upon the garden."

My daily life outwardly returned to routine, to work and single parenting, to physical body care, to establishing a regular meditation practice and creativity practice, to time spent with my surrogate families. But I wasn't settled. I was still feeling peculiar, like James. Like I told one friend, "There is a disturbance in the Force." I was only half-joking. It got so bad one day at work, the overwhelming sense of discomfort, that I literally pitched a fit, collapsing onto the floor of my office, half laughing, half crying about how I didn't want to be there. And all my co-worker could do was stand there and say "Oh, please get up." We laughed, but I was being totally truthful, and he knew this, he sensed it. I wasn't alone.

I had to do something. I started taking walks at night to the lake shore. I'll sit and stare at the water or the sky, breathe the coming of Winter in the Autumn Damp. Recently, I decided to try a walking meditation on the stars; the swarms and night-star-clouds have helped clear my head, if only for an hour or so. My daily meditations since meeting with the BHS started out as being focused on thankfulness and gratitude for the love in my life, especially centered on my Core Friends, the women I use in one way or another- and their partners! Those men I know and use as supplements! After several sessions, though, I couldn't understand why I was still in a funk. Busy hands, wonderful friends, gratitude for all they bring to my life...why no movement? Why no progression from this spot on the road? What had I not yet learned?

And then it struck me one morning while I was starting my day: I picked up a pillow from my bed, the one that lays vertical next to me, the one on the side of the bed I do not sleep on. I grabbed it and tried to set it on the floor so I could adjust the sheets and comforter, and I couldn't let it go. I was overcome with such sadness over the fact that my bed- bought brand new after my divorce- was only mine. I am the only one to have slept there, to stay there. Loneliness, jealousy. One masks the other. I had been, under the guise of gratitude, coveting the lives of the very people I was thankful for. Talk about misdirected! I had allowed my emotions to creep into my thoughts and influence me in an unhealthy way. I had to sit with that, with the realization that I was incredibly jealous of what I saw around me, of the different kinds of joy others had and that I didn't at this point of my journey. I went back to my conversation with the BHS: did I have love in my life? Of course I did. Of course I do. But-

Friends traveling here and there and to the other side of the globe. Friends arranging date nights to reconnect. Friends making detailed shopping lists, complete with notations regarding coupons. Friends texting please pick up the Sunday paper. Friends taking dancing lessons. Borrowing houses. Borrowing pets. Borrowing partners. Borrowing from others' lives the bits I don't have, piecing them together, drinking the third cup of tea set out on the tray.

I look at these people and am happy for them, really. The joy they have is what I thought I had for such a long time, and is what I yearn for now in earnest. If I figured out one thing about myself in my work on identity, it is that I am a Giver. I thrive when I have the opportunity to share and give of myself. I am happier. I am more balanced. I am calm yet energetic. I function best when I have not just all of these friends and the resources they offer to me (and I, them), but when I have a Touchstone. The pull of the comfort of that kind of intimacy- the intellectual, emotional, and physical- is not only something I crave out of jealousy, but out of necessity. Personal Truth, right? I'm a Giver. I know the importance of taking time for myself (I need to do this more often, I know), but I also recognize and accept that part of my Core Self is to Give, to make life easier for those I love. 

And so what's making this section of my Life Path so rocky, what is partly responsible for the unsettled-ness, the restlessness, the disturbance in the Force, the peculiar feeling, is not what I have, but rather what I'm lacking: there is no Touchstone. That is difficult to admit, and it is difficult to know this and still be committed to finding the Good in my days, to be outwardly grateful and gracious, to still Give. I think back to the conversation with the BHS that day and how he knew- he knew- so much.

" 'My dear...' the Old-Green Grasshopper said gently, 'there are a whole lot of things in this world of ours you haven't started wondering about yet.' "

Where does this leave me? It leaves me to tell myself: stop over-thinking. Look at the Good. The glowing green seeds will work their strange brightness and magic. The wonderment will sustain. 

Until next time, friends.

Permanence

permanence (noun): the state or quality of lasting or remaining unchanged indefinitely.


After 15 years of living in the Upper Peninsula, I've decided its time to embrace this place.

My new found enthusiasm for this place- the 906, the Yoop, God's Country- is, I think, indicative of the fact that I'm back to who I used to be. Explanation...???

I've never really been able to feel completely welcome here in the U.P.; there's something about being a transplant that, no matter who you know, or how hard you try to assimilate, or how much you try to learn about your adopted place, you will always be the Other.

Other. Its a role I know well, and it has (of course) spilled from general life to my personal life. It can't be avoided. Being the Other is something that people in transition become: new town, new neighborhood, new job, new relationships. When we move ourselves to a place where change is inevitable, we also need to recognize that so is our role of becoming Other. Anyone who has been in a difficult relationship or been through a divorce can relate to this role. Friends quickly learn that although two are invited, only one will ever RSVP; you, Other, will always be along for the ride as the third- or fifth- or even seventh wheel.

And mostly, you will be grateful for such kind friends who refuse to mention the absence of your partner. Every. Time.

But I digress. This post is not about transitions, really. It is about the permanence that results from change. Yet it is also about Returning to Self.

You see, the past two years have been a serious Return to Self for me, a transition come full circle, if you will. People who have known me for longer than 15 years surely know what I'm talking about. The people who have only known me since then may have caught glimpses of that girl from time to time, but are really only now beginning to experience her most of the time.

My time here in the U.P. has afforded me the blessing of creating a surrogate family for myself, friends culled from awful jobs or through mutual friends, through shared interests or family. And those people whom I am so lucky to include among the branches of my family tree have accepted me as Other without blinking an eye.

I figure then, that as a re-commitment or Return to Self, I can in turn accept this place I have called home for 15 years with open arms and a smile rather than deep sighs and eye rolls. There is so much I want to do now...

I want to spend time with that floating feeling near Lake of the Clouds. I want to get lost running the trails near Copper Harbor. I want to plunge into Lake Superior from the Black Rocks with Jeff while Kristina takes our picture. I want to go swimming in Christmas with Bridgette and her dogs. I want to have ice cream with Joanna and her babies at the Dairy Flo in Rapid River while we hatch grand business plans. I want to run the Kipling loop with Jessica- even the North Bluff hill part- in preparation for another last-minute, cheap & easy race vacation. I want to read books in the sand at the far end of Aronson Island on a summer day. I want to have too many late night cocktails with Kris and Steph while their baby and dogs sleep down the hall. I want to drive around drinking coffee and running errands with Pat. I want to eat copious amounts of guacamole and laugh, open mouthed and without sound, with Maggie (beergaritas implied).

I want to do all of these things as a testament to the power of transition, to the power of the permanence these family members have used to burn a place on my heart.

I'm just now, 15 years on, becoming comfortable with my role as Other; even though it was made mine as a result of transition, it is a role I'm comfortable making permanent.

Welcome home.

Here We Go Again...

The past few nights I've had super clear dreams; the one last night had me waking up at 4 am, sweating up a storm (!!!).  Anyway, check 'em out:

Thursday night's dream starts with me walking down a street/city block.  It kinda looks like the downtown where I live now, but the sky is white, like a backdrop, and the whole place has the vibe of a movie set - or a cartoon storyboard- rather than an actual street.  I'm walking with someone (don't see who), when one of those Schwinn Sting Ray bikes zooms up to us out of nowhere and skids to a stop on the sidewalk, blocking our way.

The person riding the bike is none other than my high school friend, Teenie.  Her hair is kinky and wild, her eyes are wild, she is grinning wild and breathing hard.  She is wearing acid washed jeans, a hot pink long sleeved mock turtleneck top with a red boat-necked blouse over it; the red blouse has white paint splattered on it, like she was actually painting in it (not as a fashion statement), and the whole thing is cinched with a narrow white belt; her shoes are classic white Keds.  I look her up and down, and start chastising her:  "Oh, no.  This is all wrong. You can't go to work like this! You can't let your students see you like this!"  Teenie looks at me, still breathing hard, and shrugs "Why not?"  Me:  "You look tacky."  She shrugs again and starts riding her bike along side me & my still unknown companion. We end up at an outdoor wedding reception where my sister Megs shows up out of nowhere and asks me,"How do you like my dress?" I look at her, horrified, because it is a hot pink dress I wore as a bridesmaid back in the early 1990's:  puffy, shirred short sleeves; sweetheart neckline; fitted bodice with a "v" seam in front where it meets the full (but not puffy) skirt; the hem of the skirt is tea length in front, and full length in back.  Of course, there were Dyables shoes to match.  I look at my companion, and say "What the...???"  I never do see who my companion is.

Saturday night's dream followed a lovely evening at an Oktoberfest party.  The night was crisp, and quintessentially Autumnal.  I was home and in bed by midnight, but alas, my sweet slumber was interrupted by...another sex dream.

This is getting old. :o/

This one was pretty graphic, with actual nudity and everything. I do mean Everything. So, yes, I'm one of the naked people gettin' all jiggy with it, and I can see my partner from the start this time. The. Entire. Time. You guessed it: it's Shall Remain Nameless.
Whhooooaaaaaa, mama! I woke up physically sweating, saying out loud to myself, in the dark of my bedroom, at 4am, "That. Was. Intense." Phases of the moon? Phase of my life? A passing phase? Too much beer? I mean, I almost thought that it was a hot flash, but I'm still a bit young for those, and like I said:  IN-tensly realistic.

Guess what I'm going to do now? Yep: 1) check out what the color hot pink means in dreams, and 2) continue working on writing those sex scenes, since the dreams don't seem to be going away anytime soon.

Happy Fall, y'all.

Vacation

I am officially on vacation. I have been with my current employer for five years now, and have never taken a vacation. A long weekend for a race, sure, but never a true vacation.

And not that this is a true vacation, either. I mean, who in their right mind uses vacation time to go on two-hour training runs with a friend, go to their sister's wedding, and then host a raucous gathering at their home if they don't have to? Me.

The two-hour training run is with my friend, Fast Jessica; she is training for a full IronMan, and being the good friend I am, I told her I'd keep her company on this run. Did I mention that it'll be the longest run I've done since my Spring marathon? Oy.

This wedding I'm going to is a milestone of sorts: my baby sister (she, my 26-year-old "baby" sister) is the last of the nine siblings to get hitched, and the last of six girls. My dad is going to toast heavily and often this weekend. This is also a different experience for me, too, as it is the first sister wedding I'm not a bridesmaid for. Say it with me, ladies: PHEW!

Anyhoo, after the wedding, I'll need to get things together for the latest installment of B & B. B & B, if you remember, is my book club. I am the hostess this month, and we will be discussing Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes , dining al fresco on some delicious grilled salmon with soba noodles, asparagus and spinach with an Asian dressing, and drinking some sort of Summer-y alcoholic concoction in mass quantities. I am beyond excited to be entertaining my friends in my new place, even though we'll be outside (so small is the new pad).

What's that? Have I read the book yet? You, Dear Reader, obviously don't understand protocol when it comes to book club; we, the Ladies of B & B, are all fine, upstanding, and (in some cases) founding members of Procrastination Nation. And as one of the founders- nay, The Queen- I shall listen to the book on CD as I drive the eight hours to my parents' home in Illinois, gazing out at the sights so familiar to me...

... like the Mars Cheese Castle, the brown IDOT sign for the Bong Recreation Area (*giggle*), signs for Alpine Valley Amphitheater, past the wind farms that dot the fields along I-39 and I-80, all the way to Exit 33, past the Sale Barn Road, past Northeast Park, down Main Street, past the ghosts of the businesses of my youth, all the way to my parents' driveway. My dad will be sitting on the front porch swing with a beer or glass of wine waiting for us. My mom will still be at work. My siblings will come and go, rush here and there, all weekend long.

And then, when the wedding excitement and the nostalgia have subsided, when I have driven the hundreds of miles back to my little dollhouse, when the book has been discussed and the food and drinks have been picked over and over and over...my real vacation will begin.

I know that I will not be able to keep myself from waking up before 6 am, such is the rhythm of my clock these days. But I know this: I will have some wonderfully busy days to reflect upon during the following two totally unscheduled weeks.

Cue the Go Go's...

Let It Go

This week I was in Washington, DC for a work conference.  I usually love traveling, and don't mind traveling alone- its like an adventure for me, navigating around a city, trying to blend in like a local, even going to the grocery store.  I love the newness of those first visits.

To add another layer of thrill to this trip, I was meeting up with a friend from my younger days; Brooke and I hadn't seen each other for close to 15 years.  Fifteen years!!! I was beyond thrilled when I found out we'd be able to hook up not one, not two, but all three free evenings I had on my schedule.  So the packing was in earnest Sunday night, and the alarm was set so I'd make it to our small, regional airport for the 7:45 am connecting flight to Detroit, then on to DC.


I'm out the door to the airport (literally, a three minute drive) by 6:30 am; this flight is usually full of old folks and business folks, both leaving town for destinations far and away.  The ticket agent was helping another woman with something, so I proceeded to the self check-in kiosk when the other ticket agent says, "Don't do the self check-in.  The flight's been cancelled for this morning."  Oh, frr rrllll?!  Slightly annoyed, I'm re-routed to leave from Appleton, WI; a taxi arrives a few minutes later to drive me there, $50 travel voucher and $6 meal voucher in hand.  Let it go.  You were able to get a new flight. I text Brooke and let her know of my later-than-expected arrival time.


Flights are smooth, baggage claim is fine, and the hotel is a three minute drive (again, literally) from the airport.  For those of you familiar with the DC area, my hotel was in Crystal City; my conference, on the other hand, was in a new area (planned community, really) called National Harbor.  My morning commute from hotel to conference? Well, I had choices:  1) a $60-70 taxi ride each way; or 2) yellow line from Crystal City to L'Enfant Plaza, transfer to green line to Branch station (end of the green line), transfer to NH1 bus to be within one block of the conference site.  Because my per diem didn't allow for taxi service, I ended up with a 70-90 minute commute each morning & afternoon. Let it go, Rachel; you could have to try and drive in this hellish traffic.  


So my days slogged by at the conference, and my nights were hours and hours of good conversations, good food and drink, and overall good company (and, for the record, I'm good at bar room trivia). Fast forward to this morning.  My flight is scheduled to leave DC at 9:42 am for a connection in Detroit, then on to my regional airport.  Can you even guess what happened?  Yep.  Flight to Detroit is fine; flight from Detroit home is cancelled.  After a flurry of text messages to Daughter #1, I am re-booked on a flight back to Appleton, leaving in...20 minutes! Now, if you've ever been in the Detroit airport, you are familiar with the terminal set up:  terminal A is for flights from larger hubs, while terminals B & C (parallel to terminal A) are for regional flights.  The two sets of terminals are connected by a tunnel whose walls are a glass art installation that changes colors.  There's even music to go along with the show; see photos here and here, and a video here . 


I hate the light tunnel.


So I run in flip flops from terminal A to terminal C, making my new flight just barely.  I have a minute to check my message where I find out that its NOT Daughter #1 coming to pick me up, but my was-band.  WTF?! As if I didn't already have a headache.  As if that's the face I wanted to see and share my stories with while driving for two-and-a-half hours. As if I didn't already just  want to get the fuck home, already. I felt so mad and frustrated and helpless and discouraged and...so...trampled.  Cue the iPod, over-sized sunglasses, and tears.  Let it go, Rachel.  It'll be over soon enough.

The drive home is awkward and mostly silent, save for small talk about our daughters and mutual friends, his mother, my parents.  And then I hear this song on the CD playing, and I remind myself once again of my good fortunes, of the people I have in my life who care enough about me to stop in the middle of their day to pick me up at the airport 150 miles away.  Let it go. This too shall pass. Gam zeh ya'avor.  Enjoy the music and fun, and remember that it really is best to stop and reevaluate things before getting all worked up into a kerfuffle. 


 

Me, The Hansons, The Hansens, and a New Racing Approach

Over the past few years, I have moved my marathon running life from the "train to finish the race upright" to "set a goal time and hit it." You see, I never really intended to ever run a single marathon, much less the two-dozen plus I've finished. I will always and forever blame my running life, with a smile and fondness, on my departed father-in-law.

But this post? This post is about my last race:  the Cellcom Green Bay Marathon .  It all started with the registration form, and a chat with my friend, Fast Jessica.

FJ:  So, which training plan are you using this time? The same one as for Chicago?
Me: Um, no.  I liked that last plan, but I'm thinking about the Hanson's plan that was just in Runner's World.
FJ:  Wait, doesn't that one have like, NO rest days or something crazy like that?
Me:  Yep.  Something like that.

So, the Hanson's plan I followed (almost) religiously, can be found as a part of this article .  The biggest selling point for me was that my longest run was only 16 miles.
I know, right?!

FJ:  So, with this plan, your longest long runs are only 16 miles?
Me: Yep.
FJ:  I don't know, Rach.  I think I'd just feel better if you came out and ran an 18- or 20-miler with me.
Me:  Nah, I'll be fine.

So, like I said, I didn't follow the plan exactly, but I was sure to hit the key strength/speed workouts, and those mid-week long runs, many at MP or faster.  I should say now that I'm no speed demon, I've never qualified for/run Boston, and my PR to date for the marathon has been my 4:25:xx finish in Green Bay last year, after gaining a new PR in Tucson the December before (side note:  NOT a fan of Pam Reed, and anytime there is too much wind or a bad finish area, its her fault.  Just go with it.).  So for me, chipping away at time at a steady pace is key, and for this race, I'd be happy with a new PR by even one minute. Remember, I've only recently started caring about my finish times. Aaaannnnnd onward.

Fast forward to about three weeks pre-race.  Fast Jessica and I are out for a run that was supposed to be easy for both of us.  It was windy (Pam Reed's fault again), and we had to hit 7 miles before we'd have the wind at our backs rather than our faces.  Now, as I've mentioned before, when FJ and I run together, we talk.  And when we talk, we (okay, maybe just me) go faster than prescribed.  We hit 7, and ease up on the pace, finishing up our 10 miles feeling great.  Our average pace was about 8:40/mile.  Remember:  this is me, in a headwind for 7 miles, on a scheduled "easy" day.

FJ:  Bro, you're totally gonna hit that PR in Green Bay.
Me:  You think?
FJ:  Um, yeah.  We just ran that 10 waaayyy faster than last time.  You're gonna nail it.
Me: Huh.

Its at this point in time that I realize I don't have a hotel booked yet.  Oops.  This is also the point in time where I begin to doubt myself, my training (Maybe I should have taken FJ up on that 18-miler offer...), and generally feel like crap.  This time, my car also broke down, adding another layer of crappiness.  So, I'm out to lunch with a friend of mine- Mrs. Hansen-  on Good Friday,and we're talking about the upcoming race.  She and her hubby are both running the half, and I ask where they're staying.  Half laughing, I ask if we can have a slumber party that weekend.  She blinks, blinks again, and says "Well, I don't see why not.  I'll ask Mr. Hansen and let you know."  Frrr rllll?  Text a few hours later: "Mr. Hansen says the slumber party is a go."  Sweet!

Spirits boosted, I finish the training, and drive to Green Bay Saturday morning, tailgating the Hansens, and praying that the other Hansons have got my back with this training, even if I only make it through 16 miles.

Pre-race dinner is a ton of sushi at Nakashima Japan.  The Hansens and I order about nine of everything, and have so much fun.  I've never felt so relaxed the eve before a race, never before forgot about what it was I was going to wake up and do the next morning, never before toasted tomorrow with such gusto and joy.  Anyways, check it out:

I don't think I need to say that we had leftovers for post-race celebrating.  Early to bed, and early to rise.  Race day will be here before you know it...

Morning.  One cup of coffee with about 7 or 8 of those creamer cups, a banana, and a packet of instant oatmeal mixed with yogurt.  Big ol' Gatorade brought along for the ride to Lambeau Field .  A few pre-race photos on the iPhone, gear check, iPod set to go, in the crowded starting corrals, speeches by people I don't know, the Star Spangled Banner, pump up music blaring, a little House of Pain , and the gun goes off.

I situate myself with the 4:15 pace group, and decide to stick with one of the three pacers no matter what.  I feel great, I'm not checking my watch, and the pace feels incredibly easy.  This is good.  The Hansons know what they're doing.  So far, so good.

It stays this way for awhile.  I start chatting up the male pacer (can't remember his name), and only around mile 12 do I notice that the rest of the pace group is nowhere to be found.  Pacer Dude says: "Well, we'll just have some extra time to bank for when we hit the river.  The wind is gonna be nasty."  Now, I knew that the day was going to be windy.  I watch The Weather Channel, I know these things that you should do before a race.  25-30 mph wind with gusts of 50 mph+, is what the forecast said.  And up until this point, the wind was gusty, for sure, but nothing worse than I'd had on training runs along Little Bay de Noc.  And then I realized what he was talking about.  From mile 14-22-ish, we'd be running along the Fox River.  With a head wind the entire way.  Again, I blame Pam Reed, and just put my chin down and run.  What can I do at this point, anyway?

My splits at this time are pretty steady: 9:18 through mile 5, 9:25 at mile 10, 9:20 at the half, 9:26 at mile 15.  And then it gets windy.  Relentlessly windy.  And please, let me remind you that wind is indeed, Mother Nature's most annoying element.

I tried really really really hard to not be negative.  Mantras played over and over in my head to a soundtrack of carefully chosen songs:  You can do this.  One foot in front of the other.  Be strong.  Catch  (fill in with description of random runner ahead of me).

I'll admit to some swearing.  I'll be the first to admit to dropping a few (dozen) f-bombs, plus a few exasperated "Really?!"-s thrown in for good measure.  Pace at mile 20 is 9:39, and I am tired.

By the time I hit mile 23, I am mentally broken.  My legs feel fine, and so I try to focus on that aspect during the remaining miles rather than how exhausted I am from talking myself though almost 8 miles of strong winds.  (side note:  the Tucson Marathon was exactly  the same:  a head wind from miles 14-24, with no let up. Stupid Pam Reed.)

I see Fast Jessica wrapped in mylar right around the Jimmy Buffet water stop, right before you get back to Lambeau Field.  She is smiling and cheering me on, and I wave and give the "thumbs up" sign.  I get to Lambeau, enter the tunnel and am just about to hit the inside track when I pause for just a minute.  A guy behind me says:  "You can't stop now.  I've been chasing you for the last four miles.  You're almost done."  Now, for a newly single gal to hear that a guy has been chasing her? For four miles? Nice.  Just the boost I needed to pick up the pace, run the track, exit the tunnel, and see the Hansens hoisting beers up high, screaming my name.  I cross the finish line in 4:20:xx.

FJ meets me at the exit, and we high five and hug.

FJ:  How do you feel? You looked great coming in, really strong.

Me:  My legs feel great.  I'm mentally beat, though.  That wind was nasty.

FJ:  It's all Pam Reed's fault.

Me:  Of course.

FJ:  So you're happy with your time?

Me:  Yeah, I'll take it.

FJ:  Good.  Because there's talk that the course was long.

Me:  Huh.

I meet up with my slumber party Hansens, we toast the other Hansons for a good race plan, and head back to the hotel.  We amble to the pool area, and settle in to the hot tub fully clothed. I know!!! Its gross, but really, I never shower after training runs, either, and only one lady was in the hot tub, and she too, was fully clothed.  So there.

The next day, its announced that the course was indeed long, and that finish times would be adjusted.  My new PR? 4:19:24.  I'll take it.

As I've thought back to that weekend, I've decided that a few things are for sure.  1) The Hansons training plan feels good for me.  There's a good balance of structure and leeway.  And only 16 mile long runs. 2) Good friends like the Hansens can help you relax and remember why you run in the first place- because its fun. 3) A good training partner is worth their weight in gold.  No matter that Fast Jessica is faster than I am, the concern and interest she took in my race was appreciated. 4)  I can totally beat that time.  If I can only get Pam Reed the heck away from me...

Happy running, friends.  Let's hope your next finish line photo is as joyful as mine.

Things are Looking Up

Its funny how seemingly small things or events can help shift your outlook. I know I've kinda been a whiner lately, but I've tried very hard to remain optimistic. Little surprises help, and so do good, solid workouts (well, for me, anyway).

Like last weekend: I had a very busy morning on Sunday, but then met Tha Doctah and another friend, Pasquatch (don't ask) at our local arts center to help hang a new gallery show. It was so lovely to go back to my artist's roots for an hour or so, to debate why one painting should go here and not over there. And then a cup of coffee and catch up time? Nice. I thought for sure my day would end there, that I'd pick Daughter #2 up from her dad's house, and my weekend would be gone.

But NO!

I had originally planned to do a nice evening run with my friend, Fast Jessica. Then I had to cancel because I thought I was doing taxes. Then the taxes thing got moved, and I was able to run after all. So confusing!

Side note: Fast Jessica is named such because she is a much faster runner than I am. She has always been one of those runners at local races that people whisper about: Is Jessica here today? I wonder what her time will be. Or one July 4th Firecracker run, courtesy of my father-in-law: I just got chicked. By a pregnant lady pushing a jogging stroller. She is a force to be reckoned with.

Anyway, we got together for our run, and planned on an easy 7-miler out & back, uphills on the way out, downhill on the way back. Awwwww, yeah! The plan was to go out easy, then let the road speed us up after the turn around. Well, something that usually happens when Jess & I run is that we talk. I KNOW! As we talk, we sometimes- okay, all the time- go faster than expected. This is significant because, like I mentioned earlier, she is Fast Jessica, and I am me.

I've noticed something happening to me, though, since I've been running more with FJ: I've gotten faster, and I've been happier about running. The benefits of a running partner, right? Well, its something that I was lacking after my first running partner- my father-in-law- died during a local half-marathon. I have missed the camaraderie of a regular running partner, of regular routes and workouts, and of the push you receive from said partner. I'm so thankful for FJ.

Back to the run: we started out fast, and got faster. Downhill on the turnaround, remember? What was supposed to be a chill run turned in to an exercise in running strong whilst tired. We celebrated the good run- and FJ's birthday (25! Again!)- with pizzas and grocery store cake courtesy of Uncle Winga. An evening of great conversation and friendship was had, and my weekend was better than expected.

But that's not all. After Daughter #2 was home with me, we sat in my living room: me, nodding in and out of sleep on the big chair with HGTV on the television, and D2 tapping away on the computer. What happened next is what made the weekend move from pretty good to fucking awesome: D2 came over to me and kissed me goodnight. My 15-year-old. It was, to a mother who has never felt entirely maternal, heavenly.

She has continued to do this every night since. It makes me happier than you could ever know.

Good things usually come in threes, right? Mental checklist: awesome run/evening with running friends? Check! Kiss goodnight from formerly surly teenage daughter? Check! Coming home from work last night to find my new running shoes ? Check!

See? Things are looking up. If you focus on the positive, I feel that will reflect back on you, and help change the color of your days from blue to sunshine yellow. Karma, friends. Give thanks for the good, and pay it forward.

Say Hello To...

...my friend, Troy. Now, let me preface everything else I'm about to write with the following: I've never actually met Troy.

I KNOW!

Its one of those virtual friendship things: a friend of a friend from another online community, and now a friend on Facebook, Troy would so definitely be my friend for real if he lived closer. Like, I think we'd have met because our circle of friends would be...well, the same circle.

Troy is a runner, a dry stone waller, a husband, father, fellow Midwesterner (although he now lives in Vermont), and funny fella. He can also grow one helluva moustache if he wants to.

Anyway, I'm always happy to help another blogger gain followers. So go visit Troy's blog. Tell him I sent you over. I know he'll be thrilled to make room for you in his circle.

Key #1

I have a friend, Ms. Macknacracken, and she makes jewelry. For years, she has been known for her key jewelry: earrings, pendants, pins, even figures made from old skeleton keys. The "key people," as they are known, are meant to celebrate the "key people" in one's life. Nice, right?

Key #1 refers to things or people that are key to my life, my sanity, my well being at this junction in my life.

Well, as my current journey has taught me, I have some key people of my own. I may not call some of them my "best" friends (a term I think is best left to elementary school aged children), but I do like to call them "My Peeps." In no particular order: My Jenny, Red, Tha Doctah, My Favorite Local Celebrity (who is no longer a local celebrity, but Nurse Betty-in-Training), Ms. Macknacracken, My Favorite Shiska, Bersday Granddaughter, Fast Jessica, The Devil (who also no longer fits her original moniker- maybe I can call her The Clown Wrangler?), and of course, all of my virtual facebook friends.

Many of them do not know about what's going on in my life right now, nor do they need to. All they need to know is that I am grateful for their friendship.

I came across a Hebrew word this morning that is so perfect: AHAVA.

It means "love" in Hebrew, but it also means "I give." So when you speak of "ahava," and express "ahava" for someone, you are really saying that you are giving to that person, they are being given the gift of love. Giving is a condition that creates and sustains love.

I'll repeat that: Giving is a condition that creates and sustains love.

So to all My Peeps: ahava. And thank you.

B & B Club, Revisited

"B & B" Club? Well, back in the day, My Favorite Redhead, Becks and I had a book club. There were good books, good friends (more than just Red and Becks), and good drinks. Hence the moniker "Booze & Books." Please note the order of the wording: booze first. Anyhoo, things happened, gals moved around, lives got busy, and B & B was pushed to the back burner.

Until now. About six weeks ago, Red decided that we should resurrect the Club. Me and Becks were in agreement, and more fabulous women were invited to read the first book of the newly reincarnated "B & B" Club: The Plague of Doves by Louise Erdrich .

Red went to the local bookstore and when she told the clerk that she needed the book for her book club, the clerk told her about the discount offered to local book clubs who register at the store. Sweet! Which brings me back to the naming of the club. "Booze & Books" does not sound like the type of club for dentists' wives, youth program directors, community corrections directors, teachers...you catch my drift? And so it was shortened- abbreviated- to "B & B." And then when we found out that Becks is expecting (!!!), well, our minds just shot off hundreds of new word combinations that the two Bs could stand for. Bottles & Babies, Boobs & Boo-tay, Bruschetta & Bon Bons...I could go on.

And so it is that the re-formed B & B Club will have its first meeting in just three short weeks. I've already finished the book (amazing!), and am now in the menu-planning stages, since the meeting will be here at my house. Gourmet pizzas okay with everyone? Good.

Other news? Well, I ran the Quad Cities Marathon yesterday, and for the first race in a loooonnnnggg tiiiimmmmeee I developed nasty blisters. One on my back ankle about the size of a half dollar, and one on the inside ball of each foot. Ouch. So, the time I was aiming for (about 4:45) was seriously thwarted, and I finished instead in about 5:21. Greatly discouraged, yes; taking a break, yes; planning my next marathon already, yes.

New favorite quotes:

"Fall seven times and stand up eight." - Japanese Proverb

"It's hard to beat a person who never gives up." - Babe Ruth

Have a great week.

Welcome, Spring!

Say hello to our newest family member, christened Eugene by Daughter #2.  Mr. Fix built him out of scraps in the classroom/shop and brought him home just in time for the long holiday weekend.  Close up? Sure:

I think he needs a propeller on top of his hat, and perhaps even a bowl filled with birdseed on his tray.  Mr. Fix isn't keen on that, as he thinks the birdseed would spray all over the actual garden and sprout unwanted plants.  I think we'll add the propeller, at least.

May is almost over, and somehow I got talked into running another marathon- Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, MN.  I've run it once before, and I remember it was hot and humid, and I had to endure a tour of an ore boat in Duluth's harbor with my family.  I hate boats.  

Yesterday, however, brought another sure sign of Spring in these parts:  my Run & Brunch event.  Me and my running pals ran a local 5K/10K race (PR day for me- 26:21! Woo hoo!), then headed over to my home for a delicious (if I do say so myself) spread that included Mom's Famous Italian Beef, Jet Potatoes, and a Sausage & Apple Frittata.  It was really a lovely way to kick off a holiday weekend. I have the coolest friends.

And so, in the spirit of generosity, I will post the recipe for Mom's Famous Italian Beef.  Enjoy!

Mom's Famous Italian Beef

You need a crock pot that can hold a rolled beef roast, about 4-5 pounds.  I used a roast plus some boneless "country style" beef ribs.  Put the meat in the crock pot.  Add to this:  1-1/2 tsp. oregano, 1 tsp. basil, about 1 tsp. cayenne pepper, some fresh ground black pepper (maybe 1 tsp. or so), 2 cloves crushed garlic, 1 package Italian Dressing Mix (the dry stuff), 1 package onion soup mix (again, the dry stuff), 1/4 c. vinegar, and 3/4 c. water.  I also added a package of fresh sliced mushrooms, just to be different.  Put the crock pot on "high" and leave it alone for 6 hours.  Turn it to "low" and leave it alone for another 2 hours.  Take the roast out of the crock pot and shred it up with a fork.  This will be supremely easy to do, as the meat will literally fall apart as you try to take it out of the pot.  Put the shredded meat back in the crock pot with the juicy goodness and serve warm on rolls (I used mini kaiser rolls) with an assortment of condiments, like dijon mustard, horseradish, and good ol' ketchup.

Yes, you only add one cup of liquid total.  Trust me, it works.  Have a great weekend!

Quick Like A Bunny Post

Two things: 1) Check out my friend's blog- You Must Hear This Album. Its a great read for music lovers; and 2) I just noticed that I posted at least once per week last year. Woo hoo! Pat me on the back and gimme a cookie. Okay, not one of those Evil Incarnate Cookies, but maybe just one Walker's Shortbread biscuit.

Have a great week.