Me being nice.

I know. It sounds like a stretch. It feels like a stretch.

It's a stretch.

But - I'm doing it. Because Africankelli thought I should by taking part in her annual Calculated Acts of Kindness thing.

It has to do with Lent and Easter and things that don't normally even hit my radar, but it is mainly about making an effort during a certain period of time to make this place better. And I decided that this place is my neighborhood. I'm not going big and shooting for Making The World a Better Placeness because that seems out of my reach in any 40 day period, so I'm just taking on my neighborhood. And only in a minor way.

Anyway, she can explain it better than I can, all I know is that when one of my deep down best friends asks me to be a part of some nice thing that they're doing for the good of mankind and could you just be nice for a few days instead of your same WTF?! self, I feel inclined to do so.

If only so that this friend won't think that I'm rotten to the absolute core.

Just maybe to my asthenosphere or something.

So, what is this big Me Being Nice thing that I'm doing? I'm sure it won't surprise you that it involves swearing.

SHIT.

The nice thing I'm doing involves shit.

I'll pause while you collectively murmur your "Of course it does"es.

But when I say that it involves shit, I mean that the nice thing I'm doing for CAOK involves other people's dogs' shit.

Because people EVIDENTLY do not know how to pick up their dogs' shit and it pisses me off to high heaven.

I'm out there walking the dog twice a damn day, picking up her shit twice (at least) a damn day, I pick the shit up in my yard that other people's dogs leave because they are assholes, I pick up my own dog's shit that she leaves in the yard - I PICK UP A LOT OF SHIT.

And do you know why I pick up a lot of shit? Because it's fucking gross to have shit lying around on the ground, is why. Also, disease and stench and having to rinse your shoes off in the yard even though you're late to leave for your flight and so on.

I just don't feel like I should have to remind people of this. I mean, obviously not you people, because you plainly know that shit doesn't belong just lying on the ground in and around where people live and walk, but you know what I'm saying. Other people leave their dog's shit on the ground and it burns me, man.

So, during this 40 day period of Me Being Nice in one singular way, when I walk the dog, I'm not just picking up her shit, but all of the shit that I see during the duration of her 2x/day 30 minute walks.

I'm not going to lie - it's a lot of shit. BUT - there is less superfluous shit to pick up each day because of my previous day's picking up, so at least there's that.

I will say that the 2 days/week when I run the dog, I'm not stopping to pick up shit. That's just dumb. BUT - when we stop for the scheduled mid-run potty break, I pick up any extraneous shit that's lying about when Jada makes her deposit at the Valero station on the corner.

I feel like it's appropriate that the dog's mid-run bathroom is in the grassy strip in front of the gas station's exorbitant prices and I expect you to agree with me.

Anyway, if any of you all have a personal grudge that you might like to tackle during the next however many days there are until Easter - go on and do it. And maybe the world, or just your neighborhood, will be a little bit better by the time kids are running around hunting for eggs in their shit-free yards.

More evidence that I hate myself

A few weeks ago I decided that I was *over* doing Pilates because it wasn't that hard anymore.

Now, I certainly don't have the physique that might accompany such bold statements, but the fact remained that I wasn't getting up the next morning after a Pilates workout to hobble my way to the bathroom with peg legs and, for whatever stupid reason, that bothered me.

I should be more sore than this. It's not working anymore. Also, where is this damned "completely changed body" that I was promised three years ago when I started taking Pilates on the crazy ass machine they love to call The Reformer even though it apparently does no such thing?

Yeah, also I was bored. 

I mean - the classes were still enjoyable in a hey I get to wear comfy yoga pants and stretch a bit and chat a lot and then get on with my day like a normal person even if I decide not to shower right away because I'm not really sweating kinda way, but even that started to bug me.

Why am I not sweating after a 60 minute workout? Shouldn't I be sweating?

I decided that I should be sweating.

And that was when I let six month's worth of subtle suggesting make a home in my brains.

"You'd LOVE Crossfit!" I was told.

"Crossfit is SO something you'd do." I was told.

"I can't believe you don't already DO Crossfit - the music is even fucked up enough for you to like it." I was told.

So I gave in and, after a very encourage-y friend actually went to the website and found a local "box" (I guess this is their way of not calling it an abandoned warehouse) that's, like, a mile from my house and pointed my face at the online schedule and then the monthly fee which happened to be the same as Pilates except I can go as much as I want rather than once a week, I went to my first class.

And then I didn't walk right for a week.

Actually, that's not true. I'm still not walking right and that was over a week ago. 

And that is because I strutted into Crossfit on Day One with the attitude that no one new to Crossfit should have.

That being, "I'm already in good shape. This should be fun. I'm going to kill this."

And let me tell you that I most certainly did not kill Crossfit on Day One. 

No, instead I killed ME on Day One and, apparently for at least seven days following Day One.

People, I can hardly lower my rump onto the loo without pain seizing my upper quads and my hands shooting out to brace myself on the walls while I try to not scream out in pain. 

I couldn't even go for my run on Tuesday morning following my Monday Workout of Doom (they call the Workout of the Day a "WOD", but I think I know what it really stands for now) because of the whole I-Can't-Bend-At-The-Knee thing and my run on Thursday morning was done simply to prove to myself that I was still capable of bipedal motion.

It wasn't pretty, that's to be sure.

Meanwhile, the class itself (prior to the crippling leg muscle pain) was terribly enjoyable. 

There was running (which YAY! I can run! Maybe I won't suck at everything in this workout!) there was squatting FOREVER, there were free weights, there were decently cool other chicks and there was the promised fucked up music which I did like very much because HELLO I'm not sure what makes for better workout music than Five Finger Death Punch. 

Perhaps this is just me speaking from years of enduring remixes of Sheena Easton in Step aerobics or Beastie Boys in Bootcamp or whatever, but to walk into a gym playing music that I might have already been listening to on the drive over is, well, encouraging.

What was not encouraging was the moment I realized I'd forgotten my water bottle after leaving the gym and had to make the difficult decision to go back to retrieve it.

For a good solid minute I decided that I did not need that water bottle because there was probably no way for me to make my legs get out of the car and walk all 50 feet back to the location of said water bottle.

"They'll probably still have it next time I come to class because I'm sure no one really wants to take someone else's cootie-riddled water bottle, so they'll probably just set it aside and then next week I can pick it up when I've regained the use of the lower half of my body."

But then I felt like a total loser because it wasn't my water bottle (Hi Bubb! I borrowed your water bottle because all of mine are rolling around on Duchess's floor!) and only 60 minutes earlier I had shown up all Big Balls Finny ready to kill this workout and suddenly I was Noodle Legs Finny who wasn't even sure she could operate the clutch adequately to drive herself for the one mile home.

So I forced myself to go back for the water bottle, which may have been the hardest physical thing I've ever done,  and even attempted a slight jog which I abruptly aborted because my left leg wasn't responding as anticipated.

It had already seized up into an immovable hip-to-ankle log. 

I was curious as to whether I'd be able to drive.

But I got my water bottle, pretended to the coaches that I felt great by smiling and bidding them great days and then I got into the car without visible tears in my eyes.

Triumph! I killed that workout!

Or, no.

But, I did manage to make it home, although I will admit that despite consistently exceeding 3500 RPMs I did not change out of second gear because of the aforementioned immobility of my left leg, and one week later (today) I went back for round two.

During which time I also did not die. 

Nor did I kill the workout.

But I'm sticking with it because if I want to be sore after working out, this is the surest way I've seen to accomplish that.

Also, I clearly hate myself.

Bandit*ish*

So, it totally happened again.

I got all charged up to go back to The Ridge of Ultimate Sanity and Nonsense Sorting after nearly five months running elsewhere where it's not so muther effing hot and again I found there to be a race going on.

How could this be, COASTAL TRAIL RUNS PEOPLE? Do you not hold races anywhere else? Is this Coastal Trail Runs HQ now?

No?

Oh, because you have it published on your schedule which you also send me via email that I totally ignore because I'm not running races right now?

Oh.

Either way, I showed up ready to run my favorite trail and seek out the illusive strings of my sanity and when I saw there to be a race on, I made a different decision than last time.

I decided to run My Trail anyway.

Because after the first time I ran this trail, which was during Coastal's Horseshoe Lake race a year ago, I decided that this trail was The One and Mine and EVERYONE GET OFF MY TRAIL IT'S MINE GO.

I realize that makes no sense and that I should be grateful, in some way, to the Coastal Trail Runs people for introducing this, My Favorite Trail, to me so that I could piece back together the patchwork quilt of my sanity, but no.

That's not really how I'm built.

Instead I just cling to this place and its (often) solitude with the GIMME GIMME enthusiasm of a 4 year old and when I see that the very same trail-introducing people are there putting on the same race for other people I get all NO.

Because I assume that in the cold, rainy, blustery days of winter, all 200 of these people will be back clogging up this trail when what I need is sanity and no people.

Except that makes no sense either since this race has been going on for a few years, even before I came across it, and there were approximately 2 people in the entire park last winter during the shittiest/best weather.

Really, other Prius guy? BE ORIGINAL.

So whatever - all that to say that I decided to not be a puss and slink off to solitude elsewhere for my run and, instead, to park Duchess in the main lot because the ranger said I could since I wasn't there to participate in the race.

BONUS #1 To running bandit(ish): You don't have to adhere to the race's parking restrictions. You're not a racer! You park where the normal people park!

Hallelujah.

And, when I did go to park Where The Normal Not Race People Park, there was only one other car, so good times.

BONUS #2 To running bandit(ish): Starting 25 minutes after everyone has left the building means the trail is wide open and you won't have anyone on your heels.

Which was good because those were the conditions I was after anyway, so I was at Mission Accomplished status even before leaving the parking lot.

As far as running bandit went, I think I can only call it bandit-ish, since I didn't start with the group, run their exact course or run with anyone who was actually running the race. I didn't have my photo taken or drink from the water stops (of which I didn't see any anyway) either. I was just there to go on my usual Saturday run and they happened to be there also having a race. Hello, friends!

But I did get to take advantage of the cheering crowd, pep-talking racers and fist-pumping mountain bikers as my fresh legs and I charged up the midway hill of the ultramarathon.

See, the beauty was that I was out for a five mile run, not a 50K, but nobody knew that so when I started my weeny five miles at the 50K 15 mile mark (or so - these things aren't too precise), I looked like "my first 15 miles" were nuthin' and that I was charging through the second 15 miles with my hair on fire.

Which I most certainly was not. If I'd already run 15 miles I would have been on a stretcher bound for the emergency room or at least lying prone in the parking lot having fluids fed intravenously and probably a lot of bandages around my ankles.

But again, nobody knew that, so I got a couple of "Attagirl!"s from a couple mountain bikers who probably thought I was running the "Saturday Ultramarathon" denoted on the trail markers with some amazing hidden endurance obscured by my "unique ultramarathon physique".

Yeah, I don't really look like I am capable of an ultramarathon, so these guys were probably shocked into cheering.

Again, WHATever - it was actually kind of fun.

And at the end of the trail, back where I'd parked Duchess Where The Normal People Park, I had to cross the race's finish line because that's the way out to the parking lot and LO I had a cheering squad.

Of course, I told them that I was just there running by myself and not racing (I'M VERY HONEST. REALLY.) and they cheered louder.

BONUS #3 To running bandit-ish: When you come clean and just tell people you're there running of your own accord, you get the same (or better) cheers without having to register for a race or park in the ditch somewhere.

So, yeah, it was still pretty great to go back to The Ridge of Ultimate Sanity and Nonsense Sorting even though there was a race on and even though there were people to dodge and even though I had to say words to people when I'd set out to remain in my own brains for the morning - still cool.

And it turns out that the last four months of running the Elevation Triangle Of Doom has done me right. Since I can now run the full course Of Doom without fail (yep, not just 3/4 of it anymore), The Ridge of Ultimate Sanity and Nonsense Sorting is waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay easier.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.

So...bonus.

I'm That Guy again

Remember when I used to run races?

Yeah, me too.

Remember when I used to bitch about people who ran races with their friends while jabbering about nothing while they gasped for breath between pointless chatter and annoyed the ever loving fuck out of me?

Yeah, me too.

Any guesses as to what I did last weekend?

If you guessed, "Ran a race with a friend while talking incessantly and probably annoying the ever loving fuck out of other people." you'd be right. And also, a little judgey, don't you think?

It's OK, I was judging myself. For being a hypocrite and also for being a damned observant genius because I will tell you that's the easiest 6.2 miles I've ever run. 

You see, friends, these chatty fuckers are really on to something. I mean, yes, the race course was flat and the weather was oh so accommodating (overcast and 54 degrees? YES PLEASE.) and I wasn't going for a PR of any kind to the point where I didn't even wear my Garmin and my friend is of the conversationalist type, so I'm still considering this a unique scenario for me, but WOW. 

Easiest 10K in my history of running 10Ks.

Also, there was this at one point in the race

Yep. That's Brian Wilson.
From  http://www.facebook.com/giantrace/photos

And the race ended at AT&T Park - on the field.

So, you know, I got to fulfill one of my life's dreams - to run onto the field at my favorite team's park without being arrested or forcibly removed.

"The Field" was a plastic barrier over the actual field so we didn't completely eff the place up.

Though I don't have any proof that I actually ran on the field because, unlike almost every single other person there, I did not have my phone around for photo taking and they didn't get my finish line photo.

Which, lame.

I will say that this race, The Giant Race, was one of the best managed races I've ever run. Especially given that there were, like, 10,000+ runners and the streets of San Francisco to contend with, but as it turns out, the race photography sort of left a little to be desired. 

I mean, I slapped Lou Seal's hand (flipper?) when crossing the finish line! That's photo worthy! But no, instead there are a bunch of photos of me being bloated and my mouth being contorted into not flattering angles because of my extreme chatting.

So the one up there is the closest I got to me+Lou Seal+finish line. At least I'm smiling instead of blabbing. 

I have learned my lesson about that anyway.

And also about wearing orange tops. See, I love orange. It's my color in the sense that it's my favorite and I'm drawn to it. However, it does not make for the most flattering photos, so I will probably go back to black tops until such time as I have the six pack that I imagine myself having as I fold my top up under my sports bra and go rocketing down the hill like a wild animal.

I really do imagine that I have abs the whole way and that having my shirt tucked up into Fort Knockers is the most natural thing in the world. Until such time as I hear other people on the trail and I rip that thing down as fast as you can say, "bowl full of jelly".

Ah, delightful.

Anyway, I ran a race on the road while talking endlessly to my friend and it was so enjoyable that I'll probably do it again in my pursuit of becoming 100% that guy that I totally hate.

I'm so contradictory sometimes.

I ran up a hill

So, last week I was feeling pretty insane.

Like my brains were a big jumble of all the cray-cray that Bubba and I are dealing with right now (so much more of that to come in future posts)(don't worry, WE are fine - we're just doing crazy things) and I could barely think but for the whizzing about of Crazy in my head.

It was exhausting. I needed peace. In my head.

So, you know that I immediately made a date with The Ridge of Ultimate Sanity and Nonsense Sorting so that I could untangle the mess in my brains.

I even woke up early (unintentionally - damn you M-F 6am alarm that trains my body into inhumane sleep patterns) to sunshine instead of torrential rains and gushing downspouts, so didn't have to fight through the whole Is This Really A Good Idea train of thought that comes about during times of considering a run in torrential rains and gushing downspouts.

You know.

My drive out to the ridge was even really pleasant - I had a little protein bar action, some caffeine, some good tunes on Sirius that weren't recycled garbage from overplayed A-sides of too-popular bands and as I was taking the peek-a-boo turn on the approaching ridge, I saw that the coastal fog was still making its way back out to sea, so I knew it'd still be cool on the exposed parts of the trail.

AH PERFECT! I SHALL BE HEALED IN THE BRAINS!

Or...no.

When I crested the hill before the turn into the parking area, I saw the sight that no person seeking solitary refuge on a mountain trail wants to see.

Hundreds of shiny windshields on endless rows of cars parked all the way up from the overflow parking that you never even notice is there until they have an event and OH MY GOD ARE THOSE ORANGE TRIANGLE BANNERS.

There was a race on.

A race was happening in my Place of Sanity and Brain Fixing and, therefore, no Sanity and Brain Fixing was going to occur. For me. There.

I require solitude and zero bullhorns to recapture the many loose threads of my sanity, which as you probably imagine, does not exist even in a trail race.

Though, I will admit that, since I've been running this ridge nearly weekly since I ran the exact race a year ago, I considered *for an extremely brief moment* seeking out a same day registration or running bandit, but then realized that my crazy brains had maxed out and were taking me to a new level of Crazy which I could not abide.

Must maintain socially acceptable levels of sanity.

Must not go off the deep end.

MUST FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO RUN.

So, I turned around and drove back down the hill to the sight of my virgin trail run and also the place where the triangle shaped elevation chart lives on in infamy.

If Pain = Sanity, this is where they should set up a running camp for the criminally insane.

This place...well, I wasn't sure if I was ready to trade in my perfectly balanced Pain : Reward trail run on the ridge for the EXTREME PAIN : EXTREME REWARD balance of the switchbacks. Even if they are tree-covered and therefore a lot cooler than the exposed ridge.

But, I didn't have a choice in the matter according to the hundreds of bibbed racers bouncing around in preparation for the descent up the ridge, so I gave up and headed for the switchbacks.

I even renewed my annual pass at this park so that I could go back and re-punish myself some more, AND if all went to plan, have another place in which to re-stack the sanity blocks of my mind.

Thankfully, things went to plan.

A LOT.

In addition to Crazy Healing, which I got, I also kicked the crap out of this trail - compared to my runs here in the past.

I mean, compared to normal trail runners who can maintain an admirable running pace on an incline like this for sustained period, no - no, I probably did not "kick the crap out of this trail" - BUT, for me - girl who used to run ferociously up the first few hundred yards of the trail before having to resort to hiking and huffing and then doing that aggravating hike > run > hike > almost barf thing that I've been doing here for a good long time - I totally kicked the crap out of it.

I ran - at my barely surviving but still running pace - 3/4 of the way up the hill.

*Almost barfing*

3/4 of the way!

I mean, that trail goes STRAIGHT UP. Or, in this case, straight down.

COME ON!

That is good.

For me.

And then my quads were sore for two days. Because apparently charging up switchbacks for a mile and a half is hard on the old quads.

Much happier on the way down.

Though, sadly, no ocean to see out there.

 So, yeah, I've found a new place to regain my sanity and I ran up a hill.

Slow news day, I guess.

I run to be NOT CRAZY, apparently.

You know how I've been running for a while? Road and trail and multisport races and such?

Yeah. So, know why I was doing all that?

Yeah. I didn't either - until a few months ago when it was early on a Saturday morning and I was charging out to the Santa Cruz mountains desperate to put my Brookses to trail even though it was raining like a sonuvabitch and 43 degrees with gale force winds pounding against the ridge line.

Which is when I realized that I certainly wasn't doing all of this running for fitness.

Fitness doesn't get you out of bed on a cold and rainy Saturday morning, into head-to-toe spandex and into the car for a 30 minute drive through bleak conditions just so that you can step out into a giant puddle to charge up a slippery mud trail even though two mountain bikers carefully descending the same trail tell you that you're out of your mind and get back in the car.

Ooh. Cozy.

So, as I fought my way up this trail (you didn't think that I was going to get back in the car just because two mountain bikers warned me through muddy faces, did you?) and became soaked to the core and nearly drowned in the rain splashing against my face and being shoved up my nose by the wind blasting over the ridge, I had a hard think on why the fuck I was doing this.

And not in the Oh Woe Is Me Why The Fuck Am I Doing This To Myself kind of way either. But like a real introspective I Think There's A Deep Down Reason For This kind of way.

Because I used to think I ran to get in shape. To BE in shape. I mean, if we're going to be truly honest here, I was entertaining the absurd notion that one day, if I ran enough, I might slide back into my size 4 shorts without tearing off a butt cheek in the process. 

But wanting to be "in shape" doesn't motivate me to abandon my warm bed in exchange for a wet, cold and muddy trail. Size 4 shorts don't even have that much power.

But sanity does.

And, I'd managed to discover serendipitously that this trail way up on the ridge line where the wind races up one side and blasts over the other causing unsuspecting runners to WHOA with surprise when rounding an exposed bend in the trail, was where my sanity lives.

Forgive the wonky doodle arrow. Picnik is no longer and the Creative Kit in Google+ blows and doesn't have arrows so I had to draw one like a kindergartner.

I can start a run on this trail with brains full of nonsense and, by the end of my run (which is short - only 4-6 miles depending on the day and how my hip and knee feel) I have actual coherence.

I have meaningful thoughts. I have answers to questions. I have clarity.

I have sanity.

I also have, depending on the time of year, numb fingers, a frozen face, wet EVERYTHING, muddy EVERYTHING, a slight case of hypothermia and a few horrified stares from people in Whole Foods who don't understand why my sanity has to live out on a muddy ridge and why I feel the need to do a bit of light shopping after seeking it out.

Hey, I am wearing SHOES. That means, PROVIDE ME WITH SERVICE THANK YOU.

Let a wet girl buy some disgusting kombucha, will ya?

BUT WHO CARES ABOUT THAT when your mind is quiet?

I don't.

And that's what I came here to tell you, my friends, is that what you see before you is me being NOT CRAZY (as hard as that may be to believe) and that is a result of running.

Apparently black Prius drivers use the same coping mechanisms.

Of course, I'd love to be here showing you photos of my six pack abs and telling you that THAT was a result of all this running, but alas, I just have the one ab and it does not have five other firm shapely friends.

Which I'm convinced is actually OK as long as my brains are sane and, when they are feeling insane, I know where to go to rectify the problem.

Regardless of weather.

And that is my long-winded way of telling you that I'm still running even though I haven't talked about it in...oh let me check the labels on the sidebar...November 2011.

Because I didn't think anyone would be interested in all the nonsense above that I just put you through.

You're welcome and I'm sorry.

Come back tomorrow when I shall discuss lighter subjects like why dogs make excellent backcountry skiers and how mashed potatoes are my medium of choice in the world of the culinary arts.

Un-hoarding

Some might call it Discardia. But, to me, that lends a certain whimsy and good intention that doesn't necessarily apply in cases like mine.

Cases where you're aware of your aversion to collections and stockpiles and accumulations of things and yet still you uncover big buckets in your garage containing six pairs of identical (except for the model year) Brooks Adrenaline GTS running shoes at various stages of exhausted wear and six pairs of worn through the fingers size small Atlas gardening gloves.

Oh my god just light me on fire already!

Apparently I have not cleaned out my potting bench since we moved to this house six years ago. Apparently it takes us moving house in order for me to stop my hoarding madness before it overtakes us both. Apparently I will run around unshod and ungloved in the event of collapse of either the Brooks or Atlas companies.

Did I mention that when I uncovered this particular gem of a character flaw I was wearing YET ANOTHER pair of Atlas gloves and YET ANOTHER pair of Brooks Adrenaline GTS running shoes?

I totally did not realize it at the time.

And that there were two other pairs of gloves in other dedicated spots and two more pairs of Adrenalines in my bedroom awaiting a run on either pavement or trails.

No, I did not mention that yet. Because I'm just, as of right now, coming to terms with my inadvertent hoarding tendencies.

Because this weekend, when I decided to join Bubba in the garage for happy hour while he waxed our skis, I got antsy, started cleaning out "my" part of the garage and then realized that, LO, I've been hoarding.

Also hoarding Willow Glen Bike Shop water bottles and climbing ropes.

I did not know this previously.

Honest! The concept of hoarding makes me nauseous! I can't even watch the previews of that show on cable because it makes me want to rip off my skin and run into a burning building for its cleansing properties!

Also, I appear to be stuck in some sort of apparel rut.

Sadly, this pile of identical running shoes and gardening gloves is only the tip of the I'm A Scary Woman Of Habit iceberg and what you're not seeing are the countless black zip-up hoodies I've worn threadbare, the Chevy's sombreros (Did you know that they're going out of business? Sad.) and other woven sun hats I've sweated into the fray,  the dozens of cheap American Eagle Antique Indigo Favorite Boyfriend jeans I've blown out or many many MANY pairs of Havaianas that have flipped their last flop on my bare feets.

I think I've gotten uncreative with my apparel, is what I'm saying, people. And, I haven't realized that despite the fact that all of these very poignant reminders are spilling out of buckets and practically in my face most of the time.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? I'm hoarding and I, apparently, have a uniform for my hoarding.

Oh. You're right.

FREAK.

Anyway, I righted my wrongs after coming to this realization.

That bucket of running shoes is getting donated (well, the ones with any wear left in them and no mud caked to the soles), the gloves have been tied together and marked for destruction and I have my eye on the most worn pair of jeans and rattiest black hoodie, so as soon as I can get them down from the top-most shelf in my closest, I'll throw them out, too.

Though that will be tough.

Because I'm a freak who has unnatural attachments to worn our inanimate objects.

Found this guy while digging in the yard.
He now has a place of honor on the Magnet Board of Found Bullshit.

There is no end to my madness.

Pudding brain

Oh dudes. This month is totally getting away from me and I hate just hate that.

Know what else I hate? Only blogging once a week. Seriously.

I have shit to tell you people and when it gets to the weekend and I sit down to tell you all of it, my brain numbs up and I have a hard time scraping together two coherent words that you might want to read.

But that's mostly because I've been spending all my words on NaNoWriMo.

So far, I'm about 30K words into the 50K goal and I'm on track to win again this year, for the third year in a row. YAY.

In even better NaNoNews (which is a thing I just made up. You should go use it as a hash tag on Twitter and get a trend going. I'll join in! Maybe.) I may be writing a novel this year that actually makes it to Stage 2: Editing. Which will be wholly unlike my previous two novels that will die a cold solitary death in the forever phase of Stage 1: NaNoWriMo Draft.

Now, granted, I'm not 100% sure that I'll edit this novel, but since I never made it this far into the month while still liking my novel and the characters therein, it at least has a better chance than either of the two stink bombs from years past.

I attribute this relative success to three things:

1. Scrivener
   Seriously, having actual writing software that lets you put together character sketches, outlines, scene descriptions and so on, is actually as helpful as the Theys of the world say it is. Not that Scrivener is paying me to say that or anything. I just really like it and it's helping me not hate my book this year. Hooray.
2. I wrote an outline before I started writing.
   Now, granted, I wrote two outlines and did research and wrote up chapter summaries and everything before doing my usual punt at the 11th hour by deciding to go with an entirely new, un-outlined premise, but then I wrote up a quick outline for that idea and it's been semi-smooth sailing since. In the sense that I have only rewritten the premise once or twice and the novel has taken only two or three major shifts since I started writing. OK, so it's not the same premise at all, really, but I haven't changed the title, so that's something.
3. @NaNoWordSprints
   Ever had to sit down and catch up on 5,000 words in a day? Yeah. It's not the best. Particularly when your brain is filled with pudding and you can't come up with the brain power to order a burrito, much less write a novel in draft form.
   But having the @NaNoWordSprints deal going on Twitter, where they have some nice NaNoWriMo person tweeting ideas, commands, prompts and silliness to get you writing as many words as humanly possible in 20-30 minute increments is EXTREMELY helpful when your fingers thud down on the keyboard and immediately freeze. What? I need to have a sudden and powerful weather shift occur in my story? OK. I can think of something for that. Or, an alligator or anteater needs to appear or be mentioned? OK. I can fit that in somehow. Give me 10 minutes. So, yeah, super helpful.

 Mostly, I feel like this year's NaNoWriMo situation is an improvement over past efforts since I'm 10 days from the finish line and I haven't gone on a wordly killing spree inspired by intense hatred of all my characters.

Though someone will have to die soon. I have a chapter in my head all written up for that scene, so unless someone starts pissing me off, I'm just going to have to make up someone annoying to knock off so I can have them shoved carelessly into the back of an ambulance like so much bagged lawn clippings.

Anyway, that's what's up with NaNoWriMo. I'm going for my third win and no one has died yet. I'll let you know when I cross the finish line and we can do a body count together.

In other November news, I signed up for the Applied Materials Turkey Trot again, for the 4th consecutive year, and almost immediately after paying my $35 registration fee, decided I probably won't run it after all.

Why would I throw $35 in a hole like that?

Well, when you submit your registration, you end up on a thank you page of sorts, and this page has a hideous counter to tell you how many other idiots are running this race on Thanksgiving morning in some half assed effort to wish away the calories from the 16 pies they plan to eat.
And when that counter says 18,296 like it did when I was sent there after registering, I had to take a moment to get over nearly swallowing my tongue and then swiftly decide that my $35 would just be considered a donation to the food banks that benefit from the race as well as a little gift to myself in the form of a run through my vacant town on Thanksgiving morning while all these crazy fuckers are off running this race on the other side of town.

Yeah. Jada and I will be going for a solitary run around my neighborhood and, on our way home, will stop by a friend's place for Thanksgiving bloody Marys and ZERO race day bullshittery.

I'm pretty sure.

I mean, you know how much I love a balloon arch and race day jitters and all that shite, so I may give in at the last minute and subject myself to the throngs of insane morons dressed in costume pressed together in the name of extra pie, but it's likely that I'll opt for a quiet run through empty streets with the dog, followed by bloodies with a good friend and some race fries even though I didn't run a race at all.

Because I guess I'm just a cheater like that.

Also, the bees went nigh-night after their third sugaring, nearly all the fava beans have germinated and at this very moment I'm sitting in front of a fully functional gas fireplace that is giving me no guff whatsoever when I go to turn it on.

I feel like I should probably go buy a lottery ticket.

1:38:05

Yeah, who knows what that time is supposed to mean.

I mean, last year's duathlon time seemed pretty meaningless because I didn't have much to compare it to and now that I do have another duathlon to compare it to, it still seems pretty useless.

The distances were slightly different and OH BY THE WAY the courses were like night and friggen THE MOON or something.

Um, Mermaid Series people - publish a fucking elevation chart, you asses.

Yeah - I could try to get below the fold before launching into my tirade, but that would be so unFinny of me, why bother - I say.

This is on the way out to the ride. I had no idea. Which is why I'm smiling and not flipping the bird.

People, there were some not-messing-around steeps on the bike course. Like - for most people, it was Get Off Your Bike And Hike time. Particularly since the race organizers were all, "Oh yeah, lots of people ride mountain bikes and cruisers for the bike course!" and everything.

Which - not nice.

Though, the super low gears you get on a mountain bike would have been nice for the...um...climbs reminiscent of mountains we hit twice on the 12 mile loop.

To say that I had not geared down properly for the first climb would be an understatement. And to say that I nearly crapped my chamois when we had to, on the return, travel DOWN this Everest-like incline on a grade that taxed my brakes beyond their comfort zone would again be a liberal use of the words HOLY SHIT.

There were some wide eyeballs coming down that hill, to put it plainly. Shit was steep.

And, oh, what's up with the friggen SURPRISE beach portion on both the start and finish legs of the run?

Not. In. The. Race. Materials.

Dirty pool, people. I just hosed a pair of running shoes, thankyouverymuch, because now they're irretrievably filled with sand and annoyance.

But, despite all the bitching I just laid out for you right there - I had fun. I had fun and I ran strong and I biked well enough and Bubba found me on nearly every leg of the race and then he took a video which is weird to watch because it looks like I'm just AOK except that I know that I was cursing a thousand fiery deaths upon the crotch who decided that a beach finish would be a good idea for the duathlon course while slogging through the loose sand presented by the Capitola beach.

But, all is forgiven when the Finishers' breakfast is laid out beautifully by Capitola Whole Foods, complete with tablecloths, floral centerpieces, Good Belly and pancakes and an ocean view.

Who doesn't love freshly baked banana bread and some yogurt thing with a smiley face? Communists and assholes, that's who.

Meanwhile, after my WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT BEACH FINISH PLUS HILLS ON THE BIKE COURSEing, I finished 9th in my age group and 45th overall.

That's right. T1 is still full of bikes. SCORE.

Not too shabby for a girl who never did any official training and did the bike course on a yet to be named orange spicy roadbike.

Forgive me, friends, I just can't commit. I've tried out all your suggestions, and some not perfect ones presented by Bubba and some super not perfect ones suggested by yours truly and nothing's sticking.

Well, one always comes up, but Bubba is so Meh on it that I have a hard time being all, "Yep! That's the one!" because I guess it's not.

Her true name is out there. I guess we'll just have to keep guessing. And I'll keep trying them on her for size. And since I've now outfitted us for dark winter rides to work (got a sweet muther of a headlight and some not sexy clear glasses and some SUPER sexy arm warmers), I'll have more chances to find her a fitting name.

Keep trying, I know you can do it. Because I just can't keep calling her The Roadbike or The Cannondale because that is so lame and boring. Particularly when I can freely and easily call Tulip, Tulip and everyone immediately knows who I'm talking about.

She's the cutest. Though had I tried to ride the bike course with her, I'd be calling her FUCK YOU STAY IN THAT DITCH right now because whoa.

I'm still scarred from the bike course, I guess. Though Bubba thinks that with some proper hill training I can finish in the top 3. Or, as he put it so boldly - "Baby! You could WIN!" - which is adorable.

Thanks, Coach.

Adorable and delusional - this is how I like my mens.

We'll see how next year's duathlon goes. I imagine the finish time will be similarly meaningless, but perhaps I'll ride [Roadbike's New Awesomely Fitting Name] to glory.

Go on - keep trying with those names. And I'll keep trying to win a race. Hey - at least one of these things is possible to achieve.

Let's continue the tradition of pre-race audience participation.

I have a duathlon this weekend, friends.

Yes, that one to which I've vaguely alluded over the past few months during which I've trained barely at all. Formally, anyway.

I mean, I have been riding my bike to work this summer, which is a combined total of 40 miles round trip, so that sort of counts as training for this event of 12 miles of cycling, and I have also been running my usual 3x/week schedule of 2 days of intervals and 1 day of distance, so that sort of also counts toward the combined 4 miles of running, but...no official training.

Basically, I haven't trained for the transition at all. And I haven't done any bike to run or run to bike training as proved so eye-opening during my first bout. And I didn't do that awesome I'm Going To Kick Some Mermaid Ass training of a 3M morning run > bike 20 miles to work > 2M run at work thing that I briefly mentioned to Bubba and, like, two other people when I signed up for this thing earlier this summer.

So, to look at my preparation from a traditional training standpoint, you'd probably expect me to impressively suck and also to mortally wound myself and/or others entering and exiting the transition zones this weekend. And, hey, you might be right on.

Or - you might just be totally wrong.

I think you'd probably be sorta wrong.

But, I'll stop laying this off on you as though you're all just sitting out there being big fat doubters, because this is not how I've raised you.

No, you believe in me. Most of the time (or all of the time), you believe in me more than I believe in myself and, gee, that's awfully sweet of you.

Me though - I think I'll be fine. I figure that I can definitely run the distance and I can certainly bike the distance and since I'm at least not heading into this thing with zero confidence in my ability to use clipless pedals (commuting in these shoes has done wonders for my confidence and notfallingoverness), I'm ahead of last year's abilities as I go out to packet pick-up today.

And then, on Sunday when I head to Santa Cruz, I'll also have my new bike rack all full of My Bike Who Still Needs a Name After Two Years and a bib number 716 spots higher than last year.

85? Am I doing this alone?

Oh. I guess the field is a bit larger for Santa Cruz than it was for Alameda.

What? You don't know immediately where Alameda is? Shocking.

Anyway - for audience participation!

Name the bike:

She's spicy. She's orange. She's a 2008 Cannondale Synapse F3 Carbon, for you technical folks. She *can* be fast as shit.

I feel like she needs a name, and for the life of me, I can't come up with a good one.

I didn't have this trouble with Tulip because my neighbor took one look at her and her Dutchie-ness and was all, "Aw! Tulip!" and we were done.

I mean, come on. Could you call her anything other than "Tulip"? No.

But no one looks at a road bike and goes, "Aw...[NAME]!" because road bikes don't have a cutesy bamboo basket or panniers or those rad handles that curve toward you all accommodating-like.

No. They are all carbon-y and clipless pedals-y and don't inspire a lot of sentimentality in passersby. But I'll tell you, after a summer of riding this sexy fast bitch to work on trails and roads and through parks and crazy intersections and falling on my face when I discovered its inability to maintain vertical when crossing loose debris, I have a new affection for it.

And I'm not always screaming as I ride. Truly.

An affection, I'm proud to say, isn't entirely composed of Fear.

This is a big shift, friends - believe me.

So - name her! You come up with a good solid name for this saucy, fast mama and I'll use it every time I talk about cycling or training for a race, which who knows how often that will be but still - cool.

Go on, name away. Meanwhile, I'm going to pick The Nameless One up from the bike shop and get my packet so that HOORAY! I can go off all untrained into the chutes.

I guess I haven't improved much at this racing thing, but I guess that's what happens after six years of this? Yeah, that's it.

1:00:15*,**,***

This is not a sub-60 10K time. As you can plainly see. And that is because of a few things. Not that I'm making excuses for my slowness, because if I was REALLY worried about a sub-60 10K time, I'd just train to run a 10K in, like, 50 minutes instead of 58:15 so that I'd have lots of room for error, but that brings me to my first asterisk.

*This wasn't a 10K.
Yeah, color me fucking surprised because the whole time I was signed up for and, therefore TRAINING for, this thing, I thought it was a 10K. It's not. It's a 6 miler.

Oh.

So, then, in theory, it should have been that much easier to run it in less than an hour.

In theory.

**There were approximately 15,000 people running this race.

15,000 people crammed shoulder to shoulder into a narrow two lane road that runs 6 miles along the ocean between the Santa Cruz and Capitola wharfs.

15,000 people, of which at least 10,000 were not familiar with common race etiquette. Specifically, if you're a slow runner or walking or WALKING A GOD DAMNED DOUBLE STROLLER FOR GODSSAKE, walk on the right and let those faster than you (AKA everyone) pass by easily on the left.

Also, if you're a slow runner or walking or WALKING A GOD DAMNED DOUBLE STROLLER FOR GODSSAKE, don't line up with the 5 minute mile pace sign.

Look, I've said it before and it's going down again - just because you got to the race first doesn't mean you get to line up ahead of the elite runners at the starting line. This isn't first come first served - it's fastest runners go first, so that they don't have to crush you and your multiple-cup-holder-having strollermobile as they sprint to the 6 mile finish line in 26 minutes.

Don't believe me about the Supah Fastness? Go look.

Seriously, standing in front of these freaks of running nature could get you killed as you're sliced in half as they rocket toward the finish line.

Not that I am one of these fabulous freaks. I'm not. I'm your average run of the mill girl who goes out to a race and lines up with the 9 minute mile pace marker because she's fucking delusional to think that everyone ahead of the 9 minute mile pace marker is ready and equipped to go the distance in 8 minutes per mile or less and wouldn't want to be caught slowing down their mighty fastness.

It would appear that I'm in the minority here, though, since I spent the first two solid miles of this race weaving in and around people who were walking, pushing strollers, admiring costumes, adjusting tu-tus or just plain huffing slowly up and down the gently undulating hills ON THE LEFT SIDE OF THE COURSE.

Which explains how, despite the 6 mile official distance of this race, I actually traveled 6.28 miles (per the Garmin), of which .28 miles were clearly spent traveling horizontally. Hooray.

***And that's the final asterisk in this ridiculous race report - this alleged "flat and fast course" was anything but flat and fast.

Now, I don't mind hills like I used to. Frankly, they're almost a relief since I know the other side will offer up a nice downhill so I can catch my breath, but don't tell people that it's flat if it's not, particularly if you don't offer up an elevation chart to support your obviously faulty claim.

Granted, I've driven this road before a few times, so I was aware that there were hills, but I bet at least...oh, I'm going to guess...5,000 or so out-of-towners had no idea of the undulations and then ended up being the psychos lurching up these unexpected rises in the ground when they appeared before them. Which would explain the shrieks I heard as I passed some folks going up the first hill.

It never gets old hearing people scream, "I thought this was FLAT. What are these HILLS?"

Yeah. It was a dark time for some.

And that whole "fast" business is probably only true if you signed up as an elite runner, which I did not for obvious slow ass reasons, because then you get a special orange bib and get to line up at the front and slay all who stand between you and the finish line.

The rest of us schmucks get to line up with our pace groups and spend 6 miles slugging it out with the other 14,800 or whatever people who don't qualify for a land speed record when their Nikes hit the pavement.

Though rather than shine a completely dim light on the whole event, I will say that I enjoyed myself in the sense that physically, I felt good and my legs felt strong. I got to trot along with a friend of mine (Hi Carol! You're a monster!), look at the ocean, get in a decent workout and sprint wildly down some gentle hills.

And at the finish line I got to wander around endlessly searching for the refreshments and my goodie bag that were one hundred miles away and down a steep grade on the fucking beach where I left them in lieu of a $1 bottle of water from a nice lady closer to the finish line. Seriously? No water at the finish line? Not an orange wedge for a thirsty runner? Lame.

And here I wanted to end on a high note.

Um...Jada and Bubba were waiting for me at the finish line! That was good. Also, there were balloon arches marking off each mile, which I loved.

So, there you have it - I'm happy with a race if there are balloons and a dog. Apparently, I should have signed up for the kid's registration and saved myself a few bucks.

Running update: 22s. Yep. 22s.

In case you're not following me on Twitter (Dude, what the fuck? Sometimes I post things that aren't Foursquare check ins.) and therefore managed to miss the biggest Finny news since I Have The Rapture In My Backyard, I wanted to tell you that I ran my oft traveled interval route yesterday morning...IN THE 22s.

Lemons are unrelated. Though they do provide an excellent prop for the Garmin which falls over and resets itself otherwise. Handy.

That's right. Because I know you're not all on Twitter and I need a lot of validation in my life, so I dragged you all over here to show you evidence that sometimes stars align and I am able to run the same old interval route faster than ever before.

Even though, according to every running magazine and blog, I'm scheduled to hit my plateau any day now. Apparently the 30s are prime territory for this event.

But no! I'm fighting the plateau, people. I will not bow down and accept interval runs with ever decreasing speed into my life.

Granted, I'm still not fast and never really have been, but this is marked improvement from Supah Slow to Less Slow and I will take it thankyouverymuch.

And because I believe these things have helped me in my quest for the 22s, I will continue doing them:

• Fartleks: They sound stupid and they feel even stupider but I'm pretty sure they work. Which sucks because I was banking on them NOT working so I could stop running and crying.
• Honey Stinger Waffles: I thought they'd be another flash in the pan Oh This Looks Not Disgusting option from a race goodie bag, but they actually ARE not disgusting and a good way to get a little food in before sprinting out the door in the early morning hours. I just have to ignore the douche on the wrapper.
• HoneyMilk: Now, before you get all Oh, so I see you're really embracing this whole beekeeper thing to an annoying extreme LOSER, let me tell you that I've tried a lot of  gels, chews, drinks, bars and other Don't Die running and recovery fuels and this is the only one that actually keeps me from feeling all barfy afterward. Plus - no dying. Bonus!

So yeah, of course I ran this magical interval event right after being all OH LOOK I RAN IT IN 23:05 MY FASTEST TIME EVER. And because I'm sure that tomorrow's interval run will be slower, because that's how my life goes, I had to tell you today while the news didn't have to be prefaced by me going, "OK, so today sucked but on TUESDAY...well, let me tell you..." because that would make for a lame post.

Oh.

Running update: I hate the road. QUICKLY.

I have a list of things to post about, but all of them require photos, so instead of those you get this: I'm still running.

HOORAY, I know.

But it is actually not the most useless topic for me to post about since some of you might still care about running even though I haven't talked about it in ages. And I've talked about training even less, so there you go. Be happy that I'm coming back around to this topic at all because if I weren't I'd be veering off in a new disgusting direction called, "I'm a fat ass and can't fit into my jeans. Send gin."

Yes, people, despite what some other running blogs may claim (because they are written by liars. Fit, fast ab-having liars), I run because it keeps the fatness at bay. It doesn't necessarily usher in the era of visible abs or toned ass cheeks, but it at least keeps me in my jeans and lets me wear shorts during the months of the year which Bubba has deemed acceptable for me to be in them.

He gives me mean looks when I trot them out in December with my flip-flops because he obviously wants to crush my soul.

Whatever. I love my shorts. And flip-flops. And tank tops. And I also love bikinis, but we haven't quite found the right combination of running, strength training, not drinking a dozen cocktails a week and race fries to solve for that equation, so I'm sticking really close to my shorts and tank tops in the hopes that one day the stars will align and I'll be able to put on one of my many bikinis (not looking like Jennifer Aniston has not deterred me from buying 100 bikinis) and not shriek in horror.

And so I run.

Except when I do a trail race and roll the ever loving fuck out of my ankle to the point of an audible meaty crunch. Then I sit the sidelines for a few weeks until the persistent gnawing pain subsides enough for a quiet run sans-Garmin/speed goals. Then I run all quiet and gentle like for another week to make sure that the painlessness has settled in enough to go back out with the Garmin and dreams of 23 minute interval runs and sub-60 6 mile runs on the weekend.

BUT ONLY THEN. Not sooner. And it's a bit of sweet annoying torture to sit the bench when you know all the while that the longer you wait before going back out the more painful it's going to be and the more likely it is that your shorts will stop fitting right because your Ab Hider 5000 (AKA belly) will re-emerge right when you were getting ready for Shorts Acceptable weather.

So, as you can see, training while recovering from an injury is a tedious process.

And that's where I'm at right now. Front and center in Tedious Race Training for the upcoming Wharf to Wharf in July.

A 10K race held on a road even though I said to you guys and, more importantly, TO ME, that I would stop racing on roads because I hate it and even more than I hate racing on the road, I hate training on the road because people always try to hit you with their cars because they're way too interested in drinking their Starbucks, beating their backseated children or checking the game on their iPhone to watch out for reflectively dressed runners just trying to get in a quick 6 miles before it becomes monstrously hot in San Jose, CA.

My hatred is very specific.

Also, training on my city's roads is suffocatingly boring. OH MY GOD is it boring. I can change up my route all I want, wear a costume, sing out loud in the faces of babies, give everyone the finger, pull candy from my pants, do intervals of skipping and hula hooping and STILL it would crush my soul with its boringness.

I've become very attached to my trail runs, folks, and man does it show when I have to go out and run the roads.

Based on the looks I get from oncoming runners, I don't seem happy or approachable. That whole, "We're all in this together" vibe that I used to occasionally experience has gone out the window. I'm definitely projecting a, "What the fuck am I doing here?" vibe and it doesn't sit well with all these fast and apparently content runners who are out trotting our city's streets with a pleasant look on their sweaty faces.

Perhaps they haven't been nearly creamed by a minivan yet. Or perhaps they've never experienced the sheer joy of sprinting down a mossy shaded trail protected overhead by a thick canopy of trees.

Either way - we're not the same anymore. I don't understand you people and I barely understand me.

The only reason I can come up with - as to why we're all out running the streets instead of some lovely trail through the woods or along the coast - is that we're all trying to defend some road-based PR for some road-based race that we signed up for without flipping on that important Brain switch before hitting "Register".

I mean, I have my sub-60 10K PR. I got it a year ago and I thought I was going to hang that up forever.

10K - 58:15. Done. Forever.

But, no. I signed up for another 10K and I just can't go out there and fail my PR because then I'd start thinking bad things about myself and then I'd have a lot of cocktails and then HOLY SHIT what are my jeans doing with that giant blob obscuring the belt loops ohmygoditsmybelly.

You see the vicious circle I've created for myself then, yes?

So, I'm training for this 10K. On the road. And I'm not running in the hills because I don't have time from all this running on the road business. And it's yucky. And I'm mad at myself for signing up for a road race even though it's supposed to be one of those races that *everyone who's ever called themselves a runner* does. And even though last weekend I went out to do my first training run in preparation for this race after meatily crunching my ankle running in the blessed hills and BAM...

Killed it in 56:15.

Oh HOT DAMN.

Then, just before that, I did my 2.5M interval training run in 23:05, which is 2 seconds faster than my fastest interval training run ever.

HOTTEST DAMN.

It's funny how I'm suddenly sorta almost maybe looking forward to next Saturday's long run because this week's didn't suck as mightily bad in the time department as I thought it would.

Yeah, funny that.