Soul Thumping

The Anxious Runner Report - The Disastrous Run

I made a last minute decision to run a 10K on Saturday (ashamedly, I was waiting to see what Mother Nature was going throw down on us).  I've been working on my pace for the last few weeks, thinking it might be possible to beat my time from last year for this same 10K.  I could not have been more wrong.

Apparently, running a good race requires sleep, and I counted 0 sheep the night before.  Not 1 tiny little lamb (I wasn't even near the pasture).  Bedtime is my nemesis.  My adult years have been plagued with erratic sleep patterns and poor habits.  I've had a particularly annoying two weeks in the sleep department and not functioning at 100% (60% is generous).  I proved to myself just how low-functioning I am on Saturday by running my worst race ever.  Not only did I not beat my time from last year, I added 6 minutes to my total.  An entire minute to each mile.

I started out much too fast and I knew it before I got to mile 3.  I was toast.  Day old toast.  I considered throwing myself to the side of the road and wait for Poseidon to report me missing.  I don't know how, but I pulled it together, opting not to look for the nearest ditch.  I was dragging.  My effort was pitiful, but I managed to run the entire 6.27 miles, though the last quarter of a mile was more like a determined-not-to-trip-over-my-own-feet jog.  I've said it before, I'm not fast and my form is never pretty, but oh my, this run takes the cake!

I felt terrible for thinking I could just show up and do this thing, and I thought about literally kicking myself, but I didn't have the energy.  So, now what?

1.  Running a race does require sleep.  OK.  Got it.

2.  I ran 6.27 miles without stopping, knowing my time would be terrible.  How about instead of kicking myself, I give myself a little pat on the back?  Done!  Feeling better.

3.  Shake it off!  I was online this morning searching for my next race.  Anxiety and that nagging fear of failing again is strong, but so am I.  Gordon Pirie (British runner in the 1950s) said, "Any runner who denies having fears, nerves or some kind of disposition is a bad athlete, or a liar."

Post-run. Red, puffy face, but smiling : )

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Sunday's Bike Ride Brought to you by The letter "H"

There is nothing like biking in hot temperatures; humidity so high even the 1970s-style sweatbands I wear on my wrists won't help.  But as Isak Dinesen wrote, “The cure for anything is salt water - tears, sweat, or the sea.”

Sunday was one of those days.  We biked to the North Carolina Museum of Art, and thanks to the miles and miles of amazing bike trails, courtesy of our city (which can sometimes be a big, dumb city), Poseidon and I can bike from our driveway all the way to the museum, without having to rack up the bikes and drive.

The museum trail isn't an easy trail, and we get a crazy mad workout, but it's scenic (except for the pedestrian bridge over the belt line...traffic isn't a pretty thing to see from any height).  Oh, and shortly after pedaling over the bridge, my front bike tire got up close and personal with a black snake.  Fortunately, he was faster, so no harm done to either one of us.  I had expected to implode when I first saw the slithering thing.  Poseidon didn't even see it!  He was busy tree-gawking and I was busy ground-watching.

When we arrived at destination NCMA, we decided we hadn't had enough torture from the sun, so we continued on to Reedy Creek.  Our inaugural Reedy Creek trail ride!  After a confusing start, we got it in gear (pun intended), and made it to Umstead Park where we took a breather, meaning, we drank the hell out of some water.

Our return trip was outstanding (except for that excursion down Edward's Mill Rd...we won't be doing that again).  We stopped to snap pictures of some horses (I can never resist a horse), and one was curious enough to walk over and say, "Howdy."  We stopped for a beer and a late lunch at a tavern on our route, then we began our winding trek through the woods back home, when we spotted the blue heron.  My friend T and I saw him several weeks ago on a bike ride.  Blue herons don't usually get this far from the coast, so I'm hoping he isn't hurt and unable to fly east.

Horsies, a heron, and humidity.  Fantastic summer ahead!

 

 

Amphitrite

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Do People Still Steal Stupid Stuff?

Yes, yes they do.  Despite my pretty alliterative title, this is an ugly topic because there are some ugly cretins out there.

Poseidon and I went to the Carolina Panthers football game yesterday.  Rain was in the forecast, so we purchased a couple of hooded rain ponchos the day before, just in case.

The game was more than a little boring, and the Panthers lost, though both teams played like kids on an elementary school playground.  Still, we like watching football, and the beer was cold, and the junk food was hot, so we weren't complaining.

There was even a near brawl during the 2nd quarter between three young Seahawks fans and a much larger mob of Panthers fans, which ended before it began with the Seattle boys being removed from the stadium.  There were several Carolina football fans in the stands ready to make punching bags of the spindly hipsters, so fortunately for them, security intervened or it would have been an unpleasant scene for all.

During the 3rd quarter of the game, Poseidon and I decided to get some food.  We didn't want to carry all of our stuff with us, so we left Poseidon's rain poncho, still in its zippered pouch, under his seat, along with the game program, a bag of peanuts, etc.

I think you know where I'm going with this, and you would be correct.  When we returned to our seats, we noticed that Poseidon's rain poncho was gone.  I was astonished, truly stupefied.  I cannot believe that people still steal random shit.  I mean, it would be a different story if it was actually raining!  For the love of Pete, you simpletons who took the poncho, if you can afford to buy tickets to the game, you can afford to buy a flipping rain poncho from Target (although, I'm going to admit, those little vinyl beasts are expensive)!

We were in the 2nd to the last row, and not a huge crowd in that section, and I have my suspicions about which ass hat stole the poncho, but who really cares, right?  It doesn't matter which aborted-attempt-at-being-a-decent-member-of-society took it, it just matters that someone did take it, thus, ensuring my cynicism will live on, so thanks for that you vile filching dimwit.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Climbing Mountains. Once.

I love finding pictures of myself from years, and years and years ago.  Being that I'm into day 4 on my sick bed (sofa), I started looking through some of my photo albums that have been boxed away for the past year.  Most of the photos are from my adventures in far places.  One photo particularly caught my eye.  This is me from 1993, at the silly young age of 24.  Climbing a mountain in Yosemite Park, CA.

Me!

My friend and I enrolled in a four day mountaineering and climbing school in Yosemite.  This particular picture has special meaning because I truly thought I might never make it down from the mountainside that day.  It was day three of our climbing class.  It was tough.  I had problems early on climbing over a particular crack in the rock and I couldn't move.  I was stranded for nearly 40 minutes trying to maneuver out my predicament.

Strength was leaving me (sayounara, sister), and I wasn't sure if I could make it to the top.  At that moment, just before desperation set in, I heard my friend calling my name.  I thought perhaps he was going to offer me some words of encouragement that would carry me straight to the top of that mountain.  I looked in his direction, waiting to hear those words that would inspire, but instead of, "Come on, you can do it," I heard, "Say cheese!"  Click.  He had taken my picture.  I wanted to laugh, I wanted to cry, I wanted him to repel over the side of the cliff with faulty rope.

Obviously I made it down off that mountain, and I have some fantastic pictures to remember the experience.  I learned two very important things about myself during my climbs on the mountains in Yosemite:

1.  I can do anything I want.  I just have to ask fear to step aside for a bit.

2.  I'm a ground person.  I like the ground.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Me again!

Taking Up a New Sport After the Age of 40 (Just Might Kill Me)

Boxing class.  The only reason I decided this was a good idea is because I saw one of those Amazon Local coupon deals for boxing/kickboxing classes, so my sister and I gave it a try.  I once read that a person shouldn't take up a new sport after the age of 30, and I think, hogwash.  I took up running at 40, bought a new bike at 41.  Oh, I've had some pain and some nasty spills, but I'm not dead yet.  Having said that, the boxing class nearly did me in.  I went to one class.  One.

I'm not really sure if it was the boxing class, or the yoga class two days later that did the damage, but I pinched a nerve somewhere in my left side that required a round of steroids.  The pinched nerve made me decide that boxing might not be my thing, yet.

I healed from that fiasco, and went back to running.  Now my sister has talked me into something new again.  Pure Barre classes.  These classes combine ballet, yoga, pain, pilates, pain, etc., and are kicking my ass (while shaping it nicely at the same time).  So far, I remain unscathed, and I love that my energy and metabolism have spiked noticeably.  All this brings to mind a saying I read (I don't know who actually said this or I would give them credit), "Health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die."

A co-worker drew a graph for me on my whiteboard last week, with an uphill slant he labeled "Youth," a peak labeled "30s" and a sharp, steep drop off he labeled "40s."  That moment you discover youth has packed it's Louis Vitton bag (though I've never owned a Louis Vitton bag, because let's be honest...they are hideous) and headed south.  What?

This graph squicked me out.  I considered taking a picture and adding it to my post, but having to stare at it any longer would have caused irreparable damage to my already fragile psyche, so I erased it, and went back to thinking shiny, happy thoughts.

30s, 40s, WHATEVER (I'm saying this in my best Clueless voice).  My brain and my body feel better when I throw myself into something new (even if I try it only once, you know, like boxing).  I'm open to new forms of torture exercise in order to beat the ageist approach to fitness right out of me (and everyone else if I ever get back to those boxing classes).

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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The Vileness of the Women's Locker Room at My Gym

There wasn't a thing in the world I thought that could get me down...except the pig sty that is the "ladies" locker room (notice I put ladies in quotes because I'm using that term in the sarcastic sort of way today).  I was in a great mood yesterday as I walked the gym, excited about jumping on the treadmill and running a full 33 minutes without slowing my pace (33 is an odd number I'll admit, but there is a method to my madness)...but then I entered the locker room.

Were the women of North Raleigh truly raised in barns?  There is still a great deal of farmland in the vicinity, and I can see how the area may have been over-populated with barns a few decades ago, so it might really be true.  In that case, the condition of the locker room is excusable because if you all lived like farm animals while growing up, you didn't really know any better and it's carried over into your adult life, and your kids probably treat their rooms and your house the same way, so I apologize for calling you out.  Continue to throw your "things" in the locker room toilet without flushing, and pee all over the seat (and don't forget the floor and the walls...I don't know how this is even possible, but apparently it is) without cleaning up after yourselves.  It isn't too difficult to hover and still make it into that toilet.  I perfected the art on a trip to Osaka, Japan once.  It can be done "ladies" (oops, noticed I used those quotes again?).

The repulsiveness of the locker room bathroom isn't even my biggest gripe.  It's actually the changing room area.  I've seen the most curious of items left laying on the changing benches and scattered around the women's locker room. I've seen articles of clothing left on the floor, for example:  a pair of jeans, a blouse, a pair of heels, and of course, some underwear.  Did some of you go home naked?  You forgot to get dressed after your shower?  I've seen women clipping their toe nails in the locker room like it was something everyone is supposed to do.  Your not!  I don't want to step on one of your mangy fungus-ridden toe nails and cut my foot, requiring stitches and a rabies vaccination.  Stop it.

The management provides a large lovely bamboo basket in the locker room, specifically for the placement of your dirty towels after you've worked out.  Leaving those nasty towels, drenched in your sweat, on the benches where other women sit down to put on their sneakers is not acceptable.  PICK THEM UP AND PUT THEM IN THE BASKET!  To not do so is primitive, spoiled, ignorant, animal-like behavior.

I'm not even going to start on the rude, spoiled 22 - 25 year-olds who screech into their cell phones with that affected, "I'm-not-sure-if-I'm-an-adult-or-a-child voice."  I could begin an endless diatribe about cell phone usage at the gym like no body's business, but that is for another day.  

Again, for those of you who were actually raised in a barn, I'll excuse you because you weren't taught manners, or how to clean yourselves or clean up after yourselves, much less keep a silly old locker room halfway sanitary.  For those of you who didn't feed from a trough, please take some time to review some of these common (what I thought were common) tips on manners and being lady-like at the gym:  http://www.divinecaroline.com/22176/76524-closed-doors-six-locker-room

I'm heading for the gym after work and I suddenly feel the need to don a protective suit from the CDC.

 

--Fortuitous "I don't want to touch anything" Observer

Running for the Roses (Oh, and Frostbite)

Tomorrow I'm running a 5K, the 30th annual Run for the Roses.  A portion of the proceeds go to Carolina Canines for Service, which is a good cause.  I'm doing the run because I enjoy running now, and it feels good to set a short-term goal.  As with my previous race, my goal is simply to finish, and not focus on my timing (although I know it has improved since my last run in June).

Why does anyone care?  They probably don't but I'm taking the time to blog about it for three reasons:  

1.  I'm quite proud of myself for making another short-term goal and sticking to it.  For me, that is an accomplishment of cyclopean measure.

2.  My brother jumped on board the running train and is going to run with me, and I'm very proud of him.

3.  The third and most important reason to blog about my event is that this could be my last blog entry for a while (here comes the drama queen from behind the curtain...enough already).  The high tomorrow will barely be in the 40s.  Now, I know this is above freezing and all, but it's cold.  My legs could freeze (not literally, I'm talking figuratively now) up on me and I could trip and fall, and roll right into the ditch on Blount Street and no one will stop to pick me up.  I could trip and crack my ankle, splintering it into a thousand pieces and roll into the ditch on Halifax street and no one will pick me up.  What if I slip on an icy patch, land on my head, knock myself out and roll into a ditch behind Peace College and no one picks me up?

Hmmm, I don't think I'm worried so much about getting hurt, I think I have abandonment issues.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Super Bowl XLIV Chick-style

I am a chick who enjoys football.  I like watching the games; I cringe when players take a hard hit to the head; I comment on who has the best looking butt and who has the dumbest looking mouth guard, and yes, being a woman, I also judge a team on the color of their uniforms (except Detroit, it doesn't matter what color they wear, they suck, and Cleveland does take the trophy for having the ugliest uniform colors, and they suck also).

I'm not an expert on all of the statistics of teams and players and l don't want to be because, well, I have a life and other interests and I'll leave that to every man in the country who has a football blog.  Having gotten that statement out of the way, here are my thoughts about game day this year (by the way, I'm running a 5K race Sunday afternoon, before the Super Bowl, in temperatures that are going to be less than 40 degrees, so depending on if I trip and scrape most of my face off on cold pavement or a toe freezes and falls off, I may not give a shit about Super Bowl XLIV):

1.  I'm not hiding the fact that I'm pulling for Indianapolis.  Why?  No special reason.  I don't dislike the Saints.  I love the city of New Orleans and no one on the team irritates me much.  Their uniform colors are ok, but I would like to see un update to the fleur di lis.  Maybe some funky shadowing or some ivy growing around it, I don't know, something to give it some pizazz.

2.  Drew Brees needs a hairstyle.  I think he has good hair, it just doesn't do anything to flatter him so he might want to visit a new hair salon.  Just my opinion.

3.  Petyon Manning needs a hairstyle.

4.  Peyton Manning has a great butt.  He is so boy-next-door cute that I just want to pinch his cheeks (face cheeks, let's keep it clean) or give him a noogie or something.  I can't help it.  Oh, and I think he is a great player, even though there was so much chatter on the internet about him choking and failing under pressure.  Whatever.

Now, there are rumors going around about he and his wife are divorcing, and I don't know if it's true or isn't true, but if he loses on Sunday, it could be due to those personal pressures he is under, so I hope all those Monday morning quarterbacks will keep that in mind.

5.  I'm interested in seeing the commercials because they haven't been funny in at least 3 years.  Oh, oh, wait, except for the one a couple of years ago where the guy used his girlfriend's white cat to clean up pasta sauce and she walked in and thought he was stabbing her cat because he had the cat dripping with sauce in one had and big butcher knife in the other hand?  That was hilarious.  Actually, I'm curious to see if CBS runs the so-called "pro-life" ad.  All I'm going to say about that one folks is this:  let's keep politics out of football.  It's bad enough we have politics in politics.

Life will go on after Super Bowl XLIV.  I barely remember who won last year (I know, I know it was Pittsburgh), and I'll forget by next year who even played this year, that is how important the whole thing is to me in the grand scheme of things, but everyone else is making their predictions, so I'm compelled to jump on the bandwagon:

Colts - 17; Saints - 13

 

--Fortuitous Observer 

My First Competitive Race, and I Didn't Throw Up!

My head was spinning.  It was 5:45 in the morning on Saturday, and as I pulled into the parking lot where I would catch the shuttle that would take me to the pre-race location, I thought I would throw up.  I honestly thought about turning around and heading back home.  I thought about it hard until my cell phone rang.  It was my friend Kimberly.  She was waiting for me in the lot, ready to jump on the shuttle and run with me.  She didn't sound nervous at all.  Of course, Kimberly has been in races before.

I was a little more than an hour (a nerve-racking hour I must say) away from my very first competitive race.  I've never been a runner.  I'm 40 years old and I only started running a couple of months ago.  What on earth made me think I could do this?  Unemployment, that's what.  That may not make sense to most people, but those who read my blog regularly have followed my employment (or lack there of) woes.  I was laid off in February and the technical field I am in isn't so popular at the moment.  So, what does that have to do with running?  Not much, except that I can't control the economic situation we're in and whether or not employers are hiring, but I can control my outlook, attitude and well-being.  Running is one of those things I've decided to do instead of jumping off a cliff, driving into a brick wall, chaining myself to cement blocks and going swimming in the swim club down the street, etc.  To date, it seems to be working.

The race was the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure^® and I chose to run the 5K co-ed competitive race.  It started at 7:00am!  As Kimberly and I walked around, checking out the vendors and information booths scattered throughout the race area, I was trying to remember why I thought I could do this.  I was scared.  My legs felt shaky and I wanted to crawl under a tree and wind myself into the fetal position.  It was the adrenaline coursing through my veins that stopped me.  I was nervous, but I was excited!  I can do this.  I really can do this.  The 40-year old chick who has never run a competitive race in her life can do this.

When the announcer said go, there were thousands of runners taking off.  I was still questioning my sanity, fearing my pride was about to take a sharp smack in the teeth, but I took off at a slow-paced jog, then picked up some speed.  I was doing it!  Before the first 1/2 mile, I noticed my shoe was untied and I debated on stopping or waiting until I tripped on it and fell face first into the street.  I stopped, tied it quickly, then jetted my way back to the quickened pace I had achieved before the shoe string incident.  At the 2K marker, I was tired, but I kept going.  I ran like my life depended on it.  And it just might someday, so the idea that I was running for a cure for breast cancer made me go even harder.  Spectators on the sidelines were cheering us on, and I closed my eyes (for just a second, I didn't want to trip) and soaked up the feeling like a sponge!

Then, I came to the "1/2 Mile to Go" marker and I started to lose some steam, major steam.  I chatted myself up, reminding myself that I have been running at least two miles a day for the past couple of months, and 1/2 mile is a piece of cake (cheesecake with strawberries on top!).  I regained my momentum and ran like hell.  When I first registered for the race, my goal was to finish the race, even if I came in last, it wouldn't matter.  Well I did finish, and my time wasn't so bad (36:40) either.  I can do this.  I did do this!

 

--Fortuitous Observer

My First Time at the Roller Derby

The Roller Derby.  Women in tights and sometimes curious costumes, racing around the hard flat track on roller skates with pernicious expressions on their faces, knocking each other down, flip-flopping across the cement floor.  This is the roller derby folks and it is awesome!  I had the pleasure of attending my first ever roller derby on Saturday and I could quite possibly become hooked.

I won't go into the history of the sport because there are other sites that do that better, including the entry on Wikipedia:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roller_derby so check that out for a foundation/history for the derby and why it is so engrossing.

I went to the match not knowing anything about roller derby except from what I remember on Saturday afternoon television in the 80s.  When we walked into the arena, I spied women with punk hair and clothes walking around with signs reading "Ask Me" and fans milling about with mohawks and plaid.  I have now been introduced to the subculture of roller derby!  I'm in Raleigh, NC, so the local team here is the Carolina Rollergirls.  Their team colors are black and red with a logo of a skull and crossbones wearing a derby helmet!  Keenly punkish.

The match program handed out upon entry includes the rules and an overview of how the derby works, the positions (jammers, pviots, and blockers), scoring, legal and illegal blocks, the difference between a major and a minor penalty, etc.  The referees are just as "flamboyant" as the derby gals themselves and are just as entertaining to follow around the track.  It is impossible to sit still and not cheer along, even if you are still trying to figure out the rules of the game.  I discovered there is an infectious fever of fanship at the derby.

The derby girls on the teams have witty names.  The Carolina Rollergirls team includes Daisy Rage, Deviled Legs (she is quite tall), Trudy Struction, and Holly Wanna Crackya (just to name a few).  They are part of the Women's Flat Track Derby Association, and they are a not-for-profit organization, so it's all about the sport, not the money and flashy advertising, which gives the derby a grassroots cooperative feel.

People-watching is a secondary attraction at the roller derby.  I consider myself an avid people watcher and I was in my element on Saturday.  The spectators are just as inspiring as the derby girls and refs.  Some of them dressed in their own punk attire, others ran around the track waving flags or harrassing the opposing teams mascot.

The derby girls, the referees, the fans, there is something about the roller derby that had me from the time we entered the arena.  I suggest everyone find out if there is a team in your area, and if so, jump on the bandwagon and go!  The tickets are relatively inexpensive and a fun time is guaranteed.  Just be careful if you sit on the floor next to the flat track.  Sometimes a derby girl can get knocked out of bounds, possibly right into your lap!

This is a great blog I found on the "new" roller derby, so check this out:  http://rollerderbydisorder.blogspot.com/ 

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