and then life just kind of keeps going...

The funniest thing about the Day After Little P's Big Marathon was that it was very Monday-ish. Sunday was such an amazing, self-defining, liberating, mind-blowing day, and then…

I got up Monday morning, hobbled around a bit, and went to work. A few people knew about the marathon and congratulated me. But then I had two meetings, including a phone conference, wherein I felt stupid. I fixed a mistake I made, making two more mistakes in the process. I fixed those. Apologized. Fielded irritable phone calls and emails (inspired by my mistakes). Felt bloodeebloodeebloo. Took myself to Palmer's Deli for lunch. Got cursed at in the parking lot by a man in an SUV who was trying to back up while I was trying to forward in. And felt generally confused and space cadet-y the rest of the day.

A thousand times I wanted to say, "Hey! But… But… I ran a marathon yesterday! I ran a marathon! Aren't you going to cheer for me and offer me jelly beans? I'm 628! I'm 628! Don't you recognize me?!"

Maybe I should have worn my medal. And my race bib.

But I guess this is the way of things: Life just kind of keeps going. Victory, defeat, grief, elation, whatever… Days open and close at regular 24 hour intervals, and you don't really have a choice but to jump back in the stream and flow again. I actually felt kind of sad yesterday. Maybe that seems ridiculous, but it's true. Yesterday I felt very blue.

Before the marathon, I ran the Dam to Dam 20K at the end of May. I started training for that in March. I've recorded my training schedule in my planner--penciled in the miles, highlighted and checked them off when complete, made notes about how it went. So, since March my weeks are filled with these notes.  Then, October 17 it said MARATHON in red pen! After that…. blank.

I was looking forward to training being over, being able to just work out however my body feels like working out. I was looking forward to letting go of the constant preoccupation with what I was eating and drinking, how late I was staying up the night before a run. I was looking forward to picking up with my weight training (I really like muscles. I do.). But now, here I am, and… eh.

March to October is a long time to be so constantly (CONSTANTLY) focused on one task. Now the task is over, and I feel a little lost.

Sunday, after the race, I felt scattered, like I couldn't focus very well on conversations. I felt that way yesterday, too. But I just chalked it up to fatigue. I wonder if it's actually because the task is complete and my brain is trying to retrain itself, find another focal point. Hm. And, I don't mean to be whiney. I'm just examining this strange emotion that I hadn't expected to feel. That's all.

Humans. We are strange machinery. We are.

Today I ran a marathon.

I am so very tired. And so very humbled. And so very inspired and grateful and overwhelmed (still, even now, many hours later.). My shins are splinting. My left toenail is seriously angry and will secede from the toe union (sandal season is over = blessing). My ankles are swollen (Is this normal?). Both of them. My time did not break any records, but it was faster than I anticipated. I thought I'd come in around 5:30. But instead, I squeaked in under 5. (4:58:23) I felt joyful and positive. I felt strong. Powerful even. (Achey, for sure. My feet were really under duress the last 10 miles.) But, I never hit the wall. I NEVER HIT THE WALL! Amazing. I was really worried about that wall. I walked through most of the water stations, but not all, and those were the only times I walked (which should tell you what a slow runner I am). I am immensely shocked at and proud of this.

But these are just the details. It was such an enormous experience. Overwhelming. Spiritual. Humbling. Inspiring. Everything. I don't know how to sum this up, but I would very much like to.

Today I ran a marathon, a kinda sorta totally foolish endeavor for someone like me--an aging basketball player with a digestive disease who is better built for log-hauling (I am very sturdy for slow, plodding power-hauls.  I would work well on a farm. Not quite so sturdy for quick prancing pony parades.).

I am writing this while my husband rubs my legs, so I'll start there--with a man who will rub my legs and stand around waiting to hand me granola bars and take my picture as I jog by. He is phenomenal; I am blessed; and that's super cool. I need to remember this when he puts my favorite coffee mug in the bowl cabinet where I can't find it. (Priorities, P. Priorities!)

My parents are such wonderful people and so very good at being parents. I don't know how else to say that. When I stop and take stock of my life, I feel so overwhelmed and so PROFOUNDLY undeserving in so many ways. How should one person have so much? What do I do to earn this? I have so much paying forward to do. So much. My parents made a sign. They smiled and cheered and high fived and encouraged and "So proud of you'd" and fed. They fed me. They fed me french fries and a chicken parmesan sandwich, which was exactly and precisely what I craved for my belly. I love my parents.

And friends! Oh, my friends! Encouragement from afar, encouragement from the street corner. Amazing. Becky in her cute hat with super-dog, Charlie. Sarah running barefoot in her church clothes to talk and support and keep company! Tim with gummy bears. Katie and Jane (9 months pregnant. Hello!) with a sign and snacks and total awesomeness. I am constantly reminded of my serious gaps in friendship skills. No, really, I mean that. I have very serious and embarrassing gaps. I know this about myself. My friend, Cassie, had a baby 4 months ago, and I still haven't sent her gift (I do not have an explanation for this. I also haven't mailed Julie's, who was born around the same time.), and yet she sends me a gift certificate to a spa. A spa! Again, I feel so tiny. I am a student. I'm so sorry I'm such a slow learner. I am a friendship kindergartner.

Strangers, too. That's overwhelming. Beautiful kind people who have no idea who I am who point and smile and say, "Looking good, 628! Keep it up!" They handed me kleenex (genius!) and water and gatorade and jelly beans. I have never said "Thank you" so much in my entire life. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. A billion times, I must have said it. So many generous people! How could I ever be a pessimist or believe the world is nothing but greed and destruction? It isn't! Oh, it so isn't. Goodness everywhere, if you're willing to fling yourself into it (or plod slowly but certainly through it). The world is so bright and kind and loving today. I want to remember this when I walk through the gloomy stuff.

I want to remember all of this, really. I don't want this to just be that thing I did on October Whenever and thought was cool and then forgot about. I want to apply this. It seems like I'm supposed to. Why else would a person torture herself for months and months only to check it off a list and never revisit?

The finish line was some kind of amazing. I really do not have words for that. None at all. Parents at mile 25. Katie and Jane at 25.4. Chris and my dog, Kaya, at 26. Walls of cheering strangers clanging bells and cheering and clapping. The announcer calling my name. Medal. Pictures. Snacks. Congratulations from people I didn't know. Fatigue and Joy and Pride and Teeny Itty Bitty Cosmic Tininess.

I think the marathon reminded me I am cosmically small but capable of incredible might. I'd say that's worth a toenail.

it sounded like this: GYAAHH.

I've been buzzy this week. I think the alleged crack in my foot (formerly believed stress fracture to fibula, but 2nd opinion -- formed by a lot of mashing of thumbs into the side of my foot -- suggested general irritation to cuboid, if you like to keep track of such things), triggered a zippy nerve to my brain. Or maybe it's just the pronounced focus on Body that plants me a little more firmly within it (Did that sentence make sense? I can't tell.). Or maybe it's the 1.5 week break from running and all that stupid stationary biking (I do not like the stationary bike. I do not.). Whatever the cause, I feel like a stricken bell ringing from the inside.

I ran 3 miles around the neighborhood yesterday, ankle wrap, knee wrap, it felt fine, more or less. Caught a couple of minor zingers, depending on how I landed, but as long as I kept my stride short and pace slow (no problem there), fine fine fine all around. It made me happy.

Although, today I was supposed to participate in the NAMI walk. I was feeling selfish and protective of my bones, so I am sitting in my red chair instead. I might actually be able to pull off this marathon business, afterall. It won't be graceful or pretty. It won't be fast or impressive. But it will be complete and hopefully upright. Yes, my only goal, really, at this point, is to finish upright.

While I was doing my modest 3 yesterday, I was having a conversation with myself about why in hell's bells I want to continue doing something that has created such unmistakable physical havoc. My knees are goofed. My ankles are goofed. My feet are goofed. It has to be more than pride. I mean, sure, I'm prideful, but I think, if I may say so, I have a better handle on ego than most (which I may have just disproven by writing that sentence). I think it's a transition thing. My life, as I know it, has been in kind of this monkey morph state. I see the next phase coming and want to make sure I've sent this one out with a gong. I am petrified at thought of looking back on my life and seeing one long blendy, indistinguishable watermark.

But back to the buzzy stricken bell bit -- I feel like when I'm buzzy, I notice more. Things jump out at peculiar angles, and I feel like everything is purposeful. Thursday at lunch, I took the bus downtown to meet C for lunch. Two strapping young White men got on the bus with me. They were dressed nicely -- dress pants and button down shirts with ties. They were wearing name tags, but I didn't pay attention to what they said. They sat at the front of the bus by the front door. I sat at the back, by the back door.

We rode a few blocks, and a young Black woman was taking a long time to board. I realized she was carrying: 1) a baby strapped to her chest, 2) another baby in a car seat, 3) a giant stroller, 4) a large trash bag full of clothes, and 5) a purse. She couldn't get it all. The two young men just sat and watched. They did nothing. I got up, walked to the front of the bus, and carried her stroller and her laundry bag. Then went back to my seat thinking, "Hey, doofuses! Wake up! This is what you do when someone needs help." Then, I decided to give them some credit. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they didn't notice. Maybe they didn't realize what was happening until I had already gotten up to help. Maybe they were feeling bad right now. Maybe I'd shamed them.

But then, a few blocks later, we stopped, and the woman with the babies and the bags got up and started to repeat the process in reverse to exit the bus. And... STILL.. the young, healthy men did NOTHING. They just sat and watched. So again, I got up, walked to the front, carried her car seat and clothes bag down to the sidewalk and then got back on the bus. I looked at the young men more closely this time. Their name tags: "Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints." I think I actually made a noise, and I think it sounded like this: GYAAHH. I wanted to shake them, "Hey! You just missed your mission! I assure you, Jesus would not have just sat and watched someone struggling."

And then I spent the rest of the bus ride debating hypocrisy and irony and youth and dogma and perfection. On one hand, if you're going to wander around spreading the word of Jesus Christ, if you're actually going to wear his name on your chest, you better take that very seriously, roll up your sleeves, and represent. Because when you don't, it makes people like me have a really hard time with affiliation.

On the other hand, I'm as big a hypocrite as they come, and really have no room to judge anybody else, even if they do happen to be wearing the name Jesus Chris on their chests. In fact, we're all hypocrites. It's nearly impossible not to be. Because no matter our affiliations and our espousals, we're still humans, which means we're still fallible. And we have to forgive our imperfections. If we want people to forgive us ours, we have to be willing to forgive them theirs. And crap like that.

And then I thought about how I think some religious communities really do a disservice with the confines they enforce, the Perfect Living they insist is possible and required. And that I think a lot of soul & world damage comes from the act of constantly rubbing our natural grains the wrong way (Which reminds me of training for marathons and fracturing bones through repetitive force.). So when we insist on rigid rules and narrow interpretations of what's "natural" and "right," we do way more damage than good. We actually chip away at our souls. Improve what needs improving; forgive what needs forgiving; find and create love and joy and peace and service as often as you can, that's my motto (which I frequently and inadvertently violate, which takes me back to being a horrible hypocrite. Please forgive me.).

This post is like a long, gravel road, winding through space.

indestructible superhuman machinery

My brain is on fire! Fire!

And my fibula is not. My fibula is not on fire!

This stress fracture has just never seemed right. I can walk, jump, skip, climb, jog... as long as I'm not wearing shoes that touch my ankle. I don't have a limp. I don't wince when I ascend or descend stairs. How can that be a stress fracture? I didn't get it. And it was annoying the crap out of me to feel so completely fine except when I strapped on my running shoes. I couldn't shake the idea that it was just bruising from breaking in my new shoes.

So today I went to a sports medicine doc, and he made me squat on one leg, squat on 2 legs, flex, and point, and bend, and twist, and nothing hurt. Nothing. The only time anything hurt was when he was jamming his thumb into the outside of my foot. (Incidentally, it is unfortunate that the only way to assess pain is to cause it. I wonder how many times Dr. Sports Medicine has been kicked in the face while assessing possible stress fractures.)

At the end he shrugged and said, "Eh, maybe it's a stress fracture, maybe it's just some bone irritation. You don't seem to be too uncomfortable."

Right! I said. Exactly! This is exactly my point!

So he sent me home with a complicated ankle wrap and a disclaimer: If it's a stress fracture, this ankle wrap isn't going to matter. And he left me with the wishy washy: Try an easy run around the block. See how it feels. Decide if you want to keep training.

I follow directions. I strapped on the ankle wrap and ran around the neighborhood, and I felt GREAT! Which means: I'm in! At least, I'm not out. I mean, yes, there's a difference between 5 minutes around the block and 5 hours around the city, but... the dream is alive. I'm going to keep training.

You know what else is awesome? That I swear I had a sign on my way to the doctor. Only, I didn't recognize it as a sign until about an hour ago.

On the way to the doctor, I watched a young man cross the street. He was wearing an ankle monitor. He looked like someone I would have dated once upon a time. I laughed when I imagined someone spotting an ex- wearing an ankle monitor. And then I wince-laughed that that wasn't an entirely far-fetched scenario for me--that in fact, many years ago, I did see an old romantic interest featured in a "stupid criminals" blurb (no joke). And just last year saw very public news of another old flame's bad decision. And if other previous romantic interests have remained out of jail, it's probably only by luck.

And then I thought about my history of making very very bad romantic decisions, and, in my head, I designed a Bad Decision ankle monitor that would set off an alarm any time you were about to do something stupid. Hypothetically, for instance, declaring romantic partnership with anyone with known and multiple substance abuse issues, or someone with overt holes in his ethical character, would signal the arrival of Dumb Decision Police who would intervene.

And then I went to the doctor, and he gave me an ankle wrap, and it worked, and it was awesome, and I'm going to keep training for the marathon, and as long as the ankle wrap holds through greater distances, I will run a marathon on October 17, and it will be super terrific. I didn't think of the ankle monitor story again until Mark and Bridget said, "Hey, that looks like an ankle monitor."

And so it does. And I hope it's a sign that this is the fix (Universe says, "Hey, Patresa! You need to wrap something around your ankle!") and not a sign that this is the dumb decision that will signal Dumb Decision Police ("Hey, Patresa! Don't be dumb!"). And I'm not going to worry about the 1.5 weeks of training lost and the fact that I never ran the last 2 long runs. I am not going to worry about that at all, because I am obviously some kind of indestructible superhuman machinery.

sorry, body.

I had plans to run the Des Moines marathon on October 17, 2010. My body has made an alternate plan -- my left ankle, specifically (although my knees conspired). Stress fracture. Ankle. Treatment = Stop running.

I know enough not to say a bunch of dumb, irrational crap like: Three months of blood, sweat, and tears, DOWN THE DRAIN! That's just ridiculous. I've gotten all kinds of cool stuff from the process. Plenty of pay-off. Mostly: I'm in good shape; and I've discovered some grit and fortitude I didn't know I had. That's reassuring. I suppose I could channel it toward a different project, something that doesn't crush my bones.

I guess the thing that makes me disappointed is that I don't get that ___________. Whatever. That, completion. Resolution. I don't get to see the final product. I really wanted to know that I set a goal, designed a plan, worked hard for an extended period of time, survived setbacks, and then reached the goal. I know that I *can* do that... I just don't have a very good record with such things. I live a lot of my life in theory, and I suppose that gets a little old. Now, I can *theoretically* run a marathon just like I can *theoretically* do a lot of things.

I think that's all I have to say about that. I'm going to drink wine and eat chocolate chips straight from the bag for the remainder of the evening. I am going to be happy for all the marathon runners who survived training. And I will volunteer for the race and will yell helpful things to the runners (like, "Watch your step.") and smile supportively and hand them cups of delicious water (I refuse to participate in Gu, however. That stuff is disgusting.).

Over and out. 10-4. Word.

solitary particles

I think that maybe if I write some words, my legs won't hurt so much. Maybe that's what builds up in my muscles, in the ligaments around my knees, in the crooks of my ankle joints--words. Maybe all the running shakes them loose, and they bonk around in my frame making messes and swelling things up. Maybe I'm running to distract myself from writing. Maybe I write to distract myself from participating. Maybe it's just my big hairy ego that gives such a big dumb crap about running a marathon. Maybe my big hairy ego is a big stupid asshole.

Maybe I haven't been stretching enough. Maybe I got overly confident about the glucosamine and the Zyflamend. Maybe I thought my knees were a-double-okay, and so I stopped rolling out my IT bands. Maybe over-confidence makes you all stiff and sore and slow and dumb. Maybe confidence is best balanced with a little healthy fear and trembling. Maybe people should stop giving insecurity such a bad rap.

Lonely horrible miserable business today's run was. So cold and wet and spitty. What I think I have loved so much about running, even the long, tough ones, is the liberation of flinging myself into the universe. Shoes and music, white lines, yellow lines, cars carrying strangers. I don't have to talk to anybody, don't have to constantly examine the things that come out of my mouth or the banners that loop through my head. Don't have to read anybody else, except drivers and whether or not they're going to barrel over me. (I have learned that there are people right here in my city who truly do not care whether I live or die. I'm sure I must have known this before, but when SUVs push you into ditches, it's surprising.)

But what I think is peculiarly true about the things we love the most is that they are the most delicate. These are the things with the greatest potential to shift and turn, to become the things that hurt us the most. Maybe that's not right. Maybe they are as they are, and we are the ones who shift and turn. Maybe that's not quite right, either. Maybe the things we love most are as colored squares on a Rubic's cube, and it's a simple case of circumstantial rearrangement. The blue used to be next to yellow, then the cube turned, and the blue--still blue--sidled up next to red.

I'm not sure that makes sense.

At any rate, today, liberation, me, my shoes, yellow lines, white lines, strangers in cars, felt vulnerable and menacing. Something in my left ankle exploded. My knees felt stiff. My hands went numb (Note to self: Gloves.). Every layer of clothing was soaked and chilled. I think when the body hurts, it's easy to forget it's being driven by soul, and that soul is hard-wired to everyone and everything else's soul. That is to say, I think sometimes when everything hurts, it gets much too easy to feel like a solitary particle vulnerable to the elements. And I don't like that very much, if you want to know the truth.

today is cool, and so are you.

Things about today that were cool:

I wore a print with a plaid and shiny sneaks. I don't know what it is about dressing oddly that makes me so joyful, but it does. (Sometimes I accidentally dress badly, and that doesn't make me joyful. There's a difference between odd that works and odd that doesn't and is just uncomfortable.)

I had a really nice run in crisp, morning air, and my knees didn't hurt very much, and I didn't hack loogies all over Des Moines, and I was a little faster than usual. It was kind of zen-y, and I love the poop out of that.

I ran the last mile doing laps around a high school track while a marching band was practicing on the football field in the middle. It kind of made me feel like I was 16 again, which actually was not cool. Frankly, I really sucked at being 16. I sucked at being all ages that ended with "-teen," and really did not like it at all. So while running my laps and listening to bells and drums and tubas, I thought about the business of age. I thought about how I would like to take some cosmic white-out and just cover up my life from about age 13-26. Twenty-six, I think, is when I started to pull it together and stopped doing so many asinine, self-destructive things. I wouldn't want to erase it; I know enough to understand those years contributed to who I've become (and I kind of like her and her imperfections, even though they can be aggravating from time to time-- This realization is the cool part.).

I wore the racer back tank that shows off my tattoo. Here, this is vanity. Or is it? I don't know. But on days when people can see the carolina chickadee on my back, I feel a little bit cooler (even though it was only to the gym).

I walked to the river and sat on the Simon Estes Amphitheater stage staring at the water and the bridges and the people and the cars and the sky and the trees over lunch. I haven't done that in a while -- just sat with myself without music or the company of a person or task. I really love what my brain does when I unlock the box and let it fly around and touch stuff. I love the observations I make, and the questions that form, and the superfly peace I feel when I'm swimmy.

I discovered VIA from Starbucks, which has eliminated my need to drink the ass-coffee brewed up in the office during my afternoon lull. I do not think this needs further narrative.

I spent the entire day working on a project that excites me. It's a presentation I'm giving at our HIV conference about how to reconcile right and left brain thinking to make data analysis more than just a bunch of math. And I'm using Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor's book, My Stroke of Insight, as a foundation. And I have to tell you that I love this human, what she gives, the sense she makes, and the thousand different colors that explode in my melon when I read her words or listen to her talk:

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sacred shoe ceremony

I got new running shoes Friday. This morning I hosted the Changing of the Shoe Ceremony. It was touching. I set old and new side by side on the living room floor by the couch. I thanked old for her service, for her unwavering dedication to supporting my rickety frame and keeping rocks out of my toes, for staying relentlessly tied. I apologized for all the water she had to take in at Dam to Dam and during a few other training runs that turned into monsoons. I apologized for not always airing her out properly and letting her get smelly. I apologized for how painfully slow I am. If she had landed on the feet of a faster runner, she would not have to work nearly as long.

Old looked tired. She was ready to retire, to pasture, to transition to easy walking-the-dog shoes, and occasional mowing and gardening shoes. (Chris will scoff at that, because I only mow about once every 2 years.)

New was very eager and crisp, like a young hunting dog or a kindergartner with a new dress.

And then I gave them a few moments alone so Old could advise New on my short, slow, lumbering stride and my tricky knees. I'm sure Old also had some advice about: persevering through the storm of vulgarities I unleash with some regularity around mile 13; enduring cat calls when I choose to run through our neighborhood; and I'm sure Old also impressed upon New the importance of not giggling when I perform the chant about being a powerful warrior horse.

Then I ran 17 miles. (I was only supposed to run 16, but I got my route wrong and accidentally ran 17, which is probably the first and last time I will ever utter those words. Accidentally ran 17. That's ridiculous.)

until the spots stopped

I spent an unnatural amount of time trying not to pass out this morning. Bad run. It was a "back-off" week, and I may have been over-confident. 12 miles just seems silly now. 12 miles is for children and puppies. 12 miles is for heels and skirts while eating pie.

Not so much, no.

I ran 6. It was hot. My body didn't feel right. I kept having to pause in the shade and squat until the spots stopped. So I walked the rest. It took a while, so I had time to think on things.

I thought:

Music--really, when it comes to running, whatever works, you know? If you want to listen to a bunch of 90's Pantera, nobody can revoke your hippie card. Same for Britney Spears and Fergie. But if you're 36, and Miley Cyrus's The Climb has snuck into your iPod, you should make sure you have plenty of Grace Potter and Eminem to balance things out.

Grace Potter--Totally badass. I want to sing and write songs like that.

Foresight--Foresight is funny business. I can't look ahead 10 minutes to say, "Hey, P, if you eat these potato chips, you're going to be sick." But put an idea in my head, and I will--in an instant-- project 20 years ahead to some kind of fantastical outcome that usually includes an interview with Diane Sawyer and a Grammy. Seriously. Give me any idea. Any idea and all. And I will tell you how it leads to Diane and a Grammy.

It's All In Your Head--I hear this about running, that at a certain point, it's just a mind game. I'm on the fence on this. It seems like kind of a dumb thing to say, because it's only a mind game if your body is already on board. My brain is a pretty magical place, but no amount of fantasy is going to put fluid in my body when I'm dehydrated.

Phones--I wish we didn't have cell phones. I wish we could go back to phones with twirly cords mounted on the kitchen wall... and no voicemail. I really do. And letters. I want to write letters. And I want people to write letters to me. And I want them to come in the mail with a cool stamp.

Pride--I think I may have quit this marathon training business a few weeks ago if it wasn't for my personalized race bib. I registered early, so my race bib will have my first name printed in big letters. It is the thought of that lonely race bib laying unclaimed at pick-up--so sad--that makes me too proud to quit. I mean, how many PATRESAs are going to be running this thing?

Swimming--I think I would swim if I could properly execute a flip turn.

Triathlons--I think I would train for triathlons if I could properly execute a flip turn. I don't like riding bikes, but I could get over that. But swimming. No, I need flip turns. And space. I don't want all those elbows and feet in my face. And also, I don't think I like the idea of riding a bicycle with a wet butt.

Running As Life Lessons--It's too obvious. I can't bear to print it--training for the long haul, pushing beyond your limits, slowing down when your body says to, anything is possible with a plan, it's always hard at first, keep going... I know the application. I just don't (apply). But I'm pretty sure if I can yank this marathon out of my buns, I probably have a novel up there, too.

serious runners are always ready to run

Physical therapy appointment today, and my usual PT was out of town. She set me up with another, a strapping young guy who is the running guru. She told me to bring shorts and running shoes, because she would have him watch me run to determine if I do something stupid (my words).

I follow directions most of the time.

This morning, I packed a set of running clothes, and due to a laundry back-up, had to choose between a tight tank or the super fancy technical shirt from the Amy Thompson 8K in Kansas City (a cool shirt and super comfortable, but covered with sponsorship tags and... Well, when you wear it, you might as well also begin every conversation with "HelloI'marunner."). Reasoning the tank would be too cold and too... boobalicious... I decided to look like I was trying too hard.

Fast forward, and I arrived at my PT appointment with my running clothes in a large plastic bag. I also brought my knee wrap. I excused myself to the bathroom to change, thinking, "I will be on top of it. I will change and be ready and not keep the strapping young PT waiting." I felt mildly stupid when I put on the race shirt. Plus, strapping young men always make me feel shy. Always. I am 36, but I am 12 when it comes to strapping young men.

Then I returned to the waiting room to sit in a chair in full running gear (complete with knee wrap), my work clothes inside the plastic bag I held on my lap.

I was not wearing sweat bands around my head or wrists, but I would like to go ahead and pretend that I was, because I think that makes it funnier.

Oh, I would also like to pretend that I was carrying the water bottle that straps to my hand and that it was full of Gatorade.

Strapping young PT fetched me from the waiting room. In the exam room area, he stretched my knee cap, talked to me about some stuff, checked my squat form, talked to me about some more stuff, taped my knee, and then I realized he was wrapping things up.

I said, "Weren't you going to watch me run?"

He looked confused. "No, we don't need to do that today."

I looked down at myself, my running shorts, my technical race shirt, running shoes complete with toe tag identification, [sweat bands and water bottle], knee wrap, knee tape, my real clothes in a plastic bag on the floor, and I started to laugh. "Did you think I was taking things just a little too seriously?"

He smiled and said it was easier to see my form when I squatted. [Let me translate that for you: "Yes. You are weird."]

I laughed all the way out of the office, through the parking lot, to my car, and to the grocery store, where I then exited my car -still in full running gear, now with knee tape- and paraded around the produce aisles as if I was just about to go run some serious miles just as soon as I bought up some pineapple and turnip greens.

my body wants a spinach omelette

Here is what I have to say about my gardening and that giant unfinished landscape project I started 2 months ago: Nothing has its space, everything is overgrown, and it's all completely out of control.

I will also say the same about my desk.

And the kitchen.

And the bedroom.

And my government issue windowless tan cubicle.

And my brain.

And the whole f*cking world.

My right knee is out of commission, marathon training stalled for another week or so while I rehab it. And I've been so ... angry about it. Are you kidding me? I felt like everything had finally clicked, and I knew what I was doing, and I felt really confident, and I slipped into my schedule and was committed and obedient. I had a plan! I'd even composed a motivational speech I recited to myself while I ran. It was brilliant! Plus, I just finished training for the 20K, and didn't have a single problem. Not one single issue. So, I thought, what the hell is the difference? Why now?

I also believe, as I may have said a time or 1600 before, that our bodies are geniuses and they talk to us. Every sprain and strain, every bump, scar, tumor, rash, ache, and every good thing, too, is a direct and important message--not just about things like, "Hey, stop huffing paint, Dumbass!" I really think it gives us messages about how we should be living, emotionally and psychically and how we should be treating the planet and each other.

I really do think that. And it makes me feel very reverent toward my physical form, like my mind and my spirit are being ushered around life by this very kind, very old, and very wise shaman woman who doesn't speak very good English.

Believe this as I do, when I get angry about my knee, I try to replace it with gratitude. Thank you, knee, for delivering this important message (now translate and shut the hell up). I've been trying to figure out what it's telling me. Last night my knee used English (via my massage therapist), and said, "Dear sweet, dense woman: Let go let go let go."

My knee is screwed up, because my quads are insanely tight and the IT Band on the side of my leg is irritated and pulling my knee junk out of alignment. I find this remarkable, because I stretch more than anyone else I know. And really good stretches, too. I stretch like a freakin' Olympian, I'm telling you. I could win contests!

Last night I went to my massage therapist, Kate, who is awesome and a healer who sometimes says f*ck in the middle of a massage, who chops her own wood, and roofs her own house, and who looked at my new bird tattoo a few weeks ago and said, "Hm. She is very composed. Look at how tightly she's holding her feathers." I told Kate I was having problems with my knee. She said, "It's not your knee, dear."

Kate was bending me into all kinds of funky stretches. Each time she held one of my limbs, she said, in her patient, smoker's voice, which is just as comfortable dropping f-bombs as it is talking chakras, "Let it go, please. Give this to me, please. Patresa, let it go, dear." And after each direction, I would think I was letting go, I would dip my hip, exhale, sag my shoulders, make a frowny face, whatever, and each time, she would say, "You're still working, dear. Give this to me, please. Let go, dear. Stop working. Release. Stretching doesn't work if you don't let go."

I stretch, but I don't let go. I don't let go, ever. I'm pretty sure I don't even relax in my sleep. I don't even move in my sleep. I wake up in the same damn position I held when I closed my eyes the night before. Every tissue in me is a guitar string about to snap; God save me if the winds pick up.

Which brings me back to everything that is completely out of control. It's only "out of control" because I'm trying to keep it "in control." You can't be out if there's no in, you know. I think I'm supposed to just let it be it, and for my part, be okay. That's what my knee says, anyway. And the clenched bundle I carry around in my left hip.

I don't know what my body has in mind, it's really become very particular over the past year--very insistent. It's like a woman who turns 50 and starts telling people exactly what she thinks and exactly what she wants. Or like I'm being prepped for a mission (scary). Over the past year, my digestive system has eliminated 3/4 of my previous diet, and now my muscles and tissues are demanding I free my fuzzy bunny soul. Basically, my body has become really insistent on purity and freedom.

Right now, my body is insisting on a spinach omelette and some more coffee. And even though my insecure mind wants to apologize for always writing such weird, goofy posts, I'm not going to. I'm not going to apologize for always writing such weird, goofy posts. You're just going to have to deal with it. Please. Please, just deal with it.

dogs wag cats meow winds howl knees ping

I don't know why I'm not writing. I'm just not.

I'm obsessed with running and nutrition and how all of my parts function. And I do not use the word "obsessed" lightly. But you know, I'm not really sure how anyone (anyone like me, rather, who is not a natural runner) runs a marathon without getting obsessed. I woke up this morning, and it was raining. My training calendar didn't give a crap about the rain. It still said 11 miles. So you know what I did? I'll tell you: I said, "Hey, P, those 11 miles aren't going to run themselves." And then I noted the lack of torrential downpour, noted the lack of lightning, noted the lack of hail, put on a hat, laced up, and ran. And it was good. I was strong this morning. My lungs and my heart feel like they could go forever. My knees, hips, and ankles... ehhh, not so much.

Two days ago, my knees and I had a meeting and decided to knock our training program down to the novice level instead of intermediate. We did not allow Pride to attend the meeting, because Pride is a huffy jackass who makes repeatedly bad decisions. I don't know why I thought I was an "intermediate" marathoner. Probably the same reason I think I am a novelist. (Oooh, ouch.)

I keep waiting for grand epiphanies to strike while I'm running, but they don't. Is there anything more exciting than an epiphany? Although it wasn't an epiphany, I do think running is fine-tuning my body barometer. I feel every ping in every place. I wish I did not feel all the pings in my knees, but I suppose they're telling me things I need to know--like, "Hey, P, your quads are puny little girl quads, and your stride sucks." I think my knees are actually much nicer than this. I'm paraphrasing. But the message has been noted, and I'll work on it.

This idea of knees and kneecaps and ankles and spleens telling me things I need to know has really helped with my mission to cure my gut disease, too. I know I've said this 1,000 times before, but I really believe our bodies communicate with us, almost like separate entities, and likely every answer to every question already exists, quite literally, in the crooks of our elbows. If you're of the belief that bodies are vehicles, soul transporters, or as I've written about in the past, "exploratory submersibles," then it's not too farfetched to think of them (bodies) as separate from our mind-thoughts.

It reminds me of this dream I had the other night. (And here is where I reveal more of my weirdness.) Sometimes, if i have a thing or two on my mind, before I go to sleep, I say something to the effect of, "Hey, please talk to me in my dreams tonight." The implied you in the sentence is up for interpretation: Sometimes I'm talking to God, sometimes to spirit guides, sometimes I keep it anonymous. At any rate, before I went to sleep a few nights ago, I asked, and then that night I had crazy weird, obscure dreams, about dogs and dinosaurs and houses being crushed.

I woke up thinking, "Hey, how about using your words next time?" It was not particularly clarifying. And most of the images and concepts in the dream I could trace back to conversations that had occurred that night, like someone talking about their kid liking dinosaurs. So it all just seemed sort of... blalkjdf;lkasjd;l fj.

But then, later I realized just because it isn't English doesn't invalidate the message. You know what I mean? Dogs wag, cats meow, wind howls, knees ping, stomachs churn, and dreams rearrange the images stored in your melon. I don't think dreams are intentionally obscure anymore than a dog is intentionally obscure. It's just how the thing works. It all means something. And I think maybe that's my umbrella obsession: figuring out what dogs and cats and wind and knees and dreams mean (and everything else)--because they all communicate something important.

Okay, that's it. Time for lunch.

i ran in the rain and it was good.

I am logging back in long enough to recap Dam to Dam 2010.

My favorite thing about today's race--at the risk of sounding Corn City--was remembering how capable I am of relentless positivity. Oh, I am capable of mind-numbing bitching and moaning, for sure; but ultimately, I'm quite nice adjusted and sunny disposed, and I like that.

Due to some flooding and road closures around Saylorville Dam, transportation to the starting line had to be re-routed. I think they did the best they could, but it caused a bit of a cluster fudge at the shuttle buses. We stood in the cold and the rain and the dark and then elbowed our way onto school buses. But mostly, I just hung out, ate my apple, and people watched. It was good.

Then, from where they dropped us off, we had to walk over a mile (in the cold and the rain and the dark) to get to the starting line. Incidentally, it was a mile over the dam, in the opposite direction we would run once the starting gun went off. And then we stood in the cold and the rain--but no longer the dark--waiting to start. And then, we started late probably 15 minutes late, because latecomers were on the dam walking to the starting line.

So... by the time the gun went off, we were soaked and shivering and had shoes full of mud and water. BUT, I was still happy to be there, and I mean that. I figured cold and wet would make for a more interesting experience.

Plus, people make me laugh. People who make me laugh the most are: 1) people who jog in place; 2) people who close their eyes in concentration; 3) people who wear spandex biking shorts with heavily decorated spandex biking shirts with biking hats and fanny packs... to run; 4) men who wear tiny running shorts with no shirt and carry a towel.

And so we ran. In the rain.

I'm a slow, easy runner; I like to look around. And there is lots to look at. The route, for the first 6 miles, runs through the country and is surrounded by green. And of course, I like looking at all the people. You know, when it comes to running, body type just really doesn't matter. Tall skinny short fat, whatever. You train, your body figures it out, you run, it's okay.

Once we got into town, the energy picked up. There were more spectators, hanging out in lawn chairs under umbrellas and ponchos. I LOVE seeing spectators find the runner they are spectating--love the big yelling and screeching and the fist pumping of the runner. I think that's cool, and it makes me happy. I like people who smile and tell you "Good job!" even though they have no idea who you are and may never see you again. There's a lot of generosity and spirit in the world, and that's cool as ice.

My parents and my husband hung out at the end of my driveway, which was along the route. That made me happy, too. I don't know why anyone would want to hang out in the rain just to see me for 5 seconds (Fine. 10. I'm not that fast.), but I'm glad they did. Plus, I got to take off my jacket, which was soaked with rain and weighed 100 pounds. And I gave up my sunglasses, which keep sliding off my giant melon until I finally tucked them into the waistband of my shorts, which also weighed 100 pounds and kept slipping down my waist.

Now, I understand this is going to sound insane, but... I like hills. Not the super steep ones, but the ones that are intense enough to feel but gentle enough to be nonlethal. I like those. I think I'm kind of good at hills. I actually run hills on the treadmill when I start to get tired. I find something about them very invigorating. I'm reading a book about marathon training and last night got to a part about how important it is to train positive thoughts. There was a goofy note about greeting hills instead of grimacing at them. So at each hill, I said (quietly, to myself), "What's up, Hill?" And then at the top of the hill, I said, "Thank you for rolling gently, Hill." And that kind of made me laugh to myself, because it's a pretty corny thing to do.

I love the moment of the run where you know for sure it's going to be okay--that everything is working and you don't have to stop and your legs know what to do and your breathing is steady. That is my favorite. That happened to me at mile 8. I had 4.4 more to go, and I knew all 4.4 of them were going to be just fine.

And they were.

more stuff about running

I think I can correlate the success of a run to the amount of snot produced. More snot = less success. This morning's run = very snotty.

[I'm sure it is bad etiquette to use the word "snot" in the first sentence of a blog post. But when it comes to running, I don't really think a lot of etiquette is necessary--other than wave at cars who give you room to cross the intersection, give bikes the right-of-way on the bike trail, and say, "On your left!" when you're passing walkers from behind (unless you are passing them on the right). Oh, and don't spit your gum in somebody's yard. That's crass. Just stick it to your ipod and worry about it later. But otherwise, you are free to spit, blow your snot straight into the sidewalk, curse, and mouth-breathe without repercussion.]

However! I am still calling this morning's run a success, because it was. I proved a point to myself that attitude is the key to many operations. I was sure today would be a failure. I was sure because in the past 3 days, I have eaten nearly every single one of my trigger foods. Chips? Sure. Chocolate? Yep. Baked goods? Several. Greasy baked cheese? Delicious. Fried XYZ? Bring it. I've also been drinking too much wine. All of this turns my guts inside out (not quite literally, but almost), which depletes all my good stuff, and makes everything else harder.

I had low expectations. And the first mile felt horrible. So did miles 2-6. Finally, right around 6, I had to stop. I saw spots and squatted in a strangers yard until they went away. I chugged my gator-water (The woman at the gym who told me start running with a water bottle that straps to my hand is a genius and a saint and a very lovely person.). Then I walked. Then the Self-Bashing started. (This is a very familiar routine. I know I've said this before, but there is no one on the planet who could say anything even remotely as awful as the things I say to myself when I think I've screwed something up. I would guess you're the same. Why are we like this? It's so mean!)

BUT! And here is where success happened. I observed the auto-current of self-bashing and then stuck my finger in it. I said to myself, "You know, P. This is irrational and it gets old. Don't do this anymore." And I said Okay. I noted the weather was nice. It felt good to walk. I was glad I had my gator-water. Then after about 5 blocks, everything felt fresh. My body felt good to go, so I started running again. And the remaining 3 miles went without hitch. I didn't even falter on the Euclid hill that usually sucks the life out of me. My body just needed a quick break to replenish. What's the crime?

I don't know why I think it's such a colossal failure to stop and walk in the middle of a run. I think it's some kind of warped association between rest and weakness. That's such a skewed way of thinking--really about any endeavor at all, not just running--that perfection is possible and looks only one way. I think I might be done with that.

filthy sweaty potty mouth

I thought I ran 7 miles yesterday. Today I learned my block-math was off; I only ran 6. This is terribly disappointing. This is terribly disappointing ESPECIALLY considering what a hard 6 it was. I don't really understand why running never actually gets easier. I go farther, but it never feels very pleasant, if I'm being honest. I am not a zen-ful runner. I don't have wise thoughts as I glide along a cement paradise. I am a snorting, heaving, crashing-through-the-forest runner who thinks long lists of swear words while I try not to fall down in traffic.

I got really mad around (what I now know was...) mile 5, because my side cramped, and I felt dehydrated. My guts don't work correctly (They have holes.), so I don't absorb all the things I'm supposed to absorb. My body depletes. I shot several violent f-bombs into the neighborhood, cursed my dumb, hole-y guts for being giant pieces of worthless crap. Ridiculed myself for running. Called myself a lot of mean names. It was not a very kind moment. I've always had a bit of a temper -- especially when it comes to me falling short of my own expectations.

I swore for at least 3 blocks down Madison about how sick of my stupid guts I am, and I wish everything would just work like it's supposed to, and why is running never easy? It was a really nice pity party. I'm sorry I didn't invite you. Next time.

But around Lynner Street I realized my body works just fine. I know my guts; their holes are nothing new. I know what works and what doesn't. I know how to over-hydrate and over supplement to compensate all the stuff I lose. And... I know the quickest way to reverse every good thing I do. Then I make choices....say...an entire bottle of wine on Friday night and a whole bunch of potato chips.

So around Lynner Street, I realized my body just responds to how I treat it. It's given me a very clear set of directions with a very clear list of consequences should I not follow the directions. It is an absolute perfect system. I make a choice, and it responds in consistent, finely tuned, logical accordance.

Later on Euclid, I thought about how when other people have tough runs I say, "Hey, but goodjobwaytogoniceefforttwothumbsupforgettingoutthereanddoingitandkeeptryingandyou're-terrific!" And I mean it. But when I suck, I get pissy and swear a lot. What a double standard. I should write myself a letter of apology, send some flowers, and stop being such a jerk.

And also, to the people who live on Madison between MLK and Lower Beaver, sorry about the filthy, sweaty, potty-mouth.