See what I mean?

Central Pennsylvania

Stardate 06092009

• Is there a rock in my shoe?

• Alpacas are super bizarre-looking critters, kind of like a the bastard love child of a llama and a rabbit and Twiggy. Slutty rabbits. Have they no sense?

• Combined smell of bushes on corner resemble Sarah Jessica Parker’s ‘Lovely’ perfume to a remarkable degree.

• Thirsty. So thirsty.

• Why is a small dirt road called “Palamino Parkway”?

• Stared at rusty puddle for a long time before realizing that drinking it may actually make matters worse.

• Hot. So hot.

• Broken – but still alive – turtle on the side of the road. Wondered if I came back and duct taped its shell back together if it could live out its life that way? Could it borrow somebody else’s shell a la a hermit crab? Realized answer was probably ‘no’ on both counts. Sad.

• Saw water in the distance. Dropped to knees and crawled toward it in my tattered running clothes. Realized it was a mirage. Got up and continued running.

• Cows stink, and on a humid day they stink more than usual.
• Sweaty. So sweaty.
• Pulled giant knot out of my ponytail. How long has that been there?

• I wait four miles into the run for the line ‘If you ain’t got no money take your broke ass home’ and after it’s come and gone, I kind of don’t want to keep running any more.

• Considered flagging down passing cars and asking if they had some water or another beverage they could spare.

• Possum in the middle of the street (fresh road kill last Wednesday) now looking very ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’

• I think my eyeballs are sweating. Or maybe that’s just tears?

• Only breeze of entire five miles  provided by a semi-truck going by at 80 mph. Thanks. Sort of.

• It’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other.

• Soooooo thirsty. What was I thinking!?
• Home!
• Great run. Can’t wait to go again on Thursday!

I’m tired.

And drained.

And ready for bed at 8pm, except The Simpsons are on and then The Celebrity Apprentice, and I will no doubt stay up to watch. (Side note: Second wind is upon me, and I’m surprised to note that Donald Trump Jr. seems to be evolving his own [heinously ugly] hairdo. I thought baldness and unfortunate thinning were inherited from the mother, but apparently in Trumps it descends directly through the male genes. Or maybe it’s just a matter of bad taste? The world may never know…)

Is it me, or is this filled with icky, boiling blood?

Anyway, as it happens, I’m no longer the spring chicken I once was.

Actually, I’m not even sure I ever had a heyday as such…but I’m most definitely not in the midst of one right now.

Today was the 12k race, and from the get-go it was off to an inauspicious start. To begin, I didn’t get home from my trip until almost midnight.

Then, I slept like crap. I have this weird thing where sometimes I’ll sweat like I’ve got autonomic dysreflexia, post-traumatic syringomyelia, autonomic neuropathy, and a bunch of other stuff WebMD said can be the cause of night sweats that don’t sound like good things to have and hopefully aren’t the reason this happens to me every few months.

Actually, I once recorded the sweats for a solid year, and took all the dates in to my doctor (who probably thinks I’m nuts, although not quite nuts enough to have me committed against my will), and he pondered them for a few seconds Then he declared that the dates were too random to be a symptom of tuberculosis, but if they pick up in frequency, to let him know. Case closed.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I sweat it up and soak the sheets and it’s super gross and always leads to a crappy night’s sleep, partly because I wake up freezing, and partly because I have to get my freezing body out of bed and find new blankets and, in this case, crack open a window.

So that happened, and then it’s up at 6:45am and off to the races. It was cold and they called for rain all day, so I dressed more warmly than I have in past years. Then, I waited in a 45 minute line to use a disgusting portable potty which was probably riddled with tuberculosis and god knows what else, and then, the next thing I know, I’m off and running.

So the goal was to run the entire thing in less than an hour. Which meant 8 minute miles (or less). Which immediately did not happen. Mile one – 8:20. Mile two: 8:37 and so on, until I drug back down to my usual 9:00 or 9:15 minute by the seventh mile.

I was in sorry shape.

You wouldn’t have even thought I trained, which I did. Sort of. Admittedly, I only started said ‘training’ two weeks ago, and I probably didn’t kick my own @ss as much as I should have, but the  point remains: It didn’t work. And I refuse to blame my own lack of initiative and effort. I blame advancing age.

And the fact that I was wearing a polar fleece jacket, which had my race number attached to it, so I couldn’t take it off. Rather than pouring rain, the sun came out and it actually got quite hot. All in all, I was happy about this, but it didn’t do much to increase my need for speed.

Ouch and double-ouch. At least I wasn't in bare feet.

Then there was the ankle timer.

They make you wear this timing chip on a Velcro strap wrapped around your leg, and the thing had dug four holes into my ankle by the second mile. Then my leg started to feel all crazy and painful, and I got paranoid that I was running on a stress fracture or having some kind of random – but serious – problem.  In the end, I think I had the strap on too tight, but ultimately I stopped and attached the ankle timer to my shoelaces…and problem solved.

And two minutes lost.

So there you have it, mission not accomplished.

I got through the race, just not (remotely) as fast as I’d hoped.

In conclusion, and not to dwell on a topic that I am personally quite sick of and have come to believe is more hype than reality, if there is rampant swine flu epidemic out there, I’m probably in some serious trouble. Today during the race, no less than 50 people spit within three feet of me. And I”m sure I stepped in at least a quarter cup of human gunk of some kind or another during the 7 1/2 mile course.

That guy needed one of these.

But the worst of all?

And I swear I am not making this up.

At the end of the race, in the middle of downtown, right after the place where you pick up your ‘thanks for playing’ t-shirt, I saw a man – a mere four or five feet in front of me – plug his nostril and fire a giant wad of snot out of the other one. And then he plugged the other nostril and did it again!

In public!

Where people could see him!

Oh, the humanity.

At the same time, let me give you my solemn promise:  I will never, ever unload a noseful of snot onto the ground in public. And if I absolutely must do so for some unknown reason that obviously involves a complete and total lack of paper products, I promise to ask you to look the other way and plug your ears first.

Cross my heart and hope to die.

I love eating.

I also love fitting into my clothes.

These two activities are not exactly reciprocal.

Enter running, the pendulum that keeps it all in balance. I enjoy running. I do. There are moments I truly love running. But I’d be lying if I said I woke up every day with a burning desire to run (or workout at all). Certain factors – like sunshine and beaches and weather in the low 70s – do get me fired up to run. However, since I don’t live on the ocean and the weather is perfect for only a few weeks out of 52 in my part of the world, most of the time I’ve got to start my own fire.

How do I do this?

Well, in the spirit of helping you sail through the holidays with nary an extra pound, I will share my #1 tip for getting out there and running six or seven miles every couple days: Just do it.

Okay, I’m kidding. Sort of. There’s one important step you need to take first: Bust out your iPod or portable CD player or even a Walkman – whatever you’ve got – and put together an hour-long mix of songs you really love. They do NOT have to be ‘aerobic’ songs. I made this mistake and downloaded a bunch of techno and rap and electronica and hip hop and even “It’s Raining Men.”  Yes, members of The Weathergirls. If you’re wondering who actually purchased an iTunes download of your only hit in May 2007…it was me.

Anyway, just make sure it’s songs you love. Songs that make you want to sing out loud and get voice lessons or play guitar or be a rock star. Don’t make the mistake I did and create a mix out of nothing but Nelly and The Chemical Brothers (not that there’s anything wrong with that if they’re your favorites).

When you have it compiled, you’re ready. Once you get yourself armed with tunes that make you glad to be alive, head out into the rain and the snow and sleet and hail and just do it.

(and if, for reasons we won’t question or judge, you have no favorite music, leave me a comment and I’d be happy to share some suggestions to get you started!)

Traditional Scottish breakfast (the dark thing is black pudding) in Glasgow

Your author outside the Glasgow Art Museum with her new magenta jacket - bought just as much for warmth as for color and some much-needed polish!

Okay, not Madonna in the sense of the career or the money or the fame or the adorable adopted semi-orphan with the still alive father or the buff biceps or the awesome memories…BUT, like Madge, you may find yourself with an accidental fake British accent.

I have an accidental fake British accent.

It started slow. I started incorporating the fanciful words I found most enchanting into my internal dialog: wee, cheers, lass, bloody, arse, wanker, slag, etc. etc.). Then I started talking to myself with a weird (Scottish? Half-assed Scottish?) accent? It made the conversations in my head interesting for once…

Then it got worse. All of the sudden in Edinburgh, if I would bump into someone I would say “sorry,”…only it would come out “surry.” !?!?!? “Pardon” or “excuse me” started to take on similar annunciation soon thereafter…

It’s like the Invasion of the Body Snatchers: I AM NOT IN CONTROL OF THIS FAKE BRITISH PERSON I AM BECOMING.

To counter the effects, I’ve started talking to myself in a fake Russian accent. And dropping my articles. (Zoo can count on me to have plan…)

So while I’m revealing weird things about myself, let me fill you in on my “Smile Experiment.” This is a good two years in the making. So, as I’ve mentioned, I had a relatively fancy corporate job wherein I would travel weekly to meet with customers and broker deals and all that jazz. Meanwhile, in my zeal to look like Madonna (not exactly, although I envy the cut upper arms), I maintained my running regimen of roughly 20 miles a week. (Per Google and some unnecessary and unwanted math lessons, a little over 32 kilometers). Long story short, I have pounded the parks and pavement of a lot of big cities and small towns and everything in between Based on no criteria but my own gut, I then evaluate said place on the reaction of the people on the street when I smile at them. Wacko, much? Nice to meet you too….

So, with that I can tell you:

• Portland, OR – friendly
• Carlsbad, CA – snooty
• NY, NY (Central Park) – totally disengaged
• Minneapolis, MN – helpful (thank you Schwanns truck drivers!!!)
• Washington, D.C. – completely stunned to be smiled at, but after 2 seconds of shock they start to remember how to smirk (too much Bush Jr?) back
• Reykjavik, Iceland – friendly
• Dillsburg, PA – underpopulated- no data despite multiple runs
• Glasgow, Scotland – world-class at looking away…UNTIL I came upon these two older women (probably early 70’s) who inexplicably reminded me of my paternal grandmother and her sister, were either of them still alive. As soon as they saw me smile, they stopped me and wanted to know, “What was going on?” I admitted the truth on oh-so-many levels, “I have no idea what’s going on.” They turned me around and pointed out some trailers behind us in the park, and started listing off the shows the people wandering about had appeared on (all of which were completely unknown to me – much like my grandma and great aunt detailing the lives of the citizens of their small town in PA).

Anyway, just then a man started to walk by, and one of the women grabbed my arm and said breathlessly, “He was on ‘Take the High Road‘!!!!’”

“Who, him? I asked as I noticed an older man coming toward us. When they nodded, I stopped him and asked what was going on, and he explained that some comedy series was being filmed there this week. At that point he gathered a few more actors (one of whom played ‘Molly Baker’s father’ or some such thing) and all of whom – and a million apologies for the stereotype, but I swear it’s true – had some really bad teeth. What’s up with that?

Anyway, the ladies who stopped me were all but swooning at this point, and I didn’t have a damn clue who any of this people were. Thus, good deed done for the day, I gave them a wave, left them with the celebrities, and continued my run back to Five Alarm University.

Cheers!