Back in the Game

My half-hearted commitment to being a grown-up, a highly over-rate aspiration in my opinion, has kept me away from the blogosphere to attend to the affairs of my employment. I hate it when work interferes with my internet life. Such an annoyance!

I engaged in a tadbit of walking on Monday with not so grand results. Only two miles at a window-browsing pace had my left ankle and leg rebelling. Not to be vanquished by select members of my anatomy, I headed to 24 Hour Fitness yesterday for 30 minutes on the Eliptical, 1000 mm on the rowing machine, and a whopping 1 mile on the threadmill. It was a minimal workout at best but it was something and the something felt darn good! Before I headed out the gym door I mistakenly walked into the managers office and before I knew it I had signed up for 28 sessions with a personal trainer. To protect the anonymity of my soon to wonder if she's in the right profession physical trainer I will simply identify her from this point forward as D_wn. Choose your vowel wisely and the mystery shall be opened onto you.

So, let's review.
Anita-Personal Trainer
Anita-Personal Trainer
Oil -Water
Mystery-Reason
Open Flame-Explosives
Gay-Republican
Contrasting oddities of life.

Tomorrow morning is my first session with Dawn D_wn when we get into that whole weigh, measure, fold, mutilate, and spindle brewahah. Golly, I'm as excited as a preschooler the night before Disneyland . . . or is it a teenager the night before four impacted wisdom teeth are ripped out of their mouth without benefit of anesthetic? Six of one, half dozen of another. Either way, if you're the caring soul I've come to believe that you are, pray for D_wn as she confronts the task of gathering weight and measurement stats on Phatgirl. She goes where few people have gone before.

Amen.

Inspired by Cheese

There is nothing more splendid than the lowly cheese sandwich like the one I just had for lunch. Nothing more than 2 slices of sharp cheddar cheese cushioned between fresh sprouted bread with a schmear of Best Foods to adhere it snuggly to the bread. Grilled cheese sandwiches are a culinary marvel on to themselves; all buttery in its melted goo-ness, but ode to the simple wonder of a plain, unadored cheese sandwich.

Inspired by milk solids aged to tangy perfection and the earthy crunch of sprouted wheatberries, I now offer 50 Phatgirl Facts.

1. I'm passionate about everything and lack an opinion on nothing.
2. I consider roasted brussel sprouts the vegetable of the gods.
3. I once laughed so hard while I was eating gummy bears that one of the little gelatinous cubs came out my nose. I was able to replicate this feat one other time. On purpose. Don't ask.
4. I slept in a sleeping bag for an entire year in high school because it was easier than making my bed. Dana refuses to consider it as optional bedding.
5. I'm like my dad in that I'm affectionate, generous, and stubborn. I'm like my mom in that I'm thoughtful, independent, and stubborn. A double-whammy I prefer to reframe as tenacious and determined.
6. Were I in charge of the world, individuals who are dismissive of children and disrespectful to the elderly would be spanked.
7. I don't recycle consistently and I'm embarrassed by that admission.
8. I whine. Often.
9. I can sing every word of Carole King's Tapestry album by memory. I haven't heard it in years but it's embedded in every cell of my brain.
10. The changing colors of autumn are so glorious that watching fire-red leaves fall to the ground like splashes of paint makes me cry.
11. I look ridiculous in hats of any kind and yet I own a full-body Tigger costume and wear it any time an opportunity presents itself.
12. You'd have to sedate me with heavy narcotics to make me listen to opera music.
13. Babies love me. I love babies. It's a good thing.
14. I use to have a trained pony named Buttermilk who would teeter-totter with me, but no amount of cajoling would get him to try swinging on the monkey bars.
15. I eat my breakfast every morning with a minature butter knife. Breakfast consists of a bowl of yogurt with raspberries. You figure it out.
16. I miss my dad every day since he's been gone.
17. I'm given to certifiable bouts of obsessive-compulsive behavior.
18. When I was a little girl I wanted to grow up and be a nun even though I wasn't Catholic because I wanted to be married to God and wear a robe with big pockets.
19. I've been meaning to close my AOL account for four years. Maybe tomorrow.
20. My favorite outfit is a comfy white sweatshirt with loose-fit jeans and sneakers. Bra optional.
21. I love my cats so much my heart could nearly explode when they curl up beside me.
22. I went to three music concerts during my high school years; John Denver, David Gates from Bread, and Captain and Tenille. During the same time period I destroyed my sister's Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers and Janis Joplin's Pearl albums because I thought they were evil.
23. My biggest fear is that something would happen to Dana.
24. I don't need a whole circle of friends, just two or three close and trusted ones.
25. On the Myers-Briggs Personality Test I score INFJ (introverted, intuitive, feelings, judging) with feelings distinctively expressed and the rest moderately so.
26. My clothes closet is stuffed with Life is Good teeshirts because I love them and because it is. Good, I mean.
27. I smile everytime the phone rings and it's Dana telling me she's on her way home.
28. As a child when it was a starry night I thought the stars were holes in heaven's floor. It's still nice to imagine that's true sometimes as an adult.
29. My older siblings would tease me that I was adopted and could be given back anytime. There have been times in my life when that being true would have helped to explain things.
30. I've been to Israel six times and know just enough conversational Hebrew to ask where the number four bus is and to tell my mom I'll answer the phone.
31. I love cardboard boxes, paper bags with handles and the Container Store.
32. I have a tattoo on my left shoulder of a butterfly taking flight from a heart, symbolizing the transforming power of God's love in my life.
33. I'm a high maintenance wife but a low maintenance friend.
34. I make lists for everything. It's all about the details.
35. The teacher comment on my third grade report card read "Anita needs to work on not being so bossy." I'm still working on it Miss Jensen.
36. I'm a great baker and a sensational cook but to this day have never been able to successfully make my mom's raspberry jello mold which has led me to believe she's continually altering the recipe just to mess with my head.
37. I drive too fast and follow too close.
38. The glass is usually half-full. It's the fingerprint smudges around the rim that trouble me.
39. My favorite time of the day can happen at any moment.
40. I try hard to do my best and give my all to whatever I do. It can be exhausting sometimes.
41. I'm always surprised and delighted by the ways in which God shows up in life.
42. For the past few years every time I drive away from my parent's home I honk three times to say "I love you."
43. My favorite color is Dana-blue.
44. I go to therapy weekly as a gift to everyone in my life.
45. I wish people would be more kind to each other. In general.
46. My current shoe collection consists of four pairs of Ascis running shoes, one pair of Brooks running shoes, six pairs of multi-colored Crocs, and one pair of Birkenstock sandals.
47. I'm a procrastinator and a multi-tasker. The two are not unrelated.
48. If I could spend five minutes with three people no longer living they would be the prophet Jeremiah, Queen Esther, and my dad.
49. I value authenticity, integrity, and justice in people and institutions.
50. If I could only eat one food for a year, it would be the humble and divine cheese sandwich.

45 Reasons

Tomorrow is Dana's 45th birthday. Five years ago I purchased ad space in the local paper to wish her a happy 40th birthday and to declare my love. What ultimately appeared in the paper had enough typos to render it indecipherable. Now I have a blog. Free and with the potential for no typos given sufficient proof-reading on my part.

And so with her presents already wrapped and hidden away and a half dozen plus birthday cards signed and sealed (no one card says it all), I now offer 45 things I love about Dana. If you gag at over-the-top sentimental but heartfelt mush I would suggest you high-tail-it out of here because this will no doubt send you into some type of emotional seizure.

1. I love her sense of humor and that most days she seems to get mine.
2. I love her Dana-blue eyes especially when they're looking at me.
3. I love her passion for learning new things.
4. I love that no matter how many times I tell her the same story she always listens like she's never heard any of it before.
5. I love her quiet, deep love for God and that she's never lost faith.
6. I love her courage to return to graduate school to pursue her passion.
7. I love the softness of her skin.
8. I love how she tells me she's proud of me for stepping up to the starting line and comforts me when the finish line proves out of reach.
9. I love her kiss that sends me out into my day and welcomes me home at night.
10. I love her genuineness. Dana is always Dana.
11. I love her spirit.
12. I love her stability and consistency.
13. I love her integrity. Her word is gold.
14. I love how she takes care of me when I'm sick or hurt.
15. I love how she never says "I told you so " even though she rightfully could on a regular basis.
16. I love that she said "yes" when I asked her to marry me. I'll always be indebted.
17. I love it when she pretends she's Speed Racer.
18. I love watching her putz and futz around the house in the morning.
19. I love the sound of her voice on the other end of the phone.
20. I love coming home to her or when she comes home to me.
21. I love her patience, her compassion, and her tenderness.
22. I love that she nearly always asks if I want anything when she goes into the kitchen.
23. I love, absolutely love her feet.
24. I love her delight in pumpkin season.
25. I love her tenacity.
26. I love how she interacts with other people.
27. I love when she prays out loud.
28. I love the warmth of her hands.
29. I love that most of the time she lets me be in charge of the TV remote.
30. I love that she brings out the best in me and puts up with the worst in me.
31. I love her name.
32. I love when she folds down my side of the bed.
33. I love how she says "thank you" for ordinary things I do.
34. I love her silly ways and that she's not too old to play.
35. I love that she's always, without exception, in my corner.
36. I love her vulnerability and her strength.
37. I love her commitment to her own spiritual and emotional growth.
38. I love her work ethic.
39. I love her little thoughtful ways that put something special in every day.
40. I love the respect and admiration she naturally elicits from other people.
41. I love her insightfulness, wisdom and intelligence.
42. I love the questions she asks and how she thinks.
43. I love her beauty, visible with the eye and with the heart.
44. I love her faithfulness and devotion to our relationship.
45. I love Dana for being Dana which is the most amazingly wonderful person to be.

Happy birthday kiddo.

---

Post Birthday Wrap-Up

It was a grand and glorious success, so reports the birthday girl. We both took an unpaid day off from work to celebrate though Dana remains mystified as to why no national holiday has yet to be instituted. It is a head-scratcher, isn't it?

Brain Clutter

When I went to Costco for the first time I saw a man standing in a check-out line behind one of the big industrial-sized orange flat carts. On the bed of the cart rested four all-weather, all-terrain truck tires and a jumbo case of tampons. I think they were unscented.

This memory is more than a dozen years old and it still makes me smile. Life just cracks me up sometimes.

Follow the Leaders

We had no sooner boarded the bus that would be taking 50 of us on a tour of the next day's marathon route than we began a conversation with two gray-haired women one row up and on the other side of the narrow aisle. This was going to be their first marathon and to say they were excited would be like saying Grey's Anatomy is just a TV show. File that under the category of "Understatement."

As the bus rolled along the volunteer seated behind Dave the bus driver, would call out each mile and point out sights of the city along the marathon route intermixed with details for the coming race that seemed to anticipate every question a bus filled with marathon eve athletes might ask. Deep questions. Thought provoking questions. "How many aid stations did you say will have portapotties? Are there Snickers or just gummy bears? I ordered a large finisher's shirt but I've gained 10 pounds from excessive carbo-loading so can I change to an ex-large?" Throughout the course tour the two women, let's call them Madge and Lenore for no other reason than I'm partial to those names for I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-gray-haired women, would ask repeatedly to no one in particular, "Is this where we'll turn during the marathon? Will there be signs here telling us which way to go? Will it be clearly marked?" The volunteer would chime in, assuring them that yes, we were following the actual marathon route and yes, in addition to posted mile markers there would be aid stations and volunteers covering the entire course so they didn't need to worry about finding their way. After a few more minutes and a few more nervous queries, the volunteer looking back toward Madge and Lenore, smiled and said "You know, there's going to be more than 9000 people on the course tomorrow so if you just follow the people in front of you you won't have any trouble finding your way."

Before the bang of the starting gun you already know where the marathon course leads because you've spent time acquainting yourself with the route map. You know where the finish line is and you know it will take a mere 26.2 miles to get there. You don't have to worry that in the middle of the race you'll be faced with a unexpected detour. No one's going to move the finish line and then make you go search for it.

Not so in life. Life presents us with a mélange of intersections, junctions, and forks in the road. Your birthing cry is the starting gun but where your life leads and how you'll get to the finish line is mystery, despite your best plans, or perhaps inspite of them. The distance isn't measured, the course isn't set, the destination is yet to be determined. Imagine registering for a marathon that provided no Race Day Info. You'd never do it. Yet here we are in life, running the most earth-shattering fantastical race of all and at times feeling incredibly clueless as to how to live out our time to the finish line.

The journey of life I'm traveling is all new to me. Though I've been on the course for a long while, the past miles aren't a guarantee of what lies ahead, because no sooner do I think I have the course figured out than I hit another unexpected turn, an unwanted hill, or an abrupt curb that sends me sprawled across the pavement. What offers me hope, what gives me some sense of comfort is recognizing that every inch of the road I travel is already littered with the discarded water cups of others who have gone before me.

"...if you just follow the people in front of you you won't have any trouble finding your way."

So here's what I do on my best days. I keep my eyes straight ahead, looking toward those who have already traveled the course and run well the race of life. Dorothy Day. Oscar Romero. Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Mother Theresa. My grandparents and my dad. I'm never going to attain their level of goodness and grace anymore than I'm going to sprout wings and make Jeff Galloway tremble in fear but that doesn't mean I won't do my best to follow them; to look closely at how they ran their race and learn from them and be inspired by them. If I do, I won't get lost. And maybe, just maybe, I'll reach the finish line having done my best because I paid attention to their best and allowed it to teach me.

Autumn is More than a Season

I returned home a week ago today from the Portland Marathon. I didn't finish the race so there wasn't any technical fabric, micro-vent knit, pill-resistant finisher's shirt or flashy medal to unpack from my suitcase. Just dirty socks and a wrinkled race bib which to the best of my knowledge is also pill-resistant.

While my suitcase is already emptied and back in its usual space in the cluttered abyss of our two car garage that's a tight fit for our little Subaru Outback, I'm still unpacking what I brought home from the marathon in terms of life lessons. Here's one of them.

---

There was a three mile loop early on in the course. As my sister and I reached mid-point into mile 2 the first wave of frontrunners approached us from the opposite direction somewhere between mile 5 and 6. We were, to say the least, overwhelmed, amazed, antonished and in general awe of these elite runners rocketing past us. All around us walkers were breaking into cheers and applause and a woman next to my sister said "I can't imagine ever doing that!" Without barely a pause my sister countered, "There are people in bed right now who are saying the same thing about us."

Mike Heidt.
Autumn Jones.

Mike Heidt runs more than 100 miles a week. He recently graduated from Washington State with a degree in biology where he was a member of the track team for three years. He ran his first half-marathon a little over a month ago. The Portland Marathon was his debut marathon and he crossed the finish line in 1st place with a time of 2:21:54, the fourth fastest time for men 20-24 in the race's 35 year history. An Olympic qualifying time. I know all this about Mike Heidt because The Oregonian ran a long article on him the day after the marathon, complete with a photo suitable for framing.

Autumn Jones crossed the finish line in 7705th place in 10:41:22. She was the last person to finish. That's all I know about her because The Oregonian didn't do a write up on her. Their mistake.

One crossed the finish line first. One crossed the finish line last. One ran. One walked. There's a big difference in the racing world between 2:21:54 and 10:41:22 but in my corner of world their achievements are equal because both gave it their all and did their best.

No one will ever convince me that the joy of Autumn Jones at the finish line was any less than that of Mike Heidt. Who knows. Perhaps it was more. Maybe she overcame more to finish the race. Maybe she faced more obstacles getting to the starting line in the first place. I don't know. I only know that whether in a marathon or in life, the thing that most matters is that we bring who we are to it and give our best. We step up to the starting line and we try.

And even if we fall short in what we hope to achieve in our lives, isn't it still better than laying in bed with a head full of dreams and a heart full of desires while we mutter from under the covers "I could never do that!"?

Marathon Mistakes

I registered. Bib number 130. Portland Marathon 2007.

I was naive when I said I'd never train for another marathon.

When I said it, I hadn't yet known the xhilarating thrill of standing at the starting line with 10,000 other athletes, and yes, I said other athletes. I am an athlete, and if you doubt, I offer this as Exhibit A.

Told you so.

Neither had I watched in amazement as a field of elite runners zoomed past me in a course loop and had the incredible awareness that we were in the same race. Had I already felt the emotional rush of escorting a friend as he crushed every challenge life threw at him to cross the finish line with courage and grace I would have never said never again. Yes, I was naive.

For the next few weeks, I've been forbidden from walking by dictate of my physical therapist so until the prohbition is lifted I'm going to haul my phatgirl self to 24 Hour Fitness and do some cross-training in the pool and on the machines. I'm also going to take the lessons I've learned and apply them liberally to my next round of marathon training. Lessons learned from my mistakes. As always.

Mistake One: I overtrained.

I started into a marathon training program after less than a month of making the leap from couch to street, and nearly every mile I walked I pushed and pushed hard. My LSD walks were done at the same pace as my tempo walks. Case in point, in planning to walk a marathon pace of 15:30-16:00 mpm I should have technically averaged 16:30-17:00 on my LSD walks. Instead, my paces were 16 miles (14:43), 18 miles (14:21), 20 miles (14:41), and 19 miles (14:48), and the training sessions between 3 and 10 miles averaged between 13:12 - 14:31 mpm. The reason wasn't because I underestimated my speed but because I was always going anaerobic.

In "Marathoning for Mortals,"John Bingham gives clues to what it looks like to be in the anaerobic zone. "Your sentences get short. You can hear yourself breath. You work up a sweat. You get red in the face. You're worn out at the end of the workout. You suck air." I sucked air. I sucked air all the time. I could never understand why it was that people would turn around and look at me when I was still ten feet behind them. I couldn't figure out how they always knew I was approaching until I walked one day without my Ipod. I was sucking air like a guppy that had ventured out of its fishbowl. [Side note: Since I was seldom in the slow fat-burning aerobic zone that could have also played a part in the lack of weight loss, though time will tell on that one.]

Lesson: I will prepare to begin training for a marathon now that I have a base of activity and am in relatively fit condition, and I will strap on my Garmin heart monitor and walk tempos at tempo and heed the SLOW in LSD.

Mistake Two: I didn't listen to my body.

My ankle began whispering discontent when I walked my 14 mile LSD. My shoelaces were too tight. It casually mentioned discomfort at 16 miles and at 18 miles it throbbed in misery. I just need to walk it out. When it came time for my first 20 miler the ache in my ankle got a case of serious ugly (nod to Laura from Project Runway) and toward the end of my second 20 miler it screamed bloody murder. Anyone's feet would feel like this after 20 miles! I didn't listen all those times just like I did my best to ignore it's continual nagging in the two weeks prior to the marathon, but on the day of the marathon it would be ignored no longer and slapped me upside the head and made me whimper like a puppy.

Lesson: I will listen to my body. When it says "ouch" I will pay attention. I will slow down and warm up rather than hurry to work it out. At the end of a session I will consistently rather than sporadically take time to do my stretches.

Mistake Three: I didn't choose a training program that was a right match.

There was nothing wrong with the training program I followed for someone who had actually moved before beginning it, but considering my state of full-throttle sedentary non-motion, it wasn't the plan for me. I shouldn't have done two 20 milers and I shouldn't have done the last one two weeks before the marathon. Too much, too close together, too soon before the marathon.

Lesson: I will follow the half-marathon and marathon training programs designed for walkers in Bingham's book that include only one 20-miler three weeks before the marathon.

Klarissa and Amy

The shortest distance between Point A and Point B is a straight line but I'm not in any hurry so there's going to be a few side roads and detours before I get to where I'm going. If you have a problem with that, I believe there are approximately three skillion other blogs and chances most of them are significantly lighter in verbage. Stick around or go. You hold the power.

For more than 15 years I was a children's pastor (Christian Education Director) in a large congregation in Oregon. Every Sunday morning the classrooms vibrated and reverberated from the alternative environmentally-friendly energy source that occurs when 500 preschool and kindergarten children inhabit one space. All of the children called me "Teacher Anita" and most days as my memory allowed I called them Adam, Maddy, David, Joshua, Stephanie, Emily, Stacy, Attila, Jacob, Caleb, Susanna, Brittany. When my memory failed it was Honey, Sweetie, Punkinhead, Buddyboy, and Doll.

They loved me and I loved every one of them. I couldn't help but love them. Adorable, sweet, charming punkinheads and muppet babies, one and all. Tender and silly memories. I have a million of them.

• The kindergarten boy who noticed I never wore shoes on Sunday morning and pressed a dime and a nickel into the palm of my hand one morning because he wanted me to be able to have some shoes to wear.
• The little boy who having just been promoted from the four year old class in the basement to the kindergarten class on the third floor, exclaimed in delighted surprise as I greeted him by the door "Oh! I didn't know there was a Teacher Anita up here too!"
• The two year olds who called one of our male teachers "Jesus" because he had gentle eyes and a beard.
• Jeremy who gave me the note I have to this day "Teacher Anita, I like having you with me my whole life. Love, Jeremy."
• The time in an attempt to teach the children how we are all different but loved equally by God, I asked them to name the differences between a short fair-skinned red-haired girl and a tall African-American boy that stood in the front of the class. A little boy, raised in a family that apparently valued honest disclosure with their children, replied "The boy has a penis. The girl doesn't have a penis. She has a vagina. Girls have vaginas. Boys have penises." The lesson concluded and we moved into snack time.
• The Easter when I told the story of the empty tomb to a Easter-Morning-Standing-Room-Only crowd of five year olds and upon saying "And the tomb was empty, Jesus was alive" heard the soft sound of one little set of hands clapping for joy from the back of the room.

My kids. I was part of their life and they were part of mine. I told them what I knew about God and they taught me how to love God by letting me love them. They're part of my life still.

Three years ago I received an email that began, "Anita, I don't know if you remember me..." I did. It was Klarissa. One of my kids. I remembered her because I never forgot her. And for these past three years every time I've gone up to Portland to spend time with my Mom, Klarissa and I meet at Peets for coffee and long conversations about our lives and our faith questions, about our memories of the past and our hopes for the future. Those times have been so special to me; to reconnect with my past, to see a little girl I adored grow into a young woman I admire. The last time we met for coffee was only weeks before Klarissa headed off to Nashville with her husband to begin her graduate studies. Did I mention she's brilliant?

Last night there was another email from Klarissa. Attached was this photo.



Klarissa is on the right and Amy, another one of my kids (I'm so possessive and proud) is on the left. Klarissa had returned to Portland for the weekend for a family event and she and Amy had decided to surprise me at the Portland Marathon, so they made a sign, drove to a distance 12.4 miles into the race and waited for me on the side of the road. According to my Garmin, I pulled out of the marathon at 12.28 miles. If I had gone less than two more blocks I would have reached 12.4 miles where the girls were waiting for me. As it was I never saw them.

I've been misty-eyed since Klarissa's email arrived, not because I'm disappointed I quit before I saw them, but blown out with gratitude that they would even think of doing such a thing for me. As children, Klarissa and Amy, like all the others, taught me so much while spoiling me with love. As my peers nothing has changed.

Thank you Amy.
Thank you Klarissa.

Photographic Evidence

I might not have been in the marathon long, but I was there! This is around the 5K marker. How do I know? I'm still smiling.

Before I Say Anything Else

Thank you. I mean that genuinely.

I had originally considered removing the comment feature on my last entry because I didn't want anyone to try and say something to make me feel better. That's because I didn't want to feel better. I wanted to be inconsolable, to wallow in my misery, to throw a full blown pity party with crepe streamers and mylar balloons. I deserved it dog-gone-it! If I couldn't have my moment at the finish line then I was not about to be cheated from my moment of high-octane defeatism.

But you, and you know who you are, ruined it for me. You went ahead and took time out of your day to not only read my depressing diatribe but to post a comment that was understanding of my disappointment and sympathetic to my need to wallow, whine and wig out.

I didn't think words could help, but they did. And I owe you. Thank you.

And Dana thanks you too. More than you will ever know.

Now, on to Plan B. . .

DNF

Did Not Finish. I believe that's the technical term that's used by those who race. QUIT would be mine. This is not going to be a pretty entry so unless you're of the ilk who slow to gawk at car wrecks, turn away now. Now. I'm serious.

The start of the marathon was unbelieveable. Thousands and thousands of people giddy with excitement and nervousness. You had to wiggle like a snake to get through them. It took my sister and I five minutes to find each other by cell phone even though we were only standing five feet away from each other. Literally. Insanely wild but awesome.

The starting gun and two minutes later walkers in the back third of the herd where we were positioned began to move and we officially crossed the starting line 4 minutes after the gun. There were crowds of spectators and live entertainment every other block: marching bands, jazz and blues bands, a woman harpist in an empty gas station parking lot playing something much too serene for mile 3, Christian rock, ear-exploding hard rock, and a Chinese dragon or two past the main entrance to ChinaTown. There were an unbelieveable number of volunteers who were top notch, nearly 4500 in number. Very impressive and appreciated. If you've never done the Portland Marathon before you have to. Have to.

My sister and I started out strong but stayed to the 15-16 minute mile range in keeping with my strategy, that would be my failed strategy. I warned you.

Almost immediately I felt my ankle. By mile 2 it had begun to stiffen. By mile 3 it was uncomfortable. At mile 5 the ankle was swollen against my shoe laces and the bottom of my foot was cold and numb. At mile 7 I was developing a gait in some starry-eyed hope that doing so would relieve the pain. By mile 9 I was hoping it wouldn't get any worse and that I could just grin and bear it like a brave soldier. At mile 10 it was worse and I told the evil voice inside my head urging me to give up to shut up, pack up and go away. At mile 11 I realized I could never make the finish but I was absolutely not going to pull off until the half-marathon distance. At that point I sent my sister on ahead (Barb ultimately finished with an amazing time of 6:12, which I consider suitable for framing and fireworks!) and 200 yards later even 13.1 became out of reach. I pulled off the course at 12.28 miles. I have walked 12 miles and beyond ten times in training. My Evil Twins were silent and cooperative. My back was loose and comfy. Every little ache and pain that has pestered me over my nine months of training were in total compliance except for my stupid-pain-in-the-butt-break-my-heart-and-pierce-it-through-with-stilettos left ankle. The right ankle cooperated.

I rode back to the hotel, tossed off the shorts with all my hard fought for pockets, snapped the timing chip off my shoe so that I could return it in shame to the staging area, took a shower, cried, kicked myself, cried some more, watched the first half of "Snakes on A Plane" which is the only thing more painful to see than phatgirl quitting a marathon, and then went down to the finishing line to watch my sister finish and to cheer on strangers.

Finishing shirts. There is no more gut-wrenching sight to someone who DNF. So I cried some more, tried in earnest to say "Congratulations" and mean it to a few sweaty euphoric marathoners walking around wrapped in space blankets, and then cried some more while muttering self-defacing comments to myself seasoned with words Dana has forbad me from saying and that I assume extends to writing as well. Once again I remind you that you hold the option in your hand to turn away from this accident of self-pity run amok.

After a hearty dose of caffeine, the cure to all evil in the world, Dana and I went down past the finishing line to cheer on the last waves of walkers beyond the 7 hour mark. It was a pleasure to do so. God love them each and everyone. Just try standing for 7 hours let alone moving forward for seven hours. Yes, it completely boggles my mind that you who run actually run those distances or large portions of it. I am in full-blown awe of you. But the pay off is while walkers are still at miles 15-18 you're on your way back to the car with a medal around your neck and ice cold water in your hands. 7 hours. 8 hours. 9 hours. Even 10 hours. Walking warriors every one. At the 7th hour while the finishing line stayed open, the cross roads had to be opened up again for traffic and even though those still walking had been diverted onto the sidewalks, they kept coming and we kept cheering. There was one mentally-challenged young woman who was grinning from ear to ear with every step, her arms held high in the air and when I said "You are amazing. You've done the most incredible thing so be proud of yourself" she responded by stopping in mid-step and saying with the most tender and joyous voice "Oh thank you so much" that I melted three feet into the pavement. Her tenacity and joy would have ripped your heart out and made you cry. If not, then you aren't human and you have jet oil for blood.

The greatest moment for me, one that would have only been second to finishing myself, was waiting for and then watching BayCityWalker finish the marathon! If you've ever read Steve's blog you'll know why I still tear up a few hours later just thinking about his victory. Two weeks ago he was in ICU and today he walked 26.2 miles (plus an extra mile this morning from his hotel to the starting line!) and He. Crossed. The. Finish. Line. Steve, BayCity Walker is a bon afide one of a kind marathon man. As you can tell, I've been in awe of Steve since I met him last Spring as I continue to be to this day. Scrappy. Tenacious. Determination. Self-Will. Courageous. All in abundance. I am insanely over the top proud of him.

Dana doesn't think I should be blogging so soon with my disappointment so fresh. She's been saying all the right things. Give it some time Honey. I'm so sorry. I'm so proud of you. It's a big deal to even stand at the starting line. You tried. You went further than you probably should have on that ankle. I love her to pieces. I know she means it all and I adore her for saying it; for trying so hard to make me stop hurting. I just don't believe any of it right now. I couldn't be less proud of myself. I feel like a soldier who ran from the battle lines, like a gawky teenage boy who gets his pants pulled down in front of the girls, like a woman walking through a four star restaurant with the back of her dress stuck in the top band of her pantyhose. I could go on. Believe me Kids, this is only the surface of the abyss of my pouting.

I've wanted nothing else for the past nine months but completing this marathon. Nothing. Perhaps my world is too small and I shouldn't have pinned so much emotion and effort on one thing. It's just that this hasn't been the greatest year. I had another lifelong goal around my lifes calling. I had it for a few brief years and then I had it taken from me overnight. That's when I turned to walking and walking gave me another goal to focus my energy and heart on. This marathon was to be my redemption. My overcomers dance.

This is not a good day for me. And for that much, for anyone who is within the sound of my whiny voice and the sight of my pitiful face. That would be Dana. Send good thoughts her way. I'm just being honest here. Right now I can't turn this into comedic entertainment and please be very very clear about this, I'm not blogging for sympathy or kind encouragement, and if a swift kick to the rear is what you think I need, I assure you that a "Snap out of it and pull yourself together" would in every likelihood have me searching out your home address on the internet.

Sigh. So this is the other side of victory. Actually, I take that back. This is the extremely horrendously dark side of victory. Others would handle it better, with grace and calm acceptance. They would say things like "I'm disappointed but I did my best and there's always next year." And when they said it, they'd actually mean it. Unfortunately, right now I'm a little further down the food chain. It's been said by more than one, that I wear my emotions on my sleeve. Sometimes that's really a good and admirable thing, but sometimes, like now, it's just a bad fashion statement. So seriously, if you've read all this, I apologize. I'm sorry for the self-pity. Were you not to complete a marathon I would never say or think so harshly of you. I'd tell you, "You set a goal and you went for it. You didn't just wish for something like so many other people do, but you made the incredible effort to reach for it. You learned from this effort and you'll be stronger the next time. Your dedication is inspiring. Congratulations!" That's what I'd say and I'd mean it with every cell of my being.

Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to say that to myself. I better because really, self-pity is exhausting and rather unattractive. For today though, I'm just a '68 Pinto and a '72 Chevy Nova on a collision course. Keep your eyes on the road and your foot on the gas. I tell you this for your sake and because I care.

Now excuse me for leaving but I have the second half of "Snakes on A Plane" to salve my damaged soul.

Marathon Eve

Today is what I like to refer to as my-gut-is-a-ball-of-knotted-anxiety-and-I-think-I-need-to-puke-day. I believe others call it pre-race day. Six of one, half dozen of another.

There was a generous amount of milling around today. Multiple trips to Starbucks, strolling town, a final walk through the Expo, and meeting up with walking peeps from the internet. Dana and I met up for a few minutes this morning with BayCityWalker before meeting Sarah from The Walking Site message forum for lunch. And only minutes ago I waddled out of our hotel room to a room two doors down to meet Jennifer from the same forum. In my jammies no less...so much for first impressions.

The big event of the day was taking a marathon course bus tour with 47 others including Dana, Steve, my sister Barb and brother-in-law John, Jeanine, a high school classmate, and Jeanine's friend whose name has slipped my mind momentarily but only because it's too cluttered with obsessive night before the race insanity. The course is beautifully flat for blissfully long stretches with only a couple easy slow inclines with the exception of what I like to affectionately refer to as Hell Hill, the 1/2 mile incline leading up to the St. John's Bridge that greets us between mile 16-17. Brutal. Scary. Not nice. The bus barely made it up the hills so what does that say about my chances?

My overall assessment of the course route is it's LONG. 26.2 miles is, for the uninformed, a really really long way to run, walk, or as I shall no doubt personally experience, crawl. I was sort of hoping there was a chance of talking the marathon volunteer who led the tour into giving me my finishing shirt at the end of the bus ride given that I had technically completed the marathon route. No chance. Apparently they're sticklers around here on the infinitesimal details. La-dee-dah.

And now, after a Whole Foods dinner in the hotel room, an hour spent filling my pockets and spreading out my clothes, I'm now down to little else to do but complete a final ice session on my ankle before going to bed.

Someone told me today that the goal of any first-time marathoner should be to finish the marathon on the same day it started. There's a chance.

I hope.

Marathon Mojo

Okay campers, this is the REAL deal! We have got a marathon happening here in downtown Portland! After picking up Dana at the airport we went to lunch it up on 23rd Street, and by the way, if you have never been but are planning to come to Portland, 23rd is a must-do. That and the Pearl and Hawthorne and Sellwood and all the other cool, eclectic, steller Portland neighborhoods that go on ad infinitum. Grew up here, moved away from here, but love it love it love it here.

With lunch rapidly consumed we headed to the Hilton Executive Towers to get settled into our room (17th floor and oh, what a view!) before heading over to the Hilton Hotel kitty corner where the Expo is being held. The official goodies and ventor freebies are sweeeet. Participants get a high quality nylon clinch bag in dark blue with the Portland Marathon Logo, plus really nice 11x17 color posters, a full-color souvenir program filled with personal stories, race details and a really thorough mileage breakdown of what to expect throughout the race. In addition, the bag was filled with all the usual stuff and by the time I finished making my round of the Expo it was splitting at the seams.

• Handfuls of Listerine Breath Strips - So we don't offend any of the spectators with our obscene GU breath?
• Packets of Extra-Strength BenGay Pain Patches - Do they know something I don't know?
• Snickers Energy Bars - Can you honestly say that without a smirk on your face? It gives me a major flashback everytime to the old Paula Poundstone routine, "When it comes about oh, two p.m. and you'e got that nagging hunger pokin' at ya, pokin' at ya..."
• Foil packets of powdered hydration drinks, sun block lotion, and anti-chafing creme
• One packet of raw brown sugar - Is this the Pillsbury Bake-Off or a marathon?
• Sample copies of half a dozen magazines from Walk About to Prevention, and enough paper and cardboard advertisments to line the entire 26.2 mile course end to end four times.

In other words, I'm in marathon-junk heaven! In addition I've already managed to lay down about 50 bills on a set of 2006 Marathon pins, a stack of "Walker Girl" bumperstickers, and a sleeveless black tee shirt with the "Quitting Is Not An Option: Portland Marathon" logo. For the uninformed and unexperienced among you, walking ain't cheap, but it sure is fun!

By the way, one of my favorite sights at the Expo? Watching a bunch of folks standing around an energy bar sample table, tasting teeny-tiny bits of flavored bars pierced through with toothpicks. They were listening to the "Energy Bar Specialist" with such serious intention, and the toothpicks with nutty-chewy-fruity microscopic tidbits were held motionless inches from their lips in eager anticipation. It all seemed so familiar, so deja vu-ish and then I made the mental connection. Last week's wine tasting adventure. Swirl, sniff, taste. There was something a little pretentious about that whole wine class by the Bay experience. Today's energy bar taste-off in a hotel basement was just downright funny.

Almost as funny as Phatgirl registering for the Clydesdale / Bonnydale division. Those would be the divisions for the slightly rotund, men / women. That I'm in the top weight division (women 180+) comes as no shocking revelation and while it's a little goofy I reasoned I stand a good chance of placing in my division since I can't imagine there are going to be hordes of Phatgirls out there, and placing, my little running and walking babies, is placing. Details are unimportant.

Oh, and by the way, you can spot who is in Portland to be in the marathon a mile away. First clue. Their universal marathon apparel. Running shorts, sports cap, running shoes, and a finishing tee-shirt from some other marathon, triathalon, ultra-marathon, 10K race, or 5K fun run representing every corner of the country and beyond. Second clue. A water bottle. Third clue. Freak-ishly healthy, svelte-like-a-model women and muscular, lean-as-the-other-white-meat men. I'd hate them if I didn't admire them. Jealously consumes me. But why talk about being thin when you can talk about dinner?

Dana and I ended the evening with a really wonderful one up at the Chart House Restaurant, formerly known as Hillvilla to us long-time Portlandians. The restaurant has a suck-the-air-out-of-your-lungs view overlooking the city with the Williamette River in the foreground, evergreen trees covering every speck of land not taken up by the city scape, and Mt. St. Helens and Mount Hood in the background against a blue sky that faded to pink as the sun set. Stunning as always. The third most breathtaking sight of the evening, after Dana and the scenic view just described was my dinner. I ordered something called a Crab, Mango, and Alvocado Stack and that's what it was, exactly. A perfectly cylindrical pile with chunks of alvocado on the bottom, mango salsa in the middle, and an overly generous (if there could be such a thing which there can't!) portion of fresh crab on the top, surrounded by a thin pool of olive oil flecked with bits of fresh basil. They didn't muddy up the flavors with a lot of seasonings or goo but allowed each layer to express it's true self simply and deliciously. The combination was fresh, light and about as yummy as anything I've ever eaten, a virtual love fest on a plate.

Back to the marathon. The half-marathon I participated in this summer from Napa to Sonoma had a field limited to 2000, but at the Portland Marathon there are 2500 registered W-A-L-K-E-R-S alone. Total there are 7000 runners and walkers with an additional 4500 volunteers. I can't imagine what the start is going to be like apart of claustrophobically crowded, but one thing I know is that the mojo is going to be thick and I'm gonna grab all I can and hope it carries me to the finish!

11:20 p.m. I'm taking the ice off my foot, the hot laptop off my lap and heading to bed where a cozy comforter and my favorite pillow from home await me. But first, another episode of Grey's Anatomy...

Three Days and Counting

I feel upbeat. Relieved. Hopeful. I have a strategy that I think might take me to the finish line. Follow along.

The 350 miles I've logged onto my Garmin since the middle of April show an overall average pace of 14:30 per mile. Not bad for a little ol' walkin' phatgirl and I hope to shave another minute off my average over the next year. With my current average pace in mind I had been aiming for a marathon pace range of 14:30-15:00 and the two 20 milers gave me confidence that I could pull that off, with the caveat of confronting the unknown miles between 21 and 26.

Add in the new development with my foot or more specifically the major muscle group running from toe to knee. When I walk at my current average pace I put added stress on the muscles because my foot fall tends to strike the ground more forcefully. I'm not a dainty walker. A few miles of that the other day and as reported earlier, my injuries were aggravated and the pain at a level I don't think I could have managed through 26 miles.

Over the past couple days I've noticed that when I walk around the house, to the car, from car to coffee shop, from coffee shop to newspaper stand, my foot feels fine. When I intentionally walk faster to evaluate how it's doing it's the big ouch. And so my thought is this, that if I keep my pace to a 16 minute mile pace my foot fall will remain gentle, my foot won't be jarred, and my odds of reaching the finish line will be increased.

A 16 minute mile was my average pace when I began training in January and it's been a real kick to shave off 2 minutes or more off over the months. So granted, it's a little disappointing emotionally and mentally to go back to my starting pace for the marathon but when I weigh going my current average pace and hoping I can walk through the pain versus going my average starting pace and increasing the possibility of not only finishing but finishing without being miserable, I'm going with Door Number Two, Monty.

AND I still have 2 full days to ice, elevate, massage, medicate and after visiting Portland friends earlier this afternoon I now have Traumeel, a homeopathic ointment to add to my regime. I don't know if the ointment can actually help with the inflamation but if you told me spitting in the wind while spinning a plate on my head would help, I'd be spitting and spinning.

I've been working on hydrating the past couple days and because my diet tends to be fairly low carb, I've been minimally increasing my carbs each evening with a baked potato or brown rice. I'm not intending a pre-race carbo-load since my natural inclination is to overdo and I don't want to be waddling excessively at the starting signal.

For those of you with no life and a cell phone you can track my progress in the marathon. The Portland Marathon will have chip mats located at the start, 10K, half-marathon, 20 mile and finish markers. By going to www.portlandmarathon.org you can set up your cell phone to receive text updates each time I cross a mat. You just need to know my name (Anita Cadonau-Huseby) and my bib number (225). If I walk a 16 minute pace that means I'll cross each at the following times:

• Start - 7:00 a.m.
• 10 K - 8:40 a.m.
• Half-marathon - 10:30 a.m.
• 20 miler - 12:20 p.m.
• Finish - 2:00 p.m.

Here's hoping!

Four and Counting...

That's right. Four and no more.

Today has been a thrilling, non-stop, rock your world, action-packed day what with icing my ankle, popping Alleve, and watching nearly nine hours of Grey's Anatomy. The upshot is that while my brain has turned to toast, my ankle seems to be improving. This is a good thing.

Seriously, that's all I've done all day. Nearly 12 hours on the couch and so unless you crave a written narration of two seasons worth of character development on Grey's then I've got nothing more to add and so I sign off and bid you good night. My blue scrub wearing peeps await.

A Wasted Life in Pixels

As if my life isn't already consumed with enough boobtube time, I've now fallen head first into Grey's Anatomy. I've been following Run, Momma, Run and have been equally mystified that not only does the woman not have TIVO and no doubt still listens to The Best of Chicago on 8-Track, but intrigued by her obsession with yet another handsome-male-doctor-sassy-female-resident series. On a lark, a whim, an off-chance, I popped over to Itunes and downloaded Season 1 and 2 onto my Video Ipod. Over the past two nights I've spent nearly nine hours glued to a 2x2.5 inch color screen squinting my brains out as Derek and Meredith flash pure adorability in each other's direction and even now I'm salivating as I think of the remaining 27 episodes of Season 2 that are waiting for me.

Darn that momma! I do not need this. Why?

Shows on Phatgirl's Viewing Screen

• 60 Minutes
• 20/20
  
• 48 Hours Mystery
  
• Dateline NBC
• Top Chef
• Project Runway
• Queer Eye
• Little People, Big World
  
• Miami Ink
• Law and Order
• Law and Order: Criminal Intent
• Law and Order: SVU
• Antique Roadshow
• POV
• Food Network Challenge and Specials
  
• Road Tasted
• Ace of Cakes
• The Next Food Network Star
  
• Iron Chef and Iron Chef America
• Everyday Italian
• Unwrapped
  
• Throwdown with Bobby Flay
  
• A Cook's Tour
  
• The Office
• Survivor: Cook Island
• Amazing Race 10
• Inside the Actor's Studio
• Workout
• Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List
  
• The Biggest Loser
• Intervention
• Kidnapped
• Real World
• Property Ladder
• Flip That House
• Million Dollar Listing
• Celebrity Poker Showdown (I watch for the comic genuis of Dave Foley!)
  

Channels Phatgirl Closely Monitors

• The Big Three (ABC, CBS, NBC)
• Bravo
• TLC
• A & E
• Sundance
• The Food Network
• History Channel
• HGTV
  

Wow. Having it all written out like that makes it look like I have no life beyond television.

Oh well. Too bad. So sad. I can't sit around here moaning about it all night when Season 2 awaits.

Five and Counting

This is the view from where I sit with my desperately-needy-for-attention leg being presently pampered with compression socks, two bags of ice and a side dish of anti-inflammatory medication coursing through my system. This is Tuesday. The marathon is on Sunday. Last check, that leaves me five days to mend. Here's the two minute cliff-notes on what led to this little predicament.

Friday. September 15. My second 20 mile walk. At mile 10 the beginnings of a blister began on my left foot. In an attempt to cushion the blister I compensated by developing an unnatural foot strike that strained the major muscle group that begins under the big toe, moves up the center point of the top of the foot and then takes a curve left toward the outer calf and up the leg. Go to Mapquest.com if you need more precise directions. At mile 14 the discomfort set in and by mile 18 I wanted my mommy or strong mind-altering drugs that would prevent me from caring about what was happening at ankle level. Mommy or drugs. Whatever I can get my hands on first. These are my two default choices when pain, emotional or physical, is acutely present.

In the nine days that followed my LSD (which is anything but S when accompanied by my sister who wouldn't know S if it hobbled up and wacked her on the behind) I didn't go on any training walks at all. Instead my left foot was iced and simmered, electrically shocked, topically cortisoned, massaged and stretched by the physical therapist. Hurray, improvement! The swelling reduced, the soreness eased, and the stiffness loosened.

Yesterday I went to the physical therapist for a final visit before heading up to Portland in the evening. Following the appointment I went on a four mile walk. At mile 2 (13:50 mpm) the ankle began to tigthen. At mile 3 (14:05 mpm) it felt like it was being gripped by a vise. After waddling through mile 4 at a snail-burning pace of 18:00 mpm, I was back to the physical therapist for an unplanned appointment and an equally unplanned lecture.

I've worked with two separate physical therapists in the office, Maria and Derek. Casual, easy-going, well-trained and qualified. Good people aside from their 'no-whining' rule which they'll eventually relinquish once I wear them down. In addition, there's someone else in the office, an older refinely-dressed gentleman who apparently thinks he knows everything just because there's a Dr. in front of his name. Whatever. So Maria, whom only minutes before I really really liked before she decided to rally the forces, called Dr. Mr. Smartypants over for a consultation, at which time he made the suggestion that I reconsider walking in the marathon.

Reflecting back, I believe that's pretty much the same moment when I noticed a swarm of pigs flying by outside the office window. I didn't mention the pigs to Dr. Mr. Smartypants nor the loud "Are you out of your Hippocrates-loving mind?!" imploding in my cerebral cortex but instead I smiled warmly (or was it patronizingly?) and using words limited to two syllables so as to heighten the odds of comprehension said "That's. Not. An. Op-tion." He countered back with a continuation of the original Mighty Dr. to Lowly Patient lecture but by that time all I could hear was "Blah-blah-blah. Blah. Blah-blah-blah-blah."

Insert disclaimer here. I'm not actually so cynical or disrespectul concerning medical professionals. In reality everyone at the physical therapy office, from the receptionist to the aforementioned Dr. Mr. Smartypants are professional, warm, and really wonderful. My quips are solely about increasing blogger-tainment value for if I'm not amusing, how can I keep you from abandoning me?

So, these are the facts which have me bouncing back and forth between being upbeat or downcast, optimistic or pessimistic, half-full or half-empty, ying or yang, salt or peppa'.

Yes, I'm concerned that this crazy foot thing is going to keep me from my singularly-focused goal of the past nine months, a goal that I've worked toward and obsessed about nearly every day. I'm anxious about how my foot is doing at every particular moment and how it will be on Sunday morning? Will I be able to finish the marathon? Will I have to concede somewhere on the road and if so, where? How far can I go? I'm frustrated this is getting in the way of those last leisurely tapering walks I fanticized about nearly as much as I did the actual race, and of taking a little away from the full-throttle fun and excitement of race week. And I'm worried that if things don't get better this is never going to happen for me because I have no intention of dedicating the same amount of time and energy in the future to train for another full marathon. Half, yes. Full, nevah. In the eloquent rhetoric of contemporary culture, this sucks!

But given all that, there's no need to hide sharp implements or position trampolines under the windows of every tall building because the concern, anxiety, frustration and worry are way in the background of my overactive mind. What has the bigger part of my emotional energy is the Doris Day serenity that 'what will be will be.' I'm going to do the very best I can do to nurse my foot back to good health and on Sunday morning whatever I have is what I have and that's what I'll worth with. I'm grateful that this is the biggest problem I have to deal with today in a world filled with uncertainties about things that are far more life-threatening and dream-shattering than possibly not being able to finish a long walk on a Sunday morning. I'm excited about meeting online walking friends for the first time and cheering them on to reach their goal and of participating in all the pre-marathon hubbub. I'm so appreciative of all the support and encouragement that's been lavished on me over these months leading up to Sunday, and I'm proud of what I've achieved in even getting to this place in the first place.

My intention and plan is to finish every single step of the marathon but if I have to say "uncle" somewhere out on the road, I'll be content knowing that I did everything I could do. How can you give more than your best?

In other words, I embrace my inner Polly Anna while releasing my inner Eeyore. Besides, the photo above is a very real view from where I sit but so is the photo to follow...so really, how can a girl complain too much when something this stunning is right outside the window?

I Don't Speak Mandarin

As I mentioned in an earlier entry I took my walking shorts to the nearby dry cleaners to have an additional five mesh pocket panel sewn onto the front waistband, a panel of pockets that I removed from another pair of so-tight-I-would-pass-out-wearing-them-and-look-like-a-doofus-in-the-process shorts. The seamstress who had sewn the other panel of pockets perfectly on the back of the waistband wasn't there so I attempted to communicate my wishes in English to another employee who speaks English minimally. Despite my initial impression that she wasn't really grasping what I was requesting be done, she continued to nod and say enthusiastically, "Oh yes," and so I left my shorts and pockets confidently in her care. Yesterday I went to the dry cleaners to pick up my shorts. The pockets were sewn on just where I wanted them. There was just one small problem, perhaps so insignificant that I shouldn't even mention it but it seems the pockets, all five of them, were sewn onto the front of my shorts...shut.

Wine Whining

My taste runs along the line of Diet Coke and iced espresso. I don't like wine. Red or white, it makes no different. Simply put, it's icky. Two buck Chuck from Trader Joes or a thirty dollar bottle of Chardonnay from Napa Valley all taste the same to me; a taste somewhere between apple vinegar and cat pee. Cat pee, by the way, is an actual descriptive used by some wine experts for Riesling. A master sommelier will look at you with a straight face, describe the underlying fragrance of an expensive German Riesling as being reminiscent of cat pee, and then sell you a bottle of it for 25 dollars. Oh yeh, by all means, charge it to my account Jacques.

Be it noted, my Dana enjoys wine. She not only likes to drink wine on rare occasions but is completely fascinated by the wine-making process from vineyard to bottle. She reads books about wine. She browses through the wine section of the grocery store and wine shops like a kid in a candy store. Okay, like me in a candy store but that's not the point. She knows the variety of grapes that go into a particular wine and the regions where those grapes are grown. In other words, she's a smarty pants about the fermented juice of the crushed grape and while I. DON'T. GET. IT. I'm more than glad to cheer her on in her interests as she does with mine, those including my collection of Pez Candy Dispensers (over 300 at last count) and training for a marathon.

What this means is that I do winey things with Dana and try not to whine while doing them. I'm more successful sometimes than I am at other times. By winey things I'm talking day trips to Napa Valley to visit local wineries and attending a Wine Festival in Mendocino County where I played the role of official purse carrier while she engaged in conversations with vineyardians or whatever you call those people in terminology that sailed right over my pretty little head. We even trekked to Sears recently to purchase a small wine refrigerator that now hums contentedly full at the end of our garage which I fear will accidently be mounted on the front of my bumper one day when I pull the car in too quickly or too wearily. But rather than dwelling on a future calamity, let's refocus on the big wine happening of last night that saw me accompanying my beloved to an evening class at the Ferry Building in San Francisco entitled "Wine Tasting Technique Deconstructed."

Let it be noted for the record that I was allowed to attend but only on the condition that when sipping the wine I didn't scrunch up my face after each sip, mimic the motion of vomiting followed by exaggerated and forced gulping sounds as though it were poison (or cat pee) being introduced into my system, and conclude the performance by muttering in loud disgust "Yuck, it takes just like vinegar!" I have apparently done this. Often. In public. For reasons that are beyond me, Dana doesn't find this type of behavior charming, and all the while I thought I was a real cutiepie doing the mock gag routine. Next thing I'm going to find out is that baby talk is a real turn-off and then what will I have left with which to woo her?

Seriously, it was a truly delightful evening, and I would say that even if Dana didn't read my blog regularly. That a good report will contribute to sustaining domestic harmony within our household is not influencing me in any way whatsoever.

Okay, now I'm serious. Last night was a beautiful and comfortably warm evening and the class was held in a rather elegant conference room on the second floor of the Ferry Building with an entire wall of full length windows overlooking the Bay Bridge, Treasure Island and all the standard yet spectacular sights that make San Francisco the stunning city on the bay that it is. The master sommelier who led the class was an interesting guy and despite finding the whole spitting into a bucket thing nauseatingly gross, he was entertaining and quite funny. Funny in an intentional way, not in a "we're all laughing at you but you don't get the joke" kind of way.

We learned how to identify and describe the various components of wine from acidity to tannin, from woody to fruity, and ironically I received some of the most genuine praise of the evening from said master sommelier when I described the fragrance of Chateau Gravas Sauternes, Bordeaux 2003 as being like that of fresh Tupperware. Obviously I have a nack at this whole booze biz. So what if I don't drink, don't like to drink, don't wanna drink.

And so we swirled and stiffed and sipped, and I'm happy to report that wine that smells like cat pee doesn't necessarily taste like cat pee. I still found it's taste to be inarguably icky but at least I wasn't looking under the table for a nearby litter box. Okay, but here's the funny thing and I'm sorry but this is so funny to me that I have to dwell on it a little longer. There's an entire room of upscale people who have paid handsomely to attend this wine offering. They've traveled into the city from the 'burbs to make a night of it, probably with plans to go to a fancy-schmanzy dinner afterwards as their attire would have indicated, not that Dana and I felt underdressed in our blue jeans and teeshirts, mind you. So here you have it, a roomful of people held captive as a master sommelier instructs them to all lift each glass in progression, swirl it and sniff it while they thoughtfully explore and articulate the fragrance of the wine. "This one has a citrus undertone...a hint of black currant...a delicate floral bouquet...the ever-so distant suggestion of dark chocolate." I'm fine with these. Truly I am. But the other smells that were brought to mind with each whif of the wine and noted verbally were, and I could not make this up if I tried, cat pee, the thick scent of petroleum, the plastic coating on disposable diapers, fingernail polish remover, musty rot, wet earth, and yes, I'm proud to say, fresh Tupperware. They identify these fragrances as wafting up from their wine glasses, they articulate it as such and then, they drink it.

Does anyone else find it uproariously bizarre that the very thing one would describe as smelling like gasoline or damp dirt in one minute is sipped the next minute followed by a contented sigh of decadent delight? Maybe it's just me but I kept thinking of how someone will gulp or eat something horrible, tell you it's the worse thing they've ever tasted in their entire life and then holding it in front of your face say "Here, taste it." Obviously I'm lacking in culture since I'm simply not all that interested in taking a sip of cat pee scented wine anymore than I am of taking a big old sip of milk 2 weeks after it's expiration date. Call me crazy.

I conclude by offering you a few photos that are evocative of what I've already articulated so eloquently.

The three photos below, in order, are as follows:

1. My wine tasting glasses at the start of the evening.
2. My wine tasting glasses at the conclusion of the evening. (The empty glass on the far right being that of the one that tasted like liquid vanilla sugar)
3. Dana's wine tasting glasses at the conclusion of the evening.

I will allow the evidence to speak for itself.

T'was the Week Before the Marathon...

I'm taking taper time to a whole new level and I gotta tell you, it's pretty sweet! In fact, I'm thinking tapering is nearly as rewarding after months of increasingly long training walks as is crossing the finish line on race day. Okay, that's not true. Nothing will be as sweet as crossing the finish line. I was just trying to make a point. Point made but at the cost of a narrative digression. Reverse engines.

I was actually headed in this direction, that being that I haven't done any training walks since my final LSD last Friday because I'm still dealing with Triple S (swelling, soreness, stiffness) in my ankle. I'm usually a quick healer, a compliment medical personnel have often given to me as though I have anything to do with my recuperative tendencies, so I'm surprised by the little progress that's going on here. Regardless, I'm going to plow through a measely 4 miler tomorrow because I can't stand the thought of a total week's mileage of 0. Ouch! My ego just whined in agony. I'm going to follow that up with a final physical therapy appointment on Monday morning and then it's off to Portland for a week where I plan to put in 2-3 miles every day up until THE day. THE day. My stomach just dropped. Excitement. Nervousness. Anticipation. Anxiety. This Sunday afternoon at 2:00 p.m. I'll be able to say "Next week at this time I'll have crossed the finish line." Consider my mind officially blown. You were here when it happened.

It's true that I'm not particularly thrilled that I'm going into marathon week with a widgey ankle but I'm not discouraged or too concerned about it either since it's not going to prevent me from walking across the starting line or the finish line. It just means the journey between the two might be a little less comfortable than I would prefer but hey, the good news is that if my ankle is sore enough I'll hardly notice my aching back, my sore calves, my swollen hands, my thirst, my full bladder, my stiff knees, the heat, the hills, and the fact that my sister will no doubt be fresh as a daisy going into mile 23 while I'm whining, limping, and auditioning for the lead role in "The Anguished Phatgirl." I invite anyone standing on the sidelines to slap her if they notice her dancing to her Ipod at any point in the marathon. It's SO annoying and if I didn't love her so much I'd despise her!

That's why I'm attempting to even the playing field. I know I can't get as fast as my sister by next Sunday so I've taken action to slow her down with random shipments of cookies, chocolates, and other phat-producing foods yet to be delivered to said sister's front door. Seriously, I read an article just today in the new issue of Runner's World Magazine. It seems the experts are now recommending sugar-stuffing and fat-filling in addition to carbo-loading. It makes for a more well-rounded athlete. Seriously Sis. I'm not kidding. Eat. You'll go faster. Trust me.