Grrrlie Chronicles

39

2011-03-10T22:14:00.006-07:00

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'll be 39.

Can you imagine one of those old retro bedside flip clocks? Now magnify it times 100 and put it in my head. There it is, all imposing and unmissable and attention-grabbing. My mind's eye can't help but stare because there's nothing else to look at. So I watch this thing flip-flapping the minutes on by, each one hitting the last with an unnerving slap, far more succinct and staccato than the interminable background ticking of everyday wind ups.

Slap. Wait, wait, wait.

Slap. Wait, wait, wait.

Slap.

And the alarm's about to go off. 39 years down, XX to go.

No, 39 isn't 40. It's not the big once-a-decade changing of the guard. It's just the year before. What that means, though, is that now is the time for me to assess the situation and make damn sure I'm on track to do all that I want to do before I turn 40. The clock is slapping and I've only got 365 days left to take care of business.

It's pretty cool, actually. It's like being told that you have only a set amount of time left to live. Call me grim, but I see the similarity. Knowledge of the finite is so liberating. You can set aside all the time-wasting and transcend the daily grind. A time window is an opportunity, a motivator. When there are fewer mañanas, the mañana mentality loses its appeal.

I'm not sad, really. I am reflective. And ready. I've got things to do before I turn 40 and I still have time to do them. I'm lucky.

Here are my pre-40 birthday resolutions:

1) To be less the person I was always told I should be and more the person I want to be.
2) To focus more on my creativity and less on work work work work work.
3) To embrace role model status for my girl and make her proud by being the best possible version of myself.
4) To write.

That old imaginary panel clock will dissipate in 45 minutes when I'm officially older. That's good because I need room in my head for better things.

Here I go. Happy birthday to me.

New songs for the last day of Power Camp:

Rolling in the Deep — Adele
Rumour Has It — Adele
Lake Michigan — Rogue Wave
Good Ol' Fashion Nightmare — Matt & Kim
Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh — Say Hi
Good Lovin' — The Young Rascals (In honor of Andrew Henkels)
Wide Eyes — Local Natives

I will miss all of you Power Campers. Thank you for sharing your winter with me. My Thursdays won't be the same without you.

Down with baby's bad self

2011-02-11T20:09:00.010-07:00

I like dancing with my baby. I know that a lot of people, including the intelligent ones at the American Academy of Pediatrics, say that dancing with your baby stimulates development. And if it isn't enough to know that what you're doing is making your baby brilliant, perhaps you can find inspiration in the fact that the First Lady fully endorses getting down with your bad self, and your baby's bad self too – any time, any place. Michelle Obama told the world yesterday on NPR that she and the girls dance around the house all the time. The White House, that is.

Hey, Mrs. Obama! We dance around the house too. The, uh, brown house.

Usually, we just bounce around a little to whatever music is on — whether it's The White Stripes or Baby Signing Time — but today, I was inspired. I turned the radio on and up, put on my chef's hat and my saucer-sized orange sunglasses (because every good dancer needs a get-up), and tripped the light fantastic (what does that even mean?) all over the house with my two-and-a-half-foot-tall partner. She laughed and squealed the entire way through our unchoreographed performance, and signed "more, more, more!" after I grandiosely dipped her at the end. Because we all know that any proper dance must end in a dip.

If you've never experienced a baby squealing in delight between spasms of laughter, I highly recommend it. I'm convinced that this glorious sound is powerful enough to cure cancer and every other bad thing, and if I could bottle and distribute it, I could do my part in making this world better. Since I can't package pure joy, I may just have to procure a portable sound system, mic up the baby, and take the dance to the streets.

Songs I added to the playlist this week:

Comfort Me — Vertigo Smyth
Tighten Up — The Black Keys
Hi-Fi Goon — Throw Me the Statue
Fools — The Dodos
Dancing With Myself — The Donnas
The Hill — Bombay Bicycle Club
Worry About it Later — brakesbrakesbrakes
Cool Yourself — Thao

My own hairdo

2011-01-27T10:44:00.007-07:00

I peppered the playlist today with a few tunes from my high school days. Just for fun. In the process, I have to admit, I got a little bit sentimental for the old days and the Valley Girl I once was — complete with shockingly expansive hair, purple parachute clothing and plastic neon accessories. Though I admittedly was very proud then, I'm not proud now. So to do my memories justice and to fully own up to my former ridiculousness, I went Googling around to find "the look" — best represented by the extremely famous and very nestable 1980s coif. Specifically, I went looking for a picture of my own hairdo.

I found it. And yes, I found it on a man. No matter how embarrassing, I swear to god, down to the angular shave over the ears, the ratted bangs, the little tousle in front, the perm, and even the color, this is the exact hair I wore with pride from 1985-1989.

So it was. So may it never, ever be again.

Songs I added to the playlist for today:

Prefontaine - Lodger
Mirror in the Bathroom — The English Beat
Patent Pending — The Extraordinaires
Don't Change — INXS
You Don't Know What Love Is — The White Stripes
Lazy Eye — Silversun Pickups
Girls on Film — Duran Duran
Tonight Will be Fine — Teddy Thompson

Way more Mr. Nice Guy

2011-01-24T20:29:00.007-07:00

I write a lot of bios. It's part of my job as the behind-the-scenes girl, the girl whose job it is to make other people look good. I don't mind doing it. I summarize lives in succinct paragraphs, glorified bullet lists, really, that leave readers nodding with raised eyebrows, thinking to themselves, "wow." That's the goal at least.

My favorite, though, is when bios surprise. When you know someone, well even, and you know he is competent and talented just by the way he speaks or carries himself or engages you. But then you read The Bio and you are absolutely blown away by the long list of accomplishments and honors. Maybe you find out that he, say, was the first person in the world to climb and ski two million vertical feet in a calendar year, or she, for instance, was named the CEO of a leading eCommerce business at the age of 36. These are the people I admire the most. They're the Nice Guys. We need more of them.

Greg "2 Mil" Hill
I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in my belief that we have too many braggarts in our world. These are the people who take every opportunity to tell you how great they are; the people who never cease to one-up you and everyone else in the room; the people who, if they could, would stand atop wooden crates to bellow their Wins to everyone within earshot.

I prefer the gracious — not the falsely humble, no, but the quietly successful, the gracefully accomplished, the calmly good. These are the people I want to know. These are the people I want to emulate. These are the people we need more of.

Bring on the Nice Guys.

Songs I added to the playlist this week:

Nobody Could Change Your Mind — The Generationals
Lalita — The Love Language
Strictly Game — Harlem Shakes
He's Frank (Slight Return) — The BPA featuring Iggy Pop

Photo: Tommy Chandler

My Life Coach went to Delphi and two new songs

2011-01-13T23:07:00.007-07:00

As I was heading off to meet Life Coach, my friend Brandon said to me: “Don’t let him/her make too many changes. You have a good life as-is.” It hit me like a slap in the face. The good kind. The meeting with the Really Smart Stranger with a Big Degree and a Comfortable Couch was as I expected. Like Delphi. You don’t get your answers when you get to the Temple of Apollo and stand face-to-face with the Oracle. You get your answers in the long journey from home to get there in the first place. Know Thyself and all that philosophical jazz. It was interesting. I was reminded that not only do I have a great life, I have had a great life. That alone was worth the trip.

The Oracle or The Life Coach?

I've been swamped at work this week, so I only added two new songs to the mix.

2080 — Yeasayer
Vampire Lake — The Builders and the Butchers

Not famous, just great.

2011-01-09T19:52:00.003-07:00

"I never wanted to be famous. I only wanted to be great." — Ray Charles

Songs I added to the mix today:

Intro — The xx
Float — Broken Bells
Should I Stay or Should I Go — The Clash
Gone Daddy Gone — Gnarls Barkley
I Got a Woman — Ray Charles
Gold Digger — Kanye West
If I Ever Feel Better — Phoenix

Confidence in difference and new songs

2011-01-07T10:09:00.007-07:00

All I have to say is more power to men who wear capes. Maybe it's like they sometimes say about women who wear extravagant hats. You just have to own it. If you're going to be different, be confident. It's a beautiful thing.

Man in cape.

Here are the new songs I mingled into the playlist for Thursday's class:

Almost Familiar — Pretty Lights
Little Lion Man — Mumford & Sons
Brandy of the Damned — Nickel Eye
Be the One — The Ting Tings
Alligator Skin — Tilly & the Wall

Ode to the slow, and a whole bunch of fast

2011-01-02T19:32:00.010-07:00

The thing about building a good soundtrack is that you have to select music that fits the context. This seems obvious. This is definitely true of Power Camp tunes. If I were to come to class on Thursday and happily stand on the little box in front of the room and announce into the microphone, "Today's workout is 45 minutes in Zone 5 at 105 RPM," and then crank up a sweetly arranged compilation of melancholic ballads, you would have my head. Well, ok, maybe not literally, but you'd leave (whether right away or at the end of class) and leave angry. I know. I've been there.

My friends and I used to go to an early-morning spin class during which the instructor, without fail, would queue up an hour-long sleeper session of singer/songwriter folk songs. Oh, for the love of god, it hurt. Bad. I would sit there on my bike and seethe. Every next song was worse than the last. We were subjected to artists, who, in their own right, were great. Sure, I like me a little Indigo Girls action every now and again. Allison Krauss is awesome. Joni Mitchell is cool. But, we got all these in class. It was like the Lilith Fair, except in slow motion and without any of the cool t-shirts. The final straw for me came when, in the middle of a simulated climb, "Send in the Clowns" by Judy Collins came wafting out of the speakers and sprinkling down like fairy dust upon our sweaty heads. That was it. I couldn't take it anymore. I got off the bike, grabbed my gear, stormed out of class, and never, ever went back. %#&* Send in the Goddamn Clowns.

But that doesn't mean that a really good slow song doesn't feed my soul better than any uptempo ditty ever could. Since I hold to the code of the cadence and will never dip below 50 BPM for any song I play for you in class, here are just a few to fill the down times in between.

I'm Not Lonely Anymore — Jessica Lea Mayfield
Your Rocky Spine — Great Lake Swimmers
Float — Broken Bells
Orchids — Califone
White Blank Page — Mumford and Sons (anything by Mumford and Sons, actually...)
Buttercups — Fran Healy
Nights Like These — Lucero ("She had a weakness for writers, and I was never that good with words anyway.")

But back to the fast. Here's today's playlist. The only song I haven't used before is the first, but I'll list them all anyway.

Sway — The Kooks
Good Arms vs. Bad Arms — Frightened Rabbit
Coming Home — Lucero
Solitary Gun — Rogue Wave
Listen Up Sweetheart — The Finnlys
Percussion Gun — White Rabbit
Say for Certain — Generationals
Devil is a Woman — White Buffalo
A Mutinous Dream — Throw Me The Statue
Don't Bother Me — The Blakes
Give Yourself to Me — Honeyhoney
Supermassive Black Hole — Muse
Pot Kettle Black — Tilly & The Wall
Only to Haunt You — The Von Bondies
Hairdo — Lodger
Black Cloud — Adiam Dymott
Precious Time — The Macabees
Rudie Falls — White Rabbits

Hazel's birthday and Power Camp Playlist 12/23

2010-12-23T20:40:00.006-07:00

At 7:28 pm on this day last year, I gave birth to my sweet baby girl. At 7:28 tonight, I kissed her eyelids, lowered her into her crib, and tucked her in under the fuzzy white blanket next to Bugley Bunny. The timing was perfect. It's been a beautiful year.

Today's playlist:

Good Arms vs. Bad Arms — Frightened Rabbit
I'm Amazed — My Morning Jacket
We Walk — The Ting Tings
Solitary Gun — Rogue Wave
Swing — Zero 7
Listen Up Sweetheart — The Finnlys
Percussion Gun — White Rabbits
Say for Certain — Generationalists
Dust Me Off — Tilly & The Wall
Girls — Beastie Boys
Happy Birthday — Altered Images
We Started Nothing — The Ting Tings
Hoodoo Voodoo — Billy Bragg and Wilco
Waitress in the Sky — The Replacements
A Mutinous Dream — Throw Me The Statue
Black Cloud — Adiam Dymott
Mineshaft 2 — Dessa
Coming Home — Lucero
Give Yourself to Me — Honeyhoney
Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn — The White Stripes
Only to Haunt You — The Von Bondies
1.36 — Coldplay
Get Us Home — The Panics
I Need a Dollar — Aloe Blacc
Devil is a Woman — White Buffalo
Don't Bother Me — The Blakes

The Fat Guy, and Power Camp Playlist: Sunday, 12/12

2010-12-12T10:46:00.008-07:00

My first-ever triathlon was the Spudman in Burley, Idaho. It was 2001; I was 29. I didn't know how to swim yet and I was a categorical newbie on the scene — just hoping to make it through to the run, where I actually had experience racing and knew I could make up some time, inevitably lost during the "swim" and the bike. So there I was, during the last half of the run, happy with myself for clocking sub 8-minute miles and feeling so proud to be almost done, almost to the finish line, when suddenly I heard the stomp-stomp-stomp of heavy feet and the vaderish omen of heavy breath coming up fast behind me. Damn, I thought. Better pick it up. So I did. But I couldn't shake the guy (at least from the sounds of it, I hoped to god it was a guy). And then it happened. A very large, but obviously very strong man passed me. Like I was standing still. As he kicked up dust and left me in it, I looked up and read the back of his shirt. In big, black, block letters it said: "Look out! The fat guy just passed you."

Awesome. I will never forget it.

The two-part lesson? 1) Looks can be deceiving, and 2) you simply can't deny the power of "heart" when it comes to performance.

Here's today's playlist:

Steady as she Goes — The Raconteurs
Wake Up — Arcade Fire
What's a Girl to Do? — Bat for Lashes
Telephone — The Black Angels
Keep Me In Mind — Little Joy
I Don't Wanna — The Von Bondies
Pot Kettle Black — Tilly & The Wall
Beginner's Luck — Eels
Effect & Cause — The White Stripes
Hairdo — Lodger
Supermassive Black Hole — Muse
Don't Want That Now — The Blakes
That's Not My Name — The Ting Tings
Rudie Fails — White Rabbits
You and Everyone Else — Nickel Eye
I Never Want to Go Home — The Whigs
Every War — Pictures and Sound, featuring Willie Nelson
I Need a Dollar — Aloe Blacc
Birthday — Kings of Leon
Love Lockdown — Kanye West

Power Camp Playlist

2010-12-09T16:48:00.015-07:00

I'm always happy to share music. It's not often you can give an intangible but feel-able present. Thanks for asking me to put these up. I'll continue to post my playlists throughout the season.

Here is the playlist from today's class.

Buildings and Mountains - Republic Tiger
In My Dreams - Eels
Almost Familiar - Pretty Lights
Level - The Raconteurs
Wake Up - Arcade Fire
I Never Want to Go Home - The Whigs
Waiting for the Rapture - Oasis
Supermassive Black Hole - Muse
Grounds for Divorce - Elbow
Sun's Gonna Rise - Citizen Cope
This is how we Kiss - Throw Me The Statue
Precious Time - The Maccabees
Girls - Beastie Boys
Forevermore - Katie Herzig
Boom Boom Pow - Black Eyed Peas
Pot Kettle Black - Tilly & The Wall
Mineshaft 2 - Dessa
Neptune's Jewels - Mystic
Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn - The White Stripes
Weapon of Choice - Fatboy Slim (If you haven't seen this video, I highly recommend taking a few minutes to check it out.)
Beginner's Luck - Eels
Love Song - CruelBlackDove
Rudie Fails - White Rabbits
We Walk - The Ting Tings
What's a Girl to Do? - Bat for Lashes (This is the video I told you about in class today.)
Right Hand on My Heart - The Whigs
Run Honey Run - Morcheeba
First Day of My Life - Bright Eyes

Dessa.
And here are other songs from previous workouts:

Finally Moving - Pretty Lights
Hairdo - Lodger
(Get Off Your) High Horse Lady - Oasis
Don't Want That Now - The Blakes
That's Not My Name - The Ting Tings
Where Were You Hiding When the Storm Broke? - The Alarm
Earthquake - The Von Bondies
Love Lockdown - Kanye West
Effect & Cause - The White Stripes
Say Hey (I Love You) - Michael Franti & Spearhead
Shut up and Let Me Go - The Ting Tings
Little Toy Gun - Honeyhoney
Steady As She Goes - The Raconteurs
The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
300 M.P.H. Torrential Outpour Blues - The White Stripes
Rise - Eddie Vedder
You and Everyone Else - Nickel Eye

My next career

2009-12-16T10:29:00.004-07:00

If I need to find a new line of work after my maternity leave, a very good option could be as a guest speaker at high schools.

"Real pregnancy and how much it sucks: a case for birth control."

I would be booked solid for months. Kids would hear me talk and would go straight to their computers and Google "chastity belts." They wouldn't even kiss anymore. Heavy petting would be a thing of the past, relegated only to the pages of Judy Blume books. Teachers would hear me talk and think to themselves, "Why has no one taken this angle before?" Then they would hand out condoms like candy and smartly buy stock in chastity belts.

I've thrown up approximately 500 times in the past nine months, including 4 times this morning, and now I'm officially quarantined to my bed for the remainder of this pregnancy. I'm bummed, yeah. I'm disappointed that I have had to set aside my physically strong self. I'm sad that I feel millions of miles away from my friends — separated by an inability to play with them. But mostly I'm ashamed that I couldn't be good at pregnancy the way I like to be good at things that I set forth with purpose to do.

Besides all that, though, I don't feel well at all, so forced bed rest is probably a blessing in disguise.

Plus, it'll give me lots of time to think... and develop a really powerful PowerPoint presentation for my foray into teenage mother prevention.

The pitcher and the stone

2009-12-14T23:07:00.005-07:00

A certain C-list celebrity (who has eight children, is separated from his wife, and chooses to dress himself in Ed Hardy) stopped by my desk at work today. He's looking for work. The implication was that we might pay him to wear our gear as he spends five months in our fair mountain town skiing. His people are going to call me in the next little bit with a proposal.

Oh dear. I'm sorry, but whether the Goat Gear hits the reality show guy or the reality show guy hits the Goat Gear, it's going to be very bad for the Goat Gear.

It makes me sad, really. I'm sure he's a nice guy. But he has issues and a bad reputation. And that's something that no little white Goat can fix.

Quotes. One bad, one good.

2009-12-10T15:11:00.003-07:00

First, from a very thin young woman that I work with:

"Aren't you just so tired of being fat? Oops, I mean... Wait. You're not fat, you're pregnant."

Second, from my lovely husband:

"It's not your belly, it's OUR belly."

Make it sound delish, Brad.

2009-12-07T21:59:00.009-07:00

I like Thai Siam on State Street. The food is good and the wait staff is genuinely Thai and alarmingly sweet. It's the kind of place where you'd expect - and you used to get - a battered paper menu complete with typos and English-is my-third-language grammatical errors. That was part of its charm.

Unfortunately, tonight when we sat down and were handed the restaurant's new, glossy menus, I was horrified to find that all those fantastic English errors were gone forever, replaced by the irreverent, totally out of place words of some pretentious copywriter from one of Salt Lake City's finest ad agencies.

Nothing about it was genuine. Nothing about it reflected the endearing wait staff that bows to you when you walk in and stumbles over English while making sure that your every whim is met during the hour you choose to spend at their restaurant. Hell, nothing about it was Thai.

It made me wonder if the Volcom tee-clad writer named Brad (B-rad?) had even taken the time to eat there. To research. To find the right voice.

It was enough to make me feel sick. (Not that that's all that hard these days.) I was suddenly embarrassed by my past as an agency copywriter. I couldn't even focus on the menu's offerings. I had to put the thing down in disgust and order out of habit. It was that bad.

I linked to the menu so you can read for yourself, but here are some of the very worst:

Gang Keow Wan — Green Curry | a.k.a. “Bend it Like Beckham,” this green curry dish has a real kick to it that bends itself around the flavors...

Gang Dang — Red Curry | a.k.a “Posh Spice,” this dish is what you really, really want...

Gang Massaman | The famous Massaman gang in Bangkok is known for cooking this delicious massaman curry dish and feeding it to public officials in lieu of a cash bribe...

Pad Woon-Sen | a.k.a. “The Dale Chihuly,” We take delicate glass noodles and add vibrant color (and phytonutrients)... The only thing more colorful is the lobby ceiling in the Bellagio.

For real?

I'm sorry, my dear, sweet Thai Siam, but you chose poorly, if not in your agency, then in your copywriter. And, agency, whichever one you are, you should be ashamed.

Ode to iceberg

2009-12-02T19:24:00.010-07:00

Pickles it ain't. And I can't stomach anything sweet. And please don't put me anywhere near greasy fast food or things will definitely get ugly. Salt is good, but I usually get it in the form of all-I-can-keep-down-right-now saltines. I do require protein, mostly of the egg variety, which I have to eat first thing in the morning or forever hold my peace. But what is my big craving?

Iceberg. That's right. Underappreciated, vitamin deficient, flavor-impaired, iceberg lettuce.

In the early days, plain iceberg would do just fine. I'd nibble it, leaf by leaf, like a little baby bunny. Then I came to love those quarter-head wedges with blue cheese dressing drizzle and real bacon bits (no, not BacOs) sprinkled on top. About that time, Bill got into it too and started eating what he dubbed White Trash Salads with me. You know, iceberg, Thousand Island dressing and store-bought, stale-from-the-box croutons. Yummy. He and I both ate these almost every night. Then the day came when hand-in-hand, we went dark on iceberg. Probably because I started feeling a little better.

But now, now that I'm back to being sick three times a day, iceberg has regained its esteemed position in my prenatal diet.

That's right. The White Trash Salad has returned.

I can hear now the voices of all the people out there who think they know what's good for a pregnant woman without ever having been pregnant. These people want to chime in on the benefits of a healthy diet for the expecting mom. One particularly annoying, health-nazi ex-boyfriend comes to mind (in all his flatulence-inducing foaming green shit smoothie glory), because he used to make off-hand judgments about other people's food choices on a regular basis. He still does, I'm sure, I just don't have to listen anymore. The thing is, I believe in a healthy diet. And while I don't think that mamas should indulge in pure Big Mac gluttony or drown their unborn babes in soda, there's something to be said about seeking out food that you can actually keep down. Yeah, for sure, cravings are real. And on a whole different level, so is hankering for food, any food, that you know you'll be able to eat without becoming a heaving, teary mess over the toilet. Whether they're one in the same probably depends on the person. But I, for one, think a little lee-way is in order.

So, all you expecting mommies out there, especially if you're sick, find what you love and eat up.

The quiet span of days

2009-12-01T20:47:00.004-07:00

In the quiet span of days lately, I think about the fact that the difficult will be beautiful in retrospect.

Photo: Idie Atencio

What Not to Say: 101

2009-11-28T13:06:00.011-07:00

I've shared that I'm pregnant. I've also shared that, because of nine months of enduring sickness and nausea, it has been the hardest thing that I have ever done in my life. Now let me share a few words of wisdom. Here is a quick review, just a few suggestions, of what not to say to a pregnant woman.

What Not to Say 101:

"You won't remember how hard it's been after she's born."
I won't? And with those words, you in your all-knowingness, have just relieved me of all intellect and long-term memory. Yes, I will love my baby and cherish her and revel in her miracleness, but I'm sorry, I will not "forget" how very hard it's been to vomit nearly every day for nine months straight.

"You'll want another one, you just wait."
Oh, really? You're so sure about this that you can don your condescending tone and tell me how it's gonna be? First of all, if my husband and I do choose to have another child, that's our decision, not yours. And if that is the decision that we make, we, as two very intelligent people, will go in knowing how challenging this pregnancy has been for me and how the next may very well be similar. Your assumption is not only a divination of the distant future (a divination that is not yours to make), it is a highly unlikely proposal at this point. Basically, my friend, you don't know what the hell you're talking about.

"I LOVE being pregnant! If I could be four months pregnant all the time, I would!"
Good for you, you daisy-dancing freak of nature. But if you want to live to see another day, whether you're pregnant or not, shut the f*ck up.

"It's all in your head."
I don't even know what to say to this one. And yes, someone said it.

"I know that everyone is different, but my wife ran on the trails (nothing technical, of course) until she was eight months pregnant."
Yes. Everyone is different. But your telling me this does not give me credit for being different. I wish I could trail run. Hell, I wish I could walk without feeling like I was going to hurl. I really do wish my pregnancy was like your wife's — that it was easy, that I could go out and get after it like I love to do. I want nothing more than to hit the trails for an easy jog with my fully blossomed belly out in front of me saying "I'm such a badass, active mommy" to everyone I see. But, unfortunately, I have to work really hard to get through the day, every day, without puking. Just know, proud husband and father, that the difference between your pregnant wife and pregnant me is not a difference of will. It's a difference of not sick and sick.

"Your sickness will be over after your first trimester.”
They told me this. So I counted down. I could do three months. But after three months, I was still sick. Then they said: “no more than 16 weeks for sure.” So again, I counted down. And I was still vomiting. Then they said 20 weeks. Well, I’m now 35 weeks pregnant and I’m still throwing up and all I want is to not be sick anymore and they don’t know what it’s like so they should keep their well-meaning mouths closed. That’s what I think.

“Oh, you think you’re ready to be done being pregnant. Just wait until the baby comes. Then the real fun starts.”
Ah nice. I usually hear this from men. Probably because birth is the time when "the real fun" does start for men. Yes, Mr. Headupyourass, I know it will be hard. Yes, I know it will be a huge change. I’m not an idiot. All I have to say is that I would greatly appreciate your putting yourself in my shoes for one second before speaking. Yes, you try throwing up multiple times a day for 9 months and then tell me you’re not ready for it to be over too. Just a thought.

"So how much weight have you gained?"
My dad asked me this on the phone yesterday (he hasn't seen me since August). He used to ask me this same question my first year in college when he was obviously terrified of the "Freshman 15" and the horrifying effect it would have on my almost 6', very athletic frame. I told him that I have gained 35 pounds. I'm fine with this. This is healthy. In fact, knowing that I am an athlete and sensitive about my weight, my midwife makes a point to tell me how well I'm doing. But my dad, who unfortunately has never been around a pregnant woman in his life (my brother and I are adopted) hears only that I have gained 35 pounds — quite a bit of weight for a non-pregnant woman. In a moment of severe insensitivity, he chose to respond: "Jesus, Mare. Being sick obviously hasn't kept you from packing on the pounds. You better get on that."

Ah, yes. If I were to grade that remark, I would give it a sound and non-negotiable F minus. Dad.

That's it for our fist day of class. I hope you find this little summary helpful. If you have any questions, I'm available during office hours and would be happy to discuss.

In other TomKat news: The Name Game

2009-11-21T11:23:00.005-07:00

Ok. I have no idea why, but this morning after vomiting yet again and feeling incredibly sorry for myself for vomiting yet again (I've reached the impressive vomit count of 400 times in the last 8 months, thank you very much), I sat down at my computer and Googled "Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes." Seriously. Besides a strange but possible subconscious connection between feeling sick and this Hollywood couple, I can't explain my actions and I would very much appreciate it if you would kindly not hold it against me.

Interesting stuff.

Fox News brings us the news that the couple lets their three-year-old wear high heels. Apparently, conservatives everywhere are pissed off about this.

And did you know that they each have a new movie coming out? I didn't. I don't care, but now, at least, I know.

I also found "Spin Cycle" — a mildly entertaining Silicon Valley Mercury News column that included this breaking news report:

A London-based translation company has expanded its business to help parents avoid inadvertent name flubs. For $1,678, company linguists will do a basic name translation audit, checking the meaning of the chosen name in 100 languages. They'll do more, for more money.

If only Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes had forked over some bucks, they might not have chosen to name their daughter Suri. Turns out it means "pickpocket" in Japanese, "turned sour" in French and our personal favorite, "horse mackerels" in Italian.

Good lord. $1,678 for a glorified Google search! Maybe they just don't know how to use the Internets. Maybe they don't have time. Or maybe, just maybe, they're not sitting down at their computers after vomiting yet again, feeling incredibly sorry for themselves for vomiting yet again.

Photo: Getty Images

Zephediah Justice

2009-11-01T17:35:00.013-07:00

The fact of her existence meant to me that customer service as a whole was not taken out back and shot.

"Hi! How are you ladies today?" she chimed, looking us both in the eyes and smiling. "Did you find everything you were looking for?"

We'd just overheard her chatting with the guy ahead of us. She'd volunteered to work this weekend because they needed help. She usually worked at Starbuck's. They told her it would be crazy on Halloween, but how bad could it really be? It's been great so far. So many nice people.

This was Target, for the love of god. Who was this girl?

"We did thanks," I shined back at her. "Are you having a good day?"

"So good. Thank you."

She happily dragged my selection from the conveyor over the scanner: a bag of Life Savers Pep-O-Mints mints; jungle animal burp cloths; newborn diapers with baby Sesame Street muppets on the bum; the biggest, wingiest maxi pads I could find (I don't know what they're really like, but the "technical" diagram on the box looks like an Imperial Starfleet Destroyer); and a three-pack of panties that could easily have been used as sails in a nautical pinch.

She looked up and completed a mental match of my items to my belly, belly, belly.

"Oh! You're getting ready for baby! When are you due?"

"January first."

"And it's a girl?"

"It is a girl, yeah."

"Do you have any names picked out?"

I always wonder why people ask this. It's such a trick question, really. Most people will tell you never to answer because people can't help but react and negative reactions pretty much suck. She was so sweet, though, so friendly and unusually bright, that I didn't mind her inquisitiveness.

"So far, it's Sprout."

Without hesitation she beamed and said: "That's very unique. I'm sure that she will be a good Sprout. You know, we just had a girl that went into labor at work yesterday. It was very exciting. I've never been around a girl in labor before. I don't know what she named her baby, but I have another friend who named her baby Zephediah. Zephediah Justice. That's a unique name too."

I laughed. "No, I'm sorry. We're not really naming our baby Sprout. That's just her nickname, what we're calling her before she's born."

The woman behind is line interrupted: "Oh, thank god!"

I glanced her way. "No we're just not sure on the name yet."

"Oh," said the checkout girl, "you never know, you know? And who am I to judge?"

"You're right," I smiled, "I guess there are some interesting names out there."

"Zephediah Justice," she continued, "I mean, that kid is going to be famous or something. Stuff is going to go down that guy's life, you know?"

I knew exactly what she meant. Zephediah Justice would be a Heisman-winning, pro football player. Or an evangelical preacher with a huge following in the South. Or a magician. That name just portends bigness.

Sprout, I thought. Hmm. It's time to start thinking bigger. A lot bigger.

Run. Break free.

2009-10-29T20:32:00.007-06:00

I love to run.

I love propelling myself along mountain singletrack to the rhythm of my own breathing and my own two feet, with Frank at my side and the rocks as my company.

I love being an extra in any given neighborhood's movie. There but not. Blending in. Running girl #1 in the credits that roll against black at the end of the day.

I love picking a destination, any destination — the summit, the zoo — and getting myself there and back. On foot. On purpose.

It took effort not to use the past tense here.

I miss this.

Right now I am not fast. I am not light. I am not strong. I'm a version of myself 30 pounds heavier, clumsier and softer than before. I'm a version of myself that I must force myself to recognize every morning when I look in the mirror. I'm a version of myself that I try to appreciate for the beauty of what she is creating, but in all honesty, I cannot bear to be her for much longer.

I am 31 weeks pregnant, trapped in a padded shell. It hurts to walk. It hurts to sit. It hurts to sleep. I can't catch my breath. I struggle to get through a day of work. I am tired.

I've watched my friends run. I have stood by and listened to them make plans without me for the morning runs that we used to do together. I've missed them as much as our pre-dawn dates. More.

I dream sometimes, often, that I am running. I feel myself. I feel like myself. I remember the trails down to the intricacies of their textures and the promise of their banked turns. I smell the air. I taste the sweat. I breathe in hard. And then I wake up and remember.

I love my Sprout. We will be a great team when she joins me here on the outside. But when she is here I will run. We will run. I will remember for real what it's like. And I won't miss it anymore.

On monsters and futures

2009-10-25T17:45:00.011-06:00

The plan is to welcome Sprout into this world without medication. Yes, we'll have a backup plan and yes, we know that even the best laid plans sometimes don't turn out the way you want them to. That said, we're going into this prepared, educated, and practiced in pain control methods that I fully believe I can employ to get through this without drugs. I'm not scared.

Reflecting on what I've learned about childbirth, like anyone, I need to relate this information to my own past experiences. I heard once that the monsters we create in our heads can only be bits and pieces of the frightening things that we have experienced: the no-soul eyes of criminals from TV mugshots, the scales of rattlesnakes, the bloody teeth of feasting lions, the putrid teacher breath of Mrs. McDonald (third grade). Similarly, we can create positive futures out of bits and pieces of our positive past.

Knowing this, I went back and read the blog post I wrote after racing Ironman Arizona last November, "The company I keep". Going in with a frayed Achilles that had almost kept me home and with the residue of a cold, I wasn't exactly set up for success. I could have easily sabotaged myself with negativity or low expectations. But I didn't.

Reading over my own words has inspired me. Now like then, I will say Yes; I will believe; I will breathe. I will give myself permission to feel pain without fear and that alone will make that pain empty and impotent. I know I have that power because I have done it before.

And, oh yeah, I will relax my hands.

Part of visualization when coping with pain is identifying your happy place and allowing yourself to go there when you need to. My happy place is the Mill Creek Pipeline trail at the peak of Fall. When I need to get out of my body, this is where I want to go. And I want to be running there with Frank right at my side. Yesterday I took some time to jot down my thoughts of the sensual experience of running on the Pipeline — the smells, sounds, textures, tastes. While I was doing this, I realized that I was thinking not just of the trail itself but of a photo of the trail that my good friend Lloyd Eldredge took a few years ago. Today, Lloyd sent me that picture so that I can take it with me to the hospital when the time comes.

When the pain tries to make me forget how strong I really am; when I need to answer every shadowy doubt with a resounding Yes; when I need to be my best friend and rely on the company I keep — this is where I will be.

Grammatical Penance

2009-10-22T22:39:00.004-06:00

I got called out on our work Facebook page for an apostrophe error that I made while hurrying to post the results of a contest. It rocked me to the core. Shook my self worth. Snipped my umbilical cord connection to English majors everywhere. I hate making grammar or punctuation mistakes. I pride myself in the fact that if I could be a superhero, I would be Grammar Girl. I feel ashamed. Less than. Not worthy.

I must come to some sort of post-forgiven state. For penance, I'm going to turn inward, to my roots, and geek out on words and complex grammar for a minute. This is a personal exercise. It will be self gratifying and pretentious. Feel free to look away.

Three words that I love:

Gentrification
Surreptitious
Saponify

Three uses of gerunds in one sentence:

Her not liking the onion soup resulted in her leaving the kitchen in a fit and then in the chef's resigning.

Glorified use of punctuation:

She had four cats: Don Quixote de la Mancha (Don for short), Lawrence Olivier, Peanut Butter, and Lloyd (pronounced "Yoyd") Peregrino. As you might guess, these were her only friends.

The most misused word I know:

Penultimate

Words that people use all the time that aren't really words, that leave me cringing and biting my tongue so I don't sound like some over-righteous grammar policing bitch who thinks she's better than everyone else:

Impactful
Irregardless
Disorientated
Supposably
Strategerize

Overused words at work that bug the hell out of me:

Impactful
Monetization
Friction

Ok. I feel better. Really. After a few Hail Marys and a good night's sleep, I should be good to go again in the morning.

F for Florence. F for Fischer.

2009-10-21T21:43:00.005-06:00

My grandma's memory is locketed up inside the sound of Louis Armstrong singing Hello Dolly! playing on her table-top phonograph. Then there's the smooth-on-the-bottom, crunchy texture of Fudge Stripe cookies. And the sweet fizzy on the tongue of Tab soda. And the stiff but comfy green leather chair in her living room. And Howard Cosell. That's right. Howard Cosell.

I knew my grandma in the 1970s and early 80s, when I was scrawny and mismatched and long-haired and comfortable in my littleness. I liked hanging out with her. I liked that she only cooked breakfast. I liked her tidy, curled up, white-angel hair. I like that she sang loudly even though she couldn't sing at all. I liked that she joked with my Papa with more skill than Bob Hope and all the love she could muster. I liked that she then missed the man to the depths of her soul when he was gone. I liked her gawdy fish-themed costume jewelry. I liked that she wore button-down house dresses with big embroidered cursive Fs on the breast of one side. F for Florence. F for Fischer.

Thinking of her now reminds me of squished together lyrics from the Leonard Cohen song, Chelsea Hotel: "I remember you well, but I don't think of you that often." When I do remember her, though, Louis is in the background and she's singing at the top of her lungs. I know that's what she's doing now. I just know.

Capital B and other very good options

2009-10-18T09:56:00.007-06:00

It was 5:35 am, but I knew he was awake. I could tell by his breathing.

"Honey?" I asked.

"Yes? You having anxiety dreams again?"

"No. I was just thinking that if I were going to dress up for Halloween this year, I would have so many options that were otherwise unavailable to me without lots of padding."

Silence.

"Like a pumpkin," I said.

"Yeah, that's the one I thought of."

"Or a candied apple on a stick. Or martini olives on a toothpick. Or a snowman. Or a Capital B."

"Yeah," he said.

And then he fell back asleep.

He's a very good man.

The seven-month sick.

2009-10-17T14:30:00.006-06:00

My muse and I have been out sick. For seven months. So so have the Grrrlie Chronicles.

I'm pregnant. And it's been rough. Because of how sick I've been, I really have had nothing good to say. Nothing good to write about. It's like that one philosopher said one time in ancient Greece: "ain't no philosophizin' if the basic needs ain't met."

Well, my basic needs of 1) not throwing up, and 2) having enough energy to get through the day, have not been met. So philosophizin' has been out of the question.

It's not that I haven't had moments of feeling good during the first 30 weeks of this pregnancy, it's just that those moments have been harder to come by than really good pizza joints in SLC.

For the last little bit, though, my baby-induced sickness has only knocked me down once or twice a week. And compared to five times a day, that's plain doable.

So maybe my muse and I can get back in the swing of things. Here's hoping.

Belly Dancing

2009-05-20T13:25:00.001-06:00

Me: I've known a few belly dancers in my time. Unfortuntely not many have had ripped abs.

Him: Well, it's not called ab dancing.

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T17:04:00.005-06:00

Via Whiskey Millitia Daily Shot

Trainlove

2009-04-16T22:43:00.003-06:00

The train passes through Salt Lake City like the Missouri River passes through Pierre or Leavenworth or Kansas City. It's there. It is always moving. In its soul is stored memories of where its been and anticipation of where it's going. It can easily become part of the scenery – part of the fade-to-grey backdrop against which everything that really happens happens. And it can easily be taken for granted.

I love the Salt Lake City trains. Amtrak or Union Pacific, the names mean nothing to me. These trains are just my city's trains. I see them rarely, but their songs are part of my life's honest soundtrack.

I remember the night I fell in love with the trains. I was laying in the dark in an apartment on Capital Hill in the warm spring of 2000. It was past midnight but not morning yet. Frank was asleep on the floor next to the bed, chasing a dream squirrel, or maybe a dream magpie, and whimpering. I was too aware to sleep, but I stayed there on my back under the open window, covered only in a melon-colored sheet, watching the shadow puppet show of street lamp-backlit cottonwood branches nodding in time with the breeze against the ceiling. Then I heard the train, for the first time – the woeful echo of an unreciprocated nighttime hello. At that time, I didn't know where the trains were, where they had come from, or where they were headed, but I did realize that on their whistle could ride any wish or worry that I might choose to release.

I still love the sound. Sometimes I listen for it. I wait for it. Sometimes it catches me off guard. Always, though, it makes me smile. The whistle is my friend. It is the carrier pigeon for my hopes and my frets. It is my reminder that I am home.

Best Sticker Request Ever

2009-03-27T11:03:00.010-06:00

Apparently, though many consider them extinct, at least one Brontosaurus (umm, some smart people might call it a Apatosaurus) is alive and well, though obviously hungry, in Illinois. This note just came to me from a friend at Sundance:

Dear Sundance Staff,

Two days ago, a Brontosaurus bit my friend in the leg and now he is in the hospital. His condition is very serious. The doctors say the only way he will be cured is if Sundance sends him some free swag (e.g., stickers).

Stickers really help because he adorns his Mac PowerPC with them and the glowing apple symbol and the stickers that surround it have a profound healing power.

Please send them to this address and I will try to get them to him promptly so he may be healed of his Brontosaurus bite:

Peter XXXX
XXXX
Schaumburg, IL 60195

Regards,
Peter XXXX

I was touched. I was so impressed by this man's concern for his ailing friend and his firm belief that stickers could very well save him, that I decided to contribute to the cause as well:

Dear Peter:

A friend at Sundance forwarded me your email. I'm very sorry to hear about your friend's unfortunate incident with the Brontosaurus. I know you didn't request Backcountry.com Goat stickers, but I want to send them anyway, in hopes that they might help too.

May he feel better soon.

Marit Fischer
Backcountry.com

Let me just try it on.

2009-03-24T18:22:00.005-06:00

Today, Jonny A surprised me with a cookie as big as my head.

It matches my eyes and looks really cute on me from the front. And I think it's perfect for most occasions in all seasons (maybe with a scarf or sweater in winter). But what do you think? Does this cookie make my ass look big?

Pick the pack of pixies, please.

2009-03-23T21:39:00.006-06:00

Cloudveil is wrapping up their very cool Skid Cribs video contest. They've picked four finalists that are vying for $2,400-worth of cold, hard...gear. Voting ends at midnight on the 24th, though it's not clear to me if that means this upcoming midnight or the midnight after. I'm bad at math.

Even though I wouldn't dream of trying to influence your vote, I would like to say that doggies and snow pixies are really cool and any guy who can playfully nod to both in a video about the home of a dirtbag skier (who happens to be the guy himself) does, in fact, deserve your wholehearted support. That guy is David of The Snaz and here's his little flick:

Please go to the site, check out the competition, and cast your vote (for David).

And then let me know where you'd like me to mail your butterscotch banana bread.

Win friends and influence people? Try this.

2009-03-22T10:58:00.008-06:00

Banana and butterscotch? Really?

The two flavors were haunting me last week. I wanted them; I wanted them together; and I wanted them bad. I became just a little bit obsessed.

This may be a common combo for lots of people, but I have to admit that the blissful marriage of the two Bs had never dawned on me. After taking matters into the kitchen and coming up with this, I have no idea why.

Butterscotch Banana Bread

4 ripe bananas
4 eggs
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup melted butter
1/2 cup sour cream
3 1/2 cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups chopped walnuts
1 entire bag of butterscotch chips

You know the deets, right? Mix the wet, mix the dry, mix them together. Bake at 350* for an hour or so. This makes two loaves – one to eat all by yourself and one to give away to someone whom you want to:

have sex with
convert to your way of thinking, or
otherwise impress.

Sorry. I don't have any pictures. I ate my loaf up. And I've already given my other one away...

Cougars. Both kinds.

2009-03-21T17:10:00.008-06:00

Conversation is pretty much guaranteed to be all over the place when you're on an 18-mile mountain run, mostly off-trail, with five buddies. This morning was no exception. Because we chose a route that was just as thick with climbing as it was with scrub oak and March corn, we weren't exactly lightning fast in our traverse from Mt. Wire to Black Mountain. Unless "lightning fast" can in any way apply to our impressive average pace of 3 mph.

About three hours in, we crested Mt. Van Cott and were moving east along the ridge, doing our best not to drill down to our knees in the snow each time we stepped, when Jim and Tommy saw this:

And more like it. Whoa.

Cougar tracks.

They were as big as my hand! No. Bigger. They were as big as Tommy's hand.

Once we convinced ourselves that the tracks weren't fresh and that we really were safe, we followed them on. And that's when the conversation turned to the other kind of cougars. Not the cat kind. The lady kind. Maybe I should call them Cougars – you know, with a capital C.

Ok. So, I just turned 37. (It was a little hard on me. It was the first time that I've ever felt like I was actually turning Old.) And one of my friends on the run this morning will turn 40 this year. Both of us have dated younger men, and both of us are very wary of the ol' "Cougar" title.

Granted, both my friend and I are "going steady" right now (that term has cracked me up since 1985). And neither of us is with a guy "eight years our junior" (the required age difference per the Wikipedia definition of "Cougar"). These two factors seem to rule us out right away.

But really, what are the principles of Cougarhood? I get the "older woman into younger men" thing. But what else? Is eight years the standard? What about seven? Six? I would think the women would have to be "on the prowl" – regardless of whether they are single or married. Do they have to be attractive? Do they have to wear those really bad print wrap dresses that you find in the "mature woman" departments at places like Macy's or Nordstrom? Do they have to wear heels? What about gold jewelry? (I'm pretty sure they have to wear gold jewelry.) Makeup? How much? Do they have to frequent dark bars and drink Cosmopolitans? Ah, here's one: do they have to have (or have access to) lots of money?

Seriously. What are the guidelines? I would love to know. Will someone please educate me for once and for all? You know, to set my mind at ease?

Rest Stop Near Moab

2009-03-17T22:01:00.010-06:00

Who's to say that a roadside rest stop isn't just as good a life progress gauge as, say, a report card or a birthday or a Petite Madeleine? It may seem unlikely that a by-the-highway bathroom could possibly be a marker along the road of a life, but, I know now, in my case, it's true.

There's a rest stop outside of Moab. I've been there five times in my life. And I'm not talking five times since August or even five times in the past five years. No. I have stretched, peed and even slept at this particular rest stop five times in the past fifteen years. And each time I've been there, my life has been completely different. This weekend, when I pulled in, I realized that this rest stop is my freeze frame. It's my "how you doin'?" It's my litmus.

#1 – 1995. On my way to a bike race in Arizona. Tagging along with a boyfriend. Just out of college, working as a bagel shop prep cook, a house painter and a sweat wiper-upper at a health club. Clueless.

#2 – 1996. Moving to Boulder from Spokane. Driving my red-bodied, white-topped 1972 Volkswagon Campervan (with the paisley curtains). One week from starting my first real job at Women's Sports + Fitness magazine. Anticipating.

#3 – 2002. Driving to Tucson for a bike race in a Suburban full of friends from Lander. Poor, underemployed, lonely, and ready for change. I wanted out of my relationship. I wanted out of my skin. Helpless.

#4 – 2008. Driving to Christy and Clark's wedding. Ready to celebrate my friends' relationship significantly solo. I had my best girlfriends and training to fill up my life. Independent.

#5 – 2009. Driving to Fruita to camp and ride with Bill and Frank. Working my dream job, totally in love, stepping into the next phase of my life without hesitation. Ready.

It's cool to think about. All the girls I've been along the way while becoming the girl that I am now. All the girls that have been me, pulling off the side of the road, at a bathroom outside of Moab.

I wonder who I'll be next time.

AWWL pissed awf

2009-03-07T09:10:00.005-07:00

I left work last night all pissed off. (Note that I'm saying this the way my good friend Billy says it in his Memphis drawl: "AWWL pissed awf.")

I had had it. I had spent the entire day in too close proximity, because I had no other choice, to a coworker who may very well understand the notion of "inside voice" but either doesn't let on or believes herself exempt from all rule of courtesy.

I'm pretty easy going for the most part. I really believe in choosing a cheery outlook and opting for smiliness, a la Martha Washington:

I am still determined to be cheerful and happy, in whatever situation I may be; for I have also learned from experience that the greater part of our happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions, and not upon our circumstances.

But I tell you what, my friends, yesterday, when loud music streaming through my earbuds didn't drown out the noise pollution, and physically shoving my fingers in my ears couldn't silence the 100 mph alto tirade, I was a mere sliver away from standing up, charging over to her desk, pulling off my own socks, shoving them in her mouth, lifting her up by her neck and stapling her to the ceiling by her ponytail.

Ahhhhh.

It was close. It really was. At the worst moment, I actually ejected from my chair with the force and purpose of a murderous jack-in-the-box. Thankfully, I hesitated for a second, considered the fact that I would most likely be fired for premeditated ponytail stapling, concluded that losing my job would in fact be bad, and decided to keep my mouth shut, pack my things, and get the hell out before I did something I'd regret.

Keep my mouth shut, I thought. Lead by example.

Nothing irons out my soul like a run. As I gripped the steering wheel with fumes and white fingers in the parking lot, I knew that a run was the only thing that could save my soul. I went to Bill's, changed my clothes, and drove to the Round Valley trail head with Frank. Up the trail in the snow, this is what we found.

Park City Sunset, originally uploaded by fastgrrrlie.

Peace.

Thank you, sunset. And even though she doesn't know it, my coworker thanks you too.

French in galoshes

2009-03-03T18:49:00.013-07:00

Awkward and stumbling. That's how I'd describe my reintroduction to English after living in France for a year in college. It wasn't until I'd lived in the Loire Valley for ten months that I could speak fluently, but those last two months were like... well... a great American movie dubbed into French and subtitled in English. And that's something.

When I got home though, I had a really hard time slipping back into English. I tripped over my native tongue like a too-big pair of boots. I dreamed in French. I thought in French. I absentmindedly started sentences in French. The French word for something came to mind minutes before the English equivalent. As a result, my English was not so good.

But now, 15 years later, things are different. I am living proof (and I'm really sorry to say it), that if you don't use it, you lose it. Yes, I can read French, and I understand it when I hear it, but speaking it? Let's just say that if language is shoes, and when I was 21 I was sliding around in fat English galoshes, now that I'm 36, I can't even imagine getting my heels into these dainty French slippers.

But I'm working on it.

In April, I'm meeting Bill in Chamonix after he and his friends spend a week traversing the Haute Route. Then, my love and I are hopping into a little rented car and driving South to the Riviera, boarding a ferry, and sailing to Corsica, where we'll spend a week in the beautiful and rare geography of mountains and ocean, side by side.

En fin, il faut que je parle francais.

So to facilitate my relearning, I went to the library and checked out Living Language Beyond the Basics - French. For a week now, every day, my drive up the canyon to work and down the canyon from work have been 80-mile-per-hour French lessons. That seems to be helping. At least I know that though I may well not become fluent again, I damn sure can speak faster already.

And I do have a feeling that those little French slippers are going to look (and sound) perfectly fine à la Corse.

Pie song

2009-03-01T22:01:00.012-07:00

You with the apples
peeling skin from the crisp

with dusk outside
turn your head and take me in

a pin in one hand and barefoot
flour on the floor

spice and brown sugar you
taste and ask

but i know
even without me

inspired by a song
yours would be the perfect pie.

The unbearable lightness of peeing.

2009-02-27T20:24:00.010-07:00

When I was 10, I learned how to pee outside. Not that it took all that much studying or anything, just that I'd never really done it before.

That changed when my mom, Frank, Ryan and I packed up Frank's sandy brown station wagon and headed off for three weeks, escaping a Washington state snow storm to drive as far South down the Baja as we could before we ran out of time and had to turn around and hightail it home.

We camped the whole way down and the whole way back. Camping was heaven. Living under the sky. Cooking over the camp stove. Exploring new territory. Meeting new people. Listening to firelight ghost stories. And peeing outside.

I fell in love with it. I really did.

When we got home, it was still ski season. I remember dodging off to ski in the trees with my friend Julie, because it was fun, sure, but also because I knew I could pee there outside without anyone giving me grief. I converted Julie to a ski-day exterunirinarian as well.

Then later, in the spring when it was warm, on weekend mornings if I ever woke up before mom, I would go straight outside to enjoy my morning pee under the pale blue dawn in the back yard. I mean, come on. You cannot argue that peeing next to a giant girl-sized poppy or a sweet-smelling evergreen bush is not so much nicer than peeing on the toilet in a 1970's style bathroom - clean and rainbow-striped though it was.

That was my weekend routine until mom caught me one morning, out there with my flannel nightgown pulled up around my hips, crouching down in the corner by the fence. The verdict? "Extremely inappropriate, Marit Martha!" And I'm pretty sure I got grounded. I always got grounded.

It didn't stop me cold though. Every once in a while, for a long time after, I'd still sneak out and enjoy the occasional sweet starlight or sunrise or rain storm pee.

Well, today I'm here to say, at age almost-37, that some simple childhood pleasures never cease to delight. I loved peeing outside then and I love peeing outside now. Why do you think I trail run and mountain bike? To stay in shape? To get after it outside? To be a tough grrrl? To play with my friends?

Nah. Really, I just like to pee outside.

The Adventures of Shrinky Jonny

2009-02-22T07:30:00.003-07:00

Many of you know Backcountry.com Athlete Wrangler, Jonny Atencio. If you don't know him, I promise you, you know someone who knows him (I mean, besides me). Forget Kevin Bacon. I would put lots of money down in a wager that there are more people connected to Jonny A by six degrees than there are to Kev, and I would also bet that you could safely reduce the number of degrees of separation to, say, four.

Jonny's birthday is coming up, and I couldn't NOT get him something. So, after long minutes of deliberation, I decided to make him a gift. Just a little something. Like really little.

I made him a shrinky dink.

Not just any shrinky dink, mind you. This shrinky dink looks like Jonny. Well, not all of Jonny. Just his head.

Shrinky Jonny

I mean, what could possibly say "I love you, man" more than this?

Ah. Maybe a neighborhood photo expedition the likes of which would make every Flat Stanley schlepper out there cringe?

Exactly.

So today, before my ride, I packed up Shrinky Jonny in a plastic baggy (to keep him safe), stuck him in my back jersey pocket, and set off to give him a photographic tour of my city.

Following are some postcards from the trip. As you can see, Shrinky Jonny and I hit all the major SLC landmarks.

This is The Place Heritage Park
Brigham and Jonny get all riled up about the Salt Lake Valley.

The Utah State Capitol
Keep in touch with yourself, Senator Buttars.

The Temple
The house that Moroni built. (Well, at least the house he stands on.)

The Salt Lake City-County Building
The house that Rocky built. Kind of.
(There's still a sign on the front door that says: "No Bush Allowed.")

The City Library
The house that Moshe Safdie built.

Unfortunately, Shrinky Jonny wasn't in as good a shape as I was for this particular athletic adventure. He got pretty sweaty, which, of course, totally ruined his complexion. Smudged him up beyond recognition, actually. That's ok, though, I made another one to hand over in a little box on the big day. Shrinky Jonny will live on for the next big adventure.

Maybe Vegas?

24 Hours in the Old Pueblo

2009-02-21T09:19:00.009-07:00

My alarm woke me. My body, not my mind. I got up, made coffee, loaded my bike and my gear into my car, and left my boy and my dog in their beds as I set off on my adventure: my first 24 hour mountain bike race.

The next 72 hours were a blur.

On the way to the 24-OP, originally uploaded by fastgrrrlie.

Sixteen hours of driving, freckled with truck stops and coffee stops and sleepless naps. Getting too tired to continue and pulling off the side of the road, dropping our pads and bags, and sleeping until sunrise. Finding our friends and setting up camp. Riding the course. Eating, eating, eating. Tucking in early because tucking in wouldn't be an option the next night. Last-minute bike tuning, laying out the gear, the pre-race meeting. Checking in and making the 1/2-mile walk to the start line with my duo mate, Brad, for the LeMans start. GO! Lap on (cruising), lap off (eating), lap on (stiff at first), lap off (trying to stay warm), lap on (sunset), two laps off (attempting sleep), two laps on (flying through my own spotlight in the dark), two laps off (pulling cactus from my legs and feet), two laps... Nope. Bonk. Stopping at the tent after my sixth lap to gauge the situation. Needing food and recovery. Waking my duo mate. Resting and eating while he finished off two last laps. Respect and gratefulness for my friend. Finishing 10th in our class - off the couch and going in tired. Celebrating the wins of our friends. Packing up the car. Starting the drive north only one hour after the race. Sixteen long, grueling hours on the road switching off between sleeping in the back and trying to stay awake at the wheel. Home at 6 a.m. Two restless hours of sleep, knowing, just knowing, that I had to get up and get back on my bike in just a few minutes. At work by 10.

Andrew Branaum, celebrating at the finish.
That's what I call fun.

Would I do another 24 hour race again? Yes. Without a doubt.

Would I do another 24 hour race, sandwiched between two 16 hour drives the day before and the day after? Not a chance in hell. At least not until I forget the misery.

Expel the CO...2

2009-02-21T08:04:00.009-07:00

Last week, Andrew McLean and I took a little trip to NYC to tape a segment about mountain safety on Good Morning America Now. Andrew, of course, is a pro skier and ski mountaineer. He's also incredibly, almost intimidatingly, intelligent and very well-spoken. That makes him, in my book, a great spokesperson for the big topic at hand: How to survive an avalanche. (If you click that link, look for "Avalanche Awareness" on the right to view the clip.)

I...well...I guess you wouldn't be lying if you were to say that I would be the safest person you know if mountain snow were to fracture and thunder its way down the steepest of slopes. Why? Let me put it this way: it's February 21 and the snow is fine in the mountains, so I'm going...biking.

No sound. No light.

2009-02-03T19:53:00.012-07:00

My stepdad Frank died when I was sixteen. It was summertime – August 8, 1988, to be exact. (All those eights.) I remember every detail of his death like it was just this morning. Not his dying, exactly, but what I was doing while he was dying.

In the early, early hours of still-dark morning, my mom touched me gently through the covers and coaxed me awake. I looked up at her. She whispered: "Frank is going, do you want to come?"

It was instinct. Of course I wanted to come. Frank had been my hero and my other dad for ten years by the time we had reached this point together, and I knew from experience that it didn't matter where he was headed, I wanted to go too.

Frank, Ryan and me.
Butchart Gardens. Victoria, British Columbia. 1980.
I got out of bed and followed her into the hall. And then I stopped. I remembered. Frank couldn't go anywhere. Frank was in a coma.

"Mom," I asked, "Where is Frank going?"

She hesitated, "He's dying, Honey."

"No," I said. "No. I don't want to go." I crumpled against the wall, pulled myself straight again, and stumbled backwards towards my room. "No, I'm sorry. I can't go."

I don't remember what she said after that, if anything. I do know that she let me crawl back into my bed. She let me hide.

I didn't sleep. I held my breath. I was as still and as quiet as possible. I was waiting.

I was waiting for the sound of death. I wasn't sure what it would be, really, but I was waiting for it. Maybe some angelic harmony, or just a quiet whoosh of a fleeing spirit.

I was waiting for the light. You know, The Light. The light from the stories of people who have died and come back to life. Heaven maybe. Or just a bright white opening into the spirit world. I was sure that when he left us, light would fill our house. I was even sure that his first wife, Phyllis, would appear through that light to take Frank's hand and lead him away. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see her.

But all I heard was emptiness. And there was no light.

I laid there like that for hours. Staring at my ceiling. Not sleeping. Not breathing. Just waiting.

After ages of hush, I heard two car doors open and close in the driveway. I heard footsteps. I heard a knock at the door. I heard my mom speaking softly and I heard people walking with her down the stairs past my bedroom and into the room down the hall. A few minutes later, they retraced their steps back up the stairway, onto the landing and and out the door. Looking up through the curtains from where I was laying in my bed, I could see their feet. White pant cuffs. White shoes. They turned the gurney into the flower bed in front of my basement window to line it up squarely with the sidewalk, then they carried him away. Frank. They carried Frank away.

My alarm clock went off at 7:00 am. The song on the radio was Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy." It was Frank's favorite song (besides Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, of course). I opened my eyes to the real light, the daylight, and I listened. To Frank. I heard him. And I believed him. I understood that it was him that was singing to me, and that he was telling me, in his own goofy, loving way, that everything was going to be OK. That life, in general, would be OK.

Don't baby me, mister.

2009-02-02T18:57:00.016-07:00

I like being a woman: the strong, empowered She that takes a good look around at this world, assesses the situation, and then says, "All right then, let's do this thing."

But you know what? Sometimes, I get pissed off. I get pissed off that still, after all this time, pay for women is not equal to pay for men. I get pissed off that women are taught from a young, young age that 15 pounds underweight is "beautiful." I get pissed off that even in 2006 when I bought my house, the man at the title company said to me, "When will your husband be here so we can get these papers signed?"

But none of these are the burner that's boiling my blood today. Today, I'm thinking about my body. My body and the body of every other woman everywhere. Because, you know what? When it comes to carrying the burden of human procreation (or prevention thereof) and the weight of the future of all humankind, women have to take it all. All of it. And men? Nothing. They just get to lounge back in their easy chairs with their good beer and their popcorn and... comfortably sit this one out.

You don't see what I'm talking about? Here. Let me lay it out for you:

The period. Monthly bleeding ranging anywhere from 2 to 6 days every single month of every single year from the time I am 12 until the time I am 50. I'm not good at math, but by my rough calculations, it seems that I can look forward to bleeding for very near a year of my life. Fantastic!

PMS. Cramping, indigestion, bloating, sore boobs, weight gain, constipation or diarrhea, mood swings, acne, fatigue, insomnia - sometimes for a good two weeks leading up to the first day of my period. Awesome. Who doesn't want this?

Birth control. The Pill or The Ring or Shots or an IUD. No problem. Do to my body whatever it takes NOT to get pregnant. I will tolerate the hormonal imbalance, the body jack, the pain, the injection, the cost, the effort, the physical side-effects. Don't you worry. I will do everything necessary to make sure that we don't have Baby. I will. I mean it.

Oh, but now it's time for Baby?

Fertility treatment. If we're not fertile (because I've been on The Pill for 20 years) give me the shots. It's ok. I can take it. Then give me drugs. If those don't work, I'll try accupuncture and disgusting herbal teas. And if these fail, please feel free to forcibly extract my eggs, fertilize them, and then inject them back into my womb. I like it. I really do.

Pregnancy. Yay. We're having a Baby. I am so excited. I get to carry it around in me for nine months. I get to gain 30 pounds (see definition of "Beautiful" above) and greet each glorious day with morning sickness. I get to be irritable and hormonally imbalanced. I get to not fit in any of my clothes. I get to have EVEN BIGGER boobs and be in constant discomfort. I get to look forward to bed rest and...

Labor. Are you kidding me? Show me a guy that wants to sign up for this one and I'll show you a liar.

OK. OK. OK. OK. OK.

I know lots of people that have children and lots of people that want to have children. (Hell, I may even want to have a baby some day.) And, granted, a lot of the things I've listed above are just part of the deal.

Of course I understand nature. I understand that women must have menstrual cycles and women must carry and give birth to babies (except, of course, for this guy). These are givens.

But why is it, with today's modern science, that someone, somewhere, cannot come up with not just one, but multiple ways for men to carry their fair share of the burden when it comes to birth control and fertility?

It's time. Let's see the sea change. Let's hear it for the boys.

Because, I'll be honest with you, when it comes to all this, being a girl just flat out sucks.

Out of my element.

2009-01-31T07:11:00.004-07:00

I haven't been in the water since November 23. I haven't trained at all since then, actually. And I haven't missed it. Until right now.

My friend Kendall sent me the link to this video. "You may like this," he wrote. "It reminded me of you."

Matt Lieto Triathlete from piton productions on Vimeo.

"It did?" I thought. "Wow."

I was amazed at first. I'm not a swimmer. I'm not a swimmer like that. I'm not...

But then I watched it again. And then it reminded me of me too.

Water may not be my element. Not my first element. Not my best element. But when I'm not in it, I am out of my element.

I miss swimming. I miss triathlon. I miss summer.

SWF ISO Pugsley: the Craigslist Temptation

2009-01-19T22:34:00.005-07:00

Just seen on Craigslist:

"For sale is a sweet '08 (grey frame/black fork) Pugsley. This isn't just any Pugsley though. Instead of large Marge rims (963mm), these wheels are fitted with hand-built-by-Mike-Curiak 100mm rims! This stretches the Endomorphs even further making the biggest footprint POSSIBLE in the snow. This thing floats! It is slightly used, and is in near perfect condition.

It has a Sram 2x8 drive train, Grip Shifters, awesome Truvativ cranks, (pedals not included). This is the sweetest Pugsley setup you'll ever see. It's worth $2,500, but I'm selling for $1,500 due to the crappy economy, and my need for $$$$. Email with any Q's."

Do I need it? I don't need it. Do I want it? I don't need it.

This will be my own private conversation with myself through tonight into tomorrow.

I don't need it. I don't need it. I don't need it.

I don't want it.

Park City's Winter Trails

2009-01-19T20:54:00.009-07:00

I've never believed that you can learn to love someone, but maybe you can learn to love some place.

I have always been pretty much indifferent to Park City. I work there, and its nice enough, but I've been content to go on dates with its mountain biking and running trails on a regular basis and call it good.

But Sunday I saw a side to Park City that I hadn't seen before. And I have to admit that it changed my perception of the place, and that, yes, I even fell in love a little bit.

Park City keeps a whole maze of community-access groomed winter trails that wind around between Kimball Junction and town. The whole system covers about 10k, but with all the out-and-backs and loops, you can easily starfish your way to 15-20k through neighborhood parks and county open space. The trails are flat and well groomed and dogs can run free with their people.

The map.

We skated for more than an hour in the sunshine, scouting all the trails and doing our best to wear Frank out. Hordes of people were out playing with us too – skiing and running and walking on the trails, sledding in the park, and skating on the ice pond.

Skier and skaters.

Little girl.

It was so cool. So Rockwellian.

Seriously, they still make places like this.

So, ok, maybe my relationship with Park City wasn't love at first sight, but I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Bill and Frank.

Bonktown

2009-01-19T09:19:00.003-07:00

Endless roadie deals, one at a time.

My life will never be the same.

Intimate haunting: Rosi Golan

2009-01-18T11:06:00.007-07:00

There's nothing better than live music in an intimate setting. Especially when the artist expresses her hand-written from-the-heart lyrics with a voice so complex and mystical as to leave you haunted in her presence. Last night, my friends and I sat inches from Rosi Golan as she sang to us from her new (and first) album, The Drifter and The Gypsy. Imagine Rosi and her strong-voiced boyfriend, two guitars, and no more than fifty people in a dimly lit hardwood-floored room with top-to-bottom windows overlooking Salt Lake City's veiled lights. It was a gift. I felt honored to be there.

My favorite songs from the evening: a duet called "Hazy" and her soulful, better-than-original cover of Gilian Welch's "Ohio."

Please check her out as soon as you can.

Ready? OK!

2009-01-14T19:34:00.010-07:00

"You're a cheerleader," he said in the meeting today, "and I'm not trying to be mean."

"No offense taken," I smiled. "I totally know where you're coming from."

I am. A cheerleader, that is. It's my job to be, and I love it.

I've been thinking a lot about personalities and jobs lately. About what kind of people excel in what kind of work. It's important to think about, really, whether you're trying to figure out what it is that you want to do with your life, or whether you're a manager trying to find the right fit for a position you need to fill. Thankfully, I'm the latter. I figured out what I want to do with my life a long time ago, and I'm doing it. But now I have to help people find what they want to do with their lives. It's a next-step-in-my-career thing. It's an honor. It's a responsibility.

I feel lucky every day for the work that I get to do. I feel lucky that somehow, 13 years ago, I said to myself, "Hey, PR sounds cool." I feel lucky that I've been able to build a fulfilling career out of three of my greatest passions: sports, writing and building relationships.

Lucky?

Maybe not.

Rocky Thompson recently wrote (in the Steep and Cheap daily email) that lucky people are just people who pay attention:

I read a study conducted on people who considered themselves lucky or unlucky in life, and it found that people who think they have good luck generally pay more attention. The proctor asked the subjects to flip through a newspaper and count all of the photo ads, and one of the ads contained text in 30-point font saying that the test subject could have $50 if they asked the administrator for it. Overwhelmingly, the lucky people noticed the ad and received the $50, while the unlucky people blasted right past it and missed out on the cash.

I believe it.

And I wonder...

Does the same apply to happy people too?

Are happy people (people who have chosen well in work or love – or both – and who are happy because of it)...are happy people just people who have paid attention?

Know thyself, said the Oracle at Delphi (and in The Matrix). And why? Because if you don't – if you somehow miss your own context clues, or disregard your strengths and your passions, or let yourself become someone you don't want to be, or worse, that you don't know – you will not be happy.

So yeah, I'm a cheerleader. Even though I don't have the bendy body or the twice-in-the-air-and-land-with-a-kick bounce. Even though I don't have the DDD boobies or the barbie doll waist. Even though I don't have any desire to be a pyramid top. Ever. I'm a cheerleader.

I'm more a cheerleader of personality. I love to rally people and talk to them and psych them up. I love being part of a vibrant, interested community. I love to smile and make people smile. And I love to cheer. I know this about myself. So I am in the right line of work.

And you know what else? I have those big white boots in the pic above. And that's something.

Here's to paying attention and being happy because of it.

Let's everybody do it.

Ready? OK!

Breakfast?

2009-01-13T07:57:00.005-07:00

I came home from my run this morning hungry. Toast! Toast before jumping on the trainer. That's what I wanted. But I had no bread. Not only no bread, but no eggs, no fruit, no juice. Not much else either. I opened up the cupboard hoping to find something remotely passable as breakfast, but there was nothing. Nothing but lychees, sweetened condensed milk, chicken boullion cubes and anchovies. How, I asked myself, is this particular diverse selection of creepy canned food even possible in my kitchen?

Breakfast anyone?

J-E-S-U-S

2009-01-07T23:04:00.005-07:00

I went to Catholic school. Lots of it. I am the product of 16 years of Catholic education. And I wouldn't trade it for the world. It served me well. It made me the heathen I am today.

When I was in seventh grade, we had a young and super cute seminarian – his name was Joe – who was somehow associated with our school. He must have been something like a Priest College intern or something. Anyway, not only was Joe handsome, funny and engaging, but he dressed like your above-average 24-year-old 1980s hottie as well: Levis, a pastel polo shirt with the collar turned up, boat shoes. Mmmmm. (Yeah, I know, what a total waste, right?)

Anyway, Joe was really into Christian rock music. Like REALLY into it. So the brilliant teachers at St. Mary's Catholic grade school, who obviously feared for our souls under the otherwise unchecked influence of rock music (which, in 1985, consisted of such hell-raising acts as Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Chaka Khan, Prince, and that ill-meaning collaboration of 32 talented artists singing "We are the World" in unison) arranged for Joe to come in and teach us all that you really can love Jesus and rock on too.

First we learned that Satan writes rock music.

What? You didn't know that? It's totally true.

Exhibit A: Stairway to Heaven, the lyrics to which Robert Plant admitted (and I still remember this vividly from some video thingy that we watched) pretty much wrote themselves. He said: "My hand was writing out the words, 'There's a lady is sure [sic], all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to heaven'. I just sat there and looked at them and almost leapt out of my seat."

The implication, to us at least, was that the devil possessed poor Plant, and wrote those words himself. Now, you may have been tougher and more worldly than I was, but the whole hand demon thing was enough to totally freak sweet, innocent, uniform-wearing, 12-year-old me out.

Exhibit B: The Beatles Revolution 9, which, when played backwards on vinyl, clearly says: Turn me on, deadman. Dead? Man? Turn me on? I mean, come on. Freaky, right?

Joe instilled the fear.

Then he offered hope. He pulled out his boom box and cassette tapes, and he opened our ears to the possibility of salvation...through really, really, really bad Jesus music.

Petra. That's the only band I can remember now. And their song: "J-E-S-U-S." More though, I remember Joe, walking towards me with the boom box on his shoulder, nodding his head in pure "Oh God, I love this song" bliss, singing at the top of his lungs: J-E-S-U-S!

I was in love.

And I have a treat for you, friends. Oh yes.

Rock out, with your cock out. Amen.

And while you're at it, check out my favorite little buddies making it big with God on their side in South Park, Colorado:

Yep.

Needless to say, my crush on Joe fizzled and the whole Christian rock thing didn't really work out. I think it's pretty safe to assume that I'm actually not going to go to hell because of it. Just in case, though, just in case Joe was right all those years ago, I'm planning to hone my Cartman impersonation and learn all the words to "It's up to you to save me, Jesus, baby." Because, even though I'm sure he's a great guy and everything, I really don't want to spend the rest of eternity in an overly steamy flame-licking sauna with Robert Plant.

Can you blame me?

Cyclocross, last call.

2009-01-03T22:13:00.008-07:00

The Utah Cyclocross last race of the season. Wheeler Farm. Snow, ice, ruts, mud, roots, a run-up, the FSLU (f*cking short little uphill), cheers, cowbells, sunshine, cold, and big, big, big, big smiles.

The Utah Cyclocross NASCAR after party. Rocky Mountain Raceway. Friends, teams, bikes, banter, costumes, prizes, checkered flags, Ricky Bobby, the UTCX staff, the FLFL (f*cking long food line), cheers, cowbells, cold beer, and big, big, big, big smiles.

Mama T and The Ringers: Bart Gillespie, Theresa Carr and Ali Goulet.

Jess wins! Jess Dear and the podium girls: Dayna Deuter and me.

More photos to come, I hope. But this is what I have for now.

Bye, cross. See you next year.

Step back.

2008-12-31T11:39:00.003-07:00

Me.

I don't feel like writing and I won't for a minute. That neck-kissing ear-nibbling thing pissed me off. It at least shut me up.

I'll be back when I have something to say. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe this weekend.

Photo: crumbling-images.com

"Beacons of Attraction"

2008-12-27T23:17:00.011-07:00

I got my hair cut today. Before I went to see Marco, I took some time to page through the latest pixies online. I do this almost always before heading for the scissors, mostly because I like to change my style every single time I go in, and it helps to have some ideas to play with.

I like short hair. My hair's been short, in varying styles, for the past four years or so. I've had it long – really long – but I like it short better. It's easy for training. It's easy for readying. It's easy for sassying. It's fun. It's got attitude. It's me.

But, according to this shocking article I found today in the New York Daily News, it's just not hot.

For real.

Get this. According to the article's sex expert, Dr. Aline Zoldbrod: “If you cut your hair you might be making a statement that says, ‘I don’t want to be seen as a sex object.’”

This is supported by New York dating guru, Matt Titus: “The three physical things that attract a man are a great body, beautiful long hair or great lips. So cutting off one third of your beacons of attraction doesn’t increase your chances of having Mr. Right approach you. It’s like sending a nonverbal message that you’re not interested in sex."

Um.

Dude.

Are you kidding me?

Short haired girls are sexy. And props to the girls (like me) who would rather not EVER be considered an object anyway.
I would hope to god that men are attracted to more than a great body, long hair and great lips. What about eyes? What about cheek bones? What about complexion? Why the hell is the make-up industry so gargantuan?
Whatever happened to the eye of the freakin' beholder?

And that's just the physical! Don't even get me started on internal beauty – caring, intelligence, wit, compatibility – because obviously, this matters not at all.

On down the article, finally, a New York stylist steps up with the supportive nod: “Ultimately, it’s about having the confidence to pull it off.”

Absolutely. Isn't that the case with anything?

Confidence.

Own it and it's yours. Own it and it's you. Own it and it's downright sexy.

I don't care if you have short hair or long hair, blonde hair or purple hair. I don't care if your lips are as luscious and sweet as summer berries. I don't care if your body was sculpted by Michelangelo's chisel. If you don't have confidence, you don't have sexy.

Plain and simple. Confidence is hot.

And, by the way, so is short hair.

And if "Mr. Right" doesn't think so, to hell with him. There's always Mr. Perfect, Mr. Incredible, Mr. Genuine, or honestly, just no mister at all.

Photo: Audrey Hepburn 1965, via takegreatpictures.com.

I am fairly certain.

2008-12-27T13:25:00.002-07:00

From my Dad. For Christmas.

No chocolate without water

2008-12-24T10:00:00.003-07:00

I lived in France for more Sophomore year in college. In Angers. I was a student in the International program at L'Universite Catholique de L'Ouest. The Catho.

I thought I could speak before I went. I couldn't. I learned French while I was there. But not the real kind.

Not: "Hey, what's up, dude? Looks like you had a shitty day. We're gonna go play Ultimate and then grab some beers. Wanna come?"

More like: "Having mastered epistemology and metaphysics, Kant believed that a rigorous application of the same methods of reasoning would yield an equal success in dealing with the problems of moral philosophy."

When I spoke, it was pretty obvious what I was studying. The vocab of philosophy and history and art didn't exactly translate into the rues and cafes and parks and restaurants. For the most part, I could get by, but "getting by" is not really what I go for.

The thing about that year... well, one of the things... was that I learned how it felt to feel completely, ridiculously out of my element. I could speak, but not well. Not like I speak in English. I fumbled words and always said the wrong thing. I was more like a five-year-old than a college student, speaking French with a mouthful of another language, lips sticky with American accent.

And I couldn't write. Not really. Not like I like to.

While I was there I realized how much communicating means to me. I figured out that expressing myself is what makes me who I am. Without that ability, I'm just another girl, and a pretty damn boring one at that.

Sometimes you have to go without to know what you can't live without.

I don't care if you're talking about language or work or joy or play or family or passion or religion. There's no love without hate. No trust without suspicion. No strength without weakness. No chocolate without water. No words without silence.

I'm thinking about this because I know that right now I'm going through Customs on the border between two countries: Empty and Full. Empty's where I've been studying abroad – where everything is bon ben and oh la and quand meme but tant pis. I've been a little lonely. A little misunderstood. A little sticky-lipped.

But I've got my passport back to Full. And I'm going.

Full glass. Full tank. Full house.

It's going to be good to be home. I can feel it.

Photo: Berger.si

THIS IS THE ONE!

2008-12-23T18:13:00.006-07:00

Dear Friend with the ex that should be ex-communicated:

He came around. He affected you. It's OK.

The Universe sends us messages. I think you're reading yours right.

The message is one of those. Written on wadded notebook paper with frayed edges where it used to be stuck in a spiral-bound. It's in red ink. It's in all caps. But it's a good-intentioned message and one that will serve you well down the line. Like "DON'T DRINK THE WATER!" or "DOG WILL BITE!"

So just pick it up and pocket it and be grateful that the stars are looking out for you.

Because I have a feeling that, when the time is right, The Universe will come back around and show you a big flashing neon sign with an arrow pointing down at some incredible guy that says: "THIS IS THE ONE!"

Hang in.

Love,

Marit

Remembering how.

2008-12-21T15:59:00.004-07:00

Marit and Susie at Mountain Dell, originally uploaded by fastgrrrlie.

Push snap zip. Wobble pole wobble step. Go. Slide. Hesitate. Go. Pole glide glide pole glide glide. Off balance. Out of breath. Another lap. Oh yeah, bend knees. Oh yeah, utkatasana. Oh yeah pole pole pole pole. Try again. Pole glide. Core strength. Shoulders. Legs. Arches. Pole glide. Another lap. Oh yeah, point toes. Smiling now. Rhythm. Glide. Rhythm. Pole. Rhythm. Breathe. Rhythm. Steady. Steady. Stronger. Smoother. Tuck. Oh! Tuck again. Turn. Quick steps. Hop. Hop. Hop. Pole glide glide. Love this.

Sue Piccone on the Mitten Loop at Mountain Dell, originally uploaded by fastgrrrlie.

Two hours at Mountain Dell with Sue. The first skate ski of the season.

Awesome.

Joy

2008-12-15T23:20:00.001-07:00

Joy, originally uploaded by fastgrrrlie.

My Floor

2008-12-14T18:24:00.009-07:00

I believe that the Universe is constantly conversing with us. Its language is complex, but with no sentence structure or grammar (i.e., much to my dismay, it doesn't include gerunds or serial commas). Sometimes it is silent and sometimes it is translated through overheard conversations or songs or NPR or Baader-Meinhof. The Universe's messages are sometimes delivered through glances or glimpses or coups d'oeil or things you thought you saw but maybe really didn't. It's a crazy language of triggers and connections, of visions and revisions, of innuendo and "wait...what?"

Just now as I was sweeping my newly finished hardwood floor to get it ready for its last application of stain tomorrow, I realized something. This past week has been a lesson in care for me. More a lesson in care of me. I have been emotionally cleaning house. And I don't just mean a once-over in the kitchen and a wipe-down of the bathroom mirror. I moved everything out and cleaned and painted the echoing rooms left behind, and then I happily lived in the empty for a minute. I cleared away the extras and refocused my attention on what really matters. On the fundamental. On the foundation. On my foundation. On my Floor.

Just like in real life.

Ironic.

But what has been amazing to me is the people. In the past few days, so many friends from my past have stepped back in to my now reality to share stories or memories or just say hi. I love it. I've reconnected with old friends from high school that I haven't spoken to in eighteen years. College friends are back and laughing. Each of my very best girlfriends (who now live in Idaho, New York and South Dakota) has called me out of the blue to catch up. And today, at breakfast, I ran into an ex-boyfriend whom I've always wished well and wondered about, but whom I haven't seen for eight years.

It's all good. It's all really good, actually. All of this has helped me remember that I've had an incredible journey to Here, that I like where I've been, and that my foundation is solid.

The next big thing is coming. I can feel it. I don't know what it is yet, but now that I'm sure that I'm solid where I'm standing, I'm ready for it.

Roger that, Universe. Time to move all my stuff back in.

Happy Blogday

2008-12-10T21:32:00.006-07:00

Hey! It's my anniversary as a blogger. Well, yesterday was.

The Grrrlie Chrons is one.

I just stuck a candle in a cookie and made a wish. A real wish. This time, I dropped the old standby ("please let everything be OK") and went for something real, something good, something big.

I'll let you know how it goes. If the wish doesn't work this time, I have my own birthday coming up in a few months for a do-over.

Thanks for reading my words. Thanks for jotting your own.

Lovies to all.

Coyote

2008-12-09T23:00:00.008-07:00

I called my dad on the way to work today. Just to check in. He's just back from his annual medical exam at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota and I wanted to make sure they gave him a clean bill. I also wanted to hear his yearly report on the cute, young nurses; how they told him once again that he has the body of a guy twenty years younger; and how he ate nothing but cookies for dinner after the docs told him he was good to go for another year. (I get my cookie passion from Guapo. And like I did for Ironman – he cut his favorite sweet staple clean out of his diet in the month leading up to his appointment. He does this every year. And then, like me, he makes up for lost time.)

After we'd talked about all that, plus the increase of FDIC deposit insurance as part of the government's master plan to help banks stay in business, dad said:

"You got a boyfriend?"

This threw me. Guapo and I don't talk about boys. Ever. Even when I was in the midst of a seven-year relationship, we didn't talk about it.

"No"

"Oh," he said. "Well, baby, you're a Coyote."

I laughed. "What does that mean, Dad?"

He laughed too, in his I'm-just-being-a-dad-and-I-hope-I-didn't-hurt-your-feelings way. "It means that you always do your own thing. You always have. You follow your instincts and you do what you think is right, but that sometimes means that you're out there roaming the plains on your own. You're kind of a loner. Like a coyote."

There was a few seconds of silence because I didn't know what to say.

"That's a good thing, Zing."

I smiled. I liked that my hard-numbers banker dad with a streak of philosophy in him, enough to surprise me sometimes, would come up with something like this. Something that would make sense to his word-loving, metaphor of a daughter. "Ok," I conceded. "Thanks Guapo. I guess I'll take that as a compliment."

"Good."

You can always tell when my dad is about to place the final punctuation on a conversation: "Alright. I gotta scoot, Kid. Say hi to Poochie for me." And then the period: "I love you."

I thought about this all day. A coyote.

"WWCD?" I asked myself. "And is that what I would do?"

Dad wasn't wrong. He was right. And as much as the loner image made me a little sad, it reinforced in me that choosing my own path, even if it's sometimes a solo adventure, really is my M.O. I mean, if a guy who's watched me with keen, attentive and sometimes confused interest for the past 36 years describes me this way, and I can't find it in me to challenge his observation, it is probably safe to say that I am, in fact, a Coyote.

I went on a lunchtime mountain bike ride today. Alone. And cruising down the switchbacks in the snow, I saw the big daytime moon, halfway illuminated and halfway fallen in the sky.

"Should I howl?" I thought.

"Nah. That's more wolfy."

Mindful

2008-12-08T23:37:00.008-07:00

Every day
I see or I hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It is what I was born for –
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world –
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant –
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentation.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these –
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

- Mary Oliver

Photo: Chris Fox's Flickr Photostream

Once, a boy kissed me on the lips

2008-12-05T21:53:00.010-07:00

Sitting in the waiting room at Centered City Yoga tonight, while Scott finished his class-is-over-I-have-to-do-some-things duties before we went out with friends, I noticed a small orange cloth-bound book on the table in front of me. Orange is my favorite color, so I picked it up and started paging through. It was a lined journal, most of it blank. I read a few entries in the middle and then flipped to the front.

"Share your thoughts," it demanded.

A handful of people had done what they were told. I looked around for a pen. There was none. Not that I wanted to share. I just wondered how recent the contributions were.

I read all the entries. They were nice. Thoughtful. A few haikus. A few famous-person quotes. A few smart-sounding spiritual tinkers. There was stuff that could have mattered to other people and there was stuff that I'm sure the writers thought sounded like it should matter to other people.

There was actually one entry that I liked very much:

"M - be happiness."

That one was for me. Obviously. Because, of course, I'm M.

But then I found this. A real, beautiful, gem-of-a-post that made me laugh a little and hurt a little and be nine a little too. It rang my bell of a heart so much that when Scott came to meet me, all coated and scarved and ready to go, I read it out loud to him. Then we photocopied it. I'm going to magnet it to my refrigerator, because it's just that cool.

In scribbly, quickly jotted words, circled by by a single-line ink fence, this is what she wrote:

Once, a boy kissed me on the lips, and For a whole nother year, I wolk up Every morning, "I Hope Canyon (The Boy who kissed me) isn't at School today," I would thingk. I still feel like that. I even felt like that this morning.

(Sorry CCY if this dosn't relate to yoga, I just had to let it out!)

– Jenna Martin, age 9

Amen, sister.

The rocking chair and the lullaby

2008-12-03T21:12:00.011-07:00

I've been unsettled lately. That happens to me sometimes after a big race. I go from a state of mono-focus with no time to do anything but train, work, train, eat and sleep, to a rest period with lots of time on my hands. Too much time.

So I turn to my house for solace. I work on it. I clean it to sparkling and then I organize it and then I start on projects. My house was built in 1935. The projects are endless.

This weekend, I decided to tackle the basement. The basement is where I keep all my gear. And in the two years that I've lived here, I have only tentatively organized it all. Now, it's spotless. Well, as spotless as an old, unfinished basement can be. All the ski stuff and camping stuff and fencing stuff and kickboxing stuff and swim stuff and bike stuff is nestled in a most anal-retentive way on new shelves like it's for sale in some schizophrenic's version of Play it Again Sports.

I feel better.

While I was down there, categorizing and dusting and sweeping and shelving, I found my rocking chair. I guess it's not really my rocking chair. It's my mom's. It's the one that was in my nursery when I was a baby. The one that she rocked me in at night before setting me in my cradle to sleep. It's a very old oak platform rocker with a seat covered in a cheery fabric of yellow smiley faces. Because of the smileys, I haven't used the rocker. I've kept it hidden in my basement with the gear. I hate to say it, but the smileys haven't matched my "I'm a big girl now" decor since about 1977.

"What a shame," I thought when I found it. "I love this rocker."

I carried it awkwardly and very carefully up my steep and narrow and probably not-up-to-code basement steps to my kitchen and set to cleaning it. I oiled the wood and greased the coils and looked for any trace of how old it might really be. It had to be antique when I was a baby, so lord knows it has aged since. But it has aged well.

While I was polishing it, I remembered sitting in that chair with my mom. For years, really. From babyhood to little girl-hood. Singing and reading and rocking. And I remembered the song that she used to sing to me. Or kind of remembered. The words escaped me. Except for the ones that I could not forget. "All Aboard for Blanket Bay."

Tonight, I set about to do a little research on the song and I found this, a better-than-storytime post by a blogger named Chicklegirl on the song and its roots.

The best part? We can listen. Chicklegirl found the lullaby, sung here in 1910 by folksinger Domino George. I found Ada Jones' version, sung the same year.

The crackle and pop of the phonograph and the familiar, dreamy lyrics of the song are intoxicating. I feel like I've just had three glasses of wine.

I've decided to reupholster the chair. I scavenged a beautiful, weathered piece of leather to replace the smileys (though in my mind, the smileys will always be there) and I found an antique man (himself an antique) to skillfully stitch the seat. I want this family heirloom in my life every day, not just during the blue hours when nothing will cheer me but cleaning my basement. I cannot wait to read and rock in it. And maybe even sing.

Photo: parlorsongs.com via Chicklegirl

Two Wheel Lovin' Grrrlie

2008-12-01T18:49:00.004-07:00

Check it. The beautiful, bad and bold mamajamas at Two Wheel Lovin' Ladies asked me some questions, and I answered.

I feel like I just got asked to the prom.

What? You know I love pink!

The sign of the Cross

2008-11-28T18:44:00.003-07:00

I've Ironmanned. I can now walk without limping. It's time to give thanks.

It's time to go back to Church of the Big Ring and bless myself with sign of the Cross.

Tomorrow. Wheeler Farm. 12:30 pm. Amen.

Photo: Alan Web "Cyclocross 1931"

The Wild BlueSeventy

2008-11-27T07:44:00.004-07:00

Ok. I'll admit. I was a poster child. (That's much different than being a pin-up girl, but I was wearing a rubber suit and cap so I can't honestly say I was aspiring to beauty.) Thanks to Matt, BlueSeventy (who really does make the best wetsuits in the world) found out and posted me on their blog.

The company I keep

2008-11-26T19:31:00.011-07:00

"I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away."

Talking to yourself. It's a good thing. Some of the most important conversations we have during the course of our lives are with ourselves. And most valuable among those are during times of trouble.

How do you speak to yourself?

What do you say?

I kept myself company on Sunday. And more than anything else, this is what I said:

"Yes."

I felt like quitting. I was sure I was going to. I was on my bike and everything hurt. My ass. My shoulders. My neck. Every time I hit a bump the pain would shoot through me like an electric current. I had been able to maintain my heart rate at threshold during my first lap, but I couldn't do it after just the tiniest toe dip into my second. "What is wrong with me?" I thought. "If it hurts this bad on the bike, and biking is my strength, how can I run?"

"You can do this," I said. "Tuck your chin to your chest and breathe. You can't maintain 155, so maintain 140. It's OK. Save your heart for the run. Criticism will get you nowhere. Believing will get you to the finish. So believe."

I pulled into T2 and handed Pink to a volunteer. "You ok?" he asked.

"Yes."

I hugged my transition bag to my chest like a football and I ran to the change tent. I slid into my running shoes and pushed my visor onto my head and drank three cups of water. I shoved potatoes and Perpetuem into my pockets, thanked my volunteer, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the light.

"Are you ready now?" I asked.

"Yes."

So I ran.

And it hurt. The first three miles were excruciating. My ankle screamed every time my foot struck the pavement. "I don't know I don't know I don't know," I thought. "Can I?"

"Yes."

Sha told me once that pain, specifically the pain of Ironman, is all in your head. My doctor had told me before I left: "You're cleared to run, but it's going to hurt." I thought about that. What he had said gave me permission to feel pain without fear. Hurting became benign. Empty. And then it ceased being physical. Hurting, at that point became all mental. So yes, it hurt, but I could control how that pain affected me by controlling my perception of it. It could not overwhelm me because I wouldn’t let it.

And then I remembered what my friend Mandy wrote to me in her goodbye/good luck note:

"Relax your hands. Like Denny."

Denny is the character in the book I'm reading: The Art of Racing in the Rain. He is a race car driver. A good one. From him, I learned that to do well, a racer must relax his hands.

I did.

And then everything came together.

I never doubted again. I wasn't winning. I wasn't fast. I was just me, out there, doing my best to keep going. My pain would speak to me and I would comfort it. My mind would wander and I would call it back. My body would get mad and I would settle it down. And I just kept running.

I finished Ironman Arizona in 12 hours, 41 minutes and 25 seconds. Exactly 41 minutes and 25 seconds after I had aimed to finish before injury and sickness forced me to reconsider. But I can honestly say that I have never been happier with a race time. On Sunday, I proved to myself not only that I am strong and that I can endure with the best of them, but that believing in myself and thinking positive are very, very powerful tools; that by simply saying Yes I can welcome possibility; and that, more than anything else, I am a really, really good best friend.

"I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments."

- The Invitation, Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Photo: Matt Hart

Danger fits me like a tight black glove...

2008-11-21T19:52:00.003-07:00

We drove the bike course today. It's gorgeous in its own barren way. The mountains in the distance seem almost like hallucinations. Like the last hazy grey imaginings of the cactus men standing out there in the dust with their hands up, expecting to die. It's so romantic. In a Clint Eastwood kind of way.

35 hours until the gun.

Chicken Soup for the Goal

2008-11-20T11:00:00.003-07:00

I'm packing. I have my wetsuit and my bike. I have everything lined out for T1 and T2. I have my warmups and my race kit. I have socks. I have lube and baby powder and sunscreen. I have big food jugs, ready to be portioned into small food bags, ready to be mixed with water and poured into small food bottles. I have nuun tabs and endorolytes. I have my helmet and my visor, my bike shoes and my running shoes.

I have a cold. And achilles tendonitis.

I'm sitting here with my feet up on my desk watching the wind push the leaves off the aspens in my front yard. I'm quiet. Calm. I'm finishing off a bowl of homemade chicken soup – the old wife remedy part of my effort to do everything I can to get better in time to race. The antibiotics are the modern medicine part. The combo is working.

I just need a rest. Just for a minute. I'm tired from trying to get well.

So I'll just inspect the scene in my living room. I see all the little colorful stacks of clothes and gear that I've laid out for Sunday. Each of those things has a specific purpose. I like that. There's nothing extra.

The only things that I don't need are the two things I can't see.

A cold. And achilles tendonitis.

So I think, to save space, I just won't pack those.

What Would Cookie Monster Do?

2008-11-17T21:11:00.003-07:00

Be always blue but never sad • Unabashedly adore one thing • Shout his love from the rooftops • Laugh in the face of a diet • Chew with his mouth open • Talk with his mouth full • Never sacrifice • Teach children that "C is for Cookie" without ever using the word "I" • Prove that Man may not be able to, but Monster can definitely live on cookies alone.

Not in the stars

2008-11-15T20:41:00.011-07:00

Not this birthday but the birthday before, my best girlfriends gave me a gift certificate for a star chart reading.

Another friend of ours had gone to see this woman and swore by her accuracy and acumen. I was intrigued.

I went.

She started by telling me about my past. About certain years in my past. About incidents that were so impacting as to change the rest of my life. She told me.

Ok, I thought. I'm listening.

She proceeded to tell me a number of things that were likely to happen to me in the next year. She was a little bit vague, so instead of saying things like: "You will change jobs and take a pay cut," she'd say: "I'm seeing more creativity in your life. You are going to experience a shift in your career, which will lead to a change in compensation." Ok. She left a little room for interpretation, but not much.

A lot of what she told me I didn't want to hear. Mostly about my relationship at the time. She told me ten times in ten different ways that it was ending. I told her ten times in ten different ways that it wasn't. I was so in love, and as far as I could say, for as far as I could see, it was going to last.

Finally she said, "All I can say is, the last time my chart looked like this, I got a divorce." I stopped protesting. I just sat there.

"Look," she said, "This is what the stars say for you right now. I can't change that. Just remember, you always have free will."

As the months passed after that, every single thing she said would happen did. Almost. I changed jobs, my life filled back up with creativity, and yes, though I fought like hell to keep it together, to choose free will over predetermination or the power of suggestion, my relationship ended.

But...

There is one thing left in her projections that has not happened. Or maybe I should say, there is one thing left that she told me that I haven't manifested.

She told me that it would happen by November this year.

It's November.

And not only is it November, it's the exact middle of November.

And I honestly cannot see how this thing can possibly happen in the remaining two weeks of this month. To me, right now, it seems impossible.

That makes me think.

I am usually good at "following my path" as she put it. But maybe this time, somewhere along the line, I stepped off. Maybe I took a wrong turn. Or maybe I got disoriented and accidentally headed back the way I'd come.

I'm thinking that sometime between then and now, I exercised my free will. Since I always feel like I'm exercising free will, there is no way for me to know what I did that set me in a direction not lit from above by The Stars.

Now, I'm thinking, possibly, this one thing she mentioned will never happen at all.

I wonder. I think about this a lot. I think about The Universe and our role in it and its role in us. I think about the rule of The Stars and the supposition of free will. I think about my individual path (which, by the way, in my mind, looks like the Appalachian Trail in North Carolina...) and the life that this path has led me through, and I wonder how much of my route was preconceived by the cosmic fish (Pisces) and how much of it was chosen by the earth-bound Fischer.

Hiking along, originally uploaded by whereskarl.

My plan, regardless, is to keep running down it. The next time I come to a fork, I'll take the direction that seems best. And just like my life so far, I'll call it good.

Affirmation

2008-11-14T23:23:00.001-07:00

I'm a frayed knot

2008-11-12T12:49:00.003-07:00

I'm a frayed knot, originally uploaded by nobody knows anything.

Seems that steroids are OK when you're just a determined age grouper trying to make it to the starting line.

Thanks to Greer Hitch, my sweet friend who went out of her way to hook me up with the right people, and to Kim Larsen, the superstar NP who works with Dr. Drew Cooper, I am going to race on Nov. 23.

The diagnosis is that my achilles tendon is a bit frayed around the edges (reminds me of my favorite joke*). The prognosis is good. The treatment is a five day pack of steroids teamed with Naprocin, lots of icing, stretching, massage and REST. She emphasized the rest part. I also get to wear these delightfully squishy heel cups that feel like I'm murdering a sea anenome underfoot every time I step.

I'm going back in one week to see how things look. November 19. That's the day before I head south, and that's cutting it close. I'm in though. I'm in to do what it takes, even if it only means that I can try to run the marathon. Starting the run, in my book, is better than calling it quits in T2.

*Ok. Now for my favorite joke:

A string walks into a bar and orders a drink.

"I'm sorry," the bartender says. "We don't serve your kind here."

"My kind?" said the string, "What do you mean by my kind?"

"You're a string," said the bartender. "We don't serve strings."

So the string walks out. He's mad. So mad. He bends and twists himself into a gnarl and splits apart his hairs until he's nothing but a ball and loose ends. He walks back into the bar and orders a drink.

"I told you, dude," said the bartender. "We don't serve your kind here! You're a string and we don't serve strings!"

"No," said the string, "I'm a frayed knot."

No love in North Dakota

2008-11-11T18:53:00.007-07:00

Google Analytics.

It's like those line maps on the outside of RVs. You know the ones. Apparently they sell standard-sized state stickers at all major truck stops along all major American routes so you can purchase the sticker of the state you're in (along with your large diet coke and your corn dog and your box of Krispy Kremes) and then stick it like a puzzle piece in the right place on your rig's map.

Those maps are the the motor home expression of "been there, done that."

I'm not sure if the maps come standard with your Winnebago, or if you have to ask for the special Map Package.

I am sure that crowds of highway-bound retirees use these sticker maps to size each other up on the road and at RV parks all over this great nation. The more stickers you've stuck, the more cred you have among your homies.

Google Analytics is like that. Except no one can see your sticker map but you. So really, you only get cred with...yourself.

I was checking out my blog reach map overlay tonight. It always fascinates me to see who I'm talking to. I'm pleasantly surprised to find that I have lots of friends in Germany, France, the UK, and Ecuador (Ecuador!?) among other world nations, but unfortunately I've earned the blink of not one single eyeball in North Dakota, Rhode Island or Delaware. Hmm.

North Dakota I can see. I mean, come on. But Rhode Island and Delaware?

So it's my new goal to make some friends of the RI and DE variety. I'm reaching out. I'm not sure exactly what to say to get these states' attention, but I'll give it a shot. Introductions are welcome.

Oh, and if you have a friend in ND, that's cool too.

Too bad I can't just slap the sticker down next to my supersized bag of salted sunflower seeds the next time I'm in Fargo and call it good.

I'll take a Rhode Island with my Slim Jim, please.

Patient is not a virtue

2008-11-10T22:09:00.006-07:00

I don't go to the doctor unless I have to. If I cannot diagnose myself as categorically dire, it's not dire enough to warrant a doctor. Doctors waste my time and my money. Doctors don't make me better, they just piss me off.

Now there are times when dire is quite obvious. Kidney stone? Yeah ok. I'll go. Smashed face? Of course. Book me. But a sports injury? Hell no. I'm fine. I'll heal.

A few days ago, my friend Jared raved to me about his massage therapist and a particular achilles treatment that he keeps in his repertoire of kung fu massage moves. He recommended that I book an appointment just in case there was a chance it would help.

Ok, I thought. Massage might do me good.

So I went.

After a half hour of his methodically wringing the pain from my shoulders and back, he moved on to my problem achilles. He worked on me gently for a few minutes, and spent some time silently analyzing.

Then he said: "It is torn. If I were you, with a tear like that, I would not run."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "I have been staying off it."

"No," he said. "I mean, I would not run the marathon."

I didn't speak for a second. I couldn't. "But I can't do the Ironman without running the marathon," I whispered. I wasn't sure he heard me. I couldn't even hear me.

"I know," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

He is genuinely sorry. I know he is.

But I'm not sorry yet.

I'm officially diagnosing myself as dire.

I need a second opinion. From a doctor. Right now.

Because I can't do the Ironman without running the marathon.

Swimming = Math

2008-11-09T19:38:00.013-07:00

Since my achilles injury, I've been doing everything I can to make myself better in time for the race. That makes sense, but it hasn't been working all that well. Though my tendon is much better, it still hurts like a mofo when I try to run on it. So I've been icing and heating and, for all intents and purposes, staying off it. And that means that I've been water running.

Basically, water running is treading water, but with the form of a runner. You don't get the benefit of rhythmically splayed arms and legs to help you keep your head above water and yourself, you know, alive. Plus, I'm not one to opt for the baby blue old lady floaty belt. So essentially when I do this thing, I'm out there in the deep-end pretend-running back and forth and around in circles looking like a worried chocolate lab that's lost her stick, huffing and puffing and sweating like a glass of ice water in July, and going nowhere fast. It gives me a lot of time to look ridiculous. It gives me a lot of time to think. It gives me a lot of time to look around.

I've been swimming at Steiner Aquatic Center for eight years. But for all those eight years, when I've been in the pool, my head has been under water and I've been in a state of full-on sensory deprivation. All I see when I'm swimming is the bottom of the pool, the lane markers, the giant black plus-sign flip turn markers on the walls, and the hands and arms of other swimmers in the lanes next to me. All I hear is my breath, the splash of my strokes, and my own voice in my head, counting – incessantly counting – counting laps, counting hundreds, counting breaths, counting strokes, counting seconds.

Today while I was, uh, running, it was the first time that I've really ever had the chance to take a good look around. I mean really take a good look around.

First I spied on the lifeguards. I watched them talking and tried to imagine what they were saying. I took guesses at their names and what year in school they were and whether or not they had boyfriends or girlfriends. And when that finally became uncomfortable, if not freaky, for the lifeguards, I started counting ceiling tiles, lane marker flags, lanes, people. Not so much fun. So I read the signs. All of them. And that's when it dawned on me.

Swimming is a numbers game. No wonder I don't like it.

Ok. That's a bit strong. I don't not like it, necessarily. But if I didn't have to swim, I wouldn't. Ever.

That's fair.

I'm not good at math. I don't like numbers. I don't like them because they elude me. They are like some foreign language that I kinda get and can speak a little, but that I can never quite grasp beyond the basics. In math, I can say "Hi, how are you?" and "Taco" and "Where is the library?" but that is about it. Sure, I can do tips if I try really hard. And I can do basic algebra (with the aid of a piece of paper and a pen, a little time, and nobody watching). And sometimes, if I've had a little bit to drink, I can do ratios.

And swimming, as I realized today, is math.

Here's the proof:

Yep. But here's a little math problem that's making it all ok. For now.

T-14 = Ironman finish
Ironman finish = no more swimming
No more swimming = no more workout math

Therefore:

T-14 = no more swimming = no more workout math

Yeah!

I want my sundress back

2008-11-08T18:07:00.009-07:00

There are lots of reasons I prefer summer, but chief among them is the sundress – the sweet and flowy and sassy and comfy little number that you toss on in the morning and go.

Most days in summer I'm wearing only one thing: a little dress. And I love it. I love it because its easy. I love it because all you have to worry about is if it fits on top. And that makes me feel petite and pretty and button-sized and feminine.

"Ooh, a size six!" I think as I slip it over my head. "And I look fantastic!"

But when winter comes, the sundress hibernates and its horrible, bitchy, critical arch-nemesis steps in. Jeans.

Jeans shopping is like meeting your brother's young fiancee and later overhearing her tell her friends that you're kinda pretty but you're "an old maid." Jeans shopping is like your best friend's mentioning in passing that your ex-boyfriend is getting married and then dismissing it with a laugh and: "but that's neither here nor there." Jeans shopping is like giving up cookies for two weeks in hopes of dropping a few pounds before your big race, but coming to the painful realization that you've actually gained weight instead. Jeans shopping is like hearing from your stepmom that your favorite stepsister (who's more like a good friend than your sister because you met in college) got married in September and moved to Hawaii with her husband and YOU DIDN'T EVEN KNOW!

Yeah. All that? It sucks.

So I went shopping today to try to make myself feel better. Jeans shopping, of course. I thought that with my current Iron body, it would be a great experience and would lift my spirits.

I was wrong.

It really shouldn't be this hard. Or discouraging. Or downright depressing. But it is.

So I walk into the store, packed with happy shoppers milling around haystacks of clothes. I find the jean section. I dive in.

Now, I have no idea what size I wear. I shop so rarely that every time I stand at the rack it's a total guessing game. More like Russian Roulette.

Hmm, I think, as I look around at other women purposely plucking denim off the hangers, based on their bodies and the sizes they're picking, I should be...about...size 28? Ok. So I grab a bunch of 28s and head to the dressing room.

Some 28s I cannot even get on one leg. Some get over my hips but make me look like a Colosimo's sausage.

Back for 29s.

Nope.

Ok then (I'm starting to feel bad about myself) how about 30s? Thirties should work.

Better, but no. Super tight on my thighs and hips and loose around the waist.

Wait? What? Tight around here and loose up here? Now what am I supposed to do?

As I return to the jeans section, I am utterly discouraged to find that 31 is the absolute largest size that the store sells. I wear the largest size that the store sells. I do. Irongirl me. Fit me. The largest.

I'm not fat, I'm not fat, I'm not fat, I tell myself. I'm just tall, right? And I have a biker butt. Yeah. Shannon always tells me that we have biker butts. (Goddamn stupid biker butt.) I'm powerful, that's all. I have muscle. Lots of muscle. It's good to have muscle. These girls don't work out as much as I do. They are fit, sure, but they're not athletes. Don't be sad. Don't get down. It's ok. Just try a 31.

So I try a 31.

They fall off. They're so loose around the waist that they fall down to my hips and stay there, like a horseshoe on a stake.

Like a horseshoe on a big, tall, powerful, muscley, athlete, very curvy girl of a stake.

I hate jeans.

I hate winter.

I want my sundress back.

Such Valiant Pez

2008-11-05T15:44:00.006-07:00

This just in from David, the Cali cross racer who bought my X4 frame:

The frameset arrived today... however, there was one little problem. See the attached photo. Apparently, DinoPez sacrificed his life in an act of valor for the protection of the rear derailleur hanger. He will be remembered. Jack and Pumpkin survived to fight another day. They are currently in adoption proceedings with some kids from my office.

Awesome. My little Pez soldier axle spacers rose to the challenge and survived (for the most part) victorious.

Proud.

2008-11-04T22:58:00.002-07:00

Yes we can. Yes we did. Yes we will.

Photo: Chicago Tribune

The Sacrificial Cookie

2008-11-04T17:31:00.011-07:00

Hi. My name is Marit. I'm a cookie addict. I've been clean for 12 days.

But the incessant cravings, the dizzy spells, the daydreams, the night sweats, and the visits to the Whole Foods cookie counter "just to visit" have crumbled me to an all time low. Delirium Tremens will mark my official hit of bottom, and I'm expecting it to set in around noon tomorrow.

It's not pretty.

I love cookies. I love nothing more. I eat at least one big cookie per day. Mostly chocolate chip (it's my favorite). But I sometimes mix it up with an occasional peanut butter or chocolate-chocolate chip or macaroon. As long as it's homemade or bakery-made (nothing packaged turns me on), it's safe to say that any variety will do.

My coworkers know this about me. It's common for me to get the whoop-pop of a midday Skype from a friend two cubies over asking: "You get your cookie yet?" or, more likely, just "Cookie?" If they ask, I go. I can't control myself. At least until 12 days ago.

I would take pay in cookies if it made any sense at all. I would opt for a birthday cookie over birthday cake without question. I regularly eat cookies for breakfast, but have considered them for lunch and dinner too. If someone were to ask me on a date with "Wanna get a cookie sometime?" instead of "Wanna get a beer sometime?" or "Wanna get coffee sometime?" I would most likely skip all the formalities and propose right there.

(A secret admirer sent me a full bouquet of frosted cookies last winter. I still don't know who it was, but for the record, I am still impressed because Mr. Man did his homework. Props, admirer. And thanks.)

So why the swap – cookie for cold turkey?

Well. Because.

I have a race in 19 days. I am fit and trained and my endurance capacity is through the roof. But I still don't feel super honed. Um, in other words, I'm not at "race weight."

So I decided that a month-long sacrifice of my daily cookie for the greater good was in order. I figured it'd be an easy and appropriate way to take action. I'm not going to diet, I know better. But I believe that cutting my one big source of sugar and extra fat might give me the results that I'm looking for, i.e. dropping a few pounds; freeing my blood of its need for the simple sugar spike; and really, truly, tangibly doing all I can to train my body in the countdown to race day.

It is brutal. I want to say it's the hardest thing I've ever done. I believe that it is, but I'm well aware of the fact that this statement is very, very lame.

I'm not going to give in. I'm in this, for better (I hope) or for worse. And I can just hope that in the long run (and swim and bike), if this sacrifice doesn't make me faster or stronger or leaner or less sugar-dependent, it will make me appreciate my sweet, delicious vice even more when I bite in post race on November 23.

Yes. My name is Marit. I'm a cookie addict. I've been clean for 12 days.

But I only have 19 days to go.

More than just delight and bad candy

2008-11-02T09:32:00.019-07:00

On Thursday, the eBay gods smiled upon me and blessed me with the sale of the Cannondale X4 cross frame and Reynolds fork that I won at the end-of-year cross party last season. Don't get me wrong. I was sad that it had to go. But besides the fact I'm a very lucky girl with a bike sugar papa named Kona, even for a tall girl, the X4's 56" frame was more than a smidge too big. (But again, thanks so much again to Matt Ohran and the Utah Cyclocross family.)

So I wrapped it up with love to ship away yesterday. In the process, I realized that I didn't have any axle spacers. Not good. So what's a girl to do?

Pez.

That's right.

I was an avid Pez collector for a few years. Well, no. That's not quite the truth. My mom included Pez in every single care package she ever sent me and I thought they were clever little dudes so I kept them. And I actually set them up on display. They became my own little candy-necked Justice League/Star Wars/Simpsons army. No, it was more than just an army. It was the Pez equivalent of the entire U.S. armed forces. I had hundreds of them.

I finally took them down.

Mostly because at least twice a year, something – a dog tail or a door slam – would cause one or a few to teeter and tumble, resulting in the devastating cackle-click-crash domino downfall of every single one of the little plastic people. It was just too much.

Over the years, I did get some duplicates. I never threw them away. They just hung out with the rest of the troops, still in their wrappers, waiting to one day be important too.

That day came yesterday.

What were once just unloved Pez dispensers became, out of necessity, very valuable Pez axle spacers.

Think about it. The shape? The size? Almost, almost perfect.

So yeah. The guy that bought my frame – that hardcore cross racer guy who lives in Sherman Oaks, California – is in for a little treat when, on Wednesday, he opens the Pinnarello box with his brand new Cannondale inside.

Pez. A jack-o-lantern, a Ninja Turtle, and Jack Jack "Incredible" Parr.

I even included the candy.

Inspired Ice

2008-11-02T09:06:00.006-07:00

Check her out. Jill Holmer. Up in Alaska.

She has a new fan.

I'm contemplating now what to do after Ironman. After triathlon. And though my physiology (and my Reynaud's) won't allow me to be out there for hours and hours in the cold of Alaska, I may take her approach on life in the lower of the lower 48.

Inspired.

Workin' it.

2008-10-27T23:14:00.005-06:00

It's hard out here fo' a pimp...

Have I ever mentioned that I love my job?

I do.

At least it was good endurance training

2008-10-26T10:52:00.009-06:00

Choosing our long run route today was a painful process of negotiation.

Matt's route requirements: must be at least partly on the Wasatch 100 course and must have at least 4,000 feet of vertical gain.

Marit's route requirements: must be mostly runnable and must not require many hours of driving to shuttle cars.

"And, Matt," I said, "I don't want to go out on some run that turns into an epic hike, that, at the end of the day, in order to justify, I have to say: 'well, at least it was good endurance training.'"

Settling on a route with all these requisites was a lesson in creativity, research and compromise.

We finally came up with a good plan: a run that I'd done about seven years ago, linking together a big loop from Affleck Campground, up the Original and Mormon trails to the Great Western Trail, across on a connector to Killyon's trail and back down to Affleck. The only problem was that we could see the route on the Utah Atlas and Gazeteer, but it wasn't detailed. At all. So essentially, aside from what I could remember from the last time I was out there, we were going in blind, hoping for signs and/or obvious trails. (Consider this the foreshadow.)

We started out at Affleck at 1 p.m. It was warm and the trail was sun-baked, covered in crunchy-underfoot oak and aspen leaf confetti. I could feel my left achilles tendon crying out in pain, but it's a new injury and I thought I could take a couple Advil, limp a little though a warm-up, and hit my stride somewhere near the top of Big Mountain. (Consider this another foreshadow.)

We climbed up past the Big Mountain Pass parking lot and continued on up the tree-lined switchbacks to the top of Big Mountain. I was still favoring my achilles, so I took two more Advil and determined to suck it up. We ran along so-windy ridges with breathtaking views of nothing but mountains in all directions.

An hour and 45 minutes in, we came to a junction and a sign: Killyon's and Affleck Campground. Sweet. We did a little happy dance and turned left, fully believing that our little adventure would be pretty uneventful. (Again with the foreshadow.)

Another five miles of climbing and descending on stunning trail with incredible views and we came to a relatively well-cut trail heading off left, to the West. There was no sign. We could look down, way down, the canyon and see Salt Lake City and the Great Salt Lake. We knew we had to go left eventually, the mileage seemed right, Matt ran ahead to check for signs (there were none) so we went for it.

What followed was an hour and a half of bushwhacking, cliff-avoiding, ridge traversing and mountain lapping. And a little bit of anxiety, knowing that we were running out of daylight and neither of us had a light.

We looped around back to the turn-off from the main trail. Logic told us that to go left, if the connector trail was up there, would be the fastest option. We went that way another mile or so, but no trail and no sign and fading sunlight changed our minds and sent us racing back the way we'd come. Because at least we knew the way, the trail was decent, and even if we got stuck in the dark, it wouldn't be an all-night commitment.

I popped another two Advil and hoped for painless running. (There's nothing wrong with a little hope.)

We had an hour left of daylight and what we thought would be a two-hour total run back to the car. We went as fast as I could, but my injury slowed us down. Dark fell hard at the top of Big Mountain. The trail we were sure would be runnable after sunset was not. There was no moon last night, so what could have been merely nightness was actually just plain and simple hardly navigable blackness.

Two hours down down down on the dark trail, past two very large, unidentifiable, wild, horrifying beasts (that could very well have been squirrels), with a final mile+ on the road, and we finally got back to the car. Definitely dehydrated, a lot cold and a little hungry. So fun.

30 miles. 6,000 feet of vert. 7.5 hours.

"Well," I said when we got in the car, "at least it was good endurance training."

***
Check out Matt's account and his pics and vids of the day.

P.S. I can't walk today. I'm icing/heating my achilles and hoping that some time off it will heal all error on my part for even running on it in the first place. Any advice on achilles tendonitis self treatment would be appreciated.

Not a sleeper inner. Not a rester.

2008-10-25T23:43:00.009-06:00

I'm not a sleeper inner. The alarm goes off and I am up. Usually jumping into workout clothes that I laid out the night before and racing out the door to meet one of five equally driven girlfriends for a pre-dawn, pre-work run and/or swim.

I don't sleep in on weekends either. Weekend days during Iron training are full from early to late with training, working and house stuff - though honestly, working and house stuff rarely get done because right now, training rules my life (and training is a tyrannical dictator).

Today, though, when the alarm went off at 6:30 a.m., I could not get up. In fact, I couldn't get up at 7 or 8 or 9 either. I slept in until 9:30 - which is the exact time that my cross race was starting an hour north in Ogden.

It's ok, I thought, I just have to do a three hour run today after racing, I'll go race with the A girls at 12:30. But for the first time ever, cross racing, at any time, with the boys or the girls, sounded categorically unfun.

"Listen to your body." How often have we been told that as athletes? The problem is, as ultra runner Geoff Roes recently wrote on his blog, Fumbling Towards Endurance, "our bodies don't speak such a clear language."

All I knew was that I couldn't get out of bed, I slept three hours past the alarm, and cross racing (which I love to do just about more than anything) sounded worse than going in for my annual pap smear.

"You're tired," said my body, "Way, way tired."

Pretty loud and clear, actually. I mean, in the silent way it talks to me.

Redlining on my cross bike for 45 minutes sounded unmanageable. But an LSD run in the mountains sounded doable. Fun even. So I took that as a broadcast from the bod and decided to go for a long, four-or-so hour trail run with Matt.

Unfortunately, "four or so hours" turned into an epic 7.5-hour run-bushwhack-hike adventure, the last two hours of which we spent brailling our way down the trail in the pitch black night. But that, my friends, is another story.

The fact is, I didn't listen to my body. I didn't rest. I am now more insanely tired than I was this morning (with a nagging left achilles and scraped up legs) and according to Mike Macci and Clark Mower, I missed out on an incredible cross course at Ft. Buenaventura.

I don't regret my decision. At least not yet. It was fun endurance training day in the warm Wasatch sunshine.

But when it comes to resting, when will I learn? Should I?

Tricked out Ten Speed

2008-10-24T10:35:00.013-06:00

I can daydream and work at the same time. Especially since my daydreams usually involve bikes. That's the beauty of my job.

This morning I've been thinking about the glory days of the Ten Speed. Remember? Growing up in the 70s and 80s there was nothing cooler than your first ten speed bike. Tricked out with cushy-taped drops and sparkly paint, maybe a little too big so you could grow into it?

I got mine when I was ten. Ten speeds for ten years. It had been my stepdad Frank's bike, but he knew how badly I wanted one, so he fixed it up and gave it to me for my birthday. I don't remember what kind it was. It was light brown with orange decals, with "10 speed" painted proudly like a "Hi, my name is" name tag on the top tube.

So totally cool.

That was the second New Bike Day of my life. The first was when I turned six and my dad got me a pink Schwinn girly bike with a white basket and a shiny white-with-pink-flowers banana seat. It had a safety flag and training wheels, but not for long. (The flag kept getting caught in the pine branches hanging over the sidewalks of our apartment complex and I got so frustrated with the training wheels that I bent them up and out of the way by riding off of curbs. So mom said all could come off.) Since then, I've had many New Bike Days. Not as many as I'd like, of course, but that's what makes them special. New Bike Day is better than my birthday and Christmas combined. New Bike Day is love at first sight reciprocated. And there's nothing better.

But I digress. While I was daydreaming (with a purpose, mind you, for work) this morning, I stumbled on this site: Old Ten Speed Gallery. I love it. Page after page of ten speeds, stories about ten speeds, sightings of ten speeds, specs on ten speeds. Ten speeds (and ten speed lovers) all over the world, unite.

So totally cool.

Mesmer

2008-10-23T16:25:00.003-06:00

Lose yourself for just a minute.

Video: Scott Moore

Wonder Woman's Daughter

2008-10-22T16:59:00.006-06:00

I'm adopted.

There is a sliver a chance that Wonder Woman is my mom.

I'm not kidding. I mean, we totally look alike.

Even though I haven't really ever talked about it, I've believed this for years. In fact, when I was seven, I would go outside in my grandma's yard and spin around really fast with my arms out, knowing, just KNOWING, that when I stopped, I'd be in a full-on superhero one-piece with a golden lasso in my hand, bullet proof bracelets on my wrists and a boomerang tiara on my head.

It never happened. I obviously just couldn't spin fast enough.

In college, I let go of this hypothesis for a bit and went for more of a patchwork approach. Through my late teens and early twenties, my biological mom was a little bit Jackie Joyner Kersee, a little bit Madeleine Albright, a little bit Greta Garbo. But as you can imagine, this proved difficult to visualize.

So, since all the characteristics that I was hand-selecting from these phenomenal women - athletic superiority, intelligence, beauty, leadership - were already wrapped up in one Amazonian warrior princess package, it just seemed logical to me to refocus my daughterly hopes on Wonder Woman.

I've thought about finding her. My biological mom that is, not Wonder Woman. (Unless, of course, they actually are one in the same.) Sometimes I've considered it more seriously than others. But I never will.

I won't because I respect her decision and I honor it completely. As an eighteen-year-old little girl, faced with the prospect of raising me when she hadn't yet raised herself, bright but scared, she chose wisely. Obviously. I've had a hell of a good life.

Plus, how many girls do you know that can actually, really, honestly go through life believing, without any proof otherwise, that they just might be Wonder Woman's daughter?

Yeah. I know. How cool is that?

Levi Stubbs' Tears

2008-10-21T22:20:00.006-06:00

So much has happened this week that I want to talk about. I just haven't had the time. Iron training as a second job will do that to you. Life happens, but you don't have the time or energy to process it. The best you can do is pick up pieces of news, glance at them for a second, and then stick them in your back pocket to take out and deal with later.

In this past week, among other things that I've noticed in passing, Colin Powell endorsed Barack Obama for president; Good Morning America reported on a study connecting mouth cancer with oral sex (apparently this is old news, but, my lord, why don't we all know this?!); Washington D.C. launched a "Pay to Behave" program in their schools; and Levi Stubbs died.

Levi Stubbs.

Now, The Four Tops were no more on my radar growing up in small town South Dakota than experimental jazz or dolphin songs. (My grandma, the closest relative I had who gave a damn about good music, was a Louis Armstrong gal.) No, my introduction to Levi Stubbs came in college. And I was introduced in a round about way by Billy Bragg – my main man, my poet, my compass and my muse for at least three of the four years I spent as a student in the corn fields of Indiana and the smoky cafés of France.

But I have to say, I am glad for the introduction. I very much appreciate having known (and continuing to know) the gentleman and the music he made with his friends. I mean think about it. You may not count yourself a fan, but I bet you know all the words...

As my friend Jonathan put it, "The world is a far less musical place."

Too tired

2008-10-19T22:09:00.003-06:00

I'm too tired to write well, so I'm not going to.

October's Blister, originally uploaded by fastgrrrlie.

Yesterday:
Race #3 of the Utah Cyclocross Series at the Weber Fairgrounds in Ogden
22 mile run down to Big Cottonwood Canyon and back

Today:
5 hour ride on my tri bike (a.k.a. Pink)
65 minute tempo run

Even though I'm beat, I feel good. I'm super grateful for my body and for the fact that it does what I ask to for as long as I ask it to (though not always as fast).

So what do I have to show for all this training? A sweet blister that looks like a fat bloody mini innertube around the "waist" of my left middle toe. Awesome.

Yes. I know. Chipped nail polish is so totally uncool. I'm going to go take care of that right now. I apologize if I have offended your delicate sensibilities.

The Iron Reality

2008-10-12T10:58:00.003-06:00

What I want to do today:

Read the paper - a real paper - not online
Paint on canvas
Write
Bake bread
Go grocery shopping
Take a nap
Finish a report for work

What I'm going to do today:

Ride my tri bike for five hours in the cold drizzle
Run for an hour in the cold drizzle
Try to get as much work done as I can on my work report before I fall asleep

I'm tired. It feels like a job. But it's almost over.

41 days to go.

My running tour of SLC

2008-10-11T22:03:00.017-06:00

I set out east from my house on 21st South - through the heart of Sugar House, past the shops and restaurants and girls in sports bras running on treadmills on the other side of the window at the gym on the corner. I always wonder what they must think when they see bundled runners on their storefront screen as they gerbil in place.

Along the broad bottom of Sugar House Park, I ran on the sidewalk past the Dodo restaurant (that space has been so many restaurants before that I wonder what the Dodo was thinking when they set up shop) and the Blue Boutique (hidden behind a big black banner beaconing "Sexy Halloween Costumes!" in an orange blood-drip font that was so completely unsexy that the irony made me laugh).

When I got to 15th East, I turned left and headed north, up into the nice I'd-love-to-live-there-someday 15th and 15th neighborhood. Dads were out with their kids, playing football, walking, looking at flowers, pushing strollers. I was impressed because it was overcast and snowflaking and it couldn't have been more than 40 degrees. "These people are tougher than I am" I thought as I ran by. Ironic.

I ran up to 9th South and turned right, towards the mountains, through more big house and big tree neighborhoods. I cut over to Sunnyside, crossed Foothill and ran up into the University Research Park. The firemen weren't outside at their firehouse today. I missed them. Actually, except for a few car drivers, very few people were out. The place was silent except for my feet, my breathing, the tinny sound outside of my headphones. I ran past the the historic Ft. Douglas Cemetery, nodded to the respect-commanding white statues, and headed into the heart of campus.

Five kids. That's all I saw. Three girls dressed all alike giggled into the student union building and a couple carrying a sack full of sandwiches from Quizno's snuck around the corner of a building and disappeared. The temperature dropped hard as I spilled off campus onto North Medical Drive and passed Primary Children's Medical Center. I zipped up my vest, pulled down my sleeves and kept running.

I dropped down the hill at North Campus Drive and cut right at Federal Heights. Down, down then up again on Alta, past the Shriner's Hospital on the right and the LDS church on the left - the one with the black iron fence and the way-too-lifelike painted statues. (I swear the man one is Bing Crosby.) I turned right and chugged up the steep crest of Virginia to 11th Ave.

I love running along 11th Ave. past the Salt Lake City cemetery. It's vast and stone-walled and treed and built on a slope like an outdoor amphitheater, so every soul that chooses to stay there (or come back and visit) has a breathtaking view of the Salt Lake Valley.

The snow hit my face and melted fast as I ran past the fire station up there (again no firemen...) and picked up the pace along the gradual downhill to B. I felt good. Strong. I turned right and dipped down the U towards the base of City Creek Canyon. I passed some college kids playing hackey sac where Memory Grove laps up on the Bonneville shore. They were loud and laughy and made me smile.

I passed two runners on the West side. The second, a Native American with a long black ponytail wrapped around and knotted above the backstrap of his visor, picked up his pace to stay behind me. I was honored by the attention, and noted my stats: almost two hours in, a strong pace, solid breathing, good form, achey and burny balls of feet.

The capitol was looming and stately, appropriate for a capitol, I thought. I looked down to my left into Memory Grove and up the hill to the Aves on the other side. I looked out ahead of me into the building tops of downtown. I love this place, I thought.

I ran down Capitol Hill past the old White Chapel on the hidden alley-like street that no one ever sees because they're always rushing. I found that street in 1996 on an early morning run before storming the Salt Palace for my first O.R. Show. So long ago. I wondered if I had run there since. I don't think so.

Down into the city and left on South Temple, I ran past glass-front shops and hotels and office buildings, through the low deep bell tolls of the Cathedral of the Madeleine, past the Avenues Bakery to 6th East.

This is the route I took to and from work on my bike or running when I worked at the Agency. Down 6th East, past the business artery of 4th South, past Trolley Square and Western Garden Center to Liberty Park.

The usually full parking spaces on the circle road around the Liberty Park were empty. Only a few token cars were there as a reminder to the pavement of its purpose. I was tired and the ache on the bottom of both feet was demanding my almost undivided attention, so I ran straight through the middle of the park instead of around the outside. There was no one around. The place was deafeningly quiet. No birds. No traffic. Just wind. And cold. The giant American flag in the center of the park stood east at attention and surveyed the scene north and south. I thought of animals who can only see to the sides because of the position of their eyes in their heads. I wondered if they perpetually bumped into stuff straight ahead. Then I wondered if there really were any animals who had eyes on the sides of their heads.

Only a mile left to go from the south end of the park. A mile of my corridor – the one I take from my house every single time I ride or run or drive north from my house - My Corridor. I picked up the pace both to finish strong and to finish as soon as possible.

I felt like a giant. A solid girl. An athlete.

My feet hurt. My legs were tired. But I was almost done with my workouts for the day. And I had just taken a running tour of my city. How cool is that?

TCB for Humanity: a peanut butter sandwich

2008-10-10T22:05:00.014-06:00

When Elvis greets Jimmy Carter at the pearly gates, he will most definitely be there, dressed in a tight white pantsuit, holding this sandwich:

Two slices of Jack Spratt's Bread
Natural peanut butter spread thick on one slice
Natural, unprocessed honey spread thick on the other
One whole banana, cut into coins and set on the peanut butter side
A handful of big fatty, sweet and delicious raisins sprinkled on and around the bananas
A handful of honey roasted peanuts sprinkled on the honey

Stuck together.

I like knowing that I just made something that would do Elvis proud.

And Jimmy Carter.

TCB for humanity.

Mind your own peas and cukes

2008-10-09T10:04:00.004-06:00

The last thing that I need is to feel guilty about what I eat.

It's hard enough just to eat.

Seriously. I've blogged about this before. When I get up at 5 to train, go straight to work, sit at my desk through lunch, work late, stress about getting in workout number two before dark (or the pool closes), speed home so I can eat something before 9 p.m., and often work through dinner until I can't keep my eyes open any more – something as little and as (so I've been told) enjoyable as going to the grocery store becomes a huge, unmanageable, frustrating chore.

Considering the rush of any given day, for the most part, I eat well. Especially now that I have some help.

But this morning, at the post-yoga coffee quorum (the one regular oasis in my week where the company is brilliant and the conversation is more stimulating than the Americanos), we started talking about eating local – about localvores.

Ok. So the word "localvore" is happy-dance music for the little wordstress that lives inside my head. And I love the idea. Or should I say ideal? Because, in all honesty, for anyone other than a freaky food-fetishist that has the time and energy to spend multiple hours a week scavenging for the righteous ingredients, this is a ridiculous proposition.

Whole Foods gives you options. But, I'm sorry to say that this super expensive, designer market takes quite a bit of liberty with semantics. "Local" at Whole Foods means "within a seven hour drive from the source." Nice. Seven hours. That's like supporting your "local" dairy in Klamath Falls, Oregon. Or your "local" garlic farmer in Las Vegas. I'm sorry, but there's nothing friendly, familiar or remotely local about Vegas.

Sure. You can do it. It can be done. You can sacrifice some staples and adjust your expectations and make it work – for the better of the environment and yes, probably, your health. More power to you.

But a girl's gotta eat. And this girl's gotta eat what she can get without spending more than an hour a week thinking about it or seeking it out. This, for better or for worse, is the result of a personal decision that I've made in order to balance career and training and still have some remote and meager semblance of a social life. So while I always do my best to eat healthy, I always make an attempt at a summer garden, I always choose organic over other foods, and I always choose a local-labeled veggie (even if I'm pretty sure it came from Vegas), I end my efforts there. I am a localvore not at all. Unless you count the fact that my buck stops at the "local" grocery store.

Though I have huge respect for people who choose differently than I do on this subject, I don't want to hear every reason in the book I should step up, make more of an effort, or eat otherwise. I understand the reasons. I just can't swing it. At least not right now.

So, estimable localvores, lead by example. Do what you do and influence others to at least consider alternatives to traditional ways of eating. Thanks for that.

But I'll be over here with my peanut butter.

Bikes, mud and black lace

2008-10-07T14:37:00.009-06:00

I've proven my girly affinity for sweet-ass funky arm warmers (see here and here). But today, while checking out Daily Candy's nod to bikes and bike gear on Backcountry.com, I found these.

Perfect for cross season.

There's nothing like black lace and mud to make a girl feel...tough.

Sure, it'll be too cold most of the season to opt for these instead of a less holey variety of arm warmer, but any knowledgeable outdoor enthusiast (or material girl) knows the value of layering.

Hmm. I wonder if they come in pink too, to match my tri racing bike (and helmet and glasses and shoes). These little treasures may be just what we need to turn Ironman into Ironmaiden.

The lacy wonder sleeves are available for only eight bucks a pair on a site called cutesygirl.com. Cutesy girl? I just love a little irony.

We rock. Hard.

2008-10-05T23:56:00.008-06:00

Meet the band. We're called Sit Around and Eat, and we rock. Hard.

Left to right:

Ross Hayes - bass
Jonny Atencio - guitar
Don Bowie - drums (and the pan flute)
Me - vocals
Joel Brazle - keyboards

Coming soon to a company party or Bar Mizvah near you.

Look out, Air Supply.

Racing with the boys

2008-10-05T10:08:00.009-06:00

I raced with the boys yesterday. I didn't know that that was even an option when I was trying to figure out how to fit cross racing into my training schedule, but when Steven and Matt suggested it yesterday, I jumped on the idea.

I did it. I put myself out there on the line with some fast, strong men and I raced my little heart out. I raced against myself in some very good, much-stronger-than-me company. I smiled through the pain and loved every minute of it. It doesn't even matter how I did. At all. So, now I'm in. And racing as a boy with the boys is the plan for the rest of season.

Sweet.

I’ll be out there for as many races as I can this year, doing my best to hold my own among all the men. Maybe Contender will even hook me up with a “Yep, I’m a boy” jersey. Of course, then I’d have to wear a skirt too. Not a problem.

I don’t care which flite I race. I also don’t mind being the last to finish among a throng of super talented, super strong men (or women for that matter). I just want to be out there, pouring myself and my sweat into something I love.

Competition is all about racing your own race - about setting personal goals and working hard to achieve those goals. As far as I’m concerned, busting my ass to not get lapped or to not finish last while racing with the Men’s B or Masters 45+ is just as worthy a season-long goal as busting my ass to try to finish as strong as possible in the exceptional field of powerful, talented, skilled and competitive Women’s A riders who race UTCX. Either way, it’d be a challenge. Either way, I’d be working to make myself better. Either way, I’d be having a blast.

So, to all the new girls, no matter which flite you’re in, welcome to the delicious pain of cross racing. To all the girls, new and returning, I’m cheering for you and I look forward to racing with you next year. And to the B and C men: thanks for letting me ride with you.

We all do this because we love it, so please, whatever you do, don’t not have fun. And for the love of all things grueling, muddy and sweaty…keep smiling.