Hot for Teacher

For the record I HATE that song. Moreso since I became a teacher, but even in my Aqua-Net dousing, hair band days, I was not a fan of the Van Halen high school stoner anthem.

I am not talking about that kind of hot anyway, I am talking about why it is that the air conditioning must fail EVERY fucking summer right as school starts.

 

At a balmy 83 degrees BEFORE 35 teenagers crammed into my classroom, 

I doubt anyone will be getting used to it.

Twenty minutes into my first period I looked like I had been teaching Bikram yoga instead of biology.

And, I am not sure how much you know about 15 and 16 year old boys, but suffice it to say that no one wants to be in an enclosed space with tropical-like conditions with one of them, let alone half a class full of them.

If you have one living in your home, I am truly, truly sorry. To remove the stench, I hear it is easier to just burn the house down and move once they finish puberty. 

This school year I had a to take on a new challenge, I am teaching chemistry. I got a chemistry teaching credential when I got my biology teaching credential. I got for job security, but never expected to use the damn thing. Kind of like when I put down tennis as a hobby on my resume to make myself sound like I actually had a hobby and ended up coaching the goddamn girls' tennis team for three years and the boys' team for one. 

Originally I was supposed to teach one overflow class to help reduce the gigantic chem class sizes, but somehow that translated to me showing up the week before school to a schedule that included THREE sections of chemistry.

One of my least favorite questions at the beginning of the year as a biology teacher is, "When do we get to blow stuff up?" , which is students' tacit way of reminding me that I teach the "boring" kind of science. This year when they said it, it sent a chill down my spine, and I thought (but gratefully did not say) "Fuck. I hope not soon, but let's be honest, it will probably happen."

I did, however, glance around the room and made a mental note of the location of  the dust covered fire blanket in my room.

I am hoping to be only as incompetent as, not more than, a muppet scientist.

At the time of this post I have completed my first chem lab complete with Bunsen burners and we survived without charred flesh or structural damage to the room, so we will take that as a win.

I will keep you posted. 

Running (kinda)

Last time I wrote I mentioned starting a slow runners club of sorts. So to be added to my "most people are big, fat fucking liars" file, I will tell you the story of my first run with the group.

Many of you know I have had some trouble as of late keeping a running partner. They keep getting injured (not by me), knocked up (not by me), or disillusioned with moi (ok, I will own that one).  In an effort to find some folks to run with I started a group on Meet Up (I don't have the energy or desire to explain it, so feel free to click the link and look it up) for slow runners. 

There are about 5,000 run groups on Meet Up in my area and almost without exception they boast welcoming runners of "all abilities" and post pictures of runners with less than 16% body fat and sparkly, Justin Bieber smiles. What they mean by "all abilities" is "if you want to get dropped like a  flaming bag of dog shit within the first 200 yards of the run and return to an empty parking lot, you are welcome to come run with us!" said with a sparkly, Justin Beiber smile.

Umm... Pass. Thanks. 

So I started a group. I was stunned to have 20 runners RSVP for the first run all of whom where "so thrilled" to finally have a running group that was "not intimidating or competitive" and "geared towards slow runners." 

First Run - I am standing out at the park certain no one is going to show up and I will feel like a total loser which will only be augmented by the fact that my shame will be posted on the internet when no one "checks in" for the run, when people start to show up. 14 people to be exact. 

I have been doing this gig for awhile now. I know "my running people" when I see them. These were not my running people (translation: skinny bitches in cute run clothes). Everyone starts to titter about how slow they are and they are going to be last.... "Oh my God. I am sooooo slow"....

Blah, blah, fucking blah. I can see the writing on the wall... I am going to be DFL at my own slow running group. 

Here it goes the next course of events: 

The run starts. 

I get dropped within 100 yards. 

I run the whole 2 painful miles alone. (Ok, I walked a lot and ran some. I packed on 30 pounds and had not run a step in 6 months. Cut me some slack)

Let the record reflect that I did not cry, but it was touch and go there around mile 1. 

However, I did not return to an empty parking lot. I returned to a bunch of happy runners that wanted to go with me to coffee and were "so excited" for future runs and "so grateful" I got them out running again.  So I sucked it up, went to coffee, had a great time and went home to schedule more runs. 

Come on. It is not the first time I have been last and it sure as shit won't be the last time. As long as someone will have coffee with me after I can do this. And so it goes. It has been a mixed bag of good times, feeling shitty about how far down I have gone in terms of fitness, and some girl drama because even though high school was a looooong time ago, that weird inter-female, insecurity bullshit still plagues us when there are more than 2 sets of ovaries gathered together. But, all in all I am glad I did it.

Lola is noticing a dog that had the audacity to walk on the sidewalk in front of our house and is about to completely lose her shit. She is still adorable though.

Sometimes the abyss blinks

Hidey ho!

I have battled depression forever. I get reprieves, but it is something that is never not a part of my life.

Something that helps my depression is exercise, but ironically, it is the first thing to go when I start down that rabbit hole. Then I get all bitchy and defensive when friends, family, therapists, and shrinks suggest that I should exercise to help moderate my moods. (Aside: I fucking hate shrinks. H.A.T.E them.)

I wanted to write for awhile, but I just have not been able to yet. So here is my update of sorts.

I am fresh off a truly horrific foray into the world of modern psychotropic medications and their multitudes of debilitating and esteem crushing side effects. Here are the most distressing: 

1. I packed on 30 pounds in 3 months

Sadly, the end result of my weight gain was not this cute.

2. My hair started to fall out and it looked like I gave birth to a guinea pig every time I cleaned the shower drain.

The resulting drain hairballs were not this cute either

3. My skin broke out in a way that would make Seal feel sorry for me

Ok, I am kind of hoping I am cuter than this...

The best of all is that the high doses of lithium triggered hypothyroidism which exacerbated all of the aforementioned side effects. (Disclaimer: the lithium may or may not have not triggered the hypothyroidism, but I currently blaming my miserable, fat, bald, pock marked condition on my stupid, fucking shrink [SFS] so that is how I am reporting this)

After many discussions if I was going to have to go spend some time at "the spa" (yes, "the spa" with nice cushy walls, where they lock the doors from the outside.) ...

 ...finally the abyss blinked

(someone I adore once wrote that in response to Nietzsche's famous quote about "...when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you." I found it one of the most hopeful and beautiful things I had ever read about depression.)

I told my SFS that I wanted my thyroid tested and I wanted to come off all of my medication. I went back to Jenny Craig and started to really do their program, not Stacey's program. I started a running group for slow runners that meets several times a week and does hikes on Sundays.

So far I have lost 20 pounds on Jenny Craig. I am officially back to the weight where I would normally exclaim, "Holy fuck! I need to go to Jenny Craig!!" But, whatever, at least I am no longer pushing 2 bills on the scale.

No, those are not my toes, but yes, sadly, that was my weight. Jesus.

I am running again. Not as far or as often as I used to, but I am getting out there. Mostly I am making the decision that I do not have to have all of my problems worked out to start being happier and start being nicer to myself.

Mommy got a new ride!

Mother's Little Helper

I have not turned into the Valium addicted, 1960's housewife Mick Jagger was caterwauling about, but I have entered the world of psychotropic medications to get a little help. (Ok, I RE-entered the world of psychotropic drugs. Whatever. Damn attentive readers)

Vitamin V is no longer an option for me. Val and I had a brief love affair. Bitch turned on me.

I am sure, based on my last psychosis riddled post, that this comes to a shock to NONE of you, but I thought I would post about it anyway. When I went back to therapy I was very resistant to medication. This was primarily due to ego. I had been off anti-depressants for over 14 years and it felt like a giant step backwards to me.

A giant step backwards? That is pretty fucking hilarious. In the last 2 years I have mastered the art of sprinting backwards in my life and I was worried about taking some medication? Even I am stunned at the depth of my denial.

I did have reason to be concerned. The first time I was on anti-depressants I struggled with the medication changes necessary to find the right medication and dosage. The difference with this time is that back then I was a suicidal, self-mutilating, 21 year old cocktail waitress. It is not like there were high expectations on me. I had zero responsibilities and, frankly, people were shocked if I managed to shower and get to work on time. Now, I am a highly fucked up, but responsibility laden, 43 year old teacher. I can't really afford too many weeks of vacillating between stark raving mad and soulless, drooling zombie.

I asked Mr. RBR, he said "no" to 7 golden retriever puppies, so I was stuck going with pills. Stingy bastard.

Nevertheless, I started a week and a half ago. So far, other than headaches, I am feeling ok.


Running (I know, I know. This is supposed to be a running blog not a snivelfest, I will get to it)

I have done a couple of races recently that I thought I would do a piss poor job of reporting them.

Race Report: Muddy Buddy Run - San Jose 9-30-12

Stats: 
Total distance: 4.5 miles
Total Time: I have no idea. I did not wear a watch. The only thing I can assure you is that it was NOT fast. 
Total volume of mud in places you do NOT want mud: About 3 quarts, give or take.


This was my first "mud run". Mud runs have become popular with short run distances, obstacles on course, and the finish is after a slog through a mud pit. My TNT Run Buddy was my partner and her partner and her partner's brother were the other half of our team. (I know, it's confusing. Get over it. It is 2012)

The most challenging part of this run is that it happened on the hottest day of the year in a place that is known to devil as somewhere warm to visit. The run was 4.5 miles long (we originally thought it was 6 miles and were DELIGHTED to find out it was not. De-fucking-lighted, let me tell you). The obstacles were a fun distraction and mostly I loved them because you got to stop running. Due to freakish upper body strength I inherited from my dad, most of the obstacles were pretty easy for me, but then we had to run in the heat and hills again and that is where the suffering occurred.

By the time we reached the mud pit at the finish  (the only mud on the course which was a little disappointing for a "mud" run) I was so hot that I had goosebumps. I belly slid into the mud pit like a  pregnant hippopotamus. The cool water and mud was heaven.

 Ahhhhhhh!

I would have floated there in Hippopotami-like bliss until the end of time, but TNT Run Buddy's girlfriend jumped on my back in a sneak attack. Now, let me preface the next part of this by saying, I sometimes do not realize my own strength and TNT's girlfriend only weighs about 95 pounds even covered in mud, so when I decided it would be funny to flip her off my back and reared up, it threw her tiny ass about 5 feet taking out 2 other competitors and causing a HUGE splash of mud covering some the crowd. Oopsies. My bad.

Yep, I stole the proof. If I did not look like a actual mud covered hippo in the picture maybe I would pay for it. Sue me. (Just kidding MarathonFoto, please do not sue me)

Race Report: Nike Women's Half Marathon - October 14, 2012

Stats: 

Total Distance: 13.31 miles

Total Time: 3:08:45 (I should have a disclaimer here. I don't have one. I was slow as shit. *shrugs*)

Total # of people with canes/walking sticks that I dropped like a bad habit!: 2 (Oh yeah, sweet victory is mine! Suck it, bitches!)

After the last time I ran Nike I swore I would not be back. Not because there is anything wrong with the race per say, it is just too fucking big and with it being a point to point the transportation back to the start and the clusterfuck that is the finish area is, in my opinion, not worth it.

My opinion has not changed. I like the course. I like the women themed race. Other than that, meh, it is not for me. I ran with three really great women. We laughed and encouraged each other and finished.  <3>

The greatest gift I have gotten from running (and blogging about running) is the friendships. That is what brought me back to this place after all of this time. Friends, new and old, that reached out to me and that have been there for me through the darkness. 

Lola at Baylands this weekend. 2 miles, not bad for a prissy little chiwowwow that hates trail running.

Lola as a ladybug this Halloween (possibly the only non-slutty ladybug costume that exists)

It is ok, you can stop digging now.

There is a saying, "It is not rock bottom until you stop digging."

I have not kept it a secret that the events of the last couple of years have taken their toll on my emotional well being. I have, however, had a somewhat secret hell that I have created and lived in as a response.

I have been avoiding looking at some aspects of me for a very long time. When I got clean, I did some work on how to become a productive member of society, but when it came to looking at the core of me I was too scared of what I might find to continue. I believe that I continued to stay clean by changing addictions. I addictively worked, pursued college degrees, accumulated pets, and more recently completed running events. All of these things are good in and of themselves and can be very positive activities, but I used them to avoid feeling anything I did not want to and to never have to look at myself and who I was. As long as my life was running smoothly, I found that was a fine technique, but as soon as my life started to have some bumps (and in fairness to me, I had A LOT of fucking bumps all in a row) I found that I was ill equipped to deal with them.

Sometimes people are surprised by how almost embarrassingly honest I can be at times about things. It is because I have to be. You see, at my core, I am a fucking liar. It is almost as if it is encoded in my DNA.

My first response and first thought is almost always a lie. Twenty one years ago, when I got clean, I learned that I cannot trust my own mind. It will lead me to a place where I cannot stand to be in my own skin and then I will turn on myself.

For the majority of my time clean I have been almost brutally honest about my actions and motives, not out of virtue, rather out of self preservation, but I have never been truly honest about my feelings, because I did not know what they were. I avoided them. So my lying changed, but did not go away. I did not even realize it because it was as subtle as, "No, I am fine.", "It is ok. I will take care of it.", or "I don't mind."

As my life got more difficult, it became more apparent that these were not true. I was not fine. It was not ok for me to do it all. I did mind.

When some of the really scary, hard emotional stuff passed, I was suddenly struck with the thought of "What about me? Don't I deserve...." I did not tell anyone what I was feeling. And later I did not tell anyone what I was doing.

Lies of omission are the most insidious. I feel almost sanctimonious about them, often telling myself, 'If I am directly asked, I will not lie." What a crock of shit.

Without going into too much detail, I took myself to that place where I cannot stand to be in my own skin again. The lies of omission quietly ate at me, while in my denial, I had justified all sorts of behavior. So after years of keeping some of my demons at bay, I went down in a self destructive spiral that included a few scary behaviors I have not engaged in for over 14 years, some NEW scary self destructive behaviors, and a series of shockingly poor decisions.

This March 31 was the anniversary of me getting clean. I had been clean for 21 years, yet I was in full blown emotional and behavioral relapse. I was at my lowest emotional point of my life, but somehow I did not drink alcohol or use drugs. People were congratulating me on my 21 years of recovery and I felt like a fraud. I was clean, but I was NOT in recovery.

Fortunately or unfortunately, lies tend to be like a parasitic fungus in me and, once started, they grow uncontrollably until they ultimately burst from inside.

 The white spikes are the parasitic fungus that killed this moth.

For all to see.

Super. I might as well have had fucking t-shirts made celebrating my shame.

So now the clean up begins.

I have had to look at the cost of my behavior to others and have brutally honest conversations about my lack of understanding of my own motivations and needs. It is time to be really honest about who and what I am. I know one thing I am, scared.

At least I stopped digging. 

Dear Universe...

You are kind of a bitch. 
Just saying. 

Sincerely, 

RBR

How the universe has dicked me over taught me important lessons recently:

Lesson 1
Order of events: Purchased ridiculously expensive iPhone 4S for hubby as a surprise Valentines Day/Next four hundred birthdays present.  Next day,  I dropped my own ridiculously expensive Android phone onto the concrete floor of my classroom (the screen shattered and went dark, never to play Words with Friends again *sniff*). Two days after that, my computer displayed the blue screen of death.

The Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha is implied.

From this I learned... Gratitude.
These are what they call "Cadillac problems'. I remember working two jobs, going to school full time and standing in the office of the mechanic's shop, looking in my checkbook to check my balance to see if I could pay the $200 to get my car running again so I could make it to those two jobs and school. I just spent almost $2000 in a week on shit I do not need I just want. I am pretty damn fortunate.


Lesson 2
Order of events: About 2 months after my husband started to FINALLY feel like a human being again post-prostate cancer treatment his liver enzymes came back elevated and it was time to get serious about the OTHER diagnosis he got at the time of being diagnosed with prostate cancer, Hepatitis C. If it is determined that treatment is indicated it will be ONE YEAR (ok, I am exaggerating it is a mere 50 weeks. Such a drama llama I am *eyeroll*) of weekly interferon injections and twice daily ribovirin. The treatment will cause bone aching flu-like symptoms, depression, and aggressive mood changes. Plus he may lose hair and have his red blood cell count drop dangerously low. Super!

He has a liver biopsy on the 28th, hopefully it will not show evidence of scarring or cirrhosis and he will not have to start this now.

From this I learned... Appreciate today.
Waiting until something happens or something is done to live your life and appreciate all the things you have is wasteful and sometimes you do not get to end one rough chapter and skip merrily off to live happily ever after. Sometimes you enter another chapter of challenges. I am not going to put seeking happiness on hold waiting for things to be different.

Lesson 3
Order of events: My run partner of many years decided to start a family and that changed our dynamic and made scheduling time together, much less any type of consistent training next to impossible. I took this harder than I would like to admit (what kind of  insecure bitch is jealous of an infant? RBR. That is what kind of insecure bitch) So I work hard to be flexible on scheduling time to be with my best friend and her son. (I even attended baby sign language with them for 6 weeks, where it was assumed, not for the first time, that I was the lesbian lover of my best friend. The instructor taught us the signs for 'gay', 'lesbian' and 'domestic partner'. Whatever. It might come in handy. You never know.) Then I got brave and got a new run partner, the recently introduced TNT Run Buddy. She was just diagnosed with a stress fracture and will be off running for 6-8 weeks. Awesome.

Her royal cuteness is TNT Run Buddy's dog, Winky. Shown here in her best sympathetic pose.

From this I learned... I don't fucking know. Possibly I am supposed to learn that I can be okay with me and my own thoughts, but I will tell you I am currently NOT ready to accept or learn that lesson. Very fucking frustrating. 

Another blog post with more sniveling. Sorry. I started therapy. Hopefully I will be less of an emo asshat soon.

I much prefer evil. It makes me feel like less of a whiny little bitch.

And because she is so damn cute and I would rather end on a high note... Lola at agility class

 She is the smallest dog by at least 50 pounds, and looks scarily similar to the squeak toys they use to rile up the other agility dogs, but look at that laser focus.

Looking for a Repairperson

I have recently discovered that my "Give a Fuck" is broken. Anyone know someone handy with that sort of thing?

Ok, maybe I did not discover this recently, per se, but as I mentioned my Give a Fuck is broken, therefore I did not really ... well.... give a fuck. But now I have noticed this lack of interest in life has crept into my work world and, frankly, I have a Starbuck's addiction and a high maintenance chihuahua to support and getting canned from my teaching job when I lack any other marketable skills seems, let's just say, ill advised.

 Andy Warhol Does Diva Dog

Probably the crux of the 'not giving a fuck' issue is that hubby is facing another health problem. It is one we knew about (actually diagnosed at the same time as the prostate cancer, but since the cancer was an aggressive form that took the forefront), but now after some not so perfect blood test results it is time to start dealing with that.

To say I am not excited about starting another medical saga is akin to saying Whitney Houston had "one too many" before deciding to slip into the tub, but it is not like you can opt to reschedule these shit storms.

I am sure I will cyber-vomit all about the specifics of this at some point, but I just cannot muster the energy to do it right now.

Running (You shocked I have been running? Me too.)

Since this is purportedly a running blog, I suppose I should give an update about that. I am currently training for San Luis Obispo Marathon on April 22 with Team in Training.

I am serving as a team mentor. I won't talk about much about Team in Training here as my blogging style (or really, my entire personality-style) is not really the wholesome, Disney-esque, do-gooder type that Team in Training usually attracts and I have no desire to sully the image of an organization that raises more money annually for cancer research than even the old uni-baller himself, Lance Armstrong ($850 million to $500 million annually respectively), but nonetheless it is what that I am doing. *shrugs* It is an endeavor ol' Beelzebub and I can laugh at when the time comes.

Beelzebub: Dude! Seriously? You thought that weak ass charity shit would offset the rest of your fucked up life decisions and keep you outta here?! HOO! That is rich!

RBR: *sitting permanently posted at the front of a flame filled classroom with unending rows of iPod clad teenagers who only look up from their text conversations long enough to say repeatedly, 'when will I EVER need to know this shit?' and 'This is so gay!' The later of which makes my head spin 360's before exploding*

*after my head regenerates* Whatever, Lord of the Flies, at least my name does not mean 'pile of shit'.

I also have a new run buddy. LA Run Buddy is still my best friend in all of the world, but new babies make things different. I am 42. This is not my first rodeo. Being the childless by choice friend of new moms is, to be frank, fucked up, but she is worth it and this little guy...

 MQ at the park

..has kind of stolen my heart. I still do not feel the need to own one of my very own, but he is pretty great ... [qualifier alert] for a baby.

Yes, yes, I am an asshole. We have covered that. Moving on.

Anyhoo... In the tradition of my super distinctive monikers, I shall dub my new run buddy, TNT Run Buddy (I considered 'New Run Buddy', but that was lame even for me). She hates distance running and I hate speedwork. Her job is to help me run faster at track practice and my job is to entertain her during long runs, so that she does not want to swallow her own tongue.

So far we have run up to 13 miles together and she has not leapt in front of traffic to get away from my constant chatter, but she is continually UNimpressed with my lack of anything resembling speedwork at track practice.

Whatever. At least I am running.

A Seriously Belated Race Report: Portland Marathon - October 9, 2011

 Stats*:

Total Distance: 26.85 miles (lot's of bobbing and weaving early on. Totally my fault, but I will get to that)
Total time: 5:42: whatever...like the seconds matter at that point. (Not a personal worst and I did not actually barf up a lung, so we are taking it as a 'win')
Total text messages sent from the course: 10 or 12 (there may have also been an email or two outlining the numerous reasons why this marathon was a remarkably BAD idea, how this would be the last motherfucking one of these things I do, and finally to whom to distribute my meager belongings as I certainly would not survive this, quote, "Goddamn sufferfest.")

*short for 'statistics', which this information really does not qualify as since 'statistics' implies there is some sort of analysis of the numerical data. Alrighty then,  for the statistical purists out there, here's some analysis: if you take the total time this run took and divide it by the total distance I traveled, you get a really, really fucking slow ass pace. Voila! Statistics!


Pre-Run

Originally when I signed up to do the Portland Marathon my Run Buddy (whom I have not run with for over 3 years) said she was going to train for and run it with me. However, not super surprisingly, she decided pretty early on in the training that a marathon is, indeed, a very, long fucking way and that she did not want to do that. What can I say? I am drawn to smart people.

Then LA Run Buddy, fresh off the endorphin rush of a 41 hour labor, said that she and her son, who would be at that point  five months old, would come up to Portland with me (For the record, I knew that was INSANE and that she was not going to be able to make it. I just let her say it. It is both cruel and futile to argue reality with a woman that just spent 41 hours of grueling labor to only end up being slashed open from stem to stern to remove the baby that obviously had NO intentions of coming out his own.)

Gratuitous picture of MQ aka the cutest baby on the planet!

Needless to say I headed up to Portland without any of my peeps. I was thinking, "This is not my first rodeo. I can run a damn marathon by myself." I was not super right about that, but fortunately I had a last minute pinch hitter that came out from Minnesota to cheer me on. That proved to be very much appreciated as this marathon has been renamed by me from the Portland Marathon to the Piss and Moan Marathon.

The Run 

The organizers of the Portland Marathon deemed that anyone that was going to take 6 hours or more to complete their course was a "Walker," which honestly I think is kind of bullshit because other than race walkers I dare anyone to walk a full marathon in 6-6:30 hours. Whatever.

Race day morning, I walked to what I am certain was Northern Seattle to join my peeps in corral W (FYI: The other corrals were labeled  A, B, C, D, and E. The  'W ' label seemed somewhat punitive and just to MAKE SURE that everyone knew you were  NOT, in the esteemed opinion of the Portland Marathon, a runner. Yeah, fuck you too, Portland) 

Helpful Marathon Tip: If you are a runner (albeit a slower than sloth snot runner) and you have been placed in the corral with the ALL of the walkers for a HUGE marathon, get your ass up to the front of the corral. I am so used to seeding myself in the back of the pack that I automatically did so and I spent at least  the first 4 miles weaving through and around bands of walkers stretched 5-6 people across, seemingly arm in arm.  *sigh* And really, I had no one to blame but myself. I was in their wave and had self-seeded in the very back.

Miles 0-5

Once our corral got in position for them to start us, it took me almost an additional 30 minutes to walk from my place in the corral to the start line. This should have been a clue to me that I was not positioned correctly in this wave, but I milled along in bovine-like bliss until I finally crossed the mat and then spent the next hour or so cursing all of humanity and internally screaming disparaging things about the size of people's asses in front of me that would have, and should have, gotten my very own fat ass summarily kicked had they been uttered aloud.

What I did not know is that this would probably be the most enjoyable part of my run.

Miles 6-11

Yawn.

Like, stab yourself in the pancreas to break the monotony type "Yawn."

Seriously, Portland, change this part of the course.  I hate to be critical of a race course, but I have to believe there are more interesting ways to carve out 26.2 miles in Portland. The HAS to be.

 This bus was stuck out in the middle of nowhere playing music trying to cheer runners up. Doesn't the man looking up stock quotes on his iPhone look "cheered" up? 

Miles 12-16

This section of the run, while not actually the most miserable, was definitely where there was the highest likelihood of  my quitting this run.

 Race walker that dropped me like a used condom at mile 14. Yeah, it stung a bit. 

I have yet to walk off a course, but I will tell you that out on the stretch between miles 13 and 16 I was texting my friend asking "Jesus Christ on a pony, I am only halfway? Just what the fuck do I have to prove? I have run 12 of these damn things!" And telling her I was almost at the point of offering passing motorists sexual favors for a ride back to the finish if she did not come get me.

She did not come get me.  

No motorists where propositioned. (To be fair, none stopped. I should have worn a cuter outfit. Lessons learned)

I kept running

well, running-ish.

Miles 17-23

Now, THIS this was the most miserable section of the run. There was a brief moment of happy at mile 17 as I got to run over a cool bridge, but for the most part this section was the type of misery most people associate with running marathons: It hurt, it was boring, I hated EVERYONE, and there was no end in sight.

 Cool bridge at Mile 17

At mile 19, there was the first on course food option. They had what appeared to be an 11 year old girl holding handfuls of pretzels out to runners. The poor little thing looked terrified as runner after starving runner practically gnawed off her fingers to get to the salty carbs.  For the record, I told her I loved her and that she was my favorite person in the universe. That did not creep her out AT ALL I assure you.

Some kind spectators (and I have to say that the neighborhoods the marathon ran through for miles 18-21 had some really kick ass spectators) were giving out candy corn. I usually hate candy corn, but at mile 18 of a miserable fucking marathon they were sweet, sweet ambrosia.

My only regret is that I had but a mere two hands with which to hold my cache of these tasty delights.

At mile 20, I texted my friend to say, "Sub 6 not going to happen. God help you if you do not have Starbuck's at the finish."

Aren't I a gem? She flew out from Minnesota for that kind of sweetness! 

Miles 23-26

If I keep moving forward eventually this damn thing will end.

At mile 25.5 ish I saw a Team in Training teammate who is possibly one of the most goodhearted people you would ever hope to meet. He had finished LONG before and was out cheering on people like my ungrateful ass.

My comment to him as he said, 'Looking strong. You are almost done..." or some such NOT helpful tripe:

"You! Standing there with your medal, all finished and shit, if you really want to help grab that balloon arch and move it closer! THAT would be helpful."

This was about the time when a, at the very least, 75 year old race walker (Yes, I said race walker. Fuckers haunted me at every turn at this damn race)  that I had been leap frogging with for the last 8 miles passed me for good. He said, "Gottcha, Girlie!" (It is not a well hidden secret that I am not above taunting and mocking people, young and old alike, in races . We had been bantering back and forth for miles now.)

I tipped my pink, Puma run hat to him and bid him adieu. There was no fight left in this dog. The septuagenarian had won. Possibly a new race low.

Wait, I was once beat by a one armed man in a triathlon swim... 75 year old race walker or one armed swimmer? Tough call.

Anyhoo.... I digress

Eventually, 5 hours and 42 minutes after I started this marathon I finally crossed the finish line. Once I was done. I was done.

 Finish line pic that a WAY bored MN Buddy took waiting FOREVER for me to finish. I think she was secretly convinced there was NO WAY it could take me more than 5 hours to finish and ended up waiting a long time. 

Usually after a marathon I feel pretty good. I am not really a "Leave it all out there on the course" kind of girl, so I was a little taken aback by the next course of events.

I kind of slept walked through the finishers corral with volunteers wrapping me in a mylar blanket, putting a medal on me, giving me a finishers shirt (nice touch), two additional medals in velvet pouches (WTF? Maybe nix the additional medal things and get some food on the course, just sayin'), I somehow had the wherewithal to grab some baby snickers off the food table (I really think that is an autonomic response for me, similar to breathing. See Snickers. Grab Snickers. Eat Snickers. No conscious control is needed) but as I meandered through the crowds I started to slow WAY down and feel somewhat not ok.

I called my Minnesota buddy and started whining about the location of my Starbucks. Then all of a sudden I had the overwhelming urge to sit down, which I did. On the curb. I was officially D.O.N.E with forward motion for a while. I realized I was bonking. Hard.

I ate the Snickers I had stuffed in my run bra. (Yes, I am the asshole that takes all the Snickers from a candy bowl leaving none for others. Sue me)

Then I felt all sparkly.

Then I was pretty sure I was going to throw up.

My buddy, getting worried, called me and I told her I was sitting on the curb at 3rd and Salmon and to please come get me (with the Starbucks of course). Fortunately, by the time she arrived I started feeling better and did not ask her to carry me back to the hotel, which frankly had crossed Princess RBR's mind. She did have coffee and I told her I loved her and asked her to marry me, which cracked up the lady who had also boycotted forward motion and was sitting next to me telling her husband on the phone where to come get her and that she would like a Starbucks. 

It was not my worst race time, nor was it the most undertrained I have gone into an event, but it was my worst attitude during a race and I was unhappy with myself about that.

I do this to have fun. I need to recapture the fun.

So what does one do after a particularly bad marathon? Well, if you are RBR,  you sign up for two more!

January 15, 2012 Redding Marathon

April 22, 2012 San Luis Obispo Marathon 

I have decided to end all posts with a Lola picture because she is fucking ADORABLE!