tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72065006650333641652024-03-05T15:00:18.304-05:00See Cindy Run ... Run, Cindy, Run!one girl's quest to outrun middle age in 26.2 miles.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-32595650233932151572011-08-16T11:50:00.013-04:002011-08-24T12:05:11.550-04:00I still have a full deck; I just shuffle slower now.
<br />I have no idea who said it, but for the sake of my blog I'll take credit.
<br />
<br />Could it be that I am - gasp! - getting slower?
<br />
<br />Let's all think back to 2009 when I was training for Nike with Babs and Elkin at my sides. Think about it. Think.
<br />
<br />Or just click on the links to the left that take you there.
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<br />I was all hopped up on a steady stream of first marathon juice. I felt lean, mean and fast. I did a fair amount of boasting about times and pace. We did our first mile test and I clocked a sub-7 minute pace. I.Was.On.Fire.
<br />
<br />(We'll skip over the whole "falling apart at mile 18 of the marathon and was a lot slower than I ultimately wanted" thing. Point is, I was faster in training).
<br />
<br />Fast forward to this summer's training. I knew Barb had been running a lot faster recently. My gazelle-like buddy had gotten speedier, which I saw Tuesday night after Tuesday night. So when it was time for the mile test again, Ramon broke us up into groups by speed. And I let Barb join the fastest group. She was the only woman in the pack, and natch, she blew the doors off them.
<br />
<br />Ramon kind of gave me a look as I put myself into the next group. Kind of a, "come on, you can do better than that" look. But I knew the fastest group would be too much for my abilities. Regardless, I ran hard per Ramon's instructions. Hardest effort my body could handle. I ran to the point of sheer exhaustion. Yet my fastest mile? Would only be 7:20. I was completely disheartened as the two mile repeats that followed were an abomination. A much slower 7:40, then a 7:55 mile. I was beat. And really super pissed off.
<br />
<br />So I've been trying desperately to pick apart why this has happened. Have I stopped running as hard? Did I pack on the el-bees these past few years? Did my legs get shorter? Did I stumble into some bad lighting?
<br />
<br />No, not really, not possible and as if!
<br />
<br />There was only one explanation. I'm 40.
<br />
<br />Ugh.
<br />
<br />Now mind you, I'm not the type to blame things on age. Listen, if they didn't want us to enjoy these years, they wouldn't make so many damned creams and potions (yay, Juviderm!) to make us look good. I also firmly believe that I am stronger now than I have ever been and will proudly challenge anyone to an arm wrestle over dinner. (What a lady).
<br />
<br />I've never regretted turning 40 (like I could do anything about it anyhow) and other than just those few times when I told people I was really 32 - okay, maybe 31 - I've embraced middle age. ("Middle age." I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.)
<br />
<br />Okay, so it was 29. Don't judge.
<br />
<br />Suddenly, Barb was much more than a mere ten years younger. I thought maybe now she'd have to find faster running buddies. There's nothing I'd hate more than to think I'm holding her back; luckily, Babs and I have a standing agreement that we will leave one another in a race in order to pursue our own goals. That pretty much means I see the Back of Babs for every race. It's never bothered me that she is clearly the faster of us and that I will most likely never come in ahead of her. I just always want to make sure I'm in the ballpark. And on those mile repeats? Forget the ballpark, I suddenly wasn't in the same league.
<br />
<br />We've started hill repeats now, which are really designed to make you stronger - and faster. I am one of the few who actually love hills, perhaps because you have a built-in excuse for going a bit slower. But after two weeks of repeats, I already feel my speed on the flats picking up just a bit. I don't think I'll speed up enough to catch Barb on Tuesday nights, but perhaps I'll get close enough to feel her draft.
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<br />To be continued.
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<br />Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-1515549353897410882011-08-07T20:58:00.021-04:002011-08-08T13:06:34.026-04:00This is my favorite race photo. Ever.<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklxk0krntlb3-h2aoCAZnHLIiD7Yd73f-rs1ZumQKZDsbV3X3fX0HkCpd09Kgshd31ZzZNQ1yS1v0AbJmH0AnYsPKh0oJsLK-HP25cpV78jMwkwlpdFHrrMEx0E5AY6eTJbeVMLcDG-Ds/s1600/cindy+good+close+up.jpg">
<br /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBNnH6HMYJImIGCvt88xreQmTMIkuJzE5NTNwuXRc2Vci4PKi3wiaVnLHw0TFZFchRIgkNBYnJFYP4rV-sA7_pogTbiGrVydoLSoYoJ49BuHraPKrKB2097VZeFZyjRZydk0YAG2lDb2l8/s400/cindy+smiling+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638284618672194402" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);">
<br /></span></div><div>And I'll tell you why, because it's not what you immediately see. Yes, I look super cute in my fluorescent green tee. Even more super cute with my name on my bib. Not why it's my favorite.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>And not even because I'm totally getting air, indicating my haul-assity at this point in the race.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Nope.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Look behind me. See that dude? The dude who is grinning like this is the most fun race of his life? That's a beer in his hand. No joke.
<br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></span>
<br />So last weekend I ran the 2nd half of the San Francisco Marathon. It was a bit spur of the moment; frankly, I'm almost at the next elite level at American and need like one more trip home, so this was all about the miles. When I booked a quick weekend home, I discovered it was also the marathon, so I registered. <div>
<br /></div><div>The website made it seem that the 2nd half - which started in Golden Gate Park, wound through the Haight and down to the Embarcadero - was less hilly than the 1st half, which went through the Presidio (uh, yeah - I will never forget that 2-mile long ramp of a hill) and over the Golden Gate Bridge. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>And then I got to the expo:</div><div>
<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpk32RwfrUnHCxUcNrpczm-9jbt2NvA5_CNeEA4dolvSG27VB7Ufcmu7HfHimD5r2K63KE3dc2AuWwZIdY3YKpTz5XisMELSCdRCxGyxTE8XARWBZLhN0aitGSgJT9EKlhUw5qXxdKJvd/s400/280765_10150271288839548_513839547_7398589_6471338_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288295420285090" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);">
<br /></span></div><div>Gulp!</div><div>
<br /></div><div>But no mind, I had a great weekend planned with family and friends. Stayed with mom, saw the boys. </div><div>
<br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXco-G8IRYbAHNxx8KPn5q-uAglRHjCBZ-luPImp3qrm5kcqfOZ6YVhp0DcrB7lkJGzLrPR_DuysjAjvksSLm1GSHiJMyy-nN0pH7arAs69BFx-GpwvZyu3gAoc2iWmwpvyfaDrdu2n3V/s400/286206_10150272074744548_513839547_7405709_5671209_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288735684865170" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px; color: rgb(0, 0, 238);" border="0" /></div><div>
<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZ7-PAuBTCVfSVqAq-TyBJGddO8YygbyhorynkGimPewFYQXlojtR_ooIbTJiPIRTmCIpkR9b8r52mSe7b844mvoRw2SO8hLjU_v6HExVobJn0OXYcYtjNhtJmrAFcLop1s0RE7GycLis/s400/2011-07-29_20-47-42_283.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288739233779890" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 226px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"> </span></div>And headed into the city to stay with Ken, who made me - get this - homemade pasta for a carb load. Next morning, I was on my way. <div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdR9e-lh1UkK9tgJ5uxhlNAgeOtN62bqDoUfROkMAl2-vy_wZLHjK_zTr0l46kZIyfEIZb-0raTPUi_fVQgH0U9Ef4rFFsZTVc4yDj9vIus43qfFLiF-sbw_wXI_QfRlejBFWaYzwfvkU0/s400/278038_10150272614284548_513839547_7412485_2090621_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288289290915202" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);">
<br /></span></div><div>Seriously, how cute are my arm warmers?</div><div>
<br /></div><div>But turns out, I didn't really need them. Temperature was perfect, despite what you see here:</div><div>
<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjszK49GNi1W51leToB0DQjj_O9an4ensxCzO3iC5jn7p2OHJtsFEiw5dVAZWrv05AhiOwkHsBcT9xrGXo46KuvRyODztZnT8pUEP9y-SbGOrOq8ZFsdi1122c7ZaSbwjegwvyEKslQtcOC/s400/280259_10150272648004548_513839547_7412923_5904372_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288294014549202" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);">
<br /></span></div><div>Do you see the heat lamps? Yes, I'm serious! Those are heat lamps! I mean, really, San Francisco? There is simply no reason for those in 60 degree weather. I felt tremendously badass all of a sudden, recalling the dead-of-winter-and-it's-15-degrees and-I-can't-feel-my-face runs. We New Yorkers know how to run with nothing but body heat. Well, pants, too.
<br /></div><div>
<br /></div><div>I resisted the urge to drop the p-word loudly. I thought that might be bad juju for the race start.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Speaking of which, we started in GG Park, right around the 14-mile mark for the full marathoners. I have to say that at mile 14 in any run, you're skirting the BMZ. (Bite Me Zone, for you See Cindy Run newbies). To then have 5,000 runners - all pumped up on starting line classics such as "Welcome to the Jungle" - suddenly merging with you, all fresh-legged - well, let's just say I would have completely understood had one of them punched me in the back of the head. I told myself I deserved it, should it suddenly happen. It didn't.
<br /></div><div>
<br /></div><div>But the run was completely awesome. Back to those hills. Website person? Liar, liar, pants on fire. Hills all over the place, and big ones at like miles 9 and 10. Regardless, I had a great time. And since the photographers got some of my best race photos ever, I'm going to show them off.
<br />
<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklxk0krntlb3-h2aoCAZnHLIiD7Yd73f-rs1ZumQKZDsbV3X3fX0HkCpd09Kgshd31ZzZNQ1yS1v0AbJmH0AnYsPKh0oJsLK-HP25cpV78jMwkwlpdFHrrMEx0E5AY6eTJbeVMLcDG-Ds/s400/cindy+good+close+up.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638284614792482674" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjHovQ1iUlBk01lMgpMGA2qeNxaaYKtyQqf44xDz5qqNDGuvwA4aZF98H96BcvnmtLluVX1huzdY8jG0tfXNbV2BXwm5Mw2HCCAOa7FMs_lU_y3mdKv1c6wOE67S3kX24hyphenhyphenAtrex-QINw/s400/cindy+tired+finish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638284626551563602" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" border="0" /></span></span></div>
<br />So back to the guy and the beer.
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<br />It's San Francisco, so any marathon that has a David Bowie cover band along the route:
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<br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVyGqImPLGVj9ifkDG7K-yuvkkrfGPgo3b70h7T0jE197jju7wC6aFugX5HJ7vDHVMKod8zwkj6bnPvS-N5pOZGDqfd7eGdzfppMdxu5vUpfB-F44y6Plnciu9C9dsvkVcxKaSmZUXbwdb/s400/288039_10150261493837721_159924542720_7915544_4735668_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638292131091713490" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" border="0" /></span></div>
<br />Is bound to have some great sights along the way.
<br />
<br />My favorite was a group of spectators dressed like devils. What else would the devil offer during a marathon, when your mental and physical strength should only be matched by the faith you have in yourself to finish it?<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUTkTQVBWJKb2oMy4AMTaNUNmZBFxtVBZiLiNQWkVuEeOCCWRGNthB2PMwmXRTxQOeiWaC9EcR6RLQwKNuEb8KvHbH4dv4Z38ALBdQO_X2J6Jw_nxNRfkFCCDOL1hOLvnlZ8Fhjx3ITGCi/s400/226072_2302472843579_1301957179_32807853_5798626_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638292125253850082" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" border="0" /></span></div>
<br />But not just beer. At some stations, they had shot glasses of Bloody Marys. And you all know how I love me some Bloody Mary. That one was hard to pass up.
<br />
<br />But they were also there at the end, as we rounded out mile 12. Holding signs like, "Come. Sit. It'll be nice." This time, however, the devils meant business. They were holding out entire cans of beer. I remember seeing a guy weave over, shrug his shoulders as if to say, "Hell, why not?" and take one.
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<br />(And the Lord sayeth to the Serpent: 'No sweat, he earned it.')
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<br />I remember digging this guy immediately and thinking to myself that here was a runner who had already accomplished something so great - and now he was having enough fun to not take the end so seriously. That was inspiring. So all the way to the finish, I tried it out, too. <div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKGdxuVth3k-FCCtQvaY3vH6eVnhmlLhGmHGqnckUsvgn_Vg76483Aw8U9bagD84ACwUvOFLg0mVdwSSOzVJ9_J-6ZLdCtFfHNnsn8GTuk5nAxry7BAKdQycbHpDvKiceDGwV4uXt-r2y2/s400/cindy+finish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638284603838784882" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-dS1dJm23GJ174wWW8WszmYRjKsM__bUxBbYqdyML2vgL9oNjNp4aRTbvDuW5bZTfqDPtoEbAE1rnBgBrZ5eNoVnVj5djDNT9UzbJaICRwpc-jMtKkZF_1qCwdM4p429UfqF-r-yGGC9p/s400/cindy+medal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638284612239573186" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);">
<br /></span></div><div>And when I got my pictures back, I was stoked that Mr. Budweiser was behind me. For as long as I look at that picture, I'll have a reminder of how much fun a marathon can be.
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<br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBNnH6HMYJImIGCvt88xreQmTMIkuJzE5NTNwuXRc2Vci4PKi3wiaVnLHw0TFZFchRIgkNBYnJFYP4rV-sA7_pogTbiGrVydoLSoYoJ49BuHraPKrKB2097VZeFZyjRZydk0YAG2lDb2l8/s400/cindy+smiling+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638284618672194402" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px;" border="0" /></span></div>
<br />No PR for me, but given the hills, I was more than content.
<br /></div>
<br /><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlme51-w-hcH1KnpfWFSO34StHNPLeLfl1YjG-N-vvzbI8-AUpVLsrmhPorT3szooCb5OvYz5EvhVEstaeAI3-sANI8xOcfCSHTntzzBkT_t5RkCuAXaafkgLVtYmgYwQ-lOZWxX-SNY4/s400/175782_10150272776559548_513839547_7414773_7119338_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638292124853090066" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" border="0" /></div>One of the first races where I didn't spend the rest of the day obsessing over my time. Instead, I spent the afternoon with about 20 friends and family at Pier 23.
<br /><div>
<br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIfVT4hkVdX37Qlsuj12XhGdUktbfZekaZ6mXinHhPWJ_AGhr0Iw7k06buznZAy-Obxfa5W2a7U8lBA5wczX61QZwAFW_jByqGR1hkAav4ZhFdiRFEdW1gEqkOvD2u_H41IvWXIQ0Jrog/s400/279964_10150272955014548_513839547_7417853_5372784_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288288684505362" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" border="0" /></div><div>
<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGoC_eAO7CTp81OtMlFgUC5cpFRWWKb0bX4LfhS9Euo_T-kgwfL-FJjIlCt-D9vU8UrlcANgTZQl2pmGv3inTSYa9sqDpjiRcR8smKV8Pph0ZH0KIoyCvXmZDC1TgXTAVRdl2MCg74F36a/s400/282120_257046520975305_100000098767570_1137202_6555508_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288298049448674" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8xV1D4dK8O12ofXCd-jsm9NQWX8n-0hNWIjAKA_c46l0283Nh6ZjyJ_0NR8SL6pfji4VRM4mBRYNmYKImCixwHGlOu40DMq4gvOlKTip64ib27IcZ4tWqpz3tqOsJylZKxowgzsn9sgH/s400/2011-07-31_12-49-12_116.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288744946601250" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 226px;" border="0" /></span></span></div>
<br />How fitting that Kerry sent me this today:
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<br /><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33TGWnodcbA2Dh3KqbaaofCBlCrHSD8tsaVT0CoydckqwksG0385BtcU0AD_6BbyFWMQGPSdnFePBRgdXTSMrhHpqaKL1gHz_0n9yyPj7M9G-27ixDTV8FK7_7FagKvtI7e7WwV6p5ePr/s400/photo1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638288740667234818" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 358px; height: 353px;" border="0" /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">
<br /></span></span>Yep, the 26.2 is for fun.
<br />
<br />(Well that, and fundraising for cancer research. Yes! It's a shameless plug! And if you haven't visited my <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><a href="http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/DetermiNation/DNFY11National?px=21886445&pg=personal&fr_id=34789">ACS page</a>, </span></span>do it now. Now.)
<br />
<br />I've decided that the next time I'm struggling on a run, I'll envision myself with a beer in my hand, smile on my face, photographer in front of me. Nice cap on a fun and fulfilling weekend. And now I'm only about 800 miles from platinum status.
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<br /></span></span></div><div></div><div></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-79371593539619125802011-07-24T16:09:00.018-04:002011-07-28T16:01:38.787-04:00Remember me?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVkgoS8g9mZ7Zwemufxk_x_uJSzGKUonODProMOjYtm7UQFym15UiWhjD9Anvgv-H-3yhk4aYJNMHcBoHSSiNRq1gDf9qDQERJKYyZP_1GyWpoRtljfeF5qYQFNhAye4bdBRjBCXCWRnB/s1600/cindy+wine.JPG"><br /></a>I'm the one who used to post funny things about running. Sometimes not "funny ha-ha" but "funny sad and pathetic poor girl who thinks she's actually a runner."<div><br /></div><div>In any event, I haven't felt too funny as of late, which is why you haven't heard from me. Before you all worry (hi, Tina!), I'm healthy, Mike's healthy, we're still married and both gainfully employed. </div><div><br /></div><div>More importantly, I'm still running.</div><div><br /></div><div>To bring you up to date, in the past nine months that I've neglected you, dear readers, I've run three half-marathons:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIUWJZoVT1t-ktetmbVvMnc-pUI-1D2o5D3j7QB8b_69RiBNtwj1Zk1w1TbyC0hEH5Oi6yKT3o5Gj4rcCKu2udCK1vx41Gqf3CHRh7-AVoEdedDxH3NnRxbSprqzmh5_mW2nDMmfPPVug/s1600/babs+cait+cindy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIUWJZoVT1t-ktetmbVvMnc-pUI-1D2o5D3j7QB8b_69RiBNtwj1Zk1w1TbyC0hEH5Oi6yKT3o5Gj4rcCKu2udCK1vx41Gqf3CHRh7-AVoEdedDxH3NnRxbSprqzmh5_mW2nDMmfPPVug/s400/babs+cait+cindy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634236702611158002" border="0" /></a><br />1) New Orleans with Babs and Caitlin. Caitlin's 2nd half ever and she killed it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_A8m7G9JpTwHPqoxVkfWndsXdmkQgs6iwwQJucjyjo2vWAUq3m48RugulJZOsGSskf8ZjY68h2Wa6lZaV-eRXiaoD2NsE5YUML7hyphenhyphendiEC6VimxosscAOa_ENUbAxqa3tan-bVZUSt7r7w/s1600/cindy+cait+babs+medals.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_A8m7G9JpTwHPqoxVkfWndsXdmkQgs6iwwQJucjyjo2vWAUq3m48RugulJZOsGSskf8ZjY68h2Wa6lZaV-eRXiaoD2NsE5YUML7hyphenhyphendiEC6VimxosscAOa_ENUbAxqa3tan-bVZUSt7r7w/s400/cindy+cait+babs+medals.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634236719888997234" border="0" /></a><br />Obvi, since it was New Orleans, we were running simply to get to the end to get to Pat O'Brien's for hurricanes. It also happened to be Cait's birthday, which explains the feather boa. Actually, I've seen her wearing it around town, so maybe not.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdOH_mO-NlO6I2CFBQogJ8a3sNrQFTO1MrJREg1IRJPbN3l9kppC3gX9qxlfWY0IwIO92oyeO9nIe0v2L5Nm1-LTvdUPwZH-Lz-wJrV11wyGRseBQuUaKQhb1F5OSCR2n_tQhf-JSJSw5/s1600/cindy+hurricane.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdOH_mO-NlO6I2CFBQogJ8a3sNrQFTO1MrJREg1IRJPbN3l9kppC3gX9qxlfWY0IwIO92oyeO9nIe0v2L5Nm1-LTvdUPwZH-Lz-wJrV11wyGRseBQuUaKQhb1F5OSCR2n_tQhf-JSJSw5/s400/cindy+hurricane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634237158921221074" border="0" /></a><br />I was not the only person drinking this hurricane. There were two of us.<br /><br />2) Brooklyn - and oh-em-gee did Babs and I kill-slash-hate this race. You're supposed to be stoked when you PR:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidd3ex8BU3ea0kC66p-aHHs1yTytChUC52ClVI95sXuaW3HZ4wo6z_INHhYpZSidr3kL4E9XXeEgCXG6mL1TKfwn100PTy1hvyA8z893QFG7h6i2aKrWtn7y-QiTNy_jSl7K26YPR5Gbvo/s1600/cindy+babs+bklyn.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidd3ex8BU3ea0kC66p-aHHs1yTytChUC52ClVI95sXuaW3HZ4wo6z_INHhYpZSidr3kL4E9XXeEgCXG6mL1TKfwn100PTy1hvyA8z893QFG7h6i2aKrWtn7y-QiTNy_jSl7K26YPR5Gbvo/s400/cindy+babs+bklyn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634236704092938514" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidA1jhI8AKv2WjQGQCFaAhP-rAmITnk-wPNiUOto0m0nH3HWI2HnTjUaRdjU9PESyFCWTwB6UHSnz1hvMUbMfLzzXGnq0mRD_QHI2N-PUVGkY5rXhj4BpEgZsaBD24qYqTqyysy1uxuVds/s1600/cindy+bklyn.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidA1jhI8AKv2WjQGQCFaAhP-rAmITnk-wPNiUOto0m0nH3HWI2HnTjUaRdjU9PESyFCWTwB6UHSnz1hvMUbMfLzzXGnq0mRD_QHI2N-PUVGkY5rXhj4BpEgZsaBD24qYqTqyysy1uxuVds/s400/cindy+bklyn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634236715426432370" border="0" /></a><br />But this race blew. As in the last 6 miles were totally flat, in the beating sun and with not.one.turn. Regardless, I posted my best half time ever, as did Babs. And we got to celebrate the finish at Coney Island with the one and only Javi!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngNFgritD_o56Yy-lYBKch6iQysy6MF392kGi2Yu81zrRqcBlTM9Nmy4eDEvHDktFLxeh2UTyNqqoXsjKUAD7ASlYdUDfv8ki6oWetO5zaIBwnYpD-J7RZ34xCpHxA98mT-ZpMvdIOHY8/s1600/cindy+babs+javi+bklyn.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngNFgritD_o56Yy-lYBKch6iQysy6MF392kGi2Yu81zrRqcBlTM9Nmy4eDEvHDktFLxeh2UTyNqqoXsjKUAD7ASlYdUDfv8ki6oWetO5zaIBwnYpD-J7RZ34xCpHxA98mT-ZpMvdIOHY8/s400/cindy+babs+javi+bklyn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634237994078253874" border="0" /></a><br />And 3) ... oh yes, there will be wine.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVkgoS8g9mZ7Zwemufxk_x_uJSzGKUonODProMOjYtm7UQFym15UiWhjD9Anvgv-H-3yhk4aYJNMHcBoHSSiNRq1gDf9qDQERJKYyZP_1GyWpoRtljfeF5qYQFNhAye4bdBRjBCXCWRnB/s1600/cindy+wine.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVkgoS8g9mZ7Zwemufxk_x_uJSzGKUonODProMOjYtm7UQFym15UiWhjD9Anvgv-H-3yhk4aYJNMHcBoHSSiNRq1gDf9qDQERJKYyZP_1GyWpoRtljfeF5qYQFNhAye4bdBRjBCXCWRnB/s400/cindy+wine.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634477498486826722" border="0" /></a><br />Remember my wine country half last summer with Kerry and the girls? One of my most favorite weekends ever. So I ran another race by the same company, only this one was in Northern Virginia. Who knew about the wineries? I was always there for the in-laws and close proximity to Our Nation's Capital. Score! Now there's a bonus!<br /><br />Great hilly race with a super cool bottle stopper medal:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7rck8HsWp3jY3i0g0FU6m3VtS6rIS3vpF7YPJYMmi1_5V2Pz5DXDxuHHAPueFtcEYnxaaKwGMZ4E6rsaBJb_K1uVxu94rWfOTV-ufndqSHzWZ_2glCGl6XtNsZMO_hdnMjo6y-B9wXRaG/s1600/cindy+va+wine.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7rck8HsWp3jY3i0g0FU6m3VtS6rIS3vpF7YPJYMmi1_5V2Pz5DXDxuHHAPueFtcEYnxaaKwGMZ4E6rsaBJb_K1uVxu94rWfOTV-ufndqSHzWZ_2glCGl6XtNsZMO_hdnMjo6y-B9wXRaG/s400/cindy+va+wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634237990810007650" border="0" /></a><br />In other news, I also turned 40.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rudvSjemQ8sdCItZO8ureFdDPDx9SE2FwrU54ZnQuaWGvY5Qv1ewOqV4v5jJKtUNqXcFSBX1ZukgoysTs8CYgXGf-n3N9dOJuZoqx2xhDzWTZ8d3BU1i1oOFJSNQVj1kKyg1VJZZEVHf/s1600/cindy+40.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rudvSjemQ8sdCItZO8ureFdDPDx9SE2FwrU54ZnQuaWGvY5Qv1ewOqV4v5jJKtUNqXcFSBX1ZukgoysTs8CYgXGf-n3N9dOJuZoqx2xhDzWTZ8d3BU1i1oOFJSNQVj1kKyg1VJZZEVHf/s400/cindy+40.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634236705168536530" border="0" /></a><br />Yep, my super-sadistic mother brought my mail to my Vegas celebration, which included an application from AARP. I'm also fairly certain I was older than the Elvis who showed up:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IIjljdxSgF8_s-6Xxbm0kswAhftcqdUYVFYQd2hfloMAdZyQDSjF__iUjM5UBSVtxiJjKXvhhpUaXt1qDsPdIbMswywaw0pHh_xhQXPnybpfG-q1kgScpYGJBMh5aobcGyzZZNRDogGS/s1600/cindy+elvis.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IIjljdxSgF8_s-6Xxbm0kswAhftcqdUYVFYQd2hfloMAdZyQDSjF__iUjM5UBSVtxiJjKXvhhpUaXt1qDsPdIbMswywaw0pHh_xhQXPnybpfG-q1kgScpYGJBMh5aobcGyzZZNRDogGS/s400/cindy+elvis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634237151729485554" border="0" /></a><br />And you tell me if you think any of these gals look a day over 28. My BFF's keep well. And we had a tremendously fun celebration in Sin City:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKVQHwb6PA0uNv0DeBWumtUwuhwZ2SqMSYAB0VmjotOHwBoXMWIKyMm5yq5ZxFxcEXFsd7TVad-PfyWMOTOvVoe4Do6CN0Ktk4D5gt9-d2serwm7qAYOzZwey6RkridGG8AX27zGcrDlXf/s1600/cindy+girls+40.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKVQHwb6PA0uNv0DeBWumtUwuhwZ2SqMSYAB0VmjotOHwBoXMWIKyMm5yq5ZxFxcEXFsd7TVad-PfyWMOTOvVoe4Do6CN0Ktk4D5gt9-d2serwm7qAYOzZwey6RkridGG8AX27zGcrDlXf/s400/cindy+girls+40.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634237157868327794" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Another thing I did? Drag a couple of friends into the running fold. Because, really, this is a cult and I am constantly trying to recruit. Hide your wives, hide your kids. Cindy's coming.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOxkt03zlyYsGPOJAxIrFeloSCd3ykY2ytnq-6WZhKCEmKfBcVmsfLKU314ac5m1gjjRjJEXXz8NbMDQhlw5xsP563f5rPZAIwF83pXjWmTBDTWt3r10ICn1KvmmXS1uSsfSMitR9ooIR/s1600/cindy+claudie.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOxkt03zlyYsGPOJAxIrFeloSCd3ykY2ytnq-6WZhKCEmKfBcVmsfLKU314ac5m1gjjRjJEXXz8NbMDQhlw5xsP563f5rPZAIwF83pXjWmTBDTWt3r10ICn1KvmmXS1uSsfSMitR9ooIR/s400/cindy+claudie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634237150877564290" border="0" /></a><br />Claudie and I ran a 5K in Baltimore - her first race ever. She had been hearing me talking for so long about running that she finally wanted to see what all the fuss was about. How'd she do?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACj8bOSyUjaCcBbD6IJ9xBbrT7-J7_LXdFHMmoLGmwzayUJCpBvZFCoArhr3pzDxTK8mJZz8EHEqlXXiAK2ZDhvOSIZFcTKRGORHMAhPF6DeEAYDGTuML33yj6vkQhPoHHYIV0PgukosF/s1600/cindy+claudie+jenna.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACj8bOSyUjaCcBbD6IJ9xBbrT7-J7_LXdFHMmoLGmwzayUJCpBvZFCoArhr3pzDxTK8mJZz8EHEqlXXiAK2ZDhvOSIZFcTKRGORHMAhPF6DeEAYDGTuML33yj6vkQhPoHHYIV0PgukosF/s400/cindy+claudie+jenna.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634237145826986706" border="0" /></a><br />Liked it enough to then join Jenna a few weeks later at <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span> first race ever.<br /><br />Here's a good place for an observation: I get a lot of satisfaction from seeing happy faces over the finish line. I also like to think that I'm a decent coach (one of the many benefits of being a control freak) and have a lot of knowledge to pass along.<br /><br />But at the risk of sounding self-centered (Hello? Is this a blog? About me? Named after me?), it was tough to not run at race pace. Don't get me wrong - I enjoyed telling the girls how to best tackle a hill or sprint to the finish. And I loved crossing Claudie's first finish line, hand in hand with her. But at some point, I may or may not have wanted to ditch them and see if I could still make a PR.<br /><br />Whatever. Don't judge me.<br /><br />=================<br /><br />All in all, a great 2011 so far. But I'd like to think the best is yet to come. As in November 6th. The New York Marathon.<br /><br />Oh yes, that one.<br /><br />You all remember how training for Chicago totally kicked my ass last summer. The summer before that? My first marathon, which meant those double-digit runs that I had never done before rendered me useless for the remainder of the weekend.<br /><br />I'd like to think I'm a smarter runner now. So I did what every smart runner does.<br /><br />I got Ramon.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicUfC3zUtrmWeirjW7zrUvb-1GvwsSqnXO6_NjM76p_ZpVwkkrdIL2fr4uJomy19JrV7UZQ5z8wWey-11OG-NRWkp7LmFW105842D4UoBjQ9zKghGB5SWFbSfAb8L8Z5NkVJR83_OtDXxJ/s1600/cindy+babs+ramon.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicUfC3zUtrmWeirjW7zrUvb-1GvwsSqnXO6_NjM76p_ZpVwkkrdIL2fr4uJomy19JrV7UZQ5z8wWey-11OG-NRWkp7LmFW105842D4UoBjQ9zKghGB5SWFbSfAb8L8Z5NkVJR83_OtDXxJ/s400/cindy+babs+ramon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634493150890418178" border="0" /></a><br />Babs and I have teamed up with American Cancer Society's DetermiNation team, coached by that crazy Spaniard whose sentences I can only decipher about 23% of the time. Not only am I running with my best gal at my side, but we're raising money for cancer research. As you remember, our first marathon with Ramon was also with Team In Training. Hell, if you're going to run 26.2 miles, you may as well stand for something while you're doing it. I have the most inspirational coach out there. I just wish I could understand what he says.<br /><br />In any event, please check back as I move through my summer training with ACS. And if you feel so inclined, visit my <a href="http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/DetermiNation/DNFY11National?px=21886445&pg=personal&fr_id=34789">fundraising page</a> and donate. Or visit my fundraising page and say something catty about what I'm wearing in my latest race picture. I enjoy that, too.<br /><br />Nice to see you again.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-86139834329270132982010-10-12T00:15:00.044-04:002010-10-23T16:16:09.103-04:00I finished Chicago! So wait. Why am I so damned disappointed?<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Okay, first my apologies on the late post-mortem. I didn't want to post this until I had proper pictures to represent this crazy October morning, which meant waiting nearly two weeks for the official photos. Um, hello? Marathon people? Don't you know I have a blog to update?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But about that. I’ve spent the week or so oscillating between euphoria over finishing my second marathon and dejection in not finishing it in the time I had hoped - and trained - for.</div><p class="MsoNormal">Okay, first the good: Yes, I did it!<span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6uW4o2OaDzyhf5dB94OAwWPLUp3IkJ5Ru55EsVwkNiJhA8lmo7wLfOmzkn7R95wJ9u2WsANfxIqczfsVyNQVsi6bWrfcFi4p-QX1qHwI_3Z9g7cgD1JFTBOOSILzBSq_94fbpGmgytrP0/s400/marathon3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322194868927554" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px; " /></span></p><div>I loved the course, loved the crowd even more.<span style=""> </span>I will undoubtedly be back to run Chicago again, I loved it so much. The good citizens of Chicago are my new BFFs for sure.</div> <p class="MsoNormal">And really, the whole weekend was fairly awesome.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qlSxhaU_2E68dlXU9EJJzTcbSgFR2T4mUvXoB0_Kiq0NRafs9nZPMueMuRr7XNGVCxC9dt2Y8CNtSevSe5Eq5_Ih_pVHbDec2CiZ3n3UkvB2ZEpr__92fYtTPuuCKIedGGOo8w1GtnXV/s1600/chicago!+013.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qlSxhaU_2E68dlXU9EJJzTcbSgFR2T4mUvXoB0_Kiq0NRafs9nZPMueMuRr7XNGVCxC9dt2Y8CNtSevSe5Eq5_Ih_pVHbDec2CiZ3n3UkvB2ZEpr__92fYtTPuuCKIedGGOo8w1GtnXV/s400/chicago!+013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262264582039234" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJQp11nhLbOI8iOxJqFwoc0n2rZAvSOciPMYPAlAqL9TWNhxMI-D0PfRZcZiIkXNFOZXbc-4cLSTbPBAhMyYgbYxUcPuX3haiWuu0ztPY7E05HMMKaYQjXmxBhkATC6HvFcIl3_iSdDP2/s1600/IMG00234-20101008-1738(2).jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJQp11nhLbOI8iOxJqFwoc0n2rZAvSOciPMYPAlAqL9TWNhxMI-D0PfRZcZiIkXNFOZXbc-4cLSTbPBAhMyYgbYxUcPuX3haiWuu0ztPY7E05HMMKaYQjXmxBhkATC6HvFcIl3_iSdDP2/s400/IMG00234-20101008-1738(2).jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272472260002450" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_sY6jtTzGAfDFvJXCzc95kTUISnsmZkzUY1mR5a3zEDfr7Kzn2EKnD1z0I7nWErtsApXi83WaLctHTDR3YSUdfrt3n_xT8FYq3Pw3UygcMkRM2KNqAdYmCA8A-K3soFQbQUdp70UwBO_7/s1600/IMG_4377.JPG"></a><p class="MsoNormal">Mike and I hit the expo on Friday.<span style=""> </span>Mike is My Biggest Cheerleader, which means he must take pictures of me. Every. Nine. Minutes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Afa0tY0e5RW6cv2LPfv7knEcOCdzw_TopAJU6vhsTaw8JwMFFpIBUEAFELvDKL3qbd0gnmDDe3h0ckFKfIN2tNGZE54nYHiqdDQsPz9OtGnHp0AB8BUO64-Mq2yRCiQw_caZ9oGU-OK-/s1600/IMG_4374.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Afa0tY0e5RW6cv2LPfv7knEcOCdzw_TopAJU6vhsTaw8JwMFFpIBUEAFELvDKL3qbd0gnmDDe3h0ckFKfIN2tNGZE54nYHiqdDQsPz9OtGnHp0AB8BUO64-Mq2yRCiQw_caZ9oGU-OK-/s400/IMG_4374.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527010957808901250" border="0" /></a></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbpzgCD_RsiMHmVqhTXRPRXCpN74C7NirmTnC6GeLpfX1P5xEzMnoN9EQoVzbEwbI111mJztH7ceOE9862cw89YxREl8PakfPUAo3dSduMPq9GWl5molGfp4Vcao8M8MR5wey9a9ZtBoN/s1600/IMG_4376.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRbpzgCD_RsiMHmVqhTXRPRXCpN74C7NirmTnC6GeLpfX1P5xEzMnoN9EQoVzbEwbI111mJztH7ceOE9862cw89YxREl8PakfPUAo3dSduMPq9GWl5molGfp4Vcao8M8MR5wey9a9ZtBoN/s400/IMG_4376.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527011322164702530" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-7ovH3Hvi6jMLSKENUoOLrVaOAoawnbTtHtLIp9Q02tYmr86fYfHK7I6SXULubV9LEFt5zS4WxsxvccQeTWTBXVL17e-BanZZlaya1FqDnu12CG3JymbTFTcTE3skHiDBGYBdVuPVy5V/s1600/chicago!+012.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-7ovH3Hvi6jMLSKENUoOLrVaOAoawnbTtHtLIp9Q02tYmr86fYfHK7I6SXULubV9LEFt5zS4WxsxvccQeTWTBXVL17e-BanZZlaya1FqDnu12CG3JymbTFTcTE3skHiDBGYBdVuPVy5V/s400/chicago!+012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262253478829330" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">I loved this. <span style=""> </span>I tried to bribe the kid on the 0 to move, but alas, 3-year-olds don’t seem to want to be paid off in Gu.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ryan Hall was there greeting the crowd:<span style=""></span><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4p6Ii1m3gkEiBfK2iLPJXwF6koLatMthENH2B1lXPVQe9cqNLiV_DATfVy720sIrOd81CbsO9oaXKfDogmsiji2S0Sp8iSe1UBSxz8MEUPhkHhfy3nHWjanBY-y9TD31SzuBtm-K0hR1R/s1600/IMG_4379.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4p6Ii1m3gkEiBfK2iLPJXwF6koLatMthENH2B1lXPVQe9cqNLiV_DATfVy720sIrOd81CbsO9oaXKfDogmsiji2S0Sp8iSe1UBSxz8MEUPhkHhfy3nHWjanBY-y9TD31SzuBtm-K0hR1R/s400/IMG_4379.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527011329544615538" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">“Who?” you ask?<span style=""> </span>Yeah, really, unless you’re a runner or someone who doesn’t run but follows running (really, who are <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span>? That’s just weird) you might not know who he is.<span style=""> Um, </span>only the biggest rock star in marathoning, duh!<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Turns out Ryan had dropped out of Chicago just a week earlier due to what he said was being undertrained. Slacker.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Friday night Mike and I met Andrew and Leslie for dinner near the hotel, and in keeping with my plan to eat bland carb-loading food before Sunday, we chose a Latin-Indian joint known for its spicy dishes.<span style=""> </span>Nothing says marathon training like sweating your ass off through chicken korma and lamb chimichurri. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4btyA7BMq2BZgLuWoYdx4pkcNsR9cIYC17lok-yAZUn8A55Yf_gyv7GbabQkS-UwTb3iph-KPcakYYYwNhY39POTVZMzGooypHSiGgIqAVQruBFUyJrSGZYBpqlmoJYaOfmX5gcBC5_YU/s1600/chicago!+018.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4btyA7BMq2BZgLuWoYdx4pkcNsR9cIYC17lok-yAZUn8A55Yf_gyv7GbabQkS-UwTb3iph-KPcakYYYwNhY39POTVZMzGooypHSiGgIqAVQruBFUyJrSGZYBpqlmoJYaOfmX5gcBC5_YU/s400/chicago!+018.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262266779308674" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Saturday morning I took a short run to Navy Pier ...<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqMSzYLMRoejtLrys4RoN8ZvS8WaNMGZ-1k7uvffmn_Onam10JCT3uEtDsiYitak-qEjRqEuq09gsB_dujg9Xi7vbk3WoY4d5HkHd9EWf4tGPRVsruTg5mcE6KI3633CreDl_7KmtI9FQ/s1600/IMG00238-20101009-1210.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqMSzYLMRoejtLrys4RoN8ZvS8WaNMGZ-1k7uvffmn_Onam10JCT3uEtDsiYitak-qEjRqEuq09gsB_dujg9Xi7vbk3WoY4d5HkHd9EWf4tGPRVsruTg5mcE6KI3633CreDl_7KmtI9FQ/s400/IMG00238-20101009-1210.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272461098393010" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">... and Mike and I carb-loaded.<span style=""> </span>Yes, Mike carb loads, too.<span style=""> </span>Do you know how much effort it takes to follow someone running a marathon so you can take endless pictures of her?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I felt the omelet wasn’t going to be enough, so to be safe I also ordered pancakes, potatoes, an English muffin and blueberries. Nope, Michael Phelps was not with us.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EkPyDCMveYZQCq1aZWy-m4qX_bxaa8rzJeXbnePCsujEIrEEfMF37YdfuJ1Zg84lCN_OvQU_qOphYg7mwZRC_gbfrp9lScIA-stTFdbXmqd-_nZi6FVTR1cP-QwNLZMaJKk991pLpTWr/s1600/IMG00236-20101009-1101.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EkPyDCMveYZQCq1aZWy-m4qX_bxaa8rzJeXbnePCsujEIrEEfMF37YdfuJ1Zg84lCN_OvQU_qOphYg7mwZRC_gbfrp9lScIA-stTFdbXmqd-_nZi6FVTR1cP-QwNLZMaJKk991pLpTWr/s400/IMG00236-20101009-1101.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272455596571538" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then, we just took in some of Chicago’s beautiful sights.</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHIpTQaTgxt6gDMi-Cte6nnIKSVqe-gjfN6n6wJYEGjWFEf3NXPmHGdMb8exmu-l1EOOZ5hIuTLNLuja9aZAM71JGfbFTI5KpLuB8rvtWpmOlpnmsrNqTbUL4WPZ7y0kX_lGxDSdahUqw/s1600/chicago!+023.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHIpTQaTgxt6gDMi-Cte6nnIKSVqe-gjfN6n6wJYEGjWFEf3NXPmHGdMb8exmu-l1EOOZ5hIuTLNLuja9aZAM71JGfbFTI5KpLuB8rvtWpmOlpnmsrNqTbUL4WPZ7y0kX_lGxDSdahUqw/s400/chicago!+023.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262284902692274" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcO6suYurMHFfZjIKQk623v1NzvsZXIYtP2w8rdkWB3z_VItPc4EIER97w-AUVogBLq7E3rqyGpMRT6nrD9eRzkjxrt0ZSZayH0imSd8JBOTxVlknCyxeB719wAG_U0f_6dQlAIxZkWCq/s1600/chicago!+020.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcO6suYurMHFfZjIKQk623v1NzvsZXIYtP2w8rdkWB3z_VItPc4EIER97w-AUVogBLq7E3rqyGpMRT6nrD9eRzkjxrt0ZSZayH0imSd8JBOTxVlknCyxeB719wAG_U0f_6dQlAIxZkWCq/s400/chicago!+020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262270361047762" border="0" /></a></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFyr-uhjd8oA2xdQZq2mnfbUWhsinwPjJUXyog65ROs5VGMcgC_9hWhft8WuZZQ3Y0nrCxtVCerVQqx7nRS5gA7RQW0-Z9P1-AJCeBIQY7urUZ649Xe7PJkmlOPqjd7ButAcS2JU3R4FX/s1600/chicago!+027.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivFyr-uhjd8oA2xdQZq2mnfbUWhsinwPjJUXyog65ROs5VGMcgC_9hWhft8WuZZQ3Y0nrCxtVCerVQqx7nRS5gA7RQW0-Z9P1-AJCeBIQY7urUZ649Xe7PJkmlOPqjd7ButAcS2JU3R4FX/s400/chicago!+027.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262594945672962" border="0" /></a>Super cute shirt, right? Any other weekend, I would have been stoked to be wandering around in just a t-shirt and shorts in mid-October.<span style=""> </span>But not a day before a marathon.<span style=""> </span>I was getting nervous.<span style=""> </span>It was too hot.<span style=""> </span>And Sunday was on tap to be hotter. <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Saturday night we met Andrew and Leslie and their friend Rachel for drinks on the terrace of our hotel before heading to Osteria Via Stato for pasta. Highly recommended, btw.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsGhu3NClDAKVT-LMi8G4xt00UMAMoh5mIR5pLKRPGQ7sJN5RJqlTPUNGFSaC4xamrlcaZHxMASzzpKuw1KD-K8bD5TK61dSD-pHD46mFnPCJpJqe3DVG_KBhGMzHM9xgbvFPHEv5KBZs/s1600/chicago!+035.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTsGhu3NClDAKVT-LMi8G4xt00UMAMoh5mIR5pLKRPGQ7sJN5RJqlTPUNGFSaC4xamrlcaZHxMASzzpKuw1KD-K8bD5TK61dSD-pHD46mFnPCJpJqe3DVG_KBhGMzHM9xgbvFPHEv5KBZs/s400/chicago!+035.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262597875213426" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfeoqcAmlAuD1AuCWBdpXbYc0wMu77MTELrmyBOjSai3Re6dav7gRby6WWQEHJA_6VI4A3sYDws9uH1sB3q8QGxhpX03o3GQiJFGr1kyUKIV20lkZEP7_FChEqdgUx5N2G2roQH4fbawYe/s1600/chicago!+038.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfeoqcAmlAuD1AuCWBdpXbYc0wMu77MTELrmyBOjSai3Re6dav7gRby6WWQEHJA_6VI4A3sYDws9uH1sB3q8QGxhpX03o3GQiJFGr1kyUKIV20lkZEP7_FChEqdgUx5N2G2roQH4fbawYe/s400/chicago!+038.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262604037658306" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhh9TG3nDbxnct3yoRRY7e89l8nJU6p3TuJrLuTqrIlIBgIYzBshs5o5TQXHgnkUIJ5lDc-vM1DCIJwiUW7taSfNEcO_QSimVoiX3qvDtwBONi3g6lYOw9XicxEJzB7927MPLcQRVZNPQh/s1600/chicago!+039.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhh9TG3nDbxnct3yoRRY7e89l8nJU6p3TuJrLuTqrIlIBgIYzBshs5o5TQXHgnkUIJ5lDc-vM1DCIJwiUW7taSfNEcO_QSimVoiX3qvDtwBONi3g6lYOw9XicxEJzB7927MPLcQRVZNPQh/s400/chicago!+039.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527262606445241090" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">4:30 AM Sunday.<span style=""> </span>I’m up!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FlbGoMnNkdUuqb3E1_zKnhlpYj3x8QKrLzsqSTc-O91MR4SV92JkhqPd6ldUppNGcvf0Z7tEsWZuHe-_u2c7ow4mm-3WsGx94FyALZ02k9SM154VnnHLC85tpsfIwd0zGeIFN7HP0s2N/s1600/chicago!+042.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FlbGoMnNkdUuqb3E1_zKnhlpYj3x8QKrLzsqSTc-O91MR4SV92JkhqPd6ldUppNGcvf0Z7tEsWZuHe-_u2c7ow4mm-3WsGx94FyALZ02k9SM154VnnHLC85tpsfIwd0zGeIFN7HP0s2N/s400/chicago!+042.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527271682004787362" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Doesn't it look like I should be singing "Here I come to save the daaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!"?<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Oh, and do you know how friggin’ hard it is to get a “C” in electrician’s tape onto a shirt? But my name? Was one of the smartest things I did for the marathon.<span style=""> </span>That in a moment.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In keeping with Mike's mandate of documenting my every move: <span style=""> </span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCSzYmv3SRYfjNuBH8X9qNhyqrCu2R2AgkfZtI5X3XsdctmoCwSokMnQlHWaHkUIBP2WkOiaYPAZRfa2gE4flzeqS3blBJxd0RYu2zMdCRK2is-xTpRXyn6Rv8RqDTBDboa7gyc_-4TA6/s1600/chicago!+047.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCSzYmv3SRYfjNuBH8X9qNhyqrCu2R2AgkfZtI5X3XsdctmoCwSokMnQlHWaHkUIBP2WkOiaYPAZRfa2gE4flzeqS3blBJxd0RYu2zMdCRK2is-xTpRXyn6Rv8RqDTBDboa7gyc_-4TA6/s400/chicago!+047.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527271690902731570" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslk-3Yf-DlyEjI9_ocQ3tLdNUkYiwnBieCvuLjrdUOZPxmK32lkkV2p26_nC64RuAahuY9YNcOhuCNqkO2VQYONLsIozFDLtqDzdiSm0TAHfYy3PhYCgXHw2NrGnChIhs48BOn9HiBGKi/s1600/chicago!+049.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgslk-3Yf-DlyEjI9_ocQ3tLdNUkYiwnBieCvuLjrdUOZPxmK32lkkV2p26_nC64RuAahuY9YNcOhuCNqkO2VQYONLsIozFDLtqDzdiSm0TAHfYy3PhYCgXHw2NrGnChIhs48BOn9HiBGKi/s400/chicago!+049.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527271694208367810" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSPgAnJdPLx6oCQRq4ba6aI1Yj4WP6PGDhS5lxAyCzhmQZV-W4hZerYqpQCz8Co9KpxxyNj3VhFl6LjJRBfP3iK96D2iwdAYmbLAeGKzsBs51_b0Y8dgf5L1zd-a0etSogOzFG8mvXxqix/s1600/chicago!+052.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSPgAnJdPLx6oCQRq4ba6aI1Yj4WP6PGDhS5lxAyCzhmQZV-W4hZerYqpQCz8Co9KpxxyNj3VhFl6LjJRBfP3iK96D2iwdAYmbLAeGKzsBs51_b0Y8dgf5L1zd-a0etSogOzFG8mvXxqix/s400/chicago!+052.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527271705682586514" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">I was off. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Working my way to Grant Park was very exciting. This really was my first big race.<span style=""> </span>Nike was big, but Chicago?<span style=""> We had </span>Kenyans.<span style=""> And they run f</span>or money.<span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">One snafu to share. Since this year I was on my own – no Team in Training, there were little details that I had to figure out for myself, like oh, I don't know, where the Port-O-Johns were located, for example? I got to the corrals at 6:30 AM so I could get as close as possible to the start.<span style=""> </span>But after stretching for a bit, nature called and it turned out the Port-O-Johns were on the other end of the corrals.<span style=""> </span>Not knowing what time the corrals finally fill up, I was nervous to leave and lose my place.<span style=""> </span>So I stayed put.<span style=""> </span>And obsessed for 45 minutes about not being able to empty my bladder.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then it was too late and the corrals closed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So I hoped that adrenaline and excitement and the fact that I was totally money and pushed up enough in the corral that I crossed the start at a measly 9 minutes after the gun – would all override the nagging feeling that I now had to pee like a race horse. Not so much. (Thank god the toilets at mile 6 were still not totally a crime scene when I hit them. Relief.) Lesson here? Hmmm ... pretty self-explanatory. Pee before the race starts.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As soon as you cross the start in Chicago, you hear – and see – one of the biggest crowds of spectators ever.<span style=""> </span>And it never dies.<span style=""> </span>You go under overpasses and people are hanging down from above screaming your name.<span style=""> </span>You feel like a total rockstar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So am I glad I slapped “CINDY” in black tape across my tank?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqQ1x6pDpn3lcJpbupWkc98c5omCoAeZSqJs4g7SScjRctYzgjmlzQK5dXbZjFoPp_6EAf7NIvtsJFQAwUgk_Bg_Hd9yznTnBhVVdIJ2vqLhPCVzYyI06ANEPERdfS1t8xRRclFEtov87/s400/marathon6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322209158756322" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px; " /></span></p><div>As my new Midwestern BFFs would say ... you betcha.<span style=""> </span>It would take just one person to scream my name to start a chain reaction.<span style=""> </span>I’d pump my arm or flash a “V” when someone yelled for me.<span style=""> </span>Someone else would see that and join in.<span style=""> </span>And then the next group would pick it up.<span style=""> </span>And since there are virtually no gaps in the crowd in this race, I’d hear my name screamed for an entire block.<span style=""> </span>This crowd was intense and awesome and I will never forget them.<span style=""> </span>Ever. In fact, next time I come back to Chicago for business or otherwise, I may just paste my name on my shirt again in hopes that these kindly Midwesterners will give me a shout-out at like gas stations and stuff.</div> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I saw Mike early – at mile 2.<span style=""> </span>Turns out it was just steps from our hotel and when I realized where I was, I looked for him – and sure enough, like a beacon, there was My Cheerleader.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ15LBuwezN_F1zrjWZHJz93FrMlc_zZocgHVFJyN6ViZxDfmKS889CmGHGXh8B-zlBSWbsWt8HibkRe13YPSNqvBDH148z3vvxSR19bUss9oxDUCH0Ytnaqyy8JOVMDYyMIOkwSb8Ukh/s1600/chicago!+064.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ15LBuwezN_F1zrjWZHJz93FrMlc_zZocgHVFJyN6ViZxDfmKS889CmGHGXh8B-zlBSWbsWt8HibkRe13YPSNqvBDH148z3vvxSR19bUss9oxDUCH0Ytnaqyy8JOVMDYyMIOkwSb8Ukh/s400/chicago!+064.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283511531964466" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI5js0-k3pgcfbKkGEp0em4npZt82G-YRq3xLtOKI7-6a0NcGIYpU8VCIJyvRTYnRKAPmq620mcqNeD6CIuOwPRH9RP6dDqV_ggMcgL4TI4cogh67VgzTd1lXzyEKPv0shXVhlezNrOn9/s1600/chicago!+065.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI5js0-k3pgcfbKkGEp0em4npZt82G-YRq3xLtOKI7-6a0NcGIYpU8VCIJyvRTYnRKAPmq620mcqNeD6CIuOwPRH9RP6dDqV_ggMcgL4TI4cogh67VgzTd1lXzyEKPv0shXVhlezNrOn9/s400/chicago!+065.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283525343426594" border="0" /></a></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKE-dTwXKNQDKvidwp6QAZcShbzT7HuITr3d6K5yugCbV7GX_yJni_htcz5VHc8MPz6gT4GZno7cyygsV-rmp5dyxbpqLYNAkKJUxS2X3ebsPZ2DJFRJw4o-CxD3-2mCtdCnQsOJHWwrV/s1600/chicago!+066.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKE-dTwXKNQDKvidwp6QAZcShbzT7HuITr3d6K5yugCbV7GX_yJni_htcz5VHc8MPz6gT4GZno7cyygsV-rmp5dyxbpqLYNAkKJUxS2X3ebsPZ2DJFRJw4o-CxD3-2mCtdCnQsOJHWwrV/s400/chicago!+066.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283528419121602" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2GP0ox3ImjeEYcbqTBkmcvJ821I3loZlbgUwsn_tR26vmm5H9h6HIvgkMsQOHwcPVDCtiV7OFrUA1MkFwmgQ9j4uUCBIdROwB8Y8cOu7unqIxRLSGWljHSjV6onrRoLyMPUE9-kCdNug/s1600/chicago!+068.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2GP0ox3ImjeEYcbqTBkmcvJ821I3loZlbgUwsn_tR26vmm5H9h6HIvgkMsQOHwcPVDCtiV7OFrUA1MkFwmgQ9j4uUCBIdROwB8Y8cOu7unqIxRLSGWljHSjV6onrRoLyMPUE9-kCdNug/s400/chicago!+068.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283530962023650" border="0" /></a></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3y7benqxAVten962bTFKSU-uF5NiP9mREM5Hmc2jONV9v2el-DmMi-u86IA_jABu3i5nN265ID17qax3jRXo2psbv5Bdov41mk0Yb1uNlAYydLM5-eM4cDOTCkcbuvR5YVx8uGJSsaZT/s1600/chicago!+070.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3y7benqxAVten962bTFKSU-uF5NiP9mREM5Hmc2jONV9v2el-DmMi-u86IA_jABu3i5nN265ID17qax3jRXo2psbv5Bdov41mk0Yb1uNlAYydLM5-eM4cDOTCkcbuvR5YVx8uGJSsaZT/s400/chicago!+070.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283534663052450" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-E1oamvFejBPV41mMyuYdt98UfB8SeegesSZpqRtLLSfQX_vMjfmIHSSVJAJWgnWze0ymW0DwZxevXWfNvNUZJ7qTCvaSdv4RIW1F121wRiANXhow0nurmk3iFnVXe2zAwmn77Cmoi6f/s1600/chicago!+076.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-E1oamvFejBPV41mMyuYdt98UfB8SeegesSZpqRtLLSfQX_vMjfmIHSSVJAJWgnWze0ymW0DwZxevXWfNvNUZJ7qTCvaSdv4RIW1F121wRiANXhow0nurmk3iFnVXe2zAwmn77Cmoi6f/s400/chicago!+076.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283873154617554" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Oh, I was happy here.<span style=""> </span>Like blowing kisses happy. At mile 2.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I was so happy that I effed with every official photographer I saw on the course.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wmiQlJsSRAWHsTYmpS1BHRJuBTt0YH3rYgAl8AWQXhOD294MfYMXHkr5Wmd9FaBu4VXbHjDEsnpryrgcfWQ9c8eB_lkRhr7M4vM8lMb2HgsKuEJYxZ98vdir5J6PPo2yl8m6adMzrpHq/s400/marathon13.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322803555382418" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px; " /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps I thought that by flashing the "V" for victory every time, along with an obnoxious pose right into the camera, I'd keep up momentum for the next few hours.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKSATELJyhdDfhroD45xOtwY5AiXEiXyZ5E4bfCjbJfqB_ad1c0RG6z6HYFUwz4zugk60vJbW5tdJFSaMysz1tFvc0tPiDiGIxNq4P71fMhkMesYe3mWAjpmOOzwUNCoqpPGkNVt5MhBK/s400/marathon4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322203872976578" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px; " /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">'Cause I kinda did it like every time. Yawn.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Another extremely cool thing happened early on. I saw Ramon. As in the greatest coach ever. He's now head of American Cancer Society's DetermiNation team in New York, and Chicago is a big event for them. But no matter how many hundreds of runners Ramon may be coaching, he never passes up an opportunity to cheer on a former mentee. He screamed like only Ramon can, clanging his freaking cowbell like a crazy person. My heart raced - I loved seeing him.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">But it started to turn at about mile 10.<span style=""> </span>Until then, I was totally on pace.<span style=""> Going in, </span>I had broken the race into thirds and was pacing just slightly faster than where I had intended, but I felt good. I had my splits Sharpied on my arm like a tatoo, Gavin (the Garmin) on my left wrist and Nestor (the Nike Sportband) on my right. I was obsessed with time. The plan was to kick it up slightly at mile 11, then again at mile 18.<span style=""> </span>If all went well, I’d just break 4 hours.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But mile 10.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJiJxHMQ_n-7ndXuyCz03r5FkLaSmxTRRHnfduiLRj1OVYyjR0FW3Sgsl9yHUi2ElcPY1tKWKSd3SvAx6adlY0A3IxQot4wLIuMhPtHb5xRipnX1q4dkuzbefTvCAnf1spMOF6oghn8fVL/s400/marathon9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322796302076642" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px; " /></span></p><div>I had been so nervous about the past month. After my foot injury, I basically stopped training. <span style=""> </span>The last run of substance had been the previous weekend with Babs.<span style=""> </span>And it had been just 9 miles. So it made perfect sense that at 10 miles, my body very aptly said, “WTF?”</div> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And that’s when I started losing confidence.<span style=""> </span>I panicked, thinking that if I was already slowing at mile 10, I was in real trouble.<span style=""> </span>Didn’t matter that I wasn’t tired or that I had no aches.<span style=""> </span>Foot was holding up fine, too.<span style=""> </span>But just that little drop in confidence started to do me in. I tried to concentrate on the course. It was so full of life - people hanging from their balconies or on their front stoops. All of them yelling encouragement. I ran through diverse neighborhoods and historic buildings and was getting the best tour Chicago could offer. But damned if I saw any of it. My eyes were glued to Gavin.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Saw Mike and Andrew and Leslie again at the halfway point, and even though I was right on time, I knew very assuredly right then and there by the way my body was responding that I would be hitting no goals in this race.</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLOBu-uL_t6zms-eAk8K5tRxLnnh54Cuyo7o4l5x000kefFiGYsr1cTwTOhUbPxi2TIb_mcicGbpSJPgUpTyNwk1EFukJYXdxPEPyBv8-T4jy_F27QAjXv7Og_GGJ7NBfETpl9r1FAEe1/s1600/chicago!+086.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLOBu-uL_t6zms-eAk8K5tRxLnnh54Cuyo7o4l5x000kefFiGYsr1cTwTOhUbPxi2TIb_mcicGbpSJPgUpTyNwk1EFukJYXdxPEPyBv8-T4jy_F27QAjXv7Og_GGJ7NBfETpl9r1FAEe1/s400/chicago!+086.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283876863220018" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAp8fzsWPainrat9J44EZrDTBTPw0ZD56t1RHNolgqsCvomXPl2J29ALO4jZlubsx21hAAwyBLmGsLSNpJ2LqLhoQ4SkrU0ttInn1R91i4qRkpnwHQqAwfyqyupc9gNJTBb60NNHxCLhMK/s1600/chicago!+091.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAp8fzsWPainrat9J44EZrDTBTPw0ZD56t1RHNolgqsCvomXPl2J29ALO4jZlubsx21hAAwyBLmGsLSNpJ2LqLhoQ4SkrU0ttInn1R91i4qRkpnwHQqAwfyqyupc9gNJTBb60NNHxCLhMK/s400/chicago!+091.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283881837583810" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Do you see me crouching over a bit? I was already working a lot harder.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The teen miles were a bit of a blur.<span style=""> </span>I remember very little shade anywhere.<span style=""> </span>I remember hearing people in the crowd discussing the temperature - nearly 85 at this point. I remember walking through pretty much every water stop – and that despite drinking at every one of those water stops – still being thirsty.<span style=""> </span>I remember getting side cramps from consuming too much water ... and having to then walk again.<span style=""> </span>I remember seeing people on the 3:50 and 4:00 pace teams walking beside me, everyone acutely aware that time goals now meant nothing in this heat.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And I remember never having seen so many people puke in front of me in my life. Seriously, I had to dart at least three times so as not to get backsplash on the Vomeros. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">(I later chatted with a woman in my hotel steam room who also ran and upon bringing up the weather, the first thing she said? “Oh my god, people were throwing up everywhere.”)</p>Things unravelled quickly. Literally. Eventually the “D” started to peel off my sweaty tank and since I had officially entered the BMZ (Bite Me Zone), rather than risk obnoxious comments from a by now-drunk spectator ("GOOOOOOOO Cinyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!") I snatched every letter off my chest, rolled the whole stinking lot of tape into an angry ball and chucked it aside around mile 17.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhelEv4RgnT33uBgkzXSF8O62eqXtzNN-QybX2BlLW3-XjJovC-5LZ-yQCXfXmQTqpqyzk1tuxQ6qbyLdWgCz0RuSCFHYKJicEC6Iimb22QtEiE2JRr04C5sPC9xi9qtqjBxBudB0Uuayql/s400/marathon7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322781183337138" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><p class="MsoNormal">I tried so hard not to walk, and when I did, I just kept moving as fast as I could. Only once did I stop altogether to stretch my stiffening hamstrings. At that point, a very kind volunteer - an elderly reverend from the nearby community church sponsoring that mile - made his way to me, gently bending over and offering, "There's a medical tent right there if you need it."</p><p class="MsoNormal">And that was all the motivation I needed. No way was I going to be in the med tent. "Move aside, old man!" I yelled, pushing him slightly and burning rubber back onto the course.</p><p class="MsoNormal">As if! I was in the Bite Me Zone, not the Karmically Risky Zone.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">During the last few miles, the alert system increased to "red." Any hotter, I understood, and the race would have been called. I was sweating, fatigued and heartbroken. I went through all of the justifications for not making it even close to my goal. The heat. My lack of training in the past weeks. My foot. My confidence. The "D" falling off my chest. But it didn't matter. At this point, I'd be lucky to beat my time from San Francisco. And that race? Had hills.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I kicked myself for ever having told anyone I was running Chicago. Sure, I'd finish. But with zero improvement over my last marathon. After four months of intense training all on my own, where I felt confident I had gotten faster and become a smarter runner. I was ashamed and I was only at mile 24. As my mind raced, I started to hyperventilate. Luckily, I'm still Cindy and thinking of the cold beer on the other side of the finish line calmed me down.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">As we entered downtown again and Sears Tower was in my sight, I knew I was almost there. I continued to high-five the still-enthusiastic crowd, and of course, every time I saw a photographer I made my way over so I could pose. Even if I wasn't moving fast, I'd appear so on film. I was tired and sad, but damned if there was going to be a bad picture of me.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKhoXq-d8LH5x8BhL-bhs4XgnG4BxSlCzD_Lgyd4CStOjsvdm0YwFkfe3KRwWo2uqUWUrrWxczvYSuCQgm57-t1zrQbTbKCa7IGXCXOtAYqIcTDc-RguKQbnMjtIAEsX96dS0r9qBl09t/s400/marathon5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322206921470594" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px; " /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaVDNLkam4vpn7l3-YGQdEVrpqgqb7FZrTlNob-l3zbtUcHd2sekV4En4ZLY9i31NR6VXORwvJIOh2mD_Zc2kXKvN5C0wW0nTNBzYNsSiDQRsv5r3H0YE2r68pYjJVKqygpV5t2jyRGuYM/s400/marathon14.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531323016236327218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px; " /></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2xWMZgCAXAL2_2s7rFopkJioL-9NQOnIOp70K7Tsqw4QgraVdEdKtb_f1LrU759tB3Cydw6iaX1oa2J7k9wVMRfrfnh-aWKgQZKDulSsI21wqweBo-rVo3ry7XW3T9MLdAwvU0jBl_3qI/s400/marathon8.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322791244752946" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px; " /></span></span></div><div>(Allow me to make one bitch here about the course: with just 400 meters to go, the throng turned a corner into Grant Park from a beautifully flat course and hit - a freaking 45-degree hill. Really, course organizers? This is where you're putting a hill? Really? There was an audible groan from everyone around me as we rounded the turn to the finish and realized someone was totally effing with us.)</div><p class="MsoNormal">But then ... the finish line was.right.there.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkmYS2ZhJsfDB5f-KQ-xdhla6FlUx5_Jj6w0xIr4tfEVxO_djjFxhkAH1S6AO4kYCaRMkbJN8tb4ODrtaPGbA8zZyoWuPe6Q7pG3p1x1GcbCftyT2c7yK49Fl-t14TN8dbZlSbROP1Tejr/s1600/chicago!+127.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkmYS2ZhJsfDB5f-KQ-xdhla6FlUx5_Jj6w0xIr4tfEVxO_djjFxhkAH1S6AO4kYCaRMkbJN8tb4ODrtaPGbA8zZyoWuPe6Q7pG3p1x1GcbCftyT2c7yK49Fl-t14TN8dbZlSbROP1Tejr/s400/chicago!+127.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283885236083154" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0X9KtsnznX54boCcP_SQ2le-r8C8H35qOevfgxWZucvsI3FoVS_zEz_-ozliltcfQykXLKOO8wbKUboxLjYdH8yYesbNP6y91PgBlnVlNqgXO2lKYEgfd9QAtRm2VlmJuZagKNBMYzfc/s1600/chicago!+130.jpg"></a></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOqVXV0avpt1cNgG5fCTArCKT8iAbD70caT1pUT_KOabfFnu951a8yp_aw7IvHP3RvHqawOycNONnmWThe1H4m0qfFPxj2pGKOeeu0OGFZ_KgHQo-sxTSZfNk0BFQRmW0kMT5wtBdf5_U/s1600/chicago!+128.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOqVXV0avpt1cNgG5fCTArCKT8iAbD70caT1pUT_KOabfFnu951a8yp_aw7IvHP3RvHqawOycNONnmWThe1H4m0qfFPxj2pGKOeeu0OGFZ_KgHQo-sxTSZfNk0BFQRmW0kMT5wtBdf5_U/s400/chicago!+128.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527283894959547186" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkmYS2ZhJsfDB5f-KQ-xdhla6FlUx5_Jj6w0xIr4tfEVxO_djjFxhkAH1S6AO4kYCaRMkbJN8tb4ODrtaPGbA8zZyoWuPe6Q7pG3p1x1GcbCftyT2c7yK49Fl-t14TN8dbZlSbROP1Tejr/s1600/chicago!+127.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkmYS2ZhJsfDB5f-KQ-xdhla6FlUx5_Jj6w0xIr4tfEVxO_djjFxhkAH1S6AO4kYCaRMkbJN8tb4ODrtaPGbA8zZyoWuPe6Q7pG3p1x1GcbCftyT2c7yK49Fl-t14TN8dbZlSbROP1Tejr/s1600/chicago!+127.jpg"></a><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0X9KtsnznX54boCcP_SQ2le-r8C8H35qOevfgxWZucvsI3FoVS_zEz_-ozliltcfQykXLKOO8wbKUboxLjYdH8yYesbNP6y91PgBlnVlNqgXO2lKYEgfd9QAtRm2VlmJuZagKNBMYzfc/s1600/chicago!+130.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0X9KtsnznX54boCcP_SQ2le-r8C8H35qOevfgxWZucvsI3FoVS_zEz_-ozliltcfQykXLKOO8wbKUboxLjYdH8yYesbNP6y91PgBlnVlNqgXO2lKYEgfd9QAtRm2VlmJuZagKNBMYzfc/s400/chicago!+130.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527285343022442610" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">(Mike thought these pictures were funny because it appears I am running right into the back of the ambulance.)</p>And as soon as it began, it was over.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbpxKa4goJSS3xjdu2t87RHLTmhqZp3lHc-MNan1aTdGbuGVPkzvbnjCzJXL9lG7I5kCr7DxJ1kprYh9J43S6zlzEXZ1RR_J43yExKzhuWbDijHPCqwVxm3L5Awz2cXir_MofmQRTd-Yt/s400/marathon10.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531322798341354514" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>Well not really that soon. My time was 4:29:59. I beat my Nike time by a scant 42 seconds. But I was 30 whole minutes over what I had set out to do. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9VWdLEBPwSg9OJugRaEd4_PCWlKWjaCV0S2venSyHaN4TMk7IIDuOewHxIqm7KUyoqmY8NRYa9eC8xsWxH2cY4CQCwC37aeBqvdsBXtAxw2zEXq4LfZ7J6xdlF-fISmnBvZ9b5DbFasxQ/s400/marathon2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531326901563404594" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal">I was alone at the finish - Mike and I agreed to meet elsewhere after I had picked up my medal and some food and had regrouped. So in the moments where I knew not a soul surrounding me and I knew I would not be judged, I openly wept. But not for the reason you might think.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It was the end of an epic struggle, from which I emerged completely bedraggled. I wept because I had intended to finish it stronger - and faster. But mostly, I wept because it was over. In these past months, I had discovered what I was really capable of on my own. I pushed myself to get up at 5 a.m. every day to run miles and miles before work. I pushed myself to run hill repeats in 90 degree temperatures. I pushed myself to run a solo 20-miler in the dark. I pushed myself to say no to happy hour with colleagues (give me a break, that was the hardest one). </p><p class="MsoNormal">As cliched as it may sound, I mourned the end of a powerful journey. And I couldn't shake the feeling that I had also totally failed.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Seeing Mike made it all okay, at least for a little while. Being My Cheerleader means constantly telling me how proud of me he is, and he's good at his job. Over Chicago deep dish pizza with Andrew and Leslie, I'd catch him grinning proudly at me.</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdH3AJ4B1QvGBGEeQF8ok5XgWiM89-hq7wFH0qb3bJab1MEkdTPPbNl2hkLhnkH1awlg5NabHv4mJNM1Cl1Uu1K7S3Ds_G7xpZc3o75f_FkGqrXkjDAhvfCK3M1E35toAbIkK08n0Krc4/s1600/chicago!+150.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdH3AJ4B1QvGBGEeQF8ok5XgWiM89-hq7wFH0qb3bJab1MEkdTPPbNl2hkLhnkH1awlg5NabHv4mJNM1Cl1Uu1K7S3Ds_G7xpZc3o75f_FkGqrXkjDAhvfCK3M1E35toAbIkK08n0Krc4/s400/chicago!+150.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272068720212802" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjbRGZRlMw51jNGJxZqWDC8Aanl5_rAM2chfNKGG-3NKd9Xjt7P4fxDlKnbotp_q7wuChxM65r-4kBWf0OSnpiK3KeqiRqKg8lZfDhJiyceZ3DsFOVBUqC9TxXBnpLf7mugIKPFcV0NdpB/s1600/chicago!+146.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjbRGZRlMw51jNGJxZqWDC8Aanl5_rAM2chfNKGG-3NKd9Xjt7P4fxDlKnbotp_q7wuChxM65r-4kBWf0OSnpiK3KeqiRqKg8lZfDhJiyceZ3DsFOVBUqC9TxXBnpLf7mugIKPFcV0NdpB/s400/chicago!+146.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527271710858502402" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">And when we got back to the hotel, he drew me a bubble bath, put a crappy movie on the bathroom TV and mixed me a mean martini. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfPacTxq87a5xnVD0ANAykozcRGIlpuoifUmf836BHHqdH6-_WZG6-hJoCFksqtltRDuStPzHznsKIkYd-UMczGk3uNfSA2mflkRgOeyeW0Rn7N4BH9CSn4qU3TJI03rOm8Q2HmD59EvW/s1600/IMG00247-20101010-1654.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfPacTxq87a5xnVD0ANAykozcRGIlpuoifUmf836BHHqdH6-_WZG6-hJoCFksqtltRDuStPzHznsKIkYd-UMczGk3uNfSA2mflkRgOeyeW0Rn7N4BH9CSn4qU3TJI03rOm8Q2HmD59EvW/s400/IMG00247-20101010-1654.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272465132508242" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Javi had also run Chicago as a TNT mentor and met me for a drink that night. He was in the same funk as I was, as he hadn't made his goal either (But Javi's goal? Would never be on the table for me, even if I shaved 10 years and 25 pounds. He's quite speedy). We comiserated and shared stories from the course over a drink on the terrace before he hit the TNT party.<br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyRh8Wt7SSW51lW3KdBtG4dZJJYhgJl6oB1z5l61H53HTnCzTJMHUU0i6Zcn3iVb9WNbD9e6KsOY5wb1wHhYX2mBFpiOCjHtrqAU-E9jE1TiYHjTsGw-8A8Ik6Hx7F5A8ghckj6sWusir/s1600/chicago!+151.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyRh8Wt7SSW51lW3KdBtG4dZJJYhgJl6oB1z5l61H53HTnCzTJMHUU0i6Zcn3iVb9WNbD9e6KsOY5wb1wHhYX2mBFpiOCjHtrqAU-E9jE1TiYHjTsGw-8A8Ik6Hx7F5A8ghckj6sWusir/s400/chicago!+151.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272073162155282" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Mike took me to dinner at the best steakhouse in Chicago, where we gorged on oysters, wine, a couple of ribeyes and a red velvet cake. That night, I slept more soundly than I had in months. Partly because I was drunk. But it counts.</p><p class="MsoNormal">On Monday, after a heavenly and much-needed massage, I proudly donned my finisher's jacket and we wandered Michigan Avenue, stopping at Niketown so I could find my name on the wall. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjempRhyQklVelCIBB9uKhWAJrhZFOU7VoluKRTpdBTE-6QWrJ0-Gfa0-uUYaWVzJCXwe4yNBqQ0zaLAh0wLUOXc_hfPq_bMNCY5iY5_oByKBwIWW0LW6JKZn85CZjKH0gpAV4lLb5xyKxs/s1600/chicago!+158.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjempRhyQklVelCIBB9uKhWAJrhZFOU7VoluKRTpdBTE-6QWrJ0-Gfa0-uUYaWVzJCXwe4yNBqQ0zaLAh0wLUOXc_hfPq_bMNCY5iY5_oByKBwIWW0LW6JKZn85CZjKH0gpAV4lLb5xyKxs/s400/chicago!+158.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272082692141970" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyuTXsGHH8imSI_2VSlkp3rZhAfCRO2cZPDbr5ViEq0UM01bOB_VBWGqpsfUilFvPBmcAxWntDiQseVlWTU1ZjD0ygl0hYWZpjKTmUU8VL1QDPU39IvMsvYsiePK00DWukh7rZw4_Kmy0/s1600/chicago!+161.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyuTXsGHH8imSI_2VSlkp3rZhAfCRO2cZPDbr5ViEq0UM01bOB_VBWGqpsfUilFvPBmcAxWntDiQseVlWTU1ZjD0ygl0hYWZpjKTmUU8VL1QDPU39IvMsvYsiePK00DWukh7rZw4_Kmy0/s400/chicago!+161.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272087885124402" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAyZPrbph9PSA4zODw4wkf7sff_8Oc13yd5PPZzirdeJ1J3WDn89ezksf4-FSLIExdEBjkFBjxrCdjRGeffWGR9W-Ta0W1WKe22KB1uF7CpZ7gNMsWYWhJ0-AtCNxUikm81zd3iuYSyYS/s1600/chicago!+159.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAyZPrbph9PSA4zODw4wkf7sff_8Oc13yd5PPZzirdeJ1J3WDn89ezksf4-FSLIExdEBjkFBjxrCdjRGeffWGR9W-Ta0W1WKe22KB1uF7CpZ7gNMsWYWhJ0-AtCNxUikm81zd3iuYSyYS/s400/chicago!+159.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527272091723256626" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Do you see me??</p><p class="MsoNormal">But I couldn't stop kicking myself. Every time I'd see someone pass me wearing her medal, I'd wonder what her time was. Moments of pride were quickly replaced by self-criticism.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Please don't get me wrong. I'm proud that I got to Chicago all on my own. I'm thankful for all the support I've gotten along the way, both from Mike and my family - and from all of my running friends who always had a "you can DO this!" at the ready.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I read that nearly 2,000 people didn't finish the marathon, dropping out for a host of reasons, the majority of them heat-related. I will be forever thankful that my body held up and allowed me to cross the finish line. Just two days after the race I was back at the gym, my body healthy and pain-free. And the same foot that forced me to abandon my training was never even an issue in Chicago.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I finished.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">But perhaps what kept me from celebrating is exactly what keeps me coming back - the feeling that I'm never really satisfied. So really, there's only one way out of this.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Looks like it's going to be a spring marathon.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Only this time, I might keep it to myself.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p></div></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-90173283972246229652010-10-09T09:09:00.004-04:002010-10-09T09:19:31.453-04:00I'm Here!<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JVM5iip8GJGxnddRn1pT1d0D5innADrzZHiybevgPn6o_h7eFIdC3TlcwUPpsxzJwClbk3hz0MiSfhYNUPmPDlGkPTeHcCpRn8knvmJX0LTKPiT28PDE1sYV3Px4v1r_zFGafERFk4SS/s1600/cindy+expo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JVM5iip8GJGxnddRn1pT1d0D5innADrzZHiybevgPn6o_h7eFIdC3TlcwUPpsxzJwClbk3hz0MiSfhYNUPmPDlGkPTeHcCpRn8knvmJX0LTKPiT28PDE1sYV3Px4v1r_zFGafERFk4SS/s400/cindy+expo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526033281225059810" /></a><br /><div>Mike and I arrived in Chicago Friday afternoon and I hit the expo just long enough to buy a bunch of Nike stuff I don't need. Score!</div><div><br /></div><div>Had a great dinner with Andrew and Leslie (I really hate being the only person at the table not drinking.) and now I'm up and ready for a slow and easy 30 minute run. I'm trying not to get freaked out with how unusually hot here it is for mid-October. Temps are expected to be in the 80's all weekend. Good thing I plan on finishing the marathon under 3 hours when it's still cool.</div><div><br /></div><div>OMG can you imagine?</div><div><br /></div><div>But about that. That is all I heard yesterday at the expo. Little snatches of conversation everywhere about adjusting planned clothing and adjusting time expectations - all because of the weather. I keep trying to remind myself that I trained all summer in the oppressive heat and humidity we got in New York. If I do hill repeats in that crap, I think I can take 80 degrees in Chicago. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah!</div><div><br /></div><div>But other than that, I'm truly excited to be here. There's such a buzz in the air and I love being around all the other runners who are as jacked as I am to just hit the course and see where the morning takes us. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, it takes us to the finish line at Grant Park - I meant that figuratively.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll attempt to blog about my day of rest so that all my readers (hi, Tina!) can be updated. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-90951229582046873172010-10-04T22:27:00.016-04:002010-10-09T09:09:15.945-04:00Finding inspiration on the bottom of a human pyramid.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JdPSxzM0bUzKe_8KSwdt2908eKnqZYkePp9sEQAEtA43NU1qdNYYtcbcQl6RBjMlC0Pg60TmKn5tQR0K4I6I5sE_aLjzGeaO4iNuKTC3esfbQR6BX19vE6xeFC4agBKAN45DBpqkU5Ej/s1600/red.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZFu6IR5Xg_CeC5xtX0-gdeUZTlnDMzERQ02dFHho9JC2_M-tR1UZRizZWCIuB3c-rr7_fd8FVPSq7lqKnOSIPQDIWLC8q93qDKximD7373uJ79tBMizDVQGXakX7IqK4oMKMIva0IhHGM/s1600/val+cooking.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqKSchW9eQA5BmoFmPKWK80rCCOnba4jCCOrNl0oo39NjAwP9S0xgNVxsiWPuXSKNL6kdG5mvPoNMRETdWn_gm8QhTbSlRs8KiMCNDuYYLeVmxmnj4HFisFdZX3O0a1DiNcQ0cchfpykc/s1600/pyramid.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqKSchW9eQA5BmoFmPKWK80rCCOnba4jCCOrNl0oo39NjAwP9S0xgNVxsiWPuXSKNL6kdG5mvPoNMRETdWn_gm8QhTbSlRs8KiMCNDuYYLeVmxmnj4HFisFdZX3O0a1DiNcQ0cchfpykc/s400/pyramid.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526027244347070146" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Can't you see me channeling my inner runner all the way down there?</div><div><br />And don't laugh ... but it helped. Maybe not the pyramid, per se,but the weekend that surrounded it. It was the Great 40th Celebration of 2010 with the girls back home - an epic event a year in the making. Somehow we got the whole group (minus my running pal Erin) to Capitola - a little beach town down the road from Santa Cruz - for a weekend of fun. I was on week 3 of my tendonitis recovery - which meant I was doing very little running but a large amount of whining.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it all stopped quickly that weekend. Here's why. You see, everyone in my group of friends has a role. Perhaps it's an unspoken role, but we all kinda know what they are. A few examples:</div><div><br /></div><div>Lynette's role is to always know where the nearest camera is:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21heZB91r__9bo70M-ggUs_NTr7yQtKpA53avoZRQX8w9IqAmzmA0tjbWzOWoz7Z_4mCLJQGj5IJ_ONT4QjjR1X3XOHNdjXdo1vvmD2d7FXhu7orDfa8CCAvnsmsyG04Y0-KHtVDn6kZs/s400/lynette+posing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526027238271751586" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>Val is our comic relief. And she cooks a mean carne asada:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZFu6IR5Xg_CeC5xtX0-gdeUZTlnDMzERQ02dFHho9JC2_M-tR1UZRizZWCIuB3c-rr7_fd8FVPSq7lqKnOSIPQDIWLC8q93qDKximD7373uJ79tBMizDVQGXakX7IqK4oMKMIva0IhHGM/s400/val+cooking.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526027248282139650" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>Red is everyone's biggest cheerleader, no matter what we're taking on:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JdPSxzM0bUzKe_8KSwdt2908eKnqZYkePp9sEQAEtA43NU1qdNYYtcbcQl6RBjMlC0Pg60TmKn5tQR0K4I6I5sE_aLjzGeaO4iNuKTC3esfbQR6BX19vE6xeFC4agBKAN45DBpqkU5Ej/s400/red.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526031518157695890" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div>Kerry?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkc8iX9l28JwFjwa-BfUYMbc84YKXtWofCtzBc4JuVete0F5eZXmqM-0oM5SwvsYuICPQQ7QoCxDSAJmQ_RXo4KWZ3lcxDfO0MdbhQjEYPdgjX9KKsrAgxe2-ritYHiF8zSxelkdu3ooBL/s400/kerry+pole.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526030426113458162" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>Ah, don't be fooled by Kerry's love of poles. Kerry is the Chairperson of the Board. The Big Kahuna. Ms. I Will Kick Your Ass If You Lack Common Sense.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll back up. When I so humbly and quietly let my injury be known via Facebook, Twitter and my blog, I heard from plenty of my friends, running and non. But of them? Kerry has known me the longest and she and I share many personality traits. So it should have come as no surprise that as I laced my Vomeros on a very tender and pained left foot to force a long run one Saturday, Kerry - much like a superhero who suddenly senses evildoing elsewhere in the universe - called my cell as my hand was on the front door of my apartment.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I hope you're not running on that foot," she said sternly. "At this point, you need to just worry about getting to the starting line in one piece and Gal, you won't get there at ALL if you don't rest." </div><div><br /></div><div>"I know, I know," I huffed, secretly plotting that as soon as our call ended I would tiptoe out of the house and to the park. Like she'd know. She was 2500 miles away.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the more Kerry talked, the more I listened. After all, this was no couch potato dispensing advice. Kerry is a triathlete, a boot-camper and has a mean set of abs on her flat stomach. If nothing else, I needed to respect the Washboard.</div><div><br /></div><div>She laid down the rules. When I got to Capitola the next weekend, maybe - <i>maybe</i> - she would allow me to do a slow, short run. But I needed to be honest to myself over the coming days. If I was, I'd see improvement. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I did. Despite the fact that I wanted to cry every time a jogger passed me on the sidewalk, I didn't run. Despite the fact that I felt pounds creeping onto my hips and ass every morning, I didn't run. Despite the fact that I became a cranky bitch and took it out on Mike, I didn't run. (Sorry, Mike - it was all in the name of recovery)</div><div><br /></div><div>So on Saturday morning, I quietly climbed down from the bunk beds:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGWJX6pc7H_-n4Ah0PORUwLOWBtThkZwmIL9CDcnC4q0-AeQcMXTaNxj5Ij52-0IsV4o6cJHEDTQKmKBXM00d0rhIUzqPH_BrudsUa4RJjbT3SXoRTY6p720rRIw64yF5z6m3-k4BXclX/s400/bunkbeds.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526027231668902322" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>Don't laugh, they were AWESOME.</div><div><br /></div><div>I slipped on the Vomeros, and went out to this:</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVOckShyAKbnmsrsrxen2qTDcrqC1fOKX8MsGi1_Qcu48vyw-Uq5IJdm_gkVXICTMxhXWM9ytbWqCIizkVCokiPi6HVCdYT4b4WA4xPlYKUa7kpZi54DJVV66YVgip4aA_3c5c1ao_Kksp/s400/capitola.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526027229921736466" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div>I ran along the coast, each mile getting faster than the previous. As I rounded back to the house, I was flying, passing early risers taking their dogs for a stroll and surfers on their way to the beach, all who nodded "good morning." I was happy, I was fast and I was ... pain-free.</div><div><br /></div><div>That afternoon, a few of us hit the beach and after a few bottles of wine, it was somehow a good idea to build a pyramid on the sand. Aileen and Lynette were cheerleaders in high school and slipped right back into their roles as they organized who would be where. Aileen scampered up on top and gave a victory stance as if we had just held a pep rally in the cafeteria yesterday.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqKSchW9eQA5BmoFmPKWK80rCCOnba4jCCOrNl0oo39NjAwP9S0xgNVxsiWPuXSKNL6kdG5mvPoNMRETdWn_gm8QhTbSlRs8KiMCNDuYYLeVmxmnj4HFisFdZX3O0a1DiNcQ0cchfpykc/s1600/pyramid.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqKSchW9eQA5BmoFmPKWK80rCCOnba4jCCOrNl0oo39NjAwP9S0xgNVxsiWPuXSKNL6kdG5mvPoNMRETdWn_gm8QhTbSlRs8KiMCNDuYYLeVmxmnj4HFisFdZX3O0a1DiNcQ0cchfpykc/s400/pyramid.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526027244347070146" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And down there on the bottom, Kerry's knee in my back, acutely aware that other people on the beach around us were taking video that would be uploaded to YouTube to be seen around the world, I realized that if I just stopped thinking about the stuff that caused me pain, eventually it might get frustrated by not getting my attention ... and just leave.</div><div><br /></div><div>I laughed so hard that weekend that I had no time to obsess about missing a long run or if I was eating the right carbs. It simply didn't matter. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that night, I even put on my 4-inch heels so the girls and I could whoop it up at a nearby club.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfvNKbbzI2zRKhH-rQak_yZkU_sIp2OMB2mN_EOkOUpd7vgie2fLfLSb0KxX8wD62x-Vb0v0mfTD6hrJSS5fojaV1mQUsi6YF1uLZlkcR2oknnkMzubL6kA0P0gBMPGUPLgY0QaIpBSeD/s400/girls+dance.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526030418103690434" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLkUtcVSO3HojHM45Z8J9tAGejbYHZIJdyBMRMKhUPPHejZyssIqra08DyH861m07K3nprJePcEaRCZCvCojDqVJH_2UdM2iCnam2H3714iBTSacBWvIBCM-qySm4vbp-u7-vwt0LK0Ii/s400/munos+dances.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526030428335864514" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDHXkKSPRWg-beVnr5k-r5IVSlLRBMf94KPbAi2p1L0I-z1UarsN7j-MeZ0VCUkbyT2Z0DjGp-tPBv_erLpZ-inXErnhTpji3RJWLQDhWcj3xUleTRNm6v_8lyS0F8cyF9Nbnau70QkLe2/s400/lo+dancing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526030426822175714" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>The following Saturday, I laced up my Vomeros and hit the park with Babs for 9 miles. 9 beautiful, pain-free miles.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcN31CbROGIlHodd_o4s0Lme6KaLwOLzXNZRwBtbGQXWQHzHYUlvkWJU8s9boXpy9aIcDpkfaUek6XbQSHHAhZOSeh0UGnsGeOEqUi4oXZw8-Ql_jZY_fr9J0YS7QT2qzoY9fkLmFY5Hfa/s400/the+girls.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526030424245195330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-28264618710908303822010-09-18T19:48:00.011-04:002010-09-18T21:11:34.190-04:00The agony of the feet.<div><br /></div><div>Oh, we knew it was too good to be true. </div><div><br /></div><div>At some point ... I had to suffer an injury. Because my training was just going too damned well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before you think that this has changed anything about Chicago, think again. I've been training too long and too hard - and have already developed a way-too-cute outfit - to not run this race. It's just that the next three weeks until I get to the start line? Are.Going.To.Suck.Hard.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know the exact week that it happened. I might even be able to pinpoint the exact run; the exact mile. And I have no one to blame but myself. Oh, and maybe Nike. But that in a moment.</div><div><br /></div><div>The schedule I have been following is pretty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">kickass</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Kickass</span> in that it rocks hard. But <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">kickass</span> in that it absolutely kicks my ass. I tore it out of Runner's World in May - it was part of a whole special section about making your goals for your next marathon. I had already registered for Chicago but hadn't really thought through a running plan. I didn't love the Nike plan on the marathon website; it didn't seem that challenging and it didn't give me enough hill work. (Everyone has something they love about training - I heart hills. A lot.)</div><div><br /></div><div>But this schedule started with solid hill work and ramped up the long run miles early. Then you move to tempo runs and end with a few weeks of great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">speedwork</span>. Seemed challenging but doable. Even looking at the weeks that totaled 45+ miles didn't deter me. I mean, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">RW</span> would <i>never</i> put a schedule in their mag that couldn't be done, right? Right?</div><div><br /></div><div>I stuck to the schedule diligently. Hung it on the fridge with a magnet and put a big "x" on every day I ticked off. Would stare at it longingly every night, reading about my run the next morning and trying not to get too excited that I would be one more day down. I got so caught up in following every day to the letter ... that I didn't really think about the fact that I was running hard five days a week. Never saw the big picture. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">overtraining</span>. </div><div><br /></div><div>As all of you (okay, just Tina - hi Tina!) remember, Mexico threw me off. Probably a blessing in disguise because I didn't realize just how tired my body had become. I beat myself up on my first 20-miler, fitting it in on a Friday evening because I'd be working all weekend. Problem was? I had run a speedy 10 miles on the Thursday morning before. I simply didn't give my body time to rest.</div><div><br /></div><div>So my second 20-miler, I swore I'd be stronger. Faster. More prepared. I got up early, ran ten miles on my own, then picked up Barb for the second half. Immediately, I told her how tired I'd been. "I think I'm running too much," I remember telling her. "I've never felt this tired all the time," I said. "Something doesn't feel right."</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, somewhere around mile 14 - could have been mile 15 - I simply ... stopped. </div><div><br /></div><div>My foot hurt. Like I had tied my left shoe too tight and the laces were irritating the top of my foot. I adjusted my shoe, tied and untied it. "Sorry, Babs," I whined. "Something is wrong." </div><div><br /></div><div>I should mention here that I had upgraded my beloved <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Vomero</span> +4s to the brand-spanking new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Vomero</span> +5s. I kind of knew they weren't the same, but I kept running in them, thinking Nike would never have changed them so dramatically. Alas, I think they did. They were no longer like running on clouds. My ankle didn't feel like it was supported by cotton balls. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hated them. These damned <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Vomero</span> +5s! Damned Nike for sabotaging me! <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Saboteur</span> Nike!</div><div><br /></div><div>And now I cursed them, thinking they had something to do with this new foot pain that was making my second 20-miler suck nearly as much as my first.</div><div><br /></div><div>I limped home and immediately <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">RICE'd</span>. (Oh, the clever physical therapist who came up with that acronym.) Rest, ice, compression and elevation. Check, check, check and check. And let's not forget the painkillers, since I'm no <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Scientologist</span> and feel strongly that there is better living through <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">pharmaceuticals</span>. </div><div><br /></div><div>I won't bore you (Tina) with the details (too late!) ... but two weeks later, I've self-diagnosed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">tendonitis</span> in my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">extensor</span> muscles, which run from your toes all the way up your legs. (Good '<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">ol</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">WebMD</span>. If it weren't for the fact that I'm fairly certain I'm dying of cancer every time I get a headache, that website would be rad). Plan of action for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">extensor</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">tendonitis</span> is ... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">omigod</span>, really? ... RICE.</div><div><br /></div><div>So that schedule on the fridge just sits there, mocking me. I haven't put an "x" on any of the remaining days, since I'm kind of on my own schedule now, largely dictated by the ginormous size 11's on the end of my legs. Besides, it breaks my heart not to tick things off on a schedule. I have my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">OCD</span> to thank for that gem. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had one really successful run. Last Saturday, Babs and I did 15 miles, and I did it in good time. When telling people about it, I leave out the part where I limped for the last couple of miles. So while I celebrated a speedy long run, I lamented the fact that I indeed had an injury that now needed to be acknowledged.</div><div><br /></div><div>I worry. I worry that I won't be able to run for the next three weeks until Chicago. I worry that even if I rest this whole time, I'll still be in pain on race day. I worry that I didn't do something about it in time to heal. I worry that I was a stubborn idiot who insisted on continuing to run. I worry that I've done all this work for nothing. I worry that I won't make my goal.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this point, the fitness I worry about is not in my body. It's between my ears. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have an amazing support group of running friends. Erin called me immediately to calm me down, telling me that I have one job - to be healthy at the starting line. And to do everything to insure that I am. Kerry called, too. After berating me for continuing to run (I rely on Kerry for reality smacks across the face - think Cher in Moonstruck slapping Nicholas Cage: "Snap out of it!"), she said it concisely: "It may not be the run you wanted, but if you heal yourself now, at least you'll finish it." Babs had the same issue last year and always gives me a good sympathetic ear. Rose, training for New York, also suffered an injury and like me, is a type-A runner and highly competitive. She assured me that I'll kick ass. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, I've ordered a new pair of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Vomero</span> +4s, knowing my trusty pals will be just what I need on race day. I've vowed to hit the gym every day to keep up my fitness with low-impact <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">cardio</span> and strength training. I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">RICEing</span>. And with a little luck, I'll show up to Grant Park on 10-10-10 ready to kill 26.2.</div><div><br /></div><div>Besides, the super-cute race day outfit I bought at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Lululemon</span> is not going back. </div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-25069340760188446692010-08-31T13:47:00.019-04:002010-09-01T13:32:17.677-04:00It's about freaking time.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPU2qjO6yMwNeFQYaUjKmvQL9UMBJjof5dgLvmPmaVW5aSMpmlZa-84hFiR7WCD79zagJk2HUTn1hi8EUNCa1in3hDVXAgkeaHZFh9QjgP97nBeNXBNpv1MXpUllZ1R1eUWbgHmDhs3vz/s1600/cindyglasses3.jpg"><br /></a>And ... it is!<br /><br />I'd like to introduce the newest member of my family. Family? Meet <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Garmin</span>:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQ6RpEcyba03_668U2VYNLHIeD_2LZ5-7L5nlzNX1o9MwdSukTPrnw7I1oDuLtvOY-QRhZdrpXgj1NCQ32vQikIOqO7Otcdfnv7J4RSejxywsbybsLEyxc_be6vafx67ml96ywhxagNRW/s1600/garmin.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQ6RpEcyba03_668U2VYNLHIeD_2LZ5-7L5nlzNX1o9MwdSukTPrnw7I1oDuLtvOY-QRhZdrpXgj1NCQ32vQikIOqO7Otcdfnv7J4RSejxywsbybsLEyxc_be6vafx67ml96ywhxagNRW/s400/garmin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511632603744432914" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Oooooh</span> ... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">helloooooooo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Garmin</span>.<br /><br />I have officially reached a new stage in my running. Today, I own a Big Girl Watch. Not that I had been putting it off. But really? My Nike <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Sportband</span> worked <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">juuuuuust</span> fine. For the past year or so, I've been perfectly content with my bare-bones, no-nonsense Nike band. Behold:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVXPe4O2MbKNnzNA-I-GG7E45sa2mAjj1VLjQdjQ5Ojg2n8amvYVr0zQroQPleRU3iz4GNAFiIgsejM_iZ8yrsUmB3D33-tDweMtnG_Tdtlw1zCU3joYLKO42-T_BDXHtRcZPTiNYmnRi/s1600/nike+band.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVXPe4O2MbKNnzNA-I-GG7E45sa2mAjj1VLjQdjQ5Ojg2n8amvYVr0zQroQPleRU3iz4GNAFiIgsejM_iZ8yrsUmB3D33-tDweMtnG_Tdtlw1zCU3joYLKO42-T_BDXHtRcZPTiNYmnRi/s400/nike+band.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511640181840530610" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, he works fine. Light on the wrist and to see calories, time, pace ... I just hit a switch at the bottom. I also just plug that baby into my computer when I get home and it keeps a running total of my miles on the Nike website. But basic nonetheless. I call him ... Nestor.<br /><br />But when Nestor tried to do <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Yasso</span> 800s with me? He got a little flustered.<br /><br />I was never good in math. It's been long enough since high school that I can now admit that I had to repeat <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">calculus</span>. All of my girlfriends were honor society who were like nine grades ahead of everyone else - but not me. I struggled through everything but my English and writing classes, all the time reminding myself that "once I become an adult, I will never have to use math again."<br /><br />And then? I became a runner. Runners have complicated formulas for everything. They're obsessed with things like pace per mile and what their 5K PR is. They calculate what it takes to run a negative split race - the second half being faster than the first - using a complex breakdown of what their goal pace is at certain times. I'll admit that while I enjoy this kind of math, I also know my limitations. I know that when I stagger over the finish, barely able to breathe, I have way overestimated what my pace should have been. And it wasn't because I was feeling confident; it was all fuzzy math.<br /><br />My lack of wicked math skills has also been accompanied by a natural shift in the calibration of the Nike <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Sportband</span> (ahem, Nestor) as I've worn it more and more. So much so that as I would complete a full loop of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">CP</span> - knowing that it is exactly 6.03 miles - Nestor would look up at me innocently, stating: "6.33." Nestor, perhaps wanting too badly to please me, would begin to grant me an extra 3/10<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">ths</span> of a mile every time I ran.<br /><br />I was then thrown into a tizzy after the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Napa</span> to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Sonoma</span> Half when at a glance down at my wrist after the finish, Nestor told me I had just run <span style="font-weight: bold;">12.7</span> miles. Reminder: a half is 13.1 miles. What the what? What had I done? Was Nestor mad at me for something? Where did those other 3/10<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ths</span> disappear to? I actually even asked an official if maybe the race organizers had quietly just shaved off a little. "Come on," I urged. "It'll be our secret."<br /><br />Wait. I meant 4/10<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">ths</span>. See? I still suck at the most basic of math.<br /><br />Alas, it seemed that Nestor was just a little off. Again. Recalibration did nothing but piss him off even more.<br /><br />But I love him, so I put up with his erratic behavior. And when it was time on the schedule to get to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Yasso</span> 800s, I gave him a pep talk, telling him that he could absolutely do this.<br /><br />For those of you not familiar with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Yasso</span> 800s, behold from a fine running blog:<br /><br />====================================<br /><h2>What are the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Yasso</span> 800's?<br /></h2> <p>The concept is simple. One day per week for several weeks leading up to a marathon you mix interval training into your weekly run schedule. The intervals should consist of 800 meter runs. If you’re aiming for a 4 hour marathon finish time, then run your 800 meter interval in 4 minutes. Jog for another 4 minutes and then repeat by running another 800 meters in 4 minutes. And if you’re trying to run a 3 hour marathon then do 3 minute 800 meter intervals followed by 3 minutes of jogging, and repeat. Do this until you can do 10 total repetitions in a given workout at your marathon goal pace. After 2 or 3 months of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Yasso</span> 800′s along with your typical marathon training schedule you should be prepared to charge the marathon and complete it at your target pace based on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Yasso</span> intervals. Easy and effective!</p>====================================<br /><br />"Easy and effective!" Who <span style="font-style: italic;">wrote </span>that? Obviously someone who never sat next to me in trigonometry. It took me nearly an hour, scribbling notes all the way, to figure out how to do this workout. I don't think it even required "carrying the 1" ... but my math did. Oh, and don't get me started on meters versus miles. I still struggle with military time (Add 12. I think.), so conversions are not my thing. In the end, this is what I gleaned from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Yasso</span> 800s: I needed to watch my pace, my time and my mileage <span style="font-style: italic;">all at once. </span> Nestor was dejected, knowing he would fall short. Pressing that little button on his underbelly to toggle between those fields was the only way to do it. And I am just not coordinated enough to do this as I am hauling ass.<br /><br />We tried. We gave it our best shot. I still got in a good run, but to this day I have no effing idea if I did them correctly.<br /><br />And Nestor knew.<br /><br />So Mike surprised me last week with the sleek <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Garmin</span> 405, which does everything but go to the bathroom for me - provided I can find satellites. You see, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Garmin</span> runs on GPS, which means I am - for once in my life - exact and correct when I am running. He beeps at me when I hit mile markers or if I fall off pace, and he provides me with a virtual running partner I can try to beat. (That option is way creepy so I doubt I'll use it.) Best of all, I have all of my numbers right there in front of me. No need to press buttons anymore.<br /><br />And I think I shall call him ... Gavin.<br /><br />Nestor is okay with the arrangement. He knows I may still strap him on my right hand for long runs, since I love seeing my Nike level increase and I am <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">ohsoclose</span> to the next one.<br /><br />Ironically, this all happened the same week I bid adieu to my Nike wrap-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">arounds</span>. Oh, you know them well:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPU2qjO6yMwNeFQYaUjKmvQL9UMBJjof5dgLvmPmaVW5aSMpmlZa-84hFiR7WCD79zagJk2HUTn1hi8EUNCa1in3hDVXAgkeaHZFh9QjgP97nBeNXBNpv1MXpUllZ1R1eUWbgHmDhs3vz/s1600/cindyglasses3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPU2qjO6yMwNeFQYaUjKmvQL9UMBJjof5dgLvmPmaVW5aSMpmlZa-84hFiR7WCD79zagJk2HUTn1hi8EUNCa1in3hDVXAgkeaHZFh9QjgP97nBeNXBNpv1MXpUllZ1R1eUWbgHmDhs3vz/s400/cindyglasses3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511701143920903138" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsW9WYGblxKeqoBNp9-Kk7actJiJ-_Hk10VAkryP5O4x4oz1U51bF0Ci02mCe_-EWqlWmAQ0JU1MdJ9ryHEXLZ6My4NK1xYcY0i0VfsjWTNpODs2xrgqtAAwk2L9nhv4JoqxfhlKtRP3X/s1600/cindyglasses2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbsW9WYGblxKeqoBNp9-Kk7actJiJ-_Hk10VAkryP5O4x4oz1U51bF0Ci02mCe_-EWqlWmAQ0JU1MdJ9ryHEXLZ6My4NK1xYcY0i0VfsjWTNpODs2xrgqtAAwk2L9nhv4JoqxfhlKtRP3X/s400/cindyglasses2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511701137309181762" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTkhL3StPSYh1ER9SacyapwKYuABDlmG7-rPn1vAkB62oFn4BmEIAoeeoECTexDOoAm7NuwduIw31oy_bPuHCzg2riJQ70BLu0OS8n96sUDMF8Qwl7VKL3bbDGyAms-i0gbOtttDcYUD19/s1600/cindyglasses1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTkhL3StPSYh1ER9SacyapwKYuABDlmG7-rPn1vAkB62oFn4BmEIAoeeoECTexDOoAm7NuwduIw31oy_bPuHCzg2riJQ70BLu0OS8n96sUDMF8Qwl7VKL3bbDGyAms-i0gbOtttDcYUD19/s400/cindyglasses1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511701134408041442" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Hmmm</span>. It appears I only wear black tanks when I run.<br /><br />More on point, I have the wrap-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">arounds</span> everywhere I go. Even when I'm on the road, I pack them right alongside Nestor. (Oh, tragic Nestor!)<br /><br />This? Not so effective:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBtBHMoTqjlXIA1p0td0pdL_5x1b9hfpBT9tv_1AvaLHegAeQdaMwcgY-mx1uGPIgVehyphenhyphenpvFSFgwb1-1OSn1qH0FUphCHzewwYSQ_xAQ60LwnvZWag4Xm14ebHhDUcf7y6uYoQxmu0iXF/s1600/I-Squad.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBtBHMoTqjlXIA1p0td0pdL_5x1b9hfpBT9tv_1AvaLHegAeQdaMwcgY-mx1uGPIgVehyphenhyphenpvFSFgwb1-1OSn1qH0FUphCHzewwYSQ_xAQ60LwnvZWag4Xm14ebHhDUcf7y6uYoQxmu0iXF/s400/I-Squad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511997986491582210" border="0" /></a><br />I'm afraid the next Happy Running Cindy picture you see will star a different pair of shades. For now, I'll keep the broken ones sitting on my dresser, right alongside Nestor. Maybe they can reminisce about being important parts of my training, helping me to become the mature runner I am finally growing into. They can take pride knowing they were my training wheels, proudly watching as I roll down the street with Gavin at my side, a little wobbly yet unaided and steadfast in achieving my goal ... all on my own.<br /><br />Or maybe because they're a watch and a pair of sunglasses, I'll just donate them to charity. Come on people, this isn't a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Pixar</span> film.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-22293648478686633102010-08-22T14:08:00.015-04:002010-08-23T10:50:34.986-04:00The tequila made me do it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinFs7Kg64rKIIGJ3C4HOW3vGdZ3JK64PWsp_OQkaFW1iN6o9hwILyZsPA6C1tET-xeexp-fGghRlvARkNaw2aBLh3yF1Ttv62gAEasTHk2Y5_4talDp4ydNJU3SDnBIzd8l_4YA3GkhgMX/s1600/mexico+2010+489.jpg"><br /></a>Or, in this case, not do it.<div><br /></div><div>I'm so sorry, dear readers (okay, so it's just Tina), but I was kidnapped by banditos in the Mexican countryside and made to drink tequila for hours at a time, ripped so cruelly away from my marathon training ... and my blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>All right, only partly true. The part about the tequila. And the training and the blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>But really, tequila? Can be blamed for so many things that go horribly off-course, probably even historically. The Titanic? Tequila. The 2000 presidential election? Tequila. The pitch meeting when "Jersey Shore" got green-lighted? Definitely tequila.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinFs7Kg64rKIIGJ3C4HOW3vGdZ3JK64PWsp_OQkaFW1iN6o9hwILyZsPA6C1tET-xeexp-fGghRlvARkNaw2aBLh3yF1Ttv62gAEasTHk2Y5_4talDp4ydNJU3SDnBIzd8l_4YA3GkhgMX/s1600/mexico+2010+489.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinFs7Kg64rKIIGJ3C4HOW3vGdZ3JK64PWsp_OQkaFW1iN6o9hwILyZsPA6C1tET-xeexp-fGghRlvARkNaw2aBLh3yF1Ttv62gAEasTHk2Y5_4talDp4ydNJU3SDnBIzd8l_4YA3GkhgMX/s400/mexico+2010+489.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508606461553289378" border="0" /></a><div>And they made me wear a sombrero!</div><div><br /></div><div>As my Chicago training progressed, I knew one large obstacle loomed on the schedule. A trip to Mexico with our close friends who we travel with every year. Remember New Orleans last year?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSh5lb2iSNDUNOrNevqWEtbXr2qxEEi5qEpXNN-kQVlMjaQRladxl0QBNBIATZOU_X28D9P_m9KL62necFqHZNqYWNfm1zqrFJIQHD_J3UUVuqgOTgKQ3tqDQU4OBI2C1c-4dZxe-OFvM/s1600/group2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSh5lb2iSNDUNOrNevqWEtbXr2qxEEi5qEpXNN-kQVlMjaQRladxl0QBNBIATZOU_X28D9P_m9KL62necFqHZNqYWNfm1zqrFJIQHD_J3UUVuqgOTgKQ3tqDQU4OBI2C1c-4dZxe-OFvM/s400/group2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508610584078282050" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiduTJAwg7t7AwzCOd62JCgyEUWhxiBLsbkD5RTxv0Ci3RkFoR9yQSVy1Q2rU-4xS35PdQDeZDk05wmuEJnzlaSd6qzNuXoHIwMzTa8rphf6TusetPx4-AwpfWUnu4Ey6_m06YRfFtUT5t2/s1600/group.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiduTJAwg7t7AwzCOd62JCgyEUWhxiBLsbkD5RTxv0Ci3RkFoR9yQSVy1Q2rU-4xS35PdQDeZDk05wmuEJnzlaSd6qzNuXoHIwMzTa8rphf6TusetPx4-AwpfWUnu4Ey6_m06YRfFtUT5t2/s400/group.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508610572385902226" border="0" /></a><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZUwietDmAZbd0PfMrzF54ADt6ljsx1HQgyU7udlacUShG29fwHRYYzRE9t75FPgEEmv1nJVO98Udt6lWQfZxUo4NKcWvodqnl16sMDVpplNXGgC2d045K4QJ-w2voJ1KnxEhZx5H5nwBm/s1600/val.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZUwietDmAZbd0PfMrzF54ADt6ljsx1HQgyU7udlacUShG29fwHRYYzRE9t75FPgEEmv1nJVO98Udt6lWQfZxUo4NKcWvodqnl16sMDVpplNXGgC2d045K4QJ-w2voJ1KnxEhZx5H5nwBm/s400/val.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508610598671910930" border="0" /></a><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIexppW812XqDOm4-Ecu5kQ7t2PDf9mW6LNa2jwjLYdSqCNFS5M8G1Ma1H_mrqImDZtuL6w3Jc18bzTyfomBXnsGLIQDWt4A4RnghHQg58LUN6FB2MbVuCFuc4H8oMiLh4Hdq9KJ-6h71d/s1600/kimmy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIexppW812XqDOm4-Ecu5kQ7t2PDf9mW6LNa2jwjLYdSqCNFS5M8G1Ma1H_mrqImDZtuL6w3Jc18bzTyfomBXnsGLIQDWt4A4RnghHQg58LUN6FB2MbVuCFuc4H8oMiLh4Hdq9KJ-6h71d/s400/kimmy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508610595908262962" border="0" /></a><div><br />Ah yes ... <i>those </i>friends.</div><div><br /></div><div>So as you can imagine, I was a bit concerned about throwing off my training schedule for the five days we'd be at ... wait for it ... an <b>all-inclusive resort. </b> Yep, top-shelf liquor with the flash of a woven bracelet bestowed upon you when you arrive. As Val so aptly pointed out, our group was going to become the luxury resorts' loss leader. They'd quickly be rethinking this foolish all-inclusive gibberish upon our checkout.</div><div><br /></div><div>We were to arrive on Thursday night and my running schedule was supposed to go something like this: Friday - 5 miles; Saturday - 16 miles; Monday - 5 miles; Tuesday - 8 miles of hills. </div><div><br /></div><div>I rearranged the schedule before we left, figuring there was no way I was doing a long run of 16 miles on Saturday. I'd get up super-duper early on Thursday before we took off, run my 16 miles. Then I'd see how the rest of the days played out. With that schedule, only Tuesday would be a toss-up. I figured the 5 milers would be easy enough to do on the hotel treadmill.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thursday morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>I slept through my alarm. Several times. Don't blame me, though. I was feeling a little sniffly and cold-ish. So I took my snotty butt to the gym where I successfully pounded out ... a mile and a quarter. Omg so pathetic. Thursday? A total loss on the training schedule. But it didn't matter once we got to Nueva Vallarta because we were with our best friends who are always totally refined and conservative.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnhY5e3CYmozJLk54Wx0eawFWk4E06q0_e1rxoGXCKsHDqFlYC_OAIulcrn6O56rNF4QolVEIFMTJow6UygzFzr2DF92DJFTXZEgvTPNKO93UNhgUuq-eX3FXWewLsSURyC8XlsbKH7tCu/s1600/mexico+2010+122.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnhY5e3CYmozJLk54Wx0eawFWk4E06q0_e1rxoGXCKsHDqFlYC_OAIulcrn6O56rNF4QolVEIFMTJow6UygzFzr2DF92DJFTXZEgvTPNKO93UNhgUuq-eX3FXWewLsSURyC8XlsbKH7tCu/s400/mexico+2010+122.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508605379429626946" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOe30qbaMlrnFdHMX-uYGt7Fjg219rIfj3lU4upk6gEdPUChn9Z-cXwkYoVRfYz9sV7ZER8E0lTXZ_OZJwASUuf9h5BFRPKrXA85ziI9giYQA5S0lHbp9o54GB60H1ChAHcnEOeMivy8V/s1600/mexico+2010+127.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY65tAEttlr_uA-TgmzPrjy0PW1VfBxnWVtaPDhIVlG_YgqumaOPidmPCAvJCJsjtZS7jF4kuguewKYkPkZEWRddHkJ64d33Uou7x0Hm8ltudiypz03kxHJQtOlwaxTcb4xQ6BiGRjOZyA/s400/mexico+2010+035.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508608648469652914" border="0" /><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOe30qbaMlrnFdHMX-uYGt7Fjg219rIfj3lU4upk6gEdPUChn9Z-cXwkYoVRfYz9sV7ZER8E0lTXZ_OZJwASUuf9h5BFRPKrXA85ziI9giYQA5S0lHbp9o54GB60H1ChAHcnEOeMivy8V/s400/mexico+2010+127.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508608641992903538" border="0" /></a></div><div><br />So Friday morning was a bit touch-and-go.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I managed to bang out 5 slow miles on the treadmill and figured I'd do what I could on Saturday morning. I knew there was no long run in my future. Our drunken exploits and hangover potential aside, there is just no way I can do 16 on the dreadmill. Could I take it outside? Sure, if I didn't mind the stifling humidity and +90 temps <i>not to mention</i> that pesky U.S. State Department advisory for tourists traveling to Mexico, warning that you best not step foot out of your resort for risk of being kidnapped and beheaded by drug lords. (Not that dramatic, but the gringo from New York wasn't taking any chances.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Up until this point in my training, I looked at the schedule so prominently posted on my fridge as gospel. I didn't waver from a hill repeat or tempo run. I hadn't cut anything short. I was, if I do say so myself, a model trainee. </div><div><br /></div><div>Enter the margarita.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saturday morning started out with our amazing breakfast buffet. (It took me several mornings after we returned home to stop plodding into the kitchen in flip-flops and shouting incredulously at Mike: "Donde esta el berry bar?!") But come on, people. It's a freaking all-inclusive. And being that time really doesn't matter when you're on vacation, I can give you about 127 justifications for having a margarita at 10:30am. Even more if it's with reposada. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Speaking of time. We found out a day into our trip that our resort - located just 15 minutes away from the airport - was in a different time zone from Puerto Vallarta. It made for much confusion with dinner reservations and no one ever seemed to be able to tell us what the correct time was. After a few days of guesstimating by looking at the sun, an exasperated Kerry finally asked the concierge: "What time do <i>you</i> think it is?" We never received a proper answer.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So Saturday, we had an excursion. Ziplining. (Which I was really excited about, since the only other time I had done this was in Costa Rica with Mike, Mike and Claudette. But since we're really more of the "sit around the pool bar and put away pina coladas" people, our CR ziplining adventure was over the resort pool. Mike actually waved to me from the hot tub as I passed overhead. Claudette and I have since used "ziplined" as a verb to describe anyone half-assing something, i.e., "She totally ziplined that job interview.")</div><div><br /></div><div>So a couple of margies in and several (many) Tecates on the long, winding drive up the mountain ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksUJzW_y_FR7XV2jU8XBVan362aEVmM7HL6B2L8Iv5nvOy-QG8orPejHtjR3ETDS2Yb_4twC3o4h9Xw_3T1CT0XsrEu_u4NUxJuN2MG0Y2ZT6Xx8oNOJ7tcr2dt8zEGAWSvmPeyB54OCi/s1600/mexico+2010+416.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksUJzW_y_FR7XV2jU8XBVan362aEVmM7HL6B2L8Iv5nvOy-QG8orPejHtjR3ETDS2Yb_4twC3o4h9Xw_3T1CT0XsrEu_u4NUxJuN2MG0Y2ZT6Xx8oNOJ7tcr2dt8zEGAWSvmPeyB54OCi/s400/mexico+2010+416.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508606443840793058" border="0" /></a><br />... the long run became a distant and hazy memory. And this? Was our zipline adventure:</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cV0J45IoOO-o4ZR_Az3B-HDhC0-LmpPocscw7mNJd9lhv1LYcveHVmD681t9LS7Y2DZT6Fa8jYXclZMpEhmrCSIqLYhix_5GQsAD4HFAow33nTZyShiCMjexkktq_OZcJahKSOAfb0vM/s1600/mexico+2010+609.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cV0J45IoOO-o4ZR_Az3B-HDhC0-LmpPocscw7mNJd9lhv1LYcveHVmD681t9LS7Y2DZT6Fa8jYXclZMpEhmrCSIqLYhix_5GQsAD4HFAow33nTZyShiCMjexkktq_OZcJahKSOAfb0vM/s400/mexico+2010+609.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508607505760751218" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyr-zD0WsDKPuK4JbQi3FMmz5jitmXRH7jFBr-5NA7Zh7SfELJPLT-1suwi1RyzGO2BHTXkCGLPiXunFJClbR3XPsCAHbXvrfoiM4xO0tT0asdNLVmhHuXnArK022t2ODzmI8-8IaZA_u/s1600/mexico+2010+614.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyr-zD0WsDKPuK4JbQi3FMmz5jitmXRH7jFBr-5NA7Zh7SfELJPLT-1suwi1RyzGO2BHTXkCGLPiXunFJClbR3XPsCAHbXvrfoiM4xO0tT0asdNLVmhHuXnArK022t2ODzmI8-8IaZA_u/s400/mexico+2010+614.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508607518911822898" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJgd-PLOOrRI7yYnwNzmIJWhJ2KidVG1kRUorLKt5HxCfibG_zYdYqRpEhhhS-t8g7KOOl6__nLlYC8q3ix5HNvH43stZxY4xme06WkRiBYNYe4xnxW9-TRhc4AdvbUhTRnPh8Ytu0t-AD/s1600/mexico+2010+800.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJgd-PLOOrRI7yYnwNzmIJWhJ2KidVG1kRUorLKt5HxCfibG_zYdYqRpEhhhS-t8g7KOOl6__nLlYC8q3ix5HNvH43stZxY4xme06WkRiBYNYe4xnxW9-TRhc4AdvbUhTRnPh8Ytu0t-AD/s400/mexico+2010+800.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508607512121324306" border="0" /></a></div><div><br />Followed by a "tequila tour" by our guides. Which was really just them getting us wasted on really good tequila in an effort to garner more tips. Totally worked.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia7QYCfPO53hiawlfmL73WmYvhDkbYXj0tMemSWCEE06DJPSGEhoSheKNZTJ8ZCZOCXftm7zvBJr_-FeXmt877qjz-Jchyphenhyphenr62qytPLlkHjHHCDkz2Bb5qkSmH0abBcds9cZQpgVXyzWrJ4/s1600/mexico+2010+478.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia7QYCfPO53hiawlfmL73WmYvhDkbYXj0tMemSWCEE06DJPSGEhoSheKNZTJ8ZCZOCXftm7zvBJr_-FeXmt877qjz-Jchyphenhyphenr62qytPLlkHjHHCDkz2Bb5qkSmH0abBcds9cZQpgVXyzWrJ4/s400/mexico+2010+478.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508606444928231490" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTP7YtFL8xhgLUjPdRrVm8ct2Fk1f9kvYwHDskDNF0s9Wnk-0ljSOzEso81Q8uPKefzp6uuvUjbUlk4xcFPCjL9OspD-iztiW3Lv2-eqxVU1emOIBLTAgA6OQZBac86dbMOMSBeM03As5P/s1600/mexico+2010+483.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTP7YtFL8xhgLUjPdRrVm8ct2Fk1f9kvYwHDskDNF0s9Wnk-0ljSOzEso81Q8uPKefzp6uuvUjbUlk4xcFPCjL9OspD-iztiW3Lv2-eqxVU1emOIBLTAgA6OQZBac86dbMOMSBeM03As5P/s400/mexico+2010+483.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508606459675280322" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div>I had thought that by the end of the day I'd have a sense of regret or anxiety for blowing off a crucial training run. Frankly, all I felt was warm and buzzed. And I dug it. Besides, I still had Sunday to get back on track. I'd try to fit in something in the morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>This was Saturday night:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy4_yiKLBz0ROHxJlFVGXZVrYEsOoB6cIHSbF-Sl-z6XbIOvVKWLpsM69uKNIa4uvEmjUtLZSJhrfCqHybJtcAKCieICv80qWSGg1QNJj8we967oAh8cz_FzkItOVzor0SscUcPyl9h8ci/s1600/mexico+2010+230.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy4_yiKLBz0ROHxJlFVGXZVrYEsOoB6cIHSbF-Sl-z6XbIOvVKWLpsM69uKNIa4uvEmjUtLZSJhrfCqHybJtcAKCieICv80qWSGg1QNJj8we967oAh8cz_FzkItOVzor0SscUcPyl9h8ci/s400/mexico+2010+230.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508608653844428130" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WhuzKxc14X7Y5mZSuT4Ydpfib5-MYmFdOnYPx6KpgHn56yPh5_rnS71uHJfpdY5Gtn00BiU5UiXiSqN3SGSf2DnLSR5C-UgTe6VWT3d-dxH7vEmLa8Nc98X8EvR9-O1fXQUuUdKLyWX9/s1600/mexico+2010+287.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WhuzKxc14X7Y5mZSuT4Ydpfib5-MYmFdOnYPx6KpgHn56yPh5_rnS71uHJfpdY5Gtn00BiU5UiXiSqN3SGSf2DnLSR5C-UgTe6VWT3d-dxH7vEmLa8Nc98X8EvR9-O1fXQUuUdKLyWX9/s400/mexico+2010+287.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508605395054222034" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzr5S6ddWBXQcmRHJGBpTx2bQaVONA8bV9HwcnAwk8xRYi6355SjsuHq9t8If2ruk3Af5yF6hUpFlg-2r3-gL_bsywzKFEdnUrEieXItePLf2QIgkDPm4TvOhVyg9oBscxrcE1m2yQZHG/s1600/mexico+2010+281.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuzr5S6ddWBXQcmRHJGBpTx2bQaVONA8bV9HwcnAwk8xRYi6355SjsuHq9t8If2ruk3Af5yF6hUpFlg-2r3-gL_bsywzKFEdnUrEieXItePLf2QIgkDPm4TvOhVyg9oBscxrcE1m2yQZHG/s400/mexico+2010+281.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508606437868906066" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4kFsPWHm2nx6HajE1Pd4lWsqDAi8jpwwgpKqJveYo9rJ6S_9cUFmYgszNVLUvM2nPp0K63HLH8Zun6xOlGa1qULNLsxvHJh_7jOWcPhdCFVE_ObT-D-zEyKs1avuFpe4UPxrn_-uyempY/s1600/mexico+2010+214.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4kFsPWHm2nx6HajE1Pd4lWsqDAi8jpwwgpKqJveYo9rJ6S_9cUFmYgszNVLUvM2nPp0K63HLH8Zun6xOlGa1qULNLsxvHJh_7jOWcPhdCFVE_ObT-D-zEyKs1avuFpe4UPxrn_-uyempY/s400/mexico+2010+214.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508608661315169618" border="0" /></a><br />So day two of the Great Marathon Training Blow Off started with a wicked hangover. That was quickly repaired by bloody marys in the pool. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxW5VST_CnLjdTN326QXdM0l0hLpP1jxcBQeMdXXyfJrbuAjC9uWhTId-sv11HZa0VvUCFZtLz8modgGZFniBx1xgAIymFwtHX-TlPI3O_dDUlOKtkJiJguj6igjxSDt5QtCXvLv5hGvf/s1600/mexico+2010+210.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxW5VST_CnLjdTN326QXdM0l0hLpP1jxcBQeMdXXyfJrbuAjC9uWhTId-sv11HZa0VvUCFZtLz8modgGZFniBx1xgAIymFwtHX-TlPI3O_dDUlOKtkJiJguj6igjxSDt5QtCXvLv5hGvf/s400/mexico+2010+210.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508605383529290962" border="0" /></a><br />Followed by a concoction whipped up by our pool boy Wenceslaus (Kerry dubbed the drink a "Wencie").<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5ivEuwuO2hFGETUqzb-fflICvVvGa86a6MtoV8P69D2Hj69AL0mWhG494gEn7y8KCdeYRB8NcqxVtaf-KSbIXjWHjMfG4L-fp2Kx2mfU8DqEwngRsF6NtYSFiS15KG70qIvaqKIZ8ZoG/s1600/mexico+2010+353.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5ivEuwuO2hFGETUqzb-fflICvVvGa86a6MtoV8P69D2Hj69AL0mWhG494gEn7y8KCdeYRB8NcqxVtaf-KSbIXjWHjMfG4L-fp2Kx2mfU8DqEwngRsF6NtYSFiS15KG70qIvaqKIZ8ZoG/s400/mexico+2010+353.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508605399014765186" border="0" /></a><br />Followed by little milky, caramel-y shots of heaven. We are all class. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNCfHNaNyQs740CN-NQOC_fAt_TdYroikKG54dbBwsgQLUB1wekezbknQRmVJNqlnZVFImvNOSnl5JxnH8GBP8Yn3zT-1NMXEGtVz-8DtyELbI3aamz_en7VIJbr5zLzxgSIpe0e4G4ko/s1600/mexico+2010+354.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNCfHNaNyQs740CN-NQOC_fAt_TdYroikKG54dbBwsgQLUB1wekezbknQRmVJNqlnZVFImvNOSnl5JxnH8GBP8Yn3zT-1NMXEGtVz-8DtyELbI3aamz_en7VIJbr5zLzxgSIpe0e4G4ko/s400/mexico+2010+354.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508607492620832754" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>This picture has not been Photoshopped:<br /><br /> </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9v2rcNn0VawnHzaToCqUr7MJrgVIzTk7RPB56axPNVQF1RWLzmQkyihtFbbJUlYB05qJHL-YMIGaVgNBn1gutIuKeeBpnBC7fqoHVOywVCOnSsw1vG4cL58zqiHXqT1NsbRL-Fc1TEsvR/s1600/mexico+2010+082.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9v2rcNn0VawnHzaToCqUr7MJrgVIzTk7RPB56axPNVQF1RWLzmQkyihtFbbJUlYB05qJHL-YMIGaVgNBn1gutIuKeeBpnBC7fqoHVOywVCOnSsw1vG4cL58zqiHXqT1NsbRL-Fc1TEsvR/s400/mexico+2010+082.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508605373984487090" border="0" /></a><div><br /></div><div>By Monday, I was back on the treadmill for 5 miles and I'm fairly certain I was sweating Sauza. But I still had Tuesday. I was supposed to do 8 miles of hills - which is difficult to do on a treadmill anyway - but I would have settled for anything at that point.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then this really big dude named Montezuma banged on the front door of our hotel suite. What an a-hole this guy is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Spent the entire trip home Tuesday sweating, swearing and darting for el bano. Worse still, when I got home and tried to get back on my schedule, I'd find that about a quarter mile was my limit. A stomach cramp would shoot through me and I'd be forced to walk, muttering to myself all the way home about the damned ceviche bar. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was the first week that I was able to get myself back on track. Logged my highest mileage yet - 42 miles for the week - and had a pretty successful 18-mile run, half of that with Barb at my side. Of course, the Cipro prescribed by my doctor didn't hurt, either.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the trip was awesome. We've found the perfect mix of personalities to travel together and it just works so well. I've never laughed so hard for so many consecutive hours. We joked (but were kind of serious) about making t-shirts up for all of us proudly proclaiming: "Those People." Since we were the group everyone else stared at - and were subsequently horrified by. Like last year in New Orleans, we can't wait to travel again together next year.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6TEf4jxS1uE8OWY2I7B5iZODTjarnqTVIaWe_UW2q0XoWse1uGQukVpci5CzFayWafKsn37WQKC-sngQ3FNG7YVcjPPKFkvxOsXz5aIjmN6BRPM0pwOkMdZtyX_i9gNie0APRpJIkKLMP/s1600/mexico+2010+345.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6TEf4jxS1uE8OWY2I7B5iZODTjarnqTVIaWe_UW2q0XoWse1uGQukVpci5CzFayWafKsn37WQKC-sngQ3FNG7YVcjPPKFkvxOsXz5aIjmN6BRPM0pwOkMdZtyX_i9gNie0APRpJIkKLMP/s400/mexico+2010+345.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508608672150229074" border="0" /></a><br />Maybe I've been taking myself too seriously with all this training stuff. Maybe I needed a fun-filled five days with friends to realize that <i>that's</i> what's most important in life. Maybe it's okay to blow off the schedule in exchange for memories that are only made when you're good and marinated in Mexican beer. Maybe every now and again you need to live life like a Jimmy Buffet song. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe everything is just better when it's accompanied by salt and lime.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBizrwpsMStbIpzWADfog09DYL428Va-idI2akIFdiNx892D4dH7SclFz4OrK-a-6prSgCE8ZrQ595HhQ0l2ovTfdB-7iDihkPoJ18IrpiqNmgIk4rsMIkqGalK6slBbgiTAawViEPg4k4/s1600/mexico+2010+491.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBizrwpsMStbIpzWADfog09DYL428Va-idI2akIFdiNx892D4dH7SclFz4OrK-a-6prSgCE8ZrQ595HhQ0l2ovTfdB-7iDihkPoJ18IrpiqNmgIk4rsMIkqGalK6slBbgiTAawViEPg4k4/s400/mexico+2010+491.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508607504035753458" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-42095791574003316872010-07-27T11:59:00.016-04:002010-07-27T18:55:09.441-04:00I'd look awesome in Dri-Fit and puka shells.So I'm turning 40 in January (audible gasps, I know it's simply unbelievable), which is kind of a big deal in my family.<br /><br />Call it our really effed up preoccupation with aging (we think birthdays that deserve black balloons are cool, not an excuse for locking yourself in a closet with a bottle of pills), but everyone who has turned 40 has had a blowout party that we all make, no matter where we're located. We all flew to Minnesota for my sister's 40th (props to us for making that trip in January, eh? It's like the frozen freaking tundra. I have never been so cold in all my life.) and we flew home to California for my brother's 40th as my sister-in-law Trish threw him a huge surprise party ... huge as in hundreds of people and a commercial margarita machine. Because every awesome party has a margarita machine.<br /><br />We do these things big. So 6 months out, Trish has already started bugging Mike about what we're doing for mine. Now by contrast, Mike and I are total last-minute planners. I think I threw together Mike's 40th (I got the 'aging ROCKS!' gene and embarrassed him with a surprise party, complete with Mike masks. He hated every second of it, which thrilled me to no end) in about two weeks. I'm not condoning it, I'm just saying, this is who we are. Trish went on to explain that they are trying to plan a work/family trip to Hawaii in January, so they didn't want a conflict with my birthday.<br /><br />I gave it about 43 seconds of thought before I Googled "marathon" and "January 16 2011." Imagine my surprise when I found one ... in Hawaii. No joke, the Maui Paradise Marathon, held on my 40th birthday. Could it be that we could get the whole family together in tropical paradise for the big 4-0? Upon reading through the website, however, there was this small note:<br /><br />*****<br /><p><strong>June 30, 2010</strong>, Aloha! While conditions are improving on Maui, unfortunately they are still not conducive to putting on a world class marathon, half marathon, and 5K events for Sunday, January 16, 2011. Runners and participants deserve the best when coming to Maui. Unless the MPM team can guarantee that to its participants, they will not hold the event as much as they would like to do that for all of you who want to come to Maui to run/walk and combine it with a first class vacation. Therefore, the January 16, 2011 event will not be held on a formal basis. </p>*****<br /><br />What?! Not held?! Do you know what January 16th is?! Okay, call me dense, but I refused to believe that a few potholes would delay an entire marathon on <span style="font-style: italic;">my </span>birthday. Don't they know who I am?<br /><br />I emailed the head of the MPM, who promptly responded with an "Aloha, Cindy!" (Let me just say here that I want to live in a place where you have an alternative to "hello." Yes, one could make the argument that "Hey, asshole! Move your truck!" is the official greeting of New York City. But if you're looking for warm and fuzzy with a hint of exotic, Hawaii's version of "hello" is for you. And if you say "hello" back, they know you're not from there. Love that!)<br /><br />Anyway, he tells me that yes, they've decided to hold off on an "official" MPM. But behold the rest of his email:<br /><br />*****<br /><br /><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="Street"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="address"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PostalCode"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><style>st1\:* { BEHAVIOR: url(#default#ieooui) } </style><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline;} span.EmailStyle17 {mso-style-type:personal-compose; font-family:Arial; color:windowtext;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">Aloha Cindy. Sorry for the delay in responding but we were doing some things that might have an effect for January but nothing happened to change it. There will be no formal event at this point. However, we are going to start gathering names of those who might want to do a group type run, informal if you will. Means you would need to carry your own supplies, no cops, none of the things with a formal race. However, if we get enough to do it, I will see about getting finisher's shirts and medals and then have a low fee to cover those items. Couple other things could go along with it but in effect, it would be very low keyed.<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span> </div> <div><span style="font-family:Arial;">We can always do a special birthday party run for you and your family! We have the course laid out so you could easily enough do it. I fully understand why you would want to do something like that seeing how it also is a new age group! For us runners, those are the only birthdays to celebrate. </span></div><br />*****<br /><br />He then signed off with a "mahalo" for my interest. (I might start using "mahalo" in grocery stores and banks. Do you think people in Manhattan would think me odd? Or perhaps just recently returned from the islands and not yet grasping being stateside again?)<br /><br />Even though it seemed improbable that there would be an island marathon for me to run on my 40th birthday, I couldn't get over how touched I was that a running club on the other side of the Earth was willing to basically throw something together for me. Okay, so it wasn't just for me ... and yes, they would dig having a bunch of tourists on their island spending money ... but it all goes back to this weird runner's kinship that I've often tried to describe.<br /><br />My favorite story since beginning this odyssey is still when Mike gave up his shoes to the runner at the Queens Half Marathon last year. (And if you don't know the story, read it <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://seecindyrun.blogspot.com/2009/09/walk-mile-in-mikes-shoes.html">here</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span> You won't be disappointed.) Although Mike isn't a runner, he gave them up without thinking twice. But what I might love more is that the dude who asked for them - thought nothing of doing so, assuming that everyone at the race that day was of like mind.<br /><br />I'm reminded of my friend Erin. She's a high school friend and in my group of girls who have managed to stay close all these years despite careers, husbands, children, diverging interests and miles in between.<br /><br />On paper, Erin and I couldn't be more different. Her politics are conservative and she's a Sarah Palin fan; I studied at Berkeley and think Bill Clinton was the Second Coming. She's heavily involved in her church community; I'm a "twice a year"-er whose church prayers usually begin with, "crap, God ... sorry it's been so long." I drink and swear like a sailor; the hardest thing I've seen her drink was an ice tea with a shot of Splenda. Although we've known each other for over 20 years, sometimes I imagine I appear to her as strange rebellious teen.<br /><br />But our common ground is running. Erin is an avid runner and has finished - and finished well - many marathons. Here she is during the San Francisco Marathon this past weekend. Oh, and she did it as a training run. Show off.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptFYgNpYUAxTVpL299ah8XNPVmYfnYF_vKBnw00PFKbjU_G7-ONyi9hzVsDOO17YK81Q18cTG4yBNNNDgzRaUr_YPWhjwf_Uag1nAID4E3Cbs6N1RpL4CitkB8kYXeU8IELNuDDYMWset/s1600/erin+sf.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptFYgNpYUAxTVpL299ah8XNPVmYfnYF_vKBnw00PFKbjU_G7-ONyi9hzVsDOO17YK81Q18cTG4yBNNNDgzRaUr_YPWhjwf_Uag1nAID4E3Cbs6N1RpL4CitkB8kYXeU8IELNuDDYMWset/s400/erin+sf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498643943171581570" border="0" /></a><br />Erin is currently training for New York in November. When she got in through the lottery, I was as happy as if I had gotten in myself. She got in, along with a girlfriend, and they would be travelling cross-country to run one of the greatest marathons in the world. Would Mike and I be able to house a couple of runners come the first weekend in November? Of course, I replied. There were disclaimers: there will be an airbed involved, and most certainly a shihtzu staring at your face every morning, but if you can handle it, then mi apartamento es su apartamento. This is what runners do.<br /><br />Our pasts are the reason we met - and our presents are diametrically opposed - yet going forward, I'm happy to have someone else in my life who understands the native tongue. We both speak the international language of "Holy crap, where's the stupid finish line already?!"<br /><br />Mahalo for reading.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-63077268910605637152010-07-21T16:30:00.003-04:002010-07-21T22:24:19.460-04:00We ran 13.1 miles and all we got was this stinkin' wine glass.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJJUefZSbNuUG6Z5XhZWWWcwLQ7NUNUIIDnqmL7Qp62rQWh5oJPH0LP00rOzSpyQwx_2zAHV9m-FPo5Ls54lHFT4HvhUmLwe8hU_aRgE-fwOVTsIYK5yq8bSOmu_zF2C5RSixKMwaorcG/s1600/cindy+kerry+wine.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJJUefZSbNuUG6Z5XhZWWWcwLQ7NUNUIIDnqmL7Qp62rQWh5oJPH0LP00rOzSpyQwx_2zAHV9m-FPo5Ls54lHFT4HvhUmLwe8hU_aRgE-fwOVTsIYK5yq8bSOmu_zF2C5RSixKMwaorcG/s400/cindy+kerry+wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496399562790769378" border="0" /></a><br />Ah, but you know me too well. That beautiful glass was rarely empty!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vPFBy3gcmhjqeSYgyGH4G2CgDIpAgkBnWAPrNuQTuwgKHdFcnNTft8jlfvWJE95MRFEh0AN44tsbqKF-B0n8p6iowjXk9Pr6SdqT6ctE8SoKrWIlReiIGxR9uz5bU7aB0fUO5qLS3qrv/s1600/kerry+wine.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3vPFBy3gcmhjqeSYgyGH4G2CgDIpAgkBnWAPrNuQTuwgKHdFcnNTft8jlfvWJE95MRFEh0AN44tsbqKF-B0n8p6iowjXk9Pr6SdqT6ctE8SoKrWIlReiIGxR9uz5bU7aB0fUO5qLS3qrv/s400/kerry+wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496399567916304050" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, we did it. Kerry finished her first half-marathon ever. Me? The most enjoyable race I've ever run.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBB2XgP4qbYBIkT__Zk2vITkBp-I7tCAG5Vg3JPeOLCkmbKdRA42N3ChAAmqtlzQwKWEMai4wHn0UBPvaJ3araP2d6KmbZw6mK1QELbjxh3lofn0WekchWfPOb57yziGHFJy3y_1rJw4Wb/s1600/cindy+kerry+napa.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBB2XgP4qbYBIkT__Zk2vITkBp-I7tCAG5Vg3JPeOLCkmbKdRA42N3ChAAmqtlzQwKWEMai4wHn0UBPvaJ3araP2d6KmbZw6mK1QELbjxh3lofn0WekchWfPOb57yziGHFJy3y_1rJw4Wb/s400/cindy+kerry+napa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496398444654590274" border="0" /></a><br />And then ... we drank a crapload of wine.<br /><br />One cannot fully appreciate the finish however, without first understanding the beginning and the middle. In a word, the whole weekend kicked big ass.<br /><br />Let me start at Friday. Kim and I coordinated so that we'd arrive SFO at the same time and cab in to Kerry's pad. The mere fact that Red left her three kids in the dust and came all the way up from San Diego to watch us run still boggles the mind. She also came up for my marathon last year. Hands down the best cheerleader-slash-friend a girl could ask for. I heart her.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHcKaiOKHVDeK-1_g5NV4JqbRTjoUTD0UhwwQoW6QcjaZNSYRU_Xu07SYIbSFKGG86_b8rCJvnRVgkbcOIqrJZsTy9laVvq5IwdpZjUJ_wQujS9pEqP9_lmcbs2aD2w99W-2zwx8PFwQmZ/s1600/red.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHcKaiOKHVDeK-1_g5NV4JqbRTjoUTD0UhwwQoW6QcjaZNSYRU_Xu07SYIbSFKGG86_b8rCJvnRVgkbcOIqrJZsTy9laVvq5IwdpZjUJ_wQujS9pEqP9_lmcbs2aD2w99W-2zwx8PFwQmZ/s400/red.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496409570026314354" border="0" /></a>Going back to my neurosis about finally having a decent Brightroom photo, we decided to paint the town red.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYocgNimV3cX9MVzUd4AIDR6osjKXsLSMmZm5NhM90zE5DYdZOVbYv0qzabbzHNMpZkxMDQU0DH6yL5cxJPeC4lZuOr4TFT8b6DCgz7GUDzHvowBTn5cOliFKL_mdcEf5AzVl7thULPq4q/s1600/pedis.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYocgNimV3cX9MVzUd4AIDR6osjKXsLSMmZm5NhM90zE5DYdZOVbYv0qzabbzHNMpZkxMDQU0DH6yL5cxJPeC4lZuOr4TFT8b6DCgz7GUDzHvowBTn5cOliFKL_mdcEf5AzVl7thULPq4q/s400/pedis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496409573355803042" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoE5i0twVZUzx7ApbV9IesJY-hctrhoWIGssgPvTRDHm7G_fEhSqGewum5r4_OqxgASJr-Tn6J_FRHIjXNbyrGVaFEILeIs2WqrhAyiismet9-a54MjC32ICoYzMp4NCJCetFDH1CgOIY/s1600/manis.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoE5i0twVZUzx7ApbV9IesJY-hctrhoWIGssgPvTRDHm7G_fEhSqGewum5r4_OqxgASJr-Tn6J_FRHIjXNbyrGVaFEILeIs2WqrhAyiismet9-a54MjC32ICoYzMp4NCJCetFDH1CgOIY/s400/manis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496409558174895890" border="0" /></a><br />Then on to dinner with Lynette and Renee.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHI0x7SLfm1KycSEd0fquUXX_i4i64H6wawPNZRthXxlrgRpkdxsptHjCPo94xzSmM4vIui0Jvtppia0uje2Pk-77ONu0L2rvehPi0GaFCQmnPJIK8vHCzv6_VYC2ZyA1TXweRKn-q4HP/s1600/friday+dinner.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHI0x7SLfm1KycSEd0fquUXX_i4i64H6wawPNZRthXxlrgRpkdxsptHjCPo94xzSmM4vIui0Jvtppia0uje2Pk-77ONu0L2rvehPi0GaFCQmnPJIK8vHCzv6_VYC2ZyA1TXweRKn-q4HP/s400/friday+dinner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496409554713476946" border="0" /></a><br />The next morning, I got up early to take a quick jaunt through Pacific Heights. Kerry lives right near the Presidio, which - for those of you not familiar with it - sits on an enormous hill. Frankly, the whole damned city does, but the Presidio is a particularly steep puppy. It's a beautiful park overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge that's a joy to run through. Now, Mike and I lived just blocks from the Presidio and we also got married there. But sometimes? It's like my 11 years out of the city has erased all memory of its topography. About a quarter-mile down the first winding hill it dawned on me: I have to run back up this mother.<br /><br />After <span style="font-style: italic;">walking </span>back to Kerry's pad, we picked up Peet's and scones (and if you don't know of these things, I simply can't explain bliss in the course of a short blog) and all headed up to Napa along with CC.<br /><br />A quick word about CC.<br /><br />CC is one of Kerry's college friends and although I have heard about her for years, I didn't really get to know her until quite recently. She is, in short, a totally down girl. Supportive, sweet, ten tons of fun, and - for being 8 1/2 months pregnant - has a wicked body with totally toned arms. I secretly hate her.<br /><br />But when Kerry told her she was running her first half marathon, there was no pause before CC started asking about hotel arrangements. Because there was no way she wouldn't be there to yell very loudly for her. That's the kind of girl she is. And I know this because that's the kind of girl Kerry is. Red's right up there, too. Girlfriends who want to make me be a better girlfriend.<br /><br />How in the world they still want to hang with the bitchy, judgmental person I am, I have no idea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXUWFo5ykcpoGcIbK4JCM86gfGTM_ma16B82BVjhK10blMvMz02cbeejCtaVZlA42HQaV51ANwuRGD1Qe3HKbkd0hNFWF8qsnUjjR0c3QxUVWJZQRLAs1t2dLv5CRsBVrTa223C8Guk5-/s1600/girls+at+cornerstone.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXXUWFo5ykcpoGcIbK4JCM86gfGTM_ma16B82BVjhK10blMvMz02cbeejCtaVZlA42HQaV51ANwuRGD1Qe3HKbkd0hNFWF8qsnUjjR0c3QxUVWJZQRLAs1t2dLv5CRsBVrTa223C8Guk5-/s400/girls+at+cornerstone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496408051694908194" border="0" /></a><br />So this was the expo where Kerry and I picked up our packets and our badass numbers. Can you see that I am just a number off being James Bond?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhi_1mOPWq9DNgmNvpNqWbeLFQRJPIK59jKrtQU3v0vCNg-BK0-0EJe75T7Axr5nK40OfjY8GZheuwJGz3BK_dMc1IiKqF7W8ScdbtCWzgqzEqBC_oynrFd2Qb4mZUe8olkyfs9FEnWiK/s1600/race+numbers.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhi_1mOPWq9DNgmNvpNqWbeLFQRJPIK59jKrtQU3v0vCNg-BK0-0EJe75T7Axr5nK40OfjY8GZheuwJGz3BK_dMc1IiKqF7W8ScdbtCWzgqzEqBC_oynrFd2Qb4mZUe8olkyfs9FEnWiK/s400/race+numbers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496408599340725602" border="0" /></a><br />It's a beautiful venue that also happens to be where CC got married. Which is why Kerry thought it was fun to re-enact her role as bridesmaid.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0oYGLyYvFt-NYB2v8PzTc_8-FnCZI_pio9SIrFsWZqxm6qhHXl3Fam5ALSkGbQ9_2Q39PKkk79bjPPtJei5UCKL07m2aT-n_pnhcvOs0HiwsCoFEm4noowB9LMF_iq5p9Xus2NYdKAYXp/s1600/kerry+bridesmaid.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0oYGLyYvFt-NYB2v8PzTc_8-FnCZI_pio9SIrFsWZqxm6qhHXl3Fam5ALSkGbQ9_2Q39PKkk79bjPPtJei5UCKL07m2aT-n_pnhcvOs0HiwsCoFEm4noowB9LMF_iq5p9Xus2NYdKAYXp/s400/kerry+bridesmaid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496408600962641698" border="0" /></a><br />Well, she thought it was funny.<br /><br />We headed back to the hotel in Napa to hit the pool:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GN3I4sI87lMYslLByYA4KYwZBw2XHdxlkOQ0v-VeBoRVLiOp6x1GhLMQVwLrPF0xTpGIueskJdIX6cF3KOksjQTfmy-PqVipLsEnbac2ecFbJu6_NRN2iAFFE3Cqyd2YOrCEeS59Ooc0/s1600/girls+pool.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GN3I4sI87lMYslLByYA4KYwZBw2XHdxlkOQ0v-VeBoRVLiOp6x1GhLMQVwLrPF0xTpGIueskJdIX6cF3KOksjQTfmy-PqVipLsEnbac2ecFbJu6_NRN2iAFFE3Cqyd2YOrCEeS59Ooc0/s400/girls+pool.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496408068342673570" border="0" /></a><br />And then a great Italian joint to carb load:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPb8UvDYvMeBCh4cPklI_C2va7VcRLM7jj8upmdzbGo2R7W_nTLJ2rP7sK9MmN8WKxdj_XUy9dbuxdHRqNCV9o42HcD03DZOIsQQnsyq-lqL-Tn8W_ru3WL6a2VuMBqcyEOZYGn6x2R8E/s1600/girls+dinner.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPb8UvDYvMeBCh4cPklI_C2va7VcRLM7jj8upmdzbGo2R7W_nTLJ2rP7sK9MmN8WKxdj_XUy9dbuxdHRqNCV9o42HcD03DZOIsQQnsyq-lqL-Tn8W_ru3WL6a2VuMBqcyEOZYGn6x2R8E/s400/girls+dinner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496408060077550802" border="0" /></a><br />And oh yes. This is a pregnant woman with a glass of wine. Deal with it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykRMrgAJINKCSb5gaEm4YyGWG5_GfQDeGjbsYWRGfF7sFq7hbKQHftC_jw6J5gsDNjRp40QS9ly-g9tM2OJFVFXmwkQ2h2-7Ms-SXa5_ZGplU2169pEdGclIMhE0ZG6XOTmIf2GywF2SX/s1600/cc+wine.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykRMrgAJINKCSb5gaEm4YyGWG5_GfQDeGjbsYWRGfF7sFq7hbKQHftC_jw6J5gsDNjRp40QS9ly-g9tM2OJFVFXmwkQ2h2-7Ms-SXa5_ZGplU2169pEdGclIMhE0ZG6XOTmIf2GywF2SX/s400/cc+wine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496413684647644162" border="0" /></a><br />Race morning, 5am.<br /><br />Kerry said she tossed and turned all night. I slept like a rock. She seemed nervous. I was calm, steady, and being the BFF I am, most likely mocked her. In any event, we looked way cute in our new Lululemon getups.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XeXbdZ5Uq7GgUHNUPE9Q7RbNl9NY3lYhQFV8_hJuf1NLDCWB3gBh9PmsM5GycVsO155NdwFWR7YRs2MdbwZCy59n4kMVjVMYD83Xexln9PUeTV0fP0dInvg_aOldM8Gr_OQf9woQ8kUE/s1600/heading+out.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XeXbdZ5Uq7GgUHNUPE9Q7RbNl9NY3lYhQFV8_hJuf1NLDCWB3gBh9PmsM5GycVsO155NdwFWR7YRs2MdbwZCy59n4kMVjVMYD83Xexln9PUeTV0fP0dInvg_aOldM8Gr_OQf9woQ8kUE/s400/heading+out.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496416123597272658" border="0" /></a><br />Please note the pigtails. I told you people I was shaking things up for this race. Black clothing and single ponytails be damned!<br /><br />So here's where I should say a little something about my promise to provide video. Yes, it's still coming. You'd think that because I do this for a living, I could figure out how to edit and upload my video easily. Not so much. So tune in later for totally exciting video clips.<br /><br />We got bussed to the starting line at a nearby winery and the gun went off at about 7:15. We started out with one really killer hill ... only to be followed by a couple of miles of downhill. It was exhilarating. And when you finally see that video, you'll know what I mean.<br /><br />Just before Mile 2, we spotted our cheer section: Kim and CC on the side of the road, camera snapping and both jumping up and down.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6zls2dWabw_RTqJJKxPanC2yfQw1oqAr4PF6Bh_hp6y82sZ5ETGDrbR0f31uaTlMqo68OZ3X8W3jk96eZd7f4fq_LVhp42GSN8XQUbR7ZT0MXRjyZMn_-7Ogg6Cdnfi_2-Uad6Jt03pLF/s1600/napa+run+1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6zls2dWabw_RTqJJKxPanC2yfQw1oqAr4PF6Bh_hp6y82sZ5ETGDrbR0f31uaTlMqo68OZ3X8W3jk96eZd7f4fq_LVhp42GSN8XQUbR7ZT0MXRjyZMn_-7Ogg6Cdnfi_2-Uad6Jt03pLF/s400/napa+run+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496436728284888626" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTixBIsOq82cxVSfHMjOLSKUcFcSWVnQkKk7WW_sLNDyEyc1U4gfqAE6hH9vC1iyCgbYU-4HNlpi-vamfvYq3UfsHlFqfJ-HtZ2YTFqsJTWhPmtH_yX-m5nVDi2cQZYAF51aAPne_euBM/s1600/napa+run+2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTixBIsOq82cxVSfHMjOLSKUcFcSWVnQkKk7WW_sLNDyEyc1U4gfqAE6hH9vC1iyCgbYU-4HNlpi-vamfvYq3UfsHlFqfJ-HtZ2YTFqsJTWhPmtH_yX-m5nVDi2cQZYAF51aAPne_euBM/s400/napa+run+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496436733560592386" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGT2ZVF3jYJ62mccxUSUbLuArptkKAZc5pFdPJnbQ8HKSY8KGlIcF2TpWpahKnTyYpi1j4kQyE_MAB_JybTfmbtDPOPy-XTTLhUOTNM6kmmuETq0m0wd-fmsiZD4nHGoFLYQmfmeCmV1X/s1600/napa+3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGT2ZVF3jYJ62mccxUSUbLuArptkKAZc5pFdPJnbQ8HKSY8KGlIcF2TpWpahKnTyYpi1j4kQyE_MAB_JybTfmbtDPOPy-XTTLhUOTNM6kmmuETq0m0wd-fmsiZD4nHGoFLYQmfmeCmV1X/s400/napa+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496436736790397042" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6m-iFbI4IKElJ-b81dFB8FxwyePDkSJoVQYJsLV7NmIk_Y_h_A-UID9mPRUB8LrUDf3H8JlA_RmFDoJADB6amsIhw7pno9E4sDFME5eP8UM4btZayYq3XRKOF9MLnf3XNlLtfFTiaYpSA/s1600/napa+4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6m-iFbI4IKElJ-b81dFB8FxwyePDkSJoVQYJsLV7NmIk_Y_h_A-UID9mPRUB8LrUDf3H8JlA_RmFDoJADB6amsIhw7pno9E4sDFME5eP8UM4btZayYq3XRKOF9MLnf3XNlLtfFTiaYpSA/s400/napa+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496436744776685250" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwDgs375k3PH4rWfPb5YeKVC0n5gL99oQOvqPachmXzUBpaatkN8Q4EuixkdZrge2oI9aimY5BD5rzMssP9YEw6ht1WdUXZI1l4cum0w3UUXze68cUeRTPxCI4KRCn2qGqiBrtCRsK24y/s1600/napa+5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwDgs375k3PH4rWfPb5YeKVC0n5gL99oQOvqPachmXzUBpaatkN8Q4EuixkdZrge2oI9aimY5BD5rzMssP9YEw6ht1WdUXZI1l4cum0w3UUXze68cUeRTPxCI4KRCn2qGqiBrtCRsK24y/s400/napa+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496436751309504482" border="0" /></a><br />Yep, that's the Flip cam in my hand.<br /><br />This is what the whole course looked like. Miles of vineyards and dirt roads with locals who had carried their chairs out to the ends of their driveways to cheer us on. A few had canisters of steaming hot coffee, settled in for the morning with their newspapers. Totally quaint and charming. So unlike me to like that.<br /><br />At some point between Miles 4 and 5, Kerry nonchalantly popped her ear buds in. I had been attempting to just chatter away at her in hopes to keep her entertained. But I've heard me. My stories aren't that interesting. And at some point when I started remarking at the scenery, she (somewhat sarcastically) asked, "what are you talking about?"<br /><br />When a glance at my watch at Mile 5 told us that we were running at just around 10 minute miles, she was visibly disappointed. I knew she wanted to pick up her speed, but she resolutely told me, "this is where I am." And with that, I felt like our run together was about to end.<br /><br />It's the runner's dilemma. My normal pace is a bit faster than Kerry's. While I was having the best time running alongside her, something unspoken was happening. I started itching to go a little faster ... while Kerry started itching that she was holding me back. She wasn't. But in deference to her, I know that as long as I ran with her, she'd be thinking about it. And then we both would.<br /><br />So I did what every really good person who strong-armed her friend into training for and then running a half-marathon would do. I took off and left her in the dust.<br /><br />All right, no dust-leaving here. I'm not that fast. But I have to say, something kicked in that I have never before experienced.<br /><br />Not sure if it was the scenery, the perfect running weather, the homespun crowds that yelled my name as I passed or the anticipation that as soon as I finished I could drink all the wine I wanted until noon ... but I started hauling. And I felt amazing - not once did I even enter the Bite Me Zone.<br /><br />Knowing that I had been at around 10 minute miles, I did some quick calculating in my head and realized I could still go under 2 hours. Wouldn't be a PR, but maybe even better: my first negative split. Which means the second half would be faster than the first. I tore down the country roads. I off-roaded onto the shoulder to get around slower runners. (Oops, sorry about the dust! Should I leave a note?) I paced behind people, reeled them in, then smoked them.<br /><br />I went sub-8:00 for nearly 7 miles. I don't do that.<br /><br />And when I came into the finish chute, smile on my face and barely a sweat (yes! me! barely a sweat!), I knew what I had to do.<br /><br />I found the dudes from Brightroom and I made sure I took a badass picture.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0czE2BVLOPiKNDqUNZOFl3RwExumyARTkdkm0Gxi62tMCXf-5z7gydDh694cIT_DbOKjBHQWUPjqrdzRNRnxghnvjwKTYF1DIuEv1dnnPU5yjsAYZRZxi676gaNXM3tISiP1WRnwLMwK/s1600/cindy+napa.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0czE2BVLOPiKNDqUNZOFl3RwExumyARTkdkm0Gxi62tMCXf-5z7gydDh694cIT_DbOKjBHQWUPjqrdzRNRnxghnvjwKTYF1DIuEv1dnnPU5yjsAYZRZxi676gaNXM3tISiP1WRnwLMwK/s400/cindy+napa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496398446814413410" border="0" /></a><br />In the end? 1:58:33.<br /><br />I picked up a cool medal:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4KS3UNZI0P77oPTys3jRg08rnftPxxFxG6NbeS_FMiga0WNI90OJrtTNuRpZm9UuuwA2b62I3nR3Vj1-HnPzLVhOWxdPnv92gZUHVgE8fLkmU5AA9YH1xpbDWPhSZT7ENCaySCebL8e-/s1600/medal.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4KS3UNZI0P77oPTys3jRg08rnftPxxFxG6NbeS_FMiga0WNI90OJrtTNuRpZm9UuuwA2b62I3nR3Vj1-HnPzLVhOWxdPnv92gZUHVgE8fLkmU5AA9YH1xpbDWPhSZT7ENCaySCebL8e-/s400/medal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496438874407335154" border="0" /></a><br />And doubled back to the finish to watch Kerry cross at an amazing 2:11. Seriously? 2:11 for your first half-marathon? Insane. She was ecstatic, as she should have been.<br /><br />We found CC and Kim at the Sonoma Square and headed to the wine festival.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjm43X2pjA7Yb1pwRNitpklyTKVr8BRmMTJjJPwcttsfcabFRuIPwk0vPTHL6bdc2nXgnNOjQ3-iU9NF7usuCzixtn38FSrmU6-dypyTezuOQTnoxDpdmza_XJ_dIZXWnJ8l7gOewEpl0u/s1600/girls+festival.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjm43X2pjA7Yb1pwRNitpklyTKVr8BRmMTJjJPwcttsfcabFRuIPwk0vPTHL6bdc2nXgnNOjQ3-iU9NF7usuCzixtn38FSrmU6-dypyTezuOQTnoxDpdmza_XJ_dIZXWnJ8l7gOewEpl0u/s400/girls+festival.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496438875205315010" border="0" /></a><br />2o wineries, all pouring ... free tastes. Oh, hello, Perfect Day ... have we met?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8e1-wZGiryI3rHUpaWtwC8m9hILvtOVs6nR-rAOMQ7wkSAtW3GY7Ygwb76d3N5TogQqfiirbWOvk-KWdOoIaLRUb1S0p0dtyT8jh0If8EaeJGFd_P9OjUuUW11wHXTJDfm-hyiB3XcnaD/s1600/festival.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8e1-wZGiryI3rHUpaWtwC8m9hILvtOVs6nR-rAOMQ7wkSAtW3GY7Ygwb76d3N5TogQqfiirbWOvk-KWdOoIaLRUb1S0p0dtyT8jh0If8EaeJGFd_P9OjUuUW11wHXTJDfm-hyiB3XcnaD/s400/festival.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496438867151887586" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8t2nD6ZbtPTgTbGVvcdPvWXxHwzVh2RhAMg6O1h4N80pkkF56zL7bFyFyFzudt7hV4v6S5FcP2bg9TnSDOHUWf7g8BnIjcWYBUcX6_LhBS9BZL5qdZHwMo9AhVYjS4aOOxO8nn0x28FQ/s1600/charles+creek.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8t2nD6ZbtPTgTbGVvcdPvWXxHwzVh2RhAMg6O1h4N80pkkF56zL7bFyFyFzudt7hV4v6S5FcP2bg9TnSDOHUWf7g8BnIjcWYBUcX6_LhBS9BZL5qdZHwMo9AhVYjS4aOOxO8nn0x28FQ/s400/charles+creek.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496442771270002594" border="0" /></a><br />As if it couldn't get better, I got a great surprise. My mom and Ken drove up to surprise me at the finish!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuL29iAWoQ13Z-6GjojD5uiNGK9MXlq1p2bwLeQI524Lw55zWdek8jUZoJRR4kRAjTGPYO-wrjgjs6p8Y46Y-rUIE7MebtGRQv43z7gGZ0kErBgLJiYspnVw7rRx8OzOl1zD7v0M0se6Cm/s1600/napa+mom.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuL29iAWoQ13Z-6GjojD5uiNGK9MXlq1p2bwLeQI524Lw55zWdek8jUZoJRR4kRAjTGPYO-wrjgjs6p8Y46Y-rUIE7MebtGRQv43z7gGZ0kErBgLJiYspnVw7rRx8OzOl1zD7v0M0se6Cm/s400/napa+mom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496438886393376882" border="0" /></a><br />I don't get to see them often, so it was great to spend even just a little time. So nice of them to come up to see us. Of course, they wine tasted too. (What do you think, I was brought up by wolves?) Hi Tina!<br /><br />At noon we looked around and realized we had been the first ones to the tasting tables and were most likely now the last to leave. We took the final drops of the muscat being poured (it was noon, the cabernets went early and beggars can't be choosers) and headed for lunch. Great Mexican joint. Which means you're actually not allowed to eat without drinking margaritas. I think it's like Mexican law. Like if you don't follow it you're shot or something.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLN0Rza0nmmhYJ6Knce2Of-eNcHqjiJTKByFjWQTTGP0-LLj_isLOYMFGT4ffm4nd28MJWQDwepMliFwrfLwEYMiGSJWa7cvGNjctZtuIYgal-sIxwq5h208Ee3IIkJVxI2luQX47MsAR7/s1600/mexican.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLN0Rza0nmmhYJ6Knce2Of-eNcHqjiJTKByFjWQTTGP0-LLj_isLOYMFGT4ffm4nd28MJWQDwepMliFwrfLwEYMiGSJWa7cvGNjctZtuIYgal-sIxwq5h208Ee3IIkJVxI2luQX47MsAR7/s400/mexican.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445819050931042" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmO38MbhGRgYqnWt-CLAijQSEeFYtp-SxTxyBAnNLCPqteT9FFg_F35fE_9ekFIqFFqSqM0PgfTNwim_2e4bBGMeDTgpKHWGIWv64uH1Abw1GGdv6wufliwQeatXzoKSjpgtHfwFT_Mn2r/s1600/mexican+girls.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmO38MbhGRgYqnWt-CLAijQSEeFYtp-SxTxyBAnNLCPqteT9FFg_F35fE_9ekFIqFFqSqM0PgfTNwim_2e4bBGMeDTgpKHWGIWv64uH1Abw1GGdv6wufliwQeatXzoKSjpgtHfwFT_Mn2r/s400/mexican+girls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445821014393906" border="0" /></a><br />Thank god for pregnant friends. CC was our designated driver and our day was far from over. When she headed back home to San Francisco, the ruffians that Red, Kerry and I are went back to the Square for a little more wine tasting.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivdUqIa4D134nJVzoF5YmsmJZ5ot_UlU9UOb7r7_3c6VTVewnEQeVqf21QXf9l4hGYFdUpnTxVp346DiRGwM4bxoxQgeH1xYAwI8_TmH9Dt3MxiC1kxp5JvBtVg8gDTXO9X_lopufNIbM1/s1600/more+tasting.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivdUqIa4D134nJVzoF5YmsmJZ5ot_UlU9UOb7r7_3c6VTVewnEQeVqf21QXf9l4hGYFdUpnTxVp346DiRGwM4bxoxQgeH1xYAwI8_TmH9Dt3MxiC1kxp5JvBtVg8gDTXO9X_lopufNIbM1/s400/more+tasting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445814539656930" border="0" /></a><br />And somehow. Somehow. We managed to rally for cocktails and dinner at El Dorado Kitchen.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvekb4me_iR2ChUNFulC9oVmjCVHqQVWHxYWB6eV0qIlRMe0IBJkdaxd2IrWsir2APHvwrHCY_z-HlAlTXRpj4ylzvJ_7H8AhTFaXzvdJmK_fcOgmU2dmCTlQh6Vqfrw5DnGi43uzviNja/s1600/cocktails+1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvekb4me_iR2ChUNFulC9oVmjCVHqQVWHxYWB6eV0qIlRMe0IBJkdaxd2IrWsir2APHvwrHCY_z-HlAlTXRpj4ylzvJ_7H8AhTFaXzvdJmK_fcOgmU2dmCTlQh6Vqfrw5DnGi43uzviNja/s400/cocktails+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445406354574466" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kDKnGtoPFByo7mR7umOT87CrdGnohJoC4kjuFsu0AB9XS6sg98ZiC5d_fJKm25lHJkHZZ5GK12ZM0U6FaXKVrkU0tXmplOJ-gAYMCS6neaIgQf_amqEu0VJTsZqgcmm8YEgzp1bwfQzo/s1600/cocktails+2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kDKnGtoPFByo7mR7umOT87CrdGnohJoC4kjuFsu0AB9XS6sg98ZiC5d_fJKm25lHJkHZZ5GK12ZM0U6FaXKVrkU0tXmplOJ-gAYMCS6neaIgQf_amqEu0VJTsZqgcmm8YEgzp1bwfQzo/s400/cocktails+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445423540441746" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhckeRwWgYZUsrSme6wvIcVawflUeH2y6o4Lg_DfkqonzALCs8_FZUKm8N5LZzZT-K35WvCIgsuXZozkyDAXFw5ffFQr8vAzQXnZKyXpo3EvYDY5Ht9A8U5c-lT5dtyCyFTHa3Lmr6XbCyd/s1600/cocktails+3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhckeRwWgYZUsrSme6wvIcVawflUeH2y6o4Lg_DfkqonzALCs8_FZUKm8N5LZzZT-K35WvCIgsuXZozkyDAXFw5ffFQr8vAzQXnZKyXpo3EvYDY5Ht9A8U5c-lT5dtyCyFTHa3Lmr6XbCyd/s400/cocktails+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445428701449010" border="0" /></a>At the end of a day that began at 5am ... wound through 13.1 miles on our feet ... and through a lot of laughs and even more wine ... we crashed at our hotel, got breakfast in the morning and hit the road.<br /><br />It was tough to say good bye to sunny Wine Country ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzL4HFssyHhKz2tiaaExf2tGQZRa0zRatJZVrzT-trmsmtbW-aEzuXstfBelQwl5eagKM94AEutheWsHCyxSQbWnRUH_wxixwoYaSV4cCY19G8UGItENGSqZ9f-Z-NhuCz-S2M5xP9A6V2/s1600/driving+1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzL4HFssyHhKz2tiaaExf2tGQZRa0zRatJZVrzT-trmsmtbW-aEzuXstfBelQwl5eagKM94AEutheWsHCyxSQbWnRUH_wxixwoYaSV4cCY19G8UGItENGSqZ9f-Z-NhuCz-S2M5xP9A6V2/s400/driving+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445829512599330" border="0" /></a><br />Even a little tougher to say hello to my foggy San Francisco, knowing that I'd be soon boarding a plane back to New York.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSPNgxjexgkHKnKfAEI13usr0l1Ix3F9eN02PTVqxvapqe0l-Sq2jMKTddf7s0K2KaCT1dh-1NoVD6bc8IaxFjTyM31yOrksoYAK7sLNPqhHGDhHFjn_QBxyXmxU2SjS5Bfl2LVN5gpVX/s1600/sf.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSPNgxjexgkHKnKfAEI13usr0l1Ix3F9eN02PTVqxvapqe0l-Sq2jMKTddf7s0K2KaCT1dh-1NoVD6bc8IaxFjTyM31yOrksoYAK7sLNPqhHGDhHFjn_QBxyXmxU2SjS5Bfl2LVN5gpVX/s400/sf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445804851528674" border="0" /></a><br />Kerry drove Red and I back to SFO and the only thing that kept me from crying - other than the fact that my lack of emotion keeps me from activating any tear ducts I may have - is knowing that I'll see them again in a few weeks when we all head to Mexico.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzU17hWCdv2lyvspaAqynDrzi-WKH7jSz4quM8lVE-kMuYScvd1ndpefCXKoYKKUw5OFP134zLjZQBsNGsNQnxowpEKOi5z0tw-UhrahZLthBWOzMnQ9cJ_0leTBFDz5QGVU6waOlielLH/s1600/cindy+red.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzU17hWCdv2lyvspaAqynDrzi-WKH7jSz4quM8lVE-kMuYScvd1ndpefCXKoYKKUw5OFP134zLjZQBsNGsNQnxowpEKOi5z0tw-UhrahZLthBWOzMnQ9cJ_0leTBFDz5QGVU6waOlielLH/s400/cindy+red.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445412551117778" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NhuSsME9xupDOhBHQ_cheVe7p6zcZBEDdCKzMoSTPDliZKz_kmuA6AKL1Mah4aMftEtEdBq9LaiGRLVbE_uVXDZyhTeoB33LhqzxGW8FlCTW3MD9Qec6QYXiv15Pn2oUb1Z-5aM9mm2K/s1600/cindy+ker.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_NhuSsME9xupDOhBHQ_cheVe7p6zcZBEDdCKzMoSTPDliZKz_kmuA6AKL1Mah4aMftEtEdBq9LaiGRLVbE_uVXDZyhTeoB33LhqzxGW8FlCTW3MD9Qec6QYXiv15Pn2oUb1Z-5aM9mm2K/s400/cindy+ker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496445411221041714" border="0" /></a><br />I may have annoyed Kerry a tad when I emailed her like 28 hours after the race, excitedly telling her that we should register for the Healdsburg Wine Country Half in October. She used some excuse about doing a 65-mile bike race in September and the Nike Half in early October and most likely needing a rest. Blah blah blah. Whatever.<br /><br />Maybe all I wanted is to once more capture the feeling I had on Sunday.<br /><br />It's not often you have a perfect day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBB2XgP4qbYBIkT__Zk2vITkBp-I7tCAG5Vg3JPeOLCkmbKdRA42N3ChAAmqtlzQwKWEMai4wHn0UBPvaJ3araP2d6KmbZw6mK1QELbjxh3lofn0WekchWfPOb57yziGHFJy3y_1rJw4Wb/s1600/cindy+kerry+napa.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBB2XgP4qbYBIkT__Zk2vITkBp-I7tCAG5Vg3JPeOLCkmbKdRA42N3ChAAmqtlzQwKWEMai4wHn0UBPvaJ3araP2d6KmbZw6mK1QELbjxh3lofn0WekchWfPOb57yziGHFJy3y_1rJw4Wb/s400/cindy+kerry+napa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496398444654590274" border="0" /></a>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-57884108491072048252010-07-16T10:30:00.004-04:002010-07-17T01:38:42.722-04:00Let's face it, we're just in it for the wine.<div><br /></div><div>I'm off! </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, technically I am still sitting on the plane and people are still boarding. But as long as I have a bag packed and I am no longer in the apartment ... I consider that traveling.</div><div><br /></div><div>The girls and I have been non-stop texting and emailing in the last few days, firming up all of our plans for the weekend in San Francisco and Napa. Kerry has decided to look at this as a girls weekend, replete with wine, food, sun and fun ... and then we'll squeeze in a small 13.1 run on Sunday morning. I think that's what's keeping her from freaking out a bit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me? I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Something interesting happens to me as I get closer to home. Something that really doesn't happen often in my everyday life, save for when I'm running a few quiet blocks early morning on Fifth Avenue, with only the sound of my Vomeros and a few doormen sweeping their front walkways. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel calm. Like this really amazing peace that overcomes me. Much of it is anticipation, but most is that intangible and indescribable feeling you get when you're going <i>home. </i>The feeling you get when you know how to navigate every highway, every street as you head to your destination. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>So the whole half-marathon thing is, to me, totally secondary this weekend. I'm much more excited about enjoying every second with girlfriends who totally get me. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I'll try my best to blog in the next few days, but I'm making no promises. When I get together with these girls, we find our time is much better spent ... well, just spent together. I am, however, trying something new. I took my Flip camera and will be attempting to get a little video of Kerry and I at every mile. (While I thought this was a totally bitchin' idea, I discovered Kerry quietly updating her running playlist on iTunes, indicating to me that she will most likely tune me out. We'll see about that.)</div><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-26692404070973235572010-07-07T15:37:00.023-04:002010-07-14T10:41:12.990-04:00It's not the heat. It's the humility.Holy melted gum under my shoe, it's hot!<br /><br />As in soupy, drippy, stagnant humidity that hangs in stifling 90+ degree temperatures. This is ridiculous, even for a pretty tough California girl familiar with 103-degree summers. But growing up in the Bay Area, if you complained about temps spiking over 100, people were like, "At least it's a 'dry heat'." And then I was all, "Omigod, huh? Like what do you mean?"<br /><br />But now I totally get it!<br /><br />Humidity was a foreign notion until I moved to NYC. Yet I have lived here long enough to now have a huge beef with the third "h." (TV weather people here think it's cute when it gets like this to call it "the three 'h's": hazy, hot and humid. Maybe they think fewer people will go nutso and punch random strangers if the weather has a moniker.)<br /><br />Besides the obvious mind games humidity plays with my hair (I have many times been lulled into a sense of security while inside my apartment, thinking it was okay to use a hair dryer - only to walk out my front door and instantly turn into Rod Blagojevich on what he would consider a good hair day), it also turns on the sweat glands by like a thousandfold. And I have super active sweat glands. I sweat like no woman ever has before. I sweat so much that early on in my training with Lynne, I had to finally address it when my hands slipped off the mat during pushups. It was like my level of perspiration had become the big sweaty elephant in the gym. I tried to chuckle it off: "I bet I'm you're sweatiest client!" I knew when Lynne wouldn't meet my eyes and just gave me an unconvincing "No, not at all ..." that I had actually just become her sweatiest client.<br /><br />I also sweat in the most adverse conditions to sweating. Like, say it's 15 degrees outside. I'm bundled up, shivering, walking to the 4/5/6, which is only a <span style="font-style: italic;">block </span>from my apartment. By the time I get to the platform, heat will be emanating from my scalp. And by the time I am on the train, surrounded by huddled masses all trying to keep warm with body heat, I am maneuvering my bag to create a pocket of space-slash-air-slash-no-human-contact around me, nonchalantly patting the beads coming down my face. People notice this. Not that I care, but I am usually the only one fanning herself during a blizzard.<br /><br />The only other person who totally gets this? Is my friend Claudette:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1eZPjyzNZalNCorjjzg44k4dudK8V6MsNdYNsHBdL2EzyQVfOAOvm_mL4cCm9BdrkxTDoRPdDh6RM-_AiCGEqoSamCGb1yQ3KY22-dezSifTcIDIPe32XdLxE2yfNYZ1xLmgL6UkYOgyo/s1600/cindy+claudie.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1eZPjyzNZalNCorjjzg44k4dudK8V6MsNdYNsHBdL2EzyQVfOAOvm_mL4cCm9BdrkxTDoRPdDh6RM-_AiCGEqoSamCGb1yQ3KY22-dezSifTcIDIPe32XdLxE2yfNYZ1xLmgL6UkYOgyo/s400/cindy+claudie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493398813920085138" border="0" /></a><br />Not sure why we're so simpatico on this. Is it because we're both Italian? Capricorns? Totally judgmental but absolutely right in every instance? Whatever the reason, I know when I update my Facebook status, grumbling about the stupid MTA keeping the heat on in the trains in February (how brazen they are in their idiocy!), Claudie will always give me a sympathetic "UGH! Bastards!" in response.<br /><br />But Claudie is not with me on my runs. You know who is? Hundreds of unknown New Yorkers. Half who cock their heads as they pass me, wondering if they need to find a park police officer and a stretcher. The other half trying to just steer clear of me in fear that my ponytail might fling a few wet drops their way.<br /><br />Last week was particularly brutal. I started out with a small perspire but by the time I was a couple miles in, my shirt was drenched and I was feeling quite dude-like. I had to stop wearing anything other than black shorts since colored shorts - plus my ability to sweat from even unknown pores - equals looking as if I had wet myself. At least once when I rolled in from a run, my doorman, not taking his eyes off me, slowly put his hand on the phone, knowing 911 was just three short digits away. (And don't think I didn't hear you: "Crap my shift is almost over please don't drop in the lobby please don't drop in the lobby crap crap crap ...")<br /><br />In the end, I'm always glad to finish a run strong, no matter what the weather. Wise men and women have long extolled the virtues of sweat, noting that anything worth the effort is going to take gallons of it. So there's the bright side of sweat: by sheer volume of wetness expended, I'm obviously working my butt off.<br /><br />(And for the record, an even wiser man named George Carlin said "don't sweat the petty stuff and don't pet the sweaty stuff." Not applicable here ... but still way funny.)Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-15992317436848040342010-06-27T18:28:00.016-04:002010-06-28T17:46:53.690-04:00What a Difference a Race Makes.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwCuKhUizvENuCX12O5aEkN3jNygkVfe7RqvCuuYjtKIU-iOelP8t60DwpFDsxI_qZW_1QgVRA0sdsFOZ6vE3R0402YVvEqev5JNzujoCnPnabnV6Ppwt3Zsv0DnZKBElDgwvNxvFMfmd/s1600/prince+harry.jpg"><br /></a>And I'm not talking about running one.<br /><br />Cindy As Volunteer Experiment, Day 2: there is so a reason why those words have never been in the same sentence.<br /><br />So on the heels of my monumentally rewarding experience volunteering for the NYC Half, I re-enlisted. And found out that a 14,000-runner race is vastly different from a 3,500 one. Namely, there are fewer people who give an eff that you are there. More importantly, without the cache of a marquee race like the Half, there is far less incentive for people to listen to you, even when you're wearing an orange vest. And something on a lanyard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-iITGGbATtZP3nM-G7PXbhgHpjEGew1RxmJ62zC-fzsiWfb5T8i2ECibISMxXWsR6Ko1Mlyjbh-L5jQTAC-qwiIMYmauHJKXWEbSSj8t0bLj3tLUAwmhgHpvmVHozTE3OR7ykOkuOlEa/s1600/IMG_2869.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-iITGGbATtZP3nM-G7PXbhgHpjEGew1RxmJ62zC-fzsiWfb5T8i2ECibISMxXWsR6Ko1Mlyjbh-L5jQTAC-qwiIMYmauHJKXWEbSSj8t0bLj3tLUAwmhgHpvmVHozTE3OR7ykOkuOlEa/s400/IMG_2869.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487584847465865362" border="0" /></a><br />Yeah, that's me. And I subscribe to the school of thought that if you're wearing anything with reflective tape on it, you should be listened to. Unless, of course, you're a cyclist in New York City. For all you cyclists out there, sorry to offend, but like 83% of you suck hard. I have often ranted on the less-than-harmonious relationship runners and bikers have, especially when forced to share dear CP space. But there must be something about wearing all that Spandex and being stuck on a banana seat wedged up the privates that makes you all beyond cranky. You can't even be passive-aggressive towards us runners. You're aggressive-aggressive.<br /><br />Here I stood, next to my little cones, being my little course marshal self. BTW, I am no dummy. It was about 973 degrees at 8am, so I shot my hand up to volunteer at Mile 2, conveniently located under ... trees. Lots of them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFdkQV3KeKSg3bF6ZcgCVEklg5mPwp16o86myq5aCenbGT4RlmODHhENWTgj7lg4_S9j2KP_NHZPg-XXrohJiqfGmxaQ1VauDemQ6SYNoZzKKGm5RsqYzxOqvY88m_LOt_-DrvrXFe91PA/s1600/IMG_2866.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFdkQV3KeKSg3bF6ZcgCVEklg5mPwp16o86myq5aCenbGT4RlmODHhENWTgj7lg4_S9j2KP_NHZPg-XXrohJiqfGmxaQ1VauDemQ6SYNoZzKKGm5RsqYzxOqvY88m_LOt_-DrvrXFe91PA/s400/IMG_2866.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487584830542096450" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_xrKWs6vCcOZkfMEBaAq8W1KG4qYRLM7OKrzXPeK3aGUE3oj12-8-Mtw-TaVpiU8_cOtd9KTn9SaAQSrzzIUuJugJtl3GRIP2l1qQzycVKdFIAcVWF0rmKBEMNtebRLzQdjqvB3qvcWVN/s1600/IMG_2868.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_xrKWs6vCcOZkfMEBaAq8W1KG4qYRLM7OKrzXPeK3aGUE3oj12-8-Mtw-TaVpiU8_cOtd9KTn9SaAQSrzzIUuJugJtl3GRIP2l1qQzycVKdFIAcVWF0rmKBEMNtebRLzQdjqvB3qvcWVN/s400/IMG_2868.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487584839200743634" border="0" /></a><br />One of the primary jobs I had, aside from heroically saving the life of any tragic runner who went down in front of me, was to make sure other people on the CP loop stayed out of the race lane. You'll notice that organizers keep an outside lane open for cyclists and other people while the race is on:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGij9HvXAajy4e4_e_-rWr3EVPd4QfE8jjuPGKVzMoIVDDx04lXi4JidK-WkZQplPlBqFXlN3NLRnhJxWtzlypcHcl4a7YrkuBv2jUVrSkiUBmPYowZetTgHjeaadmUxiTBXobrS-REGaP/s1600/IMG_2867.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGij9HvXAajy4e4_e_-rWr3EVPd4QfE8jjuPGKVzMoIVDDx04lXi4JidK-WkZQplPlBqFXlN3NLRnhJxWtzlypcHcl4a7YrkuBv2jUVrSkiUBmPYowZetTgHjeaadmUxiTBXobrS-REGaP/s400/IMG_2867.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487584835222564914" border="0" /></a>I thought for sure in my reflect-y vest I would be the traffic cop of Mile 2. As it turns out, I was more like the fat security guard at the mall. The only people who listened to me were families with strollers, most likely because they didn't want their babies getting trampled by the runners. When I did my best flight attendant pointing (please exit to the right!) and gave a "race is starting, please exit the course!" to an approaching Rollerblader, he actually pounded his chest and flippantly yelled back, "Oh yeah?! Where are the runners?!"<br /><br />And then he stayed in the race lane.<br /><br />I called after him: "They're just around the bend! And they're gonna be pissed off when they have to move around your slow, fat ass!"<br /><br />I may or may not have waited until he was a few blocks up before I possibly muttered it under my breath. Lest, of course, he double back in a Rollerblade adrenaline rage. I had an important job to do and just couldn't be distracted by having to kick someone's butt.<br /><br />Anyway, the biggest offenders by far were the cyclists. I got a lot of "yeah, yeah"s and "bite me"s. Only a small handful actually moved out of the course. One actually snickered at me before she blatantly weaved in and out of the runners, just for good measure.<br /><br /><div>Soap Box Time! Yay Soap Box!<br /><br />Listen, we runners have to be constantly on the lookout for bikes in CP. You're faster than us and you're on a mechanism that will cause us injury if we are hit by it. We don't eff with you because that would just be stupid. So why do you feel the need to eff with our races? Most people out there are trying to improve their times and believe it or not, dodging a few bikes could mean missing a PR. Not cool, bikes. Not cool!<br /><br />In the end, it was still enjoyable, even though it was hot and there were very few happy runners. Oh look! It's Happy Volunteering Cindy! (Again, those who know me may acknowledge that this sentence is about as foreign as asking for the bathroom in an ancient Greek dialect.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6UC2Bu8NEWriChA-YiCGgT88af-D6Uz7OdFg9GK0XOmG7OQUnpvnuuQsffA2xSgkBmDqCQV4ufIr2uceTCMTjM5sHGeHoEF19EIwnBhawxrSC0ktSXTde3PQo0DPmlk5XFLziBqZeo1t/s1600/volunteering.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6UC2Bu8NEWriChA-YiCGgT88af-D6Uz7OdFg9GK0XOmG7OQUnpvnuuQsffA2xSgkBmDqCQV4ufIr2uceTCMTjM5sHGeHoEF19EIwnBhawxrSC0ktSXTde3PQo0DPmlk5XFLziBqZeo1t/s400/volunteering.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487936937704146866" border="0" /></a>Don't worry, dear readers, I wasn't just snapping pictures the whole time. I kept my eyes on the course and like a diligent teen lifeguard at the beach, dutifully watched for anyone in need of assist...hahahahahaha look at this guy!!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsaNdow0TxjLT7XQSjRrznzwCyipKBRTbgz6LInjftCu_e6h6fZiZe5UC5ST_5bhxYgYg5NYGNr_Hn6y7QLF3znYzG_fYu3w0oFh3G1QGRuUHJEmE6AG49OIkT0hOw8SY2DW7roe_ar5Xq/s1600/IMG_2873.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsaNdow0TxjLT7XQSjRrznzwCyipKBRTbgz6LInjftCu_e6h6fZiZe5UC5ST_5bhxYgYg5NYGNr_Hn6y7QLF3znYzG_fYu3w0oFh3G1QGRuUHJEmE6AG49OIkT0hOw8SY2DW7roe_ar5Xq/s400/IMG_2873.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487586083328870226" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6SExxTBr1fy8gOcYITWqgrQfc-E6HMKcwXulNWPhRGwAZ5xLtYEpH4WCyiSeUCR2oPB64oN_PfguoCehFY-_R_WuiTTwMOyQgGT88ttPkYRs4tHBkZ5iAk9xPjKPaJWrs6b8D8DryUZl/s1600/IMG_2874.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6SExxTBr1fy8gOcYITWqgrQfc-E6HMKcwXulNWPhRGwAZ5xLtYEpH4WCyiSeUCR2oPB64oN_PfguoCehFY-_R_WuiTTwMOyQgGT88ttPkYRs4tHBkZ5iAk9xPjKPaJWrs6b8D8DryUZl/s400/IMG_2874.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487586086005934098" border="0" /></a>Yep, he has "I heart gays" on his back. I mean, it was the Pride Run. I wonder if he wears that for every race, actually.<br /><br />When we finally wrapped up and pulled the last cone in (I may or may not have inadvertently bumped into a Rollerblader with a cone in a fit of vengeance), I strolled through the park. Ooh, let me take this time to make you jealous of what is essentially my backyard:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkfqDnWcgZ725YSwgiUSI8gfPFq7zwVbWVoDMz6fuOLT-aGXBkuRFMfWiOOKygpRSBmVYSTJ5zzY4EGeyEuNaj7rcBkMD6SBtJMNV__i7EjUflr5N39KeJmyveDHrDziba8H9Y9dCWIsT/s1600/IMG_2875.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkfqDnWcgZ725YSwgiUSI8gfPFq7zwVbWVoDMz6fuOLT-aGXBkuRFMfWiOOKygpRSBmVYSTJ5zzY4EGeyEuNaj7rcBkMD6SBtJMNV__i7EjUflr5N39KeJmyveDHrDziba8H9Y9dCWIsT/s400/IMG_2875.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487586089166861746" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMkhL9MQQxZ7ud96evFOgkb_JNrsKVd7x9CNf8_BrDOwwRwS67rL4dLhVQuiCmJhjSVOdxWsjZzl9VFRvkFpSr282Jx5xLwcVcR6bJBG-Bewp5q2VtKJAvcVECZt66E61KjScDwYPrI3V/s1600/IMG_2877.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMkhL9MQQxZ7ud96evFOgkb_JNrsKVd7x9CNf8_BrDOwwRwS67rL4dLhVQuiCmJhjSVOdxWsjZzl9VFRvkFpSr282Jx5xLwcVcR6bJBG-Bewp5q2VtKJAvcVECZt66E61KjScDwYPrI3V/s400/IMG_2877.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487586095114865714" border="0" /></a><br />Sometimes I hate when all those other people are in my backyard.<br /><br />I headed to the finish line to see my friend Adrienne, who was working at the Equinox tent. Adrienne is a reality show waiting to happen. We used to work together but she left television to get into sales, where she has been successful because as she says, "a little cleave goes a long way." I'll let you be the judge:</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0qAb_uS3-L1tgZlp85o_lU_AUFV-CxiMcHic_5jDV2XKnFLwPhuWBLFcCBkTKKLbVfodxjmx8L_z8x9lMgx50MyD6wYOMUsrGLmRl5roQmEmLkVDx2ikAx2tW9vD2aXl07yTkzqk0hFa/s1600/IMG_2884.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0qAb_uS3-L1tgZlp85o_lU_AUFV-CxiMcHic_5jDV2XKnFLwPhuWBLFcCBkTKKLbVfodxjmx8L_z8x9lMgx50MyD6wYOMUsrGLmRl5roQmEmLkVDx2ikAx2tW9vD2aXl07yTkzqk0hFa/s400/IMG_2884.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487587568136398242" border="0" /></a>Adrienne was amazed at the amount of Spandex that can be found in one place during a race. So we got much pleasure people-watching and determining just how much of it was inappropriate. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGx7_maI4E0hHiDI0-7yVGdII2HhKnlfzlA72BQ3um6hUQ9KGazSWLKvUO5pjAO39GYaVnYb8ASaxztAzWOjB2ZFv4yk3wm3yAUuTgwreGXbEMtv-X-fwLia6lLnJsqLJHJchTIOt4fjW/s1600/IMG_2886.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGx7_maI4E0hHiDI0-7yVGdII2HhKnlfzlA72BQ3um6hUQ9KGazSWLKvUO5pjAO39GYaVnYb8ASaxztAzWOjB2ZFv4yk3wm3yAUuTgwreGXbEMtv-X-fwLia6lLnJsqLJHJchTIOt4fjW/s400/IMG_2886.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487587570138579794" border="0" /></a>And then she made me take another picture of us together because - again, her words - she thought "the girls just weren't represented." I wasn't one of the girls to whom she referred.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8IUJ-6l64paHQuVEdBsuqXgsw3PweTTrYWRF_gCspFkCeISSvUtaucCwQbxhThK50BDKtX4tOpLkBNHhSMNhhxgEGFJ2iA-EfbTOhRUemqc5vz5GPJApLbvQ4lsZMGDjmkjkp5vQtSRr/s1600/IMG_2888.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8IUJ-6l64paHQuVEdBsuqXgsw3PweTTrYWRF_gCspFkCeISSvUtaucCwQbxhThK50BDKtX4tOpLkBNHhSMNhhxgEGFJ2iA-EfbTOhRUemqc5vz5GPJApLbvQ4lsZMGDjmkjkp5vQtSRr/s400/IMG_2888.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487587581283317122" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>Wouldn't you like to watch her reality show?<br /><br />Oh, and should you want a kick-ass gym (Holla! Equinox! My gym!), Adrienne can totally hook you up. If nothing else, wouldn't she just be fun to talk to?<br /><br />The next day was the annual Achilles race, which I love. It's near and dear to my heart since it was the first race I ever ran. And you get a cool medal. But more than anything, it's completely inspirational. It's a run/walk for people with disabilities of all kinds; we able-bodied runners are secondary, as we should be. I love doubling back to the finish line when I'm done so I can see so many cross on their own. It's an amazing sight to behold.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxZtYzi62ylZBzF8diSUnOdr-2qMTGDzSfIKv9r2YXnXrlyZQKYRdkDnoGd6-XZjqZPOyWOjodH45sr4QyUDuRWEu1csdi_TY-YidbE6qlHodsYEE0CzbsJwvhYkfazIkNiNXoI2Ma9vy/s1600/IMG_2899.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxZtYzi62ylZBzF8diSUnOdr-2qMTGDzSfIKv9r2YXnXrlyZQKYRdkDnoGd6-XZjqZPOyWOjodH45sr4QyUDuRWEu1csdi_TY-YidbE6qlHodsYEE0CzbsJwvhYkfazIkNiNXoI2Ma9vy/s400/IMG_2899.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487591241643445042" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgze2TSR7BaxnaxuukKXnEV87C-7nOZLiH3dvCLaQmMFeiXNRxKe1E6Cg5ErIO5-JY4eb1-63Hn3m3-73EZcVTZy65gQlHiCGyjCE1doeRS81t56k-6bSQXAxnmZVAbqawfZijtuQT0RX9Z/s1600/IMG_2898.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgze2TSR7BaxnaxuukKXnEV87C-7nOZLiH3dvCLaQmMFeiXNRxKe1E6Cg5ErIO5-JY4eb1-63Hn3m3-73EZcVTZy65gQlHiCGyjCE1doeRS81t56k-6bSQXAxnmZVAbqawfZijtuQT0RX9Z/s400/IMG_2898.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487591231236696418" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgfAsBhlcWzXc9cW5Ck7FVnNdD6PgHoVhcch_RNP1cFLcCb3rvsRVYsmBjftIxUKbal2lcx-lePAUyUOlzgrVRa_EOLlpP7wae0xTDVpo8bsgfjdlzO9nar8llGDVHs6XIymduVHFMFuY/s1600/IMG_2897.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgfAsBhlcWzXc9cW5Ck7FVnNdD6PgHoVhcch_RNP1cFLcCb3rvsRVYsmBjftIxUKbal2lcx-lePAUyUOlzgrVRa_EOLlpP7wae0xTDVpo8bsgfjdlzO9nar8llGDVHs6XIymduVHFMFuY/s400/IMG_2897.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487591224341704386" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFegEmTuA3jQy4AQ4xOl2BZU31ARlcRR_ION8E6GISOAwY0m6kM4j_zmJyJRV6rBXyWNmaQ2c5bxS1E43v8PwVNHMDLT02uhComJvKYJm0Zs59f-NGlWQDqofekkSvlm2mTNUwp9fK-Kf/s1600/IMG_2890.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFegEmTuA3jQy4AQ4xOl2BZU31ARlcRR_ION8E6GISOAwY0m6kM4j_zmJyJRV6rBXyWNmaQ2c5bxS1E43v8PwVNHMDLT02uhComJvKYJm0Zs59f-NGlWQDqofekkSvlm2mTNUwp9fK-Kf/s400/IMG_2890.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487591220094200834" border="0" /></a><br />And, wait! Is that ... Prince Harry firing the starting gun?!<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/cgalli/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot-1.png" alt="" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwCuKhUizvENuCX12O5aEkN3jNygkVfe7RqvCuuYjtKIU-iOelP8t60DwpFDsxI_qZW_1QgVRA0sdsFOZ6vE3R0402YVvEqev5JNzujoCnPnabnV6Ppwt3Zsv0DnZKBElDgwvNxvFMfmd/s1600/prince+harry.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwCuKhUizvENuCX12O5aEkN3jNygkVfe7RqvCuuYjtKIU-iOelP8t60DwpFDsxI_qZW_1QgVRA0sdsFOZ6vE3R0402YVvEqev5JNzujoCnPnabnV6Ppwt3Zsv0DnZKBElDgwvNxvFMfmd/s400/prince+harry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487927012784762226" border="0" /></a><br />This is an official photo from New York Road Runners because the obsessive picture taker that is Cindy did NOT take her camera with her on this run. But believe me when I tell you that PH looked RIGHT at me. Full-on eye contact. I swear. And luckily, the 43 seconds it took for me to jump onto the announce platform, get wrestled to the ground by his security team, wriggle out from under without anyone detaining me and slip back into the throngs running past the starting line totally did not mess with my finish time! Score! Given the heat and humidity, I was happy with a 41:17 finish - a 5mi PR.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy3NF7CuxWu1HFmX9Kfxk-S1AHDFVDFANN411DqZhns1MkO-8XpHdpduzzMV2ju2pPt8156AUaUOhKEop5TUbQaFiHCyZXxRXCfo04zFIq-Ye-zsfpg6_MSZey1qJ-JcModnB4cnPVH-Xx/s1600/IMG_2901.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy3NF7CuxWu1HFmX9Kfxk-S1AHDFVDFANN411DqZhns1MkO-8XpHdpduzzMV2ju2pPt8156AUaUOhKEop5TUbQaFiHCyZXxRXCfo04zFIq-Ye-zsfpg6_MSZey1qJ-JcModnB4cnPVH-Xx/s400/IMG_2901.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487592353075400882" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxZtYzi62ylZBzF8diSUnOdr-2qMTGDzSfIKv9r2YXnXrlyZQKYRdkDnoGd6-XZjqZPOyWOjodH45sr4QyUDuRWEu1csdi_TY-YidbE6qlHodsYEE0CzbsJwvhYkfazIkNiNXoI2Ma9vy/s1600/IMG_2899.JPG"><br /></a>And because we're being honest with one another, I can admit: I'd much rather wear a medal than an orange vest. Even with the lanyard.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteYTKG2HwgbaIe7TSxlMbh4zfHy8qKpDwrh9svnPehstAapfKECYlO7HbPlQg31x4Na29XKlZwpBEI7Uafm76D-RckeW65y16KHTsIaTMd8Pf7zZolc8xHHwSI4ypqcQaoKEcrdoDv-k3/s1600/IMG_2865.JPG"><br /></a><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-68243526474913770282010-06-15T10:26:00.012-04:002010-06-15T15:39:28.084-04:00There is no such thing as a good Brightroom photo.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpdiAyHdHdvuaGQ1A_nPxS3llYcXJ40uymwrZIVMUMAeMBvyS2QRasIbaDuUUmx7QhfNkjuGRdXzqQseWv0_5HI86EfRhWjdpEjuPGIfDvigsy1BVr4IROW2YMN4e8p62mywbQ2i9yXtH/s1600/half+map.gif"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0xKxFQiZA3fOqj1_BKYILc8-NT_QwkHCTwGKZ8B7v2tx8uvbZphKEZv1d1sZgtyc2dKCe12AQ8xbh3lrLbqKCDHKUrN680Mbp4dguBnzJ4sp6exSmHuF1QQeE_-cf7L01VAfSmQ0IZgv/s1600/japanrun.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0xKxFQiZA3fOqj1_BKYILc8-NT_QwkHCTwGKZ8B7v2tx8uvbZphKEZv1d1sZgtyc2dKCe12AQ8xbh3lrLbqKCDHKUrN680Mbp4dguBnzJ4sp6exSmHuF1QQeE_-cf7L01VAfSmQ0IZgv/s400/japanrun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483028898445876578" border="0" /></a><br />I am celebrating the official start of my Chicago training by posting a photo from the last race I ran, the Japan Run in CP on June 6th. It's the closest to not horrific that I have looked in a race photo and yet it's actually of me and like 37 other people I had to crop out.<br /><br />By nature, I don't mind having my picture taken. Mike would take it a bit further and insist that I have a chip in my head that tells me the exact location of any camera in a 50-yard radius, allowing me plenty of time to check my hair and jump into the shot. And that's whether or not I know the other people in it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfK-7bhQzUNbIms_WYC7Dy7YPgYtOHHnWN34KKIrWbqH9wrIdU2mcdQXeiOa10bU5FchmJK-WrY2sbf30ZPeCNe9nktaAQjAdr3Yp-CvRR8_hXr495htACeWauAoE-syIXl_HeDMcGosY/s1600/cindy+javi+2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfK-7bhQzUNbIms_WYC7Dy7YPgYtOHHnWN34KKIrWbqH9wrIdU2mcdQXeiOa10bU5FchmJK-WrY2sbf30ZPeCNe9nktaAQjAdr3Yp-CvRR8_hXr495htACeWauAoE-syIXl_HeDMcGosY/s400/cindy+javi+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483033416032095586" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_D8H2s5_ZC9gTC16RF1NpR_MgdNjscl0j1jb_c3Ni9WlYAB8rf0D94qNhS58QCkwT5GBi3xHuxpc4rdRAHvI771OZtSVD2IEvDkFd2p_qW8GpSL3NWtpK14HubfH0ZabhW4Ik2z-3CQY9/s1600/cindy+javi.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_D8H2s5_ZC9gTC16RF1NpR_MgdNjscl0j1jb_c3Ni9WlYAB8rf0D94qNhS58QCkwT5GBi3xHuxpc4rdRAHvI771OZtSVD2IEvDkFd2p_qW8GpSL3NWtpK14HubfH0ZabhW4Ik2z-3CQY9/s400/cindy+javi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483033408299302274" border="0" /></a><br />(Oooh, were you trying to take a picture of Javi? I didn't even see you there!)<br /><br />So it boggles the mind that I have not been able to take a good Brightroom photo. My running friend Rose feels the same way, saying her race face captured on camera always appears as if she has been eating rancid meat. Now, I stack the deck by not wearing makeup and pulling my hair back. But I would say Brightroom is able to amplify those handicaps by also making you appear pasty white and without muscle tone.<br /><br />So I have a new goal for Chicago. Never mind the time goal (yes, I have one but I am not publicly sharing for fear that I will fail miserably and have to admit it to all of you on this blog) ... I will be stoked if I can take a hot marathon picture. This will take some planning.<br /><br />Once I've picked out some flattering (tight?) race clothes and developed a hairstyle that is both functional and cute as heck, I have to make sure Mike is strategically placed along the course at favorable sun times so that when he snaps me I'm not back lit. Do I wear my shades or not? Personally, I think my Nike wrap-arounds make me look positively badass.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNt4WaWFUOoXWSHsHjW4_JdEPpae51TA5Qsot9Jw1MYpIUJVF9MYltMQDY2L0p8gfnfgVRkAYmqWKstiPKrhX5SMLNBu_y-Jm6qQP1Th9_3SotJv8AgTI4n731XMV0N1YbWgIZIA1XZwT/s1600/cindy+glasses.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNt4WaWFUOoXWSHsHjW4_JdEPpae51TA5Qsot9Jw1MYpIUJVF9MYltMQDY2L0p8gfnfgVRkAYmqWKstiPKrhX5SMLNBu_y-Jm6qQP1Th9_3SotJv8AgTI4n731XMV0N1YbWgIZIA1XZwT/s400/cindy+glasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483053294875123058" border="0" /></a><br />But round about Mile 20 when I am sweating profusely and I am pumping the muscles simply to stay alive, I run the risk of looking positively Terminator. And that is so not ladylike. So shades ... TBD.<br /><br />I may have to spray tan. Which I have never before done. But really, the only way to avoid looking pasty is to wear white. Which I don't do. I find light colors to be - how do I say this - a bit too revealing up on the top deck. So I wear black. Which doesn't do my fair skin any favors.<br /><br />As for the makeup, I'm afraid I have to suck it up and embrace my natural nearly-40 look. The last time I wore makeup during a run (in my defense, I was rushing out the door from work to a TNT practice and forgot to take it off), I sweat every ounce of my MAC powder down my face, causing me to then wipe my eyes to get it out, resulting in mascara being smeared all over the place. Finishing up the night looking like the Bride of Frankenstein was not intended. Nor appreciated by anyone around me who thought I might then sink my fangs into their necks.<br /><br />I'll get in a practice run on the look next month as Kerry and I hit the Napa to Sonoma Half. I'm really excited to head home for a race and to run it with one of my girls. Kerry has never done a half but is totally rocking her training. I may try to qualify for a corral in Chicago by attempting 1:50 ... but looking at the course, I may just say screw it, drink loads of cab the night before and do a run/walk. I refer to the hills, natch:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpdiAyHdHdvuaGQ1A_nPxS3llYcXJ40uymwrZIVMUMAeMBvyS2QRasIbaDuUUmx7QhfNkjuGRdXzqQseWv0_5HI86EfRhWjdpEjuPGIfDvigsy1BVr4IROW2YMN4e8p62mywbQ2i9yXtH/s1600/half+map.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpdiAyHdHdvuaGQ1A_nPxS3llYcXJ40uymwrZIVMUMAeMBvyS2QRasIbaDuUUmx7QhfNkjuGRdXzqQseWv0_5HI86EfRhWjdpEjuPGIfDvigsy1BVr4IROW2YMN4e8p62mywbQ2i9yXtH/s400/half+map.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483053745591239186" border="0" /></a><br />Okay, so you can't really tell on this. But frankly, any map that looks like it was drawn on a pirate ship circa 1705 cannot be delivering good news on the elevation.<br /><br />So you start at a winery in Napa and you finish at a winery in Sonoma. And at the finish? Uh, yeah ... wine ... lots of it. The WHOLE race is designed around wine. Um, hello? Race organizers? Have we met?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCuWPw_rvO2OwZ_WOZQKSvfcEa-UKbcnH73dCtg8qcJw90bYPUK60c70PvqcymrjbMNOfm0BL1lPGNXJRP2OoHfbNtldopz-c-cvHjkHB3rITicWNxe8bM1EI2b-J32J0RtZ9fVkeuslW/s1600/wine+girls.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCuWPw_rvO2OwZ_WOZQKSvfcEa-UKbcnH73dCtg8qcJw90bYPUK60c70PvqcymrjbMNOfm0BL1lPGNXJRP2OoHfbNtldopz-c-cvHjkHB3rITicWNxe8bM1EI2b-J32J0RtZ9fVkeuslW/s400/wine+girls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483049946975674194" border="0" /></a><br />That's Kerry right next to me. She may the only one of our friends who loves wine more than I do. This is what comes from growing up in the Bay Area. Don't we look so natural with wine glasses in our hands? Sometimes when I sit at my desk at work my thumb and pointer finger just curl automatically, as if someone were about to slip a Reidel tumbler into my palm.<br /><br />Oooh ... do you think it would it look funny if I carried a wine glass in my finish-line photo?Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-31487661595915333352010-03-21T22:23:00.010-04:002010-03-22T17:21:09.203-04:00Since I'm in the habit of quoting Ghandi:I thought I'd share a gem:<div><br /></div><div><b>The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others. </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Now I won't for a second lead you into thinking that my morning was inspired by the Oh Great and Powerful Indian One. It really did start out simply as a way to log my volunteer credit for the New York <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">RoadRunners</span>. But if you'll allow me to get all Hallmark-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">commercial-y</span> on you for a moment: it turned into something much more meaningful by the end of my day.</div><div><br /></div><div>For those of you in the know, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">NYRR</span> is a super cool organization that holds most of the races in New York City. It also holds the granddaddy ... the NY Marathon. And if you're lucky enough to live in the city and become a member, they reward you handsomely with guaranteed entry into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">NYM</span>. All you have to do is complete 9 races and volunteer for 1 in a calendar year and you get entry the following year. In other words, I'm on track for 2011.</div><div><br /></div><div>The races are a no-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">brainer</span>. We've already knocked out several this year (me and my posse, natch) and when this do-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">gooder</span> organization threw together a run for Haiti relief, they upped the reg fee and made it worth 2 credits toward the 9. Long story short, I'm almost there and it's only March. So Babs and I thought it would be fun to get our volunteering out of the way early at a big, fun race: the NYC Half-Marathon. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is another marquee race in the city - big money purse so there are famous runners and everything. Oh, and you're only in through a lottery since it's super-competitive to get in. 14,000 runners from all over the world. For a half! How cool is that?<br /><br />Not so cool was having to be at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">NYRR</span> offices at 5:30am to get our assignments. Babs and were course marshals, which meant we made sure no one was entering the course before the race began. Once the race started, our job was to watch for any runners who needed medical attention, as well as clear the path from clothing and gel packs runners left behind. Our main duty, however, was to scream like mad for everyone and give them tons of encouragement. We were on the east side of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">CP</span>, so we saw the runners twice - once after the start and then again as they looped the park before hitting the halfway mark and heading downtown to the finish.<br /><br />To make it all official, we were given really attractive orange vests:<br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVsHeAtSW-K4k-6qwNvJywq_QIqnL5AT4ua20A53kpVUjIfNaX2QmnEQXQGNCMUibAQoqxnxK04Bito7l-s8oE4UdWTWaOFelFgkz-YdT84fWTAvIBkSYdOX1jqJRzWjcADnz1mGJav9f/s1600-h/nychalf3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVsHeAtSW-K4k-6qwNvJywq_QIqnL5AT4ua20A53kpVUjIfNaX2QmnEQXQGNCMUibAQoqxnxK04Bito7l-s8oE4UdWTWaOFelFgkz-YdT84fWTAvIBkSYdOX1jqJRzWjcADnz1mGJav9f/s400/nychalf3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451475960077329234" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>Babs said I looked like a crossing guard. But maybe that's because she took my picture in A CROSSWALK. Anyway, I thought I looked pretty authoritative, which always helps when you're wearing anything on a lanyard. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW7zJdpZcLDZ3cuX8hR-N_odvF1ZBsiqsmDGCmW85XBK43GMBgNbFRE-nlYlOpikI86denvcrlzOXflqHllv-Vn-IdrKv-hgN2Y-37T_zJyymuFRG9PfeICtYFYulb8Yqm5KdLf2fGVlq_/s1600-h/nychalf2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW7zJdpZcLDZ3cuX8hR-N_odvF1ZBsiqsmDGCmW85XBK43GMBgNbFRE-nlYlOpikI86denvcrlzOXflqHllv-Vn-IdrKv-hgN2Y-37T_zJyymuFRG9PfeICtYFYulb8Yqm5KdLf2fGVlq_/s400/nychalf2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451475953687212898" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, we get Babs by an ambulance. Hoping to meet a cute EMT, I'm sure. </div><div><br />Right after the start, I picked up a ton of throwaway clothes. I learned about this at my marathon. If it's cold before a race, some runners wear cheap long-sleeved shirts to keep warm in the corrals. Once they start running, they strip them off and literally just throw them to the side.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tyHfX6iia6OuUeAOQmPxtdgnMYSTdJ1aTRB1qKQRpdXjCazDA65aGGugVdFSz7vwCzA8GLb4DlVOlCBAhvDPZb8bPcCof5CuD8RoP5K2TRibPAYZQBkud2o9Rt5L7vLwcl1GeOwx24l8/s1600-h/nychalf5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tyHfX6iia6OuUeAOQmPxtdgnMYSTdJ1aTRB1qKQRpdXjCazDA65aGGugVdFSz7vwCzA8GLb4DlVOlCBAhvDPZb8bPcCof5CuD8RoP5K2TRibPAYZQBkud2o9Rt5L7vLwcl1GeOwx24l8/s400/nychalf5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451475977913323858" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>I collected them at my appointed cone, where I was to stand and make sure the runners stayed within. And then, 14,000 of them came at me like a furious wave.<br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGFVAqCazRl8wKLPCodm0AnVLniw0zx5RTDn-Ck28NJy-JJaECl4l6zFYTRnByDa8sxwtHqzILDpoNcrmWM4mlEpjXxfVfa2WpOxSEFMfDdae8nkW11ztlesvfpsqckomU612TfJ7_CEY/s1600-h/nychalf1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVGFVAqCazRl8wKLPCodm0AnVLniw0zx5RTDn-Ck28NJy-JJaECl4l6zFYTRnByDa8sxwtHqzILDpoNcrmWM4mlEpjXxfVfa2WpOxSEFMfDdae8nkW11ztlesvfpsqckomU612TfJ7_CEY/s400/nychalf1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451475947127451522" border="0" /></a></div><br />I was having a ton of fun. I saw a lot of running friends along the way who looked really strong and happy. It was so easy to cheer everyone one and I got a rush whenever someone acknowledged my totally dorky comments ("Okay elite athletes, you're done with Harlem Hill, so smile now!") with a thank you or a nod. I know that feeling - when you're dragging a little, maybe starting to feel a bit of pain. Just a tiny encouragement can sometimes mean the difference between slowing down in exhaustion or finding a surge of energy to push through to the next mile. I loved the ones who stuck their hands out as they passed so I could smack a low-five their way. Much adrenaline flowing at this point, however, and one guy almost took my hand off, he smacked it so hard.<br /><br /><div>I know there have been times in races when the volunteers are cheering you on and I've rolled by with a 'thank you.' But I was totally floored the first time someone actually said <span style="font-weight: bold;">"thank you </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">for volunteering."</span> </span>Really? Me? You're the one conquering 13.1 miles and you're thanking <span style="font-style: italic;">me? </span>All I've done is pick up a few nasty sweatshirts and made sure everyone stayed within the orange cones!<br /><br />(Okay, now is the time when you all roll your eyes and go, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Omigod</span>, is everything in the world about Cindy?" Aside from the fact that it's my blog and ... yeah, it kinda is ... there really was a point to the story that had nothing to do with my ego.)</div><div><br />These races go off without much of a hitch because the running community in NYC is so tightly-knit and happy to help each other out when in need. As in last week where I experienced a kinship with another runner in LA (oh yes, the runner's wave), I feel like this was one more step in making me a more well-rounded member of the community. I get it now!</div><div><br /></div><div>We were only required to stay as long as the last few runners passed our cone but I stayed there for a while, even as some of the other orange vests passed by with a wave to head out of the park. But I couldn't fathom leaving the last few stragglers. The people at the back of the pack were incredibly grateful. Not only did I have an opportunity to make eye contact with pretty much every single person, many of them had something really funny or inspirational to say. They had worked so hard just to get to that halfway point. Imagine when they had really slowed around mile 12 and there was simply no one left to cheer them to the last few steps.</div><div><br /></div><div>Toward the end when there were so few runners left that it would be a minute or two before anyone passed my cone, a really cute elderly couple came closer. It was unclear if one was slower and the other was pacing with him/her, or if they both had simply slowed with age and the pace they found was what they both could handle. Either way, as they passed, I clapped as loudly as my chaffed palms could handle and yelled to them that they looked great.</div><div><br /></div><div>They both flashed huge smiles and the elderly man held up a hand to wave and said, "Okay, thanks" and kind of chuckled. I'm not sure if I can properly characterize in writing what was behind his gesture but its meaning was clear: "thanks so much for yelling and waving, even though we probably don't look that great and we're bringing up the rear of 14,000 people." It was a humble sign of gratitude, almost apologetic to me for having to stick around because they moved slower than so many others. Yet to me, they deserved my applause more than anyone else had that morning. You can see them in the distance here.<br /><br /></div><div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-YCF3gofiF_KCwT2_8c07MZ0pZ-wrN76pb0qSnIBle4gQFfxRbEnGCd7hux5MvfN4EMjZm3MQzo0z5z3K75LNSFYUXTDEm93N3KPWps_RyjYMEBHZuBO0j_kG3iWq3uehzFCze2A6EsHf/s1600-h/nychalf4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-YCF3gofiF_KCwT2_8c07MZ0pZ-wrN76pb0qSnIBle4gQFfxRbEnGCd7hux5MvfN4EMjZm3MQzo0z5z3K75LNSFYUXTDEm93N3KPWps_RyjYMEBHZuBO0j_kG3iWq3uehzFCze2A6EsHf/s400/nychalf4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451475971156974594" border="0" /></a></div></div><div><br />I watched them shuffle away, even as bikes started entering the lane behind them and the park went back to a semblance of Sunday normalcy. For them, the race was still on and they had another 7 miles to cover, even as the crowds diminished and park workers started to pick up trash. I thought about them for the rest of the day and hope they reveled in their accomplishment for hours after crossing the finish line. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, I picked up my pile of throwaway clothes and threw them in a big trash bag, assured by one of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">NYRR</span> staffers that they would be washed and donated. I picked up a dozen or so <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Gu</span> packets that had been left behind by refueling runners and a couple of water cups scattering the path. Barb and I walked back to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">NYRR</span> office to hand in our orange vests (bummer! I totally had an outfit worked out around it!) and check out. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then we surprised ourselves: we both told the staffers we'd be back. Even though we already got our credit for the year.<br /><br />I'm sure there are tons of runners who just want to get their volunteer race out of the way and frankly, I was one of them this morning when I rolled out of bed at an ungodly hour. But the feeling that I might have contributed to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">someone's</span> experience, even in the smallest way, was enough that I'd sign on again in a heartbeat.<br /><br />Next time, however, I'm totally coordinating my outfit for the orange vest.<br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-29977327801223165052010-03-14T16:28:00.015-04:002010-03-19T13:06:08.993-04:00Next thing we need is a secret handshake.<div><br />When I was growing up my dad collected Corvettes. A beautiful '68 convertible; a brand-new silver '81; a slick black '87. Sometimes it was less "collected" and more "drove for a certain time until he was tired of it or it got repossessed." Either way, for as long as I can remember, he owned one, sometimes two. He really appreciated everything about the 'Vette - the body, the horsepower, the status of owning one. And it seemed he was part of this special club of Corvette owners. The people who - upon passing each other on the road, in the parking lot, wherever - would wave to each other. Not so much a wave as a simple raising of one hand, akin to a tip of a hat or a simple nod. Like "I got you - nice ride." We mercilessly mocked my dad for this, but maybe deep down we were all a bit jealous that he shared a kinship with others for something he loved so much.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did the wave the other day. With another runner. And I kind of get it now. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was in LA last week for work. Near the beach, and a runner's paradise. Each morning I would spring out of my hotel bed as the sun came up, so pleased to finally run outside. I logged quite a few miles while there, only because each new stretch of pavement brought something more awesome than the previous one and I was anxious to keep pushing the sunny envelope.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrgl19nD7Ei8H72IsTRG6WouA3YcIXAaJz269xKRdohs8XVsyyS0pWh-soJvUrTukNcC8G34sXqtPNzZ1U_-5MWqwuDfPBgI1H1NsOnwCLsDiPfZi-AUXaMRIUNGK5uGzTmwrqt0OhH6vi/s1600-h/beach+runnin+005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrgl19nD7Ei8H72IsTRG6WouA3YcIXAaJz269xKRdohs8XVsyyS0pWh-soJvUrTukNcC8G34sXqtPNzZ1U_-5MWqwuDfPBgI1H1NsOnwCLsDiPfZi-AUXaMRIUNGK5uGzTmwrqt0OhH6vi/s400/beach+runnin+005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450376291584912450" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyyeuH132iTLYuLxOjNngDDiEhHp3lgwMsfdJlDYQ2DcpU6xB2ZaC_qIGW99NHFwrRzxdoSjBF3o4Z5uEhbdZDI1BVLcgNewlKblFYFf1JU14q57JFwBt_eutAs0T8nhF0Vd-RF2kZGdOE/s1600-h/beach+runnin+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyyeuH132iTLYuLxOjNngDDiEhHp3lgwMsfdJlDYQ2DcpU6xB2ZaC_qIGW99NHFwrRzxdoSjBF3o4Z5uEhbdZDI1BVLcgNewlKblFYFf1JU14q57JFwBt_eutAs0T8nhF0Vd-RF2kZGdOE/s400/beach+runnin+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450377295582718146" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDqLwZFocf0S24rchF_uIjPlWadx1i46HGXVdD4dOXAmVBezQxOusHqiOmLZkegckN66JU8d-tsg33BR2Yur-N3AThD7SYqE-74hm4qXvLMtGKORwxtIOowgjeJcxM6WhyphenhyphenMlFE2vKsqex/s1600-h/beach+runnin+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDqLwZFocf0S24rchF_uIjPlWadx1i46HGXVdD4dOXAmVBezQxOusHqiOmLZkegckN66JU8d-tsg33BR2Yur-N3AThD7SYqE-74hm4qXvLMtGKORwxtIOowgjeJcxM6WhyphenhyphenMlFE2vKsqex/s400/beach+runnin+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450376265949097234" border="0" /></a><div><br />Yeah, I ran that. It's called The Strand - a 22-mile stretch of beachfront pathways along the coast. Nope, didn't get close to 22 miles - I stayed on one segment of it that, roundtrip, was about 8 miles. I can't begin to describe the feeling of running when you are smiling inside and out. Enjoying every second of the clean ocean breeze. I even ditched the Ipod and found that I really dig the sound of my Vomeros on sandy concrete. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_whQSqwo5QumFPLjVaY04zNdRCyklWMBUbAif1dd8JdHnJK2VhZgJmFm5WsdLHv2ygM3jrYc1dKE1EDPF7Vq9hYbNx_YFP-VlbZCSYRrdkn6SLojPq5QMrllGzpY4QRs6aTrrcuBF6rAJ/s1600-h/beach+runnin+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_whQSqwo5QumFPLjVaY04zNdRCyklWMBUbAif1dd8JdHnJK2VhZgJmFm5WsdLHv2ygM3jrYc1dKE1EDPF7Vq9hYbNx_YFP-VlbZCSYRrdkn6SLojPq5QMrllGzpY4QRs6aTrrcuBF6rAJ/s400/beach+runnin+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450376290096032002" border="0" /></a><div><br />Egads I need a tan.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFGsGNnLDYavUDWBj6OaIas2HInUfnDNsgEaKTl9J6qIbCodfrhBIqEI-sVwFe2ybhGwA3OESXVzNl6vEBd8iU790yQrlskz4nn_IMfltqVy4j9hB8-25HO0YdmSSyJIERc_Ua2uSzyFd/s1600-h/beach+runnin+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFGsGNnLDYavUDWBj6OaIas2HInUfnDNsgEaKTl9J6qIbCodfrhBIqEI-sVwFe2ybhGwA3OESXVzNl6vEBd8iU790yQrlskz4nn_IMfltqVy4j9hB8-25HO0YdmSSyJIERc_Ua2uSzyFd/s400/beach+runnin+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450376279187610034" border="0" /></a><br />Oh, calm down, Manhattan Beach. Cindy gets nowhere near 8MPH unless she is being forced by Lynne The Trainer to do sprints.<br /><br />I haven't taken one of these in a while ... Happy Running Cindy!<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCGM_tvRbzGXZfc0Gxr_N0XH2TAYrMvJPg71W0fNtke5Tt2551mZtf8aNldB8IlKQUwLCgOxhfgM26b800ihIVMS4AdiM8tSnma_lU81nj8K1pmjLTuxjPz6bXKEcwSq_6LhXx7rlJOay/s1600-h/beach+runnin+009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCGM_tvRbzGXZfc0Gxr_N0XH2TAYrMvJPg71W0fNtke5Tt2551mZtf8aNldB8IlKQUwLCgOxhfgM26b800ihIVMS4AdiM8tSnma_lU81nj8K1pmjLTuxjPz6bXKEcwSq_6LhXx7rlJOay/s400/beach+runnin+009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450377309142266082" border="0" /></a><div><br /></div><div>When you're running in New York, you don't really acknowledge other runners you pass. Exception to rule: running CP before it's completely light outside and when you're on a lonely stretch and see another person, you look them in the eye and mouth a "hi" so you can hope you've discouraged them from clubbing you over the head and dragging you into the bushes, now that they know you can positively ID them in a police lineup. (Please excuse the incorrect use of the pronoun "them" but I didn't want to implicate an entire gender in that scenario. Ahem, him.)<br /><br /></div><div>So it's not a chatty city by nature. And I'm always thrown off my axis a bit when running elsewhere. Case in point: when I was in California for the holidays I ran a beautiful 11 miles with my good friend Erin. I sometimes forget that I come from a very picturesque area, complete with farmland, green hills, dusty back roads and wineries. Erin, however, always appreciates these things, and whenever she can steal some time from her busy home of three sons, she hits the roads. During our winding jaunt on a gorgeous December morning, we passed dozens of people also appreciating the scenery. People walking, taking dogs or kids for a stroll, other runners. And to every single person who passed, Erin gave them a cheery "good morning!" Most of the time, the people passing beat her to it and greeted us first. The first few times this happened it totally freaked me out. I'm fairly certain I glanced over my shoulder each time we passed to make sure the person wasn't double-backing toward us to drag us into a remote field. Eventually, however, I enjoyed feeling like we were all taking in the day together. </div><div><br /></div><div>So when I ran the beach last week al fresco (also known as no Ipod), it gave me an opportunity to listen to snatches of conversation as I passed people walking or running the same path. A pattern emerged: everyone was really happy. So it was no surprise that as I got to more isolated stretches, people smiled at me or raised a hand to wave hello. And I found myself doing the same thing back.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttqH9qDPOQ-r8uo8JWtkNCthK7CWlt3RbeejTqhcmJZsAYMT4kf9qZifjm6vMJUxUEm-kujwFCnjVZIBwKiCnu3eJaWoi63Kh5qUU8xPvD-EukboP-HW7GfoCbU730gLEGzpjrmBuS3sP/s1600-h/beach+runnin+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttqH9qDPOQ-r8uo8JWtkNCthK7CWlt3RbeejTqhcmJZsAYMT4kf9qZifjm6vMJUxUEm-kujwFCnjVZIBwKiCnu3eJaWoi63Kh5qUU8xPvD-EukboP-HW7GfoCbU730gLEGzpjrmBuS3sP/s400/beach+runnin+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450377298139864738" border="0" /></a><br />It made the run about a thousand times more pleasant and I was suddenly sad that my tough city encourages people to be closed off to their own little world.</div><div><br /></div><div>On my last run before heading back to New York, I settled on a nice stretch from my hotel and around the marina, emptying out on the water and curving over to Venice Beach.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the first couple of miles, it's somewhat residential and there's some traffic, which means there are few pedestrians and almost no runners. But as I turned a corner and hit a long stretch to the water, I spotted a runner. And he was a real runner. Wrap around shades. Check. Garmin strapped on wrist. Check. Little tiny Dolphin shorts that showed a little too much leg. Check, and eeeeu. But as he passed me, both of us with earphones planted, he gave me a slight raise of the hand: the runner's salute. I instinctively threw it back and in an instant, it was over: we were past one another and headed in opposite directions. But for like 3 seconds, we shared a connection that only someone out for the love of feet hitting pavement can understand. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two minutes later a car pulling out of a driveway nearly plowed into me and I threw not only my hands on the hood a la Al Pacino, but a couple of f-bombs, including something about "crazy woman driver." </div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh well. You can take the girl out of New York City ...<br /></div><div><br />****************************************<br /><br />And one last note ...<br /><br />I'm announcing my big news on the 2010 marathon front: I'm registered to run a new city! October 10, 2010, I will be running (drum roll, please) ....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IbS879boAhEy5YCX9di3pUhn4UojVIwkePuBuNJkNqQAXGsbjCyuB2XlgC9zmm4vdDwJBwoAypxbrYz_do8EV_6sybYHddKRnBGBo7eIt3ircPoUJsEyN_J_godQhPvCM5csaNYvQRcQ/s1600-h/chicago.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IbS879boAhEy5YCX9di3pUhn4UojVIwkePuBuNJkNqQAXGsbjCyuB2XlgC9zmm4vdDwJBwoAypxbrYz_do8EV_6sybYHddKRnBGBo7eIt3ircPoUJsEyN_J_godQhPvCM5csaNYvQRcQ/s400/chicago.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450380453550730322" border="0" /></a><br />Chicago!!<br /><br />And I'm very excited about it. Not only do I <span style="font-style: italic;">love </span>this city, but the marathon has a reputation for being flat and fast. Perhaps I'm stacking the deck a tad, being that I am looking for a major PR this year. But the course looks incredible - it snakes through most of the city's neighborhoods and is supposed to have great crowd support. (Hey! Andrew and Leslie! Make your signs early!)<br /><br />Being the midwest, however, weather can go either way and I believe like 150 runners died when the city had an unexpected heat wave a few years back. Okay I made that statistic up.<br /><br />Chicago 2010 here I come!<br /><br /><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-47813637555923488392010-03-07T22:51:00.014-05:002010-03-08T23:25:47.238-05:00It's 5:00 somewhere.<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAoyXZ62UKHuVDTH79UsdvgQyvp0ZbMws2zmr11rAS-XP0Zr1mNGJLgL9AA9dWGD32ar-xGhUQI6nK2k_n8KD5hf0ouiaFJJKjbj-FYLsbzuGoeBGueMKKNs0Cb8NYVvui-WH6ecG1Pbwe/s1600-h/coogans!+011.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAoyXZ62UKHuVDTH79UsdvgQyvp0ZbMws2zmr11rAS-XP0Zr1mNGJLgL9AA9dWGD32ar-xGhUQI6nK2k_n8KD5hf0ouiaFJJKjbj-FYLsbzuGoeBGueMKKNs0Cb8NYVvui-WH6ecG1Pbwe/s400/coogans!+011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446406615254699442" border="0" /></a><br />Like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kuala</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Lumpur</span>, maybe.<br /><br />Because where I was? It was 10:30. As in A.M.<br /><br />So we ran the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Coogan's</span> 5k on Sunday and although it ended up being more of a 3 mile saunter, it still counts as a race. Which is my justification for being fairly drunk by 2 in the afternoon.<br /><br />From the beginning: Babs and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Javi</span> and I started out Sunday morning in an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">MTA</span> tangle. Where we were headed is quite far for all of us. For me? I get a nosebleed above 96<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">th</span> Street, so headed to a street with a 1 in front of it coupled with being on the WEST side (ugh! as if!) was like traveling to another continent. But being a good trouper, I packed my passport and we dutifully boarded the 1 train. Which turned into the 2 train. Which suddenly took us to the Bronx. Which, for all of you non-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">NYers</span>, is not the borough we wanted to be in.<br /><br />We had about 15 minutes to regroup and haul north 70 blocks. Which would have been fine had I not been the party responsible for picking up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">everyone's</span> race bibs two days prior. I had Babs and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Javi</span> with me (this is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Javi</span> trying to pin his bib on a moving subway while nursing a bad hangover, shakes and all. It's the weekend before St. Patrick's Day and he's 24. You do the math):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYL6zVC1laWeYWAJZytYHjfr_8o67DE2GL6Th5dZYmB4oUzOTP3u5bVYPTRpr6RTPfuedFrn3QvP85DCv-VEmhhsDRXtrWpmIpIEsCq5EysmdRmxJH17FTdN2LFWzCV5tlg9Tc3rBElnCf/s1600-h/coogans!+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYL6zVC1laWeYWAJZytYHjfr_8o67DE2GL6Th5dZYmB4oUzOTP3u5bVYPTRpr6RTPfuedFrn3QvP85DCv-VEmhhsDRXtrWpmIpIEsCq5EysmdRmxJH17FTdN2LFWzCV5tlg9Tc3rBElnCf/s400/coogans!+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446406607166882722" border="0" /></a><br />... but we were meeting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Elkin</span> at the start. Bad idea. By the time we got to bag drop and I connected with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Elkin</span> to give him his bib, the race had started and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Javi</span> and Babs had already taken off to get to their corrals on time. So Elk and I literally brought up the rear of the race, not crossing the start until 10 minutes after the gun.<br /><br />I'll spare all the catty comments here (for what reason, I'm not sure since it <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>my blog). Let's just say we ended up with a certain running population that is not conducive to a PR. I spent so much energy dodging walkers and kids that when we got to mile 2 and started sprinting, I thought I might die. At mile 2.<br /><br />Elk and I dashed for the finish, crossing over at about 27:00. Not my proudest 5k, but it ended up being a blast of a course. Music all over the place, tons of spectators, nothing but hills ... and at the end ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2_3_j0jLt2eEfB2oGB82C-BMGoCvARL9Aie54k23rzICFPeOsf-M4NRI5YcuUK5-yzTk3MROMOVemBBufrctYBNWv4sA8LjPBasJK3SRRSacg7z6_KA7I8W2pksxPK0iqfPaHXOf7RhR/s1600-h/coogans!+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2_3_j0jLt2eEfB2oGB82C-BMGoCvARL9Aie54k23rzICFPeOsf-M4NRI5YcuUK5-yzTk3MROMOVemBBufrctYBNWv4sA8LjPBasJK3SRRSacg7z6_KA7I8W2pksxPK0iqfPaHXOf7RhR/s400/coogans!+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403463911032498" border="0" /></a><br />... hey, look! It's the embattled former chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee! Yikes, how the mighty have fallen. One day he's got the gavel of one of the most powerful committees in Congress, the next he's glad handing sweaty runners in Harlem. (For the record, I politely shook his hand and thanked him for his service. I was sweaty and most likely smelly. Anything less cordial would have added insult to injury.) <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Btw</span>, I think it was sorta symbolic that we snapped this pic under the sign for the crapper.<div><br /></div><div>But this was the most awesome part of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Coogan's</span>. From here, everyone lined up at ... well, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Coogan's</span>. Great Irish pub near Columbia whose claim to fame is ... well, this race.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Je2aQBR40EMQ0oR6sKz9Cy6c1_0pPPo3JFeFzCXcVe6MEzMhrNAXkbQHlyeuTkgWpLOfUuvjrpXLTawdQphs6j0wgoPfUhsyGrkr0setBwLjyQt-lMbhMyH094DaR3oosBPsUfH294id/s1600-h/coogans!+008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Je2aQBR40EMQ0oR6sKz9Cy6c1_0pPPo3JFeFzCXcVe6MEzMhrNAXkbQHlyeuTkgWpLOfUuvjrpXLTawdQphs6j0wgoPfUhsyGrkr0setBwLjyQt-lMbhMyH094DaR3oosBPsUfH294id/s400/coogans!+008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403489280492482" border="0" /></a><br />Like dutiful city dwellers, we saw a line and got into it like blindly, not sure what we were really in line for. There was a line, so it must be good, right? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Moooooo</span>. (I'm one of those annoying people who, upon getting in the line and shuffling slowly, must make that sound at least once. )<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZKFkUgqOkro1DzVuYwf49giqEkiTd4eHp779og2qC2BeX8f1SJIVcgwWo1xLJ_tZ46txbmv1sQ9tiUSlcACJKyiasHL-2HdGeZ1r5BRuWUIs_3uCFm-g8GaV6mR-yEOxTvB3y4-rRdDY/s1600-h/coogans!+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZKFkUgqOkro1DzVuYwf49giqEkiTd4eHp779og2qC2BeX8f1SJIVcgwWo1xLJ_tZ46txbmv1sQ9tiUSlcACJKyiasHL-2HdGeZ1r5BRuWUIs_3uCFm-g8GaV6mR-yEOxTvB3y4-rRdDY/s400/coogans!+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403475632261250" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wPisCZA9eY3QmNNL6hvlbedjHaoflURARYb9OXkwGgdxLHoFBWvdlNst4MMOINtazO_EbVJXZSS5x6KNYnNmQx38RA5IyOitSiIzGT3_-xN36RtlZdhPCcVXrguLKRI1gn4Y6dSrdDyf/s1600-h/coogans!+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wPisCZA9eY3QmNNL6hvlbedjHaoflURARYb9OXkwGgdxLHoFBWvdlNst4MMOINtazO_EbVJXZSS5x6KNYnNmQx38RA5IyOitSiIzGT3_-xN36RtlZdhPCcVXrguLKRI1gn4Y6dSrdDyf/s400/coogans!+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403481944387938" border="0" /></a><br />This was the scene inside. I'm not sure the pictures even do the chaos justice:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqq7UxK-VnWTzPfzEo1pVDMSE2-PdsmkNR9PQSOA2DITSj03LtvV9CrXtpk9bswvxbT36zSpIQh8wr8HJYcoB_3TldztXogoOy58ja3JMCvcowYW4LvMNQcpnXFuemToIjXbZbNAESo1wo/s1600-h/coogans!+014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqq7UxK-VnWTzPfzEo1pVDMSE2-PdsmkNR9PQSOA2DITSj03LtvV9CrXtpk9bswvxbT36zSpIQh8wr8HJYcoB_3TldztXogoOy58ja3JMCvcowYW4LvMNQcpnXFuemToIjXbZbNAESo1wo/s400/coogans!+014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403858742702802" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg0CvO5841w2ZONVpuLqeMjJRN02uuSLD36EjG84w9XS4p2GK2p_1fNdeE9hrYdQynZXCXpox-LyqaRKaKVmTQmgl6ocPxDJidmNKuNII8xpS07X5Yo8phAW3W4K0aH5JJZ7cBuW2ESBMm/s1600-h/coogans!+012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg0CvO5841w2ZONVpuLqeMjJRN02uuSLD36EjG84w9XS4p2GK2p_1fNdeE9hrYdQynZXCXpox-LyqaRKaKVmTQmgl6ocPxDJidmNKuNII8xpS07X5Yo8phAW3W4K0aH5JJZ7cBuW2ESBMm/s400/coogans!+012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403857382240514" border="0" /></a><br />It only got better. Yes, that's breakfast, complete with eggs and corned beef sandwiches and shepherd's pie.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWY6WhiF_68hydYQLnfs4keK-BNBTofXsrihkru1U-URSoQPVpYrCFSoR9nptLVNARnCNV_8YysPH4cV18kAh_1eAmmAlKRZZHEnh9nfWxwjPXrJQQvso4q_INZwOQx9PV0GvKTEeZ87Nk/s1600-h/coogans!+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWY6WhiF_68hydYQLnfs4keK-BNBTofXsrihkru1U-URSoQPVpYrCFSoR9nptLVNARnCNV_8YysPH4cV18kAh_1eAmmAlKRZZHEnh9nfWxwjPXrJQQvso4q_INZwOQx9PV0GvKTEeZ87Nk/s400/coogans!+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403496290968706" border="0" /></a><br />And who needs OJ when you have the breakfast juice of running champions:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM2pVxvt66RH5J2KlqGlmu3CIzQyLGyPvST2RyvqcsraRRXkqj8QtGzhdJCAGoljGalUNeOGa_BkTXgSOSj4_yEaCXQoDRt24mQ4TmREeMVnVVFXJsUxZ8czEs_CxcNsD9s_Gzr3DsSZQF/s1600-h/coogans!+021.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM2pVxvt66RH5J2KlqGlmu3CIzQyLGyPvST2RyvqcsraRRXkqj8QtGzhdJCAGoljGalUNeOGa_BkTXgSOSj4_yEaCXQoDRt24mQ4TmREeMVnVVFXJsUxZ8czEs_CxcNsD9s_Gzr3DsSZQF/s400/coogans!+021.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446406626271861330" border="0" /></a><br />As in an endless supply of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Guiness</span> that kept coming by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">trayloads</span> to our table. All free of charge. Let me restate that. All. Free. Of. Charge. So we played it cool and were fairly conservative in our intake.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_l40muqNN69NJIIvpPSZRp2HCORyFbumW9BkFoEQjAdX0zIXfrnsM2zhE5ubqQ7jYG9wUSkaueFToWUjj58ZIIKEHcMR9cNaDJaQDV8Bg2b9HoB_13VAehiPcqREZGMlzbYDqUznXDFU/s1600-h/coogans!+018.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9_l40muqNN69NJIIvpPSZRp2HCORyFbumW9BkFoEQjAdX0zIXfrnsM2zhE5ubqQ7jYG9wUSkaueFToWUjj58ZIIKEHcMR9cNaDJaQDV8Bg2b9HoB_13VAehiPcqREZGMlzbYDqUznXDFU/s400/coogans!+018.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446406623162324802" border="0" /></a><br />No WONDER this race is so popular. Here we were, all racing the damned thing like fiends, making sure we keep up our race stats. All the while, 90 percent of the crowd was freaking walking it, knowing they were doing the minimum to a) get one of their 9 race credits and b) get to the end so they could get their free drink on.</div><div><br /></div><div>The euphoria of finishing a great run was replaced by inebriation and, frankly, total confusion by being pretty lit by noon. We met tables of fellow runner-drinkers, including this guy, who took "free food" to the next level. He literally filled his backpack with plastic containers of corned beef sandwiches and shepherd's pie. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEike0L9oXXOwrU3QsOTAovO7bMslitKe-5bCMMWC7oP6r9AudfRLqmC_z8B5v77e5bBqFu0GzECfGsHXInZoUQRQQCn24qcku5AV7QCeqDubOHAobZbRkSZQVKd6wiyU4iG76nywjeOcDnf/s400/coogans!+025.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403871565046594" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Note to drunk dude for next Irish food giveaway: while corned beef <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">sandys</span> are good to go in plastic, shepherd's pie is a bit fussier. (When he toddled off hours later, his backpack sported a huge grease stain and I swear he was leaking gravy).<br /><br />We also met Raquel and Mike - who, as it turns out, is from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Livermore</span> - just one town over from my hometown. Another reason why the mind boggles in New York. I mean, really, what a small freaking world. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Anyhoo</span>, Raquel and Mike got a dose of Free Food Guy as well.<br /><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-c-85Pm0vWvcGGyYQZadDT4mXqvO0b6UUjvqy3OdfwZlUdz-O1OHL_l9RxlTwD8eWCT34AnIJTUT8_1bMFrD-lSYLE0EJcugFj-L6rZ2tBxpvAG92vtFD9-R_u0OyrGBAlzmEgacA__z/s400/coogans!+035.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446404294348548226" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWKzDX2AyK9eFTqFKr5cOBXIvkmAU8xUj65JAUV0GcddYcUM3CznsIziqrzCkfeIioKti4hEpAZ7Jhpw-emRBS1PZp2D-yIGaOeAG3RKQZ2tpOxRTUIYNNYSioavdDi0pWDd1XsdKRW8W/s400/coogans!+034.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446403882460988082" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>When we finally emerged into daylight to make our way home, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Javi</span> and Babs and I reminisced about our training days last summer when we were really becoming serious athletes. So serious that I doubt we would have had a drunk morning like this one. </div><div><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwRJu-qaiFVosiSvA22sGJnx-mFHDccIkZ-jRRCe5FqThWaWhV-cU09EWm6NdVvhlhFzBS_Gn70MQcVj2QE6hINY_z_E0TJYaYJWZcIvTOLbgSpMKOCH750-w4DInywjT32CeVUNlW8UPn/s1600-h/coogans!+047.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwRJu-qaiFVosiSvA22sGJnx-mFHDccIkZ-jRRCe5FqThWaWhV-cU09EWm6NdVvhlhFzBS_Gn70MQcVj2QE6hINY_z_E0TJYaYJWZcIvTOLbgSpMKOCH750-w4DInywjT32CeVUNlW8UPn/s400/coogans!+047.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446404305473264706" border="0" /></a><br />Yeah, we adapted fine to the levity of the day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpBQchd41NOyV9CKdxeMD7-_RM-s0DyDjkxniQSN0muPIBvBVaMUB2cT0UHl7AusommeFbt-Kbj1d2VGI39nIgLbTdo2HOv5iVC9tsuyyXA8XeHZBlBKXatTDa-AlBrXtI8vQO5HCF1lZ/s1600-h/coogans!+049.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpBQchd41NOyV9CKdxeMD7-_RM-s0DyDjkxniQSN0muPIBvBVaMUB2cT0UHl7AusommeFbt-Kbj1d2VGI39nIgLbTdo2HOv5iVC9tsuyyXA8XeHZBlBKXatTDa-AlBrXtI8vQO5HCF1lZ/s400/coogans!+049.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446404312882236978" border="0" /></a><br />And just in case you were worried - on the way home, we got on the right train. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Although I may or may not have passed out and missed a stop.)<br /><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-28919078312233292502010-03-03T18:56:00.015-05:002010-03-04T12:37:05.060-05:00Dude, where's my blog?A more apt question is for my blog: "Dude, where's your writer?"<br /><br />So here's the thing: I have found that I may not be very interesting outside of the running world. And perhaps I am being generous with even calling my running "interesting." But I've started updating this blog maybe 14 times since my last entry (November. Yes, November) and nothing seems to stick. Do you really want to hear about my holiday party at work? I think not. (Although we had it in our office and at some point, someone is going to start photocopying body parts. The pictures say it all.)<br /><br />A curious thing has happened, though. I brought in 2010 by running four Central Park races, the first since my marathon last October. (BTW, effing cold. Yet you really haven't lived until you've formed a perfect snotsickle. I can die now.) So afterward? I felt like I had something to say.<br /><br />Cindy ran. So Run, Cindy, Run is back in business.<br /><br />Here's a quick catch-up, pictures included. We left off at the New York Marathon:<br /><br />Made a sign.<br />Made several signs.<br />Made runners laugh with said signs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJtzN7NhvFbmZuoj_XqYfjz2AAm6hBhyphenhyphenT_xNnE5YNFJdS8NLYEv5a8lg9zhUWGlNA8t_ASryxsdoHcsF2GxCvzyFkjSuO4z2psSm7dBSvE03d7EctKmSG_uqa5mf3tkJpff_BNw-W-izm/s1600-h/NYMarathon!+109.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJtzN7NhvFbmZuoj_XqYfjz2AAm6hBhyphenhyphenT_xNnE5YNFJdS8NLYEv5a8lg9zhUWGlNA8t_ASryxsdoHcsF2GxCvzyFkjSuO4z2psSm7dBSvE03d7EctKmSG_uqa5mf3tkJpff_BNw-W-izm/s400/NYMarathon!+109.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444613479093091298" border="0" /></a><br />Cheered on Elkin.<br />Watched Elkin kick butt.<br />Bought Elkin a drink.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9FNx5k-8QwjH6jRwZT0Ul-DpbPdmW4rZXT4b6gXMYb2Q7BYSqEY8YPFgYgenyromAu66QvamlKhcYlaiPYW4cxS9H6UcCSwha6C8hxBuiiC8xJAFMAmxrcttgE6frBCLbdvj6zKFSZagl/s1600-h/NYMarathon!+122.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9FNx5k-8QwjH6jRwZT0Ul-DpbPdmW4rZXT4b6gXMYb2Q7BYSqEY8YPFgYgenyromAu66QvamlKhcYlaiPYW4cxS9H6UcCSwha6C8hxBuiiC8xJAFMAmxrcttgE6frBCLbdvj6zKFSZagl/s400/NYMarathon!+122.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444613469559544242" border="0" /></a><br />Packed up apartment 12I.<br />Started running on Treadmill again.<br />Felt very defeated by Treadmill.<br />Moved boxes to apartment 16M.<br />Moved furniture to apartment 16M<br />After moving to 16M, continued to get off elevator to go to 12I.<br />Put off unpacking boxes in 16M.<br />Tried Treadmill again.<br />Got in a fight with Treadmill.<br />Went to a season-ender party for TNT.<br />Got an award from Coach Ramon for basically being cool.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqroSbmKJGED-ON0d60-85KqXMhyeAap21hItTiwuicc2S2WbYUfVHDa0XrkIhAvZYriHFcM2qosZZmMvMEWicd444WmyVqyDHJNjBDB0zWoLzcrHQIObUNrokJ_bKdBaZGsvop6foO30m/s1600-h/TNT+misbehavin%27+028.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqroSbmKJGED-ON0d60-85KqXMhyeAap21hItTiwuicc2S2WbYUfVHDa0XrkIhAvZYriHFcM2qosZZmMvMEWicd444WmyVqyDHJNjBDB0zWoLzcrHQIObUNrokJ_bKdBaZGsvop6foO30m/s400/TNT+misbehavin%27+028.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444613454399776018" border="0" /></a><br />Celebrated quite a bit at said party.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBSSdsn_39gQMaqYc0hJriZT809XTBrKNOBXndH_I-9CVcN4iIs0PcV52KTP8Cy-YXt5ADXXUTV8x0-G9jlSzQ8lVzV0wyOwrokwoLdZBza6ZLLIf4aJZNa-g_Zi5taluDUSKf6x0HOOS/s1600-h/TNT+misbehavin%27+061.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbBSSdsn_39gQMaqYc0hJriZT809XTBrKNOBXndH_I-9CVcN4iIs0PcV52KTP8Cy-YXt5ADXXUTV8x0-G9jlSzQ8lVzV0wyOwrokwoLdZBza6ZLLIf4aJZNa-g_Zi5taluDUSKf6x0HOOS/s400/TNT+misbehavin%27+061.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444613460305686754" border="0" /></a><br />Couldn't post most of the pictures from said party.<br />Ran in Central Park, longest distance since marathon.<br />Felt very winded after only 8 miles.<br />Begged Treadmill to take me back.<br />Threw surprise party for Mike's 40th birthday.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UinqZUbetXo6JKICx4O0DLUfZAyg3UXC5s_g28IXkEL_EuMRg1TNInpRnKNEUAX4uyOxqEOAWsZHR6bDfZKgSbQP5wOiZfTQqfFqnME3PkOY2AclTmWDDpLz7INpL60lmbWgw4nGiyvZ/s1600-h/mike's+40th+weekend+171.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UinqZUbetXo6JKICx4O0DLUfZAyg3UXC5s_g28IXkEL_EuMRg1TNInpRnKNEUAX4uyOxqEOAWsZHR6bDfZKgSbQP5wOiZfTQqfFqnME3PkOY2AclTmWDDpLz7INpL60lmbWgw4nGiyvZ/s400/mike's+40th+weekend+171.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444613445780088114" border="0" /></a><br />Told everyone I am a trophy wife who is nowhere near 40.<br />Paid waitress at party 20 bucks to card me.<br />Made peace with Treadmill.<br />Hung things on walls in 16M.<br />Went to San Francisco for Christmas.<br />Saw my beautiful girls.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPeEeBevGda2_bIMbuvIz9DW94qw6syg0DbVS4K_hkrqxtfznf3IpwHPmgGeu84PiUjW31S4PhvY0YNHbC-qnS4Jq3oyQi0bJilS3rLLMvBYDxPEr6ftCLLvdzGL2IVv-rUz9BUcKfTEI/s1600-h/me+and+girls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPeEeBevGda2_bIMbuvIz9DW94qw6syg0DbVS4K_hkrqxtfznf3IpwHPmgGeu84PiUjW31S4PhvY0YNHbC-qnS4Jq3oyQi0bJilS3rLLMvBYDxPEr6ftCLLvdzGL2IVv-rUz9BUcKfTEI/s400/me+and+girls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444818366005637954" border="0" /></a>Saw my beautiful boys.<br />Managed to get one good picture with them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzejmZlLrVv0k7XgKax0Mu8Yoh6u5fbCVMNAATo0SC9cmXxieA9DU3wcqxRLwaTg-ATTuSRnlT9cHfwEtcw936kYaE6WL8Y0i8l07HO0Cv7UQQbkW6uUm3adGD8ic_L99LnrAF-4gIP0v/s1600-h/cindy+and+boys.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzejmZlLrVv0k7XgKax0Mu8Yoh6u5fbCVMNAATo0SC9cmXxieA9DU3wcqxRLwaTg-ATTuSRnlT9cHfwEtcw936kYaE6WL8Y0i8l07HO0Cv7UQQbkW6uUm3adGD8ic_L99LnrAF-4gIP0v/s400/cindy+and+boys.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444812694219970930" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YVdpHy0lMBhs-af_nTvTHQRb4Kc596MFKDVJBIvoix280XXZrkt0q1jkWoVEFngv3iP7I7GAfZ0-eth50yZPc7uNGvPC_LPEyH8n48IdkZKamw5yOm15qr6_jUYvwRPfkTVucq9ER5A6/s1600-h/cindy+and+boys+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YVdpHy0lMBhs-af_nTvTHQRb4Kc596MFKDVJBIvoix280XXZrkt0q1jkWoVEFngv3iP7I7GAfZ0-eth50yZPc7uNGvPC_LPEyH8n48IdkZKamw5yOm15qr6_jUYvwRPfkTVucq9ER5A6/s400/cindy+and+boys+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444812707135556450" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmcwBO0S027S6SSi2g9O9-cBNoo_0zJJ-IicjpF2jf_JC5GLt4Te7uvlC7c7doRegXli2FmbTTjwORY-DN2aALCiJ1KRysbH06f_7uOv8Jngs_z-8iDygRzfxRj3qI-Ufcfg5a2pwGUPY0/s1600-h/cindy+and+boys+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmcwBO0S027S6SSi2g9O9-cBNoo_0zJJ-IicjpF2jf_JC5GLt4Te7uvlC7c7doRegXli2FmbTTjwORY-DN2aALCiJ1KRysbH06f_7uOv8Jngs_z-8iDygRzfxRj3qI-Ufcfg5a2pwGUPY0/s400/cindy+and+boys+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444812701674534962" border="0" /></a><br />Went through annual depression because I no longer live in San Francisco.<br />Registered for two half marathons in 2010.<br />Ran first race of 2010 in Central Park in 9 degrees.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1T8caveyS4DFL6_FgSD7WyPlkqPqSzadrlZNZ7U8clgidgf6t94hFQY_p3Cey8Ut6eqlBGWL7b5l2Cth5e1xl8mDupW5i47Deqj5EeKG-ZrYJV2EhHgKjkB41VbZP5ISl20Pp0SrJ4abE/s1600-h/cold+running.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1T8caveyS4DFL6_FgSD7WyPlkqPqSzadrlZNZ7U8clgidgf6t94hFQY_p3Cey8Ut6eqlBGWL7b5l2Cth5e1xl8mDupW5i47Deqj5EeKG-ZrYJV2EhHgKjkB41VbZP5ISl20Pp0SrJ4abE/s400/cold+running.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444812690166102322" border="0" /></a><br />Turned 28.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVDXymNMwE5CJIGkq836y_SPZ2T_wJvvYzvB-4_Uwwj3qHVKX06_r282NXHhEFsZ-mi44VMEMvjvAdW7cCmWULGex0pb_bXbZ0878oIzsYPMnztw0_ncbC7Ejf0MNTeOxY7ExoBR1DIkM/s1600-h/cindy+bday+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVDXymNMwE5CJIGkq836y_SPZ2T_wJvvYzvB-4_Uwwj3qHVKX06_r282NXHhEFsZ-mi44VMEMvjvAdW7cCmWULGex0pb_bXbZ0878oIzsYPMnztw0_ncbC7Ejf0MNTeOxY7ExoBR1DIkM/s400/cindy+bday+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444816251476052306" border="0" /></a>Okay, turned 32.<br />Whatever, age doesn't matter.<br />It was 39.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSwKH2Q5VVeQ4wwJSFflRQH-YssicW89B4P2bLnMNaN33CUBhbxYJa9lsKaILRAZ6DKX4zjcX6zmhCWWeOcDp9n7IVwDKfHTuFRQty79j_oy0qgqxzPJHCQWlR3-DAuScgav_MRvevH0V/s1600-h/cindy+bday.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSwKH2Q5VVeQ4wwJSFflRQH-YssicW89B4P2bLnMNaN33CUBhbxYJa9lsKaILRAZ6DKX4zjcX6zmhCWWeOcDp9n7IVwDKfHTuFRQty79j_oy0qgqxzPJHCQWlR3-DAuScgav_MRvevH0V/s400/cindy+bday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444812711783358034" border="0" /></a><br />Ran Manhattan Half Marathon on a challenge from Elkin.<br />Ran Manhattan Half alone since Elkin forgot he had plans that day.<br />Ran another CP race in 10 degrees.<br />Ran yet another in 5 degrees ... but this time, I had my team with me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNFGHejG2IX2p37oyM7U7qQdToWIK65GHLAkhzkXRVMtGhkKbB974CB1Qihh0O3DTNPnpkx8C-bWZ0qoM6mLEB6wlZjkoDw19hg9t10OHZfZlISRJxnZZH5o55vgmUs1rWy0rGoDyClP4z/s1600-h/haiti.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNFGHejG2IX2p37oyM7U7qQdToWIK65GHLAkhzkXRVMtGhkKbB974CB1Qihh0O3DTNPnpkx8C-bWZ0qoM6mLEB6wlZjkoDw19hg9t10OHZfZlISRJxnZZH5o55vgmUs1rWy0rGoDyClP4z/s400/haiti.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444817529423127154" border="0" /></a><br />************************<br /><br />So when I registered for all these winter races, I wasn't totally thinking ahead weather-wise. But in the words of my 8-year old nephew Vincent, who, upon dissing me for saying something "grown-up and stupid":<br /><br />"It must be January, 'cause that was a cold snap!"<br /><br />(You must snap your fingers when saying "snap" for the full effect of this)<br /><br />It's been a bit odd running without Team In Training. When I registered for the first one, I had to list my team. My default was TNT, but I felt like an interloper keeping it in. So I changed it to "Unattached." Talk about a lonely freaking team, this Unattached. I was super jealous when I got to bag check and a large group of purple people were gathered together, shouting and laughing. Had it been dark outside, a spotlight would have blasted down on me and my big loser "Unattached" sign I felt like I wore smack on my race bib, a la "The Jerk."<br /><br />It really wasn't that bad, but I was kinda bummed.<br /><br />I ran the first three races solo. A five-miler, followed by the half (thanks, Elkin!) and a four-miler. I met Javi after one and Jenn after another, but all in all, they were somewhat lonely. So when the RoadRunners threw together a run for Haiti, I was pleased as punch that all my crew was in.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQLwy4Ge7CYNCLIgXEBMVrrGY67-LXaHO7zgRTv4IQylRPWw6yc1IzIjlmZvmLg09sQxrFruQCNIRN_wc9_J7BqULm0EmIY1R9UWxXYheegQkXw_4cmzH9uU7TsgacHFesQkN4HyqUGS5x/s1600-h/cold+running+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQLwy4Ge7CYNCLIgXEBMVrrGY67-LXaHO7zgRTv4IQylRPWw6yc1IzIjlmZvmLg09sQxrFruQCNIRN_wc9_J7BqULm0EmIY1R9UWxXYheegQkXw_4cmzH9uU7TsgacHFesQkN4HyqUGS5x/s400/cold+running+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444816268973501074" border="0" /></a><br />The race was beyond crowded. This one counted for two races for NY Marathon qualification (members run 9 races and volunteer for 1 in 2010 and we get guaranteed entry in 2011) so everyone jumped in on it. As a result, we knew we were not racing it. We plodded along happily, chatting and snapping pictures.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSpJa7EEeGalZZ0lDmLaP_HTHL1tVv8zk07NOBvKJCSXs7nUtiWLuAgRLZply5yZb-amnHm_RYsL1TQK1EwgwPeq-KRjo0HFsvzNpZeBYgrjqyJjXFQVt_T5o1Z_TB2DJJS-8hZMAU7Vkp/s1600-h/cold+running+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSpJa7EEeGalZZ0lDmLaP_HTHL1tVv8zk07NOBvKJCSXs7nUtiWLuAgRLZply5yZb-amnHm_RYsL1TQK1EwgwPeq-KRjo0HFsvzNpZeBYgrjqyJjXFQVt_T5o1Z_TB2DJJS-8hZMAU7Vkp/s400/cold+running+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444816260130030546" border="0" /></a><br />It was, for all intents and purposes, a fun run for charity. Which is why this chick pissed me off:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzPXle7wv6Flj1FZlJnQtzKYdtLLlvrJ2KaHq5SBrHjtB25ENMT-iIgUUHDvQC54OgzBB-r-pj77I9R2Xwsr72D2Tu7kjonbtOx81G4QG4YKSzy0CzenC5dZhgTS4ofAs1UZXikT0QY-dO/s1600-h/cold+running+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzPXle7wv6Flj1FZlJnQtzKYdtLLlvrJ2KaHq5SBrHjtB25ENMT-iIgUUHDvQC54OgzBB-r-pj77I9R2Xwsr72D2Tu7kjonbtOx81G4QG4YKSzy0CzenC5dZhgTS4ofAs1UZXikT0QY-dO/s400/cold+running+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444816262599270482" border="0" /></a><br />Elkin was taking pictures when Mean Puffy Jacket girl blasted past us, huffing, "Pictures? REALLY?!" Now in her defense, she may have actually been winning the race. I mean, she totally could have passed the 7,000 people in front of her to take the lead. But we took the high road and Elkin jogged after her, snapping away like a scorned paparazzo. Seriously? It's a FUN RUN for CHARITY. Hey, Mean Puffy Jacket: Get over yourself!<br /><br />We're all registered for another race this weekend. Javi has already warned us that since it's the weekend before St. Patrick's Day, he cannot be trusted to be totally sober on Sunday morning. As long as I am not downwind from him, I'm okay with that.<br /><br />It's so good to be back. I have a really exciting running year planned and to all of my eight regular readers (Hi, Tina!), stay tuned for my big announcement ... I'm tackling 26.2 again this year in a new city!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7UvSK4Gbn4zcBzxhE6wCI3fc3uIZQ4r_tNQs-hpUh_YFmMi_iE2sA-nqAR2NwSae19uC1PxmsieR-0PLWKba-opqP4cGl5z8BqOh3SeGOvPv0IkHggTeAvM9X8a2uHCqgc2vYEimt-6s/s1600-h/cold+running+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib7UvSK4Gbn4zcBzxhE6wCI3fc3uIZQ4r_tNQs-hpUh_YFmMi_iE2sA-nqAR2NwSae19uC1PxmsieR-0PLWKba-opqP4cGl5z8BqOh3SeGOvPv0IkHggTeAvM9X8a2uHCqgc2vYEimt-6s/s400/cold+running+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444816253226637330" border="0" /></a>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-81189109925462292072009-10-27T15:37:00.012-04:002009-11-03T13:26:11.924-05:00Once more around the park.Let's call this a backwards recovery week.<br /><br />While most people recover from too much work, too much alcohol, too much food ... I recovered from my marathon by doing just that. As soon as my butt hit my aisle seat on the plane, I ordered a drink. When we walked in the door, exhausted from a day of travel, we ordered cheeseburgers and I popped a Blue Moon from the fridge. Much to Mike's chagrin, I've once again stopped by my favorite wine shop on the way home from to grab a bottle of pinot for the evening (quote from Mike two months ago: "Geez, do you know how much money we're saving when you don't pick up a bottle of wine on the way home every night?" (Okay, Mike doesn't say 'geez" but you get it.))<br /><br />In short, I'm recovering.<br /><br />Downside to the Cindy Recovery Plan? You kinda feel like crap when you try to get up at 5am to resume your workout regime.<br /><br />Other than seeing my trainer Lynne last Wednesday (when she thankfully went easy on me after seeing my eyes were slits and that I <span style="font-style: italic;">may </span>have been limping), I didn't work out at all. At ALL. For nearly two years, I have been dutiful in my early morning gym runs. I can't remember the last time I had a one or two workout week. But I literally could not summon the energy needed to swing my legs over the side of the bed in the week after the marathon, let alone make them move quickly(ish) on a treadmill.<br /><br />But my marathon season is not yet over. The biggest 26-mile run happens this Sunday - the New York Marathon. Many of my TNT friends are running it, including Jenn, Shari ... and of course, Elkin. Never to be left out, I consider "participating" also to mean holding up signs, donning my TNT purple and ringing a cowbell until I deafen the person next to me. I just don't get a bib number for that. But really, even though I'm not running it, the marathon should be all about me.<br /><br />As Ramon did with the SF peeps, he held a clinic on Saturday to go over the course mile by mile. Ramon's done NY like a gazillion times and is actually running again this year. As he puts it, "I know evereeee pothollle." After the clinic, the NYers were to run one last loop around CP. A nice, easy run to loosen the legs and ease the nerves.<br /><br />I'd like to say that my sense of friendship and good will were really the sole reason for joining Elkin on Saturday. In all honestly, I felt like a complete sloth and knew this would be a good butt-kicker to get me out of bed before noon. I also just wanted to take one last TNT loop around the park with my first and best running buddy (yes, you're in there too, Babs ... but I knew Elkin first).<br /><br />Not sure if I ever shared the story of how Elkin and I came to be running buddies, but we still laugh about it now. We started out with a larger pacing group doing a loop on a hot summer morning and lost them when they all stopped for water. About the last mile, he sidled up to me and asked if he could pace with me. I was unaware he was a fellow TNTer and thought it odd and stalkerish. Of course, I said "sure."<br /><br />After getting past his name (I was convinced for a couple of weeks his name was "Malcolm" - it wasn't until he was clarifying his name to someone else and made an antler gesture, saying "Elkin. Like an elk" that I realized how far off I was), it turned out we had a lot in common. Neither of us, for instance, liked to stop for water (smart!). We were a bit yin and yang; I hated being a second late for practices while Elkin would just be falling out of a cab at the park as we were well into our run. Many a Tuesday and Saturday, I would start my run without him, convinced he wasn't going to show. Ten minutes later he'd glide up to me, completely out of breath from sprinting to catch the group. After giving him plenty of grief, I was always happy he made it.<br /><br />So I decided we'd run our last TNT Saturday together.<br /><br />Of course, I'm in recovery mode, which meant a martini and a couple glasses of red on Friday night.<br /><br />What an indication of how the seasons change. I stepped out of bed on a chilly Saturday, threw on a long-sleeved running shirt and briefly considered pants over shorts. My slow walk to the park was a dark and damp one - so far from the previous 18 Saturdays when the sun was just waking up the city and the day was full of summer possibility.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamS19Hfs9ytES6ZOa0K33gqCc-wShGhcRERhwjRjf8Hj7DaD9vxPelUc9zW3UIFPgooNzb4W_OTlZh-h-zktfMfpYSrzjSasxxEBr38cufFPH0Zw_N5nE7ENl2lcWYawdGqY1m6-Cro7f/s1600-h/october+TNT+2009+058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamS19Hfs9ytES6ZOa0K33gqCc-wShGhcRERhwjRjf8Hj7DaD9vxPelUc9zW3UIFPgooNzb4W_OTlZh-h-zktfMfpYSrzjSasxxEBr38cufFPH0Zw_N5nE7ENl2lcWYawdGqY1m6-Cro7f/s400/october+TNT+2009+058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397730247801059058" border="0" /></a><br />I gave Elkin a big hug, truly happy to see him and catch him up on San Francisco. We took off for one last trip around CP and I filled him in on my race, warned him about the Bite Me Zone, told him to write his name really big on his singlet and make sure he does a fist-pump versus jumping up and down Elkin-like because it'll take a lot of energy.<br /><br />By mile 3, however, I was winded and told him to just read my damned blog.<br /><br />We finished up at Bethesda Terrace as usual and you could tell the small group was feeling really energized. Different mood than all those previous Saturdays.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqPRDiofDkQtQyCZO-1aCPdbwvrApBxYbteuqesnjfF_kIJoslzloG0r6j-wrLnUWZf4DP1-bbcLxCzBwjHU-32pOUUse5urmEqD6k6dHJDf0mcAU475UhhntGjpBLG0TSBy4_6BxGAlZi/s1600-h/october+TNT+2009+062.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqPRDiofDkQtQyCZO-1aCPdbwvrApBxYbteuqesnjfF_kIJoslzloG0r6j-wrLnUWZf4DP1-bbcLxCzBwjHU-32pOUUse5urmEqD6k6dHJDf0mcAU475UhhntGjpBLG0TSBy4_6BxGAlZi/s400/october+TNT+2009+062.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397730251354764530" border="0" /></a><br />Lara and Pam talked about hitting the expo and I was suddenly really jealous I wouldn't be there. Because again, this race is all about me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_pJVlzwMw_Fi7G37QuCB9D6tssA8Ipu5zya0otghRw9RIABqck2U0-3ZapjCqOrDrmfmqNo_z_FwOwc9jeHljBOddN2p-TNGIrKAPGGy25Ny3Qilpe9Ppkj4yAyZoIYZvJ0sKmTLOWh3/s1600-h/october+TNT+2009+064.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_pJVlzwMw_Fi7G37QuCB9D6tssA8Ipu5zya0otghRw9RIABqck2U0-3ZapjCqOrDrmfmqNo_z_FwOwc9jeHljBOddN2p-TNGIrKAPGGy25Ny3Qilpe9Ppkj4yAyZoIYZvJ0sKmTLOWh3/s400/october+TNT+2009+064.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397730265839068738" border="0" /></a><br />For old times sake ... here you go:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwDw3OsDTcoSqxOW1aFCzTtXo_51vvKcMnaMf_HTM2vfhnwn5iiDJjS67ZnpwFf3-BnChk2sBctujG3nYzwqCG0p1TY6fZ_L8vkXui_T4JqDs4itLUH6CgtYr8_4LPh7vpmqaepOcoLpLJ/s1600-h/october+TNT+2009+063.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwDw3OsDTcoSqxOW1aFCzTtXo_51vvKcMnaMf_HTM2vfhnwn5iiDJjS67ZnpwFf3-BnChk2sBctujG3nYzwqCG0p1TY6fZ_L8vkXui_T4JqDs4itLUH6CgtYr8_4LPh7vpmqaepOcoLpLJ/s400/october+TNT+2009+063.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397730259127826770" border="0" /></a><br />Hahahahaha. Seriously. Love this.<br /><br />So that was it. I know, I know, I sound like a broken record with another "last." But that closed the book on my TNT Saturdays. We started in CP on a bright, sunny Spring Saturday ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzs9rfLkw1puibRO3IwjQSM3hP4T-KH_iF4ER80dL_hySQ8tqbUSCDH64SiOjtM8bPYfVIYIE0HISnW0-fyjioU-RyHHKqgovE1xHxLI49PQMSVG5e4uKVtNIyMS_z8xKExUBxv9Dfr1W/s1600-h/tnt+spring.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzs9rfLkw1puibRO3IwjQSM3hP4T-KH_iF4ER80dL_hySQ8tqbUSCDH64SiOjtM8bPYfVIYIE0HISnW0-fyjioU-RyHHKqgovE1xHxLI49PQMSVG5e4uKVtNIyMS_z8xKExUBxv9Dfr1W/s400/tnt+spring.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397732134889567378" border="0" /></a><br />And ended in the same spot on a chilly Fall one.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXhye0BTxPQserkSkyX9SfrFyLTIoqSFuctZIZDnKQa037Va5VOmg6z3dTe7PIQaEI5mGFs2xe3CaM5aAKQ8oJhxZwOR0rLPi19xh-0-nDSCO8yVovg24Exfbq2x4cNcdye7Uu1DPYqEI/s1600-h/october+TNT+2009+065.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXhye0BTxPQserkSkyX9SfrFyLTIoqSFuctZIZDnKQa037Va5VOmg6z3dTe7PIQaEI5mGFs2xe3CaM5aAKQ8oJhxZwOR0rLPi19xh-0-nDSCO8yVovg24Exfbq2x4cNcdye7Uu1DPYqEI/s400/october+TNT+2009+065.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397730277877109042" border="0" /></a><br />So best of luck to Elkin, Jenn, Shari, Lara, Pam ... RAMON ... and all the TNT folks on Sunday. (Oh, and a shout out to Javi, who rocked the Marine Corps Marathon last Sunday with an awesome time. Yay Javi!!)<br /><br />I'll be doing my best Ramon impression, cowbell in hand. You're not supposed to jump in and run with the marathoners, but I just might find myself carried away and do it anyway. I'll come prepared, Nikes firmly tied on my feet. Because really, this race is all about me.<br /><br />Oh, and if you're thinking this is the end of the blog, think again. Due to popular demand (Ludwig), I'll continue to fill you in on all things ... well, me.<br /><br />Hmmm ... does that mean I have to change the name to "Ran, Cindy, Ran"?Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-23797143809540347582009-10-19T20:48:00.046-04:002009-10-25T16:09:43.602-04:00So much to say.So my dear readers, bear with me as I tell you all of it. Because to me, it is quite a tale of quite a journey. I've run (no pun intended) the range of emotions in the past three days and it all boils down to one simple fact:<div><br /></div><div>I did it.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnu0X26otkpKQ7ypXzclCakLTHWn27FTO03XIuc8jzhKTBgs-RQaO4gLNf_0ekEf9oWgAU_0TouUkxz6Io2KWqZMCY1Wys296X734d541p4gjPS_xDw1vVvtO4m9-L5NgvwEtlmEGtkRNO/s1600-h/IMG_0415.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnu0X26otkpKQ7ypXzclCakLTHWn27FTO03XIuc8jzhKTBgs-RQaO4gLNf_0ekEf9oWgAU_0TouUkxz6Io2KWqZMCY1Wys296X734d541p4gjPS_xDw1vVvtO4m9-L5NgvwEtlmEGtkRNO/s400/IMG_0415.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394564177210669154" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I left you off at a whirlwind of a day on Friday. Didn't explain the pictures in the previous post much but let me just say that it was just a tad below perfect. (And btw, the gap between where I was on Friday and total perfection only closed as the weekend progressed). Mike and I wandered around our beloved city relaxing, taking pictures at our favorite spots and eating Mexican at one of our old haunts. (Mike was allowed to be adventurous; I stuck to a tostada salad for fear of anything else wreaking havoc on my stomach). </div><div><br /></div><div>Barb made it in with the team and it was great to see her. I had a couple of days with my friends and I nearly forgot why I was there; she grounded me and as soon as I saw her and we walked to the expo together, I started getting pumped once again for Sunday.</div><div><br /></div><div>I got the first of many surprises - Mike's brother Andrew and his fiancee Leslie sent a wonderful basket full of carbolicious (oh yes, that's a word) goodies. Can't go wrong with pretzels and peanut butter.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then we closed out the day with another great surprise: our good friend and partner-in-crime Walter came up from San Diego for the weekend. His wife (and my good friend) Kim was already here but he was able to swing a babysitter (thanks, mom!) and join the group. So Walter, Kim, Kerry, Lynette, Erin, CC and husband Brad, Ken, Barb, Renee (she paced me in SF, remember?), Mike and I got together at a great Italian joint in North Beach, laughing so hard our eyes watered. I took in every moment, fully appreciating why everyone was together and feeling humbled that I carry that much weight with these people that I could bring them to one place. </div><div><br /></div><div>(I'll take this opportunity to share a typical Walter story. At some point at the beer-and-wine-only restaurant we were at, Mike was in desperate need of a scotch. (Ooh, that sounds bad, doesn't it? True, though.) Walter, sensing Mike's anxiety (and fielding texts from me telling him so), disappeared out the back door and through the restaurant kitchen, returning 10 minutes later with a flask of scotch, which we promptly poured into Mike's empty water glass. I share this story so you can begin to understand the many benefits of having W around. Not effing around with a need for alcohol is just number 763 on that list.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Saturday morning we woke up and took an easy 20 minute run down Market Street. If you see the first picture I posted in my last entry ... that's us in front of City Hall. Ramon took it and it's utterly perfect, until you look closely and see my eyes are closed. Oh well. I'll have to get the same group together under the same conditions at the next Nike Womens Marathon and we'll give it another go.</div><div><br /></div><div>So Saturday.</div><div><br /></div><div>I joined Kim, Kerry and Lynette in the Marina for what I thought was going to be a little shopping and gabbing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPh-FaIqEMgSQhhQ3yoNOx6i4s96Wsp0QA6-9uWSpeZotEvYhyyqK44Q_8xrtdnN7_6WJs0dfnNu4CUHu9sVzHElokBYw1jJByJeYGmad5CsziKV_LgKYRMYPpPt2nsj3VlZayQy7zpMK/s1600-h/IMG_0159.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPh-FaIqEMgSQhhQ3yoNOx6i4s96Wsp0QA6-9uWSpeZotEvYhyyqK44Q_8xrtdnN7_6WJs0dfnNu4CUHu9sVzHElokBYw1jJByJeYGmad5CsziKV_LgKYRMYPpPt2nsj3VlZayQy7zpMK/s400/IMG_0159.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394560896693351554" border="0" /></a>Ah, but this is Cindy, Kim, Kerry and Lynette so we pretty much just found a bar and planted ourselves there. (I'm all club soda, yo.) How we did this was also a typical story for us: we wandered onto a street fair put on by the San Francisco Fire Department. Saturday was 20 years (20 years! Oh, I remember where I was. Target. Where else?) since the Loma Prieta earthquake that set the Marina District on fire so they were holding some sort of commeration. Which meant drink tickets handed out for free to four loud women.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr477aGE7rgZXVnfd_evdd8Kv9RLkmb9mh0zXZQHJE8bIXbh1VwmnSTLCbfjdGx51fAQk3PjPM-HgMoZnWBrm2LgScC6qXoVQOAfBxNMMeIhe2Lc26NS8YhpKczMJ9pZEMtMeILl8BzAZp/s1600-h/IMG_0160.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr477aGE7rgZXVnfd_evdd8Kv9RLkmb9mh0zXZQHJE8bIXbh1VwmnSTLCbfjdGx51fAQk3PjPM-HgMoZnWBrm2LgScC6qXoVQOAfBxNMMeIhe2Lc26NS8YhpKczMJ9pZEMtMeILl8BzAZp/s400/IMG_0160.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394560906018681554" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfM2Yn5x5SI3FSjPux-temD4CNKkBcix80CQcLjLzF6kPqoLcTZmQxC-SPsxnT_2WIypXfVTcH-7ALE4f67RfoOV5HEARmlvv3x0S3hPBo5ndMu-3zufRu2ycSFcf86mdOOUyP_U7J9_R/s1600-h/IMG_0172.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQfM2Yn5x5SI3FSjPux-temD4CNKkBcix80CQcLjLzF6kPqoLcTZmQxC-SPsxnT_2WIypXfVTcH-7ALE4f67RfoOV5HEARmlvv3x0S3hPBo5ndMu-3zufRu2ycSFcf86mdOOUyP_U7J9_R/s400/IMG_0172.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394560910782570482" border="0" /></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyREuO6qOE6-eQw-J4QUtq1kRRA4phapHtuIZwnCjpyV0SLdEJ-7PImXRF6_mxqpSYafjdyUnmcwBnDQc36BfvAdMxW_ZpWswolscfxvRc1h8iNYLRJKsdSs2EeamHUam_uyIaO9YyJoF/s1600-h/IMG_0213.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyREuO6qOE6-eQw-J4QUtq1kRRA4phapHtuIZwnCjpyV0SLdEJ-7PImXRF6_mxqpSYafjdyUnmcwBnDQc36BfvAdMxW_ZpWswolscfxvRc1h8iNYLRJKsdSs2EeamHUam_uyIaO9YyJoF/s400/IMG_0213.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394561541369313074" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTf7qbmatmD4PjYqMLutXpMUBfXRFG0Rwn0mXAb_njTCpnwrKOBHuoa85tSZ5IBpuEHesWa0yH4YtfSqbJGfr6MZiW6stUXQOIJB-voPlXV_KjfL3eNGNllHwlITW2frGJZAX-a0Z_ksg/s1600-h/IMG_0181.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTf7qbmatmD4PjYqMLutXpMUBfXRFG0Rwn0mXAb_njTCpnwrKOBHuoa85tSZ5IBpuEHesWa0yH4YtfSqbJGfr6MZiW6stUXQOIJB-voPlXV_KjfL3eNGNllHwlITW2frGJZAX-a0Z_ksg/s400/IMG_0181.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394560919053394498" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>So we sat in Izzies for hours, laughing like we were still in high school. I cannot explain how much I love these girls. But perhaps you can see it on my face. I miss them when I am not with them; when I am with them I don't want the time to end; when the time ends I constantly think about what might bring us back together next.<br /><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybMcGkemnxTjyyaBldDJdc7Bfu4rwre9hu50G-wG8gnJvD2lshgBMvWtrO8X3x7FcH8ij1ysNWTkfiMRlzqqeKg5F-eGK4sRPqrHa_D4UhU8tDk6Br8PpoAi0piQ00NXBpKadOeCnuCo0/s1600-h/IMG_0194.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybMcGkemnxTjyyaBldDJdc7Bfu4rwre9hu50G-wG8gnJvD2lshgBMvWtrO8X3x7FcH8ij1ysNWTkfiMRlzqqeKg5F-eGK4sRPqrHa_D4UhU8tDk6Br8PpoAi0piQ00NXBpKadOeCnuCo0/s400/IMG_0194.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394560930028618754" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I hustled back to the hotel to change for the TNT inspiration dinner. Babs and I - and the whole team - donned our "I Love NY" t-shirts but I'll admit ... I felt like a bit of a traitor wearing it in San Francisco. I was hoping the Golden Gate Bridge or Coit Tower didn't see me in it for fear I wouldn't be allowed to move back.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbnX8ktdYP8PZ5oj4e5bEntj9K8_K-FCbAW_an7hpuLRjzrBmQk63FpFs5-hg2GUDeKIqLdGlsgt0sSH1TOg58eHRwNCWWa4GrCn_2q43elPEn2EQ_MW6pj4A5YrIGtvADMfEg0zs__Ty/s1600-h/IMG_0217.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfbnX8ktdYP8PZ5oj4e5bEntj9K8_K-FCbAW_an7hpuLRjzrBmQk63FpFs5-hg2GUDeKIqLdGlsgt0sSH1TOg58eHRwNCWWa4GrCn_2q43elPEn2EQ_MW6pj4A5YrIGtvADMfEg0zs__Ty/s400/IMG_0217.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394561549363602018" border="0" /></a><br />I also got another surprise: a visit from my good friend Kim, her husband Brad and their cute kids Dakota and Stella. They made the trek from LA for the weekend ... again, for little old me. (When I think about the miles all my friends crossed to see me, I break down. No other words for it.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ58Pr04NRBhBYCAiwQ5i5_C0AgfEDwpAKqweakhLEZBKUthGMXIzBc21Z6IPOERL4DxZZaEKYcKqdp58vFRYBH0X3fzyGlFiuElt8ZxOxkxZYqlAxG92uHON58dxGI3zJx_DG4fQbUAI7/s1600-h/IMG_0222.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ58Pr04NRBhBYCAiwQ5i5_C0AgfEDwpAKqweakhLEZBKUthGMXIzBc21Z6IPOERL4DxZZaEKYcKqdp58vFRYBH0X3fzyGlFiuElt8ZxOxkxZYqlAxG92uHON58dxGI3zJx_DG4fQbUAI7/s400/IMG_0222.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394561558243783858" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeG-zKyZoD-UWcO8yZ23zyQcUQzw-1LrCzemEZR3uiPgrA0_KqgNmmaH4eDyGd5tPsk-v4GNNsFrDvw7gzxtk39BVVzUCpIrEiwWwn4tjezdBORxihPO_QBRvllCzLsNvEq1BTjpO04Hij/s1600-h/IMG_0229.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeG-zKyZoD-UWcO8yZ23zyQcUQzw-1LrCzemEZR3uiPgrA0_KqgNmmaH4eDyGd5tPsk-v4GNNsFrDvw7gzxtk39BVVzUCpIrEiwWwn4tjezdBORxihPO_QBRvllCzLsNvEq1BTjpO04Hij/s400/IMG_0229.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394561566783751378" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>And now came the moment I wasn't expecting. </div><div><br /></div><div>All I knew about the inspiration dinner was it is an opportunity to pay tribute to those helped by LLS ... and to be reminded about why we have fundraised all these months. These are the people we are <i>really </i>running for. What I wasn't prepared for, however, was to be thanked as we filed into Moscone Center. By hundreds of TNT coaches and staff in a thundering cacophony. (I have great video, by the way, as soon as I can figure out how to upload it)<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Overwhelming does not begin to describe this display. I was certainly not the only one with tears in her eyes; you must be there to fully appreciate all of these rockstars jumping up and down and screaming ... for <i>you</i>. Thanking <i>you</i>. It was almost too much to bear. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Fo1xi2_uGcqyW3EWjsOGPCyoz_WBStTvJ1qmWgottvcBrxa89tvGsD7x09O_LtaQJ42VRbkJ9v2R6_Wxrxz2BUHH5zNZwrqAmiCKsSZNpq4ISoEITa1T9K_DP2yKT32g8aH8uKbEyVDq/s1600-h/IMG_0244.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Fo1xi2_uGcqyW3EWjsOGPCyoz_WBStTvJ1qmWgottvcBrxa89tvGsD7x09O_LtaQJ42VRbkJ9v2R6_Wxrxz2BUHH5zNZwrqAmiCKsSZNpq4ISoEITa1T9K_DP2yKT32g8aH8uKbEyVDq/s400/IMG_0244.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394561576077924946" border="0" /></a><br />The night was amazing. We filled our plates with pasta and heard from cancer survivors whose lives were not only touched by but made better by LLS. Best moments of the night came from John Bingham, a well-known running columnist and humorist who prides himself on being a "normal" runner. (My favorite quip was a warning about being in the "Bite Me Zone" on marathon day. This is when total frustration has set in and you will drop f-bombs at the nicest person running next to you. (I finally have a name for all those times with Elkin!). Mike, however, would simply call this the "Cindy Zone.")</div><div><br /></div><div>Afterward, we decorated our singlets. Note to self: glitter glue takes a lifetime to dry. I had already put my name on the front in silver glitter but was planning on writing the names of all my honorees on the front as well. When I unfurled my purple tank to put more names on it, the D in my name had already smeared and I had written that damned thing hours earlier. Yikes! Hours until the starting gun and my glitter was still wet! Our coordinator Erin sensed my anxiety (and heard me screaming, "Holy F---! How long does GLITTER take to dry already?!) and gave me an extra singlet ... luckily, I didn't need it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I got the names of my grandfather and nephew on the top:</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjAnGcLWd75eOpMBCAB8uCHXvP00uihyphenhyphen3wup-yOikrvDylaehYUhlSeyKwMjxn2AuxOnIS5JO_ZKegM1zOXLYL546-2l_c2S-IO2jXK4ANJK8ZRDNZoRUvMMOnNS9ThrK3M41XzCWiWcg/s1600-h/IMG_0272.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjAnGcLWd75eOpMBCAB8uCHXvP00uihyphenhyphen3wup-yOikrvDylaehYUhlSeyKwMjxn2AuxOnIS5JO_ZKegM1zOXLYL546-2l_c2S-IO2jXK4ANJK8ZRDNZoRUvMMOnNS9ThrK3M41XzCWiWcg/s400/IMG_0272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562213142858242" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSDdB7sO5EDcDy7RQtevAtAs4jdZeEYjeTXZDJ7Ol5UQX5IAzqg98OQpOITkbIQLG2YNIVKYO56NRdlOSGG10u_P3auETHI5I1z3wBG77_awBAxg05ssVSbq8YIHbd3a1nNN_9539jkgQ/s1600-h/IMG_0268.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCSDdB7sO5EDcDy7RQtevAtAs4jdZeEYjeTXZDJ7Ol5UQX5IAzqg98OQpOITkbIQLG2YNIVKYO56NRdlOSGG10u_P3auETHI5I1z3wBG77_awBAxg05ssVSbq8YIHbd3a1nNN_9539jkgQ/s400/IMG_0268.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562206375226274" border="0" /></a><br />Then added a few other people who had battled cancer - some who are still - as well as loved ones who lost their battles. I'll admit just putting their names on my shirt was an emotional experience.</div><div><br /></div><div>Surprisingly, I got a good night's sleep and jumped out of bed at 4:15, ready to meet the team downstairs. Mike was really excited, too. He'd be going to various points on the course with Ken and Ron so he got up with me - and even took pictures (oh! the last photos of me as a non-marathoner!).</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivHDbUOBKrAeZXtiaqOK9tGb54HdqsscVE4_foUjWubhy5FVy3H6j1KyJLwL2LZzJISUtXMAtbL2zgvrod5cNlLDC_l8l4XvpkrPBMdEEukM6kDr-RULqakg589riJmzApHGpGkH7jK4f/s1600-h/IMG_0276.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivHDbUOBKrAeZXtiaqOK9tGb54HdqsscVE4_foUjWubhy5FVy3H6j1KyJLwL2LZzJISUtXMAtbL2zgvrod5cNlLDC_l8l4XvpkrPBMdEEukM6kDr-RULqakg589riJmzApHGpGkH7jK4f/s400/IMG_0276.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562223740345970" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCJ4h-IvN7lNZNev4W3II9m5jB9G1925-CeCbdfRuo9izfEoxChrEIPJ_joEY-HjwQTucpJ1VXY5p3fbkQLqDmbocpr_Kd2p5SuE9At-rzdhdg5NEXszYbFgXNHeXI3-9pQUNwE8ikXP3/s1600-h/IMG_0279.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCJ4h-IvN7lNZNev4W3II9m5jB9G1925-CeCbdfRuo9izfEoxChrEIPJ_joEY-HjwQTucpJ1VXY5p3fbkQLqDmbocpr_Kd2p5SuE9At-rzdhdg5NEXszYbFgXNHeXI3-9pQUNwE8ikXP3/s400/IMG_0279.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562225624140018" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kNheQhMJPHq1U2GEMw9JNtQ4A0duLD55Nqfiuq9MJf5VxUTTswjI3XhVrg7-ij2X5fQ1THxNILM5bWWpCglyMks64e8DSscmgwKuigZCOhQsYEaWzYEqMDFwdhk6zsfkc1Eb_ILGjG0w/s1600-h/IMG_0281.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kNheQhMJPHq1U2GEMw9JNtQ4A0duLD55Nqfiuq9MJf5VxUTTswjI3XhVrg7-ij2X5fQ1THxNILM5bWWpCglyMks64e8DSscmgwKuigZCOhQsYEaWzYEqMDFwdhk6zsfkc1Eb_ILGjG0w/s400/IMG_0281.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562235881462178" border="0" /></a><br />Ramon was in full coach form downstairs. The non-runners at the Hilton must have adored hearing a cowbell and whistle, followed by a loud Spanish dude yelling "Hey! Everybodee over heeeeere! You ready to do thiiiiiiis?!" at 5:45am on a Sunday. I will say this: the NYC TNTers? Loudest. Team. There. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fAWwmGwE3ZC6WgdKlLPMVOUwrUaMJ0gHZsat7ZhbzJfPfP40rPm268QrEJY5NAFAc4rAT6YF8p6kJZ14xjuHkM0Uir95LrrUJJbLv5_yLFpJjxi4jXS9k_z3sQPs0u7nvNOKcrjmYyYv/s1600-h/IMG_2281.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fAWwmGwE3ZC6WgdKlLPMVOUwrUaMJ0gHZsat7ZhbzJfPfP40rPm268QrEJY5NAFAc4rAT6YF8p6kJZ14xjuHkM0Uir95LrrUJJbLv5_yLFpJjxi4jXS9k_z3sQPs0u7nvNOKcrjmYyYv/s400/IMG_2281.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573412985390754" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjobz3rDCzMNAYFaPRvKWj4wfCtjZXLkMbo9CmEvxtV5ms7-bVr1UndihZ8QyIQOgNfGzDb1NXdNhCurK5pdNG2byvQLY_PMQBkWMoKLqxU89FRTNIBq0igtJwMvDo8jPGjE89hXGgQMqj7/s1600-h/IMG_2279.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjobz3rDCzMNAYFaPRvKWj4wfCtjZXLkMbo9CmEvxtV5ms7-bVr1UndihZ8QyIQOgNfGzDb1NXdNhCurK5pdNG2byvQLY_PMQBkWMoKLqxU89FRTNIBq0igtJwMvDo8jPGjE89hXGgQMqj7/s400/IMG_2279.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573406849103090" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6L0RV51w1VdqF5BbI2cOxd_mrFjnO4wjiJ8GA00hjbr22kE4pCJtUVrTCfgqNk5uguW1vSKJevZJaMB3NEOEjVFHtoEP07KfF7pHZEEEdwF55EIhCqkrl3lNWGFnwOscxxQ0_-AvJ8t_e/s1600-h/IMG_2278.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6L0RV51w1VdqF5BbI2cOxd_mrFjnO4wjiJ8GA00hjbr22kE4pCJtUVrTCfgqNk5uguW1vSKJevZJaMB3NEOEjVFHtoEP07KfF7pHZEEEdwF55EIhCqkrl3lNWGFnwOscxxQ0_-AvJ8t_e/s400/IMG_2278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573399759755314" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiDCGN7Z4YhSwwZv8GavTqwhRfQX8Fcr8s4IXmxePnNuizPU6nDR9QyICiJ5BC9bWad-4lmIfhNeDXH9u-TuCDbcfwwHUHzcskDRvRv_FFfxny59kNfIatgkI6VQoQbcqxN6kpzFEksgoG/s1600-h/IMG_2275.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiDCGN7Z4YhSwwZv8GavTqwhRfQX8Fcr8s4IXmxePnNuizPU6nDR9QyICiJ5BC9bWad-4lmIfhNeDXH9u-TuCDbcfwwHUHzcskDRvRv_FFfxny59kNfIatgkI6VQoQbcqxN6kpzFEksgoG/s400/IMG_2275.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573389311824690" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEishBX4g3L45mNky8u9E26FiEUC8BN1_8nrw5paJdLUQbY_cuHEVNOQrWA6-NKfC8FKVQyIcqfHrLndRKR8qLHmFlKp3jOO_8ESzDXjnorQKrdLjsL1fg3gaaqLrma3Jf0bxfMZo5KkyAdc/s1600-h/IMG_2272.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEishBX4g3L45mNky8u9E26FiEUC8BN1_8nrw5paJdLUQbY_cuHEVNOQrWA6-NKfC8FKVQyIcqfHrLndRKR8qLHmFlKp3jOO_8ESzDXjnorQKrdLjsL1fg3gaaqLrma3Jf0bxfMZo5KkyAdc/s400/IMG_2272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573379142229938" border="0" /></a><br />That rocked, actually. What rocked even more was Ramon's trademark "Behave" plastered on his back. But all that misbehaving must have knocked off his last e at some point. Classic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjoqDh1qmwvUxnrJEeJU6lFaUCuPi2_figS6FBfafMY2OZKnPSi-s4bPhuhEoZiCYVhw9IeSMis-LsED1wVsDeKVSunDYnr6X9f66DhDWE6h-y4KTILcbl0JWOrZTwmUwIAJEyGVu2G426/s1600-h/IMG_2292.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjoqDh1qmwvUxnrJEeJU6lFaUCuPi2_figS6FBfafMY2OZKnPSi-s4bPhuhEoZiCYVhw9IeSMis-LsED1wVsDeKVSunDYnr6X9f66DhDWE6h-y4KTILcbl0JWOrZTwmUwIAJEyGVu2G426/s400/IMG_2292.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573803170774850" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>We all went to the start together and Ramon gave us one last pep talk. Being that it was SF, it was totally normal that at 6am on Sunday, two young dudes were sitting in the park smoking really fragrant weed. Surrounded by 10,000 women about to start a marathon and totally oblivious to it. Ramon tried to channel the wind toward us, possibly thinking a quick contact high might help our pacing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcA11LJv-WkVwl3wkKcVqcuDhFiGuogoe1pI3327qILl528R37qVayuF0BLM5eEUw2yx2TN6MTl7clm91PRi7F2rE6pHyxyUeT9LXCWaxk7SKPmXVDpKwbfcrPvTACwOwHbOPLf_SYb91/s1600-h/IMG_2296.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcA11LJv-WkVwl3wkKcVqcuDhFiGuogoe1pI3327qILl528R37qVayuF0BLM5eEUw2yx2TN6MTl7clm91PRi7F2rE6pHyxyUeT9LXCWaxk7SKPmXVDpKwbfcrPvTACwOwHbOPLf_SYb91/s400/IMG_2296.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573812187047266" border="0" /></a>Not really.</div><div><br /></div><div>We did a group hug:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGcke_uUBxPk6phoadEwzxltAVJfRmWMXTXnMmUsKJLcENgVbxLEZBsLT6wOfhDHoxHbrX8CAH2wSle8zU2UAt0t9GxYjnssDaUnaeinZUH2P1l9dabJNgx-cJxKSAd0j2V-WiE_jjjaFQ/s1600-h/IMG_2301.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGcke_uUBxPk6phoadEwzxltAVJfRmWMXTXnMmUsKJLcENgVbxLEZBsLT6wOfhDHoxHbrX8CAH2wSle8zU2UAt0t9GxYjnssDaUnaeinZUH2P1l9dabJNgx-cJxKSAd0j2V-WiE_jjjaFQ/s400/IMG_2301.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573816909099714" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And hit the starting line. I was with Babs (natch!), Joanne, Rose and Caitlyn and the excitement was causing me to actually jump up and down. I had to keep reminding myself to not waste energy but I was So. Damned. Excited.!!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht95OF-33QV1RYaSrG8ncK3B_xraP65EkgHtjbLSXpKBAG8Ua8GsD0k7NIdgW2kXaPzzH47mj18XI8iOXR2jQs-SDF2nIy-4BssZdM8GcxIESzV2x-1gn1rR6zf19vfquZPhz-fT2-7C8V/s1600-h/IMG_2309.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht95OF-33QV1RYaSrG8ncK3B_xraP65EkgHtjbLSXpKBAG8Ua8GsD0k7NIdgW2kXaPzzH47mj18XI8iOXR2jQs-SDF2nIy-4BssZdM8GcxIESzV2x-1gn1rR6zf19vfquZPhz-fT2-7C8V/s400/IMG_2309.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573834202037330" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmbSOEl7JCGtrvaHMnRMULwdnHMTCc0_pWsixTasWAgBCjhzDZ9RATX_vWUE6kjXLyHm1ieT87im4WP3P4JgbXMrPj-7G42Fbo1vWg83lhcSSsGn9CgdSvAHKCKqy2fSjijaq-13MDM07k/s1600-h/IMG_2305.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmbSOEl7JCGtrvaHMnRMULwdnHMTCc0_pWsixTasWAgBCjhzDZ9RATX_vWUE6kjXLyHm1ieT87im4WP3P4JgbXMrPj-7G42Fbo1vWg83lhcSSsGn9CgdSvAHKCKqy2fSjijaq-13MDM07k/s400/IMG_2305.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394573826668687714" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>The gun went off at 7am and from where we were lined up we crossed over about a minute and a half after. Joanne peeled off from us (her results later...) and Rose and Caitlyn stuck together behind us. I felt great being next to Babs, pointing out landmarks around the city. The morning was glorious, just a bit chilly (perfect running weather) and high visibility. The views were astounding and I settled in, just enjoying every second of the run.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzpTodsUCPvO86sE4Z_Jo19-mxZ4B6EmIB0FGaHYnZ4hwn83IGUqYrJNGxh-Tw_-v8lK6K3u8OmdZPfCsk0tdpxnSwNLWWMUYvZUy1dNp-tNEkNeJwGi8LlvkQt5B1wQCL54MVMc2mCPe/s1600-h/IMG_2316.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzpTodsUCPvO86sE4Z_Jo19-mxZ4B6EmIB0FGaHYnZ4hwn83IGUqYrJNGxh-Tw_-v8lK6K3u8OmdZPfCsk0tdpxnSwNLWWMUYvZUy1dNp-tNEkNeJwGi8LlvkQt5B1wQCL54MVMc2mCPe/s400/IMG_2316.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394574188952025490" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WGja_mlUU9vvkKG0BJWe3ntWM_xI4Jtf3wbD3Rk-c67-Y8WHVHGxk9QnAOTOdQ67ecNo57pi-pyL0L8FCAZ_5DoWzOPE9cozwK9mv3HuIn5CPSBQt02-YcdhSnPah9rbkIgtw20hlcT8/s1600-h/IMG_2312.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WGja_mlUU9vvkKG0BJWe3ntWM_xI4Jtf3wbD3Rk-c67-Y8WHVHGxk9QnAOTOdQ67ecNo57pi-pyL0L8FCAZ_5DoWzOPE9cozwK9mv3HuIn5CPSBQt02-YcdhSnPah9rbkIgtw20hlcT8/s400/IMG_2312.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394574174847184802" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>About a mile into the run as we came around the Embarcadero, someone yelled "Go Cindy!" and I excitedly looked over to see some total stranger yelling my name. I searched my brain, wondering who the eff this person was. Where did I know her from? It took me a good five seconds to realize I had plastered it all over the front and back of my singlet. I grinned, suddenly realizing why people do that. What an amazing feeling. From then on, I got a personal cheer every few people. No lie. I think it might have been the glitter. Baby stood out on my chest and I must have blinded people into cheering for me. Whatever. It freaking worked.</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt fantastic. We hit the Marina and I spotted Erin and her husband Tony, who had come out with her mom and their daughters. I loved seeing my first fans. What a rush! Then I had the pleasure of running for about a half mile with Anabel, our honored teammate. Anabel is a leukemia survivor and all-around great girl. She was due to run the full marathon but a knee injury dictated she now do the half. She did great - smoked Babs and I as we ran at the bottom of the Presidio.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKa2HjMnBlBBoIlzWNov6edqBG_f7OyGueCJS-idlEoKgmi5hxxRzZaOCKHtwIQ9Wjufb5qFacnMYFlu_W2wd_tGzSbMwo6ZIp5cPns-EX09uEfD3leM98NE3T-IsdQuszzItJAnemn1p4/s1600-h/IMG_2315.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKa2HjMnBlBBoIlzWNov6edqBG_f7OyGueCJS-idlEoKgmi5hxxRzZaOCKHtwIQ9Wjufb5qFacnMYFlu_W2wd_tGzSbMwo6ZIp5cPns-EX09uEfD3leM98NE3T-IsdQuszzItJAnemn1p4/s400/IMG_2315.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394574180799850930" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>When we hit the first big hill at Mile 6 (oh yes ... The Mile 6 Hill), I thought of everything Ramon had taught us. I tiki-tiki'd my purple butt to the top and felt amazing. People all around me were huffing and puffing but not I. I was smiling ear to ear. And then I spotted Ken and Ron and the most glamorous signs I had ever seen (Please, people. They had ribbons and rhinestones on them. You will never come close to making signs like this. Ever.).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCAPcZt1gOr7qvsWf-bTXbHtQR7Wo5otCiXB6ppXTb-aAHMAoFwIRrI_dK0RZkY-4oai7eKtK2vy101Z58qS1HSfgwe-JhHv4i0Cj1gWHaLBRlcW4v77Kn6SzZEwdHaYCJeJfW9QvlGxM/s1600-h/IMG_0387.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCAPcZt1gOr7qvsWf-bTXbHtQR7Wo5otCiXB6ppXTb-aAHMAoFwIRrI_dK0RZkY-4oai7eKtK2vy101Z58qS1HSfgwe-JhHv4i0Cj1gWHaLBRlcW4v77Kn6SzZEwdHaYCJeJfW9QvlGxM/s400/IMG_0387.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394564146944905282" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrvBSSpT83hewEbY-JC4Ie-sFFyuZyCa-6KXCAVnaRF6B4r7r-xAUOwWN-YXvk5qxjf5YVT6L8yXLJt2iK-qp7JNOBQa-CCsluN8KoK_xi9O9HRyaJzNgUPo4qHb0yHKPk6nsM8aMvY1_8/s1600-h/IMG_0385.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrvBSSpT83hewEbY-JC4Ie-sFFyuZyCa-6KXCAVnaRF6B4r7r-xAUOwWN-YXvk5qxjf5YVT6L8yXLJt2iK-qp7JNOBQa-CCsluN8KoK_xi9O9HRyaJzNgUPo4qHb0yHKPk6nsM8aMvY1_8/s400/IMG_0385.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394563468079406802" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyyGjKOZaow9sV1xc8sO8IOOlV5MP2GjuCeqNoPWMsSs9GiePHb1GrtVrUhL5XfwpgrBsgbxP02UTvwx8GqobkPYwNBFCwd77HngdCQY8R15-fHLNH0yhjPaNMV34ycG5Wz7NBZVf6tcy/s1600-h/marathon+mike+ron.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyyGjKOZaow9sV1xc8sO8IOOlV5MP2GjuCeqNoPWMsSs9GiePHb1GrtVrUhL5XfwpgrBsgbxP02UTvwx8GqobkPYwNBFCwd77HngdCQY8R15-fHLNH0yhjPaNMV34ycG5Wz7NBZVf6tcy/s400/marathon+mike+ron.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394741608241526738" border="0" /></a><br />I fist-pumped all the way to the top as Mike, Ken, Ron, Walter, Kim, Lynette, Kerry and Michelle jumped and screamed for me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisIAtCEwSD0ekksfdQXTKXU_tCPuY2z9fSmOtW87F67pVPrgRPcbjPmhHiYLKYQLHcVJmmrrmb6cSOkOsFmmNVhBQ72JZx8QScYY1VfdzlbgJpozxIJZRrb4XIU1oeK0f0FXLRONlj4qh1/s1600-h/IMG_0301.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisIAtCEwSD0ekksfdQXTKXU_tCPuY2z9fSmOtW87F67pVPrgRPcbjPmhHiYLKYQLHcVJmmrrmb6cSOkOsFmmNVhBQ72JZx8QScYY1VfdzlbgJpozxIJZRrb4XIU1oeK0f0FXLRONlj4qh1/s400/IMG_0301.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562841223649170" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjABjtWVyw2Jq9ZCQphkjyAF3MAk1BEmL0xRq8eJGb6y2G8kKLfF-nKbitWZF1eAMEoRQaQmg7RRTYETGODPvEUGaC2MvJGO6EmVnYX7AidpFu8lIC2t_ztg1KfloEnqFdG-fT0b32tkxhG/s1600-h/IMG_0342.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjABjtWVyw2Jq9ZCQphkjyAF3MAk1BEmL0xRq8eJGb6y2G8kKLfF-nKbitWZF1eAMEoRQaQmg7RRTYETGODPvEUGaC2MvJGO6EmVnYX7AidpFu8lIC2t_ztg1KfloEnqFdG-fT0b32tkxhG/s400/IMG_0342.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394563450935989634" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRoniDeRjuZTfgEQa0WnrUgkErvMH37j4rZ2sdPc0aJv35-y3p_ENqp6mtpP4HnO-tPv9Zf50ELxUrcaeuQkh4jWgbHh-hcCSYDwhmi3JZCqGC1xe9PMdmK081gnY3Kvirhiybiy-pEnpZ/s1600-h/marathon+crowd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRoniDeRjuZTfgEQa0WnrUgkErvMH37j4rZ2sdPc0aJv35-y3p_ENqp6mtpP4HnO-tPv9Zf50ELxUrcaeuQkh4jWgbHh-hcCSYDwhmi3JZCqGC1xe9PMdmK081gnY3Kvirhiybiy-pEnpZ/s400/marathon+crowd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394741589546577810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Qp3PiqeDw8FDBgXIDdVgPjmY0BNfjaS6lFSB2WmprhZjvXjF3j0cx2UK2GbI-XFXWYQDyoHd6b-jmrQTvkiG7zHcbvLLNeRUU0jT_ZizufIoY8DcyWtBxnRTQ8KbipIbELKQQjisDscb/s1600-h/IMG_0307.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Qp3PiqeDw8FDBgXIDdVgPjmY0BNfjaS6lFSB2WmprhZjvXjF3j0cx2UK2GbI-XFXWYQDyoHd6b-jmrQTvkiG7zHcbvLLNeRUU0jT_ZizufIoY8DcyWtBxnRTQ8KbipIbELKQQjisDscb/s400/IMG_0307.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562851223366114" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bgn1D16ZDoankcpPDnX0LSmnqp5buy9ucU0J-ysBbmEdev2UjbwTU2De1ymtG5_FHGHNNCGp274dfg5BU-h2mh5Y6TYumYuVPz1RGu3T-Y3sMD8gkJ-GLSl-yylPJa1huVKBVjHL2ZOi/s1600-h/IMG_0311.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bgn1D16ZDoankcpPDnX0LSmnqp5buy9ucU0J-ysBbmEdev2UjbwTU2De1ymtG5_FHGHNNCGp274dfg5BU-h2mh5Y6TYumYuVPz1RGu3T-Y3sMD8gkJ-GLSl-yylPJa1huVKBVjHL2ZOi/s400/IMG_0311.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562857641764050" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8U4ea3ngnxsxZUeN7EwAH1S8NyjazyCu0UsRiYErbrUM1u9WNsBRKtiHdTglcmm46tTcyn2MJtgXXaAYW-fQvcG7ZvwxwzLBuTHN6SebKuwDCohMf7SW7khMHCPzJ5DGVzQVjE8NC4gE7/s1600-h/IMG_0323.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8U4ea3ngnxsxZUeN7EwAH1S8NyjazyCu0UsRiYErbrUM1u9WNsBRKtiHdTglcmm46tTcyn2MJtgXXaAYW-fQvcG7ZvwxwzLBuTHN6SebKuwDCohMf7SW7khMHCPzJ5DGVzQVjE8NC4gE7/s400/IMG_0323.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394563446029450290" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>I could get used to that feeling.<br /><br />(Oh, I love these pics, btw ... I am screaming to Walter that the hill sucked (it didn't really, I just felt like I needed to say it) but I totally look like I am pulling an absolute nutjobby on this coach):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbGFqS_7txQkM1NQllMj0jpoWDyWVRdKwCgLuM3Kp1h8D8ubW9G5i3cX8aRzF31rCSN2OaUK1Z2y_XMTdONSUUpEa3DVGTJZg6XLSNrG88bvQC1kRNks2sEIdpD_Ff4J4W8FMCB77UXO7/s1600-h/IMG_0318.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbGFqS_7txQkM1NQllMj0jpoWDyWVRdKwCgLuM3Kp1h8D8ubW9G5i3cX8aRzF31rCSN2OaUK1Z2y_XMTdONSUUpEa3DVGTJZg6XLSNrG88bvQC1kRNks2sEIdpD_Ff4J4W8FMCB77UXO7/s400/IMG_0318.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562866115606066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn3BA3d1GW7xwuW3H375vXAvdXOROGs6lPkuc-CwGNerh7it9Enll0PqufmUF_ApgMxZGxj_UKOTW9kjLXp8ykK1JX4lT1miPvomS2QgR9yC5l9ciaVUYnnv5SYrSoZZC_Nb8WYHDSZBj5/s1600-h/IMG_0319.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn3BA3d1GW7xwuW3H375vXAvdXOROGs6lPkuc-CwGNerh7it9Enll0PqufmUF_ApgMxZGxj_UKOTW9kjLXp8ykK1JX4lT1miPvomS2QgR9yC5l9ciaVUYnnv5SYrSoZZC_Nb8WYHDSZBj5/s400/IMG_0319.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394562870328795714" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxK0mIrfMmfyOyuExiVg0l4xp9GMMWDtpx9628RrLYL__NrxMhXo9PB6HjT2dNLrx6qQfvZAeCqjaD6I0n-OJRbdGOu0ipk4rjRFYlqwKUlUv_nAiGjp_JbQM-Duhalf94BT93fJAkSo7/s1600-h/IMG_0322.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxK0mIrfMmfyOyuExiVg0l4xp9GMMWDtpx9628RrLYL__NrxMhXo9PB6HjT2dNLrx6qQfvZAeCqjaD6I0n-OJRbdGOu0ipk4rjRFYlqwKUlUv_nAiGjp_JbQM-Duhalf94BT93fJAkSo7/s400/IMG_0322.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394563438529975282" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>As we crested the top, we heard a familiar cowbell and whistle. Ramon. He ran straight over to Babs and I and ran with us for a few minutes, giving us great tips and gauging our energy level. His parting words: "I want to see you at the finish looking just like that." </div><div><br /></div><div>The run just got prettier:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMTMCKl6uxNYQUERv6LFlrrAxNj1Cuc0WOYopq1TPiLGT6Y6E_XcleSVcD1CW0ineWaZb7IsqMlhlfCVdAxrh_5OZmWOoxRtzQTSyHy92LyU1hyphenhyphenVLFTnoMpVnj1Dtp3XaHSlNBdORQE_WS/s1600-h/IMG_2318.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMTMCKl6uxNYQUERv6LFlrrAxNj1Cuc0WOYopq1TPiLGT6Y6E_XcleSVcD1CW0ineWaZb7IsqMlhlfCVdAxrh_5OZmWOoxRtzQTSyHy92LyU1hyphenhyphenVLFTnoMpVnj1Dtp3XaHSlNBdORQE_WS/s400/IMG_2318.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394574194460346706" border="0" /></a><br />As we made our way into Golden Gate Park at Mile 11, I felt great but my heels were starting to nag a bit. I got nervous, hoping they wouldn't get worse. But I pushed it out of my head, enjoying the bands, cheerleaders and funny signs through the 5 miles in the park. I stopped a couple of times to stretch my quads. I wasn't pleased that I had to do this, but I also felt I needed to save everything for later. Babs was starting to wane as well and we both needed to get out of the park at about the same time. That's when we saw Kim, Brad and the kids, screaming their heads off and holding out water. What a sight for sore eyes. Babs and I later agreed that they were a much needed boost as we both felt our energy level drop a bit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Coming out at Mile 16 to hit the Great Highway, we saw my group again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdIbNAlaJv9mR593rYySiF4mig7h1ErBgkFzffGzljcAVlADT7v5EMRvTMFz9TO3FxKdQbQd0F4TKOkkgH-pCUGIGHFHgZ-2anItDo960WO8zCAzRqKNP301Br07LbdcR45Rwl5KkQz_W0/s1600-h/IMG_0388.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdIbNAlaJv9mR593rYySiF4mig7h1ErBgkFzffGzljcAVlADT7v5EMRvTMFz9TO3FxKdQbQd0F4TKOkkgH-pCUGIGHFHgZ-2anItDo960WO8zCAzRqKNP301Br07LbdcR45Rwl5KkQz_W0/s400/IMG_0388.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394564153876374450" border="0" /></a><br />At this point, I was getting a bit tired so the sight of them brought tears to my eyes. I saw Mike waving with a huge proud grin on his face and I knew I had to keep going. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Q4IaaIqWH3f96Qo24ClJR58TxiR4QOPm3MWgojYWFrMzjgShDe5cl4uPvHN8Lp5rblgjiOVryeRQ9jbPg1YC430ywCfR6qqVzpT1aOv4PO2YxrXFKp-ABwnuXGi6NzXEZMPHZSCWiI_k/s1600-h/IMG_0361.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Q4IaaIqWH3f96Qo24ClJR58TxiR4QOPm3MWgojYWFrMzjgShDe5cl4uPvHN8Lp5rblgjiOVryeRQ9jbPg1YC430ywCfR6qqVzpT1aOv4PO2YxrXFKp-ABwnuXGi6NzXEZMPHZSCWiI_k/s400/IMG_0361.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394563458716349554" border="0" /></a>So I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then ... I started to fall apart.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not happy with what I'm about to write, but you deserve to know everything about my run. And frankly, looking back on it a day after, I think it's a vital part of the experience.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Great Highway is a four mile stretch that seems to go on forever. It's a bit of a mind you-know-what because you pass the finish tent to go the other way. And you remind yourself that you still have ten miles to go. Plus, what comes after the GH sucks big time. </div><div><br /></div><div>I struggled these four miles. I stopped to stretch. I walked a few yards, yelling at myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>I lost Barb.</div><div><br /></div><div>I slowed my pace exponentially. To this point, I was keeping about a 9:15 mile. I have always paced close to 9 minutes and when I really get going, I'm under. Especially when I am trying to run a negative split, as I was attempting on Sunday. But somewhere, it kicked in that I was not going to be running a negative split for my first marathon. Maybe I could have pulled it out but it was almost too late at that point. It was all mental and I had gotten too far in my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pain surged through my heels with every step and I cursed my shoes. Then I cursed myself. When I got to the opening of the park at Lake Merced, I thankfully saw Coach Pete and he reminded me what was to come and how to deal with it. The loop around Lake Merced was four miles of incline with very few spectators. We had been reminded that it gets runners every time. You could be smiling when you come in, crying when you come out. </div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily, I was crying on the way in so how much worse could it get?</div><div><br /></div><div>Much worse.</div><div><br /></div><div>This may have been the worst four miles I have ever (attempted to) run in my life. I've had top-notch, world-class training. I've run 21 miles in just over 3 hours though rain. I've run hill repeats until my quads screamed at me - and then ran some more. I've run my first half-marathon in under 2 hours. Yet I could not get through this damned park. The pain in my heels got worse (or was it all in my head?) and at one point I got so upset with myself, I started to hyperventilate. I had to pull off to the side and bend down to put my head between my knees.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah, and I entered the Bite Me Zone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pete had told me on the way in that a good tactic is to find someone with a comfortable pace and just stick with her. Feed off her energy and just reel her in. I didn't see anyone immediately who fit that bill. But I fit that bill for <i>someone else</i>. A very nice young girl sidled up to me and asked if she could run next to me since she had lost her running buddies. Since I had also lost Barb, I knew that was what I needed. But truthfully, I was pissed off and wanted to be alone. I wanted to scream "BITE ME!"</div><div><br /></div><div>No worries, dear readers ... I cheerily told her "sure!" I also threw in that I was slowing down and may even have to stop and stretch at some point in hopes this might cause her to pick someone else. It didn't. But she also turned out to be really nice and helped me for at least a mile. I finally stopped to stretch my heels so she continued; when I caught up to her later on as she slowed to a near-stop, I reeled her back in, asking how she was doing. I hope I was able to give her a little encouragement; she certainly helped me.</div><div><br />About this time, I looked to my Ipod. I had packed it full of never-fail power songs as a kind of emergency back-up. I've always had people on my long runs so I never got used to music on the two-plus hours runs. I get into a rhythm of listening to my feet hit the pavement and that gets me through. Plus, Ramon nixed the idea. Told me it could actually throw off my stride. At this moment, however, I had no stride. I couldn't get going again and if this is what I needed, I was going to press play. I was desperate. So I did. And nothing. Damned thing hit the skids on me, just when I needed it most.<br /><br /></div><div>As I came out of Lake Merced, spent, wasted, music-less and not sure how I would be able to go the next three miles to the finish, I got a glimpse of <i>the other side</i>:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM_IHu84ilvLyNpPU0jjfbBU8-ZdwgRoFejAkDPa5xbeoEdJw6xuQ0GDRN5V7bCTnAFDl9d6WVuoB61hyzWuljfeVkEtBOw1yWyVM5mmY_8jUn9HTEh5LQN7mfRfJCsyq-zamrRR1qkPEA/s1600-h/IMG_2323.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM_IHu84ilvLyNpPU0jjfbBU8-ZdwgRoFejAkDPa5xbeoEdJw6xuQ0GDRN5V7bCTnAFDl9d6WVuoB61hyzWuljfeVkEtBOw1yWyVM5mmY_8jUn9HTEh5LQN7mfRfJCsyq-zamrRR1qkPEA/s400/IMG_2323.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394574419532900562" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-5epN4tJEB0kKrAsOijVqHIZ9XfgPJiiKOfZVZk5ZudUrvZu_fBm4VvTv9p-A_Gb0QscILDbZHqOXRcSiDJr5PT2ft81G80OMJfYuNFfSTjPPyzGDC5w-JZgDCxB5GW-5QOOLEjh5f56/s1600-h/IMG_2321.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-5epN4tJEB0kKrAsOijVqHIZ9XfgPJiiKOfZVZk5ZudUrvZu_fBm4VvTv9p-A_Gb0QscILDbZHqOXRcSiDJr5PT2ft81G80OMJfYuNFfSTjPPyzGDC5w-JZgDCxB5GW-5QOOLEjh5f56/s400/IMG_2321.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394574201639037522" border="0" /></a>As bad as it sounds, I was so happy that I wasn't all of the people going in. You know how I like to take self-pics at the end of a long run when I'm so happy it's over? I took my last self-pic not because I was happy it was almost over but because I wasn't <i>those</i> guys. How's that for setting up Karma to bite me in the butt someday, huh?</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSLP7PftDfI7weWGhpzaCKTlbigwAIlhBbw_w8NpWT-yGOycs4IK5KdoB6HNH3tS2tOqoFQ7flHOhYx_XP5U94dFHnUOqHYVR9mAvctMckS1qWbc6Bq5BRr07WqcBtXCleLUtZLVPgsvq/s1600-h/IMG_2322.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSLP7PftDfI7weWGhpzaCKTlbigwAIlhBbw_w8NpWT-yGOycs4IK5KdoB6HNH3tS2tOqoFQ7flHOhYx_XP5U94dFHnUOqHYVR9mAvctMckS1qWbc6Bq5BRr07WqcBtXCleLUtZLVPgsvq/s400/IMG_2322.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394575401435279394" border="0" /></a><br />I checked my time once again and thought I might be on track to finish under 4:30. Being that I had set out hoping to get as close to four hours as possible, I was already disappointed (wrong!) and beating myself up (wronger!), thinking I could just start walking now and be done with it (wrongest!). But that's when the best part of my training kicked in.</div><div><br /></div><div>I started all the mantras, including the really important ones about why I did this in the first place. I thought about all the people I was honoring - people who had done things about a thousand times tougher just to save their lives. What I was doing was absolutely nothing compared to that and I felt like a very small person for giving any thought to giving up or being concerned about what time I was going to finish this in. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next two miles, I gave everything I had left. I didn't walk and I didn't stop, although I wanted to. I wanted to so bad. But every time someone yelled my name, I put one foot in front of the other and I knew I was that much closer to my coaches, my family, my friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then, I saw Coach Felicia. She picked me out immediately and just talked to me. She said she understood about the feet. She knew I was tired. She knew just how I felt. She pointed ahead: "See that stoplight? You go through that, just to the flashing lights, then you've got about 600 yards left to the finish." She told me I could make it. She lifted me up and I will never forget that short two minutes she gave to me. Thank you, Felicia.</div><div><br /></div><div>But at that moment: there he was. Like a beacon. A beacon with a cowbell, yes. But a beacon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ramon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Felicia handed me off, saying "Ramon's got you now." And then he was at my side, like some crazy Spanish angel who appears at the darkest moments. I will never forget the first words out of my mouth to him. "Ramon," I sputtered, "I fell apart. I fell apart in the park and I couldn't get it back." </div><div><br /></div><div>And this was Ramon's response (I won't do the accent here. You need to read it carefully and that just muddles it all up):</div><div><br /></div><div>"This is not the time to badmouth yourself. You need to celebrate this moment. Don't think about what you could have done. Think about what you are about to do. Do you understand what you're about to accomplish? This moment is to be celebrated, not badmouthed."</div><div><br /></div><div>At that moment, the finish line was starting to come into view. Ramon continued:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you see that up there? Do you see what you have done? You are amazing."</div><div><br /></div><div>I grabbed Ramon's wrist, overcome with emotion. I told him I'd never be able to thank him enough for what he's done for me. I told him this has been the experience of a lifetime. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then Ramon responded:</div><div><br /></div><div>"The honor has been all mine, Cindy." </div><div><br /></div><div>I leaned over and kissed him, as well as I could as I chugged toward the finish. I was so overcome that I sailed right past my family. This was not lost on Ramon, however, and he then said (Spanish accent back here): "Cindeeee ... thas you family over there. Wave to them!"</div><div><br /></div><div>So I did, and let go of Ramon's wrist. Ramon's last words: "This is your moment. Enjoy this, drink this in." And then he peeled off and let me go those last 20 or so yards to the finish alone.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshQC18fLRUVDBzIMy0p5zStZcZ8MgwQVdWLXiJ-U4OZ0KusxFQBr6DzYetAE1IMW4VJUpoj8GsceyB7J68LQWobQ6J4CME8PbmTjL-q9Hv3wa4RmBOebGa_nXySGeI4_LiGc6HHgPNUXn/s1600-h/cindy+ramon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshQC18fLRUVDBzIMy0p5zStZcZ8MgwQVdWLXiJ-U4OZ0KusxFQBr6DzYetAE1IMW4VJUpoj8GsceyB7J68LQWobQ6J4CME8PbmTjL-q9Hv3wa4RmBOebGa_nXySGeI4_LiGc6HHgPNUXn/s400/cindy+ramon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394724049221007090" border="0" /></a><div>And it was delicious. Made even better by the fact that I was the only one crossing the finish at that moment, so I heard the announcer say,"And now Cindy is coming in. She's here all the way from New York City!" to cheers on either side. It was like the race was all mine for a few seconds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-cVZAKUwUdHuEA_dKirTvOl90Qi6wKtz9xlKPiXlDOU3hlZiq7fBKlEob8ZVemjrwxb13VTNsOaM42W8ODwIpFCNbjM8brInlLhyFHxUvN4Xi0513763nv2uTT4NPCqHI4yZN-TaEDcv/s1600-h/IMG_0403.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-cVZAKUwUdHuEA_dKirTvOl90Qi6wKtz9xlKPiXlDOU3hlZiq7fBKlEob8ZVemjrwxb13VTNsOaM42W8ODwIpFCNbjM8brInlLhyFHxUvN4Xi0513763nv2uTT4NPCqHI4yZN-TaEDcv/s400/IMG_0403.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394564159151618690" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7IfpJbSmySJrb7RAgbjMrzfqFui3mRRV4wXxR5sOEHhz5mc2mKSaw6swXH4x77Bb-_c0fqqWyQGIH2t-gf9XKW25lwGyiznyy-k1zUv-011gYRI_tr7HsIc9QfGarqZ2U1pIjIcjSXd2V/s1600-h/IMG_0409.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7IfpJbSmySJrb7RAgbjMrzfqFui3mRRV4wXxR5sOEHhz5mc2mKSaw6swXH4x77Bb-_c0fqqWyQGIH2t-gf9XKW25lwGyiznyy-k1zUv-011gYRI_tr7HsIc9QfGarqZ2U1pIjIcjSXd2V/s400/IMG_0409.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394564169938548786" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>I remembered what all the coaches said and didn't glance up at the clock or down at my watch. I smiled big for the camera, although I really didn't have to try hard to do it. I saw a sea of black, white and light blue (Those hot firefighters in tuxes holding Tiffany boxes. Oh yeah ... <i>now</i> I remember why I did this race) and I was there. I hunched over, hands on my knees, not sure what I was feeling most since every single emotion known to man was now surging through my body and mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>My friends and family were there at the finish. Mike had tears in his eyes, my friend Kim was jumping up and down. I think the pictures explain everything:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlTY1zMSFsB5e4bfM1Xq9hE-LgBilhllXRQS1xQIo_f4SiiCvbwNBDRlaBw66GBeQTaGBOS-exDd3UK2CG7GTPLFGC6y6-zqzhabexP1ouEGx_Ae_3uHIAqFRacfw0cGYKcKYEHxA7HCTp/s1600-h/IMG_0430.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlTY1zMSFsB5e4bfM1Xq9hE-LgBilhllXRQS1xQIo_f4SiiCvbwNBDRlaBw66GBeQTaGBOS-exDd3UK2CG7GTPLFGC6y6-zqzhabexP1ouEGx_Ae_3uHIAqFRacfw0cGYKcKYEHxA7HCTp/s400/IMG_0430.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565210906329938" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSxEJvEdsgODmEGIqIEgpEmWdxoG42_zpLtliKkkvnK_2P72AIOHJgVNjFBB-bxBPFC4e67RihaZxIHaXg3_ak_1iE-o8H1pnG-vTd5AwFdNTylTWee_hZ3qYawp8No2Afg1hx39M40Vib/s1600-h/IMG_0427.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSxEJvEdsgODmEGIqIEgpEmWdxoG42_zpLtliKkkvnK_2P72AIOHJgVNjFBB-bxBPFC4e67RihaZxIHaXg3_ak_1iE-o8H1pnG-vTd5AwFdNTylTWee_hZ3qYawp8No2Afg1hx39M40Vib/s400/IMG_0427.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565202003076946" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihntEIyyvfAHeIucne7YjYARUHXh7pY-tkVDGFwmNPZzaxmZueEEdDjfPnPdWSd74sMyQI0T_XJ-H3eG4abNH92SPCawJJS071OVdO9bQumfAAUiXqECLEge-40KF3yZT1AslkYVEa2SM3/s1600-h/IMG_0445.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihntEIyyvfAHeIucne7YjYARUHXh7pY-tkVDGFwmNPZzaxmZueEEdDjfPnPdWSd74sMyQI0T_XJ-H3eG4abNH92SPCawJJS071OVdO9bQumfAAUiXqECLEge-40KF3yZT1AslkYVEa2SM3/s400/IMG_0445.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565216705404498" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5hPtSGZJGLvOyrSOWqWhUjy4YDXqhPTX41Yi527N_oOdc0VvzBBhFLBe6AnaSy4p79IGbtQz1tLxwe_sdLv6_1B7A8T0KRtuXBf4d0LR1BduaR1dydZlQjQF7JpOjhj2GBudq6JQS6zj6/s1600-h/IMG_0454.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5hPtSGZJGLvOyrSOWqWhUjy4YDXqhPTX41Yi527N_oOdc0VvzBBhFLBe6AnaSy4p79IGbtQz1tLxwe_sdLv6_1B7A8T0KRtuXBf4d0LR1BduaR1dydZlQjQF7JpOjhj2GBudq6JQS6zj6/s400/IMG_0454.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565223657088002" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>What came next was a bit of a blur. I remember bagels, chocolate milk, foil being thrown over my shoulders. I'm not sure if I stretched and although I know I checked into the TNT tent, I have no idea if I conversed with anyone there. I do, however, remember each and every tux-clad firefighter, including all specs with name, age, height and weight they are able to bench-press.<br /><br />I was so happy to see Jenn and Barb and give them huge hugs of congratulations. I loved seeing my teammates come in and hearing about their experiences. With the sea of TNT purple all around us, I felt such a part of something much bigger.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8owpRrB1LPwyAkUsQ32oU1zSt6QRLxU0jLCbCCMQ4MtG-YN32dBet6fIJceINrHmcEWCFcfHvEXK6XejaXzeBXbk5buBQm7AGN4SGgdCdP2xZfYKU2EjTeHp_zQ-DwzgLjIy4t2yB9hnn/s1600-h/marathon+cindy+barb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8owpRrB1LPwyAkUsQ32oU1zSt6QRLxU0jLCbCCMQ4MtG-YN32dBet6fIJceINrHmcEWCFcfHvEXK6XejaXzeBXbk5buBQm7AGN4SGgdCdP2xZfYKU2EjTeHp_zQ-DwzgLjIy4t2yB9hnn/s400/marathon+cindy+barb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394737530727784818" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Fgx9_laGRTMrrNhIWlybMFZQaKcrikNTpV9MlydyULNM5LsKXSK0b6AqDS-AtG2oINRWiiuQoYZZ30TedTcpK3BLbpP9lhKBk9xU97OMr0MJBNb6KqAj891U2EcLE2HAVthTl-RD8rXS/s1600-h/IMG_0503.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Fgx9_laGRTMrrNhIWlybMFZQaKcrikNTpV9MlydyULNM5LsKXSK0b6AqDS-AtG2oINRWiiuQoYZZ30TedTcpK3BLbpP9lhKBk9xU97OMr0MJBNb6KqAj891U2EcLE2HAVthTl-RD8rXS/s400/IMG_0503.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565909681841538" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCMQpK25IlE7xBcPuapp7l7VYWn5VfYPpx88QHSyMmqWr4_mSQHGq_iqbbBLtPlBckGJPAeo_zmjV987Yits92mQn6r8U96N3p-P97xpCvtzf1DQcwqwYXYmISkIEm-4b-OWcIikuyBJM/s1600-h/IMG_0489.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXCMQpK25IlE7xBcPuapp7l7VYWn5VfYPpx88QHSyMmqWr4_mSQHGq_iqbbBLtPlBckGJPAeo_zmjV987Yits92mQn6r8U96N3p-P97xpCvtzf1DQcwqwYXYmISkIEm-4b-OWcIikuyBJM/s400/IMG_0489.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565900550986786" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWDy2ka1OCLTVTlho7_OiRwM1qHpp10ugFqiRRA12CVWKh-8My4V2LcCbNsw1mD1tCnWm2qzGaKIJVymdTHk7DpL4MepA-asH-_1hfTAl-qtTYiCs6X_1gTYVoobUvO8aSRW_gUiR_g6F/s1600-h/marathon+foil.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihWDy2ka1OCLTVTlho7_OiRwM1qHpp10ugFqiRRA12CVWKh-8My4V2LcCbNsw1mD1tCnWm2qzGaKIJVymdTHk7DpL4MepA-asH-_1hfTAl-qtTYiCs6X_1gTYVoobUvO8aSRW_gUiR_g6F/s400/marathon+foil.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394741596185523170" border="0" /></a><br />My family was so happy for me, and that made me even prouder. I'm the only one in my family who has completed a marathon. I've gotten so used to being surrounded by marathoners on the team, I forget that just a small segment of the population ever does this. So yeah, they were stoked for me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGuE8et9v28cWt_OB296KShW5CLcA5aXx9yUCm_SgmcXu2btjY2k4O__UbrOc8ySajrnEHvqa9AVzunCU4fRTzVRx9Amb-6njcK7IM8AgjVJyHjD5l36ZM854hEriiGfT3WOc7VX3O8qSH/s1600-h/marathon+pen+bill.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGuE8et9v28cWt_OB296KShW5CLcA5aXx9yUCm_SgmcXu2btjY2k4O__UbrOc8ySajrnEHvqa9AVzunCU4fRTzVRx9Amb-6njcK7IM8AgjVJyHjD5l36ZM854hEriiGfT3WOc7VX3O8qSH/s400/marathon+pen+bill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394737766768932706" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fOX3Pl3JtSgrtVyYOOmGEFsCWqA1puxtHGGR4Z57aA_hLPze4MH58t_MPqYtc2JAWRXh0WfsmuPYfJnvHwrekIoj7EKWT7v6Fep3Nw3Un3ZbZQwQs7fpakrNDlRCWJL2aXe_ALqL5yi-/s1600-h/IMG_0483.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fOX3Pl3JtSgrtVyYOOmGEFsCWqA1puxtHGGR4Z57aA_hLPze4MH58t_MPqYtc2JAWRXh0WfsmuPYfJnvHwrekIoj7EKWT7v6Fep3Nw3Un3ZbZQwQs7fpakrNDlRCWJL2aXe_ALqL5yi-/s400/IMG_0483.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565234572181474" border="0" /></a><br />My final time was 4:30. Not what I was hoping for, but I have to remind myself that five months ago my longest run ever was 7 miles. Turns out, San Francisco is kind of a challenging course, so for my first marathon (and by all means, not the last), I think I can be pretty proud.<br /><br />For the record, all the TNTers did well. Barb had come in a few minutes before me and totally rocked it. Jenn also rocked the half and was really happy with her performance. Oh, Joanne? Joanne is a machine who actually qualified for the Boston Marathon with a time of 3:35. Oh yeah - this is her first marathon ever.<br /><br />The best day ever continued when Babs and I went to brunch with 30 of my friends and family. So much love and support. (And so many bloody marys and beers because, after all, Fun Bobby was back in swing.) My rockstar friend Kerry arranged a great brunch for us to celebrate not just my race - but also CC and Renee, who ran a half and full, respectively.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNUo9tSoYsaUrfpOx79lFZ8f-UL3J1_DU8XunLMYT3tbX8V-p7LmSThhMm5dBY0PQLGzGfHCiDlhBfNvGXVykz8RDkm0bIbSdpqfQyOiRUPsJnM_VqH59CLTTzloD2SkhXdx6I0ACMrG_/s1600-h/marathon+walk+in.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNUo9tSoYsaUrfpOx79lFZ8f-UL3J1_DU8XunLMYT3tbX8V-p7LmSThhMm5dBY0PQLGzGfHCiDlhBfNvGXVykz8RDkm0bIbSdpqfQyOiRUPsJnM_VqH59CLTTzloD2SkhXdx6I0ACMrG_/s400/marathon+walk+in.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394737770462448354" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVX5Y_MN05mnzLNanOpOjzhHg_AUo4DzlwQb0SteOOccPdNCRvR0BMSEn5bnmugLPy-hRYXVo7tF_jbqUy60fzOPcPx91PPIScMiWaHzKzJ8TI7XdE676XUHIx-Ab_HYWHdg4C4FZ3vPI/s1600-h/marathon+menu.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVX5Y_MN05mnzLNanOpOjzhHg_AUo4DzlwQb0SteOOccPdNCRvR0BMSEn5bnmugLPy-hRYXVo7tF_jbqUy60fzOPcPx91PPIScMiWaHzKzJ8TI7XdE676XUHIx-Ab_HYWHdg4C4FZ3vPI/s400/marathon+menu.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394737546453256962" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkTXEU_kTleaViwomCjUnHUigPLKfbu9yJkwP-NiFiS_YsXCyJ6F9e99AsFEyjFGwf7sfWKHtPuDtlte2RZeXlxzGEj0Przr7jv6UpADo1goAt2ik6FbkoJJKdMRALm6Fhjo4iPxg3CGd/s1600-h/IMG_0526.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkTXEU_kTleaViwomCjUnHUigPLKfbu9yJkwP-NiFiS_YsXCyJ6F9e99AsFEyjFGwf7sfWKHtPuDtlte2RZeXlxzGEj0Przr7jv6UpADo1goAt2ik6FbkoJJKdMRALm6Fhjo4iPxg3CGd/s400/IMG_0526.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394566568902506946" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8Y_31w5UEYGYy8ELvVAfO5drZLujlAnKN0vbsqa_tnTRkSIUwAJtrkYFzWN1Sn0JpH_OSbiGSC5HJv8wRWEBAss1nYoiF1hinNkwSbN4VRsXTCtG-b_mtH5ywlwrTmBdeOaZHlHsyWwZ/s1600-h/IMG_0523.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8Y_31w5UEYGYy8ELvVAfO5drZLujlAnKN0vbsqa_tnTRkSIUwAJtrkYFzWN1Sn0JpH_OSbiGSC5HJv8wRWEBAss1nYoiF1hinNkwSbN4VRsXTCtG-b_mtH5ywlwrTmBdeOaZHlHsyWwZ/s400/IMG_0523.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394566566745245170" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipurytDLUw6vSHILYwGfNG0YnncAkyL7Bp-4Di-AqIvs48T1HWyCvT7045QB2hfjxD6eTbySDKXSRG27VZrMzilRwBNaC7EmQGZqOpB25QOzVwNbgBeQD1R2KC11KsoTp6Y_8BddFtuZ0G/s1600-h/IMG_0559.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipurytDLUw6vSHILYwGfNG0YnncAkyL7Bp-4Di-AqIvs48T1HWyCvT7045QB2hfjxD6eTbySDKXSRG27VZrMzilRwBNaC7EmQGZqOpB25QOzVwNbgBeQD1R2KC11KsoTp6Y_8BddFtuZ0G/s400/IMG_0559.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394566555797480482" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUB45Q66qqZAtRQTCcfwY4T3VLXrqDN9kpKd3j5pAb8I3IvYvQX-hz_1pGIV1QsiwknCUUAe3B_wdJNsoDfwh-4ISPY_pBmdt4KXIQrk92UbTbL-CGOQdx1RHJyGqo9TJmGIP68fKdnD9/s1600-h/IMG_0558.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrUB45Q66qqZAtRQTCcfwY4T3VLXrqDN9kpKd3j5pAb8I3IvYvQX-hz_1pGIV1QsiwknCUUAe3B_wdJNsoDfwh-4ISPY_pBmdt4KXIQrk92UbTbL-CGOQdx1RHJyGqo9TJmGIP68fKdnD9/s400/IMG_0558.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394566546379534802" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgzThZB8NyVmpXe4tbzn7ECnDEnQvGc2ZX3WW3Pingl6fuGtuK36Su7ihnRLEybKtRPA9zrYWzou0LCvsf31H9qO9jLt3cbe9nGc_eeYg5o8q9_5b9K2-1aYcT3y54hz4yb6kdYdyte3q/s1600-h/IMG_0549.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgzThZB8NyVmpXe4tbzn7ECnDEnQvGc2ZX3WW3Pingl6fuGtuK36Su7ihnRLEybKtRPA9zrYWzou0LCvsf31H9qO9jLt3cbe9nGc_eeYg5o8q9_5b9K2-1aYcT3y54hz4yb6kdYdyte3q/s400/IMG_0549.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394566538571032946" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2U2IPPpO8H419XuYsnWTIru993csTlatfc9lXzd25lErTcFFosVIM-Whd7UfA0Jlqdet3qxuJMD07vJ4ukpVqJ7Wzrg2wF0a30YhmkXjgFmKZZmNaqQaZouRXHTy0Le7VT-dBQOc0m46/s1600-h/IMG_0538.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2U2IPPpO8H419XuYsnWTIru993csTlatfc9lXzd25lErTcFFosVIM-Whd7UfA0Jlqdet3qxuJMD07vJ4ukpVqJ7Wzrg2wF0a30YhmkXjgFmKZZmNaqQaZouRXHTy0Le7VT-dBQOc0m46/s400/IMG_0538.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565930705907058" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNCmMr9Ih1RYukembOmJ4NVw_huiz_qODRZN3rCLHSO3gO61oy0J_mDkoIL4jNYbr_fWzoXVCyqYfedqseYEWidtr62Q-fEl0Uf3hn0iLPO6mW0_moHZJNQP45eSnD8XUBUKmf7yTuKvM/s1600-h/IMG_0537.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNCmMr9Ih1RYukembOmJ4NVw_huiz_qODRZN3rCLHSO3gO61oy0J_mDkoIL4jNYbr_fWzoXVCyqYfedqseYEWidtr62Q-fEl0Uf3hn0iLPO6mW0_moHZJNQP45eSnD8XUBUKmf7yTuKvM/s400/IMG_0537.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565920427811010" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizCLzJcgvSEA38ds9VGt4Gbdu12a6BzLjoVh5VgwerSH5a4NoyzAMGBlH3-MPLJflKiiLwPJn1aT05Q-Sp_JTH8C9dykHyTLDtzy6jk3VGffeGRBdj9gC42ziR1VPMMlP3yOX1vJ8toHwD/s1600-h/IMG_0518.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizCLzJcgvSEA38ds9VGt4Gbdu12a6BzLjoVh5VgwerSH5a4NoyzAMGBlH3-MPLJflKiiLwPJn1aT05Q-Sp_JTH8C9dykHyTLDtzy6jk3VGffeGRBdj9gC42ziR1VPMMlP3yOX1vJ8toHwD/s400/IMG_0518.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394565912800398386" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYK-9uu5PMA-32PLzYi-iWJnGsiFMjdK-tMaEmOyn2LVIQ3ymLiPMIN4hkx4aRjEqGVgkRlLA9vZaL4l-4uGvIm6iTbjlGXybJD9R3WZRd3NkISN8hQZuAir81ZR3okwHD7fmLLOsEkpX/s1600-h/marathon+mike.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYK-9uu5PMA-32PLzYi-iWJnGsiFMjdK-tMaEmOyn2LVIQ3ymLiPMIN4hkx4aRjEqGVgkRlLA9vZaL4l-4uGvIm6iTbjlGXybJD9R3WZRd3NkISN8hQZuAir81ZR3okwHD7fmLLOsEkpX/s400/marathon+mike.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394737555502930962" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_0bkQUtUBcMFq3BrzhhdIgXozdT_MjOn5sCzBPKPYI7qxTrKzcRqnsZj6Tdgvb3WVpG-4nf-QvTobKwCBZyHYEAnwpbQY-IZ55cbkmKpEDnN0UGodfbV-b6F7FQn_XR2X6XBb3wL4XlF/s1600-h/marathon+halvorsens.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_0bkQUtUBcMFq3BrzhhdIgXozdT_MjOn5sCzBPKPYI7qxTrKzcRqnsZj6Tdgvb3WVpG-4nf-QvTobKwCBZyHYEAnwpbQY-IZ55cbkmKpEDnN0UGodfbV-b6F7FQn_XR2X6XBb3wL4XlF/s400/marathon+halvorsens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394737533317981490" border="0" /></a><br />Regrettably, I didn't make it to the mandatory misbehaving party with Ramon (which Babs told me was quite the evening). My mom and Ken stayed in the city that night and we chose to have a quiet drink with them, Kerry and Kim and spend our last hours catching up. Quiet was right ... about ten minutes into my glass of wine I was ready for my hotel bed.<br /><br />After breakfast this morning with my mom and Ken, Mike and I walked over to Niketown so I could see my name on the wall. Can you see it?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cNNrC0XquXLREyy0RBYmAXQOdi0NQnoteCnxbIyR2Oo0eOX3MwcI6oXVnD0AKo-W2JrG5_9Ma9tocJn94t7skGX6sAACyFA9qA58tVM-wap5KORbVmxEoUkdJyx2bgpTuPuf2kEZSiWu/s1600-h/IMG_0648.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cNNrC0XquXLREyy0RBYmAXQOdi0NQnoteCnxbIyR2Oo0eOX3MwcI6oXVnD0AKo-W2JrG5_9Ma9tocJn94t7skGX6sAACyFA9qA58tVM-wap5KORbVmxEoUkdJyx2bgpTuPuf2kEZSiWu/s400/IMG_0648.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394571721420043730" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmy8TpQy3P_ShwnQ3jitohDMlk7XlZOuk9qeDQYMFBFEh7PtELXyP1N90qxUSHfUaVqtM2aaZb1rj2nbZfEExTdtGJAm5VfWMsRhEBZTV0L6jVljHNNYA0ySwSKF_2fYT7gME15TPSeq5/s1600-h/IMG_0647.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmy8TpQy3P_ShwnQ3jitohDMlk7XlZOuk9qeDQYMFBFEh7PtELXyP1N90qxUSHfUaVqtM2aaZb1rj2nbZfEExTdtGJAm5VfWMsRhEBZTV0L6jVljHNNYA0ySwSKF_2fYT7gME15TPSeq5/s400/IMG_0647.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394571547915282082" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSXXmYUZMc4Jql9y_M3BRvUhmOO4KjCJJFUPWyZKNa-M1lKECPE1OqWXH7rGWTOlSb2tNptp1EUC8_ceNVS0u_XwqTpxGh34tfTVGPoeBEuRCF2KPcrnOiFiWUxjTzysHCjUheJry_uhxN/s1600-h/IMG_0658.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSXXmYUZMc4Jql9y_M3BRvUhmOO4KjCJJFUPWyZKNa-M1lKECPE1OqWXH7rGWTOlSb2tNptp1EUC8_ceNVS0u_XwqTpxGh34tfTVGPoeBEuRCF2KPcrnOiFiWUxjTzysHCjUheJry_uhxN/s400/IMG_0658.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394571299115715954" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinq4Tx3fqFnO4ar7erdabdAeQrOv5zS-LcfZFD2E2i4JC46h12YoNHz9sCjHMMzm8kMd6xRfuUqHqCUoUqHUeMk9779ia9JYsgmNZqrVpozbJlQ7lCkAvSIKsmbcZQ-AniZCWLv_PVwyke/s1600-h/IMG_0660.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinq4Tx3fqFnO4ar7erdabdAeQrOv5zS-LcfZFD2E2i4JC46h12YoNHz9sCjHMMzm8kMd6xRfuUqHqCUoUqHUeMk9779ia9JYsgmNZqrVpozbJlQ7lCkAvSIKsmbcZQ-AniZCWLv_PVwyke/s400/IMG_0660.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394570926802224178" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIz84Iej54E5gCoF8sdfW5ubS-qSwi_UpiESVvkI-AE9AsOV6Hr9acoQRxPUEaafHnpUlpDfV1MvBGaj14Ei3-Lwv7orrh8DAXRWOuRP1eXna3FXbHMgtsyW58PzDJSXxb9FnD52DgB2FD/s1600-h/IMG_0653.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIz84Iej54E5gCoF8sdfW5ubS-qSwi_UpiESVvkI-AE9AsOV6Hr9acoQRxPUEaafHnpUlpDfV1MvBGaj14Ei3-Lwv7orrh8DAXRWOuRP1eXna3FXbHMgtsyW58PzDJSXxb9FnD52DgB2FD/s400/IMG_0653.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394571288065690370" border="0" /></a><br />I said a final goodbye to my best running friends, Barb and Jenn:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyXHJ9A69Vuvi5sXIEpufjXTiEPbzxsaAzB4VHIBRi-k8q24jUhrTyEf1M2C0FaqaAFxQ7NUF2aK-exQkCj_v8yuIiQCrBqcm2KOJNqH2XebC2vC9hxsHEZLQ1HHuAouDoOPAT31qGjMF/s1600-h/IMG_0678.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyXHJ9A69Vuvi5sXIEpufjXTiEPbzxsaAzB4VHIBRi-k8q24jUhrTyEf1M2C0FaqaAFxQ7NUF2aK-exQkCj_v8yuIiQCrBqcm2KOJNqH2XebC2vC9hxsHEZLQ1HHuAouDoOPAT31qGjMF/s400/IMG_0678.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394570942985364018" border="0" /></a><br />And then Mike and I headed to the airport, bidding goodbye to my mom and Ken.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBoLUaqjz9nayETVtyRcgJ7xXwxQAao5Dt9gFD4jqfbAmhjtrhabtspPjJBX7STNcltp6qpiNI8QITZkoHej5WA6K3r8-c7wBANV1Tt9gtfgg0_Rr2imvaUCAasqW9ml6OTobLqw9pePZh/s1600-h/IMG_0681.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBoLUaqjz9nayETVtyRcgJ7xXwxQAao5Dt9gFD4jqfbAmhjtrhabtspPjJBX7STNcltp6qpiNI8QITZkoHej5WA6K3r8-c7wBANV1Tt9gtfgg0_Rr2imvaUCAasqW9ml6OTobLqw9pePZh/s400/IMG_0681.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394570947076425538" border="0" /></a><br />When we were sitting on the plane and ready to takeoff, I allowed myself the time to let it sink in. I was sad it was over, sad I'd never experience my first time again. But wow oh wow ... how did I get so lucky to have had all of that in the first place? How did I get so lucky to have great family and friends who hold up big frilly signs at 7am on a Sunday for me? How did I get so lucky to know people who will generously open up their wallets when I tell them I am running a marathon and raising money for cancer research? How did I get so lucky to have world-class coaches run with me toward the finish to make sure I'll get there?<br /></div><div><br />How did I ever not think that this was only the beginning?<br /><br />Thanks to all of you for being there ... from the start ... to the finish.<br /><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-46127392880567164272009-10-17T14:33:00.006-04:002009-10-17T15:44:26.657-04:00Fun Bobby has his coat on ...<div><br /></div><div>... and come tomorrow, he will be ready to join the social living with a wine glass in hand.</div><div><div><br /></div><div><div><div>Or so I felt last night as I closed out another great day in SF with my home peeps. Kim and Walter (in a last minute surprise) flew up for the race tomorrow and Mike and I gathered with Kerry, Lynette, Erin, Ken, Cecilia and Brad and Kerry's friend Renee. Barb flew in with the team yesterday and also got to meet my crazy friends.</div><div><br /></div><div>I won't spend much time with pithy thoughts today; I'm anxious to get out and enjoy a relaxing day with my friends. Instead, I'll just leave you with images of today and yesterday ...</div></div></div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ21sv-nsisp9PLMynPFzo62mvLhqs4kqMc043Lle41t2rwh0KjUCefu7Lf-p6SRvFz9uABNO-X_Cpi8DFBCednYYASXVnU0_-cYTWWA0GUWoHH2jEV2yxV-UNOCtiiZxnKezGI-aCrsvP/s1600-h/IMG_2268.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ21sv-nsisp9PLMynPFzo62mvLhqs4kqMc043Lle41t2rwh0KjUCefu7Lf-p6SRvFz9uABNO-X_Cpi8DFBCednYYASXVnU0_-cYTWWA0GUWoHH2jEV2yxV-UNOCtiiZxnKezGI-aCrsvP/s400/IMG_2268.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393655724131760754" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglF9FfEXbWhZbBQ8GHMqs4jwT6PioIdL2DStBbVpN4bnX-WdquVc5Ang86gWTHMIsPvg1Ni1II8ozQInh6ERk540YC1aqbXOzXsH-1HsQKy9teeAOevBTg0Su1dQa61v6lzHNP_f91dRkB/s1600-h/IMG_2262.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglF9FfEXbWhZbBQ8GHMqs4jwT6PioIdL2DStBbVpN4bnX-WdquVc5Ang86gWTHMIsPvg1Ni1II8ozQInh6ERk540YC1aqbXOzXsH-1HsQKy9teeAOevBTg0Su1dQa61v6lzHNP_f91dRkB/s400/IMG_2262.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393655715541188834" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0SaOKJ3JA8Y1ymhfCX80Oc2x2pY-OYYYqIA93dGX_TE6G5x0PSLe51M8XJfTqbEsg1Y7luJjoDrbJroZcblAELKVPh651eJHU4mtgzj8IQf4tqp93h6sIGJvpNZvNoAXbxZ9EOEzpdc6/s1600-h/IMG_0150.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0SaOKJ3JA8Y1ymhfCX80Oc2x2pY-OYYYqIA93dGX_TE6G5x0PSLe51M8XJfTqbEsg1Y7luJjoDrbJroZcblAELKVPh651eJHU4mtgzj8IQf4tqp93h6sIGJvpNZvNoAXbxZ9EOEzpdc6/s400/IMG_0150.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393655707004932530" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9GKxUtPq6TfiNHSn2r71mWN35ztDkYB7gEwB1fuVi8inMqdYQ0bvCqK5IS132xrCljxiscDHBjEMjk96ViBWS8dCfVlEOAVpG_zTIeOOe5qp6BrBaRkGlYqaObvnpDNmtKO1TDVdJaaj/s1600-h/IMG_0145.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9GKxUtPq6TfiNHSn2r71mWN35ztDkYB7gEwB1fuVi8inMqdYQ0bvCqK5IS132xrCljxiscDHBjEMjk96ViBWS8dCfVlEOAVpG_zTIeOOe5qp6BrBaRkGlYqaObvnpDNmtKO1TDVdJaaj/s400/IMG_0145.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393655694195942562" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmQCXWdzVGO-DcjggY1nVnipVj96rGWoBoiXwOIf54DAAvOfXq96RLhb3LeauC4I7cbXrOkMQkKMgr0kon0vMi80qTS8afsQEEBEGpiQvVXgWwDAXU_23wal60Y-4VxEC2geQuoNGJSBz/s1600-h/IMG_0133.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmQCXWdzVGO-DcjggY1nVnipVj96rGWoBoiXwOIf54DAAvOfXq96RLhb3LeauC4I7cbXrOkMQkKMgr0kon0vMi80qTS8afsQEEBEGpiQvVXgWwDAXU_23wal60Y-4VxEC2geQuoNGJSBz/s400/IMG_0133.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393655685328956674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO5s3zDrFtUnwaIGNrO91_sxof7i_gWbrhQNpoYI49X53889TDiRxWPBP2c6Fy9c1SkO25fgLzWzblJ6t1cXzvU-28XTzxPG5Q0Uk2sDIBzxlFnrOXcS6yub2jPSF2UOwkzg-Jce7dzNvD/s1600-h/IMG_0134.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO5s3zDrFtUnwaIGNrO91_sxof7i_gWbrhQNpoYI49X53889TDiRxWPBP2c6Fy9c1SkO25fgLzWzblJ6t1cXzvU-28XTzxPG5Q0Uk2sDIBzxlFnrOXcS6yub2jPSF2UOwkzg-Jce7dzNvD/s400/IMG_0134.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393652515510359730" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAcO5aPteljHbY-w1ErTqXAJnw6GLoCy3GxVDvU2AdBcx7eq1p9f_XeoOcVbrPrny9hbF4f1WMW2B09etXOS_Sjd6r_VcdA3Kly6_txDJabKGcxkhJGjxOETSZm3IZbtWdr4wZdeAqu0Oy/s1600-h/IMG_0123.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAcO5aPteljHbY-w1ErTqXAJnw6GLoCy3GxVDvU2AdBcx7eq1p9f_XeoOcVbrPrny9hbF4f1WMW2B09etXOS_Sjd6r_VcdA3Kly6_txDJabKGcxkhJGjxOETSZm3IZbtWdr4wZdeAqu0Oy/s400/IMG_0123.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393652506282822882" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UznJzXxSA2vd-k9_x33ACaufAwCewEZRFce2HF5Rl_fTEUIxOhdO3jMXGSUxnTLmErGfs6NQqW4L9F1w8Xu70hDHOnCvmFv3dqr4z3CBn9gQ5ZfVi9bh9TWHeiSCbipjpbMNxauf1NAz/s1600-h/IMG_0121.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLWOxb_gvhMjYup6pu2-pTvCckDWEGih6De6YyP-m3J7MNV2s1ep7VNLClJahEuGOQ1JtLfCmKIpbt4XE3tNyDWEeC8bXT7j2a9UGSuQmdNW5FFtgikjNwy8zIqEBRHM2KuJYigRkMFezo/s400/IMG_0074.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393642109903950530" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5HqFZ2vlwh5qdTx3jnHX74jmCcbDV_jdifHyy1PR6v4RbtvfVslZ8rKPMNm8Zf4qy-YBlHaBLmyyYnmZebmnZbldEDjwWb-SCBfUx2u7fysWbP6QkZtuo4LccOwVrv8haHQI06OHZgMK/s1600-h/IMG_0068.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5HqFZ2vlwh5qdTx3jnHX74jmCcbDV_jdifHyy1PR6v4RbtvfVslZ8rKPMNm8Zf4qy-YBlHaBLmyyYnmZebmnZbldEDjwWb-SCBfUx2u7fysWbP6QkZtuo4LccOwVrv8haHQI06OHZgMK/s400/IMG_0068.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393642102497979618" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDwfq3sTzbOxVh4S2ix2yQoHO7LEjeRG-bijsJhOAk7LIQ3CXNasbLWur3hO6enCotDITFd-kAMH3L5Q0cH5pc77QGs_d0-RRmhbOjFOBkgdEwblPmHoDGn0viIea77v3MHw-Yuc_sR09/s1600-h/IMG_0056.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDwfq3sTzbOxVh4S2ix2yQoHO7LEjeRG-bijsJhOAk7LIQ3CXNasbLWur3hO6enCotDITFd-kAMH3L5Q0cH5pc77QGs_d0-RRmhbOjFOBkgdEwblPmHoDGn0viIea77v3MHw-Yuc_sR09/s400/IMG_0056.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393642093222763458" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicj4NBiDgduC5KVZvibQ3zOcKOjXYz-KHDWs-2pLGQlPQtzLXYqmmQFZYjmxIBoEe-5DKiKn6k_jndDQ2i_KaPuYQMcR_dblz91ZeJgKTWYBtn365XbIrEJtsW5VwwjC0AI1fvtdlfny9D/s1600-h/IMG_0052.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicj4NBiDgduC5KVZvibQ3zOcKOjXYz-KHDWs-2pLGQlPQtzLXYqmmQFZYjmxIBoEe-5DKiKn6k_jndDQ2i_KaPuYQMcR_dblz91ZeJgKTWYBtn365XbIrEJtsW5VwwjC0AI1fvtdlfny9D/s400/IMG_0052.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393642085813398626" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHsY_4fahMulzbOP-Pwpr6MIKoOUGxDdOU0t2eZFevG6bCZsku_mEUr_9L__-LEEr_oONJXQXi9Aiqv-xsw8w0QeTfNyQJ26Umrj3QRVlNiRjwKM2H_l0R9X2ix57mMl5KV_cwJeb99EL/s1600-h/IMG_0024.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHsY_4fahMulzbOP-Pwpr6MIKoOUGxDdOU0t2eZFevG6bCZsku_mEUr_9L__-LEEr_oONJXQXi9Aiqv-xsw8w0QeTfNyQJ26Umrj3QRVlNiRjwKM2H_l0R9X2ix57mMl5KV_cwJeb99EL/s400/IMG_0024.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393642077837400578" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-52302513466159313722009-10-16T13:10:00.016-04:002009-10-16T14:34:01.889-04:00So wait ... the sharpshooters weren't for me?<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I'm here! San Francisco (AKA Heaven - duh!) has greeted Mike and I with 70 degrees and humidity. Seriously. I lived here my whole life and honestly didn't know what "humid" meant until I moved to the East Coast. Because it is not supposed to <i>be</i> humid here. Until, of course, I return to run a freaking marathon and all of a sudden my hair frizzes up 23 seconds off the plane.</div></div><div><div><br /></div><div>Awesome.</div><div><br /></div><div>But sticky weather aside, I am <i>so</i> excited!</div><div><br /></div><div>Mike and I dropped our bags at the hotel and I immediately hit the Nike Women's Expotique. Fancy shmance name for Nike trying to hawk their wares and the sponsors trying to get your info for future marketing opps. (Damn, when did I get so cynical?)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo, Union Square is draped in all things NWM and it is absolutely heart-stopping. Okay, maybe that's dramatic for anyone not running but I swear I got chills when I walked up to it.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGoPQ88WW-gzd-Yd_h4WWSDrNx04eubtyN7HQu2kXn2ueedpYSLNQ3FDbvQQckOfbA7RfaMYheZdvUwk-ObpyY6ACSHHdlFnEYKWvkyfDhHx_bkiP4H-JgzEzG9tbjz_K-c5tqaF7w2be-/s1600-h/IMG_2213.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGoPQ88WW-gzd-Yd_h4WWSDrNx04eubtyN7HQu2kXn2ueedpYSLNQ3FDbvQQckOfbA7RfaMYheZdvUwk-ObpyY6ACSHHdlFnEYKWvkyfDhHx_bkiP4H-JgzEzG9tbjz_K-c5tqaF7w2be-/s400/IMG_2213.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393249751200821010" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mEgYdtP7my3Yf8BMSylKn2aBZ7wHzVyOo9nLU132Uy-CQj3LljCDrciwTUHnFf6CppqO1nvzeYOuM9i_0lsDQy2Q4e00qzDD_TuRTWriPvNscuoFOfcuHueYjgH48H0kUBO_Nd9-oB24/s1600-h/IMG_2211.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mEgYdtP7my3Yf8BMSylKn2aBZ7wHzVyOo9nLU132Uy-CQj3LljCDrciwTUHnFf6CppqO1nvzeYOuM9i_0lsDQy2Q4e00qzDD_TuRTWriPvNscuoFOfcuHueYjgH48H0kUBO_Nd9-oB24/s400/IMG_2211.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393249741308025778" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbl-q8H1aZdMh_uPsyw8Gjv78roHdj8dNbirG4E8C7dJRTfpsHKqCUmtPu3Bx1vtKoyF7smGdkCqBAz9INnsUhs711TBqvC6DOCdbIUxErs4TR6_SS4v3525H-uZOvf1LZe4F-vv8Ud4gY/s1600-h/IMG_2209.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbl-q8H1aZdMh_uPsyw8Gjv78roHdj8dNbirG4E8C7dJRTfpsHKqCUmtPu3Bx1vtKoyF7smGdkCqBAz9INnsUhs711TBqvC6DOCdbIUxErs4TR6_SS4v3525H-uZOvf1LZe4F-vv8Ud4gY/s400/IMG_2209.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393249733950434482" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwedgUz95RC-5gC2Ed__C64dVUbQTisvToeLVbcbiJ8Q3M9_EcvtYg4dgO5x8rcHse-b-2VbK4U8OrPCQArE0W8fE7ZrLTOKvi3Qp7xXu-cbBwnGfjnUIUpqg71yGvLywsJk2ZJQVktV7P/s1600-h/IMG_2208.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwedgUz95RC-5gC2Ed__C64dVUbQTisvToeLVbcbiJ8Q3M9_EcvtYg4dgO5x8rcHse-b-2VbK4U8OrPCQArE0W8fE7ZrLTOKvi3Qp7xXu-cbBwnGfjnUIUpqg71yGvLywsJk2ZJQVktV7P/s400/IMG_2208.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393249721438846066" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSce620htF1BjH_o1qfRCjLQhD01Vo4UmIgWHtly8aIEe6NBYCb5RqHmcrSb66uS2IooqRSNwRJ01YCzwpQCvvm9Q56f_ngYKD8t5Dmt996SF6oY8Ld6Cl_TU7WKKfWIjUoizsXuYksZE/s1600-h/IMG_2206.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSce620htF1BjH_o1qfRCjLQhD01Vo4UmIgWHtly8aIEe6NBYCb5RqHmcrSb66uS2IooqRSNwRJ01YCzwpQCvvm9Q56f_ngYKD8t5Dmt996SF6oY8Ld6Cl_TU7WKKfWIjUoizsXuYksZE/s400/IMG_2206.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393249713582091666" /></a><br /><div>So as I'm walking up to it, I notice huge crowds of protesters holding signs:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoHOSd5hizGoBGQBQPRa_MLLSqXozjImbAA5ruTFCZimfJphVJgeZz25SQXA-9ejMkqXSeC5Xv1gKsWoxGAMuxfdgdOHZPb_TXVYiC2JblEhB7ASCXNMRZD6jPwWPQwyWmh0zh5NDywXqo/s400/IMG_2217.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393252696351507986" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgte8CSVui1LWjaQFLLmon9KogFUtPLPeMbkaEgpyM-A4dOO1DLtgZRHPrrLJgwoZa0fPXg58MZAThHHpq9pTEbzzj_GXYaCHMnT9qwOYco8umuJLxGJg4gddcH6cwnvuGlIg32-6nAFah/s400/IMG_2216.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393252686356427410" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Pissed off about everything from swine flu immunization (it'll kill you!) to Ellen as the new American Idol judge (it'll kill you!). I mean, it's San Francisco so they protest <i>everything</i>, but as I walked up I was like, "Come ON ... you can't really be protesting 20,000 women running a marathon to benefit the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Really?"</div><div><br /></div><div>No Cindy, not really.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was what Mike would like to refer to as a Cindyism, where I am completely convinced that everything going on at that moment anywhere in the world has to do with whatever I am doing.</div><div><br /></div><div>So yeah, the President was at the hotel 30 feet from the expo.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thus the cops, the sharpshooters and the circling choppers:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkh-_VqlYWZ-AwRXBe_JKEtPiJuwwAab4RlQVlL-HuTni6ecqp1OjlfIAYLdEyDxABglX95Z_PuNQHMza0a9G7drf5-rP9AsWh5Xeql8npV1d_R8k8O4fMP0mKXXe60mR0QO_EK7uNC7MJ/s400/IMG_2228.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393257409020614818" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I had a great time at the expo, due largely in part to hooking up with an old friend. Gina is a high school friend and we hadn't seen each other in over 20 years. We reconnected on Facebook (um, how else?) about a year ago and we stay in pretty good contact. I've been harassing her more lately because she's a runner and a big TNTer, having run the NWM last year and running the half this year.</div><div><br /></div><div>So while we really wanted to meet at Neiman's at the Rotunda for gin and tonics, we were disciplined and simply met in line at the expo. I hadn't seen this girl in decades but spotted her immediately because she looks exactly the same. I have a word for women like that.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfrgFT4AMoFV1_tD_S5QxH5YximBGjkWAfgTIdaH26UX5JnQuobUcqzFvwL-eSEXFEsDCZlvswWtRigCdrY0Lmmn3Evu2VXM2y_omcd8_fFaWxPs7XtuksTHGWxfpaqHqpodo5emJMfRuT/s400/IMG_2218.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393252708757254114" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>It was "Ladies Night," which translated into a drink ticket we promptly turned in for margaritas, free facial products made from carrots (San Francisco!) and munchies from Safeway (mmm, cookies). But there was that whole hawking your wares thing going on and when we saw a couple of dudes pedaling bikes with blenders on the front of them:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHMi3_fAEeQh-Im9AiuAK43S4C23p05lECo226r6pk6piPgaaXwswY7Rzq8vfEYNXnNiePqgT25K7Hf6W1aXmOgcqPPT3cbT9a54NpC0Iv6Xie7_9t-HT2HkDm3EUs_34X80foSDMIfa1e/s400/IMG_2222.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393252716763100450" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>(By the way, this dude? Looooooooved Gina), we knew we had to try it . See, they were making smoothies on the front of them. So ...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyR_NT3syeelLpLLz_bQD4HpGcusDgFeefHVxIUqhl9pLpe0J3pSEoKOTr6Q5KnpMs3HBn96L1OEkJIu2gsbuMO98rRP94-AJUo17ncr1HtazylFGG2YkdJtwebmXI9hzeE1XEgXGOutqr/s400/IMG_2237.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393257396288771762" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, we remembered at that moment that our friendship was largely based on public humiliation of one another and it was comforting to know that not much had changed. Also something that hadn't changed? Gina is quite the fashionista who really doesn't mind getting on a spin bike wearing $400 flats:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1SA9LVnTaQKIQAuNvVp2dkuyAnvuAVNkUGHkix2q2bG2mjYA-vvbYJyzfJEjGk0sKdCuOj7lkZIBMn8QyTjo58cqKVFmPV2A7QWTSsdsgVBfHvf3LFbLGCG8uSnSixNxlcImo0bWf5kq/s400/IMG_2234.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393257386633057202" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Oh but the smoothies she whipped up while on the bike? Strawberries, yogurt, bananas, some sort of power protein ... </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#551A8B;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTR9wbRHJ197s-QY1H28yUBhyrN_SVtwMFUpIqX0PSBfJqrdSn2ooTrVBshtO-vjDaq3TD7zgwl1Xl9nkc4KBpetgBPvOtFsdVvLUE5ys0glTOPbUbdeWGJeUkinf482A2H8uI9D0KtDe3/s400/IMG_2240.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393257417513591906" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">... as Gina put it (after I tossed mine in the garbage), had the consistency of vomit. Yeah, they weren't so good. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>But it was great for the newbie I am to excitedly get my bib (my number is 3819 - doesn't that sound lucky?!) and feed off the energy of all those strong women who will be running next to, in front of and (hopefully many of them!) in back of me. I think I had this smile the entire time I walked through the expo:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwDvpjTrGByPDI9HvPKVL5rrJt8uCmNgUXrbmlYk0Q3stjpUqUyAA7DAHuLcbjkchqFrMQI8LuUKYkQ-HAnEOYL4lttomh8M6ApCjI7rSdYW5Ewntaultb_EdN1Ra-5MX_Qp6dMX-RkUve/s400/IMG_2245.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393262008591169954" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, we had to make a trip to Niketown, where we were more entranced for whatever reason (oh, I have one: a single margarita after a two-week dry period = Buzzville) with the mannequins:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(85, 26, 139); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWGmecdOdSjNqU12NpR5f9EeVcVcpGRBX4_pPh_rzv9Y6KoRyWX05-8e1vtjOlhjojsJI396BMWIR2mvwixAg6sT9zRdqXM61mn8JnY268VNYbLUWHp7semJT7haxhIIEJc4-ACYNc_Om/s400/IMG_2247.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393261978547658642" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SNEtmBCTC9RRpCxhqKPFxF3RmI-pUo7p-hXq80Nk-L9922XO7G8Nu-rc0EJ5IMPJRqN1t77gcqTu8-fLG-AFa8-63im6dzN4s2XosadCwivpR6K_m3NOPbVafdM9UC0dB3iM6OoGPAb-/s400/IMG_2249.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393257418656923410" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>And being that Nike is the sponsor of this shindig, there are tributes to runners everywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7SwPEqxwlFzDwOfcYX1NAaIliD-6Hvl378xuKD0ZAj-n0w6KZ7C993CFkbOVAYAfFJpU7mhMiydpnL83xUHZDygWmyCby1oAUb4BRxpjJMhS0D-PWihpH5C5ok9umByGs6RbgYK6Z8YE/s1600-h/IMG_2250.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7SwPEqxwlFzDwOfcYX1NAaIliD-6Hvl378xuKD0ZAj-n0w6KZ7C993CFkbOVAYAfFJpU7mhMiydpnL83xUHZDygWmyCby1oAUb4BRxpjJMhS0D-PWihpH5C5ok9umByGs6RbgYK6Z8YE/s400/IMG_2250.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393261980082712082" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>It's so awe-inspiring and seeing all the LLS and TNT references everywhere nearly brought tears to my eyes. I honestly could not imagine doing a better marathon that this.</div><div><br /></div><div>I left Gina at the expo and met up with Mike and our good friends Ken and Kerry for dinner. This is the only blurry picture I have from that nice get-together since everyone groaned when I took out the camera (Really? Am I <i>that</i> annoying? Suck it up, people) and Kerry immediately announced that she could not be in pictures that night because she had "moist hair." (See? People in San Francisco are ill-equipped to deal with humidity.)</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakzc1pdGIRnrxJqTsFB7A5uIhJ9PnMivTfBFo2im0D37XU1C3Go6SQh_Mg0HrOMmJ0tQ5FRfLpsSbpxKS4JZMlm5bFigYctmXVoXfxrvc_y_F81uoWqqeZPzZyXzHMX_u2SEIHJugBPYW/s400/IMG_2260.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393261998750664562" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>It was a terrific end to an exciting day, just the start of a weekend full of possibility. We got great news today that our friend Walter will also be joining us, so be prepared for the pictures to get wierd. And anyone who knows W will understand what that means.</div><div><br /></div><div>More from the front lines later ... but for now, I have to check in with my Secret Service detail.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-48717659581960516682009-10-14T23:04:00.022-04:002009-10-15T14:07:49.344-04:00It was a week full of "lasts."<div><br /></div><div>That will lead into a weekend of firsts.</div><div><br /></div><div>I admit I've been a bit neglectful, my dear readers. And this latest entry is being pounded out as I sit at the gate at JFK waiting for my flight to San Francisco. But this week has been full of emotion and every time I sit down at the computer to share it with you, my entire body vibrates with energy and I have to turn my attention to something else.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or I've just been lazy. Your pick.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here we are. Five months of training and begging for money have finally come to this. Oh and on the money front, we totally kicked it. Remember the Walter Challenge? I was like a grand away from my personal goal of five large when two of my favorite families stepped in. First, my brother's family (including nephews Dominic, Anthony and Vincent with whom I can only communicate via text message and who make a career of rolling their eyes at everything I say. But I love 'em something awful); then my second family, also known as the Loud Boisterous Often Drunken But Fun And Loving Meaghers. They brought me to my personal goal of $5,000 raised for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and I'm pretty sure I got misty when I got the notifications in my email.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now I get a TNT duffel bag. </div><div><br /></div><div>But let me get you up to date on the week or so of lasts. </div><div><br /></div><div>Babs, Elkin, Javi and I spent one of our last Tuesdays together with a post-workout celebratory chocolate milk. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWaAFyqPNFWqOGS_sbWQWW_mZWosd1ji2eLXAskY7LMH0kPC3ILypRAiUyGwcGiFAKUq4uW-Nu3qq4bJfx1n3IQwrKR5g9fTDN0yFyMEJf32gTRZr0PJRc-PoxloBbnrd07vye92Y3_hjZ/s400/IMG_2144.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392659468627731042" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Honestly, it's supposed to be awesome after a hard run and I am JUST now doing it? Hello? How did that happen? A green light for chocolatey goodness and I come in on the tail end?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpVoTobEcLqNNuXzIQ3KbTCF4JQbTrafpfKRAH-j9eM5H-g6HSLAAM74pPiEjUykvRC-5bnJJDtUAdBF-6cAcRfa7OciyTqzTD6uINdYAMuSsUX8zSyPtdfK4xKKDmeFesDJOYVFQnUKI/s400/IMG_2145.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392659478422770834" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Babs showed us her multi-talentedness by blowing bubbles to make it look like she had a full glass.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6fewAQ_qIdTF57fPGKee7xJAOz2kXmnZB-HBVOk_65gjMnw2E5mThF8OA0guwm6QQzpOg7KerOwP5n4KGHsSlTwnOmUpRcSa0fs5Bt6xBKe_yqniFy6k2XUev6G0g99RYABeLUP6XdQxJ/s400/IMG_2147.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392659488085993266" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Okay, so the taper was in full force and we were trying to not be too analytical about anything (thus the bubble blowing). That was Ramon's job, who spent our last Saturday practice in the park giving us a mile-by-mile analysis of the race course:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62X94FvyqevIZpLHoC_AEvRwr5mNumJjRa2NTgrDHZRR4hm3phFwFVW_nKpVIPMF8bNMuQ05FiukVLN-1t8FqrGl6MxW1GozKARRfOrM6Ta78lPleIM-ejNh6xgu9IKPUY2mi5xdmQQcK/s400/IMG_2149.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392659496176547250" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>It was incredibly informative and I find myself hanging on every word that comes out of Ramon's mouth. Like when he said Mile 6 was a hill. See, Ramon doesn't think <i>anything </i>is a hill. Like Cat Hill or Harlem Hill in CP? I chug. I heave. I feel it in my quads. He strides easily with a steaming hot cup of coffee in his hand, passing us left and right and chiding us for not tiki-tiki-ing. So when he said in his oh-so-awesome Spanglish that I will miss so much, "Iiiis a hill, not gonna lie. Eeeeven by my standarsss, iiiis a hill. Iiiiis gonna suck."</div><div><br /></div><div>Iiiis gonna suck. Awesome. </div><div><br /></div><div>So that night, I joined a girlfriend of mine who was in town from LA for a friend's 40th. I thought a night out might be just what I needed to ease the nerves. A nice, calm night with mature women; an opportunity to sip a glass of wine and chit chat about the healthcare crisis and the state of nuclear disarmament in North Korea.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifmBU0-b09y0DgS11uuxR62VXiKCU5nV5qqSUVuR85dY-x_FGmnyz8B8QCaXESmJPNBgbkG5EzQ8m1Gt_Hs4-enBVYk6iL2LcpmS4LIGYE7tG5v4NgdkQI8b04ZNsUPAgQueByctmDUrxQ/s400/IMG_2164.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392660766200359218" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, that's my friend Kim's foot on my shoulder. </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnZjfbrdyqzY_U-jUdZIKR4CEryJM_102NG_o-Vydrb9b87BN1hEvYN2gaGVkBq-EoIWr9iQllkk7bRgxx6PPY637e0-TGlLiaDe-Yz-iVnuZvNXVGOZbc_XOba9f3LfoIpuxJK_K7Apr/s400/IMG_2187.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392660790645675810" border="0" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Okay so NPR's "All Things Considered" we were not. But honestly, it was Saturday night in the Meatpacking District. How often do I do this? </div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Lj1WxjF7lOsdt8R6rqnYgr5bDHCDlxRDhHGhWRcbYkertP-ouavVoUWKRguaooadNBMh8Vxa5X3WnwwDT0dCHuq6MkFY6h-yfPF0MlQ0kNLXyPv93AqhgWazKUvd1tIMH2LTSCZ3rFOV/s1600-h/IMG_2179.JPG"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8au7Cp2HAWyepuvo17OXA2vCn4A3ekqTJPahaBKbrsrCdRwyzhnSsTcNAEmXSiQHHDPfGbTm2xq_d_4MQSQKmmCQl9czMSlCnuNryalNlTIyMUmgHMl6StA5VYoeITsTDYW4JsP7xCUJK/s1600-h/IMG_2176.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8au7Cp2HAWyepuvo17OXA2vCn4A3ekqTJPahaBKbrsrCdRwyzhnSsTcNAEmXSiQHHDPfGbTm2xq_d_4MQSQKmmCQl9czMSlCnuNryalNlTIyMUmgHMl6StA5VYoeITsTDYW4JsP7xCUJK/s400/IMG_2176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392660772873811586" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>(I don't spend many Saturday nights in the Meatpacking anymore, so perhaps my moves were a little rusty. I won't dwell on getting waved off by the uppity door dude when I did a move toward my wallet to pull out my ID. I was walking in behind a line of <span style="font-style: italic; ">children </span>(all of about 23) whose IDs were being checked. I thought he was checking everyone. I think when he put his hand up and gave me a gentle shake of the head, I actually pulled my hand out of my purse and pushed it through my hair nonchalantly. And then when I walked past him I cursed him with every form of the f-bomb I could come up with. Did you know you could make it an adverb?)</div><div><br /></div><div>But it was a fun time, even when we took a sharp left to Cougartown and started chatting up the 23-year old boys next to us. After just two glasses of sangria, I was ready to leave, but it felt good to see my friend Kim and be a part of the social living again.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Lj1WxjF7lOsdt8R6rqnYgr5bDHCDlxRDhHGhWRcbYkertP-ouavVoUWKRguaooadNBMh8Vxa5X3WnwwDT0dCHuq6MkFY6h-yfPF0MlQ0kNLXyPv93AqhgWazKUvd1tIMH2LTSCZ3rFOV/s400/IMG_2179.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392660781805383186" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">With Sunday came the realization that this would be the last Sunday I spent as a non-marathoner. (Oh, this week has been full of those: the last Monday morning I brush my teeth as a non-marathoner. The last Wednesday at 2:00 that I eat lunch at my desk as a non-marathoner.) </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I had my last team practice in CP on Tuesday. The last Tuesday night I would run with Elkin and Barb. And actually, we didn't even have Elkin. Our workout was just a 40-minute easy run through the park; this week is all about keeping the legs loose and not overdoing anything. But Elk is still a couple weeks away from away NY and that part of our team is still working on pacing. So Tuesday, it was Babs and I. For the Three Amigos, it felt a bit like a forced breakup. Like the court has ordered we stay away from one another, even though we know we're better together.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We had our final run on a chilly October evening. I was running with Babs, Joanne, Rose and a few of the other SF gals and we excitedly talked about packing (have overpacked with way too many fun going out shirts, as per usual), race day hair (oh yeah, chicks design styles for race day. I am a single ponytail girl myself but I've seen hair get elaborate, yo! Like Princess Leah and everything!) and misbehaving. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">("Misbehaving" is Ramon's catch-all for everything fun we give up when we're training. While Ramon is the most talented top-tier and renowned coach anyone could be fortunate to have in her corner when training for a marathon, he is also reportedly one of the most talented top-tier misbehavors around. And misbehaving is mandatory with TNT, which means after crossing the finish line Sunday, the parties only stop when we are forced to go through security at the airport to get back to New York. It's comforting to know that we play as hard as we train.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But with our group whittled down to just the SF girls, I think all of us felt a little closer to one another when we ended our short run. After all, we were about to trek across the country together and do something only 1% of the population does. (No, not raise ferrets. Run a marathon.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaKNSZ6Tgodyqr2whkdFA-ALXhE3dGYvE9ykNkhYr9lUGKwqevRgsTnoqL7mVToLhNb9eMp14WAo4J3VtSW_6xqsmHG_qZFh8uokUaeWu5lilYKFXskbO4NRBqD1xWpvNBvNSfkrkBZVkc/s400/IMG_2194.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392657789834512946" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif2EdLVjwr90lstJpE9Cpvf750F4CMU2mGF-G9a-oet5V0eWwtkdY-tkJ9VR4NgqVG5Gsq7PcJpnXwO2odaC8fIrtDk3atdPyHCRJrM0Tm30131IQsSsoF1X6RnJaOKRYDlRiJ4WmdGWpg/s400/IMG_2195.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392657798464211746" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My mentor Shari did not run in this nice suit. She was bag-watcher Tuesday night:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWaAFyqPNFWqOGS_sbWQWW_mZWosd1ji2eLXAskY7LMH0kPC3ILypRAiUyGwcGiFAKUq4uW-Nu3qq4bJfx1n3IQwrKR5g9fTDN0yFyMEJf32gTRZr0PJRc-PoxloBbnrd07vye92Y3_hjZ/s1600-h/IMG_2144.JPG"><br /></a></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhic87w8oz4OULZKOj3oLc-Iq7BXhyyy1h_UzBCwwXD-0L40c9P6a3bEXgVDpl97CN-_r5dSkpqPsENjpJc2ve786Z6NO7cMANisVyQ9B8Ql8IRSO2Xq7gm19hwpZXa2Aj3D3AV87EFcenq/s1600-h/IMG_2203.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhic87w8oz4OULZKOj3oLc-Iq7BXhyyy1h_UzBCwwXD-0L40c9P6a3bEXgVDpl97CN-_r5dSkpqPsENjpJc2ve786Z6NO7cMANisVyQ9B8Ql8IRSO2Xq7gm19hwpZXa2Aj3D3AV87EFcenq/s400/IMG_2203.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392658395017374786" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>Since we finished pretty quickly, Babs and I hung around and waited for Elkin to finish with the New York group. We were sad:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg326-4rXh8xHi9HXX3MlJveFkdn4k_bxcqen9xUeKnbpX7BJS6WJfkaaD8tf1OkBFzear12GUSepayWbSUMnvmXH7u2YMiWgfVA2ki32vnLR1XSiwWpnfmtIj6FPYhwtgnmbVfm3CM_qAG/s400/IMG_2200.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392658352932791554" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But it was great that we all made it out for our last Tuesday together:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVK3C4HJ5iK1SXYhfbSULizllFTwBBBgHoR_kekPH7AgKZ1pyx6EcOJyJ6cry42hlQgyv90w1hTBwlNQNhW94gvgVh0ZfY9RHmaVG3yaaGfHz7fY_JrGRg-fMaiA8ikfLt8tIfU3HqVBn/s400/IMG_2198.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392657819434085314" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>So thus began the week of "lasts." The last time I would take this picture:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoW3osBtypbY4SSh2sbSaQ0LkTx89qFN6-a6ZBEXopFXg15KPTKe3GvkYYl-pqBttf4g1Y1kj4hSosyEJRoQ9sujuNwtuodCNBCF_M_EqUE1LLeYIY4cVmLWSUzHLAF8sQzzRhXa92ngJJ/s400/IMG_2201.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392658361003914738" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Hee hee hee hee hee ... this gets me EVERY time! </div><div><br /></div><div>And the last time we'd all be together with Ramon asking one of us where the others are:</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSrzuqpfmjVFHQr_vz44PSuy9NvNH0nkUzTUpzHdT2Qcfj5xNN_1vW6z8uxot-S7K2BBtAyHr0hww1g33g7-Narqf2E14z6Im45dKX-KwniZoSNHvwD-mRoj2oM7tSP68JbuLaJWBdCa-W/s1600-h/IMG_2202.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSrzuqpfmjVFHQr_vz44PSuy9NvNH0nkUzTUpzHdT2Qcfj5xNN_1vW6z8uxot-S7K2BBtAyHr0hww1g33g7-Narqf2E14z6Im45dKX-KwniZoSNHvwD-mRoj2oM7tSP68JbuLaJWBdCa-W/s400/IMG_2202.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392658369786646034" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">See, something funny happened during our time together that we didn't realize until very recently. Babs, Elk and I became a team within a team. I mean, we knew that, but we didn't know that <i>other</i> people knew that. All of a sudden, random teammates would see me at a practice alone and look at me quizzically, asking "where are your peeps?" I laughingly mentioned that once to Babs and Elk, to which they responded the same thing had happened to them. After my solo long run, our friend and teammate Jenn remarked to me, "I felt so bad that you didn't have your people with you." My people. As if I was Moses leading my sweaty, Dry-fit clad posse through a war-torn Central Park. (Actually, that could totally happen, just not this time.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When we first found each other, it was a pleasant surprise when we'd run together on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I'd look for Elkin (he came first, then Babs) and when I saw him, we'd give a high-five and take off on our run. Eventually, we'd hang back on starting our runs until we were sure all three would be there to do it together. Toward the end, we checked in with each other daily via email, text or Facebook, and not all of our conversations had to do with our training.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In short, I've seen the accelerated progression of a friendship. Usually you watch friendship growing over time, looking back after five or ten years when you hit a milestone in your relationship. But we were practically BFF's (ok, stalker!) over a matter of days, sharing a monumental accomplishment that few understand. For Pete's sake, these guys practically know my bathroom routine. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I can't explain the conflict of emotion from Tuesday night. I felt closer to Babs than ever (oh my God, when did I turn into Single White Female?), so happy we'd be making the trip together and I'd have her - if not by my side at the finish - pretty damned close to me as we pick up those Tiffany necklaces.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoW3osBtypbY4SSh2sbSaQ0LkTx89qFN6-a6ZBEXopFXg15KPTKe3GvkYYl-pqBttf4g1Y1kj4hSosyEJRoQ9sujuNwtuodCNBCF_M_EqUE1LLeYIY4cVmLWSUzHLAF8sQzzRhXa92ngJJ/s1600-h/IMG_2201.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg326-4rXh8xHi9HXX3MlJveFkdn4k_bxcqen9xUeKnbpX7BJS6WJfkaaD8tf1OkBFzear12GUSepayWbSUMnvmXH7u2YMiWgfVA2ki32vnLR1XSiwWpnfmtIj6FPYhwtgnmbVfm3CM_qAG/s1600-h/IMG_2200.JPG"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeW-d7t3-1pfUs0ZwJ9oMO4Ah7GWiamBrlRu8ivuLG0M-Le2GZdfBSKU9G20zrU951JCwEhjAs5WcjFJcW0cYs957u73RpbtY7fxqMnyvkD9YPGHn4GtCnf97Dm0MB2rL5IQC1GXLTziW-/s1600-h/IMG_2199.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeW-d7t3-1pfUs0ZwJ9oMO4Ah7GWiamBrlRu8ivuLG0M-Le2GZdfBSKU9G20zrU951JCwEhjAs5WcjFJcW0cYs957u73RpbtY7fxqMnyvkD9YPGHn4GtCnf97Dm0MB2rL5IQC1GXLTziW-/s400/IMG_2199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392658346381668530" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div>But I'll admit as the three of us left each other at 86th Street - me headed to my apartment, my two friends headed downtown - I had a heavy heart. As I've said before, there will never be a first time. We all learned something new about ourselves - that we could do things like run 21 miles or plow up a steep hill 12 times in a row - and we learned it <i>together</i>. What an incredible gift to have them on either side of me. </div><div><br /></div><div>To my teammates Elkin and Barb, I wish you the best of luck in New York and San Francisco ... and thank you for making sure we never did half-sies. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVK3C4HJ5iK1SXYhfbSULizllFTwBBBgHoR_kekPH7AgKZ1pyx6EcOJyJ6cry42hlQgyv90w1hTBwlNQNhW94gvgVh0ZfY9RHmaVG3yaaGfHz7fY_JrGRg-fMaiA8ikfLt8tIfU3HqVBn/s1600-h/IMG_2198.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDXNmg9qMqlDQk1vn9o9dyE0avFJ_fSEWh60_zdHU5Lmv27fpHFII-_3QgXY40xZun6TP_Hjtc9ayB1ImF_jhtYGgg8G8WzHYWYX28dcTz-awif7KFzZOSgIokXb8ZKNuC8W27PXIXUVxt/s1600-h/IMG_2197.JPG"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGCLepqbIZrjPChorNu-S5y-ZwewNlQB1NwLMc8IYN116YjDLZwjv_l8g0XY8nw4PHwG5eEh5DkCmHfdUCOtYGmo9ug5i2lp9Omgd4bv1gXa5UNO2coVxRbTMvnAaviPq2EQVnGBCig7g/s1600-h/IMG_2196.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGCLepqbIZrjPChorNu-S5y-ZwewNlQB1NwLMc8IYN116YjDLZwjv_l8g0XY8nw4PHwG5eEh5DkCmHfdUCOtYGmo9ug5i2lp9Omgd4bv1gXa5UNO2coVxRbTMvnAaviPq2EQVnGBCig7g/s400/IMG_2196.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392657804925466306" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif2EdLVjwr90lstJpE9Cpvf750F4CMU2mGF-G9a-oet5V0eWwtkdY-tkJ9VR4NgqVG5Gsq7PcJpnXwO2odaC8fIrtDk3atdPyHCRJrM0Tm30131IQsSsoF1X6RnJaOKRYDlRiJ4WmdGWpg/s1600-h/IMG_2195.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7206500665033364165.post-5415290591549753622009-10-04T11:52:00.015-04:002009-10-06T12:15:16.427-04:00One is the loneliest number.Especially when there is a "15" next to it.<div><br /></div><div>As in ... 15 miles, all by yourself. Alone. No one else.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's how it went down: we found out earlier in the week that the team was going to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Hartsdale</span>, NY. For me, anything that is over a bridge, through a tunnel, or frankly, requires any mode of transportation other than my feet or the subway is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">waaaaaaaaay</span> too far. (And even the subway is pushing it, since you can easily find yourself in, gasp, another borough.)</div><div><br /></div><div>A quick calculation found that by the time we took the train there, ran for three hours, stretched and took the train back, I probably wouldn't make it back home before 1:00. I had a day of catching up planned and knew from experience that I would need rest time and that a late arrival would throw me all off. I mean, who wants to move back martini time from 5:00 to 7:00? That's simply not civilized.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Jenn had emailed me to say she was forgoing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Hartsdale</span> to run on Sunday instead and I started thinking my other buddies weren't making the trek. So I signaled the troops. Told <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Elkin</span>, Barb and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Javi</span> I was staying in the city. Sure enough, Barb was headed to Staten Island with the family for the weekend and was planning a solo run there. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Elkin</span> had had a busy week and messaged me Friday night to say he'd stay in the city with me. We'd meet at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">CP</span> at 7:30am. I mapped out a run that would take us out of the park.</div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't have the best of Friday nights. I had planned on hitting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Niketown</span> after work to buy new running shoes so I'd have them to break in on Saturday. I was never a Nike fan for running shoes but I've really grown to love the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Vomero</span> 4's for my long runs. I've been wearing the men's version:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4JbVlIO17IsAzi1TdFPqSkF1Y785jxig1_FRtYw5WUoSZu0uX4s9oHWsTN6jO1FfwooomcqDAam0F1crji6Cj_DVI5rVXIFDCtG4ohObumU1Ey0sIR3E0f-xNBMYzcAqTOJsogPJVY3Z/s1600-h/nike-zoom-vomero-4-mens.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4JbVlIO17IsAzi1TdFPqSkF1Y785jxig1_FRtYw5WUoSZu0uX4s9oHWsTN6jO1FfwooomcqDAam0F1crji6Cj_DVI5rVXIFDCtG4ohObumU1Ey0sIR3E0f-xNBMYzcAqTOJsogPJVY3Z/s400/nike-zoom-vomero-4-mens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389499676875663858" border="0" /></a>My girlish pride aside, they are, indeed, structured differently than the women's. But no one - and I mean NO ONE seems to carry my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Sasquatchian</span> size 12's (thus the dude's version), so I have to brave the tourist nightmare known as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Niketown</span> on 57<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">th</span> Street. Or so I thought I would. Didn't get there in time, so no shoes for me. Then by the time I got home it was nearly 9:00 and too late to cook. So my pasta was delivery. Didn't get my running clothes in the washer early enough ... ugh, all around a suck evening.<br /><br />But I still got up on Saturday and did my routine in order to meet <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Elkin</span> at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">CP</span> at 7:30. And at 7:00 when I checked my phone, knowing full well he was going to cancel ... sure enough, he had. It wasn't too late to get to Grand Central to catch the train to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Hartsdale</span> but by that time, my heart wasn't in it. I felt like a stranger to my routine and I couldn't get my stride.<br /><br />I got out the door, determined to bang out those 15 miles, with or without my comrades. When I hit <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">CP</span>, this is what I found:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1ajrJY4I67AsiEQqbIP0Oh65NENztVor3ypLp81jecWEHjAN7OogcV0qbr4umnBXFrbH7KP-z3OxWoTnJ9NoWwde9Z1W1Ks0gu3aHmqJXcrEWLDijCLmVAynviRHFxomK3AFDxlF3bUB/s1600-h/october+2009+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1ajrJY4I67AsiEQqbIP0Oh65NENztVor3ypLp81jecWEHjAN7OogcV0qbr4umnBXFrbH7KP-z3OxWoTnJ9NoWwde9Z1W1Ks0gu3aHmqJXcrEWLDijCLmVAynviRHFxomK3AFDxlF3bUB/s400/october+2009+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389244859267964034" border="0" /></a><br />Total chaos as there was a half-marathon going on. To boot, it was to celebrate the Norwegian Festival. This race was called "Grete's Great Gallop." Crap. Once again, I have failed my ancestors. (Sorry, Tina!) I scooted around the racers, non-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Gallopers</span> banished to a six-inch shoulder on the side of the loop. I headed south and then west, making it to the West Side Highway where I headed north along the river.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCI-F1joDK2P0tAkb9FB4OQv49JAnXi_7dAz6OR_b4KmxXhTXwvgTP7M9Y_LYsNnsQPN9X6nf4fXerTaFWnfjkOthKWroO-Jd4argunkusQ3Y36dcJ8FvRrK2GB5Ey_PCd7Z7FeO6pS76/s1600-h/october+2009+002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCI-F1joDK2P0tAkb9FB4OQv49JAnXi_7dAz6OR_b4KmxXhTXwvgTP7M9Y_LYsNnsQPN9X6nf4fXerTaFWnfjkOthKWroO-Jd4argunkusQ3Y36dcJ8FvRrK2GB5Ey_PCd7Z7FeO6pS76/s400/october+2009+002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389244863269507586" border="0" /></a><br />It was humid out, yet still comfortable. Eerily quiet, yet completely peaceful. I settled in, not happy about being solo, yet all right with just taking in the scenery of a route I hadn't yet taken. I justified being alone, telling myself that although Barb and I may start our marathon together, chances are good that we will pull away from each other at some point. I tried to relax, knowing that a stressful run is automatically a suck run. The river next to me - granted, that's Jersey over yonder so Lord only knows what's floating in it - offered some serenity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lms0zZ6PGNcVZxt7yIkFhB1DyVID4poPTEOU52nsOyZBFVNITceaDC48m3pROdhRdf37BbaR4Hkm04W5ONVDRr_ENbytCVUXJbc4z0dBN1KKsqkVYPY8Hj2H7z22egG9OqCnIZSH5OYz/s1600-h/october+2009+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1lms0zZ6PGNcVZxt7yIkFhB1DyVID4poPTEOU52nsOyZBFVNITceaDC48m3pROdhRdf37BbaR4Hkm04W5ONVDRr_ENbytCVUXJbc4z0dBN1KKsqkVYPY8Hj2H7z22egG9OqCnIZSH5OYz/s400/october+2009+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389244873950078690" border="0" /></a><br />And hello? I've been in New York for 11 years and have never visited the walkway where they filmed that cute scene in "You've Got Mail." You know, where Meg Ryan meets up with Tom Hanks and his dog? With all the flowers? Here:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhReYeQyWnCIPHO_ZBZZu2m6F0aKCWp78uQ4K8oIRACjaoPqd7mKNTKijik2-XBIXusYubydLHzHspSV0J2asR_OTdH08h1V5aBX4H59eiMuk-7Zp6Q2QXTv_UDcRIMHyiUa5x-HOPS8q4w/s1600-h/october+2009+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhReYeQyWnCIPHO_ZBZZu2m6F0aKCWp78uQ4K8oIRACjaoPqd7mKNTKijik2-XBIXusYubydLHzHspSV0J2asR_OTdH08h1V5aBX4H59eiMuk-7Zp6Q2QXTv_UDcRIMHyiUa5x-HOPS8q4w/s400/october+2009+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389244885584490018" border="0" /></a><br />Ooh, and loved this sign. Look closely. "GO SLOW" it says. Hey sign! Bite me!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiredoJyJYXHS2ZmHNAFi7F3t1QhZCrpYbFxxZzPL75GYHlxi186cSjTKewz2l-Mxy7macQEHxICZt0somTQnjQoTjAnlt1wRLqekFBZQM4jRk5GoW0_iV9nt0VJc0p6bs6ovZtBqxDH9FN/s1600-h/october+2009+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiredoJyJYXHS2ZmHNAFi7F3t1QhZCrpYbFxxZzPL75GYHlxi186cSjTKewz2l-Mxy7macQEHxICZt0somTQnjQoTjAnlt1wRLqekFBZQM4jRk5GoW0_iV9nt0VJc0p6bs6ovZtBqxDH9FN/s400/october+2009+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389244876721669506" border="0" /></a><br />As you can see, I occupied my time by snapping pictures and talking to signs. I was trying to embrace my solo run, talking through things in my mind, enjoying the music I had so meticulously chosen for my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Ipod</span> (nice mix of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Ludacris</span> and AC/DC, yo), and willing myself to chug through mile after mile. But dammit ... I was freaking bored. I mean, look ahead of me:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS8HdbCchuQI9ZJWeg8hneaYx5R1MvK31HVj6swl5Db9V6iu0vqf5J9lbGFo5-L0Sqyb0SxEDlc6KKrjEI1kmT80aUlZRTHRrkemZi1C8Vji-x9DL69vJuqB_H07arjbkEXbThHpHrQSDI/s1600-h/october+2009+008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS8HdbCchuQI9ZJWeg8hneaYx5R1MvK31HVj6swl5Db9V6iu0vqf5J9lbGFo5-L0Sqyb0SxEDlc6KKrjEI1kmT80aUlZRTHRrkemZi1C8Vji-x9DL69vJuqB_H07arjbkEXbThHpHrQSDI/s400/october+2009+008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389245258894819026" border="0" /></a><br />Nothing in front of or around me. Zip. Zilch. Nada. No cyclists yelling at me, no creepy park dwellers sitting in the shadows looking like they're ready to pounce, not even an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">oversized</span> rat wading out of the Hudson and lumbering across the path.<br /><br />At about mile 6, I stopped to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Gu</span>. (And if you have been reading my blog, you know that this is not something that requires a Porto-John.) I gulped down a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Tri</span>-Berry, said hello to a cute puppy passing by and looked out at the river.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6GAEoSL-L2soISqhy07fOyxQTrtsml5dYfWCddBB-DGBm1rDd1c4zpPY624hSTE_BijDdnANozjRrKS6Mtwx3OxeWhcgJOREh5M_MQ0uULH5jmHqiUFRUwnVoNUDwZoVPrrJcsBRqeBoT/s1600-h/october+2009+009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6GAEoSL-L2soISqhy07fOyxQTrtsml5dYfWCddBB-DGBm1rDd1c4zpPY624hSTE_BijDdnANozjRrKS6Mtwx3OxeWhcgJOREh5M_MQ0uULH5jmHqiUFRUwnVoNUDwZoVPrrJcsBRqeBoT/s400/october+2009+009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389245264125906674" border="0" /></a><br />I was going to need every ounce of strength and will to plug along for another 9 miles. I felt tired and the chattering to myself wasn't working. (In fact, all it was doing was making me question my own sanity since I went from using a mantra to having a full-blown dialogue with myself. Cray-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">zee</span>!) My motivation waned and my confidence was flagging. I took a few moments to snap pics of where I was - hey, look, it's Fairway!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOMCRmaNTKEfhTTvGX8hFd6mLRv-ZRFjo2NaVBatBWc5UxtW5fFLTKDUni6O9dWSb0WSG8Kxturblh_WBAkpVigG47bpn1V0de0alAKP_TGLDqEt_eO7LPObM7CF3iyUc0ZEFI1mlKatO/s1600-h/october+2009+011.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOMCRmaNTKEfhTTvGX8hFd6mLRv-ZRFjo2NaVBatBWc5UxtW5fFLTKDUni6O9dWSb0WSG8Kxturblh_WBAkpVigG47bpn1V0de0alAKP_TGLDqEt_eO7LPObM7CF3iyUc0ZEFI1mlKatO/s400/october+2009+011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389245282188211810" border="0" /></a><br />And then I looked up at the highway above me and snapped a pic of the billboards:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn-MRGsUvVuYQE1bqGyBnYdpV-FIrKUNXPfSESNw6P3mXBgM3V93GnY_wM54ir61_Fj5MizFBTQjPpWcWc3EdTjLRpUG22jFc7qukpWiEKZZWCZGVK8d9wdhTI21hT9MqIuyCBCoM-jf5F/s1600-h/october+2009+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn-MRGsUvVuYQE1bqGyBnYdpV-FIrKUNXPfSESNw6P3mXBgM3V93GnY_wM54ir61_Fj5MizFBTQjPpWcWc3EdTjLRpUG22jFc7qukpWiEKZZWCZGVK8d9wdhTI21hT9MqIuyCBCoM-jf5F/s400/october+2009+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389245272771722530" border="0" /></a><br />Then I saw what I had just snapped. Look closely (I helped you out and blew it up):<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn-nSlb8N3h6A319DWgZTaFLOZiC7TQ5iPhmXBHmFqEpTlWwbnIUMhkipfVQtOjDPC8igoJMtx_1Ht50dNoH1b7P5t2PcTCCvFUHV9fqs9Ss_Ug2uFqQr7Zn358dP8aUGGrgL1b9-NJmd/s1600-h/october+2009+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn-nSlb8N3h6A319DWgZTaFLOZiC7TQ5iPhmXBHmFqEpTlWwbnIUMhkipfVQtOjDPC8igoJMtx_1Ht50dNoH1b7P5t2PcTCCvFUHV9fqs9Ss_Ug2uFqQr7Zn358dP8aUGGrgL1b9-NJmd/s400/october+2009+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389506614289323634" border="0" /></a><br />Okay, so it was probably something about being ready for H1N1 to hit Manhattan full force. But <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">OMG</span>. The Billboard Gods were totally speaking to me. And I think they were saying: "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">CIN</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">DEEEEEE</span>! YOU MUST KEEP MOVING! IF YOU DON'T YOU WON'T BE ... PREPARED!" (They were also telling me that Fox News Channel is "Fair and Balanced," that Wendy's has a Dollar Menu special right now and that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Centerfold's</span> on 11<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">th</span> Avenue is your go-to joint for the "Classiest Topless Girls." But this was the only one I was listening to.)<br /><br />Now, I'm not sure Billboard Gods really exist, but I also read my horoscope every day (only in the NY Post, though. Sally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Brompton</span> speaks to me, man. Forget "Capricorn," the header for my horoscope should just be "Cindy"). My point here? I am so willing to believe in signs everywhere around us.<br /><br />Okay, look. Whatever works, right? It was enough to propel me for the next nine miles. As I am a big fan of the mantra, I just started reminding myself ... "preparedness." I'll admit, I stopped a couple of times. Easier to do when you're alone, I suppose, but I didn't walk it. In fact, when I got to a San Francisco-worthy hill, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">tiki</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">tiki'd</span> my way to the top. (My fellow Ramon scholars will understand what that means).<br /><br />Footnote: at the bottom of this hill was the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">skeeviest</span> junkie encampment I've seen aside from our time under the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">GW</span> Bridge, so my hill run had something to do with saving my own sheltered suburban buttocks:<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAo1dsuYxsLyMo9-9M7Z4OXaxw5g8ZT4VrSQk6F6Une9CaJUXSWM6nFy0X2aN3dEnzxRwOpFdeMaOuKb3zC-PZ_nedxr8GimyNMVZVfZpCgsQUFDV0DTAlHl4MAT1k28qBUVKcCSyLzEk/s1600-h/october+2009+014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAo1dsuYxsLyMo9-9M7Z4OXaxw5g8ZT4VrSQk6F6Une9CaJUXSWM6nFy0X2aN3dEnzxRwOpFdeMaOuKb3zC-PZ_nedxr8GimyNMVZVfZpCgsQUFDV0DTAlHl4MAT1k28qBUVKcCSyLzEk/s400/october+2009+014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389245382272798402" border="0" /></a><br />It was a hard 15 miles, but I scooted down Riverside Drive, back into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">CP</span> (half-marathon was STILL going on ... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">WTF</span>?) and headed east toward my apartment. All in all, a tough run but I felt pretty good that I plugged along on my own.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcMMK64vI90zB7yH5xngc9irR5zfOBtrnHwEYP9T9CDO7dSJPTOlJSv_QVU_GGWWP75sbPQekbaL3B4S6Ltu8o-S1ykGfNUamdKVB6Z9MhxqCIFuvH9NamhJ5ZNsm_99IjMC7UHeJYr5Ql/s1600-h/october+2009+013.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcMMK64vI90zB7yH5xngc9irR5zfOBtrnHwEYP9T9CDO7dSJPTOlJSv_QVU_GGWWP75sbPQekbaL3B4S6Ltu8o-S1ykGfNUamdKVB6Z9MhxqCIFuvH9NamhJ5ZNsm_99IjMC7UHeJYr5Ql/s400/october+2009+013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389515611623725618" border="0" /></a><br />The next day, I treated Mike to a two-hour trip to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Niketown</span>. No, didn't take us two hours to get there. Poor guy was <span style="font-style: italic;">sitting</span> there for two hours as I tried on every pair of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Nikes</span> in the joint. Didn't love the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Vomero</span> 4 women's version and I felt a little like Goldilocks as I tried other models (too cushioned, too structured). But just when I was about to head to my fave spot - Super Runner's Shop on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Lex</span> - and go back to my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Sauconys</span>, I gave the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Equalon</span> men's version a go-round. They were perfect.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGgOZnE71VVavizsuGVl_Ov6KAAOiWgT70-cIznkNaUzSlYp81eEvGnHD6w-flO-hfRWsKAj8pFLgoOOtJ2ieysQ3lL5VOzTa5jf3jx2BiV2Amy0Wf-bq-ggShVH4QnMpEa_prZ6lpUod/s1600-h/nike-zoom-equalon-32.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGgOZnE71VVavizsuGVl_Ov6KAAOiWgT70-cIznkNaUzSlYp81eEvGnHD6w-flO-hfRWsKAj8pFLgoOOtJ2ieysQ3lL5VOzTa5jf3jx2BiV2Amy0Wf-bq-ggShVH4QnMpEa_prZ6lpUod/s400/nike-zoom-equalon-32.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389505847605596754" border="0" /></a>Convinced I would most likely never wear women's running shoes again (yet feeling <span style="font-style: italic;">oddly</span> comfortable in this thought), I broke in my boy shoes on Sunday on a crisp Fall evening around the park. All by myself. My mind wandered and I started thinking about My Billboard. I thought of the saying "expect the best, prepare for the worst" but I once heard a variation on it that I like much better: "expect the best, plan for the worst, prepare to be surprised." The message was clear and in red flashing neon: running solo was preparing me. And these last days before San Francisco are <span style="font-style: italic;">all </span>about preparation. Can't be overrated, preparation. I mean, if it's good enough to be the Boy Scout motto, it's certainly good enough to get me through my marathon.<br /><br />I wonder if they give merit badges for red wine drinking.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17907576622468845446noreply@blogger.com2