Showing posts with label defibrillators. Show all posts
Showing posts with label defibrillators. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

10 Ways to Bottle Up Awesome

Wow, do I feel great today.  For real.  I FEAL AWESOME.  Last weekend, I did not feel awesome.  On the contrary.  I was ready to dig a hole in the back, wiggle my way into a straightjacket, and bury myself.  Was I sick with the flu, a cold, or gastroenteren-colon-encepher-itis?  Negative.

It was the PMS Avenger, a panic attack, and the crux of injury-rehab on top of the mildewy hue of mid-life. In a word: crazy.  It sucked.  It sucked bad.  I was a mess and not a hot one.  I was either mad, crying, or freaking out about yet another damn thing I had to do.  There were a few moments (hours, whatever) when I was all of the above.  Scary.  Grab your kids and hide.

It's over now, though, and things have stabilized.  Just this morning, after some rousing exercise and a June Cleaver breakfast, I looked around and thought.  "I am calm.  I am cool.  I am collected.  I made French Toast.  With homemade bread – wheat bread, even.  Wheat sprouted from the blustery ice dunes of North Dakota, which means it's protein percentage is off the charts.  I made buttermilk syrup. I am ready for today.  I feel awesome.  Now how the hell do I bottle this awesome for weekends like last?"  

June Cleaver would know how to bottle awesome for future use, but she ain't around.  Therefore I must fashion my own recipe du awesome preserve.

(Tune in next time when I do a Julia Childs supper.  With eggs retrieved from a holistic chicken training camp.)

1. Make an Awesome Mask, complete with thumbs up.

 photo Photoon2014-01-15at11003.jpg 

 Okay, so I feel more awesome than I look.  I do have great teeth, though. Admit it.

2.  Make a real Awesome Mask, you know like "Awesome" below, and watch "Chuck" episodes for three days straight or until madness subsides.

 photo 7831905_600x338.jpg 

His teeth are great.  Greater than mine.  Not cool.  Which reminds me, the Yahoos need Nerd Herd t-shirts.

3. Have Megan make me a t-shirt that says "I am not having a bad day, I am a bad day." Portable, descriptive, perfect. It should be white and adorned with mustard stains, radioactive-orange smears (from the cheese puffs), and a grease mark of unknown origin.

4.  Make a meditation plan?  Yes, question mark.

5. Bottle a fake bomb, complete with you-must-go-running-or-the-world-will-die warning.  This might get my lazy "A" out the door when I'm lulling about with "What's the point?  I can only run a few miles."

6.  Straight jackets and a trampoline.  Sounds fun, doesn't it?

7. Highlight passages in "Daring Greatly" (by Brené Brown) to assist and defuse at a future date.  Resist the shame!  Make yourself vulnerable!  Engage!  And all that other crap.

8. Stock up on Mascara.  When all else fails, let Mascara save the day.

9.  Record me saying "Comparison is the thief of joy. Now get in the arena!" a hundred times.  That's a Teddy Roosevelt-inspried ditty.

10.  Taser, one that shocks and shoots a flag that says, "Shut up, tune out, and just watch the Yahoos play already.  They'll be gone in, like... minutes..."

Now it's your turn.  How would you bottle awesome?

Monday, December 30, 2013


You know what has turned out to be the invention to trump all inventions?  Mascara.  I'm not kidding.  My day would have been a total loss had it not been for the mascara.  I had a weeks-worth of stuff to do on this very day.  Was feeling overwhelmed.  Took one look in the mirror and let out a jump 'n shriek.  I looked like iguana crap!   It seemed I couldn't begin, let alone continue.  But I had to begin.  And I had to continue.  Because that's what we do, don't we?  We begin and continue, then begin and continue again?

(We being me and you in our various person "roles."  We – you and me – are downright awesome because we give it a go even when we don't want to.  Holla!)

It was after the shriek and jump that I decided that maybe today would be a good day for some makeup.  So I retrieved the makeup sack – adorned in gold lamé – fished out the Estée Lauder Double Wear – also adorned in gold lamé – then commenced the ritual du mascara, which is begin-and-continue with the help of a magic eyelash wand.  Begin.  Continue.  Begin. Continue.  I repeated this ritual until my peepers looked just like Tammy Faye's.

My day was saved!

hashtag firstworldproblems

***Today's post is brought to you by, and dedicated to, the one and only Blake Murray, of whom I've not seen since high school.  Blake sent me an e-mail asking about this here blog.  I read that e-mail and said out loud, "I haven't a thing to write about!"  Then mascara saved the day and I had something to write about.  So I guess mascara saved the blog too.

(Sorry Blake!  It's all I got!)

Thursday, May 09, 2013


From the archives... I wrote this some time in February and didn't publish it.  For some reason.

I am completely and suffocatingly buried in responsibility.  The only thing I can think of doing is the grand ol' R-U-N-N-O-F-T.  Exempt* I have no energy for running oft; thoughts of staying in bed are percolating.  My job is such that I have a 10 second commute in the morning.  As in: wake up, rollover, pick up the laptop, login it.  Commute over.

I could rightfully (and ethically) stay in bed all day and work.

Perhaps I should get out of bed.  Yahoo #1 has asked that I come sing to him.  How can one turn down such a proposition?  I cannot.  No one ever asks me to sing to them... I wonder if I get to choose what I sing?  If I get to choose, I think I'll choose I'll Melt With You by Modern English.  Mostly because I want a fancy grilled cheese sandwich.  I'd stop the world for a melty grill cheese right now.

End non published post.

*Note the use of "exempt" instead of "except".  That right there is funny.  Exempt is a tax term, in the which my Freudian something-er-other slipped it out instead of except! Har har.

In other news, I'm here to report that on Saturday, May the Fourth, the Fourth was with me.  It thure wath.  I ran 20 mileth!  Twenty thlow and thloppy big oneth.  I was tho thrilled I cried real tearths.  I knew not whether I'd thee thith day ever again.  True thtory.  To thelebrate, I thall run the Utah Valley Marathon on June 8.  Thweet, yeth?  Yeth!

Dearly beloved, I dare thay... the Runner in Rabid ith back!

In other, other newth, I dithcovered five (5!) core thkills for life.  They are too good not to thare.
  1. Curiothity
  2. Creativity
  3. Rethilienth
  4. Patienth
  5. Thelf-Relianth
Tho go out there and be curioth, creative, rethilent, patient, and do it all by your thelf!  And may the fourth be with you all year long!  Not just on the fourth!

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Bitchin' Moan

Hi there.  How's it going?  It's been a long time.

Since the last post, the one dated December the 17th, much has happened while nothing has happened.  For example, I started A Tale of Two Cities, an epic feat indeed.  This proves much is happening, but I haven't finished it yet, so that proves the nothing-has-happened part.

Then there's humanity.  I was just now sitting here, basking in the glow of a terrific day, when it occurred to me that much of humanity bothers the holy snot out of me.  Then it occurred to me that this humanity, with which bothers the holy snot out of me, is here for entertainment.  It sure is.  All I have to do is watch.

Then there's this cold 'n flu situation that I've been fighting.  Perhaps the true origin of my holy snot is related to my hovering cold 'n flu situation.  Perhaps it's not humanity, as was blamed above.  Being as I go to church most Sundays, my snot has to be holy.  It just has to be.  So that's where the holy in "holy snot" comes from.

Then there's this blog.  All sorts of things are happening; things that belong in memoriam for all time and infinity.  But here's the deal:  somewhere along the line I've become reserved.  Conventional.  Diffident. Prim. And Solitary.  It's as if I care what people think now.  That is no fun at all.

It's time to bring back the unconventional, the wacky, and the undies-in-an-uproar over something just because you can!  I want to be snarky again.  I want to make fun of myself.  I want to make fun of you. I want to get rid of serious.

Am I serious about much of humanity bothering me?  Not really.  Humanity is good.  We all know that.  The grass-roots core of most folks radiates a glowy glow.  It's the need to get serious about fringe crap that is annoying.  Enough with the serious.  I want to bitch and moan without it becoming serious.

Speaking of bitch and moan.  I got a bitchin' moan.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Toilet Training

Toilet Training; Training in the Toilet; that is today's topic.

Before you emigrate elsewhere, be sure to remember that all things around here aren't as they seem.  I don't intend to recap, recount, or rehash the plague associated with persuading little people to drop their duties in a privy.  That is a horror I don't intend to honor by remembering much less hash over again. It's more like I'm here to confess that my own training – and not of the outhouse ordination – is in the toilet.

As of today, at 11:11am, I'm in a petulant panic.

Why the sudden solicitude?  In exactly 24 days, I'm registered to race and am scheduled to suffer through, the New York City Marathon.  If this were a normal and healthy training cycle, 24 days would be party time because I normally have at least three 20+ mile runs under my bounding belt and get to focus on staying healthy.  That's normally, but this year has been nothing near normal.

It all started with some achilles trouble that ultimately lead to a tear and three months without activity.  After some promising rehabilitation, I was able to run some.  Training was going okay.  Not great, but okay.  All  of that was threatened when I smacked my knee cap during a bike wreck.  No problem!  I said.  But that was three and a half weeks ago and I still can't run more than 10 miles.  And when I do run those 10 miles I have to "pretend it doesn't hurt."

"Pretend it doesn't hurt."

Yes, "pretend it doesn't hurt" brings me to the next chapter of the story. About 10 days ago, I was sure that I had cracked the kneecap and decided to see a knee specialist.  Turns out I was referred to the big-time knee-cheese for a local football team.  Great!  Thought I, while waiting in the lobby for almost two hours.  This guy must know how to keep people active.

Long story short, and after two hours of waiting and a few x-rays, this doctor of knees, who's ego could be smelt through the door, told me to "pretend it doesn't hurt."  

(As an aside, I don't like "cool" doctors.  I like my doctors geeky.  I like geeks for all things.)

This morning I didn't run because I lacked the wherewithal for pretense.  It takes a lot of energy to pretend it doesn't hurt, you know, and today I was fresh out.  If the knee would heal somewhat, I could crank out a 15 this weekend, and an 18 the next.  Having an 18 would allow me to waggle and finish this mess of a NYC marathon.

The knee doesn't appear to be healing, however, and I'm in a particularly petulant panic.

It's not all that bad, really.  Worst case scenario, I go to New York, wake at the crack of dawn, ride a bus for two hours, stand shivering in a coral for two more hours, then run while pretending it doesn't hurt until I can't pretend anymore.  At that point, I'll pull out a a few Franklins*, summon a cab, and meet up with the primary reason for the trip: Megan and Jessica.

Megan and Jessica... is there a better consolation prize anywhere?  Absolutely not.  A trip with them is worth all 20 of my marathons combined.

(*As another aside, I won't be carrying Jacksons because we are staying in Chelsea.  Sarah Vowell lives in Chelsea and she hates Jackson.  I mean hates him with venom and vice.  So, in honor of  Sarah Vowell, I'll be leaving my Jacksons at home.  Just kidding.  I'm not that kind of Sarah Vowell fan.  However, Jackson is a controversial figure.  We visited his Hermitage while in Nashville.  Quite a guy, that one.  And not in a jolly-good-fellow kind of way.)

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Effort. Capital E on Purpose.

Being as Spouse and I have worked in technology a collective – wait for it – 43(!) years, we talk shop.  A lot.  These discussions generally begin with "wouldn't it be cool if..." and occur when one or both of us discovers a perceived problem that could be solved (easily!) by the invention of our new, improved and ultra brilliant web site or app.  We do this often.  We've dreamed up all sorts of software gadgets.  It all stops, however, when the dreaming phase morphs into the where-do-we-get-the-funding phase which is then murdered violently by the realization-of-human-hours phase, which is then buried by the no-one-would-buy-that phase.

It goes without saying – but I'm going to say it anyway – that both of us are still working for other software visionaries who have figured out the funding, human-hours, and the gettin'-folks-to-buy phases.

Last night, in between episodes of How I Met Your Mother, we had another one of those "wouldn't it be cool if..." conversations.

*As an aside, I do believe we watched the funniest episode to date.  They're all funny, but this one was particularly funny.  It's the one where the gang goes to a fat-cat bash at the Museum of Natural History, Ted explores the architectural anomaly of whispering things like "booger" and "poopoo platter" and the high-brows with top hats and monocles across the room can hear.  Meanwhile Lilly gets bent because Marshall turned into a corporate sell-out, and Barney and Robin get busted for running around touching and even wearing the artifacts.  Gasp!  (I'm sure no artifacts were harmed in the making of that episode.)

Today, I'm not going to tell you about the "wouldn't it be cool..." part of the conversation.  Because, like, duh, you never know if last night's "wouldn't it be cool..." might turn into tomorrow's latest internet craze.  It could happen, you know.  All it needs is some Effort.

Which brings me to the point of today's post: Effort.  Spouse and I were discussing the onset of social media and I had just asked, "What do you think will dethrone Facebook? Blogging was so fun there for a while.  I miss blogging.  Lots of fun people were blogging, and now they're not.  What gives?"

He replied with, "Blogs are dying because it requires Effort.  Now people just spew out some fart of a tweet and call it a gold post."  He followed this statement with a shoo-fly gesture, a fart noise, and a bitter-beer face.

He's on to something.  It's all about Effort – something in which I'm in short supply.  This blog is dying because it's gettin' none.  The house is a mess because it's getting none.  Running's a bust, the yards a wreck, the laundry's altogether hell, I don't see my friends or family much, the food we eat is boring,  piano's a struggle, and my work activity is just so-so – all because they aren't getting any of that thing called Effort.

Effort is not something I'm hitting.  It's been a dry, desolate few months for my love Effort.  If I were to receive a grade on Effort as of late, I'd be lucky to get a C-.  True story.   In the past I've been tagged a type "A" personality, not sure if that's true, but being an A and getting a C- is bad news.  Bad news, indeed.

After Spouse's comment, however, it became clear that maybe it's not just me.  I mean, the way of the (internet) world is to go with the path of least resistance.  Facebook took off because it requires little Effort; you type a few characters and click "post."  No need to worry about formats; the gomers at Facebook won't even allow italics!  No need to phone your friends for a decent conversation; read their facebook feed!  No need to send hand written thank you notes or invites; throw up one of those activities or broadcast one gushy collective "thank you."

We create apps and web sites to minimize Effort.  That's the point.  Solve a problem or make it easier.  But are we (I) expecting too much of this Effort to be taken out of the picture?  And do we (I) expect to get all this no Effort business without paying for it in some way?  Get your money for nothing and your chicks for free.

The irony of it all, I suppose, is that it's going to take this chick a fair amount of Effort to keep out of the no-Effort movement.

Let it be said here and let it be written: all things worth while require Effort, and a lot of it.

Here's to Effort!

Monday, June 25, 2012

I Am 40 Hear Me Roar!

A couple of weeks ago, the Spouse and I had pleasure and opportunity to sit through some baseball.  By "sit through," I mean sit through. And watch. Every last inning and side show and stretch.  This is the only baseball game I will attend in ten years, so come hell or high water, I had planned to watch it all.

We were sitting with my dad Mikey and a bunch of his friends. During the team switch-a-roo – you know that one thing that happens in the middle of an inning – one of Mikey's friends leaned over to my right ear and said, "Hey Rabid.  Why aren't you writing on your blog any more?"

"Well."  I said, "There's nothing to write about.  Life has been vanilla-flavored milquetoast."  

It's true.  Vanilla-flavored milquetoast.  Blah.

At long last, however, things have changed and I've bottled some of my milquetoast life in a variety of flavors and spices.  Lots has been happening around here (finally!) and I'm ready to force these flavors upon you folks.

First and foremost, is the flavor of forty – as in four 'n zero, 40, and old as mold!  Last week I turned 40.  At first I wanted to keep quiet about it all and pretend it didn't happen; wanted to bury my woes beneath a pillow for days and listen to the smooth sounds of seashores.  I changed my mind, however, when I read the advice of the mighty and wise Tyrion Lannister, son of Lord Tywin Lannister, brother of Jaime and Cersei Lannister, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands (from George R.R. Martin's Game of Thrones, and why has it taken me so long to pick up these books?!):

"Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."

What I are now is 40!  I wear this 40 as armor!  I am 40 hear me roar!

This 40th birthday came in with a roaring.  It was a week-long celebration.  Stay tuned. 

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Midlife Crisis, Version 2.0

In 40 days, I'll be 40.

Just 40 days ago, I was welcoming this 40-year milestone, for 40 days ago I was in (close to) the best shape of my life.  Just 40 days ago, I was welcoming this milestone.  So I'm turning 40... no big deal!

Due to my current injury, however, I've watched a best-shape-of-my-life-atrophy turn this 40 year birthday into a very big deal.

So big is my new deal with turning 40 that I've pulled out the midlife crisis.  Many years ago I planned my midlife.  True story.  I can be a planner.  After becoming the first-hand witness to many midlifes, I decided it was time to prepare a midlife plan of my own – you know, so as not to do anything stupid.

I remember the makings of this plan clearly.  And I remember weighing all of the possible options.  Should I buy a new car?  Nah.  Cars are the opposite of progress, and you, Rabid, are not a sink-a-ton-of-money-into-something-that-doesn't-progress kind of gal.  Have an affair?  Eee gads no, too messy.  Change careers?  Prolly not, for the anticipated career was that of "mom," and ditching that career would not be considered a meager midlife. Run a marathon?  Done that.  Learn to paint?  Nope, can't sit still for that.  Go to India for some eat, pray, 'n love?  Done that too.

After scrupulously mulling over the available options, I decided on the midlife plan called "Tennis," or Version 1.0, whereby I'd learn to play tennis.  This midlife plan also served as a warning of sorts, for all would know that the midlife had landed whence I bought a racket.

At the time, I hadn't considered an injury-induced midlife (as if!) or even an injury that would put me in a stinky boot.  Naturally, Midlife version 1.0, "Tennis," seemed the obvious choice.  Obvious, that is, until I found myself turning 40 and injured.  I'm in the eye of a perfect midlife storm and cannot draw upon the midlife plan.


So what did I do?  To start this mid-life crisis?  Buy a car?  Nah, still the opposite of progress.  Have an affair?  Hell no.  Change careers?  Nope, still a mom.  Run a marathon?  Snooze.  Everyone's doing that.  What shall be my Midlife, Version 2.0?

I'll tell you what Midlife 2.0 shall be.  Piano Lessons.  Started yesterday.

No one expects the Midlife Piano Lessons!  Take that!  Midlife!  You vacuous, toffy-nosed, malodorous pervert! Stab you with the square pillows!  I curtailed my Walpoling activities, sallied forth, and infiltrated your place of purveyance to negotiate the vending of some cheesy comestibles!

I also plan to watch every last episode of the Flying Circus.

(Which means it's time to say... "And now for something completely different.")

Sunday, April 22, 2012

When Thinking Positive Gets You In Trouble... and Half Empty

We are currently in the age of thinking positive.  I think thinking positive is a good way to think.  I also think that what we think becomes what we are.  I think, therefore I are.  I've discovered, however, that thinking positive can get us in trouble.

To illustrate this theory, that thinking positive can get us in trouble, I shall use my recent discovery of a jacked-up extremity.   On March 1, 2012, I was thinking positive.  "It's fine!" and "I just need a little rest!" and "It's no big deal!" and "I'll be running in a week!"

No, Rabid, it was not fine.  You couldn't even run a quarter mile.  So, had I considered the worst case scenario on March 1, had I prepared a contingency, and had I gone to the doctor with a runner's worst (or second worst) fear, instead of the rest-a-week, injure-it-again, rest-a-week cycle, then I'd be all sorts of hunky dory now.

Hunky Dory... that's a great album... sigh...

Which brings me to today's book report...

Half Empty
By David Rackoff


Let's take a moment to ponder the cover, shall we.  First, notice the bright yellow "Warning!  No inspirational life lessons will be learned in this book!"  Don't you love it when book covers don't over promise?  Me too.  I hate to disappoint, my dear Mr. Rakoff, but I did learn some inspirational life lessons in this book!  I did!  Lots of 'em.  I want to send you some fan mail to tell you all about my life lessons!

But back to the cover... the cover is brilliant... we have the guy in the canoe, smiling and waving as he's about to drop off the edge of a waterfall, two rabbits who smile at us stupidly while a gun is ready to aim 'n fire.  We also have some volcanos.

Now, here's what I think is brilliant about this cover, it's not pessimism.  It's not thinking the worst will happen, it's that in this day and age, all of these things can be predicted and planned for.  What Mr. Rakoff is saying, in this hilariously entertaining and insightful collection of memoirs, is that sometimes positive thinking gets in the way of planning and making accommodations for the worst case scenario.

(Somebody turn Mr. Rakoff on to the Mormon way of Food Storage!)

I learned of this David Rakoff by reading a book report from Jessica.  Her book selections (which in this case was another one of Megan's book selections) never disappoint.  Rakoff's writing is so smart (like, need a dictionary all the time smart).  And witty (like, need to read some parts two times to take it all in.)  And respectful (like, he respects stuff he doesn't truly understand, like Mormons... like, he's Jewish and gay but still visited "God's Country" or Salt Lake City and, well, you just gotta read that chapter.)

So, to contradict the cover's promise that "no inspirational life lessons will be learned in this book," I shall document the life lessons I learned in this book.

Life Lesson #1: Gossip is oxygen deprived vitriol.  

In the chapter called, On Juicy, Rakoff describes how he can keep secrets better than a vault.  People have always confided in him and he has always held their secrets sacred.  He is a "practitioner of discretion" and drove a point straight through my heart with his interpretation of a Yiddish parable:

"An old woman is called out of her house to join her neighbors in the fun of watching the village idiot ranting in the square.  She goes, and there he is, a grown man, raving like a lunatic, spewing saliva-flecked curses at the crowd, who are all hugely amused, with the exception of the old woman, who doesn't crack a smile.  'If he wasn't my idiot, I'd laugh, too,' she tells them. This, then, is 'juicy's' toxic bit of transubstantiation:  secrets turned into gossip; your pain into someone else's pleasure.  Every hilarious town fool is someone's schizophrenic son.  So my answer to that question 'Want to hear something juice?' is almost always no." (page 103)

Life Lesson #2: Crappy childhoods do successful writers make.  

Rakoff says, "Nothing assails the writer's credibility more than the pleasant childhood.  I freely admit to having had one myself.  A happy fact reflected sadly in my book sales."  He also says he had "a golden upbringing, under the loving guidance and tutelage of two caring and adoring parents whose own path was illuminated by the sunlight they were convinced shone straight out of my ass." (page 29 then 30)

(I consider David Rakoff a successful writer, so perhaps life lesson #2 is more of a life funny.)

Life Lesson #3:  "I saw you eat a ham and cheese sandwich" is the worst accusation you can throw at a Jew.  

This I learned in chapter Dark Meat, where he relishes the beauty of pork products and other edible unmentionables of the Jewish religion.  I read this book around Easter.   On Good Friday I was shopping for groceries, and after witnessing the max exodus of hams, was hit between the eyes with some Jews-no-pork, Christians-lotsa-pork irony.

Life Lesson #4: All these years I've been doing mesearch.  

Rakoff is a journalist.  Whenever he researches stuff it always turns into research that will help him, or mesearch.  Me too!  I just didn't know that's what it is called.  We should totally be friends.

Life Lesson #5: Don't get offended.

Rakoff has had cancer twice.  The second time, a doctor had informed him that he would lose his entire arm.  And while friends would pay him a get-well visit, they'd say some stupid things.  Sometimes we say stupid things don't we?  We sure do.  Sometimes we even type them out loud.

Here's what Rakoff has to say about that: "Unless someone looks you in the eye and hisses. 'You [effing] a--hole, I can't wait until you die of this,' people are really trying their best.  Just like being happy and sad, you will find yourself on both sides of the equation many times over your lifetime, either saying or hearing the wrong thing.  Let's all give each other a pass, shall we?"

(Oh, and sorry about the censorship Mr. Rakoff, this here's a family blog and the in-laws have been known to read it.)

Life Lesson #6: Lachrymose is an awesome word!

Life Lesson #7: Sweating the small stuff is good preparation.

"Defensive pessimism is about sweating the small stuff, being prepared for contingencies like some neurotic Jewish Boy Scout, and in so doing, not letting oneself be crippled by fear.  Where a strategic optimist might approach a gathering rainstorm with a smile as his umbrella, the defensive pessimist, all too acquainted with this world of pitfall and precipitation, is far more likely to use, well, an umbrella." (page 9).

There's preparation, and then there's worry.  Worry has no function other than to produce anxiety.  Worry and fear go hand in hand; put 'em together and they cripple progress. Therefore, the true task (for me anyway) is to channel my worries into contingencies and the preparation therein.

Life Lesson #8: Bad times always sweeten and strengthen the good.

We all know this is true, don't we?  When we are bushwhacking our way through a rough patch of life, we all know that when it's over, and you're back in one of those dreamy sweet spots, they will taste all the better.  Rakoff, however, says it better than any one else.

"I keep flashing back to what it says in the Inferno: 'There is no greater pain than to remember happiness in the midst of one's misery.'  There will be peaks of great joy from which to crow and vales of tears out of which to climb.  When and why they will happen, no one can say, but they will happen. To all of us.  We will all go back and forth from one to the other countless times during a lifetime.  This is not some call to bipartisanship between inimical sides.  The Happy and the Sad are the same population." (page 15)

"Even the most charmed life is a veritable travelogue of disappointment.  There will always be an inevitable gulf between hope and reality.  It is how we traverse these Deserts of Letdown that shows us what we are made of." (page 25)

Perhaps I should print that last paragraph and post it largely in every room in my house.

Sunday, March 04, 2012

Injury Treatment 201

Lots has been going on around here, yet nothing has been going on around here.  How is it that so little can happen when so much is going on?  Baffling, I say.  Baffling.  There's so much I need to tell you all!

I need to tell you all that my job is crazy time-consuming right now, but that I love it.  Which means I need to tell you that I'm embarrassed to admit that I love a job that has to do with taxes.  This would then lead into me telling you that my job is a really a problem-solving job that involves taxes as opposed to a tax job that has a few problems to solve on the side.  See, there's a huge difference between a problem-solving tax-time job and tax-time problem-solving job.  It's like having ice cream with just a little chocolate syrup as opposed to dish of chocolate syrup with only a dollop of ice cream.

I just totally compared my tax job to ice cream.  Wow.

I have lots to say.  Eventually, I want to document the nitty gritty details of the Houston Marathon.  It was a great experience and I want to make sure I remember it.  Today (tonight, actually) I don't have the gumption and/or drive to write it up, so the entire documentation of said Houston Marathon will need to wait.

What will not wait, however, is a full-on recap of something that happened a few weeks before the marathon, and how I was riding that dreaded teeter-totter o' injury.  (It's March now, so we'll spice up the internet with an obnoxious display of o'thises and o'thats.)

Two weeks before marathon day, I developed a calf-strain.  It was a day just like today, only it was a stressful day.  We had made a huge purchase and I was having buckets o' stress about this purchase.  (See... I need to tell you about this purchase too!) I jumped up to go grab something, when out of nowhere, a giant shark bit my calf!  It was an inner-shark really, more like a calf knot shark that went on strike and yelled "NO MORE."  That calf bite stopped me in my tracks.  I was on the couch for a day or two.

I'm prone to calf issues.  I try to frequent a deep tissue massage at least once a month to keep the calf issues to a minimum.  But as luck would have it, I was stressed, the body was feeling "off", and the calf-shark decided to bite.

Now, remember up above?  Where I said I was already stressed?  With buckets o' stress?  Yes, I was stressed, and having a calf strain two weeks before a marathon adds oceans o' stress... or at least an English Channel o'stress.

So what did I do?  Did I panic and cry and complain? Yes, but just a little bit.  After I had thrown a minor pity-party, I brought out my big-gun injury treatment procedures and began to relax.  What are these big-gun treatments o' injury procedures?  Here they are...  in x amount of steps.  (Where x is the number that I end up with when I'm finished.)

Step One: Don't panic.  Panic does not help the body recover.  Relax, grab some movies, sit around and chill.  And I do mean chill.  No cross-training, no nothing.  Chill.  And if it's March then o' chill.  (After a few days of chill, then you can start the cross-training.)

Step Two:  Send blood to the injury.  This involves going to the freezer for that blood you set aside a few weeks back – you know, that blood you were hoping to inject for extra umph a few days before the day o' the race – and injecting that blood directly into the site o' the injury.

Totally kidding, of course.  Like I have syringes and whatnot at my disposal for doing stuff like this.  As if.

For reals, though, send some blood to the injury.  Injury treatment is all about tricking the body.  You need to trick that body of yours into sending all the blood it can to the injured area.  The more blood in the area, the quicker the body will heal.  Some people say this can be accomplished with some metaphysical bull-honkey – you know, where you imagine little tiny blood-cell men, marching straight to the injury with swords, salves and syringes.  But this is not the trickery I mean.  The trickery I'm talking about is temperature shock.  That is, get the area as hot as you can stand it, then get it as cold as you can stand it.

On the first day o' injury, apply cold.  Do not apply heat.  After a day or two, switch it up with some hot-cold-hot-cold action, and make sure you listen to that Katy Perry hot then yer cold, PMSing like a bee-otch tune while you do it.  (Note: Always, always, ALWAYS, end on cold.  I don't know why, I just always do.  ALWAYS.)

The calfs and ankles are my spots o' trouble.  Therefore, you'll find me doing the hot-cold-hot-cold ritual the minute I feel something isn't right.  For example, during the last couple of days, my left calf has been acting up.  And when the calf acts up, it pulls on the achilles.  The achilles is not something you mess with, like, ever, so the minute I full an uncomfortable o' yankery, the feet and calves go a soaking.

Usually, I fill one side of my sink with water o' hot-as-hades, and dump a bag of ice with cold water in the other.  Then I soak in the hot for 5-10 minutes, switch it to ice-bath for 5-10 and repeat – always, always, ALWAYS ending on cold.  (Just trust me on the ALWAYS part, it works.)

Here's the cool part about this little ritual o' mine: after you finish, you can feel all sorts of extra blood pumping it's way to the injury.  That area has been shocked with temperature, and the body panics by sending blood.  It's totally terrific.  You should try it some time.  If you're lucky like me, you can get a Yahoo to join.  And if you're really lucky, he'll protect you with a fully-automatic lego-assault rifle.


Step Two Point Five: Sterilize the sink.

Step Three: Take some ibuprofen.  For ibuprofen is the nectar of the gods.  And if you believe in only one God, it's proof that He loves us.

Step Four: Find a way to laugh.  It ain't the end of the world and it will get better.  In the mean time, lighten up and make fun of something, like yourself.  For laughter will forever (and ever and ever) be the best of medicines.

Step Five: If you can't find anything to laugh at, get yourself a pound cake and a jar of Nutella.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Gallows Hill and Andersonville

Last week was a doozy.  It wasn't all that bad – meaning not much happened that was "bad" – but boy was it disappointing.  Let's document the disappointments, shall we?  I mean, mostly I plan to document them and then tell you about a song called It Could Be Worse by They Might Be Giants and Sarah Vowell. This little ditty reminds us that, whatever it is we're going through, it isn't all that bad when you compare it to Gallows Hill and Andersonville.

The disappointments started on Monday.  It was the very first day of my 12-week Houston training.  This day included a 9-10 mile run with 8 to 10 strides of 30 seconds with a one-minute recovery jog in between.  Nothing major.  Just something to get the body turning over.  It was a cold, dark morning.  One without a moon.  One without street lights.  Prolly crawling with vampires.  I was running along and fell off a six-inch ledge at the side of the road.  Took a nasty little spill.

Here's the cool part about this spill:  After 15 years and who knows how many sprained ankles, whenever I trip or begin to roll an ankle, my knees do this buckle-thing, and I go down.  This has saved an ankle or two on many occasions.  I don't know how it happens, but it happens.  Automagically.

Here's the not-so cool about this spill: The knees buckled and I was headed for a face plant.  At the last minute I did a tuck 'n roll kind of thing, and somehow thwacked the tailbone.  Hard.  I jumped up and hollered "I'm okay! I'm okay!" Mostly to convince myself that I'd be fine.

While I thwacked the tailbone, I really thought I was okay.  I was able to finish the strides and the remainder of the run.  About two hours later, however, I was sure I broke it.  Or something.  It hurt to walk and it screamed at me violently when I walked up stairs.

Oh my finger, oh my thumb,
Oh my belly, oh my bum!

(I'm happy to report that after several doses of ibuprofen, a couple days rest, and sitting on an ice pack, the tailbone is back to normal.  No pain!)

The next disappointment has to do with Halloween.  I enjoy a good Halloween celebration.  Extra especially if the celebration involves the wearing of costumes.  Spouse and I have had a "crunch mode" week with both of our jobs.  We rarely have our crunch modes at the same time, but when we do, it's intense.  Spouse and I are working a bunch, every spare minute, in fact.

On Wednesday, there was a costume party for kids and adults.  A Costume party?  Oh please!  Please, yes!  I had a pretty serious deadline on Friday.  If I was going to take a few hours to party a la masquerade, then I'm most definitely be up half the night working.  But it would be worth it.  Any costume party is worth working all night.  And so it was, that I worked my guts out in the morning, worked my guts out through the day, ran around to fetch ingredients for a dish to take, and finally made time to put on my costume.  I arrived at the party, only to discover that adults weren't wearing costumes.  Boo.  I went home to sit on an ice pack and finish my work.  (Remember?  I still had a sore butt.)

The third disappointment came in the form of the biggest cluster I've witnessed in the running world –  the Provo Halloween Half Marathon.  My friends and I had registered for this race several months ago.  We started working on our costumes several months ago.  Tina was coming to stay.  We have been looking forward to this race since several months ago.

Long story, short, the race organizers changed their software last minute and lost anyone who registered before October 1.  That would be us.  Hillene had gone to pick up her number and found that people were waiting in line up to two hours, then told to come back later because their number wasn't ready.

Luckily, I had received word of the mess before driving down.  Luckily.  Others weren't so lucky.  Many drove an hour or two, only to discover that they'd be turned away empty handed.  I planned on finishing this race in an hour and half.  I will not, refuse to, wait in line longer than it takes to run.  Therefore, I bagged the race, expecting that if the bib numbers weren't ready, nothing else would be ready either.

Saturday morning, I slept in with the Yahoos.  We read about Abraham Lincoln, made banana-blueberry bread, and watched a few episodes of the Munsters.  Then we took a nap.  Then I ran 14 miles while listening to The Partly Cloudy Patriot by Sarah Vowell.  Sarah told me about how she uses things like Gallows Hill and Andersonville to remind her that whatever she's going through isn't so bad.

She's right you know.  Nothing could be worse than Gallows Hill and Andersonville.

They Might Be Giants recorded a song called It Could Be Worse that was fashioned along Miss Vowell's Gallows Hill and Andersonville comparison.  I cannot find the audio anywhere, but here are the lyrics:

It's raining so hard
And the cabs, they won't stop
But compare and contrast for one moment
to the Montgomery bus boycott

Gallows Hill and Andersonville
It could be, it could be worse
Gallows Hill and Andersonville
It could be, it could be worse

You're hosting a party
And you ran out of beers
And your guests, they left early, now, didn't they, but
That's no Trail of Tears

Gallows Hill and Andersonville
It could be, it could be worse
Gallows Hill and Andersonville
It could be, it could be worse

Monday, August 08, 2011

Jupiter Peak Inner Commentary

Saturday's Jupiter Peak left me with some inner commentary.  This inner commentary has been mulling about for many hours.  I figured that if it's mulling about, there must be a reason.   That's why today's post is about making my mullings public.

The E Word
Here's the trouble with recreating on single track around here – each and every person on it believes the trail belongs to them, and only them. The Park City folks claim the trail because they live in town, pay the taxes, and it's their back yard.  Racers demand dominion, because they paid good, hard-earned cash to be there, and each has a numbered bib to prove it. Other racers, prolly 90%, postulate privilege because their podium positioning depends upon it.  Outta my way!  There's only 300 in front of me, but I'm gonna pass 'em all on a single track, just watch!

There's also the hikers, who, in their vested virtue, are using the trails the way The Grand Creator intended, on foot; not running, and certainly not cycling.  Finally, we have the cyclist.  Most are generous about crowds, but a few elitist egotists demand full reign because, well, just look at how awesome they are.  Their awesomeness alone should have the city council waving a submissive white flag in their honor.  Look at you climb!  No one else is worthy!  The trail is all yours!  Follow me to the court house pronto!  And we'll turn it all over to you, and only you!

The E word.  Entitled.  That's what they are.  My Jupiter Peak adventure was full of the Entitled.  About a mile and a half into the race, a group of us racers were trotting along when we came upon a hiker.  A gentleman ahead of me said, "Can we get by you please?" and she replied with a "Sure thing asshole."  That was the first run-in.

The second one came on the way down.  I came upon another runner, one sporting the head phones.  So I said, "Can I get by you?"  He said nothing, and I figured he couldn't hear me, so I said it again.  "CAN I GET BY YOU SIR?"  Still nothing, so when the trail opened a bit, I darted past him.  He wasn't pleased.  But here's the deal with headphones on a a crowded single track – if you cannot hear the twigs breaking, or the stomping behind you, then your tunes are too loud.  Maybe I should have tapped him on the shoulder, or pinched his tight little toosh?  Next time.

The rest were cyclists coming up.  Pretty much every cyclist I came upon was a near crash, and most were ticked that there was a race that day.  When I could see them coming, I jumped off the the trail.  Some of the corners were blind, however, and neither of us could see much.  One girl coming around the corner looked at me and yelled "BIKE!" so I jumped off.  She said thanks, and I said, "Sure thing, babe." Cause that's the kind of gal I am – the kind that will jump off so as to avoid a crash.

Shortly after the BIKE! babe, I heard some guy crash, then yell "There are bikes on this trail!  Watch the eff out."  And when I finished, a received word that a girl I know actually had a collision with an uphill cyclist.

Saturday was extremely crowded.  And everyone felt they were there first.  So what's the protocol? Trail rules say that the uphillers should yield to the downlhillers.  This meant all racers had the right-of-way.  But when speed is involved, there isn't time for a decent yielding; there's only time for a panicked reaction.

Next year, I would suggest that the Mountain Trails folks post a sign at the bottom of various trailheads to warn travelers that a race is happening and to expect a crowd.  Might not hurt to remind them that the race is a fundraiser for said trails.  Then we could all slow down a touch and be considerate.  I realize that our beloved workouts might suffer because of this, but we'll all be alive and unharmed, yes?

After I've coerced the trail community to slow down and be considerate, I'll get right to work on the drivers of Utah.  The whole lot of them.  Wish me luck.

Attention Race Directors!
Wanna make more money at your race?  It's super easy.  All you have to do is provide an ugly shirt with the race, then present the option to buy a super cool shirt.  That's what the Mountain Trails people did.  They gave us all this ugly shirt, but had a "limited edition" La Sportiva on display that we could take home for just $15 more.  Did I buy the super cool shirt?  No, but Spouse did!  I heart Spouse.  He knows a super cool t-shirt when he sees one.

Exhibit A, ugly race shirt:


Exhibit B, Super Cool Race Shirt:

See?  No comparison.  Wouldn't you pay more for the super cool shirt?  
Or at least get your Spouse to pay more for the super cool shirt?

Let's Hear it for Humans
Did you know that I'm human?  Sure am.  But did you know that among us humans there are non-humans?  It's true.  These non-humans can do super human things.  Like run up 3000 vertical feet, then back down, a total of 15 miles, and do so in 1:51. That's one hour, 51 minutes.

How do they do that?  Forget the fitness.  I'm talking about the footing.  How do you run 6:00 minute miles on a trail and not trip?  Blows my mind.  I'm human.  Those freaks are not.  And it's high time I stop comparing myself to those non-human freaks.

And Humans Take Pictures
While I was climbing this mountain as a human, I decided that humans take pictures. Non-humans don't take pictures because they're always going too fast.  If they were to take photos, the photos would end up blurry (that fast thing, you know.)   When I succeeded to a race that would most definitely blow chunks, I stopped for photos.  Glad I did.  I mean, it'd be tragic if I never made it up there again, and didn't have any photos.  You never know when your last trip will actually be your last...

See that mountain in the background?  That's The Peak.   I'm almost there, and I'm trying to hide the grimace.  Doesn't look like I'm any good at hiding the grimace, though. It's a grimace that says, "holy crap, I gotta climb that thing." Notice the anti-embelism socks, that, contrary to Skibikejunkie belief, do wonders for the calves.

Aid station with gummy bears, pretzels, Swedish fish, Powerade, water, and digested cat food mixed with raisins and formed into a bar of some sort.  Stuck with my pomegranate Honey Stingers. 



In the Which I Reveal that I'm a Hypocrite
After the race on Saturday, I had posted some thoughts on my rough day.  Jenn commented about my attitude; something about my attitude being "awesomely epic." In full disclosure, I must confess that the finish brought with it a complete I-suck-at-this-I'm-going-to-quit-running meltdown.  The kids were not impressed.  "Mom!  You're swearing!  Quit swearing!" they said.

This is their "Mom, quit swearing face."  
Either that or they aren't pleased with me positioning a photo in front of a pink bike.

To add further insult to my already melting meltdown, the race people were selling those super cool shirts, would only take cash, and we didn't have enough cash on our person.  Spouse, being the super cool spouse that he is, said, "Let's go to a store for a drink or something and get some cash."

So that's what we did.  We went to the store for cash, and while we were there I grabbed a bottle of pickles.  On the way back, I swallowed eight baby dills whole and guzzled a few tablespoons of the juice.  Pickles and juice are where it's at!  Partaking the pickles pushed-out miss pissy-pants and replaced her with the positivity princess.*

*Why does the letter "P" produce the most promise for alliterating?  It's true.  Do more words start with "P" than other letters or what?

Do it in Gore (TM)
And finally, we get to the highlight of the day.  The part where we bedecked ourselves head-to-ankle in everything Gore (TM) and jumped in the Gore (TM) hurricane booth.  Super cool, this Gore (TM) hurricane booth.  There was wind and rain.  And during the wind and the rain, we jumped around and wailed the "aaaa-aahh-ah" from Immigrant Song. Then we jumped some more and hollered – had to holler, it was noisy in there – "We come from the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the hot springs flow!" 

We walked out of Gore's (TM) hurricane booth dry.  Gore (TM) really works!  Check it out:




Saturday, August 06, 2011

Personal Worsts are More Work than Personal Bests

Why is it, that a personal worst seems like more work than a personal best?  I asked Spouse this same question an hour go.  His reply was epic.  (I feel like dropping that epic word today, so I'll prolly drop that epic word multiple times, and I might even pull a fast one and call something amazing and epic.)

In reply to my personal-worsts-seem-like-more-work-than-personal-bests question, Spouse's epic reply was, "The joy of victory erases all pain."  See?  That was amazingly epic.

I pulled some fast Faulkner foreshadowing on you today.  Did you catch that?  That first paragraph was a hint that today's Jupiter Peak Steeplechase didn't turn out so great.  Holy crap, it was awful. Awfully fun, but awful none-the-less.

My subconscious pulled some fast Faulkner foreshadowing on me as well.  Spouse drove me to the race this morning.  On the way, I looked up at the great beyond, way up high with the airplanes, to that epic peak in the sky, that peak known as Jupiter, looming above like one of those two towers with Gollum on it, and said, "Do I really have to do this?"  I don't remember what he said, but like I'm ever going to plop down cash to run the most epic (and usually my favorite) race of the year, then bail 400 meters from the parking lot. (Seriously though, I could see 'n hear Gollum up there growling for his precious.)

Well, I showed up, and I ran/hiked all the way up, and ran like hell all the way down.  In years' past, (specifically, last year) I've been able run all the way to a ridge called Pioneer, which is pretty close to the mad scramble at the top.  This year, however, was not so good for running.  Great for hiking?  Yes.  But running?  Nada.  I've told everyone that I wobbled in 30 minutes slower than last year.  But after careful research, I can conclude that I was only 12 minutes slower.

Here's the official map from the web site:


And here's the proof from the watch that I actually did it:

Isn't that so cute how the Garmin map people call it "Jupiter Hill?"  
That ain't no hill.  That Jupiter is a mountain!


So what happened?  Besides the 3,490 feet of vertical?  Not sure.  And I'm not sure I care either.  Today was a great reminder.  A reminder that when participating in endurance activities, there will always be a rough day here and there.  I will not, however, call these rough days "bad."  For any day that the body will move is never a bad day.  And any day you can spend in the mountains of Utah is an amazingly epic day for sure.

I'll do it again next year.  It wasn't that rough.

Thursday, August 04, 2011

Focus on Fun

I've been super duper burned out on all sorts of things lately.  Running included.  Running especially.  I've been unable to see the point in my day-to-day happenings, and also see no reason to shake up the day-to-day happenings so as to produce a point.  Heck, I'm so unable to see points, that I've removed point-producing items, like the pencil sharpener, all the ballet shoes, and the bra to my Madonna costume.

I am burnt.  And you know you're in trouble when your one tool for preventing the burn-out is causing the burn-out (running in my case.)

To be honest, I wasn't looking forward to the actual running of the Timpanogos Half Marathon last weekend.  I was excited to see friends and whatnot, but the prospect of racing gave me dread, and it's all because I want to be (and run) fast.

When summer rolls around, I have an undulating desire for speed and focus on fast.  All I think about is getting faster.  I read this 'n that from various circulars and publications, all in the hopes that I will finally find the thing, the plan, the mileage, the supplement, the shoes – the whatever – that will make me run faster.

All this focus on fast can make a runner forget about the fun, and how the fun of running is the reason you do it in the first place.

Last Saturday morning, I was not in the mood to run.  Goes without saying that I was not in the mood to race either.  I was all sorts of blah.  On the bus ride, I decided that I'd just run the first mile and see what happens.  That's it.  Run the first mile and try to have fun doing it.  So that's what I did, I ran the first mile and discovered that I was enjoying myself.  Decided that I could prolly push it and still have fun.  I finished the race decently, had a great time, and earned a new PR.*

*Well kind of a PR.  I'm calling this race my new half marathon PR.  I've run a half marathon in 1:29:07, but that half marathon was the Hobble Creek and it always measures around 12.8 instead of 13.1. At a 7 minute mile average, that's about 1 minute 45 seconds of cheating.  With this same logic, one might infer that Saturday's 1:30:22 would be a 1:28:37 at Hobble Creek. 

Something magical happened this weekend.  I discovered that I run because it's fun, and not because I'm fast.  I also discovered that if you focus on fun, the fast will come.

I think there's a life metaphor in there somewhere, don't you?  Whatever you're doing, whatever your responsibilities, find the fun in it first, and the rest will work itself out.  Not having fun?  Make it fun or do something else.  Not able to do something else?  Wear that Madonna bra and sharpen pencils 'til you decide that anything is better than sharpening pencils in a Madonna bra.  Especially running.


Thursday, June 30, 2011


Today, I had planned to provide ya'll with a report of the AF Canyon Half Marathon (and 5k), which was described before-hand here.  I'm in a bad mood, however, and it ain't gonna happen.  Or if it did happen, it wouldn't happen in a nice way.  Like, I might swear, or call some people bad names, or say "like" too much, or reveal some embarrassing stuff about myself (as if that doesn't already happen a bunch around here.)  Holy smokes I'm crabby!

The AF Canyon Half Marathon (and 5k) was a terrific race.  It truly was.  Right now everything is coming through all scratchy 'n such because I'm wearing my overly, cynical-tinted glasses.

To fix my overly cynical view (I say overly because some cynicism can be fun), I'm going to have some food, watch some 30 Rock, and read the following, over and over:


What do you when you've lost all hope for getting over the crabbies?  (And don't say "There's a salve for that!"  I ain't talk about those kinds of crabbies.)

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Tuesday Tune, vol 82 – Dream On!

There was a time in my not-so-distant past that I would shy away from telling folks about my dreams. If there was something I wanted to obtain, if there was goal I wanted to accomplish, or if there was a check I'd like on my list, you can rest assured that I'd be quiet about it.

There were two reasons. The first was my fear of others. I was afraid of making my dreams known and the mockery that might develop. I was afraid that my hopes for high accomplishment might furnish some ammo for criticism. "Rabid can't do that. She thinks she can, but she can't. Who does she think she is?" I was also afraid of what the collective "they" might say if I voiced a mark and failed to hit that mark. I was afraid of the many whispers, nay-sayers, and told-you-so-ers that would use my shortcomings for slander. It happens. I hear it all of the time. I'm rather sad to admit that I've done some nay-saying myself.

The other reason is the fear of success. What happens if my ambitions come to full fruitions? What then? I'm comfy where I'm at. If I hit those proposed goals, people might treat me differently. I might become a stinking slab of arrogance. I might not be comfy with success.

As you can see, these hesitations were induced mostly by what others think, and specifically, by what others think of me.

Well. That time has passed. I plan to dream and I plan to dream big. And if anyone feels the need to blather on about my many insufficiencies, I shall roll my shoulders and holler, "Who cares?" I will not allow any dissentient dictums to dictate my dexterities. Mine included. Sides, it's pretty darned self-absorbed to think that other people actually care give a rat's "a" about my dreams, right?  Right!

I could announce that I'm going to be an astronaut when I grow up, and you might opine that I'm not smart enough, or fit enough, or how there are already too many astronauts. You could even throw a wise-crack about me growing up – 'bout how it's not possible for me to grow up – but I'm still gonna say "Who cares!"

That's right, I'm going to dream big. I'm going to shoot for all of the stars in all of the next galaxies. I'm going to make lemonade out of sawdust. I'm going to dare to be great. I'm going to "Have an infinite capacity to not know what can't be done" (Henry Ford.) I'm going to "Let go of the past and go for the future. I'm going to go confidently in the direction of [my] dreams" (Henry David Thoreau.)

I'm going to dream on and dream big. I'm gonna "Dream until my dreams come true" (Steven Tyler.)

 I think you should dream on and dream big too. I'll be here with some pom-poms... to cheer you on 'n stuff.

Dream On – Aerosmith
Dreams – Brandi Carlile
Sweet Dreams [Of You] – Patsy Cline
Gemini Dream – The Moody Blues
Dreaming – Blondie
Réverie (Daydream), L. 68 Peter Frankl – Claude Debussy
All My Dreams – Miss Hansen
I Have A Dream – ABBA
The Ragpicker's Dream – Mark Knopfler
And Then I Dreamt Of Yes – Dandy Warhols
Dreamboat Annie – Heart
Damien Dreams – Jeremy Enigk
Dreams In The Hollow – Jesca Hoop
Four Dreams – Jesca Hoop
Dreaming With A Broken Heart – John Mayer
An American Dream – Love and Rockets
Your Wildest Dreams – The Moody Blues
The Better To Dream Of You – Mary Chapin Carpenter
#9 Dream – R.E.M.
Dreamline – Rush
Little Dreamer – Van Halen
Dreams-Come-True-Girl (feat. Karen Black) – Cass McCombs
Lady Daydream – Twin Sister
Caravan Of Dreams –Acoustic Alchemy
Woke Up Dreaming – Joe Bonamassa
Sweet Dreams – Tori Amos
Any Dream Will Do – Donny Osmond
40 Day Dream – Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros
Moonage Daydream – David Bowie
That's Some Dream – Good Old War
Save Some Time To Dream – John Mellencamp
Land Of Dreams – Langhorne Slim
In Dreams – Roy Orbison
Dreamin' – Amos Lee
Dreams Of 18 – Lal Meri
Cowboy Of Dreams – Crosby and Nash
In My Dreams – Crosby, Stills and Nash
St. Robinson In His Cadillac Dreams – Counting Crows
California Analog Dream – Vondelpark
If I Can Dream – Elvis Presley
Hold The Dream – FireHouse
Dreams – Fleetwood Mac
These Dreams – Heart
You Make My Dreams – Hall and Oates
Dream On – Depeche Mode
More Than A Dream – Pet Shop Boys
Half Forgotten Daydreams – John Cameron
Sweet Dreams – Roy Buchanan
Dreams On Fire – A.R. Rahman
Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This) – Eurythmics
The Dream Of The Dolphin – Enigma
Beyond My Wildest Dreams – Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris
Dreamland – Mary Chapin Carpenter

p.s. I just spent, like, 20 minutes doing copy and paste.  So make one of my dreams come true and click on just one.  Prolly Heart's These Dreams.  It'll make you miss the 80s in a major way.  You could also click on the Hall and Oats tune, and it'll make you miss the 80s in a major way, only different.  And if you want to miss the 80s in yet another different major way, click on Sweet Dreams from the Eurythmics. Blondie, Van Halen, Depeche Mode, or Love and Rocks are there too.  You have options. Perhaps you could let us all know which genre you fell into during your 80s reign.  Me?  I fit into all of 'em!  Or perhaps I didn't fit into any?  'Spose you could look at it that way too.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Tuesday Tune, vol 79 - I've Got The Runs!

I wanna talk about running.  Wanna talk about running?  I could talk about running for endless amounts of time, on many occasions.  In most social circles, however, I try to refrain myself.  Like, who wants to hear me yak-it-up over the practice of one-foot-in-front-of-the-other?

Today... I cannot refrain from the talk of running.  You might even say that I've Got The Runs!  And I can't control myself!

First up, what about the 115th Boston Marathon?  Did you catch that action?  If you didn't here's a summation:  Kenya's Geoffrey Mutai ran the fastest marathon ever with a 2:03:02.  This is not just the fastest Boston marathon, it's the fastest marathon, like ever recorded.  So, you'd think this is the new world record, right?  Wrong!  There was a tail wind of 15 mph, and the course has been determined "un-world-record-able," so, sorry Geoffrey, no world record for you.

This year's Boston brought forth all sorts of noteworthy happenings.  For example, the number two guy, a feller by the name of Moses Mosup (also Kenyan) ran a 2:03:06.  Our USA darling Ryan Hall placed fourth with a 2:04:58.  This 2:04:58 is a PR for Mr. Hall, and interestingly enough, that time shattered the previous Boston Marathon course record.  Good on you Hall!  But can you imagine?  Taking fourth with a freaking 2:04:58?  Good grief.

Also, another USA darling by the name of Desiree Davilla missed winning by just two seconds!  Caroline Kilel (Kenya, again) ran a 2:22:36 while Desiree ran a 2:22:38 (check out my wicked math skills!)  Here's one of those picture's-worth-a-thousand-words moments:


As usual, I had some friends running the BM.  Tebbie and my little brother (who's not really my little brother, but I sure wish he was!)  Here's a photo that I stole from Tebbie's facebook:

Isn't she cute! Fast too!


Here's one of the little brother at this finish.  I stole these two photos from his facebook too.

Now that the big BM has been covered, let's move on to The Spring Runoff, which is also called The Ogden Marathon.  This grand race is Saturday, next, and the Rabid is registered and running.  Registered and running!  (I'm super excited, can you tell?)

My Ogden training has gone well.  I've tweaked a few things and I'm ridiculously excited about the results.  For example, I switched my hill run (usually Suncrest) to Wednesdays.  You'd think moving a hill run to another day is a silly little adjustment, but it's not.  No-sir-ee.  Before, I was running hills on Thursday.  This gave only Friday to rest up for the long run on Saturday.  Now, with the hill run being on Wednesday, I had TWO WHOLE DAYS to rest for the Saturday long run.  I found this little course-correction made my Saturday long runs stronger.  Marathoning is all about the long run, folks.  Don't let anyone tell you different... or at least you can let whoever ramble on about whatever being more important than the long run, but inside your sweet little heart, know that it's all about the long run.

In addition to the change in my hill routine, I changed my speed routine too.  In years past, I've tried to follow (the best I can) the speed workouts from Advanced Marathoning.  Trouble is, the workouts can be a bit complicated.  And overwelming.  And weren't necessarily making me faster.  They were helping with endurance, but not speed.  I decided to simplify my speed workouts and do one three to four mile tempo each week, on a treadmill.  Honestly, the dreadmill isn't so bad.  You set the speed, and you stay there.  You cannot cheat, you cannot slow down – else you'll just fall off.  For six consecutive weeks, I set the speed for my three-mile tempo and kept it there.  Each week I upped the speed a notch and was able to stretch my aerobic threshold a bit, just liked you'd stretch a rubber band.

I've found that dreadmill training has many bonuses.  First, it's warm.  As in, not freezing and you don't have to worry about yanking those cold 'n tight hamstrings in the process.  Another bonus?  You don't have to think.  This is a critical element during the tax season.  I do a log of thinking and problem solving with my job.  When I run, I want to just turn it off.  Speedwork on a treadmill facilitates this nicely.

While we're on the topic of nice facilitations, did you know that you can judge a running shoe by its color?  


It's true.  I bought the orange Saucony Kinvara based solely on the color, and wouldn't you know that it's so awesome I had to buy another.  'Cept in turquoise.


This summer, I decided to shake up the half marathon ritual.  Normally, I do the Hobble Creek Half.  This Hobble Creek half is a great race.  However, it never starts on time.  Never.  In the 10 or so times I've run it, it has never started on time.  It's not fun to wake up at 4:00, drive to get on a bus, then sit at the top of a frigid canyon.  Freezing for hours.  Not to mention, when you run a race, you add fuel to the gut based on the time the race starts.  If the start time is unknown, the fueling situation is chaos.

So this year, I've decided to do two half marathons that end just 400 meters from my house!  Isn't that cool?  Like, I'm going to wake up, and walk 400 meters to catch the bus.  Like, two different times!  I'm running the American Fork Canyon Half on June 25, and the Timpanogos Half on July 30.  It looks like the routes for both will be the same.  It'll be a gas!  Times two!

I'm also thinking about the Prestige Half.  Well.  I'm not thinking about it, I'm going to run it if my friend Tina runs it.  This "Prestige" race is a weird one because you must "qualify" to run it.  Which, if you ask me, is kind of strange – this year's race will be it's first one ever.  Shouldn't one (or a race) be required to earn their prestige?  Just sayin'.  (Can you say, pretentious prestige?)

Finally, I'm pleased to report that I made it into the St George Marathon.  I had to do the lottery this year, so it was truly a matter of chance.  Holy smokes that was drama.  I cannot believe how stupidly emotional I get over this race.  I live in a state called Utah.  When I pulled up the results for the lottery, I typed my name, city and state.  I typed Rabid from "Utah."  When the web site searched for Rabid from "Utah" it did not find me.  I was ever sa' despondent!  Even a bit angry.  Jumped in the shower with complaining thoughts of: Why doesn't St George have a qualifying standard?!  They should have a qualifying standard!  Every race who's any race has a qualifying standard!  Then I got ticked at people who put their names in the pot, knowing full-well that they might drop out, or even worse NOT TRAIN!

Something happened in the shower, however.  A light bulb or something went out, and I thought, What if I use "UT" instead of "Utah"?  Will it find me then?  I ran over to the web site and searched for Rabid from "UT."  Guess what?  IT FOUND ME!

Now I've got the runs for sure.

(Check back later... will add links to the tunes as time permits.)

Run - Collective Soul
Steady, As She Goes - The Raconteurs
Ready to Run - Dixie Chicks
Hit And Run Holiday - My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult
Run Back to Your Side - Eric Clapton
Runnin' With The Devil - Van Halen
Fox On the Run - 1RKO FirstRoundKnockOut
On The Run - Pink Floyd
Green: Run / Smiles / Step Into The Breeze / Symphony Space - Spiritualized
Always On The Run - Lenny Kravitz
Run For Our Lives - The Morning After Girls
Runnin' Wild - Airbourne
Running On Faith - Eric Clapton
Time Is Running Out - Muse
Runaway Lover - Madonna
Run Honey Run - Morcheeba Feat. Bradley
Runaround - Van Halen
You Better Run - Junior Kimbrough
Sex And ReRUNs (Album) - Matt Duke
Runnin Down A Dream - Tom Petty
Running To Stand Still - U2
Runaway  - Linkin Park
Running On A Treadmill - Oingo Boingo
SupeRUNknown - Soundgarden
Where You Gonna Run - Peter Tosh
Run Eyed Blues - Ben Harper
Take It On The Run - REO Speedwagon
Easier To Run - Linkin Park
Run To You - Bryan Adams
Dogs On The Run - Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
Runnin' Shoes - The Fabulous Thunderbirds
Free To Run - Gomez
Fox On The Run - Sweet
Run To The Hills - Iron Maiden
Running Out Of Turbo - The Sounds
Running Wild - Roxy Music
Run Like Hell - Pink Floyd
All The Roadrunning - Mark Knopfler & Emmylou Harris
Hardin Wouldn't Run - Johnny Cash
Run On - Moby
No One To Run With - The Allman Brothers Band
Run Through The Jungle - Creedence Clearwater Revival
Running Free - Iron Maiden
When The Road Runs Out - Blonde Redhead + Devastations
I'm Not Running Anymore - John Mellencamp
Run, Run, Run (Stereo) - The Velvet Underground & Nico

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Megan (and Tuesday Tune, vol 77 - You're Gonna Be a Star)

On Tuesday, March 25th, 2008, Megan posted a poem, and titled that post Metered Solace. It was this poem:

Henry Van Dyke - If All The Skies

If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once more upon them
The cooling plash of rain.

If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence,
To break the endless song.

If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.


The next day, March the 26th, Spouse crashed skiing and broke both of his feet. He was sent to the hospital for a few days to figure out what to do next, and to get the house ready for his non-pedal mode of going about.

On Friday, March 28th (still of 2008), Rabid found Megan.  Specifically, she found that same Metered Solace post while "blog hopping" in a hospital with "wighfigh."  Rabid found all sorts of solace in Megan's metered method of solace.

And that's where it all began.

In the last couple of days I've had some relish over how sweet that is; to actually have history of where it all began.  To look back, read the things I read, and in the process, feel what I was feeling.  Which, honestly, was nothing but love.  Love for Spouse, love for internet technology, love for orthopedic surgeons, and love for new friends who quietly provide solace and hope.

In three years time, I've grown to love this Solacing, Metering, Megan.  Truthfully, she is the most talented of people I know.  Megan writes, she designs, she advices the medical people about arterial fibrillation, and who knows what else.  She's athletic, she funny, she's loving, and she's MY friend.  How lucky am I?  Pretty darned.

Megan's a true star, and she's all the way over in Reno, so that's why today's Tuesday Tune is:

All The Way To Reno (You're Gonna Be a Star) - R.E.M.

I love this song. LOVE. It's Megan's song too. I think about her every time I play it. It's also on my list of top 25 played (of 12,368, so that's sayin' something.)



(Here's my metered solace to you!)

All the way to Reno
You've dusted the non believers
And challenge the laws of chance
Now, sweet
You were so sugar sweet
You may as well have 'kick me'
Fastened on your sleeve

You know what you are
You're gonna be a star.
You know what you are
You're gonna be a star

Is written on your feet
Your achilles heel
Is a tendency
To dream
But you've know that from the beginning
You didn't have to go so far
You didn't have to go.

You know what you are
You're gonna be a star.