Sweet opalescent orange annual sale victory.

Interval running: less fun than slow long distance running

The night before our half-marathon, I told Walker I couldn't imagine wanting to run a full marathon anymore.  13.1 was plenty.  During the race, I decided I never wanted to run 13.1 again (Who's got two thumbs and ran the first half the race at my could pace instead of my should pace?  This girl!).  An hour after the marathon, while still doubled in the unrelated stomach pain that had gripped me for three weeks leading up the race, I told Walker I wanted to run a full marathon.

By the next day I'd come to my senses.  There is no flippin way I'm running a marathon at ten minutes a mile.  It will take FOR-EV-ER.  And odds are I'd start flagging at the end and it would go on even longer.  We cheered folks on at mile 25 and the crowd was already thin and traffic allowed to cross and these people were ripping it up at 8:30 a mile!  I do not want to be one of the forgotten stragglers with not a friendly face for the most grueling miles.  So, we would work on being able to run a solid half at nine minutes a mile (1:57), then go for the full.

At first, I was hellbent on running the Chicago 13.1 on June 9 and the Chicago Half-Marathon on September 9 (yep, those are essentially the same name), because then you get another medal for completing with Windy City 26.2 Challenge, and yes it is totally meaningless, and yeah, you basically pay for the medal by registering, but I get excited like I'm playing skee-ball about these.  And, it isn't totally meaningless.  Running these races to me has meant setting a a goal and accomplishing it, and taking charge of the things in my life that I CAN change and changing them.  And the medal commemorates that, and makes me feel really rad when I wear it to tacos later that day.  Also, I lack the focus to keep pushing if there isn't at least SOME race ahead.  The danger now is that since I know I can run 13.1 miles, I am not stressing on the upcoming 5k.  Shaaa.  So, great, short easy races don't motivate me now.

Anyway, I further came to my senses.  The next big race is Sep 9.  No June half-marathon.  We will aim for 1:57 and be happy with 2:03:33.... though I would feel like a rockstar to finish in under 2 hours.

And now, we are interval training in an effort to improve our speed, that means short fast bursts, and damn, this better pay off.

To Victories

Small...

... like finally replacing the buckle on Amy's super portable wheelchair foot rest.  To the basement to measure the strap, to the army surplus store for new buckles and webbing.  Scissors, a screwdriver, and lighter.  DONE.

And less small...

... like finishing the Illinois half marathon.  We weren't the fastest -- 2 hours and 11 mintues -- BUT WE DID IT!! And had the best cheering squad on the route!

Nom nom nom.

Why is running on treadmill so much harder than running outside?  Four outdoor miles over lunch on Monday.  TWO miles on the treadmill tonight after work.  I looooove that I own a treadmill (hooray for craigslist) because I would never go to a gym for this.  So, 18 days into the year, I've run 16 miles.  I feel way more awsome about my running than the number represents -- I'm surprised its so little, but I guess we really haven't been running that much.  I'd like to think this means that feeling crazy great about yourself part of running is in full swing even at this low level.

Middle sister alerted me that my reading goal is overly loft, and she's absolutely right, but I make it a manageable number, I'll be less motivated.  Also, I think I may have gotten that number conflated with how many new recipes I was going to make this year... Two books in progress on my nightstand.  Native Son, and a Plague of Doves, both courtesy of the endless Walker thrift store book stash, which has unsealed now that we are both done with grad school!

New recipes galore!  We've really been taking care to EAT FOOD since I started my new job.  Cooking dinner, packing lunch, eating breakfast.  It sounds so simple, and yet there have been huge expanses of our life where we fail to eat breakfast or pack lunches.  Major props go to main man for packing our lunches the night before.

New recipes in our kitchen!

• Hot chana (not the tomato-y kind, but the thick brown spicy kind you eat with puri ) and butternut squash, both from Indian Vegetarian Cooking at Your House. 
• Something based on this gai lan stirfry, so simple.  
• Butternut squash and red lentil dal with spicy tarka, with a modification-- white onions and red cabbage instead of red onions.  And adding salt.  We don't eat a lot of salt -- but this recipe fails to call any, and lentils can't handle that.  
• This raspberry sorbet -- sort of... add one tablespoon vodka to make it scoopable, halve the sugar and lemon juice -- is in progress right now in our ReStore ice cream maker.  

We've also been making our tried and true loves: fajitas, gumbo-ish, and our beloved Xinh Xinh inspired noodle bowls (vermicilli tossed with soy sauce, chili garlic sauce, rice vinegar and dash of sesame oil, topped with cucumber, green onions, raw peppers, and ground peanuts) but those don't count toward the goal.

Current vegetable obsessions: chinese greens, and pepper pepper peppers any and all peppers that are not bell peppers.  

I've been vegan for seven and a half years now.  Years ago accepted after much reading that protein was a non-issue as long as I was eating actual food, and that too much protein would actually gut me of calcium, which is what I really needed to focus on getting enought of.  And when I need protein, my body usually compells me to eat heaping tons of beans or a pile of tofu. I know some stuff, is what I'm saying, but still, every time I look at the nutional charts on veggies, I am FLOORED.  Protein, all around us.  It's so weird to me how easily I mentally fall back into viewing carbs, fiber, protein, and fats as seperate food groups and thinking 'where is the protein in this meal?' if the beatiful feast I've prepared doesn't have a designated protein.

I'm keeping up on the sewing!  Finished a dog bed cover for daisy that tightly fits a crib matress.  Denim and brown herringbone -- the perfect fabrics for my mom's dog.  She'd love it.

Ok.  This is just a string of personal updates.  Signing off.  I've got to wash my hands.  They are caked in salt from packing the ice cream maker with salt and ice, and Daisy is treating me like a salt lick.  As though she wouldn't be licking me anyway.

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As I think about what I just wrote, I feel really self-centered and selfish with all this me, me, me stuff, but I know that keeping me happy and personally fulfilled is how I will be able to keep on trucking to do right by Amy, to WANT to keep on trucking, and be a happy person she, Walker, and I actually want (and can stand) to be around.

A very big year.

A year and a day ago, I married my man man, my best friend, and then danced the night away.

At 3 a.m. after the last guests had boarded the school bus back to the hotel, we pulled the plug on the lights, and wandered back to our cottage to find that good friends and cousins had cleared our bed of the getting ready debris, hung papel picado through the house, and decorated the mirror.  We collapsed into bed, husband and wife.

We woke up at six a.m. and lay in bed reading the guest book note cards.  Then we left breakfast bars and juice at the tent door of our campers, and headed to the wedding tent to straighten up and gather up some flowers, before heading to the bowling alley for one last wedding hoorah.

As we about to leave the bowling alley, we got word that our family van,  Big Red, which had been incorrectly parked at the wedding and thus made it into the wedding photos, broke down.  Exploded, some say.  Eventually, another van would be borrowed and it would break down too.  Then Amy and Dad would ride home in that van on the back of a truck.    My mom fretted, and I laughed. 

Annie, Walker, and I started the longest wedding cleanup ever, while Mom spent another night at the inn with Amy who awaited Dad with the second doomed van.  Three people took down what had taken many more to put up.

At some point we realized we'd forgotten to have our officiant, Xavier, our dean from undergrad, sign the marriage certificate, and we headed to his house to remedy that.  Annie headed back to Springfield, and Mom saw off Amy and joined us in in the last of the cleanup.

When we returned to the farm, the big white tent was gone, the tables and chairs were loaded on a truck bed.  Our uhaul of plants and furniture and plates and vases and jars was packed.  The delicate items were in the car.  We were beat, and it was time to go.
 

First, we posed for final sentimental photos of the farm (love the timer).  When we left, I wept that our wedding was over.

Mom, Walker, and I arrived home exhausted, and basked in the air conditioning to a dinner of PB&J and potato chips, the food stash we'd bought from Aldi's as a just-in-case for our guest and campers, and beers in awesome steins (A&W 2010) from some of our favorite people in the world.

In the year that followed, we went on Amy's Make-a-Wish trip to Florida.  I started a new job.  Walker got a fellowship.  Walker started a new job.  We ran our first 5k with my sis.  We celebrated my birthday with my mom and sisters, and our most favorite Indian food from Chicago, picked up by Mom and brought downstate.  We celebrated Halloween with my sister.  We got a new niece.  We lost Biggie, my step-brother, and a week later, my amazing friend lost her brother.  We and Annie, accompanied by Mom and Amy, ran a race on Thanksgiving morning, wearing tshirts honoring Biggie and swearing we'd make running on Thanksgiving a tradition.  We spent our first Christmas with Walker's family and away from mine.  We went on our honeymoon to Trindad and Tobago.  We flew through Houston on our way home and saw four beautiful faces, two who we hadn't seen in years.   We visited Walker's grandparents in Palm Springs.  We celebrated Easter and decorated eggs as a family, for the first time in years.  We ran the Illinois marathon relay.  We lost my mom.  We celebrated my mom.  We took in my mom's dog.  We started our new life without here.  We finished grad school.  We had a Luau for Amy's 24th birthday.  We visited Tacoma, celebrated Papa, spent time with our marine, and met a new cousin with the best name ever -- Annie.  We moved Annie to Chicago to start her new job and new life.  I didn't get the job I wanted.

And, on the day before our first anniversary, we followed through on what we said we'd do to celebrate.  We competed in the Mudathlon -- 3.3 miles, 44 obstacles, and a LOT of mud.

We are still standing.  Here's to the next year and the next.

Quarter Marathon

Back in Illinois and back to our responsibilities and commitments.  Main man and I are each responsible for one quarter of a marathon relay team, one month from today, I do believe.

Time to get it in gear.

Running for Biggie

On Thanksgiving morning, we rose bright and early, and before we peeled potatoes or crushed pecans, we pulled on our running shoes, drove to Mount Prospect and ran the Turkey Trot, in honor of our beloved Biggie.  Mom and Amy battled the rain to cheer us on.

The last few weeks I have felt powerless, to say the least. The week leading up to the funeral was intense, but in a way, also enjoyable, because it felt like it prolonged our time with Biggie. The pain was searing, but most of the time, my brain couldn't even process what had happened. And then before I knew it, we were singing, then I was giving a reading, then standing in the rain, then eating pizza. And then, it was over.

The next week was overwhelming. I was filled with despair, and deep, deep sadness, for myself, for my family, and most of all for Biggie. I wanted to be with Dad and Deb. The rest of the world, even my own home, felt so distant from the new reality. I wanted to undo things, whatever it took. I sat at my computer, in the class I was in when I got the call, and it seemed so unfathomable that that had really happened, and seemed so near that it felt like it should easily be undone.

Then next week the clouds began to clear. The pain and sadness were just as searing, but I started to feel like me again. And I found sadness in that, too. I wanted to stay crushed to the ground, to be unable to rally, overcome for another day. I don't want him farther away.

At this point, I've seen most of my coworkers, friends and family who know what has happened, and already faced their kind words and cringing faces. Now a lot of them want to proceed like we live in the same world we did three weeks ago, whereas my heart wants to start every conversation with "He is still gone. He was cheated, and we are all cheated, but not as much as he is cheated" and silence all conversations, my own included with "You are alive. Suck it up, get over it. Time to live."

Other people don't know what has happened, and I don't know if its appropriate to tell them. It does not matter to them, but it hurts not to say hey, do you know what we've all lost?  When people ask me how I am, I wrack my brain as to whether they know and are really asking, or if they mean it just in passing.

I feel like a drama queen. I know my pain is nothing compared to his mom's, our dad's, his sisters', his friends'. But this is who I am. I am so sad for him, and mourn the loss of the Biggie I knew and the Biggie I was to come to know over the next four or five or six decades.

So what do you do in this situation? I have to go to work, I need to finish school, I've got stuff on my plate. I want to lie in bed wailing in honor of him, but what a waste; good for no one. So, on Thanksgiving morning, we donned our newly made t-shirts -- rip offs of a Sex Pistols single cover -- and ran in honor of Biggie. My heart pounded in my chest for that time not with sadness, but with exertion and life. I thought about Biggie; I engaged in an activity with my sisters.

In the past I did not understand doing this or that in memory of a person, but I get it now. There's not much you can do in a situation like this.  This is something you CAN do, and all I want, so desperately, is do something, anything, that keeps him here and remembered, and pulls people closer, in any way.

Joy!

KNEE DAY!

Yesterday, Mom and I trekked all over the burbs collecting plates for the wedding -- and posing with ceramic objects.  It was the longest day ever, not because of the number of thrift stores, but because I wanted it to be the next day so badly!

And finally, today is the day!  Mom and I woke up at three this morning and left for the hospital by four. By five we were parked on the Neil Diamond floor of the parking garage and cursing that the pedestrian bridge to the hospital does not open till 6.

Please note that in the picture below, Mom is STANDING.  Also, note that she is a luggage reformist.  That is the not the traditional K-family luggage of a laundry basket, but rather a Rubbermaid Roughneck bin.  What happened to mom's suitcase?  Or ANY of the suitcases?

And now she's in surgery. They kicked me out of the pre-op room as they were about to give her spinal epidural thing that will keep her leg "jelly" (as she called it this morning). No general anesthetic, just a light sedative that will keep her asleep, but she'll still breathe on her own.

I'm sacked out on a couch in the family waiting room.  Also, I am wearing her socks.