The Beginning of the Story

Note: Typically, I'm a non-fiction writer - I write about my life and about things I know.  I have never dabbled in fiction, but a few months ago, I had a sudden urge (aren't all urges sudden?) to write a fiction story.  I scribbled it down feverishly in my journal before the urge evaded me.  The story is by no means finished, but I thought I would start to post some of it here, piece by piece. This is the beginning.


This bath rug is dirty, he realized.

In his 4:30 a.m. must-get-out-the-door-before-the-dog-wakes-Molly haze, he never would have noticed how the dirt clings to the rubber corners of the sage green mat.  Nor, how if you really looked at it, the sage color had dissipated into a desert brownish - a dying cactus color, if you will.

But he now finds himself face-to-face with the mat.  He can't remember the last time he lay on the bathroom floor.  He wasn't a boozer in college.  He hung out with the library crowd, and if he drank, it was never to extremes.  The fetal position was one he only reserved for the flu or a really cold night when Molly insisted on sticking her icicle-like feet under his legs.  And yet ... here he was.  We need a new bath rug, he thought.

He cracks his right eye, instinctively cringing, as his ears start to ring and his mind makes his body think that he's on a four-star cruise ship minus all of the stars.  A dingy, perhaps.  Through all of the stimuli, he sees Molly's red fleece pajama pants, the ones with the snowflake design that should have been put away long ago, as it was April and the tulips were starting to say hello to the world.

Out of the bottom of her pants peek Molly's feet.  Why am I staring at her feet, he thought.  Did we have wild sex last night and that's why we ended up in different positions on the bed?  He smiled, hoping, and the act made him wince.  There was the rocking boat again.  Must have been one hell of a night, he mused.  And then it dawned on him that he was on the bathroom floor.  And it all made sense.

To Mia

My mom FINALLY said we could get a dog.  After being screened by big adoption agencies that made us feel like we weren't good enough for the dogs they were trying to place, we decided to go to the local shelter that sat off the highway.  It would be our luck that on the day we went, there was one lonely dog in the kennel - the rest, the guy behind the desk told us, had been taken to an adoption fair in the town over.  They'd be back, he assured us, but of course, only the ones that hadn't gotten adopted would be left.

One dog came back.  She was a puppy, with paws that definitely had room to grow in to.  Her kennel-given name was Megan and she looked like a Siberian husky who had been rolled in Moab-red dirt a few times over.  She was perfect. 

Thirteen years later and on a Wednesday, my mom called to tell me that our Mia had died in the backyard sun, just beyond the door to my parent's bedroom.  It was at this door that she had always waited in the morning darkness for my dad so they could go on their daily run.  Those two were true buddies.  It could be said that you never know someone until you run in winter mornings along frozen trails that line dead corn fields.  These two had. 

Mia was a runner from the beginning.  In the cool evening between summer and fall on the day we brought her home, we took her up to the high school track and let her loose.  Part Siberian husky, part red heeler, she moved in a manner that would make Shalane Flanagan jealous.  Her love of it was contagious - soon we were all running around the track.  Were we chasing her or was she chasing us?  In the fall, she traveled with us to my middle school cross country meets, lolling around in her hot pink collar and matching leash.  She was the cutest.

She grew, we grew.  We moved, made new friends and started new jobs.  The line is familiar and the next one will be too.  She was loyal as any dog is expected to be. 

But her love for running never, ever, ever decreased.  As my mom cried in the background that Wednesday night, my dad reminisced on the memory of 13-mile-Saturdays, with Mia by his side. She was running half-marathons before I ever finished a 10k.  Tears dripped down my face onto my comforter as we laughed about how dad always brought water for himself, but never thought to bring any for Mia; she never complained.

She never made a peep, either, when the vet found tumors in her.  Not just one tumor.  But the next one.  And the one after that.  And those that continued to grow, those that my parents decided not to go after because they had had enough.  Mia had had enough.

Lucky for me, I never saw her as a dog I wouldn't want to remember.  I didn't have to see her splayed legs when she tried to get up to greet you as you walked out the back door.  I didn't have to see the huge chunk of her hindquarter gone as the one last attempt to give her more time.  I get to remember the hot pink collar.  And the long walks.  The way her hair used to come out in chunks in the summer because she had so much of it to shed; we used to say we should knit all of her hair into a sweater.  I get to remember what an amazing runner she was - a true running partner.

Well, Hello Again

Sometimes, you just have to take a break from it all.  Unplug.  Recharge.  Feel the grass between your toes before you can jump right back into the crazy.

Apparently that's what I've been doing lately.  But I think I'm getting back into the groove again.  I have a new roommate (hey, Lauren!), a handsome man by my side and a dog who loves to give kisses.  I am setting goals for myself and trying to stay away from the T.V. as much as possible (The Bachelorette aside, of course).  Here's the plan:

• Read during dinner instead of watching mindless crap.
• Jump on Rosetta Stone to learn Spanish at least 30 minutes every day.
• Exercise at least five days a week (did I mention that my sister and I are registered for the Tinker Bell Half Marathon in January?!).  Back in the saddle again.
• Write more, whether that's here on the blog, in my journal (encouraged by this couple) or for other outlets.
• Get back into Twitter.  It was inevitable ... no one can quit Twitter.
• Listen more.
• Be understanding and positive.

The summer is going brilliantly and hopefully making these things happen will add even more awesomeness to my life!  Have you guys ever taken a break to wind down and recharge?

Inch Like a Caterpillar

Progress isn't about making big leaps and bounds every day. It is about moving forward, pushing the big stone one little bit closer to your goal. I'm learning this really quickly now that I'm coming back from this soul-sucking rough injury.

Here are some boulders I'm inching forward in my life:

1. Running. I will get there.

2. Learning Spanish. The Rosetta Stone software is hopefully on its way to my mailbox.

3. Eating better dinners. I'm looking for easy, healthy recipes now and I want to cook something new at least once a week. Send suggestions my way.

4. Training Austin more. I have attached a treat dispenser to his leash, so we can work on "leave it" while walking by unruly dogs.

5. Stretching. Now that I have a set of official stretches that are visibly changing my body, I am putting in the time (about an hour every night) because I know it is going to get me closer to running (see: number 1).

6. Being more understandable. I would love to spend as much time with the boyfriend as possible, but sometimes, it's just not possible to do it all.

7. Praying in a more meaningful way. I'm guilty of throwing up the occasional 'Our Father' when I need help. But I've tried to become more cognizant of what I'm praying about and listening to what God says back.

What progress are you making in your life?

Unable to Build

"It is hardly possible to build anything if frustration, bitterness and a mood of helplessness prevail."
- Lech Walesa


The return of the pain. Frustration (noun). A total loss in confidence. I feel like a balloon that has been punched, not just deflated. Then anger comes from deep within, from the place that is cobbwebby and that I just don't like. He can run. That heavy-set woman can run. Everyone on this huge stupid planet can run. Apparently it doesn't matter whether you actually have a desire to run. Then sadness takes over. Remember when I could go out for 10 long ones? When I had my sights on a half marathon...I was gonna be in the bigs. And now. Four minutes of running for every six minutes of walking makes me wince. Helpless.


Frustration (noun): a deep chronic sense or state of insecurity and dissatisfaction arising from unresolved problems or unfulfilled needs

One Blessed Minute at a Time

As the saying goes, it's the little things that make life worth living.

My life was worth it during a handful of one minute intervals this morning.

Like I wrote yesterday, I was hoping (praying) that the physical therapist would sign off on me running again.  Someone up there must be watching over me because I got the a-ok!

The hitch: I have to start out super slowly.  And when I say slow, I mean turtle pace.  One minute running for every four minutes of walking.  

But boy, how marvelous those minute intervals were!  It took me almost no time at all to get into my natural stride.  Just like riding a bike, I thought.

It was hard to rein myself in after a minute of running, but what that minute forced me to do was focus on my form and what my body was doing in just those 60 seconds.  Everything narrowed to a minute of complete focus and meticulous form.

Being able to focus for a full minute was liberating.  These days, there are so many things flying at your conscious at once.  Your brain is constantly pulled like silly putty.  Some say that since the invention of the Internet (thanks Al Gore), personal computers, smart phones and the like, our attention spans are getting smaller and smaller. 

That minute of running was only about two things.

Running.  And form.

And remembering how absolutely amazing and blessed I am to be able to run.

Ok, three things.

Coming Back Stronger

It would be cliche to call it one of "those" runs. What I didn't know is that it would be painful. And revolutionary. And one of the most awesome and disappointing runs that I'd ever been on.

Here's how this all happened. On December 23, I went out for an eight-mile run. I had less than a month before my first half marathon. The run was perfection. I was on pace. I was moving like I'd never moved before. The last mile was clocked at just a tad over 7 minutes. I was stoked. That race was mine for the taking.

And then the pain. Top of the foot and unrelenting. A horrible ache that took over my consciousness.

Suffice it to say that the next day, walking was a chore. A painful chore.

It'll get better. I just need a little rest.

I thought those things over and over and over...

A week and a half later, it wasn't better and the rest was making me anxious. I had a half marathon to run in two weeks. Fifteen days to be pain-free and confident enough to run those 13 miles. The confidence was what I was really worried about. Training and endorphins can get you pretty far in a race, but your belief in yourself is what gets you across the finish line (call Hallmark, that's a winner).

So then, like anyone who is grieving, I started to negotiate.

If I don't run between now and the race but stay healthy and positive, I can do this.

I thought those things over and over and over...

I had to pull the plug.  I couldn't run my first half marathon injured. And man, was I injured. Physically, mentally and emotionally. Drained and hurting.

Somehow it was easy to tell people that I wasn't running the race. Injury, especially when people had seen me hobbling around, was a perfect out. I felt a weird sense of relief that I wasn't running the race. The pressure was gone. The worry about whether I was going to run in pain was gone. It as a little scary how ok I was with not running.

And then the real need-endorphins-must-take-charge-of-everything part of me kicked in. I couldn't be sitting around, wallowing in the story that "I was injured and just needed some rest". That wasn't the person I wanted to be. I was better than that injured person that I had become so easily and freely.

I made a doctor's appointment at one of the top sports medicine clinics in the South Bay. I got sweet x-rays of my feet. Unfortunately, nothing showed up on them. No definitive diagnosis other than overuse came from that doctor and a script for physical therapy and anti-inflammatories were the only things I had when I walked out the door.

Turns out, the physical therapy was much better than the pills.

After some poking, prodding, stretching, testing and videotaping, the physical therapist deduced that my upper thighs and groin area were SO tight that they were affecting the way I was walking. Yup, I was told I was walking funny because the tightness was inhibiting my body from performing the way it was naturally supposed to.

It's been about three weeks since that realization. I've been doing my stretching exercises religiously and staying positive about my recovery. These are the small things that are going to change me and get me back on the right track.

I go back today for another physical therapy appointment. I'm hoping this one is the one where he says, "You are ready."

Ready for the pavement.

Ready for the early mornings again.

Ready for the feelings that I had that day in late December.

Minus the pain.