You know, there are times when I want to come type away on this blog about some of the stupid shit I do just because, well, it seems like it would make it less dumb if I were to publish a post and then sit back and imagine that somewhere out there I have several readers who are sitting in front of their monitors, smacking their foreheads and saying out loud, “Dude. I’ve totally done that too.”

As if doing something stupid makes it less so when it is diluted and spread out among a greater sampling of humans. Like buying a Humvee. Or wearing crocs.

Anyway, here is a list of the stupid things I’ve done in the past week that no person in their right mind would ever fess up to:

- backed over something, stopped, rolled down my window and put my head outside - and then without confirming that what I had backed over was not, in fact, a dog or small child or some other legally recognized entity whose annhialation would result in me being sued - pulled forward, and then backed over it again.

- fed my kids several metric tons worth of chocolate, marshmallow and soda before allowing them to ride home inside the car instead of putting them in front and yelling Mush!

- Forgot to wear BodyGlide to the gym so that my running skirt wouldn’t ride up (at least the guy on the treadmill behind me didn’t seem to mind)

- answered the door for a Jehovah’s Witness

- locked my keys in the car

- locked my keys in the car with the kids (who were Not At All Helpful in unlocking the doors)

- locked my keys in the car and gained entry by crawling through the rear window when there was a perfectly good spare clicky-thing just ten feet away

- inadvertently introduced flax seed to my daughter’s diet

- plotted a ten mile run for Sunday, answered the phone, became sidetracked during phone conversation, finished plotting run without really looking, fled house, returned twelve-point-two miles later wondering why I felt so beat up.

Please tell me I’m not alone in this. What kind of goofy stuff have you done this week?

I finished my first triathlon on Saturday and if you have me added as a friend on myspace you are undoubtedly sick to death of hearing about it and are probably wishing that I would shut up or drown or at least get my toes run over by a bicycle during the next one.

I wouldn’t mention the whole thing again if it weren’t for the fact that I almost didn’t finish my first triathlon because I almost gave up and swam back to the beach because about seven minutes after the gun went off ye olde Evil Voice Inside My Head shook off its Zoloft hangover long enough to remind me that I was, in fact, terror-stricken.

Boy is that water murky.

Shut up Evil Voice.

Casket murky.

Thanks Hemingway, what the hell is that even supposed to mean?

It’s just, well, it’s dark down there. When you’re face down, you know, like in the water, swimming? Don’t you feel a little like you’re having something slammed shut in your face?

No.

Like a casket? Or a shroud?

That’s really sick.

Sure gives a whole new appreciation of the phrase “watery grave” doesn’t it?

Are you going to start in on that Jenny Greenteeth bullshit again?

Nah. But I bet being in it’s a lot like being buried.

Go to hell.

Well, that is, if being buried meant you couldn’t breathe. I guess in that sense the water is worse than a casket, huh? Because you know, you can’t breathe.

I’m a strong swimmer.

Suuuuuuuuure you are…

(A few silent moments during which I begin to hope the Evil Voice has succumbed to an adrenaline overdose.)

Woo boy! I bet there could be ten… fifteen… maybe even thirty bodies down there and you’d never know for all the murk.

Steph?

Steph?

Get lost. You’re not the boss of me.

Yeah, yeah. You’ve trained for this, blah-ta-te-blah-blah-blah.

Don’t you have anything better to do?

Better than this?

(Looks around. Kicks at my frontal lobe.)

No, not really. Hey! How’s your breathing?

Get lost…

I bet you’re feeling a little straved for air about now huh?

No.

Sure you are. Can’t breathe?

I’m breathing just fine thank you very much.

You know, just because nobody’s drowned in this event yet doesn’t mean there can’t be a first…

Gah! Shut up! I’m fine!

Are you? Sure you’re not having trouble breathing?

Yes.

Positive?

Yes.

Absolutely certain?

Oh honestly… 

You’re panicking. I can see it. Here. Let’s get one of those medics in the kayaks.

Do that and I’ll…

You’ll what? You know you want out of here.

I’ll switch from Zoloft to Jack Daniels and Xanax cocktails.

Sure you will. Hey, what’s say we get out, dry off, catch a movie. What’s the point of this whole thing anyway? To prove that you’re better at not drowning than the next guy?

No.

Oh, yes. You’re outta here.

No.

Sure you are. Tell you what we’re gonna do… we’re going to flag down one of these kayaks, tell ‘em you need to get out of the water…

And that is when I had an honest-to-God, full-blown, hyperventilating-holy-shit-I-can’t-breathe-and-I-think-I’m-going-to-die panic attack right there in the middle of the water during which I blew several precious minutes floating on my back and trying to decide whether I would continue chasing the pack into deeper water or accept disqualification and drag my sorry ass back to the beach. The Evil Voice almost won. But that was before I started thinking - really thinking - about what it would be like to quit and how stupid I would feel once I was back on shore watching everyone else finish the swim and move on to the bike and run portions.

So I turned back over and continued even though all I really wanted to do was get out and run home where I could curl up in bed and suck my thumb.

A few weeks ago a friend of mine gave me a self-help book on coping with panic disorders. I have yet to read the book but the title popped into my head; Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. It probably sounds stupid but I repeated that damned phrase to myself over and over and over and over again until the panic attack was over and all there was left to do was try to make up for time lost.

I set my peripheral vision on the strongest swimmer in the pack: a competitor whose wetsuit had an orcan stripe that gleamed white through the murk, and I kept my head down and stuck to her side until we made it back to shore.

Then I passed her and just about everyone else in my division on the bike.

(Pictured above: This is me on the verge of a total psychological meltdown.)

If you are a runner, how often have you done this?

It’s Saturday morning. You throw back the sheets, grab a yogurt and juice before pulling on a pair of shorts, applying BodyGlide and filling up your water pack. Tie on your running shoes and hightail it out the door. Today’s a long run. You could gone anywhere between ninety minutes and four hours.

No keys. No ID. No cash. No cell phone.

That’s what this woman did last Saturday.

This is Nancy Cooper of Cary, North Carolina. She is a 34 year old mother of two in training for a half marathon. She went out for a long run last Saturday and hasn’t been seen since.

Like the majority of us who run are prone to do, she left her home wearing less than two pounds of clothing and carrying nothing that would help her in the event of an emergency. Her husband was familiar with her favorite trails but confesses he wasn’t informed of her exact route that morning. Now the only thing he can do is cooperate with police, the national guard and post developments on nancycooper.blogspot.com in an effort to find his missing wife.

As always, it takes an unfortunate event like this for us - and I include myself in that statement - to begin discussing safety on the run. If my running readers are anything like me or the people I run with around here then there are a bunch of us whose photo may end up on the front page of our local papers next to the sentence, “Last seen wearing a white T-shirt, black running shorts and grey running shoes.”

So let’s discuss this. I’ll go first with my suggestions since it’s my blog and I hope that my readers who are runners will then chime in with their own suggestions:

#1 - Let people know where you are. Telling someone where you are is a good thing. Showing them where you are is even better. Programs such as Gmap pedometer make it easy to plot a run and leave the window open on the home computer until you return, just in case your whereabouts become an issue.

Also, don’t think that being single and childless means that you have to forego being accounted for. Before I was a married mom my dad would insist that I call him before every run and let him know which route I was taking. Though he was unfamiliar with the city I was living in it always made him feel better knowing that if something happened he had solid locations in the event I didn’t call him back when I returned from my run.

The best part about Gmap? You can e-mail it to the person you’ve entrusted to keep track of you.

#2 - Road ID. Yeah, most of our clothes don’t have pockets and carrying a housekey - much less a license - is a pain in the ass.

Still, it’s hard to argue the importance of identification in the event that something happens to you. I discovered this the hard way when I bonked during a distance event and found myself on all fours vomiting into the grass. (See #3: Self Rescue)

I was disoriented and shaky and only made it to the finish line when a girlfriend of mine - noting my face-downedness - marched my heaving butt to the finish line under her watchful gaze. But what would have happened if someone I knew hadn’t come along?

While most distance events will have roving medics on bikes patrolling the course, the same is not true of our training runs. Also, while we runners often pride ourselves on taking care of each other and being helpful to runners in distress, that offer of assistance isn’t going to be worth a whole lot if you’re a diabetic experiencing insulin shock and your Asics-wearing good Samaritan is trying to force nothing but water down your gullet.

Medic alert bracelets are an excellent start but they don’t do much for those of us without pre-diagnosed medical issues. The bonking incident is what spurred me to purchase a RoadID. Road IDs are simple metal tags that can be worn on your shoes, ankles, or wrists with your name, emergency contact and other pertinent info engraved right into the metal.

* Remember to have someone else’s cell phone engraved into the metal because having your own number isn’t going to do you a hell of a lot of good if you’re the one who is snake-bit, passed out, or otherwise incapacitated.

#3 - Self-Rescue. Self-rescue was a term I heard a lot when I was obtaining my dive certification and means, basically, that when you undertake a certain activity you should be prepared to cope with unforeseen circumstances on your own because help may never come.

I believe that this is an idea applicable to running as well.

How do we participate in self-rescue? By letting people know exactly where we are and when. By wearing identification. But also by taking care of ourselves before an accident even occurs:

- Hydrate. The bonking incident I described above could have been prevented if I had simply worn my CamelBak (which was, incidentally, sitting in the trunk of my car at the finish line.) My decision to leave it behind (to save weight) was a stupid and irresponsible rookie move that cost my friend the new PR she was seeking.

Runners tackling distances greater than a few miles should always take water/Gatorade and Gu with them every single time. For me, anything over ten miles puts me into an effort level that requires readily available hydration. Plus, as mileage increases so does your distance from home-base and the potential for serious trouble. Prepare accordingly.

- Know your limits. Don’t head out for a ten mile run in the midday heat if your previous running experience consists of half hour stints on the treadmill at the gym. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen someone hauled off a course by medics because they had not properly trained and had no business being there in the first place.

- Buddy up. When possible, run with someone else. If you can’t find a reliable training partner then at least run in well-populated areas where help will be immediately available should something happen.

- Sunscreen, hat, sunglasses. You’ll be surprised at how easy it is to stave off heat exhaustion with a few simple precautions.

#4 - You’ll never, no matter how fast you are, be able to outrun a mountain lion. There were a couple years back in the nineties when it seemed like you couldn’t turn the television on without hearing about some yuppie asshole who got himself eaten while running. Here’s a tip: if your favorite running spot is shaping up to be an all-you-can-eat buffet for the local fauna then it’s time to pick a new running spot.

In other words, maintain a reasonable awareness of the inherent risks of your fave runs. Mountain lions can pick you off in El Dorado Hills, sleeper waves can get you at Ocean Beach, and the heat will follow you just about everywhere else. Consider the conditions in which you are running and plan accordingly.

Now I’ve had my say, what say you?

…and I will abandon my previous commitment to commit hari kiri before allowing another child to pass through my pelvis. Yes, I would get pregnant again. Just so I could name the baby after the founder.

Or at least I’d offer to wash his or her car.

Normal people stop here. Runners, read on. What I’m about to tell you will make you think Body Glide was a yawn of an invention:

Ladies and gentlemen? I give you the world’s finest running shoe. One that normally retails for $135… and I snagged a pair on E-Bay for $41.

Yes, you really are looking at a pair of brand new Asics Gel Kayanos. In the box. Never worn. 14s even, so you know they’re not a part of somebody’s failed New Year’s resolution from back in 1998.

Fleet Feet had better prepare for layoffs because I’m diverting my rather substantial running shoe fund to E-Bay.

** Addendum for my dearest commenter Alice:

14 is the shoe’s “edition” designation and not my size. Last year the latest Kayano was a 13, this year it’s 14, next year will be 15…. you dig?

In other words: I do NOT have big feet!

For someone who is six feet tall.

Thank You,
Management

Around eight tonight I shimmied into my favorite jog skort and went for a run through Watsonville - an act which I realize now is an open invitation to every migrant worker on the central coast to catcall the bloody hell out of my blonde ass.

Thanks to my evening jaunt about town I now know sixteen ways to say sit on my face in Spanish. Not that there’s anything necessarily wrong with being invited to sit on someone’s face, I suppose. I would just prefer the proposition be made over a candlelight dinner and not, say, by a bunch of short dudes swilling Budweiser and plugging quarters into jukeboxes that only play that annoying Mexican polka-sounding music.

Then again, I suppose I should just be grateful that I was wearing my iPod. Otherwise the relatively innocent propositions aren’t the only phrases that might have been introduced to my already colorful repertoire.

…just for starting a company that makes this:

This, my friends, is the Nike Running Skort, or - as I like to call it - several yards of fabric that distinguish me from the legions of female runners who look like they entered the world as William or Bill or Mack or Buddy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

As a few of my long-time readers may already know I have spent the last several years rehabbing a hamstring injury and personally? I can’t come up with a better way to celebrate convalescence than to go out and hurt myself again. So I’ve hit the road and in doing so I have re-discovered that the biggest obstacle to my enjoyment of this sport is not the crappy energy bars, race day Port-A-Potty lines, squeezing in two-hour runs, an irrational fear of Gu, or even being run over and bloodied by Kenyans.

My biggest problem is finding running clothes that don’t make me look like a dude.

So you’ll have to excuse me for using this blog entry to lay some love on Nike. It is only because some enterprising capitalistic kind, benevolent soul on their research and development team thought I know! Let’s make women’s apparel look, like, feminine and stuff! that I can now shimmy into a running skort and let the world know I’m proud to be a chick instead of schlepping down the road looking like some pre-op tranny.

…not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I hate the holidays. Oh holy fucking crap do I hate the holidays. Mere words alone wouldn’t do my hatred for the holidays the same kind of justice that a gun, a handful of bullets and a gimp outfit would.

Therefore I’m going to spare you the Thanksgiving Day rehash ok? I’m also going to refrain from telling you about the day after Thanksgiving which will shall live in infamy as The Day That I Had To Pack Two Cranky Kids And A Football-Deprived Husband Into The Car So We Could Drive An Hour And A Half Because My Sister Decided To Schedule Family Photos At A Studio Located In The Redneck Mecca That Is The Wal-Mart Shopping Center In Modesto, California.

And since I’m not going to rant about how the holidays don’t help me earn time off for good behavior in purgatory, I’m just going to post a few photos from Thanksgiving morning when a few friends, neighbors, and my family did the Run to Feed the Hungry. Ok, I’m going to post a shitload of photos. What’s the saying? If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all? Well, this is the first time that rule will be applied on this blog.

Here’s my right foot complete with affixed Road ID that hasn’t been updated since, oh, my last apartment in San Jose. If for some reason I should lose consciousness or otherwise require medical help there’s going to be one very surprised Vietnamese family on the other end of that phone call.

Jackie and Lori before the race.

Thank God for the turkey-hat people. Without them I’d be the weirdo.

See that guy with the beard and mustache in the background? The one that’s waving like he’s got Tourrette’s of the hands? Yeah, I don’t know him but he really, really, really, wanted to be in the photo even after I bonked him with my camera.

Here’s an aid station.

Here’s an aid station that’s been upgraded with a keg.

…and here’s my favorite kind of aid station; the type that doesn’t mess around with water or Gatorade. Or running, really. Actually, they just skip straight to Bloody Marys and Mimosas.

Thank God for the bands along the route. Without them all we’d hear is the wheezing of the guy running behind us who spent the last three miles staving off cardiac arrest trying to look like a stud.

Oh! And let’s not forget Fat Elvis.

WOO HOO! Only 2 miles left!

…and the finish line, otherwise known as “Turkey Time For Everyone Not Hauled Off In An Ambulance.”

Uh yeah. That’s it folks.

Did anyone realize that it’s already November 9th? I sure as hell didn’t. Seems like just yesterday I was encouraging my offspring to maim each other with roman candles and then BAM! All the sudden it’s winter.

Ok, it’s not really winter. Not around here anyway. Raise your hand if you’re from Michigan and that last sentence made you want to kick my ass.

Moving right along, let us all bow our heads in remembrance of the Berlin Wall. That monstrosity fell eighteen years ago and I was lucky enough to finagle a piece of it during a trip to Europe that now hangs in my office. You have no idea how many starving socialists I flashed at Checkpoint Charlie for that damned bit of concrete.

Today I was running errands, one of which involved going to Capitol Aquarium. While we were there my daughter started pointing at the tanks which were fully stocked with the latest shipment of saltwater fish. Since I’m always game to blow $50 on the next critter to buy the farm in my big tank I indulged her curiosity and we browsed the selection.

So mesmerized was I with the sea anemones and corals that I completely ignored the sucking sounds coming from knee level until I felt a cold, wet hand go up my shorts. As I turned around I was horrified to see my daughter stick her hand into a ground-level tank, pull out her saturated sleeve and suck the brine right out of it. For the record, the fish were probably more traumatized than my daughter.

Oh, and the controversy surrounding this woman reminds me of an incident that occurred during my second pregnancy. I was two weeks away from my due date and working out on a stairmaster at the gym when a guy next to me said “If you were my wife I’d be damned if I let you go to the gym while pregnant.”

To which I felt obligated to reply, “And if you were my husband I’d be damned if I gave you a blowjob until you got rid of that attitude.”

Asshole.

To all the people I owe e-mails, I’m sorry. It’s been hell around here the past few days and I promise to answer. It might be January, but dude, I swear I will answer.

Denise, you rock. You’re a damned talented artist and wonderful human being and I adore you. Especially since you have yet to let my husband know what a dork I was in high school and college. You’re not going to tell him are you? Because I totally think I have him snowed.

Jenn, I just love you. Love, love, love you. In that totally platonic I’m-already-married-but-if-I-weren’t-I’d-seriously-consider-switching-to-chicks kind of way.

Kevin, you’re thoughts on our faith and life blow me away. You are probably the most cerebral person I’ve encountered in matters regarding all things God and music and life and you make me happy to be Catholic.

Blondie, good luck with your move. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately and hoping that you are able to sharpen your ninja-like wallpaper removal skills before taking up residence in Omaha.