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.)

Anyone here a fan of those “Shakespeare In A Minute” bits that theater companies often put up in which they perform a mash-up of various Shakespearean plays with comedic results?

This is kind of like that only without the humorous component. My husband and I watched The Kingdom last night and while the movie itself earned a modest “pretty good” rating in our estimation, the intro is probably the most impressive summary of the history between the U.S. and Saudi Arabia that I’ve ever seen.

Granted, this bit doesn’t touch on the pursuit of bin Laden through the nineties or even mention the Saudi royal family’s double-crossing policy of openly allying themselves with the United States while simultaneously funding Wahhab “charities” who are but a thin veil used to funnel cash and weapons to groups whose singular intention is to destroy the West, but it’s a four minute bit; it would be a tad unreasonable to expect anything more comprehensive.

Anyway, check it the clip out. I promise you it will be the best 3:50 minutes you spend on the web today:

…in a Starbucks this morning.

“You know, growing up in Minnesota I always thought I was liberal. And then I moved to Northern California.”

(sigh)

Yes. We do have more than our fair share of folks who give new meaning to the phrase “lunatic fringe” don’t we?

I’m planning on launching my own salsa company next month because, you know, a marriage, two kids, mortuary school, training for a triathlon in August and another one in September, a half marathon in October, a convention and writing a book? Totally not enough chaos for my over-caffeinated ass.

No, I need more stimulation. Also, I need money to fund all the stuff I’ve already signed up for and all the stuff I have yet to do: like cage-diving with great whites. Because I’m not leaving this world until I’ve found my way into a shark cage even if it means saving for a couple of years because yikes people, have you seen the price tag on that little adventure?

Anyway, I figure what better way to generate some cash than to start up a little side-gig doing something I love to do and would do and already do regardless of whether I’m being paid to do it or not?

To this end I’ve checked out tomato suppliers, gathered jars, learned how to can, experimented with growing a bunch of my own stuff and armed myself with some fancy accountin’ book-learnin’. I’m even opening an online store.

The only thing missing is label art, but I haven’t been too concerned because for once my dedication to ambivalence has given way to certainty and I know EXACTLY what I want. I have a mental picture of the perfect label to complement my new company’s name and I have no doubt that once I put it all together I’ll be able to take over the world one tortilla chip at a time.

Plan? Meet monkey wrench.

Enter my boundless lack of creativity. I’ve never been able to draw. My kids look at me sideways if I so much as eyeball a crayon. Forget software, I can’t even name a single program for illustrating much less one. In short, I’m having a hell of a time getting what’s in my head onto a flash drive so it can be printed on a sticker that can be slapped on a jar.

Until someone sent me this:

Which contains almost exactly what I was looking for in this:

Don’t get me wrong. I still have no clue how I’m going to make the changes I want before getting this onto something as useful as a label. Still, I now have my skeleton dog safely stowed in a file on my desktop and every so often I’ll whip him out so that I can stare at him admiringly in between yelling at my paint program for not being Adobe Illustrator. And yes, I had to google “illustrations software” to come up with the name of that program.

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

A couple of weeks ago, just before I seemingly abandoned my blog, my husband and I decided to take the kids on a family vacation. Since he and are alike in that we find the prospect of taking a two year old on a plane about as inviting as performing home dental surgery on one another, we decided to vacation close to home.

Also, the in-laws had taken their RV and skipped town, thus leaving their Santa Cruz County digs, fully-stocked liquor cabinet, porn collection and cache of guns lonely for company.

Kids? Meet Mr. Tequila and Mr. Glock. They’ll be your babysitters for the next two weeks.

Before our vacation I decided to try my hand at triathlons which means enduring the Pacific Ocean’s sub-Arctic conditions which means purchasing a wetsuit which means that somewhere between the words “Honey” and “I’m thinking about doing triathlons” my husband shelled out a few hundred bucks to cover his wife from neck to ankles in neoprene with nary a blowjob to show for it.

But he got even. And how.

So while we’re in SC we decide to take the kids out to the beach. He picked Sunset Beach; a lovely stretch of sandy coastline that shelves gently into Monterey Bay. It is quite a relaxing spot if you are, in fact, intelligent enough to remain on dry land.

At any rate, we arrived at the beach. I had my wetsuit. My husband and kids had parkas. We were ready for an authentic Northern California beach excursion minus the hypothermia that seems to plague bikini-clad tourists who’ve watched too much television.

I’m not going to bother going into detail about the ambivalent signage everywhere that indicated that yes, while it was true that one could technically swim at this particular beach, it was not generally advisable. Not that there were signs that specifically said “Keep Out” or “perhaps you should reconsider” or even “update your life insurance.” Instead, there was a plethora of directions on how to survive should the ocean throw an undertow, sleeper wave or riptide your way.

I’m also not going to bore you with details of waves several feet taller than me, jellyfish and kelp infested swells, or even the fact that I would have had to swim halfway to Japan to get beyond the surfline.

Sufficed to say, things were not going well. I was taking a ton of foam in the face and within ten minutes I felt like I had eaten a salt lick. Have I mentioned that I’m terrified of water? These are but a few of the reasons why - when I saw the nice boy with the lifeguard gear waving at me from the beach - I was more than happy to pack it in.

“What’s up? Is there a problem?” I asked the kid, not that I didn’t know the answer. Of course there was a problem; some idiot at Fleet Feet had set me loose with a wetsuit.

“Um…” The kid started to hem. He didn’t need to talk. His expression said it all, Lady, there’s a whole list of reasons you have no business being out here but you’re a sasquatch and I’m afraid you’ll rip my arms off before I reach #50.

“There’s an awful riptide comin’ through here today.” The kid stammered. He pointed to a red warning flag that was most definitely not there before I’d gotten in the water. Not that it wouldn’t have been helpful to know. “Could you, uh, just swim closer to the lifeguard tower?”

“Do you mean swim closer to it or get out?”

“Um…” The kid looked at me and then looked at his feet.

“Look, what would you do?” I asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t be swimming. Not out here anyway.”

“Can you just tell me that I’m being kicked out of the ocean?”

“You’re being kicked out of the ocean.”

“King Neptune thanks you.”

My family and I have been on vacation. Or more like a “staycation” since our time away from home wasn’t exactly far from home.

Still, my online presence has been next to nill and I have been neither posting nor visiting other blogs which, I realize, makes me A Very Bad Person And Flaky Blogger and really? After such prolonged neglect who could blame my laptop if it decided to break up with me and move on to a more dedicated end user who would caress it with soft kisses and a tender upgrade to Windows Vista? Not I.

But I’m back now and boy, I have to say that after several days of choking on smoke and ash from wildfires in Monterey, Big Sur, Watsonville and Santa Cruz it sure was refreshing to return to the Sacramento area and find that it too was a charred and smoke-filled bowl of Hell.

…and I’ll bet a $20 Starbucks giftcard that every televangelist in America is gleefully proclaiming that these wildfires are proof that God is still in the smiting business and legalizing gay marriage is as good a reason as any for him to convert every Californian’s home to ash.

At any rate, I’m back. But not that back since I am going to have to further neglect my laptop while I complete a huge project for my summer accounting class and if the words “summer accounting class” didn’t cause whatever was in your hands to fall to the ground and shatter while you crossed yourself and said a Hail Mary for me then you are a black-hearted and soulless being beyond salvation.

Also, in case you’re wondering, that top photo is a rather large jellyfish that my husband and I found washed up on the beach in Marina last week. I’d love to say that I picked it up and relived my glory days by starting a jellyfish fight with my husband using that hamburger-sized monster but I’d be lying.

Nah, I was feeling rather kind that day so I picked up this little half-dollar-sized jobber and hucked it at him instead. 

Jellyfish fights… good times!

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.

Our neighborhood is a fair amount diverse. This means two things; the first is that liberal white university types with overdeveloped guilt complexes are moving here in mother-fucking droves.

The second is that being slipped my neighbor’s mail by mistake yields results that are way more fun than some dogawful J. Crew or Pottery Barn catalog:

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run this nextdoor and check to see if the neighbors have my issue of Honky.