Happy Vacation Wonderland

Vacation=wake, coffee, run, breakfast, newspaper, read, adventure, hammock, fish, cocktails, dinner, fish, read, doze, repeat.

Bayview lodge was almost a month ago but recent snow[s] remind of us blissful 2 weeks of perfect sweatshirt mornings followed by sunny afternoons. We scored on the weather and lost track of days= perfect. Mark and Jenee joined us for tequila, action was tempered with idleness, and relaxation was achieved. So good to return to magic place of boyhood wanderings [?].

We could handle being retired up here ...

Ankle Envy

It’s pretty sad when you look at your friend’s brand new baby, all fresh and new and gurgly, and your eyes wander down to baby’s pudgy little ankles - the right ankle, to be precise - and all you can think of is how brand new and undamaged all those fresh, new ankle ligaments and tendons are. How unsprained.

I’d grown complacent, obviously. After surgery five years ago to tighten up my loosened ankle tendons caused by too many sprains to count, I had gone without a single injury to my bionic ankle. It was like new! Like that baby’s! Except for the hideous surgical scar, it even looked normal. Sigh.

And so, early one morning three weeks ago, I ran on the dirt trail next to the paved path around Lake Calhoun. I do this because it’s easier on the knees (irony here). The morning light was wan, dusky, inarticulate. I was still half asleep and distracted by the noisy conversation of the two chattering women running a little bit behind me. And I stepped on a big, fat rock in the middle of the path - one that’s been there forever, and which I have not stepped on, ever, in years of running that path. I’ve since gone back and found the rock. It’s a tip-of-the-iceberg rock; completely undislodgeable. I want to paint it bright orange to warn others, but I fear that they’ll be so distracted by the orange rock that they’ll actually step on it and be similarly sprained.

I knew immediately it was bad. I even heard a crack when it happened - not super loud; just enough under the decibel meter to allow me to think, “It could have just been the tendon snapping over the bone. Yeah. It was that.” It swelled instantaneously. I mean, literally - I pulled down my sock and it was all puffy, right away, like that baby’s pudgy ankle, but in a really bad way.

I recently read about a study that was done, presumably using college students, showing that cursing actually makes people able to tolerate pain better. (I told a friend of mine about the study and she said, “They had to do a study to show THAT?”) I hope those women behind me knew I was exercising pain management that morning. I do know that all the effenheimers I expleted helped me get to the endorphin stage, where my body basically deadened my ankle pain for the mile I had left to get back home. (Just so you know how sickly addicted I am to running: for a brief moment, I actually thought, “Maybe I can run through it.”)

After the urgent care x-rays showed no broken bones, I was told to see a specialist a week later as follow-up. I sheepishly went to my old surgeon, whom Steve fondly calls “Dr. Cheeks” (because he’s always running a little behind - thank you Bart Simpson). The bruising went from my toes halfway up my calf. I told Dr. Cheeks, “I’m so sorry - I ruined your beautiful surgery.” And he told me I could run. I had to take it easy, I had to wear a horribly uncomfortable brace and pay attention to pain and swelling, but I could run.

So, I think I’m back. I replaced the Brace-of-Torment with strategically placed athletic tape. Last Sunday I ran 12 miles and it was good. I’ve run this week. I’m planning 14-16 miles for tomorrow, depending on how it feels. But I still look at the skinny, undamaged, colt-like ankles I see running around the lakes and, indifferent to the people who own them, I covet them.

Weekend Workstorm

Hola  Amigos, 

The Carpenter here, with the news.

The remodel progresses.

All rough-in, and Utility inspections have been approved. The Cabinets are here, the tile is here and the walls are only just insulated. Drywall is  necessary to install both. We are ok per tile but behind on Drywall. It’s been a productive solo effort this weekend as Nancy is doing homework, too.

Optimism is beneficial,and necessary. A fire under your butt gets some serious mojo working. 

It’s madcap hijinks, and also serious fun. Sleep is for the weak, progress is good !

Enjoy the sunlight, and sleep fast !

-Stelvis 

[after a busy weekend and some good jamming at Paul and Marys Skishindig]

The Unbearable Tightness of Flying

Remind me never to fly into Philadelphia again. It’s close to other eastern city airports. Tell me to fly into them, rent a car, and then drive to my Pennsylvania destination.

To keep things in perspective: it was not the quintessential undiluted nightmare scenario of sitting on the tarmac for 13 hours without food, water or working lavatories, which is my personal standard of the truly horrible air travel experience. It was only an hour and a half waiting in Minneapolis because of the back-up in Philadelphia, and then another hour waiting in Philadelphia after arriving, and then on return to Minneapolis two days later, waiting again for almost an hour in Philadelphia because they were all backed up. On that leg I was next to John Ginormitron, a six foot five inch, circus big, hairy white guy IN SHORTS who took up fully half the air space of my seat. Sitting on the wing would have been more comfortable. Unfortunately I couldn’t fully hate him because his air travel sob story was way worse than mine. He and his family (yes, screaming kids, too. But that’s still a choice) got to the airport at 4:30 AM, and, after a number of ridiculously unlikely fiascos, wound up finally on my 5:22 PM departing flight that actually took off at 7:30. And he was a pretty nice guy, even after all that. A nice, super huge, guy. I just made myself a two-dimensional, piece-of-paper-person pressed up against the inside of the plane, face shmooshed up against the window, coveting all that nice, open space outside the window.

Even though, and in spite of all that, I still love flying. What I love best is the take-off when this huge, multi-ton, metal container goes faster and faster and faster and you fear you’ll just run off the end of the road but then, LIFT, up up up up, and you’re flying. Flying! What a crazy, miraculous thing. And you watch the earth drop away from you, and your stomach feels buoyant, and you see this living geography below you, with cars and the lakes you just ran around this morning, and it’s like seeing it on TV because it’s framed by the window, but it’s real, and those are real people in their cars, talking on their cell phones and texting like idiots. You are detached from the earth, like a spaceship only in a lower orbit, and if you’re flying alone, all your people are down there, and here you are, in space, flying above everything. It’s pretty cool.

A funny thing happened on the way to the finish line ...

I sit here on our lovely screen porch, having some Chex mix with peanuts, listening to the wind blow through the trees, admiring Kismet's ability to sleep 20 hours a day.  The gimlet helps medicate the still-sore quads from yesterday's race.

And what a race it was.  I set out hoping for a best time of 4:15 on a hilly course.  I ended up running a whole 10 minutes faster, finishing in 4:04:40.  Which qualifies me as a 50-year-old woman to run the Boston Marathon.  AIEEEEEE!!!!!  Don't think I didn't think of this as I saw myself within one hour of the finish at 20 miles.  I only had to keep cranking out 9-minute miles - a pace I generally don't run even in a 10k.  Which was exactly the distance to the finish.

But I did it anyway.  Yes, I made pathetic little crying sounds the last two miles.  But I made it in with, technically, one minute & 19 seconds to spare (because the qualifying time is 4:05:59).  And I ran the second half of the marathon faster than the first (2:03:38, 2:01:02).

But enough about me.  Steve ran the quarter marathon and did 100% of the driving on the trip.  We had a little adventure with a flat tire in Eau Claire on Friday night, and got to meet the nice people at Saturn of Madison on Saturday to get a new tire put on.  We got to spend some time with folks from our running club, the Minnehaha Marathoners, who were running the 4-person relay at the race.  It was good.

But the best part was qualifying for Boston.  I still can't believe it.

50

Well, it does look like a big number, but then again, it depends on the context: it’s what you’d pay to buy Baltic Avenue in Monopoly (or is it Mediterranean Ave?). If it were a lottery payout, you’d think it was a pretty small number. Compared to the age of the universe, it’s a blip. So, 50 is really only as big as you make it. If you even want to make it a deal at all.

But it is kind of a deal. If I don’t do something stupid and die before I’m 100, 50 is smack dab in the middle of middle age. It feels like a bigger deal than 40. I suppose when I turn 60, I’ll be saying the same thing about 50. But it’s kind of a landmark - like New Year’s, it’s a time to take stock of your life.

Phrases like, “take stock of your life,” automatically make me want to rebel and go out and break minor laws. The words are uttered in a faintly British accent, in sonorous, serious tones, and I’m fairly sure the products thusly stocked involve Serious Endeavors, Reproduction (and of not just average children, but of highly achieving, Mensa members), A Lot of Money in the Bank, and A Very Clean House.

I have none of these things.

What I do have is the memory from a bicycle trip where my bike was leaning up against a picnic table, panniers front and back, and I looked at it and thought, “That’s all I need.” So when I look at our messy, mid-remodel house, and my messy, unemployed delight of a husband, and my I-love-it-most-of-the-time job (and the fact that I have a job at all), not to mention my sweet family, my most excellent friends, and my most adorable and fuzzy kitty, well, I have to say, I feel like I’m doing okay.

We’re up here in the very frozen northland of Superior, Wisconsin, on the edge of Lake Superior, which is ice for a good mile out from the harbor. The ice buckles up into a ridge where it meets the open water, and the ridge is visible from the shore. It makes a person feel very small and easily frozen.

But somewhere between the expanse of the whole wide universe and the minutiae of me lies the Anchor Bar in Superior, and the in-the-moment pleasure of a great burger and fries and excellent beer. Life is where you grab it and make it great, and may you do so whether you’re 5 or 25 or 50 or 89. Cheers!

Arizania

Winter?  What winter?  Today it reached 76 degrees in Tucson.  Sadly, we had to wear shorts.  We drove to Sabino Canyon to run up the 3.7 miles to the end and back, and finished off the trip with sammies & Tecate.

We are ensconced here in the casita of our Bisbee pals, Paul & Lynne, right in the middle of Tucsonia, and have been enjoying some down time just with our own personal selves after holidaying it up with Nancy's parents in Sun City, as well as her brother David, gorgeous wife, Judy, and typical teenage son Alex (what, me smile for a picture?? No way, man).

After the Christmas thang, we drove up to Sedona to see Nancy's college friend, Nancy Ho, along with her sis Judy & mystery boyfriend, David, who is also internally 14 years old, just like Steve.  Two days with them and too many cookies (is there really such a thing) equals happy Christmas fulfillment.

We are looking forward to New Year's Eve with Clay & Lisa (who made a brief clandestine tequila rendezvous Sunday PM to our delight) and Paul & Lynne and other folks when we go see Los Lobos at the Rialto.  And then three more days in Bisbee with them as we celebrate Steve's birthday on January 3rd.

Stay tuned.