Thirteen in 2013

Who says 13 is unlucky? This year I finished my 13^th full marathon and 13^th half marathon.  That equals a total of 510.9 race miles, or 524 race miles if you count the half marathon I ran for someone else.  [I know, that is a big no no in the race world, but I didn’t place and we didn’t use my time to help her qualify for anything.] 

This number may seem insignificant to some because it took me a few years to get here. Heck , I always hear about people who have ran more than 100 marathons throughout their lifetime and I just met a guy who ran 26 half marathons in 2013.  I commend him for his dedication and devotion to running, but have no desire to top his record anytime soon.  My only hope is that this is something I will still be able to do when I’m 80.

So you’re probably wondering, how does the girl who isn’t really athletic and who really doesn’t like running start running marathons and half marathons?  Well initially I started training as a marathon walker.  [I have to clarify, I wasn’t a race-walker, I didn’t have that technique down, I just held a fast steady walking pace.]  I had watched a friend train for the Rock-n-Roll Marathon one year and was fascinated by the whole process. I really envied the training piece.  The social part of the Saturday morning routes with friends sounded like a lot of fun.  Of course, I was completely enamored once I watched him run the race. 

A month after I watched my friend cross the finish line after 26.2 miles I learned USA Fit (now referred to as In Motion) had a training program designed specifically for walkers. They taught us everything we needed to know about being a marathoner.  All of the proper training techniques like building up our mileage in preparation for race day, hydrating, picking out the right shoes and socks, nutrition, techniques to make it through the mental blocks if we hit the wall and most importantly they taught me the most effective race strategy of finding my happy steady pace.

 

 I really enjoyed those few months training for my first marathon.  I sweet-talked Jen, Melissa and eventually Angela into joining me.  While I was the only one who ended up walking Carlsbad that year, it started the Saturday morning of walks in PB followed by coffee and breakfast. It also started the annual Disneyland Half Marathon tradition with Jen. 

Oh how I digress, I didn’t finish writing about walking marathons.  Back in the day some marathons were very supportive of the walkers. Carlsbad and Long Beach even had early start times for the walkers.  It was really nice we would start an hour earlier than the runners and were able to watch the elite runners pass us up.  Sadly, after several complaints they stopped allowing walkers to start early. Carlsbad went so far to shorten the total time to finish to discourage walkers.  It was really too bad, a majority of the walkers weren’t an issue.  We followed proper etiquette and tried to stay out of the way of the elite runners. There were a few groups who formed packs and blocked the way of the runners.  They ruined it for all of us.  I continue to run Long Beach, but other than one half marathon I ran with friends, I have boycotted Carlsbad since they changed their policy.  Even though I could finish within their new timeframe, I have not gotten over my disappointment over the race organizers squeezing out the walkers. I will forever be indebted to Carlsbad for providing me with the opportunity to start my race journey.  I will always be grateful to Carlsbad because I met my one of my dearest friends Claudine during the 2008 race, but I will never forgive them for becoming so elitist. 

Interestingly although running is still not one of my favorite activities I have started running during the races.  Technically speaking it’s probably more of a slow jog. I attribute this change and my most recent PRs to my CrossFit workouts.  CrossFit is another story for a different time, but I will say since I have discovered it I have been able to decrease my training time logging miles before a race and increase my pace strength and endurance.  It’s also provided me with more free time which has helped me maintain more balance.  

As I sit here and reflect on the 524 race miles I wish I had documented more throughout the years. There are definitely more memories than I could possibly write down now.  I will say I never would have made it through those miles without the race organizers, volunteers, spectators, friends, family, and fellow runners support along the way. 

Marathons:

Carlsbad 2006

Long Beach 2008

Carlsbad 2008

San Diego Rock –n-Roll 2009

Long Beach 2009

Long Beach 2010

Big Sur 2011

Surf City 2012

OC 2012

Long Beach 2012

Surf City 2013

OC 2013

Long Beach 2013

½ Marathons

America’s Finest City 2006
Disneyland 2007 (technically I ran it for someone else so it doesn’t really count)

City of Angels 2007

Surf City 2008

Disneyland 2008

Disneyland 2009

Disneyland 2010

Rock-n-Roll 2010

Carlsbad 2011

Disneyland 2011

Disneyland 2012

San Diego Women’s ½ 2013

Disneyland 2013

San Diego Holiday ½ 2013

Remembering Gillian (Pronounced Jillian)

Gillian and Charlie's Christmas

December is such a nostalgic time of year.  Fond memories of Christmas as a child, the celebration of the birth of Jesus, Midnight Mass, listening to all of my favorite holiday music, festivities, twinkling lights, candles, trees all decorated, presents wrapped and topped with bows, freshly baked cookies, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and gestures of good will.  While I embrace the spirit of the season, I can’t help but remember losing Gillian two years ago. 

If you have followed my blog you’re familiar with my sentiments about being a mom. There certainly was a period when it was a role I had always dreamed I would play, but time and circumstances just weren’t on my side.  Of course, I’m not sad about it now.  As much as I wanted to be a mother, I knew the conditions had to be right.  Although women do it everyday, sometimes out of choice other times out of the cards life deals them, I didn’t want to intentionally go down that journey solo and on my own.  So instead of having children I chose to be a beagle Mom.  A role that unquestionably has had its own trial and tribulations. 

Gillian was my first beagle as an adult.  I named her after Gillian Anderson from the X Files and Gillian, the character played by Nicole Kidman, in Practical Magic.  She acquired several nicknames throughout her life…Baby Girl, Jillybean, Jilly, Beanie, Beanie Girl, Jills, Jillsie, and Monster hound were just a few. 

I remember the day I went and picked her out. She was 7 weeks old, the only red and white girl of the litter.  She was spunky and had a little red dot on her head.  A dot I would later refer to as the mark of the devil.  In my mind I had envisioned a cute little puppy that would be like the daughter I didn’t have.  Sweet and quiet she would sleep in a little box at night, play throughout the day with her toys and potty outside on command whenever I wanted her to. 

Looking all innocent after peeing on Mommy's bed

I'm not as sweet and innocent as I look

Clearly I did not do my research and read the dos and don’ts guide to picking out a puppy.  Taking her away from her mom before she was 8 weeks old was my first mistake.  Not to mention raising a beagle puppy in San Diego is much different than raising one in the backwoods of Missouri.  Of course if you know anything about beagles, especially red beagles, you know Gillian was the exact opposite of everything I had imagined she would be.  It’s not surprising she spent every day for the next 12 years of her life dispelling the fantasy I had built up in my mind.  She cried the whole way home in the car and the girl could howl, she ate through the box I had intended for her to sleep in and any other contraption I tried to keep her in, she always peed in her own bed and inevitably anytime she was mad at me she peed on my bed. 

Gillian played with her toys, but she never really understood the line between what was hers and mine.  She thought everything was meant for her. She ate my bed when she was 6 months old. Literally, I came home and my mattress was in a million pieces.  When I went to replace it I noticed she had been eating her way up through the bottom of it.  It’s a wonder I didn’t fall through.  The first few years of her life I was teaching sociology at the local community colleges. She really resented the time I spent on my laptop preparing for my classes and the time I spent on the couch grading papers. Whenever given an opportunity she chewed through my laptop power cords.  One day I noticed a spark and Gillian darting away.  It must have scared her as much as it did me because she never touched another cord.  On more than one occasion she also ate my student’s homework.  She loved the papers that were nicely bound in little plastic binders.  Imagine my horror having to tell my students “I am sorry, my beagle ate your paper.” 

Gillian was so smart. She figured out how to open doors and cupboards.  I had to install locks on the sliding glass doors in my bedroom because she would open them and eat my shoes.  Of course she never chewed two of the same pair, she’d always chew one shoe from each pair.  She could also jump like a jackrabbit.  She would tilt her head in such a way that she was able to grab things off the countertops or a dresser; that’s how she was able eat one of my invisalign trays and my retainer.

Gillian sucking on her baby bird

She was like Dr. Jeckyll and Hyde. On the one had she was super sweet.  She’s the only dog I’ve had that would actually come up and hug my neck.  It was so cute how she tried to wrap her paws around me trying to get closer.  At night she would burrow under the covers and sleep in the small space between my knees.  She also had this little blue baby bird she absolutely loved.  Every time I saw one at Wal-mart I bought it for her. Anytime she got anxious or excited she would hold it between her paws and suck on it.  Each one had a small indention in the same place on its head from where she’d spend hours sucking on it.

As sweet and loveable as she was, Gillian had a violent mean streak. That’s where she got her nickname monster hound.  It’s hard to describe, but she at certain times she would just go psycho and become really vicious.   A trait that is not unheard of in beagles, but also very rare.  Her nasty side usually appeared when she was scared or trying to protect something she had in her mouth that she shouldn’t have and didn’t want to give up.  When she was 3 years old she bit my lip off, another story for a different time. I’ll just say after 25 stitches for reattachment and reconstructive surgery it’s almost back to normal.

Mommy, I was a bad girl! I'm sorry, I bit the groomer

Fortunately, there weren’t any other serious incidents after that one, but I always warned the vet or anyone that had to deal with her for any reason they needed to muzzle her and take precaution because she had a red dot on her medical chart and was capable of biting. They usually listened and always thanked me for letting them know.  The only exception was the groomer at Petsmart. I told her at least 5 times she needed to muzzle Gillian, but she didn’t listen and sure enough Gillian bit her hand.  It was their fault for not following directions, but they still banned her and charged me a $5 fee. 

Gillian was very smart. She had the memory of an elephant.  She never forgot anything or anyone. She loved my niece and nephew and was always very excited to see them when they came to visit.  Unfortunately, if she learned something she never forgot it, like opening doors and cupboards.  A few lessons were positive. Like the time when she was 7 months old and she tripped me when I was making macaroni and cheese.  She learned her lesson the hard way when a little bit of hot water splashed on her.  She never entered the kitchen again when I was boiling pasta. 

Gillian like any other beagle was motivated by food.  I’m sure that’s how she learned to open cupboard and doors.  I’ll never forget the first time (definitely not the only time) she opened the cupboard and got into her dog food. She ate every bite her tummy could hold.  I found her happy as could be, fat as a pig lying next to the empty bag. Although it seems incongruous because she could inhale a bagel in one swift gulp, but she could also be somewhat dainty.  One year she got into the Halloween candy with her sister Emily (we lost her in a break up…another story for later).  Anyway, Gillian neatly opened the Hershey bars and only ate the chocolates, while Emily just chewed through the wrappers. Whenever I gave her artichokes she would just eat the bottom part of the leaf. 

Charlie and Gillian

In a lot of ways I admired and envied Gillian.  She was a true free spirit, resilient and persistent.  She always gave it the good fight and never gave up if she wanted something.  She was stubborn and hard headed.  I remember when I received the tragic news that she had congestive heart failure. The vet told me she would only live 1-to-3 months.  She was strong, she gave it her best fight up until the day she was laid to rest nearly 5 ½ months later.  I always wonder how much longer she would have continued to fight if I would have let her……

RIP in peace sweet Gillian! We love you and miss you everyday!

Pulse Check

I am finally getting a moment to sit down and write.  So many thoughts have been flowing through my head, I just haven’t had a peaceful moment to reflect and process them all.  I thought giving up TV would provide me with more time to write and become attuned with my creative side.  Instead I’ve filled up the free time with other activities.  So many outings with friends, concerts and live music events I haven’t been able to put all of my experiences down on paper or into the cyber world.  I am hoping to catch up these next few weeks. 

Harvesting Better Tomorrows One Small Handprint at a Time

I just realized my blog “Something Worth Leaving Behind” didn’t really have an ending.  When I originally started writing it my intention was to incorporate my experiences volunteering for the Habitat for Humanity.  Somehow my thoughts just weren’t connecting the way I had originally anticipated.  Instead of fighting the internal battle to get the words to flow I decided that piece would be a precursor. 

Habitat for Humanity is one of my favorite volunteer organizations.  Not only is it one of the most structured and resourceful organizations I’ve ever worked with, the organizers truly make a difference and have an immense impact on lives and the community.  They strive to make housing affordable to all, promote dignity and hope, and support sustainable and transformational development (Habitat for Humanity website).  Much of the labor and materials are donated—the volunteers are essential to helping their vision come to fruition.  

I feel great pride being a small part of the Habitat for Humanity.  However, I would be remiss if I didn’t admit this small confession. My motivation for becoming a Habitat for Humanity volunteer wasn’t completely selfless.  I was certainly driven by the capacity to provide a helping hand and make a difference, but the opportunity to learn building tips, play with power tools and meet cute boys also cultivated my motivation.  Hey, I’m 41 and single, it’s only natural and I never proclaimed to be Florence Nightingale.

I vividly remember my first Habitat for Humanity volunteer experience. It quickly dispelled the myth in my mind that the houses were practically built overnight. I don’t know what I was expecting, it just seemed like they came together so quickly in the 3-minute video we were shown during the orientation session. During my first experience I learned construction is hard labor, building codes have to be followed, and no job is too small.

I am always amazed how the foremen on the jobs have always been so patient and understanding. They have to be to orchestrate a job of that magnitude with the revolving door of volunteers with varying abilities and knowledge.  The houses are ultimately built through their expertise, experience, wisdom, guidance and passion to make a difference.  They direct the volunteers—nail-by-nail, board-by-board, inch-by-inch, square foot-by-square foot until the houses are finished and new dreams are a reality. 

I joined Habitat for Humanity with my friend Irene.  Before we could even sign up for a construction site we had to attend an orientation.  It took place in a little library near our office after work.  We couldn’t help but laugh at all of the women who showed up to the orientation. They were all dressed up in their Sunday best, make-up, hair and outfits perfectly finished.  Of course, we weren’t laughing at them, we were laughing with them because we certainly didn’t show up in potato sacks.  There was one man who really stood out, looking like he just stepped out of GQ magazine, we couldn’t help but notice his eye popping gaze at all of the women.  He was clearly in good company and on a mission of his own. 

A few days after our first orientation in preparation for our first day on construction work, we went to Lowes to buy safety glasses.   We discussed all of the logistics, what we should wear, what we would pack for lunch, and our expectations and anticipations. Irene kept reminding me more than meeting cute men she was really hoping to play with power tools.

The entire morning before we were scheduled to arrive to help out we were texting each other, we both felt prepared.  We had our safety glasses, work shoes, long pants, sunscreen, packed lunches, and water.  We arrived early and were ready to serve.  I was on a mission to make sure we were assigned to the job where we would be able to play with power tools. 

That morning when they were assigning jobs for the day we had a choice between hanging siding or plumbing.  I quickly raised my hand for the plumbing project. I didn’t know what to expect, I just knew that we would have an opportunity to use the jackhammer and the tamper aka “wacker.”  

Our duty was to dig a trench, 16 inches deep (or maybe 18 or 24 inches deep, I can’t remember exactly) and roughly 3 feet long, insert a pipe, and fill the trench back up with dirt.  Sounds so easy as I write it, but I can’t lie, it was a long hard day of backbreaking manual labor. 

Our foreman Mike walked us through all of the steps. He handed us shovels, showed us how to use the jackhammer and left us alone for a while so we could work. Irene was the first one to try out the jackhammer.  I was a little nervous at first, but then quickly got the hang of it. There was something empowering about using a jackhammer to dig into the earth.  Empowering that is, until I got a little over zealous and got it stuck.  I felt like a complete dork digging the jackhammer out of the ground with my shovel.  Fortunately, Irene was the only one who witnessed it. Everyone else was busy doing his or her own project. 

Did I mention ditch digging is hard labor?  Mike let us work independently, but he closely monitored our progress.  He would look at our work, tell us we were doing a fantastic job, and then he would take out his tape measure and tell us keep digging. His first words of advice to us were; dig deeper and longer, not wider.  Irene and I had a Beavis and Butthead moment.  We giggled and smirked every time we said it.

Little by little, or I should say inch-by-inch, we reached our goal.  Mike would stop by, pull out his measuring tape and tell us only 2 more inches.   I swear his definition of 2 more inches and our perception was very different.  Nonetheless, through teamwork and laughter using our shovels and the jackhammer we dug the perfect trench.

Or so we thought.  Once we thought we were finished digging the trench we were tasked with putting a PVC pipe into the ground.  Mike was very contentious, the pipe needed to be set at the perfect depth and it had to lie flat in the hole.  A little more digging and we were finally ready to place the pipe into position. Add Mike’s magical assistance and the pipe was set and ready to be entombed in its new home.    

I thought it sounded like an easy job, we would just put the dirt we dug back into the hole.  If only it were that simple.  The pipe had to be covered with dirt that was the perfect consistency.  Not too dry or too wet.  Mixing dry dirt with wet dirt from the job site and adding a little water when we needed was a little nostalgic.  It brought  back fond memories of making mud pies during my childhood years. 

The dirt also had to be compacted very tightly.  This is where the wacker and the manual tamper enter

the story.  I quickly discovered the electric wacker, the beast, 157 pounds of pure machine and power, was a lot more fun to use than the manual tamper.  Irene and I filled the trench inch-by-inch or what felt like centimeter-by-centimeter with the perfectly mixed dirt, then we patted it down until it was flat and firm.  We repeated the process for hours until the trench was level with the ground again. 

The finished project...the Rock Street House

Once we were finished with our project we helped put all of the tools away and cleaned up our area.  Physically we were beat, sweaty, and exhausted, but we felt a sense of pride and accomplishment for our work and opportunity to leave impressions our small handprints and big hearts on the house.  We knew the family, the father who had just recovered from brain cancer, would never know our names, but they would appreciate our efforts.