tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50400682622682666542024-03-16T00:08:30.079-07:00Naked on Sharp Pointy StuffThis is the (sometimes irreverent) flim flam of an ultra runner, adventurer, artist, single mom, and heavy lifter who has decided to embrace alternative life solutions to stay sane, have fun, and maintain balance in life. zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.comBlogger238125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-90784536152273121732024-03-12T08:16:00.000-07:002024-03-12T08:16:22.743-07:00<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Wy-NTwBRQG9SusyGI5uQH_pxopweVV3Z712gEnQcANACWmcbhdXvKBcUG2Ild1vo97TBlFFz8FJCogBSKM6PPuwvwURK6TW76lfXuyBfHwsY99fBYSf_Q5x8WWcPNmeIrey1Oo4D39O7AcYlXmNcJ_PsTwpUK2KP04lCjia7prk3Dq7d4BW2NcdLF5fN/s2688/PXL_20220723_154017023.NIGHT~2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2688" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Wy-NTwBRQG9SusyGI5uQH_pxopweVV3Z712gEnQcANACWmcbhdXvKBcUG2Ild1vo97TBlFFz8FJCogBSKM6PPuwvwURK6TW76lfXuyBfHwsY99fBYSf_Q5x8WWcPNmeIrey1Oo4D39O7AcYlXmNcJ_PsTwpUK2KP04lCjia7prk3Dq7d4BW2NcdLF5fN/w646-h369/PXL_20220723_154017023.NIGHT~2.jpg" width="646" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: x-small;">Lost Coast Backpacking Trip 2021</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Reflections are fascinating. And so beautiful.</span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;">It's a random Tuesday morning and despite having ignored this blog for years something in my head told me to come back and check in. It's a sort of inner growth check-in because re-reading these posts gives me HUGE perspective on where I've been.</span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;">As a brand marketer, solopreneur I've been using a lot of AI to aid in my writing lately - I gotta add that in somewhere because not only has my life shifted in so many ways but so has technology and the world at large. In a BIG way. One that is fundamentally changing my career. I say this just to also say how I am not using AI on this blog whatsoever (you'd be able to tell anyway by dead giveaway words like AMPLIFY, UNLOCK POTENTIAL (AI loves to unlock things. Apparently it's got keys to the whole universe!) TRANSFORMATIONAL (I'm guilty of overusing this word thanks to my naive exhuberance when I first discovered the OpenAI playground. I don't even think I spelled exhuberance right. I don't have keys to spelling.)</span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;">Anyway, I sit here and write now. 7am ish in the morning, without ever intending to write but something in me said I need to go back and read. Here's a post I never published from about 4 years ago. I guess I had a similar whisper back then.</span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;">. . . . </span></div><span style="color: #444444;">My divorce was finalized amidst the pandemic on March 21 of 2020 this year. That day would have been ironically my parent's 57th wedding anniversary had my father still been alive. </span><div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;">Right now I'm busily cleaning house and sweeping all my shit under the rug until I'm ready to voluntarily pick it up and examine it. But I'm recording some heavy stuff in my dream journal. I have been able to bring some awareness to the unconscious unraveling that is now floating to the surface. It's a huge part of my process. This healing has been a long and arduous journey and I'm being patient with myself and trying to deal with things in their own time. Healing is not linear for me and accepting parts of myself that I have tossed into the darkest corners of my psyche is very painful. I'm also aware that this process is likely to take an entire lifetime.</span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><div><span style="color: #444444;">While many in my external world saw what I affectionately call my "midlife enlightenment" as an act of defiance, I see this from my internal perspective as an act of acceptance. I am allowing the change to happen. I allow myself to be who I want to be. I only get one stab at this life. Those who knew me ten years ago would say I'm a very different human now. In fact, you can experience this change by reading this blog. Although my writing is still infused with lots of emotion and honesty it's not as frustrated or irreverent as it use to be. It's reflective, thoughtful, and lately a bit sad. But that's growth and I'm being patient with it. We accept, and expect, a child to transform into an adult. Even young adults move on to be mature adults. This is our nature. We are constantly changing and transforming, learning and exploring. It's ok to do a life pivot. I give myself this permission. I firmly believe once we have matured we don't freeze in time. Our souls still seek to evolve. We can either embrace that evolution or we can reject it. I choose evolution.</span></div></div><div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;">When I look in the mirror now I not only see the physical changes of a woman about to turn 50 - the wrinkles, the laugh lines, the greying hair, but I feel my newest roots are solid, wide, and meandering to find the most genuine parts of myself. These are the roots that nourish me now. The old roots are still there but they are smaller now and slowly dying back.</span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #444444;">I'm embracing this change. It's beautiful and different and with it comes it's own challenges. I'm enjoying the exploration.</span></div>zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-71722589183431147812020-02-04T05:00:00.000-08:002020-02-04T06:19:41.906-08:00I'm Dead.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ64eonNKQhgLzw-sJF11l_hDDRVwmg1sT3fNd-v6fEVBb4E7TKkvJ5cQtZINwAqKaxnIwg4DxYyu_0-DdbRQqJtXjyOFoohSstmWNiDWYIvQDQpM-_bSQtCxTGKqH0LrpBUnTql6SOsv6/s1600/K_dream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1500" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ64eonNKQhgLzw-sJF11l_hDDRVwmg1sT3fNd-v6fEVBb4E7TKkvJ5cQtZINwAqKaxnIwg4DxYyu_0-DdbRQqJtXjyOFoohSstmWNiDWYIvQDQpM-_bSQtCxTGKqH0LrpBUnTql6SOsv6/s640/K_dream.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Why waste my time here on this planet barely scratching the surface of the human experience?"</span></blockquote>
<br />
So you may already know... I'm dead. Well, not in the literal sense of the word but in an ephemeral internet sense. Personal blogging is dead. At least that's what I heard on YouTube. It's been taken over by self-monetizing, google ads ridden, affiliate, passive income blogging. So if you're reading this (and apparently 1004 humans did last month) then you should definitely know I'm dead. Well, at least my blog is. In a way, I was never really alive since I never gave in to the adsense nonsense anyway.<br />
<br />
My days have been consumed by learning lately. I'm not sure where it's coming from but I'm devouring information like a starved animal. I'm submerged in tutorials, books on psychology and design, podcasts, and my own creative work these days. I'm a fucking sponge. Information enters my brain and gets violently regurgitated on paper as abstract inkings of people and weird hieroglyphics that take the form of random objects. My muses possess me. They don't let me sleep at night. My dreams are an amalgamation of scientific chaos and emotion. I must sound like a crazy person. Honestly, these days I think I am. Can dead people be crazy?<br />
<br />
The older I get the more done I am with the whole mainstream life thing. This is gonna sound like a rant, but in a world that seems to be becoming more impersonal and numb there are days when I just want to look strangers in the eye and chat about something meaningful that matters. Why waste my time here on this planet barely scratching the surface of the human experience? I want to be able to ask you the hard questions. Maybe because if I did, and you answered honestly, you wouldn't feel so alone on this planet. Tell me. If someone asked you the hard questions, would you be willing to tell a stranger the honest truth?<br />
<br />
There are so many burning questions behind the obligatory "How are you?" If someone were to ask you the following questions would you risk being human to answer them?<br />
<br />
Questions like…<br />
<br />
1) When was the last time you hurt someone and how did it affect you? Or…<br />
<br />
2) What is your biggest regret in life? Or…<br />
<br />
3) Have you become someone you can look in the mirror every day and be happy in your own skin?<br />
<br />
4) Do you ever wake up and say "there has to be more to life than this?"<br />
<br />
5) What twisted thing makes you smile?<br />
<br />
6) Are you sinking, swimming, or floating through life right now?<br />
<br />
7) What secret are you hiding and why?<br />
<br />
8) Did you find spirituality or was it taught to you?<br />
<br />
9) What is the thing you are the most ashamed of?<br />
<br />
10) In your opinion, what secret do we as humanity all share, but no one has the guts to talk about?<br />
<br />
11) What is your most destructive habit?<br />
<br />
12) When was the last time you felt real rage?<br />
<br />
13) How alone are you? (On a scale of 1-10 - 1 being the least and 10 the most)<br />
<br />
14) What is one thing that made you happy today?<br />
<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
<br />zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-82010700418472064262019-11-25T07:00:00.000-08:002019-11-25T07:00:14.696-08:00Time Travel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQl-bo1t7y_xu2Y_EzMRNoRB7MYlFiOjn6L_7pQfuahLQyszkvRsO5ObQTEzk3BXnClEL2veOyJZ8lnfZ_7xYeWoJi46dPWE50ZUd-y2KuE2Os81LcVTVfsVVyONLpv8Qfs7IvH-Pajaa5/s1600/IMG_20191124_222123648_PORTRAIT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQl-bo1t7y_xu2Y_EzMRNoRB7MYlFiOjn6L_7pQfuahLQyszkvRsO5ObQTEzk3BXnClEL2veOyJZ8lnfZ_7xYeWoJi46dPWE50ZUd-y2KuE2Os81LcVTVfsVVyONLpv8Qfs7IvH-Pajaa5/s640/IMG_20191124_222123648_PORTRAIT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I taught myself how to lucid dream around the age of ten years old. I would often sneak into my brother's room to steal his Omni science magazines and then devour them secretly in my own bedroom. There was a particular issue that had a thorough step-by-step guide on how to train yourself to become aware mid-dream that, in fact, you were dreaming. I studied this article and practiced the steps every single night. Eventually, (actually I think it took months or maybe even a year) I could drop into lucid dreams by setting up my thoughts before I fell asleep. I would make up little plays and dramas in my head just before sleep at night and then wake up mid-dream with the ability to actually orchestrate, control, and remember these custom-made dream-scapes.<br />
<br />
I didn't actually begin to document and record my dreams until I got into college. As I got older I had fewer lucid dreams but still wanted direct access to my nightly adventures in order to remember them and dissect their subconscious meanings. I started keeping pen, paper, and a flashlight by my bed. I began, again, the work of training myself to literally "pull" my consciousness into the awareness that I was experiencing a dream that I wanted to remember. And so when I had that realization I would break myself from the dream-state to write down every detail that I could possibly remember. I would often wake hour after hour spending 20 or 30 minutes each time writing down detail after detail.<br />
<br />
The following is one such example taken from one of my oldest journals. In a sense, I almost feel that my younger subconscious mind already knew my future self. My younger subconscious had so much wisdom that I am now only beginning to understand and continue to learn from.<br />
<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
February 17, 1995 9:15am<br />
I had some lucid dreams and in them specifically went to the characters in my unconscious. I started by looking in the mirror of a bathroom. I saw myself and I said to myself that I wanted to talk to my inner selves. I asked to talk to the self that was unhappy and sad. My image in the mirror morphed in to a little girl with really curly blonde hair, brown eyes, freckles, and white hat with flowers and a white froofy dress. She seemed happy and I can't remember what she said. She didn't say much that I know of, but she seemed quite mature and controlled. I do remember feeling some intense sad emotions though.<br />
<br />
The last character I met – (my dream would go black and I would ask to meet another character. I would do this while I was on the edge of awakeness and sleep.) I would focus very hard on trying to see in the blackness of my sleep and in this particular dream I could just barely make out the outlining of hair – it was long and at first I thought it was me, but it wasn't. I saw that it was a man and he was sitting next to me – my physical body– and I was looking out the window of the train. The man got up to walk around and I followed him. He was wearing dark but faded navy pants – they looked like something he got at the thrift store and steel toed combat boots. His button-up shirt was slightly open exposing a choker necklace that was silver with silver balls on it. I thought that it was especially beautiful. He went to the dining car to get a cup of coffee so I followed. I stood in line with him then followed him back to the table where I sat down to talk with him.<br />
<br />
He was a very unhappy guy and was obviously a wanderer. He was traveling all the time to get away from things. I told him I was his conscious self and that I was there to talk and listen to him. I told him he was one of my unconscious selves and that I wanted to know about him. I was amazed because what he had to say to me I could never have thought about. He said he had a hard life. That his mother was like teeth edges. I didn't understand and asked him if that was good and he said it was good, but the look on his face indicated that it could be bad as well. He told me his brother treated him unkindly. I can't remember what he said, but when he talked about his brother he got very angry. He tried to make a pass at me, but I denied it. he was very lonely and looking for a place to be comfortable in. He liked the adventure, but looked as though he has had many adventures which had really hurt him. He was native American.<br />
<br />
This woman was sitting on a couch foot stool talking to me. She was smoking and had a rough demeanor. She said "fuck" a lot and was angry because I didn't listen to her. We talked for a while. I told her I felt if I listened too much to her I would be controlled by her. She had a thick New York accent and dark hair. She was dressed in a very short leather skirt and lots of jewelry – she looked like a whore. I told her I admired her for her free spirit. She was angry because I was too prudish and let the prude take over way too much. I told her I really like her and wanted to be friends with her. She said " Ooooh girl… I could teach you things." I told her not to be selfish and still respect the "prude" in me. She agreed. I call her Sera.<br />
<br />
There was another woman, a pregnant mother. I asked the whore if she could help me figure out my feelings for Mark. She said she couldn't that this woman could – she was quiet and soft-spoken, but extremely beautiful. She had an "aura" or psychic beauty. She said she represented my women's or mother's intuition. She said that she controlled that part of my unconscious that gets "gut feelings" about people. This explains my urge to mother Mark. She told me to follow my gut feelings about him – she said that he has found her. He has found what he's been looking for in her. The mother is the safe comfort zone, a security that he could fall back on for his future. That was my gut feeling but I often glaze it over with worry that maybe he just doesn't like me. She wants more of me to follow my heart. She was wearing a pink-striped dress that flowed perfectly over her breasts and womb. She had long, beautiful, shiny, blonde hair and absolutely dazzling blue eyes. She said she thinks Mark is scared, but that she's by no means psychic – she only represents the part of my unconscious that is extremely sensitive to other people's personalities. When I asked her if I was right about Mark's landlord, Sean she smiled and said "what do you think?" I call her Gabrella.<br />
<br />
I don't know why I saw a pregnant woman but the fact that his is the woman who told me to follow my "gut" feeling seems so appropriate. The gut is "pregnant" with intuition and feelings which are so often taken for granted. Perhaps this is why my unconscious has envisioned or symbolically represented my women's intuition and motherly instinct with a pregnant woman. She is so real it's scary. I let my thoughts flow and this is what I've found.<br />
<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-45565999560565933102019-10-11T07:00:00.000-07:002019-10-11T07:13:12.221-07:00This Transforming Shitty Life is All Good<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AOaH52ZPgYlx8C6397eK7Si3NaqGJJa0XDVDgLM_nAKzKxGhMxb2ea2gJwKkZP4NcqQfTqSAHCQ8a287igPwM8bT_lMz5LyYOjMThZeTGXSa8PhV7-byGg4ECnHpr42aAfEJxiR6Z6Dy/s1600/IMG_20190822_084630071_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AOaH52ZPgYlx8C6397eK7Si3NaqGJJa0XDVDgLM_nAKzKxGhMxb2ea2gJwKkZP4NcqQfTqSAHCQ8a287igPwM8bT_lMz5LyYOjMThZeTGXSa8PhV7-byGg4ECnHpr42aAfEJxiR6Z6Dy/s640/IMG_20190822_084630071_HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #cccccc;"> At the top of the highest peak in the contiguous United States at 14,505ft. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There are days when I'm inspired to write and there are the days when I HAVE to write. I'm not talking about the "have to write" like it's a real job, I'm talking about the "have to write" because I need to get shit off my chest. Well this is most definitely the latter.<br />
<br />
One of the things that I miss most about being married and sharing a business is the fact that there was another human occupying the same space where I lived and worked almost 24/7. Ok. Well maybe the 24/7 pushed that relationship a tad over the edge but the point is there was always a sounding board potentially available to listen to my shit at any given point during the day. My crazy idea shit, my I-did-something-stupid-shit, my dreams-and-goals shit, my anxious the-sky-is-falling shit... all of it. Knowing that someone was just listening was so critical for me. In fact, I've learned that being heard is, for me, a very deep layer that gets triggered in strange ways. I actively work at bringing awareness to that layer that doesn't feel heard or finds it painful when someone speaks over me or for me, but maybe that's for another post.<br />
<br />
Bare with me while this post will be about stuff that I haven't really talked about, but need to.<br />
<br />
I've talked a bit about meditation and how it has really become a foundation of my daily life. When my life gets busy, as it has over the last few weeks, I feel the contrast of not being able to keep grasp of the ritual and I can get lost in my head easily. In the past, I lived inside my head a lot, but I'm not a fan of this state.<br />
<br />
So I find myself seeking out reflective opportunities whenever they float into my daily experience. Like driving in the car, for instance. Driving, unless I'm with my kid who I lovingly allow to hijack my Spotify, is one of the few spaces of silence and reflection I've been getting lately.<br />
<br />
And so it occurred to me recently while driving to and from my mom's new memory care facility, that my life is pretty shitty lately. But this thought wasn't a judgement. It didn't even have emotion attached to it. I wasn't getting teary-eyed wishing things were different or even better. It was... well, just a thought and I was actually OK with things the way they were.<br />
<br />
Everything… just… was.<br />
<br />
And then it also occurred to me how transforming this shitty life is at the moment. How even in the thick of the realization that my mom was in need of memory care, my finances were imploding, and my teenager was on the podium for "Challenge of the Year Award" I could, in fact, see that all this was good. Good in the sense that these things were happening in my life without the impact of my internal judgement. No emotions attached. No self pity. No fear. There was nothing negative or positive. I didn't cope by convincing myself things will be better or use positive affirmations. I didn't "choose" to be happy despite my life. There was no sunshine. No rainbows. Not even unicorns. But everything was good in a way that I could see how things were just supposed to be.<br />
<br />
WTF does that mean?<br />
<br />
I've been thinking about thinking a lot these days. Sometimes my thoughts are like a county fair fun house.<br />
<br />
I could see how things were SUPPOSED TO BE. This was critical awareness for me. I'm beginning to see how the pieces are woven together. How when I look at each thread – the finances, the teenager, the mom, I can see that from a distance they disappear and the pattern they form emerges.<br />
<br />
So when my brother and I met with a neurologist the other day to get his opinion about my mom's prognosis and I finally discovered that in fact, my mom has Alzheimers I felt myself letting that just sink in. Without judgement but with stillness. I let that be what it was supposed to be. I could view this diagnosis from the wider angle of things.<br />
<br />
In a way, I'm relieved. The stress of moving her came with this. A full diagnosis was never explored with her previous doctor. It wasn't at the top of my list because she was in good general health, but she was in dire need of a new doctor and now she had not only one, but two. The new facility we moved her in comes with a primary care doctor who makes the rounds every three months and a neurologist who visits residents once a month. I had been looking for doctors in her area that were specialized in geriatric or dementia care and were accepting new patients but it was tough to find.<br />
<br />
Funny how letting go and allowing life to pull you in it's own direction effortlessly illuminates the path.<br />
<br />
When I first learned that my mom was exit-seeking and wandering out of the gates at her previous facility back in August I will admit I was in a state of denial. Afterall, it's really only been a couple years since we moved her into her first facility. I began watching my thoughts submerge themselves into the "NOT AGAIN!!" waters and I immediately started feeling the stress of the process like a heavy weight pressing into my chest again.<br />
<br />
There was an aspect of myself that was feeling selfish and didn't want to move her. My friends had secured permits to climb Mt. Whitney, a mountain I had been wanting to climb for years, and I was invited to join them on a trip down to the Eastern Sierra. I didn't want to deal with another move and transition. Admittedly I didn't know what to expect with my mom's transition this time. The first time we moved her from her home of almost 45 years my mother wouldn't hug me or look me in the eye for about 4 months. Every time I came to visit she begged me to take her home. It was almost unbearable. My heart could hardly withstand the guilt. So this new unknown was uncomfortable for me. I informed my brother that I would be keeping my plans to climb Whitney and that I didn't see the necessity in moving her out of her current facility. They had a perfectly good memory care.<br />
<br />
But eventually the reality of the situation required my focus and I went to visit my mom to assess the situation, speak with her caregivers, and see where the facility was recommending to place her for her own safety.<br />
<br />
While the facility had a fully acceptable memory care option with caring staff, I quickly realized that it wasn't the best fit for my mom who was still social and mobile. Making life changing decisions for a parent is a task I'm still wrapping my head around. It's especially hard when communication with that parent is jibberish at best and the only means of assessing her opinions on things is to read the emotions that lie underneath her nonsensical sentences.<br />
<br />
This decision, along with the other challenges life was launching at me began to sink me down into the anxious thinking and endless loops of negative thoughts. But this time I found myself catching the thoughts and inspecting them from a detached perspective. I saw that I was experiencing emotions of guilt and feelings of self disparagement. I saw the guilt bleeding out of me and I heard the voices in my head that said I was a horrible daughter for even thinking of climbing that mountain right now.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocN9OKhpE7x9FVY0tpd7HAM11fSsbOkQQYV9eGWUDTOK2ZFEvMdW3kyappgm8LEY0PMEnZjNznkmnQNYLOh3yGs2IAIQDgvPHamBX9RVNVSnjSgmzxRuD_ovZgvJzdEGlwe5WwADlnK0k/s1600/FB_IMG_1566658962509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocN9OKhpE7x9FVY0tpd7HAM11fSsbOkQQYV9eGWUDTOK2ZFEvMdW3kyappgm8LEY0PMEnZjNznkmnQNYLOh3yGs2IAIQDgvPHamBX9RVNVSnjSgmzxRuD_ovZgvJzdEGlwe5WwADlnK0k/s320/FB_IMG_1566658962509.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
But this time I didn't get lost in guilt or the "me bashing" in my head. I was detached from those voices. I decided to take some time to open myself up to all the options. I chose to climb the mountain, afterall those plans were literally days away and giving myself some much needed time to reflect in nature was probably in my best interest. Limiting my trip to the bare minimum of three days, I decided I would focus on finding a solution to my mom's situation when I got back. What ended up happening was an alignment that I couldn't have predicted.<br />
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I checked my texts on my phone once I was able to get a signal on the mountain and saw that my brother was actively visiting facilities. My brother's wife suggested we take the opportunity to look into a new memory care and as it so happened, a room was available at one of the most sought after care facilities for Alzheimers patients in Sacramento but we had to move her ASAP to secure her spot.<br />
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So once I got off the mountain and back into Sacramento we prepped my mom for the move. Really, there's no way to prep a person with dementia for anything. Preparation requires the person to be able to know and understand that a change will be taking place in the near future and to be able to wrap their head around that. My mom's brain is like a cloud that carries thoughts that travel like a mist, changing, morphing and eventually disappearing within a matter of minutes. So the best I could do was to tell her to trust that the decisions that my brother and I would be making for her in the upcoming days and weeks would be to ensure that she is safe and happy. That's all she needed to know, and with her acceptance of that the conversation quickly floated out of her grasp and her attention was diverted to the smoothies that we were sipping on, which were quite tasty.<br />
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We are still in that transitional phase at the new facility and there's no way to tell how well my mom will handle it. So far it's been ups and downs but hardly the intensity of the first move. The fact that we now have a solid diagnosis with a neurologist and a new primary care doctor gives me peace of mind. Knowing that this will probably be her last move is another reality that I'm witnessing with stillness.<br />
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Now that the threads of the details of my life have somewhat settled and organized themselves, I see what was supposed to be. I was supposed to move my mom again. She was supposed to move into this place that was built and designed specifically for people like her. I was supposed to find her new doctors. We were supposed to confirm her diagnosis.<br />
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I was suppose to climb that mountain.<br />
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<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HSQCI7liY3Y" width="560"></iframe>zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-5606523735797496692019-09-30T07:50:00.001-07:002019-09-30T12:15:04.341-07:00Discovering Awareness<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbK_xyYULSUx9MkRrxdN9b-cYeK6WRCJzzXecxf1oKpM98Ka2d33KyXQCji9IvP9oZz6Mo_W_Ea9kxsu_QRVlGy-5cUBt1B5WWZcEgqIHtL7FZV6LP5nkOXpw_uUhG937huNo_0LpgUrYn/s1600/IMG_20190915_131429803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbK_xyYULSUx9MkRrxdN9b-cYeK6WRCJzzXecxf1oKpM98Ka2d33KyXQCji9IvP9oZz6Mo_W_Ea9kxsu_QRVlGy-5cUBt1B5WWZcEgqIHtL7FZV6LP5nkOXpw_uUhG937huNo_0LpgUrYn/s640/IMG_20190915_131429803.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Majestic Madrone - My favorite tree from childhood</td></tr>
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Life has been chaotic to say the least. I just moved my mom into a new memory care facility, I'm currently engaged in actively filling out divorce paperwork, and my oldest kid is a teenager. Just being a single mom of a teenager is chaos enough let alone the added bonus of all the other life stuff. I've never had a teenager before. Life is teaching me many things. My brain is full.</div>
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I've been working on quieting that busy voice in my head lately, but this morning it kept saying "The kids are gone, the place is quiet, you have a moment to yourself... WRITE."</div>
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And so I am.</div>
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I've been feeling changes and shifts in my whole body the last few months. Lately my circadian rhythm has been reinventing itself. It seems I rediscovered my youth over the last few years and was easily able to burn the candle late into the night. But different changes are taking place and now I'm ready to crash by 9pm usually waking around 4:16am every morning by what feels like an internal furnace kicking in below my belly button. I swear at times it feels like I have a living beast waking in my body, slowly extending it's long tentacles of heat out to the ends of my fingers and toes until I have to throw off the covers to cool off. I'm a firm believer in sleep and so I use my breath to subtlely coax my body back to sleep for an hour or so. The beast is nice enough to oblige and she chills out for a while at least until I hear her low growl for "COFFEE."</div>
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This new transformation isn't just changing my body. My mind, my most fundamental beliefs, and my awareness in general is coming into a new focus.</div>
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It's odd to have such an acute cognizance of this. It's almost as if I'm watching this metamorphosis happen from a hovering perspective above it all. I see it coming at me like it's a wave building in the ocean. I'm watching it crest as I write this.</div>
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And these transformations really do come in waves. In the past I wasn't really that aware of them and if I was I would fight them because usually fundamental changes in my beliefs or awareness would threaten the core of who I was, or who I THOUGHT I was.</div>
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I feared change because I knew change would ultimately destroy life the way I knew it and that's exactly what it did. My life turned inside out. I lost everything that was important to me at the time, but it was a choice I made because I knew I was fundamentally changing. By no means was I a victim. There was a lot about life that was painful, but I chose to see it and accept it and move with it, like a wave. It takes a lot of energy to hold yourself still against a wave.</div>
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I've noticed that once I decided to move with the wave instead of standing up against it I began to move through life in a way that felt unobstructed, open, and not fearful. Instead of reacting to events in my life, I now have this amazing ability to take action to create my life. That doesn't mean that things don't get hard (read my first paragraph) but now I can see the hard part from a wide angle perspective. I'm not immersed in judgement, anger, or resentment. I'm watching what's happening and allowing it to be what it is. I believe I'm presently participating now. I'm finding this allows me to make life happen. Life doesn't happen TO me anymore. And now I can fully appreciate how leaving behind the first half of the life I had built for myself gave me the courage and the flexibility to just "be" now without fear of what other people think. It's an unexpected level of freedom. </div>
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Now I'm making simple choices to do the things that I love. Even small things. I still have the normal day to day mom obligations, but I make an effort to carve out time for myself. I choose to do things that inspire me, teach me, or fuel me. I dedicate myself to a morning ritual whether it be to get myself into the gym, meditate, write, or draw. I choose to be around people and now in addition to my design business, I choose to help out at my friend's running store/tap room where I beer-tend and flim-flam with customers learning their stories, laughing, and sharing adventures (I recently climbed Mount Whitney with friends from the running community.) I'm choosing to be around people more and more these days and if an adventure presents itself I try my best to make it work in my mom schedule. I want to show my children what happy looks like.</div>
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I no longer have to ask for permission to put something on the calendar or do something that inspires me whether that be writing in my blog, visiting friends out of state, or going MIA for a few days to meditate at my property in Amador. I no longer have to worry if I am making another person unhappy by doing the things that make me happy. This is has been a huge revelation for me. Let me just say this again...</div>
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<b>I no longer have to worry if I am making another person unhappy by doing the things that make me happy.</b></blockquote>
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Trying to make others in my life happy is something I have come to learn is an impossible task as I have no control over anyone else's happiness but my own. It's something I've found to be embedded in the nature of any traditional relationship and society at large supports this "make others happy" mentality. I'm not saying you shouldn't show people you love and appreciate them, but when you realize that you are taking on the responsibility of trying to make others happy at the expense of your own happiness it's time to reassess and become aware of what you are essentially doing, which sadly, is a slow suffocation of joy.</div>
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All of this may sound selfish, but I've let go of that thought and worry as well. I no longer care how others see me. I truly do my best to be present with those I love in my life and yes, I wholeheartedly own the idea that I love myself and I work to be kind and compassionate with myself just as I would with my children.</div>
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Letting go of most of these neurotic thoughts and worry has allowed me to get to a place that feels open and spacious and full of flow. Believe me, there is always internal work to be done, but it's in this place that I feel the most content and happy.</div>
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But happy can be relative. It's not always euphoric and ecstatic. Sometimes it just feels like I'm on the pivot point between the yin and yang. I'm balancing, neither disturbed nor jumping with joy. It's a place full of potential for the drop or the rising of the high. In the past this place was unfamiliar and somewhat uncomfortable but I'm discovering this is the place of optimal awareness for me. The crest of the wave is where I can see the drop below and the sky above and as long as I stay in that balance and choose to follow the flow of the wave I can choose to be open to life and create my own kind of happiness.</div>
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<br />zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com3Rocklin, CA, USA38.7907339 -121.2357827999999838.6917514 -121.39714429999998 38.8897164 -121.07442129999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-72364226353345298592019-02-17T21:13:00.001-08:002019-02-17T21:13:14.521-08:00Shifting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQ_VtQ4PXfQ6-1h_vSh_jWj7EboS9SIstttQuQpArqod42f7u1AVhfQtE6ciwMhdpp0Zf28iMDfeRaUzKjr624gxciFsiKHZoXcORkxCYvjJJfyqcuBVnUIwxxq-VXtciJMeme45ouPGv/s1600/Shift_krista_cavender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQ_VtQ4PXfQ6-1h_vSh_jWj7EboS9SIstttQuQpArqod42f7u1AVhfQtE6ciwMhdpp0Zf28iMDfeRaUzKjr624gxciFsiKHZoXcORkxCYvjJJfyqcuBVnUIwxxq-VXtciJMeme45ouPGv/s1600/Shift_krista_cavender.jpg" /></a></div>
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The car I bought when I was eighteen was cheap, used, and manual transmission. It was the only vehicle I could afford that would drive my ass to the San Francisco Bay Area to attend university. It was also a pale yellow and I had given it the endearing name of Banana-Mobile. I had no idea how to drive a stick. My Dad taught me how to drive this car and I spent countless hours with him seated in the passenger seat sputtering around an empty parking lot launching forward, killing the engine, and restarting again. It was so difficult to learn how to get the hang of the push-pull of using the gas pedal and the clutch simultaneously. I remember being infinitely frustrated because I still needed a car to get around so I often ended up borrowing the family car (an automatic transmission) before I left for college and practiced the "feeling" of using the clutch while driving by mimicking the movements, "pretending" to shift just so I could train myself.<br />
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It took me a while to learn the fluid motion of driving a manual transmission. Mastering the space between shifting from one gear to the next wasn't something that was natural for me. There's something about that edge between gears where the engine goes idle and for a moment I grind the gears or kill the engine altogether. And once I had moved to the Bay Area I quickly learned that starting my car on the steep hills of San Francisco required even more mastery of that idle space in between gears.<br />
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Shifting.<br />
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The hardest part about it is that drop in between the gears. There's an acute level of awareness that has to happen in order for your reflexes to kick in and it to become muscle memory. I'm finding that, in this human life, that inevitable shifting happens too. It's automatic, but I intensely detect it. I profoundly feel that drop into idle, that rough spot, and some grinding of gears, and I feel myself in an almost panic trying to move out of it. It's a very uncomfortable space for me. Funny how I feel I've lived most of my life in this drop, trying to decipher whether I'm shifting up or down, but always fighting in that space and desiring to move out of it quickly. It feels like a rushing of survival, a flailing into the unknown, a grasping at whatever I can find in order to stabilize, balance, and get my bearings.<br />
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I want desperately to learn to be in this space in between. I feel like there's something it can teach me, but I can't beat the feeling that I'm losing momentum. I fear losing control. I fear having to down-shift. I fear killing the engine, again.<br />
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If awareness is the first step into true knowing, then I'm there now. Right now. But I'm flailing and trying to be calm. Right now I'm grinding and I'm feeling that automatic shift happening. I'm just not sure whether it will move me forward or kill me.<br />
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-59104622321995600282018-08-22T17:39:00.000-07:002024-03-12T07:42:54.028-07:00Pulling Back the Curtain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8u4tx_su8Wh8cPMrpgyT7TfVz9n60J1oVAqDla-U_wkAazzloHhv9wJyuHIF8S5vQG8AhcEH303zAWqvM7VdKf6oKjQqCdWmvAubsVpCE6o3Vno-XmMdsCLuJ8JvCpP3yGRZpcVj3xeQ/s1600/Krista_Cavender_PeelBackCurtain.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8u4tx_su8Wh8cPMrpgyT7TfVz9n60J1oVAqDla-U_wkAazzloHhv9wJyuHIF8S5vQG8AhcEH303zAWqvM7VdKf6oKjQqCdWmvAubsVpCE6o3Vno-XmMdsCLuJ8JvCpP3yGRZpcVj3xeQ/s640/Krista_Cavender_PeelBackCurtain.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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I've been spending the last couple years trimming the frayed edges. I've had to mend a few holes and there's still parts of this beautiful tapestry that is me, that are thin, worn out, and barely there. I'm working on mending that. I've been doing so much work on this that it depletes me sometimes. I've embraced meditation, visualization, and internal work even more than I ever have and have seen parts of me that frankly have surprised and scared me. There's a shit ton of layers I've discovered, pulled back, and examined every little thread of. There's also a shit ton of layers that still sit in a fog below all of that, barely reachable, edges illuminated just enough so I know they are there, and then, just like that, they vaporize. Who knows if those will ever rise above the fog again.<br />
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It's a strange thing to be back in the pool of dating. Especially now. With all the years that have gone by. I'm not even quite sure I'm ready for this yet. In fact, I KNOW I'm not ready for this yet. At least not for the long term. But I can't shake the need for good ol' face to face conversation and basic human contact which it seems is a rarity for me these days. So I log in with half enthusiasm just to look for a human to have a drink with and if I'm lucky maybe some inspiring conversation, and I won't deny, maybe some human touch.<br />
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It seems that I've gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing the rare contacts I do receive. There's the love and bond I have with my boys. The outings and adventures to visit people I know. The chit chat at the gym. The sparse texts volleyed back and forth between friends, the brief, fleeting conversational grazing in the dating apps, none of it an adequate substitute for true intimate, eye to eye, REAL conversation. It's the one thing I miss about being in a relationship.<br />
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But one of the layers I've had to confront and examine with nano diligence is my ability to connect with people. Most would probably label me an extrovert, possibly an emotionally intelligent, articulate one, but in the depths of this truth, I am learning that it's all a cover for something that isn't actually there. I got skilz. I'm a master magician. At least I'm good at something.<br />
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I've also learned that this thing I do, this boundary and separation I create, it's more like a curtain than a wall. I hide behind it but will peek under it from time to time just to see what's happening. When I first discovered this curtain I was fascinated by it and partially relieved to know that I can be fluid and have discernment regarding when to pull it to the side and who to do that for.<br />
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But I rarely touch my curtain. In fact, few people have seen what's on the other side in person (unless, ironically, you're reading this and chances are you probably don't know me in person ) The saddest thing I've discovered about my curtain is that even more rarely do I pull it away to see who's standing in front of me. I regret that.<br />
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So my curtain doesn't just block people from seeing me, it keeps me from truly seeing other people.<br />
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No wonder my go to visualization almost daily is of my fire, under the stars, where not only am I greeted by people with genuine sincerity and gratitude for "seeing" me, but I am deeply grateful to see, talk, and connect with them. Ok. I'll admit, it's a party and my extroverted ass is center. There's music, connection, and a sense of belonging around the fire. It's a tribe. I truly know these people. This is MY tribe. Something I don't have externally in my life right now so I create it with my imagination. Every single day. Just to feel that connection. <a href="http://www.nakedonsharppointystuff.com/2017/03/copyright-manaemedia-its-dark-and-all-i.html"><b><span style="color: #e69138;">I posted this visualization here</span></b></a> but took it off my blog out of shame and embarrassment. I'm not entirely sure why I felt that, but I'm ok with sharing it now. Funny how time reshapes our feelings about things.<br />
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People fascinate me. In fact, my most favorite thing to do is to talk to people and learn about them. But here's the thing: There's a fear, or at the very least a hesitancy, to pull back my curtain to expose a part of myself in person and to someone who truly wants to know me and consequently I never get to know the person I'm pulling my curtain back for, which is the thing that I most enjoy.<br />
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So I'm thinking maybe I just burn this curtain altogether in this fabricated bonfire I've created in my imagination. I'm pretty sure it will help me get to know you, the stranger in front of me. The only thing is unless you burn yours too, I'm only left here standing alone, naked, cold, and dripping in vulnerability. And there's still a curtain in front of me. But now, it's yours.<br />
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-3395706943230310322018-06-24T14:37:00.000-07:002018-06-24T14:47:13.989-07:00Uncovering my past and healing my shit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg17QGC-a64WsBqwHRtaRzhWvbKtSDBmlqPh0XWNGu85cVUNfVN9ZCrEZPm7wVyJW0vHyrN8uqLHkjjCFJdAslceu2mDJ8YGLqJM9ysXZ0WRW76nYh606gxKuu71pTy0VwR2f61S0Ibbdiq/s1600/pre_post_stalker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg17QGC-a64WsBqwHRtaRzhWvbKtSDBmlqPh0XWNGu85cVUNfVN9ZCrEZPm7wVyJW0vHyrN8uqLHkjjCFJdAslceu2mDJ8YGLqJM9ysXZ0WRW76nYh606gxKuu71pTy0VwR2f61S0Ibbdiq/s1600/pre_post_stalker.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Pre Night Stalker c</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">irca 1972 / Post(?) Night Stalker circa 1978</span></td></tr>
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Is this mic on? Can you hear me?<br />
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It may have been nearly a year since the last time I posted in this blog, but that doesn't mean I haven't stopped writing. Oh HELL NO. In fact, despite my eagerness to get back to writing in this little space of the webosphere, I have been making a point to indulge in the real deal daily - pen and paper, which consequently, I'm extremely particular about. So much so that I will not even ATTEMPT to write unless I have my beloved Precise V5 Extra Fine Point Rolling Ballpoint pen in hand. This one has a peek-a-boo window that looks into the cartridge, (which reminds me of my calligraphy days), where I can see just how much ink I have left. I keep one pen saving my place in each journal I write in. I sorta have multiple love affairs simultaneously happening although, I think my pens are jealous of my keyboard. My keyboard sees way more action, especially at work.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUbB7QArnywNzyseD2kQighXClNs7b04kbo3oFQHvHJzzL3QlNouyEvNTdhQQ6tlhOjfwqfuMU-j20bSxEc0wxGwa4CzhHg-afGHNyVJ7FZN-FWuVC6dexamtklvSFiRqt_mduEKQzz7A/s1600/pen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUbB7QArnywNzyseD2kQighXClNs7b04kbo3oFQHvHJzzL3QlNouyEvNTdhQQ6tlhOjfwqfuMU-j20bSxEc0wxGwa4CzhHg-afGHNyVJ7FZN-FWuVC6dexamtklvSFiRqt_mduEKQzz7A/s320/pen.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My intimate love affair</span></td></tr>
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So these multiple love affairs with pen and ink and journals are very much my sacred space.<br />
<br />
I write in a dream journal most nights. I also have a journal to keep track of my diet, my skin, and my hair, an intuitive journal that helps me keep track of all the times my brain tries to lead me in certain life directions, as well as a sketchbook journal in which I keep doodles, pen and ink masterpieces, and my gesture and life drawing practices, which, by the way, encourages a totally different love affair with a handsomely packaged fivesome of archival quality ink shafts. This one is a very satisfying relationship.<br />
<br />
But today, this realization just hit me. I write. A LOT. But there's something I miss about this blog. The off the cuff posts where I rant and get all disgruntled. The discoveries and epiphanies that I've documented over the years. My life lessons shared less so that someone else can learn from them but more to provide my future self with a road map of where I've been and how far I've come. I miss typing and deleting and reworking. It gives me the freedom to write my first drafts from my heart and choose my words based on where I am in the moment rather than where grammar and punctuation persuade me to be, sometimes prevailing eventually.<br />
<br />
Who am I kidding. Ok. So maybe I don't really give a flying fuck about the grammar or punctuation<br />
<br />
I've written, posted and censored. Some raw and painfully fragile entries were even left for the world (or if I'm honest my 6 followers) to examine with fine-toothed empathy and judgment. I even wrote two posts that I had to redact or never post at all for personal reasons, the biggest reason being I just plain didn't have the balls to put them out there.<br />
<br />
Well, at least not until now.<br />
<br />
I'll own that I'm probably only posting now because chances are maybe 1 or 2 people will read this, which feels safe, that is, unless I'm brave enough to post it on Facebook. If that's the case, I'll just fix myself a stiff drink now, cuz I know that will take solid courage.<br />
<br />
So in light of the recent arrest of Joseph James DeAngelo, the 72 year old ex-cop who was my early childhood stalker otherwise known as California's biggest serial killer/rapists gone uncaught for decades, (a.k.a The Original Night Stalker, East Area Rapist, California's Golden State Killer) I thought it would be appropriate to post one of those previously-written-but-didn't-have-the-guts-to-publish blog posts. I should mention that I didn't have the balls to even finish this post, even though I intended to. I'm not sure what made me stop writing but I'm ready to put this out there now and need to purge some of the darker shit before I can go back to the fun and flippant "for science" stuff. I'm perfectly comfortable with my demons now and I like to think I've finally conquered the FOE. (You'll have to read on to understand that acronym.)<br />
<br />
Below is my untitled, never posted entry (written sometime in June 2012 or 2013) about how this early childhood experience heavily influenced my relationship with my body. I meant to explore more on the topic of how dysmorphia and body image is not "owned" by those who are overweight. I wanted to express how much of a punch in the face it is when someone invalidates our raw but legitimate beliefs about ourselves. They may be warped perspectives but they are very real and in order to heal they need acknowledgment and validation.<br />
<br />
So next time you catch yourself rolling your eyes at that skinny girl who says she doesn't love her body, consider that there may be something bigger swimming deep below, that which you perceive as superficial perfection and vanity. Don't blow her off. Be kind.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
UNTITLED<br />
<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
<br />
When I was about six years old my house was the target of <b><a href="http://www.coldcase-earons.com/" target="_blank">this guy - known back then as The East Area Rapist</a>.</b> He eventually became one of California's most terrifying and uncaught serial killers. Everyone has some claim to fame, right? Personally, I'd rather not have mine in such close proximity to a fucking nut job, but, just like we can't pick our parents, we also can't pick the people who fuck up our life shit either.<br />
<br />
Oh well...<br />
<br />
Back when he was a wee rapist, he would sit across the park on the roof of my best friend's house and watch us through our windows. Somedays he would sit on the roof of our house and spy on my best friend.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
Loony, right? Dude really needed a different cable subscription.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
I had no idea this was happening until one day I remember going to school and my best friend wasn't there. A few days later I discovered her mom had been raped and my best friend was tied up and left in the fireplace. Lucky for them a neighbor saw a man leaving the house wearing a ski mask and called the cops. My friend and her mom were horribly terrorized, but survived, which is more than I can say for a lot of his victims.<br />
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</div>
<br />
After that, I remember multiple break-ins happening in our house and the police being an embedded part of my life. We got a German shepherd named Echo (the sweetest, gentlest, ineffective excuse for a watchdog we ever had) There were new rules and protocol my brother and I had to follow. New blinds showed up on every window in the house, alarms were installed and panic buttons strategically placed. We saw therapists and experienced evacuations. Psychics were called in, police helicopters would randomly appear out of nowhere circling our roof. I remember my mom opening the front door only to have a team of officers push their way past her on their way to my backyard. I vaguely remember someone hiding underneath our newly installed redwood hot tub. There were stakeouts, dustings, and other evidence collected. My childhood became squeezed into a small space with limited freedom and completely controlled by what I like to call the FOE. Fear of Everything.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyxzeYVtJ-goC-xFTlrFFnM4hfpRSA8jqAdlqCXNYs7mxgv0iZMVIb30JLxmOPyXnbcqxitV4dxlkfODqCk3cuhUSMZz9lvoicS7jIJTbpDTI4MKbb1TFAbtABzs7MvT6X_w80QVc5BWe/s1600/Screen-Shot-2018-06-24-at-10.26.44-AM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="890" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyxzeYVtJ-goC-xFTlrFFnM4hfpRSA8jqAdlqCXNYs7mxgv0iZMVIb30JLxmOPyXnbcqxitV4dxlkfODqCk3cuhUSMZz9lvoicS7jIJTbpDTI4MKbb1TFAbtABzs7MvT6X_w80QVc5BWe/s1600/Screen-Shot-2018-06-24-at-10.26.44-AM.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Researching my past and putting dates and events together</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
It's never a good sign when the police start calling in the psychics and they tell you to get the hell outa dodge and go find someplace else to live for a couple weeks.<br />
<br />
Apparently, our house was the one missed target and dude kept coming back. He broke into our house and stole school pictures of my brother and I, took small trinkets and some of my mom's jewelry to keep to himself. Items from other people's homes started showing up in our house. I even remember strange phone calls. It became clear that this was a game. Long before advancements in DNA tracking, the police had only foot impressions in our carpet and a few smudgy, gloved fingerprints to use to further the investigation.<br />
<br />
So I learned what exactly rape was at a very early age. My best friend told me what happened to her and her mother. In my head, I saw this as something that only happened to women, and being a young girl, this left a huge impression on me. HUGE. Little did I know how huge.<br />
<br />
It was during this time that I was beginning to explore my own sexuality just like every kid does. But it scared me. In my mind, the line between my blossoming sexuality and this profound understanding of rape got blurred. Sex and sexuality were dangerous and in order to protect yourself from that danger, you had to wall yourself off from the world with blinds drawn and alarms ready. Sadly, my newfound, natural discovery of sexual pleasure was stained with fear and danger. I didn't need any more incidents to warp my own sense of sexual well-being during that time in my life, but sadly it was then that I was also molested by my step-grandfather. A double whammy for my blooming sexuality and consequently my self-image.<br />
<br />
Eventually, the East Area Rapist, also known as the Original Night Stalker, moved on and left our community and my step-grandfather quit drinking and never touched me again. Although they never caught the East Area Rapist, life went back to "normal" for me.<br />
<br />
Conveniently, I forgot all about the events that threatened me as a child. Despite, seeing several therapists over the span of my life, it never occurred to me to even mention my early childhood experiences with the Night Stalker to them. I honestly, thought I was perfectly "normal" and it took me years to discover what exactly that "normal" was for me. As a child, I had developed serious rules of privacy that bordered on crazy, but at the same time, I remember as a kid defiantly challenging those same rules by opening the blinds in my room - at night - like it was some kind of risky game. For me, this was was a flippant walk on the wild side and I truly enjoyed flirting with the inherent danger of it all knowing there could be someone out there watching me and wanting to harm me. I don't think I was totally aware that this act had so many layers to it and would manifest itself in subtle ways into my future adult life.<br />
<br />
I detested my body. In high school, I wore baggy clothes (I borrowed pants from my dad's closet and some of his shirts he wore in the Coastguard) just to cover any feminine curves I was growing into. I cut my hair super short (partially shaved it, actually) and wore scary black eyeliner and white lipstick. Some of it was tragically called "fashion" at the time - hey it WAS the 80s, but in a way, it was my excuse to look as anti-feminine as possible.<br />
<br />
Because women get raped.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until college that memories drifted back in from childhood with a little more clarity, but I think I filed it back away somewhere in my head after my first real long-term relationship, which was one of my few healthy and good relationships, and oddly enough, with a guy who was testing to be a cop. Looking back on that, I don't think that was a coincidence.<br />
<br />
Sex was confusing to me during my 20s. I remember having fantasies about being raped which were a source of serious WTF for me. Didn't my brain get the memo? Rape was bad. How can I be aroused by something that had been dangling like a guillotine over my head during some of my most impressionable years?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And having GOOD sex? Well... that was completely out of the question too. Sex was a disconnect at best for me. I never bonded during sex. I never orgasmed during sex. Sex was empty and joyless. Sex was a means to an end if I wanted to keep that boyfriend. Until I couldn't do it any longer. And then they knew. Eventually, they all knew. I was fucked up.<br />
<br />
I'm not even sure when exactly it was that I finally decided that I couldn't live life void of my own healthy sexual well-being. I had lived most of my life in that dark and empty space and, to be honest, the realization hit me that it totally sucked. I had been gifted this body that had enormous potential for passion, and fulfilling pleasure and it felt dead and lifeless during sex. And sadly, the realization that hit the floor like a brick was that there had to be people in this world having good sex and I wasn't one of them. In fact, I was really bad at sex.<br />
<br />
But there was a kink in my ability to reclaim my sexual power.<br />
<br />
Body image.<br />
<br />
I still detested my body. At the time I didn't exactly know why. I didn't see myself as fat. I didn't think I was ugly. I hated my small breasts though and I was embarrassed by my body in general and ashamed to be a woman. My body was hook, line, and sinker, a magnet for attracting danger. Not just a little bit of danger. Epic serial killer danger.<br />
<br />
How fucked up is that?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I remember trying to get back into running in college only to be cat-called around my local neighborhood in San Jose which left me feeling unsafe and even more ashamed of my body. I tried wearing ugly, baggy running clothes but eventually just stopped running altogether.<br />
<br />
A recent Facebook discussion cropped up when I shared a link about a skinny woman who talks openly about the body issues she's held and about being ridiculed and bullied for being super thin. She writes about the other side of the weight spectrum and her views from there. The post was written with her skinny sisters in mind (me), and I was reminded how during the last few years I've been trying to gain weight so I could not look so waif-like, cover up those bony bits on my shoulders, and dodge all the "eat a sandwich" comments. When some guy pointed them out to me at the Born To Run Ultras a few weekends ago, I finally found out what those bony bits on my shoulders were called. But, I've forgotten already.<br />
<br />
The facebook discussion was pretty chill. Nobody was getting inadvertently offended, no one was spouting fire, but it became clear to me that there were assumptions being made about women who were skinny: <b><span style="color: #cc0000;">That skinny women were being told all the time that their bodies were beautiful by the people around them and society in general.</span></b><br />
<br />
But what those women failed to understand is that if you don't see your genuine beauty yourself, you will never believe those words "you're beautiful" no matter how many people tell you.<br />
<br />
<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
<br />
...aaaaand I had nothing to say after that.<br />
<br />
I don't think I had completely resolved my own body perspective at the time, but I was most definitely actively working on it. It's been a difficult unraveling, to say the least. Once I became aware of one thing, faced it head on, and came to terms with that aspect another darker aspect would be revealed. The process of uncovering childhood events and internal beliefs is almost impossible because it's really hard to know what you don't know about yourself.<br />
<br />
I've developed personal strategies and tools (my journals and this blog are some of those tools) to confront the parts of myself that are at odds with each other. I have gone to drastic measures to confront some of these issues. My 100 miler was one such way of confronting the FOE. Running had strangely become unsafe for me, and I won't deny that it most likely has an influence on the way I train today, but in order to achieve the 100 miler goal, I had to get over my shit.<br />
<br />
I also decided to fully accept myself, small breasts and all, and learn from scratch to see my sexuality as an integral, healthy, and positive aspect that gave me the power to confidently surrender to danger and fear on my own terms. I began to openly talk about sex and my relationship with it. In fact, that has become a very critical part of my ongoing healing process. I re-learned my body, reading book after book on the female anatomy, the g-spot, researching orgasms (you might remember my past blog entries). I accepted and explored my own preferences. I began taking healthy, albeit extreme risks, to reclaim the sexual fire I suppressed for so long but that I knew in my heart was my birthright and I would argue a large part of my humanness. I can say without a doubt that sex is finally fulfilling, joyful, fun, and although I still struggle with human connection in general, especially during sex, I am patient with myself. Sadly, now that I'm single, my only issue is I don't get enough.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, the irony in THAT.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
<br /></div>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-56777652184365567232017-08-13T09:14:00.000-07:002017-08-13T16:25:58.394-07:00Living Sinking In<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKkuU756R2aN1W01ZALB_J8FjoqlpHaNMOBR1TL4Xs0XPjr7-iralQahIr7PehLbdMSFjahFjOi02wx3mvot3mj0YH8N1r5VbeqC2v0iYTyDmAHMV9tWw-2U5SyTDhvrPP-I7JDdkfTMTN/s1600/Sawtooth_Canyon_k.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1257" data-original-width="1600" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKkuU756R2aN1W01ZALB_J8FjoqlpHaNMOBR1TL4Xs0XPjr7-iralQahIr7PehLbdMSFjahFjOi02wx3mvot3mj0YH8N1r5VbeqC2v0iYTyDmAHMV9tWw-2U5SyTDhvrPP-I7JDdkfTMTN/s640/Sawtooth_Canyon_k.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sawtooth Canyon</td></tr>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Summer is almost gone.</span> It's been one year since I left the life I knew. In fact, I celebrated my Independence Day last week at a blues club downtown. It was a sorta "date night" with myself. I found a club with a band I wanted to see, got "date" ready, and while having to be designated driver was a pain in the ass, the conversation that night (at least in my head) was never dull. Actually, I'm a damn good date. I will definitely be asking myself out again. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky next time.<br />
<br />
So this "date night" with myself was an act of self love. The last few months have been challenging for me. My life decisions have begun to settle and cure, and I haven't the courage to pull away the forms supporting them yet. I'm waiting until my heart can handle the permanence. I've been experiencing some not so fun anxiety side affects and am having to find ways to cope. While self love has been difficult at times I'm grateful to have two boys in my life who love me with all their hearts. At times, knowing that, is the only thing that grounds me and holds all my pieces together.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3eEU3i2l_CZJ5lShRbw6Z7LCQUdW-DK4vJAHi2tX9v5MxKQKlMSC9ohlN6RCUczwlJ1JzYnybHGvDvOCDXYJQAKcRdUMUjlntTSywn9WH_H-d8Sa9DxmigXscXFaZZKx96iAFvEw2Ccv/s1600/Bday_Card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3eEU3i2l_CZJ5lShRbw6Z7LCQUdW-DK4vJAHi2tX9v5MxKQKlMSC9ohlN6RCUczwlJ1JzYnybHGvDvOCDXYJQAKcRdUMUjlntTSywn9WH_H-d8Sa9DxmigXscXFaZZKx96iAFvEw2Ccv/s640/Bday_Card.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homemade birthday card made for me by my son</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
If there's a silver lining to any of this change it's been that I have a much more intense connection with my sons. Maybe I intuitively sensed that living my life the way I was living it was slowly killing that connection. Change was imminent. Sometimes my life trajectories feel impossible to control, and in this case, the path back to embracing and enjoying the time with my little men has been steered back onto solid and healthy ground.<br />
<br />
A few months back, my youngest saw photographs of Monument Valley in Utah flash on my TV and he immediately wanted to see it for himself. I said, "Let's go!!!"<br />
<br />
So I took my boys on their first real deal road trip this summer.<br />
<br />
It's not easy to plan a long road trip with only a six day window (part of the shared custody agreement with my ex.) I had so many places I wanted to take them! And then there's the fact that it was middle of Summer, and there would be endless solo driving through the desert with two crazy boys in the backseat. Hmmmmm. Maybe I should have thought that through a little more.<br />
<br />
Fuck no.<br />
<br />
I had a half plan. You know? The half-assed kind where there's lots of room to be flexible. I had only two destinations that HAD to happen. Monument Valley for my youngest and Bryce, for me. I had been to Bryce before, but this time would be different. I was not pregnant and the baby that I had been carrying then was now sitting in the front seat next to me. I was super stoked. My kids had no idea what to expect from this trip. I loved that.<br />
<br />
So I mentioned flexible, right? After a failed attempt at a solo trip out to a fire lookout in the Ishi Wilderness the weekend before our road trip, I managed to kill both my phone and my laptop. D-E-A-D. Somehow I managed to return, sadly earlier than expected, and coordinated obtaining a new laptop and a basic burner phone ASAP (literally within 3 hours of arriving home). But, my expectation was that I would have my new phone by the time we left for our family road trip. Truly an expectation. Not a reality.<br />
<br />
I had researched driving times and destinations all via the Google Gods. I bookmarked, saved, and shared trip information with my ex mostly for common sense reasons and halfway to convince him that I wasn't trying to run away with the boys. I had no idea that this was a solid concern. I am coming to terms with this realization now. I guess I'm what one would term a "wild card."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGQ5_qn2v41JK-s_96FmV2ubgdeA05gN_e5Uo7g6e7J0-e81501lzDh3H7L8y2vcDXU1b9ahlXHlY4NBcnKSEK8StP-eXEangnbLiva_cWUPmrU5geSRtu0l1bYHQDf8EN0nqz14gaIKc/s1600/SawtoothCanyon_k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGQ5_qn2v41JK-s_96FmV2ubgdeA05gN_e5Uo7g6e7J0-e81501lzDh3H7L8y2vcDXU1b9ahlXHlY4NBcnKSEK8StP-eXEangnbLiva_cWUPmrU5geSRtu0l1bYHQDf8EN0nqz14gaIKc/s640/SawtoothCanyon_k.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Wild Card" (picture taken in Sawtooth Canyon by my youngest little man)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I'm realizing that many people see me as a wild soul and free spirit. My ex husband isn't the only one to tell me this. Funny how you see yourself differently than those on the outside. And when the mention of it becomes a pattern you can't ignore what others see. "Wild Soul" is probably the nice way of putting it. I will own that I can be unpredictable, especially when I let my heart take the reigns, but my "wildness", whether predictable or not, is never intended to hurt others. It's sole purpose is to appreciate every second of every day of this precious blink called LIFE. Now that I have only myself and my boys, my soul can explore without worry or concern for others being threatened by its trajectory. If there's anything I want to instill in my children it's the fire to explore and discover inside yourself, outside yourself and without worry or fear of what others may think. Honestly, the biggest gift I can give them is the gift of being "wild." To be able to be wild in a world full of so many social rules and constructs is a gift.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOcNkx4vOqu6YvCjB7Ud_4aFHN8fp_OqG5ABjdAV_osiXRS9_8a3MEwgwHvCiMprLmE_XwSKwMq3NnMiYIbBtBER5GQ6K_lOn0cn0Afen1cbNIwgnJEerCMuNdRj24wyup3yDQBskGyir/s1600/Sawtooth_k2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOcNkx4vOqu6YvCjB7Ud_4aFHN8fp_OqG5ABjdAV_osiXRS9_8a3MEwgwHvCiMprLmE_XwSKwMq3NnMiYIbBtBER5GQ6K_lOn0cn0Afen1cbNIwgnJEerCMuNdRj24wyup3yDQBskGyir/s640/Sawtooth_k2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BLM boondocking near Barstow, CA (Sawtooth Canyon)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
So my "wild boys" and I took to the road, sans the new phone I was hoping for. I had Google Maps, a rough itinerary and our first stop was a night in the desert just outside of Barstow on some free BLM land in Sawtooth Canyon. This place? Two words. Climbing Paradise.<br />
<br />
After driving nearly 7 hours we were down to about three hours of daylight to explore the rock walls, "caves", and mini cliffs. My boys unleashed all their energy into exploring the area. My kids had an absolute blast camping here. First stop was a success!<br />
<br />
The drive to Monument Valley on the second day proved to be more than challenging. After stopping in the South Rim of the Grand Canyon for lunch, we continued to drive, and, drive, and drive…and… get lost. I will admit to losing my shit. My cheapo phone switched over to international roaming once we entered Utah and the surrounding Navaho lands. I had no GPS and no connection to maps whatsoever. So I learned a valuable lesson in road tripping…<br />
<br />
ALWAYS HAVE A PAPER MAP.<br />
<br />
It's ironic that this little nugget of advice comes from a girl who lives and breathes maps. I love maps! But I failed to bring one. Duh. So I old-schooled it by stopping at a gas station for directions and was lucky that my ultra training kicked in during those last few hours. I was tired, hallucinating, and trying to navigate dark and unfamiliar roads with my precious cargo in the backseat, but finally, 13 hours later we arrived. Mama delivered. I threw open the tailgate of the pickup, dumped everything out but my boys and their sleeping bags, pitched my tent, engaged in one last irritable tantrum, then crashed. My boys woke up, wide-eyed to looming vertical walls of red rock and surreal landscape and were ready to see the monuments.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcHm6T2ODJlXYT4iKst1CP9F_ePZscnaYUPu4fjYA48-1q3ptoFmH1C_qgUJH1vyCTLSpA8MbhQupZFy6scJAwK-9-KRdpP75RWwoFKXgdhrD530InYODgNhNYL9lOkjzSXPE6OIFs9Bc/s1600/MonumentVal.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1172" data-original-width="1600" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcHm6T2ODJlXYT4iKst1CP9F_ePZscnaYUPu4fjYA48-1q3ptoFmH1C_qgUJH1vyCTLSpA8MbhQupZFy6scJAwK-9-KRdpP75RWwoFKXgdhrD530InYODgNhNYL9lOkjzSXPE6OIFs9Bc/s640/MonumentVal.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entering the Navaho Reservation</td></tr>
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That valley was unreal. We saw sleeping dragons, eagles, chiefs, hogans and petroglyphs. Just being states away from home in desert landscape was an adventure for my little men. I could see them opening up and absorbing the newness. It was beautiful to be witness to that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ225yhImp_biIuYAceaEqa7UkBleAg7w0Pu86fEnzUvnHlS-rPbSzFm24uNKjy3cSwLJuBQwDSUGNST7Nr2q0PR-JbKXTZxKAV5bI6RjNn64WFtyNVHU-B-gq3Ihu8weNSZFY4PJWn6Ss/s1600/Petroglyph_wall.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ225yhImp_biIuYAceaEqa7UkBleAg7w0Pu86fEnzUvnHlS-rPbSzFm24uNKjy3cSwLJuBQwDSUGNST7Nr2q0PR-JbKXTZxKAV5bI6RjNn64WFtyNVHU-B-gq3Ihu8weNSZFY4PJWn6Ss/s640/Petroglyph_wall.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The petroglyph wall in Monument Valley</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PzG93uM7LaX7UWh8f8C8NHoXWTdnXJBhdNWEOdu-MNEH-F2Wnyo6kQVtvsS_3il90Ih7pP5D-gRvfd3utAssYpQ-rBS4KESxZX8fRSW1rsDilBlDuPJ-COf-iuv97n3C466qyiOhPJZy/s1600/Monuments_mf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PzG93uM7LaX7UWh8f8C8NHoXWTdnXJBhdNWEOdu-MNEH-F2Wnyo6kQVtvsS_3il90Ih7pP5D-gRvfd3utAssYpQ-rBS4KESxZX8fRSW1rsDilBlDuPJ-COf-iuv97n3C466qyiOhPJZy/s640/Monuments_mf.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stiff brotherly pose in front of the monuments</td></tr>
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<br />
After a roll through the Valley we hopped back into the truck enroute to Bryce. After only 40 minutes of driving I realized I needed caffeine STAT! Operating a moving vehicle while sleep deprived is not my skill, but my only option for the next couple hours was blasting loud music and rolling down the window. We were nowhere near a mini mart or Starbucks and the only radio station we could get reception was from a local Hopi Indian station that had Sunday morning native chanting being sung loudly over even louder drumming. My kids still talk about the torture. I have to admit, I became oddly attached to the music and was even more thankful for it's effectiveness.<br />
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Bryce was a two-day-chill-out destination. I was stoked to show my oldest the hoodoos and he was excited to hike down into the heart of them. We hiked, relaxed, swam, and camped. I needed the break from driving and the kids needed it too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51c89BzVga_u7QkMtmIXyi0AIvTzYuvxskRH4hPY2R_jBKeizFF2bolPPrs7D_n6vMzzLR_6q09kYIh3txs-2IOJLP2ucnibZJXr54oQA6ys3YjJHHwtHEsgTQEzsjZ9oQIRrfoq0Y2uN/s1600/Bryce1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51c89BzVga_u7QkMtmIXyi0AIvTzYuvxskRH4hPY2R_jBKeizFF2bolPPrs7D_n6vMzzLR_6q09kYIh3txs-2IOJLP2ucnibZJXr54oQA6ys3YjJHHwtHEsgTQEzsjZ9oQIRrfoq0Y2uN/s640/Bryce1.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryce Canyon hike into the hoodoos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaUVG4oFhXAyWYArzxfG5E72p10bsyJ7FQwkAYb4xathtCKALvA8mp-HmzjONPPvok8tAr5xxIbf1LTqUV5SRFSZqfGOoPvnMmRoz0iuEq57B0QRQ29N6ZXgHU9l8qwzcf4z1ySlxsIg3/s1600/F_Bryce_rest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaUVG4oFhXAyWYArzxfG5E72p10bsyJ7FQwkAYb4xathtCKALvA8mp-HmzjONPPvok8tAr5xxIbf1LTqUV5SRFSZqfGOoPvnMmRoz0iuEq57B0QRQ29N6ZXgHU9l8qwzcf4z1ySlxsIg3/s640/F_Bryce_rest.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rest stop on the way back out of the canyon</td></tr>
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<br />
When it was time to begin the journey home I decided to modify my plans slightly. I originally planned to drive to the Valley of Fire to camp overnight then head back home via the Eastern Sierra stopping at Mono Lake and the hot springs in Bridgeport. That would be an extra two days though, and the boys were missing their friends. So I ended the trip with a surprise stop in Las Vegas (mostly to break up the final long hours of the drive back home) to stay at the Circus Circus hotel where the kids and I had full access to the waterpark there. I was elevated to superhero-mom status. Las Vegas was not exactly the option I would choose but my boys were content and happy and would be home soon to hang out with their buddies.<br />
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The trip had it's rough moments, that's for sure, but there was undoubtedly some bonding that occurred on a deeper level between all of us. To me, the road trip is a rite of passage in childhood. It requires equal amounts of patience and wonder and a curiosity for the landscape through which you travel through. And the best part about a road trip like this one is that most other trips after this will feel like a blink of an eye. Until we hit the road for another long haul again.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , "sans serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Now, on this road trip, my mind seemed to uncrinkle, to breathe, to present to itself a cure for a disease it had not, until now, known it had."</span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">~ Elizabeth Berg</span> </blockquote>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-18448519698591355062017-04-29T20:41:00.000-07:002017-04-29T20:41:19.096-07:00Leadville Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing and getting "Off-Trail" on Hope Pass, CO</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, "HELLO" Colorado!</span> There's something about being REALLY high that makes me REALLY happy and I'm not talking time warping, catatonic, zombie-like state of high (although that's fun too), I'm talking hard work, earn-that-360-degree-view, high altitude high.<br />
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You know that stoke list I've been working on? Well, Colorado happened to be on it.<br />
<br />
For years I've been wanting to visit Colorado, and even more specifically, Leadville, after reading about the notorious 100 miler in the book Born to Run by Christopher McDougal. But as a skiier, I've been even more intrigued by stories of the prized airy, fresh powder which, I've been told, is a contrast to our "Sierra Cement" which I am so used to.<br />
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My trip to Colorado was inspired by my newfound realizations that life is something to be lived and not suffered through. I'm done suffering. I'm done crying. I'm done feeling helpless. I'm ready to feed my soul and I want to feed it big. I'm trying my best to get outside of my own backyard and do and see new things. I've held back long enough and I'm ready to open my heart up to new experiences, new places, and new people.<br />
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I only know a handful of people who live in Colorado. All of whom I've met at the Born To Run Ultras. I've somehow managed to stay in touch in the minimalist of ways with this Colorado Dirt Tribe, bumping into them at random running events, following their posts on Facebook or Instagram, or sending a bi-annual "hello" text to see how everyone is doing. A little spark shot off in my brain when my friend Alex, (remember my carpool/roadtrip buddy from my <a href="http://www.nakedonsharppointystuff.com/2012/05/my-first-100k-born-to-run-ultra.html" target="_blank"><b>very first Born to Run blog post?</b></a>) said he was doing well and that he just bought a place in Leadville.<br />
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So my Leadville adventure began to take form and I sent a text to my busy running friend that I just bought a plane ticket and was hoping he could pick my ass up in Denver. Luckily, he said he would be there. Whew. Ummmmmm. I think I may have gotten a little carried away with the idea of going to Colorado and just invited myself. I'm lucky people like me.<br />
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But Alex is used to random people staying at his Leadville place as it's part of an old converted hospital <a href="https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/11044970?guests=1&adults=1&source=handoff-ios&s=23&ref_device_id=2e2ebc35a5e0d9def172cb016d3f6b508bac1d06&user_id=291558&_branch_match_id=387039495142447869" target="_blank"><b>he rents out on Airbnb</b></a>. Within walking distance of downtown with a view of the Sawatch Mountain Range at an almost touchable distance through panoramic floor to ceiling windows, this place was WOW. Just WOW. Honestly. You've GOT TO CHECK IT OUT. STAY HERE. Then get the fuck outside.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEX589Trcrj0sDM_Zw_l58Ijz4U8t-MFJ99OAmpTkT1_7U3N5PlWH3HCD_bj-h6wxLG0WJ4slMMDlh-j2vLJhqaHaf5bwhPQPpcoy1UCzcNnmxkpD3jTIxCLL9I7stzvz9GmHISGYiXZo/s1600/IMG_20170413_115922-01+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEX589Trcrj0sDM_Zw_l58Ijz4U8t-MFJ99OAmpTkT1_7U3N5PlWH3HCD_bj-h6wxLG0WJ4slMMDlh-j2vLJhqaHaf5bwhPQPpcoy1UCzcNnmxkpD3jTIxCLL9I7stzvz9GmHISGYiXZo/s640/IMG_20170413_115922-01+%25281%2529.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alex's apartment is located in a historic building dating back to the early 1900s</td></tr>
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But the real WOW was not far from our door, and it was ALL outdoors. The Sawatch Mountain Range contains 15 peaks in the 14,000' range and 300 mountains ABOVE 12,000' of elevation!! You should read that again. I'll wait.<br />
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Basically, this mountain range is one of the most epic ranges in the United States.<br />
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So when Alex told me we were going to climb a fourteener on Saturday, I was like, FUCK YEAH! LET'S DO IT. Not only was it a fourteener, it was Mt. Elbert, the highest peak in the Northern Rockies and all of Colorado at 14,439'.<br />
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And so we did.<br />
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And it was MAGICAL.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7BxpdYzBSzUqcPg6Q_AJGeaChyphenhyphenIiqUCfDLV-Kwuc48AnSugX11T1LvugxBhtNIgP57U-IBUfAw3nByURQvhxO0gICtPW_jMWP_xaOzSkcFOxOBAR4MRbJa0g-nf9l4jytU1cUGz1DG-Mr/s1600/PANO_20170415_123513+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7BxpdYzBSzUqcPg6Q_AJGeaChyphenhyphenIiqUCfDLV-Kwuc48AnSugX11T1LvugxBhtNIgP57U-IBUfAw3nByURQvhxO0gICtPW_jMWP_xaOzSkcFOxOBAR4MRbJa0g-nf9l4jytU1cUGz1DG-Mr/s640/PANO_20170415_123513+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the top of Mt. Elbert at 14,439'</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Alex, and Dolores The Badass Dog who sprints up 14ers chasing sticks. I should mention that climbing a 14er for Alex was only a portion of his training for that day. We ate a BIG lunch afterward and then he finished up with an 11 mile run along the Mineral Belt Trail near his place.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lil ol' me on the top of the world!</td></tr>
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My trip was a much needed break and although I did have to work I was able to get free WiFi at a local cafe, stop by my friend Julie's second-hand clothing and gear shop, pick up some great little micro-spikes at the local mountain store, meet some local folk, grab a beer, and do some more hiking up some more epic mountains - actually along the Leadville 100 course.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twin Lakes. Before our ascent up Mt. Elbert</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alex. No stranger to 14ers or high altitude climbing. He has a "running" list of all the peaks he's climbed since moving here. Dude is legit. He will be ready for the Leadville 100 come August.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite pics of my friend, Alex. Both him and Dolores are in their element. This was shot along our trek up Hope Pass.</td></tr>
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My trip to Colorado wasn't just about stoke. It was a breaking open of a new kind of me. Someone not afraid to jump and explore. I'm grateful for the friends in my life like Alex, and the people who I've connected with over the years who allow me in their lives, even for just a glimpse. Those people are treasures to me. The conversations, the connection, and all the wisdom and inspiration I receive from those experiences are held in such precious space. I have so much gratitude.<br />
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<br />zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-90091192970471304322017-03-25T20:22:00.000-07:002018-08-22T09:48:35.517-07:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">©</span>Copyright <a href="https://www.123rf.com/profile_manaemedia" target="_blank">manaemedia</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's dark and all I see are steps below me.</span><br />
Railings protect me from falling deep into the cold earth. Each step is deliberate. A meditation that takes me deeper into the internal. Each step pulls deeper into the next leaving doubt, fear, and hurt behind me. I pause halfway down to see a small cave to my left. I look into the darkness and see a body barely visible. Sobbing, regret, and pain fill that dark space. There's movement. I walk closer to peer into the black, fighting the darkness to see the person, a man, who is crouched in the space. I see months and years past hidden in there. I feel sick. My stomach is in knots. I'm in a state of anxiousness that is too familiar. My mind is racing with worry. Am I enough? Am I loved? Have I made the right decision? I'm sucked into the pain of that heavy space and although every fiber of my being is screaming to get out, I find myself longing to run and jump into the arms of the soft black space and to be held in it's dark hug. But, it's not a space I can continue to be in and live so I force myself to leave. It's not easy. Like forcibly waking myself from a dream, I'm partially paralyzed tearing myself away to look down the stairs and say goodbye to all the pain and hurt that occupied that space.<br />
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I continue. Each step another meditation taking me further into myself. As I climb down I see a narrow beam of light illuminating the back of a woman with long hair kneeling in a corner. There's more sobbing now but I sense a heaviness about her that keeps her to the floor. Emotions so heavy she can't move or stand. She just sits cemented in the feelings - the burden of her relationship and responsibilities immobilizing her. I feel a jealous kindred spirit with her, understanding her pain, but feeling no empathy for her. My instincts go into overdrive and I want to get as far away from her as possible. Hatred fills me and I'm ashamed and frightened to look her in the eyes.<br />
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So I step-fall farther down into the abyss and I see a small opening below me. It's blinding light welcomes me and lures me out of the blackness into blue skies, a deep green meadow, and granite snow-capped mountains exploding from it's edges. There's a large granite boulder in the middle of the meadow. I scramble onto the rock. The sun's warmth bleeding from the veins of mica and warming my hands which were cold and numb from my journey. There's a smooth spot in the center of the stone that my body comfortably molds to like it was contoured just for me. I snuggle into this spot as I close my eyes to feel the sun on my face. A warm breeze grazes past my body and into the pines around me.<br />
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As I lay in the sun, I open my heart up to the universe to expand, attract, embrace, and absorb positive inspiration, abundance, connection, love, and passion. I allow all these things to flow into me in whatever form they will take.<br />
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I open my eyes to see people. Some are carrying rocks and other's wood. Some have fire in their hands. They all walk towards me. They build an enormous fire ring, and set down the wood. As the people with fire blow the flames into the center of the circle, the ring explodes into a huge bonfire. I look up to see a night sky lit up by sparks and stars and feel it's infinite space around me. The people have gathered there for me. They are light and warmth for me permeating every cell of my body. I let them hug me as I release all my doubt, regret, worry, fear, hurt, hatred, and judgement into the abyss.<br />
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I finally feel home.<br />
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<span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: inherit;"><i>There are times when I need to just get shit out of my head. The visualization above is something I do frequently in order to cope when I'm feeling especially vulnerable. I'm hesitant and maybe slightly embarassed to share it here as it is profoundly personal, however, I've found that writing helps me process and grieve in a way that I can't resolve otherwise. Taking words from my head, breathing life into them, and providing a place for them to live here on this blog gives my thoughts tangible and concrete meaning and makes sense of my chaos. Ultimately, there's power in that and it helps me heal.</i></span>zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-31313594894361675592017-03-22T13:08:00.001-07:002017-03-22T13:08:58.344-07:00The Adventure Stoke Commences<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn8VFc2gsGFeWG0LIa_RGwl9WeGDO4GE9VFqKWM8r8Wx-utMifYyxLgJrMNcasKWm4viAXRzgTs4BdIXX1RJwP5jp-T3hvEAsZBT-D2ZrzBbHCDfqOkKlVTGIDePbXRDJYepJMg4PGF73/s1600/17358626_10211323049808689_5998092646449242753_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn8VFc2gsGFeWG0LIa_RGwl9WeGDO4GE9VFqKWM8r8Wx-utMifYyxLgJrMNcasKWm4viAXRzgTs4BdIXX1RJwP5jp-T3hvEAsZBT-D2ZrzBbHCDfqOkKlVTGIDePbXRDJYepJMg4PGF73/s640/17358626_10211323049808689_5998092646449242753_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting my writing mojo back in the peace of the trees</td></tr>
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I am reinventing myself again.</div>
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About a month ago I began to feel a sense of freedom that I haven't felt in a long time. A REAL long time. I had an epiphany. I suddenly realized I was feeding a cycle of hurt that was holding me back. I finally decided to man the fuck up and do something about it. I quit the cycle. It's funny how we like to nurture our pain. But when you constantly feed the pain the wound is always weeping. You will never heal in that state. Salt in the wounds feels so good but sometimes you gotta learn to let it go.</div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #b45f06;">
Looking Forward</span></h3>
I had to make a conscious effort to look beyond the hurt and start making better decisions for myself. It's a very tough decision, but you will never make it to the other side if you never take the leap. The other side can be scary and something completely estranged from what you know, but that's because you haven't jumped. Once you're there, it's all you know.</div>
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The shock and awe of my life decisions are settling in now and while I don't think my pain will completely subside it's time to start living... and writing, again. I leaped. I think it scraped me up a bit, but I'm scrambling to the top and I see a horizon.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Capitan - Leap.</td></tr>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #b45f06;">Finding Freedom</span></h3>
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I love my boys with every cell of my body and miss them when I'm away, but having them 50% of the time frees up a lot of my personal life. The realization that exploring the world is only as far as my imagination now is fucking liberating! I've purchased hiking books, started a bucket list of adventures, joined a mountaineering meetup, and am starting to connect with more people. As long as I have a wifi connection and my laptop, my job is such that I can do it from anywhere. I plan to take full advantage of that.</div>
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So I'm making an effort to live. Even if it's just a weekend.<br />
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<span style="color: #b45f06;">Shasta</span></h3>
Last November I was extremely grateful to have had the rare opportunity to experience backcountry skiing for the first time at Mt. Shasta. I had been jonesin to use some new powder skis I got over a year ago. A friend of mine had dialed me in with the whole AT setup and I was able to put it to use on the mountain.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skinning up Shasta</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Helen Lake</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Headed down Avalanche Gulch</td></tr>
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We only skinned up the mountain part of the way the first day which left me slightly disappointed mostly with the quality of snow - or I should say ice, which I'm not a fan of - but the mountain redeemed itself the next day when after skinning up to Helen Lake the views of the valley below opened up under bluebird skies and puffy clouds. With skiable corn snow and blue skies, the conditions were almost perfect. It ended up being a great adventure weekend.<br />
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<h3>
<span style="color: #b45f06;">Feeding My Art Pig in SF, An Adventure in Mexico, and Majestic Yosemite</span></h3>
A few weekends back I took the train into the Bay Area to visit the SF MOMA then a week later flew to Baja for an annual girl's trip with my friends. The week after that I was in Yosemite with my boys, hiking and exploring, then was off to find some peace in the trees of my grandmother's old place in Amador County. I have a trip planned to visit Colorado in April... my list continues.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QzqdWXANw-gx2IwhEqdMzqQOPRO-33k8tn5g14WF8_iq1h08uQoLuJhI2lEAuUhrDB3YuleZCgNExTh1BqRD6gzx5hcg1tVDm6cjHW8-w2rNy6YI584Q3YOlpnRJUWuUMxuZw_YPZlrg/s1600/16864890_10211092470884360_7051452308153935381_n+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QzqdWXANw-gx2IwhEqdMzqQOPRO-33k8tn5g14WF8_iq1h08uQoLuJhI2lEAuUhrDB3YuleZCgNExTh1BqRD6gzx5hcg1tVDm6cjHW8-w2rNy6YI584Q3YOlpnRJUWuUMxuZw_YPZlrg/s640/16864890_10211092470884360_7051452308153935381_n+%25281%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My trip to the Museum of Modern Art - San Francisco</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7dsmo6atw6iyGWaD05VEo03vKv0-2hIlrmvjmJXtHZgCViWZ8YSquNHgFd_gGmIB48YviS-HvZ1CL89bubyzCPiQaT1LCDi02PwO7bzPBUyUlAsXlZmuuswIVxtWN5PnMcRAUVXuTv0MV/s1600/16864770_10211092471524376_8905436783205275060_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7dsmo6atw6iyGWaD05VEo03vKv0-2hIlrmvjmJXtHZgCViWZ8YSquNHgFd_gGmIB48YviS-HvZ1CL89bubyzCPiQaT1LCDi02PwO7bzPBUyUlAsXlZmuuswIVxtWN5PnMcRAUVXuTv0MV/s640/16864770_10211092471524376_8905436783205275060_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's a story behind this selfie - My weekend adventure in SF landed me in the kitchen of a woman's home who designs clothes. She let me pick out this "Happy Jumper" as I like to call it, and I ended up wearing it to a party I was spontaneously invited to that evening. I spent the evening dancing my heart out and having a blast. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6Su9zmb_Qa0A1_P0cvHS755VeAdi8skU2yow62palVpGDE0T_AiRZ6AD6kMJqd5MVfHOkUcxh6bQE6lXu0ONLZcpRlAAmiq276KbumKsTTm9HsAmTEHGEKnWeZN5HwpK1SaoolvBhQLA/s1600/17098020_10211184701670072_3593768012365157987_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6Su9zmb_Qa0A1_P0cvHS755VeAdi8skU2yow62palVpGDE0T_AiRZ6AD6kMJqd5MVfHOkUcxh6bQE6lXu0ONLZcpRlAAmiq276KbumKsTTm9HsAmTEHGEKnWeZN5HwpK1SaoolvBhQLA/s640/17098020_10211184701670072_3593768012365157987_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baja Mexico Trip with the girls - Slept under the stars, on the rooftop, where we watched an entire night of electrical storms moving across the Sea of Cortez and woke up to an incredible sunrise.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZp0NgsWXlIjFE4PmS0GxUuxAOwMbVLoyQP7OqPKk773_bvjjfvdVJvcP5fxV14CF6Ss4edoRgc4VIK4NR5TY6Zyupek2ziUXXN9SZIKJoJ02pfzXrgDvJLRnuI7ZXUKjZaqZ2HPk1DVSK/s1600/17157457_10211241179081972_2267363534771803441_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZp0NgsWXlIjFE4PmS0GxUuxAOwMbVLoyQP7OqPKk773_bvjjfvdVJvcP5fxV14CF6Ss4edoRgc4VIK4NR5TY6Zyupek2ziUXXN9SZIKJoJ02pfzXrgDvJLRnuI7ZXUKjZaqZ2HPk1DVSK/s640/17157457_10211241179081972_2267363534771803441_o.jpg" width="510" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our days in Baja were mostly spent relaxing on the beach drinking beer and cocktails, but we managed to make time to hike up some gnarly hills in the middle of the desert and visit the town of Los Cabos.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkO41lI6PlrW9lVLTSf6ODLP2FcbQuzwJ-4E3eI-CzMrhsQAG9Q4BknN2KGbfcgMGHVaLFm0Cmiwo4c1BXnfyhJzRsjp3xsypkijjmNXAKtDPfREIjVROw6oUsLVYkoy8T8eCFijma__P/s1600/17157588_10211241049158724_5648915935494760183_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkO41lI6PlrW9lVLTSf6ODLP2FcbQuzwJ-4E3eI-CzMrhsQAG9Q4BknN2KGbfcgMGHVaLFm0Cmiwo4c1BXnfyhJzRsjp3xsypkijjmNXAKtDPfREIjVROw6oUsLVYkoy8T8eCFijma__P/s640/17157588_10211241049158724_5648915935494760183_o.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What happens when five ultra runners leave their quad in the middle of the Baja desert on a steep hill? <br />
They hike that shit.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGs0sYOheclq480lM93txGzV-OZM-8vbZnNANgFTD7PscUg2mj2TtxeKziHNooFct29PKZkOnlYCZsR6V1i7k636L7LPjglPg2bSXhYoghWp7fTpVBNwQRgtxDiNISxS-0AAh5L6E-_xDn/s1600/17191736_10211241382847066_6431504349553897243_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGs0sYOheclq480lM93txGzV-OZM-8vbZnNANgFTD7PscUg2mj2TtxeKziHNooFct29PKZkOnlYCZsR6V1i7k636L7LPjglPg2bSXhYoghWp7fTpVBNwQRgtxDiNISxS-0AAh5L6E-_xDn/s640/17191736_10211241382847066_6431504349553897243_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sunsets in Baja were totally legit.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0u9sfZNT-4Ur1ojDj9rvQfALdFw-mZ2dd_65LAkJHt6vVLiPTLJ-6R5cM0cefyudiEpXoOQemOaC5uGR1vg6siOo7AnZ3jr6FFwOMX841JqhWvMMYE4TkSLGuT0lNKAQYRZtuJoA5bflp/s1600/17264162_10211284792692285_3389370566486056645_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0u9sfZNT-4Ur1ojDj9rvQfALdFw-mZ2dd_65LAkJHt6vVLiPTLJ-6R5cM0cefyudiEpXoOQemOaC5uGR1vg6siOo7AnZ3jr6FFwOMX841JqhWvMMYE4TkSLGuT0lNKAQYRZtuJoA5bflp/s640/17264162_10211284792692285_3389370566486056645_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yosemite National Park with two of my favorite little men.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVYOpSYZWjDgInrol4UBnmLvlsYny5i8M-wTsXK_11Nc0ktrA28gmlD606YWC0sriS2fYstmZle2a_uAou30BMYBLr7uY3XzcnhfECsxIApQuIgnNg21r84ADdXihezrZ4aFFNnXE5eFV/s1600/17264484_10211284794212323_8063650703324319546_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXVYOpSYZWjDgInrol4UBnmLvlsYny5i8M-wTsXK_11Nc0ktrA28gmlD606YWC0sriS2fYstmZle2a_uAou30BMYBLr7uY3XzcnhfECsxIApQuIgnNg21r84ADdXihezrZ4aFFNnXE5eFV/s640/17264484_10211284794212323_8063650703324319546_n.jpg" width="584" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yosemite National Park was free for all fourth graders!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIe-rj7NdHqOlPwQinpsgVSTXQUMnwQpzWDgyOOAT3MFwAEfVUQwTye__xcbToVrJevz3yH1e6uTDN6aLn0fadMKjKdnTyzYR9gnEbqw3ykdYu3La7tfvLCyketkswfhNpAlCmnACEIWv_/s1600/17309334_10211284793292300_8436086000708087001_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIe-rj7NdHqOlPwQinpsgVSTXQUMnwQpzWDgyOOAT3MFwAEfVUQwTye__xcbToVrJevz3yH1e6uTDN6aLn0fadMKjKdnTyzYR9gnEbqw3ykdYu3La7tfvLCyketkswfhNpAlCmnACEIWv_/s640/17309334_10211284793292300_8436086000708087001_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yosemite National Park - An epic background.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRW5STStd_k6h1GJ3wkrBpddIxLOCH8a-hhGvPxmtwg7K2jrNqosfDpfQLD_XlugRL7Z3vMD71kBLMPs7VgGhqCzx75LHzYj3RMQAG1D5e8XWBOF7PZjnwlZ6DLfJivkN323Bf2qxr7sRf/s1600/17309764_10211284792532281_710054710270745121_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRW5STStd_k6h1GJ3wkrBpddIxLOCH8a-hhGvPxmtwg7K2jrNqosfDpfQLD_XlugRL7Z3vMD71kBLMPs7VgGhqCzx75LHzYj3RMQAG1D5e8XWBOF7PZjnwlZ6DLfJivkN323Bf2qxr7sRf/s640/17309764_10211284792532281_710054710270745121_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yosemite National Park - Bridalveil Falls</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdbwcyxzCuduGXOCMpzmoYmvSV6S6tCgrgh0Qv4oAaDw_C570A-_WucGtLztz6PIbIJ9U3txSA6dc7fTS9blAcTX9_qcTP6M5LVQ0_jnHqzDEwc_Umk4v8TU5U7nhrlXlQsoVb71CtXF3B/s1600/17311105_10211316697729891_7475826572401313263_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdbwcyxzCuduGXOCMpzmoYmvSV6S6tCgrgh0Qv4oAaDw_C570A-_WucGtLztz6PIbIJ9U3txSA6dc7fTS9blAcTX9_qcTP6M5LVQ0_jnHqzDEwc_Umk4v8TU5U7nhrlXlQsoVb71CtXF3B/s640/17311105_10211316697729891_7475826572401313263_o.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exploring/running the "Independence" Trail in Amador County</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOR3_KJeRGXyxZgnGp-6Uy0BCtyx9U4iwrdxcVWf-gOJ29ck1Y6ZrwdAW9ZjL_25ZdtGkIt9HcSBLPClFwSyRrU8GHEc4zCzg0rbxMiXfUSyUfblf3f0zebaZv0AGfUpQ50a8cX-ZWJHBA/s1600/17310897_10211318069524185_3675919914826466152_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOR3_KJeRGXyxZgnGp-6Uy0BCtyx9U4iwrdxcVWf-gOJ29ck1Y6ZrwdAW9ZjL_25ZdtGkIt9HcSBLPClFwSyRrU8GHEc4zCzg0rbxMiXfUSyUfblf3f0zebaZv0AGfUpQ50a8cX-ZWJHBA/s640/17310897_10211318069524185_3675919914826466152_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finding the beauty again at Independence Flat in Mokelumne Hill</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtCn2voXG6STNZPQmSprQ0dW0W-6TkGDYVJuPt1So1I_3zkzmoiCVch-7iN0byGCmaJMov91mo-CCYbxVxiiZsgqmqDMF6KEiR5fMTU3xjA6am-Zb5bOLxDos6u-h6CekJ37WYPnFqtqVr/s1600/17358829_10211309438108405_1246282900754906831_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtCn2voXG6STNZPQmSprQ0dW0W-6TkGDYVJuPt1So1I_3zkzmoiCVch-7iN0byGCmaJMov91mo-CCYbxVxiiZsgqmqDMF6KEiR5fMTU3xjA6am-Zb5bOLxDos6u-h6CekJ37WYPnFqtqVr/s640/17358829_10211309438108405_1246282900754906831_o.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spending some much needed alone time in the Peace of the Trees to research my adventure stoke.</td></tr>
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So I'm reinventing myself. My blog. My life. I may, or may not, be running much these days, but you can guarantee that I will finding grand adventures and feeding my soul with them. My list has just gotten started...</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZJRwPl4kl2CPibaZRF7rN56Ln5C3MliB-7Ck4bbPKDaEB554pZqjQPJ2kuhmIIh72EbWkpMRLlIY5lZYxB5a4-N3eVNzj12rrDnGnZPFRAkeWcGoO8ICBPEBPm9mb-tbYNX8i0BDSjuf/s1600/TheStokeList.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZJRwPl4kl2CPibaZRF7rN56Ln5C3MliB-7Ck4bbPKDaEB554pZqjQPJ2kuhmIIh72EbWkpMRLlIY5lZYxB5a4-N3eVNzj12rrDnGnZPFRAkeWcGoO8ICBPEBPm9mb-tbYNX8i0BDSjuf/s320/TheStokeList.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Stoke" List</td></tr>
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</div>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-15620485608872703342017-03-14T23:02:00.002-07:002017-03-17T16:22:13.802-07:00Rising From the Ashes of the Undead<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9LrpB5zu9Uwu9bygztpOGEvPDrywjW40cXqN3aEkWTPYgHQ_K0HoNV7PXq8u0NE87P_sTvnj_K6uu5jwwPWupHyDFnqhNya-Kdy2g9LsHDr01ExfH5fgz5vO8CGceYOsVydzHMaKbvODC/s1600/Property_woodstove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9LrpB5zu9Uwu9bygztpOGEvPDrywjW40cXqN3aEkWTPYgHQ_K0HoNV7PXq8u0NE87P_sTvnj_K6uu5jwwPWupHyDFnqhNya-Kdy2g9LsHDr01ExfH5fgz5vO8CGceYOsVydzHMaKbvODC/s400/Property_woodstove.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Sometimes when life feels hard I dial back to something more simple. <br />Spent a lot of my childhood snuggled up next to this wood stove. <br />When the cold is unbearable it gives me warmth and hope.</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I pretty much faded away to nothing. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">I just disappeared. Stopped writing. Stopped sharing. I guess in a way I stopped living. I was frantically trying to fix my shit. But in actuality, I was in the middle of a maze-like chaos. Like a dying rat bumping into corners looking for the the last bit of food to sustain itself. I took my last breath. Now it's like I'm on the operating table in the O.R. I'm being shocked back into living. I can see the lights above me blurry and intense. I'm beginning to feel the pain from the fractures and broken bones surfacing from the numb.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Fuck my heart hurts.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I'm bruised, broken, and bleeding. But I'm alive.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Barely.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">So I've experienced a sort of death recently, although, if I'm being truly honest, it felt like I died and was resuscitated several times over during the past ten years. It was my decision to end my marriage. I spent the last 20 years with an incredible man. A good soul. A wonderful father. A very thoughtful and giving person. We had some really great times together. GREAT TIMES. Lots of laughter and meaningful moments but somewhere along our path I started to die. Parts of me were just fading into oblivion and as I tried with every fiber of my being to hang on to those autonomous pieces of my soul they just kept falling back into the black until they disappeared. You wanna know what it's like to live like a zombie? I'm pretty sure I could give you an idea. Although I didn't crave brains but if I did I think I would need ketchup to stomach that shit.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Being a mother to my mother, a wife to my husband, a mom to my boys, surviving the death of my father, a miscarriage years ago, a double biopsy that threatened my existence, some major life shifts in my thinking and my business, I was living outside myself and grasping to hold on. I sought counseling and therapy. I hid in the gym. I had to face some serious revelations that were pulling me in a direction I had never intended. I experienced a midlife enlightenment that came at a huge cost and I quit something for the first time in my life. I quit my marriage. I quit my family. I almost quit myself. I didn't endure. I didn't hold on. I didn't dig deep or relentlessly move forward. I quit. Not sure at what mile it happened, but I quit.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I own that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">So I am DNF. Soberly, I will accept that. People will judge me for it, I'm sure. My ex is devastated (bruised, broken and bleeding as well) and my youngest is struggling with my decision. I left behind carnage in my wake. I won't sit here and write a soliloquy with every excuse in the book about how I suffered or how bad things were because honestly they could have been a whole lot worse. There was no fighting. No arguing. Not a whole lot of anything, and honestly, if my marriage was something I really wanted I would find a way. But I haven't. I see life from a perspective now that skews my whole view on marriage and the social constructs around it. It's really hard to fight for something you can't see anymore and don't believe in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I'm not one to follow a straight line, though. I tend to take roads less travelled and I have a tendency to find solutions in unusual trajectories. I'm not afraid to jump. I'm not afraid of risk anymore and I'm embracing that. Fear and judgement no longer control me like it did years ago. I killed off that part of myself over the last decade and sadly have had to fight to rise from my own ashes in order to survive my own death.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2Ufrj1mWbZqA3pNkDMLGGsv599tOhzkoR8ATg9150gSSJqwVjZilkXOHf_lviEModVl-YEubCyQbosyKXpg3EfIQQzqnUKy16ScYn1WqaB6ftqWm3r92vqG-s-RjAxNXJMYROWEnJo_R/s1600/ThunderMtn.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2Ufrj1mWbZqA3pNkDMLGGsv599tOhzkoR8ATg9150gSSJqwVjZilkXOHf_lviEModVl-YEubCyQbosyKXpg3EfIQQzqnUKy16ScYn1WqaB6ftqWm3r92vqG-s-RjAxNXJMYROWEnJo_R/s400/ThunderMtn.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I won't say it's been easy or even fair to the people who love me, but as selfish as it is, it's been the right path for me. I had a strange thought cross my mind about a year ago last February. It was a random thought about an independence day that permeated my brain for a second and flashed my birthday in front of me. I had no idea what it meant or why I was thinking the words "Independence Day" and "8/8", but it was strange and unusual enough that I remembered it. I hadn't intended to leave my husband at that point because I wasn't quite in that space yet. I was floating numb at that point and really just trying to get through each and every day alive and feeling the earth beneath my feet. I wasn't able to even articulate thoughts to myself about where I was in life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">In June I finally told my husband. Well... actually he confronted me and I couldn't say I wasn't. I just sat silent. He knew and I knew. We both sat there stunned.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">The few months that followed were torturous and blessed. Finding a place to live that met all the necessary criteria was near impossible. It had to be in the kids' school district. It had to be affordable. It had to be two bedrooms. It had to be safe and clean and not cramped. And I really wanted a place with a pool because my boys have never had a pool and they are little fish. The list went on and on, and my husband continued to push his anger and hurt aside and was gracious enough to be patient and let me live in our family home until the day came. We tried to live each day as a family and appreciate our time together. We made an effort each and every day to sit with each other, as a family, and share dinner. We laughed. We told stories. We asked the kids to share how they felt about us separating. We tried to address their fears and their concerns. Together. Until the time came.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I woke up at 5am one morning to go to the gym and my inbox had a new listing posted for condos close by. After seeing the rent price I was desperate and didn't even look at the details of the listing to see whether it worked. I called and made an appointment with the landlady.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Apparently, I was the first one to the listing and would have the first showing so I met the woman at the place at 9am the next morning with application in hand (I was learning fast that the rental market was stupid crazy and if you don't have your shit together you get booted out the door to be replaced by the next guy.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">The place was perfect. Two master baths (with a double closet big enough for my boys to share), rental priced insanely low for the market, practically Fort Knox with all the security, well maintained and kept (75% of the condos in the complex are owned), quiet, respectful, and a LARGE POOL!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I was sold. The landlady "had a gut feeling about me" and without showing it to anyone else offered me the place.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">"When can I move in?" I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">The landlady looked at me and said "August 8."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">My birthday.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">It was a bitter-sweet day. My husband had taken the boys out of town and with the help of some very good friends I was moved in a couple days. My in-laws called me on the telephone to wish me a happy birthday and my mother-in-law came down to join me for what I suspect would be my last birthday lunch with her. It was a very good day. And a very sad day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I'm still not sure how my brain knew what was going to happen to me or whether I was manifesting my own future, but I got the memo. My autonomy had finally been unleashed. I untethered myself from a man who loved me and would do anything for me and all the consequences of that decision were soley my own. All my shit would, from this point forward, be my burden to carry alone, without a shoulder to lean on or someone to share with and cry. And right now, I don't know why I need that. But I do. My pack is heavy and there are switchbacks ahead, but it's my burden to carry. I'm OK with that. The heavier the pack, the better. I have no clue why I feel that way. It just is the way I feel and I need to listen.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">So I will be feeding my solace in the peace of the trees at my grandmother's property often now. It's where I go when things get shitty and I need to heal.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I need to spend time on that land more than ever now. In those trees from my childhood, in the red dirt, and in the memories of my grandmother (who literally cleared the land of Manzanita with her bare hands and drove the logging truck up herself to build her home.) The place is a little "Winchester Mystery-ish", but it's my place of healing. My Nexus. My hallowed ground. My peace. I'm headed up there tomorrow. I'm headed up there to try to reconnect with my soul.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf0BRE9wSzJb-5zMQSFDVbCSvWMSTaxhFkWDHCHmcv1bMc38LaR6VXVe0hUQDW-56EYDc0UR5RaaNDzqfdUNA_lNa7BKKeAugYFmNxMeB8LrWdsEh0uLMGwQbq7oe_HzRyHXn9EIEJ2fv/s1600/Property_deck.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf0BRE9wSzJb-5zMQSFDVbCSvWMSTaxhFkWDHCHmcv1bMc38LaR6VXVe0hUQDW-56EYDc0UR5RaaNDzqfdUNA_lNa7BKKeAugYFmNxMeB8LrWdsEh0uLMGwQbq7oe_HzRyHXn9EIEJ2fv/s400/Property_deck.jpg" /></a><br />
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zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-5017156237008890772015-11-09T10:34:00.000-08:002015-11-09T17:00:43.755-08:00Those Last Miles - The Transformation<div dir="ltr">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotMIBsNGv33Of6-EIb2Gy2K9JWghzhkvZZqzi6YEJLiqvhyiEzk7Uq2dWxlSGCdm9vUxTPJghMijEEI3qgvvM8DyhanpM0DMYVDMll6d7LSJ6GAKDpP_ghPJdbp54fCtprv7CjwOHCyii/s1600/20151108_023529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotMIBsNGv33Of6-EIb2Gy2K9JWghzhkvZZqzi6YEJLiqvhyiEzk7Uq2dWxlSGCdm9vUxTPJghMijEEI3qgvvM8DyhanpM0DMYVDMll6d7LSJ6GAKDpP_ghPJdbp54fCtprv7CjwOHCyii/s320/20151108_023529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Rio Del Lago 100 - Horseshoe Bar Aid Station<br />Mile 87 </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was recently volunteering at The Rio Del Lago 100 Miler and everything was business.</span> A wave of runners had come through our aid station and every volunteer was on point filling bottles, ladling soup, restocking the table or rummaging through bins for band-aids or other random items. Every runner was diligently being taken care of. After sending a runner off with a breakfast burrito and a full pack, I turned to walk back to the warmest part of the tent. My toes were numb and frozen. I glanced off to the side of the cooking area where a lone runner sat, eyes fixated blankly out into the darkness beyond the tent. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Something in me connected with him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The distant stare of an ultrarunner who has just arrived at mile 87 is profound. Fatigue and determination have stripped them raw by that point. They peer into nothingness with an intensity that is indescribable. Maybe they are surveying the miles of wreckage inflicted on their body or game planning on how to cope with a sour stomach. Maybe they are fighting sleep, or trying to calculate distance and pace for that final push. Maybe they are lamenting lost time on the trail. It's possible at that point, their mind could be completely shut off to the outside world and oblivion has taken hold and burrowed itself deep. Whatever it is, they are without a doubt feeling every blister, every chafe, every ache and throb with piercing insight. You learn a lot about your body after 87 miles. You also learn the depth of your mental substance. Mile 87 is close enough to the finish line that it is more than just a glimmer of hope, but far enough away that it can feel hopeless.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wZgOUu1N81IAFcnKegNUORZQzXlK4L5pJbdfDY3IQMRqwfgRptvI8zyqrHxZhYY47wJoMVL0CafI5441WRTjLGKEXLWY52Nja3S292sxiBRYBhx5wBxm3Bo5RLI52_NMagja8wKj0Ty5/s1600/20151108_024358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wZgOUu1N81IAFcnKegNUORZQzXlK4L5pJbdfDY3IQMRqwfgRptvI8zyqrHxZhYY47wJoMVL0CafI5441WRTjLGKEXLWY52Nja3S292sxiBRYBhx5wBxm3Bo5RLI52_NMagja8wKj0Ty5/s320/20151108_024358.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Horseshoe Bar - Mile 87</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">There's a transformation that takes place in those last few miles. Subtle changes that sneak up on us months later or revelations that happen the moment we receive that buckle. Many of us have crossed over the finish line of our first 100 miler to be born on the other side a new human.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">Hmmmmmm. Funny how sport has a way of teaching us about life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">The last 10 years have been quite a ride for me. I've been changing and transforming for sure. I have undoubtedly evolved. A conscious effort on my part to see life as a gift and not just something to endure and survive.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">I wouldn't say I'm a better person. I'm still learning to connect with people, even those closest to me. I still have judgements. I still carry shit on my shoulders. I'm not perfect. But my goal isn't to be a better person, or a more perfect person. I'm working towards embracing who I am at the core. I'm learning to embrace being human. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">I've been given an undetermined amount of years, which can expire at any time, to feel life on this earth. FEEL life on this earth. That's not feeling what its like to own a nice car, or a big house, or to have a great job, or build a career, or to have saved for my retirement. That's not feeling what its like to impress others or make them happy. That's not about feeling what its like to live within the lines of society, to follow all the rules, to do things because it's good, or right, or just because that's what I've been taught.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">I want to know what it is to feel genuine life, connection, and love in all it's forms. From the inside. Good, bad, sad or happy.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">That's my goal. Cuz when this life is drawing near it's end I don't want to feel like it was wasted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">So I've spent the last 10 years chiseling large cracks in the protective shell that was built around me from my childhood influences and society in general. I've exposed a fissure looking into a red and raw part of myself that I have accepted and am learning to love, even with all her flaws. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">Although I don't feel as though I'm quite at mile 87 yet, I'm beginning to feel every blister and chafe now. It's becoming more painful the further I go, but I will embrace it because I'm learning what it's like to FEEL ALIVE.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </span></div>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-53277939572458344902015-11-01T11:35:00.001-08:002015-11-01T11:35:28.186-08:00What's New, Stupid Foot?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKr4kzuji-OzqpF0rC2cs8URSWi4X5yVMHUgf07zRkR44Zbw158E6EanxyUIdkE9piO0BDLPlTx5phFj4cP8JU6g7W9v2Jqkiwksa7iMlSgcyDw18NjOSfasoUw-Kq7sGoAKUk-UxCNRt/s1600/Grabowski_BL2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKr4kzuji-OzqpF0rC2cs8URSWi4X5yVMHUgf07zRkR44Zbw158E6EanxyUIdkE9piO0BDLPlTx5phFj4cP8JU6g7W9v2Jqkiwksa7iMlSgcyDw18NjOSfasoUw-Kq7sGoAKUk-UxCNRt/s320/Grabowski_BL2.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Can I borrow her foot, please?<br />It looks fast. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's been over a month since I finished that 50 miler and it still feels like there's a piece of gravel embedded deep in my forefoot.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">I've decided I would embrace a prosthetic right now. Please, I'll buck up and do the gory hacking of my foot off if someone would gladly donate a bionic foot for me. Really. I've had it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">So, obviously, I haven't been running lately. What's new, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Instead, I've been vending at local races, working full time, hanging out with my boyfriend <a href="https://www.facebook.com/megaphone4merica/"><b>Megaphone</b></a>, taking care of family stuff, and trying to be as consistent as possible with the gym. I miss having goals though, but until my foot is back to normal I don't feel comfortable putting anything out there I can't do right now. This neuroma is unpredictable and I can't say when, if ever, it will be back to it's normal, dormant self.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">This fucking sucks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">But oh well. At least I have the gym and its not like I ran much before anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjbET_GuNC_pMUbtXs595La8k708dYBymv2tsdz_BVh4Hs7cpeE-G8zf7ud-4K0LwkNkzcaiGZmSiliQ3cOUmUfchgfuPMGxfxU22xoEnsingTPmIZJL-1yW7SyjREObiKV2JXfHK14WG/s1600/ALL-GREEN-FUC1K.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjbET_GuNC_pMUbtXs595La8k708dYBymv2tsdz_BVh4Hs7cpeE-G8zf7ud-4K0LwkNkzcaiGZmSiliQ3cOUmUfchgfuPMGxfxU22xoEnsingTPmIZJL-1yW7SyjREObiKV2JXfHK14WG/s200/ALL-GREEN-FUC1K.png" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">So I will be doing more cerebral things for now, like coming up with a new design for my shirts which I hope to be selling at Way Too Cool again next year. But before that, I will continue to be hostess to my awesome Chill Lounge at some fun local races like perhaps <b>F.U.C1k</b> put on by <a href="http://singletrackrunning.com/fuc1k/"><b>Singletrack Running</b></a> - cuz with a race name like that, how could I NOT participate in some way?? Btw, that acronym stands for <b>Foresthill Uphill Challenge 1k and it's happening on Dec 12th at 9am</b>. And if I'm there, you can bet there will be lots of chill and some treats too (think dirty nipples and rice crispy treats - YUM!). So sign up! How hard can a single hill be, right? <insert demonic laughing here></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">In the meantime I will try not to eat all the kid's Halloween candy or <a href="http://www.nakedonsharppointystuff.blogspot.com/2014/11/finding-chocolate-in-my-pants-body.html"><b>find more chocolate in my pants</b>.</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .</span><br />
<br />zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-56637741923113916952015-09-21T09:52:00.001-07:002015-09-21T09:52:53.962-07:00How I Did 50 Miles on Strength and No Running - For Science<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT2setEXdWSXW_0R7bMrDzfR__n6TeATJje9zGHpLeLVLzn3vJHxkGpptF4iB3TKL1E-zBUzAGaCC8AeTXSznqdyk4YXXKCi6fIqVKvV3NQuQnNkGyprDjrAjjIHjwCW1gJaobXgtGLIYS/s1600/Headlands_50Miler_Start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT2setEXdWSXW_0R7bMrDzfR__n6TeATJje9zGHpLeLVLzn3vJHxkGpptF4iB3TKL1E-zBUzAGaCC8AeTXSznqdyk4YXXKCi6fIqVKvV3NQuQnNkGyprDjrAjjIHjwCW1gJaobXgtGLIYS/s1600/Headlands_50Miler_Start.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Headlands 50 Miler Race Start <br />(Photo courtesy Seth Kotelnicki)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Despite now knowing what it's like to run 50 miles on a trail of hot pokers, I also know what it's like to run 50 miles on pure strength alone forgoing any run training whatsoever.</span> I did that. For science. Cuz that's what I do.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Somehow my life has turned into a grand experiment in many ways. I've been a training guinea pig for The Ranch Athletics' coaches long before the inception of their gym located in Loomis CA where they are known mostly for training various athletes most of which are runners and powerlifters. These young fitness geniuses began testing their theories on training with me <b><a href="http://www.nakedonsharppointystuff.blogspot.com/2011/06/marathon-my-new-goal-on-trails.html">long before I ever ran my first ultra. </a></b>They are the only ones who can really speak on the effectiveness of their training style, but in a nutshell, their training philosophy is cemented in strength training as a fundamental building block to running. They are firm believers in quality training over quantity training and how it translates into a stronger and faster runner.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-LmwFtqZhcgyo9CTth_QgJAY8PiVuHcTkC-306Fbsj4BksGDI6JSyU_3pqkIEtt2rKHgri4oEvgLO7T8jewg4EPIiTROG_teSnJbYBtUkCxb8stIOfnb7Bse1us4dBeIxRHD1nv0IMLl/s1600/K_mobility_The_Ranch_Athletics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-LmwFtqZhcgyo9CTth_QgJAY8PiVuHcTkC-306Fbsj4BksGDI6JSyU_3pqkIEtt2rKHgri4oEvgLO7T8jewg4EPIiTROG_teSnJbYBtUkCxb8stIOfnb7Bse1us4dBeIxRHD1nv0IMLl/s1600/K_mobility_The_Ranch_Athletics.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Smashing my quads at The Ranch Athletics</span><span style="color: #783f04;"><br />(Photo courtesy Seth Kotelnicki)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">Sadly, I'm not the perfect specimen for a guinea pig. My baseline includes a fucked up right foot due to a bunion and Morton's Neuroma which can flare up at any given time unexpectedly. Not to mention a plethora of previous running injuries. Oh... and I'm no spring chicken, so there's that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">And then there's the fact that I also never take running seriously. Running, for me, usually involves a bottle of high quality whiskey, some "strolling" along beautiful trails, a few post recovery cookies, good music and a party.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-E3BnPyehO3ZWLKepYv2zIXJqHzkcjpDLZBZfmHLbvYCPD6bHZ4u0maJaSneOf-6Eo1gBxjf_zd23dI7kObFm3MS8hDfG4HWuxvpyJ5eoMSbG0teooXOytbwsPnvKrvhOqPuAF1kjXCsz/s1600/K_wall_balls_The_Ranch_Athletics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-E3BnPyehO3ZWLKepYv2zIXJqHzkcjpDLZBZfmHLbvYCPD6bHZ4u0maJaSneOf-6Eo1gBxjf_zd23dI7kObFm3MS8hDfG4HWuxvpyJ5eoMSbG0teooXOytbwsPnvKrvhOqPuAF1kjXCsz/s1600/K_wall_balls_The_Ranch_Athletics.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Wall slams</span><span style="color: #783f04;">(Photo courtesy Seth Kotelnicki)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">So when I texted my coach that I wanted to try running a 50 miler with no running training I can only imagine him shaking his head. He already knows I'm half crazy. I'm sure this didn't surprise him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">But life for me in general is a fucking time suck. I work full time for my own graphic and web design business, I'm a mom to two active boys, a caregiver for my own mother, and wife to a mountain biking husband. I barely have uninterrupted moments in the bathroom let alone 3 days out of the week to run - even with as low mileage as I'm used to with my running program from The Ranch. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">But regardless of my inability to get out of the house for running, I rarely, if ever, miss my gym time. That's ME time, and because it involves a little bit of the social (I need to connect with people on a regular basis - something that never happens working from home) I end up with a 4 day/week consistent training routine that often puts me teetering on the edge of being just ready enough to jump into whatever race I feel like throwing myself at.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXzRGIuIH7sa-4BAkkJyxh58mKE8rC_8uM1NbCb7puG2EPoRHnyIiE-B1CJwW8wtVsge6-oHV9Fe9dl7-iLhJt3m5Bihqg2pwxoL2JkJnDeUMZQziZIkcQBWayow-jejWFx_WyjAXbBMq/s1600/K_Weighted_Pullups_The_Ranch_Athletics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXzRGIuIH7sa-4BAkkJyxh58mKE8rC_8uM1NbCb7puG2EPoRHnyIiE-B1CJwW8wtVsge6-oHV9Fe9dl7-iLhJt3m5Bihqg2pwxoL2JkJnDeUMZQziZIkcQBWayow-jejWFx_WyjAXbBMq/s1600/K_Weighted_Pullups_The_Ranch_Athletics.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Gym Pullups</span><span style="color: #783f04;"><br />(Photo courtesy Seth Kotelnicki)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">And I did just that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">When I found out my coach was going to be running The Headlands 50 Miler on September 12, I decided to register as well. I had 6 weeks before I was to tow the line and I had yet to try a 50 miler, which I felt could be my "sweet spot" distance. 100 miles was hard, but I felt I had a good shot to finish a 50 miler comfortably, even if I hadn't been running for the last several months.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I dropped most of my runs around March or April of this year when life got busy. To paint a picture what those "runs" look like as part of my training they were 3 per week in total - 1 being a short, high intensity sprint (like a 20 seconds on, 10 seconds off tabata that I repeated 8 times), a medium interval run (ie: 800 meter repeats or similar), and then a "longer" run which might be around an hour and a half of running the local trails. So I rarely averaged more than 5 miles per week of running.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDeAf3iRv4XQpi9PNVWZoSff_3hH0mafzH4WXlYRIC2T6D6Ifsn-cyi35lm1fvex1mv4KOv8Zb4OR49Xt0ZIVzo-y_OWyyHeuofLYLVb2WuK28bdKfOPamefuPU7JKdhsbsgAe1pEi1dhw/s1600/K_Headlands50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDeAf3iRv4XQpi9PNVWZoSff_3hH0mafzH4WXlYRIC2T6D6Ifsn-cyi35lm1fvex1mv4KOv8Zb4OR49Xt0ZIVzo-y_OWyyHeuofLYLVb2WuK28bdKfOPamefuPU7JKdhsbsgAe1pEi1dhw/s1600/K_Headlands50.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Testing 50 Miles On Strength</span><span style="color: #783f04;"><br />(Photo courtesy Seth Kotelnicki)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">So I was left with my gym training alone for this 50 miler. A four day per week training that involves movements like heavy deadlifts and squats, lots of glute/ham raises, pushing prowlers, jumping rope, pullups, pushups, thrusters, kettlebell carries/swings, maybe some rowing and an occasional short sprint. In other words, lots of whole body strength movements but heavily concentrated on the muscles I use for running. I've always felt like my 4 day a week strength training was enough to keep me fit and ready for anything. I had confidence I could finish a 50 miler with this type of training, but I wanted to find out for sure. For science.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I was ready for my test. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Too bad my right foot decided to tell me to fuck off starting a couple weeks before the race.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQn_brZglpnEdZLawjzlYU4TiXTNmeUO-3kQT1xeVuA11Ql6xnDjVZCCxuKrv4ssLEvPlLJpuNrNSWGiruovhRDnYHdXMZWtLVRhFxeiN5QIHKmiyC6k3TaV_A8wPuiaPviu2xHuZooz4/s1600/Crew_Help_Tennesee_Valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQn_brZglpnEdZLawjzlYU4TiXTNmeUO-3kQT1xeVuA11Ql6xnDjVZCCxuKrv4ssLEvPlLJpuNrNSWGiruovhRDnYHdXMZWtLVRhFxeiN5QIHKmiyC6k3TaV_A8wPuiaPviu2xHuZooz4/s1600/Crew_Help_Tennesee_Valley.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Getting crew help from friends - <br />50 Miles On Strength</span><span style="color: #783f04;"><br />(Photo courtesy Seth Kotelnicki)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">My neuroma, a ball of nerves embedded between the bones between my second and third toes on my right foot, had started flaring up. This has been a problem I've had since college and it happens only on occasion. I've only experienced it during one other race (a 50k at The Born To Run Ultras a few years back) and I was really lucky it didn't give me any trouble during my 100 miler, although I had other issues to deal with during that event.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">So the first step of my 50 miler sent a stinging, slicing pain vibrating through my right foot.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"Awwwww shit." I knew that despite the fucked up timing of this stupid nerve flare-up I was still gonna have to test my fitness. It was gonna be a long ass 50 miles. Whatever. I can always hack my right foot off in order to finish, right? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Did I bring the hack-saw?</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-t3z-xMvUzDKrcWYWsUb0V3VyDoZVgKFr_aTPZKzgwhmoKzwVu1asmYcbv7PGXgA7cgCRoI2SpTLGi5LCNlaZHOK5DSF7i3wrCuWvagoDOwD7xmd-qcHM9qFBwGQub0G34KyPWmo6Ysc/s1600/Still_Smiling_Headlands_50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-t3z-xMvUzDKrcWYWsUb0V3VyDoZVgKFr_aTPZKzgwhmoKzwVu1asmYcbv7PGXgA7cgCRoI2SpTLGi5LCNlaZHOK5DSF7i3wrCuWvagoDOwD7xmd-qcHM9qFBwGQub0G34KyPWmo6Ysc/s1600/Still_Smiling_Headlands_50.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Still smiling</span><span style="color: #783f04;">(Photo courtesy Seth Kotelnicki)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">Despite the pain in my right foot, which would come and go for the most part, I felt good physically at miles 8, 12, and 18 and was on track and even ahead of my time to finish within a conservative 12.5 hours.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The course which was designed in a reverse looped style provided a little mental struggle for me. I hate leftovers, repeats, seeing the same movie twice, running the same trails over and over. I couldn't help but think how much I loved the point-to-point course at Pine To Palm 100. I was craving that course even with its sadistic uphills by the time I reached mile 30. I was also starting to deal with overcompensation in my left knee due to not being able to put full weight on my stupid right foot.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">By mile 35 I had cut my running pace back and was stopping every quarter mile to do hip hinges and squats to release the tightness in my left IT band and hamstring which was taking a lot of the load off my right foot. At this point I felt like I had a permanent live jellyfish suctioned to the bottom of my right forefoot, and every uphill step was pure torture.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">But as we say in ultrarunning - its all relentless forward movement. And so it was.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I was frustrated as hell by mile 40, not so much for the pain, but for the fact that I still hadn't tapped into even a fraction of my fitness due to my needing to back off of my stupid foot/knee failure. It felt like my experiment "for science" was being thwarted due to "technical difficulties beyond my control". Like the lab caught on fucking fire, and I had to spend time finding the extinguisher to put the fire out instead of being able to concentrate on the lab experiment itself.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjed3H1_PoXNtSsfLjDXbog5dKz_P9nUaPTHCLjQ2bvuLqB_jFgSFRDvoX8_7cT-ZxUEpUPP1k6KKuoihU3x_XaEGf80tI9fMSEKNFRUqzXwh70kv6juu-YYoT8nJXwSF6m7rP-A7esazZZ/s1600/K_Seth_Finish_Headlands_50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjed3H1_PoXNtSsfLjDXbog5dKz_P9nUaPTHCLjQ2bvuLqB_jFgSFRDvoX8_7cT-ZxUEpUPP1k6KKuoihU3x_XaEGf80tI9fMSEKNFRUqzXwh70kv6juu-YYoT8nJXwSF6m7rP-A7esazZZ/s1600/K_Seth_Finish_Headlands_50.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Finish line of the Headlands 50 miler with<br />my coach Seth Kotelnicki</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">My experiment got burned a bit, so I decided to enjoy the last 4 miles walking and chatting with another woman I had met on the trail. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I crossed the finish line in 14:39:27 and despite all the stupid pain I was in, I finished. I finished that shit with strictly gym only training. And for those who thought I was stupid to try, or didn't think I could do it, I proved to them, once again, that it can be done.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">What kind of knowledge did I glean from this experiment?</span> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I believe there's a LOT to be said for </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">quality </span>strength training over running in general. By eliminating running from the equation I realize that the gym gives me a solid base to jump from should I choose to. I know my coaches and I know they would never recommend NOT running while training for an ultra, but at least I now understand why they train heavily with strength as a foundation for running. I feel like as long as I can maintain or improve muscle strength while training it can get me more than three-quarters of the way there. The extra conditioning the running gives me helps to develop and maintain my form and make me faster, but it's the strength that really counts and can make a huge impact on my endurance. This has been a huge revelation for me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The shitty part is that no amount of fitness, strength or conditioning can eliminate random, stupid technical difficulties, like a neuroma, that can flare up on it's own will during a race.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Next time I'll carry a hack-saw.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .</span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-62579862239419861802015-08-31T14:26:00.001-07:002015-09-20T12:33:08.616-07:00And For My Next Trick...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKlfWiDX5ZW4GGxwIM19_m-KJp_7yF98S1Cf-Jt7lImz6wPXEUNt4nZNF6Fhldy64MJRPT4k8nW20nv4Gd9Fq35wOHM2VLlp-lIazMLP1Q67MB9aWvt4ILVoLDH_VKQ5j6wqO-y-y5xiJ/s1600/100Mile_Attempt_at_rolling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKlfWiDX5ZW4GGxwIM19_m-KJp_7yF98S1Cf-Jt7lImz6wPXEUNt4nZNF6Fhldy64MJRPT4k8nW20nv4Gd9Fq35wOHM2VLlp-lIazMLP1Q67MB9aWvt4ILVoLDH_VKQ5j6wqO-y-y5xiJ/s320/100Mile_Attempt_at_rolling.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Attempting to roll out during Pine To Palm 100 miler </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">So despite the fact that I have unfiltered tendencies to overshare, I have not included the Radical Honesty Movement in my life's grand experiment.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">I'm not totally comfortable with violent contact of fists to my face and prefer to keep my friendships in tact. I would venture to say that I'm more likely to adopt the Radical Nudity Movement instead, especially when the temps start hitting the triple digits here in NorCal.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">But since everything I do in life right now is for science, I've decided to take on another experiment.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Surprise.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Ladies and gentlemen, for my next trick, I will attempt to run a 50 miler with about 10,000ft. of elevation gain with NO RUN TRAINING.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSX0W_A0Hr1TUznI2DmnzQogwFA0uUNo-MEcnqLPYoIZh_QYlFm5HBCzbPIySoZ2dj7bSmxXEkP8sHWAYGOWu2AedTTlyPyZVEmDoXyuqbpVPF5S6SGWXKWWI0xuwZvQaAdQ2YuQYJEKKK/s1600/Mt_Rose_Summit_DirtyGirlZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSX0W_A0Hr1TUznI2DmnzQogwFA0uUNo-MEcnqLPYoIZh_QYlFm5HBCzbPIySoZ2dj7bSmxXEkP8sHWAYGOWu2AedTTlyPyZVEmDoXyuqbpVPF5S6SGWXKWWI0xuwZvQaAdQ2YuQYJEKKK/s320/Mt_Rose_Summit_DirtyGirlZ.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Mt. Rose Summit<br />(Photo Courtesy Kelly Maggie Akyüz)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">That's 0 trail mileage per week and I quit that shit about 3 months ago. Well, I've had a few lapses where I ran the Blood, Sweat, and Beers 11 miler back in July, and may have ran a teensy bit on my "hike" to the top of Mt. Rose with the girls, but other than that the only training I'm doing for this race is done in the gym.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I will be attempting to finish the Headlands 50 miler on September 12. I'll admit this was a last minute decision, but I've been wanting to run a 50 miler for some time now. I've also been wanting to test my training in its purest form which consists mostly of strength training with some conditioning. Basically I lift heavy weights, push a prowler, do lots of squats, glute ham raises, pull-ups, push-ups, farmer's carries, mountain climbers, hollow rocks, and okay... I might run 400 meters. But that's all the run training I will be doing for this race.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">That being said, I am fully prepared to DNF this race, but I doubt that will be the result of little conditioning. I feel that my endurance base has already been established and maintained enough in the gym and my strength is there to get me through 50 miles of hills. The question for me at this point is whether my mobility and joints will survive 50 miles. That's my catch 22. The more I run the less mobility I feel I have, and if I'm running as part of my training my mobility is never at 100%.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">But what if I started a race with no aches, no tenderness, and my mobility at 100%? Will I be able to last for 50 miles before my hips and knees lock up or start to hurt? Yeah. I'll be sore afterwards, but I'm sore after almost every gym workout so what's the difference?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm a firm believer in the anti-one-size-fits-all training approach. I think there are folks out there like myself who need a radically different type of training just to be capable of completing the long distances. I recognize I won't be winning any medals, but that's never been my goal anyway. My only goal will be to finish within the time cut-off of 16 hours.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>So I declare this to be my 2015 Anti-Running Experiment 50 Miler,</b> rather than my Minimal-Running Experiment 100 Miler which I tested back in 2013 at Pine To Palm.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The only thing I have to say about this race right now is... We'll see.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Regardless of how it will all go... I know for a fact that this race will end like this...</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFuhyut3rwUC9izHqViOX0EXz_CIX2veO24HMDeSgLDDPxX_CMierxeD5QWi-AlUqxpQEtsNqypx7B_pGt5wjtZA-2IQ4mDM-Ve6gKrl5XoryBjB54mhB7KAQMk4_lzn23BVT65qm0moa/s1600/Post_hike_Whiskey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAFuhyut3rwUC9izHqViOX0EXz_CIX2veO24HMDeSgLDDPxX_CMierxeD5QWi-AlUqxpQEtsNqypx7B_pGt5wjtZA-2IQ4mDM-Ve6gKrl5XoryBjB54mhB7KAQMk4_lzn23BVT65qm0moa/s320/Post_hike_Whiskey.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Tailgate Whiskey Break (Photo courtesy Charito Bartlett)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-26784176833958824062015-08-18T12:29:00.001-07:002015-08-18T12:29:23.845-07:00My Life as a Grand Experiment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuVlW2RYA6gfWx_UE158NBpQsEqNuCYdcZ3wIOMB-zEQNHiGy51no6QnRRjvLIytLQLZdrnJu8t49ohpgXH69iIjAYVeDuETiXD-UsOatKNINIZHwao-4ZRDtAcR4MYAIb_fx5h6Q-qPX/s1600/sliding+into+the+grave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuVlW2RYA6gfWx_UE158NBpQsEqNuCYdcZ3wIOMB-zEQNHiGy51no6QnRRjvLIytLQLZdrnJu8t49ohpgXH69iIjAYVeDuETiXD-UsOatKNINIZHwao-4ZRDtAcR4MYAIb_fx5h6Q-qPX/s320/sliding+into+the+grave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">I like to think I survived one of life's unexpected emotional tsunamis.</span> But, instead of holding my breath and waiting for it, I picked up a surfboard and rode that mother fucker into shore. In fact, I'm still paddling and ready for another wave should it hit.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><a href="http://www.nakedonsharppointystuff.blogspot.com/2012/06/midlife-enlightenment.html">I documented this transition here</a></b> on my blog as a way of owning my experiences and holding myself accountable for the changes that I embraced at the time. My midlife enlightenment, as I like to call it, caused many people close to me to question my motives and my identity. I had some awakenings, some revelations, and some deep rooted epiphanies about my life in general and where I was headed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I can honestly say that at 30, 35 and even at 40 years old I was not completely who I wanted to be.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHCjgdKSn6VHTC5aeOXcTZU7zZyQebqlTOSKSAfo1KCraIG8qrzrGvuIsFV6PPaULxgZDaRgex5JB1j8XvasTdiHbrYuR57frvzRti9NAYJIViSbGPvZiwuMdE8qTp26Drltnr0_6vl8Zf/s1600/K_mama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHCjgdKSn6VHTC5aeOXcTZU7zZyQebqlTOSKSAfo1KCraIG8qrzrGvuIsFV6PPaULxgZDaRgex5JB1j8XvasTdiHbrYuR57frvzRti9NAYJIViSbGPvZiwuMdE8qTp26Drltnr0_6vl8Zf/s320/K_mama.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">I had serious hang-ups. I worried what other people thought. I hated my body. I didn't feel beautiful or even sexy. I was horribly insecure beneath a thin veneer of forced confidence. I tried to like who I was but could never completely be happy with the woman who stared back at me in the mirror. I saw each and every flaw amplified. I felt like one of those Russian dolls that had another doll trapped deep inside the layers of dolls within her. I had no idea how to love the woman I knew I was in my heart or become the woman that I wanted to be. I was the person society and my parents had raised, created and envisioned. I was a responsible, intelligent human being who </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">brushed her teeth twice a day.</span> I colored my life within the lines of society. I was a loving mother and a good wife. Wasn't that good enough?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Fuck no!</b> It wasn't.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I didn't want to be perfect. I just wanted to be me. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">It was unacceptable to be so close to forty years old and have wasted half my life being a person that I didn't really like. She was boring, naive, and probably a little righteous. If the me of today met the me of yesterday I wouldn't want to hang out with her. I would have nothing to say.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I remember the turning point - when life seemed to be crushing me from the outside - when a miscarriage, the loss of my job, a double biopsy, and my father being diagnosed with a rare blood cancer which would ultimately take his life determined my future. I could not stand to live another disingenuous day of my life. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtYUuwo5aUlv1ighGuPY25Fq4xq7WyLLsLsdUMaPymoAj7X9TKFhkjX2-T-i3dhIdQM738jmTyF7uhu3P_INao_kfxR9FY1QwZQmXgdNbN2y4Xsy51Fmfw54KgheekO1PQVMyZL6E2EHBx/s1600/K_Megaphone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtYUuwo5aUlv1ighGuPY25Fq4xq7WyLLsLsdUMaPymoAj7X9TKFhkjX2-T-i3dhIdQM738jmTyF7uhu3P_INao_kfxR9FY1QwZQmXgdNbN2y4Xsy51Fmfw54KgheekO1PQVMyZL6E2EHBx/s320/K_Megaphone.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>FUCK THAT SHIT.</b> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I consciously made a decision to challenge that cushy, womb-like normality called my comfort zone. I embraced a new openness to experience life in a way that was more like a scientific experiment rather than daily rote routine. I made very conscious decisions to try new things. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I threw out my running shoes and started running completely barefoot. I dyed my hair purple. I gave up National Public Radio for Dubstep, Heavy Metal, and Electronica. I embraced expression and cursed more. I debated less. I adopted the word "YES" when every fiber of my being wanted to scream "NO!!!!" This attitude permeated my daily choices from food, clothing, and yes... even sex. I traded wine for whiskey. I got high. A LOT. I began training for ultras like I was 25 again. I began exploring my physical limits and my mental boundaries. I became a more passionate individual with a deep-rooted desire to learn more about the human experience, to connect with others, and to live deliberately.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">So now... everything I do is part of this grand experiment. That's the "live deliberately" part. Because what's the point of making conscious choices that challenge you if you don't fucking learn from them?!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipY4SAjfgYyQwO7kX3D9-okjiBMBDLlvWM7dkM61VtQBl7HSCNhb0ekKNGrHxV7ltXr_CIircvg206bDAi310zPow38XUlWkTgPlyuuJvjhuA2ZfaTGjhsT5mDcrI9cBVsTtOKLTE4jwmg/s1600/Ks_Pebbles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipY4SAjfgYyQwO7kX3D9-okjiBMBDLlvWM7dkM61VtQBl7HSCNhb0ekKNGrHxV7ltXr_CIircvg206bDAi310zPow38XUlWkTgPlyuuJvjhuA2ZfaTGjhsT5mDcrI9cBVsTtOKLTE4jwmg/s320/Ks_Pebbles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">I figure, if I'm lucky, I might have a good forty more years left on this earth to learn about myself. What makes me tick? What do I like? How does this body I've been gifted work? I want the rest of my life to be quilted together with rich pieces of adventure, experience, love, and human connection. I am the seamstress and the artist. I am the only one who can create this masterpiece. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">And when I'm eighty years old and sitting in the old fart's home, I want some really awesome memories to entertain myself with. I'm not one to watch TV.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #783f04;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Finally. Today I know who I am. </span></i></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am organic and ever changing</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am beautiful</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am brilliant</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am sexy</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am fun</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am feisty </span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am wise</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am crazy</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am happy</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am a thinker</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am a doer</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am a lover </span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am wild</span></b></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #783f04;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I am NOT perfect</span></b></span></i></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;">And since everything I do now is "for science" I will continue to learn, and push my boundaries, and to challenge the things in my life that I have no clue about. So let the grand experiment continue...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </span><br />
<br />zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-84148441527555631382015-05-27T11:02:00.001-07:002015-05-27T14:34:33.785-07:00The Party Culture of Born to Run Ultras<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-pSJkCHk45SRV6InhJZtni4zYvlRF8cjgDjjauor75lF8939RlHGSPpcWmcsJ2j3jDOdQ0n-o27gwjrsDRsPrYRXTkOcLmluJcqw9aG_Tqi0k5tTgZyDG-8Mr8InflLKdyN82a4G0n43/s1600/sticker_hill_scavenger_hunt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-pSJkCHk45SRV6InhJZtni4zYvlRF8cjgDjjauor75lF8939RlHGSPpcWmcsJ2j3jDOdQ0n-o27gwjrsDRsPrYRXTkOcLmluJcqw9aG_Tqi0k5tTgZyDG-8Mr8InflLKdyN82a4G0n43/s320/sticker_hill_scavenger_hunt.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #783f04;">The golden hills of East Creek Ranch</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Exactly two weeks after the Swagon was unloaded from Badwater Salton Sea 2015</span>, it was cram packed again with an inflatable sofa, a camp kitchen/tiki bar, disco chandelier lights and red cups for the keg.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">It was time for my annual pilgrimage to the place where my ultra running tribe takes up residence for about four days. A little spot in the golden hills of Los Olivos where we arrive, detach from the grid, and connect to something bigger and more meaningful. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Oh. And we run.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">The Born To Run Ultra Marathons are way more than a race. It's been more accurately described as a running festival, but even that falls short of the true experience. Maybe that's just me, but I would venture to say that anyone who has made BTR their annual tradition has pulled back the layers to reveal something much more significant.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRjHoLYGDjA_llIVGrDQ71XbgSkZhTyf8y9iVqCQMOV9QExwbU8kR_6NNea4F93-8K1em2Ft0BSoJgNek1s4fj5Ja-a5UyJPjcjSSsnlF2qqwS5_rp9nf2vJ2lhasOExN8i84FSItOQP1/s1600/Larry_Gassan_Photography_endurance_athletes_BTR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRjHoLYGDjA_llIVGrDQ71XbgSkZhTyf8y9iVqCQMOV9QExwbU8kR_6NNea4F93-8K1em2Ft0BSoJgNek1s4fj5Ja-a5UyJPjcjSSsnlF2qqwS5_rp9nf2vJ2lhasOExN8i84FSItOQP1/s320/Larry_Gassan_Photography_endurance_athletes_BTR.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Born To Run 100k 2012<br />(Photography by Larry Gassan)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">I first experienced the lure of the East Creek Ranch back in 2012 (<b><a href="http://nakedonsharppointystuff.blogspot.com/2012/05/my-first-100k-born-to-run-ultra.html">you can read about my experience here</a></b>) when I challenged myself with my first 100k. I entered the gate of the ranch a solo runner on a quest to find something transcending within the long distance. I was in search of some raw form of enlightenment, expecting to find it buried deep within miles of fatigue and pain, but I never hit that "big picture" moment while running. In fact, I never really pushed into pain or fatigue like I expected. Don't get me wrong, I learned a significant amount about myself and my own capabilities, but I never arrived to that wide, open space where things just seemed in perspective. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSScSnnCHTONm48pnfSleXwX_FD2v7YJTBt_2h4d8PBuS2Muw4ZkY8kicQkHVQB9Yj7m9C9KsJoLGk9NnObAIKtqOwWYisvdpLfYh3zTSIvD6saTjYyFoOd63xX0KIoLB5gzyh3-WXEA7/s1600/Born_To_Run_group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSScSnnCHTONm48pnfSleXwX_FD2v7YJTBt_2h4d8PBuS2Muw4ZkY8kicQkHVQB9Yj7m9C9KsJoLGk9NnObAIKtqOwWYisvdpLfYh3zTSIvD6saTjYyFoOd63xX0KIoLB5gzyh3-WXEA7/s320/Born_To_Run_group.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">My first year at the Born To Run Ultras</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">But something else unexpected happened.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">Perspective happened but not within the confines of my own singular experience. I discovered human connection on a grander scale. It came from all sides of me - a connection that grows wider with every year.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">But I guess spending four days on a ranch with more than 600 other ultra runners, some kind of revelation is bound to happen.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">That first year, it began with Alex, the random dude I picked up at the Bart Station in Walnut Creek for carpool. We shared stories and life experiences on our trip down to Los Olivos. I got to see life from a younger and, oddly enough, wiser angle. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7scDbj-XX1zk_qN3qJb5hbDltyd-5TTVVjP9bNV9qPbmfNzDL38GMLHaHHQMOaguIMfGFUKJnnPFlgyrRSnf3rfBCVAQC5m-hzjILwuw-N6esdwypfpNmulreA_-eQCK6Eor2D_o_9poz/s1600/Born_To_Run_Sports_Kilt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7scDbj-XX1zk_qN3qJb5hbDltyd-5TTVVjP9bNV9qPbmfNzDL38GMLHaHHQMOaguIMfGFUKJnnPFlgyrRSnf3rfBCVAQC5m-hzjILwuw-N6esdwypfpNmulreA_-eQCK6Eor2D_o_9poz/s320/Born_To_Run_Sports_Kilt.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">My running buddy Anthony rocking the sport kilt</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Then there was Anthony, an active duty marine with a wife and little girl at home who ran with me for fourty miles. We swapped training and diet ideals, and shared mind blowing experiences of the birth of our babies.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I will never forget Flint, Maria, and Caleb who I heard cheering for me as I came through the last of the pink and yellow loops. Their genuine energy and encouragement felt like I had family there just for me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">Then Crista, who I didn't really speak much to that first year, but told me after I crossed the finish line somewhere in the ballpark of 15 hours later that she was cheering for me because we shared the same name.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfX9QS-oDpBsTu2r5wH2bTorx82PMJFGk1Cuvh-Un3zPknFaAMrAwE_CTMT29xdC0n8W4LqNmxz4vCj59B8Ic2utI5tBH-H80SHwRp46GKEqs3BQcw9dwceHahYHIHS9TZAfYJqkKnNKr/s1600/Born_To_Run_Ultra_Buds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfX9QS-oDpBsTu2r5wH2bTorx82PMJFGk1Cuvh-Un3zPknFaAMrAwE_CTMT29xdC0n8W4LqNmxz4vCj59B8Ic2utI5tBH-H80SHwRp46GKEqs3BQcw9dwceHahYHIHS9TZAfYJqkKnNKr/s320/Born_To_Run_Ultra_Buds.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Flint, Alex, Caleb, and Patrick</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And last but not least Patrick Sweeney. A dude I'd just met in New York City several months before my 100k while running the New York City Barefoot Run. He was the only familiar face I had any recognition of as I drove onto the ranch that weekend. He offered to share a camping spot with me and Alex. Then sitting in the dark, back at the campsite, in my post 100k disbelief he also generously offered to make me ramen noodles with avacado. A simple, but very kind act of sharing. My belly was hungry and I had little energy to feed myself more than just a beer at that point. His thoughtful and caring nature was very much appreciated.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">Over the years I've piled on more human connections, memories, and experiences to even list here...The Clemens brothers and their State of Beer flag, Graham from Scotland whom I will share an annual traditional wee dram of whiskey, Brahm who arrived solo and offered to bring a keg for the chill zone last year...</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHbTTrDNjbnI7Jo7Nw4Z2qpLHGE29fPJjU1y-PjbGi085vHvaYpEUsLJIRPh3SSIeQZ5IThW1xzG9Y2EkXAZCole_ya0Yho8nfn4urVJcoxMbes6WnjSkcwiwnRTPErCIcxNnjidYnCcf1/s1600/P1030778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHbTTrDNjbnI7Jo7Nw4Z2qpLHGE29fPJjU1y-PjbGi085vHvaYpEUsLJIRPh3SSIeQZ5IThW1xzG9Y2EkXAZCole_ya0Yho8nfn4urVJcoxMbes6WnjSkcwiwnRTPErCIcxNnjidYnCcf1/s320/P1030778.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">This shirt cracked me up</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Funny how there's a common thread of alcohol here. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I won't deny we love to party at Born To Run.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But maybe it's the alcohol that allows each of us to break through those social barriers, let go a little, and connect in a human way. Ultra running is the catalyst, but as ultra runners, and as humans in general, I think we are all looking for the path that plugs us in to something larger than ourselves. Whether we are looking for those moments in the solitude of the trail or surrounded by the smiles of hundreds of others like ourselves. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gJzvZAOjxVLn4T7Hj1bJL-w-oXKh1aI4D3rcYkI3Je0a1xcCHzaBkNsVwlcB5I2_RcwZmglUk9KhY5cOqP8NTsaDQaZpXauIIjZ0qZdAxZsjTs1Sd0o-X5tM1NhYlRzyXixweFw0Z70M/s1600/11206619_878956225517580_3404696517413421763_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gJzvZAOjxVLn4T7Hj1bJL-w-oXKh1aI4D3rcYkI3Je0a1xcCHzaBkNsVwlcB5I2_RcwZmglUk9KhY5cOqP8NTsaDQaZpXauIIjZ0qZdAxZsjTs1Sd0o-X5tM1NhYlRzyXixweFw0Z70M/s320/11206619_878956225517580_3404696517413421763_o.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Post Beer/Whiskey mile party</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">Clint, Adam, Matt, and me</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Yeah. We party hard. We run hard too. Even for the beer miles. There seems to be a symbiotic relationship between the two states - depleting our bodies while at the same time recharging our souls amongst our brothers and sisters. There is an endless supply of enthusiasm at an event like Born To Run and serious competition is almost non-existent. We run <i>with</i> each other recognizing what we have in common, not against each other for what we don't. The running culture of BTR is rooted in letting go and having fun, not in winning or placing. In fact, there is no other place where that culture is more amplified than at Born To Run. I know of no other event that also hosts a race distance of 0.0k where people sit down amongst each other, share their stories, and drink beer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">If that doesn't exemplify the chill, fun loving, relaxed atmosphere of our running culture I don't know what does.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4XX916ua1rTX1tX1rcV_6-aFNMf0mr0V1BBIWx4v-N_wtgpMu4pGcud0puOAlwh-edX2E3lfWZraPJ9z68UyU_XUXHU9NujjdTW-U1aooo6lLmd3-lXSYnwBDLN0GIu3opX67G9OTE8V/s1600/P1030825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4XX916ua1rTX1tX1rcV_6-aFNMf0mr0V1BBIWx4v-N_wtgpMu4pGcud0puOAlwh-edX2E3lfWZraPJ9z68UyU_XUXHU9NujjdTW-U1aooo6lLmd3-lXSYnwBDLN0GIu3opX67G9OTE8V/s320/P1030825.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">The party at Born To Run Ultras<br />The culture of trail and ultra runners</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After crewing for Badwater Salton Sea the contrast in running cultures has become even more obvious to me. There are no two races that could be more different.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I can't tell if it's completely a NorCal versus SoCal thing, or a road versus trail thing. After all, Born To Run could arguably be considered a SoCal event and really, it's a unique event in and of itself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But, I firmly believe you can detect running culture at the start line of a race. There's a big difference between a race that has a line-up of expensive running gear versus little to nothing and whiskey socks.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEily9uoCqAuUPy1eAeDPU_uJghYuCTzTjUfnZwX0kkDki0_8-wIHox62hPpuyMZPtlYkgCZYSnX6Wp86WArVG0GB0Y5H5eG0-J0Oyz0ccW3_pn3JSJ5sg2_K3yHw4C-mCMZx4o1K5t_5t6A/s1600/BeerMileStart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEily9uoCqAuUPy1eAeDPU_uJghYuCTzTjUfnZwX0kkDki0_8-wIHox62hPpuyMZPtlYkgCZYSnX6Wp86WArVG0GB0Y5H5eG0-J0Oyz0ccW3_pn3JSJ5sg2_K3yHw4C-mCMZx4o1K5t_5t6A/s320/BeerMileStart.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Beer Mile Start<br />(Photo courtesy Kelly Maggie Akyuz via Matt's Camera)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And although the culture at Born To Run is all party, I can honestly say that as a runner I take that party to every race and so do most of my friends. It's the only time a bunch of us can get outside together and celebrate living, breathing, and connecting. Sadly, it was the one thing I really missed while training for my longer distance races since my runs were never very long and mostly hard work.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHI6xIQnBDMG4iSajINt0q9U2NXRAurCwC0nj9dbw5hBAE2GOrjbdo62scvq_pwyyLjkmH7xzs0rhp-LbhZhePJiQ3oGDuc7F_6K8emEw73LrUcYThfodqHA-POgEIatoBN7sWZ6YtgZ4/s1600/Krista_Down.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHI6xIQnBDMG4iSajINt0q9U2NXRAurCwC0nj9dbw5hBAE2GOrjbdo62scvq_pwyyLjkmH7xzs0rhp-LbhZhePJiQ3oGDuc7F_6K8emEw73LrUcYThfodqHA-POgEIatoBN7sWZ6YtgZ4/s320/Krista_Down.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Happy girl</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Competitive culture completely misses the link to that human connection. That's not to say that as trail runners we are not competitive. For example, the SingleTrack Running Racing Team's stellar performance at Badwater Salton Sea may have even placed them in the top three finish if it hadn't been for our crew's alleged "party" behavior which got us into trouble and set our runners back for time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">But that "party" behavior is how we roll. For some it's winning, but for us, it's the adventure and stoke along the way that keeps running alive. We don't just celebrate running at the finish line. We celebrate at the start, the middle, and especially the finish. Every step is a celebration. And when shit gets hard, the party is still there, waiting for the comeback, because sometimes the joy of overcoming is stoke enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .</span><br />
</div>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-76826149448698949102015-05-18T18:08:00.001-07:002015-05-18T18:08:44.908-07:00SingleTrack Running's Badwater Salton Sea Ultra<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxoN-seQT0UJ8Jeg2_Qup09SA-fWKk5mjIk-aJI_J5sR2W92tt6vr7wv7-5K8Txe1Aa1oRR0it9YApZX17pyZURN8CTtAv62LGbIpUHh_4HfR_lSljnUIfFI1aFzr6IXy2H4auMFF1xm_/s1600/Salton_Sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxoN-seQT0UJ8Jeg2_Qup09SA-fWKk5mjIk-aJI_J5sR2W92tt6vr7wv7-5K8Txe1Aa1oRR0it9YApZX17pyZURN8CTtAv62LGbIpUHh_4HfR_lSljnUIfFI1aFzr6IXy2H4auMFF1xm_/s320/Salton_Sea.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Salton Sea - Below sea level </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">So I guess once you embrace the sulk and the mope over adventures thwarted something magical happens.</span> Adventures appear out of nowhere. Shit just starts to happen. And I get a message like this from my friend Bill, a SingleTrack Racing Team member, regarding the 2015 Badwater Salton Sea three man team race:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Hey Krista!! So I've been waiting to extend a formal invitation to you because I didn't know how things were going to shake with our crew situation. But I want to officially ask you to be part of our Badwater crew with Clint and Maggie we would be so excited to have you! In Paulo's words it would be 'crazyfantastic'"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Crazyfantastic? That's quite a compliment. But, I'll admit I'm partial to unauthorized vocabulary that punches grammar and punctuation rules in the face. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">SOLD.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TkVp6KTCmyO_6GyAVWOUSVDlM6mA4wSxvyGNM1nH4SsUctjmay357suM3-jUnMEkDpssDWB333vSa1AoQsaBzCrEArNnepQFRDvH0fTiIcrYEHSyH6MGaSszVbXCMFBcys5WCLOtzE6v/s1600/SingleTrack_Running_Racing_Team.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TkVp6KTCmyO_6GyAVWOUSVDlM6mA4wSxvyGNM1nH4SsUctjmay357suM3-jUnMEkDpssDWB333vSa1AoQsaBzCrEArNnepQFRDvH0fTiIcrYEHSyH6MGaSszVbXCMFBcys5WCLOtzE6v/s320/SingleTrack_Running_Racing_Team.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">SingleTrack Running Racing Team<br />Paulo, Ben, and Bill</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I felt honored that the guys wanted to recruit me to be part of their crew team. I had never crewed down at Badwater before so I was a total newb. Pretty sure all three of us were newbs at crewing in this sort of a race - mostly road and little trail with our vehicle being the sole support for our team. But the guys had no idea (or maybe they did) at the level of enthusiasm they had just signed on for, especially with Maggie and I both being on the team. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Together. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">We've been known to spend the equivalent of an ultra finish time just to "set up" an aid station. Our aid stations are "destination experiences" usually with a nighttime clubbing atmosphere that includes a chill lounge, lots of lights, loud music, disco balls, and plenty of party. We had big plans for this crewing adventure. Not only were we going to make sure our runners got to the finish line, but we were gonna motivate the shit outa them (and everybody else) along the way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So we packed up the ice chest, umbrella, pop-up canopy (yes... the pop-up), table, chairs, solar lights, glowsticks, wigs, pirate flags, water guns, cowbells, megaphone, and piñata.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">All the important shit.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWb3IvNzCEmcSIFzsG2DBU5iOks3_3HXbVuxcQov0uAa-BfYjtEU3Eg-8bsBfgYEHbtmy4GUfdYLazbuCpQ5nYMxS2bBuVQPYQnGw11EmCoxw-sFFysIgBuCWJBgf9dWd8vxCC_XMLDJc/s1600/Loading_Up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWb3IvNzCEmcSIFzsG2DBU5iOks3_3HXbVuxcQov0uAa-BfYjtEU3Eg-8bsBfgYEHbtmy4GUfdYLazbuCpQ5nYMxS2bBuVQPYQnGw11EmCoxw-sFFysIgBuCWJBgf9dWd8vxCC_XMLDJc/s320/Loading_Up.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Just a little "reorganization"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Then we crammed a few personal items in the Swagon and drove south to Santa Monica, where after a couple of chill days we met up with the rest of the team, Bill, Ben, and Paulo (the runners - and my buddies from my Speedgoat adventure) plus our final crew member, Clint.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Everyone had congregated at Bill's place for our caravan to Borrego Springs Resort where we were to attend the pre-race orientation. But not before our pre-pre-race orientation beer. It's about the carb loading, right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">And jeezuz!! I had never in my life personally witnessed the magnitude of matching as I did that day. It was only to be rivaled by the amount of lycra, spandex, performance, and reflective gear that exploded at the start line the following morning. I slapped my forehead when I realized that was why Paulo had asked me to bring my SingleTrack Running Racing Team shirt to this race. I'm hardly the matchy-matchy type but I bucked up and borrowed one of the guys shirts for the team photo. </span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfXOmIHpn5Th4JVyCCVTnBfoyKkNNuGK7h1gp4xYuMa6fk152cqJocrYl-vTCWYEVzRcIGDzu0at0jN8qeeXLc9ys1AgH46wUGDFrw5UQjIGthGyTmuGo1buFwK7HiFFOmW4oc1aTX2az/s1600/race_orientation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfXOmIHpn5Th4JVyCCVTnBfoyKkNNuGK7h1gp4xYuMa6fk152cqJocrYl-vTCWYEVzRcIGDzu0at0jN8qeeXLc9ys1AgH46wUGDFrw5UQjIGthGyTmuGo1buFwK7HiFFOmW4oc1aTX2az/s320/race_orientation.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Ben, Paulo, and Bill posing for group shots</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">After orientation it occurred to us that we needed to get our runners to the start line in the morning. In the Swagon. The Swagon - our mobile aid station warehouse (a crammed Mazda MPV minivan) was in desperate need of some strategic organization. I think it would have been easier to solve world hunger at that point. But as if that wasn't puzzle enough, we also had to deliver Paulo's car to the finish line 50 miles away where it would be close to our end point accomodations. So while the runners drank beers and went hot tubbing, our crew began crewing. Strapping, tying, shoving, wedging every little piece of enthusiasm into whatever space it fit. Then we caravanned again to deliver a vehicle to the finish line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">About four hours and 100 miles of driving later everything was sorted and organized and the Swagon was ready for race start. The runners had already gone to bed by the time we made it back from the finish line at Palomar Mountain around 9pm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It was a VERY tight fit for race morning.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhSnI1PAAKoH6pYbbA2YEEXc9pw_vLRfWhCi5XLUfvZnE9tH0EsgR7bdzpZ6biZGcavwDFRY9MyRh7YTpxD91y0jjnNUhlRJ81RApWuZBl69FOB5R6PCCiSODjJrhFTxX-1s0gx6VNj3G/s1600/Ben_Full_Car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhSnI1PAAKoH6pYbbA2YEEXc9pw_vLRfWhCi5XLUfvZnE9tH0EsgR7bdzpZ6biZGcavwDFRY9MyRh7YTpxD91y0jjnNUhlRJ81RApWuZBl69FOB5R6PCCiSODjJrhFTxX-1s0gx6VNj3G/s320/Ben_Full_Car.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Ben - The tallest of the team crammed into the Swagon<br /> amongst backpacks, ice chests, a piñata, and a road cone.</span></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But we all made it to the start line in one piece. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">More importantly, we were all able to dislodge ourselves from the overpacked van.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqT1cnti9EtjwVqsre98rQ5zyMIpApWmSFVbSe2r6Fo8d1jkjvPpnMYutZG7Y8Sal-20CEoWoJIzioX1wPqr6PICDa14zQCzvvpT30cpCt-K3pCf7xZWxFiWOHr6coA8VhNJytUgjJ_7bF/s1600/Paulo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqT1cnti9EtjwVqsre98rQ5zyMIpApWmSFVbSe2r6Fo8d1jkjvPpnMYutZG7Y8Sal-20CEoWoJIzioX1wPqr6PICDa14zQCzvvpT30cpCt-K3pCf7xZWxFiWOHr6coA8VhNJytUgjJ_7bF/s320/Paulo.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Paulo exiting our rubix cube on wheels</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkClbKEoQcrA_gVTLsF15gOGMXO7f_sPwqjUE0MJZGuyz5n-1uT7DUgphoIkUKsR-Mr7HNz0mVMStmj6171ze9UE273pSCKynUI_YCA5SL-DVhMzfQ8yQy8E4W-8mHo2oiha9xDTd3W-Mz/s1600/Ben_Bill+walk_to_start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkClbKEoQcrA_gVTLsF15gOGMXO7f_sPwqjUE0MJZGuyz5n-1uT7DUgphoIkUKsR-Mr7HNz0mVMStmj6171ze9UE273pSCKynUI_YCA5SL-DVhMzfQ8yQy8E4W-8mHo2oiha9xDTd3W-Mz/s320/Ben_Bill+walk_to_start.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Ben and Bill walk to find race start</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">Funny how we got there only a half hour early and the start line wasn't even set up. I was wondering if we were even in the right place. But if we weren't, neither was anyone else and there were quite a few people there. We walked down to the edge of the Salton Sea where the humidity carried a foul stench in the air which smelled like what I imagine to be a fisherman's toilet. Looking down we could see the "sand" was created of tiny bits of crushed fish carnage. We assumed that the race would start somewhere in the general vicinity. Did the race director forget that he was hosting a race?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">Hmmmmm.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNcEvpT0qHdVVhoNx0YDpuGv2IrINlyLX-7RedpuA3cC3_zSO3F5QpQob2HKsHTcnKcR72YU6wcicefmihSCSm6v-MUj0fFnU0E57xg8eZXRfBG-xcTZwGkzP6oMlnGxXBsg3iGGbDsB6a/s1600/fish_skeleton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNcEvpT0qHdVVhoNx0YDpuGv2IrINlyLX-7RedpuA3cC3_zSO3F5QpQob2HKsHTcnKcR72YU6wcicefmihSCSm6v-MUj0fFnU0E57xg8eZXRfBG-xcTZwGkzP6oMlnGxXBsg3iGGbDsB6a/s200/fish_skeleton.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Fish corpse</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">Then two random people show up, shove a couple flags in the ground and from out of nowhere the race director appears, climbs up on a ladder and shoots a gazillion photos for Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Flickr and a plethora of other social reasons.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">Wow. This shit has serious coverage. The word is officially out.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">I think dude spent way more time advertising his race than making the runners feel like they were participating in one.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZEHdEVCoFcrtfll0K-NMeLr1lrh0ONepLkNDItvfcY7g0yrxyo4MGS32K-RwbbU7intQTZqTwqZ23DDIV4nMr544UvRFR_M991YAfSa-LV_tCCxxNJ8YT6nlFR0EJaumtwEuIxwEAluJ5/s1600/Race_Start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZEHdEVCoFcrtfll0K-NMeLr1lrh0ONepLkNDItvfcY7g0yrxyo4MGS32K-RwbbU7intQTZqTwqZ23DDIV4nMr544UvRFR_M991YAfSa-LV_tCCxxNJ8YT6nlFR0EJaumtwEuIxwEAluJ5/s320/Race_Start.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Our boys with big smiles on the far left</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">But that didn't stop our runners from smiling. They were prepared and ready to go.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvYML7IeIvcQXXjhkZN3ajk3r7nRnjlRxqv3PeVkPt3L94rc9BLgwz2SVrWuZI-X_lGyNx3uA3hctVaKmVrR5VnwR0ZoR9UGXWkCZX6JCgj8EZXZX6Sx3hLINRZunz2PqFv6AV_EAPIjT/s1600/the_party_van.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvYML7IeIvcQXXjhkZN3ajk3r7nRnjlRxqv3PeVkPt3L94rc9BLgwz2SVrWuZI-X_lGyNx3uA3hctVaKmVrR5VnwR0ZoR9UGXWkCZX6JCgj8EZXZX6Sx3hLINRZunz2PqFv6AV_EAPIjT/s320/the_party_van.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">The Swagon - The official Party Van</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">(Photo courtesy Kelly Maggie Akyuz)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">I don't even remember how the race started. Everybody just took off. And then our crewing adventure began. The piñata made it's way to the top of our vehicle, the hawaiian leis were strung, the cowbell was ready, and the megaphone police siren was turned on. Awwwwyeah. The party van was in full crew mode and we were gonna crew us some runners!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">As we passed runners on our way to our first crew stop, we cheered every single one on. LOUDLY with megaphone.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvY2BfkNg_lJ9SZMBTJfZoL5lKf0yw8q4X3nyD0PK4m8UDoxY_c2XQmG0LUS2KHe24mlzGqegxNGN3iaH52FiQmAR4WTOQPNWmdLk8KUWwD9ihEDjB8BxPxtmTYgEsUuoIpgssf2R6Rgz/s1600/Crewing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvY2BfkNg_lJ9SZMBTJfZoL5lKf0yw8q4X3nyD0PK4m8UDoxY_c2XQmG0LUS2KHe24mlzGqegxNGN3iaH52FiQmAR4WTOQPNWmdLk8KUWwD9ihEDjB8BxPxtmTYgEsUuoIpgssf2R6Rgz/s320/Crewing.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Crewing duties</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">(Photo courtesy Kelly Maggie Akyuz)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #783f04;">"Oh Yeah... the piñata popo are gonna pull you over for going too fast!"</span><br /><span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="color: black;">(</span></span>Cuz we were the official piñata police.)</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #783f04;">"Looking good, runners!! You're looking so hot!"</span><br /><span style="color: #783f04;"></span>(Cuz it was damn hot out there and they looked it.) </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #783f04;">"SingleTrack Running Sexiness!! Yeah Baby! Show us your tittays!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #783f04;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Cuz o</span>ur team didn't mind being sexually harassed) </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm pretty sure the competitors in this race had never seen the likes of us at a race like this before... EVER. We got lots of smiles and motivated lots of runners besides our own. We wanted to make sure this race was FUN because running 81 miles through the desert is no joke and as it turned out not always a party. But I'm pretty sure FUN was in our job description when our team asked us to crew for them. HOW COULD WE NOT DELIVER?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm also pretty sure there will be a rule outlawing the use of megaphones with police sirens next year.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuEEh4X6nSr2zHFBpl9-yaz-SEvPPMttCkeHnuIJOllvQn1c9fJLxu2P6BaBcaWMoLNJ4bFAXY5TyEOKbpCgm4jA37QPzVfH10EeBygHJniIjZpy3IRqK8RFge5tZ0-S9F_azHGjDTIcBZ/s1600/Mobile_Aid_Station.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuEEh4X6nSr2zHFBpl9-yaz-SEvPPMttCkeHnuIJOllvQn1c9fJLxu2P6BaBcaWMoLNJ4bFAXY5TyEOKbpCgm4jA37QPzVfH10EeBygHJniIjZpy3IRqK8RFge5tZ0-S9F_azHGjDTIcBZ/s320/Mobile_Aid_Station.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Our super awesome mobile aid station</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">From the time the race started our crew had few spare moments to ourselves. We prepped every other stop like a full aid station so the runners could get in and get out as soon as possible. And as soon as our runner's came into eyesight we went into hyperdrive filling handhelds, prepping ice bandanas and buffs, making mental notes of our runner's health status' and next aid needs. We were able to surprise them with ice cream sandwiches, Mountain Dew (sadly it was diet) and special lunch snacks, which made them happy, even though the miles and especially the heat were starting to take their toll.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLF34eeZsFLXrnxinu3mV9Mj5-lsVI-RGifW3QioASlC2Z24C0iUG45N5_5lnkwUk9j9rUa56QGNQbc2Erh3vVuHR2Bzgsen0aPrhPz7iUnrb_TWV2XgRAr-kR1TGo7bqipac4QsD6yH2O/s1600/PirateClint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLF34eeZsFLXrnxinu3mV9Mj5-lsVI-RGifW3QioASlC2Z24C0iUG45N5_5lnkwUk9j9rUa56QGNQbc2Erh3vVuHR2Bzgsen0aPrhPz7iUnrb_TWV2XgRAr-kR1TGo7bqipac4QsD6yH2O/s320/PirateClint.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Captain Clint - ARRRRRRGH!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">We also commandeered an old train container for our full stop Pirate themed aid station. We knew the runners would be coming off the hardest climb of the race and we thought we would surprise them with a treat. But, what was taking them so long?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">So we started walking, side by side, down the road with Clint in the middle holding our biggest pirate flag. We were looking totally rogue and badass.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Clint had a gut feeling something was wrong. He had just seen the race director drive by with a more than disappointed look on his face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ROpzaio5kOM5ugGssoI9ouP_NJCZ6u9CirpZcec4bYShAYH-Rpd1BguDhP-6ekYaQuNyg0X_j5D37nrRoYXNAZNy8cE0vvJrN7VCSM4fKuoaQ3E_57ppnVf4S9OGVnJsmVbbNCEIc5lP/s1600/Commandeered+Container.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ROpzaio5kOM5ugGssoI9ouP_NJCZ6u9CirpZcec4bYShAYH-Rpd1BguDhP-6ekYaQuNyg0X_j5D37nrRoYXNAZNy8cE0vvJrN7VCSM4fKuoaQ3E_57ppnVf4S9OGVnJsmVbbNCEIc5lP/s320/Commandeered+Container.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Our commandeered container <br />pirate aid station</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">Suddenly, we saw our runners. They looked like they were in good shape. We screamed through the megaphone and were super excited to see them. We did our usual loud shenanigans, but Paulo had to politely interrupt us.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">The race director had apparently given them a warning and was about to slap a pretty hefty penalty on them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">WHAT?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Apparently, rumor was spread that our crew was drunk and out of control at one of our stops. We were clearly a hazard on the course and were breaking a very significant no drinking rule.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I will own the out of control bit. We were having fun. Being loud and obnoxious is just how we roll. But we certainly weren't drunk. There was just way too much responsibility required on course and with our runners to make sure they were properly taken care of.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNEJSYpUy0auPTP_n_hgbOHbAax4dpSvxZlmflJHJ3BKDFmsUWk0TjaP1uZkDxB88NDmK8Edep886Fs2izREmCpqmnbfBCt9dpcLKVJYOLdh94b-tGPgXse8jKV2Na5UByZ75wQG-VvCit/s1600/Rogue+pirates+at+Badwater+Salton+Sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNEJSYpUy0auPTP_n_hgbOHbAax4dpSvxZlmflJHJ3BKDFmsUWk0TjaP1uZkDxB88NDmK8Edep886Fs2izREmCpqmnbfBCt9dpcLKVJYOLdh94b-tGPgXse8jKV2Na5UByZ75wQG-VvCit/s320/Rogue+pirates+at+Badwater+Salton+Sea.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Arrrrrgh mateys!!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1dPhhyphenhyphen6dZGNe2S-pGFQy04FQ8iP0hssdSWj6_5Fib-wej7utX0z9g5p0LAh_UqCx0cAy7qDTB5QZ0vJ1SrAbDCvBog-Dw-2T_q5-4qQVN5QmkvmQW2YQIqSVLYfWIn6dUqAm3wDC2lxQ/s640/IMG_1650.JPG">Apparently there was even alleged proof</a>.</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">We were caught red-handed with liquor in our hands posing for pirate shots and our runners paid for it. Their option at this point was to drop a cone where the runners were, drive us to the finish line, drop our alleged drunken asses off, then return to the marked spot and finish the race either on their own or with a new crew.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Valuable time ticked away as we made it back to our container to brainstorm solutions. Our crew was distracted by our own stupidity and the fact that no one had bothered to find out if, in fact, we were drunk and incapable of driving. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Then the race director, Chris, shows up. Taking the opportunity to explain our situation gave us renewed hope that our runners would be able to continue. Paulo respectfully discussed our tragic situation, Clint passed a breath test, and I handed over all our alcohol to Chris... even the good gin.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXUGv6hDS0FZcq4Y_Zs0apwX_mZ3MDra-wXGq5KzHcawEOfZlyap-JsrxszEMlt-Iek1C1rf_1zNe_8wBm5kNjPJ3wMzP4VfCrLvsWqiljzoJ68fi01IIgwu4rDoA4Lr7_qziuRs-rg0g/s1600/Finish+Line+Fever+SingleTrack+Running+Racing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXUGv6hDS0FZcq4Y_Zs0apwX_mZ3MDra-wXGq5KzHcawEOfZlyap-JsrxszEMlt-Iek1C1rf_1zNe_8wBm5kNjPJ3wMzP4VfCrLvsWqiljzoJ68fi01IIgwu4rDoA4Lr7_qziuRs-rg0g/s320/Finish+Line+Fever+SingleTrack+Running+Racing.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Getting back their mojo<br />(</span><span style="color: #783f04;">Photo courtesy Kelly Maggie Akyuz)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">The game was back on!!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">But the guys had lost a lot of time and we, the crew, just had our wind taken out of our sails. We all felt heavy and quite frankly a little confused at how all this went down. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
Despite being deflated, we were determined not to let it affect us or our ability to crew our runners. Bill was on the fence about quitting and had been struggling with dehydration issues for a while. I was a little concerned he was getting ready to give up his position on the team, but after a ten minute recovery at one of our stops, some hot soup, and some extra attention by our crew, he pushed on and found his second wind. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Paulo got cranky but remained strong and steady with a bad case of finish line fever while Ben was on his way to effortlessly completing his longest ultra ever. I think ice cream sandwiches were Ben's secret weapon.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">The moon beamed down brightly on a fairly clear night as we slowly climbed to the top of Palomar Mountain. I could tell our runners were pushing to finish. They spent less time at our aid stops as we sneakily put a little more miles between them to push them to the finish sooner. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">We finally met our runners at the finish line garage after 19:10 hours of stinky sea desert running.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjt4vXfwl3umQvIt-NeZmaomYl1g39Iptffi8NQt5lO0uOuNh5uulcvyhi2hIVRjhqeYplatfo-A-KAKRUL0JsYIXUhva244aiFEb5eYL0FvXB3cGi2GGb4L28nyE1QWJ9_YCMyvoXegd/s1600/BadwaterSS_Finish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjt4vXfwl3umQvIt-NeZmaomYl1g39Iptffi8NQt5lO0uOuNh5uulcvyhi2hIVRjhqeYplatfo-A-KAKRUL0JsYIXUhva244aiFEb5eYL0FvXB3cGi2GGb4L28nyE1QWJ9_YCMyvoXegd/s320/BadwaterSS_Finish.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">SingleTrack Running Racing Team <br />crossing the finish line in 4th place overall</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtOU2IJ819yRnv3hU-meJA553eoViONJMMN-njJ4Hkpojhr262NpduJcGaSeUeW9egaLmjD2GyrAFGnb08mfKV7i6K4JDN_Z2Y61E8gNCX2qjBB2454Z3GPmHqw56fgvRt7gjbDhs10Zd_/s1600/Full_Team_SingleTrack_Running.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtOU2IJ819yRnv3hU-meJA553eoViONJMMN-njJ4Hkpojhr262NpduJcGaSeUeW9egaLmjD2GyrAFGnb08mfKV7i6K4JDN_Z2Y61E8gNCX2qjBB2454Z3GPmHqw56fgvRt7gjbDhs10Zd_/s320/Full_Team_SingleTrack_Running.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">SingleTrack Running Racing Team and crew</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">A garage?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Yes. A garage... where they ran through tape held up by the team in front of them because I guess all the Badwater Salton Sea volunteers had gone to bed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Oh well. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">We were super proud of our guys! We tried not to be too annoying at the finish line (I know we weren't the race director's favorites - or maybe we were??) so we whooped and hollared in lieu of using the megaphone. Our guys were pretty happy too. They should be. They </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">finished with an overall 4th place. </span> They totally put the badass in Badwater Salton Sea. Our crew? Well we just put the "bad" in Badwater.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">And we got all our alcohol back for our much needed celebration at our finish line accommodations.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwSTEE4uO_QxppXsK8HS7BT6r0xNmeVTO2QbOA12uw76L2zOqJ4ZWKa6CuIyLl9E7dTsMqPfuvaQsDz0VmSVR_KXu6oWIhaYkJbxy5FcMlcMkvcrGSGs7ApaFVCsyBLdTDR6EVg0nrKhmG/s1600/SingleTrack_Running_morning_beer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwSTEE4uO_QxppXsK8HS7BT6r0xNmeVTO2QbOA12uw76L2zOqJ4ZWKa6CuIyLl9E7dTsMqPfuvaQsDz0VmSVR_KXu6oWIhaYkJbxy5FcMlcMkvcrGSGs7ApaFVCsyBLdTDR6EVg0nrKhmG/s320/SingleTrack_Running_morning_beer.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">SingleTrack Running Rebels morning beer celebration.<br />It's how we roll.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-3683954265668436402015-04-06T13:10:00.004-07:002015-04-06T13:21:50.930-07:00The Year of the Sulk and Mope<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnT2q2IcHLHryqKac7PjxbegKwoYTS_iXMbXWgpJoAbh4muqhyphenhyphen8UefDkdamfYZEmObkxl1d78rVOYxJ9xN6878ykgnFQFOdv-yLNsWt6Veg2crMygMmc99GWD7Mya1-fQ15oLFzrFW_ok/s1600/11022416_942748652435917_7630608083355553529_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnT2q2IcHLHryqKac7PjxbegKwoYTS_iXMbXWgpJoAbh4muqhyphenhyphen8UefDkdamfYZEmObkxl1d78rVOYxJ9xN6878ykgnFQFOdv-yLNsWt6Veg2crMygMmc99GWD7Mya1-fQ15oLFzrFW_ok/s1600/11022416_942748652435917_7630608083355553529_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Taking a break from life to host<br /> a "Chill Lounge" at Way Too Cool 50k </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh man. It seems life has taken me for a ride lately and I'm just getting off to run back in line.</span> I've neglected my writing in pursuit of earning a living lately, which isn't normally a bad thing, but there needs to be balance and I do notice that I'm beginning to get itchy. I need to get back into this writing thing. Life is starting to spill over and I need something to catch all the splashes. So now that Blogger hasn't made me invisible and my Saucy McRibs are off the censoring chopping block, let me just purge a bit...</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">The grand ultra plan this year (one of my biggest bucket list items I have been waiting to do) didn't work out. That was supposed to be a trip to the Copper Canyons to run in the Ultra Caballo Blanco 50 miler. I enrolled in an online class to learn Spanish, put together an ultra "file" on the race to collect various info and notes (yeah... I was unusually organized for this) and I had my fingers ready to pull the trigger on airline/taxi/train/shuttle tickets. And then, with my husband accompanying me on this adventure, we couldn't finagle childcare.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">So that dream died this year.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">I moped and sulked. I don't run just for the sake of running. Running is just an excuse for whatever adventure lies beneath the surface. This was my opportunity and it faded into dust, but as it turns out, maybe it wasn't the year for me anyway. Due to some unfortunate events which happened in close proximity to the race a difficult decision was made by race officials to cancel the race in order to ensure the safety of the runners. So, at least for this year, maybe I wasn't meant to go. I still hope that I can make it down there in the future.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">So then there was talk between me and a good friend of mine about doing the John Muir Trail from Whitney to Yosemite. I was stoked. It has been years since I backpacked into the backcountry and here was an opportunity to explore and navigate through some extraordinary landscape, sleep under the stars, challenge myself, and recharge my life - a life that has been discharging in a slow trickle since my father died and I assumed new responsibilities in my newly reversed role caring for, supporting, and nurturing my own mother in her own grief. It hasn't been easy this last year. It's been a full-on energy suck with plenty more downs than ups and there's been too many days where I've felt like a trapped bird with clipped wings. Way too many days.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">As it turns out, the JMT adventure will not happen either for reasons I'm not quite clear on.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">So more sulking and more moping. It seems this has become the year of sulk and mope. But I'm over that disappointment too. I've got my Born To Run adventure coming up in May which I refuse to give up no matter what. That's a very special race for me. A race that takes me back to my first real deal ultra, a 100k through the hills of the East Creek Ranch in Los Olivos where I arrived not knowing a single soul or my own limitations. The people I met there were genuine, supportive, and by the end of my experience, like family. I look forward to this event every year. It has become my default recharge and decompression from the crap life has launched at me lately. I go there with full intention of saying fuck you to the shitty and embrace the chill with similar minded folk. Its all about the happy there.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">So other than the Born To Run Ultra in May (and possibly a naked run sometime in the future) I'm pretty much goal-less with little motivation these days to run, to write... to do much else but go to the gym. It's a strange space. I'm sorta in float mode now just waiting to see what will land in my lap. I hope I get an opportunity for a new and exciting adventure soon. As long as it's trajectory doesn't hit me in the head on the way, I'm good.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </span></div>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-36966314693129048052015-02-25T22:19:00.002-08:002015-02-26T16:55:20.063-08:00Behind The Thick Red Curtain - The Fate Of My Blog<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1u11ZPyxoHNNMQvYT6_Wa2Vtozf7TnWAWpHIkQB0aWXskeiX9wrWIIw7UPNx7wVZ_RPdeIYCRiNz5XDLizDn5IfLe6KetAr0e3z_yHNMbZNXRa6klAqCP3VXThtvbf86do7T_PlBSNZYF/s1600/tiny_tittays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1u11ZPyxoHNNMQvYT6_Wa2Vtozf7TnWAWpHIkQB0aWXskeiX9wrWIIw7UPNx7wVZ_RPdeIYCRiNz5XDLizDn5IfLe6KetAr0e3z_yHNMbZNXRa6klAqCP3VXThtvbf86do7T_PlBSNZYF/s1600/tiny_tittays.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Possible blog censorship. Like my McRibs?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">WOW. </span><span style="font-size: small;">I take a three month (ok that could have been more than three) writing hiatus and come back to my blog to see that the world is not round but flat and that WHA??? my blog is on the censorship chopping block? Is this true? According to blogger...</span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"<span style="background-color: #edf4ff; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">On March 23rd, Blogger will no longer allow certain sexually explicit content."</span> </blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;">I kinda felt like they were pointing the finger at me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">And this...</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;">"If your existing blog has sexually explicit or graphic nude images or video, your blog will be made private after March 23, 2015. No content will be deleted, but private content can only be seen by the owner or admins of the blog and the people who the owner has shared the blog with."</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;">So is this a bad time to post my naked vacation pics?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I guess what this means is... my blog could likely become private very soon. You won't be able to read my nifty little posts or see my Saucy McRibs, or my husband's ass, or those hot naked athletes, or even read about my masturbation adventures - sorry - there were no naked pictures to go with that post.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">The saddest thing about this? My public writing space - the space that held me accountable for a lot of what I had to say could be shoved behind a symbolic thick red curtain that says "Perverts Only."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">OK. I'll admit to being a little pervy from time to time, but this space has been therapy for me over the years. It's been a place where I could take a risk, push outside my comfort zone, and reveal more than just my thoughts and boring opinions. By publishing my writing and sometimes my photos (for example my bikini photo and Saucy Mcrib shot) to the public sphere, it has forced me into some serious personal contemplations which would often result in some inner discovery and ultimately personal growth. Yeah. If that sounds meaningful, it's because it is.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Admitting in writing that you're going through some shit that could possibly be akin to a midlife crisis is not easy if you know it can be read by anybody in the world. Posting a topless picture of yourself (albeit censored by Saucy McRibs) when your least favorite part of your body is your boobs is a risk when you know just anyone can google "McRib" and get your naked topless shot in all its glory. Even though I censored that shit myself, it was an exercise in acceptance to publish it to the world.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">So I guess only time will tell what happens to this blog and this public space beyond March 23rd. I still have more to say, more adventures to share, more naughtiness to post about. I haven't stopped discovering and I refuse to give up my public platform to do that. Hopefully I won't have to. I guess I'll just keep ya'll posted.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .</span>zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-75943477876685097542014-12-04T09:00:00.005-08:002014-12-04T09:00:59.695-08:00Wha? You Found Me With That? And another Top 10 List...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PdEtjA5_JQTvOG9E5Fw0dWyTAjMBHz877E_prORr__0bEhxtrp3AILKEtD60ZiE9pd0do5l7-7PdofVt8JdlLSE1dtnSoJaJkB6rTZSbPMW0UNpl2ACuRBvq3iny9gKnOpqm0r-SpSsq/s1600/penis_balloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PdEtjA5_JQTvOG9E5Fw0dWyTAjMBHz877E_prORr__0bEhxtrp3AILKEtD60ZiE9pd0do5l7-7PdofVt8JdlLSE1dtnSoJaJkB6rTZSbPMW0UNpl2ACuRBvq3iny9gKnOpqm0r-SpSsq/s1600/penis_balloon.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Never run when carrying anything<br />helium inflated and shaped like a penis. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">I like to look at my online traffic stats from time to time.</span> It's nerdy entertainment and since I'm like 95% weinerdog it satisfies my inner geek. I want to know where you people are and how you got here on my blog. I'm nosy like that. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">But it's not like I wanna know exactly where you live in a creepy, stalky kinda way - ok, maybe a little bit - but I promise all my stalking will be limited to Google. I won't actually get in my car, drive to your house, knock on your door, and offer you candy. Unless you've got whiskey, then I might invite myself in for a drink.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">So, on occasion, I look at the search terms and phrases used to find my blog and most of the time I just end up shaking my head.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">You people are tweaked.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">Like when I see the search term <b>Dead people</b>. Wha? Really? Uh. I really don't know what to say. You found my blog with that?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Then there's the phrase <b>Wedgie Archive</b>. Yeah. I'm not even sure where to find this archive of wedgies. Was this the 2011 panty archive? Cuz I'll admit to talking maybe a little too much about my panties - and I'll admit it's very likely I mentioned wedgies - but an archive? Of uncomfortable flossing? Yeah. Let me go look that up right now.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">And what's up with <b>stupid naked people</b>? Who are you calling stupid? Sounds like smack talk to me. Hey, Google. Please make an app that smacks people in the head for typing stupid phrases.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1u11ZPyxoHNNMQvYT6_Wa2Vtozf7TnWAWpHIkQB0aWXskeiX9wrWIIw7UPNx7wVZ_RPdeIYCRiNz5XDLizDn5IfLe6KetAr0e3z_yHNMbZNXRa6klAqCP3VXThtvbf86do7T_PlBSNZYF/s1600/tiny_tittays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1u11ZPyxoHNNMQvYT6_Wa2Vtozf7TnWAWpHIkQB0aWXskeiX9wrWIIw7UPNx7wVZ_RPdeIYCRiNz5XDLizDn5IfLe6KetAr0e3z_yHNMbZNXRa6klAqCP3VXThtvbf86do7T_PlBSNZYF/s1600/tiny_tittays.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">My perfect naked Saucy McRibs..</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">And to the person who found my blog by typing in <b>perfect naked boobs</b>... THANK YOU. I know they had Saucy McRibs censoring them, but that <i><b><a href="http://nakedonsharppointystuff.blogspot.com/2013/12/24-hour-countdown-t-a.html">topless shot was for reals.</a></b></i> And yes... they may be petite, but they are beautiful and perky and I hope to keep them like that for at least a few more years.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">And then there's the search phrase: <b><br />Never run when carrying anything h<span class="s1">…</span></b></span></div>
<div>
<span class="s1" style="font-size: small;">You know, this just kills me. Google shortened the h-word so I can't see the rest of the phrase. This tragically leaves vocabulary to my discretion, which, is a really bad idea. No. A really, really, bad idea. Besides having a mind that camps out on top of cardboard in the gutter 80% of the time, I have a knack for butchering language and grammar. If it has rules I will purposefully (or accidentally) not only break them but shatter them into millions of little, tiny, nonsensical pieces. I will slice and dice that shit and make it whatever the hell I want cuz I can. I just did.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="s1" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="s1" style="font-size: small;">I've decided to shamelessly try and interpret the rest of the h-word search phrase based on what I already know about my audience. And since it seems, for now anyway, the majority of my readers are in the 25-34 year old male range I have to think like a 25-34 year old dude in order to even remotely come close. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="s1" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="s1" style="font-size: small;">But I'm not a dude. I am the proud owner of a soft taco. I will have to try my best. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #783f04;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: large;">So here's my top ten list of <br />"h-word" things <b>not to do</b> while running:</span></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;">1. Never run when carrying anything <b>hanging off your nipples</b>. (Or hanging off any other loose and swingy bit on your body.)</span></blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;">2. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Never run when carrying anything <b>hella stabby</b>.</span><b></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />3. Never run when carrying anything <b>helium inflated and shaped like a penis</b>. <br /><br />4. Never run when carrying anything <b>hipsters wouldn't carry.</b><br /><br />5. Never run when carrying anything <b>hoochie-approved and ready for Vegas</b>. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Not recommended. At least keep it off The Strip. Unless you need a job.)</span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;">6. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Never run when carrying anything <b>hamsters with sharp teeth will nibble on.</b></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;"></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Or at least avoid squirrels with extreme jumping skills.)</span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-size: small;">7. Never run when carrying anything <b>half-assed and high</b>. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Duh.)</span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;">8. Never run when carrying anything <b>hot</b> <b>and pokey. </b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">(</span></span></b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Duh again. Didn't you ever listen to your mama? You don't need Google for that.)</span></span><br /><br />9. Never run when carrying anything <b>heavy and dead. </b>(Especially dead.)<br /><br />10. Never run when carrying anything <b>hogs can bite</b>. </span><span style="font-size: small;">(Just stay away from all wild animals.)</span></blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">As for the other terms and phrase I've found on my blog lately, they amuse me, </span><span style="font-size: small;">but I must confess... I'm guilty as charged. They found me.</span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">look at my naked ass </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">pool noodle sex toy</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">naked fitness girls</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">cameltoe runner</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">skipping rope fail</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">wha zap</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">jogging orgasm </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">nude athletic women</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">running topless</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </span></div>
zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-43583064995704291122014-11-24T07:47:00.003-08:002014-11-24T07:47:54.652-08:00Finding Chocolate in My Pants - A Body Butter Inspiration<div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8MsnsvOi795wEJnaDS5UZcoNb64A_3S4Qwg_HIodVdYqeffsUozQGaiqoNWC6pidp1MiCLX1K3-Y44fVEfMbdY8nOxKxMLquxm3_JCDe6NpSxAE7UD5i4AVke2dS5Cccw5aoJXKCwAda/s1600/Choccy_Pants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8MsnsvOi795wEJnaDS5UZcoNb64A_3S4Qwg_HIodVdYqeffsUozQGaiqoNWC6pidp1MiCLX1K3-Y44fVEfMbdY8nOxKxMLquxm3_JCDe6NpSxAE7UD5i4AVke2dS5Cccw5aoJXKCwAda/s1600/Choccy_Pants.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Uh. Whaaa?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">So the other day I was changing to get ready to go to the gym <span style="font-size: small;">and as I was climbing out of my jeans and panties (I like to take both off in one full swoop for efficiency)</span></span> I found a large chunk of chocolate smeared on my inner right thigh. Real chocolate. Not the metaphorical kind. Trust me. A lot of things go through your mind when you encounter smeared ANYTHING in your pants. But being an ultra runner, (and if you've ever been out on a LONG run without toilet amenities you'll know what I'm talking about here) I was confident in my ability to handle the situation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Suddenly a whole Question and Answer series scrolled in my head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Question in my head:</b></span><span style="font-size: small;"> Whaaaaa?...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>(Honestly, I was confused and having trouble comprehending the whole situation.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Answer in my head:</b> Dear God, that better be chocolate. </span><span style="font-size: small;">(<i>After a little inspection, thankfully it was.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b></span>I don't remember eating chocolate recently. (<i>I realize this isn't a question, but it was in my head.)</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>A:</b> That looks tasty. </span><span style="font-size: small;">(<i>Apparently, I'm quick to get over the shock of a brown smudge in my pants.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>What's the quickest way to clean up this mess? <i>(Again. I'm all about efficiency.)</i><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A: </b>Maybe I can lick it off. It would be tragic to let perfectly good chocolate go to waste.</span></span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"> (Yeah. Maybe I could reach it if I had this dude's skills ...)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9KvE6Zd7AlNgOLjGGzZ-qqCBGQMNqZarP7anbgEp74uBD37huxQMISWnFsc7J19UQg4mT5Wn3yOLX2Wp3UH9dOwtYd4oqnV_lSZKitIofU6Slp5Cp-8BbJ4ukGJnpRE47PYZIdoNqld8/s1600/D+Wong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9KvE6Zd7AlNgOLjGGzZ-qqCBGQMNqZarP7anbgEp74uBD37huxQMISWnFsc7J19UQg4mT5Wn3yOLX2Wp3UH9dOwtYd4oqnV_lSZKitIofU6Slp5Cp-8BbJ4ukGJnpRE47PYZIdoNqld8/s1600/D+Wong.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>Wait. How'd chocolate get IN my pants? </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(There were smeared bits everywhere.) </i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A:</b> Or the bigger question could be: How'd it get in my panties?<i> (Cuz it was in there too.) (I realize I answered this question with a question, but things are often confusing in my head when faced with a crisis - especially when you find that crisis in your panties.)</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>Is this <i>my</i> chocolate, or could it be someone else's chocolate? <i>(Oh jeez. The horror.)</i></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i></i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A: </b>What would someone else's chocolate be doing in my pants?! (</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I don't wanna know.)</i></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>???</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A: </b>?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>Look for caramel!! </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(Again. Not a question, but a good point.)</i></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A: </b>Yes Sherlock. The caramel would give it away. If there's a trace of caramel then I KNOW it's MY chocolate and not someone else's. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(Cuz it's plausible that it could be the chocolate elves' chocolate. You know - those naughty elves who are highly adept at sneaking non-caramel fairie chocolate into obscure crevices on my body.)</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>If I find caramel, I'm definitely licking that shit up. That shit shouldn't be wasted. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(I realize that the word "shit" is probably not a good choice here.)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>A: Oooooooh</b> <b>caramel!</b> <i>(Now I'm bending over </i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><i>inspecting the insides of my legs for tasty morsels.</i></span>)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>Damn<b>. </b>No caramel. I wonder if there's more in the fridge?</span> <br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>A: </b>I should just whip up another batch. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(I'm easily distracted by thoughts of baking scrumptious desserts.)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>Hmmmm. Look at that - I really need to shave my legs. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(I'm also easily distracted by my poor excuse for bodily hygiene.)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>A: </b>The texture of leg hair and chocolate could be a less-than-interesting combo. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(You think?)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Q: </b>You know... if I added a little shea butter to the chocolate, poured in a small amount of almond or avacado oil, and maybe added some vanilla essential oil, this could make a damn good body butter.</span> <br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>A: </b>YOU. ARE. BRILLIANT. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(OK. Cuz I am.)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">BOOM. And that's how chocolate in my pants became inspiration for a new homemade body butter recipe which I will be experimenting with soon. It will be so good, you will want to lick yourself. I might just share the recipe. But, be sure to shave your legs first.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5040068262268266654.post-39091875816654963992014-11-05T15:59:00.000-08:002014-11-05T15:59:33.868-08:00Krista's Top Ten List of What Not To Wear While Running<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJ31rm4o082g6xj0zB1F4q2MQb0CX3P-duPx88HHikLk5LgH1HjFIBou9NbFSgg3PrP01Z1863jVORWl5bL9I7U3KSDzKTSvMOH9MWnkHpWlrBCMV4PIqfIz_aTMzhAm4DUVksUxd-m4o/s1600/Exposed_cheeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJ31rm4o082g6xj0zB1F4q2MQb0CX3P-duPx88HHikLk5LgH1HjFIBou9NbFSgg3PrP01Z1863jVORWl5bL9I7U3KSDzKTSvMOH9MWnkHpWlrBCMV4PIqfIz_aTMzhAm4DUVksUxd-m4o/s1600/Exposed_cheeks.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">WARNING: Hanging booty </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm pretty sure I broke a running fashion rule the other week. <span style="font-size: small;">It's probably the first rule of running fashion. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Running Fashion Rule #1.</b> <b><span style="color: #783f04;">Never run with your ass cheeks hanging out of your shorts.</span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Yeah. Shorter than short shorts are a big NO NO. Well for running anyway. They're perfect for pole dancing and for women fifteen years younger than me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">In my defense though, it was one of those weeks where I was hard-pressed to find time for even my 25 minute hill repeats, which meant that I had to let the laundry suffer. And when the laundry suffers I find myself desperately digging through my clothes drawers to find something, ANYTHING, that is remotely acceptable to wear. I was lucky I wasn't going into the gym or that could have been tragically uncomfortable - instead I was running hills and trails in a somewhat isolated area where only a handful of people in a three year time period unwittingly witnessed my brave attempts at peeing-while-standing-up so I figured the odds were good that I could get away with wearing the hanging-booty booty shorts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">So I did what any desperate runner would do. I put them on. Then asked my husband to photograph the atrocity. I needed confirmation.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheUjwWm7k_nlkMzSI47OgSmQiXe0ZwEp-M-d6TFXZ2dikwilTMbPfQGZLZgxAQUWUCklFyqUu7oOUSbQ3R0R5To98As6fCjYrFyQuRFKGwVrG0q4bOueCe3jui8tr09FXeBnaKNfnRSB2c/s1600/fixed_fashion_faux_pau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheUjwWm7k_nlkMzSI47OgSmQiXe0ZwEp-M-d6TFXZ2dikwilTMbPfQGZLZgxAQUWUCklFyqUu7oOUSbQ3R0R5To98As6fCjYrFyQuRFKGwVrG0q4bOueCe3jui8tr09FXeBnaKNfnRSB2c/s1600/fixed_fashion_faux_pau.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Too short booty short fix</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">These booty shorts were just plain wrong. I bought these shorts online not really paying
attention to the inseam measurement. Who measures their inseam anyway? I
would think there should be a standard of "appropriate shortness" for
workout clothing but apparently I was wrong. Even I found the wedgie from those shorts to be a wee bit invasive and I'm a thong girl.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">With my need to run growing more and more intense I tried to correct the problem by pulling my shorts down a bit then using the buff around my waist to keep them from riding up again. I think I was about two repeats in when my cheeks were like "OH HELLO THERE."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I accepted my fate. I should have just ran in a pair of bikini bottoms.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I should clarify that I'm no stranger to running/gym fashion faux pas nor to breaking rules.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdxhAhjgESZC-VAuN1t_6eV4C_BbW224WwkRrUPg5_fsnCb7YSzGNkuWHysz6eeXvskXnp2w4AGW9DHsNu8MMRcZ6S15Ti8BDj2vW6d19ou3Cqs1ZLW2l9so1H3MVl2FpJs9TeNxTB6ks/s1600/Barefoot_Trail_Running.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRdxhAhjgESZC-VAuN1t_6eV4C_BbW224WwkRrUPg5_fsnCb7YSzGNkuWHysz6eeXvskXnp2w4AGW9DHsNu8MMRcZ6S15Ti8BDj2vW6d19ou3Cqs1ZLW2l9so1H3MVl2FpJs9TeNxTB6ks/s1600/Barefoot_Trail_Running.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Footless socks? Wha?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Check out this little nugget - my footless socks, ironically, for warmth. Yes. I did that. When I was running barefoot a lot I would cut the feet out of my socks and run with the socks but sans the shoes. For warmth. Yeah. Don't ask. There's no answer to stupidity.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Well... I've smartened up over the years by wearing full length socks and shoes for warmth although most would question my style sanity...</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNbLoyZ-brwiL-TkIl8F4qTNKCaeEL-d7K_jsOsdPQZna67Vp0mhJGhCOcL8_u01CwtUqgoH4pU2-_uX9XOe2YZUv8mLsK4GojAhEOomBW-LSLpzQn3I28B1BVXZMXL3edDhfftpUMvyt/s1600/Rocking-Running-Skirt-and-Funky-Socks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNbLoyZ-brwiL-TkIl8F4qTNKCaeEL-d7K_jsOsdPQZna67Vp0mhJGhCOcL8_u01CwtUqgoH4pU2-_uX9XOe2YZUv8mLsK4GojAhEOomBW-LSLpzQn3I28B1BVXZMXL3edDhfftpUMvyt/s1600/Rocking-Running-Skirt-and-Funky-Socks.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">I still support this decision. I love fun socks!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And speaking of cold, let's not forget the time that I smartly decided that since my toe warmers didn't fit INSIDE my minimal shoes I would stick them to the OUTSIDE. Yeah. I did that too. They looked like maxi pads, but in all fairness they worked like a charm. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">For about two miles. Then they fell off.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0jTFUc1skN1ho3AbaMJJy8aWzHJr46i1YqZtJacBc7JRe5xa-SDJS41ZKmw1s43mwO4CYoUn22XwnCFuTF4-Oo1Hd3VOs7XUauDaNtkns7ymCMVZPnYX1S6K8tpklRtLuaO-EhrCC-gK/s1600/k_toe_warmers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0jTFUc1skN1ho3AbaMJJy8aWzHJr46i1YqZtJacBc7JRe5xa-SDJS41ZKmw1s43mwO4CYoUn22XwnCFuTF4-Oo1Hd3VOs7XUauDaNtkns7ymCMVZPnYX1S6K8tpklRtLuaO-EhrCC-gK/s1600/k_toe_warmers.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Oh jeez. Where were the running fashion police that day?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Then there were the toe shoes. My vibrams. Many of my fellow minimal and barefoot friends would say this is not a running fashion faux pa, but I would have to disagree. In my case, they were the ultimate fashion faux pa since I bought them forgetting I had webbed toes that would never comfortably fit into them. Duh.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJucJHQukyx0cWfltqqIRxlBgQZZQg47Y0REO8UOVvTOeOCyqWYSQpJ9gWQMIqPXgcFrhvDCqPILzv89JYoEx0UdCCVjHdrVdC_e9tuWcA47RJh2_m3qwGz81XpP7UM9fLFghPCok7qjU/s1600/149222_1620985241211_6412210_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJucJHQukyx0cWfltqqIRxlBgQZZQg47Y0REO8UOVvTOeOCyqWYSQpJ9gWQMIqPXgcFrhvDCqPILzv89JYoEx0UdCCVjHdrVdC_e9tuWcA47RJh2_m3qwGz81XpP7UM9fLFghPCok7qjU/s1600/149222_1620985241211_6412210_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Mud run with my toes shoved into little painful pockets.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Oh and there's more fashion mistakes I've made over the years. Really. I'm the poster child for the worst dressed runner out there. I could go on and on... but I won't - or maybe I will. How about I give you my top ten worst dressed fashion running secrets here? Come on. I know you want to know. *wink*</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Krista's Top List of What Not to Wear <br />(or, if you're me, What TO Wear) while Running</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cuz everyone needs a running fashion guru…</span></span> </span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>1. If you’re a badass wear whatever the hell you want.</b> Let your cheeks hang, your boobs sway, rock the rhinestones. When you're fast and a badass there's no need to dress responsibly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>2. If you’re gonna run a race in costume make it worth it.</b> Pink assless chaps and a unicorn costume is pretty worth it. For everybody.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgaaVdsEGGPKdf7qX4kkMZCwji7IMCvtfcfNzAPBTVL8cDQcnx7q92xsQ8Z0p4ADlz96KhF2DCNUi29n1chXcQ8wvW0qwW5VCh-W44A_PU-YM5GkKXOtJp2UFSmcBdnKnUkEVgRjqhCfy/s1600/Manicorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgaaVdsEGGPKdf7qX4kkMZCwji7IMCvtfcfNzAPBTVL8cDQcnx7q92xsQ8Z0p4ADlz96KhF2DCNUi29n1chXcQ8wvW0qwW5VCh-W44A_PU-YM5GkKXOtJp2UFSmcBdnKnUkEVgRjqhCfy/s1600/Manicorn.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Not sure I'd want this guy running BEHIND me.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>3. Cotton is the ultimate running fabric. </b>Seriously. If you can stand the chafing it’ll keep you cool and wet in the summer. And you can rock those old concert tees on the trail. In the winter… well who the hell runs in winter anyway?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>4. Look the part. Don’t smell the part.</b> Saturate your running gear in large amounts of perfume or aftershave and you’ll never have to worry about friends complaining that you stink. Of course, your running partners will be MIA, but what do you care? You’ve always enjoyed solo runs anyway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>5. Run naked. </b>There’s nothing wrong with running sans the clothes but note there’s a time and place. You’d be smart to do this at night and in a mostly remote area away from traffic. There’s nothing more disappointing than being arrested just as you are about to PR your best time. But on the flip side, running away from the cops could be the most effective technique for PRing. Be sure to bring your Garmin and track that shit!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>6. If you’re a guy, “manpris” (running capris for men) aren’t wrong at all </b>- as long as you can kick everybody’s ass. Literally.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>7. Test all your gear for a 5k. </b>If you really want to see how that hydration vest is gonna work out, wear it for a 5k. Oh and try that fuel belt too. Oh and those gaiters… and that headlamp… and those compression socks… and don’t forget the running poles. Because ANYTHING can happen around 2.5 miles. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>8. Drink it don’t wear it. </b>We all know beer and whiskey are the best hydration for any race so when drinking it’s important not to get sloppy. Don’t spill it all over yourself before the finish line. You’re an athlete not an alcoholic. Ok. Maybe an athletic alcoholic. Either way, finishing a race smelling like a bum is not cool. Keep it neat. See what I did there?</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">This hydration did not end up on my shirt.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>9. The brighter the better. </b>Wear bright reflective clothing on the trails so the bears know where to find you in the middle of the night. Or so your running partners can run away from you when they see you attacking them.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">I have been known to attack innocent runners on the trail.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>10. Wear race appropriate attire. </b>Be sure to wear a shirt that is compatible with the race you are running. Be clear so there are no questions.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Perfectly appropriate running attire.<br />For a mud run.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">That's my top ten list of what not to wear, or what to wear. Dress responsibly folks. There are other runners affected by your running fashion actions. If you have anything to add feel free to comment below.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </span>zapmamakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15930054010311118186noreply@blogger.com3