Tag Archives: family

Running Lessons

I had intended for this post to be something radically other than what it is, which is as much testament to my unwillingness to just let things be as anything else.  I thought I’d be announcing the successful completion of a marathon.

It’s 10:56 am on Sunday, March 20.  I should be 4 hours into a marathon right now–and heading toward the end.  Since I am not so talented as to be typing while running, clearly one of three things has occurred:  I finished WAY faster than any one of us could imagine me having done, I started and did not finish (or, rather, finished unexpectedly early), or I didn’t start.

Good job if you picked door three for the reality of the situation on this lovely morning.  I withdrew from the race on Saturday morning, when we got the phone call that G’s mom went into hospice care.  I couldn’t risk being unavailable mentally, physically, etc. when the next call comes–and let us agree that marathons tend to take the wind out of the sails for a while.  So, we wait. No call yet, but I’m sure we’ll be making the drive this week.  I covet your thoughts and prayers on behalf of G and his family.  While this is not a surprise by any means, it has the qualities of feeling so very sudden.

I’m disappointed, of course, even as much as I know that it was the right thing to do.   For today, I’m practicing just being with my disappointment but not focusing on it.  My attention is for G, who, you might imagine, is in far worse shape than mere disappointment.  My legs and running brain, on the other hand, are just confused–trying to figure out why I am being so nice to them today.

I joked with G yesterday that HP* was trying to tell me to knock the marathon crap off, as this makes the third I’ve had to pull out of**–and only one of those three (the second time) was directly because of injury–and it wasn’t completely running related.  But, when I reflect more carefully, I tend to get marathon-crazy–obsessed with them in ways that I don’t obsess over shorter races (even half marys) to the point of planning to run while injured in the case of the first cancellation.  I finally withdrew because of unrelated-to-running factors, but I really shouldn’t have been considering the race at all since my foot was in far worse shape than I was then willing to admit.  The second race went to the dogs, or, rather, a dog–specifically the pit bull that decided to use the beagle and I as chew toys.  Three factors conspired: the rabies vaccinations wiped me out for a month, I was (and still am) nervous about running in the dark because of the attack, and my drinking was getting worse.  Did I acknowledge the last of these at the time–no, not really, and I wonder if maybe HP didn’t put a dog in my way to force me to stand down and quit trying to avoid the obvious (it was in my head at the time that if I could train for and run a marathon and drink then I didn’t really have a problem.  Laughter is perfectly acceptable).  And now this.  I detoxed twice during the training for this marathon, so I can’t really say my training was…optimal.  Unlike the Seattle mary, I was not 100% sure I could finish this time (though, some of that was the staying-in-my-own-headspace problem–letting the descriptions of the course get to me).  But, I was prepared and excited.

I’m not so deluded as to believe that the events of the weekend are about me, and I was mostly joking about HP (mostly), but, hey, even I can take a Mack-truck-size hint.  I am probably guilty of storytelling at this point–that is, constructing a story to make sense of a reality I simply need to shut up and exist in–but, delusions and humor aside, again being forced to stop trying to be in control and to overdo it, which is absolutely a hallmark of my addict-brain, makes me think there is something I need to pay heed to.  That marathon training, having three times now been associated with some kind of attempt to get and/or stay sober (and, in the fourth case, prove sobriety was unnecessary), may not be so good for me at present.  I use it in delusional and unhealthy ways–rather than running for the sake of running, I involve myself in an intense training that allows me to shut out other duties and reality itself (or, rather, to pretend that I can do that).  So, perhaps no more marathon training for a while; let my head get healthy with the steps of the program instead of my body getting healthy with the steps of the training (not that I’ll stop running.  That would be stupid).  I seem to be able to get to and complete half-marys and shorter, so I may stick to them.  They are certainly more humane for all involved.


*Er, Higher Power, not Harry Potter, for those unfamiliar with my silly abbreviations.

**I did go to Atlanta, wander the expo, and pick up my shirt, though.  Damn thing is YELLOW, which should make me immensely visible as I take a jog this afternoon.  Seriously, I feel like an Easter egg in this thing.

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Embracing my Inner Hippie: Vegetarian Eating and Barefoot Running

I’ve a couple of Lenten posts in the mill for this week–sorting through what I’ve been reading, but I thought I should take a gander at the other parts of my Lenten discipline: no meat, no book purchases.  My dear sweet son, TG, has taken all of this Lenten discipline and the changes in running as a sign that I am every bit the hippie he accuses me of being.  While I’m not sure exactly how hippie came to be an insult (kids these days, honestly), if this is neo-hippie, I’m good with that (dude, I so love the Urban Dictionary.  Neo-hippie indeed).

For the most part, 18 days without meat has been pretty simple (but for an odd craving for bacon or two).  Mmmmm….bacon.  I’m most pleased with the ways in which I have been forced to reconsidering cooking; prior to Ash Wednesday, I had 20 or 30 meat-centered dishes that I cycled through without much in the way of thought about the cooking process or, quite frankly, the enjoyment or lack thereof at the table.  Cooking vegetarian (and occasionally vegan) dishes for myself has reignited my interest in cooking–as well as in eating.  I find myself experimenting with flavors and playing with recipes, even the meat-based ones I am prepping for the rest of the family.

Today’s adventure will be making pomegranate molasses, in preparation for making Pomegranate BBQ Tofu from Vegan with a Vengeance (a cookbook that is taking on an increasingly significant role in my home).  Aside from the FABULOUS suggestion for oven roasting Brussel sprouts with garlic–I got my husband and son (TG), both of them avowed anti-Brusselists–to eat them and enjoy them, what I really enjoy about this cookbook is the fairly simple preps (a must, since both G and I work) and the focus on keeping costs low, something a great many of the cookbooks on my shelf lose sight of.

The  joy of cooking and eating is an amazing gift that I’ve lost sight of over the years.  I am so pleased to have stumbled upon it again.

18 days (truth be told, I’d not bought any books for a week prior to Ash Wednesday and no new books for at least 14 days prior, so my fast is a bit longer) without book purchasing.  *Sigh*  This has been far harder.  I went into the den of iniquity bookstore yesterday to get tea (now that sounds silly, however true it may be); I opted not even to browse, knowing dang well I’d find something I wanted.  I’m thinking I should work the steps with books in mind:

Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over books–that our lives had become unmanageable.

Um, yes.  I’m looking around at the state of my poor bookshelves and floors, and, well, unmanageable does seem to be an apt description of the situation. I do need a far better handle on my book buying, though I can’t imagine abandoning it entirely–too many gems to be found.  Perhaps, though, I can be more judicious in my choices when I buy in the future.

18 days.  *sigh* It’s been (insert whiny voice) haaaaaarrrrrdddd.

So I’ve been buying shoes instead.

Well, I’ve been buying shoes because I needed new running shoes, and I’ve decided to play a bit more with my running, since I can do that pretty effectively while doing 5K and 10K races–marathon training, not so much, though I hope to be able to be more playful during that training this year as well.  Anyway, a friend and colleague has been barefoot running for a few months, and in conversations with him, I have gotten quite intrigued.  My interest in such had first pinged over winter break, when G gave me Christopher McDougall’s Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superatheletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen.  McDougall writes at length about barefoot running, why we run, etc. See page 172 and his “Painful Truth Number 2: Feet like a good beating.”

For a bit of context, inasmuch as my mother now curses that I was born in CA (she blames my birthplace for all of my “crazy liberal notions”), what really provided me with the foundation for my crazy liberal notions (note:  I prefer progressive and some day we’ll need to chat about why owning a home is not always the most fiscally advantageous choice–unless one can protect large tracts of land in the process…sorry, silly digression) was my early rearing by that same mother, she of the fresh baked breads and barefoot running child, since that was what my pediatrician recommended (no, her notions were not exactly out of the realm of normal, merely engaging in her favorite sport of exaggeration here).    Anyway, I grew up without shoes–until I injured my foot recently, I generally shed my shoes as soon as I walked in the door at home.  I was notorious in grad school for shedding my shoes at work, too.

My calluses are forces to be reckoned with, I tell you.

So, given my love of a barefeet life and the studies suggesting that barefoot running can strengthen feet (something my poor feet need these days–they’ve lost the elegant strength of my teenage toe ballet and tap years), I thought that barefoot running sounded pretty groovy.  But, I also thought that barefoot running on asphalt for long periods might accidentally present a problem, so I gave into suggestion from my colleague and bought these as my new runners:

Going Barefoot

For the uninitiated, these fine fellows are Vibram Five Fingers Sprints.  I luuurve them, especially being able to feel my toes.  My stride in these shoes is quit different than in the Nike Vomeros and the Asics I’ve been wearing for some years.  I can’t quite describe it yet–TG says that from his observations, I’m hitting the ground more heavily (which was surprising, since my feet certainly don’t feel that way), so I’ll have to pay more heed to that in future runs.  I did discover in my first time out in these that making sure that my toenails are of proper length is essential, as my big toenail on the right foot was bloody after running, presumably because it was getting caught (though, again, I didn’t notice until after the fact, so it apparently wasn’t particularly painful).  The upside of that discovery was that I also discovered how easily these suckers clean up.  Rinsed them out, and, *poof*, no blood.

I’m also working on trail running, and my Nike’s were okay so long as there wasn’t much in the way of loose rock, etc.  Fairly good traction, but not much protection from the rocks and other sundry hard stuff.  Moreover, since we are preparing for a couple of big ole hikes this summer at Glacier National Park and Mount Rainier (and I hope to do some trail running in both places, too), I needed some better trail shoes.  Thus, a pair of Montrail Mountain Masochists came home recently (love that name).  I haven’t taken them out for any really good trails yet (that would be today), but I’ll report in on them once I do.  I will say that they are remarkably comfortable thus far, though.

So, that’s were we (me and my inner hippie) are for now.  Peace, all!

Life is Beautiful: High School Edition

I suggested last time that I should focus for a while on the beautiful, given the particular difficulties in my life right now. Blogging (or journalling for that matter) on the “good things in life,” as a reminder if nothing else, is not a particluarly novel approach, but it is sometimes necessary.

So, today’s brief post is on wrestling.

Strictly speaking, I don’t find High School Wrestling pleasing in any aesthetic sense. I often have a hard time watching, worried as I tend to be about things like broken necks and various injuries to appendages. I am pleased, though, by what TG (Tough Guy, my athletically-inclined son) finds in wrestling: camraderie, physical activity, among other goodness. He smiles when he is thoroughly worn out by practice. He’s attentive and happy even when working the stats table. The joy these kids find in competition, stregth, and repetiton baffles me at times, but thier swagger over the whole affair is pretty compelling.

Since TG stared HS last year, I’ve spent waaay more time at HS athletic events than I ever did in high school, where I was a proud theatre geek, and where we had far less adult supervision at any given moment. I wonder if that still holds true for HS theatre….

Eh, no matter. For the moment, my world is good, safe, and protected in this gym, not unlike the natal-like safety theatre once provided for me. Gym as sanctuary…

That’s rather groovy.

Anatomy of a Panic Attack

I haven’t had a panic attack in about two years, so I suppose I was due for the one that occurred last night. I won’t rehash the trigger points–they really aren’t that entertaining–but as I got the hamster wheel I loosely call my mind to slow down, I started thinking through the construction of a panic attack. Mind you, this will follow my attack, and each individual is likely to have any manner of different experiences in the umbrella of what we call panic attacks, so please take this for what it is.

In reflecting on last night and the attacks of the past, I can safely say that I don’t see them coming, though there are always signs of impending doom. Generally, I’m depressed beforehand; perhaps not significantly, but enough to notice. Since depression doesn’t always signal an impending attack, it doesn’t make for much of a harbinger. The last two times, though, I was rapid-cycling, for lack of a better phrase. I am not bipolar, though, as I have pointed out, I have experienced extensive periods of hypomania and depression, and I tend to move very quickly between them (often in as little as 72 hours). Since my mother is bipolar, this terminology is familiar to me and, as a layman’s phrase at any rate, a fairly apt description of what happens.

On Saturday, I awoke to a significant depressive mood; I could even feel it in my legs, which hurt lamf for that whole 25 miles run. Yes, I did complete the run, figuring there was nothing better to be doing than to try to short circuit the depression with an influx of endorphins. It was not precisely a good run, but the mood seemed to lift a bit. The low-mania came back on Sunday, triggered largely by my failure to eat properly, but, again, I managed it reasonably well. I went a bit pogo-stick for a while on Monday then crashed yesterday evening as the anxiety took hold.

Part of the problem is my failure to recognize my symptoms of increasing anxiety. I *thought* that I had handled several incidents of late and the above-described moods fairly well; in reality, I had mostly buried them or not dealt with them in an appropriate way, largely in an attempt handle anger in ways that are more conducive to sharing habitats with other human beings than I am often accustomed to. In other words, I was being dishonest with myself. This is not altogether unsurprising in an addict*; we are masters of dishonesty–especially when it comes to ourselves. The pattern of dishonesty and vacillating emotions should have been a clue, and are pretty clear now that I glance back upon them**; I was reeling toward a break.

The attack came on, as they often do, with little warning and with an outwardly irrational cause. My very first panic attack, when I was 16 or 17, occurred on the campus of Duke University, when I became overwhelmed by what I would never be and where I would never attend and who I would never live up to. These thoughts, which might have been merely annoying for some, became locked in an obsessive loop for me on the campus (it was the cathedral, specifically, and it’s vast space that set me off). I could not stop the hamster wheel, and, eventually, it got moving so fast that there was little more to do that break down.

Such is typical for me in a panic attack: Some event or place triggers an obsessive loop (the hamster wheel); the trigger is, outwardly, likely to be relatively innocuous. To know the path my brain takes would require having resided in my head for years (which, incidentally, I don’t recommend for the faint of heart). The obsessive loop becomes faster, particularly as I try to derail the wheel. My heart rate increases. I cry and hyperventilate. I don’t want to be touched, and will run away if someone tries to do so. Until the anxiety subsides sufficiently, the attack will continue, sometimes for more than an hour. I cannot stop the wheel or the tears once they begin until I can slow my heart rate and remove myself from the trigger. For hours afterward, though I will be emotionally and physically spent, it takes little to set me toward panic again, though I am usually able to self-calm more quickly during the aftershocks.

I’ve heard people describe their first panic attacks in terms of heart attacks–not knowing what was happening. This did not happen to me the first time, I knew I was breaking down (the benefit of familial mental illness, I guess), even if I didn’t have terminology for it, and these days, I know exactly what I am dealing with, almost from the outset (though, oddly, it often takes an hour or more after it ends for me to be able to articulate the phrase “panic attack.” No clue why that is.)

I was fortunate last night to have the care, concern, and support of far flung friends, without whom I am certain I would not have been able to settle down, think, and go for the peppermint tea and Oreos (an excellent post-panic attack remedy, incidentally). As Anne Lamott has noted about herself, one of my most common prayers is “thank you, thank you, thank you” (the other being “help me, help me, help me”—there were plenty of both last night). I sent up the flag online that I had triggered, and I want to thank, again, Hooch, Soonie, Z, and Blue, as well as Rip, Avarweth, and Silly (I love handles, don’t you?) for jumping in immediately to console and advise and commiserate. And a thank you, too, to rhyte, who saw my remark, recognized it for what it was, and sent excellent reminders to help calm the anxiety, including a favorite duffism: “Be Still and Pray.” What a fabulous group of women you are; thank you, thank you, thank you.

So, my mantra for the week (typed weeks at first, but rhyte is right (*grin*) with her other reminders to take life in small chunks) to come will simply be that duffism: Be still and pray. The aftershocks are still here, though they are faded to the point that they are noticable to no one but me. I wish you all well, whereever and whoever you all. Be still. Be calm. Reach out–>you are not alone.


*A clarification of terminology: in these pages, I tend to use alcoholic and addict somewhat interchangeably, though, in the main, the former refers to alcoholism (duh) and the latter to drug addiction. I do this as a reminder to myself–in order to be honest with myself, really. Alcohol was my primary drug of choice, but I craved depressants & opiates of any variation–I maintained a profoundly tight grip on my pill popping desires (because, you know, THAT is sign of a “real” problem <–note sarcasm) to the extent that I don't take anything–even Motrin, very often (and I never take acetaminophen, because it knocks me right the fuck out. Seriously. Give me a bottle of Jameson, and I am the life of the party. Tylenol in any amount–out for hours). I've popped depressants from time to time, stayed away from the drug of my dreams–heroin (along with most other opiates)–because I knew even without taking it I'd sell my soul for a good nod. I'm all about shutting the brain down, so cocaine and speed never interested me, nor anything else (uh, well, except Sir Caffeine) that would replicate my "up" moods.

**Saw the best explanation of Benjamin’s Angel of History (Thesis IX in On the Concept of History) recently, in Steven Johnson’s fabulous book The Ghost Map, which chronicles the events surrounding the cholera outbreak of 1854 in London and how that outbreak shaped the modern understanding of “city.” He notes at the outset, that Benjamin’s Angel can be understood in terms of such an outbreak, where we see the piles of bodies of those killed by pestilence overtime, but the “Angel of History” sees their stories and connections. Addiction works similarly; we can see the chains of catastrophes of our past, though it takes “hitting bottom” or some other traipsing into sobriety for us to assume the vision of the Angel of History, who can see us for who we are, rather than just for our series of wreckages.

Unsolicited Advice for Bitter Parents

I want to share with you what a friend of mine is struggling with in her steplife. Her story is here; court is today–I can’t even begin to guess what will happen, now that she and her husband have surrendered any hope of restoring a normal relationship with her stepkids. My heart breaks for this whole family and the years of pain that is yet to come for them, no matter the outcome today.

I am fortunate that my life has been lived in step on and off since I was about 11 years old. Now, I didn’t have a great relationship with my father and stepmother, to put it mildly. And, it does bother me tremendously, even now–and I suspect it will for the rest of my life–that I allowed myself to be so separated from my father. Whatever choices he and my mother made, and, trust me, I have some excellent stories on the matter of how not to interact with your ex (most of them do strike me funny now, if they didn’t at the time), I too much allowed those choices, arguments, and power plays to influence how I conducted myself with my father. And since he is long-since buried at sea, there is nothing to be done–the separation is now permanent. I fear this will be true for kitten’s stepkids.

I am also a stepmother, and while I don’t always know what to do with my stepsons (Turtle and Monkey–TG is my bioson), I do love them. And though they don’t usually see it, I defend their rights to appreciate both parents equally and without fear of retribution Every. Single. Day. I have held them as they cried after their mother screamed terrible things about their father; I have reminded them to call her to let her know about activities. I have pulled their father aside or talked him through how to approach an issue without turning it into “dad versus mom,” which is too easy to do if the adults can’t see past the divorce. I have encouraged him to talk to their mother, even when he tries to avoid it. I don’t do this because I’m somehow heroic or better or whatever, I do it because of the three adults in the life of these two kids, I’m the only one who is/was/whatever a stepchild, so my perspective is a bit different.

Do I always handle situations well in step? Hell no. I’ve provided each of the three kids with plenty of stories to share with their therapists when they are grown (that is the function of the parent, right?). For one, I seldom interact with their mother out of a sense of self-preservation–she is far too much like my own mother for my comfort, and I know my avoidance of her bothers all three kids. I am, hmmm…how do I put this…critical and loud (TG and I are screamers, the rest of the clan is not. Even after 6 years we are still trying to mediate this). I yell and I tell things as I see them, occasionally with a heavy dose of sarcasm. And, of course, there is that addiction piece, which has adversely affected them all, undoubtedly.

I am also the biomom, and I screw up plenty there too. I forget to call and send things to TG’s father; I am so very grateful that the schools have since started sending stuff to both addresses, so that my forgetfulness is no longer a problem there. I find myself frustrated at the ways in which TG’s father and I differ in our disciplinary tactics and approaches to parenting TG, but when the chips are down, I know damn well I can count on his father to have my back and to support TG. Why? We agreed a looong time ago, that we would work to parent the boy together, even though disagreement. Even across 500 miles. And, yeah, there’s the big one for TG’s therapist. 11 years ago, I chose to move TG 538 miles away from his father, in order to start graduate school (no, there was no local program for my coursework). That they have the kind of relationship is testament to something–tenacity, perhaps?

As frustrated as I have gotten with TG’s father, with Monkey and Turtle’s mother, with G and with myself, I can’t begin to imagine a moment where I would encourage a child to despise his or her other parents ( bio, step, foster, first, forever or otherwise). To do so is an act of cruelty that I can’t even begin to articulate. There are plenty of parents who do things that will result in such hatred from the child–those who abuse, those who abandon, the mentally unstable, and scores of others may earn the contempt of their children (rightly or wrongly) without interference from a third party. Most parents, though, are guilty only of being human and having the audacity to possess human foibles.

So, here’s a few pieces of advice:

One, avoid labeling the other parents (step or otherwise) as slut, trollop, asshole, bitch, whatever, in front of the kids. Yes, you might really believe in your heart that he is a no-account-bastard-who-hates-his-children or that she is a psycho-hose-beast-from-hell, but, please do keep that kind of opinion to yourself when around the kids. Share it with your friends if you need to get it off your chest.

Two, don’t convince your child that the other parent has hired someone to spy on you and follow you around, unless that is accurate. As a joke it rather sucks. If accurate, that’s a whole separate problem.

Three, raising the kids is not about your divorce, split up, or separation. Deal with it. It’s not even about you. The affair?–not really their concern. The abuse–yeah, it may be a concern. Very much. Ask for help in talking to the kids about it. There is nothing wrong with asking for help.

Four, waxing nostalgic about the past to the kids is seldom helpful. If your marriage or relationship was such a paradise, chances are you wouldn’t have split up. See #3–this is not about you.

Five, wanton destruction of artifacts of your relationship might feel damn good, but do try to keep such activities out of the line of sight of the kids. Again, not really helpful.

Six, if you should happen to blow it on one of the above or something like them, apologize to the kids. If you called the other parent names or lied or shared stories you shouldn’t have, you may even need to apologize to the other parent. Yes, I am serious. Humans sometimes do really dumb things; own up and don’t repeat.

Most of all, be willing to forgive your screw-ups, those of the other parents, and the kids, when those screw-ups really aren’t harmful. Don’t assume that someone else is a negative influence just because you *shudder* disagree about something, and for the love of Pete, don’t convince the kids that another parent is harmful or negative, just because you disagree. Deal with the disagreement between adults and grow up a tad… an ounce of grace and a pinch of calm will make all of our interactions better.

Tough Guy, Training, and Bonding

I’m really terrible about posting regularly on this…or, at least, I feel like I am.

Anyway, this week is 16.5 miles total–6 of which will be tomorrow (same as last Saturday); the big swings in Saturday runs begin next week. I’m almost looking forward to it, but I’m trying to be good and stick to the schedule, rather than trying to play superstar-suck-up student and get way ahead of the training…

…which would likely result in self-injury, so it’s for the best.

So, 6 miles tomorrow. TG has a Drill Team Event for which he has to be at school at 6:30 am (so much for sleeping in). Getting up and leaving the house that early does present me with the option of different scenery for the morning run, which is good–and I may use that opportunity to scout out the places I have mapped for the really long runs in a few weeks.

I’m pretty excited about the training thus far (I’m in week 4, if anyone other than me is counting). I’m buying the tickets to Seattle this weekend, which makes it all kind of official…and very groovy.

TG and I are running in a 5K this weekend; he fully plans to leave me in the dust, having asked if he has to stay with me or if he can “just go.” But, I think it will be a good experience for both of us–I have to say, though, I never thought I would bond with my son over running. Ever.

But, it is cool that we have. He’s planning to run in a 50mile race next Spring (assuming he can at age 16–he’s looking into it)–has to outdo Mom’s marathon, I suppose; he’s also thinking an Ironman Triathlon by the time he’s 18.

Bless him, how did I raise such a one?

Snowblogging!

Greetings from the frozen South. Snow being a novel concept ‘round these parts, I thought I would share our fortune. (As you can see from the note at the bottom, this turned into a multi-day blogging effort.) Northerners, don’t laugh, this is a hell of a lot of snow down here. We are both excited and nervous. We are expecting between 2 & 4 inches by midnight and…honestly…I think we’ve already got that. And it’s only 5 pm. G. contends that we’ve gotten at least 1.5 inches in the last hour or so.


<–That was a Rosemary bush. Once upon a yesterday. Behind it are gardenias that were once 6 feet tall and remain about as high as the poor Rosemary bush in this picture. Plants are not happy right now. In all honesty, our adventure begins with TG, who has fashioned a snowboard from an ancient skateboard and built his own snow ramp. He is having a blast in the muck and is thoroughly convinced he will have a day off tomorrow (he was correct–will also have Tuesday off). Note that in this particular picture, the “snowboard” has gotten away from our intrepid teenboy, who was forced to repeatedly chase after it on foot. He commenced with the same this morning (Monday) and even built a ramp of sorts out of snow. Also skiied off over the retaining wall. Must have a word with TG, preferably prior to him breaking one of his limbs.

The adventure continued with yours truly, who had wisely decided that after running 6 miles in the rain Saturday and knowing Sunday was to be cold, to give myself a break by hitting the Y and the treadmill to continue training today, But, being in the South and being, in consequence, adversely affected in the areas of intellect when it comes to the wet white precipitation, I was overwhelmed (and also convinced the Y would be closed due to weather) and ran 2.5 miles in the 2.5 inches of accumulated road slush. Check out the hat afterward:

Yes, it is a Ravenclaw hat. Shut up.

Remember, I was RUNNING and this was the accumulation. Oddly, though it felt like my legs were moving through ice flows (which, in fact, they were—or at least my feet were), my time was not adversely affected which suggests that either the trudging wasn’t as difficult as I felt that it was or that I am so slow anyway that even slush can’t really slow me down further. I do believe I’ll go with the first of those. The power is intermittent*, so I’ll leave this post. More soon.

Peace,
Kitsch


*shortly after I typed that fateful sentence, the power went out and remained out for 26 hours. Oi. So, the posting of this is a tad late…We ended up with almost 7 inches of snow. Wet snow + pine trees=bad news for power lines.