Haven't Been There, Haven't Done That

So why did they give me the tee shirt already?

Seriously, I'm new to this racing stuff. I don't know from race tee shirt protocol. I've been running much of my adult life, and not because someone was chasing me, either (although it's happened), but because I like it. I like the way it makes me feel, I like the solitude it affords and the way the slap slap slap of my feet against asphalt or dirt creates a meditative rhythm that is equally perfect for problem solving or zoning out.

I like running through my neighborhood and stirring up all the dogs, especially the dopey, lope-gaited Belgian Tervuren and his squat-bodied Rottie buddy who, whenever they see me, run the fence bouncing for all the world like I'm about to take them out for ice cream. I guess it doesn't matter how many times a dog sees you, each time is the first time, in dog time.

One of my favorite routes includes about a 3/4 mile stretch of dirt road that leads from our neighborhood to Route 66. There's a beautiful painted pony that grazes the pasture just to the south of the road and if he's out, he always comes to the fence to say howdy. I like the contrast between the brick orange colored dirt at my feet and the shock of turquoise sky above me. Sometimes, I turn off my iPod so I can listen to the world breathe: the whistle of the wind, the screech of scrub jays in the junipers, the grumble of the semi trucks muscling their goods along I-40.

Still, other than the four times I've run La Luz, I've pretty much left myself up to my own devices when it came to running. I could have cared less about personal records or 5k times or carbo loading or whether or not I was running aerobically or anaerobically. I just wanted to get out and move and if some days I did that easier than others, bonus. If not, there was also swimming and biking, hiking and weight lifting.

But for some reason, THIS year? I decided I was going to run my first ever half marathon. That's 13.1 miles for you directionally challenged. And yes, that's also 13.1 miles straight. No breaks for cocktails and chit chat.

So, I have to tell you. I've enjoyed the rigidity of the training schedule. I've enjoyed getting stronger and going longer. I've especially enjoyed this week's tapering which includes some mighty fine excuses to shovel a bunch a carbs down my gullet, more than usual, even.

I'm even enjoying the fear that's been knocking at my stomach all week as race day approaches and the devil on my right shoulder is all, "WTF do you think you're DOING?" while the devil on my left shoulder is all, "DUDE! No pain no gain!"

Thankfully, S.B. is running it with me (although not literally because he's faster than I am). My former boss will also be there, and another friend is walking it. Most excellent friend and professional cheerleader, Doris Rose, will show up for the post-race festivities. Best of all, by the time next Monday comes around I'll most likely have a half marathon under my belt and that tee shirt on my back.

So, if you happen to remember round about, say, 10:00 MST this Sunday morning, send me your good thoughts and help me trot those last few miles in semi dignity across the finish line. And I'll go eat a huge stack of pancakes in your honor.

Sink into that Good Oblivion

Dogs and babies. I swear. They can sleep just about anywhere. Used to be, I could too. Historically, sleep is not something that eludes me. Regardless of what was going on in my life – good, bad, indifferent – within five, ten minutes of hitting my pillow, I was dead to the outside world and driving a Plymouth Satellite in my own private Idaho. These past couple years, though, situational insomnia has reared its ugly head on more than a few occasions, like some big ol' wet blankie of a dream policeman with all lights blazing to shut down my nighttime party gone out of bounds.

Sleep? Why won't you dance with me? I'm not no Limburger . . .

Anyhoo. Now I'm doing all kinds of research, which includes informal polling of friends and family. Help a gal out and let me know: what's sleep like for you?

1. I'm out like a light as soon as my head hits the pillow and I sleep until I get up.

2. I fall asleep quickly, but wake up several times during the night.

3. I take forever to fall asleep but once I do, I sleep straight through the night.

4. I sleep just great! Thanks to an arsenal of herbal supplements, illegal drugs, and several fifths of vodka.

5. Sleep? Sleep is for wussies and squares. Nothing beats the hallucinogenic experience of three days straight on your feet.

Mute Monday: (Quack) Science

What Fresh Hell is This?

Oh for CRYING out loud! Enough, already. The Cybersecurity Act of 2009 is criminal, no matter which way you spin it. It's like federalizing CNN, MSNBC, BBC, New York Times, the Wall Street Journal and every single newspaper, weekly, television, and radio news outlet in the United States and allowing them to operate solely at the discretion of the Gubmint.

Just two of the troubling implications:

1. Under this bill the President can order all non-government U.S. networks to shutdown from the Internet, based soley on some ill-defined notion of a "cybersecurity emergency" (whatever the heck fire that means – the bill doesn't define it) to United States security.

2. Even outside of periods of a White House-declared "emergency," this bill mandates that private-sector networks be managed by government-licensed "cybersecurity professionals.

Free press? Fuggedabout it in the New Obamanation.

I'm a Lexicon Devil with a Battered Brain

Which is perhaps why to this day I retain my unholy attraction to studs.

Head on over to The Bitches of Fashion and see if you, too, are harboring an inner Johnny Rotten. Debbie Harry, even. Just not an inner Barry Manilow, por favor. Because I'm not sure the Bitches have it in us for a post on polyester quite yet.

Mute Monday: The Fall

Don't Stand So Close to Me

Seems the topic of forbidden love is all over the news these days. But if you want to read something a little less prurient, then hop on over to the Bitches of Fashion and feel the earth stand still as we profess our unholy attraction for . . . plastic shoes.