Bloomsday Week

It’s a Tuesday.

And it is Bloomsday week.

Since moving to Spokane, a little over three years ago, this week has become one of my favorites. Let’s face it: my absolute favorite.

It is a week filled with so much joy and fun, it is hard not to end it smiling and happy, even if you have a bad race on Sunday.

This Sunday marks my fourth Lilac Bloomsday run. Crazy to think about really. And along the way I have created these super random “traditions.” It may seem crazy but if I don’t do them, I don’t run well. Two of my last three Bloomsdays haven’t turned out the greatest, time wise.

Last year I hadn’t run the three months prior, so that doesn’t help. And my first one, let’s just say I had had a little too much fun the night before. So here’s to the week. Updates along the way, I am sure.

my favorite race photo. Boss man checking my time. 

sometimes, you just have to laugh. 

One thing I always seem to do is work. A lot.

I’m constantly moving and shaking all week long, no matter what job I am at, or who I am with, I am working all week. This is an amazing event, and I can think of nothing better than giving myself back to it, year after year. And yes, it makes waking up on Sunday morning a little bit harder, but my eyes still fill with tears as I wait in that corral for the gun to go off, surrounded by 52,000 of my nearest and dearest compatriots.

I eat a lot of yummy food too. This year will be a little bit different as I finally get to attend my mom’s awards banquet for her school. I haven’t been able to see their speakers, and they’ve had some good ones, but this year, I get food out of the deal!!!

Friday morning, before the Trade Show at the Convention Center, I wake up and head on down to the Spokane Club, starting one of my summer traditions as well.

There is a small and dedicated group, meeting every Friday morning at 7:15 downtown. They run the same five-mile course every time. With no fail, the only time it may differ is severe weather, but even then they may wait an hour or so to warm up.

I line up next to an Olympian and Lilac Bloomsday founder, some collegiate and high school phenoms, and even just your everyday, average “Bloomie.” Friday morning before the madness starts, I get in that one precious run. We don’t talk about Bloomsday. We catch up, and we enjoy the run. It is always sunny on Friday morning. 

American Bison Racing Team 2011

There is coffee flowing, shoes a flying and so many smiles, by the end of the weekend I don’t know which cheeks hurt worse… see what I did there?

Come on down to the Show. 

 Pick up your bib number, meet all the Bloomies, and enjoy the week.

It’s one of the best around. 

::Marathon Monday::

This morning, I was lazy. I woke up at five thirty. In the morning, don’t worry. And I padded out of my room to the kitchen to make coffee. The light was streaming through the slats over the windows, we have been lucky to be getting the sunrises earlier and earlier, the temps just need to catch up. Listening to the gurgle of the coffee maker, I poured my water, took my vitamins and waited for the excitement to build.

People, it was MARATHON MONDAY!

In Boston, it is huge, and this year was definitely no excepting  After the tragedies of last year took place, not only did an entire East Coast city unite, but a nation, and a world of runners.

Little known fact: Last year’s men’s champion actually gave his medal to the city for their support through it all. He was gone from the course for hours by the time the bombs went off, but he knew he must come back to the city, and give.

As did the woman’s champion; this beautiful day was stripped from her a year ago, and she knew she must be strong, not only for herself, but the running community.

Americans united, and American distance running strove for more. They fought through the miles and rough winters all to line up in Hopkinton on this morning.

I watched with tear-filled eyes as the women’s elite field bent at the hip leaning into the line, waiting for the gun. They raced the streets and the great Shalane Flanagan WENT FOR IT. She fought hard, and raced to a personal best, but it wasn’t enough to best some of the fastest times ever recorded, a new course record overall. She made her country proud. I cried. As I did when the women’s champion fell to the ground after setting that record, crying with joy and relief.

I screamed at my computer as the men’s champion, an American who had emigrated with his family from Eritrea, raced down Boylston, watching the lead shrink, but as he pumped his fist through the sounds of the crowds, it was all too apparent that his win was secure. And I cried. (Side Note: I did my Junior American Studies Report on Meb, and his "American Dream").

Watching the medal ceremony you heard the crowds hush and silence, even though runners were still streaming in, as the National Anthem of the United States of America played at the finish, and the champion sobbed and praised and thanked everyone he could find, the cheers as he gingerly climbed down the stairs and into the crowds, and raised that flag high above his head, completing his American Dream. I cried.

I watched the finish line for my friends, my training partners, and my neighbors as they were completing the test of all their hard work. I received text updates and furiously refreshed my browser as I waited for their finish times to rise. I cried. 

There was hope today. There was hope in those who lost limbs, and family in those bombings, that the streets would be taken back. There was hope in the crowds who rose early to line the 26.2 mile course throughout Massachusetts, that they would be safe, and they would create a gift for the runners. There was hope in the champions’ eyes as they drove their way down the streets of Boston and across the finish line.

And there was hope for those who may not have finished on top, that they would live to see another day, and to run another mile. Or more than just one.

There is hope that comes from sadness and tragedy. There is hope even when you cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel. We never know the light until we have witnessed the darkness. And we must keep on. We must persevere. We must hope.

And so, after I lazily yelled and paced around my home, coffee overflowing, but never fully drunk, I laced up my own shoes and followed a different course. And still I felt hope.

I will keep on keeping on. I will lace my shoes. I will wake up and face the day. I will know that there is light though I may not see it, there is hope in the darkness of life. There is strength in the perseverance. 

Excerpt: Adventures

She tied her laces once more and grabbed the extra pair of gloves she stashed in the basket by the door. Turning the lock on her quiet little home she felt a closure begin.

Just a few miles she thought to herself as she rounded the neighborhood streets toward the trailhead. She would be back before dark she promised herself.

They never let her down, the trails. They were always welcoming. They kept her strong and focused and moving forward. She did her best thinking with the trails at her feet. She solved the world’s problems on those long Sunday runs. Hours were spent out there amongst the pine trees and huckleberry bushes. Summers were sweeter as the sun rose higher and you could smell the berries baking like mama’s pies for Sunday supper. But on these cold fall and winter’s evenings she heard the extra crunch from the fallen leaves, or the snow which was slowly building all the way. Soon she wouldn’t be able to run these trails for they would be too covered in snow to even see the way, she thought she might still, Jules knew them so well, but her luck she would wind up falling down the hill breaking her ankle having no one know where she was. That was all she needed. 

Tonight, as she climbed the hill she had climbed so many times before, the one she had raced up the night Scott had told her he loved her, the same hill she would later come to call her mini mountain, she breathed out a breath with such force it almost let out a howl. Like that of the wolf howling at the moon, she continued on howling, with tears running down her face only attempting to match the cadence of her feet. Each breath inward brought a cold, sharp dagger to her lungs whereas each breath out was a word of warning to the world, I will not be broken.

This was her happy place, flying along in the nighttime, and climbing the hill to the top. Running to a close, she stopped in front of her house. She looked out into the street, trying not to just grab her knees and heave; that was a hard run. She hadn’t made it back in time. The air was dark, but she could see her breath against it, big, billowy puffs of air showing that she was ok. Jules was alive.

Turning back around her mind flew back to a few hours earlier, to her first run of the day. And as she climbed the steps, she scanned her porch for anything different. No bags of candy, but there was a single yellow rose on her welcome mat. 

Insecurities

I read Jesse Thomas' Three Step Plan. And wrote. Inspired. Also, ate more Picky Bars. Great day. 

I haven’t been writing much because I haven’t felt inspired.

Well, to all y’all and definitely including myself: that’s a crock.

I’ve been lazy, and unable, unwilling, to cope with, register, and look at some feelings, emotions and other things that have been going on.

It sounds like my life is going down a hole. Well it is based on my complete and utter complacency.

And now I am just plain annoyed.

Over the last year I have struggled with running, life, emotions, vulnerability, the mirror, the scale, and sometimes the occasional knee slamming into the door on accident. I have avoided life at times, rather holing up on my couch or in my bed, with another Netflix series. Not always an original. Instead of marathon training to the fullest, I’ll cut short to get one more episode of “Cake Boss.”

Ok, maybe not that extreme, but I am trying to paint you a picture.

Struggling with insecurities (those with them may deem them inadequacies) is difficult. But you know what is kind of funny about them? Everyone has them.

We all think we are different, random, odd, and strange even, and yet, we all struggle day in and day out with them. The people who don’t have them, or say they don’t, maybe it is true, but somewhere deep down they are still there,  or even not too long ago, they set out in conquering these fear-mongering little beasts of thought. They may never show their toes because they are crooked, or undone, or even hairy!

But just know everyone has them. You are not alone.

I think, in all honesty, that has been my struggle. Not just over the last year, but over the last few years. It has just fully come to the forefront of my life and I am more aware of it now than ever.

I cannot in any certain and factual terms understand how I came to this realization. Many miles have been run, and far too many thoughts pondered to really pinpoint the discussion or the “aha” moment I have been waiting for.

Truthfully, it probably came when I gave up.

Most recently, I have felts my insecurities grow, deeper, more real, and more to count.

When said out loud, like talking to a friend, or even to myself, I feel they are trivial and altogether unimportant in the grand scheme of things. But that is just another way of giving these insecurities power. Why can I not just feel?

By giving into this trivial feeling, I am not allowing myself to feel the so-called insecurity.

When I say it out loud that I am not a very good runner, and I tell people and they think it is dumb, and I think it is dumb too, I am not allowing myself to feel. Maybe that just means my standards are too high. Or maybe it means I just expect that much out of myself, because I have done it before, and really I am not doing it now.

Boom. Root of the problem.

So what can I do to fix it?

Or when I tell people, “I just don’t get asked out on dates” or I’m always the one being asked, “Who’s your friend” it sounds ridiculous. Am I open to new people? Do I just have a type? Or am I stuck in the past in some way?

Who cares. I’m throwing myself into running anyways. #marathontraining

But what is my fear? That I’ll get hurt? Duh.

Looking at it, I just haven’t met the right person. Maybe my standards are too high. Maybe I am looking in all of the wrong places. Or maybe, I just don’t know what I am looking for because I don’t know who I am or who I want to be.

So here goes.

For the month of April, I am facing my insecurities. I will no longer call them my inadequacies, because I am not inadequate (I just broke out into a sweat saying that because I feel like I am lying, but I know I am not). They are just things I am afraid of facing, doing, believing and achieving. Ha. I like it when I rhyme sometimes.

I will throw myself into running, sure. But that will only give me time to think about what is going on, what I am facing, and give me something to counteract the negative. That was wordy.

Really at the end of the day I do need to ask myself:

What do I want my life to look like?

And that is a question I will be asking for much help to answer. 

Girly Girl

We all know them. They’re the girls who dress up to go to the gym, the ones who wear dresses on the coldest of cold days, heels in snow.

I’m not really one of those girls.

I’m the one over in the corner, jeans cuffed, chuck taylors scuffed, tattooed, filling out my NCAA March Madness Bracket. I make better friends with guys, and I make “That’s What She Said” jokes pretty much on the daily. And I am sure you’re annoyed with me.

Wearing workout clothes to not only the gym or the trails, but the grocery store, the library, and sometimes even the bar, well it just comes natural. I would rather watch sports, play sports, or even read about sports than do my makeup in the morning, much less to go to the gym.

If I’m going to a party, or work, or anywhere, I will find a way to wear a tshirt and jeans. Even if I have to wear a fancy tshirt.

In any case, it is not an act. I’m not trying to be one of the guys it just happens to work out that way.

I prefer a good beer to a fancy schmancy mixed drink. Even with my gluten intolerance. I’d pick a steak over a salad, or just put the salad on the side.

I still love to wear a pretty dress and get all dolled up for a night out, and it makes me feel happy when someone tells me I look good, not just when they’re surprised to see I own a dress.

And guys, my laughter at your dirty jokes and the fact that I will help you get any girl in the bar doesn’t excuse your ignorance of my femininity. I am a good friend and will be one to you but not if you abuse it. Just because I don’t have an ulterior motive to make you my boyfriend doesn’t mean you get to walk all over me.

Yes, I get really into NCAA sports and I know a lot more about a team than just their uniform colors and no, I probably won’t order a salad if we go on a date but I am a warm blooded, full blown girl. Please don’t forget that.