My Boyfriend Went to Austria...
...and all I got were these lousy blisters

Scott’s company made a European acquisition, so in addition to his regularly insane travel schedule, he had to make a whirlwind trip across the pond last week. When he came back Saturday night, it was without his bag, which had apparently decided to jump ship in Amsterdam and do a little additional touring on the way back from Vienna.

Sunday morning when Northwest Airlines was still claiming no knowledge of it, I was asking him what all was in the bag and he got to “camera”... "You mean the DIGITAL CAMERA I GAVE YOU FOR CHRISTMAS???? You NEVER, NEVER, NEVER put a camera or valuables in checked luggage!!! Do you know how much stuff THEY STEAL????!!!" (So much for my determination to be more Zen. Well, I kinda tried. I reminded myself it is "just a camera". [No it's not! It's the freakin' camera I spent two months of discretionary income on and gave him for Christmas.] It's JUST a camera. Aren't you glad HE's home safely. Well, yeah, when you put it that way...)

Once I stopped ranting about not checking valuables, he resumed the list, which included his running shoes. But he has another pair, so we could still do our planned 3-mile run. When I was getting ready for that and went to his closet to put on running shoes (I keep a pair at his place since we usually run once or twice from there on the weekends), I found both pair of his—but not mine. Guess what? I didn’t get to go to Europe, but my running shoes were there that very minute having a great time with his bag.

As I told Scott later, “Not that you would have, but it's a really good thing you didn't fib and tell me that you'd gotten in a run or two while you were there.”

The “What’s the Hurry?” 10K

Saturday I did the Dandelion Dash 10K. I biked the 3 miles to Yahara Park and helped with registration from 7:30-8:30. Then ran the race—or that's what I called it. I was bucking for the very low standard of 11:00/mile or less.

My legs felt tight the entire 6.2 miles, and I could feel every single one of the 450 miles I'd biked in the last month. I walked when I got tired, which was often. At two different times I saw Hasher friends who were volunteering on the course, so stopped to chat with them for a couple minutes. No rush about these things.

I finished dead last with a time of 1:06:03. BUT... nevertheless beat 11:00 miles (that came to about 10:38/mile). YEA! I also came in second in my age group. The moral to this is: You don't have to be good to win, place, or show—just outlive those other bitches.

Race for Ruth

I am not typically a big Race for the Cure (RFTC) fan. Maybe I'm a curmudgeon, but even though it's theoretically for a good cause, it seems to have become a huge marketing juggernaut which automatically makes me suspicious. I hope every penny goes to cancer research—but whether it does or not, this year I ran it for Ruth.

Ruth is my co-worker who was diagnosed with breast cancer in January and is going through chemo and radiation. The woman is amazing. She is completely bald now and wears long dangly earrings and looks positively regal and goddess-like. Despite her appearance and her stalwart continuance of her work, she feels like hell a lot of the time. Bless her heart.

Several people at work formed a RFTC team for Ruth, and I eagerly joined in, signing up for the 5K run. When I got up the Saturday morning of the run, rain was coming down in sheets, and I thought, "Do I really want to do this?" And the answer was "Yes, I really do. I can't NOT do this."

The rain stopped by the time I got to Alliant Center where the race was staged. I had forgotten my race number. Ruth wasn't going to walk or run and asked if I would like to wear hers (and it was the special pink one for survivors). Oh hell yeah! That made me so happy that I could symbolically take her across the finish line.

I am a 10-minute miler on my good days, sinking to 12-minute slug-fests when it’s not so good. I’ve been wanting to get a little faster. I did the first mile in 8:45, which I could not believe. I slowed down considerably after that and even did some occasional walking, but still finished in something like 31:30 according to my stopwatch. I was way happy with the whole thing.

I didn’t realize that wearing the pink survivor number meant I would go through a different chute at the finish line. I received the special survivor finisher's medal and was delighted to deliver it to Ruth on Monday morning. We love you Ruth, and we’re there at your side—racing with you for your cure.

Great Bargain: Daily Adventure and a Tight Butt

Just under two years ago when I was off work (read: lost my job and was promoted to "president of myself") I was using my bike for everything except getting to job interviews and only excluding those because of wanting to arrive in the nice suit without sweat. Then I got my current job Dec 2005 and kept thinking it would be a good thing to bike the 10 miles to work and back—but there was the schedule (it will take longer), the traffic, I'd have to pack my clothes, I'd be sweaty when I got to work and there aren't showers.... Definition of "excuse": the skin of a reason stuffed with lies.

As of 9 May 2007 my Waterford, the bike equivalent of a Mercedes, was hanging from the rafters in my garage without a single mile logged in over two years; my Cannondale road bike lay fallow in the basement with even less action than the Waterford; and my townie bike—a mountain bike that my daughter Carrie bought with babysitting money in 1993 when she was in eighth grade and that I had used for my previous commuting—now had only the air of neglect in its tires.

Skyrocketing gas prices were not pleasing—but what finally got me off the dime and onto my bike was when road construction caused my commute to double in time and left me sitting and fuming in unmoving traffic every morning. On the evening of 9 May, I pumped up the tires of the “townie“, put fresh batteries in the lights, planned my attire and lunch for the next day, and packed my backpack. Madison has great bike paths, and I plotted out a course that is mostly safe and pleasant. By the time I got to work that first morning, the endorphins were zipping around, and I was in my little commute euphoria.

They say there's nothing worse than a convert. I'm now an insufferable bike junkie. In just under a month, I have biked 400 miles. Even on the days it has rained, when I considered whether to drive, I could not abide the thought of sitting in traffic being held hostage in my car. I took the bike. There have been a couple days—one when I had a doctor's appointment and another when I had a multitude of far-flung errands to run—I drove. After going from the occasional spin class to 100 miles/week on the bike, my legs needed a rest anyway. Nevertheless, I resented every minute I spent in traffic and considered sticking my head out the window like a cocker spaniel to feel the wind on my face.

Almost overnight I fell in love with the daily adventure—seeing the goose family with its gaggle of adolescent geese puppies as I go through Tenney Park, greeting “regulars” I’ve come to recognize on the bike path, and feeling that wind in my face. It has all become part of the texture of my mornings. Then there are those REALLY major moments.

One morning last week on the bike path coming the opposite way I saw a woman on a recumbent trike then realized it was my friend Lori right before we passed. I said "Hi Lori", she looked a little startled, and I kept going, hoping I hadn't thrown her off-kelter. When I got to work, I had the following email from her.

When you called me on the bike path this morning I snapped out of Deep Thought, and turned my head and shoulders (and because I have under-the-seat steering), my whole bike to look at you. This caused the guy who was burning up the track behind me to slam on his brakes and veer for the side to avoid a collision. An instant later, two women and a large dog erupted suddenly from the bushes right down the path.

If you hadn't called out, I hadn't turned to look, and the guy hadn't slammed on his brakes to avoid me, all of us - him, me, the dog, and the two women, would have been in a gigantic and devastating pile-up, possibly the kind that involved an ambulance (not for me, but for any of them).

Then there was the night I met some of my Hasher girlfriends for drinks after I’d finished a surf and turf workout—swimming, then running intervals on the treadmill—at the UW Natatorium. I biked over to the bar Opus in my grubby, sweaty bike clothes; my hair was wet from the pool; and I was generally gritty from the treadmill and the bike ride over. When I emerged from the Opus ladies' room, I had blow-dried my hair; thrown on a little extra make-up; toweled off the sweat and applied cologne; and donned my black silk pants, black top, and pointy-toed, high-heeled, leopard-print boots. Pardon my being self-congratulatory, but I went from Sweaty Bike Chick to Glam Girl. Even my Hasher Grrl friends were impressed. A few hours and drinks later when it was time to go, I couldn't abide the idea of putting on the sweaty bike clothes AGAIN. So I just rolled the right leg of my black pants up to the knee so it wouldn't catch in the chain (the better to display the boot), donned my yellow jacket and helmet, and biked. My bike shop Crono Metro used to display a pair of cherry-red stiletto heels with bike clips. I jonesed for them the minute I saw them in 2002, but the CM Boys said it would be impossible to bike in them. But still... it captured my imagination. Essence of fantasy fulfilled: I biked home in my pointy-toed, high-heeled, leopard-print boots at 11:00 pm. I gotta tell you—it was grand! I wouldn't want to do it on a regular basis, but I certainly had all my style senses at high pitch while enjoying the deep richness of the night.

I want to think I’ll do this forever. I’ve even started consulting http://www.icebike.org for winter biking info. Besides my addiction to the morning adventure and endorphins, I have not put gas in my car in a month, I’m saving the environment and money, and I now have a butt so tight you can bounce quarters off of it. Nevertheless, I've only committed to doing this bike gig for as long as it's fun. But… as Scott says about his quest for immortality, "So far, so good."