You thought YOUR race pictures were bad??

I'll never understand why Star Wars fans are considered geeks.

SOLUTION: Slam face first into steel posts at 6mph like I do and all you'll need is a band-aid and a little Neosporin.


I
If this guy runs a faster 5K than I do, I'm going to amputate my own legs at the hip... with a rusty hatchet.

Jerry O'Connell running: hot. Jerry O'Connell fondling his nipples while running: kuh-reepy.



I'm pretty sure I know what this guy is dressed as and I'm ashamed at myself for still posting it.

Feelin' Hot, Hot, Hot

This evening, after I finished a seven mile tempo run on the treadmill in my basement, I sat on the floor to do some stretching and saw steam rising off from my body, from my neck down my stomach to my legs.

Now, I know my basement isn't finished and the temperature is quite a bit cooler down there than it is upstairs. And I know by the time I was done I could easily have wrung a gallon of sweat out of my shorts and top.

But steam??

Either that's a really cool lesson in physics or my tempo pace on the treadmill is so blazing hot it's setting off steam.

Let's go with the second one.

Image copyright: www.livingwilderness.com

Warm Arms, Warm Heart

Irony is a funny thing... which I guess makes sense as that's essentially the definition of it. Let me tell you a little story.

Leading up to Christmas, as I was throwing my money around left and right buying the obligatory holiday gifts, I made a mental list of the things I'd like for myself for Christmas. (You know, just in case a certain adult male with whom I co-habitate asked what I want for Christmas instead of taking wild stabs in the dark at what I might like. But that's purely hypothetical... I loved my gifts, honey, and really enjoyed exchanging them. Thanks again!)

Every time my aforementioned mental list was made, one thing kept popping up to spot #2, second only to peace on earth and good will to men: a pair of arm warmers. For some reason, I had decided I must have a pair of arm warmers. Never mind they'd already invented such a thing, namely long-sleeved shirts. I wanted the arm warmers, dammit! I thought it would be super neat if I could wear them during winter when I first stepped out to run, then peel them down (or even off!) when I warmed up, offering some much-needed ventilation and coolness. Plus, I thought they just looked sweet and I'm all about looking sweet when I run.

Unfortunately, neither the adult male with whom I co-habitate nor Santa Claus himself picked up on my subtle hints about the arm warmers. On Christmas Day, when all the packages were opened, there was nary an arm warmer in sight. Figuring if I wanted something done right, I'd have to do it myself, I set about to buy a pair of arm warmers with the cold hard cash I got from my folks for Christmas. I looked in stores; I looked online. Nobody had what I was looking for. I was getting a little discouraged, thinking I was going to have to just resort to wearing a pair of long men's tube socks, which wouldn't be nearly as sweet as real arm warmers.

And then one day, while I was busy minding my own business, arrived my February 2009 issue of Runner's World and there amongst Lolo Jones' abs was the answer to my Christmas prayers: a short blurb hailing the new appeal of the arm warmer and the website at which I could go to make them my very own. They were exactly what I had envisioned and as a choir of angels heralded the tiding of great joy into my ears, I made a lords-a-leaping vault to my computer and ordered them.

Yesterday, I broke them out for my first run. I checked the current temperature before getting dressed and it read a whopping six degrees. I was hoping for an additional 20 or 50 degrees (give or take), but then remembered in Idaho I'd be waiting until July for that to happen. Instead of a so-yesterday long-sleeved shirt, I donned a light short-sleeved number over my sports-bra and topped it with my sleeveless fleece vest. I have to admit, I was a little wary. I was about to step outside in a short-sleeved shirt in a temperature that was prime for instantly freezing the snot inside my nose. But I had faith in the arm warmers and their ability to live up to my high expectations.

During the first mile, when I was still getting used to the sting of the cold air against my skin, I thought for sure I'd be turning back any minute for another coveted layer of warmth. Although the warmers were long enough to cover my hands if needed, I was wearing two pairs of gloves, but had a strip of exposed skin on my upper arms that was turning more and more red against the chill with every step I took. By the time I reached the end of the first mile, I'd decided it was too late to turn back and just went for broke by forging ahead. Soon enough, I was warmed up and feeling perfectly comfortable. The arm warmers were doing their thing and then some.

Unfortunately, even over the course of 12 miles, it never got warm enough to peel the arm warmers off, which disappointed me a little. I was looking forward to that part in an inexplicably weird sort of way. But I'm sure a month (or five) down the road I'll be able to enjoy the warmers at their fullest functionality.

I'm one satisfied customer and I think my experience proves that not only does Runner's World have the answers to every problem that could possibly exist, but that you should always buy your own Christmas gifts if you ever want to get anything good.

I'll be ordering Lolo's abs next year.

(Editors note: Despite RW's suggestion, I ended up ordering my warmers here, mostly because I'm a cheapskate and they offered free shipping.)

Reflection

The last couple of months have been rather sobering for me. A couple of days before Christmas, as I was mourning the loss of a friend's teen aged son, killed in a car accident, I got the news that my last surviving grandparent, my sweet 90-year old grandmother had fallen ill and was hospitalized. She peacefully passed away two days later on a snowy Christmas Day surrounded by her family. I wasn't able to see her myself before she died, but attended the funeral and burial services and was greatly comforted by them.

Last week, I got a call from my sister that my own father-- a true hero to me-- had been taken by ambulance to the hospital because of severe faintness and shortness of breath. What had been recently diagnosed as a bronchial infection turned out to be something much more serious: two large blood clots in his lungs. Doctors had no reservations about telling us he was lucky to still be here. Thankfully, his condition was treated in time and after a six-day stay in the ICU, he was released to begin a lengthy recovery at home.

I've had a lot to ponder the last couple of months, to say the least.

About three weeks ago, I stepped out to do a long weekend run. I knew I wanted to run between 10-12 miles--depending on how things felt-- but didn't really have a specific route in mind. I just started running and turned where I felt like turning. My legs were cooperating nicely that day and before I knew it, I was approaching six miles. Interestingly, my subconscious route lead me to a local cemetery. I'd been there several times before, so it wasn't foreign territory. I'd biked past it often last fall on my long bike rides, but very rarely have I run past it. I wasn't quite sure why my legs had carried me there that day.

Instead of turning around to head back home at the gate of the cemetery, I ventured in. I've always found cemeteries to be rather fascinating; I think I could spend hours in any given cemetery just studying the gravestones, reading the names and dates and wondering what kind of lives the people lead who were laid to rest there. Who were they? What was their story? What was their passion?

On the morning of my run, the ground of the cemetery was covered in several feet of snow. I had my ice cleats on and while they didn't keep me from sinking into the powder, I at least had a little bit of traction underneath me. I slowed to a jog and circled the entire cemetery, taking deep plunging steps into the snowbanks and inhaling the peaceful quiet of the air. I passed the gravestone of a 17-year old girl I had worked with closely a few years ago who was also tragically killed in a car accident the night of her Homecoming date. I vividly remember visiting her grave by myself shortly after she was buried, kneeling on the grass and just blankly staring at the headstone for several minutes in a numb funk, questioning how something so tragic could happen to such a vibrant young woman with so much life to live ahead of her. Running past her grave brought pangs of sadness as I realized I still missed her.

After my detour through the cemetery, I stepped back outside the gates and stopped to drink and have a snack. My breathing was pretty labored after the strenuous work of forging through the snow. Slowly but surely it calmed and as my gaze turned back to the cemetery behind me, I suddenly felt a distinct wave of peace and gratitude. Gratitude for my life and the blessings I've been given. Gratitude for the people who have crossed my path over the years and have touched my life for good. Gratitude for the opportunities I have to a postive influence to those around me. Just plain gratitude.

It took a 12 mile run in the snow and around a cemetery to remind me that life really is good, even when it's really rough.

And it always marches on.