I'm Almost a Marathoner!

As I begin to type this, it's 4 days, 8 hours, 33 minutes, and 54 seconds until my marathon.  My emotions are ranging between nervousness and terror.  As it draws near, I'm trying to win the mental battle, reminding myself that I CAN do this.  One of my coping mechanisms has been to think of all the things I've done that could be worse than running a marathon. I spent several months in a body cast, which I'm sure was terrible, but in all honesty, I remember none of it.  Here are a few examples of bad experiences with good payoffs that I do remember:

What sucked: Going to bed shit-faced at 1:30 a.m. and waking up at 4:00 a.m. to drive 2.5 hours home and work for 12 hours.  I remember thinking that day, "if I can survive this day, I can survive a marathon.  I'm only halfway through my day and I've never felt worse than I do right now."
Why it was worth it: My best friend's Grandma died and she needed me to be there.  She may not have needed us to each take down a bottle of wine, several beers, race in the pool, then go to the bar soaking wet in our pajamas.  On the other hand, that may have been exactly what she needed.

(I have a photo of this event, but it's so terrible that I will not share it)

What sucked: Spending a month of my summer days counting grass in the blazing heat of the prairie and spending the nights picking ticks off myself.
Why it was worth it: I got to meet a great group of new people, live in a cabin on Lake Okoboji in Iowa, and camp in the Badlands of Nebraska and the Black Hills of South Dakota, and explore Wind Cave.  I've never seen a more amazing star-scape than deep in the prairie reserves of Nebraska at Midnight.  Because of this class, I also got to graduate ahead of schedule.

Worth it for the experience...(yes, I do have sunglasses on my head and a headlamp around my neck)

...but no kidding, we were counting grass...

...and analyzing it in spreadsheets.  It was miserable.

What sucked: Taking an anatomy test at 8:00 am after going to bed at 3:30, drunk off my ass with the room spinning around me.  When I took the test, every line blurred together as I attempted to read it.
Why it was worth it: I got to sit in the green seats at the Cardinals game the night before.  For those that don't know, the green seats are the first few rows behind home plate.  Tickets to these seats allow you to have a free dinner and drinks beforehand, and a waiter to bring you anything you want (Budweiser, for the lady) in your seats during the game, free of charge.  Also, I got a B on that test.

You would have done it for these seats, too.

What sucked: My first half-marathon.  I set out with the 2:15 pace group, after 4 miles (3 of which were uphill), our pacer said, "oh shit, I'm running way too fast.  We're on pace to finish in 2 hours."  Not only did I burn out hard and fast, my boyfriend ran my exact same pace 15 feet in front of me for the entire race, but refused to run with me.  He said, "I can't run your pace, it's too slow."  Guess what, buddy?  You were running my pace, just choosing to do it just far enough ahead that I could always see you...dick.
Why it was worth it: Not only did I have the joy of finishing a half-marathon and beginning my life as a runner, but that day also cemented the fact that my boyfriend was a complete asshole, and empowered me enough to leave what was truly an abusive relationship.  BIG win.

My first race medal!

What sucked: Landing in Japan with no luggage, no hotel reservation, in Tokyo instead of Osaka, and our interpreter and friends were on the other side of the country.
Why it was worth it: We barely made our connection, so we were just happy to be in Japan.  Who cares if I hadn't brushed my hair in 3 days?  I had just started running a couple weeks before this.  Had I not been a runner, we would have never made the flight.  We sprinted through O'Hare, from one terminal to the next, just in time to reach our gate as the flight attendant was closing the door.  I'm not a fast runner, but we knew there was no chance our luggage was moving as fast as we were.

After nearly three days in the same clothes, I celebrated when my pack arrived.

For your enjoyment: Engrish

As long as you're happy.

I don't understand it beforehand.

What sucked: getting in a fight with a random old man at the farmer's market.
Why it was worth it: that asshole insulted my mother.  Only I am allowed to insult my mother.

This is my mom, a breast cancer survivor, who, at the time, was exactly one month away from her reconstructive surgery.

This is me and my older sister, and also the cause of the fight.  It went something like this:

Old man: Oh no.  No. No. No.  That's just wrong.

Me: Excuse me?

Old man:  That is so wrong.  I can't believe you. Mom's new rack?  Disgusting.  

(This old dude was up in my face, shaking his head)

Me: Ya know what?  This is my mother standing next to me, and she thinks it's hilarious, so that is all I care about.  Let me just say, the next time you get your balls cut off I bet you celebrate the day you get a new fucking set.  Carry on, sir.

(In all fairness, if I remembered I was wearing it, I might have taken it off to go anywhere besides the Race for the Cure.  However, if that old man was going to be a dick to us, I wasn't going to take it.)

What sucked: Canoeing and portaging through the Boundary Waters, a week after ice-out.  We woke up and our tents were covered in snow, and it rained ALL day, EVERY day, for a week.  We all went on a lichen and moss scavenger hunt to keep us moving through the woods, and prevent us from getting hypothermic.  The real kicker?  We were out there for 8 days, and I dropped my toothbrush in the mud on the very first day.
Why it was worth it: Aren't most outdoor experiences a fine and pleasant misery?  Backcountry camping is always a lot of work.  We had a couple small bouts of sunshine, but unforgettable memories nonetheless.  After freezing my ass off for 8 days, the cold shower and cold Moose Drool I had once we got out was absolutely worth it.

No joke, we were on a lichen scavenger hunt.

We survived under makeshift shelters.

This moment of tranquility made up for every second of misery.

Anytime I get to sleep on a rock, in sunshine, while covered in mud, I'm happy as hell.

What sucked: getting an hour and a half of drunken sleep on the floor of a casino hotel room, then working as a student ambassador at orientation the next day.
Why it was worth it: Jimmy fuckin Buffett.  That's why.

Yes, this is how my friends dress for Jimmy Buffett.

I was very tempted to end this post with "Jimmy fuckin Buffett.  That's why."  Humor has always been my coping mechanism.  Currently, it's a mix of humor and denial.  While I may be a better marathon drinker than marathon runner, I've worked hard for this.  The fact is, I'll do it, and it might suck, or it might not.  I doubt it will be as fun as Jimmy Buffett or the Green Seats, but either way, it will be worth it, and I promise to enjoy it as much as possible.

Absolutely, I Will

Like most things that I do, telling my friends my next blog post would be about my bad decisions seemed like a good idea at the time.  There are so many things that seem like a good idea at the time.  This is how I have ended up with some of the most amazing adventures and life-altering experiences.  This is also how I ended up in the ER on at least 15 different occasions (honestly, I’ve lost count).

You certainly do not want my advice as a runner.  I have absolutely no financial advice for you.  It would be most unwise to listen to almost anything I say in regards to your love life.  Regardless of what I am lacking, I do have one very good piece of advice that has led to me having one kick-ass life: It doesn’t matter what you say, just don’t say no. 

Your yes doesn’t have to come out as a resounding, enthusiastic “hell yeah!”  The point is that you don’t say no.  A reluctant, “I guess,” or a whiny “if you REALLY want me to” will suffice.  I’ve even been known to say, “damn you” while heading in the direction of whatever awesome ending awaits our questionable decision.  

Sometimes the end results merely with me exchanging eyeliner tips over bacon and eggs with a drag queen named Jackie in a 4 am diner (the trick is to put a light coat of sheer glitter over the purple).  Sometimes it ends with me packing my bags for a 6-week backpacking trip through Europe, sitting in the backseat of a car with Jack’s Mannequin, getting a kiss on the head from the President of the United States, partying in the all-inclusive seats at the Cards, Blues, or Rams game, or sharing champagne (which I brought in my purse) with fellow partiers on New Years in Tokyo.  Occiasionally, it ends with me saying, “well, that really was stupid.” 

In a perfect world-and I like to think that mine is-it ends with a good story and a stronger bond with someone, be it an old friend, random stranger, or a drag queen named Jackie.  That is, after all, why I always say yes.  I am not the slightest-bit interested in visiting a 24-hour bar only to end up sitting on a curb eating a corn dog at 6 am, even though it's been known to happen.  What I am interested in is being able to call my friend and say, “hey, remember that time we ended up lost at a random train station in Spain on our way to Morocco, sharing a bowl of mayonnaise?  I love us.”

If you need someone to go with you to a potentially awkward work happy hour, I’m your girl.  If you are looking for someone to take those really good Blues tickets off your hands on a weekday, I’m in (that is a hint, by the way.  I would love Blues tickets).  I will hop in the car and drive to Colorado, Minnesota, or Wisconsin for a concert tonight and drive right back if that’s what you really want.  I will also hold your hand while you make a dreaded phone call, help you build your shoe closet, let you stay the night any time you want, and sit right by you at the doctor’s office, if need be.  I have no problem with leaving the Cards game in a tornado to run across the street to a bar, and I will share my snuggie with you once we get there.  The answer is always yes.

Call it optimism, call it a sense of adventure, or call it bravery.  I don't even care if you call it stupidity, it's always treated me well.  Whatever it is, it’s how I ended up signing up for three marathons before I even finished my first.  If I hate my first marathon as much as I hated my first 5k or half marathon, then it will be a really hellacious day.  If I wouldn't have tried it again, I would have missed out on a lot.  I would not have ran more half marathons, participated in relays, or felt such a huge sense of accomplishment.  The real bonus is that I met some absolutely fantastic friends.  I am incredibly thankful for being part of a positive and supportive running community.

Again, call it what you want, but I’ve always been willing to try anything twice.  It’s only fair.  Think about how many things you would have missed out on had you never given it a second chance.

Speaking of trying anything twice, this post goes out to those crazy kids from Maine.  Not only did they convince me to visit twice next year, they convinced me to do it for two crazy-ass reasons: The 200-mile Reach the Beach Relay, and the obscenely hilly Mount Desert Island Marathon. They've also been hollerin' at me to make a new blog post for the past couple of weeks.  So here's to you guys, and all my other friends that are always giving me ideas to say yes to.

Bonus points to the first person to get the Title reference. 

Feed the F*cking Dog

(Disclaimer: there are a few swear words in this post.  For those of you that know me in real life, you know that I cuss enough to make a sailor blush, but I try to avoid it in writing.  In this case, I'm quoting and I felt it was necessary.  It's really not that bad, but I felt like I should warn you anyway.)

Jenn begged me to blog again, and this is one of her favorite stories.  It's a story that I wish I could tell you in person.  It requires my particular brand of snark, a little bit of interpretive dance, the happy hour setting, and the kind of wild hand gestures that would lead me to spill a beer in your lap.  Your lap, not mine.  Bear with me, runners, because just like every other thing I say and do, I manage to tie it back into running.  That seems to be the curse of marathon training.  EVERYTHING you do is somehow related to tied back into running.  For those of you that aren't runners, you might actually enjoy this anyway.

When you choose nursing as a career path, it takes a certain amount of courage to walk into that hospital every day.  You have to be brave enough to assume that you can handle whatever is thrown at you, confident enough to trust your instincts and training, and just bad-ass enough to keep your unruly patients in line in order to pass them on to the next shift.

Over the summer I had the pleasure of taking care of a particularly memorable patient.  We'll call her "Miss H."  Miss H was a total disaster.  On a scale of one to ten, with one being a "hot mess," and ten being a "train wreck," she ranked about an eleven ("it's one louder than ten").*  She belonged in the locked psych unit, but she wasn't medically stable enough to be there. She had every blood disease known to man, and if it wasn't transmitted sexually then she picked it up off a used drug needle.  Let's just say, I didn't want any of her body fluids coming anywhere near mine.

Miss H, because of her high risk of falling, had been given a bed that is very low to the ground.  Because of her delusions, she had been assigned a sitter.  The hospital employs sitters, whose only job is to sit in a patient's room and keep them from hurting themselves.  Miss H had a central line (a large IV-like catheter) in her jugular vein that she had been trying to remove on her own.  She had also attempted several times to leave the hospital. She was unsteady on her feet and was not able to stay oriented to her environment. See above: train wreck.

I confidently strolled into her room and said, in my sweetest morning voice, "good morning Miss H.  My name is Ashley, and I'll be taking care of you today. What can you tell me about your night?"  She didn't even look at me.  She was sitting on her low bed with her feet on the ground.  She cried out, as if in pain, and drew her knees up to her chest.  Concerned, I squatted by her bed and said, "Miss H, are you hurt?  What happened?" She again, failed to even glance in my direction as she said, "you know that g*d damn cat from down the street?  They're always letting that piece of shit run around.  No more."

Unsure of what to do, my body frozen in a squat, I pivoted my head to glance at the sitter who let out a combination of a grunt and a laugh.  I was acutely aware that my patient was bat-shit crazy, and it was my job to battle it out for the remainder of the shift.  This was one of those battles that was going to require a little more bravery and strength than I was accustomed to.

Keep in mind, Miss H also had a roommate.  This roommate wasn't so sane herself.  Every time I spoke to my patient, her roommate would answer.  Here was just one of the many exchanges we had:

Me: Miss H, would you like a Sprite?
Roommate: I don't want no damn Sprite.
Miss H: Ma'am, I was speaking to your roommate. If there's something you would like, I'd be happy to get that for you.
Miss H: Who let her in here?  You know she's up here smoking that shit.  Oh hell no! Not in my house.
(It should go without saying that no one was smoking in the room.  Also, Miss H seemed to have forgotten the fact that she was homeless.)
Roommate: Where's my damn Sprite?  These stupid kids...

Much of the day continued like this.

Periodically throughout the day Miss H would burst into tears, start ripping at her central line, or try and get up to leave the room.  I'm not sure if you have ever had to intervene with a person that is having drug-withdrawal hallucinations, but it's near the bottom of the list of my favorite things to do.   Several times that day, Miss H would look in the corner of the room and say something along the lines of, "I'm gonna kick his ass...that stupid mother f*cker."

With anger in her eyes, this would be the point where she would stand up and head towards the corner.  Since she was a high risk for injuring herself we had no choice but to intervene.  There was no one in the corner, but I was afraid that as soon as I stepped near her she would find me.  I'm not sure, but I was afraid that to her I might look remarkably similar to "that stupid mother f*cker."  I'm not keen on putting myself in front of a combative, hallucinating patient that's ready to spit hepatitis in my eye (that's not exactly how it works, but you get the idea), but it's also my job to keep her from hurting herself.

My day progressed from a polite "Miss H, please have a seat," to a very stern "SIT. YOUR. ASS. DOWN. NOW."  I didn't leave her room all day.  She blamed me for missing the birth of her grandchild.  She told me the sitter threw her down the stairs.  She warned me of the dangers of sharing a crack pipe because some of those people have AIDS.  This was not the time to remind her that so did she.

The day climaxed with her simultaneously swinging at me and the sitter as she tried to leave the room, and then burst into tears before taking a seat on her trash can.  After finally getting her back in bed, she started in on her rice crispy treat that was leftover from lunch.  She sat down, got a glisten in her eye as she tore off chunks of her dessert.  She fixed her gaze under her roommates bed while puckering her lips and beckoning with her hand.  She smiled and said, "see that dog?" as she began to throw pieces of her rice crispy treat under the bed while saying, "come 'ere boy!"

I roll my eyes towards the sitter and put my hands in the air.  The sitter and I exchange a brief look.  It is the look of sisters.  It was a look that can only be shared among people that have experienced an epic event.  It was as if we had survived a plane crash, natural disaster, or nuclear fallout.  We had been battle hardened and suffered.  We were at our breaking point.  In exasperation I said to the air, "feed the f*cking dog.  I don't even care anymore."

Nursing is about priorities, and after all we had been through that day, preventing my patient from making it rain cereal treats was not a concern of mine.  If she wanted to make some snap crackle pop confetti I was going to allow it.  I reached the point where I had not choice but to just carry on.  It's not how I pictured my day, and it wasn't pretty, but I knew that I had done everything I could.

"Feed the f*cking dog" has become something that I say a lot now. When I've reached the point where things are out of my hands.  If I've done everything I can, and now I'm just forced to sit back and watch.  I also say it when I just don't give a shit.

You still with me, runners?  Here's where I bring it back:

When you run you have plenty of time on your hands to think.  I think about this patient a lot.  It was such a shit-show of a day, but I can't help but laugh every time I think about it.  I know I have posts that tend to get philosophical, or motivations that can be incredibly corny.  The reality of it is, at mile twenty, I doubt that I will be saying, it's only "about an hour."  When I am miserably trying to suffer through that last .2, I don't think I'll be able to say, "remember why you run!" (<--both posts you should check out)

Just like that day, I have NO idea what to expect when I'm running a marathon.  I will be brave enough to go to the start line, confident enough that my training and rest will get me through, and just bad-ass enough to force myself to finish.  I know there will be some miraculous highs, but I'm dreading the inevitable lows.  Despite what happens, I'm sure that at least some of it will be a miserable experience.  I'm expecting it, and I accept it.  

My mind will quit on my body.  My body will quit on my mind.  Despite the training, and the support, and the motivation, I'm going to be dealt blows that I can't comprehend right now.  I will be battle worn and scarred both physically and mentally.

At that point I will have lost all shreds of arrogance.  I won't be able to turn to my sappy sentiments.  When I've done all I can, I will just have to somehow keep going and say, "Ash, feed. the. f*cking. dog."


*Sorry if you don't get the reference to "This is Spinal Tap."

A Post About Nothing

I can't gather my thoughts into one cohesive post. Here's what's been on my mind this week:

• Do you think I would be a better runner if I liked bananas? I'll choke 'em down before and after a race, but I would be a lot more eager if instead of post-race bananas they gave you post-race tacos. Post-race bacon, anyone?

Now Grandpa, that was a man that liked bananas.

• Why is my dog always trying to steal my food? She's just tall enough that she can put her front paws on the counter and take anything. I always see her plotting to do this. Taking food from me when I'm in a state of runger is just rude. Marley, not only am I your best friend, I'm pretty sure I'm your ONLY friend. Don't be an asshole.

When she was this size, she couldn't reach the counter, but she was tall enough to knock the trash can over.

Maybe she's still trying to get back at me for the time I threw snow in her face. I thought she liked it.

I also thought she liked learning to long board. Maybe she's still mad about that, too.

Ahh, it must be the hat she's still angry about. Ole!
In all fairness, she walked right into that hose.
It just can't be stopped, this girl's hungry.

• Here's what my ten-year-old sister got for her birthday: an ice skating birthday party. That's fine. Family dinner at the Japanese Steakhouse. That's also fine. we always get to pick where we eat on our birthday. She got a shopping spree at Justice. OK, that makes sense, she does need presents. Lastly, and here's the kicker...wait for it...she got an iPad. iPad's are unnecessary for millionaire business men, let alone a 5th grader. I would jump in front of a train if I thought it would improve her life, but I would not buy her an iPad. When I get an email from her, I shouldn't have to wonder if it's coming from her personal laptop, her Blackberry, or her iPad.

You have to love her.

• Speaking of siblings, my little brother is dressing as Michael Jackson for Halloween. I find this awesome for several reasons. First, my little brother is an absolute stud. He's breaking hearts of eight-year-olds all over the state of Iowa. He's a charmer. He bases every choice based on whether or not the ladies will like it. He'll make a perfect Michael Jackson. Second, he can pull it off. Not only is he a stud, but he's a good dancer. He takes hip hop dance classes (He's very wise. Once, when I asked him about his hip hop class he said, "well it's fun, but I like to talk to the other boy. You know I like girls, and girls like me, but sometimes girls are kind of crazy, ya know?"). Lastly, I am thrilled that he likes Michael Jackson. When he was four he would call me and sing every word to the Copa Cabana. As adorable as it was, I disapproved of his choice in music. I'm glad he was able to eventually make good choices despite the fact that my step-dad is a member of the Barry Manilow fan club. I wish I was kidding.

Lock up your daughters.

My step-dad looks like a man that listens to Barry Manilow, does he not?

• I hate Halloween. What causes our thoughts to change from "am I too old to go trick-or-treating?" to "where can I find stripper shoes to match my lingerie?" Ladies, wearing underwear and cat ears does not make you a cat. It makes you a girl that is most likely inappropriately dressed for the climate, and most certainly inappropriately dressed for public. If you wouldn't wear it in front of your dad (or anyone's dad, for that matter) don't wear it in public.

This is what we looked like last Halloween. You know it's Halloween because that's a man dressed as bacon behind us.

• Speaking of dads, the older my dad gets, the less he looks like Forrest Gump. I find this disappointing.

When I'm right, I'm right.

• The Nike Women's Marathon: I told my friend Jenn that I wouldn't want to run a women's marathon. That's too many chics for me. She said, "well, I just want the Tiffany necklace." Excuse me? Tiffany necklace? Apparently when you finish that race a fireman hands you a blue box with a Tiffany necklace inside. Excuse me? Firemen? OK, I am highly interested in running the Nike Women's marathon.
• Holy Boston, Batman! I'm proud of all my friends that earned a spot there, but I'm not proud of all the ugliness the controversy brought out in a lot of runners. I would be crushed too, I'm sure. So, I'm also sorry for all the runners that didn't get in. Boston is just like anything else, once everybody starts talking about it, I want them to stop.
• While we're talking about running, let me just say I'm out of my damn mind. I haven't ran my first marathon yet, but I signed up for two more next year. I'll be doing with Cowtown challenge in Ft. Worth in February with Jenn, Lee and Isis (The Running Couple), and some other DM/Twitter friends. I somehow got convinced to sign up for MDI next October. I'm pretty scared of that one. I already asked a friend to run the Cleveland Marathon in May, and I'm trying to convince my cousin to do Rock n Roll Seattle in June. On top of that, I have a Ragnar team for June, Rock n Roll Chicago Half in August, Rock n Roll STL Half in October, and I'm sure I'll somehow participate in the Go! STL Marathon Relay or Half.

This is my friend in Cleveland. He's a Cross Fit and general fitness rock star. He ran a marathon without even training because he said, "I felt like I should just be able to do it." When I asked him if he wanted to do the Cleveland Marathon with me, he didn't even stop to think, he just said, "sure." What a bad ass.

• You know you're a runner when you have no Saturday night plans, but you have Saturday morning plans. Being a runner interferes with my social life.
• Whenever I'm running and I approach another runner, I always want to raise my hand to give them a high five. It would make me really happy, but I haven't done it for fear of scaring the other runner.
• The Halloween 10k was pretty fun. It was nice to see a large mass of sober people moving through my neighborhood for once. The race was poorly organized and the support wasn't very good, but it was only a 10k so I guess that's not a big deal. I felt very popular because I ran into several different people that I knew, some before the race, some while running, some watching, and a couple afterward. They were EVERYWHERE.

Yep, there's my house in the background.

I can barely run in clothes that are made for running. I don't know how people run in paper mache anything.

That's all for now. Thanks for listening, or not listening. Either one.