Carrying My Poop

As we all know, I am prone to moments of genius.

Those moments, however, are counter balanced by times of questionable intelligence and a level of comedic idiocy that are unparalleled by most womankind. Recently I had such a moment.

In an effort to continue a healthy-eating lifestyle, which I recently reinstated after setting a land speed record for weight gain while taking a few weeks “off” (read eating everything in sight) at the end of triathlon racing season, I had incorporated plain baked sweet potatoes (yams) into my diet. These gems are a "super-food" really. High in fiber and vitamins and low in calories, they dominate the root vegetable category in these criteria. I am so proud of my efforts to learn to like this wonderful form of nutrition.

For ease of lunch preparation and consumption, my usual procedure is to bake the yams whole, then skin them and place one whole yam in a translucent Glad container. I place several Glad containers in the refrigerator where they can be easily accessed for speedy lunch preparation.

Today was just such a day where my preparation paid off. I grabbed a sweet potato out of the refrigerator, popped it my insulated lunch sack and off to work I went.

When I was ready for my lunch break, I grabbed my sweet potato out of my insulated bag at my desk and headed to the 2nd floor kitchen to heat it up, add some salt, come back to my desk and enjoy. Being the multi-tasking sort it dawned on me that I should make a quick pit-stop en route to the 2nd floor kitchen to take care of bathroom business.

Out of my office, down the hall I dashed into the empty bathroom facility and into a stall. I set my oh-so-nutritious lunch on the back of the toilet tank. While doing my business, the bathroom becomes a beehive of activity as the other four previously unoccupied stalls become inhabited. And of course, for the first time in my history of working for this company we suddenly have a bathroom "rush". Additional women have come in to the bathroom, only to find no stall available, and a line is now forming in the small room.

I finish up, stand to leave my stall, reach around and grab my lunch container only to stop in mid swivel as I realize what I'm about to do. I am about to emerge from a bathroom stall in front of all these women carrying a see-through plastic container holding a long cylindrical-shaped brown/orange object. .......... Now what?

If I stay in the stall and wait for the bathroom to empty I've now become the "gray-slacked black-booted (with the distinctive buckle) woman with a constipation problem." If I leave the stall I cannot rush past everyone like a wide receiver covering my quarry and rushing past the defensive line. Then I'm the "lady that doesn't wash her hands after she uses the toilet." A third choice is to leave the stall, proceed to the counter, where I will have to set my transparent container ON THE COUNTER while I wash and dry my hands and catch the horrified reflections of the other bathroom goers when they spy my parcel. I then become the “woman who”, for whatever stool-sample reason, “carries her poop.” Like that's not bad enough. What happens when one of them sees me proceed to the kitchen and pop it in the microwave?

It was time to get strategic. I waited long enough for the line to disappear. With the other stalls full, I rushed out of my stall, did a 4 second hand wash and grabbed a paper towel on the way out. As I come out of the bathroom door, thinking my break was clean I am faced with 3 people headed straight at me. Panicked I tuck my container under my arm, turn the other way and lunge at a garbage can by the elevator hurtling the container as fast as possible out of sight.

To hell with it. I'll go get a burger.

I TRI

Every race offers unique experiences and my first triathlon was no exception.

To start, I participated in this event with my youngest son, Sean. A pretty big deal since it was our first triathlon AND this is the same child who ran my very first 5K race with me almost 3 years to the day earlier. This triathlon marks my continuing evolution as an everyday athlete and his discovering that there is competition after football.

I have to comment on my son's attitude about this race. He had trained for it, but had always been luke warm about the whole thing. He was especially not a fan of the road biking, but put in the training time because, well, while it didn't seem like a he-man sport worthy of his efforts, at his core, he's a competitor and wasn't showing up on race day unprepared. Little did he know.

This was a sprint distance triathlon that involved a 3.35 mile run, an 11.3 mile bike course, and a 350 yard swim. In that order. Which is the exact opposite of the traditional swim, bike, run. Frankly I loved the reverse order because you weren't trying to tug on socks and shoes while dripping wet in all your sopping cellulite and spandex glory. With this race you could cross the finish line and go don a t-shirt, baseball cap and flip-flops so you could languish in the sun and dry while you waited for final race results.

This race offered a pronounced dynamic I've never before witnessed in any race. Full age disclosure. In big black numbers down your left calf. While the age issue has always played a part in my motivation during a race to pass someone or the sense of satisfaction in doing so, I've always had to rely on outward appearance.

But this was different. We had race numbers written on our right arm and right calf. Numbers that are ignored by all with the exception of race officials. But now? Every participant suddenly had an all consuming obsession with the left calf of everyone in their vicinity. We couldn't help it. We just had to assess each and every participant by those two revealing numbers. And the race hadn't even started.

"Hmmm. 26? Really? That kid doesn't look 26. .......54? No way. She cannot be 54. She has no body fat and I can't even see a wrinkle. Plus all the musculature of her face seems to work so there's not even any botox in play here. So not fair." And your silent commentary goes on as you scan the crowd, ready your transition space, and make last minute checks on your gear.

As we gather at the start line, I'm having insight on how sharks that have just caught a whiff of fresh blood in the water must feel. Instead of calmly going inside our own pre-race mental space, cranking up our Ipods and focusing on our strategy, as is typical minutes before a race, we are like twitching wild horses, the whites of our eyes rolling into view as we are scanning the left calf of everyone in front of us.

By the time the gun went off, I don't think one person hadn't already spotted someone older ahead of them and made them a target of annihilation. All outward appearances were indicative of a friendly competition but the electric charge of a more base predatory instinct was unmistakable. We were all looking for the next prey to cut from the herd and leave in our dust. And all because of two numbers.

We were to soon learn that knowing the age of our competitors was both a blessing and a curse. While it was fabulous to pass the 36-year-old guy on my bike who had passed me earlier in the run, it was tough to never quite be able to catch that 58-year-old calf that was always looming ahead of me. Had I not been privy to the actual age of the guy I couldn't catch it wouldn't have had quite the impact to my ego. My race memories are made up of shoe and sock colors and the number written just above them.

Okay, enough about the age thing, but I just had to set the stage here.

The race was amazing. The run was a little tough because it was hotter than I prefer, but getting on that bike for only my second bike race ever was so thrilling. I still couldn't believe I was really doing a triathlon. Me. Who had only owned this bike for 5 months and couldn't swim across a pool 8 months ago.

But I have to say that running from the transition area after the bike drop off and into the pool with the roar of spectators watching the finish was surreal. As I dived into the water, (which felt incredible after the run and bike) I quickly realized that a) I was feeling strong and I in fact, was swimming in front of all these people and b) chances were good that I was not going to drown as they watched.

While I wasn't thrilled about coming out of that pool and running across the finish line in my present wet, chubby, goggled state, the fact remained that I had just finished a triathlon. And with a better finish time than I had hoped for. It was my typical mid-pack performace and I could not have been happier. (Although due to the participation of only 5 other women in my 45-49 age group I did manage to snag a 3rd place award.....and I accept swag any way I can get it.)

But nothing beats being greeted back in the transition area by Sean, my naysayer son, smirking as he admits "Okay"...."that was WAYYYYYY more fun than I though it was going to be."

Well, duh! Did I mention that Sean is not slight of build? To be clear, he has legs like tree trunks. Legs that allow him to run at a pretty good pace and maintain speeds on a bike that would make Lance Armstrong proud. (Which, by the way, got him 5th in his age group. A much tougher category than mine.) We both headed home that day grateful for a good race and someone we loved to share it with.

So if you happen to be following me in traffic one day, you'll see my new Bountiful Triathlon sticker in my back window proudly proclaiming "I TRI". It looks great above the skull of the Bairgutsman sticker.

Hey, grandmas need hobbies too.

Take care. And maybe it's your time to TRI?

Childbirth

Crazy Bob's Bairgutsman. Those words have taunted my fitness fantasies since I heard about this race 3 years ago. 11.5 miles. 6 up the narrow trails of Baer Canyon's 4,900 vertical feet and over Francis Peak. Then 5.5 down dirt road into Farmington Canyon. Carry your own water, energy supplements and first aid kit because race support consists of a standby search and rescue crew and a truck at the top of the mountain's dirt road with water and Swedish Fish. Oh, and you'd better be finished in five hours or you may not get a race shirt. That's right. You have to earn this shirt. They don't give you one until you cross the finish line.


In the world of tough trail races, it's low on the scale when you start comparing it to some of the ultra distance trail events out there. But for those of us who live in the world of half marathons, and marathons over paved roads with aid stations every 3 miles, it's a pretty big deal.

Frances Peak is just a few miles east of my home. The round, white radar towers built on it a fixture of my morning run and an icon for a competitive level I would always admire but never expected to be part of.


But after three years of running, my attitude had transitioned slowly from "Impossible" to "Maybe" and finally to "Let's do this". Lucky for me my friend Angie, who provided the inspiration that started me running, said yes when I posed the idea. "Okay", she erupted quickly over the phone, "but sign us up now before I have a chance to change my mind."


"Done", I announced as I started filling out the online registration. And the challenge began.


We headed out to meet the mountain for the first time on June 20 and our relationship with it ended on Saturday, August 7 when we crossed the finish line. But it's impossible to spend time on this unforgiving terrain and not come away with lessons learned.


Be Prepared Yes, I was a Girl Scout in my youth and pride myself on always being the one who has all the right equipment, everything I need, with enough extra of everything to assist those who forgot to bring the right stuff. So imagine my shock when I felt my backside getting wet near the apex of our first training climb 4 miles up the mountain.


Pack inspection revealed that my superior Girl Scout self had neglected to securely attach the drinking hose to my Camelbak water bladder and now had no water left because it was sloshing in the bottom of my pack or had run down my shorts. Luckily we were headed down the mountain and Angie still had enough water for both of us. Extremely humbling.


Our last training run slapped us with another realization; lack of physical preparation can get you in trouble in a hurry. Especially at 9,000 feet.


We found ourselves mired in the ugly mix of high temperatures, high humidity, not enough sleep, and inadequate pre-run nutrition. And of course the worst didn't hit us until we were four miles up with another mile to the top over the steepest terrain of the route.


Down is not an option. In steep terrain it's just as exhausting as going up. But 'up' meant another mile before we got to the road and neither of us had much left to give to get there. Slow going and abandoned goal times were the worst of our consequences. Under the circumstances, it was a lucky day and one we were fortunate to experience before race day instead of on race day.


Races Make Runners Stupid There is something about race day that transforms normally intelligent, sensible people into mob-mentality idiots. Like Rednecks to a bass boat, we are drawn to the shiny finish line banner and the highly-coveted Bairgutsman t-shirt with no concern for life nor limb.


Which is exactly why we were all at the start line on race day, ready to go at 6:00 am, while we watched dark clouds boiling overhead and lightening stabbing at the very mountain we are headed towards. A mountain who's top 1.5 miles is across an open, barren landscape that makes YOU the highest point at any given moment. Yes, we were eagerly running towards the chance to be a lightening rod.


But God looks out for children and fools, and allowed us our day. As we ran toward the mountain, the storm moved on and we were spared the humiliation of being killed while people joked about weeding out the gene pool.

Races are like Childbirth On race day, when you pound up this mountain, quads screaming and lungs searing, you are propelled by one goal and one mantra. "Get to the finish and NEVER do this again." It IS what keeps you going. Well, that, and the fact that you don't want to get stuck with the bill from search and rescue when they have to helicopter you out.


So here I am, digging in my toes as I climb up endless switchbacks, bargaining, always bargaining with myself, that it's going to be okay because I will NEVER do this again. I repeat this to myself over and over again as my legs twitch with exhaustion. NEVER. Never again.


And when I finally head down the canyon, pushing just to maintain a slow jog and fighting those twitching muscles that threaten to seize at any moment, it's those words; NEVER. Never again; that bring me comfort.


And during what I hope is the last mile, I strain to see around every curve, praying for a finish line while my legs weaken with every stride. NEVER. Never again.


At last, a turn reveals a crowd directly below me and I sob in relief at the site of the word FINISH. I am almost done. And then NEVER. Never again.


Clapping my hands then raising my arms I run across the line, so thrilled with the accomplishment and so relieved to be done. I've given birth to a new version of myself and I am elated. But NEVER. Never again.


It is Tuesday night. 3 days after the race. My quads are still rock hard and sore and I hobble around my kitchen making dinner, smiling to myself. Smiling because Angie just sent me a text. "I think I'm losing my mind. Just drove past the towers and started thinking...maybe next year....." Smiling, because I drove past those same towers just two hours ago thinking, "Maybe...maybe next year."

The 'Before' Picture

Wow. I can't believe I'm doing this. But sometimes, in order to appreciate how far I've come, I have to look back at where (or more accurately - what) I've been. And that would be chubby...to put it kindly. Heck, I'm still chubby. But there's a serious difference between "5'3" size 20" chubby and "I could stand to lose another 15 pounds but I can run a half marathon tomorrow and in a semi-decent time" chubby.

So here I am back in March of 2005. I haven't looked at this picture since it was taken and I'm clearly remembering why. I wasn't even sure that I could locate any 'before' pictures because I had always avoided having pictures taken. Like somehow, by not capturing my girth in full-color digital format, it wasn't real.

So why post embarrassing memories at all? You are probably thinking, "You've lost weight. Good for you. So shut up about it already." But the point is....I don't want it to be about me. I want it to be about you. It's your heart and soul, not fitness that makes you a better person. But taking care of yourself greatly improves your chances of meeting your great-grandchildren. And I really want to meet mine.

It was a picture, of my good friend Angie participating in her first half marathon, emailed to me one day by chance, that flipped on the 'exercise switch' and changed everything. I'm not prattling on, month after month about me and my workouts so that you can be informed about 'me and my workouts.' My goal is to 'flip a switch' for you. Help you get started. Or help you continue the exercise or training you are already doing. And maybe this picture will help you see that everyday people really can become everyday athletes.

Now pick your jaw up off the floor (yes, I know, I was REALLY chubby) and go run or something. :)

Egos and Old Age

I am, on a regular basis, knocked down a peg or two by the Self Esteem Gods. Just when I get a little too sure of myself, WHAM...the blow is swift and mighty.

Like the time, as a young mother, I delighted in the second looks I was getting while driving to work one day. "Damn." I thought smugly. "Must be lookin' good today!" Only to discover in the office parking lot that my children had attached every brightly colored magnetic letter and number, formerly on our fridge, to the passenger side of my car. I was driving the freaking Sesame Street Mobile.

So it was a familiar wrath that greeted me the other morning, after a lightening fast bike ride that could have resulted in a speeding ticket in my neighborhood (yeah...I was flyin'). Feeling good...grandma's got game...bring on the triathlon...I practically swagger into the house (except that I can't swagger and would look like I was in serious need of Preparation H.)

Out of the shower, grab a magnifying mirror, tweezers, reach to pluck a rogue hair from my eyebrow and WHAM. There it is. Dangling. Draping around my chin. It's a neck waddle!

OMG! When did this happen? How long have I had this? I check my reflection at least once a day. My profile appears firm. My neck and chin look perfectly normal when I am in an upright position. I snap to attention and look at my face in the large wall mirror. Perfectly fine. (Well, you know...for being almost 48.)

Then I slowly lean toward the mirror and tilt my chin down, down, until there!...gravity takes over and skin that used to be firmly attached to underlying connective tissue falls forward creating this disgusting sack of loose flesh. Yep. It's a neck waddle all right.

Okay. I am here to tell you that old age does not creep up on you. That is a big, fat lie. It does not creep. It explodes. One day you are fine and the next, WHAM - can't read the directions to put together your granddaughters doll stroller. WHAM - your laundry doubles because of night sweats. WHAM - sneezing with a full bladder had better happen while you are seated...on the toilet. And the grenades just keep coming.

I keep thinking that running faster and biking farther will stop all this nonsense. But it doesn't. It doesn't even seem to be slowing things down! I thought working out was like "extra credit". It would keep my body performing and looking "A" level. And here I am at a B-!

But fear not fellow everyday athletes. I will not give up. I will pursue my wellness with enthusiasm, neck waddle and all. I'll be easy to spot. I'll be the lady running down the road, neck flapping in the breeze; 1/2 dressed because I'm so blasted hot I could die; wearing reading glasses and Depends. Ego Gods and Old Age be damned!

The Secret to Training Success.....

I love to read articles on event training. Running, cycling, swimming...experts have all kinds of tips and tricks to help us "be all that we can be". But I want to propose a new level of achievement for everyday athletes that you won't find in any magazine and I myself have just recently come to fully understand and embrace. It is both effective and liberating.

Suck less.

That's right. Sometimes I feel like I could do back flips to celebrate after a workout just knowing that I suck a little less at the sport than I did the week before. My swim training is the perfect example. It is mirroring my "OMG I am so bad at this" running attempt that started 3 years ago.

I am still so slow at swimming laps that any 8-year-old can kick my butt with ease. (I know because I have witnessed an 8-year-old swim competition where they were 5 minutes faster than me in a 500 meter race.) However, the key here is that a) I did the workout, instead of heading to the Wendy's drive thru for my pre-dinner snack of a large order of fries for the drive home after work as I would have a few years ago and b) my 500 meter time is now 2 minutes faster than it was last month. 4 months ago I couldn't swim across the pool.

Yes, I still suck at swimming. But I suck less than I used to and I couldn't be happier. It really is that simple. Everyday athletes do not typically win events. We show up. We participate. We struggle to stay mid-pack in a race but we win at life. We enjoy better health, a better attitude and we are experts at laughing at ourselves. We do not squander abilities and blessings that many others will never enjoy.

It was best said when my sister Renee asked her 14-year-old daughter Michaela what she appreciated most about her own swimming ability after coaching the Special Olympics swim team this year. Renee expected her to say something like, "How fast I can swim." But instead Michaela looked at her and said, "That I can get into the pool by myself."

It is not about winning. It is not about focusing on what we can't do. It is about showing up on race day, and competing with other everyday athletes, not against them. We do what we can, and go home being better for it.

And at our next workout, we will, with grateful hearts, push harder, and we will suck less.

The "Du"el

Yes....my first duathlon. And as usual, I found myself laughing out loud during competition as I thought about sharing this with you. (Don't worry....no one was within earshot so I didn't appear deranged nor did I piss off a fellow participant...always a plus in any competitive event.)

This run/bike/run event consisted of a 2 mi run/20 mi bike ride/2 mi run. Make no mistake, I loved it and will continue to do multi-sport events, if for no other reason than the plethora of subject matter when it comes to sports and fitness.

Pre-race Psych Multi-sport events use a transition area. It's where you rack your bike, stake out your 15-inch wide territory (I swear I expected a few guys to lift their legs and mark it) and set up your gear that you will need for each event. You hang out here before the race and come back to this spot between events to change gear and race on.

This was a small non-sanctioned event, meaning it was geared more for the everyday athlete, which is why I chose it. But no matter how many times you use "fun" in the title of a race you still get "Lance" who shows up with his $5,000 bike ready to annihilate the rest of us. You know Lance not only by his gear but by the constant good natured shouts of acknowledgement and supplication from other 'almost Lances' who know this guy from previous races.

So here I am, setting up my space, so glad that I attended the race orientation the previous evening for "newbie" multi-sport folks. Had I not, I would have been staring, baffled at this 10 ft long/4 ft high single horizontal bar trying to figure out how in the heck I was supposed to tether my bike to this thing. I would have expected to roll my front tire into a bike rack resembling the one I passed every morning while attending grade school. And then I'm sure I would have been trying to tie my bike to this thing like it was horse instead of simply lifting it and hanging it from the bar by its seat while the front tire rests on the ground. Humiliation avoided: bonus.

By far the coolest part of the pre-race preparations is the body marking. This is where a volunteer uses a black marker to write your race number down your arm and on your calf. While being marked, images from Life magazine's coverage of the Hawaii Ironman flash through your mind. And you secretly hope that they are using permanent ink so you can enjoy the implication of the marking far after the race is over.

As I set up I take stock of my competition. Now I know that spandex is a part of most sports, but cycling takes the cake. While skin tight spandex is not a bad thing on some people, and I recognize that no one wants to be wearing a sail going 20 miles an hour on a bike, some of us should probably have limits placed on its use. FYI: Competition cycling attire typically has a long front zipper that is important for body temperature control, and will play a role in later observations.

Take "the gut". He becomes the letter "P" when he stands sideways. Enough said. I am endeared to him immediately. Now picture a tall, lean-framed woman, sporting a brightly logo'd skin tight shorts and shirt, looking like she stepped off the front of Triathlete magazine. Not only is this not me, picture the exact opposite. But this guy, he makes me feel better about my currently bisected thighs. Head on, my legs are shaped like 8s from my cycling shorts. But I know, even though we may not look like it, we will do just fine.

Of course, there are those magazine cover look-alikes. Past running competitions have taught me that you either respect their training discipline or covet their metabolism, whichever got them looking that way. But looking like a winner doesn't make you one. What's important is that we all showed up today....and we will try.

It's my non-threatening appearance, I'm sure, that has attracted two new rack mates, Jeanette and Bonnie. They are multi-sport newbies too, much younger than I, but I'm sure drawn to my 'prepared grandmother' vibe I give off by my organized space. As I suspected, they are fun, and deeply appreciative of my well stocked backpack containing all the things they forgot and now need to borrow. I also serve as cameraman.

And we're off In hindsight, the difference between the beginning of this race and end is like night and day. In the beginning, our competitive instincts are primary. We jockey for position as we run these first two miles. Eyes narrowed, it's all about time as we check our pace and wonder if we look like we pooped our pants as we run along in our padded cycling shorts.

The bike race Finishing the run I charge into the transition area in a blind panic trying to find my bike. Note to self: next time mentally map the transition area before you start the race. I locate my bike, shaking slightly while I try to remove my baseball cap, remove my sunglasses, don my helmet, buckle my helmet, put on my sunglasses, put on my cycling gloves, lift my bike off the rack and run with it to the mount line.

Many cyclists are also changing into their special clip-on cycling shoes. For obvious reasons, I do not choose to employ this particular cycling accessory. When I considered it, I could vividly feel the horror as I came to the end of a course, officials yelling at me to dismount, my legs jerking violently trying to get my shoes to release out of the pedals while I fall helplessly over, hands still gripping the handlebars. My alternative vision has me on a training ride, falling over at a traffic light and being run over by an SUV piloted by a texting teenager and the bystanders unable to render aid because they are laughing so hard. Riding in running shoes seems to be the better option.

Woo hoo! I'm doing it! I'm in a cycling race. I've only owned my bike for 6 weeks and I have wholly embraced the "ignorance is bliss" approach to my competitive endeavors. This is apparent by my pre-race epiphany where, in the transition area while spinning my rear tire, I realized that the irritating sound I'd been hearing for the last 4 weeks was one pad of my rear brake resting on my tire rim. I plucked the handy-dandy never-previously-used tool kit out of my grandma-ready backpack, figured out which connection to tighten on my rear brake, and viola, no more brake drag. (It was here where Jeanette and Bonnie had entered the picture, obviously mislead by the appearance of competency.) Note to self: In the future, if you hear a weird noise while biking, assume something is wrong and check it out.

Here I am. Whizzing along! What an idiot! Do you know how much easier it is to pedal when your brake isn't engaged? I even pass a few people. Wow, this is great.

Now time for another multi-sport lesson. Two men pass and move to the right ahead of me. I'm pedaling along in beginner bliss still marveling at my new found speed when I see the rider ahead of me turn his head to the right, place a finger along side of his nose and blow. OMG! Windborn phlegm is now hurtling at me. I swear if it hits me I will gag and quit right here. Snot rockets are a part of the running world. But when this form of nasal passage clearance procedure is utilized on a bike, it becomes a flying bio hazard capable of taking down the fiercest competitor by its sheer grossness. I manage to avoid the flying phlegm and race on.

This course is an out and back route on a paved path, one that I had ridden before. On the return segment the riders are separated by great distances and it's on one of these isolated miles that I encounter the confidence shaking split in the trail. What? Where is the directional sign? Where is the orange cone? Where is the volunteer pointing the way. There are none. And I have no one to follow. I make my choice to stay right at the last second and pedal furiously to try to catch a competitor. When I finally round a curve and see a rider ahead of me, instead of being flooded with relief I immediately move into new levels of worry that she, too, has made a mistake and we are both now headed the wrong way. Note to self: In future races, pay attention to the course instead of just blindly following.

Finally I spot more riders ahead and my concern gives way to determination as I push for the finish line. Dismount - and proceed to attempt a run with my bike back to the transition area. Run? Is that what I'm doing? I look down at my moving feet, that I currently can't feel. Whoa! Who disconnected my legs from my torso? This is crazy. I enter the transition area, lift my bike, and perform the previous transition ritual in reverse.

Last leg of the race! Here I go! Gone is the steely-cold competitive attitude. We are tired. We are sweaty. And we are two miles away from the finish. As I enter the out and back 2 mile pathway, I am suddenly confused by my transport to something that looks like a Gay Pride parade. The men running toward me who are headed to the finish line are sporting deep V's of exposed chest, some carpeted with hair, as they've lowered the zipper of their short-sleeved cycling jerseys to their abdomen in a temperature control maneuver that coupled with the skimpy shorts, has me transfixed and confused. Then I spot my "P" man. Right behind the leaders, barreling along with them to the finish line. He lights my way.

On I go. Looking down to make sure my feet are still moving. We all shout encouragement to our fellow racers. All united by the common goal, chest hair or not. It's about finishing. It's about ALL of us finishing. I spot Jeanette and Bonnie headed out on the run as I am coming back, almost to the finish line. I can read the delighted surprise on their faces. Grandma's got game.

Crossing a finish line is always a mix of relief, joy, and sorrow. Relief that you are done. Sorrow that the experience is over. And joy that you actually pulled it off.

As I wander back to my vehicle, tired and content I think back to my first finish line. It was my driveway. And I crossed it 3 years ago after shuffling my then 202 lb frame over 2 miles. It took me 35 minutes. But me and "P" man. We just keep tryin'.