you may say that i'm a dreamer, but i'm not the only one...

father's day is almost here (again), and not un-like mother's day, facebook has kindly prompted it's masses to copy and paste (and post) assorted pater related paraphernalia (south africa, 1975, dad is third from the left, next to mum, both sitting behind me).



but which photo? staring at the albums i got that same glazed over feeling which happens at baskin & robbins. but this is the one i went with; awali, bahrain, sometime in the mid 80's, on his way to work to do a couple of fillings. there were a lot of different names on the house signs, some in arabic, but as far as i can remember there weren't any others that started and ended with a z-- and believe me, there are a lot of arabic names that do.



at this point i think it is fairly evident that i cant commit to much of anything-- and i do thank, not blame, my dad for that (it is his fault about the flat feet though) geographical transience can do that to a person. iceland; circa. we were very small-- somewhere in the 3 foot range-- but this demonstrates how the fedorowicz's never travel light, regardless of how much practicing at it goes on.



then there was the "badass" one where he ran the comrades ultra-marathon in south africa (that's 90k south of the equator) some time in the late 70's.



or the one where he took "teenage me" mountain biking around the jebel (bahrain) with his windsurfing buddies, post-gulf war (the first one).



speaking of windsurfing...sheik's beach, bahrain, the 90's.



there was also the apres 'ride around the desert', in the paddling pool, with floating beer...



scuba diving in the red sea in the 80's. well, diving and drinking home brewed wine for the grown ups, ripping apart sea cucumbers and starfish for the under 9's.



and the "poo thing"...duba, saudi arabia; we were so proud of the home made camping toilet that was the sum product of the fedorowicz, wood and barnes families' hard labour.



because this is what we all had to put up with before; a shovel, sand dune and a roll of andrex...



always a family favourite, dad laughing uncontrollably while pointing out the giant, steaming pile the horse (that just carried his son and future daughter-in-law away by carriage) left behind. (keysoe, england, 5-ish years ago).



my birthday card (from my brother), detailing the finer points of a dog's bum, caused such silent mirth and tears of appreciation, that we could not miss the opportunity to document it (buckden, england, two-ish summers ago).



at this point, it's clearly evident that freud would have a field day; the apple cant even be pried off the tree. dad in his dental chair, bahrain.



last christmas.

show us your bibs!

new orleans, what better place to run a long distance foot race than during mardi gras season; it's flat, temperatures are not "sweat pooling in your butt crack and belly button" and there are plenty of doughnuts, i mean beignets, to fortify the fat stores before the big event.

while we did see michael j fox in the arrivals hall at louis armstrong international, i was somewhat surprised, given the season, at the lack of trannies handing out cytomax along the actual course- by the time i came shuffling through the aid station, even the most hung over should have been up and scarfing a bacon wrapped beignet or two. however, the route masters did a great job of touring us through "things from tv and the pages of people magazine in real life"-- the superdome and media focus of hurricane katrina hysteria (apparently also a football team), the funereal skyline of above ground mausoleums, mark twain's mississippi river, complete with big noisy paddle steamers lumbering by, and the quaint neon charm of larry flynt's hustler clubs in quicker succession than antebellum porches shaded by spanish moss.

so aside from all of the other verbs-- "drink"; hurricanes, martinis, cosmopolitans, and a shiraz called "ass kisser", "shop"; or at least try to figure out how to get the lady at the joe malone counter in SAKS to give us flutes of champagne- apparently it's two more decades and a very pronounced 'botox face', "eat"; anything that swam, scavenged or mooed covered in beans, rice and grits, "play"; 'talking to random strangers at the bar', which definitely gets more mileage than 'talking to random strangers you are sitting next to on the flight from portland to laguardia, and "people watch"; a couple getting engaged in the grass at franklin park, we did "run", and because i still haven't figured out how to do more than charge the bloody garmin, i used basic maths-- fairly accurately (for me). 1 under cross-trained/over run left knee with a history of dislocation minus 13.1 equals 13.1 (yes, i scaled down to the half, keep up people) divided by a bunch of other halves where i now know an acceptable pace per mile marker and when to ramp things up, equals me crossing the finish line in (personal) record time with fatigued legs, but not feeling like i just want to lie on the tarmac for 35 minutes and aspirate sport's beans. 2:07:21. final answer: i am officially on target to kick oprah's ass time at the next 26.2

twenty-six point two; number two

running 26.2 miles has officially been crossed off the "list of things to do before i die" (still waiting for "crush grapes with my feet" and "drown face in chocolate fondue fountain"- as the preferred way to die). however, stepping it up to an ultramarathon, or ironman (yeah, i don't do anything involving 'speedo' couture), is easily over ruled by the chance to repeat comittment vows to my running buddy- who was very "persuasive", employing several bottles of 'blue tattoo' pinot.



at first, i told her she could kiss my reduced, post marathon arse.



then i recalled our apres race euphoria and/or sport bean's delirium, and decided that this would be an excellent way to maintain aforementioned arse's residence in current size of jeans.



if all else fails, then we are strategizing for an energy conservation formation at mile 23...



it will be long distance training, and if this works as well as it has for my relationships, then i will be exchanging gu's with a speedy kenyan at mile marker 20.

while i did pee on my hand, i did not shit in my shorts

"there is a beginning, and an end". this was the mantra that my running buddy repeated at miles 4, 9, and 26-point-one-and -three-quarters. the san diego rock and roll marathon 2008, or FOC (fear of comitment) journey, did have a finish line, and we crossed it like true codies; holding hands.



the expo was a great opportunity for 4 idiots jacked up on pancakes, french toast, and breakfast burritos to: do the US marine pull bar challenge (girl's version); detoxify their feet in electro charged buckets of water that turned into poo stew after 20 minutes; trawl for free samples of nut based energy snacks that could pass through our colons before we even left the convention centre. unfortunately, while the trademarked "rock and roll" appeared to be the mouse ear equivalent for it's omnipresence on keychains, onesies, and various kinds of running vaporwick couture, it was impossible to find a simple bumper sticker that didn't instruct me to 'run like a girl', 'diva', or 'after chocolate'.



race day started early (and as it often does, in line for the port-a-loo), where team in training were the popular kids in town (out numbering even elvis), each region having their own sorority style hand slap/chant/running formation. the kenyans were nowhere to be seen (excluding a brief sighting at the expo), but that was hardly surprising as my corral was about 3 miles from the start line. apparently the winner crossed the finishing mats barefoot (where does he attach the timing chip?), but given the 3rd degree burns i sustained on my shoulders, i would assume that running on hot tarmac might feel mildly unpleasant. of course by the time the sun had burned off the clouds, and top layer of my epidermis, he was already getting a massage and relaxing with his complimentary bagel, bottle of poland spring, and cheque for $35,000.

despite the intestinal combination of brazilian steakhouse, sushi, and 3 varieties of trader joes tortellini marinating in the spin cycle with red wine, margaritas, and jamba juice, my GI was able to overcome any mid-race anal dilation. however, in an effort to avoid complete dessication, i hydrated enough to give my kidneys something to do for a few hours, i just did not want to spend several muscle stiffening minutes standing and waiting for a hot, stinky port-a-loo. instead we joined the men (and the homeless) in the bushes lining downtown san diego's office buildings, opting out of the more revealing "pull down and bare the cheeks" pee, for the "pull to the side and hope you don't splash on your hand because who really has control over the dispersal of a litre of accelerade at high pressure" pee. (apparently not me).

overall, the course was great (flat), plenty of people to watch (nike could so corner the market on dri-fit religious wear for the guy running in his yarmulke), and enough early morning fog to keep the melanoma levels low. the "rock and roll" feature had a disappointingly low zone of noise transmission or perhaps i was just achieving such levels of acceleration, that i never heard an entire song. however, there were plenty of homeless people and pre-pubescent middle school cheerleading clubs lining the course to motivate us to get the hell on to the next mile marker. during the harder (higher) mileage it did help to know that at least i wasn't bart yasso ultra marathonning in the southwestern desert, changing his (melting) shoes every 10 miles, and dodging piles of (slowly cooking) regurgitated banana. mind over puked up matter. so there was no crying because there was no debilitating hip pain, which i attribute to stretching out my IT band at each of the last 4 miles of accelerade stops.



and what does one do when faced with a 2,500 calorie deficit? drive over to old town for margaritas and chips, because obviously the salt packet from mile 13 was depleted and forming a crusty exoskeleton on my face. and then one compares the hues of her "first pee"; diluted mustard (french, not english).

unfortunately i never got the black toenails. even my supervisor at work was eager to check (and justifiably disappointed at)their post marathon status. if i train for another one, i might get lucky. next time it will be the east coast.

going the distance

i am going to run my first marathon this year. i've been putting it off and putting it off, until the time felt "right". i cant explain why "this" time feels "right", but i know the time is "now".

my calendar now has 16 weeks of training runs marked down; shorter daily runs to maintain, and long weekend runs for stamina, allowing myself to adjust to the discomfort, until it feels "easy"(er).

the closer the pages get to "the big day", the more overwhelming the task at hand looks. and doubt creeps in that perhaps i am incapable, so why bother trying, or putting myself through unecessary suffering and injury. i know that there are going to be those times that totally suck (walking/whining/wailing/wallowing) where i will want to pack it in. but i also know myself; and i wont.

thankfully, i have a co-worker/buddy/partner/supporter/witness to both the good days and the sucky days. that is what it is ultimately about.

(even if old men are faster than me).

26.2

vaseline. powerade. gu. $50 shorts that make your quadriceps work more efficiently and promise not creep up into the crotch every 3 shuffles. these are the proper nouns of the distance runner.

i have now run 4 half marathons, which equates to two full ones. of course collapsing at the 13 mile lactic threshold is a bit different to having to rinse and repeat my dehydrated self for another 13. i was, however, trained from a young age to stay on my feet for 5 and 6 hour stretches. 'return from overseas shopping trips to london in order to hit every single department store up and down oxford street, bond street, and tottenham court road' was the interval training my mother (and grandmother) subjected my brother and i to. of course he has reacted to this childhood workout regimen by becoming a rather sedentary adult. i am far too vain/insecure/obsessive, to not break a sweat every other day.

and this is why i am contemplating putting myself (and those nearest and dearest to me) through the physical pain of my own bleeding (and that of their ears) as i whine, bitch, moan and complain about: inside thigh chub rubbed raw and bloody, screaming muscles, blisters on the feet that look like bubble wrap, chafed nipples, lactic threshold, and salty white streaks on overpriced technical fabric that "wicks". pro's to consider: all you can eat ben and jerry's for at least 2 weeks.

it requires a committment.

(!)

i hope i get the black toenails.