Modesto Marathon Recap: No Really, It's Okay.

About a month ago, I raced the Modesto Marathon. It was my first marathon in over a year and I was itching to run. I was excited partly because I enjoy the slow torture of running over 26 miles, but also because it was going to be a first of sorts. Prior to this marathon, I had completed five marathons. I had never set a time goal before, as my only intentions thus far were to simply finish, preferably alive, and without vomiting or otherwise soiling myself. So far, I was five for five. (Woot!) But for Modesto? Well, Modesto I wanted to race. And I didn’t just want to race, I wanted a PR (Personal Record) that doubled as a BQ (Boston Qualify). I had scored myself a pretty respectable half marathon time in January (1:38:03) that set me up nicely for, what I thought would be, a solid marathon. So, for marathon number six, I was going to race it. And if you’re well trained, how much different could racing a marathon be than running a marathon?  Spoiler alert! A lot. That’s how much. A whole freaking lot.

Running a marathon and racing a marathon are two totally different things. Regardless of effort on race day, you’re still covering over 26 miles. Which, even still, blows my mind. But, to race that distance? Holy crap. That’s like saying, “Please kick me in the teeth over and over again for a few hours. No, really. Go for it. Just totally kick the shit out of me. And really make it hurt, okay? Let’s see how much I can take. Then when I’m really hurting, when I’m begging for mercy, I want you to set me on fire. Yes, I said ‘fire’. And when I’m really ablaze, try putting out the fire with gasoline. And if that doesn’t work, try smothering it by rolling me around in shards of broken glass. Oh, man! So much fun!”

The marathon gets a lot of hype, presumably for two reasons. First, for many it’s hard to understand why anyone would want run for 26.2 miles. Because, also, before the 26.2 mile race comes the 3-6 months of training that precedes it. And two, unless you’ve run a marathon, you really can’t see how it’s much different than any other kind of race. Really, just how is it different? Well, in the immortal genius of Hal Higdon, marathon champion and coach, “The difference between the mile and the marathon is the difference between burning your fingers with a match and being slowly roasted over hot coals.” Yep. That sounds about right.

So, we’ve established that on a good day the marathon is like being burned alive. And to race a marathon is like being burned alive, on purpose, begging for more, and paying hundreds of dollars to do it.  Sounds like my idea of a good time. Let’s review how that went for me, mkay?

Not well. It went really, really not well.

I’ll spare you some of the gory details, but suffice it to say that there was a lot of vomit and a lot of misery. With about 8 miles still to go, I wanted to pull over and beg for the DNF (Did Not Finish) at every aide station. For every Bike Marschall that rode past me and asked if I was okay or if I needed help, I wanted to confirm that, yes, I was in need of A LOT of help. But, I wouldn’t let myself. I wasn’t injured. I still had several hours to complete the race; in theory, I could walk the entire rest of the way and still finish before the race was over. I would finish, dang it.

Despite the dark and miserable place that I found myself, I kept reminding myself that no matter how miserable I felt, I was still moving. I was alive and able. I could think of so many people who kill for this opportunity. So, like hell was I going to take that for granted. I also thought about my daughter. I wanted her to see what hard work looked like. I wanted her to see that her mom doesn’t give up just because things get a little tough. I needed her to see that even when your plans get totally derailed and you feel so disappointed, and you want to cry and give up, that is the time when you work harder. And so, I kept going. I may not have liked the outcome, but like hell was I going to let it stop me.

So, I trudged along oscillating between walking (no puke) to running (puke). Finally, at mile 25.5, I forced myself into a run and would not allow myself to stop until I crossed that finish line. By the time I could see the finish line, I could feel the vomit at my molars and I using sheer will power to keep it down. As I pushed it in, I could hear the announcer calling my name. And just before I crossed the finish line, I stopped. Dead in my tracks, I stopped. Then, slowly, I walked across the finish line with my hand covering my mouth and just praying this was as bad as it was going to get. People started to swarm me and I motioned for them to stay away and give me some pace. We were in a very delicate situation and if I could have just a little space, it might, MIGHT, end well.

Well, it didn’t be cause someone yelled, “Oh my God! She’s gonna puke! Get her a bag!”

Sorry, friends. No action shots. But we all know what's coming.

And just like that, the power of suggestion released the kraken from the depths of my gut and it was the pie eating contest scene from Stand By Me all over again. I vomited all over my shoes and finish line, and all in the accompaniment of a few hundred people. Then, I went ahead and filled up a plastic bag, too. I was so, so sick. I had a screaming, pounding headache. I was exhausted. I was so disappointed.  I was 17 minutes over my time goal, which is basically an eternity for a marathon. The months and months of hard training that went into this race were for not. And so, covered in a mix of sweat and vomit, I made my way out of the finisher’s area.

Apparently, when you vomit with the commitment that I did, they like you to swing by the medical tent for a little visit. A very nice man told me to come inside, lie down on a cot, and enjoy a nice, warm Gatorade with salt. And naturally, the only open cot among the walking dead was situated right between what appeared to be two sub-three marathon champion-type immortals who, I’m sure, set new records with both their super fast times and their ridiculously chiseled abs. And here I am, just barely screeching under a 4-hour marathon but vomiting like I broke the world record. And chiseled? Not even. I’m more…sanded to a nice, round finish. I must admit that I didn’t even feel like I earned my spot in the medic tent. Just prop me up behind the dumpsters, turn on the hose for me to drink out of, and let’s call it good. That’s how I was feeling.

Tricia <3

But, I drank my salt and Gatorade (so yuck, by the way), and then my thoughts started to firm up and I started to see clearly again. My sweet husband, Marc, and daughter, Lily, were sitting on one side of me, and on my other side, my dear friend, Tricia. And guess what? They were super proud of me and had nothing but love. They felt the loss of my BQ and told me that I ran like a champ anyway. And the way that they said it leads me to believe that they actually meant it, too; they weren’t just being nice. Then Marc said to me, “Hold on. There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

Then, all of the sudden, I look up and in walks my other dear friend, Grace. Unbeknownst to me, she had been planning for a while to come and watch me finish. She drove over three hours to watch me vomit and totally miss my mark. But guess what again? You know what she did? She rushed over, sat down beside me, gave me a huge hug, kissed my cheek and said, “I am so proud of you.”

Grace & Company bringing street cred to Modesto.
Or, as Grace calls it, "Thug Life".

And then there was my coach. She understands my drive on an entirely different level than most because, well, she lives it, too. She works me hard, she encourages me, keeps me focused, and when needed, she snaps the proverbial leash when I get too frisky and need to mellow things out. One of the many things that I love about her is that she’s always straight with me. When I need to chill out, which is often, she reminds me to breathe. When I’m feeling insignificant, she reminds me of the progress I’ve made. When I’m feeling unsure, she reminds me of all the workouts I’ve nailed. And when I totally bonk in a marathon, she reminds me that it was just one day, that I’ll get them next time, that it wasn’t for lack of fitness or trying, and (most importantly), that she’s super proud of me. Funny how hearing that never gets old, no matter how old you are.

So, all I can say is, WOW. I bonked hard at this race. I totally crashed. And I am literally surrounded by so much love and support. These people are truly proud of me. And just like that, it was okay. I was okay. Sure, I was and still am very disappointed in how I ran Modesto. I would have loved a BQ. But, you know what? Let’s review for a moment. I got to run a marathon, which I freaking love to do. I finished without getting injured. I have the strength and vitality to run again and again and again. I was surrounded by nothing but total love and support. So, really? Maybe it wasn’t the day I had hoped for. But to say it was a bad day is entirely inaccurate. It was a pretty freaking great day when you really look at it all.

For the rest of that day, everyone exercised the same slow and deliberate movements that one should do around unpredictable, rabid animals. I am not typically known for my muted reactions to important events, so I can see how my even keel threw them off. Are you okay? Are you sure? No, really…are you okay? And the answer is always, yes. Yes, I’m okay. You can have a disappointing day and a day that’s also good. I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t cry in the shower afterwards, or that I didn’t buy myself a new, fancy purse to soften the blow of a missed opportunity, because c’mon, people. It's not like I’m not dead on the inside. But, overall, I was feeling awfully lucky.

The next morning, I awoke early, around 5am. The first thought that came to my mind was not about how sore my legs felt, or how badly my race had gone. But instead I thought about how many training days I had left before my next attempt at the BQ. What could I improve? What could I do differently next time? When can I get started? For some, maybe the defeat of the day before would have deterred from future attempts. But for me, it’s only heightened the crazy and increased my focus. I am more determined and motivated than ever. I look at posts and blogs about the Boston Marathon the same way in which a starving lion watches an unsuspecting gazelle. I’m hungry.

So, presumably, there are a few things that went wrong at Modesto, and a few things that I know I can improve upon. First, the vomit party was likely a result of Hyponatremia, which is basically a really difficult word to spell and a fancy way to say that my sodium levels were too low. Between the excessive drinking on an unseasonably warm day and the excessive sweating from running for almost four hours, this caused an electrolyte imbalance of epic proportions, thus resulting in the fatigue, the vomit, and the headache. A pretty easy fix, I’ll start training with salt tablets and keep an eye on fluid intake.

Secondly, and not necessarily a deficit, but instead an area to sharpen up, I’m focusing on more strengthening and speed. My coach drafted some new speed workouts that would surely kill me, then she backed it off just a smidge and said, “This will work nicely!” as well as incorporating greater race pace mileage into long run days. She knows I’m crazy and up for the challenge. Plus, I trust her inherently, so if she told me to gargle with raw sewage, I’d totally do it if she said it would make me a better, faster, stronger runner. 

As for strengthening, you all remember Grace? She was my friend who surprised me at Modesto? Well, like my coach, she knows my crazy and is nothing but loving and supportive. She’s also wickedly strong, uber smart, and has a high tolerance for the kind of energy that I bring to this relationship. A few times a week, Grace and I get together and work on strengthening of hips, core, and upper body. She writes detailed plans and we work it out. At first, I was worried that the differences in our ability levels would phase this out fairly quickly, as Grace is able to do twice as much in half the time. For real. While Grace is lifting 15-pound barbells, I’m rocking two-and-a-half pound wrist weights that, I’m fairly certain, are actually Maxi pads that she just spray painted orange and grey so that I wouldn’t feel so bad. But, Grace is super awesome and she’s found ways to draft plans that meet both our strengthening needs. She encourages me and makes me feel like a champ, even if her seven-year-old daughter and I have the same weight-lifting tolerance. She’s helping me get stronger, which in turn helps me get faster. But even more than that, I so look forward to our workouts because we have fun, and because she inspires me in so many more ways that she even knows, and because it reminds me that even if I never BQ or even PR, this is what it’s all about. It’s about becoming strong, healthy, happy, best versions of us.

In just under a month, assuming I can remain healthy and uninjured, I’ll be making another attempt at a BQ. Already, I feel differently about this race. I went through a pretty hellish experience at Modesto and survived it, so I know I can endure a lot. Plus, I’ve got a different perspective. Sure, I’ve got some nerves when I think about the race, but I’m more excited and enthusiastic than I am nervous. I get another opportunity to do what I love, to do what so many would love to be able to do but can’t, and to see just what I’m made of. That’s thrilling, my friends! How often do we get to really do that? As cliché as it sounds, that really is a gift. I’ve got a ton of people in my corner, all of whom will applaud me no matter what the outcome, and the only one I’m racing against is myself. It’s a win-win with tater tots at the end.

So, that’s my recap. Lessons learned are:

1. Marathons are hard.
2. Vomiting is no fun.
3. Warm Gatorade with salt is gross.
4. I have a little bit of crazy inside of me.
5. The only difference between a bad day and a good day is perspective (most of the time).
6. My friends, family, and coach are super awesome and help harness the crazy into good.
7. I’m super lucky.
8. Yes, even with the bad, this is fun and I have no intention of ever stopping.

Until next time, my friends! Keep on, keeping on!

Cool Kids (Of Which I Am Not)

I am, beyond the shadow of a doubt, supremely uncool. I carry with me the illusion of coolness on account of my occasionally well-placed clever comebacks, as well as the fact that I’m married to a “cool” person, and that I surround my self with “cool” people. But, be not mistaken, friends.  This does not make me cool. I do not fit in. I am socially awkward. I demonstrate strong socially reclusive tendencies that I believe are the result of some fairly well-developed social anxieties. And let’s not forget that my own biological system is completely thwarting any attempts at being able to develop,  and maintain, any kind of social coolness on account of most cool things do not align themselves with 4pm dinners and 8pm bedtimes. 

I have never been cool. Like, ever. For starters, I’ve always been a stickler for the rules. Cool kids are fine with bending the rules, or even breaking them. Me? Even as a small child, I was all about maintaining and enforcing them with unrelenting fidelity. And God speed if you broke one and I found out, because all consequences were swift, severe, and most certainly without mercy. I once wrote my mom a strongly worded letter at the tender age of 7 when my oldest brother, Justin, was supposed to be watching me and my other brother, Jeremy.  Justin was not only punishing us for infractions that had absolutely no merit, but he, himself, was in direct violation of pretty much every rule that was established in the household. I took it upon myself to alert my mother to his misconduct, along with recommendations regarding future caregivers and caregiver expectations (see below). My mom thought it was hilarious (Seriously, Mom?!) and, decades later, had it photocopied and laminated. Clearly, she failed to see the significance and urgency of my letter. Perhaps she's the one who deserves a strongly worded letter. Just saying'.

In case you're wondering, the letter goes like this (spelling and grammatical errors included for authenticity).....

Mom-

I am never haveing Justin babysit me agine. He is not nice to me. He dose not follow the rulls. If we brake a full he will get me in trouble. I hate him. I love you so very much and I will never stop loving you. I am not yelling at you, I just think we do not need a babysiter like Jusin. And please wake me up at 6. I love you so much.

                 Love, Jessica Pickens

                    I love love love love love love love love love you Mom.

Coolness isn’t just about how you act; it’s equally about how you look and carry yourself. I did not look cool. In first grade, my homemade haircut, that could only be described as "I tried", ensured that my gender remained ambiguous. But by fourth grade, I never wanted to be mistaken as “That nice boy, Jesse” again so I saved up all my money and took myself down to “Debbie’s Country Cut ‘N Curl” and got balls-to-the-walls pretty. Eighty-five dollars later, I was looking super foin (that’s “fine” with swagger…Wanna know something else? Cool kids don’t usually have to explain their attempts at cool vernacular. So far, this case is pretty much bulletproof). So, anyway, several hours later I emerged from the salon with my permed mullet. That’s right. I got a permed mullet. And unfortunately for me, fourth grade was also the year I spent the first half of the year refusing to take off my aqua blue ski parka, even when the temps rose tino the high 90’s...Because, you know, demonstrating your heat tolerance gives you wicked street cred…

Well, what about the second half of the school year, Jessica? Did you make a fashion revival? No, actually. I didn’t. The second half of the school year I wore the same outfit every day for about, oh, two months. It consisted of acid wash mom jeans that I paired with a teal shirt that outlined whale taxonomy. I’d wear it every single day and, as soon as I got home, I’d change into my most comfortable pair of stirrup pants and bedazzled shoes and put the school clothes in the wash for the next day. My reasoning was this, I could look amazing and educate others about classification of the world’s whale population. It never occurred to me that wearing the same damn clothes for two months straight might make the climb up the social ladder a bit more challenging. 

Moving into middle school, I got braces. And despite the orthodontist’s insistence that it only needed to be worn at night, I went ahead and wore that headgear to school. Everyday. For the entire spring. We’re going to leave it at that, so don't even try...vultures.

When I wasn’t completely invisible to the other cool kids at school, I was being made fun of by them. I got excellent grades and worked well above grade level in every subject. So, every Wednesday, my equally minded buddies and I got shipped off to a nearby school for special classes. I enjoyed school and often reminded the teacher about assignments. I drafted my own extra credit assignments, for which I would turn in, already corrected, and with 100% accuracy, along with suggestions for how much that extra credit they might be worth. I often incorporated my allegiance to the rules in my writing so that the teacher knew she could count on me to uphold them. My favorite thing ever was having lunch with the teacher, and I once peed my pants in second grade. So yeah, I got made fun of. By middle school, the teasing was getting old and my previously shy and peaceful nature was beginning to wane. I had gone through school with the same group of kids my entire life, so I knew them well. More importantly, I knew their writing well. So, when I’d find letters stuffed in my locker with horrible words and cruel insults scrawled across the page in their finest crayon, I’d just go right ahead and correct their spelling and grammatical errors and deliver it right back to them. It made me feel better, but I can’t say it did much for my “cool” stock.

As an adult, I’m less obnoxious (I hope?) but still nowhere near cool. My friends are cool. My husband is cool. I am not cool. I’m the girl people have known for forever and still won’t be recognized at the store unless I’m with my family. This recently happened with my neighbors. My 5-year-old daughter, Lily, was recognized before I was. She’s had, like, two conversations with them her entire life.  Or how about this? I make my friend go with me to pick up my car from the mechanic (who is a family friend...that's an important detail to this point), because I don’t want it to be awkward when he doesn’t recognize me…again. No joke, people; I am completely forgettable. I’m also the girl who gets called “Jennifer” over and over again by people I’ve known for years. I mentioned this to my best friend and she just about died laughing because, “Oh my God! It’s so true!” She calls me Jennifer now. And to all of you who were just all, “Wait…that’s not your name?!” Let me say this: if you don’t know it by now, I’m totally not telling you (FYI-it’s Jessica). If I ever had to enter Witness Protection, I'd totally win on the whole blending-in-so-you-don't-get-killed thing, but the name part would end me. The US Marshals would be like, "Your new name is Jessica." And then it would be super awkward when I'd have to tell them my name actually is Jessica. Because then they'd be all, "No...your name is Jennifer. Your new name is Jessica." And then I'd be totally fucked. Or, because I've heard the Marshals can be kind of jerks, I might get a really cool name like "Polly", but instead of the traditional spelling of Polly, they'd probably make me spell it V-A-G-I-N-A. Jerks. So now I don't even have Witness Protection to hope for.

But anyway, I digress. Let's get back to the story. 

So, I still don’t even look cool. While I’ve more or less given up on whale taxonomy as a part of  fashion (Sorry, guys. I guess people don't like whales unless they are destroying some old guy's boat), I’ve now taken to wearing a regular rotation of t-shirts that include hilarious puns and clever plays on words. I’m most comfortable in a sensible cardigan, or perhaps a casual vest. I like a supportive bra, a high neckline, and a long hemline. My favorite lipstick color comes from Bonnie Bell’s winter collection of lip balms. I’m single handedly trying to bring back the poncho. And don't tempt me, because I will bring back the fanny pack. If for nothing else besides the name. Fanny pack. 

My husband, who works in the same school district as myself, is super cool. He’s everyone’s favorite teacher. He loves to perform and be the center of attention. He’s charming, and handsome, and clever. He’s cool.  And when other cool people meet him, immediately they want to meet me. And bless his heart for being excited to set up a play date for his socially delayed and attractively disabled wife, but the other cool kids, I think, assume that because he’s cool, I’m going to be his cool female counterpart. Well folks, that’s gonna be rough. ‘Cause this cat? Ain’t so cool. I work waaay too hard at being effortlessly cool, which is often realized when I get home to see my clothes drenched in sweat from being so anxious around other people. And also? If you have to work at something, it's not effortless and you also might not know what effortless means.

So, these evenings out, more than likely I spent most of the night nodding and smiling quietly in an attempt to make myself appear cool and breezy, when in actuality, I was just nervously trying to keep up with you all. But really, I spent the night asking myself, “Will I ever fit in?” And the answer is, probably not. I’m nerdy and awkward and horribly, horribly insecure. None of the people I hang out with even come close to that. They are, indisputably, effortlessly cool.  (And, for the record, also super kind. The new breed of Cool Kids doesn’t take pleasure in bringing others down. They are an inclusive group who would never in a million years subscribe to a philosophy of hate or cruelty. They really are cool...Damnit.) The worst part of all this mucky muck is that I so desperately want to be that super cool cat and supremely social butterfly. Or, maybe that’s not the worst part. Maybe the worst part is that I want to, but it’s just not me.

Now, I know you’re all wondering it, so I’m just going to come out and say it. You’re all wondering how a social misfit, such as myself, can score a hot dude like this fella:

Well, I don’t really know, actually. I’ve been likened to head lice, or hair pets if we're being PC, in that I’m relentless and hard to get rid of. So it’s entirely possible that he just gave up and succumbed to my demands for husbandry. It could also be my superior bosom of “Barley B’s” that left him powerless in their tractor beam of voluptuousness. Maybe it was the seductive way I always insist on changing my clothes alone, in the dark, in the bathroom, behind locked doors. Or, perhaps it was the Roofie...I guess we’ll never know.

So, where am I going with all of this? Well, a while ago, I was counseling a student at one of my schools and she made a comment about not feeling cool. She lamented about how alone she felt, how hard it was to feel like she didn’t belong anywhere.  Knowing all too well how this can feel, I sincerely empathized for her. It’s a lonely island when you feel totally misplaced. Her story has a happy ending, though. We worked on finding her coolness. We challenged the conventional standards of “cool” and found a place where she reigned supreme.  And wouldn’t you know? When she felt confident in her cool circles, she started exuding more confidence in other settings. And now? This girl? Freaking nails. She is untouchable. Kicking ass and taking names like you wouldn’t believe. She is no longer cool; she's ice.

Well, I want  to be ice, too. And, so, it got me thinking. Where do I feel cool? Where do I feel strong and confident? Where do the insecurities of my personality, my body, and my inability to navigate the social world melt away? Where do I feel like I have an edge? Where is the playing field leveled to a  standard where it’s less about how cool and effortless things are for you, and more about your pain threshold and your ability to go the distance?

Stop being coy; you all saw this one coming. The answer is simple: in my Brooks. Running. It all comes back to running. When I run, I run far. I’m not the fastest, far from it in fact, but I can go the distance, and I am getting faster. When I run, I’m so focused on my goal that I don’t have the time or the energy to worry about what other people think of me. I don’t need to know what’s clever or hilarious because there is no talking at a tempo pace. I don't have to worry about sweating through my clothes because sweat no longer means anxiety; sweat becomes power realized. I know what I want and I get it in my cross hairs. I shoot for the PR.

In my daily life, I’m incredibly insecure about how I look. I’m constantly comparing myself to others. How’s my hair? Are my clothes boring? Should I wear more makeup? Less makeup? Should I max out my credit cards to buy clothes that make me look cool but that I’m too embarrassed to wear because only cool people wear those clothes? Why is it the only time I feel thin enough is when I’m severely calorie depleted? What's wrong with me? I hate this body. I would just as soon destroy it than celebrate it.

Enter running.

When I run, it’s the only time I like and respect my body. It’s strong and my muscles are celebrated. My breathing works symbiotically with the natural cadence of my stride to move me as quickly and efficiently as possible. Food fuels the furnace to make the PR achievable, so I consume however much my body desires.  I wear clothes that I would never wear under any other circumstance. But these clothes, the runner's wardrobe, they make me run better, faster, stronger. And so, I wear them unapologetically. And finally, and perhaps for once, there is nothing wrong with my body.

And when it’s all said and done, and maybe you haven’t PR’d or even raced, but you just got out and ran, you’ll never find a more supportive and compassionate group of people. Runners applaud the fastest and slowest of a race because the last place person didn’t try any less than the first place person. And, by God, they were out there giving 100 percent longer than anyone else. So hells yeah the crowd should cheer! Even on just a regular, mundane training run you’ll become the recipient of  cheers and high-fives from strangers because you’re out there doing what many can’t, or won’t, do. Or, simply because they do it, too, and there’s a camaraderie in that. And joy. So, so much joy in running.

Running is so much of “what you see is what you get”. If you’re giving it your all, it’s not pretty for anyone. There’s slobber and snot and swearing involved. Like I said, it’s not pretty. Even though, it is in its own poetic, unconventional way. And running isn’t about who is the most suave, or who is the best looking. Sometimes weird girls named Jennifer do all right for themselves, and that feels pretty good, too. And the best part about running? For us mortals who aren’t aiming for the win, the only person we’re racing against is our self. There’s no need to best each other.  The happiest place on earth is the finish line of a race. There are so many hugs and smiles and high fives that it totally renews your faith in humanity. There is no hate, there is no judgment, and there is no exclusion. And, the real cherry? It’s effortless for me to exist among my people. I feel so totally at home. I’m not nervous or embarrassed or awkward. Even if everyone wasn't so super high on endorphins and a sense of accomplishment, we'd still all fit in. In the running community, we are all the cool kids and I have a place where I belong.

Tuesday Epiphany

I’m sitting before my computer, and just to my left is the calendar hanging on the wall. Today is Saturday, January 3, 2015. Tomorrow is a full moon. And two days after that, the calendar simply reads, “Epiphany”. Whoa. Nothing like a little pressure for an otherwise plain, old Tuesday. I’m sure there’s a religious connection to this particular day, but I prefer to read it as a sign of optimism (No offence, God or Jesus, or any other Higher Power that Epiphany might be associated with. We still cool?). I like to think that on Tuesday there might be that singular, glorious moment of clarity where suddenly the neurons and synapses fire just right and you find yourself with vehement purpose and fervent determination. When suddenly you’re like, “Game ON!” and good luck to anyone who dare stand in the way of your locomotive-ish fortitude.

For me, my Tuesday, January 6^th came before Tuesday, January 6^th. And I can’t say that it really came with the luster and intensity that I expect from this Tuesday. For me, it came more gradually and, if we’re being honest here, more from a place of unresolved issues, grievances with the universe, and a bitter opposition to fear of failure. So, probably not what Tuesday “Epiphany” is all about, but whatever gets you out the door, right?

So, here’s the deal, I’m going to start writing more. I’m going to start writing my thoughts. Maybe not all of my thoughts, because I’m not sure writing about how I wish I could finally find out how squishy Big Orange Cat’s tummy really is, is really blog worthy, but who knows? If it plagues me during the day, maybe it is. And maybe I will write about it. The point is, I’m often encouraged to write more. Partly because I enjoy it, but mostly it makes me less cantankerous, and it helps me work things out in my head. But, I often think people don’t want to read what I have to write. Well, (epiphany alert!) I can still write it. No one has to read it. Boom! That just happened. So, I’m gonna write. And I have two blogs. Well, no more. I first had a blog to detail my running, which I love and adore and will often be the focus of many of my entries (Wanna see my old posts? Aces. Go here: www.jmo9179.blogspot.com). But, I’m multidimensional and think and breathe more than just running (i.e. Is Big Orange Cat’s tummy just a little squishy, or a lot?). So, it’s all going to go here. Sometimes it will be light and airy, sometimes it might be dark and twisty. Sometimes, it will be a total swing-and-a-miss…and I’m okay with all of that. And, what makes it easy to be okay with all that, perhaps, is that I have about six people that actually read my blog (Hi Mom!), so it’s not like I’m blowing minds and erupting a civil war somewhere (You’re welcome, fragile and oppressive government systems). Also? Because what I have to say matters, if only to me. So, that’s the first thing.

Secondly, I really hated 2014. It was fraught stress, anxiety, injury, and worst of all, the most tragic heartbreak that you can imagine (for more, read preceding blog entitled Goodbye, Ronnie). I normally loathe the New Year holiday because I would take no pleasure in celebrating the passing of a time that I wasn’t really ready to end. But this year, while I still went to bed several hours before the turning of the New Year, I could not be more jubilant for 2014 to hit the road and 2015 to begin (Two Thousand Fifteen Shades of, “Hey!” LOL. No? Okay). The other thing about 2014, and all the other years for that matter was fear. Yes, good ‘ole fear. Fear of failure. Fear of humiliation. Fear of failed expectations. I am not, nor have ever been, someone who takes risks. Everything is safe and calculated. I like to be in control. I do not like the element of surprise. I do not go big, because I much prefer to go home. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem except when there’s this tiny, little voice inside of you that starts to get louder and more obtrusive when you have this untapped and untested potential that you just know is dying to get out. I usually mute it. Or ignore it. But after just barely surviving 2014, I’ve decided to let the voice roar and go for a big, scary, oh-my-God-I’m-gonna-vomit, goal. In 2015, I’m going to attempt to qualify for the mother of all marathons: The Boston Marathon. That means I need to shave more than 15 minutes off my current marathon PR (personal record). That means I need to risk crashing and burning. That means I might end up crying in the fetal position at mile 23. That means I might fail. “Might” being the operative word here. And since it’s nothing more than operative, why the heck not? Anyone who has ever known me knows that when I get my mind set on something, I’m kind of like a starving jackal who sees food just across the swollen river. I’ll nervously, relentlessly, and hysterically pace the water’s edge until I find a way to cross it and reach the goal. I’m super appealing that way. Very likeable. So, yeah. Boston, I’m coming. It might not be as soon as I’d like, but I’m coming. And this is my public declaration of it.

So, really, just the two points I’d like to make for Tuesday Epiphany. That, and I think I’ll start being a little more honest with myself and the six of you who read my blog, a little less apologetic for the things that do not require or necessitate apology, and a little more risky for the things that do not cause actual physical or financial risk. Big goals are good. If your goal doesn’t’ scare you, then dream bigger, dang it. We have just this one life and if 2014 taught me anything, it’s that it can be over much sooner than perhaps you’d wish it to be.  

Keep it real, friends. More later.

P.S. Big Orange Cat. Now we can all wonder about his tummy. You're welcome.