Running

We’ve been running together now for about a year. I got into running as a way to get thirty minutes of physical activity three to five times a week. I didn’t get into it to race; I don’t want to run a marathon, and I don’t care how fast I am.

For the first nine months or so, I really hated running…at least, right up until the point that the running stopped, and I caught my breath. And it is that feeling that gets me up before dawn to do it again tomorrow. That, and as the days get longer I am rewarded with a postcard view: the dawn sky glowing sapphire and green, increasingly distinguishing itself from the black of the mountains to the east.

Somewhere around month nine, we started gearing up for the World Famous Camp Pendleton Mud Run. My husband was signed up, and he wanted me to join him if a spot became available. The Mud Run is a 10K through the muddy obstacle course of the Camp Pendleton Marine Base. I was not interested. I didn’t like the idea of mud in my shoes and shorts.

To get him ready (and me too, he kept insisting), we challenged ourselves to hilly long-distance runs. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed these runs, and before long I had comfortably surpassed the mileage I’d have to run in the Mud Run. I still wasn’t interested. Then one morning, word came in that someone had dropped off the team and I could join. After months of resisting, I was overcome with excitement. I questioned it, slept on it, tried to resist some more, and finally gave in. It was done. My check was mailed, and my t-shirt was ordered.

Then my running partner pulled a muscle and had to stop running. He assured me he’d still run on race day, but he didn’t plan to run again before that day. I knew he could sit out for two weeks and still power through the run, but I was worried I’d wimp out along the course, if I didn’t keep working. So, I ran…alone for most of the next two weeks.

Race day came, and I was still excited. Is something wrong with me? Why am I excited about running 6.2 miles, scaling climbing walls, wading (or crawling) through mud pits, streams, and a lake, trudging through soft sand, jumping hay bales, crawling through a culvert, and stepping through a tire obstacle? I still don’t know why I was excited, but it was more fun than I could have imagined, and I can’t wait to do it again. And yes, I still don’t like mud in my shoes and shorts.

This morning, I ran a 5K with some coworkers. It was my first official “race”. (The Mud Run is, well, mainly about getting muddy.) I decided to go into today’s run with the mindset that I was out for a morning jog with a bunch of people.

What an experience to be on the road with a hundred or more runners, joggers, and walkers (dogs & kids included). There were traffic cones, angry drivers screaming about blocked intersections, and motorcycle police directing traffic ~and us. And then there was the finish line. Wait. My morning runs do not have a big blue FINISH banner; I just run to a crossroad or a local landmark like the dog up the street.

Suddenly, it was no longer just a morning jog with a bunch of strangers and a few coworkers. A big time clock under the FINISH banner ticked off the seconds as I approached, and it made me run faster to beat some imaginary time. Strangers were cheering for me, and there was music and food. I took fliers for upcoming races and read them to see which ones we might fit into our schedule. Maybe I do like this race thing after all.

Welcome to spring

It took years of living in (what most call) the land of eternal summer to recognize the subtle indications of spring. Now that I recognize it, it seems as obvious as the first purple Crocus breaking through the snow.

It begins about the same way every year. We have a week or two of gloomy skies just before the time change (even this year when the time change moved); then one morning, the clouds break, the sky is brilliant, and the morning air is soft. Within a week, rose leaves spring from their woody stumps, baby leaves illuminate the backyard trees, and the gardens begin to grow again…even this year, when freezing temperatures leveled many of my beloved plants.

We exchange the small room heater in our bedroom for a box fan, and we leave the windows open late into the evening because the air feels good, not because we seared a steak without the exhaust fan on. It’s subtle, but it all happens within weeks.

Rain in the desert

"Rain" in the desert is usually just a drizzle by most other regions' standards. It doesn't come often so, when it does, we celebrate. Everyone celebrates in his or her own way. Some celebrate by complaining about the weather, a luxury we don't often get in Southern California. Today, I celebrated by staying in, drinking hot chocolate, and cooking a few weeks' worth of parrot breakfasts. Rainy days are one of the few occasions where staying inside seems acceptable, when you live in paradise.

It’s freezing out here! Literally.

Last night, for the second night in a row, temperatures dipped into the upper 20s. Snow flurries were reported in El Cajon and other parts of the we’ve-never-seen-snow-before sections of San Diego County three days ago.

My garden sprinklers went off at 4 am today, and by 6:15 when I left for work, the sidewalk was coated in a bubbly sheet of ice. My plants? Well, they looked like I employed the same tactics as the citrus growers.

Tonight, my garden is full of little ghosts. Sheets and towels cover everything that proved itself not hardy enough for sub-freezing nights. These ghosts are almost symbolic of the loss of life I fear in my beloved gardens.

It feels silly to say I’m attached to a plant, but I am a sentimental person and many of my plants have sentimental meaning. Like the pot-bound, waterlogged Jade we rescued from the back yard. It was finally making a comeback.

And the Aeonium clipping from our last home that had grown (exponentially) into a mounded knee-high pile of green. Today, they look like a pile of cooked collards. Or the Costa Rican sage my mother and I planted just last summer to cover the ugly shed in the back yard. It had reached a proud 4 feet and was a nice distraction from the rusting, faded, metal building. Today it is just a stalk of withered leaves.

And, the Giant Bird of Paradise Chris lovingly bought me to soothe my disappointment after someone stole mine right out of the garden of our last home. Now, the black-brown leaves drooping from the stalk look more like a vulture warming itself in the desert. The list goes on, and so does the cold.

I covered everything I thought couldn’t take it another night, and I apologized to the rest. I hope my little symbolic ghosts turn out to be just that…symbolic. In the mean time, Holly and I have snuggled in for a long winter’s night. San Diego-style.

Super Bowl XXXVII: Raiders vs. Buccaneers

On my walk into work each morning for the past week, I have watched the progression of "Super City" sprout from parking lots, the back of trailers, and seemingly nowhere. Old beer umbrellas on sidewalk cafes have silently been replaced with new ones, fresh flowers have been planted, buffet tables set up, shuttle vans appear in front of hotels, and a dirt construction lot paved, fenced, and converted into the NFL Experience. The parking lot I cut through to get to work each day has been fenced off. There's a big, brown, puffy, air-filled XBox tent; food and drink stands; and a giant stage in there now.

The streets of the Gaslamp District are teaming with life...fans, residents, news media, football stars, football families, bright lights, signs, and T-shirt shops. Without exaggeration, every store (in the 8-block walk between my parking garage and work) that normally sells anything other than food has moved their normal inventory aside to make room for Super Bowl XXXVII, Raiders, and Buccaneers T-shirts, ball caps, tank tops, sweat shirts, sweaters, jackets, shot glasses, beads, posters, mugs, stuffed bears, footballs, bumper stickers, and flags. This even includes the wig shop, an art gallery, and a few previously-boarded up warehouses. The "Wine Bank" has resisted the T-shirt frenzy, although they have moved their champagne up front! Le Travel Store is not participating in the Roman numeral sell-a-thon, except that we have moved our "Raiders map of Oakland" and a Tampa guidebook up front to show our support.

Downtown San Diego is looking her best. The sidewalks have been steam-cleaned, manhole covers painted, Raider- and Buccaneer-colored balloons decorate bars and restaurants, and the Marriott --down by the bay-- is sporting a 30-floor banner welcoming the Super Bowl to San Diego. Bright halogen lamps dance blue, green, yellow, and white lights across the sky at night; and the main street of the Gaslamp District, Fifth Avenue, has large white gates every block with directions to beer, food, festivities, and, of course, a list of corporate sponsors.

And that's only a 16-block section of the city --and a few out-lying parking lots. The Bud Bowl (what would football be without the Bud Bowl!) is bringing food, music, and, of course, beer to the beach areas; and the stadium has had it's own hectic schedule of meet-the-press --and, probably a little football.

There is a HUGE fireworks show scheduled for Saturday night. The promoters haven't (yet) called it the biggest one on earth --ever, but they are letting us know to expect a dazzling show. They'll be setting the fireworks off for 30 minutes from barges in the bay --I guess they figured the smoke wouldn't clear by kick off Sunday, if they did it any closer to the stadium! We have dinner reservations with friends from out of town at a restaurant on the waterfront. We're hoping for a front row seat to the show.

As for the whole reason for this hoopla (oh yeah, the game!), may your team win (since our team didn't make it), and may all the commercials be worth the wait.

Happy Football!