I LOVE YOU MOMMA!

And you read my blog.  Not sure anyone else does, but who cares.  You're the best and I miss you.

What I Really Love About Marathoning

As my regular peeps know, last Sunday's MDI Marathon turned out to be a big disappointment thanks to a left knee that blew out at around mile 12.  I dragged along and finished in my slowest time ever: :4 hours and 45 minutes.  At the time, I was frustrated and had a few moments where I wanted to cry.  But overall, I really don't give a damn.  There will be more marathons and I made an appointment with the highly esteemed local physical therapist who is a runner.  I feel confident the knee will get stronger and I will kick some marathon ass in the spring.  I'm planning on the Vermont City Marathon, 2012.

So I got up early Sunday morning and got ready.  Neil and Pat drove me to Bar Harbor, where the race began.  It was about 20 minutes away from where we were staying in Southwest Harbor, close to the finish line. I was pretty psyched about getting to the municipal bathroom in Bar Harbor because my tummy had gotten a bit nervous.  The bathroom was warm and occupied just enough so that flushing toilets and hand dryers let me relax.  After that I sat in the car with Neil and Patrick.  We saw a sister and her younger brother, close to Harper and Pat's age.  The sister was holding the brother in her lap, hugging him.  Pat said, "I wish Harper would do that with me."  It was so forlorn and sweet.  We continued to chat in the car until Pat burst out, "Now she's playing Patty-cake with him!!"  Sure enough, the siblings were engaged in one of those hand-clapping games.  My little son could hardly believe this other boy's luck; to have a sister that loving, fun and playful!

That's Patrick.  He's dear and sweet and kind and loves when people pay attention to him.  Later we told Harper about what we'd seen and she worked to be that big sister, though in a rougher way.  She loves her brother.  I'm lucky they still want to come to my races, cheer me on and be together.  The four of us took a sweet hike up Flying Mountain the next day.  Here are my favorite folks, not quite playing patty-cake.

What's the Plan, Zo?

I'm not going for a PR Sunday because of the hills.  I figure 4 hours and 20 minutes is a reasonably challenging goal.  I might write the splits on my arm with a sharpie.  Well, not every mile but every other or so, to stay on pace.  I am so PUMPED!!!

1 mile:	2 miles:	3 miles:
4 miles:	5 miles:	6 miles:
7 miles:	8 miles:	9 miles:
10 miles:	11 miles:	12 miles:
13 miles:	14 miles:	15 miles:
16 miles:	17 miles:	18 miles:
19 miles:	20 miles:	21 miles:
22 miles:	23 miles:	24 miles:

25 miles:

26 miles:

Half-marathon split:

Calculated overall time:

A Rare and Precious Moment

Neil's foray into mountain bike racing

I thought I'd write a little story about my first mountain bike race. I'm writing in order to deal with the self induced trauma that has resulted from it. I've ridden many century rides or rides of 100 miles on the road bike, but never really done any mountain bike thing of prolonged duration. So it was I found myself in Ascutney, Vermont with Fritz Fay, the only other person I know who would think that what we were about to do was a “good idea” or a “fun time.” At least think it enough to actually follow through with it. 

The race was the Vermont 50, a 50 mile mountain bike race through central/eastern Vermont. You know, that part of the state particularly water logged compliments of Hurricane Irene and just general lots of rain. I thought this would be a good race for me as I'd heard it wasn't too technical and it was a “roadie's” mountain bike race. Furthermore some of the course descriptions I'd read made it seem doable, for me.

All racers had to arrive at 5:15 am. for a pre race meeting. There was no meeting, but that was fine with me. The temperature was a balmy 60 degrees at the start. Quite comfortable. My first trial of the day happened before the race started. I had to take a dump (wearing bib shorts) in a pitch black port-o-potty at 5:45 am. This scared me more than the spectre of 50 miles of mud and fatigue. I survived and did quite well actually. There was enough light to allow the white toilet paper to glow a little. 

Then the race started. It was still a little dark when we entered the wooded areas, but not too too bad. I did not bring a head lamp as I did not want to carry the extra weight. And in hindsight it was the right choice. Within 30 minutes of riding daylight was in full swing. The race started on the road then turned right and headed up a steep hill. You'da thought some of the riders had never seen a hill before. A complete traffic jam replete with the snapping, creaking, grinding sound of gears downshifting under load. I saw on guy's chain snap. I went around this nonsense and passed a lot of people and headed into the woods. The trail was good for a while until I came to the first ominous mud hole. This would become a theme of the day. I actually had to get off my bike and push it. This would become another theme of the day. Many others had to do the same. A lot of these little hills were so steep or slick with mud that walking the bike was necessary.

Mile 10. “Wow,” I begin to think, “there's a lot of mud.” The travelling is hard, but good. I come to a nice big, wide, dry dirt road. It's a downhill so I reach for my sunglasses and put them on. They fog up immediately. No good, stick them back in the helmet. I accelerate and my front tire unloads a pound of mud straight into my face. One entire half pound gobs right into my left eyeball coating my contact lense. It feels bad and is all blurry and I'm going fast and more mud is getting in my face! Blah. My eye is irritated. I don't like it. For the rest of the day I will deal with a blurry left eye. It continued to produce goo long after getting the contact out, right up until I went to bed that night. 

Mile 15 or so - I'm going down a bumpy hill. PANG. What was that? 

Mile 16 or so – I look at my rear wheel and notice it's bent. PANG was a spoke breaking. I'm worried now that the wheel won't make it to the end of the race. This fear just stayed with me for the rest of the day, a lingering little annoyance that caused stress and took fun out of the race. Worry.

Around the same time I come to a long hillclimb on a firm dirt road. A lot of riders had been passing me just before this in the woods so I was getting a little concerned. Once I hit the bottom of the climb, I locked out my shocks and just climbed. I must've passed 70 people. I didn't just pass them, but I dropped them like hot potatoes. It was awesome. Had I known then this was to be my highlight, I'm not sure I would have kept going.

Mile 25 or so. “My God, the mud. This is so slippery.” I've only gone 25 miles. I look at my odometer after what seems like 15 minutes and it reads 25.02 miles. I stop looking at it after that. 

Mile 30. I still can't see right. My wheel's bent. There are runners all over the place. To them I say, “thanks” or “sorry” when we get in each other's way. What I really think though is, “I want to punch you in the face.” My mood was deteriorating. 

Mile 31-44. This was a bad idea, I still have 20 miles to go. This “roadie friendly” trail is a death trap. It's all wet roots and moss covered ledge that is so treacherous, I'd die trying to ride it. Some guy crashes into a stand of sapplings, another guy is rubbing his grime encrusted face as he walks his bike. Another guy is leaning on his bike saying “Fuuuuuuck, fuuuuuuuuck.” I pass him and say, “cramps?” He just looks at me and grunts, “yeah -uhhh.” An angry silence has descended on the woods. People are looking very focused. The hillside roots are starting to throw my wheel and I'm too tired to even try and deal with them. I'd kill for a 5 mile long paved hill with a 10% gradient right now. Anything so I could just stop having to maneuver these horrible roots. Walk the bike, ride the bike. Yow, that's what a cramp feels like. Every road I come to I get excited, but the trail just crosses it and heads back into the wet, muddy, slippery woods. Another rider passes me and says, “Roots.” I keep going.

Mile 45. God I'm tired. These roots. Oh, another runner. No more trees. So tir -BAM!!! Oh Jesus! Oh that hurts! Oh I havent felt pain like this since I was a little hellion kid doing something Mom told me not to. Roots. Big, big roots. I'm lying on the ground. My left foot still clipped in, My right leg over the top of my left. The bike is somehow behind me. I can't unclip. I'm a pretzel. A rider goes by and miraculously bunny hops my sunglasses (I love him for doing that) as I lie there like and idiot. Pain. Pain. Pain. I get back up and ride on. I come to a pretty field. This looks easy. No. It's all wet and slippery. No more fun. I'm done. A beaten man. I somehow finish. My bike computer says I've been riding for 6 hours and 36 minutes. My time spent out on the trail will be a little longer. I'm covered with mud. I'm very tired. I paid $125 for this. I have a lovely tattoo of a beet on the side of my butt to show for my troubles. You should see it.

Time

Time for a new post.  It's been an amazing summer.  How can anything be less than wonderful with this weather? Girls Cousin Week was so much fun.  Having 3 teenage girls together was just such a privilege.  They are good (and privileged) girls.  All the bounty of veggies and time (to run and bike and sleep and eat) make summer perfect.  And finally a weekend at home to allow me to reflect on the goodness, to run long and leisurely, to sit on a blanket in the shade in my beautiful backyard and read a magazine.  To play WAR LIVE loud while cooking dinner.  To watch a movie with Neil and the kids and Dad, anticipating a Sunday morning of rest and coffee and trails.  The light in the evening, in the morning and during the heat of the day. These are the things for which I am grateful and anything I want for  (more time with the babies, Nia and Losada, more time with my mom, more time to sniff the woods and my kids' heads) will be along eventually.

Use It or Lose It

My dad is in Montreal for 3 weeks taking the french language class that I took two years ago.  Well of course he'll be placed in a much higher level class, but it is the same immersion program.  Last month we spent 2 weeks in real France and Dad's ability to really speak the language was incredibly helpful, especially when we had problems like a flat tire and a dead battery.  I mean I can order in a cafe and ask some basic questions, but nothing compared to Pops.  Anyway, Dad impressed us all, including himself, by doing a lot of walking on our trip and I encouraged him to keep up with his higher level of exercise now that we're back in North America.  I also encouraged him to take this 3 week class and I'm real proud of him that he decided to do it and proud of myself for pushing him because I think he'll have a lot of fun and, as we all know, with exercise and our brains, we need to keep challenging ourselves as we get older and occasionally do something out of our comfort zone.


When Dad was contemplating signing up for the class he was most worried about getting to the classroom so early in the morning.  Anyone who knows David Gascon knows that he is NOT a morning person (though since we returned from real France he's been getting up pretty early, taking lengthy advantage of the time difference between Europe and North America).  A few months ago I offered to do a test run with him the day before classes began and I think that was what really pushed him to go ahead and sign up.  Unfortunately I bailed on him and decided to stay home this weekend, but he did his test run anyway and wrote this in an email:


I decided that today I'd do a test run of getting to metro station by 8:00 in order to have plenty of time Mon. to make orientation at 8:45. I was walking to the station when I looked at my watch & saw that it said 6:45 - I had mis-set my clock radio an hour too early, so alarm had actually gotten me up at 5:00!  Made the station a hair before 7:00. Took a somewhat longer route back to condo, so had gotten in app. a mile of walking before real 8:00. No wonder I wasn't ready to take a crap before leaving.


Dad up at 5:00 A.M. and an hour early.  It love it.  I hope he has a fabulous time.

Training Begins!

The official start of 17 weeks of marathon training began today with a rhapsodic 8 miles on the most beautiful of Northeast Kingdom mornings.  Sunny and cool, birds chirping, wildflowers blossoming, sweet fresh air and happiness.  I think I'll keep my training log here as I've done in the past.  Mount Desert Island Marathon, October 16th.  This will be my 6th.

Morels!

Grammy Robin Showed Us How

When I was little, my gram taught me about family; not with words, but with how she lives and loves.  I happen to be her birth grandchild, but that is not why she loves me.  She adopted one of her five children and harbors anyone else who needs her. She calls us all her kids.  Her love is big, unlabeled and unconditional.

Tonight my son's birth family hosted us for a birthday dinner.  Patrick turns 12 next week.  His little siblings, Kylie (5 soon) and Matthew (almost 3) adore him and their big sister, Harper.  

Patrick and Kylie (Kylie calls him "Little Pat" which is funny since he is twice her size!)

 Kylie and Matthew

 Pat and Kylie

 Little Pat, aka, Big Manny and Matthew, aka, Little Manny

 Sisters by any other name...

 Mommy Sherry made Patrick a delicious and beautiful homemade birthday cake.

Not pictured are all of Pat's four parents, 4 of his grandparents and an uncle.  Sherry and Big Pat served a delicious, home-cooked meal.  We make a funny sort of family, all of us together.  We come together regularly because we love our little, growing bigger boy.  But over these almost 12 years, we've come to love each other, too.  I'm humbled that the Barretts have shared their lives with us. Big Daddy Pat is a self-proclaimed redneck who likes to go mudding and Grandpa David is an undeniable academic planning his trip to France and adjusting his solar panel.  Yet everyone is happy to be together, eat good food and get full and chase the little kids and make them laugh.  Together we marvel at this incredible musician/artist/funny-man/kind, good boy who is our son, brother, nephew and grandson.  Some kind of just right luck, mixed with lots of uncertainty, and, to be honest, loss and pain, brought us all together.  I'm so glad.

Family.

Lordy Lordy

I turn 40 on Friday.  It feels a bit surreal.  Turning 40, then starting a new job after nearly 12 years at the same, wonderful place.  Any minute I'm going to have lots of profound things to say about these facts.  But for now each day comes and goes and is filled with busy and mostly happy moments.  The weekend will bring celebration with my best friends and my sweet family. 
Fucking forty.  Wow.

Right Now

With apologies to all of you who have grown tired of winter and snow and such, this blizzard sure was a pretty one.  And there is something extra sweet about the light when the snow finally stops and it is March so the sun hasn't yet set at nearly 6:00PM.  Just lovely outside my doors.

Family Racko in French

I Like Him...I Really Liiiiike Him

Confessions of An Only Child

I wrote this poem about a really happy time I had going out to dinner by myself whilst on a back country ski clinic weekend, away from home, on my own. I'm posting it because I haven't posted much lately and I want to keep my readers engaged. By the way, my new phone takes great photos!

Confessions of An Only Child

Ran
the night bridge from
Burlington to Winooski
over the river
in the
deep wet snow
and just right music light
to papa franks.

Ate Italian
sat with windows steamed
and listened to kids plan what to
do next; sled, drink and get the big guy
to carry the beer.

pasta, red sauce
chianti
cannolli
and a night run back
over the bridge
in the deep wet snow
a tangled medusa
alone and laughing.

The Littlest Mr. Stoddard

Wouldn't our Champ be delighted with his newest great grandchild?! Born Sunday after many hours of hard labor, Brook, Netdahe and Losada are all doing well and the baby is cuter than the dickens; tiny with black hair and perfect little fingers and toes and a perfect little nose. So far I've only seen photos as I planned to go visit today but have decided not to brave the 30+ mile trip in what is shaping up to be a gorgeous snow storm. Hopefully I'll make it down tomorrow to meet the little bugger. The first time I met Netdahe he was very tiny and I was almost 6 years old and he pissed on me! Somehow the grownups in my world made me think this was a kind of honor. Now it is almost 34 years later and Losada is the 4th great grandchild (following Harper, Patrick and Nia) so this next generation is shaping up nicely.

When we were little, Netdahe and Henekis realized I was an only child and therefore would not have the opportunity to be an aunt. They felt quite sorry for me and let me know I could be their sister. So Losada is my nephew. We're going to love him forever, of course.

An Early Morning Tune

Nothing like running on the ridge at dawn with this tune in your ears.