Circuit Breaker
Thursday, January 31, 2008

So I joined a gym. I mean, before, I belonged to the YMCA...still do, I guess, if you want to parse words. But that was mostly for the pool. I'd usually work out in the facility at my condo (which, I might add, for a home gym-type sitch, was fantastic). But a broken water pipe in the workout room and no longer living at my condo has somewhat put the kabosh on that plan. Thus, the joining of a gym. Just two blocks from where I work. With the option of getting a killer protein shakes after (and having it just added to your monthly tab). With my masuse right upstairs. And with a bunch of cool stuff thrown at you just for joining up. Life, my friends, is good.

Or was good. Or, still is good, techically. Just more painfull now. Thanks to circuits.

With the new membership, you get a free traning session. Mine was with Kristy, who was pleased as punch to have been assigned someone who had actually been in a gym before. When she heard I had just done the Ironman, she was downright giddy. I tried to temper her excitement, given that the body sitting in front of her didn't much resemble the one that had covered 140.6 a handful of months back. But she was undaunted. Even when she read the results of my body composition test (which will forever stay in the confines of her little office) she kept referring to me as an "athlete."

I knew I was in a bit of trouble. Two weeks before Christmas, I hit the gym armed with a workout program The Ex had designed for me. And the gym hit back. Hard. So hard, in fact, that for three full days after, I could not use my right arm. Pulling my hair back in a ponytail, brushing my hair, putting on makeup, and even sleeping, all went by the wayside because of the pain. Had I not been with me that whole time, I would've sworn I had broken my arm. I was not prepared for a personal trainer who thought I was an athelte. And I most definitely was not prepared for circuits.

During that session with Kristy, I nearly puked twice, and came close to blacking out once. This regularly happened to me during track practice throughout high school and college. I expected it during the Dairyland Dare. But never have I done either in a gym before. Not even close.

And yesterday, it happened again.

I was slated for mile repeats, a 400m walk break in between. And then after? Circuits.

To borrow a term from The ELF, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I think I saw the Wizard.

I had nearly forgotten what he looks like -- the Wizard. I think the last time I maybe saw him was running the 800 during track. And this time, I didn't catch him. I just waved to him. Honestly, he was so far out in front of me that I don't know if he waved back. I was too busy trying not to throw up on the treadmill. And then again on the step-up box. And after that on the bosu ball, on the bench doing push-ups with dumb bells, and after that, crunches.

I started the repeats at 7.5 on the treadmill, and would run the last quarter-mile at 8.0. After the first, my arms tingled the kind of I-don't-have-enough-oxygen-coming-to-me-you-stupid-girl tingle/hurt that you know only signals more -- and longer -- hurt to come. Unless your schedule only calls you to do one mile, no repeats. And I have never seen one of these schedules. If anyone out there does have a schedule like that, please forward it on to me. I will be forever indebted.

On the second mile repeat, a pretty boy wearing half a bottle of cologne stepped on the 'mill next to mine. I wanted to throw up a little from the smell at the very start. By the end, I was seeing stars and had to take a quick break to quell the dry heaving going on, which seemed to totally gross out the sorority girl walking at a brisk 3.5 next to me.

On the final repeat, the dry heaving started at the quarter mile mark. I put Kanye West's "Stronger" on repeat, but finally, afraid it would turn to wet-heaving, I broke up the last set into two half-mile repeats. It felt like failure. But my official training plan has yet to start. I have time to work up to non-failure.

In the locker room, on my blackberry, I exchanged quick emails with Cheif of Stuff. You can either come get me now or I can lift, I wrote. What I meant was, "Please come get me now. Please, please, please, please. Go ahead and lift. Talking to boss, he wrote back.

Damn.

So I did. I fit in 45 minutes worth of circuits after that. And I pretty much thought I would die, since I had been gasping for breath for say, oh, an hour and a half.

But I didn't die. It felt good. Great even. (Eventually. Like at 10 o'clock that night). And tonight, I'm going back for more. Because this season I'm giving the long and slow stuff a break. This season is about speed and strength. And all that I've read indicates that circuits and intervals are at the heart of making that happen.

So, if you see the wizzard, tell him I'm coming for him. I might not catch him today. Or next week. Or next month. But eventually, we'll meet up.

Posted by Erin 11:44 AM 6 comments



Public Relations 101
Tuesday, January 29, 2008

I'm not sure who is handling Charter Communications' communications, but whomever it is, they should be fired after this.* Or, maybe Charter should fire itself.

Because let me get this straight...a company totally and completely wipes out the email accounts of 14,000 people across the country -- pictures, records of purchases, important correspondence that those people purposely saved in their email accounts -- and this is their answer: "Charter Communications officials in suburban St. Louis said they think a software error occurred while inactive accounts were being routinely deleted, wiping out the contents of active accounts, as well. They said they are sorry but there is no way to retrieve the information."

Oh, and let's not forget the company is offering a whopping $50 rebate in addition to that stunning (non) apology. Compassion, Conviciton, Optimism (CCO) -- the most basic rule of crisis communications? Seems that Charter missed that one in PR school.

My lord. Communications professionals everywhere shudder.

Posted by Erin 12:47 PM 3 comments



Extra Set of Footsteps

That's how Krista describes the beauty of having a running partner: "...running is a solo sport, but even if you run 10 miles without sharing a word, it’s better to hear the extra set of footsteps, and to have someone to commiserate with when the run felt like shit."

This past weekend we -- Krista and I -- shared another seven-miler on a Saturday morning. The sun was out, it was above freezing temperature-wise, and it still sucked. For me at least. The running, not the company.

With unplowed streets and sidewalks and the snow covering them the consistency of sugar sand, seven miles felt like twenty. By the end, my ankles hurt, my lower back was screaming, and my feet were numb...just not from the cold this time. Oh, and some old IM injury that never really materialized but never really went away (feels like an IT band issue, only it runs along the back of my leg and over the corresponding butt cheek) kept flaring up. And along the way, I complained about it all -- the snow, the aches and pains, et cetera -- again and again. I cajoled Krista into stopping to stretch more than once. Partially because the IM injury-ish thing was aggravating, and partially because I jut plain old wanted a reprieve from the damn unrelenting sugar snow underfoot. I was, in part or in whole, a substandard running partner.

But, that's how you know when you've found a good one. They let you stop and stretch without running circles around you, or sighing disapprovingly while they check their Garmin.

And they talk to you. Like old friends talk, even if you've only met a couple of times.

There's just something about sharing a run with someone. And for once, words fail me as to what it is.

I remember pouring my heart out to my roommate Jamie during college as we pounded out a quick four-miles roundtrip through the streets and bridges of DePere about the difficulties of our (or my) living situation, and/or boys. To this day, I remember the tie-dyed shirt she wore and her uber-efficient stride that I can't keep up with even now. And I remember those runs as the starting, defining moment of our friendship.

I remember running with Pammy one day during graduate school, in the dead of a Marquette winter. We were quiet nearly the whole time. Yet, I can still pick that run out of so many others; I can see it in my mind's eye. Us slogging our way through the slush and snow and cold, shoulder to shoulder, footfalls perfectly matched.

Or running with Patrick during the one hour he could spare in between other engagements the last time he was in Madison. It was muggy and hot, and we packed more catching up into one six-mile run than we likely could have over one six-pack, and it was far more fulfilling. Yet, it still wasn't quite enough.

And then there are all of the runs I've shared with Chief of Stuff over the past two years or so. The runs when I was still with The Ex, when we were just getting to know one another. The IM training runs he'd do with me -- especially the oh-my-god-this-seems-like-it's-going-to-last-forever 16-miler we did side-by-side on treadmills last March, watching episode after episode of Workout. Or the four miles we did just last week in the dark, in the cold, in which he let me bitch for forty minutes straight about my work issue du jour.

Now and then, running alone is just what you need. But until recently, I'd forgotten the sheer comfort of a regular or even semi-regular running partner. I'd forgotten what I was missing. And now that I've rediscovered it, I'm hooked on the sound of the extra set of footsteps beside me.

Posted by Erin 10:42 AM 3 comments



World's Quickest Movie Reviews, Take II
Friday, January 25, 2008

"There Will Be Blood" -- could've/should've been called, "There Will Be Boredom." In short, don't bother. Everything you need to see is in the trailer.

Salon.com sums it up nicely in this review: Paul Thomas Anderson's "There Will Be Blood" is an austere folly, a picture so ambitious, so filled with filmmaking, that its very scale almost obscures its blankness.

At the very best, it overreaches as a film. At the worst, though, it is incomplete and/or poorly-thought out. Go ahead and see for yourself, but don't say you weren't warned.

Posted by Erin 11:06 AM 4 comments



Because This Seemed All Too Perfect for Today...
Thursday, January 24, 2008

Posted by Erin 12:06 PM 2 comments



Musical Interlude
Wednesday, January 23, 2008

I've been thinking lately that I need to update my Ipod playlist. Like yesterday. Because I've had the same stuff on there since way before the Green Bay Marathon in May of last year. That means I listened to it training for and during the marathon. And in all of my training sessions leading up to Ironman this past September (and folks, that was a LOT of hours spent with my little pink Ipod strapped to my arm). And in the limited running I've done since. Seriously, time for a change.

So, in the spirit of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" here's what I've been listening to ad nauseum in the past year or so. Feel free to steal from the list...but please suggest some new stuff for me, too.

  • Dixie Chicks -- Traveling Soilder, Not Ready to Make Nice
  • Nelly -- Over and Over Again, Ride Wit Me, EI
  • R. Kelly -- Remix
  • Fall Out Boy -- This ain't a scene..., Sugar We're Going down
  • Red Hot Chili Peppers -- almost all, but favs are: Snow, Californication, Zepher, and Parallel Universe
  • Akon -- Smack That, Don't Matter
  • Sean Paul -- We Be Burnin', Give it Up to Me, Ever Blazin
  • In a Big Country -- song by same name.
  • Black Eyed Peas -- Hey Mamma, Don't Lie, Let's Get it Started
  • Kanye West -- Golddigger, Through the Wire, Stronger
  • The Killers -- Somebody Told Me, When You Were Young, Mr. Brightside, Smile Like You Mean It
  • Usher -- Yeah, Yeah
  • Eminem -- Lose Yourself
  • Violent Femmes -- Blister in the Sun
  • Beyonce -- Ring the Alarm, Deja Vu, Beautiful Liar
  • Shakira -- Whenever Wherever, Hips don't Lie, Objection, La Tortura
  • Survivor -- Eye of the Tiger
  • Van Halen -- Dreams, Runnin With the Devil, Jump, Panama, Dreams, Good Enough, Love Walks In, 5150
  • AC/DC -- Dirty Deeds, Thunderstruck, For Those About to Rock, Moneytalks
  • Wyclef Jean – The Sweetest Girl
  • Linkin Park – Numb, With You, One Step Closer

Posted by Erin 12:37 PM 2 comments



Into That Good Night

I was going to post this yesterday, but waited. To see if the sadness would dissipate. If I'd gain a bit of perspective in the interim. But it didn't. I didn't.

Yesterday, Heath Ledger was found dead in his NYC apartment.

I don't know what about this news struck me so, but it's stayed with me, a whisper beneath the day's normal din.

I "read" US Weekly pretty regularly, but it's brain candy and not an obsession. I follow movies and Hollywood, but casually. I enjoyed Heath's acting, his choice of films, but would never have called myself a fan.

I disassociate with tragedy more than most people, I think. The Minneapolis bridge collapse...a Marine's remains found in the backyard of a superior's house...a local college student's disappearance...Brad Renfro's overdose. With all of these events, I say, "Oh, how sad." and I mean it. But I don't feel sad.

And yet.

With this news, I felt it. And I still don't understand why.

Perhaps it is because he seemed like such a private person, who didn't seek the limelight and paparazzi like many of his Hollywood cohorts. Or because he seemed relatively well-adjusted and down to earth -- a star who you wouldn't think of in terms of "had it coming." Because the inital conclusions seem to indicate that his death was completely accidental, or because of the endearing pictures you'd always see of him doting on his little girl. Or, perhaps, it was because he was young -- not too much younger than me, in fact -- and that I barely feel as though my life has started at this point...and his life with so much promise ahead -- his life is now over.

Regardless, the world has lost a great talent. That alone is sad.

And then -- then! -- you have this, from the Phelps brigade -- the same wingnuts who enjoy causing disturbances at military funerals and have led Wisconsin and other states to enact laws to prevent groups like theirs from showing up...or at least getting close to those services:

Come now, people. This is the same schizophrenic reasoning that the Westboro Baptist Church likes to apply to military deaths, too (that solders killed in action are suffering for the sins of a country that endorses homosexuality). Apparently, since he played a gay man in a film, Heath Ledger should suffer the same eternal damnation that the Westboro Wingnuts place on all homosexuals. Under that line of reasoning, we would have started court proceedings to hit Charlize Theron up with the death penalty or arrange a Nuremberg Trial for Bruno Ganz long ago. Good lord.

It'll be interesting to see if they actually pony up the funds to fly themselves all the way to Australia to picket. For the sake of the Ledger family, I sure hope they don't.

Ugh...all the way around...on so many levels. I think I'm going to go shower off now.

Posted by Erin 7:39 AM 3 comments

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Ice, Ice Baby
Tuesday, January 22, 2008

So, normally I'm in total agreement with assessments like this one. Essentially, stop whining about the cold, bundle up, and get out there. Because you inevitably enjoy it once you do. You're chilled for a few minutes at the start, and then, eventually, the blood starts pumping and the winter air suddenly doesn't seem so biting. In fact, because of that warming factor, running and snowshoeing outdoors are two of my favorite ways to enjoy the outdoors during all those months that precede and follow spring and summer.

So...

Last Thursday, I got home from work early. The sun was shining. I had pent-up anger to deal with as a result of work and other things. I also had a few new songs on my Ipod that I was jonesing to run to, and a new pair of kicks to try out. Oh, and I had two overly-excited Vizslas that I needed to do something with, exercise-wise, and not enough time to take them out to the barn before a 6:30 meeting I had to attend that night.

All of these things together necessitated a run. Nevermind that people had been talking for days about how bitter cold it was supposed to get -- oh, um, right about 5 o'clock on Thursday night. Or that my mom was already talking about how she was hoping for a snow day on Friday because of the cold. Or that leaving work, my car barely started and then, once it did, the radio was a garbled mess for a couple of minutes, trying to warm itself up.

Nevermind any of that, because I sure didn't.

Instead, I pulled on running tights and my fleece Patagonia pants over them. I layered on three shirts under the fleece vest that zipped tightly over it all. I put the dogs' coats on (Yes, they wear coats. Not for a Paris-Hilton-dressed-up-dog effect, but for functionality. The coats aren't cute, and the dogs are darn near bald) and smeared Vaseline over their paws.

And the three of us set out. Excited. To the tune of Wyclef's new tune, "Sweetest Girl" (which I just can't get enough of lately). That was, until we turned the corner and were hit head-on with the fiercest winter wind that I've felt in a long, long time. I couldn't catch my breath. And the dogs, almost dragging me down the sidewalk with their bounding only a minute before, were suddenly fighting for space behind me...their little ears folded inside-out and red from the wind. A woman standing outside of the hospital -- smoking -- shook her head at me as I passed. I was in too much pain to shake my head back at her.

I told them that we'd see how things went. If nothing else, we'd turn around and call it a day.

But once we hit the bike trail bordering the Arboretum, the wind subsided. It was still damn cold, though. I looked at my Garmin. Eight minutes in and my feet were already completely numb.

A greyhound of a runner turned out of the Arb and passed me by like I was standing still, his long legs soon carrying him out of sight. This, I decided, was what I needed to do. Get on my toes. Sprint. Get warm. Or, if not warm, at least get home more quickly.

And so the plan was hatched: run like hell, get home, get warm.

But a hitch in the plan presented itself in the form of sidewalks masquerading as ice rinks. And wind. And the sky darkening faster than I thought it would, turning my 3-miler into a 4-something-miler (I don't run on most of the bike trails after dark). And the fact that I couldn't sustain 8-minute miles for long. And my Ipod quitting because it froze itself. Oh, and my thighs and ass going numb in addition to my hands, feet, and face. I literally almost froze my ass off.

For four miles, we struggled -- Newt, Leonard, and me. I would run until I thought I might puke, stop briefly to catch my breath, feel terrible that I was making the dogs stand still (and hop around in an alternating three-legged dance), start running again until I thought I might puke, and repeat. Et cetera, ad nauseum. My four-mile tempo run had turned to the interval run from hell.

That night, as the dogs continued to lick their poor little paws, Chief of Stuff asked how things went. I told him that I had good news and bad news about the new shoes, for one -- good news was that I got to try them out. Bad news was that I'll have to take them for another spin to find out if they're comfortable or not, given that I couldn't feel my feet one iota. And when I checked the weather that night, I decided that running in that sort of cold was unnecessary and a little crazy. Sure, according to the NYT article, you're probably not going to die of hypothermia or frostbite when exercising outdoors for a short period of time, but that doesn't mean one shouldn't try to avoid either one. The dogs would have been better off climbing the walls for one more night, and I'd have been better off on the treadmill. Lesson learned.

Stats:

  • 4 miles
  • 8:38 average minute miles
  • Outside Temperature -- 6 degrees
  • Wind Chill -- (-)28 degrees

Posted by Erin 8:48 AM 1 comments

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All That's Come Before
Tuesday, January 15, 2008

There's a danger in not writing things down. In not remembering. The staples, you always remember those. Milk and eggs. Big birthdays and big breakups. But the fringe items get murky. They fade with time.

In a piece about The Ex, I wrote: "Before and after. Misleading. There are few events to which 'before' or 'after' can be accurately applied. Unless something happens in a split second—a car crash, a dropped glass—there’s always a chain of events that make up a shadowland that stretches between those two units of time."

And so it goes.

I remember clearly the moment The Ex told me he had to go home, to Vancouver Island, after he had all but moved in with me. We were sitting up talking, appropriately, after seeing "The Breakup." I said I couldn't wait to put up a Christmas tree this year. He said he needed to leave before the week was up. And I remember the day of the final "this is over" conversation -- on an blustery October mid-morning, over the phone, sitting at my kitchen table. I had come to realize that we had passed the point of return -- with love, with trust, with sticktuitiveness. Maybe we both had. There just wasn't enough of those things left to make a good go of it any longer.

Over the holidays, Chief of Stuff and our families were out for dinner when an ex-ex boyfriend -- the one who could easily qualify as a first love, and the same one who had given me a lesson in heartbreaking -- waltzed in with his. Later that night, CoS asked me for details of what had happened with him, and like wandering through the grocery store without a list, I could only recall the big things. Milk, eggs, chicken. My lying to him, his cheating on me, and the phone call out of nowhere. But the details, the connecting segments, were all lost.

Days like the other day, too, will eventually fade with time if not written down, not witnessed.

The last conversation I'd had with The Ex had been the night I told him I was engaged. After initial shock wore off, he came around. We joked ("Do you need a photographer?" he asked. "I know a good one." He had just returned from a weekend in Tofino where his girlfriend was shooting a wedding.) We talked like friends -- exactly what I had hoped we could be eventually, since our breakup was devoid of hard feelings (as if on cue from Dr. Phil, we had done all of that work long before agreeing to quit) -- and agreed to maintain touch through the occasional email or phone call.

This, I was happy about. With the ex-ex, there was zero desire to see or talk to him ever again. He had hurt me to the bone, and the mix of anger and loss I felt just being in the same room with him was revolting. Toxic. But with The Ex, it was a different story. We had intertwined our lives for nearly six years. I truly liked him as a person. And betrayal or lying hadn't marked the end of our relationship. We were simply two people who, having fought the good fight, decided that our lives were going in different directions.

I called him around his birthday, and a couple of other times since to check in. I wrote a couple of emails to see if things were okay when I didn't hear back. And eventually, I did. It was a short note that said, basically, I'm glad to hear things are going well with you. I'm happy. I finally found someone I can spend my life with. We're even getting a dog together -- a Vizsla, maybe. Good luck with everything.

It struck me as strange. The last conversation we had is about how nice it was to not lose touch with someone who knew you when and how there was no reason not to keep things friendly. That, followed by, "Good luck, take care of Leonard." Two and two had added up to five. And until I accidentally dialed his number the other day, instead of the one I was trying for, I didn't know why.

We made awkward small talk. But as long as I had him on the phone then, I asked if there was something that had gone wrong between the last time we spoke and now. He told me his girlfriend -- the same one he once cheated on me with so many summers ago -- didn't approve of phone calls or emails from me. That she reads his email, checks his phone. And that's when I knew. This would be the last time.

"I have to live my life," he said. "I owe it to her."

It made me sad for him...and for her. I've been there. Where the sight of a strange phone number or a woman's name you don't recognize has the power to make you instantly ill. A place where you believe that if you just keep monitoring and keep checking in order to keep reassuring yourself, it will all be okay. It will all work out fine in the end.

But more so, it made me sad for me. Not hurt or angry -- but sad, in the purest sense of the word. And not because I want to go back there. I don't. But because, for all practical purposes, it's like he has died. Like I simply dreamed him. We don't live in the same state, or even the same country. He doesn't -- has no reason -- to ever visit here, and vice versa. We won't talk. I won't be on the email list of people to get pictures of their new dog, or in a year or two, new baby. There will be no chance encounters on the street, or in Aisle 5 of the grocery store. And with no friends in common, there won't be any through-the-grapevine updates.

Five-plus years of my life, tied up with a ghost of a memory.

So the next morning, when brushing my teeth next to Chief of Stuff, when he said an ex-girlfriend-turned-friend was coming in for the weekend, I simply asked what the plan was. He wondered if I'd be available for dinner or lunch with the two of them.

I told him he didn't have to bring me along. That I didn't need to be there to babysit. That I trusted him. Because I do. Because I'm not going to be that girl responsible for eliminating people from his life. And because jealousy was an ugly, ugly thing that I yielded to long ago, and I didn't like the girl I was when it was calling the shots in my life.

So I said this: "I don't want you to feel like I have to be there. You're friends. Feel free to hang out without me." I said this not just to say it, but because I really meant it.

He said he wanted me there. Wanted the two of us to get to know one another. Wanted the three of us to become friends. He seemed so sure, so solid.

And just then, spitting toothpaste over the sink in my t-shirt and boxer shorts, still groggy with sleep, I knew that my life to this point -- all of it -- got me here. Taught me hard lessons that I learned well. And somehow, because of all that, I ended up exactly where I was supposed to be.

I love that, with this man, there's no worrying about where his head, or his heart, is. No worrying that there's something he's just not telling me. No need to scan his email or phone messages. I love that with this man, there's no keeping score. No tit-for-tat.

I love that with this man, I can count on him. Without a doubt. Without exception. Without condition. And that all that's come before brought me to this place, to him.

Posted by Erin 12:22 PM 6 comments

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Weekend By the Numbers
Monday, January 14, 2008

  • 1 new gym membership signed up for, 3 blocks from my office, complete with a free training session, 3 free tans, and a $75 gift certificate to the adjoining spa.
  • 4 miles ran with Chief of Stuff at a faster clip than I think my Garmin let on (anyone know if Garmins can become uncalibrated? There's just NO WAY that we ran 11:30 miles! We were darn near pushing it, after all.)
  • 35 bucking bulls were watched flinging wiry, unsuspecting cowboys hither and yan.
  • 1 Elvis impersonation (hilarious) by round-barreled bullfighter/barrelman.
  • 1 seemingly serious injury to bullrider (broken leg?).
  • 1 great brunch at Marigold with friends we haven't seen in forever.
  • 2 great, potential Oscar-contending movies viewed.
  • 7 miles ran with 1 new blogger friend and 2 VCVs (very cute Vizslas) that went by lickety-split thanks to the great weather, conversation, and company.
  • 1 new pair of running shoes (so new, in fact, there aren't even pictures of said shoes to be found on the net) bought to succeed Root Beer Float Asics of Ironman fame.
  • 1 entry into May's Madison Marathon that came -- free! -- with aforementioned shoes.
  • 1 new triathlon discovered in Madison that I can add to my race schedule for 2008.
  • $119 spent at Triathlete Heaven, also known as Endurance House, on shoes, socks, quick-dry towel, and Clif Shots -- the first (and, perhaps, lowest amount ever spent on a) visit to EH since just before IM-Moo '07.

Mentioning to Chief of Stuff that I'd like fit in a trip to the pool on Sunday if time allowed (it didn't...alas) post 7-mile-running and Triathlete-Heaven-visiting and realizing that I have, indeed, gotten back in the triathlon saddle? Priceless.

Posted by Erin 12:13 PM 5 comments

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World's Quickest Movie Reviews

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street -- Go see it. *

No Country for Old Men -- Go see it immediately.**

*Be prepared to cover eyes often and sometimes, not quickly enough, and to lose all fondness for chicken pot pies, pasties, or the like for quite some time. Also predisposes viewer to nightmares, although well worth it and all.

**Except for all of those "please tie it up with a bow at the end for me" type of movie-goers. (If this is your thing, see Enchanted or Alvin and the Chipmunks, or something else along those lines.) Such a superbly brilliant movie that the few slip-ups contained within go by wholly unnoticed. Still thinking about and processing it, which means it's one of the best movies I've seen in a long, long time. One of those rare films that you can apply loads of literary analysis to and still not exhaust the material. Dark and violent, but mostly not gratuitous. Oh, and whatever you do, puh-lease do NOT bring your two-year old kid to see this. It's only cute for a second when she says, "Oh-oh" after three people are capped and then laughs. (Not sure what logic leads one to say, "Oh, let's just pack the kids up and bring them with us to this movie that is rated 'R' for 'strong graphic violence' and is a mix between serial killer and shoot-em-up western genres," but I actually witnessed the end result. Equal parts disturbing and annoying.)

Posted by Erin 11:11 AM 4 comments



A Look Back
Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Hard to believe this was already/only four months ago today.

I'm not talented at scrapbooking, and as I found out, I'm only slightly more proficient at Windows moviemaker. With that disclaimer out of the way, below is my look back at September 9th, 2007. It's been months in the making. I finally came to the conclusion that it's not going to ever be perfect -- I could edit forever -- so I'm just going to save myself the brain space and nightly tinkering and put it up. Finally.

Hope it brings you all back -- or, for those of you who only heard about this journey through the phone lines or email, I hope it takes you there.

Enjoy. I know I did.

Oh, and sidenote -- I tried to buy the pics for the Dairyland Dare, but no longer could when I started putting this together. Alas, had to use the emailed proofs they sent out after the event, as I was there all by my lonesome. No cheerleaders at that one to take pictures (and not much to take pictures of, quite honestly).

Posted by Erin 7:45 PM 7 comments

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Last Night
Monday, January 07, 2008

Sundays often depress me, as they do to most people, because they indicate the end of the weekend...and the start of the work week. As such, I've started to dread Sundays of late.

But if I could have a night like last night every Sunday, I'd be one happy little camper.

Witness the yumminess provided by one Chief of Stuff and one American Pie:

Margarita Pizza

Pizza topped with pesto, caramelized onions, and Fontina cheese.

All that, followed by lounging on the couch with two cute Vizslas and watching 300 . Very perfect night, indeed.

Posted by Erin 2:13 PM 4 comments

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Running Naked
Friday, January 04, 2008

Reasons abound as to why I love going home to the UP. Family? Bimbo's pizza? Beautiful, familiar sights that bring back so many great growing-up memories? Check, check, and check.

But there's one other, too -- I know all of the roads leading from our little parcel on Bass Lake Road and exactly how far I have to travel on each to put the desired number of miles on my little brown Asics. As such, I leave the Garmin behind. No waiting to start my run until it (slowly) locates its satellites. No staring at my wrist more than the scenery around me. No obsessively checking my pace and trying to match my footfall to make the lower left corner of the screen read exactly 9:30, or god-willing, 8:45. No holding my left wrist in front of my face, willing the mileage readout to hit the predetermined half-way point before turning around.

Instead, headed out the door I call to my family, sitting around the kitchen table (as this is 1. where my family chooses to gather, and 2. symbolic of our collective love of and devotion to food), one of the following: "I'm going to run to the greenhouse and back" (3 miles), "I'm going to run Belagomba" (4 or 5 miles, depending on when I choose to turn around), or "I'm going to run the lake" (either 5 or 8 miles, depending). They nod. They know these miles too, as intimately as I do.

The day after Christmas, I announce that a Belagomba run is in order. "Use the treadmill. It's cold out," my mom tells me. This, I know, is an option. The treadmill is a top-notch one. I've used it for everything from interval training for track when I was home on break from college to Ironman training just last year. And I can see that even though a morning sun is out, it's brisk. Flakes hang in the air in our backyard and snow kicked up from the ski hill floats like a fine mist above it in the distance.

"It's fine," I tell her. "I don't mind." I don't take time to explain that I live for winter running. The way my hands warm inside mittens. The way my feet have to try harder to find the pavement. The way the air burns with each breath. I love that I'm out there in the elements, and once I'm bundled up, it doesn't seem quite so cold at all. I love that I can run and run and run and not overheat. I love the muted crunch of snow underfoot. I love that I rarely see anyone else out there with me, unlike in the summer months when roads and bike paths are teeming with joggers.

I accidentally wake Chief of Stuff when I run back upstairs to dig out my hat and mittens. He asks what I'm doing, and then if I want company. I tell him no, to go back to bed. And I mean it. I'm looking forward to the next hour alone -- no offense meant to anyone.

I'm in a contemplative mood and without my Garmin to tell me how fast to go or precisely how far, I just run. For the first time on a run, I put on George Winston's December and let myself get lost in the piano's haunting notes.

It goes this way for the next mile and a half. I decide then that I need words. Kanye West's Through the Wire to be exact -- it has a beat to it, but not too fast, and is inspirational to boot. And then. My trusty pink Ipod, as it's been prone to do lately, simply stops.

I try to call up Kanye once again, and it looks promising. A few more words, and then, once again, nothing. I punch at the little white dial hoping, and then praying, that it will somehow come back on. Despite the low battery sign I get each time. Despite the fact that eventually, even that fails to show up. And then I decide that this is pointless and silly. Praying for one's Ipod to work? Really? As if God has nothing at all better to do than worry about my perfect run being ruined by this little imperfection.

So I start running again, headphones in my ears in case the music somehow comes back on. And, as I'm prone to do, I argue. With myself. I whine to me that this is a big deal. It's my first run in a while, the first outside run in even longer. (I gave myself the freedom to focus on writing this past month, on trying to finish my book, instead of making running a priority. It's mostly worked.) I had pictured this run since arriving in the UP, and a major part of it was the songs I wanted to listen to -- I had a full list of them! So I convince myself to stop, and poke at the Ipod a little more. Still nothing. Two-and-a-half miles to go, with no music. I get mad, and then I start getting cold, and so I decide to just start running.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was running naked. No Garmin. No music. Not even a Vizsla or two by my side. Just me. My breathing. My footsteps.

This is the part where I'm supposed to say how liberating it felt. How freeing. And, in part, it did. I thought about my form. I felt my muscles more acutely than I normally would. And at the end of five miles, the post-run hangover that I often get, when Garmin tells me that my average pace is higher than I had hoped, was pleasantly absent.

It was somewhat liberating. It felt good...at times. But more importantly, it was a good experience to have. Reminding me why I was out there. Forcing me to me enjoy the dips and turns in those roads I know so well. Helping me to actually feel my body instead of just willing it to move.

And so, for a while, I've decided that I'm going to keep the Garmin at home. To remain free, for a while, of the need to compete against myself -- against what I could do this past summer, or even last winter, at this time. Because I'm no longer that person. The one who could knock off 8:30 minute-miles for a 5k, bike 30 miles, and then do a quick 5k again. The one who ran mile repeats all last winter. The one who ran a 56-minute 10k the day after the Dairyland Dare and at the end of an oly tri. The one who ran a marathon after a nearly 10 hours of swimming and biking this past September. I will be again. Closer to spring. But I'm not now. And for now, that needs to be okay.

But the Ipod? That's still coming with me. No need to go totally naked.

Posted by Erin 9:04 AM 4 comments



New Year, New Me
Thursday, January 03, 2008

Thought I'd share my top ten resolutions as we all embark on another year together:
  1. Laugh more, bitch less. Except on this blog. Bitching is what I do best here. It's what this blog was meant for.
  2. Read more. I'm already off to a smashing start on that one, with five books down in the last three weeks. And, to help hold myself to this one, I'll chronicle what I'm reading and what's coming up on the sidebar.
  3. Start working out. Seriously. Weights and running/cardio/pilates now to prepare for the half-marathons I'm gunning for in the spring, and adding swimming and longer-hours (meaning any at all) on the bike as we approach summer to prepare for Racine.
  4. Write more. Every day, actually -- both on here and in general. Expect to see The Long and Winding Road become a little less triathlon-ish and a little more mylife-ish. At least for the time being.
  5. Be a nicer person, especially to my family. I have a temper, and they often take the brunt of it. I know I can be hard to take, and I'm ready to start making life a little easier on them. Or at least trying to.
  6. Eat better. Less take out, more cooking. We'll see...
  7. Make more time for friends. You know those nights when all you want to do is curl up with a blanket, a good book, and a glass of wine? Well, I have them continuously, and it needs to stop. I'm sure I'll look back on the problem of more dinner/drink/event invites than I care for when I'm 80 and sigh for not taking greater advantage of living in a great city with great people.
  8. (attempt to) Manage my finances better. Again, we'll see... but the Starbucks lattes are staying put, thankyouverymuch.
  9. Not lose sight of the real meaning behind all of these crazy wedding preparations.
  10. Within reason, do more of what I want to do, and less of what I don't. Sounds simple, doesn't it? Well, it's not. Saying no is hard, but getting rid of the dead-weight of guilt in my life is something I've been working on for a while now. Ironman helped in a weird sort of way...having to prioritize working out over random meetings, work gatherings, etc. And now, time to keep working on it. Practice makes perfect.

Posted by Erin 3:58 PM 3 comments

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