Faster!

My long-legged running partner and I decided that we would sprint the last stretch of our run yesterday morning. Actually, she decided this and I grunted my assent. I am not a sprinter, you see. I'm just not built for it. I really don't have much muscle mass, unless you count the muscle that has formed around my midsection; love handles are muscle, right?

They're not?

Oh.

Forget I said anything.

So as we approached our last quarter mile, I could feel our pace start to quicken. It felt good. I was conscious of my form. My arms were pumping back and forth to help my momentum. I was breathing heavily, but rhythmically. And then Amy started pulling just a couple inches ahead. I lengthened my stride to match her. Now we were really flying! I actually started laughing! I was so happy to be keeping up with her. I must be a great runner! I glanced over at her and smiled, sharing my euphoria at our incredible speed.

Then she smiled back. And said, "Should we go fast?"

But...

But...

And then she took off and left my sorry butt in the dust.

Tears of Laughter

I'm going to Hell for sure.

Last night, I was enjoying a blue moon blender from Red Mango with Little Sis, when something struck me as funny. Little Sis was mid-sentence when I burst out laughing, spitting as I did so, and continued to laugh so hard that I cried. I couldn't talk for several seconds. Little Sis just sat there staring at me like I was nuts, because it wasn't her story that had tickled my funny bone. It was another frozen yogurt customer: a 50 year old woman with an eye patch.

I saw this nice blonde woman, and my imagination immediately took over. I imagined her looking at me, hooking her finger, and exclaiming, "Aaarrrrgh!" Like a PIRATE!

After this poor lady, whom I'm sure is very nice, and probably just had some kind of eye surgery, purchased her creamy treat and returned outside where Sis and I were sitting, it hit me AGAIN! Tears were rolling down my cheeks and I was just hoping against hope that she hadn't noticed the lunatic who was allowing blueberries and chocolate to dribble down her chin because she couldn't contain her evil laughter.

At least Little Sis and I did do something besides laugh at the unfortunate. We made summer rolls! Check us out here.

Will Run for Sanity

Last night, I was in a bad place. Everything around me was irritating. Everything made me mad or annoyed or caused me to roll my eyes and walk out of the room. Of course, none of this was my fault. The dark, unfeeling world was provoking me!

But then this morning, against my better judgment, I went running for the first time in a week and a half. (Running is always against my better judgment. Why would a person willingly and repeatedly do this to herself?) It was beyond tough. I only ran 3 miles instead of my usual 4 because I had a time constraint. But despite the relief that should have come from slicing that mile off my workout, I felt like I had lead feet AND a giant rubber band tethering me to a light pole down the street. I couldn't catch my breath. I wanted to stop and walk the last mile, but I knew that if I did that, I would make my man miss his flight because I would never make it home. He would have had to come scrape me off the side of the road if I didn't force my legs to continue their movement.

So I ran. And I ran some more. And I didn't die. I walked in the door, kissed my man goodbye, and then didn't stop smiling for several hours. I was more patient and loving with the punk. I enjoyed the moments in my routine that may be considered mundane. I was more appreciative and more helpful and more fun.

All because of a few little endorphins.

Tent-Induced Crazy

Filthy. Stinky. Grumpy. Prickly. Greasy.

That's what I was when I arrived home yesterday afternoon after 4 days at the ranch followed by 4 days on trek.

My grandpa's ranch is heaven on earth, despite the tent factor. It was cold and slightly uncomfortable, but we do it every 4th of July and I love it. I have never been home for Independence Day. Ever. Although I would much rather tent it than go to "town" (Vernal) at night with some of the others to sleep in a cheap motel, living in a tent gets tiring after a few days. But I do love being in a place where there is no cell phone coverage (no land line either), very few clocks, no TV, no internet. Just grass, trees, wind, rocks, a painfully cold river, solar power, and dozens of cousins.

Directly from the ranch, my man and I left the punk with his grandparents and drove to Middle-Of-Nowhere, Wyoming to meet the teenagers of our stake for pioneer trek. (Tell me, is there anywhere in Wyoming that is not the middle of nowhere? No wonder why no one stopped there in the 1800s on their way to Utah, California, or Oregon!) Unlike the ranch, there were no showers on trek. No sinks, no tubs. Just Camelbaks with which to brush our teeth, and wet wipes for our faces. We walked an easy 6 miles around Martin's Cove on Wednesday, but on Thursday, we pulled our handcarts 14 miles on the Mormon Pioneer Trail, ending at Rock Creek Hollow. The LDS Church has an agreement with the Bureau of Land Management in Wyoming so we can do these treks with our youth; however, the agreement stipulates that we must stay on the designated trail, no matter what. This trail took us through about 7 large mud holes, some up to the waist, and we were not allowed to go around them. We even had two missionary guides on horseback who made sure we stayed on the path. Many people lost their shoes to the hungry muck. My man has quarter-size blisters on both feet. I have one smaller blister; it was pretty much impossible not to get one since we were all walking with wet socks and shoes that were filled with mud and rocks.

After this long hike, everyone was tired and filthy, but happy to have accomplished such a feat. We ate well and had a nice testimony meeting that night. In the morning, we packed up camp and headed home.

At a gas station on the way home, my man picked up two small fountain drinks for us: Diet Cokes. Yum! Now, it's not like I hadn't had any Diet Coke this week. Aunt Cindy had shared her stash at the ranch, and I had joined two other leaders in the back of a trailer for a "discreet" (read: secret) Diet Coke pow wow on the second day of trek. But for some reason, this Diet Coke with ice in a styrofoam cup tasted like love itself. I took a sip and sighed with pleasure. Although my legs were still caked with dried, cracked mud and my hair was a giant glob of grease and dust, I was satisfied.

So when my man reached for my cup because he had finished his, I screamed, "No! No! No! No! No!" and violently grabbed it out of his hands. I think I shocked the teenage boys in the back seat, who started laughing nervously, and I know I shocked my man. He looked at me like I was just a tiny bit crazy. About 60 seconds later, I started giggling. It took me that long to realize that yes, I was crazy indeed.

Another Poop Story

Yesterday, I was changing the punk's diaper. I laid him on the changing table, undid the velcro tabs, and then realized there were no diapers in the cupboard. So I took one step over to his closet to grab a new package, and before I could get my hand on them, the little man had grabbed the diaper from in between his legs, and pulled it out from under himself.

Now if this had been merely a wet diaper, it wouldn't have been so scary. But of course, you know by the title of this post, it was not. As he pulled the diaper up into the air, the large nugget landed squarely on his chest. Curious, he picked it up to examine the item that had fallen. In a panic, I took it out of his hand... with my bare hand. Gag! I placed the token back in the dirty diaper and feverishly proceeded to wipe his hands and my hands with wet wipes. Then I slathered hand sanitizer all over both of us. Then, I found two smaller turds lying next to him, and gathered them. After changing his poop-smudged shirt, we both visited the bathroom sink to thoroughly clean our hands with anti-bacterial soap. Then more hand sanitizer.

And now, to clear your head of the awful story I just told, please enjoy these photos of the punk and his pal Bogey (Grandma Lynn's doggie). They share a favorite hobby: playing with "la-la" (water).

Do you feel better now?

Ragnar: Part 3

We finished our second leg at about 9:00 am and headed to Mellisa's parents' house in Kamas to rest for a few hours. After a shower, a pancake, and 2 hours sleep, I was feeling much better. Some of the others, however, had misbehaving intestines, as often happens during races like this. None of us were feeling at our best, but the end was in sight; only one run to go.

My last run was scheduled as 5.5 miles down the steep mountain terrain through Deer Valley and Park City Mountain Resort, for a descent of over 2,000 feet. However, that morning, we received a text from the race officials stating that, "due to an unforeseen obstruction," (which turned out to be snow) my leg was to be increased by 1.5 miles, to make it 7 miles. Once again, my sweet teammates offered to help me with this addition; they would each take half a mile for me. But I knew that in order for me to feel proud of my performance, I would have to make it on my own.

Let's rewind three years. The Wasatch Back Relay was held in 2007 during a major heat wave. I ran my first leg during the afternoon when the temperature reached 104 degrees. Afterwards, I looked like this:

During the last leg of a difficult relay for everyone on my team, I gave up the ghost. I stopped to walk and couldn't make myself start running again. I only had about 2 miles to go, but those 2 miles seemed unattainable. I was physically and mentally weak, and I just gave up. Enter Blake (aka Donatello):

He stepped up and started running for me while I climbed in the van to drink some lukewarm gatorade. I was hot, tired, and miserable, but I felt ultimately defeated, not by the heat and the miles, but by my own weakness. I ended up running my last mile on my own, but never really forgave myself for allowing Blake to run for me, even after sending him a set of old school He-Man DVDs in thanks.

Fast forward back to this year. I took the baton and began my last leg: a 7 mile, "very hard" run. The first 200 yards were uphill, and then the descent began. As I began the climb up that very first hill, I almost literally ran into Blake! He was wearing a volunteer shirt.

"Hi Blake!"

"Hi Meili!"

And then I knew that I had come full circle. I was about to run 1.5 miles longer than I had anticipated, three years after Blake had run a mile for me. He was here, on leg #35, to give me his blessing. He thought he had volunteered at this time during the race because it was a convenient time of day for him, or because the location was good, or because all of the other volunteer shifts had been taken. But no. It was no coincidence. Karma, baby. The universe is now in order.

My triumphant finish:

The Duodecad at the finish line:

Ragnar: Part 2

Friday evening. We had successfully finished our first leg of the relay. We were all smiles as we made our way to Taggart's, a tasty grill converted from an old gas station and bait shop hidden away in the canyon near Morgan. In the dining room, we joined many other runners and their appetites. I ordered the salmon and a cheesecake brownie to go, because at Taggart's, you can't not order dessert. The mouthwatering brownies, cheesecakes, tarts and cookies greet you in their pristine display case as you walk in the front door, so you're forced to think about them all through dinner.

After our meal, we grabbed our fresh clothes from the van and went back inside to change in the restroom. (We had considered stripping down in the parking lot, but then we noticed a couple of young boys sitting in their car with anticipation on their faces. We didn't want to be their first lady underwear experience, so we went inside.) There were only two w.c.'s in the restaurant: one for men, one for women. We six chicks stood outside the doors along with one tall, skinny guy. The woman before us exited the restroom, but because we were caught up in conversation, we didn't rush in after her. When we came to our senses a few seconds later, we noticed that the ladies' door was closed again. Tami tried the handle, but it was locked. Odd. We hadn't seen any other women hanging around the door. So she knocked. Nothing happened. She knocked again and pressed her ear against the door to see if there was an "occupied" response from within. As she was hugging the door, it suddenly opened and the tall man walked briskly out with a sheepish smirk on his face. We all burst out laughing at Tami who had almost fallen in on top of him.

Our hunger abated and our fresh clothes on, we settled into the van (still in the now dark Taggart's parking lot) to rest for an hour before we had to meet the other van at the next exchange. Despite the soothing lullaby of the breast pump being used in the front seat, we couldn't sleep. Someone had the giggles. So, despite our lack of rest, we moved on to meet the rest of the team and start our second leg. It took us a while, and a lot of turning around, to find our other van. By the time we met up with them, I was quite car sick. As soon as we parked, I got out of the van. Usually solid ground and fresh air will help soothe my upset stomach, but even after a long walk, I couldn't shake it. Finally at about 2 am, as Mellisa began her run, I took the two spots left in the back seat and laid down. As all my other teammates were running, I tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress the nausea and get some sleep. Finally at about 5:30 am, someone said, "Meili, it's time for you to get ready." I sat up and said to Mellisa, "Move. I have to get out!" I stumbled out of the van, leaned up against a rusted pipe in the makeshift parking lot in the middle of nowhere, and heaved my guts out. As I was puking, I was aware that I was standing right in front of a row of parked vans. But what was I going to do about that? Nothing. So I just kept puking. Goodbye salmon. Goodbye potatoes. Goodbye grilled vegetables. Goodbye cheesecake brownie.

I turned around to find my sympathetic teammates, shoes on and ready to run my leg for me. But, even though I had a pretty good excuse, I didn't want to let someone else do what I had come to do. So I visited the honey bucket (isn't that an awesome name for a porta-potty?), rinsed with mouthwash, sipped some water, ate 2 wheat thins, and laced up my shoes. Then I ran 5.5 miles around Rock Port Reservoir.

To be continued...