Imposter

I took Banks out for his customary 1.3 this morning, and even though I had said I’d do an outdoor walk on weekends, I wavered all day.  I felt like a stranger in my new gym on Friday. I wanted to go in today with the luxury of time, and find out the important things like, what is the locker room like? Do I need to bring my own lock?  How do you get the sound on the TV?  Is there some kind of outlet on the treadmill where you can plug in headphones?  Will I be able to turn the channel to CNN or whatever I want to watch?  Is this one of those gyms where I’ll be okay with my cut-off, self-styled “yoga pants?”  There were very few women there yesterday after work. 

I remember feeling very similar when I started walking on the trail.  It seems funny now – Banks and I own that thing!  Would I stick out like a novice?  Did I have the right kind of shoes?  Would people think I was a fitness imposter?  Would I get lost? It’s not that those thoughts dominated; it was more of an occasional nagging, muted, distant taunt, a holdover from an acutely self-conscious adolescence.  In a week or two I’ll be laughing about that too.

But as much as I wanted to jump into it today, I also wanted – want – to remain as true to the blog as I can, which is “Five Mile Walk with a Piebald Pit, With a Temporary Detour to Avoid Heat Stroke.”  My goal is three days on the treadmill, three days outdoors, and the easiest days to walk outdoors will be Saturday and Sunday, so I’ll reserve those days as much as possible.

Around 5:00 I met up with Lynn and friends Stacy and Shub and their two kids from Houston, at Amy’s Ice Cream.  Dark chocolate mixed with peanut butter cup; that was my dinner.  Then we went to her house, and they all went out to dinner (I skipped it because I hate Indian food). I took that opportunity to do the rest of my walk.  I walked home (.9), grabbed a better pair of shoes, back to Lynn’s (.9), and then another 40 minutes around Stacy Park.

Can you believe it?  Tomorrow is July 1.  The halfway mark. 

Gym Rat

Congratulate me.  I’m the newest member of Gold’s Gym.

Yesterday I went to the 6^th and Congress facility over my lunch hour, and met with Sean, a frighteningly fit twentysomething.  He asked me what my goals were in joining.  I giggled demurely.  “Well, I walk five miles a day, six days a week, and I’ve been doing it since January 1st, and I bring my dog along and I write a blog about it, but it’s getting so hot that I thought….” 

He smiled tightly.  “So, you’re maybe more interested in the cardio aspect?”  “Um…yeah.  I mean, you don’t separate them out, do you?  You can’t join just to use the treadmill, right?” 

I’m sure that Sean has been asked stupider questions in his life, but this was an excellent runner-up.  He cut through the small talk, and turned to his computer.  “Why don’t I just show you the different rates and you can decide which plan works best for you.”

Let's just leave it at "I joined a gym." I'm embarrassed to admit how far afield I got from the "three month contract" I went in there seeking. I don't care.  After four or five days of blahhh, I'm excited about walking again.  I can 't tell you how dread-inducing an evening walk can seem when it's been over 100 that day. 

Over the next days and weeks, I'll be expermenting with how to blend my regular walk with the treadmill, but here's what I did today:  at 5:30 AM, walked Banks 1.3.  After work, I walked to Gold's gym (.4), did 2.9 on the treadmill, and walked back to the office to retrieve my car (another .4).  That's a little more piecemeal than I normally like, but I'm still feeling my way through this.  Today was my first day in the gym, and I felt a little at sea.  Don't know anyone, don't know the equipment, had to ask where the women's locker room was....I'll figure it out. 

Up and at 'em

Let me correct something from last night’s blog.  It wasn’t 104, it was 106.

It’s 7:06 and I’m DONE.  How wonderful that feels.  I came home dripping wet and panting, took a shower, and treated myself to a bagel – a whole bagel – with salmon cream cheese on one side and peanut butter on the other, and two huge cups of coffee.  I can handle anything, knowing that I don’t have to walk tonight when it’s, I don’t know, 95?  It’s funny, the tricks you play in your mind to stay out of a rut.  I did the tried-and-true, Banks-for-1.3-and-the-hills-for-3.7.  Usually I take the three hills in the order I come to them:  Leland, Terrace and Mary – up and down each one of them – then turn around and walk the relatively flat East Side all the way back home.  Today I walked straight to Mary, ascended and descended, then did the same with Terrace and then Leland, and had what felt like a shorter walk home on East Side.  Hey, whatever works.

All the way through my walk this morning, I had numbers running through my head.  When I join the gym, I’ll walk Banks 1.3, and do 3.7 on the treadmill.  I usually have the speed set at 3.9 or 4.0 for the walking part, which means I’ll be on there slightly less than an hour, but if I run a good part of it, that could bring it down to maybe 50 minutes.  I’ll do the outdoor walk three times a week, the treadmill the other three.  The possibilities are endless. 

I especially wanted the walk out of the way because it’s going to be another meat orgy at Fogo de Chao tonight, Sam’s long-deferred straight-A celebration with Lynn and Jeff.  Couldn’t bear to have that hanging over my head.  And I didn’t want today to be my day off, because that’s going to be tomorrow, and I AM going to the gym over my lunch hour.  I’ve been rehearsing my pitch for the last 24 hours.

Way Off

I met Brian for breakfast at a new venue this morning, the 24 Hour Diner on 6th and Lamar.  I googled the directions -- 2.5 -- perfect! I gave myself just under 45 minutes to get there on foot, because I knew that, Banks-less, I would make exceptionally good time.  The simplest route available was south on Congress, east on Oltorf, and south on Lamar, all the way to 6th.  So I couldn't understand why I got there 10 minutes late, even though I was almost running the last 6 or 7 blocks because it was already after 7:00, our meeting time.  After breakfast, Brian drove me home with the odometer zeroed, and mystery solved -- it was exactly 3.5 miles.  Actually, it was more like 3.7 because I had been forced to take the Lamar footbridge, which veered way off course and probably cost me 5-6 minutes. 

So even though I had planned to walk home after breakfast, I was way too far behind schedule by then, but at least I only have a half hour to make up tonight.  Did I mention it's 104 degrees today?  I mean it.  Tomorrow I go to Gold's Gym, just a few blocks from my office, and I am determined to come out of there with a contract. Preferably a short-term one.

I'm about to head off to Central Market for dinner with Marcy, and that reminds me of something cool that happened a couple of days ago.  Marcy is a bit of a compulsive shopper, buys things on impulse and just never gets around to returning them, preferring to gift them to friends once she's worn them once or twice. Last year she gave me a great pair of black pants, very night-timey, kind of satiny with a recessed print on them.  They were hideously small, and I put them away in my "I have a dream" drawer.  Well, the other night I put them on and the good news and bad news is, the moment has passed.  They totally fell off me when I tried to walk around in them.  I'm looking foward to gifting them to someone else.

Gym Rat

Most people hate Mondays.  I don't.  I don't think I'm a workaholic, necessarily, but I love structure, and especially when I've lived without it for a while, I welcome it.

I woke up detemined to do penance for the last couple of days.  I took my walk first thing (do I even need to add "hot and humid," even at that early hour?). I was lost in my thoughts, and wasn't paying attention to the route, and found myself completing the 1.7 route with Banks, rather than the 1.3.  That threw off the rest of the calculations, so once I released him, I walked it again (now 3.4) then went to St. Ed's (.3), walked the soccer field oval three times (1 mile), walked home (another .3, bringing the grand total to 5.0).  I was soaked when I got home. 

After two full days of awful eating, my body was CRAVING healthy fuel. I toasted a bagel and topped it with scrambled eggs, a slice of Canadian bacon and cheese, along with two cups of coffee. I don't want to hear anything about grapefruit or cottage cheese. This meal was fabulous, filling and nutritious. 

As we near the halfway point, I am just about ready to incorporate the gym thing.  This heat is sucking the joy out of my walking, and God knows Banks is flagging.  I'm getting excited about some of the perks of the gym: air conditioning, television, cute guys to look at, and machines to facilitate my vow to work on the upper body.  Best of all, I think I could fit it in over a lunch hour (maybe a half hour with Banks in the morning, and an hour in the gym?), which gives me one more daily option. Believe me, walking five at noon right now is NOT an option, and I'm getting a little tired of the panicky feeling when the night is slipping away and I haven't walked yet.

By the way, I still haven't figured out how Meredith Baxter got from here to there. 

Biscuits, Gravy and Blood Blisters

A day that starts out with biscuits and gravy is never a good day.  I know this, and yet 3-4 times a year, I start the day out with them anyway.  I certainly never have them at home, and if I’m out somewhere for breakfast, I never order them, but when your complimentary “continental breakfast” puts them right in front of you, I almost never walk away.

So predictably I felt heavy and leaden all day, but that’s because after I downed those, I ate a bagel, and a big, sugary glass of orange juice.  And on the way back to Austin, had a giant Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup.  I HATE THE WAY I EAT WHEN I’M ON THE ROAD!  What is the matter with me?

The balls of my feet were not quite as shredded as I had feared; I got home around 3:00, took a several- hours nap (driving 600 miles is exhausting), and then walked when I woke up, around 6:30.  It was a dull and perfunctory walk (biscuits and gravy have very long tentacles), but I did it.  Hot, humid, uninspired, but I did it. And though it felt okay while I was doing it, once I took the shoes off, my feet were very sore.  And when I woke up this morning, blood blisters had formed on the balls of both feet, physical reproof of my barefoot treadmill adventure two nights ago.

Tonight I went to a friend’s at 5:30 – she lives only ½ a mile away, so I walked there, and left at close to 9:00 to complete the rest of the five.  I still feel sluggish and gross, but with extra-thick socks, my sore, blistery feet were a non-issue.  Oh, and working out in the gym on Friday night?  It was disgusting.  Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on all sides. Seeing myself that upclose and personal made me vow to start working on the rest of me.  Yes, my legs are getting strong and skinny, and the rest of me is vanishing somewhat, but it’s not keeping pace with the legs.  July  1, which is next Sunday, marks the halfway point of my journey.  This second half will be a good opportunity to add in some upper body and abs work.

I’ve got to tell you a great story a client told me on Saturday.  In February, his 81-year-old mother, who takes dance class three times a week, was practicing “grapevining” down the stairs, IN HEELS, and fell.  She broke a small bone in her neck, which laid her up for a few months, but she’s back and raring to go.  She’s trying to figure out a tactful way to break up with the 88-year-old guy she’s been dating, because he just got put on oxygen, and nursing an old geezer to his grave is just not happening for her.  Life is long, and I love that she’s still living it to the fullest.  Let’s all follow her example, shall we?

The Barefoot Bicyclist

I didn't get to my motel til after 8:00, and I entered it with a heavy heart.  Today looked like the day it really might happen.  I wouldn't be able to do my walk.

Well, in a way, it has happended, but I'm refusing to see the streak as broken, even though tonight was probably more of a symbolic victory than an actual one.

As I packed this morning, I looked at my walking shoes, and at my canvas shoes, not sure which pair I would take, and put off the decision til I had the rest of the suitcase packed.  You guessed it, I forgot to pack either pair.  I was so busy today I had time only to give glancing thoughts to it here and there, but I had pretty much decided to walk in my very uncomfortable sandals if I had to.  But after a full day of work, I just didn't have the energy.  The woman checking me in brightly pointed me to the business center, the ice machines...and the fitness center.  The fitness center, of course!  Why hadn't I thought of that?

So I got down there at almost 8:45, and immediately got onto the one and only treadmill.  In my bare feet.  The floor of it was rubber, with thin vertical grooves kind of like cordoroy, and I knew there would be hell to pay tomorrow.  I stayed on it for 30 minutes and that's all I could take.  I could feel the grooves wearing into the pads of my feet, which felt bright-hot.  So I switched to the bicycle for about 20 minutes, which was easier on my feet, but boring and hard -- biking works a whole different set of muscles.

Here's where the "symbolic victory" figures in:  after I gave up on the bike, I got onto the Total Gym-type apparatus, and did some weights for both arms and legs.  Then I got down on the floor and did three sets of leg lifts on each side, and two sets of pushups.  Girl pushups.  Then I walked three flights up to my room, came down and walked three sets up again.  In other words, I did the best I could with what I had on this particular night. 

It wasn't until I was almost done that I spotted the sign on the wall.  Good thing no one came in to check on me.

On the Road Again

I screwed up again.  I was so intent on finally timing my distance -- the 1.3 with Banks (I took another slow car trip last night and settled on a new Banks route, a perfect rectangle with a circle within it, which we do twice), and the 3.7 Stacy Park hill route for me alone.  And with my infallible sense of direction, I missed a turn, had to backtrack, Banks pooped, and I had to give up on an accurate time for the 1.3.  But I took him home, and DID pay attention on the 3.7, and this time it was a couple of minutes SHORT of an hour, rather than one minute over. I've set a new goal for myself:  near the end of the year, I want to be able to cut down to an hour out there, not an hour and a half, which is going to mean doing some running.

Another road trip tomorrow, this one down south to Port Lavaca and Victoria.  I stopped at the library and picked up a couple of books on tape.  When I first started doing that, I would feel terribly pleased with myself as I chose classics like Dickens, or something that would "teach me something." The only thing I learned was that a monotonous stretch of highway and an outdated English novel had roughly the same effect as a couple of Ambien. Who was I kidding?  Today I picked up a book by Meredith Baxter. Can't wait to hear the inside scoop on the "Family Ties" cast, not to mention what made her decide she was a lesbian. That should keep me awake.

Overstepping

This is the best news I've had in weeks.  Months, maybe.  It appears that I've been overwalking.

This morning I got impatient with myself and my guesstimatations.  After I walked Banks the usual short route, I got in the car, set the odometer and retraced the route -- 1.7 miles, a little longer than I thought.  Unfortunately, I hadn't thought to check the clock before I left, so I don't know how long it took me to walk it.

After that, I re-set the odometer and traced a route that I hoped would be 3.3.  Doing three hills at Stacy Park, just once each, was 3.7 miles.  I'll cut .4 off of Banks' relatively flat walk.

I could hardly wait to get home and do the route, now that I had an exact measurement. I left at 7:42 and got back at exactly 8:43.  OMG.  That's about an hour to do just short of 4 miles.  It is waayy to stressful for me to figure this out to the nth degree -- I'll find someone smart at work to do that for me tomorrow -- but a gross simplicfication is that I've shaved quite a few minutes off my daily trip.  I was figuring 18 minutes per mile, which is what it was when I started this thing, so I figure I'm now down to about 16 minutes per mile.  That brings me to 1 hour and 20 minutes, rather than an hour and a half.

But I think I'll have to wait til Thursday to get the definitive answer. I'm having breakfast with Sam tomorrow and have an early meeting, so won't have time to walk before work.  Then I'm seeing David for a cut and color, and I'm way overdue, and if I go walking after that, I'll sweat and ruin all his work, and I'd like to look good for 24 hours at least.  So Wednesday will be my day off this week.  Broke the Monday curse for two weeks in a row.

Disconnect

Last night, as I opened up my laptop to blog about my Saturday and Sunday walks, I realized that something was different about my blog page – all of the headers which give me options such as “new post” or “edit” or “publish” or basically anything, had disappeared, and all there was left was a lonely picture of Banks and me.  Believe me, it’s not like anything exciting happened this weekend that I absolutely had to tell you about, but still!  It was disconcerting to be disconnected from the blog, so I brought my laptop into work, and even as I type this (from my work computer), I have Aimee troubleshooting for me.

Saturday morning seems so long ago.  Banks is now to the point where 20 minutes is about his limit.  I miss my lionhearted dog, and more than anything else, that’s why I am longing for the fall weather.  But after his return home, I went back to the hills, which is now my default setting.  As much as I love the trail, which it seems I haven’t been to in ages, it’s flat, and I don’t get the same kind of workout. 

Last night was the exact same thing, a short one with Banks and then the hills.  I especially love Leland, Terrace and Mary.  I had a ridiculously cheesy piece of pizza at lunchtime, and kept thinking about heartburn and clogged arteries, so wanted to blast it out of my system.  I took those three hills, twice each.  Normally I return home and am disheartened to see that I still have 10 minutes to go, but yesterday I’d overdone it by about 14.

My knees, which gave me so much trouble at the beginning of all this, are almost never an issue anymore.  But invariably, whenever my gait is off, or I am extra diligent about hitting those hills, payback settles into my left hip.  I wonder if it’s arthritis?  I know that when I stretch away from the left hip, and twist and lean to the right, I can really feel a good stretch.

My boss, who is in probably the best shape of anyone I know (he runs and does spin classes), just told me that he recorded his resting heart rate at 38.  I just did mine, and no, I’m not a superhero like him, but mine was – 58!  That’s the lowest I’ve ever seen it.  I remember several years ago, I went to donate blood, and they had to keep taking my pulse over and over again, because it wouldn’t go below 100.

Progress.

The French Paradox

We all know what that is, right?  The idea that the French eat rich four-course meals, complete with wine and heavy sauces, and somehow avoid getting fat.  I shouldn’t say “somehow.”  Apparently they maintain their trim figures by taking the stairs instead of the elevator, and doing their own gardening.

There was an article in the New York Times a few days ago, about how even French women are starting to pack on the pounds, and are turning to, of all things, Jenny Craig.  Although the meals are much more sophisticated than their American counterpart – how could they not be, they’re French – the whole idea of eating pre-packaged, individual meals is anathema to the culture at large.

Oh, how I want to eat like the French.  It makes so freaking much sense to me.  Let me just give you some of the highlights of their philosophy on food.  One woman interviewed was aghast at the American idea of lining up at a buffet, piling up on what you like, and avoiding what you don’t like. (The author looked at her blankly -- she may as well have been bemoaning the invention of the photocopier). People should be seated together at a table, and the SAME FOODS SERVED AT THE SAME TIME!  That’s eating communally – everyone takes a portion, but is careful not to take too much.  And, they all eat a little of everything, instead of bogarting their favorites.  Someone else talked about the American obsession with calories and low-fat foods, and said something like, if they would just stop worrying so much about what’s on the table and simply eat moderately and enjoy the company and what’s in front of them, their weight would take care of itself.

But here’s the one that really resonates with me:  for the most part the French still adhere to the rather quaint notion of eating three meals a day, with no snacking. The prevailing wisdom over here is, six small meals a day, keep those blood sugars level, watch that metabolism, and God forbid you should ever, ever feel a hunger pang.  Someone in that article made the point that snacking is for children; their small stomachs can’t hold that much, so of course they need an after-school snack and maybe a little something at bedtime.  But if an adult eats properly at mealtimes, starting with something light like a salad, then a small piece of meat with a vegetable, followed by cheese and a piece of fruit for dessert – you shouldn’t be hungry between meals!  Someone else mentioned that their bodies are so much more “regulated” than someone who grazes all day long.

And I agree with that.  Trends come and go, and it seems to me that when Americans were advised to eat three squares a day, there were a lot less fat people. Maybe we’re overcomplicating this thing.  I’ve done the mid-morning and the mid-afternoon snack, and it just makes me feel undisciplined.  Childish, like I’m coddling myself.

Just as I got a lot of good ideas from the “Madame Chic” book about the French lifestyle, I’m renewing my determination to follow the French in their eating patterns.  I went out and bought myself some really good, dessert-quality yogurts and French cheeses.  I’m a horrible cook, but I’m going to up the quality of my take-out.  I just googled Le Madeleine, and some of that stuff looks delicious.  And filling.

I resisted the temptation to put off the walk until the sun went down, and went right at 5:00, which I should really be congratulated on, because I’ve lost my sunglasses.  There are just days when, in a weird kind of way, I want to punish myself, and make it as hard, or at least as uncomfortable, as I can make it.  It worked.  I think it’s only in the low 90s, but it is so dang humid….Banks was happy to be relieved after just a half hour, and I continued on to the hills.  Maybe that’s why I like the punishing walks – it feels so amazingly good to have a hot shower, air conditioning and a cold glass of water when it’s all over.

I mean it, I’m starting it tomorrow in earnest.  The French thing.

In Memory

This morning’s walk was a lot like yesterday’s.  I got up early with Banks, and we started our walk around 5:30.  I was optimistic as soon as I stepped into the cool and breezy air.  But we walked all of one block, and the breeze stopped, and hot and muggy reigned, even at that hour.  We only completed 50 minutes because I needed to get ready for work and get in early.  I had a funeral to attend today at 1:00.

Those of you in Austin have probably read about Mark Gobble, who was struck by a hit-and-run driver Sunday morning while out jogging.  I met Mark and his beautiful, vivacious wife Leslie back in 2006.  What an amazing guy.  Deaf from birth, he had an insatiable desire to achieve.  When I first met him, he was Principal of the deaf school, where Leslie taught.  A couple of years later, he was working on his PhD in Business at UT.  I had lost track of him over the last year or so, and did not know about the successful skateboarding business he had started, or the fact that he and Leslie were about to load up the kids and head off to Boston University, where he’d been hired as an Associate Professor.  I didn’t even know he’d been on an Everest expedition 10 or so years ago!  A documentary was made of him and several others with different handicaps on that journey, but I didn’t learn about that until I read his obituary. Let me say it again….the guy was AMAZING.  If you didn’t gather that from his achievements, all you had to do was converse with him.  His wit was lightning-quick, and what I remember most about our conversations was both of us laughing, a lot.  He was a devoted husband and incredible father to his two children. In every aspect, he was just a cut above the rest of us.

His memorial was a fitting tribute – lots of people with lots of wonderful memories, in a funky little old-fashioned, once-upon-a-time church (Mercury Hall). It was comforting to see Leslie surrounded by so much love and support, and to know that she and the kids will, eventually, be okay.

When I walk my remaining 40 minutes tonight, I’ll do it while remembering Mark, and how much he achieved, and how much he loved life, all the while overcoming a “disability” that he never for one minute considered as such.

blaaaaggghhhh.....

OMG.  If I hadn't broken the Monday curse (see last post) two days ago, the streak might very well have ended yesterday, because there is no way I could have walked five.

I woke up Tuesday feeling as sick as I think I've ever felt.  Diarrhea.  Puking.  Insatiable need to go back to bed.  But I couldn't because I had a can't-miss meeting (client flying in from Dallas).  This is how bad it was -- I couldn't even think of making coffee, and believe me, I haven't missed my two mugs first thing in the morning in I don't know how long.  I had a cup of tea instead, and an almost-dry English muffin.  Went into the office, informed my boss I would be good for nothing beyond attending the meeting, and would go home immediately thereafter. 

Wonder what brought this on?  It was either food poisoning (I DID have Taco Bell the night before) or a vicous 24-hour virus.  And I do mean 24 hours, because I am miraculously better, exactly 24 hours later. 

My meeting was at 1:30; I came home immediately afterwards, and straight to bed.  Got up only a few times to go to the bathroom, but basically slept for 16 hours after that.  My face was burning up, but I resisted the impulse to take Tylenol, feeling that if there was some kind of infection there, I wanted my body to do its job and burn it off.  My hunger pangs were at war with my nausea; I had Jackson go out and buy me a banana, and that was all I could handle for dinner.

This morning?  I'm cured.  Well, almost.  I had told my boss yesterday I was going to stay home today, as I couldn't imagine bouncing back this quickly.  But I'm taking the day off anyway, just in case I'm hit with an urge for a three-hour nap, and because I almost never call in sick. 

I decided to do my walk in increments today. It is a beautifully cool and even breezy morning, overcast with no sun whatsoever.  But even walking at that temperature, at a subdued pace, on very flat and friendly grounds, I sweated as much as I do on my hard and sweltering walks, so I guess this thing is still kind of working its way through me.  Banks and I walked for an hour, and I'll do another half hour later in the evening.  And I will spend the rest of the day appreciating the health that I too often take for granted.

Crash

I finally, finally broke the Monday curse.  I hated having my day off be the first day of the week, but that's the pattern I got into, I'd say for the last eight weeks or so.  I am still on a roll.

Yesterday, when I shared my unbridled glee at the pace and degree of difficulty of my last three walks, I failed to take into consideration that there was a physical component to this thing, as well as the psychological.  I woke up this morning with a lot of stiffness in the knees, and had to do a lot of stretching to feel anywhere near normal. 

I started the walk at either 7:54 or 7:56 PM, with Banks in tow.  When he started petering out, and I dropped him off, I was almost exactly halfway done.  No showing off today -- I stuck to the flat roads around the neighborhood and throughout St. Ed's.

Unfortunately, breaking the Monday curse was not even close to the most important thing that happened to me today.  I got into a wreck.  Still can't believe it. I was approaching an intersection, and had this dawning realization that "They're not going to stop," followed closely by "I'm going to hit them," and concluding with "S--t, I actually hit them!"  It was totally my fault.  I was looking for an address, and went right through a red light.  Thank God -- THANK GOD -- no one got hurt.  And the two very young girls in the other car could not have been nicer.  I know you're not supposed to say "I'm sorry" when you're in an accident, but what else do you say when it's so clearly your fault?  My car definitely got the worst of it -- a fender is pretty caved in -- but it's driveable, while I try to figure out what I want to do.  (Spend $800 to get it fixed?  Get a new car?  Pawn this one off on Jackson?)  Not a great day, but could have been worse.  It could always be worse.

Golden

I never hold back from letting you know when I'm stressed, anxious, down or uninspired, so there's no reason not to be upfront about the other times.  Remember my Friday walk, which I thought was one of the best so far?  Saturday's was like that, and so was today's.  I'm in a zone.  I have to confess that I did not take Banks for either of them.  I wanted to be free and move fast.  Yesterday was cool and early in the morning; today's started at 5:22, and was blazingly hot and humid.  I didn't care.  Not once did I whine to myself about the lack of water.  I sought out the steepest hills and did them twice. 

I  haven't eaten much this weekend.  When I walked these last two days, I kept thinking about how strong my legs were getting, how my body was reshaping.  I want to ride this train as long as it's moving at this speed.

It's the normal ebb and flow of a project like this, I know.  It won't last much longer.  But for a fleeting moment, it's easy.  I feel golden.

Hey, I forgot to tell you something I learned on my winery tour.  Michelle, one-half of a couple on the tour with us, is a bona fide foodie, and she told Brian and me about a faddish but delicious trend.  You take a box of dry cake mix (she recommends dark chocolate), and blend it with a can of pumpkin -- not one of those huge cans you see at Thanksgiving, but just a regular 12 or 16-ouncer.  She said you'll feel like you should add water or oil because it's seems so stiff and dry, but just blend it the best you can, don't add any of the other ingredients the cake box lists, make it into a loaf or cupcakes and bake at the time and temperature the directions say.  She swears it's delicious.

Free

How ironic that I was stressed over my inability to get in a walk today.  Tonight’s walk was one of the best I’ve had since I started this.  In the top five, for sure.

Brian and I took advantage of her Living Social coupon for wine tasting, a tour of the winery and a pasta dinner at The Vineyard in Florence.  It was exactly what I needed at the end of a long and very stressful work week.  The grounds were beautiful and bucolic, with horses grazing beyond the vineyards.  Six hundred green, peaceful acres.  I had joked yesterday about facing a walk after a vineyard tour and a designated driver, but the truth is, I’m not much of a drinker, and the probably less than one glass total that I had during the wine tasting was enough for me.  Dinner was three-cheese manicotti, a salad and (gulp) four pieces of bread with olive oil, then we split a piece of pecan/chocolate pie with vanilla ice cream.    

Lynn has frequently asked me if having a five mile walk hanging over my head every day isn’t burdensome, and the honest answer is, of course it is some days.  But tonight all I could think about was this – I had a delicious, indulgent meal, and all I had to do is walk five miles and it’s over with.  I’m fine.  No damage done.  Let me compare that with this time last summer.  A typical scenario would be, overindulge at dinner, hate myself, vow to start a sensible eating and exercise plan on Monday.   Hang with it a few days, blow it.  Vow to start a brand new program on June 21, the first day of summer.  Hang with it a few days, blow it.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  An endless cycle of good intentions, shaky discipline and self-loathing. 

My walk isn’t burdensome, it’s freeing.  It’s simple.  It isn’t easy, but it’s simple.  I long to convince my friends to stop counting carbs and points and do it my way.  Throw the diet out the window.  Go to the pound.  Adopt a big-hearted dog.  And start walking.

Heating Up

We've reached a turning point on the hike and bike trail, and not in a good way.  When you go there now in the early evening, there are a couple of spots, mainly near Barton Springs, where the insects are heavy and thick -- the kind that force you to shut your eyes, close your mouth and flap your hands frantically in front of you for a few yards while trying to convince yourself that the tickle in your throat is not a gnat working its way down your esophogus.  Worse, the water from the fountains is no longer lukewarm.  It's WARM.  No relief whatsoever.  Banks and I watered up at the 0 marker, and it was two miles before we got to the next group of cold water barrels.  I could just about taste it.  We pulled into the alcove right off the 2-mile bridge....and the orange barrels were already gone.  Another two miles of hot, unsatisfactory fountain water. 

You know what I noticed tonight, for the first time?  As many times as I have walked that trail, I have never, ever recognized the same person twice.  I mean, every so often I'll see someone I know, of course.  But wouldn't you think that with the number of miles I've put on that thing, and often at the same time for several days in a row, I would start recognizing familiar faces?  I don't. How is that possible?

Tomorrow's walk is going to be a challenge.  Brian got a free dinner at a winery in Florence, and since Mark wasn't free, I got the extra ticket.  The only logical time to do the walk is in the morning, but I know myself well enough to know that is probably not going to happen.  Noon?  Are you kidding me?  That of course leaves late at night, after I return from dinner -- at a winery. With a designated driver.

I've been in tighters spots before, and I always come up with something.  That's half of the fun of it.

Edna, Emily and Me

As tired as I am getting of the usual neighborhood/Stacy Park/St. Ed’s walks, I’ve been getting home so late (8:30 tonight) that I simply haven’t had time to be more creative.  So I took the exact same walk tonight, twice; once with Banks, back home to drop him off and hydrate, and back to retrace my steps.  It was a much more lighthearted walk than last night’s – both of the issues I was struggling with last night, and really troubled by this morning, were miraculously resolved today, one completely serendipitously, and one that required a little effort on my part. 

At Allison’s wedding a couple of weeks ago, I spent a lot of time with my friend Vicky from Colorado.  She being a very literary type, I asked her, as I always do when we’re together “What are you reading these days?”  She had just finished reading, “She Walks in Beauty: A Woman’s Journey Through Poems,” a collection of poems selected by Caroline Kennedy to celebrate the different passages of a woman’s life.  Vicky confessed that she has always loved Caroline Kennedy, so I was thrilled to point her to another wedding guest, Allison’s cousin William, who had served as personal chef for Caroline and her family a few years back.  I’ve always liked her myself, and even more so after I grilled William a couple of Thanksgivings ago about “What’s she really like?” She was always “Caroline,” not Mrs. Schlossburg, or Ms. Kennedy.  No matter how busy she was, she always took the time to ask William about what was going on in his life.  She had three beautifully-mannered children, due in no small part to her own vigilance and example.  And she had incredibly healthy eating habits.

For an English literature major, I have never really responded to poetry.  I don’t have the patience to linger over what I read, I want to plow through it.  I hated having whole classes devoted to one long poem, with all of us debating the author’s meaning.  The bottom line was, who the hell knows?  Your guess is as good as mine. 

But I picked up this book anyway. THIS is the way to read poetry.  The book is divided into sections like Falling in Love, Work, Motherhood, Breaking Up, and contain a mix of classics from Emily Dickinson, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Shakespeare, along with more modern writers.  And I’ve found a few that I love.  Tillie Olsen: “I want you women up north to know/ how those dainty children’s dresses you buy/at macy’s, wanamakers, gimbels, marshall fields/are dyed in blood, are stitched in wasting flesh/down in San Antonio, where sunshine spends the winter.”  It goes on for pages, and took my breath away.  This one from Georgia Douglas Johnson brought tears to my eyes: “The heart of a woman falls back with the night/And enters some alien cage in its plight/And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars/While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.”  Bear with me.  I found this short one by Dorothy Parker irresistible: “By the time you swear you’re his/Shivering and sighing/And he vows his passion is/Infinite, undying/Lady, make a note of this/One of you is lying.”

I love words, and maybe I’ve finally arrived at a stage of life where I can appreciate them in this forum.   I’m loving picking out just one or two poems a day, and really savoring the reading.

Here’s one more, by Gertrude Stein:  "Very fine is my valentine/Very fine and very mine/Very mine is my valentine very mine and very fine/Very fine is my valentine and mine, very fine very mine and/mine is my valentine."

Okay, that one’s  a piece of crap.

Perseverating

Okay, I’m not talking about my toes, but this is kind of interesting.  My day off was Monday, as usual, and overnight, my feet – both of them – seemed to sprout all kinds of things. A big, hard blister on my upper right foot, sticking out kind of like a bunion.  My left foot has a soft, watery blister dead center, right about the instep.  It also has what looks like the remnants of another blister, of the dry, papery consistency of an onion skin, about an inch above and to the left of the other one.  God, my feet are ugly.  Five miles a day is doing great things for my body, but wreaking havoc on my feet.  That’s going to be my next project.

When you work, you deal with all sorts of minor, everyday problems – personality conflicts, occasional boredom, occasional stress.  And then sometimes you get hit with the big ones.  I’ve got two going on right now, the kind that make you lie awake at night and pray for wisdom.  Serious, serious stuff, and you’ve got to get it right.  They’re costing me sleep and, for all I know, are taking it out on my feet.

So no matter what my feet felt like, I knew I needed a hard walk tonight.  Banks and I walked the neighborhood from 7:37 to 8:09.  I dropped him off, and headed to the hills.  Two of the bigger, steeper ones right before the park, and I was sweating and panting at the top of them.  At times like that, my work issues are a distant bell. 

Worrying about  a problem is not the same as solving a problem. I think it’s time to take the advice that  Don Draper (“Mad Men”) gave to his protégé Peggy when she was wrestling with an ad concept:  “Think about it deeply, then forget about it.  It’ll come to you.”  

The Long-Awaited, Final Toe Update

I mean it.  This thing could turn black and fall off tomorrow, and you won’t know about it.  But things were so bad yesterday that I have to give a brief and optimistic update before we move on.

So yesterday we left off with my foot elevated and my body full of Aleve.  That stuff is a miracle.  It really takes the edge off.  I took another three before I went to bed.  Took another three when I woke up, and then three more at about 4:00, a deliberate three hours before my walk.  Banks only lasted about half an hour, once again, and I went on to St. Ed's myself.  I was aware of the toe, but the pain was muted, gloriously muted.  I felt like I could have walked forever.  Sometimes I have to remind myself that there is a silver lining to illness and injury – it’s the only time you think of your health with any sort of gratitude. 

Lynn and I caught a matinee of “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.”  I loved it. I was a little corny and unrealistic for an enthusiastic, full endorsement, but it featured some of my favorite themes:  It’s a big, exciting world out there.  It’s never too late to do something outrageous.  Don’t live out someone else’s script. More things that you need to remind yourself about. 

Ay ay ay

I had no particular plan for today’s walk. I took Jackson to work at Zilker Park this morning before 7:00, but wanted to come back and linger over the paper and my coffee.  About 8:30, I got a text from him – he’d forgotten his sunglasses, could I bring them please?  (I should probably interject here that, for a variety of reasons, which we won’t delve into right now, Jackson is without a license). I sighed, grumbled and rolled my eyes, but quickly embraced the idea – his job site is about ½ mile from the 2-mile marker of the Town Lake Trail, so this would be a perfect opportunity to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone.

Off Banks and I went.  The parking lot was jam-packed, which I’d never seen before.  At first I assumed there was some kind of lake festival going on, but quickly realized it was simply the whole day’s runners and walkers, trying to get their workout over with in the morning.

My toes hurt.  I figured they’d stop at least a half hour in, like they had the last couple of days, but they got worse, to the point where I was actively limping, constantly.  They THROBBED.  I think I know why.  Yesterday, “Casual Friday,” I wore jeans and flip-flops (but dressy flip-flops!). You know how, with flip-flops, you have kind of an unnatural step, walking while at the same time trying to keep your shoes on by bearing down slightly on your toes?  That must’ve put just enough strain on the toes to aggravate them all over again.

It’s a good thing I was walking a loop, because if I had been anywhere near my house, I think I would have gone back home.  As it was, returning to my car would have been equal distance, so I had no choice but to soldier on.  Oh, my God.  Every time I passed a ¼ mile marker, I would think, will this EVER be over?  I kept fantasizing about my right foot in a bucket of ice water.  About spinning on a stationary bike, pushing the right pedal with my heel or my instep.

I limped back to the car, came home, took three Aleve and soaked the foot in, yes, a bucket of ice water, and it was everything I’d dreamed it would be.  As I write, I’ve got the leg propped up on a chair.  Sounds suspiciously like “medication and bed rest,” doesn’t it?  This journey is nothing if not humbling; every time I think I’ve accumulated a kernel of wisdom, it crumbles into dust.  I may have a broken toe, and I keep walking five miles on it. Nobody has to tell me it's stupid, I know it’s stupid, but I can’t stop. 

Careful What You Wish For

I always forget how dark it is on the trail, first thing in the morning.  Banks and I got there about 5:25, and I noted that it was even darker than I’d remembered.  About 50 yards in, I realized we weren’t even on the thing, we were walking on the outer perimeter of the leash-free dog area.  We climbed down to the trail; the city lights from across the lake bounced off the water, giving off more light.  Good lord, how long had it been since I’d been there early in the morning?

It was beautifully cool and windy; I was oblivious to the fountains we passed, only stopping at one to make sure Banks got water, and even he had little interest.  By the time we returned from our loop, the big orange water barrels had arrived, but I elected to pick up some bagels and head straight home.

Around this time two summers ago, I was in Greece.  One of the street vendors was selling these incredibly cute pants, in weird, undecipherable Greek/Euro sizes, and I couldn’t try them on in the street anyway, so I just picked up a pair that looked like they’d fit me.  Boy, was I wrong.  The actual leg parts were big and loose, but the waist was disproportionately small.  The first time I tried them on, I swear to God, I got them pulled up to just above my knees.  From then on, I used them as a sort of barometer as to where I was weight-wise.  I remember once last year pulling them up almost to the top of my legs, but nowhere near the waist.

A couple of months into this year, I could pull them up, but getting the zipper zipped was a lost cause.  And then last night, I tried them on again.  I pulled them over my hips and up to my waist.  I zipped, and the zipper went right to the top.  An unimaginable victory. And then I looked at myself in the mirror.

Crikey!  What was I thinking? They look like clown pants!  My hips look 70 inches wide, my legs look like sausages, and I don’t even want to talk about my butt. Why in the world did I think they were cute?  I’ll tell you why:  Lynn, skinny Lynn, was with me and bought her own pair, in a more muted gray, and they look adorable on her.  I don't care how much weight I lose, or how many miles I walk, there is no way these things are ever going to look good on me.  Maybe I'll donate them to Goodwill.  Or maybe Keene could find some use for them in his circus routine.   Hey, I know, they could be kind of funky pajama bottoms! Let this serve as a humbling reminder that as happy as I am with how things have gone this year, I have a looooong way to go.

Triumph or Tragedy?