Category: pandemic

Running and Me

Last year I decided to follow up on a long term goal. I wanted to fully run or jog a 5K. This may not seem like much, but I set the goal when I was 130 pounds OVER a healthy weight. And I had stopped running. 

When I left the military in 1992, running became something “they” did — those fit people. I no longer ran, and, after having a first child in 1996 overseas, I wasn’t very good at walking much either.

Flash forward to 2015. I finally, after many stops and starts, took off over 90 pounds. I had energy, I had confidence. Time to work on that 5K goal. A few stops and starts later, in early 2019, I signed up for a 5K in Sactown — Run with the Cops. It looked like a fundraiser for causes that I respected. K-9 officers and Law Enforcement Chaplaincy. After living through a few traumatic events where law enforcement was a saving grace, I have an extraordinary respect for first responders and those who provide comfort during critical incidents and afterwards.

I had good intentions in the summer of 2019. I started running in the early mornings at the local elementary. I would run in circles on the blacktop. Then the school janitor would show up and stand at the edge of the playground. I felt like he was watching me. Creepy.

I tried running elsewhere, but my motivation fizzled. 

Then, it was Race Day. Loads of folks showed up in Old Sacramento. Law enforcement, K-9s, military, and veterans. The event was next to the OES’s emergency preparedness day–another topic close to my heart. 

I was excited to participate, but I had some concerns. I hadn’t really trained. I wasn’t well-hydrated. I just put on my shoes and the race shirt, and showed up. A loud flash of the starting gun and we were off!

The first, say, hundred yards were fine. Then I felt a little tightness in my chest. Time to slow down. The next two miles were me talking myself through this race I hadn’t trained for. Part of the race included a police helicopter overhead. At one point I told myself, “Good thing they’re up there–” If I dropped suddenly, they’d see me.

I did finish the race, but I hadn’t run the whole way. I walked, I jogged, I tried to sprint occasionally. I felt like I was going to die. More than once.

But I didn’t. (Laura: “But did you die?” Me: “No Laura, I didn’t. I made it–”)

My friend C and I after finishing the 5K

Shortly after that run, I realized that if I ever wanted to achieve my 5K goal, I’d need to train. So I joined a training group at Elk Grove Fleet Feet. “No Boundaries” it was called.  I definitely knew where my boundaries were. They stopped me, usually, about a mile in.

Our shoes are ready for the Holiday Classic, December 2019

Running got easier.

The START line at the Holiday Classic in Sacramento
December 2019

I participated in the Holiday Classic in Sacramento. I hadn’t yet achieved a straight through run, but I did achieve a PR, and I never felt like I couldn’t finish or that I’d need a med evac.

I signed up for another round of Fleet Feet training. We were prepping for the March 14 Shamrockin’ event here in Sac. I was excited. I felt good and 3.1 miles didn’t seem so long anymore. Granted, I ran a slow mile compared to my younger days, but remember, for nearly 20 years I couldn’t run at all. There was progress.

Then, just before Shamrockin’ we got shut down. ‘Rona was in town. She took two parishioners in my neighborhood. Some of the folks in my training crew decided to run anyway. We made our own party.

The crew after our own private Shamrockin, March 2020

Training was cancelled. Showing up at the office was cancelled. Stay home, stay home, stay home was the new mantra of the city, the state, and the nation.

So I complied. A ran a little here and there. Then we had a rainy, stormy weekend. And I stayed in. For nearly two weeks I barely emerged from the house. I sat indoors, watching the news, and spending inordinately large amounts of time on social media.

Finally, with a nudge from some of my new training friends, I got back outside.

It hurt. My knees hurt. My stamina was reduced. My pride hurt. What was easy before ‘Rona became challenging again.

For a week or so it was hit or miss. Then my oldest kid started making her brother get up and run. I decided to go with them. I piggybacked on her drive and enthusiasm.

Get up, lace up, and go. No excuses. I’ve been on a running stream the last few days, and we even cross trained by bike last Sunday.

It feels good. Training is still cancelled. The local 5Ks are cancelled. I’m not sure the Run with the Cops 5K will go as planned in September. I hope so, because I want to be there. And I think I can run the whole thing.

But only if I keep at it, now. One day at a time, I can do this.

I can do it, with or without a class. With or without an organized event. The act of lacing up and showing up gives me strength and hope. And confidence, too. I’ve come a long way, baby.

A gift while running in Elk Grove, Winter 2020
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Goslings and ducklings and..pitbulls, oh my.

This morning’s bike ride with two of my kids, the college grad and the middle-schooler was through what we call in our neighborhood the “Greenbelt.” It’s a maze of paths and parks through the Pocket-Greenhaven neighborhood of Sacramento. There are pedestrian overpasses when there are busy streets, so generally it’s all pedestrians, bicyclists, and dogs on leashes with their humans.

Today we crossed Florin Road and traveled down to the canals that criss cross the area. We’re right next to the Sacramento River. In years gone by, the river has pushed up against the ancient levees lining it that were built by the Army Corps of Engineers.

These canals catch water and funnel it to the river.  There are trails that line the canals, chain link fences keeping humans away from the water, the swimming turtles, and the increasing population of waterfowl. 

Our ride brought us by a city of Mama Geese and their fuzzy goslings. Many of the goslings reminded me of teenagers. Awkward, not yet adapted to their rapidly growing and changing bodies.

Further down another canal, not far from my favorite neighborhood library, we passed by a few ducks who were surrounded by squirmy (and again, fuzzy) little ducklings. The ducklings are cuter than the goslings, maybe because they’re about 1/5th the size.

A few times during our bike convoy, we came upon dogs. Many dog owners will pull their dogs onto the grass so there’s no game of chicken between dog and bike. 

Not so for the multiple pitbulls we saw. Pitbulls will walk like heavily muscled bouncers. Step step. Sway sway. They will walk in the middle of the paved trail. I am not sure how much of this is the dog’s character or the character of the man walking the leashed dog. 

And it was, down to the dog, a lone male walking a pitbull every time. Said male was usually tall and somewhat awkward looking. I’m not sure the awkward bit came before or occurred because Bruce the Pitbull decided to muscle his space on the trail. 

Also notable in this time of Pandemic: none of the Pitbull ‘drivers’ wore face masks. I suppose this might be a sign of ‘living dangerously’. I like to imagine that folks who have pitbulls are rebels.I haven’t seen anything yet to challenge this assumption. 

Meanwhile, with sore derrieres (when’s the last time you took a long bike ride?), we returned home.

My middle-schooler then informed me he had ridden through a pile of dog poo. It was still coating his tires. Even after the ensuing discussion and direction from me to wipe the stuff off, I felt good after the ride. I’m thankful to live in a great neighborhood. Goslings, ducklings, humans, and…even Pitbulls. It’s a nice way to start the day. 

But I’m still wondering if the doo was Pitbull doo. I have a suspicion about that. The jury’s still out…but who else might leave a message on the trail for the rest of us?

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Gifting Stones

I’m not very good at receiving gifts. I recall when I was a teen, I much preferred giving gifts than receiving them. I suppose I took the quote “’tis better to give than to receive” more seriously. Or perhaps I didn’t feel worthy of receiving. I remember there were times I’d criticize the gift itself to hide my discomfort at receiving the thing.

I’ve gotten to know a few folks in my life who’ve helped me look at receiving gifts more graciously.

So when I opened up the little bubble mailer I received yesterday, I was pleased and touched. It was a small, beautifully painted stone. (I could call it a rock, because the artist, Laurie, rocks!)

With the art came a message of hope. And, really this didn’t come out of nowhere. I first became acquainted with Laurie’s “rockin’” art in March of 2018.

Messages of hope

My friend Jan had come to visit me after the Yountville murders, and we met Laurie and her friend at the impromptu memorial on grounds. Laurie had created hand-painted stones for each of the murder victims, including one tiny stone for the unborn daughter who had also perished.  Jan and Laurie hit it off right away. (Jan can talk to anyone — once a reporter, always a reporter, or maybe she just loves a good story, like I do.)

Later, in that dark March, I received a large, lumpy package. It had four lovely painted stones in it.  The stones have mandalas on them. Colorful, meditative. When I hold them, I feel grounded, focused. 

Now, in 2020, I have my Yountville stones on a shelf in my home office, where I can see them. 

The Yountville stones

Just this week a stone caught my eye and triggered a memory. It was a good memory. One of a friend who cared to reach out to an artist who sent me a gift of color and weight. A tangible piece of hope, of caring.

It reminds me that there are good people in the world. People who have compassion. People who give with no strings — just because they feel like giving.

I’m saving my Yountville stones for the day we move into a house of our own. I want to incorporate them into the landscaping somehow. SO they can be admired and enjoyed by others. So they can become beautiful splashes of color, integrated with other things, but part of the larger design.

Just like the experiences and memories I associate with the rocks. They become part of my emotional landscape. 

A set of positive reminders of human grace, kindness, friendship. Of compassion and care. I’ve learned how to receive gifts, now. I’m getting better at it, more open to it.

And every gift, be it of art, of time, of a hug or an understanding nod, of a poem, or a snippet of text that shows the giver’s heart–it touches me.  I’m thankful. My new quote is “Tis good to receive.” I am worthy of this gift. At least someone thought so. And for this as well, I’m grateful.

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Plated

The Russians have a saying I’ve always found amusing. Я не в своей тарелке (Ya ne v svoej tarelke) — I’m not on (in) my plate. When you’re not on your plate, you’re perhaps a little grumpy. Perhaps you’re not your usual self. Sometimes, on a good day, I like to say I’m ON my plate. Or mess around and say the plate’s broken so I can’t be on it or off it. It just is.

I’ve been off my plate frequently these last few months–mainly because the plate has changed. It’s not a shallow dinner soup plate any more. It’s a cracked, distorted plate with some shiny bits and some other parts that light shines through. This plate wobbles. It’s non-standard. It’s awkward. It’s not a plate I’d be on at all if it didn’t seem like I needed to be on a plate in the first place. So I generally have to adjust if I want to be on the plate. I can’t help but notice, however, that the longer I’m on the plate, the more comfortable it gets. Pretty soon it will become a standard plate.

Until they hand me a new one.

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Unneighborly Pandemic Thoughts

It’s getting hot. That’s not unusual for Sacramento at this time of year. But a pandemic, a stay at home order, and the closing of all public and municipal swimming pools is. With the extension of a county stay at home order until May 22, and an expected “no beach” order to hit on May 1, I’m feeling a little antsy.

I have my window open, until it gets too hot and we have to turn on the air conditioner. I can hear the kids on the other side of the back fence. They’re in their built-in kidney-shaped swimming pool. A swimming pool. We don’t have one. There’s nothing I crave more right now than a dip in a pool. A long dip. To wash off the stale indoors-ness sweat on my hot, itchy skin.

And apparently some folks are enjoying their personal pools.

As for me, I am having decidedly unneighborly thoughts. I want to kick down the fence between our yards and splash into that pool. I want to float lazily in the sun, forgetting my troubles. I want to …

I want this pandemic to end. I want to go where I want, when I want. And eventually, I want to get into a swimming pool, swim in the ocean, and go to a state fair or something.

For now, I’ll just have to fan myself and try to clear my head of these unneighborly thoughts. Be well, friends.

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