The Glowing Edge

Category: Kitchen Sink

  • A 2013 that Doesn’t Suck (at All!)

    A 2013 that Doesn’t Suck (at All!)

    It’s that time of year. The gym is jam-packed and your Facebook stream is clogged with manic resolution-making fiends. That’s fiends, not friends. Although they’re probably your friends, too, and otherwise normal.

    I resist the resolution-making frenzy, probably in the same way I unplug from Thanksgiving (“traditionally,” we do a day hike, and eat PB&J or Vienna Sausages from a mountaintop), Christmas and birthdays (we do parties but not gifts), and other shit. Oh, and we don’t have a television, of course.

    Go ahead, call me a Luddite and a grinch. But I’m a pretty damn happy one, as these things go. Srsly, getting untangled from all that stuff (and it IS only stuff) will liberate your soul, de-clutter your house, and renew your spirit.

    And with that in mind, here’s what I did this year — more how I try to live every year — and why it might just offer YOU a juicy, yummy, spinning-in-the-sunny antidote to the ridiculously intense pressure you may be feeling to lose weight, finally write your book, quit your job to become an internet millionaire, etcetera.

    Not that there’s anything wrong with those things. But these are bigger, better, and easier on the soul…

    Make Joy the Boss of You

    You know me, I fucking love a spreadsheet. And I have a sliding, screaming avalanche of ideas that could kill me (if I were to let it) with the weight of all the new project spreadsheets I create to get them done. But in the end, the deadline doesn’t rule. Joy does. It’s not about constantly chasing happiness, it’s about letting the things I already do every day be things that nourish my soul and bring me joy. In daily doses.

    So. Search out beauty. Be unabashedly goofy. Indulge your creative passions. Tolerate less bullshit. Sharpen your ignoring skills. And don’t let fear make you her bitch.

    If you aren’t doing stuff every day that brings you joy, do something different. That’s the spreadsheet to put at the top of the motherlovin’ pile.

    I’m not saying all that’s easy, you’ll have to fight for it. But you can get there.

    Find and Build Your Tribe

    Go on a serious, single-minded pleasure-treasure hunt for people — in real life and online — who are living according to joy and make them your friends. Cheer madly for them, support them, and send them sparkly things. Skype or coffee with them regularly.

    Relentlessly unlink from the people who are sucking the life out of you; instead make connections with people who are sheer, unapologetically badass life-livers. Hah. “Livers” sounds like an organ nobody wants to eat. (Amazing how easily distracted I am.) (But that was funny, wasn’t it?)

    Use A Sledgehammer to Break Shit

    You’ve been nice long enough. You’ve probably been repressed, actually.

    When do you get to grow bigger, rather than constantly being shoved into progressively tinier boxes? Fuck that, break a few of those rules and restrictions you think you have to live by. Not the big ones, like being faithful to your spouse, but the little ones, like believing you have to maintain a clean kitchen, or worrying that you’ll be laughed off the team if you can’t do as many push-ups as everyone else.

    You are surrounded by tiny-minded rules! You’re inundated with them! Please: the rolls don’t have to be homemade. Just because it says shampoo doesn’t mean it can’t also be used for body wash. You are allowed to go on a wild goose chase. You can speak your (actual, real, substantial, and intelligent!) (and sometimes wonderfully ridiculous) mind. You get to overuse parentheses! (AND wear your slippers to the grocery store, I just need to add that.)

    I can set me some big fat badass goals, and I love me a To Do list. But I can also take a sledgehammer to them if I need to.

    Embrace Your Inner Mule

    I love mules. They are sturdy little bastards. I don’t care how fugly you think they are, they are patient, strong, and independent-minded (polite word for “stubborn”), and they will flat get the work done.

    I’m a writer. And my rather embarrassing mulish vision of myself and my creative work process was utterly crystallized and confirmed when I heard Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk about her own rather mundane source of creative genius.

    If you haven’t already seen this one, you MUST watch it! (The “mule” part comes about 11 minutes in, but if you’re a creative — and you ARE — invest 20 minutes and watch the entire thing.)

    I don’t walk around just waiting and hoping to be sparkled with inspirational fairy dust. Um, actually I DO, but the way I get work done is by showing up and writing — a mule plowing the field — Every. Damn. Day.

    Well, most days. Sometimes I get a little burr under my saddle and I honk and bray and gallop off in search of wild romp or a mouthful of something delicious and forbidden with friends, some of whom are as mulishly awkward as I am.

    Make a little progress every day, and laze away your off days. Be stubborn, sturdy, and hard working. Embrace your inner mule. Hug her and pet her and bring her apples and tell her she smells fabulous. Where would you be without that gal?

    So. That’s my version of New Year’s resolutions. Not so much resolutions as a way of living that I find deeply satisfying, year after year. Meanwhile, I’ll try not to slap you when I see you posting that shit about “getting to the gym more often.” Cause you’re part of my tribe, and I love you.

    And I hope you’ll bring me sparkly things. Or bubbly things. And maybe something to get all these mule hairs off my couch.

  • The Weird and Wonderful New York City

    The Weird and Wonderful New York City

    Earlier this spring I started working with Johnny B. Truant to co-produce the online version of BlogWorld. BlogWorld is a giant live event that happens twice a year, bringing together over 150 speakers in blogging, podcasting, and web TV to an audience of thousands. Twelve sessions run simultaneously for three days straight; there’s no way to attend all those sessions if you go to the event, so Johnny and I produced the online version that includes all 100+ sessions, plus we shoot our own behind-the-scenes content (we did more than 25 interviews this year) for the “virtual ticket” purchasers.

    The slightly obsessive, bossy, and annoyingly organized project manager in me loves producing online events; it’s like that chemistry set that I wanted in elementary school — a huge, potentially explosive adventure that could be tidily organized into clean, neat little plastic compartments. (I also glued together dozens of matchboxes into drool-worthy closets to organize my friends’ Barbie clothes and accessories. I know, scary.)

    I love taming a ridiculously large and potentially unwieldy project; making the ravening beast sit up and prettily request a treat. I hardly finish one such project before I start dreaming about the next. (Also I fantasize about carrying a whip just like Indiana Jones. That would be badass, wouldn’t it?)

    As it happened, the live version of Blogworld was set to happen in New York City; Johnny and I were there last week to be a part of the action and shoot behind-the-scenes content for the people who purchased access to the virtual ticket.

    I was stoked; regardless of how intense our shooting and post-production schedule looked, I was going to finally see New York City! I had about 5 hours on Thursday night — assuming we were able to meet all our deadlines — in which to run wild, break things, and stay out of jail. Or, you know, be a tourist. Here’s the top three weird and wonderful things about my incredible trip. I tried to keep the list short because I write so damn much. I could write twice this much. Ten times this much. (And it would all be neatly organized.)

    1. The Single Most Useful Item I Packed

    This is almost two things. I had already purchased a small purse with a shoulder strap to replace my cavernous satchel, figuring the last thing I needed to do was invite people to lift my wallet, cell phone or other necessary goods from it’s gaping maw. That turned out to be essential. But even more helpful was a single item I tucked inside. The day before I flew out, I went to the bookstore to pick up a tiny Moleskine notebook, figuring the big green steno pads I normally favor were not going to survive the space squeeze. But I happened to see this tiny little notepad in a metal case near the checkout counters. The clever little clasp used a small inkpen to hold the spring-loaded covers of the case shut. Hah! No more fumbling for a pen, I thought. It even came with two fresh notepads for reloading.

    And the investment (about $10) was worth every penny. Dude, I used that thing every day. Notes about what we needed, carefully drawn maps and instructions, important phone numbers and other critical information. But when it came to my 5-hour foray into the city, it was invaluable because of all the maps, notes, and addresses I had written in there. Not only did my little notebook survive the crush of the city and event, it now has a permanent home in my purse.

    2. The Most Unexpected Thing About Where We Stayed

    Some marvelous staff person at BlogWorld made our hotel reservations for us, so I can’t claim any credit for this gem. We stayed in the Yotel New York, which (I later learned) is not in the prettiest area of midtown Manhattan — although it is close to the convention center where BlogWorld was held — but it may be the coolest hotel on the island. Click here to image google it. Then come back. I’ll wait.

    It reminded me of an iPod, with an Asian twist. Everything about the Yotel is a pristine, glossy white, with purple uplighting. There’s a giant white robot in the glassed-in lobby that will store your luggage for you while you wait to check in or out. The tables in the Japanese-influenced restaurant appear at first to only be a few inches off the floor, but they actually have recessed space beneath the tables so that even though you sit on the floor, your legs drop comfortably below. The tables can be lowered and covered so that voila, you have a dance floor. Btw, the food was outstanding. My puffy white queen-size bed folded neatly up to create a couch in my room, and my glassed-in shower sported one of those giant, square rainfall showerheads. All of it faced a floor-to-ceiling window looking out on the city. It was compact and luxurious at the same time.

    3. The Craziest Thing I Paid (A Lot) For

    On Thursday, I had a 6:30 pm dinner date in the East Village, about 30-something blocks south of the Yotel. But since I had 1.5 hours before I had to be there, I decided I would first walk the 20-something blocks from the Yotel to Central Park to kick off my Thursday night tour of the city. I decided this at 5 pm, when I left the lobby. I decided this having never seen the mad crush that is Times Square in New York City at 5 pm.

    Naturally, it began pouring down rain as I launched myself from the lobby. Not one to be deterred (I only had ONE free night in NYC!), I ducked into a shop and purchased an umbrella — the one thing I didn’t pack, but wished I had — and set out anyway. Swooped down through the garment district first, then made my way up through the theater district, and into Times Square. I never knew before this that Times Square is a whole buncha city blocks, not just a single intersection like Dick Clark made me believe all these years. I strolled up Broadway with ten jillion other people, past barkers of every description, a lady offering an orange rat to pet, Mickey Mouse and Goofy, a three-card Monty kid, a magician doing tricks, lots of crazy people. I tried not to gawk. But I gawked anyway.

    The rain stopped and I dipped into a sparkly shop filled with women from India (?) in gorgeous flowy robes and picked out a souvenir necklace with a shiny little silver bow tie pendant, covered in genuine faux diamonds. A kind of Liza-Minelli-Big-Apple-Cabaret kind of thing. Happy!

    At 6 pm I realized there was no way in hell I would be able to snag a cab in this crush, and I suddenly started looking for a train station. No luck. Where are all the stations when you suddenly need one? Nowhere I could find, and just moving a single block was an exercise in brute strength, never mind speed. Then I saw the young man with the bike.

    I had no idea how much it would cost for him to get me halfway down Manhattan (seriously, like 50 blocks!), but he was the most game, energetic, and earnest young man you could ever want to roll the dice with, and after nervously ascertaining despite our Turkish-English language barrier that he could find me an ATM on the other end of our trip, I hopped in his pedicab and we were off. He squeezed between SUVs and taxicabs so close I could run my fingers along their chrome. My gut twisted in that familiar, roller-coaster thrill ride kind of way as we barreled past the crowds, swooped in and out of traffic, and dared 3-ton vehicles to stop us. I started cheering when he made it through traffic lights, whether or not we had the green. Probably more when we didn’t. He started pedaling harder, grinning madly and glancing back at me periodically to make sure I was still aboard.

    Once we hit midtown the traffic eased a bit, and he started pointing out landmarks. Madison Square Garden. The Empire State building (glimpsed up above us on 5th Avenue), the first church built in New York, NYU campus spots. And as we eased into the East Village area I finally began to relax. Everything down there looks exactly like it did on Sesame Street. How can anything go wrong on Sesame Street?

    I reminded him about the ATM, and he pulled over, about 6 blocks shy of our destination. I was 10 minutes late, and undeniably exhilarated. I had just seen more of NYC than I ever would have on a subway. And what a way to see it! I didn’t care what it had just cost me, although I did feel a minor pang of worry about my driver, who probably never had to carry someone so far from tourist central. He calculated my fee, and I looked in my wallet. I had three twenties and a ten, just enough to cover it with $15 left over for a tip. He’d earned every cent. I paid up and got out to hoof it the rest of the way, but he insisted I get back in and let him finish the job. So we pedaled up in style, and I felt like the queen.

    4. The Birthplace of Punk

    Well, I tried for three, but I’m ending up with four. I told you I write a lot. After my amazing dinner with friend Michael Margolis (for whom I also produced a kick-ass online event), I got his grand tour of the East Village, and we went down toward Bowery (not all the way to Bleeker, where CBGB was) and tooled around St. Mark’s Place, birthplace of punk and a whole helluva lot of other cultural influences. Michael also introduced me to the secret cocktail lounge Please Don’t Tell, which is accessed through the vintage phone booth in the hot dog joint, Crif Dogs. (There was a wait of 2 hours to get in, amazingly. On a Thursday night at 9 pm. No lie.) When he flagged me my first cab ever, I was wrung out and done in, glad that taxi drivers take Mastercards and already know where my hotel is.

    There’s no possible way in the universe my week in NYC could have been better.

    Wait, except that I never got to meet my friend Malissa of Girlboxing over in Brooklyn at Gleason’s for a few rounds. And I didn’t get to head upstate to see my former trainer and world-champion boxer Bonnie Mann and her family. And…

    Next trip, baby. Next trip.

    (Pssst. Vegas is in January.)

    Photo credit: Thomas Hawk via photo pin, creative commons

  • The Village: Mothers Raising Mothers

    The Village: Mothers Raising Mothers

    I have a wonderful friend who shifted her passion, not so very long ago, from weightlifting to boxing. Her name is Amy, and you may have met her here, as she’s frequently a part of the conversation.

    Recently I received a beautiful email from Amy about a new dream being born in the community of her gym.

    It reminded me a little of the Ignite Raleigh and Ignite Durham events I was a part of — but this one has a fresh angle that gives it added interest and power.

    It’s called 5×5, and it’s an opportunity for people to share their dream for 5 minutes on stage, and ask for the judges to award them part of a $5000 grant to start bringing their idea to life.

    I’ll let Amy share more in her own words:

    When I spar with Shari, a friend and trainer at the boxing gym, I can hardly land a clean punch. There’s no hitting this woman: she’ll block your jab and smack away your right hand, no matter how fast the attack. And then she’ll wrap you in a hug and tell you what a great job you did.

    That’s Shari in a nutshell. Life has thrown her a variety of punches, including cancer and a son’s disability, but nothing knocks her down, and nothing gets in the way of her concern for others, especially young people.

    Even before Shari told me some of her many ideas on how she wants to help people, I could see the natural way she dealt out love, especially the tough kind, to the kids in our gym. She is exactly what they need. Which means she can do a lot of good elsewhere, too, as she’s proven time and again.

    A local initiative called 5×5 night awards up to $5000 for great ideas. I helped Shari write up the idea she’s most passionate about: Mothers raising mothers. Experienced moms mentoring teen moms through parenthood and life.

    Our boxing gym has offered space, so the money can be directed toward making the dream happen.

    If enough people vote for her idea, she’ll be able to present it at their event later this month and possibly win the money.

    All it takes is going to 5x5night.com and clicking on the green button labeled “Register Now to Vote.”

    Once you’re registered, view the ideas and vote for Shari and THE VILLAGE.

    This morning, when we were on the phone working out details of getting together to get this online, Shari started talking to me about bullying, something about a new kind of neighborhood watch, how she’s designed a window sticker. I realized that even as we were preparing to launch one great idea, she was ready with the next.

    Your vote will mean a lot to a lot of people. Please note that voting ends in just ten days–December 13.

    http://5x5night.com/

  • Runner Redemption

    Runner Redemption

    Ready for my confession? I’ve made them before (see here and here), but it must be time for a fresh one. Forgive me, people, for I have sinned. Again.

    But this story is different, I promise.

    I went for a run this week and in the course of the first mile alone I found myself mentally eviscerating not one, not two, but three pace suckers. These nice, harmless runners were blocking my path and running an eighth of an inch below and above my pace, and I was slitting bellies and slinging guts like an avenging fishwife.

    I’m the most immature runner in the known universe. I ran on.

    Then I had some alone-on-the-path time and I began to think. I mean, nothing else to do, right? So I remembered the last run I had, where I was out with the Husband and we were chatting and running along and there were no less than four people who walked past us and actually greeted us nicely. Four! It was surreal and actually kind of lovely.

    So after my first mile of mentally reprehensible and gory behavior I decided I had hit rock bottom and it was time to change. The next oncoming runner I encountered, I decided, I would… greet. Nicely, dammit. I would either give them a chin salute, or my personal favorite, the hipside peace sign.

    I like the hipsider because you just fling out your peace sign — kind of sideways from the hip — without really making too much effort. And if the oncoming runner doesn’t actually see it, you don’t feel like a dork. Hip peace. I get these once in a while from the streamlined college guys on one of my favorite circuits, and it always makes me feel good, like they are acknowledging me as a credible runner, even though my strides are nothing close to their beautiful, long, graceful ground-eaters.

    I considered this carefully for another mile, then committed myself. I looked eagerly ahead.

    And here came my test victim running toward me, a man actually on my pace or just above it, nice form, about my age. He got closer and I waffled. It would be easier not to do anything. Oh, hell.

    I almost waited too late, but I sneaked in the hipside peace sign just in the nick of time. And he saw it! I know because a small smile bloomed on his face.

    Huh! I ran on, just a touch taller. Maybe I would get used to this whole “be nice” thing. That thought carried me for the entire rest of the next circuit.

    And I was just about finished turning my new feelings over and over in my head when I looked up and saw him approaching again. Crap, what do you do the second time? Same sign? New one? Do I need a whole toolbelt of these things?? Argh!

    But before I could solve the conundrum, we were passing each other. And guess what?

    He not only smiled at me, he flipped me the hipsider back!

    I was stunned. And pleased. I felt buoyant.

    Some kind of new thing was growing that hadn’t been in the world before. Don’t get me wrong, I knew I hadn’t solved world hunger, but still!

    I was running but mentally I was relaxing happily in a hot tub, sipping champagne.

    Eventually I looked ahead and saw a family-picnic party of nine, strung along the path for the next 20 yards, completely blocking everything with strollers and toddler bikes. They were chatting amiably and absolutely unaware of anyone who might need to pass. Inattentive path blockers! Not as bad as pace suckers, but still premium material for my beastly evil rants.

    But without even the slightest ill humor, I ran five or six steps sideways off the path, around the three kids kicking a soccer ball and all nine members of the family and sailed past in the grass. They all smelled like dryer sheets. Fresh laundry. How nice!

    Eventually I angled back onto the path and happily continued on my way. I damn near waved as I went by, but restrained myself just in time.

    And eventually realized that I had sailed through a fourth mile, without even noticing.

    I almost never run more than three miles. See what being nice can do for you?

    It’s possible I might be maturing as a runner. Don’t want to make any judgements too soon, but this is certainly a good sign, I believe.

    My inner formerly-evil genius is rubbing her hands together, wondering what would happen if I decided to actually speak a word of encouragement next time. You know, not weather subjects (“Hot out”), lengthy pronouncements (“You’re certainly getting a few good miles in”), or things easily misinterpreted (“Lookin’ goooood”), but maybe something like “Good run.” Without an exclamation mark or anything, just a calm appraisal of what we are all of us in the universe having together.

    Who knows what might happen then.

    Image by bitzi on Flickr.

  • Get Off My Pace

    Get Off My Pace

    Athletes are wack in dozens of small, odd ways. I like to think of myself as a happy exception — I don’t have to wear my lucky shirt, or kiss the bat, or rub the Buddha’s belly, or do my stretches in a particular order every time.

    But I do have a… thing… about people running on my pace.

    About three times a week I go to a park near me to run 3 or 4 miles. I’m not a fast runner by any means. On a treadmill I can easily string together nine and ten minute miles, but out of doors I tend to run slower, especially if I’m on a rocky or rooted trail.

    I hate running in a crowd, and I hate getting buzzed by bicyclists on a running path. But more than any other thing, I hate for a stranger to run on my pace, right next to me.

    If it’s my husband or a friend I’m running with, that’s different because we’re together and we can chit-chat the whole way, which makes the miles disappear with supernatural ease. But don’t drop onto my trail and run on my pace because it makes me crazy.

    I’m a bit competitive.

    Last week I was running in a park, coming up a long straight-away that leads right up to the street across from yet another park. People often walk across the road from one park to the other.

    And just as I made it up to the top of that stretch, I saw a woman jogging across the street toward me. I realized we were going to intersect if she dropped onto my trail. I hoped she would simply run past me in the other direction, but of course she did not. She stepped lightly onto the path about 20 feet in front of me and settled into her run, her feet falling easily into the same pattern as mine.

    She is on my pace, I thought irritably, staring hard at her back.

    Well she better speed it up, I decided. I have absolutely no intention of running right behind her for the next two miles.

    Us “type A” people can be hard to live with, I freely admit. Even we find ourselves onerous sometimes.

    Her pace remained even. She looked light and fresh, her feet hardly touching the ground. She looked like the kind of mom who only buys healthy cereal for her kids, and always remembers the fabric softener when she’s doing her family’s laundry. I bet she drives a minivan and vacuums it out herself, I thought uncharitably.

    See how rude I can be when someone’s on my pace?

    I felt myself accelerating. I was running 3 feet behind her, close enough to step on her shadow, which I did, with relish. Slow down or speed up, I barked mentally.

    Nothing. She was happy to maintain.

    So of course I did it. With a haughty sniff I slipped off the path into the grass and went around her, picking my pace up enough to stay ahead. Our footfalls were out of sync briefly, then I heard them fall back in together. She had picked up enough speed to match me. Ugh.

    Drop back! I thought. Just stay on your stupid pace, which was my pace, I’m giving it to you. Let me move ahead.

    Nope. If I wanted to be rid of her, I was going to have to shift into a higher gear and burn some fuel. Well, I thought. If that’s how you want it, that’s how it’s gonna be. Prepare to be humiliated, Lady On My Pace.

    I cranked it, and pulled away with long, ground-eating strides. I knew I could sustain the push for at least half a mile or so, and I did. I got far enough ahead to not be able to hear her behind me, nor see her in my peripheral vision when the path turned.

    And then I went back to my pace. It was mine, after all.

    And things were all Partridge Family and sunshine until I heard her draw up behind me again. Looked like I was going to have a really fast running day.

    I increased my lead again, and decided to force myself to hold the faster speeed to the end of my run.

    After another half mile I reconsidered, and risked a glance back to see where she was. Still in sight. Damn. I walked for a moment to recover my breath, and could feel her gaining.

    I broke back into a run and had probably the fastest third mile I’ve ever run. I would have run a fourth, or even walked for a cool-down, but of course I would rather sleep every night on a pile of smelly running shoes than let her pass me.

    I know I am a lunatic. Tell me something I don’t know.

    Image by Andrew Mason on Flickr.

  • Interior Ass-Kicking

    Interior Ass-Kicking

    So I’m walking around at Lake Johnston, which has a lovely 5K circuit, getting ready to run.

    I like running Lake J because it has one mile flat, one mile hilly, and one mile I-may-die hilly. AND a fabulous 100-yard boardwalk across the lake finish. Nothing like hearing your footfalls echoing across that last football field’s worth of planking to finish your run.

    I notice two men, both about 20 years old, stretching out as if they are about to start the circuit. One is 6’2″ and scrawny, with what looks to me like a runner’s body. He’s not wearing a shirt, and he clearly has no body fat. The other is maybe 5’11”, trim, fit, and looks like a Marine. I decide to wait on both of them to begin so I can get them far enough ahead of me that I’m not bothered by their presence. I don’t like for other people to run on my personal private course, hah.

    The tall scrawny one drops in and heads up the course. I nod and wait until I can’t see him on the path any more, then glance sidewise at Marine Guy, who is actively moving around, but isn’t headed for the path. Dammit, I’m ready to run and he’s wasting my time.

    So I casually stride toward the start of the circuit, and begin a slow walk up the way, hoping he’ll jog over and head out in front of me.

    Once I pass round the first curve I still don’t hear him behind me, so I break into my warm-up pace, and start bouncing out my demons, one at a time.

    This is a process I go through nearly every time I run. I have to fight the part of me that offers up the same damn excuses for why I can’t or shouldn’t run today. Gotta pee, it’s too hot, there’s too much pollen in the air, I have a lot to get done, my knee aches, etc., etc., etc. It’s boring, repetitive, and I clearly have not matured enough to stop doing it, so instead I mentally go into my head and patiently kick the ass of every excuse in there until I have clear space in which to operate.

    About the time I finish this process, Marine Guy pounds noisily up from behind me. He’s breathing too loudly for still being inside the first mile, indiscriminately chomping up the yards like a hungry dog in a garbage can. A wicked grin creeps across my face and I feel my inner competitor take his measure. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m gonna take him down.

    I continue my steady pace and wait to see what unfolds.

    Sure enough, I cross the marker at the end of the initial mile, lean into the first steady incline, and as I come around the curve there he is, walking just ahead of me. I crank my pace just a touch and steadily reduce the distance between us. Marine Guy steps off the path as if he needs to stretch, and my inner genius gleefully rubs her hands together. She knows he Can. Not. Stand. To be Passed. Too bad!

    I decide to keep my slightly increased pace just to rub it in. I feel awesome. I am in the zone. There is no effort involved in my run.

    And to my complete delight, I drop over the top of a hill and see Scrawny up ahead, also walking!

    It’s clearly time for Stealth Ninja Mode. I’m still not even breathing through my mouth, and my footfalls are essentially silent. As I creep up on Scrawny intending to pass, he starts to run again. I don’t care because he’s still in my sights. With as much of a head start as I gave him, he should have been way ahead by now.

    I evaluate his form. He tosses his right foot out to the side when he runs. Needless waste and goofy-looking to boot. Long legs, though, of that there’s no doubt. He’s steadily cutting away the trail with giant, bent-scissor strides.

    Marine Boy pounds up behind me again, and blows by on his bid for Scrawny’s place. I feel a spurt of anger, but tamp it down and hold my pace. The third mile will kill him and I will wait. Scrawny is the real prize here.

    I pass Marine Boy again just before the end of the second mile; even these minor hills are too much for him. I do not grin or laugh, because I can see that Scrawny has increased his lead by a fair portion. I’m going to have to work for this one.

    When Scrawny and I are in a straight-away, he commits a shameless sin: he looks back at me.

    Hah! Let him see that a 45 year old harmless little mother of three is about to kick his ass! Oh, he should never have done that. Now his humiliation will be complete. I begin diverting a small stream of energy into a reserve tank; this battle is going to happen in the big hills of the third mile and I’m going to need some extra. I can hear Marine Boy galloping along behind me like a blown rhinoceros, but his sounds are fading. He’ll be lucky to take third, and he’ll only get that if a granny with a walker doesn’t pass him first.

    We cruise into it, Scrawny and I, and on the second killer hill of the third mile I am within 20 feet of him. 20 feet! He crumbles into a walk and I dig my toes in, taking tiny steps, trying to keep running, but I know that if I pass now I won’t be able to hold onto it. I seethe and drop to a walk because I can cover more ground that way. Scrawny looks back at me (again!) as he tops the hill and disappears instantly over the other side. I grind my teeth.

    When I come over the hill I can no longer see him. I increase my pace to see if he’s just around the bend, but I run the next quarter mile — including the worst hills of the third mile — without seeing or hearing him. I swear colorfully to myself and decide that he’s able to make his bid for the finish well before I can. He had more stamina than I thought. I comfort myself with knowing that I gave him a scare, anyway. With the head start he had, he should never have let me catch him at all.

    I am still planning to finish strong on the boardwalk, so as I come into the final quarter mile I am ready to tap into my reserve fuel. And what do I see? What do I see?

    There’s Scrawny, walking his sorry ass on the boardwalk!

    Oh, this is gonna be very bad for him, very bad indeed. He’s already 25 yards down the bridge, but he’s walking. I really, really want this for my early birthday present, I do. I open the fuel lines and lengthen my stride, dropping onto the boardwalk with an interior war cry.

    The instant he hears me driving toward him, he breaks into a run. He’s slower than before but he’s moving. He doesn’t waste energy looking back; he doesn’t need to. He can feel my approach. A startled fisherman looks up at me and I impatiently blow by a woman yakking mindlessly on her cell phone. This is my bridge.

    Scrawny feels everything I’m doing. I’m hoping he’s tapped out, but he keeps running. I am way above my regular pace but I can’t take it up any farther. I close the distance to 5 yards, but in the end he holds on. He finishes ahead of me, and cuts sharply away from the trail toward the boat dock.

    I’m furious and happy at the same time. He had to work hard for this run, and nearly had to confess on the stage of the world that twenty-five years and a solid headstart were not enough for him to run a three-mile circuit faster than a 45 year old woman. I curve around into a wide circle, wondering if I’ll see Marine Guy drop onto the boardwalk today. This week.

    When I glance back I see that Scrawny has continued to walk ahead to the start of the circuit again. You ought to, I think triumphantly. If I were your coach I’d tell you run it again, just to make up for nearly losing to me the first time.

    I stalk proudly toward my car. I am ruthless. I am relentless.

    The Lake Johnson ducks scatter from my path.

    Image by lululemon athletica on Flickr.

     

  • Trail Running and Effing Ankle Rolls

    Trail Running and Effing Ankle Rolls

    New training tactics, new hazards. Also new curse words. Well, maybe the same old curse words.

    All of it is worth the fabulous experience of running a trail, and with the advent of spring (and no more local gym membership) I’m totally off the treadmill (hallelujah!) and on the trail. I’ve done plenty of paved runs, but this is my first experience with dirt, rocks, roots, pine cones, sweet gum balls, and — believe it or not — sucking, muddy, marvelous wetlands. (Those last are gonna stink this summer, methinks.)

    So I found a nice little two mile out-and-back about a 10 minute drive from my house. It’s the Creekside trail at Yates Mill Pond, and it offers an amazing variety of environments, from deep, quiet loblolly pine woods (those needles are slick, y’all) to a fabulous run through a wetland area where the trail is partly laid with a double line of planks squelching in the mud beneath your shoes. Plenty of turtles dropping off logs with a plop as you pass, and frogs chirruping all around. A sign indicated beaver and fox habitats as well.

    It doesn’t appear to be well-known yet, as the trail is narrow and not so very worn in. This is probably because there’s a paved, stroller-friendly single-mile circuit around the millpond itself, culminating in a lovely view of the spillway and the old mill house. The sign in the cool shade under the millhouse in the muddy area by the dam says “snake sanctuary.” Watch your step there, ladies and gents.

    There’s also a one mile trail running along the ridge above the mill, with some nice elevation and a few twisty turns in the woods; I hiked that one after running the two mile wetland trail.

    And rolling my ankle, dammit.

    This whole “watch out for those tree roots” thing is new to me, and you really can’t get more than 5 steps — hell, 5 inches — on this trail without a gnarled old root under your foot, or a chunk of quartz the size of your fist half-buried in the sand. The gum balls were bad, too. Who knew trail runs could be such an obstacle course? I didn’t. Noob.

    So I’m working on a set of strengthening exercises (see below) and my new pre-run stretches include plenty of ankle circles and a solid reminder to Pay Close Attention At All Times. Trail running is not something you do while turtle watching, or planning your work day, grocery list, or next blog post. Unless that last one is going to be about ankle rolls. Ow.

    New exercise set to prevent ankle rolls:

    1. Balance touches: On a dyna-disk (small squishy rubber thingy, partly filled with air), stand on one foot and reach down and touch your knee or toe with alternating hands.

    2. Balanced weight pass: Still on the dyna-disk, pass a weight from hand to hand over your head.

    3. Four corners: mark the corners of a box (I use chalk or tape, or other markers) about six feet square. Stand in the center and slide out sideways to touch each corner, moving on the diagonal across the box for a 3 minute interval. Start slow and get up to a good, quick speed. Keep your knees bent.

    4. Edge rolls: In a squat position, roll your weight toward your toes, then slowly shift your weight to the outside of both feet, then the heels, then the inside of both feet. You’re rolling your weight around the edges of your feet, slowly, holding the position and getting a good stretch and strengthening those muscles all around your ankles.

    My ankle roll was painful and swear-worthy, but it didn’t keep me from finishing the run. I took some ibuprofen that day and was ready for an gentle 3-miler (paved, for recovery purposes) on the second day post-roll.

    I’ve already scoped out a new trail I want to run, too.

    Image by lulumon athletica on Flickr.

  • Transitioning

    Transitioning

    I’ve been offline, trying to catch my breath between wave sets and wipeouts.

    The turbulence of job shifts (I’m now working from home rather than from an office in another city), training shifts (my trainer moved out of state, my fight is coming up in April), and other big and small events and financial re-arrangements have significantly changed the shape of my days for the past month, and I’m working to discern how I will fit into my own life for the next bit of the future.

    Out of necessity I withdrew from nearly all of my social hubs and just tried to hang on. Now the first and biggest wave of the set has passed (that was the biggest one, right?), and I’ve wiped out but I’m upright, catching my breath and trying to figure out how to meet the next one, which I can already see coming. Hell, I can see ten of ’em from here.

    I’m in transition, I know this feeling.

    In boxing, we work to get good at transitions. The entire purpose of training with intervals, for example, is to get good at physically working hard (sprinting, punching, etc.) for a 3 minute period, then to recover well in 30 seconds or a minute in order to work extremely hard for another 3 minute space. During that recovery time you mentally shift into neutral and try to convince your body to slow down. Deep breaths, hands in the air if you have a stitch, slowing down the heart rate as much as possible. Standing straight, never bending double with hands on your knees. Straight and tall, breathing, looking forward.

    I’ve rarely been aware of much outside my boxing corner during the periods between rounds. I don’t hear the perpetual thump of hip-hop over the sound system, the rapid-fire gunning of the speed bag, the shot calls of other trainers in the gym, or the thwack of leather meeting leather on the heavy bags. All those external stimuli are drowned out in the deafening roar of my blood and the heavy buzz of focus that narrows your vision to a 20×20 square of dirty canvas and the ropes that give it boundaries.

    The one thing I can hear — and in fact what I am listening for — is a corner.

    During the period between rounds, your corner is telling you that you performed well, that you can breathe, that you are okay. You stake everything on believing them.

    After a few seconds your corner begins to set your course for the next interval. She outlines a strategy, notes what strengths you should employ, and points out the lapses in your opponent’s style or form and how you can take advantage of them. And in all of this, more than anything else, your corner communicates that she believes in you. I know few powers on earth more significant than that one.

    When you are in transition, you need someone to believe in you.

    Someone to remind you of the many things you already know, to point out the skills you have worked so hard to build, and the goals that brought you to this point.

    As I write this I am one week into training for my next fight, without the trainer I’ve loved, learned from, and counted on for the past two years . Her life has undergone a series of changes as well, and now she’s in New York launching her next big thing.

    I’m sporting a black eye just turning to green and nursing a severely strained shoulder. My normal training schedule is completely wonked because I’m no longer at my office, no longer enjoying the work perk of a fitness gym one block from our building. I’ve missed two weight sessions and am looking at a week of restricted activity because of this injury.

    I can feel myself thinking, “Well, you aren’t off to a great start, are you?” I took my first round hard, and am having a hard time figuring out how to get through the next.

    Listening for the voice of a corner.

    And there has been a new voice — entirely unexpected, but there nonetheless.

    When I called Terri “The Boss” Moss, promoter of the upcoming Atlanta Corporate Fight Night, to let her know my job had changed, my trainer had moved, and I’d been injured and might have trouble getting ready for my fight, I was expecting her to be polite as always, but privately frustrated and annoyed. After all, she has a lot riding on this event, a thousand details to oversee, and lots of boxers to coach.

    What I got was a corner. The voice of an experienced boxer, a woman who knows how training can go awry, who understands the position I am finding myself in, and who immediately began the litany of “You’re doing fine. Breathe. Here’s what I want you to do.” It looks like I may be driving down to Atlanta for some serious corner time.

    I have to say this about the women boxers I have met during this strange and beautiful journey: you are the most incredible women I’ve ever known. I can’t imagine how I would have made it without you. Thank you for the hard training, the indefatigable spirit, and most of all, the graceful cornering.

    Here’s to the next round.

    Image by akeg on Flickr.

  • Another Ass-Kicking Ignite Presentation

    Another Ass-Kicking Ignite Presentation

    Ignite Durham is February 9, 2011 at the Carolina Theatre in Durham NC, and it’s time to get over to the Ignite website and vote for me. Again! Subject: “How to Win a Fight in a Bar” — c’mon, this is critical life information we’re talking about, you pansies.

    Ignite speakers around the world have exactly 5 minutes to teach, enlighten, amuse, or inspire — and they get 20 slides which auto-advance every 15 seconds. Only the topics with the highest number of votes are chosen, although the esteemed organizers of the events also toss us a few extras for funsies. Plus there was the crazy dude in the red tutu last year.

    Last year you voted for my presentation “13 Reasons Women Should Take Up Boxing” 253 times to get me into the show — thank you very much for the clicks, the hollering from the gallery, and the free beers you plied me with afterwards, I LOVE you my people! And of course, as a result more women around the Triangle are kicking ass and taking names. You are doing that, right? You better be.

    This year we gonna crank it up a few notches.

    You may know how to make love, but I’m gonna tell you how to make war. Give me 5 minutes and I’ll tell you everything you need to know to handle the roughest, toughest bar rat Patrick Swayze ever brought to Chuck Norris for a lesson in nice.

    Don’t worry, out-of-towners. Go ahead and vote for me and after the dust settles I’ll send out the links to the video so that you too will be ready for your next bar fight. Hell, you may be looking for your next bar fight.

    Everyone who goes to the site gets ten votes, you can give me three of them.

    My homie Chuckie says, “Go vote for Lisa.”

    Jack Palance says, “What he said.”

  • Creepy Skeleton Guy

    Creepy Skeleton Guy

    Not too long ago this weird little creature started showing up in his freaky poses all over my kitchen. One day he was resting in peace on a carefully folded tissue pallet in the windowsill; another day he and his death-defying grin suddenly appeared on the chair in the study.

    He has a nice heft to him, none of that papery, light feeling you expect from a skeleton; and he actually makes a very pleasant sound when you rattle him. He jingles. Santa Skeleton.

    The Maker crafted him from clay — which was fired by one of his teachers — then he carefully assembled the pieces with white yarn and toted him home, where he haunts our house with his feverish grin. Whenever he starts to get to me, I pick him up and jingle him, and his creep factor diminishes.

    He probably hates that I keep killing his skeleton cred.