Dreams, Ponderings, and Mindless Wanderings

Just a teaser...

Check out the family gams.

Wee will rock you, but Boobies-Bum-Bum-Boobies will save you.

I am different from my Lervemunkee, and this past weekend in Melbourne highlighted many of our differences.

First of all, there's the topic of Melbourne. I like to return to Melbourne to visit; he does not. If I were in charge of the great CasHew weekend warrior travel plans, I'd have left on Friday soon after work and not returned from Melbourne until Monday morning. Alas, I am not in charge, so we left early on Saturday and returned early evening on Sunday. He enjoys catching up with his kids, but he's not as interested in seeing the city of Melbourne. I am. One weekend, I'll return and see it by myself on my own terms. Some of those terms are not having half of my body coated in some silicone slime against chafing, not smelling like a locker, and not accepting drinks from strangers on the side of the road.

I didn't get to see much of Melbourne or the people I knew gathering there. I did get to see my Brisbane Running Bimbos Buddies dressed as proper people. I hardly recognise them if they're not sweaty and wearing microscopic shorts. Next year. I think that I said that last year, but this time I'll threaten him with my cranky self. He got a bit of that Saturday morning.

That's another difference between the Lervemunkee and me: he's a happy chappy in the morning; I'm a bitchy buzzard with boobs. I don't enjoy life before 9 am. I will never change. If you do make me get up, then schedule in a cappuccino. I will not notice an extra 30 minutes subtracted from the little time machine from hell. Anything before 9 is early. Save yourself some pain and caffeinate your wife. Really. It's so simple.

Then there is the whole getting there thing. I stroll; he sprints. We arrived before our room was ready. Of course we did. The housecleaning crew was still asleep when we arrived. The Australians have a wonderful expression for getting up early: waking up at sparrow's fart. Me? I get up when the sparrow is empty of all his worm curry and birth bath brews. Sparrow's fart. It's not a good time. Wake me up at sparrow's cuppa.

We left our things with the front desk clerk and made our way to the expo. The Lervemunkee was too fast for me. I took my time and photos. I could complain, but this lets me get Lervemunkee shots:

 

Look at that sky. It's a Brisbane sky in Melbourne. Let's continue our walk to the Melbourne Cricket Ground (not to be confused with Melbourne Ground Crickets, a local delicacy). The MCG, as those in the know call it, is where we would be finishing if our bodies agreed.

The Yarra and a view to the spire. That's where I finished my 2006 Melbourne Marathon.

On the pedestrian bridge Mark makes a call while staying in the shade. He's a good Aussie boy and can sniff out shade. In the background is the MCG. I'm getting excited.

 

I caught up. I'm not a big fan of walking too much before a race. My hip, you know-the broken one, hates it. One hour of walking is all I can do before the aches take over. Running? Not a problem. Go figure.

 

The runners will come in where my camera cut off on the right. They'll run around the perimeter and finish here. How cool! I was envious last year. This was the race I wanted to have be my welcome back to the Mary Club race. I wanted to finish my first marathon in the MCG. Unfortunately that wasn't to be. I was going to have to settle for the half. Would it be the same? I hoped so.

I didn't expect much. Another difference between the Lervemunkee and me is that he recovers better and faster. I had the cough that wouldn't die for a long time. I was bouncing back from my near personal worst at Noosa. I was sick and my hip hurt from twisting it a few days before. Oh, by "bouncing", I mean "lumbering". The weekend before last had a long run of only 90 minutes. I was not fully bounced. My goal for the Melbourne Half Marathon was to run a decent 1:45, then whatever comes after that is fine. I had run out of training time. This was just going to be a very expensive long run.

I worried about my drinking. I don't drink much and am rarely thirsty. I didn't want to need the water stations too much. It is okay to use them, but were I to need them, then I would be nervous about them. No, it's best to have them appear and just appreciate them. "Oh look. Water people. Let us part take in this ritual of accepting beverages from strangers with their fingers in the cups." So I drank.

A lot.

Heaps.

Too much.

Because I had to de-wee, I lined up at the back. The announcer said there were 7500 runners, and only 25 were behind me. The first few kilometres were about finding some space and figuring out what my speed would be. It's always about checking the hip for happiness. The only pace group I could see was the 2:20. I would run with them and decide later if they were slower or faster than what I could do. Two minutes after I settled, my bladder let me know it was time again for a de-wee, and I took the first toilet stop possible.

There is another difference between my Lervemunkee and me: he has a penis; I do not. Because I was without my own penis, I had to wait in line. And wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Don't look at the watch.

Wait.

Pee, dab, flush, wash, and go!

When I left the toilets, I saw no one. It looked like the average Sunday walking group but with bibs. I was with the walkers. Not the fast walkers. The what's-the-point walkers. Great. I've done this before but in dreams. I had no chance of waking up and ending this misery. I decided to take my chance and run to catch up. I had to at least get with 2:20 people. 

This was my best race ever. I ran. I never forgot that I was in a race. I never became Spacebabe Katy. I ran. And I had fun. I saw a guy with a shirt that read "Don't follow me. I'm going fishing!" I told him he was taking a slow, but ecofriendly and admirable, way to the fishing hold. Then I called him a liar. He laughed. I saw Lucky Legs (79!) in a running skort (I wore a different brand) and chatted her up about skirts. I passed other friends I have met along the way. I loved it. Not the passing, the chatting. I don't run with anyone. People I know and enjoy are either faster or slower than I am. Our little mini chats lifted my spirits. I worried that I missed La Beepter, but she ended up being a cheerer. I gave her a sweaty hug and moved on. Wasn't this fun? I was having a great day. I'm sure it was my number: 8338. Boobies-Bum-Bum-Boobies.

Before I knew it, I caught up to the 2:20 pacing group at 8 kilometres. I didn't feel tired and decided to maintain my pace, not theirs. Around 16 kilometres, I felt a pain in the foot.

I've struggled with this Little Piggy. Like me in this race, we were dying to go wee wee wee all the way home. The key to beating a blister is to give it a name. Let it know that she who names it, rules it. I named it Oozie Suzie and put it out of my mind.

And ran some more. Did I jog? Pah. Jog. Moi? As if I'd lose focus. I have to catch up with the Me-I-was-supposed -to-be.

Then I saw it: the MCG. I don't follow cricket. I don't care about Aussie rules football. I do get a thrill out of a stadium. It's huge; the acoustics, incredible. Where and when else will I run into a stadium full of people cheering? Screw the cynics; I was a star.

As soon as I entered the MCG, I bolted for the finish and came in at 2:10. It was only then that I saw the 2:10 pace group. I was right behind them. I just didn't see the flag.

My watch (and official results) read 2:07:35. Before I give you my salchows, I want you to guess where I got confused about which marker was for the half and which for the full, where I had to wee, and where I took a few extra seconds to pet a whippet.

The salchows:

6:45.52     7:16.54    11:49.33^#     5:44.70      5:42.61

3:02.66^!    5:51.64      5:44.31      5:44.16      5:44.40

5:44.93     5:42.53      5:55.65      5:51.17      6:05.95^

5:51.77     5:52.69      5:22.16      6:17.25      5:43.63    5:41.11

Total: 2:07:35

# the de-PB wee wee
! Don't know how to fix this, but after this, I knew which marker was for the half.
^ whippet good.

Love those salchows! How could I be upset? The official time might not be a personal best, but that run definitely was. I ran it. I had to weave in and out at the beginning. I had to wee, but after that, I bolted... for me.

I know that a sub-two half is possible. Might be in Texas (San Antonio or Dallas) or it might be next year in Queensland. Where doesn't matter, and I'll let when surprise me.

~~~
Since this run, I have seen a podiatrist about Oozie Suzie on my Little Piggie. The bad news is that it's very deep. I'll need to find a solution and hope it doesn't require $99 socks. The good news is that my shoes have corrected my run.

I celebrated with a cappuccino.

Let's look back on Melbourne for a second:

It wasn't a perfect weekend. I am sorry that I missed socialising with non-Brisbane runners. They're one reason I enjoy dipping into the wallet for destination races. However, I had a wonderful time with the Brisbane Running Buddies. They're all faster than I am, so I only get to talk with them when they're in the throes of post-run agony. And, of course, I ran incredibly well. I run no one's race but my own, and I won. That's one thing I have in common with my Lervemunkee. As for those differences? You know what the French say: Vive la difference!

Nuh-night, panting Puss Puss.

I am a running machine!

I'm not a Ferrari or even a Vespa, but I am a running machine. I'm at the crock pot end of the machine spectrum—a dodgy crock pot found at a garage sale where everything smelled like urine. You don't know if it'll work. It has some tell-tale signs that it was shiny and new in the late 60s or early 70s. But don't you ever stop believing that it is a machine. Oh yeah. I am the old crock pot of the running community.

After my stellar performance at Noosa, I was unable to run. I tried, but my hip gave out. Think about it like this: you're running too close to the edge of a sidewalk and every now and then, your right foot lands on the grass. That's what I had going, but I wa not on the grass. I just had a hip that gave out. A little whoopsie-daisy of the femur. I couldn't run 2 km.

If that wasn't enough to put me in a foul mood, I also was experiencing pain walking around the house. If you think about the kind of walking you do when you walk around the house or down a flight of stairs, you might notice that there is a lot of turning. That turning sometimes sends a jolt of pain through the hip. After that, I can't walk well. It hurts; I limp.

I was getting cranky.

Crankier.

I'd try to run, but then I'd tense up waiting for the pain or my hip to give out. I don't think that helped. I hired a running babysitter to run behind me so I could feel secure. I wanted to know that if I fell, I wasn't alone. My sitter saw me wobble a few times, but I decided that I could just run in between wobbles. My sitter ran on after I told him about my route and made him memorise my outfit. CSI: The Runner's Tale. If you need a running sitter, be warned that they expect payment in the form of nookie.

I did my 3 km circuit at about my race pace. I was pleased. I wobbled, but I knew I could still get up to a decent pace between wobbles. No longer worried and paranoid, I ran less tense. That had to be good.

Since then, I've made it back to 6 km (5:52, 5:51, 6:04, 6:06, 6:04, and 5:57). Just. At 5:57 and a smidgen, I was over it. Done. Stick a fork in me. But at least I can run again. I just need to about three more of these.

I don't know how I'll do in Melbourne, though. I've decided that I will start the race. I have to. I have the best number ever: 8338. Boobies bum bum boobies.

~~~
Some photos of what I have been doing while recuperating. During my time in crankyland, I took a begin to spin class at Casa Cliterati. I don't think they like my term, but I heard that from a very old member. Old and raunchy? I have hope.

George Washington Omo models my rolag. He loves this. I'm working with wool from the Manky Skanky Hanky Panky sheep farm. He's in a cloud of good smells.

Then I spun from my rolag. And I spun and spun and spun, hon.

And what I end up with are bobbins of singles. Here Tamale shows us overbite and my latest bobbin.
I then ply the two singles to make a yarn. It's not yarn until you ply it. I was told that. See? I listen.
  Note how the ply accentuates Omo's fine shoulder muscles... and his delicate ankles.
Then I borrow a niddy noddy to make a skein. After I wound two skeins, it was bath time for the Manky Skanky Hanky Panky sheep.
 
It took a few soakings. I am telling you, this sheep was half pig.

My first two skeins. No, what is wrong? I had two here. I went to get the camera and now I have one. What gives?

What is that? Hand-spun yarn is not a play toy. It might look like a headless bunny, but it's a lot of work. You eat my skeins, I recite poetry. Yeah, you just think about that, George Washington Omo who chops down cherry trees and chomps on skeins.
I made sure to sound fierce and threatening.

Okay, I didn't. I make him model the skein. Not only did I not sound fierce, I made it fun for him. Can I really expect him to know the difference between my skeins and a plushy? Why bother? I'll just store my stuff better. Sometimes Katy is the one who needs the discipline and training.

The Lervemunkee is worried about my new skill. He senses (correctly) that I'll knit him up some fine briefs out of Manky Skanky Hanky Panky sheep's wool. I think the scratching will help him run faster.

Nuh night, Manky Skanky Hanky Panky Puss Puss

Mayhaps not the most clever of moves

Running the Noosa half marathon (24 August 2008) was probably not wise, but I did it. It's pointless to regret because I can't go back and change things, can I?

It wasn't my fault. I was egged on to do it. Why would I want to do something because of eggs? Another expression filed under H for "hunh". It's more perplexing than the issues filed under "huh".

Yes, I was egged on. By a shirt. When we picked up our race packet, I knew I was going to get a shirt. I did not know I was going to get a shirt with "FINISHER" on the back. Now I have a shirt that will need an "UN-" or "Not a" added to it. How about a crossed out R and added D? "FINISHED"!

Why would I highlight my DNF or DNS? I'm okay with those initialisms, but I don't want to shout them out. All this babbling means I was forced to start a race I knew I'd be too sick to run.

On Friday before the race, I saw a doctor. She said that I had "that virus that's going around". Hm, the omnivirus? The Dead or Alive virus? She also said that I had two coughs: right round baby right round viral cough and an asthmatic one. Asthma from the virus. Joy. Her advice to me? Avoid breathing cold air, so "don't go walking about at night." Okay. I won't.

I'll run 21 km in the morning instead. What could go wrong?

I had two days to dephlegm and rest. Resting is easy. It only involves horizontalifying oneself. I am good at that. I can nap anywhere. The phlegm part was harder. Must be the silent g. I'm also not fond of gnomes or gnus.
Unfortunately for me, I had to take a lot of cough syrup. I appreciate the Brand-X style--tell it like it is. Wonder what I have? As my cat points out, it's Chesty Mucus Cough. Peach flavour, no less. The difference between Robitussin and Brand X is also why it costs more. Robitussin employs more people in the anti-gag department. Robitussin's cherry, while nasty, is far better than Brand X's peach. Honest to Gazza, I nearly lost my eyes retching. Peach? If by "peach flavour", you mean "similar in taste to the exhaust pipe of a Harley"--no offense to the Harley manufacturers. Please don't kick my ass.

So that, and Vick's Vapo-rub are my arsenal, emphasis on the first four letters.

How did it go?

Oh geez hundred: I wake up, take meds, gag in sink, get dressed, choose This American Life episodes, drink bad coffee.

Just before the race: I line up at the end. Very end. Endissimo endorama endorella endorville. Where was I? Back of the pack, Mac!

Kilometers 1-2: Regretting. Doing some simple maths: 21 minus 2 equals 19. Nineteen more of these babies. 

Kilometers 3-11.1: Just managing. I can't breathe deeply. If I do, I cough. I have trouble breathing in while expelling chesty mucus. I opt to take short breaths. My hip? It's still hurting. It's been hurting for a week, but I figure there's metal in it, so what could go wrong. I watch friends coming back after the turn around. I wave. They tell me to stop. They're stupid people, so I ignore them. I'm very smart. I keep running. I can't breathe or run without a limp. I'm feckin' brilliant.

Kilometer 11.11: I turn around. Tesso tells me I look bad. I think she means bad as in secksay.

Kilometers 11.111-21.1: I keep going. I have to walk a bit. Remember the coffee? Yes. So I must find a toilet. Do you know what is nice about having to go when you are this far behind? You don't rush. I saunter in. I do my stuff. I take my time. I saunter out. I start to hobble and hack again.

Kilometer 21: Mattymat runs me in. I wanted to die, but he ran with me. I felt, for just a few seconds, like all was okay.

Kilometer 21.1: I finished. I can wear the shirt. I finished in 2:32. Not my personal wurst. That was 2:32 in Thailand (March 2005).

I survived. Just.

As of this writing, I am still coughing, but not as much. Not so chesty. And the hip? That's for another post. Let's just say that while my Lervemunkee is running, I'll be exercising in a more mellow way:

Okay, I'll do a spin class, too. But Saturday mornings will not see me running for a while. Good-bye San Antonio.

Nuh-night, Puss Puss. I'm off to bed in my FINISHER shirt.

Going for the gold. What's the contest? Dumbest runner.

THIS

Last weekend I flew to Melbourne to celebrate a friend's birthday. I must have flapped too hard because my little body was weakened and accepted the first germ to enter my lungs. Since last Saturday, I have been pretty sick. How sick? Coughing so much I heaved my stomach out of my ass and my lungs up through my mouth. My phlegm is like vanilla puddin' with raisins. Yummay? Do you want more description? I'm puffed after walking to the toilet. Oh, but I'm in Australia. I should say "to the loo", but I should say it fast enough that it sounds like "toodaloo".

PLUS

I turned funny going down a flight of stairs. This means nothing to most, but for me it means my hip is catching. Twice it gave out and I nearly fell. It has done this before, but I usually don't worry about falling.

EQUALS

Today I'm supposed to make the big decision: to Noosa half marathon or not to Noosa half marathon. That is the wordy and uncatchy question.

I told the Lervemunkee this morning that I am going. Fine. I'll go and cheer, but don't expect me to cheer from the start. Expect me at the end.

One hour later.

I text him: I'll go. I'll run. I'll DNF if I have to.

ARGUMENT FOR EXTRA CREDIT

While sick in Melbourne, I ran from our microscopic hotel room to the Tan (2ish km), around the Tan three times (3.8 x 3 = 11.4 plus bits, because it was really 3.8bitsbits), and back, for a total of 15.4ishbits km). This surely makes me ready for 21 km after another week of not breathing well, coughing, and being exhausted.

And while I'm at it, I weigh less and have ripped abs from coughing and not eating. I am ready.

Any guesses for my time? My PB before the hip broke was 1:57ish. Or 58. Ish. My PB after the break is 2:04. My PW was in Thailand in the late spring, 2:34. I'm all for people assuming that I'll DNF or DNS. I'm operating on meds and germs here. I cannot do the honorable thing and run sans pod. I will need distractions. I'll run to This American Life. I'll be the runner or walker scratching her head and pondering.

Oh, and I just received an email from the Lervemunkee: Just wait, no need to decide until the morning

Pansy!

Nuh-night, Phlegm Puss!

p.s. Saw David Sedaris Wednesday. Sick or not, I wasn't missing him. I'm still giddy.

Did another turd and almost did a toot!

Two weeks after the Gold Coast Half Marathon, I thought I'd just do a long run of another 21 km, but in the Jetty-to-Jetty Fun Run Weekend. This year they had the Genesis Half Marathon. I thought that if I just ran it for fun, it could be a long run that I'm not aloud to drift in. No Katy spacing out. No Katy looking at the birdies. No Katy noticing the packaging for sex toys as she did on her Saturday short run. If I sign up for a race, then I'll stay focused. My time won't be as good, but I don't usually run for times and after the Gold Coast Personal Turd, I was expecting to be tired.

There were only 241 runners in the half marathon. I was number 24. Didn't I feel elite! I was an invited runner. They invited me to give them money for entry, and I was after Mr 23.

With my speed, or lack thereof, I was sure to be at the end, so I was thrilled to see pacers for 2:10 and 2:20. If they had 2:20 pacers, there'll be people who don't usually do 2:20 and are hoping this is the day. I won't be dead last. There were also 2:00 and 2:05 pacers. There was a sale on pacers in Redcliffe.

This was a beautiful course that followed the coast line from Woody Point (tee hee hee) to the tippitty toppitty of Scarborough, did a little zig zagging to make up the exact kilometres and then return. On the way back, they sent us out onto a jetty. That was cruel. I wanted to go straight home, but looking over the rails of the jetty distracted me from the pain. Was I in pain? I assume I'm in pain--a generic pain, not something nasty. The day was gorgeous and running along the beach was beautiful. It was an awesome course.  I did not say it was a flat course. Did I say flat? No. It wasn't hilly, but there were some hills. One hill had been accidentally placed at the 19 km (of 21.blah km) mark by some wonder of geology. The movement of the earth's crust is so overrated. "Oh, I can shift. Oh, I can make hills, valleys, and mountains." "Oh, I can spew forth magma from my belly." Yeah? I can write backwards in cursive. Magma, my lily white ass! Where was I? The hill was steep. Heinous. Mean and nasty. Along the way up there were signs: "This is the hill you blogged about" (how did I miss that thread?), "You're over the hill and that's a good thing", etc. I did not walk up it. I ran from sign to sign. They helped.

The 2:05 pacer, who had been behind me all race, passed me at a drink stop. Rats! I had to catch up. I had less than 3 km left. I was close to beating 2:07. I knew at the half way mark that I had a chance. The clock and my watch read 1:01. I was slowing down again. Rats. I ran on and gave it my all. When I could hear the peeping of the finish mats, I looked at my watch. Two hours plus a bit. Whoo hoo!

So I ran. I gave it all I had, and up ahead was the 2:05 pacer just waiting for his charges, if any, to come through. The bugger was way ahead of schedule. When I turned the corner, I saw that the clock at the finish line read 1:57:ish. No way. My watch was not off. But how crushing is that? I can finish in under two hours, but I know the clock is gone. It's the running equivalent of buying jeans you know are sized incorrectly just to have a smaller tag just above your crack.

Final time: 2:03:56! Another personal turd and just one minute off my personal two-t.

The kilometre salchows
I didn't miss one, so no tricky dividing by two and fudging them so they don't look too suspicious. Oh the irony. Read on:
1-5: 5:24, 5:31, 5:32.48, 5:51.29
6-10: 5:51.29 (two exactomundo... how cool! a sign?), 5:41, 6:19, 5:54, 5:50
11-15: 6:00, 5:56, 5:52, 6:00, 6:09
16-21.blah: 6:00, 5:55, 6:10, 6:13, 5:59, 5:53
Best: 5:24.08 Ha! The first one. Gee, I'm shocked!
Average: 5:54.24 My last kilometre (with the point blahs) was faster.

I see I am turning into someone who notes seconds and hundredths. I'm okay with that for my running journal. If I remember my seconds long after I've run the race, then I need to smack myself. I don't want to know that much. I'm a rounder.

This half and the Gold Coast half were supposed to be runs for me, and they were. I know now where I stand when I run. (I slay myself sometimes.) The Noosa half is in August. I think I'll try to race this one. That was my half mary peebie in 2006. I have a chance to beat it, but cutting another five minutes off is pushing it. Dare I set a goal? Dare I set two?

Goal #1: 2:02 for Noosa (sub 2 for Melbourne in October?)
Goal #2: Don't shit in my pants. I sense my luck is running out.

Nuh-night, Puss Pussonal besties!

What is a personal best?

This question has never bothered me; it seemed simple and obvious. Or it did before I ran the Gold Coast Half Marathon.

Had you asked me before 6 July 2008, I'd have told you that one's personal best was the fastest time achieved for a given distance. My personal best was 4:16:sumpin for the full marathon in Melbourne and 1:57 or 1:58:sumpin for the half in Noosa. As you can tell from my answer, I'm not one to memorise achievements. And I don't remember seconds. They're the minions of time, and time at my age is a big pain in the ass. Both of those peebies were in 2006. A great year until I broke my hip doing my personal worst in Honolulu.

The Lervemunkee and I opted to save money and not stay the night down at the Gold Coast, so we woke up at 3:30 to get ourselves ready. As soon as my feet touched the ground, I knew I was going to hate the day. My right leg was in pain. I did a few stretches to see if I had sore muscles and knew right away that this was not muscular. This was an achy femur with ice-cold surgical steel pins and plates. Oh, misery.

We were on the road at 4:10 and, after an hour in the car, my leg was worse. I was feeling no joy, or the Joy I felt was an aging hooker with skin as soft as rawhide and a face to stop 21,001 runners. It looked like the cold rain from Saturday was going to continue into Sunday. I could see Joy grinning at me as she pulled on her patent-leather, thigh-high boots. Was that a cigarette stuck to her lower lip?

I didn't want to start. I was already in pain. If I wanted to run later, I might want to think about not running now. I had my arms folded across my chest in full grump mode when the wind took my hat and blew it far enough away and around a building that I couldn't see it. Are you kidding me? This is ridiculous. It's a cliché.

I walked to where I thought the wind took my hat and found it just around the corner where the dumpsters were. I ignored the obvious signs from the gods of running and retrieved my hat. Unfortunately for me, this required a maneuvre that involved turning and bending. I forgot that my hip does not like to turn when the weather is cold and wet. In these conditions, I either run straight, stop, turn, run again or take very wide turns. When I reached down for my hat, Joy took the opportunity to kick my hip, jabbing her stiletto heel into my hip. I think she cleared her throat of phlegm just before she emitted her hiiiiya! Now I had a noticeable limp. Every step sent a bolt of pain through my leg. Joy cackled.

I can't do this. I can't. How can I run 21 km when I'm limping already. Limping and sucking in air through my teeth. Limp ... hisssss ... limp ... hisssss. And to make matters worse, I haven't done a poo yet. I wouldn't have normally obsessed about pooage, but since my last post, I'm a little concerned. What if I can't even run to the loo to do a poo? I fall and crap myself waiting in line? Oh gawd, I don't want to be here. Let me go home. Let me take a credit card and get the maximum price for any room with a bed, blankets, hot water, and thick drapes. I'd have stamped my feet if I thought that wouldn't kill me. I warned my stepchildren that I'd probably be in after three hours.

Limp ... hisssss ... limp ... hisssss.

The weather cleared up a bit. It stopped raining and warmed up. I quit limping. I hung out by the 18-wheeler full of loos, where all the cool people hang out, and let things happen. Just wee. Great. I have lunch, dinner, and a bad history stored up. Can't wait. At least the loos are clean. If I'm going to be Queen of the Potty, I may as well have a tidy realm that smells of pixies, angel fluff, and just a touch of pine.

With ten minutes to go, I get to the start and pace around. I had a plan to either walk the pain off or the poo out. The former worked, the latter didn't. Eh. No pain was a big bonus. Now where to stand?

When we picked up our race packet, I signed up for the 2:10 pace group just to see how far off I was. Two hours ten would have been great, but I haven't run more than 19 km since the surgery, and that was just once. That was last week. I don't ever run with a pace group; I just spy.

There was no 2:30 pace group, so I thought I'd run just behind the 2:20 people. I lined up with them. While I was waiting, I saw an intricate tattoo on the guy standing next to me. His shoulder had a 50s-style girlie picture and retro tattoo lettering. I liked it. I thought perhaps this was the Joy before she turned bad. She was really attractive with gravity-defying breasts. Poor thing. She was one time a pretty woman. I wished the guy quit moving so I could get a better look. That was when I realised that his shoulder was moving because the hand attached to the arm attached to the shoulder was down his pants moving things around. If I run with this guy, and we finish together, he might want to shake my hand. I held mine out a bit to see what hand that would be. The right one. Okay, time to move over.

The gun went off. Five minutes later, I crossed the start. Here we go.

No pain. Excellent! Running at my own pace, I leave the 2:20 balloons behind. I'll just cruise behind the 2:10 people. Eventually I'll be tired and the 2:20 people will pass me, but for now I'll run this like a long run. I set a goal not to stop until 19 kilometres. After that, I can walk the rest.

I run semispaced out, so imagine my surprise when I realise that the 2:10 pacer is only a metre in front of me. I looked back and saw that I already passed the tail-end 2:10 pacer. How do I sleep and run? It's a talent. I'll see every cheer sign, dog, parrot, sky writer, but miss the pacers and kilometre markers. I could blame La Beepta (LBTEPA of Now the Plan is This) for telling me that she was going to be wearing a shirt with "Go, Girl!" or "Slow. The new fast" on it. I read every bloody shirt. I'm behind the first 2:10 pacer and decide to cruise with the group for a while. If I pass them, I'm going too fast.

At 10 kilometres I decided to pass them. They can pass me later, but right now my natural pace is to pass them. I just won't let them pass me until after 19 kilometres.

It turns out that I never felt tired. I never started to ache; I felt good the entire way. No pains niggled. No poos wriggled. Life and legs were good. I slowed down at the end--who doesn't--but I had enough left in me to have my last full kilometre be a solid run in.

Now I don't know what to tell you.

2:07:41 (and my watch matched Champion Chip!) is my personal third, or, as the Irish would say, my personal turd; however, as this was my first half marathon since my hip surgery, I am happier to see that I am back where I was than I was when I got my 1:57ish. This is my personal best, and I didn't see it coming. I found poor Joy. She was just misunderstood and needed a little makeover.

Now for the salchows (not down to 100ths and pardon the maths--I don't add well horizontally.)

1-5 km -- 6:07, 5:49, 5:55, 5:55, 5:58 (5 km 29:44, goal time 30:45)

6-10 km -- 6:04, 5:52, 5:54, 5:45, 6:11 (2nd 5 km 29:46, 10 km 59:30, goal time 1:01:30)

11-15 km -- 5:54, 6:15, 6:07, 6:53 (sniff), 5:36 (better) (3rd 5 km 30:40, 15 km 1:30:10, goal time 1:32:15)

16-20 km -- 6:02, 6:15, 6:19, 6:20, 6:25 (groan) (4th 5 km 31:21, 20 km 2:01:31, goal time 2:03:00)

21.blahblah km --  2:07:41 (goal time 3:00:00, adjusted to 2:20:00, adjusted to 2:10!)

Giddy was I for the rest of the day. I finally met La Beepta. The grins on our faces were from knowing that Jeanne of Not Born to Run was going to be jealous not to be in our group hug. Ha! When bloggers meet, they poke fun of mutual blogger friends not in the picture. Hey, she had her chance. She chose to stay at home and sweat out the 4th of July. Sucker!

We met up again for drinks with other Cool Runners. Oh, darlin'. Nothing is more fun that celebrating with people who have done their first marathon or half marathon. I met some women who surely left us only to pole dance up and down the Gold Coast. I think RunnerSusan would be happy that she was discussed by a well-sauced group of runners. She is a woman that would appreciate her bazumbas being discussed at a Surf Life Saving Club in the Gold Coast.

La Beepta acted like she was planning on an early night at home, but c'mon. Could you believe a woman in a bright floral top? Oh, and did she wear either of the shirts she told me she'd wear? No. I read every frickin bobblin' breast from the turnaround (~11 km) on. Nothing. "Oh, I changed my mind." I'll change her mind. Revenge is a dish best served cold, so I'll deliver in Melbourne!

I also caught up with Ewen, CJ, Strewth and He-strewth. CJ brings the bad weather, so I could blame her for my early morning issues. She does have a maniacal giggle. Like that oxymoron? I do, too. It wasn't their day for running, so that put a bit of a damper on it for me. You want your friends to have the same euphoric feelings you have. Next time.

The Cool Running cheer squad was at it again. They're loud. I lifted my running skirt for them. They deserved it. Obviously I don't censor myself for kids. Eh, they eat their boogers. As if my cheeks will do more damage.

I also watched a few sex fantasies run by:

One for the men and one for the women:

Oh wait, I forgot this one:

It was a course peebie for him, but that's for his blog. Dig those tights? He confuses his enemies.

The kids participated, too. A did the 4 km junior dash and C did the 7.5 km walk. We had it nicely planned. Someone was always left to watch bags.

The Jetty to Jetty Fun Run with the Genesis Half Marathon is on in two weeks. I don't know how I'll do, but I know I can aim for 2:00. Aim for getting close. Sure, close ain't no cigar, but I don't want a repulsive cigar. I just want to get closer. Closer works for me just fine right now.

Nuh-night, achy Puss Puss!

Race the Rattler: Mark v. Machine

Machine kicked his booty.
My mom and I parked here:

stood here:
and cheered here:

Nuh-night, Choochoo Puss.

It's time

I've been researching historical detective fiction for a class. It's one of the most popular sub-genres of detective fiction. Many people wonder why. My favourite answer is that you can go back to motives that are almost pointless now. In the age of blogging, can blackmail really bother most of us?

"Katy, if you don't pay me $1500 by noon tomorrow, I'm going to tell your friends and family that you snipped your cheeks and it made your pants look like poopy diapers."

"Go for it, paco."

Maybe the way to stay clear of blackmailers is to put it all out there. Okay. I'll do just that. Mark and I get our jollies dressing up in spandex, sequins, and boots. We don't just dress as women. Now that I'm nearing total estrogen stoppage, we take advantage of my facial hair and dress like men together. We have a special love. I'M NOT ASHAMED!

Our first costume for the Canberra Marathon (~ 2 km point):

Katito and Marquito (left) and Marquito as el Diablo (right)

Katito showing her game face (left) and the two showing you how to fit sombreros in one photo.

Our second costume for us isn't really seen. We forgot to take photos. Think spandex flames. I added side burns and some bad ass brows. (~ 10 km point. We don't move, but the runners come back. Suckers!)

It's very cold and raining. Mark is not thrilled at being forced to strip, but I take this cheering thing seriously.

Our last costume was as some glitter tarts (~ 25 and 40 km points). Because the spacing of the runners and the course having a section of two loops, we decided not to change costumes but to add a bit. This is how we looked before the extra bit:

I don't think I'll leave captions. I'm sure you can figure it out. Oh, and let me tell you something. Busting my rump to nearly match my 10 km time from before I broke my hip was nothing. Jumping around in heels for two hours nearly did me in. I was limping around like a dead marathoner. I felt like such a poser. Next year's costumes will include flats!

So what does it look like in motion? Here you go. Thanks to Quentewen Tewentino for the video shots from his mobile phone.

Nuh-night, glamour Puss Puss.

What not to do when preparing to run a 10-km race

On April 12, the Lervemunkee and I flew down to Canberra for the marathon. The Lervemunkee had to pull out of the marathon due to a grumpy calf, but I had registered for the 10 km race on "marathon eve". By the way, "marathon eve" does not compare well against Christmas Eve. Getting back to the topic, we were committed to come to Canberra: one as a runner, and both as cheer beasts from Hell.

Let me first start off with a description of what I wore. No, I can't be bothered. I'll just show you. Can you see that I'm wearing a skirt? Can you see my scar? Nice, huh? I'm 40. I have no pride. It's important to know that I'm going to run in a skirt and that the next day will involved two costume changes. I'll give you a minute to let that sink in.

What you need to understand is that I had to be concerned about personal grooming. I couldn't bring myself to throw the wax in the microwave and risk another case of monolips. I learn lessons. Lessons are for learning. After I sit through a few of the same lessons, I lernz. So instead of risking scalding my bits in the name of beauty, I just took a small pair of scissors to the bathroom. All I need is to get through the weekend, right?

There was a little pinch and yelp, but I got the job done.

We left for Canberra on the same day as the 10-km race. After we arrived at the motel, we walked around to stretch our legs. The Lervemunkee went for a run, and I had a lunch. After lunch, I went back to the room to finish making the costumes (next post) and to get ready to run. When I was putting on my socks, I noticed I had a sore spot. It felt like a blister. Swell. I saw a white thing and thought the blister had popped and the skin rolled up. I couldn't pinch it off and I couldn't find the pink blister. What gives? I then saw that the white string thing continued up a bit, about 1.5 cm. I brought my foot closer to get a better look and recognised a hair. One dog hair had gone through my skin, traveled 1.5 cm, and exited. It did not want to be pulled out. I know we have a lot of critters, but come on! I won that battle and put a bandage over it just in case.

Now that I'm free of fuzz by the bikini line and the foot (of course), I headed to the school where the race started.

I stretched and did some strides. I was ready. No, I wasn't, but I played "ready" on T.V. I had just made it to 10 km in my long runs. I was going to do 10 km and have nothing left, but my outfit was perfect. I would at least look like a running hipster. Putting my number over my gut was part of my fashion strategery. Having the wind blow my skirt against my mound-o-Venus was not.

Before I lined up, I thought I should visit the loo. When I pulled down my undies, I saw all these brown smears. I freaked. All I could think of was "Holy shit, I'm 40 and already I'm crapping myself!" How could I not notice this? Am I at the age where I can't trust a fart? NO! I'm too young. This isn't fair.

But wait. This doesn't stink. What gives? Oh. The yelping. Do you remember the yelping? Seems it was more than a pinch. It seems that I cannot be trusted with wax or scissors around my bits. It must be a goal of mine to become Frankengina. I finish my bidness and pull up my undies to notice that the blood has gone through to the built-in undie of the running skirt. No! Now I can't stretch my hamstrings. People will think I've pooped all over or that my undies are see-through and I have the world's most mole-covered ass.

I'm okay. I'll cope. I don't live here. If anyone asks, I'll say my name is Tesso. Oh wait. I'm an American. I'll say my name is Susan.

If you remember, this was my description of the course:

go down, turn right
go straight, turn right
go up and up and up, follow curve to the right
go down whee and down whee and down, oh my knees, and down, turn right
go straight, turn right
go up and up and up, follow curve to the right
go down whee -- oh my knees, and down, can I hold my pee?, turn left
go out there and around here and turn there and blah blah, turn right
go up and up and up, note time, realise you're much slower than last time
push it all the way, don't think about the scabs you'll have from jog bra chafe
finish, eat weight in food.

What I was trying to describe from my steel-trap memory was this:

Unfortunately, this is what it was:

How could I forget that it was two loops around the school and three around the school and the hood? Holy moly. I was so bummed. When I hit the 5 km mark, I thought, "Having taught math, I know that 5 is often considered half of 10. I think I'm done when I turn that corner, but is that 5 km?" Can a half of a watermelon and a half of a kumquat make a whole 10 km race?

I was so bummed for the next loop. That's 2 km of bummed running. I sagged. Doubt me, you do. The Lervemunkee photographed it.

I was over it. Over over over überover it! I didn't feel tired. I was just bummed. However, the sooner I finish, the sooner I'm out of my poopy-looking undies. I couldn't afford to walk or slow down.

When I saw the 7 km mark, I knew what I had to do and what was left. I picked it up and came in at 55:51.

In 2006, I came in at 54:26. I am not far off my time. Considering I ran on a post-op hip and with a Frankengina, I was thrilled.

I have not been too sure about where I stood. This was my first race really. There was Warwick, but that was just three months after the operation. I knew that'd be slow. Running speed workouts with Pat Carroll's Running Group and doing three spin or cycle classes a week has helped a lot. Gold Coast half mary, I fear you not!

Next year, the Lervemunkee hopes to run the full mary, but I? I will always cheer it. I love going to Canberra. It has a great race, wonderful food, and neato peepos:

(Lervemunkee, Ew the Dewd, CJ the Peanut) Do note the 'tude.

Photos and a video montage of greatness coming soon. Let's leave you with a teaser:

Nuh-night, Puss Pussitos!