The Rule Is...

Rules.

They carry a lot of weight—a lot of direction.

As a people we choose to be bound by them to help maintain a sense of structure in our society. And, the dirty hippies among us choose to rebel against the unjust and absurd of those. It's what was do.

And, so, when Brisk declares that "The rule is..." there is something inside my brain that just twinges.

But not the way you think.

I positively adore rules. The more absurd the better. There is something about someone else decreeing that something is someway and there is nothing I can do about it that just works for me. I love giving my control over to someone, and knowing that at any point I can violate the rule and there aren't really any repercussions, and yet still choosing to be bound by the rules.

Brisk has rules. He lives and dies by them. He sets them, and frequently they are regarding my behavior. And, I conform.

Last night we were talking about something and he said, "I can't really make you do that." To which I replied, "I'm surprised you haven't figured out the thing with me and rules yet." And then I found myself giving him the keys to the kingdom. We'll see what he does with them.

Noodle Soup

I have a cold.

I originally had a asthma attack which resulted in a horrible cough. Then that horrible cough morphed into a hacking cough. Combined with a runny nose, I'm pretty sure it's a cold.

And, when I get sick my voice gets all husky and sexy. Brisk commented that I sound like a sultry 1940s jazz singer. I like.

This afternoon as we were headed back to work post coffee break I whined, "Briiiissskkkkk make me noodle soup."

"One caveat," he insisted, and I knew what it was, "Chicken."

"If you make and bring me chicken noodle soup, I'll eat it." I told him.

"Wait, let me get this straight—you're giving me an in?" he questioned.

"Yup," I countered, "that's how sure I am that you won't make me noodle soup."

The woman on the escalator behind us laughed.

Brisk then ensured me that he makes delicious noodle soup, right down to the homemade noodles.

Here's the thing—I don't think he actually would make me noodle soup; but, if he put in the effort I totally would.

Aftermath

The crazy thing about exercising and endurance events is that when you've been working up to something steadily that crazy something doesn't hurt as bad as you think it will.

For example: Sunday my feet were a bit tender and my legs stiff, but nothing that some water and a nice long soak in the bath couldn't take the edge off of.
Monday my ache had shifted to my lower back (almost like a bad night sleep than a race ache), muscles were still a little stiff, but not much.

What I'm most surprised about is how much my knees don't hurt (hardly at all), and how little my feet hurt. The bones on the tops of my feet still aren't thrilled about taking weight, but the soles of my feet are just fine. A nice 4 mile run Tuesday sounds like just what the doctor ordered.

Robot

As I walked to my friend's car for a ride home following my epic battle of self vs. self a little girl passed me and obverved, "You walk robotic." Her dad shushed her, but I just smiled and said, "I'm sore, sweetie," and left him to explain why.

My friends laughed, she had, apparently, picked the perfect descriptor.

Would You Believe

I did it!!

Sunday, 20th of March, this non-runner hauled her butt 13.1 miles around Mercer Island in just under 3 hours.

I went into the race (hah!) hoping for 3 hours, but planning on 3 1/2. Imagine my delight when, 20 yards from the finish line, I saw the big clock ticking seconds towards 3:00:00. I'm not sure what happened, but, one moment the clock read 2:59:34 and something popped in my brain and I knew, I just knew that if I sprinted I could make those last final yards in under 26 seconds; and the next minute I was sprinting. I laid it all out there and made a mad dash for the finish line.

I could hear people cheering me on, a male's voice from my right called, "That's it! Finish strong!" And then I crossed the blue timing pad, only to see three more. I wanted to stop, but I wanted to make sure my time was logged: under 3 hours. So I kept sprinting. Past the photographer, past the official finish line, and nearly into a ladder. But, I did it!

As I bent over, gasping for air, I noticed the woman who was right behind me had made the same choice. Together we laughed, and she told me that I had inspired her to sprint the final yards.

I can hardly wait to see my photos from the race. Those finish line photos will appear to be a battle to the end, two slow, round ladies in a mad race to victory! And, I will appear victorious!

Honestly, though, we both were. We both told ourselves we'd do it, and, by gum, we did. We didn't finish first, and we didn't finish dead last (quite nearly, but not exactly), but we finished. Now, I'd like to pause and send a shout out to the final runner to cross the finish line. Her official time was 3:31:23. At 65 years of age, this runner decided to do a half marathon, and she did. Awesome!

Half and Half

I've been training since October for a marathon, and when Wolf dropped out of our discussed China marathon, I had to pick another. I've been looking around casually and this week finally settled on one. I'm going to do the Capital City Marathon in Olympia, WA.

But I'm not going to sign up until I complete my first half marathon on the 20th of March. That's right, folks, I've registered for the (very hilly) Mercer Island half marathon...in two weeks from today.

I'm going to die.

Racer!

Last year during the STP I flew past some people at roughly 33 mph. It was awesome! The speed felt great! What a rush! And, as I flew past some lady shouted supportively after me, "You go girl!" And, then, later, I was talking to some guys who used to race (and, whom I had also flown past). All of that got me thinking that maybe, just maybe, I could be a bike racer.

This is a thought I have been entertaining to myself—too chicken to share it with anyone else.

When the guys all got bike racing licenses I decided I'd probably have to wait a bit before I could get my own, maybe learn from their efforts.

Today I learned the only lesson I needed to learn.

It was Brisk's first race, and 10 miles into an 36 mile race he was dropped by the pack after maintaining speeds in the high 20s. Unless I truly get in the kind of shape I can't imagine ever being in, there is no way I'm ever going to be a bike racer.

I do have to say, I was worried about him being depressed about his performance, but he wasn't. And, for that, I'm so glad. He's going to get back on the bike and do it again, and I don't have to be a shoulder for him to cry on, yet.