We’ve all heard of or seen photobombing in some form: Just as you click your camera’s shutter button, someone either jumps in front of the camera or behind the subject of your photograph.
Many people have probably seen the original photobombing squirrel.
Awww, nuts!
I remember seeing that squirrel photo/story when it went viral a few years ago, but now the squirrel is being challenged by other non-humans. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: 35 photobombing animals.
See? Wasn’t that worth wasting a few minutes of your Tuesday?You can thank Michaela for that one.
It’s the return of the 11:11 a.m. Tuesday Time-Waster series! So, what induced me to post something to distract you on this Tuesday morning (depending on your timezone)? Music, that’s what.
When you take two different genres of music and mash them together, sometimes the results are mind-blowing. Case in point: when Metallica teamed up with the San Francisco Symphony. The resulting two-disc album is, hands down, my favorite album of all time. (And that’s saying a lot, because I’m terribly indecisive.) I bought the album the week it came out in 1999, and I’ve had at least one of the CDs on standby in my car ever since.
I was recently playing Philip Glass music (classical) on repeat while finishing up that very long road trip blog post. I’ve always been a Blondie (rock) fan. So when I happened to see both of their names listed in one song, I dropped everything and followed the link. The result is cool.
Then I began exploring the other songs posted by that SoundCloud user, whose name is the intriguing “Daft Beatles.” Daft Punk meets the Beatles?! Why, yes. Adele meets Guns and Roses? Yes, that happens, too. How about anything involving the Top Gun theme song?
Somewhere back around 2000, I actually created some very short mashups. They were short and extremely rough, and I vaguely recall that it was a painfully slow process, though I’m sure “there’s an app for that” now. I don’t think I’m creative enough to really make great mashups, but can someone make me a cool mash-up involving The Birthday Massacre’s song “Pins and Needles“? That’s been played quite a few times around here lately, and I have no idea why I haven’t just bought the whole album already. Warning: Their music already sounds a little like a mash-up, so your results could be a disaster.
“San Francisco to Chicago. In a convertible. With a redhead. What could possibly go wrong!!?”
That is the subtitle my friend Rick gave a photo album shortly before we set off on a cross-country road trip in May. He was moving to Chicago, so of course we had to kick off this new life chapter with our biggest adventure yet. We posted photos along the way, but here is the full collection in one place. (Photos are by both of us; if you claim them as your own, you’ll face the combined wrath of Rick and Layla, which I do not recommend.) Click on the photos to see them in all their full-sized glory.
My vacation started at 5 p.m. on Friday, when I left work and went on a 13-mile run. The next day I was off to the wedding of two dear friends. Between the flowing wine at the reception and the strong drinks with lots of dancing at the after-party, I was nearing collapse when I got into a cab and then caught the last train home. Sunday morning involved a rare hangover, a three-mile “car retrieval run” and a few forced bites of breakfast.
Day 1: California and Nevada
Rick picked me up at 1:30 p.m., and the trip was officially underway.
Eastern California
About two hours into the drive, I got excited about huge road construction equipment that was bright turquoise. I think this is probably the first time Rick thought to himself, “Wait, I’m stuck with her for HOW MANY days?!” But answer me this: Have you ever seen turquoise road construction equipment??
Anyway, Rick did not toss me out of the car, and we pulled over at the Nevada state line.
So long, California.
This set the stage for future states, though we didn’t know the ante would be upped. (See that? It’s called foreshadowing.)
"Welcome to Nevada."
First priority: Solar eclipse! No, Rick’s actual first order of business: Seeing if Layla’s hair would blend in with traffic cones. (This was not my idea. In fact, I think this makes excitement about turquoise road construction seem pretty mild.)
No resemblance whatsoever.
Moving along to real priorities. The solar eclipse was the first one visible in North America for 17 years, and Reno just so happened to be a prime viewing location. My dad was in town and had managed to find eclipse viewing contraptions, so we met up on a street corner in Reno and peered up at the sun.
Eclipse! The ring of fire is almost here!Wait. Where did these clouds come from??
So, yeah. Reno had been hot and sunny with no cloud relief for several days. It was a prime eclipse viewing spot. And then, five minutes before the moon moved perfectly in line with the sun, the clouds decided to play games. No ring of fire for us. Meanwhile, we were standing on a mildly sketchy Reno street corner, staring up at clouds, while mildly sketchy people stared at us. It was time to move along to another family meet-up, this time with Rick’s aunt, Betty.
Her boyfriend, Brian, was preparing to leave the country for work for at least a year. His best buddy of several decades was less than happy, so they were having one last hurrah and had spent the whole day drinking. And that is how I met Brian and Woody. I will forever kick myself for not getting a single photo of Brian and Woody together. Maybe that’s because Woody, who had just gotten another tattoo on his arm, was very intrigued by my name, my hair and me.
Woody promptly decided that I reminded him of Jennifer Gray in the movie “Footloose.” And then he exclaimed: “I’ve seen you in your underwear!” Best line of the entire road trip.
I had run that morning, barely eaten anything, recovered from the hangover, and was nearing delirium from lack of calories. Woody and Brian had no plans to stop drinking, so Betty and I got a table at a nearby restaurant while Woody and Brian proceeded to pour about four beers into Rick in the span of about three minutes (we have no idea how that happened, but it’s impressive). He soon joined us for dinner, and Woody and Brian went off to do whatever Woody and Brian do. Actually, this is what they do:
Brian liberated The Most Interesting Man and brought him to our table.
Soon, The Most Interesting Man was placed at our table, entertaining passersby — not just any passersby, but tipsy casino-goers.
Manly bonding.One of these is not like the others.Me, Rick, The Most Interesting Man, Brian, Betty. (Where did Woody go??)
That’s around the point when I said The Most Interesting Man would look good in Rick’s convertible. “Oh, oh, oh!!” a rather animated Rick exclaimed. “He needs to go on the trip with us!!!”
Hot tub time!Reno at night.
Day 2: Nevada and Utah
Our new friend needed a name. I nixed Steve. So then Rick came up with Arlington (a road we’d passed in Reno), Arlo for short. On Monday morning we carefully buckled him into the back seat and were on the road.
Arlo was a gentleman and let me ride in the front seat.
We set off across Nevada, which looked like this for a little while:
And then it got pretty boring and flat. We switched off the driving, and the scenery was still just as boring.
75 mph speed limit: Good time for a nap.It's OK: Arlo was watching the road.
When driving across the entire state of Nevada…
Wheeee, no hands!We're awake and all is well; no need for mothers to worry.
We finally reached another state line.
Beverage: Diet Coke (or Pepsi?)
A few outtakes:
Then we stopped at the salt flats, which didn’t photograph too well. They’re white and, well, flat and salty.
Guess who forgot a section when applying sunscreen. Seatbelt-shaped sunburns are not photogenic.Nearing Salt Lake City.
Off in the distance, we saw a tall smokestack-type of thing. We kept driving, went around a hill, and we still hadn’t reached it. The thing was huge.
The Kennecott Smokestack
I was, of course, dying of curiosity about the thing, but I didn’t actually find out what it was until long after the trip. However, Rick had guessed correctly that it’s so tall in order to send gas into the atmosphere, rather than into the population of Salt Lake City. At 1,215 feet high, the Kennecott Smokestack is the tallest structure west of the Mississippi River and the fourth tallest smokestack in the world. It would be the third-largest in the world and the largest in the U.S., but one in Pennsylvania was built three years later, and I’m guessing they intentionally made it two feet taller for bragging rights. (OK, OK, I’ll stop with the history lesson — can you tell that I loved history in school and that I like finding the answers to my curious questions?)
After a long day in the car, we arrived in Salt Lake City and pulled up to a lovely hotel, with an extremely lovely (and massive) room and a lovely view. Rick said it was to make up for the place we would be staying the following night, where hotels are few and starred ratings — any stars at all — are rare.
Salt Lake City
We also had a lovely dinner. I still hadn’t been abandoned on the side of the road due to my random silly comments, so I pushed my luck and took a couple quick photos of the first course at dinner:
Calamari, oysters and wine
Day 3: Utah, Wyoming and Nebraska
The next morning, Rick got in the car and then jumped backward — Arlo was sitting calmly in the backseat and had startled him. Good start to the day! Plus, Utah was much prettier than Nevada:
As was Wyoming:
Speaking of Wyoming…
Beverage: Coffee
We cruised through Wyoming, and this might be where I was introduced to the novelist Dick Francis. We alternated music and an audio book, and before long I was hooked. I didn’t think I’d be interested in a story about horse racing, but I’m always game to try something — and then it turned out to be a mystery. Two thumbs up from me.
Then we reached Nebraska, where Rick decided that we needed weeds in our teeth. This was shortly before I got a little mixed up about roads (they change numbers when you cross a state line). That was my one near-meltdown on the trip, and of course I felt like an idiot once I calmed down a few minutes later. Lost Layla is unhappy Layla.
Beverage: Water. And weeds in the teeth, though Arlo refused.
Rather than driving straight across the country on Interstate 80, we had a detour planned. Neither of us had seen Mt. Rushmore, and both of us wanted to see it. This was discussed before we determined that the trip was actually happening. That wasn’t the only thing I wanted to see: Long ago I had added another site to my unofficial bucket list, and when I looked at a map, I discovered that it was basically on the way. It sounds goofy, and Rick was skeptical at first. But I was extremely excited about it, so he humored me.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Carhenge!
Like Stonehenge. Almost.
Yep, Carhenge is exactly what you think: An imitation of Stonehenge, made of old cars. It was built in 1987, and it’s basically the only thing worth seeing in the town of Alliance, Nebraska. Or probably most of Nebraska, for that matter.
No beverage needed: Arlo was pretty excited about Carhenge.
Pardon me while I post some Carhenge photos.
At one point, we left Arlo to admire the cars by himself. We should have known he’d attract the ladies: A couple girls saw him and took a couple photos. We hurried back, for fear that he’d be kidnapped and doomed to life in a town that had very little cell phone signal, but all was well.
Two Carhenge enthusiastsCarhenge in all its glory
Dinner was at a Mexican place recommended by the girls at Carhenge. The food was great, but our desire for Dos Equis (Arlo was rubbing off on us) was foiled because the restaurant didn’t have a liquor license “yet” — despite having plenty of alcohol listed on the menu. Our server was more than a little spacey, but maybe that’s also a western Nebraska thing. We did ultimately find Dos Equis that evening.
Day 4: Nebraska and South Dakota
The next morning, after chatting with an interesting couple from Pennsylvania, we headed north.
The weather was much cooler.And Nebraska was quite pretty.
Nebraska soon gave way to South Dakota.
The state border brought some sprinkles, so Rick had to lend Arlo a jacket before he’d agree to get out of the car.
Beverage: Dos Equis. (Did you really think we'd buy the beer and not keep the bottles for a photo opportunity?)
We got to Keystone, South Dakota, a quaint town clearly aimed at tourists. A mile later, I got my first glimpse of Mt. Rushmore through the trees, and then we rounded a bend.
Mt. Rushmore, at last.
The Mt. Rushmore visitors center has lots of fascinating history, and it also houses the models that were first created in order to give the workers something to work from. They’re built to scale, one inch equaling one foot. Each head on the monument is 60 feet tall.
Rick later turned this into a campaign poster. I have no idea what office he's actually campaigning for, though I doubt most real candidates know, either.
On our way out, I snapped a few quick picture of this guy, Nick Clifford. He’s one of the original monument carvers.
Nick Clifford. Mt. Rushmore carving finished 73 years ago, so you do the math on his age.
Mt. Rushmore was all I’d hoped. If it were being built today, I wonder if the same presidents would be included on the memorial.
President Layla? (Yeah, I agree that's not a good idea.)Photoshopped Layla. (Thanks, Mom!)
The drive across South Dakota was green, cloudy and sometimes rainy. My sunburnt skin was grateful for a reprieve. We passed the northern edge of Badlands National Park, but I was driving and didn’t get photos, so you’ll just have to imagine interesting rocky shapes.
Missouri RiverA sign over the hand dryer in a rest area bathroom. The men's room didn't have such a sign, so I guess only women read poems while drying their hands.
Did I mention that South Dakota was green? Yes, I’m a big fan of greenery. And pretty clouds.
My task for the last half hour of driving that day was to “find a nice place for dinner.” This is where it’s handy to actually know your road trip companion, and know that he does not have something like Chipotle in mind. The combination of Yelp, UrbanSpoon and OpenTable led to success, and the tired travelers enjoyed a fantastic dinner in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
And then came the lightning storm. To say that I was thrilled is an understatement: I’ve always loved lightning storms, and these days they’re a very rare treat.
Day 5: Minnesota, Wisconsin and Illinois
Cue the dramatic "It's raining and Arlo refuses to get out of the car" scowls.
I had noticed on the map that we would pass due south of Mankato, Minnesota. Until January, that was the town where my friend Jim lived. Six years ago, I was on a radio show that Jim happened to hear, and for some reason we became Internet friends. A year ago, he lost his father to cancer, and then he was also diagnosed with terminal cancer. Jim embarked on road trips, in order to make the most of his remaining life. On Jan. 1, I broke the 4-hour barrier in a marathon because I kept fighting in his honor. Two days later, Jim died.
If it hadn’t been for cancer, I would have finally met up with Jim on this road trip. I kept the sad thoughts to myself and soon regained my perspective: Life is short and should not be spent in regret. I knew that Jim would have gotten a kick out of all my road trip photos. So I consulted a few of the websites I’d browsed before the road trip — I needed another interesting site along the way, and I found one due south of Mankato.
How do you top Carhenge and Mt. Rushmore? Well, you don’t. But this will suffice:
Jolly Green Giant statue
Yes, that’s a 55-foot-tall statue located in the middle of nowhere, aka Blue Earth, Minnesota.
Arlo approved.
Of course, this called for goofy photos, including Layla being irreverent and Rick being the photography director.
Jolliness multiplied by four.
As if that’s not funny enough, in the (very long) time it’s taken me to actually write this blog post, I have since won a friend’s random blog contest. My winnings: A bunch of Green Giant loot. Between these awesome photos and the Green Giant merchandise I am now using, they should hire me.
Crossing the Mississippi River.
We almost missed the Wisconsin state line due to a poorly placed off-ramp, but we couldn’t disappoint Arlo and his fans.
No beverages needed this time.Arlo liked Wisconsin.
Deer don’t fare well on Wisconsin highways: That afternoon I counted five dead ones on our side of the road. We wondered who had to pick them all up, and why there were no automobile repair billboards facing the highway. Rick also realized that we’d seen almost no people pulled over by highway patrol officers on the whole trip, and very few officers’ vehicles, for that matter. The roads were wide open, there was no road rage, and everyone just cruised along.
After a stop for dinner (where Rick the manager admired the efficiency of the operation, while Layla the people lover watched the customers’ attire and interactions), we reached our last state.
A fist bump between the two who will now call Illinois home.
After 2,461 miles, we reached my mom’s house. Rick headed into the city of Chicago. And that, my long-suffering readers, is a wrap.
After two years, much angst and an incident involving a wine barrel planter, I tweeted this Sunday:
(Yes, I'm @LaylaBohm on Twitter, though I think all three of my readers are from Twitter anyway.
In fact, I managed to ride another nine miles without falling over, despite multiple stops/unclipping for intersections and rambunctious children on the bike path. To say that I was relieved is putting it mildly.
Yep, Facebook got a post, too.
It only took me 26 years of bike riding (excluding the Big Wheel mentioned in that Facebook post) to reach this point. In the meantime I’ve learned to drive a manual transmission, climbed Half Dome, run seven marathons, ended relationships, jumped out of an airplane, been Tasered and who knows what else. But being clipped to a bike? Nope. No way. That was not gonna happen.
You see, I have a very strong fear of falling. It’s so strong that I never enjoyed rollerblading, and I finally gave away my rollerblades in my last move. I love going up to high places and looking down, and skydiving was awesome. Somehow, those situations feel more controlled. Falling over on a bike because I’m stuck in some pedals? That’s not controlled. And I just really don’t like banging into the ground.
In my teens, I used to ride my bike up and down hills until the sun began to set. I’d have a 360-degree view involving a 14,000-foot mountain, a lake, a golf course and many hills. I would write cheesy, horrible poetry about the sunset, then zoom back down and up hills before it was too dark to see my way home. Shifting gears was no big deal, but I’d never even heard of clipless pedals until later in life. The idea terrified me — voluntarily strapping myself to a metal bike and hearing things like, “You’ll only fall a few times”?! No. I fear falling, so why would I intentionally increase my odds of falling?
But I do like speed. The only law I break is the speed limit. You know those electronic speed indicator signs? I try to beat those on my bike. And I’ve known for a while that the evil pedals would make me faster. Nearly two years ago, I found a couple sales and bought the pedals and shoes. When all of my running plans went up in smoke due to a stress fracture in my shin, I figured it was time to bike more frequently. So I got the pedals put on my bike, then propped myself between my car and my garage wall. I clipped and unclipped each foot 100 times. Then I tried my backyard, because people had told me to start on grass. That did not work at all, because I couldn’t gain momentum or traction, and I promptly fell over.
However, I was determined. I went out to my driveway, clipped one foot in, rode around the cul-de-sac, got the other foot clipped in, and it wasn’t too bad. I rode up my driveway, trying to unclip and getting extremely stressed out. I managed to unclip, but then I leaned tried to put the wrong foot on the ground — toward the foot that was still clipped in. I fell over into a wine barrel planter, whacking my leg one inch from my stress fracture point.
That was it. If bike pedals were going to compromise my running, I was done. I hate failing, but I also hate falling, and I was not about to risk further damage to my legs.
But that failure has always rankled. A few months ago, I started thinking about trying the pedals again. So I went out on my bike and began making a conscious effort to always put the same foot down when coming to a stop. I had (loose) cages on my pedals and those were no problem, so this was progress. Last weekend, I rode 47 miles, my longest ride ever by two miles. The hills sucked all my energy, and I knew they would be ever so slightly easier with clips.
Sunday was The Day. I put my clip pedals and shoes into a bag, got on my bike, then rode 1.8 miles to a local bike shop. I forced myself to walk into the shop. Believe me, this took willpower. In no time at all, those death-inducing pedals were fastened to my bike. In the meantime, I’d put on the bike shoes. I knew that if I rode home in my other shoes, I would chicken out of actually riding in the clips. No matter what, I had to make it back 1.8 miles home.
And I did it. I was a bit terrified; that fear of falling was incredibly strong. I’d also neglected to wear gloves, so I was even more freaked out about hurting my hands. After all, one is still not quite fully recovered from an October fall — one that did not involve me being strapped to a metal bicycle.
I’d previously formed a plan: If I made it home in one piece, I was going to drop off my bag of old pedals/shoes, pick up a pre-filled water bottle, and head back out immediately before I could wimp out. I stuck to the plan. Then I proceeded to ride another 9 miles without incident. I clipped and unclipped. I did it as many times as possible, but I also picked up some speed in between, just to remind myself that bicycling is fun when going faster.
That ride did the trick. I’m still terrified of falling, and I don’t think that will ever change. But when I think of those pedals, I no longer feel dread. I don’t fear them anymore. In fact, I want to get out there on them again. I want to ride longer and further and faster. For months now, I’ve had this idea of someday riding 100 miles. I’m one step closer to doing that, and it feels so good.
Three-word Big Sur Marathon summary, times two: Hardest race ever. Best people ever.
One-sentence summary: I rebounded from an injury in nine weeks, dealt with an ungodly amount of drama Saturday, then battled 40mph winds and fog up mountainous Highway 1 just to hear a grand piano play as I ran across the Bixby Canyon Bridge.
Training: Um, yeah, it was not so stellar. I had to take two weeks off from everything, then fight to get back in shape (which was not helped by the fact that I gained weight while moping during those two weeks). I ran a half-marathon five weeks before Big Sur. Until the day after that half, I didn’t know if I’d run Big Sur, because IT band issues had wreaked havoc on my knees and a little bit on my hips. But I was pain-free, so I stepped up the training. I did an 18-miler that included 13 miles in pouring rain. I ran a 20-miler with Karin, who motivated me to get to 20 rather than stopping at 18. Then I had two weeks to taper and soothe a couple spots that had gotten mad on that 20-miler.
Race week: I woke up Monday after almost eight hours of sleep, which was fantastic. Sleep went downhill from there. Thursday night I had dinner with a friend who was in town for the race (hi Lauren!), then went to another friend’s house to plot a road trip and drink a really expensive bottle of wine — late night. Friday night was also late because of a Giants game.
Karin, me and Naomi. Baseball tickets that came with free hats -- how could we say no?!
Race Eve Day: Saturday morning I woke up well before the alarm — ugh, six hours of sleep is not what I wanted. The day went downhill from there. Actually, the day basically jumped off a cliff without a parachute. Canceled hotel, idiot drivers, mean lady in the grocery store, gas station attendant treating me like dirt when my credit card was declined, finding out some online gamer had gotten my credit card number and racked up a bunch of fraudulent charges until my card was canceled. Then I got lost, which made me miss something important, and I wound up crying in a parking lot — and then a Dodge truck almost ran me over while I was ON a sidewalk. Fortunately I have friends who insisted on being there and helping even when I was delirious with anger and sadness (Katie, Ryan, Deanne, Paulo, Courtney, Michelle — thank you).
Race Expo: I finally arrived at the expo to get my packet and shirt. I looked like hell, but the first people I saw were Cate, Mike and their baby girl Ellie. Cate hugged me, and Ellie broke into a huge grin, which went a long way toward putting life back in perspective. I got my race packet and then had to figure out which bus to take in the morning. I was overwhelmed and couldn’t figure it out, but a very kind gentleman tried to help me, though I couldn’t remember the name of the new hotel we’d had to book that very morning. When I got the name and came back, the man spotted me again and told me exactly what I needed — it turned out that he had lived right near there his whole life. I found a few more friends at the expo, said hi to Lauren again, and finally went to the ocean to seek some more calm.
Deep breaths. Everything is OK.
Race Night: Dinner was one thing Saturday that did not have any big problems. I’d found a place that had pasta and pizza, and would be fine for kids (we had two in our group of 10). I had a tasty pizza and a much-needed glass of wine. Then Michelle and I went to our hotel, which was 15 miles away. I would soon discover that they specialize in very hard beds — the floor may have been softer. Also, they had a spotlight that shone on the bed. (One friend who had been texting me funny pictures to cheer me up said, “Just like your bed at home!” Har har.) Anyway, I kept looking at the clock until 11:18 p.m. Then I woke up before the alarm at 2:23 a.m. Hooray for 3:05 hours of sleep.
Race Morning: Some people caught buses at 4:30. I, of course, was oh-so-lucky to be given a 3:30 bus time. Yes, 3:30 a.m. I’m still in denial about that one. Michelle and I made our way to the bus and met up with Karin, and we all sat together on the hour-long ride. Friends saved me from thinking, “This is really long and hilly.” We got to the start and did the normal porta-potty/race prep/porta-potty routine. The race crew had put funny signs on most of the porta-potties, which was something I’d never seen and one of the many extra touches that restored my faith in humanity after Saturday’s debacles. I was wearing warm clothes over my shorts and tank top, but when I took them off shortly before the race started at 6:45, it really wasn’t that cold. This made me worry, because I knew I’d be running for at least four-and-a-half hours, and it could get really warm. We met up with Sandra, who’s run the race several times, and she said it felt pretty warm.
To each his own. If nothing else, this guy's feet stayed cool.
The Race: The race starts out flat for a couple miles, then goes downhill, and I knew I’d too fast. But since this was a heck of a hilly race and I knew it would be my slowest marathon yet, my only plan was to run by feel. No stress about time, no stress about stopping to walk if I needed to walk. And that’s a good thing, because three steps into the race, one of my gel packets went flying out of my pocket — that had never happened before, and now I knew I’d have to find another one along the way.
Miles 1-5: 9:38, 9:30, 8:58, 8:59, 9:10. Average pace: 9:12.
We reached the ocean, where we would run the entire rest of the way with spectacular views.
Yes, folks, this is California.
Well, the main view was fog. I think my credit card fraudster also messed with the weather.
That guy is echoing my thoughts: "Where's the ocean? I see fog."
Miles 6-10: 9:08, 9:37, 9:48, 10:15, 10:08.
I stopped to take a couple pictures, since, hey, I wasn’t going for any kind of land speed record. Plus, it was getting windy, so picture taking was a good reason to stop. That’s where the Hurricane Point hill started, so I knew I’d have about two miles straight up a mountain.
Taiko drummers. Very cool.
Miles 11-13: 12:12, 11:33, 11:31. Halfway point in 2:14.
Starting two miles uphill.
Trying to run up a steep hill for two miles is always fun. Add in headwinds that, according to the local paper, reached 40 mph. I was wearing my sunglasses to shield my eyes from the insane wind, but the fog was making it hard to see. Yes, I’d paid money to do this.
Oh, the unrelenting wind. And fog.
At mile 12.25, I heard the first strains of piano music (yes, I noted the point on my watch). This was one of the main reasons I’d signed up for the marathon. This was one of the reasons I didn’t back out when everything was going so wrong the previous day. This was the point I’d been waiting for, and hoping to reach. I’ve loved the piano for my entire life, and I love bridges — and this was a piano on a bridge.
Bixby Canyon Bridge, and I got to run over it!
I was going to relish every moment of this brief experience, and when I heard that first strain of piano music, I knew it had been worth all the trouble. I even felt rare moisture in my eyes. The pianist was playing a version of the Rocky theme song.
Not my greatest photo, but hey, I'd just run uphill into a headwind for two miles.
Miles 14-17: 12:06, 9:50, 10:06, 9:33.
The piano had been the climax, which meant that I had another half-marathon to run. A hilly, windy one. But fate intervened, and I happened to meet up with Roadbunner at the piano. She’s now much faster than me, but we ran the next several miles together, and suddenly I realized we were passing the mile 16 marker. I’ve never had miles pass so quickly in a marathon. She stopped to walk and eat, while I kept going, but then she caught up again. Eventually she kept powering up a hill when I stopped to walk, and for a long time I saw her in the distance. That was fine; I like to run my own race, and she had given me the boost I’d needed.
Miles 18-22: 10:04, 11:19, 11:47, 10:07, 12:18. Reached mile 22 in 3:49.
Some non-foggy views!
The second half of this race is actually more hilly than the first half. Nothing is as big as a two-mill climb uphill, but the rolling hills do not stop. I knew there was a good-sized hill in mile 22, and another one in 23 that wasn’t big but would seem big. But I also knew I wasn’t going for time, so I took a couple more pictures. I stopped at the station serving fresh strawberries, which was most amazing. At one point, 4:30 had been in sight. Then I thought, “Hey, 4:32:10 would be an awesome, nerdy number.” But I wasn’t going to kill myself just to reach an arbitrary number, so I kept running at a manageable pace, and sometimes walking a little.
Miles 23-26.2: 12:20, 11:39, 10:04, 10:56, 3:18 (9:09 pace).
Usually I run for all I’m worth at the end of a race. Usually I’m chasing a number. Usually I’m so tired and delirious that I don’t remember the end (I have NO memory of the entire last three miles of the New York City Marathon, including the uphill and the grandstands that were apparently full of people). At Big Sur, I just wanted to run to the finish and maybe see a bit of the crowd. I was rewarded: There, yards from the finish line, were Karin’s boyfriend and son. I shouted at them, then ran through the finish. It was nice to see two familiar faces in the sea of people. It was also nice to just be done.
The very cool, very unique clay medal (which breaks if dropped, as another runner learned the hard way).
Stats:
Finish time: 4:35:59.
1,744th out of 3,387
685th out of 1,591 women
134th in my age group, of 284
1st of two Laylas in the race.
My finish time amuses me to no end: The previous month, I was quite frustrated by the fact that I’d run a half-marathon in 2:00:00, rather than 1:59:59. So, there was my lost second.
I wandered through the finish area, looking for water. The race was incredibly well-organized and the volunteers were superb, but I will never understand why water isn’t closer to the finish line. I had to walk through a big tent to get a bag of food — which is good, but would be better after the precious water. Also, they had cookies but repeatedly told people they could only have half of one cookie. I added to the chaos by asking them which cookies did not contain walnuts. I’m allergic to walnuts, but I’ve long since learned that a cookie is one of the best ways for me to get some blood and sense flowing back to my scrambled brains.
I forced down the half of the walnut-free cookie, which was dry and added to my need for water. And then I stumbled across Courtney and her mom. Courtney had barely been able to train due to injury, but I’d seen her several times on the course. She was cheerful and upbeat, and she lifted my spirits more than once. Now here she was, once more providing a friendly face.
Courtney!
And then Cate the speedster was there, with Mike the husband and Ellie the cutest baby. And then Michelle the hotel finder was there. This, folks, is why friends are so amazing.
Courtney, Cate, Ellie, Mike, me
Post Race: Michelle and I hobbled to the bus, got back to our cars, drove back to our motel, and I ate a handful of potato chips to get some salt back in my body.
They misspelled "buses." This sign means that there are kisses to the left. (Why, yes, I won spelling bees as a child. How did you guess?)
The post-race shower was lovely, the stretching and foam rolling and leg elevating were magical, and then the compression socks were put on. I was ready for the two-hour drive home. I was not ready for lots of traffic, but my leg managed the clutch without cramping up.
Marathon #7 = conquered!
Recovery: And then I proceeded to lose all appetite for a solid week. Usually I eat about half a meal after a marathon, but I tried a frappuccino (which was disgusting and has cured any future desire for one EVER again) and that was it. Post-race hunger usually sets in the day after a marathon, but that didn’t happen this time. I went to another baseball game, where a friend tried valiantly to feed me. I ate one chicken tender and much less than half an order of garlic fries. On the plus side, I lost a few pounds, rather than gaining a couple.
Muscle soreness appeared on Tuesday after the marathon. I had expected it to be worse, due to the amount of hills. I intentionally walked, but I didn’t let myself run until that Friday. Nothing felt out of synch, and I actually had to rein myself in. I only let myself run every other day for the next week, which I think was a very good idea, and one that I will employ next time. It let my body continue healing, and it also made me do a little cross training on a couple of the alternate days.
Conclusion: All in all, the Big Sur International Marathon was extremely well-organized, very beautiful, and I’m glad I ran it. I can’t say enough about the amazing volunteers, and the fact that the organizers had every little detail planned out. Would I recommend it? Yes, definitely. Would I run it again? Probably not. The headwind and fog made this a “one and done” race for me. But that’s basically how I see marathons, anyway: There are so many races in so many fascinating places, and of the seven marathons I’ve run, I’ve only wanted to go back and run New York again. For me, I can’t wait for the next unknown adventure.
One-sentence summary: I met my goal of running pain-free, though I missed my time goal by one measly second; who runs an official 2:00:00?!
Half-marathon #9 done.
Background: I ran this race last year, two weeks after my personal best time of 1:49:49. I ran it only as training, to hit marathon pace miles, which I did perfectly. It was a good course and extremely well organized, so when I came across a half-price deal in July, I signed up again. A whole bunch of friends signed up, too, and by the fall I was planning to try beating my time at this race.
Setback: Then my IT bands went nuts and I had a horrible race failure in February. I wound up taking two full weeks off from all running, and I really didn’t do much other working out, either. But I did get on the rehab wagon, using a foam roller every single night on my IT bands (the things that connect the hips to the knees). I began running again. I felt occasional tightness or weakness, but I made sure I never ran to the point of feeling any pain. One day, I ran over seven miles with my friend Aron — I was huffing and puffing because I was out of shape, but I had no pain. I spent last weekend in Portland (yes, that deserves a blog post; famous last words), but I got home in time to run 11 miles on Sunday. Despite a lot of imbibing the previous night, that was the best double-digit run since Jan. 1 — which was only better because I broke four hours in a marathon. Sunday’s run probably felt better, though it was also 15 miles shorter… Anyway, that was the deciding point: I would run the Oakland half-marathon.
Race eve: I ventured up to Oakland yesterday in pouring rain to the race expo, to get my bib, timing chip and shirt. Also, since I’ve been meeting up with random Internet people for over a dozen years, I went to a tweet-up.
Twitter people! Of the eight other people in this photo, it was my first time meeting four of them.My friends Cate and Jana. Cate's incredibly cute daughter greeted me with a smile and a kick of her feet, then suddenly and completely passed out.
We wandered around the disappointing race expo, ran into more friends, and I got my race shirt. I like the material, but the sleeves are a tiny bit too short. Also, I think I need to be a Raiders fan to wear it.
Would this be considered gang attire in certain schools?
So then I went home, ate macaroni and cheese because I was suddenly craving it, and may have ended the night with decaf coffee and Bailey’s.
Race morning: My friend Jess had offered to carpool and drive (see? I have the coolest friends ever), and we got Page in on the carpool fun, too. They picked me up around 7:30, which meant that I got to sleep in more than normal on race day. We got to Oakland in plenty of time to find cheap parking. We took the elevator out of the garage, and when the elevator opened, we found ourselves in a church where mass was under way. Yep, that’s the first time I meant to go to a race but wound up in church.
We walked quickly and quietly through the back of the church, outside, and to the race start to meet a bunch of friends, drop off our bags and use the port-o-potties. I must say, the race organizers were on the ball — I had less than 15 minutes before the race start and knew I was cutting it close, but the potty lines were about 30 seconds. Well done, Oakland. So then I got in the corrals at the 9-minute pace area, heard the national anthem, I think the mayor said something, and soon we were off under a storm of confetti.
They all look so very serious. I'm pretty sure I did not.
Oh, did I mention that I was wearing a new model of shoes that only had a six-mile and a three-mile run on them? Yep, they went well with the Bailey’s the night before. Honestly, though, I don’t do stupid things for race prep; I know my limits well, and both were fine.
The race: Weather forecasts had all (yes, all; I have four weather apps on my phone…) called for rain the entire race. By the time my race started at 9:15, there was no rain. I don’t think the walkers even had rain. Weather forecasting fail!
Mile 1: 9:11
Mile 2: 8:46
OK, I was going a bit faster than 9-minute miles, but the average was fine, and I really just planned to run by feel.
Mile 3: 8:34
Mile 4: 8:09
What was I thinking?! 8:34 is too fast! And 8:09?! That’s my 10K pace, not my out-of-shape half-marathon pace! I don’t remember seeing either of these splits on my watch. In hindsight, that 8:34 should have been a red flag for me to slow down. Yes, I am foreshadowing.
Somewhere in here, I saw my friend Karin. She was on pace for a PR, and I told her to stay ahead of me. I didn’t stay with her, in part because I didn’t want to make her subconsciously slow down, though I know she’s a smart enough runner to run her own race. I did follow her for a while, though.
Those last four miles had all been very consistent. I think the 8:34 and especially the 8:09 miles were my big mistakes, because they likely made my heart rate rise earlier in the race than was necessary. I don’t run with my heart rate monitor too often because it drives me nuts and I hate seeing the super-high numbers, but I’ve used it just enough to be a bit more aware of when I’m really entering that “I’m going to die” zone.
Mile 9: 9:46
Yep, that was the “I’m going to die” zone. I walked. Because I took time off with the IT band troubles, my endurance levels are shot and my weight is up. Bad combination. However, I knew that I’d be seeing Beth at a big cheer station around mile nine, so I tried to get going again.
Mile 10: 9:03
I rallied. I saw Beth, and it was a nice boost to see a friendly face.
Mile 11: 10:28
I derailed. I knew I would finish in 1:58 or 1:59 if I just kept going. But then I got to a couple little hills going around Lake Merritt, and I walked. My lungs were just so tired! My legs were actually fine, which is once again a sign of my loss of endurance. I hated myself for walking, but I was exhausted. Then a random thought entered my head: “I’m a sub-4-hour marathoner, dammit! Why am I walking at mile 11?” I had two more miles of a 13.1-mile race. So I began to run.
Mile 12: 9:09
Mile 13: 9:10
My legs were more than willing to keep moving, but my lungs just didn’t want to do it. But I knew I was oh-so-close to the 2-hour mark. “Dammit, I can run a full marathon at a faster pace than this! MOVE!”
The course ran long, which wasn’t a surprise. I let my legs lead and ignored my lungs. I was powering toward the end. And there, right in front of me, was a hill. No matter: I was going to race up that thing, because I am a runner!
Then I saw Karin ahead of me. I had a very brief debate over whether to encourage her to race it in, wondering if that wasn’t what she needed. But then I was beside her saying something like, “Come on, let’s do this!” as I raced to the finish. And race she did! We powered up that hill.
Mile 13.25: 7:37 pace.
I crossed the finish line and was done. Very done. Volunteers gave me a heat sheet and a rather nice medal. I drank some Gatorade, then spied oranges and made a bee-line for them. For once, I skipped the bagel pieces and did not make myself eat some carbs, though I ALWAYS tell people to eat the carbs provided at the end of the race. Do as I say, not as I do. The oranges revived me enough this time, though. Oh, and I hadn’t taken a second gel at mile 10 like I usually do. Oops.
Bling.
Post race: Karin and I met up with most of our friends. Many of them had fantastic PRs (personal records), and a couple of them (ahem, Page) finished so quickly that they had time to get a massage and drink a free mimosa while I was still running. Sadly, by the time I got to the mimosas, the line was long and we had to leave. Oakland, you owe me a mimosa!
But before we all parted ways, we had to get a group Sock Photo. I didn’t actually wear these compression socks during the race because my legs still aren’t sure what to think of them. But they did feel nice afterward.
L-R: Sesa, Karin, Jessica (who paced Kristin, not pictured, to a big PR), Naomi, Dennis (who ran a crazy fast marathon one week earlier), Jana (who was paced by Dennis to a 3:58 full marathon on a huge hill), Alyssa, Cate, Angela, me, Page. Yep, Dennis is the only guy. Page says he's the smartest guy ever, because he's surrounded by chicks who drag him along.
I got home, took a nice long, warm shower, put my legs way up above my heart for 15 minutes, then went to In-N-Out for a cheeseburger. Then I used my foam roller and stretched. Hours later, my IT band does not hurt!
My official finish time was 2:00:00. I was, and still am, SO frustrated over that. ONE SECOND meant that my time started with a 2! I wasn’t expecting to come anywhere close to my best time, but I knew sub-2 was certainly doable. That second is going to haunt me forever.
However, I’m reminding myself that my main goal was to run without pain. There were two brief steep downhill sections today, and at both of them I got a bit anxious and thought, “OK, here’s another test of the IT band.” Normally I love flying down hills, but that completely killed me last month when I had to pull out of a race: I went down an incline and felt it, and then got to a steep downhill and said “OW.” Today, I never felt that pain. I had promised myself that if I felt any pain, I would drop out of a marathon I’m supposed to run in five weeks. It’s considered one of the most beautiful marathons, and that’s so much bigger than one second in a half-marathon. Priorities.
Race thoughts: The Oakland Marathon organizers do a fantastic job with this race. I’ve now run six marathons, a 20-mile race, nine half-marathons, a handful of trail races, and some 10Ks and 5Ks. Oakland is still one of the most well-organized races I’ve experienced.
At one point, we ran under a flaming arch. Then we ran past flaming torches and a fire-breathing creature. Police officers were stationed all over the places, and some of them even CHEERED for the runners when they weren’t busy directing motorists. The cops did this last year, too, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that happen in any other race. The spectators this year were less than half of last year’s, but I think that’s because of the expected torrential rain. I was sad that crack-head ladies weren’t yelling “Eastside Oakland!” like last year — yes, that happened, and it was awesome.
Best spectator sign: “Where is everyone going?”
Best random spectator: Upon seeing my Punk Rock Racing shirt, a rather punk-rock-looking guy cheered wildly and yelled, “Punk rock for life!”
Alyssa, who rocks more than the Punk Rock on both of our shirts combined.
It’s the Tuesday after Daylight Saving Time, and I’m still in denial that it’s so dark for so long in the mornings now. The rain finally came, which is a good thing, but it was accompanied by wind. In other words, Tuesday needs a pick-me-up.
So, how about this video done by a friend of mine? It’s called “Dancing in Public” and is exactly that. (If you’re watching at work, it’s OK to have the sound turned off, because the dancing and people’s reactions are the funny parts.)
Around the 1:40 mark, those who’ve visited California’s capitol will recognize the governor’s office. Around 2:40, there’s a fun shot. At 3:40, it’s just ridiculous. If you do nothing else, by all means stop at the 4:00 mark. Seriously, that’s the best part.
The dancer and creator of the video is an old friend of mine, who I’ve known for about 20 years now. Growing up in the middle of nowhere, in a place that only recently got DSL (yes, this is 2012) , I wouldn’t have imagined that I’d be telling people to go online to see a fancy video that Sean created. Times change!
Before the dead rat and the angry goose and the wayward fence distracted me, I was mentally composing a blog post while running before dawn this morning.
How’s that for an opening sentence? In the journalism world, that’s called a “lead.” Now you know.
Anyway, I’m hopefully rebounding from knee issues (that originated in the hip, apparently), which means I can run again. I’m not quite gasping for air as much, which means I’m getting back in shape. And THAT means I’m not thinking as much about running while I am running. This is especially possible in the morning, when it’s dark and quiet outside.
Today I was thinking about years, and how the last few have each been strongly defined for me.
2008 was the year of running. I joined a running club, made a whole bunch of new friends, then ran my first half-marathon and first full marathon that year.
2009 was the year of witnessing. I witnessed a judge nearly get murdered and her attacker get killed. Three months later, I witnessed a horrific car wreck that killed a couple.
2010 was the year of changing. I made some personal changes, quit my job, went on a road trip and set out to find a new life.
2011 was the year of beginning. I started full-time at a new job, I moved, I traveled, I was in my best friend’s wedding and watched her start a new life, I became closer friends with people who were previously acquaintances, and I met a lot of new people along the way.
Then I thought about how 2007 had a fairly significant (in retrospect) relationship start, and 2006 involved some huge national attention. The previous couple years also have some defining moments and themes. While I sit here now, even without consulting various blogs and journals, I can think of big themes in almost every year.
So, how will I define 2012? Somewhere in the crisp morning air, I realized that two months of 2012 have already passed. The third month is moving rapidly along. Before we know it, a quarter of the year will be gone.
When it comes down to it, I want 2012 to be the year of writing. I have publicly stated that a very clear goal of mine is to write a book. In making so many changes over the last couple years, I’ve gotten closer to the point where I really, truly want to write. Yesterday evening, I was writing something for some friends, and I found myself back in that “zone” of writing. It was one page and the zone part itself only lasted for a couple paragraphs, but I felt it.
This morning, while out on the roads with a headlamp that needed new batteries, I pondered the last few years. And I knew what theme 2012 needs. To make that possible, I need to clear out some time. Running won’t suffer because it’s my outlet (and a way to stay in shape), but I need to make some changes and set my priorities straight.
And right around the time I was starting to think of how to make this happen, I nearly stepped on a rather large, very dead rat that was lying horizontally across the sidewalk.
I stopped thinking about lofty 2012 dreams and instead began wondering how the rat got there, why it was dead and whether it had rabies. It was right near a Starbucks, at the edge between a commercial area and some nice homes, not far from one of the Shamrock-decorated trash cans the city installed all over town. This was a couple miles after I found myself running across chain-link fence that was lying across a sidewalk.
A mile later, at the end of my run, a Canada Goose decided that hissing wasn’t enough, and it briefly chased me through my neighborhood.
I suppose I should follow up on my last post, in which I said I was embarking on my first ultra-marathon and third marathon-or-longer within 90 days in order to qualify for the Marathon Maniacs club. Long story short: I had to stop after 16.5 miles due to injury. I don’t think it will require months of rehab because I caught it in time (IT band issues, which I held at bay and thought I’d conquered in December). But pulling out of the race was heartbreaking, because I’d never done that before, and I’d wanted into the Maniacs club for so long — years, in fact. If my friend Katie hadn’t been there to cry with me and then cheer me up/distract me, things would have been so much worse. Did I mention that the next day was my birthday? Yeah, bummer of a weekend. Last year I moved on my birthday and enraged an old arm tendon problem a couple days earlier, so maybe I need to avoid all physical activity at this time of year?
So I forced myself to take two weeks off from running. I slacked off completely, except for some rehab-related exercises. Today is the two-week point, so tomorrow I’ll let myself run a few miles. I have a feeling it won’t be pretty and the pace will be slow, because two weeks of being sedentary and eating crappy food has certainly not helped me.
But, unlike most times I’ve had to take time off from running, I didn’t really feel the endorphin withdrawal this time. I’d pushed myself too hard, and I needed a break. In reality, I really should not be posting as fast of race times as I have in the past year, for two reasons: I do not run enough, and I am too heavy. Regarding the first one, I don’t know how I’ve managed to beat four hours in the marathon on less than 40 miles a week. As for the second one, no, don’t tell me that I’m a fine weight; the scale and mirror do not lie, and I KNOW my legs/joints would be happier if they didn’t have as much weight bearing down on them. So, yeah, I need to work on the second one, and hopefully that will help me increase the mileage a little bit without injury.
So, that’s the update. I still haven’t downloaded that last 16.5-mile race failure from my GPS watch. I haven’t even charged my watch, so maybe I should do that before tomorrow’s no-expectations run. I’m still reading about running-related things, and I had a great time volunteering for hours at a recent trail race. So, mentally, I haven’t gone off the deep end the way I usually do when I can’t run.
Maybe this has been a good gauge of whether I’m relying on running to retain my sanity. In that case, I’ve succeeded. I didn’t do anything rash, I didn’t go on a rampage, and I didn’t feel a strong desire to veer into runners when I saw them out running while I was stuck in my car. (It’s true: runners do get these feelings when we’re injured, because we’re so sad and jealous of those who can run. But I have yet to ever hear of someone actually carrying out such a thing, because runners really are softies when it comes down to it.)
By the way, I had a couple photos to include with this, but they’re on my phone and I’ve spent entirely too much time trying to get them to my computer. I am officially too old to learn how to use a new computer.
So I have this ultra-marathon on Saturday. Yes, folks, I am apparently going to try running a 50k, also known as 31 freaking miles. And I may have done some stalking to size up my competition in this weekend’s race.
Now, before we go any further, let me be clear: I am not “racing” this thing. I am setting out to finish it and have a recorded time, in order to complete my third marathon (or ultra, since I’m apparently an over-achiever) within 90 days. That will qualify me for Marathon Maniacs membership, something I’ve been wanting quite badly for a couple years now.
However, I don’t really like the idea of coming in last. I know I won’t be last overall, but I can’t exactly compare myself with the elderly runners. Yes, there are three people in their 70s who are registered for the 50k. If you complain that you can’t run because of this ailment or that ache, think about it for a minute — a 77-year-old is registered for a 31-mile run.
Anyway, this is a small race, which is not uncommon for ultras. There are eight women, myself included, in my age group. Let’s see who they are:
1. Ran Western States 100 last year (you have to qualify to even enter that race). She also ran Western States the year before. And she’s run Saturday’s race four previous times.
2. Very experienced trail runner. It looks like I’m faster on roads, and this course is flat and half paved. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, though.
3. Triathlete whose half-marathon record is the same as mine. I might be faster on the road, but she’s got the many-hours-of-doing-a-triathlon endurance.
4. Possibly another first-ultra-runner. My marathon and half-marathon times are faster, but again, that doesn’t mean much.
5. Um, hello, speedy ultra runner who finished second at a 100-miler last year! We won’t go into her other fast times.
6. Oh look, another two-time Western States finisher!
7. Speedy 10-miler (7-minute pace) who ran a 50k last summer and is clearly faster than me at all distances.
8. Me. First 50k. Raced a marathon one month ago. Battling (and apparently conquering, but not sure yet) IT band issues that make a random knee hurt sometimes, usually once a run gets into double digits. In other words, the pain hits well before mile 31 arrives.
Saturday should be interesting! If I live to tell about it, I’ll be back with a race report. Also, there’s a chance I’ll up the ante a little bit, but I’m going to be mean by not disclosing that part right now. I don’t believe in jinxes, but my main focus on Saturday is to finish this run. The other part is only a possibility.
