It’s no small secret that I see patterns in numbers. I spent years trying to ignore it, and then decided I might as well find amusement in it — which meant I noticed numbers even more regularly. Then I took up running, and discovered that a lot of runners are also number nerds. In other words, most of my friends are enablers.
Saturday was no exception: I woke up at 6:07:08 a.m. on 9/10/11. Yes, that was planned. I did not, however, plan to look at the clock 6:07:08 p.m., when I happened to be out at happy hour with friends:
Pomegranate ginger martini with truffle fries
But the bigger numerical news is that, on 9/10/11, I cut 12 inches off my hair. It was actually more like 13+, because the ponytail the stylist lopped off for donation was 12 inches, and then the remaining hair was trimmed. Earlier in the day I tried (and failed) to take a couple last “before” shots:
The Instagram iPhone app helps make blurry bathroom self-portraits look like "art."
And here is the hairdo:
Yes, I would like another happy hour special.
On Sunday I went to my last Giants game of the season (sadness!), and took several of those enabler friends of mine:
Naomi, Alyssa, Courtney and a short-haired stranger
I think that’s actually where the number nerdiness ends, though Sunday was the 10th anniversary of 9/11, which is its own numerical matter.
Other weekend happenings not mentioned above: not much running (refusing to think about that), a little gyming, a couple other good beverages, lovely weather in San Francisco, nearly burning out my clutch on the notorious California Street hill, and seeing “Little Shop of Horrors,” which thoroughly entertained me.
After four bridge-crossings, several miles walked and 189 miles driven, my weekend was over. I wonder what I’ll do at 7:08:09 on 10/11/12.
Last night I bought more airplane tickets, which means I’ve booked three trips in the last two months — the first of which was booked WHILE I was on another trip. And now that these are booked, I’ll turn my attention to an overseas trip next summer. Yes, my savings account hates me. No, I don’t have enough paid time off, which means my savings account will really start hating me soon.
But when I began overhauling my life a year ago, I swore that one of the changes would include more traveling. When I left my job, they paid me two months’ worth of vacation time. That’s two months during which I could have seen more of the world while still receiving a paycheck. In my [censored] years of life, I’ve only seen 19 of the 50 United States. I’ve never left North America. A year ago, I promised myself that I would get off the continent by 2012, and by god, I’m going to do it.
The problem is, I’m not that great of a planner, because I hate making decisions. And that’s funny, because my whole life I’ve pushed toward leadership roles — president of multiple high school clubs, editor of a newspaper, etc. (Let me tell you, getting 15 broke college students to and from New Orleans less than two months after 9/11 was quite exhausting.) There are so many options and decisions, and everything sounds good to me. Honestly, everything in the world fascinates me and I’m never bored. If others have set plans, that’s fine, but how on earth am I supposed to decide among a multitude of options?
As a result, I go into vacations with a mostly open schedule. Usually there are a few things I really want to see, and I often have to work around family schedules. I do try to find interesting things to do, just so that I can get a full experience, but that’s not a requirement. For instance, in June I spent six days in Alaska. I ran a marathon but just played the other five days by ear — and had a fabulous time with great friends. I had no idea the mountains would be so steep and so green, and that I could just marvel at them while out on a walk. I couldn’t have planned ahead of time to find a leaf bigger than my head, but that was one of the funnier pictures I’ve ever taken.
Unplanned vacation perk.
You can’t plan those things. And you shouldn’t. It’s often better to just let life happen, and to revel in it.
I sometimes drive people nuts with my indecisiveness and my struggles to actually plan. But when it comes to vacations, there may be proof that I’ve got the best method. I stumbled across this blog post about whether vacations make people happy, or if the planning is the real trick. It linked to a couple different studies showing that people were happier in the days leading up to vacations, when they were planning and full of anticipation of grandeur. When they returned home, everything felt anti-climactic.
The thing is, I don’t experience that. Granted, I usually want to remain in the tropical paradise or snow-capped mountains rather than go back to everyday life of working and bill-paying and house cleaning. But I return with a feeling of having LIVED. I’ve seen another bit of this fascinating world. Usually there are mellow days in my vacations — and that’s fine, because relaxing is also important.
So, the next time someone says, “Will you just decide already?!” I’m going to feel OK when I suggest that they either make the decision or accept the fact that I’m perfectly happy to just watch life unfold.
Or I’ll ask them to help plan my next adventure. That one involves going to the United Kingdom next May/June, and I have a feeling that will require more decisions than my trip I just booked to Houston. Any takers?
It’s 11:11 a.m. on what for many of us is Monday in our work week. If you had to work on Labor Day, my condolences — I’ve worked my share of holidays, and it’s always a bummer when friends are out having fun, or at least Not At Work.
I spent my weekend doing a variety of things, including being utterly and completely lazy, along with a healthy dose of running and gyming. Sunday’s running escapade was in Golden Gate Park with a great group of gals, followed by delicious food that included cheese and tater tots and a grapefruit mimosa.
Anyway, if you had to work, or if your workplace is feeling like death, you could always recreate it in Legos. This site has done that, and the “occupational hazards” section is the best, in my opinion. If I had more Legos, of course I’d be doing this, too. Alas, I do not have small children under foot. I do have a few Legos, but not nearly enough to recreate my work place.
Despite the fact that my California driver’s license says my hair is auburn, I know I’m still classified as a redhead. I spent most of my life being annoyed by this fact, because redheads always seem to be slightly stereo-typed — and because I always wanted to be blonde. It probably didn’t help matters that I was (and still am) an ardent fan of the Anne of Green Gables books, and the main character loathed her red hair.
Well, in recent years I’ve mostly gotten over it. I’ve made such progress that I actually call myself a redhead in public. But a “ginger”? Um, that’s a type of man-shaped cookie. But for some reason, that word has become more popular.
And now we come to the time-waster (yes, I was building up suspense). Fellow redheaded runner Morgan posted this link the other day, and I’m still laughing at the Uncyclopedia entry for gingers. Some of it is so true — yep, I’ll last about five minutes at the beach before I burn. Some of it is debatable — maybe we really are “anti-Smurfs”? And some of it is completely untrue — I do not have any posters of Beezlebub in my house!
The part that amused me the most was actually a comment made by an anonymous user in the discussion tab: “At least we’re not French.” See? We also have sense of humor!
So, go amuse yourself by reading that entry. By the way, despite what that article may say, I do not look like this:
One-sentence summary: My legs are in better shape than I’d realized, but the rest of me needs to catch up so I don’t crash and burn like I did Sunday.
Sunday morning, I woke up well before the sun and drove north-west for about 75 miles. I was supposed to run the Santa Rosa Half Marathon last year; I was running well and even doing some speed work. Then, three weeks before the race, I got a stress fracture in my leg. It was confirmed with a bone scan 10 days before the race. So, no race. No pricey marathons that were already paid for, either. Cue life melt-down.
This year, they let me in the race so I decided to exorcise some demons and once again try to run Santa Rosa. The past few weeks have been pretty “blah” in the running arena for me. I’ve actually had a long enough time of being injury-free that it got normal, so then little aches seemed bigger and being lazy seemed more appealing. I’ve slacked off on stretching and on cross-training, and I haven’t followed my own orders to lose weight. It’s no wonder that the running has been less than stellar, and I really didn’t know what what would happen Sunday, though of course I hoped for a PR (personal record), which would be anything under 1:49:59. To do that, I’d need a pace faster than 8:23, so about 8:20.
I had a bit of mix-up finding packet pickup, but I finally got my bib. By the time I took the (reusable!) bag of stuff back to my car and returned to the race, the port-a-potty lines were quite long. The gun went off before I got to the starting line, but I wasn’t worried because the race was chip-timed, so my clock wouldn’t start until I crossed the starting mat. I was right: I even took the time to recoil my earbud cord before starting, and I was still able to jump in with no problem. Dodging people was effortless.
Mile 1: 8:16.
Mile 2: 8:09. First “oops, I’m going too fast” realization.
Mile 3: 8:10. Didn’t learn.
Mile 4: 8:08. No comment.
My average pace in here was showing 8:12. I knew that was a bit fast, but my legs felt fantastic. I was occasionally looking at my heart rate (a new training thing for me), and I’ve noticed that if I think a bit more about my breathing, that helps keep the heart rate down a bit.
Mile 5: 8:17. (Ate a gel.)
Mile 6: 8:22.
Those two miles were on hardpack trail, which always makes my legs happier and wards off calf cramps. This actually slowed me down for once, but I think that was a good thing. I thought I hit the 10k point at 49:50, which would be a 2-second PR. Looking at it now, I see that wasn’t quite right. Still, I was going way too fast.
Mile 7: 8:37
Mile 8: 8:24
At this point I knew things were going bad. In March, I hit the halfway point and had the opposite realization — and proceded to run the second half faster than the first. Sunday, I knew I was about to lose it. That’s a bummer of a feeling, and I had that happen in May 2010 during a marathon.
Mile 9: 10:04.
Yep, that’s a 10 there. I couldn’t breathe and everything was getting fuzzy and blurry, so I actually stopped. I bent over to get the blood back to my head and to calm my breathing and heart rate. I was right near a volunteer, who asked if I was OK, and I assured him I was fine. This was a good place to stop, because other runners didn’t get distracted wondering if I was all right. I’d hate to be the one to slow them down.
Mile 10: 9:25. (Gel.)
I think this is the point where I began thinking, “I need a new sport. Like golf. Or curling. Or badminton.” Seriously, if we hadn’t been running in a huge park/trail area (which was gorgeous, by the way), I would have gone in search of a taxi.
Mile 11: 8:59.
These two miles were also on hardpack trail. Around this point a guy I’d seen earlier came along cheering for everyone he passed. He could see I was struggling and told me I was looking good and had a steady pace. I thanked him and he asked if I had a goal. “Well, it was sub-1:50, but my lungs decided otherwise,” I told him. I think he knew I was right, because he actually didn’t have anything to say. At that point I knew I would have to run sub-7:30 miles to reach 1:50. It was not going to happen.
Mile 12: 8:43.
Mile 13: 9:35. Walked through a water stop, kept walking.
Last 0.19 miles: 8:31 pace.
I finished in 1:54:44, for an average pace of 8:42 per mile. Of the seven half-marathons I’ve run, this was my fourth slowest. I know that also means it’s my fourth fastest, and that having a median half-marathon time of 1:54 is actually pretty good. But I also know that I ran the first half in 54 minutes and the second half in an hour, which for me is appallingly bad.
BUT I crossed the finish line and was promptely given the coolest medal I’ve ever seen. Not only is it big and shiny, but it spins! In fact, it is a DOUBLE SPINNER! The race organizers out-did themselves; the shirts are also really, really nice.
Best medal ever.
They had plenty of room in the finish area, so it wasn’t a big cluster. They also had bagels, bananas, oranges, water and sports drink right at the finish. (I actually only ate one bagel bite because I wasn’t hungry at all.) Volunteers were very nice, just as they had been throughout the race course — the ones at the aid stations were more organized than many, and they did everything right. Just outside the finishing area, vendors were giving away more recovery drinks — Zico chocolate coconut water made my life better again. Then I found Ryan Hall, the country’s fastest marathoner and half-marathoner.
Ryan Hall! Yes, I became the paparazzi.
Then I got a free $15 Macy’s gift card. Then I found free Cold Stone ice cream. By this point I was chilled, but I ate some anyway. The race also providing a free pancake breakfast, but I really wanted to change clothes and get warm more than I wanted to eat anything.
So, after somehow getting lost despite being in a small town and having GPS, I found a McDonalds to change in. (Another girl was changing there, too, but she was off to meet her husband for their first wedding anniversary. She was the cutest thing ever.) Then I went to explore the Charles Schulz museum and adjacent shop, which will have to be another blog post. Then I got stuck in miles of slow traffic, which is always fun with a clutch post-race.
A friend texted and asked how my race went, then extended condolences when I said not well. She asked how my body felt and I said it was fine, and she said that was good to hear that I hadn’t been injured. Suddenly I realized she was right. I am very injury-prone, and I started that race much faster than I should have, given my training. But this morning, one day later, I walked down my stairs without problems and am wearing three-inch heels. And I finished a race I never thought possible five years ago.
"I survived!"
(Edited to add official race times.) It turns out that I came in 6th in my age group, out of 43, which puts me in the top 14%. I was a mere 14 seconds off 5th place, which is annoying. And I was 125th overall, out of 473, in the top 26%. My placement in my age group is actually surprising, though, because the top three women were in my notoriously hard age group.
Running is often my outlet, and I go on what I call “sanity runs.” Until I took up running, I never understood the concept of being able to clear my mind. I love racing and trying to beat my own times, and it’s good to have goals to keep me motivated. Lately I’ve been dreading the day when I’ll realize I peaked and won’t get any faster. Maybe I’ve had that dread because I’m subconsciously reminding myself that racing is fun and fine, but it isn’t everything.
This time last year, I was injured and I wouldn’t be back to running for four months. One year later, life is much better. And I am running.
On Aug. 24, 2010, I sent out my last email as a newspaper reporter. It was addressed to a mass amount of contacts, telling them I’d resigned my job. And with that, I gathered the last of my personal belongings from my work desk and walked away from a decade in journalism. I went home, made a list of things to get done, and proceeded to conquer that list in 107-degree weather. Four days later, I got in my car and began driving.
Freedom. Leaving town under a gorgeous sunrise.
Over the course of the next two weeks, I drove up the California and Oregon coast.
Coos Bay, Oregon. Roads always lead to a new adventure.
I visited Portland for the first time, and fell in love with the city.
Fireworks in Portland
I went to Washington for the first time, making random, short-term friendships with strangers while visiting Seattle solo.
Seattle, Space Needle included
I saw friends I hadn’t seen in years.
10 years later15 years later
I saw beauty.
Multnomah Falls, Portland
I remembered my past.
Mt. Shasta
And, for the first time since I could remember, I began to realize that the future was wide open. After 17 days and 1,930 miles, I returned home with a new perspective on life.
One year after sending out that “farewell” email and receiving many “where are you going?” responses, I still don’t quite have that answer. I have vague ideas, lofty goals and big dreams. I sometimes get disgruntled, knowing that a year has passed since I started a new chapter in my life, and that I should have done something spectacular by now. But maybe I am getting there.
Roads aren’t usually straight, and the destination is almost always elusive and around the next corner. My road trip had multiple destinations and experiences I couldn’t have imagined or planned. And I think that’s the best way to live life: Treat it like a road trip, with an ultimate destination or two, but make sure to take in as many sights as possible along the way.
Road through Humbold County redwoods
It’s been one year. A year that included a road trip, another visit to Portland, a trip to Illinois and Alaska, a new job, a move to a new city, meeting some goals and setting new goals, making new friendships, and continuing previous friendships. It’s been a good one-year road trip. Here’s to the next year’s continuing road trip.
I liked the “Tuesday Time-Waster at 11:11 a.m.” idea last week, so I figured I’d try it again. Since, you know, I haven’t gotten around to posting about this weekend’s adventures that included a lot of whipped cream flavored vodka, followed the next morning by a great 12-mile run with great people.
Anyway, back to the topic at hand: MASH! If you’re anywhere remotely close to my age, you probably played the game in school. You wrote down lists of names of crushes/non-crushes, cars, homes, careers, numbers of kids. Then your friend would make a series of marks until you shouted “Stop!” after a few to 15 or so marks. Then they’d use that number to go down the list, crossing out each item the number landed on. When a category had only one remaining (oh, the dreaded “Yugo” or “shack”), that was it. Your whole life story depended on some marks.
Of course there’s an online version of MASH. And of course, 25 years later, I had to try it again. My results? Well, the plus side is that I have a mansion and am married to someone who is not repulsive. On the down side, we live in Kentucky. With our nine children.
In true “Layla the numbers nerd” fashion, I have decided that, at 11:11 a.m. on a Tuesday, everyone should have a brief time-waster. Without further ado:
Photographer Carli Davidson has a funny series called “Shake,” in which she captures dogs in mid-shake as they rid themselves of water.
I found that link through this New York Times blog post with a bit more information about the photographer. Then I found her photos of a dog with the awesome name of Ramen Noodle, who has no front paws!
Apparently I am too lazy and distracted to actually do/finish things. Cases in point:
I went stand-up paddling with Naomi, which desperately needs and deserves its own fun blog post. I didn’t do that yet.
I ran a total of 19 miles this weekend, including a 10k race that fizzled a little. As a result, I spent some time browsing various runners/athletes/medical websites and talking to several people, some of whom freaked me out to the point that I actually tried to make a doctor’s appointment. I failed at that. I should also blog about it so I have it all in one place, but I haven’t done that yet, either.
There were bike races a few miles from my house yesterday, and I knew people who were going to be watching. I never made it over there!! I’ve seen those kinds of races before, and I KNEW how much fun they’d be. Yep, kicking myself for that one.
I finally decided today to go for it and sign up for an April marathon, because I know I’ll regret not doing it. I have no idea about my plans for next year, but the race is about to sell out. But as I was entering my information online tonight, my heartbeat suddenly felt bizarre and freaked me out. Yes, this is related to #2 up there, and yes, I’m overly aware of medical things right now, so I know I’m blowing it out of proportion. But now the registration site is just sitting there, halfway completed.
I recently got an idea for a book. It would be a kind of a memoir, which I know is cliche, but at this point I’ll take it. A friend said, “Write what you know,” and that’s still ringing in my ears (or in my eyes, since that was a text message). But, aside from brief thoughts while running, I have yet to actually sit down and ponder it more thoroughly.
I have a house full of food, but after work and running errands tonight, did I cook dinner? Nope, I got a sudden hankering for In-N-Out, and I GAVE IN!
I got a “grow your own tree” kit instead of a T-shirt at Saturday’s race, and I’m quite excited about it. I even have extra potting soil. And yet, I still haven’t planted the tree seeds.
I have an almost-finished book and others that I’m dying to read. But I’m not reading them.
So, that’s my current state of affairs. I can’t quite believe I’m about to click “Publish” on this pathetic, self-centered, failing-at-productivity blog post.
Today marks six months since I left behind California’s Central Valley and moved to the East Bay Area of San Francisco. Half a year later, I’m still reveling in the fact that I escaped the oppressive heat and the exceedingly flat terrain.
Many days I drive home from work and see clouds approaching; often they’re upon me by the time I go for an evening run. I gaze at hills, which offer wonderful views and provide much better training for my legs. Since moving, I’ve run my air-conditioner a total of three times, despite the fact that I live upstairs and my windows face the sun.
Do I miss the valley? No, I do not. I spent 13 years, 4 months in the greater Sacramento area, but I never stopped missing the mountains and the cooler night air. People will swear that the “Delta breezes” cool the air at night in the valley, but they’re only comparing the temperature to that of the blazing sun. I grew up in a place that saw triple-digit heat, but I also needed a sheet or blanket every night — I knew the Central Valley people were just grasping for hope. Now I have confirmed that I was right: I can sit out on my patio on a July night without sweating. “Delta breezes,” my ass.
I still need to make friends in my town, but I’m now close to a rather large group of Bay Area runners I’ve known for a while. I can — and do — actually hang out with them any weekend. They came along at a time I truly needed the friendship. While I do still miss my Lodi running crew, they recently split due to some sort of misunderstanding. It was all very awkward and not what I’d expect from adults who hold advanced degrees and have successful careers, and I didn’t want to have to choose between them. I didn’t: My move came just in time.
Now I can drive 35 minutes to downtown San Francisco, meet friends at the Ferry Building, go for a run that takes us over the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge, and later in go to a free concert in Golden Gate Park. Seriously, it doesn’t get much better than that.
The last six months haven’t all been roses, and today also marks the point at which I’m now officially closer to being yet another year older. I still don’t know where my life is going, and I have absolutely no idea where I’ll be in 10 years. But for now I’ve spent six months in the Bay Area, and I’m very happy with that decision. Here’s to the next six months.
