Almost March = Almost Spring

I suffer annually from February blahs. Blah health, blah weather, blah motivation, blah runs. The good news: March arrives in two day's time.

My Saturday morning run was canceled this week because temps were "low" (still an Illinoisan at heart, 20 degrees does not a low temperature make) so I succumbed to a lazy day of sipping chai, playing cards, eating macaroni and cheese and then lying in bed wide awake until 1:30 a.m. while the caffeine from the chai I drank at 11 a.m. continued to course through my veins.

When my alarm clock went off at 6:15 this morning I found myself ill prepared for the 14 mile run I resigned myself to the evening before. And this week's run was to be just 12, but I missed a training run on Thursday when I finally took a long overdue sick day to try to kick a stubborn head cold I've had for a couple weeks. Incrementally this week, I want to make up the 9-10 miles I missed that day. So I made up two today. But it involved me running up and down the Springwater Corridor Trail two times. Turns out covering the same ground four times in one run is a little boring, even when on the otherwise beautiful stretch of the Willamette.

And I realized this afternoon, while I lazed in bed finishing Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge, I've lost some focus recently. My internal dialogue while training has really turned into "How fast am I or am I not running," and "How realistic is finishing in under four hours," and "I'm moving TOO SLOW! Move faster, Kristina! Why am I so fucking slow?" Running against the wind this morning, miles 7-10, I felt particularly discouraged. The wind was fierce, so I tried to not be too irritated by my 10 minute pace. Until I got lapped by a pair of runners who were both older and fatter than me. And my first thought was, "I will never finish in under four unless I can move like that against a headwind."

When did this turn into a personal quest for physical achievement and glory? Not that there is fault in wanting a good time, but I don't remember thinking about TNT's mission or my own family's recent experience with blood cancer a single time on my run this morning. That's why I am running this marathon on May 1st. Not because I have something to prove to anyone, or even to myself, but because I believe that there is the capacity for a cure in the minds and laboratories of this world, and funding for research is the key to unlocking that cure.

I determined this afternoon to refocus my attentions. When I find myself dwelling on feeling slow I can divert my attention to being thankful for my health. Regardless of how long it takes me, I am capable of running 26.2 miles.

What I've learned about running from an athletic standpoint recently is this: some people are slowed down by injury, some by boredom, some by physical limitations. I am a person slowed down by my mind. Maybe some truth exists in the myriad times I've been told I think too much. I get stuck in my own head and I begin to feel like I'm running through ankle-deep mud. The way I feel in dreams when trying to escape disaster. In my dreams I have developed the ability to rationalize with myself. "There is no mud, you're just letting your head get the better of you. Pick up your feet. Move faster. You'll be safe." I hope that skill is transferable to my waking life.

I also find myself incredulous that slowing down my pace on a long run to 10+ minutes will translate to 8:47 miles in a marathon. So then I add incredulity to the feelings of inadequacy and finish a 14 miler in almost 3 hours. Ouch.

But March is a new month. And the Shamrock happens on the 13th. And spring arrives on the 21st. And the daffodils are already blooming. And the temperatures will eventually rise and the wind will eventually die down. I'll refocus.

I find it interesting that I picked up Refuge when I did. My first introduction to Terry Tempest Williams was through Ken Burn's National Parks series. She is one of the interviewees throughout that documentary series and I found myself drawn to her. So I googled her. She's an author. A nature writer. I missed my calling in life, clearly. On break from jury duty a few weeks back I picked up Refuge at Powells. Nothing recommended that book to me more than any other by her, it just had the lowest price tag, so I snagged it. It chronicles the rise of Great Salt Lake between 1985 and 1989 and the ensuing devastation to critical wetland and marsh habitat for millions of migratory birds alongside her mother's fight with cancer and subsequent death. The parallels drawn between her devastation at witnessing the ravaged habitat for some of her favorite birds and that of watching her mother die a horrible and painful death left me crying and hugging an annoyed Sunny for comfort.

Snowy Egrets - lake level 4204.05'

"Cancer. The word has infinite power. It kills us with its name first, because we have allowed it to become synonymous with death.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines cancer as 'anything that frets, corrodes, corrupts or consumes slowly and secretly.'

A person who is told she has cancer faces a hideous recognition that something monstrous is happening within her own body.

Cancer becomes a disease of shame, one that encourages secrets and lies, to protect as well as to conceal.

And then suddenly, within the rooms of secrecy, patient, doctor and family find themselves engaged in war. Once again, medical language is loaded, this time with military metaphors: the fight, the battle, enemy infiltration and defense strategies. I wonder if this kind of aggression waged against our own bodies is counterproductive to healing? Can we be at war with ourselves and still find peace?

How can we rethink cancer?

It begins slowly and is largely hidden. One cell divides into two; two cells divide into four; four cells divide into sixteen . . . normal cells are consumed by abnormal ones. Over time they congeal, consolidate, make themselves known. Call it a mass, call it a tumor. It surfaces and demands our attention. We can surgically remove it. We can shrink it with radiation. We can poison it with drugs. Whatever we choose though, we view the tumor as foreign, something outside ourselves. It is however, our own creation. The creation we fear.

The cancer process is not unlike the creative process. Ideas emerge slowly, quietly, invisibly at first. They are most often abnormal thoughts, thoughts that disrupt the quotidian, the accustomed. They divide and multiply, become invasive. With time, they congeal, consolidate and make themselves conscious. An idea surfaces and demands total attention. I take it from my body and give it away."

She records all this while visiting the refuge and is so excited by the metaphor that she rushes home to share it with her mother, certain the symbolic relevance will be enough to guide her to curing herself. She feels betrayed when it fails to work.

I wish Uncle Jeff could've reached inside himself and grabbed hold of his cancer like a bad idea, tossing it aside. I'm glad I didn't think of this - it sounds like something I would've pinned a lot of hope on. I just have to remind myself that he had so many years added onto his life because of how far cancer research did come during his lifetime. Twenty years! Really, that is a success story. Not that I expect my aunt and cousins to look at it as such, but I know they too are grateful he lived as long as he did.

Two short months from now, I will be running the Eugene Marathon in his honor. Yikes.

Peril on the SWCT

I have neglected this blog for too long! Funny how once the fundraising part was accomplished I no longer felt the need to document my progress . . . But, YAY FOR ME! To date I have raised $1,695, or 116% of my established fundraising goal! (Ahem, not to say I would turn away any above and beyond donations.)

Team in Training has truly been everything I hoped it would be and more. I increasingly feel like part of a community, running with my teammates on Tuesdays and Saturdays since mid-December in all kinds of inclement weather. I am definitely the weakest link in my advanced group, but I actually prefer it that way. There's nobody to slow me down, only people to push me harder. Perfect. I continue to gain speed and strength and up my miles. A couple weeks ago I set a new personal record - the first time I kept a sub 8:40 mile for more than three miles. And I maintained it for 10. HUGE accomplishment for me. My goal of finishing in under 4 hours (yeah, I said it) seems more attainable each week.

A big, huge, hearty thanks to all who have donated to this amazing cause. I think about Uncle Jeff every time I run. Increasingly these are happy thoughts. My uncle wasn't a runner, but he was a very active guy and I think he would be pleased that I chose this way to honor him. I know he can't appreciate the gesture and I'm realizing increasingly that this whole process has been for me, to help me find closure and some sense of peace in the face of loss, but I also hope that my Aunt Linda and cousins Aleksandr and Anika sense how much I love them and wish to honor them and support them through their grief in this way.

I feel a few shout outs are in order. Some folks have really gone above and beyond to help me through this process.

1. My mom, Willis (Okay, that's not her real name, but go with it. I've called her that for years.) She is my cheerleader. My life coach, if you will. She listens to my effusions about running bliss patiently and even chimes in enthusiastically from time to time. She worries and praises in perfect proportions. This is a gift that only mothers possess.

2. My sister Bekah. She is the wall against which I bounce all my boring stats. She gets a full report on every mile I run and where, my splits, my aches and pains, my milestones. She also keeps me honest on my cross-training days and regularly fills me up with desserts and other indulgences when I trek down to Sellwood to do a run or watch a game or laugh through a workout video in her basement.

3. Eric, my good friend and Nike employee who shared with me a companion pass and drove me out to the Nike campus on a weekend to stock up on all kinds of fancy schwag for the road. I came away with probably $500 worth of gear for less than half the cost and am now running much more comfortably and stylishly. Nike drifit = amazing.

I look something like this in my new 'fits:

Okay, okay. I exaggerate. But suffice it to say, I am now dressed for success on the road.

4. Coach Mike. He is a loud mouth and a little crazy but an awesome source of support in this process. When I sheepishly shared my goal of finishing Eugene in under four at the third Saturday team run he didn't laugh. He looked me straight in the face and said, "You can do it. And now that I know you want it, I'm going to push you a LOT harder." He's kept up his end of the bargain and since this process started, with his help, I have shaved almost 2 minutes off my mile.

Moving on. Because there is a title to this post that I haven't even addressed yet. One thing I love about running is how relatively simple it is. You can run practically any where, at anytime, in any conditions. Right? So thought I when I started. I tended to push my weekday runs off into the evenings which is kind of a pain in the ass but not quite the pain of waking up at the crack of Christ and subjecting oneself to the cold, wet, harsh realities of Portland in the winter. My go to place has become the Springwater Corridor Trail that runs along the east bank of the river from about the Hawthorne Bridge down into Sellwood and all the way to the SE burbs and beyond. In all I think this trail goes for over 40 continuous miles. Paved the whole way. And while it doesn't pose the challenge that the Mt Tabor run does, or really any other non-river run in Portland would, it involves a lot less waiting around at lights (none, in fact) and virtually no paranoia as to the state of the running surface (sidewalks in my otherwise very nice neighborhood are totally treacherous!). But the paranoia has seeped into other aspects, thanks to my two day stint on a criminal jury last week. (Cue horror movie music)



In a nutshell, shit went down like so [with fun little embellishments in brackets]:

[Almost 40 year old, shaved head and goatee sporting, denim shirt tucked into blue jeans at his trial wearing] Guy gets in a fight with his mom [With whom he lives. At almost 40]. He leaves her house somewhere between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. [Really, PPD? You can't narrow this down for us any more?], heading down the Springwater Corridor trail to a [former convicted felon for armed robbery] buddy's place. Seeing as he and this buddy are planning a hunting trip in the morning, he carries with him a rifle case filled with: a rifle, rifle shells, a 9mm pistol, full clip, extra ammo and a large knife.

Just shy of the intersection at 122nd he sits down [in the pitch black] on the side of the trail and begins texting with his mother. Down this same section of trail comes two [homeless, methamphetamine addicted] men on bikes [without lights]. They live in a camp on the side of the trail about a mile or two away and are on their way "home" [after a night of debauchery and video poker but no drugs, allegedly]. They nearly hit guy #1 who is sitting on the edge of the trail. They are "concerned for his safety" [and/or pissed off and shit faced, looking for trouble] and so circle back to "check" on him. He wants to be left alone and so asks them politely to leave him [the fuck] alone. Guy #3 takes off at his friend's urging. Friend/guy #2 [Convicted felon: possession of drugs, lying to police, warrant evasion, etc. And addicted to drugs] does not leave. He thinks guy #1 may hurt himself or at the very least cause an accident on the side of the trail. Guy #1, "Leave, leave, leave." Guy #2, "No, no, no."

And this is where it gets weird. Because guy #2 ends up calling 9-1-1 reporting that he's had a gun pulled on him on the Springwater Corridor Trail between Foster and 122nd. He reports [in three separate phone calls, because his phone battery keeps dying but he happens to have extras in his pocket] that the suspect is white [true], wearing dark clothing [true], about 5'6" [not even close, the guy is over 6' tall, but may have been seated the entire time] and on a mountain bike [just plain false]. The police show up and arrest guy #1. They find the pistol along with the rifle and all the ammo locked in the gun case [but who knows how long it's been since the call was made, or how long after the incident the call was made to begin with].

Guilty or not? The charge was "intentionally attempting to use a deadly weapon (a firearm) against the victim or intending to use said deadly weapon (a firearm) against the victim." I found the distinction a little ridiculous, but the charge was perplexing.

Much to our collective chagrin, we had to find this guy not guilty. The only evidence was the testimony of a cracked out homeless man and some other circumstantial things, like the fact that there actually was a guy on the trail with a gun. Needless to say, despite our verdict it shattered any illusions I had about the safety of running on this trail in the evening. It's not as if I run all the way out at 122nd between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m., but in theory I'd like to be able to do so and not worry that I'm going to come across some neo-Nazi looking creeper sitting on the side of the trail brandishing a pistol.

I was kind of hoping for an opportunity to soap box and give a personal witness as to the loss of innocence thanks to this whole scenario. Really? I mean, who am I to tell you not to go hunting, or not to use the SWCT as a way of getting from here to there, or even not to sit on the side of the trail, cloaked in complete darkness, or not to shave your head but leave your facial hair. But the combination of these elements is a recipe for nightmares.

The silver lining is this: I sucked it up and set my alarm clock for 6 a.m. for my run on Tuesday morning. I walked out my front door, immediately looked up and saw a shooting star. First thing. I made my way to the [arguably safer part of the] SWCT and headed off down the trail. Three and a half miles I ran in darkness with the sound of gently lapping water and bullfrogs and the vague silhouettes of barges on the river. At my turnaround point the sun peaked over the eastern ridge and turned the entire western sky a beautiful pinkish hue. The rest of my run was spent admiring sunshine gleaming off the river on my left and the wildlife sanctuary ponds on my right. Once joined by a few early morning bike commuters and the dedicated few in running tights, I didn't give much thought to guys #1-3.

If there had been a soundtrack to my Tuesday morning run it would've sounded something like this:



Also, high on my wishlist, if anyone is looking to make a meaningful donation to this cause that will ultimately benefit me and not really do much for cancer patients anywhere - the Garmin Forerunner 110. $199.99. But really priceless when you think about all the good it will do to have a way to track my splits.













But if you want to donate to the actual cause, you can do so here:
http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani

I am Icarus. And the sun just melted the glue that was holding my shit together.

I've kind of had a day. The kind for which there is no remedy other than just going to bed early and hoping I wake up happier tomorrow. These days used to really freak me out, now I just take them in stride, because life is full of small disappointments and unreasonable off-days. They are few and far between and nothing to get super depressed over.

Today was not a running day. Those days are always euphoric for me. Completing a run is the best drug ever - your body pulses with endorphins and that happy, achey achievement feeling. Yesterday I ran 11 miles with Bekah, so today I'm not running.

Today has been a reflective day. I've been thinking about all the ways I've disappointed myself in the last chunk of my life.

Most recently I am feeling a little inadequate at work. I wanted this job and now that I have it I just feel like I have little direction and little natural inclination toward it. Like maybe I'm a better editor than I am a writer.

And then I reach farther back and think about this time last year, when I talked with Tante Linda on the phone and she got online and looked for plane tickets for me and begged me to come visit. And I had taken that worthless holiday sales position with Williams Sonoma, the one that ate up my weekends and prevented me from traveling home, but netted me only $200 in the end. And I think she was crying on the phone, because Uncle Jeff was sick and I moved here and the family was far flung. And it's always bothered me that people don't visit their friends and family when they're sick. They wait until the person is dead and then attend their funeral. When it makes absolutely no difference to anyone except the ones left behind. But I did that. All my high and holy opinions, all my good intentions, like when I thought I'd fly home for Anika's graduation, which I also didn't do. Uncle Jeff died a few short weeks after that, and I could've gone.

And if I go back a little farther, to the last death that rocked my world, I think about all the things I said to Opa in the hospital the day he died. All the things I promised him I'd do. But it wasn't a conversation, it was a soliloquy, because he was in a coma and didn't hear a word I said. Why didn't I say those things to him five days earlier, when we sat on the couch together and he was well and wanting to talk and pour out the last of his grandfatherly wisdom?

I'm not feeling sorry for myself and I'm not on a compliments fishing expedition. I fully intend on going to bed in a little bit and just starting over tomorrow. I just am recording this to remind myself of what regret can feel like in retrospect, to hopefully prevent myself from feeling like this again in the future.

Also bumming me out right now:

1. my land lady might be selling the house that I live in and love, meaning that any way you look at it I'll have to move, again, and I may, in the meantime, have to deal with all that goes along with having a house on the market. Again.

2. the family that my friends and I are "hosting" Christmas for needs $32K for a kidney transplant that they probably won't be able to get. And they have infant triplets. And three other kids.

3. the Trailblazers suck this year.

4. the song The Sickness Unto Death by Typhoon

5. no matter how much I vacuum, there is still dog hair tumbleweeds rolling around my bedroom floor.

I wrote this after my uncle died. I have to edit this one a bit because I say things that are potentially very hurtful to people that I love, just not as much as I loved my uncle. And also because some parts are very gross. And also because it's pages long and I don't want to type it all out. And also because some grief ought to be kept to ones self. I won't edit out the expletives though, so pardon them.

Thursday, July 22nd, 2010

I haven't written. I don't really know what to say. I'm so . . . forlorn? I'm heartbroken, for sure, but in a new way that makes me feel so old. It's hard to explain. Mom and I walked down to the Loyola campus one evening when we were in Roger's Park, we tried to talk about it. I feel like there is a unique sadness people experience when someone they love dies. They feel pain in a way no one else does. Because we all experience the people we love differently. I love Daddy in a totally different way than Victoria does, for instance. I don't love him more or less, but differently, so if he were to die we'd experience it in completely different ways. I was trying to express this to mom and at the same time figure out what my sadness was. And I thought about when Opa died and how angry I became when some priest came in and tried to pray over his dead body. God, I was livid! And heart broken. And Uncle Jeff led me out to the hallway and just held me while I sobbed and slobbered all over his shirt. Ad it was a simple act of solidarity and human compassion and the recognition that people need to be touched when their hearts are falling apart inside them. He didn't ask any questions when I needed him to pull over to let me puke on the side of the road on the way to the hospital that day. He didn't try to force food down my throat in the coming weeks when I lost my appetite. And now . . .

I learned so much about Uncle Jeff while I was at home. I'd had no idea he was so well respected within his profession in Chicago. I only knew him to a very limited extent, apparently. I regret now turning down a ticket to go with him to a Decemberists show. I regret not ever taking him up on his offer to play racquetball with me. I regret not asking him more about his faith and life story and family story.

And now anything I learn about him will have to come from someone else. And I'll never again have the opportunity to go to a Decemberists show with him. But I'm thankful for the times I did say 'yes' to their invitations. All the times we went to Michigan together, all the ballets and symphonies, etc. And I miss him more now than I loved him while he was alive, which should tell me something about regret.

All that said, I think what really, really gets me is what T. Linda is going through. I keep remembering this conversation I had with her and Uncle Jeff when we were on our way somewhere together. Some ladies she works with wanted to get together once a month for various cultural events. Se said she went once and wanted so many times to turn to Jeff and comment on somthing and he wasn't there. She never went out with that group again. She said she would just rather spend her time with Jeff. And he chimed in and said, 'I feel the same way. She's my best friend. Why would I want to spend time with someone else doing the things she and I love?'

Because Alek and Anika will recover. Alek is in (by all accounts) a really happy, healthy relationship and he has Princeton in the fall. Ani has that amazing group of friends. And she's young and she'll be scarred for a while, but she'll fall in love and get distracted with figuring out what she wants in life and I just imagine that when all that happens, when Alek becomes the immense success he's destined to become and Ani grasps what makes her tick and runs with it . . . when that happens I imagine Linda wanting to crawl into bed and never get out again.

We shoveled dirt onto his coffin. Rabbi Bruce said at the grave site, 'This is a mitzvah, probably the hardest mitzvah we're called to do.' And in turns we shoveled dirt onto his coffin after they lowered it into the ground. And then everyone left and we stayed and watched as a dump truck full of dirt backed up to the grave and filled the hole the rest of the way. Then the gravediggers came with these jackhammer looking things that pounded the earth down.

Death is so disgusting. It terrifies me. What the fuck happens to us when we die? Our spirits vanish. I don't believe in an afterlife, but I do believe that our essences leave our bodies when we exhale for the last time. Where do they go? In my mind's drama I make it to Chicago to say goodbye to Uncle Jeff before he dies. I sit next to his hospital bed and whisper in his ear, 'If you go anywhere after this, can you find a way to let me know?' And he nods. I tell him I love him and say good bye.

And coming home from Chicago and the 4th of July weekend, a holiday I often spent with Linda and Jeff when I was a kid, I just feel guilty for every smile and laugh. I feel a strange obligation to be sad forever. And everything I say to T. Linda sounds so stupid! There really are no original words to use. And I'm trying to decide how to refer to it. Did he die? Did he pass? I hate when people refer to other people as 'passing' or having 'passed.' It's a euphemism really. Because they didn't go anywhere. It's not like they're on to the next thing. Call a fucking spade a spade. He's dead. He died.

I have this weird tug of war going on inside me. On the one hand I feel this renewed dedication to carpe-ing my diems, and really just going gang-busters. Living loud. Doing things. Pursuing my various and sundry interests and dedicating my life's efforts to someone who lived an exemplary, albeit abbreviated life. But on the other hand I want to crawl in bed and just sleep. For a very, very long time. Sleep and think this thing into oblivion. Or maybe just ignore it entirely. Erase it. Smoke a lot of pot.

Because god, this was shaping up to be a really great year. Work is good, friendships are solid, I feel on top of my game. Thriving in my youth. I am Icarus and the fucking sun just melted the glue that was holding my shit together.

It's a completely fucked up and horrible thing to say, but why couldn't that have been -? Or -? Fuck - I would trade -, -, -, -, all of them. To one tragic car accident. If I could just have Uncle Jeff back. I imagine lives to be like baseball cards. Some are just worth more than others. And what you want to keep in your collection are the valuable ones. I feel like a really valuable baseball card was just yanked from my collection."

I am putting an end to this depressive rant. I have said my piece. Or is it "said my peace?" Or is it an expression that is meant to have a double meaning? But never written? I don't know. I don't care all that much either.

Things that will improve my life this week:

1. the Blazer's game I'm going to tomorrow night. They're playing the Suns, who are my third favorite team in the NBA, so the outcome will be pleasing any way it happens.

2. everything I'm going to accomplish at work tomorrow. Namely, putting the finishing touches on the three grant drafts I am currently working on.

3. my next run. And the team trainings that start on Saturday morning.

Other random potentials that could improve my week:

1. seeing a really large man with lots of tattoos walking an absurdly small dog. This always makes me smile. If not laugh out loud.



2. scoring tickets to the Portland Cello Project collaboration show happening next weekend. (With Typhoon as guests!)

3. that Salomon cold weather running hoodie going on special at REI.

4. oh, and you donating to my cause. Go here. http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani

So Thankful

I went on a Thanksgiving run yesterday morning before heading over to spend the day cooking and eating with some friends. The roads and sidewalks were pretty sketchy due to some early season cold weather here, so I decided to hit the track at Grover Cleveland High School rather than one of my other go to routes. Turns out, running on a track is almost as boring as running on a treadmill! So to pass the time on my quick 4-miler, I decided to start chronicling my blessings in my mind. I ran around and around that track, changing lanes after each one to keep track of my distance, counting all the things I was thankful for. I enjoyed it so much, this may become a thanksgiving tradition for me. My list:

1. My family. This has been a sad year for us, but we've grown so close as a result of Uncle Jeff's death. I love them beyond description.

2. My Portland "family". Which is growing and becoming that elusive friend group that I've always wished for. They are so great.

3. My Sunny, who loves to sleep on top of my smelly running clothes, with her nose right close to the socks. (snapped this picture yesterday morning)



4. My job! And the general direction my organization is moving in, the positive folks I work with, the beautiful place we're dedicated to.

5. John Muir and what he did for wild places in this country and by extension, the example set by the US of forming national parks, since then adopted by much of the rest of the world in places that would otherwise surely meet their demise.

6. The rain in Portland, that although it becomes depressing come April and May when all I wish for in the world is sunshine, makes this place what it is and what I love, a lush, green paradise full of waterfalls and tall trees.

7. Portland, in general, which is easily the coolest place I've even been. And I get to live here.

8. Music. In particular Sufjan Stevens, Iron & Wine and, of course, The Punch Brothers.

9. The genius of Mark Twain, who continues to delight readers and afficionados of his work by stipulating in his will that his memoirs not be released until 100 years after his death. 2010 was a great year for bibliophiles like myself.

10. My home and the fact that I refer to it as "home" rather than "house." My wonderful roommates and the peaceful feeling I get when I walk in the door after a day of work or play elsewhere. It's a haven, for sure.

11. My health, which is spotty at best at times, but has overall held strong in the last couple years and allows me to think about things like extended travels and taking on big responsibilities without worrying about dropping out due to major illness.

12. My legs. Weird, I know. But my favorite things in life, walking, hiking and running, are all made possible by these amazing appendages that get me where I want to go with very few complaints.

13. Art and the way it continues to inspire and delight me. My membership to the Portland Art Museum and the opportunities I have to visit and relish in other people's genius.

I could go on, because in the time it took me to run 4 miles at that track I didn't run out of things to add to the list in my mind. I've decided that in general, this is a great way to pass the time while running and I'd like to make it a habit. I bet my longer runs, too, could be filled to the last stride with thankfulness.

Post run, I cleaned up and headed to my friends, Ian & Sasha's, to spend the day cooking, drinking and eating (starting with raw oyster shooters and white wine for breakfast - delicious!). And, have you heard the hype about deep fried turkey? It's every bit and more delicious than you've heard! I was just a little bit hoping to have need of the fire extinguisher we had on the deck next to the huge pot of bubbling peanut oil, but Ian had things under control and the whole day, from the time I arrived at 11 a.m. to the time I left 12 hours later, was packed full of laughter, good conversation, plenty of booze and the tastiest food one could hope for.

So, long post short, I'm feeling so blessed right now. So thrilled to be undertaking this huge endeavor I've talked about for so long, so lucky to have the support of friends along the way, so relieved to have a four day weekend! My Team In Training training officially starts a week from tomorrow and I'll finally meet my teammates and coach. My first batch of holiday cards are in the post and will be making their way into mailboxes all over the country (and world, actually, with several headed to Germany as I type) in the next several days. But should you not be a family member on this list, you can still be involved. My fundraising page can be found here: http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani Give generously, people, tis the season!

In a nutshell:

Now playing on my iPod: Sufjan's Christmas albums, burned for me by my Uncle Jeff three Christmases ago. He loved those albums despite the fact that he didn't celebrate Christmas.

Reading: Great House by Nicole Krauss.

Looking forward to: December 19th, 9:30 p.m. when I walk out of the airport in St. Louis, MO to be met by my mom and dad and the ensuing chaos that is Christmas with the Oldani family.

WWJMD?

I am happy to report that my shin splints are gone! I rested a whole 8 days (minus a couple hikes) and hit the pavement again on Saturday, making a gigantic loop from OMSI up to the Steel Bridge and across, then down along Tom McCall Park, along the West Bank Esplanade, past OHSU, through Willamette River Front Park, then across the Sellwood Bridge and back to OMSI via the Springwater Corridor Trail.

By my sister's calculations (she has one of those cool watch/foot thingy combos that both track your mileage and speed) this is about 10 miles. Which gave me a lot of time to think. Foremost on my mind on this particular fine Saturday morning was my Opa and how he would be 90 years old tomorrow if he were still alive, buying an old barn and converting it into a house and wood working studio, how Sunny could've come running with me if her hips weren't worthless and every now and then, "Hmmm, does anything hurt?" -full body scan for pain, then- "Nope! I'm good! This is the best I've felt on a run . . . well, ever!"

It took me an hour and forty-five minutes, which is a little disappointing, but I'm hoping my Team In Training coach will be able to work with me on pace. I want to go fast! And I don't want to kill myself doing it!

In other news: I met with my team leader this week for some face to face/fundraising strategizing time. She's great. She gave me all kinds of tips. So prepare yourselves - I am about to blow up your inbox with annoying e-mails begging for money! I might even throw a benefit kegger at some point (I thought for sure LLS would frown on this, but turns out, folks fighting cancer like beer too!). I'm digesting all the suggestions right now, I'm going to see how well my family plea goes over and then I'll assess the need again after the holidays.

In other news yet: I talked with a colleague of mine about running on Friday (Colleague? That makes me sound too important. We'll go with it!) and he has offered to show me the ropes of the Forest Park Trails! This is an area of Portland I've long wanted to explore on foot, but I've always shied away from, thinking that experienced trail runners/bad-asses would scoff at my measly 6 mph on-a-good-day-and-flat-surface pace and blow by me, all the while thinking to themselves, "You don't belong here! Go put on a pink hoodie and run on a treadmill with the rest of the not-made-for-trails wimps!" (Again with the pink - there is a deep rooted issue here!)

But, I recently gave up my gym membership. This seems like an unwise thing to do, considering I'm training for a marathon, but I was having a conversation with a friend that somehow turned to gyms and he was shocked/disappointed that I belonged to one. "Kristina, no! What would John Muir do? He certainly wouldn't run on a treadmill!" And I'll tell you something, I took that to heart. Because John Muir is my dead guy crush and I would never want to disappoint him and also because my Runner's World says that running on a treadmill isn't a close enough simulation to real, on the ground running to be effective for training.

So I'm going to take my colleague up on his offer and hit the trails of Forest Park some fine weekend. I might even throw in some trail runners' lingo if I'm not hoovering wind too badly. "Man, I got some serious chub rub going on!" (Yes, Bekah, there is a word for it!) Or perhaps if I'm feeling sprightly near the finish line, I'll sprint passed and yell, "Dude! You just got chicked!" Which, by the way, didn't go over so well with one female reader, who wrote in a letter to the editor this month, "Including the phrase "getting chicked" as need-to-know vocabulary legitimizes the idea that women are inferior to men that that getting passed by a woman is something to be embarrassed about. [It is] offensive." I thought it was funny. Oops.

So on this beautiful Sunday morning, while lying in bed with the lingering scent of my new golden cypress candle still in the air, I thought to myself, "What would John Muir do?" I didn't come up with anything brilliant, but I did decide to take an amble through the woods. My hike today brought my weekend mileage total to 23. I think John would be proud.


In a Nutshell:

I have sore hip-flexors, but otherwise, I'm good. It's 9:30 now and I'm going to bed! I'm burning that cypress scented candle and with any luck I'll dream about John Muir tonight!

Oh, also, only five days left of pumpkin smoothies at Burgerville. Get them while they're hot (?).

Sidelined

I haven't run since Thursday. I've been sidelined with the shin splints from hell. Friday, while hiking around in the Opal Creek Wilderness, I noticed that my left leg was pretty sore and achy. By yesterday morning it was just plain painful. This is pretty much what my weekend has looked like since:

I picked up a couple bags of frozen peas from the grocery store on my way home from the Portland Art Museum yesterday and have had one or the other strapped to my leg with an ace bandage ever since. On the up side, it's given me a chance to write the Christmas cards - purchased at the art museum and hitting mail boxes next week - that will beg support for my marathon from my family.

While cleaning out some boxes in my closet today, in search of thank you cards to send my supporters, I came across my journal from last year. I remembered distinctly writing about Uncle Jeff's leukemia when it was first diagnosed and was curious to see what I'd said. Here's what I found, unedited, forgive my ignorance:


October 25th, 2009

A while ago I was watching "Brothers and Sisters" and Kitty was diagnosed with cancer and the thought came to me, (and it's horrible and I hope no one ever reads this) "I wish I had cancer. What a great way to get some real perspective. All my ridiculous, petty unhappiness would vanish under the enormity of being faced with my mortality." Yikes. So I've been, in the back of my mind, trying to prioritize my life ever since. What do I waste precious thoughts on? What do I allow myself to become preoccupied with?

December 7th, 2009

On October 25th I admitted to "wishing" for cancer in some inane capacity believing it would render a carpe diem mentality, unshakable, that would catapult me into an entirely new phase in life (but not of course without first having a dramatic brush with death that would garner lots and lots of otherwise unsolicited attention) in which I succeeded in fulfilling all my less practical ambitions, ones that in this reality (the non-cancer one) just seem like pipe dreams.

Well, I sincerely hope that my wish did not in some way affect reality somehow - the Friday before Thanksgiving we got word that Uncle Jeff has leukemia. And I am not okay. Actually, the strange thing is, life is going on. I'm still trying to live by the principles of positive affirmations, both for myself, and now for Uncle Jeff, although I'm not sure how I can finagle things to positively think things into someone else's reality.

He's not well. He's been in the hospital since Thanksgiving, so ill and weak that he can't feed himself. He's on round two of chemo, which will end with tomorrow's treatment, but Aunt Linda told me today they'll be in the hospital for a few weeks more according to the doctors. Linda's taken a leave of absence from work and spends her days in the hospital with him. They've been so close for years, really to the exclusion of other friends, and Linda told Mom that if Jeff dies she'll have no one. And this breaks my heart and makes it soar at the same time. It breaks because while Uncle Jeff is miserable now, I fear Linda, if she ends up alone after having to muster patience and joy while caring for him while he's dying will be utterly broken. It soars because they are proof that what I long for is possible - a relationship so close that you need no one else.

Alek apparently has a better idea than Ani of the severity of the situation. He looks things up and researches and worries and if I know Alek at all, probably feels a huge amount of the most excruciating sympathy that borders on guilt.

Ani is trying to finish her semester and just wants to hear that he's doing okay when she checks in. And I understand that too. Because what will worrying do for her? It will make her perform poorly in her finals, make her not want to complete her last semester beginning in January.

I wish I were still in Chicago so I could clean their apartment and collect their mail and cook for Aunt Linda when she doesn't stay with the Stewarts.

Family is so precious to me and I have such a love for Uncle Jeff, especially after how wonderful he was when Opa died - I'll never forget that. Or how supportive he was when I lived a few blocks from them. Why do people move so far away from their families?

I'm sure everyone has a story like this. Death is a universal experience. Everyone knows someone who has battled with, won or lost, against cancer. And blood cancers are some of the deadliest. So here it comes again - The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society aims to cure blood cancers! That's an ambitious goal and I've really grappled with my own cynicism since signing up for this program. Do I even believe there is a cure for cancer? But there is - I have to just believe that, and I have to believe that my involvement in this small capacity will make a difference.

And did I mention that if you donate to my fundraising efforts you will receive a card, snail-mail delivered in Kristina font, chock-a-block full of effusive thanks, gratitude and unsolicited flattery? I brag about few things, but Kristina font is pretty stellar. Your card might look something like this:


front


inside

Well, that's all for now. I'm going to swap out pea bags and take some ibuprofin and call it a night. Thanks for your support.

You can give online here: http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani

In a Nutshell:

I am still pumped, despite this set-back

Listening to It'll Happen, also a Punch Brothers song, and a very good one at that - timely, considering my current frustration.


Feeling sore, yet satisfied.

I'm Running A Marathon

First of all, friends, meet my fundraising page :
http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/eugene11/koldani

And don't laugh - I am already out on the mean streets of Portland several days a week kickin' ass and tearing up the pavement! A full 26.2 miles still seems a long way off, but I'm killing 8, 9, 10 and feeling really good. So with the 6ish months I have left before my May 1st event I think I will be more than ready.

I'm devoting my blog (which frankly was doomed to failure from the get go) to my training and fundraising and ultimately my completion of this event. I will then check back in from Virginia Beach, where I plan to go lie in the warm sand and celebrate Cinco de (Drink-o) Mayo with my sister when it's all over with.

My last blog post was about losing my Uncle Jeff. This past summer was hard - I spent a good deal of it grappling with my own mortality, grieving for my aunt and cousins, grieving for myself and trying to figure out a way to "make it better." I wrote then that I wanted to run this marathon. I put it out there in writing because I was afraid I wouldn't do it if I didn't broadcast it to the world (meaning all 7 of my blog followers). But I never lost interest. And a couple weeks ago I finally, officially, joined the NW Team in Training, slapped my $50 registration fee on the counter, and started tracking my miles.

Oh - and I went on an ill-advised gear binge, but I find buying fancy-pants schwag the best way to stay motivated in athletic endeavors. I am now the proud owner and wearer of a great pair of running tights, several ridiculously expensive pairs of running socks, and a smattering of sweat wicking tops with ranging sleeve lengths. I also have my eye on a really sweet cold weather running hoodie by Salomon. It's $110. And I forfeited Christmas presents in exchange for a plane ticket home. So this will probably round out the aforementioned gear binge.

http://www.rei.com/product/801532

I feel fairly entitled to this spree as the entirety of my training will be in the cold, wet months. Today's run was a particularly wet and cold one - a six mile out and back from my house to NE Fremont and back again.

Oh, and another reason I feel okay about buying that Salomon hoodie - it's white. And I read in all the magazines that one should wear light colored clothing when running outdoors in the dark (which 9 times out of 10 is what I do), but riddle me this all you gear designing geniuses - why is all running gear BLACK!?

Okay - so to sum all of this up, give me money. Also, feel free to buy me stuff that I can run in. And don't try to be cute and buy me hot pink running tights. There is a limit to my desperation and I draw it at all things pink.

In a Nutshell:

I am currently suffering from a really bad stomach ache due to the giant mocha I downed while sitting here in Crema, my coffee shop of choice, writing this post.

Listening to all Punch Brothers, all the time. I pretend to have diverse tastes in music, but I really listen to bluegrass pretty exclusively.

But I don't listen to music when I'm running. I am a bad-ass, through and through.

You might fancy
I sure do.