Famous Last Words

More Slo-Mo Than Flo-Jo

Check this link for an interesting perspective on marathon running from Don Allison at Active.com. I found the following paragraphs the most interesting.

"Despite all of the setbacks, there were more marathon finishers than ever before in the U.S. last year, more than 400,000 in all, the first time that number has been reached in history, and up more than 100,000 from the beginning of the decade. This, despite the cancellation of the Chicago Marathon in midstream and the missing thousands from Honolulu. Can anything stop the marathon mania? Will the upward growth, which is now taken for granted as an annual occurrence, ever come to an end? From all appearances, it does not seem so.

Marathoners continue to get faster—but mostly among those who are already fast. Haile Gebrselassie set a world record of 2:04:26 in the Berlin Marathon last fall, and followed that up just this month with a 2:04:53 in Dubai. Friends, those times equate to a pace of better than 4:45 per mile. The diminutive Ethiopian had good reason to run so quickly: the victory in Dubai was worth $250,000, and he would have collected a cool million had he improved upon his world record time from Berlin. The rest of the marathon world has not improved as the elite have, however. The average time among all male marathoners in 2007 was 4:29:52; among women, 4:59:28. So for all you men and women out there seeking bragging rights, sub 4:30 and sub five hours, respectively, will place you in the top half of all marathoners."

Alas, my full marathon times are almost an hour slower than the "average" marathoner. But considering I'm now 50, I give myself points for just showing up. As a friend of mine is fond of saying: Finishing slow is better than not finishing at all. And not finishing is better than not starting. I know it's more impressive to focus on improving your finishing times, but there is something to be said for enjoying the journey. So let's hear it for all the back-of-the-packers.

Love When You Can, Cry When You Hafta

In 1973, I was 16 and besotted with Dan Fogelberg. A DJ at our local rock station WZZQ had somehow discovered him in his early years and managed to create a fan base for the little-known musician in Mississippi.

My friends and I would lay on the floor and listen over and over to his first album. "Be on Your Way" was the soundtrack to our break-ups and "To the Morning" was an anthem for our expectations for a brighter day. When he finally came to Mississippi for a concert in the city auditorium, no one was more suprised than he that it sold out. (I know this because I got to interview him later as a reporter for the local newspaper.)

The night of the concert I could barely contain my excitement as I got ready to join two friends. We ate at McDonald's beforehand, and arrived early so we could be first in line for the unassigned seating. Right before it was time to go in, I discovered I didn't have my ticket. To this day, I'm not sure where I lost it. But I was in tears as I called my dad to come get me. As I headed down the sidewalk to wait for my ride, I passed a guy from my high school. As I shared with him my sad tale, he handed me his extra ticket. His date had stood him up! I wish I could say that I invited him to sit with me -- I realize now that is what I should have done. Instead, I thanked him profusely and rejoined my friends at the auditorium doors.

Once inside we dashed down to wonderful seats in the front section. And I remember it was an altogether magical night. It was just Fogelberg and his acoustic guitar and I don't think I've been to a concert I've enjoyed more. I felt so grown-up watching the college kids in front of us sneaking sips of wine. And I can still remember that feeling you get from music and lyrics that speak to your soul.

When I heard of Fogelberg's passing, it was if I had lost an old friend. He was a great storyteller and a wonderful musician. When I interviewed him years later, I told him about that night. I suppose I came across as some lovesick fan, but I hope it meant something to him. Sappy, I know. But that evening is a moment in time that transports me back to that 16-year-old who thought "to love was not so strange."

To everything, there is an interval

I'm a wogger. What that means is I mix jogging and walking in a regimented way i.e. I jog for three minutes, walk for two, then repeat the process. It's an easy way to get into distance running, and running guru Jeff Galloway swears it can even make you faster. I can't vouch for that, as I'm a start-slow-taper-off kind of girl. But I do feel it gives you a better overall workout as walking tends to work the hamstrings and butt and running tends to focus more on the quadriceps.

Last year I started a wogging club called the Half-Crazy Marathon Club. We train for and travel to half-marathons. My club is mostly made up of women over 30, whom I believe are especially well-suited to the interval mindset. Women of experience know "this-too-shall-pass" and most can stand anything if they know they'll eventually get a break (which explains our ability to endure labor and the occasional bad marriage.)

Men, not so much. In fact, I believe men fall victim to the middle-age crazies because they can't get the hang of the "seasons" of marriage. They look at their wives' focus on the kids or career as permanent, so they seek out that young chick who will dote on them, only to see that devotion wane when she becomes a mother or gets on the career track herself. Meanwhile, wife No. 1 has emerged from the "season" of mommy and/or career concerns and is now ready to return to the roots of her marriage.

Delayed gratification. We understand it. This too will get better.

   

Meanwhile, back at my life

Aforementioned 16-year-old son now has driver's license. On his first official day behind the wheel, he ran a red light, got a ticket for parking without a permit on the community college campus where he takes vo-tech and was late for his return to his regular high school classes because he couldn't find a parking space.

Sigh ... Gives all new meaning to "driving" your parents crazy.

Lucky for him, I'm much too busy with my own life to hyper-focus on his issues. Since I last blogged, I've run 7 miles with my half-crazy marathon club, did PR for a community health fair, worked on a presentation for my bid for an accreditation from the Public Relations Society of America and handled the usual flotsam and jetsam of my hospital PR job.

Did I mention I'm tired.

Wishing for Adult-Onset Organizational Skills

I will admit that one of my reasons for returning to blogging was to create a sort of virtual filing system for all the information I stumble upon, vow I'm going to remember, and promptly forget.

For instance, I'm forever reading book reviews and thinking: I want that book! A smart person would log the title in her PDA, but I'm always sure I'll remember. (I don't own a PDA by the way, much too Type A for my tastes.) But by the time I actually make it to the bookstore, all I can come up with is some weak description like: Well, I know the main character was a journalist. Not particularly helpful with seasonal bookstore help who are only there so they can buy cheap Manga. Sooo ... I'm thinking if I blog about something I want to read, see, do or buy, I'll have a ready reference guide.

I want to be more like my friend Shawn -- the best blogger I personally know (check out everythingandnothing.typepad.com/). Shawn almagamates. I love her  links to interesting items from catalog must-haves to fun personality tests. And I envision doing that myself. Unfortunately, I'm of the age that wasn't weaned on a computer and I'm still working out the kinks on how to link items.

Until I get it figured out, I'll be that woman wandering dazed and confused through Borders hoping I stumble on something I want to read.

Deja View

I am married to the world's most nostalgic man.

On the down side, that means we watch the same movies over and over, have been on the same family vacation for 20 years and our home is cluttered with sentimental items he MUST save i.e. Happy Meal toys, children's games and even ticket stubs from various sporting events.

On the plus side, this makes him the natural archivist for all the family history I unfortunately have forgotten. And I hope it means that when I'm a wrinkled 80-year-old he'll look at me with the fond eyes of someone who finds comfort in the familiar.

You just got to love a man who won't leave you when the new wears off.

Why famous last words?

Because that phrase pops up in our house so frequently it has now been shortened to FLW. For instance, when someone (OK, my 16-year-old son) says there's no way this ball is going to break that window, my husband and I just look at each other and chime: FLW. Somehow it takes the edge off all the calamities that are just around the corner.