A Musician in December...

... has limited time.  A musician in December who also knits has even less time.  And if the musician's family is coming to visit over Christmas, well, time is just nonexistent.

In other words, I have been unable post anything since my wonderful trip to London, which I am dying to tell you all about, but, as stated above, I have no time.  Please be patient just a little while longer.

Talk to you soon.

My Year of YES! Part Two or How I Decided to Be a Solo Traveler

I've always loved to travel.  Every bit of it, even sitting in an airport, fills me with delight.  I love going new places, experiencing new cultures.  I love the romance of it all.  But, I've always traveled in the company of others.

I grew up traveling with my family.  We flew back and forth across the Pacific.  When in the States, we would embark on long cross-country road-trips to visit family and "see" our passport country, stopping at museums, national parks and presidential libraries all along the way.  I sometimes think I've visited more of the U.S. than most people my age.

I didn't do much traveling during college other than going home to Japan.  One of my few regrets from college is not taking advantage of the overseas trips my college offered.  I could have studied in Paris or London.  I could have visited Australia or China.  Coulda, shoulda, woulda.

Of course, with a travel companion, photos like this happen.

Several years ago, I decided I wanted to go to Italy.  It seemed like a wonderful introduction to Europe and a great place to start my travels.  A friend agreed to go with me and really helped propel me from wishing I could to actually buying airplane tickets.  We had the best time, tossing coins in the Trevi in Rome, climbing the Duomo in Florence, wandering the alleys of Venice.  I came back with a greater appreciation for food and art and all things Italian.  I loved every minute of it.

It's easeier to travel with someone.  Generally, it's cheaper as well since you can often split room and board.  A good travel companion is a blessing, someone to share experiences with, split some costs and, I think most importantly, someone to reminince with.  "Remember when we went to the opera in Rome?"  "Remember the glass-blower on Murano chastising us about buying Chinese glass?"  "Remember asking the Japanese tourists, in Japanese, to take our photo in front of the Rialto Bridge?"  (By the way, the looks on their faces were priceless!)  "Remember watching Italy's first game in the World Cup at the Walk-a-bout Pub?"  "Remember when..."

My family has a bunch of those "remember whens" as well.  Interupting the morning poker game at a diner in Arthur, NE.  Eating cheetos with chopsticks in front of Eisenhower's presidential library.  Flying olives, swearing chefs, battered fish, a choral director dressed like a bat... all of these are enough to send my family into hysterics, remembering. 

I've had so much fun traveling with someone.  Also, as a single female, I was hesitant to travel alone.  Safety in numbers after all.  But, as I've gotten older, my friends have gotten married, settled down, had kids.  It's harder for them to save money for a grand adventure across the pond.  It's harder to find the time.  I kept thinking, I'll go somewhere soon, when I find someone to travel with.

Last fall, I finally realized, if I keep waiting for a travel companion, I'd be waiting a long while.  I want my life to be full of travel and experiences.  If I want to keep traveling, I have to go alone.  So, last fall, as I started mentally preparing for my 30th birthday, I decided.  Yes, I was going to continue traveling.  Yes, I was going to go somewhere special for my birthday.

 Yes, I will be a solo traveler.

I leave for London on Monday.

A Decision is Made

For several weeks now, I've been weighed down by a dilemma.  Something that I started with such joy several years ago is now a burden. Something that I used to look forward to each week with excitement I've now started to view with dread.  I wasn't sure what to do.  Do I quit?  Do I stay?  Do I muddle through, getting progressively more depressed and anxious about it or do I cut my losses, say "It's been fun," and leave?

Don't worry, it's not my job.  I'm still very happy there.

I thought, maybe I'm just going through a dull patch and things will get better.  I thought, I just need to gaman and it will be fine.  I thought, if I can just get through these next few weeks, I'll start enjoying it once again and I'll start looking forward to the next week.  Unfortunately, this has not been the case and as of last week, I made a tentative decision to quit the activity.  Still, that decision weighed on me. 

Was it the right decision?  I worried that I could lose friends over this decision.  Was it the wrong decision?  I worried that I would lose a part of me if I stayed.  I waffled back and forth.  Were my friends worth my peace of mind?  I was tying myself in knots.  My shoulders were so tight, I felt like I was stuck in a permanent slump.

Then, earlier this week, I recieved what I am taking to be a sign.  An email that, in its very tone and subject, highlighted, with a flourescent marker, a good portion of what I felt to be amiss with the activity and some of those involved.  I felt it showed a lack of trust and respect towards me.  The email seemed condescending.  It angered me. 

I wanted to respond in kind and let the sender know exactly what I felt.  A part of me wanted to quit right then and there.

I wanted to ignore it and pretend it hadn't been sent.  A part of me thought, surely the sender didn't realize how the email sounded.

The stress I'd been feeling manifested itself as a tension headache like I've never had before, lasting a day and a half.  The slightest thing made me want to cry.  I couldn't focus on work.

All this for something that used to be fun.  

When your body starts to react physically to stress, something has to give.  When the rest of your life is being affected by stress, it is time to eliminate the stressor.  So, I'll finish out my obligation, I don't want to burn any bridges.

But, I've made up my mind.  It's not worth it, not any more.  I am at peace with that.

And, the headache is gone.

The Stephanie Socks

I'm a fairly accomplished knitter.  Some might say I'm an expert knitter.  I've yet to find a pattern that completely defeats me.  I do not often have knitting attacks, where things go hopelessly wrong through no fault of my own (it's the yarn's fault, you know it is).  So, it came as something of a surprise to find that the sock I was knitting was not knitting as a sock should.

Sock #1 looks beautiful, no?

I was knitting the Route 66 design by Stephanie van der Linden, a very nice geometric design, inspired by American quilt blocks.  The first sock went swimmingly.  The colors were working, the pattern was knitting up quickly.  I even learned how to knit Continental so that I could have one color in each hand.

So, first sock down.  The hardest part is starting the second, right?  Second Sock Syndrome can be a very serious thing.  Nope, no problem there.  Started the second right away, it was going swimmingly, too.  Except I kept knitting the colors in the wrong order which made for quite a bit of tinking.  And, then I got to the heel flap.

I read the directions, I shifted stitches from needle to needle and started knitting the flap.  About ten rows in (about half the flap), I realized the pattern wasn't quite lining up.  I knit a couple more rows thinking, "I can live with that."

No, I couldn't live with that.  The flap got frogged, the directions got reread, I shifted a few more stitches from needle to needle and started knitting again.  I got all the way to the end of the flap that time and started turning the heel only to discover there weren't enough stitches in the heel flap.  I was supposed to have 36 stitches and instead I had 32.  I counted and recounted feverishly.  I scanned the heel flap for dropped stitches even though 4 seemed like an unlikely amount of dropped stitches (if I had dropped those stitches, I would have thought that I would have noticed them earlier; that's almost half an inch of stitches).  No such luck.  The flap got frogged... again.

Reread the directions, decided they weren't helping me this time and shifted some more stitches so that I was at least starting with the right number of stitches.  I felt like I was back in control.  The pattern was lining up, the heel was turned, I started liking the socks again.  As a reward for good behavior, I took the socks with me to Powells to meet the Yarn Harlot, who was in Portland promoting her latest book.

Can I just say, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee aka the Yarn Harlot is hilarious? And awesome?  If you're a knitter, you probably already knew that but it bears repeating.  She is awesome.  Portland was her last stop on her 10-day book tour and I know she was exhausted.  You could hear it in her voice.  Even so, she was wonderfully witty and gracious with everyone who stood in line to get their books signed.  She even willing posed for a picture with me and my socks.  These socks so owe me for that.

And, the socks finally got a name out of it.  Because they were designed by a Stephanie and photographed with a Stephanie, I'm calling them my Stephanie Socks.

So all was right in my knitting world, I met the Yarn Harlot, the socks were swimming again.  What could possibly go wrong?



So close and yet so far...



I ran out of yarn.  (whimper)

And my LYS is out of it and not expecting anymore until December.  (sniff)

After my trip to London, for which I was knitting these socks.  (grumble)

Did I just see a error in the cuff?  (sigh)

(bigger sigh)


Put the sock down and step away from the knitting. 

In Which Our Heroine Completes the Portland Marathon

Two weeks ago today, I set out to do the craziest thing I've ever done.  I ran a marathon.  Me! the kid who hated running with a passion.

My first memory of running in anything was an event at my sister's school field day when I was about 3 or 4.  As a "fun" event, the organizers had younger brothers and sisters who weren't yet school age run in a race.  I vaguely remember being lined up at the starting line.  I can't remember if I went willingly or not but I do remember, when the "ready... set... go" order was given, I ran.  I ran straight to my dad, who was no where near the finish line.  In fact, I think he was in the opposite direction.

Two weeks ago, when that air horn blew, I ran.  This time, I was focused on that finish line.

I took the bus downtown, along with several other runners and walkers.  Got to my corral, waited in line for the port-a-potty and then in an even longer line for the clothes check.  The one thing I had forgotten to prep the day before was my bell music for rehearsal later in the day so, it came to the marathon with me and got checked with my jacket.

No sooner had I checked my folder and jacket, then it was time for my corral to move to the start.  A few minutes wait at the start and then the air horn blast that signaled our start.  A slow jog across the start and we were off.

Down 4th Ave we ran, across Burnside and under the gate to Chinatown.  A right onto Davis and past Portland Taiko, one of the many music groups along the way.  I was excited to see and hear them and they brought a smile to my face.  I could have listened to them all the way to the finish.  Hmmm, maybe I need to add some taiko to my running mix.

Followed Naito Parkway south and then jogged through Portland State to continue on Barbur.  This part of the course follows the same course that the Shamrock Run follows.  Amazing what seven months of training can do for you.  Last March, I walked a lot of the Shamrock, a run of about 4.5 miles.  Two weeks ago, I was feeling strong, like I could run all day.

Spectators were everywhere.  A group of women ran in place in slow-motion, getting a wheezy laugh from most of the marathoners.  Signs cheered us all on.  "Dear perfect stranger, we are proud of you."  "99% can't do this.  You are the 1%."  Some would cheer us on by name, reading our names off our bibs.  It was wonderful, knowing so many were pulling for us, cheering, encouraging.  There was the guy with thundersticks who kept moving around multiple places.  The family cheering on Mindy (I was a little jealous of Mindy; I saw her cheering squad at least 5 different places).

I was able to keep a steady pace for the first two hours.  My plan of attack was to run at a fairly easy pace and walk through the water stations.  For those first two hours, I stayed at an easy 12 minute mile pace, right on target.  After the 10th mile, the course started wending its way up through Northwest Portland towards Hwy 30 and the St. Johns Bridge.  My stomach started to growl in hunger.  I started to slow a little but tried to keep my pace, leap frogging several people as they stopped to walk and then started running again.  Then came the hill going up to St. Johns Bridge.

Now, I'd been warned by several people that this was a hard hill.  It comes between mile 16 and 17; it's not particularly steep but it is long, especially after over three hours of running.  As I started my ascent, I thought I'd go as long as I could and then stop and walk.  However, as I started passing some people, ok, a lot of people, who were walking, I started thinking of the hill training I did for Hood to Coast.  I thought about running the Twin Peaks leg, watching the stars.  I thought about my Hood to Coast teammates who called me a beast.  I thought of how, when I got back in the van after completing that leg of Hood to Coast, I said, "I eat mountains like that for a late-night snack."  There was no way I was going to let myself stop after all that I had already accomplished so I kept running.

Right near the top, I nearly started to fade but I began to hear marimba music coming from the top of the hill.  It was enough to keep me going and then I was on the bridge.  I looked over my right shoulder towards downtown, just visible through the clearing mist, and I got chills.  I wish I could have taken a picture. 

Down, off the bridge, down a rather steep little hill and then up another street.  This hill, though shorter than the approach to St. Johns Bridge, felt a lot harder.  When I had crossed the bridge, I thought it was all downhill from there.  Boy, was I wrong.  Still, I refused to quit.

Past the University of Portland, past people sitting in their front yards watching the runners go by.  I saw a woman in front of her house with a giant bottle of ibuprofen, handing them to any one who wanted them.  By this time, my knees were definitely feeling the pain, but since I had not trained with ibuprofen during my runs, I was wary of taking any until I was finished.

Right before descending Greeley, I saw one of my co-workers who's wife was running the marathon.  I think she's probably a much faster runner than I am so I was touched that my co-worker would stay longer, just to cheer me on.  And I needed that encouragement because I was about to hit the wall.

You would think that running downhill would be easier.  Gravity is working with you and all that.  Ha!  The hardest part was running down Greeley.  At this point, my knees were screaming and my pace slowed to an over-17 minute mile.  By the time I got to the next flat stretch, it felt like I had no knee caps.   It was almost a relief to reach the flat of Interstate and the slight uphill approach to Broadway Bridge.

Coming off of the Broadway Bridge, I saw a friend that I hadn't seen in several months, walking with a friend.  After saying hi, he asked how I was feeling.  My response was "I'm not stopping, I'm not!"  Although I did walk through one more water station, when I got to the final water station, which was about a half mile from the finish, I refused to stop.  If I had stopped there, I'm not sure I would have started again.

When I turned onto Taylor, I started lengthening my stride and pushing my pace.  I was determined to finish well.  As a rower, I was trained to leave it all at the end, expend every last bit of energy in the final sprint.  Turning left onto 3rd, the finish was only about fifty feet away.  I dug deep and pushed hard and sprinted, passing a couple of people in the final seconds.  I heard them call my name, I crossed the finish line and I was done.

I was given my finisher's medal, a space blanket and I continued on to the food.  GU is no substitute for real food; it had staved off my hunger, kept me going but I was ready for food.  I took one of everything.  Cheese, yes.  Bagel, yes.  Chocolate, yes. Juice, yes.  And it tasted good.

I texted my sister and brother and a friend, "Finished!" and walked, slowly, to the gym to get ready for the rest of my day.

And, just like I caught the Hood to Coast bug, I'm now hooked on marathons.  I don't plan on running a marathon every year but maybe every other year.  I think after doing the Portland Marathon again, I'd like to run the Tokyo Marathon.  Who knows where I'll run next?

Marathon Time

The hotel was a a maze, literally.  Up a ramp, up a stopped escalator, down a moving escalator, down another escalator, around the corner, down a long, steep ramp and all the way to the end and there it was, the table where I picked up my race number for Sunday.  I know, I've been saying that the marathon was like going to school, something that I was excited about but also really nervous.  Today, I felt like the new kid at school.  I must have looked like it, too, 'cause a lot of people took one look at me, sympathetically nodded their heads and asked, "First marathon?"

I didn't linger at the Sports Health Expo where I picked up my number and shirt.  It felt too crazy, too intense.  I've been to the Health Expo during Race for the Cure weekend (where an entire convention hall is doused in Pepto-Bismol and Cadillac pink), I've been to bridal shows, and neither of them felt as intense as the Running Expo.  And, believe me, bridal shows can be intense.  I blame part of the added intensity on the location, trapped in the bowels of the Hilton.  The ceiling felt so close and I don't usually get claustrophobic.  Of course, the shortness of breath could be the general nervousness I've been feeling for the last week.

There's nothing more I can do to prepare.  I had my last long run two weeks ago and then promptly tapered as I should.  My last long run wasn't as long as I wanted and felt harder than anything I had done before.  It was shoe-horned in between church and bell rehearsal.  I was not prepared mentally for that run.

I had my last run yesterday, a short 2.5 miles made a little bit longer by the Occupy Portland protest.  They were blocking my regular route so I detoured slightly.  I was just going to run on the other side of the street but that would have involved running past a line of cops and that just seemed disrespectful for some reason.  So, I ran up another block and cut over.  No big deal.

After leaving the hotel today, which was quite a feat of navigation (for a few minutes, I was going in circles in the Hilton's grand ballroom trying to find the exit), I quickly headed off to finish my last minute marathon errands.  To the running store to get my GU (energy gel) for the race and something to carry it in.  Since water is provided on the course, I don't want to run with a water belt but I need something to carry my GU.  By the way, energy gel isn't as gross as you would think it would be, but it's certainly not something you really want to eat for fun.  Eating doesn't feel like the right word since you can't chew it.  Besides, it just sounds funny to say "I ate GU."  Go ahead, try saying it.  Doesn't feel right, does it?  Drinking doesn't sound right either, especially since it is much more viscous than water.  It's a mystery.

I'm now in my final carb-loading and hydration phase.  Tomorrow will be spent prepping for the marathon, packing and delivering my post-race bag to the gym so I can shower afterwards and proceed to church for our new pastor's installation service and bell choir rehearsal.  There is actually some method to my madness.  Better to be standing, moving, doing stuff than crashing on the couch for 6 hours and then crawling down to bed.  Or, at least, that's what I've been telling myself.

On the other hand, I could just be crazy, a glutton for punishment, and unable to admit I can't do everything.

Last of the Summer Somen

When the weather gets hot, I love to eat somen for dinner.  Somen are very thin, white noodles served cold with a light dipping sauce, tsuyu.  My parents brought me some from Japan as a birthday present this summer although the noodles are available from my local Asian food store.  I think the somen from my parents tastes better though. 

Somen with prosciutto, cucumber, tsuyu and cherry tomatoes

Of course, Portland didn't really get summer this year until the last two weeks of August so I didn't get to eat my somen for a while.  The temperatures stayed in the 70s and 80s for the most and it just didn't feel warm enough for somen, until the end of August and the beginning of September.  Then it got suddenly warmer than I prefer.  I spent some uncomfortable afternoons, in a puddle on the couch.  However, it was just right for somen.

This year, my parents added an admonition to keep my somen stored up high.  A few years ago, my parents brought me some birthday somen, along with other assorted goodies like Pocky and curry blocks.  We came back from dinner to find a hyper dog, a very dry water dish and little pieces of white all over the floor.  It wasn't until we found the shredded somen package on the living room floor that we realized I had left the somen in a doggie-accessible place and the little white things were the remains of the noodles.  Della had managed to eat not just a serving but the entire package.  That's five adult servings of carby noodles!  She's a 30 lb dog and, yet, she seems to have a cast iron stomach.  No ill affects what-so-ever.  She didn't even have the decency to look ashamed as she usually does when she eats something she shouldn't.  I know they say dogs don't know that they've done something bad but I don't believe it.  Della always knows but this time, she was completely unrepentant.

I've gotten better about keeping food out of her reach, but I still forget sometimes.  Just last Friday, I won some beef jerky for singing in a contest at work (it was Frontier Heritage Beer and Jerky Day, a completely made-up holiday).  I was exhausted when I got home, end of a long week, and I forgot to put my purse, with the jerky inside it, on the table.  Instead, I left it on the floor by the front door.  Della, being the perpetually hungry and inquisitive dog that she always seems to be, made quick work of it while my back was turned.  Apparently, I'll never learn.

Looks sweet, doesn't she?  Don't be fooled, she's a canine vacuum.

Twin Peaks - Hood to Coast Recap Part 2

"The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start." ~ John Bingham

Ok, I know I said I'd write this entry on Monday but it has taken me longer to recover lost sleep than I expected. I've been going to bed early all week.  Anyway, where was I?


Becky's family met her at the end of her first leg.  Her
children ran the last 50 or so feet with her (with their
signs).  They were the hit of the exchange.  So. Cute. 
Even cuter was Becky trying to explain to them she
wasn't done yet but still had two more legs to go.


Oh, so, after I finished my first leg, the final four runners in my van had to finish theirs. For the rest of them, it was very hot and humid. Unfortunately, we were unable to give a lot of support to them as they were running on the Springwater Corridor, a biking/walking path that used to be a rail corridor that stretches from Boring to Portland. For runners #9-12, it was unending blackberry bushes casting minimal shade, heat radiating from the blacktop and no breeze. I'm really glad I wasn't running any of those legs this year.

After being crammed in a van, it was nice
just to stretch out some.

Once we had all finished our first legs, it was back to Nathan's where we ate lasagna, soaked in the local pool and showered. Then, feeling refreshed, we all napped.

On to Exchange 18, the Columbia Fairgrounds. Well, technically, we never made it to the fairgrounds. The traffic going past the fairgrounds was soo bad that Shawn and Bill hopped out about a half mile early to jog up to the exchange to relieve Lauren (runner #6), who had to wait about 10-15 minutes for the hand off. Bill got back just before we passed the point of no return and we were able to by-pass most of the traffic by skirting through the neighborhood. Unfortunately, traffic only got worse from there, with almost every exchange thereafter backing up a half mile to a full mile.

Now we come to the part that people have been wondering about. The dreaded Twin Peaks leg. We managed to get ahead of Shawn but not by much. I had just enough time to use a Honey Bucket. I'd already gotten all of my reflective gear on but I forgot my visor, which helps keep my headlamp on. Nathan started to go back to the van to get it but Shawn came in right at that moment, and I had to go on without it.  I felt rushed and somewhat unprepared.

Now, I'll be honest, I've been scared of this leg ever since it was assigned to me. It looks absolutely horrible on paper (see here) and I'd heard nothing good about it. Everyone complains about the dust, the incline, the length, everything. So, I was worried even though I've been training for it. It really was a miracle that I even started.

But, it was beautiful. There were so many stars and I could see them so clearly.  At certain points, I could look ahead and see vans ahead on the mountainside and know, that was where I was going.  It felt a little humid at the start but not too hot and as I heated up, my elevation increased and the temperature fell so that I was never to warm or too cold.  Vans would pass every so often, illuminating the road.  Runners passed as well, offering encouragement.  But I didn't need it the way I had on my first leg.  I had the stars to encourage me.  I had the quiet of the mountains and the cool night air to refresh me.

My newest favorite quote is one by Marcus Aurelius, our team's psuedo-namesake.  It's listed at the bottom of this blog now but I'll repeat it again.  "Dwell on the beauty of life.  Watch the stars and see yourself running with them."  Last Friday night and into Saturday morning, I was watching the stars and I was running with them.  I chose to dwell on the beauty of life and I loved every minute of it.

Ugh - Hood to Coast Recap Part One

So, Hood to Coast.  How do I sum up 30 hours of fun, agony, joy, frustration and hilarity? It's a difficult thing to do.  But to paraphrase Lewis Carroll, I'll begin at the beginning and continue to the end.  Then I'll stop.

Since I've already detailed my preparations in a previous post, I'll start with the first van exchange, Exchange 6.  Bernadette was kind enough to pick me up on the way to meet the van but she was a little late because she was answering a work email.  We got to Nathan's with just enough time to load our stuff and shoehorn ourselves into the Suburban.  As a result, I didn't get to decorate our van until we got to Exchange 6.  I did a pretty good job, though, if I say so myself.

Van 1 started at Timberline Lodge in torrential rain after driving up in a thunderstorm.  Thankfully, the rain stopped soon after that.  Van 1 had some great stories to tell us about driving up in the lightening.  Lauren, runner #6, soon made it to the exchange, Shawn took the bracelet and we were off down the road.  It was blisteringly hot and humid in Sandy so we stopped to give Shawn some water.  Running machine that he is, he was soon done and it was my turn.

I'm off!

That first leg was the hardest.  I started well, nice and slow and steady.  The van stopped about 2 miles in to give me water.  Earlier, I had made the mistake of telling Nathan that "Who Let the Dogs Out" was in my running playlist.  Horrible song, I know, but it has a great beat and it always makes me laugh.  As I rounded the corner to where they were parked, he blasted it from the car speakers. It was a great pick-me-up.  However, somehow, I had got it in my brain that the leg was 3.5 miles, not 4.55, so I told them I wouldn't need anymore water stops.  Soon after they moved on, another female runner started to pass me but encouraged me to run with her.  I tried to tell her to go on but she was insistent.  It was fun to run with someone for a while but as a result, I pushed a little too hard to soon and got a stitch in my side.  I had to fall back and regroup.  When I got to the next turn, my watch said I had been running over 35 minutes so I thought I was close to the end.  Then I rounded the turn and saw a sign saying "1 more mile to lucky leg exchange." Ugh.  It was at the base of a rather steep hill.  Double ugh.  It was nearly 90 degrees fahrenheit.  Triple ugh.  I had told the van not to stop again.  Quadruple ugh.

Handing off to Bill - glad that leg is done!

I found the strength to run up the hill, albeit slowly (I nearly roadkilled someone who had roadkilled me just before the hill) and then rewarded myself with walking for about a minute.  There was a nice patch of shade and a little breeze so I soon started feeling a bit better.  I powered through that final mile and happily handed the bracelet to Bill who had the next leg.  Bernadette handed me a bottle of water which I promptly poured over my head.  Man, that felt good.

As a runner on Leg 8, I was given a token for a free beer at the finish line on the beach, a Widmer headband and a chance to play a game of chance.  I got to roll a giant die and if it landed on a 2, a 4, or a 6, I won a prize.  Well, who doesn't love free stuff?  So, I rolled the die, it fell off the table into the grass and landed on a 2.  What did I win, you ask?  I won a Widmer key lanyard and 6 commemorative Hood to Prost bottle openers.  Woohoo!

Check out my Widmer swag!  Pretty entertaining for someone who doesn't drink beer!

This recap will continue tomorrow as I am still rather zonked and I have work tomorrow.

Summer Camp! er, I mean Hood to Coast!

The day has finally arrived.  Hood to Coast day!  Woohoo!  In case you haven't noticed, I love Hood to Coast.  Wait, no, I LOVE Hood to Coast!  I don't know what it is about it that I love so much.  Try explaining it to anyone who doesn't know or write it down on paper and it just sounds horrendous.  Thirty plus hours in a van, running three different distances ranging from just over three to just over eight miles, no sleep, bad food, Honey Buckets, I could go on. And on.

And yet, Hood to Coast is one of the highlights of my year.  And it starts today!

This year, my preparations started a couple of days earlier.  I had to give Della a bath before I bundled her off to my sister's house and, apparently, it has been sufficiently warm enough in Portland for Della to finally start shedding her winter coat.  Except she wasn't shedding it, she was blowing it.  In the tub.  I swear, she left a third of her coat in the tub.  Next morning, she was still one giant scruffy fluff.  I was actually a little late for work because I was brushing her down.  Another third of her coat off later, she looked better and a little more comfortable.  But when I got home, I was still pulling tufts of fur off her.  She is now at my sister's where, hopefully, she will behave herself and not leave too much fur behind.

Amazing what you need for a 200 mile relay race.

Last night, I started packing.  I've been figuring out my list of what to bring to Hood to Coast for a few weeks now.  With some creative packing, I managed to get most of it in my gym bag.  Food will have to go in a separate bag which I think I would prefer anyway.  I wasn't at all sleepy last night, I was too wired.  Finally, about 10:30, after watching the Hood to Coast documentary, again, I had to force myself to go to bed.

I set my alarm for around 7:00, giving me plenty of time to shower and finish packing.  Unfortunately, I woke up at my almost normal time of 5:30.  Boing! Wide awake, no hope of going back to sleep.  I lay in bed as long as I could stand it, which wasn't long.  Up I went, to finish packing.  Since then, I've taken a nice, leisurely shower, packed, started a load of laundry (not H2C related) and finished loading the dishwasher.  I watched the news and weather (I'm glad I'm not running leg 1 this year, thunderstorms and pouring rain at the start), ate breakfast, watched an episode of Star Trek: Voyager (yes, I am a geek, get used to it) and now, I'm writing this blog entry.  I could do some vacuuming but I keep telling myself I need to conserve my energy.  Really, I'm just lazy and I don't want to right now.  I want to be on my way to Sandy where my van will start.

As I wrote in an earlier blog entry, Hood to Coast, for me, is like summer camp.  It's a break from my everyday life, a time to get away and do something different.  It challenges my body and my will and my preconceived notions of what I can do.  I get to experience my co-workers in a different way, seeing them outside the office.  I get to watch thousands of people do something incredible. 

And I can't wait to start.

Running Out of Time

Hood to Coast is coming up, just a few days away.  I'm feeling confident about it, even though I have a leg that has been described as the "5.75-mile epitome of your grandfather’s walk to school—uphill, both ways—with dusty gravel doing a more than adequate job of standing in for snow."  I've been running Terwilliger on the weekends for the last couple of months so I'm not too worried about it, especially as I will be running that leg at night.  For those of you who don't know, Terwilliger Blvd is a twisty-turny street that starts near downtown Portland and wends it's way up from about 200 ft to over 600 ft in just under 6 miles.  Not quite as steep as my H2C leg but it gives a good approximation and it's the right distance.  And, as I said, I'll be running it at night.

I love night running.  I find it to be very quiet and meditative.  Night runs feel longer, as if time had stopped but also shorter, as if I was running outside of time.  My pace is usually slower, I think because I don't have same visual cues that I would during the day, but I finish the run feeling fantastic and refreshed, despite the fact I've just run several miles.

Both times that I have done Hood to Coast before, I've preferred my night runs.  There's a sense of being all by yourself, in a good way.  During the day, you can't help but notice the people you're running with but at night, the people you pass (or if you are like me, the people who pass you) are merely well-lit shadows, outlined with reflective tape.  Out in the wilderness of Oregon, on the twisty roads of the coastal mountains, they soon disappear around the next turn and you're alone once more, with the night sky, cool air, and possibly a cow munching on hay in the field next to you.  I relish those feelings, I cherish them. 

So, I am excited for Hood to Coast.  I can't wait for it.  I feel like a kid about to go to summer camp.  And the marathon I have coming up?  Well, I'm choosing not to think about it right now.  It's like the first day of school.  I know I'm behind in training for it and I know I'm running out of time. 

That reminds me, I need to go for a run.

To Zip or Not To Zip?

Zipcar is in the middle of their Low-Car Diet event right now.  It's purpose is to raise awareness of how easy it can be to use cars less.  I've always wished I could sign up but I don't own a car.  I've never owned a car.  I do not plan on ever owning a car (well, maybe, someday, I'll get a MINI).  Public transit is my primary mode of vehicular transportation and I walk everywhere else.  Occasionally, I'll reserve a Zipcar if I'm travelling somewhere with limited transit options.  I was living the No-Car lifestyle long before Zipcar arrived.

Today, I filled out a survey for Zipcar.  I believe they were partnering with Portland's Department of Transportation to discover how Zipcar has affected people's transit and personal vehicle use.  I'm always happy to fill out a survey that could help increase the transit options in Portland.  As decent as Portland's transit system is, it could be so much better.

However, today, I found some of the questions to be flawed.  For example, one question asked if I had sold my car because of Zipcar.  I was only given the option to agree or disagree.  Since I didn't have a car to begin with, I started to disagree with that statement, but that didn't feel right and I didn't want to skew the results in the negative.  Instead, I skewed the results in the positive by agreeing that Zipcar had enabled me to sell my nonexistent car.  Similar questions asked if I walked more because of Zipcar, if I biked more because of Zipcar, if I rode the bus more because of Zipcar.  I "agreed" with all of them but the truth of the matter is, I've always walked, biked and ridden the bus to get where I need.  Zipcar did nothing to change that aspect of my life.  If anything, I've driven more because of Zipcar.  I've gone from No-Car to Low-Car.

Zipcar has certainly made my life easier but I still rely heavily on other modes of transportation.  My life is planned around public transit; I won't live somewhere without good transit options.  My daily commute on the bus is a generally relaxing time, during which I knit like mad.  I am also contemplating taking part in the Bike Commuter Challenge this year, although that would mean a significant decrease in knitting time.  And, due to monetary restraints, I've decided to bus instead of Zip this weekend to a birthday party in Oregon City.

So, Zipcar, I love you and you have changed my life marginally but I'll continue on my personal Low-Car Diet without you this weekend.

Stuck on the Sleeves

In November, I will be traveling to London.  Whenever I plan a trip, I plan what I will wear with great detail.  I want to look chic (ok, I want to look fabulous) and I don't want to look like a typical American tourist, so definitely no trainers.  I've been working on my Brit vocabulary and slang, can you tell?

When I went to Italy, I took several things that I had sewn, a couple of pairs of capri pants (how appropriate for Italy), a very light shrug for entering cathedrals (bare shoulders are not allowed), a halter, a sun dress and a truly fabulous silk chiffon skirt.  My trip to London will be no different; I plan to be dressed stylishly.  And, comfortably.

One of the things I'm working on is my Londinium sweater.  I have a sweater that I knit for my trip to Boston that I absolutely love but it is brown and I wanted something in a gray that I could wear with black, as   I'm also going to be sewing a new winter coat, a Vogue pattern, in a simply beautiful black and green DKNY wool with a little bit of sparkle.  Any sweater I make would need to match and fit under the coat.

Londinium - see the pretty cables?

I'm using the Rosamund's Cardigan pattern, by Andrea Pomerantz, with a few alterations.  I'd rather not use hook and eyes on knits and I don't really care for how the sweater opens at the bottom without the hooks and eyes so I added some more buttonholes for a total of six buttonholes.  I've been using Shepherd's Wool by Stonehedge Fiber Mill which is a wonderful merino, with great stitch definition.  I think this is my new favorite yarn.  It's so soft and I just want to buy several skeins and roll around in them.  And let me say, I do not often have hedonistic thoughts about yarn.

Back to the sweater.  Since I will be wearing it in London, in November, where it will be really cold, I wanted longer sleeves as well so I decided to lengthen the cap sleeves.  That's actually where I am in the project, at the sleeves.  The body knit up like a dream and I really like the reversible cables, in fact, I plan on repeating the cables on the cuff.  But when I got to the sleeves, I didn't stop to figure out any of the math.  So, now I'm going to have to frog the sleeve I started and begin the sleeve again, once I've figured out the decreases.  If I start with 60 stitches and I want 3.5 repeats of the cables on the sleeves (56 stitches), I would only have to decrease 4 stitches but I want the sleeve to fit snugly.  I'll have to decrease to just before the wrist and then increase again before the cuff.

Until I get all that math figured out, the sweater will just have to wait.  Besides, I have a top-secret project that needs finishing and I bought some lovely yarn at Knit Purl's Month of Lace sale and I just got the coolest book on socks from the library and I really want to make some socks now and start the gloves I plan to take to London and ... Anyone know a cure for startitis?

Adopting Della

By the end of the first weekend of Della's and my life together, it had become a mini-mantra that I used to remind myself I wanted a dog. I love my dog. I love my dog. I love my dog. And then I begged my sister to come over and watch Della so I could get out of the house sans dog. I needed to get away from my dog.


I do love my dog. The second I saw her file on the Oregon Humane Society's website, I knew. I knew she was my dog.


Della, waiting for me outside
my local coffeeshop

Della, with her sweet black face and sad eyes, caught my attention. I loved her black and white coloring and she was the right size(my landlord imposed a weight restriction). My sister and I traveled out by bus to the shelter on a Wednesday to meet her. At first, we couldn't find her in the kennels and I felt my heart sink. She was my dog; no one else was allowed to have her. After enlisting the help of a volunteer, we were able to locate Della and spend some time with her in the visiting room. Della seemed so quiet and lady-like. She let us pet her but she was very quiet and reserved, as if she didn't believe her life could change from being a stray shelter dog.



We arranged for each of us to individually place a 24 hour hold on her. I went home that night and sent emails to anyone I could think of who might be willing to drive me over on Friday to pick her up. A friend graciously agreed to help pick her up with me. Arriving at the shelter, I was told, by more than one of the shelter employees that they were so glad I was adopting Della. Apparently, another woman was interested in Della but she had a cat and the shelter had tried to dissuade her from adopting a dog that would not do well around cats. When she returned to try and adopt Della, she threw a fit when she found out Della was reserved. No one wanted her to get Della, especially after the fit-throwing.

Some paperwork, a quick stop at the pet store and Taco Time for dinner, and we were home. That first night, Della was an angel. The next day was great; we went for long walks, I pet her a lot and snuggled with her. Sunday morning, I had to go to church. I wasn't sure if she was house-trained or not so I put her in the downstairs bathroom with a bowl of water and her bed. When I came home and opened the door to let her out, I found the door trim in pieces on the floor where Della had launched herself at the door, trying to get out.

 

By Monday morning, I was wondering what I had gotten myself into. Della had slipped out of her collar a couple of times on our walks, she had an accident inside and she managed to get herself trapped in the upstair bathroom, where she proceeded to pull the door trim off that door as well. If I looked at her cross-eyed, she would flop to the floor in a submissive gesture. I think I cried a few times that weekend and I finally begged my sister to come over, just so I could get out of the house, by myself.

I had a few thoughts that weekend, of returning her but I couldn't bear to send her back to the shelter and I had to believe we would be fine once we got comfortable with each other.  And I didn't want to admit I couldn't handle owning a dog, even if I did have thoughts of "I don't think I can deal with this for another 10 years."

Della and I have been together now for 3 years.  At 8 years old, she doesn't show much signs of slowing down and now when I think about how many years we have left together, it's more of "we only have this many years left together" instead of "how will I survive" feeling.  I don't regret adopting her, even when Della does something she shouldn't... which is often.

My Year of YES! Part One or How I Got Into Running and Decided to Run a Marathon

This year, I turned thirty.  That birthday seems to be a particularly hard one for people.  As someone at my office said, "Twenty-nine seems a lot younger than thirty."  Now, I wouldn't say it was a hard birthday; all in all, it seemed fairly straight-forward.  I didn't feel any different, I didn't look any different.  I certainly don't want to go back to being twenty.  No matter what I say or feel, though, about turning thirty, that birthday is a milestone.

Last fall, I started to feel the impending milestone.  I had wanted to run my first marathon last year but was prevented by a foot injury.  So, there went my plan of running a marathon before I was thirty.  "Then," thought I, "I'll just run a marathon the year I turn thirty." Those who know me best were skeptical.

You see, when I was growing up, I was no athlete.  I liked to dance but I hated running (really, I hated all sports).  To paraphrase Snoopy, I was a running hater, a running loather, and a running despiser.  I was also scared to death of running.  I was terrible at it, I was slow, it made my chest hurt, my mouth dry, I tired easily.  I avoided almost all sports assiduously.  Then, I went to college and accidentally signed up for the novice rowing team.

At the activities fair, just between new student orientation and the start of classes, I wandered the tables, looking at clubs and organizations.  I met the people at the InterVarsity table and Campus Crusade; I couldn't decide which group to join so I made myself go to both, in an effort to make friends.  Then, I saw the "Rowing" table.  Memories of rowing out into the middle of Lake Yamanaka, at the foot of Mt. Fuji danced through my head.  Rowing was calm, rowing was peaceful, it gave you a chance to enjoy the view.  I wrote my name down on their list.

That's me in the front.  You can just see the
tops of my lucky socks, I knit them myself.

A week later, I received an email stating practices would start that week in the afternoons.  I couldn't make the first practices as they met during one of my classes but, from the tone of the email, I quickly realized that I had not joined a club that would leisurely row on the Willamette, I'd joined the novice rowing team, which would be practicing, hard.  The only scenery viewing would be between rowing pieces, collapsed over the oar shaft, trying desperately to get my heart back into my chest.  The stubborn part of me refused to let me quit without even trying; this could be my chance, my defining moment, my crucible.  After all, isn't college supposed to be a place where you can re-invent yourself, be someone new.  I was determined to change something, or to at least make a decent effort.

My first experience with rowing actually ended up being on an ergometer.  Everyone around me hated it, I loved it.  I got bit by the rowing bug and I didn't want to stop.  Sure, it was hard but there was still a sense of calmness in the rhythm of rowing.  You have to be calm to row and while power might get you there, technique will get you there, probably faster and with a more efficient use of energy.  I still couldn't make a lot of the practices but I finally got put in a boat.  I knew nothing and, since the novice coach had already taught everyone else the basics, she didn't bother to teach me anything.  I still loved it.  I was terrible at it, I was slow, it made my chest hurt, my mouth dry and I tired easily but I still loved it. 

What I didn't love was the coach and when the semester was over, I chose to quit.  My chem lab partner happened to be the women's varsity captain and she encouraged me to come back in the fall.  I promised her I would and I did.  I couldn't keep away from rowing and, at the end of my sophomore year, I received the "Most Improved Rower" award (not that big of an achievement as I was the worst rower at the beginning of the year).  I continued with rowing all through college.  I would have continued after college if I could have afforded to join a club in town.  I didn't have the money but I had gotten hooked on being in good shape, on being healthy.  Somewhere along the line, I had become an athlete.



Hood to Coast 2010  - my first of three legs.
Recognize the orange visor?



Well, what is an athlete supposed to do when they have no money to spend on gyms or rowing clubs?  I started running.  Not always consistently and I still don't always find running fun, but it's worth the feeling I get after I run.  I'm a total believer in the runner's high because I get it all the time.  I didn't start getting serious about running, though, until I started my not-so-new-anymore job in downtown Portland.  Suddenly, I could afford a gym membership, I had a great place to run along the Waterfront and, my office had a Hood to Coast team.  What better way to give me something to train for?  I started running more consistently and a little bit faster, too.  I still had no intention of running a marathon, though; that just seemed like unnecessary torture.

Fast forward a few years and I'm running several miles a week.  I loved doing Hood to Coast (this year will by my third time) and then I watched Run Fatboy Run.  Silly movie, I know, and I know it's not real but it got me thinking.  Every year, people who are heavier, slower, less in shape than I complete marathons.  The delusional part of me decided that I needed to run a marathon.  Then I injured my foot and it got put off a year but last fall, as soon as registration for the Portland Marathon was open and before I could change my mind, I signed up.  I still have people who doubt my resolve but I'm going to do it.  Not only because I've told everyone that I'll be running a marathon but also because I paid good money for my spot.  No way I'm letting that money go to waste.

So this year, YES, I am running a marathon.

My Apologies...

First, my apologies for my futzing with the layout and colours and backgrounds, etc. I have too much fun looking at all the possibilities. I think I may have finally settled upon one layout/design that I like and will keep. Hey, it's hard to decide on a design when they keep adding more and your subject matter keeps expanding. You try to find one layout that encompasses knitting, food, travel, thoughts on Christian spirituality, singing, riding the bus, my incoherent ramblings that I think someone, someday, might want to read.

Second, my apologies for not writing more often. I started this whole thing, mostly so I could post a knitting pattern. And, I thought, since everyone is writing blogs, I should also. I'm usually not the type to jump on the bandwagon. In fact, I'm usually early or late in my bandwagon jumping. I do something before it's popular or I join in just as everyone is jumping onto the next bandwagon. Now that I've jumped on to the bandwagon, I should really try to stay on instead of being bounced out every few months and running to catch up.

However, this is my year of Yes! (which I will explain in a future posting), so, I will take another stab at this whole blog thing. I may even let people know I'm writing a blog. That might boost my readership. Here's to happy blogging! Or at least, more timely blogging.

What Can I Do?

On March 10th, at about 11:30 pm, I opened an email from my dad titled, "WE FELT THAT ONE!!!" He went on to write about two 7.9 earthquakes 255 miles north of where my parents live, just outside of Tokyo.

Now, my parents have lived in Tokyo since 1972. My dad grew up near San Francisco, my mom in Los Angeles. They have plenty of experience with earthquakes. So, when they both say they've never felt anything like that before, I knew it was serious. I quickly switched my browser over to BBC and clicked on a video link. It took me a few minutes to realize I was watching live news. Initial reports were conflicting as to the magnitude of the earthquake but finally, it was agreed that the earthquake as actually a 9.0, the fifth largest quake in the world since records were kept. And there was no mistaking that tsunami.

I can remember where I was when the Twin Towers fell and I remember how I felt when the devastation in New Orleans became apparent. Those two events, in a strange way, made me feel American for the first time in my life. Tragedy has a way of drawing us together. But this, watching the water rise, this felt much worse. Japan will always be my home, though I may never live there again. Now, I realize it is my heart-land as well. And my heart broke as I watched towns and cities disappear.

In the days that followed, I checked BBC religiously to find out any news. My computer was always open to Facebook so that I could check in with my parents and friends who are still in Japan. It all got to be too much and I had to start imposing media fasts. The devastation is greater than I can imagine and from everything I've heard, the pictures can't capture the scope of it all. I was also growing increasingly frustrated at the emphasis placed on the problems at the Fukushima Daiichi reactor as it felt like people were losing focus on the survivors further north. I'm not denying the importance of shutting down the reactor safely nor the danger of any radiation leaks. However, I've grown tired of the constant fear-mongering in the press and, frankly, tired of America's "How will this affect me?" stance.

I wanted desperately to be doing something to help. But I knew that my Japanese language skills, which were never stellar, would only be a hindrance. I don't have the time to take off from work, I don't have the specialized skills to offer. I've been doing the only things I can do. I've been praying constantly and I've donated what I can afford to give. But I felt like that wasn't enough.

There was a sense that other people believed that, as a developed country, Japan would not need the help or accept the help that other countries would need if faced with a similar disaster. You only have to look at the photos of the devastation to know that is not true. They desperately need any help we can give.

Much has been made of Japanese stoicism and resilience. Hundreds of thousands of people are showing great courage and dignity in the face of tragedy. But that stoicism doesn't mean people aren't hurting and that they can get by on their own.

Even more than money, they need our prayers and support. They need to know they are not alone.

What can I do? What can I do on the other side of the ocean? How can I show my support and love for Japan?

In response, I've set up a fundraising page with MercyCorps and made a pin to wear in support of the survivors of the Tohoku earthquake. It's a simple loop of white ribbon with a red button. I will give a pin to everyone who donates $5 or more to the page listed below. I hope you will wear it and remember, "life is short and we have never too much time for gladdening the hearts of those who are travelling the dark journey with us. Oh be swift to love, make haste to be kind." (Henri-Frederic Amiel)

http://www.mercycorps.org/fundraising/lynelletarter

Please feel free to share this with your friends and family. Thanks for any support you can give.

Lynelle

Gambare, Nippon!