Merry Christmas from Triathablog!

There's no challenge like the Masquerade Challenge ... and no morning like Christmas to frighten all your neighbors.



Last week, I wrote my sister and asked her to make me a pair of her famous elf shoes. She not only agreed, but she said she'd run with me ... which made running in costume less embarrassing ... kind of. Here she is this morning, fitting the shoes for me.



We're set to go! The sooner we get back, the sooner we get to attack our presents. And, yes, our skirts are made from old tablecloths I took from Starbucks.



Surprise! My grandparents got wind of our Triathadventure and joined us on scooters ... with their Santa hats! (They also mortified us by making us deliver homemade bread to their neighbors while still in costume, but that was later.)



Our triumphant return! Merry Christmas!

The Road Less Traveled Sucks

I have to admit, I'd rather take the road more traveled. It's probably shorter, there's less chance I'll get mugged, and there might be some sort of concession stand. Is there a way to develop a taste for adventure? Because, as of now, I don't have it.

That's why this crazy winter/summer/rain/snow/70-degree Alabama weather is really bumming me out. It's reeking havoc on my running schedule, and I can't settle into a routine.

I liked running in the mornings, but now it stays dark so long that I can't get to work on time (I could if I skipped Starbucks, but that's not happening). I started running in the afternoon, but if I get wrapped up talking to coworkers about catalog copy (or, let's be honest, Rob Pattinson), it gets dark before I even leave the office.

Anyway, I miss my routine. (And I miss changing into running clothes somewhere other than the bathroom at Starbucks Mountain Brook ... although I think it's funny that every time I'm in there, someone else is also changing into workout gear in the next stall.) So I decided to join a gym.

Dawson Memorial Baptist Church seems like a great deal: It's $25 a month, you don't have to be a church member, and you can pay month to month. Perfect, since I only intend to be trapped inside on a treadmill for the winter months when it's necessary.

Trouble is, I'm not going, even though I want to go. I want to run. I want to be one of those girls who throws her gym bag in the back of her car every day. But it's unknown, and the unknown is scary.

My English professors said that when Robert Frost said the road less traveled "has made all the difference," he was being ironic. They said he was really saying that it didn't matter, since all roads led to the same place.

Maybe, in this case, my English professors were right (I'm not as sure about all the phallic symbolism they found in EVERYTHING, but that's another blog). I could force myself to stick to a routine — buy a headlamp and run every morning. Or, I could conquer my fear, walk into Dawson, and take the treadmill less traveled.

Maybe the point isn't whether I take the easy way or the hard way. Maybe the point is, one way or another, I just keep running.

Death of an iPod: A Blog in Two Acts

I've mentioned here before that it's hard for me to run without playing significant mind games (pretending to be invisible, conjuring James Franco, etc.). My iPod was a major player in my self deception — it was the soundtrack to whatever movie happened to be playing in my head. It was the feather to my Dumbo. The security blanket to my Linus.

Then I broke it.

Well, I think I broke it. I dropped it and then it worked fine, and I rejoiced. A couple days later, it started acting funny (also known as The Great Halloween Haunting). Finally, it stopped for good. Running without an iPod was scary for me, but I did it, and I'm glad I cleared that hurdle. I don't NEED it anymore. But I still kind of want it.

Happily, my fellow Triathabloggers have my back. As soon as Amanda heard my iPod was broken, she offered to lend me one she rarely uses. Oh joy! Not to be outdone, Elisa's letting me borrow her Nike Plus system that works with an iPod to help you track your runs. (She actually took her shoe off in the middle of Starbucks, pulled the tracker out of its sole, and threw it at me.)

So my friends have saved the music, as it were. Even more important, I have a couple Physical Therapist friends who helped me save my knee.

Allison Ashby confirmed my internet diagnosis of Runner's Knee and reminded me that a bag of frozen peas makes a good icepack (I used edamame, but she still gets credit). And Amanda Lane mentioned that taking ibuprofen straight for a couple days could kick the lingering pain out of my knee, which it totally did.

I guess the moral is, keep your Triathablog friends (Allison and Amanda Lane) close, and your Triathablog enemies (Elisa and Amanda) closer. That, and try not to drop your iPod.

A Tale of Two Cities: It Was the Best of Trails, It Was the Worst of Trails

I usually run on Jemison Trail in Mountain Brook. I know I should be running in Highland Park, where I live, since driving to and from the trail takes time (20 minutes, roundtrip) and gas. Believe me, I feel guilty. But I'm not changing anytime soon.

My own neighborhood is full of hazards: Huge cracks in the sidewalks as tall as a stray cat (which, by the way, are everywhere). Homeless people who yell at me in the morning (in their defense, they've never been especially rude and they're not asking for money, but I still don't like being yelled to at sunrise). Plus, there's a complicated parks system that I've never been able to decode. One park is known for the men who sit outside waiting to be propositioned for gay sex. Another is dedicated to dogs and their owners. (Honestly, this frightens me more than the first one, as I'm never quite sure how to behave around dogs.) As far as I know, the other parks don't have distinctions, but I can't really be sure ... what if I unknowingly ran through Clown College Park? Or, worse, Hipster Park (littered with PBR cans and cigarette butts ... oh, wait, that's the whole neighborhood).

Please don't misunderstand. I do love my neighborhood. But the things I like are the same reasons I feel self-conscious running here. I know lots of my neighbors, which is awesome when you want to borrow a cup of sugar (or use someone's internet, which is way more likely), but kind of embarrassing when you're red-faced and just tripped over a sidewalk crack. Rojo is great when you're craving a black bean burger, but running by the patio clad in Nike Tempo shorts and an old M*A*S*H t-shirt doesn't sound as delicious.

So far, I've chosen the easy comfort of Mountain Brook, with its clock towers, illusion of safety, and friendly runners who rarely skip a cheerful "good morning," even in the middle of a run. I'll admit, I get yelled at by the Brookies, too, but I find cries of "Hey, Starbucks Girl!" (from former customers) strangely comforting.

In the end, I do plan to start running in my own neighborhood, and I'm sure I'll find things to love about sticking close to home. But, for a couple weeks anyway, I'm happy to cling to my false security, as long as it keeps me running.