Lessons from western Nebraska part 1: Sculpt

What exactly have I learned from Nebraska, other than the actual existence of tumbleweeds as big as cars, hurricane-force winds sans the hurricane, and that Huskers are just as fanatical as Aggies?

Yup, a car-sized tumbleweed.

Western Nebraska has changed me for the better in many ways.  It has allowed me to shake free from the indoctrination of my upbringing. It has helped me let go of old habits, mindsets, and opinions.  When I look back on the lessons learned over the past 10 years, and the ways in which I have grown and changed, I see the positive impact of this community and its people on my life.  Let me elaborate:

1.  Western Nebraska reacquainted Jon and I with the concept of 'neighbor'.  Coming from San Antonio, we were accustomed to anonymity.  When we moved into our home on Spruce Drive, we were welcomed with visits and baked gifts from our neighbors.  Although we've seen many of them come and go over the past 10 years, we know them all by name (entirely different from our experience in San Antonio).  I know the names of the staff at many of the local businesses and restaurants we frequent, but even when I don't, we recognize and acknowledge one another.  (Recent discovery: drive-thru staff at Scottsbluff's Jax Gourmet Coffee & Snow know me only as 'Medium Chai in the Mini Cooper'.)  I've observed Jon select a checkout line at Walmart not based on the length of the queue but on who is cashiering; his focus is to provide a word of encouragement.  Cultivating love and moving from 'no one matters' to 'everyone matters' is a slow cultural shift we are still working on, but many of the seeds were planted here in Scottsbluff-Gering.

2.  My perspective on death (and therefore my perspective on life) has changed.  The stillbirth of our daughter Camille in 2005 rocked our world.  Its true impact may be best understood only by those closest to us.  When Hurricane Katrina struck Louisiana a month later, observers distant to the storm felt sorrowful sympathy, but victims who weathered the eye of devastation were united by a unique bond.  And so it is with our core friends and small group who provided support at the epicenter of our loss.  As our family leaves here we take only memories of that time, unrecognized by new acquaintances and friends.  The grief and support shown by our fellow Nebraskans will always stand as a witness to the scars that remain.  For that, I thank you.

The loss itself taught me two vital lessons: (1) death has a place, and (2) fear nothing.  I can truthfully say that I have little fear of my own departure, even prematurely.  I have loosened my grip on my expectations for this life, and I accept that I do not determine my future, nor the future of my loved ones.  Kissing the fear of death goodbye has been very liberating, since there is little else to fear.  AWOLNATION says it well:

Well I met an old man dying on a train.
No more destination, no more pain.
Well he said, "one thing, before I graduate...
never let your fear decide your fate."
I say, "fly, fly, baby. Don't cry, no need to worry 'cause
Everybody will die.
Everyday we just go, go. Baby you'll go.
Don't you worry, He loves you more than you know."
(Or at least that's the way I hear it.)

With the fear of death eliminated, why would there be fear of something as small as judgment or marginalization or unknown or risk?  Without fear, I can hike a mountain, travel great distances, challenge the status quo, blaze a trail, tackle a seemingly insurmountable task, and speak without constraint.  I can align my life's priorities more closely to my values and my faith, even when it stands in resolute defiance to the expectations of others.

Fearlessness has taught me trust.  Fear has a tendency to breed worry.  Without fear or worry, I've learned to trust in God and His plan for me.  One of our family's current favorites is this Swedish House Mafia song:

My Father said,
'Don't you worry, don't you worry, child.
See, Heaven's got a plan for you.
Don't you worry, don't you worry now.'

(As an aside, our family thinks it sounds an awful lot like 'Seattle's got a plan for you.'  Judge for yourself here.  Click at your own risk; you'll never hear it the same again.)

Fearlessness has taught another lesson: vulnerability.  Although not intuitively related, vulnerability has grown out of the lack of fear of putting my genuine self on display.  I've expressed the deepest sorrows of loss from a public forum. I've shed mutual tears with patients upon my delivery of bad news.  In spearheading our electronic medical record at work, I have attempted to champion one of the most disruptive yet revolutionary changes in the history of Medicine, and in doing so, have become the target of resistance (and likely criticism).  Vulnerability is not a highly-praised virtue among physicians and although it does not come naturally to me, I've always perceived Scottsbluff to be a place where my flaws are forgiven, and my personal best is an acceptable alternative to perfection.

3.  I developed endurance and perseverence while in Nebraska.  Although I'd run a handful of 5K races in Texas, it was during my time in Scottsbluff that I truly became a runner.  I will refrain from waxing philosophical about running, as I've already done so in my Run post.  Suffice it to say that being a runner has profoundly changed my perspectives on pain, aging, goals, solitude, and time.  Without the encouragement of equally fitness-minded friends, I doubt I would have ever bothered.

That same perseverance has been put to the test in another arena.  It was two months after Camille's stillbirth when Jon and I summited Mt. Harvard, our first Colorado 14er peak, spurred along by fellow WestWay hikers.  (The occasional forty-five minute excursion around San Antonio's Friedrich Wilderness Park was my only prerequisite contribution to hiking.)  Since then, a love of hiking has grown into a passion for mountaineering (which some would probably call an obsession).  Nineteen peaks later, my soul is still refreshed every time with the glory of His creation.  Nonetheless, I've yet to hike a 14er without encountering mental self-doubt at some point between the trailhead and summit.  And yet, He gives me strength and endurance not only for the summit but also for the long descent back.  During one winter hike, He gave our party the wisdom to turn back from a potential whiteout situation.  Having summited on my second attempt, I finally broke down into silent tears of thanks during the descent below timberline as a quiet snow fell gently around me.  I've learned on those mountain paths and running trails to listen for the quiet still voice of God.  Funny that for me, hearing His voice has very little to do with being physically still.

A snow banner off Quandary Peak

Then there are the more 'temporal' lessons:

4.  Nebraska's void of Tex-Mex served to break a decade of food cravings and the bad habits that often accompany them.  Like forced fasting.  I am leaving 20 unwanted pounds here.

5.  And yet, Nebraska surprisingly broadened my culinary horizon.  Ironically, I (finally!) learned to like fish in a landlocked state. In the land of corn-fed angus, I learned not only to eat vegetables, but to like them, and to not berate, but appreciate a good vegetarian meal.  While in Nebraska, I became acquainted with chai tea lattes and Starbucks. Back when we had a Starbucks...

6.  Our garden plot at WestWay reaped the double harvest of homegrown veggies and an appreciation of not only gardening and things organic, but the work involved to produce a harvest.  Sophomoric as it may seem, gardening has taught me lessons applicable not just to my diet, but to my spiritual walk.

7.  It is remarkable that in a red state like Nebraska, I've learned moderation, become less polarized, and more politically tolerant.  I do a better job of listening to and considering both sides of issues, and I acknowledge that Jesus would not depend on something as small as government.

8.  In Western Nebraska I've also learned to be more perseverant and tolerant of weather.  Running and mountaineering would be difficult sports for the weatherphobic.  I've run and hiked in wind, fog, snow, dark, rain, ice, sleet, subzero cold, drought, and yes, hail.  Maybe this is a strange thing to praise, but it is a locally-learned skill that will come in handy, since we are headed to Seattle, the home of misty drizzle (so-called mizzle) for months on end.

In fact, that is what seems so rich about our Western Nebraska experience: we have been molded with seemingly Divine intent.  He has been sculpting our family for such a place as Seattle.  I would never have dreamed of the chance to summit the heavily-glaciered Mt. Rainier without the training ground that the Colorado 14ers have afforded me.  Similarly, all my other life experiences in Nebraska have been the training ground for the next leg of the race in Seattle.  Without Scottsbluff, I doubt I would be prepared for Seattle's political culture, social tolerances, disdain for tradition, or their fitness mindset, less-than-conservative churches, organic bent, seafood cuisine, or even their weather.  God knows our past, present, and future.  He placed us in western Nebraska with great purpose.

 Sculpture from the Chihuly Garden and Glass exhibit, Seattle

There is a scene in the movie Forrest Gump when the lead character reflects on the profound things he's learned from seemingly simple experiences in his life.  The movie depicts a series of brief clips,  like recalled memories, revisiting poignant moments and we realize how pivotal and integral they were. (Watch it here.)

I think my heart is often like a movie player; I replay snipits from moments of significance.  So many of these moments are encounters with the very Spirit of God.  I will remember my time in Scottsbluff as a place where I became reacquainted with the awesome presence of God.

-----

Many of my integral moments are encounters with the conduits of His love, His people.  But the blog is long, so I shall continue that thought in another installment.  Stay tuned for part 2...

Love song

People break down into two groups. When they experience something lucky, group number one sees it as more than luck, more than coincidence. They see it as a sign, evidence, that there is someone up there, watching out for them. Group number two sees it as just pure luck. Just a happy turn of chance. But there's a whole lot of people in group number one. They're looking for a miracle. And deep down, they feel that whatever's going to happen, there will be someone there to help them. And that fills them with hope.

See what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, that sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Or, look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences?

-- Rev. Graham Hess (Mel Gibson) Signs, 2002

Seattle was never on our radar.

Yet, God is always moving, and this time He's called us to do the same.  In 6 short months, my family and I will be moving to Seattle. People ask me why, and I struggle to explain.  I am taking a 30-40% pay cut.   My commute will be longer.  I'll be working harder.  Cost of living increases 150%, and real estate almost 200%.

Looking back, Scottsbluff was never on our radar 9 1/2 years ago.  We truly believe God led us here, and for a purpose.  We trusted Him when real estate went up 200% then.   And now?

I'd been reading the job postings for years, looking for the 'ideal' job.  I encountered ads for jobs in Virginia, Texas, California, Seattle, Iowa, Michigan, many others.  In the hopes of fulfilling my dream to move into the shadow of the beloved Rocky Mountains, I interviewed for a position in Lone Tree, Colorado last Spring.  The salary was lucrative, and the group was ready for me to sign on the dotted line before I left.  Great location, but the job would be chock full of patients with pain due to personal injury and workers compensation cases (complicated by secondary gain, paperwork, manipulation).  No, thank you.

Funny: after that, Colorado never again came calling.  Even my fallback option fell through-- never got a return call from my one 'guaranteed' lead in Colorado, despite multiple attempts.  Meanwhile, I discovered that a former colleague had relocated to a PM&R job in Denver.  I felt rather defeated.

Months ago in the wake of this, I journaled the excerpt below (forgive the melodrama-- it is my journal, after all):

Goodbye love song for Colorado

I've been having an affair for a long time. I have a good home, but my heart hasn't been there for some time. I am not speaking of unfaithfulness to my family or my spouse, but my state. I have denied my Nebraska in search of a deeper love. Colorado resonates with me: mountains, alpine lakes, churches, neighborhoods, pace of life, and even traffic. But alas, this is a love that is unrequited. As much as I love Colorado, and as much as God shows me His love for me through the beauty He has created in Colorado, I have given up the hope of ever making the move. I have been waiting for God to lay out the red carpet and welcome me, but no invitation has come. All my leads led nowhere. I've watched others who love Colorado less take hold of that which should be mine.

What I struggle to understand is how God could place in me such strong passion, a pull not toward sin or self, but toward something good, the work of His hands; into a strong congregation with potential to grow me as a Christian, and toward a culture that reinforces a healthier lifestyle, and then deny me that.

Is my pinnacle too small for God? Does he have something bigger planned for me? Because I feel something stirring. Change is coming.

After reading an ad for a position with an Orthopedic group in the Dallas/Fort Worth area and speaking with their director and several physicians, I was offered an October interview.

Meanwhile over Labor Day weekend, our family travelled back to Colorado.  My appetite for mountaineering was strong, despite having recently been fed with a glorious trip to the summit of Mt. Sherman with my Westway family in August.  Though I'd never been there, the Great Sand Dunes National Park and Sangre de Cristo mountains welcomed me home.  I labored up the Lake Como road to summit Ellingwood and Blanca peaks, which exhausted my body but refreshed my spirit.  It is hard for me to describe such a strange love; I can count on one hand the friends who understand this.  We chose to lodge for the long weekend at the Zapata Ranch, a working bison ranch.  We ate with a dozen other guests in the common dining room for breakfast, parted ways during the day for our hiking, ranching, branding, and sand-surfing endeavors, then regrouped for supper to recount our day's adventures.  We were surprised one evening to find ourselves seated next to a retired couple who lived 30 years in Seattle.  Instead of listening to tales of their day in the saddle herding buffalo, they blissfully framed a picture of Seattle as we listened intently.

Upon returning home, I emailed the group in Seattle to follow up on the posted ad.  Within days, I'd made contact with the recruiter and spoken at length by phone with the Medical Director, who described his vision for the department: a vision of quality outcomes, best practice protocols, and care excellence.  This mindset is well-suited to weather the coming changes in health care reimbursement.  It synced with me.

I cancelled the October interview in Dallas/Fort Worth, and instead scheduled an on-site interview in Seattle. Worst case scenario: we'd get to spend a long weekend in the Pacific Northwest as a family, on someone else's dime.

After our family enjoyed a short vacation at DisneyWorld in late September, I stuck around a few extra days to attend the AANEM conference in Orlando.  Alone on the plane from Orlando back to Denver, I spent some time blogging about the Monument Marathon, then struck up a conversation with my neighbor in 8E.  After getting through the pleasantries, she revealed that she works as a Neurologist.  In Seattle.  I unabashedly pressed her for information, and she willingly shared.

A month later, the interview went well; better than expected.  They are not needle-jockies like the Lone Tree group. They have financial sustainability and security.  They are willing to let me sculpt and build my practice, and offered me a leadership role.  The offer came quickly, and it was fair.

Back in Scottsbluff, Seattle trickled its way into our day-to-day lives.  I have lost count of the number of times I've been nudged.  In fact, 'It's NOT a sign!' became a running joke in our home when these instances arose, such as the time Brielle came home from school bewildered that Seattle showed up in her schoolwork.  When in San Francisco for business, I was browsing Chinatown with work colleagues when we stumbled across a rack of touristy personalized keychains.  One of my fellow VPs stopped long enough to confirm that 'Michele' was not among them (there were plenty of 'Michelle'), and flippantly mentioned "Maybe if you find one with your name spelled correctly, you could take that as a sign to move out here to the West Coast!"  In my heart, I thought back to our community tour in Seattle the week prior, where my sweet Autumn had pointed out a storefront sign that read 'Michele'.

Which is the right choice? Is there a right choice?  I trust that God gives us freedom to choose from among a number of opportunities.  Our future is not predestined since the choice is ours, yet He knows the path we will choose to walk, even before we choose it.  "Well then, Father God, feel free to clue me in. Let me hear your voice clearly,"  I prayed.  Jon prayed.  The kids prayed.  Jon and I fasted.  We asked for ears to hear the will of God. "I will go where you want me to go."  And this time I prayed it without the tether of "but please let it be Colorado".  And He spoke.  Over and over.  In a voice that only our family heard.  We could not deny: it WAS a sign.  A sign with my name on it.  They all were.


This fall, I stumbled upon a song with Autumn's name in it.  For the sake of fair parenting, I felt obliged to scour iTunes for a song with Brielle's name (clearly a greater challenge than the elusive 'Michele' keychain).  But there it was: 'Brielle' by Sky Sailing.  Further investgation showed this to be the former one-man band of Adam Young, the gifted musician who now comprises Owl City.  There in the discography was his song 'Hello Seattle':

Hello Seattle, I am a mountaineer,

in the hills and highlands.

I fall asleep in hospital parking lots.

Take me above your light.

Carry me through the night.

Hold me secure in flight.

Sing me to sleep tonight.

I would later read this interview about the song:

"Seattle always seemed like the other side of the world to me. I remember staring out the window during class in high school imagining what it was like," Young said. "The irony of the track is that it's a love song to a place I'd never visited."

Researching Washington, I discovered that, although I will say goodbye to Colorado and the Rockies, I am not saying goodbye to the majestic works of His creation, and I am not abandoning that love which seems to thrive so fiercely within me.  Online photos and Scottsbluff eyewitnesses reassure me of the beauty of the Pacific Northwest, abundant in rich green forests, flowing rivers, mirrored lakes, and yes, mountains.  There are innumerable ranges including the nearby Olympics and Cascades, and Mount Rainier towers as the taller of two Washington 14ers.

And so begins my love song to a place I'd never visited.  Hello, Seattle.



Next post: Love song for Scottsbluff

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Goat

I would like to introduce you to Peeka. (Not, Peeta, you Hunger Games fanatic.) Peeka is a beloved pet goat belonging to Dena Jones. Dena, who is an entrepreneurial veterinary technician, works as a professional pet-sitter. With the help of her husband Sam, Dena owns and operates the wildly successful business, Happy at Home Pets. (They are fantastic and affordable and you can find them here: http://www.happyathomepets.biz)

Dena is infused with the love of animals, and she houses a veritable zoo of animal-friends at her home. She rescues strays, nurses the injured back to health, and builds shelters for the untamed. When she is not at home, she is visiting and caring for the animal friends of others (refer to shameless plug, above). Her Facebook posts are filled with pictures and stories of her pets and rescues, but my favorite stories are the ones that involve Peeka the goat.

Peeka has a mischievous spirit, which I suspect is typical of a goat. When Dena and Sam are working on projects around the house, Peeka gets in the way. Peeka can often be found sitting or standing atop Dena's car. In fact, Dena and Sam finally stopped popping the dents out, as it was weakening the metal.

Dena has several running Facebook posts about 'Peeka antics'. Here are a few:

 

 

Honestly, I think many of us can relate to Peeka. Do you ever feel like a misfit? A troublemaker? Do you feel you're just in the way, not one of the herd?

Who would keep such a misfit of a pet? Funny thing is that Peeka the goat has a priceless and rare gift. Peeka is an ambassador. She is able to tame the wild. Many of the feral cats Dena encounters require medical attention, but they are unapproachable and afraid of people. Peeka somehow befriends the wild cats on Dena's property, and slowly over time Dena is also able to approach them and provide the aid they need. Seriously, what are the chances that a savior of wild animals would happen to have an animal-ambassador? It seems well-purposed.

As Christians, our job is to befriend the wild ones of the earth and ease the approach to their Savior who is feared, but who also loves them and knows what they need.

I have previously blogged about my so-called 'spiritual gift': I have the gift of looking for and seeing the Divine in the secular. I embrace the redemption songs of Linkin Park, and welcome the fellowship and self-sacrifice shown in the Harry Potter series. I have experienced the discipline and brokenness of a long run. The Church frowns on the distorted truths depicted in the media; they are not Biblical. However, there are nuggets of resonant Truth therein, and if Truth is truly absolute, then it can be found outside our walls and our scriptures. (Granted, we must hold up the truths against what we know to be Truth from scripture.  Contrarily, we discount the Holy Spirit that works within us when we limit Truth to that found only in scripture.)

I see value in using Truth to reach the lost. To many, the Bible may seem mysterious or distant, but they can relate to the Truth they see sprinkled everywhere around them. An ambassador can discern Truth from falsehood and help make a way. Like a goat who leads a wild cat to safety.

I always felt goats got a bad rap in the Bible. The sheep are clearly the chosen flock of God, with Jesus as our great Shepherd. Even today, goats are often depicted as a pagan deity, accursed in popular movies. Then there is the passage in Matthew “He will place the sheep at his right hand and the goats at his left...then the King will turn to those on the left and say, ‘Away with you, you cursed ones, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his demons." (Matthew 25 NLT)

I left out a crucial part of the passage: “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the creation of the world. For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.’ (Matthew 25:34-36 NLT)

There are times I feel like the goat, and not the sheep. Like Peeka, I can be exasperating and frustrating to others, and occasionally downright destructive. But God has given me this so-called 'gift', and I will use it to reach out and ambassador to others.

Maybe whether I am a goat or a sheep doesn't really matter. Am I an ambassador and servant of God?  And although the world (and sometimes even the Church) may see me as a goat, through His eyes, I'm a cherished lamb of His herd.

Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him. (1 Corinthians 1:26-29 NIV)

So we are Christ’s ambassadors; God is making his appeal through us. We speak for Christ when we plead, “Come back to God!” (2 Corinthians 5:20 NLT)

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Siri Parenting

I have come to the conclusion that most of my parental instructions could be replaced by a digital version of me, programmed to say the same phrases over and over. Here are some examples of my so-called 'Siri Parenting' (disclaimer: may contain exaggerated or frankly nonfactual information):

1. "Less chatting; more chewing." (At mealtime)

2. "You talk too much." (Any other time)

3. "Clean your room. No, you may not play with the 'new' things you find."

4. "Stop playing Cain and Abel. You are fighting over something dumb."

5. "Keep your seat in your seat while you eat."

6. "Life's not fair, and 'fair' does not mean what you think it means. It is not synonymous with 'get what I want.'"

7. "You're crying over that? Life has so many more difficult challenges awaiting you."

8. "Unless you're wearing a race number, no one gives out awards for being first."

9. "Television will suck IQ points right out of you."

10. "No, you may not get something from Starbucks; caffeine stunts your growth."

11. "Sweetheart, if we keep every paper you came home with, we'd be neck-high by now."

12. "Treat me with the same respect you would your teachers."



With these handy Siri Parenting phrases, I simply need a robot to do the chauffeuring, laundry, yard, cooking, and housekeeping, and I could veritably escape to the mountains unnoticed

Here are some of my favorite parenting tidbits from others:

Bill Cosby: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it."

Christy Arnold (my sister-in-law): "How about you go outside and play in traffic?"

Kim Holloway: "You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit."

Karen Robert (my mom): "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all." I still revisit that one from time to time...

Do you have any classics of your own? 

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CHabstain

My appetite seems to have missed out on my body's most recent news headline:

Fuel Demands Plummet in Wake of Marathon Completion 

Now that my weekly running mileage has dropped from 45 to zero, I must take a hard look at my fueling strategy. During those high-mileage weeks, I refrained from all-out splurging, but I did allow certain indulgences. Without all the calorie-torching mileage, however, I am destined to pack on about 2 pounds per week unless I make some dietary adjustments. If only my appetite were as logical as my marathon training program.

This comes as no surprise. Every fall, I carefully tiptoe from October to December in the hope of avoiding the caloric sandbags from Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas parties, and Christmas Eve. I have a number of strategies to help me accomplish this task, considering my strong sense of discipline yet seemingly utter lack of self-control: daily weigh-ins (with graphs!), food journaling, checking online resources for nutritional information of various restaurant entrees, etc. I accept that I'll never be as lean as elite runners, and my current (hard-fought) weight is finally in range for my height. I know it sounds obsessive, but an additional 10 pounds can slow my next 5K by more than a minute.

None of the above strategies is as fun as the CHUB plan, as I call it. You will not read this in any book. It is not a diet (I don't 'diet'). It is not grounded in much medical fact. No dietician will endorse this plan. But for me, it is easy to remember, and not difficult to follow. Most experts tell you never to cut out an entire food group (good advice). In this plan, however, I simply avoid the following CH- items till CHristmas (It has a nice ring to it when you sing it Beastie-Boys style: "No. CHUB. Till Christmas!"):

1. No CHips. Loyal friends could wax philosophical of my fondness for tortilla chips. I find them irresistible: once I start, I am virtually unable to quit. The nutritional value of a tortilla chip is minuscule (so "slim to none, that Slim left town"). The "no CHips" mantra also applies to French fries (think Brit). Recently I've also had to boycott Stacy's Pita Chips, so tastily irresistible that I find an 8-serving bag lasts only 3-4 days.

2. No CHocolate. This one would seem to speak for itself, but all chocolate is not equal. I permit a 4-8 oz. glass of chocolate milk for recovery after a run. (A 2006 study in the International Journal of Sport Nutrition and Exercise Metabolism found that chocolate milk is as good as or better than Gatorade for replacing glucose in fatigued muscles.) I also respect the high-antioxidant health benefits of dark (>70% cacao) bittersweet chocolate, so a small square once daily is OK. Bioflavonoids never tasted so delicious.

3. No CHai. Not a coffee-drinker, I've found a chai tea latte to be a comforting coffee-substitute, which allows me to join the hot beverage and coffeehouse culture. There are a number of health benefits to brewed chai, which is a spiced black tea, with cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, cloves, and various other spices. It is the added sweetener and milk/cream that turn an innocuous cup of tea into a 350-calorie splurge. Brewed chai? Yes. Chai latte from the Jax or Starbucks drive-through? Not till Christmas. (This is admittedly the toughest in my list. Fall is made for harvest flavors, right?)

4. Nothing off the CHildren's plates. How many times have I polished off 200 extra calories just to avoid scraping it into the disposal? At a restaurant, I may diligently order a healthy entree, but then devour the remaining fries or bacon that my kids leave behind. (This should be a year-round rule, right?)

5. Nothing with a CHaracter. If the food item needs a mascot, it probably isn't inherently good for you (think Tony the Tiger, Keebler Elf).

Following a careful plan of CHabstention, I can allow other holiday indulgences and not feel cheated. Meanwhile, I can sensibly indulge in my CHub list the entire rest of the calendar year.

Do you have any tricks to help prevent weight gain through the holidays?

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Thoughts on training for the Monument Marathon

I call myself a runner. I am not a fast runner, but I am a runner nonetheless. I have been running and training for periodic races for about 6 years, and for 2 years quite steadily. This weekend marks my third marathon attempt ('attempt', as I have yet to finish). I hope to run a PR (personal record). This is a lofty goal, given the course, and maybe a little unrealistic (a characteristic error that I seem prone to make). 

My preferred distance is the Half-Marathon (13.1 miles), which I view as a 'raceable endurance event', one in which I can use strategy and pacesetting. My marathon strategy, however, is solely about finishing as respectably as possible (preferably on my feet with my head up). Inevitably I reach the point of exhaustion well before the 26.2 mile finish, and during those later miles, the event becomes almost other-worldly: in both of my other marathons, I experienced the brokenness of dissociative suffering. My mind must separate itself from the flood of pain and exhaustion signals from my body, each step pounding that reminder up through my feet, ankles and shins, ricocheting through my spine into my brain, adding volume to the growing voice in my head that says "Walk. You want to walk. You want to sit. You want to quit." 

Every training cycle has a story. This is the story of my 2012 season. It begins with skepticism. 
My running goals for 2012: 
1. Run consistently, 
2. Build base mileage. 
3. Make 'friends' with hills.
4. Churn out a few RunnersWorld holiday run streaks. 
5. Run some safe, familiar races. 
WNCC threw me a curve ball when they announced the inaugural Monument Marathon slated for October 13, 2012. 

Dayle, you had me at 'inaugural'. My two prior marathons were both inaugural events in meaningful locales (the inaugural 2008 San Antonio Rock & Roll Marathon, and the inaugural 2010 Denver Rock & Roll Marathon). The Monument Marathon promises to be the FIRST race of its type in Western Nebraska, the product of a race director who's run many events ('run', meaning on her own two feet, as well as 'run', meaning she has successfully organized many others). Thanks to the hard work of Dayle Wallien, Tom 'TR' Rohrick, Denee and Paul Janda, and Katie and Jeff Bradshaw, we have a USATF-certified Boston-qualifying course in our own backyard. I could potentially sleep in my own bed the night before the event, and see familiar faces handing out timing chips and sports drink. I would look back on this and regret not running (admittedly a terrible reason to run). I reluctantly registered for the full marathon before the fee hike, and before I could change my mind. 

Check out the Monument Marathon (or even register yourself) at http://www.monumentmarathon.com/

Though you don't know it, many of you have already run the race with me, either in person or in thought. Join with me on a pre-race tour of the Monument Marathon course, seen through my eyes. (Or belabor me, since this is a therapeutic journey for me, and I have many to thank along the way.)  

Unbiased video of the route: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=uklKAIzZvqA

After running San Antonio, I recall the energy of the start line: this is MY town, MY Spurs, MY Riverwalk, MY Alamo, these are MY people. The cityscape filled me with pride. I can only hope that when I toe the start line at Wildcat Hills, I will feel that same sense of community and pride. I will undoubtedly be shivering in the cold while awaiting the starting pistol, but remembering the blazing-hot summer afternoon hike that Greg Elliott, Brielle, Katherine, and I did three months ago in Wildcat Hills in preparation for Mt. Sherman. 

Once we peel onto Highway 71, it will be hard not to think back on my biggest injury of the season: During one early-morning long run along the dark shoulder of 71, I tripped and fell while engulfed in an oncoming car's high-beams, and experienced my first 'hip pointer'. If I can run 14 miles on the course with a bruised throbbing hip and a bloody stinging road rash, then I can do it on race day, right? Assuming that 71 is partly-closed to vehicular traffic, I will make it to the Sandburg Road turnoff, where my friend Amber (who graciously volunteered) will be extending a cup of sports drink, a smile, and encouragement as I turn east into the Nebraska sunrise. 

Only I know the secret spot in the cornfield alongside Lockwood Road where I had to make a pit stop on a training run to relieve myself, and I fully intend to salute it as I pass it on race day. Don't worry, on Saturday I will refrain from any elimination activities outside of the designated porta-potties. Under the McClellan, watch for birds popping in and out of their mud-nests under the overpass. Run faster to avoid being a target for droppings. 

As we run west across Ave D, visiting runners will get their first glimpse of the sunrise on Scottsbluff National Monument. Despite its ominous size and position at the top of the worst hill of the course, I view the Bluff not as my foe, but as my partner in many fitness endeavors. I will think of Lisa since this is her 'hood. I will smile as I recall the funny 'wildlife' photos that Katie posted on her Monument Marathon blog. 

Check it out: http://scbcitizen.wordpress.com/2012/05/01/monument-marathon-and-its-western-nebraska-scenery/ 

The turn west onto Highway 92 is about the halfway point, and I have mentally prepared for the long, steady uphill through Mitchell Pass. How many settlers' feet have trod countless miles more than mine, with greater suffering and yet with greater purpose? Here, I will conjure up the memory of my favorite run of the entire season, a tough hill-run up Saddle Trail whose reward was a marvelous morning dash down Saddle Road and through the tunnels with Imagine Dragons 'Radioactive' booming in my head. 

Passing Scottsbluff National Monument will bring to mind the many hikes this summer with family, friends, and WestWay-ers in preparation for this year's 14ers Quandary Peak, Mt. Antero, Mt. Sherman, Ellingwood Point, and Blanca Peak. My mind will flood with visual imagery of those (and many other) hikes-- the tough climbs, the summits, the smiles, the tears, the pain, the triumph (the wind, the snow, the rain). I will see the faces of my fellow hikers and imagine them at my side, spurring me on: Jon and Brielle Arnold, Greg Elliott, Mike Andrews, Andrew Thomas, Drew Findley, Manda Troutman, Nate Parrish, Jennifer and Scott Reisig, Katherine Reisig, Faith Reisig, Debbie and Lauren Thomas, Nisha Dietrich, Andrew Roy, Lois Bridges, Kim Skinlo, Amy Holzworth, Anita and Randy Schanaman, John Thomas, Mark Scanlan, Rodd and Nancy Hall, and Ashley Hall. 

Then, I'll run downhill (ah!) along the west slope of Mitchell Pass and past Barn Anew. If there is a train along Ridgeway, I intend wave to the engineer and let the breeze carry me along. I will laugh at the junction of Hunt Dairy Road and Ridgeway, recalling having to bushwhack to cross the tracks on a wrong turn during a training run. 

Then suffering will begin to seep into my run. The next part of the course will take its toll at a distance that is a common breaking point in a marathon. Experienced marathoners say the last 10K (the last 6 miles) of a marathon is where the real race begins, and my limited experience has proven that theorem true. Not that the first 20 miles are a piece of cake. By this point, I will be fatigued physically and mentally, and my focus will be sketchy. I'm banking on the fact that I've experienced this part of the course many times: I've run it when the Gering canal was full and when it was bone-dry; I've run it in the hot sun, and in the sandblasting wind; I have seen hawks, wild turkeys, and many deer, and been chased by a dog, and I've fallen and turned an ankle more than once. I've also found a golf ball or two. It will likely be the toughest and loneliest section of this entire course. At this point my form will have deteriorated, and it will take mental effort and constant self-reminders to lift my rib cage, reposition my head and neck, relax my shoulders, shift my pelvis forward, and try to stay light on my feet. I have prayed that God will grant me strength to keep my ankles from turning as I stumble over the rocks, dirt, and gravel. Quicken my foot turnover, like local runner and coach Aaron Carrizales, who has been so gracious and encouraging to all of us runners this season. Defy the 'slow', like David Griffiths, who methodically plods on the treadmill in his basement and continues to get faster despite the inevitable passage of time. 

When I round the corner and see the familiar dead tree, my legs may feel like dead trees, but I will know I am nearing the last of the finger-like turns trough the badlands. I will mentally aim for the radio tower that marks the return to the pavement, and what I feel may be the most-underestimated 'hill' of the course: up Country Club road. I pray that I will still have the energy to maintain a run up this section. Here, I will think back on my longest run of the season, during which I listened to the audio book 'What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.' The author, Haruki Murakami, has a marvelous quote: "Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional." I'm sure I will question that truth at this point in the race. 

I may think back on the suffering I endured trying to keep up with my training runs during 5 days of delayed-onset muscle soreness after hiking Ellingwood and Blanca, and the 'mandatory' runs I did to 'keep the streak' after Quandary and Antero. I will remember the many long runs on the treadmill in my basement while watching a movie (or two), and on the many different hotel fitness-room treadmills staring at a blank wall. I may look back on the sacrifices: mornings I was pulling on shoes while others slept, evenings I spent pounding the pavement instead of gathering with loved ones and friends, hours of lost time with my family. Will all the work and sacrifice pay off? Did the 3-4 week head-cold cost me precious minutes? I could have done more speed work, longer mileage; I should have eaten better, slept more, traveled less, run more and hiked less. Have I have trained well enough to cross the finish line with my head up? To PR? These are the pre-race doubts of every runner. 

I will cherish the turn south onto the Monument pathway, as a flat section for catching my breath. After I pass my usual parking place on the U Street pathway, I will make my way across a short section of canal-ditch to Five Rocks Road, followed by a nice jaunt through an unfortunately not-very-shaded neighborhood, then back across to Highway 92. Here, the final stretch involves a short uphill to the cemetery entrance. I suspect I will be in full-dissociation mode by this point, wishing I could tune-out the constant negative commentary from my psyche, which in its defense is only trying to prevent further tissue damage. It will be mind over matter. If nothing else works, I will resort to 'counting'; I cover about a mile by counting, in rhythm with each footfall and breath-cycle, up to 200 and back down again. This is when I will summon my mantra to drown out the ever-louder droning inner voice of Doubt and Quit and Sit and Stop. For when I am weak then I am strong for when I am weak then I am strong for when I am weak... 

I won't truly surface until I am in the shade of the lined trees of the cemetery. When I run by cemeteries, I ponder life and mortality, and I pray that running will not lengthen my life, but rather enrich it. I will think of how Haruki Murakami wants his headstone to say, "At least he never walked." I will likely not live up to that epitaph, and I will remember that sometimes walking helps me get to the finish, unlike the Japanese party that froze and called 911 on Ellingwood Point this summer when I summited with with John, Mark, and Andrew. I will likely walk the steep but short ravine that precedes the downhill stretch to the finish line. I pray that I have the strength to summon a shuffling trot that will carry me down to Five Rock Amphitheater and across the line with my head up, and familiar faces will greet me and hang a finisher's medal around my tired, sweaty neck (which will be well-sunscreened, thanks to learning the hard way after burning and peeling twice in the November marathon in San Antonio.) 

If I had my way, they'd play The Script and will.i.am's version 'Hall of Fame' as I cross the line. The world of running will never 'know my name' (as the song says), but I will 'go the distance; I will run the miles, and walk straight through hell with a smile'. 

This may be the hardest-earned medal yet. And the most precious, PR or not.