Author: Lisa

The night I caucused

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Gym caucus

Minnesota held its presidential caucuses Tuesday night – on Super Tuesday. I was pretty excited about fulfilling my civic duty, and being part of this country’s biggest primary election day.

Like, really excited.

I enjoy politics. I like knowing what’s going on in the world and I care about how this country and the community around me are run. Nearly every aspect of our lives is in some way influenced by the decisions of our elected leaders. It’s important to know why and how. It’s important to have a say in these decisions. At the risk of sounding like your civics teacher, voting is a privilege. It’s a right that shouldn’t be taken for granted.

My maternal grandmother was born in 1919, the year before the 19th Amendment was ratified and women gained the right to vote. Think about that. It wasn’t very long ago – two generations – that I, by virtue of my genitalia, would have been precluded from voting. And that fact doesn’t even begin to shed light upon the many groups of people who – around the world and throughout our nation’s history – have been denied the vote because of the color of their skin, social class or country of origin.

I exercise my right to choose my leaders and vote on issues that affect my life, with pride.

Sure, politics and political discourse can be frustrating and ridiculous. Congress doesn’t get anything done and the candidates just tell us what we want to hear. But – to be honest – I enjoy a good political train wreck and the spectacle of it all. It’s entertaining.

And somehow I find a way to hold in real and honest tension my political idealism with a skeptical view of the pageantry and squabbles of politics.

caucus night

This was my first time caucusing. In fact, I don’t have much experience going to the polls at all. Throughout college and graduate school I maintained my Nebraska residency and thus voted absentee. I’ve been looking forward to caucus night since last June when Donald Trump descending that escalator, announced his campaign for the presidency and then said he would build a wall along the Mexico border to keep out the rapists and murderers.

By definition a caucus is a meeting of the members of a political party. In reality it was a less organized, more chaotic primary election followed by a discussion of party business and platforms. The caucusing process varies by state, political party and even precinct.

I caucused for the DFL, the Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party. The DFL is affiliated with the Democratic Party. It is one of only two state Democratic party affiliates – the other being North Dakota – with a different name than the national party.

In my excitement, I resolved to document my caucus experience.

Hundreds of people gathered in the parking lot of the elementary school, waiting to cast their vote.

Hundreds of people gathered in the parking lot of the elementary school, waiting to cast their vote.

On Tuesday night I walked the few blocks from our apartment to my caucus location – an elementary school. It was dark and the neighborhood was buzzing with more activity than usual. I arrived at the school 25 minutes early. Two separate DFL caucuses were held at the school that night – one in the gym and one in the cafeteria. Hundreds of people stood in long lines in the parking lot.  A few volunteers shouted over the winding crowds, attempting to guide people into the correct line based on their address.

It was cold outside – about 20 degrees – but the atmosphere energetic. I chatted with the girl standing behind me. The crowd seemed representative of my urban neighborhood – millennial and white. I surmised from the conversations and paraphernalia around me, that many people had come out to support Bernie Sanders. The final vote tally would confirm these suspicions.

I stood outside for about a half hour, rocking back and forth to stay warm. I waited another ten minutes inside the gymnasium.

Waiting inside the elementary school gym to cast our caucus vote. Note the diehard Minnesotan who wore sandals on this 20 degree night.

Waiting inside the gym to cast our caucus vote. Note the die-hard Minnesotan who wore sandals on this frigid night.

I wasn’t alone in my inexperience. Many of the people around me in line had never caucused before either. We were enthusiastic, but not quite sure what we were doing. No one had given us instructions or told us what would happen when we got to the front of the line. We were ready to stand up for our candidates, but the whole process was fairly unclear.

The artwork of elementary school children lined the walls as I waited to cast my vote. It was a happy and poignant reminder that voting is a civic duty - an act of hopefully - ensuring the common good and well-being of future generations.

The artwork of elementary school children lined the walls as I waited to cast my vote. It was a happy and poignant reminder that voting is a civic duty and an act of hope. In its most idealistic sense, voting is about the common good and ensuring the well-being of future generations.

When I reached the front of the line it dissolved into a confusing and unorganized clump of people. Inside a small hallway, volunteers spoke loudly over the crowd.

“If you’re already registered to vote, go to this end of the table. If you’re not, go to that end.” 

People stood around the table asking questions. Others wandered through the hallway without an obvious purpose.

The first step in casting a caucus vote was verifying your identity and signing in.

The first step in casting a caucus vote is verifying your identity.

I stepped up to the table and I found my name on the electoral roll.  I signed next it – confirming my identity, address and that I generally agree with the party’s principles.

Verifying that I am registered to vote.

Verifying that I am registered to vote.

With no intention of starting a debate or even a discussion of political ideologies, here is my ballot:

My ballot. Casting my vote was a very open, formal process. I was handed this small piece of paper and after finding a pen in my purse, I selected my candidate and dropped the "ballot" in a cardboard box.

Voting was a very open, informal process. I was handed this small piece of paper. After digging around in my purse for a pen and using a nearby wall as flat surface, I selected my candidate. I dropped my ballot in a hastily decorated cardboard box.

After casting my vote, a volunteer directed me back into the gym.

The gym was small. It’s lacquered wooden floor was covered in bright lines and numbers. Posters lauding the merits self-control and kindness hung on the wall. The scene brought back happy memories of elementary school and my favorite subject – P.E.

Of the 525 people who voted in my caucus, about 10 percent stuck around to participate in the actual caucusing. Most voted and left – a completely valid and acceptable option.

Waiting for the caucusing to begin.

Waiting for the caucusing to begin.

Brown folding chairs, set up in no apparent pattern or method of organization, filled one end of the gym.

Once most of the chairs were occupied, a woman stood up and welcomed us to the caucus. She began by reading a note from the DFL Party Chair. Her voice was un-amplified and difficult to hear over the chatter and movement of the people at the other end of the gym who were still in line waiting to cast their ballot. She strained to be louder as she outlined how the caucus would proceed and highlighted the DFL’s Affirmative Action and Inclusion Statement.

A donation bucket was passed.

“All proceeds support the DFL party. We need to pay the janitorial staff who’ll clean up after us tonight.” 

I chatted with the people sitting next to me. The caucus participants were much older – on average – than the people who had been waiting outside to vote.

Caucus position

A candidate for the School Board spoke briefly. He was spry and passionate. His wife and son helped him hand out campaign fliers on their way out.

The woman leading the caucus asked for volunteers to fill the roles of secretary, chair and vice chair of our DFL precinct. She also needed delegates to the Minneapolis DFL convention. She didn’t offer a detailed explanation of these roles and few people were stepping forward. There weren’t any explicit requirements or background checks. You didn’t even have to give your name prior to volunteering. It was all very informal.

And that’s how I became a DFL Precinct Chair.

Ten minutes after being elected to this position I was handed a description of my duties. I’ll let you know how it all plays out.

Those who came prepared with resolutions met to determine if there was overlap in their proposals.

Resolutions are discussed.

A majority of the caucus was devoted to the reviewing and voting upon of resolutions. Anyone can bring, present and discuss a resolution during a caucus. It’s an opportunity to voice concerns and put issues on the party’s agenda. 

One by one people stood in front of the group and presented their resolutions. Most read prepared statements. Their resolutions were formal and prescriptive policy proposals, but they were also somewhat ceremonial – a formality. Their resolutions were recognized, documented and will be brought to the city party convention, yes. But they won’t in and of themselves bring about new laws or ordinances (see here for more info). These resolutions are the kernel out of which real policy change could occur. But right now they are just the seed of an idea – a suggestion of what the party should be concerned with and work toward.

There is something really neat about opinions and issues being voiced in this way. It’s grassroots politics in it’s purest form. It’s politics with a little “p” – and it’s inspiring. Sure, there were some wacky and unattainable policy proposals presented on Tuesday night. But at their core, all of these resolutions were set forth with a sincere desire to better our world.

The people who presented resolutions were diverse in age, race and gender – but they were analogous in passion. They were all trying to save our environment or make our communities strong, our schools better and the world a more just and honest place.

Caucus in action

One grey-haired gentleman in particular possessed an exquisite fervor and dedication toward the resolution process. Over the course of the evening he presented four separate policy proposals.

discussion

After each resolution was read, the moderator put it up for a simple yea or nay vote. The results – whether the resolution had passed or failed – were recorded for party records. Apart from questions of clarification, there wasn’t much by way of discussion of these resolutions. Their purpose was to be presented and acknowledged, not scrutinized or debated.

The general tone of the caucus was informal and friendly. Bernie and Hillary supporters talked freely and with an unspoken acknowledgement that their differences are far smaller and less significant than the issues that unite them. We’re all on the same team – was the underlying sentiment of the night.

After all resolutions were read and voted upon, volunteer delegates for the DFL Senate District Convention were selected. The evening ended without a formal farewell. People lingered, waited in line to sign up for party mailing lists, chatted with one another and eventually surmised that all formal business was finished. As the folding chairs were being re-stacked and people mingled, the vote tally was read. A few cheers rose up.

The caucus wraps up.

The caucus wraps up.

Caucusing was fun. I felt like I was a part of something important. I felt connected to my community and involved – in a small way – in the presidential election and the national discussion of politics. Caucusing is an easy and open way to get involved in your local political party and with the issues affecting your neighborhood and state. Although its voting process was less organized and clear than a traditional primary election, the caucus format fosters transparency and true democracy.

While I care deeply about the issues and have a favored candidate, I’ll admit that my love of politics and the political process is not bound up with a particular ideology. I didn’t caucus because of my love for the Democratic party. I caucused because I’m a citizen of the United States and it is my right and privilege to vote.

I want Hillary to win the presidency and I have clear opinions about the political issues of the day – don’t get me wrong. But my enthusiasm for this election flows from a respect for the democratic process. It comes from a passion for being informed and a desire to have a say in how my life and the world around me are governed. 

And so, I guess the point of this incredibly long post is – you should vote. Get involved in the political process and participate in your community’s governance. 

Being political doesn’t mean you are loud, angry, annoying or rude. It doesn’t mean you share your opinions on Facebook or only spend time with people that agree with your political stances. Getting involved in politics means caring and being curious enough to be informed and engaged. The challenge of politics is finding a way to balance cynicism with hope and a belief in the common good.

Vote. Don’t vote for Donald Trump – but vote.

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I’d be interested to hear about your caucus experience. Tell me in the comments.

Leap Day

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Today is Leap Day – February 29th, the rarest of days.

Leap Day occurs once every four years. It’s a temporal recalibration of sorts that dates back to the first century B.C. Without the invention of Leap Day, today would be July 12, 2017.

Did you know that leap years occur every four years, but a year that is divisible by 100, but not by 400, is not a leap year? In this way, the year 2000 was a leap year, and so was 1600. But 1700, 1800 and 1900 were not leap years. Leap Day is inherently odd.

In addition to being a terrible day on which to be born, Leap Day tradition in Ireland says women can propose to men on this day. Some speculate that salaried employees may work for free on Leap Day.

Leap Day is an strange and scarce occasion. It’s an opportunity to celebrate and enjoy an extra day in our year. It’s a holiday that comes around only every four years, and as such, it should be observed with extra reverence and ample care.

This year, I’m excited to commemorate Leap Day in the spirit of Leap Day William.

Leap Day William

Leap Day William

In episode 9 of the sixth season of the NBC show 30 Rock, the world was introduced to the wonderful lore and traditions of Leap Day William. I highly recommend watching the episode. It’s on Netflix and if I’m being honest, I’ll judge you pretty hard if you don’t.

By way of synopsis:

Leap Day William is an old, bald man with a handlebar moustache who wears a blue suit, top hat, and a yellow shirt. Tradition says that Leap Day William lives in the Marianna Trench. He emerges every four years to trade children’s tears for candy.

In his honor, every Leap Day people dress in yellow and blue. They eat rhubarb, give candy to crying children, and poke the eyes and pull the hair of those who don’t don the traditional Leap Day colors.

“Poke your eyes, pull your hair, you forgot what clothes to wear,” is the tradditional way to mock the Leap Day unobservant.

Like any holiday worth it’s salt, the lore and tradition of the day is secondary to the meaning and true spirit of it’s celebration.

Leap Day is about getting a magical extra day. It’s day to do the things you ordinarily wouldn’t do. It’s a day to take chances. Nothing is impossible on Leap Day and nothing that happens on Leap Day counts. Real life is for March.

The true meaning of Leap Day is about love and friendship and taking chances. Today is a magical day full of miracles. Just look for them and believe. You’ll see that they are all around.

My Leap Day outfit

My Leap Day outfit

Leap Day is a holiday that should be celebrated.  

The world is a cruel and ridiculous place – wars, refugees and terrorists, rapidly spreading viruses, political campaigns that have become a circus, and rampant and institutionalized hate. Most of us don’t have to look beyond our close circle of family and friends to name deep loss, sickness and hurt. Life is harsh and sad a lot of the time. If we don’t make a concerted effort to see and live beyond the raw and complex things of this world, we’ll be swallowed up by them – rendered fearful, angry and calloused.

Living fully, honestly and well requires that we acknowledge the bad, the hard and the messy – yes. But it also demands that we notice and celebrate the good. Life is a confusing bitch, but it is also beautiful and abundant. We must – if we are to get through life with any scrap of sanity – capitalize upon every opportunity to celebrate it’s happy, life-giving and wonderfully absurd things.  We need reasons to celebrate. We need reasons to get together with friends and family, to have a drink and wear silly clothes. We need Leap Day William.

“The spirit of Leap Day William exists inside of all of us.” – Leap Day William

I think that the spirit of Leap Day William is humor and ridiculousness.  It’s about love and friendship and celebrating good things.

So go out today and take a Leap Day chance. Spread the holiday cheer. Notice the good and acknowledge the absurd. And as Leap Day William always says, live every day as if it’s Leap Day and every Leap Day as if it’s your last.

Merry Leap Day!

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Friday night Minneapolis sky

It’s been a few weeks since I last shared with you my favorite internet finds. A few weeks is like a decade in internet years. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Let’s jump right in and get started.

The internet was filled with conspiracy theories this week, most of which I hope are true.

Ted Cruz is Robert Kardashian.

Ted Cruz is the Zodiac Killer.

Katy Perry is JonBenet Ramsey.

Speaking of – what it’s like to be at sea with America’s largest floating gathering of conspiracy theorists.

Are you going to watch the Academy Awards on Sunday? I’m way behind on seeing all the Best Picture nominees, but will tune in and – of course – be following along on Twitter.

This year’s broadcast will feature a major change in the way acceptance speeches are delivered.

Pets that are stuck but pretending that everything is fine brings me a lot of joy.

Steph Curry: Why the NBA loves and fears him.

“Today’s women are not abstaining from or delaying marriage to prove a point about equality. They are doing it because they have internalized assumptions that just a half-century ago would have seemed radical.” – The most powerful voters in America are unmarried women.

Death, the Prosperity Gospel and Me

So competitive yoga is a thing and it’s just as ridiculous as you think it would be.

How does the self-proclaimed “greatest living artist” measure up to Pablo Picasso? The Life of Pablo Picasso v. the Life of Kanye.

How -splain became our most meaningless suffix.

One day a year, the men locked up in California’s oldest prison get a shot at glory. Inside the San Quentin Marathon.

How confessional journalism exploits women writers.

In internet news:

An oral history of the internet’s greatest day.

For those of you not privy to the internet’s latest obsessions, Damn Daniel is a thing.

Follow on Instagram: tasteofstreep

Follow on Twitter: @dog_rates

The best Twitter feud of 2016 so far.

In political news:

Bernie Sanders has locked up one vote: the producers and peddlers of Internet memes.

“It turns out we let our electoral process devolve into something so fake and dysfunctional that any half-bright con man with the stones to try it could walk right through the front door and tear it to shreds on the first go.” – How America made Donald Trump unstoppable.

Headlines about Trump get real.

Political campaigns see $$$ in AOL email addresses.

Lastly, I recently discovered Bruce Hornsby.  Damn, his music is good. I get to see him in concert this summer at Eaux Claires and I’m just a little bit excited. This is just wonderful.

What I do when I don’t run

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I’m in the midst of a two-week break from running.

After back-to-back marathon cycles my body needed rest and my mind wanted a hiatus. This break has been good.

Current mood:

This is me, not running. I'm watching KUWTK, playing solitaire, staying hydrated, not reading Infinite Jest, wearing a Korean sheet mask (they deserve a post unto themselves) and scowling at my husband for taking this picture.

This is me, not running. I’m watching KUWTK, playing solitaire, staying hydrated, not reading the copy of Infinite Jest on my nightstand, wearing a Korean sheet mask (they deserve a post unto themselves, btw) and scowling at my husband for taking this picture.

If I’m being honest, my entire life is constructed around running. What I eat, how much I sleep, when I travel – nearly everything about how I live is at some level, done with running in mind.

What will make me feel good and strong? What will give me energy and fuel me well? These are the questions that drive my day-to-day existence.

Most of the time, living my life in this way doesn’t feel burdensome or frustrating. I’ve run nearly every day since I was 12 and have gotten used to the routine. I’ve also come to view my running lifestyle as a path to self-awareness and self-care. I’m kinder and more attentive to myself when I’m asking the questions above. I’m at my best when I am running.

But, all of that doesn’t mean I dread breaks from running. Pauses in my training are like a vacation, a hall pass or a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. They afford me the opportunity to be lazy and glutenous. They change up my routine in a wonderful way. Breaks from running give my body and mind a chance to rest and heal and re-calibrate.

For the past 12 days I have slept an extra two and half hours each night, set personal records in time spent watching television and consumed a hearty amount of alcohol. I’ve skipped the gym after work to catch dinner with friends, and let myself fall down every internet rabbit hole I’ve stumbled across. Not running is great.

Breaks from running haven’t always come easy. Like most competitive female distance runners, at my worst I’m neurotic and obsessive. Running can be my drug – a way to shut myself off from the more difficult and unwanted parts of myself and my life. A break from running can mean anxiety. It can mean a breakdown in my defenses against issues I’m literally running away from. But now in healthier times, I can embrace a pause in training as a way to appreciate this hobby for what it can be at its best – a source a joy, relationships and confidence.

The Olympic Trials left me hungry and inspired – eager to be fast and strong and competitive. As much as I’m loving this hiatus, I’m looking forward to resuming the routine of my running-centric life.  I think I still have a lot of fast times left in my legs and a lot of miles yet to run. Plus, I miss my Twin Cities Track Club teammates and the feeling of my body being a well-oiled machine.

It’s creepy face masks and wasted time for a few more days – then its back to the life I love and the routine in which I thrive.

After the Snow Melts: things lost, things discovered

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After the snow melts

This strength of year’s El Niño may be a result of global warming and rising temperatures might eventually bring about the total destruction of our planet, but I’m not complaining about the unseasonably warm weather the Midwest has experienced over the past few weeks. The snow is melting. The ground is thawing. Life is returning.

Winter weather will visit us again, I know. But for now, let us rejoice.

In a place like Minnesota where snow and ice cover the ground for months on end, the advent of the melt is refreshing and welcome. It means new life and expanded opportunities. Although the diminishing snow signals a future that is temperate and green, the melting process is dirty and brown. The transition from winter to spring is messy.

Walk to the bus stop or take a jaunt around the neighborhood on the first mild day of spring and you’ll feel like a pirate discovering lost and long-discarded treasure.

Treasure is, of course, a stretch.

It’s more accurately trash. These are frozen and forgotten objects that have regained what little life they have left in the grimy thaw.

And if we’re being honest, when you go searching for the items that the snow has relinquished, you’re less a pirate and more like a scavenger – a buzzard, discovering odd, useless and gross things.

I’m a buzzard. And armed with curiosity, time and a camera, I’ve set out on a little photo project I’m calling: After the Snow Melts: things lost, things discovered.

A stuffed dolphin. Not a *real* stuffed dolphin. Just a toy stuffed dolphin. A pink one, nonetheless.

A stuffed dolphin. Not a real stuffed dolphin. Just a toy stuffed dolphin, as you can see. A pink one, nonetheless.

If these items could speak they would tell stories of loss and pain, of rejection and uselessness. Their thawing is not their redemption, it’s the beginning of the end. They will be collected and discarded once the grass begins to green.

Cigarette butts. So many cigarette butts. They are - by far - the most common items that emerge after the snow recedes.

Cigarette butts. So many cigarette butts. They are – by far – the most common items that emerge after the snow recedes.

A majority of the items left behind after winter’s departure are explicable. They’re not necessarily acceptable, but they’re understandable. Trash – bottles, paper and cigarette butts – makes up the lion’s share of items found in melting snow.

Through this project I’ve come to believe there is something about winter that makes people forget how to throw things away. Shove it in a snowbank, throw it in the gutter. It’s too cold to be a decent citizen – they seem to reason.

Beer Bottles. Left over - presumably - from the many occasions that one drinks outside in the winter.

Beer Bottles. Left over – presumably – from one of the many occasions that one drinks outside during the winter.

Another beer can. Of all of things one finds in a melted snow pile, beer cans and bottles are the most frustrating. They represent parties that you weren't invited to and trash cans that weren't utilized. They're reminders of society's lazy drunkenness.

Of all of things one finds in a melted snow pile, beer cans and bottles are the most frustrating. They represent parties that you weren’t invited to and trash cans that weren’t utilized. They’re reminders of society’s widespread negligence and appetite for cheap beer.

These discarded items tell the story of a long winter. They tell the story of us – our laziness and addictions, our attempts at surviving the coldest months of the year and our search for meaning in a cruel and frozen world.

If it could write on it's own, this pen would tell a cold, sad tale.

If it could write on it’s own, this pen would tell a cold, sad tale.

Although it is not something I prefer to document, dog poop is a prevalent by-product of melting snow. What was once frozen and hidden is now soft and waiting for you to step in it.

Although the purpose of this photo project is to document, not judge, I can only hope my efforts bring to light the disturbing trend that is the failure to pick up after defecating pooches.

I’m sorry to post the following picture. I’m just documenting the sad, harsh truth.

Please. Please. Please. Pick up your dog's shit. It's not that hard. Even on the darkest, coldest days of winter, it is not that hard.

Please. Just please. Pick up your dog’s shit. It’s not that hard. Even on the darkest, coldest days of winter, it is not that hard.

Some things lost and left in the snow are understandable – hats, gloves and scarves for example. These winter essentials are forever escaping our possession. They’re like socks in a dyer. But unlike widowed socks, I know where they end up – in the snow.

A hat.

A hat.

A sad glove.

A sad glove.

A hat in the gutter. It seems to have made a bottle friend.

A hat in the gutter. It seems to have made a bottle friend.

I don't know what this is. It looks like it was once clothing.

I don’t know what this is. It looks like it was once clothing.

Melting snow

Another unidentified piece of clothing, lost and left to die by the curb.

Other lost clothing items are more confounding. The idea that a person could arrive home without these essential components of their outfit is disturbing.

The saddest snow pants you've ever seen.

The saddest snow pants you’ve ever seen.

For me, the most interesting and rewarding items to photograph for this project are those in the category of weird, confusing and just plain sad. These items hold mystery and stories we will never know. They are secrets personified. Their tales of loss and hope mirror our own.

A sponge. There is a story here - about dishes and misguided attempt at cleaning up. I'm sure of it.

A sponge. There is a story here – about dishes and a misguided attempt at cleaning up. I’m sure of it.

An unopened tea bag. A lost chance at warmth and peace. Maybe the tea is still good.

An unopened tea bag: a lost chance at warmth and peace.

Don't be fooled by this greenery. This fake plant is trying hard to stay positive amidst dire circumstances.

This fake plant is trying hard to stay positive amidst dire circumstances.

A meatball sandwich perfectly preserved in nature's freezer - the curbside snow bank.

A meatball sandwich perfectly preserved in nature’s freezer, the curbside snow bank.

Broken and deserted Christmas decorations. This candy cane is more metaphorical than we'd like to admit.

Broken and deserted Christmas decorations. This candy cane is full of symbolism.

Life, much like the vestiges of a receding winter, is messy and mysterious. It is full of loss and death and redemption and new hope. Capturing these items has been an exercise in presence and an acceptance of the more raw and real parts of life.

Scroll through the images below to see more of my work from this photo project.

 

This work of documenting winter’s remnants is ongoing. The snow is still melting. Capturing life as it is literally frozen and unfrozen in time has become a small hobby of mine, and I invite you to join in. Become a pirate – or buzzard – of winter’s remnants. Notice. Observe. Question. Capture.

Post your pictures of interesting frozen and melting items with the hashtag #afterthesnowmelts. Tell me about the most bizarre thing you’ve found in the snow, in the comments below.

The Olympic Trials: Race recap

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On Saturday I ran the Olympic Marathon Trials.

The stakes were higher and the stage was grander, but Saturday’s race was still a marathon. It required the detail and shrewdness of execution that any marathon does. Like every 26.2 mile effort, it demanded all of my emotional and physical strength.

Olympic Trials bib

 

The uniqueness of this race, for me, lied in it’s openness. For the past two and a half years I have chased down the Olympic Trials Qualifying Standard, running marathon after marathon with a concrete, clear goal in mind. My success and failure were simply judged by whether I ran under 2:43. But now I reached my goal. Getting to the starting line of this race was the object of all of my work – thousands of miles, early morning workouts and considerable sacrifice.

As mentioned in my last post, my preparation for the Trials was a bit unconventional. The length, conditions and intensity of my training were modified and as a consequence, I didn’t have a thorough read on my fitness. I trusted that I was in some sort of shape to run well, but I was reluctant to set a specific time goal.

So instead of time, my goals for this race revolved around my attitude and experience of the event. Sure, I wanted to run well. But this was the first marathon in a very long time that I had the opportunity to run without a time goal hanging over my head, without the fear of falling short or not being enough. Saturday’s race presented me with the freedom to focus on the quality of my race – not just it’s quantity – i.e. time.

Prior to the race I established these goals:

I wanted to soak up the experience. This was rare, fantastic opportunity. I wanted to notice and appreciate this chance that I had to compete in the Olympic Trials – the pinnacle of my beloved sport. I wanted to enjoy the festivities and the many family and friends who traveled to L.A. to watch me compete. I wanted to be present and grateful.

I wanted to be positive and proud. I’m a competitor and achiever to my bones –Enneagram Type Three, anyone? When I’m not winning or competing at my best, it’s easy for me to feel inadequate and defeated. I’m my own harshest critic and a cruel and persistent judge of my performance. On Saturday, when I was sized up against the best runners in the nation, it would have been easy for me to feel “less than”. And so, I resolved to be proud of myself and run with joy, knowing that I earned my place on that starting line. As with all things in life, I had the opportunity to choose how I interpreted and responded to the outcome of this race. I wanted to choose to make sense of it with honesty and positivity.

I wanted to be inspired. This past weekend in L.A. was a reunion of the biggest names, and a display of the greatest talent in the elite distance running world. It’s a small world, but an foundational one to those of us who love this sport. I resolved to notice and appreciate the strength, camaraderie and beauty that running produces. I wanted to fall in love with this sport all over again, and be inspired by the talent and dedication of my fellow athletes.

These goals were intangible, but substantive. Their achievement would require presence and focus – not merely sheer physical strength.

The day before the race, my dear friend Jenny gave me a “good luck” card. It was thoughtful and encouraging and contained the following phrases that perfectly summed up my goals for the race:

Be present, here and now. Be strong and proud.

These words became my mantra throughout Saturday’s hot, shade-less, 26.2 mile battle.

Singlet

The entire weekend was filled with nervous, electric energy. From the uniform check and the special fluids drop-off to the technical meeting and shakeout runs, the atmosphere was celebratory yet focused. Everyone seemed grateful and excited to be there, but subdued and acutely aware of the task that lay ahead.

I was reunited with friends, former teammates and familiar faces from the running community. More than 20 family and friends traveled to L.A. to watch the Trials and cheer me on. Their presence and encouragement kept me calm and positively distracted in the days and hours leading up to the race.

I shared elevators with Galen Rupp and Alberto Salazar, Deena Kastor and Shalane Flanagan. I passed Kara Goucher and Meb Keflezighi on Friday’s shakeout run. These names probably don’t mean anything to most of you, but suffice it to say, I was in running nerd heaven. I was inspired.

Credentials

The Olympic Trials course was unique and presented some interesting challenges. It was a criterium-style course that consisted of an initial 2.2-mile loop followed by a 6-mile loop that was run four times. You’ll see from the map below that much of the 6-mile loop was run on a single road. The course was contained entirely within downtown Los Angeles, and for spectators, it was a dream.CA15079RS

The sun was high and strong on Saturday when my friend Michelle and I made our way out of the start/finish staging area and onto the course to begin our warm-up. We tried not to notice the heat. But, after a 10 minute jog we returned to staging area and admitted to one another through nervous laughs that it was “so f-ing hot.”

America the Beautiful was sung. The Star Spangled Banner was played.

On the starting line, I resolved to stay calm and savor the large, energetic crowd and festive atmosphere. I poured water down my back to stay cool and shifted my weight from one foot to the other – a nervous tick. Be present, here and now.

From the gun, my legs felt a bit heavy and less lively than I would like. I ran in a large pack of runners, up and around the first 2.2 mile loop. I chose to remain non-judgmental and composed about how I was feeling. I ignored the idea that this race wouldn’t unfold well. Breathe in. Breathe out. Be strong.

Olympic Trials Running

Each time we finished a loop of the course we passed back through the start/finish area. It was loud and crowded with spectators. Music blared and an announcer read our names as we ran by. I used this energy and the slight downhill going into and coming out of the start/finish line area, to gain momentum. I reminded myself at the end and beginning of every loop that I had earned my spot in this race, and that I should enjoy it. Be proud.

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My main cheering section of 14 family and friends were positioned on Figueroa Street, south of the start/finish area. I passed them twice during each of the four, six-mile loops and came to savor their encouragement and loud cheers.  During the first few loops I smiled at and acknowledged familiar faces along the course. On my second 6-mile loop I took a small tangent to the side of the road to high-five my cheering squad. Soak up the experience.

High five

Every three miles we passed a fluid station that contained our personal bottles. With men’s tables on the left side of the road and women’s on the right, I knew which of the numbered tables my bottle would be on.  At each station I would grab my electrolyte-filled bottle, transfer it to my left hand, proceed to the “neutral fluids” – i.e. water – table, grab a 16oz bottle of Dasani, open it and pour it on my head to gain some sense of reprieve from the sweltering sun. For the next 400 to 800m I would drink as much of the liquid in my personal fluid bottle as I could. By the second water stop, all the fluids on the course were warm and far from refreshing. Stay calm. Relax. Push forward.

Water bottles

Ideal temperatures in which to run a marathon are 40 or 50 degrees. Saturday’s race pushed into the 80’s. The course – apart from a few small sections on the USC campus – was completely without shade. At the end of the first 6-mile loop I saw my first competitor drop out of the race. From then on, I watched people struggle, collapse, drop out of the race and stop, defeated and crying. The heat was brutal, dangerous and unforgiving.

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Be present, here and now. Be strong and proud.  – This was my mantra, my running mediation. I rode the waves of pain, tried to remain patient through the more difficult miles, and calmed and regulated my breathing over and over and over again. This race was for me, an exercise in presence, awareness and mental fortitude. I resolved to finish – and to do so with pride and strength.

As monotonous as the Olympic Marathon Trials course was, its many loops helped me visual and break down the race in my mind. I was always aware of where I was on the course and how far I had to go. I knew when I would encounter the next water stop and where I needed to take my next energy gel.

L.A. running

As I finished my 3rd 6-mile loop and prepared to head back out on to Figueroa for the final time, I faced a moment of fear and weariness. I was thirsty and tired. My legs were on the verge of cramping and my stomach wanted so badly to reject its glucose-laden contents. I doubted if it was worth it. This last six miles was going to suck.

I let the achiever in me feel shame at my slowing pace. In one giant, destructive thought I simultaneously felt sorry for myself and criticized myself.

I passed through the start/finish area for the fourth time and almost as if my body was ignoring my mind’s weak and self-pitying protests, I strode out back on to the course – and into the most grueling 6 miles of my life.

It was a sad, slow 6 miles, but 6 miles that affirmed the validity of my pre-race goals. Being present and aware is no small task when your body is shutting down and your mind wants to focus on anything but the pain. Being strong and proud feels like a joke when you are creeping along through a sparsely-populated course, covered in water, salty sweat and Gatorade.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointing by the time I saw on the clock when I crossed the finish line. It was slow – slower than I’ve ever run for a marathon. Then again, most everyone ran slow that day – about 10-15 off their goal. I finished, and that was something.

With a medal around my neck and a bag of ice on my head, I found my fan club. They were so happy and proud. I felt loved. When I retrieved my phone and saw the support that had been pouring in from across the country on social media, I felt so affirmed.

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I’ve noticed – in the hours and days that have followed – that the task of fulfilling the goals I established for this race continues.

Remembering and interpreting the events of this past weekend requires less struggle and suffering than the race itself – for sure – but it requires work all the same. It requires awareness – and a choice to be proud of my performance and to acknowledge my strength in finishing.

I’ve come to believe that one of the most important and difficult challenges of life is choosing how we interpret meaning from experience.

Actively and constructively deciding to see and understand life – its events, relationships and people – in a productive and non self-centered manner is hard. Choosing to see things in a way that supports relationships, growth, truth and the value of all people is far from our default mode of operation. But it is a choice that makes us better, more human and more connected to one another.

When I reflect upon my Olympic Trials experience, my default mode is one of self-pity and shame. I wanted to run faster and place higher. On the biggest running stage, I didn’t shine. The critical, competitor in me doesn’t want to feel happy about my performance.

But, in my better, more conscious moments, I can view this past weekend through the lens of my initial goals for the race. And I can practice those very goals. With awareness, I can see that in an intangible but very real way, I succeeded. I was strong and proud and I was able to savor the experience. I was given a fantastic opportunity and supported, celebrated and loved through it – far beyond what I deserve.

And so, I’m carrying the mantra of Saturday’s race with me. Beyond a sloppy, excruciatingly hot and never-ending race, it seems like it could be relevant and helpful to most things.

Be present, here and now. Be strong and proud.

The Olympic Trials: How I’ve prepared

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Path

The U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials are less than a week away.  It’s officially taper time. The miles have been run, the workouts completed. All I can do now is get myself to the starting line healthy, trust that the “hay is in the barn” and hope the marathon gods look favorably upon me.

My training cycle leading up to the Trials has been a bit unconventional. For reasons you may recall, my build-up for this race was shortened – reduced to eight weeks from my usual twelve week marathon cycle. Most elite marathoners race one or two marathons per year, spacing out these colossal, body-wrecking efforts to prevent injury and fatigue.  I ran a marathon nine weeks ago.

Snowy Running Shadow

After running California International Marathon in early December, I took a full week off of running. When I started back up, my legs were jello-y and dumb. It’s funny – and frustrating – how a marathon effort and some extended rest can leave you feeling like you’ve never run before. But after a couple weeks of consistent mileage and a few light workouts, my legs started to gain life and I acquired some confidence, and hope.

My coach and I agreed that I needed to be cautious. Injury is a sure outcome of doing too much too soon. My emotional brain was saying, OMG YOU ARE RUNNING THE OLYMPIC TRIALS IN 6 WEEKS. DO ALL THE MILEAGE!!! But my more rational mind knew I should be kind to my body and trust that its large stockpile of mileage from the past few years would carry me through, and get me to where I wanted to be.

Frozen Fuel

Most weeks I ran 70-80 miles. In a “typical” marathon buildup I run 80-90 miles per week. Most weeks I did two workouts and a long run. I lifted weights once a week and did core and glute exercises 2-3 times per week. I got a few massages, saw my chiropractor and spent lots of time watching Netflix – i.e. “resting.”

The challenges and hiccups of this training cycle were many. To begin, there was the weather:

-10 degree 16 miles run

The average temperature in Minneapolis – where I did all of my training – during my 8 week build-up for the Trials, was 20°. The highest temperature was 43° and the lowest was -15°. With the company of some wonderful Twin Cities Track Club teammates, a few breakdowns, and some self-love, I was able to face these frigid conditions without too much struggle – at least not as much as I’ve encountered in my previous Minnesota winter running attempts. In the end, the goal – the Olympic Trials – was a powerful motivator and perspective-shaper.

Because of the cold, snow and ice, a majority of my workouts were run on the dreadmill. No, I spelled that correctly. It’s the dreadmill:

dreadmill

Anyone who has spent time running on a treadmill knows that its successful use is a matter of the mind. Keeping yourself calm and occupied are most of the battle. I developed a little routine during my treadmill workouts this cycle: Keeping Up with the Kardashians during the warm-up, cool-down and easy miles, and Taylor Swift’s 1989 during the fast, up-tempo parts. Whatever it takes – that’s what I told myself.

Well, it took trashy television and delicious pop music. No shame or regrets. I got it done.

The Olympic Trials build-up was also complicated by a bronchial infection. My sad asthmatic lungs put up very little fight against this cold’s mucus and inflammation. After a trip to the doctor, some drugs, a lot of hacking, a few very uncomfortable runs and about a week, I was – for the most part – good as new.

There was also a small injury scare. During an icy Monday evening run with my husband and our friend Jeff, I felt a small twinge in my right calf. It wasn’t anything big and it didn’t hamper my stride – just a small twitch that dissipated after a few seconds. It happened 3-4 times throughout the run. When I got home my calf felt tight. I rolled it out, stretched it and iced it. Then, I freaked out. I’M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO RUN THE OLYMPIC TRIALS!!! 

Was I being rational? No. But at that moment, the weight of all the possibilities of how bad it could be, was just too much. In the end, I took a day off of running, did a pool workout, saw my chiropractor/ART (Active Release Technique) practitioner and was back to training within a couple days. Maybe I overreacted, but it was better to be cautious than risk real injury. That’s what I told myself, at least.

Frosty Bridge

For all of the frustrations, complications and freak-outs there were plenty of good, self-gratifying moments throughout this training cycle. I had friends to run with almost every day – friends that met me in the early, dark hours of the morning and gave me understanding, hope and joy. I had an encouraging coach, a supportive husband and lots of family and friends cheering me on.

The significance of this opportunity that I have to run The Olympic Trials is not lost on me. It was a struggle to get all the training and work in, but I know that it’s a struggle many others would gladly undertake for a chance to be on that starting line on Saturday. In the end, I’m grateful for the struggle. It was and will be worth it.

This cycle taught me to trust my training, be patient, roll with the punches and stay calm. I don’t have a good, comprehensive read on my current fitness and there have been hiccups, but all I can do on Saturday is run and try and savor the opportunity. I’ll aim to run smart and hard, and with joy and some gratitude.

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Popcorn on the porch makes me ranty.

Popcorn on the porch makes me ranty.

It’s Friday again and that means it’s time for me to share with you all the interesting, ridiculous and WTF things I found online this week.

We’re going to start off with some music.

There’s no reason or justification. I refuse to feel ashamed. This week I’ve been exclusively singing and listening to this:

My suggested Twitter-follow of the week is Sheboygan Scanner. Here you’ll find a wonderful citizen of Sheboygan, Wisconsin tweeting odd, dry and shocking messages from the city’s police scanner. Weirdly wonderful.

Sheboygan Scanner

Speaking of tweets, this one wins.

Listen up men between the ages of 18 and 35: Gray hair is in.

In “behind-the-scenes tech news”: Uber’s rebranding and Giphy’s origin story.

The world’s youngest boy band.

Why child prodigies rarely become adult geniuses who change the world.

Evidently, you’re nobody if you don’t have your own mobile game.

A cure for aging?

Snapchat is eating all your phone’s data. Here’s how to fix it.

A video game about cancer. I first heard about it on this podcast.

Speaking of Reply All – it’s my favorite and this week’s episode is great.

All of 2015’s weather in a time-lapse video.

It’s like Netflix, but for flying.

Super Bowl 50 is Sunday. 

Side Note: I went to look up the Roman numeral for 50 – because we all know that’s how Super Bowls work and I never learned my Roman numerals – and I discovered that this year the NFL is ditching the ancient numerical system!?!

Are you going to watch? I’ll be live-tweeting the game . . . er . . I mean, the commercials.

A nice Super Bowl preview.

The dark secret of the Super Bowl coin toss.

How Minneapolis changed the Super Bowl halftime show.

In political news:

www.donaldtrump.org and FREE Tump Stamps.

Pizza budgets.

A brief history of people caring about Hillary Clinton’s hair.

Sarah Palin’s English is actually incredibly complicated.

Scenes from Iowa.

*Have a great weekend folks!*

Snow: Do you “scoop” it or do you “shovel” it?

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Winter Storm Kayla swept across the Midwest earlier this week and hit Nebraska hard. I know this because my Facebook feed was teeming with snow-filled pictures and remarks, posted by my friends and relatives in the Cornhusker State. There were bundled-up children inside freshly-built snow forts, backyard decks submerged under a white, frosty blanket several feet deep and comments about how long it took to scoop the driveway. Everyone was talking about how much snow there was to scoop.

Snowy Loring Park

In Nebraska we scoop snow. We do not shovel snow. We scoop it.

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I discovered the verb scoop isn’t used universally to describe the action of removing snow from a driveway or sidewalk. Shovel is of course, the term of choice for nearly every other American. Shoveling snow isn’t a foreign phrase to me and my fellow Nebraskans. I don’t think twice when I hear someone employ it. My default term is simply scooping snow. That’s how it comes out of my mouth when I talk about clearing away the white, fluffy stuff.

My husband – perhaps like some of you – didn’t initially believe that scooping was a real thing.

“You made that up,” he asserted.

“It must have been something only your family said,” he argued

To shed light upon this variance of terminology and prove the validity of my claims, I’ve undertaken some light research.

A Twitter search for “scooping snow” yields – from what I can tell – tweets almost exclusively from Nebraskans. Nebraska’s major news outlets use the term scoop. It’s a real thing.

There are a few obscure places on the internet – like here and here – where the scooping/shoveling issue has been raised, but by and large this linguistic discrepancy has eluded thorough investigation.

The scoop/shovel inconsistency is not of the pop/soda variety. It isn’t oft-debated and widespread. The scoop/shovel divide is more along the lines of the water fountain/bubbler controversy. It’s quirky, confusing and limited to a small group of people.

By definition, to scoop is the action of picking something up with a scoop – which is “a deep shovel or similar implement for digging, dipping, or shoveling.” On the same token, a shovel is “a hand implement consisting of a broad scoop or a more or less hollowed out blade with a handle used to lift and throw material.” By these classifications, shoveling *probably* more accurately describes what most people do when they move and remove snow. But scooping isn’t completely categorically misguided.

Apart from the verbiage, I’ve discovered there is also much discrepancy around the naming and form of snow removal tools. A quick search of online retailers revealed the following.

This is a shovel:

Snow Shovel

 

 

This is also a shovel:

This is also a snow shovel

 

This is a scoop:

Snow Scoop

 

And this is a snow pusher:

Snow Pusher

 

My current theory is that the term scoop derives form Nebraska’s agriculture heritage. Call me silly, but compared to shoveling, scooping feels like a heartier action and something that’s larger in scale. I imagine a tractor scooping up things. You scoop cow manure. You scoop gravel. You scoop feed corn. And in Nebraska, you scoop snow.  Nebraska is a rural state. Eighty-nine percent of the cities in Nebraska have fewer than 3,000 people. Many Nebraskans – if they don’t currently live or work on a farm – are only one or two generations removed from agricultural life. It seems reasonable that a commonly-used term from the farm – like scoop – could permeate the common parlance of everyday Nebraskans.

I also wonder if the etymology of scoop has something to do with the native languages of Nebraska’s earliest immigrants. Nebraska’s prominent ancestry groups include German, Czech and Irish. Thanks to the wonders of Google Translate and a co-worker who speaks Irish, I learned that the Irish verb to scoop is scaob – which is pronounced something like *skoob*. Scaob and scoop are awfully similar, don’t you think? Could Nebraskans’ penchant for using the term scoop be a linguistic quirk left over from the Irish immigrants who settled in the state during the 19th and early 20th centuries? I’m not a linguist and I may be completely off-base, but maybe – just maybe, I’m on to something.

I can’t conclusively say why Nebraskans scoop while the rest of the United States shovels. I do know however, that language is a fickle and interesting thing. Language is transparent and it fosters communication at the same time that it is merely metaphor for the actual things and ideas it describes.

Words – their origins and use – tell stories of people. They tell stories of who people are, and how they relate to one another and the world around them.

Words create and remove power. Look no further than the current presidential election to observe the sneaky, precise and ridiculous ways that language can influence people and fashion the systems on which we build ideologies and beliefs.

Words are – in the end – what we make and use of them. I’m convinced there is no right and wrong in the scoop/shovel debate. Scooping works for Nebraskans. The rest of the U.S. can shovel, but I will forever remain a proud scooper of snow.

 

Do you have any insights or theories as to why Nebraskans scoop snow while the rest of the United States shovels it? Do you know of any other unique regional linguistic oddities? Tell me in the comments.

February 1st

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February Sunrise

When my alarm went off this morning I was angry.

I was angry because I didn’t get enough sleep and I was staring down another cold run on icy, snowy paths. I was angry because it is February 1st and realistically, there is so much winter left to face – so many cold, snowy days yet to endure.

I lie awake in bed for ten minutes – trying to calm myself down and pump myself to face the day – before throwing back the covers and stumbling to the restroom. I make coffee and get dressed for my run – long socks and spandex shorts, sports bra, running tights, spandex long-sleeve top, half zip and a jacket – too much clothing. My sleepy fingers struggle to pull on all the layers of stretchy, tight material.

I’ve learned to give myself an extra ten minutes before heading out for my morning run. Ten minutes to drink coffee, scroll through social media, enjoy the stillness of my apartment and the relative calm of the city outside. I send off a snarky tweet about the Iowa Caucuses, channeling my anger into public displays of sarcasm.

Just before walking out the door I grab the apartment key, put on my watch, a headband, a hat and gloves, and locate a small canister of mace (a story for another day). I lock the door behind me. Descending the five flights of stairs to the street, I notice that I’m still angry.

I’m so tired of dark runs. My body is tired and I’m running a marathon in less than two weeks. Last week’s training wasn’t awesome and I can feel winter’s depressive venom slowly seeping in to my mind.

I tell myself, Just a mile and a half. That’s it. Run mile and a half and then you’ll meet Christine.

My legs begin moving at the high-pitched *buhhdoop* sound of my watch starting. It’s a Pavlovian response, really. The watch starts and so do I.

The sidewalks and paths are unpredictably icy due to the recent daily cycle of thaw and freeze. I take short, cautious steps. Down the street, over the bridge, up the hill, down the hill, under the freeway and there’s Christine.

Our greeting is a weary, “hey.” It’s pregnant with mutual empathy, frustration and camaraderie. Another day, another Monday, another winter run. I feel understood. We talk about the weather, our weekends, my recent crappy workout and then a mile later, there’s Carrie.

Out and around the lake and back toward downtown. It’s dark this morning. Christine uses her phone as a flashlight, illuminating our next steps as we navigate the path’s icy patches. We talk about engineering exams and education and writing. Six miles in we stop. Carrie finishes her story about a recent doctor’s visit and we say goodbye to Christine.

Carrie and I turn back toward the lakes. It’s getting lighter as the sun rises behind us. We talk about training and our upcoming races. A mile and a half later I’m two and half miles from my apartment, and it’s time for me to turn around. Before parting ways, I admit to Carrie that I am tired and my mind feels fragile. I’m worried about the Olympic Trials and *sigh* winter is never going to end.

The sky is softly pink at the horizon. The muffled sun is coming up over the frozen lake, through the silhouettes of leafless trees.

Carrie gives me a hug and tells me it’s going to be OK.  Her embrace is an odd reminder that I’ve been running with and talking to real, physical beings. On these light-less runs you interact only with a voice and the sound of footsteps.  Her touch gives me energy. It gives me hope.

We wish each other “Happy Monday!” as we run off in opposite directions.

My legs feel pretty good. I take note and use this fact as assurance. You’re going to be OK.

It’s a damp morning and as the world around me lightens, I see that the trees and prairie grass lining the path are covered in a delicate layer of frost. It’s beautiful and enchanting. It brings me joy.

For the last two miles of my run I have understanding and hope and joy. That’s quite a bit.

I run up the hill, down the hill, over the bridge, through the park and climb back up the five flights of stairs to home – to begin my day.

For today, understanding, hope and joy are enough. Tomorrow, I don’t know. But today, these are sufficient.