Blech! I am so sick of dark, wet, cold days. Running for 10 minutes just to warm up, and then running home in a biting wind because the wind changed direction. Having to run in the evening when I am tired, supper needs to be cooked, and the baby is cranky. Coming home to a hungry, needy family and having to be Mom when all I want is 15 minutes to stretch and then a nice, hot bath.
I am in a funk. I was asked to run in a race with some church folks and I was sincerely flattered. I usually keep my running to myself, but last fall I ran in a race where there happened to be some folks from my church entered as well. So I guess my secret is out-
As flattered as I was to be asked, I declined. It was a trail run and it cost $25. I don't mind spending the $ when it is a race I really want to run, but a muddy race in cold, early March won't get $25 from me! Hopefully I will be asked again-
I am a race snob. I want my money's worth and I want a good time (race time). I don't run races for fun, I run them to be competitive with myself. I am really trying to whittle down my race times, and I think this summer will be the year I can get myself back into a sub 22 minute 5k. It may take all summer, but it is my official goal. I"ll take what I can get with the 10k and up. Last year was the "I just spent a year and a half pregnant and having a new baby, it's time to get back into it" year.
I'm looking to run a race a month from May through October. I better save my pennies!
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Rooster Soup
Several weeks ago we butchered one of our roosters. We procrastinated and procrastinated until finally the dynamics in the chicken coop was so unpleasant that we could no longer avoid the inevitable.
I was nervous. A friend of mine, M, volunteered to come over and help out. As soon as B got home from work he went to look for the hatchet while M and I discussed the game plan.
No hatchet was found. B thought a random big knife would do the trick, and as the sun was setting and time was running out, we agreed.
M and B cornered Mr. Rooster in the yard and M brought him over to the picnic table where I held his neck and body down.
Mr. Rooster was calm and accepting of his fate.
I said a brief prayer and turned my head as the knife made the first chop. Chop, chop, chop-"God, please let it be over!"
Finally it was done. Mr. Rooster was gone, though his body continued to twitch. It was so freaky-I asked M what we should do next, and she said "Run for the hills!" We ran across the yard, kind of in disbelief at the scene on the table.
A couple of deep breaths and I had regained my composure. I strung him up on the monkey bars to bleed out, and soon he was ready for the pot.
I dunked him in the boiling water, and then the ice water. I laid him on the kitchen floor and F helped me to pull off the feathers. It took FOREVER.
Finally, he was ready to be gutted. I took my poultry shears and cut him from top to bottom, opening him up like a mortician.
His organs were perfect. I was in awe at God's work. Everything was in its place, completely, perfectly formed. F and I took out the heart, examined the chambers and the veins. The lungs were spongy and soft, the intestines still had digested food inside.
Finally, I cut the the wings, neck and legs off and put them in the soup pot with the rest of the body.
Mr. Rooster made a delicious stock, a nourishing soup for my family and M. He provided us with a life lesson in the miracle of life and the order of the food chain. A hat tip to you, Mr. Rooster.
I was nervous. A friend of mine, M, volunteered to come over and help out. As soon as B got home from work he went to look for the hatchet while M and I discussed the game plan.
No hatchet was found. B thought a random big knife would do the trick, and as the sun was setting and time was running out, we agreed.
M and B cornered Mr. Rooster in the yard and M brought him over to the picnic table where I held his neck and body down.
Mr. Rooster was calm and accepting of his fate.
I said a brief prayer and turned my head as the knife made the first chop. Chop, chop, chop-"God, please let it be over!"
Finally it was done. Mr. Rooster was gone, though his body continued to twitch. It was so freaky-I asked M what we should do next, and she said "Run for the hills!" We ran across the yard, kind of in disbelief at the scene on the table.
A couple of deep breaths and I had regained my composure. I strung him up on the monkey bars to bleed out, and soon he was ready for the pot.
I dunked him in the boiling water, and then the ice water. I laid him on the kitchen floor and F helped me to pull off the feathers. It took FOREVER.
Finally, he was ready to be gutted. I took my poultry shears and cut him from top to bottom, opening him up like a mortician.
His organs were perfect. I was in awe at God's work. Everything was in its place, completely, perfectly formed. F and I took out the heart, examined the chambers and the veins. The lungs were spongy and soft, the intestines still had digested food inside.
Finally, I cut the the wings, neck and legs off and put them in the soup pot with the rest of the body.
Mr. Rooster made a delicious stock, a nourishing soup for my family and M. He provided us with a life lesson in the miracle of life and the order of the food chain. A hat tip to you, Mr. Rooster.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
So much more than just exercise
I was talking with another woman today about exercising. She asked me how the running was going, and I expressed regret that I am not able to get out and run as much as I would like in the winter. She began to tell me about her treadmill and her membership to the Y. Thank goodness she didn't mention home exercise videos, or I don't know how I would have reacted. You see, I don't really run for the exercise. It does keep me in shape and helps burn off those unwanted calories, but if I was only doing if for the exercise I don't think I would have been able to keep it up for twenty years.
I do it for different reasons, reasons which have changed as I have grown and aged.
When I was a teenager I ran to be competitive. I wanted to be the best-the fastest and the strongest. Many times I was. But I was also a self-conscious runner. I didn't always run for myself or do what my body told me. I ran for my coach, my team, my parents. I felt at times that running was stifling me.
When I was in my twenties I wanted to push myself to the limit. I wanted to test my boundaries and see how far I could go. I became a solitary runner, competitive only with myself. I fell in love with running for the first time, and we had a nice co-dependent relationship.
After I had children I had to fall in love again each time I hit the road after having a baby. Three times I went through that cycle. Each time was easier than the last.
Now, in my thirties and a seasoned runner, I run for the freedom. I cannot imagine running on a treadmill inside my home or a gym. When I run I get away from diapers and dinner and the next load of laundry. I feel the same way I always feel out on the road. Ageless, weightless, exhilirated.
The same feeling I felt when I was ten and I galloped around the backyard pretending I was a horse.
The same feeling as when I was 16 and I ran around the neighborhood in the falling snow.
The same feeling as last summer when I watched the sun rise over the corn fields on my way home in the early morning.
A treadmill can't come close to that.
I do it for different reasons, reasons which have changed as I have grown and aged.
When I was a teenager I ran to be competitive. I wanted to be the best-the fastest and the strongest. Many times I was. But I was also a self-conscious runner. I didn't always run for myself or do what my body told me. I ran for my coach, my team, my parents. I felt at times that running was stifling me.
When I was in my twenties I wanted to push myself to the limit. I wanted to test my boundaries and see how far I could go. I became a solitary runner, competitive only with myself. I fell in love with running for the first time, and we had a nice co-dependent relationship.
After I had children I had to fall in love again each time I hit the road after having a baby. Three times I went through that cycle. Each time was easier than the last.
Now, in my thirties and a seasoned runner, I run for the freedom. I cannot imagine running on a treadmill inside my home or a gym. When I run I get away from diapers and dinner and the next load of laundry. I feel the same way I always feel out on the road. Ageless, weightless, exhilirated.
The same feeling I felt when I was ten and I galloped around the backyard pretending I was a horse.
The same feeling as when I was 16 and I ran around the neighborhood in the falling snow.
The same feeling as last summer when I watched the sun rise over the corn fields on my way home in the early morning.
A treadmill can't come close to that.
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