Everyone can make a difference

I'm trying to make good use of my unemployment time. Before the holidays I was out for drinks with some artist friends, a politician and his wife. Everyone was excited for 2009, and a new era. The wife works for KACEE which promotes good environmental practices in schools. I told her about a school in Topeka I'd reported on, and found out she didn't know who was behind their impressive recycling program. So today, I nominated the woman behind the scenes who had a mission that has been making the world a much better place for over ten years. Here is what I wrote:


As a journalist I’ve attended many award ceremonies and reported on “important and impressive,” people. Doctors, Lawyers, professors and politicians. But in 11 years of reporting, there’s a woman who with a job most wouldn’t consider a profession, and a salary none would envy, has managed to shoulder an environmental movement that would make anyone proud.
In May of 2008 I was working as an anchor and reporter at KTKA in Topeka. The station had awarded the Washburn Rural High school for their “going green” practices. I was sent to do the story. Once I got there I found out it wasn’t their first award. For over ten years, the school recycles everything. Boxes, plastic, cans and paper. In fact, I think their recycling may outweigh their trash. I was escorted around the school by a teacher who had implemented the program. That was only part of the story. The rest was that the program was started by a cook. Her name is Mary Zaitz and I’d like to nominate her for the Strickler award.
Mary started working as a cook in March of 1986.
“I used to just bring the stuff home to recycle it, because the school wouldn’t let me recycle. Then I found out the city wouldn’t recycle the plastic jugs. It just killed me to throw away all those plastic jugs.”
Mary continued her personal mission to recycle at the school but the principal wouldn’t let them set up a system for fear of attracting vermin or creating other health hazards. The school nutritionist tried to approach the principal with Mary’s vision, but again the idea was struck down. Eventually another school teacher came up with a system the principal accepted. In the past, when the stories air about the school’s magnificent program, we hear about this man and not the woman behind the idea. While this bothers me a lot, it doesn’t bother Mary, she’s too busy checking up on the kids.
“Oh I’ve seen her catch the kids putting their plastic bottles in the trash, and she’ll fish them out.” I was talking to Mary’s boss Donna Bateman and getting some more insight into Mary’s mission. Later I asked Mary why this is so important to her.
“I just can’t stand to think of wasting anything. I think about how what we recycle could be turned into a bench or carpet. One day I was watching TV and saw the barges of trash from New York and it just made me sad. I’m glad we are putting out less trash into the landfill.”
In over ten years, it is tons of recycling.
Mary Zaitz doesn’t need a degree to do her job. She doesn’t wear pinstripes to work or sit in a corner office. She wears a hairnet. But she does need passion and determination to actualize her mission for the environment. You can’t learn that in school and it’s not something you can buy in a bottle. But if it was, I assure you, she’d recycle it.

Be a lifesaver

I've been pretty honest about my relationship with my mom, and I feel like a mention I made before needs some embellishment.
"My mom has saved lives."
My mom was born in Chicago, Il in 1944. Later my grandfather, Orville M. Running moved the family to Decorah, Iowa. My mom, Marjorie, grew up there in a very sheltered Lutheran environment.
When she wasn't married at the ripe old age of 21, (ancient I tell you) my grandfather let her know there were other options in life.
"Margie, there's one thing worse than not being married. That's being married to the wrong person."
She moved to New Orleans to pursue a master's degree in French, met my father, and was married a year later.
New Orleans was a different environment for my mom. I grew up in Decorah too. Things had changed by the time I was a teenager.. a lot. There were 2 black people in our school. One was the daughter of the local radiologist, the other was adopted. There may have been some others who floated in and out, but weren't there from elementary to high school.
My mom refers to Decorah as "Lake Woe-Decorah." It's a reference to Garrison Keillor's "Lake Woebegone," a fictitious town where all the "women are strong, the men are good looking and all the children are above average." Decorah is also the home of Luther College, where all the students smile and say hello, are smart and blonde and attractive. The Viking strength is mirrored in the the town of 10 thousand and people who live and work there.
"Mom, we can't finish the dishes, Philip and I just don't know where everything goes."
My brother and I were warring over a sink full of suds and arguments about who was suffering the most. Both of us wanted to give up and go watch the Sci-Fi channel.
"Just think about where it would be if you needed it. You're both above average... you can figure it out."
Great. My mom gets her parenting advice from a local radio show. Yes, in 1982 Garrison Keillor was a local act on Minnesota Public Radio.
I distinctly remember walking into the kitchen another day. (The dishes mercifully, had been completed.) My mom was wiping tears from her eyes.
"Oh Garrison.. he's so funny."
I think it was the one about how the tomatoes take over your life in August.
The melifluous voice over the speakers..
"Remember how you would have killed for a tomato in June, now they are everywhere and you want to kill them." Too much of anything (except love) is a bad thing.
Before moving back to the land of milk and honey, Decorah Iowa we lived in suburb of New Orleans.
My mom had finished up her degree in French and she and my dad started a family. We were too young then to do dishes, but it wouldn't have mattered. We had a maid.
"Everyone had them. I feel awful. It was just so cheap." My dad still feels bad about it. Interesting, because he grew up in the deep south and this was just a part of life as he knew it.
Our maid was efficient. Thorough. Beautiful. Poor. Our maid was black.
She cleaned all the houses of the upper crust, Junior League of Mettairie Lousiana. The year was 1974. My mom was 30 and had a conversation one day with the maid.
"You know you don't have to do this for a living."
"What else can I do?"
This was what the maid saw as her plot in life. She wasn't bitter, just in an environment where cleaning other people's homes was all poor black women could do to support themselves.
My mom made a few phone calls and got her a job in an office as a secretary. A new path. A new life. Respect.
My mom seriously pissed off the junior league of Mettairie Louisiana. But perhaps left them with something to think about while doing their dishes.
I told this story to Emily Horn, aka Mud Doc on our run on Sunday. It was part of a larger conversation about how some pairings of people are more than just the sum of their parts. One plus one equals 7.
"Or one plus zero equals 3."
Emily was making an observation.
"I don't want to call someone a zero."
"Sophia, that's just you plus yourself."
I will write more on this equation later, but for now suffice it to say that that day My mom was a 3. Seeing potential in others and turning it into meaning.
As a medical doctor, Emily saves lives all the time. She also challenges herself physically and emotionally, taking care of her own life. My challenge to everyone is to search within and outward. Look around. Is there a life you should be saving? Are you taking care of your own?
My mom spent 19 years pursuing a doctorate in music. Pretty impressive. It's not a medical degree, but it saved her life. And at age 30 with nothing more than a master's in French, two small children and a heart that couldn't stand seeing a gifts wasted, she saved a life.
I love you mom and I'm so proud of you for this.

Bitterness?... Just Bag it!

Something in my life has come full circle. In the past, I really felt lost and often abandoned. At the conservatory I went to, I was always let down by pianists. Abandoned. As a child, my mother always managed to sit quietly while other parents bragged about their kids and say nothing. Even though my accomplishments were on a much higher level. Lost.
"Mom why don't you tell them about the competition I just won?"
I was 16 and had set winning this competition as a goal, the prior year.
"We'll let them read about it in the paper. I don't like to toot my own horn."
Ok. I felt crushed. Hidden. Like she wasn't proud of me. Almost disowned.

The paper never printed an article.

It made me bitter. Mostly it made me hurt. I love and admire my mom a lot. She's done many incredible things, and saved lives. But when it comes to her children's success, she kind of drops off. However, she is great when we're down.

So I've sought a cheering squad for most of my life. And I have it. But often, when I've needed friends for concrete tasks, I've felt let down. They are there for me emotionally, but for a helping hand (or two when it comes to pianists) somehow the stars just don't line up. I used to think it was because they didn't love me enough, but that is most definitely not the case.

More bitterness. I would lob zingers.
"Well mom, you've had dad paying the mortgage (actually not quite true.. he retired 13 years ago and she's been paying it) and you have help with everything."

Why don't I have some fucking help? Replacing lightbulbs. Painting the bathroom. Repairing broken appliances. Mowing the grass. Yardwork. Maybe I am traditional, because I'll cook a gourmet meal in a flash, and scour down the kitchen, fold underwear, and decorate with Andy Warhol flair. I just didn't want to do the "guy stuff," like yardwork.

I hate yardwork. My neighbors know it.
"Look at raking leaves as exercise. You're active."
Bite me. It's not a trail.

Over the summer, I did have some help. At the end of the summer, my brother showed up and completed a landscaping project in front of the house, and continued around the house. Everything was neat and tidy. I was tempted to just pay for a plane ticket for him, and have him come deal with the leaves.

I thought the fall leaves were a little lackluster this season. I'd mentioned it to one of my friends, who agreed. And it sort of went along with my mood. All the components were there, and I'd see an occasional vibrant tree, but things just weren't quite lining up.

I live in a beautiful historic neighborhood in Topeka. A man named Tinkam Veal designed it. Who names their kid Tinkam? That's beside the point, though. He used to work for J.C. Nichols and the neighborhood is reminiscent of Mission Hills in Kansas City.

"Wow, I've never been in this part of Topeka before. Impressive."
My friend Tim, a photographer at Action News in KC, was in town. We'd both run the Topeka to Auburn half marathon, and he stopped by afterwards for some warm, homemade soup.

The streets of Westboro are lined with giant, old oak trees. Lackluster or not on the color, the leaves look the same on the ground. Dry, dead, brown, and a real pain in the butt. They trigger my allergies too. Something I didn't mention in my Rock Creek race report, was that my lungs felt like snot.

"Sophia, what are we going to do about those leaves?"
My real estate agent was gently telling me to bag my shit.
"Curb appeal is important, Sophia."
It was unavoidable. I had to come to terms with doing something, I very much don't enjoy. Two weeks ago, I tried to put myself on a schedule. 3 bags a day. It never happened.
Why don't I have any help? Where are my friends?

I had to make a funny bargain with myself to get this done. When the alarm rang to get up and run with the MudBabes in Lawrence, I turned it off and slept a little longer. The deal? Get the yardwork finished.

"You know Sophia, you can hire this done. I've got a yard guy."
My friend John and his friend Tim were over, and offering their version of "help".
"I am unemployed. I have time. I am not going to spend money on getting this done."
"He's cheap."
"NO! I can figure this out."
"Yeah, sounds good. He's kind of a douche bag anyway."
"Ooo yikes. I hate douche bags. I like assholes."

The guys were over to help me start my lawn mower. Earlier, I filled a bag using a rake
The leaf per bag ratio was way low. It was as if I had done nothing. Not a dent, not a pimple. I cried. Seriously. Went inside, poured a cup of Sumatran Velvet coffee, sat under the skylight and wept.

I was going to have to figure out the lawn mower. A neighbor passing by had suggested it, as had Jay, my real estate agent.

“Pick up the sticks, and put your mower on the higher level.”

Fear. All the stereotypes were plaugeing my brain. Women are not mechanical. They can't fix things. Fortunately, my life coach had me take a test a year ago, that showed I had some decent concrete skills. I also remembered a portion of Scott Peck's book "The Road Less Travelled." He wrote about how he always deemed himself “unmechanical,” until he was forced to fix of all things, a lawnmower. Instead of throwing his arms up and saying bah- humbug, he took the time to see what was broken and fixed it. It took him much more time than someone with a natural propensity for mechanics, but he could do it. Let’s face it, unemployed—I have a lot of time, so I took the journey out to the garage.

I tapped into my concrete skills and committed to spending the time to figure this out.
“I am concrete. I have a tool box that’s marveled men.” Seriously.
“I love your toolbox, Sophia. It has everything you need in it.” It's true. Wrenches, phillip's screwdrivers, flatheads, spackle, spackle knives, exacto-knives, hammers. Even a drill and drill bits. You get the picture.

Back to the mower.

Hello mower. I start encouraging myself internally. I breathe evenly. I’m scared. Unbelievable. Scared of a mower. No shit, I’ll take the cougars out at Wyco any day. At least I can run from them on a trail. Something I’m wildly familiar with.

Unfamiliarity is terrifying—even if it’s a mower.
Gotta get the bag off. I observe. Oh by the way, if I had the owners instruction book, this would be much easier. But the mower was assembled by someone with far greater concrete skills, and the little book is nowhere to be found. No big deal. I’m patiently, calmly looking.

I get the bag off. Now I need to raise the mower setting. Hmm. Yes a gift! Words! My world. Familiarity. My little suck and blow Cub Cadet had written on the front:
“Single lever adjustment.” Great, just find the lever. Back to concrete, but I’ve got it.

Here’s where I had the guys come over. Didn’t quite have the physical strength to get the cold mower started, so they fired it up. I did have the mental strength though to get the job done.

During the process, my neighbor Alisha drove into her driveway.
“Hey Alisha, I’ll sweep those leaves off your driveway later. I can’t believe how I put this off.”
“That’s why I got married, so I wouldn’t have to do leaves.”
“I’ll be ok. I’ve got the system down now.”

I now have 35 bags of leaves on my curb. I did this job well. Swept the walkway and even bagged up the leaves in the street gutter.

Bitterness, turned to success. Abandonement to accomplishment. Alone to self respect.

I’m going to sidestep into a conversation I had with Brad Bishop during the Friday Hookie run.
“Sophia, which are the more regularly attended runs?”
“Well it’s tough to say, it kind of goes in waves.”
Brad is just out of college, and entering a world where he doesn’t have a “team,” to rely on for support. Feeling a little lost and abandoned himself he’s finding his place within a new group.

“I always had the cross country team before.”

I started running late in life so never had a group, really until now. Something I’ve learned about running, is that if you’re vigilant yourself it creates an energy that people want to be around. All of a sudden you have people to run with, because they know they can count on you. But first you must be able to rely on yourself for inspiration and help. It worked with the leaves.

The phone rang on Saturday. It was John and Tim, the lawnmower starters.
“Hey Soph, why don’t I just come over tomorrow with my Honda and help you with the leaves.”

Interesting, an offer of help.

“Thanks, but I’m on this now. I’m itching for the sense of accomplishment.”

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Take care of yourself, help yourself and others will follow. And if you're feeling bitter... just bag it.

Muddy Hugs.


To my green friends: please forgive me for the gas and extra bags I used doing this project. I will carpool to my next race to make up for it.

Dude, You don't play the violin with your feet...

My fingers were so frozen after "Dude where's the Trail," I couldn't even unsnap my camel-back. I just pulled it overhead. Unzipping my jacket proved torturous. Even turning the key to start the car was a challenge.

I was worried I'd caused permanent damage to my fingers. Fingers that play the violin well enough to pair up with my brother who has a doctorate in music from Juilliard.

My fingers have been this numb before. In July of 2007, I was sitting by a waterfall. Suddenly I was slumped over, my fingers numb. I heard rocks tumbling down below and knew I'd been hit.
"I'd rather be dead than paralyzed."

5 marathons and hundreds of performances on the violin went through my head. I saw my life flash before me. A very good life, full of laughs, friends, art, running and music.

Then my fingers began to move. They weren't numb. It took 15 firefighters and a pulley system to get me off the big hill, or little mountain (300 ft).

An x-ray showed three upper ribs on my left side had been severly broken. Dislodged really. The break was only an inch from my spine.

"I still have some work to do."
My mom had rushed to the ER and was standing there with tears in her eyes. She just nodded.
My childhood friend Heidi's dad was working the ER that day.
"It takes an incredible velocity to break ribs in that spot. An inch over, you would have been breathing through a tube for the rest of your life."

I feel lucky, and blessed every day.

I got laid off from my job, recently. The subject was brought up by Jim M. during the run. Kind of a downer. So I told that story of my near death/paralysis experience.

"I guess you're putting it in perspective." Jim M.

" And you didn't worry that you'd never talk on the TV when you got hit by the rock." Bad Ben.

Nope. And I don't care if I never work in news again. Having a job on television can open you up for a lot of mud slinging . Superficial Bimbo. Self centered. Arrogant. Ego-maniac. I've heard them all. Fortunately, I know what to do with mud. Look inside for the truth. The truth is, I used that job to help a lot of people. And while it's kind of fun to have a few giant billboards around town, I can let it go.

I was feeling really strong running at Dude. At mile 18, I considered jumping ahead with John and Gabe. But I let that go too, and dropped back and ran with Ben, who has been fighting a cold off and on for about a month. My fingers warmed up.

The scenery was stunning. Frosted Neverland. Magic everywhere.

"My feet are still frozen."
"Well Sophia, you don't play the violin with your feet."

Good point, Ben.

Gabe and John were headed towards us, after grabbing a page from a book at the silo.
"It's the snow angel portion of the run!," I shouted.
Ben chimed in.."Drop and give us 5 angels!"

Gabe smiled and laughed. John slapped me with his map when he passed. No one hit the snow for an angel. It was just too darn cold.

I like angels. I know I have one watching over me. The warrior kind. And the protector. Feeling strong that day, I shared my angel energy.

My fingers were numb again, and we were on the nasty unforgiving, hard pavement.

"read any good books lately?"
"Well, I've got the page I ripped out at the silo.. except my fingers are so cold I can't unzip my pocket."

Why is it, that while running in the woods I can come up with a bevy of topics, yet once I get on the pavement, I can't think of shit?

Hangin' with the ex. Pound, pound, pound. Pounds of asphalt. Heavy, flabby asphalt.

"My PF hurts. So does my heel." Ben

"My left hip flexor hurts, but my feet are frozen. The ex is awful today. Awful." Sophia

"This is why Pat Perry didn't finish Leadville." Ben

"Can't blame him. Next time, I'll save a better story for this part."

The conversation turned to Christmas and how external most people make it. Closets or attics (just bigger closets really) overstuffed with ornaments, extra holiday dishes (please?!!) do dads and other things that take up space and need to be dusted.

I've just spent two weeks cleaning out closets. Throwing out clothes that just take up space, that I don't need. It is so liberating to open a dresser drawer easily and see neatly folded clothes. Or an empty closet. Even a basement with very few tubs. There is one small tub with my entire Christmas assortment. But it's going to stay packed.

My fingers are warm again.

This Christmas, I'll give the gift of music. Internal from my soul. I'll play songs of joy, peace and love for my friends on my violin.

Muddy Hugs and blessings.

I love Dick

During one of the worst times in my life, you captured one of the happiest moments. I was running my second marathon with my friend Kent Sanders. Before my first marathon, the organization sent out an email about where the photographers would be placed. They encouraged the runners to smile and cheer for the photogs. When I saw you at mile 19, I raised my arms in a mighty cheer, and you said.. "That made my day!" That picture is still in the upper left corner on the favorites page at SeeKC run .com. But really Dick, you made my day, and continue to everytime I click on that page.

I'm not sure any other city has someone like you who provides such an incredible service. You have become part of our running family and races just don't seem complete without you. And it's not just the pictures.

It was 10 degrees this year for the Topeka to Auburn half marathon. I was running up a hill that seemed endless. Just before the top, I thought "hmm, I bet Dick Ross is going to be up there. I better put on a happy face." There you were! Snapping pictures, but also giving us all a reason to push harder up the hill. Did I mention it was 10 degrees? But it didn't seem to bother you! Or was that smile frozen on your face?!

You caught a picture of the first Mud tattoos at Psycho Psummer, and the joy and happiness shared by two friends.

And you cheer us on. During the Fall Fell, not only were you snapping pictures at a rate so fast it would make an angry turtle look happy. You even yelled out.
"Catch him.. catch him." The sole "crowd support," for me in a 7 mile race. Afterwards we laughted about it. "That was so funny, I saw you two, and thought you'd get him." "Thanks Dick, but he beat me by 2 secondds." Your genuine excitement for our sport is so touching and appreciated. You share in the moment, you catch it on your camera, and have fun. I love people who know how to have fun! True fun, and loving life... an art form.

At first I didn't want to go to Mud and Muck. Then I thought about the pictures. I knew I didn't want to miss that. There were 37 pictures of Debbie and me from that race. Plus you let us give you your own mud tattoo. While other onlookers were too uptight to get a little dirty, you didn't even care that I got your camera muddy taking the picture!

Dick your are our friend.





In the summer of 2006, I went to a race and realized I didn't have my checkbook, or any money. I was new in town and didn't know anybody-- except you. You lent me money for the race.
15 bucks-- but it's the friendship and memories you help us share that's priceless.

HAPPY 71st BIRTHDAY DICK.


We all Mud you!

Sophia
Classic Mud Babe

Get ready everyone.. This is just the beginning

Today, I listened to my saved messages on my phone. I needed friendly supportive voices. 2 were very old. The first week in July, in fact. Others pretty recent. All of them made me cry-- even one from my physician.

"Hey Sophia, I'm putting in the prescription for that inhaler for you, because you're probably training for some ridiculous distance."

Yup. The Rock Creek 50k at Lake Perry. And life.

Superhero Mudbabe Debbie Webster spent the night. She had fun with my balloon pump, and we had a great dinner. Salmon, whole wheat pasta, and lightly sautéed red peppers.

She’s adventurous and even sucked down the raw vegan smoothie for breakfast.

I was a little disappointed because I hadn’t gotten my lucky number 49. I work for 49 news and like that number. Instead Jim M, had it. Offered to sell it to me for 50 bucks, but considering the economy, I figured it would be best to save the cash.

I won the women's division. But I feel sad.

For the second week, I was the female frontrunner. That can mean running with the back of the male frontrunners. But not always.

I started out with them. Then I got a rock in my shoe at mile two. I caught up with them by mile 3, but felt cruddy for running fast at the beginning of the race. My head was spinning. All the while I was trying to catch up, I kept worrying I was getting lost. I had to find them. Once I got back with the group of 3, another guy popped up.

"Hey did anyone lose their gloves?"
ugh. I'd purposefully tossed them because I was tired of carrying them.

Then there seemed to be some sort of guy testosterone, push the pace thing going on. I don't know, it could have been my imagination. I have a beautiful imagination, but sometimes it misfires. This was one of those times.

More anxiety. My thoughts were going to all these crazy places, and I needed to regroup.

I took a step back. And went to my happy place. Zen running. A seed in a pot, that gows into a flower, and gives off oxygen.

I ran alone.

Steady, strong, calm and at peace. Me and the woods... no music, just the rustling sounds of leaves, and the water. I love to run by the water. Mile 21 I was bubbling with happiness . I thought, "ten more.. no problem. This is fun."

The path seem warm and enveloping. And out of the corner of my eye-- I saw a sparkle. Could it be fairy dust? I thought so, but in this race I had enough power on my own.

I ate dates... lots of dates, when I needed to eat. I took salt when I needed to take salt. I drank a lot of Mountain Dew at the aid stations, my only human contact. Not once for the rest of the race did I feel like I just wanted it to be over. I seemed to be firmly in first place for the women, and I thought about the new shoes I'd get.

While running, I didn't feel abandoned. I've talked to others who ran or stopped running this same race. Some feel they were left by their friends. All who ended up with a running buddy were elated and inspired by the company. I, was neither of these. However, I did appreciate the encouragement and understanding from Rick Mayo at the half. There is just something different and unbeatable about the help you get from someone who knows the sport. Thank you Rick.

But out in the woods, I was a self sufficient, ultra machine. In the end, I came in just a minute behind Jim M who had ultra-company and support most of the way.

So somehow with only 2 other ultras under my belt, I managed to chop an hour and a half off my psycho psummer time. All alone. I didn't get lost. Not even a little.

Caleb ran such an incredibly fast time of 4:14, that my 5:48 winning time for the females didn't get much notice. During the awards ceremony, I was sitting by Pat Perry and told him how excited I was about the big trophy I was getting. Later I realized it wasn't mine, instead was for the series winner, so I gave it back. There wasn't even a picture of me with it. Maybe that's why I'm sad.

Maybe it's because I ended up running alone the same pace as the little group ahead of me. They were probably only a minute ahead for most of the second half of the race. But you can't tell in the woods.

Afterwards Jim M, kind of smugly said I couldn't have caught up the 4 minutes where they had gotten ahead, and that they were probably 10 ahead of me at one point. Nope. You weren't. I was just 2 or 3 behind at the half. And I was strong the last 5, just didn't plow through them because I thought your group was running a lot faster than you were. And let's face it Jim, you were wearing my lucky number, 49.

But I was at peace.. even stopped at mile 28 to paint a muddy heart on my arm. I call it mudsterbation. Usually my friends and I paint each other-- but this time, as in my life currently, I was taking care of myself emotionally and physically, and superficially.

I had sent an email to Pat Perry, letting him know I’d given back the trophy. By that time, I’d come to peace with it. Explaining, accomplishment is internal—and that that is something no one can take away. He sent me an email back saying I should have fought Them for it.

While I am sad, I don't care what anybody thinks-- I'm in this race-- and whether anyone notices or not... I'm winning. Selfish? Self centered? How about survivor. Courageous. Sure it would be nice to have a pacer. But it's even nicer to know you can do it alone, like the seasoned warriors.


While many are scared to death, judgemental and hostile about my strength and attitude, the people who matter most to me are proud.



A funny thing happened... I stopped in at work on Friday. That Sophie-trophy was on my desk plus a new special message on my phone. Plus Willie called.. he says I can always be number 49 in his races.

58 minutes 49 seconds

My road is tough. It's full of rocks and roots, hills and water crossings. Sometimes I'm on it alone-- other times I'm not. Still as I forage an unconventional path, I don't feel lonely. I feel energized. The scenery, stunning. The deer are my friends and my dog Puccini bounds up and down the hills, teasing. Catch me. Catch me.

I thought about bringing Puccini to the Fall Fell 7 miler, but decided against it. I'm tapering for Rock Creek, but was still hoping to run a decent pace. I didn't think the dog was the right companion, this time. I was hoping for 9:30 a mile pace. 9's would be super. Sometimes we surprise ourselves.

I caught up with Bad Ben about a mile into the race. A small relief since he was carrying a water bottle and I wasn't. I call it "Bendaid." A travelling aid station.
"We lost the young guy. He's usually one of the frontrunners." We were about at mile 5.
"Are we frontrunners?"
"Yes, Sophia we are."

It was a new trail for me, with some real challenges.
"This section is like the red trail."
The rocks were looser though, and kind of steep like at Wyco. But I was ok.

As I ran, I felt in perfect rhythm with the universe.
"It's like Neverland."
Emotionally naked, the rocks and roots were my jewelry. More profound than any band of metal.
I felt like I was flying as I went down the hills. I tap danced around the rocks in the water. Taking pleasure in the Element.
"Branch. Stump. Log."
Ben was shouting out warnings, and leading the way. We kept running into people who got lost and did an extra loop, so I was grateful . It was like running after Magellan, a human GPS! Was Ben having a bad day-- or was I having another breakthrough?
"Good job Ben!"
The surprise in Kyle's voice let me know, we were both having a very good race.
But it didn't feel that fast. It just felt good.

Honestly, I don't even remember the hills.
I do remember the water. On the first attempt, I nearly fell in. I guess I'm supposed to stand staight and look forward. But I got better.
On take two.. It was sheer, unadulterated JOY!






"Come on-- you're gonna catch him."
Dick Ross was adding some commentary.
"Yes, I am."
But not that day. A flourish of a finish, but Ben had me by 2 seconds. I figure he deserves to finish ahead for carrying the aid station, and for keeping me from getting lost.











Pace per mile? 8:23. I came in first female, and got a Trail Nerds hoodie for a prize. A 10th over all finish. Perfect 10!





Most of all, I had an endorphine rush that would be illegal if the Republicans had any idea how good it feels.

58 minutes 49 seconds. It was the best time I've had in my entire life.

I wanted to share it. I had our weather guy, Alex throw a couple pics in the weathercast that night. Got some funny emails from Topeka Nerds on that one.


Oh and the dog. He is always so sad when I come home, covered in mud and smelling like fun. The next morning I woke up an hour and a half before the alarm. Puccini looked at me with longing eyes.
"Please, please- can we run?"
It was off to Clinton, where he bounded up hills, splashed in the water and flew down the hills. Happy, happy, happy. Just like his mommie.

Muddy Hugs