Thoughts on being the “Old Freak” Room Mom.

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Some of you might have seen this recent FB post of mine.

 

 

 

My 10 year old could live with the embarrassment of me going to his class to talk about saving pop tops if:

 

a)  I washed my hair.

 

b.) Didn’t wear make-up. Because when I wear make-up I look like a freak.

 

Not just any freak.

An old freak.

 

I get it.

 

Every child looks at his mum through the hypercritical magnifying class of 4th grade peers.

 

NOTHING needs to stick out.

 

NOTHING should be different.

 

My dad had a buzz cut way after all the other dads were letting their hair grow. It made me CRAZY. My dad drove a BEHEMOTH station wagon while all the other parents sported about in  1970’s imports.

 

Or even better.

 

They dropped of my elementary school classmates in a Vega.

 

Even after all these years I still get a chill looking at this photo.

 

 

Yes. My parents were older. Therefore they were unhip.

 

But I’m so cooool. Okay I’m older, but don’t my kids know I’m the only mom in the universe that has ageless hipster-ism?

 

Of course, they don’t.

 

Because I don’t.

 

I’m a 51-year-old mom with 51-year-old skin and 51-year-old hair.

 

Fifty-one year-old hands –uugggghhh the worse part.

 

Now this is not a pity me post. Heavens no.

 

I’m older but I’m wiser. I can roll with some pretty tough sh*t that’s been sloshed my way.

 

I look fine for my age.

 

But I need to keep bathing and tone down the make up.

 

At least on the days I’m heading up to the elementary school.

 

What do y’all think? Have your kids reached the age of my parents’ are the worst embarrassment to mankind?

 

 

Ronald McDonald House of Central Georgia. I’ll supersize that.

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There’s been something I’ve wanted to share with y’all.

Last Sunday, my RMHC running buddy and I went to Macon to visit the Ronald McDonald House of Central Georgia. The one where the funds from our Miles of Miles TeamRMHC RunDisney efforts are headed.

I guess it’s the journalist buried deep, deep within my can’t-we-just-all-get-along facade that needs to understand things.

More than a surface explanation, if possible. Since this was possible for us, only an 75 minute drive — if you don’t get stuck behind a logging truck on Hwy 129 — we scheduled a visit.

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“Sorry folks. We’re closed. Clown out front should have told you.”

 

 

No sillies.

“Clark, they don’t close the Ronald McDonald House.”

Of course they weren’t closed.

So I walked up to the intercom, rang the buzzer and a very nice male voice answered.

I explained who we were and why the heck we were there.

And Chuck buzzed us on in.

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Chuck Kent and his wife Jennifer were the volunteer resident managers last weekend. And that nice fellow Clark — er, I mean Chuck — gave us the tour.

The lower two floors are the common areas with the guest rooms on the upper floors.

A few photos.

 

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The main living room.

 

 

More of the kitchen.

 

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They have quite a large kitchen equipped with everything you need to whip up an ice cream sundae or a hamburger with a little of that special sauce.

Chuck explained volunteers provide dinners most nights and brunch on many days. But anytime, day or night, residents can raid the pantry for a PB & Honey. My new personal favorite. Or find the fixins’ for whatever vittles might bring you some comfort.

Every drawer was labeled and the larder full. Chuck said the only rule is “clean up after yourself, just like at home.” At this remark I might have cast a sideways glance at my 10 year old.

 

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The rooms upstairs were just like you’d find in any nice hotel. With the exception of no television. The T.V.s are all downstairs. Which honestly, sounds wonderful.

There was a child’s playroom. A teen cave. A laundry.

I learned today that this very playroom is Charlie’s room. The wonderful Jana Anthoine is the reason I was introduced to running for this wonderful cause. This room is named for her infant son who most tragically died from Group B Strep complications.

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I don’t do the “ask for money” thing very well. But after seeing and hearing about RMH firsthand, I’m excited to have an opportunity to help.

Chuck said that they only ask families for $15 a day compensation. But no one is ever asked to leave or turned away because of inability to pay. They money that we are raising goes directly to helping fund a day’s rest for weary, worried parents and siblings.

The Children’s Hospital is right next door. A preemie easily can stay up to 90 days at a medical center. If your home is 64 miles away — what do you do? Leave the bitty love behind?

Chuck said their granddaughter needed surgery at Egleston in Atlanta. Their family was able to stay at the RMH at Emory. “Once you have ever had any experience with a Ronald McDonald House — you feel compelled to volunteer and donate your time.”

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When leaving, I felt compelled to take a photo with Ronald. My son was not so sure. After taking this pic, I realized I should have let my son hold the camera out, so he would have been in the frame.

But good luck getting a self-conscious 10 year old to retake a photo sitting on a bench in a public area with a plastic clown.

No. I had one take — and this was it.

 

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Not much else to report about our visit, other than heaven forbid — something happens to a child you love. I now know of the all the good the clown in the yellow jumpsuit does.

Any donation is so very appreciated. Fifteen dollars is all it takes to house a family for a night.

Have you ever wanted a selfie with Ronald McDonald?

Question is my feeble attempt to engage comments with readers of this blog. pooh.

 

Running with the Fuzz.

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Has anyone born before 1990 ever heard of our fine officers in blue as the Fuzz?

I thought not.

Today my TeamRMHC running buddy and I headed to nearby Covington for the Fuzz Run. I had done this race once before. It’s always a big fun crowd.

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Here we are before race.

Always falling near the 9/11 anniversary, the presenting of the colors and the national anthem seem — to me — a smidgen more poignant.

 

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The crowd at the start.

 

 

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Takeaways.

Tons of kids in this race. If you want to do a 5K with your child and live in the Georgia Piedmont, this is your race.

 

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I’d have more pics of the cute children but my son was getting miffed at me for tweeting as he called it. I wasn’t tweeting btw. It’s called a serious blogging journalist trying to get shots of children running with their parents.

Our first water break and I had the camera poised on my buddy and this was the shocker.

 

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My son — handing me a cup of water.

And who said chivalry was dead?

I did. Just yesterday.

Chivalry lives. Maybe it’s on lift support.

But there is a heartbeat.

Great race for my son. Our training has paid off and this was his fastest time in a 5K ever.

Well, I think it was.

Off to Macon tomorrow to visit the Ronald McDonald House.

Stay tuned.

 

Never underestimate the power of an Arnold Palmer.

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Or a curly-headed child, holding a lemonade stand sign.

 

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My 10 year old and I are proud members of TeamRMHC — Team Ronald McDonald House Charities of Central Georgia. Our group of almost 200 runners from around the U.S. is raising money and logging the miles to prep for races at the 2015 Disney Princess Half Marathon weekend.

All team members pledge to raise at least $750.

Joe and I needed a little jump start to our efforts.

I baked cookies. Brewed tea and put tons of sugar in it. And googled what lemonade mix tastes best.

Dad made a few signs and I put them in Joe’s hands. Out front of the house.

 

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Our first customer. Neighbor and all-around-good-guy, Rob Jones.

 

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I really wish I could have photoed everyone stopping by — but I was too busy.

And kept pushing Joe out on the street corner.

 

 

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Thanks. Thanks to all who came by.

 

—  The teachers we hadn’t seen in a while.

—  The people who saw Joe as they were speeding by and took the time to circle back around the block.

—  For the people who read a Facebook post and got in their cars to drop by.

—  For the nice man from Kenyon, Minnesota. A truck driver whose friends had told him, he needed to stop one day and take the walking tour through Madison. He remarked most Minnesotans don’t know where Kenyon is. I told him my husband was from Wadena and asked if he knew where Wadena was?

“Any Minnesotan who drives truck knows where Wadena is.”  Wonder if he knew my husband and his friends affectionately refer to Wadena as The Wad on the Prairie?

—  For the nice folks who stopped from Watkinsville. Tennessee fans who noticed my Gator flag asked if I was from Florida. Well, turns out that a cute woman in the back seat and I went to the same high school. And she was the same class as my sister. Go Wildcats!

— For folks, complete strangers who stopped and were so generous.

— Honestly the pilots, dancers, artists, moms, grandparents with visiting grandchildren, former mayors, lawyers, teachers, yogis, lobbyists, personal trainers,
dads, foster parents, truck drivers, school bus drivers, IRONMEN, cyclists and horse-rescuers  —  all who took the time to walk up, drive up and chat — were generous.

— Loved meeting a woman pushing a stroller, who said that they had to stay in an Atlanta Ronald McDonald House this spring. And how wonderful they were. Got her number for a later post.

— The amazing folks who stopped when it was just me alone out there. Joe did start taking some breaks from the heat at the end. Anyone who would stop for a 51-year-old women sitting behind a Sharpie lemonade stand sign is tops in my book.

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People saw this and stopped anyway.

 

— We raised $366.39.  Do you believe it?  All this is going into Joe’s fund.

 

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Air kisses all around. Such a great morning.

Here’s our team page. Any donation is so very appreciated.

Will post our progress on the blog. We plan to visit the Macon Ronald McDonald House next weekend.

Linking up with the grateful gang at . . .

 

Ten Things of THankful

 

 

 

My bike. #SOCSunday

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I’ve seen where @susannabarbee and @jaimemckee have been doing a Stream of Conscious weekend link-up.

I met these two women at Type-A Parent Blogging Conference a year ago. It’s been fun to see how their social media/writing/blogging careers have progressed in the last 12 months.

And me?

Well  . . . .

So I’m going to hop on their linkup this beautiful afternoon and take a well-deserved break before I start transcribing an interview.

Setting the timer for 5 mins and just writing.

 

Wait a sec — I’ve got to set my timer.

 

GO

I’m sitting outside on the porch because it is absolutely gorgeous out here.

A little warm, but I’m shaded and heck. I just like warm all over cold and wet.

While out here, I’ve noticed a number of bikes going by.

I’ve writen about riding my road bike, but I haven’t talked about my other bike. My cruiser.

See.

 

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I try to ride this guy when I have little errands in town. I ride it to the bank. The tellers love it. But you do have to balance on the curb while the little door swings out. Then I drop letter off in the box, and cruise to my workout at the gym.

You know what brought the enjoyment level of my bike to a new level.

A basket.

Now I can drop all my little trinkets in there and head off.

Now I do feel a little like the witch in the Wizard of OZ and I must look a bit silly but I’m okay with it.

Because I feel so young on my . . .

 

Okay. Not the most inspired writing. But it was fun. Just like me and my bike and a sunny day.

 

 

Doster Road. No Brakes Allowed.

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The other afternoon with a sky as clear and blue as an aqua cat’s eye marble, I pulled my bike outside. As the heavens arced overhead and the pavement rushed underneath, even the trees stood still. No wind except the rush of air created by speed.

Perfection.

Even though I only had an hour, a little voice nudged me to Doster.

For those not familiar with the roads crisscrossing Morgan County, Doster Road rolls through some of the most scenic pastureland in the county.

There are a few steep hills. Riding out from town, you get to go down.

Coming back toward town you climb up – but climbing the mountain clipped into a bike is another post entirely.

About five miles out of town, I approached the hill. After cresting the top, bike and I hurled downward. Still operating as a team.

Now my bike computer has decided not to work. Hate it when that happens. I can’t track of my speed but I’ve been down this hill enough to know — without braking — I’ll hit about 35 mph.

Here’s the headcase part. I haven’t done Doster much this year. Maybe twice?

And rushing downward that day, my hands twitched to squeeze the brake. A slight quicken in my pulse. You better slow down heading into the turn toward the bridge.

I can ride this hill without braking. I’ve done it lots. What was my hesitation?

And just like that, therapy happened.

Relax. Trust yourself. Put your head down and ride.

I exhaled. Bent over the handlebars all the while my hands hovered over the brakes. Well you never know if a heat crazed doe is going to dart out.

And blink.

I was down the hill and over the bridge, pedaling back up the next incline.

Why was the urge so strong to brake going into the turn?

Fear of course, but fear of what?

How many times throughout my day, my week, the years, my entire life – have I put on the brakes mi-experience rather than exhaling and

And enjoying the hell out of it?

Sometimes a gal’s just got to get on her bike and ride.

Roger Taylor’s relentless drumbeat guides my down pedal many a ride.

What can I say? I shall always be a child imprinted with AM radio and 70s music.

 Thoughts?

&

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Ironman’s Journey from Madison, Georgia to Mont-Tremblant.

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Ironman. A title not bestowed lightly. By Hollywood or triathletes.

Swim 2.4 miles. Bike 112 miles. Run 26.2.

Don’t underestimate the .2.

Two triathlete friends and more importantly, two longtime personal friends, David Burbach and Joe Cardwell, embarked on that journey a year ago.

Yes, about a year ago, I stood in the late summer, warm twilight at a party. With the rolling green pastures of Morgan County as a backdrop, David told me in his casual, smiley Dabo way, “Jamie. I’ve signed up for an Ironman — in Quebec.”

It’s one of those moments I’ll remember forever.

You don’t just sign-up for an Ironman. You commit a full year of life to becoming an Ironman.

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On the evening of August 17, 2014, in Mont-Tremblant, Canada, David and Joe crossed the Finish into that elite fraternity.

So here in their own words are their impressions of that quest. Joe was a little more free-form with his reply to my questions, so I pulled in all his thoughts where I thought they fit best.

Back story: Will Lewis, another racer that day, played baseball with Joe at the University of South Carolina. Will has done a few of these little endeavors before and lives in South Carolina. And I apologize if the photos are a little distorted from my contorting them to fit the blog.

 

 

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On the beach, ready to start.

 

 

How and when did you decide to do this?

David: Will Lewis wanted to do one more Ironman. He signed up and talked Joe into it, then I got the email from 
Joe to ask if I was in.

Joe:  This has always been on my bucket list. You must have support at home and for the last five or more years I asked Kathryn “how about this year” and always got the easy (for me) “no” until last year. Kathryn and I knew that this journey was about priorities and that my training would have to be put in front of a lot of things. It definitely took a lot of support and understanding from the family. 

 

There are closer Ironman races, why Mont-Tremblant?

David:  Will wanted something more scenic than Panama City. He wanted to sign up for Lake Placid but it was closed out. The next e-mail was that we had signed up for Mont-Tremblant.

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David and wife, Sarah.

 

What surprised you good/bad about the swim?  The bike?  The run? 

David: The water temperature was great with the wet suit. And yes, wet suits really do help buoyancy and swim time.

My chain came off four or five times in the last 10 miles and my thighs were started cramping up. Then it rained the last four or five miles so the end of the bike ride was a little frustrating.

I loved the run being in kilometers with signs at each kilometer.
 

What did you think in transition coming off a 112 mile bike — about now heading out to run a marathon?  Great question from Elise Faust’s inquiring mind . . .

David: I was happy to get into dry running clothes but was concerned having to run 26.2 miles since my thighs were cramping at the end of the bike ride.

 

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Joe:  After riding your bike for 112 miles you are so ready to get off that in some twisted way you are looking forward to starting the marathon.

 

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Did you feel adequately trained?  Would you do anything differently? Any advice to would be Ironmen.

David:  Yes, I felt adequately trained and I don’t think I would have changed anything. My advice would be to commit, start training, and get in tune with and listen to your body.

 

 

Joe:  I stuck as closely as possible to a training program that was developed by a successful coach, figuring who was I to second guess him? My advice would be to pick a plan from an experienced coach and trust it! I did have to make adjustment due to weather, calendar conflict, etc…

 

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Who traveled to the race? Thoughts about family/loved ones and training for such an event.

 

David:  Sarah (David’s wife), her sister and husband and my nephew. Sarah did a fantastic job planning, cooking and vacationing around my training schedule.

Joe:  I was very happy to have what felt like an entourage: wife (Kathryn), kids (Mary Claire and John), sister and her boyfriend drove up from Boston with my niece. Not to mention the three other athletes and their crews. That also added a little pressure to finish. That is a long way for a lot of people to go for a DNF. (The dreaded Did Not Finish.) And it was kind of fun having my mom tell me every time we talked what a terrible idea this was. And how and I was crazy and would ruin my body.
 

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Lowest point? Highest point?  And this doesn’t mean race elevation. Mentally/physically.

David: I had two low points during training. A bike wreck in February that kept me from running or riding for a week and swimming for two weeks. The second low point was that I got a stomach bug in Honduras and didn’t train much the 3rd week of July and didn’t feel 100 % the week after we returned. Editor’s note: David has traveled on a church mission trip to Honduras the last decade of Julys.

 The high was the Half Ironman in Macon, the end of May. My time was better than expected and recovery was very quick.

Race day high was at the beginning of the 2nd loop of the run when I told my nephew (Gene) that Sarah could go the the Ironman store, there was no doubt that I wouldn’t finish the last 13 miles.

 

Joe:  The low point by far was finishing the first of two 13 miles loops on the run and approaching the sign that said ‘left to the finish line and go right to the second loop.’ All the while having to listen to crowd go wild as they minted new Ironmen. That was demoralizing. 

The highlight was clearly the end of the marathon and running down the shoot. The crowd was incredible, hanging over the barricades, high fiving and cheering you on. Then finally standing at the finish line of something you were never certain you would be able to complete and hearing them say over the loud speaker “Joe Cardwell you are an Ironman” 15 hours and 10 mins after I started.

 

 

Three life-lessons you personally took away from this experience? 

David:

* I love to eat! So when you are burning 30,000+ calories a month training you don’t have to be too disciplined in your eating habits.

*  If you set a goal and develop a plan on how to achieve that goal! Discipline and time will get your there.

Lofty goals are much easier to obtain when someone is striving for the same goal and working with you!  Thanks Joe Cardwell.

 

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Joe:

*  Importance of setting big goals. If you set small goals you will only accomplish small things. Big things are not easy.

*  Life is about priorities. Is this goal really that important to me? If so am I willing to prioritize it?

* The importance of planning. Fill in what needs to happen to get me from here to that big goal, and break it into smaller pieces. 

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First thought in your mind upon crossing the finish line?

David: I did it! I am an Ironman!

Joe:  I just did that! I am an Ironman!

 

Editor’s note: They both really did write the same thing. Well, other than Joe adding a just.

 

Anything you’d like to add?

David: I was completely amazed by the number of friends that tracked Joe and me during the day.

Joe: Having David as a training partner was incredible. He is can do!

On a separate email Joe added, One thing I left out was that while I did this for my own reasons, it did make it a little extra special that I was on Rick’s bike. 

Editor: Sadly, we lost our fearless Ironman Rick Spence to cancer -- and he was our little Cotton Patch Tri group’s only Ironman. Until now. I couldn’t help but think Rick enjoyed a front row seat watching David and Joe every step of the way.

 

What’s your next challenge — athletic endeavor or other?

David: That in itself is the challenge, determining the next great endeavor!

Joe was mum on his next challenge but said that he indeed was getting the Ironman tattoo on the back of his calf. Still waiting to hear David’s thoughts on the tattoo.

 

Love these men. So proud of them.

And an Ironman for me in a galaxy far, far away?

Never say never.

If there is anything you’d like to ask this newly-minted Men of Steel, please do so in the comments and I’ll be sure that they know to reply.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quiet Miraculous Really.

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Those closest to me know that my greatest personal fear (discounting tragedy associated with loved ones) is not cancer, jumping out of plane with faulty parachute or being pulled under by a renegade alligator swimming in some lake but – for many years, my secret fear has been Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.

And after a chance meeting with a delightful person – younger than I — who has limited physical function yesterday, my  . . .

Ten Things Thankful – August 23, 2014

 

10.    I can get up out of this chair with not even a thought.

9.      I have privilege of wrapping my hands around the handle of a grocery cart.

8.       I can push that cart out to my car.

7.       I can decide to stop my legs when a car crosses in front of me. Then chose to walk again when the car passes.

6.       I can reach a hand into my bag fishing through all the crap and pull out my car keys.

5.       I can start the engine of my 2001 groovy sedan. Push the accelerator with my right foot and brake at stop signs.

 

All because my brain and spinal column silently communicate.

4.         I can walk into my house.

3.         Unload my bags.

2.         Load the dishwasher.

1.          And type on this keyboard.

 

Quite miraculous come to think about it.

 

Linking up with the wonderful:

 

 

 

Ten Things of THankful

 

 

Reading watermelon leaves. At midlife.

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Today, I cut open this watermelon grown in my garden. And I ate it. We all ate it.

My son took a photo of it and sent it to his girlfriend.

Anything that would make a 20 year old take a photo to send to his girlfriend — is down right miraculous around here.

 

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I ate a quarter of it for breakfast.

 

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After planting watermelon in my summer garden — year after year — this is the first that made it to this point in my whole lifetime of gardening experience.

Actually eatable. Actually good. Not kicked open too early by some rascal with four hooves, a white tail and large brown eyes. And not rotting on the vine for what reason God-only knows.

Here’s the funny thing.

I didn’t plant any watermelon this year.

Yes, I have a bummer (sic) crop of melon and I didn’t even entertain the notion of planting any.

Why should I?  Year after year sowing and never reaping. Year after year after year.

So the summer I didn’t plant any seeds or transplants look what happened.

 

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Yes. I’ve got a tired looking, feeling and acting garden this point of August. Well, all my plants are worn out — except those darned melon.

 

I can say, with the exception of my tomatoes, those watermelons might get my garden’s award for the best performer this summer.

And I planted over 20 tomato plants. So that’s not really a fair comparison.

 

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I’ve just about stopped trying to spoon-feed y’all analogies about things because – well, it’s just not done by us professional types.

But I got to thinking — was there a message to me in this messy watermelon-producing patch? This bumper crop that sprang from all the mistakes, miscues and curses of yesteryear.

The first fruitful melon I’ve ever harvested and all I’ve done is to get the heck out of its way. And try to outsmart the deer.

Maybe I need to stop striving and grow – wild and messy, unbrushed and untamed  —  trusting in what was planted not by deliberate measure but  sown organically, almost imperceptibly, quietly.

And bear fruit. In abundance. In peace.

Thoughts?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Midlife Try-Athlete Takeaway. Keep swimming.

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3:15 a.m.

That’s when my alarm went off Saturday morning to drive down to Cordele for the Georgia Veterans Sprint Triathlon.

 

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See. I made it.

And in complete journalistic integrity, I admit to totally cropping out my under-eye circles.

*  *  *

 

Gosh you all. Here it is a week later and I haven’t finished this post. Crazy week. Even crazier me but there was a nugget from this race that I want to share.

See. I read national triathlon pubs, posts and blogs. They are good and all. But what about us midlife peoples who are just doing the best that we can to make it 2.5 hours down the road in time to start?

For example, I recently read an article about the swim. How when we swim laps in a pool, we get mini-rest breaks touching the wall to turn around. You don’t get those built in, bitty rests in open water. This well-meaning expert suggested to do your flip turn a few feet in front of the wall with no rest or push off.

Are you flippin’ kidding me? I can’t even do a flip turn this days without sending myself into a vertigo death spiral. Much less do one in front of the wall and not push off.

For what it’s worth, here’s a real midlife try-athlete’s advice on the swim:

 

The park was quite lovely.

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The photos look a little dark cause it still was early.

 

 

 

The little swim course.

 

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I didn’t think it looked 400 yards. I asked someone if we turned at the yellow buoys and she said, “yes.”

Maybe that was my problem. I thought I’d get it over lickety-split.

When our wave — 50 and overs — got up to the water, I was in the front.

I don’t know if it was because I was in front of the pack, but soon it became apparent to me — things weren’t working. My breath and my stroke and my pace were a jumbling mess.

To swim well, you glide through the water. Cutting through the water as smooth as Everclear in trashcan punch.

That morning my forward progress through the water felt like a ride in an out-of-balance on the spin cycle after taking a shot of rot gut.

Pooh. My heart, my stroke, my breathing were all messed up.

What did I do? Attempt a flip-turn mid lake?

Heck no. I flipped on my back and started backstroking. My breath settled back down, I got into a rhythm and cruised.

Till I thought, “Jamie. You are in a race. Flip right back over this minute and swim like you aren’t the looney woman doing the backstroke in a triathlon.”

I flipped over and tried the freestyle. Nope. Still weird. Can’t get a pace. Back to the backstroke.

I tried this two more times before it occurred to me, this backstroke thing was working.

My heart rate, my breathing, my pace — it all felt right.

So I did most of that little swim on my back.

Got out of the water and headed to transition.

At races end, I met up with my friend, Aubie, and told him about my swim fail yet win.

 

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Then I got home and looked at the results. I finished fourth out of 13 in my age group.

And the bigger surprise, I had the third best time in the swim.

So here’s the midlife takeaway.

Go with what works for you at the moment. No matter if it’s not convention or slightly goofy. Or really goofy.

I love to swim freestyle, but maybe I started too fast, or maybe I was trying to swim too fast — whatever reason, I couldn’t regain a comfortable pace with that stroke.

But I did on my back. At least for that moment. That race.

I learned don’t be afraid to change midstream. Have confidence in what’s working. If you have clarity of mind and body, go with it. Even if you’ve never tried something that way before.

 

One good thing about driving 2.5 hours south of Atlanta to race is not that many of the competitive metro crowd shows up. At least till the secret gets out that this is a great little race.

A very fun morning. And a lesson learned that I won’t soon forget.

 

Any backstrokers out there?

 

And a quick shout out for two Cotton Patch Tri-Club members, David Burback and Joe Cardwell, up in Canada today.

Tomorrow they race the Mont Tremblant Ironman. KILLER DILLER. Wishing you guess the bestest racing day ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

           

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