ON ON by KD

In January of last year, I was four months into my glorious 40’s.  I had been run/walking for a few years with little improvement in my pace or weight loss.  I was quite frankly, getting bored. It was around this time that I noticed my girlfriend and neighbor, Ari, was looking pretty damn foxy these days! It was clear she was doing something that was working in her favor as she was toned, sporting an athletic build, and looked really happy. I watched for weeks as she came outside each Friday evening and Saturday afternoons with a large bag in hand, dressed in shorts or running tights with long knee socks, a long sleeved t-shirt, and muddied shoes. I wondered where on earth she was going.  Did she know she looked a little like a psycho nature nut about to embark on some kind of birding adventure; or hike through the back bush of Georgia swamp land? The latter was dead on.

I finally got around to asking Ari what was up.  That was the first time I heard the word “hash”. Okay not really the FIRST time, but this is not that kind of hash. Ari was doing hash runs with local chapters of the Hash House Harriers, an International non-competitive running group.

"At a hash, one or more members ("hares") lay a trail, which is then followed by the remainder of the group (the "pack" or "hounds"). Members often describe their group as "a drinking club with a running problem," indicating that the social element of an event is as important, if not more so, than any athleticism involved. Beer remains an integral part of a hash.  Though the balance between running and drinking differs between chapters, some groups place more focus on socializing while others focus more on running.” Quoted from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Ari, being very gracious, invited me to join her on the next hash run. She gave a vague description of how the runs are usually between 4-6 miles.  She also told me to be aware that the trails can go from street, to brush, to woods, to streams and then come to an end with a meeting of sorts; orange food? BEER!? I know she emphasized a few times in there about how she invited other friends in the past and how no one really ever liked it and that it’s dirty and you get scratched.  She said to wear long pants and maybe a long shirt and shoes you don’t care about….blah blah blah… I will be running with a friend and we will have beer at the end; whatever! Sign me up! I’m in like Flynn!! Oh, and the first run is FREE (most runs are 7 dollars to cover beer and food) and I am considered a VIRGIN! Who can pass this opportunity up? I mean really? So I packed a large bag with dry clothes, bags for wet clothes and muddy sneakers, first aid paraphernalia (I am after all a Virgo), water bottles, snacks, towels, money and my health insurance card. I busted out my long wool ski socks and dressed in layers, ready to take on whatever came my way.

My first hash was on an overcast and drizzly Saturday afternoon. It started at a local bar in Tucker, GA on Industrial Blvd. The area was littered with office complexes and warehouses.  It seemed an oddly bizarre area to pick for group run. There were several cars and trucks in the lot, and guys with dogs.  Everyone was loading their bags into one car and grabbing a bottle of water to go. I was introduced to the owner of the bag car, Ballerina Booty Boy.

Hash runners are given a Hash name after their 5^thrun. I met several people but I only knew them by their hash name.  I must tell you that most all of the hash names I encountered were quite dirty. Ballerina Booty Boy was one of the few names that could actually be said out loud in front of children. Most were sexual in nature, politically incorrect, or just plain offensive. But this all makes it so much more interesting and fun!

BBB welcomed me as a virgin and gave me a run down on hash markings.  “Look for the flour “checks “.  They will let you know you are on trail”.  He also gave a clue that the end of the run would be near a blue water tower. Ballerina Boy would be driving our bags to the end point. There was a name for this job as well, but it escapes me.

I believe this particular run was scouted out a week before by the two “hares”.  Today they would be running ahead and marking the trail for the “hounds” to follow. The hares set off.  We followed along shortly after with about 15 other people. It looked like mass chaos!  People were running behind buildings, down hills, through hedges and under fences. Someone was yelling "Are you??" while someone else was yelling back "Checking". Are you what?? Checking what?!?! Then we heard “ON ON” and everyone was off.

Next thing I knew I was scaling down a hill of muck, up another hill, shimmying under a fence, and running along another fence on a thin trail through a field of sticker bushes. At that point I got the high socks and long sleeves because I was getting snagged every few feet. Ari had brought along her Carrion Terrier, Loki.  The poor little guy had to be carried because he was risking losing an eye. This went on for quite a bit until we came to a clearing and found the next flour mark or “check” which had us running through the industrial park, across the boulevard , behind more buildings and climbing down into a creek. The creek had pieces of toilet paper strewn here and there across various branches letting the hounds know they were indeed on trail.

 Things got interesting very fast.  We were scaling the wall of a drain pipe under Route 78 that had a pretty deep drop off at the end, forcing you to climb and balance on a downed tree limb and shuffle your way across and back to drier ground.  After an uphill scramble through brush we came to a road but lost the trail. We ran up and down, searching for the elusive flour check, but to no avail. I was running with Ari and her sister-in-law, who was also a virgin.  It was at this point we met up with Star Whore and her virgin buddy who were also looking for check marks or an arrow marking the trail. We tried heading back down into the creek on the opposite side of the road but found nothing.  It was comforting when an elderly gentleman warned us not to go into the brush again because it was littered with snakes. Great!! We headed back up to the road and into the housing projects where we found the trail arrow we were desperately seeking.  The holy grail of hash!  The flour check!  We were back on trail, heading through the ghetto back to the safety of creek beds and water drains.

At some point during this time I thought to myself, what the f*@% am I doing?? I am an overweight and out of shape forty year old woman running through the ghettos, mud/creek/brush/thorns or “shiggy” as it is termed in land of Hash, all for beer? Am I freaking high or just plain Looney???  What I do know is that I am having a blast! This is anything but boring!  With the climbing, balancing, pulling myself up along creek beds and walls, running, walking and even crawling, I am blasting calories and having one hell of an adventure to talk about later.

We came to a marking called an Eagle.  This meant we could choose to take the easy way to the “on in” or end, or take the longer and more challenging trail. We chose to take the longer route. Why? Because we were having fun! We were also overzealous Virgins with delusions of grandeur; it ended up being close to 6 miles. We went through streams that were so covered in briar bushes that you had to crouch and crawl to avoid your face from being marred.  This was some deep shiggy!  I decided to take a moment for pictures.  While standing in this muck a muck, I slipped and came crashing down on my ass.  Sweeeet! I felt that for a few days after.

We continued on for what seems like eons, crossing a football field, walking through a cemetery, and searching unsuccessfully for a beer stop. Yes, you read that right. Most hashes have beer checks midway through the run. Remember the motto!

We were eventually found by some of the earlier hounds who came back out from the end to make sure we found our way in. It was now pouring rain, but we had made it!  And we were not dead last! I conquered my first hash and still had all my limbs intact! I owe Ari and Star Whore mega thanks for staying with the virgins because we would have never have found our way back, not in a million years!

The end was in the industrial park, near the blue water tower, under the overhang of an office building. Was this legal? Aren’t we on private property? No one seemed to notice or care. Dry clothes were found and shimmied into and beers were now in hand.  Good beer too!  No bud light for this gang. THANK GOD! “Life is too short to drink cheap beer” is the Pine Lake motto. You know I appreciate this, as I refuse to drink Bud or Coors light and my reason is I am not high maintenance, I just don’t drink piss beer. We began to form a circle. BBB poured some beers into several glasses. I soon found out they were to be used in a ritual of sorts, to be drank down by various members of the days hash for things like FRB “Front running bastard”, being a virgin, having a cell phone on trail and using GPS (apparently a major NO NO), wearing a race running shirt (an offense they seem happy to make fun of), having ones balls hanging too low, just kidding, but I wouldn’t be surprised!  Basically, any offense on trail they can think of to make you stand in the middle of the circle while they sing songs about necrophilia  “My name is Jack (nah-na-nah-na-nah-na-nah), I’m a necrophiliac (nah-na-nah-na-nah-na-nah)”, songs for the hares “Hooray for the hares, hooray at last, hooray for the hares, they're a horses ass!” All the songs ended with everyone singing “Drink it down down down down “while the offender’s chugged all the beer in their mugs. If you leave any beer in the mug, you must pour it over your head.  Then the ceremony ends. Cheetos are shared (orange food!), as well as chips, cookies and the like.  Everyone drinks up and then heads for home until the next hash commences in some other unsuspecting neighborhood of East Atlanta. On many occasions there is an “on-after”.  This is where runners relocate to a nearby pub for grub and more beer of course!

Speaking of songs, my favorite down down ditty was penned by a Pine Lake hasher. One Saturday afternoon hash we had run through Panola State Park and inadvertently run onto the private property of Georgia’s finest redneck family. We were corralled by the sons and dad on ATV’s. One of the sons was dressed in full camo/bush costume.  He looked like a faceless Sasquatch Shrubbery.  All were carrying rifles. Papa Redneck didn’t want us trespassing through his little piece of Deliverance for fear of one of us falling, injuring our self and then suing him for all of his worldly possessions. At least that is the BS story he gave us. They kindly escorted us to their property line.  Sasquatch was sure to make his rounds on the four-wheeler to ensure we did not accidently veer off the clearly marked state park trail again. The ditty went a little something like this “This land is my land. This lands not your land. I have a shot gun. And you ain’t got one. Drink it down down down down”. Good times! The end of that particular hash was actually quite a gorgeous locale on the side of a stream.  I had to cross in waist deep water while holding my beagle to keep her from whisking downstream to reach the on in. I ruined my cell phone that day. Whoopsie! Note to self; do not bring cell phone on the hash, or if I do keep in dry bag.

Unfortunately my time with the hashers was short lived as my dear girl Ari fell in love with a Navy man and moved to Florida.  I do miss Ari and I miss the hash too. I give credit to my brief fling with hashers for my new found love of the mud/obstacle run and my introduction to muck, mud, “shiggy” and the thrill of the unknown.  And for the record, I did earn my Hash name; Ram –a Ho-Poken.  That’s another story…

 

Beyond Badass - The 30 Day Challenge

Yesterday was a great day. The sun was shining, the first hints of Spring were in the air and I got my spark back. I found it at the Badass Dash, a 7K obstacle race held at Stone Mountain Park. Maybe it was the beautiful weather. Maybe it was the fun obstacles. Maybe I was just ready.

The course and obstacles for the Badass Dash were posted online, so we had a chance to check them out ahead of time. This race looked fun, more like the Warrior Dash or the Down and Dirty. I was not nervous at all, just looking forward to spending a day outside in the woods. There was no mud pit at this one, which was nice. I love mud as much as the next gal, but it was good to finish a race and have an easy cleanup afterwards. No freezing hose torture here. And no burpees if I couldn’t complete an obstacle.

In the Badass Dash, I finally felt the exhilaration that had eluded me during the Spartan Race a few weeks ago. I was climbing over stacks of pallets, dashing over picnic tables, crawling under nets and walls and running free in the woods. For the first time ever, I tackled the super-high wall.  I climbed up and over a 10-12 foot wall without hesitation. When I got to the top, I looked down and got dizzy for a second, then I took a deep breath, swung my leg over and made my way back down.

I faced another high obstacle with a rope net, this time it was climbing up and over a semi trailer. I didn’t think twice about doing it. I was confident and fearless as I approached the net. I could even look down as I made my way to the top. I was feeling so great that I  managed some flirty banter with the cougar bait who was assisting at the top of the obstacle.

The sense of accomplishment was back. I ran more and walked less than any other race, I was able to climb over high things without being sick with fear and I completed every obstacle on the course. Some of them were challenging, but I did them.

We finished in 1:29, not too bad. This was my sixth obstacle race. I have never been too concerned about my finishing time. It was fun to compare the times from one race to another and see how I was progressing, but I am not really a competitive person and I usually felt great about my performance if I completed the course. I guess at this point I do not really consider myself an athlete, just a middle aged chick with an unusual hobby.

 

This time was different. I felt a twinge of something that I suspect might be a little competitive streak creeping into my psyche. I was happy that I was making such good progress. I was running more, my race times were improving and I was completing every obstacle on the course. But deep down, I knew I could do better. I could push myself harder.

I had made great strides over the past year, but I had to admit to myself that my approach to health and fitness was still often half-assed and inconsistent. I have good weeks and bad weeks. Sometimes working out is a priority. Sometimes other obligations are. Some weeks my diet is perfect. Other times it isn’t.  I still lack discipline. I always have, but it never really bothered me until now. Doing these races and pushing myself out of my comfort zone has made me aware that I can do better. I can be better. I am no longer satisfied with the mediocrity which I have accepted until now. From now on, it will not be enough to just cross the finish line.

In fact, it will not be enough to just work out once in a while, to just run a couple times a week, to just eat right when it is convenient, to just make health and fitness a priority when I am not  focused on work stuff, house stuff or kid stuff.  

Sure, I have made some progress. I am getting in shape. I have lost some weight. That should be good enough. Nope. Good enough is not good enough anymore. Something in me changed on that course. After that race, I was ready to set the bar higher for myself. I just needed a plan.

I decided to give myself a 30 day challenge. To be the best I could be, to do the best I could do when it came to my health. No more slacking off. For one month I will make diet and exercise my number one priority. I will clean up my diet and be 100% paleo. No grains. No sugar. No dairy. Just fruits and veggies, meat, eggs and nuts. And protein smoothies.  Not just most of the time – all of the time. For one month.

I will challenge myself to get some form of exercise six days a week. At least two days a week will include strength training, either lifting weights at the gym or doing squats and pushups at home. Three days a week will be for cardio – running, using the rowing machine at the gym or hiking up mountains in my area. Now that the weather is warming up, there is no reason why I can’t take advantage of the beautiful parks and hiking trails around me. After all, that is one of the main reasons I moved to the mountains. Spending more time in nature will be good for the body and soul.

April is the perfect time to embark upon a challenge like this. After all, Spring is the time for renewal. I am determined to have a new focus, to embrace the strength and peace of mind that comes with discipline and to continue the sense of accomplishment I felt after the Badass Dash. Sure, I still have a hectic life and many other obligations. But I can make excuses or I can make changes.

I am not looking at this month as a time of punishment and deprivation. That is how I have always viewed diets in the past.  That is why I have always failed in my previous attempts to lose weight.  I know that I will be giving my body what it needs to function optimally. I know that I will feel better, have more energy and release the sense of guilt that hangs over me when I am not doing as well as I could. I want to see how much progress I can make in 30 days – on the scales and beyond.

Spartan Race 2013 Recap - Jess vs. Tower of Death

Call me crazy, but I did it again. I knew what was in store for me and I signed up for another Spartan Race anyway. I was lighter and stronger and had been making great progress at the gym for the last couple of months, so I had high hopes for an easier time this year. Of course, I also had an injury that was definitely going to affect my performance. I had sprained my left hand in December, and it was not fully healed yet. So, in keeping with my personal tradition, I went into another Spartan adventure with an injury. I was ready. I had been diligently practicing my burpees.

We were not as fortunate with the weather this time. The weekend before the race, we had had snow flurries and highs in the 30s. It had warmed up a bit, but the day was overcast and just under 60 degrees. I knew the mud pit and anything involving water was going to be cold. To me, that was more daunting than any of the obstacles. I hate being cold. That’s why I live in Georgia.

Once again, we had to park a mile away and enjoy a nice warmup walk to the venue.  For some reason, I was just as nervous this year. Maybe because I knew what I was in for. Maybe I was worried about aggravating my sprained hand. Maybe I remembered how bad I felt for days after the last one.

 

As we approached the race site, I could not believe my eyes. A huge and terrifying obstacle came into sight and it took all the courage I could muster not to turn around and run back through the parking lot, hop in the car and drive home to safety and my warm sofa.  My nemesis the shipping containers with the rope net was back. And worse. Now, there were two stacks of shipping containers. There was a net to go up, a net to go across – in between them – and a net to go down. Shit. Those suckers were high. In a particularly sadistic twist, to enter the venue, we had to walk through this Tower of  Death, under the net, in full view of the racers scrambling across over our heads. What the hell was I thinking, doing this again?

We had planned for traffic and parking this year, so we had plenty of time to get checked in and stretch out before our 2:30 start time. I was anxious and my mouth was dry, but I tried not to drink too much water since none of the port-o-potties had any toilet paper.

I could see a few obstacles in the distance – familiar sights like the rope climb, slippery wall, mud pit, vertical wall and spear toss. I was already calculating the number of burpees I would be doing that day, probably around 180. Since I could not grip with my left hand, anything with a rope was out, as were the super high walls and the monkey bars. My goal for the day was to just do the best I could and try to finish under two hours – that would be about 30 minutes less than our time from last year.

 

While in the starting line, I was waiting for the spark, the excitement, the anticipation. Nope. Not there yet. We took off and once again, the first obstacle was climbing over some barricades with a big mud puddle on the other side. Not too bad. What was bad was the guy blasting us with a fire hose as we did it. Great, starting out cold and wet. I was hoping that running for a bit would help me warm up. No such luck. Next was crawling under some nets then climbing over the four foot walls. Easy. Then a very long run through the woods and a walk through the creek. I took comfort in the fact that the cold water meant there probably weren’t any snakes to worry about.

Then came the five foot walls, some to go under, some to go over. We actually got over them on our own this time. Yay for us!

Next was a new obstacle, a series of pegs sticking up about three feet above the ground. The goal was to maintain your balance while walking from peg to peg. Not too bad – until a guy came running through in a tight speedo. I think all the ladies were thrown off by that, but we made it across. No burpees yet.

Then, it was time to face my arch enemy – the Tower of Death. I hesitated for just a second before charging forward. Getting to the top was much the same as last time. Deep Breaths. One step at a time. Don’t look down. However, unlike last time, the net was bigger and there was a stampeding herd of boisterous young guys clambering up all around me. The net was swaying violently back and forth and it took all my strength to keep a firm grip on the ropes. I made it to the top somehow. Then I realized I would have to go across a net to the other side. I could see the people beneath me. I could see how far down it was. As I pulled myself up onto the top, I took a moment to analyze the various strategies that other racers were using to get across the net. The young guys were dashing across upright. F***  that. Some of the more cautious people were crawling. Some were rolling. Hell no. I knew that the only way I was getting across that thing was if I could somehow do it without looking down. So, I ended up doing sort of a sideways-crab-walk. Slide one leg over, then the butt, then the other leg. Eyes straight ahead to the horizon. Not looking down. Not even for a second.  Both hands with a firm grip on the ropes at all times. I was vaguely aware of the people walking beneath us, but did my best not to acknowledge that I was that high up. Just keep scooting.

 

 

In my preoccupation with not plummeting to my death, I failed to notice the camera placed at the top of the obstacle and as a result, there are now some rather undignified crotch shots of me crab-walking sideways across the net. Thanks a lot, Spartan folks. Those moments were a real joy to relive on video.

More stampeding guys made the descent as terrifying as possible. By the time I reached solid ground, my legs were trembling. Kris took off running and it took me a minute to catch up to her. I did not feel triumphant at that moment, more like just glad to be alive.

Then the vertical wall. Again, I lasted for two steps. 30 burpees. A short tire flip, no problem. Then an obstacle that looked like fun. Big muddy hills to climb up, then slide down the other side into a pool of muddy water. It only looked fun because I didn’t yet realize how cold that water was. Sliding down a muddy hill, there was no way to stop yourself until you were up to your chin in the water. In the freezing water. The nighttime lows had been in the 30s, so that water was horrendous. We had to do that about 3 or 4 times. When I emerged from the final pool, I was basically a walking mudsicle.

We were about at mile 2 by now, and I still wasn’t really into it. Perhaps I was waiting for the thrill of excitement I had experienced during my first Spartan Race. I don’t think I really got my racing spark until about mile 3, and even then it was subdued. Most of the obstacles were the same as last year, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that they were much easier the second time around. Maybe I really was making some progress. The concrete block on the chain was manageable this time, as was the bucket of concrete on a rope. The swamp wasn’t as deep this year, so it was barely up to our knees. And I had no open wounds to worry about.

They wussed out on the sandbags this year. There were pancake-shaped cloth bags instead of the real things from last year. This time, they had different bags for men and women. The real sandbags last year had weighed about 40 pounds. I don’t know how much the little girly pancakes weighed, but it couldn’t have been more than 15 -20 pounds at the most. The trek uphill was not nearly as daunting as it had been the year before. It was like walking up a grassy hill with a pillow on my back. I did not have the same feeling of accomplishment after that one.

 

 

The one area in which I did have a sense of achievement was in running. To be honest, I don’t really like running that much and don’t consider myself a runner by any means. But I do it. I run on the treadmill at the gym and do run-walk intervals on the trails around my house. The course was between 4 ½ and 5 miles and we were able to actually run a good bit of it, much better than the year before. So, it was rewarding to see that my cardio had dramatically improved over the last year.

Kris kicked butt on the monkey bars and made it all the way across – you go girl! I did my burpees and moved on. More burpees at the high walls and rope climb. And the spear toss. And the slippery wall. Good thing I had practiced them.

Finally, the mud pit. The mud was drier, harder and not as squishy and mucky this year. That made it a lot harder to crawl through. It was also full of rocks, which dug into my knees and elbows when I tried to army crawl like before. After gashing my knee on a sharp rock, I abandoned that approach and invented my own move. I started out in child’s pose (like in yoga) and slowly slid sideways, ducking my head and shoulders under the barbed wire as I went. It was not the most ladylike approach, but then again, neither was crawling through a mud pit in the first place, and at least I tried to stay aware of my position so that I wasn’t sticking my muddy ass in some poor guy’s face.  

It seemed like the barbed wire was lower in the second half of the mud pit, so it was back to my belly, inch by inch. My shirt was crusted with mud, which made it heavy and pulled it downwards as I crawled over the muddy ground. Luckily, as I reached the end, I noticed that I was about to pop out of my top, so I had time to tuck the girls back in before standing up.

 

Two guys with big padded sticks blocked the way to the finish line. I guess they were supposed to be gladiators, but they didn’t really look very warrior-like. They seemed bored and only gave me a half-hearted whack to the midsection as I ran by. Then it was done. We finished in 1:52, meeting the goal of under two hours and beating our previous time by almost 40 minutes. Not Spartan elites by any means, but a big improvement over the year before.

 

I was less euphoric this time, mostly just cold and tired.

I was mentally preparing myself for the freezing hose torture to clean off the mud, but what I was not prepared for was that they had now attached high-pressure nozzles to all of the hoses. Not only was I adding insult to injury by blasting my already freezing body with ice water, but now I also got the sheer pleasure of pressure-washing my boobs. Nice. Thanks a lot. And pressure washing the gash in my knee and the scrapes on my elbows felt great too. Even the big, tough guys were squealing like little girls while blasting their skin with the frigid water. I did a quick rinse to get the biggest clumps out, then stopped while I still had some flesh left intact.

Luckily, I had come prepared this time. I brought some warm clothes, a big bottle of water, a wash cloth and some baby wipes. I went into the port-o-potty and stripped down. I used the tepid bottled water and washcloth to get the rest of the mud, then the baby wipes for the remaining grime. I dried off, put on my warm clean clothes and slip-on shoes and I was once again a happy camper.  My skin felt great after the mud bath and pressure washing.

I don’t know what I really expected from this race. I guess I wanted to feel the exhilaration of the first time. It didn’t happen. I was glad that I had done it, and it felt good that the obstacles were easier and that I could run a lot more of the course, but the thrill of the first time could not be recaptured. 

The aftermath of the Spartan Race was not as harsh the second time around. My arms, back and shoulders were a bit sore, but not miserably so. The arms and legs took quite a beating and were covered with welts, scrapes and bruises, but those too were not as bad as the year before. The gash on the knee healed pretty quickly.

I don’t know if I will do the Spartan Race again. There are so many new and different obstacle races and mud runs in my area that I think I want to give those a shot. The Spartan Race has also gotten ridiculously expensive. Yes, I know that the price is cheaper if you sign up earlier. That is great for people who do not have to work around jobs and kids’ schedules. I hardly know what I’m making for dinner the day before, there is no way I can pay for a race six months in advance. It was a gamble for me to sign up a month ahead of time. So, let’s see…. $95 registration fee, $14 mandatory participant insurance fee, $10 processing fee, $10 for parking, and $5 to check my bag during the race. Nearly $135 and they couldn’t even provide freaking toilet paper in the port-o-potties?  I can sign up for two or three other races for that price.  Sorry, Spartan Race, what we had was beautiful, but I think it’s time for me to move on.

Dude, Where's My Butt?

March 2013 and I’m about halfway to my goal weight . So far, I’m down 20 pounds from my heaviest and have about 15 more to go. The last year or so has been an incredible journey, both physically and mentally.

The first Spartan Race was definitely the catalyst for this transformation, and the other races throughout the year gave me something to look forward to and work towards. When I knew I had a race coming up, I was on track. When I was on vacation at the beach, drinking margaritas every night or hanging out with friends over a couple pitchers of beer, not so much. The struggle is still in finding a balance between the wannabe-athlete-spartan-racer and the inner party girl. Still working on that.

Much like my diet, my exercise regimen has not been consistent for the last year. I had a six-month gym membership while training for my first racing season, then I decided to save the money and train on my own. This had mixed results. I live in an area with great hiking trails and amazing state parks nearby, so I was able to do quite a bit of hiking and running. I have a couple of kettlebells and some dumbbells, but I found that those did not get used very much when I was on my own. I would find a million other things to do rather than lift weights at home.

In December 2012, I tore the ligaments in my left hand and popped the joint sacs around the knuckles.  I thought it would be better in a few weeks, but it is now Mid-March,  my knuckles are still swollen and I have no grip at all. I have been to a sports medicine doctor, a chiropractor and an acupuncturist. They have helped (especially acupuncture) but they all tell me to be patient and that it can take a few months for a bad sprain to heal fully.  Between the hectic holiday season and the injury, I essentially took a couple of months off from working out altogether.

New Year’s Eve brought a big wake-up call for me – the sudden death of my cousin from a massive heart attack. He was 38. It was hard to look into a coffin and see someone a year younger than me lying there.

I joined a gym again in January. My 40^th birthday was approaching, and I was determined not to go into my forties being in bad shape. I can’t help being 40, but I can avoid being 40 and fat. Plus, the next racing season was coming up and I did not want to be the bloated, out of shape old chick huffing along the course.

While I tend to focus on how far I still want to go, I do need to stop and acknowledge how far I have come. There have been some amazing changes over the last year.

To begin with, I don’t beat myself up or put myself down anymore. Life has a way of doing enough of that. I am not one to sign on to the Oprah-style love yourself movement, but life is much better when you learn how to bitch-slap your inner critic into submission. It makes me incredibly sad to hear my friends constantly putting themselves down, especially about their weight, but that was me too a year ago.  

I also take a lot less crap from people than I did before. Maybe it is the newfound sense of being Spartan-tough, but my tolerance for BS has reached its limit. I accept that crappy situations and crappy people will always exist, but I do my best to avoid them. I no longer think it is my personal responsibility to change the world and all of the idiots in it.

The week after my first Spartan Race, I chopped off all of my hair and got a sassy new ‘do to fit my new attitude. I started making more of an effort with my appearance. I expanded my wardrobe beyond the standard mom clothes. I’m still not big on hair products or wearing a lot of makeup, but I try not to leave the house looking like a slob.

I am more grateful for my health and more willing to give up things that I know are not good for me. I’m not there 100%, but getting closer every day. I have come to truly appreciate how good it feels to feel good and very few things are better than that. Not even Girl Scout Cookies.

On the physical side, the biggest change has been losing the junk in the trunk. Yep, bye-bye booty. Hello skinny jeans - yes you, the ones that have been lurking in the back of my closet for years, because someday I knew we would meet again. Someday. Well, that someday finally came. And it was glorious. When I started this journey, I was muffin-topping out of a size 12. The day I could comfortably zip up a size 8 – well, mere words do not do justice to that feeling. At that moment, the skies parted, Divine light shone down upon me and a chorus of angels sang  Handel’s ‘Messiah’ in the background. OK, maybe that part was all in my head, but it was still pretty awesome. Those size 8s keep me accountable. If I fall off the wagon, they let me know. Right away. Without mercy. I had not been below a size 10 since high school. To be inching my way back to my former skinny self at age 40 feels great.

Before I started getting in shape, I pretty much had a big shelf-butt. I probably could have carried a cup of coffee on that sucker. Now, it is flatter, firmer and a couple inches higher than before. It actually stops moving when I do.

I can now comfortably clasp my bra without looking and feeling like a rubber band around a water balloon. The horrible feeling of the fat oozing above and below the straps, meeting in the middle on a bad day, is gone.

I have a collarbone. Haven’t seen that thing in a while. And I’m back down to one chin.

It is a strange thing to notice, but I finally have concave armpits again. I no longer look like I’m smuggling Grandma’s Bisquick dumplings under my arms when I wear a tank top.

I have some muscles in my arms and shoulders. Yes, me. You can actually see them. When I saw the after pictures from my second Spartan Race last weekend, I couldn’t believe that was me. I thought someone must have photoshopped  my head onto a fit person’s body.  No more flapping bingo wings.

My legs are definitely getting toned. All the running, hiking, squats and lunges have paid off. Maybe after a few thousand more, my thighs will no longer touch at the top.

The most stubborn part is the belly. When I started working out, I would put on my sports bra and workout pants and my midsection would ooze out in between, pale and doughy like someone had just whacked a tube of biscuit dough on the counter. My stomach is a bit flatter now and I am getting some curves back, but I still have a flabby marsupial pouch just under my navel. Most days I can tuck it down into the waistband of my pants and hold it in place with a belt to keep it out of sight.  No six pack here. Not yet anyway. You  might think "But you have twins, no wonder your stomach looks like that."  I adopted my kids, so I cannot use pregnancy as an excuse for this problem.

So, what’s next? Keep on keepin’ on, I guess. I really need to kick it up a notch and go full paleo on the diet, not just 75% like I have been doing. No more pitchers of beer. I need to make working out a priority and be consistent. After all, I’m paying for a gym membership, so I need to make the most of it. I am going to a friend’s wedding at the beach in two months. It would be so nice to finally be able to wear a real bathing suit. Not the fat mom one-piece with a skirt. And, I have a few races coming up so I need to be in tip-top shape for those. I just tackled my second Spartan Race (that story will be another post), I have the Badass Dash in two weeks, the Muck Run in May and the Mud Crusade in June.  I also have a house to maintain, a job with unpredictable hours, two kids with afterschool activities, and an impending move to juggle. Somehow I’ll get it all done. And I’ll be wearing my skinny jeans while I do it.

 

 

 

Mud In The Blood

 

After my first obstacle race, The Georgia Spartan Sprint, I looked and felt like I had been hit by a truck. The knees and elbows took the brunt of the abuse; they were black and blue and covered with scrapes. My ribs were bruised, I had a huge bruise across my abdomen and another big one on my inner thigh from heaving my leg over the walls. A lovely collection of cuts and bruises adorned my legs from knees to ankles and I was very glad that shorts season was a few months away. Every muscle in my body ached. For three days, every movement hurt and there were many moments in which I questioned my sanity.

 

 

 

However, the experience had left me with more than bruises. I had a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I had experienced before. I felt more alive than I had in a very long time. Finally in my life I had something new and challenging, something that made me push myself to do better and be better, and I was hooked.

As a kid, I had spent a lot of time outside - playing in the woods, wading in a creek or river and exploring the various wonders that only Nature can provide. Year round, I was in the woods getting dirty. I waded through the muddy riverbanks, grabbed crawfish with my bare hands, rescued a nest of baby flying squirrels after neighborhood hoodlums shot the mother with a BB gun and found out the hard way which plant was poison ivy. I  learned how to smell rain before it came, how the afternoon sunlight changed through the seasons, how the sky was bluer at certain times of the year. Then, I grew up and forgot about the lessons that Nature had taught.

On a muddy course in Conyers, in March of 2012, I became that kid again. I was no longer the weary and stressed-out mom, I was a girl with her feet in the mud. I was running in the woods, carefree and exhilarated. I was climbing and leaping over walls. I was double-dog daring myself to get up that rope ladder and see what was at the top. Something primal was unleashed in me that day and I wanted more.

The next mud run in my area was a local, family-friendly 5k called The Muck Run. I signed the whole family up for that one. My twin girls were 9 at the time and they wanted to do what Mom was doing. Plus, like all kids, any excuse to get muddy was OK with them. I was a bit worried that the course would be too long for them, but they did great. The obstacles were fun. The kids loved getting down in the dirt and thought it was hilarious that Mom and Dad were in the muck with them. They were determined to take advantage of the one day that their parents were encouraging them to get dirty and they must have gone through the mud pit six or seven times. It was an amazing experience. On that day, we all got to be kids again.

 

At the end of May was the Warrior Dash. Kris and I signed up and were joined by a couple of other friends, also first time Warriors. I had heard great things about The Warrior Dash and was excited to see for myself what it was all about.  The course was posted online, with pictures and descriptions of the obstacles, so we knew exactly what we were getting into. The Warrior Dash was so much fun! It wasn’t as intense as the Spartan Race and had much more of a party atmosphere. There were a lot of crazy costumes and people in their underwear. The weather was warm and beautiful and the race site was in the lovely north Georgia mountains. The obstacles were challenging, but there was no penalty if you were unable to complete one.  The knee injury I had sustained in March was still not 100% better, so I skipped the super-high wall and the fireman’s pole. I had been stupid to make the injury worse during the Spartan Race and I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. So, I avoided the two obstacles that had the possibility of a high-impact landing and did everything else. This course included a lake, so there were some water obstacles. Those were incredibly refreshing on a warm day.  The Warrior Dash organizers were nice enough to use ropes above the mud pit instead of barbed wire, and for that I was grateful.  We finished in 1:07 , less than half the time it took for the Spartan Race. We were able to use the lake to wash off the mud and grime afterwards, so no frigid hose torture at this one. After the race, there was a great hang-out area with live music, yummy barbarian food  like turkey legs and beer and some of the most entertaining people-watching I’ve ever experienced.  Once again, my legs and elbows were covered with scrapes and bruises, but not nearly as bad as the Spartan Race and the muscle soreness was barely noticeable, about the same as after a moderate workout. I don’t know if that was due to the course being  easier or that I was getting in better shape.  I still wasn’t completely on track with consistent diet and exercise, but I was making an effort.

 

The summer was brutally hot and it was also my super-busy season at work, so there was not another race for me until October. This was the Merrell Down and Dirty. It was held at the same venue as the Spartan Race had been, at the Olympic equestrian center in Conyers. This race offered the challenge of a 10K option, so we decided to go for it.  I had been pretty good about working out over the summer – not perfect by any means, but I had toned up a bit. My diet had gone off track after a trip to the beach and had not really gotten back to where it should have been. As a result, I felt OK going into the race but also mad at myself for not making better progress.

This ended up being my favorite race of the year. The early fall weather was warm and beautiful. Completing a 10K after only doing 5K races was tiring, but the obstacles were fun and I had my pals Kris and Lori with me. It was great to have company on the course, but there were a few times where we got caught up in conversation and forgot that we were running a race. The course was challenging, but there were plenty of helpers around to assist if anyone needed help. ( For soon-to-be cougars like us, it was nice that most of the helpers were buff college guys). I may not have been much skinnier for this race ,but I was much stronger. I was bounding over the walls with no problem. There was a tall rope net to climb, but instead of shipping containers, there was a big inflatable slide on the other side. Whee!  Our finish time was 1:55. We had actually completed a 10K obstacle course in under two hours. Not bad for a group of out-of shape chicks who were pushing 40.  

 

 

Invasion of the Body Snatchers by KD

 

I have been fit for most of my life. I started ballet at 4, gymnastics at 5, dabbled in running, hiked, roller bladed, and swam all summer, and skied all winter. I was voted Girl Athlete of the Year in 8th grade and competed in  and taught gymnastics all throughout my youth, high school life and college life.

                                 Glory Days 1989

 

I dated a personal trainer for a few years that had me up early on the weekends to cycle along

the hills along the Palisades and Hudson River. I took every new exercise class imaginable at Bally's from Bust your Gut to a step class taught by a HIGHLY energetic male flight attendant who wore those Richard Simmons striped shorts in pink and white and had us yelling YEEE HAWW as we swung our air lasso and rode our pretend horse around the step.

 

 

I was never skinny in the fashion model sense of the word, but at 5"3 and 125 pounds, I filled out my size 4 jeans quite nicely, thank you very much!  When I weighed 130, I looked about 118 because I have always had a lot of muscle, which we all know weighs in more than fat.  I am a German bred girl with huge calves like my Mom, a big bubble butt and muscular thighs which come from my Dad’s side of the family. I lifted a lot of weights for a time, and could easily bench 125 and 100 max on that peck deck machine thingy. I could leg press a good 225. My point here is, never in my wildest of dreams, or nightmares did I imagine that one day I would be wearing a size 14/16 and huffing like a dime store crack ho just walking up a flight of stairs. Not me!! As if!!! 

So what happened?!!? How in BLOODY HELL did I get to be THAT girl in the reflection of my mirror? Holy double chin Bat Girl! Call Michelin I think we found the new spokes person because this girl has plenty of spare tires, yes plural, to share! Wow!!!!!

If only I felt comfortable in white stretchy pants, hot pink half shirts and flip flops I could easily be one of those women featured in the “People of Wal-Mart” clips. You know the ones you view on Facebook where you sit in disbelief that people left the house like that. How did they let themselves go like that? Do they not own a freaking mirror?!? Where do you even buy spandex in that size!?!?!? 

BODY SNATCHERS!! OMG we must have been invaded by body snatchers!! My former fit self has been devoured by some Guinness drinking, chicken wing eating, blue cheese burger and French fry loving BODY SNATCHING HOOKER!!! She has transformed me from a svelte young Ellen Barkin in Sea of Love to a puffed up bloated Anna Nicole Smith on a bad binge day!!! Even my 34 C cup breasts, which I have to say were quite nice, have been changed into cannon size 38 DD’s. I fear that without intervention these once bodacious boobies have a future of sagging wearily, and in seeking solace and warmth will come to rest on the fold of my nearest tummy roll. For the love of everything good and Holy and how on earth did it all come to this hideous mess?!!?!

 

 From this      to this

Sure, I had a baby. I know many women blame their mommy pouch on their children. I however cannot use this as an excuse. I puked my freaking guts up for 9 months straight! I could look at food and puke. I have puked all over Atlanta and its surrounding suburbs. This is not an exaggeration. I lost about 16 pounds in my first trimester, and then gained it back, plus six. So essentially, I gained six pounds. I was overweight and out of shape before I got pregnant, so for me, again, no excuse. 

 

So, after two years of making up excuses for myself and being tired of looking in the mirror and not recognizing the fat girl staring back at me I decided to do something about it. September of 08 ', and I was 37. I started getting up before the crack of dawn to meet with my girl Keicha three to four times a week for a boot camp class that was held inside of a roller rink before it opened. We were out running, lifting, squatting, curling and crunching for an hour and were back home before our spouses or kids had taken a step out of bed.  

I was off to a great start! For three months we met in the early hours and hit it hard. I was feeling stronger, getting more toned and finally starting to lose the rolls that had accumulated around my mid section and settled in like unannounced redneck relatives at a Thanksgiving feast.  

 

It was December and a new year was coming. I was going to be ready to take it on by storm. We were going to do what many parents do and "try" to reproduce another offspring. The hope was to have another child to run partially naked through my home with my two year old daughter, giggling and causing a ruckus. Who wouldn’t want that?

Well, actually I know plenty of people that wouldn’t but that is beside the point.

 

It so happened that another plan was in store for me. I was going into a storm alright, and that storm has a name, cancer. I was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer on 1/13/09. Game changer for sure, but I believe if I had not been working out as much as I was, I would never had been able to survive the shit storm of chaos I had coming to me. I had my wake-up call and by the grace of God was given a second chance to ride on this beautiful tide called life.  

I took some time off after cancer, or AC, and then turned 40 in September of 2011. I vowed that 40 would be my year to FINALLY get back into shape and start living the healthy life style that I enjoy.  By chance I reconnected with my girlfriend Jess on Facebook. It seemed we both were on a quest to find our mojo and clean up our acts, so to speak. Which makes it all the more funny that being “clean” is the farthest thing we ended up being on our journey to “Lipstick and Mud Pits”.

 

 

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