those crazy runners

Since I started running, I’ve only had one condition: Running must be fun.  However, two Sundays ago, I went for a run that was definitely not fun.

It had been awhile since I had gone out for a long run and I was well overdue with my half marathon coming up in just a couple of weeks.  The weather was okay, high 30s and a slight mist.  I planned on starting out in downtown Juneau and running out to North Douglas until I hit five miles and then I’d turn around and head back.  I was dressed fairly warm with two layers on top, gloves and a hat. I thought I needed the extra warmth, but by the time I reached my house on North Douglas, I was overheating.  I took off my outer layer top and my gloves and shoved them in my mailbox with the plan to pick them up on the way back.  I kept running along the highway thinking life was good and then I hit five miles and turned around to face what would soon become utter hell.  


About a half mile in headed south, the weather decided to go all ape shit on me.  It couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to rain or snow, so it did both.  The wind picked up to about 25 out of the Southeast taking my breath away with every gust.  I would run about 15 feet and then WHAM, another gust would come making it nearly impossible for me to run into it and leaving me gasping for air.  Going head first into the wind was the least of my problems, I was now freezing cold, and without any gloves or outer layer, I was in for a long three miles back to my house.  My hands turned as red as tomatoes and I couldn’t move my fingers.  I kept trying to clench them and then stretch them to keep the blood flow going, but they would barely move.  Pretty soon I couldn’t feel my toes and my lips followed suit and went numb too.

I admit I started to panic a bit.  I’m a slow runner to begin with, and being up against the wind, snow and cold, I was at least 30 minutes from my house and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it and that someone would find me dead alongside the road having suffered from hypothermia.  I started scanning the cars headed out to Eaglecrest hoping I’d know someone so I could flag them down and ask for a lift back to my gloves and shirt.  I didn’t see anyone, but later I got a text from my friend Mendi that read, “Hey!  Saw you running on my way out to Eaglecrest.  You looked pissed!” 

I was.  I was really pissed.  And cold.  Very cold.

I convinced myself that if I made it back to my house, I could grab my gloves and shirt and that would be enough to warm me up enough to finish my run back downtown.  I’m pretty sure I was crying by the time I made it back to my mailbox, but I’m not really sure because I could no longer feel my face.  I grabbed my gloves and tried to put them on- no go.  I couldn’t feel my hands, and though my brain was telling them to do one thing, they were rebelling and not going in my gloves.  I decided to go inside my house and try to warm up before heading back out to run back downtown.  The house was locked and I didn’t have a key.  I found the hidden spare and attempted to unlock the door.  It took forever because I kept dropping the key meanwhile Yasha stared at me through the door thinking I’d gone mad.  


I finally made it inside and went and sat by the remnants of the fire I had made earlier that morning.  I was eventually able to get my gloves on and feeling started to come back to my toes, so I stupidly convinced myself that I could head back out and finish my last two miles.  My body wasn’t hurting after running eight, and I had renewed energy, so I bid farewell to Yasha and sprinted out the door patting myself on the back as I chugged up the hill.  “I am bad ass!” I thought to myself.  I took a beating and I didn’t give up, in fact, I came out for more!  Bring it on!  Yeah me! 

This feeling of empowerment was short lived.  By the time I crested the hill, I was ready to fling myself into traffic and put myself out of my misery.  After a mile, I once again could not feel my body.  Conveniently, I passed by my friend’s Bob and Kris’ house and found myself knocking on their door.  Kris looked and me and could see I was in distress without me needing to say a word, which is good, because I was a little incoherent and couldn’t move my lips to talk.  Kris invited me in and told me her daughter could drive me the rest of the way.  During the five minute ride, I rambled on like a mad woman thanking Jessica for the ride.  I literally could not stop thanking her and just repeated it over and over.

It took me plopping down in front of a monitor stove for a few hours and sipping tea my friend Sonia made for me to finally snap out of it.  I realized my run was not fun.  In fact, I hated it.  I wasn’t even proud of myself for running nine miles in craptastic weather.  I was mad at myself for leaving warm clothes behind in my mailbox and putting my body through a run in a walk in freezer. I had broken my cardinal rule: Running must be fun.

I usually love running.  I sing along to songs, play air drums, and even dance a little when cars are not passing. I’m typically smiling- not frowning and looking pissed.  I’ve seen those runners who are out there forcing themselves to run and hating every second of it.  It’s all over their faces and they are not happy about it.   (I admit to having this face while running on a treadmill.)  My question for them is, “Why?”

The day after my hellish run, I went to Barrow for work, and on the long flights up (It took three), I started reading Born to Run.  I literally could.not.stop.reading.it.  I stood in line at the gate in Anchorage with my nose in the book shuffling forward with the herd to board the plane.  I didn’t even mind that when we stopped in Fairbanks, the Barrow boy's and girl's basketball team boarded whooping and hollering and carrying enough McDonalds to feed the entire community of Barrow.  The kids were toting giant plastic McDonald bags filled to the brim with hamburgers, McNuggets and fries.  They stuffed them in the overhead and under the seats.  They probably even checked a cheese burger or two at the gate.  When the door of the plane shut and the smell really started to circulate, I still didn’t mind because I was still happily reading the book.  I was too enthralled by what I was reading that I didn’t even notice a Happy Meal had slid its way under my chair and was wedged snug  between my feet.  This book is good, and I mean really good.

On the cover there is a quote from another writer that says,  “This book reminds me of why I like to run.”  That pretty much sums it up.  Even if I weren’t already running, this book would have inspired me to start.  Seriously, pick it up and read it, you won’t be disappointed.

On Christmas Eve I started to develop heel pain in my left foot, and my right foot (the dog bite foot) was aching again.  I knew I had to do a long run on Christmas day, and with my spirits recharged after reading the book, I refused to allow myself to dread it.  I dressed for the weather and vowed to not stow my layers no matter how hot I got.  I ran out to Costco and back, which is about eleven miles.  My feet hurt, and of course I blamed it on my fancy new running shoes that I’ve been wearing for two weeks.  (Read the book!) 

Even though my feet were sore, the pain was not nearly as bad as my brush with hypothermia the previous week.  The only real bummer part of the run was at the halfway point where I stopped at the lake to drink water at the fountain, only to discover they had been shut off. Damn. Eleven miles is a long way to run without water.  Note to self- I need to buy a Camelback if I’m going to continue to go on long runs.

My Christmas day run was probably one of the better ones I’ve had.  My smile stayed on my face throughout as I concentrated on the run, not on my pain. I admit my heel was quite tender afterwards, but it’s getting better now and I’m looking forward to my next long run- in my old worn out running shoes. 

I can’t believe my race is in less than two weeks!  There are days I still wake up and can’t believe that “I” the self-proclaimed non-runner is one of those crazy runners you see out on Christmas day, running through the snow with a smile on their face.

Forcing myself into the spirit

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas and quite frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.  I’m not into it this year and to be quite honest, I wasn’t in to it last year either.  I’m tired of the insane amounts of gifts that pile under the tree, so many that the girls start to glaze over halfway through opening them and we have to take a break.  Take a break opening presents?  Yes, it happened last year and I declared I would never let that happen again.  It’s grandparents.  They can’t stop themselves and tend to go overboard. My mom is starting to get the hang of it and has migrated to the one gift rule.  One gift is all they get from my parents.  God bless them!  God Bless us everyone!  I already know my mom made a sock monkey for Aurelia and Lena is getting a princess dress.  They will love their gifts and they will be able to remember what my parents gave them.  

I want to bring back the simplicity of Christmas.  Cutting a tree down, decorating the tree with homemade ornaments, making cookies with friends, attending a Christmas Eve service to belt out Christmas songs, being around people you love, and giving a few meaningful or useful gifts is all I really want Christmas to be.   That’s it. 

Since moving to Juneau, getting a tree has never been fun.  The most commonly used Christmas trees here are spruce and I don’t like them because they are too pokey and the needles fall out fast. Once, I broke down and bought a tree and it just seemed fake to me.  I grew up with Bull Pines.  A good Bull Pine Christmas tree is hard to find here because they are slightly different from the ones in Ketchikan. 

Growing up, my dad and I, along with another family, would all pile in the skiff and head across the channel over to Gravina Island.  We went to the same spot every year and always had luck.  We would cut down a bunch of trees, load them into the skiff and drive them back to the dock.  I truly feel that getting a tree needs to involve a skiff.  Screw strapping a tree to the top of your car!  Loading a skiff so full with trees that you can’t see the person operating the outboard in the back, is definitely the way to go.

My Mountain Billy Goat

I do own a skiff, but I figured we have a perfectly fine muskeg directly behind my house.  I carried Aurelia on my back, Addison carried the saw and snowshoes and Lena carried her ladybug backpack filled with chocolate.  I was worried that Lena was going to breakdown and ask to be carried, but she impressed me so much!  There wasn’t a trail to follow, unless you count the deer trails, but Lena flew up that hillside with agility and strength. 

Watching her reminded me of the first time I went into the woods when I was about her age.  My dad took me deer hunting and I remember being mesmerized by the rich green damp forest as I climbed over mossy logs, trying to avoid the snapping branches my dad was setting into motion.  When we got back to the boat, my mom asked my dad how I did.  He told her that my new name was “Mountain Billy Goat,” a nickname that stuck, and I held on to it with pride whenever dad and I would go in the woods.  I remember being so happy that my father was proud of me, even though I was too talkative for us to get a deer. 

Lena was my “Mountain Billy Goat” as she climbed over logs, took blueberry bushes to the face, sunk in the mud up to her knees, and kept on going singing all the way.  However, she asked me not to call her a goat and said it was offensive.  Sigh.

Aurelia's Chariot

We hiked about ¾ of a mile up to a muskeg that would hopefully produce a tree.  I strapped on my snowshoes and off we went to find a tree.  The snow in the muskeg was about three feet deep, and Lena was light enough to walk across the snow without sinking, most of the time.  Looking around the muskeg, I got worried because all the Bull Pines were warped and very funky resembling trees from a Dr. Seuss book.  Finally we found one that would do.  It’s a bit “Charlie Brown-ish,” but those are the best kind.  Addison cut it down and we headed back down the hill.  Lena did have a bit of a meltdown on the way back down, but we worked through it and eventually she was jumping off logs and excited to put up the tree.

Today, while Lena was at the Nutcracker, Aurelia and I went to a friend’s house and made cranberry and popcorn garland while listening to Frank Sinatra croon Christmas songs.  Aurelia carefully poked the cranberries with a threaded needle, and with minimal help from me, she made a beautiful garland. 

Swimsuits, the new "it" wear

Tonight we decorated our tree while listening to Handel’s Messiah.  The girls were wearing swimsuits, of course, because that’s the most sensible attire while trimming a tree.  Meanwhile, Chillcat was eyeing the tree, plotting his midnight adventure to climb up it.   It was simple, and perfect.

I can’t control how many gifts the girls are given or how fake Christmas fanfare is jammed down their throats every time they turn around.  But, I do hope that they will see through the plastic garbage and candy coated Christmas goo, and instead hold on to memories of picking out a tree from our backyard, stringing cranberries and popcorn together to create garland, and the Christmas their grandmother gave them a homemade sock monkey. 

There’s the true meaning of Christmas that we’re constantly reminded of, but I also believe the true meaning of Christmas is how it makes us feel and how we make others feel.  We shouldn’t feel overwhelmed or disgusted.  We should just feel happiness, kindness and love.  If I can stay steady on that path, I think I can start digging Christmas again.

Not another restaurant

Club sandwich with nitrate-laden meat?  No.  Hamburger with a bun infused with corn syrup and corn fed beef?  No thanks.  Buffalo chicken salad made from chickens that were fed chemicals to help them be able to survive in an overcrowded chicken pen overflowing with chicken shit?  No way in hell.  This is what was going through my head as I was sitting in Chili’s at the Anchorage Airport trying to decide what I wanted for lunch.  As my coworkers all dished out their orders to the waitress, I was still trying to figure out what I would actually be willing to eat off the menu.  It all of a sudden became quite apparent to me that I have indeed become one of those picky eaters I’ve always made fun of.  No, I’m not on a diet, I’m not a vegetarian and no, I’m not on the gluten-free bandwagon.  I just care about what I eat and what I put into my body.  I also want something that tastes good, which I don’t feel is too much to ask.

Growing up in the Leach family, dining out was typically reserved for occasions such as my father and his crew’s successful and safe return from a halibut or herring trip. Occasionally my brother and I could talk my parents into a trip to the Pizza Mill after church if we were really good.  Because we rarely went out to eat, I used to savor it, drooling over menu items and waiting for my 7up to arrive with a square ice cubes and a straw.  Sometimes if I was really lucky, I was allowed a Shirley Temple!

Oh, but times they are a changin’!  Now, eating out is a chore.  In fact, I’ve pretty much grown to hate it.

I’ve been traveling a lot lately and trying to find a place to eat has become increasingly difficult.  I have this deep seeded need to eat food as close to the real thing as possible.  I wasn’t always this way.  I was raised on Wonder Bread, Kraft cheese singles, Campbell’s soup, canned fruits and veggies and Doritos.  In all fairness, my mother did cook real food, and it was good food.  She made her own spaghetti sauce, schnitzel, enchiladas, homemade mac and cheese (never Kraft), and of course we ate a lot of fish and venison, but there was also no shortage of processed foods in my house.

The evolution of my choice not to eat processed foods isn’t only because I know they are bad for me. I don’t eat them because they taste like garbage.  I can actually taste the chemicals as I’m chewing and after I eat them, I feel terrible.  If you eat this stuff on a regular basis, your body is used to it and you don’t recognize the taste of chemicals that are used to preserve the food.  My body used to be accustomed to the occasional fast food and processed heat and serve food; that was until I lived in Haines and aside from the occasional greasy burger and fries at the Bamboo Room, I made everything I ate.  I rarely bought anything that was premade and I stayed away from ingredients that I couldn’t pronounce or that were not natural.  This was not only a health choice; it was a financial choice.  Salad dressing and bread was expensive, so I made my own.  It was the pre-made things that were the most expensive and I learned buying whole foods was a much better bang for my buck.  Whenever I’d go to the big cities of Juneau and Whitehorse, I’d get excited to hit the restaurant scene.  But, after the second or third meal, I would feel lousy.  My stomach would start to churn, I’d feel groggy and fuzzy headed, and almost always, I developed a headache. Once you step away from the land of preservatives, it’s hard to cross back over that line because the food simply does not taste good.

So what do I do when looking over the menu at Chilies?  I order a soup and salad with dressing on the side feeling a bit like Meg Ryan’s character Sally from When Harry Met Sally.  “Do you make the soup from scratch?  Do you add real bacon to the baked potato soup or the kind of bacon that comes in a bag crumbled and pre-cooked?  Is the lettuce iceberg or something leafy and green that actually contains nutrients?  Is the cheese in the soup real cheddar or processed cheese?”  No, I didn’t ask those things, because I am at Chilies, and OF COURSE the bacon comes in a bag.  I crunch on my tasteless iceberg lettuce and sip the Velveeta potato soup off the plastic spoon and I dream of the old 5 Star Café in Ketchikan or Mountain Market in Haines, and occasionally Rainbow Foods or Silver Bow in Juneau- that is when I feel like spending way too much money on lunch. 

I’m not embarrassed by my food pickiness.  Why do something that makes you feel lousy and isn’t good for you, especially when you have to pay for it? Maybe initially, that corn dog, all crispy and golden brown tastes wonderful, but you’re going to pay for it sooner or later.  I’m not saying I’m a purist.  I don’t eat everything organic and I admit there are things in the Rainbow Food salad bar that scare me because I didn’t know one could actually eat tree bark and I’m not quite sure I’m willing to give it a go quite yet.  I’ve also been known to scarf down a donut or scrape the leftover Costco birthday cake off the cardboard platter after the kids have had their share.

There’s an argument that it costs more to eat healthy.  When dining out, that may be true, but I’ll immediately call B.S. when it comes to making food at home.  A few months ago I was in Fred Meyers and a young couple in front of me had a week’s worth of groceries which included frozen pizzas, frozen lasagna, bagged salad, a few cans of corn, a box of Pepsi, frozen ice cream cones, frozen burritos, chocolate milk, a few bags of chips, Fruit Loops and a few other similar items.  Their total was over $100.  I was up next.  Now granted, I didn’t have meat because I mostly eat venison and fish, but I did have an organic whole chicken, potatoes, lots of fresh vegetables (some organic, some not), organic yogurt, organic milk, organic eggs, granola from bulk, cheddar cheese, ice cream (Ben and Jerry’s) and a few other things that I can’t remember.  My total was under $60.  Now, I have rice at home that I buy at Costco and other things that I would incorporate into my meal planning for the week, but I’m sure even with those items factored in to my weekly purchase, I’d still be under $100. The other big difference in our shopping carts was that their food didn’t have to be prepared; it just had to be unwrapped and heated.  I have to prepare mine, which does take time.  But, even after working a full day and coming home to two hungry kids, there are meals I know I can make from scratch in less than 30 minutes, and that’s with a 28lb two year old clutching my leg as I shuffle about the kitchen.  It can be done.

There are some really good documentaries out there right now about food that might even scare the McRib out of a McDonald lover’s hand.  I just watched Forks over Knives and I highly recommend.  Others worthy of mention are Food.inc, King Corn, and of course, Supersize Me. There are some good books out there too.  I read Omnivores Dilemma on my cruise with Penny and at one point, I loudly blurted out on the sun deck, “Oh that’s absolutely disgusting!” when I read what was in McDonalds chicken nuggets.  I then read to Penny that chicken McNuggets contain TBHQ, a form of butane (lighter fluid), which is derived from petroleum gas.  Penny frowned and said that little James and her love chicken nuggets and they are a special treat.  I scolded her and said “You’re feeding your son processed corn and lighter fluid along with thirty-eight other ingredients!”  I think I broke Penny’s heart that day.

I could go on my food rant all day and by doing so, I will probably make people afraid to invite me over to dinner, if I haven’t already ousted myself from all future invitations.  Like I said, I’m not a purist.  However, I do admit that right now, sitting in my hotel fridge is a quiche I made in Juneau that I packed carefully in my suitcase and brought with me to Fairbanks to eat for breakfast for the next four days.  The thought of eating cardboard muffins and sweet over-processed doughy bagels from the hotel continental breakfast was just too much for me to handle.  Okay, maybe I am a food snob.  There are worse things to be.

I know everything and absolutely nothing about you

Thanksgiving- a time of thanks and stuffing our faces with lots of food. I spent the day mostly outside running in the Turkey Trot 5 K and snowshoeing up Mt. Jumbo.  I spent a lot of time in my head thinking about what I'm thankful for.  There are lots of things that come to mind, but one thing that ranks high, is having good friends.

Not too long ago Penny texted me and said, “You know I’m coming to Juneau, right?”  I replied back, “No!?”  The next text I received from her was a photo of her itinerary. This is a classic Penny maneuver and one of the things I really do love about her even though it also drives me absolutely crazy.  Penny’s always been a fly by the seat of her pants kind of girl- which has gotten us into good situations, and some not so good situations. 

-Befriending of the random travelers who hooked us up with sweet situations- good. 

-The befriending of the bikers outside The Arctic Bar in Ketchikan- not so good. 

-Convincing the conductor on the train from Nice to Paris that her friend was sick and needed a room- good and absolutely hilarious. So freaking hilarious.

-The commandeering of a stick shift car in Juneau that she didn’t know how to drive- not so good and definitely not so fun.

There are several Penny stories that I can recount and all of them have hilarious endings even if they were not amusing to me at the time.  I love this girl with all my heart and though it’s sometimes interesting to step into “Pennyland” and fully get where she’s going and what she’s up to, it’s something I’ll never take for granted.

Penny’s visit was a one day only affair so we tried to fill each other in on what each of us has been up to.  We ended the day at the Bubble Room in the Baranof Hotel.  I like it there because it is typically empty and you can carry on a conversation without getting groped by a stranger.  Penny was drinking white zinfandel and I a cucumber martini, informing each other of all the happenings in our lives since we last saw each other when she reached across the table, put her hand on mine and said, “Franny, I know everything and absolutely nothing about you.”

It sort of stopped me in my tracks because I was pretty sure that Penny knew all there was to know about me.  What was she getting at? Did she think I was hiding something from her?  I wanted to say, “What do you want to know and I’ll tell you.” Instead, the conversation sort of fell silent. 

Penny makes a valid point.  How much do we really know about the people we consider our closest friends?  Or our families for that matter?  The reality is, does it even matter?

Penny and I are so incredibly different in every way that it’s often a wonder we ever became friends at all.  We could be used as the primary examples of Type A and Type B personalities.  She tells me crazy stories that I have a hard time following.  She gets mesmerized by the VitaJuicer sales rep at Costco for an ungodly amount of time. And, she will spark a conversation with anyone and everyone.   Meanwhile, I dive into lengthy soliloquies about food and food preparation that leave her wondering what ceviche is. I bore her with politics, and I won’t even make eye contact with the VitaJuicer guy as I walk by fighting the urge to flip him off out of sheer annoyance.  Aside from music, we have completely different interests and views on the world.  Penny is always dreaming of the future and I’m always trying to stay grounded in the moment. 

A friend once told me the whole purpose of a relationship is to take care of each other.  I thought that definition was limited to romantic relationships, but during that snowshoe climb up Mt. Jumbo, I came to the realization that taking care of each other is really the staple to any relationship, be it romantic or friendly.

Penny always has my back- always. While traveling in Amsterdam, a man came up to me from behind, grabbed me and started touching me..  We were in Dam Square in broad daylight and I was so stunned, I just stood there like an idiot unable to move.  Penny was ahead of me and she turned around to tell me something when she saw what was happening.  Immediately she went after the guy and started beating the pulp out of him with her Van Gogh poster tube.  He let go of me and fled down an alley where Penny started after him, prompting me to start after Penny to stop her from getting into an alley fight with the guy.  While Penny brings the guts to the table, I have always brought the voice of reason reminding her to not get in the car with the stranger and to not jump off the dock by herself at 3 AM for “fun.”.  Unfortunately, I often remind her of these things after the fact or while I’m riding in the back of a Porsche with Penny and three guys who don’t speak a word of English.

Penny and I, late 90s resting on one of our singing walks

After dining on camembert cheese baked in puff pastry with a fig jam drizzle and steamed manila clams in a white wine and garlic broth served with crusty sourdough bread (see there I go with the food talk) we left the Bubble Room and drove around listening to music and singing.  Penny mentioned that she was singing in the Monthly Grind in February and I suggested it would be fun if I could come down to Ketchikan and sing a song with her as a guest.  Next thing I know, we’re sitting in the parked car writing a set list, forming a band, arguing over harmonies and rehearsing songs.

Penny and I may not have a lot in common besides our love of music and singing.  We don’t have similar personalities, run in the same social circles, share interests or know everything about each other. What I do know is we take care of each other and we live in the moment enjoying each other’s company.  Knowing that is really all that matters.


…"And maybe that's all that we need is to meet in the middle of impossibility.  Standing at opposite poles, equal partners in a mystery…" -Indigo Girls

Short, sweet and thankful

Message on phone today from Valley Medical: Lab results normal. Whoop, Whoop!


Happy Thanksgiving All! May your day be filled with friends, family, good food, lots of love and thankfulness.


Since my favorite memories of Thanksgiving were those spent at Don's house, I'm going to spend the day honoring him by spending as much time as possible playing outdoors in this beautiful snow that has blanketed Juneau. Perhaps a very slow and light Turkey Trot 5K through the snow and then a long snowshoe trek.


XXOO

I'll take a burrito with guacamole, hold the angst please

Since getting my cancer “all’s clear” back in July 2010, I’ve had four blood draws that are required every three months to make sure I’m still in remission. Each time, there’s been angst leading up to them. I had one today and there was a bit more anxiety than the one I had in August. I’m not quite sure why. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because in the past two weeks my luck has kind of, well, sucked. It's been so iconically sucky that I've been channeling a quote from Emily of the Indigo Girls, “You have to laugh at yourself, because you'd cry your eyes out if you didn't.” Needless to say, I've been laughing a lot. But seriously, in the past two weeks I've fallen off a trail and rolled down a hill, I was bit by my dog, Lena got a mild concussion, my roof started leaking, it was discovered during a cold spell that my entire winter’s wood supply is drenched, and my washing machine imploded spilling water all over the floor forcing a late night and early morning repair session which included having to take the entire door frame off the closet the machine was wedged into. To top it off, it was exactly two years ago this month that Dr. Fisher delivered the dreaded news that I may have cancer.

Some people have asked me what it is I experience when I go in for my quarterly check up, so here is how it shakes down. (Note for the squeamish: it’s not bad.)

I go Valley Medical for my quarterlies. Dr. Fisher the Great does a thorough physical examination and asks me how I’ve been feeling. She pats down my lymph nodes on my neck, stomach, and groin to make sure none of them have swollen to abnormal sizes like the grapefruits they turned into the last go around. Next, I go to the lab to get blood drawn. I’m not afraid of needles, but I am afraid of the smell of rubbing alcohol. The lab techs at Valley Medical know this about me and give me plenty of advanced notice so I can turn my head away from the smell and breathe through my mouth. They pull out two vials of blood while I stare at the latest Gary Larson cartoons they have posted on the wall. They do three tests on me: CBC (Complete Blood Count) which checks on my white blood cell count; a Chem 12 test, which contrary to its name actually consists of 14 tests and is an overall comprehensive panel that looks at liver, kidneys, and many other things; and lastly they do a test to make sure my thyroid is still working since radiation to the neck often causes thyroid failure. And then, there’s the wait. It’s usually two days for lab results.

So that’s it. That’s what I do four times a year. It doesn’t seem like it should be that big a deal. But it is to me because it makes me feel like I’m never out of the clear, and I don’t like having that little control over my health. It’s only four times a year, but truthfully, I feel like I’m going in every week.

Today was pretty much the same as it always is, except today I made a huge mistake of picking up trashy People magazine in the waiting room. It was that or Better House Keeping, and quite honestly, I don’t need a magazine to tell me how disorganized my house and life currently is. (There was not one, but TWO dead mice under that damn washing machine. However, I do blame the previous owner of the house because they had been there for quite some time!) As I was catching up on all the stars (most of whom I’ve never heard of) I came across an article on someone named Ethan Zohn, who apparently was on the reality TV show Survivor. The article was about his Hodgkin’s Lymphoma coming back after being in remission for 20 months, but he was still going to run the marathon he had planned for November. Seriously?! And it just had to be the same type of cancer I had. This is not what I need to read right before going in for my check-up.

Dr. Fisher felt no lumps and said things looked good and they’ll let me know about labs. She did scold me about my weight because I’ve dropped over 20 pounds since my last visit in August. I told her I’m not concerned that it’s related to cancer. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately and loss of appetite is fairly common when I get stressed. Plus, I’ve been running a lot. I promised her I’d eat more, gave her a hug, wished her a Happy Thanksgiving and went on my way. I held to my promise and went to the Breeze In and got a burrito and a few donuts (one for me and a few for my coworkers.) The burrito alone is so huge that I’m sure it alone has taken me off the underweight chart.

I’m told that with time, these routine check-ups will get easier. I sure hope so. And thus commences the waiting game for the lab results. Honestly, I'm not concerned at all now that the appointment is over. I just get freaked out going into them. Right now, I'm more concerned about eating a 5lb burrito and donut for lunch. Ouch.

Every Dog Gets One Free Bite

My friend Libby called me on Sunday night to see how I was doing. She had just read my latest blog about Yasha and said she was all choked up and wanted to know how we (Yasha and I) were doing. I love Libby. She is one of my new friends that Lena set me up with as a result of her friendship with Libby’s daughter. Libby was born and raised in NYC and somehow ended up in Juneau practicing law for the State. I have always been intrigued by people who are able to move to Alaska and choose to stay here, not because of the “harsh environment” but because of the “harsh reception.” As Alaskans, we pride ourselves on our hospitality and friendliness, but I find a lot of Alaskans judge transplants before getting to know them and that mentality drives me crazy. What I’ve discovered is that most of the people who are doing the judging are transplants themselves and they are still out to prove themselves as someone who can “hack” living here. What I find most amazing is I don’t think anyone needs to be owning bragging rights about living in Juneau, or any place in SE for that matter. Juneau has several grocery stores, a few commercial flights in and out every day (weather permitting), we are always guaranteed a few hours of daylight (even if it’s sheltered through clouds), we have doctors and veterinarians, we get fresh produce (though not always the best), and God Almighty, we have high speed internet. Living in Juneau is not like living in Alakanuk or Gambel. I don’t know how long I could hack it there and I’m a lifelong Alaskan. Now, I admit to being turned off by Libby’s husband’s New York Yankee’s Hat the first time I saw him wearing it, but I decided to let it slide because I really liked his wife. I like Geoff too, he is a nice guy and a great cook who often feeds me.

Libby is a straight shooter and has the best advice for everything. Really, she does. I just wish I listened and always took her advice. I have never been good at following advice from others and typically remain polite and give a stressed smile and nod my head. With Libby, I actually do take what she says with a grain of salt. That’s why when Libby asked me what I was going to do with Yasha, I was really curious to throw it back at her and ask her what she would do. Libby is not a pet person. It’s not that she doesn’t like them, she just physically can’t be around them due to severe allergies. I’m not talking the annoying puffy eye allergy and sneezing fits. I’m talking Anaphylactic shock where she can’t breathe, her eyes bulge out of her head and her skins turns into a violent hell storm rash. She came to my house once and lasted about an hour before I sent her home booting her and her inflamed skin out my door. Now she drops her daughter off at the door. I was interested in hearing Libby’s take on the dog situation, mostly because she doesn’t know Yasha all that well, and she sends her daughter over to our house on a regular basis to play amongst what could now be viewed as a vicious beast of a dog. Libby basically said, “Look, Yasha obviously felt threatened by you and thought you were going to kick her. She was being protective of herself just as you or I would have been if we thought someone was going to kick us. Putting her down for this would not be the right choice.” And then she said it, “Every dog gets one free bite.”

Then there was my father's opinion. My father, who adores my dog, gave quite a colorful rant on how he would have killed Yasha right then and there. Dad really loves Yasha, he loves her so much that once on a week long halibut trip, he rowed Yasha to the beach each morning and night so Yasha could go to the bathroom because Yasha refused to go on his boat out of respect. My dad loves my dog, but he loves me more.

I started thinking about it and Yasha went 7 years without biting anything other than her stuffed toys. She doesn’t bite the cat when he pounces on her head and bites her ears. She didn’t bite the pit bull that knocked me down while I was 8 months pregnant with Lena. And she didn’t bite the freak that touched my leg in the fair office. She also, not that I am aware of, hasn’t bitten the people who live behind me who I am almost 100% sure have harmed her making her terrified of them. Not much terrifies Yasha and she pretty much loves everyone. If my house is ever robbed, Yasha will gladly let them in and show them where all the valuables are kept. But there is something about the trash burning Quonset Hut dwelling neighbors living off a single extension cord that scares the living daylights out of her. She’s not so afraid that it stops her from going up and nosing through their garbage burn pile, but whenever I see her interact with the owners, she is frightened of them. I have never had a bad interaction with them, in fact, they recently dropped off a bunch of wood at the house and they once stopped by to tell me my renter left his headlights on. But each time they come to the door, Yasha wedges herself carefully between me and them and acts extremely skittish to each move they make. When they leave, she sits at the door and growls for quite some time. Either she has seen things up there that she knows are bad, or she’s been directly impacted by something bad.

Yasha is the third dog to bite me. The first was a Doberman Pinscher named Kona who bit me on the ear when I was a little girl. Kona had bitten before and no one seemed all too concerned by it as my ear bled like a stuck pig. My dad was there and he didn’t even kill the dog with his bare hands. The second was a German Shepherd with a bad attitude who jumped over a fence on 2nd Avenue in Ketchikan as I was walking by minding my own business. That dog had bitten several people and everyone knew it was a terror, but it was not put down. Then there is my very own dog who I worked long hours with as a pup training her not to bite, rubbing her gums with my fingers because that was supposed to “calm her urge” to chew/bite as a puppy.

As humans, we do stupid things all the time. Whether it’s say nasty things to one another or even deck someone in the face. Some of us still haven’t learned from these mistakes and continue to inflict harm on each other be it verbally or physically. We have been given second chances, third chances, so on and so forth. Which is why I want to give Yasha a second chance. This doesn’t mean I’m not going to be making some changes. First the kids need to know that we need to treat Yasha a little differently. She can’t be hung on like she used to be which means dress up is probably out of the picture. They also will need to leave any and all disciplining of her to an adult. Sometimes Yasha still gets excited and inadvertently knocks over a kid en route to the door or her dinner bowl. In the past, Lena or Aurelia would scold her tell her to watch it, but they can’t do that anymore. And, when we have other kids over, Yasha will spend some quality time in a bedroom or the shed with a chewy bone. Lastly and probably most important, Yasha got a wellness exam at the vet yesterday. She is now on anti-inflammatory medication to help with her terminal neck pain. This will hopefully make her less protective of her body. I can’t ignore what happened, but also can’t end her life based off what she interpreted as a threat to her body.

On another note, I am off crutches. I’m probably not ready to be yet, but I threw a riggin’ fit on Monday after having to crawl over a snow berm during rush hour traffic in downtown Juneau. My crutches sunk in 3 feet deep and I sunk along with them. In my attempt to dig my way out, I fell over and did a face plant in the berm. I dug out a crutch and started to throw it into the Goldbelt parking lot in a fit of rage while cursing up a storm when a taxi driver pulled over and asked me if I wanted a ride. I thanked him and told him I had one, I was just trying to reach it. He drove away and then came back and said, “I wasn’t going to charge you, you know.” Kindness in strangers is alive in Juneau. Friends also offered to be my chauffer, which I really appreciate, but I’m good to go. I drove myself to work on Tuesday and am hobbling along. My foot is still pretty sore, but it’s definitely getting better.

Don't Bite the Foot that Feeds You

I woke up on Friday to a day off (thank you Veterans) and a beautiful sunny day. Knowing the snow was coming, I decided to go out for a 10 miler. After a three-week break, I surprised myself by thoroughly enjoying my run. I was running along the Flume on mile 7 when I hit ice, slipped and fell, falling off the trail sliding about 10 feet down. It scared the living daylights out of me, especially since a young man died a few years ago in the same situation. I did not get hurt, but it left me feeling really stupid and disappointed in myself. I saw the ice on the trail and yet I chose to keep running thinking if I just went slowly I’d be okay. Lesson learned and I was thankful I didn’t end up in the ER or worse, the morgue.

Who knew a few hours later I would end up in the ER for something I would have never expected.

After my run, I came home to a delicious venison stew simmering away on the stove that I had started prior to heading out for my run. I decided it needed bread to go with it, so Aurelia and I headed out and bought a loaf of kalamata olive bread from Wild Oven. My mother, who happens to be visiting, was so impressed with the bread that she decided she wanted to go buy more to bring back to Ketchikan. Since Wild Oven was closed on the weekend, I told her she’d need to go tonight but I was getting ready to take a shower and maybe she could ask Addison who was cutting wood outside to drive her since she didn’t know where it was. Addison agreed and off they went with the girls in tow. I took my shower and upon getting out, I immediately discovered the loaf of bread I had just bought was missing off the counter. I turned around just in time to notice Yasha sheepishly sneaking off into the bedroom.

Yasha’s had it rough lately. I can’t take her on my runs because her poor broken body can’t handle it. A few years ago, Yasha got seriously injured when she mistook Addison horsing around towards me as a threat and she lurched at him, stopping mid-air and fell on her neck breaking a bone. The surgery was going to cost $7,000 and we opted to not go for it. The vet said as long as she doesn’t do too strenuous of activities, she could live with it. Yasha knows I go out on runs and she always was my running buddy, but when I started running past five miles, it was too hard on her, so I had to start leaving her home. To show her frustration, she’s been acting out by eating food off the counter. She had never done this before and it’s very new.

Upon seeing the empty cutting board and lick spots on the floor, I went after her in a fit of rage. Standing in my bathrobe, I yelled at her and pointed my finger at her calling her a bad dog. I started taking off my robe and was continuing to yell at her when she started hissing and sticking her tongue out at me. As a puppy, she was brought into the house with older cats who harassed her and hissed at her, so when she gets mad, she turns into a cat and shows her anger by hissing just like one. Her hissing at me aggravated me even more and I yelled at her “Don’t you dare hiss and stick your tongue out at me!” I wanted to stick my hand out and give her the stop command that she knows (an open faced palm) but my hands were occupied untangling my robe, so I stupidly showed her the palm of my foot and stuck it up near her face.

What happened next shocked both dog and human. Yasha grabbed my foot with her teeth, clamped down hard and twisted my foot, knocking me down on the floor. It was the worst immediate pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I let out blood curdling screams that I didn’t know I had within me and wrapped my foot in a towel unable to look at the gore my sweet dog had created. I managed to get dressed and waited for what seemed like ages for mom and Addison to get home and drive me to the ER.

Addison dropped me off at the ER where I got into a wheel chair and wheeled into the ER. In four years, I’ve had two babies, 9 surgeries, 6 months of chemo and a month of radiation and I have never, ever been put in a wheel chair- until my dog bit me. What the hell was going on?

I hate hospitals, especially Bartlett. From the second I walk in the door, I get nauseas with memories of chemo, especially if I get a whiff of rubbing alcohol, which sends me searching for the nearest garbage can. I sat alone in my room staring at the room across from me- the room where I brought Aurelia almost two years ago on November 14, 2009. The same room where I watched my four-week old baby receive a spinal tap. I hate hospitals, especially Bartlett ER.

The first person that came in looked at my foot, told me it looked broken and that the animal control officer was going to come see me. Yay! This just keeps getting better.

I don’t want to share anything else that happened at the hospital because frankly, it makes me sick to talk about it. Long and short is, my foot thankfully is not broken. I did end up with seven puncture wounds with only two being bad (one on top and one on bottom) both about ½ inch deep. I can see the outline of Yasha’s top teeth on the top of my foot. Yasha’s tooth did go into a tendon, but it did not sever it, so no surgery is needed. I am however on heavy-duty antibiotics, pain killers and unfortunately, crutches. I’m not sure how long I’ll be on them, but they said at least a week or until I can put weight on my foot without pain. Hopefully not too long as I’ve already taken a few diggers thanks to my lack of crutch handling skills.

I can’t find Yasha’s latest vet records and can’t remember where she is on her shots. I’m good about bringing her in to see the vet, but I admit my filing skills have been failing in recent years. Because I can’t prove that she’s had her rabies shot, and this happened on a Friday night, Animal Control is requiring that Yasha stays in quarantine (AKA- the shed) until records can be confirmed with the vet.

I visited her this morning for the first time after the incident. She wouldn’t come near me and averted her eyes away from me. I knelt down and called her to me. She reluctantly got up, and moved towards me still not looking at me, her head so low her nose was practically dragging on the ground. She got close to me, looked me in the eyes, licked my cheek and placed her head in my lap and started whimpering and shaking. If she could shed tears, she would have. I know I was.

Animal Control visited Yasha and felt this was a rare instance and that she only bit me because she thought I was going to kick her- something I have never done. The worst I’ve done to Yasha is slap her on the nose when she was a puppy and occasionally in her snotty teen years. This is a dog that allows Aurelia to pull her tail. This is a dog that puts up with the cat biting her ears. Yasha has always been extremely protective of me. The only time I’ve seen her get aggressive is when she doesn’t like the way a man is treating me.

When I was the director of the Southeast Alaska State Fair, there was a vendor who was really creepy. He kept trying to talk to me and I picked up the “sleaze” vibe from him so I did my best to avoid him. After the fair was over, he somehow managed to get into my office. No one was in the area and the man started coming on to me. He put his hand on my knee and Yasha immediately jumped up and picked his hand up (careful not to bite it) removing it off my knee and then growled at him and bared her teeth. I told the man he’d better get out of my office because I’m not quite sure what my dog would do next. He promptly left. Yasha also doesn’t like men in berets, but seriously, who can blame her?

I’ve heard the story several times. The pit bull’s owner say, “My dog is loving and has never shown signs of aggression…” that is until she mauled someone. I find myself saying the same thing. I cannot imagine Yasha ever doing anything like this ever again and I can’t help but think it was my own fault for raising my foot at her making her think I was going to kick her.

I am not going to put Yasha down for this instance. But I do need to figure out what I am going to do. If this were to happen to anyone else I’d never forgive myself. This is an extremely difficult position to be in, especially since I have young children. Lena has been going into the shed and feeding Yasha. Tonight Lena wrapped her arms around Yasha’s neck and gave Yasha a really tight hug. I could see the pain on Yasha’s face as Lena tugged on her sore neck, but Yasha just licked Lena on the face and then went and lied down.

35 going on 16

I've been thinking a lot about my last entry about Don. Writing about Don made me think about fond memories of him; but it also made me evaluate myself and my own life.

I first started a blog when I was diagnosed with cancer and I found it easy to cast all my emotions out into the cyber wind to unload them off my chest. It was almost too easy to say anything that flew into my mind, especially when I was high on my chemo drugs. Believe it or not, I was careful not to mention some of the more personal things I was enduring during the whole ordeal because I felt I needed to retain what little dignity I had left. But for the most part, I’ve been willing to bare my soul on here, even if the exposing of my emotions are delivered in cryptic metaphors that leave people assuming. I typically don’t like using the internet as a device to break major news of death and destruction. Heck, I still prefer to handwrite thank you notes compared to thanking people in an e-mail.

A few months ago my friend Penny turned me onto a book called "The Happiness Project." I have about six books going at the moment and admit to not finishing it yet, but in the beginning, the author wrote a list of commandments that she wanted to start following in order to find her happiness and remain in it. Typically, I’m a happy person, but stuff’s been adding up lately and I thought it couldn’t hurt, so I made my own list. I won't share the whole list, but I will share a few of my commandments.

Number one was "Sing Every Day." There's not much that brings me greater pleasure in life than singing. When I am involved in a show or even a simple choral concert, happiness oozes out of my pores. Because I can't be in a show 365 days a year, I need to make sure that I'm singing every chance I get. I've always sung along with songs in my car, but now I really sing loud and just belt it out. I sing while doing the dishes and the girls and I have regular "rock out" sessions. Singing with the girls is the best. Aurelia pipes in loudly every third or fourth word and it just makes my heart melt.

Others that made the list are "leave the dishes in the sink and play," "listen to the stranger on the street and smile," and "celebrate accomplishments- even small ones." My favorite however, and the one that keeps popping into my head is, "Channel sixteen year old Frances."

No, I don't want to go back and redo high school, thank you very much. But, I realized how confident I was at sixteen. I could do and be anything I wanted to and my passion for adventure was through the roof!

I had a very rough time in elementary school and Jr. High. I was teased and harassed profusely by some of the popular kids and I hated going to school. I had friends, but it only takes a few mean kids to knock the wind out of a young girl's sails and let's just say my long geeky braids and high water pants were not helping my situation. My mother always told me, "Just be yourself." But when being yourself isn’t the trend, that’s easier said than done.

I went into my freshman year of high school scared to death to face another four years of torment, and then the most amazing thing happened- I was adopted by the cool "alternative" crowd of seniors and taken under the wings of two strong and amazing women, Linda and Laurel. They didn't give a shit about what anyone thought of them. They stopped calling me Frances and started calling me "Franny.” They invited me to do everything with them. They hung out with the cutest boys in school, turned me onto the Pixies, Nirvana and Concrete Blonde; and most importantly, they liked me for who I was. They even said I was beautiful. When you’ve been teased and called ugly for years, it is quite the confidence booster to be called beautiful. They (with the help of my mother and my teacher Clare Patton) gave me confidence to just not care what anyone thought. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t in a “screw the world” mode, but I was no longer worried about every negative thought someone might have about me.

My confidence and happiness followed me through high school, college and graduate school, but over time, it dissipated. I wasn't doing the things that I enjoy like getting outside on my bike, traveling, being in shows, or spending time with friends. And, I haven't had an adventure for years. There are a few reasons for this. For starters, I grew up and took on grown up responsibilities. I could no longer afford work for $4.75/hour and blow my wad on gear. I got "career" jobs and had kids and found it's harder to just take the month off and travel. Responsibility can really be a major downer. I want to clarify however that I am not blaming my children for any of this. People with kids find time for adventures all the time; it’s no excuse.

I often think that if Don could send me a post card today, what would it say? I think he would politely tell me to get off my ass and just make it happen. He would ask me why my kayaks have been sitting alongside my house growing moss. How is it that my passport with my married name doesn't have a single stamp in it? And, how is it possible, that I don't have a bike, the girl who prefers two wheels to four. Why? I'll tell you why. My beloved bike died a slow and painful death leading to it being announced DOA by my friend Henry who said, "I can fix anything!" and upon looking at it he said, "It's totaled." (To his credit, he could've fixed it, but it would have cost more to fix it than it would have been to buy a new bike.) RIP in green Trek, my traveling companion from coast to coast.

I used to believe my bike's death was no fault of my own, but now I realize I am every bit to blame because I was too scared to just take a stand for its health and well being. Just like I’ve been for myself. Sure, you get cancer and you have no choice to fight it because what else are you going to do? People say you're strong because you make it through, but I can guarantee that anyone who is faced with their own mortality is going to be strong because they have no choice. But when it comes to taking care of one’s emotional happiness and finding that sixteen year old with confidence, it takes way more strength in your mid-30s than you ever thought possible. You have to force yourself to want it and to make it happen.

I know I'm not going to be able to pack the girls up and fill their passports with stamps any time soon, and it's going to take awhile to afford a bike, but in the meantime, I'm sending a post card to myself and this is what it's saying:

Dear Franny-

Get off your ass and make it happen.

Seek adventure, even if it's an overnight camping trip in the backyard with the girls. Borrow a friend's bike and ride hard into the wind- but wear a helmet because you’re a mother now. Put yourself in an awkward situation and learn to do something new- even if you look like an idiot doing it.

My Life Coach

As I’ve mentioned before, I am training for my run with the “Flex Team” for Team in Training. That means that there isn’t a team based in Juneau who is running in the Disney Marathon weekend. As far as I know, it’s just me. My “team” is located all over the nation and we communicate over e-mail. I admit; it’s been a drag. I have a coach, but he doesn’t check in with me personally unless I ask him a question.

Aside from having access to an on-location coach, there are other benefits to training with a team physically located in your town.

One of the things teams do prior to going out for runs is to talk about why they are running with Team in Training. It’s not the, “I wanted to prove to myself that at 40 I could run a marathon” kind of testimonial one might expect. Instead the runners tell heartbreaking stories of friends and family they have known who have survived cancer, or who have lost their battle. These stories inspire the runners prior to going out for the team run.

Obviously, as a solo runner in Juneau, I don’t get to tell the stories about why I’m running and who I’m running for, though I do think about my reasons all the time while I’m out.

I’m not running to prove anything to myself or anyone else. I’m running for the people I have lost to cancer- Don, Wendy, and my Aunt Pat. I’m running it to raise money in their honor for cancer research so that we can prevent losing our loved ones in the future. In previous blogs, I’ve talked about my Aunt Pat and Wendy, but I haven’t said much about my friend and mentor Don Goffinet

Growing up, Don was my parent’s friend, so he was more of a father figure to me than a friend. An amazing carpenter and wood worker, Don worked as a shop teacher at the High School in Ketchikan. When the wood particles started causing health problems, he became the swim coach.

My family spent nearly every Thanksgiving at Don’s beautiful log house out on Susan Point Road. I remember being out at his house a lot during cold winter nights, sitting in the wood fired hot tub he built and gazing up at the stars. I saw many shooting stars on those clear winter nights, and it was Don who taught me how to wish on them.

When I was about six, my parents asked Don to be my legal guardian in case they ever bit the dust. Don agreed and mom and dad told me their decision. It wasn’t morbid or gloomy; it actually just made me realize that Don was very special to my family, but I already knew that.

A lot of thought goes into who you would want to raise your children if you were to pass. Most commonly, one turns to family, naming their brother or sister as legal guardians. Others turn to people they admire or who they think would raise their child the way they would have raised them. Or less likely, they match their child with an adult who they think is like their kid or who has the same interests as their child, which I’m pretty sure is why I was paired with Don.

Don had a sense of adventure. He loved the outdoors and spent most his free time hiking, kayaking and biking around Alaska and the world. He had a passion for good food and music and I’d say he was a semi-environmentalist and a borderline hippy. He lived in Carhartts and Patagonia and had every piece of gear imaginable including fold up kayaks that he traveled around the world with.

It’s not that my parents don’t appreciate or encompass these traits to a certain degree, but it’s definitely not how I would define them. Dad is a rugged and hard working commercial fishermen and mom is a homemaker who also worked on the boat with my father. Up until a few years ago, the only travel they did was just to go visit family and attend Fish Expo in the lower 48. I’ve never seen either of them on a bike, and dad really only hikes with a gun- while deer hunting. Dad has joined me several times on paddles, but mom prefers a skiff.

Then there’s me. There's a reason I always believed my brother when he said I was adopted. I was like no one in my family. I started a recycling club in high school, I joined the Tongass Conservation Council while my father was logging trees, I refused to get my license until I was forced to at 18 because I could “bike everywhere I needed to go,” I hung out with the arts crowd and drank coffee and sang at the Monthly Grind, I put my kayak overboard nearly every time we dropped anchor while fishing, and I ate hippy food at the 5 Star Café. I spent all my hard earned fishing money on gear, and I’m not talking about fishing gear.

I was like Don, and my parents knew it, even when I was six.

When I graduated from high school, Don came to my house the night before I left for college. He handed me an envelope with a card inside. The card was not your typical graduation card with pictures of mortarboards and confetti. It had a picture of a tent. Inside was a large sum of money, and in Don’s handwriting, “Don’t spend this on books, spend it on an adventure.” I knew exactly what Don meant.

Growing up, Don always told me that the most important education I could receive was just immersing myself into the world and learning from it. Don was an avid traveler. He didn’t just breeze through towns, he lived in them. He would find jobs like sheering sheep in New Zealand where he worked side by side with locals learning about them and their culture. He camped and stayed in hostels, even though he could probably afford fancy hotels. He sent me postcards from all over the world, which only planted the seed deeper in my gut for my urge to get out, explore and learn.

When I graduated from college, I wasn’t quite sure where to go next. I had immediate plans to backpack through Europe with my friend Penny and then I was going to stay in Amsterdam where I had secured an internship with a non-profit which was going to be my big adventure post college. A week before I left for Europe, my internship fell through and I didn’t know what to do. My mom was with me when I found out and I told her my dilemma. She told me to just come back to Ketchikan, but I wasn’t ready to do that yet. I knew I needed my adventure, I needed to immerse myself into a situation where I felt completely uncomfortable and learn from it. I got out my atlas and opened it to the US. I had my mom hold the atlas open and I closed my eyes, did a few spins and stuck my finger on the map like an adult version of pin the tail on the donkey. Before I opened my eyes I told myself I was going to move to wherever my finger landed. My finger landed on Metairie, Louisiana on Highway 10 between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. I chose Baton Rouge and moved there a few weeks after returning from Europe.

I had two jobs in Baton Rouge. The first was at southern version of REI where I sold kayaks, hiking gear, and oddly enough- ski gear. I was the top salesperson selling ski gear, which is absolutely hilarious since I’ve only been skiing once in my life. The other job was working at a hockey store where I spent my days on rollerblades maneuvering around racks of equipment and shooting pucks into a net. Let’s just say there wasn’t much of a market for hockey gear in Baton Rouge.

Funny side note about the hockey store- The manager of the store was stealing from it and giving a lot of gear to his friends. Lots of money was leaving the store and I felt I needed to say something to the owner. After review of the video surveillance camera, the manager was fired and the owner called me into his office. He thanked me for being honest and said that after viewing the security video; he realized that he had a crook working for him, and a girl who had good puck handling skills. (gulp.)

Working for the outdoor store and the hockey store was great because it fed two of my passions- outdoors and hockey. I made $4.75/hour at both my jobs, but it was worth it because of the incredible employee discounts! Before I left Louisiana, I filled my car with new skates, several hockey sticks, three backpacks, two tents, two sleeping bags, two camp stoves, two headlamps, two sleeping pads, tons of Patagonia and Mountain Hardware clothes, three new pairs of hiking boots for different types of hiking, a new paddle, a Yakima roof rack system worth my than my car designed to hold two bikes and two kayaks, and a bright red 16 foot kayak that I named “Rouge.”

I vividly remember driving my 88’ Accord off the ferry in Ketchikan and pulling up into my parent’s driveway, my car bottoming out as I tore up the gravel leading to the house. My dad stepped out of his shop in his coveralls and his jaw dropped and he threw his hands up in the air- he saw what was in and on my car and it wasn’t me! My dad didn’t say much to me for about a week. He was upset because a few months earlier, I had to call and ask for help paying my rent, I was after all only making $4.75/hour. Yet, somehow I managed to cram thousands of dollars worth of “gear” into and on top of my car. Granted, some of the things my brother purchased utilizing my discount, but the majority of it was mine.

Don came to visit me after I returned from my Southern adventure and wanted to hear all about the people, my experiences, kayaking with the alligators in the swamps and bayous, my drives across the country, hiking in Mississippi, camping on the beaches in Alabama, being forced into a gown and attending a Mardi Gras ball, and learning how to properly say, “Ya’all.” I remember my dad finishing my adventure story complaining about all the crap I came home with. Don smiled his trademark smile and his eyes twinkled like only Don’s could do and he just laughed. He laughed. He got it. He got me.

Don lived his life to the absolute fullest. He taught me it was okay to find more value in spending time outdoors than in a classroom. He taught me the memory of sleeping in a train station in Brussels is way better than any 5-star hotel. I’ll always remember sleeping on a park bench outside Notre Dame and waking up to the sounds and smells of Paris, and the people looking at what they thought was a homeless girl with a terrible sunburn. But I can’t remember the smells of the 5-star hotel I stayed at in Baltimore Harbor. I can’t tell you a thing about it, not even the name, other than the fact that I stayed there because a good friend was getting married.

Don died a few years ago after a very short battle with pre-leukemia. I can’t stand the thought of strong, invincible, and adventurous Don in a hospital bed, nonetheless dying in one. I expected him to go out like Steve Irwin after being stung by a stingray while swimming. I’ve never fully accepted his death. I like to picture him off roaming the planet; I just don’t get postcards in the mail from him.

He will be with me on race day. Don's been my coach throughout my entire training. I already imagine him pushing me from behind and telling me encouraging words when I start to slow down. Just like he used to do when we’d go out for long bike rides along Tongass Highway or for paddles with a headwind in Clarence Straits. I can see his smile through his bushy beard and hear his laugh telling me hurry up. Just like I can hear Wendy laughing at me and saying, “What the hell are you doing this for? You’re crazy Franny Pooh!”

They will all be with me. Just like the thousands of others that will be with the other runners.