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.