Curiously, I am more sore today than I was yesterday – the infamous 48-hour post-event peak of DOMS (delayed onset muscle soreness). I do a little bit of waddling down the stairs, and getting up from my yoga mat is less graceful than usual. I realize today that one advantage to wearing very little to do an obstacle race (elite male obstacle racers, I’m looking at you) is less laundry. With a t-shirt and full length running pants, I’m absolutely exhausted from the amount of rinsing. Yes, yes, a cliffhanger. I know. I ended up racing. Obviously. WITH fuel. AND water. As Rihanna points out – “I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.” The Spartan family came together as one. Yet again. Jeff has a hydration pack in the car, which he is not planning to carry. Boom. I have water. Next I pick up my racing kit, and go hunting for food. Shaun Provost generously shares some Gu with me. Finally I run into the Canadian Mudd Queens (represent!), and inquire if either of them have any extra fuel that they can spare. They look at me in amazement. “Solo, we all read your blog post on what to pack. You specifically said to pack extra fuel. So yes!”. Boom. I have fuel. My blog has officially paid off. Johanna, Jen, Tanya and Genevieve produce a small pile of gels, bars, baby food and jelly beans. Me thinks I now have enough sugar to kill this mountain. Now if I could only locate a cup of coffee… But it’s almost time, and we head over the start to watch the elite men take off. Wow, this year everything is a big deal. The caliber of athletes is blinding. Olympic athletes, obstacle racers, triathletes, runners. I’m just soaking up the energy of the crowd – my face hurts from smiling at all the familiar peoplez. I hand out hugs like candy, and warn the guys I know that I better not see them on the course. Women are starting at 8.20am, twenty minutes behind, followed up by the rest of the open waves, released every fifteen minutes. We mingle at the start line, while the race organizers are doing the PR thing – pictures, interview clips, announcements. I meet few people in person for the first time (hello, Janice Ferguson!). Strange, how in the age of social media, we sometimes develop a relationship with a person before we meet them face to face, no? The gun goes off, and we are running. The first obstacle is hay bales – these are the highest bales I’ve ever seen, and many women, including myself, are struggling to get over. The fact that the straw is still dry does not help – there is no grip at all. I am pleasantly surprised to see women help each other to get over to the other side. This is the elite wave, and the camaraderie is heart-warming. Couple of walls, over-under-through and a short net crawl are next, and then we are climbing. And climbing. And climbing. A brutal hill for miles. At least it seems like that’s how long it is. About half way through, as I’m huffing and puffing like a chain-smoking elephant, I hear a familiar voice behind me: “Solo! How is it going?”. I look around to see a huge smile – Juliana Sproles waves. “Oh, you know… Meditating.”, I reply. That’s really the only way I can describe my snail pace up the mountain. All of my road marathon flat pavement training is paying off. NOT. We chat for a bit, before Juliana blasts past me, walking like we were in freaking Central Park. I could never associate this radiant woman with her nickname – the Shark. I mean, look: I don’t see any resemblance. Although I did suggest that next year Juliana raced with the Jaws soundtrack playing loudly, wherever she went. Can you imagine? Talk about laying psychological distance onto fellow racers. When we finally make it to the top, a memory board awaits. We have to memorize a word-number combination, corresponding to the last two digits of our bib. Few people are writing down the numbers on their arm – intelligent, yes, and exactly what I’ve done last year at the Ultra Beast. This year I’m lucky to have gels. I borrow a ballpoint pen from someone, and try scribbling the number on my skin. Nope. The combo is not very long, but I know that we will have to recall it hours later. X-ray 137 8613 I give up on trying to write the damn thing down, and decide to put the years I spent in the education system to use. Finally! I pull up a mental file – Introductory Psychology, lecture on memory. What do we know about the way human memory works? Short-term memory only holds 7+- items. Rehearsal is the best way to transfer information from short-term memory to long-term memory. And the deeper you process the information, the better you will remember it. Thus, a best way to memorize random numbers and letters is to create a story, to make them less random. I make up a fictional baseball player named Juan X-ray. Don’t ask. He is currently 37, and he was born in 86. Again, don’t ask. His jersey number is “Lucky Thirteen”. X-ray, Juan. 37 years old, born in 86. Jersey – Lucky 13. X-ray, 137 8613 Next few minutes are spent thinking about Juan. I wonder what he looks like. Is he married? Does he have any children? What’s his favorite color? [Notice the delirium is already setting in. We are only a couple of miles into the race. Fantastic.] Sharp downhill and we arrive at the footstep of yet another formidable climb, close to the start line. It is the sandbag carry. Or rather… THE sandbag carry. As in… the mothership of all the fucking sandbag carries. A day before the Beast, Alec Blenis posts the following message on Facebook: “Walking around the spectator area in Killington. Just saw the sandbag carry. I’m terrified. Seriously.” Over sixty pounds of sandy goodness for both men and women have to travel up quarter mile up the hill. And back. Just to put things in perspective: a quarter mile is a FULL lap around the running track. Only this time you have a friend. And a small issue of verticality. In the next little while, many racers will find God. Or die trying. [to be continued] Signing off, Solo

That was the subject line of the long-awaited email I received this afternoon. Talk about cliffhangers… It’s funny how no matter how confident I was in what the email would say, I still got a little knot in my stomach, while the letter was loading on my phone’s screen. “Spartans, Congratulations! As one of the first-ever competitors in the 2012 Spartan Ultra Beast, you have been automatically accepted to compete again this year. While some of you were able to finish, there are quite a few of you that will be looking for redemption in September. Whether you were one of the members of the Lost Tribe, or you missed a time cutoff, trust us when we say that we’ve heard each of you loud and clear over the past 9 months! First, some important details: In order to ensure we can deliver the best event possible, we have decided to move the Ultra Beast to Sunday, September 22, 2013. Why Sunday, you ask? There are a number of valid reasons, but really it is pretty simple. Our 2013 Point Series ends with the Vermont Beast event on Saturday, September 21st. Hundreds of racers will descend upon Killington looking to stake their claim as one of the best obstacle racers in the world. We’re looking for an epic battle for the Championship on Saturday, and we don’t want to short-change competitors by making them choose between racing for points in the Championship Beast Event, or running the Ultra Beast. It is with that thought in mind, that we decided our only choice was to move the Ultra Beast to Sunday so that the best of the best could compete head-to-head in the Beast on Saturday morning to decide who the champion will be. Or maybe we just want to see who is tough enough to run the Beast on Saturday AND the Ultra Beast on Sunday. You wanted a challenge, and now you have it. By moving the Ultra Beast to Sunday, it will be considered the first event of the 2014 Points Series, so all competitors will be starting from a level playing field. All UB finishers will receive Beast points, as the Ultra Beast will NOT be heavily weighted. The Ultra Beast WILL count as part of your 2013 Trifecta, simply because “Sprint, Super, Ultra Beast” has a damn good ring to it. With that said, we’ve made you wait long enough. It’s now time to get registered for the 2013 Spartan Ultra Beast in Killington, Vermont. CLICK HERE to fill out a short survey and begin your registration process. You have 72 hours to submit your survey and claim your spot before we open registration to our second round of accepted athletes. We look forward to seeing you in September! Aroo!! -The Spartan Race Team” And now it begins… The hottest topic of discussion on the forums right now is whether people are running 3 laps of the Vermont Beast (regular Beast on Saturday, and Ultra Beast on Sunday), or 4 laps (2 laps of regular Beast on Saturday, and Ultra Beast on Sunday). Ironically, I remember the exact same conversations happening just over a year ago. And people weren’t so tough, once the race actually started. That lake kicked the bravado to the curb. Respect the mountain, people. Respect the mountain. And remember: “If you are faced with a mountain, you have several options. You can climb it and cross to the other side. You can go around it. You can dig under it. You can fly over it. You can blow it up. You can ignore it and pretend it’s not there. You can turn around and go back the way you came. Or you can stay on the mountain and make it your home.” [Vera Nazarian, “The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration”] Signing off, SOLO

“There are times when you reminisce about the things you’ve gone through before, and surely you’ll smile and say How the hell did I get through all that?” [Author unknown] September 22, 2012. Saturday. We are at the start about an hour early. Hustle and bustle, as Ultra Beasters were setting up their drop bins, and picking up their bright green armbands. Pre-race jitters. Pre-race bathroom line-ups. Wait... this was the first race I've even been to, where the line-up was at the men's bathroom, and not the women's. What the...? And then I realize that at this race, women are heavily outnumbered. For the Ultra Beast, the numbers are 1 to 5. "It's gonna be a sausage fest out there", a fellow male Ultra Beaster comments with a smirk. I'm snuggled up into my sweater - the morning is crisp - but Leyla peels off her top layers with steely determination. "Time to get used to the cold!". I groan! "You are only making it worse, Solo", she says. FINE! Shivering, I take off the sweater, rubbing my hands together to generate some heat. Bye bye, comfort until much MUCH later today. We get to hear the welcome speech from the race director as a huge camera snaps shots of elites lined up at the start. This is the championship race - all familiar faces are here. Hobbie Call, Andi Hardy, Angela Reynolds, Amelia Boone - I mentally check off the names. As we start running, my legs feel more tired than I would like. We get our feet wet exactly five minutes into the race. Despite the cold water, I am glad I stuck to my usual racing outfit (sportsbra + running capris). Many of the obstacles are harder than I grew accustomed to. I spent weeks practicing the monkey bars, and they have not previously posed a problem, but this time around the bars were wet and slippery - burpees for me. The horizontal wall climb takes me an incredibly long time for some reason, as I am really concentrating, trying not to fall. As a result, my hands and forearms are absolutely exhausted as I finally reach over and ring the bell. The next obstacle? Rope climb. Another obstacle that never really poses a challenge, but this time around, it is a real struggle. The very last pull that I need to ring the bell takes me two tries. Despite completing both obstacles, the amount of effort it takes really shakes my confidence. Swimming out into the lake, climbing the ladder and attempting the rope swing is also really difficult. I feel myself getting angry. "What the hell is up with these obstacles?", I tell myself. "I'd like to see a girl who completes these". Monkey bars, rope climbs, rope swings... you have to hold/pull your whole body weight. My favorite obstacle is the sandbag carry up the mountain. The weight of the bag is a joke, and I smile like a moron the whole way up to the mountain, chatting up the photographer. Shortly after that, the traverse... Ha! Well, I've never done this obstacle. Ever. I know the theory, as I try to hoist myself on top of the rope, and try to pull. Bare stomach and a belly button piercing do not help. At all. I sigh. The likelihood of me getting all the way across to the bell in the middle of the rope hanging upside down is very small. I start inching toward the damn bell, instantly wishing for longer running tights as my bare skin starts rubbing against the wet rope. About a quarter of the way in, I make an executive decision and let go. Burpees. As I leave the traverse, a volunteer calls out to me: "You are almost done!". It takes all my might to try and ignore the comment (and the rising urge to be violent). Note to volunteers: do not... DO NOT say "you are almost done!" to runners unless you are running the damn course yourself. That phrase is meaningless. And sometimes cruel... As I find out later, I am about two hours away from the finish line. It is the last climb, and it's brutal. We are weaving our way in the forest, up and up. And then up some more. It's a steep incline, and the race is now a death march. I stop few times to catch my breath. A close friend wished me luck shortly before the race. As we talk about my anxiety and (self-imposed) pressure to do well, he says he wishes I could do the race in my own little tunnel. Do MY best. "Athena, goddess of war AND wisdom. Be safe. Do well." says his text message on Saturday morning. Throughout the day, I remind myself... the tunnel. THE TUNNEL. There is a rope climb at the top of the hill, which does not pose too much difficulty. As I jog towards two eight foot walls, I see Goss, and tear up. She smiles and takes pictures. I give her a bear hug, and attempt to conquer the wall. No energy. Waiting for a Prince Charming. With some assistance, I drop over the walls with all the grace of a sack of flour. All those dance lessons finally paying off... NOT. For the first time, the view opens up, and we get to see the mountains around. I pause at the top, open my arms wide and squeal at the top of my lungs. It's quite a view. A view worth climbing a mountain for. After that, it's all downhill. And... what a downhill it is. I catch up with a fellow racer - John - near the end of the first lap. We were introduced the night before, and now running side by side we joke back and forth about having a cigarette and a coffee at the drop bin. First lap - done. John has a cigarette, and I do have a coffee (hail to the inventor of thermos). John prides himself on being the first (and probably last) person to smoke during the Spartan Death Race. :) I take my time at the drop bin, changing socks, munching on sweet potatoes and chicken, and having a chat with one of the photographers simultaneously. Angela Reynolds is nearby, already dry and dressed. It is from her that I first hear the tale of the Lost Tribe (a name Matt B. Davis coins for the group of Ultra Beasters who went off course). She opted not to finish the race, and will return on Sunday to race for the same amount of points. I later learn the same fate is dealt to Alec, another elite racer, who was one of the favorites to win the race. John and I take off for the second lap, and stick together all the way to the finish line. I do glance longingly at the finish line before turning my back to it, and heading in the opposite direction. Objectively, the second lap is easier. I stay MUCH dryer, as the lake swim/rope swing obstacle is closed (burpees!), and I decide not to attempt the rope traverse the second time around. Even though I get really bored with the race few miles into the second lap, the time goes by faster, as we chat. Topics vary from the bucket list (John has one!) to beer preferences. I find myself arguing in favor of ales over lagers, "the amber the better". The last hour of the race we spend in the dark. The headlamps come in handy, and with my sense of direction (or lack of thereof) I am thankful for steady stream of racers on the trail. All surfaces are slippery, and we have to watch our footing with every step. Finally, out in the open! This is it. As I cross the finish line, it starts to pour. I look around, searching for Goss and Captain Craig, the other two members of team Trifecta. Finally heading towards my drop bin, I find them both huddled together near my bin, completely soaked. It's an adorable sight, indeed. Dozens of amazing blog posts were published in the weeks after the Ultra Beast 2012, detailing the race course and the exact obstacles we have encountered. I'm happy to leave that to bloggers with better spatial memory than mine. Instead, 7 months after the biggest race of my life, I find myself reminiscing about the Ultra Beast. With another biggest race looming ahead, here are some of the precious moments of the Spartan Ultra Beast 2012: pasta dinner the night before the race beer rant on the second lap first sip of hot coffee between laps enjoying the sunrise in Killington (especially on Sunday) striking a pose for a photographer seeing Goss on course real food in my drop bin exchanging jokes with Andi Hardy under the barb wire realizing how idiotically happy I am to be on my stomach, crawling through mud (see the header photo of this blog) nailing the monkey bars on the second lap seeing the view from the mountain making the wall just before it was soaped up wearing a huge glowing in the dark medal to the bar that night Signing off, Solo

According to Facebook, every single one of my friends were “hiking” in Vermont this weekend [thank you, John H for the apt description from last year’s Ultra Beast]. Distance: 22.42km (13.9 miles) Elevation change: 15,500 ft [according to Alec Blenis] *Here numbers vary quite a bit. I have now seen the GPS stats from a couple of devices, and the elevation estimates vary quite a bit. Let me just assure you that it was hilly. If you were looking for your first DNF, this was definitely the place to do it. This weekend started and ended with Katy’s Perry “Roar”. The middle was packed with farm dinner, hugs, mountains, lakes, unexpected scenarios, some tears, a pull-up challenge, Switchback beer, coconut water and dancing the night away. The pre-Beast feast was held at the Amee farm on Friday night, and it was a great way to start the weekend – amazing food and familiar faces all in one place. Lots of hugs were shared over lasagna, quinoa salad and apple crisp. Most Spartan races feel like family reunions, and given the pre-event festivities this one felt even more so. “Are you doing the Beast or the Ultra Beast (or both – ha!) this weekend?”, was the most common question floating in the crowd. It got dark quickly, and racers started to head home to get some quality shut eye before the big day. I am staying at a cottage about half an hour away from Killington with a bunch of fellow racers, and after some introductions and reminiscences about the summer Death Race, I turn in for the night. My racing outfit is right beside my pillow, and I hang my hydration pack ready to go in the closet. The start is at 8am tomorrow, and the plan is to be up sometime before 6am to be at the start for just after 7am. I wake up because someone is talking to me. As I open my eyes, Jeff, my official chauffeur for the weekend, reports in a slightly panicky voice that it’s almost 7am. Neither of us has set an alarm, assuming we’d either wake up from the noise, or someone would surely kick both of us in the ribs. The house is empty. Bleary-eyed, I pull on my racing gear, spend some time frantically looking for race shoes, then finally grab my purse, and we are on the road. Jeff is desperately trying not to speed. We are few minutes away from the race, when I realize that my hydration pack is still napping in the closet, where I left it. I’m heading towards the start line of Vermont Beast without water, fuel, or salt. Nothing. I feel my heart rate starting to go up. I’m about to have a panic attack. Then I pause, and decide against it. A surprisingly calm internal dialogue turns on… Let’s consider my options. 1. I can choose not to race at all. This whole forgetting the hydration pack thing is clearly a bad sign. Pfffft. Right. 2. I can race in a later wave. Going back for my pack would take way too long, and I’ll be finishing after dark. 3. I can race tomorrow. No way. 4. I can race without water or fuel. Wow, now there’s a dumb idea. But I have done enough events in the past to make the decision to do something stupid consciously. You can be as stupid as you like, as long as you are aware and conscious of what you are doing. Let’s consider the worst case scenario. As a rule, I like to avoid doing anything with very high likelihood of death, simply because there is way too much cool shit that I still have to do beofre I kick the bucket (unless that cool shit inherently comes with high likelihood of death – bungee jumping and skydiving, I’m looking at you). There will be water on course (including a lake – ha!), I won’t die from dehydration. I’ll be hungry. I will probably bonk, but I’m stubborn enough to finish anyway – it will just take me a very very very long time. “Food is a crutch”, I remember one of the SERE performance instructors, saying as they take away our fuel at the beginning of the 16-hour event. I’ve never done an endurance race in a fasted state – this could be an interesting experiment. Besides, my coach always says that I should train my body to use fat for fuel rather than readily available carbohydrates. What better way to start than the Vermont World Championships? Right? My biggest concern would be muscle cramping – with no salt or electrolytes, this would be tough to battle. So the worst case scenario would be severe muscle cramping to a point where I would not be able to go on. But muscle cramps go away, and I’ve been looking for my DNF. This may be it. As we pull into the parking lot, Jeff looks at me, amused. “You are taking this really well”, he notes. “I know”, I state calmly. “I’ve been in therapy all year”. As we start walking towards the crowd, hundreds of racers are picking up their race packets, smiling and laughing. Many of them will not finish. [to be continued]

I went for my first run yesterday, and while I was sore, it felt strong. I can walk pretty comfortably today. I’m getting my mandatory post-race “you’re-an-idiot-for-being-out-in-the-sun-for-hours” cold sore, but can walk comfortably. Back to business, I guess. I left you with a sandbag, didn’t I? Yes, yes, developing mental fortitude a quarter mile at a time. The 60+ pound sandbag is actually pretty heavy to operate, as I hoist it onto my shoulders. Fortunately, while it’s there, it’s pretty comfortable (I clearly have very twisted notion of comfortable). Now for comparison, Norm could have had us dragging some God-ugly tree stump with roots poking your eyes out. As I take the first few steps, the mountain is absolutely daunting – the incline goes up, and then up. And then up some more. I don’t think I can actually see the turnaround point – just racers slowly creeping up the mountain, like ants. “Wow, this is going to take a while”, I realize. “Come on,” I remind myself, “carrying heavy shit – this is what you are good at, remember?”. Ugh, I can piggyback a 230-lb guy on my back, but this stupid incline is really killing my buzz. I decide not to set the sandbag down until I reach the stop. Notice how a longer obstacle race is practically made up of these arbitrary tasks you set for yourself. “Ok, I’m gonna run for five minutes, and then I will rest for one”. “Once I reach the top of the mountain, I will have a Clif bar.” “Once I finish this freaking race, I will never do another race again”. It was just me and my arbitrarity (it’s a word, coz I say it is) on the tire drag, just minutes before. As I jog up to the tire, the task is to drag the monster up the wet grass by the rope. While the best method for me is usually to sit, and to use my core and arms to pull, this time around, the damn thing does not even move. A woman beside me is having the exact same problem. “I’ll help you, if you help me”, she says. I drop my rope, and we start pulling her tire up together. When we are finished, and she heads to pick up the rope to my tire, I shake my head. “Go ahead”, I say. She seems puzzled, “Are you sure?”. “Yes, I want to do it by myself”. It’s an arbitrary task, you see. But I drag it up by myself. Inch by inch. Meanwhile, I’m still carrying the sandbag. Slow steps. And I mean, slow. A third of the way up, I set the bag down. The turnaround point seems even further away than when I started. Racers are resting often. A fellow female racer is doubling over in pain. “Are you ok?”, I ask. Stupid question, really, because she clearly is not. “My stomach really hurts”, she says, her face contorted in pain. “Do you want me to get the medic?”, I ask. “No”, she shakes her head. Of course, she doesn’t. The toughest Spartan races seem to attract individuals who would rather drop dead on a mountain than ask for help. I remind her to drink water, and keep going. We get some additional entertainment, as huge rocks get dislodged under the racers’ feet, and start rolling down the sharp hill, accelerating rapidly. “Rock!”, racers at the stop scream. “Rock! ROCK!”. The rock a size of my head is now flying down the hill, as people scatter away. It’s going straight for one racer’s feet, it’s going to hit him… but he hears the warning screams, and jumps over it at the last second. Great adrenaline rush. Fucking hell, really? Half of the way up. Can it really be only half way up? I notice a commotion just ahead. Something is happening. The racers are being turned around halfway up the mountain. What? I mean, seriously? You just had dozens (hundreds?) of people complete this obstacle, and now it’s being cut in half? One of the course marshals signals that I can turn around. I look up. The racers in front of me are still crawling up the hill. They have a long way to go. I pretend not to hear the course marshal. We are back to setting arbitrary tasks and aiming to complete them. I’m dragging this sandbag all the way to the top, if this is going to be the last thing I do. I’m here to do the Vermont Beast. Not the Verm. Bst. I’ll do without the abbreviations , thank you very much. Now, sitting at my desk, wearing one of my million Spartan t-shirts, and sipping on coffee, I realize that safety was probably one of the main drivers for shortening that obstacle. But in the moment, I’m freaking pissed. This sandbag carry is ridiculous. It’s ridiculously heavy, and ridiculously long for most. In the moment, I feel that if you (hi, Norm! :)) are going to come up with a ridiculous obstacle, you should also have the balls to see it through to the end. To see people struggle, and fail, and throw up. This is why they are here. Right there and then, I’m angry. I’m angry because the race just became arbitrary. I’m angry because my stubborn nature does not allow me to cut corners. Because yet again, it’s not a race, it’s a challenge. I hope we get a headband at the finish. Mark Twain said: “When angry, count to four; when very angry, swear”. 1… 2… 3… 4… *(&*&$ %^^%# (&*(&*(# $#%^%&$ *&^*&^@#@ @#@()* #$!#!*( A little better. I stop more and more frequently. The (lack of) progress is disheartening. Part of me starts to believe that I will never get off this freaking mountain. From this day forward, I will have to live here and forage for food. I start mentally rationing the remaining food in my pack. “I wonder how many days I could last before I would have to start hunting wild game?”. Finally, I’m almost there. Just another 50 feet or so. A strange feeling washes over me, as I sit on my sandbag. I don’t think I can do it. It’s completely unreasonable, but I feel like I will never actually reach that turnaround. Fifty feet may very well be five hundred. Couple of guys who have been struggling up the mountain by my side the whole time, notice my defeated dog impersonation and holler at me to get up. I do so unwillingly. But I get up. And few minutes later, I reach the turnaround. I really do. I do! HA! Suck it, mountain! Ok, we actually have to get down now. I carry my bag across my shoulders yet again, as I step down. Then I drag it by the end behind me. I push it forward with my hands. I turn it, and toss it. I lie on top of it. I ride it. The whole thing is really starting to resemble cheap porn. Finally, I figure out the most efficient way – face up the hill, step backwards, pulling onto the sandbag with my hands. It definitely looks strange. But it works. A fellow racer suggests an alternative method. I look up and without a hint of a smile say: “Don’t tell me how to make love to MY sandbag!”. He looks a little taken aback. Spectators cheer. When we finally get to the bottom of the hill, the very next thing we have to do is… drum roll, please! Yes, get up the freaking hill again. What did you think was going to happen? But my sandy lover is no longer with me, so it goes much faster. I can still smell her. Feel her on my skin. She was an animal. Signing off, Solo

Hot chocolate saved my life. I think many racers thought this very thing, when they discovered cups with warm (warm!) hot chocolate waiting for them at the aid station right after the memorization task. Oh, the magical liquid. I downed one – the warmth spreading in my belly – so good. I take another and empty it into a third cup. For the next few minutes, I’m simply strolling through the trails of Vermont, sipping on a hot chocolate. Sigh. It was great, while it lasted. The trails await. When we finally reach the next obstacle, it’s a vertical cargo net. Few kind racers are pulling the net tight, as I start to climb up. Something happens at the top. The net is moving back and forth underneath me. I start freaking out. I’m at the top. The next task seems simple – get over to the other side, and climb down. I can’t hold myself still, as the net starts to rock even further. “Come on”, fellow racers encourage. “You got this!”. As I drag my right foot over the edge, I lose my footing on the left side. The loose net jerks, and suddenly my right foot is caught tightly in the net, while my body is hanging over awkwardly, my ankle at a sharp angle. I scream out in pain. Loudly. Then, trying to breathe, I grab the edges of the net even more tightly. If I let go, if I let myself hang, the whole weight of my body will push onto my ankle, with my foot at an unnatural angle now. Holding on, I pull on the foot, which is now firmly entangled in the net. Nothing. Finally, trying to hold the tears back, I start to slide my trail shoe off. Slowly, slowly, the Fellcross gives in, and my foot is free! I climb down slowly, pick up my shoe, which without my body weight falls to the ground, and sit down at the bottom of the net for a good cry. Tears and snot running down my face, I palpate the ankle. It hurts, but it’s fine. I’m more freaked out than anything. Part of me notices bitterly that no one approaches to ask if I’m actually ok. A lanky blonde guy, manning the net continues to stare vacantly into space. I’m basically sitting at his feet. Few minutes later, I get myself together. My shoe is back on, and the limp is barely noticeable. A tiny flicker in the Lanky’s eyes as I pass is a sign of recognition of a moving object. I pause. “Excuse me”, I start. He looks up. “Are you the volunteer here?”. I think he nods. “Thank you so much for asking if I’m ok”, I continue. “I’m ok”. My words are dripping with poison. I continue on the trail, contemplating how much better I would feel punching him out instead. An occasional obstacle appears, as we hike up and down. Hike, hike, hike, hike. Atlas carry. Yay. I spot a familiar color in front of me – I’ve been running into this team of guys in bright orange compression socks for many hours now. “How are you guys doing?”, I say weakly. “Oh, you know… Living the dream”, they shoot back. Hike, hike, hike, hike. A barbed wire. Right. I blankly register that this is the third barbed wire that we now had to crawl. They seem to be strategically placed along the course, so you do not keep dry and comfortable for too long. Hike. Log hop. I find myself wishing that the log hop was a mile long. At least it would keep things interesting. But then again, chances are it’d be cut in half by the time elites pass. We are finally at the Tyrolean traverse. My nemesis. Last year I slid off and fell, trying to go on top of the rope. On my second attempt, going from the bottom, I ended up with some wicked calf cramps, and my arms simply gave out. Burpees for me. This year I also remembered to take out my belly button piercing at the start line – just in case, if you decide to go on top and you have one of those – take it out. Mark my words. Even without the piercings, some racers are sporting burn scars on their chests that look like they have undergone a heart transplant surgery or something equally as invasive. There is a line up, and I loiter a bit, still a little shaken by the cargo net incident. I am somewhat psychologically prepared to spend a good hour at this freaking obstacle. Elite start means I HAVE to complete 3 attempts with 30 burpees for each failed attempt. If I fail on the third attempt, a 15 minute penalty is added to my time. When my turn finally comes, I start at the bottom, hanging off the rope, and start gripping the rope and pulling myself along, aiming to make each reach as long as possible. The long running tights make it possible for my legs to just slide along. Sweet. Again, I realize how fresh my arms still are. This race has been terrain, terrain, and terrain. I reach the end, and drop into the water. Yet another arbitrary task, but it feels so good to conquer it. I deem this race to be a success after all. Dripping wet, I pass by Traverse Burpeeville, and start climbing up the hill (surprised?). I’m trying to shut down the part of my brain that has been diligently tracking distance over the past seven hours. It’s been over 11 miles. We are done. We are done. We are almost done. Are we done yet? We are finally heading downhill. Home stretch. We pick up the pace. We jog. No, we run. Couple of last obstacles. There is an inverted wall. I think I can see the finish line. Yes, the finish is right there… and… Another sandbag carry up the hill. WHAT? This sandbag carry is nothing like that last (although THAT would be entertaining). This is a familiar Spartan pancake filled with sand. But oh, the placing is brilliant. The mindfucking is priceless. Bravo, Norm. Fucking B-R-A-V-O. I hoist the bag onto my head, and start crawling up the hill. You know… Again. It is at this point that I officially meet Jonathan. I’ve been running into him again and again on course, and it looks like this one last obstacle we are doing together. It turns out he is a blog reader! I am few steps ahead, and the conversation keeps both of us occupied. Then we are both silent for few moments. I am still carrying the bag on my head, and without turning around, I ask if he’s still behind me. Cue the scene from “Die Hard”… “Jonathan, are you still there?” “I’m here.” We finally reach the top of the hill, turn around, and head towards the sandbag drop off. I think this is it. This has gotta be it. I look over at Jonathan. “Are you ready to sprint?”. He seems surprised. “Sprint?” “You know,” I have a sly look on my face now. “Sprint. Always sprint to the finish. Always.” I jog downhill as fast as I can and drop off my sandbag, then charge forward – at neck breaking speed now, passing one racer after another. “You are insane!”, I heard the words behind me. I smile. I remember the words of a female racer, doing the Sprint earlier in the day: “Those are Beast people!”. That we are. Signing off, Solo

I left you, my dears, right after the sandbag carry, as I started climbing yet another hill, while reminiscing about my sweaty encounter with Sandy, the sandbag. Suddenly, I am surrounded by chirpy girls, wearing both mascara AND lipgloss – the effort is indeed remarkable. This is where the thin stream of Beasters connects with what seems like thousands of Sprinters. In truth, there were probably only few hundred of racers, wearing red bracelets, but the perception is that of being overtaken by a herd. One of the racers points at a guy in front of me – he is covered in sand, and is now slowly crawling up the hill. “Oh, those are Beast people!”, the other says with an almost fearful expression on her face. Beast people, eh? I can live with that. An array of some simple obstacles follow – I get my butt over the walls, and face the Hercules hoist. I have not met a Hercules hoist yet that gave me any trouble – this one is significantly heavier than the usual pathetic piece of rock that they tie to the rope, yet it’s dangling up in the air few seconds later, and I keep going. Lighter women and men are really at an disadvantage here, and many racers are already doing burpees. As I reach the monkey bars, I feel a little bit anxious. The bars are my favorite obstacle, but I have not yet been able to get across those when they are dripping wet. This time…. DRY. The ease with which I get across makes me realize that we haven’t really used our upper body yet. My arms and shoulders are completely fresh. Which turns out to be a good thing – tractor pull is next. There is a huge line-up at the obstacle – the Sprint racers have arrived. I approach the head of the line, and politely ask whether they would let me through, as I’m doing the Beast, and simply would not finish before freaking sunset otherwise, and they all nod enthusiastically and let me pass. I grab the friendliest looking stone and start dragging it behind me – why the hell do they even call it a tractor pull? Where is a tractor? Where, I’m asking you??? Can you tell I’m still pissed after the sandbag carry? What follows really does not flood me with positive emotions. As the crowd waiting for a stone grows, one of the course marshals moves the course markers, cutting the tractor pull in half. At this point, I just passed the halfway point, and if you guessed that I dragged my damn stone to the very end and back, you guessed right. “We kinda figured that we’d have to do this eventually, although we tried to postpone it as long as possible”, I overhear the marshal saying to the volunteer. “There are just too many people”. Good to know. At this point, my race mojo is pretty wilted. I have no doubt that I will finish, but what will it mean? Another green medal with no point of reference to thousands of racers that came after me. I am thankful to see a cup of salt at the water station. I’ve been refilling my Camelbak (thank you, Jeff) dutifully at every station, but salt is the one thing I am missing. I take spoonfuls into my mouth, and wash it down with water. Much. Better. As we start descending a sharp hill, I notice a guy beside me who is limping bad. “Are you ok?”, I ask yet again. He responds that he badly injured his ankle, and had already seen a medic who strongly suggested that he stops racing. “But I’m stupid that way, so I’m still going”, he comments with a weak smile. I can’t stop myself. “You do realize this whole thing is already pretty stupid, right? Continuing to race on an injury and causing permanent damage is straight up idiotic. Finishing is cool. But you know what’s even more cool? Seeing you next year. So, don’t be a complete moron, and take care of that damn ankle”. He seems taken aback, but nods. I do hope I will see him next year. Rolling mud is next, and this is (mercifully!) the first time we get wet. The water is waist deep and really cold. Then we are dragging ourselves through barbed wire for what seems like hours. I finally get out just to miss my spear throw and bang out thirty burpees. After some haystacks, and couple of other obstacles, we are close the the start line – roughly half way. Spectators are cheering, as we climb the rope, and then crawl through the tight tunnel, just to emerge on the other side for another barbed wire crawl. Yay, barbed wire. The next obstacle is new to me – it’s a spider web that is suspended in the air. HIGH up. Oh, I would kill for some sort of agility on these freaking air obstacles. Behind me a male racer who is terrified of heights, lies on the net with his eyes firmly shut. “Do not look down!”, his friends holler at him. That, indeed, sounds like a great idea! Heck, I’m not afraid of heights, and I’m trying not to look down. I climb up, and roll, drag myself across, contemplating the whole way whether the holes are big enough to fall through. I don’t think there is any risk for yours truly – thank God for squats, but I’d be worried about some of the Elite men. Some of the racers who have already finished the race are passing underneath, looking up and smiling. “Good job!”, they shout. Being back at the start line during a Vermont Beast can only mean one thing. The lake. *This beautiful photo was taken by Jimmy Fred Tester. The line-up of obstacles around the lake was masterfully sequenced. Swim out into the lake, climb up the rope, swim to shore. Walk around, and complete a traverse wall. Swim out into the lake (yes, again! see what they did here?), climb up the ladder (or rope), get across the Tarzan swings, and swim out. Theoretically, you could be doing as many as 90 burpees before continuing on course. I fumble with the life jacket for few seconds, before realizing that I really do not want it interfering with my rope climb, toss it aside, and get into the water. I’ve never done a rope climb out of the water before – note that while many rope climbs during Spartan races are submerged into water, you are only about thigh to waist deep. Climbing the rope in the middle of the lake is much more difficult as you have to pull the full weight of your body out of the water. Bonus points for difficulty if you start cramping here. And boy, oh boy, the little spot on the ground in between the lake obstacles was a cramp fest. Racers were shivering, and cramping up so badly, you could see their quads compressing and decompressing by as much as an inch. Some had knots in their calves the size of golfballs. Later I learn that many DNF’d right here because of cramping. As I reach the first rope, and try it out, I realize that this indeed will be tough. I never use the knots on the rope for assistance, as I find it easier to simply wrap the rope around my feet, but I think this will be the time to use all the help I can get. I can feel the onset of cramping whenever I try to elevate my legs. I feel around the rope under water, looking for the first knot. Then holding on with both hands, I carefully place both of my feet around the knot – my Salomons’ tread grips firmly, and I have a stable base. Now, I pull myself up, and I’m standing on the knot, waist deep in water. Look for the second knot, and repeat the process – one foot up, then another. Hug the knot with my feet, pull with my arms. I ring the bell, let go, and submerge in water completely, before starting to swim out to shore. Yep, it’s quite cool. Not pleasant. Traverse wall. The damn wall. I am slow as a turtle on this one, but I usually get across (Jeff showed me a new technique after the race, so I’m looking forward to trying it out soon). Two weeks ago at New Jersey Spartan, the wall defeated me, and now I’m a little worried. Splayed against the wall, I’m gripping and stepping and jumping, and hopping. It takes all of my concentration. I’m two thirds across, and starting to struggle, as a friendly volunteer takes notice, and makes it his own mission to ensure that I get across. “You can do it!”, he is screaming. “That’s it, girl!”. “You got it!”. I’m starting to experience murderous urges. “Can you please stop talking to me?”, I squeeze out through the gritted teeth, all the while trying to sound as polite as possible. Thankfully, he listens and disappears. Few seconds later, I ring the bell, and head over to the volunteer to give him a hug. Oh, right. We have to get back into the water. I see emergency blankets wrapped around racers, as they pause after the traverse wall. The idea of getting back into the water is pretty dreadful, but I do not want to linger. The longer I wait here, the worse it will be. The last thing I want right now is to get warm. You have to swim out to at least touch the obstacle before completing the burpees, and I know that I cannot get across the Tarzan swing on dry land, so the chances of me completing it here are nil. Nevertheless, I grab hold of the ladder, and start climbing up. Lifting my legs = onset of cramping. Nope. Not worth risking a full blown cramp. I drop into the water, and swim out. The thirty burpees help to warm me up a bit. We have to remember the number we were given earlier next. Three racers are already starting to do their burpees. I try to suppress the full blown story about the baseball player. X-ray 1378613 “That’s correct!”. I take off running, desperately trying to ignore the voice of the volunteer behind me who says “Ten burpees is enough. You are done”. Signing off, Solo

“Pick a number between one to ten. Now, pick the number that you think I picked you to pick.
” ― Jarod Kintz, This Book Title is Invisible I saw this meme going around the internets - post this on Facebook, and let people pick (a) number(s) that they think most describe(s) you. I was obviously procrastinating doing something. Probably, mobility. May all lacrosse balls be damned. So, go ahead. Pick a number. Make my fucking day. ANSWER KEY: if you pick 1 – thank you (no points for originality though). if you pick 2 – thank you, however, chances are it’s not mutual. if you pick 3 – see above. if you pick 4 – it sounds like we’ve met. if you pick 5 – the feeling may be mutual. Unless you are one of my Facebook stalkers, in which case, may I suggest some good quality porn instead. if you pick 6 – send a picture, I’ll assess whether it’s mutual. if you pick 7 – thank you (and I was probably wearing make-up) if you pick 8 – thank you (I’m assuming you also picked 7. Naturally.) if you pick 9 – thank you. You have no idea. To increase your chances of 24, I suggest you pick 13, and 14, but not 17. if you pick 10 – thank you. Please elaborate. if you pick 11 – I was probably hungry. if you pick 12 – I was probably very hungry. if you pick 13 – I agree. if you pick 14 – thank you (and if you also selected 13, I hope you know they are synonyms). if you pick 15 – please elaborate. if you pick 16 – i’d rather you picked 7, but thank you. if you pick 17 – please elaborate (and I was probably very hungry). if you pick 18 – I don’t know if I’m ready to say it back. I suggest you start with 24 first, so I can assess whether you are 8 enough, and 1 enough. if you pick 19 – thank you (and it sounds like we’ve met). if you pick 20 – thank you (I’m assuming we’ve met. And if we haven’t, I know a really good therapist). if you pick 21 – thank you? (and it looks like we’ve never met). if you pick 22 – careful what you wish for. If you also selected 11 and 12, I know a really good therapist. if you pick 23 – I hope you did not also pick 17. Coz that would be slightly inconsistent. And you’d have to find me first – I’ve been looking for myself for years. if you pick 24 – The feeling may be mutual. State your favourite beer, and I’ll assess whether it’s mutual. If you also selected 6, don’t forget to send a picture. if you pick 25 – you know too much (and thank you… and I hope you also picked 12 – for poetry’s sake, and did NOT pick 17 – for YOUR sake) if you pick 26 – you must be one of them, creative types. If your 4, 9 and 19 mostly outweigh the 1, then 24. if you pick a sum of the numbers you picked – you sound like a pain in the ass. 13! And 24. P.S. And the number is 42. Obviously. Solo

I didn’t even notice turning 20. That particular occasion was buried deep between getting my undergraduate degree, fighting with my (then) boyfriend, and figuring out how I would ever pay back my student loans. For most women, turning 30 is somehow a bigger deal. When my mother was 30, she had been married for ten years, and had a nine-year old daughter and a four-year old son. I found my first gray hair this year. Just one. I kept touching it with my finger, and examining it in the mirror. It was just so… curious! Given how productive I’ve been in the last few years, it is no wonder. Hell, I’m surprised my whole head is not yet white. It is my birthday today. As I reflect on my years of wisdom (ha!), I’d like to present a comprehensive list for aspiring 20-somethings. 30 things a woman should do before turning 30 find a foundation that matches her skin tone perfectly buy a pair of shoes she cannot afford chop down a tree have her heart broken have her heart broken again go to Burning Man go on a roadtrip with girlfriends be able to tell an ale from a lager (or Merlot from Shiraz) have a signature dish own a killer outfit have an outfit that makes her feel sexy learn to drive standard transmission travel solo for an extended period of time have at least one person whom you can call at 2am, and they would come learn how to tie a tie try smoking, then never smoke again start a business buy her own place (or simply have a room of her own) make something grow learn another language ride a motorcycle (preferably along the shores of Ganges) own a cashmere sweater make a difference in someone’s life go into therapy have someone bring her coffee in bed write (bad) poetry sing karaoke go skinny dipping read Little Women… and Jane Eyere… and Gone with The Wind, and Anna Karenina… read learn how to clean (and jerk, and deadlift, and squat) climb a mountain (real or otherwise) Let’s see how I’m doing… 1. find a foundation that matches her skin tone perfectly Found it! Unfortunately, it’s Dior. Take a breath before you check out the price tag. 2. buy a pair of shoes she cannot afford A couple. All Michael Kors. Thank God for Salomon. 3. chop down a tree I know you are not surprised. 4. have her heart broken True story. 5. have her heart broken again One day I will write a memoir… 6. go to Burning Man Not yet. It’s a bit of a logistical nightmare to plan. It takes place in August. Tickets sell out in January (!!!). It’s been on the list for a while, but I have not had a chance to go yet. 7. go on a roadtrip with girlfriends Part hilarious, part ridiculous, part disastrous. Just the way it should be. 8. be able to tell an ale from a lager (or Merlot from Shiraz) My favorite museum has been the Heineken museum in Amsterdam. Enough said. 9. have a signature dish Indian dhal. I’ve even had compliments from my Indian students who were raised on their mothers’ dhal. 10. have an outfit that makes her feel sexy My Salomon running tights. It makes my butt look fantastic. And, yes, I do own a dress. Mostly because Michael Kors shoes do not go well with running tights. 11. learn to drive standard transmission All the cars I’ve owned had three pedals. 12. travel solo for an extended period of time Six months in India. Can’t wait to do that again. 13. have at least one person whom you can call at 2am, and they would come Yep. I’ve called. They came. 14. learn how to tie a tie Not pretty, but functional. 15. try smoking, then never smoke again Ok, maybe not never, but normally not a fan. 16. start a business Done, and done! 17. buy her own place (or simply have a room of her own as per Virginia Woolf) One of the best things I’ve ever done for myself. 18. make something grow I have a pet avocado. 19. learn another language Well, I’m writing in my second language… so yeah. 20. ride a motorcycle (preferably along the shores of Ganges) You better believe it. 21. own a cashmere sweater Yep. 22. make a difference in someone’s life So I’ve been told. 23. go into therapy Simply so I could use the lines: “My shrink says…” and “I’ll have to talk about this with my therapist”. 24. have someone bring her coffee in bed And not just once. And it’s just as amazing every single time. 25. write (bad) poetry Some angry, some even angrier. Usually when I’m in a dark place. 26. sing karaoke Badly. But yes. 27. go skinny dipping There are no pictures. Sorry. 28. read Started reading when I was four. Never stopped. 29. learn how to clean (and jerk, and deadlift, and squat) Oh yes. 30. climb a mountain (real or otherwise) Three peaks in Himalayas. 29 out of 30. Not bad! And now, if you’ll excuse me… I have a plane to catch. I’M GOING TO BURNING MAN! Signing off, Solo

It’s October. At least, I think it’s October. [Insert doubt here. It’s October, right?] The fall semester is in the full swing – my craziest, busiest semester every year. And I’m feeling it. Driving from work at 10pm, I finally pull into my parking spot. I’ve been up since six. Today I wrote, I taught yoga, I had a coaching appointment, I ran, I drove to another city to teach psychology, I did grocery shopping, and a dozen of other things that I already forgot doing. My feet hurt so bad that I actually seriously consider taking off my shoes, and walking to the elevator barefoot. As I open the door, and drop my bag on the floor. I warm up late dinner, opening the microwave before the timer is up – the food is luke warm. I shrug and dig in. Then I drop on the bed face first. I know you have those times too. For parents and teachers, it’s the fall. For accountants, it’s tax season. Crunch time. I have a million projects on the go. Honestly? I love it. I love all the things that I am currently doing. Give me this over a Monday to Friday 9 to 5 any day. But, something’s gotta go. When the crunch time hits… WHAT WILL YOU GIVE UP? Here’s what I gave up recently… 1. Weight training My weight training sessions have been sporadic at best. I sneak in thirty minutes into my week here and there – guiltily, looking at my watch the whole time. I miss it terribly, and can’t wait to go back. Why weight training? Because I have my first full road marathon coming up in a few weeks, and I can’t give up my running. Keep your eyes on the ball. 2. Hill training and interval training Why? See above. Focus. Keep. Your. Eyes. On. The.Ball. There is a price. Let’s see… Few weeks ago I showed up to the Vermont Beast with three months of nothing, but flat pavement running. Hilarious. It took me three days to finish that course. Or something like that. But hell, it was worth it. 2. Make-up Maybe in ten years, this will be an absolute no-no, lest I scare little children and innocent bystanders, but as long as I can pull it off, this one goes. My face has not seen a lick of color in weeks. Au natural, baby. I look pale, you say? Nope. Just missing my blush. The eyelashes? Those are real. Yesterday, I discovered an old lip gloss in a glovebox of my car. Success! 3. Elaborate meals (unless someone cooks them for me. Hi, Italian!) As a foodie, I can appreciate the amazing combination of flavours masterfully arranged on the plate. Oh, yes I can. Sometimes, I am even the one doing the arranging. Just not in the last few weeks. My standards for foodstuffs have been lowered significantly. Freshly toasted walnuts? Yeah, right. Apple cinnamon ricotta omelette (OMG, you should really try it) – it’s been a while. I don’t have time to make zucchini pancakes for God’s sake. In the morning, breakfast includes myself throwing random things on top of Greek yogurt. Keurig replaced an espresso, which takes longer to make. Some of my current meals are downright… questionable. The time when for lunch I had half a cucumber (eaten whole), a handful of almonds, and a scoop of protein powder mixed with water comes to mind. Gourmet meal, it was not. I have also eaten in my car a couple of times. I hate eating in my car. But it was either that or low blood sugar, and the latter is simply dangerous to those around me. So… 4. Doing less of the things I love This is the part that I hate the most. And this is probably why I started writing this post in the first place. I gave up a couple of my yoga classes this week, and it was difficult. It was difficult, because I love teaching yoga, and because my default setting is simply to keep saying yes, as things keep piling up. And two years ago, I would have kept teaching. Thank heavens (ha!) for the wisdom that comes with age (ha!) . However, I am incredibly lucky to be able to choose between the things I love and other things I love. After all, I am still teaching yoga. Just not as much. And here are THE THINGS THAT I WILL NOT GIVE UP: 1. Sleep Seven to eight hours – rain or shine, or disaster. I went to bed before eight o’clock on a Sunday night. Being the party animal that I am. No, I wasn’t sick, but I felt like I needed it. Come Monday, I was thankful that I did. I am, mind you, one of those lucky people who given the opportunity WILL sleep no matter what. The anxieties, stresses and worries of the day do not interfere with my ability to actually fall asleep. Sweet! 2. Showers I know, right? This is especially awesome for people I work with – my students and my clients. Next time I am lying on top of you in an especially deep yoga adjustment, you can relax, knowing that, yes, I am still friends with soap. 3. Healthy food “I’ve been so busy, that I don’t have time to eat healthy.” Bullshit. Eating crap is simply not worth it. May I point out that the questionable meal I described earlier still had a full serving of protein, some healthy fat and a vegetable? My fridge looks like a space station sometimes, with all the containers perfectly stacked. I never just cook one meal any more – eggs are boiled by the dozen, salads are made by the bucket. 4. Writing I may be writing less, but I will write. Writing makes me happy. It makes me sane. It also keeps you (the readers) around. I like you! 5. Training for my next goal As far as training goes, my running comes first. Even if that means changing into my running gear right after lecture in the bathroom, throwing my bag in the car, running around the neighborhood, then getting into the car, and driving straight to the next scheduled thing. I got really good at planning shit. I pretty much memorized the location of GoodLife gyms in the whole freaking province. Coz they have showers, you see. From a recent long run in Stockbridge, MA. 6. Perfection Actually, perfection is good one to give up, period. Most days I have to settle for greatness. And on some days, plain old enoughness. Imagine. You can do everything. EVERYTHING. Just not at the same time. WHAT WILL YOU GIVE UP? Let me know in the comments. I just typed in “Signing up, Solo”… Great. Just great. Signing off, Solo

One of my best peeps is moving to Calgary next week, and I’l be driving there with her. Yep, driving to Calgary. What can be better in early December than covering over 3,400 kilometers? Although, in all honesty, I’ll take 33 hours of driving over Christmas shopping any day. Goals of the trip: 1) keep our lives, 2) keep our friendship. I am the designated in-flight entertainment manager. Audiobooks are being chosen, and the list of conversation topics is being brainstormed. I take my job very seriously. Currently, our place is the packing headquarters. I’m starting to think that two women should not be living in close physical quarters for the danger of being suffocated by shoes. (Mostly running shoes in my case, as you probably guessed). I am especially excited to see Banff. I’ve seen the pictures, and I am not entirely sure that it actually exists. In fact, I’m pretty sure the whole damn thing is fabricated. I mean, look: Skiing is in the plan. I ski as a brick. Well, I swim as a brick, but if bricks could ski, I’m pretty sure they would ski about as well as they swim. In any case, if I fail to receive any pleasure myself, I will at least provide loads of entertainment to casual onlookers. Cue “Hit the Road, Jack!”… YOUR TURN: Are any of you guys out in Calgary? What should I see? Where should I eat? Most importantly, what should I pack for a cold weather road trip? On another happy note, congratulations to Tanya L. for winning a free Spartan Race entry in a recent draw, and thank you so much to everyone who entered! The great minds (thank you, Jeff Cain) have shared their infinite wisdom and knowledge, and my next giveaway will be all kinds of technologically advanced. Ha! Excited, Solo

Ladies and gentlemen… well, you saw the post title. That’s what I was thinking yesterday picking up my bib. Bucket item #67, here I come. Marathon bibs: The 5k field is somewhat more competitive: Out of all the insane-o races that I have done, I don’t think there is another race that I’ve trained so much for, and have given up so much for. [Although I’d do well to give up an all-you-can-eat sushi dinner last night.] As John Stanton said in his pre-race speech at my very first half marathon in Ottawa, once you show up to the start line, there is nothing to worry about any more. I’ve put it the training, I’ve put in the miles. This week I didn’t drown, didn’t get shot and didn’t get pneumonia. My playlist is at least 4.5 hours, and hell, even my iPod is charged. I have running outfits for different weather forecasts hanging on my chair! Provided, I do not forget my hydration pack in the next hour, this may in fact be the race I am most prepared for. Although it would be funny if I was late to the start, because I was blogging about how read I was, eh? That’s it. I’m off for a Sunday morning jog with 5,000 of my closest friends. Now one foot in front of another for 42.2km. See you on the other side. Not-yet-a-marathoner, SOLO