Homeward Bound

“I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love, even more than I usually do.” 

No one (and I mean no one) sings that song better than Karen Carpenter. Just the other night, I was fortunate enough to come across this song on the radio as I was speeding driving home from work along a dark highway, lined heavily with pine trees. 

Not only did I get to belt out one of my all-time favorite Christmas songs alone in my car, but I also somehow managed to make it all the way home without spilling a single drop of my soy hot cocoa which was in the clutches of my right hand, since my left one was obliged to hold the steering wheel. [For whatever reason, Ford explorers in 1993 (or maybe just mine) lacked the convenience of cup holders]. Consequently, since the ripe old age of fifteen (without sounding pompous of course) I’ve become incredibly skilled at driving while holding a beverage in one hand. It’s okay, no applause necessary. 

Back to the song, though. I’ll be flying home for Thanksgiving, and I think it’s pretty accurate to admit that we all become more nostalgic the older we get. “Emotion-with-age,” as I like to call it, seems to be hereditary in my family. Needless to say, lyrics and heart-tugging things don’t really make it easier! Just wait. I’m definitely far from being an uncontrollable ball-bag. But I can and will assure you people that there’ll be a day when I’ll need to have a tissue box in my purse or bag. 24/7. Well, maybe not 24/7. Maybe I’m being a little melodramatic.  

The weather here in Santa Cruz isn’t helping the fact that I’m missing home during this time of year. It’s raining off and on (and I will admit though, that it is SO fun running in the rain). But there are definitely days when I swear the temperatures are cold enough to leak into your soul and put a little damper on your day. I’m not sure I’ll end up settling down in a place with seasons, but I’m nowhere near the end of that road, so who knows. On a more ‘positive’ note, I can’t help but give shout-outs to those whom I’ve met up here so far, who’ve been great friends to me. Honestly, it’s only been a few months, and I feel like I’ve known some of you for years. 

So, with all this rambling of mine and only a few more days until I hop aboard a jet plane, I can honestly say I’m excited to visit home. I definitely went though a phase where all I wanted was to taste the real world and be “on my own,” and I can assure you that I’ve been living the “adult” life... even though I don’t think I’ll ever truly consider myself an adult. Ever! (#kidatheart). But I am beyond pumped to be reunited with some whom I haven’t see in months!  It’s going to be a very fun four days in Newport. Laughing, (maybe even some) crying, and who knows what else! Bring it on. I’m ready to be homeward bound. 

Speaking of “homeward bound,” if you haven’t heard this song... well, you should give it a listen!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6K8wfyzAJQ 

Barring Behind Bars III (a sneak peak!) . . .

"Downtown Transfer" 

Red scuffed-up bricks cover the front patio. Nine black wicker chairs, one random metal chair, and three round, grey, sticky, off-balance tables sit casually atop of the worn ground. A large kelly green cloth umbrella hovers over the left side while a handful of potted plants adorn the patio’s symmetrically square perimeter. Their leaves chronically flop over onto the ground purely out of dehydration—because who has time to water the plants when there’s a line of customers to the door, coffee needs to be re-brewed, and people are asking for things they could probably get themselves if they went to the convenience store and purchased some common sense. (Needless to say, it must be expensive these days). 

When the sun sinks down and the street lamps lining Pacific Avenue light up, one lone old antique-looking street lamp slouches over the patio and flickers on. It’s lambency provides nothing more than dim reading light for those enjoying what’s left of their day as they mindlessly mull over their one of a kind handcrafted beverages on the homely yet grunge-infested patio of the only Starbucks in Santa Cruz.

Our outside trash can which sits on the patio is a piece of work. It’s a grimy shade of black and a scrap of rubber is always hanging from the edge of its lid. Hardly anyone makes time to fix it, so it just hangs there without a care in the world. A little super glue, and it’d be good as new. Another thing about the outside trash can. It is constantly overflowing. Cold cups. Hot cups. Napkins of all shapes and sizes. Trash from other establishments. Plates and scraps of uneaten food get subsequently shoved into our trash receptacle for no apparent reason. The last thing I need is a half-eaten burrito from Taco Bell or a gaping pile of Coldstone ice cream cups and spoons stacked beyond the brim of the can, so that when I remove the lid to re-bag it, all of the ever-so-gracefully piled up trash falls to the ground. After all, it’s my job to bend over and gather up the mess. What’s new. 

That trash can rests alongside the black metal railing that leads directly to our two, and noticeably old, front doors. They are weathered and worn but their small square eye-level windows are reminiscent of something straight out of a fairy tale cottage home design catalog. Actually, the store itself completely resembles that of a cottage from the outside, and takes on a sort of quasi-fantasyland/storybook feel. One could easily imagine the Seven Dwarves entering and exiting the vicinity as if it were no big deal. Just from the outside though. On the inside however,... Let’s just go with the old saying that ‘one shouldn’t judge a book solely by its cover.’ Despite the fact that this store is not a book, it surely has a cover. And on the inside there is surely a story to tell. 

       

We’ve already run out of pumpkin spice syrup more times than I can count on two hands. Granted, it is October. But to be honest, telling customers that we’re out of pumpkin spice feels like committing a sin. Some have literally been brought to tears over the shortage of the orange seasonal syrup. The reactions of customers have been both ridiculous and limitless.

After Dark

By the time I was able to free myself of my black on black coffee-infested work clothes, it was pretty dark out. Nighttime had already arrived, and unfortunately, I still had to get my daily run in. Normally I’m quite good at getting out the front door early on in the day. Today was different though. Actually, the last five days have been different. I’m riding aboard the Bikram yoga train once again, and truly loving it. 

A while back, I wrote a blog about my very first Bikram yoga class where I ranted and raved about the mental journey which one experiences during the ninety minute and twenty-six pose session -- not to mention perspiring more than I had ever perspired in my life in one sitting. Today marked day five for me. Five days of Bikram in a row. Subsequently, I’m feeling just about the strongest I’ve ever felt, and my running is taking off by storm once again. Each and every day I partake in Bikram, I feel better and better while out on the roads, and I doubt that it’s a coincidence. My flexibility and mental awareness have been seriously heightened, and my strides are longer and flow with an incredible amount of grace and ease. My breathing is so controlled, it’s almost scary. 

That all being said, after this morning’s Bikram session followed by a hectic shift at work, I was doubting whether or not my evening run would be enjoyable. Little did I know, I was wrong. Between my newly-revived mental strength, and a little blood-boiling from a run-in with an old flame on the way to my car post-work, I had a GREAT run. Time time of day meant nothing. Exhaustion meant nothing. Once I hit “shuffle” on my iPod and headed off down my street in the dark, I was unstoppable. I made it to the bluffs overlooking the ocean in what seemed to be record time, and the residential streetlights along Westcliff drive guided me down the coast, by the wharf, and back up into my neighborhood.  Gladly, my day ended on a good note, and my eyes will be falling shut shortly.   

Before Sun-Up

A switch inside me has been turned. Amidst the last few days, a new and innate glimmer of motivation has rekindled it’s former flame within me and October has taken on a specific meaning. What is that meaning, you ask? It means the official starting point of marathon training. Notably upping my mileage and workouts. Getting enough sleep. Eating better. Paying more attention to pace, and not simply the ground under my feet.  

This morning was an early one to say the least. My alarm sounded at 5:49 and I was out the door by 6:15. Mind you, it was darker than a moonless night. But I was up and out on the road, no questions asked. I was also wearing tights! Yes that was an exclamation point you just saw. It was decently brisk out there this morning. But as I made my way to the bluffs overlooking the jet-black ocean, songs from my iPod echoed through my head and I was mentally preparing my mind to endure a tempo run, and was far too distracted to think about the temperature. Now, just for the record, a tempo run can be described in many ways. But I prefer the term “noticeably uncomfortable.” It’s a bearable race simulation in which the idea is to give your lungs a taste of what it feels like to push the pace. The goal is not to bust a nut and hit a race P.R. as you rage around your neighborhood. “Tempo” pace is not your race pace. Let's get that clear. It’s definitely faster than your 'normal' run pace, though.

By the time I finished my tempo run, the sun was just coming up. I was fortunate enough to have seen the local lighthouse overlooking famous surf spot ‘Steamer Lane’ all lit up before sunrise, as well as the other early-bird runners, dog-walkers, and surfers, all who were beginning their day purely doing what they love-- because that’s what it’s all about. Purely doing what you love. If you embody a passion for something, whether it be a hobby or whatnot, you owe it to yourself to make time and enjoy it every single day. 

        

It’s as simple as that. 

Road Trip!

This weekend presented me with several things. Great things. And add if I may, it is remarkably fun to visit and spend time with those whom you haven't seen in a little while. First off, my mom flew into San Jose on Friday, so I drove my beat-up Explorer up to the airport to pick her up. I then left my car in the overnight/daily lot, which was quite the walk away from baggage claim, as to (hopefully) be as cheap as humanly possible. Not like it mattered, though. I still got there in plenty of time to see my mom coming down the escalator with suitcase, and things in hand. Side-note: hugging your mom after not seeing her for a good while is wayyyy up there on the best things in life. Just saying. Anyways, after the embrace, we headed over to grab our rental car, and then jammed back to Santa Cruz so I could show off my new digs. Before we even went to my new house, we dropped in on my new Starbucks store so that she could meet a handful of my new, and ever-so-brilliant co-workers. Mission accomplished. Next, we cruised to the S.C. wharf and pier, where I just had to show her the noisy sea lions. After that excursion, we trekked back to my new place, where my mom got the pleasure of meeting my three lovely new roommates. And not long after that, we set out on our second annual "Road Trip to Clovis," to watch my youngest sister race the Clovis cross-country Invitational at good ol' Woodward Park--where California hosts the cross-country State meet every year. After driving for what felt like all day, we finally found our hotel and settled into the evening with a nice bottle of wine and some De-licious food from Maggiano's (plus a few malt balls and swedish fish... give or take).

Saturday morning. 6:25 A.M.
Yes. The alarm came quick this morning. And it was about to be quite the day. By 6:45, I was out the hotel door, down the stairs, through the lobby, and out on the road in order to steal an hour of daylight by getting a good (for the most part) run in. I ended up running to the cross-country course which we were going to head over to later that morning to watch my sister race. I ran a few loops through around the course to relive the glory days and then turned back around to get back to the hotel in order to shower and pack up my belongings before we headed back out to Woodward park for the race. 9:20 A.M. was race time. Or at least when the gun was set to go off for my sister's race. Nerves were a-flowin', and everyone seemed to be feeling anxious about the race but me. My mom was feeling the butterfly syndrome (but that's normal), but I think I was too excited to simply be at Woodward park again, let alone being able to see AND cheer on my little sis. Without knowing it, I got hit from behind with a backwards bear-hug attack from my Katelyn--my younger, yet taller, little sister. I couldn't be mad for being blindsided though. Rather, I found myself turning around and hugging her with an uncontrollable smile on my face.
Regardless of her race finishing time or place, Katelana (that's her nick-name, in case you were wondering) did great in my eyes. For having had cross-trained her face off for the past how many weeks in order to regain health from some chronic running injury, she did just fine... regardless of what anyone could've said.
After Katelyn's team walked back to their gathering spot and met up with the coaches, it was time for my mom and I to hop back on the road, and get to the San Jose airport so she could catch her flight back home that afternoon. After our goodbye hug, I once again had the pleasure of walking that long leisurely walk back to that lot I had parked my car.

1:10 P.M.
Hopped in my car and sped off onto the 880 South and eventually the 17 towards Santa Cruz. Made it home just under 2 P.M. and literally vegged out until I had to get suited up for my closing shift at work. Mind you, we close at 11 P.M. on Fridays and Saturdays. That being said, I'm certain it's time for me to lower my eyelids. Longest day I've had in quite some time. A nineteen-hour day, in fact. But it was totally worth the 630+ miles on the road to a) spend time with my mom and b) see my sister. I'd give them the world if I could. Well, only about a month until I fly home to see them for Thanksgiving. Well, them AND my other sister, Coleen. Now that's going to involve some serious shenanigans.

Until next time, toodles!




 

Heat Wave.

So everyone and their mother back home in Southern California has been complaining about surviving the brutal sauna-like heat as summer has made a progressive transition to fall. Up until a few days ago, the whimsical little town of Santa Cruz has been feeling like fall. Chilly mornings. Breezy days. Crisp evenings. You get the picture. But out of the depths of nowhere, Monday and Tuesday proved to rival the sweltering digits of SoCal. Santa Cruz topped out at an inevitable 100 degrees on Monday and a whopping 102 degrees on Tuesday. What I’d like to know, is where on earth those numbers came from. It’s beyond me, for certain. Everywhere I went, and every time I had to physically move to do something, the goal seemed to always simply be “not to sweat.” Stay as still as possible so as not to perspire. It didn’t work out well though. There were definitely moments in which it seemed as though just thinking prompted beads of sweat to form on my forehead and lower back. 

One thing’s for sure. Running in heat like that makes you feel SO. SLOW. Now, for the record, I didn’t really take the heat into consideration when I was planning out the schedule of my days early on in the week. I will typically allow for some sleep-in time if I’ve closed up shop at work the night before and am scheduled to close again the following night. That being said, by the time I’m crouched over and tying the laces of my running shoes, it’s generally around noon. Maybe a little later. So, you can imagine, on a day that tops out at 102 degrees, running at noon isn’t the wisest decision. But, when time is your primary factor, the run’s gotta get done! Out the front door I’d go. Monday’s run was just flat out uncomfortable and sluggish. I barely made it to 60 minutes, feeling as though I was melting through the concrete. Tuesday’s run, now thinking back on it, was just stupid. I knew I wanted to log a good 90 minute run that day. I headed left out of my front door, carrying a shirt in my right hand, and no music to jam to. I figured I could use the shirt to easily wipe away sweat from my brow before it dripped into and stung my little eyeballs. My plan was to run 45 minutes up into this super foresty trail up by UC Santa Cruz, and then run 45 minutes back the same way I came. 

Now, I must establish that the entire first half of this run I like to do is ALL uphill. It’s not the steepest climb I’ve ever traversed, but it’s all uphill nonetheless. But despite the first half of the run being an incline, it truly was the second half of the run that was the tough part. It was so hot out at one point, that my saliva seemed to have literally stopped working. That never happens, nor should it! Major cotton mouth experience. Not the most pleasurable thing, let me tell you. What I should have done was bring a small container of water or something to help keep me hydrated along the way. But clearly, I wasn’t thinking. Just as I hit 45 minutes, I told myself that I was going to stop at the next available water fountain, or anything of that nature. Bathroom. Park. Lutheran Church. Whatever. I was dying. And I was getting a little desperate. It got to the point where I realized that I wasn’t going to have access to water until I reached my house. Thus, I resorted to a little thing I learned during the good ole’ days of  high school cross-country. It’s called, “find-a-house-with-a-watering-hose-close-to-the-street-and-hope-that-no-one’s-home-or-notices-you’re-in-their-yard-shirtless-and-drinking-straight-from-the-spicket. Yep. That happened. It needed to. Lesson learned, though. I slept like a freaking baby that night. 

Santa Cruz Chronicles. 

Wolf Pack of Four

Well, today was the day. My house is now officially fully occupied by four girls, including myself. It’s funny to think back to the first two weeks I lived in the house, and was all by my lonesome. Then there were two, and eventually a third. The house now feels complete if I may say so. I’m sure there will be adventures to write about and things to document, but for now, it’s just peaceful being in a house with three other females—something I’d gotten quite used to back home. (You know who you are). 

* * * 

On a completely different note, I want to tell you of a run I went on last weekend. I headed out the door with the image and anticipation of the run I thought I was going to have (which, let me tell you, hardly ever comes true or turns into real life). However, this time, it was better. During the week prior, I found a new trail head and needless to say, I was in the mood to explore a little more. As I was making my way to the entrance to the trail—via this sweet bike path (which I’ll most likely find myself using, abusing, and leaving some sweat on)—I began to hear the faint echo of a cowbell and words of encouragement being screamed. All of a sudden, I recognized the atmosphere and the rush of adrenaline around me. All of a sudden, I found myself smack-dab in the running portion of the Big Kahuna Santa Cruz Triathlon. I ended up doing a little research on the race itself later that afternoon, and to my surprise, I had run roughly five or so miles with these (pardon my French) badasses during the 13.1 miles which the running leg was comprised of. Crazy sauce. The funny part, was how into it I got. At first, I tried to just keep to myself and my own workout. But when there’s those bright orange cones on the road and you start passing people (and keep passing them) and people begin to cheer you on because they think you’re in the race, it’s hard to contain your excitement. Needless to say, my run that day subconsciously turned into a semi-tempo run slash race simulation. 

There were even times in which I found myself doling out words of encouragement to those I passed. I even found myself receiving oodles of positive words as well. Something I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around, was how I couldn’t get myself to turn around and head home, while running on the course. I guess I didn’t want the people in the race to think I was cheating (even though I wasn’t in the race, wearing a bib number, or even a triathlon jersey). Plain and simple. It just didn’t seem like the thing to do. That being said, I ran in the race until the turnaround point, which was this really awesome Tiki statue at the end of the trail, and just ran back the way I came (still in the race). 

There was one point in the race which I still can’t come to forget. Since the run was an “out-and-back” course, it was only natural to forget the long downhill that we charged down on the way out. That being said, on the way back up the hill, there were a few triathletes who were stopping to walk up part of the hill. For whatever reason, my inner runner/coach/etc. kicked in, and as I cruised up the hill and crept by these people who were stopping, I wouldn’t pass by without saying something. Things like: “come on, don’t stop,” or “you’re almost there,” or (my personal favorite when cheering hillside) “come with me!” Regardless of what I said, the acknowledgement seemed to be taken with gratitude, as they often said something positive in return. Upon returning from my run that day, a slight rush of excitement stayed with me throughout the remainder of the day. It lifted my spirits. It got me thinking about racing, and more importantly, competing. But I think most importantly, was that I got to be a moving spectator for complete strangers and hopefully my words of encouragement made a difference.