Jitters Week

This image is symptomatic of this week in that it was all I could find when I was searching my image archives for a photo relevant to my present running life. I was looking for a tree I photographed Sunday, and instead found a picture of an apple (me) that hasn't, when all's said and done, fallen too far from the tree (my dad). That's us, in 1966. All I can think when I look at it now is, wow, did I really wear those shoes back then without my back hurting? And then I think, dig that hair. And it was my natural color, too. Thanks to my favorite nephew for scanning and archiving all the family photos.

Anyway. It's jitters week because the marathon is Sunday. Looking at the countdown clock on the website would give any prospective participant the heebie-jeebies. I'm suffering from all the predictable last-minute neuroses: I'm undertrained, I'm overtrained, my feet hurt, my shoulders are frozen, my shoes are wrong, my new water bottle sucks, I know I won't sleep Saturday night, my knee's giving out, I won't break six hours (let alone five) -- well, you get the idea. But the water bottle--really. I thought I'd replace the one I've been carrying for ten-plus years, so of course they don't make them any more. The new improved model doesn't have a handy ring on the lid that I can use to swing it from a finger, and the new improved model has a carrying strap to slip my hand through that made that same hand break into a sweat this morning some 6.8 minutes into my run. Very handy for someone who's planning on carrying water for FIVE HOURS. Thanks, bottle people.

My work colleague S, who was training with me but injured her hip, isn't going to be able to run with me. I'm wishing her a speedy recovery, but (of course) mostly I'm feeling sorry for myself that I won't have her sunny company.

All week I've been walking around looking as normal as I ever do on the outside, but on the inside feeling distracted and alternately euphoric and dead as mutton. (Aside: I went to the thesaurus for an adjective that might mean the opposite of "euphoric," and was charmed by "dead as mutton." Think about it next time you order dead sheep from the menu.)

Apropos of nothing, yesterday as I walked through San Francisco's Walton Park, I found one of my favorite pieces of public art sitting in the sunshine. I've seen it mostly in deep shade. I guess more hours of sunshine mean the Earth is tumbling through the cosmos at the rate it's supposed to, and thank heavens (literally) for that. So I took a photo.
You have three guesses as to who this is. OK, time's up. It's Georgia O'Keeffe, with her chow dogs. She was not a runner, but was a force of nature and an artist whom I've always regarded with awe, both for her art and for her strength of character. The unusual sculpture, which captivated me even before I identified its subject, is a creation of Marisol Escobar, an artist of interest herself. As for O'Keeffe, In the later part of her life, after she settled in New Mexico, she and her chows were inseparable. On line I found this wonderful John Loengard photo of her with her two best friends.

Can you tell that I'm at work and that things are a bit slow? I'm just throwing whatever crosses my mind onto this page. Maybe trying to store up subjects that interest me enough to keep my brain distracted Sunday when I'm running and running and running. During one long run I sang "Found a Peanut" through from beginning to end--twice. Sad.

Or maybe I'm trying not to break my promise to make this blog more related to my real life. So this is me this week, warts and all. As a runner, I say better warts than blisters.

Keep on breathing, y'all.