Days completed: 110
Miles to date: 304
Every single one of them in celebration of: Candy

The first time I met Candy I was fifteen or sixteen-years-old, awkward as a thirteen-year-old. She wore a gray, silk skirt with a kick pleat and had the most beautiful, open face I’d ever seen. We met outside my dorm at the boarding school I attended and, after politely shaking her hand, I walked puppy-like behind her, staring at her perfect shoes all the way to the car.

Despite her name, Candy was neither an erotic dancer nor air hostess. She was the mother of a girl I’d become friends with at school, come to take us out to lunch in town.

Meeting Candy somehow made me feel the same way I felt when meeting a cute boy: My personality simply seemed to evaporate. I was embarrassed of whatever I was wearing at the time (likely with good reason) and had an overwhelming urge to become her favorite, over any of her three daughters. Or preferably, become her.

I don’t remember much after those first few moments. Lunch was, no doubt, filled with incessant babble on my part, trying too hard to seem effortlessly charming. But my first true friendship with an adult began to take shape that day, as did my first inkling of how I wanted to be perceived as a woman.

Twenty-three years later, Candy has given me some of my most precious life moments, both directly and inadvertently. My first taste of Dom Perignon. My first copy of Madame Bovary. An actual fondness for the nickname, “Urine.” A knit cap handmade for my daughter, after my own mother had just passed away. Infinite moments of laughter at her home in Charleston, and on the lake and river. And a best friend in the form of her sister, Charlotte, whose presence in my life has completed the family of my own creation.

But the most precious gift Candy has given me is that of my friendship with her daughter, Angela. It is something I hold more dear than nearly anything else, a meaning I could never duplicate or do without.

So to Candy I dedicate every run and laugh and cheers and story and adventure, from here on out. Because life is amazing. And your life has made so much of the amazing in mine come to be.

Love you always,
Urine

These folks said it best (without saying a word).

Miles: 1.0, 2.32, 2.56, 3.07, 4.58, 3.1 and 1.0
Power song: LMFAO Party Rock Anthem (Even I hate to admit that)
Runs dedicated to: Dave

When I first mentioned this challenge to my husband, Dave, he was quiet. Anyone who knows Dave knows that when you mention nearly anything to him, he is quiet.

Unlike me, Dave stores his words like a squirrel storing eggcorns, only using what’s absolutely necessary to get his point across. A typical conversation in our house goes like this:

Me: “Hey babe, about this weekend: I was thinking we could drive out to the country. Maybe go to dinner at that place? Or, no…grill? Make steaks? Stop at Guido’s on the way up…and…let’s ask Shoo and Kyle to come…do you think Eric and Kelly would come? Or maybe we should go to the country alone. Or just stay home and have a quiet weekend without the driving. I could use some alone time with you, it’s been forever since we’ve had a date, right? I just don’t feel like we’ve been connecting. So maybe we’ll stay home. And then we can get it on. Hey now. What do you think?”

Dave:    ”…………………………………………………………………….sure.”

We’ve been together for nine years so I now have the ability to read his silence just as clearly as if we’re actually having a conversation.

For instance, if there’s silence in combination with nail biting, he’s mad at the Giants in general, just Eli Manning or the traffic.

If there’s silence in the context of a great day of outdoor fun, he’s saying that he has to use the facilities and we need to leave immediately.

If there’s silence peppered with rapid eye fluttering, he’s saying,
“Bye babe, I have a 9:30 am. Be good. Love you. I’ll pick up dog food.”

The silence that resulted from first hearing about this challenge was his way of saying: ”Is this going to be like that time you were vegan?” But what he said after that, once he realized that I was serious (and using real words) was,
“I will help you in any way that I can.”

And here’s the thing about Dave and the reason I fell in love with his silence, along with the rest of him: When he does use words, he actually means them.

So to my bridegroom I dedicate my runs. Because last night, instead of being a responsible person and coming home to launder the running clothes I’d run out of, I opted to go out with a few of my ladies and get hopped up on frozen pomegranate margaritas.

Meaning Dave came home to Lu at 6 pm.
And I came home to Dave at 12:30 am, lit up like a candle.
Only to find him sound asleep.
The laundry done.
And my running clothes laid out for me
from my shorts, right down to two pairs of socks so that I don’t get anymore blisters.

And that spoke volumes.

Miles: 1.0, 2.23, 3.49 respectively
Power song: Shake It Out
Run dedicated to:  Happy & Ham

Just got back from an amazing long weekend with my parents where instead of running through city streets amidst the faint scent of bum poo, I ran alongside the ocean amidst the a strong scent of jasmine. A slight improvement.

My daughter is about to turn two and my husband and I try to get her down to South Carolina to see her grandparents every 2-3 months. Before Lucille could speak we adults decided that she would call my dad, “Pappy” for Pappy’s in Totowa, NJ: home to a  beloved family manna known as the Texas Wiener (Notice that Yelp gave it a coveted 1.5 stars). And my stepmom, “Grahm,” for more obvious reasons.

As soon as Lucille started to speak however, she quickly altered their names to monikers infinitely more appropriate: Happy and Ham. Funny how a not-yet-two-year-old can get it so right.

Being with my parents is like being with your favorite drunk, jock friends from school. Days are spent very actively: fishing trips, tennis tournaments, golf lessons, hurricane swims. You almost always walk away sore. Nights are spent just as actively: darts, pool, Wii bowling, bocce—all performed with a drink in hand. You almost always walk away dented.

In between the tee times and the cocktail hours, my parents offer an enormous amount of thoughtfulness (every baby thing you could think of is always at the ready), love (I learned to hug from these people) and support (disciplining a tantruming toddler in front of the people who disciplined you could get wonky, but they are graceful enough to offer advice, not opinions).

In short, my daughter is a genius. Because she knew instinctively what I’ve learned over the last 37.99 years: That at their core, my parents are both really happy. And really hammy.

So to them I dedicate these runs. Not just because I like them an awful lot. But because I’m grateful that, by being their daughter, I have a wonderful lesson in being a mother.
And an athlete.
And a drunk.