I.Will.Run.Again. is now I.Ran.

What began as a pretty mellow morning remained that way for a few hours longer.

John casually juiced a second round. This time a combination of kale, spinach, apple, pear, banana, and strawberries.

Nom nom nom….slurp!

(That’s what she said)

We drove to the Dirty Girl Mud Run based on my directions.

HW 81N to exit 180 or 181…and then I figured it would be obvious.

It wasn’t.

The cigarette lighters in the car are broken, so we haven’t been using the gps for much lately. I turned it on while we sat in a grocery store parking lot. While I plugged in info, John sliced up a few slices of the YUMMY gluten free bread I baked a few days ago. He put some chocolate hazelnut butter on them and BLAMMO!!!!!!

Instant mouth orgasm.

Nom nom nom!

We found Fern and Lisa relatively quickly.

While we waited in line, cracking jokes, taking pictures, people watching, and basking in the excitement of her first muddy event ever and my first muddy event since the parasite, I began to overhear a woman complaining loudly behind us.

“UGH. I will NEVER run another one of these. It’s so disorganized! Where are the safety pins?”

pause….

“UGH. They don’t even give the numbers and the pins out together. UGH!”

pause….

“They need to have clearer signs…What is that? (pointing to a very obvious situation where one side ran out of gear) Why do they have arrows pointing to the other side? What, are we supposed to go there, too?!?”

pause….

“UGH….I will NEVER run another of these events AGAIN!”

pause….

“UGH!!!! Do we have to wait in ANOTHER LINE!!??!!??!!”

I smiled a small smile for the poor woman who was simply taking herself, her health, and well the moment for granted that very instant.

I sent her good energy, then quietly quipped to my lover, “I guess that’s what happens when you have an all female event. I’ve never heard so much complaining simply waiting in line before the race even begins!”

He chuckled.

(I have my funny moments!!!)

Honestly, though…my heart wants to weep for those that are so easily irritated by things that are so so very, very small.

Really, you are standing in line with your friends.

The weather’s sunny.

We’re about to jump in mud…

What could possibly be wrong with a combination like that!?!?!

I thought back to these days:

I couldn’t come up with an answer.

(Though..there was a large group of women searching desperately through a mud pit at the end of the day. When I asked what they were looking for, they didn’t respond with contact. They responded with tooth. So, now I can answer with loosing a tooth in a mud pit could suck, but not in that moment.)

For me, I was where I’d wanted to be for the last seven months, since I nearly died a gnarly death by parasite.

You simply could not slap the smile off my face.

I wore it loud and proud.

By loud…I mean…

I screamed my head off just about the ENTIRE TIME!

You think I’m bad in Zumba!?!?!

I couldn’t help it!

It was like the pent up energy of the last seven months was giving me constant, yet completely random good games that made me hop, skip, yip, and yell.

I started mud fights almost immediately! (immediately if you begin timing from when we hit the mud…)

I started running immediately as well, although it was at the same pace everyone was walking around me!

Once the crowd thinned out and we got to run a little more quickly, we hit our first sticky mud section. Stefanie got her foot caught in the mud, so (like the amazing friend I am) I stood a few inches out of her reach and just piled mud on her back (by throwing it) instead of assisting.

Same thing happened to Michelle…I, of course, acted on cue.

I got all four of the lovely ladies with my signature mud neck rub therapy (Picture casual slap on the back in greeting to hide the pressure of the sign newly affixed to your victim. Now replace slap with pat, back with neck, and sign with big, sloppy pile of cool, dripping mud.)

This, in turn, got me thrown into a mud pit, fed mud (yeah I said it!!!), and attacked regularly (with mud grenades!!!) throughout the race. 😀

Just how I like it.

The run went without a hitch. It turns out constantly feeling like I’m at mile 40 of 50 isn’t so bad when I’m only running a 5K.

Honestly the hardest part of the day for me was the cold water.

The first time we ran through water, it was just to our shins.

I screamed…

Out of shock and pain.

Seven gazillion tiny daggers pierced me wherever the water touched. I winced and cried out involuntarily through every step.

The thing is…sometimes when I’m in pain and I’m running through it, I just run faster.

Especially when I’m wincing and crying out every stride.

Don’t worry about making sense of it. My run team at DLI couldn’t figure it out either.

The absolute hardest obstacle for me was a single puddle. It went up to my waist.

I thought someone must have taken a chainsaw to my hips, but my legs were still moving. It didn’t make sense.

It hurt so badly… I laughed through my wimpers.

Yep, THAT bad….

The same maniacal laughter (Bwahahahaaaa!) that squeezed from my lips years ago when my ER doctor sewed a stitch outside of the anesthetized portion of my leg.

Speaking of maniacal laughter, my favorite part of running this race (aside of seeing my lover supporting this momentous occasion from the sidelines) was easily how many heart rocks I could see.

One called out to me clearly about halfway through the race. I carried it with me to the finish.

The Universe sent its praise and love, as did my father, as did my lover.

I’m so lucky. So very lucky.

The bottom line is this:

I told you I would run again.

I did it.

I ran with some of the coolest women I know!

Take that, slug!

Similar Stories:

Defying Death to Dance

Survival Training

Call me a Dirty Girl

More Mud, Please!!!

Call Me a Dirty Girl!

My first 5k since the parasite is this upcoming Saturday.

I’m a long way from running a 50 miler with 6 days notice.

I got an email today. It read:

Get the Dirt

Dear Aurita,

Get ready to share mud, sweat and cheers with couple thousand amazing women as the  time is almost here.

Saturday, May 4th is sure to go down as one of the dirtiest and most fun-filled days of your life.  Before this epic day arrives, let’s get you up to speed on everything.

Overview

Toyota Pavilion at Montage Mountain will be like you’ve never seen it before! Music will be thumping, energy will be pumping and Dirty Girl tents will be up and ready! In addition to running, walking, climbing and  crawling over obstacles like the Funky Monkey (you’ll see), your registration includes some awesome perks like a cool t-shirt, a special Dirty Girl necklace, friendship, laughter and one free adult beverage, for those of age, to help bring your after party up to a nice respectable level!

…..

So…let me back up and give you the description of the race:

Why Get Dirty?

Dirty Girl is a 5k women only run for women of all ages and athletic abilities. Don’t worry, it’s not a “race” in the traditional sense. It is an untimed obstacle course designed to push you slightly out of your comfort zone, but only as far as you are comfortable going. Forming teams is encouraged, and so is helping your fellow Dirty Girls get through to the finish. At a Dirty Girl Mud Run you’ll find excitement, laughter, and camaraderie—as well as lots of music and even some adult beverages. It’s a day you’ll never forget.

…….

Um. SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO EXCITED!

You would think I was training for an ultra with how much I’ve been thinking of this lately!

(Funny story, while looking up the info for the race, I ended up on dirtygirl.com…..um…..not the same thing….)

I told you!

I.Will.Run.Again.

Huge thank you for the peer pressure from Fern, Stephanie, and Michelle!

Live life, don’t just survive it!

Related stories:

A Desert Run

A Random Running Rant

Parasite Attack!!! <— If you’re confused why I’m stoked about a 5K… Well…THIS stoked. 😀

A Random Running Rant

I was asked recently how I handle “the pain” of running and exercising to the point of muscle failure by a very close friend. She said that when she feels the pain, her body wants to stop, and curious by my seemingly endless energy, she wanted to understand it.

I replied simply with my regular, “I love it. I love that feeling of movement.”

She laughed, “How? Doesn’t it hurt?”

I hesitated a moment because I hadn’t thought of it that way in a year. I considered the burning in my lungs when I sprint around the track in the chilly air, the feeling of a torrential downpour of icy rain beating against my pink, quickly numbing skin, the wind pushing against me, the hot feeling of sweat sneaking its way behind my eyelids, not being able to speak through ill moving lips, stiff with cold, the clear, intimate sound of my heart’s methodical drumming in my ears.

I came to this conclusion.

I am able. Therefore I run.

No. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like…life. When the frigid air rushes from the world through my lips, down my throat, and into my lungs, leaving them raw in its icy path, I feel the life in me erupt in pleasure. I become one with my body, in tune with each movement, each change in temperature, each twinge of effort. Its as though I’ve left my position as passive reader and become the omniscient protagonist describing in detail the scene from each and every muscle’s point of view. Suddenly parts of me of which I rarely think, become major players. I notice my toes, the way the hair on my arm reacts to the wind, the burning in my shins with each strike, the slightly tugging extension of my arches before I plant, the pressure on the balls of my feet as I push off, the melody of my ventricals playing life’s tune in step.

Becoming aware of these senses, embracing them, and even searching to make them more pronounced has caused me to seek more “pain.” There is no moment in which I feel more alive than that in which my heart is racing, and my own effort is what is keeping me moving with nothing but internal functions involuntary. The awareness makes me smile, and the more “pain” I feel, the more aware I become, creating in me an overwhelming joy at being able to feel the burning sensation in my muscles, stretching my smile, often making me skip, yelp, or even break into uproarious laughter in appreciation of life.

That is when I feel luckiest. To have the ability to run, jump, dance, burn, and reach muscle failure. Everything movement. is. a. gift. My mind, while focusing on the pleasure of the sensation of life, brings me, with the same unadulterated, pure awareness to the fact that my ability to do these things is mine still because men who tried to kill me failed epically. It’s mine although it has been taken from so many. And then I feel blessed, almost guiltily so. Being conscious of this valuable gift of movement drives me to celebrate it as fully as possible for both myself and for those who aren’t able.

I’m able.

Therefore I run.

Desert Run

As my heartbeat quickened I felt a smile creep onto my lips before taking full control of my spirit.  My being formed with the earth not as an act of ownership, but of shared love.  Each touch brief and intimately respectful, leaving but the lightest trace of my intent in the soft sand; a message to Mother Nature of the rawest appreciation for her purity.  She answered in the form of a low flying Harrier Hawk, confident, graceful, and absolutely beautiful in his element. I imagined we made eye contact, and I promised him with a skip to leave everything as I found it in his desert, sans footprints.

The connection brought a happiness to my core that I thought might make me explode.  Driving my arms, breathing the sweet arid air, I returned to the Gunga Din at an all out sprint.  I could feel my temples throbbing as the flow of life in my body gained speed. My quads and lungs were steadily burning as the familiar stack of rocks came back into view. I dug in, driving deeper into the sand until I could see our campsite, the only unnatural spot in sight, and yet it was more natural than I can find words to explain. I let my legs continue to turn over without effort, and slowed naturally to a light jog as I approached.

Our campsite at Gunga Din

John was there, waiting for me just as I never doubted he would.  I returned to his arms naturally, radiant with the knowledge that I was combining my absolute two favorite passions in that moment. Running and my love.  I sighed happily, and allowed my pulse to return to a resting rate as I enjoyed a sweaty, salty kiss.  The feeling I captured in that moment will remain all the reassurance I’ll ever need to know I’m doing the right thing.

A Random Running Rant

I was asked recently how I handle “the pain” of running and exercising to the point of muscle failure by a very close friend. She said that when she feels the pain, her body wants to stop, and curious by my seemingly endless energy, she wanted to understand it.

I replied simply with my regular, “I love it. I love that feeling of movement.”

She laughed, “How? Doesn’t it hurt?”

I hesitated a moment because I hadn’t thought of it that way in a year. I considered the burning in my lungs when I sprint around the track in the chilly air, the feeling of a torrential downpour of icy rain beating against my pink, quickly numbing skin, the wind pushing against me, the hot feeling of sweat sneaking its way behind my eyelids, not being able to speak through ill moving lips, stiff with cold, the clear, intimate sound of my heart’s methodical drumming in my ears.

I came to this conclusion.

No. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like…life. When the frigid air rushes from the world through my lips, down my throat, and into my lungs, leaving them raw in its icy path, I feel the life in me erupt in pleasure. I become one with my body, in tune with each movement, each change in temperature, each twinge of effort. Its as though I’ve left my position as passive reader and become the omniscient protagonist describing in detail the scene from each and every muscle’s point of view. Suddenly parts of me of which I rarely think, become major players. I notice my toes, the way the hair on my arm reacts to the wind, the burning in my shins with each strike, the slightly tugging extension of my arches before I plant, the pressure on the balls of my feet as I push off, the melody of my ventricals playing life’s tune in step.

Becoming aware of these senses, embracing them, and even searching to make them more pronounced has caused me to seek more “pain.” There is no moment in which I feel more alive than that in which my heart is racing, and my own effort is what is keeping me moving with nothing but internal functions involuntary. The awareness makes me smile, and the more “pain” I feel, the more aware I become, creating in me an overwhelming joy at being able to feel the burning sensation in my muscles, stretching my smile, often making me skip, yelp, or even break into uproarious laughter in appreciation of life.

That is when I feel luckiest. To have the ability to run, jump, dance, burn, and reach muscle failure. Everything movement. is. a. gift. My mind, while focusing on the pleasure of the sensation of life, brings me, with the same unadulterated, pure awareness to the fact that my ability to do these things is mine still because men who tried to kill me failed epically. It’s mine although it has been taken from so many. And then I feel blessed, almost guiltily so. Being conscious of this valuable gift of movement drives me to celebrate it as fully as possible for both myself and for those who aren’t able.

I’m able.

Therefore I run.