People on the road get lonely, I understand that and while the gym is a good place to work out some of those frustrations, there are some basics you should know before putting your key card in the door. I’m giving the benefit of the doubt to those individuals who have obviously never been inside a gym before believing all they need is some guidance.

- First, wear shoes. What are you thinking? It’s a hotel, not the beach.

- Second, pick up a towel. I know you have no plans to sweat, but they’re clean and fluffy and absorbent and it is good gym etiquette carry one.

- Third, if you just want to read the newspaper or watch TV, stay in your room or sit in the dining area. Do not fool yourself into thinking you are actually exercising. You are just taking up equipment that someone else could actually utilize as you pad slowly along in your house slippers.

- Forth, I know you are sick of being confined in a room with your teenagers, but do not send them to the gym to get them out of your hair. You brought them on this trip and don’t tell me you didn’t know what that would be like.

- Fifth, wipe down the machine after you finish and removing the salt, germs, and greasy fingerprints you left behind.

- Finally and most importantly, this tip for men. If you are not eye candy please do not come without a shirt. Maybe you haven’t checked yourself in the mirror when you were sober lately. I would suggest you do so immediately, side view if you don’t mind. If by no stretch of the imagination you could be considered ripped, a tee shirt, please, and a loose one if your most prominent feature is the flesh overhanging your belt. I promise I will pretend that you would look great with it off if you will just leave me with the illusion instead of the harsh reality.

Okay, rant over. BTW, it is freaking snowing in Denver this morning and my husband arrived last night without a jacket. I'm draging him out to put his PolarBear propensities to the test. Have a wonderful Sunday.

10 k

I barely noticed the pat-pat of her feet as she came up on my left, but then she apologized for pacing me, and said she wouldn’t be here long. She didn’t indicate that I would be staring at her retreating backside in a few minutes or anything, just jogged there while we got acquainted. Like speed daters, we found out each other’s life history in the few minutes between gasps for air. She is 75 freaking years old, running the 10 K, has climbed Old Rag twice, and then did the Peaks yesterday (Peaks of Otter). I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that when a man about 10 years younger than me comes panting up on my right, and passes us both, flinging sweat from his soggy grey tee shirt. My children were still visible ahead of me at this point, only 3 miles into the run. I get into the serious business of making time after our chat, leaving sweaty guy in my dust and catching up with my kids who are speed walking, not running, to accommodate my slower pace. I caught up with them 20 times or more, running to their walk until I reached mile 5, always wondering why they marked the kilometer race with mile signs. The hill just past mile 5 loomed before me like Mt Everest, and instead of putting on speed, I slowed and contemplated the pain it would cost me to run up that rise. Walking, even speed walking did not bring me closer to my children’s gradually diminishing figures as they turned the corner and vanished. Still, I told myself that I was ahead of some of the pack as I put distance between the graying elders behind me. Somewhere between mile 5 and 6 the sweet little 75 year old and the sweaty guy passed me. I cursed the fact that I had given a pint of blood on Friday, cursed the bad knee and the pain in my hip bones, cursed the number of days on my 228 sign, even cursed the bowl of cereal with soy milk that had been my inadequate breakfast. It was better than facing the fact that I was not in shape for the challenge of actually running only a bit over 6 miles. With the finish line in sight I put on a push, the sideline volunteers cheering me on like Special Olympics coaches. I was really doing all I could when the 75 year old and sweaty man passed me cruising across the beeping mat minutes ahead of me. The final results I just received indicated that I ended third in my age group, tenth overall. Instead of making me happy, I once again cursed the two that finished ahead of me in my “age group”. I am not taking this aging thing well, I know.

Tonight I danced to the happy tunes of Grupo Fantasma at the Folk Festival with my darling daughter in luv, while my husband carried my purse around looking for me. Found, he toted me home like a wayward child with my feet still moving to the Latin beat. Earlier we listened to our lifelong friend do a show that sounded like an act of desperation, a long winded story about chickens for God’s sake, and tunes so out of step with the present reality they were embarrassing. He had given us his health information when we caught him before the show; two heart attracts and bypass surgery. He flirted with my beautiful DIL like he had some kind of chance with her, and told us he had a new woman, an Alaskan that was kicking his butt. He talked about how old we had gotten, meaning himself I suppose, but not really. He has been a player all his life, given up everything for the music except the belief that he still has the fire down below. I remember the day when I realized I was as grown up as I was ever going to be and got down to the business of life. Now I am hoping someone will tell me when I have become old, but not today, please, not today.

Denver From The Air

My sweet little car was full of empty water bottles and pistachio nutshells when I got back from Denver. I was too tired to notice on Wednesday night when I got off the plane, but at 5 AM on Thursday the empties clunked around every curve as I drove to the gym. My girl is not here to fuss with, she’s volunteering on the Appalachian Trail this week. I just put car pool on my list of stops for Friday. I drove the ten miles through a world that seemed claustrophobic, too green, the air too thick, the fog reminding me that I was no longer in the mile high city with its clean crisp atmosphere. As I run on the elliptical I think about my options. My life has shifted again and I have choices to make. I told my director today that I was considering moving to Denver, knowing it makes no sense on many levels except I want it, selfishly. My husband ran the numbers and explained that he needed to work three more years to retire at maximum dollars. I know it would be safer to stay, more sensible. My oldest will come home in the spring, his wife perhaps pregnant with my first grandchild. To tell him I might be gone would be an agony. On the phone my girl said to make my decision independently, not thinking about my children for a change. Old habits die hard, but in my heart I know Colorado feels like home already. I made myself indispensable while I was there. Everyone hugged me and got teary eyed when I left, begged me to stay, to come back.

One morning last week I walked through the small mall near my hotel, Tamarack Square. It was lined with old men and women just sitting at 9 in the morning, trying to fill up an empty day with something. Sometimes I still doubt myself, wonder if I am running too fast, trying too hard. I am in a place past exhausted, but a runner’s high has kicked in and life seems bursting with opportunity and challenge. I’m going back on the fourteenth and the director told me to take a few extra days to look at houses. My husband wants to take me to the beach this weekend, perhaps to remind me there will be no ocean on the high chaparral. He fears change the way I fear stagnation; a strange marriage for sure, but one that has somehow survived through all the changes. In the end we will make the decision together, like we always do. He will need time to accept the possibility, and I to think through my impulsiveness. I know that either here or there makes no difference ultimately, because the decision I made more than two years ago was to live my life to the fullest, eyes wide open. It’s just that in Denver, I can see further.