Giddy up n’ go

“If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen are defrocked, shouldn’t it follow that cowboys would be deranged?” ~Anon

Someday, when my ungrateful children are complaining bitterly about their paltry Coverdell savings accounts and insisting that I never really loved either of them, I will silence their complaints with three short words: Rocking Horse Ranch.

In case you either a) have been living under a rock or b) don’t have children, let me edify you about this wallet vacuuming masterpiece of parental guilt that is the Rocking Horse Ranch. Think Dirty Dancing Christmas Special set at a dude ranch in upstate New York and you get the idea. I scheduled this trip back in October when I realized that I’d be a little under my game this Christmas, and started to worry about the future Christmas memories of my children. Any parent worth his or her salt could tell you that in the poker game of life, a guilt royal flush trumps a fiscal responsibility full house every time.

Which is why December 26^th found us hurtling down Route 95 into the wild blue yonder, wallets already stripped bare from the parental guilt of waiting until December 24^th to shop or decorate for The Big Day, threatening physical harm to our children if they didn’t sit down and shut up already.

We miraculously arrived at the ranch with all four members of our family present and intact. It suddenly dawned on me, and I’m sure most of you saw this coming long before I did, that the Rocking Horse Ranch is a ranch, with, as one would expect, the usual ill conceived ranch décor: raw leather seat cushions, the random and prolific use of cow skulls as decorative chochki, oppressively large deer antler chandeliers at frequent intervals along the ceiling, dead deer heads adorning every remaining square foot of wall space. I did a quick head count (literally) and figured a good gross of animals died for the sake of these decorations in the main lobby alone, not including whatever bones were used in laying the foundation. With a sinking heart I realized that sure as tootin’ every single surface on that patch of land, food or otherwise, was in all likelihood lovingly coated with a fine powder of dead animal dust. Good lord, what’s an appalled vegan to do? I know most of you would have resorted to the “When in Rome” technique, which I did consider for a moment. In deference to my surroundings though, I opted for the ol’ “When in Mexico” technique. Translation? Stick to the bottled stuff.

While Sean herded the children into the pool, I started to piece together our itinerary for the weekend. I quickly crossed the Balloon Manipulating Clown off of our evening’s entertainment choices. And sadly, the Family Fun Bovine Blood Bath had been cancelled, since the last of the herd had recently been slaughtered to decorate the new “Kansas” wing. That left us with three days chock full of horseback riding, snow tubing, crafts, watching the horses cross the road, and the ever popular “How much time until dinner?” game.

In no time at all, the ranch lulled me into the kind of stupor that can only be brought on by never having to actually think for oneself. My single lucid memory of this time is of the 10 seconds spent hurtling down the icy snow tubing course like a kamikaze luge contender, utterly convinced that I would be the only confirmed snow tubing casualty for 2008. (I had visions of bug eyed statisticians (sorry Mindy) compiling figures in a fluorescent lit back office, just about ready to close up shop for the year until the arrival of a panting messenger screaming “Stop the download! We’ve got to add another category!”)

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I would have willingly spent 10 times what I did for the sight of my son in his flannel shirt, sleeves and neck buttoned to the maximum extent possible, acting very tough as he headed off for a trail ride with his dad. And the look on my daughter’s face when she discovered that the world had invented something as awesome as karaoke was nothing short of priceless. The unexpected appearance of tofu on the menu, hold the dead animal dust, was kind of cool, too.

But I digress: what does this have to do with running? Only this. For the first time, I understand why the best Olympic marathoners train in places other than Mexico and upstate New York.

Seriously though, between the time that I penned my Christmas lament and now, I have gotten in quite a few runs, including an absolutely ridiculous 7 mile slog along the coast in negative wind chill temperatures (Happy New Years!). As much as I love the craziness of December, I am feeling a great sense of satisfaction in finally executing the clown plan, which as of today is moving forward. Here are the elements:

1. Weight training:
   1. Enter Kelly the Personal Trainer, a sweet little thing about half of my size who could easily dead lift 400lbs and who really GETS it.
   2. Core work - turns out that running has very little to do with the legs, go figure, but everything to do with my pathetic marshmallow core.
   3. Also turns out that all the hours that I have been doing weight training were not even close to what I needed.
2. Flexibility work:
   1. Enter yoga.
   2. Ugh.
   3. Is it possible to do yoga while sedated? Probably not. See “food” below.
3. Food
   1. “The food, the whole food, and nothing but the food” as they say
   2. Goodbye wine, hello kale, chick peas, brown rice.
   3. Ugh.
4. Weight loss
   1. All things being equal, skinnier people run faster. Rough calculations are that for each kg of weight loss I should expect to increase speed by 10-15 seconds a mile. If I drop 5 pounds, that’s 6 minutes off of my marathon time, without making any other changes. That’s pretty significant.
5. Running (duh).

From now until my 16 mile race on January 25^th, the goal is to hit every workout, every run, and every yoga class. So far so good! : – )

Wish me luck, and stay tuned!

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