I can’t remember the last time I went more than 24 hours without a cell phone. No screens, just waves and stars. No texting, just talking around the campfire. No emails, no work, just rest–pure rest.
Two of my best friends from my San Diego spin days decided it was time we all–The Tripod–reunite at a scenic camping spot somewhat-halfway between our two cities.
We booked our Jalama beach camping site in January, dreaming of beach days and campfire nights away from the city lights. We committed to no electronics (save cameras) and no work talk–it was time to reconnect and give our bones the deep rest they needed. Even while writing this two weeks later, I can nearly feel the longing deep down in my marrow to return to that restful space in time.
How quickly the weekend passed by! Unplugging, even for just a short moment, refreshes in a way nothing else can.
Read on for our photo-journal from the trip >>
Last Sunday I boarded a plane bound for Mexico.
After being sick for over a month, bedridden for almost a week, and plain sick and tired of Karl the Fog, there was nothing I wanted more than this: quality time in the sunshine, tropical heat, warm ocean water and oppressive humidity with new friends.
So I dove in.
Cliché I know, but there are few better feelings than crossing the finish line– the swell of emotions, the excitement, relief. Tears (naturally) for me, a cold beer (Anchor Steam) presented to me by my sister.
Sweat dried in salty rivers around my face, white Lulu tank soaked through. Cold, but not, and buzzing with adrenalin, endorphin-charged high. Stoke level 100.
Post-shower (me) with my two faves. What champs! They ran 26.2 miles & look amazing.
A smile unfading despite feeling the sudden tightness in my quads, twinge in my knees, the throb in my Achilles.
This year’s SF Half Marathon coincidentally fell on the same weekend as my apartment move. Packing and shuffling boxes combined with race prep and a friend’s visit to run with us meant struggling with the balancing act– but somehow we made it all happen.
(I’m not kidding when I say I get by with
a little a shoot ton of help from my friends.)
Thirteen years ago I stood on a scale and hated the number I saw for the first time.
I don’t remember what the digits were, but I knew they were higher than the number my friend saw. And suddenly these lines were no longer just empty numbers– they were empty vessels holding all my not enough-ness.
My 12-year-old body saw everything she was not reflected in these numbers: not skinny enough. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough, not responsible or mature enough. Not old enough. Not fast enough. Not funny enough, witty enough, nice enough.
It’s been thirteen years. 13 years. And I’ve had enough. So I’m running 13.1 miles, one mile for each year, to prove it.
Mid-July marks my six month anniversary of my move to San Francisco. July 16, if we want to be exact.
(And if you’ve been reading along for the past six months, you may be dang tired of me writing about and talking about my move– but sorry not sorry, this topic isn’t going away any time soon.)
But today instead of waxing poetic on my love for my city, my home, I’m going to talk about enjoyment.
Blown away by the bay