I Believe in Miracles (You Sexy Thing!)

Hoofing it on the Golden Gate

Back in February, my old college roomie came for a weekend stay and we pored over glossy fashion magazines, cozed under sofa blankets while topped with dozing kittens, watched a solid amount of teen dramedy Greek (WATCH THIS IMMEDIATELY) and in general drove Mr Findingmoxie crazy with our inactivity and inability to get out of the house in under an hour. In the midst of all this girl-fest, Scraps started talking about a concept that changed my view of my unemployed time. Having recently gone through a long stretch of unemployment herself, she decided that the time would not be wasted. It would be her Unemployed Renaissance. She taught herself how to knit, she baked new recipes, she made her own facial products, and she ran. And it was like being smacked in the face with inspiration. I desperately needed a theme, a concept to give structure to my days.

And so, the Moxissance was born. I began reading all the classics that I was never assigned, began an HTML course online, began writing creatively again and bought a trampoline. But Scraps was not done. She whispered the words  San Francisco Half Marathon. I was floored with possibility and apprehension. I had always wanted to run a race and like everyone else, was shamed by seeing pensioners run across the finish line at the London Marathon year after year. And I enjoyed running--that is, when I was actually doing it, but it had been a long while since I'd hit the treadmill. Fear crept in and reminded me that all my years of yoga had given me a dodgy hip that didn't even like sitting still for too long, how on earth would it submit to 13.1 miles of pounding asphalt? I had also never met a shoe, heeled or sneaker, that wouldn't give me a blister if I pushed long enough. Shimmying around the fear, though, was excitement. I could do this and it would be great. It would be an achievement that I could smile fondly upon when I have more coral than bone in my hip or allow me to bare my teeth when faced with insurmountable odds. I wanted this.

 I admit, I did drag my heels quite a bit. From February to April, I swung back and forth. Finally, I joined a gym and began running in mid-April. Let me tell you, it was discouraging. I huffed and puffed, sweated and yeah, I cried (thanks a lot, CNN for tugging at my heartstrings while I'm sweaty and vulnerable). One day, I kept on pushing and suddenly, it was good. I felt strong and began thinking, maybe I will register for this marathon thingy. Piece of cake. I bit the bullet and put my money where my mouth is. Now, I had to kick asphalt to get my money's worth. I developed a game plan. A shot of espresso, a handful of Gatorade chews, and a jaunty walk down a massive hill to the gym ensured a good run. Any deviation meant bad luck on the treadmill. I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that I was going to be a superstitious runner.

Just over the finish line

Five miles came and went. I positively loved five miles. I felt like a warrior queen at five miles. Seven miles was not so easy. I was less a warrior and more a wounded bird. Eight miles was my wall. The wall of walls. I felt about a 100 years old at eight miles. I spent a week trying to get past eight , without blistering or without twinging in my hip. My runs began to feel like whole lifetimes were passing as I beat out a rhythm on the treadmill. My headphones began to irritate my inner ears. My left foot kept blistering in the same spot and I kept waiting for a friendly, protective callous to form. Not my luck, I'm afraid.

The day I hit ten miles I felt like bursting with pride. My body had different ideas. As soon as I got home on a wave of triumph known as the 37 bus, I promptly threw up. And then, burst into violent hives. I won't lie, that was a psychological setback. I hadn't even run outdoors yet. I hadn't even factored wind resistance into my endurance and I was already covered in red splotches. Scraps tried to talk me down from this one and told me to take it easy. I was too deep into the throes of my obsessive compulsive need for perfection, however. I needed to take it to the streets.

Two days later, I plotted a seven mile run outdoors, from our door to the sea. I nipped through stop signs, jogged in place on corners, dodged pedestrians, ran into the wind, the sun warm on my face, and stared into the glittering blue line of the sea on the distant horizon. I was energized, over-heated, embarrassed, enthralled  and so very happy to be alive. It was a grand old run and  I knew I was ready.

Now, what to wear? You think I'm kidding. I assure you, I'm not. This went on for a while and involved multiple visits to sports shops. Outfit sorted, the day of the race crept close. Scraps flew in and made me watch "The Spirit of the Marathon," a documentary about marathon training. Fear twisted my insides. I focused on mantras for the good times and mantras for the bad times. I went to bed with a heavy sense of dread and woke up on Marathon day.

Mr Findingmoxie had gotten up earlier (to the tune of 4:30AM) to pick up our rental car to drive his runners to the race as we'd learned the hard way, there was NO trusting SF public transport. A fact that was proved again when we were hailed by another runner, who had been waiting for a bus for nearly half an hour. We needed the good karma, so she joined our merry band. Scraps and I were in different waves and when she left me, I nearly hyperventilated and could not get my bloody numbers pinned to me. My hands were shaking and finally, I gave up having the stupid thing on straight. And then, boom, off we went.

My final stats: Tag Time 2:47:46

It was a gloriously sunny morning and running along the piers, the Bay Bridge at our backs and the Golden Gate around the bend, I was pleased as punch. Even though it was a ridiculously early start, there were some awesome folks out supporting the marathon with signs and shouting slogans (personal favourite was 'Your Feet Hurt Because You're Kicking Ass.' Yes, yes, I am). I was so touched by these enthusiastic, kindly early risers that I high-fived everyone who had a hand out throughout the entire race--because, gosh-darn it, they EARNED it. God knows I would never have lined a race course at 6am and probably never will.

The first five mile marker came out of nowhere and I double-checked my Casio in disbelief. I had beaten all my previous times. I was killing it and yet it felt like I was slow and steady. Rad! I was definitely going to make the Golden Gate Bridge before they opened it back up for traffic. And I suppose that's what you call hubris. Halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge, my left knee begin to twinge. I noted it and continued, thinking that like all twinges before it, was just a kink that needed stretching out. Another half mile and it was getting hard to ignore, so I thought I'd walk for a bit--which killed me a little since I'd set a goal of running the bridge in its entirety. It's the small victories, people. But I needed my knee to finish, so I took a break. But walking hurt as well. Not as much, but still, that was worrying. I spent the next 2 miles walking, hoping it would heal itself.  It never did.

That's when the rage kicked in and burned through my veins. I had worked so hard, I had been doing great on my time. Mr Findingmoxie was waiting for me at the finish line and Scraps was already scheduled to finish faster than me and now they would have to wait even longer? NO. Just no. "The Spirit of the Marathon" rose up to remind me that runners run. You don't stop, you just keep running. So, I started to run. I limp-ran, ignoring my left knee, putting more weight on my right leg. And it sucked, but I was proud of myself for not giving up and it was that spirit of determination that got me over that finish line 4.5 miles later.

It was truly amazing to come across the finish to cheers and hugs. I'll gloss over the part where we were so cold our teeth were chattering, even with dry sweaters and foil wraps, where the Irish coffee we were promised had run out and where I spent the next 3 weeks hobbling on crutches and a knee brace. And still haven't been able to run properly.

Instead, I'll tell you, it was totally worth it and I am eyeing a Berkeley Half Marathon next Thanksgiving.

The Trick is Not to Expect It, But to Delight in It When It Comes

Les Findingmoxies

One of the boons of dual citizenship  is the surplus of holidays and traditions. Add some ethnic flavour to the pot and you can bilk a few more holidays out of the universe. Which basically means we've got Guy Fawkes Day, 4th of July, Cinco de Mayo, Persian New Year, Boxing Day and Burns Night.

However, as with any awesome thing, there is a cost and to maul a metaphor, the other side of that coin is missing out on events in the lives of your friends and family. So it happened that Mr Findingmoxie's sister got herself hitched one lovely June day eight hours ahead of us.

Not to be left out of the festivities, I immediately wanted to invite all our Bay Area peeps to Casa Findingmoxie for a dawn prosecco raid. Mr Findingmoxie, ever the voice of reason and restraint, postulated that perhaps our peeps would not wish to don their glad rags and quaff prosecco from earliest light. I scoffed, but relented. Although, I'm sure this was a disservice to the locals. Mr Findingmoxie gracefully accepted that while others would not answer the call to raise prosecco, there would be no stopping us.

The day dawned bright and sunny in San Francisco (and surprisingly, in Sheffield eight hours earlier. Seriously, every time I've been to Sheffield, it's either been rain or snow, never sunlight). I had the perfect dress I'd been saving, sparkly and vibrant. Mr Findingnmoxie donned his wedding suit and even Dexter submitted to a bow around his neck. A major cat feat, I know. My last endeavour to wrangle cats into a festive cheer involved two kittens, two homemade birthday hats and a camera. Every time I got one hat on one kitten, I turned around to find that the other had chewed his off--argh, how else would Scraps know that Oregon and Dakota loved her on her birthday? Finally, I had to give up in hysterics. As for Dex, it helped that the ribbon was a welcome break from the Cone of Shame that the poor little tyke had worn for the last two days. Booted, suited and bowed, we met the morning with deliciously flakey quiche and our favourte bubbly.

Dex, taking some down time from the festivities

Giddy in  the way that only early morning bubbly guzzling can induce, we set up the tripod and posed for our family portrait. The morning passed in a blur of laughs, top-ups and catching glimpses of the actual event through the reporting of our on-site correspondents.

And let me tell you, it was possibly one of the most enjoyable wedding celebrations in which I've ever taken part. No hauling a clutch around all night, no seating arrangements, no small talk with strangers, ridiculously easy access to my tipple of choice (knowing that it's the good stuff), no queueing up for anything and no pacing ourselves (uh-oh, you'd think, but no!). Only thing missing was the dancefloor and the musical cheese.

Lunch rolled around to find us gloriously merry.  As we headed down the road to have a burger, there was a certain cachet to being the the giggliest people in the neighbourhood. And man, never has a burger tasted so damn good.