Happiness is a new hoodie.

The Christmas tree was littered with gifts of the running persuasion this year - magazines, shoes, iPods, Garmins, socks, tights, and HOODIES. 

I am not your normal hoodie fanatic; myself, I prefer a zip-up cardigan any day. However, the absolute necessity of appropriate cold weather running gear is key to a positive (and safe) winter running experience. The fantastic eggplant hoodie with appropriate thumb AND ponytail holes courtesy of my mom and the kickass black Columbia zip-up from my sister are going to see much wear and sweat.

When all the snow melts. Which will hopefully be today. 


At dinner last night, James and I were discussing how we hope The Plan is a launch pad for a life change. We've been taking baby steps together since we met; 2011 is the time for the full-on plunge. 


But not before the snow melts. I am woefully out of practice walking, letting alone running, on anything more than slightly damp surfaces. I've already busted my right leg twice; I'm not looking for any repeat performances. 

Truth is, I haven't run much since the City of Oaks half-marathon back in November. The bacchanal period between Thanksgiving and New Years has always been my running "break" (and I've always told myself I deserve it and that extra glass of wine). So in anticipation, I'm passively going about the spot by rereading Chris McDougall's Born to Run and versing myself on  Peter Sagal's blog. Turns out on top of being witty and hilarious as NPR's "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" host, the man is quite the runner and quite the writer:

    The trick is, just like (most) anything else, including skiing and sex, you have to get good at it before it really becomes fun, and in running, this means getting through those first three to six weeks – or even longer – of effort and discomfort until the day comes when you set out to run and the pain never comes; when your feet fly over the pavement and your breathing comes easy and the air passing over your chest feels like a cool baptism and you realize that you are, and have always been, and will be, a runner.

The Plan.

As I type, snow is falling outside my window. Being the day after Christmas, snowing falling should not surprise; however, the fact that my house is located in the sandflats of rural Eastern North Carolina - a place that hadn't seen a white Christmas since 1947 - makes it quite unusual. A seachange is coming my way and it feels that the very weather is participating.

The Plan, as my husband James and I have come to call it, is to run 1000 miles in the year 2011. (Well, I'm shooting for 1111 miles to make it snazzy.) Seasoned amateur runners, we both felt we need a new challenge when we hatched The Plan several months back.  What I didn't expect was the quickening momentum that even speaking The Plan aloud would have; family, friends, and coworkers have jumped on the running bandwagon and the energy we are creating - independently and together - is intense and inspiring.

For me, The Plan requires this blog; a perennial procrastinator and champion rationalizer, I need some way to hold myself accountable.  In all honesty, The Plan itself is designed to be procrastination-proof (1111 miles in a year averages out to 3 miles per day), but I'm not taking any chances. For once, I want to focus on the process and not the end result.

When searching for a quote for my (newbie runner) mother's iPod, I stumbled upon Team RaceFast...LiveSlow and their t-shirts. Here's to a year of working on both. 

A week of sore calf muscles

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my husband and I jetted to Italy to spend a few days at the coast and a few days in Rome eating lots of awesome food and drinking good wine with my cousin and her husband.

It was the first time in a long while that I had done so much walking. I presently live in the sandflat of rural Eastern North Carolina that has few sidewalks and parks, let alone seaside paths with breathtaking views. 
Arriving in Cinque Terre - rain and all - to walk the towns treated us to sights such as this. 

(No rain, no rainbows.)

The Cinque Terre towns are historical and quaint and appear to be built for mountain goats - not people. The industrious residents have terraced every scrap of arable land for limes, lemons, grapes, olive, clementines, rosemary, tomatoes - you name it, they grow it - resulting in a tightly-quilted town of homes, businesses, churches, and gardens.

So, so many stairs. Each time I contemplated the work (by hand!) that went into creating the roads and paths of the town, my brain wanted to short-circuit. I counted one step - at least 45 hand-chipped stones.

***

 
Back in Rome, we roamed the twisting streets and random piazzas (stopping frequently for espresso or tea), with my cousin Kaetlyn  pointing out various historical and archaeological sites.  We hit up the Forum, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, but I found myself equally drawn to the random beauty of this vibrant city. I felt incredibly nostalgic for my college days in Chicago at DePaul, where my car-less self would wander the streets. (Three miles home from school on a summer night? Yeah, why not?)

Chicago is the city of Big Shoulders; it is almost palpably male. Despite it's patriarchy-steeped history, Rome feels decidedly female to me. Maybe it's because I find myself noticing the older women here; my husband even commented, "The women age beautifully here." They dress beautifully, they wear make-up and perfume, but unlike American women, they aren't trying to pretend they're not 50 years old. 

We even walked up into the dome of St. Peter's Basilica. Not one to normally get claustrophobic, I was surprised at the pounding in my ears as the walls tightened and curved around us. Over 500 steps later, we arrived at the jam-packed top; the views were certainly worth it. 

Walking in Italy? Worth the sore calves.