Fame fades. Glory diminishes. It probably wasn’t more than 20 minutes after I finished running Boston before I was asked the inevitable question, “What’s next?”
[Amusing side note: Runner friends ask, “What’s your next race?” Everyone else asks, “So are you finally going to take a break?”]
What’s next for me is the biggest challenge I have faced to date. Over Memorial Weekend I will attempt to—literally—run across Georgia
Blair and I separated in February, each of us moving into our respective apartments. (He has the newer, nicer unit but I have a patio and snagged the Saber grill.) Since moving, I find myself having flashbacks to my first apartment after college when I constantly found myself running up against those small everyday items you expect to find around the house that just aren't there.
It has come to my attention that toilet paper, paper towels, light bulbs, batteries, rubber bands, post-it-notes, and hand soap don't just magically appear. I realized just two days ago that I don't own a fly swatter when a wasp got in the house and I was reduced to flinging trail running shoes at it as I ran screaming from the room every time I missed.
Dear Blair: Thank you for filling our home with replacement paper products for the past twenty years. I'm sorry I didn't notice sooner. Also, if you have a free moment, there is a wasp trapped in my bedroom that could use your attention. I'm tired of sleeping on the couch.
Cheers,
Dena
It’s time to start blogging again and what better way to jump into the fray than with a recap of a momentous moment in my life: running the 118th Boston Marathon.
I ran Boston in 2010 and chalked it up as a one and done. I qualify every year but it’s an expensive race (Dear hotels: Three times your standard rates—really??) and I never planned to go back.
Until last year.
I knew almost immediately after the bombings that I would run in Boston in 2014. I wanted to be part of the unity of runners—and of a town—that refused to allow a tragedy to mar the tradition and pride of a historic race.
Not only did I want to run Boston, I wanted to PR. My personal record going into the race stood at a 3:29:31. I wanted a 3:25 so I trained for sixteen weeks on a plan to get me 3:20. I knew I’d need the extra five minutes.
FAVORITE BOSTON MOMENTS
It’s impossible to cover the emotion and magnitude of a race as epic as a Boston, so here are just a few highlights of my race.
The Bus Driver. It’s an hour drive to the start line by bus. Our driver was a woman who from the moment we boarded told us, “I’m here to look after you guys. You need anything, you tell me. You’re all heroes.” Before we got off the bus she got on the loudspeaker and gave a short speech about what seeing runners like us return to Boston meant to her that pretty much had all of us hugging each other and sobbing as we filed off the bus toward Athlete’s Village.
Athlete’s Village. 36,000 runners mill around waiting for the start. I am good friends with two runners from GSO, one of them blind without his glasses—a standing joke in our running group. I’m walking away from the bagel table when a man grabs my shoulder and sticks his face into mine.
My good friend and uber-talented (seriously, so much skill it's ridiculous) writer friend Steve F. Cushman gave a reading last night at Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill and sent me an email saying they had my newest book displayed front and center.
Steve's newest book is one of poetry called Hospital Work and it is... amazing doesn't cover it. This is not what I think of when I think of poetry. It's stories about his work in the hospital and some are raw and gritty and some touching but every one of them perfectly captures a moment or observation. I told him it's the perfect poetry book for people like me who think they don't like poetry. 
I've got a book signing coming up at Barnes & Noble in Greensboro, I believe on Saturday, December 21st at 1 p.m., but I'll confirm and let everyone know.
Cheers,
Dena
Author. Humorist. Fitness fanatic. Control freak (working on it). Mentor. Klutz. All-around decent human being.
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