My Ron Franz

Ron Franz and I had been hiking up the trail for about 1.5 hours when we hit a crossroads. The last half-mile of the trail requires you to navigate a thin slice of ridge (only 2 feet wide) with drop-offs of 1500 and 800 feet on each side. Then, there's a 100-foot climb over a steep rock face to complete before you reach the summit of Angel's Landing in Zion National Park. Since 1989, five people have plummeted to their death on this portion of the trail. When we reached this section, Ron Franz looked back at me, "Jennifer, it looks like you have two choices. Are you going to choose courage or sensibility?"

Ron Franz was not really his name of course. If you have read the Jon Krakauer book or have seen the movie, "Into the Wild," then you will remember that Ron Franz is the name of the 80-year old man that befriends 24-year old wanderer Christopher McCandless. Hal Holbrook played Ron in the movie. Anyone who has seen the film knows that one of the sweetest scenes is when Ron offers to adopt Christopher before his tragic trip to Alaska. Hal Holbrook may not have had much screen time in the film, but his tender performance sticks with you long after the movie is over. So, when this older man asked me if I wanted to join him on this long hike, I instinctively said yes knowing that he would be my Ron Franz.

Ron had recently lost fifty pounds. About five years ago, his doctor warned him that if he didn't take better care of his health, his life would be in serious jeopardy. Without thinking twice, he made some immediate lifestyle changes starting with exercising and eating better. When I asked Ron if he would be able to handle the steep inclines, he pointed to his knees, "They're made of steel now! Got 'em both replaced. Good as new!" A year or so ago, Ron had both knees replaced and focused every ounce of energy on physical therapy. During his rehabilitation, he promised himself that if he got strong enough he would return to Zion to hike Angel's Landing.

He lives in Idaho, but he happened to be in Utah this week for the World Senior Games. He figured since he had a day to kill before his racquetball event, he would hike more than a thousand feet up one of Zion's toughest trails. On our way up, he made one request, "Just make sure I don't have a heart attack." I said that sounded fine as long as he made sure that I didn't fall off the ledge.

Along the way, we talked, we rested, we talked some more, and we took lots of pictures. An amateur photographer, Ron advised me that when taking a photo with people in it, never place them in the center of the picture: "The people are oftentimes the least interesting thing in the picture."

When Ron asked me if I was married, I changed the topic: "So, what do you do for a living?" Ron is a music engraver. When he asked me if I had children, I replied, "How many kids do you have?" He has two kids and five grandchildren. There was a moment where I thought that he might be a widow too since he had not mentioned a wife. I was actually about to open up about Cindy, when I learned that his wife was, in fact, alive. However, she was in poor health condition.

Unlike Ron, she responded to her doctor's health warnings by abandoning all hope of getting better. She continues to eat food not recommended for diabetics and refuses to exercise. "I just don't know how to convince her not to give up," Ron stated as we walked up the steep switchbacks. "We used to do stuff together. Now, it's just TV and potato chips. It's like she's just biding time until the end."

I asked Ron, of all the places he could try his new knees out on, why he chose Zion. He pointed to the rock formations, "I don't think we can ever fathom the amount of time it took to build these canyons. I just wanted to be part of eternity." In my mind, I contemplated the forces that brought me to Zion of all places.

During our lunch break on Scout Lookout, we talked about faith. A former devout Mormon, Ron explained to me the spiritual crisis he went through after 9-11 and the ostracism he encountered from within his own community when he started openly questioning things. "Between me and you Jennifer, now that I am retired, I regret the amount of money I gave to the church. And for what?"

Although I did not share this with Ron, I have been questioning many things myself since Cindy was taken away from us all. She was one of the good ones. I still can't accept it. There was so much more she wanted to do. She wanted to be a nurse. She wanted to write a Hollywood script with her friend Jamie. She wanted to open up a high-tea place with Liz. She wanted to know what the Barrett kids would grow up to be. She wanted to open up a Smoothie King with Rocky. She wanted to see Hamp finally marry Chris. She wanted to be there when Beth Boobs gave birth. And, I wanted all those things for her too. But, then she was taken away from us. Cindy. The sweetest, kindest, most loving person each of us ever knew. I'll never be able to make sense of it.

After I returned from the Summit an hour later, Ron put his arm around my shoulder: "Well, it looks like you chose courage Jennifer." I smiled. "I don't know about that Ron. I just wanted to keep going."

During the journey back, Ron expressed relief that I did not fall off the landing. I replied by thanking him for not having a heart attack. I also thanked him for waiting for me on the Lookout while I left him to complete the scary part of the trail. Ron smiled, "Of course. We were a team and you helped me get as far as I did. I completed my goal and now I can brag about it to my physical therapist." When Ron asked if I wanted to come see him play at the Senior Games. I could tell it broke his heart a little when I turned him down.

Nearing the end of our hike, I did reveal one fact about myself to Ron. When he asked what I do for a living, I mentioned that I help people build Web sites, to which he enthusiastically responded, "I built one too! I placed my wife's music on it [she plays piano]. I just wanted to give her an immortality, you know?" I told Ron I knew exactly what he meant.

Cindy's 10 Steps for Maximizing Your Vegas Buffet Experience

Whatever I learned about successfully working my way through a buffet I owe to Cindy. And believe me, it is work.

1. Do not go to a buffet hungry. If you go to a buffet starving, then you'll inevitably pile up your plate too quickly and run out of steam before you know it. If you go to a lunch buffet, make sure you've had a light breakfast several hours before. If you go to a brunch buffet, make sure to eat some crackers on the way there.

2. Survey the landscape of the buffet before you begin. Figure out where the crab legs are. How far is the carving station from your table? What's to look forward to at the dessert section? Are there shrimps at the salad bar? Cindy said this way you could strategically craft your game plan before blindly piling things onto your plate.

3. Start with the more expensive items. Cindy trained me to focus on the high-ticket fare such as crab legs, shrimp, lox, and prime rib. What I always found odd about Cindy was that despite telling me this she still piled low-cost items onto her plate (e.g., tortilla chips, bread, bacon).

4. Do not drink soda during your buffet experience. I didn't realize this, but soda fills you up faster. Cindy suggested that you start with water so that you can wash down your buckets of food easier.

5. Do not take more than you can eat. If there are spare ribs at the buffet, only place one or two onto your plate. Try a spoonful of the bananas foster before dishing out a huge bowl. Smaller portions of each dish will give your stomach the flexibility it needs to sample more food.

Note on #5: This rule does not apply to bacon. According to Cindy, bacon could be pilled onto your plate in handfuls. Actually, Cindy always gave bacon its own plate. Disgraced, former vegetarians Nikki and Tanya may remember this spectacle.

6. Take breaks between plates. Sometimes I would catch Cindy just chilling at the table while the rest of us had gone back to the buffet line two or three times already. When I asked her about this, she said "I'm pacing myself. I figure with these prices I am paying by the minute here to enjoy this food."

7. When in doubt, use the toilet. Cindy always said there was no shame in using the restroom to "clean out" before proceeding. She was not talking about throwing up mind you. Throwing up one's food on purpose went against everything Cindy believed in. That's because in her mind you're basically tossing out money.

8. Whenever possible, try to get to the buffet at the tail end of a brunch or lunch. Her thinking was that if you stalled long enough at the buffet, you'd be there for a food changeover. This happened to us once at the Mandalay Bay where we paid for the Sunday brunch, but squatted there long enough to flow into their dinner selections. You will never know what feats of strength and stamina we called upon to make that happen.

9. Always bring a purse or bag to the buffet. Why? To stash post-buffet cookies, bread, apples, and bagels in of course.

10. Never write down all the items you eat in a buffet. Cindy warned that if you do this, you will surely want to vomit it up later. And, as I mentioned in lesson #7, tossing your cookies does NOT make for a good return on buffet investment.

Vegas, Baby!

In honor of Cindy, I am going to promote reckless gambling and game play. If there was one thing that I learned from Cindy, it was to take chances.

During one of our many trips to Vegas, Cindy and I were strolling around the casino floor in the wee hours of the morning. It had to be at least 3am, but if you've ever been to Vegas, you know that sleep is not a worthy distraction from gambling or drinking. We were in the Paris Casino and came across an Asian man betting huge stacks of chips on a single number in roulette.

Now, roulette is one the harder games to employ a strategy against. It's not like black jack where you can count cards or poker where you can bet the odds or bluff. In fact, Albert Einstein is rumored to have once said "You cannot beat a roulette table unless you steal money from it." Roulette is a crapshoot. You just throw your money down on a square or series of squares and hope for the best.

This particular gambler caught our attention because he was dropping a stack of thirty $10 chips on a single number on each spin of the wheel. Normally, people try to increase their chances by spreading their money across a range of numbers. But, not this guy. We thought after the first time his number did not hit that he would stop. But, he bet again. And again. And again. On the 5th time, Cindy pinched my arm:

Cindy: Do you have any cash?

JM: Are you crazy?

Cindy: Do you have $50?

JM: This guy's losing money left and right. I'm not going to be that stupid.

Cindy: We have to bet with this guy. He knows something that we don't.

JM: I don't know. $50 is a lot of money to lose.

Cindy: We have to bet with him. He's Asian! Asians know table games better than anyone.

JM: If that's the case, put your own money in.

But, before we could toss our money onto the table, the croupier waved his hand across the table and announced "No more bets." I tried to pull Cindy away from the table because I didn't want to be there if the crazy man's number actually hit. But, then a second later, the croupier shouted "14!" and placed the glass marker on top of the man's bet indicating that his number had hit. Straight-up bets (which is what this kind of bet on a single number is called) pay 35 to 1. This man had won about $10,000. And although Cindy and I did not technically lose any money, it felt like we had lost our entire house in a bad poker hand.

Cindy and I walked back to the room with our heads held down. I didn't know what to say to her to make her feel better. Finally, she broke the silence and proclaimed "If you don't play, you can't win."

Since I couldn't turn back the clock and have us throw our money onto the table, I did the next best thing:

JM: Want to do the buffet at the Mandalay Bay tomorrow morning?

[Cindy lifts up her head]

Cindy: Can we go right at the tail end of breakfast?

JM: Why the tail end?

Cindy: That way we can have the breakfast and then be there when they set up the lunch food. Two for then price of one, lady!

JM: I like the way you think.

Blood, Sweat, and a Year

For the past year, my mind has been like a jukebox. I never know what song is going to be played and I am powerless to what is chosen for me. One moment the song may be uptempo and carefree, then hours later someone decides to dedicate the rest of their quarters to the entire Disintegration album by The Cure. Each song that is played transports me to a different time in my life, plops me in the middle of another moment with Cindy, and abandons me there until a new song is played. I secretly struggle with the desire for someone to trip over the power cord.

The year started with my fist slamming down against the windowsill, the skin ripped open, and blood on my jacket. Actually, let me back up a bit.

On August 21, 2005, Cindy and I watched the series finale of Six Feet Under. I remember gathering at Hamp and Chris's house to tune in for the final episode. Most of the episode was spent concluding the season's story lines. But, it was the last minutes of the show that stuck in my mind. The finale concluded with a video montage showing the deaths of all the main characters taking you from 2025 with the death of the mother to the daughter's death in 2085. While the song "Breathe Me" by Sia Furler played in the background, we sat motionless on the couch and witnessed each person's demise. I challenge anyone who watched the episode to tell me that they didn't reflect on their own mortality after that sequence. In fact, I remember vividly the conversation I had with Cindy later that night. It had to be at least 2am, we were already in bed, and out of the blue I remember intertwining my arms with Cindy's and squeezing tightly.

Cindy: Why are you still up?

JM: I can't sleep. I'm still thinking about that episode. Why are you still up?

Cindy: I'm doing my Sodoku.

JM: I don't know what I'd do without you. I'd never be able to go on with my life if you died before me.

Cindy: Jeez lady, you are so morbid.

JM: Can you promise me that you won't die before me? Can you promise me that we'll die together in our sleep?

Cindy: No.

JM: You're cold, you know that?

Cindy: I'm Asian.

JM: Seriously, I'd throw in the towel if I had to live my life without you.

Cindy: No you wouldn't.

JM: Yes, I would.

Cindy: Well, you shouldn't. You need to live your life.

JM: I'd die without you.

Cindy: You'd better not.

JM: I'll never be like Paul McCartney and forget all about Linda.

Cindy: You better move on.

JM: Why? I'd want you to haunt me forever.

Cindy: Golly lady, you are morbid. If I die, you better go on living. I want you to be happy. Now go to sleep crazy lady.

JM: I love you so much.

[2-second pause]

JM: Why do you roll your eyes?

Cindy: I'm just playing with you. I love you too. Now, go to bed and dream about the nursing home we'll be in together in the future.

---

At 11:58pm on Tuesday, September 30th, Cindy experienced her first seizure related to the aneurysm. I knew. I just knew our lives would never be the same after that rupture. What else could I have done in that moment? The sounds. I hate the sounds. The site of the seizure immobilizing her body. When those images fly into my mind they burn. Twenty-four hours after Cindy went into the hospital, I grabbed a notebook and jotted down everything I could remember of the those two seizures (she had one in the emergency room too). I have not looked in that notebook since. I don't need to. When you turn to your husband, your wife, your partner, your lover and you say I want you to go first, this is why you say that.

I want to tell you that it gets easier. I want to comfort you by saying that you can do it. But, it's a bit like running a marathon. You'll constantly be battling your mind, your body, and the desire to collapse on the ground. Each day requires intense physical and mental exertion to make it to the end. Sometimes I wonder if my mind knew that my body would need to be in superior shape to handle this astounding amount of stress. Two weeks after Cindy's funeral, I somehow dropped about thirty pounds. And in the year since Cindy had the aneurysm, I have run a total of 402 miles. I'd wager that I've listened to Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" on about 50% of those runs.

---

The above photograph was the first picture ever taken of Cindy and me together. Taken with an old-fashioned film camera, we stood freezing in front of Teaism in Dupont Circle. We had just seen "The Royal Tennenbaums" at the tiny theatre near the Metro. We both knew we were going to love this movie based on the soundtrack alone, which featured The Ramones, The Clash, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, and a score by a former member of Devo. It's hard for me to look at this photo because I had no idea, at the time, how this was going to end.

---

I can't sleep. Even though I started this entry at 11:55pm, it is now 2:56am. I don't want to sleep. Once I sleep, it means that a year has passed. A year away from Cindy? No one could stand being away from Cindy that long. Even though she sometimes annoyed the piss out of some her friends with her inability to sit still, to commit to play dates, to pay for anything at full price, to wear anything other than her tattered hoodie, people still kept coming back for more. A year. When she was alive, I couldn't imagine 24 hours without Cindy. And now, I've had to endure a year.

I know I am not alone. In my cell phone contact list, I have the numbers of three other widows. I correspond with five other widows on e-mail. And I also connect with those that have lost their parents, siblings, friends, and even their own children. Our specific experiences may be different, but we all have a connection. I do not know how I would have survived this year without those people in my life. And, of course, I've had an awesome family, a wonderful set of friends, and a loyal dog to lean on throughout all this.

It's 3:25am. The battery life on my iPod is at 20%. Eva Cassidy's song has just ended and that song by The Sundays has come on, which is my cue.

The year started out with my fist slamming against the windowsill. Then, I ran as far as my body would take me. And now, after a year, I've finally accepted the fact that I will never be able to catch up with Cindy.

---

Note: Some may wonder why I don't count the day she officially died (10/14) as the one-year mark. It's because as soon as she had the second seizure, she never regained full consciousness. Unlike the miracles you see in melodramas, she never squeezed my hand, communicated to me through blinking, or mouthed "I love you" after the first seizure.

Ten Things You Always Wanted to Know About Widows, But Were Too Afraid to Ask

Early on in my cultural and feminist studies, I learned the importance of not making sweeping generalizations about entire classes of people. For the purposes of this blog entry, I am planning to make massive assumptions about all widows. I should really be saying “I,” but will instead be typing “we.” Tonight, I am going to speak for every single widow in the country.

1. During holiday time, we do not want those damn cards with the pictures of your kids on them. In fact, I can’t think of any single gal that likes getting those cards, but I’m only focusing on widows here. First, nothing is worse than holiday time after losing the one person you actually enjoyed spending the holidays with. Then, you have to endure day after day getting those constant reminders that scream, “Hey, look at my annoyingly happy family that you don’t have anymore.” Of course, I know that is not the intention of them. What can I say? I’m planning to be in a bad mood for a very long time.

2. We will say whatever the f*ck we want. Liz tells me that I only have two more months before the filter in my brain needs to return. However, for the past 10 ½ months, I have truly enjoyed blurting aloud every thought that comes into my mind. I always imagined that I would have to wait until my fifties to be so forthright. There have been some gems too. Like the time I asked my friend Katie if I could sample her breast milk. Or, the time I told my friend Nancy that I secretly referred to her as “my MILF” behind her back. Or, when I told a close male friend to not be so “tightfisted” with his money. Or, when I told a certain female friend that she needs to not wear those white pants anymore.

3. We always want to talk about our departed loved ones. If Cindy knew I was keeping this blog, she would kill me. First of all, she’d be pissed that I was referring to her by her real name. And she’d go crazy if she saw all the pictures that I’ve been posting of her. I can’t help it—I need this blog. If the front desk guy at my apartment building wanted to have a 30-minute conversation about Cindy, I’d gladly be late to work to talk about her. The only time I don’t like talking about Cindy is when the person I am talking to wants to compare their break-up with my loss. It’s not the same; it will never be the same. This happened at work the other week and I almost lost it on the poor boy.

4. We sit in our cars a lot. There used to be this obese woman who would come back from work everyday at 6pm and she’d sit in her car for at least 10 minutes before entering her house. When I used to walk Vegas in our old neighborhood, I would notice her sitting in her parked car just staring at the windshield. By the time I made the loop around the block, she would finally emerge from the car. I remember telling Cindy about her and Cindy was like, “Maybe she’s sad she lives alone, you know? Just trying to mentally prepare for the evening.” I didn’t really understand this because the woman had about five cats roaming around her porch and sometimes her son would come by to mow the overgrown grass. But now, I spend a lot of time in my car. No music. The engine turned off. Staring at the windshield. We can really do our best crying sitting in the closest thing we have to a soundproofed room.

5. We completely identify with the Sally Field character from “Steel Magnolias.” I remember the first time that I saw the movie, I thought Sally Field overacted during the Julia Roberts funeral scene. I loved the movie, but still felt it was a bit melodramatic. A couple of weeks ago, I re-watched the movie for the first time in ages. And when Sally Field screams during the funeral scene, I was like “I hear ya, sister. Let it out!” It’s what all us widows are thinking everyday of our lives: “I am so mad. I don’t know what to do. I wanna know why Shelby’s life is over . . . I just wanna hit somebody till they feel as bad as I do. I just wanna hit something! I wanna hit it hard!”

6. We recognize the importance of life insurance. Funerals are f*cking expensive.

7. We have zero tolerance for bullsh*t. Maybe it’s because we know how short life can be, how precious the seconds are that we will get up from a boring conversation mid-sentence. One time at a party, there was this guy talking to me about how he’d never be strong enough to handle the death of his wife and that I must be amazing to be dealing with this. Why would I want to hear this? I don’t want to hear this. Before Cindy died, I used to watch a LOT of television. Our DVR was easily maxed out every week. And now? I don’t watch anything (well, except “Golden Girls”). I definitely can’t watch anything that takes itself too seriously. I tried to watch “Lost” (a show that I used to love) after Cindy’s death and I threw my shoe at the TV. I was like this is complete nonsense and where are the women getting this never-ending supply of tampons from?

8. We think we know more about life than the rest of you.

9. We will look for signs of our reincarnated loved ones everywhere. I remember one desperate time when I was trying to clean out the bedroom after Cindy died and I was sprawled on the floor crying. And I looked over to my cat that had just been walking on my back, locked eyes with him, and asked “Cindy?”

10. It takes us a long time to realize that we no longer have to relegate ourselves to one side of the bed. It only took 319 days for me to start sleeping in the middle of my bed.

Voices Carry

In my opinion, there were three times the Academy Awards got it completely wrong: 1) in 1950 when Bette Davis lost Best Actress to Judy Holliday, 2) in 2005 when Dolly Parton lost for Best Song, and 3) in 1986 when Kathleen Turner did not win Best Actress for "Peggy Sue Got Married."

"Peggy Sue Got Married" is one of those movies that I am compelled to watch regardless how many times I have seen it before. One scene, in particular, makes me cry every time--and I know I'm not the only one. Whenever someone tells me that they love this movie, 9 times out of 10, that person will mention this scene. The scene itself lasts maybe ten seconds, but it has stayed with me forever. As I approach the 306th day since Cindy's death, this scene has been playing over and over in my mind.

I am sure most of you know this movie. But, in case you don't, Peggy Sue is at her 25-year high school reunion when she faints. When she wakes up, she discovers that she has been magically transported back to 1960, her senior year of high school. Peggy Sue has a lot of fun seeing old friends restored to their younger bodies and mouthing off in her math class since she knows that in the future she "will never have the slightest use for algebra." But, then the movie takes a serious turn when confronted with the voices of those who have since passed on.

---

The TELEPHONE RINGS.

PEGGY SUE'S MOM
Would you get that, dear?

PEGGY
Sure, Mom.
(picking up the phone)
Hello.

Peggy gasps. Her mother turns to her.

PEGGY SUE'S MOM
Peggy! What's the matter? Who is it?

PEGGY
(shaken)
It's Grandma. I can't talk to her now.
(into phone)
I'm sorry, Grandma.

Peggy hands the receiver to her mother and runs out of the
room sobbing.

---

Kathleen Turner plays this scene brilliantly. The dramatic punch comes not from a long-winded, melodramatic declaration of love for her grandmother, but from Kathleen Turner's desperate look in her eyes when she hears her grandmother's voice. The voice reminds Peggy Sue of our mortality and breaks her heart.

Who wouldn't want to hear the voice of a departed loved one? What would you say if given the chance? Would you be able to control your emotions long enough to speak coherently? I've mentioned to several friends that I would chop off my right arm to talk to Cindy just one more time. When I told my friend Nancy this, she asked me what I would say to Cindy. So many words bang around in my brain that, in the end, nothing intelligible ever comes out of my mouth. Even in the scene I quoted above, Peggy doesn't actually say anything significant to her grandma.

When Cindy was in the ICU for those two weeks, my mind ached with the desire for her to wake up, even for five minutes, so that I could talk to her just one more time. I didn't know when I tossed her the batteries for the blood pressure machine that was going to be the last time I got to speak to her. No one told me this. Cindy didn't tell me this. I had no idea.

So, yes. I want to speak to her again. I want to hear her voice. Her deep, sweet voice. A word. One single word would be fine. And perhaps I could even utter a few sentences back to her. Okay, maybe we can't engage in a big conversation. That's fine. How about if I could just see her one more time. Just be able to see her dark, brown eyes staring back at mine again. I am not asking for much, am I? Seems so simple, right? With a little bit of movie magic, could this not happen?

Back in April, when I knew I had less than an hour to pack up almost 8 years of my life from the house I shared with my life partner, there was one item I was determined to get above everything else. I told my friends who helped me that if we can only get one thing, that one thing needs to be this tiny videotape labeled "Road Trip 2002." This tape contains footage of our road trip from California to Seattle. It may be years before I can ever watch this video. And quite possibly, I may never be able to watch this video. Like Peggy Sue, hearing Cindy again may be too much and I too will run from the voices.

As I end this entry, I wonder what will be the last words you say to your loved one tonight before you go to bed? Maybe it's "I love you?" Maybe it's "Turn over, you're snoring." No matter what, I am envious of you.

The Time I Pooped on My Sneakers

While I always looked forward to seeing Cindy at the finish line, I do not have particularly fond memories of the start of any race. The unfortunate tradeoff to having Cindy at my races meant that she often drove me to the race as well, and she was never on time for anything. Cindy was upfront about this fact. She always warned people that she was on "Filipino Time." Through the years, I learned to accept this aspect of her. However, racing to the start line with five minutes to tie my shoes and slap on my bib number is something I never got used to. In fact, I lost a perfectly fine pair of sneakers because of Cindy's tardiness. More about that later.

I arrived ninety minutes early for the 5K race that I did this past Saturday, and it felt glorious. For a month, I have been stressing about this race. Not wanting to do it alone, I asked every runner friend of mine to do it with me. I did not tell anyone that I was scared of the ghosts/emotions that I would encounter at a race that I fondly remember attending with Cindy only a year ago. Even though I failed to get anyone to join me, I forced myself to go.

As I was leaving, my friend Liz offered to walk me to the metro. I knew this was out of her way, but I also knew that she would make me laugh. Had she not offered to walk with me, I am certain I would have thrown on my headphones, blasted "Plainsong" by The Cure, and continued onto Crystal City as if I was going to a funeral. Sometimes I wonder if Liz knows just how often she is in the right place at the right time with me.

Because of the jokes we shared on the stroll to the metro, I arrived at the race in good spirits. I meandered around the start area and observed all this activity that I never got to witness before. There were people stretching out, runners registering on-site and checking bags, families taking pictures, and volunteers filling up water cups. And even though I didn't actually have to "go," I went into one of the freshly opened Port-o-Johns and indulged myself by sitting down on the seat.

All runners know that the Port-o-John you force yourself to use before the race is the grossest place on Earth. Something about running must upset the bowels so much that these Port-o-Johns are often violated before, during, and after the race. I should know. I am an offender.

Labor Day 2006. Cindy and I were doing the Virginia Beach Half Marathon. As usual, Cindy went to bed late, having stayed up until 2am playing poker with her sister and Keila. In order to get to this race, I told Cindy that we had to be up by 6:00am and out the door by 6:30am (the race started at 7:00am). Even though I had laid out Cindy's race outfit, filled up her water bottle, prepared her breakfast, and charged up her iPod, Cindy was still running around the house like a crazy person at 6:30. We didn't get out the door until 6:45am. Then, five minutes into an already tense car ride, Cindy realized that she had forgotten her ID and we had to go back.

We finally arrived at the race with one minute to go. Normally, when I do a half marathon, I like to eat an hour before the race and then have some time to casually go to the bathroom before the race starts. But, we were way behind schedule this time. I thought about skipping the bathroom routine and just starting the race. But, nerves combined with stress combined with my frustration at Cindy for being late did a number on my intestines. I ran into one of the Port-o-Johns and, just as I was about to go, I heard the gun go off. Then, there was the "explosion."

If you know me well, you know that I do NOT like toilet humor. I don't care for fart jokes or humorous yarns about one's poop. So, believe me when I tell you that I do not write this for laughs. But, until that fateful morning on September 3, 2006, I never thought I was capable of such a sh*tshow. There was crap everywhere. On the seat. On the lid. And, when I looked down, on my brand-new $100 sneakers.

I cleaned myself up best I could. After several minutes and a wad of toilet paper later, I abandoned the Port-o-John with my head held down in shame. When Cindy saw me she immediately asked what was wrong.

Cindy: You still pissed at me?
JM: No.
Cindy: Come on, let's go. We're not too late to start.
JM: I need to walk slowly for a second.
Cindy: Come on, don't be mad at me.
I point to my sneakers.
Cindy: What the hell is that?
JM: I just crapped on my shoes.
Cindy: GROSS! You are nasty.
JM: I blame you.
Cindy: You are nasty. Runners are gross.

I thought about this incident on Saturday night when I ran the Crystal City Twilighter in the pouring rain. I remember thinking how it would have helped the smell had it rained on my sh*tty sneakers that day in 2006. Near the end of this race, I got sad thinking about Cindy and I wanted to cry. The loneliness almost overtook me, but then I noticed Chris Anderson, waving to me from under an umbrella about six feet from the finish line. My good friend Chris ventured out in the worst weather (rain, lightening, and thunder) to see me finish a measly 5K race. I wanted to cry. I wanted to give him a big hug. I wanted to tell him that he was my hero. But, all I could muster was, "Let's go eat. I'm hungry for steak"--words that, in my mind, translate to "I love you, friend."