Ginger Snap

One of the things I love about living in Chicago is seeing the mood of the people who visit me from the provinces---everything is soooo big and sooo exciting and the people are soooo hip and well-dressed and it's all big-eyed wonder and if my visitor is female and I am so inclined it tends to make her much more receptive to my advances. That doesn't necessarily mean that we'll pass out from exhaustion next to an empty box of Durex condoms and a bottle of K-Y jelly, but it does mean that I have less work to do to impress her.

Yes, Ginger arrived this weekend from the Wisconsin border. I met her at the train and she was exactly what I expected from her pics and her emails: red-headed, petit, trim and inclined to use words like "gee" and "gosh" a lot. We went to Small Bar in Ukrainian Village for lunch (she said ahead of time that she wasn't into fancy foods, and tends to like meat and potatoes. A brie-burger would have been pushing it) and we ordered up a pair of their organic burgers.

From there, it was back to my apartment. I put on some music and we started making out. I was pleased with her body---so many women in their mid-thirties let themselves go to pot, especially when they're married. Her ass was small enough for me to get a hand firmly over each bun. Nice. Also, her breasts were firm and pert.

We fell asleep after an energetic bout of lovemaking, woke up and went at it again. However, as I was working on her from behind I felt a sharp pain in my calfs and had to roll over. She looked up to see me moaning, in pain.

"Cramps," I explained, "I run a lot and I often get them...."

My erection disappeared almost immediately.

Five minutes later, however, all was well and the finish was.....nice. She tasted good, too, which is always a plus.

She told me she couldn't spend the night, which was OK with me---she is still married, so discretion is the key here. I decided to call Len and see if he wanted to come up to see a Bears game, either live or on TV.

"I was thinking about coming up tonight. I need to think of a reason not to."

Five minutes later he sent a text: "I'm on my way."

This would be the first test for Ginger. Christy would have failed miserably. I never introduced her to Len because she wouldn't have mixed well. She tended to be clingy and resent anything that took some of my attention away from her.

Ginger, however, was just fine, being her usual chirpy, chatty self. We all went out for pizza at Piece and Len offered to pick up the tab. I resisted the temptation to order two bottles of their most expensive wine and asked Ginger what she liked and didn't like on her pizza.

"I only like traditional pizza---I only like sausage and pepperoni. No veggies or mushrooms."

Len broke in: "When you're in here, you have to order something you wouldn't normally eat. I used to be just like you, but you have to try it. Their pizza is really good."

Ginger, however, was unmoved by our pleas so we decided to go the traditinal route. The pizza was excellent but I was unable to persuade her to try one of Piece's kick-ass microbrews---when informed that they didn't carry Miller, she ordered a Budweiser.

Take away one point for plebeian tastes.

After dinner, we went for drinks at a bar/restaurant where Urban Melissa's boyfriend was playing in a jazz combo. This would be test number two, which Christy had failed miserably. Grandpa and Waffle would be perfectly nice, but readers of this blog know how Urban Melissa and Guatemala can be. That's just how they roll.

"Oh," said Urban Melissa, "nice to meet you. How did you two meet?"

"Myspace," said Ginger.

"Another one?"

Ginger laughed. Add one point for sense of humor.

We hung out and I probably drank a few more whiskey on the rocks than I intended. We were easily the loudest table. Well, if people don't know how to have fun in a restaurant, fuck 'em.

I left around 11:30 to see Ginger to a cab and ended up going home myself. Len apparently sent me a text informing me that he was at Nick's but I was unaware of this until he drunkenly barged into my room and rousted me from my sleep.

"I sent you a text! Why didn't you go to Nick's?"

I knew that the quickest way to get rid of him would be to play dead. Which I did. And which it did. When I woke up the next morning for my eight-mile-run-hangover-cure, I checked my texts and noticed a booty call from Marla at 12:00. followed by a follow-up at 4:30:

"Missed you at Nick's."

So she had decided to come to my neighborhood to party. That could have been interesting. Not sure how I would have handled her seeing me with someone else. I'm in the clear: I never promised exclusivity and I didn't break plans with her, but it would be a bit embarrassing. Whatever followed, I don't think it would have been an invitation to a threesome.

Anyway, Ginger emailed Len for the dirt on me and Len, like a good mensch, told her that she'll have fun with me when she comes in but to remember that I like being single, tend to date a lot of girls and have no patience for drama. She emailed back that she kinda figured it out. Then she emailed me, telling me that she would probably flirt with Len, because that's what she does, but that it is my hands she wants all over her body. She's promised me a striptease to Joe Cocker's Leave Your Hat On. And she claims that she's never even seen 9 1/2 Weeks.

This could be fun.

Emails Prior to a First Meeting

Ginger and I are meeting for the first time this Saturday. She is taking the train into the city. Every day, she has emailed me a question. We usually compare answers and go back-and-forth. I thought you would enjoy reading yesterday's exchange, so I have reprinted it here. She is in red, I am in green.

Getting Your Freak On.....

Yes you heard me right. My patience wouldn't let me wait to write you about this one.

I want to know......your bedroom style. Are you gentle, sensitive, like it rough, adventurous, loud, quiet, traditional, or just a little bit freaky. I will tell you what I think after you answer me.

Anything new going on today? How is your day going? I'm sitting eating my lunch and reading. I went and got Long John Silver's chicken today and fries, and some warm choc. chip cookies.

If you lick your lips, you might just be able to taste the cookies...

Well.....everyone's definition of freaky is a little different. Variety is the key. I will say that I am extremely adventurous and am up for just about anything. I respect limits, however.

I think everyone has a side that's a little bit freaky. I've explored mine. Creating a comfortable setting is the key.

Really, really well thought-out answer. I'm impressed. I will comment more later.

What side did you explore? What did you do (if I may be so bold to ask)? You've piqued my curiousity.

Are you tasting the chocolate?

What did I do?

A lot.

I will comment more later, as well....

Ugh...making me wait.

Ok. Well I guess I'll tell you what my FIRST impression of you would be based on what I know of you....

Ultra traditional, with some variation in positions, tender and gentle, soft slow kisser, pretty passionate, a pleaser, but then I also think you could be one to jump on the bed and be 'tarzan'....

I would have never thought you were really adventurous....and I don't mean that in a BAD way. I try not to judge.

What is your take on me....based on the things I've told you, and I know I've said enough to give you a good take on it.


You're missing romance. You want to feel sexy. You want someone to kiss you slowly, gently, work over your body in a deliberate way, tell you how sexy you are. You want something gentle, letting it build, letting it build, letting it build until you're out of control.

I gather the men in your life have been a little slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am.

You're fine with your freakier side, but initially you want gentleness, tenderness, affection, adoration....

Holy crap. Spot on. I'm speechless. That doesn't happen often.

Letting it build, letting it build. Perfect. Out of control. Perfect.

Secret: Kissing is my favorite part of it all. Someone who kisses well. It would just be the bonus to have the big O after it all. That's not always a given.

I'm just so speechless.

98 hrs....30 minutes....is too.......damn........long.......to......wait.

I am afraid of disappointing you.
I am afraid of you not enjoying yourself with me.
I am afraid of being nervous and silly around you.
I am afraid of not making the most of my time with you.
I am afraid of wanting to spend more time with you than I'm able.

I don't necessarily need to be told that I'm sexy all the time. But....once in a while it's nice to hear. I am not dependent on compliments. I do better with gestures, touching, etc.

I should probably stop this topic now....

I am leaving today at about 3:45 to go get my tires rotated and my oil changed. How sexy, huh?

The New Neighborhood

I went to see the movie Lars and the Real Girl (not recommended unless you're extremely sentimental) with Marla on Friday and afterwards we stopped in a Lincoln Park tavern for a drink. It's really amazing to notice that all Lincoln Park bars look exactly alike. When I moved to Chicago in 1993 it wasn't that way: there were still plenty of old-time neighborhood hangouts with their coterie of regulars and their old jukeboxes with everything from Johnny Cash to Dave Brubeck. It was possible to meet the owners, and often as not they'd be working behind the bar.

Now, all the taverns are antiseptic and look like they were designed by the same interior decorator. Many have Irish-sounding names on the front, but we all know that real Irish bars (they do exist in Chicago)do not hang Budweiser signs in the window. And the clientele: all the people I couldn't stand in college have gravitated to Lincoln Park.

So, the movie and the tavern get a mixed review from me. Oh, so does the date with Marla. She's a nice girl who laughs at all my jokes, but I've noticed that I'm the only one who suggests our topics of conversation. She defers to me too heavily, and I'm starting to get bored. Well, next weekend Ginger comes in for a visit. That should make for an interesting post.

Last night I was out with a group of people including Urban Melissa. We were hanging out at a northside blues bar when I got a text from Bethany: "Come to Nick's! I miss you!" When I arrived at Nick's about an hour later, she bought me a Heineken and told me what was going on: she regrets moving from the neighborhood, hates living in Humboldt Park and she and her boyfriend are trying to sublet their place and are looking for apartments in Wicker Park. I was pretty tired at this point, having been up rather late on Friday but we made plans to grab dinner at Blue Line on Tuesday.

The conversation was music to my ears. The building hasn't seemed the same since Bethany moved out. It'll be nice having her in the neighborhood again.

The Old Neighborhood

I was in the old neighborhood last night. The neighborhood we first moved into, before we were married. The one we live in for the first two years after. The lobby of our apartment building has been gentrified. Instead of the austere marble, there is pseudo wood paneling. The awning is also gone. There really was no reason for it in the first place, I suppose. And there is an air conditioner dangling from what was our bedroom window.

The Mexican bakery where I used to fetch our morning biscuits is a clothing store. The used bookstore is still there. As is the World Market. And the independent movie theatre. In the eight years since we moved in, not that much has changed.

Our troubles started when we bought the house and moved to the suburbs. It didn't help when I was laid off a week before our trip to Europe. Maybe the dogs were more than I was ready to handle. At any rate, we both made our mistakes. I know what mine were. You know what yours were. I thought of you as my life partner. I thought we would be together forever. Of course, if you had asked me not to move out I would have stayed. And if I had asked for counseling, you would have agreed. We would have continued to live under the same roof.

Walking through our old neighborhood brought it back to me. How you and I would spend hours in the bookstore, excited over our discoveries. The time we spent selecting furniture. How we would watch eye other in the gym, each mimicking the other's facial expressions. And make each other laugh. The restaurants we explored. The park. The lake. The afternoons in the bedroom, making love until we were both exhausted.

I hope you are happy. I hope the collapse of our marriage did you no lasting damage and that you are with a good man. I accept that there will always be more sadness than joy in life and I accept that death is the final end to our hopes, aspirations, strivings, failures and tears. But as I walked through our old neighborhood, I thought of the walks we took in the afternoon. The secrets that we shared. The way that we communicated with our eyes and our smiles. And I found comfort remembering how, for a time, I loved you, you loved me. And we were happy.

Work Story I

Well, I told a co-worker of mine to fuck himself on Friday. Skippy and I have sat next to each other for over a year, and despite.....no, probably because of our common Iowa upbringing I find myself trying to overcome a visceral dislike of the guy.

Skippy volunteers as an assistant coach at one of the suburban high schools. He has season tickets for the Iowa Hawkeye games as well as the Bears games. The joke around the office is that his kids were sired by the mailman. His interests begin and end at sports.

We deal with a number of foreign clients, especially from the far East. Language can be an issue, but we're paid to deal the investing public and I have to remind myself that every foreigner I speak with has mastered an intellectual challenge that has so far eluded me: fluency in a second language.

Skippy, on the other hand, insists that foreigners are all dumb and all crooks. He wants the wall built on the border ASAP. George Bush is a great president and if we don't support the war then we're stabbing the troops in the back. Homosexuality shocks him. His world-view seems to extend no further than the Des Moines suburbs.

And, he has a mean streak. He tends to needle people around him and most of the people in his former department can't stand him. In all of these qualities, he reminds me of my monosyllabic 7th grade gym teacher. The monosyllabicism included.

Friday, I asked him for assistance on something I was dealing with that is usually his domain, and he responded with haughty arrogance. I turned to face him and said,

"Skippy, go fuck yourself."

Everyone turned around and one or two people started chuckling. My boss tried to diffuse the situation by saying,

"Calm down. Nobody's going to fuck himself here."

"Don't worry," I told him, "I don't think it's anatomically possible for Skippy to fuck himself, anyway."

What I feel bad about is that I let my anger through. My weapon in dealing with people is mockery. If I had asked Skippy if he had stopped taking his ritalin, or informed him that I had a phone message for him to the effect that his Dale Carnegie class had been canceled, that would have been funny and everyone would have laughed at his expense. Instead, I turned around and told him to fuck himself. It was direct and it subdued him for the rest of the day but anger is not my weapon of choice. In resorting to it, I let the terrorists win.

Terrible, Horrible Etc. Day Redux

Yesterday was tough. Yesterday was a real bitch. I was on the phone all day with angry clients and all I could do was explain and apologize. After work, I boarded an El platform and waited twenty minutes as two trains packed with commuters sped passed. CTA had fucked up the trains, once again.

Fuck this, I thought to myself. I left the platform and headed to a loop bar, desperately needing a martini and a cheeseburger.

I sat at the only available spot at the bar, ordered a an Absolut with a twist and snagged a menu. The woman to my left, apparently a regular, was complaining to the bartender about her Blackberry and said she might have to throw it against the wall.

"Actually, I'd be most happy to throw your Blackberry against the wall for you....."

She laughed.

"What is that," I said, "the 90s version? You have that big antenna? Is that like the CB radio of Blackberries?"

"No," she said, "it's the latest model. The antenna is stuck in the up position because I hurled it once. I'm a sales manager and I have a lot of idiots working for me."

"So you broke your blackberry in a fit of anger?"

"I'll just have to take it out of my sales budget."

I motioned for the bartender: "Hit me again and put it on her tab."

We fell into conversation. She was 37, married with a teenage son and a house in the suburbs. She was shocked to learn my age, which made brightened my day a bit. I looked at my watch and realized that I was probably not going to film class that night.

We were joined by a retired cop and his drinking buddy who both had some great stories involving college football games and drinking. She ended up buying me two martinis, which made for a grand total of four. Two hours later, when it was time for her to leave, she moved in for what I thought was a hug. Instead, she planted a kiss on my lips and slipped me her business card.

I doubt I'll get together with her, but the validation was nice. Sometimes, the best remedy to a really shitty day is to go to a bar and have a couple stiff drinks. If you stay home, nothing will happen. If you go out, maybe nothing will happen. Then again, maybe something will. You might just have a good time.

Of Humorous Bondage

A friend of mine mentioned that she had developed an interest in body modification. She obviously wasn't talking about herself---she sports no tattoos and I'd be surprised if she ever went further than having her tongue pierced in college. Her interest was purely that of a spectator. I told her I'd send her a link to the "interview with a nullo"---anyone with an interest in or fascination with body modification should read it.

And no, I'm not posting it here. You'll have to google it on your own time.

For those of you not familiar with the term, a nullo is someone who has been completely de-sexed. A man who has had his penis and testicles removed. In the interview, the nullo describes how he became heavily involved in the gay s&m scene and how his master coerced him into getting snipped and chopped. After reading it, my friend emailed back expressing her horror and wrote,

"Remind me never to get into the b&d scene."

Ah, but the b&d scene is the shallow end of the pool! The safe waters, with safe words and soothing before and after conversations. I'm in a sexual relationship with Submissive Liz that involves bondage and discipline, but I'm very very tender and caring with her pre-and-post-coitus. You have to be.

Domination and submission is a game, and should be a game to be properly enjoyed. If it stops being fun for one of the parties, it's no longer a game and it's no longer fun. If you are the dominant partner, your submissive is placing her trust in you and that's a lot of responsibility.

My first foray into b&d was in college. It involved a second date with a girl after our first date had involved raunchy sex and scintillating badinage. She painted herself as a very kinky, experimental girl and while we were in the dorm shower together I brought out a pair of handcuffs I had purchased for the occasion. She started crying the minute I clipped them on. I hurriedly removed them and watched in horror as she grabbed a bathrobe and stormed out of the shower room. It was a learning experience for me.

My next foray was more successful---it involved a high-school girl who was visiting her college-aged sister. A buddy and I talked her into bridge-jumping into the Iowa River and at the end of the night she came back to my apartment. Over the next several days, we explored unchartered territory, hers and mine, and discussed domination games. She demurred, so I thought that was the end of it. That night, however, she woke me up for sex and started calling me master mid-coitus. And I have to say, the stream of words that came out of her mouth both frightened me and got me incredibly excited.

My college years also gave me a taste of the other side of the coin: a friend and sometime makeout partner of mine, a brilliant person and first-rate violinist, was currently in a relationship but visited my apartment one evening with a quarter ounce of hydro and after smoking a bowl or two dared me to strip for her. I told her she'd chicken out before I got naked, she told me I'd chicken out at my underwear and so I undressed. She remained fully clothed.

Not knowing what to do next, I suggested that I could masturbate for her. She found the idea exciting and before long was telling me what to do and how to do it. She was totally in control and I have to be honest---the encounter was scorching hot.

Since then, I have had many encounters involving transfers of power, I have tied up and been tied up, I know when to push a situation and I know when to back off and be gentle. There are people who do it as a lifestyle and all it takes is a quick perusal of Craigslist to find them. Angry, frustrated men and insecure, self-loathing women will always find one another. For me, it's not a lifestyle. It's a game. And the best part is, I get to keep my penis and testicles attached.

The End of the Weekend

After the Bears loss on Sunday, Marla and I went to Ye Olde Sex Shoppe for some flavored gel to erase the bitter taste of Adrian Peterson streaking through the Bears' porous defense. After making love, we fell asleep for about an hour and Marla left after we woke up.

I went to a rock club on the south side to catch an acquaintance's band, and was favorably impressed. I called Urban Melissa upon re-arriving in Wicker Park (we didn't go to Hamlet after all. Student productions can be so pretentious) and we got together at Nick's with her boyfriend and two actors, one of whom was the playwright of the production she had just seen.

"This is the man of the hour, David," she said as she introduced us.

Then, as soon as he was out of earshot, "God that play totally sucked!"

I had to laugh. The contrast was classic Urban Melissa.

The five of us sat around the table telling ribald jokes and making politically incorrect quips and I thought of how much I preferred the company of actors, musicians and writers to the company of the young corporate professionals from which pool my work colleagues have always been drawn.

After my third scotch and soda and promises to get together for the next weekend, everyone left and I took a seat at the bar next to Submissive Liz. We talked about the marathon and, between her second and third cigarette, she expressed a desire to run in next year's. I told her she might want to quit smoking first. She had to leave, but soon after she walked out the door she sent me a text message:

"OK so i REALLY needed to be put in my place by you but can I have a rain check?"

I texted back, "sure".

An off-duty bartender bought me a shot of Jameson and we dissected the Bears game.

In the next room, a mixed group of thirty-somethings was playing pool. A woman from the group walked up next to me at the bar and ordered a drink. She introduced herself as someone on a business trip from San Francisco. She and her group were staying downtown but she had heard that Wicker Park was the hip part of town and wanted to check it out. She asked me to join her in pool, but I disappear whenever pool cues come out. I have the worst hand-eye coordination of anyone at the bar. In any given bar. At any given time.

She was back a few minutes later, asking me to help her choose songs from the jukebox. We selected some 80s and 90s throwbacks and she repeated her invitation to pool. I thought about it but politely declined. I finished my drink, said goodnight to the bartender and went home.

I was feeling content. It was a nice weekend. I thought, I'm glad that I'm single and can date whomever I please. I'm glad that I live in Wicker Park. I'm glad that I work with people I like and for people I trust. I thought, this is a pretty good time in my life, right now. I'm going to try to hang onto it for as long as I can.

Love Letters and Such....

Things have been progressing with Ginger. Our online flirtations have kicked up a notch, and she emailed me a sexual fantasy of hers. It was very, very hot. Blue balls hot. I've had women send me lingerie and nude photos before but a girl who knows how to verbalize her sexual desires will push all my right buttons. I read it three times over. It got me so worked up that I went out and slept with Marla.

Marla is the chick I chose to meet me at the finish line, for a couple of reasons: she's the most stable woman I've been dating, she is cool and she is socially aware. Cool is an underrated attribute that's hard to describe but its outward manifestation is marked by a laid-back, humorous approach to the situations and people around you. I've seen her interact with a variety of people and she has an impressive ability to be her unaffected self regardless of whomever she's around. When things lag, she's a good raconteur (raconteuse?). If the conversation flows, she's an active listener. Kinda like Johnny Carson without the WASP assholeishness. She didn't make my friends wonder when I was going to stop dating psycho chicks, which they do wonder from time to time.

So, Marla and I met up at Nick's and wound up in bed half an hour later. During sex, she said..."I love you......I mean, I love your dick inside me..."

Nice recovery. I've learned, however, not to be scared away by anything that's said during sex. With one or two possible exceptions which I will get into another time.

We went to Moonshine for brunch, which is now DLS safe again with Mar having moved to a new neighborhood further north. Speaking of Mar, she came over a week before the marathon and we made out---she worked me over orally and manually but we didn't have sex, which is a good thing. It tends to mess her up when we have sex. I don't think it does me much good, either.

Tonight, I'm seeing Michael Clayton with Marla. Tomorrow, I'm going to a DePaul production of Hamlet with Urban Melissa. Waffle and Grandpa may join us. Urban Melissa may or may not be together with her boyfriend. The day of the marathon, she was moving out of their apartment in tears. Now they're together---maybe. We'll see.

I have also been communicating with a blond pharmaceutical sales woman from a western suburb. Her picture is nice---she is sporting a maniacal grin. I will now probably re-read the email from Ginger. Masturbational fodder for the month ahead. It makes me anxious to meet her.

Online Dating

There are two new women on the horizon of my life---Ginger and Zsa-Zsa.

I met both of them online. I should explain that I don't troll for women online. I have a myspace page on which I write a slightly safer version of my blog which makes me look a bit more likeable than this one does. I have also posted the absolute best picture of myself that I could find. So, women usually find me.

I'd say that half the women I date I have met in bars and the other half I have met online. The online women tend to be older. Usually, they're from the suburbs or outlying areas, divorced (or still married), often with children. Not as likely to get out to the bar scene in Wicker Park but desirous of doing so. I've met some younger, local girls online through myspace but they tend to be more the exception than the rule.

Ginger is a 35-year-old redhead who lives across the border in Wisconsin and has a big interest in photography. She is in the process of leaving her second husband and has no children. She has sent me a couple tastefully-done bikini shots and she has a very nice body for a 35-year-old. We are getting together in two weeks.

Zsa-Zsa is a dark-haired real estate agent from a northern suburb. Her listed age is 48 and, looking at her pictures, I think: No Way. If she looks like her pictures, she is the fittest, most attractive 48-year-old I have ever seen who is not either a model or an actress. Her pictures convey poise, confidence, sensuality. She knows how to apply makeup. We have flirted with eachother over the last week and the next step will be a meeting.

In my experience, the way to attract a woman online is through restrained eroticism---you want to be perceived as sensual, but not horny. And every woman on myspace has stories about guys who get too horny too fast. During IM conversations, mention restaurants you enjoy, places you've visited. If she's like most women I've met online, she's been married to, or had many dates with, the beer-swilling, sweatshirt-wearing football nut. She wants romance, wine, picnics in the park---you need to come across as a man who appreciates the finer things and can share them with her.

Don't be the beer swilling football nut.

When you compliment her, it's pretty clumsy to tell her she has a nice ass, or great tits. You can mention that she has a nice figure. Compliment her facial expressions or her choice in clothing. Women like to be noticed for the clothes they wear. Tell her she looks fun. Tell her, for example, that you'd like to share a bottle of wine with her. Ask her questions.

When you get to the cyber-sex stage, show some class. If you haven't met her yet, telling her that you want to put your fingers deep inside her dripping wet pussy as an opening line may not get you the response you want. You may want to put down the Penthouse forum.

Instead, set the scene: tell you you'd like to look in her beautiful eyes and kiss the back of her neck, inhaling her aroma. Breathe her in. Run your hands over her face...her shoulders...look in her eyes, feel her heart quicken. Slowly undress her. Be elaborate. Her response will tell you where to go. Some women enjoy raunchy banter, lots of "fuck" "pussy" and "cock". Some shrink from reference to specific body parts and want to be made love to on a beach, the wind gliding over their naked bodies. A man has to be discerning.

My preference is to meet women in bars, but a major advantage of online dating is that you are working with a broader canvas---there is more time. There are fewer distractions. You are not shouting over a jukebox or a loud band. And it's easier to filter someone out before you get to the meeting stage.

Marathon Fiasco

OK. I'll be honest. After mile 20, when the word came down that the marathon had been canceled, the clocks turned off and the speakers on top of the fire trucks blared a message asking us, for our own safety, to cease running, I was relieved. I had run two marathons previously, just completed a rigorous training course and was in the best shape of my life, yet I found myself fighting a losing battle with dizziness, nausea and thirst.

I have never had a running experience like that before. I hope I never do again.

I crossed the finish line in just under six hours. And I feel like a great big wuss.

I know that the organizers did the correct thing in canceling the marathon. People around me were dropping like flies. Medical personnel were overwhelmed. Water stations were running out. And I know enough about running to listen to my body.

Still, I feel frustrated. All the training, all the early mornings on the road, gone to waste. My moment of triumph, my goal of finishing in under four hours, dashed.

All consolation, while appreciated, still rings hollow. It's a marathon, not the special olympics. The reality is that my body was giving out in the heat. At the 20-mile marker my adjusted finishing goal was 4:45. And that was by no means guaranteed.

And the reality is also that I was relieved to have an excuse to start walking. I was ready to quit. I had justification.

And that's what stings the most.

My Recent Hiatus

Apologies, loyal fans, but I've been concentrating on the upcoming marathon, which commences tomorrow! I've been blessed by the visit of a number of old friends recently and I will have stories for y'all soon!