The fast and the very, very furious

I'm a really awesome environment saver, so I usually take the train to work (read: I can't afford to pay $30/ for parking in the garage). There is meter parking right outside the hospital, but you have to move your car every two hours lest the local law enforcement officers fine you $550,000 and/or your firstborn's kidneys.

Anyway, I drove in Wednesday so that I could take a midday foray to my favorite bike shop. (Actually, Tim drove my car to said funland, as he is under the general opinion that I suck at the driving....) As we were returning to school in the tunnel that goes RIGHT UNDER the city, a guy in a huge, nice pickup truck started to push his way into our lane. Where my car was. As we were there first, and had no way of making ourselves and vehicle vaporize so that his much nicer truck could occupy our space, Tim lay on the horn in a very Boston-esque fashion. The man next door (instead of apologizing profusely for nearly bring a swift end to our mortal probations) rolled down his window, screamed obscenities at us, gave us the bird, and continued forcing his way into our lane. Tim stubbornly refused to will our car out of existence, and Sir D-bag*, while looking me straight in the eye, hit my car. I tried to get his licence number, but he backed off and took an exit before I could. The joke is on him. I'm going to get rid of this scrap of metal before the year ends, and his huge, nice truck will probably cost hundreds of dollars to fix.

Remember that story I was telling you about meter parking? Hypothetically, if one were to get an upsetting phone call regarding her ICU-ridden grandmother and needed to gather herself in the ladies chamber for a couple minutes, and arrived to move her car just a couple minutes too late, the following just might be waiting for her:

Of course, two of those violations are for the same offense (expired sticker... dont' worry Mom, I did it online and need to put the new sticker on). Have I mentioned that I'm getting rid of my car?

P.S. Granny dearest is a-ok for now, as the doctors were able to electrocute her heart into beating again...

*Mom: D-bag means "dirtbag"
*Karen: ask Zack what it really means

Colors of the desert

Can you tell I really like my new camera? Colors of the desert part I:

*Beetle by Dad, and elephant by Tim

Tim and the Slickrock bike trail had a couple altercations. Colors of the desert part II (alternatively titled, "Those running shorts really bring out the blue in your calves"):

On a horse with no name

After, careful consideration I decided that it was time for me to introduce Tim to my desert, so we planned a trip to the patch of land in southeast Utah called Moab. I think the trip went well, and they seemed to get along okay, but there were some tense moments when I felt like it was a little awkward. Tim cursed the thinly oxygenated desert air (particualrly whilst running) and seemed to think that the sandstone was a little unforgiving during times of grad-student-meets-Entrada. But he claims that he'll come back next year, and hopefully relationships will continue building.

The night before the big race, we hiked to delicate arch (the one shown on old Utah license plates). Note: my dad wanted pictures with everybody in front of the arch - even Tim. Conspicuously missing is a picture of him and my mom, who was contemplating the mysteries from a less vertigo-inducing vantage point.

In the middle of Moab, above the raging city life, is a very large red rock. I really really really really really really really really (continued ad infinitum) love the Slickrock bike path. It's hot and horrid and cruel and impossible and delicious. Just when you think you can't ride another inch, you realize you have 99% of the trail left to get through. This was the first time I've taken any family members to see my favorite stone. Tim and I did the entire trail (10.5 miles of the most wonderful kind of h*^&), and I think it was love at first ride for him. A violent, bloody, black and purple bruises everywhere kind of love, that is (see future pics).

After the boys ran the race, we allowed them to rest approximately 10 minutes before dragging them off for not one, but three afternoon hikes. Michael's daughter Mary Kate came to Moab and was an awesome desert investigator. She asked questions about everything and took home samples of trees, sand, cacti, rocks, and soil. It was so fun to have her along - I couldn't love that little girl more if she were my own daughter.

Notice the center picture below: The devil (named DAD) made me and Mary Kate climb Broken Arch. (Jill, it's not very broken.)

MK and I were just exhausted after the race. We decided to get a little rest and relaxation while everybody else (including those who ran) prepared lunch.

Another heroic run...

After running the BAA half marathon (13.1 miles of pure and undiluted toilet yearning), I knew I needed to step up my training for the Canyonlands Half Marathon. Knew... but didn't. After three months of sedimentation, I ran 6 miles about a month ago and ruined my foot - I'll probably never walk again.* Actually, I probably just pulled a ligament. Being born of goodly, stoic parents, but not having myself been blessed with the gift of a high pain threshold, I declared myself unfit to run the 1/2 marathon and sent my brother Michael to the starting line with my racing bib. Michael (who also didn't train) did my name proud and finshed in a great time. I waited on the sidelines and ran the last four miles with Tim, and we practically won the race. **

Note the middle pic: Michael and I are both incapable of serious thought / exercise without sticking out our tongues. It is sure to end badly one day...

*I've been hanging out with my niece Bryn, who regularly declares herself a cripple after earth-shaking injuries like running into the couch and such.

** We came to the high desert from sea level and like to tell ourselves that's why we couldn't breathe.

How I got this way

As seen on the Dickeyfam... These lovebird quasi-hippies are my parents in 1969 shortly before they got married. They spent their first few months as newlyweds living in a cabin in the mountains with a whole slew of wild creatures as pets. Love it, love them.

I heart Somerville

Oh, the weather outside is frightful...

Tim was kind enough to make dinner at my place last night - pork chops with an apple cider reduction glaze (the recipe also called for bourbon, but I surprisingly didn't have any on hand). He was whisking quick quick quick (as fast as his hand would allow) and became quite warm so he opened a window despite the winter storm assaulting the easterly parts of the country. The key phrases you should have picked up on thus far are: "opened," "window," "winter," and "storm." Did you see the word "closed" in that list? Nay, you did not. I woke up to a 'feels like' temperature of -86 and was greeted with a kitchen winter wonderland. My cactus is severely upset.