1. The last time I have exercised on a regular basis was in high school;
2. My butt is starting to morph from flat, white mom butt to a nondescript less flat shape;
3. I like seeing how many avocados I can go home and shove in my face when I'm done;
Although, I might postpone a hike if there is cornhole and beer involved.
My friend, Mark, and I teamed up once again as...Team Eve. Because we are far less creative than the other teams who had names that I can't even write here because this is (at times) a family blog.
And we already had the matching shirts.
Our friends at the N.O.R. Foundation once again outdid themselves with Cornhole for a Cure, with this year's proceeds going to CureSearch. So we had to go and play cornhole. And we were so awful that I'm sure the teams that beat us were wondering if we were really cornhole hustlers, since no one could be that bad. But I do this for the bald kids, not for the glory.
And I also do this for the amazing breakfast pizza we were served. Breakfast pizza!
It was bigger than my head. And I ate it all. And I don't care how many avocados that is.
But the pizza and the fries and the beer were just a well thought-out way to carb up before the big Ben & Jerry's Hike the next day.
Yes, you read that right. We were going to get sweaty and then get us some Schweddy Balls. We had to make up for the group hike we missed the day before, after all.
The second best part of this hike was that we stopped and sat down and ate a sandwich. Took an actual break. I cannot tell you how much happier my body was on this 17-mile hike being fueled with real food instead of just electrolyte tablets.
The first best part of this hike was that it ended at Ben & Jerry's. Duh.
I joined Candi and her husband, Chris, fellow cancer parents/hikers/electrolyte gummy lovers. Candi and I are pretty much convinced we haven't lost any weight because all we do is talk about food while we hike, meaning our bodies must release some kind of hormone that prohibits the loss of weight because it thinks we're on our way to the buffet at Golden Corral.
So a typical hike to Ben & Jerry's goes like this. We hike through the woods.
We climb over some fences.
More talk of food. More hiking through the woods.
I still haven't figured out if I was Ben or Jerry, but I felt dead sexy either way. Especially with Schweddy Balls and Coconut Seven-Layer Bar in my gut, leaving no room for bananas or avocados.
On Tuesday, I did a eight miles. Not enough miles to justify another run for ice cream.
Oh wait, I did. But that was for a fundraiser and I always support fundraisers that support bald kids. And the fact that Daniel ordered vanilla ice cream with white chocolate chips and gummy bears mixed in made me feel a little less self-conscious about my secret obsession with buttery potatoes mixed with breakfast sausage bound together with pancake syrup.
dfkjfoj ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,ofddd fmk
Sorry, had to wipe some syrup off my keyboard.
On Wednesday, we did ten miles, which left me feeling ravenous. As soon as I got home, I put epic amounts of mayo and pickles and American cheese on a still-frozen roll and was convinced it was the best sandwich I had ever devoured. Everything tastes better after you hike.
Those ten miles felt like more than enough to justify a trip to a place called Fat Daddy's, which by the name, you can tell is no salad bar. I like to think of our Fat Daddy's trips as a place where cancer moms can get together and emotionally eat without judgment.
Plus, they have a topping bar. And on that topping bar one could find such yummy toppings for their french fries as jalapenos, ranch dressing, bacon, and nacho cheese.
My love of nacho cheese is only matched by the amount of duct tape holding my van together. That's how much I -heart- it. It even made me forgive the tomato on my burger for not being red.
Again, another well thought-out plan to carb load before our big weekend hike. And maybe just enough to stay sufficiently full where I didn't really care either way that Eve got kicked out of ballet class for refusing to participate the next morning. Apparently she only wants to go with her friend's mom from now on, because at nearly four, she is already too embarrassed to be seen with this sweaty woman driving the duct-taped van who smells of nacho cheese.
So, this is how much I hate cancer: I was up at 5 a.m., out the door at 5:30, to go hike twenty-plus miles in the cold rain. I really don't see how people would ever do this length in those conditions for fun. They just really gotta hate cancer.
Like I hate laugh tracks in sitcoms since 2005.
So we start this hike, estimated to be 20.1 miles from sections 7-13, and there's a cold, annoying, nonstop drizzle. But I hate cancer so I can deal with it. Even when it goes from drizzle to more-than-drizzle-but-not-a-thunderstorm. That's what rain jackets are for, even though I wouldn't melt if I got wet, no matter what Natalie may tell you.
As we were hiking, I noticed my finger nails were shrinking. Or maybe my hands were swelling. And maybe my arms were, too. I already had Fred Flintstone feet. Ankles are overrated, and so is being able to remove your wedding band. Yes, I would like this on my ring finger forever, even if my finger turns black from lack of blood.
If I could figure out how to get my chest to swell instead, I'd hike everyday!
The thing I liked about this hike is that no one besides us crazy cancer haters were out there, meaning no show-offy trail runners shouting "on your left!" They were probably busy showing off at the gym where I'd never risk seeing them.
Our hike got a little bit longer as we made an expedition to find shelter so we could stop for some food and change our socks. And I ate a meatloaf sandwich, which was the best sandwich I have ever eaten in my entire life. And I'll swear to that in court, until October 1st, when I'm sure to really eat the best sandwich ever.
It turns out that it got really cold while we were stopped and I used up all my brainpower thinking of coffee to get me warm. You tend to think of everything you are going to enjoy when you are off the trail and it's enough to get you started again. My initial thoughts were of hot coffee, hot chocolate, hot tea, and cold beer, until the thought of cold beer made me shiver and I switched to pouring potent potables into my coffee instead.
My legs went on autopilot for miles 11-13. I zoned out completely. I desperately wanted to think of something, anything, since I had the opportunity to think without interruption by someone who wants me to wipe their bottom. I was incapable of thinking about anything except the fact that I couldn't think, and that drove me more than a little batso. I wouldn't have been capable of talking to a volleyball named Wilson with a bloody hand print on it if I tried. Not that I could have thought to try.
I did eventually return from the edge to be a more social member of our hike group and start talking about food again.
The last leg of the hike I thought would never end. Everything ends surely, but I was convinced this would be the first thing in the universe that wouldn't, and I would be stuck on this trail for the end of time, or until I found some hallucinogenic mushrooms growing in the woods.
The last sections looked as though they had been hiked by maybe three or four people in the past ten years. There was overgrown brush up to our shoulders, and looking back, a machete would have been a good thing to pack.
Someone in our group had his GPS on and just when I was convinced that we MUST be near the end, I heard him say, "We have another mile and a half."
This may sound dramatic, but when I heard that we still had another 1.5 miles in these dreary, cannibal-infested woods (the delirium had already begun to set in), I seriously felt like I did when Eve's oncologists decided to do another six weeks of chemo before taking out her tumors. Of course it was necessary, but disappointing. The end seemed so close and then it was not.
But holy expletive. We finished. We hiked 22 miles. And then we all got the giggles and tried not to pee ourselves, especially since no one thought to pack urine-wicking underwear.