I have a hard time coping on the first three miles of any distance race.  For some reason, that first approximate 5K I completely doubt myself and my abilities.  As my thousands of readers know, I have never admitted to being a super speed runner.  I’m not built for running at all, but yet my love for it keeps me going.

Despite all my experience of toeing the (slow) line, those first three miles are somewhat akin to being tortured.

I’ve had more than one person tell me that I’m in my head too much.  I fret, I worry, I over-analyze.  And even though I’m a marathoner, and a multi-half-marathoner, when the starting gun/fireworks/flag drops I immediately believe that it is impossible I will finish.

Perhaps it’s because of the starting runners in a pack, whose faces blur and blend and whose bodies may look nicer in the running tights.  Or the throngs of folks who crowd the start to cheer people on, and the fear I will stumble and disappoint them.  Fact is most times I’m being pushed to go harder at the start, even if I go to the very back of the pack.  And anyone who has raced knows you aren’t supposed to go out hard, because you might well pay for it at the very late stages of the race.

God forbid we start on an uphill.  Because there is something in me that says that, even though I don’t run lots of hills, I have to be all bad ass and run this one.

In England running is a lot more hard-core then in the States.  In my first half marathon, despite the two ice storms, people blazed ahead.  I barely finished in front of a man in full head to toe motorcycle gear.  You go from being in this wild pack to being alone quick if you are a slow runner, and there is this period of total desperation that makes you wonder for quite a while if perhaps they will close the course at some point leaving you fully alone.

But then something happens.  I wish I could properly describe it.

I don’t know if it’s at the first water station, when the volunteers seem so relieved that they are down to their last few runners.  Or if it’s at that point where I first pass someone, anyone, even the guy who is running with dumb bells on his ankles and bare feet.  Somewhere along the line I get out of my head.  I stop fretting, stop worrying about the fact that I’ve never managed to sit at a 10 minute mile for longer than a mile.  I leave work things, home things, personal hang-ups behind me.  I start getting all excited about seeing mile markers and thinking about what flavor of Gu I get to take in or if this is a Gatorade station for my next break.  I may even attempt to calculate my pace, which, for anyone who has ever run with me in later race stages may be at a speed of A:Monkey:Pancakes.

And I finish.  I always finish.  Even if it is third to last and with a wobble.

I think it’s those first three miles that turn people away from running, because it really is hard to get going and to believe in yourself.  No matter how fast, slow, chubby, skinny, talented or determined you are when in that crowd that moment when people blaze by you the inkling comes… that realization you should just give it up.

The hardest part it moving beyond it and realizing that in the end you are only racing yourself.

Despite my eight years of running it happens every time in a long race.  Every, single, time.  And I get over it.

I get over it because I keep going.  I don’t stop, even though I want to stop.  I don’t walk off the course, even though I know I’m finishing in the end pack.  I don’t sit down and cry, even though I’ve wanted to many, many times.  I’ve expressed my desperation to running partners, to relay teams.  I bawled my way to the finish of my first half marathon.

Every time it’s a struggle, and somehow I get through it.

So, if you are sitting there reading this thinking you can’t – you can.  You just need to get up and put on the shoes and go out there and do it.  Push past the demons and doubts and know that when you cross the line they won’t take it away from you.  The medal, the shirt, whatever they give you – that is yours.   Get out of your head and go.

Take it from me, who has suffered through many a mile three.  The pay off is worth it.

There is a DISTINCT difference in what Americans call bacon and what British people call bacon.

Behold, American bacon:

Behold, British bacon:

Now, right away you can see the difference: above you have crispy, salt-injected nom nom goodness, below you have ham.  When people at work tell me they will have the bacon cheeseburger on pub lunch Fridays, I write down ham and burger.  Because British bacon is not bacon.  It’s ham, gently fried.  They even get larger slabs of this stuff, call gammon, and stick eggs or pineapple on top of it.  They also don’t consider donuts to be breakfast food. (Case in point: Krispy Kreme doesn’t open until 10AM.  It’s so sad.)  Also, they have never explored the glory which is the funnel cake.  I could go on but it gets me emotional.

“Wait!” you scream, “isn’t this just another example of the differences of British-English and American-English?  Kind of like how Americans say sidewalk and British say pavement?  Or the fact that British people look at you funny and giggle when you say fanny?”

No, this is a grievous error with the British population that must be rectified.  We’re talking investors, capital, marketing, you name it: British people need to be educated on bacon versus fried ham.

Now, I’m not saying that this is a one-way street here.  I know, for instance, that when you are in possession of or have someone who can drive a car that you can go out and get proper American bacon from large UK super-store grocers.  This is in distinct juxtaposition to the availability of black market cans of Libby’s Pumpkin, which I’ve heard can be traded for souls of virgins.  I also know that things like the use of beans as a toast flotation device should be marketed to the American public, because, well, they’re rather novel and can be used as replacements for donuts.  (Notwithstanding they do have better health value than donuts.)

So what I’m really asking Britain to do right now is work with me here.  Bring more American bacon into your shops and restaurants and in return I’ll personally teach people about baked beans as a breakfast food.  The south will totally grab onto the idea.  They will probably figure out a way to deep fry them in order to reduce any health value to zero.  It will be international cheap cuisine cooperation that could revolutionize the world.

Plus, it would result in me not needing a vehicle to go purchase the bacon I like.  Which, really, is what the entirety of this post is all about.

Oh, England.  You and your zany traditions.

Welcome to Boxing Day, the day that, for all intents and purposes, I originally believed was the day people beat the crap out of one another.  Seriously.  Ask any American and the first thing that comes to their head is somebody getting whacked with a 2×4. (Granted, I am from the south of the US so if you are up north maybe it would be different.)

Alas, dear readers, I found out awhile back that Boxing Day holds an esteemed title as one of the few Bank Holidays that has a name, and that name was originally tied to two things: servitude or charity.  Boxing Day, version one, was the day after Christmas where servants were given gifts and time off for a job well done.  Boxing Day, version two, was the day after Christmas where you either boxed up things for the needy (since you got new clothes/toys) or gave a bit of charity at the church box.

Boxing Day current tradition is waking up early for sales, going into town (provided you can find transportation or just accept the buses start running after 9AM), and playing “Guess which store is actually open” and otherwise fleeing your family.  I’m told that in larger cities like London Boxing Day is similar to American Black Friday.  This means that tomorrow I’ll be checking the BBC to see who was trampled/mugged/maced or otherwise humiliated over something that was marked 75% off.

The things we do for material goods.

Boxing Day is apparently celebrated in England and the Commonwealth (which means Canada is involved).  There is also rogue Ireland, who do not celebrate Boxing Day but instead St. Stephens Day, which may or may not fall on the same day as Boxing Day.  Ireland is a bit funny as some parts are United Kingdom but they are still Ireland as a whole so piss off. (There are similar holidays like St. Stephen’s Day that Scotland celebrates because it’s Scotland and not England.  Wales doesn’t count as far as I’m aware.)

So what does an American think of Boxing Day?  I like it because it means we get two days off for Christmas instead of one.  Then again, I like the fact that we get holidays.  Real ones.  Not that lousy two-week period which also counts as sick leave in most cases.  I’m also not living in a big city, so the madness of post-holiday shopping is left to movies and news reports.

But I still see, no matter how many times it is mentioned, people beating each other up every time I see or hear the words.  Why my mind won’t shift to another image will remain a mystery to me.  Or I just accept it and introduce a new tradition to England.  That, of every 26th of December, carrying around large chunks of wood and whacking people with them.  We could trace it to some long forgotten pagan tradition.  I can completely justify this.

Or maybe, just maybe, I should stop while I’m ahead.

So, me and my 1,500 other friends went out in Oxford today dressed as Santa, or, as they sometimes call him here, Father Christmas.

We gorged ourselves on mince pies and then went on a two-mile walk, where we wound up with a pack of teachers singing Christmas Carols.  In the process we raised a couple thousand dollars for the Helen & Douglas House, which just so happens to provide hospice care to kids and young adults.

Why everyone isn’t doing this is beyond me.

I’m sure the logistics of locating and distributing enough Santa suits to fill a college dining hall must be a bit daunting.  And yeah, they have to close off streets in a medieval city centre for about an hour and a half, which may annoy shoppers.  Oh, and you have to get up early.

But, seriously, WHY ISN’T EVERYONE DOING THIS?

First, you have permission, all day if you want, to wear a Santa suit around town.  Total permission.  People may stop you and ask why, which is cool.  Some people may look at you a bit funny.  But the bit of joy you get in watching people do double takes, to hear kids screaming, “It’s Santas, Mummy!  Santas everywhere!” is pretty freaking cool.

Second, provided you are awesome enough, you can do this as a walk in a pack and sing Christmas carols.  In our case, we wound up with a group of teachers who knew snippets of carols, but the entire words to Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody.

This is the point in the blog post in which I have to pause and explain to American’s the impact of this song.

There are a few songs that you learn when you come to the UK for Christmas.  Some are a bit disturbing, like Wizzard’s “I wish it could be Christmas everyday”:

Or, The Darkness, which… um… well… just watch it:

But then, there is Slade.  Which, in all truth and fairness, should’ve have made it to the US and into the Christmas charts to be played forevermore like WHAM!  But, alas, it did not.  Instead, you have this awesome hair and a bunch of twigs in 80s outfits shaking their thangs to the what is the most famous holiday song in the UK (right after Killing in the Name of, but that’s another post):

Our particular group kept looping the song when words to Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer ran out.  It was so impressive, Jack FM came up to record it to place it somewhere on the radio during this festive time.

Third, and finally, WHY ISN’T EVERYONE DOING THIS RUN?

When you can get away with wearing a Santa suit, singing Christmas carols, and raising thousands of dollars for charity there should be a lottery for this.  People lining up and begging for spots.  Sure, it’s short at 2 miles and hardly anyone ends up walking because they are laughing to hard but still.

It is the COOLEST RUN EVER.

Have a life crisis?

Work getting you down?

Got “the lurgy*?”

Trying to configure the meaning of life, cure cancer, or otherwise bring about world peace?

May I suggest the British fix-it and cure-all: TEA.

Yes, tea.  Tea is the thing that is boiled, brewed, slid onto desks, gently placed into hands, and otherwise forced onto a person if any situation looks even remotely like it could be a bit rough going**.

Sure, you say, there are things like science and logic and possibly a good long counseling session that might make things turn out for the best.  But this is NOTHING in comparison to tea.

Today I experienced a minor work tragedy, though it’s one of those where the entire office finds out over just being something that could be fixed quickly and quietly.  There is nothing like the heat of the social spotlight shining brightly upon you whilst frantically pulling paperwork to prove you aren’t mad, the problem wasn’t caused by you, and you don’t need sectioning***.  In the midst of my paranoia, where I was doing everything to not dissolve into a weeping puddle of crazy, I was offered not once, not twice, but three times: tea.

This is the point in which I discuss my general tea intake in comparison to the British population.

In general I consume 1/2 to 1 cup tea per day.  When I lived in warmer climates I didn’t drink tea, for some reason I drank coffee and only the kind that would be described as milk with a shot of coffee.  But cold weather and British accents changed my tune.   In comparison I have several colleagues who inhale enough tea to possibly have it replace all oxygen intake. (I am not yet sure if they can claim carbon emission offset via PG Tips****.)  There is, at last count, at least 7.8 billion ways I’ve seen tea advertised, lauded, applauded, and otherwise noted as being something you MUST have in your life even if you don’t like it.

And that is because tea fixes everything.  It’s amazing that there isn’t yet an agenda for replacing oil and gas with tea-power.  Though I’m sure that someone, somewhere, is working frantically on it.

I’ve tried the tea fix on several occasions but find it faulty on some levels.  For instance, when my phone was stolen it did not result in the return of the phone, though it did result in something to hold onto while giving the police my report.  At other times tea is not good for things like race preparation, because my tummy is not designed to handle caffeine and then run 13.1 miles.  But the gesture of the tea giving, in which the unsolicited person carries forth a tray of tea, and even better, includes biscuits*****, means that there is a general sense of comfort.  A feeling that, should it all go down in flames and the world decides that yes, it does in fact hate you, at least you’ve had something to drink.

So the next time you find yourself in a pickle, wondering what to do next, give the tea fix a try.  It might work, it might not, but here in England it’s always an option.

English to American translation guide for the above blog post:

* “the lurgy:” Defined as a general illness.  Can be anything from a cold to the Ebola virus.  Don’t worry, rest and tea will fix it.

** “a bit rough going:” Bad.  Really, really, bad.  But in a nice way.

*** sectioning: Being placed into an asylum or mental institution.  At first I thought this meant being specially assigned, then I found it meant you were crazy.  Really crazy.

**** PG Tips: The only acceptable tea in my office.  Though they will allow a bit of fancy Twinnings tea to appease outsiders.

***** biscuits: Crunchy cookies.  While Americans consider all cookies cookies British people differentiate.  This is also why there is no VAT on cake.  They take baking seriously.

I found out (via a total informal poll) that British people do not know what the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is.  Nor do they really understand the concept of parades.  I put on a recording of Macy’s 2010 extravaganza and watched as my English friends flocked to the screen, mesmerized.

You may wonder why England and the words “bland” and “grey” often get mentioned in the same sentence.  It’s not just the weather, it’s their total lack of large inflatable balloons and the desire to put random celebrities on garish vehicles and force them to lip synch.  Even as they watched one of my friends said, “I need to move to America.  There is so much… color.”  (He said it with the ‘u’ inserted, but as I am writing a blog about America I shall use the American spelling.)

America is unique in that it has a holiday dedicated to just being thankful, whereas England has several holidays, all called “Bank.”  It’s common sense, as the banks are closed on holidays, but sometimes I wish they would just go a bit nuts and start naming them.  I also wish England would have Black Friday, which British people also ask me about, as they don’t have this glorious day either.  (They did have Black Friars, which were a religious order that now has several Tube stops and bus stations named after them, but it’s not the same.)

For those non-Americans, Black Friday is the day after Thanksgiving, so-called because it is the day stores open early and put on a host of insane sales in order to get their companies “in the black.”  You may note, should you read international news, that this day is more famous for the amount of violence one person can inflict on another for a waffle iron.  Apparently a woman even pepper sprayed a crowd in order to secure a video game system.

Consumerism at its finest.

When I first moved to England it was about this time, so I went out with this naive hope that England had sales.

Nope.

Sometimes they go nuts and do 20% off, but in all actuality, it’s amazing how unlikely England is to have sales.  I mean, sure, Tesco runs these amazing deals on doughnuts right before they close, but overall you don’t get the madness and the insanity that comes with eating too much food the day before and being locked inside with nothing but a pile of advertisements.

Flee to the shops at 4:00 AM after coping for 6 1/2 hours with distant relatives?  Sounds good!

This leads me to my final point, which is that England also needs a holiday dedicated to food.  There is nothing quite like overcooking for several dozen people and then sending them home, fat, happy, and laden with leftovers.  They only have Christmas, which also comes with gift pressure.  There isn’t really pressure on Thanksgiving, unless you are cooking the turkey.  There is always turkey pressure, but it’s nothing in comparison to finding that perfect gift.  If I had to rank trying to find a gift over cooking a turkey at least I had control of the turkey.

So, in sum, Happy Thanksgiving.  May you find the perfect gift this holiday season, and, if not, may you instead cook a wonderful turkey.

I went home yesterday in a funk.  After spending over four hours attempting to apply custom fonts to a website I had failed.  As I biked home I was trying my best to pump myself up.  “Failure,” I kept saying to myself, “is just the path to success.”  After all no one gets everything right the first time, you just have to keep learning and trying.  (And if you are one of those people who do get it right once, well poo on you.)

Upon arriving home all time converts to the dog and his orange squeaky.  He stood behind the glass door, joy in his face and tail whirling around like a propeller.  I let him out to do his pre-squeaky potty break and went to get the lead and doggy bags.  As per usual he had mercilessly attacked the mail, because in doggy mind the mail is out to kill us all.  (So are recycle trucks, garbage trucks, and anyone who walks by the house – but that is another blog post.)  As I stacked together the items I noticed a red plastic bag with a vague depiction of little running people peeking out from behind it.  At first I thought it was a running catalog and I could thereby spend a few hours spending imaginary money until I realized…

…it said congratulations on the front cover.  Actually, it said CONGRATULATIONS!

And I knew what it was.

I had seen it before, but it had a different persons name on it.  I remember the extreme jealousy.  I remember getting similar magazine that said “commiserations aka COMMISERATIONS!” and a wind jacket which I refer to as “The Red Jacket of Rejection.”

It was my acceptance place into the London Marathon.

Holy crap.

I started jumping up and down screaming, “OhmagawdOhmagawdOhmagawd!”  which prompted the dog to run up and start barking uncontrollably at me (and probably thinking “ThrowtheballThrowtheballThrowtheball!”).  I have, to date, never removed the cover of a plastic wrapper so quickly, nor checked the acceptance form so throughly  to make sure that it was mine.

Mine all freak-tastic-awesome mine.

And then, as I bounded out to the garden with an equally happy dog, it hit me.  After 3 years and one successful marathon I had willingly signed up for a second.

Willingly.

Signed.

Up.

For.

ANOTHER.

Marathon.

WILLINGLY.

But this is the one I wanted most.  The one that would be, for me, the hardest to get into.  (Although I have hope for that place in Boston when I’m 105.  By then I may actually have a qualifying time.)  So, I’m going to do it.  Not because I have to, because I want to.

Sometimes it is nice to sign up for something that is stupid hard simply for the desire to complete it.

Dear Miss Race Manners,

I’m about to run my very first half marathon/marathon/5k – how do I cope with race day jitters?

Sincerely,

Jitter Bug

Dear Jitter Bug,

Considering that I’m sitting here on the couch after waking up in a dead panic at 4AM the day before my 11th or 12th half marathon (I honestly can’t remember), I can tell you that there is a pretty high possibility you will never get over race day jitters.  I recall that when I ran my first long race I spent the entire night up out of pure fear I would miss my alarm, and took the first bus in to the starting area a good two+ hours before the gun went off.  I can also tell you that I’ve done such things as set two or three alarms, forced myself to eat despite feeling ill (you need to because it is nerves), and have a fixation with visiting the port-a-potty at least twice to make sure I don’t have to run off course to do my business in the woods… which you will see about mile two of any major race.  Mass exodus to the nearest patch of trees.  I’m not kidding.

I know seasoned endurance racers who have given up on any practical means of rest the night before racing because they are so excited/nervous.  I know others who can fall asleep, wake up refreshed, and post their personal best and then go grocery shopping.   I can tell you that it gets better in time.  That even if you are like me and have a bit of a panic that you will have it like clockwork and then say to yourself, “Well, you’ve had your panic now get what you can out of rest before you really need to get up.”

But most importantly I will say this: Despite whatever nerves, worries, excitement, make sure that you eat and hydrate.  Don’t try for fancy food on the day, just the normal stuff you eat for a normal breakfast.  After the race is over and you have your little medal then do something fancy.

Finally, don’t worry – everyone at the race is nervous in some form.  Everyone.  You’re just becoming part of that tradition.

Tomorrow I am doing this: Oxford Half Marathon

So you know, it’s the first half marathon run through Oxford in a really long time.  They have the Oxford Town and Gown and the most awesome two-mile race ever, Santas on the Run.  But they haven’t run a half marathon since the 90s.

As I prep to be part of this inaugural race I have dutifully stuffed my Fuel Belt with Gu, washed all my water bottles, and attached my timing chip to my shoe.  These things are easy.  But where I fret is in what I wear.

First, I want to make sure I’ve got color going on.  I don’t have an ounce of speed, but as I jog along I want people to at least see some vibrance.  Second, I’m not yet sure if I want to pair the bright top with shorts or with running capris.  So, after some initial thoughts I have decided to create a primary and a secondary outfit.  Primary outfit consists of the lime green Run to the Beat jersey I got my first race after moving here and black running capris with a comfy waist.  I’ve also decided on a full running top (not half) in case it gets warm and I don’t feel up to flashing some major skin.

Secondary outfit is a switch from capris to my most obnoxious pair of shorts.

My feet will be sporting the most wonderful running socks on Earth, 1000 mile.  I cannot decide if they will be the pink ones or the blue ones.  I also will be introducing my newest pair of Brooks running shoes, having discovered recently that my current pair have lost all their traction.

I have carefully folded all this material and placed it within easy arms reach of waking up.  In a few minutes I will go and carefully put my Fuel Belt together and put all race day information in one place.

This, of course, will mean little tomorrow, when I wake up in a panic despite the planning.  Mercifully I’m not driving to the race, as if I was there is another race day ritual I don’t enjoy talking about: upset tummy driving around panicking even if I get there 2 hours before the start gun.

We won’t walk about that.  We’ll stick with outfits.  Yes, outfits are good.

After spending a very brief stint at an architecture office, where I was daily criticized by former sorority sisters for the outfits I wore (I hate Ann Taylor because of that stint), I had made the blind leap into politics.  Grassroots, unglamorous, first-time-serious-attempt-at-office politics.  It was supposed to be non-party based, but you could pretty much call my work Democratic.  I worked with three other people at a core level, and we would each expand and contract campaigns, building staff and volunteers as you headed toward election day.  There was nothing fabulous about the work because it was straight-up hard work.  Anywhere from 12 to 20 hours of hard work.  In hindsight I look at that time spent as my Masters in the Real World, because the real world came hard and fast when you worked in grassroots politics.  West Wing this world ain’t.

Before I had joined the Head of Campaign Management had gotten one person into city office.  An amazing woman named Annise Parker.  I remember when I met her I knew she was the kind of person who went into politics not for personal glory, but for the actual call of making a city better.  At the time she was running for re-election to an At-Large Council seat, and I listen to her advice slavishly, having no clue to what I was doing.  I had been assigned a woman named Ada Edwards, who had a fascinating past as a single mother struggling to improve her area of Houston, District D.  I was to work her house party fundraising.  For those who don’t know, house parties are a very easy way to raise campaign funds and introduce a candidate to about 20-30 people.  The can be simple or elaborate, but the concept was the same – raise funds, raise awareness.

Ada’s main competition had on its side a Congresswoman named Sheila Jackson Lee.  Congresswoman Jackson Lee is a tough cookie to stand up against, and she didn’t mess around.  Using Ada’s son, who had died in the midst of gang violence, she went on radio and decried Ada as a bad mother.  It was merciless, and the lesson it taught me quite a bit about rising above personal attacks.  But at the time it was just too much to listen to, and so, on September 11, 2001 I had decided I was not going to listen to the radio.

I was so tired of the bickering.

I was happy that day, because everyone was going to be out of the office that morning.  I was going to get a mess of paperwork done.

The weird thing was, everyone was driving so slow.

Anyone who lives in Houston knows that the speed limit is a suggestion.  If it says 35, the speed is 45, if not 50.  I had made it through the roundabout (yes, Houston has one) and on to Montrose and was just trapped in cars going the actual speed limit.  In my frustration I bypassed the usual Starbucks run and fought my way into work and into silent, peaceful bliss.  I had pulled apart all the file cabinets and was sorting everything for all the campaigns we working on when my colleague Dave burst into the office.

“A plane has hit the World Trade Center.”

Those words floated through my head.  World Trade Center.  World Trade Center.  I had visited there in high school.  The elevator to the observation deck was quite a ride.

At the time playing television over the web was a bit of a novelty, but with a finesse that was obviously channeling importance, he had it on and running.  There it was, a smoking tower.  A few moment later our boss came in.  He was supposed to be meeting with the Mayor, but when the plane hit the first tower they rushed the Mayor off.  Houston is the third or fourth largest city in the US, and a key holder of oil and gas business, so it was precautionary.

We all sort of stood there.  I recall some vague attempts to get back to filing.  I couldn’t.  I stood there.  Then my colleague called out from the back of the office, another plane had hit the other tower.

After awhile our boss told us to go home.  We would assess what to have the candidates say tomorrow.  Today was a day to be with family.

I went to a friend’s house.  They had a big screen television.  We found out they attacked the Pentagon, and then we found out a plane had crashed in a field.  We just sat there, shocked.  Her Mom made us food, but everything felt empty.  In a bit of a strange, American consumerism moment, I desired an American flag.  I wanted to have something, hold something.  The stores were sold out, and there were people on corners selling them in bulk for ridiculous prices.  We may have just been attacked, but by God we were businessmen.

In the aftermath fundraising became abysmal.  People who had been working on our small little campaigns jumped ship to fancier campaigns for firefighters and workers who had lost their lives.  I couldn’t blame them.  The general feeling in the US was, for a time, comradery.  Despite, it was as if the work we had done on our little campaigns were wiped away like the towers were.

We fought back, though.  Annise got re-elected, and Ada entered her first term as Councilwoman for District D.  Ada would later end her long and storied career as a re-elected Councilwoman and Annise would eventually become Mayor.  In between I experienced a lot of failure and endured a final campaign that – I would later realize – would serve as a platform for election of Sue Lovell to City Council.  Sometimes you have to lose in order to win.

If there is one thing that September 11th taught me, it’s that sometimes you need to forget yourself and think about the greater cause.  Before the World Trade Center was attacked I had been so insulated with this silly fight between campaigns I had forgotten why in the world I had gotten into politics.  To be so self-absorbed, so stuck on the infighting I had forgotten that there were thousands of people who didn’t give two cents if Ada had lost her son to violence, they just wanted their city to be a safe place to live with good schools and good infrastructure.

I started listening more after that.  Tried harder for it to not be about me so much.  It’s made me a more decent person in the long run.  I think in terms of human lives more than numbers these days.  Perhaps it’s because of all those memorials, where they put up a flag or a candle or a flower for all the people who died 10 years ago today.  Each little memorial speaks of a life cut short.  A person’s life.  You don’t need to know what they did, or if there were some great person or a total jerk, but that they were a person.

I hope today, if not going forward, people start treating each other more like people.  It annoys me that tragedies sometimes have to happen for people to remember that there are other people out there besides them.  That perhaps if we were nicer, if we listened, if we conversed and didn’t spend our time just screaming that the world would be a better place.  That fewer people would grow up to aspire to hurt and instead to heal.

We need more peace on this globe.  Today, lets have a bit of peace.