Still not walking much...

...because I'm favoring the foot a bit, hoping to be healed up by December 13 so that going to Disneyland is not torture.


BUT

I have faith I'll be all spiffy and shiny and good as new by the time the 3 day season starts next year (tomorrow is the last day of the last walk of 2011!) so I went ahead and registered to walk San Diego next year. I'm probably going to so another walk, too, but I haven't decided on which city. I want someplace flat. Or flattish. I'm not too picky.

I also registered to crew in San Francisco next year.

So.

Start thinking of how you want to humiliate me. I'll do ALMOST anything legal for donations.

Almost.

It only hurt a little bit...just don't poke me

I had the impulse to get a pink ribbon tattoo last year...I also had the thought that I didn't want anyone to assume I'd gotten one because I was either in treatment or a survivor, so if I did get one, I'd have to cough up something a little different. Something that was clear about intent, but hinted at why I had it.

Once I knew what I wanted, I sketched it out and set it aside.

And then...I waited.

I didn't wait because I was unsure about it; I knew for sure it was the tattoo I would want. I didn't wait because I was still concerned about how it would be taken. I didn't wait for any of the usual reasons one waits to get a tattoo.

I waited until I felt like I'd earned it.

One 3 Day Walk didn't make me feel like I'd earned it. I almost got it after the walk in San Francisco, but I wasn't quite there yet. After Atlanta, though...

After walking with a broken toe and then tearing a ligament in one foot and still walking...I felt like I'd earned it.

It means a lot to me...and it's something I want to keep on earning. Next year I'm crewing in San Francisco and walking in San Diego for sure, and I'm seriously toying with walking in another city.

Santa better bring me some new feet this year...

Dean says I have 2 right feet....

Really. He did. On Facebook. And Dean knows about feet, so we clearly have an idea what my problem is...

A picture of my foot with a picture of my foot

I finally got in to see a podiatrist today to have my foot checked out a little more in depth than my primary doc was comfortable with. He probably should have been more comfortable because he nailed the diagnosis and what to do about it: rest, anti-inflammatory meds, let it heal.

The good news is that it's healing up nicely and he thinks I'll be good to go by the time we leave for Disneyland. As long as I don't do anything stupid, he doesn't see a reason to not go (and he seems to be a Disney fan, got very excited when I mentioned it, and thinks we should go no matter what...because there's always wheelchair rental and that gets me to the front of the ride line! LOL)

He did a lot of manipulating of my foot, and says I have a good range of motion, though he could feel where the ligament was messed up. He was also impressed my how strong my feet are (and for some reason I was vaguely proud of this) and spent a lot of time showing me how my foot functions as I walk, how the ligament was affected (nothing I did or didn't do; sometimes this chit just happens) and there was no lecture about continuing the walk after I felt it pop.

So, yay.

He also confirmed that the kid at Fleet Feet was right: I have high arches. And he wants me to give the orthotics a try again, but this time take the time to get used to them. Hell, the ones he recommended were the same as what the kid at Fleet Feet sold me. He also played with my shoes a bit and believes I'm in some really good ones and my foot prep and blister care is on track.

Basically...let it heal so that we don't have issues in December, but everything looks good. No permanent damage, no stress fractures that he could see on the x-ray, nothing broken.

The only downside? I put the orthotics back in my shoes, went to Walmart for about 20 minutes, and now my back is screaming at me.

So, phfft.

We'll see. At least he never said I was nuts for doing the 3 Day...

Atlanta 3 Day, Part Five: Homeward Bound

According to the 3 Day website, buried in the information about the Atlanta leg of the event, there is a hotel “on site” at Turner Field. This appealed to me; I knew that after the closing ceremonies we would be tired (or for sure I would be) and the idea of just grabbing my bag and walking across a parking lot was appealing.

So, yeah, I reserved a room for DKM and myself for post-walk crashing. No paying for a shuttle to get to the host hotel a good 20 miles away, no waiting in line to get on the shuttle and then wait in a long line to check in. Just drag the bags a little way, and there we would be.

But.

I sure as hell didn’t see the hotel from where we were at in the Turner Field parking lot. I could see a Holiday Inn just up the road—uphill, because I don’t think there are any downhills in Atlanta—but there was no Country Inn to be seen. According to the iPhone GPS it was only half a mile away…which was about 90% farther than I cared to walk at that point, especially since we couldn’t see it and had no idea in which direction to go.

Michelle is resourceful; she called the hotel and asked if they had a shuttle. They did not, but they would send a town car for us. She told them to look for the woman with pink pair, and we sat on a retaining wall to wait.

And we waited.

The parking lot cleared out; she called again and was assured the car was on its way.

We waited some more.

She called again; the car was stuck in traffic, but was on its way. She waved off a couple of cabs because, hey, we had a car coming.

Yeah.

Four phone calls later, the car was still stuck in traffic (which was by this point non-existent around us) so she told them to cancel and we’d get a cab. Less than five minutes later we were in a cab on the way to the hotel…which was indeed about half a mile, but around the backside of Turner Field. Half a mile, and $12 plus tip.

At that point, I didn’t care. I would have paid the guy $50. And as we got out of the car I made an offhand comment that with our luck, the hotel would have lost our reservation.

I should shut the phck up sometimes.

The clerk couldn’t find my name in the system. I had to laugh, because it just figured. I also had no idea what the hell we would do if they really didn’t have us in there and had no open rooms. I doubt either one of us was in the mood to call around and find another hotel, then find a way to get there.

But…she was just spelling my name wrong. We got the room, and thanks to a bunch of menus the clerk gave us Michelle called for food delivery, and we collapsed.

View from the front of the hotel

One of the smarter things we did, I think, was not schedule an early flight back home. We slept in, took advantage of the free breakfast (and the hotel gets bonus points; they were just about to shut it down when we went downstairs, but left it open for us) and left for the airport (this time, the town car was waiting) in plenty of time to get through security and onto the flight.

On the way back, DKM didn’t have to make me eat; we hit DFW and I was starving. With an hour between flights, we had plenty of time to walk (hobble) the length of 30 gates and get food and then board the plane.

Advice: never ever ever sit in the very last row of seats, because you will be right next to an engine, and your hearing may never be the same again. Not that mine was very good before…

Landing was almost anticlimactic; I was tired and my feet were swollen and hurt, but the 3 Day was officially over. We were home, and one of us (heh, not me) had to go to work on Tuesday.

Instead of work, I went to the doctor to get my right foot looked at, the one that snapped painfully on Day Two. The verdict: torn ligament, something my doc feels is a little outside his scope of expertise, so he’s sending me to a podiatrist. He refrained from saying anything about me having walked on it after the initial pain—too late, bub—but he nixed the idea of walking in San Diego at the end of November.

The Spouse Thingy and I have reservations for Disneyland in December, and that looks a little iffy, too. But we’ll see what the podiatrist says when I see him on the 10^th.

Still…overall I’m happy with the 3 Day for 2011. I walked San Francisco with a broken toe, and if I hadn’t gotten sick I would have done all 3 days with it broken. I willingly took a few steps out of my comfort zone and went to Atlanta, snapped a ligament, and kept walking. I did some stupid, stupid things on this walk—day three I should have bowed out early—but I finished and got my freaking t-shirt.

Next year I’m not sure where I’ll be walking, other than San Diego with DKM. I registered to crew in San Francisco so that I could experience the 3 Day from that side of it, but I haven’t decided yet if I want to do another walk toward the beginning of the season. I’m tempted to pick some place new and go alone and push myself a little further outside my comfort zone, but we’ll see.

It’s a hell of a lot of fun with people you like. I’m not sure I can beat the experience of being part of a team and camping with a treasured friend.

I have time to decide.

And y’all have time to figure out what you’re going to make me do for donations. Though I’m not sure the pink spandex on the bike and around San Francisco, and the pink hair and camo pants for the Walk can be beat.

Atlanta 3 Day, Part Four: Day Three

Morning in the crew area of camp starts at approximately 3:30 a.m. While the walkers catch a few more Zzzs, the crew gets up to get everything ready so that the walkers have an easier time. Being on the food crew, Michelle was up a little earlier than most, because those crew members need to eat before hitting the road to set up for the oncoming horde of people in pink.

On Day 3, things get rolling a little earlier because everyone has to pack up and take down the tents before leaving the campsite. By 4 a.m. the crew area was buzzing with voices kept low for the sake of those who were still sleeping and zippers on tents being pulled up and down. I tried to lie there and snooze a while longer, but between the noise of people trying to be quiet and my bladder screaming at me to get up…I was up.

At least I didn’t have to stumble through cold, dew-wet grass to get to a port-a-potty. We were pretty close to the REAL TOILETS so I got to stumble over cool concrete, only considering after I was already in the restroom that I probably should have put some shoes on. Cooties and all that.

Pink Slips, ready to take on Day 3

Breakfast, packed up, bag dropped off with the luggage crew…we lined up to leave, ready to tackle the Just 15 Miles we had to go.

That was a comforting thought. JUST 15. I needed it to be JUST because my feet? Not so happy with me. The blisters on the left foot, while looking all right, were poking at me, and my right foot was throwing a temper tantrum. I had a nasty feeling something was afoot (hahaha) but I’d gone this far, so a few more miles couldn’t hurt any worse.

Besides, I got to see stuff like this. Piedmont Park and its amazing view of the city skyline.

Luckily, the terrain was flatish and other than one section, doable. My feet, though, they were protesting even the flatness to which they were being treated, and as I got to the lunch area—by now separated from my team—I formulated the stellar plan of sitting down and checking my feet, changing socks and Moleskin, getting food, resting for a few, then hitting the road for those last few miles.

There weren’t many more to go, after all. Lunch was at 10.2 and the end was at 15.2. Two hours, given my slow pace. Two hours is easy.

But.

My brain was not fully engaged at this point. I took care of my feet, rested a few minutes…then left without lunch. Granted, I was hungry, but with this many miles chewed up and spit out, I’m always hungry, even after eating. It wasn’t until I was far enough away to know that going back was a bad idea that I realized I was irritable because =DUH= I didn’t have enough fuel on board.

I grabbed almost all the candy offered to me, but after a while that just makes you feel queasy. With 1 mile to go to the next grab-n-go I nearly grabbed a sweep van; in fact, I sat down at an intersection and the route safety guy was going to flag one down for me, but after 15 minutes I felt like I could get up and go on.

So I did.

And like an idiot, when I got to the grab-n-go, where there were chips and fruit and fresh water…I passed it. It was up an incline and I didn’t think I could get up there, and I decided that since the next pit stop was just a mile away I’d go there.

Moron.

Over the next mile I was asked by no fewer than 20 people if I was all right—I was limping horribly at this point and probably not walking a straight line—and if I needed them to find a sweep for me. I was not all right—low on fuel, hurting, not thinking straight—but I said I was. Boys and girls, when you participate in a 3 Day (and I know you will) DON’T say you’re all right when you clearly are not. I should have stopped. I should have asked someone to get a van for me. But I didn’t, because I am 4 different kinds of stupid.

I got to the pit stop and among the cheering crew at the entrance was a medical guy dressed like a bunny…who recognized that no matter what I SAID, I was not all right. He steered me towards the food, told me to eat some chips and fruit and to drink, both water and sports drink, and to sit.

I did what I was told. I grabbed some orange pieces and sucked them down, then chewed through a bag of potato chips, and sucked down some sports drink.

Why dwell on this? Because somewhere out there might be someone who has never done a 3 Day and is going to and I want this to be the message:

DON’T BE STUPID.

DON’T TAKE UNNECESSARY RISKS.

IF 20 PEOPLE ASK IF YOU’RE ALL RIGHT…YOU ARE NOT ALL RIGHT.

Ok.

Lecture part over.

Michelle and me in holding

The next stop was holding, and we got to “hold” at Turner Field in the concession area. I wish I had explored more of it, but after getting my Victory t-shirt (clearly, my real reason for walking) I plopped down and didn’t want to move. I did get up after a while to cheer incoming walkers and slap out some high fives, but after 30-40 minutes of that I had to sit back down, because my foot? Not happy.

Survivors gathering for closing

After all the walking, closing comes rushing at you. With all the walkers in, it’s time to line up and head out for closing ceremonies. I don’t know about everyone else, but I feel two things during closing: overwhelming awe and a want of being done. The wanting to be done feels a bit disrespectful, but pain sometimes overrides the want of being respectful, and , well….I kinda wanted to be done.

People lining the wall to watch

Community participation didn’t end at the cheering stations. As we moved into the closing ceremony area I looked up…hundreds of people lined the wall around us. Families and friends were crowded around us, and community surrounded us all.

It was amazing.

But I still kinda wanted to be done.

But I also wanted the survivors to have their due. As they come in and take the center stage, everyone takes a shoe off and holds it up in a salute…but my feet were so swollen that I realized if I took a shoe off, it was not going back on. If I took a shoe off and set my foot down, I would have no support for that foot, and down I would go.

I felt like a troll, but I didn’t take a shoe off. I may have been the only walker there with both shoes on.

My sincere apologies to the survivors.

And then just like that, it was over. I hugged the teammates I could, because I knew as we made our way to bag retrieval I would probably lose sight of them, and we weren’t staying at the same hotel…and I’m glad I did because the last I saw of any of them besides Michelle was as they headed for the line where their bags were.

We did it, though. We walked the walk and Michelle not only crewed but had my back the whole way (including a few ARE YOU DRINKING texts LOL) and all that was left was getting to the hotel.

The hotel that was supposed to be “on site.”

Yeah.

Not quite.

Atlanta 3 Day, Part Three: Day Two

This is what I started out Day 2 with.

The wonder blisters.

It actually didn’t hurt as much as it looks like it would; liberal applications of 2^nd Skin and triple layers of Moleskin and it was good to go. I got dressed, headed for breakfast and DKM’s food line, forced myself to eat, and then waited for the rest of the team (I intentionally ate early, knowing me + food + walking = ugly, ugly things.)

Now, today was supposed to be flat, right? I begged the Walking Fairies; I can handle 20 miles of flat. Flat is good. I worship the flat when it’s ground that’s involved.

Yeah. About that…

It didn’t take long for the Walking Fairies to sprinkle me with Disappointment Dust. Granted, the hills we encountered early weren’t horrible and not even whine-worthy, but…

But.

Around 4-5 miles in, halfway up a not too steep incline, I felt a sharp snap in my right foot, followed by searing paid that raced along the outside edge of the sole of my foot, with a white-hot trajectory up through the bottom heading towards the ankle bone. It was sudden and surprising, and lingered for a while…and I kept walking. I probably shouldn’t have but I assumed it would ease up; after all, that hill had a peak I could see and the terrain was not the greatest (Atlanta…y’all need to work on your sidewalks, you really do…) so I didn’t see how it would hurt to get to the top and see.

And ease up it did. For a while, anyway. For the rest of the day it poked at me off and on, sometimes making me limp, sometimes just ticking me off. It hated the inclines more than the flat, which just gave me a reason to grumble with every new hill we headed towards. And eventually it never quite got to the off position, but that was later in the day and not a horrible issue before lunch.

But something I couldn’t grumble about…the people out cheering for us. We headed into this one, and from a distance I could see there were a ton of people so I stopped to snap the picture, but I had no idea.

The people I could see were just the ones up front. It went on for a couple of blocks at least, people lined up 3 and 4 deep, cheering and shouting, handing out candy and stickers. Hundreds and hundreds of people there to give the walkers a shout out.

People, let me tell you: it works. When you’re at the end of your rope and you walk into a crowd that exists just to bolster you up, it makes it a little easier to reach up and pull harder. Crowds like that are renewed energy. They’re worth miles of effort. They make a walker smile and cry all at once.

Overall, the community support in Atlanta was incredible. There weren’t many areas where there weren’t people out with signs of support, and there was a lot of handing out of candy, cookies, fresh bread, coffee…and Coke. On Day 2 we passed a family sitting there with a couple of coolers, offering Coke and Diet Coke to walkers.

I am a diet soda addict. I told the kid handing me the soda I loved him and I think it freaked him out a little.

I ambled along, enjoying the cold Diet Coke, a lull in the pain in my foot, and the flatness of land ahead.

But then the ugly thing happened.

A hill.

And not just any hill. I don’t think it was “cardiac hill” but it might as well have been because that sucker went on for-freaking-ever.

My foot finally rebelled, and didn’t stop screaming at me until the end of the day, when I treated it to a nice long hot shower and then sat my ass down to do nothing for a while.

Day 2 was hills. Not the flat I’d begged for. Hills.

Granted, they were not San Francisco type hills, and if not for the foot I think—other than the one hill that turned out to be about 5 miles long—none of them would have bothered me much, at least not physically.

Hills are a mental thing, and by next year I fully intend to make them my bitch.

After treating my foot to a nice hot shower I treated myself to dinner…and man, the food was awesome.

I didn’t even wait for the rest of my team. I ate, then hung around the dining area and talked to other people until I spotted them filtering in, and then wandered over to sit with them.

If I hadn’t been so stuffed, I might have snuck back into the food line; it still smelled awesome.

Have I mentioned that DKM took really good care of me? Lights out was at 9:30, right after the end of the camp show (and some day I’ll stick around and see the entire thing; I was happy enough to see half of it before exhaustion sent me to head for bed)…and right about that time the people in the tent next to us decided to pack up as much of their stuff as they could, to avoid having to get up a little early in the morning to do it then.

We were in the crew area; crew gets up earlier than the walkers for the most part, so I kind of get where they were coming from, BUT…I was trying to sleep and the line of tents across from us was also walkers trying to sleep, and they were freaking noisy.

At 9:45 DKM stuck her head out the tent and read them the riot act. And when they tried to defend what they were doing she said sharply, “There’s a WALKER in here and SHE NEEDS TO SLEEP!”

Yeah…they quieted down after that.

And I slept like a rock for the most part, and I’d need it heading into Day 3. We only had 15 miles left to walk, but with blisters on one foot and aching pain in the other…yeah, sleep was my friend.

Atlanta 3 Day, Part Two: Day One

Really, I farking hate morning.

Day One for DKM started at OMG! O’Clock; she had to be up and outside for the 4 a.m. shuttle; I got to lie there and soak in a few more warms, since the rest of the team wasn’t meeting for breakfast until 5 a.m., after which we were going to try to be on a 5:30 shuttle (they said the last one was leaving at 6:00…since there were a whole bunch of other walkers with the same idea, I’m thinking the shuttles ran well after six…)

Now, here’s the thing about breakfast. At the host hotel in San Francisco, there’s a free buffet with cereal and bagels and muffins and other breakfasty type things. I gather from talking to other walkers, it’s been the same in other cities. This hotel opened a buffet at 3:45 and we hit the buffet line and got our scrambled eggs and grits or oatmeal and fruit…and man we were all surprised when it turned out to be $13 per person.

Yeah. I had like 2 scrambled eggs on my plate. I drank ice water. For $13.

But, whatever. We had to eat.

It was a quick shoveling of food into mouths, and we headed for our luggage and the shuttles. And man, when you think of Atlanta you think “warm,” not nipply, but it was kinda chilly outside. I was very grateful for my long pink camo pants—I almost went in shorts—and my pink 3 Day sweatshirt. Still, when we got to Stone Mountain, site of the opening ceremony, I was wishing for triple players because it wasn’t just nipply, it was cold. Very very very cold. Still dark out, and frigid.

Did I mention that it was cold?

Atlanta, next time I’m there, please make sure it’s a constant 73 degrees with low humidity 24/7. Thank you.

Once the ceremony started, the cold seemed to slip away. Sure, the temperature was still low, but we had moved en masse toward the stage and 2400 people trying to occupy one space creates a little heat. And we were getting amped up; we wanted to begin, even though we wanted to savor that moment. The Pink Slips were pretty close to the exit point, which meant we would be among the first to hit the route.

I took my spiffy walking sticks, BTW. And I quickly learned that 2400 people pushing to get to a particular area, even in an orderly fashion, is not a good time to be using spiffy walking sticks. I didn’t trip anyone, but still… they got in the way pretty fast.

The route out of Stone Mountain was beautiful. It was still freaking cold, but…beautiful. And I learned within minutes that I’ve lost some speed; my teammates hit stride easily and were off, and I kept getting passed by walker after walker, until I realized I’d probably been passed by about 600 people.

It’s not a race, but still…I was way behind my team. And it set the tone; this was not going to be a speedy walk. That was all right; I fell in with several other people and talked to them. Some were first time 3 Day walkers who had tons of questions, some were pros who totally understood the concept of walking your own walk. They had teammates who were already ahead, too, and some were behind. In the grand scheme of things, it’s no big deal.

While I wanted to walk with my team, this part of it was just as important for me. The whole trip out there was important; it was an exercise in taking myself far outside of my comfort zone. I just don’t go places without the Spouse Thingy often, especially trips. I’m shy; initiating conversations is not my forte. But when I overheard newbies contemplating what was ahead, what to expect, talking about how nervous they were, was it even possible to do this, I jumped in.

I spent some time with a couple of people who had kids who wanted to walk but were too young; they were happy to hear about the Youth Crew opportunities. I walked with some people concerned over a teammate who was walking at 5 months pregnant. I was amused over some ROTC cadets running beside us with full ruck sacks, complaining about blisters after just a mile or so.

I caught up with some of the team at the first pit stop and we headed out together and towards the first cheering station. And that’s when I realized this was going to be a little different than San Francisco. We got cheered in SF. We got cheered in Georgia. The sidewalk was lined with people waving and shouting, offering candy and snacks, pink balloons floating overhead and offerings of signs we could carry and ribbons to wear. It was emotional, and a sign that this walk might have a different tone.

Now, remember that I said I was taking my Camelbak because with it I tend to drink more? I did take it. And I was drinking more. I also—I don’t know why—took a spare water bottle and clipped it to the outside of the pack. At the second pit stop I was grateful for the spare, because as I got up, Roberta pointed out the water running from the bottom of my Camelbak.

The bladder tore.

One of my helpful teammates took the leaking bladder from me to throw away as I went to fill my thank-god-I-had-it water bottle, and Roberta took my sticks so that I could deal with the wet Camelbak pack. I wound up carrying it with the backside out, awkwardly, hoping it would dry enough to use as a backpack.

Somewhere along the way, the sticks became toys and were passed around to try. And at some point a spring was sprung, and the lock on one couldn’t be tightened anymore. I was left with a walking stick that I couldn’t put weight on, and I couldn’t really carry because it kept sliding out and hitting people.

But ya know what? Those things were getting in the way and annoying the snot out of me, so tossing them into a nearby trash can was not upsetting at all. I really couldn’t use them in the crush of walkers, and carrying them was a pain in the ass, and with over 12 miles to go…yeah, dumping them was a relief.

Not even halfway through the day I’d lost my Camelbak bladder, broken the sticks…surely everything else was going to be smooth as silk, right?

Sure.

I was really starting to slow down in the afternoon. I had blisters on my feet, but those weren’t too bad. They didn’t scream nasty things at me with each step, they simply muttered “ouch…ouch…ouch” every once in a while. But my back? My back was increasingly unhappy with me. Those vertebra that went on strike last December and sent me to physical therapy started whispering to me around mile 13, were yelling at me around mile 14, and at close to 15 started screaming Bitch, sit yo’ fat ass down now or we gonna cut you a new one!

Sandra was walking with me, not complaining at all about my snail’s pace, and when I said I thought I needed a sweep van, she flagged one down.

Hell, yeah, I took one. I could have sat there at the side of the road for an hour while I rested, but the vans are there for a reason, and dammit, I was taking one. It cut about a mile and a half off my day, but so what? And ya know why I think it was a good idea?

Because I struggled to pull myself into the van. It hurt so much to get up that step—they had a stepstool but it still took 3 tries to get inside—that I thought my day was over. I enjoyed the ride (along with 7 other people) and presumed I’d be getting on the bus back to camp at the next pit stop. But…after taking the van and getting something to eat and drink at the pit stop, I’d had enough time for the screaming to stop.

There were only a couple more miles to go, anyway.

At the final pit stop there were buses waiting to take us to camp, which was held at the Georgia World Congress Center. Indoor camp! Instead of sleeping in tents in the great outdoors where we would shiver our nipples off, we would be sleeping in tents inside, where we would enjoy REAL TOILETS instead of port-a-potties AND we would get to keep our nipples.

It was an awesome sight, all the pink tents going up. In the next room was the 3 Day Shop, Post Office, Treat Pickup (thank you for sending me candy, Leslie and Susan!), New Balance, the 3 Day lounge…and food.

Holy crap, the food was good. Or I was really hungry. But I think it was pretty damned good.

Food was a slight concern going into Atlanta; I got sick in San Francisco, remember? One of the theories was that the meatballs I’d eaten had a mushroom base. No meatballs = no protein in the meal for me…which is fine, I can live one meal without it, but those were damned tasty meatballs and I kinda wanted a couple of them.

Michelle was there crewing on food services, and she grilled TPTB about what was in the food being served, looking for the things she knows I can’t eat. I made sure to go through her line so she could tell me what I could eat and what I needed to avoid. And yay! I could eat anything I wanted, except the macaroni and cheese, and that I avoided because dairy on a 3 day would not be I my best interests. Or Michelle’s, since we were sharing a tent.

There was no huddling near a single heater in the dining tent. Inside…yes, yes, yes. We still had to go outside to shower in the semi trucks, but overall, the idea of being inside made me happy, and I went to sleep really looking forward to Day 2.

Because day 2 was going to be nothing but flat.

Right?