I can’t believe it’s already July… in part because  by this point in the summer I’m generally a hurting pony or rather…a sad panda.  A very sad panda.  …And despite my iron being in the tank, and occasionally being  so stressed I cry because I can’t get egg whites to whip, life is good.  Really really good.

At the height of my anxiety this spring I wrote,

“ Life is generally good, especially when taken one day at a time.  The struggle lays in getting caught up in the ‘what if’s’ of the ‘what if’s’.  Already panicking beyond a standard deviation into the future.  

When you doubt your theoretical point B even exists, because quite frankly you aren’t sure what or where point B is suppose to be.

You only know that you’re being pulled through your life towards something that may or may not be more than the giant magnetic force of  ‘ifs’, ‘tangibles’, and ‘hypothetical outcomes’. “

More recently on a beautiful hike with Jennie we got lost… or as we like to say, took a little detour.  Immediately getting off trail and heading in the opposite direction of our intended destination.  Jokingly it seemed like a metaphor for our lives.  A little off path, a detour here and there, but ultimately heading towards this destination, this peak.  You can see where the gears are going, can’t you?

A lot of my stress stems from waiting for something to go wrong.  Waiting for the next disaster to strike.  Not a whole lot of fun or enjoyment can enter your life… Ew, yes ew… that is the appropriate sentiment right now.  It’s an Olympic year, and the tension is palpable.  My Facebook feed is inundated  daily with athletes yearning to make it work at any cost.  Now there is nothing wrong with asking for donations, but when I lost my funding from USBA and the USOC I vowed I personally would not go into debt for my athletic pursuits.  (a certain clarity dawns on you when you realize you’ve seriously considered selling eggs, and not the chicken variety, to fund your season)  As people around me intensify towards this winter, I feel myself, reflexively, backing away.  And acknowledging this… I can slowly feel my stress dissipate.

As athletes around the world step up their game, train bigger hours, move bigger weights… I’m stuffing my jersey pockets and drink belt with cookies, I’m going on adventures, and I’m collecting all the pieces of me that I left along the trail over the past three seasons.  You seemingly can’t carry all that much onto the podium with you.

Surprisingly, I’m the fittest I’ve ever been.  Maybe there is something to all this happiness training after all?  Recently I’ve embraced the realities of my circumstances.  I’m excited to race and, darn it all, maybe even be fast…   Enter fatty fitness.  Fatty fitness was born to a collective of friends who liked to ski hard and eat harder(sure?). An epic all day adventure that would ultimately culminate with everyone passed out on the floor full to the gills with momo bliss. As the boys like to remind me, “Training is an essential part of the eating process.”  Logically.  More than anything  (although entirely unintended by the founders) fatty fitness reminds me that my life is a total blast and that every race I enter, every inch of single track I travel, and every detour I take is all because I enjoy the heck out of it.

So turn up the good, pass the bacon and hold onto that ice cream I’ll be back for it after this run.