Dear alarm clock,

I’m worried about you. Every morning, you display the same dogged determination in trying to get me up and out of bed before 6:30 a.m. I’m concerned you might be delusional or suffering from memory loss. I’ve tried everything I can think of and while I’m not proud of the times that I physically and/or verbally assaulted you, I can honestly say that my aggravation stems from a serious concern about your mental well-being.

Over the span of our 15-year relationship, you have never given up on me. I appreciate this, but now I wish you would really just let it go and accept me for who I am: an afternoon runner.

I know that I’m partly to blame for your neurotic obsession with getting me up and running by 6:30 a.m. I always made sure to be in bed by 10:00 p.m., I set out my running shoes and clothes the night before, I arranged to meet fellow runners, and then I told you to please make sure I was out of bed by 6:00 a.m…6:27 at the latest.

As you are no doubt aware, I am fully capable of getting (mostly) into my running clothes and out the door within three minutes. By the time I am awake enough to notice that my sports bra is on inside out or that I forgot my shorts, I’m too oxygen-deprived and exhausted to care.

All of that aside, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will never be a morning runner, and now I think it’s time for you to accept it too. We both know I’ve tried. I suffered the early morning cold, fumbling for my keys while trying not to wake my roommate, slipping my feet into stiff, cold running shoes and then trying to coax my grumbling muscles that, like it or not, we’re up, we’re here, we’re running. And then the, oh no we’re not actually running because said muscles are angry and stiff and so instead of leaping down the trail like a gazelle, I’m lumbering awkwardly down the path like an overweight Dachshund with three legs. I apologize to overweight Dachshunds everywhere, but let’s face it, you’re awkward.

I repeatedly endured the chipper, perky, bouncy morning runners who have clearly consumed about five cups too many of some highly caffeinated substance and spend every morning run taking advantage of my pre-dawn confusion to talk about how much they love everything and how lucky we are to be alive.  These are not things I disagree with, but I prefer to discuss them no earlier than 10:00 a.m.

Alarm clock, the reason that I have kept both of us going under this delusional dream is the fact that running in the morning is supposed to make me feel great and energized during the rest of the day. Usually I just feel annoyed that I left my bed an hour earlier than I needed to. I keep waiting for myself to become habituated to running in the morning so that I, too, can eagerly leap out of bed like a gazelle being chased by a lion.

But since it didn’t happen yesterday, it didn’t happen today, and it’s probably not going to happen tomorrow either, I think it’s time to throw in the towel.

I’m an afternoon runner. I have absolutely no self-discipline, am incapable of getting out of bed before 7:00 a.m., and prefer not to talk to anyone until I’ve gotten over my initial irritation on being out of bed in the first place. I’m not any more ashamed of this than you are of the fact that you’re an out-dated relic from the ’80′s. And since, I’ve accepted your beige, bland, rectangular body with the red numbers against the black background, I think you can extend me the same courtesy of acceptance.

So the next time I ask you for a 6:00 a.m. wake-up call, would you please have the courtesy to either smack me in the face or reset your alarm to a more reasonable hour.

Thanks, little buddy.

Even though it’s exhausting being on your feet all day, I really do enjoy it when we get to head to race expos to man the Greenlight Apparel race merchandise booth. A few months ago we were at the California International Marathon, then there was Pat’s Race in Arizona, and last weekend we headed to southern California for The OC Marathon.

Aside from getting to hang out with a bunch of runners and enjoy the warm southern California weather, our trip included the following highlights:

We Rented a Truck
Yeah, I know that doesn’t sound that exciting, but look at this thing. It was enormous and slightly unwieldy. The shocks on this 13-foot beast were shot to hell so we spent most of trip bouncing along highway 5. On the plus side, none of us got carsick and we did get to experience the novelty of truck stops as well as going through the scales on the freeway. It’s the little things in life. Next time we’re getting a radio.

The OC TasteFest
Anything that combines a running event with a food event has my full support. Also there were coconuts. Although the straw wasn’t particularly useful in trying to get at the actual coconut. They should consider serving it with a machete. I’m just saying.

In ‘N Out
They have a vegetarian option. Mind blown.

Army Strong
Sunday morning we needed help setting up. Monika said an army of volunteers was on their way to help us out. I didn’t think she meant it literally, but within five minutes a dozen uniformed soldiers were breaking down stands and moving race t-shirts and mannequins. It was kind of amazing.

Awkard
And then this happened. In my defense, those mannequins are a little awkward to carry around. On a less awkward note, the OC Marathon shirts turned out great.

One day after a long run, I was standing near the trail head happily emptying the contents of a box of Annie’s Bunny Grahams when a fellow runner pointed at me and said, “Nikki runs naked, too.”

I’d only been half-listening to the conversation of congregating runners, but now my head shot up. Wait. What? I know my shorts are short, but I definitely have clothes on. Right? I start second guessing myself. I did leave the house without coffee so it’s entirely possible that I just forgot to put shorts on. I looked down and breathed a sigh of relief. Yep, definitely have shorts on. Whew.

Laughing at my obvious confusion, my accuser then looked at me quizzically, “You don’t wear a watch when you run, right? I’ve never seen you wear one.”

Ohhh, that kind of naked running. Got it. Nope, no watch. I don’t keep track of my miles, my times, or my climbs. I just get up and I go. I stop when I’m tired and I go when I’m feeling good. I wasn’t always watch-less though.

Before my freshman year of high school, I ran because that was the perfect physical expression of my joy and enthusiasm for life. When I started racing at the high school level, people noticed me. They said I was fast. I broke records, won races, and suddenly the peace I derived from running was replaced with pressure.

By sophomore year of high school, I was terrified and miserable. Everyone expected I would continue to run faster and stronger. People jokingly asked when I was going to start training for the Olympics. I cried myself to sleep at night, desperately afraid that my freshman year was just a fluke and I wouldn’t be able to keep up my winning streak. I suffered severe anxiety attacks before races and wondered if I would ever enjoy running again. I tried to quit several times, but never had the guts to go through with it. Running was the one thing I was very good at and I derived a lot of my self-worth from my ability to perform on the track.

Another six years went by before I reached a breaking point. After years of constantly monitoring splits, personal records, and lap times, I had forgotten how to be motivated by joy. I quit running for my university and vowed never to sign up for another race again. It would be five years before I broke that promise. In an attempt to distract myself from a broken heart, I spontaneously signed up for a small local race. Unfortunately, I won. Suddenly my running buddies were speculating about other local races I could be competitive in if I started training seriously. I found myself once again ducking conversations about splits, personal bests, and training theories on how to shave seconds.

After the race I sat at home running my fingers over the finisher medal and staring blankly at the bouquet of flowers I’d received on the podium. Then I made a decision. I put the medal in a box, gave the flowers to my roommate, and took the batteries out of my running watch.

I stopped wearing a watch. I stopped planning runs. I stopped worrying about times. I started “running naked” and I never looked back. Now I lace up my running shoes and I run as hard as I can for as long as I can. I don’t worry about a damn thing, and it feels good. Fellow runners ask what my times are and I’m happy to tell them, “I have no idea.” Maybe some day I’ll dust off my running watch, but for now I’m happy to leave it at home.

My only motivation is the motivation I started with: the pure unadulterated love of running. There is nothing to distract me from admiring the adrenaline surging through my veins as I come up over the crest of a ridge, Berkeley at my feet, San Francisco in the distance. The sun is setting. We throw high fives and drop back down the trail at a blistering pace. At least, we think it’s a blistering pace. Without a watch, we’ll never really know.

And, frankly, that’s fine by me. Viva the naked runs.

So we’ve had a little bit of rain in the Bay Area over the past few weeks. Actually, that’s an understatement. If it rains any more, I’m going to build an ark and start collecting animals. Not that I’m any stranger to rain. I went to school in Humboldt County. Alright, alright. That’s enough. If you’ve got any “Did you study botany?” jokes in your system, get ‘em out now. We good? Ok, continuing. So it rains a lot up there, and while running through the redwoods never gets old, running in perpetually damp shoes is enough to make even the most gym-averse individuals consider investing in a treadmill.

Still, there is something amazingly fun about running in the rain. Remember when you were a kid and you would beg your parents to let you go play in the pouring rain? It was liberating to stop dodging raindrops and start jumping into puddles, shrieking with delight as the rain splattered on your bare skin. Running in the rain allows you suspend your grown-up self for a few hours and enjoy the sort of weather that sends everyone else scurrying indoors, shaking out their umbrellas and bemoaning the darkening skies. If you’re looking at the weekend weather forecast with a sinking heart, scroll down to remind yourself of a few of the reasons why running in the rain can be pretty fricking awesome.

You Get to Jump in Puddles
CANNONBALL! Ok, not quite. If you can cannonball into a puddle, it’s no longer a puddle. More like a pool. Running in the rain gives you ample opportunity to get in touch with your inner child and jump as hard as you can into puddles. So, go ahead. Start a splashwar with your running buddies. The key is to jump in the deepest part at a little bit of an angle. You want to get that wall of water headed straight for them. If that sounds like too much work then just go with the more traditional heel-strike hit in the middle of the puddle. You’ll get wet, but you’ll take everyone else down with you.

Remember Slip and Slide? 
Here is where I insert some responsible comment about being respectful of the trails and staying off of them when it’s muddy because of erosion. Ok, now onto the fun stuff. Running along a muddy trail brings the kind of adrenaline that has you cackling like a madman as you challenge gravity while surfing the rain-slickened surfaces of your favorite switchback trails. Watch those corners.

Embrace the Mud 
It gets everywhere. Squishing into your shoes, splattered onto your legs, smeared across your shirt, and caked along your face. When you get home and look in the mirror, it will look like you took a belly flop straight into the mud. Guess what? It’s because you basically did. We spend too much of our lives trying not to get dirty. Running in the rain gives you the chance to shout “screw that” at the top of your lungs. Sometimes you just gotta get a little muddy. Embrace it.

Stop, Accept, Enjoy
When was the last time you just stood in the rain and relished the feeling of the rivulets making their way down your face, beading along your waterproof jacket, and dropping to the ground? Take a deep breath. Notice the steam curling off of your body. You feel invigorated, alive, and happy…like the rain is renewing you, washing away your stress and anxiety. Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s raining and you’re outside enjoying it. Life is good.

The Post-Run Hot Shower
Does anything feel better than a hot shower after a long run in the rain? No, no it doesn’t. Unless it’s a donut after the hot shower after the long run.

A few weeks ago reports surfaced that Vibram, the company that sells the FiverFinger footwear and champions minimalist footwear, is facing a federal class action lawsuit in Massachusetts. The plaintiff is arguing that the company has greatly exaggerated the benefits of its products and says there is no proof that running in a pair of FiveFingers will improve posture, promote spine alignment, strengthen muscles, or reduce injury.

So, what do you guys think? Any barefoot/minimalist footwear runners out there who would care to come to Vibram’s defense? Anyone side with the plaintiff? Though I definitely bust out my running shoes for longer runs and haven’t quite made the transition to 100% barefoot or minimal footwear running, I’ve been integrating short barefoot runs on grass, tracks, and beaches for years and have found it to be pleasant…perhaps even beneficial. Or, at least, I think it’s beneficial. I don’t really know. All I know is that I’ve been running since the age of 13 and (knock on wood) have never had any serious running related injuries. And that’s the crux of the argument isn’t it? We don’t really know.

There are plenty of people who will testify that barefoot running has been an integral part of warding off or eliminating nagging and painful running-related injuries like Plantar fasciitis, but on the other hand, there isn’t any real scientific evidence to back up the claims that barefoot running is better for the body or that it prevents injuries. Vibram saw a niche and went for it (clearly there are a lot of people out there who find that running in minimalist footwear works for them and appreciate having the FiveFinger option), but perhaps they got a little overzealous in trying to promote the benefits of their product without any heavyweight scientific data to back them up?

The plaintiff in this case, a woman from Florida, is arguing that running in Vibram’s footwear may increase injury as compared with running in conventional shoes or barefoot. The lawsuit accuses Vibram of propagating a “false and misleading advertising campaign” that has allowed them to “reap millions of dollars of profit at the expense of the consumers they have misled.”

It will be interesting to see how this plays out although, I have to ask, was it really necessary to take the barefoot running debate to court? What do you think? Legitimate lawsuit or another case of the McDonald’s coffee was too hot?

Every time I look at this photo, my heart turns inside out. I miss this little bit. She’s three. She doesn’t say much, but she likes to hold my hand and sit in my lap while just staring at me. While sitting on the grass watching the women play netball, Robyn and I find ourselves encircled by children. I give up trying to watch the game and look down to find this little bit of a child crawling into my lap with a giant, if not mischievous, smile.

She melts my heart right then and there. Her tiny hand grabs two of my fingers and her other hand fiddles with my bracelet. She never takes her eyes off me. When I smile, she doubles over with laughter. My heart feels like it’s expanding in my chest with the intention of holding her firmly in its grasp, to shield her from anything that would wipe that smile off her face. I don’t want anything to ever hurt her, make her cry, or deprive her of anything.

We find a mutual reassurance in holding hands and she trails slightly behind me as we walk through Buyobo, our natural strides compromised as we try to walk in sync.

She follows me into three new classrooms that have recently been constructed. Animals are painted onto the walls of one classroom. I point at one animal. “Crocodile.” She giggles. “Crocodile.” I’m delighted by her mimicry. “Bird,” I point to a large, white bird. “Biiiirrrrd” she shrieks backs. Suddenly there are five or six children circled around me, echoing the English words I give them. “Water, tree, fish, sun, sky” They shout back the words at me and their thirst for knowledge makes me hungry to teach them, to pour anything I can into their open hands. Their curiosity and enthusiasm is infectious, and it’s frustrating to reflect on the number of children who do not have access to the education they deserve.

Every child, every individual, has a right to education and to the opportunity to empower themselves and their communities with the resources necessary to defend themselves from the onslaught of disease, corruption, dubious ethics, unprincipled economics, well-meaning but ineffective foreign aid, and unscrupulous laws. There is so much wrong in the world, and so many suggestions on the where, why, and how of what went wrong. I am reluctant to oversimplify the myriad of complexities that contribute to poverty’s entangling web, but I feel strongly about the role education plays in shaking loose its fetters. One’s access to financial resources should never dictate the level and quality of education one receives, not in Uganda, not in the U.S., not anywhere.

This is why I smile when almost every single woman we speak with in Buyobo informs us that being a WMI borrower has enabled them to help pay their children’s school fees. More than one woman tells us that her child is now first in their class. When I think of my life and how privileged I am, the shining star in my memory is the level and caliber of education I received. Education yields change. There are so many components to breaking the cycle of poverty and there is no quick fix, but surrounded by children pulling at my clothes, reaching for my hand, eager to absorb my words and teach me theirs, I am struck by their curiosity. There are any number of academic theories on development and poverty and why children should remain in school. Running down a narrow path with a dozen laughing, happy little kids, those theories suddenly mean very little to me. The desire of these children to learn is enough to solidify my belief that it is also their right.

I spend most weekends slipping down muddy trails chasing after nothing in particular for no reason in particular. It’s called trail running and most of the people in my social circle seem to think it’s an activity that is best left to the insane, masochistic, and stupid. I’m not even going to try to defend myself against those accusations, but trail running. This I have to defend. From an outside perspective I can understand how running twenty miles early on a Saturday or Sunday morning might be considered insane. I realize that those looking in from the outside see only a bunch of exhausted human beings covered in mud with faint lines of blood scratched across their legs and arms as they stagger into a parking lot mumbling incoherently about the beer they’ve been dreaming of for the past ten miles. And yes, that does seem like grounds to institutionalize someone.

But you have to dig a little deeper. Last week while sprawled out on my living room floor watching The Big Bang Theory, a friend asked me to name two things, family and friends aside, that I simply could not live without. Massaging a sore calf, I went through my mental checklist of guilty pleasures before decidedly giving an answer: trail running and potato chips.

Apparently this is an amusing answer because it took him a few minutes to stop laughing.

“Nikki, you are an oxymoron.”

“I resent that. And I’d rather be an oxymoron than just a moron.”

“Nice.”

“Thank you. And I’m perfectly serious. I could not live without trail running.”

“Or potato chips”

“Right”

And then I tried to explain.

I live for running, but not just any kind of running. I have to drag myself out the door during the days my evening runs are confined to the city streets. Considering that I live within minutes of the paved Bay Trail and in one of the most running friendly cities in the East Bay, this gives some indication of my reluctance to slamming my feet down against pavement. Basically, I hate it. But come Saturday and Sunday when I am free to spend hours roaming the trails in Tilden Park, Redwood Park, or the nearby Muir Woods, I am transformed into a 6 year-old who runs for the sheer joy of it. I run because my heart is so happy to be outside that the only thing that can adequately reflect that happiness is running.

Imagine dropping down into a ravine on a single-track trail enveloped by redwoods. Your feet are moving faster than your brain, your reflexes kick in and you’re amazed at the fluidity of your body. Your buddy in front of you lets out an adrenaline-induced whoop. You respond by hollering. Suddenly seven runners are dropping down a trail at a breakneck speed while shouting and singing just because they’re happy to be there. Hikers flash you bewildered and startled glances. You respond with an exhausted smile and try not to splatter them with mud as you race past. When you stagger back to the parking lot twenty plus miles later, your body is battered and your legs having nothing more to give, but your heart is full.

When I’m trail running I’m so happy to be out there, to be alive and moving that nothing else really matters. My world could be crashing down on top of me, but when I’m running, it doesn’t matter. And when I’m running with people who understand that, I’m even happier. Maybe it’s nothing more than the sense of camaraderie that develops when the world thinks you’re crazy, but you know you’re not. Or maybe you are, but you don’t really give a damn. In a world of spectacular technology and perpetual connection, it’s nice to be unplugged and connected to someone in a completely different way. Whether you spend ten miles talking or ten miles running in comfortable silence (well, minus the occasional interludes of “Want a shock block? Margarita flavor?” or “Wait? Is this the right way?”) you’re 100% in that moment with those people. You feel your connection to the people and place around you and at the risk of sounding like someone who has clearly lived in Berkeley too long, that interconnectedness is invigorating and comforting in a way that Siri simply cannot comprehend. Mostly because, let’s face it, she doesn’t really comprehend anything.

All I’m saying is that it’s hard to knock something that involves mud and ends in beer because trail running, if done properly, always ends in beer. And potato chips. What can I say? We’re a bunch of health nuts.

I’m sitting on the curb when the shopkeeper at the fabric store shuffles out, dragging a chair behind her. She smiles encouragingly and I dust myself off before accepting the chair. Perry is perusing bolts of fabric in this closet of a fabric shop. It’s a sensory overload with bulging rectangles of color shoved into every available space. Incense permeates the air as it burns steadily before a statue of a Hindu god and the sound of scissors slicing cleanly through fabric punctuates every word. It’s intoxicating, but I’m not a shopper and before Perry has had the chance to pick out even one style of fabric, I’m already bored. I retire to the plastic chair.

Dust hangs in the air, muting the colors of Mbale. Its sharp colors, loud noises, and pungent smells are faded, like laundry hanging on the line after too many washes. The sun hits the crowded streets, holding them haphazardly in its light. Smudged white buildings are adorned with rough log scaffolding as taxis, overburdened with trunks and rolled up mattresses, rock precariously over the deep ruts in the road. Children are on their way back to school and their pressed uniforms seem out of place as they walk past the street vendors selling stack of pineapples, leather sandals, used clothing, and avocados. Two women load an enormous bundle onto the head of a young man. He steadies the load with his hand and slides forward through the crowd with an ethereal grace.

Ugandans walk past me, occasionally slowing down to gaze curiously at the mzungu occupying the cracked plastic chair in front of the local fabric shop. I gaze back at them unperturbed, strangely appreciative of our mutual curiosity.

Mbale has an inexplicable appeal to it. It’s not Buyobo, but the chaos of its streets is something you can slip into. There is a rhythm here, a beat of the drums that locals instinctively move in time with while foreigners rock awkwardly back and forth, feeling the pull of it all, but unable to move as effortlessly in time with its music.

I first notice this while riding on the back of a motorbike, stuttering through the stop and go traffic. Chickens, pedestrians, trucks, motorbikes, buses, taxis, goats, and cows all fight for the right of way on the pockmarked roads. Eric constantly reminds us to watch out for the motorbikes as they leap forward into the narrow pockets of space between the buses and taxis. Frequently spinning out against the flow of traffic, they cause a high number of traffic accidents, and getting on one is tempting fate. It’s also exhilarating, liberating, and perhaps the most authentic way to experience the busy streets of Uganda’s prominent cities.

Sitting on the back, bouncing awkwardly behind the driver, dust flies into my eyes and mouth as I clench my hands and attempt to reassure myself with the fact that the driver has left at least two inches between my leg and the massive truck he’s currently speeding around.

As I wobble precariously, I watch women weave through the traffic balancing enormous bunches of matoke on their heads. It’s just one more reminder that I lack the grace and adaptability to slip effortlessly into the streams of people pushing their lives forward amid a slough of improbable odds.

Perry steps back out into the street with an enormous bag of brightly colored fabric, bold prints that defy the drab reality of a life tangled in poverty’s grasp. They’re the prints the women in Uganda favor and it emboldens my heart to believe in the chance these women have to extricate themselves from that cycle and build a reality more in line with the brilliant and bold patterns they adorn themselves with, a reality underpinned by choice rather than circumstance.

Back in Buyobo, Olive, Jacqueline, and Allan are demonstrating to me that hundreds of women, like them, within their community, are changing the game. With WMI’s help, they’re sending their children to school, they’re expanding their businesses, they’re running for office, and they’re feeding my cautious flicker of hope diminished by years of watching firsthand how useless and inappropriate many top-down development programs can be for communities ravaged by war and poverty.

Making our way up the path to the comfortable house alongside Buyobo’s main road, a little girl sitting in the dirt smiles and waves. As the evening light recedes from the valley, I wonder what her life will be like in ten years. It’s hard to promise anything in this world, but as I look over my shoulder at Olive–strong, beautiful, and determined, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if the women in this community have anything to say about it, this little girl will be offered every opportunity. I smile back, offer my thanks to the world that women like Robyn and Olive exist, and let myself into the house.