Some COLD Football

We had a terrific week. Dinner with friends in the city, grilled some elk steaks, caught up on laundry, enjoyed being home for more than a few days at a stretch for a change. Which meant that... the "honey do" list resurfaced. Seth is very patient about the existence of this list, but he also largely ignores it. I know I promised I would leave the man cave alone, but let's face it. A couple months or not trading dinner for chores, and the place is a Superfund site.

So of course I came home on Friday night, after a hellish day and even worse traffic, to a fire and a glass of bourbon. A little Friday R&R- the man wasn't born yesterday- and I had agreed to not one but two football games in the midst of our sudden and offensive cold snap. Which meant, I suspected, that the biohazard that was our downstairs had at least another week to foster bacteria and allow the hunting clothes to get really ripe.

But I digress. The point is that we had a wonderful time at the Maryland- Boston College Game (all decked out in Terrapins gear in honor of Seth's soon-to-be alma mater!), and I say this not just because we spent most of it in the athletic director's warm box, and followed it up with the discovery of a new local sports bar. (I confess that I literally froze after Seth's introduction on the field in the third quarter and- much to my later embarrassment- insisted that we leave to "beat traffic," thereby missing what was described on the radio as an incredibly exciting game featuring a last-second field goal.) I was bracing myself, however, for the arctic Ravens game the next day.

We had front row seats, courtesy of some wounded warrior charity or other, and this one wasn't even too obnoxious. (Picture above notwithstanding.) But it was below freezing, and you can only drink so much beer, and frankly hand warmers don't work that well. It was a long, cold day (and not that thrilling a game), capped off by a (funny)(underdressed)(bizarre) evening on the town in Baltimore with Seth's Army football buddies. All in all, we had a good time. I still can't feel my fingers. And I am seriously concerned about Army-Navy, which promises to be at least 15 degrees colder.

I tolerated the football, and the cold, and the Ravens fans (can you say "lock your doors?") The best parts of my weekend were a long run with Steph, a trip to lululemon, a much-needed dose of takeout Thai, and a rare but amazing hour on the couch with reruns. It was a much-needed weekend at home.

Oh, and this. This absolute highlight. Sunday morning I got to take Seth and his new running leg for a little run along the canal. It's baby steps at first, and I know he gets frustrated that he can't go that far or that fast, and it's more painful than he remembers. But he looks so good, and he's so determined, and it means the world to me to get to run next to him again. Doesn't he look great??

The photo of the week is from Monday night, after Scott & Grace's school Thanksgiving program. We tagged along, and afterward we stopped by for a beer and "storytime with Uncle Seth." He read La La Loopsie. Pretty priceless.

And now... the countdown to Hawaii is on...!

Full Circle & Then Some

Sixteen-or-so months ago, this guy won me over by crashing my solo roadtrip and dragging himself through a half marathon in Keystone, Colorado. It was essentially our third date, and after that, it was pretty much a done deal.

20 surgeries, countless trips to the proesthetician,  and almost 12 months of physical therapy later, he grabbed my hand, looked at me, and started jogging next to me. Getting to run next to him, after the year we had been through together, was the moment I had been waiting for. And it was incredible.

Because he's Seth Nieman,of course,  he didn't stop there. An hour or so afterwards, he suited up for the Wounded Warrior Amputee Football Game against the Redskins Alumni

And he did this...

And this...

And this...

And you get the idea.

 

The Wounded Warriors won.

And looked awesome doing it.

Afterwards, we celebrated with a few beers at Clare and Don's with DJ, and then headed home so the boys could watch football. (That's right. The photo of the week is proof that I was the only person in the house who watched my Trojans' epic victory over Stanford.)

 

A story about the game, along with a cool interview clip, appears here: http://www.wusa9.com/sports/article/283078/444/Wounded-Warriors-Take-On-Redskins-Alumni-In-Flag-Football

 

 

The Last Best Place

The speed limit in Montana is 75. I cruised along at 78 and was passed by the only two cars (pickup trucks, natch) that I saw on 90 at almost midnight. There was no reason to slow down; there just wasn't anybody on the road. I only passed a handful of exits in 40 miles. I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that just hours earlier I had been in the land of stop-and-go traffic and urban sprawl that didn't quit.

I was thrilled- I finally got to join Seth on one of his many trips, and it was to one of our favorite places. When Seth was offered a hunting trip to Red Lodge, Montana, he realized it was Veterans' Day weekend, so I could go- and a Nieman adventure was born. I could ice climb and snowboard while Seth stalked elk, and we could spend evenings hanging out in front of our fireplace.

Well, sort of. Except that we had a cabin-mate (named Adam, a double amputee that I ended up liking so much I got up early to make sausage and eggs for them before they left at o'dark early every day.) And Montana was unseasonably warm, so there was no ice and not a lot of snow. (Although Montana warm still meant a on of layers.) Anndddd there were social obligations every night. So we had our hands full.

But we met a ton of great people, and solidified our plan to retire in The Last Best Place. I ran miles on icy dirt roads with stunning views of the mountains (with bear spray and a Ruger in hand, which made me feel much better when I saw bear tracks and got stalked by a wolf), snowshoed up Beartooth Pass and had the whole spectacular valley to myself, and got to climb Rimrock with Charlie, a climbing legend who had done first ascents with Yvon Choinard. Seth killed a big mule deer and got to drive around in ATVs, imparting his hunting experience to the other wounded warriors, who were new to hunting. He even got asked to come back as a guide.

And we did spend a lovely (freezing) morning together, riding around in search of elk with Jake, Seth's cool guide-- a 20 year old who worked in a coal mine and wore a cowboy hat without a hint of irony. We love Montana. And Montanans. As we slammed our last meal on the way to the airport (that's right, the Niemans can get in lunch and two beers apiece in 20 minutes flat), we watched big, fat snowflakes fall on the streets of Billings and googled Montana realtors. We're thinking log cabin, lots of acres. With big wildlife, Seth-friendly gun laws, lots of trails, and expansive views- it's our kind of place.

Photos of the week:

Seth and Adam at the salad bar. I was actually appalled, although it was funny.

Andddd had to include this one, from our longggg 4-day week back. Best part of working at Belvoir is lunch breaks with Mom & Dad!

Quick trip to the 'ville

We made a quick run down to the ‘ville for Seth’s team party, an event which had long been in the works. I, for one, was bummed we couldn’t stay longer. Unfortunately, if you have to work at all on Fridays and live anywhere north of Richmond, you’re a hostage to traffic until well after it would make sense to begin a 5-6 hour trip. So we drove down Saturday and back Sunday. It was a whistle-stop tour to say the least.

We did get to see Brian, and meet his wife Serafima and her daughter Eva, who are finally on U.S. soil after a long and arduous immigration battle. So that was really special. And Jenn was nice enough to bring “my” baby, the now-walking Magster, to meet us at a bar the afternoon we got in. And of course we squeezed in a beer or three with Jax and crew (although, post-party, it was my turn to skip our planned Sunday run.)

But mostly, we were just in town for the 3126 get-together. It was a really nice event, although I know it was tough for Seth. It was his team’s official goodbye to him. He did a bang-up job giving a thank you/ farewell speech, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house when he was finished and they handed him his plaques. I was really proud of him, as I know it kind of marked the end of an era for everyone, and emotions ran high.

But there was plenty of beer, and hunting stories to tell, and a good time was had by all.

And now it’s Monday, and I’m back at the grind and Seth is in a tree stand somewhere. It’s cold and miserable back here “up north.” I think it’s a soup-making night. Since I’m still getting used to the end of daylight savings time (two commutes in the dark!), I’m pulling out the big guns: http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052748703396604576088182976391222 Butternut squash and mascarpone, and it always makes me grateful for the immersion blender Michelle gave me a couple Christmases ago. The fall foliage was gorgeous on our (long) weekend drive, but I know what that means: winter is right around the corner, and soup season is here!

Photos of the week: 3126

 

And the whole 3126 family:

Why I Never Hit the Snooze Button

The short story:

 

 

The rest of the story:

I never hit the snooze button. Ever. Nobody in my family does. The Walters family considers the inability to get the heck out of bed to be a pretty major character flaw. On weekdays, I wake up the instant my alarm goes off and am dressed and out the door with coffee in hand inside of five minutes.

And then there's Seth. He's had an adversarial relationship with morning wake-ups since I've known him (and, according to his Mom, since birth.) It's only gotten worse with TBI, and the buckets-full of drugs he was on as a result of getting blown up. He has to set three or four alarms to get up and get to physical therapy, and I suspect that that trick only works some of the time. Because of his many other fine qualities, I've managed to overlook this imperfection. I even occasionally feel bad for making fun of how groggy and disoriented he is when he has to wake up early.

And now I should probably take it all back, because it turns out that I'm wired exactly the same way, only backwards. I cannot function after even one tiny snooze button smack.

This morning, my alarm went off before dawn as usual, and it was just so nice in our bedroom, with the sound of the rain hitting the deck roof and a sleepy Seth next to me. He did not want me to get out of bed, and told me so. I don't know who can resist a snuggly husband on a rainy morning, but it's not me. So against my better judgment, I hit snooze.

I woke up ten minutes later, late and frantic. I threw on running clothes, grabbed my stuff, dropped it all in a puddle, and- having forgotten my coffee- raced for the door. Halfway to work, I noticed I had forgotten my phone. "Terrific," I thought. "I guess I'll google map the address I need to be at for dinner, and make wild guesses as to the traffic situation. I can do this."

I proceeded to cause a minor traffic jam at the Belvoir gate, since in my haste I had neglected to take my ID card out of my uniform pocket, which was hanging in the backseat, requiring me to get out to retrieve it and seriously angering my fellow drivers.

The skies opened up about halfway through my run, and I learned that I had also failed at hasty running shorts- selection. The pair I had grabbed was a size too big and one of a number I had pulled the drawstring out of the last time I put on a few pounds, figuring I no longer needed help keeping them up. That was apparently a few pounds ago, and when my shorts got soaked in the downpour they inched down my waist, eventually requiring me to run with one hand holding up my traitorous waistband. At the big intersection near my office, I wiped the rain from my face with my shorts-holding hand without thinking, and they fell down to my knees before I caught them. I hoped desperately that I had not just mooned someone I worked with. Fingers crossed.

I discovered the final disaster when I made it back to the gym to shower and pulled my uniform out of my car. There was nothing underneath it, and it hit me: I had left my boots beside the door. In Bethesda. This was a major problem. I definitely did not have two hours to make the roundtrip home, and I had to be in uniform for a ceremony this afternoon. I headed to Mom and Dad's, who always save the day, and luckily Dad had an extra pair in the upstairs closet. I wear a men's 5.5 in combat boots. I think Dad's are a 10. I look like Bozo the Clown, and you can hear me coming from down the hallway. My office has been in stitches all morning. I think it's seriously hurting productivity around here.

And that's why I never hit snooze.
Hope everyone else's Friday is going better than mine, at least in the shoe and shorts departments.

Skol!

I often find myself repeating the old line about "the best laid schemes o' mice an' men" while shaking my head about something in my life that I could never have contemplated just a year and change ago. Of course, although I'm fond of old Burns, the rest of the poem is depressing-- and does anybody really know what "gang aft agley" means? I guess I just mean that life has lots of twists and turns and surprises, and most of the time they make me smile. But also shake my head.

This weekend the moment hit me as I was bundling up against the chilly Minnesota wind, having sat outside the metrodome downing 16 oz. cans of Miller Lite with other green- and purple- clad revelers for the better part of the day. I am a Vikings fan by marriage, it seems. I was still reeling from the purchase of the deep freezer and the fact that I was now the proud owner of a cookbook featuring elk meat. And now, somehow, Seth had gotten me out of my cute new oatmeal raglan sweater (worn with knee high boots) and into a garish purple and yellow sweatshirt that actually laced up the neck, a bad replica of some imagined Viking maiden garb of yore. He himself was wearing a purple jersey and matching hat. The face paint, I admit, was all my idea. When in Rome...

 

Don't get me wrong. We love our football in Southern California. But it's a much more... civilized proposition. And it's definitely warmer.

 

At any rate, we did have a terrific weekend in Minneapolis. I seriously- and somewhat secretly- love that town. Well, actually, St. Paul. It's beautiful and friendly. We got to enjoy the tail end of fall foliage season, and were blessed with sunny, above-freezing weather. I ran a local 5k around beautiful Como Lake that reminded me why I used to love road racing, so friendly and enjoyable was the event. (Try finding one of those in DC!) We LOVED getting to hang out with Jayne, although Tony's absence due to late-season bean combining (I think I got that right) couldn't help but put a damper on things. (I really did score in the in-law department in a major way.) Seth got his cheese curd fix, and thanked me with a stop at lululemon, and Jayne finally broke her very-impressive beer fast. I was reminded that I love Grain Belt beer, and discovered coal-fired pizza. Oh, and we got to catch up with Seth's buddy John, who was with him in the blast in Afghanistan, and his brother Danny, who had provided us with the tickets (so we tolerated their Packers allegiance and corresponding gear.) A good time was definitely had by all.
 

Until I woke up Monday morning an hour after our early-morning flight to DC was supposed to have departed. Seth and I spent the better part of the day at the Minneapolis airport, me hoping fervently that I would not be reported AWOL. (I wasn't. Although it was threatened. I think jokingly.) Thank goodness MSP has the nicest USO on the planet. It wasn't a bad day of playing hooky after all, although I'll be working late every night this week to make up for it.

 

Oh. And the Vikings lost. I'm pretty sure this surprised no one but Seth. He did not take it well.

 

Photo of the week (taken right after the devastating, if unsurprising, loss.) Better luck next year, Vikings. Or do they say skol?

Another Army Ten Miler Down

It seems that for the past decade-plus, my life has been measured by Army Ten Milers. I used to count by deployments, but that got both depressing and confusing. Somehow along the way my annual milestone of choice became the huge race that starts and finishes at the Pentagon and every year draws tens of thousands of friends and fellow service members from all over the world in one big show of camaraderie.

Or stress and nerves, which is what I most often felt. I have never run the ATM for fun, or by myself. I’ve always been outfitted in a team jersey, glued to my watch, worn down by the complicated logistics of team travel, and a ball of nerves generally. I had run the race several times, I remember, before Michelle- who runs it for fun every year, and enjoys it immensely- said something about how great it was that the race ran by all the monuments. I was dumbfounded. I had no idea what the course looked like. I had always been focused on the watch, the pavement, and the runner behind me.

That said, ATM weekends always had happy memories too. Generally once the race was over. There were lots of surprise run-ins with old friends and celebratory post-race nights at Murphy’s. There was the year my Bragg team almost got cheated out of our trophy and Jackie grabbed it and ran off the stage. The year I feuded with the coach over our post-run beer habit, and then beat her by minutes in a resounding moral victory. The year Michelle won an Irish car bomb- drinking contest when she was (unwittingly) pregnant with Scott. The year we won, stayed out all night, and had to drag ourselves hungover to the AUSA convention at 7 the next morning for an awards presentation, reeking of beer and desperate for water- which, post 9/11, was prohibited in the convention center. The year of the hilarious and unfortunate chain of events at Murphy’s that resulted in the nickname “drunk monkey” for our most straightlaced, Catholic team member (now a mother of two.) The year Kala tried to start a bar fight, all 92 pounds of her. The year I was the captain and coach and learned the true meaning of “pride” when my team won after a tough season of juggling deployments and schools and long training events.   

Yes, as much as I said I hated it, through deployments and PCSes and relationship ups and downs and even a career change, the Army Ten Miler had always been there. And this year was no different. Except that it was. I was in the worst shape of my life. It had not been a good year for running. I still had a team, but it was an odd, loosely affiliated group of ragtag runners in Belvoir jerseys that had no camaraderie and no chance of winning. But it was still the ATM, and it was important to me, and Seth had foregone some hunting trip or other to be there.  Actually, at the last minute, he had decided on a whim to hand cycle it with the wounded warriors, never having actually hand biked. I was worried about impending disaster, impressed as always by his casual "can do" attitude, and exceptionally proud that Team Nieman was going to tackle this thing together.

 And tackle it we did. Thanks to a badly-timed team meetup and a major security snafu, I didn’t get to see Seth on his handbike at all (the wounded warriors started early and finished waayyyy before us.) He apparently did a terrific job and had a good time doing it. I barely made the end of my wave start after having waited in line to be patted down at security (seriously, that’s necessary when I’m clad mostly in spandex?!) My race started off slow and got slower, and at mile 8 I very seriously considered quitting. Then again, I think I always consider that at mile 8. I finished almost 4 minutes slower than ever before, and was tempted to be depressed about it until I decided on a back pat instead. After the year we had both had, Seth and I eked out those ten miles like champs, and that was something that could not be reflected in finish times.

We would both get back in shape, but we were doing pretty well, all things considered. I was proud of us. And of all the years of ups and downs and good finishes and bad finishes and mediocre finishes… the best finish of my life was this one, because I heard a familiar voice call my name, and Seth lifted me up over the barriers for a hug, having stowed his handbike and walked over half a mile back to the finish to see me come in. As milestones go, this ATM marked the best, craziest, toughest, and most rewarding in my life, and I was the happiest I had ever been, even without a team and a win. It was crazy to think that, when I sat out last year’s race- my first to do so, but Charlottesville didn’t have a team and I was pouting because I had had to leave Bragg- I had biked to the finish line from Belvoir and visited friends and been sad and talked to Seth about it that night when he called from Afghanistan. That seemed like lifetimes ago, but here we stood, on the finish line, happy and grateful just to be there together. (And, OK, at least one of us was thrilled to have the damned race over with. But still. Serious “we’ve come a long way” moment.)

Belvoir, predictably, won nothing, and I didn’t see most of the team after the race. There was no reason to wait around for awards, a kind of disappointing first for me, but it did save hours. We hung out for awhile with Michelle and Susan, who had run with the amazing organization TAPs in honor of Paul, and headed out for celebratory brunch and beers with the Trimbles. Another ATM down.

Since fitness seems to be the theme this week, there are two photos of the week, both of our already-athletic little nieces!

This first is of Lisa and Nat, who braved freezing cold temperatures to do a local 5k. I’m so proud of my sis-in-law for not letting a crazy schedule and being a single parent while Ben’s deployed get in the way of her fitness goals!

And here’s the little rock star-in-training Lehua with our brother-in-law Daniel, who somehow managed to find an ice rink in Hawaii!