(Not) Running For My Life

Okay, so here it is. In a few days, I'll be completing that zombie race thing I signed up for all those months ago. What the heck was I thinking?!? Unfortunately, due to extensive travel and several cross country trips in the last few months, my training is seriously lax. I can barely run 2.5 miles (I started this summer at 4), and 100 crunches gives me aches for days. Still, I am excited despite feeling daunted by my abilities to "run" this course. I suppose I don't really have a plan. Isn't that the point of being a zombie enthusiast? Having a good bug out plan? Direction? Something to keep my life (or those little yellow flags) intact?

I suppose, if anything, I'm going to approach it as an experience. At least I will try. I hope to do better than that. I hate losing and for me, that would entail some plastic grubbing zombie snatching one of my lifelines as I pant from over exertion in Temecula. I hope I don't shame myself and fall flat on my face. I hope I can survive to enjoy my beer and concert at the end. I hope I don't stumble into the "10K" part of the race.

I suppose that's true lesson one should take from zombies; all the training in the world will only get you so far. It's hope in the end that will keep you alive.

Putting My Fantasies and Skills to the Test

                                                  (This is gonna be me in the fall. I am a lucky girl!)

I'm sure you've heard of this little race, Run for Your Lives. Well, I've finally signed up for it. If you haven't read up on this bloody 5K, it's a obstacle course filled with zombies, mazes, mud, and enough guts and gore to make this horror fan scream with joy. My husband is already shaking his head at my preparations, especially since the race is 4 months away. I mean, I hum with joy when it comes to Ihop and zombies. Did he expect any less?

I have to say, I'm a little nervous about the potential walls, hills, haystacks, and other impediments I'll need to overcome before crossing the finish line, hopefully with my life aka  red flag football flags. I've got a few plans and strategies in mind (I can't say what specifically in case a zombie reads this blog). At least I can run a 5K pretty comfortably without creeks and undead getting in my way so I'm less worried about endurance. I suppose mostly its my competitive streak, my desire to hold on to those flimsy plastic symbols of life. It would make me so angry to fail, to not survive the zombie apocalypse after all the reading, planning, and snarling I've done regarding the walking dead. 

                                                                  (I don't think this guy will be satisfied with a hug)

But beneath my pride, there resides something more. We zombie fans participate in these events because they are flippin' fun and they are the manifestation of all of the books and films we've been consuming for years. Underneath it all, perhaps this is the one of those tests offering insight into our chances of real survival in a world bleeding zombies. Perhaps our reflexes aren't as swift and well-honed as we would like to believe. Maybe our lungs and limbs fail us much sooner than anticipated. Per chance, we cannot navigate murky environments and will succumb to our weaknesses derived from easy access to transit, Targets, and comfy Lazyboys. I wonder, if anything, whether or not this race will serve as a window into this microcosmic realm where the undead really do nip at your heels, a window revealing just a bit of who we really are when the dead don't stay dead and the woods truly daunt.

I know it's silly to take this too seriously, to let my brain over analyze this adventure of fantasy and fitness. I'll wear my fun t-shirt, duck and dive like the organizers suggest, and grab my beer at the end of the race. I'll enjoy the concert at the climax of the evening, laugh with my friends over the stupid mistakes and spills we made during our journeys, and I'll travel home in the dark of night towards my warm, safe home and fuzzy kitty cats. 

Sigh. Well, til that trip back to our townhouse, a girl can only hope she has the guts to keep her guts where they belong.

The Beginning?

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/blackberry/p.html?id=1548359

This sounds exactly like a cover-up for the dawn of zombies. I joke with my friends about the beginning of this end, pretend like it doesn't kind of freak me out. But, well, yeah.... I hope in ten years we don't look back and say, "Told ya so."

Why Zombies in San Diego Will Suck (And of Course Bite)

In the process of apartment hunting in San Diego, it quickly became apparent to me that if an outbreak of reanimated corpses were to suddenly appear off highway 8, I would become a human sandwich (perhaps on rye) within moments (I think I would taste best with some Dijon mustard, too). This place is flipping cramped, a never-ending sea of urban sprawl. Cripes, I could hope to confiscate one of those shiny boats in port, but since I can barely navigate Cally's freeway system, I am more likely to find myself drifting to my death rather than being eaten. 

These thoughts hang in the back of my mind as we weight the benefits of living close to downtown versus the es-capability of more easterly locations.  I mean, there is either the ocean to the west (not drinkable) or the desert to the east (likewise parch). At least with my jeep, I could off-road to life? 

Doesn't this stuff ever freak city people out? Do they care that they are a small disaster away from death and destruction? I have always felt super uneasy in crowds, unsafe, likely to be trampled to death. I dislike being about to smell their breakfast through my walls, cringe at the blast of their horrible tastes in music, and wait for them--ugh, I hate waiting.

I understand people want to be in the know, in the now, deep in the heart of the city. But, why does it seem so many are willing to sacrifice their safety for the ability to walk to 10 bars rather than 2 in the suburbs? I know there is more to it, but I genuinely do not get/accept/want to be so dependent on the whims of others when my life and my family is at stake. Call me paranoid, but at least when the zombies come, you can still call me.

To Survive or Not To Survive (that's right, I made a poorly veiled Shakespeare reference)

If I were to have a fatal flaw, I believe it would be hesitation. If there was to be one character trait that would probably do me in during a zombie apocalypse, it would likely resemble an inability to make swift, life-saving choices that would propel me from being undead fodder. I mean, what would I do with my cats? They aren't exactly portable. If the whole thing blew over in a few days, I would be sorely pissed to have set them loose on the world and never have the chance to see them again. I'm going to be moving to a location without a good freshwater source. Should I by-pass the family nearby for more fertile grounds? What about gas? I might have jeep, but it certainly wouldn't get me far enough to resources before I'd need to refill. 

Governmental obligations would likely cause my husband and I to split (at least for a bit). Do I hang around the port for him or deftly drive up to safety? What if that determines whether we'll see each other again? Sometimes, these questions plague me--and maybe they should.

Really, the come down to a lack of planning. To best survive catastrophes, it is recommended to already have contingency plans in place. I asked my husband about this a few months back. He seemed fine with whatever choices I make--where ever I go. But, my hesitation at even this hypothetical situation leaves me breathless. I know this is all something which can be dealt with. Those planners on the Discovery channel certainly seem to have their pulses on this survival gig. 

Yet, would even their plans have preparations laid out for every possible scenario? Well, no, but I do assume they will be better able to adapt. Just because one cannot know the future does not mean one should not make arrangements just in case.  

I've begun with the basics: building a bug out bag, learning the roads and highways of America, building connections throughout my journeys, and improving my overall health and endurance. There will be more to learn, more to overcome as I await Z-Day. Perhaps with more time and training, my general hesitation will become less deadly.  

What flaws do you, phantom readers, believe you will struggle with most? How do you intend to prepare for them before the real dangers begin gnawing at your bloody stumps?

It's All About the Rides

A few days back, I purchased my first anti-zombie vehicle. I am now a Wrangler-ette. For a multitude of reasons (mostly having to do with Sarah Conner), I've always wanted a Jeep. Now, I can actually off-road independently and feel like the monster-eating beast I'll need to become should the world degenerate into a land of thriving and writhing undead. Oh, happy thought indeed...

Grandma Bought Me a Gerber

When pursuing knives at the Exchange, my grandma only giggled when I pointed out the small gerber (accompanied by a multi-tool contraption) I wanted for Christmas. She bounced off to find a bored sales associate to open the lock preventing me from clutching the blade with my greedy paws. My mother, a bit less enthusiastically, placed my other survival gift (a nifty fire-starter) into the cart and asked if she should be worried about her children's seemingly sudden preoccupation with blades, camping gear, and wilderness techniques. I explained how years of living with a marine (my father) has always encouraged a general interest in survival for my brother and I regardless of our current living conditions. He does also work in a camping store and I in the imagination.

Oddly enough or rather given my long lasting love for the macabre, she firmly placed my fire-starter thing (I'm sure it has a real, more serious sounding name) and a twin of it in the cart for my brother. Still not quite reassured, I gently noted that it's not as if we were buying solely gear for a zombie apocalypse (though of course I'm now running scenarios of my awesomeness through my mind about starting fires and cutting important things and of course zombies). Having recently prepped for the hurricane season, I told her it was always good to just be prepared for any emergency. You won't think you are so silly when you actually need that strong toothed cutter thing or a zombie comes barreling down the hall intent on snacking on your sinew (Maybe I left that last part out while comforting her). 

It is interesting though how we "worry" about those who prep for emergencies. In some ways, one does not want to be that person who wasted precious time and resources planning for an event so terribly unlikely to occur. Perhaps, though, this smacks more of complacency or even naivety. It is probably pretty obvious I live in North America where the majority knows little of survival or suffering. I don't mean to say we are all so ignorant as I do know several individuals who understand much about pain, poverty, and starvation in my neck of the woods (more than I ever have). I am just not sure most of us do--at least not according to our popular culture.  Maybe we know more than we pretend we do. I hope that will help us. 

In the mean time, I'll continue collecting my knives and other odds and ends of knowledge. Have you, phantom readers, been mocked for your preparations? Or, do you think under the rumble or ridicule, those who make fun are strangely relieved that some one has taken initiative?