That damn face

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This is the look that Samba gives me when my suitcase comes out. As the washing machine hums and and the packing begins, Samba’s anxiety manifests in quiet whines and pleading stares.

She doesn’t know that while I’m gone she’ll be staying with her best friend, Hank, and will return from the weekend exhausted from the continuous tumble of big-dog wrestling, complete with leg sweeps, pins and other Octagon-worthy moves. She only knows that my suitcase means I’m leaving, and that she’ll miss me while I’m gone.

The problem with not being that girl

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Aspen dress by Jenny Packham. Begging for a glass Champagne.

Aspen dress by Jenny Packham. Begging for a glass of Champagne.

Every woman has a friend who’s obsessed with her hypothetical wedding. She knows which dress silhouettes she likes best, what kind of lace she wants on her veil, the color scheme, the kind of cake (and frosting), even the flowers she’ll pick for her bridal bouquet. Once upon a time, she probably bought bridal magazines and fantasized about walking down the aisle toward her crush du jour. These days, she has a “Wedding Ideas” Pinterest board where she collects table setting inspirations and Mason jar DIYs for use somewhere down the romantic road.

I am not “that girl.”

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Missing Mexico

It’s hard to complain about 70-degree January days in Las Vegas—especially when the rest of the country is being pummeled with snow. But today I took a glance at my pictures from a recent trip to the Yucatan Peninsula and just kind of sighed.

This shot is from an earlyish morning in Playa del Carmen, a bustling beach town just south of Cancun. In a few hours this stretch of sand would be overrun by sunburnt tourists and pineapple-based cocktails, but during my stroll it was blissfully calm and quiet—a glimpse of what Playa might have looked like before it became a default tourist destination.

Missing Mexico

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And I forgot the best part

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A few days ago I revived this long-deserted blog with a self-indulgent little squib about the holiday running streak that has morphed into a 2014 running streak (aka “Will this thing ever end? No? Shit, better go run 3 miles.”). But silly me, I forgot the best part.

After my month of running, clocking 102.25 leisurely miles, many of them spent begging Samba pup to slow down or speed up or not eat the chicken bones that seem to be EVERYWHERE in my neighborhood, the craziest thing happened: I got faster.

Yes, yes, maybe it should not be shocking that running more makes you run faster. But my more had been slow, my legs were stiff, and when I went to run my monthly 5k in January I was, actually, shocked.

After hovering just under 24 minutes for months—dropping five seconds here, gaining three seconds there—I finished my 5k in 23:09, a PR by more than 30 seconds.

It felt like crap, of course. Right up until I saw the number on my watch.

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Gone streaking!

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Sweaty selfie. Mid-run in the jungle in Tulum, Mexico.

Sweaty selfie. Mid-run in the jungle in Tulum, Mexico.

It started with a couple of crazy friends and a challenge issued by Runners World magazine: Run one mile every day between Thanksgiving and New Year’s.

So, we started with a hilly 8 miler before turkey feasting and kept the streak going—a mile here, two miles there, nights on the treadmill, extra laps around the park after boot camp. There were days when I wanted to do anything but lace up my sneakers and run, but missing a day was simply not an option. As the miles added up my motivation increased, too. At some point I realized I might actually complete it. Then I realized I might hit 100 miles in the process.

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A five-second fall photo tour

/ sarahfeldberg

Ah, the blog. We had a good run there, all those posts, all that writing. And then, as per usual, I fell off the wagon.

It was tragic, of course. People kept commenting and emailing, begging for the blog to return. Oh wait, no one did that.

Regardless, I’m back for another crack at this self-indulgent little exercise—starting with a five-second photo tour of the fall you missed:

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This “mural” by Portuguese street artist Vhils was part of the Life Is Beautiful art program, and I’m fully obsessed with it. Rather than painting his walls, Vhils chips paint away to create his pieces, which are simply beautiful and incredibly expressive.

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I spotted this religious sculpture at the Broadacres flea market in North Las Vegas while Tovin was on assignment. The market is a vast, overwhelming consumer landscape, where you can buy everything from roast peanuts to cable TV packages to luchador masks and underwear.

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A co-worker’s desk cactus. I thought it looked like some freaky insect ready to spread its tentacles and attack.

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My bib number from the 2013 Las Vegas Ragnar Relay. This was my third year running, first year captaining, and my team ran like banshees from Las Vegas Ski & Snowboard Resort to Lake Las Vegas, devouring miles at a far faster pace than we expected. We crossed the finish line (only mostly dead) about an hour and a half early and placed 38th in our division. But mostly we just had a crazy blast, which is really the whole point.

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Afterward, Tovin and I returned the vans and finally tried Lulu’s Bread & Breakfast, where I ate this fantastic creation, which was basically an open-faced caprese egg sandwich. I wish I could put it in my mouth every weekend.

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Speaking of food, check out this snapshot from the Friendsgiving 2013 spread. I’m talking two turkeys, 25 people, 32 biscuits, a couple of parents and a ridiculous amount of leftovers. (Not pictured: my first-ever lemon meringue pie, which mostly worked)

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And finally, a for-personal-use-only photo from our Neon Museum visit with Tovin’s parents. I always find something new to photograph and obsess over, like this gorgeous purple sign, which is currently the wallpaper on my phone.

A perfect day in Las Vegas

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Dreaming of Bouchon's chicken and waffles ... Photo by Leila Navidi

Dreaming of Bouchon’s chicken and waffles … Photo by Leila Navidi

Ever wake up, think What should I do today?, and come up empty? In the last issue of Las Vegas Weekly, we kicked boredom in the teeth with curated itineraries, native’s recommendations, a choose-your-own-adventure quiz and personal dream days from Weekly staffers. From Fat Elvis’ lounge show to McCarran runway watching,  epic meatball subs and something called the “Pizghetti,” your new favorite afternoon activity is in here somewhere. Maybe it’s even mine.

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5 things I want to learn to learn in the next year

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Hello, future. You look nice. Photo: Visit St. Pete/Clearwater

Hello, future. You look nice. Photo: Visit St. Pete/Clearwater

Seven years out of college, I don’t miss the homework or reading every book my professors published. I do miss browsing course catalogs and imagining myself speaking fluent Italian or scaling cliffs. Which is not to say I’ve given up on my education. Just last week Tovin learned to escape having his wrists duct taped together (demo, anyone?) and is promising to teach me soon, and this Sunday, we’ll both suit up for our second scuba diving class.
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I can’t remember exactly what provoked this mid-air selfie, but it probably had something to do with the fact that Tovin and I were about to embark on a 10-day road trip across the Dominican Republic that would include jumping off waterfalls, eating giant fish, drinking cocktails out of pineapples and getting brutally lost in a city where the highway entrances looked like back alleys.

To more wide-eyed adventure!

Whoa!

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The desert wins. Almost.

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I have a philosophy about living in Las Vegas in the summer. It’s that you can’t let the heat decide your day. If you let the temperature determine what you do, you’ll stay huddled next to the air conditioner all summer. And your electric bill will be astronomical.

Unfortunately, sometimes I take that mantra a bit too far. I’ll decide to bike to the park at noon or go for run after 6 a.m. Biking when it’s 105 degrees isn’t much fun. Neither is running when it’s 92.

But in the last few weeks the temperature has dropped to reasonable highs in the low 90s. Compared to the searing of mid-July, it’s felt downright pleasant. So, you’ll understand how I could load Samba into the car for a midday desert hike inside the Red Rock Conservation Area to First Creek a few weeks ago. There was a light breeze, a few clouds and a (very) gentle trail that crossed some open desert before descending into a canyon to end at a (very) little pond filled with equally small fish. We even ran into a wild burro that posed for our cameras and engaged Samba in a good staring contest before turning just a bit menacing.

Burro on dog staring contest. (Spoiler alert: the burro wins.)

Burro on dog staring contest. (Spoiler alert: the burro wins.)

Still, when it comes to large, black dogs, low-90s temperatures in direct sun are like sitting in a tanning bed stuck on high inside a sauna. Samba took to digging up cold dirt under every other desert bush, hunkering down, tongue lolling, as she tried to escape the heat. I thought about turning back, but by now we were closer to the water at the end of the hike than the car with its shade and air conditioning. Apologizing to the dog, we pushed forward.

Samba, intrepid explorer.

Samba, intrepid explorer.

Samba made it, of course. She charged for the pond-puddle, ran in as far as she could without swimming, lapped up as much water as she needed and then proceeded to bounce around, splashing the small children who were taking a break with their parents. By the time we headed for home, Samba was soaked through and happy. She ran most of the way back to the car, and I’m pretty sure by the time she passed out on the floor back home, she’d forgiven us.

Still, some days, the desert wins. Some days, we’d be better off hunkering next to the AC. Or at least doing our hikes on Mount Charleston.