I'll think about that tomorrow, said Scarlet

I was so happy not to waste time at the triage station attending to the slowest healing blister ever. Yesterday, I stopped by the sporting good store and bought a pair of trekking sandals. After all my feet were swelling from being imprisoned inside of boots in this heat. I was pretty proud of myself for making such a wise decision, and the whole two-birds-one-stone considering the hot temps that are a part of every Fall season in Northern Spain.

I put on my shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, instead of a tank-top, which provide no protection between my shoulders and the straps of my pack—another lesson learned while becoming a pilgrim. I applied anti-shafing glide anywhere the straps of the new sandals touched my skin. I even put it on the inside of my thumbs and index fingers where my weightlifting gloves and walking poles sometimes rub. I dawned the rest of my gear and was out the door in record time.

It wasn't until I was coming down the mountain when I felt the insoles of my new sandals buckling ever so slightly. My puffed up chest feathers shrank out of sight when I realized I'd forgotten to apply the glide to the bottoms of my feet. I have more than a couple miles to go before I reach home. Again I could hear my drill instructor say, in an unnaturally deep-voice, "suck it up Marine!" So I did, but only after looking for any one of my mountain buddies going to their car and whom might give this wounded warrior a lift. But they'd all gone--for theirs is a quick up and down workout.

I limped into the house in pain from the new blister that grew in size with every step. I had all but forget about the one on my left heel as it was bandage-free and healing in the fresh air. I released my pack as if freeing myself from a treed parachute, the only difference is that it dropped to the ground instead of me. I limped over to the kitchen table still serving as a triage station and sat down to remove my sandals. I could sense the old blister smiling in gratitude for the breathing room, but the new blister on the bottom of my right foot has a white puffy eye surrounded by angry red tissue. I sat and thought for a bit and abandoned the idea that a blister on the heel was the worse kind of blister, deciding that one that will painfully remind me of my stupidity with every step--is far worse.

I showered, dried my feet and bandaged the right foot for the walking I'd have to do throughout the day. I examined the sandals and saw that both insoles were shifting. I put them back in the box, located the receipt, and returned them to the store on the way to my first appointment.

I wondered how I would overcome my blister dilemma before leaving for the Camino. I choose to be like Scarlet O'Hara, and think about it tomorrow.

Blisters: A gift with purchase?

Shortly after choosing to walk the 500 miles of the Camino Frances I joined a Facebook group called American Pilgrims. At first, I visited a couple time a day for wisdom and advice from those embarked and embarking on the Camino, and for karma-sake—to contribute to the community in anyway I could. I clicked on links taking me to amazing pictures of the countryside in my future. I read excepts of blogs from Camino veterans, one that walked it 9 times! Yet no matter how many times I visited and scrolled through the posts, the message that stood out was that of preventing blisters, getting blisters, walking with blisters, mending blisters and still more about blisters. In a calm panic I navigated to YouTube to consult the 'professionals' who posted video after video on blisters--what I've come to realize is a trekkers' gift with purchase.

I took a deep breath and started making a list of everything I'd need to prevent blisters. Wicking socks, check—Vaseline, check—Moleskin, check—Medical tape, check—safety pin and lighter to sanitize needle, check, check—alcohol wipes, check—antibiotic cream, check—duck tape, check. I'm in pain just making the list. I put the 'triage bowl' in the center of the table and nodded in satisfaction, knowing I was ready for the inevitable.

Accepting that blisters would be part of my journey on the Camino I decided it was time to get my body accustom to the backpack. The tags are still on the green 45 liter High Sierra, should I need something more. I packed clothes, shoes, toiletries and various other items I've purchased over the last three month into it. Mind you I'v also watched videos on how to pack it for maximum efficiency in both weight and balance. I pulled, cinched, fastened and snapped the many clips and straps closed--questioning the usefulness of many of them. I put a clean pair of wicking socks on, laced my boots and strapped on the backpack that I've nicknamed, Green Beauty, in hopes that she'll be kind to me.

I was a mile or more away from the house when, "Crap, I forgot to coat my feet with vaseline!" I spoke a few affirming hopes that my feet would forgive my forgetfulness. As I walked another few miles, I pulled and released straps adjusting the weight of the pack. I wagged my body to shift the contents for better distribution, and after several more blocks of waddling, I did an about-face accepting that I'm not as ready as I hoped. I unlocked the door, took a step and wham, I was pulled back. My sleep-pad which is wider than than both me and the pack, got caught on the doorframe. Yet another thing to get use to—being the size of a 500 lb person in both depth and girth. I was frustrated, hot and pissed off. I sat on the bed and freed myself from pack. I removed my boots and socks and wah-lah, a blister on the back of my left heel. I began the process—pop, squeeze, wipe, medicate and bandage, almost entirely in contortions. I'm right-handed and it's on the outside of my left heel. 'Oh why haven't I been doing yoga?' I was out of breath, but finished.

I woke and used up the 30-minutes it usually takes me to get ready, on doctoring the small but painful culprit. I finished it off by wrapping my heel in duck tape. I lather my feet with vaseline and took my bandage for a test drive around the house. "This'll work." I said, and grabbed my poles and step through the door frame like a modern-day Quasimodo.

From One Bladder to the Other

I'm a spectacle walking up the Mt. Rubidoux dressed as a trekker, using walking poles and gloves, along side a sea of summer workout attire. The poles make me look like I'm a skier whose lost her snow. I frequently drink from the hose of a hydration bladder concealed in my backpack—I've been asked if it's oxygen. I trod up hill in hiking boots and a headband to cover the bed-head, and not a Nike swoosh anywhere to be found on my panting body. People often snicker and whisper to each other as I walk by, but the expression of 'what the heck?' it what I see most.

These poles are a life-saver. They keep my back straight and prevent me from rolling down hill. I can almost hear my drill instructor calling me Slacker. But what I've heard and read, is that this training and these poles will help me conquer the most dificult parts of the Camino – going over the Pyrenees into Spain. Why is the hardest part in the beginning? I'll take it as a metaphor for life when setting a goal.

I climb watching the sun making its decent behind the horizon. It'll be dark soon but I have a kind of miner's headlamp which will make me look even more freakish. I glance at the pedometer clipped to me, divide miles into steps--the math confirms I will have achieved 14 miles today. I reach the house and felt a resistance to stop walking, but when I did I felt a stronger resistance to bend. I've got to get my boots and two pair of socks off. An urgency to pee as a result of drinking steadily while walking. “You've got to stay hydrated.” my older sister insists. So I've drained the bladder on my back into the one in my body, which proves it can't hold 50 ounces. My boots are dirty and the carpet white. I tiptoe across the carpet to the bathroom. I ease myself down and for a double relief. I lift one leg onto my knee and free the first foot, examine it for blisters, there were none. The next foot wants to remain on the floor, but I pull it close enough to unlace. No blisters there either, but I did have to pull my toes apart. The two-pair of thick socks squish my toes so tight I got an idea of what it was like to be a girl in nineteen century Japan.

I sat with my business completed, wondering when I ate last. It had been early the day before. “You've got to take better care of yourself.” I demanded out loud to myself. My next thought was of gratitude—that the shower was only two steps away. I left my sweaty clothes in a pile which I pushed aside to close the bathroom door. In slow motion and aware of each muscle involved--some I wouldn't know I had if they didn't ache, and moved under the spraying water.

The next evening I included a stop-off at church for Wednesday services. After service, as I prepared to walk back home, a woman I don't know but seemed to know me or of me, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Be sure you aren't over-train.” “Hello, allow me to introduce myself, "I'm Over-Trained-Tracy, and you are?” Clearly she was sent by the All-Knowing Spirit, to tell me to slow down. By the time I reached the house her advice sunk deep. Tomorrow is a new day and a fresh start of training 'just enough.' But what is that? It'll come to me...

Three-alarm Wake up

It's nearly a month since I started walking--or training for the Camino; gently at first, more vigorously lately leading up to the 14 miles I accomplished yesterday--in two shifts.


The “take your tylenol” alarm sounds at 4:30. In the Corps we call this it 'O-dark-thirty,' but in civilian life it's just early. The plan is to go back to sleep and let the pain relievers do the job and wake on the second alarm--but I'm already up. The more I exercise the less sleep I seem to need. I rise and get my 'gear' on--another term I haven't used for 30 years. The third alarm, “You should be out the door by now,” sounds 30-minutes later. Starting early increases my chances of catching the coolest part of what will become another blistering hot day in the low desert.

I'm not sure what the Camino will demand of me. Yet somehow I know the physical preparation for this undertaking is more urgent than the mental prep. Thankfully, some of the mental prep began over three years ago when I journeyed to Southeast Asia. My ego judgmentally says, “Not really.” I'll resist the urge to argue.

These days the early morning hours are for getting as many miles under my feet as possible before returning to my daily endeavors. But before I show up for a coaching session, or go to a coffee shop to write, I tie a bandana around my head, saving me valuable time doing my hair--after all I'll be sweating again in just a few hours. Sometimes I get distracted by egoic thoughts of how I'll keep my hair looking good while I walk the Way. "I'll shave it off?" I say aloud--the ego retreats.

I have to make time to whittle down my list of trekking supplies I'm told I need to embark on such a journey. Today the short list takes me to the drug store for light-weight pedicure flip-flops that will serve as a barrier between my feet and the dirty floors of the albergues. Then off to the sporting good store for a puncture-proof bladder cover—if they make such a beast--making my hydration bag safe to be carried in my big backpack. I started a box for receipts and tags from all that I buy, out of a curiosity for what this journey ends up costing me. I'm in the middle of the book, 'To Walk Far, Carry Less' as I acquire more gear. In it the author shares the advice from an aging pilgrim of the Camino, who says, “We pack our fears, our what-if's, our just in case's.” I purchase an item, get it home and later realize it's an 'just-in-case' and return it a few days later. The box of tags and receipts has serves a dual purpose.

I look at my watch--it's almost 6 pm. I pack up my belongings, say my goodbye's to baristas and return to the house I'm sitting. After checking to see that the cats are present and accounted for, check their food and water supply, I change into my trekking clothes. I lather my feet with vaseline—a protective measure I picked up from an online video posted by a serious trekker—put two pairs of socks on and lace my boots up the way my friend, the figure-skater, taught me. I tie the laces with different tensions to achieve the best fit--this changes daily. My learning curve is as steep as the mountains I'll soon be treading on. I wear weightlifting gloves to protect my hands from the grip of my walking sticks. The last thing I do before locking the door is thread the cord of the headphones through the chest strap of the backpack—I've listened to four audiobooks in as many days; maybe that's part of my mental prep? The audiobooks help this pilgrim in training focus on the content and less on the challenge of walking for many hours. However, while on the Camino, I plan to listen carefully to the journey...