If you give a mouse a cookie, it’s going to want a glass of milk. And if Sarah starts running, she’s going to want to run a race. Apparently. After seeing the Falmouth Road Race finish line, I knew that running with a bunch of other enthusiastic people would be more fun than looping around the track until my brain got too bored to go on. Then my HA’s told everyone that our first dorm event would be attending the Portland Race for the Cure. I knew I was not going to be walking with the rest of my dormies!

I did the Women’s 5k, noncompetitive. (And there were two other runners from the dorm.) Three miles — easy, right? I ran three miles every day my Sophomore year. The only obstacle to overcome was a pull in some weird upper leg muscle that I sustained during the Eagle Creek hike a week before the race. For those who don’t know, Eagle Creek is easy — twelve miles to the impressive Tunnel Falls at the end, but flat the whole way. What got me was not the trail. It was lunch.

Our leader suggested we picnic down by the creek itself. Fine, except that the path down to the creek is steep and covered in dry dirt and loose rocks. I slipped rather than walked down, and though I was more careful getting back up, I think I put undue strain on some important hill-climbing and stair-stepping ligaments. I could run okay, but by the end of each day I could barely lift my right leg. But I had to train! Six laps, three miles, five kilometers — one week.

And I made it. I even passed people, by golly, like a mother telling her small daughter to “focus on your visualization training!” That’s hard-core. I just run because it feels good, it gives me energy, and at an event like Race for the Cure, I get people cheering me on. The context, however, was a little disconcerting — booths advertising cars and toilet paper, a mile-long “panty line” for Macy’s free pink underwear, and an almost celebratory attitude towards having family members with breast cancer. Fortunately it was too early for critical social analysis.

With one accomplishment comes a bit of a downer, however: my Watson Fellowship application (learn to cook with vegetarians around the world) was turned down by Reed. I’m not terribly disappointed since I have plenty of other things I’d rather be doing next year, but I do feel like I wasted the time of my professors. Steve Hibbard and Rob Brightman kindly wrote letters of recommendation at the last minute, and Rob helped immensely in writing a solid project proposal. On the other hand, Rob also said my discussion questions for our Nature, Culture, Environmentalism class were ‘very nice,’ and he told me today that my final paper for Algonquian last year — on puns! — was one of his favorites.

Ah, ego boosts.

It was a most relaxing two weeks at Cape Cod, with intermittent thunderstorms, dancing, and poking at glowing moon jellies. I fell in love with Thomas’s family and friends, and I liked pretty much anyone who cared to stop by and stay a few days. True, it was a bit too crowded at times, but there are books to escape to.

Then is was home again, home again, jiggity-jig. I managed to spend absolutely hours in the kitchen, making tabbouleh, hummus, chapati, bagels, pretzel bagels… I even made a most special treat: vegan chocolate wheat-germ bars, with graham cracker crumbs made from scratch and homemade sweetened condensed rice milk. This was especially special because Grandmom, who made these for years for her children and grandchildren (it’s a secret family recipe after all), has never tasted more than a bite due to butterfat allergies. At least, she hadn’t until I brought her my version! Now how will she keep her girlish figure?

My mom’s friend from New Zealand, Ann Marie, was visiting, so we got to show her some of the classic spots on Bainbridge and in Seattle. I also caught up with my grandparents (Granpa, a classic man of the grill, even expressed interest in trying some vegan cooking next time!) and my close friend Anna. There was also some back-to-school shopping to do: some lovely button-up, button-down shirts from Goodwill, and the perfect pair of black canvas flats for a dollar a shoe.

We payed homage to Mount Saint Helens on the way down to Reed, with its dramatically hewn landscape softened with a dusting of grass and wildflowers. In the Forestry areas, cloned trees created moire effects. But the rest of the way was familiar and almost nostalgic, and my friends and I still haven’t tired of complaining about New Reed.

One thing that Olde Reed did not have, however, was an organization for vegans and vegetarians. So what changed? I came along, that’s what! With a head cold, I stayed up late making hand-outs and posters, and in the afternoon sun I sat for hours collecting signatures. But in the end it was worth it: 30 signatures, members of the Reed Vegan Society. That makes a whole lot of like-minded people, who want to make food and make change. It’s one responsibility I’m more than happy to take on.

Oh, my other responsibilities you ask? My Thesis, you say? Perhaps it’s a secret. Perhaps it’s too early to tell. But I’ll give a small hint, a tiny possibility: “bee dancing.”

That’s it! No more stories. I have copious amounts of words to read, and a few more to write. Farewell.