Tyranena Beer Run--11/8/08

Each race has its own obsession point. For the sprint tri's earlier this summer it was all about the double vision; for the oly, it was breaking three hours. The Tyranena Beer Run is a simple enough concept--run from start to finish, then sit and eat pasta and drink beer. What's to obsess about?

Three words: Ten day forecast.

For each of the preceding ten days I monitored the weather for improvement and didn't get any. Race day was a 60% chance of rain/snow mix, high temperature 39 degrees, with wind gusts up to 20 MPH to make it feel more like 30 degrees.

But every race is voluntary, and I'm choosing to put myself through this.

It'll build character.
If I can do this, I can do anything.
There's beer at the end.

Despite my motivating self talk, I was more than fretting as we stood outside pre-race shivering and debating if my layers would suffice.

And then we were off.

Miles One and Two felt like a moving cocktail party, as clusters all around me conversed about whatever. I heard a girl behind me announce that now she was warm (!) about ten minutes into the race and I wondered if she and her friend had stopped to cuddle.

At Mile Five we passed a farm, and a girl nearby began talking to the cows. "How ya doin', big guy? Just eatin' some grass?" (The cow moo'd back about 50 yards later.) "Oh, don't worry! I'll come back! We'll hang out!"

Mile Six was a staircase of wide open road--wind in your face, wind at your side, repeat several times. Thank goodness for my Wicked green gloves.

Miles Seven and Eight turned onto the Glacial Drumlin Trail, a wide compacted trail blanketed with damp leaves and surrounded with just enough treeline to block the wind. Conversations stopped. Runners seemed transfixed by the methodical crunch of shoes on wet gravel. It was peaceful enough to forget that your legs ached.

Mile Ten was a cruel joke, as the mile marker said "11", so for ten whole minutes I had no idea if the race was 13.1 miles or 12.1 miles.

Mile Eleven confirmed the race was 13.1, as that mile marker also said "11".

The last 5K was a mind game--a constant reminder to myself that I've run this distance a thousand times before, and it's almost over so pick up the pace, damnit. When I rolled across the finish line at 7 minutes faster than my goal time, I was hurting. It was a deep, aching, shooting kind of pain.

(Dan and I feigning joy to hide the pain.)

As it turns out, our anguish could only be relieved in one way:




Cold weather? Ha!

Shoe Karma.

After a two-hour training run/walk resulting in the "it's painful to step, oh why can't I just levitate?" feeling, Erika and I decided that if we were going to train for this half-marathon, we both needed new running shoes. Off we go to Dick's Sporting Goods. (We were ready to graduate beyond the on-sale athletic shoes at Kohl's. Plus we had a coupon for Dick's.)

In the past, Erika always looked for only one thing in her shoes. Do they look hot? Are they cute on my feet? Am I stylin'?



(Erika's old running shoes: fashionable, but blister-inducing)

I told her this was an awful way to shop for athletic shoes. I told her it was unreliable, invalid, and cause for further future hot spots, blisters, soreness, or all of the above. I talked her into having higher standards, and with open minds and coupon in hand, we tried on New Balance and Asics, with a eye on Reebok, Adidas, and a brand or two I'd never heard of.

An hour later, we're elated with our choices. They're light as a feather and simulate running on pillows, as we learned from taking laps on Dick's 50 meter indoor track.

Now for the irony. Erika's are stylin'. She's a hip running chick.



Mine are...kinda ugly.

They're clearly the best shoe for me, but do they have to have metallic space suit stripes? And seriously...paisley? On a running shoe?


This is what I get for having higher standards.

Let us reflect...

on the Olympics.

I believe "Rhythmic Gymnastics" is the Hallmark Holiday of the Olympics. Hm, what sports drive people to turn on their TVs and watch for hours on end? Gymnastics? Okay, let's make up a sport that looks something like it so we can double our coverage. Please.

Everyone loves Dara Torres for showing young girls that age doesn't matter, and I love her for it too. I also love the subtler, more powerful message she gives just by standing on a swimming block--I am thin because I am healthy and fast, I am not thin just to be thin.

A sport should only be in the Olympics if you break a sweat. Guns do not belong in the Olympics, unless the wielder is being chased by a bear.

I feel badly for Olympians whose experience boils down to one race. Four years of six-hour training days, lives and families on hold, and all their biggest dreams culminate in one day, one event. What if they get the flu? Some bad chicken in their lo mein? What if their bike gets a flat, or a runner cuts them off and they fall down and sprain something? On the other hand, what if a no-name from a lonely poor country has the perfect day, and everything comes together? I guess it goes both ways. Hats off to the marathoners, triathletes, road racers, and distance swimmers who pin all their hopes on one good race.

Fencing freaks me out a little. Here! Let me stab you with my pointer until your helmet beeps, and then we'll stop, take a break, then do it again!

We will never again see an opening ceremony like the one in Beijing. I think 2012 will look 180 degrees different, because London isn't even going to try to compete with that one.

It's tough to compete in a sport with judges. Essentially the athlete is pinning their hopes on the opinions of judges, and I wonder sometimes how often a fourth-place finisher feels jilted or robbed. How often do they blame the judges? Does that make it easier to lose?

Michael Phelps for President.

8/17/08--Pleasant Prairie Triathlon

In the lingo, an "oly" (rhymes with holy moley) is an olympic-distance triathlon, and Pleasant Prairie was my first one. The near-mile swim, 25 mile bike and 10K (6.2 mile) run was twice my usual distance, and twice the lessons learned.



I obsessed about this race--was my training adequate? Why are my legs always sore? If I'm peeling off my wetsuit and it sticks to my feet, will I tip over? And the ultimate dwell: I want to finish this race in three hours. For the week leading up, I managed to turn conversations about politics or our checking account back to the race, and it was starting to take the fun out of the sport (and our marriage). Lesson Number One is to focus on having the best race I can have that day and let the rest take care of itself.

Lesson Number Two is to cut my toenails. I didn't fully realize until the race was over and the shoes came off how bloodied and wounded my toes had become, thanks to a rogue pinky toenail that had free reign during an hour-long run.

Lesson Number Three applies to the swim portion as well as real life--be careful who you follow.

Drafting is perfectly legal and very advantageous in swimming; simply sidle yourself behind a comparable swimmer (without getting kicked in the head) and ride their current. On the long side of our .9-mile triangle I did just that. As we were swimming directly into the rising sun and it was near impossible to see the buoys, I figured I would draft behind this kind lady and let her guide me to the next turn. A few minutes into it I stopped seeing others around us, and a quick look around found us in the middle of the lake, twenty yards from the rest of the pack. Drat.

After my post-race nap I checked the results online. I already knew from my own watch about how fast I had completed each leg, but the online version gives me my times compared to all other females age 35-39. Lesson Number Four comes here. My overall age group rank was 41st out of 58--not in the top half (as I'm accustomed) for any portion except the swim. But here's the thing--I finished in less than three hours. So I think I'm slowly learning (the hard way) that it doesn't matter how well I do compared to others, so long as I'm improving myself.



Yesterday was the last triathlon of my '08 season. I already have plans for the off-season; I know how I can improve. Lessons learned.

8/10/08--Camp Whitcomb-Mason

Here they are, in arbitrary order: The top 10 highlights of the Camp Whitcomb-Mason Triathlon.

10. A chilly morning prevented me from arriving in my usual red sassy shorts. Instead I kept my ginormous blue scrub pajama bottoms until it warmed a little. I won't complain; a chilly morning means comfortable race weather, in this case sunny and 72 degrees.

9. Camp's bike route is known for its hills--big and small, steep and rolling, all adorned with the curse words of triathletes who just want to finish, damnit. I put my quads to the test in this race, and did okay.

8. At the lakefront some top 80s tunes were blaring from the sound system, so my warm-up turned quickly from a jog around camp to some dancing.

7. My father-in-law Dan braved the hilly bike course and trail run to make CWM his first triathlon. Here he is putting pre-race nerves aside to pose in his stylin' swim cap.

6. I also look cute in a swim cap.




5. I began working summers at Camp Whitcomb-Mason in 1996, and still have friends there today. This place holds a special spot in my heart--it was here at the fire ring, singing songs like "Princess Pat" and "Friends" that I began to learn who I am. I never in a million years thought I could finish the triathlon, though.

4. The delicious banana nut muffins were free to athletes after the race.

3. The lake was a bath-water 79 degrees, but the first and last 50 yards (not the middle) were marred with seaweed. I will use it as my excuse for the slow swim time. Yes. Seaweed.

2. Of course, my lobster Erika was on hand as my photographer and athletic supporter, as I am eager to point out in this snapshot.

1. The majority of volunteers in this race are camp summer staff. This means you will encounter twentysomethings at every turn singing "Boom Chicka Boom", doing the wave for you, or naively but supportively cheering "Almost there!" when you have four miles left to bike and a 5K to run. They're the best volunteers of any race I've done.

Next race--Pleasant Praire Triathlon, Olympic distance.

Single and Lazy.

I have a race on Sunday, so no working out today.
Erika has been out shopping with her mother for the past four hours, so I have the apartment to myself.
Welcome to my life if I were single and lazy.
So how have I spent the day?

1. Drive to Half Price Books to buy a book Erika wanted.
2. Stop at GNC to pick up a multivitamin (we're both low in iron).
3. Stop at Target for sundries.
4. Swing by Good Harvest Market to get a post-race recovery snack and Erika's favorite cookie.

And once I'm home:
A. Disassemble the fan and air conditioner to wipe down each, as the dust is giving Erika headaches.
B. Clean out the dishwasher, because it's ready and I'm bored and Erika hates doing it.
C. Blog (about life without Erika).

If it isn't painfully obvious, 85% of my daily activities somehow involve my lobster, and the percentage jumps dramatically if she's actually with me. Which begs the question: What the hell did I do with my life before I was hitched?

Does anyone out there remember their single life?

I wish there were two of you, but alas...

It's Friday night, my lobster and I have beaten off with sticks all incoming offers to hang out, so here we sit watching episodes of The West Wing on DVD.

She pauses midway to fix a snack and I'm reminded of recent advice from the eye surgeon: take the prism off your eyeglasses once in a while to test your progress and get your eyes used to working on their own again.

Why am I reminded of this in the middle of The West Wing? The truth is, with the TV on "pause", the room dark, I had nothing else to think about but how irritated I was with my one cloudy lens (the left lens with the prism on it gets cloudy from time to time). (Since we're on a truth tangent, Erika and I didn't beat off any incoming offers to hang out, either. We welcome them, if anyone is interested.)

Sitting in one place and watching TV seems like a safe way to experiment, so I go to the bathroom and take off the prism (it peels off like a thin rubber magnet). Instantly I'm back to double--two picture frames of Grandma Clare, two Erikas, two frozen images of the Deputy Chief of Staff. I think, it's too early. I'm not ready.

Fortunately, Erika takes a while to make brownie sundaes with strawberries. While I continue to wait, they continue to adjust. By the time she's ready, so am I. My vision has somehow become single and we watch the rest of the episode. Feeling like my lucky night, I go spend some time on the computer. At first, I'm feeling my eyes working--a strange sensation. Normally we go through day-to-day movements that our muscles never feel, like drumming your fingers or blinking. I could feel the muscles around my eyes concentrating on pulling it all together; they're like a tweezers we squeeze shut, and at any moment they could spring back open. But they never did.

Yesterday I put the prism back on for my bike ride. (I'm not crashing that stupid bike twice.) Hopeful and curious about last night's new territory, I peel it off once I'm home and get ready for a cookout with Erika's family. With no eye strain and good single vision, I drive us there. Talk about appreciating the simple things in life...Look at me, mom! I can drive with no prism! I actually choked up. The bright sun was brutal, but thankfully I only saw one of each relative.
Today I laid all my cards on the table. I woke up, put in my contacts...and went running. The ultimate test, running. Talk about massive unnecessary movement, not at all like The West Wing. The world was shaky, but now I'm starting to wonder if the world was always shaky when I ran and I never noticed. No double vision.

Here I sit, a nap and several hours later. A headache and some eye strain have forced my contacts out and glasses back on, but they are still without prism.

Nearly two months later, I'm almost better.

Can someone hand me my walker?

I've decided that it's mostly true what people say about age being a state of mind and what matters is being young at heart and blah blah blah.
Mostly true.
Next week I turn 35, which by numeric standards is "middle aged".
Yet,
I run miles every week.
I bike even more.
I swam nonstop for an hour the other day.
Young at heart, right?

So how the hell did I pull a muscle in my back and resort to the use of a heating pad and Motrin just to be able to sit on my own couch and watch a rerun of The West Wing? In what insanely vigorous task was this young-spirited triathlete engaged to cause such an instant and painful reaction?
I was bent over the other day...

scrubbing the toilet.

You're only as old as you feel. Do I qualify for the Senior Discount now?

7-19-08--Spirit of Racine

With every passing minute it seemed like Spirit of Racine, my first solo tri since the accident, was becoming less and less of a good idea. It was 6:15 AM and raining, and I wasn't keen on biking through puddles. (I still have an aversion to using my brakes, much less in the wet.) I had been obsessed for the last 48 hours about the water temperatures of Lake Michigan, which at last notice was 59 degrees. The race website had cheerfully reminded us athletes to "Bring your wetsuit!", but at this point it didn't look like it would make much of a difference. A damp and heavy fog had settled just beyond the shoreline where the athletes follow the buoys on the swim course, and we began to seriously consider if I would be able to physically see well enough to stay on track.
We were tired from our 4 AM wake-up call (Erika didn't sleep at all last night) and save the $80 registration fee I was more than half-hoping a single bolt of lightning would've called off the race so we could go home and crawl back into bed.
After we spent some time sitting in the car and grumbling, we made our way back down to the beach to watch the start of the Women's Triathlon, an hour and a half before mine. The fog had lifted and the rain was temporarily holding off. The horn went off for them and we watched as they high-stepped into the water and immediately began screaming four-letter words. The women in the front bravely dove in and we walked along the shore as the leader swam her route parallel. I can't explain fully what it did for my optimism, my attitude to watch her swim. It meant it was possible. It meant it wasn't the end of the world. She emerged 12 minutes later to cheers and applause, and by her not being dead it meant that I could do it, too. I was starting to change my mind about today.
The next half-hour or so I spent setting up my own gear. The rain stayed away and so I started to picture actually getting through the race instead of driving home. With time to spare, we were back at the Starting Line so I could acclimate to the water.


Fifty-nine degrees is cold. I'm talking burning, biting cold. I'm talking "I've been standing in this sh** for 30 seconds and now I can't feel my own damn feet" cold. I stuck my face in only because I was warned that if you're not ready for it, it will take your breath away. I should mention at this time that on BT, the website I frequent for triathletes, I've read a variety of advice in the discussion forums on handling cold water. Wear two swim caps instead of one. Check. Pull your caps over your ears to minimize dizziness from inner ear hypothermia. Done. Pee in your wetsuit. What?!
It's true. In all seriousness it's been suggested to pee in your wetsuit to warm up the material in contact with your skin. The advantage is that given the material of a wetsuit, you can be surrounded by hundreds of people and start peeing and no one will know it. So partly out of necessity to pee, partly to feel the affects and partly just for fun, I peed in my wetsuit about five minutes before the race started. My lobster was on hand for the picture.


There's not much to say about the swim part of the race. Lake Michigan was surprisingly clear and clean, but with my poor vision (and double vision) I was entirely too focused on heading in the right direction. I felt strong in the water, but I was still getting passed. It became in my head the part I just had to get through. I checked my watch when I was finally able to stand up again half a mile later--best swim time ever. Who knew.

Six minutes later I was on the bike, my least favorite leg of the race, but I felt cruisin' and I was making good time. It started to dawn on me--maybe this isn't a race you just need to get through. This could actually be a good race. Let's see what happens.

Now I'm running on a course I heard was "flat and fast", so what the hell is this hill doing here? A girl I stuck with on the bike was walking, and I passed her on the hill, only to have her pass me again when she started running. Stupid luck. But the cloudy sky and 70 degree temps were perfect running weather, and the end was in sight.

I raised my hands in victory when I crossed the finish line, not just for getting myself back in the game after the summer's events but for a personal best time by three minutes. Near the end of the finish line chute a young volunteer handed me a plaque--Third Place. What the? In each age group (mine being 35-39, even though I'm not 35 yet--bitches) this race gives out awards to the top five, and the plaque said Third Place. I'd never even come close to an award before. My lobster flooded me with praise and pictures, we sat and ate a post-race PB&J sandwich, scooped up my now-soiled wetsuit, and headed for home.
On the race website I checked my official times this afternoon. It turns out I came in 4th place, not third. But I don't care. It was a good day, and I'm back in the game.

Feels Like the First Time.

Isn't there an 80s big hair ballad with that line ("feels like the first time") referring to love or smoking dope or something like that?
Anyway, this Saturday's triathlon, Spirit of Racine, is starting to feel like the first one ever. Let me break it down:
A. The forecast calls for rain, and races don't cancel except for lightning. But it doesn't call for lightning, it calls for rain. Like normal humans, I don't go outside in the rain, at least not to hang out.
2. The swim is in Lake Michigan--current temperature at location, 66 degrees. I'll be racing in a wetsuit for the first time ever, and how on earth am I supposed to show off my well-toned calf muscles in a wetsuit??
D. I started training again about a week and a half after the accident, but can't hit my pre-accident times. I'm just not as fast as I used to be, so I've affixed a small outboard motor to the back of my bicycle.
5.2 This is the first all-out, puke-at-the-end race since the accident.

So I'm a little nervous. If you happen to be awake and aware at about 9:00 AM on Saturday, send a good vibe my way? Reader?

7-13-08--Danskin Triathlon

I had been to the Danskin triathlon last year, giddy with excitement but feeling like throwing up a little at the same time. But this year was different. I was there again, but not for me.
A while back my mother-in-law Tracy was deep in her new obsession with finding half-marathon races and walking them at breakneck speed. (Seriously, I've been out training with her--I have to jog to keep up.) We were comparing notes about our prospective athletics-of-choice, and from nowhere she had decided that with someone with her during the race as a guide (Tracy is legally blind) and with a whole lot of work (Tracy doesn't swim), she could do a triathlon too. She signed up for Danskin '08, which was yesterday.
We knew she wasn't the only first-timer; at the expo yesterday they asked for a newbie
show of hands and nearly every hand went up. It didn't matter--we could still feel the anxiety she felt as we walked to the transition area to set up this morning at 5:30 AM.



SIDEBAR: Triathlons are pretty short races overall--the winner is finished in a little over an hour. A person could complete a sprint and still have time in the day to go grocery shopping, meet a friend for a movie, cook brats on the grill for dinner, and finish a book. More importantly, there's time in my case to go back to bed for four hours, because the price you pay for your early finish is an early start. We live an hour from Danskin, which meant a 3:45 AM rise. That's freakin' early in the day.
We were in Wave 8 for the race, which (fortunately) meant not much time to get nervous. I requested a "swim angel" for Tracy. Swim Angels are volunteers with styrofoam noodles who accompany swimmers across the lake to offer support, encouragement, and styrofoam when needed. They were short a few angels, but gave me a noodle to use. I was her guide and her angel all in one. The countdown began and Tracy put on her Game Face.


I had told her all along to just "get through" the swim, and the rest will take care of itself. So here we were, in the middle of the lake, rotating between a made-up stroke on her back, a surprisingly strong sidestroke, and some kicking with the noodle. We saw swimmers cruise on by us, swimmers clinging to the rafts for a break, even a swimmer rescued from fatigue by a lifeguard, but mostly we saw a lot of women getting through the swim any way they knew how. We finished the swim 17 minutes faster than her estimated time. I think it's because she never stopped moving forward.

Our plan for the bike ride was for me to follow closely behind her so she could set the pace, and I would zoom ahead temporarily only if a turn or hill were coming. We scrapped that plan the moment we left the transition area; there were just too many bikers, spectators, cones, and volunteers. I led the way, looking back once in while to make sure we were still together.

SIDEBAR: My opthamologist prescribed a stronger prism for my eyeglasses this week--my double vision just isn't getting any better. The good news of this is that I'm now able to turn my head while moving; with the weaker prism I would've tipped over.

Many times I'd look back and hear a polite but chipper "I'm right behind you!" This was code for "C'mon Jenn move it, we can go faster than this." A few times I looked back and she wasn't there. This happened on steeper-than-rolling uphills, and her fat-tired bike combined with the 20 MPH headwind caused a few unannounced stops to walk the bike. I'd wait for her, we'd continue our trek, and before long I'd get another "Right behind you!" We finished the bike at the very beginning of our estimated range.

We already knew at this point that the race was hers. Tracy has completed three half-marathons in the past year, each one faster than the last. She was giddy with excitement in the first mile, chatting to no one in particular about how the day has gone so far.

Erika and Dan (Tracy's husband) had positioned themselves at several key points in our race, so we talked about the times we'd seen them and how surprised and excited they were at our progress so far.

Then it slowly dawned on her: If she buckles down and keeps a solid pace, she could beat her goal time...by twenty minutes. We stopped chatting. I can't walk at her pace, so I would jog ahead a little, stop to walk, and let her catch up to me. She jogged with me a few intervals.

When the finish line was in view we ran in with arms raised and big smiles. It was a victory for both of us. Tracy knew she could walk fast all day long if she wanted, but today she took a leap of faith and tried things she never thought she was capable of. And she succeeded. She felt on top of the world. For me, I got to run a race post-accident, without the pressure of beating my times or the girl next to me. I got to see if I would be able to get back in the game. And I did.


We crashed from our adrenaline highs on the ride home. Full of our post-race snacks (chocolate milk and a gluten free nut bar for me), Erika and I walked in the door and immediately sank into bed--for four hours.

Not a bad way to spend a day.

Vibrating stop signs can be cool!

Normally I wouldn't blog about such a mundane experience as a 3 1/2 mile run, but yesterday was my first run outside since the accident and with my vision even a casual jog up the street becomes...trippy.
You know how your body bounces a little with each step as you run? (Duh.) What we never stop to think about is how all the other objects stay rooted where they are. Why? Because mailboxes and front porches don't move in real life.
Not for me. Within a few yards it became clear what this run would be like: My vision bouncing like anyone else's, and everything else around me bouncing too. I felt like I was on acid, watching parked cars and driveways jarring themselves loose from stagnation, sometimes bouncing into double images, sometimes staying together. The world was a Mexican jumping bean.
Before long I figured out what I needed to do. I kept reminding myself,
"Jenn, just remember that these things are not moving in real life. Just keep running. As for your inability to gauge if the sidewalk is sloping up or down, just try not to biff it. And if you do, thank goodness your lobster made you carry your driver's license and her phone number on a post-it because she doesn't let you to leave the house without them anymore."
Clearly, it was more an exercise of the mind than of the legs. Which is why I'm taking a rest day today.

Step One: Get back on.

Today was my first workout since the accident. I went down to our building's fitness center and pedaled for an hour on a recumbent bike (sitting=safer).

TANGENT: I wear an eye patch (temporarily) to correct the double vision and rest the left eye in hopes of healing the broken nerves there. My sweet loving supportive lobster calls me a pirate and sticks random "AAARRR!!s" into conversations at least 18 times a day. Point is, a recumbent bike is a seated position and therefore more stable than on my feet. I went for a walk around the block yesterday, and in an experiment of curiosity removed the eye patch to test balance. I stumbled off the sidewalk and I'm pretty sure I trampled on my neighbor's flowerbed.

I didn't try any hills or any speed intervals today. My RPMs and my pace were off. I didn't feel as strong.

I was slow. But I'm comin' back.

Venting.

The doctor yesterday said I should take my progress "one week at a time".
It's been a week since the accident and I'm officially ready to vent.
I'm depressed. My eyes don't work together, so blurry-and-double vision means mild throw-up feelings unless I'm napping or I shut one eye (doesn't matter which eye). It's sunny and 75 degrees but I can't go for a run. My pool ID is ready to be picked up but I can't go for a swim. My helmet is cracked so I can't go for a ride. Words jump around the page when I read, even straight hallways swerve, and my only reprieve is my afternoon 3-hour nap. I can't even sip a beer on my balcony to celebrate summer vacation.

"It could be worse", they say.
"It'll get better."
"This is normal."

Yeah, I get that. I can still be pissed about it for a day, right?

P.S. The traumatic brain injury specialist guy rated my cognitive ability in the "high average to superior" range. I'm going to paraphrase it to mean I'm the smartest person he's ever met.

Recovery--the Bright Side.

I haven't written in forever, and when I do write it's not very often about training or races. I was going to change all that with a sneak peek into next week's race (the first of the season, mind you), when "the accident" happened. Now there is no race next week, nor is there training planned until the brain injury specialist tells me I'm safe to go out by myself. So here I sit, a weird combination of double vision and cabin fever, trying to look on the bright side:

-The Bigfoot Triathlon was a half-mile swim in Lake Geneva: Current temp, 63 degrees. That's cold enough to numb your girl bits, I'll tell you what.
-Like my athlete blogmate Krista, I'm a late "Lost" bloomer. Look who has time to catch up on the first two seasons now! Take that, mysteriously elusive plotline!
-All school year I lamented at my inability to take 3-hour mid-afternoon naps. No more.
-My lobster waits on me hand and foot, and she feels good about doing it. "Note to Recovery: Take your Time."
-Everyone I hang up the phone with ends with an "I love you". If you need a self-esteem boost, go for the sudden head injury/hospital stay and watch the affection pour in. (To the "I love you" senders reading this, I love you too.)

Time for a nap. Training will have to wait.

Note to self: Run faster today.

It's kind of funny (but not that much) that it's been six months since my last training- or race-related post. I figured it just wasn't that interesting.

Nevertheless, here goes:
I'd never given much thought to running style. The goal is to put one foot in front of the other real fast; how many different ways could there be? By the end of last season I was tired (no pun intended) of being slow, so I began my search for the Holy Grail of running advice. Maybe I could find a little nugget of wisdom to transform me.
I found such a nugget. Apparently my legs were not moving fast enough. Seriously. It sounds so simple, but in essence it is much faster and easier over the long run (seriously, enough with the puns) to shorten your stride and quicken your step, minimizing the amount of time your feet spend on the ground. They say to aim for 90 steps per foot per minute. Picture one of those little desert lizards with short little legs, scuttling along on the sand.
And how do I run? I lumber. My feet land like dead weights on the pavement and don't pick up again until I'm about to fall forward. My stride isn't long, but that's only because I'm 5'4". My steps per minute were only about 80.
Like the elite athlete I am, I tried out this new technique, improved a little, and then got lazy and forgot about it. I was reminded by a post on Beginner Triathlete this week, describing his massive improvements once his stride count was up to 90. "Oh yeah! That's supposed to work!", I remembered.
I went out and tried it today. And I felt like a fool. Ninety steps per minute are some short-ass steps, I'll tell you what. I didn't know my stubby little legs could rotate that fast. But at the end of the run, my heart rate was down and my time was decent. So I'll try it again and see how it goes.
That is, until I forget.

It could happen.

Today I test my newfound gun strength in the push-up challenge. So after ten days of 100 push-ups, what's my magic number?

Zero.

About halfway through the ten days I started feeling a nagging twinge of pain in my right shoulder. I attributed it to my growing muscle; why my muscle was only growing on the right side, I didn't bother to figure out. By Day Seven it had developed from the "phone-rings-when-you're-on-the-can" kind of annoying to "asshole-just-cut-you-off-because-he's-on-his-cell-phone" pissing-me-off kind of pain. But like a stubborn ox I befriended Advil and ice and kept going. By the last day it's obvious that I'm hurt; muscle aches don't stab you when you throw a tennis ball. So today I play it safe and forego the final push-up test.
The good news from all of this is that I can estimate my push-up number instead. And I'm guessing I can do...


112.

Fast Food crisis.

Last Friday I'm in a 5th grade class teaching empathy. We'd just completed a hands-on activity that pumped up the message, and now we're processing to drive it home. The class is silent, mesmerized. Suddenly, without warning or a raised hand, a boy in the front announces:

"You have something black in your teeth!"

Instant mental rewind to an hour an a half earlier--I'm late for my first class, dashing out of the office, shoving a handful of trail mix in my face in an attempt to stave off hunger until my 11:00 break. Peanut skin, surely the guilty culprit.
And then it dawns on me:

You have had this black object in your teeth for the last hour and a half. You've taught 3 classes with it. At least three teachers and nearly 75 students have seen this foreign atrosity and said nothing.

I laugh it off and continue processing the activity, purposely calling on the long-winded students to buy time to dig it out. No luck. The class ends ten minutes later, I beeline for the bathroom and take a look. It's the size of a bus and right in front. My worst nightmare realized. Everyone has their little self-conscious quirks, and food in teeth is one of my biggest. I scoop it out (it takes several attempts).

Stupid trail mix. Next time I'm grabbing a banana.

Blue Stuff (an update)

You know that blue stuff they gave you in elementary school to help you learn how inefficiently you brush your teeth? You swish it around after brushing and it shows up on all the places you missed that are rotting of plaque as you stand there staring in the mirror at your blue teeth?

I think push-ups serve the same purpose. For I have done my 100 yesterday and 43 so far today and I'm feeling muscles I didn't have last week.

Did you know that we have muscles on the sides of our boobs?

Yay, push-ups--the blue stuff for muscles.

Onward and Upward!

About a month ago I embarked on a twice-a-week 7-exercise core workout to try and minimize my floppiness. Each exercise involved 2-3 sets of unique body contortions, one of which defies gravity in ways no human with knees is able. It's true--they call it The Matrix. I'm glad to report that after four weeks, I do notice a difference; not in the mirror, but in my posture and in my ability to do said gravity-defying acts. There's only one problem. I am now bored with them and I'm going to cut them off. But it's okay, because I have a replacement challenge. I stumbled across Krista's push-up throwdown challenge the other day and it sounds right up my alley. Buff arms? Yep, want 'em. Solid core? Need it. Short enough time span to keep my interest? Two weeks should do it. The basics, straight from Krista:

ODD days - Do 100 push ups in as few sets as possible in addition to your regularly scheduled workout of cardio exercises. You can still do upper body workouts on these days if you are already on a program. This is a supplemental 100 push-ups using maximum repetition sets (2 x 50, 4 x 25 … it’s your choice how you get to 100).
EVEN days - Do 100 push-ups throughout the day. This can be little sets of ten done every half hour or fifty push-ups done twice times throughout the day.
How it Works - Today, see how many push-ups you can do in one try. Then starting tomorrow, repeat the ODD/EVEN routine for a total of 10 days. Then take three days off from push-ups. On day 14, give yourself the push-up test and see how many you can do.

So it's on. After I vaccuum (because I've put it off long enough and Erika is starting to get irritated), I'm doing my push-up test today. I'm so excited I could pee.

UPDATE: I did it! Twenty push-ups. I can only get better. I wonder what it would have been if I hadn't vaccuumed...

Self-Aware and Diligent.

Peg's comment on my graph post prompted a long conversation today with Erika, complete with defensiveness, tears, and my fair share of introspection.
Peg says " I'll take you as you am" (sic, I love this girl) and she means it. So the question I grappled with is why the hell I'm so obsessed? The obvious answer and the one I fear the most is that society demands us to fit into a Barbie-doll mold and there's something wrong (with us, of course) if we don't. But I've always told myself I don't give a shit about society's opinion of my belly! So today I had to ask myself for real--are you really that shallow that you're watching every little thing you eat and when you eat it and working out ad nauseum to fit some standard of society??
God, I hope not.
As we probed further (hee hee, she said "probe") I defended myself with what I believe are the two reasons I really do care so much:
A. My father died at age 46 of cardiac arrest, exacerbated by high blood pressure. My grandmother, mother and sister have struggled--really really struggled--most of their lives with the same issues. My mom has tried every diet and exercise plan out there just to maintain a weight healthy enough to see her grandchildren, but the fact is we are fighting an uphill battle. We weren't blessed with freight train metabolisms. My point is that I watch very carefully what I eat and I work out because if I don't I will start talking myself out of workouts ("my eyebrows need waxing") and into brownies ("I need to celebrate, I made it to Wednesday!"). And if I stop being diligent, really diligent, I don't have genes on my side and I will slip and I am afraid of that.
2. I have goals. I have goals for myself and for my family, some of which include 4-6 triathlons per summer (including an Ironman before I turn 40), fun runs and bike rides for charity well past retirement, and going rock climbing and hiking and swimming with my kids. I watch what I eat and I work out so I can meet my goals.
Those, I tell myself, are my real reasons. Should this translate into watching every pound and graphing my eating habits? Probably not. So I will change "shallow and obsessed" to "self-aware and diligent", and I will spare blog readers the self-deprecating whining from now on and stick to glorifying myself after killer workouts and awe-inspiring races.
Done.

A Man and His Apartment.

My lobster has been offered a very unique and privileged opportunity with the internship of her choice for next year, and therefore we are relocating (again) to even out our commutes. After a slew of phone calls and searches on Craigslist, we went on five showings yesterday afternoon. Our first was far and away the most interesting, hands down because of Paul. Paul is in love with his properties. He has more pride in his properties than any landlord we've met. Paul dares us to find anything better than his.

(For the record, I'm not ripping on Paul. I'm in awe of Paul. He's...eccentric.)

"Are you ready to see a great apartment?" he asks as we walk up the front stoop.

Our hopes are high. He lists tons of great features in his ad and boasted quite a bit on the phone, so I'm ready to see his great apartment.

We walk in the door.

Everything is blue.

The carpet is blue, not just in the front room, but in the living room, the hallway, and both bedrooms.

The kitchen countertops are blue.

The toilets are blue.

The bathroom sinks are blue.

But we continue with the showing, and Paul continues with the showing off.

Early on, I make the mistake of asking how old the building is.

Paul: "How....?" (looks at me quizzically)

Me: "I mean, how young is the building?"

Paul: "That's right. None of my buildings have the look of any wear and tear at all. Nothing about them suggests that they're old. This building was built in 1990, which makes it 14 years young."

Erika noticed very few pictures on the wall. We pride ourselves in our artwork and well-framed photographs, and asked if we're allowed to put them up.

"I'd like you to only use 15 nail holes in the walls. The reason I ask is because of ____ (gives first and last name of previous tenant, apparently the scourge of the earth) who left the bedroom wall with 280 nail holes. What's worse, she pounded the nails all the way in before she left. I had to pry them out."

(Fifteen? Uh oh.)

Paul: "I want to show you this furnace. It's a Lennox Pulse 22. That's top of the line, it's 98% efficient. I paid $2600 for this furnace. Landlords are only required to pay for the bare minimum, but I went ahead and bought the best to save my tenants money. I'm the only landlord that'll do that. Go ahead and ask them when you see other places, ask them what kind of furnace they have. Ask why it's not a Pulse 22. They'll tell you, 'it's too expensive'. Tell them, well Paul bought one for me."

Me: "I bet they'll like that."

Paul: "No they won't."

Me: "I know, Paul. I was being facetious."

"Look at all this overhead lighting. In the kitchen alone there's five overhead lighting fixtures. Well, one of them is in the closet, but it totals five."

(I should point out that they were among the ugliest lighting fixtures I've ever seen.)

"All of the sink fixtures are Koehler and the countertops are updated."

(Yeah Paul, but they're blue.)

"The bathroom floors are Armstrong in-laid vinyl. That means they crush little pieces of vinyl directly into the concrete. That way you won't ruin the floors with high heels or something like that."

(Two points: A. Do we look like the kind of girls who wear high heels? and 2. When is the last time any of you walked with high heels on your bathroom floor and the stiletto poked a hole right through it?)

"See these windows? Look at all the glass on these windows. Most landlords will put in window frames but skimp on the glass. You know why? Because glass is expensive. These windows have more glass than required."

(It's true. Those windows did have glass.)

Erika is terribly allergic to cats, and we noticed the tenant had two of them. I asked if there was a chance the carpets would be cleaned after she left.

"Oh, there's no chance of it. It's deliberate. I make all my tenants clean the carpets upon their move-out. By a professional. And show me proof they've done it. If they don't then I do it. And charge 'em for it."

(Paul--the long arm of the Carpet-Cleaning Law.)



I had to call Paul this morning and let him know that we were "going with a different property". He received my voice mail and called me back 25 minutes later to ask me why. I think he was genuinely flabbergasted as to how on earth we could choose anyplace else. I mean, the furnace! The glass! Just look at the in-laid vinyl! I was honest--I told him it was all the blue. He said he does that for variety and that the place across the hall has neutral colors.



Damn. So close.

The Power of the Graph.

As most of the last posts have insinuated (or yelled outright), the last few months have been frustrating on the body-sculpting front. Peg says I shouldn't look for flaws and she's absolutely right. My self-esteem is not the flaming abyss it sounds like, either. I'm just sayin'. Some background:

I put on ten pounds after my wedding, ten pounds I'd rather not carry around in next summer's races. So I made some modifications, as any normal person would if they wanted a change (hear that, federal gov't?). Numero uno is my workout schedule, which previously had an "off-season" of about six months. I've now been base training about five times a week since November. But exercise is only half the battle, and nutrition (a triathlete's fancy way of saying "what ya shove in your face hole") is my weakness. So I've eaten gluten-free for about four months now, I eat out about three times a year, I never eat fast food, and I have 2-3 beers a week and very few desserts. Voila. All the magic ingredients. Except nothing was changing. I was doing all the right things I could think of, and damned if I was going to turn my life into a miserable pile of veggies and no beer. What was missing?

Yesterday it dawned on me what I needed.

A graph.

My lobster is far and away the creative one in our duo; for lack of a better explanation, I think like a man. I fix things (problems and toilets) like a man. I needed a graph.

So last night I wrote down 3-4 common variations of all of my meals, calculated accurate amounts, checked labels for calorie counts, and used the internets for the missing info. I plotted it all on a graph that showed both the time of day I was eating and the range of calories I was shoving into my face hole at each of those times. I colored the ranges in yellow. Here it is:

A-ha! I had found the answers I suspected all along but could never fully grasp until I could look at it in graph form. I had two problems going on here. Everyone knows the most efficient nutrition plan for anyone who wants to lose weight is to eat fewer calories more often. If Jillian says it on The Biggest Loser, it must be right. I needed to move my daily calories around from my three-massive-meals-and-two-tiny-snacks to three moderate meals and three slightly moderate snacks. The second problem was the amount of calories I shoved in each day, which varied widely from not enough (1600) to way way way too many (2900). I've learned along the way that for a person my size and activity level to reach my goal weight I should be consuming about 2000 calories per day (calculate your calorie count here). I need to watch my portion sizes and spread the calories out throughout the day so I don't feel the need to gorge myself on a plate of spaghetti that could drown a small child (860 calories per plate, thank you very much). Hence, the purple line on the graph. The purple line is much closer to what I need to stick and what I will aim toward. It's amazing how weeks of screaming at the scale and pouting and whining did very little for me, but a simple graph can do so much. I deserve a beer.

P.S. If you've made it this far, congratulations on forcing your way through the most boringest blog post in the world to everyone but me. This one's more for my own accountability than reader interest, so please come back in the future. I'm not always this way.

Small and White, Clean and Bright

Last night my lobster and I sat down to watch a movie. Finally, after 15 years of owning it on VHS and knowing most of the words to all of the songs but never actually seeing it, I convinced her to devote the next three hours to The Sound of Music. I had seen it annually from ages 5-17 of course, but with my Music virgin at my side, it brought out a whole new side. (I should mention that I had two very potent beers and she had a zinger of a Malibu and Coke for the film.) Some highlights:

Near the beginning Maria is coaxing herself into bravery with "I Have Confidence". As her list of things about which she feels confident grows, she begins to swing her guitar case wildly about. We both decide that if we could effortlessly run at a full sprint down the sidewalk whilst swinging about large stringed instruments we'd have a hell of a lot of confidence, too.

About halfway through, we stopped for a pee break. I had the terribly morose "Edelweiss" in my head, and decided to replace it with a more upbeat tune. I began to sing out loud:

I am sixteen

Going on seventeen...

And that's it. That's all I knew, even after just watching it. Honestly, does anyone ever know any more of the words to that song than those six? Go ahead...try it now.


Erika: Rolf ends up being a Nazi, doesn't he.

Jenn: Yeah. How did you know?

Erika: Earlier. He did the "hail Hitler" thing.

As we're listening to the Captain sing about Edelweiss ("Small and white, Clean and bright"), Erika asks what edelweiss is. I tell her it's a flower, but it prompts us to think of what else it could be.

A well-kept, intelligent child?

That little pill he takes every morning to control his blood pressure?


(A background choir sings "How Do you Solve a Problem Like Maria?" as she is walking down the aisle on her wedding day)

Erika: My God, what an awful song for the processional. Way to take a swing at her on the happiest day of her life.


(Max announces the winner of the festival--"The Von Trapp family singers!" [applause] "The Family Von Trapp! [applause] Spotlight on the empty corridor. Long pause. Soldier runs through the hallway, appears at the entrance and shouts "They're gone!" Nazi man stands up in horror.)

Erika: A little slow on the uptake, isn't he.


This movie is a classic. It has its moments of hilarity and absurdity, but in the end I think we can all agree...

It would make a great drinking game.

Spot Removal.

The other day (in February) I was vaccuuming. I had some extra time, so I decided to once and for all tackle the high-traffic grayish spot on the carpet that had developed slowly over the course of the last four months. You know, the one for which our leasing company will charge us exactly $536 for creating. I took out our free sample of spot remover that we were given when I accidently got Vaseline on the ottoman and had to call a professional, and I went at it. Voila. Spot gone. (Or at least faded enough that said leasing company won't notice.)

Then it occurred to me--what if we could do that with our bodies? How cool would that be?? I suspect we all have spots that we're unhappy with. For me, the sections fall into three categories:
A. Lookin' good for now but most likely will go downhill if I don't watch it;
2. Tolerable; and
D. Oh my goodness that just isn't right.
Sometimes I envision taking a sharpie to my body and outlining the three sections like a topographic map, just to see where I need to concentrate. I picture a short man with messy hair and round spectacles describing the landscape to an eager note-taking audience.
"Hmm...this ridgeline seems to extend beyond the valley and plateau in the nether regions."
(Hand shoots up)
"Professor, is it common in this type of terrain to see a mound like this fluctuate so freely in size?"
"Good question. A small amount of fluctuation is common, except in this case (uses pointer to poke my belly), the mound seems to only get larger. A unique phenomenon indeed."

Alas, we cannot "spot fix" our bodies. I've tried. I had a killer workout tonight in which I felt strong and svelt in almost every way, and then passed a mirror in my swimsuit and my heart shriveled at the uneasy landscape before me. I can only take comfort in assuming other people out there have their troubled spots too.

You do, don't you?

P.S. The carpet stain is starting to come back. Maybe it'll go away for good if the spot remover is alcohol-based; the same treatment I'm applying to the topographic map of my body.

The many faces of congestion.

I'm continually baffled by congestion. There's so many kinds, how can someone keep them straight? There's the "who snuck in my sinuses and filled them with concrete?" congestion. There's the floodgate of oozing watery mucus. Or the scary kind, when you blow your nose and chunks of strangely colored blobs force you backward. And I've never understood how each nostril seem mutually exclusive sometimes. Lay down on your left side, and the masses hunker down to the left. Lay a finger on your right nostril and close your mouth, and you're asphyxiating yourself. Switch the same finger to your left, and you now breathe freely. And don't get me started on sneezing.
(Sidebar: Sneezing is funny. Everyone has their own version. I'm a furious sneezer; I gear up for it with an arched back and outspread arms, then let it rip in one fell swoop and I'm done. My aunt has dainty sneezes that come out as high-pitched "eh-chew!" spurts, and twenty or thirty later she's free and clear.)
Back to me. I have the irritating kind of congestion right now. My sinuses feel boulder-like, clogged with a fury only Afrin can tame.
(Sidebar: What the hell is Afrin? If you're a fan of nose spray you know what I'm talking about; a couple of squirts in each nostril and you have instant and total relief of the unnatural kind. It doesn't seem right, but I just can't stay away. My brother was addicted to Afrin for several years. He popped a few squirts every half hour, I kid you not. And the generic kind didn't do it for him, it had to be Afrin. Finally he, with the help and support of his girlfriend, weaned himself off. They found a website that taught them how to properly dilute the Afrin in stages so eventually his tolerance would fade back to normal. To this day I don't know what he does about congestion without Afrin.)
Anyway, back to me again. My sinuses are boulders, but it doesn't stop my nose from running. Mind you, it's only the right side; the left is bone dry. And it's the annoying amount of nasal drip where I feel like blowing my nose every 4 minutes. My nosetip is slowly (i.e. every 4 minutes) being ground down to the bone by Kleenex. The tissue could be lotioned with the softness of an angel's ass and it would still feel like a 10-year-old carpet at this point. So I've done what any nose-respecting ill person would do. I've forgone the blowing and just shoved Kleenex up my right nostril and left it there. Erika says it looks like I have half of Wilford Brimley's mustache. I'd like to see how she deals with this kind of congestion.
It's truly a bitch.

Derail me, please.

I'm sitting in a coffee shop with my decaf mocha and my laptop alongside my Lobster, whose nose is buried deep in her homework. The scene is almost identical to last Sunday. My life has gone like this for quite a while lately--sailing along uneventfully, predictably, smoothly. Perhaps that's why I feel so bleh.

On the other hand, others around me have endured the Life Disruptions we don't care for. You know the kind. The ones that come suddenly and abruptly, demanding time and resources you don't have because your life is a moving train and derailing it ain't easy. My Lobster missed 3 days' work last week for a "viral sore throat" (or something like that; she just calls it "swallowing 2X4s with rusty nails jutting out of them"). One of our Kindergarten teachers was out all week for Influenza A. A friend of mine had his car broken into and radio bashed in. Another is having surgery on her sinuses next Wednesday. No one looks forward to these kind of interruptions.

As winter drones on, it's becoming clearer to me why I love Spring and Summer so much; the outdoors and the free time are conducive to creating Life Disruptions that erase the winter blehs. This summer two good friends are getting married, and it will be the first gay wedding we've attended besides our own. I have five triathlons lined up, each one promising to be a fresh jolt of life. A trip to the Badlands with three dear friends awaits us in August if we can only get our calendars to line up. It all can't come soon enough.

I guess I should count my blessings; I've been tooling along without any major Life Disruptions for a while now. And the flip side? I've been tooling along without any Life Disruptions for a while now.

I have no core.

Don't worry, my beliefs are firmly intact. My support system is resounding and loyal. I'm not talking about those kinds of core. I'm talking about my actual core--the midsection of my body that holds me up. My arms are pretty well toned, I have runner's legs and a nice neck, but my torso is floppy and flabby and unable to hold me up most of the time. My posture is terrible as a result. I fold in half like a gummy worm if I'm not propped up somehow. And worst of all is the belly. Ah, the bubble-like belly. I complain about it all the time to anyone who will listen, perhaps too much because last Friday my Mother-in-Law handed me (as a joke, I hope) a copy of "Women's Health" magazine with the cover story announcing that I, too, can have the flat belly I've always wanted. It's easy! they say. Yeah, right.
Well, I'll show her. I looked up the program they designed for me and my future six-pack. They claim that I will see results after only(!) thirty days, so that's how long I will give it. I will follow her program and get my perfectly flat belly and toned abs one 20-minute workout at a time. And if it doesn't work, then I guess I wasn't meant to lose the jiggle--or stand up straight.

I'll keep you posted.

And now, live from Pick N Save...

E: "Okay, what's next..."
J: (pointing down the aisle) "Juice."
E: "Honey, you're not supposed to point at people and announce their ethnicity to them."
(Pause)
J: "No no...not Jews....Juice."

You know you've got one too.

Everyone has the phrase that makes their skin crawl. For some it's too dorky ("Catch ya on the flip side!"), too dated ("word to your mother"), or just plain overused ("OMG!"). My skin-crawler is arrogance.

If I've just finished telling a story, whether it be for conversation, humor, empathy or whatever, please please please do not respond with "I've got one better", "That's nothin', listen to this", or any derivative therein. Basically what you're saying to me is "I don't care about your story. It does not push my buttons. Now I, on the other hand, have a story that tops yours in every way. Be my captive audience while I share it with you, and by golly you'd better get your hugely animated reaction ready because I've already told you that this story is the end-all-be-all of verbal commentary so I know you'll agree!!!!!"

Lucky me.

Just once I'd love to get a response like:

"I can't top that."
"That is the best story I've ever heard in my entire life and I will never hear one better."
"I'll comment now for the sake of continuing our conversation, but it won't be nearly as good as what you've just shared."
"Can I write that down?"
"I have one similar, but it's slightly worse."

Now those are some idioms I could grab on to.

I don't get it.

I fully admit that I don't follow baseball. And perhaps the answer I seek is obvious to someone who does, and I'll be happy to hear it if anyone out there can explain it to me.

The first national news story the other night was about Robert Clemens' testimony before Congress on his alleged juicing. The coverage included footage of his comments as well as those of his accuser and personal trainer, with color commentary from another former baseball great. I understand that steroid use is illegal. I also happen to think the use of performance-enhancing drugs in professional sports is weak and cowardly. What I don't understand is why this is the concern of the U.S. Congress.

First of all, Major League Baseball is a corporation not controlled by the U.S. Government, right? If any other private company has scandal or legal troubles our government doesn't step in. Why now?
Secondly, if a federal law against doping has been violated, wouldn't it be addressed through the judicial branch, not the legislative branch?
And finally....in a time of two wars, no health care, recessive economy, broken educational system, stolen civil liberties, lost jobs, etc. etc., doesn't Congress have anything better to do?

Free Day.

I got the call at 5:55 A.M. today that there was no school day due to cold temps. Since then I have:
-Blogged about my Lobster
-Savored a bowl of hot cereal in front of the Today Show
-Re-read from Dan Savage's tongue-in-cheek rendition of gay adoption, "The Kid"
-Took a nap
-Started my tax return online
-Changed my entire blog template and color scheme
-Called about getting the chip in my car windshield repaired
-Blogged about my progress thus far

All in my pajamas.

Erika wants me to go out and get some Advil Cold and Sinus and tea from the store. But I feel there's so much more to be done here...

In my pajamas.

Is it summer yet?

So far the 2008 season is shaping up nicely. I've registered for nearly all of my races and my training plan is in place. Yep, I know every single workout from now until August 17th, but I'm trying not to be obsessive about it. Here's out it (should) all play out:

The first tri will be Bigfoot (Sprint distance) in Lake Geneva on June 22nd. I'm excited about this one for several reasons: a.) It's a short distance from home and in familiar surroundings, so no waking up at ungodly hours of the day (like 4:00 a.m.), and 2.) it looks like a pretty small race (I was the 26th person to register), so I may have a shot at breaking out from the MOP (Middle of the Pack) to the FOP (Front of the Pack). I'll definitely have to ramp up bike training to do that, so I'm thinking of hitting up my friend Candice to do the Trek 100 on June 7th for some extra motivation. We won't do the 100-mile distance...heck no. There's a 33-miler that I think I could handle.

P.S. What IS that thing on the bike in their picture??

Next up is the Spirit of Racine on July 19th, also a Sprint distance. I don't know much about this race except that it came recommended from the "regulars" on Beginner Triathlete. They call themselves donkeys (the regulars from Wisconsin) but I don't know why. I wanna be a donkey...

The Camp Whitcomb-Mason Sprint triathlon is August 10th this year, and while it is a relatively small race, it holds special significance for me. I worked at CWM the summers of '96-'00, which entailed volunteering at the annual triathlon. It was a highlight for me each and every summer. I body marked, I flagged, I cheered, I swept roads, and I remember the energy and enthusiasm of the event vividly. I also remember thinking to myself each time I volunteered (which included several years beyond my employment): "I could never do this race. Maybe--maybe as a part of a relay, but by myself? No way." This year I intend to do it. By myself.

The "A" race will be the Pleasant Prairie triathlon on August 17th, and this one will be an olympic-distance event. I'm nervous but excited for the challenge. I'm hoping it'll be a stepping stone to the ultimate goal someday, Ironman Madison.

So as my anticipation has grown it's been a bummer lately to look outside and see piles of snow and people bundled head to toe. But I've got all these exciting races coming up in a mere...five and a half months.

Sigh.

To end on a lighter note, I happened to look back at my training log for last year at this time and was amused to see 24 minute walks, three times a week. I scoff at that now. Now hand me another brownie and a beer.