Lakefront Marathon--10/4/09

For every race up until this point, I was able to look back upon its completion and name at least one thing I should have done differently.



Lake Mills tri--Worn arm warmers



Camp Whitcomb tri--Hit the timing mat at T2 on the first try



Spirit of Race Half Ironman--Never eaten that Clif bar



Bigfoot tri--Never gotten out of bed



I look back on Lakefront and I'm convinced I did everything right. And that's never happened before.



For 48 hours beforehand I religiously monitored my intake. (My best friend got married two nights before the race and I didn't even toast her with champagne, for pete's sake.) The day before the race I swore off fruit, red meat, and peanut butter. Race morning was a very safe piece of very safe toast and a banana.


We arrived downtown with plenty of time to muse about funny things whilst waiting for our ride.




(A quick photo before my cheering section went to go park at Mile 7.)

I arrived in time to warm up a little, stretch generously, and line up at the start. In Chicago, I assumed to run a marathon you just keep running the whole time. Today I had a different plan. I'm attempting the Galloway method of long-distance running, where the athlete forces herself to stop for 1-2 minute walk breaks every 4-10 minutes. This will maintain endurance for the last miles of the race. My plan was to walk one minute every 5 minutes of running.

I carried water, gels, and electrolytes in my fuel belt--the perfect amount mathematically calculated based on a goal finish of 4:45, 15 minutes faster than Chicago 2003.

SIDEBAR: I knew zero about race nutrition in Chicago. I pounded the gels that tasted good and figured it was normal to have....ahem..."GI distress" three times during a five-hour race. I now use a more organic gel that sits better. And I wash them down liberally with water, a trick I learned from my freakishly athletic friend Matt.

Back to Lakefront.

The gun went off. People were buzzing with excitement, chatting nervously with energy. The 4:45 Pace Group nearby had started a ritual where the Pace Group Leader would emit three sharp whistle blasts and the group would echo a resounding RAAAWWWWRRR!!! Someone commented about two miles in that the fresh roadkill near the side of the road "probably won't PR today". And EVERYONE was running. No one was stopping to walk. Well then neither will I, damnit. I make an executive decision to run to the first water station.

Sixteen minutes later I began a regimen of 7 min. running and one min. walking, a compromise that felt safe enough. I put down a gel every 40 minutes and stopped for water at every station. My lobster Erika and our friends Ben and Liz were cheering wildly at Mile 7 and I was still perky enough to greet them with silliness.

I see them again at about Mile 15 and I'm less perky.

Whenever I mentioned I was doing Lakefront, someone invariably mentioned the "mostly downhill" nature of the course, as if this will make the entire run an absolute breeze. At this point, however, I'm thankful for the flatness. My 7/1 regimen is working, but I'm starting to feel the burn. So to speak.

It's been said that the race begins at Mile 20. Most marathon training plans max out with one or two 20-mile long runs, which means after Mile 20 it's all brand new mileage. Mile 20 is usually when the walking, the vomiting, the cramping, and the grimacing grow more and more common. My Mile 20 revelation:

I'm doing it. I'm really doing it. I'm going to hit my goal time, and I feel okay. I'll keep this up until the last 5K, then kick it out. No more gels, no more gatorade. Don't need them.

At Mile 23 I stopped walk breaks and ran through with as steady a pace as I could muster. I was passing people. Spectators were telling me I looked strong, and while they could very well have been lying I said "thanks" anyway because I felt strong. It hurt like hell of course, but I was doing it. The 4:45 Pace Group was completely out of earshot behind me, so I had a good chance of breaking my goal.

The last two miles were lonely. We're running along Lakefront path, sandwiched between a busy two-lane road and Lake Michigan. Very few spectators line the path; they're all waiting at the finish. I knew I'd be done in twenty minutes or so, but darned if that wasn't the longest 20 minutes ever.

I heard the finish line music, turned the corner and saw the crowd. The finish line arc was straight ahead. I gave it everything I had. Final time: 4:42:17. And my legs hadn't hurt like that since...well, Chicago 2003.








But I wouldn't change a thing.

Camp Whitcomb-Mason--8/9/09

It's impossible to compare results from two different races--apples and oranges occur in course distances, terrain, transition area size, wave size...I could go on.



Not this time.



It's on.



Self 2008 v. Self 2009






At Camp Whitcomb-Mason, I return for the first time to attack a course again, with a very clear goal: Beat the first time by five minutes or more.





The score will tally in my head as I push to emerge victorious. Over myself.



I begin the race in my birthday present--a full-sleeved sexy wetsuit, a master of buoyancy, the sultan of sleek, sure to chop time off my swim. And it does--about two minutes.



2009 Self--1

2008 Self--0





All summer I've repetitively hammered out the fine art of the "flying mount". Instead of bending over (or sitting down) and forcing dry bike shoes on wet feet, then hobbling like a duck out of Transition and mounting the bike, I now have my shoes clipped on the pedals ahead of time. I whip out of the wetsuit (thank you Body Glide), pop on the helmet, and run barefoot to the road, swing a leg over to mount the bike, pedal a bit to pick up some speed, then reach down as my foot slides into the shoe and fasten them shut. Minutes spared.



2009 Self--2

2008 Self--0





The forecast for the race was hot and humid. I came prepared. I had electrolytes tucked in my pocket, a little anti-dehydration trick I picked up in '09.



2009 Self--3

2008 Self--0



Turned out they didn't do much good. The heat had kicked in and I was dry from the swim by the second mile of a 22-mile bike ride. I had plenty of water and was taking electrolytes religiously every 15 minutes, but they weren't making a dent. Around Mile 10 I started to feel nauseous.



2009 Self--3

2008 Self--1



While the nausea subsided, it was clear by the 15th mile that I wouldn't hit my goal bike split.



2009 Self--3

2008 Self--2



T2 was a welcome sight. So welcome in fact that I overshot the timing pad and had to double back to pass my timing chip over it. Sigh.



2009 Self--3

2008 Self--3



I entered T2 just trying to stay upright. I was beat, mentally and physically. The rest of the race was just a 5K I had to get through.



I learned later that our friend Candice, spectating with my lobster at this race, commented upon my entry to T2 that "she doesn't look good". That was putting it mildly.



2009 Self--3

2008 Self--4





The run course did a very good job of providing cold water and sprinklers to run through for the athletes now competing in near-90 temps. I was just too far gone. I ran the best I could and it was all I had left, but in the end I finished about six minutes slower than last year. Chalk it up to weather, I guess. We'll be back next year.



Maybe.



Winner: 2008.





P.S. Or maybe not.

Every summer I worked at CWM, we eagerly looked forward to cheering Margaret across the finish line. She entered the race each year and finished last each year, but inspired us to tears nonetheless because of her spunk and vibrant optimism for a spry little woman in her 80s. This year I spied her before the race began and introduced myself, sharing with her what it's meant to us camp staff to watch her finish this race year after year. She finished last again this year, of course, but this time with the media attention and a full standing ovation of every athlete who had finished before her. Well done, Margaret. You win.

Spirit of Racine Half-Ironman--7/19/09

We woke up at the usual 4:15 AM and followed the procedure--put on the laid-out race clothes, cooked the toast, and re-checked the bags. We drove off when the sun was beginning to rise.



An hour later we found a good-enough spot to park in Racine (Score!) and walked the five minutes to transition. My bike was racked yesterday in the best space I was allowed to take, so I simply needed to walk in and lay out my stuff. Towel down first, then running shoes in the back with my lucky green Wicked socks inside. Water bottle nearby to rinse off sand from the feet. Bike shoes in front, first two velcros open and ready to receive my feet. (Give the inside of each a quick dash of baby powder--helps ease of entry when feet are wet. From the water bottle.) A dozen gels and two energy bars split into two piles, one to pocket for the bike ride and the other to bring on the run. Bike pack attached to the back of the seat post and filled with electrolytes, one for every 15 minutes on the ride. Timing chip transferred to my ankle from the bike stem (placed there yesterday by the bike check-in guy so I wouldn't lose it), as it won't do me any good on my bike stem. The bag o' crap is now empty except for the stuff that comes with me--wetsuit, goggles, swim cap, and body glide, my saviour. Good thing too, as the loudspeaker has just announced that Transition will close in two minutes. What the? We arrived early! No matter. I exited just in time.



Body markers were standing just outside the exit--convenient, as I was not marked. With "264" on my arm, we began the walk to the starting line.

Twenty minutes later, I understood why they closed Transition early. (I'm a slow learner.) The swim is parallel to the shore and (thankfully) close enough to avoid large waves. If the swim is 1.2 miles and the end of the swim is at Transition, the swim start must be...about a mile down the beach. It takes a while to walk that far.






About halfway down the beach, I stopped to apply the Glide and don the wetsuit. It wasn't easy. Sand everywhere.



Erika stopped her walk there (I don't blame her--I would've too), so I hugged her goodbye and walked the rest of the way alone with my fears of the next seven hours. At the start I warmed up a little (a swim warmup and a pee-in-my-suit warmup) and chatted with some fellow triathlete friends I've made along the way. It's now time to line up.

My swim wave seemed big. Bigger than the normal 50 or so athletes surrounding you in a mass start, and it felt bigger when the horn went off. I had assured a friend a few weeks ago, worried about a mass swim start, that contrary to the horror story she'd heard no one will swim on top of you. In this mass start, I was grabbed, slapped, and actually swam on top of. The crowd thinned out a little after ten or fifteen minutes, to my relief.

I'm in a rhythmn and feel like I'm doing well. I was passed early and often, but now I'm doing the passing. No idea how long I've been going. Suddenly...the big yellow buoy was in sight. It was almost time to turn in.

Once on shore I started the cruelest part of the race--after a half-hour swim, they want you to run 50 yards across the sandy beach to get to your bike. In a wetsuit. I reached back, unvelcroed the wetsuit collar thingy, and pulled the cord to unzip it. Whip! Out came my arms. I heart Body Glide. I checked my watch. What the? The swim was about ten minutes faster than I planned! The wide-eyed look of shock on Erika's face as I jogged past her (wetsuit halfway down by now) confirmed it. Either the swim was measured quite short of 1.2 miles or I was having a rockstar of a day.



I reach T1, the transition area. Normally I'm in a frantic hurry to get in and out, but when the race lasts most of the day I don't feel as much of an urge to rush. Plop. Down I go. Zip! Out come my legs and feet. (A small catch on the timing chip, but nothing Body Glide can't handle.) Squiiiiirt! Extra water bottle=no more sandy feet. Gels in the pouch. Shoes on. Sunglasses on. Helmet on. I'm ready to go.



(I'm the one in the middle putting on the helmet.)

Erika and Greg watched the transition from beyond the fence. Apparantly Greg thinks I have a nice back. He should see my belly! (Oh wait...that's not right.)

Bike mount, smooth. Up the little hill. (I remembered to put my bike in a small chain ring before racking it yesterday. The worst thing in the world is setting off on a hill in a big ring. It feels like pedaling through cement and tipping over is a distinct possibility.)

I'd only done one 3-hour bike ride before today, and it was with a group of friends. We chatted, stopped for potty breaks, cracked some jokes, and overall had a nice leisurely time. This race was not like that. No one talks. We're in a constant state of passing and being passed. There's nothing rude or vindictive about it, it's just...boring. I looked forward to water stations just for the chance to talk to someone.

"Water?"

"Thanks."

About 2 hours in and my butt is sore from sitting. My neck is sore from looking up. I want it to be done. In a 56-mile bike ride it's encouraging when there's only ten miles left, until you remember that ten miles is still over half an hour with no TV and no one to talk to. Good news--my pace is smokin' (for me). I'll finish far before my projected finishing time.

T2 is in sight. I slip out of my bike shoes for the dismount. My mother-in-law is wildly jumping around and screaming, which was more a sight for sore eyes than I care to admit. I dismount on the wrong side of my bike, but I don't care. I'm in no hurry.

Into transition, and why won't my legs work? My jog is gimpy and fractured and I can only assume it won't stay that way.

Found my spot. Hang the bike. Pop off the helmet. Slip on the Wicked socks and shoes. Gels in the pouch. I'm ready to go. With my surprise, of course...

This was the first race in which runners weren't required to wear numbers--who knows why. I used the opportunity to make a sign for my Lobster. It read "For my Lobster". I wore it on my number belt to show her that I race for her. I couldn't be where I am today if it weren't for her undying support and encouragement. She's the best athletic supporter in the world.

My legs started working again and I'm thinking I can actually do this! I can finish a half-Ironman! I stick to my "take it nice n easy and walk through the water stations" plan and it's working. My stomach is revolting a little so I stay away from gels--nothing too serious, right? At the halfway point I see friends Candice and Matt with their young 'uns first, then a large posse of Erika, the in-laws, Greg, Ben and Liz closer to the turnaround. I whip around the curve, thinking an hour or so from now and this one's in the bag.

Oop! Not so fast. The mild uprising in my belly has turned into an all-out coup and stopping at the port-a-potty is inevitable. Three times. In an hour. Unbelievable.

Three miles left, and my legs are screaming. They wanna be done. Where the hell is that finish line?!!? They said I looked strong when I crossed, but it felt more like a lame hobble. I was done.

The medical staff approached me in the finishing chute and asked if I was okay. "I don't know". I really didn't know. She walked with me and suggested I stop off at the tent to be sure. By this point Erika had found me. Her job was to meet with me and walk me back to the group. I could handle that. I turned down the kind offer from Medical. (Ooh! Do you think they would've given me a ride in the ambulance if I amped up my pain? Or an IV?!!)

The walk back to my group was slow but rewarding. The medal hung heavy on my neck and my legs protested every step, but my friends and family collected there were proof that I had just finished the Racine Half-Ironman, my goal for over 5 months, my obsessive target, my dream.

Check!

Jitters.

The other night at a gathering of friends I was talking shop with Matt, an experienced distance triathlete and a person I secretly despise because he's 3% body fat and he rolls out of bed ready to race on any given day whether he's been training or not. Matt suggested a new strategy for pre-race nutrition. (Difference #1 between devoted athletes and the normal world: What athletes call "nutrition", regular people call "food". Athletes literally plan ahead their nutrition intake for the crucial 48-hour window before a race. This is really just a fancy way of saying they watch what they eat.) Matt tells me that two days before the race, I should eat no carbs at all, then the day before the race eat as many carbs as possible. He backed up the claim with some bit I've already forgotten about the muscles' access to energy stores, or something like that. It made sense at the time, so I'm going to try it. No carbs at all tomorrow.



The point here is that my anxiety level about this race has risen to new levels. A list of anxieties I've been quietly harboring the past few days:



-The lake temperature last year was a face-numbing 55 degrees. This year it's currently mid-60s (quite manageable), but I worry anyway. You never know when Lake Michigan will plummet to its frozen depths again.



-The current forecast for the day is partly cloudy, high of 72 degrees, wind at 7 MPH. In other words, quite nice. But that could change at any moment. What if a hot front comes down from...Canada?



-My congestion has cleared, so I'm healthy as a horse. My taper week included 15-30 minute workouts per day, so I'm vibrating with excess energy. I'm guessing I'll either catch swine flu or pull something.



-My Lobster sent out an email inviting spectators to the race and five friends, two family, two toddlers and an infant are coming to cheer me on. That's a lot of athletic supporters. Or witnesses to my athletic demise. One of the two.



-I've been training for this thing for five months. That's a long time. Long enough? I've done all three distances separately but never together, one after the other, on the same day. It's gonna be a looooong day.



-And on top of it all, I emailed Matt tonight to remind me what foods are carb-less, because I'm pretty sure we don't have any.



It's amazing what the brain can make up to worry about when it faces a challenge.

Bigfoot Triathlon--6/28/09

I started writing this post in my head during the run; that's how my day was going. I just wanted it to be over, because everything that could possibly have gone wrong had gone wrong. I'm not berating my own abilities here, just acknowledging the middle finger that luck and circumstance had given me here at Bigfoot.

Weather.com had forecast calm, cool weather until noon, but the 5 AM whitecaps on the waves in Lake Geneva suggested otherwise. The half-mile swim tossed us all around like rag dolls and teased my tendency for motion-sickness. Thank goodness for my brand new full-sleeved wetsuit, right?

I love my wetsuit, and it loves me. A little too much. It wouldn't. come. off. I'm cursing under my breath in Transition as athletes fly by, whipping their own suits off while mine refuses to budge.

I'm finally free. I'm running to the road, ready to mount. My shoes are clipped into the pedals already so I step solidly on my left shoe, then knock my heel against the right to send it flying? What the? THAT'S not supposed to happen. A kind bystander retrieves both shoes for me (the left had managed to unclip itself somewhere in my "Son of a B****!!" moment) and I hunch over, embarassed, to put on the shoes and re-mount the bike.

The wind that caused the vicious lake waves continued. The bike route was a loop but somehow the wind was in my face the entire time. The entire experience defied physics.

Finally I've returned. The plan is a smooth-as-butter dismount, wherein I unvelcro my shoes and slide my feet out about 50 yards before the Transition gate, then swiftly sprint to my spot. Not today. The wind (again, that wind) off the lake, coupled with the only steep downhill of the ride, forced both hands to stay on the bars. I did manage to free one foot, but have you ever seen anyone run wearing only one bike shoe? It's not pretty.

I'm in Transition. Where's my spot? They all have blue towels, just like mine. (It was one of our goodie bag prizes.) But my wetsuit is inside out! I remember from when I was wrestling with it 46 minutes ago! Where's the inside-out wetsuit?! That one's not inside out. That one doesn't have a wetsuit. Wait a minute...
I'm in the wrong row.
I shuffle one row down, and my spot is there, laughing at me. I swear, I must've spent a good 45 seconds in the wrong row.

I'm off on the run now. It's almost entirely on a dirt/sand/rock/tree-rooted trail, so I'm pretty sure I won't be setting any records. At this point I'm nearly ready to give up and consider it a leisurely training run through the woods. I'm following the path by myself when I hear from behind,
"This way! This way!"
I'm running the wrong way. Another half a minute gone.

Now I'm writing the blog post in my head. And the rock in my shoe is cutting into my foot.

Thank goodness my lobster always knows the right thing to say. In the car ride home:

"At least you're really tan and your biceps are bulging and I can't even find your belly."

And she took some artistic liberties with her photography:






She got a kick out of this sign. I don't know why.












She may harbor some resentment for the exclusivity of the transition area. She likes to feel like she belongs.











I shouldn't say EVERYTHING went wrong. The port-a-potty line was amazingly speedy.












With the aforementioned biceps bulging, I attempt to don the new wetsuit.













Still working on it...(but look at those muscles!)












Holy crap this is hard.

My lobster snapped this shot to show my exit after a warmup swim. I included it to show the freakin' waves.











I love this one. I'm really just putting my hair in a ponytail, but don't I look like a model in a Pantene commercial?

This one pretty much sums up the day.












Post-race. Can you tell all we're thinking about is a hot shower and a nap?











And that's exactly what happened next.

The Lake Mills Story:

Once upon a time a girl tried a new race--the Lake Mills Triathlon.






She brought Erika, her
Big Athletic Supporter.








Ben and Liz came
to see what the fuss
was about.

















Even Mom and Dad came.
(Mom yells the loudest.)












They gave her a number and
drew on her arm.












She had trouble putting on her wetsuit.







And they're off!
She didn't want to come out of the water.
It was warmer than the air!










It rained the whole bike ride.





But the run was smokin' fast!












The End.

------------------


I was nervous coming into this one.

I heard rumors. The lake is 56 degrees! There's huge chunks missing from the road! The forecast is calling for thunderstorms! (That rumor was real.)

I was trying flying mount/dismounts for the first time. (Liz had some creative ideas for what these are.)

It was the first race of the season.

Can I do it?

The lake was chilly, but nothing a traditional pee in the wetsuit couldn't fix.

The rain and wind turned my bare arms to crimson, but my dismount was perfect. (I'll work on the mount for next time.)

The chunks were filled in.

The run was (BY FAR) the best I've ever had.

The moral of my Lake Mills story: When someone is cheering you on, telling you "You can do it!", the only thing stopping you is your own imagination.

Madison Half-Marathon--May 24, 2009

(Alarm clock.)



"Honey, it's time to get up."



"I'm not going."



"Honey..."



"I got three hours' sleep."



I decided at this point to leave well enough alone; she'll come around. I brushed my teeth and changed into race gear and sure enough, by this time the bed was made and my crunchy lobster was climbing into her own race attire. It was just 4:30 AM talking.



The plan was to meet at the flagpoles between the starting line and the parking lot at 6:15 AM, plenty of time for the 7:00 gun. But we were very very late. We didn't account for little delays, like the gas station stop to go "#2" on the way, or the 1/2 mile traffic jam on both of the exit ramps to the race. (Madison's Brat Fest was a coinciding event in the same location as the race, and traffic from both were causing the unplanned holdup. It's never too early to eat brats and drink beer in Madison.)



We pulled up and ran to the flagpoles at 6:55, where my mother-in-law sat ready to hand off my number and a "good luck" while I dashed to the starting line. She and Erika would race in the quarter marathon beginning 45 minutes later, so they had some time to breathe. I had time to pee behind a tree but not in a porta-potty (lines were too long) and when the gun went off, so did I.



The plan was to take short (20-30 second) walk breaks every 10 minutes or so, and I stuck to the plan. The weather was perfect, the crowd was jovial, and I was cruisin'. I saw my sister and her boyfriend at mile 6 and we chatted long enough for me to run by. With 5 miles to go I stopped walk breaks and at mile 10 I started a quicker 5K pace. Then the knee started. It was a strange pain, not bad enough to stop but enough to notice and wish it away. Near the end I must've been limping. Still, I finished with a Personal Record time and downed my celebratory chocolate milk. I stretched a little, and when it was time we drove back home.



After the three hour nap my knee was too stiff to bend. We spent the night watching a movie with an ice pack, then a heating pad, then a beer--the only pain remedies I know. I went to bed not knowing how big a deal to make this thing.



And now? I'm not able to exercise today but I think it'll be fine pretty soon. I just wasn't ready to cut 2 minutes off my half marathon time without paying for it. Next up is a good old-fashioned triathlon--enough of these "running the whole time" events.



Yay chocolate milk!

5'4" is my excuse.

At the dawn of my running career I thought it was the simplest of sports--if you want to run faster, move your legs faster and take bigger steps.

Bad news: I've tried and I'm not very good at it. Good news: I can blame it on my shortness. Short people take small steps, after all.

Since beginning my tri career two years ago I've picked up a few more tricks along the way. For example:

-If your foot strikes the ground in front of your body it will act as a brake, screeching your progress nearly to a halt with each step. (So that's why I'm so damn slow!)

-A midfoot strike (as opposed to a heel strike) may be more efficient. (This habit took some time to undo.)

-Ugly shoes make you run slower. (I knew it!!)

I incorporated these new tidbits into my regimen and prepared to watch minutes melt off my times. I have seen progress, but I'm still painfully slower than most people. So I reached outside the box this weekend and attended a running workshop held by a local pro triathlete with whom I've shared a few races these past two seasons. (The difference, of course, is that she wins them, packs up her stuff, eats a snack and goes home. And then I finish.)

I wasn't sure what to expect. How does someone else make you faster? I pictured the lot of us running around a track or even outdoors if it wasn't a typical March in Wisconsin (snow and sleet, 32 degrees). She'd holler instructions at me about my gait or posture or arm swing or ugly shoes. I'd correct myself. Shazzam!! I'd be faster!

It didn't work out that way.

A trainer did briefly analyze each runner's gait to correct any major flaws and advise us on proper footwear to fit our style. I have an efficient midfoot strike and require a neutral shoe. The prettier the better.

A large chunk of time was spent in a "run circuit"--Take a few laps around the indoor track, then pull over and pick one from a list of strength exercises and do a few reps, with trainers handy to gently push your butt down if you stick it up too high on your prone leg lifts. (I learned that the hard way.) The goal is to energize the little-used muscles in running, which translates to more efficiency all around. It made sense. And I think I finally learned why my legs, arms and back are well-toned but my core isn't. It might be because I never do any core exercises.

After an hour of our run circuit I was sore. My total running time never exceeded twenty minutes; it was the circuit part that did me in. I left a little depressed. Does this mean I've amped up my training schedule to 7+ hours a week, yet I still don't do enough?

This was several hours ago. Since then I've showered, ate a delicious grilled cheese sandwich, and spent the rest of my dividend at REI on some hot biking shorts. I'm going to find a way to incorporate the exercises I need into the workouts I already do without adding any more. I'll train smarter, not longer. And someday I will be a faster runner, no matter how freakin' short I am. Faster and with pretty shoes.

Feelin' fine in '09.

I haven't written in a while.

This is not for lack of news in our household, but I leave that to the eloquent stylin's of my Lobster. This is a blog about triathlon, and truth be told, the off season isn't very interesting. To prove it, I will sum up the last 3 months in one sentence.

A recumbent bike proves you can work out while sitting and a treadmill is boring no matter what bad 90s Saturday morning movie is playing but when your workouts are all either biking or running but no swimming because it's cold out and the pool is only open at 5:00 AM (forget that) it makes for really solid base-building in the legs but slow deterioration in the core and arms so it's a wonder I don't flop over at the waist sometimes but a new era starts tomorrow.

I've set my '09 race schedule. In the serious (obsessed) tri world some athletes have "A" races (the ones they focus their training around for which to achieve the optimal peak of fitness), "B" races (important enough but no "A" race) and even "C" races (expensive workouts with a T-shirt at the end). This season I proudly announce to all: I have an "A" race.

Here's the layout:

May 24th--Madison Half-Marathon. I learned from Tyranena that the half-marathon distance is a nice blend of "enough challenge to warrant a few months of training" and "offers bragging rights the next day" with "won't be stuck on the couch in pain for a week afterward". Madison is one of my favorite places in the world, so it made sense to do their race.

June 7th--Lake Mills Sprint Triathlon. Within a half-hour driving distance, we won't have to wake up at Oh-My-God-It's-Dark-Thirty for this one. The distances and course are reasonable and I've heard good reviews so it should be a nice way to kick off the tri season.

June 28th--Bigfoot Sprint Triathlon. This is the race I missed last year from the bike accident, but the race director kindly transferred my registration so I'm back in '09--single vision, scars healed, helmet replaced, and ready to go.

July 19th--Spirit of Racine Half Ironman. This is it. This is the "A" race. A HIM (Half Ironman) nearly doubles my previous long race and brings me halfway to the ultimate goal--the Madison Ironman. A HIM is a 1.2 mile swim (in this case, a parallel-to-the-shore swim in Lake Michigan), a 56-mile bike ride, and a 13.1 (half marathon) run. I'm familiar with the area and the event's organization from doing last year's Spirit of Racine Sprint. It seemed like a good venue to attempt the HIM distance. Never mind that last year's water was a frigid 59 degrees. That won't happen again (right?). Never mind that 56 miles is from our apartment to Illinois. Never mind that the race will take me the better part of 7 hours to complete. This is my "A" race, and tomorrow starts the 20-week training plan to complete it. My base is built and I'm ready to go.

August 9th--Camp Whitcomb-Mason Sprint Triathlon. This is the first race I will repeat. It's easy to say you've improved when every lake, every hill, every transition area is different from race to race. Last year I was 5 minutes short of my goal (sub-2 hours) in this race, and I'm back to try again.

October 4th--Lakefront Marathon. Since college I wanted to complete a marathon--(certainly) not to change my lifestyle, but rather to say I did one and be done with it. While still a smoker and with no knowledge of proper training techniques (or shoes), I met the goal in 2003 at the Chicago Marathon in just under 5 hours. I thought, never again. I couldn't walk very well for days after and it impeded my smoking. My life is very different now--I know more things, I have better shoes, and I'm trying again--this time in Milwaukee. An Ironman closes with a marathon run, so if IM Madison 2010 is the goal I sure as shootin' better be able to run one.

The off-season continues, but the end is near.