Tyranena Beer Run (Half Marathon)--11/8/14

I love this race. The people are friendly, the course is varied and interesting, the post-race food and drink highly motivating, the weather is...weather. I've done Tyranena in bitter cold and bitter colder. I've shed and re-applied and shed layers again. You just never know.

This one was mid-high 30s and partly sunny, which is darn close to my optimal running weather. And the elusive PR was the only thing on my mind. Nutrition dialed in, save a bonus cup of coffee on the drive there. How much damage can it do?

Mile One: 8:45 pace. A little fast, but it'll be fine.

Miles 2-6: Comfortable 9:00-9:15 miles. I'll get this PR if it kills me.

Miles 7-11: Hanging around 9:15--not enough for the Golden sub-2 hours, but plenty of PR cushion.

Mile 11: Cramp. Not a run-through-it cramp. Not a Start-to-limp-a-little cramp. Not even a Stop-to-stretch-it-out-for-a-few-seconds cramp. This was a You're-not-running-anymore-for-awhile cramp. Stretching didn't help. Walking didn't help. The PR was slipping away.

An angel of a spectator offered me her water bottle when she saw my pain. I slammed it and it was just enough to hobble through the final two miles.

I missed the PR by a minute and a half. Bitch.

The spaghetti wasn't even as good as I remember.

On my car was a flyer for Last Call Half Marathon in Waukesha a month later. You better believe I signed up for it.

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.

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.