Models, Measures, Performance and Passion--or, How to get Susie to Harvard

When competing in endurance events--against others, against the clock, against ourselves--it's sometimes hard to know what trajectory to take. Aim too high and you'll crash and burn. Aim too low and be filled with the worst kind of shame: knowing you could have done better. Icarus knew the former, and I'm sure all of us have silently suffered the latter. Quite simply, there's a fine line between challenging yourself and fooling yourself. As competitors, it's our job to find this line and get as close to it as we can. As athletes, it's our job over time to push this line forward. In fact, it's the battle between being realistic and pushing that line that forms our motivation and inspiration. This battle can be highly toxic and it can be extremely powerful.

Different people take different approaches to finding the line. On one end of the spectrum are the total agnostics. Agnostic translates literally from the Greek to "without knowledge." These are the people that just do it: let's go out there, bang heads, and see what happens. On the other end are the cognitive determinists: based on hitting certain points in training, we can know exactly what to expect on race day--one determines the other, completely. Most of us find our place somewhere in between.

I admit to erring on the side of agnosticism, if only slightly.
Consequently this post is written in response to a certain cognitive determinist. This guy is one smart dude, a fantastic coach, and a person for whom I have great respect and admiration. Still, I take issue with his determinism. This is why.
______________

Numbers are objective. Numbers speak reality, not magic.

Yes.
The problem is that to make predictions we have to interpret these numbers using models and, as any good modeler will tell you, "all models are wrong, but some are useful" (George Box--statistician). Add to this the problem that the numbers we use for performance are typically measures of something and all measurements are subject to error and our uncertainty increases. But forget that latter part for now; I'm more interested in models and model error as it has to do with how we predict and perceive our performances and athletic potential.

We can use objective information (or information that is almost free of error and therefore really close to being objective) to predict performance, but how we use it (our model) is always subjective. The very choice that we make to select or create a model is subjective.
In short, we must interpret numbers--they do not speak to us without interpretation--and interpretation is fallible.

Having established what I think can reasonably be treated as objective (numbers, aka model inputs) and what has to be considered inherently subjective (model outputs, predictors of performance and potential), I want to get at the latter, or how we interpret our models.

Numbers and models can lure you into a false sense of determinism; that is, if your numbers and inputs are objective, then the prediction you spit out must also be objective. If so, then we could easily predict beforehand, based on our training, what we will do in the coming race.

But you know by now that I don't believe this.

Even if the numbers were perfect, a model is just a simplified way of describing how things work and therefore spits out predictions that are imperfect. Just as there are more things in heaven and earth than our philosophy can hold, Horatio, no model can perfectly contain all that goes into determining performance. Even if the person who made the model is wicked smart.

So what does determine performance? Or, more practically, what are the most important influences on performance? I know where you think I'm going--that heart is most important thing-- And you're somewhat right, but not really.

I believe in educated predictions. I really do. It's just that our knowing has its limitations, and this is my first beef. Our predictions can be based on the facts, and yet still be wrong. This is includes knowing how a given athlete will perform on race day when solely using numbers as performance potential.

It also includes knowing how an athlete will react to a numerical analysis of her performance potential, and that's my second beef. I believe the emotional/mental effect these numerical/modeled predictors has on an athlete is variable and affects performance, positively or negatively, depending on the personality of the athlete. I would argue further that female athletes become vulnerable to psychological defeat when a coach makes sure she understands her limitations based on the evidence that has been presented by her current performance indicators. Said female athletes become discouraged, maybe even despondent. They began espousing how they are not innately athletically gifted, and how they feel that perhaps they should just throw in the towel. Their hard work cannot translate into the dreams they had for themselves, at least not in the short term--all is lost--they are not worthy--coach doesn't believe they can make onto the podium, or to Kona, or wherever they aim to go.

This is not the intent of the coach, of course. It's the coach's job to help the athlete find the line--to make sure she is both challenged and not fooling herself. The coach wants to make sure the athlete is being realistic about her potential performance. But the thing is, the cognitive deterministic coach doesn't actually know an athlete's potential, within a reasonable band of expectation. He can make an educated guess at it using the models he's created, but as we've determined, those models can be flawed. Additionally, he hasn't taken into consideration so many different variables of athletic performance: the conditions on race day, the competition present, how the athlete reacts to competition, whether the athlete is able to digest enough in terms of fuel, the way an athlete reacts to the pressure and pain that racing presents, and finally, and importantly, the feelings the athlete has about herself and her performance potential come race morning.

These last two variables, an athlete's reaction to pressure and pain and her believe about herself and her potential on race morning can be coached, but it can be a challenge to do so. Athletes must believe they can endure pressure and pain. I'm very interested in how coaches/we can train our brains to interpret extreme pain differently so that we can race through it. However, that's not what I want to get at here. What I want to get at is that other variable: how an athlete feels about herself and performance potential.

One thing I learned in my 15 years of teaching is this: tell a child she's not going to make it to Harvard--her IQ (a fantastically subjective model, I will add) just doesn't support it--and she won't. Oh, every once in a while a child (usually with amazing parents) will say FUCK YOU and prove you wrong, but usually this isn't the case. When a kid works hard, despite what her IQ or intellectual testing may indicate, she needs to be told she can go anywhere, do anything. She's smart, she's hot, she's got the world in her hands. She needs to be told this ESPECIALLY when her testing reveals that her performance needs some major improvement if she wants that Harvard degree. She is already worried that she sucks. Part of a coach's job is to coach her out of this belief--which will only hold her back. She does not need to be told her goal to get to Harvard is unrealistic. She needs to be told that she is worthy, she is smart, and that she should hold fast to that dream. As a bonus, once she believes this, going to Harvard doesn't really matter.

So this is it:

Girls/women beat themselves almost every moment of every day. Most of us totally fear we suck--some of us downright are convinced of it. We are ready for you to say we can't make it. If you confirm the fear that our goal is not achievable, we just may believe you and we just may limit ourselves to the numerical expectations you put forth. This is not solely an argument against model accuracy. The greater enemy is the self-fulfilling nature of deterministic thinking to which you don't want us to fall prey. Instead, if you hold your tongue about those numbers and don't allow subjective objectivism to get in the away, we may just move beyond the doubt in our minds and move to another level in our performances--a level you never would have predicted. If you remind us we rock, and have the potential to rock more, if you voice your pride and your belief in us, while simultaneously focusing on getting us to do the day to day work that will get us the slot and asking us to stay tough, continue to work hard to improve on our performance indicators, and keep the faith, then we will achieve our dream. And if we don't? Who the fuck cares at that point? We held fast to the dream and at least we had a chance to fly.
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Last summer I competed in two 1/2 Ironman races. My performance indicators were the same for both events. I weighed the same, the hours I had put in were the same, my speed potential and durability as measured by my workouts and racing were the same. The two courses (Timberman and Clearwater) were very different, of course. At Timberman, my performance indicators put me at a 5:25. At Clearwater my performance indicators put me at a 5:06.

The model I used (some of you are familiar with it ;) made it appear that my training for each race was nearly the same. Yet it neglected some key factors. For the second race I had more intensity and speed work and I had a different psychology going in. But the model didn't capture these variables--it didn't cover all the important aspects of the physical training and it didn't include what I believe to be crucial difference between the two races--the psychological preparation. But how could it? One model can't measure everything. One model can't be solely accurate. One model can't solely capture the sum total of an athlete, her training, her mindset, and therefore her performance potential.

I completed Timberman in 5:21.
I completed Clearwater in 4:55.

In both performances I out-raced my indicators, but with Clearwater the difference was eleven minutes as opposed to four. Why?

I believe it's in the words my coach spoke to me in the days leading up to Clearwater and the day before the race. She didn't analyze my numbers. She knew them, but we didn't discuss them. She knew that what was holding me back was my fear--especially blowing up on the run if I went too hard on the bike, or telling myself I went too hard on the bike and so I couldn't run. She told me to race without fear--to just go. She believed I could do it. This would be the race of my life. I needed to continually tell myself while competing that I was having the race of my life.
Low, when I got on that bike and I began to back off, thinking about the run to come, I picked my pace up again. No fear. My bike split was a 2:34. When I got onto the run and my pace started to slow I pushed the thought that I had worked too hard on the bike out--and I ran a 1:44. It was my psychology that got me those 11 minutes. My. psychology.

To sum this marathon of a post up:
"The purpose of computation is insight, not numbers." (R.W. Hamming, mathematician and computer scientist). How insightful is it to rely solely on numbers, take passion for granted, and neglect psychology in assessing what we will do and how far will we go? Maybe as important, how fun is it?
The answer is, of course, subjective.

I got a pap smear yesterday, but that's not what this is about...

I visited my gynecologist yesterday. Bet you can't wait to read this post!~

Actually, my gyno is also my primary care doc, so it was a duel physical/gyno kind of appointment. I have had the same doctor since I was 22 years old. She delivered all of my babies. She's tough, and funny, and well, I actually consider her my friend. An interesting side note--her daughter writes for and acts in the show The Office. She (my doctor) was actually in one episode of the show, playing Kelly's mom (who is, of course, actually her mom). Mindy is Dr. C's second child. Her oldest is an M.D./PhD. Talk about a gifted kids....

But I digress.
Dr. C (Swati) is freaked out by my weight. She is worried.
This is one problem with having had the same doctor for the last 16 years. She showed me a chart of my weight since I was 22 years old, and it has dropped a few pounds each year, aside from the pregnancy years. I'm a good 20 pounds lighter now then I was then. But--- OF COURSE I am! I am training like a mad woman! And I was slightly overweight in my early 20s because I was drinking like a fish and eating sausages late at night (remember I'm a Bostonian--that's what we eat when drunk at 2 am).
She pointed out the BMI chart and noted that one more block over and I am underweight. Right. But I AM NOT underweight right now. I am kind of exactly where I should be--which is not underweight, but not at all overweight.
This conversation went on and on.
She believes I need to gain 10 lbs.
"That's all, Mary!" (said with her thick Indian accent.) "10 pounds!"
Then she added, "Mary, I can see your wrinkles on your face. They will be gone if you gain ten pounds. And, Mary, you will have breasts again."
Oh boy.
She then suggested maybe I have my breasts injected with saline so they would plump up and I wouldn't look like a young boy.
Oh yeah.
Nothing like the raw truth from your gyneocolgist.
I must admit I kinda miss having breasts. But I run faster with no breasts and that's the bottom line. Fast is better than hot, especially if you are 38 and off the market anyway.

_____
I have my first tri of the season on Mother's Day.
I'm getting nervous.
This is the first tri I ever did. It's a very short one: 400 yard pool swim, 7 miles on the bike, a 2.3 mile run. Yep, doesn't get shorter than that. Sprinting isn't exactly my strength. I seem to fare better the longer the event. I am far superior at the half IM than sprints, for example, and a far better marathoner than 5ker. Still, sprints are fun.
I have a person to beat. Her name is Mary, and she hauled ass last year, so I have to have my game face on to beat her this year. She won't be there to compete, but her time from last year stands, and I will race against her ghost.

The USAT rankings came out.
I got honorable mention this year. I'm #116 in the country in my AG (of those who completed two USAT sanctioned races, anyway.)
I'm happy with this.
But next year I want All American. I'm 11 spots away. I'm gonna get it.

The Century (and the blog post) that Lasted A Millennium and Other Blah

"This challenging century will take you through the peaceful but steep hills of west-central Massachusetts for a tour of quaint New England hilltop towns to the southeast of the mighty Quabbin Reservoir."

Sounds awesome, huh?
Looks gorgeous, doesn't it?

Tell that to my quads. They weren't too happy by about mile 60--and about 10,000 feet of climbing into the ride. Lest you think I'm kidding around about the 10K feet--please know, I'm not. The ride was roughly 12,500 ft of climbing in total. Beautiful? Yes, in parts. Quaint? Yes, in parts. Steep hills, yes--the whole fucking way.

Last weekend the hub. and I left the kids with my in-laws and embarked on this century. We got up early, headed to McDonald's for some Egg McMuffin Magic (I know, I know. You need to cut me a little slack. I just lurv the Egg McMuffin for a special pre-century treat...) Anyway, we headed west and arrived in the quaint town of Rutland. There was a huge, and I mean huge, multi-town rummage sale going in the church yard across from where we parked. Yep, we're no longer in Boston! I made a few very un-funny jokes about the rut that people must be in living out here in rut-land.

They were nervous jokes. I was nervous. The hub is a super athletico, you must understand. Granted, I am in better shape than he is, but most of this time this really doesn't matter. I could be in the best shape of my life (which, well, I am) and he will still kick my ass. This is a man who has done a 2:40 marathon. This is a man who barely missed making it to the Olympic trials in the Steeple. This is a man who is 6 feet tall to my 5 feet 2 inches, and who has quads twice the size of mine.

So. I was a little concerned. I didn't want to hold him back. I wanted to make him proud. You know.

Andy had been a little sick--or actually a lot sick--for the week preceding our epic ride. He seemed okay this morning, though, so I wasn't worried about that. Actually, I figured that I may have a better chance of keeping pace given he was still under the weather.

(bring in the ominous clouds and music now...
sick + century = not a very good idea)

Okay. So we get on our bikes loaded up with gels and bars and water and drink and maps and tubes and phones and all that good stuff. Andy looked like a pack animal to me with his dorky stuffed camelbak. He reminded me that Joanna Zeiger had a Camelbak on when she won Worlds 70.3 last year. (Yeah, whatever. They're still dorky.)

We headed out. Beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky (or at least not an ominous one...)
We we're headed downhill. Andy was hammering away at like 35 mph and I was huffing like a seventy-year old smoker trying to keep up. And did I mention we were going downhill? And it was five minutes into our century? Oh yeah.
After 10 minutes Andy stopped, probably a mile ahead at this point, and waited for me. I tried not to give him the dirtiest look ever when I caught up. It didn't work. Dirty look and scorn were written all over me. He shrugged, and took off again.
grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

This went on for the next two hours.
Add to this that the road was craptastic with winter ruin and the downhill turned into slow, gradual, and then sharp, and then gradual, and then sharp uphill.
I was in a shit mood.
Andy would wait for me every once in awhile and when I caught up he'd say things like, God, we need to do this more often. It's gorgeous out here. What a great road. Isn't this awesome? etc etc. etc.
Kill. me. now.
------
Gradually I began to hold my own. Or maybe not. Had the pace finally slowed?
And then I see Andy, up ahead, stopped.
What up?
His tube has just gone pffft. (note to the unsuspecting: metaphor alert! File this away in your memory...same category as the clouds.) Our first flat of the season.
He changes the tube, re-clinches the tire. A split second after he hits the CO2 cartridge--BAM! Second (and last) tube blows out. Our second flat of the season. This sucks. Perhaps you've been here before. We're 35 miles into the century and probably 34 miles from the car as the crow flies.

In a stroke of good luck (our last), he remembers his patch kit and fixes the first flat tube. He gets his front tire back on and after a 20-minute pause, we're back rolling. Andy starts off ahead but on the first uphill he slows down and lets me lead. I have been hanging out for those 20 minutes and I just want to GOGOGO. So I start hammering. I hammer away for like 10 minutes. Then I turn a bit to check for Andy.

No Andy.
I stop. I look.
No Andy.

ummmm.
I turn around and bike back in the direction from which I just came. Did he flat again?
And then I see him slowly moving up the hill.
When he gets to me he stops. He's red. He's panting. He's shaking. He's sweating.
What. is. going. on.?
This is not good.

He hadn't felt well, and had taken a hit off his inhaler. But that hadn't helped. The nice sunny day had gotten hot. It's in the upper 80's. Sweat is pouring off his face.
Oh boy.
When did you last take Advil? I ask.
At 6 am.
It's now 11am. Okay. You need something more. Do you have any more Advil? Tylenol?
No.
I feel his forehead. He's on fire. He admits he's a little dizzy.
We begin again. He leads. I pass. I am cautious not to move too fast.
After a bit I turn to see if he's okay.
No Andy.
I wait.
No Andy.
I see him slowly moving up the hill.
I wait for him to catch up.
repeat.
repeat again.
repeat again.

Okay, he's more than a little dizzy--he has completely crashed and has nothing left. He is struggling to go 15mph on the flat. We. are. fucked. We're about halfway through this century and it seems like we have 80 miles to go.

We get to the Quabbin Reservoir. Heat is shimmering off the lake. Andy removes his helmet and I note he's still shaking and sweating. Salt is caked down his face, his arms, his back. I touch his arm and his skin is burning hot. He takes another hit off his inhaler.
I wonder if he'd kill me if I call an ambulance. What if he has pneumonia? What if this is a recurrence of the pericarditis he had a few years back? (That would be swelling around the heart--and yep, it's very serious.)

We take off our shoes and sit down to discuss what to do. We have 50 miles to go. It's already 1 pm. We started at 9:30 a.m. You do the math.
We decide to cool it for a bit--take in some liquids, re-fuel with a peanut butter sandwich.
We sit and look at the resovoir. On any other day I'd think it was beautiful.

After a half hour we start up again. Five minutes into starting Andy is still a wreck. We are crawling up a large, two mile hill, and he is struggling. I wait for him and we stop.
He tells me that I need to go on, finish up the ride, but that he is going to use his Blackberry to GoogleMap the fastest, shortest way back to the car. He is going to take his time and try to make it, and he will call me if he needs me.

what to do. what to do. what to do.
Would a good wife stay with him and guide him home? Would a good wife understand that he can't stand hours more of his wife waiting for him with pity in her eyes? Would a good wife insist on calling an ambulance--or the police maybe to escort him back to the car?
what to do. what to do. what to do.

Finally I just let him go. He is adamant that it's the best way.
I'm so worried about him and whether he'll make it back that I fail to contemplate that fact that I have no Blackberry, no real map, and very little liquid left because I have been relying on Andy's dorky CamelBak to refuel?
umm. no.
Didn't think about those things. Go me.

Within 20 minutes I am completely lost. I have climbed a fucking mountain, I am now in a labyrinth of a neighborhood, and I am close to tears. I see a woman walking and I nearly attack her in my panic. She looks at my pathetic map and says, "Honey, this map is not going to get you back to Rutland. It's just not. And furthermore, honey, it will be nightfall by the time you make it back there. Rutland is 45 miles away!" (Note here that non-bikers fail to realize that you can go 45 miles in few hours.) She helps me find my way down the mountain and to a main route. I call Andy on my cell and tell him I'm taking the main route back to the car. Century. be. damned.

I start hauling ass as best as I can. I'm out of drink. I'm tired. My quads are spent, I have 45 miles to go and it's 3:30 p.m. Every huge long hill I hit I curse. I curse a lot, because the whole fucking ride is uphill. Ten miles to the end I see a biker walking his bike up the road. Could it be? Is that?
Oh my God.

Andy. I catch up to him, stop. His back tire is totally blown out. Our third flat of the season. He's been walking for the last mile and a half.
This has been one stellar day. The only good thing is that I can finally get some drink. I chug from that stupid Camelbak.

We plan that I will haul back to the car, get the car and come to pick him up. He will walk up to the tiny country store his Blackberry indicates is up the street.
I move on. I am spent. I am grouchy. I am parched. I am hot. It is all uphill. It is 4:30. A bridge is closed and I have to backtrack a mile to get around it. I've been on the bike for over seven hours, but only ridden 90 miles. Finally I make it back to the car, which is baking in the sun. The yard sale is now long done. It's quiet in the church yard. I throw my bike in the car, and root around the back trying to find some water. I find a half full bottle. The water is so warm I can barely swallow it. I blast the AC and head back to get Andy, who is dusty, sweaty, sick as a dog, and sitting on the old porch of the old country store, drinking a root beer.

Start time: 9:30 a.m.
Actually time spent riding: 6 hours
Finish time: 5:20 p.m.
Time spent out there: 8 hours
Mileage: 96 miles
Elevation: 12,655 feet of climbing
T-Run: Didn't happen
Mood: Elated. ThankGod the nightmare is finally over.
Time to have a beer!

The end.
(Bet you never thought it would. Neither did I.)

Mad Mommies: Why Moms Often Kick the xxx out of Non-Moms on the Race Course

First, note that I said OFTEN and not ALWAYS. I know some of you don't have children, and also don't plan on ever having children and you are hard asses worthy of worship.

But.

I have been thinking about this moms-kicking-ass thing for awhile. You'd THINK that after having a baby a woman's athletic prowess would decline. She's not only physically busted up and out of shape after having a baby, but she now has to take care of a wee one. She is no longer the epi-center of her own life. Baby is. So she should suck now, right? Out of the game, finito, done.

But it does not happen this way. Often said mommy gets better after giving birth.

This has been a source of interest among elite women athletes of late. It has been observed that killer runners like Paula Radcliffe have continued to kick ass after bearing bambinos. Some of the best women pro and amateur triathletes are mommies--like say, Heather Gollnick, Bree Wee, Brooke Davison or Rachel Ross. Kara Goucher recently announced her intention of having a baby following her Boston debut in an interview for Runner's World. She appears confident that having a baby will absolutely not have a negative effect on her racing.

Why is this?

I have a theory.

Women who have children improve their athletic performances after giving birth because having a baby(ies) makes one:

1. tougher than fucking nails.
2. appreciate being athletic in a way non-moms will never understand.
3. more disciplined, focused and yet flexible about her training than ever before.
4. rested. You must take about six months off from serious training when you're preggers.

Let's start with number one.
These paragraphs will be very boring to those of you who haven't given birth. I apologize. Feel free to skip ahead to my summation.

Having a baby makes you tougher than nails.
There is no endurance event that tops the endurance necessary to get from giving birth to the end of a baby's third month. I repeat, there is no. endurance. event. that. even. compares. Double this fact if a woman has twins. Case in point--Heather Gollnick has twins. So does Jenny Harrison. Can you think of women tougher than those two? I struggle to...And if you have triplets? I bow down to you. I really do.

Childbirth itself is a major endurance event. It often lasts longer than an Ironman. I realize some women opt to get an epidural, but lest you think for a moment that means they have escaped the endurance event this is giving birth, you are wrong.

I won't get graphic about childbirth and what it's actually like. Suffice to say it is--umm--painful. Even with an epidural. Hell, just getting the freaking epidural is painful, although it doesn't compare to the pain of contractions which are so painful there is not a word to describe them.

About 40% of women actually don't get birth vaginally, of course. The c-section is a special treat. Oh, it sounds pretty good. Your epidural is turned all the way up and you just feel "pressure" as they cut you open to extract the baby--unless for some reason the epidural is blocked, which it was on my left side when giving birth to my second child. Then it feels like someone is slicing into your abdomen, which, of course, someone is.Good-bye gorgeous abs! Baby has ripped them apart while growing inside you and the knife has cut them in half during surgery.

The c-section is major, and I mean MAJOR abdominal surgery. Recovering from it alone takes women weeks--some months. Even just getting out of bed 24 hours after the surgery is an incredible feat--and extremely painful. Your abs are sliced--all the muscle fibers have been cut in two--and so rising from bed, which requires abdominal strength, is like--impossible.

The incision is held together by staples. Your newborn can rest right on those staples as you attempt to nurse in the first few days. It's comfy. As you nurse your uterus contracts, because it is getting smaller, and that feels a bit like the contractions of childbirth. They feel great throbbing against the incision and often have one doubled over in pain. Add to this that if you are having your first child and are not yet shall we say--broken in--, nursing fucking kills. Your nipples are being bitten, sucked, cracked open, bleeding and mutilated with each session. Your breasts fill so full in the first few days that they are hard as rocks and a size triple DD and they hurt like fucking hell. And did I mention that your baby will turn totally yellow (jaundiced) if you are not disciplined enough in your nursing--waking your baby to nurse at least once every 1.5 hours or so around the clock???
This is the reality: IV still in, hungry little guy, daughter wants attention. 28 hours post-op.


Okay. Enough. Although I could go on and on and on.
After the baby is born and you bring the tyke home, you must rest. You need rest. Your body has been through a train wreck.

But you can't rest.
You must go on.
If you don't then your baby will die.

For the next three months you don't sleep--like ever--especially if your baby has colic and cries from 4-10 pm each day (that was my first). You nurse around the clock. You nipples become like little hard rocks, calloused and completely un-sexy. Your breasts are udders. You are a cow. You can't leave the baby for longer than 3 hours because you are the baby's only food source.

Oh, and did I mention that you are supposed to be glowing, and happy and grateful and fucking high on life?
(Most of us actually contemplate driving ourselves into a tree. Most of us cried almost incessantly for three months straight. Most of us end up on anti-depressants.)
And did I mention that you, as you knew yourself, are gone--like forever? Your purpose is now unilateral.

Take care of baby.
period.
______________________________
#2 and #3: Mothers

• appreciate the privilege of training in a way non-moms will never understand.
• more disciplined, focused and yet flexible about her training than ever before.

If you were "active" before giving birth then during these three delirious months you begin to fantasize.
Running, biking, swimming.
They have been taken from you.
And you want them back.
You want them bad.
You really haven't done any of them seriously since about three months into your pregnancy--so it's been, like, almost a year.

Formerly active moms are hungry. They want it back and they want it now and they are willing to do anything to get it.

They run on the treadmill for the half hour the baby sleeps. They nurse, race to the pool race home, and nurse again. They take advantage of every free moment (which are very few) to exercise. They become ultra-disciplined about taking this time when they have it. Gone are the days when they don't go running right now because they just don't feel like it right now--maybe later in the day.

Likewise, if the baby needs to nurse or be changed or whatever--moms adjust to the fact that their exercise comes second to baby. always. And that is just the way it is. Having to be this way makes moms appreciate exercise in a way that is somewhat hard to fathom.

#4
rest.

Moms had to rest, as I said, for like a year. I'm convinced that this is partially what allows them to excel after childbirth. Every last little tear has been healed in that time. The body is ripe to be torn apart and built back up again. I really think there's something to this. People who love to train and don't have children never take this kind of extended break, and therefore never heal to the extent that moms do.
__________________

After a woman goes through the act of having a baby she views the world differently.

• Pain is relative. If you can survive the pain of childbirth and the subsequent three months of sleep deprivation, the constant crying, the loss of self and becoming a cow, you can survive anything.
• Training is no longer a right; it's a gift. It is to be absolutely treasured.
  
• If you have time, you must take it. If you don't, it's your own fault, and you won't get it back. Discipline-- or denied.

It is these views that enable the mother to move to new levels of athletic performance.

Consequence and Aftermath

There are consequences for every action and an aftermath during which one must deal with the consequences.
Yes, I know this is an obvious observation.

I'm a consquentialist.

Essentially what this means is that I act--or don't act--according to my understanding of the possible consequences involved, and weighing whether the action is right or wrong based on the consequences. It's basically a cost/benefit thing. This is different than people who act according to an internal code--something the self has adopted to guide action. These people act or don't act not according to the consequences generated by an action, but according to an ethical code that has pre-determined the rightness or wrongness of an action. The consequences of an action may be good, but these people (deontologists) still won't act if the action is not inherently right.

For example, a consquentialst may lie to save your feelings.
A deontologist will never lie, because lying is wrong, even if the truth hurts you deeply.

Of course we all have a little of both ways of thinking in us. Most of us, however, lean more closely to one end of the spectrum or the other. Consequentialists are often viewed as lacking a moral compass; deontolgists are often viewed as righteous and dogmatic. I'm pretty sure you know which one you are.

Since the end of last year and the beginning of this year I have acted. I have acted in a consequentialist way. My actions have not always been codified right. But I have acted according to my understanding of the cost/benefit of acting, which is the way I understand the world.

But it's been messy.
And confusing.
And exhausting.
And I've been leaning on my training to provide me with joy, temporary sanity, and peace.

But you can't lean too heavily on your body. You can't expect it not to ever, ever fail you.

Last Friday I had a little, or okay, a large meltdown.
The aftermath of several different actions/ways of being all sort of hit me at once in one massive psychic and physical system failure.
And I went down. It was ugly.

I was running, an easy 50 minute run, and half way through it I just couldn't do it. My legs became heavy, my heart started racing, I began to pour sweat. I had to stop. I had to sit down. I had to wonder whether I would make it the 3 miles back to my car. I thought I might boot. I thought I might run into the middle of the street and wait for a truck to take me the fuck down.

Speaking of trucks, it's funny how we just truck along, ho hum, thinking we're handling it all just fine.
And then, suddenly, we stop. or fall. or crash.
and we can't seem to get up.

That's kind of what happened.

I hobbled home at a slow pace.
In the car I cried. It was one of those cries were I couldn't stop crying and during which I didn't even care if people in the parking lot saw me cry.

I cried because in that moment--in that hour--my body couldn't handle the intensity or amount of training I was asking it to. It was telling me to cool it--that if I didn't it was game over. That I may be suffering mentally, but that I couldn't make it all okay just by running. or biking. or swimming. or racing. I cried because certain things must be dealt with, and my body was telling me this.
And I. didn't. want. to. fucking. hear. it.


That night I slept 12 hours straight; slept right through the alarm set to get me up to do my 17 mile run. When I woke I put on my running shoes and kissed my kids goodbye, and thanked the hub for allowing me to go for my run later than usual. I stepped out the door, began to run, and had to stop after 49 seconds. Not going to happen. And I came home and cried again.

_________________________
The interesting thing about aftermath is that there is usually growth during it. The word aftermath comes from Old English and literally translates to after mowing. After something is mowed an aftermath grows consisting of new grass that can be left to grow or plowed under to fertilize future growth.

The meltdown really sucked.
But the new grass that is growing now is nourishing and hopeful.

After a day of rest I came back, did a 5.5 hour brick, and after another day of rest I did that 17.5 mile run.
And today I feel like a million bucks.

And I have made a few important decisions:

1. I'm not going to rely solely on my body to bring me the joy I desperately crave. I'm going to deal--.
2. I'm leaving teaching. I'm done.

Let the chips fall.
I'm ready for the consequences.

I've Got A Lot of Ideas Brewing for Posts...

But for now, just a photo of Noah and Jordan working the mile 8 water stop of the Boston Marathon.


It was awesome.
We had so much fun.
You gotta train them young....
(you WILL run, you WILL run....)
(no pressure, though...no pressure... really.)

A big shout out to all my friends who ran today and kicked butt--but ESPECIALLY to Maria, Rose and Petra who totally rocked it and all went sub 3:30!! Wahoo!

Beating the Hours and Daughter Bonding

So here's the thing. Right now I want to best the hours Jen gives me each week. I feel like I must do this. I must put in just a little tiny bit MORE than she gives me. Not hours more--just minutes--like 61 minutes instead of 60. I know a minute is nothing--but it's a mental thing for me. I must beat time. I must win. I think it's a proof thing for me. You know when you are doing a really hard running workout and it calls for say, 5 minutes at an excruciating pace or something like that? I look forward to hitting that 5 minutes for the whole 5 minutes--but then--when it hits 5 I can't stop. I have to do 5 minutes and 5 seconds. I'm not always like this. But I am right now. Yeah, baby. ________________ Tonight my daughter and I looked at bathing suits online for at least an hour. We discussed each suit--and what cap would match it--and what goggles. These are the two suits Jordan chose in the end: Cute, huh? And OF COURSE we choose perfectly matching caps. Swimming is all about fashion. I was drooling over dozens of different Splish suits, but Jordan convinced me to get this Splish in the end: She liked the blue. I'm more of a pink girl, I admit. And this is also too preppy for me, but she was convinced this was the right one, so I agreed--cause she was so damn cute about it. The problem was choosing a cap. Not much matches the blue. We choose white in the end. There were a few Splishes that I really liked, though, that I may have to eventually get. Jordan liked these too, but they weren't pretty enough for her taste. (Love the tail. Jordan thought this one was only good for Halloween. The hub that the whiskers looked a bit like hands across one's breasts. Humph. Leave it to the guy...) I also liked: and this: The hub really didn't like this one--especially the Fast. I like that! humph again. Jordan thought the rabbit was cute, but thinks I have too many pink suits already. The fact that Jordan is now old enough to spend hours talking colors and design of swim suits and bathing caps-- is just Awesome. I'm a lucky woman.

There are Things to be Done,

but I'm not doing any of them. I could, for example, be cleaning this house, which is so dirty and disorganized that I don't even feel I can employ a cleaning person to clean it.

• Or I could be spending quality time with my children, playing Parcheesi or Sorry or whatever it is that quality parents do with their quality children when they spend quality time together.
• Or I could be changing the sheets on the beds.
• Or I could be making a nutritious meal for my loved ones to eat tonight.
• Or going to the grocery store with my little terrors in tow.
• Or I could be doing laundry.
• Or I could be giving the dogs a bath.
• Or I could be sorting through my "to be sorted" pile of papers hat now reaches several feet from the office floor.

But, my friends, I'm not doing any of these things. Instead I'm on the computer--hoping that something interesting and exciting will present itself-- something that will, even if momentarily, allow me to escape this feeling that I should be doing something of worth. It's not working. The internet is failing me. One thing that's not failing me these days, however, is training. Training is going swimmingly for the most part. Yesterday I went on a 90 mile ride with Andy, the hub. This was only possible because it was Good Friday, and although both Andy and I didn't have to work and the kids didn't have school, the kids had the option of going to the home daycare they attend when they're not at school and I'm still at work. Naturally we decided daycare was the appropriate choice. We are thoughtful parents, and daycare is oh-so-much more fun than spending a full day with grouchy parents who really want to spend the day riding their bikes in the sun alone. (Really we love those little cherubs. Really we do.) ho hum. It was a gorgeous day, and the forecast for today (as I write) was for rain, sleet and cold. How great that I was getting in this long-ass ride with Andy and in the sun--when normally I would have to start alone at the crack of dawn on a Saturday--and a Saturday with rain and cold to boot? I was psyched. I ride almost exclusively alone, so it was, I admit, a tad weird to have Andy there at first. He would zoom ahead, and I would begin to feel guilty that I was seriously holding him back. Then he'd slow up and I'd be irritated that he wouldn't get his butt moving because he was ruining our pace. Eventually we got into a rhythm, though, and I led for chunks of the ride too, so it got better. I've been working on several things on the bike lately: higher cadence, more steady pace, no grinding up hills unless prescribed, and riding in all weather, inclement and butt cold or not. I'm also working on the mental piece. For me, being on the bike for five hours is a long time. Physically it's not really problematic--but mentally? At about 3.5 hours yesterday I just wanted to scream, Get me off this fucking bike! I was sick of Gu, sick of the headwind, sick of cars, sick of simply being perched on my bike. To make things worse, I had it in my head that we needed to do 90 miles. Don't ask me why. The workout just called for riding for 5 hours and doing a T run. But I wanted to do 90, and no less, so 90 we did. For the last 10 miles we were close to home and kept having to do loops to get up to 90. It was so, so painful, and again, not physically, but mentally--oh. I just wanted it to end. I tried to remember that I was psyched--that it was sunny and cool and that Andy was doing this with me. I tried wicked hard to remember that. Still, I repeat, five++ hours is a long time to be on the bike. And Ironman is longer..... Oh baby. When we finally got home I laced up my sneaks and headed out to run. My quads felt shot, but T-runs are the weirdest things. You think you won't be able to run a step, and the next thing you know you're cruising along faster than you usually do on your quicker runs. I felt truly awesome. Now, I didn't feel awesome like Hey let's go do a marathon now awesome, but I did feel awesome for the 4.5 miles I did. a marathon. oh fuck. I shiver when I think about it. In the last few weeks I've started running much faster while still staying in zone 2 in terms of HR. I believe this is for a few reasons. First, I shed a couple pounds. Not tons, but a little, and that seems to be making running feel lighter too. Second, Jen has me running really hard (like zone 25) for major chunks of time, and relatively frequently. I think my body now knows that it can pull out 7's when it's working hard, and so 8's are just easy in comparison. My HR seems to agree. This leads me to believe that there are many ways to achieve a lower HR at a faster pace. You can go the route of always staying in zone 2 and waiting for your fitness to allow you to run with a lower HR in zone 2, or you can work your ass off, make higher your ceiling, and hence make higher your floor too. Worked for me. There is more than one way to skin a cat. Who the hell came up with that expression? Nasty. Here's a picture of a part of our glorious 90 mile route which took us through Grafton, MA, far west of where we actually live.

MDot Tat

A tattoo.
The final expression of a serious, serious mid-life crisis.

Naturally I feel compelled to get one. I try not to be half-assed about anything--mid-life crises included.

Should it be the MDot?
I admit, I want to flaunt an IM finish eternally. A tat seems a good way.

I don't like two things about the MDot, however. One is that it is a corporate symbol. Yes, it means more than that to those of us competing in IM, but still, it is first and foremost a company--and a company that makes a buck at that.
I also don't like that M stands for MAN. I will not be an IronMAN. I do not have a penis. I will be an IronWOMAN--a middle-aged IronMatron with a vagina--to be exact.

So what if I turned the MDot upside-down? You know, into a W? (This is, I admit, not my idea. Andy, the hub, thought of it.) I could still put the dot on the top. I am also considering putting the first letter of each of my children's names around the dot. The dot, as womb, my little babies outside of me now, but with me, surrounding me, guided (I hope) by my strength.

Yet another problem I have is that I don't like the color red very much, especially when thinking about it on my body. I think I may get a black, upside-down MDot. What do you all think? Do not worry about bashing the idea. I'm interested in all thoughts.

Finally, the question is where.

I'm thinking back shoulder.
I also like the idea of the small of the back.

I spend much time thinking about these matters.
I have spent the majority of my life being too mature to give into the desire to have a tattoo, or a belly-button ring, or leather pants or -- whatever.
(I don't really want leather pants, actually.)
I am happy to say I have moved past being too mature.
I no longer give a fuck what I am.
I just am.
That's one thing a mid-life crisis is good for.

Down The Rabbit Hole

Sometimes, that's the best place to go. Sometimes it's the only place to go.

April 1st marked the beginning of the actual march toward Ironman Lake Placid. Sure, I was training hard before April 1st, sure I was putting in hours and pushing my limits. But April 1st, at least in my mind, is the actual beginning. At the end of this week I will have put in 16.5 hours of training. Next week I will put in 18. I have never put in 18 hours before. I think I'm prepared for it, though, and even if I'm not, it's still going to happen.

The idea that it is going to happen is a new mental strategy for me. Sometimes, when Jen gives me a really long, laborious or difficult workout, she writes at the bottom of her comments. "I know it's long and hard. Just get it done."

Just get it done. The only way to get to the other side is just to move through it, feel the pain, and get it done. Just keep moving. Just start the next set. Just ride--even if you're really tired and you still have three hours of riding to go. The chances that something catastrophic will happen, like you will drown or fall off your bike, is unlikely. Just keep up the effort for the next 5 minutes. Then the next 5. Then the next.

In my mind this thinking is like going down a rabbit hole. In the rabbit hole there are no distractions. You must narrow your vision, and just look ahead and down the tunnel. You must keep moving until you get to the end, where you can curl in a ball and take a rabbit rest.

In both my training and in life right now I am down the rabbit hole. There is only one direction right now. As far as I can tell, there is only one tunnel. I have been stopped inside this tunnel, worried, fearful, and definitely confused. It's time to move forward. It's time to remember that the only way to get to the end of this workout is to just do it.

It's going to take me awhile, but I will see you at the end of the rabbit hole. Please have some snuggly blankets ready, because by the time I get there, I'm going to need a rest.

New England Masters Swim Champsionships

Wanna be truly impressed?
Go read my friend Alina's report of this meet. She is scary fast. scary. She got first in her AG in like every event she swam. I've known her forever, and she still stuns me.

I signed up for this meet very late. It doesn't exactly fit in with my training right now. Still, I wanted to swim at a meet with Alina! She encouraged me to sign up with Maine Masters. So what if I am a MA-hole? I now belong to three groups: Greater Norwood Running Club in MA, Team Nor'Easter in ME (tri) and Maine Masters. I am just a Mainer at heart... I can't help it.

I signed up for the 500 free, the 100 IM and the 50 fly. I wanted to swim the 500, and those other two events immediately followed the 500, so I signed up for them too. I do love the fly and IM.

The pool, Blodgett Pool at Harvard, is gigantic and gorgeous. The water just feels fast. Alina let me borrow her fancy black skin suit for the 500, so I was feeling really fit and fast before the race even started. I did 1000 warm up and a few starts.

I was seeded 17th out of 25 in my AG, but oh well. The New England Championships bring out the best, right? I tried to swallow my pride. I found a new friend (Amy from Maine Masters) to count for me, and I headed down to the pool.

I was in a pretty early heat, given that I was so slow compared to the rest of these speed swimmers. This meet was so large that it was run like machine. As soon as the previous heat touched in, the gun went off for the next heat. No exaggeration. So, the girl in my heat touched, then the rest of the heat, and then BEEP! We were off.

I was like lightning.
For 100 yards.
1:11.
Then I felt it.
Barf.
Coming.
So I slowed down.
Next 100
1:24.
Okay!
I kept hitting 50s in like 41 or 42 and I finished the race in 6:48. I think that's like 1:21/1:22 per 100. I was pretty happy with it, especially given that after the first 100 I thought I might vomit my Gu into the pool. This seems to be a theme in my racing lately. I had to be in the top 16 to get a point for the team. I was 17th. Damn!

Alina showed up a little while later. Yeah! My friend! We hung out for a bit, and then she went warm up. I waited, but then, reluctantly, went to warm up too. I was tired from that 500! I didn't want to get wet and cold and tired again! I did another 300.

Luckily, the 100IM and the 50 fly are so fast that the hurt barely registers before the event is over.

I still had on Alina's snazzy suit for the IM, b/c she didn't need it until the 50 fly. I was in the 10th heat of 21 for this event. Not so bad....
The previous heat was on the last length of the pool and I stepped onto the blocks. They touched and BEEP! Off again.
I love the fly.
Especially when I only have to do one length of it.
I love the back.
I was smoking everyone.
Until the breastroke. Who invented the breaststroke? I hate it. And I suck at it.
Then bring it home! I could hear Alina screaming at me at the end of the pool as I turned and started the free.
1:17.42
Not so bad....
A four second improvement over the last time I swam the IM in Feb, and I got 13th place! That's 4 whole points!

After the IM I gave that great suit to Alina, and put on my super shiny blue suit. Would I suck now that I didn't have on that magic suit?
Apparently not!
I'm sick of writing, so let me just say I did it in 33.9. Not so bad! A 2.5 second improvement over last month. Wahoo! I was 10th in the race, so I earned 7 points!
FYI, Alina swam this too and won it in 27.8. Oh yeah.

Maine Masters won the whole meet. I think they had like 4000 points. But hey, 11 of those babies came from me.

It was a great time.

Think I'm happy about the PR? Thanks, Jen!

New Bedford Half Marathon Race Report

I had a great half marathon yesterday. It didn't feel particularly good, don't get me wrong. At mile 10.5 I seriously wondered whether I would make it to the end, or just collapse in a heap and start crying like a baby. It fucking hurt. It hurt, and today my body feels like it was hit by a truck.

I drove down with Kim and Paul (who has no blog, much to the confusion of Kim and me, right Paul?). I don't get to see them much (except for Paul at the pool, occasionally) so this was a treat. The conversation was lively and funny, and helped to keep my mind off the race. I always seem to do better if I don't over-think my racing.

This is a big race in terms of size. There were about 2,000 runners and the field was extremely competitive because it is the USATF New England Club Half-Marathon Championship. I actually like it for this reason. It's fun to see the elite runners come out in droves all sporting their club jerseys. I also like to see how I stack up against them big dogs. (Or little dogs. Runners are usually quite slight, if you know what I mean.)

One bad part about a large, competitive race is that the start is slow. In your everyday race I push right to the front. However, at a race like this it is downright insulting to the elite runners if runners like me try to start on the line. Plus, if you do start with the people aiming to do five minute pace, you get absolutely trampled. Of course, if you start too far back you also pay. It took me at least 30 seconds to get to the starting line, and once there I had to really wait and dodge until I could break free about a 1/2 mile into the race.

I took it out too fast, mostly because of the panic caused by being stuck in the cluster of runners at the beginning. First mile: 6:44. ummm. oops! Remember that the first half of this mile was pretty slow--so what was I actually running? I looked down at my Garmin: actual pace-- 6:22. Okay, then! (Little internal voice starts screaming--) Alert! This is a half marathon, and you are running 25 seconds faster than 5K pace! Slow down! Alert! Slow Down!

So I slowed down. A little. I just felt so sleak and good and fast, though. I am no longer Mary, I am SUPER MARY! I began to think it was a crying shame I didn't have a jersey that said Iron Fucking Matron on the back. But then, as I cruised along, I pondered whether people would think I was a Matron who fucked? Or whether they would realize I was simply using fucking as an expletive to emphasize my I'm going to kick your assed-ness? Should it be Iron Matron: Fuck Yeah? or just Iron Matron? or Fuck! There's the Iron Matron! Then I imagined someone stopping me on the course and saying, Hey, I read your blog!

Looked back down at the Garmin: 6:21 pace.
Fuck! Fuck ! Alert! Slow down!

(you are gonna pay, sister. no one gets away with running faster than 5k pace at the start of a 1/2. No one you, dumb fuck.
How about Iron Matron: Dumb Fuck who Took it Out Like A Cheetah?
Race. Race. Focus on the race.)

I knew I would pay, but I just couldn't convince myself that it was the right thing to slow too much.

I am happy to say that for once in racing life, my gamble paid off.

Obviously I did slow down some. Mile 2.5 took care of that with a big, beautiful, long hill. Then I began to clip off between 7-7:05. I could hold this. It was good.

I remembered this course as being really hard. Two years ago I ran in it freezing temps and with a wind that nearly lifted me off my feet and heaved me into the ocean. I kept thinking that I would get knocked down by a big hill, or by gale force wind. But it didn't happen. I just kept running along. Gorgeous day. Nice pace. In pain, but manageable.

At about mile 6 I saw my teammate, Maureen. I focused on her back and just kept trucking toward her. I knew I was having a good race if I was up to Maureen. The little fear that I was going to blow up began to surface again. I forced myself to stop thinking and just run--even, steady. I was all good.

By mile 10.5 I suddenly felt it. I wasn't just tired. I was really fucking tired. You know what I mean--the type of tired that means your body is getting ready to shut down on you and in a few moments you'll be running 12 minute pace and wimpering.

I ate a Gel. Who cares if there were 2.5 miles left? I needed something! Then I just talked myself through it. You are still keeping pace. You are not dying. You are keeping pace. Just keep pace. Shut up. Just keep pace.

Mile 11.5 to 12.5 is a long, rather steep uphill. I slowed and momentarily lost faith, until I noticed that I was passing people. I am in better shape than you. I am in better shape than you. Just keep running.

I felt a rumble in my stomach. I felt some bile rising in my throat. That Strawberry PowerGel was going to make a reappearance...

Just keep running. You've puked before in a race. Who cares. You are headed for a PR, so shut up and do it.

Ahead I saw another GNRC t-shirt. I realized it was my teammate, Tom. If I was running close to Tom, I was having a really, really good race. I just stared at his back and tried to draw myself closer to him. Close to the top of the hill I passed him. Was I actually going to beat him? This could NOT be real.

The last 1/2 mile is a downhill, and thank God for that or that Strawbery PowerGel bile would have just kept rising until....
As I turned the bend and began heading down the final stretch, Tom passed me back. I think I called him a fucker.
Hopefully he's not mad. Are you mad, Tom? Sorry. I didn't mean it...

Well, maybe I meant it just a little...

And then it was over. 1:33:37. My Garmin read 7:02 pace, but they had me had 7:09 pace. My Garmin also read 13.35 miles. Weaving. Gets me every time.
But who cares! Wahoo! That's a 2 minute 40 second PR for me!

After the race Paul, Kim and I got lunch and beers.
As we were eating, a guy came up to and said, "Hey, you're Kim! And you're Mary!" It was a weird moment until he explained he was SoloBreak--fellow blogger. So cool! Recognized! We're like, famous! Okay, not famous. Still, though....
Thanks for saying hi, SoloBreak. Cool to meet you in the flesh!

The End.
Pics to come.

Faith Proof Truth

I'm a woman with little faith.
I'm a woman who needs proof.
I'm a woman who believes that the most current proof is, in fact, the truth.

Whatever truth has just transpired, that is the one I believe. That truth is the truth. Last week's truth is not good enough. Last week's truth is no longer accurate.

This belief really isn't a good one to adopt, just in case you were thinking of doing so. Of course, if you are an OCD triathlete, and I know many of you are, then this thinking is familiar to you, I'm pretty sure.

You are only a good parent when the latest truth has revealed this to be so.
You are only funny, or interesting, or profound according to the last time someone else's response to you revealed this to be true.
You are only a good teacher according to the success (or not) of the last class you taught.
You are only as good an athlete as your latest performance revealed.

Show me the money, baby. The rest is bullshit.

The solution seems simple. If you have a good race, simply never race again. Then that truth, the truth that you are a superior human being worthy of worship for your athletic prowess, remains intact.

Alas, it doesn't work that way.
I think of it a bit like taking, say, a narcotic.

You race really well, or someone laughs when you are funny, or your child hugs you and says "You're the best Mom eva"--and in that moment YOU ARE. You get high with the truth of it. I really am! Proof! But then time passes and things get darker. You need another hit. You need more proof. You need to confirm that the last race, the last compliment, the last sign of affection from your little person was not a fluke. You stop believing in that last piece of proof. It can no longer be valid, because it happened too long ago--even if too long ago is only a few hours.

Unfortunately, negative proof works differently. Negative proof reinforces what you fear to be true, and that proof remains strong and fast until you can get a positive proof to knock it out of the way for a bit. Hence, proof becomes addictive. Hence, you workout 20 hours a week and do an Ironman. Hence, you are certifiably insane.

I know the real solution here would be to, you know, do some work on the old self esteem. When you figure out how to do that, let me know.

Luckily for me, I have a race this weekend. Let's hope I kick ass. I plan to kick ass. I need a shot of proof. I need it.

Lately, there appear to be recurring things from which I cannot escape, either in my mind or in actuality.

Alphabetically:

A: Ass. My ass hurts from too many hours parked on the bike. Also, I appreciate a nice ass.

B: Biking. Bacchanal. My destiny if things don't improve.

C: Control. I want more of it. Cleaning. I want less of it. Crisis. Enough already. Character. It appears mine is lacking.

D: Damage. I'm not going to explain that one. Dogs. My ancient Lab won't stop pissing on the floor. Desire for--see E.

E: Escape. Ennui b/c Escape is not--see F.

F: Feasible. Fortinbras. I remain hopeful he will show up. Fate. Lately, I've been a believer. FaceBook-- Fantastic and evil.

G: Guts. These are needed for a variety of reasons, the biggest of which is waking up and charging forth on July 26, 2009.

H: Hunger. Ironman training appears to be a bitch that way. So is mid-life.

I: Ironman. Irritable. I need to work on this. Internet. I spend the half of life I'm not training on it.

J: Jordan. She's the #1 bambino. No need to escape her. Jaded. It happens.

K: Kainotophobia. That would be the fear of change for those of you too lazy to look it up.

L: Lara. The #2 bambino. Ditto per J. Library. I frequent the place for numerous reasons.
Laundry. I really, really can't escape that one.

M: Matron. Mid-life. Magic. Don't believe in it anymore. MPH. MacBeth. I know I'm getting carried away with my Shakespearean references, but well, they work.

N: Noah. The #3 bambino. Ditto per J, L.

O: Outrage. Outrageous. Ouch.

P: Pushing. As in the envelope. As in the next interval. As in...(fill in blank). Piss. As in on the toilet seats and the floor, courtesy of men/boys in the house and previously mentioned old man dog. Parenting. of course. Power. See previous post. Peanut Butter. CRUNCHY peanut butter. I go through a jar a week. Pacing. Never been my strength.

Q: Questing and trying not to have Qualms about it.

R: Running. RPM. Rationalizing.

S: Swimming. Also Sex, of course. Swearing. It's a problem for me, as you all know.

T: Triathlon. Tiredness. That would be from the letter I, and also the letter C. Tedium.

U: Universal. I know it is, but it certainly feels Unique to me.

V: Veiled. Vo2 Max.

W: Water. We all need that, right? Want. We need that too.

X: X-Rated. I admit, it's all I could think of for X. But it's a good one, right?

Y: Yes.

Z: Zatch. This one you do have to look up--unless you already know what it is, of course.

Power

Yes, I know. I had a different post up. Now it's gone. Ho Hum. I've been thinking about power. I like power. I don't wield much power in my life, though, and it's high time I began wielding more of it. There is power in words, but sometimes there is power in silence. Have you noticed that? It's an interesting thing. I talk too much, confide to much, put too much out there. On the one hand this is good: when you are out there, people respond to you and befriend you and relate to you. In fact, by putting myself out there I made a great connection just yesterday. However, sometimes just keeping your trap shut has enormous power. You can bend people to your will just by being remaining quiet. Really! I've never done it, but it's been done to me. It's an interesting phenomenon. On to triathlon and power. I need more power there too. I need the power to believe that all my crazy training will translate into finishing IM. I need the power of will to get me through the next few months as I journey toward IM, and as I journey toward figuring out some pretty complex personal stuff. BUT most importantly, I need power in these quads. I need the numbers on the power meter to stop mocking me. I need to push more watts than my dead grandmother (rip). I need to do this or I'm going to be dead fucking last on the bike at IMLP. I know I'm little, and I know about weight to power ratio etc. blah blah. But my numbers are really quite embarrassing, still. My awesome coach, (jen), has me doing some great bike workouts that I know, eventually, will help me to increase my wattage output. But the journey is a slow one, and I've been wondering if a little person has a shot in hell at ever getting really, really good on the bike. Are there enough muscle fibers in my itty bitty quads to ever really put out serious POWER? That is the question. More importantly, if I can get some power in these little quads, if I can make them bigger out of sheer work-out will, will that power float through my body, into my brain, and make me a more powerful, not to be fucked with person?

Triathlon and Looks: A Mid-Life Reflection

I appreciate the male triathlete body.

I appreciate it on many levels. A body that's been working at triathlon for several years is generally quite taut and sports a nice ass, it generally belies its years, and it generally performs exceptionally well no matter what's thrown its way. A male triathlete body can often negate other, less desirable characteristics (in terms of looks) like an average face, thinning hair, too much hair or nasty feet. A really smoking triathlete body can even negate icky personality traits like vanity, smarmyness or geekiness.

This is all true of the body of the seasoned male triathlete.

Many of these things are also true of the seasoned female triathlete. She will likely have a taut body with a nice ass, she will often look younger (at least her body will) than she is, and she often will kick the ass of any non-triathlete male that challenges her. All good.

However.
Unlike the male triathlete, the female triathlete still doesn't necessarily come out on top in the world of desirability. I try to explain this to my non-triathlete women friends who will not shut the fuck up about how nice it must be to be thin. Yes. It is nice to be thin. But that still doesn't mean hotness. This is why:

One, female triathletes are too busy working out to do anything but maintain their bodies
and two, the body of the female triathlete, unlike the male, actually takes a few hotness hits by training too much.

Let's start with the latter. Unlike males, whose chests get bigger when they train in the right way, female chests get smaller and muscular. Female triathletes often have no tits and the tits they do have are on top of rather strong pectoral muscles. Likewise, the curvaceousness of the female body is often lost with a loss of body fat. The really super fit female triathlete often looks more like a very strong pre-pubescent boy than a woman. In short, the really fit female triathlete would not make the cut in the song Baby Got Back.

Like most of you, I spend, right now, between 8-14 hours a week training. As I get closer to IM, that will increase to as much as 20 hours a week. Also like you, that means that I spend every waking moment that I am not working or taking care of my kids at the gym, the pool, on the bike or out running.

This leaves no time for the following things that women my age in my world take the time to do:

get a
manicure
pedicure
wax
shave well and consistently
shop for flattering and fashionable clothing
get a
hair cut
hair dyed or foiled or whatever they do nowadays
wear a watch other than an Ironman Timex.

Further, all of the female triathlete's extra money is spent not on
cool clothing
cool shoes
cool purses
hot underwear
nice jewlery
all of which could make her look hotter

but on

work out attire
running shoes every three months
energy gels, drinks, bloks etc
swim suits
triathlon accurtrements
bikes
wheels
race entry fees
triahtlon camps
coaching

I would not change a thing. I like my pre-pubscent boy body and my hang nails and my totally nasty toes.
And I love my body because it allows me to do something I love.

I don't work out a billion hours a week so I can be hot. Working out a billion hours a week does not make a female hot. I may be shallow, but I'm not that fucking shallow.
The women who I want to read this will never read it.

There's the rub.