Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Running Fast
I like to run hard. I like to run hard over long distances. I like to see how fast my body can go at different distances and in different conditions. I like to see how fast and hard my body can go compared to other people. I just like it. And that is one of the bigger reasons I run. What is fast to me is likely pathetically slow to many. And to some, my fast is super fast. But the point is, for me, it's enjoyable to push my limits. It's also enjoyable to figure out how I can get faster. I am not prejudiced against people who for run fun and fitness--who have no desire to go faster. I don't get them, but I was wrong to say I am prejudiced against them. Because I'm not. That was stupid. Sorry. However, I am prejudiced against people who believe that by running slowly (as in 2.5-3 minutes slower than one's marathon pace) for long distances almost all of the time, they will get faster, and they preach this approach like it's gospel. It's true one builds aerobic endurance by logging many, many miles, and to gain this endurance it is good to run conservatively so you can 1. run longer so that you can 2. build more endurance then you would if you had to put in fewer miles because of fatigue, and so 3. you can burn more of your fat than your available carbs and 4. to save oneself from the taxing nature of hard running so you can run again the next day and be consistent in your training and 5. so you can prevent injury and so 6. you can eventually run faster while maintaining a lower hear rate, and 7. you can chit chat comfortably with your friends while you run. I. Get. It. I also get that some people are able to get faster by building their aerobic engine to the point where they could literally run forever, and then they can add on a little pace running before a race and pull out a P.R. But I can't do that. I tried. And I know other people who have tried, and who can't do it either. I'm talking about this because I have pissed a few people off by saying I am prejudiced against people who just want to run for fun and fitness. I feel badly about that, because, as I stated before, it's not really how I feel. But I also want to clarify that the real beef I have is with people who advocate a certain way to train, and they act as if this is the only way, and any other way is for the impatient, the uniformed, and the cocky. I. am. informed. I repeat that. I am informed. I read a shitload about running. About triathlon. About swimming. (I admit I haven't read enough about biking, but I did just order six new books on biking and cyclocross from Amazon last night.) I read magazines, scholarly journals, I read books and blogs and tri/running websites and biographies. I read it all, basically because I'm a geek, but also because I like to be informed so I don't end up talking out of my ass about things when I haven't actually studied anything except for my own particular point-of-view. So, in short, I never meant to imply that I don't like slow runners, or runners who run, long slow distances. What I don't like is the high and mighty know-it-alls of the world who believe their way is the only way and treat you like you're an ignorant if you don't agree with them. That's what I don't like. Just to be clear. Here are a few articles for your enjoyment that go against the grain of what you may have been taught that I have found in the last few weeks. I'm not saying these articles are to live by or even to consider more than with just a passing glance, I just think they are interesting, and, importantly, they are CURRENT. That is, they have been written recently enough so that the research involved within is fresh. You can see I'm partial to articles written by Matt Fitzgerald. He is always just a step ahead, finding interesting tidbits that challenge common thinking about running, which is why I like his work so much. Pre-Race Breakfast Doesn't Matter Better to Go Barefoot Ibuprofen is Bad, Bad, Bad Running Makes You Smarter Cycling Bad for your Bones? Running Technique: Speed Work Can Help Eating Fat Ain't So Bad Don't Skip the Recovery Run
Monday, September 14, 2009
Running Coach, That's Me.
Well, it's me if I take this 100 question multiple choice test, and if I take a CPR/First Aid course within the next 60 days.
Of course, a coach is not a coach unless she has clients, so maybe I am not a coach just yet.
At any rate, this weekend I went to a RRCA two day course in rocking Hartford, CT to become certified as a RRCA running coach. Why, you ask? And if I was to become certified as a coach, why a running coach and not a triathlon coach?
Excellent questions. Well, the truth is that although I have been tossing around various career ideas, becoming a running coach was not at the top of this list. I love running, I think about running almost all day every day, but still I hadn't seriously considered it as an option. My friend Kristina, however, (aka Marathon Mama), had been considering it, and asked me if perhaps I wanted to escape the domestic bliss of my life for a weekend to attend this course.
My first reaction was Nah... I'm not ready for that.
But my second reaction was, Hmmm. Why not? Get away? Spend sometime with my uber cool, super smart, super fun friend? See if coaching is something I might want to do?
So I agreed.
We started out Friday night, got some dinner (and wine, of course), and headed two hours west to our snazzy hotel. Okay, it wasn't snazzy. But it had a treadmill and it had free coffee available in the morning, so it was snazzy enough for moi. We were both wiped out upon arrival, not because it was particularly late, but instead because we had 1. had wine two hours previously, and 2. because Kristina had done some super crazy 20 miler with like 19.999 miles at marathon pace that morning, and I had gotten up at 4:45 a.m. to complete a brick that was supposed to be done on Saturday, but obviously couldn't be because I planned to attend this course all day. So although we are wild and crazy women, and although the strip of highway our hotel was located on looked ripe with potential with its seedy, airport bars, we reigned ourselves in and hit the sack by like 9:30 p.m. Oh yeah, we play hard.
The next morning I got up--and drum roll please....
ran.
of course. on that snazzy treadmill.
The treadmill was fine, but it was a fucking sauna in that minuscule, so-called fitness center. There were no fans, no air-conditioning, and the windows were tightly sealed. Oh Mama. Luckily, a short recovery run was on the docket, so I was fine. One interesting aspect of that run was that I was facing a mirror. I watched my legs run for 45 minutes. I like my legs. They look pretty strong. However, my gait is a little fucked up. I think one of my legs could be shorter than the other.
Onward. We went to the course. There were about 30 people there, and we were to meet in a tiny, tiny room. Uck. The instructors introduced themselves, and then we sat and listened and took notes.
All day.
Like 8-6:30 p.m. all day.
Actually I found it all very interesting. I like school, I like lectures, I like taking notes and I really don't mind sitting on my ass all day, as long as exercise preceded said sitting. The instructors were knowledgeable and good presenters, which helped. I especially like the section on exercise physiology. There were some interesting folk in our class. It's curious the cross section of people interested in becoming coaches. Curious--and scary.
After our marathon-length class, Kristina and I got dinner, had wine, (of course) and surprise! Hit the sack early again. I tell you, we are just wild. I got up early again the next morning to drumroll please....
run.
of course. on the snazzy treadmill.
Are we getting Groundhog Day here or what???
This workout was a little harder then the day before, and involved 10 miles of running and several miles at marathon pace. I had to ring out my shirt when I finished. It was nasty. I was sweating so much that my inner ears pooled with sweat and my headphones kept falling out as a result. I had to wipe down that whole minuscule gym when I was done because my sweat had flown everywhere. Luckily, I was the only individual partaking in the awesomeness that was this fitness center, so no one was showered by my sweaty excretions. Kristina, lucky for her, was running outside.
The second day of the course was much like the first, except that it involved a little group work, so that made the time pass more quickly.
Because I know you are currently riveted, and want to know exactly what pearls of wisdom and insight I have now that I am a running coach aficionado, I will highlight some key points of my learning:
1. Don't take ibuprofen. Like ever. Or you'll die. Think hyponatremia. Think renal failure. Think holy shit I can't believe I took like four on IM day. (I am being facetious, but really, I DID learn that it is so, 100% not a good plan to take Ibuprofen on race day--or any day you work out. Not only is it dangerous, it doesn't help block the pain or prevent muscle damage in a way that will allow you to complete your workout or event more easily.)
2. Jesus, why does everyone insist on running slow miles AS THE ONLY way to train? Okay! I DO get it from a physiological stand-point. I get it's the best way to build an aerobic base. But there is more than one way to skin a cat, and long slow miles day after day with only a teeny tiny dose of possible pace work after like a thousand weeks of base is fucking BORING!!(And not terribly effective in getting you a PR, I will add.) Is it so WRONG that many of us want to run hard on some days--and not just LONGGGGGG? and not just at a heart rate just above one's sleeping heart rate? I repeat, Jesus!!! IT MAKES ME NUTS. Have these people read Jack Daniels, Matt Fitzgerald, Brad Hudson? It's not all Mark Allen my friends! Sure, that dude knows his stuff, but his way is NOT the only way!
3. Wow. You have to handle couch-to-5kers with total kid gloves. At least according to these folks.
4. Don't stretch after you run, even if it hurts so good. You could rip muscles fibers because your muscles are tender and fatigued.
5. I want to try the Nike Free shoes-- a little at a time. This is not because they were advocated for in this course. It's just because I thought about this a lot when I was spacing out.
6. Kristina is quiet in class. I, on the other hand, am obnoxious and raise my hand all of the time.
7. I am prejudiced against people who don't aim to run fast, but just run for fun and fitness. I am also prejudiced against people who run long slow distance and advocate running long slow distance, and who have run long slow distance for years and are still really fucking slow.
8. Runners think triathletes are vain, pompous, too competitive, too focused on image, and too Type A. Runners also feel it is just fine to say this to a triathlete's face. OH YEAH???? So what--maybe that IS true. BUT We are still cool. And smart. And interesting. And colorful. And vibrant. And full of energy and verve and drive.
I refrained from saying that runners are also just jealous of because triathletes of both genders are fucking hot compared to their running counterparts. This is, of course, not always true. Kara Goucher, for example, is unbelievably hot. But triathletes have fantastic fantastic fantastic bodies compared to runners. There is simply no debating that. So there.
9. I think I would be a good coach. I really do.
10. I pee more than the average person. I had to get up like 10 tens during the class.
That's what I learned. Some other stuff too, but that is the best of what I learned. Hope my learning somehow benefited you.
Of course, a coach is not a coach unless she has clients, so maybe I am not a coach just yet.
At any rate, this weekend I went to a RRCA two day course in rocking Hartford, CT to become certified as a RRCA running coach. Why, you ask? And if I was to become certified as a coach, why a running coach and not a triathlon coach?
Excellent questions. Well, the truth is that although I have been tossing around various career ideas, becoming a running coach was not at the top of this list. I love running, I think about running almost all day every day, but still I hadn't seriously considered it as an option. My friend Kristina, however, (aka Marathon Mama), had been considering it, and asked me if perhaps I wanted to escape the domestic bliss of my life for a weekend to attend this course.
My first reaction was Nah... I'm not ready for that.
But my second reaction was, Hmmm. Why not? Get away? Spend sometime with my uber cool, super smart, super fun friend? See if coaching is something I might want to do?
So I agreed.
We started out Friday night, got some dinner (and wine, of course), and headed two hours west to our snazzy hotel. Okay, it wasn't snazzy. But it had a treadmill and it had free coffee available in the morning, so it was snazzy enough for moi. We were both wiped out upon arrival, not because it was particularly late, but instead because we had 1. had wine two hours previously, and 2. because Kristina had done some super crazy 20 miler with like 19.999 miles at marathon pace that morning, and I had gotten up at 4:45 a.m. to complete a brick that was supposed to be done on Saturday, but obviously couldn't be because I planned to attend this course all day. So although we are wild and crazy women, and although the strip of highway our hotel was located on looked ripe with potential with its seedy, airport bars, we reigned ourselves in and hit the sack by like 9:30 p.m. Oh yeah, we play hard.
The next morning I got up--and drum roll please....
ran.
of course. on that snazzy treadmill.
The treadmill was fine, but it was a fucking sauna in that minuscule, so-called fitness center. There were no fans, no air-conditioning, and the windows were tightly sealed. Oh Mama. Luckily, a short recovery run was on the docket, so I was fine. One interesting aspect of that run was that I was facing a mirror. I watched my legs run for 45 minutes. I like my legs. They look pretty strong. However, my gait is a little fucked up. I think one of my legs could be shorter than the other.
Onward. We went to the course. There were about 30 people there, and we were to meet in a tiny, tiny room. Uck. The instructors introduced themselves, and then we sat and listened and took notes.
All day.
Like 8-6:30 p.m. all day.
Actually I found it all very interesting. I like school, I like lectures, I like taking notes and I really don't mind sitting on my ass all day, as long as exercise preceded said sitting. The instructors were knowledgeable and good presenters, which helped. I especially like the section on exercise physiology. There were some interesting folk in our class. It's curious the cross section of people interested in becoming coaches. Curious--and scary.
After our marathon-length class, Kristina and I got dinner, had wine, (of course) and surprise! Hit the sack early again. I tell you, we are just wild. I got up early again the next morning to drumroll please....
run.
of course. on the snazzy treadmill.
Are we getting Groundhog Day here or what???
This workout was a little harder then the day before, and involved 10 miles of running and several miles at marathon pace. I had to ring out my shirt when I finished. It was nasty. I was sweating so much that my inner ears pooled with sweat and my headphones kept falling out as a result. I had to wipe down that whole minuscule gym when I was done because my sweat had flown everywhere. Luckily, I was the only individual partaking in the awesomeness that was this fitness center, so no one was showered by my sweaty excretions. Kristina, lucky for her, was running outside.
The second day of the course was much like the first, except that it involved a little group work, so that made the time pass more quickly.
Because I know you are currently riveted, and want to know exactly what pearls of wisdom and insight I have now that I am a running coach aficionado, I will highlight some key points of my learning:
1. Don't take ibuprofen. Like ever. Or you'll die. Think hyponatremia. Think renal failure. Think holy shit I can't believe I took like four on IM day. (I am being facetious, but really, I DID learn that it is so, 100% not a good plan to take Ibuprofen on race day--or any day you work out. Not only is it dangerous, it doesn't help block the pain or prevent muscle damage in a way that will allow you to complete your workout or event more easily.)
2. Jesus, why does everyone insist on running slow miles AS THE ONLY way to train? Okay! I DO get it from a physiological stand-point. I get it's the best way to build an aerobic base. But there is more than one way to skin a cat, and long slow miles day after day with only a teeny tiny dose of possible pace work after like a thousand weeks of base is fucking BORING!!(And not terribly effective in getting you a PR, I will add.) Is it so WRONG that many of us want to run hard on some days--and not just LONGGGGGG? and not just at a heart rate just above one's sleeping heart rate? I repeat, Jesus!!! IT MAKES ME NUTS. Have these people read Jack Daniels, Matt Fitzgerald, Brad Hudson? It's not all Mark Allen my friends! Sure, that dude knows his stuff, but his way is NOT the only way!
3. Wow. You have to handle couch-to-5kers with total kid gloves. At least according to these folks.
4. Don't stretch after you run, even if it hurts so good. You could rip muscles fibers because your muscles are tender and fatigued.
5. I want to try the Nike Free shoes-- a little at a time. This is not because they were advocated for in this course. It's just because I thought about this a lot when I was spacing out.
6. Kristina is quiet in class. I, on the other hand, am obnoxious and raise my hand all of the time.
7. I am prejudiced against people who don't aim to run fast, but just run for fun and fitness. I am also prejudiced against people who run long slow distance and advocate running long slow distance, and who have run long slow distance for years and are still really fucking slow.
8. Runners think triathletes are vain, pompous, too competitive, too focused on image, and too Type A. Runners also feel it is just fine to say this to a triathlete's face. OH YEAH???? So what--maybe that IS true. BUT We are still cool. And smart. And interesting. And colorful. And vibrant. And full of energy and verve and drive.
I refrained from saying that runners are also just jealous of because triathletes of both genders are fucking hot compared to their running counterparts. This is, of course, not always true. Kara Goucher, for example, is unbelievably hot. But triathletes have fantastic fantastic fantastic bodies compared to runners. There is simply no debating that. So there.
9. I think I would be a good coach. I really do.
10. I pee more than the average person. I had to get up like 10 tens during the class.
That's what I learned. Some other stuff too, but that is the best of what I learned. Hope my learning somehow benefited you.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Motivation
I find it interesting that one day I can feel so completely motivated that I can't imagine not being completely obsessed with triathlon, my goals, Kona, my own personal, athletic perfection. Then, overnight, that motivation is GONE. I can longer reach it. The push for Kona seems unrealistic and stupid. The need to spend my days squeezing in workouts seems hardly worth the occasional pleasure of succeeding in a race. Pushing so hard I want to puke seems completely asinine. The chant from the movie Meatballs begins to ring in my head, "It just doesn't matter! It just doesn't matter!"
I got up this morning to get in some time on the bike.
Just as I was to begin my son came downstairs with poop all over his little legs and ass. Oh boy. I went upstairs and poop was everywhere. Clearly he had attempted to clean himself up, but hadn't quite succeeded. Yep. This was going to delay the bike start. Blek.
It's been a week like that. I got up the other morning to find that my youngest had cut her own hair and then painted her eyebrows in fluorescent yellow sharpie so that that her hair and eyebrows would match. I screamed when I saw her--the flourescent sharpie was truly scary-- and she burst into tears. It took me forever to convince her it was okay, but that generally it's a bad idea to color your eyebrows with permanent marker and cut your own hair on a whim.
But I digress. I cleaned up the mess, gave Noah a bath, and by then it was too late to start. Jordan and Lara came downstairs and demanded breakfast--as in "Where's my breakfast!" in high pitched squeals. As I poured cereal and milk, Noah dressed himself in maroon, flannel-lined long pants and a green rugby shirt. He threw himself onto the floor in a fit when I told him he needed to change into something else--that he'd swelter at school in that outfit. As I poured myself coffee I began to calculate how I was going to get the workout in later on. How many hours do I have here? or here? Could I stick it in here? And then I noticed that Linus, my ancient pooch, had pissed and shit on the floor in the dining room. Then Lara came in the room, scissors and Barbie in hand. Barbie now has a crew cut. I found the remains of her flaxen locks all over the family room floor.
And then it hit. Who fucking cares. I felt tired. Did it all really matter? Who cares if I don't get that bike workout in?
I care. I do care. I do love this--the training--the racing--the goal setting. All of it.
It's amazing, though, how real life can just drain you sometimes to the point that you're numb to your own passions.
So this morning I didn't get on the bike. And now that my kids are in school for a few hours (preschool, alas, doesn't last more than 2.5 hours at a stretch) I am writing. And then I'm walking Linus. And then I'll get on the bike for the time that's left. And it will be good.
____________________
On another totally random note, I just want to share that when you let your kids do things all by themselves, they usually rock.
I have been letting Jordan cook. I hate cooking and she loves it. So she's the chef. I really let her do it all. She turns on the burners, puts things in the oven. She's gotten especially good at pancakes, but she's very good at cake making too. This is the cake she made for Andy's b-day yesterday. You need to know she did everything herself, and she even managed to let her sibs help her. I had no part of the whole thing.
I think I'm a bit of a braggart when it comes to my kids. Sorry. Can't help it. But really my point is that if you totally ignore your kids and let them just do shit--adult shit--like cook, they get really good at it because they had to figure it out on their own.
My friend Mike sent me some awesome pics of Jordan and me in that 5k. Here's one.Her form is really good. Especially compared to mine. Andy has agreed to take me to the track and teach me how to run. He's convinced I have no idea how to run fast. I think he may be right.
Good luck to all my Peeps racing this weekend! That means you, Kim!
I got up this morning to get in some time on the bike.
Just as I was to begin my son came downstairs with poop all over his little legs and ass. Oh boy. I went upstairs and poop was everywhere. Clearly he had attempted to clean himself up, but hadn't quite succeeded. Yep. This was going to delay the bike start. Blek.
It's been a week like that. I got up the other morning to find that my youngest had cut her own hair and then painted her eyebrows in fluorescent yellow sharpie so that that her hair and eyebrows would match. I screamed when I saw her--the flourescent sharpie was truly scary-- and she burst into tears. It took me forever to convince her it was okay, but that generally it's a bad idea to color your eyebrows with permanent marker and cut your own hair on a whim.
But I digress. I cleaned up the mess, gave Noah a bath, and by then it was too late to start. Jordan and Lara came downstairs and demanded breakfast--as in "Where's my breakfast!" in high pitched squeals. As I poured cereal and milk, Noah dressed himself in maroon, flannel-lined long pants and a green rugby shirt. He threw himself onto the floor in a fit when I told him he needed to change into something else--that he'd swelter at school in that outfit. As I poured myself coffee I began to calculate how I was going to get the workout in later on. How many hours do I have here? or here? Could I stick it in here? And then I noticed that Linus, my ancient pooch, had pissed and shit on the floor in the dining room. Then Lara came in the room, scissors and Barbie in hand. Barbie now has a crew cut. I found the remains of her flaxen locks all over the family room floor.
And then it hit. Who fucking cares. I felt tired. Did it all really matter? Who cares if I don't get that bike workout in?
I care. I do care. I do love this--the training--the racing--the goal setting. All of it.
It's amazing, though, how real life can just drain you sometimes to the point that you're numb to your own passions.
So this morning I didn't get on the bike. And now that my kids are in school for a few hours (preschool, alas, doesn't last more than 2.5 hours at a stretch) I am writing. And then I'm walking Linus. And then I'll get on the bike for the time that's left. And it will be good.
____________________
On another totally random note, I just want to share that when you let your kids do things all by themselves, they usually rock.
I have been letting Jordan cook. I hate cooking and she loves it. So she's the chef. I really let her do it all. She turns on the burners, puts things in the oven. She's gotten especially good at pancakes, but she's very good at cake making too. This is the cake she made for Andy's b-day yesterday. You need to know she did everything herself, and she even managed to let her sibs help her. I had no part of the whole thing.
I think I'm a bit of a braggart when it comes to my kids. Sorry. Can't help it. But really my point is that if you totally ignore your kids and let them just do shit--adult shit--like cook, they get really good at it because they had to figure it out on their own.
My friend Mike sent me some awesome pics of Jordan and me in that 5k. Here's one.Her form is really good. Especially compared to mine. Andy has agreed to take me to the track and teach me how to run. He's convinced I have no idea how to run fast. I think he may be right.
Good luck to all my Peeps racing this weekend! That means you, Kim!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
My Ghost, the Ghost of Minna, the Ghost of my Running Legs
I'm extremely, extremely sick of all the music I listen to when running.
I need help.
Yesterday I made a new playlist, desperately searching through my I-Tunes library to find anything that might be inspiring and which I wasn't already totally sick of.
One of the songs I chose was the Indigo Girls' Closer to Fine. I loved, and I mean LOVED this song in my early twenties. It spoke to me. I was very deep as youngster, of course.
Well darkness has a hunger that's insatiable
And lightness has a call that's hard to hear
I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it
I'm crawling on your shores
I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains
There's more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
And the less I seek my source for some definitive
The closer I am to fine
Listening to it again I marveled at the fact that it spoke to me way back when. What did I possibly KNOW at that point that would have connected me to that song? I had sailed my ship of safety til I sank it? Oh Please! At that point I was building that ship of safety; using hammer and nails, iron and steel, using every tool I could find to insure I was bound so tight I'd never be left alone. And I had gone to the doctor? The mountains? Looked to the children? OH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! I was too busy building the damn ship to do any of that!
At any rate, the song still speaks to me. Over the years I did wrap my fear around me like a blanket, and in the end I did sail my ship of safety til I sank it. Or maybe I didn't completely sink it. It's kind of three-quarters-sunk. It takes serious balls to totally sink your ship.
I came pretty close, though.
I still agree that darkness has a call that's insatiable and that when in the dark it's hard to hear the call of lightness. I also agree that the less I seek the more okay I am --if by okay one means less agitated, conflicted and forcibly out of touch with the nothingness.
I realize I'm speaking in tongues and you are totally skimming. STOP SKIMMING! Or, actually, just skim. It's fine. I will talk shop now and stop with this drivel.
*In short*, (this is the important part) I have no good running songs on my I-Pod. Help me out! I need songs that will get me moving and will not make me think too much.
On the training front:
I was like slower than shit last week. That's a stupid comparison, as shit is neither slow nor fast. It just is. But you get what I mean.
It was a tough week. I had just come off the Olympic race in Kennebunk, and it had tuckered me out more than I was willing to admit. Jen put three seriously hard core workouts on the schedule for the week, and I felt some dread, knowing my body probably wasn't up to the task. Naturally I felt it necessary to keep this to myself, as I am, like so many of you, completely unwilling to admit defeat until after it's happened.
And as predicted, it happened. I hit my pace/heart rate targets for the killer bike workout on Wednesday. However, doing so put me into such a hole my legs were sore to touch on Thursday. On Friday I still wasn't recovered, but I attempted the fartlek run on the schedule anyway. To make it more manageable, I decided to do it on the track. I couldn't wear my racing flats because I had blistered badly wearing them during the race, and I needed them to heal. So I wore my clunky trainers, which totally felt WRONG on the track. The idea was to go 2,3,4,5,6,5,4,3,2 minutes at faster than 5k pace, with 1/2 the interval time as recovery between each. I hit the first two minutes. I hit the first three minutes. Then I didn't hit anything for the rest of the workout. By the end I was barely hitting half marathon pace.
I forgave myself. I would make it up on Sunday's marathon pace run. I would nail that one.
Sunday rolled around and I was still not right. My legs felt like lead when I started my run. Things looked up, though, when 10 minutes into my run I met Jo. Jo is a chocolate lab. We hadn't met before, but we were fast friends in no time. She smelled my hand as I jogged by, and I asked her why she was hanging out all by her lonesome. She just panted, and then took off, as if to say, "Wahoo! I found you! Let's go, sister!" We ran together for a bit. Then I started to get worried, as we were getting farther and farther away from were we had met. I checked her tags. Jo, Hartford Street, and a phone number. At this point we were at least 1.5 miles from her home. Not good. I said, "Go home, Jo!" She wagged her tail and darted ahead into the middle of the street as if to say, "No way, man! Let's RUNNNNNN!" What to do. What to do. I ran on and so did she. She darted under my feet. She raced into the distance and then came crashing back to me. It was like running with Minna, my chocolate who we had to put down last month. I know I'm crazy, but for awhile I even convinced myself she WAS Minna, come to visit and to tell me all was okay.
But it wasn't Minna. It was Jo. And we were like three miles from her house. I had to run back. GRRR! I had a solid 18 mile route planned. So much for that!
After dropping off Jo with a grateful babysitter (Jo had jumped her fence--again, so much like Minna!) I was off again. My pace had been sporadic until this point because of my running with Jo. But now I was alone. No inspiration, no new good tunes on my I-Pod and 10 miles to go. At one hour I was supposed to pick it up to marathon pace. No problem. I could do it. I picked it up, and WHAT! Not even close. I picked it up more and more. Not even close.
I never really did get close. I held it all under 8 min. pace, but it was a pathetic effort. When I got home I contacted Jen in defeat. I needed some rest. On paper I shouldn't need rest, but nevertheless....
And I'm drained today, still. The darkness is pushing me around hungrily and I just need to snap out of it. Hate that.
and that's that.
I need help.
Yesterday I made a new playlist, desperately searching through my I-Tunes library to find anything that might be inspiring and which I wasn't already totally sick of.
One of the songs I chose was the Indigo Girls' Closer to Fine. I loved, and I mean LOVED this song in my early twenties. It spoke to me. I was very deep as youngster, of course.
Well darkness has a hunger that's insatiable
And lightness has a call that's hard to hear
I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it
I'm crawling on your shores
I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains
There's more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
And the less I seek my source for some definitive
The closer I am to fine
Listening to it again I marveled at the fact that it spoke to me way back when. What did I possibly KNOW at that point that would have connected me to that song? I had sailed my ship of safety til I sank it? Oh Please! At that point I was building that ship of safety; using hammer and nails, iron and steel, using every tool I could find to insure I was bound so tight I'd never be left alone. And I had gone to the doctor? The mountains? Looked to the children? OH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! I was too busy building the damn ship to do any of that!
At any rate, the song still speaks to me. Over the years I did wrap my fear around me like a blanket, and in the end I did sail my ship of safety til I sank it. Or maybe I didn't completely sink it. It's kind of three-quarters-sunk. It takes serious balls to totally sink your ship.
I came pretty close, though.
I still agree that darkness has a call that's insatiable and that when in the dark it's hard to hear the call of lightness. I also agree that the less I seek the more okay I am --if by okay one means less agitated, conflicted and forcibly out of touch with the nothingness.
I realize I'm speaking in tongues and you are totally skimming. STOP SKIMMING! Or, actually, just skim. It's fine. I will talk shop now and stop with this drivel.
*In short*, (this is the important part) I have no good running songs on my I-Pod. Help me out! I need songs that will get me moving and will not make me think too much.
On the training front:
I was like slower than shit last week. That's a stupid comparison, as shit is neither slow nor fast. It just is. But you get what I mean.
It was a tough week. I had just come off the Olympic race in Kennebunk, and it had tuckered me out more than I was willing to admit. Jen put three seriously hard core workouts on the schedule for the week, and I felt some dread, knowing my body probably wasn't up to the task. Naturally I felt it necessary to keep this to myself, as I am, like so many of you, completely unwilling to admit defeat until after it's happened.
And as predicted, it happened. I hit my pace/heart rate targets for the killer bike workout on Wednesday. However, doing so put me into such a hole my legs were sore to touch on Thursday. On Friday I still wasn't recovered, but I attempted the fartlek run on the schedule anyway. To make it more manageable, I decided to do it on the track. I couldn't wear my racing flats because I had blistered badly wearing them during the race, and I needed them to heal. So I wore my clunky trainers, which totally felt WRONG on the track. The idea was to go 2,3,4,5,6,5,4,3,2 minutes at faster than 5k pace, with 1/2 the interval time as recovery between each. I hit the first two minutes. I hit the first three minutes. Then I didn't hit anything for the rest of the workout. By the end I was barely hitting half marathon pace.
I forgave myself. I would make it up on Sunday's marathon pace run. I would nail that one.
Sunday rolled around and I was still not right. My legs felt like lead when I started my run. Things looked up, though, when 10 minutes into my run I met Jo. Jo is a chocolate lab. We hadn't met before, but we were fast friends in no time. She smelled my hand as I jogged by, and I asked her why she was hanging out all by her lonesome. She just panted, and then took off, as if to say, "Wahoo! I found you! Let's go, sister!" We ran together for a bit. Then I started to get worried, as we were getting farther and farther away from were we had met. I checked her tags. Jo, Hartford Street, and a phone number. At this point we were at least 1.5 miles from her home. Not good. I said, "Go home, Jo!" She wagged her tail and darted ahead into the middle of the street as if to say, "No way, man! Let's RUNNNNNN!" What to do. What to do. I ran on and so did she. She darted under my feet. She raced into the distance and then came crashing back to me. It was like running with Minna, my chocolate who we had to put down last month. I know I'm crazy, but for awhile I even convinced myself she WAS Minna, come to visit and to tell me all was okay.
But it wasn't Minna. It was Jo. And we were like three miles from her house. I had to run back. GRRR! I had a solid 18 mile route planned. So much for that!
After dropping off Jo with a grateful babysitter (Jo had jumped her fence--again, so much like Minna!) I was off again. My pace had been sporadic until this point because of my running with Jo. But now I was alone. No inspiration, no new good tunes on my I-Pod and 10 miles to go. At one hour I was supposed to pick it up to marathon pace. No problem. I could do it. I picked it up, and WHAT! Not even close. I picked it up more and more. Not even close.
I never really did get close. I held it all under 8 min. pace, but it was a pathetic effort. When I got home I contacted Jen in defeat. I needed some rest. On paper I shouldn't need rest, but nevertheless....
And I'm drained today, still. The darkness is pushing me around hungrily and I just need to snap out of it. Hate that.
and that's that.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Walpole 5k Race Report or Mommy Can't Stop Bragging About her Baby
Today my daughter ran her first 5k. I'm the moron with my hands in the air and she is the cool one with the nice form.She rocked. Seriously. I'm so proud I can hardly contain myself.
Our Stats:
1. We averaged 9:50 miles and we negatived splitted. SHE IS JUST BARELY EIGHT. Eight- year-olds do not negative split. She is clearly special.
2. She did not walk. I REPEAT. SHE IS EIGHT.
3. We chit-chatted the whole way. When she saw another kid her age, though, she'd hunker down and pass the sucker.
4. We finished in 31:02. (The race was a smidgen long).
5. She placed 19/40 in her AG. Her age group was ages 1-14. Only ONE child her age beat her. The rest were all 13/14 year-olds.
After she finished we got some water and then watched other runners come in--men, women, teenaged boys and girls, kids.
She said, "Wow, did we go faster than all those people?"
And I said, "Yes, sweetheart. We did."
And she said, "I think I can go faster next time. I wasn't breathing that hard."
And I said, "Yep. You're going to run faster all right. But today was a pretty incredible first try."
Okay. I'm obnoxious. I know.
It's just that she is my little peanut.
And she is a runner.
Friday, September 4, 2009
It's All About the Bike.
It can be argued this is true for everyone doing triathlon. I'm not so sure. However, at this point it is all about the bike FOR ME.
It's about more hours on the bike, more focus on the bike, more dedication to the bike, more reading about the bike, more intervals and hills on the bike, and no more excuses ABOUT the bike! Me and Mrs. Z., TLA.
(Sorry, that rant was more for me than you.)
The problem is, I am a runner. I am a runner playing at triathlon. That needs to change if I ever want to get significantly stronger on the bike.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a gifted runner. I'm just a runner. I think about the run far more than the other two disciplines. I have been running for the last 20+years, and I have only been biking for the last two and a half. I was a swimmer in high school, but I didn't pick it up again until I started triathlon. It's always been about the run for me. Running was, and remains, my first and true athletic love.
I will slack on a swim workout or I will cut a long bike short. I will skip a recovery bike all together, but I will NEVER skimp on a run. In the last month I have digested three books on run training and two on sports nutrition (remember I'm a geeky reader, librarian type in the end) but have I even searched for a book on biking training? umm. no. I feel deprived when not road racing, and I squeeze one in any chance I get, but I've never done a bike race or a bike time trial, and I have currently no desire to do so. When I race, I smile on the bike at the camera because I'm just rolling along, noticing the scenery and saying Go get um'! to bikers who pass me. But I'm all business on the run.
Case in point--the ride at last week's Oly: (Note that there are no bikers in sight. I was so alone on that ride! I might have been smiling just because I was so happy to see a person, even though he was a photographer and not a biker.)
Compare that to my run at last weekend's Oly:
and compare my bike photo to how I look after my run at last week's Oly:
I am at a slight disadvantage on the bike do to the fact that I'm both short and small. This is an advantage, of course, on the run. I have less to carry. However, unless I get stronger and more proficient on the bike, I will never be able to take advantage of my advantage on the run, because I will be too pooped to execute the run the way I know I should and can.
At this point I have two ways of racing triathlon on the bike.
1. I don't work the bike hard enough and I have a solid run. *(example would be last weekened Oly, at which I had a good run).
2. I work the bike very hard and I have a shitty run. (examples would be Lake Placid or Mooseman Half).
What I need to be able to do is to work the bike hard, and STILL have a solid run. And this means, I think, less about my run training, and more about my bike training.
My question is this:
In your opinion, what is the key to solid bike training? What have you done that you think significantly contributes to a strong bike leg?
I have my ideas. And I know Jen is likely killing herself trying to satisfy my desire to run hard and fast while still getting me to work on my bike.
But I want to hear your ideas. I'm also interested in any books you may recommend on biking.
It's about more hours on the bike, more focus on the bike, more dedication to the bike, more reading about the bike, more intervals and hills on the bike, and no more excuses ABOUT the bike! Me and Mrs. Z., TLA.
(Sorry, that rant was more for me than you.)
The problem is, I am a runner. I am a runner playing at triathlon. That needs to change if I ever want to get significantly stronger on the bike.
Don't get me wrong. I am not a gifted runner. I'm just a runner. I think about the run far more than the other two disciplines. I have been running for the last 20+years, and I have only been biking for the last two and a half. I was a swimmer in high school, but I didn't pick it up again until I started triathlon. It's always been about the run for me. Running was, and remains, my first and true athletic love.
I will slack on a swim workout or I will cut a long bike short. I will skip a recovery bike all together, but I will NEVER skimp on a run. In the last month I have digested three books on run training and two on sports nutrition (remember I'm a geeky reader, librarian type in the end) but have I even searched for a book on biking training? umm. no. I feel deprived when not road racing, and I squeeze one in any chance I get, but I've never done a bike race or a bike time trial, and I have currently no desire to do so. When I race, I smile on the bike at the camera because I'm just rolling along, noticing the scenery and saying Go get um'! to bikers who pass me. But I'm all business on the run.
Case in point--the ride at last week's Oly: (Note that there are no bikers in sight. I was so alone on that ride! I might have been smiling just because I was so happy to see a person, even though he was a photographer and not a biker.)
Compare that to my run at last weekend's Oly:
and compare my bike photo to how I look after my run at last week's Oly:
I am at a slight disadvantage on the bike do to the fact that I'm both short and small. This is an advantage, of course, on the run. I have less to carry. However, unless I get stronger and more proficient on the bike, I will never be able to take advantage of my advantage on the run, because I will be too pooped to execute the run the way I know I should and can.At this point I have two ways of racing triathlon on the bike.
1. I don't work the bike hard enough and I have a solid run. *(example would be last weekened Oly, at which I had a good run).
2. I work the bike very hard and I have a shitty run. (examples would be Lake Placid or Mooseman Half).
What I need to be able to do is to work the bike hard, and STILL have a solid run. And this means, I think, less about my run training, and more about my bike training.
My question is this:
In your opinion, what is the key to solid bike training? What have you done that you think significantly contributes to a strong bike leg?
I have my ideas. And I know Jen is likely killing herself trying to satisfy my desire to run hard and fast while still getting me to work on my bike.
But I want to hear your ideas. I'm also interested in any books you may recommend on biking.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Double Race Report: Rockland Swim and Kennebunk Oly Tri
Part I:
Rockland 1.6 mile OW Ocean Swim Race Report or, Am I nuts?
Generally speaking open water swim races are canceled when storms pass through.
Not this one.
Tropical Storm Danny hit on Friday night, and though Alina and I had decided we'd make the trip to Rockland no matter what (no way were we wasting a Daddy Duty day!!), I was sure the race would be canceled. When I woke early on Saturday morning and went down to the beach to check out the surf, I became even more sure the race wouldn't go off. The waves were 6-7 feet and the ocean looked ready to play hard ball with anyone who dared take her on. The storm swirled around me as I looked out to sea, spitting hard, cold rain and blowing my hair into my mouth.
No. Way.
I'd go to Rockland, but I was NOT swimming in this.
We got in the car, turned on the lights and the windshield wipers, and headed off. Alina wasn't so sure they would cancel the race. The swim was to take place along a breakwater, and she remembered it being very calm water there the year before. I scoffed at that. It would be insane to hold an ocean race in this weather, breakwater or not. They'd have to get the Coast Guard, a billion EMTs, a dozen lifeguards, extra insurance. No way was it happening.
When we got to Rockland two hours later I didn't even want to get out of the car. It was in the low 50s, wet, cold and well, just plain shitty outside. Still, upon arrival it was clear that YES, the race was on. Oh God. Turns out they DID get the Coast Guard, EMTs, extra lifeguards, the Rockland Police and the Marine Guard to come on out. All this for a SMALL race. There might have been 40 participants, total.
As Alina had predicted, the water along the sheltered side of the breakwater was remarkably calm (on the right). On the other side (the left) it was all waves and rough chop. We wouldn't be able to do the whole course, which extended beyond the breakwater and around the Rockland Light House, which you can barely see in the picture at the end of the breakwater. Instead we would swim to the lighthouse, touch the dock, and return, making it approximately a 1.4 mile swim rather than 1.6. Many swimmers had signed up to do a 3.2 mile swim, and they would do the up and back twice.At the pre-race meeting the race director did his best to scare the shit out of us, making sure we understood all of the risks inherent in competing in this race, detailing the early signs of hypothermia so we could save ourselves before we needed to be saved, and explaining that the closer to the breakwater we got, the safer we would be. Oh boy.
Alina and I went to the car to put on our wetsuits. We then tiptoed gingerly out on the wet, cold rocks to the dock (pictured above) to start the race. I wasn't sure I was going to actually do the race until I was in the water swimming. My feet were white and numb the moment I got out of the car, and I was chattering and turning blue instantly. Jumping into the water was actually a relief. It was 60 degrees to the outside's wet and cold 53 degrees, and in the ocean we were sheltered from the harsh wind and pelting rain.
The race director set us off, and I went out hard. I got on the feet of John, a Mainer swimmer I know through Alina, but he was way too fast and I only held on for a few minutes before I lost him. Then I was alone. This was, I would learn, the theme of my weekend: racing alone. The pack was behind me and the super speedy folk (Alina and a few men) were ahead of me, too fast to catch. I settled into a rhythm and tried to stay focused. It took FOREVER to get to the lighthouse. Actually, it was more like 17 minutes, but it seemed an eternity. When I got there I touched the dock, took a breath and headed back. Still alone.
The way back was annoying because by staying close to the breakwater you had to dodge a gajillion lobster buoys. Still, the way back seemed to take less time then the way there. Soon I was swimming up to the dock and saying hello to Alina and the few guys fast enough to stay up with her. She was third to finish, and the first woman. It took me a minute to realize that I was the second woman. Wahoo! Not bad for competing against REAL swimmers!
_______________________________
The Next Day: Kennebunk Fireman Olympic Tri: My Day as an "Elite"
When I signed up for this race I noticed they had an elite division. To enter said division it was suggested one be able to go faster than 2:30 for women, or 2:20 for men. Hmmm. I could do that. I had gone 2:20 At the Lobsterman Oly the year before... Ange had signed up for the race too, so I could race in her wave if I signed up for the Elite division. Why not? It would be fun!
Ummm. What was I thinking?
Let me say up front that I did just fine in this race. My time placed me second overall for women, second only to Catherine Sterling, who is definitely elite. (Case in point, she placed second to Cait Snow last week at the Timberman Sprint--but only lost to her by two minutes--and beat her out of the water (and everyone else) by a minute and a half. Right. Still, I did not belong in that wave, and I will never enter as an elite again. Catherine beat me by like 16 minutes. Conversely, the age grouper just behind me was only 10 seconds behind me. I may be at the top of the heap of age groupers, but I ain't no elite...
Sigh. Live and learn.
There are, of course, some super fun parts about being in the elite wave. You get to rack your bike in an ideal location, and it's far less crowded then in the age group section of transition. Plus you get to schmooze with the super fast folk. The down side of this would be that you feel like a tool for placing yourself with the fast folk... I chatted with Kurt and a few other "elites" and tried to enjoy that my race number was #11. I noted that Catherine and one other woman were the only other women in the elite wave. Fantastic. What the hell was I doing here??? (I forgot to mention that Ange decided not to do the race, so that whole aspect of the fun was blown...)
I am not elite, but at least I held my own in the swim. Catherine beat everyone (including all of the men) out of the water by almost three minutes. Three other elite men (including Kurt) beat me out of the water, but I was the fourth to finish--and I was only about 30 seconds behind them. So, at the beginning at least, I kind of looked like I belonged. My swim felt relatively strong, but it was very strange to be in a wave with so few people. I am used to battling it out for a position and then having to dodge people in previous waves.
There was a long run across the beach (they said 200 meters--I say more like 400). Anyway. I got to transition and just fumbled about. I was definitely NOT smooth. I finally tripped over to the mounting line and climbed onto my bike. Good-bye crowds!! It was the last of people I would see for the next hour.
I did that WHOLE DAMN BIKE BY MYSELF. Why? Because I was ahead of all the age groupers, having started in the first wave and having had a fast swim, but I was way, way behind the elite men (and Catherine) on the bike. So it was me--and well, ME. Occasionally an elite man who I had beat out of the water or an age grouper who had caught up to me though he was in the second wave would pass me as if I was standing still. Several men shouted out, "Hey! Great swim!" as they passed.
(code--how the FUCK did you get ahead of me, woman?)
e.m.b.a.r.r. ASS.i.n.g.
My quads were burning and I was discouraged. I just wanted off that damn bike. Then I would remember that I was, in fact, racing, and that just because I was alone, my time still mattered, so I needed to HTFU.
I tried. I really did. But my bike split was still LAME. Not so lame as to cost me second, but lame all the same. I was so relieved to ride into transition and start the run. Finally there were people! A sprint was going on con-currently, and so the sprint athletes were already on the run course. Thank God. I passed people. I ran hard. I passed more people. I ran harder.
I had a great run. Though not screamingly fast, it was the fastest I've ever run for a 10K after swimming and biking. Yahoo! Finally some success!
Final results:
23:17 swim, 1:09 bike (the course was a little short), and 43:58 for the run.
2:21:20
2nd Overall. 1st AG.
Of course, I wasn't first Ag really, because I raced in the open division. But whatever. I'm still counting it.
Because I am an AGE GROUPER! Wahoo! I know who I am...and that feels good.
I am Mary: IronMatron and Age Group Extraordinaire and I like it. I completely missed riding with my PEEPS. No more elite for moi!
Still, thanks for making me feel welcome, Kurt.
And I missed you, Ange!!!
This is Kennebunk from Ocean Drive, site of the race.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Randomness that I Will Attempt to Make into A Coherent Post
Perhaps a list will work? I have little scraps of things to say. Alas, my profundity must be taking a vacation this week.
1. First, a shout out to my friends doing IMKY! Judi and Amanda, you two are going to rock! I can't wait to hear all about it. Velma, you'd best take good notes! I wish I could be there to witness the day.
2. That's my daughter Jordan in the new header at about five months. She no longer flips me the bird when I try to photograph her. Now she puts her hands on her hips, procures a sexy smile, and pretends to be a model.
3. This is my third to last day in Maine. I soon must return to my life as a Mass-hole. sniffle. sniffle. sob. breakdown.
4. I race on Saturday and Sunday this weekend. Saturday Alina and I are competing in a 1.6 OW ocean swim in Rockland, Maine--just up the coast. Tropical storm Danny will hit on Saturday morning, so the swim should be--- interesting. Alina will probably still win, though she insists she will not. They are predicting winds of 25-30 mph. Oh happy day! On Sunday I will race the Kennebunk Fireman Olympic Tri. I cannot wait to get out there. I'm itching to race. I'm itching to suffer. I'm itching to do a race at which I can get off the bike at 25 miles. Wahoo!
5. I think my mid-life crisis is slowing. This is good news. Hyde wrecked a few things in the last nine months, but some good changes may have come as a result. Case in point, I'm not getting my classroom ready right now. I am in Maine, writing. I apologize to all of those people that encountered Mr. Hyde in full monster form. She is rather entertaining, though, as opposed to Dr. Jekyll who can be rather dull and rigid. Perhaps an apology is not required. I am rather fond of my alter ego, despite the trouble she may cause.
6. Yesterday I came back from an ocean swim to encounter Maria (Alina's oldest) and Jordan wearing MY BATHING SUITS. They found this amusing, and were especially pleased that the suits were not really very big for them.
Here they are imitating me. Apparently this is how I appear on the beach.
I need to admit up front that it's rather upsetting to discover that eight year-olds (and Maria is actually still seven) fit into your bathing suits, especially the bikini top.
They also decided to take a picture of the bear imitating me.
And here they are mocking me again. I certainly hope I don't walk around with that look on my face that Jordan is sporting.
Later that day they decided to go running. Jordan is in her own running clothes. She's been outfitted because we are running a 5K together on Labor Day. (a side note: Today on our 1.3 mile run she commented that next time she runs she'd like to wear my fuel belt. Running that far make one very thirsty. She also insisted on having a recovery drink after the run. And note, she is already wearing my Garmin.) Maria didn't have adequate running apparel for this run, however, so she is sporting mine. Maria is very, very tall for her age. Still, the fact that she looks fine in my running clothes is -- well, not right.
Before their run:
I hate to brag, as they are our kids and everything, but Maria and Jordan are excellent runners. They went 1.33 miles in 9:44 pace. Before they left they were having a serious discussion about how it's no surprise they are so good, since they both have runner and swimmer blood. SO FUCKING CUTE.
7. This is what I must leave on Monday morning. I make no secret of the fact that I am a child of privilege in many, many ways. My parents are incredibly generous--by first allowing me to live with them when I was the biggest pain-in-the ass of a teenager ever, and second, by allowing me, in the present, to live with them each summer--with my best friend and six kids in tow.
1. First, a shout out to my friends doing IMKY! Judi and Amanda, you two are going to rock! I can't wait to hear all about it. Velma, you'd best take good notes! I wish I could be there to witness the day.
2. That's my daughter Jordan in the new header at about five months. She no longer flips me the bird when I try to photograph her. Now she puts her hands on her hips, procures a sexy smile, and pretends to be a model.
3. This is my third to last day in Maine. I soon must return to my life as a Mass-hole. sniffle. sniffle. sob. breakdown.
4. I race on Saturday and Sunday this weekend. Saturday Alina and I are competing in a 1.6 OW ocean swim in Rockland, Maine--just up the coast. Tropical storm Danny will hit on Saturday morning, so the swim should be--- interesting. Alina will probably still win, though she insists she will not. They are predicting winds of 25-30 mph. Oh happy day! On Sunday I will race the Kennebunk Fireman Olympic Tri. I cannot wait to get out there. I'm itching to race. I'm itching to suffer. I'm itching to do a race at which I can get off the bike at 25 miles. Wahoo!
5. I think my mid-life crisis is slowing. This is good news. Hyde wrecked a few things in the last nine months, but some good changes may have come as a result. Case in point, I'm not getting my classroom ready right now. I am in Maine, writing. I apologize to all of those people that encountered Mr. Hyde in full monster form. She is rather entertaining, though, as opposed to Dr. Jekyll who can be rather dull and rigid. Perhaps an apology is not required. I am rather fond of my alter ego, despite the trouble she may cause.
6. Yesterday I came back from an ocean swim to encounter Maria (Alina's oldest) and Jordan wearing MY BATHING SUITS. They found this amusing, and were especially pleased that the suits were not really very big for them.
Here they are imitating me. Apparently this is how I appear on the beach.
I need to admit up front that it's rather upsetting to discover that eight year-olds (and Maria is actually still seven) fit into your bathing suits, especially the bikini top.They also decided to take a picture of the bear imitating me.
And here they are mocking me again. I certainly hope I don't walk around with that look on my face that Jordan is sporting.
Later that day they decided to go running. Jordan is in her own running clothes. She's been outfitted because we are running a 5K together on Labor Day. (a side note: Today on our 1.3 mile run she commented that next time she runs she'd like to wear my fuel belt. Running that far make one very thirsty. She also insisted on having a recovery drink after the run. And note, she is already wearing my Garmin.) Maria didn't have adequate running apparel for this run, however, so she is sporting mine. Maria is very, very tall for her age. Still, the fact that she looks fine in my running clothes is -- well, not right.
Before their run:
I hate to brag, as they are our kids and everything, but Maria and Jordan are excellent runners. They went 1.33 miles in 9:44 pace. Before they left they were having a serious discussion about how it's no surprise they are so good, since they both have runner and swimmer blood. SO FUCKING CUTE.7. This is what I must leave on Monday morning. I make no secret of the fact that I am a child of privilege in many, many ways. My parents are incredibly generous--by first allowing me to live with them when I was the biggest pain-in-the ass of a teenager ever, and second, by allowing me, in the present, to live with them each summer--with my best friend and six kids in tow.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Piggies. and The Waves
I love riding in Maine. Where else do you ride by something like this?
Last year there was just the one Mommy pig, but how awesome was it to ride by this year only to discover she'd had babies! Seriously, you only find this shit in rural Maine.
The ocean this week has been nuts here on the northeastern Atlantic coast. Hurricane Bill didn't actually hit us, but it was just off the coast and caused havoc anyway. The seas were outrageous. We came out Sunday morning to discover massive waves--8-10 feet tall, and that the tide had come all the way up to the dunes the night before. That just doesn't happen here--like ever. The ocean was so rough that the lifeguards (who maybe were just practicing last week when saving that buoy???) made 22 rescues by one p.m., and then closed the beach to swimming. We were told if we got in that it would be a criminal offense!
Later we found out that in Acadia National Park, just up the coast, 20 people were swept into the water by a rouge wave. Many made it back to shore, though most suffered broken bones from being smashed against the rocks, but six or seven did not make it back on their own. They were rescued--except for one little seven-year-old girl who didn't make it. Her father was swept in too, but survived.
My oldest daughter turned eight on Monday. And she swam on Sunday in that same rough sea.
makes. you. stop.
On Monday there was still a yellow flag out, which means , of course, CAUTION! There were still gigantic waves and a massive rip tide. People disobeyed the caution rule, of course. They came out in droves to try and surf. The lifeguards worked their asses off to keep people safe--blowing their whistles every 30 seconds, I swear. (What a week for that boy, huh?) They had to close The Pier in Old Orchard because waves were smashing over it.
Today we were finally able to get back in the water for real. I managed an OW swim, but it was rather, um, challenging. It was actually kind of fun to try to gauge whether I could swim over a wave, or whether I would have to dive under it because it was going to crash on my head and pummel my body. Good times. Alina and her friend Kathy swam too. We. Be. Tough. Mamas.
This is Jordan and me on her 8th birthday, August 24. We look alike, huh? I consider her birthday my birthday too... the birth of my entrance into Mommyhood--which changes a person unalterably and overwhelmingly.
She trained me. She trains me everyday. I'm super lucky that my first is so forgiving, smart and helpful. Your first-born just gets knocked around by the waves of her parents' inexperience. She appears to be surviving it with total grace.
Here she is with her little sis. Jordan dressed her--so don't blame me! In the background is her bro, who would have none of that shit.
I have a more substantive post coming. It's just not done brewing yet.
Last year there was just the one Mommy pig, but how awesome was it to ride by this year only to discover she'd had babies! Seriously, you only find this shit in rural Maine.
The ocean this week has been nuts here on the northeastern Atlantic coast. Hurricane Bill didn't actually hit us, but it was just off the coast and caused havoc anyway. The seas were outrageous. We came out Sunday morning to discover massive waves--8-10 feet tall, and that the tide had come all the way up to the dunes the night before. That just doesn't happen here--like ever. The ocean was so rough that the lifeguards (who maybe were just practicing last week when saving that buoy???) made 22 rescues by one p.m., and then closed the beach to swimming. We were told if we got in that it would be a criminal offense!
Later we found out that in Acadia National Park, just up the coast, 20 people were swept into the water by a rouge wave. Many made it back to shore, though most suffered broken bones from being smashed against the rocks, but six or seven did not make it back on their own. They were rescued--except for one little seven-year-old girl who didn't make it. Her father was swept in too, but survived.
My oldest daughter turned eight on Monday. And she swam on Sunday in that same rough sea.
makes. you. stop.
On Monday there was still a yellow flag out, which means , of course, CAUTION! There were still gigantic waves and a massive rip tide. People disobeyed the caution rule, of course. They came out in droves to try and surf. The lifeguards worked their asses off to keep people safe--blowing their whistles every 30 seconds, I swear. (What a week for that boy, huh?) They had to close The Pier in Old Orchard because waves were smashing over it.
Today we were finally able to get back in the water for real. I managed an OW swim, but it was rather, um, challenging. It was actually kind of fun to try to gauge whether I could swim over a wave, or whether I would have to dive under it because it was going to crash on my head and pummel my body. Good times. Alina and her friend Kathy swam too. We. Be. Tough. Mamas.
This is Jordan and me on her 8th birthday, August 24. We look alike, huh? I consider her birthday my birthday too... the birth of my entrance into Mommyhood--which changes a person unalterably and overwhelmingly.
She trained me. She trains me everyday. I'm super lucky that my first is so forgiving, smart and helpful. Your first-born just gets knocked around by the waves of her parents' inexperience. She appears to be surviving it with total grace.
Here she is with her little sis. Jordan dressed her--so don't blame me! In the background is her bro, who would have none of that shit.
I have a more substantive post coming. It's just not done brewing yet.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Making the Save
Yesterday we were hanging at the beach with our tribe of bambinos when Alina and I saw this:
A really hot, young lifeguard! But, alas, the fact that he was young (like really young) and hot is not the point of this story. This lifeguard was blowing his whistle and waving his hands in the air. We scanned the ocean for the offending swimmer. Naughty Naughty! Someone was out tooooo far! We scanned some more. and some more. A crowd gathered. We all scanned together. We said to each other in hushed tones, "Do you see anything?" The lifeguard continued to blow his whistle, and he was soon joined by another lifeguard who also starting waving and blowing his whistle. We, the onlookers, were puzzled. We could see NO ONE. There was simply no one out there. And then we saw it-- a tiny, tiny white speck out at sea. Was that a person? It couldn't be! How the hell did someone get out that far? They had to be at least a mile off shore... The first lifeguard finally decided it was rescue time. He strapped on his orange buoy thing, ran toward the water and dove into the sea. Go, Lifeguard, Go! We were riveted. He began swimming. He began sighting. He began taking little rests. To be honest, he didn't look like he was working very hard. I mean, really. Here's this person way the hell out there and he's taking little breaks??? I told Alina I thought he surely wasn't taking his job seriously. Or was it that he was young and hot--but a weak swimmer? "We should go out and save that person!" I cried. "We could do it! Hell, we were once lifeguards! We are both strong swimmers! Surely we are better than him...". WonderTwin Powers, activate! Unfortunately, Alina wasn't too keen on this idea. I believe her reply was, Ummm... no. Eventually he became a speck in the distance. Would he get to that person way out there? Will he be okay? Then lifeguard #2 got into the action. He got his super long white surfboard and plunged into the ocean after lifeguard number one. Young, hot lifeguards fighting the Atlantic and making the save! He began paddling, and soon he too became just a speck. We waited--eyes latched onto these boys moving further into the sea. The surfboard lifeguard made it to the swimming lifeguard, but they were still far from the speck. We waited. The drama! Minutes passed. What was going on? Why weren't they continuing onward to save the swimmer? And then we could just make out the surfboard lifeguard turning and heading for shore. The swimmer lifeguard followed him, his orange buoy bobbing along behind him. What the hell? What about the person? After five minutes the surfboard lifeguard made it to shore. He stumbled in. The crowd swarmed. Alina and I sent Jordan and Maria (ages 7 and 7) over to find out the deal. Get in there! Eavesdrop! Ask that lifeguard what happened! Nothing like having your children get your gossip. Ten minutes later the first lifeguard swam in. The crowd hushed and parted as he trudged out of the water. And then applause broke out. No victim saved, but applause all the same. The lifeguard bowed his head. Did he feel pride? Gratitude? Fatigue? Humiliation? What did this young boy feel when he realized he had swum a mile into the sea to save a a fucking buoy? Sometimes we miscalculate. Sometimes we have to take a huge risk because we know something huger is at stake, and so we place our possible miscalculations to the side and swim out to sea. It takes a lot of courage to do that. The miscalculations we make along the way shape us. I have always known these are risks I shouldn't fear. Even if they turn out badly one learns from them, and becomes a more realized person as a result. But for some reason I stopped taking those risk in my thirties. There was too much at stake. I couldn't fuck anything up--or? My stable world would wobble, or crack, or worse, totally fall down. But we can't live that way forever. If you stop allowing yourself to engage in the struggle of making the save or not, then you experience psychic death, I think. And I did. So I swam out to sea this year. I rocked my own world. I think I'm probably not as likable as I once was. Certainly I don't look as good on paper. But at least I'm alive. I haven't reached the person drowning out there in the ocean yet. But the girl I'm saving isn't a buoy, that I know for sure.
A really hot, young lifeguard! But, alas, the fact that he was young (like really young) and hot is not the point of this story. This lifeguard was blowing his whistle and waving his hands in the air. We scanned the ocean for the offending swimmer. Naughty Naughty! Someone was out tooooo far! We scanned some more. and some more. A crowd gathered. We all scanned together. We said to each other in hushed tones, "Do you see anything?" The lifeguard continued to blow his whistle, and he was soon joined by another lifeguard who also starting waving and blowing his whistle. We, the onlookers, were puzzled. We could see NO ONE. There was simply no one out there. And then we saw it-- a tiny, tiny white speck out at sea. Was that a person? It couldn't be! How the hell did someone get out that far? They had to be at least a mile off shore... The first lifeguard finally decided it was rescue time. He strapped on his orange buoy thing, ran toward the water and dove into the sea. Go, Lifeguard, Go! We were riveted. He began swimming. He began sighting. He began taking little rests. To be honest, he didn't look like he was working very hard. I mean, really. Here's this person way the hell out there and he's taking little breaks??? I told Alina I thought he surely wasn't taking his job seriously. Or was it that he was young and hot--but a weak swimmer? "We should go out and save that person!" I cried. "We could do it! Hell, we were once lifeguards! We are both strong swimmers! Surely we are better than him...". WonderTwin Powers, activate! Unfortunately, Alina wasn't too keen on this idea. I believe her reply was, Ummm... no. Eventually he became a speck in the distance. Would he get to that person way out there? Will he be okay? Then lifeguard #2 got into the action. He got his super long white surfboard and plunged into the ocean after lifeguard number one. Young, hot lifeguards fighting the Atlantic and making the save! He began paddling, and soon he too became just a speck. We waited--eyes latched onto these boys moving further into the sea. The surfboard lifeguard made it to the swimming lifeguard, but they were still far from the speck. We waited. The drama! Minutes passed. What was going on? Why weren't they continuing onward to save the swimmer? And then we could just make out the surfboard lifeguard turning and heading for shore. The swimmer lifeguard followed him, his orange buoy bobbing along behind him. What the hell? What about the person? After five minutes the surfboard lifeguard made it to shore. He stumbled in. The crowd swarmed. Alina and I sent Jordan and Maria (ages 7 and 7) over to find out the deal. Get in there! Eavesdrop! Ask that lifeguard what happened! Nothing like having your children get your gossip. Ten minutes later the first lifeguard swam in. The crowd hushed and parted as he trudged out of the water. And then applause broke out. No victim saved, but applause all the same. The lifeguard bowed his head. Did he feel pride? Gratitude? Fatigue? Humiliation? What did this young boy feel when he realized he had swum a mile into the sea to save a a fucking buoy? Sometimes we miscalculate. Sometimes we have to take a huge risk because we know something huger is at stake, and so we place our possible miscalculations to the side and swim out to sea. It takes a lot of courage to do that. The miscalculations we make along the way shape us. I have always known these are risks I shouldn't fear. Even if they turn out badly one learns from them, and becomes a more realized person as a result. But for some reason I stopped taking those risk in my thirties. There was too much at stake. I couldn't fuck anything up--or? My stable world would wobble, or crack, or worse, totally fall down. But we can't live that way forever. If you stop allowing yourself to engage in the struggle of making the save or not, then you experience psychic death, I think. And I did. So I swam out to sea this year. I rocked my own world. I think I'm probably not as likable as I once was. Certainly I don't look as good on paper. But at least I'm alive. I haven't reached the person drowning out there in the ocean yet. But the girl I'm saving isn't a buoy, that I know for sure.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Checking the Ego By the Door
Yesterday I had a 9.5 mile run planned. It was a regular run; no pick-ups, no tempo pace, just running in zone 2/3 and chilling out.
I got up at 5:15 am and lingered a long time before I headed out. This has become a general practice of mine. Before I became a triathlete and was still just a plain old runner, I used to roll out of bed, put on my running stuff and just leave--maybe taking a gel on the way out, maybe not. But this spring Jen kept asking me to have my regular pre-race breakfast and race nutrition during my rides as I got ready for IMLP. I was like, pre-race breakfast? Race nutrition? Do you mean like when I have a gel before I leave and a peanut butter mini-bagel on the ride?
So I started getting up 15 minutes early and eating a bowl of cereal and drinking a cup of coffee before I left for the workout. That didn't work out well. You can imagine why.
Milk + Leave immediately for a run = OMG kill me now I need to stop.
So I started getting up a 1/2 hour early and having toast and coffee and maybe some sports drink.
Then I started getting up 45 minutes early.
Now I'm up to an hour.
The problem is that I like the a.m. pre-run chill time so much I have a really hard time getting my ass out of the door at the prescribed time. Coffee, breakfast treats, quiet house, reading blogs or a magazine or a (gasp) book with no children in the background screaming MOMMY!!!! I POOPED! (Do any of the rest of you get that? WTF? My 7-year-old still calls me!) My delay wouldn't matter so much except that generally I am on borrowed time--somebody must deal with the kiddos when they wake up. Usually that's Andy. When I'm in Maine it's my mom or Alina. No matter who it is I have this sense of urgency--get home get home get home--constantly paranoid that the person in charge will freak and decide never to help me out again.
You moms (and some dads) out there know what I'm saying.
I digress. In fact, I'm way off topic. I did have an idea where I wanted this to go.
So I had my java, my toast, a banana, and my hour of reading and making obnoxious comments on blogs. And then I forced myself to get out there.
And I was slow.
Oh my God was I slow.
I looked at my Garmin five minutes into the run and noted that I was going 9:25 pace.
Um, what?
My first thought was, well, clearly there is something wrong with the Garmin. I can't be going that slowly. Then I looked at my shadow. She was shuffling. She looked like a grandma.
And I thought, Imagine that--my Garmin is not working and I have someone else's shadow this morning.
That is truly bizarre.
I tried really hard not to care. But of course I DID care. So I picked up the pace. A little. Then a little more. In 15 more minutes I was down to an average of 8:45 pace. I did a few pick-ups so the number would go down. 8:35 pace. I decided to end my run with two marathon pace miles at 7:40. Down to an average of 8:20 pace. Okay. Acceptable. I don't have to hate myself. I can live with 8:20s.
This morning during my oh-so-lovely pre-workout hour I read Matt Fizgerald's newest post.
He had just gone a ride with Eneko Llanos. Right. That Eneko Llanos. Anyway, he had expected he would have to kill himself to keep up; that it would be amazing to just keep on the wheel of such an accomplished pro. But it turned out that Llanos wasn't interested in keeping an unreasonably fast pace. He was out for a long ride, and the pace, (which, btw, would have still been next to impossible for someone like me to keep) was simply fine for Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald was complimentary of Llanos in general, but his central compliment stood out to me. (Probably because it was like, central. ) Anyway. Llanos seemed like "he had nothing to prove." He was "not tempted to put me in my place."
Llanos leaves his ego at the door.
Except --he doesn't.
The fact that he has nothing to prove is proof that his ego and his id are aligned. His id (or his instinctual self) wants to be good, and his ego (his organized, realistic self) knows he's good, so his whole psychic apparatus is like, cool. He is so confident in his ability that he doesn't have to worry that Fitzgerald will think he's a putz by going only 19 mph on a long ride. The guy's one race away from World Champ. What the fuck does he have to prove to anyone?
(And furthermore, did you notice his name ALMOST anagrams to EL-Kona-No-Lose?)
In the expression "to check the ego by the door" the word ego doesn't, of course, refer to Freud's concept of the word. It is a word used in common parlance as having to do with inflated pride and an assuredness that one is superior to others. Llanos, at least according to Fitzgerald, doesn't project that outwardly, so in that sense he does leave his ego at that door when riding. However, I would argue that he is likely so assured of his superiority that he simply does not need or want to project it. He knows who he is. He knows what he is. He knows he can kick everyone else's ass even if he DOES have milk for breakfast.
No, Llanos's ego is not at the door. It's tucked neatly into his Bento Box and comes along for the ride every time. It's people like me--and you, and maybe Fitzgerald, I don't know--who leave our egos at the door. If we had them with us then we wouldn't have to constantly prove to ourselves that we are good enough to go slow--by going fast enough.
Llanos may be able to run 9:25s. He can do this because he knows damn well what 9:25s are to him.
I'm not so sure what they are to me, though.
See, 9:25s may mean that my body is still feeling a little sleepy. They may mean I am having a nice, slow recovery run. They may mean I'm tired, and it's time to just go slow and enjoy being a turtle.
or they may mean I SUCK.
They may mean that though I think I can pull out a 3:20 marathon this fall, there is no way in hell I actually will.
They may mean that all those times I have run 8:10 min. pace in zone 2 for hours on end were all a big joke played on me by the GOD OF RUNNING and he has now put me back into my proper place--at the back o' the pack.
My Freudian ego--the one who is realistic, and worried, and aware--knows I'm no Llanos.
Likewise, my common parlance ego has always had a bit of a limp. If it didn't, I surely wouldn't leave it at the door. No, quite the opposite. If my ego could run fast I would take it with me on every run, and I would let it run slowly.
And then, like Llanos will surely do, I would go to Kona and kick some serious ego-carrying ass.
I got up at 5:15 am and lingered a long time before I headed out. This has become a general practice of mine. Before I became a triathlete and was still just a plain old runner, I used to roll out of bed, put on my running stuff and just leave--maybe taking a gel on the way out, maybe not. But this spring Jen kept asking me to have my regular pre-race breakfast and race nutrition during my rides as I got ready for IMLP. I was like, pre-race breakfast? Race nutrition? Do you mean like when I have a gel before I leave and a peanut butter mini-bagel on the ride?
So I started getting up 15 minutes early and eating a bowl of cereal and drinking a cup of coffee before I left for the workout. That didn't work out well. You can imagine why.
Milk + Leave immediately for a run = OMG kill me now I need to stop.
So I started getting up a 1/2 hour early and having toast and coffee and maybe some sports drink.
Then I started getting up 45 minutes early.
Now I'm up to an hour.
The problem is that I like the a.m. pre-run chill time so much I have a really hard time getting my ass out of the door at the prescribed time. Coffee, breakfast treats, quiet house, reading blogs or a magazine or a (gasp) book with no children in the background screaming MOMMY!!!! I POOPED! (Do any of the rest of you get that? WTF? My 7-year-old still calls me!) My delay wouldn't matter so much except that generally I am on borrowed time--somebody must deal with the kiddos when they wake up. Usually that's Andy. When I'm in Maine it's my mom or Alina. No matter who it is I have this sense of urgency--get home get home get home--constantly paranoid that the person in charge will freak and decide never to help me out again.
You moms (and some dads) out there know what I'm saying.
I digress. In fact, I'm way off topic. I did have an idea where I wanted this to go.
So I had my java, my toast, a banana, and my hour of reading and making obnoxious comments on blogs. And then I forced myself to get out there.
And I was slow.
Oh my God was I slow.
I looked at my Garmin five minutes into the run and noted that I was going 9:25 pace.
Um, what?
My first thought was, well, clearly there is something wrong with the Garmin. I can't be going that slowly. Then I looked at my shadow. She was shuffling. She looked like a grandma.
And I thought, Imagine that--my Garmin is not working and I have someone else's shadow this morning.
That is truly bizarre.
I tried really hard not to care. But of course I DID care. So I picked up the pace. A little. Then a little more. In 15 more minutes I was down to an average of 8:45 pace. I did a few pick-ups so the number would go down. 8:35 pace. I decided to end my run with two marathon pace miles at 7:40. Down to an average of 8:20 pace. Okay. Acceptable. I don't have to hate myself. I can live with 8:20s.
This morning during my oh-so-lovely pre-workout hour I read Matt Fizgerald's newest post.
He had just gone a ride with Eneko Llanos. Right. That Eneko Llanos. Anyway, he had expected he would have to kill himself to keep up; that it would be amazing to just keep on the wheel of such an accomplished pro. But it turned out that Llanos wasn't interested in keeping an unreasonably fast pace. He was out for a long ride, and the pace, (which, btw, would have still been next to impossible for someone like me to keep) was simply fine for Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald was complimentary of Llanos in general, but his central compliment stood out to me. (Probably because it was like, central. ) Anyway. Llanos seemed like "he had nothing to prove." He was "not tempted to put me in my place."
Llanos leaves his ego at the door.
Except --he doesn't.
The fact that he has nothing to prove is proof that his ego and his id are aligned. His id (or his instinctual self) wants to be good, and his ego (his organized, realistic self) knows he's good, so his whole psychic apparatus is like, cool. He is so confident in his ability that he doesn't have to worry that Fitzgerald will think he's a putz by going only 19 mph on a long ride. The guy's one race away from World Champ. What the fuck does he have to prove to anyone?
(And furthermore, did you notice his name ALMOST anagrams to EL-Kona-No-Lose?)
In the expression "to check the ego by the door" the word ego doesn't, of course, refer to Freud's concept of the word. It is a word used in common parlance as having to do with inflated pride and an assuredness that one is superior to others. Llanos, at least according to Fitzgerald, doesn't project that outwardly, so in that sense he does leave his ego at that door when riding. However, I would argue that he is likely so assured of his superiority that he simply does not need or want to project it. He knows who he is. He knows what he is. He knows he can kick everyone else's ass even if he DOES have milk for breakfast.
No, Llanos's ego is not at the door. It's tucked neatly into his Bento Box and comes along for the ride every time. It's people like me--and you, and maybe Fitzgerald, I don't know--who leave our egos at the door. If we had them with us then we wouldn't have to constantly prove to ourselves that we are good enough to go slow--by going fast enough.
Llanos may be able to run 9:25s. He can do this because he knows damn well what 9:25s are to him.
I'm not so sure what they are to me, though.
See, 9:25s may mean that my body is still feeling a little sleepy. They may mean I am having a nice, slow recovery run. They may mean I'm tired, and it's time to just go slow and enjoy being a turtle.
or they may mean I SUCK.
They may mean that though I think I can pull out a 3:20 marathon this fall, there is no way in hell I actually will.
They may mean that all those times I have run 8:10 min. pace in zone 2 for hours on end were all a big joke played on me by the GOD OF RUNNING and he has now put me back into my proper place--at the back o' the pack.
My Freudian ego--the one who is realistic, and worried, and aware--knows I'm no Llanos.
Likewise, my common parlance ego has always had a bit of a limp. If it didn't, I surely wouldn't leave it at the door. No, quite the opposite. If my ego could run fast I would take it with me on every run, and I would let it run slowly.
And then, like Llanos will surely do, I would go to Kona and kick some serious ego-carrying ass.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Happiness and The Why
A little while ago I was asked why I want to qualify for Kona.
It was one of those questions where the answer seems so obvious as to defy explanation.
Easy. I want to qualify because I want to qualify. I just want it. I spend a lot of life wanting. I want the cake, I want the toy, I want the prize, I want the attention. I want all sorts of things, many of which I really shouldn't want. It's kind of a human nature thing. I just want to qualify for Kona.
But that wasn't a really good answer, and I wanted to provide this person with a good answer, so I decided to ponder a little more deeply.
I thought about it.
And then I thought some more.
And then I thought some more.
Ummm. Because trying to get there makes me happy?
But saying because it makes me happy is not a robust answer. So I came up with some better, plausible answers that I have used in the past, which are all sort of true, but not really completely true.
1. It's time away from being a mom, wife, teacher, launderer, food preparer, vacuumer, counter cleaner, picker-uper of abandoned socks, toys, dog kibble, clothing, couch cushions etc. etc. etc. and general slave to the needs and wants of my progeny.
2. Because I don't want to look like the middle-aged mom that I am; I want to look like the twenty-year old lassie I wish I once was.
3. It gives my husband an opportunity to spend lots and lots of time with his wee ones. And Dad time is like, wicked important in terms of kids' psychological development, right?
4. Because I like to exercise. A lot.
5. Because I like to shop for triathlon accoutrements--especially Splish bathing suits.
6. Because I need something about which to blog.
7. Because I want to model "healthy living" for my tots.
8. Because I like to compete.
9. Because I enjoy pain, suffering and extreme fatigue.
10. Because male triathletes are generally hot, and I find it enormously satisfying to ogle them on a regular basis.
These are all excellent reasons. I spew each of them freely when asked why the hell I train so hard and so much. They aren't lies either. There is some truth in each reason.
None of them really get at the real WHY, though. The real WHY is more elusive--especially the why of I want so desperately to qualify for Kona in a sort of sick, obsessive kind of way.
I read an article by Ben Greenfield in last month's Triathlete called What Really Motivates You? Because I had just been contemplating this very question, I read it with relish. In it Greenfield suggests we look a little deeper to find out our true motivation for competing in triathlon.
The article was interesting but not really right on, in my opinion. It suggested that we may be driven by "some illogical reason, a highly emotional want or fear." Yes. I agree with that. But then he goes onto say that if we discover this reason --the ultimate answer he calls it--then we will, perhaps, be on the way to our "greatest race ever."
I totally disagree with this premise. I know, for example, when I look deep within, that one reason I work so hard at triathlon is because I'm trying to prove that I am NOT that fat, lazy teenager who smoked dope, loafed in swim practice and who feigned pride in her lack of commitment to pretty much anything. Deeper and uglier still, I'm trying to prove this to certain people in my past who didn't care then and don't care now whether I can run 10 feet, let alone complete an Ironman.
This "reason" is deeply rooted enough so that it is surely a driving force in my subconscious motivational landscape. It's always there--a little hum in the background that keeps me moving. But it doesn't get at WHY I want to qualify for Kona. It explains, in part, why I work hard at things in general--but not why I find happiness and satisfaction from triathlon specifically, and why I want to qualify for Kona in particular. And at any rate, consciously acknowledging that I work hard because I'm trying to prove to myself and everyone else that I can work hard just makes me feel like a dumb ass. If I hit a big hill in a race and ask myself Why the hell am I doing this? the answer--because you were pudgy and lazy as a little girl and you need to prove that you're not anymore--surely isn't going to get me over that hill. It's not only illogical, it's also full of adolescent drama, self-pity and is seriously fucking stupid.
So at this point I was left with ten or so socially acceptable (except maybe number 10), conscious, sort of reasons I do triathlon, and one ugly, subconscious reason I do triathlon, but the larger WHY, the Big Kahuna WHY of wanting to qualify for Kona, still remained unclear.
I recently read this interesting article in The Atlantic entitled What Makes Us Happy? In it this journalist Joshua Wolf Shenk describes a longitudinal study that has been going on at Harvard for the last 72 years. In 1931, two researchers selected 268 "well-adjusted" Harvard sophomores (including some future big wigs like JFK) and decided to follow them throughout their lives, in hopes of learning from them both the secrets of happiness and the ways to avoid despair. The reasoning was that by studying these men throughout their lives, one could analyze who managed life successfully, and who didn't, and why, and could thereby come up with a set of guidelines by which people could live to ensure a happy, successful life. Sounds good, huh?
It didn't really work out as planned, of course. Turns out that the lives of these men were "too big, too weird, too full of subtleties and contradictions to find any easy conception of successful living." Nevertheless, the trajectories that these lives took from their "well-adjusted" youths to their last years on Earth were fascinating to read about. Some of the men who appeared most together early on ended up psychologically damaged and depressed in their later years. Many were alcoholics, one didn't admit he was gay until 70, and several committed suicide before hitting middle-age.
Why am I writing about this? Well first, the article was fascinating to me. It hit upon many truths about living that I have been unable to articulate. One truth, though, hit me like none of the others. The researcher who took over the study 20 years after its inception described the process of living as one that entails adaptations to pain. We experience something painful, and the way we react to it determines whether we navigate that pain successfully or maladaptively. Our patterns of dealing with these painful episodes over time determine our ability to make it through life with relative psychic success or, conversely, on suicidal row.
I was quick to discern that many, many of my ways of dealing with pain are "immature" adaptations according to this researcher. For example, I tend to be passive aggressive, I tend to project, I tend to fantasize. Others adaptations of mine are apparently more developed, but still not super, like my habit of intellectualizing painful experiences, or repressing or temporarily disassociating when things get super bad. But I noted I do have TWO adaptations to pain which are supposedly mature--. 1. I use humor. 2. I sublimate my unproductive feelings, like aggression and anger, into sport.
And then the insight came to me. Triathlon, and Ironman in particular, is like this way of bringing on stress and pain in a controlled way. This I have talked about before. But what came to me is that by doing it over and over again we can practice at dealing with the painful vicissitudes of life--and eventually, hopefully, get it right. In other words, we can find just the right set of adaptations and have the perfect race. And In my case I believe getting it right will produce a Kona slot. A Kona slot, you see, would be good proof of a race executed using mature adaptations. If I can get a Kona slot, then perhaps I cab execute my life perfectly, using the perfect adaptations, as well.
Think about the pattern of pain and struggle in an IM race and see how nicely it fits with the pattern of dealing with pain and struggle in life.
The Swim--Childhood In retrospect you hardly remember it, and further you remember it as relatively painless and easy even though as you went through it it was actually pretty hard.
The Bike--the Bulk of your life. You have highs and lows, but hopefully and usually you emerge from the bike still intact and ready for old age, or the run.
The run--Old Age: If you fucked up your bike, you're dead on the run. You have major setbacks and it takes a lot to recover from them, and sometimes you don't. Some people DNF before the race is over. If you have played your IM right and you have had good luck, you will end the race with grace and strength.
You can also compare IM to major life practices like:
Marriage
The Swim--You Still Have Sex like every day. Compared to other parts of marriage this part is unfortunately wicked short.
The Bike--You have ups and downs; stresses are added after time, like kids; a few who have really made mistakes in their race or who have had really bad luck drop out of the race entirely.
The Run--Many more DNF. You have major ups and downs throughout, but if you are seriously mentally tough, and also somewhat stubborn, you power through them and move forward. If you have played your marriage right you will end your race again with grace and strength. If not, you limp to the finish line or don't finish at all.
or
Child-Rearing
The Swim--The kid has tons of potential, you're not tired yet; you feed your child all the right foods and keep him away from TV.
The Bike--You get increasingly tired. You try for good technique but sometimes you just cave and let the kid have Froot Loops for dinner, watch Star Wars for the 100th time, and you fail to check his homework.
The Run--Your kid is an adolescent. If you had a superb bike than your kid may still talk to you. If not, you will suffer as he slams his bedroom door in your face. If you handle adolescence well, you will end the race with a good kid who has not DNF'd in his own race, and with your own grace and strength intact.
Okay. That was fun. So, I do Ironman so I can practice at life's pain and suffering.
Yeah, well, it was fun to develop the theory anyway.
By now you're sick of reading this, I'm sure. You may have even stopped reading a long time ago. That's okay. Because in writing all this and blathering on and on, I have finally come up with THE REASON WHY.
and it was right before me (and you) the whole time.
It is, as I stated in my first paragraph, because I just fucking want it.
It's true that our most profound yearnings are born out of our most basic fears. But taking apart the Why and attempting to trace it to its origin is futile and ultimately unimportant. Not everything can be explained cognitively; not everything can be reduced to a rational process. The want I'm describing is visceral and volitional--it is a product of the spirit. It is a want like falling in love, or deciding you want a child (or three), or knowing you need to strike out on your own. The want is the reason. It is what gets me up in the morning to run in the cold, it's what has me kill myself to do better on the next set, it's what has me pushing and pushing to make it all the way across the Pacific.
This want, these wants carry us through life--happiness or despair be damned. They are the stuff of life. They enable us to create meaning out of nothingness.
That's why.
Took me a long time to get there, huh.
Monday, August 10, 2009
My Life When "Resting": A Photo Diary
When you last heard from me I was finishing up IM Lake Placid in fine style, with a smile, a shuffle, and a UTI.
Here I am, just lifting those knees, sprinting away. Oh happy day! Well, actually, it was a happy day. Especially when it was over.
So, what have I been doing in celebration of successfully conquering my IM debut?
The REST.
I am writing about The Rest in retrospect because it ended today. Thank God for this. I was well on my way to degenerating into full sloth-dom. Lest you think I'm kidding--let me just say that I managed to gain 6 pounds in two weeks. That's like a record for me. I am a competitive athlete, but I am also a competitive rester. No one rests (read eats and sits on her ass) like me.
Rather than detail the last two weeks, which, I fear, would bore you to tears, I will leave you with a few photos. We spent last week on Cape Cod. It's a beautiful place--and a perfect venue for sitting on one's ass.
This is not a flattering picture, but it does capture nicely the week's activities--going to the beach, sitting, eating.Ice Cream was another theme of the week.
I also watched everyone else run, from the safe confines of my beach chair.
I watched Andy run a 5.2 mile road race (The Brewster Brew Run).
He made running sub-six minute miles look easy, which I find very hot. I am very much a sucker for fast, in-shape men.
He was 3rd AG in a race with more than 1600 competitors.
I also watched from my perch as my family swam, collected seashells, rode motorcycles and rested.
I admit it, though, I did get in one little ride.This is sunrise in Chatham, taken from astride Mrs. Z.
It was a lovely week.And now I am home.
Today I went for a run in the 95 degree heat and humidity. It was ugly. I was sweaty and disgusting 2 minutes into the run.
However, I will say that although I felt disgusting and was moving a bit like an overweight slug, I got some serious attention today.
It was hot and I wore just a bra and hot shorts. I never do this. But it was HOT, so off the shirt went. I am an old lady, and my thought, I believe, was who gives a fuck. I did not realize that just wearing a bra and little shorts is the key to receiving catcalls, however. Now I know.
A group of construction workers paving the road stopped, watched me run by, and then began applauding. I kid you not. I wanted to stop and say thank you--that really there's nothing better than that when you are 39 and have three kids and the stretch marks to prove it.
Later in my run I passed some guys doing lawn work and one of the men stopped as I ran by. He waited until I was in front of him and then said in a loud, deep voice-- Thank you-- and tipped his baseball cap.
Jesus. Am I hot or what?
The correct response, by the way, is YES, of course you are. :)
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