Thug Mama Cyclist Meets the Yodeling Mountain Goat

Have you seen that movie Hoodwinked? Well, if you're not a parent, probably not. It's actually pretty damned cute for a kid's movie, but the part that seems relevant today is a song yodeled by a banjo-playing mountain goat with removable horns whom a witch has cursed to only be able to sing, not talk (yeah, the movie's strange.) The chorus goes something like:

Be prepared, be prepared,
This lesson must be shared,
Be prepared, be prepared,
And unless you got a spare,
You got one life, so handle it with care!

I obviously forgot this lesson this week. You see, there was this cycling time trial Tuesday night. And though I would've liked to have been prepared, I really wasn't (see previous post about three-ring circus, I was still making pizzas ten minutes before throwing my bike in the car to head out to the course.) But life lessons have a great way of coming around to kick you in the arse when you're not paying attention.

With triathlons, I'm almost always prepared these days. First of all, I've been doing them for over twenty years now, so I sort of know what I'm doing. Secondly, my uber-geek nature took over years ago and created spreadsheets for every conceivable aspect of triathlon racing, from what to buy in the week before the race to what to pack for each aspect of the transition area. I print out my sheets, check the little boxes, and I'm squared away. When it comes to TTs though, I'm not nearly that organized. On the surface it seems much simpler: one sport, one bicycle, some shoes, a helmet, show up and ride. No wetsuit, no changing, running shoes. Easy, right?

It started earlier in the day when I realized I forgot to change the battery in my bike computer. Took care of that, but it put my whole day behind schedule. By the time I was throwing the bike in the car, I realized I didn't change my wheels, so I threw those in too. Got to the registration just slightly late, but got signed up and got my start time. Set to work changing wheels. It's damned cold outside. Realized I forgot to throw in the bag with my warmup clothes, but an old black hoodie sweatshirt of hubby's takes most of the chill off even if I look like a thug. Get my wheels on and take 'em for a little test spin. Damn, it seems like I'm going really fast but I chalk that up to a little pre-race adrenaline and forget about it. Don't have time to throw the bike on the trainer and also realize my pre-ride nutrition was in the bag with my warmup clothes - at home. Eat Trader Joe's gingersnaps by the handful from a bucket in the car (sometimes it's useful being a mom, there's always food in the minivan if you look hard enough.)

Looking around, there's lots of really serious and professional-looking cyclists warming up on their fluid trainers, in with nice long-sleeved skin-tight thermal jerseys, disk wheels and those funky aero-helmets that look like something a Sith Lord might don for a night out on the town. Meanwhile, here I am, gangster-mama eating her kids' gingersnaps on the tailgate of her minivan. But no time to worry about my public image, they're calling my number.

Now comes the part I've really been fearing: the standing start. You might think that someone with a background in skydiving, motorcycle riding, and other assorted dangerous occupations would not be as big of a chickenshit as I am, but you'd be wrong. The one and only other time I've done a TT, I backed out of the standing start at the last second and took off by pushing myself with one foot repeatedly like a total idiot. This time though, I got tough and went through with it, and I was off. But my complete and total lack of preparation made this race a very long and hard one.

Mentally, I was off of my game from the first mile. I wasn't warmed up enough, hadn't had time to jump on my trainer, had gotten chilled from the breeze blowing through the cotton sweatshirt, and the gingersnaps were sitting a bit hard in the ol' stomach. Still, I was making some really good time, or so I thought. My speedometer was going crazy: 24 mph in the first few miles alone. But then I looked at the mileage and knew something was wrong. I was in the wrong place to have put so many miles on already. Eventually it hit me: I changed the battery in my bike computer, and that wiped out my settings. The computer is automatically set for 700 wheels and I ride 650s. Crap. So much for my blistering speed.

Now let me explain something. For the kind of geeky brain I've got, numbers are everything. I can't live without my numbers. I dream in Sudoku. I was a Vulcan in a former life. So I'm out on the course without Any Meaningful Numbers. Except for my total time. If I hadn't had that, I might've really gone crazy. From there on out, time just spiraled out into the long kind of misery that every athlete has endured sooner or later. Nothing feels right, the universe is pissing on you, and you just have to gut it out. I eventually crossed the finish line 30 seconds slower than the last time I did this (and I definitely should be faster).

So I felt kinda demoralized by the whole thing, and not even my nutty tri friends suggesting a brick run after the TT could cheer me up. I ran in my thug sweatshirt and a black watch cap of my hubby's that was in the back of the van, while the cyclists heading home goggled at us setting out on a run. Since that evening, I've been really dwelling on how much of a mental difference it made to be completely unprepared to race. And that mental difference carried itself over into my athletic performance, making me slower than I knew I could go.

Today I looked up my time on the results page on the web and was moping about how bad it was when my hubby pointed out that really, I came in 2nd in the Cat4 Women, and I was only about 30 seconds behind the woman who finished 1st in the Cat1/2s. Even with the Thug Mama duds, the lack of aero anything (except bars), no coach, and no warmup, I didn't do as badly as I thought. My friend and teammate Megan really rocked and rolled, beating all the other women entirely. And she did it all without even a disc wheel or Sith Lord helmet. She is really inspiring.

So next week, the hubby has offered to come chair my pit crew. Get me warmed up, set up, nutritioned up, and see what I can do when I'm feeling more like my usual self. Next time I'm going to listen to that damned yodeling mountain goat, next time I'm going to Be Prepared.

Welcome To My Three-Ring Circus

In ring #1, we have Robin the triathlete. She did a time trial last night with some of her teammates and they did a brick run afterwards (while cyclists going home looked at them like they were nuts), and then she gave them a ride home. The back of her minivan looks like a bomb went off in a bike store: wheels, trainers, shoes, helmets (some of which are not hers). Although she brought her bike in when she got home last night at 9:00 pm, it's now 9:30 in the morning and she's just realized that she has to put up the backseat in order to carpool everyone to Karate class by 10:00 am. She is frantically carrying biking gear into the garage and dumping it willy nilly.

In ring #2, we have Robin the homeschooling mom. Note: this is the same Robin that's in ring #1. She's busy making sure the kids are fed, they have their karate gis on, belts tied correctly, waterbottles in hand, and a bag with clothes to change into after karate. She also needs to bring along cloth grocery bags for shopping at Trader Joe's afterwards, and make sure she has playdate arrangements for the kids' afternoon, as well as time to shlep kid#2 to her horseback riding lesson shortly after lunch.

In ring#3, we have Robin yet again. This time it's Robin the urban homesteader and environmentalist. This is why she's carpooling to karate (when the weather is not so rainy, she'll be busy loading kids onto bicycles and making sure they have helmets, sunglasses, gloves, etc.). She's busy letting the adult chickens out of their coop for the morning, making sure the baby chickens have food and water. Oops, carrying all the biking gear into the garage has caused all the baby chickens (which currently live in a cage in the garage until it's warm enough for them to go outside for the day) to go nuts, so now that she's filling their feeder, they're busy popping up out of the cage and flapping around. She grabs a chicken with one hand and stuffs it back into the cage, then another, making mental note that they are now able to fly quite well, and moving cycling gear out of the way with her toes at the same time.

Usually, the three rings of my life run more or less seamlessly. I'm doing one thing or another, taking the kids someplace and then running or biking, or I'm home with the kids doing their stuff, or we're taking care of the animals together, or my hubby's home and that's when I exercise or whatever. But some days every ring has to be going at the same time, and there's just not enough of Robin to go around. This morning was just one of those times! And don't even get me going on what it felt like to have to complete dozens of punches in a torturous position known as Shiko Dachi while the sensei walked around with a bopper hitting you in the stomach and arms and shoulders to make sure everything is solid (it wasn't, my legs were quivering like jelly on a plate.)

Luckily, tomorrow is our day off from everything: all activities, places to be, things to do will cease. I will stay home, try to get the house straightened out, and dye easter eggs with the kids. Oh yeah, and bike. And run. And do it all again.

The Need For Speed

Can't help that blog title, we just watched Top Gun again, now that we've got our home projection system set up in our basement with surround sound speakers borrowed from my computer and all. That movie was my son's suggestion and it was a good one to christen the system with. You know, it doesn't matter how many times I've seen that movie, when the cheesy 80's music starts pumping and the afterburners fire up, I'm totally sucked in. And just for the record, the projector and screen are so totally cool when watched from our couch! I think I might never set foot in a movie theatre again.

But this week's been all about speed for me anyways. Not a big volume week, but I really hammered out some tough workouts (taking that meter all the way up to Agony) and I get to announce....

ta da da....

I set a PR.... in the POOL! After 20+ years of swimming, this kinda blew me away. But I think it's all those distance miles I piled on for IMFL last fall. My stroke felt so much more efficient after that and I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that once I started doing more intervals and speed work that I might end up faster. But countering that was the fact that my left shoulder has really been bugging me this week. I took a fall while running and went down pretty hard on my left wrist before I managed to pull my arms in and do a judo-style roll. The jolt traveled up through my poor wrist and up through my shoulder into my neck. All week I've been saying that I really should see my chiropractor, but just didn't manage to haul my butt down to his office, and have had shooting pains in my hand and elbow. So when Saturday's Masters workout showed up, I was feeling less than enthusiastic.

One thing I like about our new coach though is that he gives loooonnnnnggg warmups. Like a thousand yards, which is exactly my kind of warmup. By the time we get to the main set, I'm actually feeling like I can swim. This particular main set started with 800 yards freestyle, then went to 7x100 on a 1:30 interval, then 600 straight, then 5x100 and so on. The total at the end of the board was 5,000 yards! Which, if truth be told, I usually only swim once a year at our killer New Year's Day workout.

My friend The Barge was swimming over in the fast lane next to me, and he's usually just a tad faster (and he's aiming to swim the 1650 in close to a 1:21-1:22 split at a meet this month), so I figured I'd pace off of him. Unfortunately, what I didn't know when I started swimming is that he wasn't first in his lane. I was pacing off of Steve the Insanely Fast. He left me in the dust in the first 50, when I realized my mistake, and when I hit the first 100 and saw the clock read 1:16, I knew I was in big-time trouble. So I backed off and managed to come in at 10:40, which I have Never Swum in My Life. So I might not be as fast in a sprint as I was in college, but I am still picking up speed at distance and I am so excited about that!!!

In other news, I set a practice PR for a 5k run at 24:47. My run is my biggest limiter, so I've been hammering it pretty darned hard in the last two months and it looks like that's definitely paying off. I'm not setting any land speed records, but I'm hoping to get to the point where my run isn't just completely holding me back. If I can come anywhere close to this in May's sprint tri (which is debatable, because I think it's a hilly run following a hilly bike), it should really help my total time.

Best of all, that good hard swim somehow managed to fix my shoulder problem (which swimming often does for me) and I've been pain-free since Saturday now. I still might use it as an excuse to go get a good massage though.

The C & E People

When I was a kid, the minister in our church was a bit of a humorist. He was one of those pastors that knew how to bring laughter into a sermon at just the right place, and keep everyone engaged in what he was saying. I remember that he once poked a bit of fun at the full church on Easter Sunday by referring to much of the crowd as "C&E People" (those who only come to church on Christmas & Easter.)

I was reminded of that this week when I realized why the gym is feeling relatively calm and not so crowded these days. The New Years Resolutionists have departed once more. Anyone who goes to a gym regularly, year-round will understand what I mean. Like clockwork, right after New Years day, the Resolutionists will arrive in droves. They're often sporting brand new workout garb, holding shiny water bottles, their shoes are unscuffed. They're ready and raring to go. They're going to knock themselves into Denise Austin shape this year, or die trying. Some of them will fall prey to the over-do-it-itis. They'll lift or aerobicize themselves into an overuse injury within a matter of weeks. Others will simply fall off of the bandwagon when the newness and excitement wear off. This is also why I find so much good athletic wear in brand-new condition at thrift stores.

Of course, there will be another surge once the radios and TVs start reminding people that it is Almost Swimsuit Season. But that one will be smaller and shorter-lived than the first. It seems that good intentions at the start of the year trump even the thought of squeezing oneself back into a bikini when it comes to motivation.

As perhaps my childhood pastor did, I have to scratch my head and wonder at what makes the difference. What makes some people stick with it year in and year out? What keeps them coming when they feel like sticking their head under the covers and going back to sleep when that alarm goes off? Why do some pairs of shoes and running shorts get worn until they fall apart, while others end up at Goodwill, unscathed? I'm sure the answer is different for everyone, but in general I think that it takes longer than one might think to change old habits into new ones, just as it takes longer than people might think to change in an out-of-shape body for a stronger, fitter one. Try too hard or too fast or place your expectations too high at the outset, and disappointment is probably going to be the outcome.

So those of us who are still there, at the gym or on the running trail, in the pool or on the bike, know that we're in it for the long haul. It's not an immediate size 6 that we're hoping for, but a strong, fit, fast body for the rest of our lives. There are lots of side-benefits that keep us coming back as well: the people we meet, the smiles we share, the feeling we get after we've pushed ourselves really hard and every fiber in every muscle is quivering in response, the fact that we can run around on a field with our kids for hours and not get winded. But I think it's the long-term outlook that makes the difference. A spiritual journey cannot be accomplished in two brief stops in a church a year, and likewise a bodily transformation won't occur with a couple of bursts of good intentions. Any step one takes has to build on the steps that have come before it.

In any case, I'm not going to complain about it. The lap lanes are now empty, there's no waiting lists for the treadmills, and there are plenty of towels in the locker room instead of the depleted stacks of six weeks ago. The rest of us can enjoy it, at least until next year.

Best of the Week

Favorite Food this Week: My son's muffins. He made chocolate chip for himself, but saved some batter out (I'm not a chocolate in baked goods fan) and put in cranberries and walnuts for me. Yum! I got these cool flexible muffin pans that make getting them out soooooo much easier, and the small size fits in our toaster oven so the kids can easily cook with them.

Favorite Workout: I read on some pro triathlete's blog about doing 300's in the pool as a distance workout. I did 12x300 yesterday evening, descending them in sets of three. I also made each set of three faster than the previous one. This was a killer main set and coming after a longish run I slept about 10 hours straight last night after getting home!

Favorite Sports Quote: From a local champion master's swimmer: "You've got to turn the pain meter up to Agony at least once a week." (that's what that 12x300 in the pool was doing for me last night!)

Favorite Music to Run to: I popped Dire Straits Brothers in Arms into my iPod this week and remembered all over again why that's such a great album. I used one of the songs "Why Worry" for the memorial slideshow for our dog. That song was playing in the car when I took my last pet to be put to sleep, almost 20 years ago, and I've never forgotten it.


I'm still getting what my friend K. calls "sneaker waves" of sadness, and so have the kids. My son M. broke down the other day when he burnt a pancake (we have always called those "Sabre pancakes" because we'd feed them to Sabre, who eagerly waited for them.) So that brings me to my last favorite of the week:

Favorite non-sports quote: "When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." - Kahil Gilbran

Proud To Be Wearing This Shirt

Twenty-one years ago, in 1986, I walked into a local bike shop named Collins to buy my first road bike. My college swim coach had dictated that everyone on the team would do a triathlon for cross-training, and the only bike I had was a one-speed Schwinn cruiser that weighed about forty pounds and you braked by pedaling backwards. I had an extremely limited living-on-Top-Ramen student's budget, and I dropped almost 10% of my entire year's income on a maroon Peugot 12-speed. That bike saw me complete my first triathlon, and many others over the years (this photo is from 1989 in The Dalles, Oregon), it saw my love of the sport of triathlon take hold and grow. It took me on my first bike tour down the Oregon coast and through the Redwoods of California. Those of you who wholeheartedly love bicycling will understand the fondness I still have in my memory for that first bike. It took me almost twenty years to get rid of it, even though I'd moved on to a carbon fiber triathlon ride. But eventually I found a worthy place for it to travel on: first a friend who used it in her first triathlon, and then to a teenager who was doing a bike tour with the Superheroes, folks who do long-distance cycling tours in order to do good deeds along the way.

Fast-forward to the year 2000 and I have moved back to Eugene after over a decade of living in the Seattle area. We now have two kids and a primary focus of returning to this area was to ditch all the car-commuting and get back on two wheels again for basic transportation. We all troop down to Collins and they set us up with a Burley trailer for kid-hauling. The next year, we're back to pick up a Burley Piccolo tag-a-long bike for our now four-year-old son to ride on. A couple more years and he has mastered a two-wheeler. We return to pick out his first bicycle, an outstanding moment in any kids' life.

One of the things I like best about supporting your local bike shop, especially if it's a good one like Collins, is that you get more than a bicycle. You get the service and the helpfulness that people who are passionate about bikes can provide. When we took our son there to pick out his birthday bike, they treated him like Lance Armstrong himself had strolled through the door. They made sure he had just the right bike, it was fitted well, and he was looking sharp in his new helmet. He had a grin from ear to ear when he left with his shiny new blue bicycle. My husband got the same treatment when he picked out his Bianchi road bike, and again we were happy to support our local bike shop, knowing the excellent treatment we'd gotten there over the years.













Since then, they've maintained our town and road bikes, and shipped my tri bike off to Florida for me. They've consulted on gear, and didn't even ban us from the shop when our young daughter once accidentally tipped over an entire row of bikes (one of those freeze-frame parenting moments you'd love to forget). So all of this adds up to why I'm proud to be wearing their team jersey in the group photo above. They're not only a nice bunch of folks to ride with, but a place I'm happy to have available to me in our town. With the advent of internet shopping and the big box stores where a "bike" can be had for $100, it's sometimes easy to forget that there's more to buying a bike than just pointing and clicking, or going and picking one out of a rack of hundreds. A bike is a long-term purchase, an important conveyance and even an affair of the heart. It's good to have someone around to help you make a wise choice, and to keep you in good running form. I have a 20+ year relationship with my local bike store, and I'm happy to be sporting their logo.

Feeling Blue Today

Blue belted, that is. I got my belt yesterday in karate class. I was really nervous for the test because we had to do this kata: Basai Dai and had essentially just learned the last few moves in the two weeks prior to the test. Of course, I remembered that just fine and messed up on my first block, probably the easiest thing on the whole test! It's a great lesson though in staying focused, not letting your problems or mistakes overwhelm you, and carrying on. I find that so many of the things I learn from doing triathlons help me in my martial arts practice and vice versa. They complement each other very nicely (except for the fact that I could barely swim this week, because I did my moves so strongly for the test that every muscle in my shoulders has turned into giant knots.)

I took this photo as part of my Flickr 365 Days of Self-Portraits challenge. A group of us from a parenting board are doing it together and it's been fun and challenging. I'll probably write more on that later as it has definitely been enlightening to look at yourself so often and from so many different angles. Very introspective experience.

Looking Back and Letting Go

One by one, the objects and pieces of clothing that accompanied me on my Ironman journey have been returned to regular service. The red long-sleeved shirt that ran across the finish line with me is back in my rainy-day stack in the closet, my hat, shorts, and socks (the ones marked with my name and race number) have all seen many runs since last November. My shoes finally gave out and became retired to regular around-town shoes, but eventually they'll be too worn down for even this out-to-pasture duty and then I'll be faced with what to do with them. It seems almost sacreligious to toss in the dumpster the very shoes that covered my feet for so many long and torturous miles. I also haven't been able to bring myself to remove the number from my racing helmet, though that day is coming too as the first races of the season are less than a month away.

I did finally order this video, shortly before the offer to do so expired, and I'm really glad that I did. The kids enjoy watching themselves and we all got a laugh out of the dubbed in "You Are An Ironman!" on the audio track. In reality, there were so many of us hitting the finish line at once, he never announced my name at all, nor did he make that famous pronouncement. I had to become an Ironman in anonyminity.

I may take my shoes to the only fitting resting spot I can think of, Pre's Rock, where many runners and athletes leave race numbers, shoes, and medals at the spot where Steve Prefontaine died. The number will come off of my helmet and a new number for a future race will take it's place. It's time to move on.

Now Here's A Quandary

My alma mater, the Oregon Ducks, are advancing to the basketball semifinals in St. Louis. They've won more games than any Oregon squad since my mother was in diapers (literally) and of course the entire town is erupting in Green & Gold hysteria.

Now my husband is a pilot and airplane mechanic, working with corporate jets. These high-speed conveyances are typically owned by businesses and business owners around town, the kinds that have a spare million or two to drop on an airplane, and of course many of them are serious Duck fanatics, which means... you guessed it... many of them are flying to St. Louis. If the Ducks keep advancing, my husband the pilot will continue to be absent for much of the remainder of the month.

So, do I cheer for the Ducks or not? That, my friends, is the question.

The Couple That Runs, Bikes, and Swims Together...

...stays together.This weekend will be a celebration of a lucky thirteen - thirteen years of marriage, that is. We're going to actually spend a night away together, something we haven't done since our first kid was born over ten years ago. What will we do with ourselves? My mom suggested a can of whipped cream. Somehow, that's not something you expect your own mother to say... eeek. I won a night at the local Hilton in a drawing this winter, and one of our favorite bands is playing a benefit for Habitat for Humanity, so we've got a great night planned out.

My hubby accompanied me on my long run this weekend, ten miles. What a guy. He hasn't been running over six or seven typically, but he is one fit dude (not to mention a bit faster than me, so slowing him down he can go forever. This is the man who unadvisedly did a marathon with only having done one run of even 14 miles in training). When we get to do a long run together, we connect in ways it's hard to explain. Yeah, we're having conversation, but we have that over tea and coffee in the morning, or after the kids go to sleep at night. There's something that bonds a couple together when they share their passions in life. When my husband wanted to ride 100 miles to the coast with some friends to celebrate his 40th birthday, I was able to hop on my bike and go along (never mind I hadn't ridden over 65 or 70 that year). When he saw how passionate I was about triathlons, he did one (not his cup of tea, but my hat is off to him for trying it out).

We met through a shared passion for skydiving and flying (despite my claims that I would never date another flyboy or crazy skydiver), and over the years have discovered our mutual loves of hiking, mountain climbing, travel, and sports. We've played on volleyball teams together, I've watched him knock himself out in raquetball courts, he's stood by my side through many an early morning triathlon swim start. He borrows my motorcycles (and even took one completely apart when I was pregnant, so I couldn't ride it, the big overprotective goof.) I know many couples who each go their separate ways when it comes time to pursue the things that they love to do, we're so lucky that so many of our passions intersect and we've had so many opportunities to do things together.

Of course, there's many more reasons that I love him other than just our shared interests. He's a man of integrity, good humor, the best father I know, and honest as the day is long (sometimes to everyone's frustration. Never ask this man if he likes your new hairstyle unless you want the real answer.) He has the best laugh in the universe (maybe challenged now by our son), and any movie you go see is ten times funnier if he's sitting by your side. When he laughs, you can't help but laugh yourself. He's got his quirks and moments when he makes me want to tear my hair out (how did this introvert marry a man who never stops talking? A man who, when he was a kid, had the nickname Ratchetjaw, a man whose children inherited this trait so our house sometimes sounds like the Tower of Babble???) When he gets a wild hair about something, he charges forward like a bull on a street in Pamplona. That's probably why our entire backyard looks like it's been attacked by giant moles (his drain pipe retrofitting "project".) When he says "Honey, I've been thinking about something..." I feel a small pit of dread in my stomach because he's about to take something apart or do something crazy.

All in all though, I'm happy to whisk this guy off for an overnight of fun and dancing (oh yeah, he's the best dancer ever) and raise a can of whipped cream to thirteen more years like the last ones.

The Early Bird Gets the Tough Workout

So I got to torture.... er... coach the Master's Swim group this morning, which ordinarily would be a fun thing to do. Except that they practice at 5:00 am. I swore after college that I would never set foot in a pool at that ungodly hour of the morning ever again, but the main coach needed a sub, so there I was setting my alarm for 4:15. Actually, it feels surprisingly good to get up that early, and if I knew I could get to bed at a reasonable hour, I'd consider doing it for the long haul. But I know better than that.

I swam last night after teaching my Swim Conditioning class, and decided to figure out a new tough distance set to inflict on the guys this morning, and this is what I came up with for the main set:

3 x (100, 200, 300: decrease your 100 splits each time). That means the 100 splits in the 200 are faster than your first 100, and the splits in the 300 are faster still. If you really want to give yourself a run for your money, try descending the 3 overall repetitions as well (make your last 300 faster than your first one). And if you want to completely kick yourself in the butt, try to keep your stroke count below a certain number for the whole set, emphasizing holding good form while increasing your speed.

So there was some moaning and groaning when we got to this set, but I jumped in and swam it as well (after swimming last night, which was quite a novel experience as I usually don't swim two 4,000 yard workouts within 12 hours). The guys in my lane were leaving on a 1:30 interval which completely kicked me, so I'm feeling pleasantly wiped out right about now. So I'm not sure who inflicted what on whom, but I thought I'd share my killer workout here. I'm pretty sure this would be a good one to throw into any swim set aimed at increasing speed over distance.

In the Company of Men

So I was sitting in the hot tub after our Master's swim workout, completely surrounded by men. Now I'm not complaining, but it's not the first time in my life I've wondered how I always seem to end up in the company of men. Of course, sometimes it is my interests that bring me into the all-male circles. If you're piloting an airplane or riding your vintage British motorcycle, chances are that your companions will be mostly male. All the years I was skydiving, there was about a one-to-three female to male ratio, and even at Ironman Florida, I think it was about a one-to-four ratio of entrants, though things have been changing in the triathlon world, especially in shorter events. One of my favorite Olympic-distance triathlons tipped the balance last year, finally having more female entrants than males.

It's not just a numbers game though, though I know that's a contributing factor. There's something comfortable about hanging out with men that I don't always get around women. My college roommates were all men, with one disastrous exception that ended with my female roommates complaining that we didn't sit down and have dinner together and "talk" enough, that I didn't want to go shopping with them that weekend, that whether or not we got matching towels for the bathroom was not something I worried about. My male roommates were more concerned with who would lose the coin toss to go out in the rain for beer and chips, or where we were going to go on our weekend road trip. I think somewhere along the line, I missed out on receiving the instruction manual for caring about hairstyles, manicures, shoe shopping, celebrity gossip, or who is angry with whom about what.

Becoming an athlete and then a mom has given me an opportunity to meet more women that share my interests and perspectives. My friends are an eclectic group, not all athletes, but mostly women who have serious interests of their own. Best of all, they are secure in themselves, something I think that women in our culture largely struggle with. It sometimes gives me a feeling that I am walking on eggshells, because the slightest word or misstep can cause ripples of hurt feelings that then move outwards in ever-larger circles until the repurcussions feel overwhelming. You can tell a guy friend "Dude, that is the ugliest shirt I have ever seen," or "you're getting really grey on top" but say that to most women and you've just signed up for seven years of hell. A male friend of mine recently came back from vacationing in Europe and was joking about how much weight he'd gained, patting his slightly-rounded belly and laughing while his friends ribbed him about living the easy life and abandoning our morning workouts. It's a scene I can't even fathom seeing women play out. If a woman says she's gained a bit of weight, her friends are all supposed to reassure her that she looks terrific, not laugh about how fat she's getting. For all of women's lib, the female gender can still be decimated by five pounds of lobster bisque.

Sitting in the hot tub, listening to my friends whoop and grin over our team's latest basketball victory (Go Ducks, Pac-10 champs!!!), I had to smile. While I adore my female friends, especially my bestest pal K., I'm also grateful for the men in my life. They've taught me so much (and not just about clutch plates and free throws), but about life from a different perspective. And after all, I'm married to one, and trying my best to raise my son to be one too.

Just a Spoonful of Sugar Helps the Medicine Go Down

I was whistling that song from Mary Poppins yesterday as I prepared to face the "medicine" (in this case, hill repeats). I'd been chatting with a local running coach and he gave me a tip on a local hill with a reasonable grade and the right distance to the top for hill repeats. It's not something I'd pop out of bed just raring to do though ("hey, what do I want to do today? Oh, I know, I'll go run up and down a hill five times!"), so when I got to the base of the hill after a mile or so of warming up, I was pleased to see a trail going up the side away from where the road goes. This little hill is right in the middle of the city, but it's an enclave of big Douglas Firs and small songbirds, so the trail made what would've been a fairly grueling haul up the road into a shaded traverse, serenaded by the winter wrens.

Along the way, I saw some of the spring's first robins (my namesakes always make me smile), the wrens (tiny little ping-pong ball-sized birds with lungs and an aria-like song to make an opera diva jealous), lots of chickadees flitting around, a rufous-sided towhee, a thrush, and a pair of bald eagles circling above! I did manage to make it up and down the hill several times before heading back the way I came, and it wasn't nearly as dreadful as I thought it would be (and maybe it even made me just a little bit faster).

The Spoonful of Sugar technique is a great way to turn any workout from something you dread into something you look forward to. Whether it's a stop at a favorite coffee shop on the way home, a soak in a hot tub, an MP3 player full of some favorite songs, or a trail that takes you through an area of distracting natural beauty, there's a lot of ways to make every workout a positive one. Remind me of this at 5:00 am tomorrow when I get up to swim...

Meditations On the Theme of A Race Schedule

Sometimes, it's damn hard to be married to a pilot and mechanic. Our conversations about triathlons go something like this:

Me: So, I've got some ideas about what races I want to do this year.
Hubby: Okay, what are the dates?
Me: Well, the first one is in May...
Hubby: Oh, May's pretty bad. I've got the big maintenance coming up on the Falcon 10.
Me (grits teeth): Okay, well the next one is in June
Hubby: Yeah, you know I'll be gone most of June to the maintenance facility in Michigan
Me: (jaw clenching, voice still calm though): Okay, I've got one in July
Him: I'll probably be going back to Michigan sometime around then
Me: (molar surfaces ground to dust): And the half-Ironman I want to do is in September
Him: September is iffy, just in case the airplane comes back late from maintenance...
Me: So, let me get this straight. Most of the summer and the fall are out.
Him: Yep, that's about it. After September looks pretty good though...

Um, yeah. I proposed a plan in which for every summer race I had to miss, I got to go to a race in the Southern Hemisphere, but he didn't exactly jump at it. In reality, I'll probably get to do all my desired races, even if it involved backup childcare plans and lining up relatives just in case he gets called out.

So without further adieu, here is what I'm hoping to do this year:

April: OBRA Time Trial series - flat 15 mile cycling TT, my previous PR (the one and only time I did it!) was 41:30, at about 21.5 mph. I think I can do much better than that this year!

May: Hill Climb series if I'm gutsy enough. A TT straight up a local ugly hill.
Hagg Lake Sprint Tri, USAT Nat'l Age Group Qualifier (the last one of the season, and I didn't do any qualifiers last year).

June: If I manage to qualify (which I have no idea how hard that will be) Age Group Nationals (also at Hagg Lake, OR). Olympic distance. If not, I'll choose another Oly distance race.

July: A new distance, the TriAmerica race at Cottage Grove, OR. 2k Swim (1.2m), 60k bike (37.3m), 15k run (9.3m). This looks really intriguing, a nice stop between Olympic and half-Iron distance.

September: Black Diamond Half Iron, Enumclaw, WA. With a slightly longer bike than most half-Irons, and probably-cool weather, this will be a good race for me.

Anything else I might get to do will be icing on the cake, but I'm hoping to at least hit these races.

Battle of the Sexes

I almost didn't go swimming Saturday morning, but I'm very glad I hauled myself out of bed, blearily got on my bicycle, and made my way to the pool because we have a new woman in our Master's group! That might not sound like such a big deal, but for years I have been the only regular woman to swim in the faster lanes in the Master's group at my pool. The guys I swim with are all terrific, don't get me wrong, and I keep them in line as best I can [wink] but it's great to have another gal around too.

So for the last two weeks, I've had to stop taking my iron pills so my doctor could run some additional tests to help get my anemia figured out. This has left me low in red blood cells and gasping for breath any time I push myself too hard. I was hoping to find a nice long distance workout and a few big guys in my lane that I could draft behind so I could keep my heartrate well below the anaerobic threshold. But of course, our coach had other ideas.

We did something he calls "Aussie Relays". Two two-person teams in each lane, each team starts on one end of the pool. The first swimmer of each team starts at the same time from opposite ends of the pool and does a 50 as fast as they can. When they get back, their teammate leaves for their 50 yards. Repeat twenty times!! The object is not to let the other team catch or lap you. I was paired with the new gal, a triathlete who looked pretty darned speedy. We were paired up against a couple of guys, one a triathlete and one other guy who is more of a sprinter than the rest of us. I knew it would be a fairly even match-up, so we prepared to do battle (remember that part about me wanting to avoid my anaerobic threshold - hah!) We were so closely matched that for the first 18 fifties, our pairs were flip-turning at almost the same time at opposite ends. It came down to the last two laps, but endurance won out over raw power and us girls took the lead by just a couple of seconds. On the way to such a victory, I just about busted my lungs open, but it gave us razzing rights over the guys for at least ten minutes in the hot tub afterwards. Actually, it was a great match-up because it pushed us all to go our hardest, and I'm sure that was the objective.

I hope the new gal shows up again, I know the guys always swim harder when I'm there for some ancient male-female competitive reason, and it's fun to not be the only girl on the block(s).

Best and Worsts of the Week

Best New Food: Trader Joe's Turkey Meatloaf, in a sandwich with marinara sauce on whole-grain bread. After I stopped being a vegetarian a year or so ago, I still haven't remembered all of the great non-veg foods out there. I haven't had meatloaf sandwiches in 20 years, and this one is pretty darn good. I think I have to learn how to make it.

Worst Food of the Week: Pizza. We hardly ever order out, but it sounded good. Until after about a slice and a half, then it just wasn't all that appealing anymore. The rest is still in the fridge.

Best Song to Run To: Johnny 99 by Los Lobos

Worst Song to Run To: Clocks by Coldplay. I swear, have no idea how this got on my iPod.

Best Workout of the Week: Tempo Run on the river path. Fastest tempo run in years, and I didn't even feel all that hashed afterwards. Plus, it didn't rain, sleet, or snow (a bonus given the recent weather.)

Worst Workouts of the Week: All the ones that I've been rained on, sleeted on, hailed on, or snowed on (3 out of 4 runs so far!). I'm getting a bit tired of this weather. It could warm up a few degrees and I wouldn't complain.

Best Quote from the Kids: From my daughter "A baby chicken is the next best thing to a hug" (we got our new fluffy chicks this week from the Feed-n-Seed store.)

Worst Quote from a Kid: "Mommmmmmmmmm! Noggin (cat) is throwing up on the couch! Again!"

Best Beer of the Week: Organic Chocolate Stout. Mmmmm, chocolate and dark beer all in one. I can't drink too much of it, but it's sure yummy.

Worst Beer of the Week: My hubby bought Corona. Again.

Appointment With the Wrecking Ball

That's how my last week has felt, like impending doom is crashing down on top of me and I can see it coming mid-swing, powerless to stop it. My good friend Sabre is gone. He passed very peacefully, the vet barely had even got any of the IV into him, he picked up his head and looked at my husband and I, we told him it was okay to let go and he put his head down and just looked like he went peacefully to sleep, at home, in our arms. I'm sad now, and the house feels so empty, but the horrible waiting for this day is at least gone.

I now know why for millennia, people have felt that the seat of human emotion is in the heart. When you ache with sadness, it feels like a giant fist is squeezing the inside of your chest, and then later when all of the crying is done, it just feels empty in there. If another person tells me they know exactly how I'm feeling because they lost their pet rat, or a cat that they had for two years I'm going to scream. I know everyone's grief is different, but we like to believe that our individual grief is unique. I will never utter those words to anyone ever in my life: I know how you feel. No one does. And yes, he was a dog not a person, but Sabre was a part of the fabric of every day's existance. He went everywhere with us, got up with me every morning to open up the chicken coop and do the outdoor rounds, closed everything down at night. He went to work with my husband, went to homeschool events with myself and the kids. He wasn't out in a kennel somewhere or tied to a tree, he was right there by our sides, every step of the day. If we went down into the living room to play a game, he limped down the stairs, even as old and gimpy as he was, to be beside us. When the kids were little, if we left them napping somewhere, he stayed by their sides until they woke up, when he woofed for us softly. If every person on earth had 1/10th the goodness and heart that he had, the world would be a much, much better place.

Through this all, I'm grateful to have my exercise, my routines in place. They can be lifesavers for working through life's toughest emotions. I can envision sitting on the couch curled into a ball for the next year. But my training gets me up and going, gets me out on the running path, makes me run like all of my grief is chasing me and I can't let it catch me up. I clocked the fastest tempo run of my life this week, but the grief still caught me. I swam endless mindless laps, letting the water hold me up and soothe me. I got on my bike on the trainer and had an hour-long conversation with my son, letting us share our feelings through this hard time.

Now all of the waiting is over and the life has to go on. We drove to Portland yesterday to see the Quest for Immortality exhibit, a presentation of Egyptian artifacts, largely on the theme of death, rebirth, afterlife, and the struggles the ancient Eygptians had in coming face to face with the concept of what happens when the soul departs. We went to the Feed-n-Seed store this morning and got our spring chicks, symbol of new life and a reminder that birth and death are constants. I'll miss my old pup terribly, this house has a quietness to it that underlays all the noise of the kids (and peeping of baby chickens). Think I'll head out for a run, now that the rain has gone.

Perspective

I went for an absolutely dreadful run yesterday. It was my long run day, 36 degrees and raining outside with wind whipping the rain into my face seemingly from every direction. I stepped in a puddle almost immediately and had wet socks, got a blister underneath my toe that split my toe open. I only discovered this later when I was scrubbing my foot with my lovely Grapefruit Chamomile sea salt scrub that I use after running and realized I'd just poured salt into an open wound - yeeeeow! Not recommended.

The run just never materialized into anything resembling fun, and I was starting to feel pretty damn sorry for myself when I passed this spot on the running trail, near the University football stadium and was suddenly taken back over twenty years to a November day when I was in college. On the way to classes in the nearby art buildings, I heard something that sounded like gunfire. We later found out that a student had taken up a position in the stadium with a sniper rifle and was firing at people. He shot and killed an Olympic runner who had also competed on the University Track team: Chris Brathwaite, near the spot I was running past yesterday.

I hadn't thought of that name in decades, but it came immediately to mind. He was a sprinter, originally from Trinidad & Tobago who had competed in two Olympic games. It's not unusual when you're out running on the paths in our town to be overtaken by Olympians past and present. I've been blown past by some of the best runners in the world out there: Marla Runyan, Alberto Salazar, and Mary Decker-Slaney to name a few. Twenty-three years ago, Chris Brathwaite was just out doing exactly what I was doing yesterday (only probably a good bit faster): going for a jog on the beautiful bark trails envisioned by Steve Prefontaine that pass along the river. He didn't know it would be his last run, and probably never knew what hit him.

From that point forward in my run, I vowed to stop whining and letting the weather get me down. I had let the rain bring my run down to a drudgery, but I squared up my shoulders, concentrated on my form, and tried my best to ignore the cold. A funny thing happened: my run got a whole lot better. It felt more like a gift to be out there running, even in the freezing rain, than a chore. As the legendary Prefontaine once said "To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift." I had definitely not been giving my best, but the memory of Chris Brathwaite's last run on that spot had brought back how precious it is to have this gift at all. As I've been struggling this last week with appreciating the gift of the last few days of my dog's life, this lesson seems to be one I'm destined to be presented with again and again.

This is not to say that I hope fervently that my next long run is not going to be accomplished in sleet and freezing rain, but even if that's the way the cards fall, I'll try to keep yesterday's lesson in mind.

Hanging In There

Thanks to all for the kind words and thoughts on my dog. He's still with us, possibly until tomorrow (the uncertainty is the worst part right now, trying to find a time when the vet can be here, my husband can get off of work, and the kids can have a friend's house to go to.)

In the meantime, my sister came to visit this weekend and we had a great time. I went swimming with her and realized again what a natural athlete she is. She hasn't swum in a year and she got in the pool and knocked off laps faster than many of the Master's swimmers and triathletes in adjacent lanes. Must be something in the ol' genes (and her feet aren't even a size 11 like mine)! She and I have done triathlon relays and triathlons together (including one notable one in Seattle with absolutely pouring down rain in August where we wore garbage bags around the race start for an hour or so.) and maybe we'll get to do that again, she's a bunch of fun to hang out with.

Saying Goodbye To A Good Friend (And Running Partner)

I used to have this great running partner, the best kind: energetic, fun, always up for a few miles no matter what the weather. He was young, just a teenager, and he could literally run circles around me, but he never minded that he was so much faster than I was, and I always felt great when I ran with him. Now he's an old man, almost 100, and he can barely limp around the block. His hearing is going, his eyesight too, hips are arthritic and mostly he sleeps. When he sees me pick up my running shoes, he sometimes gets momentarily excited, forgetting that he'd be wheezing before we hit the corner stop sign.

There are few beings on this earth as unerringly kind, forgiving, loving, protective, humbling, thoughtful, and faithful as my friend Sabre. I love him so much. The hardest thing about loving a dog though is that their life is lived on fast-forward. Just as you get used to their puppy antics, they're heading into middle age, and by the time you take for granted that they'll run another 10-miler tomorrow, old age is just around the corner. Then it's here.

Today we took Sabre to the beach for the last time. I have to admit that I've been secretly hoping he'd die peacefully in his sleep, because this is a decision I didn't want to have to make for him, but the time has come. My husband got him for my birthday the year we met, and that was fourteen years ago. We have had Sabre as our constant companion for our entire married life, and the kids have always known him as their friend and protector. If you ever wanted to see an agitated dog, all you had to do was have one kid running in one direction and one in the other. As a herding dog, Sabre's one life mandate was "look after your flock" and he would anxiously sprint from one to the other if they were ever separated. On family hikes with friends, he would constantly run from the front of the line of hikers to the back, ceaselessly ensuring that we were all safe and accounted for. Though he now walks with difficulty, he still followed the kids everywhere they went on the beach today, no matter how long it took him. Even now, I think it is his noble sense of duty that keeps him hanging on, long past when it seems that his body should be giving up. I'm pretty sure that in his doggy mind, he's convinced that he simply must look after us or some great harm will fall upon us. He has kept us safe for all of these years, and sometimes when I look in his eyes I know he will not let go, no matter how much pain he is in, if only for this reason.

So the time is upon us when we have to make the decision to say goodbye. There is not a dog on this planet who has had a better life, been more loved, gone to more beaches and forests and snowy mountains, camped with and been loved by more kids and adults, been cherished more by his family. If you look back through our family photo albums he is a constant, always by our sides. He's lying next to the kids as they read a book on the couch, he's next to the campfire or walking next to us, no matter where we are. Sabre's spirit has touched everyone he has met. Even walking him down the street, people would stop and comment on what a kind face he had, what a gentle spirit. If you are reading this blog and have a prayer or a good thought to send this way, let it be that I have the strength to say goodbye to a good friend who deserves an easy and peaceful end to a life well lived.

Mind Games

I did all the right things yesterday morning: ate a good breakfast and got my running gear together with plenty of time to spare. The weather looked terrible so I even took the time to hunt down my ear warmers and waterproof gloves. I dropped M. off at his friend's house and A. at her dance class. My usual Tuesday run is right from the dance studio parking lot because the bike path goes along the river there and it's a beautiful run. But it was incredibly cold out and the freezing rain was just pouring down. Thanks to a recent entry by J. at Ironmanlife, I also know that the Mind Chill factor was not to be discounted, it felt ten degrees colder than it probably was in reality. In short, I just didn't want to run.

This is a pretty unusual thing for me. As a person who treasures her time alone, my workout times are usually sacred. I don't miss one unless I'm on death's door or the sky is falling. But the yuckiness of the weather can't be minimized, it was really ugly out there. I knew that regardless of how much Goretex I stacked on, I'd be wet to the skin and freezing in minutes.

So it was time to bring out the mind games. When your brain is resisting doing something, you can often get yourself to do it anyways just by turning things around a little. I do this sometimes in the middle of a workout ("I'll just swim another 10 laps and then I can stop", repeat as necessary) but this time required some creativity. I decided to drive to my gym, where I could run laps inside or even just sit in the hot tub if I wanted to. Once I was at the big parking garage for the gym, I knew I still wanted to run, and a solution presented itself to me. After 9:30 and before the lunch rush, no one really comes in and out of the garage, so I decided to run laps up and down the circular levels of the garage. It was still cold, but at least I wasn't getting rained on, and I told myself I could stop at any time and go in and sit in the hot tub. It was actually kind of cool and novel, so I enjoyed the first 15 minutes or so. Just when I was getting bored, the rain miraculously stopped and I headed out on the streets.

Just a few blocks away on the north end of town, I discovered a trail up a small butte that I hadn't known about, with rock steps leading up to a great view out over the city. So I got a lot of unexpected hill work in between the parking garage and the butte, and ended up with an easy jog along the river. When all was said and done, a hot shower was waiting for me and as usual, I was glad that I'd taken the first step after all.

It's Just a Shirt

It's Friday night, the end of a long week. The stacks of clean clothes have gotten smaller, the laundry pile looms larger. I'm heading out to a volleyball game and go to grab a clean t-shirt. None of the nicer ones will do, I don't want to get those sweaty. None of the tight ones, I want to be able to move easily. None of the really ancient spotted ones, those are for gardening. My stack of loose, reasonably clean comfy t-shirts is down to one. The one I never wear. My Ironman finisher's shirt.

I don't fully understand why I don't wear it. Much of the time it's because it's a pretty ugly grey shirt with big black and orange words on it: not the type of thing I'd wear anyways, regardless of what it says. But tonight that really doesn't matter. Who cares about aesthetics when you're dripping sweat and diving to the floor? Tonight it's because of the what it says: those gigantic orange letters saying that I'm an Ironman Finisher. And while I'm very proud to have done an Ironman, I guess it's not something I feel all that comfortable proclaiming to the world like a big flashing sign that says Aren't I cool?. I have the same problem to a slightly lesser degree with my marathon finisher's shirt, which is at least quite nice looking. But every time I wear it, I get those "Wow, you finished a marathon!" comments which make me feel vaguely uncomfortable.

In a related incident, at karate the other day we sat down in a circle for one of our sensei's mini-lectures on the Theme of the Month. This month it is Fight. Not fight as in putting your fist through someone else's solar plexus, but fight as in fighting for your goals. Sensei asked us to raise hands and to tell about some goal that we really fought for. I never raised my hand. What can I say? I dislocated my foot in the first thirty minutes of a twelve hour race, and then biked 112 miles and ran a marathon. Finishing was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I smiled all the way to the line. That's fighting for my goals, but I am always cognizant of that feeling of one-upping when I talk about the things I've done. It's nothing new, I've spent a lifetime doing the things that many people dream of, and some things that most people would never even think of trying. I've been exceedingly lucky to have the opportunities I've had, to survive some of the crazy stunts, and I've also worked hard for many of the things I've really wanted. But in a group of people, I often keep my mouth shut until I know them well enough to feel comfortable sharing my experiences.

When it comes down to it, that's probably why putting on The Shirt is difficult. It's like shouting out to a crowd of people you don't know that you've done something so hard that most people find the thought of it intimidating. It makes you sort of intimidating yourself and perhaps unreachable. Yet in the end, I wore The Shirt, it being the only clean one in the pile that fit the bill for an evening of volleyball. I got a couple of double-takes from the opposite team and no comments whatsoever. After awhile, I more or less forgot I was wearing it and ceased to think about it. I probably ponder these things far too much anyways. After all it's just a shirt. Maybe I'll even wear it again some time.

Running, Anyways

I spent the last weekend at my mom's house near where I grew up. When we visit, I usually bring at least my running shoes, and often my bicycle as well. She lives on the edge of the Rogue River Valley in Oregon and there are many beautiful places to bike and run around there.

So on Saturday, when I laced up my runnning shoes to go out, I was really looking forward to a nice medium-long run through the hills near her house. Although the weather had been beautiful all morning, some storm clouds moved in and a few sprinkles of rain had started falling. My mom asked me if I still planned on running, and I said of course. I live in the Pacific Northwest and if I didn't run when it was raining, I might not leave the house for months.

During the run, the rain came and went, sometimes lightly, and then one quick downpour. Eventually it went back to sprinkling and then disappeared entirely. A rainbow appeared over the oak trees on the hill, so dazzling that I stopped to take a picture. I ran by some goats who bleated and came to the fence to greet me, so I had to take another brief stop to pat their wooly heads and feed them some grass. The air warmed up and that feeling overcame me that happens on the best of runs. The French have the best phrase for it: Joie de vivre, joy of life. The feeling that all of life is flowing through you and it's all good.

I think that there's a fundamental change that happens when running (or bicycling or swimming or canoeing or skiing or whatever your sport of passion happens to be) becomes an integral part of your life. It's no longer something that you look for an excuse not to do, it's something you seek out and want to do. It's something you're disappointed if you don't get to do. There have been spates of bad weather where I didn't run. I won't run if it's icy and dangerous, and I did take myself to the indoor track at our gym one day to run dismal laps (sixteen of them makes a mile, so you can imagine how monotonous that gets) but even then I ran anyways. I ran because I always feel worse if I don't, because even when it's hard to get going, it always feels better to have finished. So yes mom, I'm going to run in the rain. See you somewhere over the rainbow.

To the Ones I Love

My husband knows just what this woman likes for Valentine's Day. No, I don't need a big bouquet of roses, no diamonds for this gal, chocolate - well, he went by my favorite local company and brought home truffles for all of us. But he knows what I really like. Like when he calls home and says "I noticed it was sunny outside and I have a few hours off. Why don't you get your bike ready and you can go for a ride before it gets dark." He knows how to get our kids to the right place on a course to give me a boost of cheering and enthusiasm right when I need it most. He has even learned to operate a camera in a reasonable manner and get some great shots along the way. He stands behind my dreams and aspirations, finds a way to make them happen. He was the one person who knew my dream was the Ironman, years before I would reveal that to anyone else.
My kids are the most awesome little things on the planet. Their smiles could carry me through anything, and they somehow never stop believing I can walk on water, even after they've seen me at my best and worst. They're willing to support me in my goals, just as I support and help them achieve theirs.

And I just spent this weekend visiting with both of my parents. Sometimes it really strikes me just how much I owe them, both what I learned from them and what I inherited from them. They're both such go-getters, dreamers, hard-workers, people who get enthusiastic about life and the endless possibilities it offers. My mom has done a half-marathon with me, she kayaks and walks and is never afraid to try new things. In the first throes of retirement, she's already got two trips planned and a host of activities lined up. My dad has an easy smile and a big laugh, I inherited my love of flying from him and probably a big sense of adventure (not to mention thrill-seeking - my dad took me on my first flight and gave me my first motorcycle). Both of my parents have gone skydiving with me. They're young at heart and still so youthful that I can't believe they're in their 60s and 70s already.
We're not big on Hallmark Holidays in our house, not a lot of fuss goes on with cards and presents and big boxes of chocolates. But where it counts, in our hearts, it's Valentines Day every day.

Now Here's A Sport I Can Really Suck At

Bowling. Yep. Bowling. My mom is in an organization that sets up a charity bowling event every year and this time around the kids and I joined her as a team. Let's just say that bowling isn't our forte'. I had the high score after three games: 111 (you can quit laughing now.) The kids beat their grandma in almost every game (bumpers helped) and a fun time was had by all. Sometimes it's nice to do something that is so ludicrous you really don't care how it all turns out.

I actually grew up just a few houses down from one of the greatest bowlers of all time (Marshall Holman), and he's probably part of the reason that my relatively small hometown has one of the best bowling alleys on the West Coast (complete with Marshall Holman trophy and photo corner.) and they now host the PBA tour there. I think I need to rent Kingpin again to round out my week - that slow-mo of Bill Murray bowling with his custom bowling ball and his comb-over flying up in the air is priceless.

Unfortunately, my right arm was really sore for swimming tonight, undoubtably due to flinging 14 pound balls down a lane for a couple of hours. So I don't think I'll be aiming for the PBA tour anytime in the near future.

Swimmer

My mom likes to tell a funny story about when I was born. I had such big shoulders that when I was about halfway out the doctor said "Look at those shoulders, this one's a football player for sure!". Except of course I was a girl. He was close though. Not a football player but a swimmer was born.

The water has always called to me. As a child, I dreamed I was a dolphin who'd been born into a human's body. I read Jaques Coustaeu and watched his TV specials, I cried when I listened (over and over and over) to John Denver's song "Calypso", the only song that moved me to tears. My parents knew that if I got into a pool, or river, or lake, or ocean, that they would have to drag me out by my heels to get me away from the water, and one of our most memorable family vacations was spent at a hotel complex in San Diego that had seven swimming pools. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

Unfortunately, I lived in a reasonably small town and there was only one swim coach for both the city team and the high school team. A grumpy man with a loud shout and constantly-blowing whistle, he did not so much inspire as berate his swimmers into performing. I dropped off the city team after than one season, tried it again in high school and only made it a week or two. I always swam for pleasure, but did not seem to be destined to become a competitive swimmer.

Luck was on my side though, because in college I took a swimming class for credit that was taught by the assistant University team coach. He convinced me to walk onto the swim team, and I met the head coach who would turn out to be the single most influential person in my life, outside of my parents. After taking one look at me, he said "Shoulders. Feet. You're going to swim butterfly."

"But coach, I don't really know how to swim butterfly!"

"That doesn't matter. With shoulders like those, you're a butterflier." And so I was. That photo is me at age 20. No kidding, those are butterflier shoulders.

My love for sport was born. My coach insisted we all do a triathlon as cross-training and I found my true passion there. But although I've had twenty years now as a triathlete, running and biking as well as swimming, I will always be first and foremost A Swimmer.

Some people say biology is destiny and from a sports viewpoint I can't argue with that. This year I'm trying to become a faster runner, but one look at my body and you can see I'm optimized for water, not land. For starters, I have an extremely short torso. I can stand with my hips level with a friend who is 5' tall and we're the same height, yet when I stand up I am 5'7". I pray that high-waited pants never come back in fashion, because my waist is roughly one inch below my bust and I look like a total gomer if I ever tuck a shirt in. When I was pregnant, I looked like I was carrying a missile silo because the baby had no place to go but straight out. Along with my lack of torso, I have massively long and flexible arms and legs, capped by enormous hands and feet. I wear the same shoe size as my husband, and a full glove size larger. I can span an octave + 2 easily on the piano. Hands like shovels, feet like flippers. I trip over them running, but I can kick 50 yards in 55 seconds. Couple those long arms, shovel hands, and flippered feet with the fact that I can rotate my shoulders 360 with ease and bend my arms around like a pretzel, and you've got one swimmer's body.

My children have inherited much of my physique as well. My son at age 10 can already borrow my shoes. Yep, never let it be said I didn't give my kids a solid foundation in life (that's actually my dad's joke, he used to say that when I'd complain about my big feet). My son's shoulders actually got...ahem.. stuck during childbirth. Luckily for him, he's a boy. Boys with big shoulders are complimented, punched roundly on the shoulder with a "he's a big tough guy" kind of bonhomie. Big shouldered girls are another story. Actually, I was fortunate to hit teenagerhood in the eighties. Those of you who lived through that era of big puffy-shouldered jackets and blouses know what I mean. I just took the shoulder pads out of every shirt and jacket I bought and was happily in style for a few years. But in general, shoulders like a linebacker are not what every girl dreams of. My daughter has inherited my shoulders and I am very cognizant of the words and messages she hears about her body.

It starts so young. Carrying around my solid bruiser of a baby boy, I got no end of compliments: "What a sturdy fellow you've got there.", "That kid'll be a bruiser for sure.". Carrying around my sturdy infant girl, I got "Aren't you concerned that she's a little too chubby?" I'm not kidding! The messages we get about big strong bodies start in infancy, and that to me is sad. So when my daughter mentions that she has big shoulders, I say "Yep, you've got a really strong body like I do, and I bet you'll be a great swimmer too!" (she already is, and I can't get her out of a pool without pulling her out by her heels like my parents experienced with me). I don't tell her "you've got a figure like an oatmeal box" , which is what I was told at a young age.

And truth be told, it's not a bad thing, these big shoulders, these long legs, the hands that span an octave+, the feet big enough to ski on. I know I will never break 6 minutes in a running mile in my life, but I'll see you on the other side of the lake in no time.

Killer Swim Breakfast

Here's my best breakfast invention for the cold winter months. This is great about an hour before a cold morning swim:

Cook up some steel cut oats, add chopped pecans, walnuts, raisins and dried cranberries. After the oats are cooked and slightly cooled, mix one raw egg and some milk, stir into oatmeal mixture and cook in pan or microwave until mixture custardizes (if that's a word). Add cinnamon and nutmeg to taste. It's kind of like rice pudding meets killer oatmeal. Yummmmm!

Karma's Kick and Life Lessons

So maybe I felt a little too sorry for myself over the last couple of weeks. Husband gone, one mom staffing this lone parenting outpost and urban farm by myself, trying to do it all, not exercising as much as I usually do, and that always puts me a little more on the edge. But underneath it all is the layer of knowledge that I have a good life, a wonderful life, a filled with abundance of family, friends, activities, good times, and yes all the things that make life easier (money, a roof over my head, healthy food to feed our kids, that kind of thing). But I was feeling sorry for myself, and that's probably why I got a swift karma kick to the rear this week.

In one day, an amazing number of things happened to remind me of all that is truly important. It started in the early afternoon. After our morning karate class, I stuffed my van full of 4 families' kids and took us all to the park to enjoy the sunny weather. We had so many kids in the van that my friend K. (whose kids were part of the menagerie) rode her bike and met us there. The kids ran around like crazed animals and a good time was had by all. On the way home in the middle of the road, an older gentleman had fallen out of his wheelchair, so we pulled the car into an alley and K. and I got out and helped him back in.

Lesson #1: Can you imagine how helpless you would feel if you fell out of your wheelchair in the middle of the road and couldn't even stand up to get back in? So Robin, you've been complaining about how hard your workouts were this week, how tired your legs were feeling. Don't you really think you should be appreciating your long, strong, healthy, go-the-distance legs?

Later I went to work at the pool with one of my coaching clients. After I was done with coaching, I donned my cap and goggles and settled in for a few laps. Because I've been a lifeguard and swimmer for more than half of my life, there's a third eyeball somewhere on my head that always keeps track of where people are in the pool area, especially kids and elderly people. A kid that was bobbing up and down in the hot tub disappeared from view and I stopped mid-lap. His mom was in conversation next to the tub, and I couldn't see his head. Turned the bubbles off in the hot tub and sure enough he was under water. There's a ledge that goes around the outside of the tub and he had probably just slipped off of it and into the water that was over his head. With the jets on, the water is so bubbly you couldn't see him at all. He was fine, just a momentary scare. I'm very grateful for that 3rd eyeball.

Lesson #2: Do you really take the time every day to appreciate your kids? I feel so lucky that in my unschooling life with them, we spend a lot of time together. I get to be involved in their projects and passions, watch them play and interact. But even so, in two weeks of solo parenting, I probably snap at them more, get irritated at the constant chaos and mess that is living with young, active, eager and curious kids. Every day is a gift. Even every mess is a gift. Every blob of toothpaste spilling out of a tube with no lid. Remember that, Robin.

After swimming I go into the locker room and shower. There's a wallet and keys on the counter when I go in, still there when I get out of the steam room and then the shower, still there after I get dressed. After calling around to everyone in earshot, I take them up to lost and found.

Lesson #3: Don't forget to be thankful for the life you're able to live and the money that makes it possible. You might be alone Robin, but it's because your husband is out there somewhere flying, making a living that enables your life to be relatively easy. You know what it's like to live with no money, and even with no house and no food other than some Top Ramen and government-surplus rice and cheese. Like that lost wallet, such things can come and go quickly in life and you know this too.

I ride my bike towards home, I stop at my friend's house to pick up my son. We start walking towards home in the dark. Up ahead in the round spotlight of a street lamp, a man staggers into an intersection, face bloody, and falls down in the middle of the road. We rush toward him, pulling out my cell phone and dialing 911. The man is about my age, crying, face a bloody mess, smelling of alcohol from 10 feet away. He's sobbing something about his wife and kids leaving him. I don't know how or why he's injured, or what his mental state might be (other than distraught). I move my son a safe distance away, and every time the man's hand goes toward a pocket, I tense. Another cyclist stops, then a motorist, three neighbors come out of houses, one goes back for some blankets. We use our blinking red bicycle lights to keep traffic away until the police and ambulance arrive.

Lesson #4: Tragedy and sadness abound in life. Everything we think we have is temporary. Today is what matters. Even in the face of tragedy, the kindness of people can become a healing balm. Feel thankful that you live in a city where people come out of cars, homes, off of bicycles to help a drunken bleeding man in the dark of night. Community and basic human kindess are the answers to many things.

It was a long day, and at the end of it my mind felt more blank than anything. The day swung from beautiful sunshine in a park to blood and vomit on a dark roadside. It has taken a couple of days for the lessons to be revealed to me. Today, I hope I can walk forwards with a new appreciation for all that I have.

Ready, Aim, Fire

My target this year is to become a faster runner. I know I've been a triathlete for 20 years, and have managed to avoid working hard while running for all those years. That's pretty impressive, no? Actually, that's not entirely true. In the last two years, I've been gradually changing my running style, based upon the book ChiRunning. I've been increasing my cadence, and changing my stride from a heel-striking forward-reaching one to a mid-foot striking stride that lands underneath me. While I haven't seen huge speed gains, I've seen my previous IT Band pains disappear.

So this is the year when I really need to focus on my run. It's frustrating to be out in front only to lose the lead time after time to faster runners. One look at my last few sprint triathlons shows a pretty dismal 8:30 - 8:40 pace on the run (you can stop laughing now), even with total times around 1:15, which is reasonable for my age group. In the last few weeks, I've been biting the bullet and working at my run, thanks to some excellent advice from the folks on the triathlon boards at Trifuel.com . I've been incorporating cadence work, strides, tempo runs, and trying to ease up the pace on my long runs. Today I warmed up easy for 15 minutes, then did 3 miles at a pace that felt like a sprint tri race pace. 8:32 miles made me pretty happy because I've never run that fast this early in the season before. I think if I keep at it, I might be able to take a minute or two off of my sprint times.

So here, I state it out loud: I'm making a commitment to becoming more of a runner, less of a jogger. I'm considering trying to qualify for the age group Nationals, so a faster run will be imperative!