"What's gonna set you free?
Look inside and you'll see
When you've got so much to say
It's called gratitude, and that's right."
--The Beastie Boys, "Gratitude."
This afternoon, taking advantage of the chilly but dry and sunny weather, I did something that had been on my mind for a while: I washed two (out of three) of my bikes. As I was detailing Sugar and Cadel, passersby commented on what I was doing.
"Wow, you must really love your bikes."
"That's a labor of love."
"You show your bikes a lot more love than I do!"
I smiled and said something friendly back, generally about how I ride them a lot and they get dirty. I scrubbed at the cassettes, washed frames and brakes, and removed greasy specks with my secret weapon (Mr. clean Magic Eraser! Works like a charm!). I contemplated this notion:
Do I love my bikes?
It didn't take me long to arrive at the conclusion that I don't love the machines themselves. Sure, I name them (Bella, Sugar, and Cadel are the current fleet; past members included Candy, Ruby, and Tuesday). I wash them. I tune them and replace their parts and try to take care of them. These are acts of operations and maintenance. Are they acts of love?
Certainly, I don't feel about my bikes the way I feel about people. I don't "love" my bikes the way I love my family and friends. Scrubbing a cassette isn't like cooking a meal with my sister, or painting with water colors with my nephew. Greasing a chain isn't like chatting with my mom, or texting with Pam, or meeting Christy for dinner.
So, why do I "love all over my bikes" (as Kim would say)?
I value greatly the experiences and friendships that have come to me through cycling. I value the weekends at Deep Creek and the mutual suffering of roads named Sugarlands, Limestone, Bowman, Miller, and the climb to Wisp. I value pit stops in Poolesville with Olwen... and all the Doritos. I value the camaraderie of a perfectly executed double pace line at Asilomar Beach. I value Martha chasing after me on that darned QRoo as I gazelled up the hills at Sea Otter on Miss Sugar... and now that she has a real road bike, I love her for chasing after me to come ride with her in Utah. I cherish getting lost with Pam in West Virginia. I can't live without being deafened by cicadas with Olwen on our Skyline Century. And the barbecue potato chips that saved my life. I need to chase Scottie's jorts in Colorado. And I love his "computer" that reads "BAMF" at all times (and altitudes). Lest Kim be left out, I will say just this: Pinkypants. Cruising the course in San Diego with Andrea. Riding Sean's wheel like a pro on the P-loop. Breaking 50 mph with those 4 random dudes from Georgia. Crushing technical descents in Marin and likening it to skiing. Sunrise on Spanish Bay. Finding Jan and Cath, then Doug, Elizabeth, Kathy, And Sheri in Monterey...
The things I've seen, the places I've been, and the friendships I've made--because of the bikes--have changed my life.
I don't talk about it much, but here it is: when I ride, I pray. I didn't know I was doing it at first. Once, on one of my first really long rides, I was admiring the rolling hills and countryside in Montgomery County and I realized that I'd been talking to God for a while. I was singing a children's hymn, "Thank You, Lord," in my head. It was like it was playing in the background and suddenly the volume got louder and louder as I rode on. As I climb a hill, I thank God for giving me the strength to make it up. When I see a beautiful landscape, I thank God for putting me in that place at that moment so I could see it. I thank Him for giving me the opportunity to spend time outside in beautiful places with beautiful people. I thank Him for keeping us all safe. I call riding my "gratitude time."
In the past several years of life's twists and turns, I confess my faith has often been shaken. When things seem most confused, I can shove snacks and cash in my jersey pockets, fill the water bottles, jump on the machine and know that somewhere out there, the volume will start to increase, and the gratitude will take over. Whatever the plan is: thank you, Lord, for giving me life. Right where I am.
I've been struggling to find my path lately. Rather than dwell, though, I have been riding a lot, finding lots of gratitude and having some good chats with The Big Guy.
So. The bikes. Do I love them?
Sure, in a way. Goodness knows we spend a lot of time together. They are the instruments of some serious joy. Of course, when they wear out or break down (or if I win the Mega Millions), they could be swapped out for new instruments. I certainly don't feel that way about my friends!
I love the life that the bikes have enabled, and I will show those machines my gratitude and LOVE with a bath every now and then, yes.
Thanks, bikes.
More thanks: friends!
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Wiser Now
"I'm feeling better ever since you know me
I was a lonely soul but that's the old me
A little wiser now from what you've shown me
Yeah, I feel again."
--One Republic, "Feel Again."
If you've known me for more than 10 years, you know that I haven't always been an athlete. Triathlon has changed me in so many ways... And I've learned so much about myself and about racing in the past 8 years I've been swimming, biking, and running.
If you know me now, you know how much I love it. Two things I often say:
"Race day is the best day."
And, on race morning itself:
"It's a great day for a triathlon!"
A very good friend is doing her first triathlon this weekend (YOU GO, SISTER!!!!), and she asked me for some advice. Here are a bunch of random thoughts on triathlon. I have many others, but these are fun.
Twenty Things You Should Think About Before Your First Triathlon.
Rule #1. Be safe.
Rule #2. Have fun.
While these first two rules don’t really need a whole lot of explanation, it’s important to understand their depth as they apply to both training and racing. For me in particular, because crazy fast technical descents are “my jam,” balancing “have fun” with “be safe” requires vigilance and humility. That gnarly tight left turn? Yeah, I probably can’t take it at 35 miles an hour without wrecking. I should brake (before entering the turn, not after, fyi!!). Understanding this balance comes from experience on the road and on the race course, trying different things and learning my strengths. Thankfully, it has been 10 years since I had a bad crash (knock wood), and I continue to emphasize Rule #1 over Rule #2 so it stays that way. And yes I have broken 50 mph 4 times in the past 2 years.
For a new triathlete, this might mean racing a little cautiously until you learn your strengths and weaknesses. But see Rule #17 and Rule #18, too.
Rule #3. Plan your race…
My overarching race plan for every race is five words: “It’s all about the run.” Especially in the longer distance triathlons, it kind of doesn’t matter what you do for the first two events if you blow the run. Trust me on this one, I learned it the hard way at Eagleman 70.3 2012. My splits tell the story. 2:34 on the bike. 2:20 on the run. Oops. One of the best things my coach had me do for the first two major races we did together was write out a full race plan that covered 2 days before the race all the way to the finish line. What was I going to eat? When was I going to bed? Would I do a warm up run or a warm up swim? What if the race was NOT wetsuit legal? What was I going to eat (and when) on the bike and run? What heart rate was I going to try to maintain? What if I got a flat? What if I hyperventilate in the water? What if I have GI issues? And the best part: what was my pump up song going to be? What would I sing to myself during different parts of the race?
Just going through the activity of writing it all out (like, 6 pages worth for my Ironman) was such a confidence builder. I generally knew what I was going to do, no matter what happened during those 140.6 miles. What if I get a flat? Fix it. And I practiced with canisters two days before. And I needed to, because I flatted at Mile 81. What was I going to eat? Bars and gels for the first half of the bike, 100 calories every half hour on the clock. Gels only during the second half of the bike. Doritos at Special Needs. W00t.
Rule #4. …and race your plan.
Time lost on the swim (or in T1, or fixing a flat) is not made up by ruining your race plan. My strongest of the three events is the bike. But I ain’t no shabby runner. The problem with this combination is Rule #2. See, I have fun going fast on the bike. But shattering my legs on the bike means not running well. As a friend once said, “It’s not a good bike unless it’s followed by a good run.” Short story: I once lost a lot of time in the water. Wait, that’s like half of my races. ONE OF THE TIMES that I lost a lot of time in the water, (Eagleman 70.3, 2013), I spent the entire 56 miles of the bike course pedaling to the mantra: “Plan B is stick to The Plan. And Plan C is stick to The Plan. And Plan D is…” You get the idea. I knew that I had to hold myself back on the bike and not try to “make up” for lost time in the water by going too hard on the bike. I had a good run that day. Even with a craptastic swim time of 50 minutes, that race is still my HIM PR (2:32 bike, 1:55 run).
Rule #5. Rule #5 is Rule #5.
Per the Velominati (Keepers of the Cog) who have a whole lot of hilarious rules about cycling, Rule #5 is also known as HTFU. Harden The Fuck Up. Racing is hard. There will be a moment (trust me) in every race where you question all your terrible life choices that led you to that very moment of pain. That’s when it’s time to invoke Rule #5.
Rule #6. Deliberate, not rushed.
This is the best advice I ever got for how to handle transition. It’s really good advice for other parts of life, too. Essentially, it means being expeditious but not sloppy. Yes, your transition time counts for your total race time, and you kinda don’t want to nap in there, but don't go so fast you forget something important. Then you have to go back and do it over... yeah, that's no good. I once lost a race in transition. No, seriously. I had the fastest combined SBR, but my T1 was like 27 minutes (hyperbolic). Think through every step in advance, and then execute them in order without effing around.
Here’s what I do: Goggles and cap off while running from the swim exit to T1. Top of wetsuit off, too, if a long transition run. Once arrived at T1: wetsuit totally off. Stand on towel. Sunglasses on. Helmet on. Hit inhaler. Right sock. Left sock. Gel in mouth. Right shoe. Left shoe. Grab bike. Squeeze gel while running out of transition. Arrive at mount line. Mount bike. Go.
Rule #7. Set your phone to Military Time.
Leave it that way and get used to it. You’ll never wake up in the middle of the night in a panic about “DID I SET MY ALARM FOR AM OR PM???” again. Anything to reduce pre-race anxiety is good.
Rule #8. Make a list for your Transition Bag about 3 days before the race.
Give yourself time to have the “OH RIGHT I NEED A SECOND INHALER FOR T2 BECAUSE THIS IS A SPLIT TRANSITION RACE” moment. And the “Yes, I do need sunblock and lip balm and chamois cream and Body Glide." Put little boxes next to all the items...
Rule #9. Pack your transition bag the night before the race.
... And check off all the items on the list, and put the list on top of the CLOSED BAG. Anything to reduce anxiety is a good thing. You won’t have the “DID I REMEMBER MY…..?” moments in the middle of the night. You made a list. You checked it off. It’s in there.
Rule #10. NOTHING NEW ON RACE DAY.
I love this rule. Practice with everything you plan to actually use. That means clothing, equipment, food, you name it. You don’t want to find out ON RACE DAY that your heart rate monitor chafes really badly. And don’t eat anything new the day before, either. Speaking of which:
Rule #11. Carb loading is bullshit.
Google it. The #1 thing you are concerned about on race morning is your bowels moving before the race. I’m not shitting you. (See what I did there?) Traditional carb loading where you eat a big pasta dinner the night before a big race is the recipe for constipation. Don’t do it. You can add some roasted sweet potatoes to your meals 3-4 days out from the race. I usually eat a normal breakfast, a big lunch, and a light, roughage-heavy dinner. I get up in the morning, drink coffee, and exercise my Super Powers (Olwen’s Super Power is forgetting I’m gluten intolerant. Pam’s Super Power is napping anywhere. Abby’s Super Power is pooping on race day).
Rule #12. Be friendly.
Everyone is in the same pain cave. Positive talk on the race course is common and awesome, and you should be a part of it.
Rule #13. Smile.
If you have the energy. There are cameras out there. ;) And if you aren’t having fun: WHY ARE YOU DOING IT???
Rule #14. Stick to the right on the bike course.
Fast or slow. Stick the right. If you’re passing, move left, complete your pass, and move right.
Rule #15. Thank your volunteers.
Especially those poor people who got stuck with the shitty bike marshalling job who are holding back traffic or telling you to slow down because there are train tracks. Thems good people. Without them, we have no race.
Rule #16. Keep calm and (swim, bike, run) on.
It doesn’t matter how much you trained, practiced, or planned. If you talk to seasoned professional triathletes, they will all tell you something that WENT WRONG (or, not according to plan) in their previous race. There are VERY VERY FEW PERFECTLY EXECUTED RACES. One can overcome a great many setbacks on the triathlon course. It’s my “how triathlon is like life” philosophy. Training is merely developing your skill set to overcome all the unexpected things that happen between the starting line and the finish line.
Rule #17. Push yourself.
Rule #18. Listen to your body.
These two rules must be taken together. Don’t cross the finish line thinking “I could have raced harder.” Leave it all out on the race course!! But don’t puke. And don’t injure yourself. If something starts to feel funky in your body, ask yourself: “Is this fatigue? Is this a form issue? Is this a mental issue? Do I need (water, food, salt)?” With time, you will know yourself well enough to differentiate workable pain from damaging pain. I’ve made the mistake. I had a good chunk of time where I didn’t trust myself because I had pushed through damaging pain. Find the edge and ride it. But keep checking in with yourself and back off if you need to. Or stop if you need to. Or stretch, or walk through aid stations or eat potato chips. Find the balance and find the fun.
Rule #19. Finish strong.
Practice your finish line photo in advance. About half a mile from the finish (you will know when this is) straighten your bib and jersey. If it’s the only part of your race plan that you execute properly, do this right. For posterity. For FaceBook. I’m partial to the “one arm in the air, fierce look” pose.
Rule #20. Check your results.
You never know who didn’t show up that day. I almost missed standing on the podium last weekend because I didn’t check.
I was a lonely soul but that's the old me
A little wiser now from what you've shown me
Yeah, I feel again."
--One Republic, "Feel Again."
If you've known me for more than 10 years, you know that I haven't always been an athlete. Triathlon has changed me in so many ways... And I've learned so much about myself and about racing in the past 8 years I've been swimming, biking, and running.
If you know me now, you know how much I love it. Two things I often say:
"Race day is the best day."
And, on race morning itself:
"It's a great day for a triathlon!"
A very good friend is doing her first triathlon this weekend (YOU GO, SISTER!!!!), and she asked me for some advice. Here are a bunch of random thoughts on triathlon. I have many others, but these are fun.
Twenty Things You Should Think About Before Your First Triathlon.
Rule #1. Be safe.
Rule #2. Have fun.
While these first two rules don’t really need a whole lot of explanation, it’s important to understand their depth as they apply to both training and racing. For me in particular, because crazy fast technical descents are “my jam,” balancing “have fun” with “be safe” requires vigilance and humility. That gnarly tight left turn? Yeah, I probably can’t take it at 35 miles an hour without wrecking. I should brake (before entering the turn, not after, fyi!!). Understanding this balance comes from experience on the road and on the race course, trying different things and learning my strengths. Thankfully, it has been 10 years since I had a bad crash (knock wood), and I continue to emphasize Rule #1 over Rule #2 so it stays that way. And yes I have broken 50 mph 4 times in the past 2 years.
For a new triathlete, this might mean racing a little cautiously until you learn your strengths and weaknesses. But see Rule #17 and Rule #18, too.
Rule #3. Plan your race…
My overarching race plan for every race is five words: “It’s all about the run.” Especially in the longer distance triathlons, it kind of doesn’t matter what you do for the first two events if you blow the run. Trust me on this one, I learned it the hard way at Eagleman 70.3 2012. My splits tell the story. 2:34 on the bike. 2:20 on the run. Oops. One of the best things my coach had me do for the first two major races we did together was write out a full race plan that covered 2 days before the race all the way to the finish line. What was I going to eat? When was I going to bed? Would I do a warm up run or a warm up swim? What if the race was NOT wetsuit legal? What was I going to eat (and when) on the bike and run? What heart rate was I going to try to maintain? What if I got a flat? What if I hyperventilate in the water? What if I have GI issues? And the best part: what was my pump up song going to be? What would I sing to myself during different parts of the race?
Just going through the activity of writing it all out (like, 6 pages worth for my Ironman) was such a confidence builder. I generally knew what I was going to do, no matter what happened during those 140.6 miles. What if I get a flat? Fix it. And I practiced with canisters two days before. And I needed to, because I flatted at Mile 81. What was I going to eat? Bars and gels for the first half of the bike, 100 calories every half hour on the clock. Gels only during the second half of the bike. Doritos at Special Needs. W00t.
Rule #4. …and race your plan.
Time lost on the swim (or in T1, or fixing a flat) is not made up by ruining your race plan. My strongest of the three events is the bike. But I ain’t no shabby runner. The problem with this combination is Rule #2. See, I have fun going fast on the bike. But shattering my legs on the bike means not running well. As a friend once said, “It’s not a good bike unless it’s followed by a good run.” Short story: I once lost a lot of time in the water. Wait, that’s like half of my races. ONE OF THE TIMES that I lost a lot of time in the water, (Eagleman 70.3, 2013), I spent the entire 56 miles of the bike course pedaling to the mantra: “Plan B is stick to The Plan. And Plan C is stick to The Plan. And Plan D is…” You get the idea. I knew that I had to hold myself back on the bike and not try to “make up” for lost time in the water by going too hard on the bike. I had a good run that day. Even with a craptastic swim time of 50 minutes, that race is still my HIM PR (2:32 bike, 1:55 run).
Rule #5. Rule #5 is Rule #5.
Per the Velominati (Keepers of the Cog) who have a whole lot of hilarious rules about cycling, Rule #5 is also known as HTFU. Harden The Fuck Up. Racing is hard. There will be a moment (trust me) in every race where you question all your terrible life choices that led you to that very moment of pain. That’s when it’s time to invoke Rule #5.
Rule #6. Deliberate, not rushed.
This is the best advice I ever got for how to handle transition. It’s really good advice for other parts of life, too. Essentially, it means being expeditious but not sloppy. Yes, your transition time counts for your total race time, and you kinda don’t want to nap in there, but don't go so fast you forget something important. Then you have to go back and do it over... yeah, that's no good. I once lost a race in transition. No, seriously. I had the fastest combined SBR, but my T1 was like 27 minutes (hyperbolic). Think through every step in advance, and then execute them in order without effing around.
Here’s what I do: Goggles and cap off while running from the swim exit to T1. Top of wetsuit off, too, if a long transition run. Once arrived at T1: wetsuit totally off. Stand on towel. Sunglasses on. Helmet on. Hit inhaler. Right sock. Left sock. Gel in mouth. Right shoe. Left shoe. Grab bike. Squeeze gel while running out of transition. Arrive at mount line. Mount bike. Go.
Rule #7. Set your phone to Military Time.
Leave it that way and get used to it. You’ll never wake up in the middle of the night in a panic about “DID I SET MY ALARM FOR AM OR PM???” again. Anything to reduce pre-race anxiety is good.
Rule #8. Make a list for your Transition Bag about 3 days before the race.
Give yourself time to have the “OH RIGHT I NEED A SECOND INHALER FOR T2 BECAUSE THIS IS A SPLIT TRANSITION RACE” moment. And the “Yes, I do need sunblock and lip balm and chamois cream and Body Glide." Put little boxes next to all the items...
Rule #9. Pack your transition bag the night before the race.
... And check off all the items on the list, and put the list on top of the CLOSED BAG. Anything to reduce anxiety is a good thing. You won’t have the “DID I REMEMBER MY…..?” moments in the middle of the night. You made a list. You checked it off. It’s in there.
Rule #10. NOTHING NEW ON RACE DAY.
I love this rule. Practice with everything you plan to actually use. That means clothing, equipment, food, you name it. You don’t want to find out ON RACE DAY that your heart rate monitor chafes really badly. And don’t eat anything new the day before, either. Speaking of which:
Rule #11. Carb loading is bullshit.
Google it. The #1 thing you are concerned about on race morning is your bowels moving before the race. I’m not shitting you. (See what I did there?) Traditional carb loading where you eat a big pasta dinner the night before a big race is the recipe for constipation. Don’t do it. You can add some roasted sweet potatoes to your meals 3-4 days out from the race. I usually eat a normal breakfast, a big lunch, and a light, roughage-heavy dinner. I get up in the morning, drink coffee, and exercise my Super Powers (Olwen’s Super Power is forgetting I’m gluten intolerant. Pam’s Super Power is napping anywhere. Abby’s Super Power is pooping on race day).
Rule #12. Be friendly.
Everyone is in the same pain cave. Positive talk on the race course is common and awesome, and you should be a part of it.
Rule #13. Smile.
If you have the energy. There are cameras out there. ;) And if you aren’t having fun: WHY ARE YOU DOING IT???
Rule #14. Stick to the right on the bike course.
Fast or slow. Stick the right. If you’re passing, move left, complete your pass, and move right.
Rule #15. Thank your volunteers.
Especially those poor people who got stuck with the shitty bike marshalling job who are holding back traffic or telling you to slow down because there are train tracks. Thems good people. Without them, we have no race.
Rule #16. Keep calm and (swim, bike, run) on.
It doesn’t matter how much you trained, practiced, or planned. If you talk to seasoned professional triathletes, they will all tell you something that WENT WRONG (or, not according to plan) in their previous race. There are VERY VERY FEW PERFECTLY EXECUTED RACES. One can overcome a great many setbacks on the triathlon course. It’s my “how triathlon is like life” philosophy. Training is merely developing your skill set to overcome all the unexpected things that happen between the starting line and the finish line.
Rule #17. Push yourself.
Rule #18. Listen to your body.
These two rules must be taken together. Don’t cross the finish line thinking “I could have raced harder.” Leave it all out on the race course!! But don’t puke. And don’t injure yourself. If something starts to feel funky in your body, ask yourself: “Is this fatigue? Is this a form issue? Is this a mental issue? Do I need (water, food, salt)?” With time, you will know yourself well enough to differentiate workable pain from damaging pain. I’ve made the mistake. I had a good chunk of time where I didn’t trust myself because I had pushed through damaging pain. Find the edge and ride it. But keep checking in with yourself and back off if you need to. Or stop if you need to. Or stretch, or walk through aid stations or eat potato chips. Find the balance and find the fun.
Rule #19. Finish strong.
Practice your finish line photo in advance. About half a mile from the finish (you will know when this is) straighten your bib and jersey. If it’s the only part of your race plan that you execute properly, do this right. For posterity. For FaceBook. I’m partial to the “one arm in the air, fierce look” pose.
Rule #20. Check your results.
You never know who didn’t show up that day. I almost missed standing on the podium last weekend because I didn’t check.
Monday, April 21, 2014
Is there anyone out there?
"When it gets cold outside and you got nobody to love
You'll understand what I mean when I say
There's no way we're gonna give up
And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams
Is there anyone out there 'cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe
Is there anyone out there 'cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe."
--Maroon 5, "Harder to Breathe."
On account of moving across the country and racing *ALL NEW COURSES* I thought I would begin writing race reports for my triathlete friends far away.
Yesterday (04/20/2014) I raced the Silicon Valley International Triathlon Olympic distance race.
The race was pretty tough from start to finish. It wasn't my fastest, it wasn't my best, but neither was it my worst nor most painful. The venue was beautiful Half Moon Bay, CA. For the record, it was a reservoir swim when I registered. This race is normally run in Morgan Hill, CA, with the swim in Uvas Reservoir.The drought in Northern California has caused a lot of triathlons to relocate venues. Swimming in Half Moon Bay, also known as THE PACIFIC OCEAN, was not exactly my plan. The water was only 56°!
I invested in a neoprene cap and booties the day before the race. I know the adage is "nothing new on race day," but after my experience in 57° water at the Marin County Triathlon in 2013, I knew I would be much happier with the extra neoprene. The booties were absolutely worth their weight in gold, although my feet were still frozen until about mile 4.5 of the run! The cap was really great too, because It covered my ears. But, it felt a little snug around the chin, and I felt a bit choked. Considering my tendency towards panic in open water, this was a fun little mental exercise. I will stretch it out before the next time I have to use it. Hopefully, that won't be very soon. :-)
A fog bank rolled in about five minutes before the race started. I'm not particularly good at sighting to begin with, and the fog made it very difficult to see the three large yellow buoys. Thankfully I had seen them from shore before the fog, so I had a reasonable idea of where they were. That isn't to say I wasn't a little bit off course at times... but that's hardly a surprise for me.
As for the act of swimming, I really only remember doing it a few times. I was trying hard to find the buoys, trying not to choke, and trying to forget how FREAKING COLD I WAS. When I was able to relax, I got in a few good pulls. Mostly, I was tight and short. That being said, I've had worse swims. The timing mat was right at the T1 area, and therefore my posted swim time includes a 400 m run from the water to T1. When I got out of the water, my Garmin said 34:30. In my dreamland, I will someday finish an Oly swim in 30 minutes.
T1 was kind of a joke as a result of my fingers being completely inoperable. I suffer from Raynaud's Syndrome, and my hands were mostly non-functional when I got out of the water. I couldn't grip my wetsuit pull, couldn't really get my socks on, and I gave up on the gloves I had planned to wear because I literally couldn't get my hands in them. Boo.
The bike course was very interesting: superflat for 10 miles, a giant climb for 2 miles, a twisty steep downhill, and then flat again to the finish. It was pretty. Oh yeah, I dropped a chain. I need to find better mechanic, apparently. I was glad to have my race bike (Cervelo P3), my race wheels (Zipp 808s), and my aerohelmet. I crushed pretty hard on the flats, climbed reasonably well, and was able to control my descent and gain some ground. I tried really hard to maintain a cadence and level of exertion that wouldn't completely ruin my legs for the run. No, my run would be ruined by a part of the body that is even more important than the legs. (Bike result: 4th in AG).
T2 was pretty quick. I changed my shoes, grabbed my racebelt, swapped visor for helmet, and took off (on numb feet!!)
On the run I had a decent plan (thank you, Coach Rob), to "work two miles, push two miles, and hurt 2.2 miles." I was planning on finishing a little painfully, but the hypoxia ruined everything. Well, I certainly finished painfully, but I didn't quite finish fast. My legs had the juice, but my lungs were not having it. This was my 40th triathlon, and it was the first time I've had to try to figure out transitions in different locations. The cold water caused my lungs to constrict, and by the time I got to the run I really needed my inhaler (yes, I have asthma!), I had left it at T1. Darn. My breathing was painful and labored, and I couldn't get a good, low-belly breath after the first mile. My pace fell off pretty significantly as a result. It will take a day or two more for my lungs to recover. My heart was a little crushed, too. I had the legs to lay down a solid 10k, but... oh, well. Next time!!
In the end, I plugged along and tried to enjoy the waves crashing in Half Moon Bay. "The swell" was pretty darn big, and there were lots of surfers out by the time I got to the run. Indeed, a thought flickered across my brain... "Why can't I be that guy? The one who sleeps in, rolls outta bed at 10, and grabs a surfboard?"
Sigh. It's because I'm *this girl* who loves getting up at 4 AM to swim in ice cold water and race triathlons. Wait, maybe not the ice cold water part.
It was a beautiful course, it turned out to be a beautiful day, and I got 8th in my age group.
Triathlon always gives me some new lesson. Per usual, this was another new lesson in humility, but nonetheless: a lesson.
You'll understand what I mean when I say
There's no way we're gonna give up
And like a little girl cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams
Is there anyone out there 'cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe
Is there anyone out there 'cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe."
--Maroon 5, "Harder to Breathe."
On account of moving across the country and racing *ALL NEW COURSES* I thought I would begin writing race reports for my triathlete friends far away.
Yesterday (04/20/2014) I raced the Silicon Valley International Triathlon Olympic distance race.
The race was pretty tough from start to finish. It wasn't my fastest, it wasn't my best, but neither was it my worst nor most painful. The venue was beautiful Half Moon Bay, CA. For the record, it was a reservoir swim when I registered. This race is normally run in Morgan Hill, CA, with the swim in Uvas Reservoir.The drought in Northern California has caused a lot of triathlons to relocate venues. Swimming in Half Moon Bay, also known as THE PACIFIC OCEAN, was not exactly my plan. The water was only 56°!
I invested in a neoprene cap and booties the day before the race. I know the adage is "nothing new on race day," but after my experience in 57° water at the Marin County Triathlon in 2013, I knew I would be much happier with the extra neoprene. The booties were absolutely worth their weight in gold, although my feet were still frozen until about mile 4.5 of the run! The cap was really great too, because It covered my ears. But, it felt a little snug around the chin, and I felt a bit choked. Considering my tendency towards panic in open water, this was a fun little mental exercise. I will stretch it out before the next time I have to use it. Hopefully, that won't be very soon. :-)
A fog bank rolled in about five minutes before the race started. I'm not particularly good at sighting to begin with, and the fog made it very difficult to see the three large yellow buoys. Thankfully I had seen them from shore before the fog, so I had a reasonable idea of where they were. That isn't to say I wasn't a little bit off course at times... but that's hardly a surprise for me.
As for the act of swimming, I really only remember doing it a few times. I was trying hard to find the buoys, trying not to choke, and trying to forget how FREAKING COLD I WAS. When I was able to relax, I got in a few good pulls. Mostly, I was tight and short. That being said, I've had worse swims. The timing mat was right at the T1 area, and therefore my posted swim time includes a 400 m run from the water to T1. When I got out of the water, my Garmin said 34:30. In my dreamland, I will someday finish an Oly swim in 30 minutes.
T1 was kind of a joke as a result of my fingers being completely inoperable. I suffer from Raynaud's Syndrome, and my hands were mostly non-functional when I got out of the water. I couldn't grip my wetsuit pull, couldn't really get my socks on, and I gave up on the gloves I had planned to wear because I literally couldn't get my hands in them. Boo.
The bike course was very interesting: superflat for 10 miles, a giant climb for 2 miles, a twisty steep downhill, and then flat again to the finish. It was pretty. Oh yeah, I dropped a chain. I need to find better mechanic, apparently. I was glad to have my race bike (Cervelo P3), my race wheels (Zipp 808s), and my aerohelmet. I crushed pretty hard on the flats, climbed reasonably well, and was able to control my descent and gain some ground. I tried really hard to maintain a cadence and level of exertion that wouldn't completely ruin my legs for the run. No, my run would be ruined by a part of the body that is even more important than the legs. (Bike result: 4th in AG).
T2 was pretty quick. I changed my shoes, grabbed my racebelt, swapped visor for helmet, and took off (on numb feet!!)
On the run I had a decent plan (thank you, Coach Rob), to "work two miles, push two miles, and hurt 2.2 miles." I was planning on finishing a little painfully, but the hypoxia ruined everything. Well, I certainly finished painfully, but I didn't quite finish fast. My legs had the juice, but my lungs were not having it. This was my 40th triathlon, and it was the first time I've had to try to figure out transitions in different locations. The cold water caused my lungs to constrict, and by the time I got to the run I really needed my inhaler (yes, I have asthma!), I had left it at T1. Darn. My breathing was painful and labored, and I couldn't get a good, low-belly breath after the first mile. My pace fell off pretty significantly as a result. It will take a day or two more for my lungs to recover. My heart was a little crushed, too. I had the legs to lay down a solid 10k, but... oh, well. Next time!!
In the end, I plugged along and tried to enjoy the waves crashing in Half Moon Bay. "The swell" was pretty darn big, and there were lots of surfers out by the time I got to the run. Indeed, a thought flickered across my brain... "Why can't I be that guy? The one who sleeps in, rolls outta bed at 10, and grabs a surfboard?"
Sigh. It's because I'm *this girl* who loves getting up at 4 AM to swim in ice cold water and race triathlons. Wait, maybe not the ice cold water part.
It was a beautiful course, it turned out to be a beautiful day, and I got 8th in my age group.
Triathlon always gives me some new lesson. Per usual, this was another new lesson in humility, but nonetheless: a lesson.
Monday, February 3, 2014
All the Colors
“I believe in the Kingdom Come
Then all the colors will bleed into one
Bleed into one
But, yes, I'm still running.”
--U2, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”
I’ve been meaning to post in a while. I’m pretty sure there was something interesting that I wanted to say but just didn’t have the time to write it down. And whatever it was, it’s totally overshadowed by recent events. I’ve come to realize that if something is important enough, even if it is temporarily overshadowed, it will come back up. Whatever it was, I’ll remember it and write about it another time.
In writing the next few sentences, I recognize that thought experiments are over. No more wondering out loud “what if?” No more “keeping it on the DL.” The truth is out:
I’m moving to San Francisco.
With my heart in my throat, water in my eyes, and an excitement I haven’t felt in a while, the adventure of life is taking a twist I honestly did not see coming.
Sure, yes, indeed: I applied for the job. I had the search criteria programmed into the USAJOBS website. I got the alert. I wrote the application. I threw my name in the hat. When I got the notice that I had made “the cert list,” I laughed. Hahaha that’s so funny. Wouldn’t that be entertaining. A Special Assistant/Senior Policy Advisor job in Immigration. In San Francisco. Hahahaha.
When I got the e-mail asking for an interview, my heart skipped. Woah, ha. Wow. Ok. Sure, I am still interested. I will interview. Set up a video conference? Sure, I can look into that. I didn’t want my own office to know about it, so I went up to the 8th floor and asked if I could use their V-Tel system. Yes, it was available. Yes, we can do that. It was on a Wednesday. January 15, 2014.
On Thursday, I was facilitating a meeting in the conference room and my boss walked in about halfway through and asked me to stop by his office when it was done. This was unusual behavior. I wasn’t nervous—I have an amazing boss who can be totally real with me and never puts me down, so I went directly there when the meeting was over. He asked me to close the door.
“Are you ready to move to San Francisco?” he asked.
Haha, very funny. I fell out of my chair. What? What are you talking about? They had all called him. Individually. The three people I had interviewed with via video the day before. All of them. And then came the email for the follow up interview. No, they couldn’t wait until I was in Northern California for school. They wanted to do it right away. Tomorrow. 1 PM Eastern. Via video, with the Director himself and the Chief of Staff.
I called my sister and sobbed. How can I leave you? How can I leave that boy of yours? How can I leave my life and my friends and the club and everything I love in DC?
How can I do this?
How can I not do this?
By the end of the interview on Friday, I knew it was over but for the bureaucracy. They were amazing people. Their questions excited me. Their demeanor and leadership style were impressive. They were excited about ME and what I would bring to them, because of my experience, expertise, and professional style—things I have worked very hard to develop over these past few years.
This is the opportunity of my whole career. To be the Senior Policy Advisor to the Director of District 21. Seated in San Francisco, District 21 includes field Offices in San Francisco, San Jose, and covers all counties in Northern California from the northern border down to Monterey. It includes high-tech work authorizations in Silicon Valley and migrant farm workers. The district is probably one of the most diverse in all of Citizenship and Immigration Services. And with immigration reform on the horizon, implementation “in the field” is likely to be one of the most interesting and challenging tasks of government in the next few years.
And I’m going to be the Senior Policy Advisor to the Director of one of the most influential districts in the country. In San Francisco. Where you can swim and bike and run all year. And drink wine. And get to mountains quickly. And eat sushi and good Mexican food.
The Director and Chief of Staff asked me why I would apply for this job. I said, “It has my name on it.”
It’s so bittersweet. Emily. Ben. Justin. Mom and Dad. DC Tri. Olwen, Pam, Kim, Holli, Ashley, Angela, Trevor.... I could write names to fill the rest of this page. You know who you are. You know how much you mean to me. You know that I’m crying as I write this. You know that I would do anything for you. You know when you pick up the phone at 3 AM it will only be midnight my time so you better friggin’ call. You know you have a place to stay in SF.
This life, this world that I’ve worked so hard to build—I’m not trying to abandon it. I’m not trying to end anything!
I am trying to start something. I still need to find something. I’m still looking for something. As happy as I am, as comfortable as I am in life: I need to go outside my comfort zone again. I didn’t see this coming, but here it is, and it’s time to grab on and see where this ride will take me.
It’s going to happen fast, too. I wish I could take my time, but two months is about as long as I could hold them off in District 21. In April 2014, I will be a resident of the State of California.
I still have before me the most daunting task on the planet: finding an apartment in San Francisco. God help me.
Then all the colors will bleed into one
Bleed into one
But, yes, I'm still running.”
--U2, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”
I’ve been meaning to post in a while. I’m pretty sure there was something interesting that I wanted to say but just didn’t have the time to write it down. And whatever it was, it’s totally overshadowed by recent events. I’ve come to realize that if something is important enough, even if it is temporarily overshadowed, it will come back up. Whatever it was, I’ll remember it and write about it another time.
In writing the next few sentences, I recognize that thought experiments are over. No more wondering out loud “what if?” No more “keeping it on the DL.” The truth is out:
I’m moving to San Francisco.
With my heart in my throat, water in my eyes, and an excitement I haven’t felt in a while, the adventure of life is taking a twist I honestly did not see coming.
Sure, yes, indeed: I applied for the job. I had the search criteria programmed into the USAJOBS website. I got the alert. I wrote the application. I threw my name in the hat. When I got the notice that I had made “the cert list,” I laughed. Hahaha that’s so funny. Wouldn’t that be entertaining. A Special Assistant/Senior Policy Advisor job in Immigration. In San Francisco. Hahahaha.
When I got the e-mail asking for an interview, my heart skipped. Woah, ha. Wow. Ok. Sure, I am still interested. I will interview. Set up a video conference? Sure, I can look into that. I didn’t want my own office to know about it, so I went up to the 8th floor and asked if I could use their V-Tel system. Yes, it was available. Yes, we can do that. It was on a Wednesday. January 15, 2014.
On Thursday, I was facilitating a meeting in the conference room and my boss walked in about halfway through and asked me to stop by his office when it was done. This was unusual behavior. I wasn’t nervous—I have an amazing boss who can be totally real with me and never puts me down, so I went directly there when the meeting was over. He asked me to close the door.
“Are you ready to move to San Francisco?” he asked.
Haha, very funny. I fell out of my chair. What? What are you talking about? They had all called him. Individually. The three people I had interviewed with via video the day before. All of them. And then came the email for the follow up interview. No, they couldn’t wait until I was in Northern California for school. They wanted to do it right away. Tomorrow. 1 PM Eastern. Via video, with the Director himself and the Chief of Staff.
I called my sister and sobbed. How can I leave you? How can I leave that boy of yours? How can I leave my life and my friends and the club and everything I love in DC?
How can I do this?
How can I not do this?
By the end of the interview on Friday, I knew it was over but for the bureaucracy. They were amazing people. Their questions excited me. Their demeanor and leadership style were impressive. They were excited about ME and what I would bring to them, because of my experience, expertise, and professional style—things I have worked very hard to develop over these past few years.
This is the opportunity of my whole career. To be the Senior Policy Advisor to the Director of District 21. Seated in San Francisco, District 21 includes field Offices in San Francisco, San Jose, and covers all counties in Northern California from the northern border down to Monterey. It includes high-tech work authorizations in Silicon Valley and migrant farm workers. The district is probably one of the most diverse in all of Citizenship and Immigration Services. And with immigration reform on the horizon, implementation “in the field” is likely to be one of the most interesting and challenging tasks of government in the next few years.
And I’m going to be the Senior Policy Advisor to the Director of one of the most influential districts in the country. In San Francisco. Where you can swim and bike and run all year. And drink wine. And get to mountains quickly. And eat sushi and good Mexican food.
The Director and Chief of Staff asked me why I would apply for this job. I said, “It has my name on it.”
It’s so bittersweet. Emily. Ben. Justin. Mom and Dad. DC Tri. Olwen, Pam, Kim, Holli, Ashley, Angela, Trevor.... I could write names to fill the rest of this page. You know who you are. You know how much you mean to me. You know that I’m crying as I write this. You know that I would do anything for you. You know when you pick up the phone at 3 AM it will only be midnight my time so you better friggin’ call. You know you have a place to stay in SF.
This life, this world that I’ve worked so hard to build—I’m not trying to abandon it. I’m not trying to end anything!
I am trying to start something. I still need to find something. I’m still looking for something. As happy as I am, as comfortable as I am in life: I need to go outside my comfort zone again. I didn’t see this coming, but here it is, and it’s time to grab on and see where this ride will take me.
It’s going to happen fast, too. I wish I could take my time, but two months is about as long as I could hold them off in District 21. In April 2014, I will be a resident of the State of California.
I still have before me the most daunting task on the planet: finding an apartment in San Francisco. God help me.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Rule the World
"All for freedom and for pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever."
--Tears for Fears, "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."
Clearly, I do not rule the world.
Cuz if I did, there's a WHOLE LOTTA (stuff) that I would change.
Like the craptastic, ridiculous timing of my stress fracture, which interfered with (but didn't ruin) my Ironman, and well, some stupid ridiculous "I can't believe I walked right into that AGAIN" boy stuff.
Yeah, if I ruled the world, that boy stuff would not have happened. Not once, and certainly NOT TWICE. Whew. It was a total mind(trip) the first time, and the second time, as my friend Jules put it, it was "gutting." Apt, Jules, apt. Gutting indeed.
Moving on.
You would think that I would understand the concept of "this too shall pass" pretty well. I'm starting to get it.
I am amazed at the human body's capacity to heal itself. Yes, I know, there are people who have devastating illness who will never recover, and I don't mean to belittle or downplay that. I'm blessed and lucky and GRATEFUL for my own body's capacity to heal. (And, ha, I guess you should say the same thing about a heart that has been full on smashed 4+ times...)
I'm annoyed at the crummy timing of it all. But here are two things that I have discovered:
1) I love running.
2) Women need to talk about health stuff more.
On #1: Yes, I used the "L" word. Love. Yep, love. I have referred to 2013 as my "Runnaissance" because I thought I just tolerated running. I thought triathlon was something I LOVED (biking) sandwiched by two things that were (swim) sorta fun and super satisfying and (run) something that had to be done to get to the finish line. And as an endurance athlete and not a threshold athlete (read: racing just bikes is not my bag), I had to suffer through the run. I was moderately good enough at it, too.
And then this year happened, and I got fast. Not like BQ fast, or top of the podium fast, but suddenly I saw average paces that started with a "7" and I was like, "whose legs am I running with?" I PRed everything I entered this year, from 8ks to half marathons to a 10-miler... and even my Oly and my HIM.
All because I was running fast.
And I was putting down 8:20s on my long training runs for Ironman, like 18-milers and shit. Like, for reals.
And then I got hurt and I couldn't run.
At first my panic was about not finishing Ironman, but I made that happen out of sheer determination and will. And then after the race, after recovering and coming off the Ironman high and riding and swimming a lot, I realized that I MISSED RUNNING. I'd hear a song from my running mix and think, "Oh! I usually listen to this song when I run!" Or I'd be biking past one of my running routes. And I'd think: "Oh! I miss the stink of the fish market in the morning!" Kidding. But you get the idea.
I'd look back at my Garmin data at those long runs LONGINGLY. Sick. It was 50 degrees one morning and I though T"HIS IS PERFECT RUNNING WEATHER!! AND I CAN'T GO!!!" And I was sad.
And then, I got cleared to start running again. The first run was awkward and weird. I had visions of my femur snapping as I plodded in an uneven cadence (for one minute at a time) on the treadmill. My whole body revolted. I called the doctor. My second attempt was exhilarating, pain-free, and... I was smiling from ear to ear.
I'M RUNNING!!!!! I thought. I couldn't believe it. My fear of never being able to race again melted. I thought about Ironman. I thought about "how can I get my thesis done early so I can train for IMCoz 2014??" I thought about doing another marathon (probably March 2014). I thought about how I need to focus on healing and nutrition and never getting injured again.
Which brings us to #2.
I had no idea I was at risk. Because like fucking NOBODY TOLD ME. Not my doctors, not my friends, not other athletes. How could this BIG DEAL OF A RISK FOR STRESS FRACTURE be something that I only learned about AFTER GETTING ONE??
For that, I feel robbed and ripped off. I feel angered at my "girl doctor" and my primary care physician who have known about my little "I don't have a cycle" issues for almost 2 years. I feel helpless that my friends--also athletes--who I confided in didn't have advice for me. I feel like I need to share this story, tell people this incredibly personal thing because no one should have to deal with what I've had to deal with when it's TOTALLY preventable.
Yes, I'm seeing a nutritionist. Yes, I'm taking a shitton of calcium. Yes, I'm trying not to focus on "well I'm not training for Ironman anymore so maybe I'm going to gain a couple of pounds." Yes, I love being fit, but if you know me, you know that when I pop out of bed at 4 in the morning on race day and I post:
IT'S A GREAT DAY FOR A TRIATHLON!!!
It's so ridiculously genuine that you have to laugh. When people ask me about triathlon I say, "Race day is the best day!"
Because it just IS.
Nothing ever lasts forever."
--Tears for Fears, "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."
Clearly, I do not rule the world.
Cuz if I did, there's a WHOLE LOTTA (stuff) that I would change.
Like the craptastic, ridiculous timing of my stress fracture, which interfered with (but didn't ruin) my Ironman, and well, some stupid ridiculous "I can't believe I walked right into that AGAIN" boy stuff.
Yeah, if I ruled the world, that boy stuff would not have happened. Not once, and certainly NOT TWICE. Whew. It was a total mind(trip) the first time, and the second time, as my friend Jules put it, it was "gutting." Apt, Jules, apt. Gutting indeed.
Moving on.
You would think that I would understand the concept of "this too shall pass" pretty well. I'm starting to get it.
I am amazed at the human body's capacity to heal itself. Yes, I know, there are people who have devastating illness who will never recover, and I don't mean to belittle or downplay that. I'm blessed and lucky and GRATEFUL for my own body's capacity to heal. (And, ha, I guess you should say the same thing about a heart that has been full on smashed 4+ times...)
I'm annoyed at the crummy timing of it all. But here are two things that I have discovered:
1) I love running.
2) Women need to talk about health stuff more.
On #1: Yes, I used the "L" word. Love. Yep, love. I have referred to 2013 as my "Runnaissance" because I thought I just tolerated running. I thought triathlon was something I LOVED (biking) sandwiched by two things that were (swim) sorta fun and super satisfying and (run) something that had to be done to get to the finish line. And as an endurance athlete and not a threshold athlete (read: racing just bikes is not my bag), I had to suffer through the run. I was moderately good enough at it, too.
And then this year happened, and I got fast. Not like BQ fast, or top of the podium fast, but suddenly I saw average paces that started with a "7" and I was like, "whose legs am I running with?" I PRed everything I entered this year, from 8ks to half marathons to a 10-miler... and even my Oly and my HIM.
All because I was running fast.
And I was putting down 8:20s on my long training runs for Ironman, like 18-milers and shit. Like, for reals.
And then I got hurt and I couldn't run.
At first my panic was about not finishing Ironman, but I made that happen out of sheer determination and will. And then after the race, after recovering and coming off the Ironman high and riding and swimming a lot, I realized that I MISSED RUNNING. I'd hear a song from my running mix and think, "Oh! I usually listen to this song when I run!" Or I'd be biking past one of my running routes. And I'd think: "Oh! I miss the stink of the fish market in the morning!" Kidding. But you get the idea.
I'd look back at my Garmin data at those long runs LONGINGLY. Sick. It was 50 degrees one morning and I though T"HIS IS PERFECT RUNNING WEATHER!! AND I CAN'T GO!!!" And I was sad.
And then, I got cleared to start running again. The first run was awkward and weird. I had visions of my femur snapping as I plodded in an uneven cadence (for one minute at a time) on the treadmill. My whole body revolted. I called the doctor. My second attempt was exhilarating, pain-free, and... I was smiling from ear to ear.
I'M RUNNING!!!!! I thought. I couldn't believe it. My fear of never being able to race again melted. I thought about Ironman. I thought about "how can I get my thesis done early so I can train for IMCoz 2014??" I thought about doing another marathon (probably March 2014). I thought about how I need to focus on healing and nutrition and never getting injured again.
Which brings us to #2.
I had no idea I was at risk. Because like fucking NOBODY TOLD ME. Not my doctors, not my friends, not other athletes. How could this BIG DEAL OF A RISK FOR STRESS FRACTURE be something that I only learned about AFTER GETTING ONE??
For that, I feel robbed and ripped off. I feel angered at my "girl doctor" and my primary care physician who have known about my little "I don't have a cycle" issues for almost 2 years. I feel helpless that my friends--also athletes--who I confided in didn't have advice for me. I feel like I need to share this story, tell people this incredibly personal thing because no one should have to deal with what I've had to deal with when it's TOTALLY preventable.
Yes, I'm seeing a nutritionist. Yes, I'm taking a shitton of calcium. Yes, I'm trying not to focus on "well I'm not training for Ironman anymore so maybe I'm going to gain a couple of pounds." Yes, I love being fit, but if you know me, you know that when I pop out of bed at 4 in the morning on race day and I post:
IT'S A GREAT DAY FOR A TRIATHLON!!!
It's so ridiculously genuine that you have to laugh. When people ask me about triathlon I say, "Race day is the best day!"
Because it just IS.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
An Ever-Fixed Mark
"Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."
--William Shakespeare, "Sonnet 116."
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."
--William Shakespeare, "Sonnet 116."
Friday, August 23, 2013
This is Really Happening
"I can taste your summer sweat
It's never been so warm
So can we kick the covers off?
They're always on
It's never been so warm
It's hard to keep a straight face when I just want to smile
If you could see the look that's in your eyes
Like starlight crashing through the room, we'll lose our feathers
Yes, I know it hurts at first but it gets better."
--fun., "It Gets Better."
I am an Ironman.
I crossed the finish line on my first Ironman in 14 hours and 53 minutes.
I'm so bipolar about that. Let's break it down.
I crossed the finish line on my first Ironman (YAHOO!!!!!!!!!!!!! I did it!!!!!!!)...
...in 14 hours and 53 minutes (BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!).
Because I had a stress fracture in my left femur. And I had to walk the marathon.
Seriously, I can't believe I walked the marathon. I walked a MARATHON after swimming 2.4 miles and biking 112. My feet are very unhappy about that fact. Holy blisters. I almost couldn't walk the next day and it wasn't because my leg muscles were wobbly (which they were). Walking on the giant blister on the ball of my right foot was torture. It had been torture for the last 8 or so miles of the "run," even. The blisters were so painful on the very last climb up to the top of the town and the start of the finisher's chute (the only part of the race I "ran"), I actually screamed a little.
About a month before the race I started having a little pain. Nothing too terrible, but just a little tightness in my left bum cheek and IT band and groin muscles. At first I thought it was hip flexor. Or gluteus medius. Or piriformis. I stretched and rolled and got PT and massage. It felt better so I kept running.
And then it was worse. Like, way worse. If I'm being perfectly honest, there was a run I did on July 18 that hurt so much I wanted to stop from the first step. But I didn't. And I regret that very much. After that, no amount of stretching, rolling, PT, Graston, massage, ice, ibuprofen, or anything I could do would make it go away.
And I panicked.
This thing I worked so hard for. This thing my heart wanted so much. I was truly afraid it was slipping through my fingers.
And then I had a pity party the likes of which I hadn't seen in a long time. Every time I got on my bike (which didn't hurt), I would cry. Please God, please don't take this away from me, too. To some people, I might look like I "have it all," but there are things in life that I really, really want that I don't have, just like everyone else. I started to have a giant pity party that this THING that I was working REALLY HARD for was going to disappear, too. And I was MAD.
Thankfully at that time, I was at school in California, and the most that my closest friends heard about it was through a few random texts. Olwen, Pam, Kim, Holli... they don't know how glad they are that I was on the other side of the country, because I would have been hard to handle. Coach Rob got several panicky texts, too.
I prayed for bursitis, which would have been fixable with a cortisone injection. Yeah, bursitis. IT band rubbing on hip bursa... that's got to be it! I could barely walk for a few days there. My classmates in California were worried about me. I'm sure I looked very upset.
When I got home, I went straight to the orthopedist, and he knew right away. Even when the X-ray came up negative, he was sure it was a stress fracture. I prayed that the MRI would prove him wrong, but it didn't. I saw it with my own two eyes, one of the scariest things I've seen in my life: a picture of my own femur with a crack in it. I sobbed on the floor of my doctor's office. He was as kind as he could be. He was so sorry for me. I kept saying, "I've worked so hard, this isn't happening. I've worked so hard..." and he said, "Well, you don't get a stress fracture from NOT working hard."
I asked: what did it really mean? He said, "You cannot run. Look at me. You can't run. For 6 to 8 weeks. You can't do anything that hurts."
Immediately, I said, "Walking doesn't hurt."
And he knew what I meant. And he made me look him in the eyes when he said the rest: "Abby, my fear with putting you out there is that you won't be able to let people run past you. I know you. You worked so hard and your pain threshhold is so high, but I'm telling you, you WILL HEAL and you will get to keep doing this, but you CANNOT RUN."
I knew at that moment I would swim, bike, and walk 140.6 miles, as God is my witness. And it broke my heart.
I fretted about it so much that I lost an entire night of sleep over it. I gave myself a headcold the week before the race as a result. That was helpful. :)
When it came time to race, the only thing in my heart was getting to that finish line in one piece. There were brief moments where I felt twinges in my hip during the race and I had to back off, and my heart broke a little more. When I got to the "run," I had to gulp down my pride each time someone said, "Ne marche pas" (or "don't walk" in French). My heart broke a little more each time. But I smiled every second. I was proud of myself for doing it anyway. I chatted with strangers. I cheered on all of my friends (each of whom I saw many times on the "run"). Courtney and Jason hugged me. Olwen and I cheered for each other. Alejandro slapped me on the ass. Ellen, Pam, Dirk, Jenn, all had high fives and kind words. Mike and Ryan had signs. My parents had cowbells.
I was determined that I was going to get there.
I will write a report on what I did for those 140.6 miles, what I ate (in short: Doritos), what I drank, but let me just tell you about that last kilometer. The one where I finally knew that I was really, really going to get there.
I walked up that last hill with my blisters screaming. I looked around at the scene: dark, almost 10 PM, almost no one around, the muffled voice of Mike Reilly on the loudspeakers, the glow of the finish line bouncing off the mountains. I kept walking. After the climb, I was in the village coming down the hill, and there were more and more people along the course. There was a fence holding them back. People were holding their hands out for high fives, and I took all of them. I looked around through watery eyes at all the strangers cheering, and I couldn't believe it. I saw the finish line a few hundred meters away and I thought, "FUCK IT I'M RUNNING!"
For a split second, I was afraid it was going to hurt, but it didn't. I saw my friends and high-fived them. I saw my parents cheering.
I looked behind me to make sure there was no one else who could steal the thunder of my name being called as I ran to the elevated platform at the finish line, and I heard Mike Reilly say:
"From Washington, D.C., at 37 years old,
Abigail Sanford
You...
Are...
An Ironman!"
I crossed the finish line with my pre-selected "one arm in the air" pose, and then the genuine emotion took over and I was pumping my fists in the air as I walked down the platform.
It wasn't the day I trained for.
It wasn't the race I planned.
But at the end of that very long day, I crossed that line, and I felt like an Ironman.
Can anyone say "unfinished business?"
Even before I got injured, I knew I would do it again.
Stay tuned!!
It's never been so warm
So can we kick the covers off?
They're always on
It's never been so warm
It's hard to keep a straight face when I just want to smile
If you could see the look that's in your eyes
Like starlight crashing through the room, we'll lose our feathers
Yes, I know it hurts at first but it gets better."
--fun., "It Gets Better."
I am an Ironman.
I crossed the finish line on my first Ironman in 14 hours and 53 minutes.
I'm so bipolar about that. Let's break it down.
I crossed the finish line on my first Ironman (YAHOO!!!!!!!!!!!!! I did it!!!!!!!)...
...in 14 hours and 53 minutes (BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!).
Because I had a stress fracture in my left femur. And I had to walk the marathon.
Seriously, I can't believe I walked the marathon. I walked a MARATHON after swimming 2.4 miles and biking 112. My feet are very unhappy about that fact. Holy blisters. I almost couldn't walk the next day and it wasn't because my leg muscles were wobbly (which they were). Walking on the giant blister on the ball of my right foot was torture. It had been torture for the last 8 or so miles of the "run," even. The blisters were so painful on the very last climb up to the top of the town and the start of the finisher's chute (the only part of the race I "ran"), I actually screamed a little.
About a month before the race I started having a little pain. Nothing too terrible, but just a little tightness in my left bum cheek and IT band and groin muscles. At first I thought it was hip flexor. Or gluteus medius. Or piriformis. I stretched and rolled and got PT and massage. It felt better so I kept running.
And then it was worse. Like, way worse. If I'm being perfectly honest, there was a run I did on July 18 that hurt so much I wanted to stop from the first step. But I didn't. And I regret that very much. After that, no amount of stretching, rolling, PT, Graston, massage, ice, ibuprofen, or anything I could do would make it go away.
And I panicked.
This thing I worked so hard for. This thing my heart wanted so much. I was truly afraid it was slipping through my fingers.
And then I had a pity party the likes of which I hadn't seen in a long time. Every time I got on my bike (which didn't hurt), I would cry. Please God, please don't take this away from me, too. To some people, I might look like I "have it all," but there are things in life that I really, really want that I don't have, just like everyone else. I started to have a giant pity party that this THING that I was working REALLY HARD for was going to disappear, too. And I was MAD.
Thankfully at that time, I was at school in California, and the most that my closest friends heard about it was through a few random texts. Olwen, Pam, Kim, Holli... they don't know how glad they are that I was on the other side of the country, because I would have been hard to handle. Coach Rob got several panicky texts, too.
I prayed for bursitis, which would have been fixable with a cortisone injection. Yeah, bursitis. IT band rubbing on hip bursa... that's got to be it! I could barely walk for a few days there. My classmates in California were worried about me. I'm sure I looked very upset.
When I got home, I went straight to the orthopedist, and he knew right away. Even when the X-ray came up negative, he was sure it was a stress fracture. I prayed that the MRI would prove him wrong, but it didn't. I saw it with my own two eyes, one of the scariest things I've seen in my life: a picture of my own femur with a crack in it. I sobbed on the floor of my doctor's office. He was as kind as he could be. He was so sorry for me. I kept saying, "I've worked so hard, this isn't happening. I've worked so hard..." and he said, "Well, you don't get a stress fracture from NOT working hard."
I asked: what did it really mean? He said, "You cannot run. Look at me. You can't run. For 6 to 8 weeks. You can't do anything that hurts."
Immediately, I said, "Walking doesn't hurt."
And he knew what I meant. And he made me look him in the eyes when he said the rest: "Abby, my fear with putting you out there is that you won't be able to let people run past you. I know you. You worked so hard and your pain threshhold is so high, but I'm telling you, you WILL HEAL and you will get to keep doing this, but you CANNOT RUN."
I knew at that moment I would swim, bike, and walk 140.6 miles, as God is my witness. And it broke my heart.
I fretted about it so much that I lost an entire night of sleep over it. I gave myself a headcold the week before the race as a result. That was helpful. :)
When it came time to race, the only thing in my heart was getting to that finish line in one piece. There were brief moments where I felt twinges in my hip during the race and I had to back off, and my heart broke a little more. When I got to the "run," I had to gulp down my pride each time someone said, "Ne marche pas" (or "don't walk" in French). My heart broke a little more each time. But I smiled every second. I was proud of myself for doing it anyway. I chatted with strangers. I cheered on all of my friends (each of whom I saw many times on the "run"). Courtney and Jason hugged me. Olwen and I cheered for each other. Alejandro slapped me on the ass. Ellen, Pam, Dirk, Jenn, all had high fives and kind words. Mike and Ryan had signs. My parents had cowbells.
I was determined that I was going to get there.
I will write a report on what I did for those 140.6 miles, what I ate (in short: Doritos), what I drank, but let me just tell you about that last kilometer. The one where I finally knew that I was really, really going to get there.
I walked up that last hill with my blisters screaming. I looked around at the scene: dark, almost 10 PM, almost no one around, the muffled voice of Mike Reilly on the loudspeakers, the glow of the finish line bouncing off the mountains. I kept walking. After the climb, I was in the village coming down the hill, and there were more and more people along the course. There was a fence holding them back. People were holding their hands out for high fives, and I took all of them. I looked around through watery eyes at all the strangers cheering, and I couldn't believe it. I saw the finish line a few hundred meters away and I thought, "FUCK IT I'M RUNNING!"
For a split second, I was afraid it was going to hurt, but it didn't. I saw my friends and high-fived them. I saw my parents cheering.
I looked behind me to make sure there was no one else who could steal the thunder of my name being called as I ran to the elevated platform at the finish line, and I heard Mike Reilly say:
"From Washington, D.C., at 37 years old,
Abigail Sanford
You...
Are...
An Ironman!"
I crossed the finish line with my pre-selected "one arm in the air" pose, and then the genuine emotion took over and I was pumping my fists in the air as I walked down the platform.
It wasn't the day I trained for.
It wasn't the race I planned.
But at the end of that very long day, I crossed that line, and I felt like an Ironman.
Can anyone say "unfinished business?"
Even before I got injured, I knew I would do it again.
Stay tuned!!
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