I blame you

I blame Wes and Kritta.  Both of you.

Because I reallyreallyreally don't want to go for my ride tonight.  Even though it's gorgeous out and sunny and lovely and perfect for riding.  I want to sit on my porch and admire my herb garden and listen to the family next door parent with air quotes.

And instead, I'm going to go for a bike ride so Wes doesn't have to drop the "eff" bomb and Kritta, well, she'll drop it anyway but I don't want to disappoint her.

So I'm going to ride.

Ugh.

I'm going to press publish post as soon as possible so I have zero chance to back out.  Ready...pressing... now

UPDATE: Done and done.  Ride and core/arms.  I can't lift my arms above my head anymore, but I feel much better about myself.  Thanks Wes.  Thanks Krit.  Love ya!

It's a small thing, but I'll take it

Recently, I've really solidified my relationship with my bike.

I love her. I love riding her. I love hunkering down in aero and really powering through. I love what it feels like to stand in the saddle to get through an intersection, knowing that all ya'll are jealous of my fine bike.

And I've become a much better rider this year, so I'm finally feeling a little more confidence out there.

And last night I did something that -- for me -- was kind of brave. Or at least smart.

I looked ahead.

You see, normally when I'm riding hills, I'm so focused on my gearing and my legs and effort that my vision is just the eight feet in front of my wheel. Lest you forget, I'm terrified of hills. They're my weakness, my fear, my limiter. So when I get on one, I put my head down and just focus on the task at hand.

I've always avoided looking at the top of the hill. It would have some psychological effect on me -- somehow the grade and length would magically multiply and I would instantaneously become convinced I couldn't do it. I would feel my legs shrinking from the proposed effort and I would slow to a meaningless grind.

So I stopped looking up.

Until last night.

I decided when I went out to find something to challenge myself. I was heading out on my standard route out Rt. 322. Really beautiful, generally uninterrupted for upwards of 25-30 miles, and a lovely and safe shoulder. But I ride there a lot. A lot.

So I needed a challenge to keep me engaged. This time it was to focus on the top of the hill, not just ahead of my wheel, to really learn about my own strength.

And, as I suspected, the estimations my brain makes when looking at a grade or distance are far afield from what my legs are actually capable of doing. The hills that look scary from the bottom turn out to be just fine with the right approach. The steep ones leveled out a bit when I connected what I was feeling in my legs and what I was seeing on the road.

There had been a disconnect there. My brain was continuing to interpret hills with the muscle memory of my legs years ago. But I've changed and my brain didn't get the memo.

So, it was really nice to change my perspective and learn a little more about what I can do. I'm still no Lance or Floyd -- and I still get effortlessly passed by guys twice my age on a regular basis -- but I know a little more about myself now.

Because I looked up.

Back in the saddle

Got 2:00 bike in today, although I was hoping for a little longer.  The heat was BRUTAL out there and totally tapped my legs.  I knew on the first hill going out of town that it was going to suck.

And it did, but in a really excellent way.  Each and every hill was like dragging an ape up the side of the road.  But for every ride in the rain or humidity or afternoon heat, all I think about is...if this happens on race day, I totally know what to do.

Incidentally, the Swedish fish failed.  Too hard to chew and didn't digest all that well.  And for 150 calories, I need to jam 25 of those little guys in my mouth.  While riding.  In aero.  Chaaallenging.  And between the Gatorade and fish, I was all cotton mouthed with Red Dye #5.  

I have to get out to Performance to restock on Cliff Bloks.  And start stalking the Acme's for some Accelerade stocks.  

Time to shower and head down to the hospital.  Thanks for all of your good wishes for Nana -- she's doing well in recovery!

What 700 miles in the basement is *really* good for

LEST y'all think I'm poopoohing the benefits of my trainer sessions in the basement, I'm going to share a little nugget with you.

Yesterday I walked up the stairs. Normally. As in not hunched over, stiff legged and awkward. Just a normal, lahdeedah pace up stairs. Lots of stairs. All day long.

Normally, two days after a hill-filled race I would be all bent over and old lookin'. But not now.

Why?

Because I worked my a** off in the basement this year. And while I didn't smack the hills around on Sunday as secretly hoped, I certainly didn't need a week to recover from them either.

How about one day to recover.

And THAT, my friends, is a good thing.

So don't start worrying that this complicated relationship you've developed with your trainer in the belly of your home is for naught.

It's all good.

***

In only marginally related news, I was out looking for a "flat" course last night to do a recovery ride on. And since I can no longer claim frostbite risks for outdoors riding, I was on the road. And within a half and hour, I got an industrial sized staple directly in my back tire.

And what did I do?

I promptly called Mighty M.

I know, I know. I could have changed it, but it already needs to go into the shop because the tire isn't sitting properly in the wheel, so it goes thunkthunkthunkthunk the whole time I ride. Like a flat tire when I don't have one.

Until, of course, I did.

Rather than get greased up and dirty changing a tire that was going into the shop the next day, I decided for the rescue call instead.

Oh, and since you asked, lazy is spelled a-b-l-e.

One sure sign you're hitting the road for the first time since, like, October

You approach the intersection for a right hand turn.

You unclip your right foot and place gently on the pedal.

You look to your left, right and ahead for oncoming cars.

You check over your left shoulder for additional traffic.

You lightly apply the brakes, and...

...reach for your turn signal.

Cha-ching

Done!

By way of numbers...

2 bottles of Fruit Punch Accelerade consumed
2 bags of Sport beans consumed
2 gels consumed
1 frantic bathroom trip, 3 stories up
4 fast transitions
0 wasted time
4 times I wondered why I was watching Keeping up with the Kardashians
2 episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians watched in the entirety (chickens? like, really?)
3:10 training in the bank
1 Lance Armstrong movie watched
2 times the remote fell to the floor and split open
1 time I came deese close to falling off the back of the treadmill
12 cuss words spoken at Z4 run interval, a mere 2:25 into the brick
2713 calories burned
0 shortcuts


which leaves us with...

... 1 well earned burger and monster salad to be consumed by yours truly.

Peace out, girlscout.

Dream a little dream

I'm not dreading today's workout, but my subconscious is.

Today I have the last big prep workout for the big duathlon next weekend. It's a Du Brick of the likes I've never tried before. All my bricks have been in the bike to run format...worked pretty well for me. This one, is different.

45 on the bike with increasing levels of HR
30 minute run with increasing levels of HR
45 bike repeat (build, build, build!)
30 minute run repeat (build, build, build!)
30 minute bike spin out

Gah.

That'll be new.

And my knee has been flaring again. All the way up to the hip. My new fancy refreezable icepack and I have become close friends. My roller and I are in an intense lovehate relationship and DEESE far away from an ex parte restraining order. It's been fun at my house this week.

Last night I had a dream I was down at the local university's athletic center and had lost a chunk of my left calf and (much more recently in the dream) lost another huge chunk of muscle out of my right calf. I was climbing endless stairs with the swim team, trying to find the upstairs exit. (Huh?) Once I did, I had a long hill to climb to get back into town and it was the slow trudgery that only a dream can bring you. Heavy legs, walking through molasses, cant. walk. faster. At the top, I ran into my hockey coach from high school who was at the finish line of a running race that I had missed. She was decidedly not impressed with my chunked out calves.

Sigh.

So, if I don't get my butt in gear and down into the basement for this brick my subconscious will have some more to say about it, I'm sure.

Damnable Freud.

Every Last Minute

"I can do anything for 5 minutes."

That's how it started. I was reaching the end of a gut wrenching, find the wizard, leave your guts on the floor bike test and there were five minutes to go. So I decided I could finish this if I could convince myself I could do anything for five minutes.

"I can do anything for 5 minutes."

I said it outloud. I had no reason to trust it. I just wanted it to be true enough, so I forced its existence.

And I could. Managed my focus, kept my form, found some patience and gave the test a little bit more. And I finished and was fine. No blood, lots of sweat, and only a couple tears. I really could do anything for five minutes.


I didn't really think about it until a few weeks later and I was in the pool and desperate to be done with the swim. I was tired and cranky and I still had 15 minutes to go. Only 7:45 and no excuses to get out of the pool. More intervals and a cool down, and I wanted out. But, I decided I could do anything for 15 minutes.

And I did. And I was fine afterwards. And my trust in this little process was growing a little.

Fast forward to that same week on the bike. My toes on my right foot were cramping from my too-tight shoes and I still had 15 minutes to go. Again with the intervals. Again without excuses. But I can do anything for 15 minutes, including that.

So I did.

And now I've come to trust this little tool. I really can do anything for these little periods of time. Even with the pain and the effort and an intense desire to get the hell out of there, I can do this training thing if it's broken up into trusted increments.

I whip out the rule on longer runs, when I'm far enough away from home to want to walk but too close to let myself. I really can get home in one piece because I can do anything for 5 more minutes.

In the water, on the bike, on the road...I've taken the concept out a million times now and it holds up each time. 5 minutes, 10 minutes, another 1/2 hour and those last three miles home.

And yesterday, during my 3:15 on the trainer, I pulled it out one more time. It was well over 2 hours into the ride and my coach put in 2 minutes standing @ 60 rpm, 3 minutes seated @ 70 rpm. Big gear. Zone 2. Repeat.

The first one I cracked at 1:30 and sat down with a thud. Ground my way through the next 3 minutes and stood again. This time at 0:55 my quads were shaking and I leaned into my aeros for support. I sat at 1:30 again. But then I remembered.

I can do anything for 2 minutes.

And I did. I shook and dripped sweat all over the floor and cursed my bike and I wanted to stop at each second that passed, but I made it through the full 2 minutes.

Because I believed that I could. Because I knew that the pain of those two minutes would dissipate soon after and I would be left with a lingering trust of my body and my instincts. The pain always feels like it will stay forever and is larger than you are. And you always have the choice to sit down, cry uncle and give up.

But the pain never really is larger than you are and it's never better to sit down. Because you always can finish if you trust your guts. If you prove to yourself each day that you can do anything for two minutes, it's only a matter of time before that two becomes five, which becomes 90 and then 200.

And then, you're free to do it all. Every last minute of it.

We're gonna need a bottle of peroxide, some gauze, and a lot of duct tape.

Last year, I gots me a bike.

A fancy, dancy bike.

With bullhorns and bar-ends and a cut out...OH MY!

Not only is she FREAKING GORGEOUS, she's wonderful to sit on, shift on, and stand next to.

And she and I have already spent over 700 miles together, me in her somewhat uncomfortable seat (I didn't want to mess up the fit I got by messing around with putting my Terry saddle on...so I've learned to just deal) and her propped up on the trainer.

Yes. You read that right.

I have a new bike that I've logged 700+ miles on...in my basement.

What does that get me? Season 1 and 2 of Rescue Me and the knowledge that interval training and reading subtitles do not play well together.

What does it NOT get me?

Um...yeah, BIKE HANDLING SKILLS.

So, there you have it. I'm not sure I can ride my bike. With all the ass kicking my coach has been handing me in the name of "you're the one who signed up for an early season half, remember?" I know that I'll be stronger going up all those hills out there.

If I don't fall off on my way to them, that is.

BUT.

Here's the good news.

This week it broke 50 degrees. It felt like bathing suit weather. Bad news was it did this lovely feat while I was at work and recovering from a throat infection. (Yucky. I know. It's over now...let's not discuss it.)

But hand-to-God, the first time it breaks 50 and I'm not at the office, I'm dropping everything and heading out on the road.

You know...to see if I know how to work my breaks. And turn corners.

Watch out, world. Get the peroxide ready.

[Update: You know what? I lied. It's more like 550 miles. Not so good with math here. But that's still a LOT to do without touching asphalt.]

Simulation...tion...tion...tion

I don't talk about the bike all that much.

You guys probably think all I do is swim. And sometimes run. And occasionally fall off my Swiss Ball of Pain.

Mainly because I just don't tend to mention my bike time recently. I dunno why. I guess because lots of it is getting on and plugging away. Sometimes it's intervals of gears -- hard for a while, easier for a while, repeat until you're toast. Sometimes it's a series of efficiency drills -- spin for a while at at comfortable cadence, then for a while at a faster cadence, then for a while in a cadence that makes you feel like roadrunner on a fly wheel. Repeat until you're toast.

And don't get me wrong. I freaking LOVE all this bike training. Maybe that's why I don't write about it as much as the stuff that makes me crazy...like that lady at the pool, who was nasty to me, who I will never forgive for removing me from her aerobics lane to shiver on the deck waiting for another lane to open. She knew I wasn't with those meathead guys who would ruin her class, but she just had to threaten me with a foam bar bell. Wave it at me, like some aquatic equivalent of the middle finger. Somebody pull a flag for unsportsmanlike conduct in lanes 1-2.

I'm off topic again. Focus.

I've been doing a lot of biking. In fact, more biking than anything else. That's what happens when you tell your coach that it is (a) your limiter, and (b) your goal to fix.

Oh, and when you have (count them) THREE half iron distances in the race season. Oh...and when the first is in (oh, that's right) very early May. Not to mention the fact that a month later is your return to the hills of West Virginia...the race that tried to chew you up and spit you out. The one you have some serious plans for.

So, this is what happens.

She warned me.

Wednesday night, there I was in the trusty basement on my trusty new-ish bike, yet again spinning away watching Court TV (er...excuse me...Tru TV...the stupidest branding decision in the history of tv...whatever). But this time we were going to do a little simulation.

Simulation.

Sounds fun. I'm down for it.

Let's simulate some hills, shall we? As in, find a solid (no, seriously...a SOLID) base to raise the block for your front wheel something in the neighborhood of 6 inches. Yup, like those two boxes of unused tiles that were supposed to go on the basement floor last summer when we bought them in a frenzy of home improvement ideas, right around the time we were distracted by the kitchen project that (dare I say it?) still isn't done.

Focus.

Up goes the front wheel. On goes Able. Time for what my coach calls "Muscle Tension" intervals. 8 minutes on the biggest gear known to man (I mean, my bike) followed by 95+ spinning in a small one for 10. Repeat.

Let me ask you this...do you know how much harder that is when your bike is propped up to the heavens?? DO YOU KNOW? DO YA?

First my left ankle twinged. Left ankle. Whah? I never have any problems there. Now it's feeling funky. Next? Leetle itty bitty tendons in my knees and calves add to the chorus of reproach for my new lofty post. About an hour in, the coup de gras, was a full blown cramp across the bottom of my right foot. I could feel my toes curling under.

Thankfully, it all ended at 90 minutes and I happily hopped of my perched bike. And I was reminded that *I* was the one who picked an early season half, and *I* was the one who wanted to PR in West Virginia. So *I* was going to see a lot more of these in the future.

And you know what? I've decided I like the pain. No. Check that. I love the pain of things like this. How often -- in your life -- can you do something so tangible and so concrete towards a goal. I didn't have to extrapolate from a swim drill the benefits I would be getting later in my race stroke. I didn't have to estimate or approximate what the impact a recovery run will have on my 1/2 mary splits.

All I had to do to see the point was look down at my legs, grinding away in the biggest gear, and replace the image of my untiled basement floor with a West Virginia back road. Close my eyes and I could feel exactly what it will feel like doing that 45 minute grind up the first part of the mountain.

Training sessions like this are a gift from a coach. You don't need any gymnastics of the mind to realize exactly what you're putting in the bank during those 90 minutes. I didn't need to be a coach to know I was preparing to make the most of that mountain come June.

Most of the time our plans or our coaches (or our watches) -- especially this time of the year -- are telling us to slow down, pace ourselves, don't get too excited. And it's sometimes hard to hold back when you're visualizing strong finishes and pick ups around the competitor in front of you. But occasionally you get a chance to look down and find a pretty darn good approximation of what it will feel like to be out on the road again, tackling hills, racing at your best. And somehow that makes all the calf twinges and foot cramps worth it.

That is, if you have a couple boxes of unused tiles around.

Eclipsing The Lists

Christmas has eclipsed my existence for now. In the form of lists.

I make lists on an hourly basis. There's the list for the gifts purchased and wrapped. The gifts outstanding. The schedule this week for where and when I'll buy the things on that second list. There's a list of groceries to make cookies for the office and what to pack for my trip down south.

The lists are on 5 x 8 cards on my work desk. They're jammed in my driver's side door pocket, with an attached pen for good measure. They're folded in my purse.

Oh. There are Lists. They are everywhere. But such is the holiday.

So far, this is the strangest Christmas ever for me. My father has moved from our family home of 20 years (in our home town of 35 years) to Williamsburg, VA.

Beautiful at Christmas, but a god awful long trip away.

So instead of our normal holiday festivities in our normal home with the normal good cheer and heart warming feelings, I'm packing everyone's gifts Thursday morning and driving for 8 hours to a brand new home. Erg.

We're going to have to make it our job to craft some warm and fuzzy moments in the new house. Pronto.

This year, Mighty M and I decided to not put a tree up, which has made me a bit sad and kind of curmudgeonly. There was simply no time to get it up before it was time to attend our relocated holiday down south. No sense in having a tree up in an empty house, right?

Right?

(Sigh.)

You can see why I'm a little grumpy.

BUT. It's still the holiday and I've been exceptionally blessed with not one, but TWO great families, so I'll stop my grumbling about a tree and the travel.

What I have found that will eclipse the list making and taking and stashing is training.

Training is the answer, folks.

My big weekend last weekend was almost shmushed by the holiday spirit, but I managed to wrangle my BIG brick on Sunday out from under the wrapping paper and broken tape dispensers.

And I know I've said it before and at some point I'll just shut up about it, but having a coach plan my training is like the best present EVAH. A year ago I would have done the brick like this...

Sleep the night before would have been marginal, at best. Why? Because I always knew in the back of my mind that the next day was stoptional. If I stopped wanting to do it, I just wouldn't do it and fashion some reason why I skipped out of the training ether.

But when I would do a brick, I would pop on the bike, put it in a gear that was a challenge but tolerable for a long time. And then go...just in that gear...for the whole time. Period. Almost as boring as this post is.

And then, hop off for a run. Likely I would slug it out with sloppy form and focus on the distance and time, rather than the quality of the exercise.

Afterwards, I would feel accomplished but achy, likely because I didn't hydrate properly during and was working off of an "eh" diet. I may have finished a long session, but I didn't really build my engine all that much.

It wasn't the worst training in the world -- I built some level of fitness with that time -- but it was far from smart. And I want to be smart. S.M.R.T. Smart. So, with the Elf's help, now my training is a little more like this....

I wake up from a full night's sleep because I know I'll be doing the brick the next day and I know there are few excuses that count anymore. And, yes, I hem and haw about it for a while. Just getting a coach did not make me a training angel -- sometimes I still have hours when I bounce around the house dreading the impending pain. The big difference now is that I don't barter with myself on ways to skip. I just bounce until I give up and justtrainalready.

I hit the bike with good nutrition in my belly and hydration for the ride. (In fact, this is a newly acquired habit after I saw the crazy increase in heart rate for rides that I would do without fluid. Who knew my little basement would cause all that sweating!?) On the aero's, I have a detailed sheet with my tasks -- warm up for 30 minutes with some spin ups thrown in there, 20 minutes in a big gear @ 90 rpms, spin it out, 20 minutes in a bigger gear @ 85 rpms, spin it out, remaining in small @ 95+. You get the picture. An hour and a half of solid work.

I hop...I mean HOP...off the bike and take the transition seriously. Why? Because I want to make sure my legs have the benefit of as many bricks as possible. Why? Because I want to win next year. Nothing fancy like age group, but I want to win. And PR. And I do that by not messing around in my basement doing transitions in December. PERIOD.

Then it's time for the treadmill. I watch my heart rate carefully, because I have zones to stay within today. It means changing up the intensity when my ticker gets a little excited. It means slowing to a walk by the end to make sure that I stay in my proper zones. It's NOT about the mileage or the pace. For this brick it's about other things.

So, that's what my Sunday was like. And I lurved it. Every moment. And for that lovely 2 hours, I forgot all about my Christmas-tree-less living room covered in wrapping paper bits. And I forgot about the tapped checking and savings account. And I forgot about the Lists...the many, many lists.

You gotta love training during the holidays!

T'anks, peeps!

Anybody ever tell you that you guys give great advice??

Well you do!

Thanks for all of the great advice on the new bike purchase -- all of it was excellent. Here's where I am now...

...Since everyone was in support of giving 650s a chance, I did some actual (gasp) research on what the difference is. I think I was just ill informed before -- I had the impression that the wives tale was that they were faster but the reality they were slower. What I learned was that the difference in speed/acceleration and handling are pretty negligible. I found some great resources to read and now am ambivalent about it...if the right bike has 650s, that's totally fine. Seems like the differences are very small.

...Don't worry -- while the temptation is there, I'm totally NOT going to buy a bike online! But, I did want to do some research and have an idea of brands that would be in my price range and size since that dictates where I go to shop. (For example, sadly my favorite bike shop only sells Jamis and my most hated shop is the largest Trek dealer in the area. Go figure!)

...I found what seems to be the perfect place for me to start, and likely end. High Road Cycles. They have two local shops and carry a ton of triathlon brands, including Trek and Specialized. They also have a number of ones for me to try and even will do my fitting evaluation for free, before putting me on a demo. I'm there: 11:30 on Sunday morning. With bells. :)

(High Road also has a multisport club that is encouragingly close to my home! I'm going to ask them about what levels its members are, but it could be a chance for me to train with other wackadoodle triathletes, instead of doing everything solo. Might be nice!)

...The Fit. I am absolutely doing a full fit once I get the new little nugget in my hot little hands. No doubt. I want every ounce of power I can squeeze out of her and lots of comfort. I have big plans for next year (oh...I didn't tell you those yet...???...patience IS a virtue...)!

...Upgrading. I love the idea of being more conservative for the main purchase and then upgrading the items I need/want (is there a difference?) and adding tools I can use. The sales guy I talked to said they have a ton of 2007 models still on the floor, including ones in my size. I may be able to underspend for the full setup and then upgrade components in drive train, like Monica suggested.

...The unexplored. Cervelo keeps coming up, again and again, but I just don't know very much about their bikes. Maybe a little research will do the trick...

Anyway, thanks again for all of your help!!!

Going Bureaucrat on Ya

I grew up in a house with pretty well -- um -- voiced political opinions. I think Dad started out in his marriage on the other side of the political fence, but Mom taught him the error of his ways. Personally, I've spent years upon years working in policy in DC and consider myself darn well informed. And occasionally articulate. My Lil'Sis? She's our Congress Connection. I won't tell you exactly where she works, but let's just say it has an awful lot to do with how our nation's money is being spent.

So, when in doubt, I say

THROW MONEY AT THE PROBLEM.

That's right. Go bureau-craptastic on the problem. Need a fix? Something falling apart? Line Item A Solution. Add-on. Attach. MARK IT UP, BABY!

And that's the way I've decided to deal with my triathlon problems. Throw. Cash. Around. *

Without going into the painful details as to my autopsy of my final tri of the season (and YES I really, really am working on a race report...REALLY!), there was something that I believe to be true.

As much as I love my Banana, I need an upgrade. Big time. I got Banana way back in something like 2000 to do the AIDSRide. She's a great lil' road bike and has taken me lovely places. Usually slowly, but I'm okay with that. So far, I've only really cared about getting to the end, not how long it takes me to get there.

Um...notice the words "so far"? Huh? Yup, me too.

I've decided that a 7 year old bike with the original touring components really isn't going to be good enough any more. I wants me some speed.

Did you hear that?

I WANTS ME SOME SPEED, GOOSE!

But I need your help. As Britney would say, I need help from all y'all. (Oh, and btw, she does. Please. Send help.) I need some advice on which bikes to look at. Here are the gory details that matter...

I'm short. As in 5'4" short.

I'm heavy. As in 164 lbs heavy.

I'm, um, limited in financial resources. As in I'm capped at $1800 for this purchase. I KNOW! Not much, but I'm hoping to take advantage of models being phased out for the new 08 bikes or even getting an 06 model.

I live right near a great bike shop that could easily build up a frame if that's the way to go (e.g., buying frame/components/bars/etc. separately). And, I have all winter to find good deals on shtuff.

I live kinda close to a triathlon shop (Cadence in Philly), but I'm nowhere near the price range of bikes they sell there and I don't have an extra few hundred to go in for a consultation. Seriously...where are all the tri shops for broke folk?

And, like most women, I have my preferences....

I love my current tri saddle, from Terry.

I like S-bend aero's better than L-bend, although I haven't tried either with bar-end shifters. That could make a difference.

I'd like a kinda good set of wheels. Not crazy good, just something that is reliable and doesn't stick to the road like molasses. (Stop with the flat tire jokes, okay? Really. That's rude... .)

I have a thing against 650s. I don't know why, but I'd love to be able to stay away from them if I can.

I think components make the difference in the experience of riding hills (which I simply can't get away from out here). I never knew I had basement bargain components on Banana and now realize the mistake. (You mean gears aren't supposed to sound like a garbage disposal going up climbs? No?) Won't make that mistake again. Ultegra is fine, 105 is fine, Dura Ace is drool worthy.

There you have it. It's time to shop.

I've found one bike that I keep going back to -- again and again. It's the Trek Equinox 7 WSD (women specific design). And it's perdy. No...it's beautiful. And it has a carbon fork. And Bontrager Select Aero wheels. It has Dura-Ace shifters, 105 derailleurs, and a Bontrager crank. And, and, and...

And I think I would look MIGHTY FINE on top of this little baby.

But are there more out there?

More that might be good for me?

* Okay, to be fair...I actually don't believe that this is a real solution to real problems and I actually think there's some pretty lousy money management going on in DC and I have a thing about waste. Something to do with "waste not want not." But it works for triathlon!

Procrastination at its best

Today, my forearms, hands and (somehow) right foot are covered with the vague smudges of bike grease that didn't come off in the first attempt of removal this morning. I didn't try very hard, mainly because I have reserved a finite amount of energy for the remaining responsibilities of my job before I literally check-out. And scrubbing my arms was not on the agenda this morning.

From whence came the grease?

Yeah, that would be from the little tutorial Mighty M held in our driveway yesterday afternoon.

Something I haven't mentioned before is that Mighty M has be on and around a bike before. He wrenched when he was younger for years and was a cat 5 (maybe 4?) racer in his prime. Sadly, he hasn't felt the draw back to the saddle since then, but he does know a thing or three about bikes.

Including the fact that yesterday I was 6 days out from an Ironman and had never changed a flat.

:: blink ::

:: blink ::

Um...yeah. EmBareassing! I know. But (in my own defense), I hadn't had the need to do so...you know, in an emergency situation. The kind on the side of the road. You know!


(Sorry, I can't jinx it by saying it out loud!)

So. School was in yesterday, with the delighted audience of my two youngest neighbors, Alison (4) and Emily (6), who were characteristically full of questions.

But I did it. Changed the front a number of times myself and then used practicing on the back tire as a way to LATHER my hands and arms with grease.

Yummy.

An interesting little fact that I learned? Yeah. Um. I've been riding on tires that are REALLY low. As in, "holy geeze, didn't you feel like you were riding through molasses?" low. And I have recently felt a little slower than I wanted to be, but I just figured it was my fat arse. Turns out is was at least partly due to my inability to notice when my tires are flat. (Like 55 psi in the back tire flat.)

Yup. I'm a moron. I get it.

But now I'm a moron who can change her own tire.

And somehow that puts me one step ahead!

Finding Your Gut

There's something that I think everyone training for an Ironman distance race should have. That one day on that one ride when you feel like the road and the route and the hills and the heat have torn you to pieces and left you twitching on the side of the road. I've had a couple that come close, but I'm hoping for one more this weekend. But there so very necessary. Because you come out on the other end with an inflated bank and a new sense of ability.

Meet Erin. I love Erin. I can't for the life of me figure out how I just found her blog. Check out her post about the Dairyland Dare, a 120+ mile, 10,000+ feet climb, BEAR of an organized ride out in Wisconsin.

This thing put ELF through the ringer and she's two Clif Bars short of being a pro. She earned her spot in Kona this year and the Dairyland Dare tried to break her.

(Oh, and by the way, ELF went 100 miles -- including the last two around the parking lot for good measure. Erin? The whole 120. And then she ran, cause she rolls like that. AND THEN, the very next day, she raced an Oly. Mah-Sheen.)

So, leave Erin a little comment love and remind her that when you leave everything you have out there on the road, it remembers who's boss when you return.

Understanding that marathon part

It dawned on me today on my bike ride why people are so willing to actually run a marathon after riding a bike for 112 miles.

It's because they're so damned glad to not be on the bike any more, they'd do anything you told them to do.

A little cha-ching in the Iron Bank today with a 108 mile ride throughout beautiful countryside. Really pretty ride, great people, well stocked stations, and me...the ultimate idiot who missed the last turn on the way back and added an extra 8 miles to the ride. Trust me, that Was. Not. Fun.

Needless to say, I was so ready to get off the bike you could have convinced me to do anything.

Perhaps even running a marathon.

Passionate Recon

Come'on.

You know you do it.

For each of my "big" rides or races, I look at the elevation charts. When they're not conveniently linked on the event's webpage, I hunt them down with the dogged vengeance of a woman scorned.

Call it passionate recognisance.

But I need that info to get ready for the day. Maybe it's too much to know. That could be debated. Have I psyched myself out before starting? Maybe. But when it matters, I'd rather not leave anything to chance.

So, it has been with much CHA-GRIN that I read posts from the crew who went to WIBA last weekend. You know the ones -- that talk aboutthe hills, and how HILLY it is, and how UNGODLY RELENTLESS the hills are, and how they come over and over and over until you have to will left to live?

Yeah. Fun. Soooo looking forward to it.

So I need my own testing ground now. Somewhere I can find some semblance of an equivalency. My PSAT, if you will.

And I've found it. Oh yeah, kids, I have.

Remember the Taxing Metric? Yeah. I buried it in the recesses of my mind, too. I remember thinking words like relentless and ohgodthesehillssuck and killmenow. So at lunch today, me and the BT route tracker got cozy again and mapped away.

Booyah. I tell ya -- what we ever did without gmap, I. JUST. DON'T. KNOW.

So, you take the ride from my house to where the Taxing Metric starts, add it to the two ride loops (which conveniently have an at-car stop in between), and add it to the ride home and...

....voila....

Almost exactly 100 miles and over 6,700 feet of climbing.

And THAT, my friends, is my new measuring stick. I don't care if I have to try it every weekend from here to Wisconsin, I will do that without bonking, crashing, crying, or otherwise falling apart.

It needs a name, right?

I'm going to call it my Proving Grounds ride. Here's the breakdown...

Home to parking area/picnic grounds
Distance: 18 miles
Climb: 950 feet

Taxing Loop One
Distance: 32 miles
Climb: 3065
yes, i'm serious. now i know why that was a kick in the pants for the first ride out this year!

Taxing Loop Two
Distance: 32 miles
Climb: 1800 feet

Return home
Distance 18 miles
Climb: 950 feet

Total Proving Grounds Distance: 100
Total Proving Grounds Climb: 6,765

Total IMWI Distance: 112
Total IMWI Climb: (approx) 7,000

Not a bad comparison, eh?

Expectations

Managing Expectations.

This is a theme that you hear over and over again in recovery. Learn to manage your expectations. Flexibility of both emotion and thought. Be realistic about your talents and limitations. Manage your expectations.

There is a lot of managing expectations and perseverance in recovery. In a way, it's an endurance race for your life, that happens on the fringes of your days, every day, no matter what. In a way, sobriety is like morality -- when done right, there are no days off. It takes a stubbornness woven into the very fabric of your existence -- tying into your emotions and hopes, all of your choices, big and small. Sobriety has surprisingly little to do with not drinking and a lot to do with making good choices. You become well versed in calmly addressing each crisis, each problem, with the underlying knowledge that if you apply this stubborn perseverance, you'll manage to weather just about anything.

Head down. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Just about anything life can throw at you.

When you close such a destructive chapter in your life successfully, how hard could the rest be?

And those lessons are the ones I thought of on that long road back.

At the third and last rest stop, I stopped the bike. I pulled off to the side of the road and the volunteers looked at me quizzically. Is she stopping? Should we call SAG?

I explained that, no, I'm still going to finish, but I needed to gather myself before the last hill and get some water and food. Boy, did that water taste good! I mixed the cold, fresh water with what was left in my Heed bottle, ditched the finished Perpetuem, and replaced it with Infinite. I ate the second Balance bar and started feeling better.

And then, yet again, I noticed how few people I had seen recently.

"Am I the last rider?" They didn't know. Hmmm. And then a woman my age came riding up the road, grabs a bottle of water and keeps on moving.

Ugh. If I wasn't last then, I must be now. Time to get moving.

I hop back on the bike, thank the volunteers and start pedaling. My seat is ON FIRE, and I've clearly answered the question as to how long a race suit can pad your rump. I see one last woman -- could she be an Athena? -- pass by in the opposite direction on the switchback. There's someone behind me! I'm relieved. Hugely relieved.

And then, halfway up the last climb, the HFP Racing truck drives by. With a couple riders in it, including that last woman. They slow down and say good job, cheering me on with fists out of the window. But I can't help but notice that they pause to tell the cop something at the next pass. Something, I'm imagining, like "here comes the last one...we can open these streets up after her."

Double ugh.

Last place. By attrition.

But there really is no stopping on a bike course, is there? You don't just hop off and magically an escalator appears on the side of the road to whisk you back to transition. It doesn't work like that. And, anyway, I didn't come here to stop.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll let myself change my mind later. But not now.

The last 15 miles were mainly downhill and exceedingly lonely. And tiresome. The extra fluids I started taking on at the last rest stop were making a difference, as was the Balance bar, and this was good. With a little hiccup there, I managed to keep myself on track with food and water. But, frankly, it was time to get off the bike.

Like my weekend before, I've never wanted to start a run more than I did at that last intersection before the bridge over the Monongahela.

Banana -- it's been fun. But, it's time to run.

I look up and see Mighty M on the bridge. He has the camera glued to his face and is yelling cheers of encouragement. I try to tell him I'm the last person on the bike. I want to tell him how they're opening the roads behind me and each police officer seems relieved when I go by, since I'm a reprieve for them from the long hours spent in the sun on their feet. I want him to get the full impact of this realization -- that I'm the very last person in this race and the (mottled and distorted) clear conclusion that I wasn't supposed to be able to finish. I want him to hear all of this as I yell out at him on the bridge.

He hears a little of it. He yells back that there are more behind me and I think he must really love me. Because he doesn't know what I know -- that there's nobody else. That I've become the very last fat chick out on the course. Because I'm now DFL. But, he keeps yelling that it doesn't matter, just keep on going.

It doesn't matter.

Manage expectations.

And there he is, grinning from ear to ear. He's so proud of me. Me! Mighty M, with his shiny bald sunburned head. He thinks that I can do this. He thinks I should keep going. He doesn't care that I'm absolutely last. Of course, he doesn't feel my legs or shame. But he often knows more about me than I do, so I trust that, and I trust him. Implicitly.

So I pull into transition. Back to human kind. Back to civilization. And back in time to run a half marathon.

_____________________

Bike time: 3:58:45
Average pace: 14.1 mph
Overall Rank: 303 of 305
No. people actually behind me: about a half dozen
Transition time: 0:02:17

Turning the Corner

On the bike, I felt a sense of confidence. Before I started swimming and running, I biked. I made it from New York to Boston in under 4 days with the Northeast AIDS Ride. That I managed on little training and relying on the body of a 23 year old. I'm ten years older now, but I have my time in the saddle. Regardless of my triathlon experience, Banana and I had been places together. She brought me some much needed confidence after a challenging swim.

I escaped transition with nary a trip, fall or embarrassing snafu. I am thankful for that. Cause when I fall, I tend to do it in front of large groups of people. Like in front of full restaurants with plate glass windows.

I don't fall small.

So mounting and staying mounted was my first feet for the day. Bravo. And then I was off like a herd of turtles.

The greatest things about being a blogger during race season is getting to read so many race reports. Learn from others. I repeat -- Learn From Others. It works.

So I went out sloooooowly. High cadence. Slow speed. No! I will not be seduced by the first flat out and back! No! No! No!

Harumph

But, to be completely honest, I wonder if I really could have turned it on anyway, if so inclined. My legs were a little mushy and I felt like I was spinning through quicksand for the first five miles. Ah well, we'll just call it part of the plan. Quicksand cadence? Check!

A number of people passed me on this section -- and when I say a number, I mean the entire Masters/HIM section and a bunch of the Olympic field. But I reminded myself -- I'm racing my race, not theirs. Maybe they'll poop out later, after going out too strong. Maybe they won't. I'll never know. Wasted energy to worry about it, right? Right.

About this time, on the out and back by the river, I started eating and drinking. First a Balance bar and then started on the Perpetuem. Not too fast, but we were already 15 minutes into the bike section and -- learning from others -- I remembered that this was the key time to begin.

Anyway, it tasted like sawdust. It was awful. I ate it, but bletch. Gross.

The course itself was two full laps, each with one loooong hill (about 4 1/2 miles) and one steep hill (under 1 mile, but the same elevation change). Mighty M and I drove the course the night before, so I was prepared for a mind numbing assent. After each turn on the long grade, there was yet another section of -- you guessed it -- a long slow hill.

But knowing ahead of time makes all the difference in the world. Learn from me, people. If you can, ride the course first. Do your recon. Map it out on the online tools. Know what to expect. It will help with managing your effort. Trust me.

Anyway, the first loop wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. The long assent -- felt like cake. Granny gear and a high cadence kept me feeling fresh. I skipped the first rest stop (at about 15 miles) since I still had a good amount of fluids on board and I had no idea how to do the hand off. The steep hill was a challenge -- my heart rate spiked through the roof and I was clearly feeling the effort. It didn't help that it was devoid of trees or cover from the morning sun. Sweaty! But I got through it fine, and it was downhill the rest of the way back to town.

(This, by the way, was when I was first "caught" by the pro field on their second loop. Holy geeze. I've never been in a race with these kind of pros -- ever. They are astounding. Impressive doesn't cover it. They take your breath away. Except for the first one, who I yelled at for not calling out an OnYourLeft in a particularly craggy and narrow section of road. After figuring out he's a pro, I forgive him. I'm sure he gives a hoot.)

So, when I swung through town and saw Mighty M at the bridge over the Monongahela, things were all thumbs up. I was feeling good -- to be halfway through and know that the long climb didn't kill me. I was in need of some fluids and a little solids, but all was good.

This was the last time that day I could honestly say I was in a good place.

It's amazing how quickly things can turn from good to oh-my-goodness- this-sucks-monkey-balls. How very, very quickly.

Rest stop two -- at the main transition area -- included my first hand off. Wahoo! A new water! Yeah! Banana please...(snatch)...wahoo!

Wait...um, what do I do with these things?

Yeah. I didn't really think about things like "ditch your used water bottles before the rolling rest stop, and replace with the new ones." Nobody taught me that lesson! Now I know. Ditch and roll. Ditch and roll.

I allowed myself a quick stop in the parking lot to fill up with fresh water and peel and eat a mushy banana. Back on the road for the second loop I felt great. I was on track with a bike time somewhere around 1:45. I'd been in a good place if I could do that one more time. Saw Mighty M again and he was cheering like a rock star. I felt fueled and strong.

But soon my energies started going down. I was only starting to catch up with a little dehydration I felt on the way back into town, although the waterstop helped. The fast and flat out and back by the river, before the long climb, suddenly felt like a long hill. The padding (or lack thereof) in my race suit was making itself known -- with each and every pothole and bump. Discomfort turned the corner to pain. More people passed me, efficiently tucked in aero and spinning away. The field thinned noticeably. My left aerobar was twisted out of position (how did that happen?) and my legs felt heavy and empty.

Where was everyone?

As my legs started getting tired, I became concerned about the climbs. My gearing for the long one was clearly more forgiving the second go around. The last obnoxious sharp hill at the top seemed doubly obnoxious.

And it was dawning on me how quiet it was out there. Lonely, even.

Now, the first time around, there were people doing both the half iron distance and the olympic. So, my rational mind told me that all those Oly people were out on their run.

But, my pragmatic mind knew better. And with the knowledge came the dread. And that dread was confirmed at the last out and back section of the course.

I was in a race for last place. And I was running out of fuel.

Advice on the Parts that are Private

Remember those paper dolls when we were kids? The ones that had vast wardrobes of regular day clothes and a perpetual supply of the coolest Halloween garb you'd ever seen? And all it took was a fold or two of the tabs and -- presto -- yet another outfit for yet another adventure.

Yeah, I hated them, too. Damned tags.

Anyway, I'm having a quandary about my clothing choices for my VERY FIRST EVER OH MY GOD AM I SCARED FOR THIS half ironman this weekend. Why can't I seem to dress myself?

Oh, maybe because I'm running on only a little sleep, because my taper has left me with a brutal case of insomnia that I can't shake without hours and HOURS of bad tv on at a whisper volume. And while I can't sleep and I'm often twitchy with coffee, at least I've seen every episode of LA Forensics.

(Goodness, I need some sleep.)

Aaaanyway. I digress.

Dress me. Right.

My quandary is this: I have two options for my clothing for Sunday's race and I can't come to a decision about which to do.

Option # 1: Super Easy, Potentially Painful

Tucked in the back of my closet is this little number. (And nope, that's not me in the picture. In fact, I don't even remotely look like that in it. Remember, guys...atheeeena. A-the-na.)

I usually only wear this for shorter races, mainly because that's the only kind of races I've ever done! But it's comfortable and when I wear it I completely forget about my clothing and focus on my racing.

The down side -- padding for the coocheroo. Woob, lady parts, my "area"... you get the picture. It's a tri suit. Hence, fabulous padding that dries before you get your wetsuit off, but has the protection of a maxi pad.

Option #2: Awkward, but Reliable

Now my second choice is doing a full cycling garb for the ride. My Team StayPut shorts are really great and have a sturdy gel pad (LOVE ME SOME GEL!) for my coocheroo. They dry well and are comfortable.

The team top, however, leaves a little to be desired. It's scratchy and tight in all the wrong places. It matches (a plus for my vain side), but I always am a little uncomfortable -- and a lot self conscious -- wearing it. It's a kit, so it can't be split.

And therein is my quandary.

Here's my estimation of the process...

Prediction#1

The swim: Wear the race suit, with jog bra, under the wetsuit. Minimal complication.

T1: Easy strip of the wet suit, possibly put on arm warmers.

The bike: Minimal padding for 56 miles of racing. Fifty-six miles. Hmmm. Also, only one rear pocket. I don't think this will be a huge problem (I have a bento for my solids, and fluids are on the bike).

T2: Jersey girl fast and easy. That is, if I can still walk after the maxi pad ride.

The Run: Super comfortable. Plan calls for 3 gels on run (plus gatorate at rest stops), which can go in rear pocket. Picture perfect finish.

Prediction #2

The Swim: Full kit would be restrictive, so just wear cycling shorts and jog bra under wetsuit. Would be mildly uncomfortable, but my mind will likely be on trying not to drown.

T1: Pull on dry cycling top to complete outfit, possibly add arm warmers.

The Bike: Lots of cooter comfort, but scratchy and uncomfortable top. Three rear pockets for whatever.

T2: Trade tops for -- well, I don't know. A running top. Doing a half mary in my team top would be gross. Need to find a running top that has a pocket, or bring something to carry gels.

The Run: Shorts may feel unnecessarily padded, but let's get serious...I'll just be trying to finish at that point.

_________

Of course, I'll bring it all. Isn't that what we do best? Over pack?

But, ladies -- I'd love to hear if you've ever done a 50+ ride in a tri suit or tri shorts. Was it horrible? Did you notice?

Inquiring minds want to know.