No Longer Just Fine

I battle with my weight.

I don't write about it much here, except when it comes into play with my Athena status. But I don't really write about it a lot.

But I think about it all the time.

I think about it when I dress in the morning and struggle with which pants will fit, I think about it when I do my ritual morning weigh-in at the office to keep an eye on the numbers, I think about it when I put my swim suit on, when I look at race photos, and athletic catalogs. I think about it when I put on my cycling shorts and when I look in the mirror after taking them off. When I pick what shirt to squeeze into and what tights to wear for the run. When I look in the mirror and see pictures of myself.

I think about it all the time. And it's not often positive.

I have always been a large woman. Big breasts, a double chin, and belly that belies my childless status. I have curvy hips and a round face. I always look like a chubby girl who carries and dresses it well.

And all of the social and psychological implications aside, its made racing and training harder for me. If you're a woman around 130 pounds, I want you to consider grabbing a 40 pound weight next time you go out for a run. Just pick it up, maybe put it in a backpack, and then do your long run or tackle some hills.

Being a large athlete is hard.

In the past, I've paid attention to my eating habits. I like whole foods and to cook, so I eat healthy meals. I have a strong, above-normal metabolism. I don't ever pig out on anything -- there's no binging. And yet I carry around more than I should.

And I'm tired of it.

I'm really tired of it.

This weekend, we got pictures from the family meet-up, where Mighty M's family met mine. It was a great time -- lots of laughter and easy conversation. And picture taking! Imagine two proud papas with their families in tow. Lots of photos.

And I was devastated again to hate the way I look in them. I saw the thick neck and double chins. The swollen looking visage and the layering outfit to conceal the ill fitting jeans.

I tired of these experiences. I'm so tired of worrying about fitting into my training gear, and how my weight is impacting my times. I'm sick and tired of it.

It impacts me more than I'd like to admit. Last week I turned down the possibility of sponsorship by a major brand name because it was possible that they would not have clothes that fit me. I had been sponsored by them before and the kits didn't fit. The bra was tiny, the running shorts were an impossibility, and the shimmel was a joke. The cycling top was horribly tight and, as a result, horribly scratchy. So I decided against sponsorship again this year. Because of my size.

And there are so many times when I sit on the stair landing in our living room, talking to Mighty M about it. How it feels when people at the gym assume I'm just starting to learn how to run because I'm heavy, talking down to me with condescending advice. How demoralizing it is to train hours upon hours each week for months and realize no benefit except being better able to carry the excess weight across the finish line. How I feel less attractive to him as a woman and as a future wife. How it leads me to frequently ask why he loves me or burst into tears when trying to dress for social events.

To date, I've been relatively silent about weight and training and (especially) the psychological wake of trying to accommodate one with the omnipresence of the other. I've been the well mannered Athena who makes it appear that she's perfectly happy with her status. But I'm not.

This year I've been working my ass off, more so than ever before. I'm more committed. I've dedicated many more resources towards my performance. And I really, really care.

Last night I logged onto the registrant list for a big race I'm doing later in the spring. The Athena field has started to fill up and, according to Athlinks, I have some very serious competition. I saw me not hitting my goals (of placing in the regional series) as a possibility. For the first time. And I know that there's something holding me back. My training is on track. I'm already realizing great improvements. I'm working very hard and changing things. But there's a limiter there.

My weight.

With all of this on my mind these past weeks, I started taking steps towards change. Tentative steps. I've never actually dieted before. I've always avoided that classification, label. It always seemed desperate to me, all rolled up in a ball of expectations and media and socialized image. My weight has fluctuated, but not because of started or finished "diets." I have had periods of skinny jeans, but they were fueled by a diet of vodka, depression, and couscous. I have healthy weight periods, too, that came during my 20s. And I've had long periods of inactivity and great weight gain. Throughout, I've never "dieted." And I don't plan to now.

But clearly...no matter how resentful it makes me feel...training alone will not make me a trim athlete. For many it will. Mighty M is starting a running plan this week to trim down for the wedding. He'll hit his goal in under two months and continue to eat crap along the way. It's just the cards he was dealt. Mine are not the same cards.

So, two weeks ago, I dragged myself nervously into the gym and got my metabolic rate checked and did a three-point calliper body composition test. And I talked to my coach about the process and the results. And I started to be more careful about calorie content each day and hitting the goals outlined by the results of these tests.

And I gained two pounds.

Thanks, body.

I know that I want to lose weight. I know I want that loss to be in terms of fat, not muscle. I know I want to continue to train properly and be fueled effectively. I know I want to remove weight as my limiter.

And now I'm beginning to realize that this will not come from just wishing it so. And resenting that I cannot just train and "be careful" about what I eat will not be the key. Something else needs to step in. I need to apply what I know already works for me, and retool it for this particular problem.

So. There you have it. I'm no longer just fine with being my weight, and I'm going to do something concerted about it. It simply has to happen. I refuse to relinquish hard-earned performance improvements to the fact that I am carrying around remnants of my old life. I have no room for its impact any more. I have no tolerance for it being a part of my life any more. It has to go.

Now.

Like Normal

I'm a little thrashed, trashed and cashed.

Today is a nice little break at the end of the third build week. A nice, solid 11:40 effort and only 0:45 short of a perfect week.

(As always, the pool was my downfall -- I went for the ez swim yesterday and found full lanes and lacked the patience to stay. A better triathlete would have stayed and waited. I was not that triathlete. I was too distracted with the house that needed to be cleaned and a huge bike on the horizon of my day. Sigh.)

And for once, I feel totally normal about it. Yeah, I have some serious aches (quads, calves, hammies) and pains (how exactly did I bruise up my ankle so badly on Sat's long run?), but in general, I feel normal.

Which tells me something.

I finally got the formula. I got the right amount of sleep. I got the right amount of food. I stayed healthy and balanced. And came out the other side feeling, well, NORMAL.

Some interesting training experiences to share from the week...

• It's a great feeling when, after being on the bike for 2:30 and managing 4 kind of monster Z2/sometimes Z3 intervals, you don't feel miserable. It's nice to not dread that last 15 minutes of a long bike.
  

• Dialing in nutrition takes a long freaking time. But it's worth the effort. I'm starting to put the pieces together, in the hopes of never having to throw-up in the water again or take pukey pitstops along the road.

• The irony of proper training nutrition is that you can't justify eating a whole pizza afterwards. For example, I did a pretty killer 2:45 ride yesterday, but I also consumed about 1200 calories along the way. No way a large thin crust will work with that math!

• If you go out mad, you'll blow your zones. Mighty M and I fought on Saturday morning. (Don't worry, all healthy couples do occasionally.) I walked out the front door with a 130 heart rate. Over double my resting rate! It took me over 4 miles to get it even remotely under control, and I still ended up with a run that was farther into Zone 2 than I was comfortable with. Don't go out mad.
  

And here's the most important point I learned, which is kind of a follow up to last week's thoughts on missed workouts. When you work with a coach, it's really, really, REALLY important that you follow their plans for you.

If you can hit each of the sessions and do the effort they describe...well, you'll end up feeling normal at the end. A little beat up and a little sore, but normal. There's no over-doing it because you're adding on missed sessions, there's a lot less stress, and it makes sense. Knowing this will help me stay "in line" more in the future.

And now...it's time for a rest week. Two whole days off. Itty bitty little sessions that have lots of Z1 and EZ in the description.

Which is good, since my Dad is coming to stay at the house for a whole week. And Saturday is our "meet the family" brunch, when Mighty M's family and mine meet for the first time. LOTS of things to attend to that don't have much to do with training!

Bad hair day

My hair looks like crap. No "natural" (pshaw) volume, no casual toss, no flirty curls.

Why?

Tuesday night lifting + Wednesday morning "arms only" pool day = Noodle arms

I can't really, you know, lift my arms above my shoulders. Well, not without assistance.

Blow drying it was comical.

So now I'm pretty homely from that-there neck up.

Want to keep something away from me today? Just hold it up. I won't have a chance. Unless it's chocolate...I might be able to overcome the pain for chocolate.

Morning List

This morning I...

(1) talked myself out of going to the pool 3 times,

(2) talked myself into going to the pool 4 times,

(3) swam my first 25 with no breath and lived to tell about it,

(4) swam seven additional 25s with only one breath and lived to tell about it,

(5) experienced the sensation of of pins and needles creeping up my legs as I tried to swim without that fancy thing called oxygen,

(6) managed to avoid peeing in the pool (...this time...),

and

(7) saw him briefly. I always imagined him to be taller.

I was afraid she was going to say that

I have a bad habit.

Maybe you have it, too.

If you're a triathlete and busy and sometimes a little crazy, to boot, you probably have done this in the past. Maybe, just maybe, you've let it turn (as I have) into a bad habit.

Trying to pick up missed workouts.

Sound familiar?

This morning I shot the Elf an email about this week, asking if I should try to put in a missed swim session or find time for an extra "long" run. You see, my swim suffered last week with only one (gasp!) session and I had to cut my long run yesterday short since I'm feeling el crapo.

So my learned response is to add something to the coming week. You know, the one that already has 11 1/2 hours of training in it? Intellectually I know that's a stupid idea. First, there's no room. Second, jumping from the 7 or so hours last week (lower than planned) to more than 12 would be a second dose of stupid. Third dose? Take your pick -- potential mid-week burn out, injury, illness...the list goes on.

But that's not why her message hit home.

"Don't go back and pick up workouts -- just keep moving ahead."

Between those lines reads something more important. Implied there (and these are my thoughts, not the Elf's) is that don't assume when you miss a workout you can find another time to fill it in. Even if the reason is quite valid, your decision to train or not to train...at that very moment...is a terminal decision. No adjusting later. Finit.

That's a hard one to manage for me. Not because it's unreasonable. More so because in the past, I've allowed myself some wiggle room in my weeks. It's a habit I picked up when creating my own training schedule last year, but I've carried it forward, so to speak. In a subtle, sub-conscious way, I've allowed myself to say justify moving things around in my schedule, thinking I can make them up later. As if time will magically appear later in the week. Or somehow my body will begin recovering at twice the rate, so I can do twice the work.

Again. It does make any sense, but nonetheless I've managed to craft a habit out of it.

And having a coach will break me of this habit.

First off, she'll say wise things like, "Don't go back and pick up workouts -- just keep moving ahead." Indeed.

Second, I'll feel the actual impact of a missed workout the moment it becomes missed. Without allowing myself to move things around (on paper or in my mind), the full weight of that decision will come at that very moment. I wonder...will it change my mind? I wonder...will I start finding another way or being more creative about solutions to get my training on?

You can guess what I suspect will happen.

So, I'm adding a goal to my current list. To break the habit of moving my training at the expense of my training.

Anyway, this certainly won't work if I'm perpetuating bad habits, right?

Right.

Fending

In the last year or so, since I've been training on a regular basis and watching what I eat, I've been relatively healthy.

Occasionally, I get hit with the hint of something bad to come. But I'm a huge proponent of preventing the bad cold/flu/infection/blahblahblah. When I start feeling sick, I start loading up on sleep and fluids.

My goal: never get super sick.

I used to get horrible illnesses that lasted forever and a day. I was perpetually immuno-compromised because of my heavy drinking and smoking. I treated my body with little respect, so I was always recovering from something or on the verge of something else. It was evident in my lung function, my energy levels, my skin, hair and nails...you name it. It was yuckdome.

So, in an effort to nevah evah go back there, I'm a prevention nut. And my efforts are meeting there match this week.

The throat thing started on Thursday. Kinda scratchy. Would you worry? Prolly not. Me? Absolutely.

Continued into Friday...and Saturday...and yesterday. I generally trained through until yesterday, when I realized this wasn't going to shake with just some positive thinking. So I went to bed. And slept. And then I woke for a while (actually to pack a bag for today's training), and promptly went back to sleep again.

And now I'm sitting at the office, with a throat full of yuck and what feels like a fever. And a headache. And my eyeballs are hot. My eyeballs are hot.

Ugh.

So...tonight is a prescription for a little training (it's an easy session on the bike, although I still can't figure out how "easy" and "one-legged drills" ever fall into the same sentence), the quickest next day prep I can manage (lunch making, outfit picking out, swim bag packing, horrah!), and then straight to bed.

Because I totally and absolutely WILL NOT get sick on a peak week. I refuse to. And I generally get my way. Except for about the flatware this weekend during registry shopping. Didn't get my way on that one. But I will for this.

Brute force and ignorance. Works every time.

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.

Roasted Tomato Soup

Monday night I had a shorter night than usual. Forty-five minutes of recovery spin on the bike and the Abs & Arms routine (otherwise known as Circle of Hell. You think I kid? The notecard by the t.v. says "Circle of Hell" plainly at the top, lest I forget).

So, when training gives you an extra hour, I say ROAST!

In addition to triathlon blogs...and running blogs...and fitness blogs...oh, and celebrity blogs...I also read foodie blogs.

Cause, you know, I have a lot of time on my hands.

Anyway...back to Monday night. Time on my hands. Recipe on the brain.

I've been meaning to make this soup since I saw it on the Cooking for 2 blog -- roasted plum tomatoes, yummy garlic, all mashed up into a thick brothy tomato soup. Y-U-M.

Let me tell you.

Love tomatoes?

Love roasted tomatoes?

Roasted garlic?

Warm, satisfying soup in under an hour?

Just go ahead and make it!

You'll thank me later.

Smack it

That's exactly what I did in the pool this morning.

What?

Pool? THIS MORNING?

Oh yeah, you heard me right. Going to make a stab at getting all three swim sessions a week in during morning hours...that way I won't punch anyone when they try to move me from my lane. Figure it's a good plan. Know your weaknesses and all.

ANYWAY.

Back to the smackage.

On deck this morning was a set of 3 x 500s on 10:50. The goal? Get all 100s on 2:05 -- which is T+5 for me now.

Want to know where I hit?

1 - 2:05
2 - 2:05
3 - 2:05
4 - 2:05
(I swear...I'm not making this up...)
5 - 2:05

(rest)

exactly the same thing for the second set. HAND TO GOD.

(rest)

1 - 2:05
2 - 2:05
3 - 2:05
4 - 2:10 (oh, you've got to be kidding me...)
5 - 2:05

And that my friends is as close to perfect as I'm ever going to get.

Apparently, Mississippi thinks I should eat at home...

...or at least a few of them do.

But more about that in a second. First, I've had a post about weight in the hopper for a while now. Some thoughts that have been knocking around about reshaping my body through the training process with the Elf and how that's altering my own body image and relationship with food. Changing composition, improving strength and flexilibility, and supporting it through proper food choices.

But there is a saying in our family that sticks -- "Short, fat and squatty. All a$ and no body."

Thankfully, I've avoided the tail end part, but not without thousands of miles on the bike. But I haven't been able to avoid the biological imperative passed down through my parents and their parents.

The short story is that I've always been short and I've always been heavy. I've never been whispy or slight and buying clothes has always been a struggle. And since the advent of my 30s, my metabolism has gained a surly attitude and needs a lot more convincing to work with me, rather than against.

But, I've begun the process of self acceptance. This is what I look like. And with the exception of some refinements in shape and possibly a little weight, this is essentially my body for life. And I've grown used to it and tried to see the sexy side to my curves. It's a process, for sure. I am green with envy when people talk about running an 8 minute mile -- that will never be in my cards. I still worry about what I will look like in my wedding dress and I harumph about getting the proper jean fit. I don't fit the norm of beauty, but I've managed to find my beautiful side.

And for the most part, I'm satisfied. Satisfied because it's perfect? Nope. Because it's not. But I am satisfied because it's mine. And I learned a few years ago that trying to fight the things out of your control is guaranteed failure.

So. Here I am. A kind of short woman with a great deal of muscle and an extremely healthy lifestyle. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I am careful about my nutrition, and exercise is my part time job.

And, there may be a point where I would be turned away from a restaurant in the state of Mississippi because as an OBESE patron, I would not be allowed to dine out. Anywhere.

Yes. LET ME REPEAT THAT. As defined by the state of Mississippi, I would be obese. Thus, restaurants (any that have more than 5 seats) would be obliged to turn me away. Yes -- that is they would lose their permits to operate if they failed to do so.

I swear. Read the proposed bill here. (Thanks to The Big Fat Deal for the heads up.)

Honestly, when are we -- as a populous -- going to realize that poor health status is not just about what the scale says and healthy decisions are made based on education, available resources, and healthy food options.

This is NOT about regulating behavior. This is about providing the collective resources for good nutritional choices, regardless of financial means or geography, and supporting a culture that incorporates and rewards physical activity. Regulating behavior by legislating access is a simple "answer" to an overwhelmingly complex phenomenon.

And moreover, the use of BMI scales is thoroughly inappropriate. Even if I were to allow for the argument of some form of regulation, the BMI scale is simply not a sophisticated enough tool. Period. I am a perfect example of how it can be over-inclusive (do I really need to be regulated by the state because I cannot manage my own dining decisions alone?), and the individual with a normal BMI number and dangerously high cholesterol or unmanaged diabetes is the example of how it can be under-inclusive. Want to regulate your residents? At least use criteria that is appropriate.

This bill to be motivated by stereotypes and is entirely too shortsighted and unsophisticated for what should be expected of elected officials. Reps. Mayhall, Reed and Shows should be ashamed of their submission.

Could it be? Maybe? No, don't say it...PROGRESS?

Running has never come naturally to me. I'm not built for it.

I have a friend who is also a triathlete and she's built like a gizelle. I saw her recently and she suggested going for a bonding run together and I danced around the idea because her legs come up to my navel. I said, "nah, I'm a really slow runner -- I wouldn't want to ruin your run." She countered with,"don't worry, I recently broke my foot...I'm running slower than I ever have. I'm sure we're well matched." Upon which time it was determined that her running pace with a broken appendage was still two minutes/mile faster than my tempo runs. That was a fun exercise in abject embarassment.

So, I'm just not built for speed.

Just by way of example, I am 5'4" tall (which is mighty short when the peanut butter is on the top shelf) and manage to pack 170 pounds into that frame. But even at that weight, I'm still a size 10/12. My point? I'm built more like a lumberjack than a lady. Maybe a lady lumberjack.

So running is that necessary evil tacked onto the end of a triathlon that I try not to suck so horribly at that I lose any momentum gained in the water and on the bike. Operable word: "try."

But I may have had a little encouraging news this weekend. I did my long run (turned out to be 1:24) on Sunday and stayed in my proscribed heart rate zones. Me and 155 were close friends for the entire Struble trail and then some. And since my Garmin will soon be going back to Garmin for a little tune up (it's a wee bit broken), I was relying on my new Nike HRM. Point? No pacing information...just ticker info.

I got home, showered, and got ready for Super Bowl festivities. But before heading out, I checked my distance on gmap and LO' AND BEHOLD my pace was considerably different this week.

Compared to my prior long runs in low Zone 2, I was running 0:45 seconds/mile faster.

Um...

YEAH!

For the first time in forever, my long run was out of the 12:00/mile range and solidly in the 11:00/mile neighborhood!

And...AND...so far the Elf and I have been focusing on developing my swim and bike base, more so than my run base. (Not that the running shoes are ignored, don't you worry!) So this is progress (I'm assuming) through the accumulated benefits of building muscle through lifting, building an aerobic base with lots of cycling, newly developed core strength, and keeping on top of my running, too.

Whhhheeeeee!

You know how, like...

You know how, like, sometimes you do so much swimming that you keep thinking about fishies and you somehow convince yourself that because your turning into a fishie you get to go out for a $50 sushi lunch even though you don't really have $50 in the budget for a lunch?

Yeah.

Me, too.

Throwin' this out there

I just want to throw this out there.

I'm having a killer day.

And, frankly, aside from the horrible scab of a woman running water aerobics two nights ago at the pool who ruined my swim and day...ASIDE from her... I'm having a pretty killer week.

You know.

Cause last week's "rest week" was fabulous. And magical. And left me feeling rested and confident even with two LT tests thrown in there (like I wouldn't notice or somefin).

Cause my nice little doctor prescribed me a nice little pill called L*nesta that may be my solution to my NOTSONICE little issue with insomnia, that incidentally had an awful lot to do with my not so nice little habit of sleeping in instead of hitting the pool before work. But I digress.

Cause my body DID arise from the warm bed this morning (gasp) on time to get to the (gasp) nearly empty pool in which I swam a nice little set of 2300 drill and form.

Cause I managed to do -- for the very first time evah -- a length of the pool on one breath. And not just for kicks and giggles -- because the Elf told me to do it. (I may not have conquered all six of them, but I did conquer at least ONE.)

Cause my abs hurt. And my back hurts. And my hammies and butt. And (ironically) only one side of my groin. But they all hurt...in a good way. In a "that functional strength routine sure makes you work" way. The good way way.

Cause I'm finally going to the grocery store tonight to fill up all of those empty spaces on the shelves of my poor fridge. Homemade veggie soup with toasted cheese bread anyone?

Cause I'm hitting my sessions and not feeling strained or overwhelmed or anything...which, considering this week at work, is a massive accomplishment.

and

(somewhat unrelated)

Cause I have already bought my wedding dress, hired a photographer, hired a DJ, rented a venue, picked out all my flowers, picked out my bridesmaids dresses, decided on the favors and a candy table and found some special touches for the wedding. Yeah. The one that's 10 months away. I freaking love doing things ahead of time. Planning rocks.

: : SO : :

That's all. Just had to mention. Today is good.

Athlemotions...you know, cause it's catchy

I've been struggling a little recently. With my attitude. And I haven't totally figured it out, either.

I'm working on it.

So...recently I started to train my mind a little, in addition to my body. Here's why. I'm having a hard time naturally thinking about myself as an athlete. I don't feel compelled to run around all the time in jockette clothes and yelling out splits for my time from street corner to street corner.

No, it's more like I have to adjust my thinking to include the EMOTIONAL needs I have as an athlete.

What?

:: pause ::

Athletes have emotions? Special emotions? Athlemotions?

Yerp. Apparently so. Who knew?

Here's the thing. We put demands on ourselves, as well as our bodies. Demands for progress. Demands for meeting expectations. Demands for consistency.

Essentially, if we were dating our athletic selves, we would be like, "yo, girlfreeen...you need to BACK IT OFF a little. I mean really! You're a littl' INtense, ya know?"

Or maybe not. But you know what I mean.

As athletes, we become emotionally demanding little cusses, always wanting to see weekly goals met, monthly goals met, target times, increased thresholds, personal bests. I know tons of people that don't even display that kind of attitude when it comes to their JOBS, as in the things that they are PAID to do every day.

And we track and compute and memorize and compare. I can tell you without consultation my average 100, the actual BPM when my heart rate goes out of the aerobic zone, and predict my heart rate in specific gear ratios on my bike (well, at least when it's on the trainer). And I'd have to admit that I visit my Training Peaks more religiously than I do my checking account online statements.

And it's not just that we obsess. We have no mercy. Don't meet an hourly training goal for the week? Otherwise valid reasons start sounding like raging excuses. Backing off of a bum knee for a day feels shameful. Shameful. We don't just feel guilt, we feel regret.

And, frankly people, sometimes we just get out of hand. Our responses to our own "failures" (to hit an interval, gain enough on your average pace, meet the week's hourly plan) become out of proportion to what it really means.

For me, I'm still learning how to manage this -- to curb my own propensity for self flagellation when I don't progress leaps and bounds or don't hit every mark.

CASE IN POINT. Two weekends ago. (and yes, this post has been sitting in "edit" mode for that long...so shoot me.) Coming off of a hard week, my left knee started hurting. Not the usual aches and pains, and not just when biking or running. Like pain. While sitting. Sitting still. So I backed off. I DNS'ed a brutal trail run that I love because I thought it was less than wise to run on my knee.

And then I worried. And moped. And worried. And felt guilty. And then began to wonder (I kid you not) whether this would deplete the progress I had already made this month since it was the tail end of a peak week.

Because I'm a little crazy-like.

Because I'm invested in this and emotional about it.

And because I'm an athlete, which means I give a $hit about my body, my progress, my commitment.

Because I believe that what I do says a lot about who I am.

Because I'm a freaking athlete.

: : SO : :

ANOTHER CASE IN POINT. Last Thursday morning. In the pool.*

The day was a retest. Oh, my bad, let's be accurate. It was a RETEST. The Elf was back with the all caps again.

So, my technical goal: warm up 1000, 10 x 100 ALL OUT MAX EFFORT, ri:10", c/d up to 1000.

My goal inside my head that I don't mention to anyone before I hit the pool but I am really really really personally invested in? Shave 5 seconds off my average 100. Yup. I dream big. Five seconds off my average 100...which means feeling the burn and keeping the form for longer and harder than I did last time.

What do you think happened?

Three. Lousy. Seconds.

Off my average, you ask?

No.

That's right. NO.

Three lousy seconds off of my total elapsed time.

Ouch. Take that, ego. Take that, inside-my-head-goal. Take that, plan.

SO.

Here's the million dollar question -- what do I do with that emotion? How do I manage it in a way that it leads to my progress rather than sidetracking my efforts?

It's hard! It's a challenge to not immediately think about hours spent in the pool and to wonder if I'm just not doing it right or not cut out to swim any faster. It's hard to not interpret the emotion of disappointment negatively, converting it into a conclusion. It takes effort to make sure I use the information in a positive way.

But, you know what?

We're athletes, so we're really, really good at that effort thing. We just have to make sure we make our emotions just as relevant as our splits. Because -- at least for me -- mismanaged emotional responses to training can immediately, do not pass go, no getting out of it, completely ruin hard earned progress.

You know what I mean. Ever miss a run because your knee hurt and mope about it over a pint of ice cream?

Oh, you so know what I'm talking about.

My point? We are going to have emotional responses to our training. Period. Get used to it. It's not wimpy or weak...it's a fact of life. And like all of those less then wonderful facts of life (um, hullo, saddle sores?!), learning to predict, acknowledge and process will get you ahead of the game.

So, I've added training my emotions to my list of swimbikerunstrengthstretching tasks each week. I suspect it will be time well invested...We'll see!


* Dude...catch that? The "morning" thing coming so close to the "pool" word? Yup! Me. In the pool. Before work. Small victory over my bed? Helz yeah.

Hello world

:: blink ::

:: blink ::

Hello world. Nice to see ya.

Feel like I missed out on some stuff. We should catch up over coffee. What's that? Coffee? In my hands. Mmmmm. 'Nilla spice.

Sigh.

Let's see. When we last left the episode, I was exhausted. And vaguely hungry. But distracted by being so tired.

I tried to do a swim, but upon arriving at our gym found that everyone and their sister were swimming. Did you know that our pool has one lap lane from the hours of 4 to 8 during the week? Yup, that's one.* If we're lucky, it won't be the one with the mechanism to lower wheelchairs into the water, that tends to make the lane sharing a tad bit more awkward. We weren't so lucky last night.

So, I stared through the outside window at the busy pool inside and thought about taking a nap. I went in to get an extra copy of the schedule, walked back out, and again stared through the window, wondering if I could get a sense of how long the two people in the lap lane would be. Did they have lots of equipment? Intent looks on their faces? Bulging muscles?

And I thought about food and sleep and how good they would be. But I turned on my heel and headed towards the building again...only to change my mind one more time and pull a 180 and head back towards the parking lot.

The funny part? There was a completely full spin class watching all of this without my knowledge. All of it! All the indecision, the harrumphing, the getting of the schedule, the longing looks through the window.

Who turns the lights out in a spin class? Don't they know I can't see them through their window then? Sneaky bastards.

So, after suffering that embarrassment, I left and headed home, trying to talk myself into just doing the simple sit and spin hour on the bike. Seriously -- the easiest bike session the Elf has ever given me. And I couldn't talk myself into it.

I walked in my front door, grabbed a huge handful of almonds from the kitchen, and then buried myself under the comforter upstairs. I didn't sleep. I just laid there. Unmoving. Just breathing.

After a little while, M came home and announced that I was in no way, shape, or form responsible for dinner -- it was on him. I wanted to leap for joy, but had no energy. I mustered a "weeeeeeeeee" from under the covers and let him tackle the kitchen (a very rare sight, indeed) while I was just still.

A half hour later, there was steamed broccoli, baked chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes on perfect little plates. Love him.

And then I went to bed. At 7:45, I went to bed. I was sound asleep before long and now have almost 12 glorious hours of sleep tucked deep in my body.

Oh. What. A. Difference.

I'm wracked with guilt about not getting anything done last night, but I've learned my lesson.

Unless you take care of your sleep and eat what you actually need, not what you think you need, there will be hell to pay.

Okay, maybe 'hell' is over speaking the problem. But dang will you be tired.


* To be tooootally fair, I could and should go in the morning, when they have 4 open lanes just for us. I used to go in the morning, but then my sleep got all screwy and I got a little lazy and things got sloppy. I need to start that again. Like now. Ugh. Does it count if I say it in a footnote? It's sooo hard to get out of bed... .

Yawn

I'm tired.

No. Check that.

I'm exhausted.

Last night, Mighty M and I were at his birthday dinner and I honestly wondered -- out loud -- whether someone had put a sedative in my salad.

It's come to that.

I suspected clandestine doping via salad.

Right now, I'm practically falling asleep at my desk, even though I had no workout this morning and have had a delicious large Dunkin Donuts coffee in the wee hours and a cup of hot orange pekoe tea with lunch.

:: yawn ::

And yet, I am still exhausted. Like in my bones tired.

Here's the thing. I think I know, why I'm so dang tired. And probably the frequent instinct to nosh that I have. And the animalistic attraction to anything nearby that contains calories. Anything. Please. Feed me.

I'm ignoring the changes. I've just been waltzing through my days, following a solid training plan that has me doing intervals and power sessions and lifting and a whole ton of stuff I never used to do.

I'm burning a lot of freaking calories. I'm burning a lot of freaking energy. I'm practically a freaking pink bunny who wears her sunglasses at freaking night.

Yet, every day I still eat the same stuff and go to bed at the same time.

I used to be good at math. Clearly I now suck at it.

I'm simply not being smart. I have to start getting more sleep. I have to start bringing more food to the office. I have to start acting like I'm in training in all aspects of my life.

Tonight, I'm in the pool for an hour and then home for an hour bike. Then I eat my chicken and broccoli AND GO THE HECK TO BED.

Immediately.

Do not pass go, do not collect money to pay for your new cadence wire, and DO NOT stop in the home office to check your emails and read a few blogs or so.

Just go the heck to bed.

...

Recovery and fuel. Tag words for this week.

Recovery and fuel.

Pay attention, Able.

:: yawn ::

Is it nap time yet?

Trusting Words

Sometimes I love you is no longer enough.

You want to say more. Those tiny words, repeated at the end of phone conversations and in morning partings before work, begin to feel pedestrian, limp. "I love you." A phrase you could barely wait to use when you met, the only approximation you could come up with to describe the pounding in your chest you felt when you rounded the corner and pulled up to his house. A phrase that was so genuine and heartfelt that you passed it over, as if carefully wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a bow. Precious and rare. It articulated your heart beats and anticipation of simply being near him. It invited more, it allowed for 'just the same.' Accepting and caring, accurate and adequate.

But now the house is your house, too. And pulling around the corner is coming home, rather than coming over. And as weeks turned into months, and months to years, the unfamiliar became close and the new became reliable. And somewhere in between, there was a day when the words failed. There was too much more to say. Those same tiny words no longer conveyed how large your heart had grown, nor how your feelings had evolved. They were inadequate to describe what you felt when you watched him sleep, when you touched his cool head on the pillow and whispered goodnight. It bore no witness to how you trust his decisions, his judgments, his thoughts. These three words could barely contain a hint of the future you see in his eyes and how you warm inside when he laughs out loud.

And what do you do then? Do you find more words? Do you search your vocabulary for other ways to put it together and offer it up? What words would work -- are they many or are they few? Complicated and full of meaning, or simple and short?

Or do you trust? Trust that he sees it in your eyes, when you smile back from the casual glance across the table at a crowded dinner. Trust that he already knew, by the way you touch his head right before he falls asleep at night and walk arm and arm with him at the mall. Your needless calls just to hear his voice or the way you settle down around him, happily. Do you trust that he knows just how important he is from the simple gesture, when mere words begin to fail?

The words 'I love you' no longer reach the edges of what I feel for you, M. I hope that you know how very, very important you are to me. And while I cannot seem to find the words, I promise you a lifetime of little gestures to express my heart.

Happy birthday, beebie.

.j.

Why bother?

If you're anything like me, you're just learning about what benefits there are to training with heart rate zones. For me, I never used to use them because I never bothered to do the benchmark test to get the right zones. Everything seemed (and would have been!) silly without that.

So the HR strap and Garmin collected dust in the closet.

But, now that I'm working with the Elf, I've taken the steps to test myself and get those elusive zones. Painful? A little. Useful? More than I ever knew.

But seriously...

...what's the point?

What's it all about? Why bother?

If you've ever asked yourself that question...like in the last day or so, maybe...then check out this article on the Multisport Mastery website (Elf's company). It makes an awful lot of sense to me!

Thought you'd like to know,

Last night

I made that stability ball

my bitch.

(And I didn't cry.)

Both are Good Things, even in Martha's book. And I bet she does know about being someone's bitch and all, what with the prison thing.

Sorry, Mart, just sayin'.

Gear Me Out

With the advent of all my new fun training adventures, I've decided to do a little investing in me.

Okay, it didn't take too much convincing. I'm good like that. What? Invest in me? Sure! All for it.

First and foremost...I registered for some events. The Brandywine Valley Duathon is the first big scheduled item on the calendar, plus my return showing at the Mountaineer Half. Good thing I got those (lousy) $2 discounts on Active! This year, Mighty M and I are staying at the fancy hotel for the Mountaineer in Morgantown, WV. Last year, we stayed in a bit of a - um - flea bagged place. I didn't mind, but that's mainly because I was busy racing and all. Lesson: Gots to Think of Your Sherpa.

This year, M, we're in the fancy digs. I'll stock the fridge with Diet Pepsi's and you keep your eye out for pros in the lobby, okay?

Recently, I've taken to rewarding my efforts in the pool with fun play toys for -- you guessed it -- the pool! I have a brand new set of funner-than-i-thought-they-would-be paddles. I replaced my see through suit from Target with an honest to goodness SWIMsuit from Nike, with a cool matching cap (which incidentally ROCKS compared to the hair pulling latex ones). I also rewarded myself with a new gym bag that (GASP) didn't have a broken zipper and resistant attitude about getting the heck into my locker already.

And, according to UPS tracking (what ever did we do without this before??), en route from Phoenix, AZ is my brand new pair of Zoomers.

MY FIRST FINS, thankyouverymuch.

I know, I'm excited, too.

Retail. Therapy.

Fun.

Along with said Zoomers, there will be a nice little Aerokit for the bars on my (ahem) new (but not named yet) bike. Ostensibly for fluids and food, I dare say the tv remote looks like it would fit snugly in there, too.

I've also added a set of 5 and 12 pound hex weights to the collection and a 4 pound godforsaken medicine ball, although the ball is technically part of an arsenal, not a collection. A fancy illumiNITE jacket to keep me safe and some long underwear (but you wear them as outerwear and nobody knows it) to keep me warm. Thanks Santa!

Whew.

It occurs to me that my "hobby" may be a wee bit of financial liability to my future marriage.

Nobody mention a thing to Mighty M. M'kay?

Belly Up

I cried.

For the first time in my training, I cried. In a sniveling heap of exhausted, frustrated, and defeated form. Even my reflection in the mirror leaning up against the basement wall said the same thing.

Balled like a sissy for about two minutes.

Why?

God damned knee ins. To be specific, the stability ball knee in exercise. Or my third ring of hell.

I've made a goal this year to increase my overall -- and especially my core -- strength. No chance of winning if I'm a squishy mess out there on the bike. If I don't get the chance to be small, I'm at least going to be strong.

So the Elf has added what's needed -- two big sessions a week of strength and ab/core work. And my session last Friday reduced me to tears.

Give me a weight and I'll lift it. Give me a count of crunches and I'll do 'em. Even give me a plank time and I'll grunt my way through it.

Give me a stability ball and I'll look like a monkey humping a greased football.

Seriously.

When you don't have a lot of upper body strength (yet), then it's hard to keep the top of your body up properly so you can focus on your legs. When your core strength is in the range of pathetic (so far), you can get easily distracted my your legs that continually come crashing down on the carpet, pointedly on your sore knees. Oh...and when you can barely find the "stable" button on your stability ball (yet) and you struggle to get through 5 of the assigned 20...

...well, that's when you find yourself on the floor, rug burned and crying.

Defeated. Deflated. Disappointed.

I was an instable ball of D's.

Mighty M heard me from upstairs and came down to help. He told me to get up and show him what I was trying that made me cry. So I did. And he helped me by spotting my legs so I could finish a few of the reps without crashing down. And he encouraged me by counting out loud and forcing his words through my disappointment.

I didn't get all 20. But I did get a set of 5, then a set of 8, and then 5 more.

You see, for the first time in a while, I wasn't very good at doing something. In the past years I've gained at least a passable proficiency of all three sports -- just hand me the gear and opportunity and I can swim, bike and run.

And I got a little complacent with that.

So when I was going through this strength session and encountered something that was so far outside of my comfort zone, I didn't know what to do. All of a sudden I couldn't, and I wasn't used to that. I wasn't comfortable being crappy at something.

So I pitched a fit, just like any 34 year old adult would do. (Right?)

It ended quickly, but it was a great lesson. I can't forget...

This is going to hurt.

Getting better isn't easy or everyone would do it.

New skills must be acquired through pain and effort.

It's been a while since this has been really driven home with me. Perhaps it's because I want it so much now. Perhaps it's because I'm getting better in all the other avenues that I'm becoming blase about my own abilities.

There is a silver lining, at least. Last night I returned to the carpet in the basement for another hour of lifting, crunching, grunting and balancing on the ball. And I still struggle with anything that requires me to be balanced. But I'm getting a little better. And I suspect that will continue, as long as I keep going back, regardless of rug burned elbows and bruised knees.

The Elf calls it eating the pain. And I guess that's what's on the menu for this winter. Time to belly up at the table and get some grub.

Of Finding Passion and Risky Behavior...In the Pool?

Unlike many, the swimming part of triathlon didn't terrify me. I was more distracted by the running distances, since I knew they were far flung from my normal plod-around-the-local-U that I was used to.

But the swimming made some sense to me. First: get in the pool. Second: swim freestyle (or some approximation thereof) for as far as you can muster. Third: get out of the pool and try not to trip on the way back to the locker room.

Easypeasy, right?

Ah, the chuckles I get from this.

Because OF COURSE it went nothing like that. When I first started swimming, I was an awkward ball of nerves, with my attention closer on whether the suit I was wearing made me look like an idiot and whether I was going horribly slow compared to the person next to me. The senior next to me. There was a lot of thrashing and meaningful, serious glances at the big clock on the wall.

At first, I was following a plan that was focused simply on distances. One day would have a 200 warm up, 3x200 at "moderate" pace, some kicking laps, and a cool down.

Looking back, all I can think is...boooooooring.

It wasn't a waste of time. I think if you asked any coach, they would say time in the water isn't wasted time, especially at the beginning of your relationship with the pool. So, my pace started getting better and my confidence in the pool certainly increased. I stopped pulling at my bathingsuit and started wondering what a pull buoy was. And soon, as the road began to lead to Ironman, I started working off of plans that were more intricate -- special drills focusing on form and finishing ladders "on" certain numbers. I started wearing a watch to the pool and feel more in command of myself there.

It was all very exciting and I was building some strength in the pool.

But still, I wondered whether this was really what turned people on in the pool. I read a lot of bloggers posting about killer workouts they had in the pool and I didn't really feel like that. Don't get me wrong -- the days when I would top off 4200 yards in one effort were amazing. I don't think distances like that will ever get old.

But I was bored with my work there, and it showed in my effort. I would cut things short or skip cool downs. I just didn't have my heart IN it anymore. Nothing was new to me there -- it was just a different combination of numbers that I had to get through so I wouldn't drown at my next race. I had plateaued on my times, and was at a loss as to how to get faster. So I maintained and slugged it out.

Recently, though, I've found a new passion for the pool. And this has lead to some risky behavior. Or maybe it's reversed. Let me explain.

It coincided with my coach entering the scene, but it wasn't just because of the Elf's influence. It was because I decided that I would start challenging myself in all the three disciplines this coming year.

I would start actually pushing myself in a way that had escaped me before. No longer was it about getting through the distances. I had already felt what 2.5 miles in the water felt like, I already knew how loudly my knees screamed on a half mary trail run, and how my tail end threatened secession after the 90th mile on the bike. For some reason, I think I needed to get those experiences out of the way first.

But it was time for a challenge. CHALLENGE, in all caps.

So part of my goal to challenge myself for '08 was to pick a coach who was creative, enthusiastic, and very experienced. Well, duh. That was the easiest part. But then to follow each and every thing she told me to do.

So. I did the dolphin kick drills when she told me. I figured out what "IM" meant and became less afraid of each of the strokes. I looked up what drills were supposed to look like on goswim.tv and mimicked what I saw. I watched youtube vids over and over again to see exactly what the hand was doing at every point, what the elbows look like. I went out and got myself my first set of paddles and figured out how to use them. I learned to kick without a board to develop balance and I no longer get water up my nose when I'm backstroking (although I do tend to bump into lane markers when I'm not paying attention!).

They are all little things. All little things.

But they are making a huge difference for me in the water. No...I'm not fast yet. I'm not swimming IMs in the local swim meets and, no, I still don't impress that one guy who comes to the pool and effortlessly swims 10 stroke freestyle lengths.

No. But there is a major difference now.

I look forward to swimming. I get excited when I have a cool set in the pool with something new I've never tried before. Now I finish my collection of 2500 meters in my little lane and wonder where the time went. I kid you not.

Everything I do in the pool is looked at in a new way. No longer do I slug through 6x300s at a "moderate" tempo (what the heck is "moderate" anyway?). Now my 300s are a mixture of paddles and polo swimming (with your head out of the water), sighting practice, and different breathing patterns.

And I've actually done the dreaded FLY stroke...in public...and lived to tell the tale. Had I not tried it, I never would have known what a great core workout it was, nor would I have used those other back muscles that get left out when all of the freestyle fun is going on.

But more so, had I not tried something so far out of my normal routine, I never would have felt like a swimmer. Like a real, honest to goodness swimmer.

Each time I hit the water, I have a goal. Often I have something new to try, or at least an interesting combination of skills I already have. And I never leave bored or wondering why I even came.

All because I decided, with my coach, that this was the year to try something new. To push the envelope and really sculpt myself into an athlete.

I used to be an athletic person who participated in a lot of athletic endeavors.

Now, I consider myself an athlete. Because pushing limits is what athletes do. And that's what I do now.

So...with that said...I thought I'd include an example of one of my workouts, prepared by her majesty, Queen of the Elfen forest. Even though I no longer make my specific workouts public (it's the Elf's work, after all!), I think sharing this may inspire others to get out there and try some new things in the pool.

Wed, Jan 2

Warm Up
300 swim
3 x 100 kick (50 dolphin kick on back no board, 50 free kick with board)

Drill Set
10 x 50 Distance/stroke drill (count strokes for first 25, drop 1-2 for return 25)(ri:10)

Main Set
4 x 400 on 9:00
#1 - swim freestyle, every 4th length done as backstroke
#2 - swim freestyle, every 4th done as FAST
#3 - pull with paddles, breath every 3 for first 50, every 5 for next 50, repeat
#4 - swim with flip turns* OR streamline kick off of each wall push off (hands clasped, tucked between arms, and KICK to flags before taking first breath)

* see? this is what I mean. I've never done a flip turn. Alright...not since I was, like, ten years old. Next Tuesday? I'm doing flip turns. No matter how intimidating they are, I'm doing them. Scary and fun, all at the same time. Like scun, or fary. Or whatever.

Cool Down
200 swim easy

It's not as scary as you'd think and the rewards are HUGE! Go, try it, be creative. Take a risk. I promise it will be rewarding!

Ah, the holidays

Well.

There you have it.

My holiday season is. Done. D.o.n.e. Done. Whew.

What a whirlwind!

Leading up, there was much running to and fro for this perfect gift here and that matching wrapping paper there. (Yes, we match our paper...shut up!) And the food making and packing, oh my! My work is very busy right before the holidays because community partners will 'adopt' our client families and I coordinate this process. Heartwarming? Yes. A complicated mash of preferences, schedules and questions? ABSOLUTELY.

By the time I made it to Williamsburg, I was exhausted. But happy. And the holiday was full of cookies (AND MORE COOKIES SO MANY COOKIES OMG THERE WERE SO MANY COOKIES!) and family and nosogreat eating and ...

... well ...

not as much training as I had hoped for. Ah, well. Hopefully one week worth of fledgling activity will not undo all the work of November and December.

But tonight, it's back on the training wagon with a trip to the pool for a killer set, including a fun looking 100-200-300-400-500 ladder that will keep me busy. I need to make a point to write some more about my swimming, because I'm really (REALLY) enjoying it and actually (gasp!) getting better!

For now, though, I'm focusing on the half emptied suitcase in the living room, making my training on time and doing well, getting some actual food in non-cookie form into the house, and cleaning up the inevitable holiday mess that happens when you take three days off from the office.

Onward and upward, my friends!

Resolution

My father always said that when I was younger, all I ever wanted to do was to grow up. Be older. Move on to the next step.

And it was true. As a teenager, I longed for the freedom and release of my college years. When flexing that independence throughout college, I saw my young twenties as a time when the world would take me seriously and I would gain respect from those I respected. But my twenties became easily distracted and I was frustrated by its lack of predictability and reliability, something I was convinced would be found later...possibly in my thirties and plausibly through higher education and marriage.

My Dad was right -- much of my life has been spent looking forward to the changes of the future, with the unavoidable implication that I was unhappy with my present. And often I was. I was awkward in high school and desperate in college. My fabulous partying self of my twenties took a toll on my self esteem and rolled my growing addiction up into a tight ball in the center of my psyche. And as I transitioned to my 30s, I was growing uneasy with how disparate my actual life was in comparison to my expected life.

I longed and sought to replace. I looked forward instead of sat still. I was unhappy for many reasons, but sometimes it was simply my inability to be happy that circularly argued for my own conclusion of ineptitude.

I remember most of the New Year's celebrations during these years. The ones I spent in Hamilton with my college and townie friends. The ones that brought me to wonderful parties in New York apartments and smokey cabarets. The ones as the hostess with the best hors d'oeuvres and biggest glass of wine. And even the ones with broken heels and expectations, stuck in cabs at the witching hour with casual friends and empty kisses.

And, like many, I thought throughout those nights of my hopes for the next year. For sudden slimness and acquired control over my own prosperity. I, too, longed for the heart exploding joy that rings your ears with a solid note and leaves your life indelibly changed. I would fashion my daydreams of my life together in a woven fabric that defined what my personal success would look like for those 12 months.

Such an exercise. Such an exhausting exercise.

It is exhausting to forever be looking for the next goal and the next definition of want and need. It's tiring to be always a little unhappy or a tiny bit ill at ease. To never feel like here is enough. Like right now still needs work before I'm okay with it being right now.

Because that moment always passes well before you can craft it perfectly and it is never to be attained again. In your eagerness to be prepared and ambitious and right, you manage to let the here and now slip away.

And much of this, for me, had to do with being well. Many of these years I simply wasn't. I didn't have the tools to cope with the tragedies at home. I was ill equipped to recognize my own deconstruction until I was in pieces. I needed help and I got it, but until I was able to I was in no place to do anything but hope for something else.

But now is different.

I don't need the New Year. Go ahead and take it. I don't need to cleans or evaluate or re-evaluate, for that matter. I no longer have that urge to wonder what it will be like and how do I get there and why can't I have that (blank) right now.

Because I'm there. I have a full heart. I have a peace about my own life. I have the here and now, so my urge to plan and prepare for the future has ebbed. I still manage the details, but no longer at the expense of my own experience.

My future still holds more for me. It holds a marriage and children. It holds new homes and new jobs. It will likely hold loss and illness, too. But I'm not captivated by those eventualities. I look forward to my future, but I no longer spend my present looking. I spend my present living. Here and now. With my love, my work, my family.

So enjoy your New Year's resolutions. Find empowerment in them. Find an articulation of your own wants and needs. Resolve for connection and achievement, purpose and motivation. Plan, if necessary. Plan in detail and bright colors if you can.

And maybe, just maybe...resolve to not resolve. Plan to not plan. Make your immediate future about your own immediate. Allow the next thing to be new to you. Allow the now to become familiar before time steals it away. Slow down and breathe.

Define your "one day." And then just let go. Because your one day will come in its own due time.

And you will never see it at its clearest when it is still on the horizon.

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!

Ouch

My back hurts.

Not my upper back, just the lower. Kind of in two vertical columns where others have muscles. Apparently I have them, too, cause they're calling me dirty names right now.

What? You can't hear them? That must be because my calves are drowning them out with their own cries of complaint. This time it's the tops of my calves, not the bottoms. Keeps things interesting, ya know.

And did you know there's a weird muscle that's right near your armpit? Not technically in your armpit, just right in front?

Yeah. Me neither.

Until today.

Last night I lifted for real. Go figure. I have lifted in the last month, but it has been the slooooow easing into anatomical adaption phase type of lifting. Some here, some there, just ease yourself into it. And when your coach, who also writes in ALL CAPS, says "ease into it"... you tend to take the "ease into it" just as seriously. It's a sanity thing.

Sometimes I got to do my routine at home, which is fantabulous since it means I don't need to hang out with the university meat heads (sorry, but it's soooo true) after work. They're fun and all in a predictable sense, but I had enough of that in college.

But the at home lifting pales in comparison to the gym. And last night the gym hit me.

Some casual observations...

I don't know which Roman created that chair, but he should be taken out back and shot. In two repetitions of 25 shots with a rest in between for good measure.

Swapping out the pull down lat machine with a fit looking guy is fun and empowering, until you have to move the pin from 180 lbs to your 30 lbs. Harrumph.

Planks in public should be banned. Period. It's no good for the planker nor the plankee. It just ain't pretty.

That back extension contraption looks harmless enough. Looks.

Calf raises can make even the studliest calves cry. Never ever underestimate those three little inches of motion. Ever.

Aleve is your friend. And if it's not yet, send it some flowers and a nice card, cause you're going to need it soon.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not doing "reps to failure" or any crazy thing like that. I'm sure that ring of hell is waiting for, say, February.

But my body is only now starting to wake up to the idea that muscle strength is tres importante. And to get there, hitting the weights will be part of my mo. And soon it will be less of the "omgomgomgomgomg" refrain and more of "wow, maybe it's time to add another 5 lbs" going on in my head.

But until then, it's planks in public and muscling around with muscle heads in my future. And don't worry about me...I'll be able to stand up straight again soon.

Communicable

I seem to have contracted something.

I may have picked it up at the pool. Or somewhere on my handlebars of the bike. Could it have been in my stinky Asics?

Or maybe, just maybe, in that pile of athletic gear in the bottom of that special hamper in the guest room.

But I definitely caught something.

I'll tell you how I know. Just now I was typing away on the computer in a nice little email to the Elf, trying to convince her to let me double up on sessions this week to make up for a sick day yesterday. Who does that?

Me, apparently.

You see, I've been jonezing for this week.

9 and 1/2 hours of training.

BIG swim sessions, labeled as sets that "real" swimmers do. Intervals on my runs for the first time using my new zones. Efficiency drills on the bike and -- dare I say it -- a big solid brick to cap it off on Sunday.

I've been waiting for this week to start the moment it was posted up on my Training Peaks account. And yesterday I was stuck at home sick. In bed. For hours upon hours. Bored by 9:30 and brain dead from television by noon.

And tonight I was in the pool and -- even though I asked before I touched the water where I could swim uninterrupted and I was careful to check the schedule ahead of time [I'm just saying!] -- I was unceremoniously bounced by the obnoxious coach of the tiny tots learning backstroke.

And now I'm itching. I'm feeling PHYSICALLY ANXIOUS that I can't go get back in the pool tonight to finish the set. How's that for all caps! And I'm already packed and ready for tomorrow's adventures. And I've already cleared the schedule for the rest of the week's needs, moving holiday shopping out of the way of running blocks and making sure tree trimming doesn't conflict with the brick.

For all of the training I have done in the last three years, it wasn't until now that I have contracted it.

The itch. The itch. The one that renews your vigor every day and let's you dream of strong strides across the finish line. The one that lets you appreciate feeling like you can go forever even after an hour in the pool. The one that just sits there under your skin so you never need any reminder why you love to train.

You just do. Because.

Just because.

And I have it, under my skin and it itches. In such an amazing way.

Did ya miss me?

Okay, folks.

I'm back.

And even though I'm sure that I have only, like, three people who still read my blog, I kind of miss writing here. Not that the vacation hasn't been fun...cause it has.

But, for the sake of my future marriage, I think I should blog again.

Cause Mighty M may just kill me if I don't.

No, don't get me wrong. He doesn't READ this anymore...nah, he gave that up a while ago. I could divulge his deepest secrets here and he have no idea until someone randomly came up to him and pointed accusingly at a race next year.

No, it's more like I talk too much. WAAAAAAAY too much. And now it's not just about triathlon. Now it's about weddings AND triathlon. And Mighty M is breaking under the pressure.

So I'm going to need to get some of this out in blogging again. Beats payin' for therapy.

So. Things I've been meaning to say and haven't yet....

(1) I've decided that swim paddles are like cocaine for pool rats. The moment you put them on you're bigger, faster, stronger, and will nevereverever stop swimming. The down side? The moment you take them off you have T-Rex arms that barely drag you down the lane any faster than a sea slug. Paddle hangover, I guess.

(2) Cadence is all relative. All relative. When I started up with prep for my 2008 season, I thought 95 rpms as a "warm up" for 20 minutes was some crazy fast nutty stuff I should only do on the trainer outside of the watchful eye of the public. Now? 115 and I are friends. FRIENDS. Go figure.

(3) Single legged drills? Still suck.

(4) I've decided to get my own custom designed shirt for racing next year. People tell me all the time that I wear my heart on my sleeve and I'm an open book. (Apparently, I'm also a walking metaphor.) So I've decided on the coolest of coolest designs for a new custom race jersey. I'll reveal it dramatically at a later date. As in the later date when I have time to just put the graphic into electronic form. I'm a weeetle slow like that.

(5) I've decided to take my writing to a new level. I had a very sad loss recently -- a friend who I will dearly, dearly miss. And in my sadness, I have been searching for a way to manage this loss and convert it to something useful, for myself and others. I don't do many things well, but I know my way around a paragraph. So I've decided to turn sadness into words in a big way. A very big way. More to come for this, but it has been on my mind for weeks now.

(6) I'm still training...a bunch. My coach has been building me up slowly from the bottom and I'm starting to feel -- really feel -- the change in my confidence levels. I'm simply stronger in the pool and stronger on the bike. My running comes easier, too. And that's never happened before. I always tend to have one hiccup each week that messes with the schedule, but I'm being really good about sticking to the plan. And it's paying off. More to come on that, but it's all good.

and,

(7) I'm still getting married. (YEAH FOR ME!!) I'm still in total bliss and gush over Mighty M each day. Our future is so full of hope and joy, I can barely contain my excitement. It's exhausting, of course, finding the right place and managing the budget. I mean, who knew that photographers were that much money? My budget is good on some things and baaaaad on others. We'll figure it out, but the planning is an emotional minefield. So far, no major explosions...well, there was that one, but let's just not talk about it. Cause WE'RE GETTING MAHWEED!!

Okay, that's all from here. More thoughtful, non-bulleted writing to come. But for now, just know I'm back and thinking up crazy things to say here while Mighty M absorbs every second of televised hockey at his disposal.

In ALL CAPS

Time for a training update to keep me honest.

This week's joy?

LACTIC THRESHOLD TESTING.

Doesn't that sound fun? No? Not even a leetle beet?

Yeah...I agree. Here's how it played out.

First -- The Swim Test. This consisted of a nice little warm up and then a series of 10 100s in a row, with a rest of 10 second in between. Sure, why not? Sounds like fun, right?

Hell in the form of binary numbers.

The description my coach put in the Training Peaks file indicated I was to go ALL OUT on this.

"ALL OUT"

Until this point, I never really knew what swimming in all caps felt like. Turns out that the first 100 is terribly empowering...the second and third made me feel strong and fast. By the time I hit the third, I was starting to feel the burn and get a bit sloppy, but I WAS SWIMMING IN ALL CAPS so there was no stopping me now. I was in it to win it and I wanted more.

Fourth 100? Starting cussing out my coach. The fifth and sixth were a blur and by the time I made it to the eighth, I wondered if I could actually drown in the Y pool while SWIMMING IN ALL CAPS. Seemed entirely possible at the time. The ninth was the looooongest four lengths of my life and the last one was like running the horse back to the barn...I just tried to block out the pain for only a wee bit longer.

Whew. Swim Test #1 down. Baseline numbers on the books. Now I have zoooooones to work with, no longer my two speeds of (1) swimming, and (2) standing at the end of the lane staring importantly at the clock.

I have zones now. Booyah.

Results: Avg 100 = 2:03

Second...The Bike Test.

This one I was smart about. Do it in the morning, so you don't worry about it all day long. Good advice, self. No ruminations on the impending pain. Just get up, wipe the sleep away from your eyes and kick your own ass in the basement while everyone else is sleeping, cozy, in their beds.

Again, the architecture of the pain was the same. A nice little warm up, nothing you can't handle. Spin away for a 1/2 hour and get lulled into submission by CNN's morning loop of news stories. And right when you're starting to feel good, clear all electronic devices and start anew.

RIDE ALL OUT

Again with the all caps, dammit. Twenty minutes HARD. Don't blow up in the first 10 minutes, but remember this is supposed to make you cry by the end. So I kicked my own arse in the name of fitness. Pushed hard in my biggest gear for 20 minutes, dripping well earned sweat all over the floor and watching the slow minutes tick away.

By the end I wanted to punch the tv and fall on the floor in a heap. But it was done. I BIKED IN ALL CAPS and made it out the other end alive.

And, again, I'm now armed with zones. Actual zones that will make me faster. Booflippingya.

Results: Avg HR = 157, Max HR = 169, Avg Speed = 26.5, Dist = 8.8 miles

Third...The Run Test.

This, my friends, it my personal ring of hell. I don't like to run. (GASP!) Check that...I love to run, but I'm not very good at it so things get challenging for me earlier than most. My bulky bod and bad knees weren't really made to run. Maybe roll large boulders, but not run.

Do this test was something I dreaded all week long. I have never ever run in all caps. Ever. So the thought of running ALL OUT for 20 minutes was foreign to me.

Twenty minutes.

OMG.

And when I woke on Sunday morning and found it was sleeting out and I would need to do the test on the treadmill...well, my hell clearly came monogrammed with my name on it.

But my coach told me to do it and I do what she says. Period.

The first 20 minutes were sooo nice. Just jogging along for a warm up at 15 minute miles. Do, do-doooo. Sooo nice. And before I knew it, it was time to put your seat trays up and prepare for take off. Clear all electronic devices and put your bags under the seat ahead of you.

It was time to run. IN ALL CAPS.

...

...

People, it sucked. That was the hardest 20 minutes of my entire life. You have no choice on the treadmill. You just push. And push and push and push and push. Until you almost fall off the back and you're completely covered in sweat and you are huffing and puffing like the nutjob that usually runs next to you at the gym. And then you look down at your watch and you see that you have no less than 12 more minutes to go.

And you cuss your coach. And you cuss yourself for having this ridiculous idea to get faster and stronger. And you cuss your boyfriend who is still sleeping in lower case upstairs. And you cuss the news anchor on tv, even though you can no longer hear him over the din now being created by your own personal treadmill hell.

The treadmill's pitch screams just like your lungs. But you can't slow down because you're RUNNING IN ALL CAPS this week. And your coach promised you it would be worth it. And you really hope it will be.

And then, magically, before the puking begins....it's done.

Finally, testing is done.

And after cooling down and drying off, I wandered upstairs and found Mighty M sitting on the couch with his mouth in a big "O" looking at me like I was mad.

"Geeze, hun. You were really booking down there!"

Yes, hun, I was. I was training in all caps.

Result: Avg HR = 179, Max HR = 185, Dist = 2.11 miles