Good thing I wasn't there to PR

This past weekend was the Nike Women's Marathon and Half Marathon. I, of course, ran the half since the mere notion of running full marathon makes my sphincter clench in trepidation. Here is a picture of the Tiffany necklace that serves as a medal.

Not too shabby!

The one thing I really like about this race was how few people were terribly concerned with running a PR. How do I know this? Because most of them stopped at each mile marker, each funny sign, every lookout, and took their photo.

I spent most of the race considering the idea of signing up for Ironman Whistler. What I came up with is "yes" I think I am ready to take that on for the year I turn 40. Sign up is this Thursday at noon, so I have a little less than two days to either come to my senses or bite the bullet and take on a new challenge.

The Illusion of Safety

Recent events have caused me to reflect on how cavalier I can be about my safety. Whether it is benign day-to-day activities such as pumping gas late at night on my way home from class, or running alone in Forest Park, I tend to feel insulated from harm with the thought “that doesn’t happen here” always going through my mind. I’m sure Sherry Arnold felt the same.

Sherry went out for her usual Saturday run last week in the small town of Sidney, Montana where I’m sure she never felt unsafe. But that Saturday run was to be her last. Missing since 6:30 a.m. last Saturday Sherry’s body was found today. While no information has been released as to what actually happened to Sherry this obviously raises the question of personal safety. It is my hope that Sherry didn't suffer, and instead was the victim of a hit-and-run car accident covered up by barbaric humans with no regard for decency rather than some nefarious activity.

Regardless of what happened, the security blanket that cloaked the people and rural town of Sidney has been yanked away to expose them to the violence and fear many of them could not imagine happening in their town. I know what it feels like to feel protected in a small town. I grew up in a town of fewer than 600 people, and moved to a town of about 10,000 before moving to Seattle when I was a sophomore. Never could I have imagined such a crime happening in the two small towns I lived in, and maybe that is what keeps me from being more diligent now.

Sure, I tend to the side of paranoia with my safety at home, but when I am out running or biking I rarely consider it. Never could I have imagined what happened to Sherry, and my heart breaks thinking of her. My heart breaks at the thought of how the simple act of a long run, something I’m sure brought bliss to her life, ended in her death. My heart breaks thinking of how it could easily be anyone I know, including me, instead of her.

This story has forced me to reexamine what I do. My sweetheart bought me Mace specifically designed for runners (meaning it is small and has a strap that goes around your hand) for Christmas. At the time I appreciated his concern for my safety, and while it can be annoying to run with for more than a few miles, I think that minor nuisance is far less of a bother than other possible consequences. I encourage women who run alone, whether it is one mile or 20, to invest in something similar. I’m sure your husbands, partners, boyfriends, girlfriends, and family will appreciate it. I’ve seen similar Mace items at every running store in Portland, so I’m sure it is in your town, too.

I have followed this story closely through the blog Shut up and Run, whose author is Sherry’s cousin, and other media outlets, hoping for good news to break any minute. That good news will never come. While I never met Sherry, it appears as though she was a much loved teacher, a great mother and wife, and a woman with a generous soul. Clearly a human we need more of on this earth.

My Mom's Going to Kick my Ass for This.

Here we go again. As cliche as it sounds this year went by quickly. Damn.

It's already January 3, which means I need to decide what my resolution will be for the new year. Last year it was pretty lame, to do a race a month. Even my mother could have kept that resolution. Now, the only reason I use my mother as comparison is because A) She isn't a runner, but does do Jazzercise like 30 times a week so she's in shape, B) She's more than 70 years old (she may kill me for saying that, but she looks better than most 60 year old women I know and some 50 year old women, so I like to boast), and C) She hates running and wouldn't run if being chased by a momma grizzly bear. With that said I need to up the ante for 2012.

That's me and my mom. Photo by the lovely and talented Ali Walker of Aliwalker.com.

Now the idea of upping the ante during the last year of classes and beginning my prelims for my dissertation is probably upping the insanity more than anything, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. I am positive I will be sorry for this later simply for the purposes of lack of time and dwindling sanity. 

For our New Year's Eve tradition or running First Run this year I felt terrible. I had been sick for all of Christmas vacation (two weeks), and had run a grand total of once during vacation yet I PR'd. Really? PR? I think I owe it to Amy D. who I ran with. I figure she paced me even after she took a header about mile 1.5, but like a champion she got up and continued skinned knees, elbows, hands, and all, so thanks Amy. But that sets the bar higher. My resolution this year is to PR the 5K, 10K, and half marathon. 

Tricia and I make a handsome pair on New Years, don't you think?

I have a few races already on the schedule, and they are as follows:
March: Shamrock Run (free beer and chowder on a Sunday morning, uh yeah)
May: Bloomsday and the Inaugural Portland Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon
June: Vancouver USA half marathon 


I had better get my rear in gear, shit can the excuses, and tighten up the laces. Cheers to 2012.

Resolution Completed

I am pro at starting things, but I am not such a pro at always seeing them to fruition. I get bored easily, so to do something for an entire year is a big step. My New Year’s resolution for 2011 was to run at least one race per month. The races didn’t have to be running races only. They could be triathlons or adventure races that included running, too. In some months I ran more than one race, and on two occasions I nearly didn’t get the race in until the last weekend of the month. Below is the rundown of the 12 races I did in order as part of my resolution, and accompanying each race is one word to describe my impression of the race. The accompanying photo is of my favorite medal from the year. The medal is from the Moses Lake triathlon and is made from stamped pottery--loved the creativity of it for sure. 

Here are the races:

First Run: Tradition

Run for Chocolate: Snowy

Shamrock Run: Beer

Wahine Half Marathon: Hawaii!

Hippie Chick: Crowded
Moses Lake Triathlon: Homey

Great Northwest Mountain Run: Steep

Hood to Coast: Blast

Pints to Pasta: Mediocre

Hybrid Adventure Games: Potential

West Linn Turkey Trot: Hung-over

Ho Ho 5K: Next???

Hood to Coast 2012

It's official. Welcome Back Trotters (and the sweaty hogs) will be running Hood to Coast this year. This year's team is made up of teachers from the high school I teach at and two teachers from a middle school in our district. I am more excited this year than last since I know what to expect, and I know that in order to a better job this time around I'm going to need to keep my training consistent. Luckily, I have some partners in crime to help me along the way. 

Three friends from work and I have started the Schadenfreude Running Club so we can revel in the misery of one another. Our plan is to run twice a week and do core work once a week. So far. So good. Stay tuned.

Hood to Coast Time

Tomorrow is my first foray into the phenomenon known as Hood to Coast. I think I should be far more worried about the 30 hours the organizers believe it will take for my team to finish the 200 miles than I am. I have heard many stories of how miserable the vans are, how impossible it is to sleep until you cross the finish line, how smelly your seat mate will be by leg two, the seven miles at 1 a.m. in the middle of nowhere complete with strange animal sounds emerging from the bushes, how sore I’ll be once I feel the sand under my feet in Seaside—you get the idea. Even through all these tales of HTC horror, I sit here in my curriculum design class tonight reminded of the feeling I used to get the night before my first day of school, but the difference is this time I am excited for the adventure tomorrow opposed to dreading the next 180 days.

While I should have trained more (okay, a hell of a lot more, but let’s not dwell on those things we cannot change) I think I am partially ready to run my 17 miles. It is estimated I will start my first leg around 10:30 a.m. running downhill Rhododendron; my second leg at 8:45 p.m. along a long, boring, and very busy highway 30; and my last leg at 7 a.m. out of Jewell. In my mind I picture my run out of Jewell being a peaceful scene with a mist suspended just above green pastures filled with sleepy horses munching on dewy grass. The horses will raise their heads to watch me gracefully trot past them, quietly The reality, I imagine, will be a tired, gnarled, and peeved Heather bribing people with money and the hopes of sainthood to run my last leg. Regardless, I am looking forward to a cold beer and icing my tired legs in the Pacific Ocean around 4 p.m. on Saturday.

Wish me luck.

Isn't it Ironic?

Or, much like Alanis Morissette's hit from my college days Ironic, is it just bad luck and not irony at all?

The day after I decide to try wearing less in the running shoe department I put a gnarly gash in my right foot from my bike trainer, and then today I jam the big toe on the other foot playing kickball. It may be a day or two before I get to try this whole new minimalist running thing after all. Meh.

Team Doubt and Minimalist Running

While watching some crazy show on Sasquatch hunters the other night on the Discovery Channel, it dawned on me I am a natural born skeptic. Granted, Big Foot hunting isn't really the yard stick by which to measure how skeptical one is, but it was this show that made me realize what a doubter I really am.

When I was in high school a few friends and I dubbed ourselves Team Doubt. I think that was because our friend Keith was such a pessimist, think Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, his pessimism was so tragic it bordered on the hysterical. If you ever saw Rachel Dratch's Debbie Downer skits on Saturday Night Live you have an idea of the depth his defeatism. Now the name seems quite appropriate as I look back on my innate need to question everything I read, see, or hear. Going against my nature I have started to consider something many other people doubt. 


Minimalist running. 


Like many other runners, and people who have a solid sense of fashion and a desire to not make a fool of themselves, I have pooh-poohed the Vibram Five Fingers shoes many minimalist runners have taken a shine to. Anything that gets me one step closer to a Sleestak Halloween costume is something I can say "no" to quite easily. I have also silently mocked these folks as we pass on the trail, and not so silently mocked them as Jim was passed by a barefoot runner on the marathon portion of Ironman Louisville. I believe the exact words I screamed were, "you can't let a dude running barefoot beat you." I have also mocked our friend Marc who I thought drank the minimalist Kool-Aid from the running world's version of Jim Jones, Christopher McDougall the author of Born to Run. The idea of tossing my $125 Mizunos out the window made me shudder. How on earth could I run without the high tech advancements to keep me from pronating, or run without all that marshmallow cushioning I believed was keeping my knee pain at bay.

Unfortunately, as I finish the book Born to Run my skepticism is fading when it comes to the idea of barefoot or minimalist running. In fact, it is starting to make a lot of sense. It hurts me greatly to write that. The funny part is what made me start to consider this wasn't such a bad idea wasn't the orthopedists or centuries old Tarahumara tribe who'd run barefoot all their lives. It was the analogy of the foot arch being a perfect shock absorber just as the Romans figured the arch was the best way to eliminate stresses in their structures. When we begin to rely on over-engineered shoes that begin to push up on the arch instead of letting it do what it was created to do, that is when injury and pain takes over. The Romans never would have thought about bracing an arch with a stick jammed right up the middle of it, so what makes us think it works for our arch? That makes sense to me. As a kid I hated to wear shoes, and I don't much like wearing them now as an adult. I am thinking I was on to something.

None of this goes without saying I have no idea if any of this will work for our bodies that are used to over-engineered shoes, and I am in no way ready or willing to go running barefoot. However, I am willing to give the minimalist idea a try. I like the idea of less-is-more in nearly everything--except food and wine.

So today I thought I'd try it out. This morning I went for a two mile run in my Nike Free shoes I had bought just to kick around in. I loved it. My heels never touched the ground, my back was straight, my feet struck the pavement right beneath my hips, and the bounce I had become accustomed to was nearly non-existent. My pace was quicker, my heart rate lower, my knees pain free. 

This is just an experiment at this point; more action research than an empirical study. I am going to take it slow letting my feet get used to this and see if they like it. For now, my long runs will still have to be in my much loved Mizunos, but I will work toward consistently running in the minimalist footwear. I will keep an open mind, and commit to a more structured training schedule to alleviate the chances of a stress fracture or other injury. Additionally, I will keep this blog up to date on my progress. If you have any ideas or suggestions I am all ears. 

Pass the Kool-Aid Marc.  

Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

Emerson wrote "how much of human life is lost in waiting", he must have known how long today would be for me. You see today is the day Nike Women's Marathon randomly draws 12,000 names from an eager pool of 30,000+ people (mostly women who hate to wait) to gain entry into this year's race. According to the NWM Facebook page people were being notified at 4:30 this morning that they were in. It also said they were still drawing names.

It's 6 p.m. and I've heard nothing. Meh.

This is the October race I am hoping to have lined up for my race-a-month and it's looking like I may have to hunt down another. We put together a group of several women, one a friend from college and some of her family, a friend from work, and a new running buddy. It's not just Karla and my heart's on the line here, there's a village counting on this!

It was also another destination race to get me out of Portland and hang with Karla. I think we've decided if this doesn't come through we may do the Diva Half Marathon in Puerto Rico. It is in November, in Puerto Rico, obviously. By mid November I may be ready for some sun, surf, fruity cocktails and running, of course. Karla and I are emailing back and forth tonight looking for new information from the other.

So, for tonight I'll be on this couch doing the last assignment for my EDRES 563 class and refreshing my email every five seconds. Don't send me any emails tonight unless you are Karla, are giving me thousands of dollars or have great news like our group is running the NWM in October.

How are these the same: My Training Schedule and Soutwest Airlines Maintenance

I leave for Hawaii next Thursday.
I leave for Hawaii next Thursday to run the Diva half marathon.
I leave for Hawaii next Thursday and I have kept to my planned training schedule like Southwest Airlines keeps up with plane maintenance.

This is how I see my Hawaii trip: It is a chance for me to get together with one of my dearest friends and celebrate our 20 year anniversary from when we went to Hawaii together when we were seniors in high school--and run/walk/skip 13.1 miles on a Sunday.

In other words, it's a goodbye to my youth. Or so that is how it seems when I say it was 20 years ago that I was a senior in high school.

Seeing as how I could not keep myself to my own schedule I went ahead and signed up with Fit Right NW's Get Fit Live Fit half marathon training program. I missed the first meeting on Monday (had class). I am hoping this will help keep me on a schedule since everything else is so busy. There is only three weeks of class left and I will have all spring to not have to worry about getting my work done before I can get my workout done.

Gotta get it done. I am up-to-date on my one race a month New Year's resolution, so that is one thing I am keeping up with, so that's nice.

I want to be Charlie Sheen...

Seriously, I do. Without the hookers and porn stars, of course--and the blow.

Who wouldn't like to say the craziest things you ever thought possible. The things your parents warned you not to say. The things you think, but bite your tongue before you speak. Jesus. I want to be Charlie Sheen, if even for just one day.

But for today I have to stick with me, and God knows I often say what I'm thinking when I should bite my tongue. So here goes.

I am watching The Biggest Loser, something I've not done for an extended period of time before, but after reading an article in Runner's World I thought I'd check out a full episode. Let me just say this is some crazy shit. The Olympic wrestler Rulon just said he lost 108 pounds in eight weeks. How is that possible? How is that healthy?

I'm not sure how I feel about this show. On one hand it's amazing that these people are given the opportunity to learn healthy habits, healthy eating especially (calories in/calories out), and to loose weight. Weight that, if kept on, would clearly kill them. On the other hand, how healthy is it to overtrain for six hours a day, eight hours in some cases it appears from the Runner's World article.

Also, that troll trainer Jillian just scares the hell out of me. I just shudder when she squats her 70 pound frame on the treadmill cage and begins yelling to a contestant that they can either pass out, puke, and die, or continue. I might choose death in that moment if it meant she'd shut up. But, it seems to work for a lot of them.

So I'm curious if my dislike for parts of this show are because I don't posses the same kind of passion to do something that these contestants do, or because I find the premise so unrealistic and impossible to maintain as a lifestyle. 

Where's Charlie Sheen when I need to borrow his brain to figure this one out.

Is that the sun?

I can see the sun shining behind me as I sit in my classroom grading senior finals on 1984.  It seems like forever since I've had the sun glare make it impossible to see my computer screen.

Winter has had its grasp on me pretty hard this year. I've had little, to no, desire to get up and get to the gym in the morning, go out and run in the pouring Portland rain, let alone sit on my bike trainer for an hour. In December one of my best friends planted the seed of running a half marathon in Hawaii in April. It didn't take long for that seed to grow, get registered for the race, make plane and hotel reservations, and call in her personal days. It was this seed that got my ass off the couch and back out on the pavement.

Of course, my knee is still bothering me, but the ASTEM I'm getting from my PT seems to be helping loads. I just have to remember to keep using that torture device known as the foam roller so my IT band doesn't get wonky again. I bought the Trigger Point roller when we were in Louisville for the Ironman, dare I say that is 10 times more painful than the regular foam roller. I keep telling myself, in between sobs, that if I keep rolling my IT band I will not have to return to PT ever again. Ever.

So, as soon as this last final is graded, I'm off to Oaks Bottom to go run. When will I win the lottery so all I can do is get up and work out?

Sometimes You're the Windshield

There are moments of time where it all seems to be going your way. It may not all be perfect but there is a definite theme of "yeah, it's all good" weaving through everything you do. And then it happens, just when nature decides you've taken this easy ride for granted a hairpin turn is thrown in your path and you just happen to be speeding.

That hairpin turn was today for me.

My knee pain is back again.

My knee pain showed up last April when I was in Seattle for a girl's weekend and Mariners game. I was out for my long run around beautiful Lake Union when it hit at about mile 7. A sharp, precise pain located just underneath the bottom left area of my right patella. I tried to run through it but the pain was so intense I just couldn't continue, I had to walk the three miles or so back to my hotel room in my own silent misery and pain. Once I got back home I saw the orthopedist, he claimed he couldn't see anything "wrong" with the knee, just that the way my knee came from the factory was a bit weird because it didn't track properly. He prescribed physical therapy and said that should do the trick.

The first PT I saw was a nice girl fresh out of college, that should have set off the warning bells. I saw her twice a week for the next month and a half with no real improvement to speak of. I was on a strict no running regime. Needless to say I was frustrated. I had my half Ironman the second week of June and I had to be "fixed" by then, I just had to be.

Any guesses as to if I was fixed or not? Nobody? None? Really? Okay, fine, party poopers.

I wasn't fixed. I had to walk the entire 13.1 miles. The funny part is I walked it just half an hour longer than I can run it. Hysterical isn't it. I finished though and that was the big thing for me at that point. Simply finishing was enough for me then.

After that race I changed PTs, I found a guy at Therapeutic Associates whose abilities I felt confident in, even if he was more than 10 years younger than me. After a few months the pain was gone. Now it's back.

Now what?

Now? Now I'm the bug.

Time

Time. Some days I seem to have more of it than others. Some days it seems I run out of it faster. And some days I seem to waste a lot of it. When I talk with people who are training for a specific long course event, be it a marathon or triathlon, I find the topic of time dominates the conversation. What I've realized is that time has many faces and none of them are very pretty.

First is the obvious topic of how much time it takes to train. To be successful at this takes a large chunk of time commitment nearly each day. Time to swim, time to run, time to bike. Then it's time to stretch and eat properly. Then it's time to sleep enough. I am good at finding the time to eat and sleep, but not always good at finding the time to do my workouts. Is there a duathlon for eating and sleeping? If so, sign me up and I'm turning pro. After long days at work I don't always want to jump in the pool or go for that long run in the rain. Not to mention the amount of time spent on the bike trainer, somehow that time seems to drrrraaaaaaggggg on and on and on regardless of the movie or TV show I'm using to distract me from the clock. Please stop raining soon so I can go back outside.

So what happens? I find myself trying to find the time to cram in two days of workouts into one day (like today for instance, still need to complete the swim from yesterday and the run from Tuesday--little motivation this spring break). Instead of completing what I need to in the time allotted for it I have to find new time to fit more in, or I allow others to change what I have my time set aside for. Instead of doing what I know I should do (workout) I agree to last minute dinner plans, Blazers games, happy hour invites or other unplanned activities. While I know it's good to spend time with people and not plan your life out too much, it's also not good to skip workouts.

Of course there is the time to spend with your family and loved ones. Since my family doesn't live close I don't have to try and find time to see them weekly, but I wish I did have to do that. I do have to make sure to spend quality time with the Hot Tamale. Since he trains for full Ironman races his time is much more planned out than mine and I have to remember not to be selfish and want more of it than he can give right now, especially since I know the summer will be even worse leading up to Louisville. Sometimes that is hard though, I totally dig spending my time with him.

Then there's time you want to beat. Whether it's to PR my run, cut a minute from my Vancouver Lake TT, get down to at least a 40 minute open water swim or break 6 hours on my 70.3. Here's one way to try and do two of those:

This also has to do with time other than in terms of beating it, meeting it or chasing it. It's more time in terms of spending it making money. Is it worth it to work X amount of hours (like I have the time--or the stomach to figure out what my hourly rate is) to buy it? Is it worth the time I work to pay entry fees, plane tickets, hotel bills and restaurant checks? Only time will tell.

Time is on my side. Yes it is.

I am 37 going on 13...

I turn 37 Monday, it's amazing to think I've been on this earth for 37 years.

It doesn't seem 20 years ago that I was kicked out of my high school newspaper class because I threatened to eat my teacher's baby (I was REALLY mad at the time, obviously). It doesn't seem that long ago that going out before 9 p.m. was unheard of, the bars in Pullman didn't get going until at least 10. Now going out after 9 p.m. seems like Russian roulette, "can I stay awake long enough?"

I can't drink as much beer, or gin, or vodka or other crazy concoctions I would purchase for $1 on dollar well night at Shermer's. I can't stay up late, or sleep in. I can't eat a plate of pizza bites dipped in ranch dressing for dinner, or breakfast. I can't do shots of tequila, with or without the maraschino cherry. I can't even think of functioning if I have a hangover. I can't drink bad beer, sorry Natty Light.

I can't seem to live on $600 a month--that included rent, gas, alcohol, food and entertainment. I can't sit in front of a TV on Tuesday morning eating donuts and drinking coffee while watching Charlie's Angels and WKRP reruns. I can't go out all night, get a few hours sleep and still get up to go to work and be productive. I can't let a messy bed go unmade. It's funny how getting older has refined my need for tidiness and cleanliness, ask any college roommate I had and they'll tell you that was never much of a concern of mine.

What doesn't seem to change as I get older is the fact that I don't seem to mature much beyond 13. I like to call it child-like as opposed to childish. Life is too short to be too serious all the time, although it could be argued I should be serious sometimes.  Maybe I'll work on that.

Probably not.

When I turned 30 I wrote a list of things I wanted to do in my 30th year. Here is one page from that list that when I read it the other day made me tired just thinking of what it would take to do all of this.

The list was huge, mostly unobtainable and oft influenced by others interests instead of my own intrinsic wants and desires. So, to make up for that crappy list from seven years ago here is my list of lofty things to do in my 37th year:

1. Learn to make cheese
2. Complete more triathlons
3. Beat my current PR on a 5k
4. Stretch more
5. Grow a vegetable garden (raised beds already made!)

6. Watch less TV
7. Read more (I'll even try more fiction)
8. Be a better friend
9. Be a better daughter
10. Be a better girlfriend
11. Say "yes" more (and yes, that makes me giggle just re-reading it)

Not so lofty, huh? I've decided that making quantifiable goals keep me from taking a U turn when it is presented that may lead to something amazing, or not so amazing. But how would I have known either way if I didn't take the chance in the first place? When I was in high school one of my mom's good friends, Barb, told me that making goals just keeps you from doing all the fun things you'd miss while you were too focused on making it to that one specific event. Besides, wouldn't you rather just enjoy life as it comes at you?

Um, yes. And I think I've lost some sight of that.

I'm going to spend the next year trying to let a lot of things just be. Just be what they are. Be who they are. Be who I am.

I am going to spend the next year entering 38 better than I entered 37.

"Dos" and "Don'ts"

When I was younger my mother had a subscription to the magazine Glamour, in the back of each issue was a "dos" and "don'ts" section. This section was filled with women who were either fashion "dos" or fashion "don'ts," these "don'ts" women usually had black bars across their eyes as to not embarrass them to an entire world of Glamour readers. I always felt bad for those women who were forever branded as “don'ts” among the glossy pages of that fashion rag, worried that one day someone might notice them in a crowd and point accusingly while laughing at the outfit they were wearing. I also cringed at the idea of the moment one of their friends opened to that page and recognized the hideous outfit branded a “don’t.” Awkward next girl’s night out for sure.

Little did I know I was one of those “don'ts,” not in terms of clothes (minus the phase I went through in 8th grade where I wore three Swatch watches hooked together as a headband--I think I may have photographic evidence of it buried deep somewhere in my cedar chest) rather in terms of swim form.

If you are like me you figure swimming is swimming, if you don't drown you are doing it right. I don't remember taking swim lessons, as far as I know my mom and dad taught me to swim by throwing me off the boat while floating on the Snake River, I didn’t sink. Viola! Swimming. However the way I learned to swim apparently wasn't the right way.

Last year the Hot Tamale and I took a swim clinic from our coach Mark Kendall at Speedshot racing. During this clinic each participant was videotaped underwater, once each person was taped we took to the pool deck to "critique" each person's form. As each swimmer came on to the computer screen Mark and other swimmers made comments like, "look at that rotation, good extension, great catch, good head position, great kicking from the hips." When it came to me, the group fell silent, Mark struggled to find the words to describe how terrible my swimming was without completely offending his new client. Apparently I'm just lucky enough not to sink to the bottom of the pool. Mark was a good sport and offered lots of support and suggestions to help me become a better swimmer.

From that moment until yesterday I have been working tirelessly on improving my swimming form. I have taken lessons from Mark, attended swimming clinics with gold medal Olympiads, practiced, practiced and practiced. Each time I get in the pool I feel like something is different, that somehow my form has changed—even though that change in form makes me question the idea that it won’t cause me to sink to the bottom of the pool. This change hasn't made me faster and it hasn't made me such a great swimmer that I am signing up to cross the English Channel.

But yesterday, all that work and practice finally paid off. I was a "do." We went to another swim clinic yesterday trying to brush up on our form and, for what I had expected, some new and major things to work on. But no. Not this time. This time Mark started my video and the first words out of his mouth were, "look at that, she's starting her catch, great form." I couldn’t believe my ears. Hot Tamale and I looked at each other in shock, “Is that you he’s talking about?” HT’s eyes said to me. My eyes responsed, “Holy shit, it can’t be.” But it was. That was me catching the water as my arm broke the surface. That was me holding my arm and moving my body past it. That was me kicking enough but not too much. That was me on that screen.

That was me. I was a do.

I am the walrus...

What an amazing Sunday it has turned out to be. Instead of parking myself on the kitchen island as I write I am sitting in my Adirondack chair on the back deck enjoying the sun. This is a sure sign that spring is sneaking itself around the corner, that and I saw the spring lambs out  playing in the pastures this morning. This place, this moment is just where I want to be.

Last month in Triathlete Magazine there was an article titled "Aloha, Muffin Top." It was written by a woman who, by the sound of it from the article, is a pretty accomplished aged grouper. The article was about how, as a triathlete, you are constantly bombarded with and surrounded by people with AMAZING bodies. Not the emaciated bodies shown in Vogue or Cosmo that the mainstream press deem amazing, starving yourself really doesn't take all that much work, no these bodies come from hours upon hours of hard work .

These bodies have veins that show (which I personally find absolutely hot). These bodies have abs that aren't six packs, they're half racks.  The problem is, and was the main point in the article, that these bodies are genetically impossible for most of us plebeians to attain. Just as it is an unhealthy obsession for 17 year-old girls to want to be Kate Moss it is unhealthy for someone like myself to obsess over wanting to be Chrissie Wellington. It just isn't feasible, it's possible for sure, but not realistic. This doesn't mean I don't spend useless hours obsessing over it though.

I am by no means overweight. I wear a size 8 which is six sizes smaller than the "average" American woman who, according to the CDC's measurements, is a size 14.  This isn't to say couldn't stand to loose a few pounds for the sake of making running easier and hopefully faster. I average about 145 pounds but would like to drop 5-10 to see how it affects my running. I watch what I eat and try to make sure I'm getting no more than 1,800 calories a day. I follow the workouts my coach plans for me. I drink a lot of water and outside of skinny lattes I don't normally drink my calories (I gave up drinking a bottle of Merlot a night years ago). And yet each morning when I step on the scale hoping to see a smaller number than the day before I am disappointed. 145. Much like my frustration with my 10 minute mile it seems my body just likes 145. Regardless.

There will come a time when I am at peace with that. When the digital readout of 145 won't cause me to sigh heavily and screw up my face in the mirror as I admire the way my lips, nose, cheeks and eyes can smoosh themselves together in such an unattractive way. Much like the author of the article I will one day wake up and embrace the hips, and thighs, and curves, and butt.

Until then...

Goo goo g' joob.

There's a lot I can Learn from Tiger

Unlike Tiger Woods my parents screwed me genetically.

Let me be more specific. My parents screwed me genetically in terms of running.  They threw me a solid with intelligence, perseverance, work ethic and general strength (I believe much of that strength comes through the beauty of evolution and being evolved from generations of hard-working farmers). These "farmer" genes help on the bike, big legs never hurt pushing that big gear up a hill. But as for things like, oh, let's say, running I got screwed. It seems no matter how much or often I run it's always the same. Ten minute, give or take some seconds, pace. Regardless. Ten minute miles. Ten fucking minute miles.

There comes a time during each of my runs, whether long or short, where I get discouraged and want to give up, stop running, walk back and throw in the proverbial towel. I give those thoughts a good five or ten minutes in my head and decide to continue on. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's the stubborn-as-hell gene my parents passed my way.

Each day I head out with positive thoughts cycling through my head, positive images of myself running just a few seconds faster, positive goals to meet-then I get passed by the 65 year-old lady who appears to be running with a major hitch in her giddy-up. Positive thoughts are gone. Those thoughts are then replaced with anger, disappointment and, I guess, motivation. The second half of my run is fueled by fury, indignation and the desire to best my last run by at least one second. In the end more often than not I find I didn't best anything, but I finished what I set out to do. Finishing doesn't change the fact that I want to be faster, that I want to pass people out on my runs, I want to know I can finish that half marathon in two hours or less. The more I think about it the worse I make myself feel.

In Tiger's poorly delivered and, quite frankly, pointless speech Friday he said, "Buddhism teaches that a craving for things outside ourselves causes an unhappy and pointless search for security." While I'm no Buddhist, nor do I have an urge to become one, there is a lot I can take from that one thing. On my next run I will try to repeat that to myself and just enjoy being outside, be thankful that I can run at all and remember that it can always be worse, I could be running 11 minutes miles.

Until then, I got a pedicure to try and ease the frustration.  Dutch didn't get one, he just likes to lick my toes when I'm at the kitchen island.

Hobbies

Hobby is defined as "An activity or interest pursued outside one's regular occupation and engaged in primarily for pleasure." What are you hobbies? I'm afraid I have none, or at least none I am good at doing so that removes the pleasure portion of having a hobby of ones own. 

I enjoy cooking and do it almost daily. But I don't consider it it a hobby, I consider it a way to eat well and save tons of money by not eating out. There was also a rumor circulating that the way to man's heart was through his stomach, I've yet to decide on that one. I am good at it though so maybe I should consider it a hobby so I don't feel so hobbieless. 

Last Friday was a vacation day for me so I signed up for a one day photography workshop. I have an awesome digital DSLR and several lenses that I don't know how to use to make pretty pictures. The more photographs I take the more I am starting to realized Ansel Adams really had some talent in the darkroom department. When I view photographs that look effortless in their composition and execution I get jealous. How on earth did that person get that lighting and that movement at the same time all the while adjusting f-stops and shutter speeds for the perfect photo? When I have that figured out it could be in the front running for a hobby.

Training? Not really a hobby and I don't think I engage in training/racing for pleasure because most of the time it hurts like hell. Also, I'm not really good at it. Does something become a hobby when you spend countess hours each week practicing at it? Does something become a hobby when you plan and arrange your life around it? Does something become a hobby when you lie awake at night thinking about how to save more money to buy that tri bike? Does something become a hobby when you pay good money to a man to plan out workouts for you? 

Maybe the pleasure of a hobby comes in knowing you have done everything you could do on that day, for that race, for that moment. Maybe it comes in the feeling you get after you run hill repeats, not the feeling of wanting to puke, rather the feeling of success in leaving everything you had in you out on that hill. Maybe it comes in worrying if I'm doing enough today to do as well as I want to in June. Maybe it never comes at all. 

 Hobbies are overrated.

Tread Water

Getting up at 4:15 a.m. is rough, doing it to go torture yourself at a 5:30 spinning class is just plain stupid. But I do it twice a week, even though I know better. Today I was supposed to also swim in the afternoon, which I did not complete in fear of pulling a River Phoenix in "My Own Private Idaho" and falling asleep right at 25 yards in the pool.

I tire very easily at the end of the day. I don't know if it's because of an iron deficiency, some medical problem or I'm just getting old (I vote old) but it really makes some days near impossible to get the workouts in. Today, for instance I could barely keep my eyes open on the way home and therefore didn't go to the gym to swim. This would be the half-assed part of me. Had I powered up and gone to the gym I'm sure I could have completed the workout, but I chose not to.

Days like this I feel overwhelmed and under-committed.

In the wise words of De La Soul:
Always look to the positive and never drop your head
For the water will engulf us if we do not dare to tread
So let's tread water