39 Days
Tuesday, July 31, 2007

It seems like a lot, that number, but it's not.

Thirty-nine days from tomorrow, I will be at the starting line of IM-Moo, ready to embark on the last and most important leg of this journey called Ironman.

There's a lot to do between now and then...and then again, there isn't.

Only one more double-brick.

Only one more long (120 mile) ride.

Only one more 2.4 mile swim.

But the to-do list is growing: visualize, visualize, visualize. Make an appointment to get my bike checked out. Draft a general race day plan and a race day nutritional plan. Find a race shirt that's comfortable. Make sure I have a Plan B for race day wear, and for the race day in general. Get an aerobar water bottle. Put a new playlist on my Ipod so I don't lose my mind listening to the same stuff over and over again between now and September 9th. Make another appointment to get my hip shot-up.

I'm sure there's more, but it's just not coming to me at the moment.

I'm not sure if I'm in a particularly zen period, or if my mental/physical preparation is starting to pay off, but today, I'm looking forward to September 9th. Fear has been replaced by determination. Panic has been replaced by a healthy mix of apprehension and excitement. And exhaustion has been replaced by calm.

I've said it before throughout this process, but today, I mean it: if I had to do this race tomorrow, I would be ready.

So, below is a sampling of what's on my mind these days, just like most days. Instead of most days, though, I'm not dreading what is to come. Instead, I can't wait to experience all of this.

The swim start

The last big hill of the course on Whalen Road. The paint says, "Last hill. Now Run! Amy, Tina"

T1, Monona Terrace

At the top of the Old Sauk Pass hill -- the meanest, nastiestest, make your HR shoot through the roof hill on the course, by my standards...although you'd never know it from this picture (credit to Richard Nelson)

As they say, "Swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26.2 miles, brag for the rest of your life."

I will do this.

Posted by Erin 1:55 PM 6 comments

Two Words
Monday, July 30, 2007

Double-Brick.

This weekend was a tough one.

After Friday night's "run" I woke up bright and early (for me) on Saturday to do yet another double brick. On tap? Four hours on the bike, an hour run, two hours back on the bike, and another 45-minute run off.

Two more words: boo-yah. (or is that one word?)

Anywho, this was definitely a case of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." And, since I'm sitting here on Monday writing this, one would think that I would be stronger, not dead. And one would be right in thinking that.

It wasn't fun (total workout ended up being about ten hours in all, including transitions and refuelling). It wasn't easy (in 85 degrees with a heat index of god-knows-what). And it definitely wasn't pretty (think 14.6 mph averages on the bike and 11-minute miles on the last run leg). But it's one more brick closer to September 9th and it's money in the bank for a solid race day for IM-Moo '07.

And besides, I feel like a badass.

Posted by Erin 1:26 PM 3 comments

Broken
Friday, July 27, 2007

Unless I have something to plan for or around, I try not to look ahead at my workouts for the week. The reason for doing so is two-fold. First, if I don't look ahead, I won't be lulled into the 'ol "oh, I'll just switch Tuesday's workout with Thursday's, and maybe do part of Wednesday's on Friday, thus leaving me more time to..." routine. Secondly, honestly, looking ahead scares me. Overwhelms me. Sends me into a paralyzing panic.

So each morning, while getting ready for work, I take a peek at the binder I keep on my dresser to find out what's on tap for that day, and that day only. And how great was it when, this morning, I saw the following: 90-minute run?

Only an hour-and-a-half workout, and a run besides?!? I was jazzed.

After some serious pre-workout procrastination that often results because I am me, I suited up with my fuel belt, Garmin, and Ipod at 6 p.m. and set off.

The plan was to run along counter-clockwise around part of Lake Monona to a) avoid the teeming bike trails, and b) catch a bit of a breeze.

Happy to just be out for a run, and not a run following a bike or swim or a run sandwiched in-between obligations, I didn't even check my Garmin for the first mile or so. I was simply content to stretch my legs and to feel the sun and warm breeze on my skin. Some Shakira and a little Good Charlotte pumped through my earphones as I ran through lakeside neighborhoods surveying houses for sale -- a habit/hobby of mine.

And then, for good measure, I took a glance at the 'ol Garmin. 11:33. As in minute miles. What?!?!

Tapping it furiously, I reasoned that perhaps all the tree cover was getting in the way of the GPS. I'd just run a bit further, down to the park and open space, and check then. And when I did? 11:12. Again, as in minute miles.

My cheeks flushed. I was instantly angry. All that money for a Garmin and here it up and broke on me. I tapped it harder. Then I picked up my pace. And sure enough, the numbers dropped.

Every few feet I'd check again, but unless I was on a downslope, I never dropped below 10 minute miles. And then, I began thinking that it wasn't the Garmin that was broken -- it was me.

Pre-Green Bay Marathon, I easily kept an 8:30 to 9 minute mile pace. Not exactly Speedy Gonzales, but for me, comfortable and easy. No trying. No effort. That was just the pace I locked in to every time.

The problem was, I felt great. I had a bit of a headache, but other than that, my legs/hip/body felt fine. I wasn't winded. I didn't feel sluggish. I was just slow as hell and had no idea why. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Ever.

I was a few breaths away from a meltdown when I suddenly got all zen and decided not to care. I reminded me that at least I was running. I was getting the time in, and spending 1.5 hours moving forward is money in the bank, regardless of how maddeningly-slow going it was. So I made a deal with me that I wouldn't look at my Garmin any more, except to confirm when I'd reached the 4.5 mile marker. After that, not at all.

At 4.5 miles, I turned around and turned off my Garmin. I briefly entertained the idea of running the whole lake -- 12 miles and change -- but then decided that was ridiculous. First, I didn't need to do 12 miles. Second, my hip was starting to twinge. And third, it would take me freakin' forever to do 12 miles at this pace. It would end up being my entire Friday night.

As it was, it took me forever to cover 9 miles. Roughly one hour and 42 minutes. Ugh. It's hard to even write that.

Upon my return, Chief of Stuff asked how my run was. "Best and worst run ever," I said. And it was. It was great to be outside, to be running on a Friday night, to only have running to do. But damn was I slow! I told him about checking my Garmin, about running an 11:30 minute mile when I thought I was clipping along at 9 minute miles or so.

"Maybe your Garmin is broken -- the calibration could be off," he said.

I laughed. Told him how I thought that, too. But no, it was just me. My calibration was off.

"Well it's nine miles," he said.

Nine miles, in the bank. One month to go.

Posted by Erin 9:04 PM 2 comments

Autobiography of a Body

I watch myself on the screen. I am eleven. I am wearing a red, one-piece bathing suit. I stand on the diving board, waiting for my sister to get out of the way so I can dive. And while I wait for the ten year-old me in the video to dive, the grown me inspects, painstakingly, the prepubescent body standing on the diving board — the same legs, same arms, the same pear shape I have now — dissecting and disapproving of each part in isolation, and as a whole.

As long as I can remember, I have done this — scrutinized my cheeks, my chin, my shoulders, my arms, my butt, my ankles, and my thighs in photographs, in home videos, and in storefront windows or anywhere else I catch my reflection.

I have never liked the image reflected back. Until the other night.

It was after one of my tough mid-week days. Four hours. Run, swim, and bike all after a full day at work. Stepping out of the shower, I caught sight of my reflection in the foggy mirror. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I didn't immediately start dissecting my flaws.

Instead, I thought something along the lines of, "Well, would ya look at that!"

The undertaking of Ironman is fueled by daydreams and demons. My daydreams consisted of crossing that finish line to pulsing music and cheering, knowing that I had just done the previously-unthinkable. Of long, horribly-hard workout days. Of proving I could.

The demons are trickier. We go back a long way, me and my demons. And as hard as they are to live with, they're even harder to give up.

One that contributed to this undertaking is that I seem to always be really, really good at certain things, but never the best. In track, throughout high school and college, I was never last or even close to last, but I was also never first. In ski racing, I won plenty of high school races, but at Mid-Ams and Junior Olympics I never won a race. I never won a state championship. Always top ten, or top five, or even runner-up, but never number one. And in horse showing, same thing. World Show qualifier, but no top ten jacket (which I still hope to — and can — change eventually). As I've grown older, I've come to terms with this. Sort of.

I recognized that I am not fast. I recognized that I may never be. So I decided to just go longer. 10ks were no longer enough. I had to do a marathon. And then another. Then finishing a marathon wasn't enough, because I still wasn't all that fast. So I'd go longer still. Harder. And that's where Ironman came in.

The other demon-daydream that's harder to acknowledge is tied to that ten-year-old me in a red bathing suit. The me that's never been happy with my 30-inch inseam legs when standing next to my sister's 32-inch gams. The me that's always been told I look like an athlete when all I ever wanted was to look like Kate Moss.

As hard as it is to admit to, part of Ironman has been the hope that my body would be transformed into something skinny and ripped. Because, after the obscene amount of hours spent pedaling and running down the road, or trying to catch water — stroke after stroke — in the palm of your hand, for more than a year — after all of that, how could I not be?

And another part of this whole thing — a much, much deeper darker part, I think — has been this: if my body can't get itself into Kate Moss shape, then I'm going to kick its ass. Hardcore. As in Ironman hardcore. Because if it's not going to be attractive, then it damn well better be effective as hell.

Unfair? Absolutely. But my body has refused to quit on me. And it has deserved to. After an ACL/MCL reconstructive surgery on each knee. After the pounding I gave it during the Green Bay Marathon that resulted in some weird twisted pelvis problem that manifested itself as super-painful bursitis. After a winter of 6+ hour interval rides on the trainer and 18 miles on the treadmill. After jumping into Ironman training with no triathlon base to speak of. My body deserves major props.

I realize that I've been hard on it, and I'm starting to come around, to be proud of it once in a while.

While at Sundara the other weekend, the masseuse asked me if I was a swimmer after she finished working on me, because I had "really developed" traps. I started to say no, but then I said, that I guessed I was and explained the Ironman training.

Being very pleased with me (and my traps) I told Chief of Stuff, "She thought I had jacked traps!" So ensued a short discussion of if I look any different after a year of body ass-kicking. CoS said no.

Now, mind you, CoS was not born yesterday, and he has been through the ups and downs of this year with me. This year where I lamented nonstop about my seemingly ever-expanding glutes and quads after beginning an intense cycling regimen (and the resulting ever-tightening jeans phenomenon). Where I got all obsessive after a doctor's appointment last winter where they put me on the scale only to discover that I had gained — gained! — six pounds, after all that working out and everything. And again, a few months later, when I subjected myself to the same torture at the Y, finding an extra two pounds added to the tally.

And at first, when he said, "no," I wasn't very happy. Not with him, but with me. With this body of mine that was supposed to be ripped and skinny by now. But then I calmed myself.

Because the focus now isn't on what this body of mine looks like, but what it can do. And what it can do lately is ride 120 miles in on-again/off-again pouring rain by itself. Swim two miles comfortably. Take a needle to the hip joint like a champ, and run that night. Bike 50 miles, then run four, then bike for another hour and a half, and then run another four miles — all in one day. Fit in a three or four-hour workout after working for eight hours and being dog tired, every week. And take all of that in stride. No complaining. No whining. No talk, just action.

As I stepped out of the shower the other night, as I caught my foggy reflection in the mirror, I was finally happy with what I saw. And for the first time in so very long, if not ever, I didn't care. I didn't care about the cellulite on my legs, or my stomach — slightly less flat now than in years gone by. I didn't care about the length of my legs or my too-muscular arms.

Looking at this body of mine, I was proud of my jacked traps and accepting of its imperfections. Because regardless of what it looks like, this body is a machine. It's a player. Dedication, determination, sticktuitiveness? All of the above. It's doing things that it never would be able to if it was even remotely model-waifish. It's handled everything I've thrown at it and more. And that — that is more impressive than any pair of size zero jeans.

Posted by Erin 11:15 AM 6 comments

In Spite of It All --or-- Day Two of the Next Four Weeks
Thursday, July 26, 2007

Last night I was scheduled for an easy two hours on the bike, a mile open water swim, and an hour run.

I switched things around a bit, doing 1.5 hours of intervals on the bike, on the trainer, because I just wanted to pedal and not think up a route or deal with gearing up and because I haven't watched Oprah in a really long time (there, I said it). And because I just can't do an easy 2 hours on the trainer. I'm either in interval mode or nothing. If I'm just pedaling without a plan or set workout, I inevitably find myself barely pedaling, engrossed in some random show. So, intervals it was.

I warmed up for 15 minutes, and then did the 'ol "pedal as hard as you can during the show and recover during the commercials" plan for an hour. Now, these were obviously not technical intervals, but I read this in Bicycle magazine or something once...which means it's a real workout. And in any case, timed intervals or not, it was hard. It kicked my ass by the end. Try it and see -- I dare you.

Then it was off to Lake Wingra to meet my open water group, which this Wednesday night, consisted of me and one other person. After trying to cram my sweaty self into my wetsuit (difficult at best), we were off for our mile swim. I had great intentions of doubling the workout to get in two miles (unsure as to why, except that mentally it makes me feel better to do that sometimes), when, on like my fifth stroke, I got a killer kink in my neck. The kind where you can't turn your head. The kind that makes your shoulder and arm hurt when you move it. The kind feels like trying to swim through it just might kill you.

But I did. I pressed on. Through the wind and the chop and the pain in my neck/shoulder/arm every time I took a stroke on my left side. And with the exception of all that, I felt great. I didn't get tired. I didn't get winded. I kept a relaxed, methodical stroke, and before I knew it I had reached the opposite end of the lake.

So I turned around, only to find that the chop seemed to be holding me in place. I honestly was picking out markers on each side of me to see if I was making any forward movement whatsoever, because it just didn't feel like it. And did I mention my neck was killing me? After finally making it back to shore, I called a reverse-audible against the two-mile plan.

Instead, I stashed my wetsuit in the car, laced up my runners, strapped on my Garmin and Ipod, and set out on the bike trail for a little five mile run. I contemplated bringing my water bottle of Nunn with me, and then thought, "It's only five miles -- not worth it." before locking it in my car.

But about half-way through the run, when I was having water-fountain-related hallucinations and goosebumps were sprouting on my arms and legs and I was chilled despite the 80-degree heat, I could've just kicked myself.

With a little AC/DC and Eye of the Tiger, during which I visualized both feeling this bad during Ironman and how great it would be to have people cheering, "Come on! You can do this! X more miles until you're an Ironman!", and fueled by the knowledge that if I just kept running -- or ran faster -- I'd reach my water bottle that much sooner, I picked up the pace to an 8:30 mile for the last mile and upon reaching the parking lot, threw up. Beauty.

But I was done...with a really good, really solid four-hour workout, despite some serious chop and a pain in the neck and a little overheating issue. And it felt so good that I went home and treated myself to a protein shake and a couple late-night glasses of wine with friends on my condo building's rooftop garden.

And today, I have realized that Ironman shape and drinking shape are mutually exclusive endeavors. Because in addition to the neck, I now have a pain in my head. Alas.

Posted by Erin 11:29 AM 0 comments

It's Not Just Me

Back in grad school -- when I was single-but-still brokenhearted way too long after the preceding breakup, living alone in a two-room apartment with no cable in one of the coldest, places on earth -- I had a brief stint with morning workouts.

Each morning at 7 a.m. I would get up, layer up, and Lewis and I would head out into the howling wind and everyday snow for a four or five mile run. And I hated every minute of it.

People would tell me that I just had to give it time and eventually, if I did, I'd become a morning exerciser. I gave it a semester. Every day for four months. Every day for four months I hated it.

Mercifully, my morning running spree was cut short by a stint as a bartender and cocktail waitress at a local club, and later on, teaching 8 a.m. classes. I've never gone back.

Truth be told, I've always felt less-than for not being able to drag myself out of bed long before I absolutely have to (even though it is sooooo not pretty for those around me when I do). Less of a runner. Less of a writer (Toni Morrison starts writing at 4 a.m. each day). And now, less of an Ironman-in-training.

I come from a family that's evenly split on early-rising. Like me, my dad likes to sleep. He's an early-to-bed, late-to-rise sort of sleeper. My sister and mom on the other hand, seem physically unable to lay in bed past 6:30 a.m. There are days when my mom is up and at 'em at 4:30 -- cooking spaghetti sauce, cleaning the basement, taking advantage of the fact that Iron Mountain finally has a 24-hour grocery store, and/or hitting the treadmill or Lake Antione for a 5 to 8-mile walk. As my dad likes to say, "Your mother gets more accomplished before work than most people do in a week." And it's true.

So, for a long time, for me, getting up early has been associated with productivity and hard work. And for just as long, I've felt like I'm less productive or not as hard of a worker for liking my sleep.

When starting the process of Ironman, I had visions of 4 a.m. workouts and heading to bed by 8:30 each night. Because, I figured, that's what Ironmen-in-training do and that's what I'll do. But I just can't. I don't have it in me -- not day after day, anyway. And so, my schedule hasn't changed much. I'm up about 7 a.m. or a bit later each day to do a bit of yoga, clean my apartment, or unload the dishwasher. Sometimes I fit a morning pool workout in. Then it's off to work by 9 a.m., and I start my workouts right after work. I finish anywhere from 8:30 to 10 p.m. depending on the day, head home, eat something, and fall into bed.

I can do this because I don't have kids, or a spouse, or even a dog at the moment, and because my horse is in full-time training. I've largely cleared my calendar of obligations like Junior League meetings for the summer months. So, my time is my own, and I'm choosing to construct my schedule to best fit me.

And yesterday, I happened upon this great IM-related blog (boy, does this girl have a story to tell...and humor to tell it with), with this dedication at the top:

This Blog is Dedicated to All Those Triathletes Who: Have blown a morning swim to sleep in, used their trainer to avoid cold weather (and watch Tivo'd shows), did speed interval training to make treadmill runs end sooner, or took a "sick" day from work to get in "lost" workouts. It doesn't mean you lack passion - it means that you sometimes get a touch of the lazy.

Apparently, it's not just me. Good to know, and on to obsessing about other aspects of triathlon.

Posted by Erin 8:33 AM 3 comments

Postscript
Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Oh, and in light of the last post...and also just in general...this makes me sick. One of Wisconsin's own delegation could be the reason that Michael Vick could (should he be found guilty, blah, blah, blah) get off with a slap on the wrist.

Way to go Big Jim.

Posted by Erin 1:35 PM 1 comments

Ode to Leonard

I would plan out my morning according to if I'd be able to get home over the lunch hour to let him out, if he was going to daycare, et cetera. If he was going to be alone most of the day, I'd set my alarm clock extra early, rise (no shining with this girl) and don a pair of old shorts or sweats and an either short or long-sleeved t-shirt, grab his chuck-it, and head out the door with Leonard for the dog-park. If I was going to be home at lunch or if he was headed to doggie daycare for the day, we'd both sleep in (he loves sleeping as much as I do) and I'd give him a quick four-block walk and a bowl of food before turning on the TV for him (he watches C-Span; we don't have cable so, unfortunately for him, there's no Animal Planet watching to be done) and heading off to work.

Happy hour right after work has never been a part of my routine -- or even an occasional thing -- because of Leonard, and I'm glad for it. Like working out itself, there are times when I'd rather go out for drinks instead of going home, but by the time I open my door to find a wiggling, tail-wagging, trout-carrying Vizsla, any desire for a (sometimes much-needed) cocktail just up and vanishes.

And inevitably, while others I know are sipping vodka tonics and bottles of beer on patios all around Madison, Leonard waits patiently while I change from work clothes to workout clothes and loses all control when I reach into my closet and pull out a pair of running shoes.

After he dances around and I finally get his running (choke) collar fastened (necessary for preventing the loss of limbs from Leonard's sudden bursts of squirrel-hunting), we head out the door.

He has a hard time at first. Surging ahead, wanting to rid himself of all the extra energy that's been building throughout the day, excited that he's outside and, I like to think, with his favorite Person (me). "Back!" I tell him. And he gets back. For like three steps. Then he surges again.

For three miles or so, it goes like this. I'm not sure what people must think, me running up on them yelling, "Back! Back! Back!" But in front, Leonard wanders and I trip over him. So he has to stay by my side. Besides, it's just good obedience.

And eventually, he falls in. We match our strides, and he trots along happily, noticing squirrels but not acting on the desire to tree each and every one. Every once in a while -- if we're on a familiar route -- he gets excited at the sight of a tree. A tree where he previously corned a squirrel. Object permanence, my mom-the-former-psychologist, told me.

Sometimes, it's only possible to focus on the hardness of the run. On not wanting to do it or on having to get it done and out of the way so I can move on to checking off other errands and to-dos for the day. But once in a while, I get caught up in the spirit of being outside. In being able to run. In having been blessed with not one amazing dog in my lifetime, but two, and in having the second right beside me. My buddy. And times like those, I stop and crouch down in the grass or snow and I rub his shoulders, and he puts his front paws on my shoulders and licks the salty sweat off my face and I tear up because he makes me so gosh-darned happy and gives out such unconditional love.

I just started running again. This weekend, really. And last night I did an easy four-miler with CoS. Leonard would've loved it. And last night I realized, as I have been lately, that I'm looking forward to getting my old life back post-September 9th with every last sinew of my body.

I know I'll look back on this Ironman experience (given that I actually finish the race) with great memories. I know that there will be days I'll long for having a goal to push myself toward, and that in a sick, weird way, I'll miss giving up my Saturdays to double-bricks and my late nights to Masters workouts. But I don't know if I'll go back for a second round anytime soon, if ever.

Right now I'm pushing through and doing what needs to get done so that I can reach this goal. But I'm looking forward to a life more balanced. I'm looking forward to riding my horse -- newly broken out -- for the first time and readying him for my first show season in nearly five years. I'm looking forward to a meal cooked by me and served for friends mid-week. I'm looking forward to bringing back group viewings of Grey's Anatomy (will Lexie Grey come between Meredith and McDreamy? Drum roll...), to Saturday mornings at the Farmer's Market, and Friday nights that don't include laying out Clif Blocks, salt tabs, and cycling gear for the next day. And most of all, I'm looking forward to reuniting with my little brown buddy.

I don't know if this makes me less of an Ironman-in-training...if it makes me less dedicated or less worthy of the goal I'm god-willing trying to accomplish. But if I'm honest with myself -- really, really honest -- it's all true. I don't know if I'm okay with that, but I suppose I eventually will be. And until then, for now, the knowledge that my old life is waiting right around the corner for me is the carrot I'm dangling for motivation.

Posted by Erin 12:23 PM 3 comments

Brick in the Wall
Monday, July 23, 2007

The last two weeks are not what anyone would likely call smooth training.

There were workouts cut short because I had to wait 30 minutes to get a swim lane and/or because some kiddie tossed his/her cookies in the pool and everyone had to evacuate for an hour (which conveniently ran right up against closing time) so staff could clean and disinfect. There was too much celebrating of my own birthday on my part. There was work craziness. And there were impromptu naps, where a quick "I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes" turned into an hour. I had decided that all of this would be okay, because I had a grrrrr-eat weekend workout planned: a 50-miler for the Trek Bike for Kids on Saturday, followed by the Spirit of Racine 1/2 Iron on Sunday.

But, like the rest of the previous two weeks, that plan was hijacked when I waited too long to register for Racine. I was holding off in hopes that I'd be cleared by my PT to do the entire race, and not just the Aquabike. In the meantime, both closed.

So there I was without a planned swim start in a packed field, with half of my weekend workout missing, and with Ironman only seven weeks off. And then I did what Ironman teaches you to do: improvise.

I started by accepting the situation and acknowledging that I was partially relieved. A long- standing commitment on Saturday night would've required that I do the Saturday ride, then drive to Racine to check my bike in, then drive back to Madison to attend my Saturday-night festivities, and then drive back to Racine either that night or later that night -- at like 3:30 in the morning -- all to only do a portion of the 1/2 Ironman, as I hadn't been cleared to do the run. A little crazy, even by my standards of late.

Instead, I devised the following plan:

First, I will do this 2.4 mile open water swim on the IM-Moo course (or thereabouts) in lieu of a 1/2 Ironman (or two), since that's really what I was gunning for in doing a half: getting a good swim start in, seeing how it would feel, etc.

Second, and more immediate, I decided to turn my Saturday 50-mile ride into a double-brick workout: bike, then run 40 minutes off the bike, then another 1.5-2 hour bike, then another 40 minutes off.

This went fantastically well. The ride was really enjoyable, incredibly well-run, and it was great to do 50 miles where I a) did not have to chart out the course and check directions on my own, and b) could enjoy some change in scenery (well, there were still a lot of cows and trees, but at least I couldn't tell you what was coming up around the bend down to the quarter mile). The terrain was challenging, and I pushed the pace (for me) so that I ended up finishing in 3:06 and averaging 15.8 mph.

I finished the ride with slightly tired legs, changed into running shoes, grabbed my garmin and ipod, and set off. And except for overheating a bit (happens often to me -- I just don't sweat enough), it felt great: good rhythm, good speed (about 9:15 minute miles), and most importantly, no hip pain. Hurray!

After an hour stop-off to fuel up at the amazing after-party for the ride (burritos from Qudoba, beer from the Great Dane, burgers from Fudruckers, ice cream from Culvers, plus water, oranges, cookies, soda, and you name it from the race -- although I didn't eat ALL of this), it was back home to put my bike on the trainer and continue the brick.

Now, I know it was a beautiful day out and I should've just ridden outside, but I didn't want to. I didn't want to do Seminole Highway to Whalen Road for the third time that week, I didn't want to figure out a new and interesting route, and I really didn't want to worry about water and Gatorade fill-ups. So, I got in a solid hour and fifteen minutes back on the bike, and then another solid four mile run in immediately after.

This, my friends, was all preceded on Friday by a two-mile swim (straight laps), and followed on Sunday morning by another mile swim (main set of 10x100 -- 25 easy, 25 build, 25 easy, 25 hard).

All in all, I felt good about the training I got in. Although not necessarily lightning-fast, I feel strong and, with each passing day, increasingly confident. If I needed to, I think I could manage a solid race-day performance tomorrow.

Thankfully, though, I don't have to. I still have four super-intense, 20 to 25+ hour training weeks to get through before I start to taper. I still have an open water swim, the Dairyland Dare (which I'm turning into a brick workout with an hour run off the bike), and I also have time to work out a written race day plan, which is in the works and I'll post soon.

I'm not necessarily refreshed. But I'm looking at this next four weeks not in context of a year's worth of training, but in isolation. Tomorrow is the first day of training for the next month. That's all I have. Every day counts now, and I just have to focus on the day ahead. Like Pam Reed said, when signing her book for me back in May, "Just keep putting one foot in front of the other."

One arm, then the next. One pedal stroke, then the next. One foot in front of the next. Four weeks. The countdown is on.

Posted by Erin 7:37 AM 2 comments

Slacker
Friday, July 20, 2007

When the going gets tough, the tough...sleep.

This week, I've done about one-third of the workouts I was supposed to. Tuesday? Scheduled for a swim, bike, and short run-off. Actual? Bike. Wednesday? Nada. Thursday? Three mile run.

And Ironman? Oh, only EIGHT weeks off! Arrrghhhh! What in holy hell am I doing?

In my defense, I didn't plan to skip these days. Mid-week visitors, combined with birthday celebration, combined with a crazy-ass work week, combined with my complete inability to get myself into a morning workout routine has resulted in a poor (pitiful?) showing on the "actual hours logged" portion of the workout chart.

Wednesday, my sister and brother-in-law, my dog, and my adorable fur-nephew Nolan (below), came to visit. I got out of work late, they arrived in Madison early, and (as one of my fav political bloggers would say) wallah! No workout.

Leonard and Nolan.

Then, up early yesterday to get the dogs to the park, have breakfast with the sister, and get on the road to Wausau for work. I should have been at the pool at 4:30 after driving back. I even had my gear with me. But a work crisis arose, and since I can't very well swim with my blackberry or take it biking with me and needed to be near a computer when I got the call I was anticipating, I was relegated to a quick three miles on the treadmill. Now, in full disclosure, I was done with everything by 8-ish. I should have hauled myself to the pool. I should've gotten my ass on the bike. But what did I do? Ate Thai food in bed and went to sleep at 9:30.

This, I've sternly told myself, is not very Ironman-ish behavior. I'm disappointed in myself, and frustrated with all that I didn't do.

I'm trying not to beat myself up over this. Better ten percent undertrained than ten percent overtrained. Must've needed the rest. Tough weekend coming up. And all that, et cetera. But it's definitely weighing on me.

I vow right now to do better next week. And the week after that. And the week after that. Right up until THE day. I will do better.

Posted by Erin 1:45 PM 1 comments

R&R
Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Today, I feel rested.

This, to most people, isn't a big deal. But to me? This year? Huge. Or, bigger than that, even -- ginormous.

You see, I've been tired for so long that I've pretty much forgotten what it felt like to wake up willingly in the a.m. ... or to not crave a nap more than anything else in the world almost daily... or to think how I can't wait to crawl into bed and fall asleep as soon after dinner as possible.

My dad, now a judge, used to tell my sister and I stories about law school. One particular story, told when both of us were considering law as our chosen careers, involved his group's weekly outing for beers, during which -- according to my dad -- they would all sit around and sleepily ask themselves if they were having enough fun to justify being out.

These days -- these past handful of months or more of Ironman training -- I can relate. Because going out for a drink or two, or catching a late movie, or just plain staying up too late now doesn't result in just being a little tired the next day. Rather, it's a push over the line into exhaustion.

I don't mean to whine. I know -- just like Chief of Stuff said -- that I chose this. And I have also chosen to have a couple of drinks or accept an invite out even when I knew I should be heading to bed instead, just to salvage some semblance of a social life. I've tried hard to do it all, and as anyone with half a brain cell will attest, that's just not possible. Something's gotta give. It always does. And with me, as an attempt to keep a bit of a balance in my life, that something has been sleep.

So, this weekend, I got what was possibly the Best Ever birthday gift that someone attempting an Ironman could get: two nights at what is, quite possibly, the most relaxing place on earth -- Sundara.

Any description of this place will fall short. It's an absolute pine-tree-surrounded oasis in the midst of the kitchy craziness that is Wisconsin Dells. There's no smoking, no cell phones, and thanks to the feng shui design, minimal corners or straight lines. This -- along with the unbelievable beds (featherbeds, fluffy down comforters, and gazillion-thread count sheets), the out-of-this-world robes that the resort encourages you to wear everywhere, and the self-guided Purifying Bath Ritual (a succession of different temperature showers, a sandstone scrub, steam room, hot tub, cool tub, and hydrating mist) that you can do to your heart's content -- creates what is, quite possibly, the epitome of relaxation.

Sunday was a pool day. Lounging in the sun, reading trashing magazines (throughout the weekend, I binged on US Weekly, Cosmo, Marie Claire, Glamour, and People, with some Stuff and Maxim thrown in for good measure), sipping on mojitos, and taking cat naps on the uber-comfy pool chaises. That was followed by being taken by Town Car (the spa provides transportation in town) to a great dinner at the Del Bar (good wine and lobster...yumm), and back to the spa for a nightcap and some sleep.

Monday morning, I woke at 8 a.m., raring to go, as this has been my weekend M.O. for as long as I can remember in this process. There's always a workout to start so I can get to something else later in the day, or a full day of errands to fit in. But Monday, I had nothing to do. Nowhere to be. And it felt great. Glorious. So I curled back into the massive nest of feathers and promptly fell back asleep until 10 a.m. I don't think I've slept that late in more than a year.

Then it was off to breakfast at The Cheese Factory -- an amazing little vegetarian restaurant with a funny name and an outstanding menu. I had Eggs Montery -- poached eggs over tomatoes and avocado on a croissant and topped with hollandaise -- and split the grilled cornbread (smothered in maple syrup) with CoS. Yummm. The rest of the day was spent wandering around the local outlet mall until the sun broke, then back to the spa for some pool time before getting a Sandstone Polish treatment and massage. Then sushi and champagne for dinner.

Notice how, in the above two graphs, there was not one mention of anything Ironman-related? That's because the two days at Sundara were totally devoid of anything to do with miles logged, miles yet-to-be-logged, average pace, heart rate, rpms, Clif Shots, Gatorade, endurolytes, or recovery drinks and icing.

This was, in short, just what I needed. Sundara wants visitors to "rejuvenate your soul"... and I'm sure that happened. But more importantly, my mind and body finally feel whole again, and ready to tackle the remaining eight weeks until race day.

Anyone close enough to the Dells should make a point of heading to Sundara, even for a day trip, pronto. And any 2007 Wisconsin Ironman-ers out there? Seriously consider a post-race trip. It's only an hour up the road from Madison and might be just the recovery you need. I'm not even close to being a spa-type girl, but this place? It's just that good.

Posted by Erin 8:53 AM 5 comments

Thievery
Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Just saw this on one of my favorite IM-related blogs, and I love it, especially because I loathe mornings more than any single, solitary person I know:

Get up.

It sucks. Then it doesn't.

Go train.

It sucks. Then it doesn't.

Always in that order.

Yes. Yes. Yes. I guess if it was easy, everyone would be doing it, right?

Posted by Erin 12:53 PM 0 comments

More Vicarious Blogging - WIBA
Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Below is CoS's recap of the weekend ride.

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The 75-Mile Cycling Report Card: Grades by Chief-of-Stuff

Clipping In: B- (necessary, but difficult to do with consistent grace)

Clipping Out: A- (even more necessary and learned quickly)

Being Clipped In: B+/A- (seems like it should help even more, but you definitely look like a real cyclist)

Aerobars: C+ with room for improvement (surprisingly hard to balance in, but much easier to catch up to the Ironites when down in aerobars)

Pro-cyclist Nutritional Guidelines from Erin's Friend, Frank: A+ (Coke and a Snickers Bar...Get the man a MacArthur Genius Award!)

Biking Outbound Through Suburban Sprawl: D- (Whoever invented strip malls should be forced to spend their remaining days someplace soulless...like JC Penny)

Biking Inbound Through Suburban Sprawl: B+ (Nothing like 90 degrees, 300 minutes, and 75 miles to make you happy to see Fitchburg again)

Fancy Bike Shorts Recommended by the Trek Guys: AS (as in Ass Saver)

Pre-ride Respect for Erin: A (Just hearing about her schedule makes me tired)

Post-ride Respect for Erin: A++ (God, she does this every week!)

Posted by Erin 7:12 AM 1 comments

WIBA
Monday, July 09, 2007

This past weekend was WIBA here in Madison. No, not the local radio station, or the Women's International Boxing Association. WIBA -- as in the Wisconsin Ironman Brick Adventure.

And before I get any further down that road, the organizers of the event -- namely IronWil -- deserve a huge "thank you" and "well done."

I approached this weekend with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Excitement because I've been going it mainly alone all this time -- all those long, long training days -- and I'd finally, finally have some peeps to train with. The trepidation, as it would, stems from a different side of that same coin -- I'd been training with myself all this time. What if I couldn't keep up? What if I was nowhere near where I should be in my training? What if, what if, what if? Arrrghhhh. Overanalyze, anyone?

Friday was a 20-30 minute swim in Lake Monona, followed by an hour run (or, for me, an hour on the elliptical machine. Ugh.) and then dinner at Tutto Pasta.

Right off the bat, the first person I met getting ready for the short swim was TriAl, who had stumbled across my blog somehow. "Ahhh, Erin...yeah, you were the one who posted about the double Verona loop." This would happen again and again over the weekend, and not just to me. It seems that everyone training for an IM has a blog, and that they all know of/read up on one another. My theory? It stems from the incessant, obsessive search for race reports, combing them for what TO do, and what not to do, tips. As I discovered at dinner that night, I'm far from being the only one who does this.

The swim and elliptical were great (meaning, I got them in without issue -- at least, when I just swam and quit worrying about fast and thus, stopped floundering around), and then it was on to dinner. I couldn't wait to meet other Ironmen/women and Ironwannabies. For this mostly solo-trainer, it was like Christmas, in July.

Apparently, a lot of others felt the same way. Like 40-more-people-than-had-RSVP'd others. I was one of the first handful to arrive, and there were about four tables. But over the following hour, people just kept streaming in. I ended up at a table with a couple of guys from the huge Bloomington, IL crew, RobbyB -- who helped with organizing the weekend shindig, Jeff -- from my Wednesday-night swim group whom I hadn't yet met there, and a couple others. It was a great mix of veterans and newbies, and I garnered some great tips and a dose of confidence that yes, I could indeed do this. And, more than anything, it was fun. Fun to be around such great, nice, friendly people. Fun to have a chance to talk at length with others in the same boat.

After getting some swag bags from Hammer Nutrition, it was home to organize for the next morning and try to get some sleep. The swim, we learned at dinner, was to start at 6:30 a.m. instead of 7 a.m.

Chief of Stuff was going to do the bike portion of the day with me, so we decided he'd bring my bike with him at 8:15 (sharp) before we all clipped-in at 8:30 at Law Park. That meant organizing all of my nutrition for the next day, everything I needed for the swim, and what I'd need in terms of clothing for the bike. I finally hit the hay well after 11 pm.

5:15 a.m. came early. I wanted to be up in time to eat, digest, and walk over to the Monona Terrace for the swim. One peanut butter English muffin and a Gatorade sport shake later, I was headed out the door with my wetsuit and swim bag.

Walking over to the Terrace, I knew it was going to be hot. Brutally hot. It already was. And muggy. Did I mention hot?

The swim went relatively well. Not sure how much distance I covered (and this is my #1 big worry these days...the swim, and making the cutoff on that), but I was in the water for just over an hour and mostly felt good. By "mostly" I mean, except for the part where the (supposedly) digested English muffin thought that it had the run of my body, from stomach to mouth, to slosh around in since I'd been in a prone position for so long. I didn't know quite how to throw up in a lake without having to swim through it, so I bobbed around vertically for a bit to make sure everything was back down where it should be, and then started swimming again.

Long swims are odd things. You don't really get exhausted tired, like with running. Your legs and arms don't really burn like they do when climbing hills on the bike. But you get out of breath, and then you panic a little. At least I do. And I get bored. Bored because you can't hear much of anything (except for the electric whrrrr of the a-hole with his MasterCraft who was trying to decapitate swimmers in our little group), and bored because you just don't make much progress. It's slow going, and even though the Terrace looks close in the relative terms you'd use by bike or foot, when you're dragging yourself through the water, a mile looks like a hell of a long ways.

I didn't have a watch on, and with the group I got into the water having pulled far ahead of me, I panicked that I'd be the last one in the water. I pictured CoS standing there, my bike in hand, waiting for me long after every single other person had left. Or worse, getting out of the water when they were all there and on their bikes, ready to leave. Embarrassing scenarios, both. So I kicked things into high gear, and swam stronger than I thought I could until I was almost back to the Terrace. It was then that I saw a group swimming toward me -- part of OUR group. Whew. They were just on their way out on the out-and-back swim. So, I slowed a bit, tried to find a rhythm, and relaxed.

There were now two MasterCrafts pulling skiers and ski-jumpers in one small little area near the swim start, and the combination created competing waves. I felt like I was treading water. Every time I tried to breathe, regardless of what direction I tried, I got smacked in the face by a wave. In the spirit of self-preservation, I considered hopping out at one of the docks, but because I didn't want to look like a wimp, I swam on. Later, I saw others doing just as I had wanted to, and thought, Good, so I wasn't that far off.

The bike portion had three choices/groups. You could either embark on the full 112 mile course, leave from the Terrace and do one lap and then back (a little under 80 miles), or start at Fireman's Park in Verona and do two loops, also about 80 miles. I chose the second group. It was supposed to be well over 90 degrees and on urging of my physical therapist, decided I didn't need to push it with my hip. After all, I live here, and I could do the 112 if I wanted/needed to some other time.

The first part of the ride, going out McCoy road, all I could think was, "Gawd, this sucks." I wasn't happy about being bike-side. Neither, to be completely honest, was my backside. Before I knew it, though, we had tackled Whalen Road and headed into Verona. It was getting hotter, but in a weird move on the part of my body, I was feeling better and better (I almost never handle heat very well...I just don't sweat enough).

Perhaps part of it was talking our little group (as part of the bigger WIBA group) through the turns of the course. A) it made me feel useful, B) it got my mind off of me and onto what was coming up, and C) it was fun to hear people ask, "are we done with the hills now?" (Ahhhh, no. Not even close).

Again, before I knew it, we were in Mt. Horeb, stopping at the Mobil station which, by now, felt like a second home. Bikers streamed in, buying gallons of water and jockeying for a little patch of grass in the shade. CoS and I popped some salt tabs and split a Coke. It went down surprisingly well, and I saw a few others doing the same. Not sure why this works, but it just does. The same stuff that makes you belch when you're watching a movie and rots teeth is like some kind of super-endurance serum when biking on a 90-degree day. Go figure.

Back on the bike, my favorite part of the course was still to come. And this is what I love, in a sick sort of way, about the IM-Moo course -- I hate the quick turns and steep speed bump hills of Valley Road and Marsh View Road. I hate the gradual inclines on Highway G and 92 that aren't really even inclines to the naked eye (or motorist's eye), but seem to go on forever. But the course from Mt. Horeb on? Bring it! I love the steep downhills and steeper uphills. I love trying to get over 40 mph on Garfoot Road, and scaring myself on how fast I can take the corners. And I have a really, really special place in my heart for the Three Bitches -- the IM-Moo's infamous hills.

I don't know why I love this part of the course. Perhaps it's because it's challenging, technically. Perhaps it's because other people complain about its climbs endlessly and I just like a really good challenge. Perhaps it's because I know I can conquer the Three Bitches now without getting out of my saddle once, two times around, and keep pedaling on after the crest. I don't know what it is, but it just feels good. No, it feels great.

We stopped at Fireman's Park in Verona to refuel (WIBA included a SAG vehicle, overflowing with Hammer products, free of charge. Can anyone say kickass?) and you could tell people were feeling it. Or not feeling it, whatever the case may be. The heat was taking it's toll (it was HOT -- so much so, in fact, that it almost felt better to be pedaling on your bike than standing still, because at least you were creating a breeze that way), and people all around were talking about bowing out of the full-course or two-loop ride. Some were out of it, others had simply had it. I recognized that feeling. This course, especially on your first time out, could do that. Add a heat index of 100+ degrees, and it was easy to see how meltdowns (no pun intended) could happen.

But the thing I was pleased -- hell, almost giddy -- about, was that I felt good. Really, really good -- nutritionally, mentally, and physically (hip pain excluded). Were it not for the bad wheel and the PT's advice to take it easy, I would have been fueling up for my second loop.

And now, with the exception of the swim, I know I can do this. I've ridden 120 miles in pouring rain and did a sprint tri the next morning in an even bigger monsoon. I've done two loops of the course -- two times up the bitches -- in hot weather all by myself as dark was descending on Verona. And I've done the remainder of the course -- the stick of the lollipop -- and another loop in unbearably hot weather, and felt great doing it.

Back at my condo, I hopped on the elliptical for a quick 45-minute jaunt, and it wasn't until the last eight minutes that I wanted my workout to just be over. And then it was.

Lying on the floor, attempting to stretch afterward, CoS asked, "Are we okay?"

I furrowed my brow at him.

"I mean, you're just quiet, and I wanted to check in and make sure all is okay."

I laughed then. Out loud. Belly-laughed.

"Dude, I just worked out for almost ten hours. Cut me some slack."

Sunday, I cut myself some slack. I wanted to meet up for the rest of the WIBA festivities, but I wanted some time to myself more. So I woke up at 7 a.m. (couldn't sleep), hopped back on the elliptical for an hour and a half, watched the first stage of the Tour, and then had the Day of Erin -- complete with a Starbucks and Target run, eating brunch at Pasqual's, and sunning by the (noisy and overcrowded with splashing kids but still better than nothing) pool all afternoon. I even finished a whole book, start to finish.

What. A. Weekend.

Posted by Erin 11:44 AM 2 comments

Perspective
Friday, July 06, 2007

This is a few days belated, but wanted to get it down lest I forget.

On Wednesday, July 4th, I was scheduled for an open water swim, a 2-hour easy ride, and a 30-minute run (on the elliptical).

About 7:30 a.m., Chief of Stuff and my wonderful sister, Lindsey, got up with me to head to the lake. They didn't want me swimming by myself, although they later admitted that when I reached the opposite side of Lake Wingra, they couldn't tell my swim cap and arm flailing from the little bitty waves. In any case, it made them feel better, gave them time to take in a little coffee to start the day, and gave the dogs -- mine, Leonard, and my sister and brother-in-law's, Nolan -- time to run, swim, and play.

The swim went well. Right around a mile, and I felt strong. My arms weren't fatiguing nearly as much as they had been when I first started swimming in my wetsuit. And the only stops I made were brief ones to readjust my annoying, leaking goggles.

After the swim, it was on to biking. While Lindsey took the dogs home for naptime, CoS and I got geared up for a two-hour ride.

We headed up the bike path toward the Military Ridge Trail, stopping in Fitchburg to pick up some fluids. The temp was great, it was a beautiful day, and I was (finally!) biking new territory. But I couldn't relax. I had my whole family (mom, dad, sister, and grandmothers) plus four to six others, coming for a cookout at noon-thirty-ish and I still had to bike, another hour or so, shower, and run to the store before then. It was 10 a.m.

"I can't do this," I told CoS. "I want to just go back and get things organized." (am a little type-A, mostly at very inopportune times). He convinced me to do a bit more, and then we'd turn around and head back.

Riding back into the parking lot outside the Vilas Zoo, we spotted 1/2 of a couple who had been swimming with a different group that morning and had taken off on their ridiculously pimped-out, fancy, matching Trek Equinox TTX 9.5's just before we set off on our ride.

I was feeling guilty about not getting up earlier (notice a trend?) and about cutting my already way-too-easy ride short.

"Well, that's good. I swam longer than their group, and they biked just about as long as I did, today," I commented about the ultra-fit Equinox TTX 9.5 couple. "So maybe this is okay. I mean, I got a workout in, and I can always sneak out for a short ride this afternoon before or after I do the elliptical."

CoS said that he thought it was fine. But I kept prattling on, wanting to assure myself that I wasn't a wuss, and that I had some kind of business being in the Equinox couple's realm.

"Maybe this is their tough day," CoS offered, I'm sure wanting to end my obsessing.

I told him I doubted it. They looked like serious kids. Probably an easy day. But I was scheduled for sort of an easy day too, so maybe it was okay. Again, more prattling.

Finally, CoS found just the right thing to assuage my guilt and obsessing: "Erin, it's only Wednesday." He reminded me that this was good training for a mid-weekday, and that I didn't have to hammer out 100+ miles just because I had the day free from work (but thankfully left out the part of having to do that tomorrow).

"Let's go have a fun cookout, and enjoy the day. You're fine," he said.

And, I decided, I mostly was.

Posted by Erin 12:42 PM 1 comments

Woah

And I thought a little 112-miler this weekend was going to be tough.

Check out this article (thanks to Mel for sending it on!) on Matt Pomeroy's 4,000 mile bike ride across the country (dubbed "Matt Across America") to raise money for Lance Armstrong's Livestrong foundation in honor of his mother, who passed away in 2005 from breast cancer.

Of particular interest? Matt's blog, http://www.mattacrossamerica.com/ -- especially the July 4th entry, "Rolling Back Roads of Wisconsin," where he says that Prairie du Chien to Madison were "112 of the most difficult miles yet on Matt Across America." He writes: "Up & down, up & down, up & down . . . forever. Today was the number one climbing day of the entire cross country ride so far and the pain was compounded by the constant rolling which makes it impossible to find the right gear or get into a steady rhythm."

That's after 33 days' worth of riding, since May 31st, starting at the shore of the Pacific Ocean in Washington state and heading through the Rockies, Montana, and North Dakota. Surely anyone who's tackled the Horribly Hilly Hundreds or the IM-Moo course would agree.

Posted by Erin 11:40 AM 0 comments

Here's Looking at You, Kid

Some vicarious blogging from CoS:

************************************

As Erin's "Chief-of-Stuff," I've been a recurring character on this blog for some months now. I say character, because while I appear, it's not quite really me. When I rescue Erin from a flat tire situation, it's heralded on the long and winding road. When I say something stupid (which trust me, happens more than flat tires), it's edited out. When I join Erin on a run or a bike ride, I get e-kudos on the blog, while my complaining is tactfully lost to her readers. I even get the occasional photo…but only the ones she finds flattering.

It's a surreal experience being reported about on the blog and I thought that if Melanie could vicariously blog, it was about time for Chief-of-Stuff to speak up.

I love running and have included it in my work-out regime for the last twelve years. Running on a warm sunny day that begs to be enjoyed outside is an easy pleasure. But I've learned to love running at midnight when Madison sleeps or on cold winter evenings when the snow muffles the sound of the occasional car. Biking has never appealed to me as much as running. I'm not the kind of guy who gets into toys or gadgets. Running somehow seemed pure and free while biking tethered me to equipment and bound me to roads.

Twice, though, I've trained for marathons only to be defeated by IT band pain. Despite changing my shoes, wearing straps, stretching, icing, popping pills, strength training , allowing a chiropractor to bruise me with stainless steel instruments, and rolling on a surprisingly painful chunk of foam, my IT band gets inflamed when my long runs begin to creep past the half marathon mark, give or take a few. My last effort, in May, resulted in gritting my teeth through 13.1 miles and settling for finishing a half-marathon. I've run exactly 1.5 miles since.

Something strange has happened, though. Biking has begun to seem appealing. After watching Erin finish a duathlon and a triathlon, I had to admit that biking looked like fun. And given Erin's summer training schedule, it began to look like biking might be the only good opportunity to hang out with her.

So I tried a couple rides with her on my hybrid and was roundly humiliated. I'm man enough to admit it; she kicked my ass. My interest spiked, though. I remembered living on my bike all summer as a kid. It seems like every conversation I had was over the the handlebars of my ten speed. I remember 40 mile rides out to Sauk City and back with my friend Luke in high school. There's a certain freedom and exhilaration that accompanies a bike ride. It's just different than a good run.

And then a friend offered to help me buy a bike at a steep discount. The universe was conspiring so I decided to buy myself my first real road bike.

Last weekend, Erin and I headed up to her hometown and I had the chance to try out my LeMond Versailles. It was a gorgeous sunny day and I felt almost giddy at the prospect of a long ride, on a new bike, through one of the most beautiful parts of the country. I also felt secretly pleased by the confidence I had that my new bike would give me a shot at keeping up with an ironwoman-in-training. After all, I was in marathon shape. How hard could it be to apply that to biking?

We conquered the reputedly terrible hills (the mini-bitches) early and without much trouble. My confidence soared. Most of the roads were curvy back highways lined with towering pine trees or farms. The asphalt seemed new and smooth, the sun was warm, my legs felt fresh, and I was having a blast. I began comparing biking and running and decided that biking – if anything – was a better workout because it forced interval work into the middle of an endurance work-out.

As the course wore on, my thoughts shifted. I went from being in love with a hunk of carbon, to feeling blah, and even wondering how anyone could ever be one with the god-forsaken torture instrument beneath me.

I also began to notice that every time we hit a hill, Erin pulled away a little. As my strength began to fade, I started counting up all the excuses I still had left now that I could no longer blame my inferior performance on the hybrid bike. I didn't have clipless pedals. Or aerobars. I hadn't had the bike adjusted yet. I had only been biking six times this year (excluding spin bikes at the gym). I didn't have a fancy bike computer. Or the right sun glasses. My jersey wasn't as tight fitting and was causing (I'm sure) substantial drag.

And just as I was beginning to confront the humbling reality that Erin is just flat-out a better biker, I discovered the miracles of drafting. Tucked in behind her bike, I took a break anytime I felt like giving up. I forced myself not to ride there for too long, but drafting saved me. And because it's not allowed in the Ironman, I saw no need to return the favor.

And soon I began to enjoy the ride again. I mixed my ride between drafting, sprinting, coasting, climbing, pulling up alongside Erin to talk, and building up as much speed as possible down hills. And other than the moment when I suggested we go throttle the Mortl tech, I began to love the ride.

With a new carbon road bike, the promise of future advantages like clipless pedals and aerobars, a great training partner, and a gorgeous UP day, I punched through 58 miles with enough left to sprint for the last two or three miles.

And as I pulled up alongside Lake Antoine, I looked down at my shiny blue LeMond with min-max carbon frame and Shimano components and thought, "this could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship."

Posted by Erin 9:13 AM 0 comments

If Loving My Ipod is Wrong, I Don't Want to Be Right
Thursday, July 05, 2007

So, I consider myself a somewhat serious runner. I've been doing road races off and on since I was 12, ran track in high school and college, and have done a couple marathons. By no means, though, am I a purist. I'm perfectly able to run without music, but I'd rather not. I even took an extra minute or so in transition during the Appleton Paper Discovery Duathlon in May to grab my Ipod for the run portion (two 5ks). Why? Because I could. Because I like it. And because I feel like I run faster and better when I've got a little Billy Idol or Black Eyed Peas busting it up in my earphones.

Honestly, though, I really don't understand this.

Jean Knaack of the Road Runners Club of America is quoted as saying, "I hear race directors complain that it's [listening to music during a race] a growing problem. They'll say 50 percent of the people running races have on headphones."

A growing problem?

The article cites these reasons as to why: "runners wearing headphones are less likely to respond to directions from course marshals, and they can't hear faster runners approaching from behind or hear warnings about vehicles or potholes. " The Peachtree race director says that the race's "helicopters, bands and crowds, should be entertainment enough."

What???

This is so many levels of ridiculousness that I don't know where to begin. First of all, if course marshals need to be giving out such complicated directions that you need to be fully aware and attentive to receive them, the course isn't as well-marked nor the race as well-run/organized as it should be. Second, faster runners approaching from behind? Really? At what, like ten miles per hour? With an entire width of a road for room? I was not aware of the danger of being stampeded during a 10k. And to Ms. Race Director, if the participant is paying YOU $35-$50 to run, shouldn't the participant get to decide if the bands/crowds are "entertainment enough"? At some races, this might be true, but running by a band for a 30-second blip of music every two miles doesn't entertainment for a racer make. And I can say for certain that the weather at this year's Green Bay Marathon thinned out the crowds to the point where it felt like a training run. Were it not for my handy pink Ipod, I might well have had a mental meltdown.

I'm curious, though -- am I missing something here, beyond the stampeding 10k runners and marshals who can't get the attention of racers when they need it? If so, please fill me in. I'm turning my music down and am all ears.

Posted by Erin 12:06 PM 4 comments

What's Wrong With Me

Ok, all you smartasses reading this, stand down for a bit.

For a while now, or more specifically, since the Green Bay Marathon on May 20th, I haven't been able to run.

The weekend after the marathon I was scheduled for ten easy miles. I got in four (and walked the rest). The weekend after that, I attempted a sprint tri and ran one mile out of three. Over the years, I've slowly learned that there is pain that you can and should run through, and then there's the kind that you can't...and if you try to, bad things happen. This last kind was the type of pain I've had in my hip whenever I ran during and post-marathon, or whenever I stood for too long, or slept on my left side. So, I decided to cut myself off from running until I could get in to a specialist.

The problem, as it turns out, is trochanteric bursitis -- inflammation and irritation of the fluid-filled sac that allows smooth motion between the bony prominence over the outside of the hip (the greater trochanter) and the tendon that passes over this bone. When the bursal sac becomes inflamed, each time the tendon has to move over the bone, pain results.

The bursa. Mine gets getting really, really mad any time tendons or muscles touch it.

I have to say that only once before have I encountered such a great doctor as the one I saw at UW Sports Medicine. Or, I should say, doctors -- a sports medicine specialist and a resident DO. Not once did I get the whole, "Just stay off of it and see how it feels, and we'll go from there." They took my situation as seriously as I was, and talked about solutions in terms of getting me back out there as quickly as possible. I appreciated that. The DO found that my pelvis was way off kilter and the physician diagnosed bursitis, although it was a chicken-and-egg situation. The DO adjusted my off-kilterness, and the physician referred me to a physical therapist who has done three Ironmans herself. At the top of the referral sheet he wrote "Ironman -- ASAP" and told me that if she didn't fit me in soon enough, to email him and he'd call her personal cell. I was blown away by all of this, and remembered why I loved seeing sports specialists. They just get it.

Tuesday I had my first appointment with the PT. She, too, is wonderful. She asked me to tell her about the marathon and I recounted the easy-breezy first 19 miles, and then the cramping and pain, and hobbling and pain, and the cold and the pain. "Why didn't you stop?" she asked. I said I really, really had wanted to break four hours, and she just shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "Oh, right. Of course."

So, she has me on a regimen of IT band stretches and Iontophoresis, which I've never heard of but am hoping like hell that it works. I have four more treatments of that, and if it doesn't have the desired effect, I go back to the specialist for cortisone injections. As I was leaving the other day, the PT told me, "Just be patient and hold off a little bit, and we'll get you fixed up so you can go out and start hammering again." Did I mention how wonderful she is? Love her.

I'm on a "bike/run as tolerated" program, but it's a really fine line to walk. On one hand, I don't want to back off on my training. I only have two more months to get through and if I can just tough it out, then I can rest properly. But on the other hand, if this injury worsens because I didn't rest enough, to the point where my race day is compromised, it's going to be hard to forgive myself. I'm telling myself that racing a little undertrained is a lot better than racing injured, but it's hard and frustrating. Hard because it's an easy excuse to train less, especially now that my volume is really going up. (I have three hours scheduled tonight? Well, if I get two in and my hip is starting to hurt, that'll be good.) And it's frustrating for obvious reasons, but one that I recently discovered is that I really, really love to run.

A two-hour run for some reason, isn't nearly as daunting as a two-hour bike for me. The bike, I dread -- making sure I have all my gear; constantly coming up with new, interesting routes and planning routes that don't take me through intersection after intersection; worrying about being picked off by an inattentive motorist, or hitting a pothole, or falling off the bike. It's just requires so much preparation, so much thinking, so much concentration. But running? Running is therapy in motion. It's relaxing and cathartic. In five minutes, I can be out the door and lost in my thoughts and/or music. I love the rhythm of it, the solitude, and the way my body feels both during and after a good run -- energized and tired all at once. Depending on how I feel, I can take a nature approach and run along the lake or in the woods, or if I want to be in the middle of things, right down state street or past the Terrace. And man, do I ever miss it.

I'm more than happy to bike and swim. But I need a good run sprinkled in now and then to really enjoy the other two, and to feel most like me.

I've resigned myself to the worst-case scenario that I might not get to run like I have before (a quick 12 or 15-miler in the middle of the week just for fun) for the rest of this summer, and perhaps the year. But I just hope this isn't a persistent, nagging, permanent injury.

So, back to the PT tomorrow morning, and then WIBA ("as tolerated") this weekend. I just. want. to. run!

Posted by Erin 9:13 AM 2 comments