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