What I Need

In eastern PA this weekend we had the most glorious summer weather in a long time. Blue-sky days that make you want to twirl around in the grass like Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music." Yeah, that's a pretty corny image, but I can't help it. That kind of weather just makes me feel absurdly alive, especially given the weeks on end of rain we've had recently.

Naturally, I spent the last two mornings on the couch watching the Tour de France.

Anyways.

I've been working hard lately on my bike, prompting a frustrated posting on Facebook last week along the lines of "I need to start liking my bike again."

I was surprised at the number of responses I got. A few people suggested I needed to start riding with friends. Some others thought maybe I needed a new bike, a temptation I admit is hard to resist, but I am fully stocked in the bike department and hope it doesn't take a few thousand dollars to make me love riding again.

I got a couple of "I hear ya's" too. I guess it's that time in the season when training starts to really hurt. My rides lately have been all business. On several occasions I have felt the contents of my stomach rise into my throat and bubble into my mouth. Gross, I know. But I also take some satisfaction in the idea that my body is working so hard it shuts down other operations.

I don't get out of my comfort zone easily on the bike, the result of too many group rides where I was in over my head and felt defeated from the get-go, and the fact that I love lolling about on two wheels, taking in the scenery and feeling the breeze on my face.

So it's been a breakthrough couple of weeks for me in terms of pushing it. But it's left me wondering what I really want out of my bike. During the off-season I told Craig I wanted to get faster. I do like the fitness and body benefits of triathlon training. And oddly, I actually like the hard workouts. But I also don't like them. I mean, it's great to be fast and all, but the faster you go, the faster the scenery flies by. Where's the fun in that?

So I've decided I need to do some rides that aren't about training. Today Willa and I packed up our bikes headed to the Lehigh Parkway in Allentown, a local cinder path that runs alongside the Little Lehigh River. As we pedaled side-by-side, I looked over at my daughter riding tall in her saddle, her two blond braids poking out from underneath her helmet and the river babbling behind her, and I thought, "This is exactly what I need."

Look for us there a couple times a week all summer. Our goal is to go twice around the loop by the end of August. No matter that it's only a few miles long. As long as we feel the air on our faces and don't get our heart rates up, I'll be happy.

In Which I Attempt to DNF...

...but am thwarted.

Or "How I learned that lack of pre-race nerves may lead to lack of during-race enthusiasm."

Or "Why I'll never again say before a race, 'How could it possibly be worse than last year?'"

Sunday morning a few hundred swimmers lined up on the shore of the Chesapeake at the foot of the Bay Bridge for the Chesapeake Bay 1-Mile Swim. When we heard "GO!" we made our way in, some of us diving, some walking, some simply ducking under.

I didn't stay in the back because last year I got stuck behind slow swimmers. And this year I feel less slow, so I wanted to avoid a repeat debacle.

But I didn't count on the chop. The relentless chop that resembled boat wake and kept washing over me and making it damn hard to just freakin' swim.

A short time in, I decided I wanted out. Get me the hell out of this water that I can't swim in! I don't have the willpower to endure this today.

It was a strange feeling. One I've never encountered in a race before. I quickly ran through the scenarios of disappointment: I'd have to tell Erica; I'd be seen being lifted out of the water, a major race FAIL; I'd have to tell my friends.

I'd have to live with the shame.

Oh, who was I kidding? I didn't give a crap! I was two buoys into a row of five before the first turn and perceiving little progress. The chop was coming fast from the right and I couldn't get a feel for it. I was fighting every wave and getting tired.

[It should be noted, in my defense, that I'm recovering from a nasty sinus infection and contending with a course of antibiotics that is wreaking havoc on my stomach.]

Next thing I knew, my hand was up and I was making eye contact with a kayaker who motioned for me to swim over to her.

Oh, for crying out loud! She is going to make me swim across the course through other swimmers so that I can be pulled.

But the feeling of relief at getting the hell out was so great that I ducked down and started swimming in earnest. I really didn't care.

Not caring is an unusual state for me. I have often thought my life would feel easier if I could only care less. But at this moment, all care had evaporated.

I swam to the kayak, grabbed the front of it and hung on while the volunteer attempted to wave down a boat.

It soon became clear that she did not know how to effectively hail a boat. A number of minutes passed. Five? Maybe more.

Meanwhile, as I gazed out over the rippling water, I began to feel sad that I would be leaving it. It actually felt quite nice on my bare arms. And I had been counting on getting a swim in.

"I knew this was going to be a bad day as soon as I saw the water," said the volunteer.

I whipped my head around. "Really?" I answered. "You mean it's not just me?"

"Naw. This is some bad chop," she offered.

I am not a total wuss!

I looked around some more. Still, no boat. And once I began to assess the situation, I realized I likely would have to wait a while for one to swing my way.

I can probably swim out faster than it would take for a boat to come, I thought. So I asked the volunteer if I was disqualified for touching the kayak, she said no, and off I went. I could hear her saying, "Good for you, sticking with it!" I gave her a half-hearted thumbs up as I swam away.

And so it was that I swam to the final buoy and made the first turn and found my rhythm. There were not enough buoys after the first turn, which made sighting hard. But I just looked for the damn bridge and kept going.

This time the chop was hitting from the left side so I knew after I made the last turn to shore, it would make for an easier beeline to the finish. And it was, and of course I passed dozens of people in the final 500 yards or so. But it was too late to salvage anything and my time was worse than last year, which I didn't think was possible!

I'm laughing about it now. And am glad I stuck it out. It was a nice day for a swim despite the chop.

The day got exponentially better after we refueled with Blue Moon.

Erica won her age group in the 4.4-mile swim and was 11th female overall! Woo-hoo! She's my coach, people!

(Interesting fact: 102 people were pulled from the 4.4-mile swim, compared to 21 last year. The conditions really were tough.)

Lori (looking all glam) and Erica toasting their results.

Chesapeake Bound

Been sick, been busy, been off the blog.

And this morning have been frantically packing to head down to Maryland for the Chesapeake Bay 1-Mile swim.

Last year I was crazy nervous for this event. I can hardly even call it a race, because for me it is so not about racing. I mostly was concerned about having one of my panic episodes in the water.

Thankfully, I did not. But my time was super slow (so was everyone else's, though, because of the current and possibly a long course).

This year I haven't even given the race much thought. I haven't been swimming as much as I should. First I had a neck/shoulder problem. Then I was sick. And of course, always busy.

I just haven't focused on the race.

Now it feels like I'm going on a road trip culminating in an open water swim with 400 people I have never met. (Minus Jan and Lori, and Erica who is doing the 4.4-mile swim.)

I wonder what will happen if I don't stress out about it? Maybe it's a good thing? Or do I need stress to get me focused?

I'll find out, I guess. But I do like not having race jitters.

Black Bear!

Sunday was the Black Bear sprint and half iron triathlon at Beltzville State Park near Jim Thorpe, PA.

This was the second year that we put together an Endurance Multisport relay team for both races. Black Bear is a great local race in a beautiful location and it winds up being a really fun day out.

Both relay teams defended our wins from last year, which was quite satisfying considering the field was bigger this year and included teams made up of the fearless (and fast-swimming) 11- and 13-year-old kids of a local badass triathlete. And we beat them. Take that!

Last year I was injured and my run was super slow. I was faster this year, so that was good and, more importantly, I wasn't in pain!

The only downer of the day was on the way to the race I actually saw a dead bear(!) on the side of the highway. I have never seen that before and it felt really sad and strange to be heading to a race named after a bear. Heavy sigh.

Anyway. Here are some (happy) pictures from the day:

Me, after the run, very glad to be done.

Chris after her killer ride.

Chris demonstrating advanced recovery skillz.

Coach Craig demonstrating perfect form as he approaches the half iron finish.

Happy sprinters with our first place medals.

Bells and Whistles

I have one of these:

The Polar 625X.

And recently I got my hands on one of these to try:

The Garmin Forerunner 405. [Pardon the pint-sized image.]

Oh, and I'm also testing out these nifty-cool kicks:

Somnio's new Runaissance custom-built running shoe.

But none of these has made me run faster.

Which isn't really a problem, right? Because now I'm all chill about my pace.

(OK, but I'd still like to be a faster runner.)

Despite all the bells and whistles currently at my disposal, this afternoon I headed out in the Asics I've been wearing a while and my super-simple Nike cuff watch that features little more than time/date/chron.

My neck has been bothering me lately and today my lower back got into the act. I wasn't expecting much from the run, was dreading it in fact. It called for a warmup, followed by 10 minutes at tempo and then hill repeats.

It's funny how fast after the high of a race I can fall so low again. I felt like a real runner after the half marathon. This week, I feel like a wannabe. Sigh.

Anyways.

I head east from my office through a residential neighborhood that runs between two railroad tracks. I take the warmup nice and easy. When it's time to hit tempo pace I pick it up and feel good for the first minute. Another minute ticks by and, though I'm still feeling good, I find myself thinking, "How long can you really do this?"

And then: "You probably can't do this."

Followed by: "But you won't know unless you try."

And so I resolve to try because I want to know if I can do it. If I can push myself into a pain box for just 10 stinking minutes. Because why shouldn't I be able to do that?

But as quickly as my resolve tightens, I shove it aside: "Well, at least try to get to the next block, then you can turn around and reassess."

I hit the turnaround point and hear the throaty whistle of a train approaching. To my right I see the lumbering engine coming toward me with a couple of cars behind it. I turn around and begin running in the direction the train is traveling.

I notice the train is going slow, almost coasting along the tracks that bisect a jumble of backyards and alleys.

I don't consciously think about keeping pace with the lumbering train, but I do it anyway. And it means working hard. It means staying in the pain box. It means I'm a gazelle prancing alongside an elephant. It means I'm running neck-to-engine with the train, even for that quick moment.

The train bellows its whistle again and again and I throw my head back and look up at the gray sky. I imagine I'm racing the train, and the thought opens a smile on my face because that thought is ridiculous, I know. But it's fun and I'm loving it and I think: "You're trying and you're doing it."

And this time I listen and let myself keep going.

Then the train pulls away and the moment is over, but running with the train means I keep running hard until the watch clicks to 10 minutes. And it means I run easy for five then tackle the hill repeats with new confidence because I ran with the train. And during the cool down, it means my legs want to keep turning over fast because they actually feel pretty good so I have to force myself to slow down.

And it means that maybe the best bells and whistles are the ones that actually make me push myself.

Big Weekend

I am sore.

Everywhere.

This weekend was Endurance Multisport triathlon camp at Bear Creek Mountain Resort in Macungie, PA, which involved 5 workouts in the space of 24 hours... along with a decent quantity of beer. Immediately followed by the Girls on Track cycling clinic at the Valley Preferred Cycling Center (the velodrome) on Sunday afternoon.

By around 3:00 on Sunday I was officially cooked. I tried to do some track drills with the clinic participants and could hardly move my legs.

But it was all totally worth it. As Katie said, "I wish we could have camp every weekend." And it was so fantastic to see all the women who came out for the clinic.

The Girls on Track group posing after the clinic.

There were road racers, moms, triathletes, chicks who didn't even own a bike, recreational cyclists, middle school kids. For a lot of them, riding on the track meant stepping way outside their comfort zone and I was really proud of them for pushing themselves and putting aside their fears. Riding a bike is scary enough for some, and riding on the track is that much more terrifying!

Getting used to the oval.

They practiced pacelines and sprints, lined up for races and got uber competitive. My favorite line after a scratch race was from Tracy who doesn't race much and has never ridden on the track: "I threw up a little bit." Nice! My favorite moment was when Ann, who rides all over town with her kid in tow, but isn't what you'd call hardcore, lined up for her first race on the track and won it!

Getting the lowdown.

It was really gratifying to hear so many of them afterward scheming about how they couldn't wait to sign up for the next clinic, or planned to scour Craigslist for a track bike and come from NYC every weekend for Saturday racing. They were FIRED UP! I don't know what it is about the track, but you feel like a rock star after you do it.

Me with my paceline group getting ready to head out.

Working backwards here, at tri camp on Saturday, we started the day with an open water swim. Thankfully, the water was about 63 degrees and felt downright spa-like compared to last week's ice-bath swim. An Orca rep was there and I tried out a new Sonar wetsuit. Sweet!
After lunch it was a couple of hours of pedaling the beautiful rolling hills of Berks County, followed by a muddy trail run in the woods. (I hope to get my hands on more pictures of tri camp; I didn't take enough!)

The trail was quiet and squelchy.

Next morning it was up at 6:30 for a quad-busting mountain bike ride up to the top of the "mountain" and then a quick open water swim before I headed over to the track.

All in all, a fun training weekend but exhausting!

And the laundry afterward was insane.

Not Recommended

Scott was out hitting golf balls tonight and Willa was at a friend's house. That meant I was on my own for dinner.

I knew there was nothing of substance in the fridge (we'd finished all the weekend leftovers last night), so I ordered grilled shrimp tacos from Casa Toro, our favorite local Mexican place, which happens to be located exactly halfway between my office and my house.

I had worked late, and was pretty hungry by the time I got the food. Then I picked up Willa and rushed home to eat.

I put the tacos on a plate, grabbed a tub of yogurt out of the fridge (I usually sub plain yogurt for sour cream), and cracked open a beer.

I spooned the yogurt on top of all three tacos, salivating in anticipation of the spicy, tangy taste about to hit me.

Don't they look yummy?

And then I picked up a taco and took a big bite.

Hm. Tastes kinda weird, I thought. Sort of sweet, like maybe they used sugar instead of salt. I didn't remember that taste from the last time I ate them, but I figured maybe a different chef was on tonight. Or maybe it was just me and I'd get used to it.

Anyway, as I continued to eat, the sweetness began to get more cloying. Somehow I thought I'd stop noticing it, but it just got stronger and stronger. Definitely not the Mexican taste vibe I'd been drooling in anticipation of.

After I'd polished off an entire taco that seemed to grow sweeter with every bite, it occurred to me: I had used vanilla yogurt instead of plain.

Yep, not the plain!

And I had slathered all three tacos with it. Damn. This was not the dinner I had hoped for.

But we had no food in the house, and I was hungry. So I scraped it off, and replaced it with plain yogurt and all was well. Or at least not as sweet.

Yeah, I definitely don't recommend vanilla yogurt on shrimp tacos.