Keep Calm and Gray On

When I was born, I had a tiny sprout of dark auburn hair at both the base of my neck and on the top of my head. This was a footprint of my father, a boisterous Irishman whose thick and dark auburn hair had long since faded to gray - and mostly fallen out - and its impression was imbedded on my personality in the most stereotypical ways. As a child, I was always reminded by my father that I was a typical fiery redhead, even after those auburn locks faded to a ruddy brown, then to a bleached out blond, and back to a mottled reddish brownish shade through my childhood: I was temperamental, I was loud, I had that hair-trigger temper. These characteristics have both served me well and gotten me into some trouble through the course of my life.

At 17, I began dying my hair back to what I liked to believe was my "real" color. And from that day forward, I dyed and dyed and dyed my hair all sorts of shades of red, from medium reddish brown (my go-to shade) to light amber brown to dark auburn to an unfortunate experiment with burgundy (they should call it what it really is: purple). In case you are wondering, that is 24 years of dying hair, mostly from the box in my own bathroom, on average 4-5 times per year. I shudder to think of how many vacations I could have gone on in lieu of vanity.

Currently, on my bathroom counter, a box of hair dye has been sitting for at least a month. Every time I look in the mirror, my silvery gray roots are mocking me, shouting for protection from other human eyes. Normally, I would cover those puppies as soon as I notice them growing out from their medium reddish brown umbrella, but for some reason, I have been resistant to open that box of dye. It could be laziness, but I don't think so.

I think it is time for me to stop hiding under the red.

I found my first real gray hair in high school. My father began to go gray in his late 20s, and by the time I was born, like I said before, what little hair he had left was a snowy shade of white. It aged him, along with many previous years of hard living, and I always kind of felt bad that at the age of 48 he had a daughter in Kindergarten whose teachers thought he was her grandpa.

Looking older than I am is a scary prospect, especially at 41. I certainly don't want to be called grandma by my kids' teachers. But I think I am different from my father. I don't wear the wrinkles of all the bad decisions I have made in the corners of my eyes like he did. I feel younger than my real age, and I hope I at least look as young as I feel. But I am tired of wearing a mask on my head to cover up the years that I have lived.

I am going to go gray naturally. It almost hurts to type it, to admit that I am acknowledging the years behind me, that I am going to show the world that I am not really a redhead. Anymore, anyway.

We'll see how this goes. I might wake up one morning and decide that I just can't do it and cover it all up. I hope, though, that I can let go of the time, the expense, the hassle, and the facade, and just be ME. I still hope to be a fiery redhead, just with a little bit of silver fox thrown in to the mix.

Why I Stayed

Not only did I stay, I wouldn't leave when he gave me the opportunity.

So many opinions on domestic abuse are being passed around lately, thanks to the Ray Rice situation. Every time the video footage of his then-girlfriend/wife shows up on my tv or laptop screen, I don't watch it. It's invasive, it's violent, and it's shameful. And I've been there, to a certain extent.

I grew up in a home where I had seen my father and mother go to blows on a regular basis. I once watched my father pick my mother up at the shoulders and slam her down into a chair with such force that I was sure he had broken her neck. I watched her fight back, I watched them threaten each other with death, I listened to them scream at each other with an unbelievable amount of hatred. But she stayed. She always stayed.

Even as a child, I was perplexed by her staying. I asked her why. I always got a vague response that amounted to something like "It's not that easy" or "You will understand someday". But I never did understand.

I was at the receiving end of that violence on occasion, usually disguised as discipline at my mother's hand. I had to pick switches, I felt the buckle end of a leather belt lash my back, I was slapped, I was once choked, I was called names, I was told that I was hated. I stayed. Because I was a kid and I had nowhere to go.

After high school, I was able to leave home for college. I was far enough away to build a life as an adult, to make something of myself. Only, packed among my clothes and shoes and teddy bear was the baggage of never feeling truly loved and accepted, along with feeling woefully inadequate about myself and completely unprepared to handle any relationship of any kind, friendly or romantic. I was lost, but I didn't know it, because I seemed like a generally happy person. On the outside.

At 18, I craved attention from boys. I felt ugly and insecure all the time, and when a cute boy paid me some mind, it was euphoric, although confusing because why would anyone like something like me? My first "relationship" in college was with a boy that lived in my dorm. He was an athlete, he was smart, he was very handsome, and he only wanted me around when he was lonely. And I totally accepted that, because it was attention. I allowed myself to be used in a such a degrading way, and I think I knew it was degrading, but I went through the motions of this "relationship" for a good 3-4 months. And then I met J (initial changed to protect the scummy). One night at a party, I was dancing and letting go and having fun with friends. J began dancing with me. He was handsome, he had a warm smile, and we had an instant chemistry. It wasn't long before we went out, and then we were in a relationship. It was a tornado.

At first, he seemed to adore me. He thought I was cool, he loved my taste in music, he liked my friends. For weeks, it was amazing, and I wondering if J was "the one". Things probably began to go south immediately, I was just so infatuated that I couldn't see through the fog.

It started with passive-aggressive comments, then moved to outright insults about my weight, my intelligence, my voice. His words wounded me, but because I was so insecure, and because I thought all relationships were this way (thanks to my parents' model), I didn't think anything was wrong with it. Being the type of girl that I am - which is feisty at times - I would often argue back. Eventually, our verbal fights began to get physically violent.

He didn't like going to class, so he would often gently persuade me to stay with him in his bed. And I did. It wasn't too long before I had let my grades take a nosedive.

Everyone thought J was the greatest guy. And to everyone else, he was. He was charismatic, he was sociable, he was the King Bee of our social circle. Guys looked up to him. Girls wanted to be with him. I wasn't about to let that go, there must be some good in him if everyone else sees it. It MUST be something I'm doing wrong. I would try to be better. I tried to lose weight, I kept my opinions to myself, I tried to dress exactly how he wanted me to dress. If I did something to upset him, he would ignore me for days, or worse, treat me like I wasn't there if we were out together. If I dared to get angry and confrontational about his behavior, he publicly shamed me to our friends in order to put  me in my place.

Once, at a party, I walked into a bathroom to find him on top of another girl. I was so blind with rage that I smashed food in his face, making a terrible scene. You'd think I would be smart enough to leave at that point. You'd be wrong.

A male friend of mine, who had actually refereed one of our boxing matches, actually told me that we were perfect for each other because, "there is so much passion there."

One night, we were arguing at his apartment. I don't know why, of course. There was never any good  reason for us to be arguing. It's just what we did. I threatened to leave and he told me to "go ahead". In a fury, I threw my car keys at him. This angered him, and he picked me up by my shoulders and slammed me against his refrigerator, telling me that he could kill me, that nobody else would put up with me, that I am nothing. He then let go of me, and as I slid to the floor in shock and terror, he climbed on me and started to choke me. I don't know how long that lasted, but I think he stopped because he scared himself. I got up, ran out to my car, and sat there for a long time. I didn't leave, I just sat there. I wanted him to come get me, for whatever reason, but he didn't. As the minutes passed, I got angrier and angrier that he wasn't coming out to get me. So I stormed inside and we fought some more.

I honestly don't remember how that evening ended. But I stayed.

After that, J tried to end things. And rather than taking the opportunity to get the hell away from him, I actually begged him to stay with me. I actually begged. It was pathetic, but I didn't know what else to do. I think I thought I loved him, and I didn't know what else to do. I remember that I was able to convince him to stay with me, and he put me on some kind of probation, where I wasn't allowed to call him, he could only call me when he wanted me around.

Mind you, this was a mere six months after we had first met. This was not years of history together.

As the semester was drawing to a close, J rode down to my parents' house with me to store some stuff from my dorm room. At one point, I was alone in the room my with mom.

"What is that bruise on your arm?" she asked me.
"This? Oh, I must have gotten it when I bumped into a wall or something."
She was obviously suspicious. I was embarrassed.
"Don't stay. You don't have to take that from him. Please."

My mom knew what was going on, because she had been living it.

At the end of the semester, I went home to my parents' house for the summer, and J went to his home for the summer. Being away from him was freeing. I went out with my girlfriends, laughed and had fun. It was wonderful. One day he called me to tell me that we should break up.

"OK" I said, and hung up the phone. It was as simple as that.

It wasn't the last time I had to see J, not by a long shot. We unfortunately had mutual friends, so he was around a lot over the next few years. He continued to play mind games with me, making snide remarks under his breath, knowing fully that I was terrified of him. Even though I had finally found someone (several months later) that treated me with love and respect, the damage caused by that "relationship" resonated. I had panic attacks when we were around him, and eventually we stopped going around those mutual friends.

Years later, my life is in a good place and well, he didn't fare so well. Or so I was told.

So why did I stay? And why didn't I leave when he gave me the chance the first time? I don't know. I really don't know. I can blame my parents, I can blame J. I can certainly blame myself. I think when everyone else seems to see something that nobody else does, you think that either you need to change to fit with that person or that you can change that person and make them better with you. It's complicated chaos.

And everybody's chaos is different.

Caution - Changes Ahead

Things look a bit different around here! Besides the cobwebs in the corners, you might also notice a new name to this here blog, along with a new tag line. I thought about shutting her down forever, but something just wouldn't let me. I realized that, while I am more than likely done training myself into an early grave, I am not done with writing or with running or with life. Lucky you!

Many things have changed in my head and in my heart over the last several months. I talked about my health issues the last time I posted here (what was that, like 100 years ago?), and even though I found out what was happening, 2 different doctors were unable to tell me why it was happening. Long story short, my thyroid gland decided to take some acid and it when on a really crazy trip in my body, completely throwing everything inside me over a cliff. Four months, 2 scans, 2 ultrasounds, approximately 600 doctor's appointments (and 600 doctor's bills), radioactive pills, and too many blood tests later, my levels have stabilized. I was told that I had thyroiditis, which of course means the doctor has no clue why my thyroid thought it was The Lizard King and could do anything. And it will likely happen again. I don't know when, either. Fun!

During the last few months, and after a lot of reading and research, I came to the conclusion that I am likely responsible for all that happened inside my endocrine system. After weathering an unbelievably stressful professional situation during which I allowed myself to be bullied and verbally abused for two horribly long years, along with training too fast and too hard for too many long races in too short of a time period because all of that anger and resentment and depression had nowhere else to go or I would have probably either gone postal and be sitting in jail right now or have done something very bad to myself (sorry for the lack of commas), my body eventually just said, "Yeah, we are done here." The deep, dark chasm of stress and emotional pain that I was residing in felt inescapable, and my body (and mind) reacted accordingly.

On the outside, I'm sure it all looked great. I was in the best physical shape of my life - well, not really. I was nursing injury after injury. I was very underweight. And most days, I wished that I hadn't woken up that morning. Despite that, I raced for 3 solid years, culminating in a Half Ironman last year that nearly done me in. I realized soon after the post-finish line glow wore off that trying to outdo my friends, my husband, and myself with every race just wasn't worth it. Where in the beginning I looked to running and triathlon as a way to keep me alive, it quickly turned into something that felt like was killing me in every single way.

Sheesh, this post is all over the place, and I am sorry for that. But these days, I am all over the place. For so long, I pushed everything down and I was consumed by fear (you would be, too if your doctor uttered the words "cardiac arrest" in your general direction). Having my doctor tell me that it was all ok (for now) felt like I was given a second chance, and it snapped me out of my 3 year-long crappy mood. I am fully aware that it could have been worse, that others are suffering far more than I, and that I am a pretty lucky old broad. I'm getting paid to write again, I am easing back into running, and I am trying to find my smile.

Bear with me.

"All great changes are preceded by chaos." ~Deepak Chopra

The Information Superhighway is Experiencing Delays

This will be stream of consciousness. I apologize in advance.

In an effort to find out more information about hyperthyroidism and thyroid disease, I have been scouring the Internet for reliable sources that will educate me enough to fight work with my doctor regarding my care. I have also joined 2 Facebook groups in the hopes of connecting with others who are experiencing some of the same issues as I am. I am now thinking that this was not such a great idea, though. All it has done has scared the ever-living hell out of me. From reading about cardiac arrest to heart failure to thyroid storm to bulging eyes to leaky guts to hearts pounding in throats all the live long day, I feel this strange combination of over-informed, misinformed, and uninformed.

I'm beginning to think that life was better when I didn't know what was going on and I was just feeling crappy all the time. Ignorance is bliss, or at least less disturbing than the "knowledge" that I have now.

And I still have a week before I go in for more thorough testing. I reckon this is so that the doctor can see if my thyroid levels have stabilized, changed, or gotten worse over time. And now that I know what the issue is, I am finding that all of the weird things that I thought were because of anemia or asthma or pre-menopause are just more obvious and amplified. This is making me edgier and more anxious to get the tests done. I am still in a gray area, but it's more like a big gray loop that I just keep going around and around.

I don't want to have something wrong with me. I don't want to always think and talk and write about hyperthyroidism of Graves Disease or autoimmune disfunction. I want to go back to the way it used to be, when I complained about how much I hate running, how slow I am on a road bike, and how freaked out I am about an upcoming race. Not knowing if I can do the things that I thought I hated, but now realize were a gift and a privilege, is frankly pissing me off. I don't want to be told that I CAN'T run or exert myself, I don't want that decision made for me.

As long as I am upright, I will keep moving, though. Even if it is mere walking, or yoga. This isn't the worst thing in the world, it is just an adjustment. There are others far worse off than me, by a long shot, and I need to put this into perspective.

On a side note, I have completed 23 days of my May Runstreak. I am plowing through, I have 8 days left! For June, I plan on swimming 20 total miles for the month as my fitness goal. Having a goal is a great thing.

Fear of the Unknown

I'm in a gray area right now, and I don't like it one bit. After months and months of feeling just plain bad, I finally took myself to the doctor at the beginning of the month. I suspected that I had anemia, based on my nearly constant exhaustion, along with the muscle fatigue that I was feeling when I attempted any type of workout. At first, I chalked it up to the approximately 3, 500 races that I trained for and finished since the beginning of 2012, including 3 half marathons and a half Ironman last year. I figured that I had run my body into the ground, that I had exhausted every resource that it had available to it, and that my body was staging a revolt. But after Augusta, I gave myself several months of time off and lighter workouts, hoping that my body would heal up and I would be back to fighting form eventually. Of course, in my advanced age, I knew that it would take some time to get there.

But month after month, nothing ever changed. Training for St. Anthony's got more and more difficult with each passing week, each workout - no matter how big or small - felt like a Herculean task. I was tired all the time, and no amount of caffeine perked me up. I had insomnia, which I naturally thought was the reason for my constant zombie state. But then I started to notice other symptoms, things that I had never really experienced before: profuse sweating during and after my workouts, even when the temperatures were COLD, shortness of breath, excessively dry skin and lips, weird muscle aches, the list goes on.

I assumed I had exercise-induced asthma. I assumed I had anemia. I assumed I had overtrained myself into oblivion.

The doctor did a full set of blood tests - 4 vials of my blood's worth - and the results came back really great. Perfect cholesterol levels, perfect glucose levels, perfect B12 levels. But then there was my thyroid levels. The initial FT4 screening came back at .06, way into the hyper range. The low end of normal starts at .50. Now I have an answer. 

When I say I am in a gray area, I mean that I have to wait another few weeks to get some more specific thyroid tests, and then we go from there. But, being the type of person that I am, I have done huge amounts of Internet research on Hyperthyroidism, and while I am relieved that all of these things that I had been - and continue to - experiencing are part of a real issue, I am scared to death. Ahead of me, I am looking at massive diet changes, copious amounts of medications for the rest of my life, and the possibility of having to have my entire thyroid gland surgically removed. I have never had a real health issue to deal with in my entire life, except for a fractured vertebra, and again, I am scared. I am scared about these changes that I will be forced to make.

Despite all of this, I have been loyally working to complete my runstreak. I have run every single day this month so far, at least 1.5 miles. It is difficult, it hurts, it is hard to breathe (though my asthma inhaler does help), and I feel like less than half of the athlete that I used to be. Many mornings, while running, I hold back tears when I think about how it used to be nothing for me to go out and run 5 miles, and now I can barely make it around the block. I am angry at my body for failing me just when I was learning how to take advantage of its every talent and resource. And for now, I don't know how to fix it.

Just Breathe

After a miserable race at St. Anthony's Triathlon a few weekends ago that I would just like to put behind me (although, I am happy to report that I dropped more than 4 minutes off my swim time from that race 2 years ago!), May 1 arrived and it was time to hold up the bargain I made with myself, and start my runstreak. I was a little afraid, a little hesitant, and honestly dreading the idea of running 31 days in a row.

It was an ugly race for me, but at least I got this really cool (although really heavy) stained glass finisher medal

Before I was able to hit the pavement for my first run of the month, though, I had to visit the doctor. I've talked about how difficult running and training have been for me for the past several months. Mostly, my lung capacity has felt compromised when running (also a little with swimming and cycling), as if there is a cork in my windpipe keeping me from taking in enough air when I try to run faster than a jog. After doing a little research on my own, I began to think I had developed exercise-induced asthma. But I also worried that there were other issues afoot, thanks to my nearly-constant physical fatigue.

I visited an Internist, a nice enough woman who seemed to agree with my self-diagnosis, and prescribed me an Albuterol inhaler and some allergy medication. Four vials of blood were sucked out of me, and a complete blood work-up was ordered.

My first run after using my inhaler was nothing short of miraculous. Though my endurance is in a seriously pitiful place, I was able to run AND breathe simultaneously. I did not have to stop and bend over in order to attempt to suck in as much air as I could, and I did not feel even the slightest bit of panic due to the feeling of being strangled. It was as if I had been renewed. I felt like a runner again! I don't love using the inhaler, I hate being on medication, but I feel like it is helping me, and I am grateful for having a set of lungs filled with air again!

So back to the runstreak. It is now May 7, and I have run 7 days in a row! I am running 1.5 - 2.75 miles per day. I know the distance isn't there - YET - but I am already beginning to feel as if I could run farther at the end of each run. It is hot and humid outside, but now that I can breathe again, I feel like I have power and I feel my speed gradually beginning to return. This weekend, I plan to run a 4-miler, then next weekend, a 5-miler, then the next weekend, a 6-miler, and I plan to cap the month off with a 7-miler. Surprisingly, my legs feel strong each day. I suppose that is because I am not doing any real distance each day, but the continuity and the steadiness of my pace is hopefully allowing my legs to ease back into some real strength (and some of my thigh cheese to melt away). Incredibly, right now, I don't hate running. I am, however, frustrated with the feeling that I am starting over again completely.

My lab results came back yesterday, and my thyroid tested in the hyper range. I had feared that I had hypothyroidism, like my father, so this was a weird twist. Side effects of hyperthyroidism include shortness of breath (check!), restless sleep (bingo!), itchy & dry skin (bullseye!), moodiness & depression (BOOM), among a few others. I go back in 4 weeks to have my thyroid tested again, and we go from there. But to now know that there is a concrete reason for feeling like I have been falling apart for the past year or so is a such a huge relief.

One week down, three to go in my runstreak, and there's no real finish line in sight. My goals now are more humble, more like baby steps than giant leaps. I know that it will all come back to me, in due time.

Run Streak

Hello again to all of my invisible readers!

It has been a good, long while since I have had the desire to sit down and write about anything here, or anywhere for that matter. I'm in the middle of some kind of change, physically and emotionally, and I don't know why or what or how. Waking up each morning, I question my purpose on this rock, and each day, I go to bed no closer to the answer. 

My internal crisis is not the point of this post, however. I have been thinking for a while about ways to change things up, in my fitness and training routine, that is. I had to face the cold and hard fact that I am just plain tired of training all the time, especially for triathlons. And I am even more tired of "racing". I think I broke some kind of unwritten rule when I began racing 3 years ago, and I did way too much way too fast and the honeymoon of it all ended rather quickly and abruptly. 

If I had one piece of advice to offer anyone who is new to running, multisport, or fitness in general, it is this: TAKE YOUR TIME. Don't be in such a hurry to accomplish everything at once. Enjoy the journey that your body and mind are going through, and pace yourself (literally and hypothetically). Allow yourself the time to savor each accomplishment before tackling the next one. You will enjoy yourself a lot more, and you will perform better because you have been kind to your body. Learn from my mistakes.

Anyway, at the end of this month, I am doing one last race for a long while, St. Anthony's Triathlon in St. Petersburg. Training has been tough, due to weather (RAIN, WIND, COLD!!!), due to my kids' seemingly endless stream of weekend swim meets, and due to my complete apathy. But, I will get it done (which is no attitude to have, I tell you!). Beyond that, I have nothing scheduled. This is both relieving and terrifying at the same time.

Because I have no races to dread look forward to, I have been trying to think of some challenge that I can present myself which will keep my body moving, and maybe even help me find my way back to loving somewhat enjoying running. And a few days ago, it hit me: A RUN STREAK. I was inspired by a few friends that did this several months back, and I have one friend who is attempting a run streak for over a year (that's crazy and incredible!).

Beginning May 1, I will run at least 1 mile each and every day of the month, rain or shine, humidity be damned. I hope to run at least 15 miles per week, and I hope to coerce recruit some friends to join in with me, both for accountability and for moral support. This isn't going to be a competition of any sort, other than with the person that stares back at me in the mirror each morning. For me, I have found the best person to compete with is myself.

It's not a huge achievement, but it is what I can manage right now. And I am hoping that it will help me remember why I began running in the first place, four years ago this month. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I will be running toward something instead of letting it chase me away.

Quite frankly, Cancer SUCKS

On Thursday, February 13, my husband will turn off his alarm at 4:45 a.m. and climb into the shower. He will get dressed, start the coffee, make the kids' sandwiches for their lunches, and he will eat his breakfast. I will get up at 5 a.m., join him in the living room for our brief morning conversation over coffee before the chaos of getting everyone out the door commences at 6:15 a.m. It will be like every other week day. We will talk to the kids about what will be happening at school that day, I will remind them to get their bags ready for the afternoon's swim practice, and I will kiss everyone goodbye as they head out for their days of work and school.

The only difference about that particular day is that, in the forefront of my husband's mind, and my own, will be the bitter fact that it is the 20th anniversary since the death of his mother. Every year since that awful day, we have stopped to remember her. Every year, we talk about what she missed in our life by being taken too young. Every year, we remember how powerful her love was for her children and we strive to give our own kids - her grandchildren - the same.

Sue was a mom, and if you asked her what she did and what she was, that is likely the very first thing she would have told you. She was a commanding presence, but not in any kind of overbearing way. She was gentle, but led her family with strength, and when she was suffering from the viciousness of cancer, sometimes you hardly knew it. She smiled a lot, she laughed a lot, and I'm told she had kind of a naughty sense of humor, something that my husband was too young to notice or appreciate before she left the world.

Breast cancer struck her in her thirties. She had two young sons, and no time for being sick. She beat it once, with the love and support of her family and friends, but mostly due to her own strong will. But it returned, and it took her when my husband was 20, and his brother was 16. It made a widower out of their father, and it left two boys with questions of "why". They were angry, they were devastated. You see, good people shouldn't suffer, mothers shouldn't leave their families, kind and generous people like Sue shouldn't have to feel pain. That's not how the world works in the mind of a boy who doesn't realize just how incredible his mother was until she was taken from him. And 20 years later, that's just how that same boy, now 40, feels.

We are old enough to understand that life isn't fair, not that it's easier, though. We talk all the time about how proud Sue would be of her grandchildren. We see her legacy in their many smiles, and how my children possess that same commanding yet humble presence. She would have given the same love and devotion to her four grandchildren that she did to her two sons, and the hugs would have been unending.

Cancer just doesn't really care who you are or what plans you have for life. Cancer is such a bastard.

In the 20 years since Sue passed, we have watched my father-in-law fight and beat cancer, and we have watched two of our young cousins beat cancer's ass hard. We worry what this means for our own children, whether they will be faced with the same fight one, two, or three decades from now. We wonder if our grandchildren will be left without their father or their mother because of cancer. What a crappy thought thing to have to think about.

If you have beaten cancer, you are amazing! If you know someone that has beaten cancer, make sure that they know that you think they are amazing. And if you have lost someone to cancer, never forget them.


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American Cancer Society
First Descents

Clawing My Way Back to the Middle

I've recently become reacquainted with Hazel, my trusty steed (bike). Hazel and I have been through a lot. We've trained together, we've raced together, we've fallen together, and we've gotten back up together. After Augusta, though, I never wanted to see Hazel again. I was tired of her, and from the way she was handling there at the end, she was pretty darn sick of me, too. So, I put us on a break. I stuck her in the back of the garage, and thought nothing of her for about 4 months, until I had to start thinking about her again when I signed up for a race this coming spring.

I don't love cycling. I have never loved being on a bicycle. I didn't love it when I tooled around my neighborhood on the ugly lime green bike with the horrible 70's banana seat, I didn't love it when I traversed the UF campus and dodged pedestrians during my freshman year on the pretty red 10-speed that my dad got me for graduation, and I really didn't love it when I had to fight traffic my junior and senior years at UF on the cheap green Huffy mountain bike that I had bough at Walmart to replace the pretty red 10-speed that I abandoned on campus two years earlier.

I didn't even learn to ride a bike until I was almost 10 years old. Isn't THAT sad? I was diving, doing the backstroke, and maneuvering flip turns at 5 years old, but I couldn't ride a two-wheeled bike until puberty.  

Sometimes I wonder why I decided to take on triathlon. Knowing full well that I would have to get on a bike and not only ride it proficiently, but that I would have to do it for countless hours and miles, I still dove in and went for triathlon with breathless enthusiasm. It was a love affair that lasted until I was training for a Half Ironman, and after the umpteenth 3 hour bike ride, dodging rednecks in beat-up pick up trucks on the rural roads of North Florida, that I finally realized that me and bikes are not friends.

My husband LOVES riding a bike. Ever since I met him, he has been a bike junkie. He loved mountain biking when we first met, and now he loves long Sunday rides on the open road (though, I think he still prefers his first mountain bike, a blue Raleigh with a Primus sticked emblazoned on the fork. You never forget your first, after all.). Now, 20-something years later, his love for the pastime has not wavered.

I have made it one of my resolutions to learn to love my bike this year. I am determined to develop strength on the bike, and I am determined to develop a fondness for cycling in general. 

So, I have climbed back on to my incredibly uncomfortable saddle, and I have been taking Hazel out for morning and afternoon rides, chilly wind be damned. I am amazed at how much bike fitness I lost in the last four months, and I am struggling to maintain a speed that would keep me in the middle of the pack. But I will not give up on Hazel, and I won't let her give up on me. And I will be back in the middle of the pack come April, when I race at St. Anthony's.

The "L" Word

As of late, I have been practicing really, really hard at something, and have gotten really, really good at it.  I have been honing my craft, working to elevate it to its highest form or artistic representation.

I have been working toward becoming the laziest person on planet Earth.  And if not planet Earth, at least the laziest person in my area code.

It has literally become too much effort to work out.  And, many of you might want to kill me for saying this, I have loved every minute of it.

Augusta, as I have discussed ad nauseum, took a ton out of me, physically and mentally.  But I don't think it was just Augusta and the training leading up to it that did me in.  It was the past 3 1/2 years.  When I started running, I literally hit the ground running, and never stopped.  For 3 years, I was always training for something.  The training was everything I needed at the time, thanks to a terrible professional situation that was the focal point of my life (and my family's life) for 2 years.  Training helped me work out the stress, anger, and anxiety of that situation.  And I think Augusta was the finish line for a lot of things, figuratively speaking.  It was a culmination of this epic (sorry for the overused verbiage) life transformation that I thrust upon myself, and it was the release of a great many personal demons.  And those demons plopped themselves down, front and center, during the holidays.

With nothing to train for (at the time), I was left a little aimless in my fitness endeavors.  But I was also left with the baggage of the last few years, and realizing that I had never really, truly dealt with any of it, I hit a wall of emotions and anger that took me a bit by surprise.  This, of course, left me feeling physically weak and unmotivated to do anything about it.

I know, I know.  I should have hit the pavement and worked it out through training.  Believe me, I know just how beneficial training is for depression and anxiety.  But the more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder if all of the training I have done for the last 3 years wasn't just a way for me to push aside the real issues I needed to look in the eye, a way for me to focus on something besides my internal pain, a kind of a band-aid.

I continue to enjoy my little hiatus from the world of "crushing it".  It has given me a lot of time to think, and think some more, about where I've been, where I am now, and where I am going.  I don't want to give up what I have spent the last 3 years working so hard for, because it has become a part of me, but I do want to make sure that I am doing it in order to become a better person, and not just to put a mask on the person that I already am.  Does that even make sense?  

And so, I have 4 more days of my lazy bliss before I begin training for my next race.  I am excited to dive in, I am excited to work hard, and I am excited to look at everything through new eyes.  My journey is continuing, just on a slightly more beaten path.

On becoming the Master of my domain

Last evening, my husband and I tried a new Masters swim group that is being offered through our kids' swim club.  It is a near-perfect situation: the class is immediately after our daughter's practice, it is coached by our son's coach, and therefore the comfort level is way up there.

Now, I have not been coached in many, MANY years.  I was 17 when I last took instruction from my high school swim coach, Coach Lavallee, and I am now 40 (ugh).  You do the math, it might give me an aneurism to do a subtraction problem that large.  What I remember of Coach L was that he was very kind, never raised his voice, always demonstrated the breaststroke on-deck with the left side of his body, and repeatedly told us to "undulate" our hips during butterfly.  What I remember of myself during those days is that I hated kick drills, especially freestyle because I just about went backwards (I was so slow) and would cheat with frog kicks when Coach wasn't watching, and that I loved being guided toward doing something that I truly loved better.

I have been throwing around the idea of joining Masters swimming for a while now, not because I want to be super fast (lie) or swim in meets (another lie) or even win races (yep, that's a lie, too), but because in the last few years of training for triathlons, I have rediscovered just how much I love being in the water (that's the truth).  It's like I was born to be there.

I don't have the benefit of a childhood filled with hours of swim practices, dry lands, and swim meets to quell my idealized and romantic notions of the sport of swimming.  I came late to the party, and only enjoyed the briefest time as part of an organized club and team.  And even after being a swim mom for the past few years, and spending pretty much half of every single weekday driving one kid to one pool then the other kid to another pool and then BACK to the first pool to pick the first kid up, and also sitting through the hell that is a weekend swim meet, not to mention practically mortgaging my house for practice fees, meet entries, fundraising, kick boards, goggles, paddles, buoys, caps, swimsuits, drag suits, gear bags, fins, team t-shirts, team sweatshirts, and hotel rooms for travel meets, I am still not disillusioned by swimming.  But, I digress.

Back to last night's Masters trial.  My husband and I surrendered ourselves to our wide-eyed coach (Well, I did. More on husbands reticence in a bit), and as he outlined the workout he would have us do, I realized how ignorant I was to all of the drill and interval terms - base, drill, descend, build - that are part of my own kids' vernacular.  After getting clarification and then MORE clarification, we were sent off to drill, build, kick, and descend for the next hour.  I have to say, that even though I found myself worried the entire time that the coach was shaking his head, face palming, and even wondering why he was wasting his time trying to teach this old dog any kind of new trick, I had a fantastic time.

I realized that, despite my personality, which tends to be headstrong, stubborn, and pretty omniscient (don't I sound like great fun to live with?), I actually respond really well to coaching and critiquing.  I guess it is because I have an openness to getting better, to knowing more about the strokes and how to get faster, that it doesn't bother me to be told not to bring my knees up during breaststroke and that I don't roll enough when I swim the crawl.  And I think I was even like that back in my pissy teenaged days, too.

My husband, however, is a completely different story.  Though he was perfectly willing to succumb to the expertise of a coach (and one that is LITERALLY half our age at that), once the down and dirty instruction started happening, he clammed up and acted really reluctant to heed any advice or instruction.  This surprised me somewhat, because I've always thought of my husband as a pretty open guy.  But when the coach gave him some tips on keeping his legs together when kicking and to use his feet in a less, um, spastic, manner well, he wasn't having any of that.  Head shaking, eye rolling, and downright ignoring followed, and I began to wonder why he was being so closed off to the idea of getting an outsider's viewpoint.  He's the one who always says he wishes someone could watch him swim and tell him what he's doing wrong (MY opinion on that does not count, because I have offered it more than a few times).

After we finished the workout, my husband acted totally annoyed. "I got NO feedback." "That was NOT what I expected." Yes, he did get feedback, but you can't receive something that you are not open to.  And it wasn't what he had expected because it was something new, and again, he was not open to it.

I suppose some people can be coached, and some people try to rebel against it.  Is it an ego thing?  Possibly.  In my situation, I think there really was a reversal of roles where I, the one who usually thinks she knows it all, welcomed the coaching with open arms and where my husband, the more "agreeable" of the pair, shut his mind off to any feedback and criticism completely.

When it comes to being coached, where does your ego land? Are you coachable or not?

If a tree blogs in the forest, does anybody read it?

So, I'm on day 6 of blogging for NaBloPoMo. It's difficult to come up with stuff to write about on a daily basis, especially for a blog that has a very focused subject, and also since I spend my mornings writing stuff for other people.  

I started this blog out of the desire to write about my hobby, to complain about the doldrums of training, to share the mistakes I've made along the way, to revel in my achievements, and to put my thoughts down in a forum that (ideally) people with similar interests will read and relate to.

So that's not working out too well.  Based on my visitor stats, it looks as if the only folks that read my blog are the ones that have had it thrown in their faces on their Facebook feeds.  

I wrote a blog several years ago, back in the early days of blogging, and even without the "benefits" of social media and social networking, I quickly and rather surprisingly found myself with a small but loyal following of readers.  I never had to share or post or tweet or hashtag anything, and still they found my posts, and commented on them.  Ideas were exchanged, debates were had, and even some friendships were forged.  Folks sent me trinkets in the mail, birthday cards, books for me to review on my site, it was surreal and fun.

I stopped writing that blog when it became all-consuming, when all I thought about was the next day's post and how I could amuse, confuse, or flabbergast the few readers I had.  And when I decided to blog again, I had a few starts and quick stops, kind of afraid to put myself out there again.  And then I landed here.

I'm not looking for a huge army of followers, I'm not looking to benefit financially from my blog (although, if there is a bike company out there that would like me to promote their brand all over this place, I'm ALL YOURS, just send me a size medium all-carbon tri bike. Thanks!).  I'm just a little shocked at how much different the blogosphere is now.  Social media lives under the guise of bringing us closer together, and making it easier to network and promote yourself, but it really just opened the gates to a flooded market of bloggers looking to be the Dooce or Pioneer Woman or Swim Bike Mom.  And it ain't like that.  Capturing lightning in a bottle is too difficult.  And the landscape is all watered down with everyone doing the same thing as I am.  Ultimately, I am not on this blog for anyone but me.

How about a little experiment?  If you read this post, please leave me a comment.  Let me know you are out there!  Tell me you like my blog, tell me you think I'm obnoxious, just let your presence be known!  Thankyouverymuchandhaveaniceday!

Stretchy is the New Black

I've become one of those women. I'm a lycra-clad, visor-sporting, ponytail-wearing mom who struts around town in glorified pajamas.  I used to look at those women and think, "Can't you do better than that? Maybe a pair of jeans or a flowy skirt?" Stretchy pants were for yoga class, NOT for the daily grind.  Oh, but how misdirected I was.

Because I spend so much time training, my wardrobe has morphed into what looks like the clearance rack at Sports Authority.  I now own more running shorts and yoga pants than I do jeans and shorts.  In my dresser drawers you will find more sports bras than actual attractive bras, along with more workout and race shirts than actual blouses whose function is to be stylish and flatter my figure.  My shoe rack sports approximately 9 pairs of running shoes - most are too worn out to run in - and just as many flip flops.  My cute work shoe wardrobe, oh I have some great shoes, sits lonely in the corner collecting dust, my dark brown faux suede ankle boots, my beautiful gray faux leather riding boots, and my 3-inch black Mary Janes have all been mercilessly overshadowed by shoes that I now refer to lovingly by pet names such as Cadies (my Brooks PureCadence), Ravers (my Brooks Ravennas), Old Faithful (my Brooks Adrenaline 9, still my favorite shoes ever), and my Sweat Hogs (my Asics Gel Lyte 33 minimal shoes).  I own 6 pairs of swimming goggles: tinted, clear, racers, green, blue, and purple, and I have about 15 pieces of tri clothes, including 3 full suits and multiple separates.  Plus, there are the cycling shorts, cycling jerseys, swim suits, blah blah blah.

My days as of late are spent working out, writing, driving, and waiting.  I quit my job to do this, and I don't have any regrets about the decision.  For about 5-6 hours out of every day, I drive my children to every corner of town multiple times, and then I wait for them so that I can drive them to yet another location.  Nothing I do requires me to wear my cute army green sleeveless cute cargo vest with my black ankle pants, and it is pointless to sit in a car while wearing my navy blue belted dress that always reminded me of Mary Tyler Moore when I wore it.  

So here I am today with a wardrobe that has evolved out of both hobby and function. I find myself without makeup most days, hair pulled tautly back in a ponytail, and sporting very black and very stretchy yoga pants.  Some days I miss playing dress up, and exchanging words with others about my cute shoes or where I found my moonstone drop earrings.  But most days, I just want to be comfortable.

My new work wardrobe is that of mom on the run, wannabe athlete, and always 5 minutes behind schedule.  It's life, and I'm living it every day.  In stretchy pants.

On the Search for a New Yoga Dog

This past June, my family had to say goodbye to our family dog, our source of entertainment, endless cuddles, and our seemingly bottomless pit of love.  He was my yoga dog, my companion throughout my days in both fitness and leisure, and he was just short of total perfection in an animal.  His death was too soon and too painful, both for him and for us, and everyone in the family, myself included, knows that there will never be another Oliver on the planet.

But, as is typical after the loss of a pet, after the initial pain begins to subside, and you stop tearing up at the mere thought of your furry friend, and after you've stopped thinking you see him every time you turn a corner in your house, you begin to feel that nag.  That familiar pang of wanting to welcome a new member to the family.  Dog people know what I am talking about, cat people know what I talking about.  You know you can't replace or substitute that ideal animal that you've been forced to say goodbye to, but you know that you have room in your heart and your home for a new soul to squeeze.

Saturday afternoon, my husband and I took a trip to the county animal shelter to look at dogs.  We weren't adopting that day, and we knew it, but we wanted to see what kind of pups were available.  I am a rabid (pardon the pun) advocate of rescuing animals, and for $30 at my local animal shelter, I can adopt a dog or a puppy who has been vaccinated, fixed, registered, and microchipped.  You can't beat that deal for a decade of love and companionship.

While at the shelter, we (of course) zeroed in on a precious little Boxer mix puppy named Panda.  She was spritely and energetic, but not overtly so (at least at the time), and seemed to zero in on us as well.  As the shelter was getting ready to close for the day, we only had about 10 minutes with her, inside her dog run.  We both took to her, and talked about her for the last few days.  We told the kids all about her, and decided that I would take a trip to the shelter this morning and begin the adoption process.

When I got there, I filled out the paperwork and asked to have some play time with Panda, outside of her dog run.  I got a leash, went to her run, and my hear sank immediately.  Not because she was gone, and not because something happened, but because when I looked at her, she wasn't Oliver.  I knew at that moment that she was not the dog for us.

Things devolved quickly when she wouldn't let me pick her up.  I managed to get her to the play area, and she was about a lightyear passed crazy.  She never zeroed in on me like she had on Saturday, and she never stopped jumping and barking.  There was no yoga dog in her, she was too fiery and too spunky to even let me rub her belly.  I knew I wouldn't be taking her home with me.

The ride home was filled with disappointment.  I am disappointed that I didn't feel THAT connection with this beautiful and spritely puppy.  I am disappointed that I still compare every single dog to my Oliver.  I am disappointed that I had to say goodbye to my yoga dog, and that I can't seem to move on.

More time is needed, obviously.  I still have not accepted Oliver's death fully, and it would be cruel to try to bring home a new dog with me wearing that attitude.  No pet deserves the pressure of having to live up to that, and the inevitability that s/he will fall miserably short of the mark.  

So, I will let another month or two go by.  Another month of that palpable absence of a pet in our home.  Another month of my daughter asking when we are going to get a new dog.  Another month of doing yoga without a companion.

The time will be right when it's right.  A new yoga dog will make his or her presence known, and it will be undeniable when it happens.

Looking Ahead

It has been a month since my big race, the glow has faded somewhat, and reality has set in.  The grind of daily life has ramped up, and I have found myself struggling to figure out how I was able to fit 9-10 hours of training in each week for 4 months amid all of the chaos swirling around me.  From my current vantage point, it seems impossible to undertake such an ambitious goal as I did, and it makes me feel tremendous mommy guilt.  A natural feeling, I suppose.

The best thing I can do for my family and myself is to keep pushing forward.  In the three years since I began running and racing, I have changed in such a fundamental way and it has been all for the better.  Sure, I have lost weight from my thighs, my arms, my tummy.  Even more important, though, has been the weight that has been lifted from the places that nobody can see.  I am physically and mentally stronger than I have ever been in my life, and I see no options other than to keep moving forward and to keep getting stronger.

I am ready to race again, but I know that my body needs a break.  I've been swimming and running (still not ready to hop back on the bike), working out about 4 times a week.  Core training and yoga are creeping their way back in to my routine, and all I can say about that is YOWCH! Take my advice, don't stop working on your core for 11 months. 

I have outlined very specific fitness and racing goals for 2014, and none of them involve a Half or a Full Ironman race.  Those days will come again in the not-too-distant future, I just need to have the time and energy to devote to those huge physical and mental undertakings. But, for now, I am looking to get faster, to improve and even perfect to a degree my short distance racing because, as slow as my time was at IM 70.3 Augusta, I really feel like my body and temperament are more cut out for long distance racing.  So, my challenge for 2014 is to conquer the short distances, and to feel fast.  And maybe see a podium finish here and there.


2014 Fitness Goals

1. To run a 25 minute 5k. That's an 8:02 min/mile pace, folks. Not exactly Usain Bolt territory, but lightning fast in my mind.

2. To run a 53 minute 10k. An 8:31 pace.  For me, that's equivalent to breaking the sound barrier.

3. A sub-3 hour Olympic triathlon. I'm planning on racing at St. Anthony's next April, which is where I did my first Olympic distance. It didn't turn out so well for me, I died on the run. Training for the race might have helped.  This time around, I plan on training long and hard. 2:59:59 is fine with me.

4. A podium finish in a Sprint triathlon. I won my age group once at a sprint triathlon.  It was beginner's luck, and all of the fast people were obviously racing elsewhere that day.  This time, I want to RACE and I want to EARN that podium spot honestly.

5. To get stronger on the bike. This is a bit ambiguous, but being that I am consistently at the bottom of the list in the bike department, I have nowhere to go but UP!  Strength training and long rides will be on the agenda in the coming year.

6. To join a Master's swim team. This is a big one. I have the opportunity, I have the means, now I just have to work up the courage to submit myself to a coach for the first time in a really long time.  I just hope she goes easy on me.  Well, not too easy.  Otherwise, what's the point?

I would love to hear some of your fitness goals!  None are too small and all are big!

NaBloPoMo - The experiment

It just came to my attention that it is National Blog Posting Month.  Bloggers everywhere vow to post one post per day for the entire month.  For someone like me, a "blogger" who is lucky to get 3 posts in an entire month, it seems like a pretty big task.  But I am going to give it a shot.  It has been my intention to devote more time to this little spot on the Internet, and NaBloPoMo seems like the perfect challenge and the right time.

I am already three days behind in this little experiment, so I might just write up an extra post today (and tomorrow and the next day) to get up to speed.  I've got ideas, I've got plans, and I just hope I can find the words!

So, if you'll excuse this short and sweet post, stay tuned! More to come in my quest to find an audience and to exorcize the voices in my head!

Observations in Idleness

I have made a few key observations since my last race.  This is the first time in close to three years that I am not actively training for some race, even just a 5k, and aside from the mental issues (that sounds weird, right?) I am dealing with, there are the physical issues that have arisen that have taken me completely by surprise.  I made a conscious decision to back off training and to not race anymore this year; not to be completely idle, but to just give myself a little rest after a tough year of races, injury, and general bad crap that has happened in my life.  I expected to feel fatigue as an after-effect of the months of heavy training I did for Augusta, but wow, am I surprised to see and feel my body's reaction to well, inactivity.

I am TIRED.  Like physically exhausted.  All the time.  Saturday night I fell asleep at 7:30 p.m., and did not wake up until almost 7 the next morning (which, for someone like me, might as well be lunchtime).  And my normal afternoon lull is more like a walking coma.

I am SORE.  My everything hurts.  My knees are achy, my shoulders hurt, my back is acting up.  When I have done a workout, I notice that my stamina is already beginning to wane.  It seems that the LACK of activity makes me hurt more than any punishment of hard training ever did.

I am HUNGRY.  ALL. THE. TIME.  You'd think the decrease in training would equate to a decrease in appetite. Listen closely to the sounds of the diet gods slapping their knees and guffawing wildly at the presumption!!  My tummy still thinks it's feeding a person engaged in 8-10 hours of training per week.  My hips are fully aware that the exact opposite is true, and have laid out the welcome mat for the excess calories that are being consumed.  I know, I know, I need to put the kibosh on the carbs.  I don't need a lecture.

I am SQUIRRELY.  One minute I want to sign up for every race within 100 miles of my house.  The next minute I want to get a bowl of ice cream.  When I do get out for a workout, I feel good, but sitting on the couch feels pretty amazing, too.  There are two distinct personalities waging a little battle within me right now: the Type A triathlete who is dying to race again and the lazy slacker who wants you to pass the Chips Ahoy.

My MIGRAINES have returned.  I used to get migraines pretty regularly.  As a teen, I was on copious amounts of meds for them.  They subsided greatly when I was pregnant and nursing, but returned with a vengeance in my mid-30's. When I began running and racing, I noticed that they only came around a few times a year, and didn't hang around for as long.  In the last three weeks since I raced at Augusta, I have gotten three doozies, two of them in the past seven days alone.  Migraines make me MUCH less pleasant than I am now which, unless I am driving, is pretty darned pleasant.

I thought taking a break from training would be exactly what I needed.  And it is.  The problem that I am faced with, though, is that I don't know how to just go for a run, or take my bike out for a ride.  I think with all the training that I've been doing over the last few years, I never learned how to just enjoy a workout that has no real purpose but to release stress, burn calories, and clear my head.

My body is sending me a loud and clear message.  That message being, "Get off your butt, or I am going to go into full-on attack mode."  So, obviously, it is time for action.

My goal for the next two weeks is to head out my front door, and just run.  NO intervals, NO tempo, NO time or distance goal.  I want to see if I can find a happy running place, because goodness knows that has been an issue in the short history that is this fitness lifestyle of mine.  Then maybe my bike and I can kiss and make up.

The Triathlon Life For Me

Sunday, I got to play a brand new role: I was a sherpa/cheerleader/triathlon groupie at the Ameliaman/Atlantic Coast Triathlon in Fernandina Beach, Florida.  Having just come off Ironman Augusta 70.3, I was in no shape to "race", so I got to be a spectator at a triathlon for the very first time.

My husband was racing his very first 70.3 distance, and since he was patient/generous/gracious/wonderful enough to play the role of MY sherpa/cheerleader/triathlon groupie in Augusta, I thought it only fair that I do the very same thing for him.  That way, the kids could whine and complain cheer for their dad and their dad would have a reluctant enthusiastic cheering squad!

I was also fortunate enough to be able to cheer on and photograph many members of my tri club, who were competing in both the sprint and Olympic distance races.  And while in the wee hours of the pre-race dawn I was feeling edgy and weird that I wasn't zipping up my own wetsuit to race, I soon came to relish my opportunity to see my friends and fellow triathletes do what they do best, and see into their souls just a little bit.

It became obvious to me just why I have fallen so fast and hard for this triathlon life.  Yes, the training can get long and arduous.  Yes, the early morning wake-ups for races can be less than thrilling.  Yes, the hassle of hotels and travel can get old.  But, everything else makes up for those little things and then some.

Besides, how can anything be wrong with having the opportunity to witness this?

Or this?

I don't know that I usually take the time to appreciate the colors of sunrise when I am racing.  But I did yesterday, and I made a mental note to take a picture with my eyes of each and every sky before each and every race I do henceforth.

Watching my friends and teammates race yesterday gave me a little glimpse into their cores, and I came to love and appreciate them so much more.  Seeing their joy, their struggle, and their triumph made me appreciate the journey - both theirs and my own.  I mean, how can you NOT love triathlon when you know someone who can't stop smiling when she races?

Or these two bright and beautiful people who don't spend their days gardening or golfing, but who race and win at triathlon and life?

And sometimes, you have to turn the world upside down to really appreciate it:

Training for Augusta completely exhausted my body and my mind.  It took everything out of me, churned it up, and threw it into oncoming traffic.  Spending yesterday with my triathlon family was just the therapy I need to jolt me back to life.  Now, I can't wait to race again.

And the greatest payoff of all yesterday, for me, was seeing this guy cross his finish line:

Real men do triathlon!

My husband didn't think he could do a 70.3.  Even after watching me finish my race, he felt less prepared and less able.  But, as with everything else he puts his mind to, he showed himself that he WAS prepared and the he WAS MORE than able, and he showed that race who the boss was yesterday.  And I was happy to be a blissful observer.

The triathlon life.  It is SO for me.

Post Ironman Blues

Yeah, I know I didn't do a FULL 140.6. Tell that to my legs, though.  Eleven days later, and I am now feeling like I have been steamrolled.

Since Augusta, I have worked out exactly 4 times: 2 swims and 2 runs - well, if you want to call them runs.  They were slow, frustrating, and eye-opening.  It became painfully clear that I am a 40-year-old broad who's athletic career only began 3 1/2 short years ago.  My body is pooped.  I know I need to rest and recover, yes, I know that.  It's hard, though, to think that it wasn't two weeks ago that I was in the shape of my life, participating in a Half Ironman.  Where did that chick go?

In the days following the race, I was high.  I had the Iron High.  I felt invincible, like I could climb any mountain with my bare hands.  It reminds me a lot of how I felt after I delivered my two kids.  I felt like Superwoman because I had delivered life forth into the world from my womb!  And much like those experiences, my bliss was short-lived.  For the honeymoon always ends, and reality sets in, and we are back to the drawing board.

**And much like after I gave birth, my body at this very moment feels flabby, blubbery, slow, and uncooperative.  It's a bummer, man.

I have been doing a little reading on what's going on inside my noggin these last few days and, as it turns out, I am not alone.  Post Ironman Blues strikes athletes of every shape, size, and ability.  It makes sense.  You spend months preparing your body to go through the punishment of 5-8 hours of constant energy output (8-17 if you are training for a 140.6), and when it is all said and done, your body is sort of a shell of its former self.  It's like you leave yourself on the course, and have to endure a long wait to regenerate.  I'd reckon that I left a bit of myself somewhere in South Carolina on the bike course, as well as a tad on Broad Street in Augusta.

What's left is a battle in your brain.  A battle between common sense telling you to STOP ALREADY AND TAKE A BREAK and that ADHD/Type A compulsive triathlete person on the other shoulder desperately begging you to chase another finish line like, yesterday.  It's a lonely and aimless kind of feeling, being without a training plan to stick to, longing for some guidance because, just going for a run seems to have no purpose right now.  I've done big races before, and felt antsy to move on to the next goal.  But I wasn't really prepared for this.

I know I am not alone.  Right?

Now what?

I knew it was coming.

That inevitable withdrawal that happens after a big race, after the dust has settled, and the excitement has worn off.  Although, I still haven't quite come down from my Ironman high just yet.  I catch myself silently gloating, inside my head, "I did a Half Ironman!" and I'll a little bit, because I just never thought I would do anything like this in my life. Ever.  I never thought I would be a runner.  I never thought I would be a triathlete.  I never thought I would be an Ironman, even HALF an Ironman.  So, this is a big deal.  And I am enjoying my accomplishment.  But I am feeling a tiny bit lost.

I promised myself I would take the week off from any training.  My body and my mind needed the break.  I broke down on Thursday and went to the pool for a swim.  I thought it would be a good way to ease into some light training after the race, maybe do 3000 yards or so before picking my daughter up from school.  Ha!  About 1000 yards into my workout, and in the middle of a backstroke set, my legs said, "Uh, whatcha doin?"  I was definitely still feeling fatigue, even though my muscle aches had subsided the day before.  So I eked out 2300 yards and called it a day.  Tomorrow I might try some light running, 3 or so miles.  Because I have to do something, or I will go crazy!

To go from training 6 days a week and 7-8 workouts to basically not doing anything but a swim workout and some yoga has got me all cagey.  I got so used to being a slave to a training program, and I realize now that I really do function well when I have a plan (please do remind me that of this statement when I am in the middle of the next training program and I am moaning and groaning about being burned out from training, I can take the verbal spanking).  So, I have started thinking about the next few months, and the next year.  What do I want to accomplish, and how much do I want to punish my body again?

The more I cross the finish line, the more I crave it again.  For the rest of 2013, I am dialing way back.  I might do a 5k and the annual Turkey Trot 10k on Thanksgiving, but that is about it.  But for next year, I want more.

No, I'm not talking a full 140.6.  I'm not ready for that, and the training time that a race of that magnitude requires is unreal.  Hubby and I have already decided that if we are going to slay that dragon, it will be when at least one of our kids is in college.  And that's about 4 years off.  Training for a 70.3 was very time consuming, but we were able to make it work well enough, so I am thinking of tackling that distance again next year.  Maybe Augusta - that damned bike course is my nemesis - or maybe a different course.  I love having options!

It's funny.  For months, I was all big talk and "I am NEVER going to do another 70.3 again, this is killing me!" and "This is a one and done deal." Never, though, in any space in my brain did I ever make room for the possibility that completing a long course triathlon would make me feel so GOOD.  I feel good physically, I feel good mentally, I feel good old-fashioned HAPPY for the first time in a long while.  It certainly is one good natural high.

Ridiculously happy triathlete!

Everyone should try the drug called triathlon.  The high is unbeatable, and you can get it again and again and again.