The Long and Winding Road

The Big Breakup...

2008-04-25T15:02:00.000-07:00

...between me and Blogger, has taken place.

You can now find The Long and Winding Road at www.erinslongandwindingroad.wordpress.com/.

I Think Hell Just Froze Over...

2008-04-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

I remember reading a quote from Jennifer Aniston once where she said that she can't wait to get up in the morning, every morning. This was something I could never come close to relating to, much less understand. Yet, at 5:30 this morning, I was wide awake, waiting until I could get out of bed. What?! Yes. Waiting. For no particular reason. Just felt like getting up and getting at the day.

So. Weird. I don't know that I've ever -- ever -- felt like that before in my life. Mornings for me = dread. They hurt. A whole lot.

But today didn't. At all. And so, I headed to the pool. A 300, then 8x100, and then 2x300 all knocked off before 7:15 this morning. Not fast, but steady. Respectable. And this after a 1-hour personal training session last night that kicked my ass and left me wondering how I was going to make it through the 4-mile run I had afterwards (I did, although it wasn't pretty).

Whether it's a wrinkle in the time-space continuum or some other weirdness in the universe, I kind of hope it keeps happening. If this is what it feels like to be a morning person, I could definitely get on board.

Shout Outs

2008-04-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

First, to "Bad-ass McCue" for capping an unbelievably long journey to IM-AZ with a sub-15-hour finish in a race that had the third-highest DNF rate in IM history. But also, for writing this amazing summary of what it means and how it feels to complete an Ironman. (http://projectprocrastination.blogspot.com/2008/04/best-day.html -- sorry, hyperlinks apparently out of order at the moment).

Second, huge congrats to my running partner, Krista (http://thekbb.wordpress.com/2008/04/12/peanut-butter/), who posted a 1:48 in her first half marathon of the season last weekend...in the sleet and rain and snow, all in one race. That's toughness. :: Bowing down in reverence ::

And all the luck in the world to an old friend from high school, Scott (http://www.scottbeaulier.com/Personal.html, and Amy Hausworth, running The Boston tomorrow. In the words of a zealous person on the sidelines of last year's Green Bay Cellcom Marathon, "Run like you stole something!"

Sending good thoughts your way all morning tomorrow...

Not What I Expected from AQHA

2008-04-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

So, there's a good chance this post is only of interest to me, but the topic has me so fired up that I can't help but blog about it. Be forewarned, though...this is a long one.

Last week, Deebs contacted me about a bill she was working on on behalf of a client -- the American Horse Slaughter Prevention Act (H.R.503/S.311). Basically, the bill will end the slaughter of horses and any domestic or international transport of live horses for human consumption.

"Who would be against this bill?" she asked.

I was curious, too. Who indeed? After all, the slaughtering of horses has all but been halted in the U.S. -- and if there was enough push to do that, why would anyone oppose this bill, which mainly prevents us from shipping horses to Canada or Mexico to be killed? (And often killed viscously: in Mexico, horses are often repeatedly stabbed in the spine to incapacitate them before they are hung up by a back leg and their throats are slit. Even in the instance where a bolt gun is used, it is not designed to kill the horse, only “stun” them. They are alive while “bled out” and some will remain conscious during later stages of slaughter, suffocating with their noses in a pool of blood.)

After doing a bit of research, I found out that one group that has actively lobbied against passage of this bill was none other than the American Quarter Horse Association -- an association that I've belonged to since I was eleven, and one that my family has poured a lot of money into through show fees, membership fees, magazine subscriptions, etc.

To say that I was shocked would be a gross understatement. But I work in politAelZ I live in a politically-charged city. I know that no issue is ever as cut-and-dried as it seems at first glance. And so, I figured that the AQHA must have good reasons for its position. And I set out to find out what those reasons were.

What I found was that the AQHA had reasons, but they weren't good by any means. Here's what its executive committee said in a letter detailing its position:

One of the major issues in the slaughter debate centers around personal property rights. AQHA believes that allowing animal-rights advocates to determine how we manage our horses opens the door to letting them put other limits on what we can or cannot do with our horses...AQHA respects the right of horse owners to manage their personal property as they choose, so long as the welfare of the American Quarter Horse is paramount to all other concerns.

Economics also comes into play. Other options for dealing with unwanted horses can be costly, and the last thing anyone would want to risk is having a horse neglected or abused because an owner might not have all the options available to him or her.

Each year in this country, between 4 and 6 million dogs and cats are euthanized at animal shelters. These shelters benefit from widespread public support and are funded by taxpayer dollars. If processing were not an option for unwanted horses, imagine finding homes for 100,000 horses each year or building an equine welfare system supported by taxpayers.

The first line of reasoning is obviously asinine. I don't think anyone is going to make a logical, honest-to-goodness, slippery-slope correlation between slaughtering horses and trail riding anytime soon. To be fair, when the House Appropriations Committee initially approved the funding bill for the U.S. Department of Agriculture for Fiscal Year 2008, the language in the bill was so broadly-written that it would have had a far broader impact than it seemed intended to have. But, common sense prevailed and this provision has long-since been removed.

The second line of reasoning -- that we would have to find homes for 100,000 horses a year that would otherwise be sent to slaughter -- seems reasonable at first, but appears to fall apart when deconstructed.

First off, consider this: between 1989 and 2004, when the number of slaughtered horses dropped by more than 270,000, there was no correlative spike in neglect or abuse of horses, and there was no outcry from the equine industry that more than 270,000 horses were left without homes (as AQHA says would happen now). In addition, it should be noted that that of the horses killed in U.S. slaughter plants in 2006, nearly four percent were imported from Canada. And in 2005, more than seven percent of the total horses slaughtered in U.S. plants were imported live from Canada.

It’s also estimated that more than 30,000 horses are stolen each year and then auctioned for slaughter -- further decreasing the number of horses who would otherwise need to find homes, because if slaughter is outlawed, there is suddenly no market for these horses.

Opponents to the Slaughter Prevention Act also site slaughter as an acceptable alternative for people who can't afford to put their horses down through euthanasia and pay for disposal. This makes my blood boil. The cost to euthanize and dispose of a horse is usually less than what it costs to house and feed a horse for a month. But I digress. There's a glitch in this reasoning, too. Killer-buyers -- the agents who scope out horse auctions on behalf of slaughterhouses -- don't buy up sickly, unusable horses that would otherwise need to be disposed of. On the contrary, a U.S. Department of Agriculture study found that more than 92 percent of horses at slaughterhouses are in “good” condition, and according to a study conducted by temple Grandin, an animal slaughter expert, 70 percent of all horses at the slaughter plants were in good, fat, or obese condition and 84 percent were of average age. Additionally, 96 percent had no behavioral issues whatsoever.

These horses need to be able to survive anywhere from 24 to 36 hours of horrible transport in hot, close quarters, usually with no food, water, or rest stops. And, killer-buyers get paid by the pound for the animals they bring in, so the more robust and healthy the horse is, the more likely it is that it will survive the trip, and fetch the killer-buyer a small profit. Not surprisingly, the majority of horses sent to slaughter are Quarter Horses -- nearly 80 percent -- because of their hearty build and because, as some critics have pointed out, the AQHA has no retirement program for its registered horses like some other organizations do. As one can imagine, most people who send their horses to auction don't realize they could easily end up in a slaughterhouse, and even worse, many killer-buyers actually outbid average Joes looking to buy a trail horse or horse for the family.

In the research I've done on this issue thus far, I have not found one shred of statistical information to support AQHA's claims that ending horse slaughter will give rise to neglect and abuse. AQHA sent me this white paper in response to my email to them...but in reading the footnotes, I was disheartened to find that the majority of evidence presented is anecdotal (unlike this study), and in addition, the white paper cites articles that have long since been discredited (here, here, here, and here).

To be fair, there seems to be anecdotal evidence that Illinois now has a problem with unwanted horses. But the real question, I think, is what effect the economic slowdown of late has had on the “unwanted horse” population. Methinks that might be more of a factor than a reduction in the number of horses slaughtered. How else to explain that when the DeKalb, Illinois slaughterhouse burned down in 2002, horse abandonment and abuse cases actually dropped?

But AQHA is apparently not one to let facts like this get in its way. In its position letter, AQHA also states that

If you agree with AQHA’s position, we’d appreciate it if you let us know and more importantly let your senators and congressmen in Washington, D.C., know. If you disagree, we want to hear from you, too, but please offer a constructive alternative, not just criticism. And remember, AQHA is about the horse and about educating owners on options they have. It is not about sensationalizing a very emotional issue.

First, let me just say that this is what AQHA claims is being "sensationalized" by proponents of the bill (warning, graphic images).

Furthermore, though, I'm curious as to how much money AQHA and others have syphoned into lobbying efforts against this bill. Because the thing is, there is a practical solution to this issue -- one that a single Massachusetts attorney, Steve Rei, undertook himself: he formed the National Equine Rescue Coalition and put together a database, with the help of the Humane Society and law enforcement, of rescue organizations willing and able to take in surplus horses if and when the proposed legislation goes into effect. He calls the 1 percent of horses who will need homes a "manageable number, only citing “adequate funding” as the major issue. I'm guessing that the lobbyists' fees for each of the 200+ members of the "Horse Welfare Coalition" combined could likely fund the absorption of those horses that would otherwise be slaughtered.

In its response to me via email this week, the AQHA again beat the “no solution” drum, noting that "The majority of AQHA's membership is opposed to the pending federal legislation as it does not provide for a means to care for the nearly 100,000 unwanted horses each year" that are sent to slaughter.

I have a hard time believing that a "majority" of AQHA members feel this way. I'm curious as to the polling they've done on that, and what the questions/set up to it looked like. In fact, most of the AQHA members that I've talked to since hearing about the Horse Slaughter Prevention Act had never heard of it.

And with annual revenue somewhere in the ballpark of $50 million and an Incentive Fund program that pays out more than $4 million dollars of “fun money just for showing” to eligible members, it kind of makes you wonder what AQHA, whose horses comprise 80 percent of those slaughtered, might have been able to come up with had they actually wanted to attempt to solve the problem.

And now I’m faced with an ethical dilemma. You see, in June of 2006, I bought a beautiful, black, and spunky Quarter Horse named The Ironman (a.k.a. Gino). I’ve literally been waiting since then for this summer, his three-year-old year. Every time I’ve taken him out of his stall, walked him down the aisle, clipped his whiskers, or felt the quiet rhythm of his lope beneath me, I’ve imagined marching into the show ring atop him. I’ve imagined what it would be like, once again, to spend hot summer weekend days bathing him, braiding him, hearing our name and number called at the end of a particularly good go, and hanging out with horse people who I practically grew up with.

But I’m having a difficult time justifying giving my hard-earned money to an organization that condones something as horrific as slaughtering horses because it sees no other obvious solution. An organization who thinks this, this, this or this is a necessary evil.

I don’t want to boycott AQHA. The shows it sponsors throughout Wisconsin and the rest of the country have become like second homes to me. I know many of those show grounds better than the back of my hand. I know how the shows work, who to talk to about what issue, and all of the other minor ins and outs involved.

When we were younger, getting ready to move from the house we grew up in to a new house, my little sister sobbed. When asked what was wrong, she hiccupped, “But I’m not going to know where any of the light switches are.” And this is how I feel, pondering leaving this association that I have known so long and, I thought, so well. A new association? New shows? New people? New rules? I’m afraid I won’t know where the light switches are.

But it’s something I think I’m going to just have to learn. Because I don’t think that I can square up with AQHA on this one, and I don’t think I can ignore it. I’d be surprised at who would be able to, once they took an honest, hard look at the issue.

Be Afraid

2008-04-14T09:13:00.000-07:00

XT4 threw the question out recently about what makes people afraid, and what use fear is.

Fear is something I know a great deal about. We're good friends, fear and I.

Growing up, I arguably had two of the most dangerous hobbies a girl could have. In the winter I ski raced. In the summer I jumped horses. And I don't care how used to doing each you get, there are still points where straight-up fear makes your arms feel numb and takes your breath straight from your lungs.

I am in eighth grade. I am standing atop the Super-G course in Winter Park, Colorado at the Junior Olympics. I can see the first two gates, and nothing more. I have never raced a real, honest-to-god Super-G course before in my life. I am wearing a borrowed helmet meant for motorcycle riding, not ski racing, and borrowed skis that are long and heavy and that I wouldn't be able to turn if I wanted them to. They are meant to go nearly straight down the hill, these skis. And it's a steep hill. The timer beeps -- five, four, three, two. I want to cry, but instead I breathe deep and push out. I get into a tuck, and I concentrate. I try to settle into the speed, my fear of it. My internal monologue goes something like this: "This is too fast. It's too fast." -- "If you try to slow down, you're going to crash. Go faster. That's the only way to the bottom." -- "It's too fast." -- "It's the only way." I am going more than 40 miles an hour on two slabs attached to my feet. I ride the rollers, pre-jumping them to minimize time spent in air, off the snow. Air is not fast. Coming off a roller at the bottom third of the course, I catch too much air, and upon landing, one of my edges. I somersault down the mountain. I lose my gloves, my goggles, and my helmet. I come to rest in orange netting that lines the sides of the course, like a fly in a web. I can't breathe. I can't hear. And then I can. Officials rush over to make sure all limbs are attached and in working order. Others gather my gear, spread over a football-length swath of the course. They put me back together. That was my final training run. The following day would be one race run -- the real deal. I will work all night on managing my fear. I will be more afraid standing in the starting gate the next day. But I will stand, and finish eighth.

I am 15 years old, taking a jumping lesson from my French riding instructor. He used to ride Grand Prix, a step below the Olympics. To him, the 3'6' oxer he had constructed was child's play. Just another obstacle. To me, it looked like certain death. Add its immensity to the fact that I was atop a stubborn horse who was prone to run-outs and refusals, and I was tempted to simply tell him, "No. I can't" -- words I had never said to him before. Not when he took away our stirrups for an entire winter. Not when he had me do an entire jumping lesson without them. Not even when, one summer, the inside of my legs were rubbed so raw from the previous day's lesson that they were bleeding through my jodhpurs, and he announced there would be one more hour of riding after dinner.

"You vill do zees," he yells to me.

It was an exercise to make my stubborn horse work. This is all fine and good, except that I could just as easily break an arm, shoulder, or hip...get trampled by my horse.

"You vill do zees," he says again.

I touch my leg to my horse's flank, gather my reins, and get up into a two-point position. I swallow hard with each step. The oxer looks gigantic, taller than my horse. I urge him forward, keeping my eyes straight ahead. Four strides, three strides, two strides. I close my legs, feel his front feet pick up the ground. And find myself flying through the air. I crash into the wooden jump poles. The sonofabitch horse had pulled up right as we were supposed to be taking off.

After discerning that I was okay, just rattled, my trainer shouts, "Again."

The next time we made it over, but he knocks a rail down and I land draped over my horse's neck like a dead man. The next he jumps from a standstill, my trainer shouting, "You vill go over!" and me thinking, "This is how I die."

But more than an hour later, my legs long past having turned to pudding and my horse's neck lathered in white, foamy sweat, we make it over like we should.

These are only two examples. I have hundreds more. But in these two sports, I learned how to manage my fear. I had no choice. Guiding skis down a mountain, or a 1,000 pound animal over poles suspended two or three feet off the ground -- as they say in Top Gun, "There's no time to think up there. You think, and you're dead."

And all last year was an exercise in managing fear of a different sort. In the run-up to Ironman, it did not come in the short, intense bursts of my childhood sports. Rather the fear was always there with me -- every morning when I woke up, every time I looked at my workout schedule, every time I saw the roiling waters of Lake Monona, every time I saw a cyclist ride by, every time I descended a hill on my bike, or set out on a seemingly impossibly-long ride.

People would discover I was training for an Ironman and would inevitably ask how I stayed motivated. "I'm afraid," I would answer.

They thought it was a joke. I couldn't have been more serious.

When I didn't feel like working out, or when I didn't think that I could possibly do another mile, or the last hour of a 8-hour double-brick, I would hear, loud and clear, the phrase, "If you don't do this..." The last part of that phrase was, "...how are you going to do an Ironman?" But it never had to get that far. The "if" was enough. I didn't want to die out there on September 9th, or worse, miss a cut-off and have to pull out. I also cried, a lot. After a few bad swim sessions. On the sides of country roads throughout southern Wisconsin. On my bike. Behind several rest stops on the Dairyland Dare.

And this year, the fear has returned, albeit anew, in a different form. After months and months of sporadic workouts, I have started training again. And I am afraid. Last week I was afraid of a 30-mile bike ride. I was scheduled for a 10-mile run yesterday, and until 4:30 when I set out, I had fretted about it all weekend. For the past few years, I have uttered ridiculous phrases like, "I just have to do a quick ten and then I'll meet you for happy hour" or "I only have ten miles today -- almost seems like a day off." But lately, that me feels like a distant cousin at best...a stranger I might meet on the street at worst.

I am afraid I am not fast (I am not), that I am not in shape (I am not), and that my Ironman finish was a fluke (I know it wasn't). These fears are ridiculous. But they are there all the same. So I am going to have to make friends with them. Invite them in for coffee. Get to know them.

And I'm looking forward to it -- the getting to know them. Because this thing wouldn't be worth doing if it were easy. If there was nothing at stake, nothing to risk.

As a wise man told me over burritos not long ago, that becoming an Ironman is a huge accomplishment, and one you'll always have. But the 8:30 miles, the 4-hour bricks, the feeling like a fish in the water? Those things come and go. They take work. Hard work. They have to be earned. Over and over and over again. No matter who you are.

And so, yesterday, I made another small step toward earning it. Again. I ran a comfortable 6.5 miles with Chief of Stuff, and Leonard and Newt the Vizslas. It was one of those runs where it was easier and more comfortable to keep running than to walk -- not my usual m.o. And when I dropped them off at our house, I set out by myself for another 3.5 miles.

The sun was on its way down for the night. The air felt more winter than spring. My opposite foot and glute ached. I had no Garmin, no idea how fast I was going. But I was moving forward. And last night, laying in bed with aching legs and the familiar cough that comes from long workouts, I remembered what it felt like to be afraid, and do it anyway.

Seven Things...Plus or Minus About 93 Others

2008-04-07T09:26:00.000-07:00

Anyone still there?

*Blink* *Blink*

It's me. I've been gone a good, long while. I spent the past eight weeks trying -- unfortunatlely, unsuccessfully -- to retain Justice Butler on the Wisconsin Supreme Court. It was a typical campaign stint: crazy-long hours, not enough time to do what needs doing, no sleep, hardly a moment to spare for any sort of workout, only sporadic email checking, and absolutely zero time to keep up on what's going on in the blogosphere. But it was one of the most amazingly satisfying jobs that I've ever had. I just wish the outcome would've been different.

So, now I'm catching up. On sleep. On workouts. On life. And over on xT4's blog, I discovered that I had been tagged.

As luck would have it, I started a "100 Things" list a while back, but never finished or posted it. So, xT4, here is your "seven things," plus or minus about 93 others. And Deebs, In the Lup, Lynn, and Krista...you're it (but feel free to do the short version of "Seven Things" which would be, ummm, seven things about you.)

I hate wearing socks. Ever. Even in winter. Even on my bike.
I eat Milk Duds with my popcorn at movies. Tastes like Carmel corn. And I can't see a movie without getting some kind of treat. Otherwise, why go?
My worst jobs ever were (in no particular order): temping for a trucking company doing manifest entry, working at Victoria's Secret (having just acquired not one, but two, graduate degrees), and doing "public relations" for an health savings account company.
I enjoyed my gigs as a waitress. No lie.
I'm secretly fascinated by tornadoes. I want to see one in real life. In the same vein, one of my favorite things to watch is "Storm Stories" on the Weather Channel.
I have never balanced a checkbook. Wouldn't know how if I tried.
I'm compulsive about hand cream. If my hands aren't lotioned they feel like sandpaper and the feeling gives me the willies. During the Ironman, and my other long training days, I'd spit on them to make them feel lotioned.
I once stopped seeing a perfectly nice guy because he wore white socks with deck shoes. Ditto for another who said the word, "drinky-poo." Yet, I stayed with at least two boyfriends who had cheated on me.
After one of the cheaters broke my heart, my mom got me the book, The Rules. I read it and then promptly chucked it. Even at 16, I knew better.
I used to be a serious nail-biter. I'm in remission.
Elmo makes me laugh in spite of myself.
I was once mistaken for Alyssa Milano.
I like animals better than people. And I think puppies are cuter than babies.
I believe in ghosts. And they scare me.
My dogs sleep with me. I like it that way.
I have a Master of Arts degree in Composition Pedagogy and a Master of Fine Arts degree in Fiction. I also have a completed novel manuscript ready to send out as soon as I sit down and make final edits to it. So far, it's been in this state for well over a year.
One of the hardest things for me is to make a decision. It's a "skill" I've actively been working on learning.
I feel as though I've mostly avoided therapy because of my horses and my running shoes.
That said, I don't understand why skinny people run. If I was a size 2 and could eat anything I wanted, running would likely not be something I'd choose to do with my free time.
I eat pretty much anything, and love to eat. The exceptions are mushrooms (most of the time), mussels, and clams. This is also why I run.
I hate when the food on my plate touches. And I don't mix foods. That means no seafood in my pasta, even though I love both seafood and pasta.
When I was nine I told my pediatrician that I wanted to be a jockey. He laughed and told me to start thinking basketball. I was one of the tallest people in my class until 8th grade, when I quit growing altogether. I maxed out at 5'2".
I hold the misguided opinion that the more my jeans cost, the better they'll look. Bop loves me.
I'm anally neat. My CD's are alphabetized, my books grouped according to genre and author, and my sweaters and shirts sorted by color. I loathe knick-nacks. If it doesn't have a function, it's not on my shelf.
I don't drink milk straight-up. Ever.
I have the best family anyone could ever ask for. Seriously.
My ideal night is curling up with my dogs on the couch in front of a fire with a great book and even better glass of wine. Second-most ideal night is throwing a dinner party for a few close friends.
Crowds, cocktail parties, and meeting new people stress me out.
I did the South Beach Diet once with great success. But after two weeks of no lattes and no wine, I was a raging bitch.
I hate Halloween.
I can't spell to save my life, but I'm a grammar nazi.
On that note, I secretly love diagramming sentences.
The sound of Styrofoam nearly brings me to my knees.
My favorite movie of all time is Top Gun. Coincidentally, as late as my junior year in high school, I wanted to attend the Air Force Academy...partially to be a fighter pilot, and partially to ski for their alpine team. When it appeared that I wouldn't be able to do either, I changed my mind.
I'm scared of flying.
I completely blew out both of my knees in high school, one year after the next. My knees have seen five surgeries between them. The resulting scars are ugly, and I love them.
I'm not self-conscious enough to have ever been really, truly embarrassed.
I hate nylons and will wear them only if absolutely necessary, and only if they're black or navy blue. Tan-colored hose gross me out. Come to think of it, so does the word, "hose."
My sister often affectionately refers to me as the "dumbest smart person she knows." I often tend to agree with her.
I'm deathly afraid of spiders. But they fascinate me at the same time, with all of their legs and eyes.
The feel of dirt on my hands also gives me the willies. This is why I don't garden. But I do have a horse, and time spent at the barn is usually supplemented with frequent hand-washing.
This and the lotioning thing makes me sound borderline compulsive. I'm not. I just like clean and conditioned hands.
When I was a toddler, I cracked my forehead open right down the middle as the result of a temper tantrum when my parents refused to take me to the "big park" down the street. The resulting scar has become a lifelong symbol of my intense temper.
There are few things I love more than reading. If there is a version of alcoholism as it relates to book consumption, I have it. I can't go into Barnes and Noble without buying at least one.
I love wine. Really, really love it. Even more than chocolate. And it's not about the resulting buzz; it's about the taste. The way it coats your tongue and mouth and warms you from the inside out. I look forward to every glass...to what tastes I might discover in it.
A Starbucks latte is second behind wine. Fourbucks makes my coffee taste the same way, every day, and that's why I love it.
If I could survive on only lattes and wine, I would.
Oh, and maybe soup, too. I will eat soup anytime, in any weather.
I don't eat salad unless I absolutely have to.
Except for Taco Bell's taco salad.
I love Taco Bell in general and am not ashamed of it. Most of the time.
I could easily go days -- if not weeks -- without turning the television on, were it not for my need to know what the weather is like when I wake up so I can plan my outfit for the day.
The day I had to put my dog, Lewis, down was the worst day of my life, hands down.
This and this were two of the best. As was this...although it didn't seem so at the time, and it's not a day I want to repeat anytime soon, if ever.
I have never asked for anyone's autograph, and never would, no matter how famous the person is.
I hate doing touristy things, ever. In any city. I'd rather sit at a cafe and people watch, or somehow immerse myself in the culture in other ways.
I don't much care for flowers.
I've often flirted with the idea of becoming a vegetarian, and I'm slowly losing my taste for chicken. But a huge, juicy steak once in a while? LOVE it. So, the vegetarian thing, probably kind of a pipe dream.
I won't eat fruit or vegetables that come in a can. Ditto for tuna. But I love all of them in their natural state.
I'm not certain I want to have kids, but if I do, they won't have a TV or computer in their rooms, and I won't buy them any kind of video games.
But I will make them cupcakes to take to school for treat days, and will not force them to eat tofu (sorry mom).
I'm actually a pretty fun person, #61 aside.
I love looking at real estate. Even when I have a place to live. Even when I couldn't afford a new place if I wanted one. The market fascinates me...as do the decorating choices some people make.
I don't buy chips or cookies. If I want a snack, I make it from scratch (usually oatmeal chocolate chip cookies). This happens next-to-never. Therefore, I almost never snack.
My sister's hip bones are at the approximate height of my boobs. I've long resented her for this.
But she's my best friend. Ever.
I qualified my horse for the World Championships in two different events...once. I made the semi-finals in Junior Hunter Hack. My goal is to go back and win it -- or one of the other over fences classes -- eventually.
My new horse's registered name was "In the Pocket" when I got him. But his Dad's name is "Natural Iron." So, after Ironman Wisconsin (too superstitious to do it before), we petitioned to have his name changed. He's now, "The Ironman," and he's pitch black. How cool is that?
I'd like to learn (or learn about) the following in no particular order: violin, photography, web design stuff, to sing, ballet*, piano*, *golf, the stock market/investing...I doubt I will do any. (*took lessons a long, long time ago, but am terrible).
There's not a day that passes that I don't wish I was a musician of some sort.
I'm okay with being a word person, though.
The first concert I ever saw was Richard Marx. My sister and I used to fall asleep listening to him every night. You can laugh now (But it was free!).
I went to six proms in high school. Four of them were miserable.
I am a Yooper -- born and raised in the Upper Peninsual of Michigan. Almost my whole family is still there. That place is rural as all get-out (and people there often say things like "all get-out"), but there is a beauty and magic to it that is hard to describe. I'm incredibly proud to call that place home.
I always said I'd never get married in Iron Mountain, my hometown. Guess where the wedding will be? Yup! Iron Mountain, baby.
I worry about money constantly. But I do nothing to attempt spending less or even managing what I have better. I am working on this.
I look and feel better with a tan.
I swear too much. But I don't try to stop.
I'm jealous of skinny people. Not just Hollywood-skinny-people -- I harbor twinges of resentment for anyone whose fat jeans are a size 26. Irrationally, I believe their lives must be easier for not having to worry about their weight.
I've never been overweight, but have always felt like I am.
I like what I do for a living, but am now thinking of the next phase of my life and how I really want to spend the 40+ hours of the week dedicated to my job.
If I could do anything I'd be a full-time writer/author.
My back is constantly itchy, and in need of cracking.
The only bone I've ever broken is my tailbone. Oh, and I cracked my nose a wee bit once too.
I wanted to make the US Ski Team. I didn't.
But they sent me an invite to their development camp when I was a freshman in high school, and I made the Junior Olympics twice in all four disciplines -- downhill, super G, GS, and slalom.
I still regret quitting skiing after high school.
I buy US Weekly on a regular basis.
I don't like beer, and will only drink it if I have to. The exception is a cold beer on a hot summer day -- the beauty of which mom imparted to me.
I don't follow sports.
I have no favorite color. Not because I can't choose, but because I just don't.
I have no favorite book or song or artist or band. Because I can't choose. I just can't.
I hope to someday qualify for Boston. I'm willing to do it through "aging up."
I think most people are generally good. The exception is anyone who treats another -- anyone -- as less-than. Waitstaff, counter help, employees, etc... I have no patience for that kind of behavior.
Patience is a virtue I have very, very little of in general. Unless it's with one of my dogs.
My sister is one of the most patient, kindest people I've ever met. When angry or impatient, or in tough situations with others, I spend most of my time thinking, WWLD (What Would Lindsey Do?)
In college I majored in Religious Studies and English, after toying with majors in psychology, statistics, French, and pre-veterinary.
After that series of changes, my parents took me to the Johnson-O'Connor institute for aptitude testing. They told me I had an affinity for languages, that I should be either a psychologist (my mom's former profession) or a lawyer (my dad's profession), but to stay the hell away from anything requiring dexterity...like performing surgeries on poor, unsuspecting animals.
I have lived in only two states my entire life -- Michigan and Wisconsin -- with only brief, temporary moves to Washington, D.C. (six months -- for an immersion program in journalism) and New Jersey (yes, really) (one month -- for The Ex).
With respect to life lessons, 2007 was one of the most heartbreaking-challenging and amazing years of my life, all at the same time.

Geeking Out in Mineral Point

2008-03-11T12:12:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't been here for a while. That's because this new job is kicking my ass, but in a really fun way. It's just also intense, and takes a lot (read: all) free time. Kind of like the Ironman of politics. Okay, well, not really. But in the amount of time it takes, yes.

Anyway, this weekend I took a little break from politics to indulge in one of my main loves -- writing. In the picturesque little hamlet of Mineral Point, I immersed myself for an entire afternoon and evening in all things Michael Perry.

For those of you who don't know of Michael Perry, you should. And I say that with excitement, not snottiness. Because he's brilliant. A brilliant, brilliant writer who writes about accessible things like small town life with humor, poignancy, and make-your-bones-tingle-in-envy skill.

His breakthrough book, and still my favorite, starts out this way: "Summer here comes on like a zaftig hippie chick, jazzed on chlorophyll and flinging fistfuls of butterflies to the sun." And that's just the beginning. It only gets better. It's good -- seriously good. And funny. I think I mentioned funny.

Perry is confusing, intriguing mix between a humble, farm-raised, deer hunting, truck driving, good 'ol Wisconsin guy and an accomplished literati who quotes Dylan Thomas. He wears flannel and t-shirts, and that, combined with his Wisconsin drawl, almost lulls you into thinking that he's just like any of the hardworking guys sitting on stools in bars on any country road in the state. Except that he doesn't drink. And he drops words like "declivitous"in mid-sentence without blinking.

And then -- then! -- after the informative seminar on freelancing and writing in general, and after his incredibly entertaining reading of his upcoming book, he took the stage with his band, The Longbeds. And they were good. Very much a Johnny Cash and Waylan Jennings influence to the music.

But there was one thing that kept catching my eye throughout -- a little black and red emblem on Michael Perry's guitar.

And I would lean myself over Chief of Stuff and crane my neck and horrendous angles to see if it really was...And after the show was done, and he set his guitar down, I discerned that it was, in fact, an M-dot.

Michael Perry with an Ironman logo on his guitar! What could it mean?!

I was thinking there was some deep, symbolic reason for the M-dot. Chief of Stuff thought otherwise -- that maybe his brother, wife, or some other person close to him was doing the race. ..or that maybe he was. Perhaps. But I remain unconvinced, and just to make sure, I dropped him an email to inquire.

I'll keep you all posted. Because I know you're waiting on the edge of your seat for this.

Dear Weather Gods...

2008-02-29T11:00:00.000-08:00

To whom it may concern up there:

When I said that I "loved winter running" I did not have in mind the following:

Inches and inches of sugar-snow mixed with sand so as to make running in Madison akin to running on a beach, just without the waves, soft breeze, or balmy temperatures;
Paths along roads that look like sidewalks, and act like sidewalks, and seemingly used to be sidewalks, but that have somehow been transformed into 3' x 4-mile ice rinks;
Temperatures so cold that my Vizslas have actually refused to venture outside;
An outdoor landscape where even the middle of the road isn't a safe place to run, given the ice-packed medians, and whole side streets that look more like bobsled tracks for cars;
Rain, then snow, then rain...all in the same day;
More of that scheduled for Sunday.

And if you think I'm whining, I'm not. I have company. Here, here, and here. And I'm sure elsewhere, too.

And I know we chose to live here and all of that -- blah blah blah-- but this has passed the point of ridiculousness. So please make it stop. Now.

Thanks, Erin

Game On

2008-02-28T16:54:00.000-08:00

In breaking with my usual m.o. of never pre-registering for any race, I just hit "register now" for this:

Of Fishes and Bicycles

2008-02-26T11:31:00.001-08:00

A week ago Saturday, I put myself back in the water for the first time since September 9th.

It was a gray day. Not much going on. After an extraordinarily busy few weeks, Chief of Stuff and I, mercifully, had no plans that evening. He asked what we should do. I'm sure he was thinking something along the lines of if we should stay in and cook dinner or go out...order a movie On Demand, or go to see one in the theater.

I said, "Swim!"

I don't know where it came from, this sudden desire to go aquatic in the midst of yet another snowstorm, but as soon as I said it, that was all I wanted to do.

CoS looked at me skeptically. It wasn't like he wasn't ready to swim, after all. He had all the gear. He just had yet to actually get in the water.

We went through what he'd need for a session at the pool. Flip-flops, towel, goggles, shorts, etc., etc. Good reminders for me, as well. Although I was pleased to find that my swimming bag was still neatly packed from last season, and pretty much everything I needed was already in there -- including a fresh towel.

During the drive to the pool, I began to see that the excitement I felt about swimming wasn't shared by everyone in the car. From the passenger's seat, CoS launched question after question at me: "How much should you kick?," "What's the key thing to remember?," "How fast should you go,?"

"Don't worry so much," I told him. "It's not like you're going to drown."

And then he asked,"So how do you breathe?"

Simple enough question, but I didn't really know. I didn't know how I did it...I just did.

Wrong thing to say, though, I guess.

He asked how I could just sit there and tell him to relax and not worry when breathing came so naturally to me that I couldn't even explain how I did it.

Truth was, I had no idea. I tried to explain, but I couldn't figure out when I breathed, or where my arm was in rotation when I did it, or anything else about how I swam.

And then, I said even more wrong things. About how, during some particularly grueling training swims for the Ironman, and during the Ironman itself, I caught myself thinking, "I feel like a fish," in the best possible way. As in, minus the gills, I felt completely at home in the water. Comfortable. Safe. Totally at ease.

One could see how this wouldn't help. At all.

I was nervous too, though. Had I forgotten how to swim? Would the me that put down a sub-1:30 Ironman swim be a me of the past, for good? Or would it be like riding a bike?

Long story short, we made it to the pool without any major meltdowns, and no one drowned. No one even came close. CoS and I did some drills, and I marveled at how my body floats easily at times when CoS's lean frame tends to...well, not float. Legs mainly. Chalk that one up to the high-numbered result I got on the body composition test I had done a few weeks back, I guess. Sigh.

I got in a handful of 100s, and pulled out the fly now and then. And breathed deep that chlorine smell. It spoke to me a bit, that smell, as smells and tastes sometimes do. Because suddenly, I was back there, on a hard workout at the end of the day when the last thing I wanted to do was climb into a swimsuit. Back there where I didn't know yet if I could...if I would...pull this thing called Ironman off. Back there where I simply got into the water, and swam, stroke-after-stroke, until I knew that I could do it for 2.4. Great feelings all, and suddenly, being back there, so close to them, I was giddy again with excitement. The pool was closing; but I didn't want to go home. I wanted to feel my shoulders burn on a 400, feel my lungs burn and heave after a 100 IM.

It was good to be back there...and to be at the beginning of getting back in general. That's been a constant battle this winter, what with the mental Ironman recovery I battled, the never-ending white stuff and freezing rain, and now, this new gig I'm doing (that's tres fun but a huge time commitment), but if I have to start a hundred times over again, I will. This fish is back on the bike, figuratively, and hopefully soon, literally.

Slothness

2008-02-13T15:10:00.000-08:00

That's me. It's been exactly 11 days since I've run. Eleven days. And in that time, I've taken only one additional trip to the gym to fit in a too-quick lifting workout.

That is pathetic.

I'm embarrassed at me. Em-bar-assed.

I could blame it on my job, and job change. I could blame it on the weather. Or the killer who's in our neighborhood. But the truth is, I just haven't gotten it done.

Like last night. I got home from traveling for work at 10 p.m.. I could've gone for a run. It was cold, yes. But I've run in worse. And it was late, yes. But how to explain, then, that I stayed up until 2 a.m., drinking wine, as an excuse to catch up with Chief of Stuff after not seeing him for two days?...And as result of the wine-drinking/overindulgence, that I couldn't drag myself out of bed before reporting to work early enough to get a run in.

Sloth. That's how.

And now, as a result of the past almost two weeks of not doing a damn thing, I feel chubby and out of shape when I was right in the middle of building such a good base. And sad. For me. Let's not forget that. Because I have a wedding in Vegas to attend in a month. And my own wedding in about 10. Oh, and a marathon in May. Which is practically tomorrow.

Lord help me.

So, it's starting tomorrow. Again.

But seriously, how many times am I going to re-start? It's never been this hard before to stay on track. And yes, that's me whining. Just tune me out.

Tomorrow, the temps are supposed to climb into double-digits. And I plan to be well-rested and up early (for me). And I plan to run.

We'll see what happens. Stay tuned.

Circuit Breaker

2008-01-31T11:44:00.000-08:00

So I joined a gym. I mean, before, I belonged to the YMCA...still do, I guess, if you want to parse words. But that was mostly for the pool. I'd usually work out in the facility at my condo (which, I might add, for a home gym-type sitch, was fantastic). But a broken water pipe in the workout room and no longer living at my condo has somewhat put the kabosh on that plan. Thus, the joining of a gym. Just two blocks from where I work. With the option of getting a killer protein shakes after (and having it just added to your monthly tab). With my masuse right upstairs. And with a bunch of cool stuff thrown at you just for joining up. Life, my friends, is good.

Or was good. Or, still is good, techically. Just more painfull now. Thanks to circuits.

With the new membership, you get a free traning session. Mine was with Kristy, who was pleased as punch to have been assigned someone who had actually been in a gym before. When she heard I had just done the Ironman, she was downright giddy. I tried to temper her excitement, given that the body sitting in front of her didn't much resemble the one that had covered 140.6 a handful of months back. But she was undaunted. Even when she read the results of my body composition test (which will forever stay in the confines of her little office) she kept referring to me as an "athlete."

I knew I was in a bit of trouble. Two weeks before Christmas, I hit the gym armed with a workout program The Ex had designed for me. And the gym hit back. Hard. So hard, in fact, that for three full days after, I could not use my right arm. Pulling my hair back in a ponytail, brushing my hair, putting on makeup, and even sleeping, all went by the wayside because of the pain. Had I not been with me that whole time, I would've sworn I had broken my arm. I was not prepared for a personal trainer who thought I was an athelte. And I most definitely was not prepared for circuits.

During that session with Kristy, I nearly puked twice, and came close to blacking out once. This regularly happened to me during track practice throughout high school and college. I expected it during the Dairyland Dare. But never have I done either in a gym before. Not even close.

And yesterday, it happened again.

I was slated for mile repeats, a 400m walk break in between. And then after? Circuits.

To borrow a term from The ELF, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I think I saw the Wizard.

I had nearly forgotten what he looks like -- the Wizard. I think the last time I maybe saw him was running the 800 during track. And this time, I didn't catch him. I just waved to him. Honestly, he was so far out in front of me that I don't know if he waved back. I was too busy trying not to throw up on the treadmill. And then again on the step-up box. And after that on the bosu ball, on the bench doing push-ups with dumb bells, and after that, crunches.

I started the repeats at 7.5 on the treadmill, and would run the last quarter-mile at 8.0. After the first, my arms tingled the kind of I-don't-have-enough-oxygen-coming-to-me-you-stupid-girl tingle/hurt that you know only signals more -- and longer -- hurt to come. Unless your schedule only calls you to do one mile, no repeats. And I have never seen one of these schedules. If anyone out there does have a schedule like that, please forward it on to me. I will be forever indebted.

On the second mile repeat, a pretty boy wearing half a bottle of cologne stepped on the 'mill next to mine. I wanted to throw up a little from the smell at the very start. By the end, I was seeing stars and had to take a quick break to quell the dry heaving going on, which seemed to totally gross out the sorority girl walking at a brisk 3.5 next to me.

On the final repeat, the dry heaving started at the quarter mile mark. I put Kanye West's "Stronger" on repeat, but finally, afraid it would turn to wet-heaving, I broke up the last set into two half-mile repeats. It felt like failure. But my official training plan has yet to start. I have time to work up to non-failure.

In the locker room, on my blackberry, I exchanged quick emails with Cheif of Stuff. You can either come get me now or I can lift, I wrote. What I meant was, "Please come get me now. Please, please, please, please. Go ahead and lift. Talking to boss, he wrote back.

Damn.

So I did. I fit in 45 minutes worth of circuits after that. And I pretty much thought I would die, since I had been gasping for breath for say, oh, an hour and a half.

But I didn't die. It felt good. Great even. (Eventually. Like at 10 o'clock that night). And tonight, I'm going back for more. Because this season I'm giving the long and slow stuff a break. This season is about speed and strength. And all that I've read indicates that circuits and intervals are at the heart of making that happen.

So, if you see the wizzard, tell him I'm coming for him. I might not catch him today. Or next week. Or next month. But eventually, we'll meet up.

Public Relations 101

2008-01-29T12:47:00.001-08:00

I'm not sure who is handling Charter Communications' communications, but whomever it is, they should be fired after this.* Or, maybe Charter should fire itself.

Because let me get this straight...a company totally and completely wipes out the email accounts of 14,000 people across the country -- pictures, records of purchases, important correspondence that those people purposely saved in their email accounts -- and this is their answer: "Charter Communications officials in suburban St. Louis said they think a software error occurred while inactive accounts were being routinely deleted, wiping out the contents of active accounts, as well. They said they are sorry but there is no way to retrieve the information."

Oh, and let's not forget the company is offering a whopping $50 rebate in addition to that stunning (non) apology. Compassion, Conviciton, Optimism (CCO) -- the most basic rule of crisis communications? Seems that Charter missed that one in PR school.

My lord. Communications professionals everywhere shudder.

Extra Set of Footsteps

2008-01-29T10:42:00.000-08:00

That's how Krista describes the beauty of having a running partner: "...running is a solo sport, but even if you run 10 miles without sharing a word, it’s better to hear the extra set of footsteps, and to have someone to commiserate with when the run felt like shit."

This past weekend we -- Krista and I -- shared another seven-miler on a Saturday morning. The sun was out, it was above freezing temperature-wise, and it still sucked. For me at least. The running, not the company.

With unplowed streets and sidewalks and the snow covering them the consistency of sugar sand, seven miles felt like twenty. By the end, my ankles hurt, my lower back was screaming, and my feet were numb...just not from the cold this time. Oh, and some old IM injury that never really materialized but never really went away (feels like an IT band issue, only it runs along the back of my leg and over the corresponding butt cheek) kept flaring up. And along the way, I complained about it all -- the snow, the aches and pains, et cetera -- again and again. I cajoled Krista into stopping to stretch more than once. Partially because the IM injury-ish thing was aggravating, and partially because I jut plain old wanted a reprieve from the damn unrelenting sugar snow underfoot. I was, in part or in whole, a substandard running partner.

But, that's how you know when you've found a good one. They let you stop and stretch without running circles around you, or sighing disapprovingly while they check their Garmin.

And they talk to you. Like old friends talk, even if you've only met a couple of times.

There's just something about sharing a run with someone. And for once, words fail me as to what it is.

I remember pouring my heart out to my roommate Jamie during college as we pounded out a quick four-miles roundtrip through the streets and bridges of DePere about the difficulties of our (or my) living situation, and/or boys. To this day, I remember the tie-dyed shirt she wore and her uber-efficient stride that I can't keep up with even now. And I remember those runs as the starting, defining moment of our friendship.

I remember running with Pammy one day during graduate school, in the dead of a Marquette winter. We were quiet nearly the whole time. Yet, I can still pick that run out of so many others; I can see it in my mind's eye. Us slogging our way through the slush and snow and cold, shoulder to shoulder, footfalls perfectly matched.

Or running with Patrick during the one hour he could spare in between other engagements the last time he was in Madison. It was muggy and hot, and we packed more catching up into one six-mile run than we likely could have over one six-pack, and it was far more fulfilling. Yet, it still wasn't quite enough.

And then there are all of the runs I've shared with Chief of Stuff over the past two years or so. The runs when I was still with The Ex, when we were just getting to know one another. The IM training runs he'd do with me -- especially the oh-my-god-this-seems-like-it's-going-to-last-forever 16-miler we did side-by-side on treadmills last March, watching episode after episode of Workout. Or the four miles we did just last week in the dark, in the cold, in which he let me bitch for forty minutes straight about my work issue du jour.

Now and then, running alone is just what you need. But until recently, I'd forgotten the sheer comfort of a regular or even semi-regular running partner. I'd forgotten what I was missing. And now that I've rediscovered it, I'm hooked on the sound of the extra set of footsteps beside me.

World's Quickest Movie Reviews, Take II

2008-01-25T11:06:00.000-08:00

"There Will Be Blood" -- could've/should've been called, "There Will Be Boredom." In short, don't bother. Everything you need to see is in the trailer.

Salon.com sums it up nicely in this review: Paul Thomas Anderson's "There Will Be Blood" is an austere folly, a picture so ambitious, so filled with filmmaking, that its very scale almost obscures its blankness.

At the very best, it overreaches as a film. At the worst, though, it is incomplete and/or poorly-thought out. Go ahead and see for yourself, but don't say you weren't warned.

Because This Seemed All Too Perfect for Today...

2008-01-24T12:06:00.000-08:00

Musical Interlude

2008-01-23T12:37:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking lately that I need to update my Ipod playlist. Like yesterday. Because I've had the same stuff on there since way before the Green Bay Marathon in May of last year. That means I listened to it training for and during the marathon. And in all of my training sessions leading up to Ironman this past September (and folks, that was a LOT of hours spent with my little pink Ipod strapped to my arm). And in the limited running I've done since. Seriously, time for a change.

So, in the spirit of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" here's what I've been listening to ad nauseum in the past year or so. Feel free to steal from the list...but please suggest some new stuff for me, too.

Dixie Chicks -- Traveling Soilder, Not Ready to Make Nice
Nelly -- Over and Over Again, Ride Wit Me, EI
R. Kelly -- Remix
Fall Out Boy -- This ain't a scene..., Sugar We're Going down
Red Hot Chili Peppers -- almost all, but favs are: Snow, Californication, Zepher, and Parallel Universe
Akon -- Smack That, Don't Matter
Sean Paul -- We Be Burnin', Give it Up to Me, Ever Blazin
In a Big Country -- song by same name.
Black Eyed Peas -- Hey Mamma, Don't Lie, Let's Get it Started
Kanye West -- Golddigger, Through the Wire, Stronger
The Killers -- Somebody Told Me, When You Were Young, Mr. Brightside, Smile Like You Mean It
Usher -- Yeah, Yeah
Eminem -- Lose Yourself
Violent Femmes -- Blister in the Sun
Beyonce -- Ring the Alarm, Deja Vu, Beautiful Liar
Shakira -- Whenever Wherever, Hips don't Lie, Objection, La Tortura
Survivor -- Eye of the Tiger
Van Halen -- Dreams, Runnin With the Devil, Jump, Panama, Dreams, Good Enough, Love Walks In, 5150
AC/DC -- Dirty Deeds, Thunderstruck, For Those About to Rock, Moneytalks
Wyclef Jean – The Sweetest Girl
Linkin Park – Numb, With You, One Step Closer

Into That Good Night

2008-01-23T07:39:00.000-08:00

I was going to post this yesterday, but waited. To see if the sadness would dissipate. If I'd gain a bit of perspective in the interim. But it didn't. I didn't.

Yesterday, Heath Ledger was found dead in his NYC apartment.

I don't know what about this news struck me so, but it's stayed with me, a whisper beneath the day's normal din.

I "read" US Weekly pretty regularly, but it's brain candy and not an obsession. I follow movies and Hollywood, but casually. I enjoyed Heath's acting, his choice of films, but would never have called myself a fan.

I disassociate with tragedy more than most people, I think. The Minneapolis bridge collapse...a Marine's remains found in the backyard of a superior's house...a local college student's disappearance...Brad Renfro's overdose. With all of these events, I say, "Oh, how sad." and I mean it. But I don't feel sad.

And yet.

With this news, I felt it. And I still don't understand why.

Perhaps it is because he seemed like such a private person, who didn't seek the limelight and paparazzi like many of his Hollywood cohorts. Or because he seemed relatively well-adjusted and down to earth -- a star who you wouldn't think of in terms of "had it coming." Because the inital conclusions seem to indicate that his death was completely accidental, or because of the endearing pictures you'd always see of him doting on his little girl. Or, perhaps, it was because he was young -- not too much younger than me, in fact -- and that I barely feel as though my life has started at this point...and his life with so much promise ahead -- his life is now over.

Regardless, the world has lost a great talent. That alone is sad.

And then -- then! -- you have this, from the Phelps brigade -- the same wingnuts who enjoy causing disturbances at military funerals and have led Wisconsin and other states to enact laws to prevent groups like theirs from showing up...or at least getting close to those services:

Come now, people. This is the same schizophrenic reasoning that the Westboro Baptist Church likes to apply to military deaths, too (that solders killed in action are suffering for the sins of a country that endorses homosexuality). Apparently, since he played a gay man in a film, Heath Ledger should suffer the same eternal damnation that the Westboro Wingnuts place on all homosexuals. Under that line of reasoning, we would have started court proceedings to hit Charlize Theron up with the death penalty or arrange a Nuremberg Trial for Bruno Ganz long ago. Good lord.

It'll be interesting to see if they actually pony up the funds to fly themselves all the way to Australia to picket. For the sake of the Ledger family, I sure hope they don't.

Ugh...all the way around...on so many levels. I think I'm going to go shower off now.

Ice, Ice Baby

2008-01-22T08:48:00.000-08:00

So, normally I'm in total agreement with assessments like this one. Essentially, stop whining about the cold, bundle up, and get out there. Because you inevitably enjoy it once you do. You're chilled for a few minutes at the start, and then, eventually, the blood starts pumping and the winter air suddenly doesn't seem so biting. In fact, because of that warming factor, running and snowshoeing outdoors are two of my favorite ways to enjoy the outdoors during all those months that precede and follow spring and summer.

So...

Last Thursday, I got home from work early. The sun was shining. I had pent-up anger to deal with as a result of work and other things. I also had a few new songs on my Ipod that I was jonesing to run to, and a new pair of kicks to try out. Oh, and I had two overly-excited Vizslas that I needed to do something with, exercise-wise, and not enough time to take them out to the barn before a 6:30 meeting I had to attend that night.

All of these things together necessitated a run. Nevermind that people had been talking for days about how bitter cold it was supposed to get -- oh, um, right about 5 o'clock on Thursday night. Or that my mom was already talking about how she was hoping for a snow day on Friday because of the cold. Or that leaving work, my car barely started and then, once it did, the radio was a garbled mess for a couple of minutes, trying to warm itself up.

Nevermind any of that, because I sure didn't.

Instead, I pulled on running tights and my fleece Patagonia pants over them. I layered on three shirts under the fleece vest that zipped tightly over it all. I put the dogs' coats on (Yes, they wear coats. Not for a Paris-Hilton-dressed-up-dog effect, but for functionality. The coats aren't cute, and the dogs are darn near bald) and smeared Vaseline over their paws.

And the three of us set out. Excited. To the tune of Wyclef's new tune, "Sweetest Girl" (which I just can't get enough of lately). That was, until we turned the corner and were hit head-on with the fiercest winter wind that I've felt in a long, long time. I couldn't catch my breath. And the dogs, almost dragging me down the sidewalk with their bounding only a minute before, were suddenly fighting for space behind me...their little ears folded inside-out and red from the wind. A woman standing outside of the hospital -- smoking -- shook her head at me as I passed. I was in too much pain to shake my head back at her.

I told them that we'd see how things went. If nothing else, we'd turn around and call it a day.

But once we hit the bike trail bordering the Arboretum, the wind subsided. It was still damn cold, though. I looked at my Garmin. Eight minutes in and my feet were already completely numb.

A greyhound of a runner turned out of the Arb and passed me by like I was standing still, his long legs soon carrying him out of sight. This, I decided, was what I needed to do. Get on my toes. Sprint. Get warm. Or, if not warm, at least get home more quickly.

And so the plan was hatched: run like hell, get home, get warm.

But a hitch in the plan presented itself in the form of sidewalks masquerading as ice rinks. And wind. And the sky darkening faster than I thought it would, turning my 3-miler into a 4-something-miler (I don't run on most of the bike trails after dark). And the fact that I couldn't sustain 8-minute miles for long. And my Ipod quitting because it froze itself. Oh, and my thighs and ass going numb in addition to my hands, feet, and face. I literally almost froze my ass off.

For four miles, we struggled -- Newt, Leonard, and me. I would run until I thought I might puke, stop briefly to catch my breath, feel terrible that I was making the dogs stand still (and hop around in an alternating three-legged dance), start running again until I thought I might puke, and repeat. Et cetera, ad nauseum. My four-mile tempo run had turned to the interval run from hell.

That night, as the dogs continued to lick their poor little paws, Chief of Stuff asked how things went. I told him that I had good news and bad news about the new shoes, for one -- good news was that I got to try them out. Bad news was that I'll have to take them for another spin to find out if they're comfortable or not, given that I couldn't feel my feet one iota. And when I checked the weather that night, I decided that running in that sort of cold was unnecessary and a little crazy. Sure, according to the NYT article, you're probably not going to die of hypothermia or frostbite when exercising outdoors for a short period of time, but that doesn't mean one shouldn't try to avoid either one. The dogs would have been better off climbing the walls for one more night, and I'd have been better off on the treadmill. Lesson learned.

Stats:

4 miles
8:38 average minute miles
Outside Temperature -- 6 degrees
Wind Chill -- (-)28 degrees

All That's Come Before

2008-01-15T12:22:00.000-08:00

There's a danger in not writing things down. In not remembering. The staples, you always remember those. Milk and eggs. Big birthdays and big breakups. But the fringe items get murky. They fade with time.

In a piece about The Ex, I wrote: "Before and after. Misleading. There are few events to which 'before' or 'after' can be accurately applied. Unless something happens in a split second—a car crash, a dropped glass—there’s always a chain of events that make up a shadowland that stretches between those two units of time."

And so it goes.

I remember clearly the moment The Ex told me he had to go home, to Vancouver Island, after he had all but moved in with me. We were sitting up talking, appropriately, after seeing "The Breakup." I said I couldn't wait to put up a Christmas tree this year. He said he needed to leave before the week was up. And I remember the day of the final "this is over" conversation -- on an blustery October mid-morning, over the phone, sitting at my kitchen table. I had come to realize that we had passed the point of return -- with love, with trust, with sticktuitiveness. Maybe we both had. There just wasn't enough of those things left to make a good go of it any longer.

Over the holidays, Chief of Stuff and our families were out for dinner when an ex-ex boyfriend -- the one who could easily qualify as a first love, and the same one who had given me a lesson in heartbreaking -- waltzed in with his. Later that night, CoS asked me for details of what had happened with him, and like wandering through the grocery store without a list, I could only recall the big things. Milk, eggs, chicken. My lying to him, his cheating on me, and the phone call out of nowhere. But the details, the connecting segments, were all lost.

Days like the other day, too, will eventually fade with time if not written down, not witnessed.

The last conversation I'd had with The Ex had been the night I told him I was engaged. After initial shock wore off, he came around. We joked ("Do you need a photographer?" he asked. "I know a good one." He had just returned from a weekend in Tofino where his girlfriend was shooting a wedding.) We talked like friends -- exactly what I had hoped we could be eventually, since our breakup was devoid of hard feelings (as if on cue from Dr. Phil, we had done all of that work long before agreeing to quit) -- and agreed to maintain touch through the occasional email or phone call.

This, I was happy about. With the ex-ex, there was zero desire to see or talk to him ever again. He had hurt me to the bone, and the mix of anger and loss I felt just being in the same room with him was revolting. Toxic. But with The Ex, it was a different story. We had intertwined our lives for nearly six years. I truly liked him as a person. And betrayal or lying hadn't marked the end of our relationship. We were simply two people who, having fought the good fight, decided that our lives were going in different directions.

I called him around his birthday, and a couple of other times since to check in. I wrote a couple of emails to see if things were okay when I didn't hear back. And eventually, I did. It was a short note that said, basically, I'm glad to hear things are going well with you. I'm happy. I finally found someone I can spend my life with. We're even getting a dog together -- a Vizsla, maybe. Good luck with everything.

It struck me as strange. The last conversation we had is about how nice it was to not lose touch with someone who knew you when and how there was no reason not to keep things friendly. That, followed by, "Good luck, take care of Leonard." Two and two had added up to five. And until I accidentally dialed his number the other day, instead of the one I was trying for, I didn't know why.

We made awkward small talk. But as long as I had him on the phone then, I asked if there was something that had gone wrong between the last time we spoke and now. He told me his girlfriend -- the same one he once cheated on me with so many summers ago -- didn't approve of phone calls or emails from me. That she reads his email, checks his phone. And that's when I knew. This would be the last time.

"I have to live my life," he said. "I owe it to her."

It made me sad for him...and for her. I've been there. Where the sight of a strange phone number or a woman's name you don't recognize has the power to make you instantly ill. A place where you believe that if you just keep monitoring and keep checking in order to keep reassuring yourself, it will all be okay. It will all work out fine in the end.

But more so, it made me sad for me. Not hurt or angry -- but sad, in the purest sense of the word. And not because I want to go back there. I don't. But because, for all practical purposes, it's like he has died. Like I simply dreamed him. We don't live in the same state, or even the same country. He doesn't -- has no reason -- to ever visit here, and vice versa. We won't talk. I won't be on the email list of people to get pictures of their new dog, or in a year or two, new baby. There will be no chance encounters on the street, or in Aisle 5 of the grocery store. And with no friends in common, there won't be any through-the-grapevine updates.

Five-plus years of my life, tied up with a ghost of a memory.

So the next morning, when brushing my teeth next to Chief of Stuff, when he said an ex-girlfriend-turned-friend was coming in for the weekend, I simply asked what the plan was. He wondered if I'd be available for dinner or lunch with the two of them.

I told him he didn't have to bring me along. That I didn't need to be there to babysit. That I trusted him. Because I do. Because I'm not going to be that girl responsible for eliminating people from his life. And because jealousy was an ugly, ugly thing that I yielded to long ago, and I didn't like the girl I was when it was calling the shots in my life.

So I said this: "I don't want you to feel like I have to be there. You're friends. Feel free to hang out without me." I said this not just to say it, but because I really meant it.

He said he wanted me there. Wanted the two of us to get to know one another. Wanted the three of us to become friends. He seemed so sure, so solid.

And just then, spitting toothpaste over the sink in my t-shirt and boxer shorts, still groggy with sleep, I knew that my life to this point -- all of it -- got me here. Taught me hard lessons that I learned well. And somehow, because of all that, I ended up exactly where I was supposed to be.

I love that, with this man, there's no worrying about where his head, or his heart, is. No worrying that there's something he's just not telling me. No need to scan his email or phone messages. I love that with this man, there's no keeping score. No tit-for-tat.

I love that with this man, I can count on him. Without a doubt. Without exception. Without condition. And that all that's come before brought me to this place, to him.

Weekend By the Numbers

2008-01-14T12:13:00.000-08:00

1 new gym membership signed up for, 3 blocks from my office, complete with a free training session, 3 free tans, and a $75 gift certificate to the adjoining spa.
4 miles ran with Chief of Stuff at a faster clip than I think my Garmin let on (anyone know if Garmins can become uncalibrated? There's just NO WAY that we ran 11:30 miles! We were darn near pushing it, after all.)
35 bucking bulls were watched flinging wiry, unsuspecting cowboys hither and yan.
1 Elvis impersonation (hilarious) by round-barreled bullfighter/barrelman.
1 seemingly serious injury to bullrider (broken leg?).
1 great brunch at Marigold with friends we haven't seen in forever.
2 great, potential Oscar-contending movies viewed.
7 miles ran with 1 new blogger friend and 2 VCVs (very cute Vizslas) that went by lickety-split thanks to the great weather, conversation, and company.
1 new pair of running shoes (so new, in fact, there aren't even pictures of said shoes to be found on the net) bought to succeed Root Beer Float Asics of Ironman fame.
1 entry into May's Madison Marathon that came -- free! -- with aforementioned shoes.
1 new triathlon discovered in Madison that I can add to my race schedule for 2008.
$119 spent at Triathlete Heaven, also known as Endurance House, on shoes, socks, quick-dry towel, and Clif Shots -- the first (and, perhaps, lowest amount ever spent on a) visit to EH since just before IM-Moo '07.

Mentioning to Chief of Stuff that I'd like fit in a trip to the pool on Sunday if time allowed (it didn't...alas) post 7-mile-running and Triathlete-Heaven-visiting and realizing that I have, indeed, gotten back in the triathlon saddle? Priceless.

World's Quickest Movie Reviews

2008-01-14T11:11:00.000-08:00

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street -- Go see it. *

No Country for Old Men -- Go see it immediately.**

*Be prepared to cover eyes often and sometimes, not quickly enough, and to lose all fondness for chicken pot pies, pasties, or the like for quite some time. Also predisposes viewer to nightmares, although well worth it and all.

**Except for all of those "please tie it up with a bow at the end for me" type of movie-goers. (If this is your thing, see Enchanted or Alvin and the Chipmunks, or something else along those lines.) Such a superbly brilliant movie that the few slip-ups contained within go by wholly unnoticed. Still thinking about and processing it, which means it's one of the best movies I've seen in a long, long time. One of those rare films that you can apply loads of literary analysis to and still not exhaust the material. Dark and violent, but mostly not gratuitous. Oh, and whatever you do, puh-lease do NOT bring your two-year old kid to see this. It's only cute for a second when she says, "Oh-oh" after three people are capped and then laughs. (Not sure what logic leads one to say, "Oh, let's just pack the kids up and bring them with us to this movie that is rated 'R' for 'strong graphic violence' and is a mix between serial killer and shoot-em-up western genres," but I actually witnessed the end result. Equal parts disturbing and annoying.)

A Look Back

2008-01-09T19:45:00.000-08:00

Hard to believe this was already/only four months ago today.

I'm not talented at scrapbooking, and as I found out, I'm only slightly more proficient at Windows moviemaker. With that disclaimer out of the way, below is my look back at September 9th, 2007. It's been months in the making. I finally came to the conclusion that it's not going to ever be perfect -- I could edit forever -- so I'm just going to save myself the brain space and nightly tinkering and put it up. Finally.

Hope it brings you all back -- or, for those of you who only heard about this journey through the phone lines or email, I hope it takes you there.

Enjoy. I know I did.

Oh, and sidenote -- I tried to buy the pics for the Dairyland Dare, but no longer could when I started putting this together. Alas, had to use the emailed proofs they sent out after the event, as I was there all by my lonesome. No cheerleaders at that one to take pictures (and not much to take pictures of, quite honestly).

Last Night

2008-01-07T14:13:00.000-08:00

Sundays often depress me, as they do to most people, because they indicate the end of the weekend...and the start of the work week. As such, I've started to dread Sundays of late.

But if I could have a night like last night every Sunday, I'd be one happy little camper.

Witness the yumminess provided by one Chief of Stuff and one American Pie:

Margarita Pizza

Pizza topped with pesto, caramelized onions, and Fontina cheese.

All that, followed by lounging on the couch with two cute Vizslas and watching 300 . Very perfect night, indeed.

Running Naked

2008-01-04T09:04:00.000-08:00

Reasons abound as to why I love going home to the UP. Family? Bimbo's pizza? Beautiful, familiar sights that bring back so many great growing-up memories? Check, check, and check.

But there's one other, too -- I know all of the roads leading from our little parcel on Bass Lake Road and exactly how far I have to travel on each to put the desired number of miles on my little brown Asics. As such, I leave the Garmin behind. No waiting to start my run until it (slowly) locates its satellites. No staring at my wrist more than the scenery around me. No obsessively checking my pace and trying to match my footfall to make the lower left corner of the screen read exactly 9:30, or god-willing, 8:45. No holding my left wrist in front of my face, willing the mileage readout to hit the predetermined half-way point before turning around.

Instead, headed out the door I call to my family, sitting around the kitchen table (as this is 1. where my family chooses to gather, and 2. symbolic of our collective love of and devotion to food), one of the following: "I'm going to run to the greenhouse and back" (3 miles), "I'm going to run Belagomba" (4 or 5 miles, depending on when I choose to turn around), or "I'm going to run the lake" (either 5 or 8 miles, depending). They nod. They know these miles too, as intimately as I do.

The day after Christmas, I announce that a Belagomba run is in order. "Use the treadmill. It's cold out," my mom tells me. This, I know, is an option. The treadmill is a top-notch one. I've used it for everything from interval training for track when I was home on break from college to Ironman training just last year. And I can see that even though a morning sun is out, it's brisk. Flakes hang in the air in our backyard and snow kicked up from the ski hill floats like a fine mist above it in the distance.

"It's fine," I tell her. "I don't mind." I don't take time to explain that I live for winter running. The way my hands warm inside mittens. The way my feet have to try harder to find the pavement. The way the air burns with each breath. I love that I'm out there in the elements, and once I'm bundled up, it doesn't seem quite so cold at all. I love that I can run and run and run and not overheat. I love the muted crunch of snow underfoot. I love that I rarely see anyone else out there with me, unlike in the summer months when roads and bike paths are teeming with joggers.

I accidentally wake Chief of Stuff when I run back upstairs to dig out my hat and mittens. He asks what I'm doing, and then if I want company. I tell him no, to go back to bed. And I mean it. I'm looking forward to the next hour alone -- no offense meant to anyone.

I'm in a contemplative mood and without my Garmin to tell me how fast to go or precisely how far, I just run. For the first time on a run, I put on George Winston's December and let myself get lost in the piano's haunting notes.

It goes this way for the next mile and a half. I decide then that I need words. Kanye West's Through the Wire to be exact -- it has a beat to it, but not too fast, and is inspirational to boot. And then. My trusty pink Ipod, as it's been prone to do lately, simply stops.

I try to call up Kanye once again, and it looks promising. A few more words, and then, once again, nothing. I punch at the little white dial hoping, and then praying, that it will somehow come back on. Despite the low battery sign I get each time. Despite the fact that eventually, even that fails to show up. And then I decide that this is pointless and silly. Praying for one's Ipod to work? Really? As if God has nothing at all better to do than worry about my perfect run being ruined by this little imperfection.

So I start running again, headphones in my ears in case the music somehow comes back on. And, as I'm prone to do, I argue. With myself. I whine to me that this is a big deal. It's my first run in a while, the first outside run in even longer. (I gave myself the freedom to focus on writing this past month, on trying to finish my book, instead of making running a priority. It's mostly worked.) I had pictured this run since arriving in the UP, and a major part of it was the songs I wanted to listen to -- I had a full list of them! So I convince myself to stop, and poke at the Ipod a little more. Still nothing. Two-and-a-half miles to go, with no music. I get mad, and then I start getting cold, and so I decide to just start running.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was running naked. No Garmin. No music. Not even a Vizsla or two by my side. Just me. My breathing. My footsteps.

This is the part where I'm supposed to say how liberating it felt. How freeing. And, in part, it did. I thought about my form. I felt my muscles more acutely than I normally would. And at the end of five miles, the post-run hangover that I often get, when Garmin tells me that my average pace is higher than I had hoped, was pleasantly absent.

It was somewhat liberating. It felt good...at times. But more importantly, it was a good experience to have. Reminding me why I was out there. Forcing me to me enjoy the dips and turns in those roads I know so well. Helping me to actually feel my body instead of just willing it to move.

And so, for a while, I've decided that I'm going to keep the Garmin at home. To remain free, for a while, of the need to compete against myself -- against what I could do this past summer, or even last winter, at this time. Because I'm no longer that person. The one who could knock off 8:30 minute-miles for a 5k, bike 30 miles, and then do a quick 5k again. The one who ran mile repeats all last winter. The one who ran a 56-minute 10k the day after the Dairyland Dare and at the end of an oly tri. The one who ran a marathon after a nearly 10 hours of swimming and biking this past September. I will be again. Closer to spring. But I'm not now. And for now, that needs to be okay.

But the Ipod? That's still coming with me. No need to go totally naked.

New Year, New Me

2008-01-03T15:58:00.001-08:00

Thought I'd share my top ten resolutions as we all embark on another year together:

Laugh more, bitch less. Except on this blog. Bitching is what I do best here. It's what this blog was meant for.
Read more. I'm already off to a smashing start on that one, with five books down in the last three weeks. And, to help hold myself to this one, I'll chronicle what I'm reading and what's coming up on the sidebar.
Start working out. Seriously. Weights and running/cardio/pilates now to prepare for the half-marathons I'm gunning for in the spring, and adding swimming and longer-hours (meaning any at all) on the bike as we approach summer to prepare for Racine.
Write more. Every day, actually -- both on here and in general. Expect to see The Long and Winding Road become a little less triathlon-ish and a little more mylife-ish. At least for the time being.
Be a nicer person, especially to my family. I have a temper, and they often take the brunt of it. I know I can be hard to take, and I'm ready to start making life a little easier on them. Or at least trying to.
Eat better. Less take out, more cooking. We'll see...
Make more time for friends. You know those nights when all you want to do is curl up with a blanket, a good book, and a glass of wine? Well, I have them continuously, and it needs to stop. I'm sure I'll look back on the problem of more dinner/drink/event invites than I care for when I'm 80 and sigh for not taking greater advantage of living in a great city with great people.
(attempt to) Manage my finances better. Again, we'll see... but the Starbucks lattes are staying put, thankyouverymuch.
Not lose sight of the real meaning behind all of these crazy wedding preparations.
Within reason, do more of what I want to do, and less of what I don't. Sounds simple, doesn't it? Well, it's not. Saying no is hard, but getting rid of the dead-weight of guilt in my life is something I've been working on for a while now. Ironman helped in a weird sort of way...having to prioritize working out over random meetings, work gatherings, etc. And now, time to keep working on it. Practice makes perfect.

Get to Know Your Favorite (or Just A) Blogger -- Holiday Style

2007-12-17T23:09:00.000-08:00

Okay, so here's a little twist on the old game. And instead of forwarding it around to a bunch of people via email, I'm just posting my answers here. Feel free to copy and paste and post to the comments section on this post, or copy and email them around.

Wrapping paper or bags? Wrapping paper. Picking out a new theme every year is one of my favorite parts about the season.
Real tree or Artificial? I'd prefer artificial, but Chief of Stuff mandated a real tree. At least this year he didn't make me hunt around for the perfect one and cut down my own.
When do you put up the tree? Whenever I can get to it, but not before Thanksgiving.
Do you like egg nog? I do, but my ass seems to be allergic to the sheer caloric content of it.
How about wrapping gifts? I do like wrapping presents. I find it strangely satisfying.
Favorite gift received as a child? Saddles. Huntseat one year, and a beautiful Phil Harris western saddle a few years later.
Favorite gift as an adult? Everything that's come in a little blue box with a white ribbon around it.
Do you have a nativity scene? Nope.
Hardest person to buy for? My dad.
Easiest person to buy for? My sister.
Mail or email Christmas cards? Used to mail them. Now I don't do them at all. Maybe someday I'll start up again, because I love getting them. Except the ones with the two-page form letters in them. Ugh.
Worst Christmas gift you ever received? Clothes (when I was little), or underwear and socks (when I was little as well). Who would think to give a kid those kinds of things all wrapped up like it's going to be something fun?! Torture.
Favorite Christmas movie? How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the original).
When do you start shopping for Christmas? After Thanksgiving
Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Just to play Dirty Santa (see #26).
Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Pizelli and spritz cookies that my Grandma makes.
Clear lights or colored on the tree? Clear.
Favorite Christmas song? Two -- "What Child is This?" and "Do You Hear What I Hear?"
Travel at Christmas or stay home? Travel to home -- the UP, where I grew up.
Can you name all of Santa's reindeer? Nope.
Angel or Star on the tree? Angel, or nothing sometimes, too.
Open Presents Christmas Eve or morning? One Christmas Eve. The rest on Christmas morning.
Most annoying thing about this time of year? The mall. I have PTSD flashbacks about working at Victoria's Secret during the holiday season. I haven't been able to enjoy holiday shopping during this time of year since. Oh, and the fools who pretend it's Christmas right after Halloween. Seriously, people, there's a whole 'nother holiday in there that deserves its due!
What do you want for Christmas this year? For my condo to sell. That aside, I'd like for Britney to straighten herself out, world peace, and for a couple of the presidential candidates to start self-destructing (Howard Dean, anyone?) to jazz this race up a bit.
Favorite holiday smell? Pine needles.
Best holiday tradition? On Christmas Eve we get together with my dad's entire side of that family, plus any extras people just happen to bring along. Everyone brings a $15-$20 gift to play "Dirty Santa" with. It tends to get a little competitive, but is a pretty fun way to spend the evening.
Best things in my stocking? I don't get anything in my stocking anymore.
Least favorite thing in my stocking when I was a kid? Oranges.
Favorite ornament on my tree? A glass heart that my friend Melanie brought me from Prague.
Always good holiday gifts? Clothes, books, and, although I hate to give them, gift cards.
Least favorite holiday food? Nothing at all comes to mind. Cranberries, maybe?
Who is most likely to respond to this? Stolze.
Who is least likely to respond to this? Everyone else.

What happens at girls' night...

2007-12-14T09:15:00.000-08:00

Stays at girls' night.

Until someone takes a picture of the aftermath.

How do you know you're marrying one of the good ones?

2007-12-14T08:15:00.000-08:00

You leave for a girl's weekend, and he spends three days transforming a floral and mint green disaster of a bathroom into this. Cheifs of Stuff...every girl should have one.

This girl got lucky.

A Room of One's Own

2007-12-11T07:44:00.000-08:00

We sat across from one another over a brunch of an omelet (him) and carne asada (me).

I wasn't sad, or upset. Merely reflective. But when he said, "I want you to feel like it's your home, too," I found giant silent tears sliding down my cheeks.

I knew he did. I knew that he was sincere. I had moved in somewhat suddenly after putting my condo on the market and receiving an initial flurry of activity surrounding the listing. We had originally decided to move the two dogs to his house across the isthmus in the spirit of keeping my place continually show-able. But after only a couple of days of having my dogs in one place and all of my things in another, I soon followed with everything except for my artwork, rugs, and furniture.

For those days, and many that would follow, I felt ill at ease. Like wearing a sweater that was too small. Like forgetting to do something important but not knowing what.

It wasn't lost on me that I would be the second woman to share that space. That I was using the closet his ex-girlfriend had called hers. That my toothbrush and perfume occupied the same shelves that hers had less than a couple of dozen of months before. That she had been on my side of the bed long before me. And it was unsettling. But it wasn't completely that.

And it wasn't the negotiation of space. Even when I tried to make that an issue ("Well, what are we going to do with all of these dishes?" "Where am I going to put any of my clothes?" "What about my TV/bedspread/wine glasses/insert any random household item here?") he was nonplussed. He boxed up his old dishes. Cleaned out a whole closet for me, and part of his. Reorganized the kitchen to accommodate the bags of dry goods. Didn't bat an eye when I reorganized his reorganization ("Oh!" he said one morning, finding the marshmallows in a different cabinet than he had put them away in the night before, "This is where they're supposed to go.") And did all of it with a content smile. Happy to be doing it. Happy I was there.

And yet. It was hard to shake the loss I felt. Even if I couldn't put my finger on exactly what I had lost.

I had lived on my own on and off for the past six years. After a brief stint living with an ex-boyfriend in New Jersey after graduate school, I packed up and headed to Madison for a job, barely knowing a soul. I found an apartment by myself, and then, a condo. With my mom's eye for design, penchant for finding a good deal, and elbow grease, I was soon living in a space that could only be described as me. As home.

It was there where I would wake up on Saturday mornings, Leonard the dog curled in next to me, and watch Book TV before rising for a morning run or to take myself out for coffee. It was there that I hosted a myriad of Grey's Anatomy nights with a group of people who I would soon count among my very best friends. It was there where I would stay up late into the night -- a bottle of wine beside me, Leonard curled on my feet, and my laptop perched on my legs -- working on finishing my novel or a keynote speech for work.

It was where I broke off a long, hard, six-year relationship -- first laying on my bed in the heat of summer in an unfinished bedroom, and then again, more than a year later, sitting at my kitchen table on a blustery October afternoon. And it was on the first couch I had ever purchased where I kissed Chief of Stuff for the first time. It was the place of my 30th birthday bash, the first actual cocktail party I had ever hosted, where I returned to after running my first marathon, and where my closest friends and family gathered, all of us exhausted from the day, after I completed -- what has, so far, been the best and most monumentous day of my life to date -- the Wisconsin Ironman this past fall.

It was the place -- of all the places I've ever lived -- where I felt most me.

Simply put, it was home.

And even though I wanted to -- even though I was looking forward to turning the page -- leaving that place had left a hole I didn't know how to fill.

I tried the Buddhist tact -- that sorrow in life is rooted in attachment to possessions. That I was being unnecessarily materialistic. And then, when that failed, when the feeling of off-ness just wouldn't dissipate, I painted.

On a whim one night on the way home from work, I decided that the spare room -- the room where my closet was, which was chalk-yellow and shocking in first morning light -- needed to change. In less than ten minutes, I picked out a deep beige, a roller, blue tape, and a pan, and headed home to at least make that room mine.

By midnight, fueled by a wine and the company of a good friend, I transformed that room into something more me. When CoS called from out-of-town to ask how my night had been, I told him it had been great. I had painted. I had claimed a bit of space. I had softened the edge of that unsettling feeling just a little.

And soon, I decorated for Christmas. Hung my ornaments on the tree alongside of his. Hung a picture he had given me in the living room. Placed my family portrait on the dresser in his -- our -- room. And that feeling softened more.

It's still there, that feeling. But it's lessening with each passing day. And I've decided, it's okay if it hangs on. If only to remind me what kind of steps I'm taking, how far I've come, where I'm going.

Because no one ever said that these sorts of things were easy. Exciting. Satisfying. Meaningful. But not easy. That is life. That is love. Ralph Waldo Emerson, perhaps, said it best: “For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.”

So true. So very true.

I Heart My Local Starbucks

2007-12-10T07:23:00.000-08:00

"My" Starbucks, the one on Capitol Square here in Madison, has to be one of the best of its kind. It's clean, it's cozy, and since I've been frequenting it for about two straight years, most days, it kind of feels like a second home at times -- my own little version of "Cheers." Because after all that time spent ordering the same latte day in and day out, the baristas do know my name.

I know. I should be frequenting one of the locally-owned coffee shops on and around the square. Supporting hometown business. All that good stuff. And now and then, I do. But here's the thing: I like Starbucks. I like the fact that they have new flavors every season. I like the fact that they get involved in the community -- from displaying local artists on the walls to sponsoring a family in need for the holidays. I like that they give their baristas good benefits. I like that those baristas are so nice to the few homeless folks who frequent the place, too, as are the other regular patrons who recognize them. I like that they put out the horiscope daily. But most of all, I like -- no, love -- that when I order a latte, it's going to taste exactly the same every. single. time. And that, my friends, is priceless. Because there's nothing like paying three dollars and change (or four) for a sporadically-almost-undrinkable latte.

But I digress. Back to "my" Starbucks. Today I walked in, crabby at the fact that it was already Monday. Daunted by all that lay ahead of me this week to get done before the holidays. And still reeling from several bad coffee experiences in a row over the weekend during my visit to the Detroit area.

I stepped up to the register. "Venti today or just a grande?" the dark-haired guy in the Starbucks smock asked me.

I told him that Monday meant Venti. Always. And a triple. Always.

He laughed. Asked me what had happened to my usual penchant for Toffee Nut lattes, why I switched, if I had had a good weekend, and what I had done.

Just then, a barista that I had oft-chatted with but never actually "met" until a few weeks ago, waved at me. "Morning, Erin!"

They left me smiling into my triple-vente-nonfat-latte all the way to work. So friendly, so nice, and in the midst of so much espresso-making craziness at 8:30 a.m.

Oh, and bonus of my Starbucks? The occasional Blake Becker sighting (twice now, and counting). Apparently even professional triathletes need their coffee fixes, too.

Snowed In

2007-12-05T13:26:00.001-08:00

After throwing a rousing dinner party the night before (well, maybe not rousing per se, but lots of food and too much wine, for sure), I peeled myself out of bed Saturday morning, as I always do, because of the dogs. They wanted out, as they always do.

And as I stood in the backyard with them (I have a backyard now!...more on that to come), thinking, "I should really pick up the yard before it snows," it started to snow. At exactly that instant. Small, fluffy flakes great in number and falling with intensity.

Throughout the weekend, the flakes kept coming. Kept falling. After briefly venturing out on an ill-advised brunch trip, Chief of Stuff and I returned straight home. Errands were put off, to-do lists tossed aside. And we planted ourselves firmly in the living room, alone together, organizing old pictures that we had both kept boxed for far too long.

I mused, to myself, that had this kind of snow -- this kind of day -- presented itself in Marquette, Michigan where I attended graduate school, I likely would have gone about my usual business. Snow in Marquette, after all, wasn't significant unless measured in feet at a time, not inches. And since Marquette is perched on the shore of Lake Superior in the "snow belt" of snowy Upper Peninsula of Michigan, snow there wasn't really all that significant, ever.

But here in Madison, it is. There are more people. More streets to plow. More cars for those plows to navigate. And regardless of there actually be less total accumulation than I'm used to, that makes it tougher going no matter where you want to go. So, this weekend, it was nice to have an excuse not to go at all.

My plan was to binge on the remaining episodes of "Tell Me YouLoveMe" that I had left to watch. After not having more than basic cable for more than five years now, I do now, and have been taking full advantage of it. I wanted -- no, needed -- to find out what was up with Dave and Katie...if Jamie would get back together with Hugo, and what would happen now that Carolyn and Palek had given up on trying to have a baby and Palek had said that he didn't want kids anyway.

But the stubborn little cable box insisted that it was having problems connecting to its mothership, and wouldn't let me watch OnDemand. I fumed. I pouted. And then, I discovered that Kona was on!

Kona, as in the Ironman World Championships.

I didn't know how I'd feel about watching this. Inspired to do it again? Revulsion at the memories it brought back -- a year of double bricks, bonks and roadside meltdowns..the Dairyland Dare.

And here are some of the thoughts that went through my mind and passed by my lips whilst watching:

On the shot of the swim -- called a "contact sport" (isn't that the truth!) by the narrator -- both from above and below the water: "Ohmygod, I can't believe I survived that. And am I ever glad that I didn't watch this before September!"

On watching Natascha Badmann crash her bike, and then continue on with a broken shoulder or collarbone until she couldn't bear it any longer: pure awe...and that the bike leg hurts badly enough without doing it after breaking bones.

On witnessing Normann Stadler getting taken away in a med van: "Wow, it really can happen to anyone."

On watching the officials tell a woman she had missed the bike cut-off by four seconds and seeing her guided away, sobbing: "That's a lot of why I had a meltdown at the end of my bike leg. Because I'm not so unlike her. Because that -- not making it -- was entirely possible."

And on seeing Chrissie Wellington demolish the field in only her second Ironman: "How in the hell does she do it? And running the second-fastest marathon ever at Kona, to boot? Insane. And amazing. She makes it look deceivingly easy."

On watching Chrissie Wellington smile, ear-to-ear, throughout the entire thing?: "She looks how I felt that day. And that's what Ironman is about."

There were so many more impressions I had. It did bring back so many almost-tangible memories. And I was inspired...just not enough to want to do it again right now. But eventually, I lost interest. Because despite all of the motivational and uplifting music, the calm-yet-forceful in a this-is-important-sort-of-way voiceovers, the amazing stories of each athlete out there -- despite all that, it felt flat and inaccessible compared to my September 9th...to being inside of it looking out, instead of outside looking in.

I changed the channel. The cable box was now ready to let me watch Tell Me YouLoveMe. And I felt guilty as I settled into Episode 8. Because I should have been glued to video of Kona's unrelenting topography and climate, to the athletes that struggled to endure it...and themselves. I was over it, though. Ready to move on.

Later that night, I got a voice mail from one two of my closest friends and biggest supporters who were drinking wine and watching the World Championships from their couch in Washington, D.C. They said they had thought of me, and how happy I looked in all of my pictures, and that I had made it look so much easier than some of the stragglers at Kona looked. And that they were proud of me. Again.

That voicemail meant so much. It stuck with me throughout that night as I fell asleep. In fact, it's still with me. Because for me, Ironman was never about Kona, even someday. It wasn't about my time. It was about -- as I've said a million times -- the experience, the proving to me that I could.

And out of that experience, I got so much more than I had bargained for. Messages like that one. So much support. So much -- just so much.

Someday, I think, I'll be able to watch Kona through the same lens as most people. With the appropriate awe and respect that it deserves. Right now, there's just too much tied up in it. Too many emotions that I'm trying to let settle.

And that settling, it's been slow.

Hrumph.

2007-11-28T11:02:00.000-08:00

The greatest quarterback that ever lived? I'll give him that. But this I take exception to.

Again

2007-11-20T12:32:00.001-08:00

This morning looked like -- felt like -- spring. Misty. Dewey. Moist. The only giveaway that it was -- is -- in fact, November, was the slight twinge of cold riding the coattails of a faint breeze.

I woke at 6 a.m. It took me nearly an hour to get out of bed and dress. But it was not because I was tired. It was because of what lie ahead. And it both excited and scared me. The starting again.

By 6:50 I was lacing up my runners. This particular pair hadn't been on my feet since just after Ironman. It felt like forever ago. And they felt strange, like a borrowed pair of shoes. I felt strange, like I had borrowed somebody else's life for a handful of months -- just long enough to train for a race that covered 140.6 miles in one day -- only to have given it back.

But today wasn't about that day. It was about me doing this. Facing it. The starting again.

I waited what seemed like an eternity for my Garmin to locate its satellites. I started my long run mix on the Ipod. And I set out. I would run for 2.5 miles out, and 2.5 miles back, or...until.

Legs felt encased in concrete. Lungs burned. I plodded through one mile, then another half. Checked the Garmin. Only 9:40 miles, even though it felt like I had been pushing it. Only 1.5 miles covered, even though it felt like ten.

The conversation in my head scrolled like this:

"I feel like I've never run before. Now I know how it feels to 'take up' running. How easy I made it sound to people who were trying to start before. I'll have more emphathy next time."

"When people start running, they run-walk. You can run-walk, too. You're just starting."

"No you can't. You're an Ironman, for crying out loud! And this is not even mile two. Get some damned perspective. Suck it up."

"God this feels awful. Terrible. I want to make it stop. Walking makes it stop."

"No, keeping on makes it stop. If you keep going, every day, each day it will feel less awful. Plus, awful is how it felt at mile 21 of the Green Bay Marathon this year. Awful is how it felt when you tried to run through hip pain for most of the summer. Awful is how it felt at 8 p.m. on September 9th. This -- this is not awful. This is running."

And just then, "In a Big Country" came through my headphones.

So take that look out of here, it doesn't fit you /

Because it's happened doesn't mean you've been discarded.

Pull up your head off the floor, come up screaming /

Cry out for everything you ever might have wanted.

And I thought of the very last time I had listened to that song on a run. It was one of my last big weekday workouts before Ironman. I had already done an hour swim, and an hour bike, and I had a hour run on tap to complete the trifecta. It was hot. Humid, heavy air hot. And I was tired. End of Ironman training -- both for the day and the year -- tired. And either in my tiredness or Ironman-warped sense of what constituted a "short" versus "long" run, I decided against taking a water bottle.

And paid for it dearly. That run was miserable. Goose bumps formed on my arms -- my first surefire sign that I'm overheating. Water sounded better to me than any glass of wine, any cup of coffee, ever had before. But I had to keep going. Because Ironman was nearly upon me. And because if I couldn't pull off a measly five miles, how was I going to pull of 26.2 after swimming and biking all day?

Pull up your head off the floor, come up screaming...Cry out for everything you ever might have wanted.

Those words moved my legs. Conjured up an image of me, under lights, in the finish chute. Hearing Mike Riley tell me that I was an Ironman. Everything you ever might have wanted.

I finished that run. I finished the Ironman. But the making it easier? That's never finished, I found.

So today, I started, again. In earnest. Because I found that you can be an Ironman and a beginner all at once. Because I like the feeling that my lungs still burn and my legs still ache a bit, even as I type this hours later. And because it will, eventually, feel better.

Again.

Killing Time

2007-11-15T11:46:00.000-08:00

In my line of work, I deal daily with the killing of animals (I mean, not personally, but with the media fallout or hype surrounding said killing) -- from mute swan and Canadian geese population controls to various hunting seasons for a whole slew of different animals. Today it was the asserted inhumane trapping of raccoons. And deer season. Who can forget deer season?

Over lunch, I was reading the news clips, particularly Kevin Naze's article in the Green Bay Press Gazette today -- "Gun Opener Doesn't Come with Guarantees" -- that contained this little passage:

But by and large, the hunter who has the patience to sit tight in bedding cover or along escape routes more likely will be the one to don the gutting gloves after the flurry of opening morning activity is over.
Whitetails seem to have a knack for disappearing after the first wave of shots subsides.
The deer that don't high-tail it to thickets either are quickly dispatched, or find themselves running from one area to another in an effort to evade all fresh human scent.

And it made me so sad. The thought of these deer running frantically through the woods, trying to avoid being gutted and hung up by the ankles behind someone's camp.

I know, I know. I was born and raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan -- a place where hunting is such a part of the culture that school closes for the opening of deer season. A place where the economy is vitally dependent on this pastime. And a place where you grow up understanding that controlling the deer population with a 9-day hunt is far more humane than letting those same deer starve to death in the frigid months that follow.

But it still makes me sad.

And then I considered what I was eating for lunch -- duck ragu over linguine -- and the way I hacked at and twisted the duck carcass yesterday, trying to separate the legs and wings so as to fit the whole thing into the roaster. And how that duck must've lived and met its eventual fate.

And I thought about my dinner-to-be tonight. My mom has come to Madison (since she's off of school -- she's a teacher -- for the deer season opener), as she always does, with food. Veal cutlets, in particular. Veal is the one meat I won't -- can't -- eat, which started after reading this, but she spent a good deal of money on the cutlets, and I eat meat, and thus, I feel obligated.

And it made me want to be a vegetarian. All of it.

But not really. Because I love to cook. And I really, really liked the duck ragu that I made. And every now and again, I loves me a great, big steak.

So maybe, for now, I'll just continue to be sad about it all. In the meantime, following is a flash nonficiton piece I wrote and just dug up on the same topic that had previously been published in the now-defunct Second Review. Seemed appropriate for today, and this time of year.

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

Killing Time

Interspersed with the golden leaves are a few crimson ones—drops of God’s blood that fell from on high. It’s killing time here in Michigan ’s Upper Peninsula. Here in the great north woods.

Soon men, and a scattering of women, will take to the trees and fields. They will look like neon pumpkins. They won’t even try to be sneaky with camouflage. They will lure the hunted with apples and corn, silence and stillness, promises of the good of sacrifice, and few apologies.

* * *

My best friend cries at sappy movies: Clueless, The Lion King, For Love of the Game. When she was in sixth grade, her dad took her to see Dances With Wolves. He thought it would be nice, thought it would give them some time together, just the two of them—time to bond. But it wasn’t nice. The wolf died in the end, and my friend wouldn’t speak to her father for weeks. “You never told me that they kill the dog!” she screamed at him as they left the theatre. She was still sobbing, even though the movie had ended fifteen minutes before.

“I didn’t know, Pammy. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know.”

The same friend shot a forkhorn last year. All morning she sat in the deer blind her father had constructed just for her. Cold gnawed at her bones, her stomach growled. But there was a slight rustling in the trees behind her, and then it moved up in front, where she could see it. Slowly, methodically, she raised her gun, leveled it at the deer, and pulled the trigger.

I asked her how she does it, this girl who sobs over dead movie dogs.

“Just don’t look at the eyes,” she told me. “You never, ever look at the eyes.”

* * *

In the small rowboat off the shore of Vancouver Island , I can see a flat-as-a-pancake fish nestling in close to my lure. I jig the pole so it can’t latch its teeny fish lips around the hook.

What in the hell are you doing? my boyfriend asks, drawing out the last word longer than necessary.

I tell him that I don’t want that one.

And why not? he asks.

I tell him that it looks like a bottom feeder, that I’m not going to hook it and throw it back just to say that I got a fish.

Erin , he says, it’s a flounder. It is not a bottom feeder. You’ve heard of flounder, haven’t you?

I have heard of flounder, but I tell him that that isn’t really the issue. That even if one of the huge salmon that keep leaping out of the water all around us wanted to suckle on my lure, I don’t think I would let it.

My boyfriend looks at me as though I have lost my mind. As though he just witnessed all of my functioning brain cells leaping one by one from the top of my head into the ocean below like little lemmings.

What is the issue, then? he asks me, badly faking patience.

I ask him if he can imagine what it must feel like to be pulled up into a boat, the full weight of your body hanging from a sharp hook lodged in your lips, in your gums, what it must feel like to slowly suffocate. I tell him that I don’t want to do that to a fish, to anything.

Fish have itty-bitty brains, he says, almost no nerve endings. They barely feel a thing.

I tell him that I don’t care—it still doesn’t feel right. He shakes his head slowly, back and forth, wondering, I’m sure, how he could have misjudged me so badly. Mistaken me for a good girlfriend.

What can I say? I tell him. I am the daughter of a man who brings books to deer camp, and forgets his gun.

* * *

Driving down M-95, on the way to Iron Mountain , I end up behind a rusty old Ford, maroon and white, pulling an equally rickety-looking trailer. The Ford creeps along at fifty miles an hour, but I can’t pass in the face of the long thread of cars coming the opposite direction. So I settle in, adjust the cruise, and scan for a decent song on the radio. I look over the trailer ahead of me, attached to the Ford. On it is a four-wheeler and a blue tarp. Cloven-hoofed legs stick out from under the tarp—four of them, sticking straight out, rigid. Then, some miles down the road, the wind whips just right, peels the tarp back. For a moment I think it’s a doe, but then I see two little nubs the size of a man’s thumb on its head, and the soft black orbs below them drink me in. And they tell me, whisper to me, My friend, this is just how things are.

Ironman Hangover

2007-11-06T07:48:00.000-08:00

Lately, I have no drive, no desire. Actually, that's untrue. Seems I have much drive and desire for things like, say, the occasional (nightly) glass of red wine...or four, hanging out at my condo and cooking, spending countless hours at the barn, taking weekends to travel and visit friends and family I haven't seen in what seems like forever, trying to figure out some god-forsaken location to host a wedding, et cetera.

And now and again, I get the twinge to strap on my runners and move my legs over a handful of miles (or three).

But when it comes to getting in the pool or on my bike, I just can't seem to do it.

I've thought about both. Quite a bit. Once I was almost on my way out the door to Masters. But then I really thought about it. And then, suddenly, I was on the couch watching Dancing With the Stars.

Walking to work this morning, I had a dreaded thought: what if I'm just a normal person in triathlete's clothing?

After all, shouldn't I be itching to get back on my bike and back in the pool? Shouldn't I be checking out programs that are going to make me faster and stronger for next season? Shouldn't I be planning next season? (I got the email update last week from Midwest Sports Events with next season's events and dates, and what did I do? Hit "delete").

Because I'm not. At all. Doing any of it.

And lately, I've felt bad about this. At best it makes me feel like I'm an impostor Iron(wo)man...one who snuck something by everyone else on this whole journey -- like I didn't really earn it as much as others did. At worst, I feel like it wasn't even really me who completed that insane/amazing journey only two months back -- like it was someone else who looked a lot like me and had a life like mine and the same people in it, but wasn't actually me.

And on my morning walk to work today, I realized that it's not the activity that I've been having an adverse reaction to. Rather, it's the schedule. And, as such, I've come to loathe the dreaded schedule.

For the past year, every second of my day was scheduled. In fact, with two to three-hour workouts each night, dogs to entertain, a horse to check in on now and then, committee meetings to attend, and work to show up at, there wasn't even time left over for dentist appointments, grocery shopping, or accepting any kind of impromptu "let's meet for a drink after work" invitations from friends. Every night, looking at the next day's workout and trying to figure out how I would fit those hours in in addition to everything else that had to get done, was a lesson in stress management for me.

And that -- the schedule -- is what I don't miss. At all. Having to do something. Having to be somewhere. Having to cram it all in and figure out how I was going to exercise my dog and get a swim in all at the same time.

What I need to get my head around, though, is that it's not all-or-nothing. I can do a three-mile run, and call it a day. I can attend Master's once a week, and be okay with that. Or try.

But eventually, if I'm going to continue with triathlon -- which I would like to do -- I'm going to need to get back on a program. And sticking to the program or doing the work doesn't freak me out. Losing my freedom to a schedule once again does, though.

In the meantime, today, I took a baby step and started running again. (Amazing how quickly that endurance leaves the body!). More on that to come...

Why Planning a Wedding is Harder Than Doing an Ironman

2007-11-02T07:57:00.000-07:00

One word: schedule. Unfortunately, there are no Training Peaks for weddings. There are just lots and lots and lots of materials that tell you what you already know and completely leave out what you need to know...or else don't tell you anything and just show you pictures of dresses that cost more than your entire wedding should.
Triathlon magazines tell you how to get stronger and faster. Wedding magazines -- from the articles to the emaciated models -- only focus on how to get thinner.
No one has an opinion on how you must do Ironman, unless they've done one (a very, very small segment of the population) and (usually) you ask. This does not hold true for weddings.
There is little choice involved in where and when you do your Ironman, it doesn't matter if anyone else can be there except you, and you're the only one who will care what location you pick.
You can work off the stress of doing an Ironman in training for an Ironman. Weddings? Not so much.
Your mother does not try to plan your Ironman.
Think a swim coach, YMCA membership, wetsuit, bike shoes, road bike, helmet, running shoes, Ipod, Garmin, race fees, Ironman entry fee, endless supplies of GU, Gatorade, and Endurolytes is a lot to spend in a year? Start adding up a dress, shoes, ceremony, reception site rental, chair covers, centerpieces, band, catering, security, insurance, limo, flowers, save-the-date cards, invitations, website construction, welcome bags, favors, photographer, videographer, table set-up fees, linens, tips, etc, etc, etc – for ONE DAY.
No one ever demands to bring a guest or their child to your Ironman.
When you see your team for the 15th time during Ironman, you want to cry out of gratitude. When see your guest list for the 15,000^th time, you just want to cry.
Your best friends don't complain about what they have to wear to your Ironman.
You could care less if one of your team gets falling-down-drunk at your Ironman. In fact, it would be a welcome diversion.
Registering for an Ironman is over and done with in a matter of minutes. Registering for a wedding can test the patience and endurance of a seasoned diplomat.
Very few people have had to go into therapy as a result of doing an Ironman.
You take special pride in people asking if you're insane or what you're thinking by doing an Ironman. It never gets old. By comparison, being asked, "Have you set a date?"for the 100th time is old the day after you get engaged.
Race directors are not out to get you. Not true of reception halls, caterers, or florists.

Just Don't

2007-10-30T12:09:00.000-07:00

So, the other weekend, at a fantastic spa that for now shall remain nameless so as to protect the identities of all involved in this little story, Chief of Stuff and I were soaking ourselves peacefully in the hot tub.

On the other side of the tub, two women were engrossed in a somewhat loud (for the setting) convo. Or, I should say, one was engrossed and the other seemed to be feigning engrossment. In any case, I was trying to tune them out and just relax. But then, after getting up and dunking herself in the adjacent cold tub, The Talker started going on and on about how that was just like the ice baths she had to take after her long rides. And on and on about how hard long rides were and how tough she was for getting through them. Very important-like.

Uninterested and slightly annoyed, I hit the cold tub. When I came back, Chief of Stuff had engaged The Talker in a conversation that went something like this:

CoS: "Are you a cyclist?"

Talker: "No, a triathlete. I do Ironmans." (Note the "s" here. That's important later on.)

CoS: "Oh, wow. What ones have you done?"

Talker: "I did Wisconsin this year."

CoS: "What others have you done? How does Wisconsin compare?"

Talker fumbles a bit.

Talker: "Well, Wisconsin was my first one. But I've done lots of halfs and other tris."

CoS: "Oh. She just did her first one this year, too," pointing at me.

The Talker looks at me in my bikini and sizes me up -- toes to head and back to toes -- and the look in her eye says something along the lines of, "It sure doesn't show."

But she doesn't say this. What she actually says is, "Oh, how was it?"

I tell her that it was fantastic. I had a blast. I expected it to be harder than it was -- not that it wasn't hard -- but that it was one of the best days of my life.

And this is what she came back at me with:

"So, what was your time?"

Oh no she di-in't.

But I wasn't hearing things. Because, when I looked, she was still staring at me, expecting a response. She had actually asked me what my time was -- and in an overly-competitive tone. I wanted to tell her that time wasn't what it was about for me, and that at the very least it was none of her business. But she hadn't asked me how much I weighed or how much money I made ... just my time, and a "it's none of your damn business" response seemed slightly drastic, if not appropriate.

"14:41," I told her, annoyed, and much over the entire convo...like, yesterday. So I purposely didn't ask her what her time was, in an effort to end the exchange as soon as humanly possible.

She told me anyway.

"I did it in 12:01," she said, smugly.

Good for you! I wanted to say. Instead I commented that that was really fast, and she must've been happy.

"Yeah, it was okay. But I could do it faster. I've got a few things I'm going to change for next year. I'm going to try to qualify for Kona."

Are you kidding me?! If she had been in the tub, and not standing above me -- both literally and figuratively -- I might have tried to hold her underwater until she wised up a bit. I mean...you. just. don't.

Eventually, she finally stopped talking (maybe because I had stopped talking to her) and left ...And left me steaming. After all, she violated the underlying premise of what Ironman is all about for us newbies and non-pros. It's not about your time, or beating the person in front of you, or beating random people you meet at a spa who did the same race. Rather, it's about YOU -- doing something you never before dreamt of doing. Overcoming obstacles to reach a goal. Digging deep and getting to know yourself in ways you could never have imagined.

And as I saw on that day, it's about something so much bigger than you. All of these people who took so many different roads to get to that one starting line on that one day, sharing the experience of pushing themselves to the limit...together. The will and desire to take on such a challenge. The camaraderie and goodwill from spectators and other athletes throughout the day. Those things are Ironman. The time on the finish clock? Beating other people by two minutes...or two hours? Those things don't really matter when all is said and done. There will always be someone in better shape. There will always be someone faster. The important thing is that you stepped up to the line at all.

I had to hit the cold tub again just to cool off. Apparently, I'm still cooling...

Forget Milk...Go For a Run!

2007-10-29T08:11:00.000-07:00

Last week, a new study comparing a group of male runners with cyclists found the latter group had a higher risk of developing osteopenia, a bone condition that can double the risk of fracture.

The study, by Pam Hinton, associate professor of nutritional sciences at the University of Missouri-Columbia, looked at the bone mineral density of 27 cyclists and 16 runners ages 20 to 59. The results showed that 63 percent of cyclists had lower-than-normal bone density of the spine or hip, compared with 19 percent of the runners.

Scary stuff -- especially for women, whose risk of osteoporosis is far greater than that of men's.

What to do, then? Stop cycling? (Lord, wouldn't that make my year!...I still can't seem to get near my bike again after IM). Hinton says that's hardly the case, though. Instead, she suggests some workout variety for cyclists (and, one might conclude, swimmers, too?) -- jumping rope, basketball, plyometrics, or running.

Good news for us triathletes -- and runners -- out there.

A Very Small Problem

2007-10-25T09:33:00.000-07:00

This morning, for the first time in as long as I can remember, there was a hint of winter in the air. Gone, for good -- or, at least until next spring -- are the saturated walks to work in 80 degree temps and 90 percent humidity that have come to define Madison for me.

Out came the turtleneck, the jacket, and...the crocks.

My favorite thing about each and every spring is when the snowbanks start leaking into the streets in streams, when the air carries on it just the slightest hint of warmth, and when I can free my toes and feet from the constraints of socks and shoes. My least favorite thing about fall is putting away my sandals.

I love having bare feet -- I even bike without socks. And I love sandals.

Aside from the freedom they afford my feet, the next best thing about sandals is their versatility. They're comfortable. You can dress them up or down. And they're comfortable. Did I mention comfortable?

And now that they're packed away for yet another season, yet another winter, I've run into a problem.

Now, in the grand scheme of problems, I'll admit this is a really, really small one, but just hear me out.

I have discovered I have no comfortable, casual shoes to wear.

*gasp* I know.

Seriously, though. I have a gazillion pairs of runners (which, I should just state up-front, that I have an aversion to wearing with anything other than workout clothes), some runner-like-but-not-runners, and one well-worn pair of tan suede Steve Madden mules. And for when it gets appropriately cold out, I have Uggs (unlike the college girls parading up and down State Street these days, I refuse to wear my Uggs with a skirt and tank top. It's. Just.Wrong.)

But I also have really short legs. All of my jeans are hemmed to work with boots or heels. Which means they don't work with today's fashionable, comfortable flats.

This used to not be a problem. Back in the day when chunky, loafer-type kicks were in style, I could switch easily between heels, boots, or chunky shoes. Today? Not so much. It's a choice between maiming my feet from walking too many steps in heels or accepting the fact that each and every pair of jeans I own are going to succumb to terminal fraying.

This makes me sad. Very sad. But I'm not giving up hope. There are lots of unsolvable problems in the world. I'm guessing that this isn't one of them. So if anyone out there knows of a solution to this little dilemma -- comfy, yet not sloppy-looking, shoes with enough of a lift so that the hem of my jeans don't drag behind me like a toddlers -- let me know. I'll be forever indebted.

Until next winter at least.

The Only Thing Sure to Make Me Cry Other Than My Bike

2007-10-19T13:17:00.000-07:00

Two words: Meerkat Manor.

Oh man! Who knew Meerkats led such traumatic, tortured, hard-fought lives. And that one could care about Meerkats to the point of tears.

Yes, seriously.

I have only the most basic of cable packages at home. Other than the standard channels, C-Span and (on the weekends, god bless it) Book-TV, is about as exciting of TV-watching that I get. But today I'm in Chicago and all-but-chained to a desk in my hotel room. To prevent stir-craziness, I decided to get a little background noise going, and turned to one of my all-time favorite channels: Animal Planet (a subsidiary of one of my other favorite channels, Discovery. Can anyone say, "Shark Week"? "The Deadliest Catch"? Love them. Love them all.)

And that is where I discovered Flower and Mitch and Rocket Dog and the mean, mean Commandos gang.

And today, when Mozart became separated from her family because of the non-drought conditions in the Kalahari that made grasslands grow where and when they shouldn't, I found big crocodile tears welling up where and when they shouldn't.

Don't judge. You watch the clip of Mozart looking forlornly out across her little expanse of the Kalahari, head turning back and forth, back and forth, hoping to see just one member of her family. And you listen to the voice over say, "Mozart faced the most dire of all choices: leave her newborn pups to reunite with her family, or stay to guard them and face a slow and sure starvation." And you tell me if you don't get just a little choked up.

Sigh.

Spoken For

2007-10-15T05:51:00.000-07:00

How do you make a girl's day/weekend/week/month/year -- and so on?

First you send her flowers at work, with a card that reads, "Wanted to take you somewhere after Ironman. Clear your weekend. We have plans."

You take her to one of her favorite places in the world -- a private spa nestled in a grove of towering pine trees just outside -- of all places -- the Dells.

Then you tell her that she's the love of your life, you couldn't imagine it without her in it, and you give her this:

Amazing, I tell you. Simply amazing. The ring, the weekend, the experience...but especially, the guy.

Where I've Been

2007-10-09T10:37:00.000-07:00

Post-Ironman, I've been reading others' blogs in amazement. People signing up for next year -- IM-Moo and IM-Louisville -- for random mountain bike races, for marathons and half-marys. For pretty much anything that will take their entry money.

Me? There was a 10k I could've done this past weekend. Instead, I went to brunch. I cleaned my plate. Then I walked to Starbucks. Then I took a nap and cleaned my condo before heading out to ride my horse.

I've run exactly four times since IM. Actually, let's make that 3.5, as there was a lot of run-walking involved in one of those attempts. I've gone to the gym or to masters a total of zero times. And my bike is right where I left it the night of the 9th -- in my spare bedroom -- still outfitted with IM stickers and my aerobottle.

Other people are planning their race seasons for next year already. Some have even signed up -- as in sent in money...committed themselves -- for their B, C, and D races. This stresses me out in much the same way as if someone would suggest to me that I wake up at 5:30 a.m. to do a double-brick this Saturday, or give up chocolate and lates.

But why? It's not that I have no energy...or the desire, to do any of this.

I just. Need. A break.

And I knew I needed to take one when I went to spectate and cheer on Chief of Stuff (Whom, I might add, given how much he's trained, just killed that course) in the Green Bay Duathlon a week ago Sunday. I expected to get there in the morning and curse myself for not bringing my bike, taken in by the energy and competition. Hell, I considered bringing my bike just in case I couldn't resist the urge to compete. I needn't have worried. With hands wrapped around my Fourbucks late for warmth, watching wave after wave take off on the run, I had only one thought: "Thank god."

So, for now, I'm hibernating from the world of Ironman and triathlon and all things exercise-related. I'm drinking wine at Cafe Montmartre half-priced night. I'm spending time with the pooches and my pony, nearly every night. I'm making dinner and reading and catching up with friends whom I didn't see save for in passing nearly all last year. I'm doing some writing here and there. I'm watching trashy TV like Dancing with the Stars and Brothers and Sisters and Greys. And I'm trying not to feel guilty about not thinking or worrying about next season. Because, I'm afraid if I do, I'll be burnt out so badly by April that I might not even start it at all.

All of you in the throes of planning already, you have my admiration. I don't know how you do it, but more power to you. I'm just not cut from that cloth. Part of me worries that I should be. And then part of me thinks that I should stop worrying about such asinine things.

Ahhhh. The fun it is to be me.

But, in case anyone is still out there, I'm still here...and planning on continuing to post. Just on a brief sabbatical is all.

Lest I Think I'm Tough After Finishing an Ironman

2007-09-28T14:20:00.001-07:00

I don't think any of us have anything on this little guy.

E7 -- a Bar-Tailed Godwit (it's a bird) -- just set a non-stop flight record by covering more than 7,200 miles in eight days, without touching down once.

Oh, and apparently Bar-Tailed Godwits can't stop to eat or drink when they're flying over open water. Seriously.

Read about the rest of her epic journey here.

Mind-boggling.

Thank the Lord for Thursday Nights

2007-09-28T07:49:00.000-07:00

...and bringing back Grey's Anatomy just in time to fill up the hours of not-training I'm now (not) doing after Ironman.

But, omg! A deer?! Burke is gone for good? Sloan came to Seattle to "get Derek back?"?!? "Callie's a bitch." George loves Izzie? Lexie is the "girl from the bar." And McDreamy/Meredith do a non-breakup breakup...again? Good lord. It was a lot to pack into one episode. My head nearly exploded. But the season ahead? Looks like it's going to be a fun one, folks.

All I can say is, it's great to be back in the fold. I missed many a Grey's night whilst in the pool, swimming laps at Master's practice in preparation for IM-Moo, and it made me crabby. Because around here, missing Grey's isn't just missing a TV show. We have a little group that gets together, eats a potluck dinner, drinks wine (main component of said group), and visits before and after the show (and sometimes during commercials -- but there's a no-talking edict during). And in the last two years, I've come to look forward to and rely on this little weekly reprieve from work and the sometimes mundane routine of real life.

There are only two rules with this group (one of which was nearly violated by most of us last night): Rule #2 -- no men in speedos, and Rule #1 -- no crying. I'll let you figure out which one was which. And by "let you figure out," I mean I'll just go ahead and tell you. Because, man! The little girl, blinking "I love you" to her dad whose head was no longer attached to his spinal column...and Lexie Grey making a big deal that George delivered a baby on his very first day. Got me right here, I tell you. Right here.

I realized last night, cleaning up from the Grey's get-together, that I finally have my life back. (slightly delayed realization, I admit). It's what I looked forward to for so long during those nights where I'd spin for a couple of hours, then run, then go to Master's, and finally drag myself home to bed, almost too tired to eat. And I enjoyed that grind, to a point. I enjoyed pushing myself and seeing how far I could go with me. But honestly? I enjoyed last night more.

I have a pretty full life...and a good life...but because of Ironman, almost all of it was put on hold last year. I don't regret that for one milisecond. I don't regret all that I gave up and all that I accomplished, but that doesn't mean that I'm not thrilled now to sit outside on a beautiful fall night on a sidewalk table and drink wine with my girlfriends, or to linger at the barn and watch the sun set over Verona, or indulge in sloppy joes and Grey's Anatomy on a Thursday night. Swimming, biking, and running? All three are a big part of life for me, but now, they're not the only part. And for that, for now, I'm thankful.

Say Ya to Da UP, Eh!

2007-09-27T09:27:00.000-07:00

This morning, the Today Show revealed its top eight picks for fall foliage destinations. At the top of the list? Michigan's Upper Peninsula!

It truly is God's country. Here's proof, taken during my grad school days from one of my favorite places in the whole U.P. -- and perhaps the world: atop Sugarloaf Mountain in Marquette.

But if you're going to see the colors, go quickly. They were already changing when I was there in late August.

Your Opinions Wanted

2007-09-24T15:04:00.001-07:00

So, in my other life, I often moonlight as a writer, and I'm working on an article or two based on my Ironman experience.

For one article, I'm trying to pull together some basics of what people need to know/do to complete their first Ironman. And here's where all of you Ironmen and women out there come in. If you have a minute, please take a look at the list below and either elaborate on it, add to or subtract from it, and/or comment on the various pieces of the list.

And, if today's a particularly slow day at work, feel free to email me (or just leave a comment) an answer to the following question: "What do you know now that you wish you would've known (during training or the race itself) before you did your first Ironman?" (And if you also wouldn't mind adding your name, city or state of residence, Ironman completed -- state and year-- so I could potentially use your quote, if you're okay with that and all, that would be wonderful).

And if you're not a veteran, but an aspiring Ironman/woman? Feel free to let me know what YOU'D most like to know as you move forward toward that goal.

A big "thank you" to all of you in advance. And without further ado, here's my draft list so far:

Get moving . Start building a training base now. Seek out group swims through swim classes or masters classes, and rides and runs through local bike and running stores.
Register . Most Ironman races fill up in less than an hour, so know when registration opens. Competition just to register is as heated as the actual race.
Find a coach. From Ironman-specific programs to piecemeal approaches, there's one out there that's right for you and your pocketbook.
Suit up. Invest in solid equipment that fits. It need not be top-of-the-line, but everything from a bike to running shoes to a wetsuit should be custom-fitted to you.
Research. Read everything you can about triathlon and Ironman races. There are a host of great books, and scouring race reports from competitors' blogs provides a first-hand look at what went right, what went wrong, and what the experience was like overall.
Eat right. Nutrition is the fourth pillar of becoming an Ironman. Eating – and eating right –is essential. You have to fuel your body regularly and with the right stuff, and have a tried-and-true nutrition plan for race day.
Enlist support. Training for an Ironman is a huge undertaking – physically, emotionally, and mentally. Getting family and friends on board for the journey isn't only nice, it's crucial. Tell everyone. Your boss and coworkers will need to know. But don't hesitate to tell anyone else you can think of – spreading the word can boost your fan support.
Train. The hardest thing about Ironman isn't the race, it's the 12 months leading up to it. Prepare to spend weekends, mornings, lunch hours, or evenings training.
Enjoy . You are attempting something that only a fraction of the population would ever consider, and that itself is a success. As they say, "Swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26.2 miles, and brag for the rest of your life!"

Best Idea Ever to Come Out of JLT Meeting

2007-09-24T13:46:00.001-07:00

Okay, so the Justice League of Triathlon has only met twice, but "ever" is warranted, because the idea is just that good.

I wish I could credit it to one person in particular, but I can't remember who came up with it. In any case, whomever does this is going to make a mint.

What is "this," you might ask?

Here's a clue:

That's right. A tattoo booth just after the finish area at Ironman. A mint, I tell you! An absolute mint!

Just be sure to give credit where credit is due -- to the JLT -- when whomever takes this idea and runs with it makes their first million.

(And don't worry mom. That's a random internet photo. I haven't gotten one ... yet. )

Help a Sista Out

2007-09-20T15:04:00.000-07:00

Everyone, meet Krista. Among other things in life, Krista is an oft-commenter on my blog, a hostess-with-the-mostess on her own hilarious blog, and most importantly, a marathoner hoping to raise money for leukemia-stricken Amelia through Team-in-Training.

After a bit of a slump, Krista just had a huge breakthrough with her fundraising. She has just a little over $1,000 to raise before October 21st, when she runs the San Francisco marathon. This post is me doing my part, along with a meager donation (all that's left after the money-suck that is Ironman), to help her reach that very achieveable and worthy goal. Because if running a marathon isn't hard enough, Krista had to throw a $3,800 fundraising goal and planning a wedding into the mix.

So, if everyone who reads this blog can throw just a small donation Krista's way, hopefully we can help change the life of one little girl.

(At the very least, it's just good karma. Click here to cash in on your share).

Wisconsin Ironman Epilogue: Comedown

2007-09-18T11:46:00.000-07:00

I don't want to come back down from this cloud;

It's taken me all this time to find out what i need, yeah.

I don't want to come back down from this cloud;

It's taken me all this...all this...time.

~Bush~

This morning, for the first time in a week, I ran. I donned a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and laced up my brown runners that had carried me, just a little over a week ago, through the haze of flashbulbs and music and cheering of the Ironman finish chute. I grabbed Newt and Leonard, and the three of us set out into the sticky sweet air of Indian summer.

I didn't run because I needed to. Because I have crashed post-Ironman and was seeking refuge in forward motion and the endorphins my body has fed off of for so long now.

No, I ran because I could. Because I felt good today...and, truth be told, because I've felt good since last Tuesday. I ran because my dogs needed it. And because I wanted to get back to that place that I visited last week, and over the last year -- the place where I pushed myself beyond, where I tested my limits and doubted my strength and found most simply, that if I just held on, I could -- and just do some thinking about the whole experience. And for me, that place is me, in my runners, moving forward, hearing my footfall strike a steady, hypnotic one-two on the concrete.

I'm still trying to figure this whole thing out. Ironman, I mean. Perhaps there are some who can do Ironman and call it just a race. But I don't think they are many, and I am not one of them. My father, a man who slept in on the mornings of mine and my sister's first marathons, even understood this about Ironman. This past week he said to me, "That was really something. People keep asking me how it was, and I tell them, 'I can try to tell you about it, but you just won't understand.'"

In some ways, it was like another version of me -- one that I don't know well -- did Ironman that day. Although familiar, it seems so far away and distant to me, akin to a childhood memory or deja vu. On the other hand, I find it hard to view things not through that lens. Even as I enjoy going about my day in a way that I haven't in well over a year, Ironman remains a constant pebble in my mind.

The night of September 10th, Chief of Stuff and I headed out for a celebratory dinner of sushi. As the conversation often goes, we talked about the week ahead. He asked me about my availability on a certain night, and I gave him my stock answer, "I'm not sure -- I'll check my schedule." I meant my workout schedule. The one that had perched on my dresser for the last twelve months and dictated how the hours of each day would be arranged. Like a phantom limb, these habits had become so ingrained that, although I wanted to relish my new found longer days, I missed them somewhat.

It happened again, on the way home from dinner, when we stopped at the gas station to fill up. I should run in and stock up on some Gatorade, I thought. Because this is what one does on gas station stops. This is what one does when one's weekly schedule is packed and there's no time for things like grocery shopping or spontaneous trips for Gatorade. You combine trips; you multitask. And suddenly, you no longer need to.

And this, I'm happy to report, hasn't caused me any great duress. I've heard the stories of post-Ironman depression. Of the letdown that so often follows. But it hasn't seemed to follow me.

The question I've gotten over and over and over again is if I'm going to do it again. People ask this, I think, because of the curiosity factor (Really though, isn't this much the same as asking a woman who just gave birth when she's going to have another kid?). An answer of "No way" means it was so terrible that you couldn't imagine going through that again, and that the person answering is, in fact, human; whereas "Yes" would indicate that the respondent is certifiably insane.

Me? I've pitched my tent firmly in the "I don't know" camp. It was such an incredible experience, this first Ironman, that I somewhat believe any subsequent try would be a let down. It's also a lot to give up -- a year of lost weekends, vacations not taken, phone calls not made -- and a lot to ask your people to give up and put up with too: There's incessant navel-gazing. "I can't," becomes you're entire lexicon; and even if you could, in the end, you're too tired. And all non-Ironman related activities or thoughts get pushed off onto someone else -- grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking -- or just don't get done. So I don't know...because Ironman is never just about you. Because no one goes 140.6 miles, or all those that precede them, alone.

But it also seemed just a touch too easy. I felt altogether too good afterwards. And I've started to wonder if maybe...just maybe...I couldn't push harder, go faster.

So my compromise at this point is that I'd do it with someone else next time -- CoS, Melanie, my sister (any takers?!) -- or maybe when I'm 40, or 50. Or hell, even 60. In the meantime, I want to do at least one half-Iron next summer, and a few Olys and Sprints, with my eye toward getting more competitive. With a goal of a top-three finish, at some point, in my age group.

For the time being, though, I'm just going to enjoy life. I'm heading out this afternoon to ride my horse for the second time. The other night I made homemade soup and helped CoS make butternut squash and sausage risotto, and still got to bed by 10:00. Tomorrow night I will have dinner with my dad and my sister in Green Bay. This weekend I will go for brunch, and maybe to the farmer's market. I will clean my condo and take my dogs to the barn. I will start writing a bit and sending my writing out to literary journals again. I will finish polishing my book and start looking for an agent. Next week I will return to my Master's group, as much for the social aspect as the exercise. I will cheer on CoS in the Green Bay Duathlon at the end of this month, and go to the Madison Book Festival in October.

And I will run, like I did this morning. Without my Garmin or heart rate strap. Without any thought of tempo or hill repeats or miles. I will run to feel the leaves dance at my feet. To experience the melting of fall into winter. To see the look of sheer exhilaration on my dogs' faces. I will run in a continued effort to feeling my way through this -- about what it means, and where I go from here. I will run because I can, and because I want to. And for now, that is enough.

Ironman Wisconsin: The Run

2007-09-17T13:57:00.000-07:00

Love me faster than the devil

Run me straight into the ground

Drowning deep inside your water

Drowning deep inside your sound

~OAR~

Those are the words that were playing as I ran out of T2, as I left the most difficult and dreaded Ironman leg behind me.

There are those moments in life when things seem to get real slow, when time almost stands still, and when you know -- when you intuitively know, way deep down -- that everything is going to work out just fine.

Running out of T2 on September 9th, I felt like that. It was a year of worrying up worst-case scenarios -- from cold and rain to flat tires to breaking an ankle crossing the street a week before the race. A year of having to explain, over and over again, both what I was doing and why. A year of battling sustained fatigue, deeper and longer-lasting than any other I'd ever experienced. A full year of being fueled by doubt and fear and only a tiny, tiny bit of hope.

One whole year. All leading up to this.

And my god, did it ever feel good.

Turning onto Pinkney Street, I found my crew near the Old Fashioned. I hugged my mom and dad, Chief of Stuff, and my friend Melanie who had traveled from DC to be with me that day. I wanted to hug all of them, but I was sweaty, and time was ticking, and so I just said "thank you" over and over again, shared a few high-fives with the rest, and kept trucking. There were a lot of miles to cover still that night, after all.

My legs -- somehow -- felt fresh and good. No soreness. No cramping. No thick, thudding hurt with each step. All of those double bricks were paying off now. And except for a slightly elevated heart rate that stubbornly just would not come down, things felt...well...great.

The plan was to run from aid station to aid station, alternating Gatorade (or Cola after the halfway point) at one, food and water at the next. The plan was also to keep running. I had conserved enough on the bike that I hoped I wouldn't have to walk any large chunks of the marathon. I knew if I did, I'd be disappointed with myself afterwards, and in case this was my first and last Ironman, I wanted to do it right.

The first 13 miles ticked by quickly. Every time I'd be tempted to walk, every time I'd be tempted to complain to me, I'd remind myself, "You're running! You've been waiting all day for this. And how much fun is this? All these people, the great weather? What more could you ask for?!" And then I'd think of other people's race reports I'd read, where after the first few miles, things started to feel overwhelming, or their body started shutting down, or they would cramp up.

I was having none of those issues. I reminded myself as such, often, and that unless I was having any of those issues, I would keep running. Because if I kept running, the sooner I'd experience that finish chute, the sooner I'd get to my Jamba Juice that Melanie was going to pick up for me (and real food that didn't consist of cookies, chicken broth, grapes, or pretzels).

One of the aid stations was themed "Back to the 60's." Leading up to it were banners that read, "Turn, turn, turn," "Legalize GU," "No Drafting," etc. As I write this, they don't seem all that funny; but after 100-some miles and eleven or so hours of constant movement, I thought they were freaking hilarious.

Walking through the aid station at dusk, I felt someone sort of staring at me. More intently than spectators stare at athletes. "Erin, is that you?" It was my physical therapist from the UW Sports Medicine clinic who helped me through my bout with bursitis post-Green Bay Marathon. She was (and still is) quite simply, one of the best physical therapists a girl could ask for. Having done a handful of Ironmans herself (including Kona), she just got it. She had been focused only on getting me back on the road as soon as humanly possible, and for that I could've kissed her several times over.

She asked how things were going. I told her I was just thrilled to be off my bike. "I know exactly what you mean," she said. We had talked before, during my sessions, about how we'd take running over biking any day. Two hours of biking or two hours of running? Give us both the running shoes. Doesn't make sense, it just is. But since I found that out about her, she had seemed like a kindred (albeit much faster and in better shape) spirit. After inquiring about my hip and how it was holding up, she wished me well. "Get running!" she said, and I did.

Until Observatory, that is. Still not done with my dinner (a Mojo bar) and having the chewing difficulty of an 80-year-old who'd misplaced her dentures, I slowed to a walk again up the first Observatory hill. I feel it's important to point out that I didn't need to walk...I chose to. Tactical decision to get fuel in as opposed to trying to wing it. I didn't always like my plan, but it had been working for me all day, so I stuck to it.

Running up State Street to the half-marathon turnaround, Chief of Stuff and Melanie ran with me for a bit. They asked how I was feeling, what kind of Jamba Juice I wanted, and what I wanted for dinner. So many questions! I told them about the chewing problems, and requested something I could gum if need be, like pasta.

Melanie and CoS, giving some moral support and taking a dinner order.

I also tried complaining to Melanie about my feet, which at the moment, I was hoping would just up and fall off my body. Hot spots from my bike shoes, combined with half a marathon, equaled screaming dogs for Erin.

"I want to cut them off," I whined to Mel.

"Yeah, we'll take care of that later. Right now, you run."

Had she not flown all the way in from DC for this race, just like she said she would on the day I signed up, I might have wished (at that moment) for bad things to happen to her. As it was, I could only grumble on my way. She was right. Less whining, more running.

At some point on State Street, either before or after my talking-to from Mel, I saw Xt4, who nearly frightened me with his exuberance. In the times I've met him, he's struck me as a deep, introspective guy. Thoughtful. Reflective. I was expecting some words of wisdom or genius inspiration from him -- something he wished someone would have said to him during last year's race when he most needed it. Instead, you could imagine my shock when I got something along the lines of, "Wooooooooooo-hoooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah, baby! You're doing it, aren't you?! Whoooooooooooo-hoooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!" very loud and in-your (or my) face. It seemed to cause a bit of a scene. I loved it. Made me smile all the way to the next aid station.

And I needed it just then. Because we were sent back out to purgatory. Out along the lakeshore trail. They're not really going to have us do this whole part of the loop again, I thought. And I tried to convince myself that was, indeed, the case. That we'd just run along the trail for a bit, loop back up around Observatory, and be done with it -- skipping the long, dark run out to the turnaround at Lake Mendota Drive. But no matter how many times I tried to do the fuzzy math I knew that's exactly what I'd have to do. The whole loop. Again.

CoS ran with me for a bit on my way back out. I asked how I was doing on time. My figuring skills are fuzzy at best on a normal day, but at the moment, they were shot to hell. He told me what my bike time was, what time I had started, and that I was on pace to run a sub 5-hour marathon. "Sweet!" I said. "I'll finish in time to hit the 'Bou (a dive bar that we all have a soft spot for just around the corner from my condo) afterward!"

He seemed a little shocked. "You sure you want to go out after?" I assured him I did. That was one of the things keeping me going. Mike Riley. Hot food. Finishing in time to hang out with my people afterwards at the 'Bou. Pretty simple, really.

There were lots of people walking now, so I started to make a game out of picking them off. I looked down at my Garmin. Thirteen minute miles. What?! I had no idea it was possible to actually run a 13-minute mile. Oh dear god. At this rate... Just then, a spectator, concealed by the dark, called out -- to me? "Forward progress. It's all about forward progress tonight. You're going to be an Ironman. Just keep moving forward." She was right. My shuffle was faster than what my walk would've been. I got real okay with my 13-minute miles for a spell.

I picked up a middle-aged guy named John who slowed to my speed. We chatted about our days, the weather, and if this was our first Ironman (Mine, yes. His, no). I asked how this compared to Florida, the last one he'd done. He started to fade. "You go on ahead, I'm going to walk," he said. And as I ran out into the dark ahead of him, he called, "You're doing great you know, for your first one! Really impressive!"

That was all I needed. My footfall picked up, and so did my pace. 11:30 minute miles. It felt like I was flying. I thought about all of those runs that had gotten me to this point...and about one in particular, back in August when it was in the high 90's with 100 percent humidity. It was a six-miler after a mile swim and two-hour bike. Stupidly, I had decided not to bring a water bottle with me, and by the second mile into the run, I thought I might die. But I could hear Mike Riley's words in my head that day -- "Erin Celello from Madison, Wisconsin...YOU are an Ironman" and everything those words stood for kept me going. Now, instead of hundreds of miles separating me from hearing them, there were only a handful.

Up Observatory Drive once more, I walked briefly. I chatted with a Notre Dame student doing his first Ironman, too. He had to get up and drive back the next morning at 7 a.m. to make an afternoon class. Yikes. Another woman came up on us and joined in the conversation. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she said, "But there's not a whole lot else to do out here." That too, made me laugh. I was either easily amused or easily annoyed at this point, and there was no telling which direction I'd go at any given moment.

Up ahead, I saw Lisa, Ann, and Joel. They told me there was another group waiting at the bottom of the hill. "So you mean I should start running again now?" I joked.

"Oh no, not at all," Lisa said. "You do what-ev-er you want." Later, they would tell me there was a guy cheering just a little bit earlier near them; often obnoxious, he apparently had one gem: "This is Ironman. If it were easy, everyone would do it! The only thing easy about Ironman was yesterday."

The plan of the Fighting Irish rep I was running with was to walk most of the rest of the way so as to save himself for the finish. But I was ready to get going again, and so I started up. One foot in front of the other. Each time, one step closer to that finish chute.

The group wasn't at the bottom of the hill, but they were near the State Street turnaround. On the way back down State Street, CoS called out to me, "This is it! The rest of the day was a warmup. Now the race starts."

In my head, I mocked him and wished him the same fate I'd wished Mel not long before, even though I had read something similar on IronWil's blog and told him that was my plan. "Race my ass," I said to myself. "Insensitive asshole." Apparently, constant movement for longer than most people are awake in a day makes me crabby. Or maybe it was the lack of coffee in my body. Or food. Either way, I told him about my silent outburst and apologized for it afterwards.

Passing the Inspiration jumbotron on the Lakeshore Path heading back toward Madison, I hoped for a message. I knew Carla, Mel, and the Eggplant had written one. I saw them do it. But next to my number, I saw this: "Erin Celello: Just do it. Bill wants you to."

I have no idea who the hell Bill was. And, in consulting later on with Carla, Mel, and Eggplant, found out that they didn't either. Must've been someone else's message. What they had actually written was, "Brian Vigue, more wine!" to remind me of our past girls nights spent downing wine and chatting, and to give me that to look forward to once again. Regardless, trying to figure out who Bill was and what "it" was he wanted me to do took my mind off things for at least a mile or two.

After that, I started the game of trying to add my times up and estimate my transition times to see when, approximately, I'd finish. Again with the figuring. Again with the faulty math. Finally, I figured out that all I had to do was check at the next mile marker and find out what time it was. If I had a few miles to go, and it was before 10 p.m., I could likely pull off a sub 15-hour finish -- a silent goal of mine all year that I had kept only to myself, for fear of getting tied too closely to it.

Running up the hill near Camp Randall, I asked a couple waiting patiently on the sidewalk for the time. "9:15" they told me. With a little over two miles to go. More fuzzy math. More confusion. Was I figuring this right? Was it only 9:15?

I didn't want to miss that 15-hour mark. I wouldn't miss that cutoff. There would be no more aid stations. No more walking. I would run this in.

The return trip on the Pedestrian Path was lonely. Behind me, someone was running faster than I could've willed myself to go. "Great job!" he called out. "You too," I answered back. "Almost there. Finish strong." Then I saw he had a volunteer shirt on, which he called back to point out. Duh. Crabby? Check. Slaphappy? Check. Delirious? Yup, that too.

Coming through the tunnel and up the bike path, I heard a voice. "Erin? Is that Erin Celello?"

I had no idea where the voice was coming from. The path was deserted except for the volunteers behind me, and a man standing way up ahead.

Then I saw Darcy, who had coached me through this whole dizzying process, sitting on the ground, nursing her week-old baby. She started yelling for me. "You're going to do this, Erin! You're doing it. A few more minutes until you're an Ironman. I'm so proud of you!" I tried a feeble wave as I passed. I attempted a smile. And now, I wish I could've said something, smiled more. Because she and her husband, both Ironmen themselves, with their little baby out there taking pictures and cheering at 9-something at night, was the lift and inspiration I needed. I couldn't show just then how much I appreciated it; I can only hope my saying it now is enough.

A couple more turns, then onto the bright lights of State Street. My name yelled out a hundred times over by people I'd never met. People who were rooting for me now. It was all. so. much.

This...this was it. These last few blocks. They were what I'd been inspired by initially, and for so long after I first saw people and read about people -- people just like me -- taking these last steps toward being something other-than on the opposite side of that chute.

I tried to slow down to take it all in and speed up to ensure a sub-15-hour finish all at once. I looked those calling out to me in the eye. I looked around me, seeing the way the glow of the finish chute fell on US Bank building and Capitol lawn. I let it sink in that in just a couple minutes, I would be in that chute. Finally. It was finally here. And I had done it.

I slapped people's hands on the way in. This I know. But the rest was a blur. I didn't hear the music, or the cheering. I never heard Mike Riley say, "Erin Celello, you are an Ironman" (although I'd later learn that he almost didn't say it either, what with all the vowels and "l's" in my last name).

But I remember looking up at the clock: 14:41. I remember feeling the tape whisper across my torso. I remember smiling. Just smiling. I couldn't have smiled any more. Any bigger.

There were no tears then. I had shed my last Ironman-tear a handful of hours before. I had left those on the early spring and summer roads of the IM-Moo loops, on the roads of Dodgeville and Barneveld, on countless stretches in between, and finally, just outside T2 on the Monona Terrace. No, the knowledge that I could, that I would, do this had finally dried any tears...even those of joy.

Looking back, I think that knowledge had been there all along. And looking back, I now realize that all along, deep down, I had believed the quote, "You're already an Ironman; the race is just a celebration."

But the race isn't just a celebration. It's more than that. It's a validation in the purest sense of the word.

Xt4's blog -- one of the original inspirations to me on this journey -- is called "Becoming Ironman." And that's the most fitting description for this process. It's not that at 14:41:40 I was me, and at 14:41:41 that night I was an Ironman. No. It happened a little on the day it took me nearly five hours to go just a little more than fifty miles. Or when I should've been sipping mojitos and baking myself in the sun, but instead spun for two-and-a-half hours in a stuffy gym sans air conditioning in the Dominican Republic. It was the time where, derailed by a flat tire and early dinner plans on one loop of my two-loop scripted workout, I had to set out the next day and do another two loops again. It was every time I didn't want to drag myself to Master's at 7:30 on a frigid, dark night but did it anyway. It was the epic weekend of the Dairyland Dare, when I went up against myself, and barely came out the other side. It was every time I strapped on my goggles, or clipped in my bike pedals, or laced up my running shoes to do the hard work that got me to that chute, to those lights, to that medal, and to everything it all stood for. Ironman isn't a state of "being" -- as in "You are and Ironman." It truly is a becoming.

And like everything else that day that just seemed to fall into place perfectly, the man who's blog titled just that -- becoming -- a man who, through sharing his emotions and trials and writing, inspired me to start my own journey, and whom I hadn't then met but had since become a friend, placed my finisher's medal around my neck.

As soon as I was through the finish, a volunteer grabbed me and wrapped a tin-foil-looking blanket around my shoulders. "Are you okay?" she asked.

I beamed at her. I had a huge, stupid grin on my face that just wouldn't budge. "I'm great," I said.

"Do you feel okay?"

"Perfect," I said. "I feel perfect."

"Well, you seem just fine. Do you want some coke or gatorade, at least?"

Coke, right then, seemed about the greatest idea in the world. And it tasted just as great.

Then, my team was there. And there were hugs and lots of "How do you feel?" and my dad saying he was proud of me.

We visited for a while -- me, and all those who had been out there cheering for me at some point that day. And although that alone was special and I really didn't want it to end, a chill had crept into the air and there was gear to get and a shower and food to be had, and at least one drink to be ordered at the 'Bou.

Walking toward the Terrace with Chief of Stuff and my mom, Scout, the day felt surreal. It had been one of the best -- if not the best -- day of my life in so many ways, for so many reasons.

"I'm exhausted," my mom said, and I laughed at her, then. She was exhausted?!? But I also realized just how much she, and everyone else, had put into this day. They had shared my fears, my highs, my lows, and my little victories -- not just today, but throughout the past year.

As badly as I had wanted it all to be over, as much as I had been looking foward to this feeling for so long, I also didn't want it to end. My mom grabbed my bike from me then, announced that she'd ride it home, tried mounting it, and promptly fell over. I asked if she was okay, which she was. If only she knew how many times I had done the same thing, maybe she wouldn't have looked so embarassed. I didn't get that out, though. Instead, I just said, "Why don't we just walk...together?"

I said this not out of concern for my bike -- it would be put away for a while, anyways -- but because I wanted this day to last just a little bit longer. And so we walked. Chief of Stuff, my mom, my little blue bike, and me, together.

Run Time: 5:18:43

Finish Time: 14:41:41

Ironman Wisconsin: The Bike

2007-09-14T09:58:00.000-07:00

Photo credit Joel Rivlin

In T1, I started to put my bike shoes on before I remembered that the plan was to carry them out of transition. Since I had an incredibly low race number, my bike was racked all the way at the other end -- much too long a way to run in cleats.

I also made a spontaneous decision to stop at the sunscreen-slatherers. I've been blessed with olive-ish Italian skin that doesn't tend to burn and I never put sunscreen on for my long workouts this summer, so I don't know what possessed me to alter my plan -- maybe just because they were there, and so nice, and calling out to me.

One got my arms and legs and back, while the other touched up my face and ears. "You'll thank me for this later," he said. And that night, showering off the grit and grime of the day, my skin stinging just a little by the early fall sun, I did.

I ran down the long, long, long corridor of bikes, shoes in hand, waiting until I could call my race number out to one of the volunteers. I am a stupendously slow cyclist, and I had been dreading the bike portion of the Ironman for nearly a year. The sooner I got on my bike and got moving, the sooner it would be done.

Finally, the numbers dropped into the low hundreds. "102!" I shouted, and by the time I reached my rack, my bike (yet unnamed) was out and waiting for me.

Off the helix and out John Nolan Drive, I found a steady cadence and tried to just settle in. Upon good advice from a good number of smart people who mentored me through this process, I didn't let my miles per hour climb above 17. I felt good, but I also knew that before long, I'd be struggling to keep those same mph readings in the double-digets.

At some point near the Alliant Energy Center, WIBA-alum Bob flew past me. He yelled something encouraging about how we should get this going, or something. And I wanted to. I wanted to pump my legs and fly. But I also had a plan, and by god, I promised myself I was going to stick to it. So I watched Bob get farther and father out ahead, growing smaller and smaller.

I am slow, I thought.

You have a plan, I reminded myself. The plan was to still be fresh enough and feel good enough at the half-marathon mark to run the entire marathon. That was still a long ways off, I told myself. Doing so would take discipline. Strict adherence to my plan involved not exceeding 17 mph on the first lap, downhills excluded.

I am still slow, I thought. But then I also remembered the portion of an article that I posted on this blog some months ago: "Be prepared to get passed by a grandma on a sit-up-and-beg bike." They'll pass you on the bike, but you'll see them on the run. My plan would work, if I just trusted it. If I played this right, I'd not only see them on the run, I'd pass them back again.

Way back in mid-April, I roused myself for a rare early-morning ride, driving out near Verona to get a taste of the course. I parked near Irish Lane, rode up Irish to Caine, and then the entirety of Whalen, and back. It was harder than I ever expected it to be, and as I loaded my bike into my car that morning, the cold dew of early morning dissipating into a warm spring day, my legs shook out of fatigue and fear. Whalen road had kicked my ass. I hadn't even made it to the loop.

I remembered that morning as I easily overtook the last roller on Whalen and coasted into Verona. I knew the turns, the roads, by heart now. I knew so much more, too, and smiled, thinking about just how far away that April morning felt. About how far away the me that stood, shivering alongside my car, now felt.

Up Valley Road. You're going to feel tired here, I reminded myself. You always do. This section, through to Mt. Horeb, was my least favorite stretch of the course. The inclines were so gradual that I'd always be lulled into thinking I was "practically" on a flat. But what they lacked in incline they made up for in length, and I'd look down, and find myself struggling to maintain 11 or 12 mph -- always -- and I'd get frustrated and or panic about my speed -- always. But I had also complained as such so often to Chief of Stuff that I was certain he'd have parts of the team posted along County Road G and Route 92.

And there they were, all decked out in yellow, Newt and Leonard (my two Vizslas) along for the viewing. There was a moment, when I was still not yet upon them, when my throat caught. I still can't seem to find the words to describe how I felt then. Lucky, thankful, overjoyed. These things come close, but they don't get to the heart of the feelings this day conjured -- and would continue to conjure -- throughout.

It's like Woodstock for triathletes, I thought. So much raw physical and emotional effort, sustained over an entire day. So much goodwill. So much support. Overwhelming. Purely and simply overwhelming.

So I smiled. A huge, beaming, giddy smile. Because if I didn't, I would have cried.

I stopped in Cross Plains, the entire town decked out in a "wild west" theme. There was a saloon girl directing bikers. A guy wearing tiger-striped chaps. Even little boot/spur/horseshoe garland inside the porta-potties, which seemed hilarious. These people left no element undecorated.

Then it was on to the bitches. I heard people around me starting to lament this portion of the course. But I had a soft spot for the bitches, or maybe I just have a soft spot for climbing. Either way, riding them throughout the summer, when I hadn't seen another soul on the course for hours, I imagined the sides lined with cheering masses and the thought motivated me to sit my butt in the saddle and keep pedaling. I couldn't wait to see that...hear it...experience it once and for all.

Turning onto Old Sauk Pass Road, a guy passing me groaned, "Oh god, here we go."

"Let's do it," I said. "This is the fun part!"

He likely thought I was a little off. He for certain thought I was annoying. But it was fun. From the woman on the early part of the hill silently striking a drum with a beat that seemed to speak right to my legs, to the rowdy crowds at the top of the hill. I laughed, I smiled at them. They smiled and yelled back. The interplay was intoxicating. I wanted to do it again.

And I got to on the next two bitches, and then again riding through Verona. I tried to drink it all in. The sign that someone had made that read, "You're doing a freaking IRONMAN!" (Which is, really, exactly how I felt). The lone super-spectator in jean shirt and red cap who would yell, "Lots of love for you 102," or "I'm going to see you up ahead 102," or "Still loving you, 102. STILL lovin' you!" Triteacher catching sight of me late in Verona and infecting me even more with her excitement.

And my team. What can I say about my team? They were everywhere. To the point where I started to worry about them by the second lap.

"Did you guys get to eat?" I called to Carla and Brian at my second attempt at the Old Sauk Hill climb (Bitch #1).

But they didn't hear me. Instead, I now know that they panicked a bit. Carla called Melanie, who was with CoS and my parents and said frantically, "I think she needs food. Or Deet. She needs something...I just don't know what it was!"

Later, before the last of the bitches, I wanted to yell to my team, "Five bitches down, one to go!" but they kept yelling and hooting and hollering. I couldn't get a word in edgewise. That night, they would ask me, "Why did you keep trying to talk to us? Didn't you have enough to worry about?"

I did. That was for sure. Remembering to eat either Clif Blocks or mojo bars at the top of every hour, to take Endurolytes every half-hour, and to down a bottle of Gatorade an hour. There was a lot of thinking going on. But I worried about them too. I worried that they were dragging themselves through the day, rushing from stop to stop, skipping out on lunch. I wanted them to have as much fun as I was having out there.

Heading into Mt. Horeb the second time, my coach, Darcy, and her husband were waiting for me at the bottom of the hill. I can't remember what, exactly, Darcy yelled at me (John was snapping pictures), but I can hear her voice even now. I can hear in it urgency, and pride, and sticktuitiveness. And she kept cheering. At the top of the hill, and almost to the aid station, I could still hear her. I thought to myself that she just had a baby, with no drugs, barely a week before. No matter how tired I was, surely, I could pedal a few more hills. A few more miles. Surely.

On my second time down Whitte Road, I saw my friend, Lisa. "Don't worry about me," she said. "You just keep pedaling. We're here for you. Joel and Ann are just ahead." I'd see them again, later on that loop (now I can't remember where it was, as the day seems to blur at points), and would yell to them, "Almost done. Then it's on to State St. where you guys can relax and have a beer at the bar!" She would later tell me that she thought I was losing it a bit. Really, though, it was so fun for me, that I wanted them to be having an equal experience.

The sixth and final bitch behind me, I spotted the couple on Timber Lane grilling out and listening to the Packer game (tied, as they informed passing racers). Wasn't I just here? I thought. It had been two hours before, but felt like two minutes. And then, bittersweet, came the realization that this was almost over. My lower back and lower regions felt like they were going to fall right off my body. And, in fact, I might have welcomed that. Things were starting to hurt. But I also knew that even if I repeated this race, I'd never get to repeat this experience...these feelings. And as much as my back and neck and whoo-ha wanted the whole thing to be over -- as much as they wanted off the damn bike, I didn't so much.

Going through the streets of Verona the second time, things were quiet...subdued. No crazy cheering. Now cowbells. No music. No people lined three-deep. There were large stretches of empty sections of white fencing. It felt empty. I checked my bike computer. I was well within the time cutoff. Barring any serious disaster, I should make it, I reasoned. In reality, my bike would have had to break in two and I would have had to run back not to make the cutoff, but I had worried about that cutoff for twelve whole months, and I was not about to stop now.

On the outskirts, I heard my name. It was Katie and Angela -- another two members of my team, who seemed downright thrilled to be out there. They were jumping up and down, seemingly (for some reason) barely able to contain themselves. Their excitement caught. I smiled, gave them a thumbs up, and called out that I'd see them back in Madison.

"You have quite the cheering section out here," a guy passing me said. It wouldn't be the first or last time someone would say that to me. I told him he didn't know the half of it.

The ride back into Madison seemed to take forever. I saw my team again on Whalen going the reverse direction. I saw the crew from the barn where I board my horse at the intersection of Whalen and Fitchrona Road, waving signs that would later appear on Gino's stall door. I saw the, by now, all too familiar message in faded white paint on the road: "Last hill. Amy, Tina. Now, run!" All summer I had ridden over that message. And each time I did, I imagined what this exact moment would feel like. I imagined having my summer behind me, two laps of the Verona loop behind me, and a marathon in front of me. I imagined how I would feel, what kind of day I was having. Now, the day was here. I was tired. But I was still moving. I was doing it. And it felt like the greatest thing in the world, even then, at the tail end of 112 miles.

I was suddenly thirstier than ever, but for fear of a sloshing stomach on the run, sipped only lightly on Gatorade and tried to alternate with that and water. Soon I was cruising through the parking lot of the Alliant Energy Center. And after that, down the outside lane of John Nolan Drive, watching the Capitol's dome and Monona Terrace grow larger and larger in view.

I had feared the bike portion of the Ironman for so, so long. Up until that day, up until that second loop, I didn't know if I would actually make it. The numbers told me so, but just like the day of the Dairyland Dare, I didn't let myself believe them.

But now, I was approaching the helix of the Terrace. I was approaching the helix of the terrace much more than an hour before the cutoff. People at the top of the helix were sounding a horn and yelling, "Way to go 102! You're doing it! You're going to do this!"

I melted. I don't know that I've ever experienced a more pure relief and joy than I did at that moment. I had finished the Ironman bike. Tears poured down my cheeks. I was smiling and laughing and crying huge, hiccuping sobs.

A volunteer caught me, concern in her voice. "Are you okay? Just hold on. We've got you. You okay?"

I let them guide me off my bike. Still sobbing. Still smiling.

"I did it." I said. "I can't believe I did it."

The volunteer just looked at me. I'm sure she was used to dealing with all sorts of emotions and reactions at that point, but she still seemed perplexed.

"I just can't believe I'm finally off my bike," I finally said, offering a bit of a truce...a sentiment she'd understand.

"I'm hearing a lot of that today," she said, helping me fish the remaining two Mojo bars out of my bento box, and guiding me toward T2.

Although I had brought my sobbing under control, I still had tears streaming down my cheeks when I heard someone call out to me from behind the fencing going into T2. It was Thomps. I don't know what he said, or if I said anything in return. But he reached out his hand, and although it was filled with a fist of Mojo bars, I held mine out too. He had been there throughout the day, and farther back throughout this journey as mine -- as a non-present (or, at least, on the nights I was there) founder of the Wingra Wednesday night swim group, then as a commenter on my blog, and then as a real, live, in-the-flesh person sitting next to me at the Friday-night WIBA dinner in July offering needed encouragement and sound advice.

Back in August, after I missed the entry for the Racine half-iron and after seeing the results and speedy average bike splits, my confidence solidly shaken, Thomps emailed me:

"The courses are very different. Racine is flat, flat & flat. Moo is relentless. One hill after another. Training on the course is a mixed blessing. You will gain valuable experience about the course, learning where to accelerate or cruise. But, the downside is your average mph will play with your head. So, don't fret about it. If you keep moving forward, you will have enough time to finish."

That email, those words, stuck with me and repeated in my head so many times throughout the day. So, it was only fitting that Thomps was the person I saw at the end of my most feared, most mentally-trying leg. You-will-finish. Even when I couldn't let myself believe it, others believed for me. For that, I'll be forever indebted.

Into T2, I had two thoughts on my mind. One: Hebrews 12:1 ("We are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses...let us run with endurance the race that is set before us") and Xt4's related suggestion that you slow down, slap hands, hug, and just for a minute, appreciate your people who have been out there all day cheering for you without any interaction or payoff whatsoever, once you get started on the run. And two, the quote, "Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing the hard work you've already done."

Out of the Terrace, OAR's "Love and Memories" -- a staple on my running playlists -- was blaring as I started the run. It was still a great day.

Bike Time: 7:42:12

T2: 5:34

Ironman Wisconsin: The Swim

2007-09-12T14:36:00.001-07:00

The swim start, before the cannon goes off.

I can't even say Sunday, September 9th dawned clear and bright, because when I left my condo at 4:35 a.m. to walk the eight or so blocks to the square that morning, it was still pitch black out.

I had laid out my clothes the night before on a chair of my kitchen table, and assembled the pieces of my breakfast (Mojo bar, English muffin with peanut butter and honey, Powerbar recovery drink, water, and Gatorade) so that the only thing to do in the morning would be to toast the muffin and grab the recovery shake from the fridge.

I ate in silence, in the dark, at my table with my two dogs -- Newt and Leonard -- for company. I was trying not to wake my parents or Chief of Stuff, asleep in the adjoining rooms. But I was also soaking in the stillness and heaviness of the morning. There were many questions to be kept at bay (Would I or wouldn't I? Could I or couldn't I?), and just as many that were important to think through thoroughly (What would I do first and what would make the most sense -- special needs, body marking, or coffee?)

At quarter-to, I grabbed my bike and run special needs bags, my dry clothes bag, and bike pump all packed into an old ski duffel, and headed out the door for the 10-minute walk to the square.

Across the street, some twenty-something boys were just shutting down a party -- turning off the lights and heading upstairs for bed. I will -- hopefully -- be half-way done with the bike course by the time they even get out of bed, I thought. It was funny. I remember that kind of schedule -- the party-all-night and sleep-all-day schedule that I often kept through college and even, at times, in graduate school. I remember, back then, feeling sorry for the poor blokes I'd see leaving for work or out on a run as I was stumbling home to my bed. Now, thinking about what lay ahead that day, the roles were reversed. It was them I felt sorry for.

Dropping off my special needs on either side of Pinkney St. was uneventful and quick. So, before the line grew too long, I decided to grab a coffee before body marking instead of the other way around. The plan was a Starbucks grande nonfat mocha -- tried and tested several times over the summer. Funny enough, the barista who I often see during my mid-morning or mid-afternoon workday coffee breaks recognized me (I really do go there that much that a barista recognizes me at 4:45 in the morning, barely awake). "You're not really doing this, are you?" she asked, acknowledging my IM-branded dry clothes bag and bike pump. I nodded, feeling the same way. Was I really doing this? Ho-ly. I mean, a whole year had gone by? Already?!? Was I ready for this? Was this really it?

She wished me well, and gave me a complimentary water bottle and package of coffee beans, and I was off to body marking, where I looked unsuccessfully for J-Wim and Mike, who were volunteering. But the Terrace was a zoo, and I was feeling the need to hunker down in the hallway with my Ipod and coffee as soon as possible, so I hoped that I might catch them later in the day.

I made my way as close as possible to the door we'd be exiting out of for the swim start, and hear someone calling my name. It was Rural Girl . I settled in on the floor next to her, and found myself happy to share in some pre-race chit-chat. The alternative was stashing myself in a corner and visualizing obsessively while listening to my Ipod; but I had decided long ago that this day would be about fun -- a celebration of all that I'd accomplished and all that I'd put those close to me through in the last year -- and that one more session of visualization might only amp my nerves, not assuage them. So we shared a Gatorade I had stashed in my bag and waited.

After this entire year of preparation, I was just ready to get the day started. Finally, it was time to start pulling on wetsuits, slathering on bodyglide, and making our way down to the water. Walking out of the Terrace, I took note of the sunrise: a glowing pink splash on the horizon, and hoped that it was an indication of the day to come. Stu, Rural Girl, Wil, a few others and I proceeded in a group down the helix, but separated near the bottom due to the sheer numbers of athletes and the almost-pandemonium created by Mike Riley's voice booming over the loudspeaker: "Let's keep moving. Everyone needs to get in the water. Pro's take off in five minutes!"

I made my way to the dry clothes drop-off, all the way searching the crowd for my team so I could hand off my bike pump to them. But one of the day's many, many amazing volunteers took it from me and assured me he'd attach it to my bag (And wouldn't you know it -- at 10:00 later that night, that's exactly how I found it). Thank goodness, because I never did see my team. I kept scanning both sides of the ramp for any yellow shirts until it was time to put that behind me, situate my goggles, and start swimming far out into the middle of the course, left of the first buoy where I intended to start.

Bobbing in the middle of Lake Monona, I felt strangely detached. No nerves. No apprehension. It felt like a training day alongside a couple thousand other people, with a few thousand looking on. But I wanted -- needed -- to feel something. This was Ironman, after all.

So I flipped onto my back, facing the Terrace, and tried to drink in every detail. AC/DC's Thunderstruck (a staple on my Ironman training playlist) blared through the speakers, and I felt my pulse fall in line. Somewhere in the mass of people lining the Terrace were my people. They were there for me today, and they'd finally see what all of the training, sacrifice, and fuss was about. I couldn't wait for them to experience Ironman along with me -- to feel what I felt all those years ago when I first witnessed it.

I looked around at the mass of bobbing caps, thinking how each one of them had their own story, their own reasons, their own goals. Yet here we all were, in this one lake, together. Sappy? Perhaps. For some, this was a competition; but for the majority, it was a shared experience...a journey, of which the last 140.6 miles would be covered alongside their fellow athletes, and with their families, friends, and other supporters.

The pros took off then, and the kayakers were asked to hold the line. I swam a bit farther to the inside, as my little area had crowded a bit since I first staked it out. "I'm hanging back for a few before I start," a guy in front of me said. I told him that was fine, that that was my plan too.

"TWO MINUTES! WHO WANTS TO BE AN IRONMAN TODAY?!?" Mike Riley's voice boomed.

Two minutes had never gone so quickly. I didn't hear the cannon, but I instantly felt the water churning around me. Only a handful of strokes into the race, I thought, So this is the famed Ironman washing machine. Hmmm. It wasn't all that bad. As if there was a bubble around me, I found a space early on to swim in, and stayed in it -- just inside the buoys -- almost all the way to the first turn.

The Ironman "washing machine."

That first length went quickly, and as I rounded the turn, I was kicked hard for the first and only time during that race. But I didn't let it rile me. I'm not sure if it was all my previous thinking about what a great, communal experience IM was, or if I was just that relaxed, or if it really wasn't that bad, but whatever the case, I didn't encounter any of the IM-swim horrors that I'd heard about for the past year.

Rounding the turn to complete the first lap of the swim, I felt a strange sensation, as if I was caught in a giant draft going around the buoy. I actually felt pulled right around the turn.

Almost as if on cue, the right side of my back knotted up to start the second lap. It had been giving me problems since the week before, after a particularly horrendous and harrowing open water swim in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, and I knew that it would be with me the rest of the day. It was more painful than aggravating, but I had to switch from right to left-side breathing to try and give it a rest.

At one point, still on the out-stretch, I miss-sighted and thought I was almost upon the turn buoy. Exciting! It didn't take long, however, to realize I hadn't yet cleared the far end of the Monona Terrace, and it was the half-way buoy, not the turn buoy. So I tried to calm my breathing again and settle back into a rhythm.

On the back-stretch, I did the very same thing. After sprinting for a handful of yards, I realized the group in front of me hadn't turned off. They were still swimming. Far, far, far off into the distance. Tired and disheartened, shoulders and back starting to scream, I put my head down and decided not to look at the distance for a bit. Just swim, I told myself. Mechanics, stroke, one with the water, don't fight it. That's when I promptly swam straight into a buoy, knocking myself backwards.

Stunned, I could only hope no one else had noticed.

Soon after, I found myself in between two large men, both with scary looking strokes. Like swinging a golf club, the one on my left would bring his arm out of the water slowly, letting it gather speed on the way down, slapping into the watter with a "crack!" every time. The one on my right was simply flailing -- trying to power himself through the water as hard as he could. Fearing bodily harm if I got too close to either one, I stopped and let them go by, just in time to see them collide with one another. Fair match up at least...

Before long, I once again felt the familiar pull around the final turn, and started kicking my legs and picking up my pace to get the blood flowing. It was no wonder, I thought, that people's race reports didn't get too into the swim -- it really was over before you knew it. Like the race director had said on Friday night, "The swim course director always makes this more complicated than it has to be. It's just left turn, left turn, left turn, repeat. If you want to feel sorry for someone, we've got the bike and run course directors up next."

My hands touched rubber, and I struggled to stand on the shore's steep incline. Two volunteers grabbed my arms and nearly lifted me onto dry land. I looked up and beamed at what I saw on the clock: 1:26. That was a PR over the open water swim in early August by 14 minutes!

I was ecstatic...but also disoriented. Somehow, I remembered to run to the wetsuit strippers and after I quit "helping" them, they were able to get my suit off in a matter of seconds. And I also had the wherewithal to hold my wetsuit in front of me, lest someone snap an unflattering pic of me in spandex and a sports bra.

My "run" up the helix was more of a shuffle. I knew I needed to get the blood flowing, but this was probably the toughest part of the entire day. I just. felt. terrible. All-over terrible. I couldn't help but think, If it's this bad now... But then I saw my mom, clinging to a lightpole above the crowd. She waved frantically, and then shouted to the rest of my yellow-clad team, "There she is! There she is!" The woman who had been lamenting, "I can't wait until this whole thing is over," every time I talked to her on the phone in the last year, finally seemed to be getting into the Ironman spirit. I saw Chief of Stuff and reached out for his hand, and yelled and waved to more of my team. My feeling terrible was behind me. This, I could tell, was going to be an incredible day.

Then, sitting down in transition, I couldn't get my legs to stop shaking. They were bouncing up and down all on their own. It wasn't because I was cold. Or nervous. I don't know what was going on with them, but it was a relief to get suited up and start the most dreaded part of the day for me -- the bike.

Swim time: 1:26:40

T1: 8:43

On my way out of T1.

Ironman Wisconsin: Preface

2007-09-12T14:21:00.000-07:00

For more than a year now, this blog has been my refuge. It's where I've sorted out hard feelings and hard rides. It's where I've complained, pondered, and lamented. It's where I've vented my insecurities. And in response, it's where I've received so many incredible validations and affirmations.

But this week, I've been avoiding it like the dentist. It's not because I no longer have a need for this blog -- I do (more on that later). It's not because I haven't had time, because I suddenly have all the time in the world. Most simply, it is because Sunday, September 9th was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. And therein lies the rub: because it was so incredible, so life-changing, I feel I owe the write up of it something inspired and brilliant. Yet, the day was so free of drama, it went so smoothly and was so much fun, that I'm at a loss of exactly what to say. And that is neither inspired nor brilliant.

So, before the details of my Ironman day begin to fade, I have decided to exactly what I did a year ago yesterday: I am simply going to jump in and start, and let the pieces fall where they may.

First up, the swim.

Snippets

2007-09-11T09:33:00.000-07:00

I couldn't have been more pleased to open up my email yesterday to find that one of my amazing support crew, the Eggplant, had been emailing me "In-Race Updates" all day long. To preserve them in one place, and until I get an actual race report pulled together (which will come...soon-ish), I'm posting them all here. Enjoy!

8:40 a.m. You were the happiest person we saw coming of the swim! Your expression was: "What!? I'm done?! That wasn't so bad! Let's go!"

9:58 a.m. Expression at check point c (bike); "I'M RIDING MY BIKE AND IT'S THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD!!!!!"

10:01 a.m. Sobering realization for Erin Crew after check point c: Erin is moving faster than we are. "She's kicking out ass," Melanie grumbles. Anxiety level among Chief of Stuff and Chief Navigator (Rich -- dad) rises perceptibly: less talking, more intense navigating. Newt (dog), however, remains calm.

10:14 a.m. Desperate realization at check point f: Erin is super human; crew is slow. We must move more quickly, but hover craft has not yet been invented. Mean spirited grumbling about performance enhancing drugs fades into grim silence.

10:30 a.m. Check point h: Erin unveils the presidential wave. Carla narrowly avoids being brained by discarded water bottle.

10:39 a.m. First "Erin looks so good" tears: Melanie.

11:25 a.m. #97, in pink, is fake Erin. Oft mistaken for the real thing, and usually about 5 mins ahead. Sleep-deprived, slap-happy cheering seems to be a hit with the participants. Example:Chief of Stuff to biker: "fancy bike!" Biker to Chief of Stuff "thanks!" Chief of Stuff and Eggplant: much giggling.

11:46 a.m. Crew outsmarts self at check point K: sees Erin coming, assumes it's Fake Erin, only starts cheering when real Erin waves. Discussion of how to improve performance ends abruptly when more urgent topic of lunch is raised.

12:20 p.m. En route to checkpoint F, Eggplant becomes panicked that cookies have gone missing. Crisis averted when Scout (mom) finds them under Eggplant's seat.

12:32 p.m. First to snooze (non-dog category): tie -- Melanie and Scout (post-lunch napping).

1:05 p.m. At checkpoint F, special agent Brian V. pulls out the binocs in effort to avoid repeat of Fake Erin debacle. Gives himself a "whoop whoop" for coming up with the idea.

1:57 p.m. Just to be clear: you've got about 30 miles to go and you look like you're just out for a weekend spin. Good work!

2:45 p.m. Crew runs from check point K, gets in the car and drives to check point l. En route, we gulp some water. Run, rolling transportation, water? Yes, it was our triathlon.

4:02 p.m. Yes, the frequency and, some could argue, quality of the updates may be suffering. I fear I may have hit the dreaded IronFan wall. In great need of napping. But I will push on.

4:26 p.m. Transition 1 expression: startled delight. Transition 2 expression: if possible...more startled with delight than before? And more tears from Ms. Melanie.

5:31 p.m. Marathon mile 6. Erin looking just as good as she did coming out of the water, riding the bike... I mean....we're all wiped out!

6:59 p.m. Jordan-esque high five at mile 12!

7:43 p.m. Team member 1 to team member 2: "I just nursed, so I can have a margarita." Team member 2: "oh, if that's the way it works maybe I can have a baby!"

9:47 p.m. Same expression at the finish as at the transitions, except this time you believed it. Congratulations! Great job!

In-Race Awards:

Snack MVP: Melanie Fonder (hershey's kiss peanut butter cookies!!).
Most (justifiably) in need of hershey's kiss peanut butter cookie: Chief of Stuff.
Most likely to cuddle up on lap to sneak nose in cookie bag: Newt.
Most likely to fall for Newt's cuddle up on lap to sneak nose in cookie bag trick: the Eggplant.
Best British accent: Joel.
Most confused about trip destination: Leonard the Dog (despite his loudly-expressed expectations, hoped-for barn never materializes).
Best Leonard sound effect describer: Scout ("he sounds like a Canadian goose.")

14:41:41

2007-09-10T15:43:00.001-07:00

That's the time it took me to swim 2.4 miles, bike 112, and run a marathon yesterday. I'm crazy happy today, and am still having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that a) I really did this; b) I don't have to figure out how to fit a 3 to 4-hour workout tomorrow -- or ever again if I so choose; and c) that this thing I've been focused on and working toward for more than a year is, in fact, over.

So, for the time being, I'm just letting it all sink in.

At some point, I'll post a full race report. Until then, I want to say a simple, but deeply heartfelt "Thank You" to everyone who was out there with me yesterday -- in person and in spirit -- to those athletes that I covered the miles with, to my amazing amazing amazing support crew, to all those who sent emails and texts and good thoughts my way.

I might have been able to cover the distance on my own, but it never would have been as fulfilling or special a journey as all of you made it. For the entire day yesterday, I couldn't stop smiling (honestly, there were a few spectators who repeatedly referred to me as "The Smiling Girl" whenever I rode by) because my thoughts kept alternating between two things: 1) Oh my god, I'm doing an IRONMAN!; and 2) How did I happen into this amazing life?

At one point, I thought that everyone should have the chance to do this, just to see how incredible that kind of support feels. Then I realized that doing that much in one day was most idea's person of hell. Honestly, though, there are very few days in my life in which I've had so much fun -- really. And you are the reason why. I can only hope that yesterday was, for all of you, an iota of the fun that I had.

So, thank you, thank you, thank you...even though those words are not nearly enough.

Notes from Ironman Village

2007-09-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

T-18 hours. Wow. But my bike is racked, my gear bags are checked, and not much to do now but catch a movie, take a nap, have dinner with a good portion of my favorite people, and try to get some sleep.

In the meantime, though, I'd like to propose a couple of rules given my observations in Ironman Village today:

No spandex unless you have bike shoes on, are just about to put them on, or have very recently taken them off. Spandex is not acceptable attire on State Street, at the Farmer's Market, or at brunch. And checking in your bike and bags is not so strenuous a process that it requires full-body spandex. Promise -- I just did it in a t-shirt and jeans; no chafing to speak of.

Why, why, why the head-to-toe Ironman regalia? If it's because you're just so gosh-darned excited to be here doing Ironman, well then, I guess you get a pass. You can't fault a person for exuberance. But if you're doing it just so everyone else knows you're doing Ironman? Ugh. Don't.

I'm sure I'll think of others...feel free to add your own. But for now, that's all I've got. Naptime now.

Mastering the Inner Game

2007-09-07T09:49:00.000-07:00

People keep asking me how I feel. They expect me to be scared or nervous...or both. And quite honestly, that's what I expected, too.

But truth be told, I'm neither. I keep waiting for those feelings to come. For the jittery panic to set it. For things to lose focus and to get caught up in the hugeness of it all.

I thought it would come when I first walked through Ironman Village. Nothing.

I thought it would come at registration yesterday. Nothing.

I thought, maybe, it would come at the Ironman store, or seeing all of the buffed-up Ironmen and Women walking around the square, or when I started to set out my gear. Nothing, nothing, and nothing.

I'm strangely calm in the midst of all of this -- a technique I think I've learned through horse showing. Showing horses -- especially at big shows like Congress and the World show where the warm-up rings, holding pens, and the grounds in general are like a nine-ring circus -- nerves are not only useless; they're dangerous. Some riders might have had good goes with jangled nerves, but those rides are flukes. The riders who win, who put in completely solid rides, are in total control of their emotions. They don't get themselves all riled up with thoughts of "Ohmygosh, this is the WORLD show. There's so-and-so, and so-and-so...and what if I mess up. What if I miss a stride" and on and on. They treat it as just another ride around just another course.

I'm trying to do the same with Ironman. And, apparently, it's working.

Like last night, when, at the recommendation of my coach I tried "floating."

From what I've read, athletes like pro football players and Olympic track stars have been using floating since the early 80's.

I can see why.

First of all, it's an incredibly relaxing experience. You lie in a dark tank in 18-inches of water in which 1,000 pounds of epsom salts have been dissolved. It's completely dark, and the temperature of the water and the air inside the tank matches the surface temperature of your skin, so you do literally feel like you're floating.

Some people spend the time meditating. Some fall asleep. I decided well ahead of time to spend the hour visualizing.

I visualized race morning -- waking up, getting dressed, walking up to the square (with my wetsuit, Xt4!), visualizing before the race in the Terrace's hallway (not often you can visualize yourself visualizing, but hey, Ironman's not your everyday experience), and bobbing in the water before the cannon went off. I visualized the noise, the crowd, the energy, and staying calm throughout. Horse show calm. I visualized getting kicked and batted around on the first lap, and finding my own space as well as being tired in my arms and neck and shoulders on the second. I saw myself getting out of the water, disoriented, and taking my time to get oriented and find a stripper. I visualized that I'd feel tired running up the helix and I wouldn't let that bother me. I visualized telling myself that it would be a long, long day, and I'd feel tired at lots of times throughout.

Then I visualized the bike course. The whole thing: the large rollers of Whalen, the climb on Valley Road that never looks like much but sucks my breath like a vacuum, the dreaded (for me) Route G and it's little climbs that never feel little, the three little pigs on the downslope of Rt. 92, the hill into Mt. Horeb, Whitte Road's rollers, the "wheeeee!" Garfoot section, the dreaded (for everyone) Old Sauk Pass Hill, the next two bitches (which I secretly like), and making my way back into Verona (which always feels long, but will hopefully be better because of the great crowds on raceday). Then I did it again. And I tried to envision how I'd feel on the way back. Tired, maybe, on Whalen, but at the end of that, it was going to be all downhill. And then I'd get to run.

I visualized getting off my bike, taking off my shoes, and running (or walk-running) into T2. I visualized getting dressed, putting on bug spray, strapping on my fuel belt, and slowly getting my legs going -- out the door and around a few blocks, finding a rhythm before I ran the gauntlet of the great crowd on MLK. I pictured walking through the aid stations, alternating water/food and Gatorade. I felt the desperation that I'd feel at mile 14-18 (because I always do. Those are the hardest.), and telling myself, "Even the Pros hurt. Everyone hurts. Just keep running. The only way out is through." I pictured myself feeling renewed at Mile 20, ready to run the last six miles of this journey just the way I powered through the last six miles of my Dairyland Dare/Olympic Tri weekend. And I pictured the finish line. The sounds, smells, and feelings that would come then.

I left the float feeling relaxed and prepared even more than when I had entered.

And now, I'm off to a massage appointment to get this pesky issue I've been having with my back and neck worked out.

I'll leave you with some pics from registration yesterday, and one of the BEAUTIFUL flowers my DC girls (Anne, Kelly, and Deanna) sent me this afternoon -- thanks so much, girls. Much love!

And as one last note, since this may be my final post for a couple days, I just want to also thank everyone who has emailed me notes of encouragement. Each and every one has moved me to tears (Again with the crying, I know!!!), and your support and love is overwhelming and humbling all at once. This experience has taught me many, many lessons, the most important of which is just how blessed I really am.

Of Eggplants and Walruses

2007-09-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

Below is an email from a friend who has been one of my greatest cheerleaders through this whole thing. So sweet and so damn funny all at the same time, it was just too good to be read only by my eyes, and contains some great sentiments for others toeing the line on Sunday. So read, and enjoy.

I was reading your blog post with that Beatles song "I am the walrus"going through my head; not sure why—I haven't heard that song in years. But that probably has something to do with the following thought that popped into my head while reading the section where you describe your doubts, experienced at past iron mans, about whether you could ever do one: "Erin must have thought she was the walrus."

So…that's a weird thought. You are nothing like a walrus. Walruses have no arms, for example. You have two. Your teeth are less obtrusive. But I think it is safe to say that walruses are ill equipped to complete triathlons. Yes, let's concede that they could do the swim (unless distracted by some yummy sea cucumber passing by below). But the bike would present challenges (no feet). So would the run (same problem).

That ain't you. It's funny to think of you doubting that you could do the Ironman. Not because the Ironman isn't a huge challenge. It's just that I can't imagine that anyone who knows you ever doubted that you could do it. Ridiculous! You're a pocket rocket! Sleek and sparky. Filled with rocket fuel!

Nah, no one had any doubt. And does it need to be said that what you have done already is an extraordinary accomplishment, that the days of training and suffering are the accomplishment, and that now you should be basking in the giddy glow of doing something a step past reasonable limits? I hope you can carry that giddy glow around with you, somewhere in your weary deep down, this weekend. That should be energy, hard earned, that doesn't go away.

Of course, in the end, races are stupid. Not the participating in them—the results. One does or doesn't do well, a lot of time, for stupid reasons. But in your training you've displayed grit, guts, and, maybe most of all, grace. That's victory, at least to my mind. Easy for me to say, I suppose. I'm more eggplant than athlete these days. But it's true.

So, I guess what I am saying is: I am the eggplant. You aren't the walrus. Goo goo ca choo. Go Erin! You've already won.

With supporters like this in my corner, I have indeed. Thanks...to all of you.

Housekeeping

2007-09-05T13:11:00.000-07:00

There are certain things I hate doing around the house. Cleaning out the dishwasher, vacuuming, and putting a garbage bag back into the trash can after emptying it are among those things. Color-coding my closets, cleaning out the refrigerator, organizing my cabinets, or alphabetizing my CDs are not among them.

So, in an effort to channel all of my energy these last few days, I've decided to do what I do best: get as organized as possible.

This means that, among other things, you'll find below: 1) an itinerary for Friday - Sunday, and 2) a list of what is going in each of my transition and special needs bag (as I'm sure people are waiting on the edges of their seats for that one...but really, if you spot something missing that should be in there, please tell me), and 3) how anyone not in Madison can check in periodically and see how I'm doing throughout the day.

For those of you coming to Mad-town (or those who live here but are also coming out) to see this spectacle first-hand, first of all, I want to say thank you -- from the bottom of my heart and feet and everything else. You have no idea how much it will help to see friendly faces out there...and how much it means to me. I can't wait to share it with you.

And if you're so inclined, stop by Ironman Village and type in some inspirational/motivational/encouraging words at the message kiosk. If all goes well, those messages will flash up on a screen for me to read when I pass over a chip mat. I'm guessing that by that point in the day, I'll need all the inspiration I can get.

Ok, now on to the obsessive list-making, if for no one else but me.

ITINERARY

Friday

2 p.m. -- massage

5 p.m. -- swim, 20 minutes

6 p.m. -- pasta dinner

7:30 p.m. -- athlete meeting, Monona Terrace

Saturday

8:30 a.m. -- brunch, Marigold?

10 a.m. -- bike and gear check-in

10:30 a.m. (ish) -- walk around IM Village/Farmer's market

Afternoon -- dog park, then off feet (nap or movie, or both)

7 p.m. -- dinner at the Vigues!

Sunday

4:30 a.m. -- breakfast

5:00 a.m. -- body marking and transition opens

5:30 a.m. -- coffee and visualization (bring Ipod)

6:30 a.m. -- transition closes. Hand off Ipod to (someone?) on the way down to the water.

7:00 a.m. -- race starts!

7 a.m. - 10 (god-willing not longer) p.m. -- race, race, race. Then race some more.

10-ish p.m. -- meet team at walkway in front of Monona Terrace under giant Gatorade bottle, then EAT.

SPECIAL NEEDS/TRANSITION LIST

On Bike:

Gatorade

Water

Aerobottle with Gatorade

5 packages of Clif Blocks

3 Clif Bars

Nuun container w/Endurolytes

Baggie with Advil

2 spare tubes

Air pump

Co2s

Spare tire

Bike number

Nutrition plan postcard

Race Morning:

Gatorade to sip on

$$$ for Starbucks

Bike shorts

Sports bra

Black Under Armour pants

Black Patagonia fleece

Ipod

Body Glide

Wetsuit

IM Swim cap

Goggles

Bike shoes (carry out of T1)

Pink Zoot sleeveless jersey

Gloves

Helmet

Duffel bag

*Black Nike zip-up

*Rain jacket

Bike Special Needs:

Combos

Peanut butter sandwich, toasted

Extra Clif Blocks

Extra Clif Bars

Endurolytes

Face wipes

Tubes and Co2 canisters, taped together

*Red Nike wind jacket

*Garbage bag or rain poncho

T2:

Pink Nike shorts

Coolmax tank top

White sports bra

Nike long-sleeved black hoodie

Hat

Socks

Asics runners

Garmin and HR monitor

Race belt with number

Nuun container (endurolytes and Advil)

Face wipes

Body Glide

Bug spray

*Running tights

*Black Nike Took

Run Special Needs:

Endurolytes

Socks

Brooks runners

Body Glide

*Mid-weight running pants

*Other red Nike windbreaker

*Garbage bag or rain poncho

*In case of inclement weather

Post-Ironman (in Dick Pond bag to give to cheerers)

Teva Flip-flops

Fleece running pants

Sports bra

Long-sleeved t-shirt

Black zip-up fleece

CHECKING IN FROM AFAR

You can go here to look up my progress in real time by searching on my bib number (which is 102) after linking to "Track an Athlete." And if you're awake and interested, I'm hoping to be crossing the finish line sometime between 10:00 and 11:59, which you can catch LIVE here.

The Start of It All

2007-09-04T11:30:00.000-07:00

I remember this time last year. When I was still mulling things over. When I would take extra-long lunches to wander MLK Drive, meandering through Ironman Village, watching athletes with impossible physiques ready themselves for this one day. This one race.

I would get a coffee and sit on a bench on the square, steeping in the electricity of Ironman, the air thick with it. I would pick out a muscled-yet-sinewy athlete and think, "I could never look like that," and then see another, more common-looking person and think, "If that person could do this..." I would turn over and over again the prospect of taking on something so gigantic. I would feel confident one minute, and the next, wonder if I'd fall flat on my face -- both figuratively and literally -- attempting an Ironman.

After all, I didn't have a bike. I didn't know how to change a tire. I hadn't swum competitively since I was ten years old. I hadn't done a triathlon since high school. I didn't know what riding 50 miles felt like, much less twice that. I had no business even thinking about taking on Ironman.

What I did know, though, was that if it came down to guts and determination, then I could do this. What I did have was the tenacity to see it through.

Because, I knew a thing or two about overcoming adversity. In high school I had blown out each of my knees in consecutive years and undergone reconstructive surgery on both, and afterwards, weathered 18 months of nearly consecutive, grueling physical therapy without missing one season of track or ski racing. My senior year, I even qualified for the Junior Olympics. Fast forward to the Mad City Marathon last year -- a race I didn't even know I'd be able to run, given the history my knees and I have. That day, the mercury reached 97 degrees (after not eeking out a reading above 70's in the months before), the pace leader I was running with passed out, the asphalt on the beltline buckled, and race officials closed the course down nearly two hours early because medical demands were more than they could keep up with. It was a hell of a day to run a first marathon, but I finished.

And now, fast-forward to today.

I find myself at Starbucks on MLK Drive (where I find myself most days at some point or another). I am waiting to begin my very last Ironman-focused coaching session during which we'll go over my race plan -- from clothing choices to swim position. I am four-and-one-half days from stepping up to the starting line of my first, and perhaps last, Ironman. I look up and see this, and tears spring hot in my eyes:

I don't think I've cried this much since I was a 13-years-old. I'm not normally a crier. But Ironman does something to you. This experience takes turns taunting and testing you. Then, in the darkest, toughest moments, it rewards you with a sunrise, a loved one's words of support or encouragement, a struggle survived, a lesson learned. It makes you a raw bundle of emotions -- fear, anticipation, dread, pride, gratitude, joy, and so many others. It breaks you and remakes you a hundred times over.

It's starting now. The lightpost banners have gone up. Grey and yellow garbage cans sit at the ready on corners around Capitol square. The Inn on the Park has changed its sign to welcome the trickle of Ironman athletes that will, as the days progress, become a flood.

Reading that little sign this afternoon made goosebumps rise along my arms. Because this year, I'm part of it. I will be one of those people I have watched for years -- out there, giving everything I have, pushing myself to limits I never before dreamt possible.

During our meeting, I told my coach that I finally feel ready. I told her two months or so ago that if need be, I could do the race the following day. Physically, I had put the time in. But mentally, I was a mess. I was uncertain. I was anxious. I was afraid. Afraid of not being able to control my nerves in those pre-dawn hours leading up to the swim. Afraid of 2.4 miles in the water. Afraid of missing a cutoff. Afraid that I didn't have what it might take to gut it out on race day.

Two months ago, I hadn't done a double-brick. I hadn't left myself and everything I had on the 126 miles of road of the Dairyland Dare. I hadn't turned around and raced and Oly the next morning. I hadn't swum a punishing 2.4 miles in Lake Monona, and then turned around and done it again, and yet again, in Iron Mountain's Lake Antione.

Each of those events sounds, even as I write them, insipid and bland. They involved a distance to cover, and I covered it. But to me, they represent so much more. They represent moments of despair and difficulty, and physical discomfort and pain -- greater than I ever might have imagined. Moments that required more tenacity and fortitude to get through than I ever thought I had. They represents moments where I learned something about myself on the most basic, primal level...and moments that elevated me to a higher plane. They represent deep valleys, not high peaks, and the hard-fought growth that comes from feeling as low as you've ever felt -- physically, mentally, and emotionally -- and embracing the lowness until you're able to crawl through to the other side.

And they represent the amazing kindness of people. The man who pulled up next to me to chat for a while at mile 100-something on my third Verona loop (in one weekend) when I was hot and tired and tired of being out there alone (and going much, much slower than he was). The cards (and words) of encouragement from my friends and family that seem to have arrived in a steady stream throughout the year. The cheers of complete strangers while racing alone. The incredible outpouring of support from other bloggers and blog-watchers, some who have come to feel like friends, whether I've met them in person or not.

Today, I'm not only ready, I am excited. All of the hard work is done. As they say, "Nothing left to do but the doing." I know there will be tough moments throughout the day. I know there will be some dark places. But the only way out is through. And the difference on the 9th is that so many of my favorite people will be there with me to cheer me through the valleys, and high-five me at the peaks. Finally, I will get to share this thing with all of them. And I will get to share the day, the experience, with all of those other athletes whose stories I've followed and been inspired by and whom I've gotten to know over the past year, either vicariously though the blogosphere or in person.

On its face, the Ironman is simply a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike, and a 26.2-mile run. But each of us on Sunday's starting line has taken a dizzying array of routes to take this one, final road together, and we know better.

This Thing Called Ironman

2007-08-31T09:29:00.000-07:00

Every person attempts this race for their own reasons and the journey to the race affects each person differently. But there are also so many commonalities. It's a powerful experience -- one that I don't think you can get a full understanding for unless you're actually inside it.

Now, with the race quickly closing in on all of us while, at the same time, taper slows us all down, there finally seems time to look back and reflect on just how far we've each come.

There's Steve-in-a-Spedo's fantastic post on "Inspiration" here and IronWil's posts titled "Gridiron" and "Chasing Ironman." And IM Able recently composed a really powerful, from-the-heart post titled "Quiet Conclusions." I won't talk about it...just head over there and read it. Gave me chills.

And me? I have some thoughts on this whole experience. But they're not quite soup yet. I'm not sure if it's because of my physical distance from Madison at the moment -- from the miles of road that crossects Verona and Cross Plains and Spring Green that I've biked over the past year, the leftmost two lanes at the Eastside Y or Lake Wingra where I've learned to quit fighting the water and my own body, or my familiar running routes through the Arb or around Lake Monona -- or if it's because of my attention on other, (some, just as important) things at the moment like catching up with family and old friends who can't begin to grasp all that is Ironman, spending time with "the boys" (Leonard and Newton), helping to throw my oldest and bestest friend a shower for her first baby, and, lest I forget, Harry Potter (almost done!). In some ways, coming home to the UP and leaving the constant Ironman electricity that seems to radiate throughout Madison in these last days before the race has brought this into even sharper focus for me.

So, I'll have my own reflective, introspective post...most likely next week. After all, I'll probably need something to do at that point, what with my scheduled hours totaling in a week what I've been doing in a day up to this point.

Until then, I leave you with a comment posted in response to IM Able's "Quiet Conclusions" post:

"Ironman is not about what the clock says at the finish line. It is not about endings. Ironman is about beginnings -- the commitment and dedication to live your life the way you want to live it. And the courage to toe up to the starting line, despite the fear, and keep moving forward.

You are already an Ironman. The race is just a celebration."

Race Numbers Are Up!

2007-08-30T15:38:00.000-07:00

Ford Ironman Wisconsin 2007 Participants:

BIB NUMBER		FIRST NAME	AGE	SEX		DIVISION	CITY	ST/PROV
102		ERIN	31	F		W30-34	MADISON	WI

I'm taking a quick break from vacation to announce that race numbers have been assigned (thanks for the heads-up, Xt4!). That means that the actual race is right around the corner. Wahoo!

My dad keeps asking me (over and over again) if I'm nervous (mostly, it seems, because he is nervous for me). And I keep saying no. Because I'm not. I'm excited, plain and simple. All of the hard work is done, and that -- the hours that I've put in -- is the only thing under my control at this point.

So, watch for #102 on September 9th. More details to follow on how to track my progress that day. For now, I'm off to eat Thai food and drink a glass of wine by the pool.

Plus One

2007-08-27T18:49:00.001-07:00

This weekend, thanks to some creative scheduling (or rescheduling) of workouts, Chief of Stuff and I made a round-trip-plus-some journey to Kansas City to pick up the newest member of the clan, Newton Clarence.

The trip itself was uneventful: eight-some hours to KC, a quick stop off at the house of the Missouri Vizsla rescue coordinator's house (who, in a bit of Vizsla trivia, turned out to be the daughter of the first Vizsla owner/breeder in the U.S., Frank Tallman), and then a few hours northeast to Iowa City. We finished the trip on Sunday, stopping in Madison only to pick up our bikes, and then continuing on to Iron Mountain so Newt could meet his new fur-brother, Leonard, and fur-cousin, Nolan.

Thankfully, the two have hit it off, and Newt is adjusting well. He's such a sweet little guy, and looooves to play fetch (which his new grandpa is completely impressed by, given Leonard's complete and total ineptitude for the game). So far, we've discovered that, while Newt's a pro at fetch, he doesn't understand keep-away -- Leonard's game of choice -- one iota. Perhaps they'll come to an understanding eventually...

Today, my mom and her friend took Leonard and Newt for a five-mile walk around Lake Antione and reported that Newt did splendidly.

Meanwhile, I fought my way through serious chop for two miles, and followed that by a miserable 10-mile run. I didn't pay close enough attention to my nutrition during the day, I think, and a breakfast of scrambled eggs, three tiny pieces of minimalist pizza, and a mojo bar does not a three-hour workout make. Needless to say I got it done, but it wasn't pretty.

I dropped off my bike this morning at the local shop and it was all rarin' and ready to go by tonight, so I have one more semi-tough workout to make up tomorrow, and then it's on the home stretch to Ironman, complete with a week's vacation with nothing much at all planned other than some working out and relaxing (and maybe some poolside evening-out of the weird tan lines I've developed this summer) in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

After that, the hardest thing that remains is figuring out what to do with the two (or three, if Nolan comes) dogs during Ironman day...

Here are some pics from Newt and Leonard's first day together (#1: Leonard and Newt, #2:distinguished Newt, #3: perplexed Newt, #4: my mom and Newt...and if somebody -- anybody -- can tell me an easy way to format pics on blogger, I'll be forever indebted. Dear god, I've just spent half and hour trying to just get them all to line up in a row, and don't even get me started on how I tried in vain to get captions next to each.)

In Case This PR Thing Doesn't Work Out

2007-08-24T09:07:00.000-07:00

Reading September's Outside magazine last night, I came across the article "Swim. Bike. Run. Shoot. Kill." in which the author writes about how the Navy SEALS are targeting ultra-distance athletes like Ironmen in their recruiting these days, and in doing so, have upped their graduation rates.

The reason? Endurance athletes, specifically triathletes, are equally comfortable on land as in water, and moreover, have a much higher tolerance for pain and discomfort than the average non-Ironman SEAL candidate.

Alas, despite what G.I. Jane led us to believe, the SEALS still don't take women into their ranks.

I can't provide a link to the article, as Outside doesn't post theirs electronically, but if you can get your hands on a copy, it's an interesting, engaging read.

My Favorite Thing About This Morning Was NOT My Open Water Swim

2007-08-24T07:25:00.000-07:00

It was actually the amazing egg and cheese breakfast sandwich I just ate. But, I get ahead of myself.

I was up early (for me) this morning to get in a swim in so as to free up my evening a bit for some Friday Night Fun, and I just did not want to go. Unlike other mornings, today, it wasn't the being up early-ish that got me, it was just how terrible it looked outside.

I've been putting this swim off the past few days, largely because whenever I got my gear together to head to the lake, it would start storming and phrases like "Severe T-Storm Warning: Dane County" or "Flash Flood Watch: Dane County" would scroll across the television screen (oh, and to pile on, the Y's pool is closed all week). Call me a wimp, or what you will, but being in the middle of a lake in those conditions is not training I was eager to tough out -- better safe than sorry, as they say. (As Xt4 mentioned, it has, indeed been a "craptacular" first week of taper, weather-wise).

As I brushed my teeth, I could only think of how much I didn't want to swim this morning. Eventually, I got me out the door with the promise that it would feel great once I got in the water and just got started. Because that's always how it works.

Or, almost always.

First off, it was miserable out. All dark and threatening-looking, with rain that swayed in intensity from a mist to big drops. The water and sky over Lake Wingra blended together into one, large sheet of depressing or sinister (depending on how you looked at it) grey.

Next, my wetsuit finally pulled on, I tried zipping it up. Stuck. In the exact couple of inches where my arms just don't reach on my back. And no matter how I contorted my body or flailed about on the picnic table by the lake, there was no budging the zipper, and no reaching the stuck section. To make matters worse, there was no one around -- not one single, solitary person -- who could un-stick my wetsuit zipper. I considered driving to Chief of Stuff's house, only blocks away, to enlist his help. But then I thought of what the neighbors might think of a girl standing on his porch in a wetsuit at the crack of dawn, and reconsidered.

Finally, I saw two joggers approaching and ran over to the road, oblivious to the mud now coating my feet and the bottom half of my neoprene-covered body. Thankfully, they weren't scared away by the crazy woman running toward them, and helped me out.

Once in the water, I settled into a good rhythm. My swimming feels as though it's gotten exponentially better in the past couple of months. Not necessarily a lot faster, mind you, but better. My form is more streamlined and I've got a better pull (as evidenced by the fact that my fingers and pad of my palm is sometimes sore after a longer swim). In general, I feel like I'm cutting through the water, more powerfully but also smoother.

Today was like that, too. Until a seagull started circling me like I was a dead seal. Lower and lower. Swooping down, seemingly right at me, just a couple feet above.

Back into a rhythm. Until...not much later, I felt my hand brush something. Not something weedy or woody, but something scaly and big. I screamed underwater, and choked on the murky water. And I swear that scaly thing, or perhaps a friend of the scaly thing, tried to take a nibble on my right toe as I passed by, too.

And then, as I turned around at the half-way point, I saw a few little scaly things floating belly-up in the water. Perhaps they had been caught by the fishing line that I soon found myself tangled in, perhaps they had died a natural fishy death. Either way, I couldn't have been more over being out there in that water.

I'm not usually fearful of what I can't see in the water. But today? Different story altogether. It was just too much. The seagull and fish and fishing line and dead, dead fish. And I did what any rational, mature, 30-something would do. I let my mind race over all of the nasty things held by that murky water that may or may not be out to get me. Maybe there were snapping turtles, or leeches. Or a pet alligator that some college kid had gotten tired of and dropped off earlier in the summer. I raced back across that lake, trying to outswim all that I couldn't see like I was in a sprint tri.

The original morning's plan was to do an across-and-back twice. But I have quite a few long swims scheduled for next week, and there was just no way that I was going back out into that water, so I called it a morning ... but not before spotting another handful of dead fish washed up on shore and stepping in a giant pile of goose shit, barefoot.

In all, it was enough to make me think I should've stayed in bed.

Copps, 10:45 p.m.

2007-08-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was exhausted. It was one of those days where I started looking forward to going to bed around two o'clock yesterday afternoon.

I was also stah-ving after my two-hour interval workout (on the trainer...bleh) -- even after leftover carbonara and a piece of quiche. And, at 10:45 last night, I found myself in the most curious of places -- Copps grocery store -- trying to fulfill the most curious of cravings.

All of the things that I've craved during this time of Ironman-training -- lots of diet Sprite and chicken, just to name a couple -- last night's was by far the weirdest craving I've ever had: cereal.

Seriously, who craves cereal? I'm not even normally a cereal eater. I have a box of Smart Start in my office that dates to November 10th of last year. Since then, I haven't gotten desperate enough, even at work, to have more than one bowl (thinking of, I should probably toss it).

So, at 10:45 last night, long after I should have been in bed, I decided that I would not, could not get to sleep without a bowl of cereal, so I went in search of.

But I was not prepared for what I found.

I'm one of those shop around the outside of the store types. I rarely venture into the middle aisles, save for the need to pick up toilet paper or chicken broth (and yet, somehow, I still manage to not eat as well as I should). And being a non-cereal eater, I never have a reason to hit the cereal aisle.

I had initially been leaning toward Lucky Charms. But then I started scanning the boxes. Coco Puffs, chocolate Lucky Charms, organic Raisin Bran (and regular), Eggo bites, chocolate-peanut butter Pops, smoothie-flavored, Fruit Loops, some Cinnamon mini-buns variety. I could keep going, endlessly. And for a while, I did. Up and down the aisle, taking it all in, trying to narrow things down.

I was overwhelmed. You see, as a kid, my sister and I were not allowed to have sugar cereal -- at all. King Vitamin was the only thing close that my mom would allow into our house. But it had a medicinal name and tasted a bit like sawdust, and only if we got really desperate would we ask for that (eventually, when we were in high school or thereabouts, she relented and bought Oh's once in a while). Our other standard choices? Homemade granola, Grape Nuts, and my personal favorite, Fiber One.

The cupboards of my best friend growing up, Pam, were the exact opposite of at our house, stocked with Fruity Pebbles, Kix, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Snaps, Crunchberries, and an array of other sugary goodness. She wasn't always nice to me back then (Pam learned to share slowly, although she did bequeath to me her very first, which became my very first, horse -- the beloved Sir Chet), which included her announcing on a weekly basis during our sleepovers that I wasn't "allowed" to have either Crunchberries or the fruity pebbles. Those were hers. Once in a while, she'd relent and let me have a bowl of the Fruity Pebbles. And I think like a mouse trained on intermittent reinforcement, that's why I kept accepting her offers of sleepovers. I wondered more than once if our friendship would survive once I was old enough to buy my own sugar cereal. (Update: it has -- I'm heading to Iron Mountain to help throw her a baby shower next week)

But I digress. So here I was, in Copps, trying in vain to pick out one kind of sugar cereal. I had gone in thinking Lucky Charms, but here were all these choices. And there, on the bottom shelf, was the one cereal that had always been banned from me -- both by my mom and Pam -- Crunchberries.

I didn't know what to do. Back and forth. Back and forth. Eventually, I decided on both, and then headed to the dairy section to grab some milk. (Nope, I don't buy that either)

Checking out, I looked down and felt a wave of guilt wash over me. I could just feel my mom's tisk-tisking presence, and it was dead-on. For so long, I had felt cheated out of a right of childhood. I could only watch the new blue or green or purple flavored cereals being trotted out every week on Saturday morning cartoons...I could never hope to taste them. But there in my grocery bag were two boxes of just what I had always wanted, and now, I wasn't so sure I wanted them.

Thinking about the complete lack of nutritional value contained in those boxes, I wondered if I might be better off just downing a bowl of ice cream. And I said, out loud, "I can't imagine buying this stuff for my kids." I had a sudden and unexpected flash of respect for my mom -- the woman who made her own granola, fed us stir fry night after night, and asked for tofu in the Iron Mountian IGA long before tofu went mainstream (I'll never forget the look on the stockboys' faces that day). I'm not sure if it's straight-up guilt that's been drummed into me or a solid respect for nutrition -- or both -- but either way, it's served me well.

I went home and enjoyed 1.5 bowls of Crunchberries. And although it seems like a waste, I'm guessing the other box and three-quarters will likely see the same fate as my Smart Start.

Dog Days

2007-08-23T08:27:00.000-07:00

*Disclaimer: non-IM-related post*

*Disclaimer #2: seeing as though Ironman is nearly upon us, there might be a slight uptick in on-Ironman-related posting to come (he-he!)*

I seem to be one of the only people, as far as I can tell, that I know who is as horrified/intrigued with this whole Michael Vick situation as I seem to be. It's like a train wreck. And every time you try to look away, something else happens.

There's just so many levels on which to be horrified/intrigued, though.

At the very basis is dogfighting itself. As a dog owner/lover, it is outright impossible for me to understand how someone could look in the eyes of an animal that has its full trust in you, only to turn around an torture it by forcing it to fight to the death, electrocuting it, or body-slamming it against the ground repeatedly. And when you see video of these poor pits afterwards, they're all love and kisses -- cuddling up to the shelter workers, wagging their tails at passersby. These dogs would love nothing better than to crawl in your lap; they're just conditioned to fight other dogs (and to kill the occasional cat). Even those who are lucky enough to survive and end up in shelters aren't all that lucky -- most are put down as soon as they're no longer needed for evidence in a particular case, as they just can't be reconditioned. This violation of trust between an animal who has no say over its life and a person who should know better is, at its core, horrific.

But it also makes you wonder. How do people get into this? What is the initial draw? How does an activity so base and violent seemingly get so many people involved -- people who can often afford better forms of entertainment. And how did it go unnoticed for so long?

Another level of being horrified/intrigued rests with my interests in public relations, which in this case, has been an utter debacle from the very start. Los Angeles attorney Harland W. Braun told USA Today, "Second to injuring children, injuring pets is the worst. It's hard to know how to spin it."

Here's a start: you don't.

But most involved in this case came late to that party. Take Falcons owner Aurthur Blank, for example, who said, "As we move ahead [we] need to respect the due process that Michael is entitled to." And then there was Commissioner Roger Goddel, who said that Vick would face "significant discipline" if found guilty ... even though he later admitted that the 18-page indictment against Vick contained details that "turned [his] stomach." Translation: do what you want; just don't get caught.

And now, today, on Today, the NAACP has joined in the media circus. R.L. White, president of the NAACP's Atlanta chapter, said that, "We stand by the characterization that Vick has already been tackled. There's no need to keep piling on him," and that "Michael Vick has received more negative press than if he had killed a human being." Sorry, come again? Since when is media attention surrounding a federal indictment and guilty plea by all involved considered "piling on?" And I'd go out on a ledge to assert that what Vick did was worse than "killing a human being" -- he did not just shoot a dog, or hit one with his car. Rather, he was systematically bred and tortured dogs for years for entertainment and as a money-making venture. When people do those same things, we call them serial killers.

White went on to draw a parallel between Vick's crimes and hunting -- a parallel that other pro athletes have also started to beat the drum on of late. Earlier this week, New York Knicks guard Stephon Marbury said: ''We don't say anything about people shooting deers [sic] and shooting other animals, you know what I mean? From what I hear, dogfighting is a sport. It's just behind closed doors.'' Read Chicago Sun-Times columnist Greg Couch's interesting take on this emerging defense here.

One of the most brazeningly-honest assessments of the situation was by ESPN's Jemele Hill, who said this about Vick: "Let his prison sentence send the message that continued allegiance to street culture successfully keeps young black men frighteningly behind in American society." That itself, though, is a whole additional issue altogether.

There's just so much sad and wrong with this case on so, so many levels. But there are silver linings that will hopefully come about eventually as well. It might just be the wake-up call that leagues like the NFL and NBA have needed for a while now to see that players' off-field behavior can have a big effect, not only on impressionable youngsters that look up to them, but on the teams' bottom line. Perhaps it will be a break in the fight against dogfighting that law enforcement seem to so desperately need. And maybe, just maybe, it will be a life lesson for the guy who has referred to himself as "Superman" and is quoted as saying, "Regardless of what I go through, people are going to love me, man. So it’s all good.”

In the meantime, it's been reported that Vick trading cards and figurines bearing his likeness have been turned into chew toys, and Vick jerseys anonymously donated to the Atlanta Humane Society have been turned into pet beds and used to mop up kennels.

Seems about right.

Rx

2007-08-22T13:24:00.000-07:00

So, just got back from (fingers crossed) my last one of these:

And my doctor, great guy that he is, had these pearls of wisdom to pass along. They seem common-sensical, but given how Ironman can totally screw with your common sense, I thought I'd share for any and all tapering in preparation for IM-Moo right now.

You'll be sore after the race for days...or, perhaps, weeks. REST. Don't try to run or bike. Try not to swim. Just try to enjoy your newfound free time as best you can.
Ice anywhere and everywhere it hurts -- not just the day of or day after, but for the next week.
Stretch, stretch, stretch.

And one other interesting tip that I've finally gotten what is (I believe) a sufficient answer on: no Advil during the race unless you're absolutely positive you're well hydrated enough. "I would hate to see you in the ER the day after with bloody urine and kidney failure," he said.

Woah. Nothing like "bloody urine and kidney failure" to put the fear of god into you. Am rethinking the Advil plan...unless it's 65 degrees and partly cloudy, and I've been drinking my Gatorade and water like a champ.

So This is What It's Like

2007-08-22T07:58:00.000-07:00

You can tell taper has started. Last night I made dinner for the second night in a row. This, my friends, hasn't happened since I-can't-tell-you-when.

Usually, my schedule goes like this: wake up, sometimes run/swim, head to work, duck out as early as I possibly can without calling attention to myself, head home and change, bike/run/swim until it's dark out (or well after it gets dark, as is often the case), and then (about 9:30 p.m. or so) start thinking about dinner, which usually involves Taco Bell (yes, really -- I rotate between the taco salad and the grilled stuffed burrito), Noodles, a frozen pizza, a fried egg sandwich, or a quesadilla . And I wonder how I've actually gained weight through this experience...

In any case, Monday night after finishing my brick, I whipped up a little Greek salad and Parmesan-and-Italian sausage-stuffed chicken breasts.

Last night, my friend Patrick was in town. We met up for a quick (or, for me, not so much) 5-miler to catch up before he had to head out to his aunt and uncle's for dinner, joking about how things sure have changed -- years ago we'd be meeting up for happy hour; now, our social event is running together. But I like this change, and it was so good to see him even for such a short time. You can get some good visiting done during a run, and we did.

Afterwards, I ran to the store, picked up a few provisions, and was back at home and in the kitchen by 7 pm.

With a little Michael Massey for background music, Chianti to sip on, and some help from Chief of Stuff, I chopped, sauteed, and concocted my way to -- if I do say so myself -- what was a pretty good Carbonara.

For anyone who's made Carbonara knows, there are two main challenges. First is finding an actual Carbonara recipe. The ones that tell you to use bacon, or use an Alfredo/cream base? Frauds. Run away from them. The second challenge is that Carbonara, no matter how closely you follow the recipe, turns out a little bit different almost any time.

Here's the recipe I used this time, from the Italian Stallion, Molto Mario. It's a little variation -- presentation-wise -- on how I normally make Carbonara, but I'd highly recommend it.

Spaghetti alla Carbonara

Ingredients:

1/2 pound guanciale (or pancetta) Salt 1 pound dry spaghetti 1 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano, grated 4 eggs, separated Black pepper, freshly ground

Directions:

In a 12- to 14-inch sauté pan, render and cook the guanciale until it is crispy and golden, 6 to 8 minutes. Do not drain the fat from pan and set aside.
Bring 6 quarts of water to a boil and add 2 tablespoons salt. Cook the spaghetti, until tender, yet al dente. Drain the spaghetti, reserving the pasta cooking water.
Reheat the guanciale in the pan with the fat and add approximately 1/4 cup of the pasta cooking water. Toss in the cooked spaghetti and heat, shaking the pan, until warmed through, about 1 minute. Add the grated cheese, egg whites and black pepper and toss until fully incorporated.
Divide the pasta among 4 warmed serving bowls. Make a nest in the center for the egg yolk. Gently drop an egg yolk into each serving, season with more freshly ground black pepper and grate additional cheese over the top. Serve immediately.

Just a caveat or two (or five):

I use bucatini instead of plain 'ol spaghetti. Why? I don't know. More interesting, and I really like how bucatini behaves in this dish -- no clumping, and the ingredients mix with it more evenly;
I'd make it 5 whites instead of 4, and add 4T of whipping cream to give the "sauce" a smoother texture (cut the pasta water down by just a bit if you do this);
I would mix in a cheese with a bit more bite with the Parmigiano-Reggiano, like Parmesan or Asiago;
I've never tried the egg yolk in the nest of Carbonara as a final presentation, but it works. It cooks a bit from the hot mixture, and pools eventually on the bottom of the bowl so that you can sop it up with the noodles as you eat. Yummm (promise);
And finally, I garnish with fresh chopped Italian parsley to give the dish a little color.

The end result should look something like this (with a little parsley on top if you're doing it my way, of course):

"So this is what my life used to be like..." I pondered as we were sitting down to eat. CoS asked if this was a preview of things to come. I sure hope so, I told him.

Until, of course, I start spending hours at the barn each night. But that's another bridge to cross altogether.

Premature Tapering

2007-08-21T11:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my last major workout of the season. And even as I sit here typing those words, I can hardly believe it. Thinking back to starting this training in earnest last September, the time seems to have both crawled and flown by all at once.

In any case, because of weekend travel plans, I took the day off of work to get in the final double-brick: 4-hour bike, followed by a 2-hour run, followed by a 2-hour bike, and an hour run.

When I turned on the television before I got out of bed yesterday morning (as is my habit, to check the weather and all), the bottom left-hand side of the screen hosted a flood watch/warning map, of which Dane County was a part. They were also predicting thunderstorms throughout the day. Ugh.

After being hit with atrocious weather on both of my 100+ mile rides this summer, as well as a few others in-between, and for both of the marathons I've done (The first was 97 degrees and organizers called the race two hours earlier than scheduled because of not having enough medical personnel to treat the collapsing runners. The second involved temperatures in the high 30's and whipping winds. Both were in May in Wisconsin), I decided that I didn't want nor need to subject myself to a monsoon for a double-brick.

So I hauled my trainer, bottles of Gatorade and water, bike, blackberry/phone, and Clif blocks/bars down to the workout room in my condo building because I don't get cable TV and the workout room does.

I had hoped to binge on all the shows I never usually get to watch -- mainly, any of those on VH1, E!, the Food Network, or MTV. But for the first two hours, I was sorely disappointed. VH1 had back-to-back-to-back episodes of Flava of Love 3 (Seriously?!? Three seasons of this show? Unbelievable). E! was doing a special on the cast members of Friends, which I'd already seen. The Food Network was all desserts (which is fine, but what I really wanted were dinner ideas). And MTV... hmmm. Where to even start with MTV? The channel that no longer plays music, or even pretends to, even though "Music" makes up a major part of its title...the channel that has arguably the worst "reality" programming on television, hands down ("Sweet 16," "Made," "Parents Know Best," ugh. Could go on and on). I was booooored.

Finally, on came "Hogan Knows Best" on VH1 and "The Hills" on MTV, which saved me. Whew.

Looking outside, after finishing the first bike leg, I considered running inside. But for some reason, running in the rain doesn't bother me nearly as much as biking in it, and I had a new playlist to try out, so I laced up and headed out. (Although the whole run it felt like the skies were going to empty out any second. Talk about humid!).

The thing I love most about my Garmin 305 is that it means I never have to make a decision about where I run. All of my mileage is calculated nice and handily for me, with no commitment to a route. I can wander at will. Ahhhh, sweet freedom.

In any case, the run was uneventful. But I felt great the whole time. Ten miles went by like five (only, not quite as fast), and I was chastising myself for maybe not biking hard enough that morning.

But back on my bike on the trainer in my living room (now watching Oprah grill poor Dina McGreevy about not moving out of the Governor's residence when her husband admitted he was gay), I could feel fatigue setting in to my legs. And it felt good to know that I'd been working hard earlier that day.

The thing was, there was no good reason for me to shorten my workout. I felt fine. I was inside and out of the weather. I had nowhere to be last night. But I was bored. I was (sleepy) tired. And I wanted to actually make dinner and not eat at 10 p.m. for just one night.

Weak, I know, but I cut the bike from two hours to one, and the run from one hour to 30 minutes, and then called it a day. I started my taper 1.5 hours early.

Writing that, 1.5 hours now seems like a lot. But in the scheme of an entire year of workouts -- of fighting through 126 miles of hills last weekend and an oly the next morning, not to count the double-bricks upon double bricks in the months before -- I'm over it.

On to tapering, and the big day. Let the countdown begin!

Water Water Everywhere

2007-08-20T16:52:00.000-07:00

Saturday was a big day. Not in hours logged or miles covered, but in straight-up confidence.

The swim portion of the Ironman goes by the fastest, but it is, arguably, the one most fraught with trepidation. There are just so many factors to consider, not the least of which is drowning. Then there's the possibility of getting kicked or swum over by 2,000+ people all trying to get to the same place you are, and the difficulty of not being able to breathe at will when you're in the water, unlike every other sport. And to make it even more difficult, in training sessions, you never have a great idea of how far you've swum. In open water, it's a guess at best, and perhaps I'm the worst lap-counter in the world, but for any given long-set session in the pool, I figure I'm usually either over or under by a few hundred yards.

All of this can combine for a pretty scary 1.5 to 2 hours on Ironman morning, or all those leading up to it.

I saw that first-hand on Saturday. It was an open water race (1.2 or 2.4 miles) set up to mimic the Wisconsin Ironman swim, complete with chip timing and a water start. I purposely put myself right in the middle of the pack. I wanted to get beaten up a bit. For the experience and all.

And just behind me in the water was a guy who was freaking out. "I can't do this. I don't want to do this," he kept saying. "Just look at this water. No way. I'm heading in."

He had a point. To say the water was a little rough is sort of like saying that snow is a little cold. I had to do a weird shoot-myself-straight-up-out-of-the-water move just to see the next buoy over the chop. A woman next to me told me to just sight the second footbridge, which was definitely easier.

And just like that, a whistle sounded and the race started.

I got into a good rhythm early on. None of the thrashing around and getting short of breath that defined my open water swimming earlier in the summer. As the swim progressed, I let the rollers cradle me...tried to feel with my whole body what my little section of the lake was doing, and somehow got my arms and torso to respond accordingly. And literally, before I knew it, I was at the first turn buoy. I looked up long enough to notice that it had started pouring out.

On the backside of the first lap, I had my first, real gross-out Ironman experience. I had to pee in my wetsuit. Now, before anyone starts judging, I was probably only 40 minutes into an hour-and-forty-minute ordeal, my bladder was cramping, and I was in the middle of freakin' Lake Monona. You would too. Needless to say, my wetsuit got a good washing post-race.

So, aside from the weird/totally gross feeling of being encased in something you just peed in, the entire first lap, really, went well. I was relaxed and felt good. I told myself that at the turn to start the second lap, I could flip onto my back and chill out for a few if I needed a pick-me-up, but I didn't feel as though I needed it, so I pressed on.

It wasn't until the backside of the last lap that I started to feel fatigued. It was hard to sight, as there were only four buoys marking the course, and because of that and the weirdly-strong pull to the right that I get when I breathe to that side, I was zig-zagging. I had also stopped trying to feel the water and what it was doing, and was instead trying to muscle my way through it. As a result, I kept getting slapped by some serious chop. It felt like someone was beating me in the head with a wet towel. Pleasant.

I took the opportunity to stop twice and just float. It was probably only about 20 seconds each time, but just enough to let me get my head re-centered. I made myself go back and concentrate on form -- to check in with every part of my body and see what it was doing and readjust accordingly.

At the last buoy, I could feel the burn in my arms and shoulders, but I had plenty left to swim the last leg hard, and before I knew it, my hand was touching the carpeting. I exited the water in 1:40.

Chief of Stuff was there with towel, and commented that he heard person after person who exited the water complaining about how rough it was out there (and, it was) and how their times were 10 to 20 minutes slower than last year. I asked a guy I was standing next to if it was this bad during last year's Ironman (don't ask me how I knew this guy was a) doing Ironman this year or b) did it last year, but somehow I did). He said that this was as bad, if not worse, and that he'd probably go with worse.

CoS and I did a brief bike afterward. It was supposed to be an hour, but got shortened to 30 minutes on account of the race starting more than an hour late, having to leave town that afternoon, me feeling completely fine and not needing to do a drawn-out test of my initial on-the-bike nutrition, and some serious rain coming down. Just for the record, I've biked in all sorts of conditions. I just didn't feel like doing it that particular day. So, when a street we were trying to cross refused to give our side a green light, I asked CoS if he minded just calling it a day. He didn't, and we biked back to the Terrace to load our bikes and get out of town on time.

On the road that afternoon, I was positively giddy.

"You know what I just love," I asked, and without waiting for any kind of response, answered: "That the weather today absolutely sucked!"

CoS commented that that was a truly weird thing to say. And it was. Ironman makes you say bizarre things all the time. But today, I'm still excited about how rough it was. Because that means that, come race day, barring a hurricane landing this far inland, it likely won't get any rougher. And that even in those conditions, I posted a not-speedy-but-solid 1:40 -- which leaves me an extra 40 minutes before the cutoff. On race day, worst case scenario is that that is what happens. Best case is that I knock 10 minutes or so off that time.

So, September 9th can go ahead and bring on that 2.4-mile swim. As they say in Top Gun, "Just a walk in the park."

How It's Done

2007-08-17T08:37:00.000-07:00

When people hear you're training for an Ironman, they say one of two things. The first is, "I could never do that." The second is, "I don't know how you do it."

There are basics involved in "doing" an Ironman. You follow a training plan. You put your time in. You keep your head down and your legs, arms, and feet moving forward, every day. And you hope that eventually, if you do what's written in your plan, you will have somehow transformed yourself from a recreational athlete to something "other than" -- a body and mind that's up to the challenge of anywhere from 11 to 17 (god-willing) hours of constant motion on one specific day. You allow yourself that hope, and then it's back to focusing on just the next workout, and then the next, and then the next. You have to be self-motivated and endlessly disciplined. It is tedious and it is monotonous.

It is also selfish.

For those of us training for this thing -- this one day, this one blip in time in our lives -- this is how we do it:

We put off planned visits to see you because our training schedule and finances just don't allow for one this summer.

We don't return phone calls as often as we should, or at all.

We decline invitations to get together for dinner or drinks, month after month, always with the promise, "After this is over..." And if we do accept an invitation, we're usually late on account of a workout running over.

We skip out of board and committee meetings and other extracurricular obligations month after month.

We stop going to the grocery store. Or to Target. Or to Walgreens. We stop making our fair share of meals. We expect that if you need something, you'll take care of that for yourself.

We come in late and leave early, and take sick or vacation days, from work -- not to spend time with you, relaxing, but to work out.

We are too tired, night after night, to carry on a whole conversation or to show proper interest in what's going on with you; but expect you to care what's going on with every minutia of our training, night after night.

We talk incessantly about Ironman and all things related, and expect you to be as engaged as we are in this crazy undertaking.

We plan a year full of weekends around ourselves -- our races, our training, our needs and wants.

We miss birthdays, weddings, baptisms, anniversaries, holidays, and church with the excuse that "it's only for this year."

And then we expect you to be as excited as we are when we sign up for another run at this next year.

We take and take and take -- your time ... your patience ... your support -- and give only the promise of being a better friend, girlfriend/wife, daughter/niece/granddaughter, coworker, and mom/dog-mom "after this is over."

How do we do it? The better question is, how do you?

You see, there are so many of us who could never do this without so many of you. Because the truth is, no one goes 140.6 miles -- or all those that precede them -- alone.

We are a lucky bunch, us Ironmen-in-training. And that's thanks to all of you. You know who you are...