It's Been How Long?

Good news first: my Web site launched, I think we’re beginning to get a clue about owning a house and I finally, finally, finally tested my bike in a race.

Not so good news: I’ve had the worst two racing weekends of my life; I have a quarter of a black eye; and I have dropped five pounds in three days.

But what good is being competitive if you don’t face adversity? I mean, where would ESPN be if we didn’t have anything to overcome? So, it’s all in good fun, right?

A Walk in the Park
Well, it all started last weekend when I drove to Akron for the Muddy Paws Trail Race, a race that benefited the Greater Akron Humane Society, in Cuyahoga Valley National Park, which happened to be about two miles from where we used to live. Too bad we just moved 40 miles away!

It was an incredible event: dogs everywhere! And two of those pooches were Lucy and Harley, accompanied by none other than my mom.

The day offered a two-mile dog run, a 5-miler and a 10-miler on the trails. I was really impressed with my mom for running the two-miler with the dogs—it was a very hilly and “technical” route, and she was no doubt being dragged by puppies more energetic, fit and competitive than most you’ll meet—and without a day of training on her own. Way to run it, mom!

If you haven’t attended the event, I highly recommend it for next year. Especially if you like dogs. I think the overwhelming sentiment at the start of the two-miler was “Doh! Why didn’t I bring my camera?” Over 100 dogs and their owners ready to tear it up on the trails? It doesn’t get much sweeter. (See some photos.)

My 10-miler could have been sweeter, but I let Competitive G get in the way. Long story short: I headed out with a group; we never took a race pace; there was a lot of waiting; I should have just used it as a romp in the park, not a race. Nevertheless, I did get to experience a trail run and might make my way back soon.

Finally, a Swim or Three
I also made my way back to the pool a total of three times in the past week and a half (2,500 yards the first time; an interrupted 2,400 the second visit; and 3,000 yards on the third, including a fast mid-workout 1-miler followed by several 100-yard sprints), which would get me only slightly on track to do all right Aug. 10 at the Greater Cleveland Triathlon, right?

Well, how about a snap decision to do the Huntington Sprint Tri this past weekend? Oh yeah, the morning after the Winking Lizard Shot in the Dark.

Shooting in the Dark
Last year’s Shot in the Dark 4-Miler was sweltering. I will always think of that race fondly as the moment that I realized how good life is outside that race. It’s at a horrible time of the day (5 p.m.) during a horrible time of year (late July) in a truly great place (Cleveland). I wish it were in the dark. It’s hot. It’s muggy. It’s painful. And that’s why I go back: it’s a challenge.

It was also the one-year anniversary of JG’s first race. I remember how nervous and uncertain he was last year (especially when he tried to hit the bathroom two minutes before the start), and how well he finished despite the conditions.

He was back at the starting line this year, and even brought company: Cathie and Tim from Kent State, who both represented very well in their first road races, the two-miler. Neil joined us downtown as well to watch the race and, I think, felt a little tempted to run the two-miler (more to come on his recent running). Maybe next year.

Saturday was a strange day: having to wait around all day for the race, do new-house work and prep my body for the next morning’s race was a bit weird. And my stomach didn’t feel too happy about it. I carbed up around 3 p.m. in anticipation of Sunday’s race, but felt wrong about it from first bite (but it was a really good proscuitto and grilled chicken with farfalle, so how could I resist?).

I gabbed up everyone at the starting line about watching people puke at finish lines as part of a you’ll-be-fine-during-your-first-race routine, but kind of felt a little queasy myself. Butterflies? It had to be.

Despite the heat, I wanted to have a good race and wanted to take some racing advice Salty gave me during our last time out. In very, very short: umm, run fast and keep running faster!

I’ve mentioned that I’ve never really pushed my tempo beyond “comfortable and sustainable” in a race, so I thought this oppressively hot July afternoon in a muggy urban area on a day when my body felt way off would be a perfect opportunity!

Off we went.

It seems that every race in Cleveland starts up the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge, which happens to be my least favorite climb in all the city. Mostly because it always reminds me that I should have warmed up for a race, but probably spent my time talking about puking instead.

Because I’ve done most of my recent running in the early morning or later at night, I wasn’t even close to acclimated to mid-day smog and the breathing trouble it brings to the asthmatic. And so began the uphill battle of beating myself up over things I could do nothing about in the middle of a race. Oh, how the negative energy began to fly!

Surprisingly, though, the first mile wasn’t bad. Sure, I was uncomfortable and wheezing, but I was keeping a decent pace heading up an incline. JG caught up to me shortly before mile 1, and we were both pumped to hear it: 7:10. And somehow it felt sustainable, particularly as we crossed the marker and headed down the bridge!

But how short lived the glory would be. It wasn’t a few moments after crossing West 25th that I knew I had to stop. I told JG to go on without me, and I quickly found a garbage can to, umm, store the delicious farfalle I ate earlier that day. I took exactly five minutes to ralph and feel sorry for myself before shaking it off and running out the remaining 2.5+ miles.

Truth be known: I really don’t remember most of the race. While I knew I felt lighter and probably didn’t have anything else to throw up, I just wanted to finish and go home. That’s what I did. In 34:03 (8:31/mile). We joked that if I could nix the five-minute vomit break, I would have finished really well, but alas…

Oh, Why Do I Even Tri?
So, I shook off the stomach problems as nerves and heat, scarfed a bunch of post-race food and went to bed early for Sunday’s triathlon in Bay Village.

I’ve been fighting with myself over whether to go sprint or Olympic at this year’s Greater Cleveland Tri. While I want to up my distance each year, I have the new bike and wondered if I should try another year sprinting. Or at least get in one sprint.

Conveniently, I found a nearby race. It sounded like a great idea when I signed up on Friday afternoon. Sunday morning, though, I was really questioning my decision-making abilities.

It was hardly 12 hours since my last race when I hit the beach for this tri, and I don’t think I’ve ever stood on a beach and wanted to go swimming less. Plus, I was all by myself, so I had no one to remind me that I was defeating myself before the race had a chance to kick my butt.

As the age waves ran into the water, I felt what I thought were more butterflies in my stomach and tried to calm them down. It was swimming, I thought; it’s the one thing I can do.

Ha. Ha.

THE SWIM
First, the cool water/muggy air combo triggered some serious asthma (I really should have warmed up), which was only worsened when I got a swift heel-kick to the face that blasted off my goggles and gave me the lovely black eye I’ve been sporting. Then the nausea came back. And it was only when I watched two people get saved from the water that I started to panic.

I’m not going to lie: I wanted to quit it all right there. I was just going to swim straight back to shore and leave triathlons behind me. For good. I was so bitter and unhappy. Unfortunately for the G in the water on Sunday, I just don’t quit and I can’t. So, I didn’t.

Besides, I was in this race for the cycling leg, and it was next. I treaded water a minute while I contorted and unzipped a bit the back of my tri suit for some breathing room (high-neck tri-suits aren’t good for panicking) and slowly breaststroked the rest of the ¼-mile swim.

It took 15:20 (some perspective: I swam 17:30 for the half last summer), but felt like an eternity. But it was actually the trek back to the transition area that took forever!

As I passed a garbage can by the beachside bathroom, I threw up all the race-prep food I ate the night before and walked the 4-5 minutes uphill back to transition. Yet somehow I was still convinced there was nothing wrong with me. I hopped on my bike and headed out through the western burbs for my first race on the bike.

Oh, what a difference a bike makes!

THE BIKE
On the upside, I was pretty far back (between the poor swim and what looks like the worst T1 in the field!) and could only move up if I was able. My expectations for the cycling portion weren’t high—not only were my previous races on a hybrid, I haven’t trained much at all this year on the bike—but I wanted to see how this baby would ride.

Sure, I felt plenty of empathy as I cruised past the hybrid and mountain bike riders at the beginning of the 12-miler, but I felt at least a little cool as I pedaled past folks on racing bikes. Could I be decent at this biking thing?

I’m still wholly uncomfortable with going too fast on my bike (it was pretty scary when I saw a three-person crash around a tight turn before mile six), but I was pretty cozy with my pace as I was only passed by one person the whole stretch. It was a good ride that didn’t really tax my energy and only dented my spirit a bit at the end when I had to get some assistance when my shoelace got caught in my gears at dismount.

My time for 12-mile bike: 40:00 (~15 mph).

That’s a 15-minute improvement over my GCT time from last summer with just the switch of a bike. Wow.

SIDE NOTE: My cycling time comes from my honest watch. The official results, while they state otherwise, appear to include my T2 time in the cycling portion instead of running (overall time is still accurate). It was a quick turnover, which wasn’t hampered by all the bitterness I dragged through T1!

THE RUN
Pleased with my cycling, I hopped off my bike and used the run as a bit of a cool down. I wasn't winning anything that day! It was a strange course that had a serious downhill at the outset that I was surprised didn’t leave piles of old, broken knees on the sidelines.

I used the 29:30 to convince myself that I enjoyed doing these races, even when they went bad and that I could enjoy being a triathlete whether I was world-class or just happy to cross the finish.

And I was happy to cross the finish. I had pretty much raced the whole thing on a half bottle of calorie-free iced tea and a few swigs of Gatorade. I hit the food table hard, downing about half the watermelon they offered and topping it off with nothing less than a Hostess cupcake.

And Then There Was The Flu
As luck would have it, that cupcake was the last thing I’d eat for a few days (I told you those things were good for you; even if it was Hostess, it was the only thing to stay down!). Once I came home, I finally admitted to myself that I was sick. I plopped on the couch and was pretty much down for three days (barring a silly attempt at going to work on Monday morning) with stomach flu. Bleh.

Five pounds later, I’m finally up and I tried to get outside this afternoon. Being sick really takes it out of you! I walked about three blocks to get some fresh air and felt totally whipped. All this sleep and no energy? Come on!

I have a race on the schedule for Saturday and would like to re-try this whole actually racing during a race thing. If that whole pukey thing didn't get in the way on Saturday... who knows what could have happened?

Maybe I’ll just watch the race and regain these pounds with some race food. I mean, it is near the cupcake shop… and I know what could happen there.

What Ever Happened to the Good Ol’ Foregone Conclusion?

Finally: part of a day I can have to myself. Between the current load at work, the new house and, well, the new bike, I just haven’t found a moment for some important things. Like blogging.

Today I thought I’d take an hour or two after morning yoga to watch Wimbledon and then get things like more work-work and housework done. But here I am, 4-5 hours later, still waiting for Roger and Rafael to work this thing out.

On the plus side of being occupied these past couple weeks, I neared 40 miles last week (I ran 36 miles between Tuesday and Saturday, but then biked nearly 40 miles with JG around Cleveland on Sunday… it rained shortly after we finished riding, so I never made it to those final four) and was scheduled to close out 40 this week with a weekend 20-miler, but, alas, calf soreness and Wimbledon. They get me every time.

This road bike phenomenon is phenomenal. I rode the bike-without-a-name 40 miles last Sunday, and it felt like nothing. In fact, it was almost easier than driving. And when I pedaled to work last week, the only real obstacle was the straight-into-the-sky hill out of Little Italy that posed a challenge (I would surely had to stop and walk on my hybrid), but mostly because the Corbo’s cookies and Presti’s napoleons were at the bottom. Shucks!

What’s more is that the 25 miles I rode that day weren’t enough! I hopped off my bike, already dressed for the road, and added five miles to my week’s low total.

Although last Saturday, before the long ride I ran my first 18-miler around Euclid on what started out as a gloomy morning and blossomed into a sunny day. It took me about three hours to run the miles, not including a bathroom and water pit stop at home at mile 10, and add another set of stripes to my summer runner’s tan.

Following the personal long, I was optimistic about this week’s hope for 40. But alas: six on Tuesday, five on Wednesday and then nine on Saturday… all that Fourth of July food must have tackled me too far down! I was happy on Saturday, though, that suddenly nine miles just isn’t a great distance to me anymore.

Sure, I didn’t hit 40 miles, but I felt a great sense of progress in my running life. Nine miles isn’t my distance day? Awesome. Maybe next week I’ll pull the big 20. But for now I want to go play. Roger has bowed down to Raf, and now I have only a few hours before Dara Torres tears it up (again) in the pool. Perhaps that will be enough to get me into one. Now, where’s my tennis racquet?

Riding on Bikes With Boys

What kid were you when you were growing up? I, believe it or not, was the ultimate tomboy. (I’ll give you a moment to recover from your amazement.)

Seriously: I hopped fences, climbed trees, played with mud, skipped stones, rocked boys league, mastered kickball, played G.I. Joe, loved my Commadore 64 and always, always, always had a ghostman on third with less than two outs. It must have been a disappointment for my mom, who wanted a pretty, dainty little girl to dress up and play nice, but that poor, good woman got… me.

Girls, though, were a disappointment to me for years. Aside from a few good friends, I didn’t hang with the girls much or have anything in common with anyone, really. You’ve heard that song and dance.

Fast forward a few years. All this tri-training has put me in touch with so many cool people, especially strong, cool women who rip it up on the course, in the water, at work, at home. I liked being surprised by the number of awesome women I know and get to call my running buddies and friends. Rock on, chicas!

Amidst all the girl power, I’ve still made time to hang with the boys. In fact, I took out the bike-without-a-name with Neil and my dad the other night for a laid-back tour of Euclid, which ended at Dairy Queen. It was hard riding cool on my new roadie, but Neil and my dad indulged me a few times, racing down streets with me so I could warm up these racing legs.

It was a back-to-back workout too: I met my dad early Wednesday for a morning run. I pedaled to his house and then headed on another (different) trek around Euclid, through parks and along the shore. It was the first time I’d ever run with my dad, so I’m glad I had the opportunity (he just might retire soon and I’m trying hard to convince him to train for the Ironman with me!). My dad and I used to watch the Ironman every year when I was little, so it only seems appropriate that we should race together, right?

Wednesday was made for a tempo run, but I didn’t expect to run a tempo. The weather was prime for a good workout – cool morning with crisp, clean air and light sunshine – and we couldn’t resist. I had intended on 7 miles at 9:00/mile for my tempo, but we ended up running 8.2 miles at 8:38/mile. And it was so easy! We just chatted and chugged along mile after mile.

After I mapped the run and told me dad the distance, he was surprised. “Oh, I’ve never run that far before.” Could have fooled me. I guess we’ll have to take him 10 next time, eh?

My campaign for triathlon recruiting hasn’t stopped with my dad; my friends suffer for it too. And I think I have my next victim.

I met my friend Barney after work today (and a two-mile warm-up) for what he claimed was his first run in quite some time (of course, I didn’t realize he wasn’t running at all and was about to make him do four miles of intervals with me!). He was a really good sport about it, particularly after he saw a sign claiming it was 104 degrees.

While it couldn’t have been THAT hot, it was a little roasty outside, so the intervals turned into a regular pace for a couple miles. We ran mile one in a little under 9:00, recovered a few blocks and took mile two around the same pace.

I think he’s (this) close to thinking about Greater Cleveland Tri this year… now if only I knew how to give good swimming advice. Apparently suggesting Michael Phelps footage isn’t a great idea. Shucks.

Getting into a pool this week, however, will be a great idea. The outdoor pool nearby, I’ve learned, is open at 6 a.m. And I’m pumped. Here’s to early mornings biking to the pool like I’m a kid again, swimming, running, biking, throwing rocks and making mudpies. You’re never too old for mudpies, are you?

I Love My Bike

What’s perhaps not the best thing but one of the best things about getting a new bike as an adult? It’s like super Christmas… only better. I finally got my hands (and butt) on a road bike this weekend – a blue Trek 1000 WSD – and couldn’t stop riding it and waiting to ride, thinking about riding and wanting to ride it again.


For weeks I had been torn between this Trek and the Felt FW40. Something, though, spoke to me with this bike, and I haven’t been able to leave it since. In fact, I’ve kindly asked Neil to let me keep it in the house for now – I’m like a new parent, too afraid to let my baby get out of eyeshot lest someone come scoop him/her up because s/he is the best baby… bike in the world.

The purchase of (insert name here) was the crowning jewel on a pretty swell weekend. It’s no secret by now that I skipped my college reunion for greener pastures, but I did run through the thing on Friday shortly before meeting up with Monica.

Determined to hit 30 last week, I warmed up right after work with 5 miles by myself around University Heights. John Carroll’s reunion weekend has always been a gorgeous affair; it looked really nice at 9:00/mile in the blazing sun. The university neighborhood made for apt distraction on a strikingly warm day. It was so much warmer than normal that I was plagued by stitches whenever I wasn’t being distracted by something much more interesting. For a while, that is.

Then I met up with Monica and ran what had to be a time-warp 5-6 miles before meeting up with her hubby G. Sure we cruised some inclines at a normal hot-distance pace, but running with Monica always makes things fly by. Poor girl, though, had to listen to all my therapy venting… so, it may not have flown by for her just as well!

We swung back toward her neighborhood and picked up Monica’s Hubby G for the last three miles. All was going swell – I was still running strong after 10-11 miles, the sun eased on us and the Heights had all kinds of front-door and landscaping ideas for me to spy – until the stupid stitch attacked.

M and G were kind enough to wait for me to stretch and walk it off. It came and went. But by the end of the run it was really nagging and I just wanted to finish the full 14. By 13.95, however, it stopped me in my tracks. I waved M and G to finish while I wallowed in my stitchiness. It sucked… but it did ease up the second I stopped running.

Guilt ridden by the last .05, I ran the last stretch up and down my driveway when I arrived home. So, mark down 14 miles for Friday!

By Saturday morning, I was surprisingly fresh and ready for my next adventure: the new bike. Rumor had it that Eddy’s Bike Shop was holding a summer sale, and I was all about it. It was, though, decision time in the bike arena. Trek or Felt?

I was ready to hit every Eddy’s in the area for the right bike. There was something about the sole Trek 1000 WSD at the Willoughby Hills store that caught my heart. I tried it on for size, tested it around the lot, had it fitted in a million different ways, and viola! It was mine.

I stuck with cages on the pedals – I’m so not ready for clip-in yet – and am always used to the motion of getting in and out on the roll. Neil helped me pack the bike into my car (it’s just the right size to fit without dismantling anything!); we drove home; and I rode wild.

On Saturday I rode was about 7-8 miles around Euclid at speeds impossible on my hybrid. Even if I’m probably still a little pokey cyclist-wise. I hopped off the 30-minute ride and right onto the road for a 3.3-mile run around the neighborhood for a suitable first brick of the season.

You can imagine that riding was all I could think about as I slept into Sunday. I woke up around 8 a.m. ready to roll! I threw on some clothes that yelled “I don’t bike often at all,” nearly forgot my helmet and pedaled away. While I had my heart set on riding the 11.5 side-road miles to work, I changed my mind halfway out of fear of the unknown. I hadn’t take my phone and thoughts of flats and crashes distracted me from an awesome ride.

So, I turned around and rode all around Euclid for a really decent 16-mile journey at an average 16 mph.

What amazed me most? I hopped off the bike and ran 4+ miles (that puts the week’s total a little more than 30!) for brick #2 like it was nothing. In the hot sun. Who's ready for tri-season?

The only pain I felt was leftover butt aches from the previous day’s ride and no ill-effects on my legs. I was a little upset at first how easy the piece of equipment made cycling – and, therefore, how big a difference an external piece of equipment makes on triathlon – but got over the reality and smiled at my new ride.

Next on the list? Gloves and biking shorts. My butt bones are still aching today (while my body doesn’t feel like I rode at all – Lance’s next challenge should be the Alps on a hybrid) and my hands/arms felt more pain than the rest of me. With all that in place, I might not have to hate cycling after all!

More importantly: what should the bike be named? S/he is a 47-inch women’s design road bike in a mist-duo blue. Black handlebars and a smooth ride. What should s/he be called? Neil suggested Mortimer or Penelope; I came up with Mellow Janey and Secretariat. What do you think?

An Exercise in Stitching

Isn’t this mild NEOhio weather fantastic? I want to appreciate every easy-to-breathe breath of cool autumn-like air. And get in my miles before I have any reason to complain. At all.

I stayed up a bit too late last night watching the NBA’s forgone conclusion (feeling ever so grateful for David Tyree’s dexterous helmet), so another morning run didn’t make it into the books. But on the calendar was some speed work.

For the past several weeks, when I’ve done speed work, it’s left a bit to be desired. Racing sets of 800-1000m can be fun, but I’ve appreciated the effects of slightly longer speedy spurts more.

When I run 1600m sets, for instance, I feel the lactic burn, push past it and feel my threshold extend with each rep. Half and ¾-milers just don’t do the trick anymore.

So, today I had intended on running three 1600m in lieu of six 800m at 5K pace, but even that was modified. I had too much on my mind, so I took off down the street at a decent clip despite running a little cold.

Heading west for the first mile, I missed my first 1600m marker and just pressed on to the next. What’s speed worth if it can’t last, right? I hit two miles at 16:10 (8:05/mile) and quickly hit a stitch as well.

I tried to walk off the stitch, but it just wouldn’t shake. First it was on my right side, then it jumped to the left. So, I ran two more miles around 9:00/mile, practicing running with a stitch and a smile.

After dinner, Neil and I went out for another evening walk to take in the breeze, watch the sun set and listen to the waves crash on the shore. One of our neighbors was outside playing the bag pipes, while we ran into the Gibbonses walking their Bella and later hung out with their cat, Bud (he’s kind of a dog too). But I could have run all night.