Sweet 16

Today I ran my 16-miler.

Disclaimer: I am aware that coaching strategies differ from person to person, and from coach to coach, and from race to race, and from year to year.  I know that some plans advocate never going more than 18 miles for a long run, while some have you all the way up into the low 30's.

I am the one on the left

That being said, my strategy, which comes from people who know a shitload more about this stuff than lil' ol' me, has been to never run more than 4 hours in training, or sometimes even 3-3.5.  Because of my pace and training plans,  this means that my long run for marathon training has never exceeded 18 miles, 3-4 hours, or whatever came first.

In 2007, when training for Philly, I made it 18.  In 2008, when training for Melbourne, I don't even remember how long/short it was, but it was not very long (no shock that I ended that race at about mile 14 with ITB issues and disappointment that it was a 5-hour cutoff).  In 2009, when training for Disney, it ended up being 18 because my Polar footpod was not calibrated correctly and told me it was 20 :)  And then, last year, when training for  Rock'n'Roll Mardi Gras, it was 18 again.

Guess what it is again this year?

This week was my 16-miler.  Then next week, the 18.  Then, I officially "taper."  (Although I don't know that you could call what I do "tapering," considering that I always blend triathlon and marathon.)  The great Hal Higdon himself told me once that I was "serving two masters."  And, although he is 100% right, I have never had more fun (and cycling has definitely made me a stronger runner!)

When is this b*^ch gonna get to the point?!?

You know I never tell the Reader's Digest version of any story!


In any case . . . 

Today was the best 16-mile run I have EVER had.  This is not hyperbole.  It was the best 16-mile run of. my. life.  I ran 16 miles in under 3 hours and 30 minutes, I feel like I only ran 13, and I managed to squeak out an 8-10 minute/mile for the last mile.  The overall pace was 13 and change, which is the pace I want to maintain or exceed for the marathon.

I can already tell that this is going to be a marathon like no other.  When I say that, I'm not being specific.  It could be less painful, it could be more fun, it could be faster; I don't know.  I have no right to expect a PR in the midst of my other shenanigans *and* considering this is the 2nd mary of this year.  But, I do know that I have trained more consistently and at greater volume for the last year than I ever have before, and I know that my long runs feel better than ever before.  So, if that's any indication, it's gonna be BAD F*&#iNG ASS.

And it's not just 'cuz I supposedly get this SUPER SWEET additional medal for doing 2 RnR Marys in one year.  Hopefully, cause it's ultra-cool.

Goal vs Actual
I don't always hit my goal every week, but I love that
my training cycle mimics the plan and has some
periodization!

Finally, I pulled my goal vs. actual training for the past year and I noticed that, while I haven't always hit my goal, I have these things going for me:

1. Consistency.  The only weeks I've missed training were for mild injuries, illness and race recovery.
2. Speaking of recovery, I follow my plan(s).  I do a pretty good job for a not-too-educated amateur of periodization.  You can see by the peaks and valleys that I follow periods of build, taper, build, taper, (and even do much less overall) during the year.
3. Progress.  I have increased my training volume safely.

I hope that I am even closer to my goal and follow an even more predictable pattern next year.

Lots of great career stuff going on . . .  too much to mention!

In the meantime, IronMAJ is almost over.  Rock'n'Roll!

Just Call Me Murphy.

Ok, this wasn't funny last night, but now it's damn hysterical. I mean, if you don't laugh at some part of this, there are no funny bones left in your body.

Last night: first big workout of the week/training season - swim and weights. I'm ready, man. This season, I'm going to get everything right, and I'm tired of doing my races half-blind because I have no contacts or RX sunglasses. So I slept in the morning to save energy and went to my eye exam at 5:20pm (I get off work at 5pm, so straight there). I'm a little low on gas, but no worries: Sherpa's meeting me at home and he's going to drop me off at the Y on his way to work so I can cycle home, thus giving me a swim, my weights AND a 5-6 mile ride. He's got damn near everything all packed for me so I can just pick up and roll.

SWEET!

My eye problems are not big - astigmatism, but no distance problems. I can almost get away with wearing 1 contact in my right eye and my glasses only while reading or driving. But it turns out my eyesight has worsened so much this year alone that it's now unsafe for me to drive without glasses and unwise for me to ever take them off. I lost my RX sunglasses about 2 months ago while trying to do an OW swim in the ocean (don't ask - I was too lazy to bring my goggles out into the water and it was really bright). So, when I'm driving in the sun, I've been using the non-RX glasses. Welp, can't do THAT any more - had to get RX sunnies ASAP. Sure didn't expect THAT expense, but I got good deals on both of my frames and lenses, and now I can keep my old glasses in the car for "oops" moments. (And I didn't splurge on the $$$$ Bulgari sunglasses like I did that last time, thinking "I'll have them forever!", only to lose them a year later. I spent less on the new RX sunnies than I spent on my Smiths.)

Anywho. Two big shocks later, I look down at the time and get another shock. It's 7:20pm!!! Sherpa's late for work and I'm late for my workout. I can't make Sherpa late! I have to hurry! I hustle to the car to drive home and meet up with Sherpa. We load up everything so he can take my car and put gas in it for me. (That's my Sherpa for you.)

And then we run out of gas 2 miles down the road.

Yeah. I know. Don't lecture me. The last time I did this I was like 16. I should know better. Bla bla bla bla. So now, after this latest shock, Sherpa, with his bad back (which hasn't been acting up) and his ulcer (which had him in the hospital on Friday night), gets out and pushes me to the side of the road - which just about tears him in half. We call everyone we know: my best friend, my brother, Sherpa's two buddies, Sherpa's BOSS, even MY EX HUSBAND. No one answers. I'm pretty much hysterical at this point, standing outside the car yelling, "It's like something is trying to KEEP me from being a TRIATHLETE!!!" That's when a little voice inside me says Listen, sister. If no one's going to be a hero for you, you have to do it for yourself. And another little voice answers: Cut the bullshit, drama queen.

Guess which voice I listen to?

I hop on my bike, put my swim bag on my back, load up my Road ID and my night beacons for when it gets dark. "I'll be back," I tell Sherpa. "I'm riding to Home Depot." Which I do, but very carefully, because I get another shock very quickly - Sherpa didn't put the tire back on with my bike parts - it's got my trainer fork. And it needs air. Okay, really - how much more of this can I take?

I get to Home Depot and walk right up in that m'f'er with my bike. Thankfully, gas cans are right near the front foor. Then I realize, shit. 5-gallon gas cans are huge. Can I even fit a 5-gallon gas can on my aerobars? But I can't risk anything less. I grab one, and a nozzle, make a beeline for the self-checkout (which keeps telling me to remove the unknown object from the bagging area because I leaned my bike against the counter), fill up with about 4 gallons - now, mind you, I am still waiting on my new bank to send me my debit card, so it's a miracle this even works - and just about fall off my bike trying to ride away. Better call Sherpa and tell him I'm on my way back.

And I get another shock. I left my phone at the car. I scrounge up 50 cents, give him the 411, walk my bike as far away from traffic as I can and finally find a way to mount with the gas can on the handlebars. (Passing two police officers who, by the way, looked right at me and didn't say boo - because I guess it's completely normal to see a tiny girl balancing a huge gas can on a weird little bike at almost 9 o'clock at night?)

Sherpa runs up to meet me . . . we get to the car . . . and we get another shock. The gas can has a child lock. A child lock. I'm 30 years old and I can't open a gas can with a child lock. We end up breaking it with a key, finally fill up and get on our way. Leftovers for dinner for me and nothing for him. Sherpa's too trashed to work (his job is basically manual labor) and it's too late for me to work out.

The moral of this story:

1. Don't ever let anyone else pack your workout stuff.
2. What can go wrong, will go wrong.
3. Fill up at a 1/4 tank. ALWAYS. (Thanks, Mom.)
4. What can go wrong, will go wrong.
5. Try as hard as you can to do your workouts in the morning, even if you have a sleep disorder.
6. What can go wrong, will go wrong.
7. And when it does . . . do what Steve Winwood said and Roll With it, Baby.

Tonight it's raining and thundering . . . 1:20 bike ride with stomp sets and a 30-minute run. Looks like at least the bike ride will be on the trainer.

Well, at least the bike is still set up for the trainer.

Roll with it, baby.

Nutrition: The Fourth Discipline

The first thing people do when I tell them I'm a triathlete is (either silently or verbally) question my truthfulness. No one can believe that someone this heavy actually completes triathlons. And most people automatically assume that, because I'm heavy, I'm not disciplined. They figure, Well, you're fat. It's either because you eat too much or don't exercise enough - it's always a sign that you don't take care of yourself.

Well, this may come as a shock to you, but I'm actually going to agree with those bastards for once. I am not very disciplined.

Put stock in astrology? If so, I'm the poster child for my sign. According to astrology.com: "Sagittarius, the ninth Sign of the Zodiac, is the home of the wanderers of the Zodiac..........Once these folks start to feel hemmed in, they'll become impatient and difficult." Although most of us are natural athletes, Sagittarians despise boundaries, restraints, and regulations. We are free-wheeling optimists who fall prey easily to wanderlust, and we purportedly possess great passion and sponaneity, but little love for authority or commitment.

Not the greatest qualities in a triathlete, huh? I mean, think about it: training requires a commitment to hours of rigorous activity (under less than ideal conditions, on many occasions). It removes or relocates many other priorities in one's schedule. Only so much of it can be sacrificed, shuffled, or "winged" before a race becomes unsafe or impossible to finish. And it's not just training hours. Unlike, say, football or golf, a triathlete will lose monumental speed and ability by getting bulkier, which means efficient strength training and proper nutrition are a must. All of those factors amount to a relatively hefty commitment, even for athletes training at Olympic or Sprint distances. Commitment and discipline are really good friends. Free spirits are not really good friends with commitment and discipline.

So, every time I read Friel's chapter in Going Long called Nutrition: The Fourth Discipline, I cringe. Part of this is because I am the epitomy of a free spirit, and the very word "discipline" makes me quiver. Part of this is because I feel nervous when pressured in any way to focus on my eating habits - after all, I'm naturally geared toward food obsession. And, like most of us, my eating is also the first thing to go out the window when I feel ill, or my schedule gets packed, or I get stressed. In fact, one of the biggest reasons I train is because training is slowly helping me to develop a healthier relationship with food. The effects of poor or inappropriate nutrition are almost immediately evident in daily training, and especially during races - everything from the amounts and varieties we consume to the intervals at which we consume them. The key, for me, to improving my relationship with food (and its relationship to my training), is to understand and accept food as fuel for the proper functioning of my body, as opposed to a treat, an emotional outlet or a celebratory tool.

This has been a very long and difficult road for me to travel. I have always been the type of eater who eats great quantities but naturally chooses healthier foods, especially considering that my family was vegan while I was in high school and lacto-ovo vegetarian until I moved away from home. (Although, that's also one of the roots of my eating problem, but I digress.) Last year, I was close to my average weight (about 30 lbs lighter than I am now), and my habits were easy to maintain. Losing weight steadily, I was certain that training harder would return me to proper form, although - and this is VERY important to say - my reason for training was NEVER to lose weight. My hope was to be too light for the Athena category by St. Anthony's in April. However, from late summer through early spring, a series of flare-ups, medication changes, lifestyle changes and tendencies toward my old disordered eating patterns actually put me at a weight around 10 pounds heavier than I was at this time in 2007. You can imagine the anxiety this added to my already stressful life: medical problems, personal problems, training struggles - then add the weight gain and all the correlated self-esteem damage, the difficulty dressing for work and the simple fact that training was more physically painful. Of course - and I am NOT proud to admit this - the end result was the adoption of even poorer eating habits as the stressors pushed me farther and farther back.

It isn't for lack of knowledge. Being a disordered eater, I know more about nutrition than you can probably imagine. More than most people - even athletes - would like to know. My years of obsessing about food have educated me on carbs, fats, protein, veggies, grains, the best time to eat, and all manners of weight-maintenance habits including food-journaling, portioning, deprivation, non-deprivation, and just about every mental trick in the book(s). But putting all that knowledge into practice is nothing short of miraculous, especially when my eating is so intrinsically linked to my emotional well-being and other health concerns.

It really is a discipline.

And I am struggling with discipline right now. It's enough for me to just get out of bed, train a few times a week, work without falling alseep at my desk, and repeat the process the following week. Let alone to have to watch my nutrition and not feel offended by people looking at me like a freak because I barely fit an XL top but I'm talking about training for triathlons.


As I've said before, the week of the biggest race I've ever attempted is NOT the week to get crazy and alter my routine severely. Florida Ironman 70.3 is looming on the horizon. Maintaining the status quo is vital at this point. After FL HIM, I will go back to using Weight Watchers for a while as a food journaling tool to keep me on track. I visited Brian and company at FrontRunning Sports today and had my stride video taped. It's altered a lot since last year. A different pair of shoes is on order. My shorter summer races (local and Olympic - except for one, out-of-state Olympic) and my fall marathon will be the time for me start working on these things.

For now, I have to get ready for my parents and aunt to visit, and it's time to tapertapertapertapertaper . . . . .

Oh, and download "The Final Countdown" to my iPod.

Top 10 Reasons I Will Finish Florida 70.3

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That's what I did last night. A babydoggie brick. Or a doggiebaby brick. Whatever way you slice it, it was a tiny brick with a dog thrown in.

Rewiiiind...................

Last night was a realllllly rough night. Bad flare-up of my EDS and my syncope with some vertigo thrown in fo' good measure. Exhausted. Could barely move. Couldn't find something to make for dinner. Meds were throwing me for a loop. Broke into tears on the way home because I was so sore, ill, hungry and tired. *Aside: how the crap did I get an Iron Appetite when I'm only training at Olympic-Half Iron distance???*

Somebody was advertising for negative tenants in my head on top of that: Look at me. I can barely work out twice a day and I expect that I can make it through a 70.3 without getting cut off? GET REAL, YOU LAZY B#(&TH! . . . . . Again with the self-flagellation. Began to wonder if I'm somehow bringing it all on myself. Had to explain to Sherpa, through snotty tears (how SECKSAY), that I'm not really lazy, that I'm just sick and tired. He realized, of course, that I was not arguing with him, but with myself. "I know you're just sick and tired. But remember that exercise helps your pain and your sleep quality." He has a flexible schedule, so he ate some dinner at my place on the way work to make sure I was ok. I had written off my workout altogether: a 40-60 minute ride in zone 3 and a 20 minute breakthrough run. The bike was still on the trainer from my trainer escapades.

I'm not going to lie to you. I took the easy way out.

While T. was still there, I popped a couple of salt pills, turned on the TV and started spinning. Lo and behold, I spun for a little over 45 minutes at HR zone 3 (for me, that's 145-155 BPM). Then I hopped off the bike, faked transition by running upstairs, slapping on my running shoes, throwing the puppy on a leash, and ran to the mailbox and part of the way around the lake. Then I came home and juuuuuust about figured out how to get my aero bottle in my aerobars. {WTF!?!?!? I had to be the oddball that picked the shortie carbon crooked aerobars with the wider spacing (Profile Design P22C). Turns out, almost nothing fits those damn things: pads have to be hunted down, aero bottles are tough to mount . . .you get the pitcha.}

TRT (NOT incuding my aero efforts :-D) : 56 minutes and a few sex (I wish). Not quite what was on the schedule, but close enough.

I attribute this miniscule victory to two things: consistency and perserverance. Consistency: the overall quality and pattern of my training is going to matter more than the minutiae(no spellcheck, don't care right now). Now, during my peak week for the biggest race I've ever done, is not the time to get crazy. It's not the time to try all kinds of new shit. (Pardon my Francais, but you know I don't perp a fraud, and that's how I really feel, so that's how you're getting it.) It's time to keep the same basic workout schedules and types I've been keeping, with a slight component of added intensity and distance. So that's what I did. And maybe it was a bit shorter than it could have been, but I did it. Perserverance, going back to how Dawn described my performance at St. Anthony's, means I chose to control my situation instead of letting it control me. It's not something I guarantee I can always do, but I sure as hell know that I cna make a fighting effort. And, whenever I'm in doubt, I think back to . . .

1. The Philadelphia Marathon, which I ran with sinusitis, at 39 degrees in near-freezing rain, in a skirt - when even the locals who had originally intended on shorts dressed warmly
2. Hammerhead Olympic Triathlon, where I won my age group despite illness and injury, in 95-degree, 90% humidity
3. St. Anthony's Triathlon, where I managed an official finish despite almost 2 hours of constipation and diarrhea at the same time

So here are the Top 10 Reasons I Will Finish Florida 70.3:

• It's right in my backyard. I have home field advantage.
• I don't like to waste money. I entered, I'm finishing.
• I want to see if I can do it.
• I didn't train all season for nothing, even if the season was light.
• I've finished races in worse conditions in around the same time frame.
• I get faster as I go longer: I'm built for comfort, not for speed
• No one makes me get up at 4am and wear tight shorts without giving me a medal and a t-shirt for it
• My Sherpa(s) and support team are going to be there with me, at least in spirit
• Because I want to.
• Because I can. Dammit.

Routine Is My Friend.

Today I had my official post-hospital visit with the doctor. He is quite confident that my issues are related to various effects of my medication, and that they're easily remedied. He made a few additional changes to my prescriptions, which included removing one, thank God (and noted my 12-pound weight gain since I've been training less frequently. Good times.) With that out of the way, it is time to climb back on board the Training Wagon this week. With several weeks to think about this, the consent of the Doc and my support crew behind me, I'm ready to return to my old routines.

Routine, I am learning the hard way, is my friend. Getting into regular habits is a neccesity with my new medicine requirements, which have me taking pills now in both morning and afternoon. Before, I could just choke 'em all down at one time of day. Now, I've got to measure out my morning and afternoon meds once or twice weekly and stay aware of the time every single day so I don't miss critical doses. This extends to my training, of course: if I get in the habit of measuring out my nutrition supplements, doing laundry, marking up my workout schedule, etc., I will be more successful at staying consistent.

As far as my race schedule goes, of course, some analysis is due. I cannot defer St. Anthony's - nor would I want to. I will skip a spring duathlon this year, but I will NOT remove FL HIM from my schedule. You might find this a bit crazy, but I'm going to go for it. I don't want to lose the money or the goal. A lot of people will disagree with this decision, but they're not me, they're not triathletes, and they're not physicians.

The truth is, there are going to be days when I don't feel so great, but that's just a part of life. I've come to accept that my life will be filled with slightly more of those 'not so great' days than the average person - and that it is what I do with the remaining days that will make a difference. And there are disabled athletes far more fit and experienced than I, with many more health problems - even a double-amputee Ironman finisher. If someone with the same goals as mine can succeed them despite greater odds than those I face, the odds are not as against me as I feel they are.

My doctors (non-ER docs, that is) unanimously agree that training, even intensely, does nothing but help my various conditions - and it can't hurt me to get back to my usual weight or lower my cholesterol, either. So, FL HIM HERE I COME!! I may make it, and I may not, but I'm damn sure gonna try. (And I definitely know now that I need one more year of 70.3 racing before I make the leap to 140.6).

Don't Talk About it . . . Be About It

This is my new motto.

What the bloody hell does this mean?, you might ask. Well, it's gonna take me a minute to get there, so bear with me.

I haven't been around a lot lately. If you have been stopping by (and I owe a large part of my ever-fleeting sanity to those of you who do), you'll notice that, while I'm updating my dates and workout log, I haven't really been journaling. It's not because I haven't had a whole lot to say about my training, it's just that I haven't really made any of my characteristic entries reflecting on those training-related revelations. This is due in part to internet and computer access issues, moving and closing madness, and loss of ability to sneak on at work. And (I know you're thinking it, so I'm gonna say it), I've also had a lot of drama, and I've been pretty wrapped up in that.

I made the mistake of celebrating while training and stressing, somwehat like a newly-released inmate (or a college freshman, to use one pal's analogy), and it didn't go over too well. Don't get me wrong. Training never stopped for the drama. I continued to labor through it. I never had any real "off" weeks, but I had some seriously slow weeks. Training "unofficially" started the week of Christmas, and "officially" commenced on December 31; however, for several weeks during January, I made only one or two workouts, and on a few weeks, I made only half of some of those. But even those days are long over.

My former boss told me that I don't have enough people in my life that are hard on me. Well, nothing could be farther from the truth. Over the past few turbuent months, I've gotten more lip from more friends and accquaintances than a cosmetic surgeon at a Botox-and-collagen party. Anyone who's known me longer than 5 years knows I've only gone from one relationship to another ONCE - and it ended up in divorce. As stupid as some of you may think I am, I'm not stupid enough to repeat the mistake. Nor am I in a "downward spiral." If the word "rehab" comes out of my mouth, you can bet that it's completely in jest. If it comes out of someone else's, that's another story. A very wise woman - and she knows who she is - told me in no uncertain terms to put on my big girl panties and deal with it. Well, the actual advice went something like this: you've made your lists, you've pissed and moaned, you've reveled in all the bullshit you've experienced. And yes, it's bad. But you have to move on. In other words: put the stick down. The horse is dead.


I heard you loud and clear.


The past 2-3 weeks, I've been gradually picking up the pace. I made every single one of my 9 workouts last week. I splurged on a Polar 200SD and a pair of fins. I finally replaced the New Balance 767Ws that got me through last year's Oly, Half, and Philly training (and the races). I've learned to keep my cadence in the 90's. My swims regularly get into the 2km range. Gone is my "windmill" stroke. My shoes, swim gear, bicycle pump and rack, shower and workout accesories, and an entire spare kit of makeup LIVE in my car along with a bag of Gus, Clif Shot mix, vitamins, 5-hour energy shots, yoga mats, water bottles, several gallons of water. I've made friends with the girls in the Vipers, the kids' swim team at the Y on the side of town where I'll be living in about a week. (By the way, I've seen 4 of the Ys in my area, as my attitude has been "I'm going to work out wherever the f*&^ I am.") I even got a decent-quality, fold-up, travel-size hair dryer with attachments for doing my hair both curly AND straight - and am going to start carrying my flatiron around with me too - so I have NO excuses not to go straight to/from the gym and home and work, including lunch break sessions if need be. And every single one of my friends knows that, if they want to see me, they have to do so on a rest day, after a workout, or they have to suck it up and work out with me, at the expense of completely getting their ass kicked by a fat chick. (I'm not saying I'm all that fast, it's just that the average exerciser among my friends is a 3-5 day-a-week walker, some of them just venturing into 5ks. We were all there once, and we all appreciate a warning, when we go out with someone who trains for 2-3 hours a day and has 9 workouts per week, that we might get our ass handed to us. Believe me, when my Iron-distance friends deign to work out with me, I get my ass handed to me on a regular basis.)


Which brings us the long way back to my opening statement: don't talk about it, be about it. And that's a fun way of saying that I've been too busy actually being a triathlete to talk about. Although I enjoy journaling, and I'll continue to do so (though the frequency may not reach its former peak), you won't be seeing as much of me. I wish I could be as cool as Tea and IMAble and Duane and all of you whom I admire so much, but I can't.

Just don't worry. If you don't see me here, it's because I'm out on the bike, in the pool, or breaking in my latest pair of 767w's.