I Really SHOULD Have My Own TV Show

Back when I worked for the Golf Channel, a very important and seasoned senior exec used to tell me,"Meggan Ann, with all the nonsense that goes on in your life, you should have your own TV show. Friends and Seinfeld have nothing on you." (Gotta tell ya, given his experience, maaaaybe I shoulda paid attention there.) In any case, can you imagine that he said that to me *before* I even started filing the divorce paperwork? That oughta tell you somethin'.

I normally don't like to talk about work. I am the primary result for a good page or so if you Google certain combinations of my name - not telling which combinations, but let's just say you get everything from my LinkedIn and Naymz profiles to old blogs and Facebook and comments I've left on other peoples' MySpace pages. But, today's rant is all about insensitvity, and I couldn't complete it without bringing work into the picture, especially since my employer, regardless of who, has nearly always been a source of insensitivity. Particularly since I became ill.

Anyway, my entire office knows about my medical issues and recent loss, all the way up to the CEO. I have received a few encouraging words, but of course none of them know about the other turmoil in my life, so I can't totally blame them for not being more supportive. However, never once have I received encouragement or praise for only missing 1 day of work since then - instead I got comments like, "when I lost my 2, I just had to work through it." I continued showing up on days when I spend the morning (or day) fighting off tears and severe bronchitis at the same time, or when an entire bottle of naproxen wasn't enough to dull the ache - and the only snag my employer saw was an occasional day of 5-10 minute tardiness or a few moments lost when I was crying in the bathroom or receiving electronic support from friends because I'm SO CONSCIOUS that I DON'T EVEN TAKE THEIR PHONE CALLS during the day.

In fact, I'm not supposed to be lifting anything over 15 pounds or standing for long periods, but I've been assigned to packing and shipping 25-pound boxes of marketing supplies. Now, mind you, it's obvious that this hurts and exhausts me - my boss had to tape a box or two for me today because she saw me struggling to do so with any efficiency whatsoever. I've mentioned a few times, to different people - including my boss - that I'm not supposed to be engaging in such activities, but I keep doing it, however slowly. Then this morning I woke up in such pain that I can barely move. Pain caused by the packing/lifting? Unlikely. It is CERTAINLY, though, aggravated by the assignment. So, when 5pm comes, I'm over it. I ask our IT Guy, "Can you weigh these boxes for me?"

He is not known for his tact or warmth, so I should not be surprised when he repeats, "Weigh boxes?"

Taken aback, I stammer, "Well, yeah. I'm not supposed to lift anything over 15 pounds and these are almost double that."

IT Guy doesn't miss a beat. "What, did you hurt yourself or something?"

Did I hurt myself or something?

Blink blink.

"Well, I'm not supposed to be doing certain things for 3 weeks after ..."

He's silent.

I want to tell him, "Come fucking talk to me when you have a uterus, you nerdy, chauvenistic xenophobe." Instead, I burst into tears while taping the box and fly to the bathroom, where I remain safely locked for a good 5 minutes until the sobs subsided. (Ok, so what I REALLY thought was much, much harsher. But you get the picture.)

Taking another day off for myself? Good. Possible? No.

Strike 2 comes when I get home and hear that, just days before the event, exbo contacted his exgirl in an obvious attempt to rekindle things (something along the lines of "hey, sexy, it's been a long time"), apparently in anticipation of his dismissal from my life and the life of his unborn child.

One of these days, very, very soon, my newfound ability to stand up for myself is going to rear its ugly head. Until then, my truth is STILL stranger than fiction and I just have to grin'n'bear it. I'm going to Mom's in 2 days, so I should be able to hang in there. Tomorrow I pack; Thursday I take the puppy to my brother's; Friday I'm off. If I can't hang for two more days.......

Maybe I SHOULD have my own TV show.

Escaping from Fort De Soto (with a PR, no less)

(What's with the spacing and formatting lately, blogspot??)

When you're at the end of your first race of the season, and you're going a lot slower than you'd like, and you've only passed one person, and the volunteer around the last mile tells you, "Don't look back - there's no one behind you," what's the first thing you think?

C'mon, quick.

Holy *%&^ - I'm last. I can't believe I'm THAT slow.

Well, that's what I thought, anyway. "That's MEAN!!!" I shouted. Then the guy tells me, "There's a whole pack of people behind you. They're all WAY behind you. Trust me. No one's even close."

ME??? AHEAD OF SOMEONE?!?!?!! I'm a SUPASTAH!

But, I digress.

PRE-RACE

First of all, let me just mention that I LOVE THIS VENUE. My very first tri was here, and the beach at Fort De Soto is, quite possibly, one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen. And the Mad Dogs are one of the coolest tri clubs I've ever met. I want to BE a Mad Dog. (Hell, I'm already a Crazy Bitch!)

I also had my first real sherpa for this race. The Dude - by a stroke of luck - got the night off and went with me to the race. The problem is, I didn't get off work, get finished packing, eat and get on the road until about 8pm. Which means, by the time I scoped the sight real quick-like and got to bed, it was 11 or 12. Getting up at 4am for a race is not fun when you don't get to bed till 11 or 12. And, if you know me, you KNOW how superstitious I am about my pre-race routine, especially having a low race number, getting to bed ass-early and having my race packet the night before. So I got up with a serious case of race crank. Thankfully, The Dude helped me with everything: packet pickup, packing, unpacking, getting my foot-washing water, and jamming out to my loud pre-race music on the way to the race, at 5 in the morning, as if he does this every weekend. It was like we went to a party and a race broke out.

My goals for this race were low. This was a B-C priority for me, a warm-up for St. Anthony's, which is a warm-up for Florida Half Ironman. And I have been in and out of the hospital in the past few weeks. And I generally do my worst at Sprint distance. So, my goal for the swim was 15-17 minutes, given that my last sprint-distance swim was 750m in 17:36, and I wasn't as bad-ass of a swimmer as I am now. My bike goal was light - under 40 minutes. And my run goal was 45 minutes - I've never managed an 11-minute mile in triathlon, only stand-alone foot-races, but my running's been pretty strong. In short, I didn't want to push it. This was more of a workout for me than a race. Under two hours total, and I'd be happy.

SWIM

I had a major case of the Race Jitters, and I knew the second I did my water warm-up that this swim was going to SUCK A#$. I was completely dizzy in the water. My vertigo had me all wacked out. And I was just. Slow. As. Hell. Instead of passing people in the waves before me, I got to be the jerk who got passed by waves behind me. I had to pee in the water. It was the slowest swim I've ever done in ANY triathlon in my LIFE. Then T1 was about a half-mile run from the swim. Also the slowest T1 of my life. (Although NO ONE escaped from this T1 unscathed because it was so long.) So I kept singing one of the songs they'd played before the race (Disco Inferno): "I heard somebody say, 'burn, baby, burn' . . ."

BIKE

The bike was almost as bad. I couldn't get my groove AT ALL. I had to pee the whole time (I always do on the bike), but people were all around me. So I fell back to my race strategy and just gave it a moderate effort: one Gu, no real hustle. (Heart rate monitors are so worth the money for keeping you on your race strategy.) I was definitely BOP'ing (Back-of-the-Pack'ing) it.

At one point, I passed ONE person - a stronger cyclist in his 70's. "On your left," I grunted. "Be my guest," he retorted with a grin. "Oh, don't worry," I told him. "You'll be passing me." "What, is there a downhill coming up that I don't know about?" "Yep," I yelled over my shoulder, at about 17 mph. "It's called me bonking." Which I did less than 200m later. "Oh no!" He laughed as he flew by. "It's the dreaded Lance-Armstrong-ist!!!"

(Did I mention I want to be him when I grow up?)

Toward the final turn, I thought it was time to dismount, so I was already unstrapping my shoes. Turns out I still had a half-mile around the corner, so I couldn't really give a "final push" because I was what my mom would call "barefooted as a yard dog." (Or, maybe in this case, as a Mad Dog??) I know I didn't do this in under 40 minutes, but I had bumped my "lap" button on my HRM, so I couldn't tell.

I heard somebody say, 'burn, baby, burn' . . .

WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SEPARATE, PISSED-OFF BLOG ENTRY ABOUT MUTUAL ATHLETE RESPECT IN TRANSITION, ESPECIALLY PEOPLE THROWING THEIR BIKE ON TOP OF YOURS, THROWING THEIR WETSUITS AND SHOES AND CRAP ON TOP OF YOURS.THIS COST ME A WHOLE MINUTE IN T2.

RUN

So much for under two hours. Now I'd have to run 4 miles in 30 minutes or less to make that goal. My fastest 5k footrace is about 32 minutes, so 4 miles in 30 just ain't gonna happen. I realized one of my worst race limiters, too: THE TINKLES. I have to pee THE WHOLE RACE LONG. And then that's all I can think about. On the run, after finally getting to pee, I met a really cool guy named Matt - who's doing FL 70.3 for the second time in May - and we chatted for almost a mile, which perked me up considerably. So I actually figured I'd do well on the run. But then, just after mile two, we came around the corner of the fort, and the volunteer cheering us on said something like, "there's water just up the steps, guys."

Excuse you? What steps?

I seem to have forgotten that this race is called Escape from Fort De Soto. So I should have expected to actually ESCAPE FROM Fort De Soto at some point. Up the steps, across the top of the fort, down the steps, AND ACROSS THE SAND FOR OVER A MILE. Thankfully, it was pretty hard-packed sand, so it wasn't too rough. But there was no shade, which was pretty painful - thank GOD this is April, not August like last year's Hammerhead Olympic. Nothing I could do from there but have fun, so I kept singing.

I heard somebody say, 'burn, baby, burn' . . .

Past the cool volunteer who told me no one was behind me. A mile left. All of a sudden, finish line in sight. There's my sherpa. He actually expected me to keep up with his skinny, 8-minute-mile-running behind for the last 400m. I crossed the finish line. The clock said 2:11-something. My very first sprint, last year, was 2:10:05.

I just had my ass handed to me. No, scratch that. I just handed my own ass to myself.

But what did I expect? Really? I mean, I didn't push. I sang to myself almost all the way. So I felt great. I wasn't sore, wasn't dragging ass, wasn't tired . . . . of course, I couldn't eat till a few hours after, but that's me with any workout over 30 minutes.

And then I realized that I was in the 3rd wave.

Which means I was 6-9 minutes behind the start.

Which means I just PR'd.Without trying.

Despite my worst swim ever.

And The Tinkles.

After just being in the hospital and missing weeks of training since December 31.

As my dad likes to say when we watch football (which happens pretty much every week), "We don't care if it's ugly - we'll take it."

What a great time. Now The Dude wants to do triathlons too.

The volunteer toward the last mile came up to me after the race. "Do you remember me?" he said.

"Of course I do!"

"Remember when I said there was no one behind you?"

"Yep."

"And you took it negatively."

"Sure did."

"But I didn't mean it that way. Everyone behind you wasn't even in sight."

"You're right."

"Don't ever let anyone rent negative space in your head."

"You're right."

"We'll see you next time."

You bet your ass you will.

My run saved my race. That really sticks with me. The lower mileage and higher cross-training seem to do my body well. But what that volunteer told me is what really stuck with me, so you can expect me to write all about it for months to come. My worst race limiter is not THE TINKLES at all. My worst race limiter is that I DO let people rent negative space in my head. And the biggest tenant is ME. Even with The Tinkles: if I didn't think about it so damn much, I wouldn't have to pee so damn bad.

From now on, the week of a race - any race, practice or not - I'm going to put signs all over my house, my desk, my car if I have to. I'm going to tape one to the handlebars of my bike. I'm going to sing it to myself.

NO VACANCY.

NO VACANCY.

NO VACANCY.

No one's renting any negative space in my head. Not even me.

So yes. I'm still slow. And NO. I'm still not racing Athena again just so I can get a trophy.

The Official "Hey, At Least I Wasn't Last and I PR'd" Results:

# 167 Meggan Johnson 29 Orlando FL

PLACE: 47 out of 48 in my age group, 849 out of 850-something overall

SWIM: 25:18

T1: 5:34

BIKE: 40:24

T2: 2:51

RUN: 52:01 (MY FASTEST RUN IN ANY TRIATHLON TO DATE.)

FINISH: 2:06:06

PR: Around 4 minutes.

Was it the run that saved me, or was it the disco? You decide.

I heard somebody say burn, baby, burn . . .