Chronicles of an Inner Skinny Girl

You know how they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions? Well, I don’t know who the hell “they” are or why they don’t use asphalt like everyone else, but I do know that things rarely, maybe never, go according to plan. After barely writing anything during the fall semester, I managed two posts in a row at the beginning of this year and then…well, I’m guessing you were about to put my face on a milk carton. Never fear, I’m not missing, lost, or injured; I’m just a college student with three jobs. I know it’s no excuse, especially since writing is one of the things that I really enjoy doing, but it does have the benefit of being the truth. And as you can imagine, it wasn’t just the writing I gave up, it was pretty much everything in my life that I wasn’t either getting graded on or paid for. I barely watched any tv (and those who really know me can appreciate the gravity of this), didn’t read a single book for pleasure, and gave up sleeping for Lent. But, with finals behind me and grades finally posted, I decided there was no time like the present to get back on the horse…or wagon…or whatever…

I went running this morning for 33 minutes…in a row. There was a time in my life when I would have told you that it was not possible that I would ever be able to do such a thing. I would have told you how I hate to run and, frankly, am not even a huge fan of walking (in fairness to me I fall down a lot–remind me to tell you the story of my PE test later). But interestingly, there was a time more recently that I would have told you it was not possible that this was all I could run. This time last year I was training for my first sprint triathlon and had just finished my first half marathon, during which I ran more than three-times longer than I did this morning (and then, as it turned out, for another 2 hours). I loved running and thought that nothing could ever get in my way. But something did get in my way, that same something that always seems to get in my way–life. Sure, I could break it down into individual excuses like pool time and summer trips, finals and Latin homework (and a really kick-ass literature paper in the form of a fiction story), but each of these things is really just a subcategory of life. So this morning I had to lower my expectations and just put one foot in front of the other.

I won’t sugar-coat it either—it was really, really hard. When I first started out I figured I would just run a little and then walk a little, like I did when I first started. But before long I fell into the comfortable runner’s rhythm and remembered what it was like to imagine what it would feel like if I just kept running. I know, it sounds a little like Forrest Gump, but it’s the truth. I just kept taking it one step at a time. As I was climbing the ridiculously huge hill in my neighborhood, right when I got to the point when I thought I wasn’t going to be able to take another step, I was able to turn onto the new trail that goes through the woods and is significantly less steep. I’d never run on the trail before, and it was beautiful and peaceful. So I focused on my music and I just kept going.

Pretty soon my legs were really aching. And not just a little sore, but throbbing in various points from top to bottom. I could also tell by the pain in my right shin and foot that it was past time to get new shoes. But through all the pain I realized something—my legs had taken over. They weren’t waiting for my brain to send them constant signals about what to do, they were simply doing what they were trained to do, a mantra that I had repeated to myself throughout the half marathon last year. I closed my eyes and just felt my body from the inside (only for a second—I didn’t want to run into a tree or anything).

When it was time to turn around, I really let myself start to imagine what it would feel like to keep running all the way home. I had once run for six miles straight and effected forward motion for 13.1, surely I could make it back to my house. But even though I let my mind feel the excitement of actually making it, I still only focused on the very next step. That’s the funny thing about goals that seem far off—you have to imagine reaching them to stay motivated, but you can’t get caught up in how far you have to go to get there. It’s a careful balance so I let my heart celebrate succeeding while my legs were in charge of getting me there. And they did…

As we begin a new year most of us are excited about what lies ahead. When that ball drops at midnight on January 1 (or the first moment thereafter that we are awake and/or can remember), we feel like we are on top of the world and can do anything. This will be the year that we finally eat right, exercise, and lose those extra pounds we’ve been carrying around for longer than we can (or care to) recall. That feeling of being ready for the challenge is one of the best feelings in the world, but what happens when it starts to wane? And you know it will. Maybe you’ll feel good longer than you have before, but everyone eventually gets that little bit of tired or doubt that creeps in and threatens to derail their efforts. The trick is not to avoid the waning, it is to be ready for it. People have different things that remind them of how strong they are and how important their goals are. Here are a few suggestions for some things to do when you first start to feel a little off your game:

• Look at old pictures of yourself. If you have some less than flattering pictures of yourself to remind you of how much you want to look healthier, great. If you already look better than you did in your less than flattering pictures and can remind yourself of how far you’ve come, even better. And if you have previous flattering pictures that can help you visualize how super fabulous you are going to look, that’s best of all.

• Assess yourself. We do assessments at camp, but you can also do them for yourself. It only takes 5 minutes or so to do the timed push-up and sit-up assessments and probably less than 20-25 minutes to time a mile (I suggest on a treadmill in this freezing weather). These kinds of assessments will be a better way to judge than the scale of how far you’ve come (and how far you want to go).

• Measure yourself. Ditto above on using a tape measure to measure the inches on your body. While we do our best to measure in camp, it can be tricky to get the tape measure in the exact same spot every time and you may wear clothes of different thickness. If you want to really see your losses, try measuring yourself in your underwear (and try using freckles as a marker to get the same spot every time).

• Prepare for a party. I’m not a big fan of buying an entire wardrobe two sizes too small and figuring you’ll fit into them one day because it’s a waste of money and, more importantly, it prevents you from accepting who you are now (goals are good, but you gotta love “Present You” too). That said, go ahead a buy that one dress or pair of jeans or something that you will feel great in in the size you want to be (if your goal is a long way away, set mini goals and do this a few times). Now hang up that dress where you can see it and find somewhere fun to wear it.

• Be inspired by others. Personally, I’m a huge fan of success stories. I don’t even necessarily care exactly how they did, I just like tangible proof that it can be done. Some people, like Valerie Bertinelli and Ali Vincent (from The Biggest Loser), have written entire books about their weight loss efforts. Success stories can also be found in magazines (some that specialize in weight loss like Weight Watchers and some that don’t like People’s “Half Their Size” issue), on internet sites (some for specific weight loss programs, some that are just people’s blogs, and even places like Facebook), and in happy, talkative people shopping for smaller clothes at the mall (if you’re an eavesdropper or stalker). There are even tv shows, like The Biggest Loser, that inspire weight loss. Some stories give specific details that you could follow explicitly while others just give a summary paragraph and a picture with a huge smile. I know firsthand how great it feels to be considered an inspiration to others, so look around and let others inspire you to be a healthier you. And once you reach your goal (whether it’s the one you started with or a new one you set along the way), pay it forward (especially if you can get on the cover of a magazine).

Now you have all of these great ideas for battling the inevitable slump. Going back to the aforementioned “trick”—be ready. Don’t wait until the first time when someone offers you a cookie and you actually think about the answer or the first time when your alarm goes off at 5:00am and you tell yourself that you can still get in all your workouts even if you skip today to start looking at the list and decide how you want to inspire yourself. Start now and gather up an “emergency box of inspiration” so you’re ready when it hits. I have pictures of myself (both flattering and not) by my bed when I first wake up and on my refrigerator (visitors probably think I’m nuts), past run times everywhere (mostly because I’m a hoarder), old measurement charts dating back to college (the first time), a bikini in my closet (although not yellow polka dot), and a nightstand drawer full of inspirational books and magazines (also hoarding). I also have a whole wall of pictures and bibs from my major races. Pick what works best for you. And instead of making 2012 the year you never lose your focus, make it the year you’re ready to get it back!

They say right before the ball drops your life flashes before your eyes…or maybe that’s right before you die. Holy crap! Am I dying? No, no, I’m sure it’s before the ball drops. Anyway, as the slide show of 2011 zipped through my mind, I couldn’t help but think that it held some of my greatest accomplishments to date…and a few low spots.

In March of this year I ran an entire 8k for the first time and posted my best time by 12 minutes. That was shortly followed up by my first half-marathon (and a much less impressive time—but I finished!) and then, my crowning achievement, the Ramblin Rose Sprint Triathlon (during which I only fell off the bike once). The bad news is that following the tri, all of the hard work and dedication I had put into my running and training took a vacation to a small fishing village in Mexico and never came back. My regular exercise was on a serious roller coaster (as was about 10 pounds) for the entire rest of the year. Even during the holiday workout challenge at the Y (a team effort with Jen), which I rocked last year with my two-a-days, I just couldn’t motivate. Instead of hitting 60 hours for the 6 weeks (and then some) like last year, we didn’t even make it to 30 (and to be fair, my poor sister with a busted knee carried the weight of our team—but not on her knee). I don’t know what happened. I used to love running just to clear my head, and suddenly I couldn’t seem to do it for more than two days in a row. But enough of my exercise pity party…

Let’s have a food pity party instead. I love to eat…a lot…a whole freaking lot. If I’m using every bit of energy I have, I can control it, but there’s no room for anything else. I was doing really well for a couple months and that pesky 10 pounds was finally on its way to Mexico when a slight distraction called finals reared its ugly head and I lost the control that quick. So for the past 3 weeks, I’ve been eating everything…literally…my nieces wanted a snack the other day and informed me that I need to go grocery shopping (apparently cold pizza and beer is not an appropriate snack for children—this is why I’m still just an aunt). Is there a happy ending here? Nope. Sage Advice? Nope. Just another pity party. (Oh, but if you have kids, keep Goldfish in the pantry.)

But enough pity parties, there’s more good. I survived my first semester back in school after being out for a really long time (hence the aforementioned finals). I mildly blended in with all of the 20-year-olds (not that I look 20, but no one asked me if my kids went there, too or what I thought about Watergate—come to think of it that was probably only because they don’t know what Watergate is—During one class the professor was listing famous dead people and the girl next to me turned and asked “Who’s James Dean?”—True Story.) I got a 4.0 (Jen says that just means I study too much and need to get a life, but I am a total grade nerd). And I wrote a trilogy of short stories for my fiction class, which I hope will turn into the middle third of my first novel (hard to explain exactly what I mean by that—let’s just say there’s a white board and colored markers involved). So, I’ll put school solidly in the win column.

As for work, I love working with all of the ladies at Triangle Adventure Boot Camp offering them a few exercise tips and a lot of comic relief. Beyond that…nevermind, I said no more pity parties. But as Charlie Harper always says…something will come up. Ditto on boys.

So goodbye, 2011. It’s been real and it’s been fun, but it hasn’t been…look, an acorn on a crane…

I know what you’re thinking: where the hell have I been? I get all inspirational and make you think you can conquer the world, and then for over 6 weeks…nothing, nothing, and a whole lot more nothing. Well, a lot can happen in 6 weeks. I’ve only got 3 weeks left in this semester, I’ve nearly completed my first trilogy of stories, which will hopefully make up the first of three parts in my book, and I’ve finally been able to start sleeping better (for the first time in over 5 years). But as good as all that sounds, a lot can not happen in 6 weeks, too. I didn’t do the triathlon I was supposed to, which led to a series of dropouts ultimately culminating in the Outer Banks 8k and Half Marathon this weekend which should have been my crowning achievement. (I did have 2 friends run and I couldn’t be happier or more proud for them. If I was better at facing my own failures, I would have been a better, and visible, cheerleader.)

Again, I know what you’re thinking: what the hell happened? And if you, the seemingly unstoppable force of nature who makes us all feel like anything is possible (I know that’s how you all think of me), can fall apart so quickly, what chance to us mere mortals have? Well, to answer the first question, life happened. True, school turned out to be way more time consuming than I thought (perhaps 18 hours my first time back in 8 years was a bit ambitious) and work turned out to require more hours that I thought it would (silver lining-I can pay my bills) and I developed a mysterious illness that may my body stiff and drained what little energy I had (and yes, this illness was something slightly more than just fat butt syndrome), but if you strip away all of the excuses, all you’re really left with is…life. No matter how much we may think that our rest and relaxation is right around the next corner, it isn’t. At least not unless we make time for it.

This leads me to the answer to question number 2. It is actually a lot simpler than you may think: MAKE THE TIME. And I don’t just mean write it down in pencil on your day planner and figure you’ll get to it as soon as you have a free minute (because guess what, you will NEVER have a free minute!). None of our minutes are free; we are constantly trading a minute of this for a minute of that like the barter system. We trade a minute of tv for a minute of play time with our kids and a minute of cooking (insert take-out here) for a minute of reading a good book. We all decide which minutes are more important to us and barter with ourselves to trade the less important minutes for them. And “more important” doesn’t always mean enjoy, sometimes it means something that has to be done no matter how much you hate it (laundry, cat box, paying bills – you get the idea). So here’s what you do, figure out what all of your time currency is for both the things that are high on your list and the things that are low (If you’re feeling really creative, you could even cut out little bills and label them—dear engineers and math people, please get the supervision of a creative person for this). Then, place all of the tasks in descending order of priority and make a line at the point in the list where you have now run out of hours in the day. Now, and this is the most important part, pick up your “health” task and put it above that line, way way above the line. “But, Kristie,” you cry, “there’s nothing I can move below the line to take its place” (I know, my mind reading ability is quite shocking). And to that I say, “Yes, there is, you just have to find it.”

Don’t get me wrong, I realize that finding something to move is unfair and challenging and requires some really tough choices. And I get that no matter how much you “like exercise” there are still plenty of things on your list that you like better (cleaning the cat box, for instance) because if there weren’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. And I know better than anyone how easy it is to make excuses and convince yourself that you are doing the best you can. And I know better than anyone the sense of relief you feel when you finally convince yourself that you’re doing the right thing and that you’ll get back to it just a soon as you have a free minute. But I also know the gut-wrenching pain of dropping out of one race after another and sharing in the excitement with your friends that have worked their butts off (literally and figuratively) while knowing that you should be there with them. And if you think that lesson doesn’t sting enough, I’ve also twice lost close to 70 pounds only to gain it all back and then some. Trust me when I tell you that there is nothing worse than looking back at old photos of yourself and wondering how you got here again—it makes the 7 pounds I’ve currently gained back quite the reality check.

But don’t cry for me because I’m a firm believer that the only failure is in giving up. I went to the Y on Friday for the first time in so long I couldn’t even remember. I ran 3 miles on the treadmill and felt like crap the next day. But I felt good, too, because I was finally taking a step in the right direction. I know when I’ll get there (I don’t even know where the hell “there” is), but I will keep trying. And some steps backwards may go on longer than others, but I will always eventually walk forward again. So next time you think about pushing your workout off calendar because something “super critical” has come up, you’re just going to have to take a deep breath, put on your big girl (or boy) pants, and make the nearly impossible decision of pushing something else. It’s not impossible; it just feels like it sometimes. And I suggest you start by scrapping cleaning the cat box…it can wait another day…or 9.

Come closer, I want to tell you a secret.  Closer…Closer…  I’m generally an easy-going, non-judgmental person so I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but there’s a woman in my life who drives me crazy.  She’s constantly screwing things up and never seems to like anything.  She thinks she’s smart, but she doesn’t seem to have much to show for it.  And don’t get me started on her fashion sense.  She makes grand plans to do things that never really happen and complains constantly about how hard it all is.  Guys don’t seem to notice her, and she’s just six cats shy of crazy.  And the worst part is I have to see her every single day…in the mirror.

That’s right; I am way harder on myself than I am on anyone else in the world.  I would never say these things about someone else.  And if a “friend” talked about me like this, I’d tell her to not let the door hit her on the way out (it’s only happened once – that I know if).  And if someone talked like this about a friend, things would get ugly.  So why do I put up with it from myself.  I am genuinely happy for others’ small victories, but I can’t seem to be proud of myself even for the big things.  I forgive others for major mistakes, but my own minor ones stay on my mind for days (or longer).  I am constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop (I have no idea where the first shoe is) and never cut myself any slack.  Why?

Why?  I don’t know.  I suppose recognizing it is the first step to making things better, but I’m not entirely sure what the second step is.  I am currently working on the theme song method of cognitive therapy (I totally made that up by the way – psychology is not one of the degrees that litter my wall).  I pick a song that expresses how I want to feel, and play it really loudly every morning until I start to believe it (singing is also encouraged).  My current theme song:  Pink’s “Perfect”  [NOTE:  There are two very different versions of this song – one child and radio friendly and one sailor dirty – pick which ever version suits your personality…you’ll have to guess which one I use].  Either way the message is important:  1) you have to chase away your own internal demons and 2) there is someone in your life (if you’re lucky more than one) who thinks you are really great the way you are.  For me the second point is easy; there are two of the most beautiful girls who are pretty sure I was put on this earth just to be literally the world’s best aunt.  I know this without a doubt every time they smile at me, hug me, or generally show excitement at my mere existence.  My hope is that I can be the person they think I am.

And thus creeps in the exhausting first point – those stupid inner demons.  That part is much trickier, and I’m still working on it.  I figure I’ll start by saying the words (not out loud unless I’m alone…or pretending to talk on my phone…) over and over until I eventually believe them.  I’m perfect to me.  I’m prefect to me.  I’m perfect to me.  All work and no play makes Kristie a dull girl.  Wait, that’s a different problem.  So whatever your inner demons may be—my nose is crooked, my butt is too big, I can’t cook (btw, you’re not alone there; I actually burnt a sandwich in the microwave the other day)—first acknowledge them, then slay them.  And once you’ve done that, go out and celebrate you…then tell me how the hell you did it.

“When I get sad, I stop being sad and be awesome instead.  True story.”  -Barney Stinson  (How I Met Your Mother)

{In case you missed the first part in the season finale cliffhanger, click back on the previous entry – or you will be really confused.}

Jen has ridden off on my perfectly positioned for maximum efficiency on exit bike!  How could this have happened?!  I know that “my” bike is really her bike and “her” bike is really her husband Seth’s bike, but my bike is YELLOW and has a big label on the bar that says “KRISTIE”!!  And more confusingly, how on earth did I not see this happen.  I was standing (well, sitting) right there – like a foot away.  I quickly assess the situation and realize that I have to make a decision, and I have to make it fast.  First, we’ll examine the facts:  1) I am a terrible (and terrified) bike rider; 2) I have only ever trained on my bike; 3) Jen is only 3 inches taller than me, but Seth is 8 inches taller than me; 4) I have absolutely no idea how to lower any bike seat, let alone this one; 5) I have no idea if it is a serious infraction to ride someone else’s bike (with someone else’s name and bib number on it) and no way to find out without drawing attention to my situation; 6) this whole race was Jen’s idea anyway; and 7) in all of the chaos no one would notice if I quiet snuck away to the spectator area and cheered Jen on as she ran by.  So, I put all of these facts together and make the only logical and reasonable decision I can…

I grab Seth’s bike and guide it out of the transition area to the bike course.  As I’m walking the anticipation is mounting – I have no idea how bad the seat situation is going to be.  I never did particularly well with starting during training, and I can’t imagine that being several inches farther away from the ground and the pedals is going to do much to help the situation.  If I were I superhero (which in some circles I am), I would tell you that I magically glided on top of the bike and sailed away.  Well, it isn’t anything so graceful and takes three failed attempts, but I am finally pedaling through the course…one-tenth of a mile down, 8.9 miles to go.  The ride is every bit as uncomfortable as you might imagine.  Because I can’t reach the pedals sitting on the seat, I am forced to sit up, leaning forward on the little skinny part of the seat.  The good news is – my butt does not go numb like it did during training…the bad news it – well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m single.

Thankfully, despite my utter lack of speed, there are generally always other bikers around me, and there are plenty of volunteers lining the track cheering us on.  Jen and I had learned just before the race that the mountain bikes we had were more difficult that road bikes, and I was worried that I would feel out of place.  While there are certainly more road bikes than anything else, I am comforted by the wide range of bikes that are on the road.  There are other mountain bikes, older bikes, and even one that appears to be a replica of the bike the Wicked Witch of the West road away with Toto in.  The ride feels like it is taking forever, but it’s flying by, too.  After a ridiculously long internal debate (some of which may have taken place with my “out loud” voice), I finally decide to pull over and attempt to lower the seat.  I’m a smart person; how hard could it be?  I find a lever that appears to be connected to the seat, and pull gently…nothing happens.  I pull a little harder…still nothing.  I start to pull even harder when suddenly my mind is filled with the mortifying image of the lever somehow being some magic pin that is holding the whole bike together and when I pull on it, it all falls apart on the ground and I’m stranded miles from the end with a giant heap of bike parts trying in vain to explain why on earth I pulled on the magic lever.  I know, a bit over the top, but it is enough to get my short butt back on the bike with no more tinkering.

I continue to pedal and wish I knew how much farther.  A helpful volunteer finally tells me I’m two-thirds there.  Six miles down, three to go.  I am amazed that I’ve made it up several intimidating hills without having to stop and push the bike.  Before long, a volunteer happily reports that I am approaching the final hill and warns that it is really tough.  I remember the offending hill from when Jen and I drove the course, but I am armed with new resolve to make it to the top.  My resolve is shaken ever so slightly as the hill (or, more accurately, mountain) comes into view.  The hill itself is enough to make you wet your pants, but the really scary part is all of the women pushing their bikes up it.  And by “all” I don’t just mean that there are a lot of them, I literally mean ALL of the women ahead of me are pushing their bikes.  That’s okay – I may bend, but I will not break.  I was wrong about the swimming, so I’m sure I’m wrong about this, too.  I take a deep breath and pedal harder, convinced that I can summon the strength to conquer the hill.  Well…this is another of those superhero moments, and remember all of those volunteers?…It turns out they are there for more than just cheering and telling you how much farther you have until the torture finally comes to an end.  They are also there to pick you up off the ground when you stubbornly refuse to stop pedaling even though you are going so slowly that you might actually be moving in reverse and eventually no longer have the momentum and balance to keep the bike upright.  And by “you,” I mean “me.”

So, the volunteer picks me up and to add to my pain cheerfully says, “You’re okay, Jennifer.”  Damn you, bike thief!!  I dust myself off and join all of the other women pushing my bike up the hill.  Surely the end is near, one way or another.  And, it is.  Just when I think I can’t possible take another second, I see the women ahead of me turning left towards the starting line.  I get one final adrenaline rush and pedal to the end.  I thought the past 9 miles were bad, but I am suddenly faced with what may hurt the most – the dismount area.  I gently apply the brakes, but there is nothing I can do but postpone the inevitable.  Finally, they catch, the bike stops, and I keep going until I land on the bar across the top (what is that stupid bar for anyway?).  I am overjoyed that I have survived and quickly make my way back to my transition spot on very shaky legs (if you have never tried to immediately start walking fast after riding on a bike, I highly recommend).  I put the bike on the rack, and I do what I do best.

I run.  I run like the only thing standing between me and an unbelievable sense of accomplishment is two pesky miles.  Two miles…I can do that in my sleep…seriously…I think I have restless leg syndrome.  I run like I once ran two miles after an 11.1 mile warm-up.  I run like there are bears chasing me (hey, it worked once before).  I am so far back in the pack thanks to my less-than-impressive bike riding, that I am running past quite a few walkers.  I give them words of encouragement as I go by (but I don’t mention the bears).  I have to pause to take a breath a couple of times up the steep hills, but I don’t let that deter me.  I just keep running and running and running until it finally comes into view…the coveted finish line.  All I have to do now is just not fall down for the next 100 feet or so.  I see Jen standing on the side with Julie cheering me on.  My legs are no longer listening to my brain; they are simply relying on their memory to do what they have been trained to do.  Despite the rigorous protests of my heart and lungs, my legs keep moving forward until they finally step across the line…and then they refuse to so much as hold me up.  It’s okay though because Jen is suddenly there and, as always, she catches me before I fall.

I wake up in a cold sweat.  I can’t believe I agreed to this.  What was I thinking?  A half marathon was one thing, but a triathlon (even a women-only sprint triathlon) is a whole different story.  I’ve thought about backing out a hundred times.  Jen told me even last night that I didn’t have to go through with it – after all, she didn’t do the half marathon with me (although she swears she never agreed to do it in the first place).  But even though this is not going be fun (I’d rather go to the dentist), backing out now would feel like quitting.  And I may be slow, but I’m not a quitter (at least not for this – I did quit Biology my freshman year and have never regretted it).

Begrudgingly, I drag myself out of bed and limp to the bathroom (stupid plantar fasciitis).  I splash my face with cold water and give myself a pep talk…it is going to be okay, maybe even fun (well, let’s not get crazy).  I stare at the clothes I have laid out for this special occasion (you have no idea how hard it is to pick out the right outfit for a triathlon) and try to visualize what is to come, including a happy ending.  I decide to tackle this day like any other – by putting one leg through the pants leg hole and then the other (obviously the other hole, not both legs through the same hole-that would be a very different race).  This plan works great and before I know it, I’m off to the races…literally…three of them…done consecutively.

I rush to Jen’s (shockingly I made myself late with all of the pep talking) and away we go.  We make good time (since it’s the crack of dawn on Sunday) but get disoriented trying to park (two bad senses of direction do not make a good) and end up in the far corner of the parking lot and have to ride our bikes to the starting line.  That’s right, the part I’m dreading the most and now I have to do it before I even get started.  This is not getting off to a good start.  Eventually we find a huge group of women crossing the street and join them like we meant to park so far away.  We make our way to the check-in and get our timing chips in record time (thank goodness Jen insisted that we get here an hour early). 

We make our way to the transition area and begin to set up our stations.  Being the wonderful big sister that she is, Jen lets me have the end spot (I have personal space issues) and I point my bike in the direction that is easiest to get out (this will come back to haunt me).  While we’re setting up I realize that there are a lot of women here who are doing their first triathlon and also appear to have no idea what they are doing.  The event volunteers are smiling at everyone and helping them set up.  We see a neighbor, Julie, who is very fit but was doing her first tri.  She is as happy to see a familiar face as we are.  We wish each other luck and go to stand in the huge swim line.

When I signed us up for the event, I had to rank us on a scale from one to ten as to swimming ability in order to get our starting order.  There was virtually no guidance on the scale, and I did not realize that there would be so many beginners at the event.  We also had not even started training yet and even though we were both competitive swimmers as kids, that was many, many, many, many moons ago (more for Jen than me).  All of this is a long explanation for why I ranked us as 4.  We found out the day before that about half the women ranked themselves as 5, so we had a lot of waiting to do.  As we patiently eat our pre-race snack (helpfully labeled in a Ziploc bag by Jen) we settle in to wait (and wait and wait) for our turn.

The line is long and I’m already exhausted.  While we’re waiting, the first woman returns from her bike ride and begins to run.  We finally get through the clubhouse and into the pool area, and I realize just how wrong I was when I ranked us a 4 – there are women walking through the pool, that’s right, I said walking!  While we’re waiting by the pool, the first woman returns from the run, thus officially finishing the event before I have even gotten wet (the second and third women return, too, but who’s counting).  My stomach is a ball of nerves by the time it is my turn to step into the water.  I watch Jen glide away and take a huge breath.

The 9-lap swim can only be described as utter chaos.  It is nothing at all like the calm practice laps we swam so faithfully.  The only person I ever shared a lane with during training was Jen, and now I’m sharing the lane with at least ten strangers going in both directions.  It takes all of my mental strength to focus on the task at hand.  I can hardly breathe because of the panic, taking in at least three times as many breaths per lap as I did during training.  I am passed twice at the wall (the second time by a woman who then proceeds to go slower than me, which is really annoying – I bet she’s a pain on the freeway, too), but I can’t even consider passing anyone myself.  My goal is to just get out of the water without drowning and move on to the next level of torture.  After what seems like an hour (but was apparently barely more than six minutes) I reach the last lane, find the stairs, and make my less than graceful exit.  One down…

I head to the transition area and am thankful that Jen is still there.  Seeing her lifts my spirits and she fills me in on what a rock star she is – I am genuinely happy for her and glad that I get to share this moment with her (this is about to change).  While she is furiously tugging on her shorts and racing away, I am sitting down to put on my shoes (and socks) and eat a few work out jelly beans.  I calmly arrange my shirt and put on my helmet.  I am gathering up the strength to believe that I will rock this.  I walk over to the bike rack and over to my yellow bike…or at least where it should be.  A new wave of intense panic washes over me as I struggle to comprehend how my bike could have disappeared.  Am I in the wrong place?  Did I get confused with all that water in my brain?  My eyes slowly focus on a bright blue bike with a label carefully wrapped around the bar that clearly says “JENNIFER” and I realize with horror what has happened…

                to be continued

This time tomorrow I’ll be a triathlete.  This time tomorrow I will have done something new.  And this time tomorrow I will never have to do it again…

I’ve been MIA for a while and I’ve got no real excuse other than I let life get in the way.  And part of that life has been training for this triathlon.  When Jen saw the flyer at the Y and said she’d always wanted to do a sprint triathlon, I happily agreed to do it with her.  I was in the last couple weeks of my half marathon training and was convinced that I could do anything.  I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio flying high at the front of the boat in Titanic, and I was out to prove something.  So why not take on this fun, new challenge?  That way when my friend, Jill, looked at me right before the gun went off for the half marathon and said “What do we do tomorrow?” (true story), I’d already have an answer.  Why not?  Because Stupid, you have a shoulder injury that makes competitive swimming excruciating (even if you did learn to swim at three) and you don’t know how to ride a freaking bike!  Well, that voice of reason failed to speak up at the right time and now I’m stuck (and feel more like Leonardo DiCaprio clinging helplessly to an broken door in the middle of the ice cold ocean).

Jen said I don’t have to go through with it if I don’t want to, but I feel like I should.  We’ve done all of this training together and, to be honest, I’ve enjoyed spending time together.  Now I don’t see how I can come this far and then say “nevermind,” especially when I have so many amazing people cheering for me.  People look up to me for inspiration, and I take that very seriously (and humorously).  People believe in me and tell me how proud they are, and I want to deserve that praise.  But more than anything else, I believe in me.

While it may come as a surprise (given my sunny disposition) I have not always had the best self esteem, especially when it comes to my health.  I have struggled with eating disorders and have never met a couch I didn’t want to sit on.  Even the handful of times that I have gotten into shape, I have ultimately slid back into my old habits and eventually into my old fat-girl jeans.  And it’s not that I didn’t understand the concept of making a life-long change, I just didn’t seem to know how to do it.  And this time a year ago I had just moved back from Phoenix and was preparing to start boot camp.  I was promising myself that this time would be different somehow even though I didn’t yet have a clue how.  When I asked Jen how to lose the weight as quickly as possible, she suggested that I take a walk every day after camp for a little extra calorie burn.  Little did I know…

What she didn’t know and I couldn’t know was that walk would slowly turn into a run and that 3.5 miles would one day turn into 5 and then 8, then 9, then 10, and on one chilly April morning 13.1.  And that brings us back to today as I sit here far more nervous about this triathlon than any of my runs.  When I run, I know what to do…put one foot in front of the other and count the mile markers as they go by (or, more accurately, as I go by them—that would be really mean to move the mile markers).  And I’ve fallen enough times to know that I can get up and keep moving (and I’ve perfected the tuck and roll).  But there is so much unknown about tomorrow.  What if I need to pass in the pool (or get passed)?  What if I don’t change my shoes fast enough or forget my socks?  What if I fall off my bike or can’t make it up a hill?  So many ways in which things can go wrong, but I keep reminding myself of the reward if they go right.

I am a runner now I keep reminding myself, and this time last year I couldn’t have said that (or even believed it).  So even if I never, ever do this again (and the real never, ever – not the never, ever you promise God when you accidently drink an entire pitcher of margaritas because you didn’t realize no one else was drinking them), at least I’ll be able to say I tried (no pun intended – ok, maybe a little pun).  And no matter what happens, this time tomorrow I will be proud.

This isn’t the first time I’ve talked about riding a bike after many years, but this time I don’t mean a metaphorical bike…I mean an actual bike.  And if (or more realistically when) I fall, I won’t be bruising my metaphorical behind.  No, friends, today as part of my triathlon training (whose brilliant idea was this anyway?  Oh right, Jen’s) I was forced to get on a real, live 2-wheeled death machine and ride around the neighborhood.  We’d been practicing on the stationary bikes at the Y, but it was finally time to try the real thing.  And while I used to ride all over my country neighborhood on my trusty red bike, it would not be an understatement to say that I had not been on a bike in twenty years (since I was, um, eight), and I was utterly terrified to even try to make the thing go.  It took at least five false starts just to get going, and I had to start on a downhill so that I could get up enough speed to keep going while my feet negotiated with my brain regarding the whole peddling plan.

Once I did get finally get moving I was at the end of my sister’s nice, safe street in no time and was forced to turn out onto the ridiculously busy main through street.  My only saving grace was (ironically) that we were riding during church time so there wasn’t too much traffic.  That said, even one car was too many in my mind.  I was so nervous and shaky and trying desperately not to run into any moving cars, or parked cars, or cars harmlessly sitting in their driveways, or children, or babies, or puppies…or really anything that wasn’t nailed down (or that was nailed down).  Every time I had to make the slightest turn all my muscles tensed up and I braced for the worst. 

After what seemed like hours of excruciating torture (and 5 trips around the block) my sister finally announced that our twenty minutes was up and it was time to head home.  Miraculously I made it all the way back without falling, or crashing, or damaging any body parts (or property).  I’m not very good at stopping and my feet don’t touch the ground (stupid grown-up bike) so as I hit the brakes in the driveway I flew forward and landed in a less than desirable position.  But at that moment I didn’t care, I was just happy to be alive…and utterly bewildered as to why people do this recreationally. 

So, did I learn anything from this experience?  Well, I suppose I established that there is some truth to the phrase, although query whether you could really call my awkward flailing about “riding a bike” (that’s not really fair to the bike).  And even though I was able to achieve forward motion (although again I may be playing fast and loose with the word “forward,” and “motion” for that matter), I’m sure I was making actual cyclists cry.  But I did try something out of my comfort zone (to put it mildly) and I did ultimately conquer my fear enough to start (even if I’m still not sure about the whole stopping thing). I guess in all of this babbling what I’m trying to say is that sometimes we have to try new things to keep growing and sometimes we have to do things that we used to do but haven’t done in a really long time and just trust that we’ll remember how.  So don’t be afraid to ride your metaphorical bike or fall on your metaphorical behind, just put on a smile and hope for the best…and don’t forget your metaphorical helmet.

I posted this in a boot camp email, but wanted to share with everyone:

As most of you know I ran my first half marathon yesterday.  It was both easier and harder than I expected.  I had had good long runs and bad long runs during training and was excited to realize early on in the race that it was going to be a good run.  I ran the first six miles, which was by far the longest I had ever run in one stretch.  I took a short walk and water break and realized I still felt really good so I kept on running.  I took only a few walking breaks after that and at 8.5 miles I texted my progress to Jen and discovered that I was still easily on pace to meet my goal of 3:15 (a pace of 15 min/mile).  By the end of mile 10 I was only 5 min over my goal pace and was really encouraged.  And then things took an unexpected turn…literally…into the woods. 

The next two miles took almost 45 minutes and I watched my goal slip through my fingers.  I was tired, sore, really hungry, and just trying to find the will to finish (and not get attacked by bears).   And just when I thought I was in over my head, things took another unexpected turn…deeper into the woods.  Suddenly the terrain was anything but flat and paved.  The trail was tiny and I was all alone (and had no one to outrun when the bear came). 

I would like to tell you that something magical happened and I found some unknown inner strength and suddenly sprinted to the finish line – and maybe in the movie that’s how I’ll play it.  But the truth is there was no magic, no energy burst, just sheer determination and one foot in front of the other.  Finally I caught a glimpse of the red mile marker for mile 13 at the top of a hill. 

I slowly climbed to the top only to discover that even in running what goes up must come down.  I was standing at the top of a ridiculously huge hill that was covered in wood chips.  I had to run down this hill to get to the finish line and since I had so separated myself from the pack with my incredible slowness, I am not exaggerating when I say I was literally by myself and everyone at the finish was staring at me.  For a split second I computed the likelihood that I would make it down the hill without falling and let’s just say the odds were not good (who am I kidding, the odds wouldn’t have been good even if I had gone down the hill without the 13 mile warm-up).  Unfortunately even though the odds were bad, the hill was standing between me and the finish line that I had been training for months to reach.  So I took a deep breath and ran for all I was worth…at least I thought I was running but I’m pretty sure the video will show something that looks a little more like moving through cement.  Either way I made it to the bottom and crossed the finish line in 3:46:12 (your math is right – that final mile took over 26 minutes). 

The moral of the story is that we always have to keep moving towards our goals whether things are going as planned or not.  Once I realized I couldn’t reach my goal of 3:15, I could have given up (well, maybe not right then because I was in the middle of the woods), but I didn’t.  Just like once I realized that I couldn’t come to camp at the end of last week because I needed to rest and thus lost my perfect attendance, I could have given up this week, too, and said I’ll come back next week.  But then I wouldn’t have been moving toward my goal of starting out every morning with a workout and a smile.  So for those of you thinking about just bagging camp (or whatever your workout of choice is) for the rest of the week because you’ve missed a few (or a lot) so far, come anyway and finish strong.  Don’t worry about that hill you’re staring at, just think of the sweet feeling of crossing the finish line…oh, and watch out for bears.