Was it the Gas or the Ladies?

I am quite a feminine woman. But I am also a feminist. Equality for all. No prejudices based on sex. My husband has always agreed with this and we've prided ourselves on being stereotype-busters. But... is my husband the man he has always claimed to be? All of this snow has created a revealing situation.

History: Chris has never shoveled our driveway. I am the resident snow-shoveler. And if a neighbor is unable to shovel, I shovel for them too. Which I have been doing for NeighborLady these past few weeks.

BUT, this weekend Chris got home from work on Saturday morning and couldn't get in our driveway. So he stumbled into the garage, discovered where the shovels hang, and proceeded to shovel a path into our driveway. He gets no more than 3 shovelfuls flung when NeighborLady comes out and offers him the use of her just-purchased snowblower.

Now my husband has always bucked the stereotype that "the smell of gas gets (his) blood pumping," as my father once put it. Every male in the room had hastened to agree - except Chris. (That's my boy!)

So on Saturday morning, it was "with reluctance" that he assented to use NeighborLady's snowblower to do our driveway. And hers. And the neighborlady's across the street. And the neighborlady right next door. And the sidewalk for the couple across the street. And the family right next to them. By this time, I had awoken and peered out the window to watch all of this. I rubbed my eyes. Yep, it was Chris.

He cut quite a dashing figure, sort of like Arnold in The Terminator, all square-shouldered and relentless. The snow would blow up and blast him, obscuring him from view. Moments later, he would emerge from the haze - still square-shouldered, still moving the snow. I wasn't the only one who noticed.

Everywhere the guy went, women poured out of their houses to chitchat with him (at least it looked like chatting from my vantage point!), and daintily shovel some ancillary piece of property.

Now who should happen to call, but my dad. Naturally, I filled him in. He clearly enjoyed the scene as much as I did - with not a little gloating, "Oh yeah, nothin' like that smell of gas in the morning." Just then, the plot thickened. NeighborLady followed him into our driveway with her shovel. Dad suggested posting "No Trespassing" signs. On Chris.

Sunday morning was a repeat. With the addition of a plate of homemade "thank you" cookies. Hmm... so what am I to blame (thank?) for this transformation: Was it the smell of gas - or the scent of a woman? And which way do I want this question answered? I mean, if he's been a secret gearhead all this time, what does that do for women's - or men's - lib?

On the other hand, what if it's the ladies? Or maybe that's OK, as long as he's only blowing their snow. Huh, I can hear it already, "But Honey, I was just blowing her snow."

Oh, what a quandary! Do I buy him a snowblower of his own? Bake more cookies? Dab gasoline behind my ears?

Spring cannot come too soon! Out damn snow!

The Snow Came

Friday Night

Piper and bosom buddy Maggie romp at the forest. Notice the snow in front of Maggie.

Saturday Morning

This is the same forest on Saturday morning. We skied again at 10PM, for which I put skis on outside of our front door and skied down the streets to get to the trail. I love beating the plows out the door! The snow was drifted so high in spots that it created waves that rivaled those at Mavericks. Fourteen MPH winds kept a steady sheet of snow sworling off their front edges. Piper plunged right over the top of one and was nearly lost in the avalanche of snow. I, having spent time in California observing surfers, "caught" the wave from the side and managed to "surf" it to the bottom. Watch and learn, Piper.

Sunday Afternoon

Here we are at the forest yet again. I gotta say, my training partner rocks. The picture at right is Piper struggling through a drift near the end of our first loop. Yet he burst into the second loop without missing a beat. Now that's stamina!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

And no, we don't need to make any pronouncements on who possesses the most intelligence at our place.

The. Snow. Came. Yay!!!!!

Thin Skin

I want you to know that it was bullying did me in. Made me anorexic. Not you or Dad or the others, but the spitballs. The two BFF turning their backs on me and hating me for 3 months. For no reason. No, for the very good reason that we were middle school girls and that's what middle school girls do. Haze each other and make the outsider baste in her own hateful skin.

Too good of a vocabulary. Too.... everything. Not their friend. Someone to whom you say mean things, whom you get the 8th grade girls to taunt. Whom you call the hated names that her siblings called her and that she shared with you in confidence. When you used to be best friends.

But who allows that to happen to herself? Who goes to the nurse's office, the counselor's office but doesn't say, "My so-called friends are being bitches"? Who allows themselves to be bullied?

Me. I did. Because somehow I was a shameful enough person to deserve it. That's what I'm getting now. Why it still stings now. Because they were wrong and I didn't stand up for myself. Because it's my pattern. They were Hammers and I was an Anvil.

There are bad people in the world. Hammers who will never understand the secret life of Anvils. The Hammers can't even begin to conceive that someone outside of themselves may hold a shard of truth. That is the face of evil. The cocksure, I've-got-all-the-answers-face. We Anvils, on the other hand, grab for that piece of truth that has just barely eluded us. That everyone but us must have.

Huh. That's it.

I am out in this world with the Hammers. Where they can lift their snouts to the air and smell my vulnerability, my uncertainty, my need. And then circle in for the kill.

I have been "over-sensitive" from the time I was shoved from the womb. I need to toughen up, get a thicker skin. But dammit, I don't want to! Partly because I'm just plain old stubborn, partly because it is hard to not be me. Believe me, I've tried.

But also because there is at least one perk to being sensitive... I have lived many lives. I have felt and experienced and intuited that which was not happening to me. Because I'm never sure. Because I can't avoid looking at the Other and listening and thinking, "What would it be like? What is it like in that skin? Believing what they believe, knowing what they know?"

I'm not sure what this sensitivity gets me - certainly nothing tangible. But somehow I like it. I like seeing the Falstaffs and the Hamlets and the Katherines. I like knowing them - even if it is only from the obtuse angle of inference. I like wavering on the edge of my skin and letting that translucent self blur just enough to understand.

And that's something the Hammers will never get.

Nor take from me.

Beauty Seeker

I sip the sunlight that bathes us in light
Plunge myself into the warmth of his chest
Smile at the mud on the prancing paws
Throw the stick - agaaaaaain
Continue crunching the snow
and its crispety crust.

Run fast just because
it feels good to breathe.

Nod nightly to Orion, Cass, Big and Little Dip.
Tingle to my fingertips when Sarah Brightman hits the high notes.

I am skeptical of the commercial trappings of thrill-seeking.
But Beauty-seeking?

Drink up.

How to Make a Pussy Purr

Build him his own house, replete with heating pad, mousetoy-sized holes, and place it well, well beyond the reach of the puppy.






You see, it used to work to share, but that was like 72 pounds ago...


Wanna make your pussy purr? Contact the WoodMan at 101 Triteacher Alley.

High Mileage Week

Woof. It has been a week. I'm thinking back to last weekend and it seems like it was months ago. It has been a week of contrasts and extremes...

I have been breaking-dishes angry and tenderly loving - to the same person.
(No dishes were harmed in the production of this post.)

I have not eaten at all and then eaten sushi to excess.
I slept 4 hours one night and 12 on another.

We left our hamlet of 1500 for a city of 250,000
but still found a cornfield to trek through.

I have played nurse at home and at school,
pushing one 5th grader in a wheelchair, and butterfly-taping another's chin until stitches could be had.

I blistered my fingers lacing and tying 24 pairs of ice skates.
A nurse cleaned and bandaged them for me.

I didn't miss or slight a workout until I was sure everything was OK.
Then I let inclination dictate and netted a 2 hour walk instead of a 3 mile run.

I was drained
and then rejuvenated.

I have been, I have felt,
I have lived.
I have gotten my mileage out of life this week.

Thank You

You've heard my sadness,

- THANK YOU -

Now hear my joy;
I'm off for the weekend
to play with my boy.

Troubles of the Heart

Phone rings at 3:30 AM
The worst time for a call

Fears confirmed
Chest pains and fainting
To the ER I go

Pale and confused
In a bed he lay
EKG, blood draws
Family heart history?

Affirmative
Grandpa, Uncle.
Bad, just bad.

But no! I'm his wife
and I can assure you, Doc,
his heart is in the right place.

Test results?
Yes, for now it is.

Exhaaaale.
He's mine
for while longer
at least.

Grateful.
Valentine's Day 2007.

What Do You Want?

What do you want?

A tri bike. No. TWO tri bikes - a custom-built steel and a carbon fiber equally outfitted. In my garage for 2 weeks this summer. I'd ride the blazes out of them and then purchase the one that put more smiles on my face.

What do you want?

Ok, Ok. Freedom from desire. From the constant ache, craving, clawing, anticipation of the next thing. To be in the present and live here. In this time. In this place. Inner peace.


Humph. Better stick with the tri bike fantasy.

I Feel Good!

Like Scary Good.

I did my first interval workout in 2 years last night - on the treadmill (TM). And I taught myself how to program TM for an interval workout. That shows you, my friends, that I am investing in TM. That I think I will need to reach out to the beast and tame it. To this end, I am renaming her; hereforward, she is Truly Mine (TM).

She helped me run fast last night. Oh, the bliss of running fast again! I love it. I'm a junkie for those sweat-wringing, heart-pounding, heavy-breathing intervals.

She helped me dream - imagine - that I might just be able to meet my goal for my 1/2 marathon in April. She gave me evidence last night. I saw 6:53 for 5 quarter miles. Now 13.1 miles of 7:09 that does not make. But it opens the door to it. I soooo want to believe in her. And in me.

Then I had the audacity to run this morning. In the cold. (See Frosted Flake on right.) And I felt good again. Something's coming together here.

I feel good! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na!!!

You Need My Job

Fifth graders are the best kept secret in teaching. There's the legendary sweetness of 4th graders - resulting in landslides of applications to teach that grade. Sixth graders are known to be smart and impressionable. So where's the press for the 5th graders?




Exactly! No one extolls the virtues of the 5th grader. So let it be me who says: they rock! They are sweet, and now, about halfway through the year, they are getting IT. They're becoming more insightful about themselves and their world. And they talk about it. In fact, they ooh and ahhh about it.

One kid is "getting to be a better reader," as he and his huge smile point out the multisyllabic word that he has just decoded.

Another formerly-reluctant reader leaves her book on my desk with a sticky note instructing me to "read from p.146 to the end of the book," in which the main character is radically altered and realizes it.

Yet a third, my needy little tantrum-thrower, slugs a classmate in the morning, swallows another session on "What other choices can you make when you get angry?," and comes to me in the afternoon with her new library book, When I get Mad, "cuz I have problems with my anger."

Seriously, you need my job! :)

Tag #2: Ironman

Hee, hee, I'm really milking this tag. My apologies for the shame I bring upon your house, Bubba. Ready for #2, kids?

2. Describe a memory from your most recent triathlon.

With Ironman, I really can't describe "a memory." It's so much more than that. I like to think of it really, in 3 (very creative) phases: Before, During and After....

Before: Becoming Ironman
The Becoming (as xt4 so aptly put it) is HUGE. It involved more training and dedication than I was even sure I was capable of. It meant believing in myself and pushing myself - and setting limits. I had to decide what price I was willing to pay for the race. And it was a decision I had to keep on making.

What sacrifice is too big? Family time? Quality of instruction provided for my students? Possible long-term damage to my knees? Expense upon expense upon expense? And with each new roadblock, I made an informed decision and juggled and compromised - or just flat-out drew the line in the sand.

All those moments of crisis in the "Before" had to be dealt with. You can't look past that. It was really baptism by fire - over and over again. I was being shaped into iron, one choice at a time.

That sounds really rough, but it wasn't all tough decisions, of course. It was also the moments of stunning self-actualization and pure bliss:

• Riding down a hill at 45 mph, whooping at the top of my lungs.
• The afterglow in meeting the next benchmark in distance. Topping out at 6 hours of riding. Swimming for flippin' 2 hours straight!! Woof.
• The ability to eat whatever the hell I wanted without guilt.
  
• Pride in finding that what my body wanted was tuna and lettuce and garden tomatoes.

Yes, it was good, too.

During: Becoming Ironman
Then September 10th came. And I loved it. I have so many images that still give me shivers:

• All of the bikes neatly racked in the transition area, lit by those early morning strobes.
• Running up the helix through the tunnel formed by a wildly-cheering crowd.
• Handing my bike off to my brother and kissing my dad.
• At mile 23, telling a bemused, smiling husband that this was fun and there might be more of these in my future.

Madison is a beautiful place for a race.

After: Being Ironman
Ironman is the gift that keeps on giving.
I'm still inspired by it. And what's more - the people around me are inspired by it. The day I got back to school after IM was picture day. I wore my finisher's shirt and medal. I then sent this picture with my thank you cards.

Five months later, it is still on my parents' fridge. Strong Sister keeps it propped on her nightstand.

Ironman has meant so much to me and to those in my life. Immediately after Ironman, I was blue - mourning all of the things I'd lose now that Ironman was over. Five months out, I'm realizing that the Iron Me is the new default setting. All of those qualities I'd gained through Becoming, by Becoming, are still here. They are better felt than expressed, but have to do with confidence and self-reliance, belief that I can get the job done.

From here forward, everything is shaped through the lens of Becoming and Being Ironman. By default.

Tag: First Triathlon

Bubba said to do this meme, so I will. I mean, when a guy who runs a 50k in sub-zero temps says, "Jump," you say "How high?" However, I'm going to do this one my way as you'll see.

First, in case you're wondering, You, JWM, Spence, and Steve are it!

1. Describe a memory from your first triathlon ever.

2. Describe a memory from your most recent triathlon.

3. What's the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you in a tri?

4. What's the most thrilling thing that's happened to you in a tri?

5. What is something you discovered about yourself by doing triathlons?

6. What is The Big Goal that you're working towards?

Next, I'm going to take my good old time with each one of these. Indulge me; when there's a windchill of -28F, I need some good tri memories to keep me warm. On to the meme...

1. Describe a memory from your first triathlon ever.

Flashback to 1999. I'm standing on a beach with 30 buff females feeling very self-concious about my bra sticking out from under my swimsuit, thinking, "Ooh, what am I in for here?" I have always been a runner, but when my mother-in-law's hospital decided to host an olympic-distance triathlon, I thought, "Why not?"

I signed up 2 weeks before the race. My "training" consisted of hobby swim/bike/run. It had been a superb summer with a stay at a cabin on a lake in northern Wisconsin. My husband and his dad fished all day while I swam alongside the boat or hit the trails to run and bike. Nirvana.

At the tri, I'm way too scared to talk to any of my competitors but soak up the scene, already making plans for next year's improvements. Then the bang, and we were off.

The swim is unlike anything in my experience. I am, of course, overwhelmed by the slash and burn technique of the whole scene and swim way off course to avoid being scratched/crawled over/ thumped yet again. Yet I still almost drown because my adrenaline is high and there ain't no way I'm slowing down to breathe. I come out of the swim alive and stop at the porta-potties.

"Aren't you supposed to be racing?!" my husband scolds me. I give him a tremulous but excited smile and, with shaking hands, don my newly-purchased bike helmet. I'm off.

I must have actually exited the swim in front of some other racers because I get passed non-stop in the bike portion of the race. I have a eureka moment when one of my passers cheers, "Woah, you're tough to be doing this on a mountain bike!" I continue to pedal for all I'm worth - and vow to have a bike with skinny tires by next year.

Hydration plan? My husband is standing at the side of the road, holding out a bottle of water. It is the first time I realize how fast I am going relative to someone standing still. In other words, the bottle pass is tricky. My in-laws laugh, wave hand-made signs, and shout encouragement.

Before I know it, it's time to run. If you have not tri-ed before, you have no way of knowing how absolutely bumble-fucked you feel getting off of a bike after going full-tilt for 26 miles and then trying to run. I couldn't have walked a straight line, much less run one! I, the marathoner, am astonished at my traitorous legs, but finally marshal them and charge onto the course. I am sure that I am going to die numerous times. I'm hot, my legs are tired, my chest hurts, the scratch on my face adds sunburn to its litany of woes - but I just.keep.going. One foot in front of the other. I pass my cheering-section, but can barely lift my head to acknowledge them. They cheer louder, and leap-frog to different points along the course.

BLUUUUUUUUR.

Finish line. 2:53 and I've done it! Hugs, tears, weariness, - but strangely - eery, bubbling elation. I'm hooked. I've done that course every year since and PR'd on it at 2:32. Slightly better than 2:53.

Ooh! I'm warm now. Thanks for the tag, Bubba - just what I needed. :)

Up next, #2 of the tag. Ironman, here we come!

Hover and then - BAM!

That's my new race strategy. Courtesy of Piper at 11:30 last night. He hovers by the bed, waiting for Chris or me to go to the bathroom and then BAM - he's up and in your spot before you can say Bob's your uncle. Very effective.

Need a race strategy? Get a dog. I'm listening to mine. I'm going to hang on the heels of other racers this summer and then BAM, pass 'em at the water stop or porta-potties. Ha, victory is in the bag.

OK, so the name may need work... what about Lurk before you leap?

Cold and Clear

So Cold
You put on every garment that you own and then add your mother-in-law's parka, mittens, and snow pants. Just for good measure.
Your sweat compacts as frost within all those layers.
Your puppy is the first one to want to turn around and head for home.

It's one of those winter nights where a half moon bounces off of the snow and makes 9PM look like dusk or like 2:30 AM on an Alaskan summer night. It will never get dark tonight.

So Clear
You can safely venture into new fields on tonight's walk.
You can make out the individual twigs on the individual branches of the trees.
You can see that the dogs have unearthed (unsnowed?) some bit of carcass - all fur and sinew - but thankfully dark enough that you can't discern just exactly the creature it was.
The sidewalls of your footsteps in the snow cast a shadow that makes the spaces between your steps glow iridescent white.

So beautiful.

Finite Quantities, Finite Possibility

I'm beginning to think that the other side of aging is wisdom. Yes, I have creakiness and wrinkles that I've never had in the past, but maybe those creaks and wrinkles are signposts showing me the way to something more.

I've always wanted to do Something Big with my life. Something Big once meant becoming a famous singer (middle school & high school), then it meant going to the Peace Corps (high school and college). It has meant Ironman, marrying my best friend, helping my family and friends, being the best person I can be. But I also have gotten bogged down in the past by a) spending energy and worry on prissy obsessions - stuff that I couldn't change or even if I could, it wouldn't matter in the big picture. b) trying to do too much. I've drowned in the infinite possibilities. I haven't said "no," and I end up spreading myself way too thin.

Now I see that my wrinkles and papery cheeks are telling me that my life is a finite quantity. My slowness to recover is telling me that I have only so much cognitive and physical energy left. They're waking me up and making me think about how I am going to spend those finite quantities. I want to make sure I'm spending them on Something Big. Not piece-mealing them and doing a partial job on everything.

So I'm stepping off of the hamster wheel wherein I tease out every possible outcome of situation x at least a bazillion times. I'm going to accept the things about (primarily) people that I cannot change. Shut the door.

And open the door to Something Big. I know myself now. I know my strengths and my limits. I'm good at teaching. I have a passion for it, especially for the "gray area" kids. And I have a gift for relating to them. I also have the training to teach them to read and the income to buy enticing books for them to read.

The vision? I have the belief and zeal of a religious convert about education being the key to lifting these kids out of their environments. I believe in reading as the key to improving their lives, both economically and metaphysically. I know that a better education means a better standard of living for them.

But I want even more for them. I want enlightenment for them. I don't want them to just see the stars in life, I want them to experience the richness in picking out Cassiopeia, Orion and the Big Dipper. That will be my gift to them. My Something Big.

And should I forget or lose sight, I have a built-in reminder system. Thanks, Wrinkles and Creakiness.

Swimmin' in it

Slipping my hand into the glove
that is Mandie's bubbles,
Coming blind out of my flip turn
and straining for the percussion
of her kick.

If it is there, I float into it.
If it is not, I reach for it.

Then it is my turn to lead
and I am a slippery eel
sluicing through the water
catching more than my share
faster than I have a right to be.

It's even OK
when Swimming Partner
with the unfortunate halitosis
catches me between sets.
Breathing hard and
blowing her nastiness
across three lanes.

It's all good
even to the grocery store
where my favorite bagger boy
wheels my cart to the car
unloading his self-conciousness
to reveal glimpes of a cat-loving
mama's boy.

I'm swimmin' in it tonight, kids.

The Secret Life of Bathrooms

Why is it that all the good stuff evolves in school bathrooms?

In the last 3 days, I've had numerous occasions in which I had to use the little girls' bathroom. Experience has taught me to brace myself, draw a deep breath, and give in to the urge to sing, "Little girls, little girls, everywhere I turn I can see them." It's been YEARS since I've seen Annie. But surely this is the place where Ms. Hannigan found her soul:

• It never fails that 2 out of 3 of the toilets aren't flushed.
• Don't even ask about the toilet seats.
• It never fails that the sinks are dripping with slimy green soap. (Does ANY of it make it onto their hands?)
  
• It sometimes fails (thank god!) that a little kindergarten girl is in the next stall talking to herself about... oh, let me just use her words, "Oop, another one." Tuneless humming interrupted only by grunting. Then, "Hey, who's in here?" Then tee hees herself silly when I say, "It's a teacher." (What more can you say??)

I always vow that next time I'll wait until the faculty bathroom's empty.

But at least I don't have to go inside the boys' bathroom.

Today we teachers were sitting in the lounge enjoying a little chat and a laugh and lunch. (Yep, that's what we do in there.) When we hear a huge thud on the northwest wall. My classroom's on the south wall, Teacher #2's is on the northwest wall just west of the bathrooms, and Teacher #3's is on a whole different wing.

But still, all three of us pop up and race for the door. I am the last one to spring into action and pull the door to the inner sanctum shut behind me with the cunning instincts that make me a top-notch teacher; Never leave the Teachers' Lounge open to surveillance. We fly down the hall with T2 in the lead.

Within seconds our little SWAT team has the boys' bathroom surrounded. That's where things get dicey. We exchange quizzical looks that clearly indicate, Who's going in??

T3 and I figure it's really T2's turf so we hang back. T2's a trooper and bucks up, bangs on the door and yells, "What's going on in there?!"

Out staggers a 6th grade boy, mumbling about a fight and another boy who's still hanging in the bathroom.

Turns out they escaped the holding cell (AKA the cafeteria) after bolting the noon feeding and thought they'd rowdy it up in the bathroom.

Ha! Little did they know that we teachers don't rest. We're just sitting in the lounge with our ears to the walls. Ready to change into our SWAT gear at a moment's bang and leap down the halls... to wherever the current crisis is located.

Strength: My Mom

The air was thick
The barn aisles slick
My 13 year-old body coated with sweat.

The cow-stink of manure
weighed heavy in my nostrils
humid air with assault power.

The manure-producers
sagged under their heavy garb
of surcingle and milker.

I watched the milk first gush
out of their bodies,
then trickle as their bags drained dry.
Then I'd switch the milker to the next bossie
and she'd have her gush-to-trickle moment to shine.

Alone in a barn of 73 females - milking.
Peter played go between,
catching up on the dipping if I needed him,
feeding the cows, and checking on Sarah.

Sarah was manning the shooter.
Wagons pulled in,
Sarah switched on the hydraulics
to shoot the fresh-chopped sileage up
up into the 70 foot silos.

Empty wagon out
Full wagon in
Repeat.

But wet and heavy was the sileage
blocked arteries often needed unclogging
and Sarah would have to ascend
to beat at them with desperate fists
to comb at it with a fork
to poke it, prod it, move it along.

Then the clouds unleashed.
The torrents began
The black sky gave birth to sheets
to pound down and soak her
and block out her view
Her 10 foot leap to the ground

I, in the barn, felt relief at last
the humidity condensing to cleansing rain.

To my ears came sounds of wild laughter
between the thunderous peals.
They're laughing at me again
was all I could think.
When Peter burst into the barn.

Sarah has a fork through her foot!
Sarah jumped onto a fork and it's through her foot!
We need to get Mom! We need to get Mom!

Out to be vigilant I went
To stand by my sister
who dragged herself
out of the way of the rocking wagon.
With a fork hoe stuck through her foot.

Red-scarved, sunburned, halo-auraed Mom came
and saw Sarah
She gritted her teeth
They were field work dusty brown.

Go into the barn.
She didn't waste words
We didn't waste time

She grasped that fork and pulled it right out.
She grasped that fork and pulled it right out.

Sarah has the scar.
I have the wonder.

Sneakin' Stinkin' Blues

Stage 1: Hide 'n' Seek
Steadfastly ignore their presence...
Keep truckin' on through, acting as if.
Smile and teach at school.
Work out, eat, socialize, sleep in the after hours.

Stage 2: Slip-up
Let them creep into the after hours...
Feel like being on nodding acquaintance only with 100% of humanity.
Finally get left alone.
Don't know quite what it was I wanted to do with myself.

Mozart is annoying.
Can't find anything decent on Sirius.
Maybe Billy Joel will cheer me up. (Snort at own perversity.)

Skip swim workout.
Ski 15 minutes, freeze fingers, go home.
A good book would be nice.

Eat lots of food:
Spaghetti supper.
3 bowls of cereal.
Gorp grazing.

Re-shovel the driveway.
Almost smile when Piper chases snow.
(OK, allow self full smile and laughter; 80 pound puppies bounding and leaping and sliding all over the place for a snowball that explodes into a million tiny pieces when it hits the ground are FUNNY.)

Stage 3: Proclaim it. Own it.
ALL RIGHT! I, TRITEACHER, AM IN A FUNK!
OUT OF SORTS! DEPRESSED!
PISSED AT THE WORLD!
WANNA DITCH MY OWN SKIN!

Ha! Take that you Dirty Blues Bastard.
I am looking you right in the face.
I see you there.
Now come and get me.

I dare you.

Stage 4: Move on. At last. Please?

Out with the Old, In with the New

Out with the old...

These hiking boots are being retired after 13 years of service. In this photo (cropping inspired by Anne's profile photo), they are hiking into the Colorado Rockies. They've also...

a) Waded through the waist-deep Mighty McKinley River, whose gray silt retired a pair of once-white socks.
b) Toe-kissed the iridescent blue of a glacier.
c) Hoisted the burden of 70-pound packs bearing a hiking diet of oatmeal, gorp, and the occasional, decadent Diet Pepsi. And then stood by a diarrhea-stricken owner 5 days into Yosemite.
d) Ascended into the fjords surrounding Bergen, Norway, bearing their wearer through their depths and out to the other side.
e) Explored their home state of Washington, picking up ash and gravel from Mount Saint Helens and carrying it to neighboring Mount Hood, Oregon.
f) Tiptoed across the lava fields of Etna.
g) Cooled themselves in Michigan, Superior, Pacific, Atlantic, Mediterranean, and a certain Spanish pantano.
h) Surmounted the 500 foot bluffs at Devil's Lake and trammeled the Ice Age's leavings: morraines, eskers, drumlins, and kettles.
h) Lead a Weimaraner puppy down Lake Superior's rocky Canadian shore.

I think they deserve the rest, don't you?

And in with the new...

You've got big shoes to fill, Asolo.

Triteacher Unplugged

Generally, I am a nice person. Nice and good. Usually.

Scene: The gym.
In walks Jared Jockhard from the school where I teach. Note: I've never had JJ in class so I haven't had time to probe for his sensitive side. Nor should I even know JJ's POA or who he is. But he is the kind of kid who EVERY TEACHER knows. I had my first run-in with him my first year in this district. He's a conceited asshole who hasn't matured with age.

So into the gym he struts and conscientiously avoids looking at me. Two can play at that game. I don't acknowledge him either. Then my brain gives a little yelp... he's getting onto a spin bike. Hee, hee. I'm on a spin bike. And while Jared Jockhard could benchpress me, wrestle me to the floor and pin me in 0 seconds flat, he is no biker. And he has a HUGE ego. Huge egos like to compete.

He has chosen a bike one row behind and three bikes down from mine. Suddenly there is no one else in this gym except this little miscreant who called me a bitch and me.

My warm-up is officially over. Payback time, mister.

I know he is watching me and I increase my pace - just a little bit. I want to lull him. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that he's matching my cadence. Time to set the hook. I ostentatiously turn up my tension and pick up speed. I do 3 1-minute reps, with 1-minute recoveries in between. Then I do a climbing set. Then another speed interval. Climbing, Speed, Climbing, Speed - til I don't know if I'm coming or going.

Neither does JJ. Covert glances reveal a red face, locomotive-breathing, and more sweat than I shed during my entire Ironman. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

I have one set left. Killer climbs. You come out of the saddle and turn the tension until you can't stand it anymore and then stay there until you break out, e.g. your momentum has built and you can spin even at that high tension. Then you let the tension off and sit back down for bare seconds cuz you need to repeat this as many times as you can in a minute.

JJ is still hanging with me. By this time, I'm sure he must know that I know he's watching me and must further know that this is a pissing match.

Then again, I never have been sure how highly-evolved he is.

Yet, the little sucker won't give. Damn. I do 2 more sets of killer climbs - one minute rests in between - and then I give. I go into my cooldown. I'm ready to call him the better man.

Suddenly, he gets off of his bike and staggers out into the hallway. I peek out the door and there he lays, stretched out on the floor, beggin' that baby for mercy.

"Hey, Jared, (surprised)... you OK (concerned)?"

"Unhngh... I felt so good on the bike. Now I think I'm gonna puke."

"Need some water or anything?" Obviously out of my depth; I've never cracked anyone before!

"No, I just need to lay here."

"Um... I'm gonna clean up my bike and then I'll check back on you, K?"

"Whatever." Huh, he's starting to feel better.

When I return, JJ has apparently mustered the strength to lug himself into the locker room to lick his wounds in private. Too bad, I was gonna ask if he wanted to do abs with me...

2006 Mantras for Hire

In 2006, I had some mantras that consistently served me well. It was the year of "Heat." I am retiring these mantras and submitting them for whomever wishes to adopt them... Let the bidding begin!

You need to make your own heat. I needed to "make my own heat," light my own fire, keep myself going through the long training rides, swims and runs of IM training. That self-determination also kept my enthusiasm and belief in this alive. I did the vast majority of training on my own and had to motivate myself to get out the door and stay out the door until my workout was completed. These were the longest workouts of my life. This year was all about LONG and SLOW. I became long and slow... And "I make my own heat" struck a chord that helped me find the steely determination to just. keep. going.

Caveats with this mantra: Beware. Once the fire is lit, warmth literally spreads throughout your body, consuming everything in its path. You may wind up in the women's (or men's) locker room after some workouts prancing around naked until your body temp allows you to accept clothing.

Your heat comes from within. This statement by a volunteer at Ironman Wisconsin reminded me that I do indeed make my own heat, within me. It lead to the crowning moments (approximately 7 hours worth) of Triteacher Internal Combustion. I completed, survived - did - that cold, rainy 112 mile bike ride of September 10th. I hung on and endured, through hands too numb to shift or open a Gu. My heat came from within. NO question of it. Wasn't anywhere else it could have come from. Thanks to that heat, I am Iron.

Catch with this motto: You may meet and exceed all of your goals, leading you to wonder... what next??

BUT then you can just borrow from me at the end of next year. CUZ you bet your ass I'm gonna have some good mantras this year. I'm already working on 'em...

Powder

Do you ever get the feeling that some things are just yours?

No matter how long it's been since I've been on skis, I get on them and they are mine. The feeling is mine. Even though my quads were aching from yesterday's ski, today's drive consisted of getting out there again, to race down the hills we'd been on before and whose icy tracks now meant speed. And to hit the trails I had missed yesterday, to baptize the virgin powder with the twin tracks of my skis.

Thinking the same thought that came to me last year: I want to be buried in powder. Let its beauty surround me and swallow me up. It is a blissful feeling of oneness with the cold air, the slooshing of my skis, the perpetual motion of my body in unity with the snow, the sky, the whole world around me.

Somewhere in this happiness is the acceptance of my mortality. When I ski, I make peace with... everything. Somehow my joy in this simple mortal act of gliding forward on snow - that interplay of energy - makes me know that everything is all right. And always will be.

Click Heard Around the World

I'm sure you heard it... right around 12:30 PM CST. From my Wisconsin pool to Chicago and Cleveland, from Vermont to SoCal.

CLICK!

That's when I realized that I needed to be the backhoe. All of those playsessions with my nephew have finally realized their ulterior motive. You see, I now know how to catch... My arm is just like the arm of that backhoe. The more water I scoop up, the more I can shove out behind me. So I tested my new thinking on my 8 x 100s.

Just like a good little back hoe, I kept my arm nice and high and picked up a BIG - I'm talkin' HUGE - pile of water. And did I just let that water go? No! I used my hydraulics to thrust it out behind me, and then I powered into the next pile.

Result??? Ha! My 100s were all 1:25s today. I have not been able to maintain that speed - ever. And I was leading! Yay!

Thanks, Jake. I owe you one. And I suspect I know how I can repay you... :)

Yin and Yang

My brother is a Catholic priest.
I am an atheist.

He weighs 350 pounds and smuggles candy bars into his room.
I was anorexic in high school and a compulsive overeater in college.

He drove six hours to see me the night before my Ironman.
I would walk across hot coals for him.

He probably prays for me.
I invite him on bike rides and walks with me.

We love each other and will break bread on Christmas Eve.

Peplum

People fascinate me. And once in awhile, someone needs to have a post written in their honor. I met one such woman today...

There she sat, a woman stunning because of her largeness, her insane obesity. The other women flitted about her, drones around their Queen Bee. Her hands were firmly planted on her knees, her ample bottom encased in its floral swimsuit, huge breasts sagging into the part at which I only shot covert glances - her peplum draped between her knees, blocking the light coming from beneath the bench.

I found myself drawn in too, hanging on every word of the racy joke she was telling between pants, futzing with my shampoo and conditioner so I could draw out the time when I'd need to turn on the shower and lose her thread.

She was mesmerizing. As Fatima in T.C. Boyle's Water Music... or a female Falstaff from Shakespeare's King Henry the Fourth. Both are highly sought after characters whose very corpulence embodies the everyman appeal they have; they are all-encompassing.

Encounter

I pull my legs tightly to my chest, eeking out the last minutes of sunlight before I'll mount my bike and head home. Drips from my swimsuit plop into the water below. I shift a bit more, finding a spot to accomodate myself on this hard board pier. I have dolphined, I have swum, I have tasted my red lake water. I am pure, holy, and relaxed.

And then I see him. The swirls in the water alert me to his presence. They lead my gaze to a small, pointy face with over-sized whiskers poking out just above the water line. He is aware of me too. Our eyes lock.

He breaks the spell, diving. Only to surface a few yards closer. Then he begins his show: swimming toward me in long s-shaped sweeps. I am shivering now, but this little being won't let me go. He pulls me in, keeps me on the pier watching his lazy arcs, dives, and teases. Sometimes he resurfaces closer to me, like the first time, and sometimes he's farther away.

I wonder about him. Is he as curious about me as I am about him? Does he love this lake, this water, the way I do? Are we cosmically linked? I smirk at the idea, but am unable to leave him.

Then he dives and doesn't resurface. Huh? Was I just ditched by an otter?

I uncoil and pedal home. Eighteen years later, I remember our encounter. And the 17 year old girl who couldn't wait to get to the lake to swim after barn chores were done. Who loved animals and solitude and sunlight on red lakes. And who was chosen by an ottter - if only for a few minutes' teasing.

Christmas Come Early

Remember when you were a kid and you could just stare at your Christmas tree for hours? I have visceral memories of my brother and me sitting in front of our tree, just gazing at it. And it was more than the anticipation of presents. Sitting there awed by the lights and the way they made the garland twinkle, steeped in the piney smell... feeling warm, loved, and loving.

I remembered that feeling last night as Chris and I sat gazing at Piper. You see, Piper had surgery yesterday. Right on the heels of me posting that nasty poem about him not being manly, he had to go take on some barbed wire. To the tune of 5 stitches. And since he had to be put "completely under" (reassuring words), the vet asked if we would like him neutered right away too.

Aw, man!?! Is there any irony here? In his venture to prove his manliness, he ends up in a situation where he is going to be permanently un-"manned." Poor Piper.

So there we were without our puppy until 6:00 last night. No licks when I got home from school, no one constantly under Chris's and my feet. We needed our dog back! At 6:00 sharp, we were at that vet's office. Piper staggered out to the car with us and slept, snoring alternating with whimpering, all the way home.

We pulled our mattress into the living room and put his bed right next to it. Then we just sat there together. Looking at him. Counting his heartbeats, soothing his whimpers, being there every time he opened his eyes. It felt like those Christmases. Watching a tree where nothing much was happening. But there was a whole lot happening. And we all felt it.

Christmas come early.

Pusilanimous Piper

Pugilist he is not
Barks at benches
Whimpers at fleas
Runs into trees

A guard dog he
Will never be.

Shoveling Snow

I like the feel of it.
I like the tidiness of it.
I like the systematic nature of it. You wipe this quadrant clean and then begin the next rectilinear section.
I like the power of it - whipping all that snow off to the side, watching it cascade off of my shovel, the little snowflakes joining all the other snowy crystals who've already fallen prey to my efforts. (Fear not: my fantasies of world domination end here.)
I like the satisfaction of peering out the window - frequently - and seeing that our driveway is (still) free and clear.

Eat your hearts out, you warm weather wimps; I'm not jealous at all. Not a lick.

Pretty and Popular Problem

I'll begin by saying; I've never had it. Nor would I have considered being pretty and popular a problem. But today with my fifth graders my eyes were opened. At recess, I was taking pictures of the kids so we can work with the photos in our computer class.

Enter: Katrina Van Tassel and Ichabod Crane.

Ichabod: Can you take a picture of me with Katrina?
Triteacher: Sure, set it up and I'll snap it.

Minutes pass. Ichabod returns sans Katrina.

Ichabod: Can you take a picture of me with Katrina?
Triteacher: Sure, get Katrina and I'll take it.

This goes on... and then as recess is drawing to a close, I hear Ichabod asking Katrina to take a picture with him. "Will ya? Will ya?"

"Um, not right now, Ichabod. I'm having my picture taken with someone else." She was indeed posing with a group of her girlfriends.

In the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, my sympathies have always lain with Ichabod. In real life, I felt for Katrina. Being sought after because of your looks would suck. Katrina could never be anonymous or blend in. An activity like this has all the hangers-on wanting to be reflected in her glow.

And she is automatically assumed to speak out of and as representative for the pretty people of the world. Ichabod today concluded that Katrina was "stuck up." Aren't most good-looking people assumed to be stuck up? Jocks? Preps? Is she, or did she just want the anonymity that looking nondescript can provide? I have always taken this comfort for granted. Hmm...

More school... 5th grade love. They blow me away. They want so much to please. Sixth graders wanted to please for about the first 2 weeks of school. These kids want to please me even now in December. They aren't just a year younger - they're a whole different species. And, they're starting to think and speak more maturely now too - moving into the analytical, reflective thinking I enjoy. We laugh about the characters in the books we read and how they are reflective of our character traits. We had a thoughtul discussion of vanity this week and kids shared insights into their own vanity. Seeing them step outside of themselves to observe their own behaviors... wow.

Move over swimming; I might just be falling in love with my 5th graders.

The Anatomy of Prince Charming

I'm floating on top of the water, smooth, effortless...

I look forward just enough to see my down-turned thumb lead my arm into the water. I catch with my pinky, doing a semi-circular sweep of the rim of large bowl that ends at my belly button. Then I push that water out from my belly button to my upper thigh, exiting the water as though taking my hand out of my back pocket. Then relaxed, relaxed, relaxed on the recovery 'til my thumb enters the water again. Repeat, breathe, glide...

Prevents crossover = I look forward just enough to see my down-turned thumb lead my arm into the water.

Keeps my elbow high = I catch with my pinky, doing a semi-circular sweep of the rim of large bowl that ends at my belly button.

Thrusts me forward = Then I push that water out from my belly button to my upper thigh.

Keeps me straight in the water, elbow out first = Exit the water as though taking my hand out of my back pocket.

Get the most glide out of my effort and conserve energy for the underwater effort = Relaxed, relaxed, relaxed on the recovery.

Sigh.

Swimming Infatuation

Once upon a time, there lived a runner. That runner did 5Ks and 10Ks, 2 milers and 26.2 milers. Then she started doing triathlons. Now this runner was very pleased with her performance in the biking and the running portion of her triathlons, but found that her rank in swimming sucked. Her fairy godmother waved her magic wand and the Triathlete lived happily ever after.

Oh, were it so!

Now for the true story. The above is all true - up 'til the wand part. I have been working on my swimming for the last 3 years. And - sacrilege - sometimes I love it almost as much as running. It offers a unique set of triathlete temptations.

#1. If done right, provides a runner's high. I never thought I could get that from any other sport, but now I do. Intervals are the key. My recent discovery of 8x100 on 1:45 (or 1:40 if I'm with my ballsy partner) have put me into a whole new realm. I'm addicted. It is a high. I have the same feeling as I do with running intervals. Nervous dread/excited anticipation before I go, chest-pain effort during, and blood-pumping, gelatinous body exhilaration when we're done.

#2 Braininess of it all - technique is so important and you have. to. think. Some sort of crafstman in me likes it that form matters in swimming. Much more than in biking or running. I like concentrating on the different aspects of my stroke and perfecting them.

#3 It's the one of the 3 elements that I consistently do socially - it gives a whole new aspect to this individual sport that I pursue. I've hit it off with a group of people who love what I love and we've clicked pace-wise. Our coach is a successful, inspirational triathlete. Never hurts.

So right now Swimming is my Prince Charming. I'm looking for a fairy tale finish next season.

Thankful - At Last

I'm back. Don't know how. Just the hazy veil lifted. I think it's chemical, not my fault (the result of too much sugar and other bad living) as I had earlier concluded.

But I'm willing to forgive my brain & its playful chemistry because that same brain allows me to:

1) Read Shakespeare and reflect on the nature of Kate the Shrew, unable to play until Petruccio calls her to it. That's the interpretation proposed by the lecturer I'm listening to. I want that to be Shakespeare's intent else Katherine's last speech is too terrible to bear after her earlier beautiful show of wit and will.

And the story resonates with me at a personal level. Am I, with my irascibility, a Kate? And is Chris my Petruccio? Refusing to engage with my anger and sulks but rather biding his time until they pass. Then we can laugh at my tirades and point out how ridiculous they are - and play as Kate and Petruccio do. (I'm glad he doesn't steal Petruccio's methods wholesale. Being out-shrewed and hoisted around would wear thin pretty quickly.)

2) Enjoy the nature of being human - as felt by me and as I observe it lived in those around me. That's why blogging has come to mean so much to me; it's another lens into how others view their world and their training. And I find us interesting. Athletes have a frame for their worldview unlike other bloggers. I have become aware of the frames we share: the pattern of diurnal training-thinking, our general "granola" nature/love of outdoors/ environmental awareness, our goodness, our drive, and our need to share this with like-minded people.

Yet even within that frame, there is infinite variety (have to steal from Darwin while I'm robbing Shakespeare) among us. That is harder to name, but I think it comes down to brain chemistry and our resultant personality, of which gregariousness is a part. Some of us are very sociable, while others of us are introverts.

Even how we write, some with unsurpassed eloquence, and others with less eloquence and more need to just put the words on the screen, is revealing. Some write deeply, giving us a "window to their soul," while others write the numbers - a training log. And there is everything in between.

I am thankful for all. And for the ability to one day appreciate the training log type and get out the door and run; and the next find my inspiration/salvation in the deeper soul blogs that get my brain out the door for a run.

I am thankful to be back to this spot where I can be grateful, where life feels good. I think I'm even ready for more hugs and stories from my fifth graders. :) Maybe I just needed a break, and this 4-day vacation came at the opportune time. I told Chris that I felt I needed to get outside of myself. But now I think I was too outside of myself: too into school and my projects there, too worried about keeping my chin up and presenting the person everyone expects me to be. (It's a paradoxical kind of self-absorption and exaggerated sense of self-importance, isn't it?)

These last 4 days, I have been able to go within myself: I've found Shakespeare (again), played piano, run a 10K (50:43 for the numbers-folks), and written. Maybe that was the remedy for my depression. Or maybe it was just the changing chemistry of my ever-playful brain.

Whatever it was, I am thankful - at last - today.

Adrift

In the pink dusky light of last night's hike, I realized what I had been reaching for all day. And that it was a metaphor for how I've been living. Clawing to push aside the cobwebs that cloak me. All day, I had been longing to take pictures of the hike, but the light just wasn't right.

All this week, I have been longing to feel good, pushing myself to keep acting the part, grasping for thankfulness, gratitude, warmth. Cursing my perversity when they wouldn't come.

Then, finally, after a full day of hiking, the pink light began and I captured it. It is patience, it is biding, the opposite of straining and surging. Some things need to come of their own volition. Some things need to be endured, lived through, and then the appreciation of the pink light is all the keener.

I am a shallow pool, like my mother. I look so inviting on the outside. You can dive into this smiley, friendly teacher. My fond 5th graders hug me and tell me their stories and cling to me. And I hug back and comment and encourage. But, as I now understand my mother, the hugs become cloying, the comments and encouragement grow stale and rehearsed. I feel a need to cleanse myself in the cool, deep pool and I swim until I am free. As I wished for my mother when I was a girl, I wish for me now; I wish I were deeper.

I am irascible like my father, I am SAD like my Sweet Sister. I am obdurate like my Strong Sister.

Yet I love all these people. Can I love myself?

New Age Group

I have officially passed into the next age group: 35-39 year olds. I debated on taking this step, but when my parents drove 3 hours to surprise me on Wednesday night bearing Mom's homemade Heath Bar cake (my very favorite birthday cake since I was a wee girl), I pledged my commitment to the 35 year-olds of the world and joined their ranks.

Other birthday perks? Chris told me that this year he was really going to do a good job on my birthday. So, did he force me to work out after Parent-Teacher conferences like I told him to do? Nope, he cooked me up a triple-fatty meal and got me drunk on expensive red wine. Which may be good for endurance athletes. Maybe there's hope for this guy yet. :)

Can You Die from Cramps?

On yesterday morning's run I was convinced I could. The Spanish say, "Me duelen los riñones," (literally: my kidneys hurt me) and it became my refrain as I slogged on - up the hill, around the curve. Me duelen los riñones.

I remembered Ironman and how I conversed with and convinced myself, "No one dies from the cold." And I didn't.

I slogged on, thinking of the night before IM, eating with my family. My parents asked Chris what he thought of all this. I had already coached him, "Under no circumstances are you to let me quit this race! I don't care how tired, or hurt or sad or defeated I am, tell me I've worked too hard for it and have to keep going."

He told my parents that, as a dutiful husband, he was honor-bound to leave me at the side of the road should I be lying there.

You see, I had fought these demons already - the fatigue, the boredom, the pain, the nausea and even injury. You don't do 2 hour swims and 6 hour bike rides without learning. My family received strict instructions too: they were to leave me at the side of the road.

They all had a good laugh at that imagery. But they knew that I - at least - meant it.

Me duelen los riñones.

I have had Chris bail me out in the past. There was a marathon I was walking with his mom and sisters - early in my marathon career - and at mile 21, I hopped into the car with him and didn't look back.

I have wanted Chris to bail me out at other times. My 2003 BQ attempt. I knew I wasn't going to make it when I bonked at mile 16 and had everything I could do to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I told him to meet me at the finish line. He snuck back and took pictures of me from the bushes, but he didn't let me quit. At the end - and only there - I felt I had finally earned the right to say, "Take me home."

Me duelen los riñones.

Chris's words to me later that Ironman Eve, "You tell me you're hurting 3 times tomorrow, though, and that's it. I'm scooping you up. Ironman or no Ironman. I'm taking you home."

But I didn't. I didn't even say it once. I didn't hurt, I was ready for it. I wanted it and I did it.

No me duelen los riñones.

I had pushed, slogged - lived through it. The cramps had subsided. I felt my beautiful, beautiful legs take over and the surge felt like what I live for. We rounded the corner into a stiff head wind.

"Piper, did we beat the cramps just to let a little cold wind push us around?!? NO! Let's go..."

This is what I will remember next year when every breath hurts, when my quads are screaming at me to slow down, when my piriformis snaps at me. Trying to qualify for nationals will hurt, setting a HIM PR will hurt - shit - my interval workouts are going to hurt! But I know I can do it because I have faced these demons and...

I didn't die from the cramps.

To tenderfoot snow dog.

Top 10 Reasons to Hate your Spouse

(Don't worry, Honey; it's the sugar talking)

#1 Leaves me a pan of Chicken Alfredo in the fridge that I take out to find that there's all Alfredo and no chicken.

#2 Teases the cat, the dog, and me mercilessly, but when I tease the puppy just a little bit "doesn't even want to look" at me. Aargh, I'm gritting my teeth.

#3 Insult upon injury of starvation: I open the microwave to find its walls spackled with exploded bits of chicken and Alfredo sauce. He does this all the time -repeatedly sullies the microwave because he puts his food on top of the microwave cover. The effort it would take to lift up that little piece of plastic and place it over his food... Sheesh, we can put a man on the moon, but think we could teach him to cover his food pre-microwaving??

#4 OK, losing steam... at least I got the big 3 though.

Sections

Section 1: New Name Needed
So what should happen last night, but into master's swim class walks the woman whom I affectionately call Hell-on-Wheels-Coach -- and she did something nice. I'm feeling awfully shame-faced as I write this cuz I've taken her name in vain more than once.

Well, she sauntered in - woops, walked in like a normal person - and sat in the hot tub. The rest of us plebeians started the workout and were about 10 minutes into it when She came over to stand at the end of my lane. She asked if I had a minute.

Oh bother, what's wrong with my stroke now??

I ordered my face muscles into neutral-at-all-costs position and said, sure I had a minute, and told my swimming partners to go ahead without me.

"Would you like to travel to races together next season?"

Wait, troops! Neutral position! Neutral position!

I nearly guffawed. Shock does that to me sometimes. Elicits really inappropriate responses.

So the outcome?... I said yes.

But now I've been in a dither all day. She (who needs a new name now that we're friends) wants to qualify for nationals. She tried 3 years ago, got injured, but now thinks she's back on track. But what about me?

Section 2A: What Does a Woman Want?
I'm not sure I'm cut out for nationals level competition for many reasons...

#1 Obvious - I'm not sure that I'm fast enough.
#2 I'm not sure that I'm mean enough, and, according to my GENTLE swim coach who's done Nationals, Worlds, Kona, you name it, you have to be kick-'em-while-they're-drowning driven and competitive.
#3 In a word, I'm sorta lazy. I don't know if I want to work that hard. Yeah sure, stabbing-breathing pains are OK once in a while, but I'd be signing myself up for a whole season of that. And I currently love this sport. Would I love it after that?
#4 I currently do this sport on a pretty meager budget. Most of my budget is spent on tri toys/gear. I would have to add travel expenses to the roster. And I'm not sure I can reconcile myself with that. This is a hobby. I love it, but it's a hobby.

In a nutshell? What's the cost/benefit analysis for this?

Prior to this, my plan was to do local races and set a HIM PR next year. Maybe throw in a marathon to mix things up. So laid back and easy... I get uptight just thinking about nationals. Do I want stress in my hobby too??

Section 2B: On the Other Hand
Yet last year's IM caused me a lot of stress and I truly thrived on it. Now that it's gone, I appreciate the focus it gave me - not to mention the guaranteed adrenaline rush and happy endorphins every single day. I was a nicer person. Without it this fall, I've reverted back to my old rhythm of happy-for-5-days/depressed-for-5-days routine.

So, yeah, I'm a little f'd up, but I'm willing to look at it honestly - or at least practically. Isn't it a lot cheaper and better for all concerned for me to be chasing a triathlon goal than to be swinging from the trees? As my brother-in-law put it, "Ironman is a lot cheaper than therapy."

Section 3: Unresolved, but I think the end of this post
Whew! I needed to get all this off of my chest. I've been wanting to blog all week, but never found the time, so here it spews. Any and all input is welcome, and if you've made it this far, why not put your 2 cents in? (Make my decision for me, please!)

2006 Turkey Trotter Triumphs

How did my legs learn to do that? I didn't do speedwork or hills in preparation for Ironman. Where did they learn this??

Scuttle, scuttle, scuttle up the steep hill I went, quick-stepping it just like I was running up steps. And then, click, at the top - I opened up to let those self-same legs carry me loping down the other side, passing people. Me, passing people, and feeling good.

I had an excellent race today. It almost wasn't. I slept for 11 hours last night only to wake with thoughts - not of racing - but of cleaning the house, doing some lesson planning, walking Piper. And then I remembered that, oh, yes, I had signed up for a race today. Hmm... should I go? Yeah, I'll go.

Hmm... what should I wear? (SO different from Ironman - remember the lists made months in advance and tweaked daily until the hour before the race started? How far I've come.)

When the time came, I hopped in my car, drove an hour, and checked in to the race. I hadn't read any of the literature closely because I'd done this race before (2 years ago) and thought I'd remember all the basics. I didn't.

Thinking that the 5K & 5 Mile races started consecutively, I lined up with the 5k-ers. I even started to run, but overheard a conversation that lead me to conclude that my race, the 5 miler, actually started an hour later (11:00). I stopped my watch - and as inconspicuously as possible - slunk off the course.

So I waited around for an hour, watched the 5k-ers finish. At 10:50 I headed to the starting line. And had my second, "it sorta feels funny" sensation. No one else was at the starting line.

Being that my stellar memory hadn't served well so far, I decided to follow my hunch and look for a different location for the starting line. I had an ah-ha moment when I saw it - about a quarter of a mile away on the other side of the registration building and over a bridge.

After verifying this with approximately five people, I queued up to the starting line and checked out the other runners. Fit, young, yet more seasoned than the really young-looking college kids that had populated the 5k. Then the gun sounded, and I started my watch for the second time today, and was off. Right from the start, I knew that my earlier worries about having lost my competitive streak were in error. I wanted to go fast and hang as far toward the front as I could. And it felt good. To be breathing hard, to be pumping strong.

I swore I was working so hard that my first mile would be a sub-8, but it was 8:06. OK, I thought, 8-minute miles might be a stretch today, but goddammit, I told blogosphere that I'd be close to that, so I will be!

Mile 2 was slower; my split was 16:25. Then I went up that hill. The steep one that allowed me to pass people going up and coming down the other side. And I felt my legs take over. They drove my breathing and instructed my eyes to pick the shortest distance through the curvy forested path. I cut to the inside of those curves whenever possible and lauded myself on my intelligence, all the while also registering how hard I was working. Tightness in my chest, throat and between my shoulder blades. Also I felt my piriformis (AKA butt muscle).

I am working hard and it feels good. Be it resolved that I will leave nothing on this course today.

3 miles: Trisaratops is somewhere doing her 5K today. I wonder how she's doing. She's almost done now.

And I thought - 2 miles to go. I can do this. I decided that I'd hit my watch at the 4-mile mark and open myself up for a final push at a sub-8 split. I passed many people in this mile and found myself marveling at how even my breathing was - theirs sounded so ragged.

4 miles. I began the push. Up a hill, down a grassy knoll, up one side of a creek, down the other end and into the curvy woods for the final time. I had passed everyone easily-passable and was alone. The next people were all in a pack about 50 yards in front of me. I knew I couldn't catch them, and felt myself wanting to slow down, to alleviate the pressure in my chest and throat, to slow my now ragged breathing.

Don't you dare let up! Letting up is not an option. You have this distance in you. You should have another 22 miles in you! Don't you dare let up!

I didn't. I rounded the corner out of the woods and saw the finish chute ahead of me. 39:52 and counting.

I need 40:00. Go!!!

I sprinted, watching the clock and the precious seconds tick away... beeeep, I crossed the mat.

Time? 40:01!

But, I'll give myself that second. I worked hard! Last mile? 7:44. This was not an easy race and/but it felt so good. I'm back. My running is back. This is the new baseline from which I'm starting. It can only go up (well, down time-wise) from here. I'm a racer. That is what I learned today. My body, no - more specifically - my beautiful, beautiful legs love to run. They've been running for so long that the muscle memory just takes over and carries the rest of me right along.

I was prepared to be happy with that time and the euphoria of racing, but then at the end of the chute, I got hardware too. A volunteer pressed a medal into my hand - 1st place female, age 30-39. I got lucky to place with that time, but I'll take it.

Signing off: Triteacher who is a runner again!

Here Comes the Sun

More vacation pictures - do you detect a common thread? Things that bring sunlight:

• Swim Repeats: In my masters swim class, we did 8 x 100 on 1:50, then on 1:45 the next time, and at Sunday lap swim, just one other woman and I threw our all into it and did 4 x 100 on 1:40. She's usually in a faster lane than me, but we decided that I have more stamina so I'm defecting to her lane starting tonight. Yahoo!
• I'm running!!! Monday's run felt good - no ankle issues. I think I'm all healed up. I may do a 5-mile race this weekend. My Strong Sister won the women's race 2 years ago. I wouldn't be in the running for that, but shit, I'll take even 8-minute miles after the no-running I've been doing.
• Halloween parties planned by 5th grade students.

Speaking of which, have a good one, everyone! I am personally avoiding candy; my pants are not quite fitting... perhaps due to the Ben & Jerry's ice cream covered with cooked chocolate pudding that I consumed last week. And that was only one night... I'm very thorough in all that I do. :)

I'm Back

Hello! I'm fresh back from vacation. Thought I'd get a chance to blog before we left, but that never materialized. We had a great trip to the Porcupine Mountains in Michigan. Beauty abounded. Pix explained:

Left: Chris and Piper by one of three waterfalls we saw on the Presque Isle River before it emptied into Lake Superior.

Right: My husband, the artist inspired by nature artist Andy Goldsworthy. It's really funny this new hobby of his. I walk on the trails that we tend to frequent and find little traces of Chris... my favorite one was a picnic-table sized serpent he made by sticking hundreds of burdocks together. I've always played detective with him (does anyone else do this??) by looking at the dishes in the sink when I get home or checking the fridge - hmm... what did he eat while I was gone?

Now I find evidence of him outside... leaves twined together into a cornucopia, sticks placed in a meaningful way, mossy rocks chipped into a boat shape and set on edge.

Then I think about our relationship. What's in a marriage? Sometimes I feel like our fire has fizzled - or more aptly put - like he's gone in one direction and I have gone another. I am sort of crazy about triathlons and he, to put it gently, isn't. And there are a million other examples of this drift, and quite frankly - lack of support on his part.

Yet, I'm still into him. For many reasons. Looking at these pictures, I know at least one of them - I love the artist in him that feeds the detective in me. I wasn't going to write about this, my marriage, yet it is a compelling subject that has absorbed me of late. In other words, it's one of the boxes I need to unpack. So bear with me, there's probably more to come on this topic.

Let It Snow!

Visions of snowflakes dance in my head...

Anticipation... Forecast of one inch of accumulation tonight and perhaps more tomorrow. I'm waxing my skis today!


So it might not look like this photo of my nephew and me last winter, but I'll be ready when it does.

Please Let This Be PMS

6:45 AM Not going to blog today. Way too depressed. Nobody wants to read that.

6:55 AM OK, maybe I will post. Just this.
Sinking.
Into.
Depression.

Causes:
Unsure of my husband.
Unsure of myself.
That about does it.

7:00 AM Gnashing of teeth. Battle plan: Silent treatment. Let him come to me for once. I'm always the one who has to tap my reservoir of happiness and buoy us both. NOT TODAY. And if that's the beginning of the end, so be it.

7:40 AM Happiness and smiles and yes, even some words.

Default position: Wish I could just crawl out of my skin for awhile. Put myself out there free-floating. Tried medicating with cookies and TV last night. (Cuz that has always worked so well in the past. Snort.)

I am prostrated before this beast. Bare naked, yet cringing and covering my face, wanting to preserve some dignity. Yes, I've done the Ironman, but I still have myself. Didn't outswim, outbike or outrun me. Yet, am I better than I used to be? Used to take days for this. To be able to laugh at myself and see the gross hyperbole.

Box, please.

Fat and Happy

I feel as though I'm committing sacrilege here, but I'll feel better if I get this confession off my chest...

I'm happy to be in recovery season.

There, it's out. This little discovery dawned on me (literally) last Friday when I woke up at 5:30 AM and went for a fun run with Piper. Usually, that time would have been unacceptable for a workout. (Too late to do a long workout and get to school on time, and I never work out in the morning.) And, more critically, when I was training for IM, there was no room for variance from the schedule. Every workout was carefully spliced into my day, and walls caved in if I strayed from the plan. Last Friday morning though, I woke up, felt like running, and went for a run. Bing, bang, done.

That's not to say that I'm such a perfect person that I've caught myself feeling like working out at odd times every day. In fact... I didn't feel like working out last weekend, and I didn't. (Gasp.) I ate Combos and cookies and apple bars and felt only slightly guilty. :) I like this. It feels like I'm being easy on myself, and also like I'm trusting myself.

Hmmm... trusting myself. That's a new one. Usually, I worry to death that I'll start this spiral of sweet treats and no workouts and be 200 pounds before I can turn around. (Sorry to any 200 pounders out there; I'm not indicting you. It's just that 200 pounds is not a healthy weight for me.) Now, I just know that I won't do that. I just know that generally, my body feels better making healthier choices even without my big, compulsive brain getting involved. By god, I think I'm at peace!!!

Ha. Better savor this moment, cuz knowing me, how long can it last?

Forgiven

I have now officially forgiven myself for not qualifying for Boston at the 2003 Mad City Marathon. Thank you, September 10th, 2006.

It took not bonking in that IM marathon to make me appreciate that I just wasn't mature enough to run that marathon back in 2003.

I didn't know the first thing about nutrition. I drank water sparingly. I had not met GU or Clif. Even Gatorade & I didn't have a meaningful relationship.

I overtrained for it. I was anxious to get started and so started the 18-week program 27 weeks out. How did I do this? I did the first 9 weeks and then re-started the whole thing all over again. This had the unhappy result of a peak in late April/early May - which I was way too high to recognize.

Then race day came and I screwed up again. I wanted it so bad. I was sure I was going to have it too. I counted on it. I went out fast. I ran a lifetime best half-marathon and then bonked at mile 16.

This race report is being written 3 years after the fact, but it isn't late. This is the first time I can really see that event. My confidence as an athlete was shaken. I finished that race, but crossing that finish line, I felt as horrible as I've ever felt in my life. I was 12 minutes too late. And it was my fault.

I coached myself to be stoic, to take it in stride, to learn from it. Read: I boxed it up. I never allowed myself to admit that I was angry and hurt and downright defeated. But I was.

That 2003 ghost haunted me as I ran during Ironman. I kept waiting for the hammer to fall, for me to feel like shit and hate the day I'd signed up for this thing. For it to cost too much to just finish. But it never came. I got stronger instead of weaker.

I don't know what ever gave me the chutzpah to sign up for Ironman, but I'm so glad I did. Cuz it has given me yet another gift.

I did an Ironman. In Madison. And I didn't bonk during the marathon.

I am forgiven.

Pandora's Boxes

I like boxes. I like to organize things and put them in them so that they're all neat and tidy and tucked away. Only thing is, sometimes a little piece will sneak out of the box and tug at my sleeve, singing, "You're not done with me yet!" Here are a few of the sneaky little petes:

1) Eating Disorder: Re-reading my own blog made me realize that I still have issues. I thought I'd packed away my eating disorder and the associated mess about 13 years ago. But I wonder sometimes. Why is weighing myself still a taboo? Why do I criticize pictures of myself? My ideal me would not do that. And, perhaps even sicker, I chastise myself when I do think a positive thought about my appearance. Like, "Wow, I can sorta see my abs" has to be balanced with, "But look at what's around them..."

2) This post-traumatic stress disorder we're all going through called Ironman withdrawal. Again, I've boxed it up and patched my new goals over the top of it.

3) I am not the lone "box"er: A colleague whose father-in-law died last week was back at school the day after the funeral. My heart broke looking at her puffed-up eyes and listening to her tell us, without a quaver, the brave version of events. One look at her was enough to know that the box wasn't containing all of her grief yet.

Sometimes I wonder if we're all in too much of a hurry to get on through the painful things in life by boxing them up. Would we be better off going the way of Zen and just feeling them/living through them? I have never been patient enough for this; I always jolly myself out of it... Am I an incurable optimist?

Maybe I should just box up this whole post and label it "The Quest for Perfectionism; So Last Year."