The Y Factor

Alarm bells ring at 5 AM
Fingers fuzzily fumble for the snooze
But then relinquish the covers
Before the bell sings again

It is not bells to whom we reply
But rather it is…
The call of the Y

We shuffle through its doors
Mumble hellos through unbrushed teeth
Or maybe just nod
Clang our lockers
And done our battle gear
Uncombed hair
Is pulled back in pony tails
Tucked under swim caps
Plastered to our skulls

We commence
Sleepy brains count yards
And strokes
And strokes per x amount of yards
They count heartbeats and measure miles
And calculate minutes per mile
Slope-intercept form ready

We reach and we pull
We lengthen our stride
Extend our reach
We work and we sweat
All accompanied by
the heavy (morning) breath symphony

Sixty minutes and many heartbeats later
We reunite in the locker room
Gone are the trudging drones with messy hair
The Y has worked its magic
Our smiles are exuberant
Our bodies lithe
Our greetings and exchanges
Charged with the electricity of
Endorphins

We spring out through Y doors
In school clothes
In work suits
Our rouged cheeks and lips
Curled into satisfied smiles
That leak out
And meld with the sunshine

Cuz underneath it all
We carry the Y factor
We know the secret

Underneath it all
We are bone and tissue
well-toned muscle
chlorine-tinged skin
and steadily-beating heart.

Battle Hymn

I fly but with my wings tucked
my head cradled between them
sucking in my gut (as if)
tightening abs and ass
to minimize the drag

Even my lips are compressed
until I see
and feel
39 MPH

EXHILARATION
tinged with not a little fear
pries open my lips
unclenches my throat
and allows
Gillian Welch's Indian War Whoop
to escape from my mouth

The cry ricochets off the asphalt
is carried on the winds
all the way down the hill
into the surrounding ditches and woods
threading its way into the very fabric of the day
proclaiming that

FAST
feels good.

Nourish

I fought her in fourth grade. She struggled with Reading, Math, Science, Social Studies and me. She stole things, she lied, she alienated her peers.

She stockpiled food. The granola bar and apple I’d give her for breakfast would later be spied in parts – pieces stashed in her locker, her coat pocket, her backpack, her desk. She came to school hungry. She came dirty, tired, cranky, and with toothaches. She in no way could be termed “ready to learn.”

I fed her, yes. I ignored her smell, yes. I gave her pencils and books, stickers and hugs. But make no mistake - I pushed her, yes. Sometimes to tears. She’d leave my room to go to the counselor, to cry. I begged the speech teacher to continue to see her, if only to give her a reprieve from me. To give her another outlet, someone who could be softer, who didn’t feel compelled to teach her, who didn’t see so clearly and believe so dearly that education was her only ticket out.

I fought her in fourth grade.

Now she is in eighth grade, her locker across from my room. She unfailingly greets me when we pass in the hallways, she has joined my book club. She confides in me about her period and boys, her sister, her grandma, and – once in a while – her dad.

This girl I fought in fourth grade. I think she knows. I pushed her, yes. I ignored her smell, yes. I even fed her. But what I really wanted all this time was to nourish her.

I Did That Thang

I did that thang
where you get on your bike
and you ride somewhere
anywhere
just cuz you're back
from where you've eaten Mom's cooking
all weekend
and then she packed
homemade cheesecake
for you
and 15 of your closest friends
and somehow it ended up on the front seat
and by the time you get home
you realize that you are fortunate that friendship is not based on your ability to deliver the cheesecake and know that 15 friends will be none the wiser
but you also know that you need to get on that bike
going somewhere
anywhere
cuz it's sunny out today not to mention 23 degrees warmer than yesterday
so you go do that thang
where you get on your bike
and you take the first road that catches your fancy and ride it
up, up, up this one goes
past frogs rrreee-rrreee-rrreee ing
paralleling a crane for half a mile
flying side-by-side
twin stretched necks
hers long and graceful
culminating in a beak
yours stretched and musclely
culminating in aerobar tips
The road T's and you choose into the wind
while she keeps flying straight
and you're on your own
just you and the thoughts of the weekend
the relay run
the family
the strong-willed women who lunched together and laughed at themselves until interrupted by the family men who crashed the party wearing robes
begging for kisses (the loudest was my dad)

And then you think of nothing
just wear that goofy grin
and soak it all in-in
a peaceful spot
a staying spot
a sunny spot without
and in

I did that thang
where I got on my bike
and went somewhere
anywhere
everywhere

A Study in Contrasts

Did you ever notice that you can especially appreciate feeling good after a period of feeling downright crappy? I can finally smile today. I've made headway in so many arenas of my life this week (paper blizzard nearly managed on the job front, moving plan taking shape, spring weather finally starting).

This study in contrasts would be well-illustrated by a pair of rides I did this week. Check it out...

Tuesday night's ride home: 1:54, 13.7 MPH Average.
There was a KILLER headwind that hurt even as a crosswind. Think frontal attack for 20 miles interspersed with 5 miles of lateral attack. I know two languages and exhausted my swear words in both. At one point, I was pedaling downhill and topped out at 14 MPH.

Theeen...

Wednesday's ride to school: 1:20, 19.5 MPH Average.
That killer headwind stuck around to become a killer tailwind. Woot!

I smiled on Wednesday morning for oh, approximately 1 hour, 20 minutes.

The Teacher is Taut

Methodical and patient. That is how I have to be right now.

I calmly focus first on getting that ineffable feel of "tautness" in the water. Like my body is corkscrewing tightly around the axis of my torso. It takes time. The first 200 warm-up is spent achieving that feeling – just the right amount of stretch, reach, and time spent on my side before I begin the slow rotation back to my other side. I put a dipstick in – I count my stroke for a length to see how I'm progressing. Eighteen is good enough, 17 is better, 16 means it's a really good day in the water.

Next I focus on the catch. I follow each arm through the full motion of scraping the rim of the big bowl in front of me. I keep my elbow high. Again, I know I've achieved success by the "feel" of it. My biceps and triceps let me know when I'm pulling all of the water I should be.

This time, the woman in the next lane will serve as my measuring tool. She is fast. I don't know her, but my eyes nearly bugged out of their goggles when she sped by me on my warm-up. She has been interesting to watch. She races to the end of the lane, touches - and while her head is out of the water, makes a giant breathing sound that I've only heard before in the spouts of whales. Then she dives back under for another kickin' 25. I have taken note and have been working up to this part of the workout. The part where I'll match myself with her.

My torso elongates, my arms pull, sweep, grab every drop of water they can. She beats me to the end, but my flip turn pulls me even with her. My flip turns make it possible for me to stay with her for 200 yards.

My flip turns. I taught myself them in a hotel pool when I was first starting triathlon. We were on a family vacation and I ditched everyone for the day to stay in the pool. Over and over I somersaulted, getting water up my nose, getting dizzy, going into the flip too early and having my feet completely miss the wall… until finally, at 4:00 that afternoon, I proudly ran to my family and dragged them poolside to watch me flip.

As I've swum this week, I have reflected on this little swimming empire I've built. It has taken nine years of practice. Of being methodical and patient. The tautness, the confidence in the water has been taught, worked for, hard-won. I didn't learn everything new in one day – or even one week.

I can't meet all of the challenges of my future at the precise moment when I'm strong enough and have enough energy for them. Instead I'm finding that I have to be steady. Patient. Methodical. I have to get water up my nose sometimes and wait interminably (it seems) for that ineffable feeling of tautness. I have to wait for all of my various forms to be returned, for my stinkin' paperwork to be processed, for the schools to call me for interviews. (I have already woken up in the wee hours tingling with the electricity of ideas for what to say in my interviews. I know - really sexy, but hey, that's where I'm at.) And then I'll have to wait for word on whether or not I have the teaching job. That's a lot of waiting.

Deep, whale-like exhalation.

And I remind myself: Rome wasn't built in a day. My swimming empire was not built in a day. My Colorado future will take time too.

Under the water I go again.

Get It While You Can

I took these immortal words of Janis Joplin to heart today and hopped on my bike. This week Wisconsin has been defined by 38 degrees and definite rain. But for a few brief, elusive moments this afternoon, the rain stopped and the temp crept up over 40. The stars really were aligned as I was done with school (but, as you'll see, not done with kids) which meant .... bike time!

I hopped on Serra and headed south, knowing that the wind was out of the southwest. It is ALWAYS best to get the wind out of the way first. Today was no exception. I rode the side streets to get out of town and then had a country road all but to myself. Flooded fields and big wet trees surrounded me. I went out 10 miles and turned around to cruise home with that wind at my back. I felt gooood.

The raindrops caught me at the turn-around but fortunately they weren't the driving torrent that we'd been experiencing. Just enough drippies to get my jacket good and wet.

Enter the children. Apparently I'm good for a laugh. Coming back into town, I rode past a gaggle of tween boys who were congregating outside of the cinema. Two of them giggled and waved, yelling "Hi!"

Oh my, did they bust a gut when I gave them an effusive wave and yelled, "Well, helloooooo!" (I get like that on my bike. Smiling at everybody, yelling, loving the world.)

I guess they thought they were laughing at me with my biker outfit of spandex pants, blue jacket, helmet and geeky blue glasses, but guess what - I laughed right along with them.

And yelled "hi" to the next set of teenagers walking down the sidewalk - just for good measure. (FYI: They just stared at me. Quintessential teenagers, these.)

At home, I swapped out bikes to head to the grocery store. (Why the bike swap? Because I didn't have my bike lock and -- well, obviously, my MTB is expendable. Serra? Over my dripping wet, dead, spandex-clad body!) I scooted to the grocery store for some supper fixins and there was taken to kindergarten.

"Oh look! Does she ride her bike in the rain, Mommy?" was squealed loudly as I entered the store. Geez, it wasn't like it was pouring or anything. And, contrary to some of my students' beliefs, I do not melt in the rain. Little Girl with Big Mouth got a smile too.

The numbers for today: Biked 1:09, 20.6 miles, Av 17.8 MPH, Grades encountered = K-12

Plus plenty o' smiles and pride for getting it while I could.

Mile High Memories

L: My first day ever skiing in the mountains. My smile here is all bravado; I am quaking in my boots. I'd just wiped out in a big, bad way - see the snow packed into the zipper of my ski pants. I picked myself up and made it to the bottom of that run though. FYI for the numbers folks: our last run took 16 minutes, 28 seconds. Now that's skiing.

Above R: My recovery meal and compensation for having to sit with frozen corn on my knee the whole next day.



Falcon rests in the open space that adjoins my sister's backyard. These open spaces were built for drainage, I am told, but for the fresh air fiends of Colorado - and their visiting siblings - they are an escape to the wild.







Laced with running trails and arroyos, dotted with prairie dog communities and a favorite haunt for coyotes, the open space drew me out of the house every day. Denver and the mountains serve as
a backdrop.


Chatfield Reservoir as seen from Plymouth Mountain. I hadn't taken my camera on the bike ride I'd inadvertently ended up doing around the reservoir three days prior to this so I was absolutely thrilled to get a view of it on my hike. In the foreground is aptly-named Dinosaur Ridge, another hike that is on my to-do list.

Anytime you can wear shorts in snow, you're in my kind of country. Two runners - they had to be Bubba-like crazies (read ultra-runners) looped by me twice on this hike. They were attired in singlets and running shorts. I felt over-dressed and under-trained.


Two of the best hiking companions
you ever will come across. They were rocking the car with snores by the time I finished using the restroom at the end of our hike.






A little Colorado color framed by a picnic shelter. I love all the neutral, earth tones used in the architecture in the state. The outdoors is embraced.

I think I'm gonna like it there...

Good Kid

I've been a good kid since my confession on Tuesday night. I shut down the Pringles factory, limited myself to ONE glass of the sweet red stuff, and have had salads for supper. You guys really do it for me.

I've even been working out. I did a sunlit run with the Weimaraner in my life yesterday evening - 30.32 with 3 hills AND I did a bike/swim brick tonight.

Tonight's numbers:
Biked 25 miles, 1:18 (Or thereabouts; someone forgot to turn on her bike computer at the start!)
Swam 53.32

I biked to my pooltown tonight and jumped right into a master's swim class. I'd been expecting to swim alone, but Coach welcomed me to his new class - pointed to a lane and told me to "speed them up." It was awesome. I know how to swim. It made me reflect on how far I've come. Three years ago, I would have been intimidated by that situation. Tonight I did it without thinking twice. I jumped in, introduced myself, made fast friends, and shared the lead appropriately as we figured out our relative speeds. I'm so calm in the water. It feels natural. Even when I was choking on water on our fast set, I knew to trust myself, to finish out the count and clear my throat on the breath. It sounds impossible when you think about it; it's a do kind of thing, the kind of thing that comes automatically after years of practice. The kind of thing I appreciate at a time like this when I'm more aware and reflective.

On the move: I've been getting the job done on finding my CO job - or at least getting the license. I sent more faxes yesterday than I've sent in the rest of my life cumulatively. And I've started to say some of the sweetest good-byes ever. There have been tears, but they've been shared tears, mutual admiration tears - the kind of tears that mean we're going to keep in touch even though we're 1022 miles apart. I've been collecting letters of recommendation too, and if that doesn't make a guy's head swell, I don't know what will. I haven't told a ton of people - and those I have are sworn to secrecy - but I know. It's changed me. I am more appreciative and more aware of everything as I go through my day. My days here are numbered and I'm going to make each one of them count.

My life is good.

Killin' It

Someone recently sent me an email hoping I was out there "killin' it". Hoo boy, do I wish! I shoulda posted about 5 days ago when I was EXCITED about this process I'm undertaking. Before I actually started the WORK associated with this process I'm undertaking.

Deep breath. And I'll cut all the subterfuge.

I'm moving.

To Colorado.

Like muchos miles away from po-dunk village, Wisconsin. And man, I am excited. But sheesh, the process of becoming a teacher in Colorado is kicking my ass. There is red tape like you wouldn't believe. They want fingerprints on a specially-coded CBI (yep, that's Colorado Bureau of Investigation) card, administrator-signed statements from every school district in which you've worked, a note from your mother and her 50 last contacts in the medical profession, your college transcripts AND a special form signed by the "Certification Officer" of said college... OK, maybe one of those was an exaggeration, but they seriously want a lot of stuff. No one ever said that being a teacher was easy!

And that's just how I apply for the teaching license. I haven't even begun the job applications yet. I got shut down on those on the second question: "When do you anticipate receiving your Colorado Teaching License?" So I thought I'd better apply for that first.

But. I AM excited. I've made this decision and feel good about it. Some day I'll even post pics of what I'm so excited about. That place is beautiful, folks. I think of Colorado and I think of mountains and sunshine. Mmmm...

I think of Colorado Teaching License and I think of M&Ms, Merlot, and triple-fatty food. I am doing some serious bribing of myself these days.

So. Killin' it? Not so much. Or maybe I'm just not "out there" killin' it - I'm in here, coating some arteries, killin' some serious brain cells, and cutting a lot of red tape with BLACK INK ONLY.

An auspicious beginning, no?

Dedication to F-R-E-E

F ollow a train of thought from engine to caboose
R un in the rain
E nergy to dance, to sing, to play guitar (Na, na, na - hear J. Mellencamp)
E mpathy to reach out to others who might benefit from the hard-won wisdom of experience

I erect this monument to F-R-E-E. I am getting there. From The Moments to actual minutes now. Woot!

Heat Seeker

If I weren't cold, I would do it.
If it weren't another slate gray sky, I'd be on it.
My bike sits in the garage, loaded and ready.
I sit on the couch, snuggled in and sipping coffee.

If the coffee weren't so warm and tasty,
If I didn't have to do laundry and to start a job search,
If I just could read the rest of my book
when I returned,
then I'd be right on that bike.

If the concert hadn't been so good last night,
If the fiddle hadn't pulled my heart out
through the tips of my nipples,
If I hadn't waltzed with the banjo and the guitar,
In concert
swaying
synchronized souls
Then I wouldn't have to savor it
and instead
I'd get out on my bike.

- Beat -

If I could erase the memory of THAT hill
the one that kicks my ass every year
then my heart wouldn't jump
I wouldn't hear my adrenaline say
You have demons to conquer, TT
even today on a cold,
slate gray,
post-concert day.




But -
I do remember
My heart does jump
I do have demons
I do want to engage them...

Cold?
Can't touch this fire -
See you on that hill.

*Edit: I fought the hill and... who won? Well, let's just call it a draw. :-)
Biked 1:48.07, 30.6 miles, Avg. 17 MPH

Rekindled

Biked 25.5 miles in 1:26.01 in sun, wind, and 46°.
Avg. = 17.7 MPH

The love affair begins anew. Anticipate long, besotted essays devoted to my Serra, shown here in his photo shoot at Waterford.

Quite a hottie, no?

Woman in Wind

It is a windy day
geese cartwheel
across a slate gray sky
like so many bed sheets flapping
slapping
in a line-drying frenzy

This almost-violent playfulness
strikes a answering chord in me
In this
my inaugural run of the 2008 season
my feet pound up the hill
Inspired
I am going too fast
A glance at my heart rate monitor
confirms the call
to bridle my enthusiasm
to rein in this wind
to take my time

I do.

I feel my feet upon this path
hear the dying crunch of this snow's
final days
control my slip across snowmobile-packed ice.

In the woods
I even stop and gaze
at the trees waving their branches
and touch my hand to the warmth
left
by the kiss of the wind
on each of my cheeks

The speed of the wind
the careening of the geese
are now in sharp contrast with me
The centered one
Centered in my shoes and in my knees
This run brings a resurgence of joy
of peace
of exhilaration
of springtime in Wisconsin.

In Reality, Frozen

I sit the day after skiing with a bag of frozen corn on my knee. I am ticked at myself for falling, ticked at myself for having to challenge myself on my first day of skiing in the mountains. More than anything though, I am utterly disappointed that my actions are resulting in me sitting at home cozied up with frozen corn and One Hundred Years of Solitude. I should be in Boulder hiking with my cousin and then finding out all about the Boulder Cruiser rides he's been raving about in his emails to me. He has intrigued me with teasers such as:

• How do you feel about drinking and riding?
• Silly attired is encouraged.
• Bring an overnight bag just in case you feel like letting loose a little.

But here I sit
feeling like sh-t
with frozen corn
on a swollen knee
writing crappy poet-ry,
Poor ME.

And then I realize that it will happen. That I will return to Colorado and visit my cousin in Boulder. I realize that I trust my judgment on my knee, that I made the right call today. That sane people just don't push an injury the day after it occurs. That my gut-reading of my body and reason need to prevail over my passion, whim, and curiosity sometimes.

And then I believe. I know to my toes that my knee will heal, that I'll make the right decisions to encourage its healing and that someday... I will ride again. Someday I will be out in this Colorado sun and wind, and it will carry me. I'll wear a costume to make Steve in a Speedo proud, to represent for us Midwesterners, to cruise the bike-friendly streets of Boulder. My spirit will fly...

The chill in my knee pulls my head out of the clouds, the ache in my butt from sitting all day says, "Hey girlie, you're here!" I pop another ibuprofen and...

*SIGH*

Cuz for today, it's corn for me folks.

The Day the Old Dog Got Wet

It all happened the day that the old dog got wet, the day that we didn't ski, the day that two missions were thwarted. It all happened the day that I smiled at everyone.

Picture two sisters in a van, driving to a ski hill. Hear them talking. See them drive 30 miles past their exit before they notice that they missed their turn. See them go to the nearest mountain, hop on the shuttle and find that the chalet is out of rentals. See them drive all the way back home, postponing the ski trip until the next day - still talking, now laughing at themselves.

See them get home. One heads upstairs to work on web design. The other heads out the door to bike to the Y to swim. One accomplishes her mission. The other overshoots her turn and realizing it, is too intrigued by what might lie ahead on this network of Denver bike paths. She keeps riding, swimsuit under her bike clothes, backpack full of showering gear and bearing Y card strapped to her back. She ends up at Chatfield State Park and immediately sees the Chatfield Reservoir and the trail that seems to lead around its circumference. She immediately sees her new mission. She does not see the "Authorized Vehicles Only" signs. Until an hour later when she has completed the loop, has ridden along the top of the levee and then descended to weave her way around deserted campgrounds and through swampy woods to arrive back at her starting point - only then does she see the signs.

Threading her way back home along the bike paths, she finds that she is smiling. At everyone. She smiles at the grouchy lady pulling her mini-van into her garage, at the middle-aged guy walking his dog who seems to resent having to share the path with her, at the cute kid walking his old blind dog who doesn't seem to have a resentment or a worry in the world. She smiles at the world, and the sunshine feels like it's smiling with her.

She smiles at the sister who greets her when she walks in the door. The sister's brow unfurls and work tensions evaporate in a laugh as she listens to the younger sister complain of a hunger so strong that it seemed as though her stomach had folded over on itself and was eating itself. A slug of Acclerade and a bottle of water later, she hitches up two yellow labs and walks them out into the sunshine, into the open space that is the front range of the Rockies, that bows in the shadow of those monoliths, that seems like a little sister itself - stretching to reach the heights of its elder, carved with muddy arroyos, decorated with yucca and prickly cacti, dotted with the mounds of prairie dogs, and oh-so-sunlit today. The dogs and the sister weave their way through, sometimes on the paved path but more often on the dirt path, finding their way to the newly-gushing creek, where the old, arthritic dog can't contain her joy at the day and jumps in, swims to her heart's content and then comes out to chase the younger dog in tight wet circles. They growl and they spit up gravel, leaving muddy clods in their wake. The younger sister follows them home.

It all happened the day that the old dog got wet, the day that we didn't ski, the day that two missions got thwarted. It all happened today.

Grrr... to Brrr...?

NOT SO QUICK! I did get out and bike yesterday. Let me tell you a little secret.

Middle schoolers are unreliable reporters of the weather.

All afternoon I heard dire reports and complaints of how they'd had to go outside for recess and their science class. A sampling for your pleasure:

• It's sooooo windy and cold outside!
• Why do we have to go out? We're just all going to get sicker!
• Is the school trying to kill us? (Obviously this one possesses insight.)

The science teacher herself shook her head and told me to bundle up when I said I was riding.

So I listened and bundled up. And walked out into pure sunshine and 40 degrees. No, that is not the promised 43 degrees, but sheesh, we've had teens and 20s. I was sweating within a mile. I had to stop at a friend's house to ditch layers. But then -- I had my first ride. And it was BEAUTIFUL. My bike is awesome. There is nothing, no thing, like a bike that fits you like a glove. My bike fits.

How does it feel? Like the hills aren't as hard. Like immediate response when I push down on my pedals. Like my tires grip the road and go. Like butter.

Speaking of butter, I think of FOOD when I bike. Unlike any other workouts, I obsess about food. It had been so long that I didn't remember - until I smelled homemade chicken pot pie as I was riding last night. There was no pot pie in sight. Nor a chicken for that matter.

Rest assured, I did get to eat. I biked to a birthday party. My calories were replaced. View exhibit A.




Net sum:
Sunlight, Snow, Serra, & Me: 17.5 miles, 1:01. (That wind they complained about was a tailwind. Woot!) I am back in the saddle. View exhibit B.

April Fool in March

Grr.

I waxed my bike on Sunday.
(She who has never waxed anything in her life.)
I lubed the chain.
I dug out my biker bottles
and juiced them up with Gatorade.
I stocked my airbox.
I loaded up all my gear: helmet, shoes, clothes
and have been carting it around for two days.
It was supposed to be 43 degrees today.
It's not.

Grr.

This Is Me

I travel lightly. I skip across the waves. I sprint along the foam line of the Pacific. Cold water laps at my ankles, knees, thighs. My numb feet pound the sand, my exhilarated heart pounds at its rib cage, joy permeates my pores.

I travel lightly upon this Earth. I need so little. I need sunshine, I need wind, I need inspiration and humanity...

This is me. I am free. To write, to think, to feel. I give myself permission. To grow wings. To fly.

7 Things

Rural Girl tagged me. Here are 7 things about me:

#1. My mom is an apple dumpling of a woman. She used to be 5'7" and now has shrunk to shorter than me - around 5'3". She is overweight. She dyes her hair sandy blond and has blue eyes. People say I look like her, that I have her smile. I love hearing that.

#2. My (nearly-ex) husband is gorgeous. He's 5'9" and weighs 210 pounds. His nickname in school was "Arnold." As in Schwarzenegger. He started lifting weights when he was in 2nd grade so that he could protect his mom from his dad. A co-worker of his once stopped me in a store to gush about how lucky I was that my husband was sooooo hot. I wonder what she'd say if I saw her in the grocery store now. Am I unlucky?

#3. My favorite students are fickle, needy, energetic, impressionable middle schoolers. A couple of weeks ago, I let slip that I'm going to Mexico this summer. Luciano, whom I've had as a student in one capacity or another since he came here from Mexico 4 years ago, lit up like a Christmas tree. "Where? We're going to be there this summer too! When are you going?" It took him about 3 seconds to realize that his peers' jaws had dropped. He quickly slumped back down in his seat and muttered something about how he was sure that it was too far a drive for me to come and visit him anyways.

Since then, I've been "slipping in" references to Mexico, propping travel books, history books, and Mexico maps on the white board ledge. He's biting. He lets slip that his family still owns their home there. That his grandma lives nearby. That I will definitely want to take a camera. (Um, Luciano, it was already packed.) That he and his friends play soccer from sunup until noon.

I know that some day, near the end of July in 2008, I will play a game of soccer in Guanajuato, Mexico.

I also know that I won't win.

#4. I love teaching and could write a book about my students. It would be matched in size by the one about my family. And my nearly-ex husband. I've been called driven and intense. Um. Yeah.

#5. I am a traveler, a seeker. I read like a fiend. I've backpacked all over the United States, Canada, Alaska, and western Europe. I studied abroad in Spain for 6 months. Yo hablo español.

#6. Last weekend I cried in a Kwik Trip bathroom. I cried because I realized that my biggest strength is also one of my deepest flaws. I later cried as I was skiing and yet again as I did dishes. I cried for me and for my gorgeous, nearly-ex husband, and for the demise of a love affair. I cried for my mom who took care of my uncle as he died. I cried for his family. For my dad for losing his brother. I cried because snow is white. That's how much I cried.

When I wasn't crying, I was teasing my dad and my brother - and getting teased right back. I was listening to my mom and sisters, perusing photos and telling stories to my nephews and nieces. I participated.

#7. This is me. I am all of these things, all of these people. I am 5'5" tall and weigh 140 pounds. I have brown hair and brown eyes. I am huge.

I think we all are.

____________________________

And now, I tag the following 6 bloggers:

JWM
Anne
Fe-Lady
Ace
RunBubbaRun
XT4

Have at it!

Phenomenal Woman

I turn my skis and face directly into the wind. Deliberately. I know this spot. I am strong.

I come from a strong line. My mom blew the lid off of amazing again this week. I can’t find the words to describe her. I’ll use hers…

He didn’t want to give in to using the diapers and so every time he had to go to the bathroom, he’d kick and groan and move his legs to the edge of the bed. We had to put our hands on him and hold him and soothe him. “It’s all right, Darry. Go to the bathroom. We’ll clean you up. We’ll take care of you. We're here.”

She watched him through the nights, through the days, staying at his side while others rotated in and out. She sat with his 14 year old granddaughter and later marveled at how much she learned from her. She lead visitors up to see him, helped them to say good-bye, sang and talked. She administered rectal medications and cleaned up after his body rejected them or bled out cancerous clots. She sat, she absorbed, she gave. She was steady. She is a matriarch, a woman in full. A work of art, of wonder, of beauty.

She sat with him on the last night, watched his breathing grow more labored and his struggles to get out of bed become more futile, weaker. She awakened his wife and phoned his children. She cleaned his body one last time. When the last son arrived, she left the room. On two replaced knees, she traversed the steps down to the living room. She lay on the couch and caught an hour’s sleep as he died.

In the morning there would be laundry and food preparation. In the morning, she would fasten the clasp of her sister-in-law's wedding pearls so that she could wear them to the visitation.

I am wide-eyed as this story pours out of her mouth in a stream of talk. She is utterly exhausted, curled up in the recliner. She tears up at points, looks down at gnarled, arthritic hands, pauses, but goes on. She shares the intimate details of his failing health and his eventual death, and in so doing, she is sharing his life. And hers. I see and I hear the courage of one woman, her wisdom, her steadiness, the gravity she provided this week to a family – not even her blood relatives, but those of my father. They knew that they could orbit her. They consulted her, listened to her, trusted her judgment.

She was never even a nurse. She dropped out of nursing school to marry my dad. To move to a farm and raise hundreds of cows and eight kids.

When I turn my face into the wind and feel that familiar comfort, it is to say: I can't touch my mom, but I have watched her. She lives an example. I see how it is done, I have witnessed her fortitude, her capacity. I stand on the shoulders of giants and persist. And admire a whole damn lot.


*Author's note: I am well aware that my title is taken from Maya Angelou's poem. Our phenomenal women are quite different though.

Does Counting Work for You?

I have had reason in the last 43 minutes to evaluate the efficacy of the "counting to 10" strategy.

It doesn't work.

I hear your *gasps,* but I feel confident in making this assertion and publishing these results. I think that you will agree that my research has been rigorous. I have performed in-depth studies in a variety of trying situations - with teenagers. Particularly teenage girls who tell their teachers that they "have sticks up their butts" and query as to why they need to do the assignment because they "know all this stuff already." Need I say more?

My conclusions? We adults should not feel locked into the professional educator stances of "count to 10" or "love them through it." Oh no. We need to avail ourselves of several strategies.

My strategy of the day? Bug out your eyes in obvious incredulity, sigh, shake your head sadly, and just walk away. It feels oh-so-satisfying.

Recommendations: Try it. You'll like it. Much better than counting to 10.

Brick Done Wisconsin Style

There aren't many days in the year where you could do this brick, but yesterday was one of them. Oh, fortuitous yesterday!

Part I: Cross-Country Ski - 31 minutes.
I laid around until 1PM - a nice lazy start to a sunny Sunday. Once I got off my a$$ though, things happened... My skis snapped on, I hit the trails, criss-crossing the paths of the snowmobilers who were out in force. Amidst the blaring motors, I managed to preserve my life and limbs - and prevent my two dogs from getting their pelts labeled with snowmobile treads. No small feat, I assure you.

Transition: As I was driving home... well, let me paint the scene: the windows are open, dog tongues are flapping saliva all over the sides of the car, and my tunes are blaring. Who wouldn't get the notion that maybe... today... would be... a good day... to .... ride my bike?

Once the idea occured to me, it was a short trip to exchanging my ski boots for bike shoes, pumping up the tires, and hitting the road. Just. Like. That.

Part II: The Bike - 43 minutes, 10.3 miles
The side streets were tetchy. We have pockmarked layers of ice that were half-melted and slushy. But once I reached the main roads, it was smooth sailing to my country roads. Which were divine. I scoped out the first five miles of my commute route, wearing a high-beam smile because I was clipping along at 18-19 MPH.

And then I turned around. Into a fierce, cold HEADWIND. Eeks. Where'd that blame warmth go anyways? I switched to the low-beam smile, tucked my head, pulled my turtle fur neck scarf up over my nose and dug in. You can see the results in my overall average speed. Um, do I confess to this?? ----- 14.3 MPH. *Wince.*

But I will take it. This was my first ride since December.

Aside: My bike trainer remains in the back of the closet still in its original plastic. I purchased it last May. Hmm... think I'll EVER use it? I answer my own question: Not if there's snow on the ground, water in the pool, YakTrax on my running shoes... you get the picture.

The side effect of this brick? I have spring fever! I am positively itching to start my bike commute again. - With or without the ski beforehand.

Tears in Her Mascara

An adolescent girl walks into my classroom.

She is positively devastated. Her eyes are red and puffy, her nose is running. She dabs carefully at her eyes with her Kleenex so as not to smudge her mascara.

I pull her aside and quietly ask her what's wrong.

She can barely speak, and when she finally does, the tears begin again. "First... at lunch... Alison spilled her chocolate milk on my mashed potatoes. But she paid for it and I got a new one so that's all right." *Sniff* Sniff*

"But then just now in the computer lab, I failed my reading test. And everyone was laughing at me."

TT: "What did they say?"

Tears: "They said I should just relax. That I could take it again in three days."

Oh, for the grown-up, makeup wearing, crying-over-spilt-milk, sweet ones...

Cría Cuervos

Cría cuervos y te pecan los ojos.

You raise crows and they peck out your eyes. - (Uplifting) Spanish proverb

We sit around the kitchen table, warm and toasty, full and satisfied. And deadly serious. The cribbage board is between us, a double elimination tournament is in progress, and I want to win. To eliminate my opponent. I bury my two cards in the crib and lift up my eyes, studying her through narrowed slits.

My mom is still weighing her options. I catch her eye and say what's on my mind, "Mom, I love you, but I want to beat you. I'm competitive."

Her blue eyes twinkle right back at mine, "So am I."

Flashback to July 2007: Paradise Valley Tri

I'm out on the course, grinding up hills, fishtailing through loose gravel, an atheist praying hail marys on the way down. I'm sucking in a vertigo and nausea cocktail. My mouth is wide open, my brow furrowed in concentration, my breathing comes in wheezes. But I will not quit. No, it's not even that I won't quit; I will not give an inch. I will not slow down. I will push.

I know that the second place person is 10 minutes behind me. This is a family and friends triathlon. It would actually be nice of me to slow down and hang with my siblings, cousins, and family friends - some of whom haven't trained a lick, yet come and just gut out the tri. The "competition" is not chasing me.

In fact, I've been intending to let someone else win for two years now.

But I can't slow down. I need to get to that finish line and know that I have not let up for even a second. The world could be empty right now. My vision of what I need to do is crystalline. Fight, tough it out, find my limits. I need to define this triathlete-teacher. Not only by what I do, but how I do it.

I don't slow down. I don't let anyone else win - or even tie with me this year. (DO NOT tell her, but I let Strong Sister tie in 2006.)

Nope, I don't slow down. In fact I PR by three minutes. I have the graciousness to not crow. (Or maybe I just have the brains to figure out that my family will take a scythe to me if I do.)

Flash forward:

Our cribbage game has come to an end. My dad waltzes in to the room. "Well, who's the big winner?"

I open my beak and answer... "Caw! Caw!"

Inner Peace Lives at the Pool

I rotate my shoulder
lay on my side
slip my hand into the water
smoother than a glove
snugger than mittens
sweeter than warmth

I am swimming fast
catching Coach's bubbles
right in the goggles
But
Amidst all this motion
I am calm
slow
relaxed
suspended

- Almost timeless -

With swimming you have to be
I cannot be reaching
clawing
grasping
Thrashfests are counterproductive
Swimming speed is counterintuitive

It is in letting go that you move faster.

It is this idea
this centeredness
that I want to remember
to take with me
to apply in all areas of my life.

No matter the furies and flurries
that may surround you,
Inner Peace lives.

When I Make Up the Practice Sentences

Directions: Punctuate the following sentences correctly.

1) Ms. Triteacher, how do you manage to look so lovely every day the children asked.

2) How many years in a row did you win Ironman, inquired Sarah.

3) Was it just your 30th birthday that you celebrated, Ms. Triteacher, queried Brett.

4) Abbey asked, Where DID you get that outfit? It's fabulous!

Ostensibly, we're working on punctuating questions in dialogue. But OK, my ego's getting a few strokes too.

Until they all groan and burst my bubble.

What's with that?? :)

Mersault

I swam this morning. Through an agonizing shoulder ache that had me stopping every 100 yards to stretch, that had me doing touch turns instead of flipping. I had to remove myself from Coach and Dolores's lane so I could baby it, but I kept on going. Believing. Hoping...

I meet Mersault in my classroom, stare across the table at him, watch him in perplexed wonder. He is the "hero" from Albert Camus' absurdist novel, The Stranger. He chooses nothing, cares for nothing, tells me "Nothin'" in answer to 90% of my queries. The other 10% are met with shrugs. All actions happen around him. He has no memory, has no past, takes no responsibility for what is done him. He lives school in the passive tense.

This kills me. I know this kid. I have known him since 4th grade. He struggled back then, but we had a relationship. Now - at least by his lights - we don't. He's headed down a bad road. I want to shake him and wake him, say "Take charge of your life, kid!" Instead I cajole, lecture, jolly him along, praise every little attempt - and grind my teeth because the attempts are too few and far between.

Like Mersault, his discomfort leads him to act out. Like Mersault, he shoots a man because he is too hot. The man he shoots is himself. In the foot. In the future.

I want to put him on trial like Mersault. To be judged by his peers, to have to listen. I want to force him to reflect. To see.

This I am wrestling with. I have no happy ending. No solutions to propose except the slow, painful one of consistently staying my course. Of offering him an education every day, of drawing my line in the sand of how much I'll let him disrupt the education of others.

I kept on swimming this morning. Through the pain. I did a lonely 2700 yards in a lane of my own. But I stayed the course. With 500 yards to go, it finally gave. My shoulder loosened up and I hopped back in with Coach and Dolores. I considered it a victory.

Could there be a happy ending yet for my Mersault?

How Cold Is It?

...So cold that in an effort to layer up and keep warm, I donned make-up for the first time in 15 years. See my mascara, my painted eyebrows, and the crystalline beads in my hair...


Ski hours this weekend = 5:25
Woot!

The Moments

I'm not ready to declare victory yet. But I have moments. Where I catch myself breathing freely, where the hollowness doesn't supersede all else, where I feel almost... free, light, hopeful, and excited. And not just in the tearing way that wants to prove them wrong, but in a healthy way that invests in me.

When I can string together enough of these moments, I will not only imagine the possibilities, but I will make a decision.

It will be like coming out of an illness. That euphoria that you feel just being free from pain. It will be like when I woke up one day and realized that I had kicked my eating disorder. That my first thought of the day wasn't about calories and food. It will be freedom from obsession.

I feel where I am tonight, and I believe: it will come.

Swisher Sweets

I walk in the door and am greeted by thousands of calories. I eat indiscriminately, a starving athlete who had oatmeal for supper too many times this week. I conscientiously avoid asking my mom what her creations are called - much less how much butter, sugar, and motherly love went into making them.

My mom is the kinda cook who looks at something sideways and it adds calories - and flavor; her broccoli is like my cream puffs. Seriously. The woman can cook. And she is on a mission to fatten me up. I comply with alacrity.

And then I'm out the door.

Four inches of new snow are calling my name. Once again, I comply. With alacrity. The snow and the waxing moon contrive to play a reflective duet that makes 9 PM look like I'm skiing across my cereal bowl. The snow, sitting in its -4°F crisper, is fluffy and fast. The insides of my nostrils burn, my eyelashes wear jewels of crystalline ice, my breath comes out in vaporous puffs.

And my skis. Oh, my skis. They swish, they swoosh, they paint the path. I look behind me, survey my handiwork - a dark stain in the snow, two parallel indentions that stretch from the house to the barn to where I stand now, at the back of the field ready to enter the forest.

As my ski tips dip into the woods, I hear it. "Hooo... hooo." Softer - and eerier - than I'd remembered. The hoot owl is here. Her cries carry across this cold night, echo between stark-naked trees whose fingers point their icy tips to the moon.

Amidst all this I
Sweetly
Swishshshshshsh...

Fighting the Flatness

Ever have those days where you just feel ... flat?

I feel flat today. I got up at 4AM to get to a 4000 yard swim. I did the workout. But I was sluggish, slow, and spaghetti-like by a third into it. I was even farther behind Coach and Dolores than usual.

Now I'm at school and I feel... flat. Grrr. I wanna feel excited, motivated, inspired, and able to inspire. My first class went well. I can fake it with middle schoolers. But then I had my high schoolers and I swear they can smell weakness a mile away. One girl in particular seems to read me like a book. She's bright. Too bright. Double grrr.

Maybe I'm overdoing the training. I haven't had a day off in... let me check quick... Oh! 10 days. That's it! I need a day off. I need to recover.

Click! I lifted weights on Friday, and I was wondering why my arms and shoulders still hurt this morning. I need time to recover. Eureka! What a load off. Tomorrow I WILL NOT work out.

Aside to self: You hear me? No work out tomorrow. And no obsessing about it either!

Aside to you: Hold me to it.

Maybe I'll eat a bunch of chocolate tonight too. And play my guitar. And relax. Maybe I'll just chill out instead of having to be Superwoman every stinkin' day.

Yeah. Chocolate, a mellow dog walk, guitar, a touch of merlot...

RECOVERY... here I come!

Jan. 15 Update: Woah. 9.5 hours of sleep later, I am a new woman. I guess I should have realized that being stranded on Saturday overnight in Madison with six 19 year-old girls (my niece and her friends) would take it out of me. And then the 4 AM wake-up call on Monday... I needed 9.5 hours of sleep. Look out today school kids, TT is refreshed!

Oh, and on the workout front: Now that I've had some good sleep, there is fresh snow on the ground. And my skis are freshly waxed...

A-s-p-h-a-l-t Spells Relief

I am running down the middle of a country road in a blizzard. I can barely see because I've pulled my cap down to shield my eyes from the big wet flakes that seem hell-bent on piercing my cornea. I snap punches in the air - one is my daunting right, two is my left hook, three is a smashing undercut, four with my left... to ten. It feels like release. I yell to the world, to the snow, to no one in particular, "Yes! Fucking yes!" The dog jumps and scurries, tail-tucked, off to the side of the road, eying me warily.

I had a BAD day today. It culminated in detention duty tonight after school. A jail-like setting where I was the jailer. Children who I see daily in my classes and who "Ms. Triteacher" me in ever-so-polite tones turned into snarling beasts who only saw me as one of those "damn teachers who make up whatever rules they want." I guess it is pretty offensive to assign someone a seat apart from his juvenile delinquent buddies. I was steeped in that negative energy for one and one-half HOURS.

And it was bad even before I had to play hard-ass. One of my favorite teachers called me in the middle of class to tell me that one of my not-so-favorite teachers had just ragged her out about what an incompetent teacher she was.

What's up with all this negative energy? Is it the time of year when everyone goes a little, um, bitchy?

I came home determined to let off steam in one of four ways:
1) A bottle of Merlot swilled and savored at my leisure.
2) M&Ms or any other form of chocolate consumed in large quantities.
3) Rum cake - Why not get the sweet and the alcohol combined?
4) Go for a run.

Mercifully, the dog bounded to me the second I walked in the door. He hadn't been exercised yet today. My decision made, I double-timed into my running clothes.

And there I found myself on that country road. Running like Rocky Balboa. I could even hear the music swelling, surging, punctuating my footfalls. I tracked the molecules of stress as they leaked out of my temples, down my spine, through my aching piriformis, to the soles of my shoes and out into the asphalt. May those molecules rest in peace.

It was a beautiful thing. I even thought of a Suzy-Sunshine kind of idea. I'm going to make some lemon-yellow poppyseed muffins (I personally don't think that a little opium is overkill at this point) and ship them off to all the people with whom I had issues today with a single note of "The sun will shine again. Someday."

Or I could just invite them all to go running with me.

And warn them to look out for my fists.

Between the Bubbles

I feel it. I kick off the wall and my calf kicks back. That sensation like two rocks are vying for dominion of my calf muscle, grinding at each other, with my measly little muscle in between.

I keep going. I keep pushing, even though my spaghetti arms and shoulders ache with each pull. Dolores is ahead of me, her bubbles just out of reach. In front of her is Coach, the fastest man on Earth (at least it feels that way.)

We three arrive at the pool of a morn and grumble hellos. Sometimes the hellos are snapped - usually by Dolores - who may even launch into a tirade about Coach while he swims off to start the set. After a particularly grueling 600 pull, we exchange glances that must curl the hairs on his back.

But we both keep going. We tuck our heads and pull for all we're worth. It is good. If I could stay in the pool all day, I'd be content. Even joyful. By 2300 yards, even Dolores has swum through some of her funk. She cracks a smile and offers to lead a couple of sets.

As she leads the 6th of 8 100s, descending, I re-realize the importance of oxygen. As in...

Brain. Must. Have. Oxygen.

Dolores is no slouch in the pool. She sets a pace equal to Coach's. I am far slower than either of them. But I am persistent. I will not miss a morning swim. For this reason alone, I am allowed to tag along, to chase their toes, to swim in their bubbles. Maybe they appreciate that I am willing to wheeze.

Sometimes I look longingly at the empty lanes and want to opt out, to swim alone at my own pace. But I won't. Something drives me. It's more than specific stressors or recent losses. It's an internal drum.
I have a few Truths:

• I HAVE to train. Every day.
• When in the pool, I HAVE to catch Coach's toes.
• When on my bike, I HAVE to clock the best time possible... etc.

I think sometimes it's my religion or perhaps the children I will never have. I am an athlete. But I am an athlete who doesn't have any races planned or goals for this season. I may get around to setting some. Or I may not. I'm in that kind of spot with it. I enjoy training for the sake of training. For the breathing hard and the personal triumph of staying within striking distance of Coach's toes.

I ski because there's snow on the ground.
I bike because it's above 26 degrees and the roads are clear.
I run because the conditions are way too shitty to do anything else. (Case in point = last night's run of 45 minutes in freezing, stinging sleet with two dogs that refused to heel - grrr... but that's another story!)
I swim because it's entertaining to watch Dolores's daily transformation. By the end of every workout, she is laughing and slapping Coach on the back. Swimming opens her bottle of bubbly.

You know, Dolores may have something there. I do sport, I make sport... because I am alive.
It opens my bottle of bubbly. It floats my boat. It pops my cork...

Huh, all the thinking you can do between a few bubbles of chlorinated water.

I Told You He was Good

So I had a few posts this fall on my bike, Serra, no? The custom-built Waterford that fit me like a dream and rode even better. Apparently I am not the only one who thinks he rocks. I received this message from my bike shop:

Dear Triteacher,

I'm forwarding the message that I received from Richard Schwinn. It looks like they were impressed with your bike and would like to use a photo of it on their web site. If you are interested, I'm sure that the details would be easy to iron out.

Sincerely,
Bike Shop Guy

So guess who's being shipped to his photo shoot this morning? Movie contracts next??

Happy Holidays to everyone! I'm off to Denver for the duration. Catch you after the New Year!

Sack of Gold

"Sack of gold!"

I feel his arms wrap around my neck and by the time I hear the "duh" in gold, I am sagging beneath the full weight of my brother. I contort my 9 year-old body and try to twist away, but he is too quick and too determined. His arms extend like steel bands around my neck to my Adam's apple where his hands grasp each other in a death grip. His body sags down the length of my back, his feet drag in the lime behind mine. Up and down the barn aisle I will haul him until he is good and ready to let go.

Oh, I can plead, complain, and bemoan my fate all I want, but the unwritten rule in this unwritten game is that you pay for a lack of vigilance. The price is 80 pounds strapped to your back. You have to bear the "sack of gold." Indefinitely.

I was gifted a sack of heavy metal last week. It didn't even have the courtesy to holler "sack of gold" first. With a suddenness that knocked my breath away, it latched its ugly metallic tentacles around my neck. It lodged lead in my feet. My legs are comprised of cadmium with its sickly-blue hue, my heart cleaved into shards of Baraboo quartzite. My brain is a silvery blob of poisonous mercury, one idea rolling into another only to suddenly split off and meander into another dimension.

I am so heavy that I fear going swimming because I am sure to sink below the surface, to come to reside on the bottom of the pool where my cadmium cancer would be sure to swallow me whole - if the mercury didn't kill me first.

So instead, I've been unpacking the sack - my baggage. Looking at every nugget anew and calling into question what I once "knew" as TRUTH about myself and others. It has been painful - and shifty as mercury. Yet there are some things about which I am rock solid. Sack of gold reminded me of one of them.

Last night I phoned all eight of my siblings. We reminisced about playing Sack of Gold, and I glimpsed inside their lives to see what was in their bags.

Today, I still hurt. I still want to plead and complain and bemoan and begrudge and loathe and second-guess. I am still bearing this load. And it's heavy.

But man, it is a sack of GOLD. As in precious metal.

There are some nasty-bad nuggets in my bag, but mixed in with all of them, there are a few pieces - like my sibling relationships - that are definitively, purely... gold.

FEMININE WILES

I cried, I moped, I pouted

I raged

I was sweet
I was sexy
I wore his favorite clothes

TO NO AVAIL

I massaged his steely frame
I pumped him up
when he was low
You might even say
I "greased his chain"

TO NO AVAIL






I sought to gain purchase with gifts:
1) Tighter tights
2) Bigger, brighter headlamps
3) Racy tubes
4) A back-up tire
(I thought I was saying: I'm investing in this relationship. He heard: You're getting old.)


Then, I let go of my pride
Compromised my principles
I begged.
I want you for forever
and every day, but can't we even just have a
one
night
stand?

He yielded!
November 28, 2007
1:12.28, 19.7 MPH Avg., 24 miles, 29° F

Feminine wiles triUMPHant!

Knock Your Socks Off

I admit it.
I went into it cocky.
Told them I was going to
knock their socks off

They'd made it look so easy
effortless
I had visions of a gingerbread man extraordinaire
with a rose petal for a hat
My mind saw beautiful possibilities.

Then I took hold of the icing spoon
and the dream began to disintegrate
The icing plopped off the spoon
in goopy lumps
The sprinkles clumped together

They
- Heartless creatures! -
dubbed him
"Sumo Wrestler"
and sniggered about how I'd
Indeed
knocked their socks off.

Then
Woops!

I dropped him
facedown
onto the floor
Knocked HIS sock off...

*Sigh*
Coulda been so beautiful...

I. M. Slow.

Like molasses in the wintertime. Like the paint drying on Jezebel's tear-soaked cheeks. Like Wisconsin warming up on a November morning. I. M. Slow.

But I am doing it. Four miles. 41 minutes. 30°F with a wicked wind from the west.

Aaand... I'm calling myself a triathlete again. I think I've earned the title. Check out the math:

1 run + 1 swim + 1300 miles biking = Triathlete. Right?

In other news, I awoke at 5 AM yesterday to the sounds of my cat playing with the boombox. Fastforward the tape. *CLICK* Stop *CLICK* and rewind. *CLICK* Open the CD player. *CREE-ICK* I praised him for his dexterity with his paws - and promptly gave him the boot. But once awakened, do you think I could sleep again?

Today's winning wake-up call goes to the dog. Puking on my comforter at 7 AM.

Nope, I didn't fall back to sleep after that one either.

She Moves On: Lipstick Need Not Apply

Give me a swimsuit, goggles and lapswim from 5-9AM any day. I did it. I swam for an hour yesterday morning. In that hour I was able to size up both my gym's new pool and myself...

TT to Lifeguard after timed 100s: "How long is this pool? It's longer than the old one, right?"

Lifeguard to TT (without batting an eyelash): "It's the same length as the old one - 25 meters. You're just slower."

OK, she didn't say that second part. That was me. But damn was I slower! I used to do 1:26s. Without batting an eyelash. I fondly remember last winter's reps of 8x100 on 1:40. (I batted lots of eyelashes on those, and sweated a lot too, but fondly. Yep, fondly.)

Yesterday I consistenly did 1: flippin' 35s. I had all I could do to catch my breath on 6x100 on 1:55. Shee-it. Two months off of swimming will slow a guy down!

During the ensuing 3 x 200 set, I went through Elizabeth Kubler-Ross's stages of grief. That being accomplished, I turned my frown upside down and made lemonade. I have a purpose. My goal is clear: I need to swim faster. I want 1:26s back. Sooner would be better than later, thank you.

It took me the duration of my cooldown 400 to formulate my 3-pronged plan of attack:
#1. Swim with Coach in the mornings. (He invited me forever ago, but my 5-6:30 AM time slot was otherwise occupied until now. But since I won't be spending time with HIM anymore... Ack. Do we even want to go there?? If you do, see Woman Scorned. I for one, am moving on. Yep. Gone.) My reasoning: the only way to swim faster is to... swim faster. I will with Coach.

#2. Coach once said that the difference between a good swimmer and a great swimmer is elbow position. I need to watch my elbows. Particularly my left. I'm dropping it on my pull. It has to, has to, has to stay high. Be the backhoe, right?

#3. Coach also told me that I was taking in too much air. He recommended not thinking of inhaling at all. Rather just open your mouth and allow for intake. It's true. With my way, I'm sucking in so much air that I almost hyperventilate and tire myself out more quickly. It sounds counterintuitive, but try it. Relax and just open your mouth and you'll tire less. I think. (I didn't get a lot of time to try this because right after I got this advice I met a certain someone and dropped everything for him, poured all my efforts into making him happy. Grrr... if you'd like to continue in this vein, see parenthesis for #1. I am moving on.)

I walked out of that pool with muscles smooth and supple from a good workout. And with a smooth, supple mental map of the long haul back to 1:26.

This morning I'm eyeing up my running shoes...

Triathlete, Teacher, and Woman Scorned

I have been a besotted, infatuated lover. Who has neglected to return phone calls, dropped friends, and been blind to the faults of the beloved. And now the love affair has come to a screeching halt and... and ... I am a mess.

Oh, for yesterday morning. Yes, it was a headwind and 33°, but I can bike in that. I did bike in that. Last night I walked out to SNOW. There was no way I could have biked home. Maybe skied. Or skated. There's plenty of ice.

Waaaaahhhhh! My lover has faults! His tires are too damn skinny to negotiate snow and ice. My water bottles would freeze before I was halfway home. It's dark both for my morning ride to school and my PM ride home from school. My heart is on the floor. I am on the floor throwing a major kicking and flailing tantrum. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" made true and painted red.

But then, amidst the tears and all, I spy my little black book. The ace up my sleeve. The rubber strap of a ... a ... swim goggle gingerly pokes its head out from under the piles of biking apparel. There is a teeny, tiny telltale blip in my heartbeat.

Do you think...? Nah! Preposterous. I haven't since.... my right shoulder... but lap swim is tomorrow from 5:00-9:00, my swimsuit is just fine, my swim bag very nearly as I left it (oh, ditched it!) all those many moons ago. I very nearly could. I might.

I will.

Tomorrow morning. Hello world - here comes TRIATHLETE and Teacher.

New Constructions

I don't know how many of you have divorced or left a long-term beloved. I'm learning the language of it. Even though our divorce isn't final yet, I can't speak of him as "my husband" anymore. It's too confusing to my interlocutor. I don't want to give the impression that we're still together but neither do I want to say the clumsy "nearly-ex husband" because that sounds like I'm making some kind of statement.

So I'm developing new constructions. I refer to him as "a good friend" as in: Oh, a good friend of mine is training for a marathon too. I refer to him in very generic terms like "some people" as in: I agree with you on your landscaping ideas. Some people think that you should wait until you have the grand plan and start your project only then...

It has caused me no end of awkwardness in conversations up until now. I get to the point of "husband" or saying his name and stumble. Talking about seemingly innocuous topics - landscaping, for crying out loud - have caused me to pause awkwardly and face an uncomfortable amount of mental turmoil. No more. I've found the new constructions. Hallelujah. I can talk again.

The Ride

What is the shape of this
burning desire
that I house within...

A friend offers me a ride
"It's colder than you thought;
are you still going to ride?"
People shake their heads at me
"Are you STILL riding to school?"
I can only say
Yes.

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes
Soars my heart

3:25 tolls and I am in autopilot
I don the gear
slip into it with the efficiency
of long practice
By 3:40 I am out the door
into - yes
the cold
into - yes
the rain
into - yes
my groove

I am starving
famished
my stomach growling
but I won't stop to eat
I'm too focused
it's just too good

The rain is coming down now
my glasses are foggy
but I will not stop
I can't
the motion
the power
the smooth syncronicity of my pedals and the wheels
are all I need

I turn onto Busy Highway
into a headwind
It doesn't faze me
I am almost made into
semi slurry
I dig deeper
pedal harder
faster
a surge of adrenaline
that finds its outlet in yet more
fluid motion
that carries me to my door
too soon

I love to ride.

1:22.21
24.8 miles
18.0 MPH average
43°F, Rain

Ice Chips in my Water

1:24.35
24.65 miles
17.5 MPH Average

Started in the dark
Rode into the pink light
of a beautiful sunrise
Frost on the fields
Ice chips in my water
29°F on the bank clock
Cold toes

Warm smile

Genesis of the Chick

It all began on a warm WIBA day
We were biking the Ironman Wisconsin course
Happy triathletes all,
Steve, Pharmie, TriAl,
Marty, Me, Bubba (front),
Positively radiating
heat, energy, joy, purity

And then lightning struck
I turned to my friend and said
This feels good.
I'm biking to see you
next week.
Yes, it's a 70 mile trip
and my longest ride so far
has been 28 miles
But this feels good.
I will do it.

And I did.
The Biker Chick was hatched.
I biked those 70 miles
over and over this summer.
Then September and school
made summer screech to a halt.
But I couldn't seem to brake Serra.

I started biking to school.
The days got shorter
The weather grew colder

I kept biking to school.
September, October,
now November

Will I be biking in December
January, February?

The chick has hatched
(Thank you, WIBA)
The gauntlet has been dropped
The gear has been bought
The rider is ready.

Now just to bribe, cajole
plead with, combat
that little thing called
Old Man Winter.

Unveiling Biker Chick

I look at my old blog
and realize that I am in a new spot.
I have been biking A LOT.
My old self would never have called herself a biker.
I am a BIKER CHICK now.
Yep. Capital letters even.

I hardly do races anymore
My swimsuits have forgotten the feel of water
My running shoes wouldn't recognize gravel
if it were ground into their treads.

I just bike.
To school, from school,
and then on the weekends for kicks.

Now this is all fine and heady stuff
but I'm sure you're wondering
what gives this woman the right
to call herself a BIKER CHICK
(audacious, I know)

Here's a sampling of the numbers, folks...
Oct. 29-Nov. 4: 164 miles
Including one 33° ride
and many rides in the dark
(Yes, my middle name is gear:
Biker Gearhead Chick)

I'm averaging 125 miles per week.
For the first time in my life, I'm hoping for a winter without snow. I want to ride. Every day. I obsessively check the weather. Will I have a headwind or a tailwind? How many layers will I have to wear?

I get tingly when I lay out my clothes the night before.
I positively vibrate when I see tailwinds for both my AM & PM rides.
It is compulsive.
It is mandatory for decent Triteacher existence.
So I yield to it.
I am a Biker Chick.

She Can Be Found

She can be found
on a bike
in a pool
on the running trail

Who is she?
True north
The one who sees clearly
who thinks rationally
who loves deeply
who lives joyously
She is the true me
The gravity spot
of my existence.

Heaven is a state of mind
Find her.

Morning Fog

I wore the fog like a cloak this morning
It made everything warmer
And closer
My headlamp couldn’t cut it
So my bike and I were on our own
We sliced through it
Slid through it
Glided through it

And then it started to get light out
But the fog was still there
Obscuring the road
and the fields to either side
Velvety moist mist muting
even the green of the grass

Looking out
pushed me back in
Solitude hit me
I was the only being in the world
Just me and cool gray road
My thumbs perched
On my aerobars
Seemed Technicolor in their peachiness
Vitality in the midst
of gray-white heaviness
Serra and I glided along
Taking this phantom vitality
further down the road
Sliding through the fog

And then I spotted a walker
A stranger
On a sideroad
She
Wearing a brilliant reflective vest
waved vigorously

Vitally

With that wave
I leapt back
into the ocean of humanity

This morning was special.
She knew it too.

I Love My Job

Where have I been? Obviously not blogging. I have been busy with many things - good for the most part: biking, a new relationship, patching up my old relationship (we're becoming friends!), and school.

School has been consuming me. It always does, but I always forget how wrapped up in it I get. And I love my job. Today's highlight came when I was subbing for another teacher. I got to talk to a handful of kids who I taught my first year here. They're seniors now. It is amazing how much they've changed. One girl, in particular, gave me hell in 6th grade. She was a snotty (though smart) little hair-tosser. We had found our peace by the end of the year, but today... it was really cool. We talked about what she's interested in career/college/lifewise. It was a conversation I would have had with my niece - very comfortable. And wow. Has she matured. I love seeing these kids grow up. My job is fulfilling.

And finally - after bouncing around grade levels and job titles for 8 years - I'm finding where I fit. I am a middle school Reading Teacher. While it was enjoyable talking to those high schoolers today and I enjoy the one section of high school that I teach, I belong with middle schoolers. In a Reading classroom. Talking about books and characters - which really means telling our stories to each other, helping these very energetic, very talkative, very curious adolescents see themselves and others. It's real stuff. And I love it.

Lightning Finds Me

4:30 AM
I awoke to a flash of lightning
followed shortly by a HUGE crack of thunder
Lightning found me.

I jumped out of bed ready to ride.
I want to face this storm
I want to ride it out
I want to be in it
to live in it
to be tossed and turned
to be scared out of my wits
but stay true
to me
the motion.

By the time you read this
I will be on my bike...
YAHOOOOOOO!!!

7:30 AM Addition
I made it to school high and (nearly) dry. The gods put away their sabers and stopped shedding each other's blood the minute I stepped out the door.

Pussies. Afraid of a little girl on a bike.

IM Wisconsin 2007 Volunteer Report

What does an Ironman do for you?

It gives you time out of life
a time of complete focus
Even as a spectator this year
I was focused on the athlete
the individual swimmer who was cramping
and screaming in agony as he clung to my kayak.
I sounded three whistle blasts to
summon a boat to pull another wretching,
pale athlete out of his Lake Monona misery.

And then, with the majority of the athletes out of the water
came my favorite part of swim support...
.
We got to adopt a swimmer
I shadowed #1820 from mile 1.9 to mile 2.4
He'd poke his head up every once in a while
and I'd point him in the right direction.
In those 25 minutes, getting #1820,
- a complete stranger -
back to the beach
was my mission in life.
Seeing him crawl out of the water and stand on the beach
at last
and hearing his name
Rogelio
was sublime.

Our time out of life continued in Verona
where my friend and I were completely absorbed
in watching those Ironbikers roll on by.

We saw and clapped/shouted ourselves silly for...

• A friend who had hypothermia at last year's race and spent 40 minutes in T2 - a deathknoll to her Kona dream. She finished in 11:25 yesterday.
• A smiling Rural Girl who whizzed by so fast I could barely identify her. By her second time through, we had learned to watch in fast forward and cheered our lungs out for her. What a racer!!
• Bubba in his Spiderman shirt. No mistaking him!
• Steve, the hairless wonder. He rode Rhonda fast and true.
• Trigreyhound who I first was sure of after seeing his name on the back of his bib. Even belatedly though, he heard me yell, "Go Greyhound!" and - class act that he is - took the time to lift a hand off of his handlebars and acknowledge my yell with a fist pump.
• TriShannon who turned around with this huge smile when I yelled her name - but is probably still wondering who the heck I was. :)
• Erin - truly "The Smiling Girl" - she knows the way to do an Ironman.
• Pharmie - who heard us the second time we yelled, "Go Pharmie" and burned us with the brightness of that smile.
• JWM - Who I thought was so focused that he didn't even realize that this crazy lady yelling "Go JWM! Go JWM!" was talking to him. Later I found out that he'd been looking up for every "Good job" thinking it was "Go JWM" and his neck was getting tired. So, "Go JWM!" anyways!
• IronWil - who I also only recognized after she'd passed. But cool x 10, she acknowledged my yell with a fist pump and a smile.

As you can see, smiles were a common theme yesterday. All of these people were happy to be doing 140.6. Wow.

Heartfelt congratulations to all of you Ironmen out there! You are inspiring.