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.