Planning

When I was a girl I remember making lists for the parties I wanted to have. These lists were mostly comprised of people I would invite and food I would make.  Very few of these parties actually happened. The happening of the party was almost beside the point. It was the planning I loved.

A good party plan always began with a dessert list, because the only thing I loved more than boys as a girl was dessert. (Actually, quite frankly, that hasn't changed much.) I remember combing through my mother's cook books, scratching out lists of elegant dessert possibilities to serve like English Toffee, Petit Four Cakes, Ice Cream Puffs, and Dutch Cocoa Cream Cake with Caramel Icing. I seldom included non-dessert foods in my planning , with the exception of deviled eggs, which I positively loved.

The guest list always comprised both girls and boys, because, as I have said, I was boy-crazed from a very young age. I didn't actually have a party that included both boys and girls until seventh grade, of course, and that party wasn't entirely successful. I believe there was too much dessert food, not enough spin the bottle, and a general feeling of fraudulence since I invited all of the "popular" kids in addition to my actual friends, in the hopes that the popular kids would fall in love with my winsome personality and invite me into their sacred ranks.

I no longer plan parties. I have learned that I don't like hosting, I don't like cooking (except for baking desserts), and I can no longer flirt with reckless abandon, so what's the point? (Andy would argue that I still flirt with reckless abandon, which perhaps is true, but whatever. Some habits just never die.) At any rate, I've replaced my party planning desire with other types of planning. I plan my next career move, I plan my next writing project, and best of all, I plan my next racing season. (Notice I never plan things like how I am going to systematically clean the house.) Just like my party planning, whether the career move, the project or the racing season comes together as I have planned is entirely unimportant. It's the mapping out of the future that I love. If things don't work out as planned it is almost better. When one plan fails--it's time for a new plan-- and voila! I'm right back at my favorite part of any project.

I write all this just so you know up front that I will relish the planning and re-planning and re-planning and re-planning of my next season excessively over the next--well, year.  A fantastically new plan is like nature's first green, and as you know, nothing gold can stay. My approach to this problem has always been to re-plan once a plan loses its luster. With the race season, I just keep adjusting until the season is over. It works for me.

So, what follows is my very first rendition of the 2010 Racing Plan!

1. Go really fast.

Just kidding.
Let's start again.

December 11-12, 2009: Short-course meter championship at B.U.  I hope to swim such fabulous events as the 100m I.M., the 50m Fly, the 100m back, and the 500m free.  The fact that my event choices may change goes without saying, except that I just said it. Goals: to not be the last person to finish in any of my chosen events.

Jan. 24th, Derry 16 Miler. I just like this hilly monster of a race. Plus, Andy claims he will run it, so I simply must do it this year because I know he will drink lots of beer with me after the race instead of going straight home. Goal: To make sure I take a dump before the race. I didn't last year. And well, that just wasn't fun.

Feb. 7th. Cape Elizabeth Winter Classic 10 Miler. It's in my hometown. I insist on participating in all hometown races.  Plus it's a hilly, great race and Ange, Mike, Steve, Stacy and many other fabulous friends will likely be there and so I simply can't miss it. Goal: to go sub 1:11.

Cape Swim Meet. In February some time. I have no idea if this meet will even happen, but it did last year so I'm hoping it will happen again. Goal: To do every single event. I know that sounds daft, but really, it's what I'd like to try to do. I think you get a prize for being stupid enough to try it.  If this meet doesn't happen I will compete in the Distance Festival at Bowdoin College (a swim meet) on Jan. 31.

Feb 19-21: Ange and I fly to Raleigh, North Carolina to attend a USA Level I Tri-coaching certification clinic. That is, if we get it in.

March 7th. Stu's 30K. Love this race. It's like a hilly nightmare just like Derry. Goal: don't know yet.

March 20. Short-course yard Championship Meet at Harvard U. I want to swim the 1650. I've never done it in a pool.

March 25-28: Okay. This isn't a race, but I'm flying to Tucson with Ange and Mel C for Tri camp with Jen ! (so excited.)

April. train train train. Watch all my friends run Boston and cry because I have to watch.

May 16: Harriman Half Iron in Harriman, NY. This is the smallest race ever. I think like 10 women did it last year. My goal is to win it.

June 5: Rev 3 Oly. I'll be honest here. I wouldn't do this race except it is a huge TriManiac race (that's the name our new club will have. :) I hear the course is impossible. Still, it will be so fun to watch the 1/2 Iron the next day and cheer on Ange and co.

June 27 IM CDA. Goal. To be Super Mary. To P.R., to place in my AG, to qualify for Kona. You know, small, easily achievable goals.

Okay. That's all I know right now.

In addition to developing the best race schedule ever, I have other more exciting plans in the works--like how I'm going to write a book, start a new business, get a puppy, create a Masters swim program at the pool, and other little things that I'm sure I can easily accomplish while training for IM, racing incessantly, keeping up with all of my friends, keeping up on FB and the blog--oh, and continuing to bring my three babies up in a warm, stimulating environment that smells of freshly baked cookies. Oh, and also pay attention to Andy--you know--at least sometimes. Basic upkeep translates to once every three weeks or so. Oops! Just kidding. I didn't actually just write that.

Have You Noticed...

that almost nothing is what it seems?

I pride myself on being supremely insightful. I first realized I had the gift of grasping the inner nature of things at at an extraordinarily deep level in high school. (Yes, I am being facetious.) Really, though--since then I have honed my insight to the point of near-mastery. I get people, I get how systems and organizations work, and I  believe when it comes to these things, I am never wrong.

Except that lately I seem to be wrong all the time, which is more than a little disconcerting.
How could I have lost my noesis--seemingly overnight?
The only explanation I can think of is that I actually never had it--or I have it and yet it betrays me.

I don't mean to be cryptic. It's just that lately people--relationships--organizations who I thought I understood keenly, aren't as they've appeared.  I idealize someone else's marriage, and then discover the couple is divorcing. I judge someone as righteous or arrogant, only to discover they are generous and humble, or conversely, someone appears to be self-deprecating and weak, and I discover she actually doesn't take shit and has the will of an ox. I think I get the inner nuances of the mommy neighborhood dynamics, only to find I'm way off and I'm not on the outside as much as I thought--or another mommy who I have viewed as central in neighborhood hoopla actually is on the outside, too. Even my husband and kids seem to be different than I have understood. My son seems charming and funny, yet it turns out he is a hellion/class clown at school. My daughter, who seems to be such a confident performer, is terribly shy once I leave the room.  I even seem to be lacking insight into others' insight of me. I think I appear to be a certain way, only to discover I am not viewed by others that way at all.

This weekend I learned that the tri shop I consider the hub of my triathlon community in Maine shut its doors for good. I can't tell you how shocking this was to me. The shop was at the center for most of Maine's triathlon world. The owner had built up the store, buying out other tri shops, expanding its offering of classes and services, and building a community of athletes around an all-inclusive club, Nor'Easter.  I loved that shop and all the people who worked there. I loved being a part of Nor'Easter. I lamented that there was nothing akin to it where I actually live, in Massachusetts.

I don't really know what happened. There is plenty of scuttlebutt, but of course no one has the whole, true story, even those who worked there. The owner simply came in on Friday morning, told the staff it was over, and gave them a bit of time to collect their stuff and leave. This action seems so uncharacteristic of the owner,  this man I thought I knew. But as I said, my intuition has been off, I guess. I do not believe for a moment that this man intentionally hurt those who worked for him. No one intentionally loses control of finances, wrecking everything he worked so hard to build in the process. No one.

What bothers me more than anything is that I viewed Peak Performance as a rock--something stable and secure. I had no reason to believe this was so... there were signs that things were not all what they should be. But still, I just had this faith in it. And I'm left doubting that I ever really know what's going on with anything or anyone. I even think this about me, believe it or not. For the last year I haven't been able to trust myself, my intentions, my actions, my beliefs.  Maybe it's something about hitting mid-life. I simply don't know.

_______________________
On to something more positive:

Last week I started training again.
Thank. fucking. God.

I'm slow in the pool, I tire easily on the bike and can only push like 110 watts without slipping into zone 3, and yesterday I struggled to hold an 8:40 pace on my run. Yikes! But still, it feels great to be working out again.

I have been lifting and doing core/functional work, and I'm really excited about this. One of my limiters is my muscular endurance and strength.  I seem to look fit, but that doesn't translate into actual strength. I cannot do ONE pull-up. Not one. I can't push more than 240 pounds on the leg press. I can only bench the bar, without any weights on it. You get the picture. I'm not sure how I am as fast as I am given how weak I am. The only thing I can think of is that I just don't have a lot to carry around, because I'm so short and small.

Finally, in other terribly exciting news, I am getting my little ankle tattoo on Thursday morning. !!!! I also might get a small tramp stamp. I will post pictures later in the week.  I love these little 40th birthday presents to myself.

Looking to Write a Few More Chapters

Recently I read Dara Torres' biography, Age is Just A Number. My friend Liz wrote the book and maybe it's for that reason I liked it so much. I like Liz, of course, but she is also a fantastic writer. For those of you who have read the book, I know it reads in the first person. That makes Liz's feat in writing it even more impressive, doesn't it?

Anyway. You should all read it because, like me, many of you are parents, no longer spring chickens, and mature enough to truly appreciate being an athlete.  Many of you are also old enough to remember when Torres went to her first Olympics at age 15, and then her second, and her third, and her fourth, and most recently, her fifth, at age 41.  The names I associate with Torres--Tracey Caulkins, Rowdy Gaines, Steve Lundquist (I had magazine cut-outs of him all over my high school bedroom walls), Matt Biondi, Janet Evans--all retired years and years and years ago. (You must admit Lundquist was rather smoking. I felt the need to travel down memory lane here...)

And yet here is Torres. She is not only still a force, still  unbelievably strong, still winning. She has actually improved at every Olympics in which she's competed.  In 2008 she won her first individual silver medal  in the 50 meter freestyle--and she was just shy of taking the gold by 1/100th of a second.
And she was 41.
And she is a mom.
And no, Ted, I really DON'T believe she doped.

In the past I've felt that speed and endurance are wasted on the young.  They take speed for granted, use it nonchalantly, view it as a given.  The younger athlete is pissed when his speed or endurance fail him and he doesn't win, or place, or beat the old dude out there. The older athlete, on the other hand, expects his speed and endurance will fail him. He doesn't expect to win anymore--or even place, except, perhaps, in his age group. He doesn't expect to beat the young dude with the attitude and the lean body.

But I'm not sure exactly WHY this is true.  It certainly hasn't been true in my case. I was a fairly good swimmer in my high school years, but I am a better swimmer now--at least in terms of endurance swimming. Further, in high school and college I couldn't run at all, and I considered it an amazing success that in my mid-20s I completed my first marathon in around 4:10. Just recently I took 51 minutes off that marathon time--and I'm not nearly as proud of that accomplishment as I am of that first 4:10, which seemed positively miraculous at the time. At any rate, I wouldn't want my current self to compete against my young self. Mentally and physically my seasoned older self would kick the shit out of my self as a girl.

And it's not just me who has improved with age. Do you know the average age of the top two women runners at this year's NYC marathon? 39.5. In fact, every one of the women in the top five at NY this year was over 32; the average age for the five being 36. And did you note that the gold in the last Olympic marathon went to Constantina Tomescu-Dita, who happens to be a 38-year-old mom?  And this year at Kona, every one of the women in the top ten was over 30, with the singular exception of Mirinda Carfrae, who is 28. DeDe Greisbauer has been in the top 10 at Kona for the last several years running, and this year she celebrated her 39th b-day. Even among we non-professionals I can cite examples of the older athlete kicking the younger athlete's ass. My friend Alina, a state champion in her high school years in multiple events, is now bettering the times she posted back then, and she's nearly 40. My friend Melissa, too, keeps getting better with age. She has PRed over and over again this season, and she's been competing as a runner all 44 years of her life.

Dara Torres, via Liz, put it this way:

Lifestyle, not genetics, is the primary reason older athletes tend to slow down. Most people as they reach their thirties, place more priority on their jobs and families, as well they should. But as a result they downgrade their workout goals from achieving personal bests to staying in shape. This might be the right decision for many. This might even by the right decision for you. But if you still have athletic ambitions, if you still want to compete and win, there's no reason you have to give up. Your body can still perform if you put in the effort--if you still do that 10 mile run or that long, hard quality set. You just need to be smarter about training and more time-efficient. But chances are, if you're an older athlete, you're smarter and more time-efficient anyway.

If you guessed that this whole post is just a pep talk to myself about the fact that I'm entering a new AG next year, you are right.

But it's a good pep talk. Because the more I look, the more I find examples of how peak performance often doesn't occur until our later years. The most competitive age group in triathlon is NOT 20-29, as one might guess. Often people ask if I'm excited to move into the 40-44 age group, since presumably the competition will not be so fierce. But, in fact, the 40-44ers are MORE competitive than the 35-39ers. I will actually have to improve my performance next season if I want to continue placing well in my age group.

Sometimes I find myself wistfully looking back. So many of the big chapters of my life seem finished. When you are growing up (as a girl, anyway) you often wonder about the mysteries life holds for your future: who will I marry? What will I be? How many kids will I have?  Where will I settle down to live? You don't think of questions beyond those chapters. It's as if those chapters are the only chapters. Certainly when young you don't ponder when you will start your second, or third career, marriage, family, or home. You don't think about whether you will enjoy a comfortable retirement. You simply don't imagine the later chapters in life. It's hard to even fathom what they are. I think this is why 40 seems so ominous, so mortifying, so well, OLD. We haven't imagined the chapters after 40--and so it seems that the book must end when we get there.

But now I'm trying--trying very hard to embrace that over 40 holds incredible possibility, because I have no idea what chapters have still to be written. Life certainly isn't over. It's called MID-life because one is half way there.

And isn't it usually the second half of the race that holds all of the meaning and excitement--pain and joy? Isn't that where the shit really happens? Isn't that where the ones who have not given up show their stuff and pass all of the young bucks?

Well, isn't it?

I think our pumpkins should be titled "The Moods of Mom". 

It was a good Halloween. It was warm, so I could sit on the steps to divvy out the candy. (I force Andy to go trick-or-treating with the kids.) My strategy was to say to each child, "You can take two!" making it appear that I was generous without having to reprimand those who decide to take a freaking handful if you say nothing.  Another benefit of the warmth was that I didn't have to battle it out with the kiddos as to whether they would wear long underwear etc under their costumes. Lara went sleeveless in her fairy outfit, and she didn't get frostbite. Very cool. Or warm. whatever.

I managed to get rid of all of the candy I intended to give out. The only remaining problem is the candy that was brought in. The kids got butt-loads of it, and it's taking a will of steel not to hoard their supply. I need that shit out of here. I can't seem to stare a fun-sized Snickers in the face and not partake in the "fun."

The holidays. Do they have to come right in a row? I just recover from Halloween and Turkey Day hits. Then it's Christmas season--which is really just one long month of indulgence. Thank God training started again this week.

Speaking of....I got into the pool yesterday, and miracle of miracles, I did not sink. I was, however, slow. Like beyond slow. Like so slow I wanted to cry slow. As it should be, I know, I know. I also went to the gym to lift and do functional stuff.  It's extremely comical trying to balance on that damn half-ball and do the exercises Jen has prescribed. I don't actually do any of them. I spend my time just trying to balance in the required position to begin the exercise. It's pathetic, really. Still, I must have done something, because I'm sore this morning. Ah, thank God for that. I'm not sure I could stand another day of sloth-dom.

Today I get on the bike for the first time in.... a long time. The last time I rode Mrs. Z was at my final tri of the season. I pumped her tires this morning and lubed her up. She looks very pretty, but I still don't want to ride her. One of these days I'm going to fall in love with riding--I just know it. It took like 8 years to learn to love running--so I figure I just have five years to go before I'm proposing to her.

Five years.
This reminds me of aging, which is the topic of the post I'm working on now. As you know, I'm haunted by the BIG 4.0. which is galloping toward me at lightning speed. I'm determined to be at peace with it by the time the birthday hits, which will be just a few days before IM Couer d'Alene.

In 1996 Linus was a puppy and I was 26 years old. When I pat his grey muzzle and smell his ancient doggy breath, I marvel at how fast time passes.

Diagnosis: or Give Me A Freaking Break

Here is the diagnosis of mon doux pied:

metatarsalgia.

Would you like to know what metatarsalgia translates to from the Latin?
BALL OF THE FOOT PAIN.
Jesus.  No shit, Sherlock.

Basically Lucho got it. Thanks, Lucho! You win the House prize... I should have just listened to you instead of going to el doctor, since el doctor told me verbatim what you did. sigh.

So the deal is that my feet are anatomically challenged. I knew they were brutal hasslich, but apparently they are also just totally fucked up. I have bunions (inherited and then made worse by years of dance en pointe as a young lassie) that are now pretty much at a 90 degree angle. Add to this that I have a Morton's toe, (second toe is longer than my big toe), and an extra bone in my second metatarsal region.  (I also have a Plantar Wart on my heel that has been with me since sixth grade, incurable athlete's foot and mangled, yellow toenails that often fall off, but apparently those features of my delicate tootsies have nothing to do with my metatarsalgia, they merely add to the glamor of my lovely feet.)

Don't you just want to suck on my toes? I thought so. Get in line.

Apparently there is no real cure for this ailment. I need to, as Lucho suggested, wear shoes with a wide toe box, I need arch supports, and I need metatarsal pads for the balls of my feet. The problem was exacerbated by my running, but not the cause of it, so that's nice to know. Even if I sat on my ass all day I would likely have the old ball of the foot pain, just because of the nature of my feet. 

Well, all's well that ends well. I need to get me some little Arthrex inserts and I'm good to go. If the pain persists, the cure is to suck it up and deal.

_____________________
Onto other riveting items:

I loved the responses to my Weight post. It made me all warm and fuzzy inside to know that most of you liked my list. I did get a few responses, though, that are worth mentioning, and that weren't so warm and fuzzy.

The most important was from my big sis, Laura. She emailed me privately to make a super good point, but a point she thought too personal to share. I disagree with her on that. The point is wicked important, and so I NEED to share it.
It's this:
I hated my body when I was a teenager. I hated my body and I hate who I was. She (my teenaged self) doesn't derseve my hate, though. In fact, she deserves my love and respect. I had a gorgeous body, beautiful breasts, and I was sought after by many a boob-loving boy. I was ashamed of my chest, and ashamed of my weight--but in retrospect I see that I was quite babe-a-licous when I wasn't covering myself up in gigantic white t-shirts and apologizing for my curves.

Here's the thing. Whether I was fat or not, hot or not, I need to not say repeatedly that I was a porkster as a kid. This is less for my benefit, or yours, and more for that of my daughters. Laura's words:

"You were not porky at all. You had a good sized chest,  but you were not fat, porky, or anything like that. I bring this up because I am a little worried that those kinds of comments (which you have made about yourself for many years) might make it hard for Jordan and Lara as they get older. As they grow up, they will be aware that they have two incredibly athletic parents, and a mother who has not an ounce of fat on her body. This body type and shape may not be something they end up with naturally, and they may begin to feel that they are not what they should be- and that they are a disappointment to you. They will not only have the media images bombarding them, but also the images of a very competitive triathlete world. What if they are shorter of stature and have big breasts? What if they look a lot like you did at 18?"

Yep. I fucking cried. It's one thing to hate a past self. It's another to foist that hate on your innocent daughters, who have done nothing but inherit your genes and your home.

So I thought I should share that.

Thanks,Laura.  xo

Weight

It's a tough topic and it's been on my mind.
Perhaps I'm sensitive to the whole thing because, alas, I was a porkster as a teenager. I was still cute, don't get me wrong, but I was a porkster. I had a body that was soft and fleshy. I only dared to wear a one piece. I had big boobs.
Don't believe me?  Photographic evidence. Spring of 1989. 18 years old.
I'm the one on the end with the white t-shirt.
And you thought I was exaggerating... tsk tsk.

This picture was taken at Range Pond in Maine with a few of my freshman year college buddies.

Nineteen years and three kids later I returned to Range Pond for the Wild Bear Triathlon. I probably would've shit myself if you had told me then that I would end up returning to Range Pond at age 37 to do a triathlon--and that I would go on to complete an Ironman two years later. Actually, I'm quite sure I didn't even know what an Ironman was at that point.

Around the time that picture was taken I had just taken up running for the first time. Courtney (Smith North shirt, above) and I would leave our dorm at midnight so we would not be seen, and run on the track. I could only run one lap when we began. By the end of the semester I could run a mile.

Some people describe their first running experience as cathartic. They loved it. They knew they would always run.
I hated it. I only ran at night so people would not see how pathetic and slow I was, and how often I needed to stop to catch my breath.  But I despised myself and my body even more, and I really didn't want to give up beer and pizza. I had no choice but to run.
 
Here I am finishing at Range Pond in 2007.

After many, many years I began to run because I loved to run.   However, worrying about my weight never left me. Honestly, what women isn't haunted by weight worry?  For example, I just stole a piece of my son's 6th birthday cake, made with, according to my mother-in-law, six sticks of real butter. I had a piece last night too. With chocolate ice cream. And that's not the only indulgence I've partaken of this week, trust me. To boot, I'm on forced rest until November.  By November I fear I will be an elephant.

 (above: Mary at IM CDA 2010.)

Telling myself to let it go--that soon I will be training again and watching what I put in my mouth-- doesn't seem to help. I call it Fear of  Elephant-Ness Syndrome or F.O.E.S.

F.O.E.S. is a big deal to nearly all women, and in our sport, weight takes on even more weight. It's not only tied to beauty standards forced on us by culture, it's tied to performance. Men suffer the same weight preoccupation as women when they involve themselves in multisport because weight is so tied to performance. So I feel for you dudes, too.

This isn't a post on how to deal with F.O.E.S., though. We all have our methods, and I'm not here to lecture on which methods are healthy.  My real reason for writing on weight is this: It's hard to determine what one's weight should ideally be.

Losing weight is hard to do, but it's so attractive to we running/tri obsessed people. I've read that for every pound you shed you take 2 seconds per mile off your running pace. That means that for a marathon you'd run five minutes faster if you did nothing other than to shed just five little pounds. How awesome is that? Just lose the weight and the P.R. is in the bag!  EXCEPT it isn't in the bag because there is, of course, a point of diminishing returns. You risk losing muscle tissue if  you lose weight when already slim which will make you slower, not faster. Further down the road from diminishing returns is the development of anorexia--or more likely for we athletes--anorexia athletica.... (It sounds so pretty, doesn't it? --like a smiling skeleton with a poppy in her hair.) I know anorexia is most closely associated with teenage girls, but we adult athletes are also at risk because there is so much emphasis on body composition in our sport.

Some would argue it's a simple formula to know how much one should weigh. I don't know the formula, but I'm quite sure there is one. The formula used when I was growing up in the 80's was this (for women): For every inch above 5 ft., add 5 lbs onto 100.  I am 5'2.5", so I should weigh, optimally, 112.5 lbs. That's not the formula anymore, though. The problem was, among other things, that assigning a number didn't account for how much fat or muscle a person carried. A person can have a ton of body fat but only weight 112.5 pounds at 5'2.5", but that person is not healthier than someone who weighs more but has less body fat. Now we determine appropriate weight using the BMI scale, but that thing is way too general to be helpful, and also doesn't account for % of body fat.  Honestly, I don't know how one determines what is right. Also, it seems that "right" in the real world and "right" for an endurance athlete are quite different things.

Who the hell knows.

In the face of having no good way to determine what my "right" weight is on paper, I have been forced to experiment in real life. What follows is my extremely scientific (haha) way to determine whether I'm track with my weight. Maybe it will help you do the same. You never know.

Here it is:

Mary's Top Six Ways of Achieving and Maintaining Optimal Weight:

1. Am I hungry?  Okay. That sounds stupid, but it is my number one way of determining whether I'm on track or not.  I believe I should not be hungry. Ever. This is the benefit of not living in a third-world country. There is a difference between craving and hunger. I crave Devil Dogs, but I don't always eat them. Hunger is different than craving. It is signified by a rumbling tummy, by an irritable mood, and by light-headedness. If I am hungry, I am not on track.
2. Am I craving? I'm also not on track if I'm craving. If I'm craving, I'm denying.  If I'm denying myself, I'm not on track. If I want a nice dark beer, I drink it. If my mother-in-law makes a six-stick butter chocolate cake, I have a slice. If I am craving an ice cream sundae, I have a sundae making party with my kids. What I've found is that by not limiting myself, I don't crave. I also don't experience guilt. I also don't feel the need to binge during the "off" season. I also can say no to a sweet or juicy burger or a drink, because I know if I really want it, I can always have it tomorrow.
   
3. Do people tell me I look thin?  Here is a clue: If people notice you are skinny, and they say, often in alarm, Wow! You look really thin! That's a very, very bad sign. When you are the right weight you look healthy. People see you and say, Wow! You look so fit! You look really strong. God, I wish I had those arms... You are seriously buff. If you are unsure, you can always ask a member of the opposite sex that you trust and who you are not sleeping with. Yes, you look good. Not too thin--just strong. or Actually, you are looking kind of skeletal. Your face is a little gaunt. and so on.
4. How am I training and racing? This is a neat experiment. Record your weight prior to each workout and race. At the end of the season, figure out at what weight you seemed to have the most success. This is totally unscientific, b/c there are like a billion factors that determine how well you do in a workout or race. Still, it's an interesting little tidbit of data. Usually you will find there is a sweet spot--a range of two-four pounds at which you train and race best.
   
5. Am I menstruating? Okay. It doesn't help to ask yourself that if you're a guy. But if you're a chick, and you're under 48, and you're not getting your period regularly (especially if you have gotten in regularly in the past) that's a wicked bad sign.
6. Always add to your diet, never subtract:  This goes right along with the no restricting/craving rule. I never take something away. I just add. For example, when I feel like I'm not eating well, I make sure I am eating five fruits and seven servings of veggies a day. That's wicked hard. Have you ever genuinely tried to do that? When you do, you find that the fruit and veggies suck up a lot of your hunger. You are absolutely allowed to have a burger and fries if you want it, but usually you feel too gassy and full from the green stuff and you don't want to bother.
   

And now, I'm off to making ghost cookies with Lara.

All about mememememe me! and my foot.

First, a big thank you to all who offered me information and advice on my injured foot.

This is what you did for me, though I know it wasn't your intention....
I think I AM going to get an x-ray after all.

I am not sure it's a problem with the fascia. That said, my calves are a mess, and I have had trouble with both my Achilles and plantar fasciitis in the past, so clearly I need to take all advice there, staring with getting myself a foam roller and a massage tool (other than my husband) for my calves.

However, I think this may be something else (though naturally it's all connected, I know.) It's not neuroma, I'm also pretty sure of that, because it's not high up enough and there is no ball there. It's really right below my second toe (index toe?) in the exact center of the ball of my foot. The pain radiates from that spot into my index toe. My index toe is tingly and feels a little broken. I know that sounds like a stress fracture, but I just don't see how I could have run on it all these months if it was one. Still, I think I should check it out. The advice that made me think this was from Go Big Green. You're right. Now is the time to heal. I should at least know what I'm dealing with, even if I do believe they will probably just send me home equipped only with the advice that I should rest, stretch, strengthen, ice and take Aleve.

This feels a little like the TV show, House. And I get to be the star! (I love it when it's about me...)Now that you have more detail, are you all willing to make another stab at what it might be?
(I love this shit.)  Oops--I just went into cardiac arrest!  Someone give me a tracheotomy!

In other news:
I am happy to say that I was just hired at the pool. I am their new Masters swim coordinator! (Oh boy. Now I have to figure out how to do this!!) Also I will be doing some coaching of the little squirts (I hope) and teaching some adult lessons. In the spring I plan to offer a course "on completing your first triathlon." If you're local, and you think you might want to be a part of that, let me know.

To KennyO--I definitely have my opinion on what to look for in a coach, but before I get to writing that post I think you should check out this post by Coach Elizabeth Fedofsky Waterstrat.She's a fantastic coach herself, and also a great writer.

Finally I leave you with some oh so beautiful fashion shots from my last race. I personally imagined looking more glam and marathon chic than that--but hey. I was wet and cold and busy getting a P.R. :)

No idea at what point this was taken, but it couldn't be that far in, b/c my left pocket is still bulging with gel.

Wet and cold, but at least I'm passing the dude next to me. This was taken at the end.
This is a good pic of me landing on my injured foot. No wonder I'm injured; it looks like I'm landing on the side of it. The way the treads on my shoes look, this appears to be the case.

The end! Thanks Capstone!

Let's Go Crazy!

It's the off season.
So I'm off.

The only part of my body that is happy about this is my feet. The rest of me already wants to start training. I'm all fidgety.
My feet need to heal, though. As in heel and starting healing, heels!
Sorry.

I digress. My feet have been a  little funky for the last several months. The ball of my right foot hurt very, very much during the run at LP, and then continued to hurt for several weeks after that. Luckily that little problem disappeared because of the forced rest after LP. Then, maybe a month ago, I started getting the same pain in my left foot. The pain is like a bruise. It hurts to the touch and it hurts to run/walk on it. However, I found a way to wrap it up, putting layers of gauze under my forefoot and taping, that made the pain bearable. It is also one of those injuries where when you begin running it kills, but five miles in it hurts less, and by 10 miles you can't feel it at all.  For that reason I ruled out stress fracture.  Stress fractures don not feel better 10 miles into the run. I think it might be a fascia problem?

I'm interested in your feedback as to what it might be. I COULD go to see a doc, I know. But do you know what a doc will tell me?

Rest it.
Ice it.
Take NSAIDS.
Get Orthotics.
Get surgery done on your out-of-control bunions.
Stop running so much after you heal.

In my experience, REST IT is the number one cure. I will also ice, but I won't do the rest of the list. I  have my reasons, but I won't bore you with them.

Because I am resting I have an abundance of energy that seems to be firing everywhere willy nilly. I need to lasso it, channel it, and put it to use. That's hard. I made a list of about 50 things I'd like to do in the next month. I don't even know where to begin when I look at said list, and so I end up writing a blog post or surfing FB. It's not good.

Here are a few things I am supposedly working on:

• My writing. (Thanks, Liz. :) This is going very slowly, though. It doesn't help that I am pretty ADD right now.
• Organizing the house. This is painful and overwhelming. I should take pictures of our "office" (read repository for all the shit we don't know what to do with) and our basement (unbelievably scary--and not b/c of spiders and mice) to give you an idea of what I'm facing.
• Forming a Masters swim team at the pool and beginning to teach adult swimming lessons there. This has me taking 8 intensive days of Lifeguarding/WSI (water safety instructor) to get re-certified. ek!
  
• Coaching. I'm coaching three awesome women: two in running and one in triathlon. I'm glad they trust me. I'm not sure I trust me, of course.
• Reading as a writer. I read a lot, but not as a writer. I've realized that this is hard to do. 
• Cooking. Okay, I'm not really working on that. But I should. I like the idea of cooking.... I just don't actually like doing it.
• Gardening. I need to clean up the brush and get in some bulbs. 

Honestly I haven't done any of these things in earnest. I've been spending time emailing, walking my old pooch ten times a day, reading blogs, watching episodes of Scooby Do with my kids, testing Jordan on her math facts and spelling words and doing laundry.

Which, just maybe, is what I should be doing.

Bay State Marathon Race Report or Being Cold Part Trois

The weekend began auspiciously. Rain was forecast, but the day was only slightly overcast and beautifully balmy. Today it's even more beautiful: in the 50s, sunny with just a light breeze.  Ahhh.

But marathon day. Well, the weather fucking sucked. 

I knew it would suck, because the forecast said it would suck. But I still held out hope. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. In the 40s wasn't too cold and a little rain never hurt anyone, right?
Wrong.  Bring on the hypothermia! January decided to show up and give us a little preview, and her little display did not disappoint.

I got up at 5 a.m. to eat and chill, and then went to meet my GNRC friends so we could carpool to the race. Somehow twelve of us fit into two cars, and we started the hour long trip to Lowell. I'm always a chatterbox (big shocker) before races, and my peeps in David's car put up with that very nicely. Thank you!

The Bay State Marathon is known throughout New England as a fast and flat course, perfect to use as a Boston Qualifier. Fast and flat is relative, of course. In New England a purely flat course does not exist. We have plenty of great hilly marathons--Mt Desert Island Marathon in Maine, Clarence de Mar Marathon in New Hampshire, and of course, The Boston Marathon (one of our easier marathons, actually) known for its stretch of hills that culminate with the well-known Heartbreak Hill. Flat marathons, however, we lack.  The Bay State course circumnavigates the Merrimack River (known in its day for the Lowell Mills it housed), so it's as flat as they come. There are a few rollers, and some modest climbs when going over bridges, but really its elevation profile is pretty ideal for New England.

I have not run a fast, flat course of any kind in a long, long time, so I was PSYCHED to see what I could do on this course. I had a big goal, I  had trained well, and I was ready to run hard. When we arrived in Lowell the weather was not bad. It was moist, but not raining; cool but not cold. Most people were dressed in shorts, long-sleeved wicking Ts and jackets.  I felt confident that my apparel choice was both wise and, importantly, marathon chic: I had on shorts and a fitting Craft shirt with a fitting Terry tank top over it, arm warmers and gloves-- all black.  I even had black socks with skulls and hearts on them. I was nothing if not dressed for some bad ass running.

We packed in like sardines at the start. The marathon was1600 strong, and there were no real definitive pace zones. The human pacers were late to arrive, and so people just lined up where they felt made most sense--e.g. the FRONT. I was toasty warm at this point, and also a little claustrophobic. I was surrounded by about 10 men, all towering over me and smashed up next to me like we had known each other intimately for years. Everyone was chipper and friendly, though, and to be honest, I appreciated the warmth of all the bodies around me.

(This pic. was taken at just about the 1/2 mile mark. Obviously it was taken last year, though, when it was SUNNY.)
The race began unceremoniously with a GO! I couldn't see or feel any movement given my location in the armpits of men, but soon enough the crowd inched forward, and within 15 seconds I was at the starting line. It was crowded for awhile, but people were fantastic about moving around to accommodate various paces. For a large marathon start it was extremely civil. It occurred to me that perhaps others didn't experience it this way. Triathlon and its let's pummel each other in the water beginnings have inoculated me against mass running starts, I think.

In no time my Garmin let me know we had hit goal pace. Time to hold steady, and oh, was that hard. I felt like a million bucks. The last few days I had been bouncing off the walls, aching to run and just get it OUT. And now, I could go!! But I couldn't go. Running 7:30s felt like 9:30 pace. I actually wondered whether my Garmin was just not reading the satellites correctly and I was actually just inching along. But I stayed centered. I stayed calm. I was cool as a cucumber. (Someday I am going to write a post on cliches and their origins. Where the fuck did cool as cucumber come from? )

First mile 7:29. Second mile 7:31, Third mile, 7:30. Fourth mile 7:29.

All was well with the world.

At five miles (7:31) I took my first gel. I well add here that no one appeared to be fueling--not just at this early point in the race--but in general, throughout the whole race. Again I wondered if my triathlon racing the last few years has altered my perception of things. In the running world people just don't fuel like they do in triathlon world. When I ask my running friends if they fuel for the marathon they say things like, "Oh yeah! Of course! I take water ever four miles and at least two gels during the race."

That's not fueling, at least not in my book.  I took five gels during the marathon, and I alternated water and Gatorade throughout the whole damn thing, too. Perhaps I over-fuel. I don't know. I love the hit of power that comes five minutes after a caffeinated gel.

Anyway. I digress. I took my first gel. BING! Carb and caffeine hit.
Had to reign myself in again. Within five minutes I had the urge to hammer. But I did not.

7:32, 7:29, 7:30, 7:28.

The funny thing about doing an open marathon after doing a bunch of 1/2 Ironman and a full, is that 3 hours and 20 minutes just does not seem that long--at all. I thought about the race like this:
First 10k. the swim
middle 14 miles-the bike
final 10K. the run

By mile 8 I was (figuratively) on the bike and I felt like no time had passed. At this point we had to cross a bridge, which was a nice diversion.

(This is the bridge.)

The problem was, this was one weird bridge. We ran on the foot bridge part, which was separate from the car portion of the bridge, and this footbridge moved, almost imperceptibly, but VERY disconcertingly, with our footfalls. I was in a pack when we crossed, and the many footfalls created a chaos of subtle movement that made you feel like the earth was moving beneath your feet. My pack had been moving right along at a 7:30 clip, but we slowed down to 8:30 pace for the whole, long bridge. Grrr. Messed up my perfect pace. I was irritated--and when we got off the bridge I couldn't help it. I let it blast to make up time and finished the next mile on ...
7:31. Ahhhh. Back to the plan.

At mile 10 I was approached. His name was Rob. He wanted a friend. I wanted him to get the fuck away from me.

I have a nice problem, however. I couldn't tell him to get away because I felt guilty. He was clearly a friendly, harmless guy.  I decided to take the terse answer approach to get him to leave me alone.

"So, what pace are we running?"
"7:30"
"So, what are you gunning for?"
"3:20"
"Bummer about the run, huh? It's getting colder."
"Yep."
"You know, you're the first girl I've really seen out here. I think you'll place pretty well today if you can hold this pace."
Was this a pick-up line?
"There's a girl just ahead," I pointed.

When I slowed at water stops, he'd slow too. When I picked up the pace, he would too. When I moved to the right, he would too.
At mile 13 I saw Brian, Kristina's husband, and he shouted to me. I slowed, hoping Rob would just go ahead. No luck. Thanks anyway, Brian.

I needed another approach to get rid of him.
I took in another gel.
Gel makes me fart.
Usually I try to be quiet when releasing a little noxious air. I wait for a car to pass and when the noise is just enough, I release.  If no cars make an appearance, I opt to let out little squeaks ever so queitly, but repeatedly, until relief sets in.
Not today.

I just let it rip.
Several times in a row.
The smell was just right; a perfect blend of methane and sulfur that would surely slow him down or knock him out. It was truly vomit-licious--worse than a race-day porta potty filled to the brim.

It did not work. He ignored it. He was going to hang tough because, I now realized,  I was his pacer.  I knew what this was, and I knew his presence was making me itch. I wanted to be alone with my pace and my thoughts and my breathing. I did not want ideal chat, and I did not want to be anyone's rabbit.

It was mile 17, and our relationship, though so new and fresh, needed to end. NOW. I  had but one option left.
Smoke him.
I picked up the pace to 7:00s. He held on. I held 7:00 pace for several minutes, and he fell slightly behind. I let him lag for a bit, and then I took a deep breath and turned on the jets. I picked it up to 6:45 pace, then 6:30, then 6:15 and I blitzed out of there. Within a minute he was dust.

Finally. Relief.

I was concerned he'd try to catch me, so I held 7:20 pace for a bit just to make sure I was in the clear. Of course, if jetting ahead of him like that didn't give him the signal that I wanted him to get the fuck away from me, I didn't know what would.
I repeat, though. The guy was nice. He meant no harm. I simply did not want him near me; it was as simple as that.

Onward! I had to go over that crazy ass bridge again, because this was a two loop course. Luckily I wasn't in a pack this time and the experience wasn't so traumatic. After the bridge I began to notice the weather. My previous obsession with getting rid of the stalker nice man who just wanted a friend to pace him, had blinded me to the increasing cold. The temperature was not in the 40s--this was the mid 30's for sure. Additionally, the rain had picked up and was a steady, relentless, driving P.I.T.A.  My gloves were soaked, my arm warmers needed to be wrung out, and rain was pelting my face and making my eyes sting. Still, I was the QUEEN of pacing.

7:31, 7:32, 7:34, 7:29.

And then I hit mile 20. I was on the run (figuratively) and I felt  great! (if very cold and like a wet dog.)  I was passing people left and right--people, I noted, who had passed me earlier in the race.
There was only one problem. My Garmin said I was at 20.25 miles. The race had me at 20 miles.

I'm sure you've all experienced this annoying dilemma. Your Garmin is GREAT. It helps you keep pace, it lets you know when you heart-rate has sky-rocketed, it tells you exactly where you are and gives you your mile split automatically. The problem is that it tells you not where the race says you are, but where you actually are.
In a race, you weave. In a marathon, that weaving adds up. It's not that the race is measured incorrectly (usually). It's that you add 3-4 tenths (at least) onto your marathon just by moving around on the course. Everyone does it. Everyone actually runs 26.5 or more instead of 26.2. Why is this important? Well, if you use a Garmin then you may very well believe you are running 7:30 pace--and you ARE. But you still won't get the time you're going for unless you make sure the pace you're running will get you to the end of 26.5 miles, not 26.2 miles. At 7:30 pace, I was headed for a high 3:17 IF I was to run 26.2. But when I hit 26.2 miles, I would still have three tenths of a mile to go.
I knew this, and I know it's the same for everyone. But it still pissed me off. I was clipping off those 7:30s, but it didn't matter. I need to hurry up, or I still would not make my 3:20 time goal.

At mile 23, I finally started to feel like crap. I attribute my late arrival at the shit point to Jen's outstanding coaching. Anyway, the rain was vicious, I was chattering, and the course was going ever so slightly uphill. To say I was grumpy is an understatement.
And then my quad seized. This has never happened to me, and at first I had no idea what was happening. I looked down andI could see it pulsing! It was alive! (Of course it was, but you know what I mean.)  It didn't hurt that much though, so maybe it wasn't a cramp. Maybe it was just having a little quad seizure? It did slow me up, though, and alas, that is when my perfecto pacing came to an end. Mile 23- 7:46. Mile 24-7:44.
Damn it.
I got to the One Mile to Go! mark. I would crush this mile. I would crush it crush it crush it.

I didn't crush it. But I did it in 7:31. At least I was back on pace! Too bad the race was over...

3:19:34.
My watch read 7:32 pace for 26.5 miles.

I was happy, but more than that, I was fucking cold. I start shaking violently almost immediately after I finished. I  had plans to watch all of my friends come in if they hadn't finished before me. But that plan was GONE. I went straight to get the bag I had checked. I considered heading to the medical tent, but I changed my mind when I realized it was outside. My shaking was increasing and I was feel sick to my stomach. I knew what this was--and I was not going there again if I could help it. I got my bag, but there was no where to go except a stadium bathroom. (The race ended in an arena.) I went in, put my stuff on the floor of a stall, and tried to figure out how to get my hands to work enough so that I could get myself into dry clothes.

It was comical. My shirt got stuck halfway off my head. I fell forward and banged against the bathroom wall. I was stuck for at least a minute. Finally I got the shirt off, and then my quad seized again and I dropped onto the toilet seat, except that my shorts were half off and I fell IN the toilet. I pushed myself up, and then just sat on the edge of the toilet seat, half naked, shaking and really concerned I would die in this bathroom stall. Since I was sitting there, I decided to pee. Or try to. A little tiny tinkle came out. I pushed myself up using my arms and looked. It was orange. Yuk. Post marathon pee. I needed to get some water in me. That meant I had to re-start my effort to finish this changing fiasco.

I finally got my shorts off and my dry clothing on. I clumsily put my wet shit in the bag, and left the stall. Twenty minutes had passed. Yes, I spent 20 minutes in a stall attempting to change. The scene in the bathroom was now hysterical. Women in soaking running garb and wrapped in mylar sheets shook violently, wet hair clinging to their purple faces. Many hadn't checked bags, and I just felt so bad for them. What would they do? A few of us got the idea to sit undeneath the hand dryers. That was delicious. I just sat there, the hot air streaming down my shirt. We each took turns. The problem was that as time passed, more and more desperate women came in. We, the ones now donning dry clothing, needed to move on.

I went outside and found a few friends. Dan, who had run the half marathon, brought us some warm soup and let use wrap ourselves in blankets he had brought with him. Then we headed to the car. An unceremonious departure, I will say that!

Later that afternoon Dan and Melissa had the GNRCers over for a post-race fiesta. We had cause to celebrate! We had numerous Boston Qualifiers, successful first time marathons, and quite a few fantastic half marathon performances. Not only that, but our lowely little Open Women's Team placed 8th out of 16th in the club division, just ahead of the B.A.A (Boston Athletic Association) and just behind Whirlaway Racing Team, two of the most competitive running teams in New England. We rock.

Final result for moi:
3:19:34, 7:37 pace
5/188 in my Age Group (30-39)
19/629 for women, overall
247/1561 Overall

And now it's time to rest.

(Except that I really, really feel like going for quick little run right now....) ;)

Double X

I had a great race yesterday.
It was cold.
And rainy.
And it snowed enough later in the day for my daughter to make a 3 ft. tall snowman. (no lie.)
But I PR'd by 12 minutes, so it's all good in the end!
3:19:34, 7:37 pace, average.

My goal was to PR, but it was also to break 3:20.
Woot! Yahoo! Praise God and Jen Harrison! I'm excited about ending the season on such a good note.

Race Report to follow.

In other very exciting Mary news, I had a small piece published in My Comeback, a blog that is a part of Double X, a Web magazine that Slate launched in spring 2009.  If you click here and scroll down, you can click on my article. There is one typo (boo). Where it reads blow off temporarily postpone, there should be a line through blow off. The humor is lost without the cross out, but oh well. Please check it out!