The Rachel Ride

I couldn't help but smile when my friend posted this e-mail on the Tri Club messageboard this evening:

"Sorry, couldn't resist. Here is a jersey for your next ride with Rachel Richards:"

Sleeping Indians and Pink Flamingos

As I groggily write this with ice taped to my knee and Advil coursing through my bloodstream, I cannot but think how happy I am, despite my fatigued haze. I am exhausted but blissful after a hard and successful training weekend. I'm almost relieved to have a full work day because sitting at a desk seems relaxing. I also slept like a baby last night. Who needs Ambien when you do endurance sports?


After a full week of workouts, I took an unintended rest day on Friday. I could feel the fatigue accumulating in my muscles. A glance at the training plan and past experience advised me to take an off day to prepare for the heavy weekend. Begrudgingly, I obliged. I would miss a "perfect week" by a swim, bike and weights but in the big scheme of things, that was nothing compared to the importance of hitting my key workouts for the week and making them quality ones at that. It's taken me only 6 years to know when to back off (and I'm still horrible at it).

Sleeping Indian Ride:
I met a group of friends for a 65-mile ride Saturday morning. The sky was a blindingly blue and the weather was a crisp 62. You can thank me for arranging perfect weather for my ride. I do 'em right, down to the route slips on thick resume paper. Except for completely not recognizing Brian Long (former TCSD president) in his bike clothes. I pulled a, "Hi, I'm Rachel. What's your name?" DOH! Too late, I blushed violently, unable to save myself with a suave, "Ha! Pulling your leg!"

The 10 of us headed out for a relaxed, "flat" ride with some rollers. "Oh, it's only 2500 feet of climbing. Won't be that bad", I had promised. Luckily, most of my friends had ridden with me before and knew not to trust me. 4500 feet later; however, several were taking my name in vain.

I drank in the obscenely gorgeous views of rolling hills, carpeted in emerald green velvet. I've never seen San Diego so green. After last week's seldomly seen torrential downpours, everything was blooming. It felt like spring. The birds certainly seemed to think so as they sung and danced flirtingly to each other. We rode up Lilac, past avocado farms and lemon groves, making our way from Valley Center to Bonsall. Ironically, Lilac smelled like citrus, and Sleeping Indian Rd smelled like lilacs. Lilacs in January? Yes, the air was thick with the heavy scent of lilac. Furry horses dozed in the sunshine as we rode by small, private farms. At least they still sported their winter coats. Phew! A rooster crowed. A dozing dog basked in the sun on his side. I did a double-take to make sure he was still breathing. He was so content, I wasn't sure if he had keeled over or not. As I toiled up Olive Hill Rd (which smelled like eucalyptus and oaks, by the way--what is this: Bizzaro World?), I oohed and aahed over an adoreable mamma and llama and her baby llama, nursing contentedly in the paddock. They were so white and fluffy. I wanted to hug them and love them and squeeze them and call them George. Down the road, I heard a loud screech, and I jumped out of my saddle. In a tucked away farm to my right, dotted with animal topiary and bronze and stone animal statues, including a life-size elephant trumpeting, paraded a proud peacock, displaying his brilliant irridescent green and purple feathers.

We reached my favorite part of the ride, Sleeping Indian, a roller coaster of a road with 15% inclines and equally steep descents. I climbed out of the saddle to avoid toppling over, then crouched into my aero bars at the crest to take advantage of the downhills, cutting the next uphill in half. Ah, Sleeping Indian=steep rollers=fun. Plus, how cool is it to ride on a road with a supernatural name like "Sleeping Indian"? Although I was a little disappointed I didn't actually spot a sleeping indian, or even a dozing one. Maybe next time. I reached the final major descent on Sleeping Indian, and hunkered down into a ball, letting Torch fly. The computer read 44 mph. Not bad, not bad. Last time, Torch reached 48 mph, although a swift sidwind had picked us up and skitted us across the road into the other lane (luckily, no cars were around), making my heart leap into my throat.

As we headed towards our final regroup, a strong headwind hit us. Two Swami's cyclists blew by us. Someone in the group suggested jumping on their wheel. Okay. We sprinted for about a mile before catching them, and even after managing to suck their wheel for another mile, I was totally redlining. Afterall 24 mph is 24 mph; I don't care whose wheel you're sucking. Still, it was fun, even after a member of our group accused me of being a "wheel slut". Actually, I thought that was pretty funny.

We regrouped at the park on the San Luis River Rey bike path. I was giddy with endorphins and slightly hysterical. For some reason, we started talking about the colors of the rainbow. Someone mentioned ROYGBV. I heard "ROYG BV". Which quickly, in my warped state of mind got rearranged to "R OYG BV". Switch around a few letters in "ROYG" and what do you get? A doubled-over Rachel laughing uncontrollably until her stomach hurt.

The tired troops fell back into formation to brave the strong easterly headwinds as we headed back to the Pacific on the bike path. We strategically formed a paceline, taking turns pulling. With only 10 miles to go and feeling fresh and strong after a recovery day (and maybe still stinging a little after the wheel slut comment), I decided to show off. I jumped on the front and began pulling, something I am usually way too meek to do (or just simply not strong enough). I glanced at my computer, striving to maintain an even pace. I checked over my shoulder periodically to monitor the group behind me. Was I pushing hard enough? Too hard? It was an amazing feeling to be able to feel strong enough to lead for a few miles. Then, seemingly as suddenly as the ride had started, it was over, and we were back at the start with me thinking to myself, "That's it?" With my key workout of the week still looming ahead, a 16-mile trail run the following day on the docket, it felt good to end my long ride with a "Bring it!" attitude.

How NOT to do a 16-mile Trail Run:
1. Tweak your IT band early in the week.
2. Go out and party the night before until 3 am.
3. Drink 3 glasses of wine. Chase with 2 glasses of champagne. Proceed to get rip-roaring drunk.
4. Wake up with a flaming hang-over.
(Who IS this person? I NEVER do that!)

After several naps, gingerale, pretzels, and Advil, I succeeded in pulling on my running shoes and fuel belt and headed out the door. It was a little after noon. I grabbed Travis and hit the trails. The ground was squishy and wet, still saturated from all the rain. Travis and I were quickly covered from head to toe in mud. Ah, a muddy buddy run! The first 4 miles felt pretty good, and I settled into a relaxed pace, only thwarted by a couple wrong turns and some extra double-backs, my poor sense of direction and cloudy head being the only remarkable remnant from the prior night's raging. Travis, happy to be out and running this way and that, didn't seem to mind.

As we headed back to complete the first loop (I only run 6 miles with Travis), I did a body check. "Hey, my knee feels great!" Cue knee. Whine! Crunch! Squeal! OUCH! My right knee promptly began burning with searing pain. I could feel a twinge from the knee to my hip. G*d*mit all. Doubts flickered in the back of my head. How was I going to run another 12 miles? For a few seconds, the pain escalated to a 10 (on a 1-10 scale). I hobbled and limped and hopped, coaxing the knee to cooperate. The pain slowly ebbed away, and I was able to jump start the leg back to running again. I toiled up another hill and forgot about the knee. The pain dissipated and I was able to settle back into a pace again. Hmmm. Weird. The ebb and flow of pain on a long run.

Half a mile from the house, where the trail ends and the road begins, Travis and I encountered a pond, flooding the trail. I vaguely remembered that the pond would be flooded here but I had completely underestimated how much. I figured I could dance on some rocks over a few inches of water. Ha! Travis slowly tiptoed into the pond covering the trail. Hmmm. A few feet of water to traverse or 2 more miles to double back and circumvent the obstacle? I tugged off my shoes and socks. The decision was a no brainer. As I plunged into the water, I realized I was getting more than I bargained for. Oh, well. No turning back now, I figured. Afterall, I was already wet. Travis looked at me, apprehensively. I beckoned to him. Cooperatively, he submerged himself deeper into the murky watery depths, following my suit. The water was now up to my hips. Instead of having to traverse a few feet across, it became 36 feet. And instead of a few inches deep, it was about 4 feet of water to wade through. Travis would have to swim, something he had not willingly done before. I called to him, and he got this resolved look in his eyes and paddled after me. I showered him with praise, watching him carefully. He snorted to keep water out of his nose and kept swimming. When he reached the other side, I gave him lots of pets and kisses. He was ecstatic. He leaped out of the pond, shook, and took off running wide circles and spirals around me. I pulled my shoes and socks back on, and we kept on running.

I dropped Travis back at the house, and turned around for 10 more miles. I headed into Del Mar Mesa, where the trails are guaranteed to be exceedingly steep and slippery with millions of rocks. The recent erosion from all the rains didn't help. I danced sideways and up and around rock after rock, trench after trench. I toiled up hill after hill, running when I could, and walking when I must. Surprisingly, the knee didn't complain at all on the uphills. But on the downhills, the knee began to complain at an exponentially higher rate. I began to crave uphills and dread descents, a complete opposite from what is normal for me.

After another creek crossing and scrambling up and down some "hands-and-knees" hills, I reached the road, lined with horse farms. I watched a rider training her horse in a sand arena. A furry pony grazed in the paddock nearby. The mailbox was a great white shark with a gaping mouth full of teeth. A white goat with a long beard gave me a hard look from his pen under a shady oak. But what got me most were the pink flamingos. They were everywhere. A massive collection of pink flamingos as far as the eye could see. Plastic ones, metal ones, ones with springs for legs, one with a fan in its belly, another with a clock, paintings of pink flamingos, little ones, big ones, grazing ones, squacking ones; I've never seen so many pink flamingos in my life. I had to convince myself to keep running. I wanted nothing more than to stop and stare. But I knew if I stopped, it would be hard to get the knee going again.

As I made my way back to the house, the final 2 miles, the knee flared up like never before. I had to stop, doubled over in pain, wincing, and pray for the pain to subside enough for me to make it back. Even walking was excruciating. I smacked it, shook out the leg, and hobbled forward. Limping, galloping, slowly, I was able to jump start the leg back into a gentle jog each time. Somehow, I made it home and into the ice bath. I'm getting a massage today. I going to have to be diligent about stretching and the foam roller. I have to get this IT band thing under control.

Another week's workouts completed. In the bag. If I can just get the IT band in check, I'm on my way.

Carlsbad Half Marathon Race Report, 2010

http://www.carlsbadmarathon.com/site5.aspx

It was my first race of 2010. Even though it was really just a training run, one of many to help prepare me for Ironman Utah, I was excited. Yes, I'd run the Carlsbad Half Marathon in 2007 and in 2009. But it's such a fantastic race. Gorgeous ocean views, tons of friendly racers and spectators, lots of friends participating, relatively flat course, and just up the street from home! Who can resist? It's early in the season too so it's a great way to test my fitness and see where I'm at.

I was probably one of the only competitors whose pre-race meal the day before consisted of a McDonald's Happy Meal and a 6-Pc Chicken McNuggets (with BBQ sauce). And my pre-race ritual? A 2-hour nap at 4:30 pm to make sure I sabotaged any plans on going to bed early. Despite needlessly challenging myself, I woke up at 5:00 am on Sunday morning ready to run. As predicted, the rains had stopped, and the sun was bright and blinding against a naked blue sky but the temps were energetically chilly (low 50s). Perfect racing weather. However, I absolutely hate the half-hour pre-race full-body shiver that is required to enjoy the benefits of perfect race weather. Most of you who live in other parts of the country with normal seasons probably have a much thicker skin than I. But I have been removed from the wild and placed in captivity (San Diego), and I have lost the ability to survive anywhere else. When the temp drops below 60, I whimper.

After covertly snuggling up next to strangers in the chute to steal some of their body heat (Tip: if you snuggle up next to other men, they don't seem to mind as much as women; plus, they're warmer; Warning--May only work for women), the gun went off. Finally! I was so excited to be able to run, if only to fulfill the primal urge to generate heat. Only 1/4 mile down the road, the first hill appeared, and I attacked, eager to get warm. I had to be careful not to trip over the heels of the surrounding runners. The streets were packed with thousands of us; it was hard not to feel claustrophobic.

The first 2 miles flew by unnoticed. I was concentrating on trying to find some open space. Finally, at the coast, I hugged the curb and weaved in and out, eventually finding open road. I drank in the obscenely gorgeous views of the glittering Pacific as I flew down Hwy 101. My pace was absurd, especially considering my haphazard training as of late. I couldn't possibly keep this up! Or could I? I vaguely remember thinking that the last time I PR'ed (San Dieguito Half Marathon, 2008). Deciding I had nothing to lose, I went with it.

I skipped the aid stations, taking advantage of my FuelBelt and saving myself precious seconds. In addition, because the weather was cool, I didn't need to hydrate much. My feet flew up the mild hills leading up to the turn-around. I remember the hills being killer a few years ago. I remember having a hard time biking up the same hills on my bike ride just the day before. Now, running, I just flew up them. All the trail running was coming in handy. My technique had changed. My body remained upright and I took shorter strides, keeping my feet under me. I used more of my core and upper body, allowing my arms to help "pull" me along.

All of a sudden, the turn-around appeared. Halfway done already? It's amazing how fast 13.1 miles flies by in a race; in training, those miles crawl by at a snail's pace. I reached my favorite downhill on the course, and allowed my feet to dance down the hill. I flew by some vaguely familiar faces. "Go, Rachel!" I heard behind me. I couldn't turn to look for fear of tripping but it was wonderful to know my friends were all around me. Afterwards, my friend, Darrell, came up to claim the floating voice. I had joked I couldn't turn to acknowledge him because I didn't want to fall. The last time he called my name out on a run, I had tripped over a root in the pavement and fallen flat on my face.

Only a mile further, I looked to the right at another familiar face. We were both in the zone.
"Allen?" I said.
"Hey, Rachel!" he replied. It was so great to be able to chat with a friend. The miles continued to fly by. I did get some annoyed looks from the other runners. Mostly because I was chattering away a mile a minute (very out of character for me) as they huffed and puffed. Allen finally let me go ahead, and I quickly fell back into a zone.

I glanced at my watch at mile 12. I realized if I pushed it, I had a shot at PR'ing. I hadn't started planning on PRing. My first goal had been to have an enjoyable run and push the pace a little. My 2nd goal had been to break 2 hours. My secret 3rd goal was, of course, to PR but only if I felt good. I realized I had a shot. But I would have to push it. I gave it everything I got. My breathing intensified. I felt my cheeks become hot and red. Sweat dripped down my forehead and fogged up my sunglasses. I heard my name cheered by friends from the sidelines. I shot them a huge smile; their cheers fueled me on at an impossibly fast pace. I focused on taking short, quick strides and keeping my feet under me.

At mile 12.5, I passed one of my arch rivals. I cheered her on as I passed; she's a super fast runner. However, internally, I was gloating. Of course, the final 0.5 mile was all downhill, playing to my advantage. I absolutely love downhills, and this was a perfect opportunity for me to showcase my skills. It felt like my feet didn't even touch the earth. I turned down the chute and put some extra mustard on my pace. I flew across the finish line victoriously. I had a fabulous run and had succeeded in PR'ing by 3 minutes. 1:48. Whoo hoo!

Running in the Rain

After thumbing my nose at the rain gods for the last 4 years, San Diego was due for a big storm. It rained, thundered, and even hailed all week long with gusty winds and green skies that reminisced of my days in the midwest when I would duck and cover upon hearing the city sirens blare. The ocean had 20-foot swells and frothy chop, keeping even the bravest and most experienced of surfers away.

My swimming was restricted to the pool (when there was no lightning) and my bike to the trainer. However, my running was only restricted to the roads (as opposed to trails). I love running in the rain. If I were a racehorse, I would be a "mudder." Something about the chill and the wind and the electricity in the air makes me pick my feet up higher and toe off a little faster. When I saw that a big thunderstorm was headed for my area last night at 7:15, I grabbed Travis, my headlamp, and my running shoes, and ran out the door. It was 6:50.

Travis felt the electricity in the air too. We both pranced down the road. At times, I allowed him to pull me like a sled dog, zipping along at 6:50 min/miles. Hmmm. Could I use Travis in a race? Of course, while I was frothing at the bit and kicking up my heels, one glance down at my poor dog told a different story as he darted along with wide eyes, flat ears, and a tucked tail. At mile 2, the lightning and thunder began. He looked at me questioningly. "C'mon, Boy! We better start heading home!" The skies opened up and fat drops began to fall on us. Travis just about leaped into my arms, nearly knocking me off the sidewalk. "HEY! Cut that out!" I yelled at him. Now the poor guy didn't know who to be more afraid of: me or the storm. I agree; that is a tough one. I convinced him the best thing to was to sprint for home. Sprint we did. I sprinted in excitement, while Travis sprinted in fear. Upon reaching the front door, I praised him lavishly. I was victorious. He got lots of treats and a good toweling off.

A few years ago, I remember 2 very memorable and epic runs in pouring rain and hurricane-like gales. One was a 16-mile run on the coast, right after my divorce. The wind was so strong, I was almost blown into oncoming traffic on Hwy 101. I had a lot to sort out in my head. I ran and ran and ran, oblivious to the cold, piercing wind or drenching rain. I felt completely purged and at peace when I returned to the Java Depot in Solana Beach, where my friends awaited afterwards.

The second run in pouring rain was a 14-miler along the 56-bike path. I went with a soon-to-be romantic partner, though I will keep names and dates anonymous. Even though the skies were cloudy and the forecast called for rain, we thought it would just be a light drizzle, if anything. Afterall, this is San Diego. It started out a light drizzle and became progressively more and more a torrential downpour. At the turn-around, my white shirt was completely soaked, and my shoes were making a squelch, squelch sound with each footstep. I wasn't cold or uncomfortable, though I should have been. My legs were delightfully numb and I was delightfully giddy. Maybe it was the excitment of the storm or the electricity in the air but it was a very erotic run. It's bad enough when you run next to someone you find yourself attracted to. I think it's all the heavy breathing, panting, and gasping for air, not to mention the elevated heart rates. Afterwards, you turn to look at each other with flushed cheeks, exhausted and ready for a nap. It's waaay too similar to another more intimate physical activity.

So, yes, running in the rain is where it's at. I'm kinda hoping for rain this Sunday at the Carlsbad Half Marathon.

Stagecoach Century and Del Mar Mesa Trail Run

Stagecoach Century (1/16/10)

• Perfect weather (low 70s) with mild wind (although the head wind was on the way back)
• Great group of friends to ride with
• 3 workouts in 1 ride--social hour, solo riding (great IM training), and paceline practice
• First 50 miles false flat but very rewarding return
• Significant climbs always appear worse than they reallly are
• Love the impromptu pacelines with strangers; great way to make new friends
• Gorgeous desert views, splattered with interesting cacti formations (that turn into creepy people after mile 90 of the bike)
• Eerie historical landmarks ("The Well of Eight Echos")
• Loved the nickname one of my friends dubbed me: "The Phoenix" after observing on several rides that I die about mile 60, only to blow by after mile 80. Very cool.
• Great base mile building for Ironman Utah!

--gorgeous desert view from the top of first big climb and old Stagecoach road

--huffing and puffing up first big hill

http://www.shadowtour.com/Century_Rides/2010_Stagecoach.htm

14-Mile Del Mar Mesa Trail Run
I didn't plan on going 14. It just happened. I ran the first 6 with Travis. Well, Travis probably ran 7 or 8 with all his galavanting around and chasing helpless, innocent little animals, with me widly waving my arms to warn them whenever I saw them first. I dropped him back at the house where he immediately downed 2 large bowlfuls of water and then promptly vomited. Ugh.

I trotted back out to finish my run solo. I only planned on doing 4 more. Afterall, I had biked 100 miles the day before. But my legs felt soooo good. And it was overcast and drizzling. I LOVE running in the rain. Plus, I'm doing a 50K in March and have to get my miles up. I decided to try for 14.

I headed into Del Mar Mesa. Which was more like running straight up and then straight down and then straight up again, all the while navigating around and over millions and millions of rocks. Rocks everywhere. At mile 10, I finally relaxed and settled into a nice rhythm. If the temperature hadn't been dropping (and if the hills hadn't killed my glutes and quads), I think I could have kept going forever. I love how the mind softens, the eyes automatically scan the ground ahead, sending signals to the brain for processing. Where to put my feet, where the rocks and trenches are, how steep the grade is; all this information coming in constantly, milliseconds at a time, flooding the mind on a subconscious level. Meanwhile, the smell of sage and jasmine float through the air, and I sneak peaks at the gorgeous views of the valleys and ponds. But often, I don't need to look at anything or think about anything or do anything. My feet automatically carry me along, and I'm floating, somewhere above it all, in a meditative state. Time stops, and all that matters is this moment, now, from footstep to footstep. This is why I run. It's one of the few times I can effortlessly relax.

Random Objects I Saw on My Run:
Shopping cart
Overturned, red, abandoned Honda
rabbits (3)
ground squirrel
red tailed hawk
gray shirt with Jesus on it, stiff as cardboard
other runners with 3 dogs that rejected Travis when he tried to join in on their reindeer games
hoofprints from horses
pawprints from other dogs? coyotes?
lawn jockey (on the trail)
Giant fiscus planted in the ground and thriving
And my favorite: a shrine of Mary statues with a myriad of little animal statues (dogs, deer, etc) surrounding Mary as if they were listening to her give a speech. A bench was beside the shrine so you could sit and enjoy. It was creepy. In the middle of nowhere!

Lunchtime Ride

I slam a small smoothie, and instead of lunch, sneak out for a quick 20-miles. Afterall, I'm sick of hour after hour on the trainer in the long winter months when the nights are long and the days are short (even in San Diego). After dropping the truck off for a tune-up (hey, multitasking--even better), I head down Genessee, a busy, dirty street. I focus on holding a straight line as semi after semi nearly clips me from the slow lane, shooting up a cloud of smoke in its wake.

By the Torrey Pines golf course, I tense up and ride extra defensively, avoiding swerving Jaguars and Cadillacs. Slouched in the front seat, I can barely spot a slumped gray head. I wave and yell but my shouts and gesticulations fall on deaf ears and near-sighted eyes, clouded by thick glasses with old prescriptions. I zip by some guy on his bike, feeling my ego swell, until I hear the creaking of his cleats and spot his unkempt, hairy legs. My ego deflates. I stop by my favorite bike shop in Solana Beach (B&L), and they assure me Torch is good to go for the Stagecoach Century on Saturday. I leave, having exchanged only pleasantries and no currency. Am I dreaming? Has hell frozen over?

As I return south, a cacophony of pungent stenches of cigarettes, hamburgers drenched in catsup, enchiladas, pizza, and sushi intertwine. Some of these aromas alone make my mouth water (afterall, I only had a small smoothie for lunch) but as the smells swirl and percolate together, each contaminates the next, until it resembles fresh garbage, the odoriferous equivalent of mixing bright colors until you have a muddy gray, overpowering my delicate sense of smell. An older Italian guy screams, "Left," and zips by going uphill. I let him go wondering, Where's the fire?" After passing me with overzealous exuberance, he slows. Now I'm drafting. After being overtaken, I'm very careful before passing again. I figure, if he passed me, he must be an overall stronger rider. And since most people are (especially men with their bigger muscles, hearts, lung capacity and testosterone--unfair advantage; bah!), I just assume they should be in front. We ride through Del Mar together, my strategy being that 2 cyclists are less invisible than 1.

Now, I'm dodging mini-van after mini-van with soccer moms hurrying in and out of parking spaces, weaving this way and that with their perfectly coiffed hairstyles, Gucci sunglasses, and expressionless faces, skin pulled tight from their last appointment with Dr. Botox as they rush off to pick up little Timmy or Samantha. The road clears, and I sprint past Mr. Italian guy, trying to make the yellow light...and miss. If only I had made my move sooner! He pulls up next to me at the light and gives Torch a long, dark look. I don't nod, I don't say hi, I don't even look at him. Very unlike me but he seems cold and hard. I don't even feel guilty about not trying to be nice. The light turns green, and I draft behind him. Surely he's going to take off on the downhill? No. I can't take it anymore. I make my move and blow by him for the final time. Phew!

Now I'm by the beach at the bottom of Torrey Pines avoiding the tourists and surfers, zipping in and out of parking spaces. Each parked car is a potential weapon, cocked and ready to spring its loaded door open into my path. I reach the bottom of the inside of Torrey Pines hill. It feels so good to get up out of the saddle and climb! My lungs are heaving so hard, I taste blood in my throat by the time I reach the creast. I had figured the roads would be mostly empty during mid-day hours but you hadn't counted on who would dominate the roads: the geriatrics, delivery truck drivers, and soccer moms. Back at work, I breathe a sigh of relief. Another bike workout done, and I survived.

Key to Happiness?

Could it really be that simple? Happiness? A matter of simply waking up early? I think I'm onto something here! I've been a night owl all my life but, alas, I live in a world of run by early birds. Pretending to be a triathlete in my free time doesn't help. In my off season, I resorted to my old night owl ways. It's been a constant battle to wake up early ever since.

Shown below is the summar of my workout volumes for the past 9 weeks. I'm embarrassed to even put it up there. The ups and downs of my workouts are vagrant reflections of my fickle moods. Yes, these charts are basically a mood-a-meter (week 6 was when Taz died).

I've slowly but surely been climbing my way back onto the wagon. Prep phase is over, and I'm now into Base phase (take a look at the big jump in training last week!). I have to be careful not to bite off more than I can chew. My body has a dangerous muscle memory. Yes, I can bike 100 miles on Saturday and run 16 on Sunday without any prior training but I will pay the consequences for the next 3 days afterwards (read: too sore and tired to do anything but sleep). I like to think I'm SuperWoman but someone wants to prove to me that I'm not.

For now, I will try to practice some moderation. But specifically, I only have 1 New Year's Resolution: WAKE UP EARLY (I'll start with 6:30 am. Seems an achievable goal). If I can wake up early, I can fit in my workouts and have more control over my day. Accomplishing my to-do list = happiness.

Hurt

I hurt myself today
to see if I still feel
I foucs on the pain
the only thing that's real
the needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everything
what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
you could have it all
my empire of dirt

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns
upon my liar's chair
full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
beneath the stains of time
the feelings disappear
you are someone else
I am still right here

what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
and you could have it all
my empire of dirt

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I could start again
a million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

--Johnny Cash

Reflections on an Advenurous Off-Season

My off-season began in early September this year. I've never had an off-season last 3 months before. There were a lot of ups-and-downs but during this time, I had opportunities to try new things I never before had time. Here are some thoughts from these latest adventures:

Xtreme Trail Running with Travis:
Travis is my new favorite running buddy. He's the perfect size and conformation for running so I immediately put him on a training plan to build him up to 6-8 miles (we'll work on speed after we build distance first). Hmmm. Running coaches for dogs....new future career?

When I run on the trails behind my house (which go on for eons), we go exploring. I never knew there were so many trails where I live! I feel like a little kid again. Growing up in NorCal, I was always hiking in the redwoods, climbing tall trees, wading through full creeks covered in thorny vines, and getting poison oak. Now, Travis shows me new routes to forge, unexplored trails up craggy mountains, the best places to cross creeks, and the holes in fences just big enough to slip through or crawl under.

Our last adventure, we ended up in someone's private property, completely fenced in. I was able to pull up the fence for him to wriggle under but couldn't find a human-size hole to follow suit. I cavalierly decided, "Well if not under, then over," and began to scale the cyclone fence in my clumsy running shoes. Not an entirely horrible decision until my shorts got caught on the top and I proceeded to jump down anyway, shredding as I jumped down. At least it was just shorts and not flesh. My legs are perpetually covered in various scratches from bushwhacking nowadays. I'm proud of my scratches.


Winter Swimming in La Jolla Cove:
I hadn't been in a body of water for at least 2 weeks. That body of water had been a pool. Last time I had been in an open body of water had been...August? And that had been a lake. In other words, it had been awhile since I paid a visit to the Pac Ocean gods. Instead of 70-degree waters I had last enjoyed in August, the temp was now a balmy 57. This is my cutoff for swimming temperature. Below 57, I just don't go in; it's too miserable. I was on the fence. But it had been too long. I complained bitterly to my swimming buddies about how cold and awful this whole experience was going to be, all the while slipping into my wetsuit, booties, latex and neoprene caps until everyone looked at me with raised eyebrows, shaming me to silence.

We marched down the steps onto the sand of the Cove. I took 3 sharp, deep breaths, swung my arms back and forth twice, took one step forward, and dove into the water. I was never cold. The water was freezing. So cold, it burned my face. But I was not cold. I forced myself to keep my head down, focusing on swimming (and swimming quickly), knowing, promosing myself it would all go numb in 30 seconds.

Thirty seconds later, my face didn't hurt anymore. I felt warm, calm, and relaxed. The water was glassy, clear, and calm. It tasted fresher, cleaner, somehow, with less salinity, having had a few months to flush the bird shit, kid piss and sunscreen away. The water and beach was empty, in sharp contrast to the congested, flooded days between Memorial Day and Labor Day. The ocean was quiet, peaceful, and serene. Bright fluorescent orange Garibaldi flitted in and out between the green seaweed below, amongst a myriad of other fish of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Towards the horizon, the cresting fins of dolphins rhythmically broke the surface of the ocean as a pod fished for breakfast. Why on earth had I waited so long to swim in the ocean?
Postscript: The next day, I climbed Mt. Baldy. From ocean to mountains in 24 hours. 0 feet to 10,083 feet. Incredible.


Quixotic Mt. Laguna Hike:
Then, there was the incredible 7-mile hike around Mt. Laguna. I've never taken the time to hike as opposed to run before. Going more slowly, I learned and noticed things I've never appreciated before, thanks to my extremely knowledgeable trail guide. I saw shards of pottery and grinding holes used by Native Americans, acorn woodpeckers and their "silos" in trees, decorated with millions of tiny holes, each filled with a single acorn. Very shy ducks. Caves hidden beneath giant boulders. I stopped to listen, something I rarely do. Birds singing. In the distance, coyotes yipping. I heard the wind weaving through the tops of the pines. I thought the ocean was just on the other sound of the mountain, or perhaps an enormous river. The pines were speaking. I had to pinch myself; the ocean was at least 40 miles away.

Random rock arrangements formed faces and animals, reminding me of how I used to lay on my back and stare at the shapes and patterns of clouds meandering overhead, relaxed in timeless reverie. I heard a rhythmic pulse overhead like a softly purring engine and gazed up at the sky, surprised when instead of a plane, a pair of birds flew overhead, so far away, all I could see was their black silhouettes against the blue backdrop of the sky. The oscillating beating of their wings synchronized with the melodic whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. This was the most incredible noise I've ever heard. If only I'd stop to listen more.

I heard other hikers and mountain bikers. I've never realized how loud people are before (and I'm loud, even for a human). Whenever I stopped my incessant chattering, (which required an inordinate amount of personal effort, by the way) an eerie silence fell over the forest, and the birds stopped chirping. Why was it so quiet? Was there a nearby mountain lion or coyote? Oh, wait. It was me. I wonder if the forest creatures are more comfortable with careless human chatter than a silent, attentive human.

I just want to give special thanks to my trail guide for showing me how amazing things can be when I slow down, quietly observe, and just listen sometimes.

http://www.lmva.org/trails/map.htm
http://www.mountainbikebill.com/images/Trails/LagunaMts/LagunaMountainRecArea-2008.JPG

Epic 70 Mile Solo Ride

I've been unintentionally doing altitude training for the first time in my life. After climbing Mt. Baldy and spending a few days hiking on Mt. Laguna, I came back down to sea level to return to training. Apparently, this is exactly how you're supposed to altitude train (or so I've heard). That you go up high and take it easy (e.g. sleep in an altitude tent like M.J.) and then come back down to sea level to train, the idea being that it takes too much aerobic effort to train at altitude so you lose muscular endurance. I'll have to do a little research and post a more science-y blurb about this phenomenon later. I used to be a little bah-humbug about the whole altitude thing. But after only a smattering of accidental experimentation, I've been converted. It's the only way I can explain being able to ride 70 miles of hills yesterday, completely untrained, without it being a big deal. Effortless and dramatic improvements in aerobic capacity? I'll take it!

70 mile bike (with hills) yesterday--I rode 70 miles with a buddy about 10 days ago on the coast (mostly flat), and it almost killed me. Of course, I'm totally out of shape and really had no business riding 70 miles considering I haven't been riding at all. Anyway, at the end, we went up the inside of Torrey Pines, which is hard but I've never felt searing fire in my quads quite like that before. Almost total muscular exhaustion. To the point where I couldn't stand up out of the saddle. Quaking. It humbled me. Put the fear of the Triathlon Gods in me.

Not sure quite what came over me yesterday. I had just come back down from the mountains and felt sluggish and lethargic. After taking Travis for his mile jog and then to dog beach for some water sprint repeats for an hour of fetch, he was thoroughly pooped. (He's been intently focused on staring out the window to the backyard lately after spotting a coyote slinking along the top of the fence). I was just getting started. It was high noon when I hopped onto Torch and took off, not really knowing where I was going to go. I knew I wanted to go long and include hills. I normally never ride solo. I just don't get motivated. This day was different. I was free to ride at my own pace, go where I wanted to go, and take as much or as little time as I needed. Freedom, complete and total freedom. It was completely relaxing. Very therapeutic.

--going up Del Dios Hwy

I took off up Camino Del Sur, linked back into Rancho Santa Fe via San Dieguito Rd (for all you San Diegan natives), and then connected onto Del Dios Hwy (via El Apajo). I drooled over the well-groomed horses in Rancho Santa Fe, and was actually moved to tears as I watched a girl jumping her horse in a nearby outdoor, grassy arena as I pedaled by, wishing that Torch's wheel were hooves instead. I miss horses. The only problem with the horses in Rancho Santa Fe is the absence of smell. They pick up the manure as it falls from the horse. Also explains the lack of flies. But it's a bit unrealistic. Like something's missing. Personally, horse shit is one of my all-time favorite smells. Not to be disappointed, I was bestowed with amorous amounts of my favorite aroma as I rode by Clews Horse Ranch at the end of my ride along the 56 bike path. Other smells I encountered on my 70-mile ride were: eucalyptus and sage (mmmmm), skunk, rotting roadkill, cow shit, chicken shit, truck exhaust, fish tacos (Leucadia), and pot (Encinitas). With the exception of the first, I could have done without my experience being enriched by addition of those other powerful odors.

As I reached Escondido, pick-up trucks honked and swerved towards me, despite the fact I was riding well in the center of the bike lane. Ah, good 'ole Escondido. The water level at Lake Hodges was alarmingly low. A lot more traffic than I was accustomed to as well. Oh, right. I'm out on the roads in the afternoon (normally I ride early morning). And it's a holiday weekend. Shoot. The skies were a brilliant blue and the temps were in the low 70s. I was drinking a ton of fluid. I downed 3.5 large water bottles. I ate a lot too (total calories 750). I casually rode up Del Dios, drinking in the obscenely ostentatious views of the rocky mountains in the backdrop. The crest came so suddenly. Hadn't Del Dios been challenging in a past life? Yes, I had been cruising but, still, even cruise used to be hard up that hill.

I turned into Harmony Grove/Elfin Forest. Snaking my way back west towards the coast, I enjoyed soaring up and down the countless hills like a roller coaster. Elfin Forest is insanely green. The narrow streets are lined with dense eucalyptus trees, and the rolling hills are shrouded in a fluorescent green carpet of velvet grass. Small farms are nestled in the hills (hence the chicken shit and cow shit aromas). A wooden sign read "Goats for Sale" in black paint. I paused to momentarily consider the addition of a pet goat to my animal family. A creek bubbles serenely at the bottom of various giant green hills. It's a different universe, tucked into San Diego's north county.

--Elfin Forest

As I reached eastern Carlsbad, the roads widened, traffic thickened, and strip malls became the new backdrop. An area best biked through as quickly as possible to avoid an accidental collision by an unobservant motorist. I reached the coast and pedaled north. Could I make it home before sunset and still get in 70 miles? I was certainly going to try. Ah, racing the sunset; my favorite workout. From Carmel Valley, Rancho Santa Fe, to Escondido, and now the ocean. I love how far you can go on a bike in just a few hours. Now, I was drinking in ocean views that people fly from all over the world to see. I am definitely spoiled. I passed by another cyclist as I headed north and we chatted for a bit. I love how easy it is to spontaneously meet other people on a bike. The miles always fly by in good company. All too soon it was time for me to turn around and try to make it home before dark. Could I do it? Was I up to the challenge?
--from Escondido to the ocean in one loop

I felt amazing. I had done 50 miles and included hills at a higher-than-average speed and I felt amazing. But I am untrained. Only 10 days ago a flat 70-miler killed me. How was this possible? Who cares! I'll take feeling like Super Woman without question any day. I hunkered down in my aero bars and pedaled on. As I passed through Encinitas, I became extra wary of the slinking cars, lurking for a place to park. Backing up, turning, pulling in, every parked vehicle, a potential fatal crash by sudden car door ready to strike at a moment's notice. I was blind to the gleeful surfers toting their boards (another possible hazard; swung too suddenly, and it becomes a cyclist's worst nightmare) and bobbing in the glassy ocean water. Blind to the pink horizon as the setting sun bejeweled the ocean's surface with glittering amber. Every muscle in my face was taut, my eyes scanned the road, as if heading into battle; everyone was an enemy, potentially waiting to spring out and try to dismount me from my bike. Is this how prey animals (rabbits) live? Awful. I felt like I was invisible; no one could see me. Ah, the glories of holiday traffic on the coast.

I made it to the final turn east back towards home. Torrey Pines beckoned me. "C'mon. Just one time. You can make it up and down and still be home before dark." I couldn't resist. I soared into the park to tackle the inside. Would my legs feel better this time? I needed redemption after last ride's pathetic climb. Aha! Better, indeed! I attacked the inside of TPs like it was no one's business. Out of the saddle, I climbed and climbed and climbed. I felt fresh and eager. Nothing could stop me! I reached the top and smiled victoriously. It was going to be the perfect ride.

I soared down the hill and back home along the bike path as the sun made it's final descent into the Pacific, melting into the cool water. The sky was lined with puffy, neon pink, cotton candy clouds, like something out of the Beatles' Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. But I wasn't on anything except exercise-induced endorphins. Some days, that's more than enough.

Bagging Mt. Baldy

I've decided to branch out and try some new outdoor adventures. When my friend said he was hiking up Mt. Baldy and invited me, I thought, "Sure. Why not?" After a trip to REI, I had the equipment but absolutely no idea what to expect. Mt. Baldy, also known as Mt. San Antonio, sits at 10,068 feet, the highest peak in Los Angeles County and the San Gabriel Mountains. This time of year, the top was covered in a solid, 2-feet of snow. Snow? I hadn't seen snow for 4 years!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_San_Antonio

Decked head to toe in a smurfy blue outfit (no one said I looked like a freakin' smurf!) with brand-spankin'-new, never-before-worn, hiking boots, we set out, trekking poles, crampons, and snowshoes in tow. We started up a fire road. Okay, I can handle that. The guys started talking about making sure not to "miss the trail". All of a sudden, they said, "There it is!" They were pointing to a tiny deer trail to the left, narrow, rocky, cliff on one side, that snaked up into the trees and disappeared. We were only 1/4 mile of the way in. The group headed up the trail like it was normal. I saw 2 guys coming down. Do these people think they're deer? I followed meekly, like a lamb.

Matt and Marie on the way up

Then, patches of ice and snow appeared, like random blobs, threatening to make me slip and tumble down the mountain to my death. Apparently, I was the only one bothered by this as I penguin-baby-stepped-waddled across the icy spots. Each step was very tedious, as I stabbed the trekking pole into the ground and leaned on it to make sure I wouldn't fall. I noticed I was the only one using this strategy to manuever across the trail. Everyone else was simply walking. Hmmm. My method was using an incredible amount of energy and required inordinate upper body strength. Mark suggested I put the crampons on. Huh? What are those? I borrowed a spare pair of semi-crampons (not the full spikes; more like toothpicks) and was instantly a much happier sailor.

--The group at the start (Mark, me, Marie, & Matt; Leonard, not shown)

We reached the Sierra Club lodge where I took a much-needed bathroom break. It had only been 3 miles, and we were just getting started. I was hydrating A LOT, encouraged by my more-experienced friends, who knew drinking lots of water was key to adjusting to the altitude. Of course, my period decided to start that very day, and I don't know if it was the altitude or what, but it was like the Red Sea. I had brought the necessary supplies but used them all up pretty quickly. Argh! Are you kidding me? If you're squeamish, I'm not apologizing. I have to live it! I was just glad I wasn't swimming in the Cove that day; can we say "Shark Bait"? One of the guys had napkins. I thanked him for the MacGyver-style diaper. Who would have thought I would need Crampons and Tampons at the same time?

We continued our hike upwards; our goal was to reach the summit, if possible. The snow pack was continuous now, and we were all donning extra layers, crampons, trekking poles, and ice axes. I was slipping quite a bit in my "toothpick" crampons but making good progress going up. We had only made it about 1/4 mile when we hear, "Help! Help!" We spotted 2 agitated dogs, circling their troubled owner. The more experienced mountaineers in our party carefully made their way over to the fallen victim, who had slipped, twisted an ankle, and was precariously stuck in a steep part of the snow bowl on an ice pack, ready to fall down the mountain if he breathed too hard. His friend was too inebriated to be anything but a hindrance. Both of them were wearing nothing but running shoes. The rescuers hacked a trail for the victim(s) laboriously with the ice axe. Meanwhile, as Marie and I waited, I had the overwhelming urge to pee..again. I had been hydrating very, very well. I did my business by the tree, and felt much better (and warmer) afterwards. Anyone know why you feel warmer after you pee? Doesn't make sense to me. Good use of the time while we waited, I thought. The inebriated victim was uninjured but very unsteady and kept slipping and falling (the running shoes didn't help). As he came closer, he slipped and skidded across the snow pack, aiming (seemingly) right for me. Ummm, big drunk guy rolling like an avalanche right for me? I wasn't about to go down with him! I did a quick side-step, dropped a knee to the ground, and reached for him with my arms to try to grab him, succeeding in at the very least, slowing his momentum. I smiled internally, realizing he had skidded right over the middle of my freshly-made, pee-covered snow. He collided gently with a rock and skidded to a halt, completely unharmed. He fell and slipped and skidded several more times before making it back to the hut.

--Mark and Marie on the way to the summit.

After a looong time, we got the pair situated and continued on our way. We had been delayed by quite a bit. Reaching the summit now would be questionable. But we would try. Maybe mountaineering with a bunch of type-A, goal-oriented triathletes isn't such a good idea? Since I was the newbie in the group, they asked how I felt and how far I wanted to go. I felt great! Wonderful! I had never been this high, altitude-wise, before, never been tested, and felt exhilarated. No headache, no nausea, and only a slight shortness of breath but no biggie. Actually, I couldn't figure out why everyone kept stopping to rest. Of course, I had a secret weapon--a big bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies in my pocket that I nibbled continuously. I must have annoyed everyone enough as I chirped away and scampered upwards because, eventually, they waved me away, actually humoring me by letting me lead the way up for a bit. Anyway, I desperately wanted to reach the summit. I should have thought a little more carefully when Mark asked, "You have your headlamp, right?"

We continued climbing. Suddenly, there were no more pine trees. The wind picked up and the temperature dropped. It was 32 without the windchill, most likely in the 20s with the wind (even though the winds were mild). Actually, when the sun blessed us with its presence, it was delightful. I couldn't believe how one minute, it would be sunny and pleasant, and the next, it was windy, cloudy and cold. Everything was so transient.

--view of the desert from the summit

And then, we reached the summit. It was a small plateau, covered with a smooth blanket of snow. The view was incredible. To the east, I saw the Anza Borrego Desert. It was like walking on the moon. Another planet. 10,000 feet. I felt incredible. Mark said, "You bagged your first peak!" I hadn't even realized it until that moment. It was akin to crossing a finish line. Thanks, Mark. You will always be my Mike Reilly of the mountains.

--bagging Mt. Baldy!

We stopped to eat in a protected grove of pine trees. I gobbled down everything I had in my pack and most of what anyone offered me from theirs as well. The wind picked up and the sun disappeared, and I started to get miserably cold. The group waved me onward. Since I would be the slowest descender of the group, it was a good solution. Apparently, as the saying goes, the climb doesn't begin until the descent. I know now this is all too true but had no idea that going down is twice as hard as getting up. Going up is easy. You're excited, it's easy to see where to put your feet, and you have lots of energy. After reaching the summit, all the wind is gone from your sails. And it's getting dark and cold, you're using less energy so you're colder, but you're using incredible amount of quad strength. And it's hard on the ole' knees! I had never worn crampons before. Luckily, Mark traded me the toothpick ones for the sturdy, iron nails ones, which makes you feel like Spiderman. You can walk on the ceiling with those things. I felt much more comfortable. However, it's a little unnerving going down. One misstep.....

--view from our lunch spot

--She's coming down the mountain!

I may have been a little mountain goat going up but I was like a cat stuck in a tree coming down. No one seemed to mind waiting for me. Unfortunately, we overshot the trail coming down and had to traverse across on a loosely-packed, snow covered part of the bowl for a short way to get back to the trail. It was steep and tedious work. Matt ice axed a path for Mark, who was wearing the measly toothpick crampons; not good in steep sections. Even though I had sturdy crampons, I still used a lot of mental forethought before every step, which was simply exhausting. We reached the trail safe and sound and made our way back to the hut at dusk.

--view coming down in the late afternoon light

--sunset

We stopped to put on our headlamps and stuff our faces one last time. Only 3 miles to go. Of course, since it was dark, and the trail was narrow, it was the toughest 3 miles. Also, the ice was melting and mixing with rock, which was difficult to navigate with crampons. Do I keep them on? Take them off? After tripping and stumbling about 3 times, which put me exactly at the spot where all the ice had melted, I eagerly took them off. I was the last to take them off. I hate ice! My quads were toast by that point. And I was mentally exhausted. Hiking downhill by headlamp is actually quite difficult! I tripped, fell, stumbled my way down a few more times but all very minor.

--donning my headlamp

At last, we made it back to the car. We were victorious! We made our way to the closest Outback Steakhouse and gorged on meat, Bloomin' Onions, and some sort of warm, wonderful, delicious brownie sundae concoction. All I can say is, when can we do it again?!

--crumpled bottles back at sea level

2009 Year-End Review

Well, it's that time again. Another year comes to a close. How did it go, and how do I want 2010 to go? Wow, I've been doing this for how many years now? Do you know I've been doing this since 2005 (the blogging)? The triathlon since 2004. Interesting to reflect.

Here is 2006 and 2007 in review:
http://amateurtrigirl.blogspot.com/2008/01/2007-in-review.html
In 2006, I moved to San Diego and became a small fish in a big pond (well, okay, ocean). I got my ass handed to me, overtrained perpetually, and in the end, got into better shape. In 2007, I did my first half-ironman distance and became comfortable with volumes of 8-10 hour weeks for the first time. In 2006, that would have spelled disaster. Funny, that 8-10 is now my minimum requirement for happiness and normalcy. That line of what is "normal" keeps moving. Anyway, my volume from 2006 to 2007 basically doubled.

In 2008 (http://amateurtrigirl.blogspot.com/search?q=2008+year+review), I did my first Ironman. My volumes increased again. I was very happy with my training but I specifically stated that: "I don't think I want to increase the time of my training from this year to 2008 very much." And for the first year, in 2009, my volume was lower. So, mission accomplished. Yet, a part of me feels let down. I'm such a mileage junkie. I wanted to trump 2008 with more miles. However, I think I was fitter due to more intense and hillier rides. This is a very subjective opinion. I guess I could measure increased fitness by looking at speed but I don't feel like it. I complained in 2008 about slow swim and run times.

In 2009, I ran more than ever. Did I get faster? I would like to think so. Oh, wait. I did do a speed analysis (http://amateurtrigirl.blogspot.com/2009/06/speed-is-it-all-in-my-head.html). So I guess I am a data junkie. Anyway, it shows I have gotten faster in tris, and the swim, bike and run from 2006-2008. Did I get faster in 2009 compared to 2008? Hard to say because I did a lot of new races (can't compare race times from different races--like apples to oranges) and my "A" race was Ironman Canada, at the end of August, and the end of the season (in which I had the stomach flu). However, I had 2 PRs, one of which was Ironman California 70.3, a major PR (25 minutes). My 2nd PR was the 10K Turkey Trot, where I was completely out of shape and just showed up for fun. So I guess my run has gotten faster. Also, I moved up in my age group, place-wise, which says something.

Honestly? I don't care too much. I'm happy with where I am. And that's all that really matters. Did I meet my goals for 2009? Sure. I completed my 2nd Ironman. That was my biggest goal. Did I get faster? Sure. Why not? I think my biggest goal was to do less. Do I do that? Not really. Also, I wished for a slower, more relaxed year. Nah. Didn't get that either. Maybe 2010 will be more stable. More routine. That's my plan. I will discuss 2010 goals in a later post but I have a 3rd Ironman (Utah) planned and then some preliminary plans to move into ultrarunning.

Here's the data for all you junkies out there (and I get 1 more week to add to all this. Honestly, it's not too far off from 2008).




Here's the 2009 breakdown in gory detail:

I see a nice, long build-up to Ironman Canada (week 39). I started training in December with a "Prep" phase. Peaked for CA 70.3 around week 18. Then, shifted over to marathon training for RnR San Diego, which was supposed to be week 27 but I suffered a hip injury and a major sinus infection. Afterwards, from week 29 until the taper at week 36 (6-8 weeks), I focused on Ironman-specific training, putting me into the perfect position for Ironman Canada. It would have been perfect, except for bad luck, which gave me the stomach flu race morning. After week 39, you can see my "off season" and then a "Prep phase" following that, which is just about where I am now.

For an even more in-depth analysis, here are the 2009 hours by sport:

What's most interesting is that I alternated between "bike-focused" and "run-focused" blocks (while maintaining the swim throughout). The Prep phase in the beginning was balanced. This was followed by a "bike" specific phase (weeks 11-15), then a "run" specific phase (weeks 20-24), then a "bike" phase again (weeks 29-32), before entering into a "Final Push" right before the taper for Ironman Canada (where all 3 sport volumes increased/or was maintained at a high level while increasing intensity as well). This allowed me to keep it interesting while actually improving my speed/strength at one of the three sports. Since biking is my limiter, I planned on focusing on it right before my "Final Push" to keep it fresh in my body.

For 2010? I plan on doing more fun workouts and caring less about volume or speed. I want to do more cross training, more trail running, and stick less to a plan. Ironman Utah will be a fun, challenging course for me but it's not about speed.

Taz in Memorium (Part II)--His Story

I got Taz from a pet store when he was only 4 weeks old, in the fall of 1999. I was a junior in college at Univ. Wisconsin-Madison. I would never get a pet from a pet store now but I didn’t know better. I knew nothing about bunnies. I was tired of all my fish in my aquarium dying and was allergic to cats. Dogs were not a good fit for apartment living. That’s when I saw the baby bunnies. All of them wore little black and white tuxedos. Taz was the only deep, seal brown color. The pet store guy said they were all Dutch bunnies. I later learned Taz was a Mini Rex. I held him in my arms. He was as soft as velvet. I breathed into his fur deeply. Not only did I not feel an allergic reaction, but he smelled wonderful. Of course, I could have developed allergies later on, but I was in love. He always smelled wonderful. A mixture of freshly ground coffee and something faintly sweet like cinnamon. I don’t know how he smelled so wonderful but I could breathe in the aroma of his fur all day, until I suffocated on the thick, downy, plushness of it. He was so small when I brought him home, he fit into the palm of my hands.

I fixed up his cage in the bedroom. Again, I knew nothing about bunnies. However, I had some instinct. Taz taught me the rest. It wasn’t until I discovered the House Rabbit Society, 2 years later, in search of Taz’s mate, Babs, that I was taught proper bunny care. The wire bottom of the cage seemed cruel. So I lined it with blankets and carpet scraps. I constructed a wooden box for him to hide in, pretending I was a carpenter. I gave him a little stuffed toy sheep that I got from a McDonald’s Happy Meal. He loved to snuggle with the sheep and do obscene things to it as he hit puberty, right before he was neutered. He loved that sheep. I still have it. He would eat his pellets out of his tiny bowl and then crawl inside and go to sleep; he was so tiny.

I didn’t know what to name him. I didn’t even know how to take care of him. I thought about Snickers since he made an almost imperciptable cooing noise when I petted him. Plus, it matched his beautiful dark brown color. The cooing would become louder and louder as he aged into his golden years. So loud, in fact, that it would be hard to fall asleep, or I would be rudely awakened in the middle of the night to incessantly, ear-splitting cooing. Sometimes, he would do it because Babs was licking him. Other times, he was just ridiculously happy and content for no reason. He would also do it upon getting petted. When he was scared, like when I picked him up to clip his nails, his cooing would become more like high-pitched, rapid squeaks. He would lick me frantically, as if pleading with me to put him down. I would try to clip his nails, and he would squirm and squirm. I never once accidentally got his quick. Nonetheless, his hind legs would shake and spasm, making it almost impossible for me to safely clip a nail. He never once, his entire life, bit or nipped. Anyone. Any bunny. Period. Even when Babs fought him, he would grunt and act mad, and head-butt, but never bite. Even when she bit him. He preferred to run away. I’m not sure he really knew how to bite. Most likely, he just didn’t have it in him. But he certainly loved to lick.

He was very into food. He used to jump in my lap to share my ice cream or cereal. He would eat anything. He loved popcorn. One time, he jumped into my mother’s lap and delicately but with lightning speed, grabbed a piece of popcorn out of her open mouth. It was so quick; we were all stunned. My mother is not an animal person but after the popcorn incident, she oddly enough, fell in love with Taz. He would body-slam Babs to get into her food bowl at feeding time. It was the only time he ever acted semi-aggressive, which wasn’t very. He would run across the room for a treat. He loved Bab’s anti-inflammatory medicine, which had a banana flavor. Since he was over 10 years old, I figured, what the hey, he probably needs some too. He would jump up from wherever he had been resting and sprint all the way across the bedroom, grab the syringe with his teeth and jerk on it, trying to rip it from my hands. No need to coax him into taking his medicine. When he was little, we fed him all sorts of junk food, not knowing the harm we were doing. French fries, pizza crust, cereal—he loved it all. Later, when we changed him over to hay, greens, and timmy pellets, he was very mad at me for several weeks. Even though his appetite was voracious, he never kept weight on like Babs and was always an easy keeper. I always tried to sneak him some treats on the sly. It was an easy key to his happiness.

He seemed to have arthritis in his late age. He compensated by running really fast on all fours instead of nimbly hopping. Although when he’d been younger, he could sprly leap onto any pice of furniture in the house and run up and down stairs faster than I, a feat he used to his advantage to get away from Babs when she pursued him (she was always dominant and bullying him) since Babs never had the athletic agility of Taz. He also had a benign lipoma behind his right shoulder that developed around age 7. It spread under his chin where the dewlap is on most females. It never seemed to bother him and was benign, although comically, I did see him trip over it one time. He had to kind of throw the big fat pad out of the way of his feet when he ran, which could have been part of the reason he took millions of tiny, little steps to maneuver. Despite his age and these setbacks, he got around pretty good for a 105-year-old. And when he laid down, he poofed his lipoma under his chin and used it as a pillow. He also loved to eat out of his food dish while lying down and sometimes even drink in the prone position. He loved to lay by the water bowl and could always be found sunning himself wherever the water bowl was akin to laying out by the pool.

He used to get into everything as a baby. I found out early on that he loved to destroy electrical cords. I wrapped everything in plastic tubing and secured high-risk areas, like behind the computer and tv with plexi glass. It was Taz’s mission to get into the forbidden areas. One day, he figured out how to jump on the desk chair, then the desk, then down behind the computer. Of course, once down there, he was trapped. I came home to find him stuck behind the computer desk, all our cords chewed through. I rescued him but he wanted to jump back there again. He watched me move the chair away from the desk to deny him access. I will never forget the scornful scowl Taz gave me after I moved the chair.

Another time, he grabbed a doily my grandmother had crocheted off the coffee table and took off across the living room with it dangling in his mouth. He didn’t get far. Halfway across the room, he tripped over it and did a somersault. He loved to jump up on the sofa, run crazy circles around the room, and binky all over the place. One of his favorite games in my Wisconsin apartment was to run in mad circles around the kitchen, dining area, and hallway, since it was all open. The kitchen was tiled but the rest of the apartment was carpeted. The tile was slippery under Taz’s nails. He would zoooooom around on the carpet, get to the tile, and cautiously click, click, click, as he slowly hopped over the slippery tile, get to the carpet, and zoooom back around again. Over and over. It was very entertaining. That was how he earned the name Taz. Like the Tasmanian Devil on Loony Tunes. He was so energetic as a youngster and always getting into everything. The name stuck.

He hated going outside. I got a cat harness for him. It fit perfectly. Around his neck and torso. He hated that thing. Once on, I would lead him around in the grass behind our apartment. He seemed curious and interested for a bit. He would sniff and root in the grass, graze and nibble. He would lead me around more than me leading him. He would root up garter snakes and chase them fearlessly. Then, a car would drive by, or a bird would fly over, or a plane, or any loud noise. Taz would panic and take off for the nearest drainage pipe. If I hadn’t had him on a leash, I would have never been able to drag him out. Afterwards, when he saw me coming with the leash, he stomped and ran under the sofa to hide, stomping periodically in protest. That was the end of the leash experiment.

He also hated when I went on vacation. Especially if he didn’t like the pet sitter. He hated my ex brother-in-law. He forgot to turn the a.c. on during the summer when I was on my honeymoon. When I returned, Taz was molting and very pissed off. He wouldn’t let me pet him for days. Instead, he hid under the bed and grunted every time I got close. Unless I was feeding him. One time, I had a friend take care of him in St. Louis. She did the bare minimum and even skipped a couple of days without checking on him. When I returned, Taz had torn the apartment to shreds, ripping carpet and chewing furniture he normally left alone. He had upturned his food dish and water bowls. Basically, he wreaked havoc on the place, letting me know that was unacceptable. I hired a professional pet sitter after that, and he never complained again. If anything, he seemed to love the extra affection afforded by the pet sitter. I never divulged to Taz that money was being exchanged for the attention he was getting.

Taz had a very sensitive sense of smell. If I had just washed my hands or put on lotion, he wouldn’t let me pet him. He would wrinkle his nose in disgust and turn his head away, eventually hopping away. “You STINK, mom!” I had to wait until my hands dried completely and the smell had wafted away before I could pet him. Only if I smelled like myself would he allow me to pet him. And, then, he would lick me incessantly. He loved to lick. He licked hands, my nose, my favorite was when he would push my eye shut with his nose and lick my eyelids. He was so delicate. His tongue was like a moist toilette. It felt delicious. He licked Babs and he used to lick Oscar (although he may have had an ulterior motive to get to his food—although, no, I saw him licking Oscar through the fence just to be friendly too). He believed in give and take. He licked me, then shoved his little head under my hand to get petted. Then, he pushed my hand under his chin to lick mine. And so forth. He loved to lick. Walls, the carpet, backpacks, god, he loved to lick my ex-boyfriend’s backpack. He would put his whole head into it and do it for hours. He loved to lick dishwashers, refrigerators. He loved to lick. I’ve never seen any other bunny that loved to lick so much. But when he licked me, it was heaven. It was absolutely my most favorite thing about him and his personality. He was so full of love and giving.

One time, I had a migraine. I never get migraines and didn’t know what was happening. I was overcome with nausea and had to lie down on the floor. It felt like a drill was going through my head. I must have been holding my hand to my head. Babs gets scared when I’m ill and stomps and runs away; I’m her rock; when I’m not well, her whole world comes crashing down. Taz was a caretaker. He immediately ran over to me and started licking the exact spot where the drill was pounding. Then, he laid down, pushing his little body against the pulsating spot. It gave me instant relief. The pressure. How did he know to do that? I didn’t even know. He always knew what to do. He always took care of me. When I was sick or depressed, he was extra attentive, extra affectionate.

Another time, Jason, my ex-husband, and I both came down with the stomach flu at the same time. I called 911 because Jason passed out in the bathroom. Taz wouldn’t leave Jason’s side. When the EMT guys came, I had to restrain Taz and hold him, wriggling in my arms, to give the guys room to work on Jason. Then, I got sick. We spent all night in our respective bathrooms. Taz and Babs took turns, alternating between Jason and me. Babs was upset and stomped her foot and ran away every time she saw me hurling over the toilet. Taz came over and snuggled against me as I lay on the floor, soothingly licking my forehead.

He was immaculate with his litterbox. Amazing. We had one litterbox in an enormous 3-story house in St. Louis. He loved to watch tv with us and would be getting attention, sprawled on the rug (he hated sitting in laps or being up on the sofa with us), and all of a sudden, he would jump up, run all the way upstairs into the master bathroom to use the single litterbox that was by the toilet. Never had an accident. He was immaculate. He did, however, love to chew on furniture but could be easily dissuaded with good chew toys. He was also very nimble. Had no problem jumping on chairs, tables, or running up and down stairs. His bathroom habits were impeccable, until he met Babs. She was very messy; he figured he didn’t need to be so clean if she wasn’t.
Before he was neutered, he ran circles around my feet. It means, “I love you,” in bunny-speak. He would run them endlessly. First counter-clockwise, then clockwise. I have it on video. It was precious. If Jason was nearby, the circles would become figure-8’s. Around my feet, then around his, then around mine, back-and-forth. Precious. I was sad to see this habit disappear after he got neutered. But not so sad to see the obsence treatment of his stuffed sheep dissipate.
Taz hated the smell and sound of dogs but was fearless when it came to felines. I once brought him to a friend’s apartment. She had a cat. Taz staked out the dining room table area. The cat came stalking over, investigating this new creature invading his territory. Taz, claiming his new area, charged out from under the table, grunting. The cat scampered away, confused and terrified. Afterwhich, the cat jumped onto a dining room chair where he could safely check out this new situation. Taz, of course, taunting the feline, placed himself directly underneath the chair. The cat began batting at Taz, and Taz began grooming himself nonchalantly, pretending to ignore the batting paws, just out of reach.

The only time he ever sprayed (common territorial marking for unneutered males) was when I tried to bond Babs, Taz, and Oscar. It might have worked if Babs hadn’t hated Oscar so much. Afterall, Taz loved Oscar, Oscar was aloof to the whole thing but Babs HATED Oscar. One bathroom session, however, Babs and Taz on one side, me on the middle, and Oscar on the other side, Taz circled me and Babs (his women) and sprayed both of us. I’d never witnessed such possessive behavior before. So out of character.

Taz loved Oscar. Or at least considered him a good friend. He would lick him through the fence. I tried to bond all three of them but after Oscar and Babs got into a horrible fight one night, resulting in a severed urethra on Babs, that ended all future bonding sessions. Every day Oscar bounded up to the fence so Taz could lick him. Babs, jealous creature that she is, would dive bomb Taz, bite him, and chase him away. Oscar would come over to greet Babs (or tease her) every day. Every day, she would bite him on the nose. Every day, Oscar acted surprised. Then, they would have pissing wars along the perimeter of the fence. Oscar would play with his toys by the fence and flop down by the fence, teasing her until she bit him through the bars. It was so aggravating. I think they enjoyed hating each other. It was an ongoing feud. Taz licked Oscar so much, I tried bonding sessions between just the two of them, even though Oscar was about 3x Taz’s size. Taz was so peaceable, he made it work. They would snuggle and Oscar loved the licks and cuddles. When Oscar wasn’t looking, Taz stole his food. If Oscar so much as gave him a sideways glance, Taz scampered away until Oscar was in a better mood. Oscar may have been 3x his size, but Taz was 3x as quick. They were together for about 3 weeks until Oscar started getting more pushy with wanting more and more affection from Taz. Taz started showing signs of fear, and I reunited him with Babs. He seemed relieved. His brief affair quickly ended and Babs took him back.

Bonding Taz with Babs took 6 months. I saw Babs on the internet advertised by the House Rabbit Society of St. Louis. Her name was Velvet and she looked like Taz’s twin, only slightly larger and slightly more red. I took Taz over to Joy’s house, the chapter manager. She dissuaded me from Babs, trying other bachelorettes to no avail. Taz was completely aloof. First, he just wanted to hide under my sweatshirt. Then, he wanted to do nothing but eat and fell in love with the hay in the litterbox. The other does simply stomped their feet in disgust and one-by-one, rejected Taz. Taz didn’t even realize he was being introduced to to other bunnies. Finally, Joy brought out Velvet from the sanctuary, where she had been kept because of severe cage protectiveness and biting. Babs (aka “Velvet”) fell in love with Taz instantly. She seemed aloof to me and spent the entire time pursuing Taz, trying to get him to snuggle with her and lick her as he scurried away, looking for food. Joy was impressed. This was the best “Velvet” had ever acted. Little did I know.

I brought her home and the disastrous bonding sessions began. Babs chasing Taz, the two of them fighting like dogs with hair flying everywhere and me screaming from the sidelines with a water bottle until the two were both drenched. Babs seemed to understand she was bad when she bit. Taz didn’t know what had hit him. He had been king of the castle and now, what the hell was going on? He was miserable. He lost weight and became dejected and aloof to me. I was broken hearted. I almost returned Babs. I came very close. Especially the day she took after him in the carpeted basement and I intervened. She leapt up, and hung from my pinkie knuckle. I had to shake her off. I still wear the scar to this day. I cried like a baby, not because of the pain, but because I felt like I had failed.

Stubbornly, I continued the bonding sessions, every day, religiously for 20 minutes to an hour. We went on car rides, had them in pens outdoors, in the dry bathtub, on top of the wahsing machine, and the tile floor of the bathroom. Anywhere that was unfamiliar territory. Taz would get scared, and, then, the oddest thing happened. She flipped onto her back as if to say, “I’m not threatening. Look, I couldn’t hurt a fly.” Then, Taz would flip over on his back. I decided to do the same. After I flopped over, the two began to play “King of the Mountain” on my belly. That was the beginning of the bonding. In the meantime, I read to them. Babs loved the sound of my voice, and I needed to do something to pass the time. We got through the entire Chronicles of Narnia, which I thoroughly enjoyed. After day-in and day-out of bonding sessions, I went out of town, and the bonding sessions were halted for about a week. When I returned, the two missed each other so much, that they were bonded. That was it. After that, they were inseparable. They moved in together and were never apart again. They were together for 7 years.

Taz became less neat with his litterbox, adopting Bab’s messy ways. She was always dominant and chased him at feeding times and other times too. She would nip sometimes or take out a tuft of hair but nothing serious. Lovers quarrels. They always worked it out and could be see cuddling minutes later. I chose to stay out of it. It was between them. For the most part, they cuddled and snuggled and licked each other. Babs refused to lick Taz until years later. When she did, Taz cooed loudly. She learned to give love is to receive it tenfold. They were my faith in true love. They always rode together in the car on the way to the vet. They were very protective. She would lie on top of him; it looked like she was crushing him. I would pull them apart, fearing that Taz was suffocating but he would just dive back under her belly and she would pull him close, her little front paws protectively holding him. The night Oscar died, I found them mourning in the office, lying in the middle of the room, Babs holding Taz. I had never seen them do that in the open until that night. I wish Babs had someone to hold right now. I hold her in my arms most night for a few minutes, and she lets me, something she never used to let me do. It’s the least I can do.

Taz was different from any bunny I’ve ever met, and I’ve met many bunnies. I feel so lucky to have had so much time with him. I always called him the bunny diplomat because he taught so many people how wonderful and personable and affectionate bunnies can be and what fantastic pets they make. He was my first. He taught me everything I know about bunnies. He taught me give and take. He taught me to give your love freely. He taught me how to relax. He had the softest fur of any bunny I’ve ever petted and licked more than any other bunny I’ve ever met. He was the World’s Greatest Bunny. And my Tazzer Schmazzer Mookie Bear (aka “Mookie”). God, I miss him.

Taz in Memoriam--Part I

A story of his life is coming next. Until then, here is a photo memorial:


--playing with the lens cap of the camera.

--grooming Oscar; he got along with everyone.

--taking a nap behind the sofa

--out for a walk on the leash as a baby (he hated the leash but loved to chase garter snakes).

--playing with dolls.

--king of the chair.

--only a few months old in this photo.

--snuggling with his beloved, Babs.

--kissing Miss Babs.

--chomping on hay in his litterbox.

--enjoying some pettings.

--more pettings.

--giving me kisses. Taz believed in giving and receiving.

--teaching me how to rest after a hard workout.

--the photo that inspired "Super Bunny"

--Super Bunny Taz

--Taz took lots of naps. Never once, did he fail to look adoreable.

Taz (left) and the bunch (Babs and Oscar).

--Taz (left) and Babs, always eager for a treat.

--Babs (top) and Taz comforting each other the day Oscar died.

--Taz always gave me lots of kisses.

--More Taz kisses.

--He loved to watch t.v. with the gang and just hang out.

I found this from an earlier post, 3 years ago:

"this is Tazzer-Schmazzer-Mookie Bear. He is turning 7 in June. He jumped into my sister's lap to try and steal her cereal when she was visiting. Plus, he tried to climb into bed with her. He's king of the castle, not afraid of anything, and such a sweetheart that the worst he can do is lick you when he gets upset."

The Spring Chicken Ride, Euphoric Rain Ride, and Rapturous Noble Canyon Run

So I've been training again. Or trying to...that's the problem with the Prep phase. Lots of false starts. Isn't it the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics--a body in motion tends to stay in motion? Same with a body at rest, unfortunately. So I've been trying to jump start the body into continual motion again and mostly successful. It's hard to wake up early in the morning when it's cold and dark outside. Ah, winter blahs. And I've definitely not been swimming enough.

Last weekend, an old friend came into town, and we biked the weekend away. Sunday's 50-miler up Del Dios and back through Elfin Forest was gorgeous, incredibly fun, and accompanied by a small group of great people that I thoroughly enjoyed meeting. We entertained each other as we toiled up Del Dios with various topics--favorite childhood toy (My Little Pony, Rainbow Brite, etc.), favorite Halloween costume (the most humorous being a Snuggy with Care Bear ears), and random nicknames for each other (Spring Chicken?). Random but completely hysterical in the blitzed-out state you get while trying to zone out the hard work of a long climb.

This weekend, too, did not disappoint. It was precipitated by a nasty virus that threatened to leave me completely bedridden and unable to complete my weekend activities. Luckily, 2 days of rest allowed the fever to pass, and by Saturday, I was ready to attempt a bike ride. Rain was in the forecast but I called its bluff. It's San Diego afterall. It doesn't ever really "rain" here, right? I showed up for the TCSD club ride in Del Mar, only to find out it was cancelled. It was just me and 4 other nutballs. The other nutballs waffled but I egged them on. "Hey, it's not raining yet!" I convinced them to start, although they threatened to turn around as soon as they felt a drop. "But after it starts raining, and you're already wet, you minize well finish, right?" They looked at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, Who IS this crazy chick?

We started off down the coast, chattering away. Me, chattering? I know, I know. Quite the anomaly. Although it was misty, the ambient air was warm, as if insulated in a cloud. I felt giddy after my 2 days of bedrest. It just felt good to be healthy again. We reached the Carlsbad Starbucks, the 15-mile mark. We decided to keep going. Ah, the daredevils were we! Like that Seinfeld episode where Kramer test drives the car until it has no gas left...and keeps driving. We made it to the Oceanside Harbor before turning around (the 20 mile point). We were victorious. We were going to do 40 on a day when everyone else had stayed in bed!

First, the headwind hit us. I hadn't realized we had been sailing north on such a strong tailwind! Tricked again by Wind's tomfoolery! And, then, the skies opened up and the rain began pouring. Dumping buckets. We were soaked within minutes. I could no longer see through my sunglasses. I removed them and tucked them into my jersey. Seeing was still a challenge with my contacts but I managed to peer down the road with the one-eyed-half-squint. I put my head down and went to work. I began to enjoy exerting physical effort against the elements, and the feel-good euphoria began to snowball. Before I knew it, I was zipping down the coast against a headwind in pouring rain in pure and maddened ecstasy. I looked back, and no one was behind me. I waited for a few minutes. Finally, my miserable wet friends caught up with me but I irritated them so much with my senseless exuberance and peppy pace that they finally waved me on. I took off in glee. It made no sense but I absolutely loved the final 10 miles of hard pedaling against the wind and rain. I saw no other cyclists on the road. I took a sick pleasure in knowing I showed up and rode while everyone else stayed in bed. And I liked it! I felt happy for the first time all week and relished in the long-awaited emotion. I earned that happiness.

Sunday, I braved the cold mountains for a 12-mile run in Noble Canyon . I started at the top and began running down, freezing in the 40-degree (with much colder wind) weather (at altitude). Rationale? Well, Ironman Utah will be at 4,000 feet, and the run is sadistic. Strategy? Lots of HARD trail runs at altitude, of course! Which, around here, basically means Palomar or Laguna. Nice that San Diego has some mountains, eh?

The trail was narrow, rocky, and treacherous. And I LOVED it. I flew down at an 8 min/mile pace, stopping briefly to cross over 2 very full creeks. My feet flew over and around the rocks. I felt like I was dancing. I stayed relaxed and let my feet do the work. I was warm, and my quads, abs, and upper body were aching from all the work. I was invigorated by the sights--the vibrant reds, greens, and silvers blazing from surrunding bushes in the chaparral. The vegetation changed rapidly as I descended--cold, shadowy forest with pine trees, some mud--to nothing but slippery rocks with steep cliffs on either side and cacti, then meadows of crimson buckwheat dotted with manzanita, vainly showcasing their twisted, mahagony branches. Little yellow birds flitted from bush to bush. A large surprised hawk sluggishly soared to a nearby tree after I passed a hair too close. In the distance, a grazing doe ran for cover. I was 100% preoccupied--mind, body, and soul--with the run. I was focused mentally with full concentration on where to put my feet. One misstep, and I risked a sprained ankle. My body was working, working hard. And I was completely captivated and overwhelmed with the sights, sounds, and smells.

I passed a group of mountain bikers, struggling to navigate over the rocks and creeks on the way down. They must have been a little emasculated to be chicked by a runner! At the bottom, the sun peeked out between the clouds, and I removed my gloves and rolled up my sleeves. I was sweating. I smiled and nodded to a walker, a couple with a dog, a pair of mountain bikers, but other than that, I reveled in the solace of my solitary running.

After running 6-miles down at breakneck speed in pure delight and glee, I realized with dismay at the bottom that I had to run 6-miles back up the mountain. At mile 8, I began to feel tired, hungry and thirsty. I quickly downed my supply of water and Cliff Blocks. The wind picked up, and the sweat on my arms quickly chilled my skin. I rolled my sleeves down and pulled my gloves back out, thankful I had dressed in layers. My legs were achy and tired, and I had to use more willpower to pick my feet successfully over rocks without tripping. There were a few close calls, a few steep ascents where I walked, but I kept on moving. At last, I found a rhythm where I was mostly shuffling, not quite running but not walking either, and making good progress up the mountain. My breath came quickly now as the air thinned. My body was working hard, and exhaustion was around the corner.The last 2 miles were excruciating but I knew I could make it. I can always run 2 more miles. My legs felt wobbly and rubbery. As if to remind me how tired my legs were, I completely forgot to pick my feet up over a wild rose bush and instead, trudged right through it. I don't know if it was the fatigue or the cold but I didn't even notice the blood running down my legs until I got home. Ah, proudly earned war wounds.

And then, it was over. Seemingly as suddenly as it had began. Where had the last 2+ hours gone? A run so completely intoxicating I think I found nirvana. I was completely exhausted, completely exuberant, and completely victorious. The runner's high I felt at mile 1 is still with me even this morning. Last night, I just felt fuzzy and numb and happy. After making it back home, I ate and ate and ate before passing out at 8 pm to sleep soundly for 11 hours. This morning, I am tired and VERY sore but still full of happiness. Today is a rest day (from exercise) but I'll be back at it tomorrow. I think abundant volumes of exercise is key to my happiness.

How Much is Too Much?

I remember 6 years ago, when I first started running, thinking a half marathon was nuts. An insurmountable distance. A friend of mine was training for one in Memphis, and I was in awe. I was in St. Louis and thought I could only run 3 miles. The first time I completed an entire lap around Forest Park (about 6 miles), I was exuberant. My fishpond had just expanded.

Then, I did my first half marathon. Me! 13.1 miles. All by myself. What an incredible feeling. I started doing sprint triathlons. I could wrap my head around the Olympic distance but that was it. Those people that did Ironmans? Nuts! Jump ahead to 2008, and there's Rachel, doing her first Ironman. Me! 140.6 miles. That's crazy!

After 2 Ironmans, the distance doesn't seem so crazy anymore. My threshold has been bumped up. My fishpond? Now, it's an ocean. Anything seems possible. So now, I'm thinking ultrarunning is in my future. I dream of doing 100 mile trail runs one day. When you do an Ironman, you get to see the sunrise, and then the sunset. After it gets dark, I feel rejuvenated. The stars come out, and the moon rises, and the Milky Way glows, and it's spectacular. But in a 100-mile run? You get to see the sunrise, then the sunset, and then the sunrise again the next morning. Now, the normal reaction would be to cringe and say, "Ugh!" But if you're like me, and you get chills and think to yourself, "That would be an incredible experience!", then ultrarunning may be in your future. My Moby Dick? The Great Western States.....one day, one day.

Meanwhile, David Horton, who set the world's fastest record for running the entire Pacific Crest Trail from Mexico to Canada in 60-some days (www.extremeultrarunning.com/dhhist.htm)? Now HE is crazy!

Ironman Utah Training Has Commenced

Monday was the official beginning of a new era for me: Ironman Utah training. I hadn't planned on doing an Ironman in 2010. Then, I found out that they were going to have an Ironman in the beautiful city of St. George. I had always wanted to run the St. George Marathon (held every October). The area just calls to me. Besides, Zion is only an hour away. When I found out they were going to have Ironman Utah in St. George, I was one of the first to sign up.

My horse, George, died in January of 2005. Horses have always been a part of my life, and he was no exception. He was my best friend, my teammate, and my partner. We shared some wonderful times together: competing in shows, jumping cross country in the snow, bucking exuberantly in the chill of the autumn air beneath a canopy of orange-leaved maples, galloping through plowed cornfields so fast that I could no longer feel his feet hit the ground and my eyes forced shut by the stinging wind burning my face.

When arthritis forced George's retirement, I continued caring for him at a nearby barn with green pastures and lots of other horses to play with. He was like a big puppy dog; the barn manager would let him roam free to graze all day, and everyone smothered him with attention and treats. He neighed repeatedly every time he heard me enter the barn, even before he could see me. He licked me constantly and everywhere--hands, arms, chest, face, ears. He loved children. I taught him tricks: shake hooves, nod "yes" or "no", peek-a-boo, and bowing before an audience (he was quite the ham). He played tug-of-war with the other horses, using a stick or ball. His intelligence was unlike any other horse I have ever met; I swear he could understand every word I spoke. When he no longer enjoyed going out to the pasture and was having a hard time walking, I made the difficult decision to put him down. It was one of the hardest decisions I've every made, and it weighs on me to this day.

While I was grieving, a flock of mourning doves sat shiva in my backyard (a 7-day period of mourning in the Jewish tradition after the death of a loved one). It was January, it was cold, there was snow on the ground, and I hadn't filled the feeder in months. In my shock and grief, I was oblivious to the tens of twenties of birds in the yard, until I walked from the house to the garage. All of a sudden, hundreds of doves flew up into the air at once. The air was so thick with doves, I could feel the wind from their beating wings on my face. I was comforted by their presence and felt a strange calm fill me. I knew George was okay; he was in a better place now, in a place with no pain. I filled the bird feeder every day. The mourning doves (funny, I had always previously believed they were "morning" doves), kept me company for about a week. Then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone, despite a fully stocked bird feeder. Their disappearance reminded me of how amazing and mystical their company had been. To this day, whenever I'm feeling doubtful or jaded, I remind myself of the mourning doves that sat shiva with me, and I am filled with hope.

After George died, I decided to take a hiatus from horses, vowing to return to them again one day. There was a giant void in my life. Then, I discovered triathlon. It has been an incredible journey, and I don't know where my adventures will take me next. When I found out there was going to be an Ironman in St. George, I felt a calling. I am doing this Ironman in his memory. The fact that it is one of the toughest (if not THE toughest) courses in North America makes it all that more special for me. Ironman St. George. Could it be more perfect?

My training has commenced. I am filled with excitment. I love Ironman training. I know that no matter what happens with my life between now and May, I have that Ironman (God-willing, as long as I'm healthy and not injured). Having that on my calendar comforts me. I have the stability and positive-reward system of my training routine. Ah, Ironman training. Coming to the rescue again.

Below is an overview of my 22-week training plan (click on the image to enlarge it to make it easier to read):

Happy Training!

--from the Silicon Valley Turkey Trot last week as I run down the chute. Yes, I'm going anaerobic. Did you know I PR'ed for not just this race but also my 10K time?! Whoo-hoo!!!

Silicon Valley Turkey Trot--"Race" Report

I am a sucker for the turkey trots. Nothing better than to prepare yourself for a day of guilt-free gluttony than an early-morning, run-your-ass-off-in-freezing-cold-weather (40s is "freezing cold" for me, okay?) until you can taste bile and almost puke at the finish. Great way to kick off Thanksgiving!

After hitting the snooze for 30 minutes, I finally got out of bed. I convinced myself I didn't need to wake up too early because I didn't have a zoo of animals to feed and walk. I was right. The battle was driving my parent's car to the start. They have this new Infiniti that looks like a big, purple eggplant. No offense, mom and dad, but it does. It's keyless. Keyless? WTF? I sat in the driver's seat for about 5 minutes, trying to convince the car how I wanted to position the mirrors, the seat, and figuring out how to turn the dang thing on. I cautiously drove it down the street, mild panic and terror rising in my chest. I'm convinced the purple eggplant has a higher IQ than I. At any minute, I fully expected a female voice to come blaring out of the dash, "Operation New World Order commence. Kill the humans! Robots attack!"

At the race site, I was freezing. It was 45 degrees, and my thin-skinned San Diego body can't take it. I feel like a wild animal that's been pampered in captivity for 4 years. Suddenly, I'm being reintroduced to the wild against my will. I want 70s and sun again! I stood in line, after line, trying to figure out the procedure of Race Day Registration. Being a planner, I've actually never registered on site before. I didn't like it. Way too stressful.

After finally procuring my bib and chip, hunger began gnawing at my insides. Great. I hadn't been hungry at the house! I began scanning the tables for food. Nothing. Jogging around to keep warm, I spotted a table at the far end of the park with mounds of crisp, yellow, savory bananas. I ran over, giving them my best puppy-dog look, "Can I please have a banana?" This big, fat woman, looked me down, sternly, with her hands on her hips and her chin bobbing ever so slightly back and forth, "No! If I give you one, I have to give everyone one." I looked around. I was alone. Everyone? No one would know! I pleaded to no avail. "Do you know where there is some pre-race food. Gu? Gels?" I asked, verrry politely. "I don't know anything. Everything is different this year." I came very, very close to saying, "Happy Thanksgiving!" in an overzealous tone but was too afraid of her wrath to be sarcastic. Instead, I gave her a long, pitiful look as I walked away. My look said it all: I just wanted a banana, and it's Thanksgiving, and I was very nice, and the least you could do is be nice back but, no, instead you took out your stress and bad day on me, and you're VOLUNTEERING! Next time? Stay home! I think my look made her feel very bad. At least I hope so. I continued my hunt for food. I spotted a volunteer's banana on a table as she handed out safety pins and shoe tags. I thought seriously about swiping it like an opportunistic (and ravenous) hyena but somehow restrained myself. Finally, I discovered a team tent with heaps and heaps of food: bagels, bananas, coffee, granola bars. I walked nonchalantly into the tent, smiling and nodding, and grabbed what I needed. Ah, food. So primal. We are only animals afterall.

I lined up on the start with 30 minutes to spare, satiated but shivering. I found a small patch of sunshine and stood as close as I could to a group of people to benefit from their body heat without invading their personal space...too much. They were probably wondering, "Why is this strange skinny girl trying to hug us?" I'm just cold, really!

The gun went off, and I was so relieved to start running. The crowds thinned out pretty quickly, and I let the adrenaline surge pick my way around and through, zig-zagging in and out of the crowd. Apparently, there were 11,000 runners! The cold morning air propagated missiles of snot rockets and spit bombs that I had to dodge, glistening like morning dew on grass. I glanced at my GPS. 7:20s? I felt SO good! I didn't have a time goal; I didn't care about pacing. I just ran. As fast as I wanted. It felt wonderful. Freeing. I ran like that for 2 miles before my pace slowed naturally.

The San Jose Fire Department kept me company, running along at a good clip in matching dark navy uniforms, chanting in unison. A fireman in front carried their flag. I love a man in uniform, and a fireman? Oh, rescue me! I drank in their chanting; it was extremely motivating. I was sorry to leave them at mile 2.5 but smiled and told them, "You guys are AWESOME!!!"

Somewhere at mile 4, it started getting difficult. I wasn't breathing hard, my legs didn't hurt, but it just felt hard. Hmm. No biggie. I just slowed down for 30 seconds to 8:00s before recovering and surging forward again. I think it was more neuromuscular fatigue than aerobic fatigue. Afterall, I can't remember the last time I've done speed work. I slowed just a bit, running that fine line between laying it all on the line, that this hurts-I-can't-keep-this-up-another-minute feeling (anaerobic) and la-de-dah, I-could-do-this-all-day, let's-sing-a-song feeling (aerobic). All the runners were quiet now, running in blissful, peaceful, meditative solace, yet sharing the comfortable silence of other runners, sharing their sweet pain. We were all in our own private world, somewhere between heaven and hell. I was more near the heaven spot, bathed in waves of endorphins, akin (and healthier) than most narcotics. My body had become physically numb from head to toe, and I floated over the ground, barely feeling my feet spring from stride to stride.

At mile 5, I began to put some mustard on it. Whatever I had left. Now I was panting, gasping for breath. My lungs burned. It felt wonderful. My face was hot and read. Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead, tickling my temples. I can't keep this up, I can't, I told myself. Who cares? This is FUN! I forced myself to slow, knowing I still had 1/2 a mile to go. That can be a long way if you're going all out. I felt my breathing recover, my legs raring to go, chomping at the bit. The adrenaline surged through my veins, making my body tremble, my stomach slightly naseous, my legs wobbly. So hard to resist; so hard. Not yet, not yet. A little farther. Finally, I passed the 6 mile mark and knew there was only 0.2 miles to go. As if the gun was going off, I shot ahead, zig-zagging around the runners around me. I couldn't control myself. How can you not sprint through the chute when everyone else is sprinting and the crowds are cheering?

I surged through the finish, completely exhilarated. The crowds on the other side forced me to stop. Oh, God. Oh, God. I'm going to puke! I pushed people out of the way (Sorry but it was better than puking on you!) and walked out of the crowds, walking, walking, until the hot-red-faced and pukey feeling subsided (I get like that after every race). My legs felt rubbery. 10 minutes later, as if cooled into cement, they began to turn to rubber bands and I fought my way over to a fence for some well-deserved stretching. I'm back at my parents now and ready for some pumpkin pie!

http://svturkeytrot.com/

Calm Before the Storm

Midst dropping my menagerie off at their various holiday boarding locations, packing, and rushing to the airport to throw myself at the mercy of the airport gods, I snuck in one last master's swim. I dove into the calm, silky waters. I had an entire lane to myself, the class mostly empty from earlier Thanksgiving departures. I could focus completely on myself, my swim stroke, and the rhythmic motion of my arms slipping in and out of the water, my torso twisting slightly from side-to-side.

Terry Martin, the most awesome coach ever, gave me extra special attention, given that the student-to-coach ratio was so low. Enter later, enter wider, don't twist so much, bring your arms back under you after you enter, don't do full catch-up on each stroke. So much to remember! Of course, being the overachiever, when first told about front-quadrant swimming, I practiced catch-up drill so much that each stroke is entirely catch-up, making my stroke turnover very low and creating a big dead zone in between each recovery. Egads! Then, apparently, I rotate from my hips so aggressively that I almost flip over onto my back with each stroke. (When I first started swimming, I was told to reach long with each stroke; I had to be told I was going to dislocate my shoulder if I continued to reach that far). I can never half-ass anything. If I'm going to do something, I gotta give it my all! Twist from the hips, I'll show you twist! Reach, I'll reach until my arm pops out! So now, I'm working on backing off a little.

The first 1000 meters was agonizing. I felt slow and sluggish. My time per 100 showed it. Ugh. I just had no strength. My shoulders ached. Around 1200 meters, something shifted. All of a sudden, I was zipping through the water. I shaved off 3 seconds/100. Then, another 2. Then another second....and held it. 100 meters after 100 meters. Suddenly, it snowballed and I was flying through the water with irrational exuberance. I finished off with 2800 meters (and I'm totally out of shape), exhilarated, red-faced, and rejuvenated. Off to the airport! The crowds, honking taxis, lines, nothing could touch me after that. Yay for fantastic workouts!

Workout (long course):
Warm Up--3x300, as follows:
1--50 drill/100 swim (x2)
2--3x100 on base+5 descending
3--6x50 on target test set time
Main Set:
13x100s (test set; 20 seconds rest)
100 ez
Cool Down:
6x100s--50 stroke/50 kick

Congratulations, Anita, You Are an Ironman!

Anita did it!!!! She became an Ironman yesterday! I am SO proud. This is a person who had to fight all odds. She was in a traumatic car accident when she was a little girl, putting her into a coma. She was not expected to leave. She awakened with total amnesia and had to start over from scratch with no memories prior to her 7 years of age. As she progressed, it became apparent she had suffered severe brain damage. As a result, Anita has a difficult time with spatial reasoning, communication, and memory, making it challenging to complete day-to-day tasks. Despite it all, she completed a masters in film-making from the Chicago Institute of Art on a Fulbright Scholarship. Can we say, "Wow!"? Afterwards, she battled with a period of severe depression.

One day, she had an awakening, and on an impulse, moved out to San Diego to embrace the triathlon lifestyle. She had a feeling it would help her to heal and move on. She's had to fight poverty, loneliness, and a very conservative family background. The Triathlon Club of San Diego (www.triclubsandiego.org), inspired by her drive, helped fund her pursuit of becoming an Ironman, and we all raised money for her slot at Ironman Arizona. Meanwhile, Anita trained like a demon. Her coach (Terry Martin, empathizing with her, charitably donated her services), had to constantly convince her not to overtrain. Anita also took classes to enrich her film-making skills at a local community college. With barely any money and living on disability, Anita somehow managed to make ends meet.

With a freshly tuned up bike and a new pair of running shoes, a fellow TCSD member picked her up on Thursday and they set off for Tempe. I waved goodbye with a huge lump in my throat. Sunday morning, I tracked her on-line. All of us in TCSD did as well. Somewhere around 8:30 pm, it said "DNF". I was devastated. Holding back tears, I went to bed, thinking of words to console her the next day. But on the phone (in line to sign up for 2010), she told me she had finished.
"What happened?" I asked. "I thought you DNF'ed."
"Oh, I got lost," she admitted. "I missed the last 6 miles."
I chuckled to myself, shaking my head. Ah, Anita. She was always getting lost, everywhere she went. She proceeded to tell me how she had crossed the finish line, in disbelief at her incredible 11-something hour time.
"It's a miracle!" she thought. She went back to her hotel room, changed into her sweats, and called her coach. Her coach looked on-line, and told her the facts.
"You didn't finish. You missed the last 6 miles."
"What do I do?" Anita asked.
"Go back and finish!" her coach urged. Wearily, she put her running clothes back on, and fighting exhaustion, went back to the course. She convinced the race officials to let her back onto the course. More than an hour had elapsed since her first "finish." She ran the last 6-miles, finishing for real this time. She persevered, and became an Ironman, against all odds. I can't imagine how amazing she will be next year.

Her story is incredibly fascinating. There are many more twists and turns but it's not my place to divulge it all here. That is for her to tell one day. Anita is an inspiration to us all. She became an Ironman when the whole world seemed to be against her. Anita has proven to us that if your will is strong enough, and you want something badly enough, you can overcome. Anything is possible. And that is a gift for all of us.

http://anitatalevski.com/

Fantastic Weekend

I had a fantastic weekend. Can't get into all the gory details but it's definitely in the top 10. Started Saturday with a 50-miler in Camp Pendleton. Felt so good to be back in the saddle. Rode with a few good friends at a social pace for most of the ride. Perfect weather, gorgeous views, good company, what more can you ask for? We picked up the pace the last 10 miles, finishing strong. I didn't even feel tired (and it's been a long time since I rode 50); I felt invigorated. Afterwards, I had some coffee with a friend, took Travis to dog beach and ran sprints with him in the water for 45 minutes until we were both exhausted.

I stayed out late Saturday (like the 1 time a year I do that) so I napped most of Sunday away. Soooo relaxing. Sunday night, I grabbed Travis (my protector) and my headlamp and ventured out for a nighttime run. It was gorgeous. Just cool enough that my breath puffed smoke with each breath like a dragon. My legs felt like springs; I floated over the ground. Travis trotted happily beside me; my steadfast companion. The stars glittered spectacularly overhead, blinded only by the sliver of the new moon, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Indeed, I felt like Alice running along in the surreal shrouded darkness. Afterwards, I was both tired and energized somehow, stuck in a paradox. I followed it up with weights on my new Life Fitness Functional Trainer (soooo nice) while watching Grey's Anatomy re-runs. Think it's time for sleep!

Adventures with Travis

Adopting Travis has been one of the best decisions I've made in my life. I was warned, "Dogs are a lot of work," but it's been nothing but rewards on my end. I have to walk him 3x a day. Woe is me. You mean, I have to spend 30 minutes a couple times a day running and walking on trails, enjoying the sunshine and stopping every now and then to smell the flowers? Oh, the agony! There is nothing better than waking up and going for a walk with your best friend first thing in the morning. It's a great way to warm up before a work out. In addition, he's always happy to see me when I get home (aka the nickname "Mr. Wiggles" when I walk in the door). After dinner and an evening walk, we work on obedience commands. He is a fast learner and has gotten, "Sit", "Shake", "Down", "Stay", "Come", "Beg", and "Roll Over" down pat. He's also a very good snuggler. On weekends, we frequent all the dog parks and beaches (Travis is a guy magnet). I take him everywhere with me.

I've been starting to train again. Very unofficial. Just a lot of relaxed group runs, some masters swims, and group rides. Ah, it feels good to feel sore again.

P.S.--Got a LifeFitness functional trainer today. Most awesome home gym EVER!!!

Photo Journal:

"Hurry up, Mom! Let's go!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming." (love it when his tongue hangs out).

"YIPPEE!!!"

"WAIT! What's that? Is it a rabbit?!"

"I smell a rabbit!"

"Time for a nap."