The summer of 2013 will eternally be known (in my world) as “The Summer that was swallowed, in its entirety, by an Iron Man”.
I knew, way back in August 2012, that signing up for a full Iron Man (2.5 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and 26.2 mile run) was a commitment.
I knew that it would require a TON of training.
I knew that it would require time and dedication.
I knew that it would be an investment financially (a $750 non-refundable registration is amazing motivation to see something through to the bitter, bitter end) and emotionally.
I anticipated all of these things, and they have all pretty much panned out as expected.
One ugly side effect that I did not anticipate?:
Training for this damn Iron Man has made me the most unbelievably boring person on the face of the planet.
I’ve never been the life of the party. It’s just not my nature.
I can maybe tell a funny story…after a few months of contemplation…and 2-3 days of writing…and another day of editing…and ½ day of wondering if it’s good enough to post for people to actually read.
Still, I have always thought I could at least hold my own in a conversation. I may not be the be-all-end-all of riveting dialogue (and I'm ok with that), but I do listen carefully, ask questions, and try to store up a few interesting topics to pull out should conversation fain.
(Latest topic: push gifts - extremely thoughtful or just another marketing ploy for jewelry companies? Related topic: Can we please call it something other than "push gift"?)
Recently, though, I have found that conversations with friends and family are getting difficult.
The seemingly simple question, “What have you been up to?” instantly fills me with dread, as, in the resulting moments of silence, I try desperately to think of something anywhere even close to interesting to say. My stock answer for the last 3 months (which many of you have probably heard…several times): “Well, I’ve been doing a lot of swimming, biking and running.”
That’s it. That’s what I’ve done all summer. That’s what I do every weekend. That's what I do every weeknight. That’s what I will do for 6 more days.
So, seeing as how I can barely get through a conversation, I also have not had a whole heck-of-a-lot to blog about.
I do have a few triathlon-training (because, again, that’s all I do) lessons learned from the past few months, which I'm sharing below.
Disclaimer:
I apologize in advance if these stories are not interesting.
Please keep in mind that they were written during the summer of 2013 and are, therefore, deeply impacted by Iron Man training, and the resulting boring-ness.
Any blogs written after August 18th should be noticeable more interesting.
I'm told the boring-ness, like the other side effects (excessive hunger and constant sleepiness) will slowly lessen once the actual Iron Man event is over, and I am hopeful.
Lesson #1. A "teammate" can be a good thing.
I don’t like cycling. It’s hard, it’s time-consuming, I wipe out a lot (not so much anymore, but A LOT at first, and the scars are deep), and I’m much slower than I would like. So, one Saturday when the training plan called for another 100 mile ride, I was predictably less than enthusiastic.
It was a hot day and I was tired and grumpy. The first 50 miles (3+ hours) seemed to drag on into eternity. Finally reaching the trail turnaround and halfway point, I parked my bike (words cannot express how good it feels for a non-cyclist to get off of a bike after 50 miles) and pulled out the most beautiful peanut butter sandwich in the history of the world, the anticipation of which had literally gotten me through the last 20 miles (it's the small things). As I leaned against my bike, enjoying every minute of being off of the bike and every bite of peanut buttery goodness, I could hear, amongst the crowd of cyclists taking their turnaround point water/food/bathroom breaks, friendly chatter.
Amongst the chatter, one voice stood out.
He was talking loudly and he was talking a lot…a whole lot...nonstop, actually.
This led me to reflect, while eating my delicious sandwich, upon how content I was to be a lone biker.
I like going my own pace, in my own time and, most importantly, not talking.
A lone wolf on the bike path, focused on the goal with no time for distraction.
A solo cyclist with a mission.
That’s me.
Riding with somebody like that guy would drive me completely insane.
Done with my sandwich, and kind of sad about it, I stretched quickly, took a swig of nutrition-tablet-infused water, and set out for Part 2.
I made it a full mile into my journey when somebody rode up behind me at a stoplight…not uncommon on a bike trail and nothing of note.
“Gosh it’s hot out here.”
I recognized the voice immediately. It was definitely the guy who talked loudly and a lot.
I agreed that it was hot and, hoped that, once the light changed, we would each take off and that would be the end of the conversation.
But no.
I was stuck.
From then on he talked loudly and a lot, and I nodded,
“uh huh…uh huh….oh…gosh…uh huh”
Yes, I probably could have explained that I didn’t want to talk, but we were on the same bike path and going the same speed. Telling somebody that you don’t really want to talk and then riding next to/right behind/right in front of them in silence for up to 50 miles would be, well, awkward.
He talked about cycling.
“Uh huh.”
He talked about his family.
“Yep.”
He talked about his job.
“Oh!”
He talked about New Jersey (can’t remember why that came up).
“Hmmm.”
He talked about all of the friends he had made, and great conversations he had had, while biking on that very trail.
“Wow.”
He talked a lot about the Tour De France (this was partly my fault – I mentioned that I didn’t really “get” the whole Tour De France thing, which opened a door – a rookie mistake in the world of unwanted conversation)
“Oh, I see.”
Eventually, we came upon a parking lot, which, he announced, was his stopping point. He bid me adieu and thanked me for the conversation. The word “conversation” seemed kind of inaccurate, as I had contributed very little, but, nevertheless, I thanked him and went on my way.
Relieved to be flying solo once again, I did a check of my Garmin to see where things stood (and how long I had to go before my next peanut butter sandwich) and was shocked to find that 30 miles and 2 hours had passed! Distracted by my annoyance with the conversation that I didn’t want to be in, I had biked, unnoticed, right on through mile 75 (which is where I usually hit my giant, mental, scary wall of “I don’t want to do this anymore!”).
And, once I had gotten home, taken a hot shower, and curled up in front of the tv for some recovery time and yet another peanut butter sandwich, I *may* have watched some Tour De France footage (and *may* have even understood what was going on…and *may* have even enjoyed it).
Yep,even a lone wolf can use a teammate every now and then.
Lesson #2. Organization is definitely a good thing.
You would think that the hardest part of competing in a triathlon would be the swimming, biking and running…right?
That part is difficult, for sure, but for some of us non-detail-oriented folks, the biggest challenge is actually the organizational skills required to get yourself through a race.
Transition 1 and Transition 2 are the two areas of a triathlon course where you transition from one sport to another. In theory, at Transition 1 you have everything you will need after your swim and for your bike ride, and at Transition 2 you have everything you need after the bike ride and for the run. The idea is to set up your assigned spot in each transition area as efficiently as possible so you will waste no time in your eagerness to get from one activity to the next.
Transitions are hard for me and I generally take a good 3 minutes longer at the transition areas than most people (which is a lot of time). One friend, when looking at my results from a race, said “Wow – look at that T1 time! What did you do…take a shower?”
I competed in my first ½ Iron Man this past June and, in preparation, I was determined to improve my times by doing a fantastic job of setting up the transitions. I carefully planned out everything I would need – made lists, laid everything out a day before leaving, put everything in separate bags.
Transitions were going to go well this time.
The morning of the race, I carefully prepped my Transition 2 area. Everything I needed for my run was there – visor, gu packets, sunscreen. As I took one last look before boarding a bus that would take us miles away to the start of the race, I noticed that something didn’t look right. My space didn’t look as full as my competitor’s spaces. What was missing?
She has a visor. I have a visor.
She has a Gu packet. I have a Gu packet.
She has dry socks. I have dry socks.
She has her running shoes. I DON’T have my running shoes.
*#&$*#(^$#~!
I was 150 miles from home and the race was starting in approximately 1 hour.
Tears welling up, I started to consider my options:
Run barefoot? (ouch)
Run in my flip flops? (for a person who can wipe out in shoes made for running, flip flops could be hazardous)
Run in my bike shoes? (cleats on the bottom…ummm, no)
Buy shoes? (good luck finding a store in an hour that sells running shoes…and is open at 5:30 am on a Sunday)
Borrow shoes from a friend? (everyone I knew was competing and would likely need their shoes)
Borrow shoes from a random spectator? (not out of the question….stranger things have happened…who looks like they might wear my size)
Last ditch effort? Check the trunk of the car. Maybe, just maybe, things got shuffled around and they wound up out of their designated T2 bag.
A mad sprint to the car (as it turns out, I can actually run pretty fast in flip flops, so that might actually be an option)…
tears streaming…
heart pounding…
mind racing…
trunk open…
and there they were , two running shoes, sitting casually in the trunk of my car, exactly where they were not supposed to be (but closer to where they were supposed to be than in the closet at home).
Lesson #3. Luck/physics/grace are all very, very good things.
In the midst of the chaos that was the morning of that same ½ Iron Man I managed to miss the very important step of stowing my car key safely in the saddle bag of my bike.
I had every intention of doing it.
I told myself I would definitely do it.
I reminded myself to do it numerous times.
However, it wasn’t until one clear-headed moment halfway through my bike ride that I realized I totally, 100%, for sure had not done it.
My mind tends to wander on the bike portion of a race.
On that particular day, I had been thinking about all kinds of things:
my beliefs, the Matrix, hopes and dreams, what I wanted for dinner, the color blue, what I was going to wear to work the next day.
When all of a sudden, and seemingly out of nowhere, one singular thought came hurdling violently and wrecklessly through my mind, sending me into a total panic.
“Faith! your car key (the only car key you have) was last seen in your open, non-zippable, tri-top pocket before the extremely rough, 1.25 mile swim you just completed.
The key is now, most definitely resting in its eternal home on the murky bottom of the James River.
After the race (when you smell like lake water and sweat and are exhausted and just want to take a shower) you are going to have to call AAA.
It will take hours to find an available locksmith.
It will cost a fortune to have a new key made.
With the delay, you will definitely get stuck in horrible, Sunday night, coming-home-from-the-beach traffic.
You won’t get a shower until at least 3 am.
It’s all your fault.
Faith, you SUCK
(and, at the moment, you smell)!”
(My inner voice tends to be extremely pessimistic…and overly critical...and unnecessarily mean.)
Hesitantly reaching around to the pocket of my tri-top, I was already feeling the dread of the emptiness I would most definitely find, when....
there it was, my car key, nestled safely in my pocket where it was not supposed to be (but also not at the bottom of the James River).
Some people would call it luck.
Some people would call it physics.
I personally call it grace.
Whatever you believe, it was a nice reminder that sometimes, despite our best efforts, things work out.
I knew, way back in August 2012, that signing up for a full Iron Man (2.5 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and 26.2 mile run) was a commitment.
I knew that it would require a TON of training.
I knew that it would require time and dedication.
I knew that it would be an investment financially (a $750 non-refundable registration is amazing motivation to see something through to the bitter, bitter end) and emotionally.
I anticipated all of these things, and they have all pretty much panned out as expected.
One ugly side effect that I did not anticipate?:
Training for this damn Iron Man has made me the most unbelievably boring person on the face of the planet.
I’ve never been the life of the party. It’s just not my nature.
I can maybe tell a funny story…after a few months of contemplation…and 2-3 days of writing…and another day of editing…and ½ day of wondering if it’s good enough to post for people to actually read.
Still, I have always thought I could at least hold my own in a conversation. I may not be the be-all-end-all of riveting dialogue (and I'm ok with that), but I do listen carefully, ask questions, and try to store up a few interesting topics to pull out should conversation fain.
(Latest topic: push gifts - extremely thoughtful or just another marketing ploy for jewelry companies? Related topic: Can we please call it something other than "push gift"?)
Recently, though, I have found that conversations with friends and family are getting difficult.
The seemingly simple question, “What have you been up to?” instantly fills me with dread, as, in the resulting moments of silence, I try desperately to think of something anywhere even close to interesting to say. My stock answer for the last 3 months (which many of you have probably heard…several times): “Well, I’ve been doing a lot of swimming, biking and running.”
That’s it. That’s what I’ve done all summer. That’s what I do every weekend. That's what I do every weeknight. That’s what I will do for 6 more days.
So, seeing as how I can barely get through a conversation, I also have not had a whole heck-of-a-lot to blog about.
I do have a few triathlon-training (because, again, that’s all I do) lessons learned from the past few months, which I'm sharing below.
Disclaimer:
I apologize in advance if these stories are not interesting.
Please keep in mind that they were written during the summer of 2013 and are, therefore, deeply impacted by Iron Man training, and the resulting boring-ness.
Any blogs written after August 18th should be noticeable more interesting.
I'm told the boring-ness, like the other side effects (excessive hunger and constant sleepiness) will slowly lessen once the actual Iron Man event is over, and I am hopeful.
Lesson #1. A "teammate" can be a good thing.
I don’t like cycling. It’s hard, it’s time-consuming, I wipe out a lot (not so much anymore, but A LOT at first, and the scars are deep), and I’m much slower than I would like. So, one Saturday when the training plan called for another 100 mile ride, I was predictably less than enthusiastic.
It was a hot day and I was tired and grumpy. The first 50 miles (3+ hours) seemed to drag on into eternity. Finally reaching the trail turnaround and halfway point, I parked my bike (words cannot express how good it feels for a non-cyclist to get off of a bike after 50 miles) and pulled out the most beautiful peanut butter sandwich in the history of the world, the anticipation of which had literally gotten me through the last 20 miles (it's the small things). As I leaned against my bike, enjoying every minute of being off of the bike and every bite of peanut buttery goodness, I could hear, amongst the crowd of cyclists taking their turnaround point water/food/bathroom breaks, friendly chatter.
Amongst the chatter, one voice stood out.
He was talking loudly and he was talking a lot…a whole lot...nonstop, actually.
This led me to reflect, while eating my delicious sandwich, upon how content I was to be a lone biker.
I like going my own pace, in my own time and, most importantly, not talking.
A lone wolf on the bike path, focused on the goal with no time for distraction.
A solo cyclist with a mission.
That’s me.
Riding with somebody like that guy would drive me completely insane.
Done with my sandwich, and kind of sad about it, I stretched quickly, took a swig of nutrition-tablet-infused water, and set out for Part 2.
I made it a full mile into my journey when somebody rode up behind me at a stoplight…not uncommon on a bike trail and nothing of note.
“Gosh it’s hot out here.”
I recognized the voice immediately. It was definitely the guy who talked loudly and a lot.
I agreed that it was hot and, hoped that, once the light changed, we would each take off and that would be the end of the conversation.
But no.
I was stuck.
From then on he talked loudly and a lot, and I nodded,
“uh huh…uh huh….oh…gosh…uh huh”
Yes, I probably could have explained that I didn’t want to talk, but we were on the same bike path and going the same speed. Telling somebody that you don’t really want to talk and then riding next to/right behind/right in front of them in silence for up to 50 miles would be, well, awkward.
He talked about cycling.
“Uh huh.”
He talked about his family.
“Yep.”
He talked about his job.
“Oh!”
He talked about New Jersey (can’t remember why that came up).
“Hmmm.”
He talked about all of the friends he had made, and great conversations he had had, while biking on that very trail.
“Wow.”
He talked a lot about the Tour De France (this was partly my fault – I mentioned that I didn’t really “get” the whole Tour De France thing, which opened a door – a rookie mistake in the world of unwanted conversation)
“Oh, I see.”
Eventually, we came upon a parking lot, which, he announced, was his stopping point. He bid me adieu and thanked me for the conversation. The word “conversation” seemed kind of inaccurate, as I had contributed very little, but, nevertheless, I thanked him and went on my way.
Relieved to be flying solo once again, I did a check of my Garmin to see where things stood (and how long I had to go before my next peanut butter sandwich) and was shocked to find that 30 miles and 2 hours had passed! Distracted by my annoyance with the conversation that I didn’t want to be in, I had biked, unnoticed, right on through mile 75 (which is where I usually hit my giant, mental, scary wall of “I don’t want to do this anymore!”).
And, once I had gotten home, taken a hot shower, and curled up in front of the tv for some recovery time and yet another peanut butter sandwich, I *may* have watched some Tour De France footage (and *may* have even understood what was going on…and *may* have even enjoyed it).
Yep,even a lone wolf can use a teammate every now and then.
Lesson #2. Organization is definitely a good thing.
You would think that the hardest part of competing in a triathlon would be the swimming, biking and running…right?
That part is difficult, for sure, but for some of us non-detail-oriented folks, the biggest challenge is actually the organizational skills required to get yourself through a race.
Transition 1 and Transition 2 are the two areas of a triathlon course where you transition from one sport to another. In theory, at Transition 1 you have everything you will need after your swim and for your bike ride, and at Transition 2 you have everything you need after the bike ride and for the run. The idea is to set up your assigned spot in each transition area as efficiently as possible so you will waste no time in your eagerness to get from one activity to the next.
Transitions are hard for me and I generally take a good 3 minutes longer at the transition areas than most people (which is a lot of time). One friend, when looking at my results from a race, said “Wow – look at that T1 time! What did you do…take a shower?”
I competed in my first ½ Iron Man this past June and, in preparation, I was determined to improve my times by doing a fantastic job of setting up the transitions. I carefully planned out everything I would need – made lists, laid everything out a day before leaving, put everything in separate bags.
Transitions were going to go well this time.
The morning of the race, I carefully prepped my Transition 2 area. Everything I needed for my run was there – visor, gu packets, sunscreen. As I took one last look before boarding a bus that would take us miles away to the start of the race, I noticed that something didn’t look right. My space didn’t look as full as my competitor’s spaces. What was missing?
She has a visor. I have a visor.
She has a Gu packet. I have a Gu packet.
She has dry socks. I have dry socks.
She has her running shoes. I DON’T have my running shoes.
*#&$*#(^$#~!
I was 150 miles from home and the race was starting in approximately 1 hour.
Tears welling up, I started to consider my options:
Run barefoot? (ouch)
Run in my flip flops? (for a person who can wipe out in shoes made for running, flip flops could be hazardous)
Run in my bike shoes? (cleats on the bottom…ummm, no)
Buy shoes? (good luck finding a store in an hour that sells running shoes…and is open at 5:30 am on a Sunday)
Borrow shoes from a friend? (everyone I knew was competing and would likely need their shoes)
Borrow shoes from a random spectator? (not out of the question….stranger things have happened…who looks like they might wear my size)
Last ditch effort? Check the trunk of the car. Maybe, just maybe, things got shuffled around and they wound up out of their designated T2 bag.
A mad sprint to the car (as it turns out, I can actually run pretty fast in flip flops, so that might actually be an option)…
tears streaming…
heart pounding…
mind racing…
trunk open…
and there they were , two running shoes, sitting casually in the trunk of my car, exactly where they were not supposed to be (but closer to where they were supposed to be than in the closet at home).
Lesson #3. Luck/physics/grace are all very, very good things.
In the midst of the chaos that was the morning of that same ½ Iron Man I managed to miss the very important step of stowing my car key safely in the saddle bag of my bike.
I had every intention of doing it.
I told myself I would definitely do it.
I reminded myself to do it numerous times.
However, it wasn’t until one clear-headed moment halfway through my bike ride that I realized I totally, 100%, for sure had not done it.
My mind tends to wander on the bike portion of a race.
On that particular day, I had been thinking about all kinds of things:
my beliefs, the Matrix, hopes and dreams, what I wanted for dinner, the color blue, what I was going to wear to work the next day.
When all of a sudden, and seemingly out of nowhere, one singular thought came hurdling violently and wrecklessly through my mind, sending me into a total panic.
“Faith! your car key (the only car key you have) was last seen in your open, non-zippable, tri-top pocket before the extremely rough, 1.25 mile swim you just completed.
The key is now, most definitely resting in its eternal home on the murky bottom of the James River.
After the race (when you smell like lake water and sweat and are exhausted and just want to take a shower) you are going to have to call AAA.
It will take hours to find an available locksmith.
It will cost a fortune to have a new key made.
With the delay, you will definitely get stuck in horrible, Sunday night, coming-home-from-the-beach traffic.
You won’t get a shower until at least 3 am.
It’s all your fault.
Faith, you SUCK
(and, at the moment, you smell)!”
(My inner voice tends to be extremely pessimistic…and overly critical...and unnecessarily mean.)
Hesitantly reaching around to the pocket of my tri-top, I was already feeling the dread of the emptiness I would most definitely find, when....
there it was, my car key, nestled safely in my pocket where it was not supposed to be (but also not at the bottom of the James River).
Some people would call it luck.
Some people would call it physics.
I personally call it grace.
Whatever you believe, it was a nice reminder that sometimes, despite our best efforts, things work out.
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