Sam McGlone is a pro triathlete I admire. She's a long-course racer. She came to my attention at the Honu 2007, the most recent year that T and I did the race--and the year she chose to jump up to the full IM distance after her impressive 70.3 wins, including the 2006 70.3 championship in Clearwater, Florida, which qualified her for Kona in '07.
In the 2008 October issue of Triathlete magazine, Sam wrote about the difference between pros and the "average Joe" triathlete: "A common problem among triathletes is training way too much and not racing enough."
This sentence jumped out at me.
Earlier this year I mixed up my season by taking a 3 month hiatus from racing, with only a fairly recent return to the circuit. I tend to train long, as this is the most comfortable distance for me. But starting in August, I've been sprinkling in some weekend sprint competitions--with progressively improving results. I've never been good at threshold efforts--they hurt too much, and my threshold is disappointingly slow--but these sprint races have served a purpose and challenged my capacity. Sam's words have helped me to realize that rather than wallowing in the self-absorption of my points standing in the SW Challenge series, these races have built on my early season base, extended my skill level, and touched up my speed. I have never been a "sprint" type athlete, but coupled with the external reward of placing on the podium, and the internal reward of pushing my limits, I now call these weekend forays, "fun" (whodathunk?), functional and applied interval training.
Yesterday, T and I decided to drive south to Levelland, Texas for the SPC Cotton Country Sprint Triathlon: 5K run, 13 mile bike, 300 yard pool swim. Since I work until 5 pm, and the drive is 308 miles, we broke up the distance by spending the night in Clovis (clean, new, unused (!) Comfort Inn), got up early, and finished the final 87 miles by watching a pastel sunrise across wide open Texas fields of cotton.
Cotton Country is a small race, which has grown every year to now having about 100 participants. T and I registered in a matter of minutes, set up our transitions, had about 20 minutes for warm up, then gathered in the street to get ready for the start. I hadn't recognized any of the 3 (!) names listed in my age group category, but one of the women happened to announce her age loudly while we were waiting at the start line, so I immediately honed in and marked her as someone to keep an eye on.
The Run:
The men started two minutes in front of us.
Due to my generally poor running performance, I seeded myself at the back of the pack, started at a steady pace, then found my stride and gradually made my way up to the 4th place position--right behind the woman who had identified herself as my competition. She ran well, and kept me on the edge. Another young, blonde woman passed me, and she and my competition spent the next two miles testing each other and surging ahead--which meant I spent my run playing keep-up and hoping I wasn't going out too hard.
Since the run is an out and back course, and the men started two minutes in front of us, we could see the men on the return as we headed for the turn-around. Bobby Gonzales looked up at me as he came flying by. T says that I was breathing so loud he could hear me across the road. He couldn't hear anyone else. Was I making such a ruckus that I disturbed Bobby's run concentration? I was merely trying to make sure I had enough oxygen, but probably sounded like I was drawing my last gasp.
The two women kept up the pace, but at 2 miles started to flag, and definitelylooked tired when they picked up water at the aid station. I went by without pausing for a drink, still worried that I was over doing it, and expected them to match me, but they fell off the back. Instead two other women passed me, neatly, like I was running my standard slow slog. Still, I managed to keep up the pace, reduce the damage, and pass one in transition, while the other disappeared--probably a team. Cotton Country doesn't take splits. I finished 5th on the run. A rough estimate of my time was 26:50, on a course that Muffin thought was longer than 3.1 miles.
The Bike:
The bike was well protected this year, including the turn-around which had both a volunteer and police officer. Even the sandy corner had been swept--or just hadn't gathered sand this year. The course felt a whole lot safer, even if the large trucks on the road certainly had no idea what we were doing...
After reviewing two race reports, 2007 and 2006, I thought I was going to fun on the bike with one humdinger of a tail wind. Instead we had a crosswind, so that after working hard to get to the turnaround and my headwind reward, I found I had to work even harder--and battle thoughts of "there's only 3 in my age group, so why am I working so hard?"--until it suddenly struck me--I could go for the overall, instead of age group, win. Since it was a bit late to suddenly realize I might have a shot at the overall, it was a bit like blowing air into a leaky balloon, but the thought still worked enough to pick up my sagging-in-the-wind bike effort and overtake more men, and one of the females in front of me, to bring me up to 3rd overall on the bike. A rough estimate of my bike time on the 13 miles course was 35:30.
The Swim:
In transition, one of the women I had passed on the bike caught up to me. I was busy trying to get my bike shoes off, so I said, "Don't worry, I'm not in your age group," then looked up and thought,"Uh-oh, did I just lie to that woman?" I felt so bad about unintentionally misleading her that when we got to the pool, together, and she motioned for me to go first, I said, "No, you go." She took off, with me right behind her--and I'll be darned if I didn't pass her within 25 yards, without even trying. T said we both lost time with our polite sillyness.
The swim was down and back in the same lane, for another thrashfest. However, this time, I didn't hover on the edge of panic, just kept on warming up to the water and gradually, opening up my speed. Unfortunately, in a deja vu moment, a large guy passed me--then couldn't keep up the speed. He blocked me from passing, and couldn't negotiate the turns, so as I found myself having to slow down my swim, I got worried that the woman behind me was catching up. I also, now, had no chance of catching any woman in front of me. It was very frustrating, since this was one of the only swims this year where I wasn't panicking. I thought about passing hiimon the right, but there wasn't quite enough room. By the finish, I was pretty irritated, but T, who had watched the whole thing, immediately spirited me away from the pool, which gave me time to pack up my gear, put my irritation behind me, and enjoy the lunch and awards that followed.
T and I both did well.
I love it when we have dual-twin finishes.
He was 3rd place Overall male, I was 3rd place Overall female.
Unfortunately, T had tummy problems on the bike, and ended up placing 2nd in his age group--first in the pool off the bike, but with not enough lead to hold off his competition.
I won my age group.
The woman I passed in the pool was a couple of age groups behind me, and won her age group.
Here is how T congratulated me: "Do you have to keep hogging all the national championship slots?"
Which is how I realized I had qualified again.
The best part about this race, is feeling that I was able to push my pace on the run, and not panicking in the pool.
Sam's advice about training too much, and not racing enough seems to be working for me. Every race brings up my skill--and this year, I'm enjoying it.
We broke up the drive home by stopping in Santa Rosa for a half mile swim in Park Lake, a sink hole 200 yards across with relatively clear water (like Bottomless Lakes in Roswell), large fish, and coolish temps. Lightning came up from the east and cut our swim short, but it was a nice interlude, and made us feel we had done more than "just" a sprint distance work out for the day.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
A Good Day: The Patriot Triathlon
When I finished the Patriot Tri I thought "It figures. I'm having a really bad day."
This was because a number of events leading up to the race had been auspiciously adverse.
Not that I'm superstitious, or anything like that.
It's just that when enough things go wrong, you start to wonder if maybe the universe is trying to tell you something....
It all started when I tried to sign up for the race, on the day of the deadline--and I couldn't get Active to give me anything past the waiver page. Signing up for the race was pretty important to me, but as it was a race I really wasn't sure I wanted to do, I'd left it until the last minute. I'd already completed my 8 races to qualify for the SW Challenge Series, and was really looking forward to a change in focus--but during my 3 month hiatus, unbeknownst to me, a rival Age Grouper had taken my absence as a sign that maybe she could take the prize--so she'd turned up the heat by participating in a number of races, and was fast closing in on my first place status.
I had to find another computer to get Active to allow me to register, but not before I had a momentary panic and internally berated myself for waiting until the last minute....
Then, I went to pick up my packet.
I call this section "LOST IN RIO RANCHO."
Seriously.
It took me two hours to get my packet.
I could have just about driven to Farmington, which is on the northern border of this state. Instead, I spent 2 hours in a neighboring suburb.
It all began when my excessively literal self read the race brochure which stated that packets could be picked up at the sponsoring bicycle shop OR at the race site.
I thought it was odd that there were two packet pick up sites, but thought maybe they had some kind of computer system that would cross check...or...err....something like that.
So, I plugged in my address to the "map" link on Active, got my directions, and proceeded to the race site. I figured I might as well kill two (or three) birds with one stone: pick up my packet, figure out the location of the race site, as well as take a look at the course.
Trouble was, the directions dead-ended in dirt. So, I drove around a bit and, fortuitously, found my way.
Trouble was, there was no packet pick up at the race site.
And, without a packet, I couldn't scope out the course.
So I left the race site and immediately got lost. I thought I knew what direction I was going in, but after a while it became painfully obvious, I didn't have a clue. I tried going a different way, but ended up dead-ending into dirt roads. I thought, "No wonder they come out here to film movies." There's this vast dirtness in Rio Rancho. Skyline that just goes on forever. Sparse vehicles. Occasional cacti. And no traffic on smooth, wide, sweeping roads.
Which was my undoing.
I got stopped for speeding 55 mph in a 45 mph zone.
Truthfully, I hadn't seen a sign, so I didn't know what the speed limit was.
The officer was polite but firm.
I ended up parked for an extended length of time in direct sunlight magnified by the windshield, while she checked for priors. I was dripping sweat by the time she came back. Cooked, and getting browner by the minute.
Then, I couldn't find my insurance card.
Even though I have an envelope with insurance stubs going back 5 years, it was the most recent one that was missing.
I have this memory of tearing out the perforated card and walking out to the car with it.
But, obviously, I didn't.
I think that insurance cards should be mandatorily delivered directly to the vehicle they belong to--just to prevent the number of forgotten insurance cards that get left at home.
So, even though the officer was very nice, and gave me a warning for the speeding infraction, I now have a court date in Rio Rancho at 8:00 am on a weekday morning. Before I left, she warned me that if I got stopped again, I would get a ticket.
So, after my run-in and sauna with the law, I proceeded at a very sedate pace to the actual packet pick up site.
Well, no, actually I didn't.
First, I got lost again.
You see, after the officer left, I realized that I hadn't asked her for directions.
So, at this point, I wisely decided to back track everything, and eventually, finally made it out of the maze.
Then I proceeded to the packet pick up.
Where I was told, "You know, there was this woman who wanted to know if you were doing the race. I mean she really, really, really wanted to know. It was kind of funny."
Which immediately told me that the rival Age Grouper was here, and that she had me in her high beams--which made me feel under the gun.
The funny thing is, any time we've had a head to head competition, I've always buried her. But, you never know. Plus, she's moved up (elevation -wise, about 2300' above my home) to Los Alamos, and is training with the Tri-atomics, who seem to turn out nothing but utterly awesome athletes.
So, race day morning, I drove out to the race site at the Rio Rancho Aquatics Center, anticipating a smack-down show-down--and really not too happy about it.
The race itself had a festive, chaotic atmosphere:
Lines for packet pick up
Lines for bodymarking
Lines for chip timing
A live military band played some fun rock 'n roll.
Loud PA announcements.
Parking was in an adjacent lot a little ways up the street, so you had to pack up your items, and ride your bike to the transition--if you had a pack.
There seemed to be plenty of room on the racks.
There were a lot of first timers, which was nice.
Someone told me there were over 300 registered.
In the end it looked like there were more women participants, than men (Can you believe it? Remember those races when it was 80 men to 7 women?).
Remember what I said about auspiciously adverse events?
I got myself set up at an ideal spot, helped the new girl next to me, got chipped and body marked, ran to the bathroom a few times, went out for a warm up run, returned with minutes to spare for the 8:00 am start, THEN noticed that my bike number and run number did not match.
Aw, gee.
Since this race was important to me, I went to the poor overworked race director to make sure my race effort would be recorded correctly. She probably saw me as a giant irritation that wouldn't go away, since yesterday I had told her they probably needed to tweak the wording on the race brochure to make it correct for their future races. She determined my correct number and assured me my chip would time me just fine. Than, handed me my correct bike number.
I couldn't help myself.
The time was 8:04 am.
The race was supposed to start at 8:00 am.
I looked at the number and said, "I'm not going to put this on my bike now."
It just came out like that. I didn't mean to come off as rude, and I certainly hope I didn't. But I couldn't understand how they could think that I was going to take the time to undo my current number, and a-fix a new one--after the start time for the race--and when I didn't have any twist-ties or tape with me, as it was all in the car in the parking lot that was up the hill across the dirt field....
So, I left everything as it was, and decided just to have faith in my chip.
The Swim:
A time trial start for 400 yards, 8 laps in an 8 lane pool. That means down and back in the same lane. What a splash fest.
I had put my estimated swim time as 9:25. Which is right on par with my best pool practice times. Ha. I always go in with this wide eyed expectation that this time I'll have a smooth controlled strong swim in which I'll just sail over the water without a hint of panic. I guess hope springs eternal.
When I stood in line, I realized I was surrounded by large human beings with huge limbs--and they all looked FAST. Then, I got a glimpse of the pool. It was so splashy, you couldn't even really see the people--at least that's what it seemed to me. Then the guy behind me in line said he usually swims a 400 in 7 minutes. WHAT?! What are you doing behind me? I realize I am going to get mowed down like Muffin's lawn, so I helpfully tell him he should make his way to the front and get in the pool with his own kind. But, by now, I'm getting nervous.
I actually didn't have a bad swim. I hugged the lane line so close, to allow others to pass, that I hit my left goggle, which dislodged and filled with water. My panic didn't tip over into hyperventilation--but it did hover just on the brink. A breast stroker passed me, then slowed down, so his large, paddle like feet and enormously long limbs kept waving back and forth just in front of my nose--so I tapped him a few times to get him to move along--and he did. My swim time, including getting out of the pool and running outside across the timing mat, was 9:46.
Swim note to remember: Running from the pool, outside and around to the front of the building, on cement, was dangerous in wet feet. One person slipped and fell running across a metal plate. It would be nice to see some old indoor/outdoor carpeting laid along the runway to make the transition run safer.
Also, the swim started late. There was some confusion regarding the start order.
So, eventually, people just started to line up and enter the water, according to a hazy "What's your swim time?" question to the person standing next to them.
The Bike:
4th female bike split all age groups included. Need I say more?
Actually, I didn't know I was having such a good bike.
In fact, it seemed pretty poor at the time.
I knew when I exited T1 that Age Group Rival was in front of me. I had seen her enter the pool, and didn't think she could be too far ahead. However, I also remembered that at the F1 in Roswell, I hadn't caught up with her on the bike until the latter 3/4's of the bike, so I knew she could put the hammer down when she needed to.
The bike was an immediate hill that just kept on going. It was one of those days when the wind just seemed to come from the front--no matter what direction you were going in. I picked off 35 people, then stopped counting. No matter how hard I looked, or how many people I passed, I couldn't spot the bright orange of the Triatomic uniform that Age Group Rival had been wearing at the start of the swim. I started calculating--if the pool entries were 10 seconds apart than passing 6 people meant I had made up a minute. But what if they had telescoped the time trial start, and the pool entries had been 6 seconds apart? Then 10 people equaled a minute--and I had only made up 3 minutes so far on the bike. Pretty poor. Why hadn't I seen her yet? Could I really be that far behind? She weighed more than me, so I bet her downhills were screaming. Living up in Los Alamos meant she must be riding hills. Had she gotten so much better since the last time we had raced?
Not catching up to her was demoralizing.
By the end of the bike I had all but conceded.
I started to let up a bit, than thought, you never know.
Lance's mantra--every second counts--came into my head.
In a time trial every second does count.
How awful would it be to let up, just a wee bit, then find I had lost by mere seconds.
So I resumed the hammer once more.
Even though the hills were starting to get to me.
And the headwind just never let up.
And the traffic.
At one point, a large truck passed me on a downhill, than took the right turn at the bottom of the hill at the speed of molasses: Hey--you're slowing me up. Please move!
Crossing Unser was the only dangerous intersection. Otherwise, the route was well protected.
And even though it was remarkably hilly and windy, it was fun. And pretty. Even if it was in the vast open dirtness that is Rio Rancho.
Bike note to remember: The bike is HARD. Have faith in oneself and practice more hills. In the wind.
The Run:
Not much to say here. The run was just a never ending hill also. Then it went onto sand.
Soft sand.
I kept looking for water.
There wasn't any as I exited T2.
And there wasn't any at the bottom of the driveway before the left turn and the sustained up hill.
I asked a volunteer, and he said he didn't think there was any.
More demoralization.
I had a real need for water.
Even if I only needed to take a sip, and then toss the rest over my head.
And I still hadn't caught up to Age Group Rival.
So my run was one more of resignation than of smack down.
It was kind of a trudge.
With a lot of out of hard breathing.
Is Rio Rancho at elevation?
That's what I started to think.
Finally, at the mid way point, there was an aid station.
But not enough volunteers.
I needed 3 cups of water at this point. And there was only one person holding one cup out and the other I kind of snatched from her other hand.
I took what I could get.
I finally started feeling good on the during the last half mile of the run.
Then I went up the driveway to the finishers shoot.
A lot of people were there cheering. I heard my name. I heard a number of "good race" type comments. Since I was sure I had just had one of the worst days of my sprint tri career, I thought, "Wow, everyone is so nice. They say the nicest things, even when it's obvious your just trudging along."
As far as I could tell, I hadn't caught up with Age Group Rival.
To not catch up with someone on the bike is always demoralizing to me. And I really didn't think she had been that far ahead.
Some time ago there was a debate in which one side asserted that you can't win a triathlon on the bike. I think Norman Stadler put that opinion to rest.
I'm one who does best on the bike.
I can't run and I can't swim.
But I can ride a bike.
Today, I placed 10th female overall out of 140 women.
I had the 4th fastest bike out of 140 women.
Right behind the first place woman (who had an amazingly fast swim and who, I was told, is on a swim scholarship), the second place woman, and the third place woman, Tove Shere, holder of a number of national cycling awards.
I was first out of 21 women in my Age Group.
That hasn't happened to me before in these larger races.
I buried my Age Group Rival.
I have no idea when I passed her, but I must have.
Even though I felt like I was having a bad day, I really wasn't.
I had a really nice time. Met some of the newer Outlaw triathletes, including Cindy, who recognized me, and one of the Kathies. Saw H., Miguel and Lorraine, Lazy Mike and his girlfriend, "Trouble," and my partner in pace, Kenneth O'Conner. Michi was volunteering.
"Trouble" made it fun by doing the race in a pink shower cap, arm floaties, and a hello kitty theme, on a 3 speed child's cruiser bike. I wonder how she did on those hills?
So, what do you do after an effort like that?
T and I had a nice afternoon swim, 2300 in an outdoor pool.
What a good day.
p.s. This post is dedicated to Mr. T, who when the alarm went off, and I could barely open my eyes, got himself up to pack my bike in the dark, brew coffee, make sure I was awake, wish me well, and then return to bed. He's had to miss a lot of races this year, but always supports me in mine.
This was because a number of events leading up to the race had been auspiciously adverse.
Not that I'm superstitious, or anything like that.
It's just that when enough things go wrong, you start to wonder if maybe the universe is trying to tell you something....
It all started when I tried to sign up for the race, on the day of the deadline--and I couldn't get Active to give me anything past the waiver page. Signing up for the race was pretty important to me, but as it was a race I really wasn't sure I wanted to do, I'd left it until the last minute. I'd already completed my 8 races to qualify for the SW Challenge Series, and was really looking forward to a change in focus--but during my 3 month hiatus, unbeknownst to me, a rival Age Grouper had taken my absence as a sign that maybe she could take the prize--so she'd turned up the heat by participating in a number of races, and was fast closing in on my first place status.
I had to find another computer to get Active to allow me to register, but not before I had a momentary panic and internally berated myself for waiting until the last minute....
Then, I went to pick up my packet.
I call this section "LOST IN RIO RANCHO."
Seriously.
It took me two hours to get my packet.
I could have just about driven to Farmington, which is on the northern border of this state. Instead, I spent 2 hours in a neighboring suburb.
It all began when my excessively literal self read the race brochure which stated that packets could be picked up at the sponsoring bicycle shop OR at the race site.
I thought it was odd that there were two packet pick up sites, but thought maybe they had some kind of computer system that would cross check...or...err....something like that.
So, I plugged in my address to the "map" link on Active, got my directions, and proceeded to the race site. I figured I might as well kill two (or three) birds with one stone: pick up my packet, figure out the location of the race site, as well as take a look at the course.
Trouble was, the directions dead-ended in dirt. So, I drove around a bit and, fortuitously, found my way.
Trouble was, there was no packet pick up at the race site.
And, without a packet, I couldn't scope out the course.
So I left the race site and immediately got lost. I thought I knew what direction I was going in, but after a while it became painfully obvious, I didn't have a clue. I tried going a different way, but ended up dead-ending into dirt roads. I thought, "No wonder they come out here to film movies." There's this vast dirtness in Rio Rancho. Skyline that just goes on forever. Sparse vehicles. Occasional cacti. And no traffic on smooth, wide, sweeping roads.
Which was my undoing.
I got stopped for speeding 55 mph in a 45 mph zone.
Truthfully, I hadn't seen a sign, so I didn't know what the speed limit was.
The officer was polite but firm.
I ended up parked for an extended length of time in direct sunlight magnified by the windshield, while she checked for priors. I was dripping sweat by the time she came back. Cooked, and getting browner by the minute.
Then, I couldn't find my insurance card.
Even though I have an envelope with insurance stubs going back 5 years, it was the most recent one that was missing.
I have this memory of tearing out the perforated card and walking out to the car with it.
But, obviously, I didn't.
I think that insurance cards should be mandatorily delivered directly to the vehicle they belong to--just to prevent the number of forgotten insurance cards that get left at home.
So, even though the officer was very nice, and gave me a warning for the speeding infraction, I now have a court date in Rio Rancho at 8:00 am on a weekday morning. Before I left, she warned me that if I got stopped again, I would get a ticket.
So, after my run-in and sauna with the law, I proceeded at a very sedate pace to the actual packet pick up site.
Well, no, actually I didn't.
First, I got lost again.
You see, after the officer left, I realized that I hadn't asked her for directions.
So, at this point, I wisely decided to back track everything, and eventually, finally made it out of the maze.
Then I proceeded to the packet pick up.
Where I was told, "You know, there was this woman who wanted to know if you were doing the race. I mean she really, really, really wanted to know. It was kind of funny."
Which immediately told me that the rival Age Grouper was here, and that she had me in her high beams--which made me feel under the gun.
The funny thing is, any time we've had a head to head competition, I've always buried her. But, you never know. Plus, she's moved up (elevation -wise, about 2300' above my home) to Los Alamos, and is training with the Tri-atomics, who seem to turn out nothing but utterly awesome athletes.
So, race day morning, I drove out to the race site at the Rio Rancho Aquatics Center, anticipating a smack-down show-down--and really not too happy about it.
The race itself had a festive, chaotic atmosphere:
Lines for packet pick up
Lines for bodymarking
Lines for chip timing
A live military band played some fun rock 'n roll.
Loud PA announcements.
Parking was in an adjacent lot a little ways up the street, so you had to pack up your items, and ride your bike to the transition--if you had a pack.
There seemed to be plenty of room on the racks.
There were a lot of first timers, which was nice.
Someone told me there were over 300 registered.
In the end it looked like there were more women participants, than men (Can you believe it? Remember those races when it was 80 men to 7 women?).
Remember what I said about auspiciously adverse events?
I got myself set up at an ideal spot, helped the new girl next to me, got chipped and body marked, ran to the bathroom a few times, went out for a warm up run, returned with minutes to spare for the 8:00 am start, THEN noticed that my bike number and run number did not match.
Aw, gee.
Since this race was important to me, I went to the poor overworked race director to make sure my race effort would be recorded correctly. She probably saw me as a giant irritation that wouldn't go away, since yesterday I had told her they probably needed to tweak the wording on the race brochure to make it correct for their future races. She determined my correct number and assured me my chip would time me just fine. Than, handed me my correct bike number.
I couldn't help myself.
The time was 8:04 am.
The race was supposed to start at 8:00 am.
I looked at the number and said, "I'm not going to put this on my bike now."
It just came out like that. I didn't mean to come off as rude, and I certainly hope I didn't. But I couldn't understand how they could think that I was going to take the time to undo my current number, and a-fix a new one--after the start time for the race--and when I didn't have any twist-ties or tape with me, as it was all in the car in the parking lot that was up the hill across the dirt field....
So, I left everything as it was, and decided just to have faith in my chip.
The Swim:
A time trial start for 400 yards, 8 laps in an 8 lane pool. That means down and back in the same lane. What a splash fest.
I had put my estimated swim time as 9:25. Which is right on par with my best pool practice times. Ha. I always go in with this wide eyed expectation that this time I'll have a smooth controlled strong swim in which I'll just sail over the water without a hint of panic. I guess hope springs eternal.
When I stood in line, I realized I was surrounded by large human beings with huge limbs--and they all looked FAST. Then, I got a glimpse of the pool. It was so splashy, you couldn't even really see the people--at least that's what it seemed to me. Then the guy behind me in line said he usually swims a 400 in 7 minutes. WHAT?! What are you doing behind me? I realize I am going to get mowed down like Muffin's lawn, so I helpfully tell him he should make his way to the front and get in the pool with his own kind. But, by now, I'm getting nervous.
I actually didn't have a bad swim. I hugged the lane line so close, to allow others to pass, that I hit my left goggle, which dislodged and filled with water. My panic didn't tip over into hyperventilation--but it did hover just on the brink. A breast stroker passed me, then slowed down, so his large, paddle like feet and enormously long limbs kept waving back and forth just in front of my nose--so I tapped him a few times to get him to move along--and he did. My swim time, including getting out of the pool and running outside across the timing mat, was 9:46.
Swim note to remember: Running from the pool, outside and around to the front of the building, on cement, was dangerous in wet feet. One person slipped and fell running across a metal plate. It would be nice to see some old indoor/outdoor carpeting laid along the runway to make the transition run safer.
Also, the swim started late. There was some confusion regarding the start order.
So, eventually, people just started to line up and enter the water, according to a hazy "What's your swim time?" question to the person standing next to them.
The Bike:
4th female bike split all age groups included. Need I say more?
Actually, I didn't know I was having such a good bike.
In fact, it seemed pretty poor at the time.
I knew when I exited T1 that Age Group Rival was in front of me. I had seen her enter the pool, and didn't think she could be too far ahead. However, I also remembered that at the F1 in Roswell, I hadn't caught up with her on the bike until the latter 3/4's of the bike, so I knew she could put the hammer down when she needed to.
The bike was an immediate hill that just kept on going. It was one of those days when the wind just seemed to come from the front--no matter what direction you were going in. I picked off 35 people, then stopped counting. No matter how hard I looked, or how many people I passed, I couldn't spot the bright orange of the Triatomic uniform that Age Group Rival had been wearing at the start of the swim. I started calculating--if the pool entries were 10 seconds apart than passing 6 people meant I had made up a minute. But what if they had telescoped the time trial start, and the pool entries had been 6 seconds apart? Then 10 people equaled a minute--and I had only made up 3 minutes so far on the bike. Pretty poor. Why hadn't I seen her yet? Could I really be that far behind? She weighed more than me, so I bet her downhills were screaming. Living up in Los Alamos meant she must be riding hills. Had she gotten so much better since the last time we had raced?
Not catching up to her was demoralizing.
By the end of the bike I had all but conceded.
I started to let up a bit, than thought, you never know.
Lance's mantra--every second counts--came into my head.
In a time trial every second does count.
How awful would it be to let up, just a wee bit, then find I had lost by mere seconds.
So I resumed the hammer once more.
Even though the hills were starting to get to me.
And the headwind just never let up.
And the traffic.
At one point, a large truck passed me on a downhill, than took the right turn at the bottom of the hill at the speed of molasses: Hey--you're slowing me up. Please move!
Crossing Unser was the only dangerous intersection. Otherwise, the route was well protected.
And even though it was remarkably hilly and windy, it was fun. And pretty. Even if it was in the vast open dirtness that is Rio Rancho.
Bike note to remember: The bike is HARD. Have faith in oneself and practice more hills. In the wind.
The Run:
Not much to say here. The run was just a never ending hill also. Then it went onto sand.
Soft sand.
I kept looking for water.
There wasn't any as I exited T2.
And there wasn't any at the bottom of the driveway before the left turn and the sustained up hill.
I asked a volunteer, and he said he didn't think there was any.
More demoralization.
I had a real need for water.
Even if I only needed to take a sip, and then toss the rest over my head.
And I still hadn't caught up to Age Group Rival.
So my run was one more of resignation than of smack down.
It was kind of a trudge.
With a lot of out of hard breathing.
Is Rio Rancho at elevation?
That's what I started to think.
Finally, at the mid way point, there was an aid station.
But not enough volunteers.
I needed 3 cups of water at this point. And there was only one person holding one cup out and the other I kind of snatched from her other hand.
I took what I could get.
I finally started feeling good on the during the last half mile of the run.
Then I went up the driveway to the finishers shoot.
A lot of people were there cheering. I heard my name. I heard a number of "good race" type comments. Since I was sure I had just had one of the worst days of my sprint tri career, I thought, "Wow, everyone is so nice. They say the nicest things, even when it's obvious your just trudging along."
As far as I could tell, I hadn't caught up with Age Group Rival.
To not catch up with someone on the bike is always demoralizing to me. And I really didn't think she had been that far ahead.
Some time ago there was a debate in which one side asserted that you can't win a triathlon on the bike. I think Norman Stadler put that opinion to rest.
I'm one who does best on the bike.
I can't run and I can't swim.
But I can ride a bike.
Today, I placed 10th female overall out of 140 women.
I had the 4th fastest bike out of 140 women.
Right behind the first place woman (who had an amazingly fast swim and who, I was told, is on a swim scholarship), the second place woman, and the third place woman, Tove Shere, holder of a number of national cycling awards.
I was first out of 21 women in my Age Group.
That hasn't happened to me before in these larger races.
I buried my Age Group Rival.
I have no idea when I passed her, but I must have.
Even though I felt like I was having a bad day, I really wasn't.
I had a really nice time. Met some of the newer Outlaw triathletes, including Cindy, who recognized me, and one of the Kathies. Saw H., Miguel and Lorraine, Lazy Mike and his girlfriend, "Trouble," and my partner in pace, Kenneth O'Conner. Michi was volunteering.
"Trouble" made it fun by doing the race in a pink shower cap, arm floaties, and a hello kitty theme, on a 3 speed child's cruiser bike. I wonder how she did on those hills?
So, what do you do after an effort like that?
T and I had a nice afternoon swim, 2300 in an outdoor pool.
What a good day.
p.s. This post is dedicated to Mr. T, who when the alarm went off, and I could barely open my eyes, got himself up to pack my bike in the dark, brew coffee, make sure I was awake, wish me well, and then return to bed. He's had to miss a lot of races this year, but always supports me in mine.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
A Race and a Run: The WSMR Yucca Triathlon
Today I ran way too far on too little sleep, food, and drink, and on not much in the way of legs.
My quad muscles didn't start hurting until mile 11.
Then they gave me a lactic acid burn as if I'd been lifting in the gym.
Before that, they had felt tired and slow, but pretty unremarkable.
I ate my gels (miles 5 and 10), drank my water (miles 4, 5, 7, and 10).
Re-filled my water, but couldn't re-fill my gels.
Then, I REALLY got hungry, like there was NO food left in me.
I walked the last 3 miles and the last mile was a real doozy.
Of course, I thought, "Maybe my legs will lose weight."
This was after a not very happy moment two nights before between a hotel room mirror and myself.
I think they make those mirrors intentionally to bring out the worst in you. Kind of like the Fun-House mirrors at the used-to-be Playland at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. Although those actually let you play around with your size.
Then, I got home and ate a giant pot of macaroni and cheese--with extra cheese.
Mr .T said, "I told you so."
ok-ok-ok-ok-ok.
So, sometimes, I just don't listen.
Like maybe a lot of the time.
He said, "You can't do runs like that when you're getting ready to do a race."
ok-ok-ok-ok-ok.
Mr. T was right.
My legs were tired because yesterday I had done the Yucca Triathlon at White Sands Missile Range. I had driven down after work, stayed at the Super 8, on the Bataan Highway (where I encountered the mirror), not gotten enough sleep, and hauled myself over to the race start in time to arrive at the gate at 6:30 am. Contrary to the usual scene at the always popular Polar Bear Triathlon in December, this morning I was the only car around. It was so quiet I thought maybe I had driven to the wrong location for the race. Or that the race had been cancelled.
However, I was in the right place and 53 people had signed up, so the race was a go.
10K run, 48 K (30 mile) bike, 400 yard swim.
Unfortunately for me, I had seen the "400 swim" on the brochure, and had just assumed I was doing a short sprint race with an extra long bike. Not a good "whoops" for me, since I don't run very well.
There was a very fast contingent from El Paso.
9 women were present, each distributed one per age group--except for the 34-39 and 45-49 age groups.
Of course, my AG was the only competitive one. Age-Group-Nemesis was there. Checking out what colors I was wearing so she could track me, and subtly dropping a number of tri-excuses to tell me she "wasn't really going to race." We finished 2 minutes apart. She's a runner. Three marathons under her belt so far this year, and training for a 4th. She got me by 7 minutes in the run. I took back 6 minutes on the bike. It would have been closer, but when I realized I wasn't going to catch my competition, I thought, "why push it for second place?" and took it easy for the last leg in the pool.
The run was a mile of gentle downhill and flat, then a good, steady 2 mile uphill on pavement, with the remainder on moderately soft dirt roads. As Age-Group-Nemesis says about herself, "I'm the queen of dirt." And she certainly was.
The bike just seemed hard. A head wind all the way, even though we first headed out south, then west, then north. I felt like I couldn't get any speed on the downhills. About half way into it, I got a headache. The rhythmic bump-bump-bump of the rough roads turned my head into agony. I ate a Gu Roctane, which may have been the reason my headache went away. Yeay for sodium, potassium, calcium, amino acids, and caffeine. When my head was hurting, I thought, "I am never doing another race on these roads again." The wind just never let up. I was exhausted by the last leg of the ride, and barely hung in for the final up hill. I kept wishing for the pool--which truly isn't something I usually do.
The swim was short and sweet. There were so few participants that no one was around me and the water was smooth with no splashing or passing.
Age-Group-Nemesis made sure I didn't hit my head on the water slide.
We had lunch together.
We talked about "bad" mirrors and unhappy mirror moments (she thought the WSMR pool mirrors were bad).
She invited me to stay at her house next time.
She really is the better athlete than me.
Darn.
I made 4th out of the 9 women total, 2nd in my AG, and earned another 9 points towards the SW Challenge annual AG competition. Trying to win it, but I suspect Age-Group-Nemesis may have her eye on the prize, too.
So.
Yesterday really was a pretty good, sustained effort.
And.
Running extra long today probably really wasn't the best thing to do.
My quad muscles didn't start hurting until mile 11.
Then they gave me a lactic acid burn as if I'd been lifting in the gym.
Before that, they had felt tired and slow, but pretty unremarkable.
I ate my gels (miles 5 and 10), drank my water (miles 4, 5, 7, and 10).
Re-filled my water, but couldn't re-fill my gels.
Then, I REALLY got hungry, like there was NO food left in me.
I walked the last 3 miles and the last mile was a real doozy.
Of course, I thought, "Maybe my legs will lose weight."
This was after a not very happy moment two nights before between a hotel room mirror and myself.
I think they make those mirrors intentionally to bring out the worst in you. Kind of like the Fun-House mirrors at the used-to-be Playland at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. Although those actually let you play around with your size.
Then, I got home and ate a giant pot of macaroni and cheese--with extra cheese.
Mr .T said, "I told you so."
ok-ok-ok-ok-ok.
So, sometimes, I just don't listen.
Like maybe a lot of the time.
He said, "You can't do runs like that when you're getting ready to do a race."
ok-ok-ok-ok-ok.
Mr. T was right.
My legs were tired because yesterday I had done the Yucca Triathlon at White Sands Missile Range. I had driven down after work, stayed at the Super 8, on the Bataan Highway (where I encountered the mirror), not gotten enough sleep, and hauled myself over to the race start in time to arrive at the gate at 6:30 am. Contrary to the usual scene at the always popular Polar Bear Triathlon in December, this morning I was the only car around. It was so quiet I thought maybe I had driven to the wrong location for the race. Or that the race had been cancelled.
However, I was in the right place and 53 people had signed up, so the race was a go.
10K run, 48 K (30 mile) bike, 400 yard swim.
Unfortunately for me, I had seen the "400 swim" on the brochure, and had just assumed I was doing a short sprint race with an extra long bike. Not a good "whoops" for me, since I don't run very well.
There was a very fast contingent from El Paso.
9 women were present, each distributed one per age group--except for the 34-39 and 45-49 age groups.
Of course, my AG was the only competitive one. Age-Group-Nemesis was there. Checking out what colors I was wearing so she could track me, and subtly dropping a number of tri-excuses to tell me she "wasn't really going to race." We finished 2 minutes apart. She's a runner. Three marathons under her belt so far this year, and training for a 4th. She got me by 7 minutes in the run. I took back 6 minutes on the bike. It would have been closer, but when I realized I wasn't going to catch my competition, I thought, "why push it for second place?" and took it easy for the last leg in the pool.
The run was a mile of gentle downhill and flat, then a good, steady 2 mile uphill on pavement, with the remainder on moderately soft dirt roads. As Age-Group-Nemesis says about herself, "I'm the queen of dirt." And she certainly was.
The bike just seemed hard. A head wind all the way, even though we first headed out south, then west, then north. I felt like I couldn't get any speed on the downhills. About half way into it, I got a headache. The rhythmic bump-bump-bump of the rough roads turned my head into agony. I ate a Gu Roctane, which may have been the reason my headache went away. Yeay for sodium, potassium, calcium, amino acids, and caffeine. When my head was hurting, I thought, "I am never doing another race on these roads again." The wind just never let up. I was exhausted by the last leg of the ride, and barely hung in for the final up hill. I kept wishing for the pool--which truly isn't something I usually do.
The swim was short and sweet. There were so few participants that no one was around me and the water was smooth with no splashing or passing.
Age-Group-Nemesis made sure I didn't hit my head on the water slide.
We had lunch together.
We talked about "bad" mirrors and unhappy mirror moments (she thought the WSMR pool mirrors were bad).
She invited me to stay at her house next time.
She really is the better athlete than me.
Darn.
I made 4th out of the 9 women total, 2nd in my AG, and earned another 9 points towards the SW Challenge annual AG competition. Trying to win it, but I suspect Age-Group-Nemesis may have her eye on the prize, too.
So.
Yesterday really was a pretty good, sustained effort.
And.
Running extra long today probably really wasn't the best thing to do.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
The Paula Higgens Memorial Record Challenge Time Trial: 40K on a National Record Setting Course
This is what we forgot today:
*Rain jackets
*A portable waterproof canopy
*Plastic bags for wet, muddy clothes and wet muddy tarp
*Newspapers or cardboard for the floor of the truck
*Two sets of warm, dry clothes--one to wear before for walking around in the rain and warming up, and one for after, to take the place of the first set of clothes that got wet during the warm up, and
*Two sets of shoes--for the same reason listed above.
A portable heating device would have been nice.
Especially while waiting in our "dry" clothes for the results after the race.
The organizers provided good eats during the wait, plus beer and fizzy fruit juice. And good, cycling-devotee company. But that wind still had a bite to it.
What we did remember is just how good the conditions had been the previous year: Perfect temps, dry weather, NO wind. A lot of people showed up last year.
This year, we saw people leaving without unloading their bikes.
Maybe 40 people did the 40K distance. Maybe.
The race still drew people from around the U.S.
The winner came from Colorado.
49:27.79
30.14 m.p.h.
Two minutes behind the record holder, John Frey.
Martha Hansen, the 85 year old who set a National Record last year, didn't show up.
But a man in the 70-74 AG set a National Record in the 20K at 29:08.21
That's 25.6 m.p.h.
So, T and I really have no excuse.
We had a nice day and put in some good effort--it's just remarkably disappointing to put in all that effort for a slo-o-o-w-er time than the previous year.
Even with Bones' disc AND a different gear ratio.
Which, incidentally, I had fun maxing out in the tailwind.
It just wasn't enough to make up for the beating I took going into the headwind.
This is how I feel right now:
*2:36 slower than last year REALLY STINKS,
*I know I'm being a whiner,
and,
*I am glad it's over
Part of me feels that I didn't push hard enough. And that's probably because I didn't. I started with a poor, not long enough warm-up and possibly too much caffeine--even though I only had one cup of coffee. T adjusted my bike the day before, and since I hadn't been able to check it out, I was NERVOUS. Hyperventilatory-from-the-cold-and-unknown nervous. I couldn't get my breathing right. There was mud everywhere, and the roads were puddling wet. Rain, cold, poor warm-up, hyperventilation, am I going to slip on the road? my wheel feels too narrow, what's that funny noise?, stop-adjust-ride-stop-adjust-ride, DID I MISS MY START TIME?!?
Not a good way to start a Time Trial effort.
So the initial part of my ride was slow, while I hyperventilated and went into O2 debt. I finally got myself under control, settled in, and battled a headwind for out to the turn-around speeds of something like 19 mph--I just couldn't get myself go any faster. I passed my 30-second and minute-man (woman), but didn't make up anymore ground. Laurie Mauderly passed me like I was standing still--and from her perspective, I probably was. She won the women's division in a time of 57:50.78, which comes out to 25.77 mph. At the turn-around, I was able to bring up my speed to 24.5 mph with occasional forays up to 25 and down to 23 mph. I didn't see another female because unknown to me, they were all in front and rapidly riding away from me. I think 8 men passed me.
So it goes.
There were only two women in my Age Group. A Cat 1-2 racer and myself. Once again, I came in 7 minutes behind for second place.
21.095 miles per hour.
I should be grateful, I know.
But.
Ick.
Things I learned from today:
*Number one and most importantly: IT WOULD BE HELPFUL IF I WOULD TAKE THIS RACE SERIOUSLY AND ACTUALLY TRAIN FOR IT. I only rode 187 bike miles this month, none of which were race specific.
*I need a longer warm-up time
*My computer calibration is in error--the read-out showed that I had averaged well over 22 mph.
*I can ride without slipping on wet road in slick rain and wind conditions.
*For some reason, that darn clock means an awful lot to me--I need to re-balance my perspective,
*I definitely have improved in my focus and concentration, and
*Despite my slo-o-o-w-er time and all my complaints, I really do like the feeling of tapping into that deep internal force of will that makes for a good Time Trial effort.
After it's all done and I get warm, of course.
T says I need to remember that it's usually the hard-core that stick around for a race in these conditions--which is why I placed 9th out of 11 women.
I can't say I'm hard-core--but I do look forward to riding more TT's.
Just, hopefully, not in the rain.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
What's This About An Internet Push-Up Challenge?
I did 55 push-ups yesterday.
I started by thinking I would do 3 sets of 10.
On a Bosu ball.
Then, I figured, why not add a few. So, I brought it up to 3 sets of 15.
Good push-ups, with plank like form, and deep elbows to bring my rib cage all the way down to the ball. NO bend at the hips. Head, neck and back all in good alignment. Breathing deep.
That's because the guys at work are always checking out my form.
They can't help themselves.
It's their job.
And it keeps me on my toes.
My co-worker, S. (of course, checking out what I was doing) came bounding over with two bolsters in this hands. "Have you tried this?"
He said I looked bored.
So, he set me up with one palm on each bolster, laying lengthwise, parallel to me, and had me simultaneously push each bolster laterally away from me as I lowered, then pull them in until they were under me as I pushed up.
Boredom hadn't really crossed my mind, when I was doing the initial push-ups.
In fact, I thought I looked like I was concentrating on my form and breathing--and making it to the last push-up of the last set.
But these new push-ups were fun.
And challenging.
So, I did 10, then ran out of time.
Good thing I was saved by the bell.
My pecs and delts (anterior) are remarkably sore today!
I started by thinking I would do 3 sets of 10.
On a Bosu ball.
Then, I figured, why not add a few. So, I brought it up to 3 sets of 15.
Good push-ups, with plank like form, and deep elbows to bring my rib cage all the way down to the ball. NO bend at the hips. Head, neck and back all in good alignment. Breathing deep.
That's because the guys at work are always checking out my form.
They can't help themselves.
It's their job.
And it keeps me on my toes.
My co-worker, S. (of course, checking out what I was doing) came bounding over with two bolsters in this hands. "Have you tried this?"
He said I looked bored.
So, he set me up with one palm on each bolster, laying lengthwise, parallel to me, and had me simultaneously push each bolster laterally away from me as I lowered, then pull them in until they were under me as I pushed up.
Boredom hadn't really crossed my mind, when I was doing the initial push-ups.
In fact, I thought I looked like I was concentrating on my form and breathing--and making it to the last push-up of the last set.
But these new push-ups were fun.
And challenging.
So, I did 10, then ran out of time.
Good thing I was saved by the bell.
My pecs and delts (anterior) are remarkably sore today!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A (wandering) Race Report: Socorro and the F1 '08
Usually T and I do a lot more SW Challenge Series racing, but this year we've both taken a several month hiatus.
T--because he was in another state.
Myself--because, well, just because. I felt a need to get away from the numbers and competitiveness that sometimes can take on a life of it's own. In my last race (April), I found myself wishing everyone in the event would just go away--so I could focus on bettering myself against my own personal times and records, without thinking about if someone was in my age group--and if they were faster than me. It made me realize why, sometimes, I like the anonymity of racing in another state. Here, even though I'm not a stellar or star racer, I sometimes feel like I have a target on my back. More than once, women in different age groups have aggressively taken me on as a project to beat--physically communicating their intentions by brushing against me at high speed on the run, attempting to pass and re-pass me on the bike (I dislike leap frogging--if you're going to pass, make sure you have the strength and endurance to maintain the pass. I had to pass "Texas" 3 times today, before he gave up the ghost and I finished decisively in front of him), and in general, focusing a beam of competition in my direction. I expect it from my AG competition, but still, one of these moments occurred earlier this year while finishing the final swim leg of a race--dripping, out of breath, refocusing from the pool environment to land, climbing the ladder to get out of the pool and having Mary (my AG) standing over the ladder as I'm climbing out and saying, "Dale (my AG) wants to know how old you are." No small talk like, "Great race, " "You flew by me on the bike," "Whew, glad that's over," etc. Just pure, high-beam, competitive focus. Since I'm not good at screening out the external competitive pressure, and it was interfering with my own internal focus, I took some time out.
Earlier this month, I returned to the local racing scene, by attending the Socorro Chile Harvest Sprint Triathlon. I had a great race--for someone who hadn't been training or racing sprint for the past 3 months. There were some quirks, of course, and some of those "I wish..." thoughts, but overall, I took two minutes off my previous PR, came in 5th of 16 in my age group, and was 32nd out of 148 total women.
The quirks and "I wishes...."
The swim was a Time Trial start--every 15 seconds according to the flyer, but it seemed like a 5 second interval to me. As soon as I jumped into the water to get ready for the start--someone said "Go!" Taking off so suddenly, and as per my usual, I went into a respiratory panic and hyperventilated the first 50 meters. It took a lot of self-talk to continue swimming, when every survival fiber in my body wanted to stop and stand up. The next 100 meters were a cautious progression to prevent another episode of panic, and then I eased into my rhythm, and completed the swim feeling good. The man who started right behind me, passed me at 50 meters (I smunched into his legs as he attempted to pass me on the left and cross in front of me to the right to make the turn into the next lane), but didn't gain any ground after that first 50. Several months earlier, I had predicted my swim time at 9:35. My true time was 9:59.
The bike was just a heck of a lot of fun. I felt good, but could feel the weakness in my legs from not sprint racing, especially on hills, for several months. Since I'm a slow swimmer, there are always a lot of people to pick off on the bike, which is entertaining, and gives me an external measure of progress along the course. My wish, of course, was to not feel the weakness in my legs, and to be able to ride faster. I averaged 20 mph on a moderately hilly course and was 17th out of 148 women on the bike.
My transition was quirky in that I racked my bike on the wrong rack, and didn't realize it until I looked down, and didn't recognize my clothes. Since I have a small bike, and the racks were high, I actually grabbed my bike, dipped under the rack with it, and ran forward to my rack. Definitely a bit of time loss there.
The run was what it always is--an effort to pick up the pace and not give in to fatigue and the heat of the day. I started too slow while my legs un-wound themselves from the bike, and ended at a good pace, for an average of 9:10 miles.
T didn't attend this race. He was camping in the mountains near Washington DC, with members of the DC Tri-Club. The trip was actually a two day training fest with 88 and 37 mile hilly bike rides, followed by runs. He said by the end of the second day, everyone was cooked.
As for today, "Texas" and I were dueling it out at the Formula-1 (F1) draft legal triathlon in Roswell, the story I started to write about, but obviously went in a different direction.
Another time.
Suffice it to say, it was a fun race, I finished as "female champion" in first place--out of 3 female entrants, had more fun catching up with the Outlaws, met some new people, was very grateful for the endless support and encouragement, and as always, enjoyed a beautiful venue and the cool, clear waters of the lake. And, even though my overall win was due to the small field, as T reminded me, "everyone is invited to the dance..."
T--because he was in another state.
Myself--because, well, just because. I felt a need to get away from the numbers and competitiveness that sometimes can take on a life of it's own. In my last race (April), I found myself wishing everyone in the event would just go away--so I could focus on bettering myself against my own personal times and records, without thinking about if someone was in my age group--and if they were faster than me. It made me realize why, sometimes, I like the anonymity of racing in another state. Here, even though I'm not a stellar or star racer, I sometimes feel like I have a target on my back. More than once, women in different age groups have aggressively taken me on as a project to beat--physically communicating their intentions by brushing against me at high speed on the run, attempting to pass and re-pass me on the bike (I dislike leap frogging--if you're going to pass, make sure you have the strength and endurance to maintain the pass. I had to pass "Texas" 3 times today, before he gave up the ghost and I finished decisively in front of him), and in general, focusing a beam of competition in my direction. I expect it from my AG competition, but still, one of these moments occurred earlier this year while finishing the final swim leg of a race--dripping, out of breath, refocusing from the pool environment to land, climbing the ladder to get out of the pool and having Mary (my AG) standing over the ladder as I'm climbing out and saying, "Dale (my AG) wants to know how old you are." No small talk like, "Great race, " "You flew by me on the bike," "Whew, glad that's over," etc. Just pure, high-beam, competitive focus. Since I'm not good at screening out the external competitive pressure, and it was interfering with my own internal focus, I took some time out.
Earlier this month, I returned to the local racing scene, by attending the Socorro Chile Harvest Sprint Triathlon. I had a great race--for someone who hadn't been training or racing sprint for the past 3 months. There were some quirks, of course, and some of those "I wish..." thoughts, but overall, I took two minutes off my previous PR, came in 5th of 16 in my age group, and was 32nd out of 148 total women.
The quirks and "I wishes...."
The swim was a Time Trial start--every 15 seconds according to the flyer, but it seemed like a 5 second interval to me. As soon as I jumped into the water to get ready for the start--someone said "Go!" Taking off so suddenly, and as per my usual, I went into a respiratory panic and hyperventilated the first 50 meters. It took a lot of self-talk to continue swimming, when every survival fiber in my body wanted to stop and stand up. The next 100 meters were a cautious progression to prevent another episode of panic, and then I eased into my rhythm, and completed the swim feeling good. The man who started right behind me, passed me at 50 meters (I smunched into his legs as he attempted to pass me on the left and cross in front of me to the right to make the turn into the next lane), but didn't gain any ground after that first 50. Several months earlier, I had predicted my swim time at 9:35. My true time was 9:59.
The bike was just a heck of a lot of fun. I felt good, but could feel the weakness in my legs from not sprint racing, especially on hills, for several months. Since I'm a slow swimmer, there are always a lot of people to pick off on the bike, which is entertaining, and gives me an external measure of progress along the course. My wish, of course, was to not feel the weakness in my legs, and to be able to ride faster. I averaged 20 mph on a moderately hilly course and was 17th out of 148 women on the bike.
My transition was quirky in that I racked my bike on the wrong rack, and didn't realize it until I looked down, and didn't recognize my clothes. Since I have a small bike, and the racks were high, I actually grabbed my bike, dipped under the rack with it, and ran forward to my rack. Definitely a bit of time loss there.
The run was what it always is--an effort to pick up the pace and not give in to fatigue and the heat of the day. I started too slow while my legs un-wound themselves from the bike, and ended at a good pace, for an average of 9:10 miles.
T didn't attend this race. He was camping in the mountains near Washington DC, with members of the DC Tri-Club. The trip was actually a two day training fest with 88 and 37 mile hilly bike rides, followed by runs. He said by the end of the second day, everyone was cooked.
As for today, "Texas" and I were dueling it out at the Formula-1 (F1) draft legal triathlon in Roswell, the story I started to write about, but obviously went in a different direction.
Another time.
Suffice it to say, it was a fun race, I finished as "female champion" in first place--out of 3 female entrants, had more fun catching up with the Outlaws, met some new people, was very grateful for the endless support and encouragement, and as always, enjoyed a beautiful venue and the cool, clear waters of the lake. And, even though my overall win was due to the small field, as T reminded me, "everyone is invited to the dance..."
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Late, Late Entry: Why My Training Went South in May, or A Tri-Excuse at the National Level
Mark and I eat a lost of salsa, and we go through it pretty fast, so I like to stock up.
In late May, I bought 4 jars.
Due to the ongoing salmonella mystery, these jars went uneaten, and in June, realizing I wanted to avoid anything associated with tomatoes, I decided to return them to the place of purchase.
This didn't go over too well with the clerk at the return counter.
I had my receipt, the jars had obviously been untouched, and I told her that, what with the ongoing tomato associated cases of salmonella, plus a recent history of weeks of unexplained lower GI distress in my household, we would not be using the salsa.
This didn't make her very happy. After fussing with the jars, she informed me that food could only be returned within 24 hours (pause), "because we just have to throw it all away, anyway."
Since I really wanted her to take the salsa back, I didn't return with the obvious--that if she didn't take the jars back, I was just going to have to throw them away myself. And, since I had purchased these jars from this particular vendor, plus the fact that nobody in their right mind was eating tomatoes, especially since New Mexico was at the top of the list for the highest number of salmonella cases, AND that salsa contains uncooked tomatoes, that these jars really should be thrown out, and that I shouldn't have to pay for them....
After fussing a bit more with the jars (while I tried to be polite and understanding but persistent), she agreed to refund my money "just this once!"
Well, time has passed, and recently the mystery of the salmonella tainted tomatoes has now spread to include jalapenos and a briefly mentioned possibility of cilantro.
Hmmmm.....tomatoes, jalapenos, and cilantro--sounds like a jar of salsa to me.
In late May, I bought 4 jars.
Due to the ongoing salmonella mystery, these jars went uneaten, and in June, realizing I wanted to avoid anything associated with tomatoes, I decided to return them to the place of purchase.
This didn't go over too well with the clerk at the return counter.
I had my receipt, the jars had obviously been untouched, and I told her that, what with the ongoing tomato associated cases of salmonella, plus a recent history of weeks of unexplained lower GI distress in my household, we would not be using the salsa.
This didn't make her very happy. After fussing with the jars, she informed me that food could only be returned within 24 hours (pause), "because we just have to throw it all away, anyway."
Since I really wanted her to take the salsa back, I didn't return with the obvious--that if she didn't take the jars back, I was just going to have to throw them away myself. And, since I had purchased these jars from this particular vendor, plus the fact that nobody in their right mind was eating tomatoes, especially since New Mexico was at the top of the list for the highest number of salmonella cases, AND that salsa contains uncooked tomatoes, that these jars really should be thrown out, and that I shouldn't have to pay for them....
After fussing a bit more with the jars (while I tried to be polite and understanding but persistent), she agreed to refund my money "just this once!"
Well, time has passed, and recently the mystery of the salmonella tainted tomatoes has now spread to include jalapenos and a briefly mentioned possibility of cilantro.
Hmmmm.....tomatoes, jalapenos, and cilantro--sounds like a jar of salsa to me.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Smiley Post...This Time, My Face Didn't Stay Pink for 8 Hours
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I did it again.Managed to take a good chunk of time off my long distance run.
Of course, the clouds rolled in and provided respite from the sun, so my "cooler temp" reasoning must be true
It's been an awfully busy month. A 3-day weekend in DC, a 4-day weekend in CA, two days in Austin, then the Socorro Sprint Triathlon. So, the training has suffered (what training?), and I haven't done my long training run route since July 13. That was the day I took a solid 30 minutes off of my usual 3 hour time.
Bones said,"Maybe you've broken through to a new level!"
I said, "I think it's because I actually got out earlier and the temps were cooler..."
Maybe it was a combination of both.
Sunday, I decided to get up early and go for a medium (6-7 mile) run, since I hadn't been training consistently and wanted to healthily ease back into it.
I didn't do either.
Instead, I got up a little later than I should have, got caught up in puttering around the house, hoped for more of the recent cloud cover we'd been having, but really didn't stick to my plan and left after 8 am when the sun was high and the UV was on it's way to contributing to a 10 plus day.
I was rested (from not training) and I felt pretty good.
So, I started at a good pace on my neighborhood run.
Then, I just kept on going.
Clouds rolled in briefly, and the dip in temperature gave me the extra impetus to continue the pace.
I kept rationalizing, "I'll turn around here. Nope, I'll turn around here."
Finally, I just kept on heading out. Already resigned to the massively sore legs I was going to have the next day. My long run course is the only one in which I have a set of past times for comparison, and I was feeling pretty good.
I hit the turn around (it's an out and back route) in 1:09.37
On the same course that I usually do in 3 hours.
Since I haven't been training endurance, I pretty much fell apart on the way back.
The sun came out even stronger than before.
I pretty much cooked.
So, my total run time was 2:41
Still faster than the usual 3 hours.
Or, maybe, I shouldn't consider 3 hours "the usual" any more.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Late Entry: A Visit to the ER
For various reasons, I've been off line for several weeks.
It didn't stop me from writing, though.
So the next few posts are "late," "late, late," and "late, late, late" entries.
It's a good excuse for catching up--as some of these entries are far later than just "a few weeks."
Hope you enjoy.
________________________________
July 30th
Went to the ER last night.
In fact, just came home from the ER and it's 6:15 in the morning.
It's not something I wanted to do.
Going to a Level 1 Trauma Center late at night, gumming up the works, when what the Trauma Center really needed from me was to stay away, so they could do their real job.
I went because somehow, while eating / slurping a brothy noodle bowl, I swallowed something that lodged in my throat.
It's a strange feeling, to be thinking, "Uh-oh. Something hard and not noodly is in my throat, And I can't cough it up and I can't move it down."
I tried.
At first it just felt funny, but there was no pain. But when I swallowed, it went deeper, and my throat started to hurt.
Since it was 10:00 at night, and I was home alone, I started to worry.
What if this worsened, and I got into real trouble or incapacitated. Then, what would I do?
I didn't think the object in my throat merited an ER visit, but where else was I supposed to go?
Meanwhile, the pain was getting worse.
I stopped swallowing because each swallow HURT.
I figured if nothing else, I could sit in the waiting room (since I knew it would be an extended wait), try to swallow, and hope the object would work it's way down--with emergency services nearby, in case of a bad outcome.
By this point, I'd become fairly paralyzed from the neck up, afraid to swallow—almost afraid to move in any way. So, I mobilized my legs, got myself dressed, and drove myself to the ER. Which, despite the continued increase in pain, and my rising hypochondriacal concerns about what the heck I had swallowed and what kind of damage it could cause (read "perforation"), made me feel better.
You know something is not right when sitting in an overcrowded ER waiting room, with the clock approaching midnight, makes you feel better.
The ER was a slice of city life in the middle of the night. Fluorescent lights eliminated the dark. It was crowded, but surprisingly quiet, except for the loud blare of the TV and miscellaneous coughs, sneezes, and muted conversations. Those in most need were already laying in an ER bed. Those of us in the waiting room were low on the triage list—with a long wait in front of us.
It turned out that, on this particular night, the hospital was under a "code purple." All hospital beds were full, and new admissions were being lodged in the ER, reducing the number of ER beds available, and increasing the wait time in the waiting room.
My x-rays were done before midnight.
My complaint was listed as "minor soft tissue trauma".
Minor soft tissue trauma? I was definitely pretty low on the triage list.
The wait continued AND my pain increased.
A lot.
Swallowing was excruciating, and sent my throat into spasm. The pain would increase in waves after each swallow. When I turned my head to the right, it hurt more. I clutched numerous wadded-up damp-with-spit tissues and tried to avoid swallowing.
The worst was a minor post nasal drainage that I couldn't control, leading to several involuntary, painful swallows.
Sometime after 2 am, I swallowed involuntarily, and something moved, painfully, lower into my throat. And then stuck. Or, so it seemed.
I considered going home, but since they had already taken x-rays, I figured I should see if anything showed up and, besides, I was still having excruciating pain with each swallow. I was getting tired..
At 3 am I got a bed. My resting BP was 150/90. Heart rate 55. My normal BP is something like 117/70.
I propped up the bed, so I could sit up and close my eyes without saliva running down my throat.
I still had an extended wait, so they turned out the lights, and I actually dozed a little.
I think this allowed me to finally relax, because when the doctor came in, the pain, although still strong, had eased a bit.
Dr. C. had a great bedside manner, especially after a night treating life and death and now being tasked with treating a "minor soft tissue trauma." He said my x-rays were clear, but he still wanted to take a look.
By inserting a scope.
Up my nose.
This is what I learned: When you're in a whole lot of pain, you will do anything on just the promise of making it stop.
He said he would insert a numbing gel into my nose, then a numbing spray into my throat.
I tried to sound like this was OK with me.
But what I was really thinking was of the story of a friend, who had been in a terrible hang gliding accident (now recovered), and who had told me that having an "NG (naso-gastric) tube" dropped down her nose while she was conscious, was one of the most awful experiences she could remember.
Dr. C began squirting all kinds of things up my nose and into my throat. Gel and Liquid things. He was extra solicitous—making sure I felt no pain: nose-throat-nose--uh oh—better have you gargle. Those of you who know me, know I panic in water. Having all this liquid inserted into my breathing pathway was getting in the way of oxygen acquisition. The amount of gel and liquid going into the back of my throat made me swallow, which hurt. I started to tear up, which, of course, further clogged up my nose with mucus, so that when Dr. C sprayed liquid into my throat, I felt like I couldn't breathe.
It was not a happy time.
Then, Dr. C showed me a narrow black instrument, with a lo-o-ng tube, and said he would put it up my nose.
I immediately closed my eyes.
Even with all of the numbing gel, getting that tube up my nose still hurt. I didn't feel the part where it dropped into the back of my throat. Dr. C could only insert it so far and then directed me to make certain noises to open my larynx and improve the view.
The view was obscured by "a lot" of mucus.
Dr. C said I must have an irritation in the area with all the mucus.
My take on it was that 7 hours of swallow avoidance coupled with allergies and post nasal drip had allowed a pile of mucus to build up—(hypochondriacally) maybe even on top of whatever it was that was in my throat.
When the smoke cleared, Dr. C said he couldn't see anything, but thought that whatever had been in my throat was gone—and gave me a prescription for narcotic pain killers, lidocaine numbing gel, and anti-reflux medication The pain was so severe I really didn't believe that whatever was in there was gone, but once the doctor said there was nothing as far as he could see, I felt I could go ahead and REALLY swallow.
I left the hospital at about 5:30 am, picked up a large cup of coffee, headed for home, made cheesey toast for breakfast, swallowed through the pain, and fueled by the pseudo-adrenaline of an unusual experience, went to work. All the cheesey bread swallowing must have done the trick, because by this time my throat wasn't hurting so bad, and in fact, less than an hour later the pain was essentially gone.
Initially, I didn't talk about my night, but wondering how I might appear, asked a co-worker what I looked like. She said "Great! You're wearing makeup today."
When I looked in the mirror, I realized that the rosy red lipstick she saw was really the raw bloody skin of lips that had been roughed up by spitting into hospital paper towels all night long.
I made it until 2 pm then, tired of looking good at work, caved into an impossible fatigue, went home and slept.
I didn't fill my prescriptions. I've had too many close encounters with people addicted to narcotic pain medication to ever think of these as anything but a last resort. The doctor assured me that everyone has reflux, and that I would feel pain from it--but I didn't. The lidocaine numbing get? Well, I immediately thought, "Would this be good for sore muscle recovery?" and stashed the syringes in my fridge.
Over the next few days my lips progressively scabbed over and peeled.
I chalked up my NG tube experience to learning something new: one last thing I would worry about if it ever came up in the future--and a whole lot of empathy for those who have one.
You know what they say—I'll try anything once.
It didn't stop me from writing, though.
So the next few posts are "late," "late, late," and "late, late, late" entries.
It's a good excuse for catching up--as some of these entries are far later than just "a few weeks."
Hope you enjoy.
________________________________
July 30th
Went to the ER last night.
In fact, just came home from the ER and it's 6:15 in the morning.
It's not something I wanted to do.
Going to a Level 1 Trauma Center late at night, gumming up the works, when what the Trauma Center really needed from me was to stay away, so they could do their real job.
I went because somehow, while eating / slurping a brothy noodle bowl, I swallowed something that lodged in my throat.
It's a strange feeling, to be thinking, "Uh-oh. Something hard and not noodly is in my throat, And I can't cough it up and I can't move it down."
I tried.
At first it just felt funny, but there was no pain. But when I swallowed, it went deeper, and my throat started to hurt.
Since it was 10:00 at night, and I was home alone, I started to worry.
What if this worsened, and I got into real trouble or incapacitated. Then, what would I do?
I didn't think the object in my throat merited an ER visit, but where else was I supposed to go?
Meanwhile, the pain was getting worse.
I stopped swallowing because each swallow HURT.
I figured if nothing else, I could sit in the waiting room (since I knew it would be an extended wait), try to swallow, and hope the object would work it's way down--with emergency services nearby, in case of a bad outcome.
By this point, I'd become fairly paralyzed from the neck up, afraid to swallow—almost afraid to move in any way. So, I mobilized my legs, got myself dressed, and drove myself to the ER. Which, despite the continued increase in pain, and my rising hypochondriacal concerns about what the heck I had swallowed and what kind of damage it could cause (read "perforation"), made me feel better.
You know something is not right when sitting in an overcrowded ER waiting room, with the clock approaching midnight, makes you feel better.
The ER was a slice of city life in the middle of the night. Fluorescent lights eliminated the dark. It was crowded, but surprisingly quiet, except for the loud blare of the TV and miscellaneous coughs, sneezes, and muted conversations. Those in most need were already laying in an ER bed. Those of us in the waiting room were low on the triage list—with a long wait in front of us.
It turned out that, on this particular night, the hospital was under a "code purple." All hospital beds were full, and new admissions were being lodged in the ER, reducing the number of ER beds available, and increasing the wait time in the waiting room.
My x-rays were done before midnight.
My complaint was listed as "minor soft tissue trauma".
Minor soft tissue trauma? I was definitely pretty low on the triage list.
The wait continued AND my pain increased.
A lot.
Swallowing was excruciating, and sent my throat into spasm. The pain would increase in waves after each swallow. When I turned my head to the right, it hurt more. I clutched numerous wadded-up damp-with-spit tissues and tried to avoid swallowing.
The worst was a minor post nasal drainage that I couldn't control, leading to several involuntary, painful swallows.
Sometime after 2 am, I swallowed involuntarily, and something moved, painfully, lower into my throat. And then stuck. Or, so it seemed.
I considered going home, but since they had already taken x-rays, I figured I should see if anything showed up and, besides, I was still having excruciating pain with each swallow. I was getting tired..
At 3 am I got a bed. My resting BP was 150/90. Heart rate 55. My normal BP is something like 117/70.
I propped up the bed, so I could sit up and close my eyes without saliva running down my throat.
I still had an extended wait, so they turned out the lights, and I actually dozed a little.
I think this allowed me to finally relax, because when the doctor came in, the pain, although still strong, had eased a bit.
Dr. C. had a great bedside manner, especially after a night treating life and death and now being tasked with treating a "minor soft tissue trauma." He said my x-rays were clear, but he still wanted to take a look.
By inserting a scope.
Up my nose.
This is what I learned: When you're in a whole lot of pain, you will do anything on just the promise of making it stop.
He said he would insert a numbing gel into my nose, then a numbing spray into my throat.
I tried to sound like this was OK with me.
But what I was really thinking was of the story of a friend, who had been in a terrible hang gliding accident (now recovered), and who had told me that having an "NG (naso-gastric) tube" dropped down her nose while she was conscious, was one of the most awful experiences she could remember.
Dr. C began squirting all kinds of things up my nose and into my throat. Gel and Liquid things. He was extra solicitous—making sure I felt no pain: nose-throat-nose--uh oh—better have you gargle. Those of you who know me, know I panic in water. Having all this liquid inserted into my breathing pathway was getting in the way of oxygen acquisition. The amount of gel and liquid going into the back of my throat made me swallow, which hurt. I started to tear up, which, of course, further clogged up my nose with mucus, so that when Dr. C sprayed liquid into my throat, I felt like I couldn't breathe.
It was not a happy time.
Then, Dr. C showed me a narrow black instrument, with a lo-o-ng tube, and said he would put it up my nose.
I immediately closed my eyes.
Even with all of the numbing gel, getting that tube up my nose still hurt. I didn't feel the part where it dropped into the back of my throat. Dr. C could only insert it so far and then directed me to make certain noises to open my larynx and improve the view.
The view was obscured by "a lot" of mucus.
Dr. C said I must have an irritation in the area with all the mucus.
My take on it was that 7 hours of swallow avoidance coupled with allergies and post nasal drip had allowed a pile of mucus to build up—(hypochondriacally) maybe even on top of whatever it was that was in my throat.
When the smoke cleared, Dr. C said he couldn't see anything, but thought that whatever had been in my throat was gone—and gave me a prescription for narcotic pain killers, lidocaine numbing gel, and anti-reflux medication The pain was so severe I really didn't believe that whatever was in there was gone, but once the doctor said there was nothing as far as he could see, I felt I could go ahead and REALLY swallow.
I left the hospital at about 5:30 am, picked up a large cup of coffee, headed for home, made cheesey toast for breakfast, swallowed through the pain, and fueled by the pseudo-adrenaline of an unusual experience, went to work. All the cheesey bread swallowing must have done the trick, because by this time my throat wasn't hurting so bad, and in fact, less than an hour later the pain was essentially gone.
Initially, I didn't talk about my night, but wondering how I might appear, asked a co-worker what I looked like. She said "Great! You're wearing makeup today."
When I looked in the mirror, I realized that the rosy red lipstick she saw was really the raw bloody skin of lips that had been roughed up by spitting into hospital paper towels all night long.
I made it until 2 pm then, tired of looking good at work, caved into an impossible fatigue, went home and slept.
I didn't fill my prescriptions. I've had too many close encounters with people addicted to narcotic pain medication to ever think of these as anything but a last resort. The doctor assured me that everyone has reflux, and that I would feel pain from it--but I didn't. The lidocaine numbing get? Well, I immediately thought, "Would this be good for sore muscle recovery?" and stashed the syringes in my fridge.
Over the next few days my lips progressively scabbed over and peeled.
I chalked up my NG tube experience to learning something new: one last thing I would worry about if it ever came up in the future--and a whole lot of empathy for those who have one.
You know what they say—I'll try anything once.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Chiaroscuro
It's 11:00 Saturday night, and I'm standing in the dimly lit, cavernous, cement underground tunnel of the DC metro.
I'm by myself.
A few moments before, Mark had been next to me. Now he's just a shadowy figure back lit against the solidly shut doors of a train, receding smoothly into the distance at an ever increasing rate of speed.
I imagine an expression of whoops!-amazement on his face, which now I can no longer see.
There's a blank pause as the world slows down and I take it all in--then an uh-oh, now-what-do-I-do moment, as I realize my guide is disappearing down the tracks, I don't know where I'm going, and I'm alone, late at night, left behind in the DC Metro.
I think about calling him on the phone, but at almost the same time, realize I don't have service in the semi-bowel's of the city ("semi" because I'm sure there's another shadowy layer beneath me, peopled by who knows what).
I wander over to the direction sign, and realize it was a good thing I had pestered Mark so much on the way out about where we were going. I recognize Metro Center, the name of the station where we transferred earlier and reason that Mark will either 1) get off at the next stop, and come right back for me, or 2) wait for me at Metro Center.
Well...maybe.
What if he comes back, and I've already gone?
His phone doesn't get reception in the tunnels, either.
A few people start to trickle in to catch the next train, and that isolated feeling of being in the underworld starts to abate.
I just have to have faith that he'll do the right thing.
And so I sit and wait for the next train, and almost begin to laugh.
The movie scene pathos and poignancy of it all.
We had run down the steps trying to catch a train before it pulled out. The train was sitting there with the doors open, and as Mark leaped through, one step ahead of me, I thought "uh-oh, how long have these doors been open?" What flashed through my mind was Mark's story of his first day on the Metro, shoving a large bike box ahead of him through the open door of the train--and having the doors close and clamp halfway down on the box. He said the feeling was one of "horror and embarrassment," as he envisioned the train leaving and taking his bike, so he frantically pulled, and hauled, and tugged to get the box back (it was commute hour and people on the train were watching--hence the embarrassment). What he marveled at was how quick and hard those doors closed--and wondered if anyone ever got caught in them.
And so, as Mark leapt onto the train--thinking about what he had said about the doors, I may have hesitated for a moment--and the doors closed.
Just like that.
Mark turned, saw me, and reached for the door. I reached from my side. And for a long moment, we were a tableaux, he in light, me in shadow, reaching, yearning, on either side of this immovable barrier--then the train began to move.
Later, at Metro Center, disembarking into a sea of people, Mark found me, relief in his voice, and we continued home, together.
You never know when you'll have a movie moment,
and,
it might not be the movie moment you want.
Finally,
what do you do when the cell phones don't work?
post script
The thought of Mark running around looking for me on the railroad tracks reminded me of an early sci-fi short story from my father's bookshelf, "A Streetcar Named Desire," about a ghost car that ran the tracks and would disappear, than reappear. I believe it was the D line. And it ran on a mobius. I tried to locate the story online to share with Mark, but couldn't find it. Not sure if I have the correct title. Anyone familiar with it?
post, post script
The post title is dedicated to Mark.
I'm by myself.
A few moments before, Mark had been next to me. Now he's just a shadowy figure back lit against the solidly shut doors of a train, receding smoothly into the distance at an ever increasing rate of speed.
I imagine an expression of whoops!-amazement on his face, which now I can no longer see.
There's a blank pause as the world slows down and I take it all in--then an uh-oh, now-what-do-I-do moment, as I realize my guide is disappearing down the tracks, I don't know where I'm going, and I'm alone, late at night, left behind in the DC Metro.
I think about calling him on the phone, but at almost the same time, realize I don't have service in the semi-bowel's of the city ("semi" because I'm sure there's another shadowy layer beneath me, peopled by who knows what).
I wander over to the direction sign, and realize it was a good thing I had pestered Mark so much on the way out about where we were going. I recognize Metro Center, the name of the station where we transferred earlier and reason that Mark will either 1) get off at the next stop, and come right back for me, or 2) wait for me at Metro Center.
Well...maybe.
What if he comes back, and I've already gone?
His phone doesn't get reception in the tunnels, either.
A few people start to trickle in to catch the next train, and that isolated feeling of being in the underworld starts to abate.
I just have to have faith that he'll do the right thing.
And so I sit and wait for the next train, and almost begin to laugh.
The movie scene pathos and poignancy of it all.
We had run down the steps trying to catch a train before it pulled out. The train was sitting there with the doors open, and as Mark leaped through, one step ahead of me, I thought "uh-oh, how long have these doors been open?" What flashed through my mind was Mark's story of his first day on the Metro, shoving a large bike box ahead of him through the open door of the train--and having the doors close and clamp halfway down on the box. He said the feeling was one of "horror and embarrassment," as he envisioned the train leaving and taking his bike, so he frantically pulled, and hauled, and tugged to get the box back (it was commute hour and people on the train were watching--hence the embarrassment). What he marveled at was how quick and hard those doors closed--and wondered if anyone ever got caught in them.
And so, as Mark leapt onto the train--thinking about what he had said about the doors, I may have hesitated for a moment--and the doors closed.
Just like that.
Mark turned, saw me, and reached for the door. I reached from my side. And for a long moment, we were a tableaux, he in light, me in shadow, reaching, yearning, on either side of this immovable barrier--then the train began to move.
Later, at Metro Center, disembarking into a sea of people, Mark found me, relief in his voice, and we continued home, together.
You never know when you'll have a movie moment,
and,
it might not be the movie moment you want.
Finally,
what do you do when the cell phones don't work?
post script
The thought of Mark running around looking for me on the railroad tracks reminded me of an early sci-fi short story from my father's bookshelf, "A Streetcar Named Desire," about a ghost car that ran the tracks and would disappear, than reappear. I believe it was the D line. And it ran on a mobius. I tried to locate the story online to share with Mark, but couldn't find it. Not sure if I have the correct title. Anyone familiar with it?
post, post script
The post title is dedicated to Mark.
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