The Heart Practice

Someone the other day said I'm tough. In a good way.

It came as a revelation to me during the marathon portion of last year's race. Way tougher than I ever realized. I take the compliment with gratitude, and I'll unapologetically pat myself on the back for pushing through discomfort and fatigue through this training. I used to think that this race involved a fair amount of suffering.

But my perspective is shattered to pieces every single time I think about my dear friend and co-worker, Kelly Gray Hall, who is at this moment waiting for the nurse to get the IV out of her arm so she can say she's finished with her 16 weeks of chemotherapy.

This, my friends. This is what toughness is about.

Also grace, lightness, humor, authenticity, courage, and an opening of the heart that is so raw and real and brave, I cry when I contemplate it. The day after my Ironman on July 26th, Kelly will have surgery to see if any cancer cells have survived the brutal chemical assault of these last four months. To see if the disease has metastasized.

I will carry so many people close to my heart on that long, difficult day, but every stroke, every pedal turn, every footfall will be dedicated to Kelly and her total healing.

One thing I know is that this Ironman--this voluntary, exhilarating, joyful, finite event--this is not suffering.

There's a Tibetan Buddhist meditation practice called tonglen that I have loved from the moment I learned it. With the in-breath, you take in suffering--of an individual, a group of people, a whole place--and with the out-breath, you offer joy. They call it a heart-practice.

Kelly would be the last person to use the word "suffering", by the way. But as I watch how tough this stupid disease and the treatment are on her body, I'm going to just say she's qualified. I wish I could actually carry Kelly's suffering on July 26th while I'm racing. I would shoulder it for every one of those 140.6 miles just to give her a day with out it. An hour. A minute. Instead, as well as I'm able, my heart, my mind, my breath is for her, breathing in suffering, breathing out relief from suffering.

If you'd like to support this amazing woman, one option is to buy one of these stickers I designed for her. All proceeds go to Kelly and family to help offset the tremendous financial expense this disease brings with it. Go here: www.kellykickscancer.com

Thanks.

The Long Run

This is the big weekend, long bike Saturday followed by long run Sunday. I have a rigorous week to come, but then my taper starts. All the hay is in the barn, as they say. Oh shit, I say. This is as good as I'm going to get. I will have to sign up for next year. Shit shit shit.

I woke up feeling great after yesterday's royal ass-kicking on the bike. These bodies of ours are amazingly resilient, and I am grateful for my good health every moment these days.

I was scheduled to run 2.5 hours, and I wanted to go at least 15 miles. Last year on this weekend, I ran 18 miles. I'm still feeling like I'm way behind, but also feeling like my run is better, somehow. Maybe not any faster. But it's not crippling me the way it did last year. And don't tell anyone, but I'm actually kind of enjoying it.

Got a late start and texted Coach Scott that I wasn't going to be able to swim afterwards as planned. "Bring your goggles and swim in the middle of the run!" he replied.

I can't get away with anything.

So I stuffed a cap and goggles, a headlamp and a tail light into my shirt pockets, loaded up my fuel belt with sports drink and snacks, put the iPod on shuffle, and hit the road. I had mapped out a route to Scott and Kate's lake house that would take me 8.5 miles to get there. The sun was low in the sky and the deer flies were biting fiercely when I paused on Rockport's strangely named, extremely rural Main Street.

I got to the house just at the red sun melted into the horizon, and I broke into a temper tantrum, tired and frustrated that I couldn't just sit on the porch like a normal person, watch the sunset and enjoy the company of these lovely people.  

But the instant I got in the water, my bad attitude floated away. Breathing to the right every sixth stroke, the sun sinking into the lake; to the left, lakefront cottages bathed in its orange glow. My body felt strong and sleek, supported by the cool, clean water. Eight minutes out across the cove, ten returning along the shore. Out of the water quickly, lights on, music going, water bottle recharged, I stuffed a Clif bar in my mouth and struck out toward home. 

I never run at night--I'm usually in bed before 8:00--and here I was at 8:45, still looking at 6.5 miles to go. I was beyond tired, and several times I very nearly took the straight 3.5 miles home to call it quits by  9:15. But I knew the mental boost of going the full 15 miles would serve me well, so I wound through side streets, seeking a flat and downhill route the whole way. Venus and Jupiter rose ahead of me in the western sky. I had the streets to myself, my only company the music in my ears and the fireflies floating with me across the dark yards and fields to my side.

I turned onto John Street. James Brown's inimitable howl shot through me and I hollered I FEEL GOOD (ba na na na na na) along with him--all the words, and many of the instruments--the full length of the road, then turned onto route one and cruised downhill to home. I made just over 15 miles, proud and grateful and aching. And completely terrified at the prospect of running another 11.2 miles. After a day of cycling. Honestly, if I hadn't done this last year. How did I even do this last year? I can't believe it's even possible. This truly is insane.

Not hungry but knowing I would regret heading straight to bed without some fuel, I drank four full glasses of water, then made a fast grilled cheese and asparagus sandwich, doused it with sriracha, and shoved it down while soaking my feet and watching half an episode of Orange Is The New Black. I let the Garmin sync up and then gave myself a foot massage before crawling off to bed.

Right before I woke this morning, I dreamed that I came upon an old dog lying in the road. It wasn't injured, just really sore, and tired, and trying to get some rest. Concerned for its safety, I pulled over and moved it off the road. It was friendly, but barely had the energy to comply. I called the dog's owner -- you've got to take care of this animal! I said. It's tired, it's sleeping right in the middle of the road, it's going to get hurt. I can't worry about that thing, the owner said, I have way too much to do. It's smart, it can take care of itself. I made sure the dog was in a safe place off the road, gave it some attention and affection, and went on with my life.

Some people believe that every character in a dream symbolizes an aspect of yourself, and I'm heeding the gentle warning this one offers. I am indeed tired, too tired to care much about getting out of the road. And I'm so caught up in my busy-ness that maybe I'm not taking care of that tired self as well as I should. But I've also got her back, and I'm going to focus a little more attention on her now.

I took me a while to stand up out of bed when I awoke. My plantar fascia are cursing me, but the rest of this old body handled the weekend's rigors pretty darn well. I put the iPod back on shuffle while I boiled the tea water, and "She Moves In Mysterious Ways" came through the speakers as I hobbled around the kitchen, followed by "Stayin' Alive." 

As the Bee Gees' final chords faded into studio black, my old Kripalu yoga teacher came on: "Gently open the eyes. Extend the legs out in front of you and gently shake the legs. Now we're going to awaken the legs. Begin a massage." 

Okay, yes, yes, I'm here, I'm paying attention. I got it. Total rest day today. Plenty of sleep tonight. Caution tomorrow.

So much strength in this old beat up body. Such gratitude. 

Slip Slidin' Away

While I often think Ironman training is 90 percent mental, the enormity and complexity of the physical challenge means that we spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about and caring for our bodies. The Facebook tri groups I belong to are full of graphic threads about pooping and saddle sores, women wondering about bras and waxing, men concerned about bleeding nipples and hiding their crown jewels behind race bibs. 

If these things don't appeal to you, just stop reading. Seriously, it's going to get much worse. Right now.

There are extended serious discussions about peeing on the bike--whether to do it, how to do it well. Where the rest stops are, how much time it takes to get off your bike to use a toilet. How to balance it against your goal finish time. Yes. Pee on your bike. To save time. Just let 'er rip. You have to practice during your training in order to overcome the 45 years of conditioning against it, you know. I practiced last year, then decided that I could sacrifice 90 seconds from a 14 hour race in order to not smell and feel my own urine for the next 8 hours. I believe I will maintain the policy this year.

Even if you opt for the Satellite option in the race, your skin takes a real beating with all these hours in wet neoprene and lycra, with your most delicate nether-regions needing the most coverage and therefore subjected to the most contact and the highest risk of chafing.

Fortunately, there are products designed to keep your parts moving in a way that won't have you screaming obscenities by the midpoint of the bike. I use three of them.

I would buy Hoo-Ha Ride Glide for its name alone. Formulated especially for women, this slick little lube is good for the boys too. It's meant to be used in the cycling shorts, but I find that the tea tree and eucalyptus and peppermint oils are a little too...tingly. Instead, I slather it all over my ankles and wrists and neck before putting on the wetsuit. It keeps me from chafing around the neck, and the suit slips right off when the wetsuit peelers have their way with me after the swim. God, I just love that part.

And let me just tell you. My lady parts are in love with Chamois Butt'r, the go-to product for preventing saddle sores and chafing on the bike. Thick and creamy, just the right consistency, not greasy. Lasts a long time. Smells not too much like anything. Contains aloe vera, green tea leaf extract, tea tree oil, shea butter and lavender oil. One of my goals in yesterday's 114-mile ride was to practice re-applying while on the move. If you are a resident of Winterport who casually glanced out your window on the Fourth of July and happened to see a middle-aged woman standing on a bike at 15 miles an hour with her hand all the way down her shorts moaning with pleasure, I'm not sure what to tell you. I'm sorry you had to see that. It's not what you think. It might have been even better than that. At least for me. I really am sorry.

And finally, Body Glide. Applied like deodorant. Great staying power. I use it around my neck for the swim, and on the run under the bra line, and on the tricky spot where my inside arm rubs against the side seam.

These and other intimate products are available at Sidecountry Sports in Rockland, Maine. Stop in or order online.

An Independence Day Parade Sandwich

Three weeks to race day, my last long ride. With my late start on training, I've been building volume unusually quickly, paying extra attention to my body and crossing fingers and toes that I don't get injured. Coach Scott had me scheduled for a 5-hour ride, but I felt I needed the psychological boost that a 100-mile "century" would offer. My long ride last week was 70 miles. No cakewalk, but I recovered well.

"OK, try it," he said. "But listen to your body. One hundred good miles. If you're tired, turn around. Junk miles don't get you anywhere."

I didn't tell him that I really wanted to do the actual race distance of 112 miles, not just 100.

Last year I rode my bike to Bangor on the Fourth of July, and this year I realized that if I timed it right, I could see the parade before turning around. I was nervous as hell about heading out -- worried as much about the mental challenge as my physical endurance for a long haul. My goal time was seven hours. I knew I needed to make it an adventure with a prize in the middle or I'd never make it back. And I love me a parade.

One of my goals for the day was to practice nutrition. I have a little excel spreadsheet going on which I have all my little calories and carbs and proteins all calculated for the day. Such a nerd, I know. I am aiming for 250 calories an hour on the bike, with a carb to protein ratio of 4:1. I plan to take all my nutrition with me and not count on the rest stops.

I can't even tell you how much I love having a pastime that requires me to "practice" eating, the one thing in this sport that comes naturally to me. I will tell you that I am planning on brushing my teeth halfway through the race, though. Seriously. Toothbrush and toothpaste are going into my transition bag.

So I loaded up the bike and stuffed my pockets with 3 boiled and salted potatoes, 4 Clif minis, one Clif Builder's Bar, a baggie of chocolate covered espresso beans, five bottles of sports drink and one of water, energy chews, salt tabs, electrolyte tablets, extra lube for the lady parts, and a few dollars, in case I need to patch a flat or buy an emergency coffee.

And I hit the road. Fourth of July traffic was still relatively light and sober in the late morning, with barbecues just getting going and the flea market/yard salers already back home with their finds. Lots of large motorcycles with radios blaring. Many gunshots. More fireworks. Flags flags flags flags flags. A couple of other cyclists. 

My mileage estimate to Bangor was approximate, but I hit the Bangor parade at a perfect 56.51 miles. I was exhausted, so the first thing I did was find this adorable EMT/firefighter on a bicycle named Brian and force him to join me in a selfie while the Bangor Band turned the corner on their truck. A serious energy boost.

Brian is kind of a BFD at the BFD.

I had to keep moving, so I joined the parade on my bike, waving back at little kids and giggling hysterically through downtown Bangor.

"Hey, clown, how about a selfie?"

I love me some Shriners.

Got to love a band on a truck.

Ten minutes later, I was back on the road, totally energized by the spirit of the parade and the silliness of the whole project. It wasn't an easy ride home, by any measure, my mood and body threatening in turns to jump on the tantrum train most of the way. 

By the time I got to Belfast, I felt the relief of finally hitting the final leg home, but I was feeling the effects of the heat and exertion. I stopped at the Irving to fill up my water bottles. Three people asked how far I was riding, and the attention I got was just the medicine I needed to make it the rest of the way. Filling my bottles at the condiment counter, I threw in a number of little salt and sugar packets, and I sucked down a mustard packet because I'd read that mustard can help with leg cramps (something about how the acetic acid helps the body make acetylcholine, may be total BS, don't know/don't care.) It was nasty, of course, and perfect.

Outside, two men in their seventies who were loading up ice for a party across the road asked me where I'd been. "Good Lord! I get tired just driving to Bangor!" one exclaimed, before inviting me over for cocktails.

At about mile 95, at the very moment I was seriously wondering if I would ever make it home, suddenly here was this shed, which has either been there all along the hundreds of times I've driven by, or it appeared just for this occasion. Either way, a godsend.

56.51 miles to Bangor, one mile parading, 56.51 miles back = 114 miles. My longest ride ever. 

Today I have to run at least 15.

Lake Placid, I'm yours.

Out and back to the 'Keag

My favorite morning ride is a fast cruise down Route 1, around the Rockland "rotary", over the hellaciously corrupted pavement of South Main Street and across the smooth wide stretch of  Rt. 73 past the airport to the sharp corner in South Thomaston, where old men in pickups talk baseball and lawn mowers over breakfast sandwiches at the 'Keag store.

The store is named for the Weskeag River, on whose shores it sits, and the owners and employees got so tired of all the various mispronunciations of its name (logical though they were) that they appended their sign to read "'KEAG STORE (Pronounced 'Gig')"

It's a perfect turnaround point, because there's a port-a-potty on the wharf if I need it, and I can race myself back home to try for a negative split.

Warm sun, donuts, cigarettes, landscaper trucks with trailers, birdsong, mulch, 43 minutes going, 40 minutes back, 17.0 m.p.h.

On the bike I feel like I could do anything in the whole fucking universe.

I will do everything I can to ward it off, but if I do somehow die on the bike, know that I was as happy as happy gets.

The run that did not suck

I barely knew it was possible, but I hit the foggy roads for my one-hour run tonight and I loved it. Not the first 20 minutes, which felt awkward and painful and heavy and hard. But the rest of it? Oh so lovely. And so I made a big discovery about my training runs so far. I've been heading out too hard, trying to go too fast. Trying to make up for what I think is a massive training deficit.

Truth is, I'm smack in the middle of another crisis of confidence. I'm way behind where I was last year. I know how hard last year's race was, and I went into it with more training than I have now. I basically have three weeks of building fitness before the race. I can't even think about it.

"You're going to go into it so FRESH!" says Coach Scott, ever the voice of good cheer. And he might be onto something: everyone else I know is completely burned out on their training. I'm just getting going. Maybe, just maybe, I'll hit it just right, with just a high enough level of fitness to have a good time. Yikes, though, man. I'm SCARED.

So anyway, I'm trying to build my run volume without getting hurt. And since I pulled a muscle today trying to beat four tourist ladies to Zoot Coffee so I wouldn't get stick behind their 15-minute order of every variation of skinny latte known to womankind, I started my run cautiously. Without caring about the big horrible number on my watch. Just determined not to be truly injured by my earlier impatience. Imagine being denied an Ironman finish because you couldn't stand to stand in line.

The super slow pace changed everything. It was a revelation to actually enjoy the run. After my warmup, I enjoyed some ridiculously scenic sprints through Aldermere Farm.

Trotted on a little ways, then it was wheezing hill repeats up Beacon Street. So. Freaking. Hard. So completely rewarding.

Then a delightful cruise home down Chestnut Street, home to cauliflower curry surprise baking in the oven and one Allagash White.

One incredibly slow hour on the books, some confidence restored. Some understanding maybe of why people actually like to run. Profound gratitude for the whole damn thing.

Can't Touch This

Been noticing in the last 10 days how my body is showing the effects of training. I'm not talking muscle definition and buttock toning, I'm talking skin abrasions, hematomas, and, well, I'll spare you the most tender details, but let's just say I'm not making any waxing appointments anytime soon.

I'm sure some of my friends are cringing to read this--those of you who think of me when you meet a single guy who seems straight, smart, sane, and solvent. This is dangerous territory for a single woman, a frank discussion of the gross imperfections of the body under stress. But I figure I've got nothing to lose, banking on the thin hope that any eligible bachelors out there find my wit and candor appealing enough to overlook the ingrown -- oh, never mind. Plus, I'm too tired to give a shit, I have to get up at 4:00 am to do hill repeats before swimming tomorrow, and anyway, when the hell would a single man ever even see my ingrown -- right, never mind.

I have a bruise the size and shape of a chain ring stain on my right calf, a cut where the big gear gouged me, where I've been tattooed permanently with bicycle grease. I swear I only shave my legs these days to get all the grease off. There are shocking moments when my slovenly athleticism is thrown into sharp focus: I had a meeting with fancy ladies yesterday, and I truly felt like the Fonz. 

A toenail is on its way out. Chafing smudges in awkward places look like the burns I got from wrestling on the mustard shag carpet in the basement rec room with my little brother. Sad little sweat pimples where that tech fabric doesn't breathe as advertised. Random bruises, cuts galore, frightening rashes. Strange aches and spasms in the most...specific places.

Oh yeah, it's sexy, this sport. Then there's the lifestyle. It's 8:10 right now and I'm worried about wrapping up this post because I'm already late for bed. And I am well aware of how boring it is, how one-dimensional. I dated a man right after the race last year, and in the initial getting-to-know-yous, he was all like, Okay, so you do triathlons, and you sell real estate...and...um, what else? And I was like, Um, yeah, sorry, but that's all I can offer you right now. There's actually nothing else. I know. I know. I wouldn't date me either. He's getting married in September.

But hell. I am an Ironman. My other faces will be back in August, I swear. Most of my skin should be back by then too.