As you know, I'm a dedicated masters athlete. By "dedicated," I mean I miss quite a few workouts, and in terms of "masters," I'm referring to the USATF definition of 40+.

Just to clarify that in case you thought "masters" meant "skilled."

But anyway, I went to the treadmill yesterday and I did the prescribed mileage and speed for my upcoming 10k. I felt super lucky that the Ironman World Championship coverage was re-airing on ABC. It'd make the 40 minutes go fast, watching all those inspiring endurance athletes who don't skip workouts finish something so daunting.

I was running along, virtually cheering the triathletes when a profile of an age-grouper came on. The guy, Leigh Chivers, was competing for his wife who'd died from brain cancer at age 34, and also for his baby son, who died from his own brain cancer just six months later.

Obviously, I sobbed during this profile. It was a little bit awkward to be hiccuping and wheezing while I ran, but anyone else in the gym watching that particular tv had to have had the same reaction.

Can you even imagine a brain cancer diagnosis for your spouse and then, just a short while later, the same terminal diagnosis for your child? And there was Leigh, biking 112 miles and running a marathon, all after finishing a 2.4-mile swim. He was talking about the importance of determination and positive memories.

People might want to watch the profile. You can find it here at 34:18. I'm inspired by this family. People can be pretty good and mightily resilient.

The day after I did my not-super-short, but not-really-long triathlon on July 19th, I got really sick with terrible bodyaches and headache and fever. As is true with most young families I know, a relatively little thing like this - a sick mom or a sick kid or a canceled babysitter - throws the delicate balance of LIFE off enough to make everyone in the household miserable and harried.

During the week of illness, I decided that I would not continue training for my half-iron distance triathlon. I was supposed to do it in September, and my training was already bare-bones. Every time I got on my bike, I'd think, "How will I do this for 56 miles? And then run a half marathon?" Never mind the swimming problem, which was that I was not swimming AT ALL.

Giving up the race was a tough decision mostly because I planned to do it with my good friend Sheila, and I knew she signed up for it at least partly because I wanted her to.

But, once I allowed myself to think of letting it go, I felt relieved. No 70-mile race looming on the calendar, just six weeks out.

The worst part about the whole thing was telling Sheila. But of course, she got over her disappointment pretty quickly and is still my stalwart friend and training partner. We'll be running the Twin Cities Marathon together on October 4th, and the training for that is actually going quite well. Sheila did say, however, that she thought my backing out of the Half absolved her of any obligation to do a full Ironman at any point in the future.

That's totally fine, I said. But, I still have a dream of doing one. I think I might treat myself to it for my 35th birthday. The kids will be 5 and 9 by then. I probably won't be waking multiple times each night. And maybe our lives won't be held together by such teeny tiny weak little threads.

I had track again this morning. When Tracy, the leader, sent out the workout via email last night, I could see right away it was going to be a doozie. Four full miles of speedwork! Beginning with all-out 200s! It would be the toughest track session yet, yes it would.

This morning, I figured all of my pertinent paces, and wrote them on a card so I'd remember from set to set.

"The only way I'm going to get through this," I told Dan, "is to stick to these paces and not go out too hard."

"Mmm hmmm," he said, not looking up from his computer.

"It's gonna be tough because those track ladies like to start fast," I said, shaking my head, "but I'm just going to run my own pace." I stood up from the computer. "Even if I have to go it alone." I waved my card in the air to demonstrate my commitment to those numbers. "Those ladies are going to get away from me," I continued, "but they're going to come back to me eventually."

"Mmm hmmm," Dan said.

"It's like I'm going to be the peloton," I declared, "and they're going to be the break-away. Before it's over, I'm just going to swallow them up!"

Dan raised his eyebrows. "I don't think you should tell that to the track ladies," he advised.

Probably a good tip. But, the peloton image did work for me during the intervals. That, and I started talking to myself in the voice of Mary Murphy: "You're going to finish this workout, YES YOU ARE!" "You can do it, YES YOU CAN! HAHAHAHAHA!"

Sheila and I are training for a half-iron distance triathlon and also Twin Cities Marathon. To that end, she found out this awesome track workout we could do with a group of other women on Monday mornings.

I love it! It's super fun and challenging, and when I'm done, I'm on a high for the rest of the day.

I missed last week, though, and it turns out that last week everyone did a time trial mile to get a baseline for their paces.

I didn't think it was such a big deal that I missed the time trial because I've been running for twenty years (20!), and I generally have a pretty good idea of how in-shape I am at any given time.

So, when the leader, an elite triathlete, called me out on not having done my mile at the beginning of the workout, I said I was willing to forgo it. I really just wanted to do the workout with the group.

"I'll just say my mile is a 6:20," I said.

"What do you mean you'll just SAY that?" she said.

"Well, I think that's what I would run," I said, shrugging.

"Oh!" said another woman. "Okay, I'll just SAY mine is a 4:50!"

"Yeah!" said another. "And I'll just SAY mine is a 5:30! That would be great!"

Hahahahaha. Humph.

So, obviously, I ran the stupid mile. A begrudging 6:17.

I'm on a Ride or Pay plan this summer. I either have to ride my bike three times per week, or pay my alma mater ten dollars.

Ten dollars for every week I don't ride three times!

That's pretty motivating, especially since I haven't given any money to my Catholic high school since they violated the conditions of their 501c3 status by distributing anti-abortion propaganda via the cover of their alumnae magazine and funding a trip to Washington D.C. for several students and their dads to march in an anti-abortion rally in 2004.

That really pissed me off.

Recently, though, a nice gal in the class ahead of me sent a handwritten note asking that I please give a little at the end of the school's fiscal year to help them surpass their fundraising goal. I decided to send in what I owed for not riding, which was twenty dollars.

Today, I got a thank-you note with some holy cards inside: Jesus, Mary, and Michael the Archangel. Michael's prayer is a little intense, asking that God cast into hell all the evil spirits who roam the world seeking the ruin of souls.

I'll remember that next time I don't want to ride.

The first week of Earth Day Half Marathon training is in the books, and I have to say, it hasn't been as painful or humiliating as I feared. I even managed a slow five-mile slog along the River Road - my first outdoor winter run in two years.

The other workouts were on my bike in the basement or on the treadmill at our gym. We belong to the newly-constructed and totally tricked-out Leonard Center at Macalester College. We joined for next-to-nothing because I'm a member of Macalester's Class of '99. It's not open to the public, so it's the college kids, the faculty and staff, and some alums. There has been maybe one other person over 25 in the fitness center on each of my visits.

And that's really the only trouble with the gym: I feel tremendously old and saggy in the locker room, changing with the 18-22 set. Between the stretch marks, the "abs," the craggy double-c-section scar, and the nursing pads that I stuff into my jog bra, it's pretty obvious that one of these things is not like the others.

Yesterday, my glamorous friend Emily came over to march up and down hills with me. This was a good workout, but it didn’t start labor, just FYI.

Em is training for her first triathlon, so it was fun to talk with her about her workouts, her progress, and the spandex outfit she’ll be wearing on the big day.

We also talked about our future fitness goals. I said I wanted to run a couple of marathons in the next couple of years, beginning with Twin Cities in ’09 and then turn to longer-distance tris. Em is sticking with triathlon, which is good since I’ll be able to leech some biking know-how off of her.

Of course, these plans are dependent on me birthing a child and then losing 35 pounds ASAP.

Since college, I’ve gone through phases of getting in and out of shape. The in-shape phases have been motivated by wanting to be less frumpy, wanting to run a fast marathon, wanting to fit into my clothes better, wanting to distract myself while writing my thesis, wanting to lose the fifty-odd pounds I gained in pregnancy, and wanting to feel less stressed.

Last summer, the challenge of training for a totally new sport was a perfect foil to the graduate-school work which was no longer exciting to me – reviewing the literature on digital literacy and learning about my ethical research responsibilities. Brain stuff that wasn’t all that rewarding.

This summer, I returned to triathlon to make myself feel happier after an unexpected disappointment. I came to it to make myself feel good. And so I’m a little easier on myself in training, which is a pleasant surprise. I’ve never been a just-get-out-there exerciser, but I have to say, it’s kind of nice to run slow if I feel tired, and I like to stretch out in the pool if I feel sore.

I recommend it heartily, actually.

Yesterday, I got up at 4:08 am to get ready to drive to Chisago City for my first triathlon of the season – a 400-meter swim, 20-mile bike, and 5k run.

I arrived at the park at 5:30, and after I’d checked in and finished setting up my transition area (tris are a bit more complicated than running races in that you need a bunch of gear quickly accessible between each leg of the effort), I headed down to the beach, wearing spandex from neck-to-knee, to wait for my wave to go off.

I only had a few moments of, “Why the hell did I sign up for this?” – historically my most common pre-race sentiment – before we waded in thigh-deep and heeded the two-step command to start swimming.

The biggest problem of the day was finding my bike rack each time I entered transition. There were 1200 people participating in this event, and that equals a lot of stuff.

Even though I told myself while I was out there that I was just doing this "as a celebration of fitness," we all know I really like to beat people. As I finished in the top third of my age group and the race overall, I'd say that's pretty much okay.

On Monday, Cycling Mentor Jamie gave me a lesson in how to change a flat tire. I also bought a little under-seat bag to carry an extra tube, tire levers, and a CO2 cartridge. It's stuff I should have had all along, frankly.

Today, on my first ride with my new supplies, I flatted 12 miles from home. Thanks to Jamie’s careful instruction, I thought I knew what to do. I calmly dismounted and got to work on changing the tube.

Just as I was finishing, a guy came out of his nearby townhouse to see if I had everything in hand. “You got it?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said, re-setting the chain, pride surging through my spandex-clad body. I felt victorious, actually. Like I'd accomplished an important and edifying triathlon rite of passage. I refastened my helmet and smiled at the guy. “I feel victorious,” I told him.

“Um,” he said. “Well. Good then.” He pinched the back tire and helped me spin the pedals to get the gearing worked out. “You should be ready to ride.”

So I did. For 11 more miles.

I didn’t find the second flat to be quite as empowering.

I didn’t have another tube, so I was forced to get off my bike and walk the last mile home across the Franklin Avenue bridge while wearing my form-fitting outfit, including shorts with a huge pad in the ass. My helmet hung from the handlebars, as I pushed my incapacitated cycling machine on the sidewalk while lots and lots of cars whizzed by.

I felt like a total tool, to tell you the truth.

Because of My Stupid Master’s Degree™, begun four years ago, and, you know, Shef, also begun four years ago; I haven’t seen any movies or read very many literary books in that amount of time. Four years.

I’ve set about remedying that situation this summer by joining Blockbuster Online and reading stuff. I read a little and watch a little every day. In case you want to know what I’m reading or watching you can look in the right sidebar, where I’m keeping a list. If you don’t care what I’m reading and watching, then you don’t have to look at it.

Also, I’m doing triathlon training, which brings me joy. This summer, I’m riding my new road bike with clipless pedals, the kinds of pedals that your shoes lock in to. The kinds of pedals that bad-ass and wannabe bad-ass cyclists use.

The trouble with clipless pedals is that, you know, you clip your feet into them. And then when you want to stop and put your feet on the ground, you have to be able to clip them OUT.

This hasn’t been a serious problem, except today. After I’d already clipped out my right foot and was waiting at an intersection, right foot on the ground and left foot clipped in; I lost my balance.

I lost my balance, began falling to the left, but of course the left foot was still locked into the pedal, and there was no time to get it out. In a panic, I reached out for cycling mentor Jamie, who happened to be right there. But in reaching for her, I really just pushed her down.

And then we were both on the ground under our bikes. When I first got down there, my left foot was still clipped into the bike, and I had to lift the bike off my legs and twist my foot violently to toward the ground in order to be able to stand up again.

This took time. And there were several witnesses.

Dan is leaving tomorrow for a two-week stint in Des Moines, so I’ll be the only one around to hear Shef say goodnight to the Christmas tree and to the ornaments for awhile.

Lucky for me, Santa came early to deliver a new bike and a trainer that lets me ride it in the living room in front of my tv. Yet another way to avoid grading papers, which seems to really be the thing I’m best at.




I had to ask a couple of kids in my fourth hour class how to use my trainer, but they hooked me up, and now I'm spoked. I mean stoked.