Anybody Can Do That

Anybody Can Do That.

It’s amazing to me how often complete strangers tell me that as their reaction to something I do, can do, or have done.  I’m not necessarily looking for praise, but I’m certainly not looking for denigration.  

As an example, about a month ago I decided to dive into dating once again.  Don’t worry.  It only lasted a weekend before I had enough of it, but I tried.  This time around I decided to try out the Hinge app.  Allegedly, the people who choose this app are more interested in actually meeting someone and forming a relationship.  It was easy enough to set up my profile, and I’ll admit that I appreciated their approach which was less “write an essay about yourself” more “choose three questions to answer or ask”.  If anything it allowed for an infusion of a little personality in the endless scroll of potential dates who like to travel, are inexplicably on a boat and borrowed a small child for a non-threatening photo.  

One of the questions you were offered was to play a game of Two Truths and a Lie.  I was down with this.  I can usually come up with a good one, but I always forget two of the three statements I have chosen in the past. So, it’s like the first time every time—including right now.

Please join me in a little game.  Here are my three statements.  Two are true.  One is not.

1. I competed in 6 triathlons in a single year.
2. My lack of dancing ability led to a demotion.
3. My childhood pet was a parakeet.

Without fail, the triathlon statement is always chosen as the lie.  And the triathlon statement is the only one that I ALWAYS use because it seems so unlikely, but is absolutely true (and a huge source of personal pride).  Most people don’t think I could do one triathlon, much less six.  I’m not surprised by that in the least.  I’m no athlete.  I was always chosen last in gym class.  In fact, growing up, my 6th grade PE teacher was the only person who ever made fun of my name—literally booing me when it was my turn to play table tennis (the only game in which I had any level of proficiency).  Whether that seemingly innocent roast at the hands of an adult led to the other kids actively working to keep me from ever getting close to the ball during the basketball unit that started a week later, I’ll never know.  But one thing’s for sure, when another girl saw the basketball heading my way (and me realizing I had to jump into action and put my best foot forward for my team), she wasted no time physically pushing me out of the way and onto the floor sending me sliding perilously toward the open doorway to the main hall.  The only thing that prevented me from sliding out of the gym was my shoulder and the door jamb.  The game didn’t stop. She was mildly disciplined, and I was told to sit on the bleachers for the rest of the week.  

Look Argentina, before you start crying for me, know that my lack of sporting ability and the subsequent societal pressure not to even bother isn’t the only thing that makes me an unlikely candidate for the title “athlete”, much less “triathlete”.  I’m clumsy.  I’m not just regular clumsy.  I’m professional-grade clumsy.  I’m walking-on-a-flat-path-in-perfect-conditions-with-no-obstacles-in-the-way-but-still-managed-to-injure-myself clumsy.  I’ve sprained my ankles 5 times (almost 6 if you count my recent episode walking out of a hotel which ended with me toppled over my luggage, legs splayed, with my dress over my head). Knowing all of that, it’s clear why this personal fact is such a surprising one. 

Despite all of this, the triathlon statement is completely true.  Sadly, anyone who has guessed this incorrectly doesn’t even know about my history as a clumsy benchwarmer.  They just know that I don’t appear to be athletic.

Given all of this information, it is probably obvious that the other true statement is about dancing.  That’s another story—as funny as it is humiliating.  So that means the lie is about the parakeet.  I wanted a parakeet.  I wanted to name it Perky. I settled for a parakeet puppet for which my dog didn’t particularly care.

So, that’s the game, but let’s get back to the dating.  

Hinge app.  That’s where I was.  Well, it seemed promising enough.  I had a clever conversation starter.  It wasn’t as charming as I would have hoped.  I did manage to start a conversation with two different guys.  One was nice.  We went on a date.  It was fun.  And then we never spoke again.  The other was a pill.  Carrying on a conversation with him was like pulling teeth—perfectly healthy teeth that did not need to be pulled.  It all started with the Two Truths and a Lie.  Actually, that’s not true.  It all started with a picture of me and an owl, about which he quizzed me on my knowledge of owls and essentially told me I didn’t know anything because he had watched a documentary about owls which made him an expert.  Then it moved to him hating all music I mentioned and getting annoyed when I was able to hold a coherent conversation about the music he liked (which was super obscure and definitely not my bag, but generally a topic I know well regardless of my personal feelings).  I should have ended it there...but, not one to let sleeping dogs lie, I kept responding which led to this:

Random Stranger: You’ve never done a triathlon.

Me: No, that one is true.

RS: Yeah, but you probably just did the short ones.

Me: I didn’t do IronMans if that’s what you mean, but I did 2 Olympic distance and 4 sprints.

RS: Right.  So short ones.  Anybody can do that.

Me: I don’t think that’s necessarily true.

RS: Yeah, well those aren’t even real triathlons.  How long are they?

Me: An Olympic is roughly a 1-mile swim, 25-mile bike ride, and a 6-mile run.  It’s what they do in the Olympics. It’s definitely real.

RS: Yeah, but the sprint ones aren’t.

Me: Yeah, those are shorter, but you still do three events back-to-back.  I think the shortest one I did was a quarter-mile swim, 12-mile bike ride, and a 2-mile run.  It’s still a challenge.

RS: Maybe.  It still isn’t hard.

And there it is.  My accomplishment wasn’t an accomplishment at all. It was just something that anybody can do.  It doesn’t matter that I trained 4 days a week for several months to get to the point of being able to do it or that I know that physically I couldn’t do a triathlon right now without starting over with the training.  Anybody can do that, so I shouldn’t feel good about myself for doing something that I never thought I could or would do.  To add insult to injury, that guy (and usually anyone who has ever made the “Anybody can do that” claim) told me he doesn’t exercise, so he didn’t come from a place of knowledge.  

I wish I could say this was the first time I have had this conversation, but it wasn’t.  I’m amazed by how quickly people are willing to minimize the achievements of strangers.  This isn’t limited to dating, although it happens frequently on first dates (or the first conversation one has before most likely NOT going on a date).  

It isn’t just athletic achievements.  It’s anything.  My job.  My hobbies.  Everything that I can do is apparently no big deal because ANYBODY CAN DO THAT.  And yet...not that many people do it.

What really bothers me about the whole “Anybody can do that” claim is not the fact that it isn’t entirely true.  It’s that by making the claim that anybody can do doesn’t make anybody want to do it.  It has the opposite effect.  It makes people think it isn’t something worth trying or putting the effort into doing.  It’s a passive-aggressive statement with the intent to dissuade someone from trying in the first place.  It encourages mediocrity by making the claim that nothing is extraordinary or worthy of pride.  Nothing is an achievement.  It’s just a thing that anybody can do.  

And, more disturbing yet, immediately brushing off another person’s talent, skill, or achievement as something that “Anybody can do” is just an easy way to quickly chip away at their self-confidence in a bid to get the upper hand.  It is no different than the guy who greeted me by insulting my choice of shirt as a way to trick me into doing whatever I could to curry favor with him.  It wasn’t a winning strategy with this girl, but it’s a trick that must work on others.  He wasn’t the first, nor will he be the last man to insult me upon first meeting me with the claim that it was just an innocent flirting tactic.  

Belittling another person, whether they are a stranger or a friend, is unacceptable.  Starting off a relationship with malicious criticism is dangerous.  While I am the protagonist of my own story, I also played a part in this cycle.  I stuck around for far longer than I should have or even wanted.  Why?  Because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings?  Because I didn’t see that I had anything better to do?  Because I felt some sense of obligation, despite the fact that they were complete strangers?  Maybe.  More likely, I didn’t walk away because being told that I’m nothing special spoke to that awful part of myself that tells me the same thing.  That little voice the creeps up throughout the day reminding me of all of my failings—real or imagined.

But that’s where the triathlons came in.

Just so we are all clear, I didn’t win any races.  I was a turtle.  But I finished, and I liked it enough that I kept training—because the achievement of crossing that finish line made me feel pride in myself that was absent most of the time.  I remember being at the track during a running practice when I realized that the only time of the day when I was consistently nice to myself, when my internal dialogue was positive and encouraging was when I was running.  Extend that to a race, and that meant that for at least 2 straight hours, I was my greatest champion—and sadly, the rest of the day, I was my greatest critic.  That feeling of pride, of being encouraged, and ultimately, of being empowered by my own thoughts carried over into other aspects of my life.  

So, when random strangers tell me my accomplishments are no big deal because “Anybody can do that”, it infuriates me.  Big accomplishments require blood, sweat, tears, and patience.  Diminishing those achievements by telling someone “Anybody can do that” just chips away at their self worth and gives credence to the nagging internal voice that would rather just sit on the couch.  It prevents them from doing all the work that will get them to a place where they CAN do that.

For me, as someone who did compete in 6 triathlons in a single year, being told that “Anybody can do that” takes away the power of knowing I DID do that.  And it was a huge deal.  

And maybe one day I’ll meet someone who thinks so too.

I Don't Need No Stinking Training!

Well folks, I proved once again that my preferred method of training, otherwise known as "Wingin' It", is not one that will or should be embraced by the masses. Yes, I competed in my first half marathon—that's 13.1 miles for those that don't know. No, I did not train, which is to say I didn't do any sort of exercise for the 2 ½ months leading up to the race. Nope. None. No running. No swimming. No biking. No speed walking. All I did was stand backwards on a bus, fall asleep after eating burritos, and take advantage of every possible opportunity to sit and watch mindless programming on the boob tube.

Now you'd think after my most recent triathlon debacle that I would embrace the concept of training. Apparently, I don't learn lessons on the first five attempts. Regardless of the fact that I made no effort, aside from thinking about exercising, to get out and run or move in some way, I knew that I could tackle a half marathon. Sure I've never run that far in my life, but it seemed totally doable.

I know what you're thinking… Cardelia, why would you sign up for a half marathon when you despise running? Furthermore, why would you compete in one when you made no effort whatsoever to train or prepare for such a fete of athleticism? Well, friends, the answers to these questions are simple. I'm willing to try just about anything. I do love a race, and when my non-running friend suggested we participate in this race back in January (you know, back when I was convinced that I was on the path to getting into shape), I was all for it. I mean, I was training for a triathlon in the first place, so continuing marathon training afterwards didn't seem like such a stretch. Little did I know at the time how unmotivated I was to train for the triathlon. As for not dropping out of the race when it became obvious that I was scarily unprepared, well, I'm no quitter. Sure I quit ballet, gymnastics, band, drama, debate, my job at the ice cream place, and various other jobs and activities, but when I've got money on the line—I don't like to lose it (and when it comes down to it, I'm a penny-pincher through and through...but don't call me cheap!) That, and I slept through a half marathon for which I had registered (and paid) a couple years ago. Sure, I have the shirt that makes people believe I participated, but it just makes me feel ashamed every time I put it on to go to the gym.

In the interest of not being a total sham, I dedicated myself to running this half marathon. Also, the other folks in our group dropped out, so it was just me and my non-runner of a friend who organized the "team". I knew I could complete the race, and I didn't want to let anyone down—especially myself. Perhaps I also suffer from a bit of misguided ambition and over-confidence in my minimal athletic abilities.

The day of the race arrived, and, although I decided one week before the race to make no effort to exercise at the last minute, I was feeling good. I was feeling confident. I was ready to tackle the world. I was also ready to take advantage of the free post-race wine tasting, but we'll get to that later.

I woke up bright and early at 3:45 in the morning, threw on my running attire, grabbed my bag of post-race necessities, and headed out the door. I was the designated driver since my friend's house was on the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. I left the house and headed in her direction. When I got to her neighborhood, I stopped in front of her apartment, called her, and waited for her to appear. After what felt like an eternity, she had yet to step outside. I felt slightly antsy that we were cutting our timing a little close (not knowing what the parking situation would be AND knowing that the last shuttle from the parking lot to the start of the race was at 6:10 AM. She called me to ask where I was, and I informed her that I was in front of her house, going as far as to tell her what the cross street was. Then, I looked at the street sign and realized that I was parked a block away from her house. I drove down the street, picked her up and we were on our way.

Thankfully, she was more prepared than I was on the food front. She brought enough "energy" food to share. We savored our Clif Bars as we headed up to Sonoma. My friend marveled at my cool and collected confidence about the race. She was amazed by how unprepared I was and how it didn't seem to affect me in the least. She, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves. I told her it was just my vast experience with racing (I have competed in 7 triathlons and 4 foot races after all). Of course, it's pretty obvious that I was just enjoying some quality time as I was floating down the river known as Denial.

We reached the parking lot for the race and it was a barren wasteland of nothingness. Apparently, our fears of being late and without a parking space were completely unfounded. We boarded the bus, made our way to the starting line, and stood around in the chilly morning air for another hour before the race started. After much waiting and quite a bit of huddling to keep warm, the race began. I kept up a running pace for the first mile. Then, once I crossed that mile marker, I dropped away from my friend and started a run/walk routine. The first five miles were pretty uneventful and went fairly quickly. As I was working my way through, I thought, this is going to be a very uninteresting story.

Once I passed through the first five miles, my pace slowed down a bit. I was getting pretty hungry. Now when I say "pretty hungry", I mean I was starving. It had been over two hours since I ate that Clif Bar, and well…I needed something. Luckily for me, I pocketed a small bag of "Sports Beans" before leaving the car. Those little sugar and electrolyte-filled jellybeans were the only thing I had to consume. Trying to make them last, I only ate 2-3 per mile. Once I got to Mile 8, I finished the rest of them. And that's when things got bad.

My pace slowed. My hips hurt. The soles of my feet were screaming. I found myself walking more and more. The more I walked, the slower I moved. At one point, I realized that I felt less pain when I ran, so I tried to keep that up, but it was next to impossible. I was so exhausted…and hungry. Around the middle of Mile 9, I noticed an ambulance driving toward me on the road. Someone must have been injured. As much as I wanted to feel sympathy for the race victim, I was more interested in figuring out a way to get a ride on the ambulance with them. Surely someone would take pity on me and get me out of the misery of this foot race!

I soldiered on. My hands were so swollen that I couldn't make a fist. I was so exhausted that I knew I couldn't stop, lest I never start moving again. Around Mile 11, I happened upon two older ladies (and if you didn't know, my people are the elderly and obese). They were talking about being the last finishers in the race. As I came upon them (walking, mind you), I informed them that I'd be right there with them. Then one of them said, "Well, she's got a hip injury, so we can't move fast at all."

Yes, in my head, I was thinking "Score! I found the one person who won't beat me!" Then, as I thought that, I decided to pick up the pace and run…for about fifteen feet. I commenced walking again, and within minutes, the lady with the hip injury passed me. In my mind, I thought I was moving at a pretty good clip. In reality, I was walking slower than a retiree with a bad hip who was limping along at a sluggish pace.

Trying not to let the mental race get me down, I walked on (sprinkling a little jogging in for good measure). I could see the ladies far ahead of me. I had a sinking suspicion that they might beat me. About this time I really had to go to the bathroom. I mean, really. At Mile 12, there was a port-a-potty. I chose to use the facilities. Once I finished my business, I tried to pull my pants up…and that's when disaster struck. I was stuck in a port-a-potty, confined to the bad smells of a tiny toilet, and I had lost my basic motor functions. I couldn't pull my pants up. I tried and tried, but my hands were so swollen, that I was unable to hold my pants enough to pull them up. As anyone who has ever spent time in a port-a-potty knows, you don't want to touch anything in there. I thrashed around trying to pull up my pants so as not to risk a ticket for public indecency while still trying not to fall on the toilet, or accidentally lean on the urinal for that matter. It was hell, but I managed.

I left the scene of my temporary pantsless captivity, and continued onto my final 1.1 miles of the run. I walked, I jogged, I walked, I walked. I was going to make it. As I rounded the corner onto the final drag of the race, which was probably the final half-mile, I decided to go out with pride. Despite the fact that I was in some intense pain and couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why anyone would want to run a full marathon (since, at this point, a half marathon seemed excessive), I started to run. Okay, so it was a slow jog, but it was better than walking. It was also my only chance to pass the hip injury, and pass I did (granted, I passed her fairly close to the finish line, in much the same way I passed the one-legged boy just feet from the finish line in the 10K I ran in New York a couple years ago).

I ran all the way to the finish line, and all I could think was "FEED ME." I felt like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors. I crossed that finish line at over 3 hours (which is kind of pathetic, but let's just move past that, shall we?), and I was glad. More than relief, I felt an intense need to eat. Apparently, I looked some kind of horrible because people along the run (specifically, the coaches for various teams, asked me about my well being), and after I crossed the finish line, a race volunteer made an effort to engage me in conversation. He asked me questions about myself. Basic things like, what was my name? Where did I live? I gave him curt answers, and followed everything up with "I need to eat." I made a beeline for the food table, and he continued to ask me questions (presumably to make sure I wasn't going to collapse) and offer guidance regarding the location of post-race activities. Within minutes of eating cheese, crackers, oranges, and bananas, I felt like a new person.

I knew I should look for my friend in the finish area, but I decided she MUST have gone to the wine tasting. So, I wandered over to the main tent, collected my wine glass, and proceeded to taste as much wine as possible (while still keeping an eye out for a tiny, cute blonde, with a white tank top). Unfortunately for me, the crowd was full of people fitting her description, AND my contacts were all foggy. So, I couldn't really see. I continued tasting and walking around. I borrowed a stranger's cell phone to call her (even though I was fairly sure she left her phone in my car…along with my phone).

Then, after an hour of hunting, I found her standing inside the finish area. As I approached her, she was talking to a volunteer about looking for me in the medical tent. She didn't see me cross the finish line (and she had been there for two hours since she completed the race in just over 2 hours—not too shabby for a non-runner), so she was worried that I fell victim to my own lack of training. I tapped her on the shoulder, and she was stunned. I then urged her to leave the area, walked her over to the wine tasting tents. I was a bit tipsy, and I needed her to get into my same mindset, lest she be a little annoyed with my inability to find her within a reasonable amount of time (not to mention the fact that I selfishly chose to get drunk and abandon her while she worried for my own safety and well-being).

We wandered around. She drank wine. We ran and got sandwiches. Then we went to a spa and luxuriated in the hot tub, enjoyed massages, and hung out by the pool while eating cookies. It was a glorious day.

The next five days, however, were far from glorious. They were just painful. I suppose that's what I get for running 13.1 miles without any sort of conditioning.

Lesson learned.

Or not.

Time will tell.

I Coulda Been a Contendah

As I sit here watching the gymnastics qualifiers on the Olympics, I can't help but think of my time as a gymnast. It was 1984. I, along with every other 8-year-old in the country, idolized Mary Lou Retton. My parents were kind enough to let me chase my Olympic dreams, and my mom surprised me by enrolling me in gymnastics. I was so excited! I had all but forgotten about the dreadful ballet/tap/tumbling class I took in the 1st grade. I desperately wanted to take dance lessons, and once I started, I discovered how much I hated it. It had nothing to do with my lack of talent (which became evident later in life, although, now that I think about it, the teacher always snapped at me for my inability to successfully execute the routine) and more to do with the fact that I was the only girl in the class that went to public school. All of the other girls went to a private Catholic school and made fun of me. Actually, strike that, they ridiculed me and refused to talk to me, stand near me, or even feign kindness toward me because I went to public school. And, yes, you did read that right. I was in the 1st grade. These were not adults. These were 6-year-olds that fully embraced a class system—in Oklahoma City. I did what I could to win them over, even attempting to do a headstand with no hands (and, no, it didn't work out. Such a maneuver is impossible unless your head is shaped like that of Frankenstein, but I was determined to do something impressive during the tumbling portion of class). The best part about taking dance lessons was the costume for the recital, and the real kicker was that I got the a nasty case of the chickenpox the week of said recital, so, much to my glee, I couldn't perform with the other girls—but I got to keep the costume!

Alas, enough time had passed that I was ready to try my hand at gymnastics. After all, I did have a small jungle gym in my backyard, and I was quite adept at hanging upside down. My mom and I selected a smashing outfit for my first Saturday at class. I wore a baby blue leotard and lacy white tights. Okay, I'll admit that I selected the tights because they seemed fancy, and I really wanted to impress my coach and other classmates with my classy wardrobe (and yes, as usual, I had delusions of grandeur and imagined that I would step into class and they would immediately peg me as a member of the next US Olympics team). I pranced into class with a nervous excitement. We spent the class practicing sitting on the balance beam (the practice beam was on the floor to avoid any injuries for the first-timers). Due to the fact that I was wearing tights, I kept sliding off the balance beam. It was very frustrating for me, but even more upsetting to the coach who reprimanded me for my inappropriate choice of attire.

"Don't wear tights to gymnastics. Your legs should be bare. That's why you keep falling."

"But my mom made me. She said I have to wear tights."

"Tell her this isn't ballet class."

I'll admit it. I wanted to cry. I've never been that tough when people get snippy with me. And yes, I also threw my mom under the bus since I played a role in the outfit selection. However, my mom did (and still does) have a steadfast rule about wearing hosiery. When I went home and informed her that I wasn't allowed to wear tights, she told me that I must be wrong. She thought it was totally ridiculous. The next week, she sent me there with tights. I took them off before class started. By class three, mom turned around on her pro-hose stance. My personal safety was at stake after all.

I instantly took to gymnastics. I learned to walk on the balance beam. I could do a flip on the bar. I could even end a handstand in somersault and vice versa. I was really good. Every Saturday I went to American Gymnastics, and I gazed at the large poster of Mary Lou Retton, knowing that I was follow in her footsteps. Each week we learned a new skill. The more skills we learned, the less I was allowed to do. The coaches didn't see the promise that I knew I had. Sure I couldn't clear the horse because I was afraid of hurting myself, but I knew that with a little practice I could overcome the obstacle. Sadly, the coaches didn't give me a second chance. Instead, they had me try to do a pull up on the high bar. I couldn't do that either. But, honestly, what 8-year-old has the kind of upper-body strength to do pull-ups?

Rather than give me more chances, I was relegated to practicing my cartwheels with the other untouchable—the girl who always wore the same ripped-up swimsuit. After just a few Saturdays, I was no longer allowed to be part of the main gymnastics class. While the other girls practiced running and jumping on the horse, or learned to do flips on the bars, or even practiced walking and jumping on the beam, I had to spend an hour and a half doing cartwheels. The other girl always insisted that she go ahead of me, so I had to watch her bare ass (because the swimsuit happened to be non-existent on her posterior) tumble in front of me. I learned a few valuable lessons. First, I never wanted to be so poor that I had to wear a ripped up swimsuit to gymnastics. Second, if you want a kid to quit something on their own, refuse to let them be a part of the class and insist that they stand on the sidelines with someone that never washes their hair and tumbles with an exposed ass.

Every Saturday I went to class, just sure that I would get to join the other girls, but every Saturday, the coach told me to keep practicing my cartwheels. When I told my mom I didn't want to take gymnastics anymore, she gave me a lecture on being a quitter. She didn't want to spend the money on the class if I wasn't interested in doing it, but she also didn't want me to quit the things that I started. Once she discovered that she was paying for me to practice cartwheels (unsupervised at that) for an hour an a half a week (which, for the record, is something that I did in my front yard on a daily basis…for free), she opted to take me out of the class.

My Olympic dreams were crushed. Apparently, I wasn't going to be the next Mary Lou Retton. Rather, I was just going to be an average kid from public school, who had to hang out with poor folk.

Wingin' It!

All these months of intense training (okay, so it was more like thinking of intense training but really not doing it), I conquered the Wildflower Triathlon.  How awesome was I?  Well, you'll just have to read on to find out.  I dominated all weekend long.  Now, when most people make a claim of domination, they are usually referring to their superiority at sports or something of that sort.  I dominated at being a Poorly Prepared Princess.  Who rocks the house?  That's right...I do.

After the disastrous training weekend where I became very adept at changing bike tires (after becoming an expert in popping them), I decided that I needed to be more prepared for the camping trip.  Sure it was fun to eat only peanut butter sandwiches for two days straight, but this time I had access to an ice chest.  Who am I to turn that down?  What did I do?  I branched out and purchased other items in addition to my peanut butter (though, I still ate peanut butter at an alarming rate all weekend long).  I purchased trail mix, deli turkey, sesame sticks (which I kind of regretted after eating too many without a steady supply of water near me), those wax-covered cheeses, and I packed fixings for a salad that never managed to get made.  I was so prepared!  This time, I even packed some cups so I could make oatmeal in something other than my mouth or hand.  We're talking professional camper here, people.  I expect to get called for a nature show any day now.

With the camping supplies under control, I tackled the triathlon gear.  Running shoes? Check. Bike? Check. Goggles? Check.  Wetsuit? Maybe I should do something about that.

Now, the week prior to the trip, I was really quite busy.  I didn't have time to rent a wetsuit in advance, so I decided to just leave it up to fate.  On my way out of the city to meet my ride across the Bay Bridge, I stopped at the sporting goods store that has been alternately good and bad to me.  Surely they would have a wetsuit available for rent.  At this point, I certainly had no intention of purchasing one.

Making my way over to the wetsuit rentals, I noticed that almost all of them had hold tags on them.  Perhaps I should have seen this coming.  Seven thousand people do compete in this triathlon, and plenty of them are coming from San Francisco.  But still.

In usual fashion, no one was anywhere near the wetsuits.  I flagged down a salesperson who informed me that this was not his section.  Luckily, he was kind enough to find someone to help me.  That dude took his sweet time getting over to me, and he was a ball of sunshine. 

Me: Hi there.  Can you help me?
Ball of Sunshine: What do you need?
Me: Do you have any wetsuits available for rent?
BS: (without looking at me OR the wetsuits) No.
Me: Really, all of these are rented? (I point at the cluster of wetsuits without tags.)
BS: There aren't any.

And he walked off.

Once again, I was dazzled by excellent customer service.  Perhaps he is related to the other guy that forced me to decide to NEVER buy anything from him EVER in my entire life.  Or, maybe he was just trained by him.

Furious, I stomped out of there, purchased some extra CO2 cartridges and got in my car.  I was going to brave the cold waters of Lake San Antonio sans wetsuit.

Sure I was nervous, but what choice did I have?  I mean, seriously?  I couldn't purchase a wetsuit from that jerk?  I was far too angry, and I really didn't have that much time.  What was my only choice?  Wingin' it!

Back to the journey...

I got to my carpool buddy's house, and we loaded the car.  She was pretty amazed at how little I packed.  Little did she know that it wasn't my camping prowess that allowed me the confidence to bring so little, it was more my amateurish desire to pretend I wasn't actually camping and, therefore, didn't need anything all that fancy.

We drove and drove and finally made it to the entrance of Lake San Antonio.  Feeling confident, yet tired, we handed the cashier $40.  Then, she told us it was $120 for the weekend.  What?!  We thought she was kidding, so we made a joke of it.  Sadly for us, she was dead serious.  And we paid the money and started the search for our fellow triathletes...in the dark.  By some miracle of fate, we managed to spot our group.  We pulled up the car, pulled out the tents and started to set them up.

Now, as you may recall, it took six people to figure out how to set up my tent last time.  Since I was a confident camper this time, I knew I could do it on my own, so I set out to do just that.  Was I successful?  No.  One of the guys that helped me the first time recognized me, as well as the tent, and attempted to help.  We had to call four more people over to figure it out.  Once again, it took six people to set up my tent.  Perhaps I was a little overzealous in my camping prowess.

Once the camp was set, we sat around preparing dinner.  Quickly everyone noticed that I wasn't preparing anything, and that's when I chose to reveal all of the things I neglected to do because…I'm wingin' it!

No, I didn't bring any kind of cooking utensils, pots and pans, or otherwise.  Yes, I do have peanut butter, and I'm already tired of it.  I have no intention of staking my tent because I don't feel threatened by wind.  And of course I didn't bring anything more than my sleeping bag because I'm going to will the temperature to be just right.  A pillow, you ask? Who needs that when you can rest your head on a towel?  No, I didn't bother to get a wetsuit, so we'll just see how tough I really am.  Oh yeah, and I don't have any flip-flops, or a hat.  I did bring a flashlight, but I didn't bring anything upon which to sit.  I only have one towel (which doubles as my pillow) and exactly enough clothing to last me through the triathlon.  Oh yeah, no bug spray.  And yes, when I fix my oatmeal in the morning, I will be using a red plastic cup, and no, I'm not concerned about it melting or emitting dangerous radiation into my oatmeal (that will be prepared with the water that someone else boils).  Why?  Because I'm wingin' it.  That's just the kind of girl I am.

All I can say about the following day is, thank the good lord for a food court.  After lazily watching the professionals run by us on the long course, we sauntered over to the expo area.  While our reason for going was to pick up our registration materials, I knew I was there to eat food from a tent.  Unfortunately for me, I ran into yet another snag.  In my rush to get out of the house with as little supplies as possible, I forgot my USAT membership card.  You wouldn't think that would matter, but it did.  That little error cost me ten more dollars.  I tried to convince the woman that it wasn't necessary to make me pay an additional $10 for a membership I already have (and have paid $40 to attain), but she wouldn't listen.  So pay I did…and then I found out that one of my teammates didn't have to pay the $10 even though he, too, forgot his card.  It was clear to me that the universe was against me, and I should seriously consider purchasing or renting a wetsuit at the event.

Once they got more money out of me, I wandered over to the food court, and stood in line for a hot dog—then I realized that was a bad idea.  So, I got some faux Chinese food.  It did have vegetables, and that seemed like a better option the day before a race.  After eating, I wandered around looking at wetsuits.  The woman at the wetsuit rental tent offered to let me borrow one so I could see if I thought the water was too cold.  Since it was so hot outside, I decided that the water must not be cold, and my choice to go sans wetsuit was made.

That night I slept like a baby.  Okay, I slept as well as someone could when they are camping.  Morning came, I got out of my tent, and there was no sun to be found.  No, no sun.  Just…fog.  Crap!  I don't have a wetsuit!  It was so cold outside.  I got my gear together and threw a sweatshirt on over my race-wear.  My friends and I headed down to the transition area, and we set everything up.  Our wave was an hour and a half after the start, so I had plenty of time to regret my decision to go in the water without a wetsuit.  Did I mention how cold it was outside?  Whose idea was it to wing it anyway?  As we watched the swimmers get out of the water and run up the hill to the transition area, I realized that I didn't have any flip-flops.  This caused me great distress.  I don't like running barefoot because my feet are quite delicate.  I never had a problem running around barefoot as a kid in the 110 degree heat, but now I'm a shoe-wearer (Not only am I  a staunch shoe-wearer, but I get totally grossed out when others don't wear shoes in the city.  Come on people!  I've stepped over needles.  It's just a bad idea!).  And that's when I realized something about myself.  I'm a Poorly Prepared Princess.  There is so much irony in being a PPP, and I tack on more irony because I don't even care that I am so poorly prepared.  I mean, come on, if you're a princess, shouldn't you make an effort to be prepared, and then if things don't turn out right, wouldn't you be upset?  But not me.  It's as though I've resigned myself to the limitations of my own laziness and lack of concern for obtaining the creature comforts that I want.  It's far easier (and somewhat fun) to announce that I don't have something that I want (or, in some cases, need), then slough it off as something unimportant because…I'm wingin' it.

But enough about that.  Let's get to the race!  Twenty minutes before the start of my wave, the sun finally made an appearance.  It was at that point that I finally started to feel a little better about my non-wetsuit-wearing ways.  Of course, I was the ONLY girl without a wetsuit, but that just made me special…and I won't even talk about how horribly unattractive I looked in bike shorts and a sports bra.  The wetsuit would have been infinitely better because I would have looked like cat woman.  Instead, I just stuck out…and the announcers could see my race number printed on my arms, so they announced my name.  Little did they know, I'm a slow-poke.  So, not only did the entire crowd know who the girl in her underwear was (and yes, it was somewhat reminiscent of the naked at school dreams we've all had), they could follow my progress and see that the two waves after me overtook me…and they were 10 years older than me.

I got through the swim, even though I went off course a couple of times, and emerged from the water.  Once again, the announcers called out my name, and everyone was cheering me on, telling me how much I rocked…and I knew, even though I was completely dizzy and wanted to slowly walk up the hill that I simply could not.  I was a pasty-white-soon-to-be-sunburned sore thumb!  So run I did, and once I got to the top, someone handed me water, and I stood next to the trash, drinking it, trying to keep my head from spinning.  Once I had my bearings, I wandered over to my bike and got ready for the ride.

The beginning of the ride is up a 2 mile hill that is very steep.  I took my sweet time, as did everyone else.  Since we were going so slowly, it took people years to pass each other.  I'd hear, "On your left…maybe…well…maybe later…wait…I'll be on your left in about a minute…okay…never mind."  We also cheered each other on, letting everyone know how great they were doing at .25 miles an hour.  It was really encouraging.  Once that hill was mastered, the race was on…until we got to the next hill, and the one after that, and after that, and after that.  Yeah, it was hilly.  I did quite well throughout the bike portion of the race.  Then, as I got to the top of Lynch hill (which was the hill I climbed in the beginning), I was zipping down, calling out "On your left" to runners and bikers letting them know that I was passing them.  I have no idea how fast I was going, but I'm guessing it was about 35 mph.  I should have known, but my computer wasn't working.  I just figured it was the batteries; after the race, I discovered it was because I put my wheel on backwards, so the computer thought I was going in reverse.  Rookie mistake!  Back to the hill.  I was going full speed down the hill when a tragedy almost struck. 

TNT is not dynamite.  Everyone gets a little down on TNT, but I never knew why…until I almost got into an accident with a cluster of them.  I was flying down the hill, when I saw a group of four runners side by side.  Not only is that poor etiquette, it's unsafe.  Next to the four runners was a biker.  How she was going the same speed as the runners is beyond me.  I started yelling, "On your left!", but they didn't stir.  I kept yelling.  I kept telling them to move.  I tried to hit my brakes, but I was going too fast.  I also knew that if I tried to slam on my brakes, I'd fly over the handlebars.  Also, I didn't want to get disqualified (or killed by oncoming traffic), so I didn't want to cross the yellow line.  I also didn't want to hit one of the bumps on the yellow line because I knew that would be the end of me too.  So, I just kept yelling, "On your left!  MOVE!  I'm talking to you purple!  MOVE!!"

Still nothing.  I got within two feet of the cyclist, and screamed at her as I started to lose control of my bike, "I'm going to hit you.  MOVE!"  Finally, she inched over enough so I could pass her.  As I passed, she said, "I couldn't move.  There were runners."

That wasn't a good enough excuse, I yelled back, "They needed to move too!"

Luckily, the crisis was averted, and I made it to the end.  I ditched the bike and headed out for the run.  Man was I tired…and nauseous.  Suffice it to say, I walked the majority of the run.  In my usual style, I did manage to run anytime I saw a camera pointed at me.  It is important to me that there be no records of my walking ways.  After much hill climbing, I got to the top of Lynch hill again, and started the run down.  I was doing so well.  I was almost done!  Then a 92 year-old woman passed me.  How do I know her age?  Well, in triathlons, they write your age on your calf, so, for me, I always know how out of shape I am for my age.  It's so awesome.  It was even more awesome to see the woman pass other twenty-somethings ahead of me and see them point at her calf in shock and awe. 

Finally, after 4 hours and 23 minutes of racing, I crossed the finish line.  I smiled the whole way and almost cried.  I was so excited to be done with that race.  A photographer came up to me and wanted to take my picture.  In my mind, I looked awesome, but when I saw the picture later, I realized that no one looks awesome after 4 hours and 23 minutes of racing.  Once my photo was taken, I stood by the trash drinking water.  Who am I?  Hulk Hogan? (And yes, there is a story to that one…maybe later).  Once I moved from the water, I went straight to the port-a-potty.  Did I mention that I had to pee throughout the entire race?  I tried to just let it go during the swim, but apparently my body is averse to peeing while in motion.  Talk about uncomfortable.

So I finished.  And I told myself that the one thing I wanted when I finished was a hot dog, then I saw the line to get on the shuttle bus back to camp.  Now, I could have walked up the hill back to camp, but I was in no state to do so.  Instead, I opted to wait in line.  I walked over to the line, and a guy came up 2 seconds behind me and asked, "Is this the shuttle line?"

"Yes"

"How long is the wait?"  Seriously?  Did you not notice that we arrived in the line at the exact same time?  Why would I know anything more than you at this point?

"No idea."

Then a couple of spectators walked up.  "Is this the shuttle line?

"Yes.  No I don't know how long it takes."

"Oh," they sounded disappointed.  "This isn't the line we want.  This is the line for people with bikes.  Where's the line for people that don't have bikes?  We shouldn't have to wait with all of you.  It's too hard to walk up that hill, so we should have our own shuttle."

At that moment, flames burst out of my head (and it wasn't the sunburn).  Are you kidding me?  Really, you've had a rough day?  You've been leisurely sitting around outside eating ice cream while everyone with a bike just RACED for multiple HOURS, and you deserve to be on the bus more than us? "There's only one bus."

"That sucks."  Then, they walked away, and I knew that I should eat because I was mad at the world for no reason in particular.

No hot dog for me--just a banana nut Clif bar and a bad attitude.

Upon arriving back to camp about an hour later, my friend approached me.

"Hey, is your tent the one next to the car?"

"Yeah, why?"

He started laughing.  "It blew over.  We saw it and immediately started taking bets on whether or not it was yours."

"Of course it's mine!  Was there really a question?  Wingin' it!"

"Yeah, we figured.  We were all joking around that you were probably in the tent when it blew over, and you were just hanging out in there resigned to your fate to never leave the tent again."

"Well, had that been the case, I probably would have just taken a nap.  Wingin' it!"  I laughed as I approached my overturned tent.

I started to pack up the tent, then decided it was shower time.  Oh glorious shower time!  Once I finished my shower, I saw the 92 year-old woman that passed me.  Upon closer inspection of her calf, I discovered she was actually 72.  Wow...so much less humiliating.

We packed up the car, and headed back to the city.  My vegetarian friend suggested In N Out (which was exactly what I wanted since I didn't get that hot dog).  We both had hamburgers, along with 200 other Wildflower participants, and it was the best darn hamburger I'd ever eaten.

So what did I learn from this race?  It's true.  I do like camping, and I bet I'd like it even more if I wasn't just wingin' it.  Also, I'm still slow.

I Have One More Thing to Add...

This morning, when I returned from my 25 mile bike ride through very hilly terrain, everyone at the campground cheered.  They started asking me questions like, "Did you get any flat tires?"  You know, joshing me (even though, I didn't realize it at first because I was far too tired to understand anything beyond the words to "One Song, Glory" that I sang loudly as I went down all hills).  I attempted to start talking as I was dismounting the bike, when I learned another important lesson.  After a 25-mile bike ride, I am unable to multitask.  Rather than gracefully getting off the bike, I fell over.  People laughed.  I laughed.  A couple people came over to help me up, and the girl said, "That was all pride that got bruised there."  I just laughed, knowing that I didn't bother to pack my pride for this trip.

And PPS, I may not despise camping as much as I thought.  Sure, I'm not fond of sleeping in a tent because I don't sleep (especially when I set up the tent on an incline, so I wake up scrunched in the corner because I'm unable to control my body when it is in a slick sleeping bag), but the other parts of camping ARE fun.  And, I'd probably have fun camping with people that I actually know (as opposed to people I recently met).  And this campground had showers and toilets, so that really made EVERYTHING better.

Now it's meatloaf time.

Boy Have I Got Something to Blog About

Alright, so this post was originally going to be about terrible customer service.  I was going to talk about my experience at the sporting goods store on Friday, and I was going to be all up on my high horse.  I can still be up on my high horse, but, unfortunately for me, some events transpired this weekend giving the fellow with poor people skills one point over my 2.  In fact, he may have negated my first point, in which case, we're neck and neck.

It all started when I walked in the sporting goods store to purchase new tubes for my bike (because, as you may or may not know, I had a flat tire a couple weeks ago...and I finally fixed it on Friday night...right before I left town to go on a triathlon training weekend that included biking).  Being a regular at this particular store, I knew where to go--down.  I found my way to the bike and swim shop, started browsing the area for CO2 cartridges and bike tubes, when I decided that I should seriously consider buying a wetsuit. 

As you recall, I outgrew my old one and sold it to a tiny Asian girl who was smaller than I've been since I turned about 16.  I've been hesitant to purchase a new wetsuit because my heart hasn't really been in this open water swimming thing the way it used to be (probably because I don't own a wetsuit anymore).  I was in a real quandary about the weekend.  Do I buy a wetsuit?  Do I rent a wetsuit?  Do I wing it?  How cold will the lake really be?  I just didn't know what to do.

I wandered over to the wetsuit area, making a beeline for the sale rack (because these puppies are far from cheap).  There was a salesperson near me, who said, "If you have any questions about wetsuits, just ask."  I thanked him, and told him that I was trying to determine whether or not I actually wanted one.  I also mentioned that I've rented twice, so it might be time to buy, to which he replied, "Uhh...yeah.  Sounds like it."  I immediately disliked him.  At that point, I started looking for my size, but had a senior moment and couldn't remember if I was a WM or WMS.  Upon looking at the sizing chart, I determined that I am a WM.  The sales guy then said, in a rather irritated (and irritating) way, "Are you sure you don't have any questions about wetsuits?"

"No," I replied.  "I just didn't remember my size, so I'm checking to see what it is."  Upon determining my size, I searched the rack for it.

"You know, I could help you."  He said.

"Yeah, but it looks like you don't have my size."

"Uhh..not on the SALE rack."  He was very sarcastic and rude with his insinuation that I'm cheap (For the record, I'm thrifty and/or frugal...not cheap).  "We have your size in the regularly priced suits, so you should try looking there instead of just in the suits that are discounted."

Riiiiiiight.  Because, as someone who isn't thrilled with the prospect of buying a new wetsuit, I'd be more than happy to drop $600 on a fancy new one that is WAY more wetsuit than I need (since that's the one to which he attempted to direct me).  I wandered over to the cheaper new wetsuits, as he called after me telling me that I shouldn't bother looking at those because they weren't as good as the more expensive ones.  Duh!  I don't care.  And that's when I realized who he was.  He's the same guy that started bugging me about the tires on my bike when I brought it in after the terrible bike ride in the rain.  To refresh your memory, it went something like this, "Uhh..what's wrong with your tires?  Why are they so dirty?  Don't you take care of you bike?  You should get new tires.  They look like crap."  This was after he laughed and made fun of me when I mentioned that I fell off of the bike earlier (hence the dirty tires and need for a tune-up).  I hate that guy.

Needless to say, he didn't sell me a wetsuit.  Instead, I had someone else sell me a tire tube.  He was very nice.  I liked him.  Too bad trouble was in store for that tire tube.

And that's where the story would have ended had I found time to write it on Friday.  It only gets better.

Saturday morning, I drove three and a half hours to Lake San Antonio, which was lovely.  I got there an hour before we were to start our bike ride.  Everything was going well.  I changed the tire the night before, and I attached the computer to my bike to calculate my speed and mileage.  I did have a nagging feeling of doom, but I figured it had more to do with camping and my inability to get quality sleep in a tent (and the fact that I was pretty unprepared for the whole thing because I was in denial that I was actually camping and might need something more than peanut butter for my meals).

We set off on the bike ride, and the coach took a quick stop early on (within the first 500 feet), to show us where we were supposed to run immediately after the 30 mile ride.  As we all got back on our bikes, tragedy struck.  That tire, you know, the one I changed the night before.  It popped.  To say I was angry would be an understatement.  Not realizing how slow I am at everything to do with athletics, a girl said, "Just change it."  Easier said than done I'm afraid.  I explained that that would take an hour (since it took me 45 minutes to perform a "20 second" tire change the night before).  The coach changed it, and another rider looked for the hole.  We determined that there was a piece of glass in the tire.  Sadly, I did look for it the night before, but found nothing.  Apparently, I'm not that thorough.  Also, I pulled out the new tire tube I purchased just to find that I got the wrong size, so we had to use my other spare tube (which, if you're counting, left me with nothing should any mishaps happen on the ride). 

With the glass removed, and the tire changed, we set off.  Needless to say, I was rattled...and I was having trouble getting up the hill at the start of the ride mostly because I was in a very negative space (as someone who is more new age-y than me might say).  Once I conquered hill number 1, I started feeling a little better.  I saw the next hill (which wasn't as steep), and prepared myself.  Then, the same tire popped AGAIN!

I cursed, I cried, I got off the bike and wanted to kick it...but knew that I wasn't planning on getting a new one so that would just add to my problems.  Now I was by myself with NOTHING.  A girl on mountain bike road by on the trail above me and didn't even stop.  I would at least ask if the person needed help as I road by with no intention of stopping.  I mean, come on, it's the least someone can do.  When I see someone in trouble, I'm happy to acknowledge their dilemma and do nothing to help because: a) I'm not skilled at helping people with anything to do with their bicycle much less my own, and b) because I'm just not that helpful.

Luckily, the coach came back to see what happened to me.  This time he saw my tears, and I was embarrassed.  I ended up walking back into the camp area with my bike and was fortunate enough to run into someone from my campground with a car.  So, they gave me a lift back.  I then put on my running shoes and headed out for a 6.2 mile run.  It was hot, hot, hot, so I went swimming in the middle of my run.  When I returned to camp, people were trickling in from the bike ride, and they all knew about my troubles.  It was nice to get sympathy, but I still felt frustrated since it wasn't my lack of athletic prowess, but my equipment that failed me.

Later that evening, a tire change clinic was scheduled, where I was the star.  As I pulled my bike around, I noticed that the front wheel was flat too.  Someone loaned me a new tire, and another person gave me some spare tubes.  The bike was up and running for the ride this morning.  Of course, when morning came around, I wasn't interested in riding.  But I did.  And I'm glad I did because it gave me back my confidence.  Admittedly, after all of the trouble with the flat tires and the monster hill climbs, I started feeling like I wasn't cut out for this triathlon.  However, once I rode the course, I decided that I could handle it.  Hopefully I can handle it in 100 degree heat because that is apparently a possibility.

So, I learned a couple things from this experience.  My tires were shot, and I should have bought new ones, so that jerk at the store was right about something.  I am fully capable of competing in the Wildflower Triathlon.  And, I should never try to set up a tent by myself while others are watching because the tent won't go up, and I'll have to choke back tears.

What a weekend!  Time for meatloaf.

Even the Universe Knows I'm Out of Shape!

Big news.  Huge news.  Colossal news.

That triathlon that I signed up for in January because I wanted to get into shape and find a renewed passion for physical fitness; you know, the one that I haven’t really been training for?

It got cancelled.

I know.  It was symbolic.  It was on my birthday.  I thought that might help me do a little better.  It was the same course as the very last triathlon I did a few years ago.  It was going to be a transcendental experience for me.

Alas, it simply wasn’t meant to be.  I just got an email from the race director regretfully informing me that the race will not happen in less than two days.  They apologized profusely to all of the athletes that trained so hard for the event.  They certainly weren’t talking to me. 

I have to admit, I’ve been feeling a little nervous about the race.  I’m totally out of shape right now.  Of course, I do have a much more difficult race coming up in a month, and I really need to hunker down and something about it (while also guiding tourists through the California wine country).  But, I’m pretty relieved that I don’t have to change the back tire on my bike before Saturday morning.

Birthday miracles DO happen!

So, I just have this to say....

Don’t cry for me Argentina.  The truth is I haven’t been training.  I like to watch TV, and sit and eat at Sparky’s.  I can’t start racing, until I quit flaking.

*sigh*

I wonder if I should get a cookie.  You know, treat myself for a hard day’s work..

My 200th Episode!

My page has been viewed 200 times.  I am so popular.  Don't look at anybody else's views.  I don't want anyone to upstage me right now.  200.  Wow.

So, tonight I went to the track (in the misty rain) and I ran UNDER a 10 minute mile.  Granted, I didn't run a straight mile, but if I did, I would have run about a 9:15 mile.  Hello?  That's so awesome for me.  I'm so sucky and slow, so this is something to celebrate.  How shall I celebrate, you ask? 

Well...I'm selling my wetsuit.  Yes, I finally found a buyer (and I finally was willing to accept a lower price than what I wanted).  My size small wetsuit (which is best suited for someone shorter and lighter than I have ever been in my adult life) will find a new home in just a matter of minutes.  I bet you're wondering how I got saddled with a wetsuit that was too small.  Well, let's just look at some of the other choices I've made.

How did I end up with 2 different (and equally expensive) blackberries from Phonies when I initially intended to just switch carriers and get a free one?

How did I end up buying a crappy, low-end bike off of some guy in the Sunset for full retail price?

How is it that in the midst of a leisurely Sunday stroll through my neighborhood, I ended up signing a lease on a new apartment and agreed to move in within 2 weeks before finding out the terms of my current lease and ended up paying rent on two places for a month?

How did I end up with a pair of men's size 9 Pumas that were non-returnable?

How is it that I spent one New Year's Eve drinking cocktails (that I mixed) made with rancid cranberry juice even though I noticed that the juice was a) brown, b) smelled bad, and c) tasted terrible....oh, and d) was informed the next day that the party host found the juice in the back of the refrigerator and thinks it may have been there for 3-4 years?

Why do I always do other people's Excel projects when it doesn't pertain to my job at all?

Why do I insist on not getting cable and keeping my 13" TV/VCR combo until it completely stops working?

So?  Do you know the answers?  Sucker, Sucker, Impetuous, Sucker/Cheap, Undiscriminating, Sucker, Cheap/Stubborn.

And where does the wetsuit purchase land among these answers?  Well, I'll have to add a new one.  Vanity/Sucker for Flattery.

I purchased my wetsuit on the night of the Apparel/Gear clinic which featured a 20% discount off of everything but wetsuits.  When it was time to try on wetsuits I knew that I fell in the middle of the Medium and Large sizing, so I asked which suit I should try.  The wetsuit rep suggested trying the Medium.  I put it on, and it seemed to fit.  He kept telling me that it needed to be tight.  Honestly, it felt pretty darn tight, then he told me to put my hand under the collar.  Upon doing this he said, go for the small.  So, I did.  And it fit.  And I felt so flattered by the fact that it actually fit (while completely disregarding the fact that neoprene is really stretchy) that I ended up buying it. 

Immediately upon getting home after a short 2 block walk, I knew I bought the wrong size.  I also knew that I couldn't return it.  So, I wore it to the first Bay swim the next Saturday.  As I walked on the beach, I noticed that my range of motion was severely limited (much like it is in my oddly restrictive jeans).  I went too small.  Convinced that I could somehow lose the 30 pounds it would take to truly fit into the wetsuit, I continued to wear it.  And then, I split the bottom.  A quick trip to the manufacturer and that was fixed.  Then, I split the bottom again.  Apparently the wetsuit wanted nothing to do with my behind.  Occasionally, other swimmers would aid me in zipping it up and comment on how difficult it was.  I didn't want to tell them it's because I'm too big for it, so I just said, "Yeah. Weird, huh?"  One of my friends, who is tiny, told me that even SHE doesn't fit into a small wetsuit.  How did I make this magic happen anyway?

The too small wetsuit did well even though I tortured it with my extra 30 pounds.  I sent it back to the manufacturer for another re-glue, and now...after sitting in my room for a year and a half, it has a new owner.  She's a tiny Asian girl.  Looking at her in the wetsuit, and seeing how tight it was on her, I really wondered how I ever managed to shove my fat ass into that thing.  Miracles DO happen every day.

Hopefully it will serve her well too.

And now I have to go buy another one that will actually fit me...and my blubber.  Keep you fingers crossed that I've learned from my past indiscretions and will make an appropriate, well-researched choice.

Back on the Horse

I went on a 40 mile bike ride this morning. That's right, 40 whole miles. I didn't cry or anything! In fact, I chatted with other riders throughout the ride. Oh yeah, I'm nearly a pro now. That rainy day was just hazing. I survived, and now I'm really good. Okay, so I'm still really slow, but I didn't fall of the bike this time (even though I came dangerously close at the very end of the ride when I got to my car).

I did start to wonder how people manage to ride long distances on a bike seat without going totally numb "down there". My seat is "women specific" because the original saddle was horrendously awful, and I was afraid that I'd accidentally give myself that procedure that people learn about in Cultural Anthropology 101...you know, the one given to women in some tribal cultures in Africa. Do I really need to say it?

Regardless of the fact that my seat includes a c--- slit, it's still not like sitting around on my couch (which is almost always comfortable, unless I sit there too long and my skin grows into the fabric like on that episode of Nip/Tuck with Big Mama). I would go as far as saying that yesterday's self-improvement project of getting the hair RIPPED from my legs was less painful/uncomfortable than sitting on my bike seat for 3 hours. I suppose the reason for that is that my legs endured the pain for a total of 30 minutes, and the actual "pain" only lasts about 2 seconds per rip. But still, if you've ever had the hair ripped off of the front of your ankles, you know that the 2 seconds of pain is worth a whimper.

So how do people do this? Is this why girls don't ride bikes as avidly as boys? And what about the boys? They have special seats too, so there must be something to whine about.

Maybe Dr. Scholl's should make gel seats like their gel insoles. Then my naughty bits would be gellin' like Magellon, too.

Personal Record

I ran a 10 minute mile today.  That has NEVER happened in the history of my life.  While this may not seem like much a feat to anyone that actually runs for fun, it truly is.  I am no runner, people.  Nope.  Not a runner.  Throughout my 31 years, I've made every effort not to run.  That's why I don't run marathons.  I don't like running for 1 mile, much less 26.  But tonight, I hit a milestone.  Admittedly, I was skeptical.  I mean, after last Saturday's bike ride, wouldn't anyone be?  Perhaps I bit off more than I can chew with this whole triathlon training.  But, apparently, the coach hasn't given up on me.  I admittedly thought he might (especially if he actually knows that I started crying on my bike), but he still thinks I could be an athlete--albeit, a slow one.

People who run don't understand those of us that don't.  It's funny really.  They have no problem running and talking.  Me, I can't really do both.  It's one or the other for me.  I keep trying to carry on a conversation (especially since people insist on talking to me while we do our warm-up run which feels like a balls-out run to me), but once we make it halfway around the track, I'm out.  Sometimes I wonder if people think I'm rude for bailing out.  But then I realize that they can see that in less than 30 seconds, I'm halfway behind them.  Not a runner.

So, tonight I ran 5 miles.  FIVE MILES.  Again, to people that run, that isn't such a big deal.  But I didn't walk during any of those 5 miles.  Okay, that's a lie, I did walk a little bit on two of my "recovery" jogs.  So we ran about 3 1/2 miles, and then at the end we had to run a "hard" mile.  I tried to bargain with the coach, making an empty promise to run a mile tomorrow morning, but he had none of it.  So I just did it...and I ran fast.  Well, I ran fast for me.  My pace is most people's "easy" pace.  Once I realized that I was running a 10 minute mile, I certainly didn't want to stop.  So I just kept going.  I DID IT!  Not only that, I ran the 1/2 mile "cool down" too.  Last time, I just pretended to do it.

It was very exciting.  Another girl was paired up with me because she was slower than the others, and she ran a personal best of 8 1/2 minutes.  Why she was paired with me is a total mystery.  That, and, how fast were the other people going?  Seriously.

It turned out to be a good night for me.  In the beginning I was skeptical.  Then I got out there and saw that there were a couple fat girls, and I felt totally relieved.  Well, I was relieved until I found out they were part of the boot camp and not the track practice.  So, I'm still the slowest one, but I'm nothing like I was when I started triathlons 3 years ago.  My beginning running pace was a 12 minute mile because I couldn't run a full loop around the track without walking.  See how far I've come?

Now I just have to start the swimming portion of my training.  I'd like to say that will be easy, but I'm not as good a swimmer as I have led myself to believe.  I grew up with a pool in my backyard, so it seems obvious to me that I'm an excellent swimmer.  My little floaties were deflated during my first timed open-water swim 3 years ago.  We had to do 6 laps in a lake, and the coach told us that we COULD do 4, but strongly encouraged 6.  I was one of the last 3 people in the water (and yes, the other two had 200 pounds on me).  I was convinced that everyone else just did 4 laps, until it happened again...and again...and again.  Apparently, hanging out in a pool everyday of the summer as a kid doesn't make you a competitive swimmer.  Weird.

But I'm not dwelling on that.  I have to get over that hurdle tomorrow.  You know, after I get all the hair ripped off my legs.  That's just the kind of girl I am.

I Want My Mommy!

I'm a crybaby. Wah!

Ouch. Today I went on the most challenging bike ride of my life (and quite possibly the longest at 36 miles). It's been three years since using my bike for anything other than an art piece in the corner of my living room, and I really should have eased myself into it a little more. Yeesh!

So, as I've mentioned, I'm training for a triathlon. By training, I mean that I've signed up for two olympic distance events and a training program. Since the beginning of the training program, I have worked out approximately 4 1/2 times (the 1/2 because I spent a questionable 20 minutes on an exercise bike the other day). Admittedly, I was a little concerned about the bike ride (which may explain why I missed the first scheduled ride two weeks ago...well, that and the fact that I had a combo food/wine hangover), but I was determined. I was told that we were riding if the rain was light. And, it was. I got to the meeting point, and it wasn't so bad. I pulled out my bike and dressed in the appropriate clothing; however, I did choose to keep my cotton pants on instead of relying solely on my PHAT bike shorts (which was a decision I deeply regretted in the last half hour of my ride). Only 5 other people showed up for this ride (and, as I was told later while climbing a never-ending hill, those folks, with one exception, are the hard-core cyclists). The coach was friendly and encouraging as usual. We started the ride, and I couldn't remember how to change my gears. Luckily, the coach gave me a quick refresher course. We rode over the Golden Gate Bridge, and I was feeling it. We rode down to Sausalito, and I was fearful of flying off the bike. We rode on the bike path to Mill Valley--still hanging in there. Then, we climbed a ridiculous hill on our way to Fairfax. I was doing really well. 

After 18 miles of doing a decent job of sticking with the group, we stopped at a coffee shop. I won't lie, I was starving. Unfortunately for me, food was not in the cards for me (though it really should have been). Once our coffee break was over, we got back on our bikes and headed back. The storm also started kicking into high gear. I was a little tired (and started realizing how cold I was since my clothes were soaked because I can't be bothered to get a waterproof raincoat). Everything was going fine until we started climbing back over that monster hill. I was dying, but I didn't stop. The coach doubled back a couple times to check on me (because I was far and away the slowest person in the group). We finally conquered the hill and started the descent, along with the rain. It was raining so hard that I couldn't keep my eyes open consistently. It was terrible. 

Finally back in Mill Valley, I was feeling good and hopeful. I told the coach that I was tough. Looking back, that was the beginning of my downfall. I was totally exhausted because of the physical activity and because I was starving. The coach gave me some goo and gatorade, and that totally made a difference. We were entering Sausalito when catastrophe struck. I fell off my bike in front of a bunch of cars and other bikers. It was only the second time I've ever fallen off of my bike (the first being the first time I ever got on it...oh, and I guess I did fall off the bike at the bike shop when they were adjusting it and I flew off the trainer, so technically it's the third time), and the circumstances were almost identical. We came to an intersection, so I clicked out of my pedal on the left side, but started leaning to the right side. So, I fell over in the middle of the street. The fall hurt, but not too bad. The bad part was that I messed up my gears. The coach adjusted them temporarily, and I kept going, but the gears kept slipping. I was also getting tired and frustrated (which is never a good combination), so I REALLY wanted to just stop. But, doggonit, I'm tenacious! We rode through Sausalito, and my gears were making me irate. Then, we got to the base of the final hill (that is a monster if you're not familiar with it) leading back to the bridge. I was tired, but I was almost there. As we started up, I switched my gears and tragedy struck. My chain slipped off. The coach was now out of sight, so I stopped to fix it. Luckily, another biker stopped to help me. I got back on my way, cursing my pedals (because I was having a helluva time clipping in). The gear shift was wonky, and my knee started bugging me. Now, when I say bugging me, I don't mean it was slightly annoying or bothersome. It f-ing hurt every time I put pressure on it (which was constantly since I was furiously pedaling up a killer hill). 

Let me tell you, the sky wasn't the only one crying at that point. I started bawling because I was so frustrated. Even though I knew better, I got off my bike and started walking. I felt like such an idiot, but I couldn't stop crying. I mean, come on, I was tired, hungry, wet (oh, and those cotton pants were totally soaked and heavy at this point), angry, and in a bit of pain. Three girls stopped to see if I needed help. I told them I was fine (even though I choked it out through my uncontrollable tears). It went like this:

Girl: Are you okay? 

Me: *sob* Yeah, I'm fine.

Girl: Did you fall off your bike?

Me: *sob* Yeah...

Girl: Is your bike messed up?

Me: Kind of. *sob* But I fell about a half an hour ago, so it's nothing new. *sob*

Girl: Hmmm...we can try to fix your gears.

Me: No. *sob* It's fine.

Girl: Do you want to use my phone?

Me: *sob* I don't know who to call.

Girl: Do you need food? (and I should mention that the guy who helped me with my chain offered me food, so I must have looked some kind of awful)

Me: No.

Girl: When did you eat last?

Me: 10 minutes ago.

Girl: Okay. You're almost to the bridge.

Me: *sob* Okay.

Girl: I think you'll be okay. The only thing that's broken is your spirit.

Me: *sob* I know.

Girl: You know, it will go faster if you get back on the bike.

Me: *sob* Yeah. I'll just walk for a little bit.

And they were off, wishing me luck. I continued on my walk of shame (which was also difficult since I was wearing shoes with a piece of metal on the bottom, making it difficult to walk at any rate of speed), and then, after about 20 feet, I got back on the bike. Thirty seconds later, the coach came back and led me over the bridge. While we were on the bridge, the girls passed me and cheered because I was back on the bike. It was still pouring and it was uncomfortably windy. 

We finally made it back to the cars, and I was ecstatic. I put the bike in my car, took my pants off, as well as my socks and shoes, and felt nothing but relief. The coach came over and gave me a hug. He apologized for the ride, but it really wasn't his fault (unless he has a red phone that controls the weather). I told him that I always make it through and apologized for being so slow. I also mentioned that my spirit was a little broken toward the end. Apparently, he was totally unaware of my breakdown (even though I thought the girl mentioned it when she passed him on the bridge). He said, "No way. You smiled and laughed through the whole thing. You're a trooper." Laughter through the tears, people. That's my way...along with a few curse words peppered in just for effect.

I then got in my car and turned the heat on. I've never been happier to turn on all of my heaters and take a shower. Nor have I ever been happier to lay on my couch and watch my favorite presenter on Gems TV.

We'll see how this training thing goes. I'm starting to have my doubts because I'm WAY out of shape. The coach's girlfriend suggested an "easy" Half IronMan race, but that was when we climbed the first hill. She may take those words back now (and I already know better because an olympic distance race is pushing it--in case you are unaware of the feats I'll perform: 1 mile swim, 25 mile bike ride, 6 mile run, and a Half Ironman is twice that).

Another rider told me that if I showed up for this ride, then I have no good excuses for missing any other rides. Again, that was before I hit the wall. I think I might get demoted to riding around the track on a banana seat Schwinn. Maybe I can get a basket and a horn, too.

Ow.