"Share the trail" means "Get the hell out of my way"

I will be coming to New York this weekend instead of next weekend (I know, it's a surprise to me too). I'll probably take the Chinatown bus in on Friday night or Saturday morning. New York folks, let me know ASAP if you'll be around.

On Sunday I felt that I hadn't had enough of the cold after the Freeze Your %@&#$ Off 39.5 and decided to go for a long run. I decided to run in the woods, since weekends are the only time I can get out in daylight hours. It was a beautiful, crisp day, the sun was out, and all was right in the world except that I was in a foul mood!

All was going well as I caught up on the blogs that I'd missed out on after my mad scramble for the Freeze your %@&#$ 39.5. I didn't have to talk to any real people and I was on the internet where we all have the patience of saints, I didn't even know I was in a bad mood yet. However, when I went down to get ready for my run and saw that my mother had gone to church with all my cold weather gear still in the car I threw a temper tantrum. It was a 2-year-old's temper tantrum that I allowed myself to indulge in only because I knew that I was home alone and that all the windows were closed so the neighbors couldn't hear me. When I found my coat hung up in the wrong place I screamed and threw it on the ground. Then I picked it up to hang it back up and screamed and threw it right back down when I saw that a button had been knocked off by the SOB who'd hung it in the wrong place. I stomped a bit, threw a couple more unbreakable things onto soft surfaces, and growled dramatically. With that out of my system, I put everything back away, ate half a sandwich, and spent some more time on my soon-to-be-released new blog. Clearly, I really needed this run.

Within an hour I had cooled down enough to go out in public. I layered up in my not-so-sexy, better-to-be-worn-at-night-when-no-one-can-see-you cold weather clothes, grabbed some Gatorade that I hadn't emptied from my Camelbak yet (being a slob does have its perks), and hit the road.

When I'd run about 3/4 of a mile straight uphill I realized that I'd forgotten my Clif Shots at home. I decided not to go back because the sandwich I'd eaten seemed to want to make a break for freedom, and who knew if I'd come back out if I went home now.

I was going to try a new rout that could be between 10 and 16 miles depending on where I decided to come out of the woods, but I didn't have much information about where to pick up the trail except trying to match a pdf map up with a Google satellite photo and cross-check that with my awful memory and sense of direction. When I came to the trail head that I'd thought I was looking at on the google map, I realized I was wrong about that too. I stopped my watch to take stock and let the sandwich settle into its new riding conditions...

I'm stopped for two minutes at a water treatment plant next to the reservoir where there's no parking, and still someone catches me slacking off. A woman came up behind me dressed like she's just bought out all of Eastern Mountain Sports and pointed at the chain I was standing in front of. On said chain there was a sign that said, PUBLIC WATER SUPPLY, NO TRESPASSING. "Do you thing they mean that?" Ms. Gore-tex Outerwear 2007 asked me.
"If they did they would have put up more than a chain," I said. "And they would have covered up that footpath over there." Indeed, there was a well-used footpath going around the barrier, not that the chain itself was going to stop anyone from stepping over it.

A minute later I followed suit and stepped over the chain. In my opinion, if you don't want people to trespass, you don't put a nice, wide, even path all the way around the reservoir and continue putting NO TRESPASSING signs on every tree, even a mile from the nearest communicating path if you don't want people to run on it. I mean, come on, every high school aged kid in town's gone skinny dipping in that water anyway (except for me of course, nor have I ever vomited 2 40 oz. bottles' worth of Steel Reserve into its crystalline waters). I ran some 2-3 miles around the lake and found myself face-to-face with a fence stretching all the way to a ten-foot drop into what would be the lake in wetter years. The only way to get around was to climb over the railing and walk on the 2-3 inch ledge for a couple of feet clinging to the fence. Oh crap, have I ever mentioned that I'm afraid of heights? I got around without incident, though, and before starting out on a wider loop I looked at my watch to see how long the loop on the Forbidden Trail had taken me. What the fuck?! My watch had been stopped the whole time! In a good mood this would have barely phased me, but I was in a rotten mood and vaulted me right back into rage.

I ran off to do my usual 5.2 mile (although I think it's more) loop backwards (because backwards it's like a whole new trail). I was seething because my gear was fucked up, my nutrition was fucked up, my rout was fucked up, my data was fucked up, and my day was fucked up. Could this run get any worse?! Of course it could...

Most of the trail is single-track through rocks, trees and thick underbrush. In other words, it's not good terrain for passing, especially if bubble-headed 7-year-olds dressed in pink from head to toe are zoning out in the middle of it blocking your way. And everybody in eastern Massachusetts seemed to be out on that trail that day. Of course, that would have been fine, if they hadn't all brought their dogs, their neighbors' dogs, and their neighbor's cousin's best friend's 4 dogs along with them. I must have seen about 50 people and twice as many dogs that day. Have I mentioned that I'm afraid of dogs? I am very afraid of dogs... especially bigger dogs... especially if they're not on leashes... especially if they're running at me. I'm not kidding, most of the people I saw had a dog, and most of them had more than one dog, and none of them were on leashes, and most of them were big, jumpy black labs. The first close was when a black lab bounded towards me just to stop about 10 feet before catching me and stare at me with that stupid, "Throw me a stick!" look on his face. I'll tell you where you can stick it, you horrible mutt! I thought and gave its owners a dirty look. Later on I ran past a guy who's snapping, "Comet! Comet!" with his hands cupped around his mouth. He was facing in the direction that I was going. I passed him and came to a spot where three trails came together, and (I swear I'm not making this up) a dog comes sprinting down each one of those paths - one of which was a black lab of course - and they converge in a writing ball of romping doggie horseplay a mere three feet in front of where I'd stopped in my tracks, frozen in terror. If you can't get your fucking dog to come when you call, keep him on a fucking leash! I thought as I hightailed it out of there. I was not having fun anymore. I was still a good 2 miles into the woods, but I just wanted to get home already. Not only was there a dog around every turn, but I kept losing the trail under all the leaves and I was getting tired and hungry and this run was doing nothing for my mood. I rounded a bend and there in front of me was a man walking four black labs. When they saw me two of them took off in my direction with big stupid doggie smiles on their faces. I froze in terror, half crouched with my elbows in tight to protect my vital organs. The first beast pounced on me. His front paws landed on my chest and slipped down, then he jumped again and his paws landed squarely on my shoulders so we looked like we were about to slow dance. Only I looked like I was about to shit my pants. "Off, off" said the owner in a disinterested monotone. The dog was not deterred and I could feel its horrible moist breath on my face and its groping paws tearing at the cord to my headphones. When the monster was finally off of me the owner kinda grunted, "Sorry."
"Yeah. Excuse me, it's just that I've got this awful phobia of dogs..." I said. In my head I said, Kujo there should be shot, and then you shortly afterwards if you can't keep him under control!

From then on every time I passed a dog I could hear it rustling through the underbrush after me and I went tense. I know, I know, they can smell your fear, but what am I supposed to do if I'm afraid of dogs! If one more dog had so much as looked at me I was ready to scream, "Get your fucking dog off of me!" in my best crazylady voice and then marched down to town hall to get an ordinance passed.

I know that many of my readers have very lovable pooches at home, and this is not meant to offend them. I'm also fairly certain that my readers who have dogs make sure they get to burn off their energy more often than a sunny Sunday blowout once a month (or, like Angry's dog, maybe they're just too fat). But even if you're not terrified of dogs, it's still pretty unpleasant to have one tackle you in the middle of your long run.



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Twice in a week and a half!

Last night it was a warm night (warm being above freezing), and after a frustrating day at work I was looking forward to a nice, tough run. I came home, put on my running tights, my surfing shirt (one of those long-sleeved shirts for water sports to protect you from the sun - my mom thought it was a running top, God bless her little heart), and a sweatshirt and ran out to the track. I ran 16 quarters alternating an 8 minute mile and 10 minute mile pace. That done, I was feeling good, so I decided to do an extra 2 mile loop through streets I knew to be well lit.

So there I am, running, minding my own business. I'm running on Church street which is lined with houses with no fences in their front yards and, well, churches. It's not the kind of street that rapists, or murderers, or kidnappers, or muggers, or embezzlers, or double parkers or other such criminals and unsavory personages tend to hang out on. Up ahead of me I saw a woman in a big, puffy periwinkle jacket walking a little, floppy, curly dog. I was gaining on her fast, and when I was within a couple of yards of her I said, "Excuse me" and ran around her. Only her little puffy dog was off to one side of the sidewalk and she was walking on the other extreme of the pavement, and even though I went up on the grass I passed pretty close to her shoulder.

And she screamed. I don't mean she yelped, I mean she shrieked with a lot of lung behind it. It wasn't the scream that you hear when the murderer jumps out from a dark corner, it was the scream after he pulls the chainsaw out from behind his back.

"Sorry!" I said over my shoulder, in earnest. Her mop started barking mean barks at me. I'm afraid of dogs and this little thing wasn't even making me nervous, but I ran away anyway. I thought of stopping and saying something to her. I thought of sticking around to reassure the neighbors who were sure to come out their front doors any second. But the damn dog was barking at me, and what do you even say in a situation like that? So I kept running.

The thought of me frightening someone is totally ludicrous. I'm shorter than 5'2", I'm universally classified as "cute" by people who know me, I'm most often likened to Ellen Degeneres (and not just because I'm gay), I was running about 6.5 miles per hour in stretch pants. You would think that I couldn't strike fear into a six-year-old, but this is the second time in a week and a half that I've made a grown woman scream. Am I missing something?

DC, with worse pictures than ever!

This weekend my mom and I flew down to Washington DC for a family friend's bar mitzvah (sorry if that's spelled wrong, my spell check has no better suggestions!). I told my mom that I'd agreed to join her because I like the family that we were visiting, but in my heart of hearts I knew I was going for two very selfish reasons:

1. To get to run around the National Mall and see all the monuments and museums in one go.
2. To get the hell out of the cold for two days.

This post will be the usual Claire-style form of tourism, complete with horrible cell phone photography, but I'm going to go into "family time" a bit too. This is not to make you suffer, and I really hope that by the time I'm done it will have been worth your while.

Our flight was an evening flight on Friday, so I had time to come home from work, and eat some dinner before we left for the airport. We were off to a bad start when I decided to fill my shuffle with a brand-new playlist which wasn't done downloading in time, so we left the house 10 minutes late. My mom was already pissed, but I contend that that was time that we could have easily made up on the way to the airport if she would even come within 15 mph of the speed limit. When we got to the airport we found that our 9:00 flight had been delayed 3 hours: meaning that we wouldn't get into DC until 1:00, definitely wouldn't get a rental car, and might not be able to check into the hotel. I saw my mom drop her hands, thrust her jaw forward, and rock back on her heels, which means that she's about to give up, but not without throwing a temper tantrum and making life miserable for everyone around her. Luckily we got to talk to a competent airline representative who offered, "Would you like to take a US Air flight into Reagan instead?" (We were supposed to fly into Dulles) before my mom could blame her for everything bad that had ever happened in her life. Mom blew a puff of breath into her bangs, which is what she does when she gets her way but wants to show that she's not happy she had to fight for it and said, "Yeah, that's fine". We were quickly instructed on how to get to the other terminal for the 8 o'clock DC flight, blah, blah, blah and then I looked down at my watch. It was 7:20. Shit! "Are we going to have time to make it?" I asked, trying not to let the tone of my voice belie to my mom that she had just cause to continue with her aborted temper tantrum. "Oh yeah, you'll be fine," said the airline representative, who I'm sure had learned that this is always the correct answer, whether it's true or not.

Now, let me explain something to you. My mom is overweight and has been ever since I can remember. I think that's why my brother and I have always had a kind of weird relationship with food. In my head all of her shortcomings are related to her weight problem, not the least of which are mobility issues. My mom is the slowest walker in the whole entire world, I'd always accepted this as an annoying fact to be disdained, but put up with; annoying but harmless things like her annoying habit of smiling at strangers and her obsession with Home and Garden Television. I chucked her boarding pass at her and took off towards the other terminal, telling her I'd make sure they knew she was coming. I kept slowing down to look at signs, and when I got to the terminal I stopped to look at my ticket to find out the gate number before I went through security and realized that we still had to check in with US Air! I stopped in my tracks to wait for Mom and was surprised at how quickly she caught up with me. I vowed to remember this tortes-and-the-hare-like lesson the next time I wanted to slow down in a race to gather my strength. No sooner had she caught up when I whisked her back down the terminal towards the check-in desk. It wasn't till we got there (me first, then her half a minute later), that I realized that she was in tough shape. She was bright red, sweating, and she had an awful wheeze in her breath that I'd never heard in her before. I knew that sound, she sounded like an asthmatic runner 2 seconds after a sprint finish, or a cyclist about to get off and walk his bike up a hill. "Are you alright?" I asked, and didn't dash off to security until she shot an angry, "Yeah!" at me, like this was all my fault. Of course they had to give BOTH of us the full security scan (only made longer because we didn't have time to check our bags). Had I not been with my mom I would have enjoyed the fact that my frisker was obviously hitting on me. When they finished with me I pulled my suitcase off the table and all my stuff fell on the floor, underwear and all. My frisky frisker hadn't zipped my suitcase. I cursed, threw it all back in and fled from my mom who was still standing unattended in the strip-search coral before she killed someone. As my girlfriend chased me down to return the watch I'd left behind, it turns out that the other security guards were surrounding my mom trying to make sure she was alright. "Are you sure you're alright, ma'am? You're really red. Would you like to sit down for a minute?" Mom was seething. It must humiliating, not being able to do something as simple as chasing down a plane or not even get to put up with a degradation security scan because the TSA officials were afraid they were going to have to take the paddles to her. Or maybe she didn't even put together that not everyone looks like that after walking briskly from one terminal to another, and she thought that this was just another random inefficiency and humiliation you have to go through in airports. But I noticed, and I also noticed that it took almost the whole flight for the redness to drain from her face.

Mom sure was cranky still when we got back to the ground, and it was everything I could do to convince her to go get the rental car rather than paying a hundred bucks for a cab. I was the one who was in my right mind to drive, so grouchy became my co-pilot. At one point she reached to get something in the back seat, and I noticed that the twisting squeezed the breath out of her and she was winded for a few minutes after the effort. Then, later that weekend she climbed into the passenger seat and flailed her arm trying to reach the door to close it. "I hate it when they do that," she said. What? "Make the door swing so wide that you can't reach it and you have to get back up again to close it." I'd never had that problem. I looked over at her reclined in the seat and realized that she wasn't able to lean her torso out to get to the door handle. I thanked my lucky stars that I still have my range of motion.

The next morning we got to watch Noah become a man. It was my first bar mitzvah, and I enjoyed it for the first hour and a half, but I have to admit that after that I got a little bit bored. The prayer book really confused me and I kept turning the pages the wrong way. I tried to read the phonetic transcriptions of the Hebrew for a little bit, but I just wound up singing "Tralala" most of the time and trying to spot what page the Jews were looking at so that I could pick up the English when that came up again. My ear was desperately looking for something that it could recognize, and eventually it found something that sounded like almeja in one of the choruses. Almeja means "clam" in Spanish. "Mom, I think they're singing about clams," I said. "Clams aren't kosher," she pointed out. "Well duh," I said. "They're probably singing God Save the Clam!" Of course I knew they weren't singing about mollusks, but I felt as out of place as an octopus in a garage in that temple.

The reception was informal, in the lobby of the synagogue with bagels and tunafish, cookies, and potato chips. "Claire, come get a bagel, there are a few with cream cheese." "Did you see there are cream cheese bagels?" "Do you eat fish?" "Here, take a plate, try the cookies." There was nothing on that table that looked appetizing to me, so I took a couple of stalks of celery and a couple of carrots. "You don't fool me for a second," said the new mitzvah's mother, "you didn't put anything on that plate!" and I had to fight another volley of bagels. After that everyone went their separate ways for a few hours, most to eat lunch (for a second time).

Family tree provided for educational purposes only to keep track of the relationship
between people mentioned. Any attempt to invade the privacy of this family would be
really messed up, so please don't.

That night there was a small family gathering at the house to wish Noah even more mozel tavs and I got to know the extended family. I found myself talking to Syd, who, by all accounts had always been a lanky kid, but 65 years had caught him with a bald head and a big pot belly. "I used to be as skinny as Sara," explained Syd, "but now I just like to eat!" Sara's 15 and has been blessed with the body type and height to be a supermodel. When I told him about my plans to see all the monuments, he told me about his treadmill. "Yeah, a couple years ago I started having labored breathing and my doctor told me I'd have to get moving. It's amazing how much better walking on that treadmill makes me feel!" Later, at dinner Syd went up for seconds and thirds, and when there was still meat left when it came time to wash the dishes, he took care of the surplus using his gullet as a garbage disposal.

Syd's daughter, Alissa, was of the type that you know after talking to her for 20 seconds that she will never be cool, not even in the nerdiest crowds. As my dad described her, "She's your stereotypical New York Jew."
"No she's not," I said. "She's not funny." I decided that I really wasn't going to want to talk to her early in the evening when I was telling Syd about my plans to run past all the monuments. "So do you like to run, or do it for some other reason?" she asked. I thought it better not to go into my dysfunctional relationship with running, and told her I liked it. "Oh, so you're crazy." It wasn't so much a witty comment like rocketpants makes when she calls me crazy, it was more like condescendingly stating a fact. I decided I didn't like Alissa, so therefore I give my readers permission to not feel sorry for her. Alissa was also very, very heavy. Her ample rump easily covered an entire couch cushion. Sid was explaining to Sara that she had to look at her family history to know how to take care of herself while she's still young. Alissa pitched in her unsolicited advice, "Chocolate is the cure for pretty much anything. You have really bad PMS, just drink a glass of whole milk chocolate milk..."
"I don't really like whole milk," said Sara, I'm sure trying to deflect the conversation from her menstrual cycle in front of all her aunts and uncles.
"They also found that chocolate milk is the best recovery drink that there is for athletes, even better than Gatorade."
I tried to bite my tongue not wanting to get into any conversation with Alissa if it could be at all avoided. She was a know-it-all who had to know more than you about everything and have the last say at all costs. I mean, this kind of behavior is acceptable in a college student, but this woman was pushing 40. Not only that but she was one of those people whose sense of humor is so awkward it makes your skin crawl. I mean, she was weird. She did fencing in high school and now is very active in her Medieval reenactment group. I really didn't want to get stuck in a conversation with Alissa, but no one else seemed to want to get in a conversation with Alissa either, and when the awkward silence was about to kill me I ventured a very flat, "Well, yeah, they say that exercise improves pretty much every aspect of your life, physically and mentally."
"Oh, I can't do exercise, It makes me sick." Alissa interjected, desperate not to let the conversation turn away from her.
I looked her up and down. Of course it does, lard ass, I thought. I kept going like I hadn't been done with what I was saying. Save the conversation, I thought, don't let her ruin it for the rest of us! "Yeah, they say that it can improve your chances of fighting just about every disease, even mental problems and they find that active kids do better in school..."
"Because I have asthma," she went on when I ran out of things to say. "Yeah, I used to have really bad allergies, but then one day my allergies got better but my asthma got really bad. So that's what I meant when I said exercise makes me sick. Because breathing is good. Yeah, you never know how nice it is till you can't do it. So exercise makes me sick..."
Sara swooped to the rescue and started talking about how (pushing 6 feet), she's taller than all her friends. "Well at least you can reach things," I said. They'd been making short jokes at me all day and I'd started to accept it. "And no one ever picks you up off the ground, I bet. I used to get picked up all the time. I'd just be standing there and someone would grab me around the waist and lift me off the ground."
"Yeah, me too." Alissa had decided to play the short card. She wasn't really short, but since she couldn't compare to Sara in height, it would be easier to jump in on my team. "I have all these friends that are like 6'7" and stuff..." Nobody has "all these friends" who are over 6'7, not even basketball players, I thought, but held my tongue. "Yeah, they pick me up all the time. You don't know how disorienting it is to be on the ground and then suddenly you're not." I looked at Alissa, she couldn't weigh less than 300 lb. I didn't believe for a second that anything but a forklift could lift her off the ground. Why would someone do that? Lie just to be a part of a conversation? She oozed low self-esteem so bad that she made everyone around her feel uncomfortable, but did she really thing that bold-faced lies like this were a way to get someone to be your friend? And did she really think that if she told doozies like this that I would begin to believe that she was thin? I just didn't get it.

Syd's sister's name was Karen. Karen had the sarcastic wit and dry delivery that I stay up nights wishing that I had. We like Karen. "What are you going to do in DC tomorrow?" she asked. I told her about my plan to run past all the monuments. "They've made it harder than it used to be. You can't get as close to them as you used to in a car." I thought she was talking about parking, but still I grasped that I wasn't understanding something. As I usually do when I don't understand something I kept talking like I knew exactly what was going on. Later that night her brother, Norman was gave us driving directions to the Mall. "So when you get to Constitution St. you're going to start looking for parking..."
"No, Norm, they want to see all the monuments," she corrected him.
"Right, she's going to run past them," explained Norman.
"What do you mean? I thought she was taking the car?" asked Karen. I got the idea that none of us were trying to be witty and this was a real conversation.
"No, like on my feet," I explained.
"You didn't know that that's what she was going to do?" asked Norman.
"Well yeah, she told me... I just didn't know why anyone would choose to do that, like voluntarily." She wasn't kidding.

So I guess this is what other people do. They eat bagels when they're not hungry and eat whatever's left over, even when they've had their fill. Exercise makes them sick and when they have to run to catch a train, they have to risk cardiac arrest. And when they want to see a whole park full of monuments, they need to reserve more than an hour for it. I couldn't wait to get away from the "normal" people for a bit and get back to my "crazy" lifestyle.

We woke up at 7:30, and by 9:00 we had parked and I was ready to go. I filled my bottle with water that tasted like dirt from a water fountain and started running. I wasn't in any hurry and before I'd even run 5 minutes I'd stopped my watch three times to take pictures and cross streets. I didn't really have a set rout planned out, so I just ran until I saw the big stuff, and then ran towards it. I started out running towards the Capital Building.
As usual I tried to include myself in the photo only until I realized that it was essentially impossible. I figure that the abysmal quality of the shots is proof enough that I was, in fact, the photographer (and not just a google image source). But meanwhile, I'm sure you can recognize the top of my head by this time. .

Soon I came upon a greek-style building that had a set of stairs just begging to be run up, so I did. Had I had a running partner to take a cheezy Rocky imitation photo I would have. Instead you'll just have to use your imagination.


Next I came up on the Washington Monument. I wasn't too enthused about it. I mean, it's an obelisk. Boston has one just like it, and I'm sure there are others too. I bet George Washington feels a bit gypped.
Next I ran past the reflecting pool and up the interminable steps to the Lincoln Monument (where I took the above picture). I realized half way up that I really should have counted all those damn steps and wondered if I could go back and count with a magnifying glass and a penny later. I mean, if they put a tiny little Lincoln in his monument on the penny, they probably have the right number of tiny little copper steps, right?
I knew that the Vietnam memorial was close by, but purposely avoided it. It was Veterans' day, and although I was having fun not taking the symbolism of the presidents' monuments seriously, I didn't want to do the same with any war memorials. I inadvertently passed Korea on the way towards the Jefferson Memorial and it gave me the heebie jeebies. That memorial is way too life-like.

If you know the layout of the Mall you know that the Jefferson Memorial is set off from the rest, way off on a little peninsula jutting off into the Potomack. In the park next to the river I saw a 10k race finishing up, and I kicked myself for not looking for races before coming down. It was a beautiful day, though, and I didn't need a race to enjoy running along the river with the fall colors all around me. My phone seems to have a mean streak to it seeing as the picture with the prettiest colors came out with the worst lighting.

Finally I ran back to the Mall and was surprised to see my mom sitting on a bench and find myself already back to where I'd started. "I missed the White House!" I said, disappointed. "Where is it?" I had really wanted to see the White House with the same kind of fascination as people who like to glare at photos of people they hate. I wanted to see where the bastard lived. I told my mom I'd be right back, looked at a map, and ran off to find the White House.

Coming of age during the "W" administration I'm suspicious of the US government and anything associated with patriotism, and truth be told, DC made me nervous. I was quite glad I was running, just in case someone tried to chase me down and send me to Guantanamo for ex-patriating or just thinking unpatriotic thoughts, I was already prepared to run away from them. When I passed the White House I didn't linger so as not to endure too violent a visceral reaction to what I knew to be inside. I was afraid that all the men standing around in suits with ear pieces in their ear could read my thoughts, so I tried to think patriotic thoughts. They came out kind of like this:

With running, photos, and crossing streets my whole Washington DC tour came out to about 7.5 miles in an hour and a half (1:11:30 of which were running). So maybe I'm "crazy", maybe a bit "abnormal": I don't risk cardiac arrest when I'm late for a flight, I don't eat food I don't need, I don't think chocolate is a cure-all for everything from PMS to high blood pressure, but in the whole busy weekend, I was the only one who managed to get the whole historic Washington DC trip in on a beautiful day. Call me crazy, but I'd rather do it my way.

Claire in the headlights

I haven't been posting as much lately because I finally started working again. Man, eight hours sure eats out of your free time! You'll forgive me, I hope, if this post is a little less... polished.

Yesterday I woke up at 5:30 so that I could take a run in the woods before work. I didn't fall asleep until almost midnight, but I figured that I could make up for it by relaxing at night since my workout would be out of the way. There were 2 problems with my plan: 1) there are no street lights in the woods, 2) even if there were, I would still not get home in time to shower, pack a lunch, and get to the train station. So instead I snuggled up next to the fireplace with a book and read for an hour (at 6:00 in the morning).

When I got home from work my feet were killing me from clopping around the office all day in low heels and with (p)leather straps digging in to my skin. I had that float-y feeling of exhaustion, and there was nothing I wanted more than to curl up with my book again. But I'm strong, I'm disciplined. I changed and hurried out for a run. (Cue: nod of awe-struck approval).

The sun had just set, so I scrapped the idea of the woods and decided to go for a loop that stayed on well-trafficked and well-lit streets with a few rolling hills. One thing that I had never thought of: streetlights are aimed at the street, not the sidewalk. On pretty residential roads where the sidewalk is set back from the road by a strip of fluffy grass with big, bushy trees lining the road, not a lot of light gets back to the sidewalk. Even worse, the light you do get is from oncoming cars doesn't help much either since it comes right into your eyes and blinds your view of the inky sidewalk. And people should trim their hedges more often My shins were aching a little bit, as they often do when I run on pavement, and the thought crossed my mind that I might be running too much lately. So here I am, lifting my knees high because I know that these sidewalks are not too well maintained and that tree roots tend to push them up in the most surprising of places…

It was a warm night, but not too warm and I was feeling energetic all of a sudden (alright, I just wanted to go home sooner since I was afraid of tripping in the dark), so I decided to pick it up. Normally the only thing I hate more than running is running faster, but this time I was inspired. I tucked my butt under (it's notorious for following 6 inches behind the rest of me - left) to look more like those fast people I saw in Kona last weekend (right). I felt a little twinge in my low abs, a place I'd always heard you were supposed to engage while running, but never quite figured out what they meant by it. Aaah, my stomach's supposed to work to get my BUTT out of the way! Two amazing things happened when I tucked my ass in: 1) my shins stopped hurting, and 2) I started to go faster! It's not like I was going faster with the same effort, because it sure was hard to keep my caboose under control, but it's like I'd cut a gear out of my repertoir. Then, I did something else that I'd heard that good runners do, I tried to limit my up-and-down motion, and I went EVEN FASTER! My body was working, but my lungs were cruising easy, and I was flying!

Because of the dark, I didn't dare sneak a look at my watch until I got home: 59:40! I'd run nearly a full mile more than I usually run in that time, WITH HILLS! I ran the loop in 5 minutes less than last week, even though I'd made it a little bit longer!

Next thing you know I'll be eating granola and wearing burkenstocks

Reservoir Trail

Orange blazes. 5.2 miles. Average hiking time 3.5 hours. This trail encircles the north, middle and south reservoirs and the open water can be seen from many sites (the reservoirs are for drinking water, so access to them is prohibited). A moderate to difficult hike.

Yesterday I tried the woods again. Last time had me wheezing for air and running around in a tight circle for 15 minutes before I gave up and ran for the familiar sidewalks of my hometown. This time I had a fantastic run. I went for a different entrance into the woods and found a well-marked trail with a well-marked distance that was perfect. I breathed free and easy and felt like a gazelle bounding through the woods. This is a real trail, I thought. This isn't one of those fire trails that real trail runners scoff at. I'm really trail running. This is fun! With the sure-footedness of a mountain goat I pranced over jagged rocks poking their pointy heads out of the dirt, over tree roots that swelled out of the ground underfoot, over little log and plank bridges that bounced and shook underfoot, off craggy rock outcroppings that had me leaping off treacherous 8-inch drops. Maybe it was because the terrain kept me from running too fast, maybe it was because the temperature had dropped, and maybe it was because I'm finally getting my aerobic capacity back, but I was breathing free and easy and my heart felt like it was pumping blood to my muscles and not just futily fluttering away in my chest. I basked in the enjoyment of being in real nature.

And that feeling lasted a little while...

..until I leapt off a rock, landed on some uneven ground filled with spiky rocks sticking up out of the ground at weird angles, and my ankle exploded. I have bad ankles. This could be from when I used to inline skate 3 hours a day over rough pavement that would jostle my ankles like a thousand tiny Louise Woodwards. It could be from too many reckless trail runs in road shoes. It could be from that night that I hiked 11 hours in the dark over rough terrain and relied on my ankles to catch me any time I stepped on something I wasn't expecting. Maybe it's genetic. I don't know why I have bad ankles, but I know that I can rotate them and crack them every morning like an old lady and that they hurt when I walk or run on anything uneven, especially lately. So every time I stepped on a root, a rock, or anything uneven and my ankles had to lean either this way or that, a burning, aching awfulness spread through my ankles, feet and shins.

But here I was out here in the middle of nature, and like hell I was going to stop because of some bitchy ankles which burned and ached every time I stepped on something weird. I tripped over a tree root that almost sent me summersaulting over pointy rocks and pine needles. When it happened again about 15 minutes later I started thinking about how exciting it would be if I came home bloody and covered in dirt and pine needles and got to brag about how I ran all the way home bleeding like a warrior. (Un)Fortunately I did not fall, and when I got home all I was covered with was dead gnats which had gotten caught in my sweat.

When I found my way back out into civilization after only getting lost twice I looked down at my watch 1:15 since my house. It sounds short, but this is the longest I'd run in a looooooooooong time. Especially these last few days when my heart feels like it's going to explode after about 30 minutes. And the best part? I was so busy watching for roots, rocks, puddles, trail markers, and other obstacles, that I didn't look at my watch that whole time! I wasn't even bored! I LOVE running!

Chalk one point up for Boston.

Homecoming

Why is it that every time I come home I'm expecting it to be like one of those "blow your mind" sort of experiences where I see everything in a whole new light and see myself as a whole new person, but it never works out that way? As soon as my parents and I are back in the car and we're driving up 93 through (and now, post-Big Dig, under) downtown Boston, and then I step into my house - same old back door, same old kitchen - it just seems so anti-climactic, like I didn't step out of some airplane, but a time machine that sends me back to shit-town suburbia like I never got out.

This time I think I figured out the anti-climax: flying. I hate flying, hate it! I'm not afraid of flying. Mostly I just hate airports and how you have to give up all the stuff that you deemed indispensable for the next few days of your life and hand it to a complete stranger and assume that they're going to give it to the right person who's going to give it to the right person who's going to put it on the right plane going to the right airport, where it will make the right connection on time to the next right plane that's going where you're going. And am I to trust them that my stuff is going to be there and intact with you when you get there? And then, after paying hundreds or thousands of dollars for the privilege of flying you have to pass through a security check where they make you strip down so they can check every item of your personal effects, walk through an arch that puffs a gust of machine breath all over you to decide not if you smell nice enough to spend hours within 2 inches of a stranger, but to see if you touched any of 1,000 god-knows-whats since your last shower, and then walk around next to angry-looking dudes in uniforms with machine guns. And in this post-September 11 climate they ask even more stupid questions, take more and more stupid shit away from you and treat every passenger like a criminal. And don't even get me started on customs!!!

So, the conclusion that I reached yesterday is that I'm usually so traumatized by getting to the airport on time, being called a terrorist for forgetting to dump out my nalgene bottle, making connecting flights in unfamiliar airports, the reproachful questions by customs officials, and the anxious wait for my baggage, that the only thing I care about when I get back to Boston is that it's all over.

I've had a lot of really bad flight experiences, but yesterday might have been the worst. Delays in Barcelona, getting lost in the Paris airport, rushing through security again, running to catch my flight, and then sitting on the runway for 6 hours in Paris in a fully booked double-decker, 10-seat-across plane with no air conditioning. When we landed in Boston at 1:30 in the morning (local time - 7:30 a.m. Claire's body clock time) the only earth-shattering self-discovery I'd made from the trip was that I'm too stupid to do Sudoku without cheating.

Here are some thing I've noticed today in my first day home:

• God! There's so much crap on television! "Real people solving real murders", is that even legal? It seems like it has "MISTRIAL" written all over it, and I'm supposed to believe this is reality?
  
• Macaroni and cheese isn't as good as I remembered. "French bread" is not good either.
• I heart public libraries, especially the ones where there are more than 500 books and I can read everything on the shelf because it's in a language I understand.
• The back of my salad dressing reads like this: The Great Salad Dressing Balloon Race Across The Boot of Italy. An armada of balloons loaded with Light Caesar. The starters (sic.) gun - Bazoombah! They all rise majestically into the air. Newman's Own Balloon, with fewer calories, more taste, and secretly propelled by charity, flies faster than Kraft (R) and further than Wishbone (R). First across. First on the ground. El Piloto quaffs mucho quaffs of Newman's Own Light Caesar in victory. A medium light Italian starlet, daughter of Butch Cassidini, named Bitch Cassidini, leaps into the balloon basket, kisses piloto, her lips smeared with Newman's Own Light, she murmurs, "You taste of Sicily, of Vesuvius, of Naples, baby", and patting his fanny she whispers, "and no fat".
  No fooling, it really says that. Most of those aren't even real sentences. And that's not even ITALIAN, it's Spanglish! And it says "Bitch", on my salad dressing. Did someone really get paid for this?! This country is weird.
  

This morning, properly fueled and caffeinated I went on a run through the woods and was surprised to find that it's hot out here! I've been scoffing at the bloggers from the northeast who have been complaining about the heat, but truth be told it's as hot here as it was in Barcelona. Given, it's not that "chew the air" humid, but the sun's a lot stronger when you don't have that protective bubble of smog around you! The thought occurred to me for the first time in my life (far too late) that maybe running tights are only a winter thing (long ago was the day I could run in spanky shorts without winding up with some kind of embarrassing and uncomfortable chafing between my thunder thighs).

I went up to the woods where we used to lug kegs in high school to drink where the police wouldn't be likely to chase us in the dark. This small "nature reservation" is conveniently close to my house, it's funny I never run in it. I decided to just run around until I found a road again. But I found a road in about 4 minutes, so I decided to follow some trail indications. Now, I'm not much of an "outdoorsy" off-road kind of girl, so explain something to me: when you see a slash like this \ painted on a tree is it an arrow pointing up and left or down and right? After about 10 minutes I found myself right where I'd started. Then I decided to not follow the "arrows" and just keep the uphills on my right, that way I would probably run a loop around something, right? Another 7 minutes and I found myself in someone's back yard, 5 more minutes and I was back where I started.

This woods thing was getting old, and anyway, all the roots and rocks on the path were threatening to twist my ankle. I haven't run on trail since Lorraine made me barrel down that single-track in April and I couldn't walk for days. So I decided to run back through civilization and see my hometown while moving too fast to stop and talk if someone recognized me. I went through downtown and to my old middle school to run a lap around the track and get an idea of how fast I was going (just like I thought - slow). I realized that my town is actually really pretty if you can get over the Donnie Darko/Heathers/American Beauty-esque cynicism of small rich towns like that. After running around the track I went to get a drink from a water fountain that I remembered was there. I remembered that it was a gift from some graduating class and then when I saw the engraving remembered it was mine. I was really disappointed to see that the thing was busted and the water pipe mashed into its own little throat because I was thirsty. But it was satisfying all the same, maybe this town could let my soul go after all, maybe they'd already forgotten me and I had really gotten out. Then I ran along the river (one of the most polluted rivers in north America and almost fell in, but that doesn't fit into my story so I'll tell it later), through the goose poop, under the weeping willow trees behind the senior citizens center, and to my high school track. The football team has this tradition of painting the nicknames of all the varsity players and their numbers on the walkway out to the field and I felt good knowing that I didn't know who any of them were (I realized they were between 9 and 12 years old when I graduated, weird), and then I went home.

My town really is very pretty, I guess I'd never noticed it before. I was so terrified of running into someone I know, but I didn't recognize anyone I saw while I was running around. It was nice. I'll have to take a camera out with me one of these days and take pretty pictures to remind me of this fact, because I know that pretty soon all I'm going to see is the polluted river, the goose poop everywhere, the SUVs (why on EARTH do you need a hummer in suburbia?), and the snotty yuppies who recognize me but don't wave and I only know they've seen me because they tell my mom later that week when they see her in the supermarket. I'm pretty sure that soon I'll only be able to see all the stuff that more fittingly symbolizes how I feel about this town. For now I'm trying to be optimistic.

Corte Inglés: Round 2

Today I kicked off the 2007 season with a local 11k fun run put on by the Corte Ingles, a Spanish department store kind of like Macy's. The great thing about this race is that it draws everybody, not just runners. I guess that's why they call non-competitive races here cursa popular or "the people's race". In the Cursa de Corte Ingles you see runners, walkers, rollerbladers, old people, little kids, wheelchairs, baby carriages, numbers strapped to dogs, and giant paper-mache people (used in parades at local festivals) with numbers taped on being pushed in wheelbarrows. Today I saw a man carrying a sign that said "Damià Roig, 100 years old", he was walking arm-in-arm with his son who must have been over 70. The cool thing about this race is that you can't be competitive, it's physically and practically impossible. There are no chips, no race officials, and people take off at the start all willy-nilly as they're able to push their way through the crowd under the arch. The motto of the race is "To participate is to win". Other than the finish line, the main draw is that all participants get to do a lap around the Olympic track (from the '92 games) which is usually closed to the public.

Today the crowd was so thick that it took me 3k to dodge through enough people to be able to run comfortably. Even so, I never got out of groups of people so close together that you could smell their breath and body odor as you passed. And even in the finishing chute I had to slow down as I came up on chunks of people. What a thrill to spend a solid hour passing people, from start to finish! The crowd has its disadvantages, of course. With all kinds of people out there, no organized start stratified by projected finishing time, and people who jump into the game as far as 5k into the course there are always all kinds of people moving at all different speeds competing for asphalt. Yes, people suck, like the guy who shot his arm out 6 inches in front of my face to point at something and nearly clothes-lined me, and the people who inevitably get ankles turned every year by being cut off or run down from behind. But the nice thing is that because it's non-competitive it gets everyone out there and moving, and you are given 2 1/2 hours to finish so that even grandma can walk across the finish line with her 4-year-old grand kid holding her hand.

Oh yeah, and it's free.

Cheap: that's one thing that I've noticed about the Barcelona athletics scene. This race was free because a department store had paid to shut the city down for two and a half hours on a Sunday morning to have 51,000 billboards for their store parade around half the city. But even other races are cheap. When Joolie and I started to sign up for 10k's and half marathons she would say, "I feel so bad doing something like this and knowing it's not for charity". But the thing here is that the race is the charity. Catalunya has been really trying to get people active for as long as I've been here, subsidizing gyms to lower monthly fees, building bike lanes, throwing bike festivals, running festivals, skating festivals and also sponsoring races in order to drive entry fees down and get more people involved. In this way, the race is the charity. City Hall is doing everything that they can to get people moving and their hearts beating. Why? Probably because they have public health care and having a fit population eventually drives down health care costs, but does that make it any less cool? Can you imagine if our government valued the physical well-being of its citizens like that instead of letting Asics and Burger King vie for our lifestyles and ergo loyalty?

God knows how I haven't killed myself yet...

The first time that I did (no, TRIED to do) a full bike ride of the whole 56 miles I did it on an out and back up California Highway 1 towards San Francisco. It was the bike for the Big Kahuna itself. When I arrived at the lighthouse at Pigeon Point I turned around and in the first mile back towards Santa Cruz I hit a crater of a pothole and slashed a 2 inch slit in my tube, which started bleeding green ooze inside my tire. I didn't have a spare tube. I didn't have a cell phone. I only had one dollar in my pocket. I clip-clopped about half a mile to a gas station and begged to use the phone. No one I knew with a big car could come get me. Finally I had to beg Lorraine, who I hardly even knew, to come get me. Only she couldn't come until she finished her shift in 2 hours. I was waiting in that gas station for 3 hours talking to a homeless Hawaiian about land prices in Nevada.

After that Lorraine said she would give me a clinic on how to change a tire. We changed it, and when I was loading my bike on the car rack the stem of the inner tube ripped clear off. "Now you'll get more practice", said Lorraine.

One time I climbed a mountain. Miles and miles, up and up and up. The hill was clearly out of my fitness range and I had to turn around when I got off my bike to catch my breath and couldn't get moving up the hill again. I turned down hill, and started FLYING. I didn't know how to corner, had relatively little experience descending, and my breaks hadn't been replaced since the 1970's (really). Additionally I'd just read somewhere that if you brake too much on a hill your rims can heat up and your inner tube can pop, so I didn't want to break at all. I really thought I was going to die as I flew down the yellow line in the middle of the road. Instinctively I stood up and made myself as big as possible to turn my body into a sail. I never clibed that hill again. Ever.

There was the 23k through the Santa Cruz mountains that I really just wasn't in the mood to push through, so I barrelled down all the hills as fast as gravity would carry me. I can be so cocky sometimes. The result was shin splints that kept me from running nearly the entire summer leading up to the Big Kahuna. Also, when I finished that race and went to bike home my bike had a FLAT tire and I had to walk all the way home, which luckily was only about 3 miles.

When I first got to Barcelona I knew I needed a bike club to get to know the routs around the city. The problem was, I couldn't find one that met on Sundays: my only free morning. I figured that if they were out there, they had to leave from one of the two ends of the city which led to freeways, so one Sunday I woke up at 5:30 so I could be out the door at 6:45. Then, I went to one of the major roads out of the city and just started biking up and down, up and down, looking for other bikers. After half an hour I spotted some and approached them. I asked them where a street was that I knew one of the bike clubs had their "headquarters" on, and they said they didn't know where it was. "Well," I said, "is it okay if I go with you guys then?" They agreed. "So, where are we going?" I asked. It turns out that I'd found the dirtiest old men in ass-tight shorts, but at least I had a bike club and they were delighted to have me because having a chick meant more bonuses for the team.

I lied, I have won one race. I won a bike race, where the winners were the first to the top of the last climb. There were probably about a dozen other women in the whole thing. Everyone stopped half way through to have a free lunch where they gave unlimited wine and whiskey to the cyclists (I abstained) and giant, fatty "butifarra" sausages filled with organ meat (I abstained). I went up that hill trying to keep by myself, but my teammates kept getting in front of me trying to help me draft. They were drunk, as they always are after we stop for a snack in the middle of a ride. They kept cutting me off and I wound up having to brake, accelerate, brake, accelerate. I yelled, "Just let me go at my own rhythm!" They paid me no mind. Finally we got to the top of the hill and I thought they would leave me alone. Since my hair is short, my teammates had to scream to the volunteers, "SHE'S A GIRL!" as I came over the top. Miguel Angel said, "Next time, when you're getting to the top, be sure to stick out your tits". The president of the club also won a trophy for being the oldest person to finish. He said, "My trophy's bigger than yours". I said, "Yeah, but you got yours just for signing up."

Once upon a time I did 5 consecutive hours of spinning for cystic fibrosis. It was indoors and I'm a sweater. The news cameras were there, and the cameraman was next to me the whole time. Of all the moments to be on public access TV, that was not the moment that I wanted them to choose.

There was the Carrer de la Dona (the "Women's Race") which was the day after a joint birthday party of not one, but three of my best friends. Silvia got too drunk to drive me home at midnight, so I kept drinking to stay awake until she sobered up. The next morning I was a few hundred meters from breaking 24 minutes in a 5k for the first time in my life when I started to sprint. Only the arch that I thought was the finish wasn't the finish. So I continued to sprint. 50 meters from the finish line I had to take a detour and spent the next 3 minutes puking my guts out in front of the hundreds of spectators at the finishing chute.

Once Joolie and I decided last minute to run a 10k as bandits. We knew roughly where the start was, but not exactly. We both woke up late. We arrived at the start 8 minutes late and just started running. There's nothing better than the feeling of passing people for a whole, entire race.

One time, running a race that went down the Rambla we cought a couple of whores trying to cross the course to go home after a long night of work. They saw us, smiled and started yelling and clapping. Then they got into the pack and started running with us and making their way to the other side of the street. Then all the runners cheered for the whores!

I make 50-year-olds think they're having a heart attack. Hey, you remember how my heart rate is always really high? Like my max HR is something above 220? So when I wear a heartrate monitor a lot of times I'm training between 175 and 185 bpm. I swear, I have not died once yet. So anyway, I was on the bike trainer this one time somewhere around 180 bpm and the floor monitor comes up to me and he's like, "Are you wearing a heartrate monitor?" Me: "Uh, yeah". Dude: "And about where are you"? I told him, and he gives this "See, I told you so" look to the guy on a recumbant bike behind me. Turns out that the guy had called him over because his bike was picking up my signal and he thought that he was suffering some kind of heart palpatations. Then I got on the treadmill where I got above 190 and the two old people on either side of me started getting worried in kind of the same way and then looking at me funny. So now I'm the girl that makes your treadmill tell you to stop moving NOW, who sweats all over the place, and on rare occasions pukes all over the floor.

First is the worst...

My first triathlon ever was an epic of learning the hard way.

So there was my first race: the San Diego International Triathlon. My first triathlon. I drove the 8 hours from Santa Cruz down to San Diego all by my lonesome. I checked my bike in the day before, got my bib, cap, bike number and goodie bag and went back to the hotel. Then I wandered out through Chula Vista to find something carb-rich for dinner. No more than 2 miles from the hotel, my car felt like it was getting a kick in the ass every few seconds. It was quite clear that the damn thing was breaking down (I would find out later that it was my transmission, and that was a sad story in and of itself). I got back to the hotel room and started calling people to ask for advice, and the arrow buttons on my cell phone stopped working, making all menus, and thus my cell phone, useless. So now, alone and stranded in a Holiday Inn in a strange city I would have to get to the starting line before 6:00 am without a car and without a cell phone. I hardly slept the whole night and my thoughts were anything but positive as I not only stressed about my car and the race, but also whether my evil ex girlfriend (the only person I knew who lived in Chula Vista) would call me back and give me the name of a good mechanic (she never did). When the cab came at 5:00 I'd barely had time to eat a yogurt and buy a McDonalds coffee. I found my bike in the transition area and tried not to make it so obvious that I was copying other people's transition area setups. I didn't have a lot of the stuff that they had, so there were only so many ways that I could set out my sneakers (that could hardly be called "running shoes"), socks, pants, helmit, and bib. There was absolutely no way to hide that my enormous hybrid bike wouldn't fit on the racks and I had to put down, yes, the kick stand. *Shame* Then I put on my rented wetsuit (the first and only I've ever worn: $75 for one day rental), trying to remember which way was right-side-out. And I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. I didn't warm up in the water because my open water swimming experience was limited to the most terrifying 300m I've ever swum in my life. I am desperately afraid of open water. Finally there was no way to get around getting in the water and bobbing in the start with all the other girls under the age of 25. As a rule, I try to avoid large groups of girls under 25 anyway. I don't know why I bothered to rent the wetsuit because the water in Mission Bay was as warm as the June air. And when it came time to swim, even though I'd put myself in the back and off to one side, there were still people all around me, punching me, slapping me. And they wouldn't go away. And I couldn't get away. I had practiced a little bit of spotting, so I tried to keep real close to the buoys so as not to go off course... so close that suddenly in my field of vision there was a CHAIN, going down into the murky ABYSS!!! I swear, I almost shit my wetsuit. Then, a few meters away I was spotting again, put my face in the water and there was A SEAWEED COLUMN!!!!!! I had a new scariest thing I'd ever seen in my entire life. It was the kind of seaweed column that The Monster lives at the bottom of. I couldn't wait to get out of the water. And when I finally did, the strangest thing happened... I couldn't run. I never would have thought of that. I never had a problem walking after a swim workout, but after 3 steps I was already winded. I waddled into the transition area and found my bike as girls ran around me. But it took what seemed like forever to get the damn wetsuit off. It was like a giant, Claire-shaped suction cup. Finally free, I put on my pants and pinned my number onto my swim suit and patted myself on the back for saving time by not having to change clothes and put on a shirt. I had thought that I was pretty good at biking since I rode up the hill to class every day, but everyone was passing me, and not just passing me, but blowing past me like I wasn't moving at all. I'd thought that all that high tech stuff like automatic pedals, bike jerseys with pockets, carbon frames, bike computers, and aero bars were for suckers and pussies but I saw (and heard) things whizzing past me that I never thought existed: aero bars with the gear shifts on the aero bars themselves, "ksssht, ksssht, ksssht" as disk wheels passed me, aero helmits, and all manor of other gadges and mean-looking gizmos. If I was having fun up until this point, i was not anymore. A fat lady passed me on an uphill and yelled, "you go, girl!", which I could only read to mean: "wow, I didn't know anyone could possibly finish such a thing with such a Fred Flinstone bike!" Finally I came back into the transition area past bored-looking volunteers who'd already seen all the exciting racing go by. I hopped off my bike and pulled off my helmit, thinking that I was better off than all those suckers with the gear who had to change their shoes. Then I started to run. My legs were made of lead. I'd never felt a pain so horrible in my life! What the hell was going on?! Oh yes, that's right, I had never, EVER run off the bike, thinking that doing both in one day was good enough. I ran and I ran and I ran, and I suffered and I suffered and I suffered. I saved tons of time blowing through aid stations thinking that I didn't need their gimmicky "sports drinks" which were just as good as my plain water that I had in my bike water bottle and was carrying in my hand. I was HUNGRY. How come no one was giving me food? And no matter how much I concentrated and pushed, I COULDN'T make myself run. I had no idea that 10k could be so long, but even on fresh legs, running through the rental car lot at the San Diego Airport makes the miles feel longer. I'd never run in my swimsuit before, so it had never occurred to me that the seams weren't made to minimize running friction. Before long I had raw, open wounds nearly a foot long through my armpits with salty ocean water brought back to life by sweat being rubbed into them with every stride. Then, finally, I was running along the Embarcadero and had to run around the tourists who thought it was more important not to give up their spot in line for the sightseeing tour than to get out of my way. At the finish there were people holding their kids, women kissing their husbands, boyfriends hugging their girlfriends and smiles and happiness all around. I was grumpy and just wanted to get to the Clif samples, which were chocolate. I hate chocolate. Then I had to wait in the long, long line for the shuttle back to the transition area. All I thought about in that long line was how much I fucked up. I'd come into this thing arrogant, and my first triathlon had shown me exactly who was boss. But I still had to figure out how to get back to the hotel before I could shut myself in my room and drink by myself until I forgot what it felt like to be a failure. The volunteers guarding the transition areas were Marines, who were very effective in preventing bike thefts, but they didn't know their way around the San Diego area too well. I knew that my hotel was only a few blocks from the water, so if I followed the coast I couldn't be far. This story could have been much more disasterous if a girl named Christine hadn't overheard me asking for directions and offered me a ride home. Normally I'm too proud and stubborn to accept help from anyone, but this trip had been so disasterous that I gave in. When Christine was loading my enormous bike onto her roof rack she grunted and said, "we gotta get you a new bike, girl!" Yeah, I know. I'm pathetic, I'd done everything wrong before I even started to race. But on the way back, as I gave all my excuses for why I'd sucked so much, Christine had such a better perspective on my experience. "Look, you just FINISHED your first triathlon!" she said. "And on that heavy bike, too. I bet you were working harder than anyone else out there." It turns out that she'd done the sprint distance, and couldn't even conceive of herself doing the olympic distance until next season and was impressed by a distance which I had considered pretty pathetic, since there was so much farther you COULD go. I was ashamed to point out my crummy hotel tucked away behind a huge McDonalds with the bulletproof glass in front of the reception desk, but before I got out of the car Christine said, "That's so cool that you came all by yourself to a new city to do your first triathlon! I hope that you have a better experience next time." So really, Christine was my first introduction to what triathlon means to me today: sharing the glory of the culmination of all your training and hard work and sacrifice with those around you who are basking in their own private glory. No one will be as impressed by your accomplishment as those who were there with you when you did it; not those who have done it and know what it's like, and not those who think that they could never do it themselves. So enjoy eachother and enjoy the race, because you did all the work, and this is your moment. No matter what, don't let anything keep you from enjoying it.

When I got home I got a six pack and pulled out my journal and analyzed what I could learn from my experience. That same night, not to be done in by my own stupidity, I commited myself to do the Big Kahuna, a half ironman distance race right in my own back yard. Coincidentally, I made another horrible blunder that trip which resulted in me insulting and losing a friend while drunk. Holding up the two bad experiences next to eachother on the same trip gave me the kick in the pants I needed to quit drinking and smoking cold turkey until I achieved the Big Kahuna goal that I'd set for myself.

I think any newbie to the sport could benefit from a list of what I reflected on after the race:

~Practice swimming in open water. When you do so, practice running out of the water: not just the first few feet, but all the way up the beach to where your stuff is stashed.
~Should you choose to use a wetsuit, practice not only swimming in it, but also getting in and out of it.
~Have the right gear. If you're training for triathlon, you need a tri bike or a road bike. It doesn't need all the bells and whistles, but at least the basic shape and idea behind it. Don't buy a bike thinking that it'll be good for not only training, but commuting. You don't want to be commuting in your race.
~Nutrition and gear aren't for pussies. A lot of it's hype, but nutrition is a must, and clipless pedals help a lot too.
~Practice running off the bike. Often.
~Bodyglide. Swimming makes skin soggy. Sweating makes skin soggy. Soggy skin chafes more easily.
~Practice every aspect of the race you possibly can. Swim in open water, swim in cold water if necessary, practice your nutrition, practice your transitions and practice training in what you plan to be your racing clothes. Believe me, you will thank yourself later.
~If you're travelling to a race, bring everything you can from home because who knows where you're going to find it where you're going. Bring your favorite nutrition products, favorite snacks for pre and post race, spare bike stuff, good luck charms... And most of all, bring a buddy.

How Embarrassing!

Here's a copy of an email I sent out to two of my good friends in California after THE MOST MORTIFYING MOMENT EVER! Do you think I should write in to YM magazine? Anyway, some background information that you might want to know: Kat and Lorraine work in the gym where I worked when I was in California. Kat is a powerlifter and Lorraine is an ultraendurance (like 50-100 miles) runner.

Kat, do you remember that time that you told me that you'd never thrown up from working out and it seemed like fun...? Well it's not. I speak from experience! Today I decided to run 10k at the gym (the streets here aren't very good for running). So I ran and ran and ran for an hour. Fine, normal right? I've done it a million times. When I finished I was feeling a little icky. I figured I would walk a bit and be fine. But it got worse. So I stood for a second. It wasn't looking good. So I tried to make a run for the bathroom, but I puked. Right there in the middle of the exercise floor. I tried to get it in my towel... but then I puked again. And again. And finally I made it to the bathroom and puked again. They pulled one of the female aerobics teachers out of a class to go into the bathroom and make sure I was fine and everyone was asking me if I was dizzy. HOW EMBARRASSING! I don't know how I'm ever going to be able to show my face there again! I should have gone running in the street. The street is a perfect place to puke. Everybody does it. But not so much on the exercise floor...

The Beginning of my European Racing Career

Jamie running through the Olympic Stadium. This won't be the last time HE's running on an olympic track.

Look how happy I am!

Everyone after the race. We all finished. We all survived.

Everyone walking down to the start.

Laura hopping of the pre-race jitters.

Jamie's game face, which looks like he just ate a lemon.

They turned on the fountains in Plaza Espanya just for us!

Look at me go! I'm in running in the Olympic stadium, only 10 years too late!

Sorry about the photo captions. I don't quite know how to handle the formatting quite yet. I hope you have fun guessing which caption goes with which photo!

Today I had my first race in Europe. For those of you who've been here before, it was the Corte Ingles run. For those of you who don't know it, it's a free 11k run put on by the biggest (and pretty much only) department store chain in Spain. As far as I can tell, it's free because it's an excuse for Corte Ingles to shut down half the city on a Sunday morning so that 70,000 billboards can run around it for an hour or so. That, and they didn't give t-shirts: cheapskates! And what a motley crew it was! There were those big, tall paper mache statues (I can never remember the name) that are in every Spanish religious festivals, numbers pinned to babies in strollers, numbers taped to dogs, old people, kids of literally ALL ages, and un uncountable number of Barca jerseys. Somehow I convinced one or two poor sods who are unfortunate enough to be my friends to sign up, and they convinced a some more people, so I wound up having 4 companions in the race (unlike most of the races I did at home where I ran - or whatever - alone). There were so many people doing it and no apparent organization at the starting line, so it took a couple of kilometers (about a mile) before you could even really run for more than 5 seconds at a time, but about half an hour into it - we were off! Joolie got lost early, but Ben, Laura, Jamie and I managed to stay together through the first half. We knew that we were going to have to climb part of Montjuic (as the "mont" suggests - a hill), what we didn't know was that we would have to climb it, then go down, then back up 3 times! The most exciting part was the lap that you run around the Olympic track. How many times does THAT happen? We all crossed the finish line within about 10 minutes of eachother and enjoyed our terriffic prizes together - a free warm Coke. All in all it was a hell of a lot of fun, and I'm looking forward to another fun and full season! If any of you are ever around Barcelona the first Sunday in May, I highly recommend the Corte Ingles run. There's no charity or feel-good feeling, but still it's fun just to see everyone that turns out.