It's just polite

This post has nothing to do with sports. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming soon, but I just have to share this story and get people's opinions.

Where I work (at a development house which helps major publishers create children's text books) probably 70% of the staff is on a term of project contract. This means you work there for a couple of months, and then when the work runs out, you leave. And if you're not a complete turkey (like the girl who comes to work blazed every day, or the guy who moved files to the "done" folder without ever even opening them, the lady who drinks water out of cups with petrified oatmeal still stuck to the sides, or the woman who horded half-drunk Coke cans in her office), then you may be invited back when there's work again. So there's a lot of turnover, and there are a lot of new people every few months.

I love my job, and I like where I work. I like the people I work with. In October, when I was called back to work here, there was a whole crop of new people in to work on a new project. Something else was new too, we had a "sprinkler." Someone was peeing on the toilet seat and leaving it there! Girls, you know exactly what I'm talking about: Someone doesn't want to put her royal ass on the seat, so she hovers a few inches over it and the pee splashes all over the seat. We all know the cutesy little rhyme:

If you sprinkle when you tinkle,
Please be neat and wipe the seat.

The Watering Can clearly doesn't know this rhyme, because she is a serial sprinkler. I have heard other employees complaining about the sprinkling problem and having to clean it up. I have found dried urine drops on the seat early in the morning, left over from the day before. And yes, sometimes I have forgotten to check, and on several occasions I've sat in it!

But what do you do? They're full bathrooms, not stalls, so the users have more privacy. They're segregated, so it's not a guy with bad aim who's to blame. I complained to the office manager, and he sent out a vague email about "the state of the bathrooms and kitchen." But the problem persisted. If you can train a cat to use the toilet, why can't a young woman in her 20's learn the proper usage of this fixture?

I became hellbent on vigilante justice. I wanted to know who The Watering Can was, and I wanted her to pay! I knew it couldn't be anyone who had worked there before, because last year when I worked there for 9 months, it was never a problem. It couldn't have been anyone who started long after I came back, because it has been a consistent problem since my return in October. No one in management or in my department fit the profile. This left a few people in Production, and a few English editors. I had my eye on one in particular. I had seen her coming out of the bathroom once using a paper towel on the door handle so that she wouldn't have to touch it. If you won't touch the door handle, you aren't going to sit on the seat either! I thought. It's you, you filthy pig!

But I couldn't prove it. Until this week! I was headed in to the bathroom on Wednesday, and just as I was going to walk into Bathroom Number 2, Bathroom Number 1's door opened and SHE waltzed out with a big, gummy smile on her face. There was no one in line and no one walking by, so I stuck my head in Bathroom Number 1 to inspect the seat. It was COVERED in pee sprinkles! I'd caught her red-handed. Or red-butted. Or red-urethra-ed...

But now, what do I do with this information? Anything too outrageous is sure to come back and bite me in the ass. I have considered the following options:

1. Do nothing. Her project is nearly over, and her contract is ripe to expire in the next couple of weeks. But then she gets away with it! How can you be so pure and chaste that you won't even touch a germy door handle, and yet you leave your urine for other people to clean up... or sit in?!
2. Leave an annonymous post-it on her monitor that says, "I KNOW YOU'RE THE ONE WHO'S BEEN PEEING ON THE SEAT. PLEASE STOP, OR I WILL NOTIFY THE WHOLE OFFICE THAT IT IS YOU!"
3. Notify the whole office that it's her with no warning.
4. Buy toilet seat covers and leave an annonymous and only slightly rude note that says, "IF YOU DON'T WANT TO SIT ON THE SEAT, PLEASE USE A SEAT COVER SO THE REST OF US DON'T SIT IN YOUR URINE."
5. Poop on her chair.

What would you do?

Just not my day

Some days, things just don't work out the way you want them to. Today was one of those days, and that's okay. As you read the following race report, you should know that I am not in the least disappointed about what happened. So you shouldn't be either. It was what it was, and now it's over and I'm not going to lose any sleep about it. I know that there was nothing that I could have done under the circumstances to have a better race.

Despite being signed up, I had no intention of running the Hyannis Marathon until the Thursday before. That's why I all but quit running after Disney World, running only 12 times in the 6 intervening weeks, for a whopping 70 miles total over that time. But when the time came, something in me wouldn't let me quit without a fight. As luck would have it, though, the day I changed my mind about running the marathon, the weather channel changed their mind about the forecast for that day. Gone was the promise of 32º and partly cloudy. Now it was going to be 42º, rainy, and windy.

I did everything right (other than not training... or resting properly in the weeks before... or doing the right workouts to peak) in the days before the race. I got lots of sleep. I hardly used my legs all week (the 12 hours on the trainer last weekend was already behind me, and there wasn't much I could do about that now). I ate 60–70% of my calories from healthy carbohydrate sources like fruits and whole grains. I drank liters and liters of liquids, some with nuun tabs in it so that I could load up on electrolytes. I went out the day before in similar temperatures and did some drills and strides to make sure that I didn't overdress or underdress. I laid low.

Big Red and I showed up at the convention center early, which gave us one unobstructed bathroom break before the 3,998 other marathon, half marathon, and 10K runners descended on the tiny little Sheraton. I showed Red my good luck rock that I'd been given at the Green Lakes 50K, where I'd surprised myself with a great race. "So your race plan is to run with rocks?" Big Red said. She had a point. I took the rock out and put it in my bag.

By the time the race was about to start, it took almost 15 minutes to push your way through the crowd to the door. Then, 4,000 people crammed themselves into a chunk of road equal to roughly 1 city block and put up with the race organizers as they tried to impose order on the latecomers from the porta pottie lines that were trying to work their way behind the starting line from the front and sides. Someone sang the national anthem, missed a note, and 4,000 people started laughing. Then the gun went off, and eventually we were able to move.

Mile 1 8:06

With all kinds of runners front-loading into the starting area, I worried about being able to run fast enough in the first mile. I kept reminding myself that I would have plenty of time to make up for lost time in the next 25 miles, but I kept looking down to see that my pace was in the mid- to high 7-minute range. I planned to impose (on penalty of death) a narrow pace margin of 8:12 to 8:22-minute miles on myself for the first half, but I guess I might have overcompensated as I was darting through the crowd. Oh well, the first mile never goes the way you want it to.

Mile 2 7:55

This feels hard. Well no wonder! I'm back in the mid 7's. I kept trying to find a steady rhythm, but every time I looked down I was accelerating again. Then I would have to back off and overcompensate again. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of staying within range, but when the next mile marker came up, my watch told me that I'd overshot it a little bit. I was very, very, very, very aware of what could happen if I fucked up the pacing, and I had no intention of blowing to smithereens. I usually do 8- to 10-mile tempo runs at 8-minute pace, so I knew that I was still in familiar territory. I should be okay.

Mile 3 8:06

I was supposed to eat here, but it was still too crowded. And I felt the slightest hint of intestinal upset. I didn't want to give myself that poopy feeling so soon, so I held off on the food. To my surprise, I saw Big Red up ahead of me. She was supposed to be running hard. She was supposed to be long gone. I came up behind her and gave her a big smack on the ass as I pulled alongside her. "Hey, girlie. How you doin'?" I asked

"Not good. My back's bothering me," Big Red's got a chronic back condition that comes and goes. "Run like the wind, my friend!" she called after me. Well that was no fun! I wanted her to have a great race that I could simmer with jealousy over later. I wanted her to be far, far ahead of me so that I would HAVE to finish the marathon, if only to not give her the satisfaction of beating me. At the very least, I wanted her to keep up so that she could keep me company for part of this long day. God knows I would be lonely enough on the second loop. But she was gone, and I never saw her again. She would later tell me that she was disappointed that I passed her so quickly, "But then I looked down at my pace and saw why," she said.

Mile 4 8:12

Well that's more like it! I was finally successful in reigning myself in... sort of. But now the hills were starting. Okay, they weren't hills. They were the slightest of rollers. There was hardly any elevation gain on the whole course. But I am a weak hill runner by nature, and since I've been doing 90% of my running indoors this winter (and it's easy to keep a treadmill at 0% incline), these hills might as well have been mountains. It was like the bungee had finally stretched to its limit, and now I was snapping back. Well that's alright, I thought (somewhat naïvely), I'm finally within my pace range. In fact, my watch was beeping more and more to tell me to speed up.

Also, I was getting pretty hot. I'd been warm and sweaty since the first mile, but now I was beginning to wonder if it would be a problem. I couldn't take my jacket off because it had my snacks in the pocket, and I had no other pockets. My jacket and I were committed to each other. I'd written what my splits should be at 4-mile intervals on my arm, but when I rolled my sleeve up to check, I'd already sweat mile 16 and beyond into oblivion.

Mile 5 8:08

I passed the Hoyts. This time, I didn't think I was going to throw up all over them, and I passed them sooner (I'm sure that the bigger "hills" in Hyannis compared to Disney make pushing a wheelchair harder and slowed their pace). Maybe it was because I was running slower. Maybe it was because they were running slower. Maybe it's because New Englanders are more stoic than the rest of the country (represented at the Disney Marathon). Maybe it's because everyone on The Pre-Boston Circuit has done half a dozen races with the Hoyts. Maybe I was just in a pocket of curmudgeons. But people around me weren't getting as worked up about the Hoyts either, which probably helped me to keep my excitement under control this time, and keep my breakfast down. I did speed up from my last mile, though, and we were still going "uphill."

Mile 6 8:23

I already knew I was in trouble. My legs just weren't waking up. Running was hard. The course turned "downhill," but the wind picked up and I slowed down. You can still do this, I thought. Just run steady, and you won't tire out. Just cool your heels for a bit and you'll come right. But I knew. Deep down inside me, I knew that I wasn't going to be running a marathon today. I had done everything right today, and my legs just weren't coming around. I'd managed to get some food in, but I'd never practiced eating at this pace (remember? I didn't actually train for this race). It was hard to eat and breathe at 8:15 min/miles. And I could feel that my legs didn't feel the way they've felt on good runs in the past. They weren't springy. I felt like I'd started with half a tank, but it didn't matter because the engine would break down before I ran out of gas. I felt like I feel on the bike when a brake is rubbing.

Mile 7 8:04

We were gaining elevation again, but I sped up this mile. Maybe this was the part where I got angry at myself for thinking defeat. Maybe I tried to rally. Maybe this was the section where they had traffic going in each direction and no sidewalk on a narrow back street, but I pulled myself back together and soldiered on. I still FELT okay, I just knew that it was over. Maybe just knowing that my mind was already made up made me speed up for a decent half marathon. Could I still save this half marathon? Stupid question, idiot! You promised yourself that you would run 8:20's whether you finished a half marathon or a full! Stick to the plan! You might come around yet.

Mile 8 8:22

Time to check the splits on my arm again. I was still on pace, less than a minute faster than what it said on my arm. Can you keep this pace up for 18 miles without slowing down, though? I asked myself. I knew that there was no way. Can you finish a marathon strong? Maybe? I still held out hope. We were climbing to the top of what would be the biggest "hill" on the course now, and I felt like I'd been running uphill forever – since mile 3!

Mile 9 8:25

The course was now on Route 28, a highway as far as Cape Cod goes. It was 2 lanes in each direction with no sidewalk, and runners were crammed into a narrow three-foot strip on the side of the road. Some people were speeding up to negative split their races, while others were falling to pieces. There was a lot of passing going on, and not nearly enough space to do it. Also, the wind was picking up to about 15 mph and it was getting downright chilly.

Mile 10 8:30

The wheels fell off. We were headed back downhill now, but it didn't matter with the headwind we were running into. Turning off of Route 28, a man passed me. "Come on blue!!" he said. The marathon bibs were blue, half marathon were white.
"I'm not running a marathon today," I told him. Why wouldn't these people let me die in peace? Why is there always someone who tries to make you suffer more, when there is no way you could possibly run any faster?
"Aw come on, you're holding your pace! I've been trying to catch you for miles!"
"No, really. I gave up on this race a month and a half ago. I just want to get it over with now."
"You'd better not talk like that. Come on, you need a pacer?" he asked. "I'll slow up to get you through." It was exactly what I would have wanted on a perfect day, a symbiotic relationship with another runner: he would get company, I would get a pacer. But I knew I was dead meat.
"I will not take responsibility for you having a horrible race. Run on ahead, and I don't want to catch you back here again!" I said. "Believe me, I'm a gonner. Have a great race."

I was glad to see that he wasn't going to try to pull me along, because the air it took to have that conversation was enough to put me over the edge. I now wondered how I was even going to finish the next 2.5 miles, let alone a marathon. With all the passing and being passed that was going on, I couldn't find a comfortable rhythm and felt like I was running through pudding.

Mile 11 8:23

Out of nowhere I hear, "HEY!" over my left shoulder. It was Gadfly Thom. I had never been AHEAD of Gadfly Thom in a race before, and certainly not this late in the game. I couldn't believe it. But it was over now. There was no way I was going to be able to keep up with him. "How you doing?" he managed to get out before he passed.

"Awful. Really, really awful." I guess something in my tone of voice told him that I wasn't being my usual sarcastic self on this one, because he didn't push me. I could see him for quite some time, pulling away in front of me (he's easy to spot: probably one of 2 black guys who did the race), and it just made me feel like I was sinking. I thought of stopping and waiting for Big Red, but I thought she would kill me for waiting. And what if she was right behind me, and I didn't even get time to recover before she dropped my sorry ass? There was nothing to do but keep running.

Mile 12 8:45

It was now extremely windy and cold. I could barely get my mind around even getting to the end of the block, let alone getting back to the start/finish area. I knew that there was positively no way I could even finish a marathon today. All I could do was hang on. I had the distinct sensation that my blood pressure or my heartrate or something were too high. I got tunnel vision, felt woozy, and felt like my head was going to explode. I get this feeling a lot when I'm pushing hard at the end of races. I'll have to figure out exactly what it is, so that I can avoid it.

Mile 13.25 8:43 pace

When I crossed the 13-mile marker, I took off my race belt and crumpled my number up in my hand. I didn't want anyone giving me a hard time about packing it in. I just wanted to drop out in peace. I knew it was the only option I had today. I put in as much of a kick as I could muster, but my pace was nearly equal to the past mile. I finished without fanfare in 1:50:03, for an average of 8:19 minutes per mile in real miles, officially 8:23. I was exactly 3 seconds off the pace for running a 3:40 marathon, if I had turned around and run the same exact race over again. Lord knows that wasn't going to happen. I was a mess.

Afterward

Big Red came in 3 or 4 minutes behind me, and we stood around for awhile waiting for one of her friends to come through. By the time he came in, it was raining, and the icy wind was constant. Over the next hour, it started to pour down rain, and as we were driving away from the expo center, we saw the 3-hour marathoners around the 23-mile mark. Their clothes were plastered against them from the wind and they looked like they were in hell.

Big Red had several friends in the Hyannis area, so we had lunch with her mother and a family friend while the freezing rain pissed down outside. Also, I had the same problem that I'd had after Disney where my lower intestinal tract shut down. I felt like my insides were rotting out, like someone had put my small intestine through a blender. Yet another reason to be happy I hadn't tried to run the full marathon.

I knew that not finishing the race was the right decision. There was no part of me that was upset that I'd quit halfway. I'd done the best I could under the circumstances, and I just didn't have a good race in me. Between the course and the weather, it just wasn't a PR day. There was absolutely no way I could have even finished that marathon, and I just would have made myself sick if I'd tried. There will be more chances in the future, and eventually my day will come. Today just wasn't it. The perfect day was probably last January in Disney World, but I decided to do something else with my fitness that weekend. My body will come around again and let me run strong some other time. But right now, it's several months past time to be moving on.

Goodbye, running. I'll see you again in the fall.

She's sung.

Update: I finally had the heart to check the results. Mercifully, I'm not listed in the marathon results with a DNF next to my name. I'm not in the half marathon results either, though. I would have finished in roughly 615th place out of 2044 overall (30%), and 88th out of 413 in my age group (21%). Last year I finished nearly 9 minutes slower to make only the top 54% over all, and 49% in my age group.

Things you should know

Yes, I've been in hiding again. No, nothing's wrong. I just haven't had much to talk about. I've thought of writing some posts, but none of them ever fully took shape in my mind, so I decided to save the effort. Plus, I've been really productive at work and in other aspects of my life (read: tearing through Law & Order reruns on netflix), so I haven't had much time to sit down and write. Here is a quick list of things that I thought about posting about, but didn't:

1. I finally found a use for my heartrate monitor: to hold my pants up. It may not be appropriate for work's "business casual" dress code, but it'll work in a pinch when I forget my belt at home.

2. I was on my trainer for over 12 hours last weekend, averaging over 235 trainer miles (which are always faster than road miles). I got through the whole Lord of the Rings series (non-director's cut) and half of Beowulf in that time. My legs were fine, but I got some NASTY chafing on my ass that perfectly matched the shape of my chamois. Note to self: invest in some good bike shorts. It hurt to sit down to pee for days.

3. I've decided to run the marathon tomorrow. I wasn't going to. I really, really wasn't going to. I didn't want to. You couldn't make me. Then three things happened:
ONE: Big Red was going, and I thought it'd be fun to hang out with her. Even if it DID mean running. No one could make me run the full distance, though. It's a 2-loop course, I can just quit half way through if I want to. Secretly, that was my plan. I told people I'd keep going if I was feeling good at 13 miles, but that was a lie. I had no intention of running more than 13.1 miles.
TWO: I listened to a sort of "race report" on a podcast. I was only half-listening to a race wrap-up when something cut through my inner monologue and struck me. One of the guys started saying, "I realized that I was already making excuses to have a bad race [before it had even started]. So I just asked myself, What can I do right now to make sure I have the best race I'm capable of today?" He then went on to run a marathon over 15 minutes quicker than he anticipated. The moral of the story (or at least the take-home lesson that I got out of it) was that it's never over until it's over. And you can either decide to rock up and do your best, or make excuses for not doing your best before the race is even over. It wasn't that profound really, but I realized that I was doing the same thing. I was making excuses, telling people that I was burnt out, untrained, didn't really care... I was setting myself up to quit. I had no intention of running a good race. So why even show up if I wasn't going to try? All I had to do was pull it together for one morning and see what I was still capable of. I wouldn't be at my peak, but I haven't exactly been a couch potato either. My VDOT numbers say that I'm within a stone's throw of a qualifying time, if I had the race of a lifetime. I decided to see what I could do if I didn't make any excuses.
THREE: A conversation with Calvin (that's not his real name, but that's what I always want to call him) at the gym. We were talking about burnout, and the possibility of me running my race, or not. At that point, I still wanted a good excuse to get out of it. Then I caught myself saying, "I'm at the point now where I can pull a marathon out of my ass on any given day and know I'm going to finish. It doesn't really matter if I burn myself out hardcore, because I don't plan on running much anyway for the next 6 months. Going for bust might be good for me." I'm trying to learn how to listen to myself.

So I'm running tomorrow. My aim is to run so hard that I'm burnt to a smoky crisp at the finish line. If I manage to pull out a 3:40, I'll be elated. But I'm not going to let myself see a 3:45 or a 3:50 as a failure. Even if I run a 3:55 or slower, at least I will have ended my running block with a bang (the BANG of a tolerance for running blowing sky high).

So keep your eyes peeled. Race report coming soon.

Also, Judi sent me the following interview questions. Some of them weren't really any of anyone's business (or at least nothing concerned with this blog), so I changed them. So here you go:

1. why are you so devilishly handsome?
Breck shampoo and Brill Cream, baby. The ladies love to run their fingers through my hair.

2. when did you finally come out as a Britney Spears fan? how did people react?
I started coming out to selected friends in college, but I haven't gone public with the fact that I very much enjoy Britney Spears until you outted me just now, Judi. Thanks a lot! Alright, it's true. I like Britney Spears! Now you all know. People have reacted with shock, disbelief, and ultimately acceptance. There are more Britney Spears fans out there than you would think.

3. if you - god forbid - broke a body part and couldn't train, what would stop you from drinking again?

The fact that I would eventually heal and I don't want to still be drunk when that happens. If I couldn't heal, then it would be that "put together feeling."  The prospect of losing everything else I have (job, friends, etc.) would work for as long as I felt that way, but I doubt that would last. If I didn't have a job/friends, etc. that I really cared about that much, you'd probably find me crutching myself into the nearest liquor store.  I'd have to go to meetings, I guess.

4. your first triathlon - what kind of affect (sic.) did it have on you?
I wouldn't really say it had an effect on me. I fucked it up, the whole experience sucked, and I spent the whole summer training to get better. I got over it. I hardly ever even think about that race anymore. I would say the longest lasting effect is that I don't want to be the one caught riding a hybrid bike in my running shoes ever again.

5. do you think you suffer from OCD?
No. Type A, maybe.  I get maybe a bit anxious sometimes.  But not OCD. I don't have weird habits with turning out lights or making sure that dials and knobs are just so. I'm not even neat. So no, I am many things, but I am not OCD.

Non-Runners Seeking Runners

Burnt-out, untrained marathon runner seeks selfless, talented runner to pace through the last 6-13 miles of a marathon at 8:20 min/mile pace or better. Must be upbeat, patient, thick-skinned, and willing to deal with verbal abuse for an hour or more. Access to performance-enhancing drugs a plus. Attractive young women preferred, but heavy, ugly, or male candidates may apply if they meet above specifications. Must live in or around Massachusetts, since engagement is on Cape Cod and subject cannot afford to pay for travel or lodging. Successful candidates will be compensated with breakfast, coffee, lunch, and undying gratitude. Engagement is 1-day only, February 22 in Hyannis, MA. Interested parties, please e-mail speedyspeedracer@gmail.com.

Schooled

If you were around for my last post, you will remember that I was a little fish thrown into the shark tank at an indoor time trial at the Harpoon brewery this weekend. My heat seemed to include every professional rider and triathlete in the Boston area, and then my own sorry ass. What I noticed on the amended schedule that was released a day or two before the event was that there were, in fact, dozens and dozens of women registered for this race. I, however, had somehow found my way into the ELITE division. Where had I gone wrong?! Frantically, I tried to figure out how I'd gotten there. Had I entered a seed time when I signed up? Did I check the wrong box? Surely I couldn't have been that dumb! I am completely unknown in the local cycling scene, so I wrote a frantic email to the local race organizers asking what the hell I was doing in the elite heat, and if I was there by mistake would they please let me know so that I could ride with a bag over my head. I actually suggested riding with a bag over my head in this email. At the end of the correspondence, the overburdened race director promised me that I would not be DFL (dead fucking last – my words, not hers), and I would be fine in the elite heat. She had better be right!

The problems started in the morning. I seemed to be winning the fight against my first cold of the winter the night before, but when I woke up the yucky cold feeling had moved down from my head into my chest. Farther north, in the sinus region, there was a mucus problem. When I stood up I got that dizzy, heart-rate-spiky feeling you get when you're sick. Since it was still early and my race wasn't till noon, I decided to just have a cup of tea and wait awhile before breakfast. The tea made me so nauseous that I toyed with the idea of actually throwing up to help me with my weigh-in. Once I got food in my stomach, though, the nausea calmed down. I knew my body was out of whack, so just out of curiosity, I put my heartrate monitor on in the car to see how bad it was. I was in the 80's (normally my resting HR is in the mid-50's). Then came the venti coffee, which I was counting on to make up for the shortcomings in my training. As I walked into the brewery, my heartrate was in the mid-130's. Not a good sign.

And that's the last excuse I'm going to give for my shitty performance today. I would say that the lousy showing that I wrung out of my body was due only about 30% to me feeling under the weather, and 70% to me riding like a total idiot. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

To my surprise, I was not on the list for the Women's A heat when I got to registration. Without notifying me, they had moved me to the 2:30 heat. "We can move you back to the 12:00, if you want. There are still slots," the cute hippie-looking girl at the registration table said to me.

"Just give me a second," I said. I started shaking. It was partly due to the caffeine, somewhat because I was flustered, but mostly because Dede Griesbauer had just walked through the door and was coming right for the registration table. I made a decision long ago not to let myself get star-stuck by pro-athletes (follow the link to see what an horse's ass I can really be), but if there was one person that I didn't want overhearing this conversation, it was her. So I did my best to disappear as she wheeled her beautiful bike up to the rack and checked in. I wanted to throw up again. I thought the panicked thoughts that people think when they're making a life-or-death decision. When The Truly Elite had cleared the area, I announced my decision to the cute hippie girl: "What the heck, I'll ride at 12:00." Like it was no big thang.

It was, in fact, a very big thang, and I nearly took it back as soon as I said it. There were 2 reasons that I decided not to chicken out:
1. I knew that I would hate myself forever if I passed up this opportunity, even if I was going to make an ass of myself. Even though I could easily compare my times later to those in the elite heat, I would always wonder what if...
2. I was supposed to visit my grandmother in the hospital this afternoon, and would have really felt like shit if I missed visiting hours because I was too chicken shit to ride with the big girls.

I was, truth be told, chicken shit. I was just too dumb/proud to do anything about it.

I was afraid of a weigh-in, so I had let myself get dehydrated to get ready for it. Stupid, but that's the way I roll. When I didn't see a scale, I started hitting the water like it was my job. When I had downed about a bottle, THAT was when they brought out the scale. I'd gained 3 lb since breakfast. I weighed exactly 125 lb. Fatty, fatty, fat, fat fat!!!!!!!! my Inner Critic screamed at me. My inner critic has had a lot to say to me today. I warmed up on the trainers they provided (the first one I tried was broken, just my luck), and I could tell right away that I was in deep shit. Sometimes when you're sick, it goes away when you exercise. Today was not one of those days. It wasn't that I was achey, my body just didn't want to kick into a high gear. Everything felt like a huge effort.

One by one our cast of characters showed up. We've already introduced Dede Griesbauer, who (the announcer made a point of reminding us every 2 minutes) has been top 10 in Hawaii twice. I spotted Karen Smyers who, (the announcer also reminded us every 2 minutes) has won everything ever. I spotted Chick on a Pink Bike, whose bike today was blue, but she was wearing a pink top, pink bandana, and even the cable casings on her blue bike were pink.

A note about Chick on a Pink Bike. You may have noticed that I have changed what the C stands for. I've been doing a lot of thinking on the matter, and decided that if I disrespect someone for being unsportsmanlike, I am certainly not being the better person and a good sport by going around naming them after a vulgar word for genitalia. So she's outspoken, slightly stuck-up, and maybe a bit negative for my tastes. I may never want to sit and have a beer... er... tea with her, but she deserves more respect than what I've been giving her. I even wanted to offer her my beer tokens after the race, but that's hard to do when someone's ignoring your very existence.

Finally, Masters Cyclist Chick turned up, only a few minutes before we were loaded onto the computrainers. She waved, and I dragged my finger across my neck to say I'm dead meat! "My stomach's been doing flips all day," she confided in me. "I've hardly eaten anything since Thursday night. I almost didn't come."

"Well I'm glad to see you," I said. "Please keep them from eating me alive!"

There were other people there too: The women's over 65 world time trial champion, some other girls that have done impressive things which I can't remember. "I have no idea what I'm doing here," the girl on the bike next to me said as the announcer introduced the people of note.

"Me neither!" I confided in her. It was good to know that I wasn't the only one who had been burdened with "elite" status without my explicit consent.

One interesting thing before I give you all the gory details of the race. A few minutes before the race, the announcer took one more chance to introduce the riders of note in the group (of 14 riders, about 6 had titles worth mentioning). When he got to Masters Chick, who we'll call Grace (as in "Handled with..."), he started listing her achievements. "And on bike number 8, we have Grace Bikerchick, crit rider, track rider, and one of the most winning women in New England!" Remember: I knew that Grace was sick, but I hadn't seen her talk to, or mention it to anyone else. She knew that she was going to ride like crap today, she knew that everyone would be watching her simulated rider on the screen and expect great things from her. She knew that she was going to disappoint. What did she do? Give an excuse? Make a face to let people know she wasn't feeling well? Any of a number of things that I might have done in the same position to save my pride? No, she raised her hand, smiled, and waved.

Optional reading: How it worked: We would all be riding the same simulated course through the magic of computrainers. There were 16 computrainers set up (2 were empty), in 2 rows, facing our statistics, which were projected on a wall. At the top was the profile we would be riding: an 8-mile course that was mostly flat, except a 1-mile hill at mile 6 that would not exceed a 5% grade, followed by a brief downhill for the last half mile. Below, you could see your placing (relative only to the half of the riders on your side of the room), how many feet between you and the rider in front of you, your watts, speed, distance completed, and other such information I didn't have the wherewithal to take in.

I had thought that the resistance when we stopped pedaling would be equal to the resistance when we were told to start again, but when the announcer yelled "GO!", the resistance had gone way up. So for a few long seconds my average watts were up above 350 as I moved down into the right gear. It didn't last.

I was pushing about 250 watts for the first mile or so. For a minute I felt good. Then my mouth dropped open so I could gulp in more air. After another minute, my breathing became labored. But I was in first (on my side of the room: with none of the superstars), and time trials are supposed to hurt. So, like an idiot, I pressed on. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I knew I had managed to somewhat comfortably push an average of over 200 watts for about 45 minutes before (if the computrainers at the gym can be trusted). I hadn't been riding at race effort that day, so I tried to shove 225 now. I was still barely hanging on to first. Someone came up behind me and asked how old I was. "Twennnnfi..." I gasped, and held up 2 fingers, and then 5. That's when I dropped to second place.

About 30 seconds later (or maybe around the 2-mile mark), my legs asserted themselves. I had to jump up one cog to an easier gear and try to spin my legs out. I knew my race was already over.

Meanwhile, Dede Griesbauer had taken the lead, and Karen Smyers was on her tail. As I fought for dear life, the announcer narrated as Dede, and then Karen flipped into their small chainring to climb the hill. I listened to what a great ride Chick on a Pink Bike was having in fourth place, and wished I were dead. By the time Dede Griesbauer finished in under 21 minutes, I was feeling very ill indeed, and still had over a mile to go. When Karen Smyers finished just over a minute behind her, I was struggling with a big decision.

I had decided that I didn't mind getting my ass kicked, if only I pushed myself hard enough to puke. That was my goal for this race: puke on my bike. Now, I was there. I was riding much more slowly than I expected, but regardless, if I continued to ride at this effort level I was most certainly going to puke. What did I do? Rather than keeping my promise, I eased off. I went up to an easier gear, and spun as fast as I could. When I dropped back another position, from 4th to 5th (on my side of the room), I stood up for a minute so that I could push a bigger gear. But soon enough I was facing the same decision, and had to sit down and back off again. I'm not saying that I WANTED to puke, I just wanted to know that I couldn't have pushed any harder. When it came time to serve up breakfast for round 2, I chickened out. Sure, I'm sure everyone else in the room was glad I did, but I was furious with myself for not having what it took mentally to do a simple thing like vomit into my own lap in front of about 50 people.

The chick in front of me was very tall, and when she finished and sat up, I couldn't see the screen anymore. Without that distraction, all I could do in the last minute or so was take an inventory of my suffering: other than the nausea, I had a strong metallic taste in my mouth, my lungs were on fire, I was wheezing, I think I was coughing, and it felt like someone had sucked all the power out of my legs. I just couldn't push hard on the pedals.

It took me a second to realize that I'd finished, because the tall girl had her big, fat head in the way. When I did realize it was over, I went into a very, very easy gear and turned my legs around as slow as they would go. I still thought I was going to puke. Grace finished within seconds of me, then the 67-year-old shortly after that. My average heartrate had been 183, with a max HR of 187, which says to me that I pushed too hard in the beginning, and my heart was playing catch-up for the rest of the race. I noticed that I was the only one in my immediate area that had a pool of sweat under my bike. Gross.

There was one girl still riding. She was nearly a mile behind me, and I was pretty close to last. People started taking their bikes off the trainers before she even finished. My heart really went out to her. In as bad shape as I was, and even though she couldn't see me, I stayed on my bike until she'd finished. Still, I was glad I wasn't her.

Once I stood up, the metallic taste in my mouth became overpowering. As one of the helpers expertly took my bike out of the trainer, I was sure I was going to boot all over him. I was surrounded by people and bikes and trainers, and I couldn't figure out how I was going to get out in time. Eventually, I was able to move back out into the warm-up area, and I dumped my bike against the first available wall and sat my ass down against a palette of beer. It didn't help that the place smelled like a bad hangover. I wanted to be ashamed that Dede Griesbauer, Karen Smyers, and Chick on a Pink Bike all walked by and conspicuously gave me a sideways glance before politely looking the other way, but I preferred this humiliation to the igmony (is that even a word?!) of being "the girl who puked 5 minutes later." Finally, Grace walked by looking even greener around the gills than I felt. "I need to go to the ladies room!" was the first thing she gasped to me. I think that it was an excuse for not talking to me more than it was a request for help, but I got up off the floor anyway and helped her put her bike back on a trainer before she ran off to the bathroom to hurl.

Now that I was somewhat recovered, disappointment really set in. I went over to my backpack and changed out of my bike jersey right there in the middle of the floor, not caring WHAT world-class professionals saw my gut. When I was decent again, a man in a skin suit came up and asked me how the course was. "Not bad, really," I offered. What did he want to know? It all depended on how hard you rode it, duh!

"How was the hill?"

"It was nothing," I mused. "I hardly noticed it." It's true. By the time the hill rolled around, I was suffering so bad that I wouldn't have noticed if you'd whacked me over the head with a 2x4.

"Not so bad if you're a climber!" Chick on a Pink Bike told him. Her tone showed no evidence of having heard me, or realizing that the question hadn't actually been addressed to her. In all the times that I've been standing right next to her, she has never once looked directly at me. "It sucked!" she offered, in her characteristic sardonic way. I couldn't imagine how she could tell the difference between the "hill" and "flat ground", since once you pick a gear, what your legs feel on a computrainer is pretty much the same.

By the time Grace came back down, I was already packed up. I went over to her bike to say goodbye. "You're dressed awfully quickly," she said.

"I don't want to go anywhere near my bike right now," I offered as explanation for not lining up with the superstars for cooldown. My mouth still tasted metallic, like blood, and I thought my lungs might never recover. I was now coughing constantly.

"You did great!" She was a saint for saying so. I shook my head in disgust. "You rode better than I did..." she said. I assume she meant relatively, since we rode almost exactly the same.

"Aw, you just did that to make me look good," I said. "I've been able to push bigger wattages than that for twice the time." She'd never seen me ride, I wanted her to know that I wasn't this bad! When I crossed the finish line, my average power had been only 198 watts. I was sure I could have pushed 215 if I'd been smart about it. I had finished in only about 19.1 mph, compared to Karen Smyers' 21.8 mph (I don't remember exactly what D.B.'s finishing time was).

After handing my beer chips to 2 guys standing at the bar, I went out to my car and loaded up my bike in a daze. I backed out of the spot and heard a sickening crunching noise. At first I thought it was my front wheel, but much to my relief, the wheel was in the back seat when I checked. It must be a soda can or something, I thought, and took my foot off the brake again. Again, a sickening crunch. That's way too big to be a soda can, I thought, and ever-so-cautiously pulled back in. I got out, and there, in a dozen pieces with the central pipe squished down flat, was the remains of my floor pump. It wasn't the world's greatest pump, but it worked and it was mine. I picked up the pieces of my mangled equipment, and hurled them into the passenger seat of my car, thinking about how the last time I priced pumps, they started at $50. It was the cherry on top for a truly shitty day.

The silver lining: I'm not so much of a Negative Nancy that the positives of the day are completely lost on me. Someone somewhere at some point must have decided that I was a strong enough rider to be placed in the elite division. Based on what evidence, I have no idea. But I was there and the race director did insist that it wasn't a mistake. Also, I'm sure it would be many people's dream to ride with such illustrious company, even if I was over a mile behind the leaders at the finish. I am not someone who willingly throws herself out of her comfort zone often (at least socially), so being forced into this position was (I'm sure) good for me.

Also, I know that I have a lot of room to improve. I was sick. I had hardly touched my bike all winter until 2 or 3 weeks ago. My pacing strategy was terrible, even for me who couldn't pace a sprint across an intersection prudently. I have just never tried to pace myself on a trainer before. Also, although I finished nearly last, I was within a minute of most of the riders (the ones whose names don't appear in the newspapers, anyway). Most of all, I know that humiliation is not something that I suffer lightly. You can bet that the next time I rock up to a race where my face might be put with my name, I'll come better prepared and won't let myself be left behind.

So there it is, my introduction into "elite" cycle racing, and its disappointing outcome. Let's hope that running over bike pumps doesn't mean 7 years bad luck or something.

Update: It was even worse than I thought. The results aren't divided by heat, so I'm spared the knowledge of knowing how I did relative to the other girls in my group, or even girls in general. But my numbers SUCKED. I rode a full minute slower than my oxygen-deprived brain remembered, and my average power was 16 watts less than I remembered, over 30 watts less than I hoped. I'm so angry at myself, I could spit. If I had only paced that race prudently, rather that using up all my juice right from the gun, and ridden how I KNOW I can ride, I think I could have ridden 2 minutes faster (based on the average power of girls whose names I recognize, and their relative size compared to me). I can't believe I was stupid enough to make such a rookie mistake. I hate this short stuff, but even more I hate myself for fucking it up so badly.

Dead Meat

Weeks ago an email was circulated among the bike shop groupies for an indoor time trial at the Harpoon brewery (they put us all on computrainers, plug in our weight, and then we all ride the same simulated course). It billed itself as just a fun way to stay in shape this winter. It was SUPPOSED to be fun! ...And I quote:

Right about now you are already thinking about how you should get on your trainer to keep in shape for the 2009 season. And we know you miss the adrenaline rush of racing...Can you imagine a better scene than racing among the tanks of your favorite brewery? We can't either.

Harmless, right? Well... other than the fact that I'd be in a brewery, and I'd have to pass up 2 beers from my favorite brewery at the end. So I sent in my $30 and signed up. NO SOONER had I sent in my entry form, when the thread from the bike shop groupies spit up the following response:

You all will need the 2 beers as anesthesia. This is the traditional Team Psycho TT that has been opened to us mortals. I have seen some of the participants revisit their breakfast. Not even being close to in shape I will forego participating but wish all those who do good luck.

Oh. Fuck.

For those of you who do not live in the area, Team Psycho is the local elite team. And we're not talking small-town elite. We're talking some world-class pro's. Team Psycho is also the team of Her Royal Highness Herself, CoaPB. Have I mentioned that I just came off a run block and haven't been riding? My total trainer volume is less than half what it was this time last year, despite having the flu for several weeks.

I was nervous, but had managed to all but put it out of my mind when Elite Bike Chick came in to Masters this morning and said, "Hey! I saw your name on the Time Trial list for this weekend." There's a list??? So I looked. I looked, and then I ran to the bathroom to break Claire's No. 1 Rule of Public Pooping: Don't, because what I saw there made me feel like I was going to shit my pants. Seriously. In my heat are:

Karen Smyers
Ironman world champion and recent inductee into the USAT Hall of Fame, capable of riding a race this distance at nearly 26 mph.

Dede Griesbauer
Pro triathlete, 10th in Kona this year, capable of riding this distance at roughly 25.5 mph.

Aforementioned Elite Bike Racer Chick from my Masters Team
Pro cyclist with international racing career, capable of riding such events at nearly 25 mph.

C*** on a P*** Bike
Elite triathlete, capable of ripping me to shreds, no matter how she rides.

Other riders
One capable of finishing this race at over 24 mph. For others no information is available.

And then there's me.
Capable of only holding a flimsy 22.5 mph for a flat-to-rolling 15K when in shape. Not in shape. Likely to make an ass of herself.

The worst part is that, on the road, you can't see how far you are behind everyone else until everyone's gone home, and all egos are spared. Here, though, we're just going to be on computrainers, sitting next to each other.

One by one, people are going to get off. First Karen Smyers, then Dede Griesbauer, then the other elite and pro road riders. And at the end, the only people who are going to be left on their bikes are going to be me, and if I'm lucky, CoaPB. I'm screwed.

Learn to ride a bike!

A gift to my devoted readers: A short post

Today there was a tall man in spin class. He was tall and big and heavy, and didn't know how to ride a bike. He was bouncing so hard on that seat that the seatpost was bending and bowing under his weight. I could see it bending from all the way across the room. Then, we had to add just another tiiiiiiiny turn to the right, and the guy's bike started bucking. That's right, the front end of the 100-lb bike started popping up off the floor from all the bouncing. And the instructor said nothing.

What. The. Fuck?!