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?!

Hubris

I am perfect.

Well, no, I'm not perfect. I'm far from perfect, and I know it. I could rattle off a list 4 hours long of my faults and shortcomings.

But still, I don't want to hear from anybody else that I'm not perfect.

I also know everything.

Okay, I know that's not true either. I'm pretty ignorant about a lot of things including math, science, politics, the names of famous actresses and what movies they're in, and most things that matter.

But God help you if you try and give me a tip, a pointer, or advice that I did not ask for.

I am always right.

I have very strong opinions about the things that interest me, although those opinions evolve. If I'm going to change my opinion later then my opinions, too, must be wrong. At least sometimes.

But if you disagree with me, you are most certainly wrong.

In reality, my ego isn't nearly as big as it seems. Most of the time I'm lampooning myself when I say (write) opinionated, arrogant, and even overzealous things. And the joke's on me. Sometimes I write like an asshole just to remind myself not to be an asshole. BUT, I have to admit that I have a big, fat ego when it comes to two things: my bicycle, and my endurance.

Look out, cycling world. Here comes Speed Racer!

I recognize that there are many, many people who are fast and can outlast me on my best day. I choose not to compare myself to those people, it makes me feel better to pretend that they don't exist (Karen Smyers who???). But when I rolled into Schuylerville, NY last year and rode 200 miles in 12 hours, without ever having ridden more than 115 miles in my life, I was pretty convinced that I was God. I had set a goal, achieved it, and now I felt like the ultimate after-school special; a living, breathing example that you can do anything you set your mind to (I do not, in fact, agree with this statement, but that's not the point). I had made cycling my bitch.

Since I've decided to close the book on running and set my gaze forward to the cycling season, it's taken a Herculean effort to keep my ego in check as I plan my goals for the upcoming season. I have forced myself, albeit begrudgingly, to ask others for advice. But here's the problem:

People are not giving my awe-inspiring superpowers the respect that they deserve!

The first blow came when I finally (after over a year) got up the nerve to write an email to an elite female cyclist who sometimes swims with my Masters group. I tried to hint at the fact that I already knew everything, but if there was someone who might know about a magic switch I could flip to become a cycling sensation overnight (or maybe just manage to get out of Category 4 – the beginners' category – by the end of this season without making an ass of myself), it was her.

And then she didn't write back... for a week.

I was furious. I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!!! She was going to rue the day that she ignored the likes of me. It wasn't until I had stalked her every measurable result on the internet, had a half-formed profile of her entire cycling career (strengths and weaknesses), and had planned her bloody demise (or at least to pee on her in the shower), that she responded to me. It turns out being a wife, mother, and human being takes priority over my planned hostile take-over of the cycling world. Her response was generous, helpful, and insightful. I am going to hell.

But still, it was clear from her response that she was not, in fact, quaking in her cycling shoes at the prospect of me tearing her legs off. In fact, her advice was the perfect advice for someone new to formal cycle racing, but not cycling. Her response was aimed at someone just like me, only without the colossal one-in-a-hundred-billion raw talent that my ego tells me I possess. I was still intent on proving her wrong. By the end of the season, I at least wanted her respect, even if I no longer wanted to see her kneeling in a gutter begging for mercy.

The next blow was slightly more subtle. Out of nothing more than boredom and frustration, I agreed to go back to Saratoga Springs, NY to do a century with John from Adirondack Ultracycling (the race organizer of the Saratoga 12/24 that I did last year, as well as the Adirondack 540 RAAM qualifier that I plan to do this year). Much to my relief, after a snow storm John decided to make the ride a 6-hour trainer ride, so I drove three and a half hours each way just to ride in someone else's living room. It was worth it just to pick his brain for 6 hours. I decided to keep the magnitude of my goals to myself, and pretend to be someone not yet blessed with amazing superpowers of strength and endurance to keep John talking more. In the course of my "playing dumb and just listening," I learned a lot from John about how ultracycling works and what to expect on the brevets that I plan on doing this summer. And then the conversation turned to the 24-hour race. "There are 3 women that are planning on turning up this year who are very good."

I gave John a long, stern look. "What do you mean by very good?!" The implication, of course, was that I am still green, and should not expect to win as easily as I did last year... or even win at all.

"I think that any one of them might be able to ride 350 miles."

Three hundred and fifty miles?! I thought. I'm expecting to break 400, and training to crack 440!

"Remember," he went on. "You slow down a lot after dark."

I have never ridden after dark. Not me! I thought. Only ordinary mortals slow down as time goes on. I am going to be the first person ever to never get tired! Because I have a secret weapon: TRAINING! Those women won't know what hit them!

Later, as I was leaving the house, the subject of the ADK 540 RAAM qualifier came up. "You should come do it. The one-lap record is only 11 hours (for 135 miles). You could beat that easily," John said.

"What are the 3- and 4-loop records?" his wife asked.

"Forty and a half hours for three, and forty-nine and a half for the RAAM qualifier," John spouted off.

"Well I'll be there," I said. "I can't say I'll be riding all 4 laps, but I'll be there." What was I talking about??? I had every intention of riding every inch of that course. Not because I'm in any hurry to qualify for RAAM, but because I don't want to leave anything half-done. But then again, if I opened my big, fat mouth (luckily, not as big and fat as my ego), then I ran the risk of failing in front of witnesses later. Better to keep my mouth shut.

Ever since she popped up and then disappeared on my blog this fall, Fellow Chick Biker has been the voice sitting in the back of my head.

"yeah, yeah, you are so talented, blah. enter a real road race and we'll see if you can hang."

The scariest part of setting expectations of myself is that I might not live up to them. Worse, the scariest part about sharing my goals to others is that their expectations of me are raised. If I don't tell anyone that I plan to do well, then no one will notice if I suck. Rationally, I know that I'm not the greatest thing to happen to cycling since Lance Armstrong. Rationally, I also know that I do have some talent to work with (not a ton, but enough). What people seem to forget is that when I rode that 12-hour race, I'd only ridden about 5 centuries in my life, and had never ridden more than 115 miles at one time. I remember lying there with my sore feet in the air for half an hour and groaning that I couldn't eat anything in this 95º heat and 90% humidity (I probably consumed less than 1000 calories in those 12 hours).

How much faster can I ride if I actually focus on my cycling all season? How much farther can I go if I have a crew to hand me up cold (non-curdling) drinks and food that isn't melted all over my bento box? How much fatigue will I be able to ward off if I have several night-time training rides, and rides of over 200 consecutive miles? How much better of a rider will I be if I actually TRAIN on my bike? How much longer will I be able to stay in my aero bars if race day isn't the first day I've ever used them?

My training on the bike has never been very organized. Last season when Mary asked me how to get faster on the bike I think I said, "Just be too cocky to let yourself get dropped. It worked for me." Mindy remembers me telling her that my only strategy was that, "I love riding my bike, so I ride a lot." This year I am being much more methodical about my training, and I'll be riding a lot more. That's got to count for something, right?!

But my goals are not quite as scientific as my training. They are based on the assumption that I'm too cool to get tired, and I'm too cool to slow down. I know that if I can just keep my mouth shut, I can surpass everyone else's expectations, if not my own. But the problem is, that every time someone underestimates me, it undercuts my self-confidence. How does one find balance between the two? If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn't have such an abrupt end to this post.

Note: Be sure to vote on my poll at the right. I'll leave it up next to my "Bucket List" for the rest of the year, and we can see on January 1, 2010 whether opening my big, fat mouth about my dreams was a mistake. You may select multiple answers.

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Side note: I finally got to take out my fixed gear for the first time today!!! The big joke all the fixie geeks I know love to tell me is, "DON'T STOP PEDALING!" Man, they're not kidding! I kept forgetting that I couldn't coast around corners, over speed bumps, through puddles, and down hills. I only remembered to KEEP PEDALING when my pedals tried to pitch me over my handlebars. In the half hour or so I managed to squeeze in after coming home from Maine (another post on that coming soon), I managed to master slowing down, turning, small hills, and gradual descents all without stopping pedaling. The problem came when I got home. I started slowing down at the beginning of the block, continued to slow down as I passed my house, and was still going slower and slower when I reached the end of the block. Thank goodness I insisted that The Hott Bike Mechanic put an "Oh shit brake" on the bike, or I might still be out there right now, still pedaling and trying to figure out how to stop. It was so fun! I can't wait till it warms up so I can start using it for my commute!

Derry: Freezer Burnout

Note: More pictures coming soon, once Big Red sends them to me. My camera was out of batteries.

The joke with the Boston Prep 16 Miler (or "Derry" as everyone calls it) is that with its dozens of hills and notoriously bad weather, it's "Moderately challenging". Hahaha, get it?? Moderately challenging? It's funny because it's not true. It is a notoriously tough course, often compared in geeky Boston running circles to Stu's 30K, which was possibly the most challenging road race I've ever done.

Here are the reasons I planned to be in Derry, NH this morning, only 2 weeks after my 39.3-miles of racing in Disney World:

1. I was supposed to run it last year, but I was laid up with a vicious case of the flu and a fever of 104º. I had unfinished business with this course.
2. I had planned on running it with Michelle, my "running coach". Also, Gadfly Thom had been pushing this race on me pretty hard for over a year, and Mary and Melissa were going to be there as well.
3. I'm still signed up for the Hyannis Marathon at the end of February. If I'm going to try to qualify for Boston, I was going to have to get back into running pretty quickly.

Here are the reasons I was NOT happy to be in Derry this morning:

1. I had only run twice since Florida, and was not at all in the mood to be slogging through 16 tough miles.
2. Michelle was laid up with the flu, and Melissa's back injury meant she wouldn't be running either.
3. It was zero degrees in Derry when I woke up in the morning, it would still be in single digits when we started, and only reach the teens while we were running. I haven't run outside in the cold since November. I also haven't trained on hills since... I last ran outside!
   

Big Red took over Michelle's number, so at least I had company on the ride up to Derry, with the added bonus that Big Red's car had heated seats. We stopped by Starbucks, and by the time we pulled in to the race parking lot I was so buzzed that my hands were shaking and I was talking a mile a minute. Coffee's pretty much the only buzz I get anymore, so I was living it up (goodness knows I've never experienced the "runner's high"). We spotted Mary (who expressed mild concern about my "excitement level" and trembling hands) right away, and after nearly knocking her over with a bear hug, I got to meet some of the members of her running club.

"And this is María," Mary said. "She reads your blog sometimes." I froze (except for the mild vibrations in my limbs from the coffee). I'm always nervous meeting people who read my blog. My first thought is, This person knows I pee my pants. My second thought is, This person must think I'm an asshole!!! (I've been told that I'm different in person from my blog persona, thank god.) But when María didn't call me an arrogant jerk, or kick me in the shins, I settled down a bit. I tried to get used to the idea that every single one of these people would be faster than me so that I wouldn't be disappointed later.

I spotted Gadfly Thom, and after he told me more than I wanted to know about the hills, I said, "I'm going to kill you for getting me into this." I'd told him this before, and meant it.

"I've never met a triathlete that hates running," he said. He doesn't believe me, I guess.

"Well you know me!" I said. "But I'm not a triathlete. Don't call me that. I'm just someone who does triathlons sometimes."

Mary went for one last bathroom run, and Big Red and I decided to skip the line and just head to the starting line. That was a big mistake. I would wind up feeling pretty uncomfortable for the first few miles until my body began to "reabsorb." We tried to look for a big bush or tree or something on the way to the start, but with waist-deep snow on either side of the road, popping a squat was out of the question. So we held it.

Standing around at the starting line was miserably cold, but once we started running, many people complained about being overdressed. Mary was off like a shot, darting through the crowd before we had even crossed the starting line, and Big Red had given me strict instructions not to run with her because she didn't want to get too competitive and wind up running too hard and injuring herself. If she threw caution to the wind and ran the whole course, 16 miles would be the longest she'd ever run. If not, I was supposed to hop in the car at the finish and drive the course backwards looking for her. So I had resigned myself to running alone when a tiny creature with every inch of skin covered came up next to me. "Hi Claire, it's María!" Thank goodness! Company! I hung with María for a precious few minutes before she sprung on ahead, leaving me with a man that I nicknamed "The Porn Star".

"The Porn Star" (I never did find out his real name) was a 65-year-old man with a big, bushy mustache, who grunted, groaned, sighed, and moaned as he ran. Despite sounding like he was either in ecstasy or agony every 30 seconds, The Porn Star was a very nice man, running at roughly my pace, and an easy talker, so I buddied up with him right away. I really needed someone to distract me from what I was doing, since I'd started to count down the miles before we even hit the first mile marker.

While I was running easily with The Porn Star, Big Red swooped right past me on a downhill. This summer that would have made me furious, but I couldn't have made myself care if I tried today. Red has made such freakish progress this year, and has been so kind and helpful to me outside of training that all I could do was wish her the best. I knew she was going to finish this race today, and that probably her performance was going to be stellar. Also, running hard in this bitter cold and up these hills sounded like hell. I let her go and continued talking about running with The Porn Star until my shoe came untied around mile 3 and I had to let Big Red and The Porn Star put about a minute into me.

Before you make any assumptions about miles 10-13, read on... and remember the elevation profile!

I ran alone for several more miles, and was astounded to find that once my shoe was tied, I was actually passing people. Like people who run. It was slow going, but eventually I picked people off until I was back where I started. I found my way back to Big Red, and passed her at the top of a long hill near the 5-mile mark. Soon after, I found The Porn Star again, and we picked up our conversation right where we left off. He had run a 2:45 marathon back in his day, and it was flattering to hear that I was "looking strong" from someone like that. He asked about a few of my times at different distances, and I explained that in the past year – and especially the past 4 months – I had been really focusing on improving my running. "I've been amazed at the improvement I've been able to make," I said. "I'm still setting PR's at every race, even the bad ones. I used to think that I just had no talent for the sport. I still think I have no talent, but now I see that other people are just willing to work a lot harder at it than I am."

"Well I think you'll continue to make more and more progress," The Porn Star said. "If you've only been running competitively for a couple of years, you still have so much more room to grow."

"I don't think so," I said. "I'm quitting." He laughed at that one. I love it when I find a stranger I'm able to talk honestly with, who takes what I say at face value. (If you haven't figured it out, I'm boring you with our conversation about it, because it's just a way to tell you guys my current thoughts about running. There will be a big decision at the end. See there is a point to my rambling posts!) "I couldn't let myself quit running if I'd never really tried at it," I said. "Now I have, I've seen improvement, and I still don't like it."

"Five marathons is a lot to run for someone who doesn't like to run," he pointed out.

"Marathons used to scare me," I said. "So I just ran them until I felt like I could run one without really stressing out about it. Now I'm not scared of marathons anymore, but I still don't like running them. And anyway, running doesn't agree with my body..."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I can't remember the last race I finished where I didn't feel like I was going to puke at the end. If it's not one end, it's the other... or both. I think it's time to explore things that I find more enjoyable." Do you ever have those moments where you're explaining something to someone, and then suddenly all the pieces fall into place in your head, and suddenly you understand a big question you've been struggling with for a long time? That's often why I write, and that's exactly what happened while I was talking with The Porn Star this morning. I had no reason to run anymore! The problem was, my epiphany came about 7 miles too soon.


Gadfly Thom had warned me that the most brutal hills in Derry were between miles 9 and 12. No one had talked about anything else all morning. We passed the 9-mile marker, and then the road threw itself skyward. I told The Porn Star that this was probably where he was going to drop me, but to my surprise when the grade went above 10% (even getting as high as 20% for a long moment), he was the one who dropped back, never to be seen again. I had been feeling good on the rolling hills up until this point, but as much as I know I should, I never train on hills and I could really feel it. There was a miserable never-ending hill from miles 10.5 to 12 that chewed me up and spit me out. I tried to run a very slow pace so that I wouldn't have to walk, but the hill was mightier than my anaerobic threshold, and there were chunks that I simply had to walk or I would have collapsed gasping into a snow bank.

When the hills were through with me, I was toast. I had brought Starburst as my nutrition for the day, but I found the wrappers hard to peel off with my freezing fingers, then the candies were frozen solid, and there simply wasn't a section on the course flat enough to take the time to unwrap them. I hadn't started eating until about mile 10, and in the cold, my Accelerade hadn't been too appetizing either. Now my glutes and hamstrings were giving out in a way that I hadn't felt since last spring (Angry, I don't want to hear ANY comments about deadlifts, because you know I do them more often than I want to already).

I was surprised that I hit the 13.1-mile mark in less than 2 hours. My god, a year ago I ran a half marathon in a slower time than this on a flat course, and it was my PR! I thought. It didn't do much for the fact that I felt like hell though. I kept looking for an uphill that I could use for an excuse to walk, but it was just my luck that suddenly the hills had gone away. I hit my accelerade hard, but it was too little too late. It was beginning to freeze in the bottle anyway. Come on, Claire. It's just 2 more miles. You have hurt way more than this, and kept running longer and harder before. Instead, all I could think about was the aging effects of extremely cold temperatures on the skin, wondering whether your spit could freeze in your mouth, and how I couldn't get my head around running another marathon in weather like this. My head was swimming and my muscles were sore, but this wasn't the worst I had ever felt in my life. What was wrong with me? I knew I could hold it together for the rest of the race without eating... I only had a mile and a half to go... I just couldn't make myself do it. And then one of those kooky phrases that pops into your head when you're delirious from fatigue dawned on me. This must be what old ice cream feels like when it's been sitting in the back of the freezer for months, I thought. I think I have freezer burn.

Right before the 15-mile mark I stopped to walk and unwrap a couple more Starburst. I worked those candies for the next half a mile before I was able to swallow them, and just as I was cleaning the last of the sticky goo off my molars I heard a familiar voice behind me: "You were supposed to come get me with the car!"

Big Red! We were less than half a mile from the end, and the thought flickered through my mind for a second to try and keep up with her, but I just couldn't deal with the idea. "My ass hurts like hell and I think I'm bonking," I told her.

"Sub-9's or bust, baby!" Big Red called over her shoulder as she ran away.

"Yeah, you have fun with that!" I called after her. That's just how she rolls. She pulls these amazing feats of strength out of her ass and stymies those of us that have to actually work for it. That's okay, I was winding down from my marathon season and she was gearing up for her first. I didn't mind passing on the torch. I managed to stay about 25 to 50 yards behind Big Red for the rest of the race, but made no special effort to keep up with her. Running up the final incline into the parking lot there was a photographer. I held up my hand in front of my face and yelled, "No pictures! No pictures!" Of course he took 2 just to mess with me.

I crossed the finish line in about 2:22:10 about a minute behind Big Red, and for the first time in a long time I didn't think I was going to puke. I was in rougher shape than she was, though. Her only complaint after her longest run ever, was that the balls of her feet hurt. After my first 16 mile run I don't think I got out of bed for 3 days! On the way back to the school, Big Red said to me, "You know, you looked really good when you passed me. You've really got the lean thing down."

"What 'lean thing?'"

"Pose, or Chi, or whatever it is." Really?! I had only done the Silly Walks (not Chi or Pose, Striding On!, but whatever) for about 3 weeks before snow had covered the track where I did my drills. The rest had just been a lot of speed work which seems to iron out wrinkles in your running form.

My turn for ugly hair. I think my face was puffy from the cold.

Inside we caught up with Mary, who'd had some Claire-like stomach problems and had still kicked my butt by about 15 minutes. María looked happy with her 2:12 finish. I was just happy to get some pizza. Too happy, I guess, because a volunteer yelled at me for trying to take more than one piece. I would find out later that I came in something like 46th out of 49 in my age group, running roughly 9:00 miles on an extremely hilly course. I hate running in Boston, running here is so competitive! (Side note: As we were pulling out of the parking lot, Anne and I saw Grandpa coming in to the finish line. We'd been finished for at least 45 minutes. "Red," I said. "A little over a year ago that guy beat me in a race. Can you believe that?!" You've come a long way, baby, I thought.)

As I shoved my second piece of pizza in my mouth (I did manage to scam one more piece), I told Mary, "I don't think I can do Hyannis. I'm too burnt out."

"You say that now, but I know you. You'll complain the whole way, but you'll be on the starting line." I honestly hoped she was wrong. The idea of even continuing to run through the rest of the winter just made me want to crawl into a hole and die, let alone trying to pull the race of my life out of my ass on a cold day. There will be another chance in the fall to fulfil my New Year's Resolution and try to pull out a Boston qualification before 2009 is out. Hopefully I'll be fresher by then. In the meantime, I'm ready to throw in the towel. I've already got a lot of really exciting bike stuff ramping up, that has me really fired up. Running has me burnt out rather than fired up.

I'm facing off with CoaPB again soon. I've got a fixed gear that I can't wait to ride. I'm spending a lot of time with a hott new bike mechanic and track bike geek who has promised to take me to a track to give it a try. I've just got my Randonneurs USA literature and am fleshing out my summer training plan. It's time to turn the page and move on to the next adventure. I'm satisfied enough with what I've done so far. For now anyway...