Well you're ugly!

Sorry if the image sizes and placings are all fucked up, folks.  My browser's still all jacked up, and I can't do a lot of things like resize or replace photos.  Please bear with me!

Last year on Thanksgiving I decided that it was time to get serious and try to run hard.  I set myself the goal of breaking 45 minutes at the Salem Wild Turkey 5 Mile Road Race (follow the link to read the race report).  I pushed myself to a new level of suffering, and crossed the finish line in 44:33.  I narrowly missed getting puked all over in the finishing chute (my favorite part of that particular race report), and almost yacked myself. But in the end, all was well and good.  That I can remember, I haven't run another 5-mile race before or since, so I suppose that that race was a PR.  

This year my goals were similar: Run full-throttle, set a PR.  I hoped that this time I would average a pace a little more impressive than 8:55's, though.  I got to the start in downtown Salem early and found a parking spot right across the street, in front of a psychic's shop.  This place looked more like a bed and breakfast than a psychic's, but I guess if you're into the occult you do it up big in Salem.  

The gym was almost empty when I got in, and I walked right up to the table.  I'd already made eye contact with one of the volunteers when I was about 10 feet away, and she asked me my name.  I turned bright red.  I'd registered for the race as Blair Badass Mofo, and it had never occurred to me that I might have to say it out loud.  I walked the rest of the way up to the table so I wouldn't have to yell and let out a nervous laugh, "Ummmm, I used a fake name but now I'm too embarrassed to say it..."

"Well what was it?"

"I mumbled it as fast as I could.  blairbadassmofo..."

"Whaaaaa?" she asked.  "Can you speak up?"

"It starts with Badass," I said sheepishly.  She looked through the list.  "Bavas?" she asked.

"Maybe it's under my real name," I tried.  And then I spelled it for her, all 9 letters. Then I spelled it again, because people get confused when I spell my last name.  No idea why, it's spelled like it sounds.  My real name wasn't there either.  We checked over and over.  We checked similar spellings.  I simply wasn't on the list.  I knew I'd signed up because I'd been getting the emails and reminders from active.com, but I just wasn't there.  

Meanwhile another girl had come up next to me.  "What are the age groups?" she asked.  "I came here to win."  Who SAYS that?!  She didn't look fast, but I guess that means nothing. I tried to get a good look at her or hear her name so that I could check the results and see how she finished, but I was trying to figure out my own identity and all I saw was light blue eyes and that she was about a head taller than me.  "It used to be easy when I was in the 15-20 age group," she went on, "because almost no one showed up..."  There were over 1,000 people here.  If she was counting on winning by default, she was going to be sorely disappointed.  I hoped she was sorely disappointed.

The race director answered The Champion's questions about age groups and then came over to me. "We miss a couple every year," he said.  "Send me an email when you get home and I'll make sure you get a t-shirt.  All we have left are Mediums and Larges, though.  I take it you'll want a medium?"  A medium would come down to my knees.

"No problem," I said.

I made a new friend and chatted for about half an hour, went to the bathroom, chatted some more, went outside, tried to look like I knew what I was doing...  It was cold outside, just above freezing, so I trotted back and forth to keep warm and then went inside to check on the bathroom line again.  No.  Way.  I kind of had to pee, but holding it was better than missing the start.  (Y'all know what's coming, don't you?)

While I was waiting at the start, doing half-assed drills and trying to put on my invisible cap so that no one would talk to me, I saw a ruddy-looking woman decked out to the teeth in Red Socks gear yelling at a little boy on a bike, "Well if you're not running you're going to have to get out of the road!" She had the sanguine, wind-burnt looking complexion of a 60-year-old man who drinks too much. At first I thought it was the kid's mom, but as the kid slunk off it was clear that they were not together.  She was just a bitch.  I mean, the race wouldn't start for another 10 minutes or so.  No one had even lined up yet.  What was her beef?  I decided that SHE would be my nemesis for today.  

I tried to work my way to the front at the starting line, but it was hard to tell where the starting line was.  I mean, I knew where it was because I'd done this race before.  It was the crosswalk right in the MIDDLE of the crowd of people, but they didn't know where it was.  When they made people squish back I tried to stand still and let the river of people flow behind me, thus moving up, but eventually I got pushed back too.

We started and I did the usual jig to get around people.  As usual, I felt like I was going at a snail's pace and when I finally got a chance to check my pace I couldn't believe I was running in the mid-7's.  Well this won't last, I thought.  Once it opens up and I can run my own pace I'm sure I'll slow down.

So I ran, trying to focus on my rhythm: breathe, thunk, in, thunk, breathe, thunk, out, thunk...  I heard the staticky sound of people's headphones, the wheezy sound of people's breathing, and the thunk, thunk thunk of dozens of feet around me.  breathe, thunk, in, thunk, breathe, thunk, out, thunk.  I had my watch set to beep when I was going slower than 8:00 pace and faster than 7:30 pace and it was beeping constantly (I'm sure I annoyed several people around me, but not as much as the people with their headphones who wouldn't get out of the way).  I was sure that I was running slower than 8:00, but each time I looked down I was in the low 7's.  This was the fast pace alarm.  We were halfway through the second mile, and some people were already pulling off to the side to stop and catch their breath.  You know the types: the 13-year-old jackrabbit in oversized basketball shorts and a Red Sox t-shirt who thought he could sprint the whole thing, the 30-year-old jackass in basketball shorts that are a bit too small and a Patriots sweatshirt that thought he could sprint the whole thing...  That'll be me soon, I thought, but my breathing was still regular.  For feeling like hell, I was still feeling pretty good.

We ran in and out of Winter Island, which wasn't an island at all but a parking lot at the end of a tiny peninsula, and then we ran around The Willows, which was just a neighborhood.  Just like last year families had come out to cheer us on from their porches and driveways.  Several of them were morbidly obese and I thought about how for me this race was just a short run, while for them it might as well be a marathon.  Thank god for locals along the course, though.  To them, we were like elite competitors.  They couldn't have been more excited if the Olympics were being held in their own back yards.  This was my fastest mile.  Coming out of the Willows, a family was playing the theme from Chariots of Fire, and going past their house we were going slightly downhill.  I picked up my pace and smiled.  I was having a good time... RUNNING!  It was a Christmas... er... Thanksgiving miracle!

I was passing people more slowly now, but still passing people.  What?  Me?!  Passing people?!  I was passing the obnoxious 5th grader types, and the girl who was running with her dad and had never run a road race before.  These are the people who usually infuriate me when they pass me!  

Then the other shoe dropped.  

I came up alongside a guy I'd been trailing for the whole race and he said, "You're doing great.  How you feeling?"

"Like I'm going to poop my pants.  And you?"

"Not quite there yet..." he chuckled and pulled on ahead again.  I had the familiar sensation in my lower GI tract that my insides were rotting out.  I eased off the pace ever so slightly and started hanging with people for about 5 seconds before I passed them.  I did NOT want to blow up, not now.  Not here, just a mile from the finish.  

As I covered the last half mile I could tell that I was red-lining it.  If I tried to push the pace ever so slightly I could add nausea to my list of discomforts.  People started kicking, and I let them go, knowing that I was running as fast as I could.  If they were kicking now, then they hadn't run the last 4.75 miles as hard as I had.  About a block from the finish, though, a woman passed me... It was the bitch from the start: Number 1 Red Sox Fan!!!  Like hell you're passing me! I thought.  I still had a lot more speed in me, and I was going to use it, I was going to beat her, and then I was going to puke all over her at the finish.  I kicked it in and passed her ever so slightly.  She looked over and kicked back.  We were sprinting now, and there was a guy that was going to be in my way.  I could out-run her if I could just get around him...  I moved in closer to her to try to get around him, and she elbowed me in the ribs.  My choices were either to push her over, run smack into this guy's back, or ease off ever so slightly.  Bitch was tough, and I knew that if I pushed her she would certainly get violent, so I finished about an inch behind her.  She won by a nose.  If that guy hadn't been there, or if I'd had 10 more yards she would have been toast.  

Whatever, she's fat and ugly and I'm not.

They funneled us into the chute and from running all out, suddenly we had to stand still.  "Oh shit!" I said, and grabbed my knees.  I had the choice whether to puke on Number 1 Fan's Champions 2008 t-shirt or turn to the side.  Like I said, bitch looked violent.  But she had fat cheeks and looked like a tomato, so I was scared of her, but I scorned her too.  Had she been pretty I might have puked on her, but since she was ass ugly I decided that that was solace enough and I didn't need to vomit on her too. I turned to the side, got ready to hurl, and the feeling passed.  No barf this year either!  I win!

I checked my pace and time.  5.05 miles in 38:02, that's 7:32 minute/miles!!!  I was 7th out of 94 in my age group (7%), 42 of 521 women (8%), and 186th out of 995 overall (19%).    I've been working really hard on speed work all fall, and finally it seems to be paying off!  You all know I've been working hard, so Judi, if you say that you hate me I'll say something mean about you in my next post.

I wandered around the finish looking for water.  I realized that I had a pee stain again and took my sweatshirt off to tie it around my waist, but it was cold in just a short sleeved t-shirt so I got some water and went right back to the car.  Why do I always pee my fucking pants?! I wondered as I drove home.  I realized that I wouldn't have the decency to leave it out of my race report and realize that people think that I have some kind of bladder control issue.  Maybe I do.  Maybe I drink too much water.  While I was running, droplets were escaping because I was running hard.  I was running so hard (for me) that I had to relax my non-running muscles.  Has a fart ever escaped you in yoga class, or while you're doing a heavy lift in the weight room?  You just can't have ALL your muscles holding everything right all the time.  If you've never worked so hard that you've let a fart go, or an involuntary grunt, or maybe a little pee, then maybe you're just not working hard enough.

And with that, folks, I'll wish you all a happy Thanksgiving!

I need your help

Hey there, Waldo Watchers!

I have two ongoing projects that I like to talk a lot about, but never actually get around to DOING anything about it:

1. becoming rich by not working, and

2. moving to San Diego where they have no weather.

This week winter has set in in Boston, and the temperatures have barely gone above freezing in a week. This inspired me to make an uncharacteristic move on my two life aspirations: getting rich in San Diego (where there is no weather); I looked at job listings.

As smart, and witty, and charming, and irresistible as I am, I have practically no marketable skills. I speak Spanish, but that's hardly a commodity in a town that is a stone's throw from Mexico. I have a degree in Language Studies, a hybrid between Spanish (as we've mentioned, useless), and Linguistics (good luck finding a job that makes use of my ability to use the word "clitic" in a sentence without giggling). I am not good with people, I hate children, and I am a horrible salesperson. There were times when I worked customer service jobs when I actually paid part of someone's bill out of my own pocket because I knew they were being gypped. I have editorial experience and love my job, but moving to Southern California for publishing is like moving from Colorado to Florida for skiing.

So after scouring Monster.com, Careerbuilder.com, and Craigslist.com for jobs requiring my specific skill set (someone who hates working in anything that's not all about herself), I decided that my best option was to look for jobs as a writer. There were all kinds of cool listings: copywriter, ghostwriter, journalist, but the problem (other than the 3,000 miles that separates me from these jobs) is that one needs a writing portfolio to apply for such positions. So I'm working on putting together a writing portfolio.

And that's why I need your help. 

See, no one knows my writing as well as you do, dear readers. I am not stupid enough to include any of my blog posts, complete with spelling errors, mis-quotations, and f-bombs to anyone on whom I would like to make a good impression, but I would appreciate feedback on where my strengths and weaknesses lie.

I am aware that I go on for too long, and in pieces that matter I do work on curtailing this. I have a problem with run-on sentences, comma usage, and I am working on pruning my extraneous details and non-sequiturs. But what do YOU think? I would really appreciate any feedback that anyone has, good or bad. I can be a grown-up and accept criticism, but if you are uncomfortable telling me to my face, feel free to leave comments anonymously.

To jog your memory, here's a list of the posts from the past year and a half that were the most fun for me to write (in no particular order). Of the ones you have read, please tell me which ones you liked/didn't like (for writing, not content) and why, or feel free to bring up examples from other posts that I did not mention.

1. Showdown! – The Lobsterman race report where I edged out Anne to be the baddest assest of them all.

2. I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!!! – My meeting with the Cunt on a Pink Bike

3. Legend of the Gadfly – Loon Mountain Climb race report

4. A Race Report all about PEE – Patriot Half Ironman race report

5. Hairy Men, Girlie Men, but not a lot of Wo-men – Race report from the Hairy Man triathlon where all the "cool kids" were.

6. In the Mountains No One Can Hear You Scream – My ride in the Adirondacks where I decided never to do Ironman Lake Placid for as long as I live

7. Chillin' in Maine – Race Report from the Maine Running Company's Mid-Winter Classic where I met Mindy and Nitsirk for the first time, and introduced all y'all to Blair.

8. Bushwhacked! – My first encounter with Grandpa

9. At Least the T-shirt Fits – A race report from the tri-trials Barcelona sprint triathlon

10. Suicide Ride – My first ever century ride

11. A Letter to the People Who Share my Workout Spaces... – Gym pet peeves

12. An Epic Bike with the Dirty Old Men – Why I eventually left Spain

13. No Wetsuit, but I've Still Got On More Than You – My open water swim with the Soggy Homos, (to see the pictures that went along with it, read this one)

Again, thank you. I really do appreciate any feedback that anyone could give me.

~C

PS Has anyone else been having problems with gmail, blogger, and firefox in general since the new gmail themes came out?  I've been having problems with pretty much every aspect of my internet usage with pages not loading properly, etc.  Is it just me???

Fun stuff to come

You can tell by the way I walk...
First things first, I did my first set of running drills last night. Alone, hidden away in the dark in a place where no street lights reached, I did the "Funky Walk", some kinds of funny skips, and marched bringing first one knee high for a length, then the other, then both. I had one minor heart attack when I thought I saw someone stretching in the blackness, but it turned out to be just the sleds that football players use to practice tackling. (Not that that's a clue as to where the undisclosed location of my Speedy Laboratories is. Maybe I made that detail up to throw you off the scent.) I learned a few things as I hopped, marched and skipped:

• First: I do not have the coordination to be a prima ballerina. No surprise there.
• Second: Doing Silly Walks is hard work! My hip flexors were burning, I was out of breath after half-marching less than the length of a swimming pool, and I was even sweating a bit in the thirty-something degree weather.
• Third: Have I mentioned I will never be a prima ballerina?
• Fourth: I was more sore after 20 minutes of drills than I usually am after running an hour and a half of hard intervals.
  

After about 15 or 20 minutes of drills I went for a 3-mile easy run. I tried shifting my focus from one aspect of my running form to another throughout the run. I thought about keeping my hips under me (a chronic problem of mine), driving the knee up (something necessary if you plan on picking your legs up off the ground for sexy race photos), and cocking the foot on the recovery leg. I could tell my form was better because my foot turnover picked up, I spent less time on the ground, and I was striking the ground mid-foot rather than heel first. I tried to imagine how sexy I looked while running, which took a LOT of imagination when I was wearing 3 layers and a geeky head lamp. While I was sexy running I noticed that it took about 10 seconds per mile off my pace, but while my breathing (and probably heartrate) stayed the same, I felt like I was spending a lot more energy keeping myself in this sexy pose with my knees bent and abs tight. This had better help me get a 6-pack and a Tour de France ass by summer!

What's next?
As you may have noticed, I've curtailed my racing recently in order to save money to go to France in May. As a result, my weekends have been more boring, my blog posts have been shorter, and I haven't been taking advantage of the gas prices being lower than they have been since my first year of college. In order for me to show up, the event is going to have to be pretty damned special. Still, I have three events on my horizon before Disney.

1. The first is the Wild Turkey 5 Mile Road Race in Salem on Thanksgiving day. I did this race last year, and ran uncharacteristically hard. I want to see how my times this year will compare to last year. Also, they have a good t-shirt, and I need more long-sleeved tech tees.

2. The second race, held the Saturday after Thanksgiving, is slightly more exciting to the general public. I know everyone's told me to quit running 50K's if I want to get faster, but this one I just couldn't resist. First off, it's in the woods less than a mile from my house, and I know the trails relatively well. The terrain will be far, far more challenging than any trail race I've done so far, with lots of roots, rocks, slippery surfaces, and at least one spot where you have to jump off a 5-foot rock face. (To read a description of one of my runs on this trail with pictures, read here).

Knowing the trail, I would never consider signing up to run more than once around this 8ish-mile course, but it seemed pretty low-key, with the "ultra" option being "either" 24, 32, or 40 miles. Also, when I started poking around the web site, it was the funniest race web site I've ever read. I just had to sign up.

First of all, there's the course description:

1. basically you go 0.5 miles straight till you get on the white loop ( Skyline trail)

2. the single one place where you get on and off the white blaze loop will be VERY well marked

3. You do the loop in any direction you want ( 7 miles)

4. After every loop you MUST get back to the car ( another 0.5 miles)

c. "Complaints of getting lost will be laughed at"

"Complaints of getting lost will be laughed at." This is my kind of race, even though I DO have a penchant for getting lost.

And then there's the exclusivity of the event. The race is capped at 50 participants, and to keep extra people from showing up, this is their plan:
because we can not accommodate too many racers, start location will be disclosed the night before the race - that is why you need to be on the email list.

And then the rules:
Rules:

a. Runners MUST GO back to start area after every loop and write down your name and approximate time

b. honor system -- there are about 2 possible shortcuts -- people caught off the white Skyline trail ( on shortcuts) will be posted on this website ( in disgrace , of course :-) (Yes!!! I love this punishment, no DQ. Instead you will be put in the stocks of the web site for people to throw rotten fruit in your face and pinch your bottom! It makes me want to cheat just to be put on the web site in disgrace.)

c. Absolutely no dogs, we have no permits, we don't know who does not like dogs (Claire doesn't like dogs!!!), no dog medical history ... and so forth (Thank god, I have a dog phobia and HATE running into dogs on this trail. They're supposed to be on a leash, but no one pays attention and I always wind up getting scared shitless by a dog running at me with a nasty snarl, or having a whole parade of pooches chasing after me.)

d. warn hikers and bikers and other people well before you pass them ...

e. Runners MUST HAVE trail running shoes, NO road running shoes - trail will likely be wet and slippery

f. The point in and out of the loop will be very well marked

And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, I went to sign up and read the waiver:
RELEASE OF LIABILITY Also known as ASSUMPTION OF RISKS -- Trail running can cause or lead to injury, mental or emotional trauma, illness, paralysis, disability, death. -- Weather (usually cruel wet and cold), elevation, length, not paying attention and getting lost will make this a painful DNF for many ... many ... many MANY racers. -- You can break something -like a hand, a leg, both hands and/or legs, hip bones. -- You can break your neck or your spine and be paralyzed. -- You can fell [sic], get wounded and bleed to death. -- You can lose one or both eyes, become paralyzed or disabled. -- You can get dehydrated if you do not drink water and electrolyte drinks. -- Bad things can also happen when you train for this race, when you drive towards this race or after you leave the race. So you know that trail or mountain running is not safe. And you do this voluntarily and knowing all these risks. And you are physically fit and mentally fit and you trained properly for this race. And you know that because of the remote location the medical care will be very limited or non existent. You agree not to hold liable or sue 1. Bogie (Bogdan Dumitrescu) or any of the people or entities or companies that helped me and that are involved 2. in regard to all claims, liabilities or for any injury, damage, death or other loss. Also you are aware that if you drop out you have to have enough cash with you to be able to call a cab. Volunteers will happily give me a ride AFTER the aid stations are closed ( if this is the case). I HAVE CAREFULLY READ, UNDERSTAND AND VOLUNTARILY SIGN THIS DOCUMENT AND ACKNOWLEDGE THAT IT SHALL BE EFFECTIVE AND BINDING UPON ME, MY MINOR CHILDREN AND OTHER FAMILY MEMBERS, AND MY HEIRS, EXECUTORS, REPRESENTATIVES AND ESTATE.
3. And finally, the Santa Speedo Run in Boston in December. Need I say more?

Couples Counseling with Running

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm mad at Running. It's a slightly abusive and unfulfilling relationship. In short, I want it to just happen. I want to wake up one morning and just suddenly, magically be a good runner. From there I will be willing to work hard to become a great runner, but hard work is not exciting when you're working your ass off just to crack the top 50% of the field (slowpokes and fatasses included). I have decided that a 7-minute mile would be pretty fabulous, and a pace that I am more than willing to not work for. If I could run 7-minute miles all the time, I'd be pretty stoked and wouldn't mind run training. Then again, I would also be pretty stoked if I won the lottery, landed my dream job, or Dara Torres asked me out on a date.

I just find it WAY easier to sit there and grumble about being a crappy runner than actually going out and doing the work to BECOME a good runner. See, the problem with learning to be a better runner is that you've actually got to run to do it. This arrangement does not work for me.

However, like it or not, I am still committed to running for at least the next year, so I'm going to have to learn to live with it. So I have brought Running an olive branch. Running and I are going to counseling. Twice a week for the next four weeks (and beyond), I will be following a program to improve the efficiency and technique of my running.

Almost a month ago I purchased Striding On based on the glowing reports they gave it on my favoritest podcast, IM Talk. I figured that if Bevan, a 9-hour ironman, had taken the initiative to stick to this program and saw results from doing some drills off a DVD, then I could too. Ordering stuff from New Zealand turned out to be an adventure in and of itself, figuring out exchange rates, and attempting an international bank transfer before I went the Paypal rout. Then, 3 weeks later, when it showed up at the post office, they turned the package over and over trying to decipher which bar code they were supposed to scan before they let me sign for it. Then I realized that the southern hemisphere has a different standard of DVD's than the States (Europe does too, so I should have seen that one coming). Finally, I got it to work and watched the DVD tonight.

I enjoyed this form of training because it involved no actual running. I wish all training could be done in front of my computer.

So beginning next week, I will go to an undisclosed location alone, in the dark, where no sane people can see me, and I will begin breaking down my running motion with movements that look like I'm being zapped with electrical impulses in the bottom of my feet. I will perform drills with such names as "The Funky Walk," "The Butt Kiss Jog," and "The Fast Step-Over Jog" (which looks much sillier than it sounds). Sure, I may look like someone out of the Ministry of Silly Walks, but I hope that I will be rewarded with sexier race pictures, feet that actually leave the ground as I run, and of course, instant and effortless 7-minute miles.

Running and I are in a fight

I don't think things are going to work out between me and Running. My Running is so high maintenance. Other people don't have to work half as hard as I do, and are able to run as fast as I can. People who work as hard as I do are able to run much faster than I am.

My Running is selfish, it wants all of my time. Swimming is easy and unassuming. Swimming doesn't demand great time and commitment. I am not great at Swimming, but this does not ruin my race. Two to three dates with Swimming a week and I can hold on to the top 20%, extra time with swimming would not buy me a competitive edge. So swimming and I have a good relationship. Swimming doesn't ask too much of me, I do not ask too much of Swimming. Biking and I are in love. I want to elope with biking. Biking doesn't demand too much time from me, but we always want to be together anyway. Biking and I are intimate. Biking treats me well no matter how much time we've spent together. Biking and I go on romantic day trips to the country. But Running... running is a little bitch.

Running makes me feel bad about myself. Running makes me feel ugly and oafish and stupid. Running is a little slut, she gives it away to everyone but me. I work hard, and Running still would rather hang out with those other chicks in running skirts and make me jealous. I buy Running all kinds of gifts, and Running makes me sick to my stomach. Running beats me up so that I can barely walk and then demands that I give her some more.

I want to break up with running, but I don't know how. We've been together for so long now, we have so many plans... If I break up with Running now, we can't go to Mexico next year. Running and I already have tickets to go to Disney World, so we have to make it work until January. I have so many friends through Running, and if we broke up, Running would take the friends with her. Running is the partner that you can't get rid of, because Running is down for anything. Running doesn't demand a lot of money. It's easy to travel with Running. It doesn't need any special accommodations. So I can't think of a good reason to tell running to fuck off. Not for long anyway. I try to break up with Running, but I always come crawling back for one reason or another: time constraints, equipment problems, bad weather, nighttime workouts. Running is the only one that's down for these things.

So running and I are in a fight. We keep flinging insults at each other and giving each other dirty looks across the room.
"I hate you, Running!" I yell.
"You treat me like shit!" Running yells back. "You never say you love me!"
"Well I don't love you! How could anyone ever love someone like you?! You make me sick!"
"You never give me enough time! You're always looking for excuses not to be with me. Why should I treat you better?"
"I dread coming home to you, Running! All day I think about how much I hate you, and then I have to come home and be with you anyway. You bitch and you moan, but I spend 5 days a week with you, Running! You get more of my time than anyone! And, Running, I think you're cheating on me with Anne."

Am I retarded?

I know that a bunch of you folks are doing Ironman Cozumel.  Does anyone know how the Hawaii slots are distributed?  I know that there are 50 slots, but the actual slot distribution link seems to link to itself.  Does anyone know how many slots are in each age group (specifically the women's 25-29 age group)?  Are they only going to decide when they know how many people are in each age group?  What gives?

Sé que muchos de mis lectores son inscritos en Ironman Cozumel. ¿Alguien sabe cómo se distribuyen las plazas para Hawai? Sé que hay 50 plazas, pero el link a la distribución de plazas se enlace a sí mismo.  ¿Alguien me puede decir cuántas plazas hay en cada división (especificamente las mujeres de 25 a 29)?  ¿Es que están esperando para ver cuántos inscritos habrá en cada división?  ¿Qué pasa?

The Claire Went Over the Mountain, Part II

Okay, I've used this title before, but that was over a year ago, and it was on the old blog anyway. I think I'm so damned clever that I'll use it again. I reserve the right to use this title whenever I damned well please, so there.

Several weeks ago when Anne and I climbed Mt. Wachusett, I shot my mouth off about climbing the tallest mountain in Massachusetts. Then, some anonymous little birdie whispered in my ear that Mt. Greylock, with a vertical drop of nearly three times that of Mt. Wachusett was the tallest mountain in Massachusetts. As I normally do when someone points out an error of mine, I beat myself up more than was necessary (picture Chris Farley banging his forehead yelling "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!!!"), and bitterly promised myself that I would climb Mt. Greylock, sooner rather than later if possible.

Admittedly, deciding to climb a mountain in New England in mid-November wasn't one of my most shining displays of good sense. We have had a mild fall, but the day's high was projected to be only in the mid-40's, and what this fall has lacked in low temperatures, it's made up for in wind. But this was likely my last chance for an outdoor ride for the next four months. Never one to listen to the voice of reason, I planned one last century ride up Mt. Greylock and through the Berkshires and Catskills of Massachusetts and New York.

I packed everything the night before and woke up early to make sure I had plenty of daylight. I don't know why I thought that a drive that normally takes two and a half hours would only take an hour and a half, but that's how I budgeted my time for the morning. So even though I left ahead of schedule, I was still running nearly an hour late when I arrived in Pittsfield two (not one) and a half hours later. I was a bit apprehensive about the weather at first, but the first little hill warmed me up quickly and it was a beautiful day. It wasn't even all that windy, for once. All the pavement was smooth, and there was very little debris on the wide shoulders. Still, there was the occasional shattered beer bottle, and I spent the whole first 20 miles of the ride convinced that thousands of tiny shards of glass were working their way through my tires to give me a flat. I rubbed my glove against my tires, just like you're supposed to, but wouldn't it be just my luck to get a flat...? Does that ever happen to you guys? Where you spend an entire ride convinced your tire's about to blow at any second and you'll be stranded 3 hours from your nearest lifeline?


I found the road that goes up the mountain without much fanfare and started climbing... right away. You know those roads that look more like vertical walls? The ones you look at and you think, please, oh PLEASE don't be the road I have to turn on, please don't be this one!? Well Notch road was that road. It didn't waste any time in showing me what it had in mind for me, opening with a roughly 12% grade before settling into about 7 or 8% sprinkled with double digits at the curves to keep things interesting.

Before long the houses had bigger and bigger yards, and eventually they disappeared completely. I passed a trailhead, turned a corner, passed a parking lot, and saw a big chain across the road with a big, old orange barrel smack in the middle of it. A big, reflective sign said, "ROAD CLOSED."

Clearly, they didn't mean me.

Note: The AVERAGE grade is 6%, but there are several spots that linger well above that, and even reach grades of over 20% in places.

I ducked under the chain and hopped right back on my bike. The road surface was PERFECT, newly paved and glassy smooth. It was a little bit wet and slick from yesterday's rain, with some debris and branches in the road from recent storms, but all in all it was the cleanest road I've seen in a long time.

Fucking steep though.

The average grade for the 8.8 miles to the summit is 6%, but that means STEEP segments interspersed with milder spots for recovery and a relatively flat mile across a the crest to the summit. I can push some pretty big gears for a peanut my size, and there were times that I was in my easiest gear, climbing out of the saddle, and wondering if I was going to have the strength to keep turning the pedals. For the first time I wondered if I should get a triple chainring before I go to Europe. At one point I my breathing and heartrate got so out of control that I did have to stop and stand still for a minute before I could go on. But I rode every inch of those 2,776' up the mountain.

Despite the cold temperatures (it must have been in the mid-30's by the time I was getting close to the top), I was sweating bullets. My sweat smelled unfamiliar, like my asshole brother whose stench can knock you down 3 rooms away: something like organic hippie moisturizer or something. I kept snorting my own sweat droplets and felt like I had the ocean in the back of my throat. I wondered if the sweat in my ponytail would freeze. Isn't the back of your neck one of those places that you have to keep warm because it affects your perceived temperature throughout the whole body? The whole second half of the climb I kept thinking, Fuck the true summit, I don't need those last 300 feet! When I get up there I just need to get down as quickly as possible so I don't freeze to death.

But then suddenly I came out of the woods, and I was in the middle of the sky and I could see EVERYTHING. The Berkshires were below me off to one side, the Catskills off to the other, and all these little towns nestled in through the valley. It was the kind of view that is impossible to describe without sounding cheezy. You know, when you can see for so far that you can see the shadows of all the different clouds that have the diameters of whole mountains? I am not one to be taken in by scenery, but I was taken in by this view. So when I reached a crossroads where I could go up to the summit, or just continue back down out of the park, I rode the rest of the way to the top. It turned out to be the mellowest slope on the mountain.

As I was climbing the last chunk to the top, I thought about how sad it was that I didn't know anyone else who would have been able to make this climb with me. They had no idea what they were missing. The ones who might be physically strong enough don't have the time to make such silly trips. I kept thinking about how great I was and went back and forth between feeling smug and feeling sad. It sure is lonely at the top.

Then there was nowhere to go but down, down, down. I rode slowly not because of the slick roads, or because of the sharp, hairpin turns, but because it was fucking COLD and I wanted to cut down on the wind as much as possible. Gone was the pompous satisfaction in knowing that I and I alone was badass enough to do this ride. All I could think about was whether my lips were blue or not. Ten miles and about 20 minutes later I reached the road block on the other side of the park. I had to walk my bike around the metal gate, and I was shivering so badly I had trouble walking at all. On the other side was a Visitors' Center, and there must be a God, because not only was it open, but there was a fireplace inside.

"How many of you guys are up on that road?" the ranger asked when I got in.
"I only saw one other nut case up there," I said, shivering violently.
"Road's closed. You're not supposed to be up there, but my boss hasn't seemed too upset about it so far," he said. This ranger gig was clearly how this man was spending his retirement. He was probably around 200 years old, and what coffee-colored teeth he had left were falling all over each other trying to fill the gaps that the missing ones had left. His official jacket had what looked like an ancient soup stain down the front, and he was wearing gators over his boots despite a clear lack of snow or calf-deep mud anywhere in the visitor's center. "You'd better get next to the fire," he told me.

So I rotisseried myself in front of the fire for about 20 minutes until the shivering subsided and from time to time he came over and talked to me. "You doing a loop 'round the park?" he asked.
"Sort of," I said. I pulled out my directions and read the major roads I'd be following.
"You going all the way over towards Troy?" (New York) he asked. "You know, there's an honest-to-goodness mountain range between here and there..."
"I know," I said. I'd seen the elevation profile, and had specifically planned to go off in that direction to get a little more climbing in. Now that I was out here, though, it wasn't the climbing I was afraid of, it was the descending. I wouldn't be climbing anything half as tall as what I'd just gone over, and I still had four and a half hours to do the next 60 miles before it got dark.
Despite running a hilly 17 miles yesterday, my bike and I felt great and I was mentally ready for an all-day ride. I was just so damned cold! As I walked out the door, not quite finished shivering he called after me, "You'd better cut your ride short!"

It was the last straw. I've mentioned before how the naysayers can shake my confidence and make me convinced that suddenly I can't do something that every experience in my life has told me I can. As I rode the last couple of miles down the hill to the highway I started shivering so violently that I was afraid I was going to start jerking around my handlebars. I knew I was only about 10 miles from the car, so rather than turning off towards New York, I just rode back. Of course within about 5 minutes of pedaling on flat ground I was more than warm enough and feeling like a million bucks.

As I drove back home, I was furious at myself, furious at the sunny sky, and furious that there were clearly hours and hours and hours of daylight left. I was even more furious when I looked at my thermometer and saw that it was nearly 60º outside. What a fucking loser! I know that I'm a strong cyclist, but for some reason I forget. Sometimes I convince myself that I'll never, ever be able to do things that I've done dozens of times, just like riding 100 miles today. I was really, really in need of a good ride to bolster my confidence. As you might have noticed, I've been a bit glum lately, and it's seeping into everything. I've kept up my bike volume this fall, but for some reason I don't believe I will ever be able to reach the level I was at this summer. I know it makes no sense, but I'm convinced I'm going to wake up a 15-mph rider next year and that my running and swimming are going to fall apart at a similar rate. I just really, really, really needed a good ride to feel strong again. I was feeling good today, but all the confidence I built going up the mountain had evaporated by the time I got back down.

You fucking loser, I kept telling myself on the ride home. You fucking slack off at EVERYTHING! This is one of the reasons that long drives can be a bad thing. I think too much. No wonder you suck so bad, I was convinced now that I had crossed the threshold now from being paranoid about sucking to ACTUALLY sucking, you always take the easy way out! Don't feel like doing a run? You just don't do it, you loser. Everyone ELSE is out there working their little tails off, and you're just sitting on your ass eating macaroni & cheese until doing a workout suits you. I knew that I'm in my offseason, and there was no reason to be beating myself up for going home after only 47 miles, but I was anyway. What are you even DOING going for a long ride today? It's not your biking that's the fucking problem. It's your running. Has it even occurred to you that you have a MARATHON in 2 months, and that you're supposed to be trying to qualify for Boston in 3? Don't you think you should be spending your energy actually RUNNING rather than climbing up fucking mountains in the dead of winter?! Didn't that idea fucking OCCUR to you?! My inner voice can really be a douchebag sometimes. But he's right (my inner voice is a man). If I'm so scared of sucking when the snow has melted and I'm finally set free again, maybe I should be taking this time to work on the things that I REALLY suck at, rather than wasting all my energy doing the fun stuff.

I know, I know. Lighten up.