Careers

I found a job. Sort of.

A few of you know that in college I worked at a gym and eventually got my personal training certification. The problem was that after working in a gym for a year, giving introductory workouts to new members, I didn't want to use my personal training certification when I finally got it. I realized that so much of personal training was people with more money than me paying gym rats like me to work out for them. Anyway, the program I went through (ACE, because the study materials were in my gym's staff library) was more about covering your ass legally than it was about training people. Furthermore, it was a job that involved touching fat people. So I let my personal training certification expire and moved on with my life moving onto a couple of other low-paying, unrelated, and ultimately doomed career paths.

That was in 2005-2006. Flash forward five years, and here I am living off unemployment for eight months. The only calls back I seem to get are from companies who are interested in my athletic knowledge, not the jobs I apply for that would use my fluent Spanish, editing experience, or writing skills. I begin to pass myself off as a "fitness expert," even though secretly in my head this makes me snicker. I feel like more of a fitness iconoclast than an "expert." Imagine, me-- someone who does things differently than how they tell you to do it, just because I can't stand being told what to do--offering advice on how to train. It's a farce!, Finally, after revising my resume until it is so threadbare that I can't even see my errors anymore I walked into the Y where I'm a member and filled out an application. Within two days I had two callbacks, one even came from a club that was under a hiring freeze. I guess this is a good sign.

But to get started I have to renew everything. I'll be working on getting my CPR certification, Spinning Instructor certification, and American College of Sports Medicine Personal Training certification. In the meantime I'm working a few shifts as a "floor instructor" (you know, the person who Windexes the Nautalus machines and teaches old people how to do low back extensions). Floor instructors are the serfs of the gym kingdom. My pride is bruised.

On the path to the $50K/year that the Internet promises me I could be earning as a personal trainer, I got my Spin certification on Saturday. That was... interesting. I was shocked at how little most of those people (including the instructor) knew about exercise physiology, and thus how easy the certification was. The test was like 50 true/false questions, and since you took it online, it was open book. All the questions were taken verbatim from the manual. But back to the course...

The instructor told us that we would want to do most of our training sessions in the "fat burning zone." The "fat burning zone" is probably the biggest bullshit myth in fitness, up there with the "spot training theory." I was shocked!
Then she asked us if we knew in what order the human body used its fuel sources. "Glucose, creatine..." a girl with a masters in exercise physiology started to say.
"Whooooooa, you're getting way too specific!" the instructor said. Then she gave us the right answer: "First the body uses carbohydrate, then fat, then it starts to cannibalize itself for protein." Ummm... not exactly. Seventeen heads bobbed in agreement and the girl with the masters in exercise physiology and I shook our heads in disbelief.

Later, talking about music she asked, "What music might you guys use?"
"Bon Jovi!" said the exercise physiology girl. She was from New Jersey.
"Okay, maybe some Bon Jovi, but not the whole CD."
"Why not?" asked the exercise physiology girl. She was really from New Jersey. She said "wooter" rather than "water" and obviously had a thing for big hair.
"I like Yani," said the instructor.

Another thing that made me cross were the commandments of Spinning:

1. Thou shalt not instruct "enthusiasts" to ride at a cadence faster than 110 rpm. While I would never suggest keeping up such a cadence in a race situation, there are definitely advantages to practicing some high-cadence pedaling. I take issues with many stupid Spinning exercises, but this is not one of them.
   
2. Thou shalt not allow "enthusiasts" to hold the handlebars in any position other than the accepted hand positions set forth by Johnny (the Creator). No aero bar position, no "hands on the hoods" position. If training is all about specificity, then why shouldn't people ride in the position that best mimics their outside riding position? I swear you could adjust those bikes to mimic a TT position. The bikes adjust in all the same places...
   
3. Thou shalt not take thy hands from the handlebars except to grab a drink or adjust the music. Psh! If I can take both hands off the handlebars on the road, I can most certainly do so in class. How stupid do they think that the people who participate in Spinning classes are?! Look, mom! No hands!
   

There's a reason that I decided to get back into the gym... and no, it's not the possibility raking in a whopping $50K a year. At the gym I worked at in California, all the trainers gave their clients lists of three sets of twelve. It was basically the same format as we serfs were giving, but with slightly more advanced exercises. At the gym I went to in Spain, the aerobics instructors were excellent, but the trainers all gave their sessions in a whisper. The trainers looked more like they were going to lean over and plant a big, fat kiss on gramps' lips before they would make him break a sweat. At the Y where I go now, the trainers do the same thing: they whisper as they walk the chattering housewives through their three sets of twelve. They stare at other members as they count, and then wander off to the next machine without Chatty Cathy missing a beat in her story. To these people, "cardio" is just something that clients do between sessions. Who cares if it's a walk around the block or gut-busting hill sprints.

No wonder people aren't losing any weight! Would you lose weight if your trainer had as much personality as dirty mop water and let you talk through all your sets? Now I'm not saying that all personal trainers should be like Jillian Michaels on the Biggest Loser (my new sick fascination). In fact, I'm glad that there's only one Jillian Michaels out there and that she's surrounded by off-camera EMTs every time she goes to work. But who ever decided that fitness belonged in the gym on an endless cycle of three sets of twelve should have a 45-pound plate dropped on his head from a great height. If a trainer were to step into my gym and offer workouts that were different from week to week, interactive, unpredictable, and didn't leave enough breath to talk about little Jimmy's science project, they could make a mint (or more than the $18K/yr that I'm making on unemployment). If someone were able to take people outside to the trails that are across the street from the gym and structure a workout ouside the plastic weight room... well they may actually be able to rake in the industry standard of roughly $46,700/year. I have a bit more of a business plan than that, but you all don't care about that.

And on a side note...
As I mentioned, I'm obsessed with the Biggest Loser lately. At first it was all about watching fat people crying on treadmills. Haha! Take that fatty! I would laugh and think about how fun it would be to stand in front of them eating Ben & Jerry's. I would never do this in real life, but these people agreed to have their fat asses put on TV, now they're crying, and therefore they deserve my ridicule.

What's even better is that the fat people crying on treadmills are being yelled at by skinny people who are calling them "pathetic" and telling them to shut up and stop crying. It's like my fat phobia is finally validated. And these fat people scream and fall over all the time. It's like watching a turtle flipped on its back. Just once I would like to see a pop challenge that involves sumo wrestling.

But as I started following the show (out of professional curiosity, of course), I started to feel for the fatties. I actually had my favorite fatties, and I got mad when the other fatties made them cry. (They all cry, all the time!) In a week, I watched the entire season 8 of the Biggest Loser on hulu while doing push-ups and sit-ups. It was amazing to see these normal-looking human beings emerge out of these giant lumps of lard. I was surprised to find out that many of them had become parents while being fatasses, because I had assumed that fat people didn't have sex. I wanted Rebecca to win so bad, and was so excited to see in the finale that she was still the only female contestant with knees. I hated her haircut though. It made me mad that I cared so much about her cutting her hair, but I just couldn't like her as much now that she was a blonde. It ruined the whole experience for me.

And Biggest Loser has inspired me to set my own goal for season nine: Figure out what the heck it is about Jillian Michaels' face that is just so damned busted!

The end.

...and now for something completely different

As I mentioned in a previous post, after a year of trying to one-up myself every weekend (and digging myself deeper and deeper into a motivation hole), for the first time in about 2 years I have no races hanging over my head. I'm going to focus on the farthest thing from endurance training that I possibly can. I've replaced my superendurance pills with creatine, I'm drinking caffeinated Starbucks whenever I want, and I've set foot in a weight room for the first time in almost a year. December 2009 is going to be the month where I focus solely on my lifelong goals of getting a 6-pack and a Tour de France ass. This month I behave like a bodybuilder. "Cardio is just for fat-burning and girlie men." That's my new (temporary) motto.

I made it less than a week from my Ironman before I started going crazy; literally. I was sitting at the computer trying to put together a fluffy, content-free Examiner article when my Firefox crashed. Long story short, I had to spend about 45 minutes backing my work up while my computer had a 2-minute lag time for each click. I am not a patient person. I started screaming and crying and banging my fists against my head. When I finially finished, I had a headache, I felt nauseous, and I knew then that my offseason was over. I had to go back to the gym. There are things that are more important than a well-executed offseason: like staying out of jail.

So the first day I went to the gym and did some back work, some core work, 10 sets of 10 push-ups and 10 sets of 20 sit-ups. Do you know what happens when you pick up where you left off with strength training after 8 months off? Paralysis.

The next day I went back to the gym and decided that my legs had had enough time to heal from the Ironman. I did 95 burpees, 95 squats (45 lb), 95 deadlifts (95 lb), and I was going to do 95 turkish get-ups on each side but that was taking too long so they turned into oblique sidebends half way through the workout. Now I can barely get out of bed. I can't go down stairs. I can't even get out of the car. When I drop something on the floor, I just stare at it and try to look pathetic until someone else takes pity on me and picks it up for me.

This is going to be great!

I know that you're not supposed to just jump into weight training like this, but whatever. The soreness can't last forever. I also went to the supplement store and dropped a mint on creatine powder and Muscle Milk. I'm doing this up right! There will be updates between now and then, but check in around New Years to see before and after pic's.

Pictures and final thoughs

First off, the race in pictures:

This is my new favorite picture of myself ever. I had finally found a chair where I could sit down in the finishers' area, and this guy keeps bugging me to get up so he can take a picture. "No, man," I said. "I just want to sit." A few minutes he came back again. "No, leave me alone. I don't want to take a picture now." Finally, the third time I said, "FINE! But I'm not smiling." Once I stood in front of the back drop he kept telling me to smile. "Nope," I said. "I don't like smiling for the camera. This is all you're going to get." This face says, Alright, I'm here. Now what?

Here I am crawling out of the water like a giant sea slug.

... and getting to the top of the stairs before the other sea slugs.

There are like 5 pictures of me holding my goggles as I got out of the water. I don't know why I didn't just take them off.

What are they? Binoculars?

This is a picture of a very unhappy Claire riding about 5 mph into a coastal headwind.

Claire did her best not to draft. Other guys seemed all too happy to suck her wheel. One guy who would not let himself be chicked got a warning to back the fuck off from a race official.

Read this face: it says, "Poooooooooooor me!"

Man, are those guys still following me?

That's right, buddy, you got chicked. Deal with it.

Coming in for even more water.

What you can't see in this photo: I can't enjoy my surroundings because my rock-hard 140-PSI wheels are absorbing none of the impact of this chipseal, and my clit (that's right, I said it!) is being rubbed so raw by the seam of my chamois that it bled.

This was the one and only time I tried unscrewing my water before pouring it into my bottle. It wound up all over my legs and my bike, leaving the aero bottle empty.

No idea what's going through my mind in this picture...

Closer up: ... but anyone who can come up with a good caption gets kudos.

Passing another boy.

This doesn't even look like me! This is the only picture of me running, which is annoying. I really wanted to know what my running form looked like, but I think that this was coming over the timing mats out of T2, so it hardly counts.

But here is proof that my running form has improved. Note: Feet coming off the ground and no heel strike! I win!

Most of my finishing photos are of this guy. But notice the background: me! Do you notice anything else? No heel strike, and feet are still coming off the ground. Now the question is whether my feet were coming off the ground in the 26.2 miles in between?

This was the beginning of a triumphant fist pump. I got it about this high, and then realized I didn't feel all that triumphant. Just relieved. I let it drop. And then...

And it's probably a good thing that most of my finishing photos are of that other guy, because this was the face I was making. Believe it or not, that's not pain. It's Holy shit, oh fuck, oh my god, I made it! It's over! I'm done! I don't ever have to run another step in my life! I wasn't crying, I was just... relieved! More relieved than I've ever been in my life.

No catchers. I really just wanted a catcher to share the moment with. Oh well.

The other picture of me with my medal. I'm saying, Look. There it is. My Finisher's Medal. Can I go sit back down now please?

Coach Liz and I visit the ruins at San Gervasio the day after the race.


The giant salad I ate when I was no longer afraid to eat vegetables that had been washed in tap water.

The heat rash I got from being sweaty constantly in the 90% humidity. (If my neck looks funny, it's because I'm holding the phone on my shoulder.)

I had been satisfied with my effort (if not the results) until we found ourselves at the rolldown meeting waiting for the awards banquet. I knew that I wouldn't get a rolldown slot, and wouldn't have taken one if I had, but watching everybody claim their slots and trophies, I was green with envy. I started to think about which races would be better suited to my body, and how I would have changed my nutrition strategy to not have stomach problems on the run. I started doing the math to figure out what I thought I could realistically do at a cooler race. I was hardly sore anymore, and felt like I could have run much faster if my stomach hadn't held me back. Then I caught myself.

Would I do the race again? Yes. In a heartbeat. Will I do an Ironman again? No. In the end, I had a really, really fantastic time in Cozumel and when I looked back on it, I truly enjoyed the Ironman; even when my stomach was leaking out my anus. But for the first time in over two years I didn't have any events hanging over my head, and I didn't want to get myself involved in anything I would regret.

If I did another Ironman, or kept pursuing running and triathlon, then I would regret it when it came time to give up speed in favor of a long, grinding slog. From almost the beginning of my training, I was getting frustrating with the tepid speeds involved in Ironman training. I missed tearing girls' legs off. I missed riding fast. I missed heaving side-by-side with another girl, and then clicking into a harder gear and leaving her behind because my legs had a gear that hers didn't. Most of all, I missed racing every weekend.

This year my biggest barriers were the mental ones that kept me from giving it the old college try and mustering the chutzpah to stick it out to the end of long, long races. So next season is going to be all about short, fast, aggressive bike rides. I'm going to focus on road racing with a reach goal of upgrading to Cat II by the end of the season. Because I really do love the triathlon style of riding, I'm going to do some aquabikes for fun as well. I'm thinking of doing Rev 3 again, perhaps Timberman (does anyone know if that's still open), the Plymouth Rock Iron-distance race, and maybe Patriot again.

But for the next month, I am going to be doing some weightlifting. That's right. I'm putting the bike, running shoes, and swimsuit away, and I'm heading out to pump some iron. I'll see you in the gym!

Ironman Cozumel

Pre-Race

Hotel room oatmeal: 2 envelopes instant oatmeal, 1 spoon stolen from the snack bar, 4 oz water heated in the coffee pot, 1 cup provided in the room.

I woke up about an hour before my alarm at 2:45. Before getting out of bed I tried to visualize the race and run through my strategy one more time. But I can't see into the future. Visualization confuses me. I then got up and used the coffee maker to prepare some oatmeal and reheat my Starbucks (my real reason for getting up this morning). I chomped on an energy bar made entirely of coconut and mowed a banana to top off my potassium levels, and went down to meet Coach Liz and Johnny Tri in the hotel lobby. By the time they turned up I was positively vibrating from my first coffee in over a month (and first caffeinated beverage in over 2 weeks), and I thought I was going to explode. Instead I relieved my tension by chattering incessantly in the cab at JT and Liz, who were considerably more chill than I was.

Transition was uneventful. I lent my pump to half the competitors in transition and spied on Yvonne Van Vlerken. I thought that the pro's would be very introspective and closed-off, but I was surprised to see they were all smiles and chatting with the crowd hanging over the fence outside transition. Finally it was time to clear transition, watch the dolphin show, listen to the national anthem, and watch the pro's go off before getting in the water.

Before transition closed down I heard a girl say, "I wonder if they'll play the Mexican national anthem or just the American one..." I wanted to punch her in the face or stick a tack in her back tire. I had been afraid that this race would be mostly American, and that Cozumel would be the Ironman away from home just like Cancun turns into an American college dorm during spring break (you can pay for everything with American dollars here). I was very pleased to hear that Mexicans made up the largest contingent of racers, even more than Americans. They played the Mexican national anthem at the start, not the American one. And Mexicans actually know the words to their national anthem. None of this hand-on-the-heart humming the parts that you forget the words to stuff. They sing along. "Mexicanos al grito de guerra/el acero aprestad y el bridón..."

The Swim

I decided to line up near the front of the swim because it is better to be swum over than swim through kicking feet. Also, the people toward the back were actually under the dock among the pilings and there was no way I was hanging out under that creepy dock, even if you could see perfectly through the water and check for sea monsters. The current was pushing us back so hard that I found myself doing the old lady breast stroke to hold my position rather than treading water. Even so, I was drifting back in the crowd and people were kicking, punching, and swimming over me. The race hadn't even started yet!

Finally the fog horn went off and away we went. The washing machine effect actually wasn't as bad as I expected. I had people all around me, but I didn't get kicked in the head or punched at all. Just sometimes I would try to bring my arm up out of the water and get my elbow stuck under a torso or stick my hand out in front of me and get a handful of calf instead of water. Usually if I kept on my path and stroked more vigorously the problem resolved itself in a stroke or two.

Since the current was so strong, they changed the swim course to shorten the portion where we would be against the current. We swam about 500m against the current and then turned around to swim 2400m in the easy direction. I never really got out of a crowd during the whole swim, but things had already opened up before the first turn buoy and I could look around. The water was crystal clear and we could see all the way to the bottom, which was sometimes more than 50 feet deep. I didn't see much wildlife except a few divers, but I was mostly concentrating on watching the people over my shoulder rather than the bottom. I figured that as long as I kept someone on my breathing side where I could see them, then I wouldn't have to sight. The water was still choppy, and as we came around the turn buoys on the far side, a giant boat anchored just inside the buoys was sending off 2 or 3' swells. I tried to go around the buoy, and suddenly found myself 3' higher than I had been a minute before. I went to take another stroke and the water was gone as I dropped down another 6 feet.

The swim went quickly. The last 800m or so into the finish all I could think about was how nice it would be to rinse my mouth out. I had swum easily, never going so hard that I was short of breath in the whole swim, so imagine my surprise when I looked at my watch coming out of the water and saw 58:30. Talking to everyone after the race, we all had the swims of our lives so the extra 500m with the current really must have made a difference.

T1
Settle Down!

I grabbed my bag and booked it into the changing tent. Since my race wheels have sew-up tires, I needed to carry that big honkin' tire with me. I planned to put it in my pocket, but I hadn't actually checked the size of my pockets until I hit Cozumel. It was going to be a very tight fit. I tried to get it in, but couldn't. "Can I please get some help over here?" I asked, and a volunteer rushed over to give me a hand.
She tried to shove it in, and after a few seconds she said, "It doesn't fit!"
"Please can you stretch it more??? And squeeze the tire? I don't have anywhere else to put it!" While she shoved at my shirt, I continued to pull stuff out of my bag and put it on: heart rate monitor, sunglasses, shoes. I held onto my race belt so I could put it on when she was done.
Finally my helper said, "I got it!" I thanked her and ran out of the changing tent to my bike, holding the tire in place so it wouldn't bounce out while I ran. I put on my helmet, ran to the mount line, and rode away.

I'd already begun picking people off and was pleased that I'd beat the main pack out of the water. I saw one girl's number flapping in the wind and reached back to see how badly mine was catching wind. Holy shit! Where was it?!?! I must have left it in the transition tent! I had another number in my run bag, but I hadn't brought pins or an extra race belt. I felt around again to see if maybe it was just off to the side. I felt some extra fabric bunched around my waist. I looked down and I was still wearing my swim skin bunched around my waist. DAMMIT! I had to go back. I turned around, rode the .6 miles back to transition, dumped my bike on the nearest open spot and booked it back to the changing tents where I found Coach Liz on her way out. Good! Someone to share my misfortune with! I practically pushed her out of the way to retrieve my race belt from under a chair, ripped off my swim skin which I flung in the nook where my race belt had been, and ran back out to my bike.



My official T1 time (counted from the first time I left) was 6:12, but there was already another 6 minutes on my watch by the time I mounted again. What an idiot!

The Bike
Rolling Temper Tantrum

I tried to convince myself that 6 minutes wasn't a big deal. In all it would work out to less than .5 mph difference over the whole course. I was confident in my biking ability and that it could put me where I wanted to be by T2. The course was more congested now than it had been when I first set out, though, and I had to ride hard to get around the bigger packs without getting stuck inside them. The road was a free-for-all as we covered the first 10-ish miles to the southern tip of the island. I was riding about 23 mph with the tailwind and my heartrate was higher than it was supposed to be, but I wasn't breathing hard, so I chalked it up to nerves, the coffee, and the heat. By the time we turned back north the crowd had thinned out and I was able to spend more and more time on the right side of the road where I was supposed to be. I really didn't want a drafting or blocking penalty, but I also didn't want to spend this whole bike ride not pedaling staying out of the draft zone. Other people didn't seem so worried about penalties.

As we rounded the southern tip of the island, we got closer to the coast and turned into the wind. This was not a good combination. Then, the pavement turned to chip seal, and things got just that much harder. I hunkered down in my aero bars and tried to push through it, but my speed dropped to below 15 mph and hung there until we reached the top of the island again. Nothing that I could do could salvage my speed. My average pace, which I had brought back up to 20 mph despite my encore in T1, dropped nearly 1 mph in 10 miles. My tires were pumped up to a rediculous PSI, and the chip seal shook my bike till I thought my saddle was going to rub my privates clear off. I reminded myself that everyone else was dealing with the same situation, and that as a strong cyclist I should have the upper hand. But a girl from my category who I'd been leap frogging with for several miles finally dropped me when I slowed down for a bottle pick-up. It took me about three tries to get ahold of the wet bottle, and by the time I came out the other side she had broken the elastic and slowly pulled away.

I was drinking fluids like crazy. By the end of the first hour I'd already downed about a liter and a half of liquid, but I was still thirsty. It was in the high 70's (but felt hotter) and extremely humid, and I'd been training in 50-degree weather for months. I slowed down at nearly every water stop for bottles, but I could feel myself falling behind on my hydration anyway. I also had another problem: my feet were killing me! I get really sore feet when I do long, hard rides on hot days, but never after so little time. I hadn't even hit the 40-mile mark and my feet felt like they were in a vice and on fire. I sucked back nuun with desperation and loosened my shoes, but by the time I hit the chip seal again for the second loop and the vibrations started, I was in agony. It hurt to push the pedals, so I tried to increase my cadence to keep my speed up, but my average speed dropped even further. Any goals of a good bike split blew away.

That second loop (of three) in the wind I really started to get downhearted. I didn't want to do this stupid race anymore. I was already in pain and all I had to look forward to was a marathon. I was getting cramps in my butt and groin. I should just stop now. What's the point if you're having a shitty race? The pain will only get worse. Three things kept me on my bike:

1. I have given up and DNFed at so many races recently when things weren't going as I wanted them to. I knew that as much as I was hurting now, I knew I couldn't deal with another DNF.
   
2. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't over until it was over. I could still have a great run, and I had no idea where the other girls in my age group were, or how they were dealing with the tough conditions.
3. Temper tantrums. I moaned and screamed out loud every time I hit a bump or divot in the road. I yelled at the wind. I swore in every language I knew. I felt sorry for myself and I did so out loud. It didn't fix anything, but it made me feel better and gave me the umph to push past this cramp or through that gust for just a few minutes.

The last lap things were looking pretty grim. I was convinced that my feet, which were now the size of blimps (maybe the Hindenburg is a better simile) would never fit into my running shoes, and I couldn't seem to pee. I must have had 2 gallons of liquid during the ride, but I was having trouble seeing, like my glasses were fogged up. Actually my glasses were fogged up, but I was feeling pretty mentally foggy as well. Even though the muscle cramps were gone, I really, truly thought I was going to cry from relief when I reached the end of the bike course, like I'd already finished the Ironman. I couldn't imagine going back out for the hardest part of the race still ahead of me.

I took my feet out of my shoes a good half mile before transition (the course was about a mile long anyway). Hopefully by the time I got off my bike they would be recovered enough to hold my weight without rupturing. When I dismounted the volunteer tried to take my bike before I had even gotten it out from between my legs. He almost knocked me over. "Will you hold on a second?!" I said as I nearly kicked my bike to the ground trying to swing my leg over the top tube. "Okay, now. Thank you." I said and waddled off to the changing tents.

My official bike time was 6:03:09, but my pride won't let me say that without pointing out that it was actually about 5:57:00 because of my T2 encore (and the course was about a mile--3 minutes-- long). Either way, I was already in 4th place, so there was no way that I was going to make up any more places on the marathon. This is me we're talking about.

T2
But I don't WANNA go!

A volunteer already had my bag ready as I lurched toward the tents. I was hoping he would have to look for it for a few precious seconds so I could chill, but there he was, holding it out before I even reached him. Damn. I ducked into the tent where a naked lady was just standing there right inside the flap. Once around the naked lady, I started mindfully going through my transition bag. No way I was going to do something stupid this time around. I finally wedged my Hindenburgs into my shoes, made the other necessary costume changes, and lurched back out of the changing tents in 3:05. I was in a sorry state... as in sorry to be alive.

The Marathon
Attrition

Maybe it was naive of me to think that I could have run a fast marathon, but I really, really believed I could set a marathon PR if I stuck to the plan. I had done some runs off some pretty tough bike rides (including two 110-mile rides), and my pace had always settled into the low 8's by the second mile. I had had some steady long runs where I had held my sub-8:10 pace from the first mile to the last. I thought my run had turned a corner. And maybe if it had been a cloudy, dry, 60-degree day that's what might have happened. But I wasn't in Boston in October, I was on a tropical island near the equator and it was hot and humid and the Hindenburg swelling and burning had spread up my whole legs to a dull, bloated throb from hips to toes.

The first mile took us through town, and everyone in Cozumel was lining the streets cheering like crazy. Little kids were chanting "Si se puede!" while their mothers screamed "Arriba las mujeres!" and everyone had plastic bottles filled with pebbles to make noise. It was so loud I thought that the noise would knock me over. I was still emotional from the bike and almost burst out crying (from relief, happiness, self-pity, and frustration) before I hit the first aid station. By the time we got out of town around mile two I had gotten my composure back and I was morosely coming to the realization that I still had 24 miles to go before I could let my emotions take over.

Although my pace dropped about 25 sec/mile over each of the first 5 miles (from 8:30 at mile 1 to 10:09 at mile 5), I was feeling okay. I remember thinking, When I get back into town, then I'll just have to run half a lap back out and I'll already be half way done. It didn't seem like much, but that was before the contents of my gel flasks took effect...

Since my stomach can be so finicky on the run, my coach suggested that I mix a very concentrated mixture of 800 calories of sports drink with just a little water. Once I tasted it out on the course, though, there was no fooling me. It tasted just like a pukey, syrupy, gross, disgusting gel. I started farting immediately. I didn't even care who was around, I just let 'er rip. I haven't had the phantom poo problem in months, and I certainly didn't want it to come back today because I was too modest to break wind in public in front of hundreds of people. The gel tasted gross, so I was taking only itty bitty sips every mile, and pretty soon my stomach shut down anyway. On top of that, I'd stopped sweating. I could feel the salt seeping into my skin and I felt feverish.

When I got back for the end of the first loop, Greyt Times (who was just starting the run) spotted me from the other side of the road. I wanted to know how her race was going, but she looked great and I wanted sympathy more than I wanted to relive the bike course through her, even for a second. "My stomach's completely shut down! I'm shitting my brains out!" I yelled across the street for all to hear.
"Are you okay?" she asked, genuine concern on her face.
"Yes, yes. I'll be fine!" I said in that mother's guilt-trip kind of way.

Tri Beaner had come down to Cozumel to support Greyt Times, and she had been there to cheer for me at every loop of the bike. Now she was near the start/finish area for the run. She asked how I was doing and I told her I was in tough shape. I wanted more sympathy, and I wanted it now! When I came back around a minute or two later, she looked concerned. "Do you need anything? Are you okay?" She was so sincere I almost started to feel guilty, but not that bad. I was okay, I guess, but I had also stopped sweating and my stomach was shutting down. I could be dying! My pace had dropped to about 10:30 per mile by this point, but I was still "running" at least.

I got a chance to see Yvonne Van Vlerken and Bree Wee three times as they finished the second half of the marathon. I cheered for each of them (and yelled "GO BELLA!" for about 3 chicks in pink, convinced each time that that was her). They both responded, half-waving and Yvonne even tried to muster a smile, and I felt bad because it obviously required a huge amount of effort. I certainly hadn't been responding to all the people who had been cheering along the way, and boy oh boy did they cheer. I just couldn't manage it. I had too much to think about convincing myself to keep running at more than a shuffle.

By mile 11, though, things were going horribly wrong. My stomach had completely turned off and I was risking losing "it" from both ends. Farting was no longer relieving the tension and my legs were still throbbing from the bike. My goal had been to "race for the medical tent" (race so hard that I left it all out there), but I wasn't willing to finish with shit in my shorts. I will collapse to the ground like a limp noodle in full view of a jumbotron, but not with poop on my pants. If I didn't start walking more, then I was going to shit myself and there would be nothing I could do about it. I began walking the aid stations and plodding at an easy pace in between, but by mile 16 the blender in my intestines left me no alternative. I ducked into a porta-pottie and pooped the kind of loud, nasty poop with groans and everything that you hope never to hear in a public restroom. When I felt like I could move again, I looked for the TP. There was none. No hand sanitizer either. I pulled my soaking wet shorts up over my soon-to-be-very chafed and angry ass and hit the course again.

Coming in to the turn-around I could see people running in for the finish. I wished I were finishing. I still had 8.7 miles to run. I took another pit stop around mile 19, and when I opened the door, there was Greyt Times. "You poor thing!" she said as soon as she saw my face. I still hadn't had a chance to ask her about her race, and I wanted to ask but she ducked into the can before I could get a word out. Also, someone had shit on the seat in there, and it wasn't me. I really wanted her to know that even though my bowels were turning to mush, I wouldn't shit on the seat. But she had closed the door before I could say anything, and I needed to get this thing done and over with anyway.

A few miles up the road I saw Coach Liz (who was going the other way) stretching out her quad. She would later wind up burried under ice and towels in the medical tent, but for now her muscles were just seizing up and not responding as muscles should. I set myself the goal of catching her before the end and began running through aid stations again. Now that the sun had set, it was cooler and my body was feeling better. I felt like I was running at a good cadence, and would have guessed I was running 9-minute miles. My form even felt good. Other than what felt like a developing shin splint in my right leg (which is red like a bruise today), my legs felt fresher than they had all day. I was stunned when I looked down and saw that I was going about 11-minute mile pace. I really thought I was running great.

I stopped eating bananas after the second potty trip because I was convinced I would get E.coli from my unwashed hands, and made due sipping on about 6 oz of Coke. I never did catch Coach Liz, but I think I only walked to keep the poop chute under control twice in those last 8 miles. As I approached town I reached back to scratch a mosquito bite on my shoulder and cried out in pain. I thought I'd torn something, but the muscle had just seized up. Best not to make any extra movements until after this thing is over. Finally I was coming into town: just 2 miles to go. A lot of the people had gone home, but I realized that if I hurried I might make it in under 12 hours, so I used that to push me for the last two miles. With a fraction of a mile to go, I passed Tri Beaner for the last time and she congratulated me with a smack on my ass. All I could think about was how there had been no toilet paper and my shorts were soaked. I wondered if I had a skid mark up my butt, and THAT's what I was thinking as I rounded the last bend to the finishing chute with a few seconds to the 12-hour mark. By my recollection I crossed in 12:00:08, but the official time says I crossed in 12:00:24. Whatever. My marathon time: 4:49:28 (4:44:44 with potty breaks taken out) was 17 seconds faster than my first marathon ever.

Post Race

I was pretty overcome and all I wanted to do was sit down, but there were no chairs in the finishing area. I came through the back and found the medical tent. "Can I please just come in and sit down?" I asked. They told me to go over to the massage chairs waaaaay over there. "No, I don't want a massage. I just need... Let me..." But they turned me away. Later that night the medical staff would ask me several times if I needed assistance as I lay on the ground for a good 2 hours waiting for them to release Coach Liz, but now with shit in my shorts and unable to walk straight they sent me 100 yards farther away to sit in the buggy grass by the massage tables. (For the record, the skid mark was just my own paranoia.)

I went back to the hotel, took a quick shower, and scooted back to the finishing area in time to catch (but not see) Greyt Times and Coach Liz finish. I tried to find Greyt Times in the scramble at the finisher's area to tell her that the poop on the seat in the porta potty wasn't mine and find out about her race, but I ran into Tri Beaner first, who told me I should make sure Coach Liz was okay. So I posted myself outside the med tent, flat on my back and was lucky enough to greet Johnny Tri and Greyhound as they finished.

The more people I talked to, the better I felt about my race falling apart. Everyone had had a hard day out there, and my problems with the heat and nutrition were no worse than Coach Liz's potassium deficiency, Johnny Tri's giant English-muffin-sized blister, Bree Wee's curtled nutrition bottle, or Greyhound's crushed dreams on the bike. I'd taken on the conditions and they'd been too much for my goals, but the only thing I could have done to execute my race better would have been to move the race several meridians north. By the end of the race I felt strong. I was not only running, but still picking my feet up off the ground (I think). It wasn't a death march. All my stomach problems had even made me run so easy that my legs felt relatively fresh, and it wasn't a big deal walking back to the finish from my hotel.

Moreover, if I'd come closer to my goals (my primary goal had been to break 11 hours), then I might have qualified for Kona (update: actually, I still would have been far off). While I was out on the run I tried to convince myself that if I kept moving, the girls in front of me might blow up before the end. What the hell kind of race is this that you hope to win not with superior athletic ability, but because your opponent's body falls apart before yours? I thought. What's the point of all this attrition? The chance to do it all again in even tougher conditions? It's not a race if you're barely struggling to cover the distance, thats masochism. I mean, I even saw pro's like Bella Bayliss walking. Imagine if a baseball pitcher just threw a few pitches underhanded when his arm got tired. He would NEVER make it to the major leagues. This was a stupid fucking sport. Nope, I was very, very happy that this would be my last Ironman. Leave the attrition up to the lunatics who are into that sort of thing.

Pre-race

Greyt Times and I pose for an underwater picture while previewing the swim.

The Travel

I was more nervous for the travel than I was for the race itself. Getting from Boston to Cozumel was my real Ironman. My flight left Boston at 6:00 on Thanksgiving morning, which meant a 3:30 wake-up call to get to the airport on time. I got about 4 hours' sleep and wouldn't fall asleep again for another 21 hours.

After a 1-hour flight to New York, I sat in the terminal playing solitaire during my 9-hour layover. I had fucked up loading my audiobooks couldn't get my wifi working, so there wasn't much else to do than play solitaire on the terminal floor. My next flight to Cancun was unpleasant. The Russian couple next to me promptly fell asleep, leaving me trapped in the window seat with a full bladder for hours. The woman was farting, and the man behind me kept yelling rude and snide comments at other passengers.

By the time I arrived at my fleabag room in Cancun, I was exhausted and starving. I hadn't eaten in about 11 hours, so I went to the hotel bar to grab a snack. I asked for something light and he offered me quesadillas. Quesadillas! Great! I thought. No meat and no dangerous veggies that might carry water-born pathogens. I ordered them to go and took them to my room. When I opened them they looked delicious... and full of chicken. I left my quesadillas untouched and ate a granola bar for Thanksgiving dinner.

Don't know why this one didn't come out. It was broad daylight. Anyway, this was my flag to let bloggers know I was at the swim course already.

In the morning I woke up early... too early for the continental breakfast, and got a cab back to the airport. The driver, a guy named Jose Luis (who was very excited to point out that he had two grandchildren and no grey hairs) decided to give me a Spanish lesson. "In espanish we call that a bi-ci-cle-ta."
"I know," I said.
"Bi-ci-cle-ta, it means bicycle."
"Ya lo se." I know, I told him. "Antes de esta rececion economica ganaba la vida con el espanol." Before the recession I earned a living speaking Spanish. After that the conversation came much easier, which was good because we couldn't figure out where the hell we were going. Jose Luis took me to the terminal where a sky cap took one look at the bike and told me I was going to have to go to the charter terminal. Huh? I had booked this flight through Priceline. Charter my ass.

Jose Luis dropped me off outside the private, gated charter parking lot and gave me some brochures for hotels when I came back through Cancun. Then a well-dressed airport employee came out and took my bags from me. I tried to protest (I didn't want to tip him), but he wouldn't take no for an answer. He then lead me in to the "terminal" which had 2 vending machines, about 9 chairs, and a little counter with a folding chair behind it. He stepped behind the counter and checked me in. Then he lead me nextdoor to the "comfortable" waiting room (it looked like the lobby of a plush, modern hotel) and handed me a menu for breakfast. None of this seemed right, but I was starving.

I ordered a quesadilla sin el pollo, nomas de queso (without the chicken, just cheese) this time. The guy looked at me like I was nuts, but he called in the order anyway. "Yeah, she doesn't want the chicken. Just cheese. I don't know why. She said just cheese. Can you do that? Okay, thank you, bye."

When I had finished my quesadilla, my friend the skycap/receptionist/butler came and got me and introduced me to the three rich Mexican women I'd be flying with. "She came for the race," he said.
"Oh, congratulations," the over-baked ladies in lots of jewlery told me. Then they went through the metal detector. The alarm went off for each one of them. "It must be my earrings," one said. "Oh, it's this necklace," said the next.
I started to take off my belt and the skycap/receptionist/butler held up his hand to say it wasn't necessary. He told me to put my 1.5-liter bottle through the X-ray and I stepped through the metal detector, setting it off. They waved the wand over me and let me go, even though the thing beeped like crazy around my belt and pockets. We then climbed on a tiny 12-seat cargo plane and flew 15 minutes over to Cozumel.

In Cozumel I had already made another several friends by the time I made it to my room. People were thrilled to find an American who spoke Spanish without that twangy high-school accent, I think. I wondered how many drunk American college students had actually said to these people, "Yo quiero Taco Bell!"

Registration, Etc.

I re-built my bike, unpacked, and set out for registration. Surprisingly I floated through without running into too many obnoxious Mdot dorks. Then I went to the supermarket to try to scrounge up some food. Here are some challenges at the Mexican supermarket:

• I was desperate for fresh fruits and veggies, but since I wasn't supposed to eat anything I couldn't peel, all I could find were those little finger bananas.
• Meat everywhere.
  
• I had no fridge or kitchenette in my room, so I was limited to things I could cook in the coffee pot. Luckily, unopened milk doesn't have to be refrigerated here.
• Mexicans wield shopping carts like torpedos. This was far more dangerous than riding on Cozumel's one road.

When I got home, I had a quick bite and took my bike out for a spin. I was flying at 24 mph without much effort. Wow, so this is what it feels like to be rested and ride on truly flat ground! I thought. I was already signing bike sponsorship contracts in my head. Then, after 20 minutes I turned into the 15-mph headwind. My speed dropped precipitously. The contracts and sponsorship deals blew away.

After a quick shower it was back to the expo center for the mandatory pre-race meeting. Greyt Times spotted me, and we sat together. "Because there are so many of you," the MC explained, "we won't be answering any questions at this meeting." She then went on to read us the race packet, almost word-for-word. None of it was very helpful, since I had already read the athlete's guid cover to cover in the airport in New York. Luckily, Greyt Times had been here for several days and had obviously done more homework than I had. Her information about the currents and wind was far more helpful than the mandatory meeting.

Some rules about the race that inconvenience me:

• No swim warm-up before the race.
• No pre-race bike warm-up either. Bikes must stay in transition.
• Race numbers cannot be folded or cut, and must be worn on the bike. The race number is about the size of an 8.5x11 piece of paper and is going to tear off in the wind if I don't fold it.
• Only food in the Special Needs bags, no spare tubes, socks, CO2 or pumps. I mean, I wasn't really going to use them anyway, but that's just dumb!

Meeting the Tri-Geeks
My new tri-buddies pose with me at the pasta dinner under an foreboding sign.

I shared a cab to the pasta dinner with a couple of college kids, and when we got out of the car I would have rather spent the evening talking to anyone than a couple of overexcited frat boys. So when the group in front of us in line mentioned that they had done Vineman, I piped up. These guys were masters-aged all-out, full-blown, Mdot tattooed, multiple-Ironmans-a-year, bona fide tri-geeks using Ironman for their mid-life crises. For some reason it didn't bother me until I looked over and there was a video camera pointed in my face, and Thing Two was making a muscle right next to me, showing the ring of Mdots tattooed around his bicep. With my face in the background. On camera. Still, they were very nice and not condescending as I expected the Mdot crowd to be. Actually, I'm finding that the Mdot geeks here are well behaved. Maybe it's because this is probably the one place where they can't brag about having done an Ironman and expect everyone around them to fall to their knees in admiration.

Meeting the Swim

From left to right: me, Greyhound, Coach Liz, Greyt Times, Johnny Tri.
"You're a lot shorter than you look on your blog," Greyhound told me. I get that a lot.

I woke up early and rode the 4.5 miles to the swim course to meet up with Coach Liz and Johnny Tri. We also picked up Greyt Times and all did a quick swim together. Everyone was taking a set of stairs and swimming under the dock to get in the water, but I HATE swimming under things, so I just did a cannonball into the water. It was so warm! I was also scared that we were going to see a lot of fish, but luckily we only saw very little fish and they kept their distance. I was safe... ish.

I hate seeing living things in the water almost as much as I hate swimming under things. What if the fish attacked me? As soon as I'd done my cannonball, something stung my foot, so yes these were dangerous waters. Also, there were dolphins penned up on the inside of the dock. Most people were excited by this, but I had heard stories of mistreated dolphins attacking and raping people. If there was ever a sea animal that was almost as scary as a shark, it was a dolphin. No swimming with the dolphins for me, thank you very much.

The Rest
I thought this one was pretty cool... and funny.

The remainder of D-Day Eve has gone relatively uneventfully. I've had mini dramas about which shoes to wear, whether to use lace locks, whether to put water in my running bottle and flasks now or tomorrow... but for the most part I've been getting bored in my hotel room a lot.

I was secretly pretty disappointed that they wrote my number on me, they didn't stamp it. I wanted a stamp, dammit!

At the bike check-in I was wandering around aimlessly when a teenage volunteer came up to me. "Te puedo sacar una foto?" Can I take your picture? he asked. I couldn't imagine why, but I couldn't think of a reason why not either, so we put our arms around each other and another volunteer took a picture. I thought of telling him that I wasn't a pro or anything like that, but I figured that whatever he wanted it for, I wouldn't bother to let him know I wasn't whoever he thought I might be. I just hope he doesn't use it for anything perverted.

I can't really begrudge adolescent volunteers for wanting photos. I took a picture of Yvonne Van Vlerken's tiny little bike because it'll probably be the one that rides the fastest tomorrow.

Every local I've spoken to here has been so nice. They all seem really excited for the race. Businesses everywhere have signs saying "Welcome Ironman athletes!" and whenever people ask if you came for the Ironman, they do so with a huge smile on their faces. Maybe it's because the race brings money in the offseason. Maybe it's because triathletes are better behaved than the usual drunken spring break crop. Maybe it's that they feel like something exciting is finally happening in their little town. But cars yield on the highway, everyone wishes me good luck, and one cabbie even stepped out of his car with a huge grin and waved his "OFFICIAL IRONMAN CAB" t-shirt at me as I rode by. I'm pretty excited for tomorrow...