I am unmotivated.  I am absolutely, positively, thoroughly, undeniably and in all other ways completely unmotivated to train.  The thought of going for a run is enough to make me crawl into my oh-so-comfortable bed and go to sleep (that's not an exaggeration:  it's what I did on Monday).  I have long staring matches with my bike that invariably end with me leaving the wee bikelette parked in my room while I go pour myself a glass of wine.  And swimming?  Putting on a damp swimsuit and getting into tepid water in order spend an hour feeling vaguely as though I'm drowning?  Two guesses on how well THAT's been going.

But, one useful thing triathlon has taught me is how important is to do the thing you most don't want to do when you most don't want to do it.  Aside from building strength and endurance (and what my special gentleman friend refers to as "diesel legs"), what triathlon really builds is the ability to force yourself--kicking and screaming, if necessary--to do something you don't wanna.  It's a muscle that needs building, a reflex that needs training, the same as any other exercise.  And right now I'm working at about a 50% success rate (Monday I eventually got up and went running, but Tuesday I really did pour myself a glass of wine and call it a day).  My hope is eventually the flywheel kicks back in and I go back to training with heart and enthusiasm and without a second thought.  But for now I'll keep kicking and screaming but mostly going out there anyway, especially when I most don't wanna go.

Except today...

In an effort to get my rapidly expanding butt in shape, I did something that was almost as dumb as signing up for the half-Ironman:  I signed up for a century.  Cycling, that is.  So, in a century you ride 100 miles, endure flats and cramps and other rider's crazy ugly jerseys, and then finally pull into the finish all sad and sweaty, where they give you a T-shirt.  That's what I hear, anyway, but just from friends who do full Ironmans and win things, so maybe they've become a little, how shall we say?, snotty.  But I'm excited!  Mostly I'm excited because the Solvang Century is supposed to have the best food at their aid stations, better than any other local bike event (Firestone beer! Mortensen's cookies! Giovanni's pizza! when will I ever have the excuse to eat this much ever again?!).  But I'm also excited because the Santa Ynez Valley is beautiful this time of year, and what better way to see our beautiful Santa Barbara County than by bike?  Or, in my case, what better way to see the local country really, really slowly?

I'm realizing more and more that the only way I know to get around certain places in Santa Barbara is by bike.  I couldn't begin to explain to you how to find the Mission Chapel in Montecito from the freeway or where to turn off in Carpinteria to get to the strawberry fields, but I can find them on my bike.  A man in a BMW stopped me in Hope Ranch the other day to ask for directions from there to lower State Street, while his white haired father in the passenger seat wrote my directions down.  It wasn't until I'd sent them on their way that I realized I'd sent them in a completely "bass ackwards" (as my own father would say) direction, on a route that would take them around the big hump of the Hope Ranch hill before dropping them off onto upper State.  It's the loop cyclists take to avoid traffic and stay on the pleasantly challenging--versus the "suicidally steep"--hills in the area.  It's one of the best rides around here.  It's also possibly the most inconvenient way for a car to get downtown. 

I am become a cyclist!

The other reason I know I'm a cyclist now is because that same rapidly expanding butt of mine, which inspired this whole little venture, is SORE.  And not the good, "building-muscle-tone" kind of sore.  I'm talking the "can't-sit-down-for-two-days" kind of sore.  I'm talking pillows and ibuprofin and a whole new rubric for choosing underwear in the morning.  While I'm sure this will all be worth it, I have to say:  my booty is freakin' hurt!  Poor booty.

It's been brought to my attention that I don't keep up this blog anymore.  I still can't tell if the one or two people who've mentioned this to me thought it was a good or a bad thing that I don't write in here anymore, but I thought I'd pop in and say "hello."  Hello!  Welcome back to my wonderful world of training for an Ironman!

I'm still not doing an Ironman.  Not yet.  But I am doing my first half-Ironman.

I have a bad feeling about this.

It does make me get out and train, though, this "training for a half-Ironman" thing.  Not because I'm particularly motivated, you understand, but because I'm scared silly.  But, as I learned training for Santa Barbara Long Course this summer (1 mile swim, 34 mile bike, 10 mile run, possibly the scariest fucking thing I've ever done) fear is a GREAT motivator.  Whoever said fear is bad for your health has clearly never signed themself up for a race that was eons beyond their ability level.  Because here's what happens when you see that marathon--that first marathon, that first big scary 26.2 miles, and heretofore you've never run further than 3--on your calendar, six months from today:  you get up the next morning and you run.  You go out when it's raining and you run.  You go to bed early so you can get up and run.  You only drink four beers at the party instead of nine because the next day you know you have to run.  And six months later not only do you finish the marathon that had you shivering with fear, but the morning of the marathon was the first morning in six months you didn't wake up scared, because you'd spent six months being so afraid that you'd run, and run, and run.  And now you're not afraid because you know you're ready! You're ready and you weigh 20 pounds less than you did six months ago, you eat better, you drink less, you sleep more soundly, and you run in super short shorts because your legs are just so shapely you need to show them off.  Voila!  Health!

While that might be an exaggeration, I can at the very least vouch for the running in the rain bit, because I did it this morning.  We Californians are unaccustomed to rain, and Santa Barbarians in particular are unaccustomed to weather of any sort.  We only have three kinds of weather around here:  beautiful and sunny, not beautiful or sunny, and wildfire.  Today it wasn't sunny, but it was beautiful:  roiling clouds and slant-wise sunshine peeking through the raindrops.  I wish I could say I felt heroic for running in the rain, but I didn't.  All I felt was glad to be up and out--enjoying the morning and my friends--and vaguely curious as to why only my right shoe was full of water, while my left was nice and dry.  And--I'll admit it--I felt a little scared.

Workout


I can't remember what all I did this week (not much) but I do remember that we did a tempo set on the track this morning!

So, it's been awhile.  So, it's been about 6 months.  Nice.  I see clearly now the foolishness of believing I had the wherewithal to compose, write, and post a journal entry every several days or so with my workouts chronicled in some detail.  I see the foolishness, as well as recognizing my own inherent laziness.  Foolish and lazy.  Not a good combination for keeping up an online journal.  Or any sort of activity, really.

Except triathlon.  Ironically, I stopped writing this journal round about the time the triathlon season started.  Coincidence?!  Actually, yeah, it probably was just a coincidence.  Ho hum.  But here's a "greatest hits" of the season so far!

--At the Irvine Zot Trot "backwards" triathlon I discovered that triathlons that go in reverse--run, bike, swim--are a self-esteem boosting event for me, as it gives me the rare opportunity to pass other people at the end; swimming, of course, being the only leg of the typical triathlon that I can hope to do well.  I have to say:  it's a nice feeling, passing a whole bunch of people who had crushed you from the starting gun.  I liked it!  And, sadly, that was the last time any sort of single-handed domination happened in a triathlon for me.  So far.  I hope.

--On our way up to the Stanford triathlon my bike came loose from my friend's roof rack while we were going 70 mph at 8 o'clock at night up the longest, darkest stretch of the 101.  The longest, darkest stretch between anywhere in the world, actually.  So reattaching it and evaluating whether or not the frame was cracked where the back wheel had whipped around and smacked into the front fork was an unusually tense adventure.  The upshot was that the frame was fine.  The downside was that my front brake was smashed to pieces and the cord of my new cycling computer was severed by the great thwacking.  So now I have a new front brake that doesn't so much as "brake" as gently suggest "slowing" and a cycling computer sitting on my desk with only 25 miles recorded in its little brain.  Sad.  Fun race, though!

--At the Cal Poly triathlon I discovered that I had asthma.  I discovered this when I had to drop out a quarter mile into the run because I couldn't breathe.  Good times.  Moving on...

--I did the Auburn International Olympic Distance Triathlon as a relay with my friends Lizzy and Christa-Lynn.  I swam, CL cycled, and Lizzy ran.  And we got FIRST!!!!  By about a half hour!  Of course, there were only two other all-women relays, and one of those other relays dropped out...but still!!!  !!!  !

--I ran the San Diego Rock n' Roll marathon with some friends, more or less on a whim.  And then I discovered that running 26.2 miles on a "whim" is a bad idea.  Because the last several miles are going to hurt.  A lot.  A lot a lot.  I was hoping to PR, but that little matter of "not enough training" came back and bit me and my fantastical projected finishing time in the ass.  So it wasn't my best marathon.  But ironically, it also wasn't my worst.

So there you have my triathlon season so far.  I have to admit:  getting first place at Auburn was pretty freakin' cool.  The asthma has been not-so-much fun and I'm still peeved about the bike computer, but I won a gift certificate to Sportsbasement.com up at Auburn, and just noticed that they have several wireless bike computers on sale.  There is hope!

Workouts heretofore [this week, anyway]:
Thursday:  3200 swim, during which Mateo moved me up into the 1:40 lane and told me to stop horsing around in the 1:50 lane, we've had this conversation before, just get in this lane and do the damn thing, etc.  Bollocks. 
Friday:  55 minute run that several of us did at 7 am, only to discover that there was no 7 am practice that day.  And a two hour recovery bike.
Saturday:  climbing repeats on OSM!  2.5 hours of pain and terror!  Woot!
Sunday:  some sort of swimming workout that I'm blanking on.  Oh wait, I don't think I did anything that day...nevermind.
Monday:  one hour spin on the Wee Bikelette!  This one was especially fun because I ran into a few of my teammates out on the ride, and they just kinda pulled me along for 55 minutes.  I *heart* drafting!
Tuesday:  about 2900 of an excruciatingly long and difficult 3900 meter swim that Mateo claims wasn't meant to be a punishment, but felt like one anyway.
Wednesday:  2:25 min ride with some of the women with lots of hills and a few all-too-intimate looks at the fire that had started the night before, which leads me to...
Thursday:  rein.  There's ash raining down, they're evacuating people just north of us, and I can't breathe.  So, I thought I'd post an update to my long lost Live Journal "Tri Me" blog!!  Hurrah!

I need to have my internet disconnected and my debit card taken away.  I have purchased more unnecessary swag online these last two weeks then one person should buy in the course of a year.  And all of it is--you guessed it!--triathlon related. 

It all started with some running shoes.  I thought they might be behind the sore hamstring, and so went to sportsbasement.com to see if the old Asics 2110's had gone on sale.  They had, so I tossed a pair in my virtual "cart".  Then I thought I should look into their cycling computers.  Oh look!  They're on sale, too!  Better get one.  And since I'm always cold, how about some cycling leg warmers?  Ooo, those socks are that cheap?  Wow, I'd better add a couple of pairs...

Suffice to say I do not need the 8 items I ordered.  (Except the running shoes.)  But I want them.  And when they arrive, it'll be like Christmas!  And I'm not sorry--yet.  I'll be sorrier when I have to write my rent check here soon, but for now, I say, Who cares?  Look at all my pretty new stuff!

Workouts:

Saturday:  illicit 75 minute ride I wasn't supposed to go on.
Monday:  got special dispensation from Mateo to pull a whopping 1700 yards.
Tuesday:  another illicit 90 minute ride.

The good news is that my knee has felt great for, well, quite a long time now.  And probably not coincidentally, I haven't been to Spinning in the same "quite a long time now".  Hm.  But the bad news is that now my hamstring is unhappy.  It doesn't hurt so much as when I run, I think, "Hey.  Hamstring.  Wow." 

I'm not actually that worried about it, but I emailed Mateo yesterday anyway, and he suggested switching out the next couple day's runs for some short bike rides, keep the swims the same, and stop stretching [why?].  No worries.  But then, this morning when I arrived to do my swim on my own when it was ever-so-slightly less cold outside, who should I find in the lane next to me but our illustrious coach, doing his morning swim.  "How's the--wait, what was it again?" he asked.

"Hamstring."

"Right.  Yes.  Hamstring.  How's the hamstring?"

"Uh," I hemmed, "it's fine."

"Okay,  But if it starts to hurt:  stop and get out.  I mean it."  I knew he meant it, too, but it's kind of hard to take orders from a man wearing a Speedo and goggles, so I went on my merry way, determined to complete Monday's scorned workout (a pretty fun-looking 3500).  And at first, everything was fine.  Until it wasn't fine:  a slow ache had started to whine whenever I pushed off the wall.  So I decided to use a buoy and pull for awhile.

The switch was made.  And the switch was noticed.  "Hey, why're you pulling?"  Mateo asked suspiciously.  "Does your leg hurt?"

"Well, no, it just, you know, kinda..."

"Then get out!  Seriously.  Get out and take the whole weekend off."

Alarmed, I asked, "Can't I just finish this set?" 

"No."

"Just do a 50 to cool down?"

"Cat, would you like to explain to me how you intend to swim only 50 meters on a 100 meter course?"  I didn't.  So I waited for him to leave on his next set.  And then I swam a last 100.  This was also noticed.  "You know what?" Mateo said.  "I'm leading by example.  I was going to do a 2400.  I'm cutting the last 1000 and getting out.  You get out too.  Out!"

So I got out.   And I made note of the time Mateo swims in the morning.  Because the next time I do a swim "on my own" and against orders, I'm going to make sure it doesn't coincide with a certain someone's morning workout.

Workout:
Swam something ridiculously, pathetically short, like, 1600.  Nargh.

The other day, whilst hanging out with the friend of a friend, I was informed by this friend-once-removed that popular opinion believes the triathlon team to be a cult.  Rather shocked by this declaration--both as a member of the aforementioned triathlon team and as a scholar of religions who takes issue with the irresponsible use of religious language for the purpose of negatively labeling a group's activities (down girl!)--I tried to get this friend of a friend to parse out why she would describe the triathlon team as a cult.  And actually, the explanation of her definition was not unreasonable:  "You guys live together, eat together, party together.  Wherever one member of your team is, there's usually five more.  You can't go anywhere or do anything without each other.  All you guys do is train and talk about your training and race and talk about races and times and splits and transitions and bikes and running shoes.  You all never go out and make new, non-triathlon friends.  And you all only date other triathletes.  It's a cult!  And it's stolen some of my friends!"  While I might err more on the side of "clique" over "cult", she does have a point:  in a certain sense, this sport is something akin to a religion for its practitioners, both in terms training and as a lifestyle.

There are, I'll admit, some amusing resemblances between the "triathlon lifestyle" and the faithful practice of a religion.  There's the unquestioned levels of dedication, the sustained repetitions and rituals, the faintest aura of superstition, and the seamless likemindedness among participants.  There's also an amusing crossover in regards to relationships, where--much like a Jew who will only marry another Jew or a Catholic who only dates Catholics--most triathletes only date other triathletes.  Which makes sense, in its own way.  I mean, who else is going to be supportive of your having to get up at 4:45 am the morning of a race or won't think it's strange when you have to take your bike with you on vacation?  The same holds true of friendships, to an extent.  Non-triathlete friends are wonderfully supportive, but they also find the devotion to training a bit weird.  And cult-like, apparently.

It's a fine line, this cult vs. clique mentality.  Because, I have to say, it's more fun to think of triathlon in terms of it being some sort of extreme religion, where the faithful are rewarded on merit but also far beyond what they think is their due.  In my case, my rewards for training have been getting faster and getting stronger, but also a whole circle of fantastic friends, a fun house to live in, and some really cute clothes (plaid lap bikini!!).  On the other hand, I still love my friends who don't practice my "religion", even though they think I belong to some crazy cult.  It's not a cult.  It's a sustaining support system of people and a lifestyle of rigorous training. 

But give me enough time and I'll convert them all!  Not because I think I'm "right" or know something about salvation or anything like that, you understand.  I want to convert them because this is the most fun I've ever had in my whole life!  And don't we all deserve to have fun, each and every day?

Workout:

Run, 50 min tempo effort.

So, Monday night several us went to go see Lynne Cox speak at UCSB.  Some of you might've heard of her:  she made headlines a couple years ago for swimming [take a deep breath and get ready for this] 1.22 miles in ANTARCTICA.  Swam.  1.22 miles.  In Antarctica, the continent at the bottom of the planet.  Swam, as in she put on a lap suit, a silicon cap and a pair of goggles, jumped off a boat into 32 degree water (which fortunately she couldn't feel all that well, having sustained nerve damage swimming in 33 degree water two days before), and swam to shore.  Swam, as in she had a crew in a zodiac next to her who were responsible for making sure she didn't swim into an iceberg or get eaten by a leopard seal (seriously--it's happened).  Swam in 32 degree water, as in at one point in the documentary made about her little Antarctic splash and dash, during the swim she looks up and smilingly reports to her crew that there are penguins swimming down below. 

She was swimming in water penguins swim in.  Let's just let that sink in for a moment, shall we?

Bloody.  Impossibly.  Cold.

Anyway, as it turns out Lynne Cox is some sort of metabolic wonder:  where other people's core body temperatures in cold water sink down to eventually match the ambient temperature--which is how you die of hypothermic shock--Cox's body temperature rises, usually up to 102.  The mind boggles.  And swoons.  And turns on the electric blanket.  But she was a very funny, very entertaining, very generous speaker, which one would expect of a former Gaucho.  She even managed not to laugh when some lady in the audience asked her during the Q&A why she didn't wear a wetsuit.  If I were Lynne Cox, I would've said something charming, too, like, "Oh my GOD, why didn't I THINK of that?!" or, "I was gonna, but I accidentally left it at home in California" or, "Good Lord, woman, who let you in here?!"

But I'm not Lynne Cox, as evidenced by the crushingly ironic fact that I had skipped my swim workout that day because it  was--wait for it!--too damn cold!  It was 55.  And the pool was something, like, 78.  And I stand by my assertion that it was too damn cold to swim.  Unfortunately, the New York Times (fine publication) disagrees with me, having just published an article on this very topic not too long ago.  As it turns out, you're no worse off training in the cold than you are in more temperate climates, and you're actually better off than if you were training in the heat.  Who knew?

All I know is that when my core foot temperature drops below 85 (happens all the time) I lose my will to live, let alone train.  And thus I stand by my assertion that 7 am is too early to be swimming and the pool needs to be at least, oh, let's say 87 for me to get in.  I don't think that's unreasonable.  I think swimming with penguins is unreasonable.  But it's still very, very...well, COOL!

Workouts:

Monday:  supposed to swim, but declined.
Tuesday:  40 min recovery run (recovery from what?  I haven't been training...)
Wednesday:  AM:  1 hour ride; PM:  2200 yard SWIMMMMMMMMMMM!!

Today's workout was the much anticipated, much feared, much avoided (if you're me) hill repeats on Old San Marcos Road.  OSM is a switch-backing, hard-angled, snake-coiled BITCH of a road, an angry ascent through a quiet neighborhood filled with crazy drivers that I've avoided like it was on fire for two years now.  But over winter break, as I was paging through Bicycling magazine (fine publication), I stumbled across a word of advice on climbing on your bike:  "The truth hurts:  you'll never get any better at climbing if you don't climb."  Damn.  So two weeks ago--before the sluices of the heavens were opened and we all nearly drowned over the course of 6 days--I got talked into doing the two proscribed 5 minute repeats on OSM by CL.  And it was actually something like fun.  Except for the 10 minutes or so when I felt like an orangutan was sitting on my chest. 

But I discovered something.  Actually, I REdiscovered one of Newton's clever little laws of physics:  what goes up must come down.  And coming down is fast, flurious, and seriously fun!  Descending makes the effort of climbing almost worth it.  Almost.

Except today, when, instead of doing two 5 minute climbs, we were ratcheted up to three TEN MINUTE CLIMBS.  And to that I say a hearty "amen and oy", because there's a pretty substantial difference between ten minutes of climbing over a fifteen minute period and thirty minutes of climbing over the course of three-quarters of an hour.  I'm a dunce at math, but even I know that's three times more than we did two weeks ago.  But I had made plans to go, and to go I went, promptly at 8 am.  And we got there and I climbed for the 10 minutes and I went to turn my bike around on the narrow little road to head back down and catch my breath and instead I hit a patch of gravel whilst going .001 miles per hour and with a loud explicative I discovered another application for Newton's famous law:  me, on the ground, with my feet still clipped into the pedals that were now mysteriously facing the sky instead of the road. 

It wasn't until I got back down to the bottom of OSM that I discovered that even though I thought it was only my pride that had been bruised, I had managed to bend the brakehood of my rear brake almost 45 degrees to the left when I fell over.  C'est la vie, I guess.  But I shortened my next two climbs to 8 minutes apiece and turned around in somebody's safe and tidy driveway. 

So, another dragon slain!  And another pain in the ass repair to my poor, abused wee bikelette!

Workouts:

Tuesday:  run:  tempo "green machine" [20 minute warm up, five minutes tempo 3, two recovery; four minutes tempo 4, two recov; one minute sprint, 10 minutes "super shuffle"; repeat].
Wednesday:  3400 yard swim (bloody COLD!!!)
Thursday:  bike up (and down!) OSM

This is the thing that I love about athletics in general and triathlon in particular:  no matter how crappy, how desperately sucky and ludicrously miserable you think and feel and are in your athletic endeavor, all it takes is one good day to remind you, to stimulate you to keep reaching for higher and better things.  And today was my day! 

It all started out pretty sketchy.  I got to track practice just a tick away from being late, and arrived to hear the dire news that we had been lied to.  "I know I wrote on this week's schedule that you guys were supposed to do a 55 minute tempo run today," explained our devious coach to the crowd of about 20 shivering athletes, "but the thing is that whenever I write that we have a 5K field test, three people show up.  So I wrote that we were doing a tempo run, figuring more people would come.  Which you did.  But we're going to do a 5K [3.1 miles] field test, instead.  Now go warm up."

Calling out above the collective groans, I shouted, "Dude, that's low!"  Then I thought about it for a minute, and revised my opinion.  "It's pretty funny, actually, but it's still low."

"Thanks Cat.  Thanks a lot," Mateo replied.  "Go warm the hell up."

I really wasn't feeling it at first.  And by "really not feeling it" I mean what I was feeling was like I had a club foot and that my hamstrings had been replaced by string cheese.  But I shuffled around the track, warming up and figuring that if I broke 30 minutes I wouldn't be dead last.  I've pretty much made peace with the fact that I'm inelegantly slow, so the thought of humiliating myself in front of the rest of the team isn't as prohibitive as it once was.  So after our warm-up, when we all lined up waiting to start the field test, I inserted myself at the "back of the pack", and when Mateo shouted "GO!" I automatically moved into the right lane, just waiting to get lapped.  And then lapped again.  And again.

While I did get lapped several times (Jimmy can run freakin' 5:20 miles, which means I see Jimmy about every third lap or so), I did a few rapid calculations after my first couple laps and realized I was running pretty fast--for me.  But I also noticed that I'd dropped some of the folks I'd started with, and that's definitely a track practice first for me.  Then I was worried I wouldn't be able to keep my pace, but for 12 and 1/2 laps my splits only varied by 2 or 3 seconds.  Another track practice first.  Usually, I start out at one overambitious speed and slowly unravel lap by lap, but not today.  And in the last half lap, I finally passed the kid who had sped up every time I came up behind him.  Bonus! 

And then I noticed that I'd run 25:07.  That's not a great time.  It's not even a really good time.  But it's my best by about, oh, two and a half minutes.  I'm still confused as to how that happened, but I like it.

Apparently, deviousness worked for a lot of people, because there were several folks crowing about having beaten their last 5K time by intervals of 25 to 40 seconds.  I kept my PR to myself, though, because I didn't want anybody to know how slow my second-best time was! 

And then, this afternoon, I went for a ride with my friend Molly in Hope Ranch, and I noticed that somebody stole my hill.  There's what I remember being a big ass hill that leads up and out of Hope Ranch and back down to the bike path, and usually I have to put my poor bike in its lowest gear and chug up to the top.  But today we got to the top and I was looking around for more hill.  Where'd it go?  I don't know, exactly, but I suspect it's been buried in the same graveyard as my old 5K time!

Workouts:
AM:  Run!  20 min warm up, 25 min 5K [!], 10 min cool down.
PM:  Ride:  I accidentally turned my watch off, but I think we did about 20 miles in 90 minutes or so.