3athletejen

Today's run was less than stellar - a meager four miles until knee pain kicked in. So the run turned into a walk which turned into a cheese omelet that was completely unearned. Intended to go to yoga, but skipped that too. Gonna be a long training season if I keep this up. If it's really possible to love and hate something at the same time, for me it's spin class.  Every minute feels like an eternity. Last night I went to spinning with my sadistic instructor Toni. Never take any sort of fitness class from someone named Toni. It's the name. Just sounds tough as nails. She's not afraid to make you hurt while screaming "faster, faster" in your face. I've always been a people pleaser, and I definitely don't want to piss off Toni, so I spin until my calves cramp. Then I drag my sorry butt home, shower and lay on the couch and moan while eating chocolate ice cream bars. It's all about balance.

Good news for readers who actually believe I do triathlons. A mere 12 months from now I'll be toeing the line at Ironman Wisconsin, God-willing. So that means plenty of time to contemplate exciting subjects such as periodization, nutrition, training plans and the current state of my general slothiness. Yippee. I thought my Ironman days were behind me. After crossing my last finish line and feeling my knees seize up like at arthritic octogenarian, my brain said "no more!" Instead, I tried to become holistic and kind to my body. I meditated and practiced yoga. Tried to embrace leisurely walks instead of runs. I naively thought my appetite would decrease as my energy needs dropped. (Yeah, right.) I would become Sting-like with inner peace. The results of Project Peaceful Jen are in -- total failure. Then David started grumbling about always wanting to do an Ironman. I inwardly groaned. Really? An Ironman? Why not a half? Maybe a couple sprints? Nope. He wants the whole enchi

As a holiday weekend comes to an end, nostalgia tugs at me. Labor Day is the end of summer. There still may be a brief stretch of hot days to come, but kids are at the bus stop, Halloween candy is on the shelves and leaves are covering my running trail. Each year, summer seems to speed by more and more quickly. Barely have I settled into the warm-weather groove, than it's over with the quick shift to fall. I love fall, except that it's the prelude to winter. And winter is tough, long and cold. So in an effort to put a positive spin on what's around the corner, here is my top ten reasons winter is good list. 1. You can put on jammies at 6 p.m. without looking like a crazy person. 2. The fleecy blanket recently bought at Costco will get lots of use. 3. Garbage doesn't smell before trash day. 4. Coats. 5. The smell of snow. 6. No more raking. 7. You can count shoveling as a cardio workout. 8. Snow days. 9. Bailey's Irish Cream. 10. Mashed potatoes.

It's that time of year again. As Ironman races click by, I wonder if another one is in the cards. The internal debate rages on, pro and con lists are made, finances examined, locales researched and my desire to once again embrace that lifestyle is scrutinized. Do I have another 140.6 mile day in me? True blue triathletes don't need to think about it. It's what they live and breath. Two and sometimes three (freaks!) Ironman races a season are standard. I don't know these people personally, but I've heard the myths. Their social lives are based on swim, bike and run - and maybe one beer before their heads hit the pillow. This is not me. Completing two IM races in eight years (plus one DNF at mile 13 of the run) does not make me seasoned. (Photo is from IM-Florida in 2007.) I'm no poser, but the 140.6 sticker on my car is starting to mock me. It's been nearly two years and it either needs to be removed or I have to step it up. How can my desire to race a year f

I've been dogsitting for Sophie the last couple days, so dog thoughts are running through my mind... Sophie was born on Christmas Eve 1998 in Richmond, Missouri, one of a litter of fourteen. By the time I first laid eyes on her two months later, it was just she and a sister pup left. “Pick me!” she seemed to say, paws propped up on the plywood divider. Her sister was more docile, which I thought might be a better choice. Never having owned a dog, I believed docile meant easy. But Mike convinced me otherwise. The breeder was tired. Selling 12 golden retrievers would be enough to wear anyone out. She said she’d give us a hell of a deal if we took them both. But I was overwhelmed with just one puppy, so we declined. Instead, Sophie Day (named after Sophia Loren and her penchant for black eyeliner) boarded the SUV bound for Kansas City. It has been over a decade since Sophie trotted into my life and to regale all the dog stories would require a novel instead of a blog entry. She

David and I road tripped to Nebraska for our rendition of   “Meet the Parents.” Fortunately, his mother is nothing like Barbra Streisand. They do, however, watch Fox News. All. Day. Long. For a girl raised by a Democratic politician, this is eye opening.   The anti-Obama sentiment is strong.   My party is responsible for ruining the country. Liberals make decisions based on emotions, not facts. Cap and trade is a disaster. The proposed healthcare plan will lead to a country of crooked teeth. (See Canada.) Why hasn’t Obama fixed things? (Seriously, in seven months Obama is supposed to make up for eight years of Cheney, I mean Bush?) The truth is, neither party does much for me right now. I’m adrift in my beliefs, needing to brush-up on details, but struggling to tear myself away from Perez Hilton.com long enough to do so. Because watching celebrities self-destruct is much less stressful. It is David’s goal to “convert” me to the Republican Party, though he thinks I’m already the

Blood may be thicker than water for some, but not for me. Don’t misunderstand. My family is incredibly important to me. We are a hodgepodge of steps, half’s and even some full-blood relations. And while I love them all, the person that knows me best is not a family member. Becca is my memory keeper, confidante and sounding board. We met as wary six and eight-year olds after a 25 meter backstroke race. My third place finish surprised Becca, the winner and year-round swimmer.   She sauntered up and said, “You’re pretty good.” Me: “You’re pretty good, too.” Becca: “You wanna come over and play?” Me: “Yeah, but I gotta ask my mom.” And that was the birth of our sisterhood. We spent hours in her dad’s workshop inventing household items. (Who wouldn’t want a sign for the dishwasher that stated “clean” or “dirty?”) Our makeshift haunted house in her basement nearly torched the house. The Halloween costumes that left paint in my dad’s new Oldsmobile. She taught me how to shav

(Apologies for the delay, my three loyal readers. Vacation and general life chaos have been time consuming. Per your request, I'm back in the blogging saddle.) Feet are ugly. Home to toe jam, nail fungus, bunions, callouses, corns and hammer toes. While mine don't suffer all these maladies, they did elicit a strong reaction from my first pedicurist. She called over three women to witness the extent of my callouses, while shrieking in a language I didn't understand. It was horrifying. But a pedicure is just putting lipstick on the pig. Razor off the callouses and pumice my heels , but three runs later and sandpaper feet return. And there's nothing to be done (short of surgery) for the sweet bunion forming on my right foot. And the occassional missing toenail and blisters just goes without saying for a triathlete. (See above blister, post Ironman Florida.) As I bemoaned my ugly feet, a kind soul told me, "Your feet have a resumé." I was taken aback. Why did I ca

I love yoga. I love my yoga studio. I do not, however, love all my fellow students. Allow me to introduce.... strange denizens of the yoga studio.  The Jingler.  This woman wears more jewelry than Mr. T. And every necklace and bracelet has various charms. It only takes the tiniest shift in body positioning to sound like a bell choir. Thank you, Jingler, for adding your personal soundtrack to the class. The Porno-breather. Yes, yoga is all about breath. I work hard to make my inhales and exhales sound like a mockery of Darth Vador. But, Mr. Porno-breather, you scare me. The HVAC noises that you emit nearly block out the instructor's commentary. Frankly, I think you're just showing off. Anti-antiperspirant Man. Ah, geez. Does this even need mentioning? We're in a heated studio. In the summer. Doing an activity that requires deep breathing. I don't care if you're Matthew McConaughey, do us all a favor and throw on some Speedstick. The Gadget Gal.  I'm not talking a

There are those that like being on the water and those that love being in it. I'm of the second camp. Always have been. The smell of chlorine. Shoulders like a linebacker. Goggle marks that stick around for hours. Love it all. I have been a swimmer for 30 years. Three decades after mom dropped me off for swim practice, my alarm still goes off at 5:30 a.m. three times a week, telling me to get my butt to the pool. So I do. (The pic is circa 1981 of me before the start of a race.) People question my sanity. How far do you swim? (3,500-5,000 meters) That has to be incredibly boring. (Not boring. Peaceful.) You must be training for something. (Not currently.) How hard is it to get out of a warm bed and into a cold pool? (Okay, sometimes that is hard.) Other swimmers get it. The same way runners brag of a high, swimmers operate at a hum. The rhythm, mechanics and breathe work together to achieve an efficiency not found in other sports. After a workout I feel the good exhaustion, without

I'm fretting. It's what women do. Worry and metaphorically wring their hands.  As a single gal homeowner, there is plenty to fret about. Today's concern is water in the basement. I'm at work and fear what's waiting for me at home. Maybe a closet full of towels can contain any damage, but some sort of shop vac may be required. I don’t own a shop vac. Fortunately, my new beau does. Along with Craftsman tools, a stainless steel grill, Costco membership and the ability to perform car maintenance in his garage. It’s all very impressive. And completely out of my realm of talent. So goes the modern girl’s dilemma. We have careers, manage finances, juggle social lives, take care of family and sometimes raise children on our own. We can do it all. But do we have to? Is it pathetic to let someone else install a faucet? Last Sunday the wheel came off the lawnmower mid-mow and my floral tool set (thanks, Dad) couldn’t make the repair. Feminist convictions wavered. Go

Don't let the heading fool you, I am not pregnant. Dad, pick yourself up off the floor. Instead, I'm celebrating (okay, acknowledging) three months of no TV. Truth be told, I do own a TV. A sharp 42-inch plasma. It's shiny and impressive in my living room. It's just never on. I'll start at the beginning... I found myself in this position, not to make a statement about the mind-numbing effects of television, but for a far simpler reason – needing to save money. Cable cost $92 monthly. The rational side of my brain screamed $92 is a lot of jack for little return. The emotional side cried but which stripper Bret Michaels will choose on Rock of Love Tour Bus? So I canceled my cable. While this is certainly not earth-shaking, it must be mentioned the role television fills to a person who lives alone. It is almost always on. From the morning newscast and weather to the last Law & Order, the barrage of voices was a constant hum in my life. It staved off the silence

I'm a vegetarian that sometimes eats meat, which probably angers both camps. Make a decision. Stand by your convictions. And I do stand by my convictions. Until I stand by a pepperoni pizza and then the wavering begins. Being a vegetarian is simple. Plants or animals. Yay or nay. Black or white. There's no negotiation. You like the sizzle of steak or you don't. I like it. The smell of grilling. The worcestershire sauce. A glass of pinot to go along side it. The whole experience is pleasing. So why not call myself a carnivore and be done with it? Because there's more to it. It fundamentally bothers me that an animal was killed so I can eat. Even if that is the sole purpose of the animal being created, I'm saddened. Truth be told, I feel better eating plants. Lighter. Healthier. More efficient. So I waver. Apparently others do, too. There's now a word to describe people like me -- flexitarian. Which sounds more applicable to yoga than diet. And a little tip for th

I'm late to the blogging party. Extremely late. As a writer, this is inexcusable. And it's not for lack of material. My single, triathlon-style life is interesting and amusing. (At least to my married friends. Or maybe they're faking it. Hmm.) So here we go. The name 3athletejen is a bit misleading, as I haven't raced since Ironman Florida 2007. Still swim, bike and run. Just haven't broke the tape in a while. Hoping the competitive urge resurfaces soon. And that I recognize it. It might well be ignored for a cold glass of pinot grigio and the chance to sleep in on a Saturday. Truth by told, my dating stories are far more entertaining. Names will be changed to protect the innocent. Unless someone really pissed me off. Then social security numbers will be included.