3athletejen

As I was looking over past blog entries, I realized there was a “per” where there should be a “pro.” (As in prospective.) Argh. It has been corrected. How I can consider myself a writer and constantly misuse and make up words makes no sense. (Or since.) However, if you do it with enough confidence, most people won’t question you – at least not to your face. My favorite time of year is here – outdoor pool time. The dome came off at Roeland Park last week and practices have a whole new feel. Part of it is the switch from yards to meters, which doesn’t seem like much, but my triceps beg to differ. Especially when swimming long course meters, like last Saturday. As I stared at the black line below me, one thought repeated itself. Where. Is. The. Freaking. Wall. Saturday also included a confrontation with a grumpy old man in my lane. I’ll spare you the details, but all you need to know is that I was right. What I was the most proud of was when he said I should move to a faster lane, I

The first whole week of training is on the books. Totals ended up being: Swim: 3:45 hrs. (11,700 yds) Bike: 3:20 hrs. Run: 2:20 hrs. Weights: 1:30 hrs. Yardwork: 2 hrs. (Okay, that doesn’t count. Just so proud I finally did it, wanted it recorded somewhere.) I’m tired. My calves are sore. My back is sunburned. A new callous is forming on my foot. Basically, I’m a pig in shit. While these numbers aren’t anything exceptional, the difference between training with purpose and exercising is wider than I remember. Case and point – a speed workout at the track yesterday. The word “lumber” comes to mind. Trying to sprint 200s left me holding my knees and gasping, trying not to puke in front of the young football players. Transitioning from endurance to speed will be harder than originally thought. I’m also eating everything but my shoes. Stale crackers? No problem. Ice cream with a protective ice cap? Just dig underneath. It’s edible. I’m trying to make healthy choices, but 30

In my effort to blog more consistently, a new problem has developed. That being, my life is not all that interesting for daily updates. When blogging every three months, that was plenty of time to gather a funny or interesting perspective and share it with my three readers. But the pressure of providing something funny everyday? I’m just not that good. Therefore, entries will be more a running commentary on everyday occurrences. Riveting, I know. So as I lament personal details of my life across the interwebs (nod to you, BF), yesterday was the first time I wished for the pre-Facebook, myspace, google-a-prospective-date days. Last night, I met Boyfriend and company at a midtown bar. Upon joining them, the server came by to take my order. After making eye contact, I realized we had gone to high school together and though not close friends, had run in the same crowd. Sally (not her name, but pseudonyms are cool) and I did the double take and half hug that often follow not seeing

Half the reason for racing triathlons is the gear you have to buy. (The exception being lycra shorts.) Dri-fit, polarized, carbon, compression items that you absolutely can’t live without and are never on sale. I’m a sucker for the toys. Especially when starting out in the sport a decade ago. Computrainer? Check. Treadmill? Check. Powercranks? Don’t ask. But check. My Softride Rocket TT (bought when I got a lottery entry to Hawaii) was an especially indulgent purchase in 2001, mostly because I was far too slow to deserve such a pricey bike. But also because beam bikes were a short-lived trend that soon went the way of 650 wheels. It had 650s, too – double whammy. Live and learn and then get a Felt B2. It hides the shame. Because I’m fairly set as far as gear goes, not much needed to be purchased for this season – hurrah! One exception was a Garmin. Last night was my first run with the 110, a smaller, lower-tech model with heart rate monitor. It was freaking fantastic. How did I g

I’m not talking about the purse. Though I could have bought a nice one with the money I spent. Instead I hired one. Because holding myself accountable only to me is not working, so now Coach K bears the burden. Maybe you think the tide has turned and I’m doing Wisconsin. But, alas, that is not the case, because at the age of 37 I’ve come to accept reality. And that reality is I suck at long distance. It only took a decade to figure that out. Instead the focus will be on short-course, which is far less sexy than an Ironman. But I’m okay with that. Ironman is like the burn-your-face-off hot wings. They both involve a fair amount of discomfort, looks of disbelief from others and both result in a pain in the ass the next day. Don’t misunderstand. Finishing an Ironman is amazing and the closest most people will come to feeling like a rock star. It’s the icing on the cake after months of training and perpetually sore hamstrings. I have the highest respect for triathletes that race IM

I have a love/hate relationship with my yard. While I love owning a little piece of the planet, I hate maintaining it. And let’s be honest, Citimortgage owns the majority of my yard. But they don’t offer to help, so it falls to me. Last night was the first adventure in landscaping for 2010. While I rake leaves year-round (damn oak tree), my neighbors are ahead of me in the pretty-it-up phase. Fortunately the previous owner had no problem getting her hands dirty and planting all sorts of things that need constant attention. Including daffodils. I love daffodils. When they’re in bloom. Afterwards they look sloppy all bent over and covering the walkway. So in my OCD-ness, I fold them into thirds and tie twine around them. It looks much neater that way. And also strange, judging from the looks the neighbors gave me. Then I started trimming up all the shrubs, annuals and bushes that are already starting to look jungle-like. FYI – if you’ve never had the pleasure of trimming hedges,