3athletejen

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...