I love that one of my hobbies is triathlons. It sounds very cool to me. I’m proud to say that I am a triathlete. And as of last Sunday, I am. I mean, officially. I was in a real race and I know the secret hand shake (which believe me is way better than the Skull and Bones hand shake. Don’t ask me how I know.). The best part about it is that last Sunday, surprisingly, turned out to be one of the best days of my life.
I woke up at 5AM despite a mostly sleepless, anxious night. But instead of feeling groggy and grumpy I woke feeling energized and excited. And prepared. Besides laying out everything I needed the night before, I knew I was ready for this race. I decided in March that I would be a triathlete. I put in hours of training, almost every single day (well, except for that one time…) and I was ready to show myself what I could do. I was on the road at 0525, and I had the entire city of Detroit to myself. Eventually, I started to see other racers on the road, identified by the bikes strapped to their trunks and the “26.2” stickers on their bumpers. [Note to self: pick one of those up so I will really fit in at the next triathlon.] The point is, there was a line of us speeding together, heading to the same destination, and it was like we could feel the camaraderie building before the race had even begun. I was already having fun. By the time I pulled into the park it was 0630. I drove past a stream of cars and started feeling nervous. Extremely nervous. ‘Which way to the bathroom’ nervous.
As it turns out, triathlon competitions are the friendliest places on earth. I had heard this before, but I didn’t realize how supportive, helpful and cool everyone would be. I showed up to the park by myself. Twenty minutes later I had made fast friends with some of the athletes, many of whom offered helpful tips for my first race. We pumped each other up as a group before our waves were called into the lake.
I got into the water and my whole body was tense with emotions. The horn went off and it took me less than 60 seconds to ask myself what I had gotten into. I was wearing a wetsuit, which adds a surprising amount of buoyancy. My mother, who could drown in 5 feet of water, would float with one of those things on. But I was scared. I was getting kicked in the face, elbowed in the face, and swam over. I was kicking people in the face, elbowing people in the face, and apparently swimming under them. And for the first time in my life I became incredibly polite and started apologizing and wasting my breath. What had those people done to me? I am not that nice!
I couldn’t see anything without lifting my head out of the water and staring into the sun looking for a bright orange buoy to swim towards. My breathing was out of control and oh Jesus, I still had to bike 20 kilometers and run 5 kilometers. I swam as hard and as fast as I could. I wasn’t really competing with anyone. I just wanted to make it back to the shore and get my stupid feet on the stupid ground. Whose idea was this anyway?
I finally got out of the water and felt exhausted. It took me 11:22 to complete the swim, but it felt like I was already 40 minutes into an intense cardio session. I heard my family cheering for me and I felt this overwhelming need to impress them. I mean, it was Father’s Day and they drove an hour just to watch me race. I couldn’t disappoint them.
I set out for my ride and was still just racing myself. It felt good. When I took my first down hill I was going 34.2mph. It was brilliant. Scary as hell, but absolutely amazing. People give Michigan a bad name but this course had 13 miles of beautiful scenery, fresh air, and friendly locals standing at the end of their long driveways cheering all 550 of us on. Of course, all the hills I went down I had to come back up. The second half of this leg (though the exact same road) was a little less beautiful. My main focus was the pavement as I struggled up those ridiculous hills. I mean, honestly, what is the point of hills like this? My next race will be in Kansas. Do they even have lakes there?
At this point I did start competing with others. I tried to pick specific people out and get them. You know me, and my dislike for skinny bitches… I found one. And she was listening to an MP3 player, which was a blatant infraction of Article 24, Paragraph 6, Clause 3. Well, not today, skinny bitch. Not today. I beat her up the hill and felt euphoric. That one was for all the women who eat red beans and rice for dinner. At the home stretch I gave it everything I had and that skinny bitch passed me. And there was not a damn thing I could do about it.
I got back to the transition area and threw up in my mouth (you’re welcome). I was light headed and sick and it was pure acid bile. If I let myself throw up I wasn’t sure I would be able to stop. And then I thought about all the other racers and made a command decision. Get back in my belly! I took off for my run and saw that I passed Skinny Bitch. Eat it sucka! She started gaining on me and I kept up with her fueled by a little Jay Z coming off of her iPod. Wait a minute! Skinny bitches don’t listen to Jay Z. Shouldn’t she be listening to Jewel or James Taylor? Then Skinny Bitch took off and I let her go. Cheater!
I cannot begin to describe to you the pure exhaustion I felt at this leg. There were hills (slight as they were), but the event description said FLAT ROAD. They also promised there would be water stations at every mile marker. Liars! Cheats and Liars, all of them. By the time I did get my water, (fine! At the mile and a half mark), I grabbed two cups, thirsty and overheated, I threw one cup of water in my face. This was not a good idea. The water actually went up my nose. In the midst of my exhaustion, I thought I was going to drown. As if the last hour had all been an illusion and I was still in the lake. Help!
When I finished the race I knew I left everything I had on the course. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even bend over to remove the strap from my ankle. I couldn’t speak and had to mime drinking to be pointed in the direction of the water station. But I did it and knowing that felt incredible.
What I love about having completed this triathlon is that I set a goal for myself and I achieved it. I mentioned in an earlier blog that one has to become the person one wants to be, or accept the person one is. I feel like I am becoming the person I want to be. To me, it is a process. I finished a sprint triathlon, but it’s more than that. I know I am capable of pushing my body and I want to know what’s next. I am signed up for two more sprint triathlons this summer and changed my Chicago triathlon to an Olympic Distance, twice what I did on Sunday. I thought the sprint was all I could do, but now that I’ve done it, I know I can do more.
While I want to feel fulfilled, I’m not sure that I ever want to feel content. I hope I will not stop wanting more… of anything. I think about how this pertains to my life in general: in my personal life and desire to find passion, friendship, and love with another person; to my intellect and desire to continue to learn, experience, and improve; and in my career and desire to be innovative, sharp and financially secure. Maybe it seems bizarre that I can get all of that from participating in one simple race. But this triathlon has reignited my drive to be a better person, and not just in the shape of my legs or size of my pants. I see it influencing many parts of my life. And I hope that by writing about it, I have influenced some part of yours.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Art of Being Not Hot: A Heroine’s Tale
There is something about rolling out of bed on a Saturday morning, in the same sweats from the night before, brushing my teeth and heading out the house that is completely liberating. Eh, who am I kidding? Sometimes, I reach for the pack of gum and skip the pit-stop and inevitable peek in the mirror altogether. Destination: grocery store. List: Fruit Loops, skim milk, and Tropicana Orange Juice (with some pulp). Reasons: My refrigerator consists of a bottle of ketchup, a six pack of club soda, and 3 month-old baby carrots that have actually gotten soft to the touch; and orange juice just doesn’t tastes as good after brushing. I live in a pretty small town and the people at my local market know me by face, if not by name. It’s not unusual to run into a high school classmate or one of my sister’s college-age friends home for the weekend. But I don’t care. I mean, I literally don’t care anytime before noon on a Saturday or Sunday morning. It’s not hot, but give me five minutes, a tube of lip gloss and a couple of brushes (one for my hair and one for my teeth) and it’s on like Donkey Kong. Just sayin…
I do, however, care about what I look like when I am training for my triathlon. Let’s be real. This triathlon has nothing to do with me living a healthy lifestyle. It has everything to do with looking like someone who does triathlons – minus the ridiculous she-man shoulders (because that’s definitely not hot). My outfits are always perfectly coordinated. Swim: I have a range of one piece competitive swim wear options in my arsenal, all picked to compliment my skin tone, and cut in an angle that makes my legs look longer and leaner than a few of my poorly chosen bikini bottoms. Bike: Well, I’ve already told you about the Holy Grail of Bicycles. Run: I never leave the house without considerable thought into which color and cut of Nike top will match with my Nike running pants of the day. I place my hair in a meticulous pony-tail that gives me the look of sporty youth. And then I’m off…
SWIM:
I had to wait until Memorial Day to start training for this portion of my race. I already belong to two gyms (one near my house, and one in my office building 30 miles away). There was no way I was going to spend one more dollar to have my hair attacked by a black woman’s kryptonite (chlorine) one minute earlier than necessary. I got to the pool the first day it opened. I made it there early enough to even out some tan lines, but I did not jump into the child-infested pool to swim laps during the day. I have it on good authority that [they] pee in the pool and the water does in fact, not turn green. Instead, I listened to their wretched little cries of “It’s not fair,” “It’s my turn,” “But you said!” …all while trying to catch up on my latest summer pool-side novel. Niños, what on earth do you have to complain about? When was the last time you paid a bill, made a life-changing decision or thought about what that ice-cream cone would do to your hips? Let me read my trash novel in peace!
So, I left the park, went for a run (more on this in a moment), and then headed back to the pool after the sun went down. When I arrived, most of the bottom feeders and trolls had gone home for the evening to watch cartoons, or do whatever it is that children do with their time. It had turned into a Michigan, ‘I’m on the lake without any sun and I’m freezing,’ kind of evening. I walked over to the deep-end which was completely empty and stood on the diving board, shivering, with goggles in hand. I turned to look at the 16 year old life guard and remembered when I was in that exact seat all those years ago, vigilantly protecting the pool from would-be-drowners, but mostly blowing my whistle to tell children to WALK, not run. My biggest concern was where I would go to college and what outfit I would wear Monday morning. (Well, that’s still a pretty big concern.) I kept staring at this guard, on the edge of the pool, armed with goose bumps, wondering what the hell happened to my youth when all of a sudden, a snot-nose 10 year old screams at me from across the pool,
“Are you going to jump in or what?!”
Is this a test? Lord, are you watching me? Does this kid want me to spank him with a Japanese Sword like the Black Mamba herself? Is he not aware of my general aversion to kids and know that I only need a reason, however slight, to go off? And then I jumped. Peer pressured by a child. Not hot.
BIKE
There actually aren’t enough words to describe the not-hotness of being a cyclist. In fact, I am still thinking about the Christian Louboutin’s and Jimmy Choos I could have rocked in place of owning a bike whose very existence it seems is to humiliate me. First of all, my hair is sort of my “thing.” And to have to hide it under a helmet, and emerge on the other end with sweaty helmet hair… well, there’s just not a happy ending in that scenario. Secondly, the $100 pants that the salesman told me ‘I just had to buy’ (yes, this could have been half a dress at Club Monaco), have padding in the butt. PADDING. IN. THE. BUTT. As if a woman, especially a Latina, needs any more padding in the butt. Lastly, I have clip in shoes, which means that I can’t just put my feet on the ground whenever I want. I actually have to practice clipping in and out. And in the course of “practicing,” I have literally fallen straight over on my bike. Multiple times. As in first I was upright, and then I was on the ground… with a bike between my legs. And though on each occasion, I was alone, without a soul to witness my clumsiness, I was deeply embarrassed for myself. It was as if my inner 13 year-old was having an out of body experience, convulsing with laughter at my own humiliation. Well, nobody likes 13 year old girls anyway! Not hot.
And now for the coup de grace. RUN
I broke my first bone when I was 7 years old. I was playing dodge ball. It was my pinky finger that is now permanently crooked. The culprit was a ridiculous boy who I must assume is either in jail or working the fry-bin at McDonalds (the natural fate for anyone who crosses me). Since then, I have broken my wrist on two occasions, my arm, my knee (in multiple places), my foot, my ankle (both sides), torn my meniscus and my MCL, and have had my body held together with pins, staples, screws, stitches, plaster and tape. I was in a wheel chair - twice. The first instance I graduated from a wheel chair and moved on up to a walker with a handicapped accessory to accommodate the shape of the cast on my broken arm. I am not a warrior. I am a klutz. I once had a physical in the navy and when the doctor told me to stand on one leg he asked if I was drunk when I could barely perform this task. He gave me a breathalyzer.
Last Saturday was one of the first hot days in the Big D. I spent most of the afternoon at the pool (hanging with the bottom feeders and trolls). The day was very sunny and exceptionally hot. I wanted to go for a run and threw on my black Nike running pants and decided I was going to wear my sports bra as my top. A white one. And since I am training to be a triathlete, and therefore can claim to have a traithlete body, I said, “You’re welcome, Grosse Pointe.”
I set out with my Sporty Spice pony-tail, and my jammin’-est tunes on my ipod-touch. Half a mile in, I passed my old high school and it was actually the beginning of Senior Prom. I saw the looks on the 18 year old boys’ faces as I passed and thought, ‘Still got it!’
Half a mile later, I was running on the lake. I got the gratuitous car honks and saw a couple of cars swerve, which made me feel just like Selma Hayek in Desperado except with a Mid-West accent (which is just as sexy as a Mexican accent, right?!) Err… :/
I was feeling really good about myself. My songs were pumping me up, I set a great pace, my lungs felt good, and oh! Is this a car full of boys about to check me out? Ye…
And then it happened.
As with all of my accidents, time was manipulated. That way, I could experience everything in slow motion, and be certain not to miss an ounce of humiliation. I could point out the name, make and license number of every car on the road in either direction, all of whose attention was solely focused on me and my impending disaster. I could see where birds were over head. I could point out squirrels in trees (laughing haughtily at me). And I could see the color of every sail in the water, whose captains were at that moment staring at my misfortune through binoculars and calling their friends to come and see. I knew what was coming and I could not do a thing to stop it. And while yes, I was running on a flat, smooth surface, my right foot caught on what could only be the ground… or my left foot.
So, at this point, my left foot was up in the air in full stride, my arms were thrown up in front of me, and my ridiculous smug look was replaced with the look of shock and fear and open mouthful of “Oh Shuga!” My momentum pushed me forward so it looked like I was sliding into first. And then I made contact with the ground. The stupid, nasty, dirty ground that penetrated through my running pants and gave fresh wounds to my already surgery scarred knee and scraped my shin to leave me with matching scars from that time that I tripped over a tree stump in 8th grade.
When it was over, it played like highlights from ESPN Sports Center in my head. I saw myself sliding in and out of the ground like I was being played on a big screen. I slid in, but before I touched the ground, someone would rewind me so that I was all of a sudden reversing, starting the scene over and over again while the sportscasters made fun and pointed out how my expression changed in every frame. Then, mercifully, the replay mode stopped, and I actually hit the ground. The gravel ingrained on my sweaty stomach and dirt stains on my white sports bra had me rethinking the ‘no shirt’ idea. And there I lay, on the side of Lake Shore Drive with every eye on me. Wounded. Stung. Humiliated. I got up as quickly as I could, but not before I saw everyone laughing at me, pointing and staring like that 13 year old girl nobody likes. Well, if this were “Carrie,” they’d all be locked in a gym with pigs' blood on their face. Then we’d see who got the last laugh.
With 3.5 miles left to go, each mile was slower than the one before and every minute was unbearable. The sun was beating down. I was dehydrated and felt like I was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. I wiped my face and mouth with my hands and realized that my hands were bloody, and now my face and mouth were likely blood stained as well. I imagined myself as part of the Twilight Saga, no doubt evening a score with a certain hubris ridden squirrel. Then, as if the animal kingdom wanted to retaliate, I felt something knock me on the head. I looked around and I promise you, a gigantic bird, probably an eagle, but perhaps a Pterodactyl, hid behind the bushes. He dropped an acorn on my head and then hid from me! I finished my run, knowing that every person I passed was in on my secret, laughing. Not hot, people. Not hot.
Now, I realize that my account may have you thinking of me as the villain and not the heroine. I don’t automatically love children. I cannot be trusted with wild life. And I tend to make a few too many positive comments in my favor (which let’s face it, are all true). But this is my blog, so you have to cheer for me. It’s the rules…
I do, however, care about what I look like when I am training for my triathlon. Let’s be real. This triathlon has nothing to do with me living a healthy lifestyle. It has everything to do with looking like someone who does triathlons – minus the ridiculous she-man shoulders (because that’s definitely not hot). My outfits are always perfectly coordinated. Swim: I have a range of one piece competitive swim wear options in my arsenal, all picked to compliment my skin tone, and cut in an angle that makes my legs look longer and leaner than a few of my poorly chosen bikini bottoms. Bike: Well, I’ve already told you about the Holy Grail of Bicycles. Run: I never leave the house without considerable thought into which color and cut of Nike top will match with my Nike running pants of the day. I place my hair in a meticulous pony-tail that gives me the look of sporty youth. And then I’m off…
SWIM:
I had to wait until Memorial Day to start training for this portion of my race. I already belong to two gyms (one near my house, and one in my office building 30 miles away). There was no way I was going to spend one more dollar to have my hair attacked by a black woman’s kryptonite (chlorine) one minute earlier than necessary. I got to the pool the first day it opened. I made it there early enough to even out some tan lines, but I did not jump into the child-infested pool to swim laps during the day. I have it on good authority that [they] pee in the pool and the water does in fact, not turn green. Instead, I listened to their wretched little cries of “It’s not fair,” “It’s my turn,” “But you said!” …all while trying to catch up on my latest summer pool-side novel. Niños, what on earth do you have to complain about? When was the last time you paid a bill, made a life-changing decision or thought about what that ice-cream cone would do to your hips? Let me read my trash novel in peace!
So, I left the park, went for a run (more on this in a moment), and then headed back to the pool after the sun went down. When I arrived, most of the bottom feeders and trolls had gone home for the evening to watch cartoons, or do whatever it is that children do with their time. It had turned into a Michigan, ‘I’m on the lake without any sun and I’m freezing,’ kind of evening. I walked over to the deep-end which was completely empty and stood on the diving board, shivering, with goggles in hand. I turned to look at the 16 year old life guard and remembered when I was in that exact seat all those years ago, vigilantly protecting the pool from would-be-drowners, but mostly blowing my whistle to tell children to WALK, not run. My biggest concern was where I would go to college and what outfit I would wear Monday morning. (Well, that’s still a pretty big concern.) I kept staring at this guard, on the edge of the pool, armed with goose bumps, wondering what the hell happened to my youth when all of a sudden, a snot-nose 10 year old screams at me from across the pool,
“Are you going to jump in or what?!”
Is this a test? Lord, are you watching me? Does this kid want me to spank him with a Japanese Sword like the Black Mamba herself? Is he not aware of my general aversion to kids and know that I only need a reason, however slight, to go off? And then I jumped. Peer pressured by a child. Not hot.
BIKE
There actually aren’t enough words to describe the not-hotness of being a cyclist. In fact, I am still thinking about the Christian Louboutin’s and Jimmy Choos I could have rocked in place of owning a bike whose very existence it seems is to humiliate me. First of all, my hair is sort of my “thing.” And to have to hide it under a helmet, and emerge on the other end with sweaty helmet hair… well, there’s just not a happy ending in that scenario. Secondly, the $100 pants that the salesman told me ‘I just had to buy’ (yes, this could have been half a dress at Club Monaco), have padding in the butt. PADDING. IN. THE. BUTT. As if a woman, especially a Latina, needs any more padding in the butt. Lastly, I have clip in shoes, which means that I can’t just put my feet on the ground whenever I want. I actually have to practice clipping in and out. And in the course of “practicing,” I have literally fallen straight over on my bike. Multiple times. As in first I was upright, and then I was on the ground… with a bike between my legs. And though on each occasion, I was alone, without a soul to witness my clumsiness, I was deeply embarrassed for myself. It was as if my inner 13 year-old was having an out of body experience, convulsing with laughter at my own humiliation. Well, nobody likes 13 year old girls anyway! Not hot.
And now for the coup de grace. RUN
I broke my first bone when I was 7 years old. I was playing dodge ball. It was my pinky finger that is now permanently crooked. The culprit was a ridiculous boy who I must assume is either in jail or working the fry-bin at McDonalds (the natural fate for anyone who crosses me). Since then, I have broken my wrist on two occasions, my arm, my knee (in multiple places), my foot, my ankle (both sides), torn my meniscus and my MCL, and have had my body held together with pins, staples, screws, stitches, plaster and tape. I was in a wheel chair - twice. The first instance I graduated from a wheel chair and moved on up to a walker with a handicapped accessory to accommodate the shape of the cast on my broken arm. I am not a warrior. I am a klutz. I once had a physical in the navy and when the doctor told me to stand on one leg he asked if I was drunk when I could barely perform this task. He gave me a breathalyzer.
Last Saturday was one of the first hot days in the Big D. I spent most of the afternoon at the pool (hanging with the bottom feeders and trolls). The day was very sunny and exceptionally hot. I wanted to go for a run and threw on my black Nike running pants and decided I was going to wear my sports bra as my top. A white one. And since I am training to be a triathlete, and therefore can claim to have a traithlete body, I said, “You’re welcome, Grosse Pointe.”
I set out with my Sporty Spice pony-tail, and my jammin’-est tunes on my ipod-touch. Half a mile in, I passed my old high school and it was actually the beginning of Senior Prom. I saw the looks on the 18 year old boys’ faces as I passed and thought, ‘Still got it!’
Half a mile later, I was running on the lake. I got the gratuitous car honks and saw a couple of cars swerve, which made me feel just like Selma Hayek in Desperado except with a Mid-West accent (which is just as sexy as a Mexican accent, right?!) Err… :/
I was feeling really good about myself. My songs were pumping me up, I set a great pace, my lungs felt good, and oh! Is this a car full of boys about to check me out? Ye…
And then it happened.
As with all of my accidents, time was manipulated. That way, I could experience everything in slow motion, and be certain not to miss an ounce of humiliation. I could point out the name, make and license number of every car on the road in either direction, all of whose attention was solely focused on me and my impending disaster. I could see where birds were over head. I could point out squirrels in trees (laughing haughtily at me). And I could see the color of every sail in the water, whose captains were at that moment staring at my misfortune through binoculars and calling their friends to come and see. I knew what was coming and I could not do a thing to stop it. And while yes, I was running on a flat, smooth surface, my right foot caught on what could only be the ground… or my left foot.
So, at this point, my left foot was up in the air in full stride, my arms were thrown up in front of me, and my ridiculous smug look was replaced with the look of shock and fear and open mouthful of “Oh Shuga!” My momentum pushed me forward so it looked like I was sliding into first. And then I made contact with the ground. The stupid, nasty, dirty ground that penetrated through my running pants and gave fresh wounds to my already surgery scarred knee and scraped my shin to leave me with matching scars from that time that I tripped over a tree stump in 8th grade.
When it was over, it played like highlights from ESPN Sports Center in my head. I saw myself sliding in and out of the ground like I was being played on a big screen. I slid in, but before I touched the ground, someone would rewind me so that I was all of a sudden reversing, starting the scene over and over again while the sportscasters made fun and pointed out how my expression changed in every frame. Then, mercifully, the replay mode stopped, and I actually hit the ground. The gravel ingrained on my sweaty stomach and dirt stains on my white sports bra had me rethinking the ‘no shirt’ idea. And there I lay, on the side of Lake Shore Drive with every eye on me. Wounded. Stung. Humiliated. I got up as quickly as I could, but not before I saw everyone laughing at me, pointing and staring like that 13 year old girl nobody likes. Well, if this were “Carrie,” they’d all be locked in a gym with pigs' blood on their face. Then we’d see who got the last laugh.
With 3.5 miles left to go, each mile was slower than the one before and every minute was unbearable. The sun was beating down. I was dehydrated and felt like I was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. I wiped my face and mouth with my hands and realized that my hands were bloody, and now my face and mouth were likely blood stained as well. I imagined myself as part of the Twilight Saga, no doubt evening a score with a certain hubris ridden squirrel. Then, as if the animal kingdom wanted to retaliate, I felt something knock me on the head. I looked around and I promise you, a gigantic bird, probably an eagle, but perhaps a Pterodactyl, hid behind the bushes. He dropped an acorn on my head and then hid from me! I finished my run, knowing that every person I passed was in on my secret, laughing. Not hot, people. Not hot.
Now, I realize that my account may have you thinking of me as the villain and not the heroine. I don’t automatically love children. I cannot be trusted with wild life. And I tend to make a few too many positive comments in my favor (which let’s face it, are all true). But this is my blog, so you have to cheer for me. It’s the rules…
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