My dreams of ever competing in an Ironman Triathlon or Ironman 70.3 were shattered in one morning; this morning, actually. Don’t get me wrong. With the proper amount of training and motivation it is possible. But I literally just used up every single ounce of desire to compete in this god-forsaken sport in the course of one race.
I did not mind the fact that I started out swimming in the Detroit River. When I waded my way through to the starting line, every step was like Russian roulette. The river bottom was a mixture of trash, mud, wild underwater growth, and I don’t know if it was a plastic lining covering the floor bed or illegal hazardous waste dumping, but everything felt like slime. With every step I thought:
‘Will this be the step that my foot lands on an AIDS infected syringe? Nope. How about now? Nope. How about…”
I didn’t even become discouraged when I swallowed a mouth full of water, thinking at worst that any child I have will be born with a third eye or at best maybe I’ll end up with some kind of really cool stomach virus for an entire week! (That would really be such a great diet. I can’t believe pharma companies haven’t marketed this yet.)
The swim was actually fine. Because it was an Olympic Distance, my heat went last and there were only 60 of us (men and women of all age groups started together). I finished in a time that I was satisfied with. Granted, most people were already out of the water, but there still a few people trying to catch me.
I got on the bike, which is usually my worst leg and I felt OK. I had trained on this course before doing five laps, but today I only had to do four. Easy Breezy. I continued to feel that way up until the 3rd lap. It was hot. Too hot. The sun was singling me out and purposefully trying to sabotage me. I had precious few sips of water left and two full laps in front of me. And then I started feeling hunger. I was about to crash the Jenkins family reunion (which was also at the park) and steal some Watermelon or at least a fried drumstick. (Yeah, I said it!) I was running on empty and dehydrated. By the time I was on my last leg, I was quite certain everyone had passed me. I was completely out of water. I tried to talk myself down. I was not out there to compete with anyone. I wasn’t even really competing with myself. I signed up for this triathlon a week ago. It was supposed to be a way for me to measure my progress and see what an Olympic Distance was about before the one in Chicago, which is the real race I’m training for. But there is something so disheartening about being last, especially for someone as competitive as me.
During the last transition, I lost all pretenses of trying to be fast. The gig was up. All the Sprint Distance triathletes were hanging in the cabana, smokin’ and jokin’. What was wrong with me? I could have been smokin’ and jokin’ too!!! Stupid, stupid girl. I swallowed a banana in two bites and downed a cup of water while my dad cheered me on. He had just completed his first triathlon! He got 4th in his age group and his run was the fastest by two minutes. I was motivated. My dad wouldn’t have done this triathlon without seeing me do it. I won’t call myself a hero, but for lack of a better word, I’ll use it. I was a HERO. I could do this! I run six miles three days a week. Every week. All I had to do was go out there and do what I do. My last triathlon I ran a 5k in a 9:12 pace. Maybe I wouldn’t be that fast, but a 10:00 pace was certainly not out of my capabilities.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Hmmm. How to describe? Imagine pouring gasoline over yourself and then lighting a match and then being on fire and realizing that you are on fire because you poured gasoline over yourself and lit a match. That might be a fair way to describe the following event.
It didn’t take me half a mile to realize that I was going to be in trouble. The heat was radiating off the ground. My forehead was 17,000 degrees. Celsius! I just wasn’t having fun out there. I work out so hard every week and I love it. And I’m not just talking about the physical results. Elle Woods said it best,
‘Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands, they just don’t.’
I am a really happy person. When I push myself to get stronger and better it’s like everything is okay in the world. Everything that I’m putting in at that moment will come back to me. I feel amazing and inspired and unstoppable and it keeps me coming back for more. Not today.
I’m reading “Born to Run. A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen.” It’s about the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico. They are the fastest people in the world and run hundreds of miles in one shot, with smiles on their faces. They are motivated by sheer love and enjoyment of the sport. They don’t care about how big their butt is, endorsement deals or recognition. Running is a way of life for them. Well, it’s not for me. Over the last year, I have come to really enjoy running, because I’ve gotten (by my standards) good at it. But when I was on that course today, my body was giving out on me. It wasn’t fun and I didn’t want to be there. It didn’t matter if I had a flat stomach or a tight ass. None of it was worth it. I wanted to go home and eat a blueberry pie. With ice cream.
Two miles in, I saw one of the professional triathletes running with a huge smile on her face. She was almost done. I wanted to punch her in the mouth. Then the worst thing happened. Gulp. It’s almost too humiliating to admit. I… walked. On a normal day I can get my heart rate from 172 to below 100 in less than a minute. But even when I was walking my heart rate was still above 160! I just wanted to find a shaded tree and lay under it. It was the feeling of pure shame. I thought, on more than one occasion, of finding a ride and disappearing from the race. I imagined a life where I slept in on Sundays and watched Lifetime Original Movies in bed and never EVER worked out or moved a muscle that I didn’t need to.
I finished the race. I ran through the finish line. Of course when I say “ran,” I really mean trotted. By the end, there was nothing left for me to give. I saw black spots and thought I was going to faint and had to sit down with my hands over my head and my head between my knees.
This was my third triathlon. The first two I completed left me feeling euphoric. Today I felt overwhelmed. I thought about what lay ahead of me. I thought about how miserable every second of that run was. I knew I would have to do it again in August, but next time would be for real. Despite all of my training, 10 hours a week, every week, it was simply not enough. What the hell kind of monster do I have to become to finish in Chicago without walking? How many pounds do I have to lose? How many miles do I need to add? How many two-a-days or three-a-days will I have to do? It is just all so overwhelming.
Those who write down their goals are a kazillion times more likely to accomplish them (I researched that figure. “Kazillion” is accurate.). I said I would finish that race in Chicago and I will. Moreover, I’ll do whatever it takes to get to the point where I don’t have to walk for any part of those 6.2 miles. I’m just incredibly sad that I’m not going to love it.
So, I finished dead last. My dreams of Iron Glory were shattered. But lest you forget whose blog this is, I was absolutely, hands down the prettiest person there. Male or female. So I do get a gold. Just sayin…
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Red Beans and Rice Didn't Miss Her...
I’ve been writing this entry in my head for months. The general tone of my blog has been pretty raw – I rarely hold back, which just about sums up my personality. But with this topic, I will proceed with a certain amount of… trepidation. Don’t judge me.
I have dated two types of men in this world: Chaz Michael Michaels and Tyrone. Chaz Michael Michaels is white. He played lacrosse in college (insert random white sport: tennis, swimming, polo…). He summers in Cape Cod and plays beer pong with his dudes for fun. He listens to Smash Mouth or Radio Head or whatever mainstream band gets played on the local alternative station. Chaz Michael Michaels likes skinny white girls. Beautiful skinny white girls with bodies like a 12 year-old boy. Chaz Michael Michaels thinks Kiera Knightly is perfection.
And then there’s Tyrone. (Call him!) Tyrone is black. He played football in college (or basketball, track, etc.). He pledged to whichever fraternity was popular on his campus. He listens to Jay Z or Gucci Mane or whatever censored artist is playing on the rap stations. Tyrone summered ‘round the block growing up, but now he kicks it with his homies in Chicago (insert major metropolitan city). Most of all, Tyrone loves black women. Full, thick, curvy beautiful black women. Beyonce Knowles has this in Spades.
So, where does that leave me? I am clearly not white, but as a Latina I am technically not “black,” or African American either. Yet, I've been attracted to and wanted by both these stereotypes.
I try to plant myself firmly in the center of Knowles/Knightly arena, not wanting to limit my options, but mostly because I am unsatisfied if everyone doesn’t adore me. But I am one hot dog away from losing Chaz Michael Michaels interest (at least the ones who aren’t stuck on the “white” part of “skinny white girls”). The conundrum is that I’m also about three cardio sessions and a stick of celery away from getting glossed over by Tyrone.
I work for a multi-cultural advertising firm in Detroit. For the first time in my life I am in an environment with more black people than white. In fact, my entire team happens to be black, except (as they often point out) for me. My co-workers are my friends. We hang out. We crack jokes. We talk. We discuss… things. For instance, we recently had a discussion on the sexiest feature of the opposite sex. Invariably, for black men, it is the gluteus maximus. Listening to the way they describe it is humorous of course, but also a little unexpected. To er, summarize, they (and clearly my colleagues are speaking for all black men everywhere), like to be able to, um, slap a girl’s “buttocks” and see it ripple. They don’t care if it has cellulite. I reminded them that cellulite is of course the little dimples that resemble cottage cheese randomly dispersed on one’s backside, thigh, and hamstring region (you know, the reason I spend hours at the gym!). They remained undeterred. Bottom line, for Tyrone, no ass is a deal breaker.
I have had a lifetime of experiences with Chaz Michael Michaels. I grew up with Chaz. I went to college and grad school with Chaz. I have had long-term relationships with Chaz. Chaz Michael Michaels wants to bounce a quarter on a girl’s buttocks and see it bounce right on back up (no ripple, please). Skinny. Firm. Tight. This is Chaz Michael Michaels Holy Grail, his reason for living. In fact, no ass at all is just fine. Bottom line, for Chaz Michael Michaels, too much ass is a deal breaker.
It seems so simple, doesn’t it? I can run away with the likes of Idris Elba, eat what I want (within reason) and be appreciated and desired for having a shapely body. But damn it if there’s not something about Bradley Cooper!
I joke about this, but subconsciously, part of what draws my hand to reach for Smart Water over Aquafina (which is cheaper) is my desire to look like Jenniffer Anniston. Not in terms of being a white girl, but in terms of being SKINNY. My job is advertising and there is a reason I get paid… it works! I don’t think I would be as likely to reach for that water bottle if, say, Jennifer Hudson was the spokesman (but I did buy her album!). Even if we talk about mainstream America’s ideal of beautiful women of color, Zoe Saldana and Thandie Newton would be on the forefront of that list. Both these girls need a few Twinkies and a thick creamy milkshake. They’re certainly capable of attracting a Bradley Cooper, but Jay Z would rather date Rosie O’Donnell than grab onto their bony frame.
I strive to be skinny because that’s what I know. If you’ve read any of my blog, you know that I am very happy with the way that I look. After all, I am a triathlete. But dang if I wasn’t 10 pounds lighter, I would be settin’ it off! And summering in Cape Cod with… Chaz Michael Michaels. The problem, of course, is that Tyrone would be more interested in Lafonda than Lonelli. So it seems, and maybe for the rest of my life, I will teeter between a hot dog and three cardio sessions and a celery stick.
I have dated two types of men in this world: Chaz Michael Michaels and Tyrone. Chaz Michael Michaels is white. He played lacrosse in college (insert random white sport: tennis, swimming, polo…). He summers in Cape Cod and plays beer pong with his dudes for fun. He listens to Smash Mouth or Radio Head or whatever mainstream band gets played on the local alternative station. Chaz Michael Michaels likes skinny white girls. Beautiful skinny white girls with bodies like a 12 year-old boy. Chaz Michael Michaels thinks Kiera Knightly is perfection.
And then there’s Tyrone. (Call him!) Tyrone is black. He played football in college (or basketball, track, etc.). He pledged to whichever fraternity was popular on his campus. He listens to Jay Z or Gucci Mane or whatever censored artist is playing on the rap stations. Tyrone summered ‘round the block growing up, but now he kicks it with his homies in Chicago (insert major metropolitan city). Most of all, Tyrone loves black women. Full, thick, curvy beautiful black women. Beyonce Knowles has this in Spades.
So, where does that leave me? I am clearly not white, but as a Latina I am technically not “black,” or African American either. Yet, I've been attracted to and wanted by both these stereotypes.
I try to plant myself firmly in the center of Knowles/Knightly arena, not wanting to limit my options, but mostly because I am unsatisfied if everyone doesn’t adore me. But I am one hot dog away from losing Chaz Michael Michaels interest (at least the ones who aren’t stuck on the “white” part of “skinny white girls”). The conundrum is that I’m also about three cardio sessions and a stick of celery away from getting glossed over by Tyrone.
I work for a multi-cultural advertising firm in Detroit. For the first time in my life I am in an environment with more black people than white. In fact, my entire team happens to be black, except (as they often point out) for me. My co-workers are my friends. We hang out. We crack jokes. We talk. We discuss… things. For instance, we recently had a discussion on the sexiest feature of the opposite sex. Invariably, for black men, it is the gluteus maximus. Listening to the way they describe it is humorous of course, but also a little unexpected. To er, summarize, they (and clearly my colleagues are speaking for all black men everywhere), like to be able to, um, slap a girl’s “buttocks” and see it ripple. They don’t care if it has cellulite. I reminded them that cellulite is of course the little dimples that resemble cottage cheese randomly dispersed on one’s backside, thigh, and hamstring region (you know, the reason I spend hours at the gym!). They remained undeterred. Bottom line, for Tyrone, no ass is a deal breaker.
I have had a lifetime of experiences with Chaz Michael Michaels. I grew up with Chaz. I went to college and grad school with Chaz. I have had long-term relationships with Chaz. Chaz Michael Michaels wants to bounce a quarter on a girl’s buttocks and see it bounce right on back up (no ripple, please). Skinny. Firm. Tight. This is Chaz Michael Michaels Holy Grail, his reason for living. In fact, no ass at all is just fine. Bottom line, for Chaz Michael Michaels, too much ass is a deal breaker.
It seems so simple, doesn’t it? I can run away with the likes of Idris Elba, eat what I want (within reason) and be appreciated and desired for having a shapely body. But damn it if there’s not something about Bradley Cooper!
I joke about this, but subconsciously, part of what draws my hand to reach for Smart Water over Aquafina (which is cheaper) is my desire to look like Jenniffer Anniston. Not in terms of being a white girl, but in terms of being SKINNY. My job is advertising and there is a reason I get paid… it works! I don’t think I would be as likely to reach for that water bottle if, say, Jennifer Hudson was the spokesman (but I did buy her album!). Even if we talk about mainstream America’s ideal of beautiful women of color, Zoe Saldana and Thandie Newton would be on the forefront of that list. Both these girls need a few Twinkies and a thick creamy milkshake. They’re certainly capable of attracting a Bradley Cooper, but Jay Z would rather date Rosie O’Donnell than grab onto their bony frame.
I strive to be skinny because that’s what I know. If you’ve read any of my blog, you know that I am very happy with the way that I look. After all, I am a triathlete. But dang if I wasn’t 10 pounds lighter, I would be settin’ it off! And summering in Cape Cod with… Chaz Michael Michaels. The problem, of course, is that Tyrone would be more interested in Lafonda than Lonelli. So it seems, and maybe for the rest of my life, I will teeter between a hot dog and three cardio sessions and a celery stick.
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