The Holy Grail of Bicycles

You know the saying, “There’s a sucker born every day?” Well, that saying was conceived December 26, 1988, the day of my birth. (I know many of you are surprised that I’ve accomplished so much in my 21 short years of life. The term child prodigy comes to mind.) I digress. That saying was formed with me in mind. I won’t share with you the cost of my brand new Cannondale CAAD 9 Féminine 5 Road Racer, in its shiny silver aluminum gloriousness. But the only comparison to it would be the Holy Grail of Christmas Presents. An Official Red Ryder Two Hundred Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time. Just brilliant. Caady, as she’s called, is complete with Shimano 105 gears, Shimano RS10 rims, hubs and spokes. It’s true that I have no idea what that means or how it will affect my ride, but it is nice. The salesman told me so himself. My bike is specifically designed to account for my freakishly small hands, weighs less than Kate Moss’ lunch and mounted on it is this thing that tells RPM. Clearly, this bike is going to make me go so fast I almost don’t need to practice. It races itself. So I can ride like the wind blows.

Sadly, I’ve been told that when I show up to Chicago on game day, I’m going to get laughed at. These clowns are serious. A cheap bike to them is 5 Large. That’s $5,000 for my pigmently challenged friends. Now people, I may be a sucker, but mama didn’t raise no fool. Besides, if I had 5 G’s to spend (that’s still $5,000… try to keep up), I would definitely be getting a pair of heels out of that exchange. And not from Macy's. But from a little store on 5th Avenue called Saks. Eighth floor, please.

I have to tell you that I’m a little nervous about competing against people who have previously done marathons, Olympic Triathlons and Iron Mans. My claim to fame is 8 years of the PRT and the O-Course, Naval Station ANNAPOLIS. Oh yeah. It’s as scary as the name implies. I’m actually a pretty competitive person in general. If I get on the treadmill next to you, I’m gonna go faster and longer just because. If that’s not possible, I’ll figure out a way to unplug you mid-stride and watch you fall off the back and feign concern as you limp away. If you’re on a diet and losing weight, I’ll munch on celery sticks alone for a week. Or add a high protein weight gaining supplement to your Slim Fast. But what to do when I have no possible chance of finishing within a half hour of these characters? If I get caught trying to dunk the swimmers, throwing sticks at the bikers, or tripping the runners I will likely be disqualified. I could wear a "Top Ten Reasons Why You’re Faster Than Me but I’m STILL Better Than You" T-Shirt. But that can’t be very cute and I’d likely miss my endorsement opportunity with Nike. Sure, sure. There’s that whole “Compete with yourself and do your personal best,” mindset. But this is my first one, so clearly that does not apply to me. I guess I’m open to suggestions…

Meanwhile, I’ll let you know how Caady performs. I’m big time now.

Tri-athletes Eat Tofu and Brussels Sprouts

I was very fortunate growing up in that I was always supremely skinny. I’m not talking about thin or svelte. I mean really really skinny. Bones poking out in awkward places - skinny. Guidance counselors making sure that I had enough food to eat - skinny. Kate Moss, you’re a big fat pig – skinny. I miss those days.

I went to a college where physical exercise was not only mandatory, it was fun. The hours right after class were the best part of the day; I got to work out. My senior year I ran 1.5 miles in 11:17; did 80 push-ups in less than 2 minutes and 101 sit-ups in less than 2 minutes. After 3+ years of struggling with the Physical Readiness Test (PRT), I had finally validated it. I got an A. I was really really skinny.

That was the beginning of the end for me. I remember going to a Navy Football game in Florida a few weeks after that PRT. I have no idea who we were playing, (because honestly, who pays attention to football games), but I do remember being there with my best friend who was the captain of the Navy track team. When I hung out with the track girls, people would often confuse me for one of them, and I loved it! My friend was constantly working out. She used to eat peas with spaghetti sauce for dinner. I wanted to be just like her. But this is the day that it all went south for me. We went to a convenience store to get her a Gatorade. I remember looking at a Snickers Bar and saying, “I really want one.” My best friend, no doubt a wolf in sheep’s clothing said,

“Go ahead! You validated the PRT. You can eat whatever you want.”

And so I did. In fact, it sort of became a way of life for me. The Navy track team captain did not have a Snickers Bar that day. And she remained really really skinny. Bitch.

Year after year I found myself struggling with my weight, but not making any real changes because deep down, I still thought of myself as a skinny girl. 18 years of thinking of oneself in a certain light is not easily overcome.

Fast forward to November 2009. I had just started a new job. And, after almost a decade of struggling with my weight, I had finally managed to be really really skinny again. And not just for that month. For a good 5 months prior to my start date, and into the 2009 Holiday Season, I enjoyed feeling like my clothes were hanging off my bones. I could try on a potato sack and it would look fantastic on me. I bought a size 2 suit and had to get it taken in. One simply cannot beat that feeling of euphoria. Pure bliss. Nothing feels better than being skinny. Nothing tastes better than being skinny.

Here’s what I’m leaving out. In December 2008 I was laid off. I was forced out of my fantastic studio-loft apartment in the West Village of Manhattan because, despite my frantic efforts, I could not find work. I left a job that I didn’t love, but that gave me a sense of accomplishment and pride. I worked for a sexy magazine title and I lived in New York and like Frank said, “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.” Well, as it turned out, I couldn’t make it there. And the way things were going, I would be unemployed for the rest of my life. Obviously, the best way to deal with this situation was to completely give up. So I stopped looking for jobs. I stopped leaving the house (except, of course, to buy food and beer). I ate whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I stopped working out. I never broke a sweat. Speaking of sweat, I dressed in sweat pants every day. After all, that’s the only thing that fit me since even my ‘fat girl’ jeans wouldn’t button. I was out of control.

February 2009, two big events happened. The first was when I was going to a party and I knew that sweats would not be appropriate. I went to Neiman Marcus and had to buy the largest pair of jeans they sold. In fact, heaven forbid I should have to inconvenience myself by leaving the house again, I went ahead and bought two. There was no getting bigger than this if I wanted to continue to shop at the normal-size stores. The second event was visiting my best friend in Law School at Stanford. Upon seeing me she hugged me, told me she loved me, and informed me that we were starting our diets in the morning.

The next ten days were the hardest and easiest of my life. I thought about food all day, every day. I was cleansing my body of garbage and with the exception of my single serving of orange juice that I refused to give up, I did not have any carbohydrates, including sugar. I counted my calories (which I had reduced to 1200 a day). I ate eggs, fish, vegetables, and chewed sugar free gum like I owned stock in Wrigley’s. But my best friend was doing it too and we were in it together. By the time I left, 10 days later, all of my clothes (albeit my fat girl clothes) fit me better. Three months later, I was back to normal. Another three months after that I was skinny. Really really skinny.

Fast forward again to April 2010. I’m training for a triathlon! Yaaaay… I’m supposed to have a Tri-athlete Body! A friend of mine emailed me last week and said,

“You’re training for a triathlon! Admit it. You spend ten extra minutes a day staring at your stomach in the mirror now.”

If only that were true. Part of the reason I so wanted people to think I was a track runner was because they were all so skinny! If they thought I was a runner, it meant that they thought I was SKINNY. All these years later, I remember the Navy track team captain (aka, wolf in sheep’s clothing) telling me,

“They run because they’re skinny. They’re not skinny because they run.”

It has taken me a decade to fully understand what she meant. I do intense workouts 5-10 hours a week. Every week. In fact, some might say that I’m training for a triathlon. ;) So don’t I deserve to have dessert after every meal? Shouldn’t I be allowed to top off my egg white omelet with a Kit-Kat and carton of Hot Tomales? Can’t I have a pack of pop tarts as a mid-morning snack? What’s wrong with having lemon bars for dessert when I finish my four-mile run?

Ten pounds after starting my job later, my weight struggle is re-emerging. Though it is a constant companion of mine (I think about food and weight as often as a16 year old boy thinks about sex), it has been easy for me to dismiss. While my scale kept going up, I still looked good. It was hard to deprive myself of my delicious treats when I loved the way I looked. In my clothes. At the gym. In the shower! Sure, sure, I was getting away from Kate Moss skinny, but in a dress I was smokin’ them. And thanks to Rebecca, The Miracle Worker, everything remained tight and toned. As I have recently come to realize, that can only last so long.

This week was the first week that I noticed I was really not happy with the way I looked sans clothing anymore. I was really not happy with the way that I looked standing in the mirror wearing fabulous underwear that was supposed to make me look like Heidi-Klum and make Seal want to run away with me, and leave her. And while I’m no where near being able to fit back into those jeans from Neiman Marcus (which I consequently gave away after a handful of uses), this morning I had to wear a skirt because the jeans I tried on were uncomfortably snug. How did that happen?

The truth is I’m not going to have a “Tri-athlete Body” unless I start eating like a tri-athlete. I’m not saying this as if I’ve just come to a realization. I have known for a while that if you want to be really really skinny, you just can’t eat. Diet and exercise is a myth. Unfortunately, the only way to lose weight is to diet. Exercise keeps one healthy, fit and toned. However, what often happens is that the appetite one satisfies after say, running, swimming or biking, is far greater than calories burned while said running, swimming or biking.

Once I get to my goal weight, my daily caloric intake will be 1600 calories - including one or two intense workouts a day. This is going to be a daily struggle the rest of my life. Every day, I will have to choose steamed vegetables over a side of potatoes; carrots over cheese; and water over (gulp) wine. Hot Tomales, Pop Tarts, and Kit-Kats will never be part of my diet. (Honestly, after my detox in Palo Alto, when did it become OK for me to eat these things?!) I will have to decide which special occasions warrant a glass of wine or an actual (unpackaged) dessert. By the way, I don’t get to have dessert every day, let alone after every meal.

Several years ago, feeling helpless over my weight issues, I remember saying to my friend, who emailed me about staring at my abs in the mirror,

“It’s so easy for you. You’re naturally skinny.”

We have since joked about that moment. It is not easy for anyone. Every skinny bitch one encounters is in fact a bitch because she’s hungry. My friend makes the conscious choice to run 3 miles every morning. She eats fruit for breakfast and half a sandwich for lunch. I’m pretty sure she eats a handful of almonds for dinner. But the point is she’s skinny. Really, really skinny.

To be satisfied in life, you must become the person you want to be or accept the person you are. If you’re happy with the person you are and you’re also healthy, that is wonderful. You are miles ahead of the rest of us. But, if like me, you struggle with your weight and it prevents you from being the person you are meant to be, it is a painful, life-long challenge that is worth every celery stick, and every pair of unused $300 jeans that you will lose along the way.

I’m going to meet with my two BFFs (Captain of the Navy track team and Stanford Law School) in Chicago in three weeks. Stanford told me she was going to be really skinny when she saw me, and she hoped I would be too. It is fitting that Chicago is the place that will see the culmination of rigorous training twice for me this summer. These next three weeks will be harder than any version of a triathlon I would dare to complete. But at the end of week one, I will be back in my jeans. At the end of week two, I will be staring at my stomach in the mirror. And at the end of week three, I will be ready to meet one of the few people in this world who loves me enough to tell me when I need to put the Twinkie down and diet.

For you skinny bitches out there, your horrible existence continues to motivate me. But for the rest of us still struggling, you are not alone. Losing weight happens one decision at a time. Losing two pounds a week is healthy, so of course my goal is eight pounds over the next three weeks. I’m starting today. So can you.

Central Park

I ran in Central Park last Thursday. On my way, I ran into Admiral Roughead in his police escorted military convoy. I actually run into him often which I find a little suspicious given that I live in Detroit. Who should one call when being stalked by the Chief of Naval Operations? I mean, enough already, Gary! I had a similar incident with an actress named Rosario. Honestly, some people have no regard for personal privacy.

Admiral Roughead was Commandant of Midshipmen when I was at the Academy. (Have I mentioned that I went to the Naval Academy?) When I think of Admiral Roughead, I am of course reminded of his catch phrase, "Everything in moderation except moderation itself." I always thought it should be "INCLUDING" moderation itself, but I have an incredibly compulsive personality. You may have noticed this?

So, I'm running through Central Park and it is literally 430 degrees outside (I am not one to exaggerate). I thought I was going to die and some unsuspecting runner was going to happen across my lifeless body. The mystery would fall upon a snarky, mixed-gender crime-fighting detective-duo that lands me my very own plot line on Law & Order SVU (BUM - BUM). End Scene.

One good thing about running in Central Park is the numbers game. The sheer mass of people running at any given time guarantees that I will actually pass people. And I'm not just talking about walkers and moms holding their toddler's hands as they struggle to take their first steps. I mean real runners. Complete with real running "outfits" (because obviously if you have a real running "outfit" you are a real runner...). But just as I would start to get excited I would get passed. I don't really mind when it's by a 30-year old meat-head sans shirt chanting, "Which way to the gym!" But when it's a 60 year old woman, it gets a little disheartening. I started thinking,

'I wish there was a bear chasing me. I bet I would run so much faster. How can I incorporate that into my workouts? I would seriously be so fast trying to outrun a bear. Or a rabid dog. But not the shit-kicking kind. Something that would really put the fear of God into me. Man. There's gotta be a way to bottle that up and sell it. Why didn't I pay more attention the day they taught business in business school?'

OK. Back to moderation. I started thinking about how we so often think of moderation as part of our daily life. Exercise (by the by, I did the 6-mile loop in Central Park in about 60 minutes. Beep, Beep!), diet, drinking, incorporating new robot moves into one's dance routines, work-life balance, etc. But what about family? I come from one of those crazy Latin-American families where your third cousin twice removed is still just "cousin," or your play aunt/uncle depending on the age gap. I am in town this week because my grandfather died. It is very painful. I call, text, email, facebook-poke my friends on a daily basis. I wish that my 71 year old grandfather had had a facebook account so that he would have known that I was training for a triathlon. He would have known that my idea of excellent child-rearing is doping your kids up with Nyquil before taking them in public or Vicodin before taking them on a plane. And he would have known that I still have a dance party in my car when Miley Cirus comes on the radio. But don't worry. He knew that I am the Queen of the Robot. He knew that I have random bursts of school spirit as I do periodically shout 'Beat Army!' for effect. And most importantly, I know that he knew I loved him. He was, in essence, my only grandfather; one of the few people on this earth that loved me unconditionally. But did he know that I loved him because I knew he always believed in me; because he made me laugh every time I spoke to him, whether he intended to or not; or because when I kissed him his mustache smelled of tobacco and he patted me on the butt and said, "Grandpa loves you."?

Much later that Thursday evening, I was sitting around drinking beers (which is so not on my triathlon training program or "Skinny Bitch" diet) with my uncles and my cousin (whom I've always considered my uncle). These men, now in their 40's and 50's were like super heroes to me growing up. Veterans all, they influenced where I went to college and my decision to serve in the Armed Forces. Even last Thursday, as I toasted my grandfather with them, I sat back and admired my uncles. Funny, charismatic and handsome, anyone of them could be a GQ model in his own right. I felt like a shy little girl who finally got invited to the party and could drink with them. Over the years, I have fallen in love with their equally gorgeous wives and amazing children (who incidentally will be severely injured if they ever try to call me their aunt!). But I don't call any of them every day. I don't even call them every month. They know that I love them. But I'm not sure that they know that I love them because I remember them tucking me into bed as a child, cheering me on as a plebe, or simply because I still light up whenever they're around.

When there's a death of someone close, it reminds me of January 1st. There's a reinvigorated sense of motivation, but by February 1st, resolutions from the new year have been forgotten. I will not resolve to call or email on a weekly basis; nor will I do anything as cliché as dedicating my race to my grandfather. But I will try to learn from this experience so that I'm not filled with the same sense of regret as I feel towards my grandfather's passing and all the pieces of me that I wish he knew. So as I think about moderation, I will consider that it should equally affect all parts of my life. And that maybe Admiral Roughead had it right after all. I will think about moderation beyond terms of incorporating a bike and swim into my running routine; beyond alternating "Go Navy!" cries with "Beat Army!" cheers; and beyond mixing up the Robot with a little bit of the running man. I hope I continue to feel my grandfather's presence in my life. But I'll always remember his last gift to me, introspection. I may even reach for it during my race in August. Maybe by then I'll have figured out how to bottle up a shark to chase me through my swim in Lake Michigan.

The Gun Show

OK, I know it’s been a few days, but believe me, I’m still in it. My training is going well, though it seems a little one-sided. Lots of running, though apparently I need to work on looking like I’m being chased, like how my BFFs do (of course, I secretly hate them). As of late, my runs have been pretty moderate (4 miles/40 minutes). I have five solid months to train and I’m in the market for a bike and a wetsuit. This is the week (for the bike anyway). And I know I’m serious about this dag-on race (trying to channel my inner warrior) because my major purchase this month will be athletic equipment instead of a fantastic pair of red-soled 5” peep toe sling-backs to ring in the spring.

(In case you were wondering, Christian Louboutin, Crepe-de-Chine Slingback: http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/catalog/prod.jhtml?itemId=prod95030181&parentId=cat13030777&masterId=cat13030764&index=4&cmCat=cat000000cat000141cat13030734cat13030764cat13030777.)

Perhaps I will just take them from Neiman Marcus and work on that whole “running like I stole something” thing. I guess whatever it takes to keep my workouts spicy. Naturally, if that doesn’t work out I know I will get plenty of practice running from brooms in the Big House. Precious??? It’s a win-win situation, really.

Sidebar: And really, I am NOT this obnoxious, but funny is funny...
I was working out with my trainer who is also a very good friend (here-to-fore known as Rebecca, The Miracle Worker), and she had me doing some arm-weights. I’m looking in the mirror (as all good stories start), and I ask Rebecca TMW, “Did you get your tickets?” She says, “To What?”
Could this be so easy?!
Me: “To the Gun Show!” Rebecca TMW: “What’s the Gun Show?”
Oh Dear…