Steve and Catherine's Life Adventures

Boot to Booyah!!

2010-11-14T09:05:00.004-06:00

I look back on last year, and most of it was one disappointment after another. The season had started with the Go St. Louis Half Marathon in April, only for my IT band to be injured which hindered my running for the remainder of the year. The pain persisted for months when it moved from my left knee up to my hip, and running even moderately for more than 30 minutes invited the very real possibility of crawling back home in agony.

Then late last year an easy run with a friend in early October produced a stress fracture on my right foot's 3^rd metatarsal. Man! It hurt just to walk, and I was "boot-bound" for nearly 10 weeks, no running whatsoever. Seriously?! said my heart. Time to re-look at everything, said my head.

Which is precisely what I did: I changed my running shoes, raised my bike saddle a bit, swam my brains out, and began incorporating yoga consistently – the P90X stuff, hardly meditative. I couldn't even get through the first 20 minutes at first, and this by far revealed the most about my weaknesses that were likely the root causes of my injuries. Patience and persistence paid off in the months that followed. Yoga made the biggest difference, as holding many of the poses couldn't help but result in increased leg, hip, and core strength. The hip healed and so did the foot, and I gratefully laced up my running shoes for the first time in months for an easy run in January this year.

I ran pain free and was thrilled to be back in the saddle; however, I didn't fully appreciate the coming "harvest" from the sowing I had been doing the last 6 months. It started with a 5K race in the city a few weeks later where I blew away a 10 year old personal best by over 2 minutes, a huge margin for a 5K, and on the same course no less. I had a hard time believing the 9-to-10-minute-per-mile girl was solidly in the 8's, and on the nearer side of 7-something even!

This year's triathlon season was more of the same, knocking down one record after another, despite a brutally hot summer. From May through November I biked at least once a week at Babler State Park (where the hills are long and top out at 16% grade), and ran the gut busting hills at Innsbrook Resort as often as I could after open water swimming with friends. Not all my races were blowout finish times, but it was clear the days of sub-par running and biking were behind me.

After a banner tri season, I turned my attention to the monkey that's been on my back for 10 years – the half marathon and finishing it in under 2 hours. To me this is an important goal, especially when looking at it as part and parcel of the Half-Ironman event, where the run is 13.1 miles, half the distance of a full marathon. In nearly every Half-Ironman I've done, the negativity and self criticism has set in immediately on the run, mostly because I haven't gotten under the 2-hour mark in a standalone half marathon event, and the thought of slogging through a run after burning my legs on a 56-mile ride repeatedly put me in a very negative mental state; the run was "over" in my mind before I had even begun.

The only way to break through the glass ceiling was to face it head on. If there was ever a time I was going to reach this goal, it had to be now. So my coach put me out on the track late this summer, where every two weeks I would run a challenging (read "lung busting" :)) set of intervals that were designed to make me think about pace, form, and mechanics. The track does not lie; I worked my butt off and got a firsthand look at what my real capabilities were.

I signed up for the St. Louis Half Marathon just 2 weeks before the race. The course is not flat and not easy. There are 2 punishing hills at Miles 5 and 7, plus nearly the entire last 3 miles are climbs of up to 12% grade. I ran the race course 4 weeks prior to the event and while I nailed my goal pace within the training run, it was still an extremely hard effort. I wasn't entirely confident I could hold the same pace the entire distance. Would the self criticism in the pit of suffering return to do battle again?

My coach said to me "Embrace the pain." And a great quote from Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own also rang true: "Of course it's hard; it's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." Up until now the voice of self criticism had drowned out the fact that suffering is expected. Suffering doesn't mean I haven't trained enough or that I don't have it in me to tough it out. It's a subtle but important difference in the mind.

Fast forward to race day, November 7^th. The weather was beautiful: 45F, sunny and breezy. I had slept 9 hours each night the last 2 nights – plenty rested; I had my race belt with 3 gels - 1 extra in case I lost one; I knew exactly where the aid stations were; I knew the course and warmed up well; I had eaten my familiar prerace meal of oatmeal, yogurt, small bagel with PB, and a little coffee; and finally, although I was a bit nervous, deep down a quiet confidence spoke to me: it's a done deal :).

The gun went off and so did we. The first mile was nearly all uphill! But honestly it was a perfect way to really get the blood going and get down to business. I ran conservatively at first, just like the plan, and when I passed Mile 1 I was spot on. Mile 2 was another bit of climbing but downhill on the backside. By Mile 3 I was cruising and feeling good. I looked at my watch and was running sub-9:00 pace. Okay, sparky, back it off a bit; there are some hills coming, and you're gonna have to dig. Mile 4 was thankfully flat. I didn't look at my watch again until Mile 6 and my time was 52 minutes – good grief! That itself was a personal best. Just hold this pace and it's in the bag! At Mile 10 the bottoms of my feet began to feel a bit numb, and I took some GU and hydrated at the aid station. At every water/Gatorade stop I slowed down just enough to grab the cup, thank the volunteer, drink it down, and push on. I was working hard but felt great.

The last 3 miles of this course are nearly all uphill, what the organizers call the "signature" of the course, where the real separation of the pack happens. I was ready and had left some juice in the legs for just this reason. At Mile 11 I let 'er rip straight up a 12% grade hill, glad I wasn't wearing my heart rate monitor :). I crossed Mile 12 at 1:48 and couldn't help but smile. Going home girl! Warrior! At Mile 13 there was one more short climb (gahh!! :)), and I emptied out the legs.

"Congratulations – you are a member of the Sub-2-Hour Club!" shouted the announcer as I triumphantly sailed across the Finish line at 1:58. Tears of joy streamed down my face as I hugged Steve and bawled my eyes out. It had been an arduous hard road to this moment, but it was surely worth it.

Sitting here writing this, it's occurred to me that had I not been plagued with injuries last year, I might not have scrutinized everything in my training. I certainly wouldn't have taken the opportunity to make some much needed changes that today have brought rewards and satisfaction I couldn't begin to imagine this time last year. I've come to more humbly appreciate that in every trial there is a great opportunity for real growth and improvement. I pray that we as a culture recover the lost art of patience and perseverance and take trials for what they are – an invitation to blessing. It's what made our nation great.

Romans 5:3-5 (English Standard Version) ³More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, ⁴and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, ⁵and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

From Barge to Yacht

2010-04-19T04:28:00.002-05:00

On my way to a personal record in the 200 Backstroke event at the 2010 Ozark Championship

My swim coach is some kind of wonderful. Two years ago if my triathlon coach hadn't shoved me out the door and into a Masters swim group, I might never have crossed paths with Hap, who gets up at o'dark-thirty several times a week to be at the pool and herd a bunch of driven (sometimes whiny J) athletes across the 4,000 yard goal line. The fact it's in excruciating multiples of 25 yards doesn't seem to faze him one bit. He hands out the swim sets like he's handing out candy; at least he expects us to receive them as if they were J. In our lane we often stand there, slack-jawed, and I can't tell if it's because it's only 5:15AM or we're in shock over the interval times he's given us to complete. You want us to do WHAT in HOW MANY MINUTES??

Inevitably we almost always end up finishing within the given interval. It's funny how he knows exactly where the "challenge" line is, which means he also knows where my "sandbagging" line is. I rarely get a pass to loaf. Putting on the Puppy Eyes alone doesn't work. I had to have raced or trained with serious intensity the weekend before to get a reprieve from the intervals du jour. Otherwise it's Go Big or Go Home, as my tri coach Jen likes to say J.

I'm holding my own in the water and to be honest it hasn't come easy; it's been a lot of hard work, and I'm still learning. However, as Tom Hanks said in A League of Their Own, "It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." A good friend and former Junior Olympic swimmer once told me there aren't many good swimmers. It simply takes a lot of time, patience, and perseverance; and in today's microwave society, 2 extra seconds at the stoplight is too long, never mind 2 (or more) years in the pool.

The key to swimming is learning how to swim. The key to swimming fast is learning how to stop moving through the water like a barge and more like a yacht. A barge can carry a large load, but it's never meant for speed. A yacht is sleek and its rudder is tapered to a point beneath the water's surface; it's meant not only for comfort but also for remarkable speed, especially given its size.

This principle is key when wanting to go fast for longer periods, actually anything more than 50 yards. The muscles wear out rather quickly when they're consuming precious oxygen at a rate greater than the lungs are bringing it in; it is imperative to move through the water as efficiently as possible. This is not to say strength and power aren't important, they are, but using the water to your advantage brings big gains that cannot be had by simply muscling your way from one end of the pool to the other. You must be more on your side, ie, like a yacht, than on your stomach like a barge. This reduces drag and also has the added benefit of being able to "unwind" like a loaded spring when snapping the legs and hips, and initiating the roll from one hip to the other, thus producing forward propulsion from the power core of the body, not from using your arms to pull your way through the water. Think of the power generated by Albert Pujols when he slugs a home run over center field. The rotation begins at his feet and gathers momentum as he prepares to snap his hips, finally culminating in his arms/bat coming around to connect with the ball. If he stood still and simply swung his arms, there is no way he could put the same force behind the bat when it hits the ball. The same is true of swimming fast.

Swimming is a worthy sport for several reasons. The first is that a person can swim literally until the day he/she dies. In contrast to running or even walking, swimming has such little impact from the forces of gravity that one can still get a good workout due to the large number of muscle groups involved, despite the condition of many joints. This is heaven for weary knees and ankles, even weak hips.

Second, swimming is the only sport where you actually feel better coming out of the water than when getting in. The sense of cool water moving around you can be therapeutic and refreshing, thus further enhancing the overall feeling of satisfaction. This is usually not the case with other sports such as biking or running, where the workout almost always results in fatigued muscles.

Third, swimming promotes strength as well as elasticity in muscle fibers, which translates to less vulnerability to injury throughout a person's entire life. When properly taught, the body learns to stretch out in the water and use muscles in a way that causes them to work together to produce correct stroke technique. This can only be done by the brain telling the body exactly which muscle fibers to recruit for a given movement at any given time. The heavy involvement of brain activity keeps neurons fresh and firing, and may actually promote healthy cognitive functions well into the sunset years of life.

I'm still a student of swimming and will likely be one for the rest of my life. It's ok though. The rewards have been more than worth the price. Yes, people look at me screwy when I tell them the alarm goes off at 4:08 AM, and I'm in the water by 5:15. But I've made a lot of new friends, I'm more fit than ever, and I'm home from swim practice as most people are reading the paper and enjoying their first cup of java for the day. More importantly, the discipline of working toward a not-so-immediate reward spills over into other areas of my life and is always waiting with the gift of that lesson to be learned: many things in this life (and the next J) are definitely worth waiting and working for.

Let the Games Begin! – Maxtrax Duathlon Race Report

2010-04-09T18:58:00.003-05:00

Thunder, rain… I read Saturday's forecast with some trepidation…but not too much J. I've been in much worse, such as finishing an entire triathlon in rain so hard it was coming at me sideways and I couldn't look straight ahead while on the bike. This was small potatoes in comparison.

I needn't have worried – the forecast turned beautiful for race day and it was spectacular indeed, 50F and sunny by gun time.

This is the beginning of my 6^th year racing triathlons. With no prior athletic background in any of the three disciplines of swimming, biking, or running, I had brazenly taken on the sport in 2004 when I watched the Ironman World Championships in Hawaii and wept over many of the athletes' stories. Pro or amateur, their unflinching determination to reach a goal was indeed something I could relate to in my life thus far. Suffice it to say 25 years ago I was an odds-on favorite to be a loser in a gutter somewhere, pissed at the world. That the pendulum has swung entirely the other way is due to the influence of many wonderful people in my life, particularly my husband who is the greatest man I've ever known, my family, and of course God Himself, who struck my brain with the proverbial lightning bolt 16 years ago and made me realize there's more to life than meets my finite and limited view of things. But that's another post J.

Last year racing was tough. By this time I was already suffering from a tendon injury near my left knee, and there was more to follow that took the trials of training from adversarial to positively ludicrous. I ended the season with a stress fracture in my right foot that made me relook at EVERYTHING I was doing to pursue this passion. I had no choice but to retreat to the basics and focus on getting stronger, period. Over the winter I incorporated additional swimming, core work, as well as yoga, and not the "meditative" stuff either. This was extreme, and it stretched and strengthened every muscle fiber in my body as well as my thinking. I had badly underestimated the power of yoga and its potential to elongate the body's elasticity.

I also changed my running shoes and raised the saddle on my bike which helped ease the compression on the tendons that run on the outside of the upper leg. After I healed up, the track became my new friend as I retooled my running technique and learned to land on my forefoot (instead of my heel), drive my arms to enhance forward propulsion, and toe off in much the same way a plane does when taking off from the runway. It sure didn't come about overnight and I'm still learning, but I'm miles away from where I was as a 10:00/mile runner.

Five months into consistent and patient effort, I reached a new milestone in my swimming and moved on to the next faster lane at Masters practice. Even I was bewildered at how much farther I could stretch an arm forward to "grab" more water. The days of swimming 3,300 yards were behind me as 4,000+ yards became a regular occurrence at Monday morning swim practice.

So this past Saturday I was pumped with fair excitement. It was the first opportunity to put my new skills to the test in an early-season duathlon.

I'm no newbie when it comes to triathlon, but the first race of the season always has a "blowing the dust off" feel to it. I had rehearsed my transitions, even my setup, and it still felt like I was forgetting something, though I actually wasn't.

We all lined up at the Start and the gun finally went off. Amazingly I was hanging with the pack and still feeling pretty good. When I could see the Mile 1 marker just up ahead I stole a peek at my watch and nearly soiled myself when I saw the first number was 7…what the?? No way, I thought; this must be mismarked.

I was wong J. On the way back I looked at my watch again after Mile 2 and was only a few seconds off from the first mile. Sure I was working hard, but…crikey! Well, alrighty then – let the games begin!

I took all of 1 minute in transition to fling the shoes off, put the bike shoes and helmet on, and fly onto my steed. The bike course was windy and hilly, but I was alternating between watching the road and watching the speed on my computer. Giddy up girl! It was exhilarating to fly down a hill at 30mph, pedal strongly and consistently up the next, and pass guys on the bike.

I flew back into transition to rack my wheels and pull on my running shoes one last time. This year I have Yankz, also known as speed laces; say goodbye to bending over and tying laces, these cool dudes make it possible to slip on running shoes like slippers.

And off I went in the hunt for more of the same speed. I was a tad slower this time but knowing I had a Personal Best in the bag spurred me on that much more.

The last hill coming to the Finish was a killer, but I absolutely left everything on the course and sprinted one last time to cross the line for a total time that was 2 minutes faster than last year – huge for a "short course" race.

I barely noticed the drive home – I am grateful beyond words to God, my family, and my coach. I realize not every race or workout is going to be top shelf, but I sure know the kind of potential that lives in a person when the heart and mind are in the right place.

Let the games begin! J

God is Holy

2010-02-07T15:35:00.003-06:00

"Holy cow!" I said as we got to the top of the 11-mile trail and took in the jaw dropping vistas of the Alaska Range mountains. It was our first time to the state; it hasn't been our last J. Both of us being fans of the Great Outdoors, it's impossible to miss the evidence of God's power and majesty contained in these silent yet enduring giants of His creation.

Yet there is one trait of God that supersedes even His power, majesty, and His Name as Creator. Above all of these other magnificent ways to describe His character, the fact He is holy outweighs the others by a measure of significance. Most of God's traits such as loving, gracious, and just, are described by way of demonstration of these traits, ie, God shows this attribute by having an object (mankind) to which He directs it. Example: the Bible says in Romans 5:8 that "…God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." There is a person or object toward which His love (and grace and justice) is directed. Indeed it would be difficult to comprehend a concept such as love if we didn't have someone to direct it towards.

God's holiness, however, is more abstract and it is difficult to give it proper attention in a short article. However, some key points can be made that will hopefully strengthen your understanding of this wonderful and supreme attribute of our Maker, and ultimately strengthen your knowing Him.

What does "holy" mean? We often use the word in rather common expressions, such as the one above, or even in more crass terms (we won't go there, but you get my drift). I find the latter expression rather interesting – we routinely think the crude is in some way mitigated by prefacing it with the sacred.

Wikipedia's description of holy is "…sacred, pure, without blemish…" but these are actually secondary meanings at best. Holy comes from an ancient word which means to cut or to
separate or to be above and beyond the rest. In contemporary language we could say it means a cut above the rest. When we talk of God's love we can say it is holy because it is a cut above or beyond human love. But when we apply holy to God Himself, we are saying He is separate, a cut above. God is higher than the world – He transcends it in His consuming majesty and power. More importantly, ascribing holy to God also points to the infinite distance that separates Him from us.

Why is this important? The reason is that God is inescapable – there is no place we can hide from Him. Not only does he penetrate every aspect of our lives, He penetrates it in His majestic holiness. No amount of passionate belief or fiery disbelief changes the fact that God exists. Therefore we must seek to understand what the holy is. God has declared in Leviticus 11:44 "Be holy, because I am holy."

Holy is one word in the Bible that is used three times in succession - a literary tool in Hebrew writing and a sign of major emphasis. The Bible does not say God is love, love, love or wrath, wrath, wrath. The triplicate use of the word holy gives it special importance and weight. In ancient Hebrew culture, using a term twice in succession indicated intimacy between two people. In Exodus 3:4 when God called to Moses from the burning bush, He said "Moses, Moses…" However, in Isaiah Chapter 6, when the seraphim called to each other worshiping God, they sang "Holy, holy, holy!!" No other word is used this way in the Bible.

In Matthew 6:9-10, Jesus instructs the disciples how to pray by giving us The Lord's Prayer. Notice the introduction "...hallowed [holy] be Your Name..." (emphasis mine). This is not a personal address; it is a petition. Every time we pray that prayer we are asking God that His holiness penetrate our hearts and minds, and that we come to understand that only He can make us holy. Without His direct intervention we are not holy, and in our culture where we pay homage to the god of independence that is indeed difficult to acknowledge. God doesn't have a standard; He is the standard and without Jesus' perfect life and subsequent death in our place on the Cross, we would be forever lost.

In the Bible no one who came into direct contact with God and His holiness came away unaffected. Not Moses, not Isaiah, or even Peter when he realized Jesus is God. In fact all of them became intensely aware of the great divide that exists between our sinful nature and the transcendent perfection of a holy God. Yet this is the amazing message of the Christian Gospel: that a holy and perfect God, infinitely separate from us, would look upon us in our brokenness, and instead of giving us what would be fair, which is His perfect justice that renders us guilty and sentenced to an eternity separate from Him (and everything about Him), He stooped down and became a human being in the form of Jesus, lived the perfect life we should've lived and died the death we deserved, substituting Himself in our place, and rendering a verdict of Not Guilty and eternal fellowship with Him for those who truly believe this in their hearts. All this because "God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him would not die but have eternal life." (John 3:16). The result is a life filled today with unfiltered gratitude and devotion to a God who truly is worthy of our worship.

How about you? Have you ever thought about what "holiness" means or is it an abstract concept? Are you now intrigued by God's holiness and His gracious sovereign reach to initiate a personal and intimate relationship with you?

Cook on High For 3 Years

2010-01-19T12:34:00.003-06:00

On New Year's Day NBC Universal broadcasted previous years of the Hawaii Ironman World Championship all day long. When I tuned in, the 2001 championship was on, and it took me less than 30 seconds to begin weeping for the athletes -- their stories, hopes, fears, adversities, causes, pressures. I could relate to the feeling of deciding to "climb the mountain" and what it takes to persevere and empty yourself out in the process. It was exactly 5 years ago I had watched the 2004 World Championship and decided right then and there that I could climb said mountain. Three years later, on my 43^rd birthday, I finished my first Ironman – a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and 26.2 mile run, all in succession and within 17 hours total. Steve and I both cried our eyes out when I held my arms high, pointing towards heaven, as I stepped across the Finish strong and with a smile J. Nine months of training had come down to this race and despite the grueling efforts of the day, it was a blast.

Little did I know the real work had only begun. Of all 3 sports in triathlon, swimming is by far the most technical. Sure, Michael Phelps made it look easy when he raked in 8 gold medals at the 2008 Olympics. Though it can be argued he is really a fish in human skin, even Phelps has been training for years to get to where he is.

If it's true of the greats, then it certainly follows for the rest of us mortals: the pursuit of excellence is hard work and requires unflinching, unfailing determination to reach. People will spend their two most precious commodities -- time and money -- in the hunt for this sometimes elusive virtue. Indeed, one look at a person's calendar and checkbook will speak volumes about where his/her heart truly lives.

I'm no different than anyone else. Certain things carry weight with me and this is one of them. I have no illusions about admitting when and where I need help, and becoming a good swimmer is one of those areas. I love to compete and coming out of an open water swim with the bike and run portions of the race still ahead makes it absolutely necessary to be as efficient in the water as possible.

I didn't swim competitively in grade school, high school, or college, so it's not like riding a bicycle where foundational skills were built at a very young age and can be picked up again with relative ease. Sure I had swim lessons when I was a kid, but that taught me how to survive in the water, and muscle my way from one end of the pool to the other; I learned nothing about how to move through the water like a yacht.

In January 2007 my triathlon coach gave me a baseline test to do in the water so she could measure my current swim abilities and give me workouts that would fit my goals. The swim test consisted of a 500 yard warmup (about 20 laps in a 25 yard pool), and then (10) 100 yard intervals, all-out effort, with precisely 10 seconds rest between each 100 yards. The total time (minus 90 seconds for rest time) divided by 10 would be my average time per 100, or what is also called T-pace (Threshold Pace). T-pace is a useful metric in many sports to determine the threshold at which effort shifts from aerobic to anaerobic states. The goal is to raise T-pace speed while delaying the shift as long as possible, hence producing increased performance at the same or lower efforts.

I went to the pool with some trepidation, knowing the effort would be difficult but ready to get her done. Man, I really had no idea; ignorance was heaven for a short moment. By the end of the 2^nd 100, I was in enough shock to barely note the time and move onto the next interval. By the 5^th 100, I thought I was going to pee myself in the water (permissible at 5 years of age, far less so at 42 J). Crikey, 5 MORE TO GO?? By the 8^th 100, I was thinking what Al Bundy would often say on Married With Children "God, you can't kill me now??" J

I survived…and ended up with a T-pace of 2m15s (2:15) per 100. Not bad but definitely room for improvement, especially in pursuit of Ironman. My coach said to find and get into a Masters swim program. I fought it for nearly a year. By the end of 2007 with only incremental improvements in my swim times, I finally said Uncle and found the Clayton-Shaw Park Masters, less than 15 minutes from my house.

Despite it being a pool, it was out of the frying pan and into the proverbial fire J. The swim coach gave me TONS of feedback on my stroke technique, which truly did require a lot of work. But in the end it didn't matter if I was the SLOWEST swimmer in the SLOWEST lane (I was J). I was in hot pursuit of excellence and I was there to WORK. I have never said "quit" to anything in my life. My immigrant parents, who were refugees from a war, taught me the precious twin traits of perseverance and discipline. I knew if I quit the only thing that waited for me on the other side was mediocrity, status quo, the ordinariness of life, just getting by. My life has been anything but ordinary and quitting was not an option. I hung in there despite the 5:15AM swim times, lung busting sets, and routine disappointments of "I SO wish I was faster." Little did I know that in addition to a solid swim stroke, I was also cultivating much-needed patience, a sadly diminishing trait in our culture of instant GETification.

Fast forward to January 7, 2010. It's that time of year again – swim/bike/run baseline tests to gauge fitness for the coming season. That day I stood at the pool's edge, well fueled, nervous for the test knowing the brutal effort that lay ahead, but also healthily confident I would do my utmost best. 2+ years of consistent Masters swimming had produced an athlete who was 10 lbs lighter, noticeably faster in the water, and was actually showing definition in her now-45-year-old arms, shoulders, pectoral and lateral muscles, not to mention two outlines along her abs. It was hard to believe the girl in the mirror that morning was actually me J.

The test was truly hard, but all through it I held on and remained focused on the task at hand. It's supposed to be hard; that's what makes it great. At the end I turned out a 1:39 per 100 T-pace, a wild improvement over my 2:15 three years ago. I went home tired and immensely thankful for the gift of health, but also for the willingness to work and be patient that good will come out of adversity. The lure of "getting by" is a bond that tempts (and sometimes enslaves) us all. Trials in life are brought to burn those bonds away and produce the fine edges of character that only come with endurance over time.

At Masters practice, I've moved on to the next faster lane and some days it's a struggle to keep up. But I have a new goal, which is the picture at the very top. (Actually my swim coach has said 1:30 by this summer, to which I've said "Are you high?" J) But it's really me who needs to adjust the "temperature" of my goals. Everyone needs a cause greater than themselves, one worth pursuing that will not only leave you physically and mentally fit, but also spill over into other aspects of your life and create lasting, eternal rewards.

Wrecked For Good

2010-01-06T12:01:00.007-06:00

Reading on the beach in Alaska at midnight J.

I haven't posted in over a year, the last update being about the beginning of the previous season in January 2009 with a bike test. That time of year has come around again for the annual swim/bike/run baseline tests - the chance to come dreadfully close to hurling my guts up while maintaining as high an effort as possible in each of the three disciplines of triathlon. Though daunting, these tests form the basis of training goals each season and provide an accurate point of reference, but one that is meant to be left behind as performance gradually improves over the months.

To be honest, 2009 was a year fraught with challenges, all of them good (the only kind really, in my book). In January I finally bit the bullet and struck out on my own in my career field of telecommunications, launching my own company, Creation Telecom Services, LLC (http://creationtelecomservices.com/). Business landed immediately on our doorstep, both an upside and downside to hanging out my own shingle. It meant I had work to do and fun people to do it with, highly desirable especially in today's economic times. It also caught me off guard, as I had actually planned on calling ALL my former customers to let them know of my new role, and figured I would be doing so for at least the first 6 months of being in business. A consultant's currency is his/her relationships with clients and this is something I've had to cultivate like a rare rose; it takes time, consistency, perseverance, and patience. Neglecting any of these puts any business on the express route to its eventual demise.

Which brings me back around to the subject of triathlon. In addition to the business challenges we've faced this year, I've also been plagued with training injuries. It started with a small twinge in my knee in April's St. Louis Half Marathon that eventually progressed to full-on Illiotibial Band Syndrome (ITBS), a condition of the knee or hip that makes it nearly impossible to run for long without severe pain around the affected area. This sidelined my running for several weeks, but miraculously I was able to rest and hold onto enough fitness to score several Personal Records in a few races such as Memphis in May (finishing 2^nd in my Age Group on the bike and beating my own course record by nearly 20 minutes), and a local Olympic distance race where I averaged over 20mph on the bike and still finished 4^th in my Age Group despite some faster runners in the same category.

Some solid and consistent physical therapy eventually repaired my knee/hip, and I resumed running and training for a last local triathlon in October whose course I knew well. I kept the heroics to a minimum on the run and ended up finishing 3^rd in my Age Group, 2^nd on the bike. I was happy with my season, especially in light of my injuries. The training/racing/hurting chapter of 2009 came to a close…or so I thought.

One early fall day in October, I was out running with my friend Debbie who's a marathon superstar. We had biked a couple hours and decided to go for an easy 30 minute run afterward, nothing fancy. 20 minutes in I had to stop due to a sharp pain on the top of my right toes; it hurt just to walk back to the car.

The next day an X-ray at the podiatrist's office revealed a stress fracture on the 3^rd metatarsal, a small crack in the bone that could result in a complete break if not treated. Even my untrained eye could see the line on the film. Diagnosis: a boot-cast and NO running for at least 8 weeks. I laughed out loud and the doctor thought I was positively nuts. What now? What else could go awry? Is God trying to get my attention, and well, I'm just not getting it? Tough personal reflection swirled in my mind as I searched my heart. Eventually I came to the inevitable question: am I wrecked for good?

The truth is Yes I am, but not necessarily in the way one might think. A profound change happened to me 17 years ago when I recognized the real reason God entered our world as Jesus Christ. Throughout my life I have had no difficulty believing in God. It's hard to miss His mark in the innumerable stars that are visible from a clear sky in the mountains of Yellowstone, or the look in a child's eyes when she holds her hands up to her father to pick her up, or the searing loss of a loved one who departed this world too soon. Whether we love Him or outright hate Him, God exists; even our resentment and sorrow is ultimately directed at Him. There is simply too much evidence in nature as well as in our own hearts that cannot be disproven despite our best efforts to deny His presence.

The uncomfortable truth of the matter is that on my own there is nothing I can do to be good enough to satisfy God's perfect standard. I often hear people say (and used to say it myself) "I don't think God would send me to hell for doing my best." A seemingly modest statement, there is a critical flaw and it is the word my. We are fond of diminishing our brokenness by substituting our own standard of what's "good". It is tempting to think God is being harsh by requiring perfection, but in reality we all want what's fair; we scream for justice when we've been wronged. Are we willing to turn "fairness" and justice upon ourselves in the same way when we have been the wrongdoer?

Sin (let's just get that word on the table now) and evil are very real and our fallen world is proof of this. Our sins affect one another in the here and now, but ultimately all sin is against God, and God rightfully requires restitution (payment) in the same (familiar) way we do when we've been wronged. If we are infuriated at injustice, imagine God's righteous anger when He is wronged countless times in one day, and then multiply that by billions of people and thousands of years. Because we are already fallen beings, we are declared guilty in God's holy tribunal; we are already in the red. It is a debt we cannot repay and it's bad news all around. Our unwillingness to embrace this awful truth makes it no surprise that Christianity and everything associated with it is under attack.

There is good news however, and it's better than we could possibly imagine. The purpose of Jesus Christ stepping into our world was to be the perfect substitute for our sins. He lived a perfectly sinless life and willingly went to an excruciating criminal's death an innocent man. He died in my place, literally became my sin, and God poured out His justified wrath on His own Son, sparing and forgiving me for eternity in an unimaginable gesture of love and grace. The God of the universe did for me what I could not do for myself. For anyone who embraces this beautiful truth, this is Good News indeed. In fact the word gospel means Good News. Like the day I married Steve, my heart was changed forever and I will never be the same. I am "wrecked" for good J.

Thank You Steve and Steve

2009-01-03T11:53:00.003-06:00

This was taken 2 1/2 years ago at Memphis in May, my first Olympic distance race, and also 10 lbs heavier!

It's a new year – woohoo! - and a new season – again, woohoo! :)

It's also time for the ubiquitous baseline tests – all-out efforts of each of the three sports (swim, bike, run) to gauge base fitness when heading into this year's training and racing. These are done at the beginning of every year, since factors such as age, conditioning, illness, and experience all affect an individual's fitness level from year to year.

The tests are not for the faint of heart. Two years ago I was blissfully ignorant. I had just hired Jen as my triathlon coach and I didn't know what I didn't know. I went by faith in Jen's experience and knowledge into each gut-wrenching trial. Each test consists of all-out efforts for approximately 20 minutes, with long warmups beforehand and long cooldowns afterward. It's equally a test of mental endurance, as it's entirely the ruling of the mind that commands the body to find its breaking point. If you think 20 minutes of all-out effort isn't “that hard”, think again. Imagine a hill in your neighborhood, a nice long one, steep too, that may take you 1 minute to run to the top. Your heart is about to burst out of your chest when you get there as you gasp for breath and contemplate puking your guts out.

Now go do that 19 more times. Then call me and say “It wasn't that hard.” Dare ya :)

Today it was about the bike. I had a great night's sleep, over 9 unbroken hours in fact, and I was well rested. I was psyched about the test, crazy I know.

Steve decided to run on the treadmill at the same time, which only added fuel to my fire. He says he loves to watch me train and I can't help but be convinced of his heart when I see the gleam in his eye. I wish every wife had a husband like this. Though it isn't the primary reason I train and race hard, having his support and knowing he takes great pleasure in watching his wife improve year after year gives me the greatest pleasure to please him in this way. Training without the love and encouragement of my awesome husband would be a serious chink in the armor of my drive.

I had all my tunes lined up on my iPod and I clipped in and settled into a nice warmup. At 15 minutes I did some 1-minute accelerations to 100+ rpms, which are meant to “fire” the legs a bit and get them accustomed to rapid pedaling.

At 25 minutes I began shifting to bigger gears, sitting up on the Big Chain Ring and gradually increasing effort. When the 30 minute mark rolled up, I shifted to an even bigger gear that I knew was a serious challenge but one I could pedal at 90 rpms or above.

I was officially in The Test.

I held back a TINY bit for the first 5 minutes, not wanting to blow it out right away. It's amazing what a difference 5 minutes can make when you're pushing hard and suffering. My heart rate was sitting at 162 which meant I was hurting, but I still had plenty of headroom to climb further.
After 5 minutes my heart rate had climbed to 170 and I looked down at my bike computer. Immediately my head screamed “Don't look at that! You'll just trash your mojo!”

But I was not to be denied today. I alternated between watching TV (where Steve was playing Firefly, the TV series spinoff of the movie Serenity) and focusing on matching my cadence to whatever was playing on my iPod. I couldn't resist peeking at my computer to see the elapsed time and I would do a quick calculation of how much time I had left...11 minutes...9 ½ minutes...7 ½ minutes...

With 5 minutes left, I kicked it up into an even harder gear. As if in response, my iPod queued up Steve Vai's There's a Fire in the House. How appropriate - my legs were on fire! This is a high-cadence, nothing-but-guitar song that would make you get a speeding ticket if you were driving. You can't help but go overboard :).

It was more than enough to spur me on. I rocketed to the end, emptying out everything my legs had in them just as the song likewise went down in blazing glory.

Pedaling easy, I peeked at my heart rate monitor and my computer, pleased with the results. The best part was that I averaged over 21 mph – worlds away from my newbie speed of 15 mph 4 years ago.

Thank you Steve and Steve :)

Steve's Idea of a Cheap BOSU Ball :)

2008-12-08T17:18:00.002-06:00

In case you're wondering what a BOSU (BOth Sides Utilized) ball is, I've included a picture above. It's a stability ball that's been cut in half and it takes "core" workouts to an entirely new level of challenge. My coach has given me an entire list of "moves" on the ball, designed of course to make me into the Six Million Dollar Woman ("...better, stronger, faster...")

The following is a conversation I had with Steve today about using one:

Catherine: “I’m going to the gym tomorrow for BOSU ball training…”

Steve: “What’s a BOSU ball?”

Catherine: “Looks like a giant breast lying flat...ya feelin’ me B?” :)

Steve “Oh yeah, I get it NOW…bouncy bouncy…”

Catherine: “So I’m going to the gym…to buy one is more expensive than I thought.”

Steve: “I could make one for you.”

Catherine (getting taken for 1 second): “Really? How?”

Steve: “We could buy a stability ball and I could cut it in half and – “

Catherine (regretting this conversation by the second): “Stop!”

Steve: “Hee hee, I think it would work…besides you look HOT in tri shorts.”

Needless to say I'll be hee-hee-ing myself to death while groaning on said ball tomorrow :)

Grateful For Commas

2008-11-24T21:59:00.004-06:00

I lost my job last week. No way, you say. Unfortunately, yes way. Simply put, our company went through an acquisition and the new organization doesn’t have room for everyone. To be fair, I was offered to stay on for the remainder of the year and as well as an equitable severance package.

I will miss my friends, which includes both my colleagues and clients. I’m in the telecommunications field, and there are no two carriers alike which in turn has made my job challenging and interesting both from a technical and business perspective. The variety of people I’ve met has taught me valuable lessons in working with different personalities and abilities. I’ve had to become more patient, knowing when to push and when to back off, as not everything happens in the way or timeframe I always want them to.

The telecom industry has been and continues to be a male-dominated field. I say that strictly from a gender perspective. Early on in my career I took an advanced training class in a specific area of technology, and I was the lone female. More recently I spoke to a group of clients at one of our user group meetings, and I was once again the only woman. Countless times I’ve been in meetings or spoken to larger audiences, the percentage of women has rarely risen above 1%.

Though the ratios continue to give the Equal Employment folks nightmares, I’ve never been treated any differently than my male counterparts – including career advancement as well as compensation. In fact when I left a previous position, I was fairly certain I was the highest compensated engineer, male or female, out of more than 300 engineers in our organization. I’ve worked as hard as my male counterparts to earn high marks among my peers and have what I’ve affectionately termed “good coin” - credibility - with all my clients. Clearly it’s been a fun and rewarding ride.

The equity ownership I had in my company is now defunct, a logical outcome of being acquired in the current economic climate. Last week I was joking with my stepmom that all 262,000 shares I owned would be worth more now as 262,000 squares of toilet paper :). We lightly commiserated about our investments and I noted that while my chances of accumulating some wealth through company ownership have been put on hold, at least our investments, though down, still have decimal points and more importantly commas behind them.

Sitting at dinner that night another thought bubbled up in my mind. If a person’s life is seen as a sentence, it would seem that each chapter or major change in life could be considered a comma, marked by the inevitable period or death at the end. In a sense, I consider losing my job to be a comma - a pause or break in the sentence of my life, not at all The End.

I didn’t always feel this way. I’ve lost a job before and at the time it indeed felt like a death. After the initial shock and subsequent sobbing was over with, I fell into a state of apathy as if nothing else mattered but the roots I had put down in my job that had been suddenly and involuntarily pulled up. I had lived a conservative lifestyle, well within my means, so it was not a money thing. Rather, I had to admit that nearly my entire identity was wrapped up in my job and to lose it so abruptly meant I lost who I was as well. No comma for me back then; though my body continued to live, it clearly felt like a period that signaled the end of my sentence or value as a person.

These days I’ve come to understand that one must live for a cause greater than oneself. Though I gain great joy from cultivating and using the wonderful gifts and talents I’ve been given, they are no longer the foundation of who I am. My view has shifted considerably from “playing Gameboy sittin’ in the middle of the Grand Canyon” (as Steven Curtis Chapman so cleverly sings :)) to deriving my identity from the One who made the Grand Canyon.

If I get wrapped up in the penalties of losing my job, I think about God who gave up His rightful position in heaven and pierced our world in the form of Jesus Christ - a man who lived a perfect and sinless life, and in the end was abandoned by his friends, unjustly accused, and finally died a humiliating and excruciating death – all to pay a debt I could not pay on my own. No job loss compares to that kind of love - “…that a man would lay down his life for his friends…” (John 15:13)

Believing this in my heart stretches my perspective on life well beyond the 80-something years I may spend in this body. The implications are huge. It turns not only a job loss but my entire life into a comma. Though the body I Iive in today will someday perish, my life is far from over – eternity stretches out before me, wildly more beautiful than I could possibly imagine, so that even bodily death becomes not a period but just another comma.

In all our job losses, rollercoaster investments, and even squares of toilet paper, I’m grateful for commas :).

The Perfect Storm - STL Half Marathon Race Report

2008-11-03T21:55:00.003-06:00

With an exuberant finish at Sunday’s St. Louis Half-Marathon, my 2008 racing season has officially come to a close. To be honest I have mixed feelings about it. What athlete doesn’t? On the one hand I am GLAD to be able to sleep past 5am, worry less about finding a pool when I travel, take a hiatus from the two-a-day workout schedules, and revel in being able to stay awake past 8:30pm (even on weekends). The most trying (and possibly amusing for family and friends to watch) was the constant need to eat and subsequent feeling of not being satisfied. (A friend at church has a t-shirt that says “Always Hungry” and at one point I was breaking the 10th Commandment – I was seriously coveting the shirt! :)). I could (and did sometimes) go all day grazing from the fridge or my briefcase, depending on what city I happened to be in that week. One night at home I was so tired of having dinner and a dessert (always chocolate-something) and not feeling “full” that I took an entire box of miniature peanut butter cups and simply sat on the couch watching CSI, eating them slowly, pausing for a few minutes to take it in, then resuming – just to see how many I could eat before it was too much.

30 cups later I was done - like a turkey in the oven - but at least I found the end of the rope :).

All joking aside, to do all of the above for 10 months straight is not only physically draining but takes its toll mentally as well. Coach Jen has repeatedly explained to me the mark of a class-act athlete is recognizing downtime to recharge is equally important, if not more so, as the all-out laser focus demands of training and racing.

On the other hand, a small part of me is already thinking about 2009 and the fun out there waiting like a good friend of many years. There are endless races to choose from, and 2 of the 3 A-races on my calendar will be new venues for me, places I’ve never raced. I can hardly wait…really…

This past Sunday was what I call The Perfect Storm. I’m fit from racing all season, leaner than I’ve ever been in my life (this year I took off 9 lbs from my 135lb frame and now weigh what I did in my 20s, except I have wads more tone thanks to swimming 10-12K yards/week), the weather was an outstanding 50F and sunny, I knew the course, and Daylight Savings was ending Saturday night giving me a rare extra hour of sleep the night before the race. It didn’t get any better than that.

We woke up early and drove a whopping 15 minutes to the race site, where I picked up my number and walked back to the car to get ready. I warmed up 2 miles, listened to my Fave Five tunes, prayed earnestly out of gratitude and for a safe and strong race, visualized my finish repeatedly, and finally walked to the Start.

The gun went off and I executed on my plan to run conservatively the first 3 miles. The entire course was hilly, some of them lonnnnnngg. I didn’t care about everyone around me, how fast/slow they were running. I just saw the ground and upcoming mile markers and stayed focused on the plan to leave it all out there, like a fuel gauge slowing running down to Empty. Because it was the last race of the season, the goal was to finish feeling like I couldn’t take another step. Immediately following the Finish is an entire week of NOTHING – no swimming, biking, running, bricks, track workouts, intervals, Masters, NOTHING. Just REST and possibly another week of NOTHING after that :).

I felt great until Mile 7 when fatigue in my legs, ankles really, began to set in. It was hard to keep going but the visualization of finishing, my mantra of being “fireproof” (not blowing up), and knowing it would be terribly difficult but gutting it out anyway – all of that is woven into the fabric of who I am -- and the entire challenge spurred me on.

The last 2.5 miles had some small plateaus but were mostly uphill. I remembered walking this portion of the course when I ran this same race 8 years ago at the age of 36.

Not today. Although very challenging, I dug deep and ran on legs that felt like stilts to the Finish where from 100 feet away I could see Steve waving. I forgot all about the pain and fatigue, and sprinted to the Finish where I promptly lifted the wrong leg for the volunteer to remove my timing chip :).

It was all I had left but I finished in exactly the same time as the spring race and on a more difficult course. I was thrilled.

Time to hang up the shoes, the swimsuit, and the bike for a couple weeks and REST.

It was a fantastic year, and I learned a TON. I’m amazed I’m still getting fitter and faster at 44 years old. I know this won’t be the case forever, but for now…

…I’ll take it :).

Good night everyone!

Cross Country Surprise - MattoonMan Race Report

2008-10-23T20:18:00.003-05:00

Though the title may sound more like a Chinese meal than a race, it’s still official: in addition to being a triathlete, I’m now a cross-country runner too. Saturday’s MattoonMan Duathlon brought with it spectacular weather and also the bombshell of the run course being changed from pavement to GRASS. I must’ve been smokin’ some to think I could blaze these trails in the same fashion as the road.

Steve and I had gotten up bright ‘n’ early Saturday morning at 4:00am to make the 2 ½ hour drive to Mattoon, IL where the last multisport race of this season was to take place at 9:00am sharp.

The race distances were admirable, even a bit sneaky -- as in play it wrong and I could end up a hurtin’ puppy – a 4 mile run, a 40 mile bike, followed by another 4 mile run.

We arrived with time to spare and on the way I had fueled aplenty with my traditional meal of coffee, water, oatmeal and yogurt. Packet pickup was straightforward and uncomplicated, and I even received a USAT windbreaker in my goodie bag – nice!

I setup my transition area and went off for a warmup.

Pavement, sweeeet…grass, gahh!!! It was an act of step-bobble-rebalance-step-bobble, repeat as necessary.

Well this was going to be fun. I could hardly wait to get onto my bike. At least that portion of the race was on paved roads.

I warmed up for about 25 minutes and headed back to my transition stall for one last check. Shortly thereafter we all gathered for some last minute race details; then the gun fired and we were off.

It was hard from the beginning. I was thinking am I just tired from racing all season or is this NOTICEABLY harder? I looked down at my heart rate monitor – 178 after one mile – eeek! I was planning on running the first segment conservatively – more like 170-ish – just on the edge of being uncomfortable. I was already in the zone reserved for the later half of the second run.

Nevertheless I made it through the first run with worthy mile splits, grabbed my helmet, ran my bike up the hill out of transition (with one hand on the saddle, mind you, a trick I’ve mastered this season that allows me to keep running w/o being hobbled by holding onto my aerobars…besides it looks way cool too, ha ha), and nearly threw myself onto the saddle to get going and get busy.

The road was pristine – smooth with beautiful rolling hills. Absent was the corn harvest dust from last year’s Ironman that had me sneezing and blowing snot rockets every five minutes.

Absent also was the WIND, no small miracle in the cornfields of Illinois. I had warmed up on the bike course so I knew what was coming in terms of grade and terrain.

I was cruising at over 20mph and I was in heaven. The sun, the warmth, the lack of wind, and the smooth roads all made for one sweet ride and it was a joy to reap the benefits of late-season race fitness. My heart rate stayed nicely in Zone 3 and it felt like I could go all day.

The bike course was 2 loops of 20 miles each and Steve practically leapt out of the car when I showed up nearly 15 minutes ahead of my estimated time on the first loop to make the turnaround. We grinned stupidly at each other, the way a couple of 18 yr olds might on a first date, dontcha know :).

I was determined to hold the pace and finish the 2nd bike loop in either the same time or a bit faster if the wind didn’t show up.

As the sun rose higher and the temps warmed, some headwinds did appear but they weren’t bad and I could hold a decent speed.

Around Mile 25 my hamstrings began to tighten up and hurt, right below my butt, and it occurred to me that I had not really stood up to pedal for most of the race. Standing up helped me stretch out and felt much better; I had been down in the aero position for a long time.

I finished the second loop just a couple minutes off from the first, happy as a clam, and then dreaded racking my bike for the second run. It was only 4 miles, but man, on grass 4 miles felt like another 40 :).

In addition, the temps were now in the low 80s, and it was hot. I slogged through 4 miles and sprinted to the Finish where Tony the Race Director said “I think you got one more [loop] to do…”

“BITE ME”, I said, and we all had a good laugh.

Then Steve said Look they have pizza, and it was all I could do to NOT hurl :). I left it all out on the course, determined to surrender everything. Last race of the season, I had nothing to lose.

Oh, and by the way, I won my Age Group too :).

Running With Ike

2008-09-25T17:22:00.006-05:00

This was taken by the International Space Station and is credited to NASA.

We knew it was coming. For days I’d been watching the weather forecast and it wasn’t getting any better - one day of precipitation sandwiched in between 10 days of mild temperatures and “abundant sunshine”. That one day’s weather prediction went from “showers” to “rain” to “HEAVY wind, rain”. Hurricane Ike was about to slam the Texas coast and then head straight for Missouri.

Was I still game to run the Lewis & Clark Half Marathon? You bet! With the magic word “lightning” missing from the weather forecast I was in the hunt and undeterred. I’d been through similar conditions at the Evergreen Triathlon in July where the rain came down so hard I couldn’t look straight ahead while on the bike segment of the race. I remember my “transition towel” consisted of a little plastic grocery bag that acted as a mud-shield for my shoes, race belt, and ball cap. Why bother with anything else? I was soaked within seconds of getting on the bike.

Sunday morning we woke up at 4:15am and I looked online at the National Weather Service’s radar. After plowing through Galveston Island in Texas, Hurricane Ike had overnight roared up the Mississippi Valley and was blanketing the entire state of Missouri. It was actually smaller than it had been when making landfall on the Texas coast, but still unbelievable. I had trouble imagining a storm system over 250 miles wide; when it reached Texas, Ike was estimated to be anywhere from 600-900 miles across!

We arrived at the race site at 5:45am, a full hour before the Start, and cars were already backed up to both main entrances in the parking lot. The rain was coming down in torrents and after parking we just sat in the car and stared straight ahead - me longing for (more) coffee and Steve possibly wondering what he was smoking when he agreed (enthusiastically) to accompany us to the Start before heading off to church later that morning. The good news was that we had prepared with the right gear both before and after the race – Gore-Tex rules :).

Finally we got out of the car and within seconds were drenched and sloshing through standing water. He wore a poncho, and I had on Gore-Tex pants and jacket, and also brought a post-race change of clothes stuffed in a plastic bag. We met Patrick and Kristin at the bag drop tent and just stood there under the umbrella…waiting. I thought (for about 2 seconds) about warming up but laughed it off – sheets of rain were blowing sideways and winds were gusting at 50mph. There would be no Personal Records set today, but at least we would all have a great “Running With Ike” story :).

6:45 neared and Steve headed home while the three of us sloshed our way to the Start. There were pace corrals (flags with per-mile-pace times) to help us get organized according to running speed. Patrick and I stood in the 9:00 corral and Kristin moved up to the Supersonic corral :). It was a sea of plastic – all of us wearing trashbags with holes punched in them to conserve body heat while standing around.

They delayed the Start nearly 30 minutes and we were all shivering and grumbling, wondering if the officials were debating canceling the event altogether. We would later find out the reason for the delay was that the police were not in place yet on the course because they were still dealing with numerous traffic accidents due to the weather.

The gun finally fired and we were off. All things being equal I felt pretty good. Patrick and I had agreed to run together and not talk – during a race the heart rate is so jacked up, one needs every bit of oxygen shuttled to working muscles and talking interferes with that process.

The first 6 miles were insane, but I was surprised how quickly the mile markers came. My mind was busy dealing with extremely adversarial circumstances but they were external and it made it easier to deal with fatigue and discomfort. A pathway opened in my head and I could clearly focus on running steady, holding back just a little in the first half so I could build and pour it on in the last 5K.

It worked for 8 miles and then Patrick said “hey, we were supposed to turn right here, but we turned left…” Sure enough, the course was shortened to 10 miles for everyone, including the marathoners – a disappointment for all. The south side of the course was flooded and entire trees had fallen onto the street. I applauded the wisdom of the officials to hold a challenging event but still take safety very seriously.

I crossed the Finish line still quite strong despite the weather and was very pleased. We were bussed back to the parking lot where modesty was momentarily ancient history and hundreds of athletes were changing into dry clothes.

Patrick drove me home where I promptly discovered we had no power. I let myself in the front door and realized it was Decision Time. I was already late for church but not too late. Would I give the same importance to serving God and others as I did to my fitness pursuits that morning when I woke up at 4:15am to slog my way through a 10-mile road race?

I showered in the near-dark, drank a tall glass of chocolate milk and stashed some more vittles, manually raised the garage door, and carefully backed the Jeep out. 5 minutes later I arrived at church to discover they had no power either! 300 congregants were in the lobby area of the auditorium we use – Steve and his team had scrambled to find chairs anywhere they could and it was still Standing Room Only. Turns out we had a lot of visitors from other churches who canceled services due to power outages.

I was so glad – glad to have run in the driving rain and finished strong anyway, to have made the effort to see our friends and help other folks on their spiritual journey (our church is called The Journey for that reason), glad to see Steve’s face as I came in the door.

By 1:00pm Ike was outta here, and we spent a relaxing afternoon reading and playing – how old are we again? :)

Kristin and I before the Start - check out our fashionista bags and Patrick's umbrella!!

Double Deux Deux

2008-09-16T09:22:00.007-05:00

I turn 44 today (Sept 15th) :). The title for this post was inspired by a friend and coworker who sent me the Italian version of “Double 2 2” which I simply translated into French as “Double Deux Deux”. The fact it sounds like the familiar euphemism “do-do” (at least in American English) isn’t lost on me either, hee hee :).

Like the popular phrase “It seems just like yesterday I…” shared by so many, I must admit I am not immune to this sentiment either. It does seem very recent that I officially became “middle-aged”, though I’ve also heard the phrase 40 is the new 30, and I can’t say I disagree.

That being said, I’ve spent some time in personal reflection and have come to understand there are dueling forces at work in my mind. On one side of the fence is the acceptance of the process of aging (death and taxes, right? :)) and the inevitable consequences that come along with it. The other is the realization I’ve been given the beautiful gift of health and my unmitigated fitness pursuits have yet to reach their peak. All that to say I may be getting older but I’m still getting faster :).

So I’ve compiled two lists (Steve would be proud – he’s the Uber Master of Lists) that represent each side of the aforementioned fence. Here they are.

List 1: Inevitable Signs of Aging I’ve Noticed in the Last Year:

1. I have more gray hair, way more than last year, way more than Steve and he’s pushing 50! At first I noticed only one, but I’ve given up trying to count.

2. The ability to read anything in smaller than 8pt print is gone. I officially need magnifying glasses to read smaller stuff. In addition, I need more light to clearly see print of any size. It’s not that I can’t read in reduced lighting, I have just noticed the print seems to come to life when I apply more illumination.

3. One night I realized I couldn’t clearly see my bowl of chocolate ice cream I was cradling in my hands while watching CSI. Yikes!! If I held the bowl about a foot away all was crystal clear (but who wants heavenly elixir moving in the opposite direction?? :)). I’m still nearsighted but anything in close range (within a foot) is blurry and now needs magnification.

4. I need more time to recover from hard training days. Dara Torres (41 year old Olympic swimmer) expressed the same sentiment during this summer’s events. She may be as fast as the young studs, but as the body ages it needs more time to recover from hard efforts. I’m not supersonic by any stretch, but I’ve come to realize I can’t bounce back unaffected like I could in my 20s.

5. I have a greater sense of urgency (and not when going to the bathroom :)) for my family, friends, and everyone who comes into my path to receive meaningful and accurate information about God and who He really is in a sensitive, compassionate, and real way, when/if the timing is right.

6. I have a deep peace that I don’t need to financially plan for 70+ years any longer; 40-50 will do it!

7. I have more hair on my face! The first subtle yet visible sign of shifting hormone levels has left its imprint in the form of fine peach fuzz above my lip and along my jaw line. I’m still “safe” though – Steve can grow a full beard in about an hour! :)

8. I’m a “cheap date” when it comes to alcohol – one beer and it’s over!

9. I’ve started opting in for more sleep in the mornings and at times delaying workouts to midday or late afternoons. It’s harder to get going at 5:00am, though I still enjoy a long swim in the pre-dawn hours :).

List 2: Aging’s Alter Ego (aka “I’ll Go Down Fighting! :))

1. One year ago exactly today, on my 43rd birthday, I trained for and completed my first (but not last) Ironman triathlon. I wrote a story about my race experience and it became the catalyst for this blog :). To this day I still hear from folks who have been touched or inspired by that first post now over a year ago. Awesome!

2. I got my first (quite possibly my last – man it hurt BAD) tattoo – the red M-Dot Ironman symbol is permanently etched above my right ankle, not so much as a public symbol of my achievement but more as a reminder to me that I actually finished the race.

3. My desire to love God with all my heart and to know Him more than ever is off the charts this year. Along with it has come a deeper longing for heaven and a certainty that this is not my permanent home. Don’t get me wrong; I LOVE my life and everything about it, good and bad. However, it would be a terrible gamble to think this is all there is – and be wrong about it in the end. The very idea of God is worth investigating; He promises those who seek Him with all their heart (as in an open heart) will find Him.

4. Steve and I are celebrating our 10th anniversary tomorrow. This year more than ever I have been deeply grateful for every day we have together. He is my best friend, the buddy I never had as a kid, and there is nothing we don’t share. We are completely open and vulnerable to each other, and I treasure being known by another, warts and all.

5. I play more, as in kid kinda play. I ran a race last Sunday and in the goodie bag along with my race number was a mini Frisbee – cool! Tonight after dinner I picked up the Frisbee and said to Steve Hey, it’s my birthday – I wanna PLAY :). So we threw the Frisbee around – inside the house – around corners – in slippers – on hardwood floors! What a blast. Thank goodness we’re empty-nesters; we are a terrible example for kids at times :).

6. I have trouble comprehending that I was already in college when many of the folks we interact with in everyday living were born. It’s not that I think of 20-somethings as being “so young”; it’s that I have trouble believing I am “that old” :).

7. My fire for living life to its fullest hasn’t waned at all. In fact it’s only grown and I’m constantly thinking of how I can make the best use of the most valuable commodity I have – TIME. How can I invest whatever precious hours I have left in this lifetime and use the gifts I have been given to better the lives of those around me?

8. I boldly take on more risks and challenges – I have absolutely nothing to lose except the later regret for passing on the opportunity :). A recent survey taken of senior citizens produced the following answer to the question “If you had a chance to change something in your life, what would it be?” Answer: I would’ve taken more risks. I want nothing left when I pass from this life. I want to meet God someday completely emptied out, having given it all away – my time, talents, finances, possessions, even my body.

Quotable Quotes

2008-09-09T13:44:00.004-05:00

I was out running the other day (what else!) and one of the following quotes (can’t remember which!) came to mind…another followed, and then another. I decided to compile and share a list of some of my favorites. Some are profoundly thought provoking, others are downright funny – especially the ones by Steve :).

Enjoy!

“It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard everyone would do it. That’s what makes it great.” – Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own

“You run like a GIRL!” – Steve Aubrecht

“You can’t coach desire.” – Jennifer Harrison

“A church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints.” – Abigail Van Buren

“Prayer is what you would’ve asked for had you seen everything God sees.” – Tim Keller

“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.” – Steve Prefontaine

“You can’t fake the distance.” – Jerome Harrison

“You don’t see no hearses with luggage racks.” – Don Henley

“That’s gonna leave a mark.” – Chris Farley in Tommy Boy

“The Prime Minister of Sweden visited Washington today and my tiny little nipples went to France…I do da cha-cha like a sissy girl…” – Steve Carrell in Bruce Almighty

“We buy things we don’t need with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t even like.” – Anonymous

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son…” – God

“Shut your pie-hole woman!” – Steve Aubrecht

“Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.” – Vince Lombardi

“Everyone has the desire to win, but only champions have the desire to prepare.” – Anonymous

“HTFU!!” – Jennifer Harrison

“Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.” – Franklin D. Roosevelt

“Self-righteousness is the last idol that is rooted from the heart” before becoming a Christian. – George Whitfield

“In a week, I train the same or less than the average person spends watching TV.” – Catherine Button

“I know God created me for a purpose, but He also made me fast; and when I run I feel His pleasure.” – Eric Liddell, Chariots of Fire

The Sovereignty of the Track

2008-09-01T11:25:00.005-05:00

I finished my last A-race of the season two Sundays ago, the Timberman 70.3 Ironman, and it was truly a blast. The course was not easy (they never are). Jen’s adorable hubby Jerome summed it up best when he said “You can’t fake the distance.” He is so right. The half-Iron distance of a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, and 13.1 mile run will cut you wide open and reveal the stuff inside; everyone is susceptible – age-grouper, elite, or pro.

I may be finished with triathlons for the remainder of 2008, but the season is far from over. I’m registered for a ½ marathon in a couple weeks and in the hunt for a new Personal Record. I’m in the best shape of my near-44 years, including the time I played fast-pitch softball for 12 years in school. Though playing ball taught me nothing about elementary skills in each of the three triathlon disciplines such as balance in the water, proper pedaling skills on the bike, or the “falling-forward” motion needed in running to maximize momentum (all of which are second nature now), it did teach me incredible hand-eye coordination (some girls could hit the ball really hard and line drives would fly at 100+mph to me at shortstop – either I learned to react or I would lose an eye) and a willingness to take on challenges. This last trait has been key to moving forward in this awesome sport of triathlon that I’ve grown to love (or it’s a bad addiction and I’m up that Egyptian river called Da Nile…:)).

So now it’s back to core work with weights and the track. I did my first strength session this past Monday and my legs were still “talking” to me 3 days later. Thursday I also had a track workout with five 1-mile intervals, bracketed by 2 miles each warm-up and cooldown – a total of 9 miles of running -- with legs that are 11 days post-Timberman, still pissed off from Monday’s strength session, and even more furious from Tuesday’s visit to Babler Park where I climbed 15 lungbusting hills with Kristin in the early pre-dawn hours.

It was 70F and 90% humidity when I headed to the track at 5:45am. My legs were saying What the…??? Are you insane?? Have you forgotten how you’re hobbling down the stairs to your office?? :)

But my mind was into it…maybe I am insane…

I had just enough in the tank for the workout and it wasn’t easy, but I got ‘er done and trotted home.

I ran with no iPod, which is a habit I’ve begun in the last couple months. I am amazed at how much material my mind has during a workout, not the least of which is to FOCUS on the purpose of the session and how I’m doing.

Other thoughts came to me as well, and I realized that while I’m in an extremely uncomfortable state when training like this, it’s not the first time I’ve felt this way and lived to tell about it. It occurred to me suddenly that the track and God have a LOT in common, such as the following:

The track never lies – neither does God. It’s one thing He’s incapable of.

You don’t want to go to the track, but you know you must if you want to improve. Having a relationship with God is the best (and only) way to live as a professing Christian.

Going to the track sometimes involves pain. Going before the Almighty in honest and open prayer is sometimes painful.

There is no end to the track itself – it’s a perfect oval. There is no end (or beginning) to God. He has been around since before the beginning of time as we know it.

The track requires preparation before stepping on its hallowed (and rubberized) surface. It’s a good idea to prepare your heart prior to going before the majesty of the Almighty’s throne. Whatever you believe about the authenticity of the Bible, none of the people who personally encountered God in history came away unchanged.

The track doesn’t care about your accomplishments, your looks, your job, your possessions, or the latest trends. Neither does God; what he cares about deeply is your heart.

The track reveals who you really are. Going before God produces the same result. He knows everything about us (he made us remember?); there is no “faking it” with Him. Could this be why we run from Him sometimes?

Believe it or not, the track is there for our good (did I just say that? :)). Though it seems a blatant incongruity, God’s heart toward His children is for their good – always. I don’t write this flippantly. Right now members of our family as well as several close friends are in terrible pain, and God’s goodness is hard to see through the curtain of grief. Steve and I have experienced a fair share of anguish in our own lives, and we have also experienced the healing hand of God leading us through dark valleys of sorrow. We pray for God's comfort and strength to bear them up during these hurting times.

There is a definite end to the track workout. There is a definite end to our lives (though not to us) and it is at this end we meet our Maker.

Coming away from the track can leave you drained but gratified and joyful with your accomplishment. Coming away from the presence of God can (and does) leave you with joyful gratitude about your life and what your purpose really is :).

The Three D's: Dig Double Deep - Timberman 70.3 Race Report

2008-08-26T10:46:00.007-05:00

Kristin (left) and I minutes before Timberman Start - I'm licking off the remnants of the Clif Bar that would later give me fits during the race :).

“No, we don’t have anything like that here,” said the lady in response to my query of whether the town of Laconia, NH boasted an IHOP or Denny’s. “But there are three Dunkin’ Donuts nearby…”

No way!!

Way!!

Nice. I knew Dunkin’ Donuts had at least expanded their menu to bagels and they have AWESOME coffee. Where there are bagels, there is usually peanut butter, and I had plenty of Clif bars to fill in the gaps if necessary for a pre-race meal Sunday morning.

As it turned out my rabbit food wouldn’t need to pinch hit that day. Dunkin’ Donuts is making a serious effort to introduce “healthier” choices – funny for a sweets-mainstay of a company with “donuts” in their name isn’t it? – and they mean business. Sure enough, at 4:00am their doors were open, lights were on, clerks were friendly and efficient. Steve and I walked away with coffee, juice, grain bagels, peanut butter, and a delightful flatbread sandwich of egg whites, a sprinkling of turkey sausage, and some skim mozzarella. This was no greasy McDonald’s egg and cheese sandwich. It was “dry” and just the right size and combination of the right nutrients for a pre-race meal.

I downed the triangle at 4:50am sitting in the parking lot at the race site. Though the dawn was coming, it was still dark and the transition area was not very well lit in my corner, so I relaxed for a few minutes in the car with Steve and sipped my coffee. Still more than 2 hours til Start and I had already racked my bike the night before and tested the water (with my new wetsuit – woohoo!).

I had done my homework and prepared well for this race – well almost (more later). Steve, my supersonic-triathlete-friend Kristin, and I had driven the bike course the day before, and of course it looked tough. I’ve come to accept that none of these races are “easy.” But at least we knew what to expect and where.

I mixed my special potion of Carbo Pro with water and Gatorade. Carbo Pro is a white powder that contains complex carbs to help maintain calorie intake on the bike and/or run without having to eat solid foods that could upset the stomach. It also strongly resembles cocaine in its appearance and I find that rather funny. Since I don’t pay extravagant amounts of attention to self-image and, hence, like to mess with those who do, I’ve often thought about (very visibly) dipping my pinkie finger into my baggie of “white powder” before a race and rubbing it on my gums, maybe “accidentally” get some above my lip – just to see what people around me would do.

But, alas, not today. Like Dunkin’ Donuts new healthy menu, today’s race was serious business and I needed to focus.

I went to find Kristin, and we blasted out on our bikes for a quick warmup on the run course. Good thing we did so I could see where the early porta-potties were – more on that too.

After we got back, we got into our wetsuits and Steve took some pictures. It was time to walk to the swim start so the three of us hiked along the sandy beach along with a couple thousand other lemmings, I mean people, to the Start :).

There was a Clif tent on the beach and the rep was giving out free Shots and Shot Bloks. Kristin and I looked at the flavors. Hmmm…espresso…2x caffeine…one of my favorite GU (competitor brand) flavors and one I reacted to very well. I was thinking Clif might taste the same, maybe? I grabbed one, tore it open, and took some.

I wasn’t hungry at all (the sandwich filled me nicely) and instantly I remembered why I’ve never connected with Clif’s flavors. It tasted terrible but by then it was too late – I’d eaten it all. There was no water to wash it down either.

Beeg Meestake Number 1 – Never ever EVER eat within 30 minutes of the swim start. I did this at Memphis – one would think I learned my lesson.

I regretted it 20 minutes into the swim. The same lump rose in my throat as it did at Memphis and it would be a constant struggle the rest of the race.

My swim wave was crowded and I often ran into the feet of someone ahead of me. This is something new this year. Usually it’s been the opposite: someone runs into (sometimes over) me from behind.

This time a person’s leg bumped the side of my face and knocked my goggles clean off. It didn’t hurt and I reacted quickly, raising my head above the water and adjusting them back onto my face.

I made the final turn, rolled to breathe, and promptly gulped in a mouthful of water – the water was rough and it was impossible to breathe on my right side. I very briefly rolled onto my back to clear my nose and another’s swimmer’s hand came across my face and clipped me right under the nose. Gahhh!!!

Finish this swim and get out there on your steed! I thought to myself. I clawed my way to the shore and tore into transition, the pain in my throat already showing its bad ugly self. Why did I eat that Clif Shot? What was I thinking?? I scolded myself for being so casual about deviating from what I knew to be right.

Right out of the park the bike course turned into a long climb but surprisingly I wasn’t too bothered by it. I knew it was coming and I alternated between standing and staying seated, which uses different muscle groups and spreads out the load. I learned this from riding with Kristin, and it has had a significant impact on my mental approach to hills overall. Thanks Kristin! :)

By Mile 30 the painful reflux in my throat was becoming more persistent. Drinking or eating anything was nearly out of the question and I had to force myself to do it. Instead, pulling over to force myself to hurl was looking pretty good. Anything to move whatever was sitting in there.

The course was hilly but it didn’t seem as bad as Ironman Kansas. Maybe it was all the people, the support and traffic control on the road, the road conditions themselves – all of it was wonderful and it helped me deal with the challenges at every turn.

At one point we were screaming down one of many hills, and I actually peeked at my bike computer – 45 mph. I nearly soiled myself. A crash at this speed wouldn’t leave much of me to clean up. But halfway down I pushed away any doubts and screamed YEEEHAAWWWW!!! with childish glee (or utter terror?)…I don’t remember. I just tucked my knees into my frame, got down into my aerobars and flew past people who were tapping their brakes. I could see all the way down to the bottom and it was clear sailing the whole way. No brake-tapping for me…

After Mile 40 I looked at my watch and realized if I held on for just a bit longer I would actually come in under my goal time. And I did! I could’ve lain down on the grass – I was happy with just my bike time. Amazing what the mind can drive the body to do despite being sicker than a dog.

Once on the run I had delayed puking til I saw the first porta-potty. Kristin and I had warmed up on the run course, so I knew exactly where it was.

It’s one thing to sit down in a porta-potty to do business. It’s another thing entirely to bend over and vomit into one. I had seen Kristin on the run course as she was starting her second loop. I told her I was sick, and she said what I needed to hear “Do what you gotta do to finish.” Her words came back to me as I stood inside the porta-potty. Just close your eyes and do what you gotta do…you don’t want to WALK the whole run course do you????

I made myself wretch and felt a bit better as I came out. I jogged a few miles and the pain began to make its way back after Mile 5. Man, 8 more miles to go…the letters DNF (Did Not Finish) danced in front of me like a dark-chocolate sundae with dark hot fudge sauce…seriously tempting. It wasn’t that I couldn’t finish, I simply didn’t want to resort to walking the course.

At Mile 9 an aid station had banana slices and I took some. The pain actually abated a bit, and I could lightly jog. I upped my cadence and opened my stride a bit more. So far so good.

When I reached Mile 11 I was hurting again, but there was music playing up ahead. It was U2’s In the Name of Love and it was loud and the best thing I had heard all day. I began weeping (of all things) and said to myself Puke or not, you’re GOING!!

I ran the rest of the way to the Finish and this was a BIG race with hundreds of people on the sidelines. Our names were printed on our bibs so people could shout your name as they cheered you on. Total strangers yelled Go Catherine! as I sailed by.

I ran while weeping and forgot about the pain, the hurling, hot spots on my feet, my body nearly emptied out of physical and emotional strength – and just poured out whatever I had left.

I crossed the Finish crying my eyes out and there were Steve and Kristin. I hugged them both, so glad I had dug DEEP to FINISH and didn’t give in to DNF.

There will definitely be other days adversity comes to take me down. Not today. I dug deep alright, and just when the demons thought I would give in, I buried them instead :).

I Was Blind

2008-08-14T15:52:00.009-05:00

It was what I affectionately call The Geriatric Express. I was on my connecting flight from Chicago to Manchester, NH -- for a business trip and to race the Timberman 70.3 Ironman -- and I was by far the youngest passenger in the first 10 rows of the plane.

I had scored an aisle seat near the front which was no small feat in itself, as the flight was completely sold out and I boarded after 70 or so passengers had already gotten on. Southwest Airlines’ policy is open seating once you board, so having a decent aisle seat near the front was really beyond my expectations.

However, things are not always as they seem. As I got seated, I came to realize the aisle seat was more like half an aisle seat, the middle being taken up by a an older gentleman who was rather tall and lanky in build. This is ordinarily not a problem for me since I’m average size, and there is some liberty with space in the aisle. It was also not a long flight, maybe an hour and 40 minutes, so I was willing to deal.

The gentleman’s travel companion was an equally senior woman, presumably his wife. I couldn’t help but overhear snippets of their conversation, and it sounded on several occasions like she was speaking to him in somewhat childlike tones. His manner of responding to her was similar, so naturally I assumed he had dementia, the beginnings of Alzheimer’s, or was simply mentally slow.

When the flight service started, he began to move around in earnest for his belongings. Several times his left arm and entire shoulder came right across my face, into my line of sight. The left side of his body would overtake the space in my aisle seat. When not moving around at random, his arm fully occupied the armrest between us – no “sharing space” or even a word about it.

A bit later the flight attendant came around to collect used cups and cans, and he didn’t make a move to hand anything back to her. He simply waited for her to take it from his tray.

I chalked it up to lack of experience in flying very much, or the sense of “entitlement-behavior” that seniors sometimes sadly exhibit. I can only imagine the trials many older people experience in the sunset years of their lives: chronic pains, weaker hearts, digestion ailments, slowness of memory as well as gait, family who don’t call or visit – in short, the world rushing by without so much as giving them a second, much less, respectful, glance.

I wish I could say my heart poured patience and compassion for my seatmates, but unfortunately that was not exactly the case. I was under more stress than usual, or I should say I wasn’t handling elevated stress as well as I could. I packed for 1) a business trip; 2) an endurance race that required air travel; and 3) some R&R with my awesome stepmom after the race. In addition, I was also traveling with my race bike for the first time. It was in the cargo hold as checked luggage, zipped up tight in a high-tech ballistic nylon bag with screws and padding in all the right places (sounds like some “enhancements” I’ll need in my 60s, but I digress…). All told, about $5,000 worth of gear was in that bag, with the bike, all its carbon fiber parts, and deep dish race wheels. I was a bit anxious to say the least – please be gentle with my baby! :)

In addition I was immensely tired. I had gotten up before 5am to ride and run, so I could get it in before heading to the airport. Then I packed the bike, race gear and clothes, ran an errand, ate breakfast, and waited for the cab driver to take me to the airport. Now the fatigue was catching up to me and my eyelids felt like lead shades over a window.

To be blunt, none of this was an excuse to be anything less than gracious to my seatmates. However, to be honest it was a struggle to not be annoyed with them. After falling asleep and jerking awake for the 10th time, I finally got up from my seat and went to the restroom. Upon returning I settled myself back in for a good read from my book, and…

…on the floor, sitting at the feet of my senior seatmates, in perfect peaceful repose, …was a beautiful young Golden retriever, his loving brown eyes inquisitively moving back and forth at his owners’ feet, as if to say Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do for you?

I was astonished to say the least. I’ve flown literally millions of miles around the world - several times over. I’ve seen service dogs at airports, but never actually in the cabin with passengers. Usually they’re crated and placed into checked luggage.

Not this time. I leaned over and asked the woman:

What is your dog’s name?

Woman (with a distinct Southern accent): He’s mah husband’s dowg…

I turn to the older gentleman sitting next to me, and…

Where one would expect to see two eyes looking out, instead there were empty and squinting sockets.

The man was blind.

Waves of understanding poured over me – the slow talk, the lack of awareness of “personal space”, not handing his cup to the flight attendant…it all made sense now...and my heart suddenly ached with pity, compassion,...and guilt.

Somehow I had the presence of mind to ask What is your dog’s name?

Man (quite amiably): His name is Gyro, but I call him Killer because he kills and dismembers Teddy Bears :).

He’s precious! How old is he?

Man: He’s 3 ½ years old and he’s the best. He’s helped me through so many struggles in life.

I murmured a polite affirmation and turned back to my book. It was a struggle to keep the tears back. Even writing this now tugs at my heartstrings.

I was the one who didn’t see. I was the one who was blind and it was worse than any physical handicap my neighbor had. I was annoyed and didn’t bother talking to them for an array of minor infractions - until I saw their dog - and even then I didn’t fully see.

I wondered Is this how I appear to God sometimes? Am I blundering about in life, blind to what He has for me, annoyed at the “inconveniences” of life, really because sometimes things don’t go the way I would like? How EASY it is to be a Christian when everything is “right” – people are nice, job is good, family relationships are strong.

I’ve viewed firsthand the jaw-dropping majesty of some of the most spectacular places on earth. I marvel at the Hand that created such beauty…and I’m ashamed that I would have the nerve to be annoyed with Him when things don’t go my way. I really can’t see what He sees – I am limited in my vision in endless ways, an ant crawling on a Rembrandt painting.

I’m grateful that, among His other magnificent traits, God is long on patience and loving kindness. That He is rich in unmerited favor, or grace, and doesn’t kill me on the spot for feeling this way. Sure, I'm "ok" compared to my human counterparts. But in God's standard, I'm well into the red. God could hit the Smite Button and be perfectly justified - I've wronged him endless times.

Instead He enriches my life with other people who help me see where my blind spots are. I pray for the humility to see these lessons no matter where they come from.

“I once was blind, but now I see…”

God’s grace is truly amazing.

A TwoFer Weekend - Ultramax Race Report

2008-08-06T17:26:00.005-05:00

This was taken this past Saturday at the Ultramax Triathlon Series. My friend Kristin Moore is in the middle (she won Overall Female in the Quartermax - supersonic girl!!) and Shelby Sullivan, President of the Big Shark Michelob Ultra Racing Club, is on the left.

My knee hurt. A lot. Though the spill happened when Steve’s front wheel bumped into my back wheel at a stoplight last Tuesday, it wasn’t his fault at all. We both wear small rearview mirrors on our shades, so I could clearly see he had fallen, and I was so concerned with his well being that I completely forgot to clip out of my shoes.

I wavered for a moment like a squirrel on a wire, and down I went…hard. My right knee took the brunt of the fall, and in seconds I was a turtle stuck on its back – with my right leg pinned under the bike and my left at an odd side angle, I couldn’t clip out of my shoes, and I simply wriggled helplessly on my side. At least one curse escaped from my mouth, and the tears were nearly spilling down my face, as I was equally angry and hurting badly. Steve came and helped me right my bike. Though he had fallen also, he had mostly scrapes and was largely ok.

I had landed right on the front edge of my patella, and the pain was so intense I limped over to the side of the road where I promptly bent over and nearly puked my intestines out. Several really nice folks kindly asked if they could call someone and Steve smiled, said thanks, and politely declined. If I had actually sliced my leg off, then he would be calling for help; anything else was fixable :).

We rode home slowly where we both downed 800mg of ibuprofen and donned icepacks for our knees.

I couldn’t believe it – 3 days before Innsbrook Ultramax, and only 2 ½ weeks before my second A-race of the season – the Timberman Half-Ironman. Every challenge is an opportunity right? Right.

So here we were 4 days later early Saturday morning driving to Innsbrook, MO for the Ultramax Triathlon Series. It was a lonnnnnnng drive – an entire 45 minutes!! :) A nice change from other venues, and the knee was feeling well enough to weather a challenging bike and run in hotter-than-hell temperatures even at 8am.

This time I was laser focused as I racked my bike and setup my transition area. I turned on my MP3 player with what I call The Inner Circle tunes – a select group of 10 songs that kick my brain and body into gear, no matter how bad I feel.

Mentally I did a “walkthrough” of my transitions, going through the motions, making a note of exactly where my bike was from the run and swim entry points, checked all bolts, tires, gears, fluids, and felt splendid during my warmup, the knee pain nearly forgotten. It's not that I haven't done these things in the past. This time, though, I was very intentional.

When the cannon went off for the swim, I ran and dove dolphin-style into the water and began my reach in earnest for the first buoy. This is funny because last year at this very same event, I was nearly weeping with tension before the start. Along with everyone else I was nervous about the swim. With every race this season however, that tension has been pushed farther back into my mind, replaced with cool confidence in my abilities and viewing myself as an experienced triathlete who, on the edge of turning 44, is STILL coming up the curve of her potential.

I came out of the water 35 seconds ahead of my goal time – nice! – and bounded up the hill to grab my bike. As I tore into transition, I happened to glance down at my watch and saw 177bpm – wow! As I reached my bike, a wave of nausea hit me out of nowhere (man, NOT AGAIN…!), and I bent over (AGAIN :)) for a few seconds until it passed.

I hopped onto my bike and pedaled like mad to get momentum going. The hills came immediately and relentlessly. These were not the long gutbusters of Ironman Kansas, but they were steep and I was out of my saddle halfway up most of them. My heart rate reached 178bpm on a couple, which made me grin and push even harder as I crested the top. The bike was only 17 miles and I could suffer for an hour on my steed :). Mental fortitude – ain’t it great :).

I finished the bike within 1 minute of my goal time and headed out on the run. Last year I had looked at the hill facing me and thought “You gotta be kidding me!” This time I had done a 2-mile warmup on the run course and knew exactly what to expect, and it made a huge difference mentally both on the way out as well as on the return.

Once more I finished within 1 minute of my goal time – amazing considering the weather and the course.

Knee? What knee? :)

I actually placed 3rd in my Age Group and looking at the other (younger) AG’s, I would’ve been in the top 4 of them too.

We drove home happy but quickly because Steve had an Olympic Duathlon he was racing Sunday, and he needed to rest up.

Fast forward to the next post entitled Steve Speaks! :)…

Steve Speaks!!

2008-08-06T17:17:00.003-05:00

So, let me say first off that the only part of this blog that Catherine contributed to was the title…she thought it was funny since I haven’t blogged as of yet. So here I am, the other half of a wonderful whole. I have to say she is the most beautiful and wonderful woman and person I have ever known. She is my best friend and now she is also my evil coach.

In January of this year I made one of those New Year’s resolutions that usually last a few months for some people. Now, I am a goals driven person. I can’t seem to function well without making a list of things that I need to do. In fact, I have lists for everything. Writing this blog entry is somewhere on a list. I used to judge how my day went by the number of items that I checked off. I slowly got over that but still use my lists because I have that mental disease called CRS…Can’t Remember Squat. But I digress from the resolution issue. After three years of watching my wife compete in triathlons culminating in her Ironman last year, I started having delusions that I might be able to follow her into competing. This was totally out of character for me since I am not normally a competitive person. I am not a couch potato by any means. I spent seven years in the Marine Corps and learned how to keep myself in a somewhat state of physical fitness. At almost 50 years old I can still pass a Marine Corps Physical Fitness Test (PFT)…for a 17 year old. Still, competitiveness is not one of my traits. Catherine on the other hand has enough competitiveness for both of us…plus the rest of the neighborhood. I’m digressing again…

So, I decided I wanted to do something different with my fitness routine. I was already running, although most of my running had been on the treadmill where I could watch my favorite history stories. I thought that I could take this one notch up and start riding a bike. Hummm, let’s see…running and biking. Isn’t that a duathlon? Could I possibly train for one of these races and hope to finish? Naturally I put it on a list for an item to accomplish this year. OK, now I need to train for this duathlon. Who do I know that can help me? Catherine!!!! She knows all about training. I’ve watched and heard her talk about training ad nauseum for 3 years now. So at the beginning of the year as a New Year’s resolution I put on a list the goal of completing a duathlon. And I asked my wife if she would coach me. When I asked her I thought I had said something terribly wrong by the look on her face. It was a cross between shock, crying, disbelief and devilish mischief. She looked out the window and said “I think I see a pig with wings”. Actually the devilish mischief look was to come later. She looked at me for a long time to see if I was joking… I can’t hold a straight face at all (terrible poker player). When I didn’t start laughing she asked me “Are you SURE you want to do this? This takes time and lots of work.” The rubbing of her hands and cackling in the back ground reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. I was suddenly very afraid of what I was asking for.

I could say that my attitude about training has been 100 percent positive for the past eight months but that would be a stinking lie. In fact, I’m right now even griping about writing this blog because it takes so much time away from my history stories. But I have reluctantly listened to my coach for her training wisdom, persevered through her training regiment for me, and actually have seen a lot of improvement. Thank you honey! I can now ride a bike without feeling like I’ve gone numb in the lower half of my body. I have run faster then I ever have in my life. And I feel accomplishment after a sweaty workout. I am in better shape now than I was 31 years ago when I was in the Marine Corps. In fact, I was in the middle of boot camp 31 years ago. I weighed 113 pounds when I went in and 125 when I came out. Now at 160 pounds I can run a mile under 8 minutes. I never did that before.

So… I made a training goals sheet that had my races on them starting in March. I ran the St. Patrick’s Day 5-mile race downtown in St. Louis. Then April was my first DU in Columbia, MO. It was a 2.5 mile run, a 15 mile bike ride, and a 2.5 mile run. Next was May 10 and the Neoga DU of 2 mile run, 14.75 mile bike and a 3.1 mile run. Then Hillsboro, IL biathlon - a 5 mile run and a 20 mile bike. Last has been the August 3 MattoonMan DU of 3.1 mile run, 24.8 mile bike and 6.2 mile run.

Here is what I have learned so far:

1) Read about the sport if you are really serious
2) Wear proper clothing (cotton is rotten)
3) If you don’t use Glide you’ll ruin your shirt (think number “11”)
4) There are worse hills than St. Louis
5) Double knot your shoelaces
6) If you use toe cages on your bike, tuck your shoelaces in (chain rings love to eat them)
7) Rain in a blowing wind feels good. Cold blowing rain while doing 20mph into it hurts
8) It still feels good to finish near last, because you finished
9) Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate
10) A coach (even your wife) still wants to you to do your best
11) A loud ping is not a rock hitting your wheel, it’s a spoke breaking

I could go on with more things I’ve learned but it’s late and my coach tells me I have a 45 minute run in the morning before work. So I must wrap this up and head off to bed. I have already accomplished my goal of completing a DU and surviving. I actually have the desire to keep going and improve myself and my times. One step, one pedal, and one kick at a time. I may get into the pool eventually and turn this into a true TRI but that will be another story. The last time I was seriously swimming was many years ago with fatigues, a full field kit, and my rifle.

So off to bed I go to dream of my evil coach making me do evil things that really hurt…well, some of the time… :)

I Had No Idea

2008-07-28T20:46:00.006-05:00

It’s not unusual to see a 20-, 25-, or even 30-year high school reunion. But a 30-year grade school reunion?? Perhaps uncommon for most…but not for us members of the St. Stephen Protomartyr Class of 1978. I know, you haven’t gotten to the 1978 part – you’re still wondering what in the world does protomartyr mean???

Time to pull out the ole Latin dictionary. As you probably know, a martyr is a person who dies for his/her religious beliefs. Actually in the original Greek the word “martyr” was first used to indicate a witness in a forensic, or legal, sense. The meaning we use now came about in the early Christian church when believers defended their faith to the point of suffering death, though not deliberately setting out with this intention. This is an important distinction from our modern day understanding of martyr.

St. Stephen was certainly both of those – a witness and someone willing to die for his beliefs. He was the first (hence the “proto”) martyr for the Christian faith, dying at the hands of an angry mob who stoned him for speaking out against the Mosaic Law and Jewish elders.

Thankfully nothing like that happened Saturday night, the eve of our reunion :). When Steve and I got to the hall, I recognized Donna right away and others who I haven’t seen in 10 or more years. Hugs were aplenty and it was amazing to see I had no trouble recognizing anyone. I mean, c’mon…30 years brings a multitude of changes to a person, but it quickly became clear to me that good or bad, the bonds we had forged as kids would stand the test of time, no matter how long.

The evening flew by and though food was bountiful, time was not; I looked at my watch once and nearly 3 hours had passed. Another look in what seemed like just a few minutes showed yet another hour had slipped away. Is this what happens with time when you’re older? When we were kids, it seemed exactly the opposite – we had our whole lives ahead of us! Who thought about time??

Like everyone else, I have a lot of childhood memories and many of mine are not happy. I was a gawky kid who spoke Hungarian to her immigrant mom and grandmother, I had wild curly hair (in a time when everyone else wanted Farrah Fawcett’s famous “feathered” look), my poor teeth desperately needed braces, and I was terribly shy. At the time it seemed everything I said came out wrong, so I mainly kept my mouth shut and my nose in my books. If someone told me in 1978 that I would later become a pubic speaker in the field of high technology, I would’ve laughed myself into a rubber room :).

But the unexpected happened Saturday night. My friend Mary said over dinner “Oh Cathy, you had the best sleepovers…you were like my whole childhood.”

I had no idea.

Later on someone else said the same thing, even saying that I was the only one who actually invited her to my house for a sleepover. Truth be told, being an only child with parents who were also “onlys” made for a rather lonely existence. Having friends over relieved much of the silence and tension in our house and made life more bearable.

I had no idea my classmates remembered me this way. Several of the guys hugged me and said “Wow, you look great!” I could see the sincerity in their eyes and was grateful for their kind words. I didn’t hear them from anyone when growing up.

Another friend hugged me and actually asked my forgiveness for all the “mean things she had said or done to me.” I was astonished and incredibly moved by her gesture. She was entirely serious and all I could think was how much I’ve been forgiven by the God of the Universe and reply “It’s all in the past, water under the bridge; it’s over. It actually helped me become who I am today.”

Others I spoke with told me of their own struggles and doubts during those same years. I had no idea. Of course at the time it seemed like I was the only one who stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.

No doubt I’m not the only one with wounds in her past. The way I see it you can go one of two ways. You can become embittered and resentful, holding a grudge for decades over matters that vanish with the passage of time. Or you can take the experiences life hands you and use it as a catalyst to change your very character and improve yourself, perhaps learn to serve others with what you’ve been given – good or bad. Every job application looks for “experience”. Life is the same way – you are in the BEST position to help someone else when you’ve had experience in the same area. Never take a bad encounter and throw it to the floor in bitterness; it is NEVER a waste.

I would like to meet my Maker someday with empty pockets, saying Lord everything you gave me – I gave it all away so others could learn more about you.

It’s not like there are any hearses with luggage racks :).

Voodoo Doll: Evergreen Lake Race Report

2008-07-23T19:07:00.004-05:00

First things first!! I haven’t posted in several weeks, and for that I sincerely apologize. Sure, things have been busy, but I simply haven’t made the time to write. To all who have emailed asking what’s up, I’m grateful you look forward to reading about our adventures.

Evergreen Lake is an Olympic distance race – a 1500 meter swim, 40K bike, and 10K run. We drove up Friday night to Bloomington, IL and met Jen and Sharon (a fellow triathlete and client of Jen’s) for dinner at an Italian restaurant for some pasta and chicken. Steve was along for the trip and I can only imagine his pleasure in being surrounded by not just one but three hot female athletes :). He didn’t appear to mind in the least and seemed perfectly comfortable…NO DOUBT :).

After dinner we all went to the race site where we checked in and I racked my bike – a nice option that makes one less thing to worry about race morning.

It rained overnight. It was drizzling when we left the next morning. It was POURING when we got to the race site.

Actually I didn’t mind at all. It just made things more interesting and brought another new challenge to meet up close and in person.

Friday the water temp had been 80F, and Saturday morning it was announced water temp was 77F which meant wetsuits were allowed. Dang. I didn’t bring my wetsuit so I would swim “sans skin”…”sassafrassarassa!…” oh well, lesson learned. No matter what they say about water temp, ALWAYS pack the suit :).

Us 40+ yr olds were the last wave for the Olympic distance and off we went. I got into a rhythm and sighted perfectly on swim caps and buoys. In fact I was so focused and so comfortable I didn’t notice it had started pouring again until I rolled to breathe and noticed the safety folks in kayaks were getting soaked. I could see just fine and didn’t feel a thing.

I would relish that thought more than once as I came within a minute of my goal swim time and ran to T1 to hop on my bike.

I was vaguely aware my bike shoes were soaked but everything was wet and there was no way around it. For the first 15 minutes I felt slow as molasses, as if my legs were submerged in mud. It was drizzling and the wind was steady in my face. The course was out and back, and it was also a false flat.

The rain changed from drizzling to abating to pouring and blowing sideways. At one point, it was coming in so hard I couldn’t even look straight ahead over my handlebars. I had to turn my head and steer by looking out the corner of my eye when it wasn’t filling with rainwater. I felt like a voodoo doll being hit with a million needles that were actually raindrops. It was nearly comical and I actually started laughing at the absurdity of it all.

At the turnaround point, the wind was largely at my back and I stood up on the pedals and turned them over like a hamster on his wheel. I was determined to exploit every advantage. The rain came hard – again – and my bike lurched with the force of the accompanying sideways wind. I said out loud to every demon lurking in my head:

“You’ll never take me in the fire;
You’ll never take my own desire
I know my heart and I just can’t deny it – I AM FIREPROOF….”

A line from the song Fireproof by the Christian rock group Pillar. For the whole song, click on the link below. A GREAT tune for anyone in the middle of the battle, single-mindedly pursuing a goal :).

http://youtube.com/watch?v=oXBP7YN_2z4

I came in only a couple minutes off my goal bike time, amazing considering the driving rain. Steve was standing on the sidelines and I grinned at him as I put on my rain soaked shoes and headed out for the run.

My legs felt surprisingly good. I was determined to NOT stop unless I needed to throw up.

10 minutes into the run I took in some GU and knew I would not need another one the rest of the race.

I slowed a bit only to grab water or Gatorade alternately at each aid station, and even then I took only a sip. This time I squeezed the mouth of the cup even further than in previous events so it would only trickle into my mouth and not end up on my face or up my nose. New mechanics to learn when not shuffling or walking through an aid station :).

I was running high Zone 3 (170s) the first 5K but as soon as I passed Mile 4 I shifted up to Zone 4, which meant going into upper 170s/low 180s – headlong into the “seriously uncomfortable but got one more gear” range, enough to get to Mile 5.

At Mile 5 I let ‘er rip and went straight for Zone 5 – upper 180s/low 190s – the kind where hurling becomes a reality if kept up for too long. I was determined to smartly parcel out the energy and never thought once about stopping.

I finished within just a few minutes of my goal time, despite the weather. It didn’t occur to me until much later that I actually PR’d my Olympic triathlon time :).

The demons were silenced that day, despite their best efforts to pin me like a voodoo doll :)

"You Can't Coach Desire"

2008-06-25T12:52:00.006-05:00

I must dish on my husband – yes, AGAIN :) - and also because this post is about him. Steve has the gift of prolonged youth – I mean, does that guy in the picture above look like he’s pushing 50??

The gift has spilled over into other aspects of his life too. Maybe it’s his wild wife that gives him the fire, but he persistently views life as an adventure and age as only a number. I wish more people thought this way. I see so many people in a frightful hurry – in traffic, at airports, in the grocery store - and for what? To cram more activities into an already-full life? Or to cram more activities into a relatively empty life, hoping to stumble upon some purpose or meaning?

Steve is nearly never in a hurry, and truth be told, sometimes it’s a bit annoying, but in reality it’s me who needs to slow down at those times. Sure there are occasions when being in a hurry is appropriate, like when crossing a busy intersection or when you’ve waited too long to go to the bathroom, but by and large being in a hurry is addictive and a slippery slope to becoming an elegant excuse for being “busy” – the (misguided) siren call of having purpose and meaning in our lives. (More on that in a different post).

So in true non-hurried character, Steve came to me with his training goals yesterday – after weeks of having the outline on his desk. He put a lot of thought into them and it showed. He was also highly organized, using paper like this, which makes anything easy to read. Sure impressed me!

He has a LOT of natural ability, especially in running speed. I’m certain if a coach had encouraged him in high school, he would’ve been a track star, possibly All-American – he’s that good.

There’s a rub, though. While I have to claw my way to every gain in speed and ability, I have LOADS of drive and enthusiasm, and it’s enough for both of us, more like the entire neighborhood. In fact at times I think it’s over the top for Steve, kind of like an overenthusiastic preacher who’s sounding the altar call for everyone to come forward to REPENT AND BE SAVED!! (Well-intentioned but a bad idea…) Steve is very patient though, and given that it’s impossible to not answer THE call from the Creator of the Universe (in the Bible every encounter a human had with God was off the charts to say the least), my relentless fitness pursuits over the years have ignited a flame he can call his own.

He is willing to push the envelope. It’s no accident he looks as young as he does. He’s a former Marine and has made a lifelong investment into taking care of his health, eating sensibly and exercising regularly. But he’s willing to draw a line – actually several – and push past where he is now into the Unknown. There were items on his Goal Sheet that I previously thought would NEVER come about unless pigs sprouted wings.

This is huge for my husband. It’s the key that turns the lock for him – desire. My coach coined the phrase I used for the title of this article, and it is absolutely true – you can’t coach desire. While God gave me the gift of enduring health, He was far more generous on the desire front, and I’ve longed to see Steve’s aspirations come alongside his exceptional abilities. He doesn’t view exercise with the same enthusiasm as I do, more as a necessary evil (like a yearly physical complete with the requisite probing), but there are goals that he wants to achieve – badly, mind you – and he’s willing to move the line and go to the next level. YEAH BABY!!

So we had The Talk yesterday – about goals, both short-term and long-term, how badly we want to achieve them, and the price we are each willing to pay to get there.

I heartily applaud my husband’s desire to improve. Life itself is often not an easy journey, and there have been and will be days when the last thing he wants to do is get up early to train. But I know from personal experience that often those are the days when the opportunity for growth is the greatest. I cannot remember either feeling personally or hearing another athlete regretting they got out to do what was necessary to move closer to their goals. When we were babies, it was fine to mostly do what we wanted. As adults, we must realize there is a price to pay for anything, and our willingness to pay is driven by our desire to achieve the goal.

I have an awesome coach and am regularly humbled by her relentless pursuit of her goals. She gets the job done under the most daunting circumstances and is undeterred. My grandmother had this trait and it resonates with me as well. We don’t know how to say quit in anything.

I can’t wait to see what the next 12 months unfolds for Steve. It’s been said (and not kindly I might add) that behind every good man is a great woman. I am “behind” Steve 1000%, but I much prefer to walk alongside him as his wife and buddy, and rejoice with him in all the hard-won and God-honoring victories that are headed his way :).

Not Alone…A Saab Story…and Ironman Kansas Race Report

2008-06-19T12:21:00.005-05:00

I love traveling with Steve. In fact, I love doing everything with him. As our blog profile says, he is my lifelong best friend, the childhood buddy I never had. Don’t get me wrong – I had (and have) great friends from school and we still stay in touch. But there is nothing like knowing and being known by another person who appreciates and loves you for who you REALLY are – warts and all. Someone who cries with you when you’re hurt and celebrates every victory, no matter how small. The fact this person is my husband is icing on the cake.

So I was doubly excited as we got up at o’dark-thirty Saturday morning to make the drive to Lawrence, KS, site of the inaugural Ironman Kansas 70.3. I was fired up for the race as well as being in the car with my partner-in-comedy for the next 5 hours. Steve is a great navigator and I love to drive, so we never have trouble deciding who’ll do what on a roadtrip. About the only rule we have is that there must be fair warning given if someone passes gas :).

The trip was fun and uneventful. (The “eventful” had yet to come about). We arrived in downtown Lawrence, picked up my packet, found another awesome pair of 2XU tri-shorts, ate a leisurely lunch, and drove out to the race site. It was 90F and I was making mental notes about how race day would look and feel Sunday.

The hills were ginormous. Whoever said “Kansas” and “flat” (maybe me?) in the same sentence is smoking something :). Clinton Lake is near what the locals call The Iron Cross – 4 roads that intersect with long lungbusting hills beckoning on each segment.

We were able to check in our bikes that afternoon. This was great – one less thing to worry about race morning, and I could focus instead on a short swim, and driving the bike course to mentally prepare for the next day.

That evening we checked into our hotel and headed to Walmart to stock up on Gatorade. When we got back out to the parking lot, the car started up fine, ran for 2 seconds, and then died. I cranked it again – nothing. One more time - no joy. We decided to let it sit for a bit and walk to a nearby restaurant for dinner; maybe something overheated and just shut down the fuel system?

45 minutes later we were back at the car and still nothing, so we headed back into Walmart to the automotive department where a really nice saleslady gave us access to her department phone and phonebook. After calling several car rental companies, I was ready to go by cab to the Kansas City airport 90 miles away to pick up a rental and deal with our sick car after the race. We walked back out to the parking lot and gave the car one more try. She started right up. I was flummoxed (really like that word, just had to use it :)), and thought maybe the fuel pump is a bit weak and we just needed to fill up the gas tank.

8 hours later at 4:30AM Sunday she started right up again. We headed to the race site undeterred, the car not starting a distant memory amid the excitement of race day.

At the race site, hundreds of athletes were already pulling into the park and we got there just in time. I setup the rest of my transition area and enjoyed the music coming from the giant speakers. Before we knew it, it was TIME, and we made our way down to the swim start.

The gun went off and so did we – age groupers in our own wave. I ended up near the back of the pack – not where I wanted – but wove my way around several swimmers. Finally the crowd broke up a bit and I could get into a groove. Clad in my wetsuit, I mainly let my legs “rest” behind me. I had seen the bike course and soon enough my limbs would be called on to make steep and sustained climbing efforts – I needed to conserve every ounce of energy possible.

Once again I was acutely aware many of my fears and discomforts of being in open water were MIA, and I could really focus on racing and not just enduring. It was liberating to just sight on the next buoy and “grab” as much water as possible with my forearms.

The swim course was triangle-shaped, and when I saw the first pylon near the beach exit I actually thought (for the first time ever) already??? I almost laughed into the water – what a hoot! The last leg of the swim was rough water, and I simply threw my arm a bit higher and farther out, and rolled a bit more to breathe.

I ran out onto the beach and saw Steve who was snapping a picture as I slowed just long enough to triumphantly pump my arm and give him a big smile.

Onto the bike! I already knew this would be a tough ride, but I’m not sure any of us gave proper homage to just how challenging it would be, or how relentless. The western part of St. Louis has such hills and I’ve ridden them and nearly hurled at the top of some. The first hill was a mindbending descent and my speed reached 40mph before the bottom. I pedaled until I could only coast, and then just tucked my knees and rested on my aerobars…and prayed. At the bottom of the hill, someone had dropped a PB&J sandwich in a baggie – a wreck waiting to happen.

What goes down must go up, and shortly thereafter the same hill we were screaming down earlier now became a gut wrenching climb. I was out of my saddle halfway up and actually shifted to a harder gear so I could simultaneously push-pull on the pedals without “bouncing” up and down on them and burning my quads.

The hills came ruthlessly, along with strong headwinds – often reaching 30mph – a challenging combination in a race. At one point, the wind was screeching in my ears so loudly I couldn’t even hear myself cursing in my head :). I turned at one part of the course, and the silence of the wind now being at my back was almost deafening. Gratefully I coasted down the mountain I had just climbed only to see athletes suffering their way up. One girl had pulled over and simply put her head down on her forearm, either crying or dealing with nausea or both.

I was not alone.

Coming into T2, I got out of my shoes, leaving them clipped into the pedals, and rode on just one side of the bike to the dismount line. Steve was right there and I would later find out that he saw athletes (even guys) dismounting their bikes, barely able to walk and some of them CRYING.

Again, I was overcome with the feeling of not being alone out there.

My adductors were screaming at me as I ran in sock feet to rack my bike and slip on my running shoes. I ran past an athlete flat on his back in the middle of the transition aisle, getting treated for dehydration or who knew what.

Amazingly my leg pain passed as I got into a groove and began picking off the miles. It was NOT easy, and it took EVERY ounce of mental energy I had left to FOCUS on putting one foot in front of the other. My stomach was not reacting well to the Clif bar I’d had on the bike, and my mind was warring between knowing the need for gels/fluids and recoiling away from any of it. I took in the nutrition anyway, knowing I would be veritably crawling to the Finish if I didn’t. Mental note: No more Clif bars on the bike…Hurl Factor too high :).

Halfway through the run, I could see the darkening sky in the distance – an approaching thunderstorm as only the Great Plains could dish up. The winds picked up and instant air conditioning suddenly swirled around me – the temps dropped 15 degrees in a matter of minutes. It started raining a bit, and I was actually COLD. Lightning flashed, and I was relatively certain if it continued they would close the course.

Close the course they did, and just as I victoriously crossed the Finish, all hell broke loose. The rain and winds were coming in sideways, and EVERYONE was suddenly racing – away from the site! Steve had just enough time to snap that lovely picture at the top – check out the tent and flag behind me.

We grabbed my stuff and by the time we got to the car, incredibly, it was SUNNY. I do understand the need for safety on the course, so I didn’t begrudge the officials for their decision to cut the race short. Hundreds of athletes didn’t get a chance to finish, but like everything else, there are things you can and cannot control and weather will deliver whatever it likes no matter what day it is.

It’s how an athlete copes with what is handed to him/her come Race Day that contains the biggest lessons for each of us on how we handle adversity – do we roll over and wet ourselves in anxiety or do we dig in and push through nonetheless, knowing we emerge stronger on the other side?

Epilogue: Halfway back to the hotel from the race, the fuel pump finally gave it up and the Saab indeed died. We got towed to a repair shop (incredible there’s an excellent foreign car shop in Topeka, KS!), and drove home Monday in a rental. This Friday we have the great privilege of making the 10-hour roundtrip to pickup our car, fork over $600 for the repair, return the rental, and drive back home – all in one day.

Didn’t I say I LOVE traveling with Steve – this will be FUN :).

Trash Talkin'

2008-06-09T21:18:00.005-05:00

Summer has arrived like a lion the past 10 days. For weeks we were hovering around a perpetual high of 75F, our heater still kicking in at night, and then suddenly temperatures shot up into the 90s in no time. Just a few days ago I was running after a long 4-hour ride and nearly got sick when finishing – the demands in serious heat are a shock to the body until full acclimation occurs which is about 2 weeks.

This weekend was no different except that we were greeted with temps already in the low 80s in the morning. Steve and I ran together very early Sunday, and we used every bit of the Gatorade in our Fuel Belt bottles.

Today ends the last week I am in the Build Phase for an “A-Race” this season, which is Ironman Kansas 70.3, one week from today on June 15th, Father’s Day no less. I’m not sure if Steve will consider it a favor to watch his wife brave the open water for 1.2 miles, ride her super-fast steed for 56, and then trot 13.1 miles to an intended Personal Record, though he certainly seems up for it. Lately I’ve been showered with the Shaking Head, the Sly Grin, the Mm-mm-mm-MMM!, and the abundant (but never old) “Man, you look HOT!” Growing up, I never heard these kinds of complements. It is no exaggeration to say I was a real Ugly Duckling in my gawky adolescence, and while the self-image issues have gone by the wayside, the warm and never-gratuitous accolades from my wonderful husband are deeply appreciated and always refreshing to hear.

I have strong results from previous races this season and expect to do well this coming Sunday. I’ve risen at dawn and alternately frozen and sweated the miles, and swam til I couldn’t lift a cup of coffee. This year I’m making friends with The Line that exists between pushing as hard as you can and blowing up on the race course. My coach has told me it takes experience to manage The Line and this year I am determined to master it, to find out what I am really made of.

All noble efforts and intentions, aren’t they? Well, this past weekend I got a great reminder of some of the less noble things I’m made of…

The “circuit” around my neighborhood makes a perfect time trial loop for biking, and also simulates Sunday’s race course with its rolling hills and some longer climbs. I was riding 5-minute intervals and in the process of completing 5 of these little monsters. Two roads merge together at the very end of the “course”….I could see the truck coming from one direction with me coming from the other, both of us headed to merge onto the same road, like the top two lines of the letter Y coming down into the single base line.

Something’s gotta give and sure enough his road has a Yield sign to allow traffic from my road to go first. I could already tell from his momentum that he didn’t see the sign and wasn’t planning on stopping. We merged at the same time onto the combined road, and while the speed is only 20mph and I was watching him with an eagle eye, he never saw me.

I coasted along, hugging the side of the road, and waited for him to fully come alongside me so I could look over right at him and make eye contact. HE WAS ON HIS PHONE….and the expletives began streaming from my mouth…

“Did ya see the YIELD SIGN there A--Hole??!!!”

And even better…

“Get off your F-CKING PHONE!!!”

He never did see me and needless to say I was fuming. I was more angry at his disregard for the safety of others, but I was also (even just a tiny bit) angry at being “violated”. I go to great lengths to practice safety and courtesy on the road when riding. I wear a “Third Eye” – a rear-view mirror that clips onto my sunglasses so I can see cars coming behind me. I use proper hand/arm gestures to indicate an upcoming turn with plenty of notice, and I even wave at the car as a thank you as I complete a turn.

It’s not that I expect reciprocal behavior from everyone. But drivers who do not pay attention will end up hitting someone sooner or later, even a cyclist who perfectly obeys traffic signs and uses unambiguous body language in their riding.

Truth be told, it was the disposition of my heart Saturday that hurt the most. The driver never saw me but the Hispanic guys laying sod at a house across the street did, and they simply stared. I was a terrible example of how to handle anger, even if perfectly justified.

In no way does Christianity claim that once you have “been saved” you stop sinning. (Anyone who promotes this belief needs to read their Bible again). The truth is there is plenty in the Bible to support the opposite – the war between what you want to do, which is please God, and what your mind/body does in its weaker moments is at full tilt – you are now more than ever on the devil’s radar and he will use whatever means to get you to turn away from God.

Saturday I could’ve chosen other ways to handle my anger. Mind you, anger itself is not a sin; it’s what we do with it that goes over the line of God’s standard of right and wrong. I felt deeply remorseful for my outburst and asked for God’s help in dealing with my weakness. Just earlier in the day, my darling husband had used beautiful words to complement and build up his wife; isn’t it amazing how quickly words can be used also as a sword to tear people apart. Sadly I have been lacking in the former and have excelled in the latter.

Saturday was a reminder also that if I wanted God to “be fair” or just with me, I would be forever lost.

I don’t want His justice; what I need is God’s unmerited favor – His amazing grace, and that realization will keep me humble in His presence and longing to extend that same grace to others who may not deserve it.

A Fast Four

2008-06-03T17:30:00.007-05:00

There was no way around it. This is what I would call the proverbial “rubber meets the road.” My husband is a gifted project manager and his talents have been put to use by our church leadership. There is now an additional time commitment on our calendars, the most significant of which is our needed presence during the setup and teardown of different ministries during each weekend service. We were both asked to take on this responsibility and we gladly accepted. As I wrote in our previous post, as much as I love triathlon, our long term vision is well beyond the years we spend here in this lifetime, and investing in people as part of a life centered around God is our deepest heart’s passion….though I do have secret hopes that there is something like triathlon in heaven, maybe running through the mountains of Alaska where the bears actually run alongside you, you know – like dogs, with no thought given to you being their next tasty morsel???

So this past Sunday I had a long brick (bike then run) on my schedule as part of my preparation for Ironman Kansas which is June 15th. The only way to get ‘er done was in the afternoon after church. Even a rough time estimate showed it was going to be a long day.

But I had worked it out in my head and on paper. It was a 4-hour ride followed by a 45-minute tempo run, so I had the bike route planned out where Steve would drop me off at my Start and then meet me in Alton, IL where I could ditch the bike and go finish my run. We decided it was best to just pack everything – bike, drinks, food, clothing, shoes – into the car and just leave from church.

It went perfectly. I ate a peanut butter sandwich and some veggies after service, downed some Gatorade and we were off.

Driving there I noticed the temperature was 87F. Getting out in the parking lot, it felt every bit of it. On the one hand, great! This could be race-day conditions in a few weeks, and I still needed to acclimate to the heat.

On the other hand, gahhh!! More sunscreen, 4 water bottles, and more money for a stop along the way to replenish fluids…Steve slathered on the 45 SPF where only he could reach well enough - my shoulder blades - not anywhere else, for goodness sakes! This was NOT the Wetsuit Grope-a-Thon :).

I filled my water bottles with undiluted Gatorade, pressed one of the lids down without the nozzle closed, and full-strength sports drink shot right up like a fountain and drenched the side of my face. Normally I would’ve been mad, but instead Steve’s genuine laughter at something right out of The Three Stooges made me laugh too.

I saddled up and took off. The ride was hot but glorious and my legs felt like they could go on forever. I went up through Hardin, IL and came back down south to Alton 15 minutes ahead of schedule. I plowed through nearly 100 oz of Gatorade and forced myself to eat a Clif bar and 3 packs of GU along the way. It was NOT easy to eat. Endurance training in the heat causes much of the blood to leave the intestinal tract and be dedicated to cooling the entire body, the effect of which is the hunger mechanism is nearly wiped out and the last thing on your mind is eating (even for me :)). One must teach the body to take in solid food even when the desire to eat is nonexistent.

When Steve got to the parking lot, I had been waiting for just a few minutes near some caves that through nature provided me free air conditioning. Steve put my bike in the hatch, and I laced up my shoes and Fuel Belt and was off.

The run called for a negative-split, meaning run the second half faster than the first. It was still in the upper 80s and within 5 minutes I was thinking are you insane? The heat was brutal and I trotted along carefully, amazingly staying in the lower heart rate zones. It was my mind that was doing the negotiating with the muscles…c’mon just 5 more minutes and then you can turn around and go HOME…

After 23:30 I turned around and kicked it up a notch?? Yep, sure did…I wanted to be DONE very badly. Visions of lean meat and whole wheat pasta, followed by lots of dark chocolate, danced in my head. By now we were approaching 7pm, the latest I had trained in a long time.

When I got back to the car and walked around for a minute, rivers of sweat were pouring from me. I had consumed 20oz water/sports drink in less than 45 minutes and a wave of nausea hit me for a few seconds. I bent over and waited for it to pass, knowing it was due to a lack of heat acclimation.

After stretching a bit, I looked at my arms/legs and could not believe the magnificent rash I had developed over the course of the day. Sweat, salt, and sunscreen just didn’t play nice on my skin and I headed to the park bathroom to wash it off and put on dry clothes.

I also discovered before my run that I had a small indentation on the top of my forehead from my bike helmet, probably from the padding sticking to my sweaty head. I’ll need to look at the positioning of my helmet – who wants race pictures with a helmet print on their head?? :)

Overall I was very happy. Sunday’s route was one I’ve ridden in years past and this is the first year I am actually fast. Riding near the river and farmlands caused me to collide with a fair number of gnats, some of them sticking to my arms liked miniature roadkill :).

The way I looked at it -- I was so “fast” Sunday, even the bugs couldn’t get out of my way :).

Entering Into Brokenness

2008-05-28T20:22:00.003-05:00

I have many articles that are partially complete and waiting in the wings to be finished and posted. Much of what I write is related to my passion for triathlon and also living life coram Deo - before the “face of God.” Often (and during the weirdest times such as while I’m in the pool or on a flight), a past experience will pop into my head and begin to form itself into an idea for a post. The following is the product of one of those occasions.

A small warning: what you’re about to read may not be easy to take; in fact it will most likely get under your skin…but it may change how you look at the world even if just a little bit, and I hope for the better.

There is a verse in the Bible that says “The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty only comes to poverty” (Proverbs 21:5). The meaning of this proverb is well known even in non-religious circles, more commonly as the phrase “There are no get-rich-quick schemes.” It is hard to disagree with such common sense about how to manage money. Consistent and disciplined investments have always increased in value over the long term. The keys are the words consistent and disciplined – consistent meaning “steady” and disciplined meaning “controlled”, especially if you don’t feel like it or it’s not “convenient.” These are tried and true principles that constantly prove themselves out in a universal sense, not just in the world of money.

While only a few things in life such as death and taxes are guaranteed, at this season of our lives Steve and I are realizing the fruits of decisions (many of them not easy) made 20+ years ago regarding our finances. We long ago learned hard lessons about the difference between needs and wants, both of us growing up in environments where often we didn’t know where our next meal was coming from, let alone the resources to splurge on things like college without help from the government.

The net-net of it all is that we still carry those values with us today – being true to the difference between needs and wants, and using our financial literacy to make sound decisions that benefit not only us but more importantly those around us as well.

There is so much brokenness around us, sometimes more than we can stand, or perhaps care to get involved in…

Steve and I were brought face to face with wretched human suffering on a scale we’ve never previously witnessed when we visited India 3 years ago. I went there on a work assignment and some accumulated air miles thrown in made it possible for Steve to accompany me as well.

Pictures don’t do it justice. The moment we stepped off the plane, the smell nearly knocked us over. The city of Mumbai (formerly Bombay) does not have the infrastructures in place for waste disposal, trash collection, water treatment, and pollution control that we have in our country. We both wept silently in the cab from the airport to the hotel. Literally hundreds of people were sleeping on sidewalks or dirt mounds that were clearly their domiciles, as we could plainly see rope strung occasionally between two trees and clothing or pots/pans hanging from them. A nearby river functioned simultaneously as both a waste collection area and a source of drinking water. One morning we personally witnessed the horrific death of a peasant woman as she was trying to cross a road full of traffic. Her body was cut in half by a speeding construction truck and no one seemed to care. In fact the driver was in an argument with another motorist presumably over further stalling the flow of traffic. The human life that had just been carelessly snuffed out was nearly a non-issue.

We spent a month there and I cannot go into every detail of the heartbreaking poverty that was up in our face every day. I can say we came back changed people, with firsthand experience of the utter depravity and hopelessness to which human nature can descend.

So when the woman approached us a few months ago as we were crossing the street in the Central West End area of St. Louis, headed to dinner at a nice restaurant, we knew instantly that she was looking for a handout. She was dressed shabbily and clearly wanting money…”a dollar so I can get a bus ride…” is what she said. She wasn’t rude but it was clear she’d done this before.

I knew what she wanted was money to get Lord knows what, but we weren’t there to give her what she wanted. This was no random occurrence. God’s providence had brought us together “for such a time as this” to give her something she needed…even more than money….and that was dignity and hope. Without thinking too much about it, I offered her to come to dinner with us. Steve and I have had numerous (too many to count) non-verbal exchanges, the kind where no words are necessary and you’re both on the same page, and you know it; this was one of those times -- we both knew it was the right thing to do.

The woman seemed taken aback, as if no one had ever spontaneously offered her a hot (and really nice) meal instead of a harsh word or money to make her go away and relieve the person’s discomfort with human suffering so in-your-face. She cautiously followed us into the restaurant and I sensed she might not want to embarrass herself by sitting at the white linen tables or have awkward conversation with two strangers she had been begging from just minutes before. So I offered her the option of sitting at the bar where they served a complete menu for folks wanting to sip a drink with a friend or enjoy a quiet dinner alone.

She decided to sit at the bar, and I instructed the bartender to let her order whatever 2 items she wanted from the menu as an appetizer and an entrée, and then offer her whatever she would like to drink. I told him we would pick up the tab when we were finished with our own dinner.

We ate in a different area of the restaurant and she was gone by the time we were leaving. I wondered if she just bailed after our invitation, but the bartender said she enjoyed a really nice meal and had just recently left. We paid the check and I was surprised to see he was taken aback by our apparently random generosity – but his smile said it all.

We all need it and many of us don’t have it – dignity and hope. Sure many of us drive around in our SUVs, live prosperous lives in our suburban homes, and give the best years of our lives preparing our children for adulthood and its responsibilities. It’s easy to find brokenness in the inner cities. However in the squeaky clean of suburbia, brokenness is just as rampant, and we simply do a fine job of masking it with money. The problems are the same: drugs, promiscuity, teen pregnancies, broken marriages, financial hardship, the list goes on.

How we live our lives every day speaks volumes about where our hearts really are. Don’t get me wrong – I am not against people having nice stuff and it might surprise you to learn the Bible does NOT condemn prosperity. God has no issue with us having money – as long as money doesn’t have us. We live in the greatest and richest country in the world. My passport is literally FILLED with stamps from the many other cultures I’ve experienced, and I’m convinced that despite our problems, there is no more beautiful, diverse, or abundant place on earth. God has already blessed America. So do we invest the lion’s share of our time in the here and now in the latest things we want that soon fade with the passing of time? Or do we make the ultimate investment, one that pays eternal dividends, and invest in people – with all the brokenness that comes along with them?

Funny, Jesus did just that…

Memphis in Mayhem

2008-05-23T14:50:00.004-05:00

You could’ve named me after the famous (or not) monarch who in 1066 AD ran over what is now present day England and became known as William the Conqueror. I came to do the same – run over and conquer the course in Millington, TN – home to the Naval Air Station where Steve had been based 25 years ago, and also the location of the Memphis in May Triathlon, an extremely well organized and FUN Olympic-distance race for athletes both pro and amateur.

We left early Saturday morning to make the trip down. It’s a straight shot south on I-55 and we had a great time maneuvering our crotchety 13 year old Saab with all our gear in the back down through New Madrid (pronounced “MAA-drid” not Muh-DRID), Missouri -- site of the New Madrid Fault, one of the biggest geological faults in the United States, bigger than San Andreas. The running joke is that we’d be the new California if the Big One ever hit.

But the only things shaking Saturday morning were our butts as we rocked on to the tunes of Pillar, Red, Seventh Day Slumber, Starfield, Kutless – great Christian rock bands with lyrics that just as easily apply to racing as much as they do to living a life centered around God.

We arrived in Millington right on schedule, where I picked up my race packet and changed into my wetsuit for a quick acclimation to the lake and its 69F degree temperature. A couple short race efforts and I was ready for Sunday!

We had dinner with my friend and supersonic triathlete Kristin and her husband John. It was the first time we had met him and we all hit it off right away. John’s a software programmer, and well, we’re all technical types, so conversation was easy.

Sleep came easy that night and I was awake Sunday before the alarm. I shook Steve awake like a child on Christmas morning, and he took a shower while I got dressed, ate, and packed up our stuff.

After Steve got out of the bathroom he turned on the TV and what to our surprise but the original Naked Gun movie was on. In no time at all we were loudly laughing our butts off at 5am, hoping no one else heard us. When I opened the door to the hotel room, 5 other rooms were emptying out with triathletes all packing their cars. We skipped to our car, unable to stop giggling and repeating the movie’s one-liners and gags that joyfully work their way into our conversation and enrich our everyday lives. This was a perfect way to start Race Day :).

We arrived at the race site, where thousands of other athletes were driving in as well. Steve and I carried our stuff and wheeled my bike to the Body Marking area and a smiling guy with a black marker wrote my race number on my arms. Then I pulled my sweatpants down (so he could mark my calves) and said LOUDLY “Besides my husband, you’re the only other man I’ve dropped my pants for!” 10 other athletes standing around started howling as did the body-marking volunteer. Steve videotaped the whole thing.

I racked my bike and set up my stuff with my blue polka-dotted towel – a radical towel color helps me find my equipment after the swim and bike so I can totally focus on getting my gear on and worry less about finding my own transition stall.

Swimmers went off in a time trial start, meaning the officials put athletes in the water every 3 seconds. I was off in a flash and had a great swim once I got going. During the last “leg” the water suddenly became a lot rougher, and I looked up to see we had a nice headwind blowing, creating a nice chop. I redoubled my efforts to pull harder – by now I was sighting on the Exit balloon – and was surprised at how many people I was passing. For the first time I actually raced the swim and didn’t simply endure it…big difference.

At the exit, I trotted out of the water and into the Transition area where I peeled off the wetsuit and hopped on my bike. The first mile of the bike was HILLY and my legs were instantly screeching at me. I also had a really painful air pocket in my esophagus that made me want to belch, or eventually hurl. Being aero only made it worse and to add to the fun, we seemed perpetually turned into the 25mph winds. Even though the course turned a corner here and there, it seemed we had only about 5 minutes of being downwind before the road turned and we were assaulted once again. I was crawling either at 12mph or zooming at 25mph; there seemed very little in between. And in the immortal words of Elmer Fudd, my legs were on FI-WAH the entire time :).

I did pass a lot of other athletes, once again a new and exciting trend this season, and a testament to all those rides on my trainer over the winter – thanks Jen!! :)

Finally I reached the Transition Area and dismounted. Steve was there just over the fence and he yelled “You look AWESOME!” – I can’t begin to emphasize how much this means to an athlete when her quads and hip flexors are about to spontaneously combust :).

I got my bike racked, threw off my helmet and shoes, tied my running shoes and ran through the Transition Area towards the run course. I lost my balance a bit and promptly plowed through 3 volunteers holding out cups of water/Gatorade! It was like picking off mailboxes with a bat – except I couldn’t stop…sorry, so sorry, man, I’m sorry!

I reached the run course and reality set in – the chest pain hadn’t abated and it hurt a LOT to run. I made it to Mile 1 and still clocked a record split though having walked a portion already. At Mile 2 there was a porta-potty and I ducked in to pee, thinking it might relieve some of the pressure and move things around.

Nothing. I tried bouncing, exaggerating my step, and this brought on a bad case of the hiccups which only made the pain worse. I had to stop running altogether and walk.

Strangely enough I really didn’t mind. I knew I had crushed my previous swim and bike times on this course, so I was already happy. The weekend before I had run a fast triathlon, so I knew I was capable. My feet were a couple racehorses jostling in the stalls, but it seemed nothing I tried would lessen the pain. Periodically I would try running again but the pain came right back within a few minutes and walking was the only way to keep it manageable.

At the beginning of the run, I was on target to beat my previous time by nearly 35 minutes, huge for an Olympic distance triathlon. With my GI problems, that didn’t happen but I still beat my previous race time on this course and scored a personal best on my swim and bike times.

I’ll take it! :)

A Cheerful Farewell

2008-05-16T18:34:00.004-05:00

The last few weeks have been a blur with early-season racing – namely the St. Louis Half Marathon, a long-course duathlon, and a sprint distance triathlon last weekend. Man, it has been exhilarating to get out and “burn the dust” off the legs after winter hibernation.

Our investment broker Patrick came along for his first tri ever and we made the poor guy show up at our house by 4am (natural for me, ungodly for him :)) for the 2 ½ hour drive to the race. We racked all three bikes, stacked our bags, threw some food and drinks into a cooler, and tore out (ok – drove stealthily) of the driveway by 4:15am. As planned, Steve promptly fell asleep in the back seat. I was already hopped up on enough coffee to carry me through several races so I was behind the wheel, Patrick riding shotgun.

We arrived exactly at 6:30, perfect for an 8:00am Start time, picked up our race packets and racked our bikes in the Transition Area. It was about 45F and we already knew the water temperature was 62F – yikes. Thankfully we brought wetsuits to mitigate the jolt of the frigid water.

After a short run warmup, we put on our wetsuits and once again Steve relished the joy of “helping” his wife pull on her second skin :). We laughed all over again at the hilarity of his “free pass” to grope his wife in public last summer as he helped me with my wetsuit in the 39-degree temperatures at the Ironman Start. Not so long ago, it used to be he pinned my race number on my shirt – kind of as a “comfort” routine for me before a race. Now I use a race belt for my number and he’s literally “into my ‘skin’” – what kind of subtle racket is this that my husband is cultivating?

Not that I’m complaining… :)

At the swim warmup, well, to say the water was frigid wins the Understatement of the Year Award - my head immediately felt like a bag of ice. I could only stand it for 5 minutes and was hit with a considerable wave of vertigo as I staggered out of the water and onto the beach. I’ve never been vulnerable to the “brain freeze” that sometimes goes with quickly downing a cold drink, so I was caught off guard. It quickly subsided however and I was READY to race.

The duathletes (run/bike/run – no swim, perfect for athletes who hate or don’t wish to take on an open water swim – also the event Steve was in) went first. He was off in a flash and we die-hard triathletes waited in the cold water for the Start. The men went off first and an amazing fact quickly emerged – nearly 90% of the athletes were GUYS. Only a handful of us girls remained after the men’s wave. We all started laughing, mainly at all the testosterone seeping into the lake – the guys are SO COMPETITIVE – but I really shouldn’t say much about that since the fangs come out on me too once the gun goes off.

Finally we were off into the water and the time flew. I guess that’s what happens in ridiculous temperatures – you swim so fast you barely touch the surface, ha ha :).

I was out onto the beach as fast as a Cigarette boat and had my wetsuit to the waist by the time I was running up the hill to the bike area. Once in the transition, I’ve learned to get my wetsuit down to the ground and just step fully onto the remainder; it peels right off in less than 30 seconds. Ah, experience…and practice! Thanks Jen for the expert advice :)!!

It was still 45F when I was getting onto my bike but I hardly felt it. I was pedaling like mad to get my legs fired up; this was only a 14 mile bike and it was high time to push HARD. I passed a girl who was 38 and she actually began to speed up when I was going around her. This is a blatant violation of the USA Triathlon rules and it was clear she didn’t know (or didn’t care, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt). I said over my shoulder “USAT rules say a rider should fall back when being passed. You’ll be penalized if you’re caught.” She said “Oh, OK; I’m sorry – I’m a first-timer.” I said “No worries; it’s how I found out too.”

Here’s where the fangs came out – once I said that to her and also saw she’s 5 years my junior, I was GONE. Something ignited in me and I wanted to dust a younger “newbie.”

Later on I also dusted plenty of guys too and that is very gratifying. Guys with their bigger leg muscles can naturally push a bigger gear than us girls, so it felt good to hang with the boys for a bit – and then say SEE YA!! :)

I was in the Dude-This-is-Way-Uncomfortable Zone the whole ride, but that is exactly where I wanted to be. Steve said he saw me on the bike course but my head was down and I was so focused I didn’t even “see” him. He was right – the only thing I was seeing was the road, the next rider, and my average mph – which was appreciably higher than last season – YEAH!

I blasted onto the run and worked hard to find my legs. I clocked a speedy first mile split and then shortly thereafter heard the ambulance siren on the course. The strength immediately left my legs for a few minutes – what if it was Steve? Younger athletes have died due to seemingly the most random causes. Five eternal minutes passed and I struggled to focus on running my own race and not let my mind’s rightful authority be overthrown by my undisciplined and freethinking imagination.

It turned out to be a guy who was cramping so badly he couldn’t walk and I saw Steve shortly afterwards looking just as healthy as ever on the run course. It took every ounce of energy to not burst into tears - all I could say was “I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU!!”

I emptied myself out on the course and finished very strong. My bike and run times are substantially faster than last year and after 3 early-season races, in all of which I blew away my own personal records, I am saying a CHEERFUL FAREWELL to the back of the pack.

Na na nah na, na na nah na, hey hey hey, GOOD-BYE!!!

A Visit From Murphy

2008-04-28T17:13:00.004-05:00

Saturday was 60F, sunny, and breezy outside – near perfect conditions for a long ride and tempo run immediately following. I had charted a bike course the night before, as plans for riding over in Illinois had changed in the previous 24 hours. I’m an avid user of MapMyRide.com (as well as MapMyRun). I can search for routes others have mapped and made public, or I can plot my own and return the favor.

Saturday’s itinerary was a combination of hijacking a portion of a stored route and tweaking it to fit my own needs. Besides providing road classifications, MapMyRide has another all-important metric on their site – the critical elevation measurement. This helps determine if the hills you’ll encounter during your jaunt will be simple speed bumps or real lungbusters that leave your heart about to pop out of your rib cage and your legs shaking violently from the sheer exertion they would rival Elvis in his early days.

Nearly all bikes have the ability to interchange the cogset (the set of gears on the back wheel hub, sometimes called a cassette). The number of teeth on each cog has a direct correlation to how “easy” it is to pedal – the more teeth, the easier it is to pedal and with higher revolutions, a true test of pedal stroke efficiency. Fewer teeth increases the effort but allows for more “torque” when pedaling downhill to gain speed for instance.

I have 10 cogs on the back of my triathlon bike that range in size from 11 to 23 teeth, (hence the phrase “my eleven-twenty-three”). This is pretty standard for riding flat to rolling hills. I also have a 12-27 for some of the more severe stuff in West St. Louis County. A painful lesson learned last August during the Steel Legs Century (100-mile) ride, I didn’t have enough “easier” gears to mitigate the ridiculous grades of nearly every one of the hills. I was standing to pedal and my heart was pounding just 1/3 of the way up each excruciating hill. I didn’t dare look straight up…remember the brain rules the body and my mind would’ve called for mass exodus of all currently employed muscle fibers. And that was just the first 60 miles! 45 miles later (yeah, I took a wrong turn and had ridden a bit before realizing it) my legs were shredded and I could barely drive home, much less RUN 45 minutes as the workout plan called for that day. The temperature that day also topped out at 98F. I went home looking like a modern-day replica of the Biblical character Lot whose wife who turned into a pillar of salt when looking back on the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Yup, there was waste and destruction in my wake alright…

Saturday was not that bad. However, the day held many more and different kinds of surprises. I DID underestimate the elevation readings prior to getting out the door and this was confirmed when I’d been riding for about 45 minutes, getting a really good warmup, and I made the first turn onto the less trafficked roads…all I could think was Hmmm…ok, it doesn’t look too long and ooooo, look at the line of cars coming behind you on this TWO-LANE ROAD…so hoof it woman!!

3 miles later another steep one loomed before me, then another…by the third one I was thinking Hello McFly -- WRONG CASSETTE!!! I actually dismounted and walked partway up the third hill – but just partway – before I got back on my steed and muscled my way up, hoping the name of the road – RIDGE ROAD – meant exactly that – a RIDGE.

It did; thankfully most of the serious climbing was behind me and I could focus on remaining tucked into my aerobars against the formidable wind and push my way up the now-so-called “speed bumps” which more closely resembled the race courses I’ll be facing this summer.

I was coasting down the last of the county roads - just over the 50-mile mark - and had just merged into the beginning of the St. Louis County area when suddenly I really really felt the road under my back tire…a FLAT – hah!!

No worries, I was prepared; in fact I had thought to bring two of everything needed to replace a flat: 2 tubes, 2 CO2 cartridges, 2 tires, 2 patches/glue, even 2 Snickers bite-sized squares to maintain equilibrium in my mood :) (besides the truckload of food in my Bento Box…)

I would need ‘em because it seemed I had thumbs for nimble fingers that day – I had trouble just loosening the skewer on my back wheel to remove it from the frame. Once I got that done here’s how things unfolded:

“Alrighty then, back tire off the frame – wait!! – is your aero-bottle empty?? Don’t want that precious elixir spilling out when you lay your bike down…”

“Ok, bottle is empty, set the wheel aside and lay the frame down – derailleur-side up!!”

“Just pop the tire bead off on one side...just pop it right off…come on now, just POP IT OFF…maybe you should just check to see the tube is completely deflated…”

[Hands are getting blacker by the second…]

“Amazing how much air can still be in a “flat” tire tube…Tire OFF, woohoo, put the new tube inside the tire…”

“Why so much tube left over??....rrrrrrrriippp…oh man, WRONG tube size, ha ha!!”

[Hands look like they’ve washed with coal…]

“Extra tube in pouch, nice…this one fits perfectly…pop the tire back on and grab a CO2 cartridge…”

“Oooooo, my hand and the little “gun” are suddenly freezing…nice, the safety wasn’t engaged on the gun and it just pierced the cartridge w/o being on the freakin’ valve…”

[I decide at this point I’ve ridden just shy of my workout plan and the hills alone compensated for slightly lower-than-planned mileage…with two coal-black fingers I grip my cellphone and call Steve…]

“pull out a second cartridge and this time I attach the gun to the valve FIRST...cool, tire inflates perfectly…”

“Steve on his way…wouldn’t it be funny if I get the bike put back together just as he pulls up, hee hee…”

“Just slip the tire back into the dropouts and you’ll be good to go!”

[Hands are SO BLACK I’m seriously considering a sudden color change on my bike frame…from burnt orange to matte black with black-on-black fingerprint accents…]

“Darn tire won’t go back in…aww, look at that – the chain is totally off the front chain rings now…”

The cellphone rings and it’s Steve who is sitting at the traffic light and can see me on the side of the road…

I got the chain put back on the front chain ring, secured the back tire lickety-split, re-skewered the skewer, and unbelievably the bike was ready to go just as he pulled up.

HA HA HA!!! I could hardly stop laughing…man, does God have a sense of humor.

We drove home and had a glorious tempo run together – a GREAT day in all :)

I’ll savor a visit from Murphy anytime :)

Life in the Laugh Lane

2008-04-18T09:28:00.009-05:00

Living With Your Equal in Humor

Let’s just get it out in the open – I am married to an awesome guy :). Steve is a package deal: he’s smart, kind, compassionate, patient, funny, handsome, and a man of integrity – he does the right thing even if it’s unpopular or inconvenient; a rare find these days. He’s 49 years old and looks 35 – at 43 I have more gray hair and facial lines than he does, hee hee. Most importantly he has a deep love for God and it shows even in the most trivial details of his everyday living. In an age where Christianity regularly gets beaten up for weak explanations (misinformation) and bad applications (hypocrisy), Steve stands head and shoulders above those who talk the talk – he walks the walk without regard for the fleeting opinions of others and is an example everyday of how to place the best interests of others at least on the same line – if not above – his own desires.

We’ve been married for nearly 10 years, and truth be told it often seems like 10 days. Someone once said that the tone of your day is often set by the mood you’re in when you wake up in the morning. We often joke that if our house had a FBI wiretap, it would be hard to distinguish between the adults and children when listening in – we go to bed giggling and laughing and wake up exactly the same way, sometimes right where we left off the night before. The “bodily functions” theme is a real workhorse for humor, especially in the dark where everything is even funnier.

A hidden fear I have is that we’ll get to be 85 years old, in the “sunset years” so to speak, and I’ll wake up one day thinking “Wait! It’s not enough; it’s not been long enough!! We just got married…well, 50 years ago…”

Comedy makes such a regular appearance in our marriage it’s enabled us to weather a fair share of hardship and still keep a positive attitude. We don’t take ourselves too seriously and we’re able to take the most ordinary situations and turn them into our own private circus.

A prime example is the following: I was traveling to our corporate headquarters a few weeks ago. I had landed at the airport in NH and was in the McDonald’s (eeek!) drive-thru to get some lunch before heading to the office. The drive-thru employee was on the talk-box and Steve was in my other ear on my cell phone as I ordered a hamburger, salad, and yogurt. As soon as my darling husband heard me say “hamburger” he launched into 20 different variations of the word hamburger – right out of the scene in The Pink Panther, where Steve Martin is trying to say “hamburger” without the inane French accent. Here’s a link to the clip if you want to see something really funny:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=iUCDhvbQFmU

“I would like to buy a hem-beh-geah…”

“I would like to buy a HEM-bah-gah…”

“I would like to buy a hem-BEU-geuh...”

And Steve was LOUD – I mean I could hold the phone away from my ear and still hear him.

“Hem-beah-GEAH!!”

It was the ultimate test in trying to hold an adult conversation and not go off the deep end in a giggling fit. By the time I got to the cashier window, I was practically crying and having a hard time just steering the car down the drive-thru lane.

I laughed the entire way to the office – food coming out my nose – what a scene to nearby drivers :).

Another typical example is from last year when I was traveling internationally, and one of my trips took me to Bangkok, Thailand; Steve accompanied me for 2 weeks. I had an apartment that was actually a Marriott hotel, and while it was a beautiful property, they had a 25 meter pool on the top floor that was to die for. I would have the whole thing to myself at 6am and it was a slice of heaven.

The hotel also had a security system with cameras everywhere, including the elevators, and also one positioned behind the front desk aimed directly at guests who were checking in or needed assistance from the staff.

We discovered the front desk camera one evening while channel surfing. Thailand is a wonderful mix of traditional and Western culture, and they have a great satellite channel lineup. I could catch up on all my favorite episodes of Law & Order and CSI, and Steve was in heaven because they also broadcast all the History Channel variants; I wondered if he would leave the couch only to answer the call of nature.

The front desk camera was a channel all its own, meaning you could watch this channel and basically see anyone standing at the front desk and also see into the front lobby – it was as if you were behind the camera itself.

It took about 2 seconds for The Dare to be uttered: “Dare ya to go down there and do something while on camera…”

Suh-wheeeet!!!!

Remarkably he went first. I saw him on the TV, being filmed on the front desk camera. He said something to the front desk employee, presumably requesting the DVD catalog (our apartment had a DVD player and a wide selection of first-run movies available for checkout from the front desk).

The clerk disappeared and Steve looked straight into the camera and began half duck-walking/half doing the “Vogue” pose around the lobby, stopping just in time as the clerk reappeared.

When he got back to the room, I was rolling off the couch in laughter, holding my stomach. I could hear him practically stumbling down the hall, he was laughing so hard.

Things escalated from there…

I went downstairs, also making the same request of the front desk – may I see the movie catalog, pretty please?

No sooner did the clerk disappear into the back room, I launched into an exaggerated act of picking my nose, and when the clerk reappeared with the catalog I impulsively shook his hand – with the same hand I’d just been using to do a roto-rooter :).

Steve was howling when I got back to our room. It beat anything on TV that night - and for weeks after.

The funniest part was that this is a big hotel – hundreds of rooms – who knew how many people were watching us…those crazy “stoo-PEED” Americans…

I pray all marriages have as much fun as we do.

Reflections

2008-04-14T11:41:00.004-05:00

It was my first “big” swim meet – ever. There had been a smaller one 4 months ago with about 25 athletes, but this one had more like 75, which I suppose is not as big as some of the nationals, but the atmosphere was electric nonetheless – more officials, more spectators, more swimmers, more events, more everything.

For the first time I became acquainted with the “psych sheet” -- a list of swimmers and seed times published a couple days before the meet. Each swimmer gets to see competitors’ names and projected finish times and hopefully gets “psyched” to swim even faster at the meet. My times were generally in the middle of others in my age group. I marveled at some of the published times for other athletes: 59 seconds for the 100 yard freestyle, 58 seconds for the 100 yard butterfly …clearly these were former collegiate All-Americans or Division III swimmers. Also, the ages of the swimmers ranged from those in their early 20s to athletes in their 80s – a testament to the conventional wisdom that one should be able to swim practically until the day he/she passes away.

The events I signed up for were the 500 yard freestyle, 100 yard Individual Medley, 50 yard freestyle, 100 yard freestyle, and the 100 yard butterfly - YIKES. I was hanging my butt out there and taking a risk with that last event – the “fly” :). What if I couldn’t finish? Would my seed time be ridiculously behind even the 80-somethings? Better yet, though, what if I could finish?? :)

I just learned the butterfly stroke 2 months ago and it came with a lot of work, determination, and patience – big surprise. In the beginning I knew absolutely nothing about the technique and when our coach would give us an “IM” (Individual Medley – butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, freestyle) set, I would inwardly groan and outwardly sigh – I was clueless about how to even start with the “fly”.

Thankfully grumbling about something and doing nothing about it never lasts very long with me. If I had to list my own “Seven Habits of Highly Destructive People”, chronic griping followed by lack of action would be at the top. Sitting around “waiting” for someone or something else to do something when the keys are in my hand actually repulses me; few things are more revolting than not taking responsibility for my own actions.

One of our coaches, Liz, suggested doing a fly drill and this helped immensely. It consisted of a dolphin kick and working in just one side of the arm technique. Though awkward at first, I tried just the kick with fins on and it felt surprisingly good. Several practices later I had the one-sided arm technique down and my dolphin kick was now a graceful undulating motion – my hips, not my knees, would initiate the action and my entire body would follow. My head would naturally surface and I could actually take a breath – sweeeeet.

A few weeks later I tried adding in both sides of the arm technique for a full butterfly stroke -- and barely made it 1/3 of the way down the lane. Use yer head, my brain said. Right! Try it slowly and remember the undulating motion. I had trouble figuring out timing between breathing and my arms coming out of the water. Finally Hap said your arms and head should never be out of the water at the same time, meaning I should be tucking my head down to re-enter the water when my arms are surfacing.

That was the final piece of the puzzle. One morning I went down the lane with the full stroke and before I knew it I was touching the wall. It was HARD but I did it!! YEEEEHAW!!

25 yards of AGONIZINGLY HARD turned into 25 yards of MODERATELY HARD, then 50 yards of HARD followed by 50 yards of I CAN DO THIS – followed by 75 METERS of MAN, THIS IS OFF THE CHARTS BUT I CAN DO THIS…followed by dude, this makes freestyle look EASY…

Suddenly my staying power and ability to “grab” more water in freestyle was boosted, and 5 seconds came rolling off my 100-yard time.

So when I looked at the list of events for the meet, I saw “100 Yard Fly” and thought if I’m ever going to make friends with my head, now is the time. I knew enough to appreciate the sheer effort required to finish any event using this stroke – it’s all brute strength and besides being reasonably efficient in the technique, one must parcel out the energy required to be able to just finish. It’s all too tempting to go out too fast and have nothing left in the tank at the end. Even the pro’s are vulnerable.

But it’s like this in any event – does your mind rule your body – even when it hurts? Even when you’re tired? Even when you so want to quit?

I stood on the starting block, bent over looking down into the lane, and I could see my reflection in the water. I looked at no one else in the adjacent lanes – it was just me and the clock. In the final precious seconds before the “gun”, I thought did you ever think you would be standing up here actually competing, and in an event most triathletes – heck, most Masters swimmers – won’t attempt?...

…you’re just standing up here and you look GOOD. Take a long look at yourself… Think about where you’ve come from. Steve’s up there thinking man, that’s my wife and she looks HOT…you know it!! Now get out there and do what you came to do – suffer and move the line!!

The tone sounded and I dove cleanly into the water. I could see Kristin, my swim buddy and fellow super sonic triathlete, clapping at the end of the lane. By the end of 50 yards my arms ached but my head was totally in the driver’s seat. One more turn and the end was in sight – I can so do this!!

I finished nearly 20 seconds under my seed time – double personal bests (one for just getting out there) :).

I’ve grown to LOVE the water. I plan on swimming for the rest of my life and, God willing, being one of the 90+ year-old athletes still gliding down the lane.

Up Goes the Gate...But Not My Breakfast

2008-03-28T17:00:00.004-05:00

I’m not a fan of mysticism…but if I was I’d be tempted to say all the stars were aligned that day. It was the St. Patrick’s Day 5 Miler, and my coach said to use the race as the Run Test. In the last post I recounted my experiences with the Swim and Bike tests last week – all-out efforts geared to benchmark current fitness level, and pinpoint my maximum and average heart rates to establish the proper training zones for different workouts.

So many things came together for the race:

- I was topped up with great sleep – 9+ quality hours every night all week!
- The day was overcast, breezy, and a crisp 40F – perfect temps to run in
- I was familiar with the course, knew all its hills and turns
- I was sporting new Adidas Adistar Cushions – real Cadillac shoes!
- 14,000 other runners to make it exciting
- I had a PHAT playlist on my iPod, hugely motivating tunes

But the biggest part was that I’d been reading my coach’s blog all week. She and her husband were out in Arizona training with their coach, Spencer Smith, who is a professional triathlete and makes a darn good living at it. Day after day she posted a recap of the training they had completed. One day they rode up Mt. Lemmon and to hear her tell it, it was a lungbusting and legshredding climb up followed by a mind-numbing descent at 30+ mph; and then they ran a “short” 50-minute tempo run. Another day found her riding so hard that she yarked up her dinner from the night before. Amazingly she “hung with the boys” and everyone reading her blog that week was no doubt profoundly affected in some way. To use her famous words, she “suffered like a dog.” :)

In short, I was grateful for her brutal honesty and transparency, but more so her unyielding determination to rule her body with her mind and push the envelope despite being outmatched with the men at times. In January at a triathlon camp I attended, I had a candid reckoning with my self-confidence and had to painfully concede there were more mental demons about this sport lurking in my head than I wanted to admit.

The last 2 months I’ve worked hard to come to terms with what holds me back. Big surprise – it’s my brain! :) Sure there are the required workouts and training to build ability, but I have sorely underestimated the role of the mind when it comes to pushing the limits.

And I proved it during Saturday’s race when the gun went off. Steve and I had run 1.5 miles to the Start as a warmup, and I used the first mile of the race as a “ramp up” for the test. Right after Mile 1, I hit the lap button on my heart rate monitor, and as Steve said, I was “gone.” It was an all-out, max-heart-rate, work-til-you-puke kind of effort til the end.

My legs felt like they had springs in them and my heart rate was already near 180. One of my favorite tunes, Break Me Down by Red, popped up on my player, and I was reveling in the music and picking off other runners. It felt GOOD to pass a LOT of people. Another peek at my monitor 5 minutes later – 188bpm – holy cow! – and I was showing no signs of slowing down. My leg turnover was FAST – each foot was spending as little time on the ground as possible; its only role was to take off so the other foot could land, as if the road was a runway (which in literal terms I guess it is!). Sure it hurt, but my brain was saying c’mon where’s da line? You got more – show me da money!, which to me meant pushing over 190bpm.

I saw the last major hill of the course and thought yeah, this is it. By now I’m 25 minutes into the test, and my legs and lungs were screaming at me, but there was no turning back. I could do anything for 5 more minutes.

Up the hill I flew and for a second I thought man, I might puke – what do I have left in my stomach…hope nothing liquid, that would be gross and I might slip in it…hey, Jen suffered like a dog, so can you! You think it’s NOT supposed to hurt?!

I distinctly heard my mind say exactly what Steve must’ve heard ad nauseum during Marine Corps Boot Camp…Let’s go ladies – MAKE IT RAIN! (Hilarious thing to say to a bunch of MEN in an elite branch of the military…) :)

I crested the hill and saw 194bpm on my monitor – AWESOME. I nearly cried. The rest of the course was downhill and flat; I could hold onto 185-188bpm for a little while longer.

It truly is about the mind ruling the body and today I found out how to take it one step further. There will be other days of aggravation but not today.

Today the gate barring my best performance went up…but at least my breakfast stayed down :).

Asking For It

2008-03-21T07:33:00.004-05:00

“You’re a brave girl to be asking for these…LOVE IT!” said my coach when I suggested a Test Week to benchmark my current fitness abilities in the disciplines of swimming, biking, and running. I had septum surgery 7 weeks ago and with the increased oxygen uptake I was already noticing a difference in performance. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t being overly enthusiastic about my perceived gains.

Test Week is relatively “light” in terms of training volume (time) but brutal in intensity. Phrases like “all-out effort”, “max heart rate”, “suck it up and suffer”, and “work til you puke” are all associated with finding one’s breaking point. The purpose is to pinpoint your maximum and average heart rates which are used to determine the appropriate heart rate “zones” within which to train. The theory is that every workout has a different goal: some are to build power; others are to hone efficiency which in turn is one of the underpinnings of endurance. Training within the right heart rate zones maximizes the achievement of these goals while also minimizing the risk of injury and burnout. Contrary to some popular beliefs, “going hard” all the time is not healthy at all and, moreover, is the Express Route to getting hurt and demotivated in a hurry.

The bike test is a long warmup, about 20 minutes with some brief accelerations, and then launches into a 30-minute all-out time trial ride. It can be done outside on a measured course, but is just as feasible on an indoor trainer. Mine was on a Tuesday, on the heels of swimming 3,200 yards Monday at Masters practice. To stoke the fire, I burned a CD with some high-powered tunes by the likes of Van Halen, Steve Vai, Joe Satriani, Metallica, Three Days Grace, and Creed – songs in the order of how I might be feeling during the test. I hopped on the saddle and started right in.

Snippets of thoughts racing through my head during the test:

“Feeling pretty good during warmup. I think I’ll do a few single-leg pedal drills just to get the legs limbered up….wow, 90 rpms of smooth pedaling, not bad…I’m either excited about this test or really angry about something, or both! Maybe I should pick a fight with someone before doing my next Test Week :).”

“Wow, 5 minutes into it and I’m sweating a LOT…water’s flying out the bottle and down my throat; I don’t even need to point the bottle in my direction…heart rate’s about 165bpm, working hard but totally in control…tunes are awesome!”

“Okay, 10 minutes in, 20 left to go; I’m in earnest distress now…but look at my computer – 21 mph and 94 rpms! I’ve never pushed that big a gear that fast – holy cow!”

“Heart rate 185bpm - Good GRAVY!!! Is that smoke I smell, ‘cause my legs are on FI-WAH!!!" (Elmer Fud-style)

“Where did all this water in my ears come from?…wait, it’s SWEAT…SUFFER girl!...”

“Only 2 minutes left to go…you can do ANYTHING for 2 minutes!! You’re an IRONMAN!”

Then it was over and time to run “easy” for 20 minutes on the treadmill to unwind – I finished the test and blew away last year’s test results.

The swim was the next day (Wednesday) and much of the same in duration and intensity: (10) 100 yard intervals – all-out raw speed -- with precisely 10 seconds rest between each interval. Though each interval is max effort, one must “plan” for the stamina to finish all 10, meaning you can’t blow your wad on the first one and expect to have enough in the tank for intervals 2 thru 10.

I did a nice warmup in the pool, reset my watch, took a deep breath and launched right in. Snippets follow:

“Okay, finished that first one in 1:45, which is awesome, but I was pushing pretty hard…time to go again!”

“Man, that was even harder and I came in at 1:49…what, time to go again?!”

“Oooooo, someone let all the FUN seep out of the pool…this hurts, my legs are flat from yesterday’s ride, and I’m heaving…”

“Wow, here comes the wall and I have absolutely no oxygen left for a flip turn…but I’m gonna do one ANYWAY…”

“See, you didn’t die at the wall…man, only 4 more left…I WILL DO THIS and DO IT WELL!”

“2 more left…my arms are really on fire…waterfalls of dark chocolate dancing in my head…are my legs still attached?”

“DONE! Smile, Catherine, you nailed it…”

A nice cooldown of backstroke and then freestyle with my paddles…ahhhhhh…I could stay in the pool all day. Due to maximally filling my lungs with oxygen during the test, I’m able to swim 8 x 25 yards of freestyle, easily rolling to breathe only once for each 25.

One great thing about swimming perhaps not readily apparent to many recreational swimmers is that stressing the different systems of the body such as breathing, or doing drills during a workout, produces immediate benefits in the water, as it “teaches” the body a new adaptation or technique. Similar to a computer, the brain contains stored “programs” that it recalls when recruiting muscle fibers to work. It is entirely possible to overwrite these stored programs whenever something new is learned. Mix in patience and consistency, and you have the perfect recipe for huge gains in fitness and a considerable investment in the future of your health.

Now you’re really “asking for it.” :) (More tomorrow on the run test…)

Surviving Suicide - Part 2 of 2

2008-03-12T07:03:00.004-05:00

Five years had passed since my mother’s death, and I decided to finally get help. I had absolutely no idea how to fix my problems, but I knew something was terribly wrong. The thought of living the rest of my life in this state was unimaginable, so I went to the University’s counseling office and made an appointment to meet with a therapist.

Five visits turned into five harrowing years as I dredged up everything from childhood as far back as I could remember. In some sessions words were not even spoken, as I would simply sit and weep over the hopelessness my mother must’ve felt, seeing only one way out of her troubles. I couldn’t relate to it at all; we were not cut from the same fabric and that fact slashed at the pillar of my identity. Would I wake up one day and suddenly the world would be sideways with a pinkish tinge and everyone would be speaking Frenglisharian (French, English, and Hungarian)? My brain blowing a circuit was a very real fear. I slogged through each session reopening many aching wounds, not realizing at the time that because I was getting things out in the open in a constructive manner, that progress was being made – like depositing money into an investment, the proceeds of which are not immediately visible but continuing to make the deposit nonetheless.

Just shy of the five-year mark of being in therapy, I was graduating from MBA school and decided that it was time to close two chapters in my life at once – school and counseling. I didn’t have any Ah-HAH! answers, but the time seemed right. I did have a decent job, a good boyfriend, and a place of my own – plenty of constructive areas in my life to work at and improve.

The boyfriend was a Christian, a born-again Jesus Freak (see The Sign), and little by little I pieced together who God really is, not the Stern Distant Judging Father I’d see Him as earlier on. When I was 28, He reached into my life and in one divine Fell Swoop, I plainly understood why He allows suffering to come into people’s lives, among other things such as His Son taking my place on the Cross because He “so loved the world…” (John 3:16a).

I’m 43 now and it’s been nearly 30 years since my mother’s suicide. Though I don’t claim to have all the answers, and I’m no hero, there are a lot of lessons I’ve learned through her death, such as:

Why did it happen? We live in a fallen world full of death, disease, injustice, inequality, abuse, babies who die, terrorists who kill thousands in the warped “name of God.” Sometimes we suffer by our own hand; often people suffer because of the choices others make. Either way we must live with the consequences of these choices.
Why did God allow my mom to die? Strangely enough, because He loves me. I can only imagine the direction my life would’ve taken had she lived. It’s entirely possible my life would’ve been consumed with taking care of my mother (and aging grandmother). I may never have gone to college, met Steve or his kids, or had a fulfilling career that allows me to help others.
Where is God in all this? Right here with me, walking and talking with me. Looking back, He’s always been here. One must go through the valley to stand upon the mountain and this is a universal principle that proves itself out in endless life experiences. It’s primarily through suffering that you become even more “tuned” to the voice of God. Did you last pray to God when things were in the toilet, or when you were flying high?
Suicide is immensely tough on those left behind. Feelings of guilt or responsibility often accompany the devastating sense of loss, and these should not be discounted. A good therapist is WORTH IT, no matter how painful or meaningless it seems at the time. With patience, progress does come, but one must be consistent, willing to hang in there as long as necessary, and honestly deal with your problems. The Blame Game only works for so long.
I am left with an ability to feel deep compassion for those who have experienced traumatic loss in their own lives. All three of my stepkids are facing serious life issues right now, and though I don’t always say the things they want to hear, I have sorrow and compassion for the hardships they face and will never turn them away or minimize their pain.
I’ve learned I’m most fulfilled when I’m helping others. If I can live through an experience like this, I want to help others through trials and hardships in their own lives. We live in a Microwave Society that expects quick fixes to everything. With serious pain, this is just not possible and expecting anything different is a serious injustice to the value and dignity of the human being.
I’ve learned to never say quit, to carry on through anything life hands me, to “run with perseverance the race set before me…” (Hebrews 12:1b). This runs so deep in me, it’s one of the many reasons why I train and race, especially endurance distances. You can’t fake it; it requires training, discipline, and hanging in there even when things look grim.
God answers ALL prayer. Sometimes His answers are No. Just because He doesn’t fix something the way I want Him to doesn’t mean He isn’t fixing it. If we always gave our kids what they wanted, we’d always be giving them sugar. God’s perspective is wildly beyond mine – I’m the proverbial ant crawling over a Rembrandt painting; I can’t see what He sees.

I was sure by now
That you would have reached out
And wiped my tears away
Stepped in and saved the day

But once again, I say Amen
And it’s still raining…
And as the thunder rolls
I barely hear you whisper through the rain
“I’m with you.”

And I’ll praise you in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For you are who You are
No matter where I am

And every tear I’ve cried
You hold in your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise you in this storm

-Casting Crowns “Praise You in the Storm”

Surviving Suicide - Part 1 of 2

2008-03-10T18:42:00.009-05:00

I’ve mentioned in previous posts (see My Father and A Long Line of Iron) that my parents were refugees from Hungary’s Communist Revolution in 1956. Hungary had been under Communist rule since World War II, and an uprising by the people in a short-lived attempt to overthrow the regime was crushed by the Soviet army as they stormed the country and resumed control of the government. My parents, along with my mother’s extended family, escaped over the border into Austria and lived for months in a refugee camp before being allowed to emigrate to the United States. Below is a snapshot of what the exodus looked like as thousands of Hungarians fled the Soviet tanks and soldiers.

Both of my parents grew up in extreme circumstances themselves. As children, they lived in poverty conditions and survived World War II, my mother being 7 years old when it started and 12 when the Allies declared victory in Europe in 1945. Their house had been bombed, so my mother’s family and several others lived in the cellar while the war raged on. It was only by befriending one of the Russian soldiers that they were given rations of basics such as flour, grain, milk, bread – things we expect to find everyday at our supermarkets. Sometimes I wince when I hear my kids complain about not getting the latest whatever-it-is. The stories (most of them independently corroborated accounts) my family told me and carried with them to their graves renew daily my gratitude for living in such a prosperous nation. Having traveled the world over, I’ve also seen my own share of heartbreaking poverty that would make our own poor appear “rich” by the world’s standards.

I didn’t grow up with my father. My parents were divorced when I was about 2 years old, and my mother and I came to St. Louis to live with her parents. My father stayed in New Jersey and eventually married Ann (who by the way is a wonderful friend and the GREATEST example I could ever have for how to be a stepmom to Steve’s kids).

My mother’s sorrow and bitterness over the divorce bled over into her judgment on how to raise me on her own. She committed the parental cardinal sins of terribly disparaging my father in his absence and not allowing me to see him at all. Later on I discovered some of the things she said about him were true, but it didn’t mitigate the resentment of not being allowed to realize these things on my own, untainted by another’s terribly biased opinion.
I was about 8 years old when I figured out something was dreadfully wrong with my mother. She heard voices in her head and thought people were “after” her. Sometime later I would learn it was a textbook case of paranoid schizophrenia, but at the time I was just a child and utterly incapable of helping in any meaningful way. When I was 12 I got a firsthand introduction to the hopelessness and desperation buried deep within her - she made an attempt on her life by taking a bottle of pain pills. She didn’t tell me and I found her one Saturday morning when I tried unsuccessfully to wake her from a deep sleep; she was completely unresponsive. I remember the 911 system had just been installed because somehow I had the presence of mind to dial the numbers. Paramedics showed up in a few minutes and tried to revive her. The trip ended at the hospital with her getting her stomach pumped and sleeping off what had already been metabolized. I sat in her hospital room, watching her, and prayed like never before that God would intervene and keep her from taking her life. To be honest, I didn’t know what I really wanted. In some ways anything was better than this, but the fear of losing her and my subsequent fate was more than I could bear.

Another attempt followed when I was 14. In the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school, she finally succeeded by hanging herself. My grandmother found her. She had used twine and a pullup bar I had in the doorway to my bedroom. The coroner said it took only a couple minutes for her to die. I later wondered if she regretted stepping off the ladder.

A flood of strange “relief” and heartbreaking loss swept over me – now what? I had prayed to God and He said no. At the time I truly hated and cursed Him.

My father came to the funeral and wanted me to go back to New Jersey to live with him. No way, I said, I barely know you; where were you when I needed you most? Though he legally could have forced me to move, he relented and allowed me to continue living with my grandmother. It would be a blessing in disguise as I would later realize, but not before taking just about every destructive detour possible.

The years shuffled by and my life was ruled by rage, resentment, and the proverbial “my way or the highway” attitude. Ironically my mother’s suicide had the opposite effect one would expect – I absolutely REFUSED to follow in her footsteps. It was simply out of the question. As bad as things were I couldn’t imagine taking my own life and meeting my Maker in my current state of mind. I was on fire to stay alive, even if only by clawing my way to reality each dreary morning.

One night when I was 20 and halfway through college, I watched an episode of Wheel of Fortune and the contestant won a lot of money. An avalanche of tears burst forth from me (kinda like the little alien in Spaceballs…yeah this is a way heavy story and this is called comic relief), and I realized I was living in a seesaw world of extreme emotion – one minute I would be tearfully ecstatic over the most trivial experience, and the next I would be living in a gray cloud of apathy, experiencing the world from inside a cotton ball.

Part 2 coming tomorrow...

"Git 'Er Done!" The Tri-Bloggers Swim Challenge

2008-03-04T06:20:00.005-06:00

Earlier in the week when talking to my coach I opened my big mouth and highlighted the Tri-Bloggers Swim Challenge on Pedergraham’s blog (http://pedergraham.blogspot.com/). It’s a 4,000 yard swim made up of (40) 100 yard intervals that seem easy enough in the beginning. The intervals are written to accommodate the swimmer’s speed and skills. For example, mine were written as follows:

1st 10: 4@2.25; 3@2.20; 2@2.15; 1@2.10
2nd 10: 1@2.20; 4@2.15; 3@2.10; 2@2.15
3rd 10: 2@2.20; 1@2.15; 4@2.10; 3@2.05
4th 10: 3@2.20; 2@2.15; 1@2.10; 4@2.00

This means for the 1st set of (10) 100s, 4 of them were leaving at the 2.25 minute mark, the next 3 at the 2.20, and so on. If I finished at 1.50 that meant 35 seconds of rest on the first 4, 30 seconds on the next 3, etc. The opposite could hold true too – if I loafed and finished at 2.10, that meant only 15 seconds rest on the first 4, 10 seconds on the next 3, etc.

After being “challenged” by Jen (see “Me and My Big Mouth”), I really had no choice but to accept and put this on my calendar. So last Thursday night I’m getting my gear together and I have to admit I was positively excited about doing this. Frankly, I LOVE a challenge. The idea of putting myself to the test both terrifies and exhilarates me at the same time. Yes, I might fail but that possibility alone is enough to drive me in the direction of success. The feeling of glorious fulfillment that waits on the other side is an equally prevailing force.

Friday driving to the pool, my heart was already beating faster. I’m thinking “C’mon, you swam this distance several times last summer when training for Ironman! What is going on here?! You can do this – and do it well!” It was a rollercoaster of fear and confident excitement all rolled into one big ride.

In the locker room, I pulled on my swim cap and grabbed my towel, goggles, and baggie with the outlined intervals in it. Of all the preparation I’d done, I’d actually managed to forget my watch! “Sassafrassarassa!!”…(Muttley-style, from one of my favorite childhood cartoons Stop the Pigeon).

This meant I’d have to read the pool clock, which is not a big deal; it just meant one more thing I’d have to manage – remembering where I finished, what interval I was on, when I’d have to leave again. Always a learning experience!

I stepped into the pool area and surveyed the lanes. Hmmm…Slow, Medium, or Fast…people in all of them. Suddenly the swimmer in the Fast lane said she was finished and getting out – sweet!

I jumped in, plastered my baggie onto the end of the lane, waited for the second hand on the pool clock to cross over 60, and started right in.

The following is a rehash of each set of 10:

1st 10: Okay, the first 7 feel a bit “stiff” – this is a warmup of course…but is that 1.45 I’m seeing on the pool clock??? Awesome!!

The next 3 intervals are right on 1.45-1.48 and I’m in disbelief. I’ve never swum this fast, except the week before when I blew it out at 1.39.

2nd 10: Alright, I’m warmed up now!! And cruising, flip-turning my heart out…I’m almost halfway!! This is so easy...maybe Jen should've rewritten some of the intervals...

3rd 10: Okay, feeling a bit tired, but still strong – I’m still coming in at 1.48!! This is so great!

After the 33rd 100…

Ooooo, where did all the fun go? Man, will this EVER be over?? 7 more to go…sheesh!

I take a peek at my baggie at the remaining 7 intervals…my times are now inching closer to 1.50.

3 more at 2.10 and THEN 4 MORE AT 2.00??? Can’t the time pass any faster? I’m bored…

3 intervals later…4 more to go. The war between body and mind is raging at full tilt.

Wow, that hurt…I needed nearly every bit of that rest…I could use a buffet about now…ooo, look at those tiles on the bottom of the pool…can I have some chocolate?...and why is France so far away?

The LAST 4…

Good grief, only 5 seconds rest!! Huh?? Sassafrassarassa!! No WAY I’m NOT finishing, I don’t care if they (my arms, but I hardly had the strength to think the words) fall off!! I can pick ‘em up on the way back!

I bulldoze my way through the remaining intervals and gratefully touch the wall at the end. My smile was broad enough to reach both sides of the pool – I DID IT.

It made a 200 cooldown swim seem like NOTHING. Some other unexpected side benefits: reading the pool clock and flip turns have now become second nature. The amazing part is that I still met one of my goals for this season, which is to be in flip turns full time by March 1st, despite having septum surgery and being out of the pool for 2 weeks.

As Larry the Cable Guy says (ad nauseum): “Git ‘Er Done!”

Shattering the Glass Ceiling - The Brain Rules!

2008-02-28T16:53:00.009-06:00

A sure cure for post-Ironman aches and pains and the inevitable "letdown" of not needing to eat/sleep/train every minute of the day...

...Zip-Lining 200 feet above the ground in Alaska :) Steve took this as I was coming in from the longest of 10 runs - a quarter-mile length of line in the forests just outside Juneau.

Hey, Jen said to recover...this doesn't mean I was IDLE :)

----------

Wednesday I was in the pool as usual at o’dark-thirty – 5:15am. For some reason only about 10 athletes showed up to practice, which is funny, because Wednesday is Stroke Day – an “easier” day relatively speaking than Monday, which is Yardage Day. On a given Monday we’ll swim anywhere from 3,500 to 4,700 yards, many of them at “tempo” pace; some 25-30 athletes will show up for this grueling workout. It’s funny to see a mob on Monster Mondays and a scarce showing on “Walking” Wednesdays :).

I have several goals outlined for this season. I actually have them on cards that I either carry around with me or put on the fridge where I can see them. Like a persistent rash :), they are always with me.

Goals are meant to challenge and inspire discipline. It’s hard to adhere to any kind of endeavor without some specific “finish line.” A well-written goal will be one that is specific, measurable, and has a timeframe. The risk of not reaching the goal is a real possibility, but it is balanced by the prospect that it will be achieved. Sadly many people are ruled by fear and forever stay in their “recliners,” never taking a risk. There is a well-known story in the Bible about the apostle Peter who was a fisherman, out in his boat one day, and sees Jesus coming toward him walking on the water. Peter loves Jesus like a brother and because he is incredibly impulsive, he jumps out of his boat and also begins walking on the water toward Jesus. It was Peter’s faith that got him out of the boat regardless of the circumstances - he saw the “goal” which was to reach his Friend and took a risk to get there.

The point of the story is that you will never “walk on water” if you never get out of the boat.

One of my goals is to “meet or break 1:40 on the 100”, meaning consistently swim 100-yard intervals in 1 minute 40 seconds or less -- and to do this by May 1st, just a couple weeks before my first season-opener triathlon. It’s a short sprint-distance race but this only means the effort will be an extremely INTENSE anaerobic nearly-vomit-when-you’re-done kind of effort – the polar opposite of aerobic-effort endurance distances such as Ironman. One should not measure the ease of a race by the distance; there are pro’s who make serious money at either end of the spectrum and I have deep respect for anyone who makes a living as a professional athlete. The kind of mental focus required is as concentrated and demanding as any physical labor.

My swim times have come down appreciably from where I was 3 years ago. Though I took lessons when a kid, I’ve never swum competitively, so I’ve had to learn proper stroke technique as an adult. I won’t sugarcoat it – it’s been hard work and there has been more than one morning where I’ve been strongly tempted to stay under the blankets with Steve and bag the workout. However, I’ve never gotten out of the pool actually regretting swim practice – even on days when I was legitimately tired. It’s a fact I would regret blowing off practice. It’s also the proverbial slippery slope – missing a workout for selfish reasons opens the door and makes it easier to miss the next time. Ever tell a fib and suddenly find it easier to fib again the next time around? Human nature is like water – sometimes our natural tendency is to take the path of least resistance.

My current 100-yard time “best” is 1:52, which is not above-the-surface kind of fast, but it’s a long way from the 2:20 I was at 3 years ago. So we did 3,200 yards Wednesday morning. When I finished a short cooldown, Hap (my swim coach) told me to stay in the pool for a minute. Then…

Hap: “I want you to do a 100, but I want you to BREAK 1:40…”

Me (cross-eyed and wondering which of us is delusional): “HUH?? 1:40?? Now?? Okaaaay…I’ll do my berry best.”

Hap: “NO 'trying' - you should be able to do this, even tired. I want you to break 1:40, so get out and do what you gotta do to get there. We have a GOAL and if you can’t break it then we need to adjust the goal.”

Me (getting severely agitated over “adjusting”): “No WAY, I’m not adjusting the goal…”

I gave it everything I had and flip-turned all but the last 25, which I could’ve done but didn’t. I was at 98% and my lungs/arms/legs were screaming at me, but I kept thinking I can do ANYTHING for under 2:00. My brain was saying “You got more, C’MON!!”

I came in at 1:39…an astonishing 13 seconds faster than my “best” 1:52.

Afterward…

Hap: “How did you feel with that kind of intensity?”

Me: “Well, I was throwing up in my mouth a bit…”

Hap (laughing): “I want you to start pushing yourself more. Monday when Patty comes in I want you to not only catch her, but start passing her. You’re doing a great job swimming steady, but it’s time to push on.”

Me (high as a kite): “Alrighty then! I wasn’t really throwing up in my mouth – I was trying to be polite to other folks in the pool, you know, keep it in my throat.” :)

(Big laugh from Hap and everyone in the pool)

Hap: “Now you know 1:40 is doable and possible.”

Just like Roger Bannister breaking the 4:00/mile. Once he did it, 20 others followed him within 2 years. He showed it could be done and lifted the ceiling. The brain is an extraordinary “governor” on the collective engine of our hearts and muscle fibers. Once the brain “knows”, it can convince the body to do practically anything – which includes shattering the glass ceiling and once in a while walking on water.

Friends, get out of the boat!!

Me and My Big Mouth

2008-02-25T09:02:00.005-06:00

The above picture is where I swam last year in Bangkok, Thailand...25 meters on the 20th floor of the Marriott Mayfair. I would have the whole thing to myself at 6am -- sweeeeeet :)

I’ve gotten suckered – into blogging that is. There is no one to blame but myself. As you may have noticed, I enjoy getting things off my chest and writing is a natural outlet. I thought at some point I might run out of things to talk about, but that has not happened. In fact the opposite has occurred – I have no less than 10 posts “started” in draft mode, waiting to be completed and published on this site. Tons going on upstairs in my overactive brain! :)

This morning I was talking to my coach about Masters swimming and how I’m feeling pretty good getting back into the water after my septum surgery a couple weeks ago.

Here’s a snippet of the conversation (I’m Voice Dawg):

Voice Dawg : I saw the tri-bloggers swim challenge - nice! :) Someday in the not too distant future :)

Coach Jen : Oh, you could do that. Would you like to? I can write the 100s off a time for you...you'd have to skip masters 1 day for it?!

Voice Dawg : 40 x 100s??? um...sure... ;)

Coach Jen : You could do it.....! Do you want to??? CHALLENGED?

Voice Dawg : Man, I'm sorry I brought it up...kinda... :)

Coach Jen : Hee hee.....you must be interested if you brought it up. OK, let's do it next Friday. I will work on the splits for you...and add them in for Next FRIDAY. Done.....YEAHHHHHaw. :) Why don't you blog on Pendergraham's blog and tell her! So, you can be accountable to all of us. ha

Voice Dawg : You guys are all sub-1:30!!

Coach Jen : So.....? What is your point? HAHA And not everyone is sub 1.30...trust me...just the ones blogging about it are...

Voice Dawg : I'll do it :).

Coach Jen : YES! Ok, plan on it...next Friday.

Coach Jen : GO big or stay home.

Voice Dawg : Yeah, you can't be in the "recliner-zone" all the time :)

Coach Jen : HA! :)

Voice Dawg : My next post will be titled "Me and My Big Mouth" :)

Coach Jen : OH GOOD one...and yes it should be...but that is why we called it a CHALLENGE!!!!!! right?

Voice Dawg : No doubt :) I'm suddenly hungry just thinking about it...I'm going to get some vittles. Have an awesome day!

Coach Jen : Hee hee...thank you! YOU TOO!!! :) bye bye, Ms. Swimmer/Triathlete!

Voice Dawg : Such a nice ring to it :)

So, this Friday I’m up for 40 x 100 yard intervals. With a 200 yard cooldown, that’s 4,200 yards of total swimming. I haven’t swum this distance since last summer when training for Ironman. If you want a real mindbender, 40 is more or less the entry-level challenge. I’ve seen 75 and one of Elizabeth’s latest posts is from a swim practice where they did 100 x 100!!

Jen said “Go BIG or stay home.”

She’s right – if I want to improve I’ll have to push the envelope. This is no time to stay in the “recliner-zone”…no such thing as Iron-Sissy’s :). There was a time not too long ago when I looked at “suggested” workouts on those whiteboards they sometimes have at pools. Some of them were 2200 yards or 2800 yards and I would think “Yikes! That is LONG…”

Man, that seems like AGES ago…

Me and my big mouth…hee hee :).

All Jacked Up and Nowhere To Go

2008-02-23T06:28:00.002-06:00

The weather’s been lousy all week here – cloudy, cold, freezing rain, schools and businesses closed – except for one day, Wednesday, which was cold but not a cloud in the sky. It was breezy and sunny, and that night we got a PERFECT view of the lunar eclipse, a red moon with a sliver of turquoise on the edge. No telescope was necessary to see the progression of the earth’s red reflection taking the place of what we usually see which is the sun’s brightness displayed on the moon’s surface.

Amazingly Thursday morning I woke up to the same overcast and rainy weather as if Tuesday hadn’t missed a beat. In fact, the ice storm began early and continued through most of the day. Steve came home too as his office closed their campus and sent everyone home. Even the construction guys remodeling our kitchen took off.

We were in the same weather situation when I went to bed Thursday night. Though I was snug under the covers by 8:30pm I was in a deep sleep come Friday morning when the alarm went off at 4:00am (no bounding out as I did Monday!). I laid there for a few minutes and finally rolled out – before I fell asleep again! :)

I use a French press to make coffee since I’m the only one at our house who drinks it, and I like it rich and dark (Steve has at least one of those qualities – he’s rich! – in character traits like patience, kindness, compassion…traits I have to commit to every morning…what, did you think I was going to say something like MONEY???).

Since our kitchen is torn apart it’s been easier to humble myself and just use the coffeemaker. It’s too hard to boil water in the microwave and then try to pour it into the French press carafe. We have the microwave connected to an outlet in another room, which is a HOOT. This is a slide-in microwave with a built-in fan underneath, not one of those countertop jobs, so it doesn’t sit level. We have it propped up on a phone book sitting on two TV trays. To make things even more interesting, our fridge is sitting (plugged in and working fine) in our living room. We stocked it full of beer and suddenly we were able to fluently speak Redneck…it happened so fast…like a religious experience…we’re suddenly “filled with the spirit” (of Amberbock) and speaking in Redneck tongues!!

Steve started parking the Jeep in the front yard and our old kitchen sink is now sitting on the back deck next to the grill…

I’m KIDDING – but only about the Jeep and kitchen sink…and the religious experience :).

Anyway, I make coffee and it’s gooooood. I dash some peanut butter on a wheat bagel, swig some yogurt, down some water. Coffee tastes even better, so I start to drink another cup. I kiss Steve goodbye and practically skip out the door – I am totally jacked up on a LOT of coffee on top of very little food. The brain is firing on all cylinders…just how many scoops of coffee go into a 10-cup coffeemaker anyway???

…Ya know, it might not be a bad idea to check email, see if swim practice has changed due to the weather…

And there it is…”Morning CSPM practice is CANCELLED”

Wow, good thing I checked! It’s only 5:00am – back to bed!!

Um, yeah, that worked great – for about 10 minutes. Even with Steve wanting to “spoon” with me – among other things - I finally rolled out of bed – again – looked at my workout calendar and decided to do Saturday’s workout today, and go to Masters instead on Saturday.

Worked out great! I did a cadence workout and (courtesy of the coffee) I was all over pyramid sets of 95rpms, 100rpms, 110+ rpms – 5 minutes each. It also helped that my iPod served up Joe Satriani’s Surfing with the Alien tracks – all heart-thumping metal guitar music that has held its own for over 20 years – perfect to ride to. Some early Van Halen was thrown in there too.

I was pouring sweat when I finished 90 minutes later, happy as a clam. I reached a new sustaining speed and my nose hardly ran at all. It was the first workout where I really pushed on my breathing since the surgery and it was awesome….so worth it.

Seems I was all jacked up – with “somewhere to go” after all :).

Tomorrow is Promised to No One

2008-02-20T17:27:00.003-06:00

Two weeks ago we watched in stunned silence as the St. Louis newscast pre-empted CSI and began telling the sad story of Charles Thornton taking matters into his own hands and gunning down 5 people during a City Council meeting before being shot to death by police officers.

Lightning had struck – again – this time a mile from our house. We live on the very edge of Kirkwood, MO; I could throw the proverbial rock and hit the town line. The City Hall where the shootings took place is on my regular running route, and while I dislike how the media puts their own spin on news events, it seemed we were in our own Twilight Zone as we saw our familiar streets and merchant shops – with crime scene tape -- on national television.

The funerals were last week on consecutive days, Mr. Thornton’s being last, so that families and friends could attend all of them if they chose. A friend told me she was driving through town and was stopped in traffic by one of the funeral processions. She said it took a full 50 minutes before the entire procession of cars had passed by; hundreds of people were taking the time to share in this heartbreaking loss.

Once again we are confronted with the most important issue a human being will ever face – our own mortality. Like taxes, sooner or later death comes to us all and what’s on the other side is determined by how we’ve lived on this side. Among the myriad beliefs of the afterlife that are out there, one of them is that there is absolutely nothing on the other side. What a terrible risk to take. Compare two people’s lives – one lives for God, the other for himself. Both die someday. If there is nothing, neither will know it since, well, both are dead and that’s all there’s to it. However if there is something on the other side, suddenly both will care an awful lot about what happens to them. It’s a road worthy of investigation – how much “longer” is eternity than the maybe 80-something years we spend here?

I can’t help but wonder if the folks in the City Council meeting were at peace with their eternal destinations. It’s reasonable to assume not one of them went to the meeting that night thinking it would be their last few hours. Rather, most of us are inclined to plan out our entire lives – or at least the next few hours. Who wants to think about death?

The truth is not one of us knows when our last hour will be. There is a verse in the Bible that says

“…you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.”

Hard words. We so want to be in control of everything, but these days we often have trouble reigning in even our time. It’s hard to think of our lives as being so brief, yet in the big picture that includes eternity they are short indeed. To put it into perspective, one day in eternity is probably the equivalent of 10,000 lifetimes.

There are endless and profound reasons why athletes train and race. Likewise I have many, but consider this Reason #1 why I do it: each day I get up at o’dark-thirty even if I don’t feel like it, each minute I spend with someone who’s discouraged and needs an uplifting hand, each time I take on a new challenge despite the fear, each workout/race I press on regardless of the discomfort or pain – all inevitably spill over into everyday living and teach me repeatedly how to persevere no matter what life hands me. Christianity brings with it the unique claim that the deity we worship has “been there” – he’s been glad, sad, betrayed, a social outcast, he forgave his enemies, he was unjustly accused.

Each day I wake up I’m grateful for yet another opportunity to live for a cause that is greater than myself. I look at my race wheels and think that at one time God was just one of the spokes -- next to my marriage, kids, job, hobbies, possessions -- with me at the center. I would call on Him only when I needed something – like salting your meal when it doesn’t taste the way you want.

Today God is at the very center of our lives and everything radiates out from there. Looking at life first through God’s eyes sure puts things into perspective. I’m no hero though; it’s far easier to write these words than it is to live them. I think about the example set for us by Jesus Christ and the life he lived – and that as a professing Christian I’m called to walk in his shoes and be like him.

I pray that each person reading this thinks about every moment of their lives and what they’re living for. Tomorrow is promised to no one.

The GumOut Effect

2008-02-18T16:52:00.002-06:00

Today marks 2 weeks since my surgery to repair a badly deviated septum. The recliner and I were best friends for the first 7 days and I’ve been following the recovery plan outlined by my doctor to the letter. Truth be told I hardly remember the first post-op week, mostly the result of great meds and lots of sleep. I’m reminded once again what a profound work of art the human body is. It’s impossible to believe in anything but a Creator once one sees the body in action – at play in a race, gutting it out, but also at work, healing itself after injury whether intentional or not. The last 2 weeks especially, each day I’ve awakened I’ve thanked God for yet another opportunity to serve Him by serving others, but also for the beautiful gift of health which I’m aware is sadly not the case with everyone for a multitude of reasons.

I’m not 100% healed yet but I am well enough to return to training, even for light to moderate efforts. Last week I was biking on the trainer and running on the treadmill at home. No heroics, just moving the muscles and getting the blood flowing. Earlier in the week it had only been 7 days since my surgery but I could already feel a difference in how much better I could breathe.

My doctor had forbidden me to return to the pool until today. He’s been mainly concerned about sudden nosebleeds as well as all sorts of gack I could blow into the water. Fun for me to see the “jellyfish” in the water, hee hee, but less fun for my lanemates...such a drag :).

Knowing I was returning to Masters swimming today, I could hardly sleep last night. I was 12 years old the-night-before-going-on-vacation all over again, the excitement was that hard to contain :). Based on how I was feeling and breathing during my bike and run sessions, I had high hopes for getting back in the water. The main consideration was how well I could exhale (even lightly) with my face in the water. I’m still under orders (with punishment of death…ok, maybe not that extreme, but at the very least a setback in recovery, as well as a really bad headache) to NOT blow my nose. Doc says it’s “too violent” and I can see what he means. Going the other direction is just fine though. So I’ve learned to hoark with the best of them. Put it this way: if hoarking was a Dating Game question and I was behind the partition, I would put money on a bet that the asking party would not know I’m a girl – I can hoark like a guy. Even the word hoark is cool. Needless to say Steve is loving it – one more notch on his wife’s belt of “guy things.” Right up there with medium rare steak, shopping once a year for clothes, and outdoing him on the Decibel Scale for flatulence :). Sorry Jen, I love you Coach, but pink is just not up there for me :).

Anyway, I was awake at 3:48am today – 10 minutes before the alarm went off. On Masters mornings I wake up at 4:00am so I can eat something, drink some coffee/Gatorade/water, and do it with enough time to spare so I don’t hurl in the water later on. Today I bounded out of bed and practically ran to the kitchen. I was out the door in no time and tried very hard not to drive fast screaming in my car through the richy-rich sections of St. Louis on the way to the swim center.

We had a 500yd warmup, 20 laps of easy swimming. I sat on the wall for a minute, adjusting my goggles and started my watch’s timer. The minute I put my face in the water and pushed off from the wall with my head tucked and arms extended in a streamline, I knew I would be fine. In fact more than fine - I swam my first 100 yards nearly 5 seconds faster than my fastest 100 yard time before the surgery. Now, I’ll grant I’ve been on a nice 2-week “taper”, which means I’m well rested and haven’t forgotten my “feel” for the water, but every successive 100 yard split during the workout was a couple seconds even faster, and it seemed I could inhale/exhale at will with nothing in the way. I didn’t do flip turns, not today, but even my open turns were on the mark, something I’ve had trouble with in the past, especially exhaling through my nose before flinging my head back into the water at the wall. Inevitably I would get water up one or both nostrils, which would slow me down even more.

Not today :). Both airways were wide open, which meant my lungs were delivering maximal oxygen to my working muscles – booyaaahhhh!! About the only trouble I had was trying not to laugh at the recurring mental image of a carburetor in my old Dodge Dart when I was a teenager and spraying GumOut into it. In the days before fuel injection and the madness of fiberglass materials that make up some engine parts these days, carburetors were the supreme regulator of airflow into an engine’s intake manifold, and then mixing it with fuel prior to combustion which ultimately moved the car forward. The bigger the “barrels” on a carburetor, the more air could be brought in, which in turn translated to faster giddy-up on the muscle cars of times past. At times, carburetors would get “gummed up” with carbon from the air-fuel mixture, and a magic substance in a can called GumOut could be sprayed into the open barrels to remove the buildup.

Funny, carbs carried an entirely different meaning 25 years ago. Amazing to see how words and their meanings have changed over the years in just our lifetimes.

Not nearly as amazing though as how much better I can breathe – thanks to the GumOut Effect on both barrels in my nose :).

How I Spent My Vacation

2008-02-11T08:39:00.001-06:00

Last Monday I had surgery to repair a badly deviated septum and other “tissue issues” that had come about as a result. My nose was hit hard twice before I was 5 years old and my septum (the dividing line between the left and right nasal cavities) was shaped in a near-perfect S-curve by the time I finished growing – kind of like the twisting backroads of Missouri :).

I’ve been aware of it all my life and have learned to deal. Though I don’t snore at night (so says Steve…yeah really, ask him), I am a card-carrying mouth breather. A sure way to tell if I’ve passed away is to listen for the absence of sound whistling past my teeth. No need to take my pulse or any other heroics like de-fib’s. Hey, I’m all about low-maintenance :).

As I mentioned, I’ve learned to deal with nearly 90% blockage in my nose…that is, until Ironman 2007. I was on the bike for 7 hours, which is not bad, but eating anything solid is going to happen while you’re on the bike. Ever try chewing food while your heart is pumping at 155 bpm and breathing through your mouth at the same time? Not gonna happen, at least not very well. During the bike portion of the race, I was single-mindedly focused on pedaling, eating, drinking – and getting rid of the congestion forming in my nose from not being able to breathe through it, not to mention the hordes of dust created by the corn being harvested in nearby fields. Finishing the race with a smile was the experience of a lifetime, but the bike portion was something I don’t want to repeat in that condition – ever.

My surgery was on a Monday, and I was not allowed to eat or DRINK ANYTHING after midnight Sunday – who were they kidding, telling a triathlete she couldn’t do the thing she loves to do the most which is eat? (ok, besides being with my awesome best-est friend/husband :)…ok, AND training AND racing…)

To take my mind off food, I went to Masters swimming the morning of my surgery, where I flip-turned my heart out and focused on long strokes. I had my first swim meet ever the day before, where I blew away my mile-time by almost 3 minutes and nearly perfectly paced every 100yd split to the second. Steve ran my lap counters, so he had a ringside seat and said I looked as though I could’ve gone all day long. Truth be told, I was holding on right beneath anaerobic threshold – that zone where you are nearly all-out but not quite. How else am I going to get faster than by pushing the envelope? Racing is not for sissy’s – you can stay in the “recliner-zone” of your workouts all you want – but you will never improve or get faster. You must test your abilities – and that means you must race.

After Masters I went home and ogled my husband while he ate his cinnamon-coated oatmeal, chocolate milk, and orange juice…I ached for a cup of coffee but was denied – repeatedly…I didn’t get it – I don’t have to work like this for sex; usually the ogling is more than enough…

…but I digress :)

We went to the hospital where they admitted me right on time and asked me tons of health questions, took my vitals, and started an IV. Apparently it had been a VERY long time since they had anyone healthy into the surgery center – the comments I kept hearing were wow, you’re really healthy, your resting hr is only 60; you take NO meds?; you have no current health issues? No, I don’t. I’m your average Joe…well I thought I was average…sadly, according to the hospital staff, the “average” condition nowadays of most patients my age (early-mid 40s) is not without issues like being overweight, diabetes, sky-high cholesterol levels, high blood pressure, etc.

Once I was moved to pre-op staging, they came and injected my IV with some valium, something that made the room go sideways for a minute. Remember that scene in The Matrix where Neo and Friends are in the matrix and realize Something Bad is going to happen because the “scenery” just repeated itself with the black cat? That’s how I felt.

Then I was having a really intense dream and I woke up because I was unable to breathe. I was out of surgery – already. Man, this IS The Matrix…

My nose was packed full of stuff. Steve gave me some apple juice and it was an oasis to the Sahara Desert of my mouth. They wheeled me to recovery and I was feeling alright enough to PEE. I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in over 15 hours. I needed to drink about a gallon of Gatorade and eat an entire pizza by myself.

A short time later we went home and I planted myself on the couch. 2 stacks of DVDs and books were waiting and I was looking forward to drinking/eating/sleeping/movies/books for a week straight.

Around 5pm the pain level suddenly went from a 4 to a really sharp 8, and I’m guessing the rest of the pain meds wore off. I suddenly wanted/needed Vicadin in the worst way - killing someone was looking more reasonable by the minute. Steve brought me 2 tablets and I headed for the recliner in our bedroom. Suh-wheeeeet…

The night was a little rough. Every hour I was changing the drainage pad under my nose. I was bleeding profusely, a consequence of the network of veins/capillaries running through my nose that had been cut and/or sutured. To add some interesting drama to the mix, on one of the numerous trips to the bathroom I banged my wrist on the doorknob - right where the IV had been located…it was really hard not to let loose the screaming/cursing/horror movie impersonations.

The next morning the bleeding had mostly stopped and I felt a bit better. What day is it? I have no idea. More couch time. That night the recliner is my friend again and would be for 4 more nights.

Each day feels better, except for one day when I lost the ability to taste anything at all. I about went over the edge and quickly learned one of my weak spots – without the ability to enjoy food/drink, my appetite went out the window and nutrition became simply functional, no longer one of the top joys of daily living. It was hard to simply eat because I had to. How my former-Marine husband got through 13 weeks of this during Boot Camp, I’ll never know.

It’s now Sunday evening, nearly 1 week since my surgery though it seems like 1 month. Though not 100%, I’m well enough to go back to work tomorrow. I’ll spin easy for 30 minutes and see how Tuesday looks for an easy run. About being able to breathe…man, it’s as if someone turned on a switch – I can easily breathe through my nose despite some “leftovers” that will dissipate with healing.

I’ve watched all the movies in the stack and made my way through some great books. For fun, I’ve included a short review of each below. Enjoy!

Movies:

3:10 to Yuma – If you like Russell Crowe or Christian Bale, this is a great drama about the concurrent goodness and utter depravity that can coexist in human beings

War – sheer action drama with Jet Li and Jason Statham (the guy from Ocean’s Eleven), never knowing who is trustworthy and who will betray you any minute

A Good Year – Russell Crowe romance (big surprise), filmed in the stunning vineyards of Provence, France

The Last Legion – great action flick of the Roman Empire’s last stand with Colin Firth (guy from Love Actually who marries the Italian girl)

Underdog – fun family flick about my favorite childhood cartoon, and how Shoeshine came to be the superhero canine

Eastern Promises – Viggo Mortensen in an accurate portrayal of Russian mob prostitution trafficking. Tension reigns supreme in this film.

The Hunting Party – true story about 5 reporters who go into post-war Serbia and capture the Bosnian War’s Most Wanted war criminal; Richard Gere and Terrence Howard star.

A Farce of Penguins – hysterical sendup of March of Penguins, done with the actual footage from the original with voiceovers, narrated by Samuel L. Jackson

Bordertown – true story with Jennifer Lopez and Antonio Banderas investigating the rapes/murders of hundreds of women factory workers in Juarez, Mexico

Days of Glory – WWII story of Muslim Algerians who fight for France after the Allies pushed the Germans out of Africa; in French/Arabic w/ English subtitles

Books:

Brain Training for Runners - by Matt Fitzgeral, incredible book (about ¼ through) that will revolutionize how I engage my brain to really control my body, perfect off-season winter reading

Whatever Became of Sin? – by Karl Menninger, an accurate look at how we’ve rationalized our “Nobody’s Perfect” natures, applicable even 50 years after it was written

Basic Christianity – by John Stott, a rational intellectual look at Christianity, great for anyone who’s peeking over the fence, thinking it’s “just another religion”

The Bible: Book of Job – my favorite book to read when I’m feeling sick or blue, this guy weathers it all and still doesn’t blame it on God

Back to the Treadmill

2008-02-08T21:17:00.000-06:00

A couple weekends ago I attended a triathlon camp. It was held in Chicago by my awesome triathlon coach Jen, her rock star (and adorable :)) triathlete husband Jerome, and pro triathlete Spencer Smith. The weekend was encyclopedic in the volume of information shared, not to mention the collective decades of experience between the three of them that they also generously shared.

The weather was surprisingly nice for January in Chicago. Normally temperatures dip into the negatives overnight and may make it above 10F in the afternoon. Last weekend it was in the teens in the morning, in the 30s Saturday afternoon, and a sweater-only 47F Sunday afternoon when we left to drive home. A nice gift for a weekend of concentrated information, efforts, minds -- and pain.

The camp hurt – a lot – and not just physically. We biked moderately hard for 2 hours Saturday morning, did core exercises after lunch, and then ran for 40 minutes outside. My quads were already burning from the morning ride, and I had a hard time with some of the core exercises. 10 of us went out for the run and I was relatively certain I would be among the slowest – and I was. Spencer came around to chat with us for a minute and then he ambled off (even his ambling was faster than my “tempo”) to join the rest of the herd. With a sinking heart I watched the group pull away. One other athlete ran with me; she was recovering from a 2-week bout with the flu as well as some other health issues that made it understandable for her speed to be limited. My legs were churning away at 88 footstrikes/minute, heart rate humming along in Zone 2-3 – and I was still being left behind.

I headed back to the gym after 35 minutes, discouraged to say the least. The group returned within 5 minutes and we assembled in the aerobics studio. Spencer said “Anyone have any questions?” It was the only entry I needed. I shouted “I wanna know why I’m slow!” There is a verse in the Bible that says “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks” and this was a perfect example of the truth rising from the deep well of my heart. My heart hurt – and so did my ego. From Ironman to this? I had more demons that I wanted to admit.

Turns out all the marathons (7 of them) that I’ve completed since 2001, and all the other endurance running – including Ironman -- have taught me to run LSD-style…no, not the drugs (though sometimes I’ve felt higher than I’m sure any artificial substance could deliver), the other runner-kind of LSD – Long Slow Distance. Endurance is my middle name. Life’s circumstances, as well as my chosen sport, bestowed that gift on a silver platter. I can go all day long. I just can’t go all day long fast.

At least not right now. So it’s back to the treadmill for some technical work – footwork, that is. The treadmill is boring, YES. In fact I’ve often put in my training log the words “I really hate the treadmill” – who wants the same scenery going by for 45+ minutes? But the treadmill also keeps you honest in terms of your cadence, grade, and overall speed whether you like it or not. If the treadmill is properly calibrated - and most of them are - the numbers don’t lie. If you want to get faster, your body has no choice but to learn a “pawing” footstrike, speedy leg turnover, upright posture, and a correct toe-off – a perfect recipe for becoming a more efficient and FASTER runner.

It’s not only the physical side. The mind is the command center of pushing to performance peaks, and I’ve yet to master this important aspect of athletics as well. During tri camp weekend, another athlete also recommended two books that deal with the mental side of running. They are The Mental Athlete and Brain Training for Runners (thank you Stacy!). I’ve bought them both and have begun reading. For years I’ve underestimated the power of the mind to affect performance; as with most people, I am my own worst enemy.

It’s February and the dead of winter – plenty of time to work on my skills both physically and mentally. Will I miss running outside every chance I get? You bet, but there are endless hills, grassy trails, and the spectacular solitude of early-dawn mornings waiting for me anytime, not to mention a magnificent opportunity for self-improvement that comes along whenever I’m ready to handle it.

“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena…who spends himself in a worthy cause…”

Of Swimming and Leadership

2008-01-28T20:37:00.000-06:00

At the ”strong” recommendation (read OUTRIGHT SHOVE :)) of my triathlon coach, I joined a Masters swim team this fall. Though I was an athlete in high school, it was softball I played. My school was too small to have a track or swim team, so the three major disciplines of swimming, biking, and running I enjoy now I never learned competitively when younger. Joining Masters has turned out to be the best decision I’ve ever made in regards to my triathlon training.

I swim 3x week, usually at o’dark-thirty, aka 5am. Nearly NO ONE is on the road at that hour. I could probably drive with my eyes closed right down the yellow lines (like those cars at an amusement park) and not get into an accident. It makes me think about the efforts we triathletes are willing to expend in the hot pursuit of our goals. I get up at 4am so I can eat something, plus drink COFFEE – other than my husband, COFFEE has become my new best friend :). Seriously, I drink a bit of caffeine to “spark” my mind and muscles, kind of like rubbing two wires together to jump start a car.

This past Monday I was in the pool – usual Bat Time and Bat Channel (a reference back to the Batman show that was on in the 70s for you young ‘uns :)). “Fast Patty” showed up. She is 50-ish and totally ripped. It’s clear she’s been an athlete for some time and is reaping the dividends of a lifelong investment in fitness.

Patty swims faster than I do and it’s been near impossible to keep up with her the past few months. She is about 5 seconds faster than me on the 100. Monday our coach gave us 5 x 50 yard intervals, leaving 5 seconds earlier than we usually do. No way! I said when he gave us the set. I can do about 5 seconds slower but not what he gave us! (These are short intervals, so slicing even 5 seconds off is a daunting challenge). He simply looked at me and said “Swim behind Patty; you’ll be fine.” How does he know these things???

He was so right. For a bit I was in her draft; then incredibly on the last few sets I began to catch her. It helped that my coach was on the deck with a bunch of hand/arm gestures, saying “Get her!!” Do you have any idea how hard it is to roll and breathe while trying to stifle a laugh – or even smile because your goggles might come unstuck??

We finished the set with our hearts pounding – at least I did. I was still in disbelief I had caught up to Patty and even more shocked when everyone in the lane agreed “Catherine you lead this time” for the next set – a nice long 500.

When I turned at the wall after the first lap, everyone was hot on my trail and I was instantly reminded of the stark contrasts between leading and following. Leading was hard. Following was relatively easy. Leading means forging a trail whereas following is walking in someone’s footsteps; setting the course for the group vs being along for the ride; taking the “brunt” of what’s ahead vs being in the shadow. Leading means sticking your neck out despite what’s going on around you. It can be intimidating but the notion of others depending on you for direction and/or initiative often outweighs the accompanying fears.

Leading also means taking people to new territory – to help them discover new potential they had not thought previously existed. This is what my coaches – my triathlon and swim coaches – have done for me. I won’t sugar coat it – new territory is not easy and takes courage. The possibility of failing is ever present, but as I mentioned in a previous post, no one has ever achieved anything big without taking a risk. If you are willing, the rewards can bring amazing satisfaction and increases in confidence, and it can’t help but spill over into other areas of your life.

Do you dare?

The Sign

2008-01-23T08:14:00.000-06:00

I’m a big fan of signs, particularly the clever kind. You know, the ones that really get your attention, like the following recently seen on billboards around the country, “’We need to talk.’ --God”. It’s short and effectively gets the point across about how deeply interested God is in every detail of our lives. Like a loving parent, the most trivial details of our everyday living are sheer joy to our Heavenly Father. He loves us with a radical love, beyond anything that we as humans can comprehend. In fact, nothing we do can separate us from His love, not even death!

I didn’t always feel this way about God. In fact earlier in my life I was furious at him for a long time. My parents had divorced when I was a baby, my mother died when I was just 15, and along the way I discovered that my father was an alcoholic. I was raised by my non-English speaking grandmother and the generational divide between us seemed unbridgeable. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, not even cousins, as both my parents were also “only’s”. There weren’t many people I could talk to, and as unlikely as it may seem now (to those of you who know me :)), I was painfully shy and socially awkward. I felt incredibly alone and betrayed by circumstances that had seemingly happened beyond my control. Where was God in all this anyway and why did he have to pick on me?

Through my parents’ eastern European heritage I was brought up Roman Catholic. I attended a Catholic elementary school, a Catholic high school, and subsequently a Jesuit university. The Catholic faith was deeply steeped in my upbringing. The notion of guilt for my sins and making restitution for my wrongdoing was something taught nearly every day in my school years, and I spent a long time trying to figure out what grave sins I had committed to warrant such “punishment” from a God who was clearly meting out his judgment on me. In the end I was more angry than interested in figuring it out. I stopped going to church and sunk deeper into a destructive lifestyle of drugs and promiscuity. It was pure rebellion; I was through with being told what to do.

Then I met someone who said he was a “born-again” Christian. I had heard of these types – weird folks who lift their hands and close their eyes in worship. They carried their Bibles with them to church and said openly they “prayed for me.” Huh? I didn’t understand, much less believe, their sincerity.

I had questions for my friend and lots of them. What’s “born-again” and how is it different from being Catholic? You know you’re going to heaven? How? I didn’t know at all where I would end up, and I thought it a bit arrogant that my friend was so certain about his eternal destiny.

He invited me to church and it was wildly different from a Catholic Mass. Some people did lift their hands and close their eyes during worship. The music was more energetic than the traditional hymns I’d grown up with, and the people seemed so happy. I couldn’t understand it at the time – be happy about what? Serving a judgmental God who seemed to be hovering and waiting for the next misstep so he could whack me again with some tragic life event? I had no other view of God except as a stern judging father. The distance between my view and this Christian view seemed too great, and there didn’t seem to be a way to bridge the two together.

Then I saw the sign. It was big and easy to read. It was along I-44 just after the Fenton exit in St. Louis County. At first I thought it was a legitimate highway sign because it was the same size as others, but this one was different. It was handwritten and it contained a Bible verse that I was familiar with:

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son that whoever believes in him would not die but have eternal life.” John 3:16

I thought how nice – and how clever – that someone made a handwritten sign and somehow got away with it being posted on a public road, visible to everyone driving by. I drove on to my destination without giving it another thought.

Two weeks later I was on the same road, headed south towards Springfield to see a client. The sign was there – still. Amazingly no one had taken it down. I looked at it again, but this time I read the words out loud:

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in him would not die but have eternal life.”

He so loved that He gave...

To say “I got it” would be a severe understatement. The thoughts and realizations that came at me all at once were almost too much. I was sure my brain was about to explode. God loved me that much that He gave His Son! Jesus went to a criminal’s death an innocent man – he took my place! Indeed, if I held up my past mistakes and detours as a comparison to God’s perfect standard, I deserved God’s judgment, but instead I received His unmerited favor – His grace. It was over; my eternal destiny was assured, a done deal. Jesus died the death I deserved so I could live forever with Him.

I had to pull over to the side of the road. I was sobbing uncontrollably. In a matter of seconds my view of God had radically changed from seeing Him as a rigid judge to a loving and deeply committed Father who longs to be with His children, and not just on Sundays. The relief of the struggle being done washed over me like a spring rain; gratitude flooded my heart. Suddenly the reasons why I did good works flowed with new meaning and renewed motivation. Good works were the fruit of my faith, no longer the root, as I had previously believed.

My life has never been the same. When you answer the call of God on your life, you can look back and see where He’s been at work all along. No tragedy or mistake is ever wasted with God; He is able to use it all and I can point to countless examples in my own life.

My prayer for you today is that you open your heart to the radical and life-changing love that God has for you. He loves you more than you can imagine and you matter to Him more than gold or all the treasures of the earth. That the God of the Universe would provide any way at all for a flawed mankind to be reconciled to Him is beyond human understanding.

Did I say I was a big fan of signs? :)

Why - Take 2

2008-01-15T10:53:00.000-06:00

I believe there is NO SUCH THING as “staying in one place.” People are always improving or regressing and no one can really claim they have “arrived.” (Even millionaires are smart to hang out with billionaires). I am amazed at how much fear (what’s really lurking inside the heart, not some outward excuse for why someone doesn’t do something) holds people back – and even more sadly, how much in denial people are about why they won’t attempt something new. Few want to admit to being afraid of failure, but without failing there would be no chance of succeeding. It is true that trying something new is a risk, sometimes a significant one. But NO ONE has ever achieved anything big without taking a risk. Look at any high achiever and you’ll see their road to success littered with failures.

I put this quote from Teddy Roosevelt in my blog a few weeks ago and I think it’s worth repeating here because it perfectly illustrates the heights that can be achieved when “in the arena”:

“It is not the critic who counts;

Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, Whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood,

Who strives valiantly;
Who errs and comes short again and again;

Because there is not effort without error and shortcomings;

But who does actually strive to do the deed;

Who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion,
Who spends himself in a worthy cause,
Who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and
Who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly.

So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”

No one goes through life without experiencing adversity and for me training and racing teaches me (in a smaller capsule of time) how to suffer, endure, overcome, and emerge stronger. Inevitably it spills over to other areas of my life and the reminder that I’ve overcome other or bigger obstacles is always there when some new problem comes along.

How I wish I could teach my kids this important life lesson, but time and experience will be the best teachers for them I’m sure :).

Best Friends

2008-01-01T18:12:00.000-06:00

My stepmom is #1. Aside from the term of endearment implied in that statement, it is also an inside joke shared between the two of us. You see, we are both stepmoms and for some time we’ve referred to each other (though she started it :)) as “Wicked Stepmother” #1 and #2. We’ve even shortened the term to WSM1 and WSM2, taking the abbreviation yet further in email to just “1” or “2” at times. The “Wicked” moniker is a great icebreaker when introducing myself to my kids’ friends, who seem a bit taken aback at first and then relax, smiling, when they see my wink and corresponding grin.

My stepmom (her name is Ann) is downright funny – I mean hilarious. Her sense of humor and quick wit are unmatched, and conversations with her are NEVER boring or routine. She is always happy to hear from me, whether by phone or the miracle of technology on the Internet called Instant Messaging. Whenever she includes an “emoticon” (one of those animated smiley faces), I can almost “see” her in my mind’s eye in perfect reproduction of what she sent, and I always laugh. Once as a teenager when I was visiting, I arrived at their house in the morning to find her brushing her teeth. She looked up at me with huge eyes, toothpaste foaming from her mouth – and rolled her head just like a zombie from Dawn of the Dead. To use Mastercard’s tagline – PRICELESS. Nearly 30 years later, her gift for spontaneous humor still permeates my behavior towards my own stepkids today.

I’ve never lived with my stepmom. She is in New Jersey and I’ve lived most of my life in St. Louis, nearly 1,000 miles away. But I cannot remember a time when we haven’t been close. My parents were divorced when I was only 2 and my father stayed in New Jersey while my mother moved to St. Louis (with me in tow) to live with her parents. Sometime later, my father married Ann, and I would one day “meet” them both, shortly before my mother’s death in 1980. (After my parents’ divorce, I did not see my father again for another 13 years).

I was a mouthy kid, a serious “back-talker” who didn’t give nearly any adult any respect, mostly because I grew up in a very traditional environment where respect was not given at all but unconditionally demanded – why in the world would I give what I didn’t have? This seemed perfectly rational and justified to me at the time.

I remember when I was 16 and got into a fight with my Dad when I was visiting them. My father was not shy about expressing his true feelings in any matter (what is it with Hungarian temperament?? The same tendency also runs in my undiluted Hungarian blood). My mother had been gone less than one year and I was not doing well emotionally. I was angry at everyone, experiencing unspeakable pain, and taking just about every rebellious detour a teenager could find. My father plainly said I was throwing my life away. In characteristic fashion, I mouthed off to him; he strode up the stairs and – there is no easy way to say it – he beat me up. To be honest I deserved his anger, and to his credit he later apologized and I appreciated it very much. It wasn’t until later I realized that it must’ve been hard for him to say he was sorry, though I thought I was much more at fault for disrespecting him than he was for punishing me.

I remember sitting on my bed that day in the guest room, stunned and wounded by Dad’s outburst, crying and feeling sorry for myself, and WAY too stubborn to admit I was wrong. But the thing that stands out the most was that Ann came into my room and rubbed my face with a warm washcloth. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t judge or heap on her two cents, though she would’ve been justified. She simply embraced and comforted me and it was just the thing I needed. She gave me unmerited favor, or grace, when what I really deserved was justice. It seemed she could see the big picture of my situation altogether, instead of just the fight between Dad and me.

It meant a lot to me because her gesture that day held more significance for me than one may realize. It was a great lesson for me in how to react to my own kids when they take a detour. Steve and I have always treated the kids with love and respect, and we’ve focused on guiding their actions and celebrating their character. My stepdaughter Rachel has said she’s appreciative we talk to her as a “person” (her words). Though they don’t always agree with our decisions, our kids do know in the ocean depths of their hearts that we have their best interests in mind. It is a formidable responsibility given to us by God to raise godly children who become responsible adults as they make their own contributions to society.

We often quarrel with our parents when we’re children (sometimes even as adults), wondering how in the world they come up with their decisions, or how they could seem so “unloving” at the time. We think we infallibly know what is best for ourselves, and we often realize too late what they’ve tried to show us all along.

While I would never have explicitly wished for my parents’ divorce, I would not have come to understand the exceptional gift a stepmother can be if my father had not married Ann. Out of the worst situations, God can bring good; He uses everything – good and bad – to enrich our character. Looking back on my own life, it’s impossible to not see where He’s been at work all along.

Ann has been the biggest influence in my relationship with my own stepkids and I am grateful for her countless examples of how to be a great friend and leader.

WSM2 :)

My Father

2007-12-13T10:19:00.000-06:00

My parents, along with my mother’s extended family, were refugees from Hungary’s Communist Revolution in 1956, in which thousands died or were imprisoned when the Soviet military crushed an uprising by the nation’s freedom-hungry population. My family escaped over the border into Austria, and lived in a refugee camp for months before being allowed to immigrate to America.

Shortly after arriving in the United States, my parents were married in a local St. Louis Hungarian church, my mother 23 and my father 21 years of age. (It’s hard to imagine that two of my stepchildren are the same ages now…but I digress :)…)

Life was not easy and they lived in humble conditions at best. After the day’s work was done, there were night classes to learn English. 6 people were crammed into a 5-room flat in South St. Louis, and no doubt tensions ran high as the stress of living in a new country, with virtually no possessions, very little language, and even littler money weighed heavily on all of them.

My father wanted to try his hand in New York City, where the opportunities were big -- like the city’s “Big Apple” moniker. My mother had a hard time cutting the apron strings; it was the first time she was away from her family and being in a new country made it even tougher. She and my father often fought and their young marriage suffered. To complicate matters, I came along in 1964 – unexpectedly; there was no celebration over the beginning of new life. In fact when my mother told my father she was pregnant, they just stared at each other, shocked, and not in a good way.

Having a child did nothing to resolve issues between them. They divorced shortly after I was born, not able to reconcile differences at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Their divorce was extreme even by 1960s standards. “Shared Custody” was non-existent and things like child support and alimony were rarely enforced, mostly due to a lack of proper systems in place to monitor payments. If one was to parcel out blame to the “guilty parties” there was plenty of it to go around. For various reasons, my father didn’t meet alimony obligations assigned to him by the state, but neither did my mother allow me to visit him as she should have – she was incredibly bitter and resentful over the divorce and her emotions reigned supreme over sound judgment that a child needs to see and be loved by both of their parents, no matter the circumstances between them other than endangering the child’s safety.

I didn’t see my dad again until shortly before my mother’s death in 1980 – a full 13 years after their divorce, unreal by today’s standards. In that time my mother (and grandmother) filled my head with all sorts of ideas – all of them bad -- about my father. When I got older I found out some of them were true, but it wasn’t until I was out of college and well into adulthood that I also found out how much he loved me. For the first time I got to hear his side of their sad history, and it was a powerful lesson that there are ALWAYS two sides to every story. I also came to appreciate how difficult life was for him – he himself wasn’t raised by model parents either. I met my paternal grandmother only once when she came from Hungary to visit America. She treated my father as if he was still a child; she even remarked that only after meeting his grown daughter could she begin to comprehend her own son as an adult.

Once I finished college, I worked like a dog to obtain an MBA before I was 25. I made barely enough to pay the bills but I was employed by the University and had free tuition for my entire graduate school years; it was a worthwhile investment to live on macaroni and cheese in exchange for financial freedom down the road :).

And it paid off – my income rose just fine through the years. I began to wonder how I could “give something back.” A lot of people offered me good advice through the years, and there was no shortage of young people who were motivated but lacked financial resources.

I thought about instituting a scholarship at my former high school but didn’t want to appear like I was showing off. When talking to my dad about it, he said “Why are you concerned about what other people think? You should be thinking about the example you’re setting for other people. Imagine how others might be inspired to do something if you do…” I could hardly believe the words were coming from my father??? He was happy to get cigarettes and Dewar’s for half price at the Dirt Cheap store…and here he was waxing philanthropic to his daughter!

I put the scholarship in place – full tuition for a student who demonstrated equal levels of financial need and academic excellence. Another one followed – this one to the elementary school attached to our church. Then a capital building fund was put in place at our church for connecting all of our buildings together; we joyfully gave to that as well – more than twice what I earned with my first job out of school. We made ends meet just fine and I was amazed at how much joy I got from giving away something I had almost none of while growing up. Later on, my passion for triathlon would expand to benefit the homeless – our “Race for Reynosa” fundraiser was born to help build homes for the poor in Mexico. To date we’ve raised over $40,000 which has enabled us to build more than 20 new homes for families who otherwise sleep in shanties made of construction debris and other trash.

Today we contribute nearly a third of what we earn annually and it all goes to making a difference in the lives of others – PEOPLE are the only thing we take with us when we meet our Maker. Don Henley, lead vocalist for the group The Eagles, in his song Gimme What You Got, says “…you don’t see no hearses with luggage racks…” People are the ultimate eternal investment, not our houses, cars, jobs, or other toys.

Never underestimate the difference you can make in the life of someone else. Often it comes from the least expected place – but that’s the way God works sometimes. He’s in the business of surprising us. The problem is that we think small – our desires, our views, our goals – all small by His standards. One visit to Alaska will show you a glimpse into how big He thinks – imagine the Alaska Range as just the bottom step to His front porch. That’s a good start.

Thanks Dad for teaching me how to think BIG :).

The Dot and the Line - What Are You Living For?

2007-12-04T13:35:00.000-06:00

It’s Friday night and all the cool shows are on TV – Run’s House, What Not To Wear…you’ve waited all week to see who’s going to make the cut on The Next Great American Band. So many choices!

When I was in college, MTV had just come on the scene with mostly, well, music videos! It was a huge distraction from what I was supposed to be doing, which was study. I was paying my own way through school; my parents were not around and my grandmother had raised me. We had absolutely no money for college, so I was at the mercy of scholarships, grants, and loans. It was not an easy time, and I welcomed any detour from the daily grind of class, work, study, and sleeeeeeeep (sometimes during class :)). At times I could barely see to the next hour, much less the next semester or, yowza – graduation!

I am an only child and our family was small; in fact both my parents were “only’s” too, so I have no aunts/uncles/cousins. When I was 8, my grandfather died and then my great aunt passed away a couple months later. They let me in to see the “viewing,” and I realized I was not shocked by death. Growing up Catholic, I already had a fair education in religion at an early age; I knew (and believed) in life after death and wondered how my life would count in God’s eyes. It was plain to me even then that death comes to us all; where we end up is a matter of how we’ve lived our lives while here.

After becoming a Christian I began to see life as being more than meets the eye. Life can be a dot, but when viewed through the eyes of God, it’s a LINE. In mathematics, there are an infinite number of dots on a line with no end. Eternity is the ultimate line with no end. Imagine life without the heartache of betrayal, sickness, conflict, worry, or death – this is eternal fellowship with God, absent of all the fallenness of our world today. Does it not make sense to invest your dot of a life here into the line of eternity, where the “returns” on your investment pay out forever?

So what are you living for today? Are you living for the DOT? Here are a few examples:

o Watching American Idol instead of going to a Bible study – all the time
o Spending $50 on a pair of shoes you don’t really need instead of giving to a needy family at Christmas
o Lying to a friend who really needs you, saying you’re too busy or too tired
o Worrying more about keeping up with the latest fashion trends than about how your words may affect the example you’re setting in front of others

Living for the LINE means:

o Not dining out with your friends for the umpteenth time, so you can take the money and give it to a ministry instead
o Getting up a little earlier to read your Bible instead of sleeping til the last minute before you need to get to class
o Spending time with a lonely elderly person in a nursing home instead of spending the day with your friends at the mall
o Sticking up for your Christian beliefs at the risk of being uncool

Living for the line is not always easy. In fact it is often hard and requires choices that might at times inconvenience us. But when we consider the example that Jesus set for us, dying a criminal’s death an innocent man in order for God to declare us “Not Guilty” in His court of law, how can we not respond with a view to eternity and make every moment of our “dots” count! The rewards are beyond our wildest imaginations.

Beneath the Gaze

2007-11-23T11:46:00.000-06:00

It was Monday morning, o’dark-thirty to be exact, and I was in the pool – along with 20 other wingnuts who couldn’t think of anything better to do at 5:15am than fling themselves into 75-degree water and swim 4,000 yards (that’s over 150 laps but who’s counting?...) :).

This is the winter off-season for triathletes, and the better part of wisdom (along with last season’s performance) tells me I have improvements to make in all three disciplines of swimming, biking, and running. Of the three, swimming is the most complex and requires the most tenacity and patience – something that doesn’t come easily to most of us ordinary mortals.

I have an excellent triathlon coach, Jennifer Harrison (www.jenharrison.com), who is a rock star triathlete, and who has also gently SHOVED me :) into a Masters swim class. The name Masters is a bit misleading. The moment an individual is over the age of 19, they are considered a Masters swimmer. Though some Masters groups have competitive swim teams, there is no requirement to compete and there are swimmers at every ability – both novice and elite -- who are in the Masters category.

My swim coach is Hap Gentry, who is also excellent. He is very interactive with swimmers who want to improve their stroke and he doesn’t hesitate to offer constructive and immediate feedback to those who desire it.

There is a lot I can do to better my swim technique; at present there are no less than 10 things on my list I need to improve. Monday morning I was in the pool working on two of these items and I was getting frustrated by the minute. I’m in the hunt to lower my swim times and for the present it seems as though I’ve plateaued. Hap walked to end of the lane and met me at the wall. His style is very demonstrative, meaning that in addition to words he physically shows the correct technique to employ, sometimes actually lying on the deck to help the swimmer visualize a streamlined position in the water.

Today it was about closing the gap between my shoulder and head to minimize drag in the water. The goal is to move through the water as efficiently as possible, not to muscle your way to the other side. This is especially important for endurance athletes who swim 1-2 miles and then have another 50-100 miles of biking and running ahead of them in a race – you want to exit the water with plenty of energy left in the tank.

Hap showed me the correct technique this morning, but he also showed me what I actually looked like. And seeing what I was doing wrong was a tough realization that what was in my mind’s eye and what was actually going on were wildly disparate. It was also a bit painful, and several “reasons” (really excuses) for incorrect technique immediately sprung to my lips. Then Hap encouraged me to swim to the other end, while he walked along the deck and watched my attempts at correction.

Seeing (and owning) what I was doing wrong was enough to reckon with, but being under scrutiny was even more difficult, and it occurred to me this is a trait shared by all of mankind. Consider the number one fear for most human beings -- aside from the loss of a spouse or child, the biggest dread people have is public speaking. And why? It’s not so bad to be on a stage at a podium, looking at 100 people in the audience; but to have 100 or potentially 1000 pairs of eyes all looking at us causes numerous and pronounced physiological reactions: trembling, severe perspiration, shaky voice, even temporary loss of memory.

French philosopher Jean Paul Sartre once spoke of the discomfort of being “beneath the gaze.” The idea was that we as human beings, with all our flaws and deep secrets, are deeply uncomfortable being looked at by God, other people, even ourselves. Be honest – when was the last time you could hold someone’s gaze for more than 5 seconds? We all have secrets that if found out by someone else would make us want to run or die. And in those occasions that the “real us” becomes exposed, what is our first reaction – do we fight, do we run, or do we live our lives honestly beneath the gaze of God, others, and ourselves?

Being a professing Christian, I have learned firsthand the difference between the human fight or flight impulse and the incredibly liberating feeling of being completely exposed before a perfect and holy God – and being loved and forgiven anyway. If God has seen all my flaws (even the painful ones I’m hard pressed to admit), and has forgiven me through the death of his Son Jesus, it turns my view of the world upside down – full honesty is now a real possibility. Criticism from others can now be seen as a favor instead of a threat. I can now say Thank You to my critics because my standing before God has been declared as “not guilty” when Jesus took my place by dying on the cross.

It is natural for us to think of ourselves as “pretty ok” when we compare us to other human beings; we can always find someone who is “worse” than we are. But compared to the standard of a holy and perfect God, even the most moral and righteous human being is far from being worthy to come to the Creator on his own merits. God doesn’t just have a perfect standard – He is the perfect standard and breaking even just one law is the same as breaking all of it. If you think that’s harsh, imagine just one drop of H5N1, more commonly known as the bird flu virus, in a gallon of water; it renders the entire amount undrinkable! It’s the same with God’s law – God does not, cannot, grade on a curve. To illustrate with one more example, what would we think of a human judge that “judged on a curve”? Guilt or innocence is an absolute; there is nothing relative about it.

The death of Jesus Christ changed the entire landscape for us flawed human beings. He lived a perfect sinless life and died a criminal’s death an innocent man. The point is he died the death we deserve – we all deserve justice, which is fair treatment for transgressing God, but because of Jesus’ death we instead receive unmerited favor or grace. Believing this in your heart is what makes one a true Christian.

Monday morning in the pool, the excuses for my lack of proficiency in stroke technique never left my lips, and I was reminded that even the most expert scrutiny by a terrific coach is a “favor” to help me become a better swimmer....and to extend that same grace to others who come into my path as God has extended His mercy to an exposed and terribly flawed human being who hardly deserved it.

What Exactly is Christian Character...???

2007-11-17T13:26:00.000-06:00

Tim Keller, Pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in New York, owns the following quote, but it is so rich and right on point that it is worth repeating here.

"Not only is inner Christian character not the same thing as talents and gifts, it is also NOT the same thing as moral behavior. We must not confuse these things, or think that because I'm leading an exemplary moral life that I am growing in Christian character...Nietzche (rightly) was fond of noticing how much moral behavior was really just a power play, something done so we can feel morally superior...We will never become loving ONLY by trying hard...we'll only become loving through meeting and encountering. Becoming a person of love is not a mechanical process. Something profound must happen to us. We must MEET Love...the gospel humbles me out of my pride, showing me that I am a sinner. But it also VALUES ME out of my fear, showing me what Jesus was willing to do for me....there is no other way to truly change one's character than through the grace of the gospel. No one can change simply through willpower. You will always be controlled by your heart's supreme affection and love -- by your heart's ultimate source of love and meaning. The only way to change a proud and fearful heart is by the grace of God in Christ."

Where does your heart's supreme affection and love rest? Is it on money? Success? Image? Security? Family? YOU?

A Long Line of Iron (Part 2)

2007-11-15T07:43:00.000-06:00

My grandparents bought their first house in St. Louis a few years after they emigrated from Hungary following the Communist Revolution in 1956. I was born in 1964, in New Jersey, where my parents had moved shortly after arriving in the United States. My father wanted to be near New York City, where the opportunities didn’t get any better or more plentiful. My mother had a hard time cutting the apron strings, but there was more to it than that. They divorced when I was 2, and my mother and I moved back to St. Louis to live with my grandparents. Through a sad turn of events, I would not see my dad again until just a few weeks before my mother’s suicide in July 1980. I was 15 years old and an only child. Though some by my own hand, the years ahead would bring more sorrow and adversity than I had yet known in my thus-far short life.

My father wanted to re-insert himself into my life, and I would have none of it. Things were not easy, and I clung to the familiar – my home, school, friends, activities. Thankfully he did not force me to move to New Jersey to live with him.

I continued to live with my grandmother where the generational and cultural gap between us rivaled the Grand Canyon. Every day was fraught with arguments that often dissolved into outright screaming matches. She was the picture of “tough love” – rarely did words of encouragement flow from her lips but she was generous with putdowns that were meant to shake some sense into me. It wasn’t until much later that I would realize what she herself had been through growing up, and what a terrible weight it must’ve been for her -- at 70 years of age -- to raise an angry, strong-willed, rebellious teenager – alone -- in a country where she didn’t speak the language, didn’t have much money, and had just suffered the loss of her only child. We were both devastated by my mother’s death but we carried on nonetheless, despite our differences.

It made me crazy that she would make a statement that could be incredibly wrong and she would absolutely insist what she said was right. Once we went shopping for a new car for her and apparently she had browsed the lot a few days earlier. The car she had looked at was within her budget but the one she insisted she had looked at was not the same model – and clearly not within her budget. We argued about it (while the salesman was completely entertained by two women catfighting in Hungarian), and neither of us budged, both of us sure about being right. We went home with nothing accomplished -- me seething with accumulated anger, and her muttering something about how disrespectful children can be.

We had a washing machine but no dryer. She would gather up my laundry despite me insisting I could do it myself. She would soak my socks in near-undiluted bleach (after all they were white and MORE is better!), then throw them into the wash. We had no dryer, so she would hang them up outside in the hot sun to dry. When I put on a pair that had been through this cycle my thumbs went right through the sides, they were utterly disintegrated from the bleaching and sun drying.

Nicer shirts I owned suffered a similar fate – inevitably they would end up with frayed edges or mystery spots, where most likely they had shared residence with the bleach-drenched socks. If our washer had a “Stun the Stain Out!” setting, I’m sure she was perpetually dialed into it.

My indignation-outrage-whining (in that order) was to no avail. She plowed right ahead, single-mindedly undeterred in her daily endeavors. She was over the top on EVERYTHING.

She also did things that amazed me, though at the time I thought they were plain stupid: she drove a car despite not being able to read English (though she “talked” her way out of countless traffic tickets), shopped for her own groceries (she could read numbers), cut the grass, grew beautiful flowers that were the envy of the neighborhood, cultivated a thriving vegetable garden, handmade her own phyllo dough (the paper-thin pastry used in baklava), assembled ginormous care packages for relatives still in Hungary and hauled them to the Post Office, painted our frame garage, tuckpointed the bricks on our house, and masoned the stones in our basement to minimize flooding from heavy rains – all in her 70s and on into her 80s.

At 74, she was diagnosed with rectal cancer and had the tumors removed. After radiation treatments, she was pronounced cancer-free but she would have a permanent colostomy (rerouting the lower intestine and its “output” through a surgically created hole in the lower abdomen and into an ostomy pouch) for the rest of her life. She recovered from major surgery in less than 3 weeks and within a month was oriented to her new personal care routine. Anyone else would’ve taken twice as long, or longer, to recover and get on their feet again.

She was the unstoppable freight train that had long ago left the station – God was the only Conductor who could put the brakes on now.

It seemed only fitting that she gave me away at my wedding in 1993. I realized that somewhere along the line the tables had turned and I was now her caregiver, where earlier in my life she had been mine. I wondered if she ever regretted taking me in; at times I’m sure we mutually wished Very Bad Things on each other, but to this day I am still realizing how much of my strength has come from her countless examples of undaunted perseverance.

When she passed away in 2001, she was only 7 days shy of her 90th birthday. In a span of 18 months, she had deteriorated significantly both in her physical and mental faculties, losing over half her body weight as well as her speech. After nearly 40 years of having an ever-present column of iron in my life, I had “assumed” she would live forever. In fact the inside family joke was that she would outlive me. Watching her decline was exceedingly painful, both from a compassion standpoint as well as being forced to face my own mortality.

I had visited her one last time in the nursing facility. She was in hospice and not expected to live much longer. I left her sleeping, knowing full well it would likely be the last time we would see each other on this side of eternity. I remember standing at the nurses’ station weeping. An older nurse put her arm around me and said “The Lord allowed her to raise you and take care of you, and now He wants her back.” It was a dreadfully pointed and painfully accurate thing to say. God is sovereign. He rules His own creation and is the embodiment of truth. In the same way gravity is true whether we like it or not, God’s authority over His creatures is true no matter how we feel about it; it’s not an option and we must all sooner or later concede this important reality. It’s no accident the word “authority” has the word author as its root.

It was a year before I visited her grave. As far back as I could remember I had seen her signature on countless papers and documents; later as her Power of Attorney, I myself had signed her name numerous times. Standing at her gravesite, I saw her name one more time -- in the very last place I expected to see it – etched permanently into a marker of her very full life but also an indicator of her very real mortality. The realization of the latter, that our bodies as we know them today will come to an end, and that our lives are but a dot on the line of eternity, poured over me in torrents of emotion; the last time I wept this uncontrollably was upon learning of my mother’s death over 20 years earlier.

Though I have no desire to repeat the trials of my earlier years, I will never regret who I’ve become as a result of my grandmother’s influence. She taught me to never say quit, to follow through on whatever I put my mind to, and to never blame someone else for my problems. She was truly a column of iron.

Phil 3:13-14 “…Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

A Long Line of Iron

2007-11-13T17:20:00.000-06:00

Training for and finishing an Ironman triathlon (2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile marathon) brings with it endless opportunities for personal reflection.

This post is the product of one of those opportunities.

Now 7 weeks after the race, the effect of having finished one of the most grueling multisport distances still hasn’t sunk in. I got a tattoo (read our earlier post for a funny account – all at my expense of course :)) just to remind myself continuously that I actually “did it.” As a celebration, we even took a 2-week cruise to Alaska less than a week after the race and that was spectacular – it was our 4th visit to the Eskimo state and the largely untouched landscape continues to astonish us. Majestic mountains rise up from fjords that are hundreds of feet deep and easily provide passage for some of the world’s largest cruise ships, such as the one we were on in early October. Some of the passages are so narrow, it seemed we could reach out and touch the mountainside on either side of the ship.

During our trip, I took a lot of walks and spent a lot of time on our cabin balcony. Reflecting back on the race and the 9 months of physical and mental preparation required, it occurred to me that I’m not the first “Ironwoman” in my family. I may be the first generation born here in the United States, and I may be the first to finish college, but I come from a very long line of “iron” where endurance and perseverance were the norm for everyday living.

My mother and father, in addition to my mother’s parents and extended family, were immigrants from Hungary, in fact, refugees from the Hungarian Revolution in 1956. Since World War II, Hungary had been under Communist control, with Soviet troops stationed all over the country. Student protests on October 22, 1956 led to larger demonstrations, and finally to outright revolt as the Hungarians disabled the Communist government and ousted the Soviet military on October 23rd.

For 10 days Hungary knew the kind of peace and democracy that has been ours in the United States for over 200 years.

Then on November 4, 1956, the troops returned, this time with tanks; thousands died or were imprisoned as the Soviets crushed the uprising. My family fled across the border to Austria and waited several months in a refugee camp to be allowed to immigrate to the United States.

Once here, life was no cakewalk. There were no handouts, but there were wage earning jobs to be had. 6 family members crowded into a small flat in the South Side of St. Louis – it was all they could afford. When the workday was done, there were night classes to learn English. My grandmother’s own education was poor (she didn’t learn to read and write until she was 17), so she was unable to keep up with the instructor and eventually dropped out. She continued to work as a seamstress and earned just enough to put food on the table and set a tiny bit aside for savings. It was a contribution they all made to make ends meet.

By today’s standards, it is amazing they endured as they did. We microwave our meals and expect everything else to work the same way – earning money, acquiring possessions, even health and fitness. I’m a triathlete who devotes her winter off-season training to bettering her swim stroke mechanics. Swimming is only 20% conditioning and 80% technique – improvement requires getting reacquainted with the lost arts of perseverance, consistency, and patience. A good friend and colleague of mine, also a triathlete, once said “Patience my A--; I want it now!” when encouraged to be patient in improving his swim times. My swim coach concurs, saying that in the class she teaches, very few people are interested in improving through patience and perseverance. We all want it NOW.

It appears we have moved from being masters in the art of delayed gratification to a society that idolizes “instant GETification.” Where has the “iron” gone? What dignity or lesson is there in having everything come easy or right away? We live in a fallen world – 5 minutes of watching CNN is enough to convince anyone of the depths to which human depravity can extend. Adversity and trials come to everyone, no matter how much we try to avoid them or control our circumstances. And when they come and we’ve had everything easy, living on the peaks of life as it were, how well are we prepared to handle the valleys? Do we blame others for our problems or do we dig in and realize that for valleys to exist there must be peaks at either end? Do we understand that in EVERY adversity there is a seed of EQUAL or GREATER benefit?

A seed, yes…not a ready-made, greenhouse-grown blooming flower. Seeds take time to mature, but within them rest not just one flower, but rolling meadows and mountain upon mountain of astonishing beauty – all on the other side of the valleys of adversity -- but just as easily missed if we roll over and wet ourselves in despair and self pity.

Take a look at your calendar and your checkbook. Where are you spending your two most valuable commodities – your time and your money? Are you avoiding trials at all costs? Or are you taking stock of where you are now and understanding that every trial you experience will ultimately prepare you for a magnificent and resilient future, able to withstand the fiercest storm and still remain standing.

Perseverance is born in the pit -- not on the podium -- of life.

Why?

2007-10-22T08:54:00.001-05:00

Someone asked me recently why I race. If one was to query the triathlete population, the reasons would be infinite, ranging from the profound to the ridiculous (although if you spoke to the athlete with the "ridiculous" reason, there is a good chance it wouldn't be so ludicrous to them :).

A long time ago, I found a quote from Teddy Roosevelt that I've adopted as my Personal Motto. Roosevelt was famous for overcoming enormous odds to succeed in nearly any endeavor. In his book "The 21 Irrefutable Laws of of Leadership," John Maxwell describes Roosevelt's life:

Of all the leaders this nation has ever had, Roosevelt was one of the toughest -- both physically and mentally. But he didn't start that way. America's cowboy president was born in Manhattan to a prominent wealthy family. As a child he was puny and very sickly. He had debilitating asthma, possessed very poor eyesight, and was painfully thin. His parents weren't sure he would survive.

When he was twelve, young Roosevelt's father told him, "You have the mind, but you have not the body, and without the help of the body the mind cannot go as far as it should. You must make the body." And make it he did.

Roosevelt began spending time every day building his body as well as his mind, and he did that for the rest of his life. He worked out with weights, hiked, ice-skated, hunted, rowed, rode horseback, and boxed. In later years, Roosevelt assessed his progress, admitting that as a child he was "nervous and timid. Yet," he said, "from reading of the people I admired...and from knowing my father, I had a great admiration for men who were fearless and who could hold their own in the world, and I had a great desire to be like them." By the time he graduated from Harvard, he was like them...

The following quote has helped me in times of triumph as well as through abject failure...inevitably I get back in the saddle to ride again. Next time someone puts you down for trying (and perhaps failing at) your latest endeavor, remember the following:

"It's not the critic who counts; Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, Or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; Who errs and comes up short again and again; Because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; But who does actually strive to do the deed; Who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly; So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

Walking Among Giants

2007-10-17T12:17:00.000-05:00

It was like we were walking through one of those stately European cathedrals. However, instead of the light coming in through stained glass windows, it was pouring in between a long line of massive trees on either side of us. It was also falling in from above, through a canopy of branches opened at the top. From an earthly perspective it seemed we had walked into the antechamber of God’s throne room itself, so magnificent and majestic were these trees. I was overcome with an urge to fall facedown out of reverence for the sheer beauty of His creation.

(That is me standing at the bottom of the picture :)).

This was not the first time we had experienced such a feeling. As often as we convince ourselves of our own importance and immortality, it runs counter to our nature to conceive of something so much bigger than ourselves. It's altogether startling. What human could not be moved by the majesty of the Redwoods, the untouched-by-human-hands mountains and glaciers of Alaska, the glorious ribbons of color inside the Grand Canyon – all put here for “our viewing pleasure” by the Creator Himself.

Joseph Strauss (not the composer) was the Chief Engineer on the Golden Gate Bridge for San Francisco. This engineering marvel stands as a testament to his brilliance, the second longest suspension bridge by span in the United States after the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge in New York City.

Strauss wrote a beautiful poem that strikes a chord with many who visit the famous California Redwoods. It speaks both of the character of man as well as of our Creator:

The Redwoods

"Here, sown by the Creator's hand,

In serried ranks, the Redwoods stand;

No other clime is honored so,

No other lands their glory know.

The greatest of Earth's living forms,

Tall conquerors, that laugh at storms;

Their challenge still unanswered rings,

Through fifty centuries of kings.

The nations that with them were young,

Rich empires, with their forts far flung,

Lie buried now - their splendor gone;

But these proud monarchs still live on.

So shall they live, when ends our days,

When our crude citadels decay;

For brief the years allotted man,

But infinite perennials' span.

This is their temple, vaulted high,

And here we pause with reverent eye,

With silent tongue and awestruck soul;

For here we sense life's proper goal:

To be like these - straight, true and fine,

To make our world like theirs, a shrine;

Sink down, O Traveler, to your knees;

God stands before you in these trees."

2007-10-12T15:04:00.000-05:00

“What Could Possibly Hurt Worse…”

…than Ironman? Getting a tattoo!! Now you’re probably thinking “aw, c’mon…how bad could it be?”

Steve and I had decided 2 years ago that if I finished an iron-distance race that the Ironman symbol, the red “M-Dot”, would take its rightful place on my ankle. I’ve heard all the apprehensions about getting a tattoo “I know of no one who doesn’t regret it later” or “You’re getting a butterfly on your shoulder? Don’t you know it’ll be a CONDOR when you’re 80?!”

After completing the Great Illini Iron Challenge 4 weeks ago on September 15, we decided – apprehensions aside – it was time.

So I thought who better to ask than my friend and coworker Ian. Ian has this on his left leg…

Yowza! I exclaimed when he sent the photo to me. This guy’s an expert, I thought, so naturally he was my first choice to get the 411 on all things “tat”. Ian explained that the first step was to print the image if it’s custom “artwork” you want, eg, not found in the tattoo shop’s portfolio of existing images. No problem there, plenty of images to be found on the Internet. In fact he had no trouble locating one for me.

His next question was Where do you want it? When I mentioned my ankle he said “Oh…when I have any work done near my ankle it always feels like razor blades…” I thought precisely what you were thinking 2 minutes ago: How bad could it be? I’ve had razor blades near my ankle when shaving, no worries.

He found a reputable shop in Portsmouth (I happened to be at our corporate office in New Hampshire that week), and because the image was uncomplicated, I was considered a walk-in. No appointment necessary. Cool :).

We waited for about 30 minutes and while doing so, Ian explained to me that not all shops are created equal. Naturally things like using sterile products, surgical gloves worn by the artists, a clean workspace, etc, were the marks of a decent tattoo shop. The one we were at met all these requirements.

I brought the printout with me, and My-New-Friend-and-Tattoo-Artist Todd created a stencil that he then imprinted onto my ankle. It was to be used as a rough outline for the permanent image that would become the tattoo. I thought this is great.

Then he unfolded what looked like a massage table, so I could sit with my legs tucked under me, right ankle facing him and at table level. He could comfortably work and I could comfortably sit and watch him work.

I watched him unpack the needles, ink, gauze, (gauze???) and prep his tattoo gun. He put on a new pair of gloves every time he handled something not packaged or sterilized – a great sign; this guy was top shelf.

He put the needle into the gun, dipped the tip into the black inkwell, and proceeded to…….oh man…… RIP THE SKIN OFF MY ANKLE…!!!!

Not actually, but the moment the needle touched and moved along the thin skin above my ankle, all sorts of images flashed through my mind…things like the opening scene of nuclear bomb testing in Godzilla…lava flowing out of the active volcanoes in Kona…the alien mothership exploding in Independence Day…Steve McQueen in Bullet…(ok that was just a hot dude in a cool movie and doesn’t belong in this narrative)…The Second Coming of Christ (it must be – I’m dying here!)…mostly it was searing white-hot pain flashing right behind my eyeballs.

My head whipped around to face Ian; I heard myself say “MOMMY!!” through all 28 of my clenched teeth. Ian smiled cordially and proving his emotional maturity in a pinch said “Hurt a bit?” Though he may have been thinking them, the words “I told you so” never left his lips. What a friend – seriously :).

The pain was momentarily withdrawn and I looked down to see My-New-Friend-and-Tattoo-Artist Todd had lifted the tattoo gun and was wiping off (was that blood????) the excess ink from the thus-far completed image on my leg. I thought he must be finished with the outline of the M-Dot; surely I’ve suffered enough to be that far along.

Not so Bobby Joe – he had drawn a quarter-inch line that was the top of the squared-off M in the M-Dot. For a moment I stared and actually thought about bailing, but then I remembered how I had put over 140 miles on my body and persevered to the end of a glorious race just a few days ago. A voice inside my head (not unlike the one screaming at me a minute ago) said “What?! You’re not thinking of bailing are you? There’s no such thing as an Iron-Sissy!”

Turns out the pain was directly related to how close to my ankle Todd was – once he moved farther up my leg it was bearable – mind you, I still have trouble understanding how people sit for hours under the tattoo gun; I was having trouble withstanding a few seconds – but the moment he hovered back toward the ankle bone, my teeth would clench and the homicidal thoughts would return, each comeback more intense than the one previous – I was beginning to imagine how I was going to kill My-New-Friend-and-Tattoo-Artist Todd. :)

Not realy :). After 30 minutes (it seemed, though I’m certain I passed out somewhere along the way…:)), Todd said “All done!” I looked down and she was truly a beautiful thing to behold – the red M-Dot, a permanent reminder of a goal I had planned and labored several years to achieve.

And to think I actually “paid for pain.” :)

Iron Maiden

2007-09-21T20:25:00.002-05:00

It wasn’t 3 years ago that I sat and watched NBC’s airing of the Hawaii Ironman World Championship. The personal stories of adversity overcome brought tears to my eyes over and over again; I could relate to what it meant to persevere during times of difficulty and overcome what life had thus far handed me.

What I hadn’t realized, though, was that the pinnacle of triathlon -- the “holy grail” of multisport racing – the Ironman itself – was run by ordinary mortals, people like myself. All these years I had thought the race and its grueling distance was a challenge taken on by only the pro’s. It hadn’t occurred to me that “regular people” – folks with jobs, bills, demands on their time, responsibilities just like mine – trained and raced, and actually did well.

And here I was, on September 15, 2007, at 6:30am, on my 43rd birthday no less, standing in the 77-degree water toeing the line for my first Ironman. I could say the whole reason I was shivering was because of the ambient temperature, but that wouldn’t be entirely true :). 9 months of training had come to this one day – did I have IT in me? Would I be able to handle the 2.4 mile swim, the 112 mile bike, and a 26.2 mile marathon – all in succession?

One thing my coach had told me was to be confident in my training. She reassured me I had done all the work and just had to put together a great race and execute – “make it YOUR day Catherine!” she had said. Her words would ring true all day long J.

The morning of the race was cold – 39 degrees! None of us had gloves and my hands were a bit numb while I was racking my bike and setting up my shoes, helmet, food, race belt, etc. Who knew metal could get so cold! For the first time I was actually looking forward to getting into my wetsuit, made rather difficult by the cold – my fingers would not bend to grip the suit and pull it on my body despite loads of Body Glide. Steve finally had to help me; I think he actually enjoyed it immensely as it gave him a legitimate reason to grope his wife in public :). I tried to add to the fun by holding my right hand under my left armpit inside the suit and flexing my left arm – you know, the old arm-fart trick. It didn’t work but lots of people laughed – it served its purpose for sure.

At the swim start, the fog was so thick we couldn’t see to the next swim buoy so they delayed the start by 15 minutes. We stood shivering in the water, for once all of us glad to be submerged in temperatures nearly twice as warm as the ambient temperature. To stay warm and calm my nerves I swam several times to the first buoy and back, no more than 20 feet, and it helped.

The gun finally fired and we were off. The fog was still thick on the water and all I could sight on were bobbing heads in front of me. I had long ago decided to relax – it was after all my first Ironman and I wasn’t about to blow up on the swim. By the time I came around the first loop (it was a 2-loop swim of 1.2 miles each), the fog had burned off and I was in cruise mode. I stopped briefly to adjust my goggles and was surprised to see several athletes still in the vicinity.

An hour and 40 minutes after the gun, my feet were touching the shore and running to the transition area. I couldn’t believe it – I had “negative-splitted” my swim, meaning the second loop was faster than the first. A great sign and very encouraging.

Onto the bike – well, to say it was windy was an understatement. Ok, this wasn’t the 50mph gusts of Kona but the wind was a formidable opponent, and not surprising at all in the cornfields of Illinois where there are no barriers and only open fields. I hunkered down and squeezed my knees into my top tube, a knife into the wind, grateful for all the miles I’d ridden in the aero position; I was at home resting on my forearms and letting my legs do the work.

56 miles later and onto the bike’s second loop, the wind had largely died down which was a measure of grace, but hey this is September in Central Illinois and it’s harvest season – hello combines and hello DUST. My nose started running a LOT, and I was blowing snot rockets every 5 minutes. I actually wondered if I could leave “snot crumbs” and laughed – the mind at work in survival mode. Around Mile 80 my crotch began to complain rather loudly (payback for being aero I guess), and I was forced to stand and pedal more than I wanted to. Luckily I was keeping right on with my nutrition and felt great in that respect. Seeing Steve at various spots on the bike course was great too – he was actually in a lawn chair reading a book, soaking up the sun. I wondered for a second what was wrong with this picture – me hauling my butt around 112 miles on my steed and him doing what he loves – reading a military book and watching his wife – but any doubts about where I was quickly vanished as he said with a big grin “You look HOT and AWESOME!” I love this sport :).

At Mile 105 of the bike, with 7 miles to go, I could hardly WAIT to get onto the marathon. I mean, I was looking forward to running! In all the bricks I’d done (bike first then run immediately afterward), I’d never felt that way. It would take a mile to “find” my legs, which is not a pleasant feeling.

Not today. I was happy to be off my aching butt, standing upright so I could stop blowing snot, and I was back in my “old school” – back to my first love – running lonnnnnnnnng. It felt wonderful, and I was clicking the miles off, a tad slower than I wanted but moving forward nonetheless. Steve would drive up alongside me at various points and grin – for the umpteenth time I wondered which of us was having a better time :).

The sun had gone down earlier and I was on a country road. Looking up there were no buildings or obstructions to my view; it was only me and the vast dark blue sky, and the feeling of being under the Almighty’s gaze washed over me like a warm breeze – I was filled with gratitude that I had been able to get this far and the certainty that He had never left me, ever. In all the days of sorrow I had known earlier in my life, I could look back and see where He’d been at work all along.

At Mile 22 I was still running and I couldn’t believe it. I still had stamina left and while there was pain to deal with, I had mentally prepared myself for it to come; there was nothing I couldn’t make peace with and carry with me to the end. For goodness sakes, only 4 miles left to go – this was an easy training run!

Steve was standing at the Mile 25 marker and I had contained my emotions until then. When I saw him, I couldn’t hold back any longer; the tears came and flowed and we both cried as we ran together to the Finish. What a great metaphor for life – run with my husband to the Ultimate Finish someday where we will have eternity to enjoy with our Heavenly Father.

The clock said 15:28 when I crossed and held my arms up high, pointing to the sky. Thank you God for this beautiful gift, this wonderful opportunity to learn once again how to deal with pain and overcome in the midst of it, knowing the joys that await us in the end.

“but those who hope in the LORD
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.”

-- Isaiah 40:31