Tuesday I learned that one of my fellow tri-wannabes was giving up the dream, at least for the rest of the season. She had lost her ambition, and was not feeling well besides and so doing a tri went back onto the "to do" list. This is a feeling I, too, have been wrestling. While my cycling has been going well, back problems aside, swimming and especially running continue to be points of frustration.
As you might imagine, when it came time for tri practice I was less than inspired, to say the least. I had left my bike at home, telling myself it was so I could focus on running, but thinking in the lazy parts of my brain that I would probably just swim and come home. Everyone else was tapering for Superior Man Tri, anyhow. Who would know or care if I mailed it in? My inner Blerch was coming out.
The swim was a weird of mix of win and fail. I have slowly but surely started to fix my terrible form in the water, and I'm finally starting to see the dividends from that. I'm still not fast by any means, but I'm not as painfully slow as I once was. Despite this, I wasn't feeling the swim, and my goggles constantly fogging over didn't help matters at all. When the gentleman I was swimming with told me he was going to turn in, it was more than my fragile will power could withstand and I went in too.
Once out of the water, my back started acting up, shockingly. Sitting on the picnic bench, dripping in lake water and algae with my back cramping I pretty much decided that I was done. I hadn't run in longer than I cared to admit, and starting this evening seemed like a poor choice. Despite this, I slowly put on my socks and running shoes and waited for the long distance swimmers to come in.
As suspected, most of the folks doing the 1/2 Ironman on Saturday were doing easy bike and no runs. This was my chance! As I started to make my excuses (read: whine about my back some more), R. said he was going for an "easy" 5K. Then, he asked if I was running. Damn. Faced with a direct question, peer pressure set in and I caved. "Yes," I said, cringing. And out we went.
Now, R's easy 5K is about twice as fast as my fastest 5K time. Which, honestly, was okay as I was (and am) not in shape to run right now. As I watched him quickly stretch the distance between us, I tried to come up with some way to force my body into this run I had tricked it into. Suddenly, I recalled reading something about intervals, and using poles as markers. As it just so happened, we were on a road with nicely spaced poles running the length of it. So, I started run/walk intervals using the poles. Normally, my intervals are pretty slow, but since it was such a short distance, I decided I needed to really go for it.
R passed me headed back in at about the one mile mark, which is where I had intended to turn around. However, that little kick of peer pressure hit again, and I kept going another 1/2 mile to make it a three mile run. On the return I was done. Out of gas and hurting, I started to walk more and more, with my intervals getting slower and slower. I was just about to give in and walk back when I saw someone was running towards me. "Crap," I though, "he's coming back!" And he was. Having already finished his 5K and presumably bored, R. came back to run in with me. That was a very nice thing to do. I was not appreciative--at first.
The thing about training with people much better than yourself is that they inspire you to be better than you are. While I could have throttled R when he came bounding up to me fresh as could be, as he settled in next to me I couldn't allow myself to be the tired, defeated person I had been a few moments before. We finished my intervals at much faster pace than I would have done by myself...and they only sucked half as much. It was embarrassing (I sounded like a bellows while he wasn't even breathing deeply), but he was as gracious as could be and in the end I got a better workout for it.
I'm still not sure that I'm going to do a tri this year, but I have every confidence I will next year, and probably be better for the delay. All with a little help from my friends.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
To Grandmother's house...
My first real freedom on a bike came during my summer stays at my father's farm. While my mom didn't let us wander further from home than a few houses away, dad was less restrictive. So, during my stays with him, I took my bike and roamed free (or at least freer...). I, as a not particularly wild child, have few stories of daring from my youth. Nearly all of them come from those days on the bike, riding up and down the highway to the cute boy's house a few miles away and on the gravel roads between my dad's farm and my grandparents' place.
Contemplating a rare open weekend this Saturday, I decided to return to my roots and ride down to my grandparents' house. They still live in the same little red house that they did in my childhood, but the ride from Owatonna to there is a bit further than from the family farm. It's about a 30 mile trip by car, but allowing for the meandering ways that bicycles prefer to travel, I figured I'd be looking at about 40 miles one way.
Naturally, the wind that had been absent the entirety of the prior week decided to make a reappearance shortly before I took off. It was a south wind, though, and I figured it would be at my back on the return trip, when it mattered. I plotted my course and loaded up with provisions and set off for my first big solo ride in Minnesota. Funny, I know, but by my reckoning, I probably hadn't been more than 10 or so miles from Owatonna alone prior to Saturday. In Iowa, I used to do solo long rides all the time, but here companionship is easier to come by.
After Thursday's debacle, I was concerned that my back would be an issue, so I adopted a "treat early and often" approach to back pain. Mostly, that meant I was taking my pain meds as frequently as I could without getting dizzy. Technically, I am supposed to be able to take two at a time, but I have found that if I try that I end up pretty woozy, which is usually inadvisable on the bike. So instead, I spread out the pills and take them a bit more frequently than specified on the label. Additionally, I made sure to sit up pretty frequently and get off to stretch every hour or so (and yes, there were more than two of those...). For the most part, it seems to have worked, though I was sore enough after the meds wore off that I decided to stay off the bike today.
Blooming Prairie was my first stop, with the sweet promise of the Bakery drawing me in. As usual, it was a struggle to buy enough to get to the $5 minimum for the debit card, but I managed. Did I eat more cookies than was strictly required? I'll never tell. The boy at the counter asked me where I was riding to, and when I responded Oakland he burst out, "California?!?". I choose to believe that I just looked so awesome and super cyclist-like that California was the only logical place I could be going.
After Blooming, I was on new roads. After consulting my phone for the best route out of town, I got my bearings and enjoyed pedaling west for a while. This road eventually brought me to a small area marked Newry on the map. Newry consisted of two houses, and while I was riding through, approximately three people. Nonetheless, it had this, which was pretty cool.:
And then, I was there. Legs a little tired and slower than I wanted (though only by 15 minutes), I rolled up the gravel driveway just as I had when I was a child. I leaned my bike against the same tree that my long forgotten bike leaned against and smiled as my grandma came out to greet me.
Contemplating a rare open weekend this Saturday, I decided to return to my roots and ride down to my grandparents' house. They still live in the same little red house that they did in my childhood, but the ride from Owatonna to there is a bit further than from the family farm. It's about a 30 mile trip by car, but allowing for the meandering ways that bicycles prefer to travel, I figured I'd be looking at about 40 miles one way.
Naturally, the wind that had been absent the entirety of the prior week decided to make a reappearance shortly before I took off. It was a south wind, though, and I figured it would be at my back on the return trip, when it mattered. I plotted my course and loaded up with provisions and set off for my first big solo ride in Minnesota. Funny, I know, but by my reckoning, I probably hadn't been more than 10 or so miles from Owatonna alone prior to Saturday. In Iowa, I used to do solo long rides all the time, but here companionship is easier to come by.
After Thursday's debacle, I was concerned that my back would be an issue, so I adopted a "treat early and often" approach to back pain. Mostly, that meant I was taking my pain meds as frequently as I could without getting dizzy. Technically, I am supposed to be able to take two at a time, but I have found that if I try that I end up pretty woozy, which is usually inadvisable on the bike. So instead, I spread out the pills and take them a bit more frequently than specified on the label. Additionally, I made sure to sit up pretty frequently and get off to stretch every hour or so (and yes, there were more than two of those...). For the most part, it seems to have worked, though I was sore enough after the meds wore off that I decided to stay off the bike today.
Blooming Prairie was my first stop, with the sweet promise of the Bakery drawing me in. As usual, it was a struggle to buy enough to get to the $5 minimum for the debit card, but I managed. Did I eat more cookies than was strictly required? I'll never tell. The boy at the counter asked me where I was riding to, and when I responded Oakland he burst out, "California?!?". I choose to believe that I just looked so awesome and super cyclist-like that California was the only logical place I could be going.
After Blooming, I was on new roads. After consulting my phone for the best route out of town, I got my bearings and enjoyed pedaling west for a while. This road eventually brought me to a small area marked Newry on the map. Newry consisted of two houses, and while I was riding through, approximately three people. Nonetheless, it had this, which was pretty cool.:
 |
| Grandpa says this used to be a creamery |
After Newry, I wandered west and south some more, enjoying the quiet roads and beautiful scenery. If I were an artist, my signature would be landscapes of kelly green fields unfolding under endless blue skies. (Like this one). The only moment of discomfort I had was riding along Highway 251 and remembering my younger self barreling along at speeds not even approximating legal on that very stretch of road. I was not sad to reach Maple Island and its lower speed limits.
I had one last southern jog to get to my destination. I had to laugh when I realized that for all the flatness of my ride (and it was very flat), that the turn off to my grandparents' house was at the crest of the only hill for miles. It's funny how I've never noticed that in years of driving there.
 |
| The only hill in Freeborn county |
And, just like then, my grandpa gave me a ride home! :)
Friday, August 16, 2013
Solo
Pain, I've decided, is best experienced in solitude. This thought occurred to me as I peddled solo back up Highway 218 last night, having left the group ride at Bixby, with vague excuses and assurances that, yes, I was fine heading back alone. "I'm not feeling well," I said. What I meant is that thing you can never really say in a ride like this, that my body was done and I could not, for the night, continue at the pace the others had set. Could barely, if truth be told, continue at all. Despite my chiropractor's helpful assurances just an hour before that I wasn't going to do any damage to myself, each spasm of muscle in my low back convinced me that I was at the limits of what I could ask of myself.
So, alone I went, peddling harder than I needed to under the assumption that it was better to get it over quickly. I had prescription meds with me, but I have a rule about taking meds for trips shorter than two hours. Foolish, maybe, to stick to such an arbitrary cutoff with shooting pain running through my spine and leg, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Strangely, the ride got easier once I gave up the pretense of trying to keep up with the group. I wasn't really going any slower, but somehow the road passed under me with more ease than it had just a few moments before.
Alone, you see, I was free to distract myself any way I chose. I would concentrate on my breathing one moment, and the next break out into an impromptu rendition of whatever pop song was going through my head at the time. With the rumble of passing semis and cars as my accompaniment, I sang Pink's "Try", belting out half remembered lyrics in between gasps for air.
Even when I wasn't able to distract myself, it was easier to be in pain alone, because I could embrace it, if I needed. There was no need to put on a good face or try to be brave. I was free to gasp and moan, and even cry if that was what was necessary.
I got home, finally, exhausted, but somewhat pleased with myself for having made it home under my own power. Once home, I grabbed my ice packs and Flexeril, and proceeded to make myself one with the couch for the rest of the evening. The pain subsided, ushered away by the cold burn of ice and a sleepy haze brought on by the muscle relaxants.
Pain, to some extent, is the nature of the game when you start talking endurance sports. It's not a comfortable thing we do, pushing the boundaries of body and mind to shave a few seconds from a PR. I suppose it is impossible to tell, really, where you sit in relation to someone else in terms of tolerance. I would like to think I'm not a giant pansy, but who knows? Maybe everyone reading this thinks this sounds like their normal ride. I hope not. I'm still holding out for that elusive nirvana of a pain-free back and strong legs. In the meantime, sometimes it'll be easier to just ride alone.
So, alone I went, peddling harder than I needed to under the assumption that it was better to get it over quickly. I had prescription meds with me, but I have a rule about taking meds for trips shorter than two hours. Foolish, maybe, to stick to such an arbitrary cutoff with shooting pain running through my spine and leg, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Strangely, the ride got easier once I gave up the pretense of trying to keep up with the group. I wasn't really going any slower, but somehow the road passed under me with more ease than it had just a few moments before.
Alone, you see, I was free to distract myself any way I chose. I would concentrate on my breathing one moment, and the next break out into an impromptu rendition of whatever pop song was going through my head at the time. With the rumble of passing semis and cars as my accompaniment, I sang Pink's "Try", belting out half remembered lyrics in between gasps for air.
Even when I wasn't able to distract myself, it was easier to be in pain alone, because I could embrace it, if I needed. There was no need to put on a good face or try to be brave. I was free to gasp and moan, and even cry if that was what was necessary.
I got home, finally, exhausted, but somewhat pleased with myself for having made it home under my own power. Once home, I grabbed my ice packs and Flexeril, and proceeded to make myself one with the couch for the rest of the evening. The pain subsided, ushered away by the cold burn of ice and a sleepy haze brought on by the muscle relaxants.
Pain, to some extent, is the nature of the game when you start talking endurance sports. It's not a comfortable thing we do, pushing the boundaries of body and mind to shave a few seconds from a PR. I suppose it is impossible to tell, really, where you sit in relation to someone else in terms of tolerance. I would like to think I'm not a giant pansy, but who knows? Maybe everyone reading this thinks this sounds like their normal ride. I hope not. I'm still holding out for that elusive nirvana of a pain-free back and strong legs. In the meantime, sometimes it'll be easier to just ride alone.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Good things come
I decided something last night, while I was climbing a small hill at inexplicably slow speeds: holy crap, I picked up some speed in the last few weeks. I know, this seems contradictory, but bear with me. You see, as I was struggling up this hill (due to my low back abandoning me several miles earlier), I noticed that my average speed for the trip was over 17 mph. I know for some folks that isn't fast, but for me that's pretty much my top average speed, and it was the second hard ride in a week that I had seen those numbers. Even better, this was my average speed including in town riding AND the afore mentioned several miles of low back abandoned rollers. So, really, it probably was like 25 mph otherwise (kidding...kidding).
This is even more marvelous to me given that a few weeks ago on a group ride I had pretty much given up on keeping up with the club for the rest of the season, as my couple of weeks off the bike had sapped my strength on the bike in unprecedented fashion. I seem to recall turning in a ride during tri practice that averaged *cough* 12 mph *cough*. That I am now able to hold onto a wheel at better than 19 mph is not something I thought I would be doing this season.
This has given me new energy in the triathlon side of things. After losing so much ground on the bike and being unable to run for nearly two months, I had given up on the notion of doing a tri this year. Now, though, I'm eyeing up some later events and making some soft commitments. I still need to get my ankle broken (ha!) in again, and my back is not happy, but I think something at the end of August is reasonable. That's probably about as late as I can go, as I'm still without a wet suit until I actually finish one of these damn things and decide for sure that I want to do something other than sprint length.
The next two or three months are hot and heavy with rides and other activities. Despite my earlier misgivings, I think I'll be ready for them. And that's pretty awesome.
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