Penticton, Baby, Penticton!

Seattle is where I started my triathlon love affair. Most people I met there were active, outdoorsy, and owned the toys (kayak, mountain bike, camping gear) to support that lifestyle. With a friendly and supportive triathlon community and gorgeous places to race locally, an 8 year relationship ensued.

The "local" Ironman for the PNW is Ironman Canada--or simply known as "Penticton". It (like any Iron-distance race) was the ultimate triathlon goal. Not just for being 140.6 miles long, but for the sheer natural beauty of the course, the incredible support of rabid fans, and the overall amazing race experience. From the very first time I'd even considered doing Penticton, I'd known that one must travel there the year before, volunteer, then sign up in person. (In fact, I never knew that you could sign up for an Ironman on-line until I moved to NY.)

So in 2003, after a few Oly's under my belt, I made it my goal race my first HIM at Troika (Spokane, WA) that summer then sign up for Penticton 04. Those plans were completely derailed with a chronic knee injury and a move back to NY that summer. I didn't know when I would ever return to my Shangri La of the PNW much less when I would ever race Penticton...

Until today! 400 slots opened up on-line at noon today; and I snagged one of them!

I had patients scheduled in the Wound Clinic up until noon. Against everything I believe about customer service and patient care, I told my nurse that regardless of what I was doing at 11:45am I was going to walk out of the exam room and go register for this race. Mercifully, the last patient cancelled and I was perched in front a computer with my credit card by 11:30. The link came up on the webpage and my hands shook as I hurriedly typed. One swift click of the mouse...Wah?! Wrong month on the credit card expiration date! Try again...HURRY!! "Your registration was successful." SCORE!!! My registration time was 9:01 PT. I quickly hit the link again and typed in Kevin's info--which took all of 45 seconds--but the registration was full. I felt really bad about it. If only I could type faster or wield that mouse more adeptly or not screw up the credit card expiration date...arg! (He really didn't feel bad about it at all--what a relief!)

What's icing on this joyous cupcake is that my dear friend, Nathalie, got in too!

It's funny how quickly things can change. Just yesterday I was devouring the last morsels of cookie dough immersed in an unshakable ennui about next year's season. Maybe I'd do HIM's again or maybe only Xterras or maybe only sprints or maybe get really serious about bird watching and do some yard work...Now with Penticton on the horizon, I've got plans...

1. Lose weight/Change body composition. That spare tire under my FuelBelt is not going to help increase my Vdot or help me maintain even E-pace during the marathon. I'm going to start keeping a food diary. I've counselled/lectured/nagged enough patients about weight loss--I know what I need to do.

2. Swim in earnest. No more *sigh* get in the pool and splash around for 3K meters in a half-hearted, half-assed effort. Starting Tues I'm swimming with Masters twice a week + once by myself for mental toughness. No wall hanging.

3. Strength train/yoga. I'm not 25 years old anymore. Enough said.

4. Train consistently. In a mere 6 weeks, I shall no longer be on call, work weekends, or be enslaved by the life of a general surgeon. So there should be NO EXCUSES for to not pry my ass out of bed or off the butt-groove in the couch to work out.

Getting a spot at Penticton next year is like a gift. No, more like getting something I've always wanted and never thought I could have. It's like getting a chance to schtoop the prom queen (I'd say the captain of the football team, but he was no prize). It's an Ironman I can get excited about. Time to lace up and hit the pavement!

Paradise Lost

When I counseled my gastric bypass patients on weight loss, I would tell them to stop assigning moral labels to certain foods. "Broccoli is not ordained by God as 'good' while potato chips are declared 'evil'. Salad doesn't come from heaven anymore than cookies come from Satan." I would say. I wanted them to think of food as fuel and not as a reward/punishment, means of comfort, or mark of righteousness or moral failure. I wanted them to focus on their goal of weight loss and better health with food intake as a means of achieving that goal.

Well, I've found perhaps the most evil foodstuff EVER. It's from the depths of Hades, born from the wicked lord of the underworld...It's Nestle's Toll House Cookie Dough--the family size tub! Just scoop and bake. Bake?! That cookie dough isn't going to see an oven--it's going straight into my gullet!

I had a hankering for a brownie sundae but was too lazy to make the brownies. Kevin suggested some ready made cookie dough from the supermarket + ice cream + Hershey's Chocolate syrup = voila! A yumminess unparalleled. In the dairy section, nestled between the butter and the biscuit dough in the pop-open rolls, that magical plastic tub called to us with its siren song of chocolately goodness. I picked it up and it weighed about 4 metric tons.

Kevin and I proceed to eat the entire tub in 36 hours--some of the dough graced our oven and emerged as warm, gooey cookie platforms for scoops of ice cream while the majority of the tub contents were consumed raw. Yep, we have 4 metric tons of cookie dough that will sit in our colons for weeks.

I deemed it evil because its content and the volume consumed was completely incompatible with achieving race weight for Longhorn 70.3 in 6 weeks. Really there's nothing profoundly immoral about it at all--I just wanted to dramatically assign blame to a wonderful and convenient baking product instead of accepting my derailment of achieving a goal. I won't go on a 30 mile run to burn it all off. I'll just keep training like I have been and try again for nutritional excellence. So I ate some extra empty calories. BFD. The food Nazis aren't going to cook me in the gas chamber for it. The triathlon Gestapo won't torture me with extra swim workouts. So no point in me punishing myself for it, right? I can let go of the drama. That is, until tomorrow when another epic battle between good and evil shall be waged...;)

Threshold

The past weekend of being on-call brought back memories of residency. I worked Friday night, sleeping less than 2 consecutive hours...awoke to a page from the Clifton Springs ICU Sat morning to get there STAT to put a central line in an obese and confused patient who was thrashing around...ran to the other hospital where I was on call for emergency surgery...engaged in a grand pissing contest with the covering internist Sat afternoon...spent Sat night in the OR from midnight to 4am...drove to Sodus Sunday morning to catch Kevy rolling into T2 for the triathlon...drove to work after the race for rounds.
The residency memory revisited was that feeling of surrender: letting go of being annoyed, irritated, or pissed off at the pager going off every 15 minutes, of one more task plopping in your lap when you're dog tired. There's a threshold that most every resident crosses where he/she just figures: "The endless work, sleep deprivation, unimaginable fatigue...This is my life." I crossed that threshold during the weekend and remembered that I thought that that was how I would deal with Ironman.
Before the big race, I said to myself: "Boon, you've worked for 42 hours in a row without sleep. You've stood for 27 hours in the OR during a liver transplant. You can do an Ironman." I thought I would deal with the fatigue and pain with the same kind of acceptance, knowing that it would end at a definite point in time like when I would be off call or when residency was over. I found out around mile 13 on the run that that was the wrong kind of doggedness to have. The obstacle to overcome was all about a distance to be covered in the shortest amount of time possible. Surrender was NOT the right frame of mind or body to have.
On my long run a few days ago, I dove head first in acclimatization and ran at 1pm in 87 degrees. I overestimated how fast I'd run so turned around a bit farther for my planned 1:45 run. After 60 min of E pace, I ran 30 min at M pace feeling surprisingly strong. With 15 min left, I was too accelerate to and hold tempo pace. My body's drive to cool itself overrode my drive to run tempo. I held M pace for 15 min and happily anticipated the last seconds left of my one hour and 45 minutes. When I stopped I was at least 1/2 mile from where I'd started. I caught up with Kim who convinced me to run the rest of the way. I was hot, thirsty, pooped, and completely without shame when I whined that I didn't wanna run to the end. She convinced me and we brought it home in our blazing E pace. While I'm happy with how I ran the 30 min Mpace section in the heat, I think the real triumph was the shift from time to distance. 70.3 and 140.6 are distances that must be covered despite our time expectations or number of hours we train.
So my homework for the next 6 weeks before Longhorn is to find a different mindset with which to face that fatigue and pain threshold during the race. I should think something like: "My aching feet, this life-sucking heat...the faster you go, Boon, the sooner you can stop! This is your race!"

Channeling Jeff Corwin

Powerful electromagnetic forces from the couch were pulling on my butt last night. I could barely extract myself from my perfectly molded ass-groove of the sofa cushion. I felt flat, tired, sleepy. It seems that since I've made the decision to quit General Surgery, General Surgery has decided to be Douche Bag Deluxe and make the remaining 6 weeks until I leave it intolerable and hellish. On a good day, it confirms that I made the ride decision to get out. On a bad day, it continues to suck the life out of me. Yesterday, it nearly sucked all the life out of me--and I wasn't even on call!

With my last shred of energy, I put on my running clothes and stood moping at the bottom of the driveway. I set off on my run and within 100 feet a flash of brilliant blue flew in front of me and perched on the power lines. A Belted Kingfisher! I stopped and pointed it out to Kevin, "Did you see it? It's a Belted Kingfisher!!" I'd never seen one around the house or so up close before. Kevin said that I looked like I'd seen the Yeti.

A half mile down the road I swerve around a garter snake. If I leave him there, he'll surely be run over by a car. I know he's not poisonous, but I'm not sure how painful his bite may be. Unsuccessfully, I try to nudge him off the road with a twig. He's about 18 inches long and completely unwilling to be saved from his impending death by Michelin. I remember the last thing I watched on TV: Jeff Corwin in Nepal handling a cobra. He picked it up by its tail and kept his distance. Well for crying out loud, if Jeff can pick up a cobra then I can at least do the same with a garter snake!

So I did--I grabbed it's skinny tail which felt like holding a toothpick. With one gentle lift, I flung him into the safety of the tall grasses.

The rest of my run was uneventful as far as wildlife sitings and rescues go. I saw my usual avian friends on that route: tree swallows hanging out around the cows to eat flies, goldfinches diving in and out of thistle, starlings too numerous to count. I was reminded of how happy I am when I'm outside among my animal friends like Snow White or Saint Francis of Assisi.

It's corny, yes. But I'll keep this little nugget of motivation in my files when I'm feeling less than enthusiastic about getting out and training. Besides, I hear that Snow White has thrown down a sub-5 hour Half Ironman and Saint Francis has an FTP of 350 watts.

The Dabbing Left Foot

"Let's go for a mountain bike ride and trail run brick on Monday," Kevins says. Despite my newfound skills and confidence in cornering and descending through rock gardens, I reluctantly agreed to go. What the hell are you afraid of? I grumbled to myself. Falling? No. I've eaten more dirt, used by bike as a landscaping tool, and sacrificed more blood to the mtb gods than most. Going anaerobic? Not really. I am scheduled for an hour ride with endurance wattage, but a couple of spikes to clean some hills won't hurt. (right, Coach M?)

I sucked it up, suited up, and showed up in pigtails at Dryer Road Park. Our friend Joel showed up so Kevin had a riding buddy that was more his speed. I wouldn't feel so pressured to keep up with Kevin. I could ride my slow, conservative pace and work on my bike handling skills.

We motor up the trail with me as the lantern rouge. I try to keep my eyes on the boys to practice siting, but soon they disappear around the turns and the trees swallow them up. I can hear them chatting like 2 biddies at a quilting bee and follow their voices. The top of the trail opens up to 2 wide fields with trails leading into the woods. With the copious rain this summer, the meadow was ablaze in purple, yellow, and white wildflowers. The Queen Anne's lace grew tall to shoulder height. Wild bergamot and knapweed carpeted the fields in violet and pale purple.

In the 3 years I've ridden this park, I have never seen it so beautiful. I rode an extra lap around the fields just to take it all in before I dove into the more technical trails.

I turn down Z trail (named Ziggy for it's twists around trees and over rocks, I guess). The woods are luxuriously green in color and in scent. After riding straight, downhill, rocky trails in Vermont, I negotiate Ziggy slowly practicing my cornering. Tucked in the lush undergrowth are amazing mushrooms: chestnut brown ones the size of dinner plates, smaller teacup sized ones the color of orange juice, tiny thimble caps that are bright red. I make a mental note to get a book on Mycology and/or Wild Mushrooms of NY.

The boys find me and I tell them about my plant and fungal sitings. Kevin says,"Really? Bright red mushrooms?! I haven't seen any." Yep, it's time for me to focus on riding and leave the amateur botanist for a later hike. I try to follow Kevin and Joel through Ziggy but become squirrelly with the speed around the turns. Automatically, my left foot unclips and dabs. I react that way when I'm scared even though I KNOW with my entire mountain biking heart and brain that I'm more in control and safer staying clipped in and balanced. I slow down and ride within my comfort zone. The boys have pulled ahead and I can't even hear them talking anymore.

I turn down another equally technical trail with descents and the dabbing left foot makes a few more appearances. It causes my weight to shift forward during dowhills, catches on roots, and nearly causes an endo. It is my crutch that is crippling me! What the hell are you afraid of? I ask myself again, exasperated.

I am afraid of getting injured.

I don't want to break any bones or tear ligaments or tendons before Longhorn 70.3.

There I said it. It is that fear of injury that makes me slow down when I feel a twinge, a niggle, a pain in my knee, ankle--you name it, I've injured it! I'm not afraid of the pain--I've raced with blisters the size of my head on the soles of my feet. I'm not scared of blisters--they can't cripple me. But my IT band, the ligaments in my chronically sprained ankle, the cartilage in my knees can. And not being able to train because of an injury physically and emotionally SUCKS. I've done it so many times, before so many races (first marathon--which never happened, first HIM, first IM, first Highlander century) that I don't want to do it again.

So then what? Hit the brakes, unclip, and stick out my left foot (which will likely cause an accident which leads to an injury!) everytime I think I'm going to hurt myself? Should I just accept that injury is part of playing--that no one ever leaves the swimming hole, the swing set, the bike without training wheels without a scrape or bruise or even a broken bone? Should I get over myself and realize that every injury I've ever had eventually healed and that the only debilitating scar is the one in my head? Looks like the answer is a resounding YEP! Stay clipped in, ride, and appreciate the flowers and mushrooms.

My Parents and My Bike Test

My parents were here this weekend for a visit. Because of scheduling snafus, I planned to up get early Saturday morning and do my bike test. I told Mom & Dad about it as they would hear the whirring of the trainer and my heavy breathing at 6 am. They know that I participate in some hobby called triathlon (Mom still can't pronounce it), but since it has nothing to do with Medicine, the Stock Market, or the possibility of me having children they've not taken much interest in it. They found the whole affair of Ironman amusing and had some curious questions about it such as "What will you eat during the day? Can you stop and have soup noodles for energy? Why don't they start everyone at the swim lined up in a row so it's fair? (not such a bad idea, Dad!) How do you know which bike is yours?"
This visit is the first they've heard that there was testing in triathlon. For my entire upbringing, my parents have pushed me to excel academically--which means doing well on tests. They've always driven me to "score the highest/get a 100%". Their curiousity piqued, they ask about the bike test. Mom immediately jumps in," Is this that test that will rank you nationally?" I explain that it's not about qualifying for Half-Ironman Nationals (I neglected to tell them about my run-in with heat stroke at Eagleman. oops.) Then Dad wants to know,"How are you scored? Where will you take this test?" I explain to them the concept of training with watts, FTP, and long course pacing. Mom, apparently bored, interjects, "Yes, but will you PASS this test? Have you practiced enough to pass your test?" Sheepishly, I admit that I haven't really practiced much and she gives me that look---that tisk tisk look of you should've studied harder. Ugh.
Instead of scolding me (about not riding enough?!) the night before my big test, she distracts me by asking about the small collection of triathlon age group awards on my end table. She wants to know which are mine vs. Kevin's. Blessedly, we have 3 each. She looks at my age group "1st place" plaque from Finger Lakes Sprint Tri and remembers when they called me just before the awards ceremony. They had some question about surgery and I had to interrupt them to get my award. They paused and asked, "You got Number One? Wow!" I explained that it was an age group award and not overall first female, but they didn't hear a word. They were just so happy that I "got #1" in something.
So the next morning, I got up determined not to disappoint them with any low test scores. My dad sat with me until about half way through the 20 min time trial. He didn't cheer or have words of encouragement--he mostly talked to me about my surgery practice and some natural gas stocks. When I couldn't speak from the exertion, he got bored and left. I still rode my little heart out and nearly puked when I was done. *Sigh* 6 watts less than 6 weeks ago. I'm not too disappointed as I mentally and physically took an off-season after Eagleman that I went into undertrained. Actually, I'm surprised that it wasn't 10-15 watts less. When I was all done, my mom asked, "So did you pass your bike test?" I chuckled, "Yes, I did."

Triathlon Care Bear

Two weeks before my first HIM (Musselman 06), the weather forecast predicted temps in the mid-90's and high humidity for race day. In Gone with the Wind/Scarlett stares down post-war Tara fashion, I said,"As God as my witness, I'll never complain about the heat on race day!"

So over the July 4th weekend I do my last long run with some tri-pals on the Mussel run course. We start at noon to run during the hottest part of the day. There was sunshine and temps in the 90's as we started our run. First miles of the course are flat and scenic; and the mood of the group is happy. When the hills start, the grumbling does as well. Then it started to rain. Thinking out loud, I say,"Well, at least this rain will cool us off for the climb." By mile 6, we begin to really climb on an exposed dirt road through a corn field. The rain stops. The sun beats down upon us; and a whopping head wind nearly blows us over at the top of the hill. My comment,"Well, the sun will help us dry off and the wind will keep us cool from the heat." As we roll back through town, a sun shower sprinkles us with more rain. I say,"Well, the sprinkles are good for keeping cool and the sunshine will cheer us up."

At that point (about 10 miles into the run), my friend Barb turns to me and asks," Are you planning on racing with that Care Bear on your shoulder?" Now I've done it: pushed a friend over the brink to sarcasm with my cheerfulness. But what's the point in complaining about something that you have no control over? "Yes," I answered," I plan on having a horde of Care Bears with me for this race."

So during the run of Musselman 2006, the weather was hot, hot, hot as predicted. I caught Barb at mile 10 through town. She told me later that she saw the sign on the bank indicating the temperature to be 96 degrees. I never saw this sign. She never mentioned it until after the race---must've been distracted by Care Bears ;)

Fast forward to yesterday's run test. I'm standing on the barren wasteland of the Canandaigua HS track in 87 degree heat and a stiff wind. My friend Laura is there to call out my 400m splits and cheer me on. I tell her, "Well, at least the wind will keep me cool." (Care Bear Alert!) She laughs, "I'm glad you have that attitude cuz I wouldn't want to be running in this."

At every split, I see her. Stop watch and clipboard in hand (she's recording the splits!), she's cheering me on,"Great job! Way to run steady! Good cadence!" It dawns on me by the 9th lap that I'm looking forward to running by her, not just to hear my splits but to be encouraged by her cheering. The voice I want to hear when it hurts so much that I can barely concentrate is one that encourages and reassures. Not HTFU (Frankly, that phrase has become hackneyed and banal)--I want to hear Care Bears!

Good thing to figure out...I shall start recruiting them from their netherworld of rainbows and sunshine for the Longhorn 70.3!