Moved!

I've moved my blog to http://kitboochronicles.blogspot.com/

Victories

When I start to reminisce about the runner I used to be 20 years ago, Kevin will serenade me with his rendition of Springsteen's Glory Days. So now that that tune is stuck in your head let's turn back the hands of time to September 1990. It's my first year of medical school. I've just crossed the finish line at the Legs Against Arms 5K (sponsored by Physicians for Social Responsibility) as the first overall female. I had run in high school and college mostly to fit into my jeans. I didn't race much in college because I hated getting passed by all those people who ran cross country in high school (my high school didn't have track or cross country---but we did have 4 solid years of religion!). Here was my first taste of being a medium fish in a small pond.

For the next 4 years, my friend Chris and I would spend every weekend we could racing every 5K/10K within a 50 mile radius of Pittsburgh. Our original intention was to collect as many race t-shirts as possible. In the smaller races, we'd take home a trophy or a ribbon along with our coveted race shirts. After the first year, we set some race goals: I wanted to break 20 min at 5K and 42 min at 10K. For Chris: 17 min 5K and 35 min 10K. I came within 12 and 20 seconds of those goals, respectively. I'm quite sure Chris got his PR's, but what was most memorable was the race experience: the post-race beer trucks and Bavarian pretzels, Wheezing Dude who I just couldn't shake for 5 miles, seeing Utta Pippig and wondering if her feet actually touched the ground.

After 1994, I took a 10 year hiatus from races. Chris moved to San Francisco. I was buried alive in residency then busy with my first few years at a real job.

In 2004, running consistently again, I joined my friend Laura in 2 winter race series: Polarcats and Freezeroo. Unlike the Pittsburgh races, we'd see the same faces just about every weekend. One particular puss stoodout. I'll call her Karen. She's a few years older and in 2004, was about 5 minutes faster on the 5K than Laura and me. She didn't hesistate to let us know that in an aggressive, high and mighty way. For the next 2 years, I'd see her, get repeatedly reintroduced to her, and have my ass kicked by her at these races. She NEVER remembered who I was until I passed her on the bike at the Barker Duathlon in 2006 and almost beat her by 1 second (she friggin' passed me 200 yards from the finish line). She walked up to me after the race and demanded, "Who's coaching you?" Nice. Not Hey, nice ride or Boy what a race or Hello, I'm Karen...

5 months later at a Freezeroo in Feb 07, I beat her by 3 minutes. I called Laura from the finish line; and we sang Ding Dong the Witch is Dead. Feeling guilty of our Schadenfreude, we justified that we wouldn't be doing a gleeful victory dance if she wasn't so mean, so snobby, so rude. Well yeah, it's no fun beating a NICE nemesis.

I've seen Karen since that race and have finish well ahead of her at every race since. She's not any more polite or pleasant to me, but she does remember who I am now. Regardless of how much guilt I should/do feel, I am happy that I beat her. There--I said it. It's my victory against those who think they're better than me just because they have a higher Vdot, those who won't give me the time of day unless I'm on the podium. That's alot for Karen to carry! No wonder she slowed down under the weight of all my hang-ups.

For 2009, I would like to stop chasing down the Karens. To see that those hang-ups are all in my head and those people are now meaningless to me is the real victory. I set my intention this season to race like I did with Chris: for the experiences, the fun, and, of course, those awesome race T-shirts!

Truth

As I'm the only doctor not on vacation this week at the Wound Clinic, I get to cover all the patients all week long. This means meeting new people which is quite fun and amusing for me. Don't let that statement change my crusty, jaded, and misanthropic image. ;)

Today, a well-dressed 57 year old gentleman wearing just a bit too much cologne told me that he used to go hunting with Tom Selleck.

"Oh, he's really a very nice man." he says.

I respond, "Tom Selleck seems like a nice guy on TV."

The patient goes on to tell me that his first wife was a Playboy bunny and that he knew Hugh Hefner. As I debrided the goo from his diabetic foot ulcer, I thought it would stand to reason that if one was married to a Playboy bunny, one might come to know Mr. Hefner. I must have looked interested because the patient went on to regale me with tales of travel to Thailand (he was a Vietnam vet), a 30 day cruise to South America from which he had just returned, an upcoming trip he was taking to Africa.

When I ask him where he'd been in Thailand, he answers, "I don't remember the names."

Fair enough, the Vietnam War was a long time ago.

Still interested in his travel stories (I love travel stories!) and planning my trip to Ecuador this spring, I ask him where his cruise in South America was.

He hesitates, "7 countries."

Hmm. I say, "I've been to Tanzania. Where are you going in Africa on your cruise?"

He stammers, "14 countries."

He's not making eye contact with me at all with these answers. I'm beginning to feel bad about making him so uncomfortable; and mercifully, I've finished dressing his wound.

I don't think he was trying to fool me. What could he possibly gain by convincing the female doctor in a Wound Clinic that he was married to a busty woman, knew Magnum P.I., and went on cruises? Besides, I didn't see any point in disturbing his fantasy world.

Whatever inside him that needed to feel worldly and important enough to tell me those things (which might be true, but does it matter?), I will never nor do I want to understand. How we perceive and process the world around us is our reality. I thought about how I quantified my own reality, my alleged truth. The measurable things are easy and concrete: the balance in my bank account, my shoe size, Vdot, my 5th grade math scores. The immeasurable truths: I like birds; I'm generous but want to take credit for the generosity; I often feel like I'll never be good enough; I really want to fit in---how accurate, how true are those? Ralph Waldo Emerson said: Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies.

I walked away from that patient thinking 2 things:

1. I wonder what it would be like to go hunting with Tom Selleck.

2. I hope that I truth I've created and believe about myself is accurate. If not, then I'll see you when I get back from my exotic trip with Steve McQueen--we're going on a cruise to 30 countries!

40-Year-Old Triathletes Gone Wild!

A Facebook acquaintance challenged me to a quiz named "What's your real age?" or something mildly enticing/slightly annoying like that. Though I rolled my eyes and started ranting about how physiologic age could possibly be estimated in a survey really meant to advertise Oprah's Acai diet or Miss Hollywood Starlet's wonderous face cream, I took the quiz anyway. Most of the questions were about lifestyle and health choices such as smoking, drinking alcohol/carbonated beverages/caffeine, eating fast food, and exercising regularly. As I don't smoke, drink or eat any of the above substances, and train for Ironman, my age was determined to be 30 years old.

How ironic that when I really was 30 years old, I was a surgical resident: chronically and utterly sleep deprived since 26 years old, drinking alcohol to drunkeness on my days off, eating bacon just about every morning, and inhaling donuts whenever available at the nurses stations. The only exercise I had was walking to and from work and jacking up my heart rate during some trauma case in the OR. At 40 years old, I haven't been healthier.

So Kevin and I took our healthy and youthful selves on a date 2 nights ago---a Christmas play followed by a dinner at our favorite steak place. I had been absolutely consistent with my training for the last month---every workout done, every interval nailed. I had also done my bike test early that morning and increased my FTP by 12 watts. There wasn't an ounce of guilt in ordering raw Oysters, a 21 oz. Cowboy ribeye, and apple crisp to follow.

Being a foodie, I HAD to have a glass of dry, crisp white wine with my oysters---a lovely French pinot blanc. And who DOESN'T have a glass of monster cabernet with an unctuous rare ribeye? Not Boon! By the time the apple crisp showed up, my lips were numb and the room was spinning. I was certifiably drunk from 2 glasses of wine consumed over 2 1/2 hours. Sheesh.

The next morning I awoke cotton-mouthed, nauseous, and green about the gills. My head remained on the brink of exploding all day. At work, I medicated with near lethal doses of ibuprofen (didn't touch the pounding in my head) and hydrated until I urinated copious amounts of dilute urine (also didn't touch the pounding in my head). Lucky for me, most of my patients that day either had dementia or were heavily sedated and didn't notice what a sorry sack of stool their doctor looked like.

Kevin, a bit wiser than me, drank only one glass of red wine with dinner. He didn't feel so great either the next morning, but shook off his hangover by the end of the day. I, on the other hand, continued to feel leaden and lethargic for 2 days. YES, a 2 day hangover from 2 stinkin' glasses of wine.

So much for my alleged youth---scientifically proven by a quiz on Facebook! My intention was NOT to get drunk, but to enjoy a complete gastronomic experience that included some wine---just 2 glasses filled 1/3 up like it should be in a nice restaurant. It's obvious that regardless of my healthy habits, Vdot, FTP, blood pressure, cholesterol level, resting heart rate---Boon cannot hold her liquor. Kevin and I shall have to shun our wild, bacchanalian lifestyles and have a glass of milk with our dinners the next time.

RKE

Monitoring devices: I love 'em. 8 years ago I trained with a heart rate monitor. I felt that it kept me honest with my level of exertion so that I don't go out too hard when I'm feeling frisky or really dog it when the couch is calling my butt. 3 years ago I acquired a powermeter for my bike--a measurement of my rate of work in real time! Last year I added a Garmin Forerunner to my armament and know my pace each second thanks to 12 satellites that orbit the planet. I've got numbers galore with which I can make bar grafts, pie charts, and plot jagged lines.



Being fatalistic, I wonder "What would I do without my gizmos? What would become of me if they all failed...a triathlon apocalypse?!"


Being compulsive, I practice predicting my heart rate, cadence, pace, watts during training. I'm very accurate with cadence, just okay with HR and watts, and completely off when it comes of running pace. Many successful athletes race and train soley with perceived exertion. To make my device-meltdown-contingency plan more complicated, I thought I'd dabble with the Borg Rating of Perceived Exertion.


The Borg RPE is a scale from 6 to 20 (because 1 to 14 would make less sense?). 6 = semi-comatose like watching late night tv. 20 = very cell in the body has been turned inside out from exertion. I am familiar with both states of being. However, what's the difference between 12 and 14? When I'm well-rested, I'm unable to discern "sort of working hard" from "kinda pushing it a little". After a 6 hour training ride, drinking from the water bottle is a herculean effort.


So last night as I pedalled away on the trainer, singing along with my workout tunes on the walkman (that's right:WALKMAN. Kevin calls it my MP1 player), it hits me. At less than 100 watts, HR under 110, I can sing along with anyone--including Maria Callas' rather shrill Un Bel Di. Between 101 and 130 watts, HR zone 3, I can still croon with Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston. That's right. Whitney Houston...specifically One Moment in Time. At FTP/zone 4 , I'm having a hard time hitting those high notes with Journey's Steve Perry or Rush's Geddy Lee. Above LT, my singing sounds more like Scott Weiland from Stone Temple Pilots with an asthma attack.

I'm calling it Boon's Rate of Karoake Exertion (RKE).

• Easy effort = able to sing all the words and hitting all the notes in the stratosphere of the treble clef.
• Medium effort = singing most of the lyrics, but struggling to be higha than Mariah.
• Harder effort = gasping every other word or line and/or singing only the back-up parts.
• Hardest effort = sounding like your favorite baritone in need of a Heimlich manuever.

It seems that sopranos and tenors may work harder than altos and basses. I'd like to see what a vocal powermeter would look like.

You don't have to limit your playlist to tunes from the '80's (Reagan rock, baby!). You could even add volume to tonal scale to fine tune your perception of exertion. For instance, hitting that final high note in triple forte can only be done when the heart rate is in zone 1 and during recovery watts. When you can only gasp: Justa small town girl...midnight train...aneee where... of Don't Stop Believin', then you're probably in zone 4.


So if you happen to be hanging out in the middle of the day on August 31 next year around Richter Pass, BC and hear a lovely rendition of Boston's More Than a Feeling, you'll know that Kitima's riding at steady wattage in zone 2.

My Cave of Pain

I've decided this season to do my run tests on the same flat course--the Lehigh Valley Trail--so that when I have to repeat my tests the only variables will be wind, temperature, and my ability to bugger it up. Last year I did run tests on a track, the 5K ish loop around my house, a hilly 5 mile Turkey Trot (which I used the last downhill 3 miles for my results). Of course, the results from a downhill run on asphalt elevated my Vdot. I declared myself Prefontaine incarnate and likely ran at paces to fast for my fitness.

Wednesday night I suited up with my headlamp and headed to the Phillips Road trailhead of the LVT. A few lonely headlights from cars on Phillips Road lit my path. I could barely see 5 feet in front of me. The trail is flat with fine cinder--no ruts, rocks, logs to trip over. Only two road crosses could potentially slow me down. After a 15 minute warmup, off I went into the engulfing darkness.

It's said that denning is a natural instinct in dogs. Then sometime in my past lives I must've been a dog (I drool like one during bike tests). On that night I found my running den: a small sphere of light created my headlamp, filled with the sound of my labored breathing, surrounded by near complete darkness. It reminded me of swimming open water in Seattle. Lake Washington was cold and murky. I would only see my bubbles and hear my exhalation in my dark swimming womb which I found strangely comforting and safe.

In my dark den, running 5K balls out, I was free from distractions. I couldn't even read my Garmin without shining the headlamp beam right on it. I was alone in my cave of pain. Ultimately, we are alone with our pain--especially the self-inflicted pain. To embrace it and run with it alone felt empowering and peaceful. I had always thought that I needed a race to do a run test, that I needed other runners to motivate me along (like my tendency to not let some girl wearing make-up pass me). That night I found I didn't need a race, mile markers, other painted competitors, or a finish line to spur me on.

I emerged from my den pleasantly surprised with a Vdot higher than I had anticipated. I can't wait to go back---next time I'll bring a chew toy and pig ears.

Biffing

Outside the wind is howling and churning up snow that resembles tapioca pearls. Indeed, Friday afternoon was the last vestige of a balmy and sun-soaked Indian summer. I am full of self-satisfaction when I say that I spent that glorious afternoon on my mountain bike lapping up every scrap of it. Sherry and I had made plans to play in the dirt on 2 wheels, but she had to cancel at the last minute for grown up obligations. My plans for play were wedged between 2 grown up engagements as well: a staff meeting (snore!) and an appointment to speak with my billing people. The staff meeting went 20 minutes later than planned (don't they all?)--I almost cancelled the ride for fear of arriving late for my next appointment.

Fear, shmear---I'm riding! I pull into Dryer Road Park and changed into my bike clothes in the car with 9 guys riding around the parking lot unbeknowst of my lack of modesty. I don my Camelback and helmet (all dressed up and ready to party!), clip in, and motor up A-train. 4 years ago when this park opened I remember this and all the trails being more narrow. I'd like to think that my riding skills have improved so much that the trails seem easier to ride, but it's more likely a combination of that and the trails widening and flattening out over time.

I start of with the flat, twisty trails: Ziggy and Treebeard. Without someone in front or behind me, I ride my own speed and carefully pick my way around the turns. It was good to not ride rushed and get comfortable with balancing at slow speeds. Don't get me wrong---I love to ride mtb with others. It pushes me out of my comfort zone. However, riding alone helped me be more confident in that comfort zone.

I rode over the rock gardens on Ziggy without dabbing--a first! Ziggy is the only trail at Dryer with rock gardens and that's a strong word. They're more like rock flower beds. Because the trail is flat with tight turns, the trick for skipping over the rocks is to carry enough moment through the turns and have some speed. The old mtb mantra: Speed is your friend; Brakes are the enemy. Yes, but speed is scary. Brakes feel secure.

Which brings me to biffing. On the Bikespeak forum (I'm growing weary of the Slowtwitch forum and its Iron-douches), a newby mtb rider asked how often people biff per ride. A few experienced sounding riders said about 3-4 every year, spectacular crashes that leave them unable to ride the next day. That's one every 3-4 months! I've only had 2 crashes that have hobbled me in the last 5 years. I must not be riding hard enough.

Then I think: rarely have I had a mtb ride where I am not bruised, scratched, had the wind knocked out of me, or all three--baby biffs. I don't think I crash less than I did when I first started riding. I just don't think about biffing as much as I used to. My first mountain bike was a 1991 Trek Antelope. I remember being so scared of crashing and falling that when I did it hurt ALOT. Now I just assumed I'm gonna biff and check for the flesh wounds in the shower after the ride.

I turn down Owl's Maze, marked with the letter O. O is for Old friend. This trail is the longest in the park, with descents, climbs and tight twists off-camber and around trees. I love this trail and know every leaf and root on it. On Friday, I am alone with all my memories of chickenshit unclipping and baby biffs on this trail. On that day, I finally LISTEN to myself and stay clipped in, weight back and ahhhh...glide over the spots where my left foot would've unclipped for security and caused a spill. The tree where I had caught the left edge of my handlebar and went down hard loomed up the trail. I've been triumphant since that crash in leaning away and clearing that tree. But this time I catch my left handlebar again. The wheel turns almost perpendicular to the top tube. I calmy and quickly turned it back and kept riding, shiny side up. I expected to biff, but corrected in time. A small victory against old fears.

I go on to clean a short, rooty climb with a small ledge that I've always had to unclip halfway up. I rode Owl's Maze again just to do clean that climb twice and convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke. The ride concludes with a spin down S trail, a lovely, swooping trail through maples and oaks. I fly down an off-camber descent; and my back wheel slides under some wet leaves. I panic and grab my back brake, further locking up my back wheel. DUH. The bike skids out from under me and the top tube slams into my right leg. The daily biff. Brakes really are the enemy. I would've been better off speeding up and unweighting my back wheel. Oh well, next ride.

So it seems that old fears/past pain can be conquered by a combination of accepting them and revisiting them and making new, more positive experiences. Mission to be accomplish with a brave, open heart and shin guards.