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.

Wah! Wah! Wah!

As you may recall, after I signed up for Penticton, I declared to dedicate a generous portion of my time and energy to swimming. My retirement from general surgery has given me the luxury of free time for rest, a predictable schedule to have a consistent basic training week, and more energy to build up strength in my noodle arms to move myself through the water. My plans included Masters twice a week with another 2 swims for "longer sets". I even found the best lane mate and personal swim coach--Janelle!--to further motivate me to swim and fine tune my stroke. I was gonna leave a flaming wake of fire behind me in Lake Okanagan with my Mike Phelps-like swim speed.

Sounds good, huh?

I didn't make it to one Master's class this week. No, my arms didn't fall off. No, I didn't catch rabies and have hydrophobia (remember that from "Old Yeller"?) My basic week has me swimming (in the evenings--that's due to Master's scheduling) on the day of my long ride and on my busiest day at work. Pretty lame excuses. I just didn't want to go to the pool: the water's cold, it's late, I'm pooped, wahwahwah! So I'm gonna drag myself to the pool this afternoon and swim---all by myself. No Janelle. Sniff.

Obviously, the petulant 5 year old Kitima got her way this week without even having to hold her breath during the tantrums. What is so damned horrible about swimming? My immediate answer is that no one truly enjoys doing something they're not good at doing. Yes, but I'm not very good at mountain bike yet I can't wait to get out on the dirt, knowing that I have at least a 90% chance of crashing/falling during each ride. At least swimming doesn't leave me scratched up and bruised.

Then Janelle reminded me: IM drills. GAWD! Do I hate IM drills. I propel myself backwards during the breast stroke; swim in place, bobbing up and down, during butterfly; and feel like I'm drowning during the backstroke. So wonder I suck at the drills---which is all the more reason I should be doing them.

So let me revise my answer to the above question: I don't truly enjoy swimming because I'm not good at it. However, I will and should persist if I feel that I'm improving---which is not just a faster 1000m free time trial, a faster IM swim at Penticton. I want that immeasurable feeling of being able to catch and pull without struggle, to slice through the water like a blue fin tuna, to swim with a rhythm that feels natural. No one was born with any of those things (except Charlie the Tuna). If I learned anything from surgery, it's that it takes alot of patience and practice to make something look effortless.

Back in the water I go--IM drills and all. If I can make laparoscopic gastric bypass look graceful, I can certainly learn to swim 200m IM without making the life guards nervous. The next time that whiny 5 year old who doesn't want to swim throws a tantrum and holds her breath, I'll just have to throw her into the water.

Going Home

I'm back from a 3 day visit with my parents. Just Mom, Dad, and me: my childhood joys of being an only child fulfilled! Mom makes my favorite Thai dishes; and I feel so sated and at home. I helped Dad find some nursery rhymes and Christmas song CD's so he can sing those songs with my nephew. I confirmed with Mom that her cat, Rambo, is indeed utterly blind. With every homecoming, I find out a bit more about myself and my family's history.

After raking leaves from their yard, I find the shed to be tidy and organized just as I would have it. Yeah, that's where the neatnik started. My inability to throw ANYTHING away is mirrored in a cupboard full of old jars (neatly stacked) that have been reused the for the last 30 years for storing spices.

I truly enjoy my parents company. I've always thought that if they weren't my parents I'd still want to get to know and befriend them. The three of us hung out and talk about politics, the stock market, birds, food, and vacation plans for 2009. One of the best things about me finally growing up is getting to know my parents as adults.

I asked Dad about his childhood. He explained how he wound up with 3 different birth certificates and still no exact date of birth. Dad was born in his parents' home in a part of Bangkok where Chinese immigrants lived. Neither he nor his parents made a record of what day, month, or year he was born. He went to Chinese school to learn to read and write Chinese (of course) before he went to public school which made him a bit older than the rest of the kids in his public school class. The teacher asked for a birth certificate. When none could be had, that teacher drew one up estimating Dad's age and arbitrarily setting his birth date at Jan 1. The next year in school another teacher asked for proof of Dad's age (Mom says that's because he was the only kid in 5th grade with a 5 o'clock shadow). That teacher thought his birth certificate was inaccurate and issued another one with her estimation of his age. Couple of years later the Thai government had a census and asked Dad's parents for proof of their kids' ages. My grandparents told the census officer that they were quite sure Dad was born the year of the horse, during some waxing moon and other Chinese date keeping (the Chinese calendar is lunar). The census officer (who was Thai and had limited understanding and patience for Chinese lunar dates) said the birth certificate issued by the teachers was completely wrong and issued another one according to the Thai calendar (which is NOT like the Gregorian calendar that we have). When it came time to determine the birthday, the officer said, "How about Jan 21?" Sure thing, no problem! So we really have no idea exactly when is Dad's birthday or how old he is.

Dad went on to tell me how his family came from China to Thailand. My great grandfather lived in China with his parents and 5 brothers (we have no idea how many sisters as it was tradition to give away infant daughters to the families of their future husbands). During many years of drought and famine (they were rice farmers), my great grandfather and his brothers couldn't afford a water buffalo or ox to plow the fields. So they took turns as the ox, put on the yoke, and tried to push the plow. This plan failed miserably for obvious reasons. They determined that if they stayed in China they would surely die of starvation. They could leave and go to Thailand, face the unknown, possibly fail, and still meet their maker, but at least they'd die trying.

As it turned out, my grandfather came to Thailand (as Dad put it: "with only his sleeping mat and pillow"), worked hard, and became very successful as a merchant. After 30 years, he made enough money to go back to China, buy a home, and retire comfortably.

He packed all his earnings (in the form of gold bars) into an ox-drawn cart and sent his son (my dad's uncle) to Laos to exchange it for Chinese currency--apparently, the exchange rate was better there compared to Thailand. When his son returned with his Chinese cash, Mao Zedong took over China, closed the country off, and started the Communist revolution. My great grandfather's Chinese cash was now worth nothing. (Which really makes our current economic situation not seem so bad)

He and his son were crushed. However, my great grandfather continued with his profitable business, weathered the Japanese occupation of Thailand during World War II, and went on to retire in Thailand with plenty of gold bars to spare. My dad's uncle eventually went on to own most of the Toyota dealerships in Bangkok.

So I guess the moral of the story is:

• Famine and drought can starve you and Communism can take away your life's savings, they still can't take away your tenacity, drive, and ability to be successful.
• Never trust in paper money.
• Knowing the exact day, month, and year of someone's birthday isn't that important as long as you remember to celebrate that person's existence in your life.

The Boobies will have to wait

"You would travel half-way around the world just to see animals?" Kevin has asked me this question many times. My answer is always,"Abso-freaking-lutely!" followed by a gush of stories of amazing bird sightings in Tanzania, the innumerable wildebeest and Thompson's gazelles that surrounded my safari jeep in the Serengeti, clams the size of couches in the Gulf of Siam. So it should be no surprise that the Galapagos Islands are at the top of my Must-Go destinations. I want to see the giant tortoises, Darwin's finches, marine iguanas, and---of course, BOOBIES...the blue-footed ones especially!

There are 3 species of boobies in the Galapagos: blue-footed, red-footed, and masked. Each have their own niche in breeding sites, habitats where they forage. But I digress.

A few of my adventure pals are in the throes of planning a trip to the Galapagos in April 2009. The trip involves sailing around the islands (no human inhabitants on the Galapagos!) on a small ship with snorkeling, kayaking (what better way to see marine iguanas?), and hiking with a naturalist (fellow biology nut). I want to go so badly my guts ache. I justified to myself that those 2 weeks would be a great "mid-season break" from Ironman training, that I could take the money I was saving up for a cyclocross bike and go to Ecuador. Well, it turns out that this trip is gonna cost about 4 cyclocross bikes and a Cervelo P4.

Before I started cursing my decision to retire from general surgery with its resulting tremendous cut in income, I asked myself: If I could only chose between Penticton and the Galapagos, which one would it be? A tough decision but the winner is Penticton. Of course, a chance to do THE Ironman I've always wanted to do.

Tough decision...to a great question! If the worse thing I have to face today is deciding how to spend a vacation, well then my life is pretty darned awesome. Sure, I could whine about not having it all: Penticton, a cyclocross bike, and the Galapagos. But then what will I have to look forward to? Next week I shall start my Penticton training in earnest. I've wanted to be part of that race for long time and many things need to happen before I can get there. The Boobies will just have to wait.

A Well-deserved Victory

2 years ago, somewhere between mile 12-13 of my Ironman Lake Placid run, I blew up spectacularly into a million pieces. My nutrition was okay (probably too much). I had no GI issues, no orthopadic problems (every joint in my body aching doesn't count), no dehydration or hyponatremia. Physically I was in pain, but fine to keep running the rest of the way. However, my head and my heart were a mess. I saw Kevin around mile 11 and had to choke back tears. I still don't completely understand the emotions I was having at that moment, but it was a swirl of "Holy crap, this hurts. I want to stop. I want my mommy!" that spiraled into "Boon, you big pussy. Stop blubbering. You CHOSE to do this. No one forced you to sign, up, train, and come this far in this Ironman." How about that? I made myself feel bad about feeling bad. How incredibly crazy and unhealthy.
What I shall never forget was how my dear friend, Sherry, was there. She ran (more like walk/shuffled) with me from mile 11 to 15. She could see I was having my darkest moment and stayed with me. First, she tried to distract me with our usual chatter (except she was the only one talking) that we'd have on our long runs. When I was out of sight of Kevin, I started to sob.
"I don't want to run another fucking 13 miles!" I cried.
Her arms were around my shoulders, holding me up as the tears and sobs shook me.
I finally wiped my face and hiccupped, "There's no crying in Ironman!" and started running again.
Sherry would have run the rest of the way with me, but she was recovering from an injury resulting from training for her first marathon.
Last Sunday, I took an opportunity to pay back a small part of her kindness and friendship. Sherry had taken 2 years to recover from that injury and was running her 2nd marathon at Niagra Falls. Her sister (and my swim pal), Janelle and I happily played support crew for her on race day.
The race started in Buffalo, NY at the Knox Art Museum. We got our race girl to the start line with plenty of time for the pre-race emptying of nervous bowel and bladder. The morning sun and blue skies warmed the chilly start. After she was on her way, Janelle and I raced across the Peace Bridge and were pleasantly surprised by a quick border crossing. We saw Sherry at mile 6 as she came off the Peace Bridge and headed into the one mile of headwind on this blessed course. At mile 8, Janelle took her wind breaker then we were off again, speeding down the QEW to see her at mile 12, 17, and 20. What an ideal marathon course this is! About 1000 marathon runners: enough people to keep you company, but not too many to get in your way. The first 4 miles of the course wound through Buffalo. A run across the Niagra River, over the Peace Bridge (how cool is that?!), and into Cananda for a run along the Niagra River with the finish line at Niagra Falls. The course is flat (except the bridge); and on Sherry's race day the winds were strong and at her back for all but one mile. For support crew, the course was so easy to access via the QEW and country roads leading the water's edge.
Sherry was nervous about this race and rightfully so: She had been so patient and consistent with her recovery and training. She didn't keep her race goals a secret: She wanted to qualify for the Boston Marathon. That would mean running faster than 3:45:59. She told us on the ride up to the start line that she was going to run her race, regardless of what the time would be. Janelle knew her better and said that there were many levels of goals that we set for ourselves for these races: the "If everything goes perfect" goal, the "I'd be pretty happy with this time" goal, the "If it all goes to crap, I'm okay with it" goal. I told Sherry that getting to the finish line without and injury was half the victory. We all agreed, but all of us wanted so very much for Sherry to qualify for Boston.
At mile 20, the last time Janelle and I would see our race sister before the finish line, Sherry looked strong and was running smoothly. We were convinced she'd finish in 3:30.
At the finish line, we became anxious as 3:30, then 3:40 passed without seeing Sherry. Janelle said that she wanted her sister to have this victory: Not just because she had worked so hard and recovered with patience. Indeed, Sherry deserved to be rewarded with a great race. But, Janelle said she wanted the victory for herself: to know that it could be done, that one could recover physically and mentally from an injury and a bad race to triumph again.
The race clock now read 3:42:58. Janelle is jumping out of her skin.
"There's Sherry!" She screams, "Should I go to her and tell her to hurry up?"
"Yes!" I say, "Tell her to HAUL ASS, HAUL ASS!!"
I'd never seen a pregnant woman move so fast (Janelle is 30 weeks pregnant). She's yelling to Sherry and both of them come charging toward me. We run after her to the finish line: 3:44:37.
The finish line announcer says, "Slow down Sherry Hecker from Brighton, NY. Your support team is chasing you!"
Sherry tells us that the last 7 miles was so incredibly hard. She had slowed to a 10 min/mile pace for a couple of miles from pain in her hips. As she saw her hopes of a 3:30 slip away, she told herself that she didn't come all this way to not qualify for Boston.
I am so happy and grateful for her victory. It is a victory of patience and consistent hard work. It is my favorite kind of hope: that of possibilities.

Coach Mom

My mom is perhaps the most pragmatic person I've ever known. Her advise and opinions (mostly unsolicited) are devoid of any sentiment or regard for potential hurt feelings. The few times she has expressed sympathy have surprised me and the rest of the my family. It's usually while watching an Animal Planet program about the plight of sharks having their fins cut off and left to drown for shark fin soup or geese being beaten for their underfeathers to stuff into parkas and blankets. We find Mom tranfixed in front of the TV, in tears, vowing to NEVER make shark fin soup or buy down comforters again. Other than those few rare moments, she's all business.
Mom is like a rhinoceros beetle: black-horned and prickly on the outside with a soft, squishy underbelly.
She's only recently taken any interest in my triathlon endeavors probably because her hope that I would give up this un-doctorlike and expensive hobby had faded. She asked if Kevin and I train together (adding,"If you played golf, you could play together!"). I told her no--that he rides much faster than I do.
"So he doesn't ride with you, then wait for you to catch up?"
"No, mom, he doesn't." I'm anticipating some sympathetic comment about how he should be nicer to me.
She thinks about this and concludes: "This is good for him. If I were him, I wouldn't ride with you either. It would be complete waste of time." She goes on to tell me that we should train within our own abilities and that I should work harder so I can rider faster and keep up with him. Gee thanks, Coach Mom.
I tell her (big mistake) that when we met 2 years ago I could keep up with him in the pool and even dropped him once on a bike ride.
"Oh, REALLY?" Now she's going in for the kill.
"So why is he so faster than you NOW?"
Here comes the litany of unanswerable questions: Why don't you train as hard as Kevin? Why don't you try harder to swim, bike, run faster? He did it--what's wrong that you cannot?
I feebly explain that perhaps he's on the steep part of his athletic progression and that perhaps I have plateaued. She'll have none of it.
"That's all you have? Pfffft!"
I am 10 years old again, standing in front of her with my math test. I've scored 98%. She tells me, "That's good, but you should score 100% next time."
"So did you and Kevin sign up for IMLP?"
Actually, she doesn't call it IMLP or Ironman--it's simply referred to as "that race that you finish in the dark."
I tell her no, that we did not. She looks at me for a few moments.
"I understand. If your hobby causes you too much stress, then it just becomes work."
Ahhh...an enlightened triathlon insight. Thanks, Coach Mom.

Good Posture

I have the classic Boonvisudhi slouch: head and neck leans forward right where the neck sits on the torso. My dad, brother, aunts, and uncles all have it. So does this turkey vulture, but in a much exaggerated form.

I've been trying since high school to be more conscientious of it and stand up straight--it makes for better prom and senior pictures. I do pretty well--especially in front of cameras--but will slump back into my slouch when I'm tired.

At Masters last week, I subjected myself to a balls out set of 100's with barely 3 seconds of rest in between. At the end of the set, my friend Janelle looks at me sternly but sympathetically and says, "You need to keep your chin up. Your head position is really low in the water." Hmmm...I tell that it's a habit from a lesson taught long ago about "pushing the T". She then tells me that I should push the T from the top of my breastbone and NOT from my chin. Great point. Thanks, Janelle!

A few more 100's at zone 5 and I notice that my head position isn't about pushing T's but the return of my vulture slouch when I'm feeling fatigued. I straighten up, relax, and almost instantly swim faster with less effort.

I've been aware of this hanging my head posture while in aero on the tri bike. It sucks the energy out of my shoulders. I've made the straw on the aerodrink so high that if I slouch I get a straw stabbing in the face. This strategy has improved how I look in race photos (cuz that matters, doesn't it?), but I believe that it saves a few pennies of mental and physical energy for the run.

This weekend on a hilly trail run with Nathalie I noticed my hunching started when we'd reach the climbs. A small lift of the head---Voila! I was running more comfortably and efficiently.

Because my triathlon engine isn't a Ferrari and its horsepower is more accurately measured in how much energy a pony would generate nibbling on carrots, I'm all for being as efficient as possible. So my humble triathlon advise for today is to stand up straight.

True Love

The day after Longhorn 70.3 we went for one last dip in Barton Springs before leaving Texas. The cool water helped soothe our aching muscles; and the easy swim helped flush out the lactic acid. I was blessed with yet another cool bird sighting.

A snowy egret was wading along the bank stirring up fish with its bright yellow feet. I quietly swam closer to get a better look and it quickly let me now the limits of its personal space by giving me the hairy eyeball. When it felt secure that I wouldn't get any closer, it went back to its frantic foot-stirring forage. What a joy to watch this amazing creature! Kevin joined me. For someone who isn't a Bird Nerd like me, he was entranced with my Animal Planet moment. I told him about a book called "The Big Year". It told the true story of 3 birders who were competing for the most North American species of birds seen in one year---1998, in fact, the year that El Nino blew a bunch of birds off of their migratory paths to unusual places. In the book, all 3 birders made trips to Attu Island, the westernmost part of America--the last island of the Aleutian Islands, to see seabirds blown in from Mongolia. The winner of the competition logged in over 300 species in that one year. He spent most of the year traveling all over North America just to see some rare bird. When he saw it, he quickly checked it off his list and moved on to the next species to be seen. I said to Kevin that he didn't take time to watch these birds in their habitat being birds, that the birding was just a means of winning some competition, that he really didn't love them the way that I loved watching my friend the snowy egret that afternoon.

It got me to thinking about triathlon. I knew alot of people that seemed dedicated to triathlon (or golf or surgery or financial planning), were very successful at it, but didn't convince me that they really loved it. It's obvious that we all want to keep doing what we think we're good or even one of the best at doing. Who doesn't want a place on a podium, a gold medal, or a first place ribbon? My question is: Do we do these things because we like winning or because we like the actual activity? Is winning enough?

So I asked myself: Why do I persist with swimming when I'm barely clinging to average in my abilities to move myself through water? Because I've continued to improve every year since I've been in triathlon--so I guess that's like winning a personal victory. I enjoy being in water. What kid doesn't? In the very least, it gets me closer to fish and birds that I really love!

Why ride bikes? Why NOT? What's not to love about a bike ride? My Big Wheel (circa 1972) could conquer any puddle in Brooklyn the same way my mountain bike can leap over any rock or root in Ontario county.

Why run? Why NOT? What's not to love about being outside and running around with friends? It's a happiness deeply rooted in playing tag, Red Rover with childhood pals.

So maybe the real question is: Why train to swim, bike, run faster? It's obvious I love riding and running for the sake of each activity. So why don't I just ride and run? Why to do I RACE?There are very few opportunities for disappointment in just riding a bike or going out for a run without any measurement of pace/speed, distance, or time. There are plenty of opportunities for disappointment, disillusionment, and frustration in a triathlon: bad weather, bad nutrition, bad race execution, better/faster/thinner competitors. Certainly winning despite all those factors makes for a greater sense of accomplishment than just going out for an untimed splash in the water, a bike ride, and a jog without competition. I've also heard that we should race within overselves, that triathlon is an individual sport, that crossing the finish line is victory enough...But is it, really?!

Looking back on my performance in Austin, I felt that I executed my race plan perfectly and did the best I could with the training I had (what little of it) and the conditions of the race (hot). While I feel like I finally learned from all the mistakes I'd made with following a race plan, I am still disappointed with my results. As I mentioned in my race report, that is a result of poor management of expectations. The part of me that loves to travel and see new places on 2 wheels and 2 very hot and tired feet loved that race. The part of me that likes to win did not.

So do I have true love for triathlon? Yes, I do. I love the opportunity to indulge in this time-consuming and expensive hobby that taps into my childhood sense of playing outside with my pals. Even when I am disappointed with myself in a race, I still am grateful to be part of it. Of course, I love it even more when I win.

Climb Every Mountain

Two weeks into my off-season I'm happy to report that:

• The dog has replaced the Garmin as my running companion.


• I've rekindled the flames with my first velo love--my road bike (sans computer and powermeter).


• I found an old friend and made some new friends in the pool--they ALL swim faster than me.

Neglected household projects are getting done.

I'm catching up on sleep. Coach Mary believes that fitness is bankable. I believe that sleep is bankable. Though I think I would have to be in a coma for a couple years to catch up on all the sleep I missed during residency!

My off-season and retirement from general surgery came within the same week (which almost makes up for my malpractice trial ending 3 days before my A race this year). I came home from Austin and found myself with more free time than I'd had since I was a kid on summer vacation. I truly feel like the most wealthy person in the world because I have the things that I value the most: my health, my family, a happy home, and free time.

It's amazing how a little sleep, alot less stress, and the luxury of not rushing from one task to the next has changed my mindset. In planning the 2009 season, I've scheduled a hilly, tough HIM in May as a tune-up for Penticton. I've scouted out some hilly, long ride routes for Nathalie and me that will take us into the lowest elevations in the Finger Lakes so we can have long climbs up and out of them. Hilly trails and road routes are on the menu for the run training. I'm seriously considering ending the season with American Zofingen. Looks like the theme for next season is elevation gain! Now if you rewind to 4 weeks ago and presented this plan to me, I would have given you the hairy eyeball and said, "No f@*&!king way! I'm taking up quilting."

Seems like a couple of afternoon naps these last few days has got me thinking that I'm some invincible mountain goat! It's not that I think I'm gonna "go sub-9 at Kona"--unless that means running at least one mile of the marathon under 9 minutes. In fact, none of my goals so far have anything to do with results. Of course, I would like to increase my FTP, Vdot, 1000m swim time but for now I'm enjoying thinking of possibilities...The possibility of finding new races/venues right in my back yard (and finally getting to the dream race on the other side of the continent!), the possibility that I can climb on my bike/on my feet they way I did 15 years ago, the possibility that somewhere in me is an invincible mountain goat.

Surprises

Just when I think I've been there/done that, seen it all, yeah-whatever-ho-hum-yawn...something surprises me.

I've gone swimming in alot places: amazing blue waters of the Gulf of Siam, the Adaman Sea, and the Indian Ocean, the murky Monongahela River, countless waterways on my triathlon travels, and the dark, cold Puget Sound (which surprised me with bright purple starfishes). So as we pulled to the parking lot of Barton Springs in Austin, I was mildly curious but couldn't get too excited about what was advertised as "North America's largest natural swimming pool." This jaded traveler thought: How could a swimming pool in Texas compare to the coral reefs off the coast of Zanzibar?

The trees surrounding the pool are full of great-tailed grackles--large, irridescent blackbirds that sound like squeeky toys on amphetamines. In the Texas heat, I was happy to splash around in the cool water (68 degrees year around). The bottom of the "pool" is stone in large tiers with plant life. Kevin, Mary, Ken, and Kim are swimming in earnest as our race is only days away. I'm more or less looking at the aquatic life and fish spotting. Deep in the waters are pumpkinseeds, perch, and small bass avoiding the splashing of serious triathletes. I'm ready to sell my right arm for a snorkel! I float over a drop-off on the stone shelf where many of these fish are hiding. From my left side I see an avian denizen of the deep: a cormorant, head straight, wings tucked, webbed feet with a beautifully efficient breast stroke kick swims about 4 feet under me. He swims quickly across the bottom to my far right and disappears into the darker depths searching for a fishy lunch.

I'm stunned, unable to take my eyes off it and completely awash in wonderment. In all the exotic aquatic places I've ever been, I'd never had a BIRD swim under me! I came up for air and had to tell someone about it. Kevin was the first audience member of "Omigod! A cormorant just swam right under me!!" I felt like a kid who opened up the present on Christmas morning and found her first bike.

So blessed be Austin, TX where I saw one of the coolest things ever and continue to await more surprises.

Longhorn Race Report

I had stated that my goal for this race was to run the hardest last 5K of my life. However, the weather forecast called for 89 degrees; and the night before the race I made my #1 race day priority to not get heat exhaustion/heat stroke. The difference between heat exhaustion and heat stroke is (among other things) about an 80% mortality rate for the latter. I think I pushed heat exhaustion just about up to the heat stroke line at Eagleman by having mental status changes. Also, once you have heat stroke you are more susceptable to it in the future. I looked upon all these facts emotionlessly and came up with a plan to pour an entire water bottle on my head (no brain-baking aero helmet!) at every aid station and back off watts and pace by 25% if I began to feel overheated.

"Masters must be paying off!"
The water temp was 78 degrees--the same as the Nazareth pool where I swim. I planned on no wetsuit so as to not overheat. I also mentally prepared myself to have a slow swim without the wetsuit and not get completely locked into making up that time on the bike. The water was calm and lovely. I started on the outside and in the front, aiming straight for the first turn buoy. For just about most of the swim, I had someone to draft and happily settled into a rhythm that required me to exert slightly more than a casual pace. Upon exiting the water, I looked down at my watch and saw 34 minutes. No freaking way! I couldn't have missed a buoy because I was surrounded by my fellow age groupers. Did my entire swim wave miss a buoy?
No wetsuit means no wetsuit to wrestle off. How nice to not have to do reenact that WWF match of Hulk Hogan vs. Andre the Giant with my wetsuit in transition.

Triathletes on tri bikes = bad cornering
The bike course wound through the rolling hills of east Texas. The sky was mercifully overcast; and the pavement had only a few bumps thoughtfully marked in bright yellow by the race organizers. The first aid station had a lingerie theme as I almost rode my bike off course trying to grab a water bottle from a well-endowed volunteer in black lace negligee. I took it easy for the first 25 minutes and rode within my planned watts, feeling like I was holding back the entire ride. I took all my calories and salt on schedule, peed at mile 30, and waited for Kevin to pass me (his wave was 12 minutes behind mine). The aid stations themes were 70's aerobics class, cowboys, disco which made for great entertainment every 12 miles.
About every 20 minutes, a peloton of 20-40 guys in the 30-34, 35-40 age group would ride through either in a double pace line or 4 abreast. I take the whole drafting rule seriously even though I've never been in contention for a Kona spot or age group win---there's simply no victory in cheating. However, being surrounded by the packs of riders there was nowhere to go to avoid the drafting. Even slowing down to fall back was not an option as I was completely surrounded. The only way to not draft would have been to be riding my mountain bike off the pavement. At mile 40, my CO2 cartridge fell off and hit the magnet for my bike computer. With every revolution of my rear wheel, there was a ping! of the magnet hitting the sensor on the chainstay. I didn't want to stop and fix it with only 16 miles to go; and the annoying pingpingping! made the drafting packs ride faster away from me.
The course had a few sharp turns. I seemed to find myself going through most of them with nervous cyclists riding the brakes through the entire corner. The unnecessary loss of free speed was frustrating, but the potential for eating pavement seemed quite high. I was grateful for my mountain bike rides on twisty technical trails and cornering in loose dirt and gravel and vowed to do more of it during the off-season.
I finished my 700 Calories by mile 40 and felt hungry at mile 47. I grabbed a Gatorade Endurance at the last aid station thereby missing out on the water to pour over my head. There was a bit of a head wind for the last half of the ride and I was beginning to feel warm. However, I was holding my watts without a problem.

Focused suffering
For the first 4 miles of the run, my legs were leaden, my gut queasy, and my head swimming. I figured I would feel this way because it's been my routine for the last 4 HIM. I knew I would have to walk every aid station (quickly walk!) in order to pour cups of water, wring sponges and wet towels over my head, and drink. I accepted that it would slow me down, but was essential to ward off the heat stroke demons. There were 8 aid stations for each loop--16 total, each well stocked with wonderful volunteers. Keith Jordan really organized this race perfectly for the conditions.
Between the aid stations were bands: a rock band, a high school marching band that played "Ironman" with an off key trumpet and trombone section (I had never heard Black Sabbath in marching band form before!), a troupe of xylophonists, a man playing his guitar and harmonica at the same time. Following suit, the run course aid stations were themed as well. The most memorable one was the Superheroes at the bottom of the Quadzilla climb. Batman was in full black cape, tights, utility belt, and heavy black leather gloves.
Part of the run course went through uneven grassy trails with rolling hills and the infamous Quadzilla climb which was dotted with signs that read: Red meat isn't bad for you. Green, fuzzy meat is bad for you. The heat was constant on pavement and on trail--there really wasn't any shade at all. I basically clawed my way from aid station to aid station, clinging to the hope of cold, wet sponges. I felt really hungry twice on the run, took a gel with water each time, and felt bloated until the next aid station. I really wanted to eat something solid but knew I wasn't emptying my stomach because I was belching loudly--like Barney from the Simpsons--every 5-10 minutes. I think I was really at my physical limit to run, keep cool, and process calories. A few really fresh looking runners passed me and before I could curse my lack of acclimatization I realized that they were on relay teams. On the second climb of Quadzilla, one of those runners said to me, "Pain is weakness leaving your body." I let out the mother of all belches and said, "Burping is gas leaving my stomach."
At mile 10 I said,"Kitima, it's time to start hurting yourself." I stopped looking at my Garmin and pushed my effort until I could feel myself overheating. I knew I was going slow as I was on the grassy trail part and the last 0.6 miles was a cruel uphill to the finish line. I crossed the finish close to barfing and a bit dizzy, but conscious enough to ask for 2 race towels (I covet race towels).
Overall, I'm happy with my effort. My results are a bit disappointing but consistent with my inconsistent training this season--so it's really an issue of having realistic expectations. I have 4 weeks of off-season to process and learn from this season and make plans for the next. The race organization and the enthusiasm of the volunteers was one of the best I've ever experienced.

Tiny Particles

5 days ago I woke up with worse than normal nasal congestion and a sore throat. I typically wake up with sniffles that resolve by 10am. I figured it was some kind of allergy, but wasn't going to see an allergist. Quoth the pig-headed surgeon,"Why see an allergist? What have they to offer me after a battery of horrible tests that involved needles under my skin? Antihistamines or shots...I don't want shots; and I didn't need to go to medical school to figure out how to take antihistamines!"

This summer the morning sniffles became an all day nose blowing fest sponsored by Kleenex and a few nights of complete nasal congestion had me running to Afrin for relief (and I HATE sticking anything up my nose). A few of my Wound Clinic patients have stopped asking me if I was sick and comment weekly,"Will you EVER stop having a runny nose, doctor? Maybe you should see an allergist..."

Long story getting longer: those symptoms 5 days ago have increased in a 1000-fold magnitude. I'd never been so congested in my life. The mouth breathing/ suffocating goldfish routine was relieved by just one thing: Afrin. I did the BIG NO-NO and used 4 doses in a row---now I had it: Rhinitis medicamentosa. Rebound nasal swelling from overuse of intranasal vasoconstrictive medications. I was a stinking Afrin addict. I'd seen patients with it during medical school and remember thinking, "How could you get addicted to something that required sticking it up your nose?! EEUUW!" Let me tell you how: When you feel like your head is going to explode from all the edema in your nasal passages, when you want to drive to the ER and call ahead for a tracheostomy tray, when you're contemplating being sedated and intubated until it all passes over...and the only thing that allows you to get enough oxygen so you can stop thinking those thoughts is that nasty little bottle of magical nasal mucosa shrinking elixir---that's how you become addicted.

For the last 3 days, I've ingested, inhaled, and snorted every antihistamine known to medical science. I broke down and used ONE drop of Afrin in only ONE nostril last night just so I could breathe enough to sleep. I'm planning on riding for one hour today. Kevin doesn't think I should ride outside because I've been so dopey on these drugs. My dad tells me to not operate or make ANY clinical decisions while on these drugs. Lovely.

It's maddening that some tiny particles: allergens? viruses? have completely shelled me. So what does this have to do with triathlon beside being a long-winded excuse for not training for the last 5 days? It has to do with being humble enough to be honest with oneself.

Growing up with a pediatrician dad and a pharmacist mom, I didn't take many sick days from school. First all, faking it was nearly impossible. Secondly, if I did take a sick day and stay at home, Mom would make me do housework (so it was actually better to just suck it up and go to school sick). Being sick and God forbid! taking a sick day meant being frail, weak, and bordering on lazy. As a surgery residents, we'd all get i.v. fluids when we were "sick" just so we could keep working. A sick day was "a sign of weakness"--that horrible wickedness no surgeon wanted to have.

So if I'd just faced the reality that I have seasonal allergies that require some consistent dosing of antihistamines or steroid inhalants, I may not have had to dig myself out of an Afrin addiction. Where's the weakness in taking a Claritin once a day? I hate taking pills and hate even more being sick (which means having to take pills). My body's reaction to the tiny particles is an immunological hiccup, not a character flaw or a moral depravity for crying out loud! So I have allergies...some people have cancer. Neither affliction is a sign of weakness. Get over yourself, Boon!

My dad assures me that in time my immune system will become desensitized to whatever allergen is giving me these symptoms. Good! Now I can skip that visit to the allergist!

My Inner Bitch

Many people say that an Ironman or any endurance race will show you what you're made of and/or who you really are. Today, I ran the Rochester Half Marathon and unroofed a part of myself I was surprised to find.

I signed up for the race mostly because I was sick of doing my long runs with a Fuel Belt loaded down with Gatorade Endurance and water and carrying gels in my sports bra. I figured the $50 entry fee was worth paying just for the aid stations. Besides, I had not run an open 1/2M in 6 years and wondered how I'd do on relatively fresh legs. The plan was to take it easy for the first 15 minutes then try to keep M-pace for the rest of the run.

I showed up at the Start Line carrying only my car keys. I made the wrong assumption (and you know what happens when you assume!) that each aid station would be the sumptuous buffet present at all the Mdot races' aids stations. The first 5 aids stations had only water. The only aid station with gels was the one at Mile 6. The rest of them had only water and what tasted like diluted Powerade. Can you see I'm setting you up for a tale of calorie and more importantly, salt intake woes?

By the 2nd aid station (right around the time when I'd like to take a gel), I'm getting the idea that this may be a race free of nutritional support. I do the Richard Strauss OODA loop thing (Orient oneself to the problem, Observe, Decide, Act). I am to be an emotionless decision making machine. So I figure the run is just a couple of hours; I had a big breakfast and a gel before the start--I should be just fine. How's that for OODA? Maybe the D is for Denial in my case today.

Just as I start to increase to M-pace, a female runner in a blue shirt runs right behind my left shoulder. A quick glance over to her and I notice that she's wearing make-up. The emotionless decision making running machine immediately thinks,"I'm not gonna let some bimbo wearing make-up pass me in this race." So I pick up the pace and lose her on a slight uphill (the course was quite flat). At that moment, I decided I'd set a time goal of breaking 2 hours. "Yeah, that'll show that make-up wearing girl what's up!" I thought.

Now, I'm not sure why I found make-up at a 1/2 marathon so unconscionable. Maybe it's my deep-seated resentment of the stuck-up popular girls in high school--who invariably always wore make-up (even at a 1/2 marathon?). Who knows? It was completely illogical, but that painted woman would show up hovering around my left shoulder for the rest of the race pushing me to pay attention to maintaining my pace.

By mile 10, my plans to kick into tempo pace--"NO!" said my ego, "Your balls out 5K pace!"--had seized up like my left calf and muscles on the bottom of my left foot. I really needed some salt and the "A" of OODA was kicking my own Ass for not bringing salt tablets. The day turned out to be warm and humid. I sweat like Shaquille O'Neal in volume and like a salt lick in sodium content. Every left footfall brought on excruciating pain. I had slowed to my E-pace though I had plenty of cardiovascular reserve to run at least tempo pace.

About 500 yards from the finish line, a female runner passes me that I recognize. It's Kitty Cantwell! I've met her in and outside of work at least 8 times in the last 5 years, but everytime she sees me she acts like she has no idea who I am. In fact, she's just sometimes downright unfriendly. I say to myself, "I don't care if you cripple yourself. You are NOT going to let f@*king Kitty Cantwell beat you!" So I pick up the pace and run by her. The pain in my left leg, foot, and now my right hamstring is blinding. But I beat her. HAHA.

Aside from learning that I should bring my own salt tablets on a hot and humid run. I also learned that I've got a mean-spirited, catty side. It's not that I've considered myself utterly sweet and always thinking of others with compassion and love in a Dalai Lama sort of way. I just don't get to look at that side of myself in a full frontal way very often.

After the race, Make-up girl came up to me and congratulated me on finishing. She told me that this was her first 1/2 marathon and that having me run along side her really helped push her along. She was so nice---I felt bad for thinking unkind thoughts about her. Maybe she just wanted to look nice for her first 1/2 mary. Maybe Kitty Cantwell just has a memory block with asian female surgeons. I'm still glad I beat her though. MEOW!

A Swimming Milestone

I dragged my sorry carcass to Masters last night with legs completely hosed. Wednesday night I had run my little tush off for my fastest run test to date. The next day consisted of a work day that ended later than anticipated, a hurried endurance ride on stiff quads, and eating dinner (a Kashi bar) in the car on the way to swimming.

My new habit for swimming is to not look at the entire workout before getting in pool, but go from one line of each set to the next. When I preview any workout, there's the inevitable "*Sigh* Pull sets, again!" or "Aw, man! Not IM. Ugh..." or "Pffftt! I'm not swimming more than 100 yards in a row."

I guess the only pool workout that wouldn't elicit that kind of reaction from me would go like this:

Warm-up: Cannonball of the 1m diving board x3, rest 2 min in between while eating a cupcake

Main set: 15 min game of Marco Polo

Underwater handstand x 5 in deep end, rest 2 min with cupcake

Doggy paddle 25 x 4, concentrate on emulating family canine pet

Cool down: 100 easy with foam noodle thingy

Splash water at Kevin liberally

Last night's workout looked nothing like the above. It went more like: drill, pull, kick, swim, swim hard, pull, kick, drill, repeat x 10,000. The finale was a timed 200 IM. By then, I was hungry enough to chew off my arm and figured the sooner I got this done the sooner I could start snacking on my fingers. Now to all you fishies out there, 200 IM may be a mere sneeze. However, to me, it's an anaerobic flail-n-looks-like-she's-drowning effort. In fact, until last night I'd never completed a 200 IM without having to stop either after aspirating half of the pool's water during backstroke or moving backwards doing the breaststroke or making the life guard nervous with my butterfly. I can't say I felt great when I finally made it to the freestyle part but I wasn't completely seized up with lactic acid in my usual fashion. I had done it: 200 IM without stopping or dying of hypoxia.

I was so proud of myself I added a couple of underwater flips to my warm down.