Duathlon: Twice As Nice!

First a runner, then a marathoner. Now a duathlete.

Even though I've lived every single moment, step and pedal-push of those descriptions, it still seems weird to think of myself as any of those. It must be someone else, right? I mean, people who do those kind of things are athletic, trained and focused.

I'm just me.

But now this ever-changing version me includes the title of duathlete (if there is such a word), successfully completing a run-bike-run challenge as part of the Black Bear Duathlon in Waterville Valley on Sunday.

To say that I was nervous about this challenge would be an understatement. I barely feel like a runner sometimes. I most certainly don't feel like I have what it takes to take on a cycling event - not to mention adding those two sports together into one race.

I was nearly terrified of the transitions, especially since I never practiced them or even thought about what to do to pull them off successfully. I was daunted by Mountain Road and just crossed my fingers that I'd make it to the top. I was even more worried about the downhill.

And the second 5K? I didn't even want to think about it.

But, now that I've crossed the finish line -- three times, sorta, if you count the two 5K's and the 30K cycling portion -- I can confidently say that I enjoyed this race just as much, if not more, than any running event I've ever done.

As a bonus, it wasn't just a fun and enjoyable event, I actually performed quite well. (Quite well when compared to the very small field of competitors on Sunday, at least.) In fact, amazingly, I somehow happened to bring in the top finishing time for my age group. (Yes, really!)

Let's see if I can recap - and I apologize for the
lengthy description in advance.

WHAT'S REQUIRED
The weekend started with a bit of a reconnaissance mission (with packet pick-up mixed in) the day before as TC and I made our way to Waterville Valley.

We'd been there before for the Duathlon Dry Run - and thankfully it wasn't nearly as hot as the test drive we took on the course a few weeks earlier.

We surveyed the transition area, finding the entrances and exits we'd be taking at the various stages of the race. This duathlon would have us run a 5K, starting on the road and ending through a chute that brought us to the transition area.

The transition area, a fenced in space in a grassy field, held all of the racks where are bikes and riding equipment (helmets, shoes, gloves, etc.) would be waiting for us. Once we made the switch from runner to cyclists, we'd have to run (or carry) our bikes out a separate chute, mount the bike at the designated spot and head out for a 30K ride, or 18.6 miles.

The route would loop back, sending us through the same chute, where we'd dismount and run our bikes back to our assigned spot, remove the cycling gear and make a quick change back into running shoes before heading out another specified chute for the second 5K.

Thankfully, everything was well marked and it was a small race - taking some of the pressure I'd been mentally putting on myself. I had had visions of me wandering around the transition area looking for my bike - or even leaving for the second 5K while still wearing my bike helmet. It could happen!

HOW'S IT FEEL?
The 5K went off without a hitch, despite the fact that I almost never run 5Ks. I was focused on holding myself back a bit, reminding myself that I had a 30K bike ride and another 5K still ahead of me. And no rest til the finish line.

I ended up chatting with a couple of women who were running my pace (about an 8:50, which I was very pleased with, especially considering I didn't feel like I was exerting myself much).

We lost each other as we entered the transition area. One woman, a personal trainer from a nearby city, flew threw the transition - literally picking up and carrying her bike to the designated exit as I was still changing my shoes.

I jumped on my bike just as TC was rounding the first bike loop. I was glad to see him healthy and smiling because I had a bit of worry about some nagging paid he'd been having in his knee. He called out some encouraging words and off we went in our separate ways. (I was still several minutes behind him at this point - and I knew the gap would only widen once we got to the bike portion. He would blow me away. Easily.)

I really had no idea what to expect from the bike portion. TC is the other person I've ever ridden with - and he's miles ahead (sometimes literally) of me in cycling ability. I admit that I've sometimes been discouraged that I couldn't keep up or tackle hills like he does. That, coupled with the fact that I'm still a newbie, put plenty of doubts in my ability for the cycle portion of Sunday's race.

Within the first mile (or less), I found myself passing four other cyclists. Yes, really? I realized, as I clicked along at 17 mph or so, that I was going to catch them - and it suddenly dawned on me that I'd never caught any cyclist on the road and I'd never had to pass anyone. I wasn't even sure how to pass another cyclist.

Not to worry, though, I've gotten passed by some on the road, so I just did what they did - and pulled along the left side of them long enough to overtake, then quickly returned to the race lane.

I was feeling great - a wave of confidence came over me. Hey, I'm not struggling out here. I don't look out of place. And I'm actually passing people!

I made the turn onto Tripoli Road, which would carry us to Mountain Road. I was scared of Mountain Road, despite the fact that I'd done it once before. It was not easy. At all. It was called Mountain Road for a reason.

The trek up the mountain was a struggle, but not as hard as I remembered. (I think riding Vermont hills helped my training - at least mentally if not physically!) I quickly passed another cyclist. Up ahead, I spotted two female cyclists, one in pink and another in blue. As I chugged steadily along, they were getting closer. Or, more accurately, I was getting closer.

I might actually chase them down, I thought. I quickly rephrased. I will chase them down.

I then focused on pushing a little harder. The gap got smaller and smaller until finally, I passed one. Then the other. "Nice riding," one said as I passed. "You too," I replied. Inside, I was totally cheering. Another big wave of confidence came over me.

Without using the Granny Gear or even getting through all of the gears on my middle ring, I got to the last, extremely steep pitch before the top - passed one more rider - then clicked into my big gear for the ride down.

FIGHTING A DOWNHILL BATTLE
Whatever confidence I may have built up during the ride up the mountain, quickly turned to frustration as I realized just how bad I am at riding downhills - especially after my freak-out in Vermont when I actually walked my bike down a hill. (I still can't believe my confidence was shaken so much that I walked down a hill I'd managed to get up.)

On Mountain Road on race day, my hands were clenched on the brakes. I felt uneasy and scared. (I need to get over that and use downhills as a reward for the hard work to get to the top!) Even firmly on my brakes, I still clicked above 20 mph on the way down. I should mention that the lead riders were absolutely flying down the hill, seemingly fear-free and effortlessly.

Soon, one of the riders I passed on the way up flew by me on the down hill. And another. And another. Seriously.

All the hard work and effort I'd put in to pass them on the climb up was unraveling before my eyes. I was determined that I was not going to finish behind these ladies just because I'm a scaredy cat on the downhills. I'd catch them at the bottom.

And I did. One by one. I easily overtook two of them at the road flattened out after the turn onto the main road. The last one hung on for a while, but with me averaging speeds in the low 20 mphs, I caught her soon enough.

Another wave of confidence. The three scariest parts - up the mountain, down the mountain and the transition - were behind me.

SECOND RUN
I ended the bike leg in 1 hours, 11 minutes. I felt great about that. TC predicted I'd complete it in about 1:15 if I was doing well. I mentally gave myself an hour and a half. I'd blown that out of the water.

Then on to the second run. I can sum it up in three words. Oh. My. God.

My legs felt weird and heavy. I felt uncoordinated. And slow.

I'd only practiced the bike-run transition once (twice, if you count a gym workout I did the day after I signed up for the duathlon) and quickly realized that I wish I'd had more practice. The encouraging thing was that everyone else seemed to be struggling too. I heard moans and groans as I passed a couple of runners. Yes, I actually passed people on this weird, wonky run.

According to my watch (and my math skills -- the "mile markers" were actually kilometers, which added a whole new level to running math), I'd be lucky to clock a 30-minute 5K. I rounded the corner with about a mile (maybe?) to go and saw TC standing in the road.

He was all smiles and cheers. He'd finished about 20 minutes or so before me (he rocks, doesn't he?!) and came out to run the final mile with me. (Although we agreed he'd turn off before the actual finish so I could cross the line solo.)

My final time was 2:12 - which left me more than pleased. I'd set a goal of 2:30, not really knowing what to expect on my first time out.

WHAT'S NEXT
Let's just say that I was checking the web via my iPhone on the way home - about 15 minutes after we packed up the car to head home after Sunday's duathlon - to find upcoming duathlons in the area. So I'd say the chances are pretty good there's another duathlon in my future.

As I posted on Facebook on the ride home, I think duathlons might be my thing -- a great way to combine two things I love. Three, if you count TC.

Seein' Orange

I've spruced up my bike a bit. Added some orange handlebar tape, orange tires and orange cages. Pretty sassy! Now if only my bike riding ability would catch up to the way my bike looks....

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Duathlon Dry Run

I made it to the top.

TC snapped this photo at the top of Mountain Road, just at the base of Mt. Tecumseh - probably the most challenging part of our upcoming duathlon. At the very least, it was the most daunting.

It probably goes without saying that a duathlon course that includes phrases like "challenging climb" and "Mountain Road" was surely going to put me to the test. The elevation profile made my stomach do flip-flops.

Of course, I decided to read the site more thoroughly and discovered all of this important information after we signed up. That's probably a good thing.

I'm not sure, had I done my research earlier, that I would have signed up. Maybe it would be too much of a challenge? Maybe I'm not ready for this? But with my registration fee paid and a number waiting for me at the starting line, there wasn't any backing out.

TC and I set aside today for the trip up to Waterville Valley - yes, folks, as in the ski area. Skiing equals mountains, right? (I don't know how that got past me when I sent the link to TC a couple of months ago and asked if he wanted to do the duathlon with me.)

We opted for the "short" course, which meant we'd do a 5K run, followed by a 30K ride (18.6 miles), followed by another 5K run. Yes, that's the short version.

New England weather is funny. Not ha-ha funny, just weird funny. It was literally snowing here four days ago. Today, temps skyrocketed in the 90s. A hot day for a run - especially one followed by a 18-mile bike ride up a mountain and a second 5K.

We drove the course first, taking mental notes of the turns and (more importantly) the hills. By mental note, I mean that my legs, lungs and brain were screaming things at me - things like, "What are you nuts?!" and "Look at that mountain road!" and, mostly from my legs, "You seriously think we can get you up there?!?"

To say that I was doubtful and apprehensive would be putting it mildly.

I started making back-up plans for the probable scenario that would bring me through all of my gears to a point that it would be difficult for me to remain upright. I thought about where I could safely unclip and, sigh, walk up the rest of the hill. It would be a long, long walk.

The first 5K was relatively uneventful, except for the blazing hot sun that pelted us. I was glad when the route took a turn onto a dirt path along a brook. (Actually, I felt like jumping in the brook at that point.) It was h-o-t.

We continued back to the car where our bikes were waiting for us. We downed some water and Gatorade, geared up with helmets, gloves and shoes and headed out.

Next stop, mountain top.

I glanced at the thermometer on my bike computer as we made the first turn. It read 97 degrees. Oh. My. God. I chalked it up to the fact that my bike had been sitting in the sun and enjoyed the refreshing breeze that being on a bike creates. (As a side note, the bike thermometer never dipped below 87 - just backing up what I already knew. It was hot.)

We started the slow climb up Tripoli Road, nothing overwhelming but certainly a good push for the legs and cardio. Then came Mountain Road - the steepest and most daunting part of the drive and elevation map.

I found my "groove" - a slow, but comfortable pace - and just started cranking. Conscious of the amount of road left and the incline ahead of me, I shifted cautiously and conservatively. Surprisingly, I continued to propel forward. I watched my speedometer remain steady. (Pegged at a single-digit number, but at least steady and moving me up the hill.)

I felt an inexplicable sense of relief and a wave of confidence come over me. I might actually make it up this thing without walking.

I saw a sign up ahead - a red circle with a "9" in the center. It had been my first back-up plan if I needed a break. And I breezed by it. (Okay, "breezed" might be a bit generous, but I trudged by it without needing it as a breaking point. That was a victory.)

Chugging along, I saw the sign for the final turn - the steepest part of the hill - that would bring me to the turn-around point. TC was waiting for me and I pushed forward to the top - never once backing down into my Granny Gear!

Whoo-hoo! Whoo-freaking-hoo!

I'd done it. Sure, I still had another 16-plus miles ahead and another 5K to run, but I'd made it through what was sure to be my most physical and mental challenge. (We stopped at the top to snap the photo - and despite the fact that it looks like TC's bike in the background is part of a tragic crash, he also arrived safely at the summit.)

The stop was brief - and we tackled the downhill. I must say, I was almost unprepared for how fast and scary the downhill would be. I found myself on my brakes for most of the first part of the descent. At times, I felt as if I had a death-grip on my handlebars, and if it's possible to hold on tighter with cycling shoes, on my pedals, too.

TC and I spent the next 7 miles riding together, sometimes side-by-side, sometimes practicing drafting and trading off the lead position. The heat was still there, but much more bearable on the bike. It probably helped, too, that the entire 7 miles was downhill. (I kept reminding myself that we'd take this same road back to the car, so we'd be tacking a long incline on the way back. A long, long incline.)

That incline ended up not being as bad as it seemed, another exercise in just finding a gear and speed and pushing the pedals. The last two bumps - a couple of rolling hills - were harder than I thought they'd be - probably because they came after 6 or so miles of riding uphill. And I had been almost out of water for a while.

I struggled through them - almost as much as I did going up Mountain Road - and made the turn to the car. I was exhausted and hot. And thirsty. Oh, and I had another 5K to run.

We did all the necessary transition stuff - switching shoes, etc. - and downed some more water. I couldn't keep up with my thirst. My face and arms already felt gritty and my skin felt really hot. The sun had been beating down on my winter-white arms for almost two hours by now.

The second 5K started off as expected - with legs feeling like bricks. But unexpectedly, I just didn't feel right. I stopped to walk. I mustered up enough to run a bit again, then walk. I questioned how I'd make it the rest of the way.

Truth is, I didn't make it the rest of the way. Reluctantly, I gave in to Mother Nature's scorching sunshine and asked TC if we could cut the run short. (More accurately, I told him I couldn't make it the whole way and had a tearful breakdown upon realizing that I wouldn't complete this challenge. We hugged in the middle of the road while I pulled myself together and we ran out the shortened course along a trail.)

Despite the shortened run, I still see today as a huge check mark in the "win" column. It was exactly the confidence builder I needed. I'd conquered my fear of Mountain Road and made it unscathed through the cycling portion - and done it all in extremely hot conditions.

Now, if Mother Nature can just find some middle ground between the snow and today's heat, I'll be good to go in a few weeks. Fingers crossed!

Runnin' On Empty

You can have people tell you something a million times. But until you actually experience it, it might not mean much to you. I guess that just proves that some lessons are best learned the hard way.

Case in point - my Tuesday night run.

I was anxious to get back on the streets after taking a full week (and one day) - gasp! - away from running, too busy with packing and moving details to find the time. Plus, my body felt a bit worn out - sore in places I don't usually feel - from hauling boxes and other heavy-lifting that had consumed the past week.

Tuesday was a perfect night - warm enough for shorts, but just breezy and cool enough for a long-sleeved tech shirt. My ideal running weather.

Despite only moving roughly two miles from my old place, the new starting point forced me to completely re-think my routes. I didn't have my "usuals" - my go-to 4-miler or 6-miler. Or the 8-miler for when I wanted a longer run.

Luckily, I'm pretty familiar with the city, so I was able to mentally plan where I wanted to go from my new digs - about six miles (at least I thought it was about six miles) around familiar streets that I've run with my team or as part of marathon training.

I was feeling ambitious - perhaps mixed with a twinge of guilt for taking so many consecutive days off - so I included the Webster Street Hill. Yes, the same one I semi-complain about for being part of our weekly team runs. (Internally, I know it makes me a better runner and is tremendous training, but that doesn't change the fact that it's still really hard.)

My run started less-than-perfect. My shins were aching for the first couple of miles, something I hadn't really experienced before. I stopped and stretched a bit and felt good enough to continue on. I chalked this new pain up to my many days off, lack of pre-run stretching and maybe a touch of running too fast. (I didn't know where the mile "markers" were, so I really had a hard time gauging how fast I was running.)

Two miles in, I loosened up and felt great. I even tackled the Webster Street hill with less effort than usual. (I almost wrote "effortlessly" but that would surely be an exaggeration!) I returned home energized and happy to have gotten in a good evening run. Another six miles on the books.

I posted my run to Daily Mile, noting that I felt good. And it was great to back.

Then it happened.

It started with the slight feeling of weakness and queasiness. My mind immediately focused on hydration. I knew I hadn't had much to drink during the day (only one large bottle of water) and had nothing before or during my run. I grabbed a bottle of orange Powerade Zero from the fridge and started sipping.

Minutes later, I decided to jump in the shower to clean up for dinner. By the end of my shower, my stomach was doing flip-flops and, at times, tightened and cramped.

I actually sat down briefly in the shower, hoping it would pass. It didn't. Once showered, I dressed in flannel pajama pants and a hooded sweatshirt. I was freezing - even though it surely wasn't cold. At all.

Not wanting to submit to this ill feeling (and partially wanting to pull my weight around the new place), I told TC I'd help him make dinner. That plan didn't last long. Just a few minutes in, I told him he'd have to take over while I made an emergency trip to the bathroom. Not to get too specific (trust me, I'm leaving out most of the details), I eventually vomited - nothing but liquid. Orange Powerade, to be exact. (Hmm, I wonder if I'll have to cross that off my grocery list in the future?)

I felt slightly better, but not great. I curled up in the fetal position on the couch, waiting for the feeling to pass. I knew I needed to eat something.

I'd had a bowl of cereal for breakfast and a bagel with cream cheese for lunch. My hydration for the day consisted of a cup of coffee and the aforementioned large bottle of water. My post-work run was planned before dinner, so there was a good chance my tank was simply empty.

I managed to eat a small bowl of chili - yes, let's go for chili when I'm not feeling well! - and it helped. Although I wasn't back to my normal self, I felt better. At least the nausea and weakness seemed to subside a bit.

I've been told about the importance of fueling and nutrition, but I had never experienced the fall-out of not doing so - at least not to this extreme. I've been lucky to avoid the consequences of not properly fueling, especially given my tendency to skip meals entirely. Not to worry, I'm working on that - and working on planning healthy smaller meals or pre-run snacks.

The whole experience, while somewhat unpleasant, was a good reminder that food isn't just for enjoying. It's also fuel - and just as important as the right running shoes, a well-planned route or any of the other steps I take to help me achieve my running goals.

The next morning - when I was feeling much better - I mapped my run online and discovered I'd done 7.18 miles at a 9:10 pace - a strong run for me.

But apparently a little too much on an empty tank.

Marathon Monday

There's something utterly inspiring, and humbling about being on the sidelines of the Boston Marathon.

Perhaps that's why, with every trip, I get a little closer to joining the race.

Mentally, at least.

Two years ago, I watched live television coverage of marathoners crossing the finish line. I remember being so moved and impressed. I had just finished my first half marathon a few months earlier. I couldn't imagine doubling that distance.

Yet, somehow I think the seed was planted.

The following year, that seed sprouted a little more when TC and I took a day off from work and watched the marathon in person.

I remember trying to take in as much as possible - the excitement of the crowd when the elite runners made the turn, the complete elation (or grimaces of pain and heartache) on the looks of runners faces as they made the final turn, the costumes, the signs - far too many sights and sounds to recap and describe.

I came away from the 2009 Boston Marathon thoroughly inspired and ready to tackle my own 26.2 in Manchester.

I never really thought about whether I'd want to run another marathon after finishing Manchester in the fall. Part of me wanted to file a marathon in the "checked off" pile of life's goals. Another, probably bigger, part of me is almost afraid to do another, mostly because my Manchester experience was so positive - with friends and family at points along the route, my training buddy running every step of the way and TC acting as my cycling Sherpa to take care of anything I needed. Part of me knows I can't duplicate that experience.

Then there's the part of me that can't stay away.

There's something impressive about watching a marathon - whether you've done one for not - and I didn't want to miss the opportunity to stand on the sidelines of the world's biggest and most prestigious 26.2.

However, this year's marathon weekend fell on what may have been one of the busiest for me and TC. We officially moved into our new place (which I love, by the way) on Saturday, so along with the usual packing and loading that goes along with that, TC had ambitious (yet apparently achievable) plans to completely unpack and organize the new place.

I took Friday and Monday off from work to give me some extra time to deal with moving must-do's. Inside, however, I thought of Monday as my carrot - a reward waiting for me at the end of a busy weekend. If we got "enough" done, we'd "let" ourselves go to the Boston Marathon.

Things were looking hopeful when, just 24 hours after we loaded the moving truck, we didn't have a single box left to unpack. Everything had a place, and to some it may have looked like we had been in the apartment for months.

We still had a short to-do list - things like hook up the DVD player, hang a cabinet in the bathroom and minor tasks like that, stuff that could generally wait a few hours until we returned home from the city.

The weather forecast was perfect for the marathon, a far cry from the raw, rainy weather we'd had over the weekend. TC and I made plans to get to our "usual" spectating spot (if you can have a "usual" after just one visit) - precisely at the corner of Hereford and Boylston, the last turn runners would take in their 26.2-mile journey.

Now Boston Marathon veterans (at least when it came to being on the sidelines), TC and I casually made our way via the subway to a stop near the Finish Line. We grabbed a bite to eat, then found a spot amid the 500,000 other spectators on the sidelines. (The 500,000 figure is not an exaggeration.)

We expectantly glanced down the road waiting for the elite runners to make the turn. We saw the motorcade pull off and the lead vehicles - a pick-up filled with photographers and a truck with the giant digital timer affixed to its roof.

A wave of cheers came from the crowd, which seemed to lurch forward as the runners whizzed by. First the elite women (they got an early start), then the elite men. Their athleticism was impressive and almost seemed un-human. They ran with what looked to be little effort, pulling in paces faster than I could run at a full-on sprint - even if someone where chasing me with a knife. And they had just done that for 26 miles.

Then, we saw what I like to call the "fast but real" runners - not the ones that are going to win the marathon, but ones that are still amazingly fast and fit. Then, the "like me" runners - the ones that came every age, shape and size, each one running for a different reason.

Some were smiling. Others were struggling. Some rallied the crowd as they rounded the turn. The people on the sidelines happily obliged - ringing cowbells, whistling, cheering and calling runners by name.

It was less than a half-mile to the Finish Line from that point. They had already made it. I've been told, appropriately, that a marathon is just the celebration and culmination of the months of hard work that leads up to the race. The hard part - the early mornings, aches and pains, long miles - is mostly over.

I couldn't help but recall the feeling I had when I crossed the Finish Line last fall. It was an indescribable sense of accomplishment and pride. It was probably - actually, undoubtedly - the most self-empowering feeling I can imagine.

After all, I had done it. Although I'm not sure I could have become a marathoner without the support of my friends, family and loved ones, it really came down to whether I wanted to train, whether I wanted to spend three months of Saturday mornings hitting the pavement for double-digit runs, whether I wanted to hurt and ache and chafe and sweat - whether I wanted to cross the finish line. No one else could get me there.

As I stood there at the last turn of the Boston Marathon route earlier today (the pic above is my view of the race - after wiggling and pushing my way to the front of the crowd), I couldn't help but want to be part of it.

The Boston Marathon seed planted in my mind two years ago became a sprout last year. Will it go into full bloom this year?

Get That Head In The Game, Girl!

I totally, completely and universally believe that negativity breeds negativity.

Think about it. If you surround yourself with people who complain, whine and focus on the bad things in a situation - or even worse, seek out to find the bad things in a situation - you're likely to get wrapped up in the negativity.

It. Brings. You. Down.

For the most part, I try to surround myself with "glass half full" people, the kind that kind find the humor in difficult situations, look on the bright side and generally brush off the not-so-fun stuff that happens.

I hope that people I know consider me to be one of those people. Mostly, I think, I am.

But every now and then, I find myself caught in that downward spiral of negativity. I don't like that negativity breeds negativity, but I can't stand it when it becomes a downright inbreeding situation - meaning, I'm the one perpetuating my own negativity.

I had some time to think about this phenomenon - and experience it first-hand - a few weeks ago during a solo ride on my bike. (Yes, I'm just getting around to finally posting about it now.)

I had planned for a 23-mile ride around a loop that I'd done twice before. (I seriously need to get over my fear of getting lost on the bike and branch out to do some exploring of new routes.)

It was a beautiful day and I wanted to take advantage of it. (I also know I need to keep at the cycling miles if there's anyway I expect to complete this duathlon - not to mention a Century Ride later this summer.)

I hopped on my bike and off I went.

About, oh, a tenth of a mile into my ride (perhaps even less) I encountered a car accident. Luckily I missed it by a few minutes, but the aftermath still forced me to deal with cars parked and stopped in every direction, drivers most certainly not paying attention, the narrowest "lane" for me to maneuver through, debris in the road.

Just generally stressful stuff for a new rider. For me, anyway.

Keep in mind, it's still early in the season and I'm a newbie rider. It's well documented that I'm not overly comfortable on my bike. The slightest challenges, changes of plans and little roadblocks can throw me off - even just mentally.

I successfully made it around the accident scene and pedaled onward - directly into a headwind. Uphill. Sigh. I'll just make it to the turn a few miles up and be rid of the wind.

I made the turn and continued to feel the oppressive headwind. How was that even possible? I kept going, noticing every annoying cracked piece of road, grain of sand and smallest holes along the path.

Drivers seemed too close, my bike seemed more wobbly than usual - was that a flat tire? - and my shorts and gloves didn't seem to fit right.

My shifting seemed "off" - either too late or two early - and it seemed as if I'd completely forgotten how to ride a bike. I struggled up the inclines (they weren't even hills) and wondered how in the world I'd make it the rest of the way. At this rate, I'd probably have a clipped-to-my-pedals mishap and end up hitting the ground.

I glanced at my odometer. I'd gone a whopping 6.2 miles.

At that moment - 10K into the ride - it was like a light went on. All of the negative thoughts in my head were feeding off each other, creating new little worries and self-doubt. I rallied my mental "you can do this" troops.

The troops (yes, sometimes I think that there's an inner army of cheerleaders I need to call upon sometimes) came to the rescue. They're less like cheerleaders than they are like drill instructors. I need them sometimes. They give me a few slaps in the face and kicks in the butt.

Get your head in the game, girl. You can do this.

If running those crazy distances and taking on seemingly impossible challenges has taught me anything, it's that sometimes things just come down to attitude and mental fortitude. Often times, actually. After all, with the right conditioning and training, our bodies will do anything our minds tell us to, right?

I decided to mentally break up the rest of the ride into three parts. At each mark, I'd evaluate the last leg and decide whether to keep going or whether to take any of the shortcut options I had along the route.

I hit the 12-mile mark seemingly quickly, still struggling more than I probably should have - but a far cry from the downward spiral of negativity that had been sucking me in during the first 6.2 miles.

I rode passed the turn for the first shortcut. I was in the ride for at least another six miles.

I chugged steadily up some decent hills, only thinking of them as daunting for a fleeting second at the bottom. Before I knew it, I was at the top of one hill. Then another. Then another.

I was almost surprised when I looked down and saw the 18-mile mark on my odometer. How did those miles fly by so fast?

I passed the point of the second shortcut without giving any thought to turning.

The last stretch was admittedly the hardest, not only because of the up-and-down terrain, but also because I was beginning to get "tired legs" after nearly 20 miles of riding.

While that last stretch was most difficult, it was a whole different kind of hard - drastically unlike the kind that my mind had created in first 6.2 miles.

It wasn't the kind that made me wonder whether I'd make it to the end. It was the kind that helped me realize how much I can do, the kind that I knew would make me proud when I reached the end of my route, and the kind that made me want to do more.

As much as it's important to have supporters, friends and loved ones cheering you on, sometimes having your inner troops believing in you is just as essential.

Those troops helped me rally and get my head back into the game. I didn't even care when, about a quarter-mile from my house, a couple of immature and heckling teenagers yelled at me and threw a crumpled paper bag at me.

Some day they'll learn. And if they don't, then they're the ones missing out on the good things in life.

Photo credit: www.blacklotusmartialartsacademy.com

211 Doughnuts and Counting...

As you've probably guessed, I like tracking things. Tracking isn't just about being accountable - although, yes, I feel guilty when I see too many X's on the training chart. Tracking is also about seeing what you've accomplished.

I like seeing the miles add up and, hopefully, the paces get faster. I find writing things down - whether on my old-fashioned chart on my fridge or on a higher-tech interactive training log like Daily Mile - to be motivating and helpful.

To date, I've logged 460 miles of running and biking since January. Thanks to the stats page on Daily Mile, I know that translates to roughly:

• 211 doughnuts
• .02 times around the world
• 24.71 gallons of gas saved
• 839 televisions powered
  
• 55 hours of training
• ... or 11 pounds burned

Wait, did I read that right? My 2010 workouts have burned a total of 11 pounds? Impressive, I guess. But also a bit disheartening since I most certainly have not lost 11 pounds.

I dropped a few pounds in the beginning - but really slumped off in my focus and in my weight tracking recently. I'm hovering now somewhere around my starting point - generally speaking, not where I wanted to be at the start of the spring training season.

Simple math would tell me to just cut out some calories and I'd drop those pounds. Have I really increased my caloric intake enough to maintain 11 pounds instead of shedding them?

Think about it. In essence, I've eaten the equivalent of 211 doughnuts.

Ultimately, it's basic math. Eat more calories than you burn and you'll gain weight. Burn more than you eat, you'll lose.

It's simple math that's not-so-simple.

I suppose this means I should focus a bit more on food - and not in a hyper-sensitive way that has me counting every gram of sugar or carb that passes through my lips. (Ah, the never-ending battle for balance - the quest to balance a view of food-as-fuel-only with the role that food plays in the lifestyle I enjoy.)

I had a conversation with a friend yesterday focused around this topic - the need for balance. We both have friends who are fanatic about counting calories, fat grams or not eating at all. We have friends that restrict themselves so much that they forget how to enjoy life. And enjoy eating.

I should note that, generally speaking, I eat good-for-you foods. I like fresh foods - and hardly ever eat fried stuff, canned or frozen foods, greasy burgers or other things I see as part of people's regular diet.

Even when eating out, TC and I tend to gravitate toward sushi and Indian restaurants, rather than fast food or chain establishments. We eat pizza with whole wheat crust and crave dinners consisting solely of farm-stand finds. It's not uncommon for us to just share an entree or a couple of appetizers as a meal.

And none of that feels restricting. It's just our preference.

I like eating. I like food. I like my glass(es) of wine with dinner. I like going out to eat - not only because it's a chance to experience dishes I wouldn't have at home, but because of the social aspect. I love the sounds of a restaurant - the overall murmur of patrons engaged in conversation, interrupted at times by loud, spontaneous laughter. People just enjoying life.

I eat out more than the typical person, I'd say, which is partly a function of my job and partly a function of the hectic lifestyle TC and I lead these days. Between work and our various activities, like running and cycling, sometimes it's a struggle to eat dinner any earlier than 9 p.m. We've been the ones closing down a restaurant more times than I can count.

Perhaps some of this will change when we live together - less than two short weeks away! - since we won't have to decide at whose place we're going to eat, discuss who has what for food in the fridge or spend time shuttling back and forth picking up dogs, packing overnight bags and making that same 5.5-mile commute.

More likely, though, our lifestyle won't change much. I think we'll enjoy more at-home dinners, but we certainly both like food too much to cut out our favorite eateries. And even our made-at-home dinners are not typical. We often remark that our every day, spur-of-the-moment creations would likely serve as someone else's special occasion meals.

And I like it that way.

So where does this leave me when it comes to food? Will that 11-pound stat - or whatever the next reminder is - ever stop bugging me?

Logically, I know I should cut down on calories. (I don't really feel the urge to increase my activity much more than I do now, except for the longer and more intense bike rides I see on the not-so-flat horizon.)

But I also refuse to fall back into my past when I restricted and cut back so much that it became the focus of my life. Events, eating out and even regular meals actually caused me more anxiety than I'd like to admit. What would I be able to eat? Would I gain a pound the next time I stepped on the scale?

I've considered consulting a nutritionist. Perhaps a personal trainer. Maybe even a few therapy sessions.

But am I going to pay for someone to tell me what I already know? I know what I should eat and what I shouldn't eat. It's just a matter of how much I want to change my lifestyle, my habits and, I guess, my body.

It's a matter of how much I'm "okay" with that 11-pound stat. Or the dreadful and nearly embarrassing way my new tri shorts look on me?

Could I possibly be more worried about the way the shorts look and fit than the challenge of a duathlon? Uh-huh. I think I just stumbled upon a future post...

Photo Credit: www.businessweek.com

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About Teamwork

Now that spring has officially sprung, I'm taking advantage of every minute of it. I officially passed the 460-mile mark in my 2,010 in 2010 Challenge - putting in 46.8 miles on the bike (in two separate rides) and 12 miles of running over the weekend.

Phew! My body's calling for rest day. And I think I'll listen.

All of those miles mean I have plenty of blog posts floating around in my head. I can let my mind wander to all sorts of places while on the road and have plenty of experiences to share. As soon as I have some time, I'll try to post them...

... for now, I'll share just a few random snip-its.


TNT TEAM PIC
This is obviously an old pic, based on the way we're bundled up before our run, but I wanted to share a pic of the current Team In Training team.

It was actually taken on our first day of practice - way back in February. (That's me in the ridiculously bright, Ronald McDonald colors!) This was back when we didn't know each other and most of them couldn't run more than a few miles.

Things sure do change in just seven short weeks. Now, the marathoners are running double-digit miles on a challenging course, and everyone is steps closer to their race day.

They're an awesome bunch - fun, hard-working and helpful. Officially, I'm a "mentor" for the team. That means, I'm there to help when I can, answer questions and just be there to support them.

But sometimes I honestly feel that they help me as much as I help them.

They help me stay focused and motivated - even when I don't want to get out of bed early on a Saturday morning. They help me stay grounded. They help the miles pass quickly with stories and jokes along the way.

The latest team run had us slated for 12 miles for the marathoners and 6 or so for the half-marathoners. Coach Geno has us running a tough course - with a significant part of it uphill. It's challenging - just ask my morning-after body - but it will undoubtedly prepare the team for any upcoming race they have.

I DIDN'T KNOW I HAD THOSE MUSCLES
Speaking of race preparation and overall good team things, I should mention the spectacular stretching clinic that one of our teammates (a massage therapist and yoga instructor) gave before Saturday's run.

She helped us stretch running-specific muscles in ways that most of us - based on the moans and groans from the group - had never experienced. She taught us how to do "planks" as a way to strengthen our core muscles. (Who know a minute could seem that long?!)

I hope to incorporate her tips and maneuvers into a routine to keep me limber and strong.

TEAM DEDICATIONS
One of the things that sometimes gets lost during the height of TnT training is the mission. Sometimes we get so focused on the miles that we actually forget that the efforts of our training athletes are raising money for an important cause.

Kudos to Coach Geno and to the team for not letting the mission of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society get brushed aside. Each week, teammates are welcome to share a dedication - a story about how they personally have been affected by cancer.

I was skeptical at first. Would anyone really want to share some of their most personal moments with a group of relative strangers?

The first dedication was given by Garry, a fellow mentor, who shared his story of overcoming cancer in college. He shared with us images and stories of children in the hospital, young people who were quarantined while going through treatments. Despite all of that, Garry said, they just wanted to "be kids" - to laugh and have fun and to forget about the hospital around them.

Last week, a touching dedication was given by Jenny - a hard-working, determined athlete on a quest to run her first marathon. At Kick Off, Jenny shared with us that she had lost her husband to cancer four years ago. (I don't know exactly how old she is, but I'd imagine that she's not much younger than I am.)

It's eye-opening to think about how someone's life could be that dramatically different than my own. And sometimes I wonder why I have been lucky enough to avoid some of the pain and heartache I've heard others talk about. Really, I have no idea what she went through during her husband's illness and death. I've been wondering if she'd open up to share a dedication for her husband.

When a team email popped up from Jenny, I was prepared to hear her story. What she shared, however, were the stories and photos of two children she met in the cancer center while her husband underwent treatment. Both children lost their battle with cancer.

It may seem that these dedications would bring us down. Instead, I think it helps us to cherish that we can run and train - even when we might not want to and even when it might seem really hard.

Sometimes we should run just because we can.

Thanks, Team.

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Retirement And Replacements

I did it. Reluctantly, I did it.

I finally retired my most recent pair of running shoes - the ones that brought me across the Finish Line of my first marathon and the ones that helped me break the two-hour half-marathon barrier last month.

Truthfully, I held on to them longer than I probably should have, way past the standard recommendation of 300 miles or every three months. Although I keep mileage stats for my running, I don't often match these up with the number of miles I've put on my shoes.

I don't need to. I can feel when they're ready to be replaced.

My most recent pair - snazzy Asics 2140's in "Lightning and Quick Silver" (they just sound fast, don't they?) - had served me well.

I actually remember my excitement when I purchased them way back in September - yep, that's six months and several hundred miles for anyone who's counting - thinking that these would be my special shoes, the ones that I'd run in during my final weeks of marathon training and the ones that I'd have on during the Big Day.

I was so excited, in fact, that I even wrote a post about them here.

They'd worn out in all the right places and became part of me - until recently, when I noticed they'd started to wear a little too much. The treads were almost gone in some places. The mesh covering each of the areas above the big toes on each foot had torn. They looked, well, ratty - well-loved and used in all sorts of weather, but certainly ratty.

I couldn't deny it. I had to replace them. I swore the Hyannis Half-Marathon would be their last outing. I'd get a new pair right after that race, I told myself. But I hung on just a little longer - perhaps a little too long.

I started to feel some nagging pains during recent runs, nothing particular or even describable. I just didn't feel right. I knew it was the shoes. A runner knows her "normal" aches and pains. And she knows when it just comes down to the shoes.

I was ready to take the plunge (really, did I have a choice now?), so I jumped online to check out the latest model. The latest version of this Asics line was out - the 2150's - and with each release, a new color scheme is released.

The 2150's were described as combination of "Lightning, Paradise Pink and Lemon."

Hmmm, I thought, doesn't exactly sound like me - especially the "Paradise Pink" part. (I'm constantly claiming not to be a "pink person," despite what my many articles of pink clothing may say about me.)

But Paradise Pink it would be.

Unlike when I was growing up, I no longer pick my running shoes on style or color. That's not what runners do, I've been told (although I suppose runners could have color preferences and try some new models out, if they really wanted a certain color).

I was pleasantly surprised when the guy at Runner's Alley opened the box and revealed an attractive pair of shoes - predominantly silver with highlights that were certainly more reddish-orange than pink.

The inside sole and the inner part of the tongue had a funky design with slightly truer pink and some yellow. The stylish detail, like the paisley pattern inside my old Asics, was one of my favorite things of them - a little sassy secret tucked inside the shoes while I toughed it out on the outside.

Even though I knew those were the shoes that worked for me, I always take the opportunity while in Runner's Alley to test out a few other brands. This particular trip gave me even more reason to do so because they were out of my regular size.

I tried on some Mizunos and Sauconys and even some Brooks, trotting up and down the store to see what they felt like. Each time, I came back to the Asics, even though the ones I was trying on were a half-size smaller than the ones I had at home. (Coach Jack's words of wisdom were ringing in my head: Stick with what you know. Don't change anything.)

I'm what I like to think of as a Goldilocks of shoes - one size is too small, the next half-size up is too big. I need one just right. (Can they make quarter-sizes, please?)

Sure, I could wait until they got the bigger size back in stock or brought it in from another location, but c'mon, I'm not a patient person. I'd waited this long to get shoes. I wanted them now. I needed new shoes.

Sensing my not-so-hidden hesitation, the sales guy told me test them out on a treadmill and, if I wasn't completely happy and comfortable, to bring them back for my usual size. (That's right, I could go run a few miles in them and bring them back. A test drive for my shoes.)

That reminds me, I need to mention that I love Runner's Alley. Aside from their accommodating and practical return policy, they know runners. And they know how we can be about our shoes.

The sales guy (I feel funny even calling him that since he's really more like a shoe consultant) didn't flinch when I hum'd and hah'd after each pair and sent him into the back again and again in search of the runner's equivalent of the Glass Slipper.

I ran up and down the store in each pair, sometimes with one of each kind on each foot, to find the "just right" fit.

In the end, haste and impatience got the best of me. I walked out with my brand new - but half-size smaller - 2150s, ready to take them for a few miles. The springlike weather we've had didn't make me overly excited about hitting the treadmill - so I was actually pleased when a raw, rainy day drenched us on Monday. A perfect time to try out my shoes.

In a nutshell, they felt okay. Just okay.

That's not how I want my new shoes to feel. I've often described the first runs with a new pair of shoes as feeling as if I'm running with pillows on my feet - a perfect-fitting, cushioned, barely-there feeling.

I didn't get that feeling in the Test Drive. They weren't exactly too small. But they weren't just right.

I banged out five miles in them and called it quits. I debated internally whether it was worth a trip to return them. Or could I just deal with them the way they were?

When you put the kind of miles in that I do, you don't want to "just deal" with anything - especially anything involving your shoes. There are enough other things to worry about and deal with. So I packed them up and called the store. They had a new shipment in and would have the proper size waiting for me.

And they did, and as soon as I stepped in the door holding a shoebox, the friendly woman behind the counter said, "Are you here to exchange those for 9 1/2s?"

(As a side note, I seriously cannot believe I wear that size in running shoes. I know to buy running shoes bigger than your day-to-day shoes, but as my running and miles have increased, so have my shoe size. My first pair was an 8 1/2, a full size smaller than the ones I need now. A topic to explore at another time perhaps?)

I traded the shoes without incident - except for the near-catastrophe I avoided when I remembered on the drive to the store that I'd put my iPod in one of the shoes after I'd run. They happily handed me the new pair - which I'm happy to report passed the treadmill test last night.

Four feeling-good miles. Ready to go. I can't wait to find out what milestones these ones will help me reach...

We All Have An Old Guy At The Finish

I stumbled upon a posting theme on Daily Mile yesterday in which users were posting their favorite race photos. I haven't joined in the photo challenges much, but decided to jump on the bandwagon yesterday.

But what pic to post?

I thought about posting the pic from the end of the Manchester Marathon that my sister took just steps in front of the Finish Line.

I like it because I remember that moment precisely, hearing the cheers and shouts from my family on one side of the chute and friends on the other. I like it because I'm giving just the slightest smile and look of accomplishment as I glance over toward my family. I like it because it captures the spur-of-the-moment decision to wave my hands in the air as I came down the homestretch.

And, let's be honest, I like it because it shows me finishing a marathon -- and not looking like I'm going to collapse doing it.

But, I thought, probably everyone has a pic like that. I wanted to choose something different. So I scrolled through the photos on the side of my blog - and smiled as I selected the Great Bay photo. If there's one thing I've learned about DMers, they've got a sense of humor. I figured I could give some of them a laugh.

And I did. The comments started rolling in with witty quips about the photo that TC snapped last year as I crossed the Finish Line of the Great Bay Half-Marathon.

Unlike some race photos, it was a decent one -- perfectly framed with the large "Finish Line" at the top, bright blue sky in the background. I didn't look overly awkward.

But I didn't notice any of that at first. The only thing my eyes were drawn to was the, um, older gentleman who was in the pic with me. Not just in the pic with me, he was crossing the Finish Line ahead of me.

Don't get me wrong, if he did in fact run a better race than me, then kudos to him.

But I didn't want to believe that could actually be possible. I couldn't get my head around how he finished ahead of me.

I went through all the scenarios. Maybe he was just a spectator that got in the way? (That didn't explain the race number and timing chip he's donning.)

Maybe he was running the 5K? (Would it take him 2:10? Unfortunately, no. Yes, I actually checked the race results for the 5K to find someone, anyone, who would fit that finishing time and demographic.)

Maybe he just takes bad pictures? Trust me, I've seen my fair share of my running pics of myself, ones in which I'm convinced (or at least hope) that I don't really look like that. But, really, could this race photo be that far off from reality?

The Old Guy has become an ongoing joke between me and TC, and even served as motivation when we ran a 10K together in the fall. (Coincidentally, I saw The Old Guy near the start of that race. I grabbed TC and told him there was no way he was beating me this time. I never saw him again -- so I'm going to assume that I finished ahead of him. Please don't tell me otherwise.)

During that 10K, TC and I played a game that helped us chase down the runners in front of us. "I don't want to cross the Finish Line with this guy," I'd tell TC, and we'd pick up the pace and pass a few runners.

In a bit of a twist, we were blown away when the guy that we were finally "content" with finishing just ahead of us was called up to take his age-group division award. For the 70+ category. Oh man.

I was glad to see that the DMers concurred that it didn't appear as if The Old Guy should have crossed in front of me. What I didn't realize is that nearly all of the posters would relate. They all had an Old Guy at the Finish Line.

Sometimes it was literally an old man. Other times, an old woman. Or a woman pushing a stoller. Or someone much heavier. Or someone who ran a marathon on one leg.

One of my favs came from Chris, who shared his story of feeling "like a rock-star" when he finished his second marathon -- until he turned around and realized he'd finished just ahead of someone who had jumped rope the entire 26.2 miles.

The lesson here, I suppose, is a simple one -- and one that our parents probably tried to instill in us years ago. Don't judge a book by its cover.

It's humbling, humorous and impressive that people whom we think we should have beaten in a race can put us all in our spots. Maybe someday we'll be those people -- the ones whom younger, fitter, should-be-faster runners focus on and wonder how we crossed in front of them. (Maybe that's happening now, who knows?)

Until then, I'll continue to use The Old Guy as motivation. I mean, it's a funny pic and all, but I don't want another one.

(You can read the entire posting and comments on Daily Mile by clicking here.)

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