Try, Tri, Again

The latest in my series of “What does not kill me (or get me mugged) makes me stronger” adventures was the Sigourney Tri in July. This sprint triathalon included a 330 yard swim, 5.4 mile bike ride and 2.02 mile run. I'm always on the look out for something new and different, and I figured, Hey, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

This kind of thinking only occasionally leads me to disaster.

I enjoy these kinds of physical challenges because they give me plenty of time alone with my thoughts. I usually I don't pay much attention to myself, but there's something about running (or biking or swimming) that forces me to actually think about what I'm thinking. I gotta say, there may be a good reason why I tune myself out most of the time.

My race number, or how old I felt after the race.

The first “Oh, so this is what could go wrong” moment hit as we were lined up according to our estimated swim times. I used to be a lifeguard and I used to be on my college's swim team (small college, smaller team, bathtub-sized pool), so I estimated that I was a slightly faster than average swimmer. (Besides, being completely honest about my 5K pace time always puts me behind the walkers. It was my turn to be optimistic.)

Please note I used the past tense when referring to my swim experience. I am convinced that most former athletes (or former anythings) tend to underestimate the importance of the term “former” when given an opportunity to brush off those skills.

Regardless, I found myself lined up on the pool deck between a current lifeguard and her high school-age friend. My confidence was already beginning to ebb when these girls started questioning their ability to finish the swim.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong,” I thought. I could drown or I could get lapped by the 20 people following me. My internal monologue for the swim was pretty simple: “Stroke, breath, don't drown.” Words to live by. All three of us survived, and none of us were lapped.

The transition from swim to bike went pretty smoothly, although I may have wasted valuable time double checking to make sure I wasn't removing my sports bra along with my swim top.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.” The sight of my codfish-white belly probably traumatized enough people.

The 5-mile bike ride gave me plenty of time to think. I realized that while I like riding (moderately) fast, I don't like turning corners (even moderately) fast. After watching the riders ahead of me lean (dangerously far) into the corners, I tried to console myself with the old “it's not a sprint it's a marathon” platitude.

Then I remembered it was a sprint triathalon.

Eventually I reached a zen-like peace with being passed by young men with tree trunk-sized calves, curled over the handlebars of their high-tech racing bikes. My competitive spirit kicked and I picked up the pace as we neared the turnaround point. I even managed to pass someone myself. (So what if he was only 12 years old, and wobbled all over the place.)

I started to enjoy the thrill of riding fast, and the rush of the wind in my face. I felt free! I felt like I was flying! I felt like I was hardly pedaling at all!

Because I was hardly pedaling at all. I was going down hill. And what goes down hill must eventually go back up....

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.”

By the time I made it back to the park to leave my bike and start the run, my butt cramps had butt cramps. I wondered if I would be able to unclench long enough to get off my bike, or if I would have to run with the seat stuck between my cheeks.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.”

The second transition was even smoother than the first, and I was able to dismount without disrobing.

So, this went wrong.

I had hoped the run would be my strongest part (relatively speaking) of the event. And it might have been. If it wasn't for the swimming. Or the biking. Or the swimming and biking. As it was, I ended up doing a “Lego” run, going block by block. By block.

But I did keep going, and I did finish (24 seconds slower than I really hoped to finish). And it didn't kill me. And I did have fun.

And I am going to do it again next year.

Because anything worth doing just for fun, is worth doing 24-seconds faster.

Fake It Till You Make It

I'm sitting in a coffee shop with my pen and paper, pastry and coffee, trying to look writerly. I'm in Iowa City, so I blend right in with all the other aspiring writers and students. I'm hoping this change of scenery and role-play will jump start my new/old career as a writer. Look the part, play the part, be the part.

Things I've learned so far: My view of the parking lot is not as inspiring as you might think. Although watching this dumbass try to shoe-horn a Suburban into a space for a compact car is pretty entertaining.

And off-task.

The incredible class I took at the UI Summer Writer's Workshop left me inspired and enthusiastic and thinking anything was possible. But since then other chores have taken over and my writing momentum has dwindled. I went from writing full scenes, to jotting notes and ideas, to... looking for my notebook. It's time to refocus on my new “job.” My dream.

Things I've learned so far: I should never assume I have a notebook in my “novel supply bag.” Luckily I did have a clipboard and paper so I don't have to write on 3x3 sticky-notes. But the clipboard makes me feel more like a health inspector than a writer. I must not look very official, though, because the cashier didn't try to bribe me with free coffee.

Still off-task.

The kids have gone back to school and it has finally hit me that I am well and truly unemployed, not just “between career opportunities” as I have taken to saying. There's still the part-part-part time secretary thing, and the full-time Mom/Wife thing (although they need me a little less), and the volunteer stuff. There's still not enough hours in the day (I should be secretary-ing right now).

Things I've learned so far: With free wi-fi and mobile data Facebook can be a distraction anywhere! Anytime!

Still off-task.

It seemed like such a good idea last spring when I decided to follow my dream to become a writer. People would ask me “what are you going to do if you're not teaching?” I answered confidently “I'm going to write!” And they'd give me that patient, bemused look you give a child who says “I'm going to be a space-cowboy-fireman when I grow up!” Then they'd politely change the subject.

Things I've learned so far: Even when the coffee shop is three-quarters empty, the waitstaff will give you dirty looks after a while. I wonder how many plain-black-coffee, serve-yourself refills you are really supposed to take?

Still off-task.

Now that school is back in session people are a little less... willing to humor me. Now when they ask “what are you doing if you're not teaching?” I answer a little less confidently “Ummm, writing?” And they wait a beat, then follow up with “But really. What are you going to do?” “I'm looking into things,” I mumble. My confidence was all a facade. That veneer is thinning, and my fears are starting to poke through.

Things I've learned so far: I CAN HAVE TOO MUCH CAFFEINE!

I like money. I like getting paid. I like spending money. I like having concrete answers to use on forms that ask you to list things like “Occupation,” and “Work Phone.” And “Yearly Income.”

Things I've learned so far: Autocorrect trumps spell check, and it drives me nuts! Although it did just change “pretending” to “ostensibly,” which sounds fancy. And not as desperate as “pretending.” Sort of brave, even.

Still off-task.

I've always wanted to write. I've always wanted to be a writer. In college most of my friends were science majors, planning for serious careers with serious titles, and suits and badges and office hours. I just wanted to write about what they were going to do and how they would do it.

Before the TV show “Will and Grace” made it trendy to have a gay friend, it was trendy to have a friend who was an English major (or philosophy major) so that you could tell your other friends “This is my English major friend, who will grow up to be unemployed and homeless. Then I will introduce them as my unemployed and homeless friend, and they will have my back when I volunteer to do community service work at the local soup kitchen. This is just more evidence that I am a responsible and forward thinking individual – besides the fact that I have chosen a career path that ensures an employable future.”

And I would turn to all my other English and journalism friends and I would say “These are my science major friends. They actually study. A lot. I can tell you about what they do and how they do it, but I can't do it myself. Someday they're going to have important, serious jobs. And I'll write about those, too.

But what I really want to do is write the stories and books that they will read when they get home from work. When they are tired and just want to escape from this serious world for a little while they'll turn to my work. I'll tell them about my hopes and dreams, and fears and crazy ideas. And maybe they'll laugh, or cry, or relax, or see things from a new perspective.

Just for a moment they will be off-task, and they'll enjoy it.

Things I've learned so far: I can't give up just yet. I'll fake it till I make it.

But with less coffee.

Little Thoughts on the Prairie

Some days I run just to clear my mind. To escape from my thoughts.

But today I cannot out run them.

I run on “my” little prairie for its solitude and beauty. The summer wildflowers are now blooming.

The challenge of the grassy trail and the relentless hills require concentration. I am “all in”.

Until I'm not.

After a mile and a half I slow to round a corner and my thoughts overtake me, crashing over and crushing me, as the humid air wraps around me in a claustrophobic hug.

I have no choice.

I stop.

The warm energy of the Iowa summer-time green growth seeps into my muscles, even as it sucks the life from my bones.

I'm caught.

I wonder: If I lay down on the trail and stay still long enough, will the prairie absorb me? Will I become part of this wild green?

I've stopped at one of my favorite places. The view here is vast and sweeping. The prairie teems with life. The air vibrates with the hum of industrious bugs. Bird songs ring high and twee. Rabbits dart across the trail. The tall grass is restless in the wind.

And yet it's so wide open – here on this small patch – that I feel isolated and lonely. I marvel at the pioneers' determination and drive. Imagine crossing this small patch a thousand times over!

I give up. I give in. Admit defeat.

I turn off my runner's watch.

Ignore miles and time and pace.

I walk.

I jog.

I lay down and let the prairie take me.

I breath.

I grieve.

I accept.

You May Be Right (I May Be Crazy)

Just how crazy do you think I am?

Wait, wait, don't tell me. Because however crazy you think I am, I think I'm even crazier. If you know me and you know how I think, you understand. Maybe.

As you may know, I've been preoccupied with Billy Joel since April (long story, check the blog archive for details) and tomorrow I will be driving to Chicago  by myself for his sold-out concert.

I'm not sure if I'm more excited or nervous. And I'm already wondering what life, post-concert, will be like.

You see, it's become more than just a concert for me. It's an epic adventure – a challenge of creativity and bravery, an opportunity to carpe the snot out of the diem. Others might say it's an exercise in futility, stupidity and time wasting.

The first challenge was to convince myself that I could do this alone. I'm still worried about getting lost on the drive and just the thought of riding the “L” makes me nervous. (Although the Red Line is a straight shot from right outside my hotel to Wrigley so if I screw that up, I'm some special kind of stupid.)

But I'm OK with the “alone” part. It's kind of exciting, in fact. I'm making plans for things that I want to do without having to listen to anyone whine, like go to the art museum. I may even have lunch at the House of Blues... by myself. Heck, I can have lunch anywhere and anytime I want.

The second challenge was securing a concert ticket. This was more a matter of perseverance and dumb luck. But still, I navigated the ticket sites and ordered the ticket all by myself.

And here's where the crazy starts to show. Not only did I whine to anyone who would listen (and a few who didn't) and blog about the concert being sold out and how unfair scalpers are, I started sending emails.

Sending random emails is a sure sign of mid-level crazy.

First I emailed the official Billy Joel web site (maintained by Sony Corp. if you read the fine print) to ask if any additional tickets would be released (there were, and I got one). I still haven't heard back from them (ha).

Then, in a fit of pique I emailed the Cubs organization asking if the high-end VIP tickets ($500+) included a starting spot in the Cubs lineup. They actually did take the time to send a nice reply, saying that was news to them and that concert questions should be directed to Sony (as if).

After I had my ticket, the final challenge was to wait patiently.

Which I failed miserably at.

What do I do when I have too much time on my hands? Send emails.

Not only did I blog about wanting to interview Billy Joel, I sent emails requesting an interview. Neither Sony nor a talent rep who may or may not represent Billy Joel (can you trust press releases you find on the i-net?) have responded to my (very polite) requests.

Did that stop me? Of course not.

Yesterday (that's two days before the concert) I decided to try to get press credentials. I had no idea what this might involve, but it was another adventure! I did actually hear back from the concert promoters (yay!), but after sending a couple of clarification emails the final answer was a big, fat “Requested Credentials Are Not Available” (boo!).

So, did I really think I'd get to interview Billy Joel or get a press pass authorizing me to wander around Wrigley? No. But that doesn't mean it wasn't exciting to receive those emails. And I'm not going to give up. I'm taking my notebook full of interview questions with me.

Did I have a lot of fun doing some kinda crazy, unexpected, definitely out of the ordinary stuff? You betcha.

Saturday night when I arrive back home in West Branch – without getting lost anywhere at anytime and blissed out from a day at the art museum – I expect I'll have some fun Chicago memories to share. But more than that, I think I'll have a little more self-confidence and courage to try some more new challenges.

In one of those cosmic coincidences (or "God winks") I recently saw a quote attributed to Franklin D. Roosevelt: “Above all, try something.”

Carpe credentials!