#514

As you may know, I participated in a sprint triathlon this past weekend--a try-athlon in my estimation.

For all my worrying about my knees, it was my ankle that most loudly objected to this endeavor.  It started complaining about two weeks ago, just after I posted about the race.  I could still bike and swim without aggravating it, but even walking caused pain and swelling for a time.  This meant I could not train for the run, at all. 

Have you figured out yet that I'm a type-A in disguise?  (And are you laughing now because it's wholly undisguised and I just don't know it?).  Either way, it won't surprise you that I do not like to go places unprepared.  Showing up for this race, without knowing if my body could last the run, or if my ankle could even hold up for a walk, caused me a bit of consternation. 

Still, I wanted to try, and I'm glad I did.

I thought the swim was good, but frustrating.  I got into traffic that forced me to stop and stand up in the middle of the pool on two occasions.  I may have said, "Are you kidding me?" when a lumbering man cut me off, but I hope I just imagined that because: how unsportsmanlike!  I eventually got to the end and heaved myself out of the water feeling relieved.  I'd been nervous about the crowded lanes, not sure I had the proper sensory equipment for swimming in a school.

Once on the bike, I relaxed.  This part was easy for me, so I tried to coast through it and save my energy for the dreaded final leg. 

When it at last arrived, I laced up my shoes thinking, "It'll be fine.  I'll just walk fast!"  Then I looked at the line of volunteers who directed the way in front of me.  They stood cheering and pointing, ready for me to sprint out of the gate.   Was I really going to walk past them in the very first moments? 

I couldn't do it. 

Instead, I tried to run in a way that suggested I did this all the time.  I tried to give the impression that I would keep up this unreasonable pace for the duration, and not quit it the minute I rounded the corner.

Which I did.

The long and short of it? I ran three miles!!  In all honestly, my "run" is so slow, I think I may have finished faster if I'd fast-walked the course in its entirety.  I hadn't anticipated the spectators, however, and because I don't care what anyone thinks of me (really, not at all), I felt compelled to keep up the illusion of a run, regardless of how slow it might be. 

So I have to ask, is it customary for runners to offer words of encouragement to one another as they pass on the trail?  Is this some kind of runner-culture-thing that I've missed out on all these years?  I'm thinking of the Jeep culture that surprised me after I bought one back in the coolio days of my twenties.  Jeep drivers give each other a way casual salute when they pass each other on the road.  Did you know that?  It gave me a great sense of community as a driver, suggesting to me that any of these fellow Jeep owners would offer late night road assistance if I needed it, without the threat of abduction or ax murder. 

If no such runner-culture exists, then I must have been looking particularly in need of encouragement, because I got A LOT of it.  One person told me, "Looking good! Keep it up!" as I traversed the first downhill right out of the start.  I thought, "For heaven's sake, I hope I'm looking good, I haven't gone 10 paces yet!" 

The thing is, we really only say "looking good" to people who, well...don't.  Right?  It's a way of appreciating the fact that someone is trying to look good--and I did say it would be a try-athlon after all.

One possible explanation: tired or not, my face gets really red when I exercise. Even if I feel great, this redness suggests I verge on some kind of coronary emergency.   We can blame my tendency to get overly flushed for one of the most tragic haircuts in the history of mankind when my mother, fearing I would collapse from heat stroke at the tender age of three, cut my toddler curls into a "pixie" cut that she thought would keep me more cool.   Check it out:

me and my grandfather.  I think I look cute and happy,

but apparently, I'm feeling overheated

 a year or so later, hair butchered, but feeling much refreshed

(and what's up with that short dress!!)

Despite my probably purplish hue, the ankle held, and I honestly felt OK as long as I kept to my snail's pace.  But the look of it must have really deteriorated because by the time I got to the final 100 yards (where I had begun to feel like a world champion because YES! I could see I was actually going to make it!!) someone clapped for me and said, "Just keep moving forward! That's all you have to do! Keep moving forward!" 

Was there a doubt about whether I could keep moving forward?

Here's the thing.  If it had been a swim/bike event, I would have pushed myself harder in both.  I would have striven for speed! mastery! victory! Adding the run, however, turned all my focus to one simple goal: finish. 

I think there's something to be said for going out and doing your best at something even when your best kind of sucks.  It's humbling and gratifying to show your weaknesses, because in the moment when you think everyone will laugh, they just might stand up and applaud.

That's an experience worth having.  In fact, when I crossed the finish line and everyone cheered, it made me want to cry just a teeny bit (I am prone to dramatic and unnecessary tears at sporting events). 

And then it was done!  Exhausted and happy, I resolved to do it again next year (but perhaps not write about it quite so much!).  Then I went home where I collapsed and slept so hard on the couch that my race number, which had been written in permanent marker on my leg, imprinted itself on the used-to-be-cream upholstery.

Something to remember the day by, perhaps?

Egad.

(and no, Steve hasn't noticed yet)

try-athlete extraordinaire

a freddyboo illustration
freddyboo.blogspot.com

I am supposed to participate in a sprint triathlon in just 3 weeks. 

Egad. 

If you aren't familiar with these kinds of races and you're feeling impressed by the "sprint" aspect of it (thinking that I'll be traveling faster than participants in those "regular" triathlons) then you should know that the "sprint" part refers to a shorter course, not a faster participant.

I'll need to swim 1/4 mile, bike 12 miles, and run 3 miles. 

To be honest, I have the bike/swim thing pretty well covered.  If you've visited here before, you might know of my propensity for life on a bike.  This old bird does hit the lap lanes fairly often as well.  HOWEVER, taking my knees out for a run measures about the same on the misery meter as taking my kids to the Smithsonian.  Oh, the strain! The lack of endurance! The pain! Need I mention the whining and complaining? 

They're just not cut out for it.

While I vehemently refute the idea that my kids are genetically unsuited for museum browsing, I can't make the same objections about my knees' suitability for running.

Apparently, there is a deformity.  Crooked knee-caps or some such thing. 

The doctor did tell me (twenty years ago) that I could run as far as I wanted if I just strengthened my knees regularly with a few easy exercises.  That was good news.  Except I still had a problem. I hate to run.  Given that, I figured never doing it again was also a good option for optimal knee-health.  I put the latter plan into immediate action. 

Except now I like this idea of a race.  My cycling friends and I all want to challenge ourselves.  It could add a whole new dimension to our current work-outs (riding at a leisurely pace through the countryside before pampering ourselves with a luxurious dinner).  OK, perhaps I shouldn't downplay it too much.  It's true that we have conquered a monster hill or two over the years, but we have never really emphasized speed on our rides. 

Besides, it turns out that peer pressure works on grownups too--I don't want to be left out!  If they can run three miles, surely I can too, right?  If I can't, I figure, I can at least try. 

For the last few months I've been all, "Oh, yeah, I'm doing a triathlon this summer," like I'm a super ready, all over that, regular multi-sport mama.

My kids totally believe me!  I actually think that's important because they see me getting older. They like to tease me about my age, my emerging gray hairs, my FORGETFULNESS.

...

What was I saying?

Oh--they like to tease me, but you know that under that laughter lurks anxiety.  Kids don't like to see their parents age and become vulnerable.  While I believe the discovery of our weaknesses is part of growing up for kids, I also want to set a good example. I don't like how older people, especially women, get so little positive air-time in youth culture.  I'm middle-aged, yes, but I'm not dead!  If I at least try, and they can see me as a try-athlete at 45, then maybe they'll feel inspired later in life to try something new themselves.  In other words, if I enjoy my middle age, maybe they'll enjoy theirs.

So I've been running. which I don't enjoy at all, but we'll ignore that irony.  I walk the downhills because I accept the limits of my knees, but aside from that, I'm up to two miles. 

I know. That's really far!       For me.

I want to be inconspicuous because this might be one of the most embarrassing things I've ever done.  It's not working, however.  After 17 years of morning walks, the neighbors notice when you change the routine, no matter how hard you try to slink past their windows without anyone noticing the odd wheezing sound from the road. 

In my walking days (one short month ago), I was a hot fast chic.  I was!  My speed in the 'hood is legendary.  No one can out walk me.

Now, that's all coming apart.

Neighbors wave in consternation, "Hi?" they say with questioning and lingering gazes that follow me down the street. 

Walking, my body always felt firm and swift and under control.  I blurred my way past the dogwoods and the azaleas, leaving a flutter of pedals in my wake.

Now, all my softer parts seem to have come loose from the frame, giving a sort of gelatinous effect to my form and evoking words like "rollie" and it's humiliating counterpart, "pollie." 

Worse, I saw my shadow the other day.  I'll leave my shockingly small head out of it for a minute and tell you I could see my "running" pants are high waters, and bell bottoms to boot.  Really?  The word "dork" popped into my head unbidden and I started to giggle.  I tried to stop right away because laughing takes way too much energy when you're "running," but trying to stifle it made me snort which only worsened the crisis. 

I didn't care about fashion in my speed walker glory days.  It didn't matter! But now, if I want to cover my inadequacies, I should probably gear-up: a flashy tank, a svelte ipod, some trendy shoes.  Maybe a blinking something-or-other? You notice that it's always the inept beginner who has the best sports paraphernalia, right?  Instead, I'm out there snorting and gelatinous in a tattered sweatshirt, crooked knee-caps and a pare of too-flared "capris." 

When I got home the other morning, I laughed with Steve about how I stopped and walked in front of our neighbors' house so they wouldn't see me lumber through the frame of their living room window.  Gareth heard me huffing and broke in: "Mom," he said with the drawn out exasperation of an all-knowing teenager, "you just have to pace yourself!"

I choked on the water I'd been sucking down, "PACE MYSELF?!" I spluttered.  Did this foolish child think I could possibly run more slowly? Did he not know how I teetered, just a millimeter of a hop from a walk?  "Honey, I promise you, there is no slower pace!"

"Oh," he said with dawning realization.  I heard him giggling as he walked away.

So there you have it.  He saw my vulnerabilities after all, but that's OK because I wasn't really hoping to hide them.  I just wanted him to see me try, no matter what that may look like.

Meanwhile, I wonder: will my knees survive the race?  I don't know.  Stupidly, I haven't even done those exercises the doctor advised me about.  All I can say is that I will try to get to that tomorrow...

How about you? Are you a "try-athlete?" 

What's your latest challenge?

body politics at the pool: an old bird goes swimming

Remember how I got all fired up about body image after watching Miss Representation? I posted my fat roll on the internet; I railed against misogynistic media moguls; I stood my ground: forty-something; pudgy, and proud? Remember that?

I went to the rec center to swim yesterday evening.  Because I tutor after school, I usually workout in the mornings when everyone else is at the office.  That means I take yoga with people who need instructions like: “Don’t cross the midline on this if you’ve had a hip replacement!”  

Old folks.  I just love ‘em.  Not only because I’ll be one soon, but because they have a certain humor and humility about them.  Also, they understand that a fully functioning body is a thing to be revered, but not necessarily looked at.  When I do yoga or swim with them, no one judges my ass.  If pressed to express some kind of interest, they’d only make a functional inquiry like: "Can you still sit on it?"  Who wouldn’t want to hang out with folks like that?

However, when I entered the locker room at 5:30 last night, I discovered the lovely old folks had taken flight.  In their stead, a ginormous gaggle of high school girls greeted me; their swim team apparel flung like exploded feathers in a great mess about the place.  As they chirped and primped en masse, I marveled at the crowd of them.

I think I’m a typically modest person.  I fall somewhere between the lady who needs a private dressing room and the lady who blow-dries her hair wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy flip-flops and bright red toenail polish.  But I love my body, remember?  So I found a smidge of a spot where I could put my bag and began to unpack and undress.  I tried to blend into the crowd around me, but I couldn't help it, a song from my childhood began to play in my head.

 

 

 

So true.  One of these things just doesn't belong!  I may as well have been wearing that hat with the twirly thing spinning on top. I slithered into my suit as fast as I could and got the heck out of there, seeking the cover of water.

But it didn’t end there.  Apparently, I'd missed the flyer that announced "beautiful hour" at the pool.  Usually, I could find all of my old-folk friends in the deep end doing water aerobics to Rock Around the Clock.  Instead, as I came up for a breath, I noticed a whole crowd of 20-somethings gathering on deck.  They appeared to be looking for a place to swim.  Weren't they supposed to be at happy hour somewhere? To my chagrin, a hot young guy ventured over and got in my lane.  Really?

I suppose now is as good a time as any to remind you that this is the season of armpit hair.  Sigh.  I haven’t shaved my legs in more than ten years, but every summer, I succumb to suburbia’s poolside imperative for shaven pits.  I just can’t take the pressure.  Once the summer pool closes, however, the razor goes away.  I’m not a very hairy person, but after two full months of growth, trust me, there’s enough there to note.   Plus, my very tight swim suit has gotten even tighter over the past year, so parts of me clamor to get out of it as I lumber across the pool.  This is no fashion show.

Wondering if I'd have the guts to do backstroke, I pretended to clean my goggles so I could check out my new friend.  He was brown, muscular, and sort of beautiful in the water.  He had a sun tattooed on his shoulder and some kind of mesmerizing bird across his shoulder blades.  I realized, as I forced myself back to my workout, that aside from my very sweet niece, I almost never spend time with 20-somethings.  My house regularly bulges with young men--but they are teenagers.  When I look at them I see boys, and you can bet that when they look at me, they see an old hag.  And that feels exactly like it’s supposed to.

But this guy was no boy.  When he finally started to swim, I thought I might save face on technique.  I followed him with a surreptitious eye, hopeful that he’d turn out to be a flailer in a fancy suit, but alas, he had a smooth stroke and an intense flip turn—an ex-swim team type for sure.  

I can’t compete with that!  Even if I could do a flip turn, no way was I going to tip myself over, like a duck diving for fish, and show my padded backside to everyone on deck! 

 

So what to do? 

Well.  I think you already know.
 

Just keep swimming.

Yup.  Just keep swimming.  And try not to look quite so freaked out as Dory while you do it.  Oh.  And try not to think about her buddy, the whale:
 

You'll be pleased to know that eventually, I got into my workout and forgot about Mr. Beautiful with his svelte body and his trendy tattoos.  When I finished, I heaved the bulk of my sodden self out of the water, shook myself dry (right down to my padded tail feather) and waddled walked, unvanquished, to the locker room. 

The moral of the story?  Of course, all of us middle-aged folks can and should love our bodies.  But a word to the wise: it's a hell of a lot easier to pull that off if you can steer clear of beautiful-hour at the pool.