TST Gets Brave

Distance:  7 miles

Pace:  8:51

Sleep:  4.5 hours

Drinks at speak easy the night before:  2

Mo Jo has admittedly been keeping this blog afloat for the last few months.  I’ve been running – occasionally – but have not had much time to post.  Since the beginning of September, I’ve been to Ireland, Albuquerque, Denver, San Francisco, and Fresno.  All but Ireland were work trips.  I had some amazing runs in Ireland, but have since forgotten too many details to post.  I also had a great run in  Denver, but it was too uneventful (eventless?) to post.  

(From top left clockwise, Denver, Vegas (with Husband #1 and his toe shoes), and Ireland)

Which brings me to San Francisco.  I spent Tuesday through Sunday of last week in San Francisco.  San Francisco may be my all time favorite city in the world.  I’ve spent a lot of time there and logged a lot of miles running there.  You can cruise up the coast for a (relatively) flat run.  Or you can turn in to the city and chug up one of the city’s many hills.  On prior trips, I’ve even run up the famous Lombard street.  It is supposed to be closed to pedestrian traffic, but what can I say?  I’m a rebel.  

My first run did not disappoint.  I was there for a conference and had a lot of time available on Wednesday morning.  I ran from Soma (where my hotel was) to Embarcadero and up through Fort Mason (the only significant hill along that part of the coast) to the marina.  When I turned around, I back-tracked for a bit, but decided to go inland just before Ghiradelli Square.  I hit both Russian Hill and Nob Hill on the way back to the hotel.  My pace skyrocketed from around a 9:00 mile to a 10:30 average after those hills.  Phew!

(A prior run up Lombard Hill.  Or maybe this was a down run.  In any event, I've run up and down it multiple times.)

For my second run, I had badgered a fellow conference attendee (we’ll call him Timmy) into running with me.  We headed out after a very early business meeting.  This meant I was in full makeup, not my normal running look.  We started out the same way, up the Embarcadero.  We “turned around” at about 2.6 miles.  Rather than turning around, I had the brilliant idea to go hit some hills like I had the day before.  We ran up to the famous part of Lombard street.  The street to get there is very steep and we were mocked by a group of French tourists who were walking up the hill at a pace not much slower than our running pace.  We got to the base of the curvy part of Lombard and admired it while we caught our breath.  Timmy declined the opportunity to run up it.  I then attempted to lead us back to the hotel with minimal additional hills.  This resulted in a series of diagonal intersections with no cross-walks and sidewalks that were closed for construction.  We hit the outskirts of Chinatown, as well.  These are not ideal running conditions.  The last mile of the run went something like this:  run, run, run, stop for red light, run, run, run, shit, the sidewalk’s closed, run, run, run, stop for red light.  Not my finest run-planning moment.  

My third run almost didn’t happen.  Following an evening of networking and a trip to a speak-easy, my friend and I discovered we were starving at 1:00 am.  There is nowhere to eat in Soma a 1:00 am, save Denny’s.  I initially declined and then realized I might die of starvation in my sleep, so then accompanied my friend, who shall henceforth be known as Denny, to Denny’s at 1:00 am.  I inhaled a cheese omelette, hash browns, and toast before Denny was even halfway through her omelette.  This gave me time to look around for our server to signal for the check.  Instead, I accidentally made eye contact with a man who had just come into the restaurant.  He took this as an invitation to saunter up to our table where the following exchange took place:

Man:  I like your hair.

Me:  *polite smile* Thanks.

Man:  So, are you married?

Denny:  *dissolves into giggles right in poor man’s face*

I did not get back to my room until after 1:30 am.  As I apparently cannot sleep past 6:00 am anymore, regardless of my bedtime, I was working off less than 5 hours’ sleep when I began my third San Francisco run (not surprisingly, Timmy had ignored my e-mail asking if he wanted to join me).  I have run right up to the Golden Gate before, but never beyond as it is quite some distance from Soma (where I am usually staying because that’s where all the conferences are).  The coastline is gorgeous and I wanted to see more of it, so I decided to cab to Crissy Field and start my run there.  My original plan was to run around the coast underneath the Golden Gate and see what was there.  I got in the cab and told the driver to take me to Crissy Field.  She replied “where?”  I was baffled and just had  her take me to the marina.  I still had to give her directions.  

On the way there, I started thinking about the Golden Gate.  I cannot count how many people have told me I NEED to run/walk/bike the bridge.  Except, here’s the thing, I’m terrified of heights.  I hate even driving over bridges.  In the few seconds it takes to fly across a bridge going 80 mph, my palms sweat and I can’t look down.  So running across the Golden Gate?  As if!  As we drew closer to the water and the Golden Gate loomed, however, my lack of sleep affected my thinking.  Somewhere near the end of my cab ride, I decided I had to run the Golden Gate while I was still young(ish) and strong enough to run.  Besides, the weather was gorgeous and promised a great toe-shoes pic.  

(Stunning overlook of the Golden Gate.)

So I started at the marina.  The day was sunny and warm.  A little too warm.  But it’s okay because I’d heard the bridge was really windy.  I eased off the pace, knowing I’d want to get off the bridge as quickly as possible.  Soon I began to climb the hill that went right up to the bridge.  And then, all of a sudden (2.5 miles into my run), there it was – spread out in front of me.  It was long and foreboding and PACKED with people.  I took a deep breath, put on some Tech 9 to make myself feel tough, and started to run.  I was afraid the bridge would sway in the wind.  Fortunately, it was sturdy and the wind wasn’t very strong.  Frankly, the biggest danger to me  was bikes.  The bikes speed over the bridge and I had to dart out in front of them to get around the tourists casually strolling three abreast down the narrow(ish) sidewalk.  The risk of grievous bodily injury via bike helped take my mind off the heights.  Until I looked down at the water.  Ho-ly shit!  I was high up!  And I immediately became dizzy and nauseated.  So I tried not to look down any more.  

(From the other side of the bridge!)

(My fingers and toes tingled taking this picture.  Yipe!  So high up!)

The bridge was about 1.5  miles across.  When I reached the other side, I called husband #1 and told him I ran across the bridge.  I expected to be mocked, but he said “wow, that’s a big deal . . . for you.”  Yes.  Yes I am brave.  I conquered my utterly irrational fear of bridges.  I ran back across, victorious, and back down the cliff to sea level.  Then I headed inland and caught an Uber back to my hotel.  Where I napped.  

Mo' Jo: Bisbee Is Coming.

Distance: 30 miles (in several runs)
Pace: MUCH better. Am changing name to Mo' Jo (short for Moderate)
Injuries: 1

Greetings, wine and running fans! So last Saturday, I was hanging out with TST watching her kid play soccer, and she had on an awesome tank top that I should have taken a picture of. It said, "RUN NOW WINE LATER." She was mildly concerned it wasn't appropriate for a kiddie-event, but basically every parent who walked by complimented her on her shirt. We at Running on Wine are apparently not alone in our love of post-run wine.

I've been running quite a lot lately. I tried trail running. This came to an abrupt--and I mean abrupt--halt when I managed to fall two steps into the run. I wasn't really awake or into the run, but I had gone anyway. We walked up the concrete path to where Trail 100 starts at Dreamy Draw, and then said, "Let's go!" I stepped off the concrete onto the trail , started to run, and caught my toe on a rock. BAM. I slammed my hip into the ground and scraped my shin, elbow, and hands. So that run was sort of a bust. I had to tell the other runners to go on without me while I reassured myself that my hips and knees still worked.

I needed a different run. One with fewer rocks. My office is three miles from my house, so I started running to and from work. I have learned that it is perfectly acceptable to run three miles holding a Tupperware container with my lunch in it in one hand and my iPhone in the other. I work in a very small office and am my own boss, so the dress code is pretty lax around here. If I want to wear sweaty clothes, that's fine, says the boss. The office is a converted house, so the bathrooms even have showers. Why wouldn't I run an extra six miles a day?

"I know why," says one uninvited speaker. "Because I am going to blow up on you." Well, welcome, Achilles tendon, to the Injury Party.

I consulted the Bible of Running, aka Runner's World, and it said, to no one's surprise, that the Achilles can get inflamed from increasing mileage too quickly. Guilty. Moreover, I've been really trying to increase my pace. I've been running more like 10:30s, which is still slow for many of you, but for me represents an increase of like 1:17 per mile (approximately). (I got that from Nike Run, which has been sending me happy little messages like that.) To increase my pace, I've been trying to speed up my cadence and also quit striking with my heel.

For example, yesterday we ran the Bridle Path for four miles. I took off like a shot (in my mind). Felt great. Run run run. You would think I would have learned by now that starting off too fast leads to a great deal of pain later on in the run, but no. I have learned nothing. Coach caught up to me around the end of Mile 2 when I was beginning to think about lying down in the roadway and said, "So, started off too fast?" I would have told him off but I couldn't breathe. But after we turned around, I felt good again and tried my best to haul ass back to the car, focusing on my cadence and keeping my weight on the balls of my feet. It's been really fun to see better times on my Nike Run app.

Really fun! But then I had to limp down the hallway to the coffeepot when I got out of bed this morning. Ah, man. Rest and ice, rest and ice.

Observant readers will note that this post, titled Bisbee Is Coming, has absolutely nothing to do with Bisbee. But I'm getting there. We're going this weekend for the Bisbee 1000, a four-mile race with a thousand stairs. I've been running stadiums with Pixie and E to get ready. I actually love that workout but wish my calves would not cry for an entire week afterward. We are planning to be dressed as hippies. Last year, there weren't that many people in costumes, but we are undeterred! Unfortunately, TST is not able to go to Bisbee, so you'll have to get the race report from me. Maybe we can get Pixie to do a guest post. See you in Bisbee or in next week's blog!

Slo Jo: Updates from Slow Training Weeks

Distance: doesn't matter
Pace: don't care
Wine consumed: the usual, normal amount for a healthy single woman with a stressful job

TST and I haven't had any pressing goals set for a while. It has been summer in Phoenix, and that takes the motivation out of even the most enthusiastic Gatorade-swilling athlete. But it is mid-September now, so for me at least (TST is always in shape), it has been time to get back in gear.

Upcoming races include the Bisbee Stair Climb 1000, so I have announced we are doing Stadium Wednesdays and Sundays to my friends. Now, we did Bisbee last year, and if you are not in the fast group, you don't exactly kill it on the stairs. You are surrounded by a lot of people trying not to have a heart attack who are going super slow, and it is impossible to get by them. So I don't feel like I need to be in amazing condition for this race; on the other hand, I don't want to be sore. Or be one of the heart attack people I may have been a teensy bit judge-y about last year.

Then I have the Tucson Half Marathon in December, which promises to be a solidly downhill course. My friend KS says she has run it and that it is, yes, assuredly downhill. So I need to PR this thing. Coach has been working with me on speed workouts, but alas, I still appear to be keeping the Slow in Slo-Jo. I just CANNOT run fast. I was trying to pace this woman who was not, shall we say, built like a runner, and she TOASTED me.

And then we have the Napa full marathon in March. TST picked it out, because she is a sadist. First, she wants to be in wine country at a time when our wine consumption has to be dramatically curtailed. Perhaps she does not remember wistfully wandering around New Orleans the Saturday afternoon before the marathon when all that sounded good was a little sazerac, but I do. And we ate dinner in New Orleans at 5pm. We were the only people in there. We even beat the elderly. Wine country with no little wine is going to be less fun, I predict, than wine country with wine.

Second, after I decided I was not going to let a little wine deprivation stop me from signing up, I perused the Napa marathon website and ran across this:

"The Kaiser Permanente Napa Valley Marathon (NVM) prohibits the use of all electronic devices on the race course—in accordance with Road Runners Club of America guidelines and USA Track & Field (USATF) Rule 1.44.3(f). These devices include cell phones, MP3 players, and other portable audio or video devices using headphones."

WHAT NOW?

No headphones? No music? Just me and my thoughts about chafing for several hours?

I posted this on Facebook, and two of my friends who are experienced marathoners chimed in and said it was actually good. I would be zen with my running. I would concentrate on form. It was way better than checking out and listening to music, they said. (These people do not take five hours to run a marathon, I will just note.)

Okay, so this is going to be swell. Can't wait.

Last, you are thinking, where is the triathlon you promised? A couple of points on that.

We're having a little trouble agreeing on a race. TST won't swim in a lake. She has suggested triathlons that involve a pool. Recall this is the same person who signed us up for a music-free, wine-free marathon. The thought of doing a tri in a pool gives me the concern as a no-music marathon about lapsing into a coma from boredom, but if you do that in a pool, you drown. Ix-nay the ool-pay, I say. I want to do ocean. Or at least open water. Anyway, we'll figure it out soon.

Also, the last time I went swimming I had a traumatic experience, so I haven't been back. In my last post, I mentioned how the high point of lap swimming is the hot tub awaiting me at the end of the swim. I love me some hot tubs. So while I swim, I keep one goggled beady eye on the hot tub to see who is in it. On the last one, some old lady got in it, then got out (me: score), then a middle aged man got in. Hmm. I kept checking on the laps that faced the hot tub to see if he was still in there, and noticed the tub was full of foam. "Huh," I thought. "There must be some sort of 'bubbler' action I hadn't noticed."

So I got out of the pool and, despite having a little friend in there, got in the hot tub. (Don't worry, this story doesn't turn into a Hot Tub After-Swim Delite story or anything.) I pushed the tidal wave of foam aside, nodded hi, and settled in. Ahhhhh. Then I looked around and saw a sign: "Why does the hot tub foam?"

Intrigued, I kept reading. "The hot tub foams when members don't take a shower and the tub senses extra body oils or dirt that trigger a chemical reaction to keep the tub clean."

I looked at the man. I looked at the sign. I looked at the foam chemicals stripping a layer off my skin. I got out of the hot tub and took a shower. So...I haven't been back. But my skin looks amazing.

Slo Jo: Slo Jo Swims

Distance: 800 meters
Pace: Stately
Wine consumed: None.

I never, ever thought I'd say I miss running. I would have thought if I couldn't run any more, I'd think, finally, I have a good excuse not to run. I'd say, "Oh yeah, I ran a marathon once. Now, I can't run anymore so don't ask me." I'd join the ranks of former runners with their blown out knees and busted hips.

Turns out, I don't want to go gentle into that good night. I miss it. And I can't eat like I want to when I'm not running. I even had to turn my back on--you should be sitting down for this--wine.

I know. I KNOW. This is a serious situation.

The solution is obvious. Are you not training for a soon-to-be-selected triathlon, Slo Jo? Are there not other things you might practice, like, I don't know, SWIMMING?

Yes, yes, yes. And I agree, so I went swimming on Sunday, which seems to be the one cardio activity I can still do with my sprained foot. The Y has a 25-meter pool that is, thankfully, usually pretty empty. I'm already used to being a slow runner, but I don't need to get passed by every other person in the pool when I'm focusing on surviving. Coach has given me a ladder program to try: 4x50s, 2x100s, 1x200, then back down. He says I'm not allowed to hold onto the wall during the set--that is, complete your 50 and THEN you get to hold on to the wall. Okay, off we go.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. I remember this from swim team, age 10.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Kind of harder to breathe on the left. Weird. Sort of like I have trouble turning right when I'm skiing. I'm totally Zoolander.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, inhale some water. How come no one else in the pool needs to take a break mid-lap to cough? At least I'm giving the lifeguard something to look at.

The 4x50s are absolutely no problem. The 2x100s are more challenging. I decide I am not quite ready for a 200 with no wall hang time--me and the wall are like *this*, I love the wall--and skip that part of the ladder. I seem to get within 10 meters of finishing a set and need to have a little choke break. This swimming thing is a sinus-clearer-outer.

Two more 100s. My swim cap seems to be sliding off the back of my head. I try to adjust it and knock my goggles off. I bet Missy Franklin does not have these problems.

Four more 50s and done. It took about half an hour to swim 800 meters. I suspect that is not very good. But anyway, the best part about the Y pool is the hot tub for post swim relaxing. I love it. Sometimes there is an old man in it, which is disconcerting, but usually it is all mine. There's no hot tub waiting for me in running ever! I'm getting on board with this swimming thing.

Slo Jo: Slo Jo Takes a Hike

Distance run: about 8 miles, two runs
Distance hiked: 2.4 miles
Distance fell on way to dramatic entry into river: maybe three or four feet

Triathlon training has begun. I swam in a pool and, like TST, did not drown. The nice thing about swimming is that the boredom is alleviated by the occasional mouthful of water and a coughing fit, which livens things right up. Trying to breathe and not drown will definitely take your mind right off your boredom.

I had a busy week before the Fourth, and basically did nothing but work, but then some friends and I went to Sedona for the Fourth of July weekend. For two mornings in a row, I got up early and ran about 45 minutes. I was so darned pleased with myself, because I hadn't been motivated to run at all before that. I told my friends, "I bet I'd be in killer shape if Phoenix were not the surface of the sun." I felt like my distance running muscles were back. I could have run 90 minutes. 120 minutes.

It helped with my feeling of "could run forever" that the return part of the run was downhill. On day two, I struggled up an endless hill for about 30 minutes before deciding to turn around. I reversed my route and made it back to the house in ten. How was that even possible?! I decided it was definitely a shorter distance on the way back.

(View from run. Yes, my finger in the frame is intentional. It, um, adds perspective.)

After day two's run, I was feeling like Slo Jo Got Her Groove Back, and enthusiastically joined the group for a hike. We drove out to Sycamore Creek in two cars, one marginally suited for the bumpy dirt road (M's SUV) and one born for it (Pixie's minivan). Okay, so the minivan wasn't actually born to be off-road. My friend S. and I were catching air in the backseat from the bumps. He said, "It's like a roller-coaster!"

We hiked 1.2 miles along the Verde River, and then found the spot where a natural spring feeds into the river. Everyone took off their shoes and waded into the spring. I hesitated, then told myself to stop being lame and took off my shoes. After all, it was hot, and the spring would feel good. At the last second, I looked at everyone's phones tucked into their shoes and took mine out, too. I supposed I might get splashed or something.

There was a steep muddy slope to get into the spring. M, who is far more experienced outdoors than I am (like nearly everyone on the planet), was behind me and said to me, "Do you need a hand?"

I said, "I'm good." I placed my bare foot carefully on the slope, shifted my weight onto it, and shot into space for a brief, glorious moment before I came crashing down into water, mud, and rocks.

Well, that hurt.

I landed on my right side in the shallow water, scraping my knee, banging my hip, and wrenching my foot. I got up, noticing I had mud all over myself, and hobbled over to sit on a rock in the water to try to launder my shorts. My knee started to swell around the scrape. My foot was very painful but I figured it would get better if I kept it in the cool water.

It did not get better. I hobbled back out of the spring and only made it back up the slope with F's help. Then we had to hike out, even though I couldn't put any weight on my foot except on the heel and big toe. I got my shoes on and started gimping along. I yelled out, "This wouldn't faze TST!" and everyone laughed. She'd probably have run back to the car just to say "eff you" to her foot.

S., proclaiming "no buddy left behind," stayed with me for the slow limp back to the car. I wanted to complain but thought of something I had heard once. People want things to be hard so they can say, "Look what I did! I hiked with a broken foot! It was excruciating!" and have all this drama and have people marvel at how you conquered something difficult. Or you can just say, "This is easy," and have no drama and be at peace with yourself. So I said mentally, "This is easy," and frankly, that did make it easier. No drama, no upset, just some limping. I did note that, unlike my run, the hike BACK to the car was far longer than the hike from the car. And occasionally I said a bad word when I stepped on something wrong and wrenched my foot again.

When I still couldn't walk the next day, I went to urgent care for an x-ray. Fortunately, I just have a sprained foot and nothing is broken. Broken sounds a lot more dramatic, but I'm not going for drama, I'm going for easy. Sprained means it will heal more quickly and I'll be back to training more quickly. I am supposed to rest it for two weeks, but I can still swim or bike after a few days of icing. And I get to wear this cool shoe:

(Maybe it only comes in one size?)

The doctor tried to put me in a boot, but the physician's assistant (who also, when I told him my weight, said, "Really? I would have guessed [20 pounds less]." Best PA Ever Award coming your way, sir) talked her into the shoe instead, asking if she wanted to kill me in the summer heat. So the shoe it is. I always did like getting new shoe.

TST: Swam 500 meters. Did not drown.

Meters swam:  500

Meters swam freestyle continuously:  62.5

Age of ugly Speedo swimsuit:  6 years.

So Slo Jo and I are doing a triathlon!  Yay for more blog posts!  As she reported, I was quite enthusiastic about her awesome idea to do a tri.  But she did not quite report all our conversation.  After agreeing to pretty much everything she suggested, I threw a major caveat:  "All that sounds great!  BUT I REFUSE TO SWIM IN TEMPE TOWN LAKE!"  For you non-Phoenicians, Tempe Town Lake is where most of the Phoenix-based triathlons (the longer ones, anyway) hold their swims.  It is also a warm, gross, cesspool of mystery waste and dead fish.  I will get a lot of crap for writing that because many of my friends have ventured into it and lived.  But I stand by my statement.  I have a healthy and legitimate fear of nasty man-made lakes. 

Ten years ago when I was about to graduate grad school, I was having a celebratory drink with my friend, Reverend Jen.  A couple of glasses of wine into the evening, Rev. Jen and I decided it would be fun to do a triathlon.  At that point in my life, I'd played a lot of hockey and logged many hours on the elliptical, but the farthest I'd ever run was likely a 5K.  It sounded ridiculously impossible and dangerous to do even a sprint triathlon.  So I agreed!  We selected the Las Vegas triathlon that fall and spent the summer training (while also studying for certification exams for our chosen profession).  I bought a training book, which included a training journal.  We'd meet to swim several times a week and then would bike and run on other days.  After our workouts, we'd hang out at a coffee shop and study all day.  I'm not joking when I say it was among the best summers of my life.  It was also the summer I realized I am not a good freestyle swimmer.  Growing up in the Midwest, it was only warm enough to swim for a couple months of the year.  But I spent those entire months in the pool.  Every August, I'd head back to school with chlorine-green hair.  I took swim lessons, diving lessons, and swam on the swim team.  

But that was several years before college.  My body still knew how to do the strokes, but not very efficiently.  My breathing was an especially big problem.  I'd be good for a lap or so, but then I'd inhale a drop of water or 20, gasp, panic, and everything would fall apart.  The lone exception is the breast stroke.  I can breast stroke forever.  I'm not fast, but I'm strong.  If I was somehow shipwrecked a mile offshore, barring any adverse animal encounter, I'm confident I could breaststroke my way to dry land.  So when it came time to do the triathlon, I breast stroked.  But did I mention the triathlon was in Lake Mead?  No?  Well, it was.  And Lake Mead is also a man-made cesspool (something about deserts and lakes just does not go together).  For the first half of the (400 meter) swim, I refused to put my head under the brown, cloudy, smelly water.  But I ultimately decided I did not put on my super-flattering pink swim cap for nothing.  So I dipped my head under for the last 200 meters.  I don't know if I'm just unusually gape-y, but I always get water in my mouth when I swim.  And this was no exception.  The rest of the tri itself was uneventful.  I finished triumphantly and celebrated with many flavored coffee and pastry calories at Starbucks.  Within a couple hours, though, my throat was raw.  That night, I lost the ability to swallow anything but the teensiest bit of water and my temperature skyrocketed.  I was sicker than I had been in recent memory.  So sick I actually went to the doctor after a couple days.  They ran a strep culture and even tested me for mono.  No dice.  They never could actually figure out what was wrong with me.  They vaguely told me it was some mystery virus.  After about a week, it went away.  But I knew the truth.  Lake Mead's nastiness poisoned me. Thus my reluctance to jump into Tempe Town Lake.  

While SJ is researching clean-water triathlons for her prissy friend, the temperature in Phoenix is skyrocketing.  I spent the weekend up in the mountains.  The high was 90.  I went for a run in 85-degree weather (which, frankly, was a bit hot in light of the sun and altitude).  Then I returned to Phoenix and -- because my dinner recipe called for it -- turned on my broiler to broil shrimp.  This made my kitchen only marginally cooler than the 110 degrees my car reported it being outside.  So after dinner, I decided:  what better time to see if I can still swim?  I dug my ancient Speedo one-piece out of my underwear drawer.  The elastic still held, so I borrowed Daughter #1's goggles and drove to the pool.  The pool is only .2 miles away, but did you read the part about 110 degrees?  Yeah.  

It was okay.  There is a 25 meter lap pool in my neighborhood.  I jumped in and swam one lap freestyle.  Then I breast stroked lap 2.  I continued alternating for most my swim.  Then on lap 17, I decided to see if I could make my last 4 laps freestyle.  Nope.  I made it through lap 17, 18, and half of 19.  Then my lungs felt like they were going to explode.  Breast stroke it is.  It just allows for such wonderful access to oxygen!  I swam 20 laps, which should be 500 meters.  I think it might have been more because I had to repeatedly dodge a group of 12 year old boys who have no awareness of people trying to swim laps in a a lap pool.  It took me about 20 minutes and I felt a delicious burn in my back muscles/rear deltoids.  Hmmm . . . this might balance out all the pec/tricep work I do at boxing!  Upon returning home I recapped my workout for Slo Jo via text:  "Swam 500 meters.  Did not drown."  That about sums it up.  Nothing to write home about, but it's a good start.  And so what?  I might have to breast stroke my triathlon.  I'm sure worse things have happened.  (And I trust our dear readers to inform me if this is some serious breach of triathlon etiquette.)   Now I've got a nice glass of bubbly calling my name.  Cheers!

Slo Jo: And So It Begins (Again)

Miles run since marathon: Oh, maybe 8. Over four months.
Glasses of wine since marathon: 9 thousand
Hours spent on couch: Infinite

I don't know if you heard, but running and I broke up. After the marathon, I just lost interest. I tried to rekindle it. We went on a couple of dates. On one, I made it exactly one-quarter mile before deciding, "This sucks." I walked home. On another, I ran six miles. I thought, "We're back together!" And then...we weren't.

I cannot tell you how annoying it is to have a little voice in your head saying, didn't you spend hours training to run 26.2 miles and now you are basically back to full-on couch potato? Perhaps unfortunately for me, that voice is drowned out by the one telling me running is boring and painful. Cocktails by the pool are better.

Before I could fully degenerate into full-on sloth and require a motorized cart to truck around Safeway, I called TST for help. She's very agreeable:

Me: I think we should set another goal.
TST: Okay!
Me: How about a triathlon?
TST: Okay!

I think if I had said, let's train for Mount Everest, or Badwater, or, I don't know, swimming across the Atlantic, she would have been equally enthused. As we have discussed in this blog, TST is made of stronger stuff.

We have some new challenges, like, um, swimming. I haven't tried to swim laps since I was ten years old and on a swim team. I had a silly swim suit with a tiger on it and it would not stay up covering my chest when I dove off the blocks, which was embarrassing at ten and is Really Not Acceptable at 40. So I bought a swim suit, and googles, and yes, a swim cap. This is not going to be a blog about having green hair. And I joined a bike club. We enlisted Shoe Killer for a buddy on long rides. I need to get a bike seat not built for a slender man with no pelvis. And some new running shoes. Because I wore HOLES in mine training for the marathon. I feel like I should get these things bronzed.

Who's a shoekiller now?

So stay tuned! We are BACK! Running on Wine 2: Trying for the Tri, or the Wrath of Couch, or WTF, Flip Turns, or How I Learned to Remember to Unclip My Shoes from the Pedals Before the Stop Sign. We're excited. Now, we just need to pick a race!