Who Needs Working Lungs Anyways?

I love giving people presents.

It becomes like an obsession for me - coming up with the perfect idea for a gift, searching for it, acquiring the gift and then (the ultimate event!!) watching the recipient open it. Over the years, I've grown to love giving gifts even more than I love receiving them.

But I definitely wasn't always that way.

When I was little, there was nothing that tortured me more than watching other people open and receive presents. I blame the fact that I was an only child (and an only grandchild on one side) for eight years. You just can't be expected to be a selfless person of virtue when every adult around you has spent eight years doting on you.

When my cousin got a bike for her first communion, I can remember watching her ride around the front yard, feeling like I couldn't breathe. It didn't matter that my own first communion was going to be the following week and I already knew I was getting a bike as well (and it was going to be a hot pink ten speed! Holy 1990 DJ Tanner!) and it didn't matter that the bike my cousin received wasn't anything like any bike I'd ever wanted, it still killed me to see someone else get a present.

I got a little better after my sisters were born, mostly because it's hard to be a totally horribly selfish 10 year-old brat when your parents also have a newborn and a baby going through the terrible twos. But I still wasn't cured. I can remember watching my four-year-old sister opening presents at her birthday party, and panicking when I felt that familiar tightening in my throat and drop in my stomach that signaled abject jealousy. Why didn't I get anything cool like that when I was a baby? I want a new Fisher Price kitchen and bakery!

Tomorrow I am about to experience the adult fitness version of my aversion to watching people open presents.

About a week ago I started feeling sick. A frequent visitor to the Sinus Infection Club of America (I'm not only the president, I'm a member!), I took it in stride and continued to train for my August 30 sprint triathlon. Like an idiot, I went running, did a few long bikes and even took a triathlon swimming clinic in the lake.

Then a few days later I woke up unable to breathe. Two sets of x-rays, a nebulizer treatment, steroid, antibiotic and inhaler prescriptions later, I found myself faced with a diagnosis of bronchitis and stern instructions to not do any athletic activity for two weeks. I got a second opinion. Phrases like "borderline pneumonia," "irreparable lung damage," and "compete over my dead body" were thrown around.

The long and short of it was that I was forbidden from competing in the triathlon. Logically I understand that I can't walk around my apartment without getting out of breath. I can't breathe deeply, and I can't laugh, talk or eat without coughing so hard it sounds like my organs are making a getaway through my trachea. I get it that I could be a danger to myself and others, and that there's a good chance I wouldn't physically be able to finish the race.

But that doesn't change the fact that tomorrow morning, as I go to watch thousands of people compete in one of the largest triathlons in the world, I'll be watching every one of them open a gift that I can't have.

Today, I had to go to the triathlon expo, hand in my time chip, and watch everyone else get body marked and learn about the course. I got to listen to the excited chatter of my wouldabeen fellow athletes, and even saw which swim heat I would have gone out in (8! My lucky number even!). The whole time I had that lump in my throat and stomach-tumbling feeling of watching someone get to do something I couldn't.

I'll be there tomorrow to cheer on one of my best friends who flew across the country to do this triathlon with me and now has to do it alone. I'll watch with the knowledge that I am now officially an over-training-after-school-special-PSA-against-burning-the-candle-at-both-ends-and in-the-middle. I'm so proud of my friend and how amazing she'll do, and I'll be really excited to watch her cross the finish line.

But I can't help feeling a little disappointed. Like I'm being forced to watch thousands of younger siblings open up the biggest present under the tree on Christmas morning. Well aware I'm whining here - please humor me.

The only good thing? I'm now officially in for the 2010 Chicago Triathlon. I hope everyone realizes what this means: you all have another year of watching me fall down, sweat genitalia shapes onto my shirts and wear my gear backwards.

Hope you're all ready for the ride.

Look Mom, I Dressed Myself!

I meant to post this a few weeks ago, but alas, was derailed by the bike debacle.

As many of you know, I purchased a wetsuit. After calculating how much it would cost me to rent my wetsuit each time I wanted to train, and the how long it would take me to wait in line to rent one for the actual triathlon (the woman at the store informed me that the Monday before the triathlon, the line stretches around the block before the store even opens with people waiting to get their wetsuits, and they run out. Uh yeah. That Monday also happens to be my birthday, and I need to spend the morning of my birthday waiting in line for a wetsuit that might not even materialize like I need a hole in the head).

My wetsuit arrived. I excitedly tried it on, ran around my apartment and posed in my most ferocious triathlete pose in front of the mirror. I hate to say it, but I looked badass. I had trained with a wetsuit before, but something about this one being my own made me love it. Yeah, that’s right, I own a wetsuit. Want to go swimming tonight after work? Oh hey, just let me stop by home and get my wetsuit. Awesome.

Normally I train after work, but the past few weeks I’ve been trying to get my training in before I start my day. There’s something so peaceful about running or biking along the Chicago lakefront when there’s not a million tourists on those bike car things or segways or athletes trying to run me down. So this morning I decided to brave the cold and join the other crazies at the beach and get my swim in before work.

Let's just take this opportunity to explain for those of you who have never been to or in Lake Michigan. Lake Michigan is cold. Very cold. In the dead of summer in the middle of the day, Lake Michigan is never a comfortable ocean-like temperature. Even with the wetsuit, you’re in a constant state of chill, and it usually takes me a few hours to be able to feel my hands, feet or face again.

I swam a little more than half a mile before I needed to go home to get ready for work. I made my way back to the beach and removed my swim cap and goggles. Like the other badass athletes, I stood on the water’s edge reveling in the moment. The sun had finally fully risen, and was just over the horizon, a blinding fiery red-orange. It was beautiful. My feet were so frozen that I almost couldn’t feel the water gently lapping against my legs. I sighed and reached behind to unzip my wetsuit.

The zipper wouldn't budge. I tugged harder. It still wouldn't move. I began to look around frantically to see if anyone else was noticing my plight. I started imagining myself having to bike back to my apartment and proudly walk through the lobby of my apartment, head held high, wearing a wetsuit. I pulled on the zipper harder, trying to unstick it. No luck.

That’s when I realized something. My wetsuit, this piece of modern engineering, was on. Inside out.

You know at the end of The Usual Suspects or The Sixth Sense when the big story twist is revealed, and suddenly there’s a montage of all of the scenes/clues that you, the stupid viewer, missed and yet should have caught? I suddenly had one of those moments:

Scene 1: Our heroine notices that the logo on the chest of her wetsuit is upside down. Hmm, she thinks. That’s strange – they put it on the wetsuit so if I look down at it while I’m swimming, I see it right-side up.

Scene 2: Our slightly befuddled heroine notices that there’s no Velcro patch on the back of the wetsuit to secure the zipper pull (most wetsuits have these) so it doesn’t get in the way while swimming. Interesting, she muses: I must have bought the one triathlon wetsuit in the entire world that doesn’t have one.

If you’ve never worn a wetsuit before, then you have some idea of how hard it was for me to shimmy the zipper down from the inside. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, then I commend you.

Sad Day

*Note: This post might contain profanity. But after you read it, you'd hardly be able to blame me.

I had a few things I wanted to post about - funny stories I wanted to share, observations I wanted to make, big words I wanted to use. But today's events required an entry.

Today was a very typical Chicago late summer day. 95 degrees, 100% humidity, 100% miserable. I ran errands all over the city, buying wedding gifts, shower gifts, groceries and other non-interesting stuff. As I returned home an hour later and drove into my building's garage (which requires a key pass to enter and exit), I pulled into my parking spot and noticed something was wrong.

My bike, which had been locked up (as many bikes in the garage are) on a cable that runs along the garage wall, was gone.

My beautiful, 8-month old, $700 bike that I have been using to get all around the city was gone. My mother's first question was "are you sure you didn't leave it somewhere?" like I was talking about a pair of earrings, not a mode of transportation. Every person I talked to today about the theft asked me if it had been locked up. Yes, it was. Whoever stole it was a professional - they broke the lock and took it with them.

I'm waiting to see the official building security camera tape to see if the people who stole it were on camera. Obviously, I know nothing can really come of it, but it might at least be interesting to see if I can actually view the theft.

What really gets me about this is that my bike and I were finally getting used to each other. Like any relationship, we had our ups and downs. For the last two months, my legs have been covered with what I affectionately call "bike bites" - bruises, cuts and scrapes from where I've had run-ins with the pedals, chain, wheels - you name it, I've injured myself on it. I figured my bike had heard me repeatedly say I can't stand Lance Armstrong (I'm sorry, I know you're supposed to like him, but I don't, and that's a post for another time) or knew that I had no idea how to fill its tires and took it out on me.

But over the past few weeks, we were settling into a routine of long rides down the lakefront, and limited injuries. I braved street riding, and my bike held its own with the early morning cyclers going 100 mph. I began to look forward to spending time with my bike. It was like we had gone to couples counseling, and were now reaping the rewards. As I dealt with the reality that the bike was gone (nothing like reporting a bike stolen to your insurance company, condo building and police - awesome), I started to get surprisingly emotional. This could have something to do with the fact that I've gotten six hours of sleep in two days and feel run ragged by my responsibilities as of late, but it was more that I was really upset someone had done this to me. I began to feel like Pee Wee Herman in Pee Wee's Big Adventure - I started seeing people happily riding their bikes all around me, and wanted to go on a cross-country trip to find my little pal.

Later as I was putting away laundry, I went to fold a pair of capri pants and noticed that the bottom of them were shredded. Like a sappy romantic movie, I suddenly saw a montage in my head to the Sarah Mclachlan song "I Will Remember You" of the day I rode through a major intersection and made it halfway through said intersection before noticing that my capris had gotten caught in the bike chain. In a split second survival decision, I ripped my capris from the chain Incredible Hulk style, and went the rest of the ride and a personal training session with one leg of my pants looking like I'd been shipwrecked with the Black Pearl. I'm not going to lie to you, I got a little teary eyed remembering my time with my bike.

So, to my little friend, wherever you are: I enjoyed the little time we had together. I was looking forward to the triathlon with you, and I thought we had potentially many more years to come together. Tonight I had this mental image of you in a pawn shop somewhere, your little night light flashing and your lock broken off, wondering if I had left you there. If this were a Disney movie, you'd undoubtedly go on an Incredible Journey-esque trip to find me. But, alas, I doubt we'll get to meet again. I hope you do get sold to someone who appreciates you and takes care of your squeaky rear brake.

And to the person who took my new friend: thanks. You, sir, are an asshat of the first degree. I curse the day you were born and I hope someone steals your bike someday. And maybe your pants. And then runs you over with the bike while wearing your pants. Yeah, I don't think that makes much sense either, but it makes me feel better.

Thoughts for the day...

You know what's awesome? The feeling of having a great run.

You know what's amazing? Feeling powerful and strong throughout that entire run.

You know what's great? Realizing how far you've come that 6 miles is your short run for the week.

You know what's affirming? Having several attractive, athletic men look you up and down and smile as they pass you running, causing you to think "hey, I have been losing weight lately, I'm looking damn good."

You know what's thought-provoking? Noticing that not only are men checking you out, but women are too.

You know what's not so great? Coming home, seeing the sweat stain pattern on your shirt and realizing what they were all staring at.

What do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

Funny thing about a blog. It’s sort of like a plant. You can get sidetracked and forget about the poor little thing and before you know it, it’s crusty and withered and dying.

As you might be able to guess, I’m not a good gardener.

But back on the horse. We’re now at about a month and a half until the triathlon, three months until the marathon. I’m in the thick of training. And I’ve noticed one thing about myself: I am having an identity crisis about who I want to be.

Not professionally. Not personally. Not in the great higher deep meaning sense.

I cannot decide which crazy gym personality I want to be.

I’ve become a regular, working out there six days a week, and as a devoted people watcher, I’ve started noticing other regulars who entertain me like they’re part of some sick twisted reality show. People seem to view the gym like they do singing in their car: because they’re in their own little worlds, no one else notices them. But oh, we do. Let me introduce you to some of the cast:

• The sorority girl who knows everyone: I’m keeping track. Every time this girl comes in, complete with a blonde bouncy ponytail and a sorority t-shirt, she sees someone she knows. Her reaction is pretty impressive. She bounds over to them, squeals out a greeting, usually with a strange nickname (last night’s was Bobo. I kid you not) and jumps up and down until the person puts down their weights, steps off the cardio machine and acknowledges her. Sort of reminds me of my Terrier.
• The leg shaver: This woman is my least favorite. At least once a week she sits on one of the benches in the middle of the locker rooms, plugs in an electric shaver and shaves her legs so she can watch TV while she does it. The first time I saw her do this, I nearly vomited.
• The wall: This man is nearly 7 feet tall (I know, because my trainer who is 6’5” stood next to him and only hit his chest) and has no neck, just a head on massive, massive shoulders. He never speaks, only grunts, and he terrifies me. Actually, I can’t talk about it now. Stop asking already.
• The dancer: this man alternates lifting with doing jumps and toe touches. In the middle of the weight room. Usually, he makes the guys around him so uncomfortable that they clear a space around him so he can move. The other night he actually spun around pirouette-style. It was beautiful. Brought a tear to my eye.
• The possible steroid user: this guy insists on wearing v-neck t-shirts that appear to be a bit dressier than normal gym wear. He can’t really carry the look, though, because he has no shoulders, due to um, extensive lifting. His neck is the size of a tree trunk and he grunts ridiculously loudly every time he moves. Also, should you be able to count all of the veins in a person’s neck?
• The Frat guys*: these guys travel in a pack, wear shirts that say things like “Drink till she’s cute” and set up elaborate circuit training stations that get in everyone’s way. They then proceed to complete their circuit exercises with poor form, as much weight as their bodies can handle and as much noise as possible. While one exercises, it’s not unusual to see the group of them surrounding the equipment shouting things like “one more set bro,” “get it done,” “you’re money” and other gems.
• The guy who never leaves: Can someone please come claim this guy already? He’s there every day. He knows everyone, and he wears the same outfit every time: gym shorts, an UnderArmour long sleeved shirt and a Chicago Bears hat. Most of the time, he doesn’t appear to be exercising, just walking around looking at everyone else. I’m worried about him.
  

There are many more that have caught my eye or fascinated me throughout many a workout, but these are some of the all stars. After watching all of these people for months, I’ve started to wonder: how do people see me? I’m guessing “that girl that always looks near death” or “that girl whose face resembles a beet while running.” Hmm. It’s sort of a interesting thing, though. I could mold my persona into whatever I want to be in front of these people who don’t know the real me. Oh the power.

*Note: my characterizations are in no way, shape or form meant to be derogatory to sororities or fraternities. I totally drank that Kool Aid while in college and am a proud card-carrying former sorostitute. Go Greek!

The Spring of My Running Discontent: How Can I Run in a Snowsuit?

Yesterday I decided to go for a run outside. It’s springtime in Chicago, meaning we’re all hoping to will the weather to change. One of my coworkers has been wearing flip flops every day despite the fact that 5 out of the last 7 days have been below freezing. I think she’s hoping that somehow her poor bare feet will convince Mother Nature to turn on the heat or something.

Anyway. It was sunny outside, and I wanted to look like one of those badass runners in tights and headbands I see jogging down the street in the dead of winter, so I bundled up and headed outside. I made it around the corner of my building before I realized it was cold. Really cold. I jogged to the lakefront, and was pleasantly surprised to see there was really no one running or biking there. On a typical warm Saturday, that area resembles the Indy 500 with no rules. As I rounded the corner to begin my picturesque jaunt along the lakefront, a gale force wind that was something out of the Perfect Storm on crack hit me. I tripped. I glanced around, saw no one had seen my stumble, and continued along. Play by play:

Minute 2:31: Think to self “this is crisp and pleasant. I can see my breath and my iPod feels like it’s being frozen to my arm, but hey, I’m out here and that’s what matters.”
Minute 4:17: Wind is making it hard to run in the direction I’m trying to go. I look like a fat lady in water aerobics trying to get to the edge of the pool.
Minute 7:02: Glance out at the lake and start to daydream about summer. Daydream promptly ends when giant freezing wave crashes nearby and gets my feet wet.
Minute 9:38: Thought dawns on me that I am doing this to myself. Make mental note to punish myself appropriately for this idiotic decision when I get home.
Minute 10:00: Pass by attractive man and quicken step to appear more athletic. Quickly realize the look he gives me isn’t a result of my impressive gait, but because I have frozen snot stuck to my cheek.
Minute 15:00: Pedometer freezes and starts telling me I’ve run 7 miles. Considering I’m not a Kenyan Olympic runner, I’m thinking this is a weather-related equipment malfunction.
Minute 17:24: Begin to think I understand what the arctic explorers and Donner party felt like. True desperation is setting in.
Minute 19:03: Pass by small child in stroller with hot chocolate. Want to knock parent down, throw child out of stroller and curl up in stroller with pilfered hot chocolate.
Minute: 21:57: Begin full on hallucinations. Start to think Leonardo DiCaprio is with me, telling me I’m not going to die “not here, not now.” Begin to worry that perhaps that freckle on my hand isn’t a freckle at all, but the beginning of gangrenous frostbite.
Minute 30:01: Damn it feels good to be back in my apartment huddled under 12 blankets eating macaroni and cheese.

It’s back to the treadmill for me, unless I can run in a snowsuit. Would I be more or less of an athlete if I went running in my Snuggie (book light optional)?

An Introduction

I am a wannabe athlete. I see people running along the Chicago lakefront with their coordinating Nike outfits and a pang of jealousy seizes me as I readjust my faded “No Rum No Fun: Spring Break 2001” t-shirt and ill-fitting sweatpants, and mosey on my way at a pace that can only be described as somewhere between geriatric and tortoise.

Before continuing let me just clue you in on a few important facts that will help explain this blog and my entries in it:

1. I played soccer for five years, and in that time, never scored one goal. Now this might be because after one season, my coach realized my lack of speed and running abilities, and moved me to defense for the remainder of my career, but it remains one of those life goals I’m bummed that I’ll never achieve.
2. I ran cross country in junior high. My first year, I came in last in every single race.
3. I once choked on a packet of energy gel during a race and almost needed the Heimlich.
4. In high school, I came in last in a charity walkathon.
5. I think Diet Coke is a perfectly acceptable breakfast accompaniment.
6. Last year I tore a ligament in my foot and ended up wearing an orthopedic boot for 6 weeks. How did I do this? Easy. My foot fell asleep, I jumped up from the couch to answer the phone, tripped and rolled my ankle. Duh.
7. Last week during a session with my personal trainer, I hit myself in the face with a weight and moments later tripped over the bottom of my yoga pants. My trainer assured me it was the first time in his entire career that he had seen a person do this.
8. I hate Gatorade.
9. I sunburn easily. Like 10 minutes outside easily.
10. Last year I ran the half marathon. I didn’t train as well as I should have, and was nearly crippled by the experience. Well, nearly crippled by the experience and the amount of aspirin I consumed trying to ease the pain.
11. Last year, while training for said half marathon, I went for a run along the lake and somehow threw my pedometer that was on my wrist into the water. As I watched it sink to its watery grave, a lifeguard came up behind me and asked me incredulously, “how the hell did that happen?”
12. I love my DVR like a person.

So, now that that’s out of the way, the purpose this of this blog is to document my experiences training and getting in shape for two huge events: the Chicago Sprint Triathlon in August and the Chicago Marathon in October. This time, I’m doing it right – I’ve started training, transforming eating habits and all that jazz. I have a plan and the time to execute it.

All the while thinking – I must be out of my God damn mind.