Flying Through the Air With the Greatest of Ease

When you’ve been out of the athletic/training game for a while, there are certain benchmarks you hit that let you know you’re starting to devolve athletically. For some people, its feeling tired all the time and for the extremely athletic, it’s noticing an increase in time or a decrease in speed.

For me, it’s falling. You see, the big guy upstairs (that’s a God-reference, not any sort of reference to my neighbor because I actually live on the top floor) did not decide in his infinite wisdom to give me what some might call grace.

I am a grade-A klutz.

Sampling of the injuries I have sustained from just walking/sitting/standing:

- Sprained ankle (2 left)
- Sprained knee
- Torn ligament (right foot)
- Torn ligament (left foot)
- Sprained, possibly broken finger
- Bruised chin
- And many more!

I was out of commission athletically from August until the beginning of November. That’s a really long time. Everyone told me that my training wouldn’t go to waste; I’d bounce back, etc. And for the most part I believed them.

Then it started.

At first it was a simple slip in the lobby of my apartment.

Later, a stumble down a few stairs at my parents’ house.

Followed by an ankle twist and skinned knee while watching the Chicago Marathon.

Then it was a trip outside my office, resulting in a grapefruit-sized bruise on my butt.

After that, a tumble at my office Christmas party in which I skinned both knees, ripped my tights and spent the first 20 minutes of the party in the bathroom trying to stop my knee from bleeding after two of the guys I work with told me I looked like I’d been shot.

I chose to ignore these falls, believing there was no way they were indicative of an athletic backslide.

Then it happened.

About a week ago, I was doing some chores around the house. As I walked down my front hallway, I slipped Looney Toons-style, my legs shooting out from under me. I fell hard on my side, bruising my hip and the side of my ribcage. The most painful part of the experience, however, was that when I fell, I cracked my head on the corner of the wall, causing a huge bump that resembled a devil horn perfectly placed on the side of my already sizable head.

As I lay there seeing stars, unable to sit up, I began to think of a few things:

1. I live alone, and should I continue to injure myself in my home, I may come to a situation
where I seriously hurt myself and no one is there to help me.
2. I should be careful where I walk
3. I just nearly knocked myself unconscious by walking.
4. I might just finally be willing to admit that my clumsiness has returned.

I hear admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.

My name is Kate, and I have no balance.

Tap tap tap. Is this thing on?

Is anyone still out there?

If you are, hello again, I’m sorry for leaving you hanging, and why the hell are you still here?Anyway. Considering most of you that read this blog (meaning my mom and my coworkers – gotta represent for all four of my readers) know what has gone on in my life athletically over the past month, let me apologize for the recap. But, here goes.

In August I had a nasty case of bronchitis that knocked me out of the triathlon. While I was busy moaning about all of the things I couldn't do with bronchitis and cursing the doctors (two separate ones) that forbade me from competing, my bronchitis worsened until I had full-blown pneumonia. Know what you can’t do with pneumonia? Walk, let alone complete a triathlon or run a marathon.

So in the greatest O. Henry sense of irony, I spent all spring and summer training for two events that I couldn’t compete in. Why couldn’t I compete in these events? Because I overtrained and didn’t take care of myself. It’s like a sick ying and yang of crapiness. When I was able to get back into working out in late October/early November, I had backslid. Big time. I got back into running very slowly, and started weight training again with a trainer, but things were and are rough.

However, during my two and a half months was a whole host of people, places and things that helped me, the wannabe athlete, get back on my feet. And now, I’d like to just say thanks. Cue the sappy montage folks, here we go.

1. To the maker of the cool nebulizer that the urgent care gave me during my first visit to try to clear out my lungs. 10 minutes of puffing later and hysterically giggling later and I realized I had a serious, SERIOUS jonesing for White Castle. Coincidence? I think not.
2. To the masseuse who I went to after my first day back in the gym. She insisted that massage would help sooth my ribcage and back muscles after months of coughing and inactivity. She also insisted on massaging…erm….the front of my ribcage if you get my drift.
3. To the creepy acupuncturist I saw who told me that my bronchitis was related to weight gain, and I needed Eastern medicine to get “the sludge out of my nervous system.” I have a sludgy nervous system? Come again?
4. To the makers of the two types of steroids my doctors put me on. My coworkers and friends thank you for introducing them to a female version of the incredible hulk that yelled at the drop of a hat and ate everything that wasn’t nailed down or was moving slowly.
5. To all the friends who listened to me cry and told me I'd be able to do it again next year. Specifically to those who volunteered to do the events with me next year. I’ve written your names down.
6. To the nasty man who worked the chip return desk at the marathon expo. When I went to turn in my chip, he asked me if I “was dropping out because I hadn’t trained and was scared.” When I responded that I had pneumonia, he turned to my friend, who was pulling out as well because of a fractured foot, and said “what about you? Do you have ‘pneumonia’ too?” He even used air quotes. You sir, are an asshat. Thank you for giving us another reason to do this next year.
7. And finally, to all the people who told me to get back to blogging. In the words of one well-meaning reader, “for the love of God, woman, you can’t end your blogging career on that pathetic, depressing last post you left us with.”

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!