Whitey Tighties

(Part 2 of the Itchy and Scratchy Show)

I’ve always thought I was allergic to exercise. Turns out that may not be too far from the mark, as I appear to have developed a sensitivity due to the accoutrements of exercise. At least that is the latest theory.

Last Friday I was able to see the “A-Team” of doctors who diagnose mysteriously itchy skin. Dan and I drove to Madison early in the morning hopeful that some answer would be forthcoming. Dan, by the way, has become my official note taker at these appointments, making sure all the critical details are carefully recorded for later review.

The first doctor who came in was a resident. He took a detailed history, asking questions, and the answers I provided caused him to ask even more questions. After a good 30 minutes of this he asked to see the problem areas. Face and neck involved? Yes. Back, arms, breasts, stomach, butt, thighs, calves…oh, but look, palms and feet are not involved. Hmmm, interesting. He excused himself to get the specialist.

The next doctor came in. She started with the responses I had given the resident. The history of the situation was critical and she was interested to hear in what order my skin had bloomed. She asked a lot of questions about the effectiveness of the various creams and lotions prescribed. What had helped the most? The least? And then an even deeper dive. What kind of environment do I work in? What do I wear to work? What do I wear to the gym? Am I better over the weekend? And on.

Finally, I was getting the time and attention to my condition I had hoped for. She announced that the next best step is patch testing, about 60 variants of substances that might be causing the problem, but with my skin in it’s current condition that was not an immediate option. A strategy was needed to clear up my back.

She asked me to wear a shield under all my clothes -- white cotton or white silk. This layer would provide a barrier from the current suspected irritant, my sports bras and dyes in my clothing. I haven’t worn a white cotton t-shirt since I was 12. I have friends (bless them) whose only undergarment is a tank top. This is not an option for me. I’m “Rubenesque” and body parts need to be held in place. I was never good at science, but I understand Newton’s first law of motion, and the more troubling effects of gravity. The practical implications for me are as follows: if I started jogging without a bra I’d likely lose an eye, and then immediately experience the cruel pull of gravity closing the distance between my untethered body and the ground (I saw my Grandma once, in the bathtub, and I’ll never erase that image from my mind).

Under armour.

Fast forward, I am now the proud owner of white cotton tees, white granny panties and some white muscle shirts. I’m on a serious hunt for white cotton bras, both daywear and sports (ladies, suggestions most welcome), and I’m pretty sure I’ve devised a strategy to keep on exercising without the offending garment causing problems. White cotton, a few new creams and a few weeks of Phototherapy should have my back clear enough to patch test.

But back to Dan, ever attentive during this entire visit. He asked the final pertinent questions, “Doctor, we will be in Key West in two weeks – will ocean water or a pool be a problem? How about sun exposure?” The doctor responded that hot tubs, pools or the ocean would not be a problem. She then added that I should get as much sun as possible without burning. She said this three times. Dan, studious like he never was in school made direct eye contact,  nodded and made the appropriate detailed notes.

On our way out to the car both Dan and I felt hopeful. Finally, someone who can help us get to the bottom of this. I asked Dan if he had captured all the key points. He turned to me and said “What I heard was that the doctor wants you to be topless as much as possible in Key West. That you are under Doctor’s orders to report to a white plastic lounge chair on the Southernmost Beach for massive doses of vitamin D daily, and I need to apply liberal doses of sun screen on a regular basis. These are orders from a specialist. ”

What’s next? A new note taker!

Clear as mud

This last weekend I joined four other beautiful women and got really dirty.  Specifically, we completed a Dirty Girl Mud Run. Can I just say it was awesome?  It was also the antithesis of every myth of my childhood, the dogma of my youth that continues to influence the me, and imposes a misplaced sense of self that was originally constructed by some other “wise” adult.

In my case, the wise adult who so profoundly influenced my thinking was my grandmother. Placed in the unexpected position of caring for a two year old girl and a three year old boy following my parents’ divorce, she did the best job she could. As a small child I remember waking up in the second bedroom of my grandma’s house (I never thought of it as grandpas, he just lived there). Grandma would come in and lift the shades in the morning to wake us, feed us a balanced breakfast of fruit and cereal. She washed all our clothes in the wringer washer and hung them to dry. She served sandwich lunches and comfort food dinners. She dusted and scrubbed the house. She made cinnamon rolls on Saturday and served them on Sunday. And with regularity she told me all the things I shouldn’t do.

• Don’t sit on the sidewalk; you’ll get a bladder infection.
• Change out of your wet swimsuit; you’ll get chafed.
• Don’t run; girls shouldn’t sweat.
• Don’t get dirty; girls should always look clean.

There were a myriad of other “don’ts” that have extended into my adult consciousness and I can’t possibly remember them all. When I started writing this blog entry my mind had formed a pre-written ending about busting my grandmother’s myths and proving that once again I could successfully break out of these invisible mental constraints.

But then something happened that completely changed my way of thinking.   Missouri house representative Todd Aiken said that a woman couldn’t get pregnant as the result of a “legitimate rape”. And then I read an article in Scientific American with a startling statistic “…it is rather normal to be a survivor of sexual assault if you are female. One out of six women in the United States have been the victim of rape or attempted rape, and that is using a rather tight definition that does not include many kinds of assault victims can experience. 64,080 women were raped in the US between 2004-2005. Sixty four thousand and eighty.”

Sixty four thousand and eighty, between 2004 and 2005. In an age where women are more likely to report the crime of rape. I couldn’t help but wonder about my grandmother’s reality, as she certainly didn’t grow up in a time of all sweetness and light. Just as today, the very fact of her gender could put her in harm’s way. Had she made it through her life without harm? Did she know of other women, friends or family members who barely whispered horrible secrets of shame and blame? Unlike today’s current environment, where we can call out Todd Aiken and his ridiculous comment, back in her day there were few words on the subject that could be spoken out loud. 

I realize now that every time she told me what I shouldn’t do, she was in fact expressing her fear for me. Maybe what she was really saying was, be careful, there’s danger in seemingly safe situations and you need to be aware. Maybe she was really saying “I love you.”

So this blog entry has a different ending. I’ve put a new lens on old phrases I'd heard countless times. I’ve also learned that running in the mud with friends is sometimes no more than just running in the mud with friends. 

Landscaping

I’ve used this blog to metaphorically think out-loud, a combination reality check, rant, quasi-journal, self-reflection and sub-text chronicle of a thought-process that would get me from here (Wauwatosa) to there (Key West). Most of the time I feel like the writing is a quick throw-away that allows me to move on to the next thing that needs attention. For the few of you who do pay attention (and I thank you for that), you’ll have noticed a short absence. I haven’t written anything for awhile, mostly because I’ve had one really BIG THING on my mind, and felt the need to keep it quiet.

This one thing was about a desire for personal change that I could barely articulate to myself, much less my husband of 32+ years, and with extreme difficulty to the few people from whom I felt the need to gather opinions. The decision has now been made, the money has been spent and I’m on the road to recovery.

Let me back up a minute. We are a family of do-it-yourselfers (as immortalized in the Atomic Boy post from last year.) If at all possible we get it done, and only in rare circumstances do we call in the experts (tree trimming, dryer repair, roofs on three story houses). But the one personal project on which I have devoted a lot of time and energy is one where I was making no progress, and my frustration levels were rising.

I have certainly commiserated with fellow moms about how some women have skin that snaps back in place moments after giving birth to their 20 pound baby, and some women (like me) lost all elasticity before the 6.3 pound baby’s first cry. Throw in another 8.8 pound baby, via C-section, and we no longer needed to pack a tent for camping.

Now, 25 years later, I find I have been subconsciously communicating that I wanted to make a change. Clothes shopping for me has always been grim, and even at my thinnest (post-baby) weight nothing ever fit right. And when it’s picture time I much prefer to stand behind someone or some thing, and please, don’t catch me sitting down. As I walked through my thought process with my husband he described a completely non-verbal interaction that I’ve had with the mirror on a daily basis for many years. So when I told Dan I was ready for some personal landscaping, he did some research and helped me make an appointment. When I told my sister I had the procedure on the calendar she said “well yeah, I know you’ve wanted to do that forever.” So on December 27 I didn’t get puffed-up “fish-lips”, plumped up Pamela Anderson breasts or the “is it faux-real” Joan Rivers face. I just had my stomach cinched in a bit.

So, why, in this day and age would I bother with this? Ultimately, because no matter how hard I tried I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin. The final realization came when I completed my latest triathlon. Dan and the professional photographers on the route pulled off some pretty good action shots – me running from lake to bike; me biking full speed in my tri-suit; me running on the 6-mile course. I reviewed the professional shots (mostly side views) and purchased none of them. I deleted most of Dan’s shots and posted few. I ran that last leg of the race looking at the shadow of a woman much larger than my image of myself.  If two coaches had been asked to pick 10 competitors (based on appearance) who would “finish” it would have been a throwback to every gym class I’d every been in and I’d have been left on the bench. I finally realized I wanted my physical self to look somewhat as good as I actually felt.  I completely and totally did this for me. And I kept it quiet because I didn’t need anyone talking me out of it.

This was absolutely not a decision made lightly. I joined an on-line forum that provided an opportunity for Q&A with surgeons as well as women in all phases of the process, from research to recovery.  What I found were women in agony months later. Rented hospital beds and purchased walkers. “I wish I’d NEVER done this” said one poster who’d had two surgeries to repair the first. Bad infections. Women walking hunched over six months later. Sure, there were success stories, too, but 98% of the women posting were much younger than me. I went back and forth for months, changing my mind multiple times a day. I had several in-person sessions with the surgeon who patiently answered all my questions. I thought the holidays would be a nice diversion, but instead I was in a funk of nerves. I kept going to the gym and sweating it out, but no amount of crunches, tucks, lunges, planks, rows, spins, runs or stair climbs was going to move the unmovable mass of my abdomen. Soon checks were sent and cashed. The day was approaching. My surgeon made a point to say that this was the most painful procedure he did. It would require an overnight stay for monitoring and pain management. 

That day—we arrive at 5:30 am. By 7:30, I am in the operating room. By 11, I am in recovery. By 1 pm, I’m in my room, groggy but feeling OK—like a really tough abs workout. By 10:30 pm I had completed 2 short walks up and down the hallway. By 7:30 the next morning Dan was back with a big cup of tea. He and a nurse helped me out of bed for another short walk. I sat in the chair and enjoyed my tea—waiting for the pain to hit. By about 10 am my surgeon came in to check on things, and was very surprised to see me out of bed. Surprised that I’d already walked the halls. Surprised that I’d already used the little girl’s room. Surprised that I was smiling and ready to head home.

Dan kept an eye on the timing for pills, and the “1 or 2 for pain” was only 1, and is diminishing daily. By the three day checkup my surgeon told me I was in the “top 5 to 10 percent” of recovering patients. Despite the fact that my abs never looked like a 6-pack, all that exercise had paid off.

And the result? While it will take several months for all of the healing to resolve, that first post-op shower, with all the swelling, stitches and bruises was-pretty amazing. I suspect I’ll be buying more post-race pictures this summer. And I’m already looking forward to buying a beautiful fitted dress for a June wedding, new swimsuits for our next diving vacation and a few new costumes for a triumphant return to Key West in the fall!

Vanilla Teasers in Paradise

Vanilla

First off, we need to talk about vanilla. Could there be anything more dull? But the word has a fascinating history. The Spanish sailors, arriving in the New World, encountered this fragrant plant. The flower bore a resemblance to a part of the female anatomy they had not seen in many months. Suddenly, dull ol’ vanilla is one hot word. 

In a post I wrote on January 6, 2011 called “Do it yourself, Atomic Boy”, I mentioned “Vanilla Teasers”, with the promise of an explanation. So here it is. I’m a Midwestern girl, with corresponding sensibilities, modest wardrobe and approach to life. Serious risk taking scares me, especially when it involves a personal investment. Five years ago Dan began researching this wild, week-long party in Key West called Fantasy Fest. Dan, always crazy over Halloween, became possessed with the idea of going. I’d walk past the computer to see picture of painted, scantily clad people and would remark “If you think I’d wear something like THAT you are sadly mistaken.” Dan’s comment was always the same. “Feel free to wear a Burqa, I just want you to be comfortable and have fun.” For two years Dan corresponded with Fantasy Fest veterans about the things to do and not do. During that time two ladies sent me almost the same e-mail: “Hon, take that special nightie that you would only wear on special occasions and throw it in your suitcase. By the third night you’ll wear it out on the street.” Dan was dealing with some freaks—an intervention may be in order.

Gradually, partly due to exercising, I started looking at those pictures differently. I starting seeing that these were not all 21-year-old hard bodies at this shin dig, there were a lot of women like me. In fact, there were a lot of women there who clearly didn’t run, bike, swim and lift heavy objects for no reason. I started looking at the nightie drawer with possibility.

With that said,  two years ago I somewhat reluctantly agreed to our first Fantasy Fest. On our first trip we were joined by four great friends. We all researched the themes for the nightly parties, brought appropriate costumes, participated in the four-hour long parade down Duval Street, and had a wonderful time. Back at home, we downloaded the borrowed laptop where we had stored photos during the trip. As we watched the 1200-plus photos transfer, Dan looked at me with just a bit of surprise, and commented that “it looked like you had more fun than I did!” It was a revelation for us both.

Last year, Dan and I returned on our own. I bought some new swim suits and planned costumes for the evening events. Wearing one of my outfits—completely covered, mind you--many people with cameras asked the 25-year-olds wearing just paint to move so they could get pictures of me. One flash after another, the reason for lifting heavy objects was made clear.

In another instance a sly over the shoulder smile and a kicked-up leopard high heel resulted in hundreds of flashes going off at once. So many, in fact, that Dan didn’t get the shot. “My God, you just channeled Betty Page,” was his remark as I walked back to him. (From Dan, there is no higher compliment in the world.) A photographer who did get the picture shared it with Dan. It hangs in our Betty Page room, unless the room is set to a “G” rating, as it is for most parties (more on that in a future post). Affirming? Yeah, I’d say so. Times one hundred.

Prior to last year’s trip Dan had proactively participated in an internet forum and made virtual contacts with other people who were also going. As we were not traveling with friends this seemed a good way to make introductions prior to the week. As a result, we were invited to two parties.  The first, a clothing optional pool party; the second a surprise birthday party.

Yes, you just read clothing optional pool party. For Dan, no problem, as he constantly reminds me that when it comes to men, “you can’t think simple enough.” For me, that falls under unbelievably serious risk taking. After all, I’ve got a 53 year old body marked by significant stretch marks, a nasty C-section scar and I suffer from the cruel effects of gravity (stupid, stupid laws of physics). However, as the invitation reads “optional”, then I have the option to leave all my clothes on.

The day arrives, we get on our rental bikes and head over to check it out. I must admit that I was repulsed and intrigued by the idea of witnessing a few naked people eating picnic foods. We walked in the courtyard and found, I don’t know, maybe 150 naked people in and about the pool. Dan immediately stripped off his suit and jumped in the pool. After about 5 minutes, and feeling self-conscious because I was overdressed, I lost half my suit and found Dan in the pool.  What passed was a surreal afternoon of people talking about their kids, their jobs, the ingredients in the chip dip and the next vacation on their calendars. We stayed for about 2-hours, met some very nice people and had a great time.

"Red" night

That evening, the night-time theme was “Red”. We put on our outfits and headed out to the first stop, Captain Tony’s.  There was a nice crowd, live music and pirate’s punch. Standing near the bar a couple who had been at the pool party stopped to say hi. Conversation was animated and we found a lot to talk about. He and I had worked for the same employer; he had taken a work transfer to Florida. She (as Dan has reminded me 100 times since) was wearing a skin-tight, one piece white Speed Racer jumpsuit unzipped far enough to fit in at Fantasy Fest. Needless to say, she and Dan were having an intense conversation. And then there were the odd comments that her husband would lean over and whisper in my ear. Did I just hear what I think I just heard? Yes, that’s what I thought I heard.

So, he comes right out and asks “What do you guys do for fun?”

Dan turns to me and says, “Paula, why don’t you start?”  (I slowly turned and stared at Dan, thinking really, are you really that unaware?)

I slowly turned back, smiled and said, “Not so much.”

Him, “Not so much?”

Me, “No, not so much.”

Him, “Well when you take out the not so much, how much is left?”

Me, “Not so much.” (I’m an outrageous flirt, that’s all the much he was going to get.)

Him to his wife, “They’re ‘not so much’.”

Her, “Really?”

Him, “Yes, let’s go dance.”

And off they went. Dan turned to me and asked “what the hell just happened?” I grab his hand and walk as fast as I can out the door and down the street. About a block away I finally stop and say, “They were SWINGERS, they wanted to have sex with us.” Dan, momentarily stunned, replies “But she was hot!” (Insert the sound of an old transmission being shifted without the use of a clutch.) The bulb still not coming on. “Dan, they wanted to have sex with us!” You can now hear the gears starting to engage. Dan repeats “But she was hot!” I wait, knowing that shifting Dan out of “I get to stare at cleavage” mode takes a while. He gets a huge smile on his face and says “high-five, we’re HOT.”  And it is true, when it comes to men you can’t think simple enough.

We meandered through various bars and at midnight found our way over to the surprise birthday party. Walking into the backyard we once again find people in various states of undress. This time, we both stayed fully clothed. We started talking to one couple, from Minnesota. She was wearing a snowflake skirt and no top. He had on a shirt and shorts. Suddenly, there it was again, were we interested in a little fun? Dan jumps in, confessing to having “fallen off the turnip truck earlier in the day” and no, thank you, we were not interested. They were totally cool, as was Dan. I, on the other hand, had had enough, it was time to leave.

The next day we had reservations for a clothing optional cruise. Dan, sensing my displeasure with the entire turn of events, figured we would just skip it and head to the pool for the day. My Midwestern frugality kicked in and I insisted we go – it was pre-paid. At the pier we found a group of 30 people, many who seemed to know each other already. We recognized one couple and Dan bravely stepped up to chat. We introduced ourselves and Dan relayed our “adventures” from the previous evening, quickly setting expectations that we were not looking for any extra-marital activities.

This was our introduction to our now dear friends from central Wisconsin who started laughing and nodding in understanding. She explained that they were not interested in that either and, in fact, there is a name for couples like us – “we’re Vanilla Teasers.”  Fun to be around, but no funny business. Since then we’ve had several opportunities to spend time with our new Vanilla Teaser friends and have enjoyed their company immensely.

So this year, we are heading back to Fantasy Fest, members of a club we never knew existed. Our wonderful new friends are going as well.  And I’m proud to be a Vanilla Teaser, in a 32+ year marriage that allows me to enjoy a week of wearing costumes and paint, a clothing optional cruise, a lot of flirting – but not even a thought of chocolate syrup, whipped cream or colored sprinkles on my vanilla fun.

Voices

For as long as I can remember Dan has been telling me about the seven distinct voices in his head. They join him on projects, talking him through the work to be done; they pipe up when he’s problem solving, weighing in on the options; and they fill the silent spaces if the radio or TV aren’t on (WDRJ, 24/7), reminding him of things he has to do. I’ve always just smiled and thought his head must be a confusing and noisy place, but I never really knew what he meant.  Until today.

Dan and I were up at 4:40 a.m. so I could get to Williams Bay for my first Olympic Length Triathlon. The Lake Geneva Olympic Triathlon is a 1 mile swim; 26 mile bike ride; 6.2 mile run. This was my first attempt at these distances, having conquered the sprint distance a few times over the last two years. Last winter my trainer, Steve, challenged me to move past my comfort zone. It’s funny, the things we say yes to, when the snow is flying and an outside race is months away.

Dan dropped me off at the staging area around 6:00 a.m. The race crowd was a bit different than I was used to. My previous races were for women only.  This was a co-ed race with four distance options, a super-sprint, sprint, Olympic and half-Ironman. It was a whole new ballgame and I was feeling unworthy. The race didn’t feel as well organized as I racked my bike in an unmarked spot I hoped I’d be able to remember. All around me were really fit looking athletes with expensive gear. And the biggest difference I noticed? I was old enough to be their mom – the whole damn lot of them.

I put on my wetsuit and headed to the swim start. The half-Ironman group would start first, then the women in the Olympic length race. As I looked over the lake I expected to see a well marked swim course, as in previous races. What I saw was a line of about six buoys and a few boats on either side of what you might call a large lane. There was no pre race pep talk, just some guy yelling into the megaphone that you better know your starting wave because he couldn’t fix your timing if you got it wrong. At that point I realized the prior women’s only races had been positively warm, pink and fuzzy by comparison.

They herded my group over the starting chips, we wade out into the water, the horn goes off and everyone lunges into a swim. I held back for about a minute, waiting for the crowd to clear, as I’ve been pummeled in the past. The water was cold and initially took my breath away. I started to swim, awkwardly, and with very little on my right to sight against I struggled to ensure I wasn’t wasting energy swimming too far off course. I was about 1/8 of the way out and the cold panic was rising in my body. I could feel it. This was not going well. I stopped and started to tread water. I felt totally out of control and needed to get it together. To my left there was another woman, also treading water. I looked at her and said “what am I doing? I don’t know if I can do this.” She smiled and agreed that it was more difficult than she thought it would be. We bobbed there, catching our breath and exchanged names. Her name was Lisa and she asked if I needed help. I said no, I thought I could make it, and unbidden, there was Steve’s voice (voice one),  – “Paula, you’re going to do better than you think.”

We both started swimming again and I settled into a steadier stroke with minimal leg motion (I was going to need them at top form later) and heard Steve coaching me on good swim form. Heading straight out into the water the turn-around buoy came up remarkably fast. So did the wave of swimmers heading back towards me. The race organizers had created a situation where the faster swimmers came right back through the slower swimmers. It occurred to me that I had a choice. I could very easily turn around and head back the other way. I was at least, guessing here, 100 yards from the buoy. Who would know? I would. I got to the buoy, turned myself around and there was Lisa. We had matched each other for speed. We exchanged congratulations and headed back with a renewed confidence.

Triathlons involve a transition area where you move from one event to the next. Once back at my bike, I stripped off my wetsuit, dried my feet and put on my very friendly hard soled tennis shoes. Earlier in the week I had asked Dan to remove the “clip-in” pedals that required special shoes. Dan had thought they were a very bad idea from the start, as I can be “tippy” on my bike. As I slipped my shoes into the familiar but low tech, and loose, toe cages I heard Dan say “Thank you.” Voice two.

The first mile was a monster hill, “the worst” of the course, they said. Climbing that hill, being passed by everyone was humbling. One rider on his way by called it “heartbreak ridge”. A third voice chimed in to help me out – Amberlea – my favorite Spin instructor was talking me through the hill. “Best two minutes of your day, right here, right now.” Up, up and over, settling into a nice ride through the country-side. My bike was acting up, shifting itself on inclines. At one point one of my water-bottle carriers came loose and tipped off the bike, bottle hitting the ground and spilling out. I stopped to pick it up, but that was the only real glitch. Overall, it was a good ride, and I was accompanied by Amberlea for 26 miles, talking me through hills, sprints and surges.

Back to transition and another shoe change, this time for the run. I moved through this fairly quickly and was back on the road, legs feeling like bricks. The route description on the web site had said it was a challenging run. Seriously, the understatement of the year. The first half-mile was a continuous steep incline. I thought for sure there must be a cardiologist at the top of the hill, waiting to pick up a few extra patients. I could only walk; it was faster than attempting to run. I reached the first water stop, the Super Sprint turnaround at ½ mile. The hill started to flatten out, my calves started to settle down and I heard a fourth voice. “It’s only two more blocks Mom, just two more blocks.” My son Carl had repeated this to me during a cross-town tour of Philadelphia, on a most enjoyable day. And there he was telling me in his cheerful way, to go just two more blocks. Yes, of course I can. I began to run.

I hit the quarter distance marker, the turnaround for the 5K and thought, I could do that, I could turn around and finish this, quick and easy. I grabbed some energy drink and kept going. I hit the three mile marker and felt myself settle into an easy jog (I am no gazelle) and felt great. I heard Hunter in my head, “you’re beautiful Mom, I love you”, and he was right, I was beautiful, enjoying a glorious day feeling better than I’d ever felt. That’s five voices. Dan tells me I experienced the runners high. Not sure, but I felt fabulous. The entire running course doubled back so the last mile was mostly downhill. As I headed for the finish line I realized that the challenge had been met, physically, and with the help of my wonderful team of voices, mentally.

Thanks everyone for being there for me. Imagine what I can do when I get the whole crew of seven!

Overall Time = 4:16:50

Swim 48:58 // T1 6:15 // Bike 1:48:46 // T2 7:02 // Run 1:25:52

Road Warrior

I seem to be having a love/hate relationship with my bicycle. Biking is one of the few athletic activities I’ve enjoyed my whole life. Even during my most extreme couch potato years I would still get on my bike and go for a several mile ride. There is something about the breeze on your face and the ability to travel significant distances, under your own power, in a reasonable amount of time.   Lately I’ve begun to view my bicycle as some kind of torture device. My old reliable mode of transportation has caused me some mental and physical anguish.

My first mistake was to add toe-cages to my pedals. Of course, everyone tells me I should go to clips and bike shoes, but it seemed an unnecessary investment for a casual rider who participates (competes is totally the wrong word here) in a few triathlons. The toe cages add an extra pull to my pedal stroke and provide just a bit more power and efficiency. The toe cages also add a layer of complexity to starting and stopping during a ride.

On a ride to the lakefront a few years back I stopped behind Dan at a stop sign—but forgot to get my feet down in time. Apparently a stream of curse words issued forth as I fell over sideways and crashed to the pavement. The ride was cut short as I needed some water, a bandaid—and a tall vodka lemonade—stat. Dan didn’t see that fall, but on a recent 50 mile charity ride for the Milwaukee area United Performing Arts Fund my sis and bro-in-law did. I pulled into the last oasis, and parked my bike by simply falling over sideways.  Anyone old enough to remember the show “Laugh-in” will remember Artie Johnson on the tricycle. I am the Artie Johnson of 2011, destined to have a scabby knee well into autumn. It was another ten miles of riding before I got the crudest of care possible (a beer—yuck!), before being transferred to a proper facility that served brunch and mimosas.

Fresh off a successful completion of that ride (and only one crash) I decided to up my biking game. The gym I belong to has a weekly “bike-club”, a group ride. Having taken Spin class at least once a week for about two years I felt up to the challenge. I showed up, appropriately attired and ready to ride. The leader asked if I had ever done this before and what my biking experience was. We talked about the 50-mile ride, my participation in Tri’s and what I hoped to get out of it. He mentioned that he had just completed a long ride the day before and today’s ride would be “leisurely.” Perfect.

Right turn out of the parking lot and up a gradual incline, pedaling my ass off to keep up, and the pace never let up. Hard-core cyclists must have an alternative definition of leisurely. According to my odometer, we covered 4 hilly miles in record time. My heart rate monitor was showing some scary numbers and my lungs were ready to explode. It was clear the group was dogging it on my behalf, very encouraging, yet frustrated with my pace none the less. I opted to drop away, it was my only hope. After assuring the leader that I could get back on my own I turned around to begin the return trip.

Those of you who know me (and have walked in town with me), know that I should not be left to deal with car traffic on my own. When Dan and I reach an intersection he literally grabs my hand and guides me across the street. The near misses I’ve had with cars are the stuff of legend. On one memorable occasion, on our way to Spontaneous Thursday Night at Hectors, I apparently walked out into the path of several speeding cars. Dan pulled me back and began to scream at me (to the amusement of all of the people sitting at the outdoor patio) that WHEN I got hit by the car and WHEN I was laying paralyzed in the nursing home wearing a diaper he WOULD divorce me, sell everything, find a trophy girlfriend and move to the Keys with her, because IF AT 53 YOU CAN’T LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE YOU CROSS THE STREET YOU DESERVE TO SPEND YOUR FINAL DAYS SAD, ALONE AND STINKY. With that he took my hand and led a red-faced Paula to dinner.

Now, on a narrow, two lane road with no shoulder I’m not much more traffic savvy on a bike. Basically, on streets in anything other than my beloved little SUV, I’m a freaking disaster.  I found my way to the bug infested bike trail previously disdained by the cycling group as quickly as possible to ensure a safer ride home. Let us not share this with Dan, OK?

Arriving home, exhausted, hungry and humbled, I thought about one of the reasons we want to move to Key West. The land area of Key West is just less than 8 square miles. We envision leisurely daily bike rides, to the beach, the store, restaurants, and the like on fat tired bikes with big baskets.  Dan has fantasized for years about walking away from our four car garage one last time, knowing the snow blowers, snow shovels, ice choppers and salt bucket will be left behind.  Hanging on a hook above the snow blower will be a well-worn ladies’ hybrid bike—complete with scratched toe-cages.

Music that resonates:

Bicycle Race -- Queen

I am not...

…a runner. The thought flies through my head as I hit the interval button on the treadmill and bump the pace from jog to run. I feel my stride lengthen a bit to match the increased speed of the belt; I feel my feet pounding. There is nothing graceful about my “Barney Rubble” chunky up and down motion.

If I was a runner I’d be tall and thin. Well, at least thin. I would enjoy running outside, something I only do on a race day. I’d have gone through enough pairs of shoes to know when they need to be replaced; instead of complaining about sore knees before someone suggested I invest in a new pair. I’d tick off the miles with a sense of accomplishment, instead of intense relief that my 35 minute run is finally done. I’d run for the joy of running; not because it’s Thursday, and I run every Thursday after work.

 

I am not…

…a swimmer. I love the water, especially the ocean, in the context that it is the perfect backdrop for a beach. “Swimming” is just fine as long as I can touch bottom. I have always been able to keep my head above water, if I have to, and dog paddle my way to safety. Ultimately, learning to swim, really swim, was a means to an end.  You have to swim a whole 200 meters, without stopping, to get an open water diving certification. That’s eight lengths of a 25-meter pool, starting at the shallow end and swimming across the deep end and back to the shallow end, 4 times!

If I was a swimmer I’d hit the pool every Sunday and swim lap after lap, settling into a nice rhythm. My left arm wouldn’t prematurely drop into the water before my right arm had completed its arc. My legs would propel me with a steady, minimal and effortless kick. I wouldn’t be aware of every single motion my body is making, every single breath, every single stroke. I’d be able to swim with confidence across open water without wearing a bouyant wetsuit.

I am not…

…a cyclist. I ride a bike. I always have. In fact, I taught myself with no adult assistance. On Tuesdays I get on a spin bike at the gym. The music propels the motion. I add more resistance; I move through the route with buckets of sweat pouring off my head and down my shirt. My legs burn and my heart rate adjusts with the effort.

If I was a cyclist I’d go for long rides outdoors. I’d have skin tight bike clothes with padding in all the right places. I’d wear expensive cycling shoes and disdain toe-clips. My cadence would not vary because my knowledge of when to shift gears would compensate appropriately. I’d be able to grab quick drinks of water without fear of falling over. I’d carry a spare inner tube and know how to change a blow out.

I am not…

…a gym rat. Yes, I do lift weights three times a week. I have a trainer keeping me on track and honest. I’m accountable to someone else because I can’t be accountable to myself. I’d slide back into my lazy ways, dragging Dan along. So I follow the worksheet, increasing the weight and reps at the prescribed intervals. I keep my training appointments. I fuss at the silly things I’m asked to do, but I do them.

If I was a gym rat I’d spend hours at the gym. I’d strut around lifting stupidly heavy things and making ridiculous noises. I’d camp at a weight machine like I owned it. I wouldn’t slink around hoping no one notices I’m there. I wouldn’t think about how incredibly awkward I look doing a ridiculous exercise called a burpee. I wouldn’t trip over a bench. I wouldn’t rip my headphones off with an errant swing of a weight. I’d know the names of all the regulars.

I am not…

…a quitter. I got into all of this because I wanted to learn to scuba dive.  Diving is an incredibly lazy activity that expends a minimal amount of energy in order to conserve oxygen usage and extend underwater time. Low and behold, learning to swim, then lift and cycle and run made me feel so much better.  And the effect on Dan’s health, as he joined me at the gym, was amazing. By the time we finally move to Key West we’ll be immortal.

If I was a quitter I’d have stopped exercising after passing that 200-meter swim test. I’d be 20 or 30 pounds heavier. I'd laugh at the idea of running only 5Ks and completing only sprint triathlons as settling for less. I wouldn’t have my third 10K race inked in for April, and an olympic distance triathlon inked in for August. I wouldn’t be thinking that a sprint triathlon at the end of summer would be a nice morning spent outdoors. I’d be sleeping late on Saturdays, eating weeknight dinners by 6:00PM and enjoying huge portions of bad food. I wouldn't have a DVR backlog of TV shows waiting for attention.

And this I can say with absolute certainty…

I am not…interested in running any kind of race that incorporates the word marathon…

Change in direction

Do you ever play the what if game? That speculative game where you think about the events and choices in your life where critical things happened to get you where you are today? I played that game this morning and this is what a came up with (critical path begins in September 2008 and there is some future speculation as well) -

Happy to report only green arrows so far. Let me know if you have any questions.