D Race comin up this weekend!

Eek! I've been gone too long. Sorry 'bout that. Now to play catchup.

In my last post I mentioned that I was going to ride the Ironstar course and decide from the experience if I should "participate" in the race, which is this weekend. Well, 2 Saturdays ago I met up with Greyhound to take a ride for what I thought would be law school + tri chats and 59 smooth miles under overcast, cool skies. What I didn't know is the harmless looking Greyhound was trying to kill me.

We started out fine, not really pushing my pace (because we all know he's considerably faster than me). He casually mentioned adding a few miles to the route that would include the most monstrous hills that the area could boast, and I agreed. After all, I am an Ironman, even if an out of shape one. Post-superhills I was still feeling quite smug, so the next route change Greyhound suggested I also agreed to. Then he suggested another. I let my ego and fear of looking like a wuss take the reigns most of the ride, but I didn't feel unusually crappy til we were about 9 miles from home; at that point, I decided that my large chainring would take a union break the rest of the ride, and I spun like a grandma. After a pretty nice 70 mile ride, we turned back into the resort-- Greyhound had failed to kill me on the bike. I win!

But he didn't stop there. Oh no! As I clipped out of my left pedal when I neared my car, I leaned right... and crashed. Not only did I hurt my arm in such a way that I thought I may have broken it (lamest accident ever), but I'd fallen most ungraciously. Let me tell you, there's nothing like looking like an a-hole in front of someone you don't know very well. Still, I had survived what was certainly the result of a certain person putting a certain something in my Gatorade. But I’m not one to point fingers.

After the ride and my klutzy crash we went for a nice baby run; it was starting to get hot, so I was pretty stoked to be finished. We stretched, had a non-brew brew, and continued on with our Saturdays. Despite my arm throbbing, I was still alive and it was a beautiful day. But while on the highway on the ride home, traffic came to a dead stop. I stopped with it with no problem, but as I looked into my rearview mirror I saw some idiot in a Cherokee with her head FACING her daughter. On the highway. In traffic. Going around 40 mph and not far from my non-moving bumper. I’d had enough sense to have stayed in gear, so scooted up and veered out of her way just as she realized the sluttiness of her ways. She missed my car by inches-- and once again an agent of evil for Greyhound failed to snuff me out. I am not to be trifled with.

The rest of my Saturday was pretty fun, so I'll continue sharing. I went home, napped n stuff, then my boyfriend and I had folks over for a pseudo-family friendly Halloween party. The 5 of us made Halloween hats,




carved pumpkins,


and dipped some totally sweet caramel apples. We also watched The Grudge (um, could I have a side of plot with my scary movie PLEASE? I don't think it's asking too much) and downed some Skyline dip (if you don’t know what it is you obviously didn’t have the artery-congesting pleasure of growing up in the ‘Nati. Go Bengals!), beer, and mimosas. It was once again a nearly perfect Saturday.

Sunday I woke up stiff, but not sore. I signed up for Ironstar, but as an Athena (I know, I know... I'm barely there but dammit, there's a weight limit for a reason) and immediately regretted the decision. I vowed to train smart the next two weeks.

One week and three days later I’ve swum exactly once. Crap! In my defense, I was out of town all this past weekend hittin the ‘Lou (Go Cards!) and a wedding. Oh! And work is really busy. And I spent most of the past two weeks holding my breath over my LSAT and the rest of the time scrambling to get my applications ready for the early decision deadline on November 1st. Those are good excuses, right? Besides, this race is my kick in the ass to get training for the off season. Six weeks of sloth is enough, even for an over-consumer such as myself.

I’m off! Perhaps to continue blog updates, finish my personal statement, or keep a lookout for the sly Greyhound...

Help a brother out

I’m in a pickle.

17 days from now there’s a race in which I’ve planned to compete all season: the Ironstar half iron. Ironstar was my very first triathlon two years ago, and the bike course is sorta my home course after all the hours I laid on it this summer while training for Wisconsin. Add to this that “all my friends” (except for greyhound of course) will be racing up there two Sundays from now (AND I need to get in an October race for my Snickers Marathon sponsorship) and I find myself seriously pressured to hop on that bandwagon and race my little heart out. I should sign up, right?

I think so. My boyfriend disagrees, saying it’s “dangerous.” I don’t know why... he is a thenthitive boy after all, and everyone knows thenthitive boys tend to be (over)protective. I’m sure his concern is based in emotional overreaction and not the fact that until Monday’s beerathon I hadn’t run since that pesky 26.2 in Madison. And of course he’s not taking into account that my bike hasn’t even been cleaned from the ravaging it suffered a month ago (though I did ride it once... for 7 miles). Yes, my hunney-punkin is just being silly. Normally I’d just ignore him, but this week I’ve had a revelation that makes me think he may have more sense than me.

I went home last weekend to bring all my junk to Texas (it’s been in storage for the past two years), and the reunion with my stuff got me reflecting on, you know, my life. I noticed that the common denominator in a LOT of my decisions in life--from doing well in high school so I could get the hell outta Dodge to doing 3 marathons without training--has been defiance. I only seem motivated by proving others wrong. That’s how I ended up at Ironstar the first time: some lame-ass friend told me I couldn’t prepare for the HIM distance in 6 weeks. Clearly this boy is dumb, and I had the time of my life and my fastest bike split to date despite doing some sprints this year (sigh... I’m slow). Moving on-- The point is, I’m stubborn and maybe I shouldn’t be.

The realization that I sorta only do stuff to prove others wrong is making me doubt myself. I really really wanna do the race--I don’t even want to go fast. I just want to participate. Of course, there’s the remote possibility that maybe my boyfriend is right. As if to echo his words, I was a teensy weensy bit sore on Wed after a 3ish mile jaunt on Tuesday (Of course, if you’d dared me I could have pulled another 10ish from my hiney, especially if there was anything over $1 on the line). SO, in an attempt to be a rational, safe adult I am riding the Ironstar course on Saturday at a modest pace. If I feel okay I’m signing up for the race (and I’m racing as an Athena to minimize my “24 in the 25-29 age group” bitterness. Oh, and if there was any Athena doubt on the scale a month ago, there isn’t now). If not, I’m going to get off my fat ass and get to work on my running/off season training.

Any words of wisdom from the crowd?

P.S. Yes, I participated in a beerathon on Monday night. One beer to chug, one mile run, one chug, one mile, one chug. There’s no official award, but the crowd tells me I was the best chugger there. Now if I can get that silly “run” part of the race under my belt I shall rule the beerathon world in 2007! Still, my mile splits were 7:50 and ~8:20... not embarrassing.

P.P.S. Who puts on such a wonderful event? Oh, only the coolest tri club in the country. Eat your heart out distant triers!

Hair-brained idea

I got a hair cut last week. Now I’m writing about it. “Lame!” you’re probably yelling. Indeed, it is a lame blog post. Of course, if you don’t like it you’re welcome to leave my virtual dump spot in the woods of the internet. Shyeah.

Anyway, I went to get my rat’s nest chopped because I’ve had it with my gross hair. After complaining for months I finally broke down and shelled out some dough to go to my friend’s hair dresser at some snooty salon because said friend told me this girl was good; citysearch confirmed this. Normally that wouldn’t have been enough, but this salon also served wine, and I’m not one to resist positive hair transformation + an alcoholic beverage. 30 minutes before my appointment I hopped in my truck, arrived at the salon, and I took pictures for my “before” shot. Sure, I could have asked someone at work or asked my new best friend the hair dresser to take them for me but I would have felt silly (incidentally, I also felt silly for taking pictures of myself in the parking lot).

After documenting my vanity on film I headed in, put on the shirt/smock they gave me, and got my hair washed. So far so good. Next I got in the chair, ready to get my hair hacked off. The conversation with the dresser--let’s call her Gertrude from now on--didn’t go as expected.

Gertrude [lifting my hair about 3” higher around my face]: Is this what you were looking for?
(Keep in my I asked to “cut it all off,” which to me means, well, cut all my hair off.)
Me: Um, shorter.
Gertrude [frowns]: How tall are you?
Me: Um, 5-8.
G [with a tsssk noise of uncertainty]: You see, with your height and your long neck I wouldn’t cut your hair any shorter. Otherwise, your head might look too small in proportion to your body.

Let’s pause. The bitch basically told me I’d have a pinhead if I didn’t keep my hair longer than chin length. What she should have said was “Oh, with your graceful neck and lovely face you’ll look 15 pounds lighter than you do now. Really, you are quite model-esque. I simply must see if you can be in our salon ads.” But she didn’t because Gertrude is a bitch. I’ll continue.

Me [obviously offended and rightfully so]: Well I’ve had it short before and no one’s ever told me my head looked too small. I, um, look good with short hair.
(“Good” might be an exaggeration but I’m pretty freaking sure I don’t look pinhead-y)
G: Oh, I just want to be sure I know what you want since it will be so drastic of a cut. [big fake smile]

Man, what a ho. So she cuts my hair, which is still a smidge (sp? I so do not know how to spell smidge) longer than I want it, but it looks good once she’s finished. I’m happy, and I somehow don’t notice that I failed to see how she styled it (since she blew my contact out of my eye but continued drying/styling my hair anyway... we both finished our activities at about the same time) nor what product she used. It’s possible I would’ve remembered to ask if the hair washer and the hair-sweeper-upper weren’t commenting on how much younger and better I looked (the hair sweeper upper remarked in Spanish to Gerty, not to me--which makes me think her comment was more truthful). As if I walked in there looking like an old hag or something! Honestly, how does a 24 year old girl look OLD?? I still don’t know if I should be offended at their “before” comments or pleased with their “after” ones.

While Miss Gertrude is chopping my frizz ‘fro off, she commented ~4 times about how I needed some “paint on my face.” After my cut she led me to the makeup girl so she could “make me look really pretty.” By this point I’m more than a little peeved because I’m pay $8 million to endure comments that are genuinely tearing down my self esteem. What hell kinda salon is this? Anyway, makeup girl basically just throws some blush, lip gloss, and mascara on me and I pay, leave a tip I begrudge, and leave. But despite the experience, I look pretty and am relieved to look different. Oh, I again take pictures, but this time I take them in the mirror of my apt despite the fact that Craig was home and could much more easily have done it.

So here’s my 43 year old before:

And my 24 year old after (remember it’s a mirror image in our warm bathroom lighting):

The haircut isn’t 100% what I wanted, and the next day I made the mistake of “fixing” it myself. It therefore looks worse now than it did then. I’m awesome. But more importantly, having not-disgusting hair has been a true wake-up call for me. I pride myself on being very natural, having no fashion sense, and saving my money to splurge on $200 SIDI T1 cycling shoes, not a hot pair of pumps. I like being plain because the others’ expectations are so low, but I still have the potential to doll up, making the effect much more dramatic. That said, I realize that I’ve taken it to too great of an extreme and it seems like I don’t take pride in how I look. A mistake! So I started wearing some makeup some days and--next month when I again have money--will buy clothes that are a little newer and more flattering than the shirt I have on today, which I purchased when I was 19. Mishele K, it just might be time to grow up... and let your hair grow out so you don’t look like a pinhead.