it's all about the bike. or is it?

when I was training for my first ironman, I had a lot of people tell me the same thing about 140.6: "it's all about the bike." this made my stomach writhe every time I heard it as the bike is my "weak" link. if I was going to "suck" on the bike, how in the world could I complete the ironman in a respectable time?

I swapped out my pinarello (too big for me) mid-training for a kuota kalibur I bought off ebay (after extensive time spent roaming NYC bike stores and looking for my next best thing). two weeks later I raced on it and took 7 minutes off my half iron bike time (3:23:10 at Tinman in June; 3:14:59 at Timberman in August). sure, I was more fit, but the bike was always a better fit for me.

with a little more confidence in my back pocket, I plugged through the rest of training with the realization that I wasn't going to bomb the bike in florida. no, I wasn't going to burn up the road with my killer speed, but I was going to make.

enter race day. a solid swim (1:14:06) started me off on the right foot. then I hit the bike. the first 30 miles was a slaughter fest; so many people passed me that I eventually started laughing out loud in disbelief. to keep my spirits up, however, I kept reminding myself that I got to do the same thing when I hit the run course: pass each and every one of the individuals who had just passed me.

if you've ever done ironman florida or read about it, you know the bike course is flat and monotonous. one big loop with only a few little inclines to get you out of the saddle (and my strongest suit it climbing...IMFL: 1, me: 0). regardless, I tackled each mile the best I could, prayed for no flats and just keep eating to fuel my run. I remember hitting mile 90 and feeling really fatigued, but after digging deep and passing the century mark, I knew I was almost home.

I cruised into T2 with a HUGE smile on my face; I had made it in 6:27:18, a 17.35 average. I saw my sister and declared, "that was a long way to ride." I didn't care though. I finally got to run! And while I didn't have the most awesome run, I still kicked enough butt in order to cross the finish line in a thrilling 12:25:21.

I am now training for ironman #2 in june. I have a sub-12 hour goal, "lofty" as my coach says. while I know I can improve on both my swim and run, I still have it ingrained in my head that it's all about the bike. and it's defeating. you might think my confidence from training for and successfully finish my first ironman would give me some ammo; not so much. my first month of riding has felt horrible: painful, painful, painful. I got off the bike last night cursing and wondering why in the world I'm doing this again.

this is when I got to thinking (on my post-ride run...the best thinking time). yes, the ironman is about 112 miles on the bike, but it's also about 2.4 miles in the water and my favorite, 26.2 miles on the road. it's not all about the bike...and my first ironman time proved that.

so I'm going forward with this in mind. the ironman is about the swim. and the bike. and the run. it's about how well I can put all three of these things together. it's about remedying my weakness, fortifying my mind and body and making it a kickass second 140.6.

it's not all about the bike.

everything happens for a reason

my father is a huge fan of mantras, sayings, quotes and the like. I am too, but only when applicable and only when I wholeheartedly believe in them.

one I picked up from him is, "everything happens for a reason." I'm a firm believer in this saying while it's not always easy to remember when in the heat of a bad moment, at the end of the day, I always look back and realize that I wouldn't have arrived at my present position without going through something I thought was hideous.

this saying has been on the tip of my tongue the last few months as I have been hit with some pretty ugly physical obstacles: mono, a B12 deficiency, a knee injury...not fun nor pretty. yet through it all (and even during the really ugly days), I knew in the back of my mind that these physical struggles would lead me to some place and space (physical and mental) that I needed to be.

I also use this saying during times when I begin to regret life choices or begin the "woulda shoulda coulda" game with myself. I remember every decision I make is for a reason. every struggle I go through moves me forward. every shift in life results in a shift for a purpose.

yes, everything happens for a reason and I'm so thankful I have this little bit of wisdom in my back pocket.

I have a confession to make...

I must own up to something: I really don't do well without a "project."

yes, at 29 years old, I'm finally realizing that I thrive on achieving things. I know this sounds dumb coming from a person who has done 19 marathons, one ultra and an Ironman (and who is training for her second), but I knew this before; I just needed a period of downtime to really realize that indeed, I need a "project" to keep me on my toes.

I owned up to this realization to my bf first. lazying in bed yesterday AM with this bloody cold,  I turned to him and said, "I've figured it out. I'm so restless because I'm bored. I need to do something that's not about work, that's not about me, that's impacts lives in a positive way...I need a project."

I'm not surprised that I'm bored out of my skull. for the last several years I have juggled grad school, full-time work, a long distance relationship (at one point...and not with the present bf), mentoring for Team In Training, training for an Ironman, fundraising for blood cancers, running marathons, competing in 70.3's and on and on.

now? I go to a job that presently bores me to tears, I'm training for an Ironman that, truth-be-told, I'm only half-hearted about at the moment and I'm scraping by on a measley budget due to my grad school loan repayment.

thus, I feel lost.

it's not that I don't have several "projects" I want to be doing...I'm anxious to get CPR/AED certified, I can't wait to get my personal training certification (suggestions anyone??? ACE? others?), I would LOVE to be coaching right now, I'm dying to take up bikram yoga at the studio down the street...and SO much more. the catch? moola. dinero. dolares. everything I want to do seems to cost money.

I had no point when I set out to pen this post, so I won't attempt to end with something insightful or significant. I guess I just wanted to say that I'm lost...looking for a "project" that keeps me away from the awfulness that is the bachelor on monday nights.

I'm sure I'll find it sooner than later...

(three of) my boys

two months ago I "compromised" & drove my two beautiful kitty boys to Ohio to "retire" with my dad.

I knew I would miss them, but I also knew they would be happy in a place in which they could roam, inside and out.

so I drove 500+ miles, shed some sad tears as I parted with my roommates of many, many years and headed back to the big apple.

two months later—despite knowing that they are sooo very happy—I miss them. terribly.

I spoke to my dad this AM and mentioned this to him (actually, I mention it a lot). two hours later he sent me pics of a "little and diez" photo shoot (my dad is a photographer). witness three of my boys (dad included).

the view from seventeen angles

last night I sat on our sofa marveling at the view from our place. a gleaming woolworth building to the left, a straight-on look at the empire state building and a peek at the chrysler building on the right...from the 32nd floor.

I adore it.

a little over a month ago, I bid farewell to my beloved UWS (and central park right outside my doorstep) and headed...downtown, financial district to be exact. four years ago I NEVER would have imagined a move like this. furthermore, I NEVER would have imagined uttering what I said last night: "I really like this neighborhood." yes, it's true: I LIKE the financial district.

being happy in a place and space got me thinking about my journey to the present...and all the moving I've done in my life. I reflected briefly upon this when I was packing up my possessions during this last move, but I wanted to put it on paper: where and how many places I have lived in my 29.5 years.

1. birth to 5 yrs: northwood avenue, columbus
2. 5 to 8: bowerman drive, worthington
3. 8 to 11: wickford road, upper arlington (the golden years)
4. 11 to 11.5: marconi boulevard, downtown columbus (in my dad's office!)
5. 11.5 to 14: west fifth ave, grandview (world's shittest apartment)
6. 14 to 16: woodstock, upper arlington (known as the golden ghetto by the rich kids at school)
7. 16 to 18: larwell drive, columbus (with dad and stepmom)
8. 18 to 19: emory university, atlanta (a wonderfully wrong college choice)
9. 19 to 20: west 27th street, nyc (degree #1 from FIT)
10. 20 to 21.5: west 7th ave, columbus (degree #2 from OSU)
11. 21.5 to 25: baldridge, upper arlington (with bf)
12. 25 to 26: thornwood road, grandview (post-break-up)
13. 26: west 76th street, nyc (back to the big apple for degree #3)
14. 27: west 109th street, nyc (almost harlem)
15. 28: west 112th street, nyc (HARLEM!)
16. 28 to 29.5: west 79th street, nyc (degree #3 from NYU)
17. 29.5 yrs old: pine street, nyc (ahhhh!!! happy.)

seventeen places I've called home. I think I'll stay put (with my view) for awhile.

memories: the year I nearly died

a lot has happened this year, but in lieu of a year-end report, I looked back in a very different way...to the year I nearly died. while I have rarely shared this story with many, it felt right to write.

awkward. clique-y. and sometimes just downright miserable.

yes, middle school.

while some may have enjoyed the often-disdainable grades of 6-8, I have no love for them. by the time I hit my first year of middle school, my parents were in the midst of divorcing and my two siblings and I were living at my dad's office. seventh grade, while uneventful, was pretty blah. I played soccer but sucked, missed making the cheerleading squad twice (why I thought I could be a cheerleader...no clue) and made my way through the mess that was maturing boys and girls. once eighth grade rolled around, I clung to the only two things I knew how to do well: school and running. I was a late bloomer, thus boys barely gave me a passing look so I buried my nose in the books. by this time, my mother had also basically disappeared from our lives, angry we chose my dad over her and to be honest, not altogether ok herself. soooo, I guess you could say I was a little bit of a lost soul.

it all came undone the october of my eighth grade year. that fall I had played soccer once again, and once again, I had sucked (why I didn't run cross-country...no clue). mom was gone. dad was always at work. my older sister was busy thriving as a superstar on her crew team. my brother was making mischief. me? I decided to starve myself. in the beginning it felt like such control. yes! finally something in life I had control over. and I was also really good at it. sure, I was a standout student (I won every eighth grade award that year, much to my embarrassment), but it was such a rush to succeed at something other than school.

I began losing weight rapidly, but for the first month or so, hardly anyone noticed. I was tiny to begin with (not even five foot) and always skinny as a rail (except as a baby...pudge!). the weather also began to turn cool so I hid myself in giant layers of clothing.

it was around thanksgiving that people began to notice. we spent another wretched holiday in PA with my dad's then-girlfriend's family and I couldn't hide. still a runner, we went shopping at an outlet for new tights. while I can't recall the size I selected, I do remember their electric blue color as well as the look on my father's face when I stepped from the dressing room: horror. although I never weighed myself during this time, I was probably around 70 pounds. yeah, way thin.

there ended my "cover." I was now under eagle eye watch. my dad "took away" my running until I started eating properly again and gained weight. I cared, but I didn't. by this time, my little body was so depressed, mentally and physically. while I don't remember saying to myself, "I want to die," I did.

by christmas, I was even thinner. and EVERYONE was noticing now. the attention was both embarrassing and so sweet. finally, I was getting people to notice me! sick, I know.

the next few months...a blur. I sat by a heat vent in our apartment nearly all winter long, perpetually chilled to the bone. my sister, who I shared a room with, said I would whimper in my sleep. my dad didn't know what to do other than insist I eat. I, however, had lost all will. I didn't really care what happened to me. yes, I was a miserable mess.

my father finally took me to a doctor—a chinese acupunturist/herbal med guy—after the school nurse called him up. she had claimed she needed to do a scoliosis screening, but I knew she just wanted to see just how skeletal I was.

the chinese doctor prescribed herbs. I laughed. whatever. he also weighed me: 62 pounds. holy smokes. before I left his office, he looked me straight in the eye and said, "you must eat or you die."

perhaps that was my wake-up call. perhaps it was something else. but slowly, I started adding food back into my life. slowly. by eighth grade graduation, I had put on a couple pounds, but I was far from better.

with a little life (and food) back in me, however, I became desperate to feel the freedom of running again and my dad knew it. as what can only be described as a bribe, he said I could go on short runs with him when I hit 70 pounds. this is when I put as much effort into eating as I did into starving. I finally had something I wanted back in my life. it took until early summer, but I finally reached my goal weight and began pounding the pavement with him again. and man, did it feel so good. I can only chock it up to endorphins (I was prescribed nothing to battle the depression that had consumed my year), but I was FINALLY happy again. I was also eating as well as gaining weight gloriously. once I had my running back in my grasp, there was no way in hell I was letting it go.

by mid-summer, I was looking—gasp!—healthy...probably at least 75 pounds. it was then that I approached my dad with a newspaper clipping I had found in our suburban paper: "ALL RUNNERS WELCOME! UAHS CC team. Practice begins August 1. Call for details." Desperate to see me normal again, my dad agreed to let me join the team. And that, saved my life.

I went on to letter my first year and attend the state meet as the varsity alternative. in the spring, I lettered in track. by my sophomore year, I was thriving, running varsity for both teams. my junior year I ran in states for cc and track...and grew some 9+ inches. by my senior year, I was strong, fast and ready to compete as the college level.

today—one ultra, 19 marathons, too-many-to-count halves, five half ironmans and one big wonderful ironman later—I think about the year I nearly died often, yet it doesn't define me; it drives me. when the going gets tough, sometimes I bitch and moan, but eventually I draw on the incredible strength I cultivated during that year of hell.

so here's to yet another great year. I'm thankful I have it before me to cultivate. happy new year.

no spring 26.2??? schedule revised.

yep, 'tis true.

since I only have 5+ months to train for IM #2 AND I need to spend a lot of time in the saddle, coach is recommending no providence marathon (poop).

so, here I come 13.1...and yes, one really sore butt in my future.

revised spring schedule:

24 January- NYRR Manhattan half-marathon
28 February- Snowflake 4-miler
21 March- NYC half-marathon
17 April- Asbury Park half-marathon
26 April- More half-marathon (maybe)
22 May- Harryman or Jerseyman 1/2 iron
6 June- Rev3 70.3 
27 June- Ironman Coeur d'Alene