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Out in Front

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While I will admit that waking at 5:40 AM never became easy, when you wake up knowing that you simply have an hour of easy jogging, it’s not so bad.  First, before you protest let me explain how an hour run could be considered easy.

I began training as a distance runner as a 6th grader going out for track.  Since that time I had run a competitive season at least once a year (of cross country and sometimes track) on into college.  In the summer after my sophomore year at Macalester College I went to Kenya to train with and learn about the successful running culture of some of the worlds fastest runners.  Before this morning, about 5 weeks into my 9 week trip, I had just completed possibly the hardest four days of training I had ever experienced, running between 1:45 and 3 hours a day while completing hard workouts that had me sprinting much of the time.  So while this morning 5:40 felt as early as ever, the thought of an hour of light running felt like a much deserved break after the previous 4 days.

Ngong Hills near Nairobi, Kenya, Africa

 

I dressed and went outside the compounds gates where it was still dark.  In the early morning darkness it was always hard to tell which runners were who.  Was the person next to me someone I knew well or someone I had never spoken with?  Children bustled down the rocky dirt road on their way to school, and men and women either walked or drove to work.

As more runners began to gather and the time got closer to the magical hour of 6 am when the daily runs would begin, I looked for Elisha, my training partner, to see if we would run with the group or run on our own.  Finally, after spotting another young runner who lived in the same room as Elisha, I asked if he knew if Elisha was coming.  He assured me, yes he was running a bit late, but was coming.  The group started off as usual running very slowly down the rocky road to the tarmac.  I decided to follow suit but kept looking back for Elisha- not knowing if the group was going easy or hard today, and therefore if we would join them or not.  The pace was easy enough, not that that meant much for the first minutes of a run in Kenya.  You see, in Kenya, every run starts off extremely slowly.  Runners- many of them whom are world class athletes that have raced in the Olympics or have won some of the worlds most competitive marathons- would start every run jogging at 12 minutes per mile.  I was quite shocked when I first arrived to see runners who could average 5 minutes per mile for 26 miles running at a slower pace than most novice runners in the US would run.

But while the pace started slowly, it could quickly heat up to the point where I would be left after 20 minutes gasping for what little air was left at 6000 feet.  When Elisha arrived he briefly spoke to another runner in Kalinjin- their first language- and one which I did not understand.  I asked Elisha if we should stay with the group and he said yes.  Elisha knew that this was to be our easy day and so I trusted that he had just learned the run would be short and easy as I relaxed and tried not to trip in the dark.

The route though was scarily familiar- it was Monday’s run and on Monday the pace quickly went from laughably slow to impossibly fast.  As we turned off the main road onto another I felt the pace beginning to quicken slightly- nothing to write home about- but it had me wondering if this really was going to be an easy run.

As the sun begins to come up and the day moves sharply from dark to light I feel the pace accelerate again- ah it’s going to be like a Monday run I realize.  I start to drop off the back a bit, but Elisha motions for me to keep up.  He puts his arm down by his side gesturing for me to keep up.  The motion is out of encouragement; I can tell that he really wants me to try to stay with the group so I get back up there.

After maybe 30 minutes we make a sharp turn onto a narrow road that immediately begins to go up hill.  The effort increases on the hill and I really feel the hill repeats I did the day before.  But, at the same time that I’m feeling tired I get a bit of boost when I see other runners turn off or “stop to use the bush.” I recall what Robert- my other training partner told me- “You are strong, why do you think the other runners stop?  They don’t necessarily have to go to the bathroom but maybe the pace is too fast for them.”

I get dropped by the pack on the steep uphills- my legs are just too tired from the day before- but Elisha continues to motion for me to catch up and I realize that on the flat sections and down hill portions of the road I am able to accelerate and catch the group again.  At the beginning of the run I was frustrated, “this was supposed to be our easy day” I thought to myself, but as the run continues I realize that I have been running with the group while they are running hard longer than I ever have.

At this point I am working really hard to keep up, and look at my watch and see that we have already run out in a single direction for almost 50 minutes.  I see a familiar cut off point and ask Elisha if we can take it.  He responds “I think it’ll be better if we just catch up with the group again,” ahh OK I think, we hit a down hill and I am able to catch up again with the back of the group.  Then Elisha turns and says to me “Now go to the front!”  My brain immediately thinks “WHAT?!?, doesn’t he know that as soon as the runners see the new/foreign runner go to the front they will take off?”  After all describing these types of runs as competitive is an understatement.  But to Elisha, I just laugh and say “OK, but this is my last push” and he replies that we can jog after we reach the forest.

So I make my move, I know that no one is going to easily let me pass on the narrow road so I have to run on the side at times to pass the runners.  And while I can tell they notice and are definitely surprised that I am still with the group at this point, they let me pass.  I almost get up even with the leader passing Wilsion Boit Kipketer- former world record holder in the steeple chase who acted as my mentor on the trip.  We round a sharp turn and I get cut off on the inside forcing me back a few feet.  I kick it up another gear to get back up with the leader when- wow- I take in the view of the open road in front of me.  Rather than seeing the backs of other runners- for the first time while running hard with the group I am able to see the road ahead- I am leading the pack.  Then I realize- I’m not even going 100%, I’m not even sprinting! And I am leading some of the best runners in the world.  I almost became choked up: never did I imagine that this would happen when I dreamed of spending a summer running with world class athletes.  Other words from Robert went through my head: “remember, they are working hard too.”  I naturally pick up the pace as I see the forest coming closer and closer ahead, but I feel great and keep pushing the pace on into the forest.

-Martin

The open road ahead

The open road ahead

This article was first published on EntertainingYourself.com on June 8, 2010.  Following his summer in Kenya, Martin Mudry returned to this beautiful country to film a documentary about these amazing runners.  The movie is called “Where Dreams Don’t Fade” and after touring the world at numerous film festivals, it is now available on DVD.

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Megan Kayaking

The Key To Sea Kayaking – Part 2

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Part 2 of 2 by Megan Ritchie

(continued from Part 1 of 2)   After an hour on the water sea kayaking, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots.  I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!   Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. An enormous wave  overtook my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head.”

Wave after mighty wave ground me into the sand. I struggled to stand against them – I was only a dozen feet off the shore by then and the water wasn’t deep – and finally, gained my footing. I plodded up to shore.

On shore, Sarah was doubled over with laughter. “That was….gasp….the biggest wave….gasp…I have ever seen,” she said as she scrambled to grab my paddle out of the still pummeling waves. Adrianna, the wench, had made a successful landing on shore unscathed, and helped me pull my boat up onto drier ground, before we all collapsed into laughter.

“That was amazing,” Sarah said, once we’d all caught our breaths. Sarah pointed up to the pier. “There were even guys up there at the restaurant who were yelling suggestions to you, but once that wave came up, you didn’t have a chance.”

I tapped my head, trying to get some water out of my ear. “I’ve always known I’m really gracefully,” I said dryly. “But I think I may have outdone myself on that one.”

We decided to eat our lunch on the beach before heading back out for another round of kayaking. We scurried up to the parking lot and I reached into my running shorts to grab the key – we’d locked our lunches in the trunk. But the key wasn’t there.

“Oh. No.” I said.

“What is it?” asked Adrianna.

“The key. I put it right here,” I said, motioning to the little pocket stitched into my running shorts, “But when I fell, it must’ve…it must’ve gotten pulled out.” We all looked out onto the waves.

“Oh shit,” said Sarah.

“Yeah.”

We ran down the stairs again, looking around in the sand. But, like my sunglasses and bandana, there was no sign of the car key. I’d taken it off from my lanyard, so it was easier to tuck into my running shorts; our hunt was literally looking for a needle in a haystack…or a car key in an ocean. Sarah said she’d keep looking along the beach while Adrianna and I clambered back up to the parking lot. We debated what to do for a moment, before appealing to the parking attendant to use his phone. After explaining what had happened, he said matter-of-factly, “Oh, you should never take your keys out with you. Everyone just checks them here with me or at the Surf Shack. That way, you’ll never lose them if you hit a wave.” I looked at him. Paused.

“That’s good advice, I’ll be sure to do that next time,” I said through clenched teeth. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own (and maybe that big wave’s) that we were in the situation, but it wasn’t particularly helpful to be reminded of a wiser alternative.

Adrianna and I came up with a plan: I had a Triple A membership and could get them to unlock the trunk, which had my purse and phone. Then, I’d call one of my roommates, all of whom I’d met only six weeks earlier, and convince them, beg them really, to drive across the entire Los Angeles metropolitan area on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon with my spare car key, only to turn around and drive home. I sighed. There went the afternoon, and a nice chunk of my dignity.

Triple A said they’d be there in 45 minutes. I handed the parking attendant back his phone and thanked him for his help. He shrugged and gave me a “You sure are dumb” look. Helpful. Adrianna went to go check in with Sarah, and came back saying there was still no sign of the key along the beach. Just then, the surfer dude from the Shack, the guy who’d helped us carry the kayaks down to the beach what seemed like days ago, passed by, helping another couple with their boats.

“How’d it go?” he asked. “You didn’t die, I see.”

“Oh, it was really fun,” I said, trying to reassure his latest victims. “Except, well, I managed to horribly flip my kayak and lose my car key in the ocean.”

The couple, still fresh, looked a little alarmed. “Oh God, that’s horrible,” said the surfer dude. He shot me a sympathetic look as he kept walking past. Adrianna sighed unhappily.

“Are you sure it’s not in your shorts?” she asked.

I shook my head as I poked around in them again, adding “groping myself” to my long list of how uncool I looked/felt at that moment. They were the type of shorts that had built-in underwear, the better to run in, I suppose, and I fiddled around with the liner.

“No, I don’t see—“ And then there, at the very bottom of the shorts, at the very bottom of the liner, I felt something: The key.

I pulled it out, looking very much like a proud hen that had just laid an egg, or, in this case, a Ford Focus key. “I found it! I found it!”

After high-fives all around and a quick phone call to cancel the Triple A locksmith,  we settled along some rocks for a victory lunch. Maybe I wasn’t a Californian just yet, maybe I hadn’t yet mastered sea kayaking or waves or heck, checking my car key with the parking lot attendant, but one thing is for sure: I am really good at storing stuff in my underwear.

 ~Megan~

Megan Kayaking

The Key To Sea Kayaking – Part 1

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By Megan Ritchie

About a month after I moved to Los Angeles, a friend and her girlfriend, Adrianna, invited me to go sea kayaking with them in Malibu. I’d been kayaking a handful of times, most recently on a family vacation to Lake Superior last summer, and was really excited to try it in the ocean.

On a Sunday afternoon, we drove the twenty or so miles from my house on the east side of Los Angeles, across the city and up the coast along the Pacific Coast Highway (or PCH, to us “locals”). Parking on the PCH, which runs right alongside the ocean, is impossible, but we eventually found a parking lot right next to the beach and dropped the ten bucks to park there. After locking all of our possessions in the trunk, I tucked my car key in a little pouch in my running shorts (pay attention to that detail – it comes in later), and set off. We scampered across the highway to the Malibu Surf Shack, which rents surf boards, paddleboards and, you got it, sea kayaks. After we ducked in to the little shop and our eyes adjusted to the dim light, the guy behind the counter asked if we’d been sea kayaking before. Sarah and Adrianna both nodded, yep, they’d been once before at the Surf Shack a handful of months earlier. I hesitated, and then said, “Sure, I’ve kayaked before.” Technically not on the ocean, but so be it.

“Well, good,” said the guy, who was every bit a surfer dude. “Wouldn’t want an inexperienced kayaker out on those waves today….they’re reaaaal rough, even for someone who knows what they’re doing.”

My heart began to pound as we signed off the waivers and put down the deposit.  Sarah, clearly the brains behind the operation—or at least the bravest of us all—led us out of the little shop. Adrianna and I both began talking about how we weren’t exactly “experienced kayakers.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine.” Sarah said, brushing us off.

Feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline and fear I always get from any rule-breaking or risk-taking because I am a coward and a square, I followed her around the side of the shop. We grabbed paddles and damp lifejackets and then waited for a lull in the traffic before running across the highway and back to the beach. The sea kayaks in bright citrus colors were stacked high in a trailer parked alongside the road. Another surfer dude from the Surf Shack helped us carry three down to the sand.

The waves were pounding along the beach. Adrianna and I gulped. Sarah, all confidence, tried to reassure us. I turned to the Surf Shack dude.

“Tell us, honestly,” I said. “Are we going to die?”

“What? No. You guys will be fine.”

“But we are not experienced sea kayakers, man.” I added the “man” there to let him know that even if we weren’t regular wave-paddlers, we were far from dorks. He seemed to pick up on how cool we were, because he said next in particularly soothing tones:

“Look, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but Adrianna and I were willing to be reassured by anyone, dude or otherwise.

The guy continued, “All you have to do is wait for a lull in the waves and then run out as fast and as hard as you can and hop in the boat when you can’t run any farther. The waves here in Malibu come in bursts—they’ll be a couple minutes of hard waves and then they’ll die down.”

We all paused to look out on the waves. They did seem to be dying down. Sarah took the moment to leap into the water and run out with her boat. When she reached waist-height, she leapt into her boat and paddled out. She looked cool.

I’d missed my window at that point, and had to wait for another round of boat-crushing waves before I too took the plunge. Once the water calmed again, I pushed my boat into the water and high-stepped as far as I could. I leapt into my boat not as gracefully as Sarah but I got in all the same, and paddled quickly past the waves’ breaking point. Alright, maybe I wasn’t going to die. Maybe I was all drama, it was all in my head. There is no spoon. Adrianna and I exchanged a nervous laugh – we were just being silly, everything was fine.

I should note that this was only the second or third time I’d even seen the ocean, let alone been on the water. I’m from Minnesota originally and so “the beach” to me means a day near a lake where the biggest waves we get are from a passing speedboat pulling a couple kids on an inner tube behind it. So my cowardice, while a little pathetic, wasn’t entirely ungrounded.

We paddled our boats out past the wooden pier. There were fishermen with long poles standing at the end of  it, and a few of them waved at us as we passed. It was a gorgeous afternoon, with barely a breeze and a cloudless sky. I looked around at the gentle waves and the rocky coastline, and kept having to tell myself “I live here now. This is my home now.” Sometimes, I find it amazing how huge the United States really are. I marveled how the beautiful coastline I was kayaking along was part of the same country as the rolling hills of prairie grass and wildflowers I’d ridden past only a few months earlier on bike rides in Minnesota.

As we made our way up the shore, we saw surfers up ahead; there was some kind of surfing competition going on up the beach. We paddled out farther to avoid them, and because (understandably) the waves looked even bigger there. We paddled for an hour or so before deciding to come back in and have lunch along the shore.

For the approach back to the beach, we were to do the same strategy as our way out: wait for the waves to calm before paddling. Sarah turned to us. “All you have to remember,” she said, “is to keep your boat at a 90 degree angle to the beach. Just head straight in. See, watch me.”

Sarah paddled forward hard for thirty or forty feet before sliding her boat gracefully onto the sand. Easy. Adrianna and I hesitated. She looked at me nervously. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said, thrusting my chin forward bravely. I looked behind me to try to gauge if the waves had died down. Things looked fairly calm so I paddled toward the shore, making sure to stay perpendicular to the shoreline, as Sarah had instructed.

Adrianna followed suit, looking anxious. After my hour on the water, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots. Humans emerged from the ocean thousands of years ago, shook off their gills and claimed their spot on land. And now, here I was, returning to my ocean homeland, victorious. The forces bigger than me were to be conquered, to bow before me. Yeah, I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!

I paddled harder for shore. Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. I glanced over at Adrianna, who was struggling to keep her boat’s bow heading straight for shore. Her kayak pushed toward mine, and I paddled even harder away from her, trying to avoid a collision.

The waves were now coming in even harder, rolling us closer and closer to shore. Suddenly, an enormous wave overtook us, and took my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head…”

…to be continued  

 

Martin Examines Hops

Foraging For Hops

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Sadly, I’m not a big beer drinker.  And I say sadly, because I seem to be surrounded by people who really know and love their beer.  My sister’s fiancé, Joel, is a brewer at the one and only Great Lakes Brewing Company, and my good friend, co-filmmaker, and current roommate, Alex, is experienced in the art of home brewing- he even took an online course.  So between them it is as if I’ve been adopted into beer culture.

For the most part this has worked out well enough. They’ve been able to get past my comments such as “I think my favorite beer is Coors Ice- Coors Light poured over a big glass of ice,” and I’ve been able to ignore their Indiana Jones like reactions in beer shops to a rare “one of a kind” find.  But this weekend a connection was made – I have now become a beer “forager.”

It all started a few years ago- Alex had discovered wild hops growing near Colorado Springs.  He had seen it for a few years and after many smell tests found when it would be most ripe for harvest.  It just happened to coincide with this past Saturday, so Alex, Maddy (Alex’s girlfriend), Dan (another beer advocate) and I hopped into the car.

We arrived at a familiar running spot, and started hiking up the road keeping our eyes peeled for what I perceived to be these “illusive” hops.  On the way, I found my eyes (and mind) wandering away from the task at hand, to the crags and rock walls along the path, wondering which I could climb.  I pointed an especially nasty looking one out to Dan, (an experienced climber) wondering if I’d be able to attempt the route while being securely roped up.  Reading my mind he declared: “That’s about the limit of what I’d do without a rope!”  Instantly I was in disbelief and awe for it was 100 feet of near vertical and overhanging rock. We continued on, me pondering Dan’s skill level and the rest of the group searching for the still undiscovered hops.

The trip was not without treasures. We did stumble upon a rare squirrel that looked like a cross between a bunny and the devil.  We photographed the demon and moved on.

Throughout the search, I was completely ignorant to what hops looked like and imagined us gathering long stalks of brown wispy wheat-like plants.   Our prospects weren’t looking too good until finally Alex spotted the “elusive” hop.

I could not have been more surprised.  Rather than brown, tall and thin, it grows as a vine and has little buds ranging from ½ to 1 inch long.  We smelled them and were mildly impressed but moved on to see if there were more.

BOOM- we found the bumper crop.  A small pine tree was covered in them.

This bunch smelled different and we all went back and forth, on which we liked more.  In the end we gathered half a plastic bag full of both varieties and headed to the home brew store.

 

 

And despite the excitement of our find, I was still pondering Dan’s declaration about the rock climb, so before we reached the car I convinced Dan to try and “free solo” (climb unroped) his peak, except that I was horrified when he actually took up my challenge and started up.  I thought my stupid dare was about to lead to the witness of my friend falling onto the sharp rocks below.  Luckily, fear or reality got the better of him and he decided ascending in sandals sans rope was not the best plan.

The adventure continued as we drove way out east of the mountains to the plains.  The homebrew store was a combination of a warehouse and bar.  Across the street was a strip club.  We entered the store and Alex and Dan rummaged around, selecting their special ingredients (malted barley extract, yeast) and tools (tubing, buckets). Alex and Dan already had much of the gear but after two batches of last year’s brew had resulted in explosions, Alex wanted new tubing to prevent another round of infection, which he speculated might have been caused by wild yeast entering the beer.

The owner rung us up and delighted in informing us that tax was only 4.7% – we were out of the city now where tax was 9.8%!

“Gotta love being right on the border” he joked.  “But the winter was a drag, snow plow didn’t even plow the street.”

“But you gotta love that tax,” I told him, “hell, I bet you’ll put the plow on your truck and make your own path.”

He gave a hearty laugh, it appeared I hit the nail on the head.  (I wondered if he had a deal with the strip club guy).

Fast-forward to the next day and our cottage was transformed into what could easily be mistaken for a meth lab.  Tubes, and buckets everywhere with a big vat of wort (beer before it has fermented) on the stove.

 

The smell was… interesting, but it grew on me and over all the hops smelled great.

Alex and Maddy did most of the actual brewing, while I hung around on the sidelines, watching in wonder.  Now, after all the excitement and activity, for once I can honestly say that I’ve never been so excited to crack open a beer.  I’ll let you know how it goes in 4 weeks!

~Martin~

 

Tri biking

Crazy – Part 2: Race Day

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Trying a Triathlon, Part 2: Race Day

(Cont’d from Part 1) The morning of the race was clear and cool. Since it was August, the race started at a pleasant 8 AM. I was up at 4:45, already chugging water to stay hydrated. The night before, a friend had helped me clean up my bike, greased the gears and pedals, pumped up the tires, even adjusted the stem. Its beautiful drop-down handlebars were freshly wrapped. I felt like a jockey before a big race, patting my trusty mount.

When I arrived at the race area, I got my race number (25! A good, solid number, I told myself) written in black permanent marker on my arm, thigh and shin, so I could be identified both in the water and on land. I quickly realized I never wanted to wash that number off again. I jogged around to warm up, shakily swigging water, my stomach fluttering.

As one of the younger participants in the race, I was in the first wave of swimmers. About fifty other women and I lined up on the beach in our red swim caps (“free” race swag!). The gun went off. And so did we!

Swimming in a pool is one thing. Swimming in a lake surrounded by bodies while being kicked in the face is another.

Months earlier, when some of my female coworkers heard I was doing an all-women’s triathlon, they thought it was so neat. “Oh, it’ll just be so nice, having other women there to support you as you go along,” they told me over our microwaved lunches. I nodded politely. It was nice, wasn’t it?

That was not the attitude I decided to take. I’d dropped nearly half a grand to get to this race. I wasn’t here to hold hands and braid each other’s hair, thankyouverymuch. Anytime someone kicked me, I pushed back, jostling for space, and, as people began to feel the swim halfway in, I began picking off the enemy, one by one.

With a final stroke, the swim portion was done. We lurched out onto the sand, ran past the lines of screaming fans (screaming, I tell you!), and up into the Transition Area.

The Transition Area in a triathlon is hallowed ground. Only tri participants can go in or out; spectators are banned. Each racer is assigned to one lane, and that lane consists of a metal sawhorse of sorts, on which you prop your bike, and a very small area near to it, where you put your shoes and socks, towel, and water bottle. Transitions between the races count toward your total time, so the name of the game is speed. I’d practiced transitioning a bit in my backyard, aware of how silly I must look to the neighbor cats who watched me from their window perches, and now was my moment. I ran in, dropped my goggles and cap, shakily got on my socks and shoes, threw on my helmet and away I went. Transition 1, done.

Next was the bike portion. This was by far the biggest part of the race at 15 miles in length. I let Ol’ Blue stretch out her legs and we were off.

The bike portion was along the Mississippi River, on both the Minneapolis and St. Paul sides. Since I lived nearby, I’d spent many Sundays biking the course and beyond.  My main concern for this part of the race was the no-drafting rule. Drafting is when you follow closely behind a biker, using that person’s slipstream to your advantage. There was a strict no-drafting rule, which meant you had to stay a minimum of three bike lengths behind a biker. If you wanted to pass, you must do so in 15 seconds or risk a time penalty.

I’m not sure how seriously the rest of the women interrupted this rule, but for me that meant that, if I were at all able to, I needed to pass anyone in front of me as quickly as I could, every time I saw her, or risk breaking the rules, something I’ve been afraid to do basically since birth. Midway into the bike race and my legs were shaking. Perhaps I’d gone a bit too hard. Perhaps this rule wasn’t meant to harm me.

“It doesn’t matter!” I egged myself on, sipping my Gatorade-water mixture to help me through.

The second half of the bike race proved to be a bit harder than the first half, mostly because the wind had picked up. Dramatically. We made it over the bridge near the Transition Area all but wobbling on our bikes in the gusts. I dismounted and ran my bike over to my lane. Propping my bike up on the sawhorse and throwing down my helmet, I jogged off in a minute flat. Transition 2, done. Now only 5k left to go!

There is a phrase in triathlon-speak called “bricking.” Bricking happens when you get off your bike and try running immediately afterward. It feels, appropriately, like your thighs are made of heavy bricks. Try (tri!) as you might, you can barely lift them. I’d practiced doing this, too, some that summer, but my quads were screaming from the bike race as I started out around the lake.

“Go go go!” my fans shouted at me. I lugged my body along, wind whipping my hair.

I was a mile in to the five kilometers when my shoe came untied. I ignored it. I was hardcore. I was a racer. I was doing a triathlon. A little untied shoe was not enough to make me stop!

A half a mile later and it was all I could do to keep running. It wasn’t that I was feeling sick or tired, at least not so tired that I couldn’t continue. It was that I had never had to pee so badly. Ever. All that hydration, all morning, all during the bike portion, and at each transition…all of it had backfired, big time. I willed myself to just…go…as I kept running. My shorts were black; no one would notice! And I could just jump in the lake right afterward. No big deal! But, like rule-breaking, peeing on command has never been something I’ve been good at. I was doomed. It was all I could think of, with a mile and a half left into my race, the race I’d been training for for months, when I should be thinking about picking it up, picking off people one by one, as the minutes clicked away on my time. All I could think of instead was…water.

I rounded a curve in the path. A water stop was up ahead. I was definitely not interested. But just beyond it…What was that there? Could it be…? Yes! A port-a-potty! I was saved!

And yet: Should I risk my victory for this pit stop? Was I such a fool? I looked around. The race was so spread out it was impossible to tell who was my competition and who had started minutes after me (the swim waves were staggered) and was therefore so far ahead of me, time-wise, that there was no way I’d beat them.

I stopped at the port-a potty, anything for some relief. An older couple out on a morning walk had stopped just ahead of me. I bounced around impatiently as the woman used the toilet. Breaking all rules of Midwestern propriety, I pleaded to the gentleman to let me go before him.

“I’m running a race,” I explained, pointing unnecessarily at my race number. “And I really have to go!” I hopped from foot to foot.

He rather begrudgingly agreed to let me cut, and, once his wife eased her way out of the stall, I bolted in. I relieved myself, tied my shoe, and, liters lighter, zoomed off after my opponents.

A mile left. My feet pounded on the pavement.

Then half a mile.  My lungs ached. Now was my time to go, this was it. This was it. I rallied, willing my legs to turn over faster. They shouted in protest, reminding me of the fifteen miles I’d just biked, and all a bit quicker than they’d been promised.

A third of a mile.

I could see the finish. Just around a curve, down the stretch, and I’d be there.

A quarter of a mile.

There were other women ahead of me, exhausted from the morning, like me. We could all just jog in together, nice and easy…

300 meters.

“Now!” said a voice in my head. “Now’s your time! Think of all the workouts, all the sweat, all the pain it’s taken to get here. Now go go GO!”

200 meters.

I lifted up my head, picked up my legs and pumped my arms down the last stretch. And when I crossed that finish line, I became, officially, a triathlete.

I can’t wait to do another one.

~Megan~

Megan has just returned stateside after a year of living and teaching in China.  Any guesses whether there’s a Triathlon in her future?

The symbol for triathlon in the Olympics

You Don’t Have To Be Crazy But…

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Trying a Triathlon: Part 1: Preparation and Training

The symbol for triathlon in the Olympics

I decided to start training for a triathlon in my rather dusty office cubicle in February of 2010. My office was in St. Paul, MN, at a public university, where I worked as an Americorps VISTA volunteer, helping expand the nursing programs to increase healthcare access to low-income patients, including setting up a community clinic. That last venture had completely stalled in contract negotiations with the local community center, and, since it was to be the vast majority of my job, I was bored. Underutilized, and bored. Left to my own devices, I spent a lot of time trolling the Internet, looking for random healthcare funding (that my school inevitably didn’t qualify for) and reading articles about healthcare on the New York Times webpage (that’s work, right?).

I needed direction, in or outside of the office, it didn’t matter. Having graduated from college the previous spring, 2010 was the first time in my life that I didn’t have any direction, didn’t have a clear syllabus with assignments carefully outlined. I found I missed it.

Since my cardiovascular-heavy semester in Eastern Europe (See Running 5 Polish Miles), I’d maintained an okay workout regimen of five days a week running, biking or swimming. Yet I just didn’t feel any spark in any of my workouts. I’d slog off a handful of miles on a treadmill or sweat away on a stationary bike while watching re-runs of Top Chef at the gym after work, then shower up and go eat dinner. Who cared.

And then it struck me: Since I was already running, biking and swimming, why not combine all three? Swim + bike + run = A triathlon! Hey! That was something!

I began cruising the Internet with a purpose. The length of these races was incredibly daunting at first, even the so-called “sprint tris,” which quickly became the only ones I was looking at. Sure, I could run 5 km or bike 15 miles or swim however many laps but combined? Um…

The second thing that concerned me was the price. Triathlons are no picnic to organize, I’m sure. They have to block off roads and beaches and parking lots. They have to hire lifeguards, police officers, and medical teams, and all the myriad of other things that goes into planning not one, but three races. And all that costs money, honey. As was quickly obvious by the registration fee for most of the tris I was finding: between $75 and $125. For one (three-in-one) race. Oi.

Let’s pause here for a moment to review a few facts. 1) I’m a recent college grad (two words: student. loans.) 2) In 2010, our country was—and still is today—recovering from the greatest economic recession we’ve had in years. 3) At the time, I was an Americorps volunteer. This last point is the most important, because Americorps volunteers get paid a very measly living stipend…a figure that puts them at the poverty line of wherever they’re serving…a figure so small I qualified for (and used) food stamps (A fact I always thought my alma mater probably wouldn’t be too eager to include in their latest admissions brochure: “Come to our college! When you graduate, you can get on food stamps only a few months later!”). Basically, it boiled down to $100 for a registration fee being a bit nuts for my monthly budget.

I sat on the idea.

Work stalled. Working out stalled.

Spring rolled around. I couldn’t take it anymore. Encouraged by my boss, a recent fitness convert (Don’t you love when someone can so utterly transform their lives, right in front of your eyes over the course of one short year? That was my boss during my year of Americorps service.), I looked up triathlon races again. The price had gone up.

I looked at my bank account balance, bit my lip, and went for it. A few minutes later, the confirmation email swept into my inbox. I was officially signed up for the YWCA Minneapolis Women’s Triathlon  on August 15, 2010.

The spring and early summer went by in a blur. Suddenly bent with purpose, I increased my workouts to six days a week. I ran around a track in blistering heat, swam between buoys at the lake nearby, and biked for miles on my old purple mountain bike, which dated all the way back to my junior high years.  I felt awesome! I was training for something! I was an athlete!  And yet…

That bike was going to be a problem. In all of my visions of triathlon glory, of me flying through the water like Michael Phelps and peddling the course at, like, 500 miles an hour, and leading the pack—no, breaking ahead of the pack!—during the road race, the bike was not in them. Its clunky gears, its thick and gawky wheels, its upright handlebars, its too-small frame…none of them were synonymous with my sure victory.

It had to go. Now bikes, as many of you may already know (and as I did not at the time), are really expensive. What’re a few gears and some rubber tires doing costing hundreds upon hundreds of dollars? I ask you. New bike, out. Used bike, in! I found one, a women’s Schwinn road bike that’s probably older than I am, at a used bike store in south St. Paul. I broke up with my purple mountain bike on the spot, and biked the blue one home.

Next stop, race day!

~Megan~

Carving Urban Fresh Tracks

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“It’s made out of old tennis shoes?” The look on most kids’ faces was priceless. And I admit that when offered a skateboard to “try some tricks” the surface began looking awful hard for shoe rubber… But it’s true, Nike teamed up with Paul Rodriguez (aka P-Rod) and the LA84 Foundation to build a new kind of skate park, made out of recycled materials including old shoes.

The vibe at the event was awesome. I showed up over two hours before the grand opening and there were already over 200 skaters as young as age 5 skating around. Before the park was officially unveiled, skaters killed time by meeting new people, doing tricks for their friends, or waiting in line to be one of the first to get P-Rod and the rest of the Nike Skateboard Team’s autographs (some came over 5 hours early just to be first!).

The event took place on “go ride a skate board” and which happens to fall on father’s day. Fittingly, the event officially kicked off with a humorous speech by P-Rod’s father Paul Rodriguez Sr. As he switched off between English and Spanish for the widely Latino/a community, Paul shared stories of his son growing up in the nearby neighborhood and what it was like watching his son become a professional skate boarder.

When the park was finally opened for skating, literally hundreds of kids rushed the park to say hi to P-Rod and ride the new ramps, stairs and rails. Order was maintained through sheer awe as the pro riders started doing huge tricks over the stair gap.Some riders watched, while others ventured to different areas of the large park to create their own skate sessions for family and community members to watch.

Seeing all the young skaters that came out to this event made me realize how important places like this are for kids. This park in particular was created to look and act like real street skate spots rather than a cage filled with ramps. While older and hardcore skaters will continue to seek additional street spots, for younger and new skaters this place offers a legal and safe place to practice and hang out, which ultimately will attract and keep more youth in the sport.

-Martin-