Twelve months ago, I was encouraged by a friend to get up before the sun rose and go to a spin class with her. Exercise was the farthest thing from my mind and had been for a handful of years. But she promised me that the instructor was entertaining, the music was great and except for the possibility of falling off the stationary bike, I had very little opportunity for injury. After a few classes I was hooked.
My friend and I joined the same gym and continued to work out together. We pushed each other well beyond the point that we would have dared go by ourselves. We found that by doing this together we could accomplish more than we could alone. We set a few small milestone goals for ourselves in the beginning; run a 5k and then run a 10k. After running at least a dozen 5ks and a 10k we began to wonder what the next goal would be. We decided to set a big goal that, at the time, seemed simply impossible: we were going to run a half marathon. We signed up for the Rock n Roll Half Marathon in Las Vegas.
The goal was daunting but we continued to encourage each other. There were plenty of mornings that 4:30 came entirely too early and I just wanted to turn off the alarm and go back to bed. But then I would think of my friend, waiting in the dark on her porch for me to pick her up and I would reluctantly drag myself out of bed. Throughout the 7 months we trained there were plenty of times that “life” happened: illness, work, travel, family…you name it. But each time that happened, we knew the other would be waiting to help us get back on track.
I told everyone that I signed up for the race. Everyday conversations invariably turned to questions about how my training was coming along. Four of my friends made plans to be in Las Vegas to cheer me on at the race. This campaign was a way to keep my eye on the goal and at the same time presented an opportunity for accountability. People I knew and loved were spending money to see me finish this race (among other things) and there was no way I was going to let them down!
The beginning of the race was breathtaking and the middle of the race was exhausting. But the end of the race was exhilarating. I saw my friends at the finish line frantically cheering me toward the end. I was wishing that my feet had fallen off around mile 8. My right hip and right knee were in agony. I missed my finish time goal by 50 minutes. I didn’t care about any of that. I was so happy to see those familiar faces and the excitement they contained.
My knee still hurts over a week later so I have scheduled two weeks of no running. It would be incredibly easy for me to settle back in to a routine of sleeping past 4AM like normal people do, sitting on the couch and watching TV. The thought of that is both wonderful and frightening all at the same time! So two days ago, I signed up for another half marathon in May of 2011.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Motivation
Three weeks ago I hit the wall. It was a big, brick wall lined with Swedish fish and Tootsie rolls. I didn't want to run. I didn't want to swim. I certainly didn't want to get up at 4:30 AM and get my butt kicked by my personal trainer. All I wanted to do was sit on the couch and watch TV.
I knew the race was coming sooner than I would have liked. I knew that even a half marathon was like an exam that needed to be prepared for, not crammed for like so many of my college exams. I knew these things and yet I still phoned in my workouts and came up with many excuses to not lace up my shoes and hit the running trail.
And just when I thought my training plan had derailed for good I saw the email. It was their flight information. She and her husband are coming out to Vegas to help celebrate. No one wants to be there for the race; hell even I am a little skeptical and I'm going to be on the start line. But when I told my friends about the race she booked a flight and hotel room.
I don't doubt that I will face a crisis in motivation again within the next 7 weeks, but this time I laced up my shoes and ran 8.5 miles.
Thanks friend!!!
I knew the race was coming sooner than I would have liked. I knew that even a half marathon was like an exam that needed to be prepared for, not crammed for like so many of my college exams. I knew these things and yet I still phoned in my workouts and came up with many excuses to not lace up my shoes and hit the running trail.
And just when I thought my training plan had derailed for good I saw the email. It was their flight information. She and her husband are coming out to Vegas to help celebrate. No one wants to be there for the race; hell even I am a little skeptical and I'm going to be on the start line. But when I told my friends about the race she booked a flight and hotel room.
I don't doubt that I will face a crisis in motivation again within the next 7 weeks, but this time I laced up my shoes and ran 8.5 miles.
Thanks friend!!!
Monday, September 27, 2010
If I Throw Out Large Technical Words, Maybe She'll Hang Up The Phone
I think I have a pretty high degree of common sense. Couple that with my 8 years of college (no, I'm not a doctor) I think that I am equipped to learn faster and see patterns quicker than the majority of the population. The upside: I can pick up a skill with relatively little effort. Except swimming and since I'm in a land-locked state and very rarely find myself in a scene from Open Water, I'm not going to worry too much about that.
I find that this trait many times leads me to impatience and a short fuse with people who don't necessarily have the cognitive skills that 457,000 hours in a classroom has afforded me. Having to nearly bite my tongue off most days, I try to count to ten when I feel my fuse start to go. And to make sure that I am fully aware of this flaw, the technical customer service gods conspired against me today.
There are few things that can irritate the bejeezus out of an IT manager: large scale service outages that you have no hope or possibility of ever controlling (service level agreements? What's that?) and dealing with other nerds on the phone for long periods of time. Today I was lucky enough to experience both at the same time.
I find that this trait many times leads me to impatience and a short fuse with people who don't necessarily have the cognitive skills that 457,000 hours in a classroom has afforded me. Having to nearly bite my tongue off most days, I try to count to ten when I feel my fuse start to go. And to make sure that I am fully aware of this flaw, the technical customer service gods conspired against me today.
There are few things that can irritate the bejeezus out of an IT manager: large scale service outages that you have no hope or possibility of ever controlling (service level agreements? What's that?) and dealing with other nerds on the phone for long periods of time. Today I was lucky enough to experience both at the same time.
Oh, you say that my hosted server that serves up a software portal to 350 people "locked up" in the middle of a script and therefore never fully booted up? Tell me again what multi-threaded means?
One, two, three...
Oh, now I get it, this hardware lock up happened three days ago and you thought you'd just wait around to see if it ever came back up? Riiiiight.
...four, five, six...
So how's about this, Douche-Canoe, how about you replace the hardware right this instant because I'm out of patience seeing as I've been on the phone with various versions of you for the past 6 1/2 hours?
'KThanksBye.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Of Foxtails and Bitches
Paulie Walnuts is a soft wirehair dachshund and with the exception of his occasional grooming, has required very little monetary upkeep. Recently his ear had been giving him trouble; he would scratch the inside until it bled. Constantly. He had a lot of wax in that particular ear so I just figured we should pick up an ear cleaner and give him a few shots of it. I asked the husband to call the vet to recommend an ear solution. The vet tech recommended that we come in instead. Paulie is one of Dr. R's favorites so bringing him we figured was just a way for him to see Paulie after a long absence. When we walked in to the office there were three other dogs there plus several whimpering animals that we could hear from the back room.
In the middle of the waiting room was a giant white fluff. She was a Great Pyrenees named Smidgen. She was in town for a dog show but wasn't feeling her best. The "bitch" (the co-owner's label, not mine) only had her picture taken before heading to our vet's office after a referral from someone at the dog show. She laid on the ground panting and looking rather sad. Another patient was a black pug whose owner had just moved to town. They came home at lunch to find a swelling on the side of Rafiki's neck the size of an orange. Terrified, they found Dr. R in the phone book and brought her in. Howling in one of the rooms was a less than one year old bloodhound. He was upset about something but Paulie was curious enough to poke his head into the room and make him howl even more.
When it was Paulie's turn Dr. R asked us to hold him and briefly talked about the great new ear solution that he would give us for Paulie's ears. He looked into Paulie's right ear which was healthy and pink. He didn't look into his left ear for long before he pulled a tube out of the drawer next to him and said, "He has a foxtail in his ear." I was confused and he showed me the tube - in it was what looked like a bunch of small, thin dried leaves.
The good news was that he could remove it and the bad news was that Paulie would have to be knocked out. So Dr. R gave him a quick shot from a syringe in his shoulder to calm him. We took Paulie to the waiting room for about 10 minutes for the doggy-valium to take effect. They brought another syringe out with some stuff that looked vaguely familiar and then took him into the back room. A few minutes later, Dr. R brought out the offending seed that looked like some kind of insect. He offered it to me as a souvenir and I declined. They cleaned him up and while still sedated, brought him to me to hold while he came to. He couldn't hold his tongue in and was totally out of it. He eventually started to come to - looking like he was watching a tennis match as his head bobbed from side to side. After 30 minutes of watching him slowly come out of his drug-induced haze, we took him home. Our story had a happy ending thankfully.
But during those 30 minutes of waiting we saw some not so happy scenarios play out. Smidgen, the bitch who was not feeling like her usual peppy 10-year-old self had an x-ray taken to see if she had possibly eaten something that she should not have. The prognosis was bleak: this sweet, giant cotton ball had a massive abdominal tumor. They didn't think she would make the car ride home to Illinois. Her days had been reduced to hours and her other co-owner would be flying in to say goodbye tomorrow morning. The vet tech and Dr. R exchanged looks that made me think tomorrow's flight could be too late.
As we were leaving, Rafiki was being taken into the backroom to test a salivary gland for the cause of its swelling. I recognized the fear in the owner's eyes and felt terrible for her.
I am sitting here on my couch with a sweet little yellow fluff in my lap; warm and sweet and still very much out of it. I am thankful that we didn't have to make any hard decisions today.
In the middle of the waiting room was a giant white fluff. She was a Great Pyrenees named Smidgen. She was in town for a dog show but wasn't feeling her best. The "bitch" (the co-owner's label, not mine) only had her picture taken before heading to our vet's office after a referral from someone at the dog show. She laid on the ground panting and looking rather sad. Another patient was a black pug whose owner had just moved to town. They came home at lunch to find a swelling on the side of Rafiki's neck the size of an orange. Terrified, they found Dr. R in the phone book and brought her in. Howling in one of the rooms was a less than one year old bloodhound. He was upset about something but Paulie was curious enough to poke his head into the room and make him howl even more.
When it was Paulie's turn Dr. R asked us to hold him and briefly talked about the great new ear solution that he would give us for Paulie's ears. He looked into Paulie's right ear which was healthy and pink. He didn't look into his left ear for long before he pulled a tube out of the drawer next to him and said, "He has a foxtail in his ear." I was confused and he showed me the tube - in it was what looked like a bunch of small, thin dried leaves.
The good news was that he could remove it and the bad news was that Paulie would have to be knocked out. So Dr. R gave him a quick shot from a syringe in his shoulder to calm him. We took Paulie to the waiting room for about 10 minutes for the doggy-valium to take effect. They brought another syringe out with some stuff that looked vaguely familiar and then took him into the back room. A few minutes later, Dr. R brought out the offending seed that looked like some kind of insect. He offered it to me as a souvenir and I declined. They cleaned him up and while still sedated, brought him to me to hold while he came to. He couldn't hold his tongue in and was totally out of it. He eventually started to come to - looking like he was watching a tennis match as his head bobbed from side to side. After 30 minutes of watching him slowly come out of his drug-induced haze, we took him home. Our story had a happy ending thankfully.
But during those 30 minutes of waiting we saw some not so happy scenarios play out. Smidgen, the bitch who was not feeling like her usual peppy 10-year-old self had an x-ray taken to see if she had possibly eaten something that she should not have. The prognosis was bleak: this sweet, giant cotton ball had a massive abdominal tumor. They didn't think she would make the car ride home to Illinois. Her days had been reduced to hours and her other co-owner would be flying in to say goodbye tomorrow morning. The vet tech and Dr. R exchanged looks that made me think tomorrow's flight could be too late.
As we were leaving, Rafiki was being taken into the backroom to test a salivary gland for the cause of its swelling. I recognized the fear in the owner's eyes and felt terrible for her.
I am sitting here on my couch with a sweet little yellow fluff in my lap; warm and sweet and still very much out of it. I am thankful that we didn't have to make any hard decisions today.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Day 4
Dieting is the worst! On the rare occasion that I buy them, I could have a box of Ho Hos sitting in my pantry for months - MONTHS I tell you! - and not be tempted to devour the entire box while sitting on the couch watching Jerseylicious. But the minute I start a diet I can't thing of anything else. Ho Hos, chips and french onion dip, Swedish fish, tootsie rolls, Doritos. You name something with high fructose corn syrup and/or a calorie count higher than my daily recommended intake and I HAVE TO HAVE IT. NOW. One thing I have decided to not give up however is my beloved McDonald's sweet tea.
At only day 4 the training has been intense. Core training started this morning at 5am. My instructor (captor...whatever) is a delightful woman who, although at least 5 years older than I, looks like she could wrestle (and beat!) an entire football team at the same time, all the while prepping for a strut down the catwalk in Milan. The workout she had planned for me this morning left a ringing in both ears, light headed-ness that made me question whether I just had my ass handed to me or was taking shots of tequila and a soreness that settled into my bones within an hour of finishing.
While I would love to go on and on about the past four days of training and dieting I ca no longer lift my arms up to continue typing.
At only day 4 the training has been intense. Core training started this morning at 5am. My instructor (captor...whatever) is a delightful woman who, although at least 5 years older than I, looks like she could wrestle (and beat!) an entire football team at the same time, all the while prepping for a strut down the catwalk in Milan. The workout she had planned for me this morning left a ringing in both ears, light headed-ness that made me question whether I just had my ass handed to me or was taking shots of tequila and a soreness that settled into my bones within an hour of finishing.
While I would love to go on and on about the past four days of training and dieting I ca no longer lift my arms up to continue typing.
Saturday, September 04, 2010
Kickstart
Ninety days of hard-core training start on Monday. Long gone are the days of I-might-be-able-to-hit-the-gym-right-after-I-eat-this-delectable-package-of-HoHos-....-forget-the-gym-these-HoHos-are-awesome. My schedule will consist of healthy diet, long runs, lots of laps in a pool and countless hours on a bike. If I don't drown in said-pool (or die of embarrassment from the grotesque one-piece "sport swim suit"), my short-term goal is to finish the Las Vegas half marathon in December under 2 hours, 30 minutes. I have the gear, I have the ability (I'm pretty sure) and I have the desire. Oh and did I mention that I also have a birthday coming up?
I will be 36 three weeks from tomorrow. This is not a momentous milestone by any means to most people, but a long gone memory came to me about 9 months ago in a cold sweat panic; I recalled my first trip to Colorado many (many, many) moons ago. It was then that I fell in love with the Centennial state and ultimately decided my fate. The decade or two that passed between that first visit and my eventual move was dotted with bad habits and a body so disheveled it was barely recognizable. And so it was that I had long forgotten the promise I made to myself all those years ago.
But here I am, 4 years out from the deadline I set to scale a mountain in what has been described as "a treacherous series of switchbacks through a Martian-like rock-scape". Starting at an elevation of 6,295 feet runners climb up the side of the mountain for 13.32 miles to an elevation of 14,110 feet. And then back down again. This Pike's Peak marathon fills up all 800 spots in less than a day.
Can I do it? Well, I have a lot of work to do to prepare and relatively little time to do it. But I want to stand at the bottom of that mountain and tell my young, irresponsible, unsure and confused self from way back when just one thing: this life is not a dress rehearsal - make each day count! (I might also mention not to try the at-home hair highlights.) With that I will head to the medical tent to have the wounds sewn, the breaks splinted, pull the oxygen mask to my face and wheel myself to the nearest bar.
I will be 36 three weeks from tomorrow. This is not a momentous milestone by any means to most people, but a long gone memory came to me about 9 months ago in a cold sweat panic; I recalled my first trip to Colorado many (many, many) moons ago. It was then that I fell in love with the Centennial state and ultimately decided my fate. The decade or two that passed between that first visit and my eventual move was dotted with bad habits and a body so disheveled it was barely recognizable. And so it was that I had long forgotten the promise I made to myself all those years ago.
But here I am, 4 years out from the deadline I set to scale a mountain in what has been described as "a treacherous series of switchbacks through a Martian-like rock-scape". Starting at an elevation of 6,295 feet runners climb up the side of the mountain for 13.32 miles to an elevation of 14,110 feet. And then back down again. This Pike's Peak marathon fills up all 800 spots in less than a day.
Can I do it? Well, I have a lot of work to do to prepare and relatively little time to do it. But I want to stand at the bottom of that mountain and tell my young, irresponsible, unsure and confused self from way back when just one thing: this life is not a dress rehearsal - make each day count! (I might also mention not to try the at-home hair highlights.) With that I will head to the medical tent to have the wounds sewn, the breaks splinted, pull the oxygen mask to my face and wheel myself to the nearest bar.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
My Phone Updated!!!
Things I love about the latest Android update on my HTC Incredible:
- flashlight app
- App Sharing
- WiFi Hotspot
- Voice Commands
the way my battery drains in a fraction of the time it used toFacebook returning errors every time I try to update the news feed or notifications
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Waiting For a Reset
The "What if...." and "If only...." conversations with myself had finally stopped popping up anytime I would see a cute stroller or a Pottery Barn Kids storefront. And then I watched Away We Go. It's a good movie. And funny. Until the soul-crushing moment that this was spoken:
It's days like these that make it hard to believe that it ever will be any easier. When the tears dry, I will reset my "Days Without A Breakdown..." counter back to zero and start again.
"....I wonder if we've been selfish. People like us we wait till our thirties and then we're surprised when the babies aren't so easy to make anymore and then every day another million fourteen year olds get pregnant without trying. It's a terrible feeling...."And that is why I am at work today looking like I've gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson (pre-ear-biting days of course). My eyes, all puffy and red, still fill with tears when I dare to let my mind do anything other than read through lines of code and write user manuals.
It's days like these that make it hard to believe that it ever will be any easier. When the tears dry, I will reset my "Days Without A Breakdown..." counter back to zero and start again.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Whew!
After a quick stab with a syringe and aspiration onto a slide, it turns out his lump was a fatty tumor. When we received the diagnosis, my husband gave me a self-satisfied smirk..."I told you so." I ignored him, picked up my little man and nearly wept with relief. He's only 6 so we had "the talk" that night. I think I saw some comprehension in his eyes when I told him that as a little dog the expectation is that he lives to be at least 26. And that is non-negotiable.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Little Doodle Dog
When I first saw him, he was sleeping quietly in a corner filled with cedar chips. I was being used as a jungle gym by one of his pen-mates, a miniature pinscher that I'm pretty sure was hopped up on liva-snaps and rawhide. I watched another couple pick up a yipping, strangely-colored miniature dachshund with a broken tail from the same pen. He was more lively than his sleeping litter mate. That's when I peeked over the edge of the pen and saw him. He was sleeping in a little round circle, nose to tail - the position that has come to be known as the "cinna-bun". He cracked one eye to see who would dare to disturb his slumber and, I would like to think for both of us, it was love at first sight.
He lifted his head and his cheek had been stuck into a "smile" of sorts. The owner told me to pick him up. I felt bad to wake him but I reluctantly picked him up. He was blinking back the sleep and trying to lick my face. I played with his little quarter sized feet, felt his little velvety floppy ears and pet his shiny black and tan fur as he fell back to sleep in my arms. Not less than 15 minutes later, I was in my car with "Baby" in a small plastic dog carrier, a bag of puppy food and a few toys. The whole way home I kept asking myself, "What the hell are you doing?! A dog? Are you ready to take care of a dog??"
"Baby" kept his generic name for three days until I came up with the right one: Indy. Indy was a really good puppy and much better at training than his new owner. I tried crate training but it didn't last. I didn't want to make him cry, so after 3 hours the first night he ended up curled up in a cinna-bun on my pillow. He slept through the night - and almost always has except for an unfortunate experience with Benedryl.
His puppyhood was quite an experience. He ate too much rawhide bone once and ended up in the hospital with a stomach blockage. It was heartbreaking to see him in a hospital cage with an IV drip and drugged up until the rawhide passed. Then he developed little blisters on his eyelids that I was told could make him blind. After a trip to the local university vet school and some eye drops, I found some pet insurance. He has allergies that my vet told me I could treat with Benedryl. He spent hours doing the Indy-500 around the house before collapsing in a heap the next morning and sleeping for about 36 hours. That's when my vet informed me that he has a strange reaction to it. He might as well have been dropping an eight ball and hitting a rave that night. Needless to say, he no longer gets Benedryl.
At his one year checkup everything was fine until the vet asked me how long he had a little bump on his side. She asked me if she could do some testing because it didn't look "right". It turned out to be a form of skin cancer. I was shocked. He was scheduled for surgery a short 4 days later. I brought him home with a result of "clean margins", a t-shirt on to keep him from licking and biting out his stitches and a large incision. Two more surgeries were held over the next couple of years to remove very small tumors. He was a trooper and we like to tell people that he won a knife fight when they invariably ask about the scars. Since these scares, we have been diligent (overly so maybe?) about checking out every little tiny thing that pops up on him. And yes, sometimes my emergency visits to the vet turn out to be nothing more than piece of dirt for example. Don't judge.
The past five years have been rather uneventful compare to his first one. He has endured two moves to new homes, the loss of a bigger older lab sister, the arrival of a little, noisier dachshund brother and the arrival of a bigger, younger lab/basset sister. He has had some teeth removed because his oral hygiene is sorely lacking. He is a bit spoiled and I'm not sure he knows that he's a dog. (I'm not about to tell him now.)
The travel that I sometimes have to do for work takes me away from my husband and fur-kids for weeks at a time. The return is just as sweet each time when they see me walk through the door though. This last return home I picked him up so that I could cuddle him and that's when I felt it - golf-ball sized lump behind his front leg. It doesn't seem to bother him and so I'm very hopeful that, as my husband claims, it is "nothing". We find out on Monday. In the meantime I have been curling up with my little cinna-bun and preparing him for another possible knife fight.
He lifted his head and his cheek had been stuck into a "smile" of sorts. The owner told me to pick him up. I felt bad to wake him but I reluctantly picked him up. He was blinking back the sleep and trying to lick my face. I played with his little quarter sized feet, felt his little velvety floppy ears and pet his shiny black and tan fur as he fell back to sleep in my arms. Not less than 15 minutes later, I was in my car with "Baby" in a small plastic dog carrier, a bag of puppy food and a few toys. The whole way home I kept asking myself, "What the hell are you doing?! A dog? Are you ready to take care of a dog??"
"Baby" kept his generic name for three days until I came up with the right one: Indy. Indy was a really good puppy and much better at training than his new owner. I tried crate training but it didn't last. I didn't want to make him cry, so after 3 hours the first night he ended up curled up in a cinna-bun on my pillow. He slept through the night - and almost always has except for an unfortunate experience with Benedryl.
His puppyhood was quite an experience. He ate too much rawhide bone once and ended up in the hospital with a stomach blockage. It was heartbreaking to see him in a hospital cage with an IV drip and drugged up until the rawhide passed. Then he developed little blisters on his eyelids that I was told could make him blind. After a trip to the local university vet school and some eye drops, I found some pet insurance. He has allergies that my vet told me I could treat with Benedryl. He spent hours doing the Indy-500 around the house before collapsing in a heap the next morning and sleeping for about 36 hours. That's when my vet informed me that he has a strange reaction to it. He might as well have been dropping an eight ball and hitting a rave that night. Needless to say, he no longer gets Benedryl.
At his one year checkup everything was fine until the vet asked me how long he had a little bump on his side. She asked me if she could do some testing because it didn't look "right". It turned out to be a form of skin cancer. I was shocked. He was scheduled for surgery a short 4 days later. I brought him home with a result of "clean margins", a t-shirt on to keep him from licking and biting out his stitches and a large incision. Two more surgeries were held over the next couple of years to remove very small tumors. He was a trooper and we like to tell people that he won a knife fight when they invariably ask about the scars. Since these scares, we have been diligent (overly so maybe?) about checking out every little tiny thing that pops up on him. And yes, sometimes my emergency visits to the vet turn out to be nothing more than piece of dirt for example. Don't judge.
The past five years have been rather uneventful compare to his first one. He has endured two moves to new homes, the loss of a bigger older lab sister, the arrival of a little, noisier dachshund brother and the arrival of a bigger, younger lab/basset sister. He has had some teeth removed because his oral hygiene is sorely lacking. He is a bit spoiled and I'm not sure he knows that he's a dog. (I'm not about to tell him now.)
The travel that I sometimes have to do for work takes me away from my husband and fur-kids for weeks at a time. The return is just as sweet each time when they see me walk through the door though. This last return home I picked him up so that I could cuddle him and that's when I felt it - golf-ball sized lump behind his front leg. It doesn't seem to bother him and so I'm very hopeful that, as my husband claims, it is "nothing". We find out on Monday. In the meantime I have been curling up with my little cinna-bun and preparing him for another possible knife fight.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
It's About Time
Let's start out by taking a walk down memory lane, shall we? Crank up Springsteen's Glory Days, because here we go:
I've been an athlete for as long as I can remember. Way back in elementary school, I played every sport they had because if I didn't our class wouldn't have enough people on the team to scrimmage against the other area Catholic schools. Basketball, volleyball, cheerleading...I did it all. Fast forward to Middle school where I replaced the cheerleading bit for track. Just before the foray into high school, on a whim, I decided to fore-go the volleyball tryouts and join the cross country team. There were two reasons for this: 1) there were no tryouts, therefore no chance at rejection (my 14 year old self had terrible self esteem) and 2) my sister was already on the team. We pushed each other to great success. Pictures of us, in our navy blue running tights and bright orange running shorts (gross!) show the lean and lanky (well, I was lanky - she was a little more vertically challenged) figures. We looked like q-tips with our big poufy hair and bean pole bodies. And right here is where we cut the music and fast forward 20 years.
After a decidedly long absence from exercise outside of walking to the fridge and back, I have decided that I have had enough. A friend of mine is diligent - nearly obsessed - with being fit. This woman can cut carbs and not kill people after two days. She participates in athletic events that make me cringe. She encouraged me to start working out with her. Thanks to the ignorance that was afforded to me by being lazy for 20 years, I said ok. Her favorite activity is spin class. Riding a bike? Sounds good - that's what I would do when I was injured in my running days. It can't be too hard, right? WRONG!
My first spin class was like a bad dream. I didn't have the right shoes...when I saw people clip-clopping around the room in their biking shoes, I realized I was in over my head. The first time I tried to stand up as the instructor screamed at the class, I nearly fell off of the bike. My toes went numb. The computer on the bike was telling me with very scientific numbers that I was a lazy piece of crap.
I have been to 6 spin classes now and I am happy to report that after finding the right teacher - and by "right" I mean that he walks around the room, screaming in a very lovely British accent and plays music that makes me long for the days of dancing in a club with a drink and cigarette in hand - I am having a much more positive cycling experience. While I knew I was no longer the boundlessly energetic bean pole I was 20 years ago, I was shocked at the horrible tricks age has played on me. My joints hate me. My body - thanks to my non-functioning thyroid - refuses to sweat. While this might sound like a gift, after running a fever for the 24 hours it took my body to cool down on its own, I can tell you it's not. A combination of long-term laziness and that damn thyroid again makes my resting heart rate look more like the temperature in Death Valley at noon in the middle of summer. It took me all of 4 minutes into the workout today to get my heart rate up to 190. After the instructor's initial disbelief, he told me to "turn it down a half turn, sit down and pedal it out" until I got back to the 180s. I have to turn off the upper limit alarm in order to keep going without a shrill piercing beep telling me that the heart rate monitor is relatively certain I am having a heart attack.
It's all coming back to me now. The grueling multiple-mile workouts in Cross Country that, when I put forth just a tad bit of effort, I could do without batting an eye. The killers in basketball that I hated. I don't remember feeling this sense of lungs coming out of my body and exhaustion so deep that it takes all I have to drive home after class. In spite of all of this, I feel good. I have come to terms with the fact that I will never be as good as I was but I can certainly be better than I am now. I have a goal in mind: I am going to run the Bolder Boulder 10k this Memorial Day (barring any injury) and want to finish having run the entire way. It doesn't seem like much, but it's about time.
I've been an athlete for as long as I can remember. Way back in elementary school, I played every sport they had because if I didn't our class wouldn't have enough people on the team to scrimmage against the other area Catholic schools. Basketball, volleyball, cheerleading...I did it all. Fast forward to Middle school where I replaced the cheerleading bit for track. Just before the foray into high school, on a whim, I decided to fore-go the volleyball tryouts and join the cross country team. There were two reasons for this: 1) there were no tryouts, therefore no chance at rejection (my 14 year old self had terrible self esteem) and 2) my sister was already on the team. We pushed each other to great success. Pictures of us, in our navy blue running tights and bright orange running shorts (gross!) show the lean and lanky (well, I was lanky - she was a little more vertically challenged) figures. We looked like q-tips with our big poufy hair and bean pole bodies. And right here is where we cut the music and fast forward 20 years.
After a decidedly long absence from exercise outside of walking to the fridge and back, I have decided that I have had enough. A friend of mine is diligent - nearly obsessed - with being fit. This woman can cut carbs and not kill people after two days. She participates in athletic events that make me cringe. She encouraged me to start working out with her. Thanks to the ignorance that was afforded to me by being lazy for 20 years, I said ok. Her favorite activity is spin class. Riding a bike? Sounds good - that's what I would do when I was injured in my running days. It can't be too hard, right? WRONG!
My first spin class was like a bad dream. I didn't have the right shoes...when I saw people clip-clopping around the room in their biking shoes, I realized I was in over my head. The first time I tried to stand up as the instructor screamed at the class, I nearly fell off of the bike. My toes went numb. The computer on the bike was telling me with very scientific numbers that I was a lazy piece of crap.
I have been to 6 spin classes now and I am happy to report that after finding the right teacher - and by "right" I mean that he walks around the room, screaming in a very lovely British accent and plays music that makes me long for the days of dancing in a club with a drink and cigarette in hand - I am having a much more positive cycling experience. While I knew I was no longer the boundlessly energetic bean pole I was 20 years ago, I was shocked at the horrible tricks age has played on me. My joints hate me. My body - thanks to my non-functioning thyroid - refuses to sweat. While this might sound like a gift, after running a fever for the 24 hours it took my body to cool down on its own, I can tell you it's not. A combination of long-term laziness and that damn thyroid again makes my resting heart rate look more like the temperature in Death Valley at noon in the middle of summer. It took me all of 4 minutes into the workout today to get my heart rate up to 190. After the instructor's initial disbelief, he told me to "turn it down a half turn, sit down and pedal it out" until I got back to the 180s. I have to turn off the upper limit alarm in order to keep going without a shrill piercing beep telling me that the heart rate monitor is relatively certain I am having a heart attack.
It's all coming back to me now. The grueling multiple-mile workouts in Cross Country that, when I put forth just a tad bit of effort, I could do without batting an eye. The killers in basketball that I hated. I don't remember feeling this sense of lungs coming out of my body and exhaustion so deep that it takes all I have to drive home after class. In spite of all of this, I feel good. I have come to terms with the fact that I will never be as good as I was but I can certainly be better than I am now. I have a goal in mind: I am going to run the Bolder Boulder 10k this Memorial Day (barring any injury) and want to finish having run the entire way. It doesn't seem like much, but it's about time.
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