Kansas 70.3

It's race report time.

As per usual, I will try to keep this brief, and loaded with pics.

So on June 6, I did the Kansas 70.3 . For those non-triathletes among us, it's a half-Ironman that consists of a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, and 13.1 mile run.

I picked Kansas because Cheese's family is out there and I figured - hey, kill two birds with one stone, right?

Also along for the ride was Spie, who most of you might know from past events such as MC200, and my recent trysts up to Wisconsin for my long rides on the weekends.

We left at about 5am Friday morning, drove for 10 hours (awesome), and finally arrived to 92 degree heat (98 with the stifling humidity). Guess who didn't exactly train for THOSE conditions?

That's right - THIS GIRL.

So almost as quick as we said hello to my in-laws, Spie and I threw on our running clothes and headed out the door. The goals? Shake out the 10-hour ride from our legs, get in a last workout before the race, and try to acclimate to the heat.

Lemme tell you - it was about as close to running inside the seventh ring of hell as I can imagine. My nipples literally melted off my tits. True story.

After 40-ish grueling minutes, Spie and I arrived back home, completely dehydrated, foaming around the mouth, and me covered in my own salt (as usual). Since I have taken to running in shorts and a sports bra (hell, dudes can get naked, a sports bra ain't nothin'), I was a little taken aback when I entered the in-laws home to find a room full of people.

Just staring.

At me.

And my sweaty half-nakiddnes.

Quick like a cat, I dried off, and the hug-hello-how-ya-doings commenced, followed by a BBQ of epic proportions.

Me and Spie, post run, full of grime.


As the evening came to a close, and me with a belly full of baked beans and homemade ice cream, we said our good nights and headed to bed.

Me and my man.

And although there are no pics to document the following day - which consisted of another round of melt-your-face-off-your-face heat - Spie and I spent most of it together, getting lost thanks to Tom-Tom (Dum-Dum), driving around rural back road Kansas, and finally checking into the race, where we found out the water temperature was 81 degrees.

HALLELUJAH!!!!!

My hate for the wetsuit knows no bounds, and with this news, I felt like, "Yeah, things are going to be juuuuust fine....."

And then?

Then we drove the bike course.

Panic ensued, possibly a few tears, lots of nervous laughter, and then - after much hydrating with lots of water - a brief lapse of incontinence (me) in the parking lot when both Spie and I realized we didn't pack out tire repair kits until about midnight.

Which brings us to.....Race Morning.

My Curb Crew. Does the shirt look familiar?

Wait - what? Who's this? It looks just like.....it is!!! Chrissie Wellington!!! Right her in the Land of OZ!!!!!!!


Wowza.

So, Chrissie was well on her way to setting a new Kansas record and breaking her own from last year by the time my sopping wet ass emerged from my swim.

I swam without the wetsuit, but in hindsight I should have just laid it out and floated on it like a dead man on a raft and would probably have posted a better time.

But I got out of the water, mostly unfazed, but yet totally stunned to look down at my watch as see: 47:45.

No seriously.

What the fuck?

I wasn't even tired or disoriented like usual. I just popped up, saw my time, and then noticed, "Yeah, I am pretty sure I am the only white cap in my group to be out here." To say I felt shame doesn't even cover it.

But let me pause here and relay the most glaring lesson I learned this race - In triathlon, you will always get the race you train for. There are no miracles, and there's no one to call in favors from come race morning. You either train, or you don't, and the race doesn't lie.

For me, I regularly chose the bike or a run over the pool, and here - in the form of a 47-minute swim - was the undeniable consequence of those choices. I didn't train well for the swim, so I wasn't going to do well. No complaining, no excuses. It is what it is. I am the only one to blame.

But I was ashamed nonetheless. It always sucks being towards the end of your swim heat.

In fact, the shame was so bad, it took about 10 miles into the bike for me to pull my head out of my ass and get right.

And the getting got right as soon as I saw my first bike split.

Shame erased. Game on.

(Side note: T1 was an astounding 2:32, which is UNHEARD of for me. In 2006, it was 6:56, for crying out loud, and in 2009 it was 4:38 - THANK GAWD someone finally told me that T1 didn't stand for "Time Out to Nap" Who knew?)

(Also note the lack of bike photos - it was impossible for spectators to be on the course so no pictures)

Pictures aside - this was BY FAR the toughest bike course I ever rode. Unrelenting hills, up and down the whole way - but having drove it the day before set me up well. I knew what to expect and when. No matter - it was still balls-ass hard.

So imagine my shock to finally pull back into the State Park, look down and see:

3:02.

And wait! What's this? I jump off my bike and can actually run it to the rack? Hold up! Is this a joke? Who is this Super Girl? It's ME!!!

PR on the hilliest bike course I've ever tackled!!

Eat shit, bad swim!

Now, I don't know about you, but by the time the bike is over, I am usually just relieved to have made it through without a crash or flat.

But yet here I was, relieved AND energetic!

Bring on the run!

(T2: 2:26 - again, this is crazy talk for me)

This was just before (or after) Mile 3.

Mile 5 - still running, refusing to stop, bladder filling, but smile on my face.

This picture is hella ugly, but at this exact moment, I was running past Cheese just about Mile 7 and saying, "I'm gonna break 6 hours!" (my previous PR was 6:32 in 2006). Those exact words - look, you can even see me forming the word "I'm" here.

Between Mile 7 and 9, some random dude caught up to me and starting chatting me up. I think he was trying to pace with me, and rust me - for the first time in my entire life or racing, I noticed that I wasn't the one trying to keep up. Hellz no, I was the one setting the pace! Runner Dude was on Mile 2, and we chatted a while. At this point, I pointed out Cheese and his family, waved, and marveled at how I hadn't yet stopped running.

Chattin' away...

Smiles, but in just a few short miles, they are going to start to fade.....Mile 11 to be exact.....

(Side note: In case you are gawking at my sweet boobs and wondering "Why do they look crinkly?" you're not alone. I ask that every morning myself. But here, it appears that I had a half-pack of Clif Bloks shoved down my shirt from the bike - easy acccess - and I clearly forgot about them.)

By Mile 11, I was struggling. I started making deals with myself. You know, things like, "Okay, run to the far light post and if you want to stop, then you can. But go at least to the far lamp post." This worked well and kept me going until right before Mile 12, when I walked for the first time - for about 60 seconds.

I picked it back up again, noticed my hip was super tight, but also noted that I had just over ten minutes to get through the last mile. I knew it would be tough because I was already slowing down, but I reminded myself of a research study I recently read about how exhaustion is only in the mind - that if needed, my mind could overcome the slowness of my legs, and I could pick it up.

So I did.

I came slow around bend, but then it felt as if my legs just took off.







Oh yeah.

Run time: 2:03.

Official time?

5:58.

And though it may only be two minutes - its still a SUB-6!!!!!

Oh, and uh...30 minutes off my previous PR.

No biggie.

*wink*

But wait- what's this?

Oh yeah - it's me. And my pal Chrissie. Just chillin' at the finish.

I mean, sure, some people call it stalking, but I know true friendship when I see it. And no, there is nothing weird about the fact that I stood five feet away from her for several minutes just watching her...watching...before I made my move...creeped up...nothing weird at all....


I don't know if you know this about me but...uh...I'm kind of a big deal

*shrugs*

So I don't know if I've even mentioned this but, Cheese's mom is a lip-kisser. Like, she goes in for the hug, then pulls back to look at me, and then without fail always goes in for the lip-kiss.

I learned this the hard way - she got me good the night of the engagement party, when I was drunkenly trying to change out of my dress into my pjs and she wandered into the room and gave me my 150th hug of the night and caught me straight pucker.

AW-KWARD.

And most of you know - I'm not even a hugging person, so a lip-kiss is far beyond anything that I consider remotely acceptable.

(side note: my own mom does this with Cheese - and she's even gone in for the lip-kiss on me. What's that about? Is this a generation thing? Have ladies over 50 been conditioned to lip-kiss, no matter how awkward?)

Anyhoo, I put this in because this is photo evidence of his mom pulling away from the intial hug and going in for the smacker, and you can see me do my now-infamous head-turn.

Me and Spie, post-hashing.

Me: "So everytime I tried to farmer blow, it just went clear across my cheek and I couldn't wipe it off."

Spie: "Yeah, you kinda got some right there - right by your lip. And frankly, it's freaking me out."

Me: "Where? Oh, right here (twisting tongue) Oh yeah, that's it. I think I got it."

The finishers!

Not to be deterred from my aformentioned head-turn-spurred-lip-kiss, here's the next family Christmas card, complete with Cheese's mom checking out my hot rack.

And let's be honest, shall we? Can you blame her?

Me and my man. A long hot day and good sunburn later, he graciously drove us home.

So my final thoughts are this:

While I am all-to-sure of why the swim sucked, I am not all that sure why everything else was spot-on. I have definately come into other races feeling far more prepared and stronger, but for some reason, it all clicked in this particular race.

Did I train differently? Better? Stronger? And if so, what specific workout helped most? I have so many questions like this because I clearly - finally - did something right, and I want to know what, so I can keep improving it.

I know I joked a lot about it, but it is so rare for me that I come out on the other end of one of these smiling and proud - more often than not, I feel humbled, sometimes ashamed, often frustrated - and that's WITH training. So this new feeling of pride is different - it's kinda nice.

And who knows - maybe the next race will blow monkey sacks. But right now, I am just going to allow myself to enjoy the experience of things clicking. It's been a while since I felt so happy and proud - time to enjoy it.

The end.

My Attempt at Not Being Blog Lazy

What The-?
Okay, I’ve mulled this over long enough that its time to throw it out there for public consumption:

I don't get Lady Gaga.

Is this just a sign of my age that I just don’t get her?

I don’t think so, because my 62-year old mother ADORES her. In fact, hang out on the south side of Chicago and chances are you’ll see Big Mar riding around in the Trailblazer, cigarette hanging out of her mouth while belting “Bad Romance” like it was an ode to single old broads everywhere.

(Sidenote: Please ignore the “Just Dance” track on my iPod – its not my fault it happens to be a good running song. Some things just defy explanation. Let’s be okay with that and get back to the bigger picture here.)

So what is it that I just don’t get?



Between the outrageous hair/outfits and the following of “Little Monsters,” I just don’t get it. And the more I think about it, the more I feel like my mother circa 25 years ago, when her little daughter M (age 8), was BEGGING for the new Madonna cassette tape while she wondered what the hell was so great about a trashy girl from New Jersey dressed in lace and whining about being a virgin and papas preaching.

Now THAT’S a flashback – how old am I anyways??! Better question – how the heck old is Madonna?!?!

So I guess I will just have to put Lady Gaga on my list of “Things I Don’t Get Because I Am Old or Just Uncool.”

And considering the size of that lsit, I’m gonna need some more paper.



Getcha Boots On, Sandy
Speaking of pop culture – what in holy hell is wrong with Jesse James?

Seriously.

You bag a chick like Sandra Bullock and even get her to marry you, and then you go whoring around with that Bombshell chick who’s covered form head to toe in ratty-ass tats, and reportedly a white supremacist?



I mean, did he have a lobotomy?

That’s the only thing that would explain why he did this, and expected it to be kept a secret.

*shakes head*

Ugh. I debated on whether or not to even put that picture up because personally I want to run naked through a scorching fire just to melt the dirty off everytime I look at it.

Which begs the question - how on Earth did Jesse James get naked and make the sexy times with her?!?!

Excuse me while I go bleach my eyes and brain N.O.W.




S.L.O.W.
Wanna know when three minutes is truly an eternity?

When those three minutes are the time it takes to brew that morning coffee.

GAWD.



Seeking Umbrella
So have I mentioned that it is literally raining babies around my head?

I’ve got three new nephews, one nephew/niece on the way, and all my friends have had or are currently pregnant with new babies.


Aiden and Nolan


Brody


Baby Sully On-The-Way

Me and Cheese are slowly becoming eeked out the social lives of once-babyless.

It is starting to make me wonder if they all know something I don’t, and if this is a train I need to reconsider boarding.

Of course, peer pressure is no reason to have a bambino. For a myriad of different reasons of which I will not disclose here, suffice it to say I am just not down with it yet.

Plus, I like my life right now. Yeah, I get it – its selfish. Nothing compares to the miracle of children, yada, yada.

But I’ll tell you something – being surrounded by baby-makers has taught me that not all is sunshine, rainbows and cute little baby clothes. It’s HARD – I don’t care who you are. And right now, I can’t comprehend uprooting life to take that on.

It's just such a tremendous responsibility of which I am just not capable now.

And besides, I don’t need yet another reason to sit around and binge eat cake frosting and corn chips.

Triathlon training is reason enough.


Not My Reality
And speaking of babies:

Does anyone believe that this lady had one just months ago?



My goodness.

I’ll tell ya what – you find a way for me to look like this post-pregnancy, and I’ll find a way to shoot out those little guys rapid-fire like a machine gun coochie.



T-Time
Oh, and speaking of - once again, triathlon season is upon us.

And now that the weather is mostly above Suck It degrees, I have taken my long runs back outside.

Nothing against the treadmill, which got me almost entirely through Ironman training, but I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs and I was just plain bored with the monotony of my iPod and the fact that I seem to uncannily time my runs during the Rick Sanchez timeslot on CNN –which my gym runs incessantly.

Seriously – would it kill ‘em to toss on Bravo for a few hours here and there?

In any case, I took my legs over to the lake these last few weeks.

My legs and my COMPRESSION TIGHTS.

That’s right – I bought into the fad.

And before I say anything else, we all know by now that I am truly not a new-gadget-type of girl. I am scrappy, plain and simple. I ride a four year old tri bike that is starting to rust and rattle all over, my riding shorts are also that old and all worn out at the crotch, and I can barely spell Garmin, much less plunk down the money to own or work one.

But I got compression tights, and boy oh boy do I love them.

Not only are they great for actually running and giving my ass the sports bra-like support it needs, recovering after a long run or a brick in them is genius.

After having them on a couple hours post long workout, I wake up in the morning feeling almost zero effects of the previous day’s smash fest.

I suspect I will wear the crap out of these until the are no longer compression but more like yoga pants, and the downside is that they cost a ton. And while I considered setting up a texting donation site a la Haiti to help fund my compression tights shortage, I figured I best hold off until I can pay my own way.

Either that, or just wait ‘til my birthday and drop LOTS of hints for my husband.

(Husband, if your reading this, that was hint #1).

Moral of the story?

Compression tights rule, and I hate being poor.

In the Meantime...

(I am slowly loading pictures from my last race, which was like, a long time ago. Hey, Procrastination is in the title - there's truth in my advertising....)






WOW!!! What a weekend!!

I don't know about you, but my weekend was filled with babies and triathlon.

I figured it was bound to be some sort of foreshadowing into my future.

Between my besty's baby shower on Sunday (and the fact that everyone in my life is either preggo or new mommies), and the Chicago triathlon (which I was unable to attend this year due to said baby shower, but the Tri For Life guys were town gettin' their triathlon on again!), and all the Ironmans this weekend (Mark Mason and Dennis from RunBubbaRun abd Michelle's husband earning their IM medals), there has been a lot going on.

I'll tell you what - its really hard to watch these IMs and not get teary-eyed. Even now, I get so overwhelmed with the enormity of it, and I can still feel all the emotions that ran through my body that day in 2008, now as I watch these athletes make their blaze their own way. I love it, I love it.

So congrats to all the finishers from yesterdays races, and with IMWI right around the corner, there are plenty of cheering to still be had!!

And if you stay tuned in, there might just be a little IM surprise in a day or two...

*********************************************************

In other random news....

As if personal training didn’t destroy and humiliate me as it is, I was about halfway through my third blocks of moves and could see the finish in the near distance, and what do ya know?

My lady friend creeps out to say “Hi.”

I sensed she was acomin’, but I was hoping against hope she wouldn’t pull into town until maybe, say, once I got home and wasn’t caught…off guard.

Completely mortified (thank GAWD for my black running tights), I silently prayed that I wouldn’t have to do anything that required me to sit or lay on a bench.

Throw in some kick-in-the-gut cramps and sanity-destroying back pain, mix it all together and you get a sick-to-her-stomach 33-year-old just fighting to stand up and keep down the Kashi bar she ate about an hour previous.

But true to my form, I refuse to admit defeat or let my semi-pro basketball trainer see weakness, so I swallowed my vomit and did my plyos and lunges with a grin on my face.

It’s been an awesome morning, and it’s only 830.

Sigh.

At least I get to go to Ravina tonight.

Yes, again.

Carrie Underwood, bitches.

You heard me.

My hairbrush-turned-microphone is already packed in the picnic basket, ready to make it's big Ravinia debut.

What? You didn't think I actually used it to brush my hair, did you?

So silly.

So three cheers to getting my workout done for the day, and three more cheers for the Tylenol 3 I’m going to have to medicate with just to deal with these cramps.

And three cheers for Underwood! Ms. Carrie, if your nasty!

Big kisses and hugs, y’all.

Steelhead Didn't Kill Me

Lemme preface this all by saying – there is some doody talk. Doody consumed my day – it must be referenced.

It demands to be referenced.

Soooooo... Steelhead 70.3.

I swam, rode and ran.

And let me say this – Ironman and his little brother, 70.3, are no dummies. They will BREAK.YOU. if you didn’t take the time to train properly. These are no races to go into without an appropriate level of fitness, or they will expose every last weakness you have.

Or at least with me they did.

In fact, all of my Missed Workouts called up all those other Times which I blew off training – like the Times when I chose to extend my sunbathing instead of get my butt in the pool and swim, or the Times I knew I should have run long, but I ran 5 miles – yeah, so all those Times got together this week, printed up a bunch of tee-shirts and posterboards that read, “Gotcha Sucka!” and then stood at the curb of every aid station mocking and jeering me, forcing me to pay attention to their Truths.

I am pretty sure I even heard one of the Times ask, “Now who’s the bitch?”

(Naw, but seriously – I went into the race knowing that my weakness would be my run fitness, because my training runs were almost always shortened due to my knee injury. And it was - the run exposed me. The run was physically the most difficulty for me, as I suspected going into it. I was at peace with that.)

But regardless of the necessary pain, it was actually fun. And most of all, I am SOOOO proud of myself for all my little victories over the course of the day.

My little victories:
1. Finishing (of course)
2. Not crapping my shorts (story shortly).
3. Running when I could, and walking when I couldn’t -Even with this disgusting blister (photo below), that made its appearance around the first FEW STEPS of the run.
4. Never getting down on myself – NOT EVER.
5. Discovering that little pretzel nuggets for the run were the best last-minute-packing decision I EVER made.
6. Ignoring my watch.
7. Tried to enjoy every single second – especially right before the swim, by taking in the unbelievable beautiful day and my fortune at being able to participate in this sport.
8. Saying positive things to myself over the day about what a badass I was
9. Never once letting myself get intimidated by the fancy bikes, the ripped muscles, the fancy tri-clothes – and instead telling myself – “Just run your own race.”

Pre-RACE:
I stayed with Clyde and his friend on the camp ground in a tiny cabin – like, one bed and a bunk bed type cozy. I had the top bunk. It was AWESOME!!!

(and to my surprise, there were actually plastic mattress, per my last post….)

I didn’t see Clyde before the race because his wave (done by age groups) was much later, but we did exchange some texts beforehand.

Me: (something about not being able to make doody).
Clyde: Yeah, we checked that off our checklist already.
Me: Dang! I am squatting in the vacant bike spot next to my bike hoping for a doody miracle. I feel the Poo Baby kicking, but he’s not ready for delivery.

Phantom doody aside, I knew it was going to be a good (dare I say GREAT) day when I walked into transition at 445am (345 am for us Chicagoans), and Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” was playing. Why is this significant? Because that was the song I sang to myself on repeat to get me through the last ½ of the Ironman. Out loud. So other people could hear. And it worked. I finished that race too!

That song was then followed up with the Jack Johnson song from my one of my nephew’s favorite movies – Curious George. It made me think of him, and smile at what he would look like if he could see his aunt out here, in the midst of all these bikes – or on the course, running past him. So yeah, I considered those good omens.

I was so positive at the Start I hummed my whole walk down the shore to the start.

My positive attitude surprised even my stone cold heart.

Was that – gasp! – excitement?!?!

You betcha!

The Swim:
Two things happened:
The water – my greatest fear after last year’s Racine DNF in the swim – was remarkably warm at 68 degrees. I even walked in it in the mile to get to the Start. At the Start, I centered myself, silently appreciated the day, and then ran my ass into the water.

But here is where it got dicey – that darn wetsuit suffocated me again, and I had that brief flash of “Shit, I can’t breathe, I can’t do this” (flash to Racine image of me swimming to shore, and then stomping across the transition mat with my Kill Face).

So I breast stroke a few strokes (thanks Spie!), and then proceeded with the swim. I had a few more of these episodes until I calmed down enough to actually start to swim steadily.

And then I got punched – literally punched in the face. So I popped out of the water, looked at the girl (who was paying no attention to me whatsoever) and said, “You know how I am going to punish you? I will beat you.”

And I did – swam right by her and finished before her.

(Okay, in all fairness, she is likely the ONLY girl in my age-group I passed, as I would later discover when I was picking the rest of them off by bike)

My swim time also included the long run to transition, so it actually looks worse then it was (though it’s still pretty bad). And it was definitely slower than what I am capable, but those early moments of “I am going to die out here” and some zigzagging added some time on.

The Bike:
The bike was amazing with a good, moderate course. Although the wind tunnel that started around mile 40ish knocked my confidence down a few pegs, I was still kicking some bike-ass. The bike is also my strength, so I was tearing it up out there, trying to gain some ground. Very uncharacteristically of me, I slowly and steadily picked off almost every female I saw (about three kept getting away from me), especially those that finished before me in the swim in my age group – and got passed by very few (if I read the results correctly, I rode down around 30 girls from my AG). But I wasn’t so much concerned about my overall stats as I was about…..

My Poo Baby was crowning.

The whole ride.

And he was ready to come out like a Holy Terror the size of a grown 16-year-old.

But then he would crawl back up and hang out for a while – like a Braxton Hicks bowel movement. It went on like this for 56 miles.

I tell you – it was an exercise in sheer will just to choke down my Clif Shots with this level of bubble gut.

So you can imagine what the run was like.

The Run:
In addition to the aforementioned blister and a nagging right knee that progressively become more and more painful, I spent and INORDINATE amount of time in the port-o-potty trying to deliver. But nada – nothing, zip, zero, zilch.

And guess what happens when you have a Poo Baby, and then get a Race Food Baby?

Twins!

It got so bad that there were moments I actually forced myself to walk because I was SURE I was going to be THAT girl who craps herself. You know - like those pictures you see of the guy running to the race finish with his “down” covered in brown?

Finally, at Mile 9, I had enough and took a stand. So I said, “Hey Butt, I’m sick of you playing this cat-and-mouse game with my poopies. So I am now going to ignore you, unless you have something to bring to the table besides farts and cramps.” And I did. Or tried too.

Tried reeeeeeaal hard.

At the 8-mile port-o-potty, I looked in the mirror and noticed a massive line of snot across my right cheek that no doubt happened at some point on the ride (because my face was COVERED in my own snot over the 56 miles). So…yeah. That was great. Eight miles of aid stations witnessing my snotty face.

Faaaaaan-tastic.

But for as distressful as my belly made the run, the run was also my best part of the day. I mean, physically, it was the worst, but mentally, it was the best. I was pretty much reduced to a shuffle most of the time, but so very oddly of me, I never cared. I never cursed myself, I never got snippy – I just ran.

I had less then half a mile to go when I felt the first rain drop. As I crossed the finish line, the rain started to pound, and the winds picked up. I remember thinking, “My first tri of the season, my redemption over last year’s failure, and now it’s raining. There should be some sort of symbolism or metaphor here.”

But then I saw a man with a box of peaches.

Mmmmmm....peaches.

I got my peaches, sat my ass on the wet ground, in the rain in transition, cried some happy tears, and called my sister. I told her I was okay, and asked to tell the family I was alive.

And that I finished.

*******************************************************************************

So, I didn't have a crew out there this year - just me - so the actual race pictures will have to come from the race photgrapher and will take a few days. So here is some my awesomeness I snapped when I got home.


Me.
What I made to eat because I was really too lazy to get anything else out of the fridge- Recovery shake, cold grilled chicken and bbq sauce, and cottage cheese. Bon appitite!
The brownies Devin made me for finishing - 24 hours later, they are just about GONE.
The blister I ran with from Mile 1 though the finishers chute. Yeah, it hurt.
My Twins. The top part of the photo is my regular belly - the bottom part by my hand is my Twim bloat. Now can you see why I was struggling?

Can I Sue?

I mean fuck, everyone else does.

But my reason should be legitimate.

See, I set up Google Alerts to alert me everytime someone links me or mentions me in the Internet. I did this when I was going through the whole gotta-make-my-blog-private-because-who-know-who-is-reading.

And about once a week, I get alerts - sometimes I don't pay attention, but today I did.

And lo-and-fucking-behold, there is another Project Procrastination blog out there.

Same name, but his about fashion, and he adds two numbers in it, so it reads, "projectprocratination##.blogspot."

AND AND AND

It looks like the asshat started his little fashion blog in 2009

AND AND AND

copyrighted it!!

Well slap my ass and call me mama.

I WAS HERE FIRST!!!

Now, one might find it odd that I feel so territorial over my blog name.

But after almost three years and almost 600 posts, it's be a super big part of my life. And moreover, most of you guys never met me face-to-face, so the blog is the only way most people know me.

So yeah, it's part of an identity, and I am sure most of you feel similarly about your own blogs.

So, uh, yeah.

I guess if you want to read about Hermes scarves and Prada satchels and shoes, then check this guy out (but google him because I refuse to link his site).

Otherwise, this is the only Project that counts.

Damn bitch.


SWIMMERS
And in case you missed this on your way out to summer's first long weekend:

http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/05/22/pools.urinate.hygiene/index.html?iref=mpstoryview

Apparently 1 in 5 adults admit to peeing in pools.

Or using my master deduction skills, apparently 1 in 5 adults are triathletes.

Life Gets In The Way

Here’s to all you bitches for the texts and emails about my lack of posts. Seriously. Get off my sack.

And I say that with the deepest of love.


The Runs
My sister and I started running together during the week. Mondays, mostly. Sometimes Thursdays.

I like it – having a training partner. It tests me, challenges me to get out of my comfort zone – her being fast-as-fuck and all.

Turns out that running with Speedy Pants Sister is actually making me faster.

Sadly, it may be making her slower.

But I do appreciate her slumming it at least once a week.


Overheard on Aforementioned Run
Me: And another fart!
Devin: Have you always farted this much?
Me: No, just recently. I tried analyzing what I eat to see if I can identify a cause.
Devin: Figure it out?
Me: No, not yet. But man, they stink.
Devin: Like?
Me: Dead people.
Devin: I don’t know what a dead person smells like.
Me: Come over for dinner.


Screwed is spelled with a 70.3
So I counted on my fingers today.

Turns out Steelhead is 3 – yes 3! – months away.

Perhaps I need to start focusing more on my consistency and less on…well, everything else. Whining included.


SSB
So like any f.a.b.u.l.o.u.s woman in her early thirties on a sunny spring Saturday afternoon in Chicago, I was sitting on my coffee table watching Sex in the City.

(side note – is it just me, or do you also sort of just stop what your doing when an episode is on? I was just off my failed attempt at a workout and on my way to grocery shop, and I just sat. and watched.)

So they were talking about SSB- Secrete Single Behaviors.

You know – all the weird shit you do before the significant other moves in.

Oddly, the one Carrie stated was also one I am partial to – stacking saltines up and eating them with grape jelly in the kitchen. Although instead of reading fashion magazines at the same time, I read Runner World.

One of our so-few differences.

I have many SSBs, as have been frequently noted throughout this blog.

In addition to the already mentioned of:
1.Keeping laundry in the laundry basket until I wear it all again
2.Eating the same thing, every night.
3.Riding my bike in the living room in the middle of the day.
4.Absentmindedly picking at my pedicure while I read reports.
5.Not showering for a few days. Sometimes more.
6.Not making the bed. Like, ever.

Here are a few more:

6.Spending way too much time in the bathroom plucking my eyebrows.
7.Openly and unabashedly passing gas with no fear of sound and smell.
8. Possibly under the covers. But without witnesses, who can really say, no?
9.Eating off paper plates. On second thought, I do that when Cheese is home.
10.Not being fazed by having only carrots and a bottle of wine in the fridge.
11.Three words – Fudgicles For Breakfast.

And like Carrie Bradshaw says, "I can't help but wonder...."

What are yours?

I Won!!

I did it!

I won the Lazyman Triathlon!

I was the first person at my gym to finish the Ironman distance!

All told, it took me 10 days. It would have been 7 days (finishing on Tuesday), but my job has been MADNESS, and I am raging sick with some stupid head cold, so I had to take three days off this week.

When I told the Front Desk lady (because I didn't know if I needed to let someone know), I think that she did not believe me. I was like, "Lady, I work out two hours a day. Sometimes three. So that's at least 14 hours a week. I finished the REAL Ironman in April in one day in 14 total hours. Trust it."

I mean, ten days is plenty of time to finish something like this. Let's break it down:

Swim gets knocked out in 2.5 sessions.

I am training for a half-marathon anyways, so runs were regular, and rarely less than six miles at any given time. Add in a few cross-trainer sessions (which counted towards the run portion), and it was hammered out.

I ride my bike at home for 60-90 minutes several times a week, and often double up those rides by going to nightly spin classes multiple times a week.

Over ten days, that adds up.

Outside of that, I have had a post brewing about all the craziness in the world (sans political craziness - there's only so much room in my brain for Daily News, and this week, Rhianna and unfit mothers have taken up most of the space). I am going to try to write it all through the sinus haze this weekend, so perhaps a little bit of the old, bitter, opinionated Megan will return on Monday.

Okay, well, I am off to nurse my yucky cold with a hot shower and a long sleep. Have a good weekend and Valentine's Day (if your into that stuff)!

Lazyman

We all know I love a good challenge, yeah?

So, in an effort to give my Cookie Monster ass a reason to get to the gym (and do something OTHER THAN feed my Spinning addiction), I (and Cheese) signed up for the Lazyman Triathlon at our YMCA.

Basically, you have to complete an Ironman distance over the course of a month.

It works off the honor system - You have a large index card hanging on the wall, and you just tick off the distances as you complete them. No one tracks you but your honesty and the Big Man upstairs.

I am sure it is of no surprise that, given my love of all things bike, my bike distance is almost complete after four days.

My swim and run, though? Not so much.

However, I am proud to say that I kissed and made up with the pool this morning after giving it the cold shoulder for about three months. And in return, it let me pound out a mile to add to my card.

The runs are just going to have to tick off a little more slowly.

Nonetheless, I intend on completing the total distance by Tuesday of next week, exactly one week after I started.

I should also mention that this is a no-competition race. Meaning, we all get tee-shirts, and no one actually wins.

But I think we all know, by this point, that the phrase “no competition” exists nowhere in Megan World.

There’s always a competitor, even if it’s the cruel little man that runs the gears in my head, taunting me with cake and telling me it's okay to sleep in.

Moreover, I do not understand the concept of a “no-win” race.

I mean, someone has to finish first, right? Hence, there's a winner.

So hell yeah, you know my ass is up in the gym, ticking off my miles on my card while eyeballing everyone else’s mileage – scheming double workouts and calculating finishes….

“Hmm, Mary Ann Giles is half-mile ahead of me on the swim, but she’s only done 25 bike miles.”

“Stacey Mathers has six miles of the run on me, but not a single swim.”

“Carol Smith is racking up those bike miles, AND she’s ahead on the runs! Grrrrr!”

You bet your sweet asses that I counted on my fingers the mileage I had left and when to do it - wondering if I could pull off a double swim today to get that .4 mile in, and finishing up with the last mile on Sunday.

Yeah, I AM that crazy lady that every gym has - the one that always seems to be there, day in and out - evern at the oddest of hours, like 1pm on a Wednesday.

That’s me.

Loud and proud.

I'll let you know when I claim the prize.