Raining Cats and Dogs!

Today I had my FINAL time trial... the one and only, 10 mile bike. 25 minutes of agony at the end of an already stressful/exciting/intense fun-filled week! Rather than bore you with yet another blow-by-blow account (hey - I love writing them, and I the sensation of living each moment again is neat- and I really feel that the "inner-me" comes out... but 3 deeply-intense reports in one week? Holy Cow!), I'm going to lighten the mood and recite a poem from one of my favorite authors, Pablo Neruda.

In a bit...

First, it really was raining cats and dogs today (and you thought I couldn't get another animal reference in - ha ha!). When I woke up, the overhead clouds were dense, heavy, and saturated. The atmosphere was just waiting to erupt - and I started my piece just after it let loose.

I drove up to Milton, all the while watching anxiously as big, fat raindrops spattered off the windshield. Rain, I could do. Lightning, not so much.

After reaching my "start" point, I parked the car and waited while the rain fell. I figured that - as all the storms on the Florida Panhandle do - this one would soon blow over.

Boy, was I wrong.

It kept raining. And raining. And then raining harder.

After 2 uneventful minutes in the car, I had had enough waiting around. Let's just say I'm not a very patient person when I've got a mission to accomplish. No piece, no test, no race is perfect. I can't control the weather, won't always be able to decide when I can and can't race/train. So I figured that my wonderful bike - Sjofin (she has a name, its Teutonic for a Warrior Goddess who inspires passion - good, huh?) - was due for a cleaning, and by riding in the rain I would get a heckuva head start.

About 3 minutes into the warm-up, I was drenched, cold, and cursing the cold front that was about to move through. But it didn't matter: I put on my blinders, hunkered down, redoubled my efforts, and thought to heck with everything and that pouring sheets of rain weren't going to prevent me from riding my hardest.

So I did.

The piece was great and I felt the crazy woman in me laughing manically at the rain. It came down in sheets; it was spraying in my face, hard pellets bouncing off my helmet and off my shoulders as I propelled myself forward. The rain did nothing to dampen my drive, my spirit. I howled in the wind, forced my legs down, and held steady at 24 mph.

It was awesome.

I was 3 seconds off my previous best, but felt that my effort was much steadier, much greater. And then I cursed the fact that I don't have a power meter (yet!), because it's times like these they would come in awful handy! But I couldn't control ANY of that - just me, myself, and the manic, laughing woman within.

The harder I pushed, the louder the rain pellets pinged off my helmet, off my soaked back and shoulders. It took every bit of energy, every bit of reserve to drive myself forward: but the heart was pure and strong, the mind was powerful, and the body was a willing accomplice.

And I was trashed afterwards.

And drenched!

A quick 20 minute cool-down, and I was back at the car, wiping Sjofin down as quickly as I could, and then throwing on a dry shirt. There was a brief respite in the clouds and rain, and I could feel the electricity crackle in the air.

The earth and all her elements were holding their breath before the explosion of lightning, thunder, wind, and driving rain.

I phoned Nathaniel to let him know I was safe in the car and would be home in 45 minutes. He replied, "And not a minute too soon. I've been watching the radar all morning, and we're getting serious thunder down here. It's not exactly heading in your direction, but you'll probably run into a bit on your drive home."

A few minutes after the call ended, I saw the explosion of lightning, felt the reverberations of the thunder, and thanked my lucky starts that I had finished my ride when I did. Good thing that my legs felt as though they were somewhere 8 miles behind, otherwise I would still be biking, and caught out in the open in a thunderstorm.

Speaking from experience, riding in lightning is NOT fun... I'd much prefer the raining down of cats and dogs.

So, because I love biking. And because I love my wonderful bicycle Sjofin, I am dedicating this post to bikes in general (and bikers, of course!)

Ode to Bicycles, by Pablo Neruda

I was walking
down
a sizzling road:
the sun popped like
a field of blazing maize,
the
earth
was hot,
an infinite circle
with an empty
blue sky overhead

A few bicycles
passed
me by,
the only
insects
in
that dry
moment of summer,
silent,
swift,
translucent;
they
barely stirred
the air.

Workers and girls
were riding to their
factories,
giving
their eyes
to summer,
their heads to the sky,
sitting on the
hard
beetle backs
of the whirling
bicycles
that whirred
as they rode by
bridges, rosebushes, brambles
and midday.

I thought about evening when
the boys
wash up,
sing, eat, raise
a cup
of wine
in honor
of love
and life,
and waiting
at the door,
the bicycle,
stilled,
because
only moving
does it have a soul,
and fallen there
it isn't
a translucent
insect
humming
through summer
but
a cold
skeleton
that will return
to
life
only
when it's needed,
when it's light,
that is,
with
the
resurrection
of each day.

"The Poetry of Pablo Neruda" p 432-434.

Happy biking, happy training! Each day is a new one, and with the promise of a new dawn, we are all reborn. Today it was raining cats and dogs, but I still flew on my bike, still had the time of my life, still laughed in the face of the howling storm. Tomorrow, it may be sunny, it may not. But it won't matter: because my bike will still be there for me, waiting in the light - waiting for another adventure.

Little Bird, Big Bird, FLAP!

What is it with the animal themes of late?

After my swim Time Trial today, I knew I had to keep moving, or else my aching muscles would freeze up or worse, cramp. I had just set a pr for the broken kilometer, and was in shock of what I had done. It seemed so surreal: to throw down another great time in base training. Going into the test, I felt focused, and I wanted this test, I wanted to feel the pain that would inevitably occur, laugh in it's face, and then up it another notch. Call me masochistic - but I was ready to welcome it with open arms, the then squash it by bringing up the intensity that much more. I knew I could handle it, I knew I could control myself, my emotions, my performance.

It's funny: at times I feel like I have no control with stuff that's going on in my ever day life, weather it's Nathaniel's deployments, our constant moving, military life, work, etc, etc, etc (don't we ALL have stuff like this). But I CAN control my workouts, my effort, my intensity, my spirit, myself. And I knew that I wanted this test, I wanted to feel the water flow over my back, to hear the rushing sound over my cap, to pull so hard and feel the push as my hand exited. Screw everything else: the emotions, the holidays, the stress, the stuff that I can't control. This test is mine. My test. It's mine. My own. (My Precious! Oops - wrong blog! :)

The broken kilometer that Memo has me do is pretty basic. Swim 10 X 100 with a :10 rest interval, and then subtract 90 seconds from the final overall time (essentially, taking out the 10 second rest intervals). Deceptively simple, yet will leave you broken, beaten, gasping, and wondering where your legs went because you can't feel them anymore. Initially I wanted to break 13:00 for my final time, but during the warm-up figured that the methodology that I used for the 5k run TT worked well, so I might as well just throw caution to the wind, and go for broke. What the heck? I've got nothing to loose (except for feeling in my legs and arms...) I kept reminding myself that if all else failed, I would at least go down trying.

Famous last words, eh?

After a quick warm up, a few sips of water, and stomach evaluation, I was ready and raring to go. For a few awful moments, I wondered if I should make a quick potty stop.

Not again! I thought. This is just getting stupid.

I could hold it for 15 minutes. I just wanted to GO.

And so I did. (Started the piece, NOT to the ladies room).

I made sure that I had 5 items arranged at the end of the lane, and adjusted my goggles one last time. 2 finz, a kick board, a pull buoy, and a shammy - all arranged one next to another. Crazy, yes: but the 5 items would help me keep track of my laps. I know it sounds pretty silly, but I tend to loose count of laps. I can recite running splits from high school, I can remember how many stairs are at the Humphrey Terminal at the MSP airport (I count stairs as I walk up, a little quirk. There are 28, in case you're wondering), when teammates or training partners tell me their times, I remember.

But for the life of me, I can't keep track of how many laps I've swum. There have been so many times where I've addend an extra set or an extra lap, just because I suspect that I've lost count. The 1,000 or the 1,500 meter sets are the worst! (I make it only because I force myself to look at my watch every 100 yards. If the time corresponds to what my average split is, then I know I'm on track. But I usually get a little lost, anyway...)Sometimes during the longer sets, I would just rather let my mind wander and swim for the sake of swimming - but I've usually got to take peeks at my watch (not because I'm worried about time, no.) because I need to know approximately where I'm at in my set.

It's gotten so bad as of late, that when I swim with Ludi, she's the one who keeps track of laps. When we run and bike, I'm the one who's in charge. The pool is a different matter entirely.

So I had my trusty pull buoy, kick board, 2 finz, and a shammy. I also had a water bottle, but wasn't about to count on it to keep track of my laps. I figured that I would need a few sips, and would inevitably misplace the bottle, and then ultimately loose track of my laps. Miscounting laps on a 400 is understandable, but for a Time Trial test, is inexcusable. So I stuck with what had worked in the past.

After a final adjustment to the goggles, a sip of water, and setting my watch on START, I was finally ready.

I took a deep breath, submerged my body under water, placed the bottoms of my feet against the black T on the wall, and paused.

The calm before the storm.

I was hyper aware of my surroundings. Even though it was shorter than a heartbeat, it felt like eons of time. The blue bottom of the pool, with the black lane lines made a perfect reflection on the underside of the pool's surface. I was seeing double, and locked into my own dimension. I couldn't see the ceiling, couldn't see the fans, couldn't see the lights. It was just me, my heartbeat, and the silence of the water. The stillness closed around me, and I was aware of other swimmers in different lanes. I could see the water, wavy at the surface, and calm at the bottoms. I noticed the double zeros on my watch, waiting for my command to start. I could hear the silence in my ears, my blue turtle cap covering my hair and insulating my eardrums from the rushing noise that the water would soon make. I was in my own blue world. No stress, no emotion, no worry, no anger, no happiness, no guilt, no fear. Nothing outside of myself mattered. It was just me, and this one mission, this one time trial. Just Go.

I shot off the wall, like a ball exploding from a cannon. I felt good, I felt fluid, I felt smooth. A quick flip turn, and I noticed I was veering off towards the left. A minor adjustment, and I was back on track, right over the black lines. I used the strip to bring me back to the T on the wall, flipped and was off on my second 50. Legs were feeling, good, breathing was controlled, and I could feel the effort in my arms. One final flip, and I was in the homestretch. This wasn't so bad, I though. Almost 1 down, only 9 to go...

A glance at my watch read 1:14. Not bad - I could do it. I moved the pull buoy aside, and readied myself to start again.

Holy Cow! 10 seconds goes by awfully fast when you're tired and panting.

A second, and then a third, and then a fourth set passed. With each passing set, I would move a kick board, or shammy, or fin, which really helped keep track of my laps completed. The rest intervals seemed to pass more and more quickly, and I barely had enough of a chance to register my time and grab a quick sip of water before I was off the wall again. And again.

The effort was really beginning to take a toll. My arms were screaming, and I could feel the exact spot in my shoulders that were sore after Wednesday's lift. My head was throbbing, from lack of oxygen, but at least I was still thinking clearly, so no damage as of yet (or so I thought!). My legs were by far the worst. Every poke, every prod from my genius of a massage therapist was on fire during my kick. Shelly has this incredible ability to heal me, but I'm usually pretty sore for a few days afterwards. Today was NO exception (I knew that after Wednesday's session I would be in rough shape, especially when Shelly told me that I would need to ice my lateral quads every night. Not that reassuring!)

After set 5, I started moving the objects at the end of my lane in the other direction. Yea! I was over the hurdle, done with the rough stuff: now I was on the backside, making the turn for home.

The final sets all became intertwined. Each one felt like the one before it and the one after. I remember trying to focus on my form, to think about blasting off the wall after each flip turn. A few times I tried to look at my watch, to figure out where I was, if I was ahead or behind my previous record. I was too out of it to make the computations, and I figured that it didn't really matter, anyway. My time thus far had absolutely no barring on what I needed to do to finish the set. To hell with swimming a 1:10 or 1:30. I was going all out, each and every set. I was proud of myself, proud of what I was doing, and really proud of the fact that I wasn't afraid to hold back.

And in my oxygen-starved brain, where stars were beginning to form on the edges of my vision, I felt myself laughing. I wasn't afraid of the pain, wasn't afraid to hold back. I welcomed it.

During the backside of the 7th 100, I took note of this laugh, this very un-Marit laugh. So unlike me: I'm the serious one, the one who thinks things through, the one who strategizes, who plans, who calculates. Yes, I have a hard time keeping track of my swim laps, but remember, I like to count stuff. (Always have and always will...) Yet there I was, manically laughing in my head.

It was such a release! I was amazed, I was powerful, I was in control. And I was laughing in spite of myself. Could I bring the intensity up a notch? Hell yes! The voice laughed louder. I was surprised that the other swimmers or lifeguards weren't wondering who this crazy, blue-turtle capped woman was. I kept laughing all the way to the end of the set.

Bring it on, I'll push through.

Looking back, I'm not really sure what my laughter motive was. It must have been a release, of sorts. All I know is that I was working my hardest, and I absolutely refused to give an inch on any stroke. Each and every pull I felt were honest and true. Did it hurt? Yes. Was I in pain? Yes.

But the laughter came from elsewhere. Maybe it was that crazy bit in me that knew I was at my max: it was a way to release that little bit of extra energy that I wasn't able to channel into my arms or legs. I was simply tapped out, working my hardest, yet my mind was trying to figure itself out, trying to keep on top of what was going on. Trying to keep itself from going over the edge completely.

But it couldn't: my oxygen had run out long ago, and it was slowly being starved. My breath came in ragged gasps, and again I wondered what random people on the pool deck though. Hopefully they were too distracted by my speedy antics to notice the tornado-sound that was escaping my body.

Final set, and I thought of an old swimming partner. His name was Mike, and he always swam in a very colorful speedo. Great guy, and he pushed me to new lengths in the pool. Except he had this weird thing about the words "last set". I made the mistake of uttering them once during our last 50, and he got this intense look in his eyes.

"What did you just say?" he asked.

Taken aback, I replied, "Last set?"

He got this look on his face and gritted his teeth. "You know what that means, right?"

"Um." I stammered, "That this is the last one?" my voice trailed off.

"No. It means that we don't hold anything back. As fast as you can, don't think, just go." he replied with a flourish.

He then proceeded to open a full body length on me within the first 20 yards. He was a great swimmer, a great friend, and I miss our swims together (since living in North Carolina, he has since moved to South Carolina, whereas I'm in Florida. That's the military for you).

I thought of Mike as I pushed off the wall for my final 100. I remembered Elizabeth's "Believe" entry, and thought about how much I had been through. I wanted this set, I wanted this workout, I wanted to have control.

And I did.

The last 25 was painful, but I followed the black line, followed the pull of my arms, kind of felt the kick of my legs, and focused solely on the wall. I was so close, I could see it. But I made sure to keep my head down. I didn't pause for breath: I read somewhere once that top swimmers won't breath for the final 7 or 8 strokes of a race because it takes that long for their bodies to register the lack of oxygen. Not that I'm a "top swimmer", but he - anything at this point to help! So I held my breath, I dug deep, and I went for it.

I touched the wall just as stars exploded behind my eyes. My goggles felt as though they would burst off my face, and my skin was so hot that the water felt as though it was boiling. I glanced at my watch, registered the time, and then took a few seconds to actually push "STOP". Rather than beating 14:20 or 14:15 like I was hoping, I had smashed my time and come across in 14:06. Which meant that my overall time was 12:36.

Could this be right? Had I counted my pull buoys right? Did I forget a lap??

These questions briefly surfaced, but were soon quelled by my breathing. Once again, I felt like a diesel train. Only this time I was in a building, not in the great wide open. The sound exploding from my body made a weird rasping noise, but I wasn't able to control it. I dunked my head under water a few times, but the water, so cool at my initial plunge, now burned my face.

But I needed to move, I needed to do something. I tried treading water. Nope - not going to work.

Treading water was impossible, and the heaving gasps coming from my chest cavity only drew further attention from other swimmers. My head was throbbing, the goggles had pinched into my sinus cavities, and the lack of oxygen during my broken kilometer had left me assured of the fact that I would need Tylenol or Motrin asap.

I did the only thing I could think of: I flopped on my back.

No, not the Fish-Flop a la 5K run time trial, but more of a "back float". Except I didn't really float.

Instead, my heavy legs, throbbing from the effort, slowly sank below the water's surface. My knees were quick to follow, and before I could stop myself, the quads and my big rear were pulling me under. So much for buoyancy: I was nearly all the way under water, and trying my hardest to figure out what to do.

And then it hit me: Little bird, big bird, Flap!

I was only dimly aware of my thoughts. Half-conscious of what was going on, of my surroundings. But I found myself, floating - once again - on my back, and going through the motions of the "elementary back stroke".

When I was a little kid, my Mom would take me and my sister to swimming lessons at the Como Pool. I loved the pool: it was outside, school was out for the summer, the weather was warm, and I got to splash around in the water for an hour. I had some great memories, wonderful instructors, and learned so much at the pool.

During level 2 (or was it 3?), I learned the "Elementary Back Stroke", a complicated stroke that involved the whip kick, floating on one's back, and a complicated arm motion. I had a hard time getting the knack of this stroke, so my teacher patiently explained the parts of the stroke.

"Don't worry about the legs, Marit," she said.

I watched her with the full confidence and faithfulness of a 9 year old pupil.

"Do you like birds?" she asked.

Having no idea where she was going, I nodded my head.

"Think of the stroke in this way and watch me."

"Okay," I replied, uncertain of what was about to happen.

"Little bird..." She held her arms under her armpits, elbows stuck out an an angle straight from her shoulders. "Big Bird," She repeated, extending her elbows fully, so that her arms were all the way out from her body. "And FLAP!" she exclaimed, abruptly bringing her palms down to her legs.

"Little bird, big bird, FLAP!" she repeated. "Easy and fun!"

And since that day, I never had difficulty with the elementary back stroke.

I though of that time, those classes while flapping down the pool. The white ceiling passed slowly overhead, and I could see the flags over the lane lines out of the corner of my eyes.

It was wonderful, it was brilliant, it was endless. Another moment that I'll cherish, that I'll remember.

It's funny where your mind will take you after a difficult effort. After workouts and races, I've cried, I've laughed, I've hugged other athletes, I've watched fog swirl overhead... but never can I say, have I chanted, "Little Bird, Big Bird, FLAP!" with such gusto.

Next time I might just skip the broken kilometer and go straight for the bird motions. But no, I couldn't do that. The crazy part of me that loves this stuff would never let me hear the end of it. And I couldn't do my FLAP in peace. Nope - this'll be a new tradition after a hard effort. And as a bonus, it makes me smile.

Graceful Madness

Today was my "day-off". Every time I've got a testing week, I'll usually have a "rest" day thrown in for good measure. Well, not really a rest day, as I'm supposed to focus instead on eating healthy foods, recovery, and relaxation. So while I'm not doing anything physical, my mind is at constant work. (Isn't that how it always is?) Rather than getting in my usual afternoon workout, I found myself journaling on the bed, with the TV on in the background. Eventually, as my writing stream of thoughts ceased to flow, I began flipping channels. Talk shows, animal shows, news programs, old movies, gingerbread challenge... and the list continues. So much stuff I've never even seen or contemplated in the past. (The Gingerbread House Contest looked really interesting - my only problem is that I would eat the parts before the final product could be displayed. I've got a weakness for gingerbread....)

I was just amazed at how many different things are on TV in one day! Some of it mindless, some of it mesmerizing, but nothing that really captured my attention.

Until...

I came across Versus.

They've always got something good on, be it cycling, ironman, archery, bull riding (8 of the most traumatic seconds EVER), among others, and today... Downhill skiing!

I've always loved watching downhill ski racing. Just something beautiful, exciting, mesmerizing about a person, zorching along at 70 mph down a snow encrusted slope.

Slalom, Downhill, Super G, Gian Slalom, Ski Jumping, Nordic Combined... all of it fun. Yes, I'll even watch biathlon and Nordic skiing (at least with the Nordic skiers, they work up the hill. The downhill skiers get a free ride up. Slightly less respected in my book... until you see the downhillers zip down at speeds faster than the speed limit on most interstates. Wow.Total Madness!)

I remember when I was younger, watching downhill Super-G with my Dad. We would get so excited! The athleticism, the daring, the GUTS these individuals possessed was truly inspiring. We would cheer for everyone, regardless of nationality or previous success. It was just fun to jump out of our seats, eyes glued to the blur-of-a-figure, zooming headlong down the mountain.

And it wasn't just me and Dad. As our voices grew louder and louder, as our cheering became more prominent, Mom and Karyna would join in. We "Whooped" and yelled, we collectively gasped when people took a tumble. We became "expert" commentators, as we adopted the announcer-speak and made bold statements and predictions of our own.

"The Austrians are looking good this year!" Dad would exclaim.

"But they don't hold a candle to the technique of the Swiss in the powdery snow," I retorted back.

"Look at how FAST he's going!" Mom would yell, "He's easily going to beat the last guy!" And sure enough, he did.

Faces, names, nationalities, ages, rankings - all became blurred as our little foursome hunkered down and watched the downhill ski racing.We were hooked, watching skier after skier, race down the hill.

And even though we hated to admit it, we were oddly drawn to the crashes. I can still remember the time that Dad and I were watching in amazement and in horror as Austria's Herman Maier (was it the 92 Albertville Olympics, or 94 Lillihammar?) crashed spectacularly on the back of his head, bounced a few times across the icy-hard surface, and then tumbled, ski over arm into the powdery white stuff and finally halted in the bright orange netting. We held our breaths. We tried to look away - but with each replay of the crash, slow-motion and real time, we were drawn back in. What the human body can endure is simply amazing, and we cheered when we learned he would be okay (to this day, he's still one of my favorite downhill skiers! In part because of his tremendous work ethic, but also because he's given so much back to his communty. Wonderful. On Alicia Parr's site, he would fall under category 7, I believe).

All of these memories, these wonderful times from my youth flooded back today as I sat and watched downhill skiing. It was some type of combined event - Downhill with Slalom at Beaver Creek, CO. I think it was a stop on the World Cup tour, but wasn't entirely positive. Remember, I still had a good book by my side, journal on the other, so in between runs, I would feverishly pick off from where I left off.

As I watched these skiers, I marveled at how effortlessly they moved. It was as though staying in a tuck at 70 mph was natural. Just "for fun" I decided to give it a try. Yes - I know that their ski boots help support their body in the "tuck" position, but man-oh-man. After 20 seconds, I could feel my quads, my glutes... and after a minute I was done.

But they made it look so easy! I thought.

And that, my friends, was the point.

Downhill skiers, careening down the hill, making their journey look effortless, or second nature, are able to do so, because they practice. They train. The rise early, day in, day out. They spend mega loads of time in the gym, lifting weights, making sure their connective tissues are strong enough to withstand the high amount of G-forces on each turn. They go to be early, the rise early, and they spend each day, regardless of season, honing and perfecting their craft.

We see a grand total of 1:20 or 2:oo of a combined run.

What we don't see, is the blood, sweat, tears, sacrifice, and years of support and preparation they took in order to reach this point. And while their off season is not spent flying down mountainsides, they put in hours at the gym, working on explosive power, plyometrics, strenght, conditioning, and endurance. We see so little of what they actually do.

I guess the same can be said about triathlon. Or music. Or other sports... I've always fancied speed skating... watching Johan Olav Koss glide gracefully around the Viking Oval at the 1994 Olympic Games was beautiful. He made it look easy; made it look as though anyone could do it. I was so motivated by him, I decided to try speedskating. It was, to my horror, very difficult, very hard, and I felt I was about to fall with every wobbly step I took (not glide, step). And remember, I've got quite a background with Nordic skiing, and figure skating... How much harder coudl speedskating really be? It looks so easy!

I was wrong, oh so wrong.

Like downhill skiers, speedskaters spend years honing thier particular craft. WHile I may have similar muscle grouping that work to my advantage (Chris Witty was an Olympian in BOTH speedskating AND raod cycling... wow), there is so much technique, so much practice that goes into the making of a top notch athlete. Heck, ANY athlete, regardless of age or rank. It takes time. It takes energy. It takes practice.

And that brings me back to the downhill stuff.

Downhill skiing, though, has always been a bit different. I'm not afraid of heights, I love Nordic skiing, and I feel like I'm a snow bunny at heart (granted I live in Florida... but going home in the winter is...cold...but more wonderful than anything else!). But no matter how easy these daredevils make this sport look, no matter how well they go over jumps, or how graceful they appear gliding from one ski to another - I can't help but think that they're a little bit mad. Crazy, if you may. 70 mph - holy cow!

I wouldn't do that...

Or would I...

Let's just say the max mph I achieved while biking down a hill was 54 mph. Can't say that I remember much of what I was thinking. Rather, my knees were shaking and I was gripping my handlebars for dear life. There was a brief vision of roadkill,looking suspiciously like a triathlete... ouch! Luckily it was over after a few seconds (a LONG few seconds). Downhill skiers are mad - but in a freeing, letting-go sort of way. They're graceful, they're beautiful, they're inspiring.

And they work years upon years for a 1:30 ski run. Next time I see downhill ski racing, I'll be sure to cheer as loudly as I can - and then be grateful that my sport doesn't involve too much adrenaline or speed.

And that's a true mark of talent; being able to make anyone think they can do something, because you make it seem effortless, easy, second nature..

Fish Flop!

Have you ever watched an athlete collapse after a long workout or race? I've seen it happen before, watched in dismay at the initial collapse, and then held my breath, skin tingling at their tremendous effort. Thankfully, everyone that I've seen has been okay. They've just pushed themselves to the point of pure and utter exhaustion - their body no longer wants to cooperate with what their minds are commanding. Their sole focus for X amount of time has been to "hit the line" and "hit the finish". No doubt, in the process, they also "hit the wall".

And this "flop" to the ground - or "Fish Flop" as I dubbed it today - doesn't discriminate against distance or athletes. All are welcomed to participate in the wonderful, glorified, storied, post-event fall!

Until today, I never experienced the Fish Flop. It's not that I didn't push myself to a level deserving of a Fish Flop, I just never felt to need to collapse on my back afterwards. Usually my first thoughts after finishing an event are, "Did I turn off my watch?" or, "Was that the finish line?" or (my favorite), "WHERE'S THE PORTO-POTTY?!"

Not once have I thought about collapsing on my back.

But until it happened today, I didn't realize what I was missing.

And how did I get to this point? Get to the point, where I was laying, flat on my back, gasping for breath, while watching the thick fog swirl over my head, feeling an odd pulse in my quads, not really noticing my surroundings...? Glad you asked.

I finished test #2 of my testing week: the 5K Run Time Trial. On the track. Nice. Yeah. So I can see my splits every lap (I've got mixed feelings about this one. While it's great to know where I'm at and how my pace is, sometimes it totally sucks knowing where I'm at and how my pace is). But the numbers don't lie, and in the end, I know that by keeping track of my splits, I'll hopefully be able to go faster. At least that's what I tell myself while huffing around the track.

Odd, sometimes I feel like a hamster. Or pet mouse. Running laps around some gigantic wheel... have you ever gotten that feeling? We do the same darned repetitive motions, weather it's swimming back and forth endlessly, sitting on the trainer, or running around a track... Eeek! Not a fun thought.

Obviously my lack of Oxygen from my time trial and subsequent Fish Flop are affecting my mental state right now. All this babble about hamsters, mice, and flopping fish. *No more 5ks for Marit, thank-you-very-much!*

Back to the 5K. Here we go!

I needed to be back at the house by 7:45, so I could meet my wonderful, but overly-zealous massage therapist at 9 am. I wouldn't be able to sleep in on a testing day anyway. There's just something about knowing that you have to go fast that precludes me from enjoying the morning to the full extent possible.

But, I might add, it was a beautiful morning. If you like fog. The fog was so thick, that when I went to take a picture, water droplets appeared on the lenses and in the photo. Yep, it was 70 degrees with 97% humidity. Nice! The air was very thick: knife cutting thick. And THAT makes breathing difficult, especially if you have a tendency to sound like a caboose while running full stop around a track. I tried to not think that hard about what the percentage of oxygen or water moisture was that I was inhaling with every breath. Too much thought, anyway, especially without my morning dosing of coffee.

That would have to wait until after my time trial.

FOCUS!

Originally, I had decided my "goal" time was 19:00 or under. But after reading Elizabeth Fedofsky's blog "Believe" the night before my run, I decided to throw caution to the wind and just go my fastest. What did I have to loose? My previous 5K tt pr was 18:29, and while that was accomplished at the height of last season while approaching a peak, I still felt fit. And a little fast. More importantly, I believed in myself. After all - according to Elizabeth - "If you don't believe it, you don't deserve it." So, if I didn't believe I could go faster than my previous time, then I didn't deserve to go faster.

Very simple.

The right part of my brain kicked in (or is it left??), and started crunching numbers. 18:29? All right: just run 2 miles X 6:09 pace and 1 mile X 6:10 pace, and mission accomplished! So easy on paper! I've done this before... why not do it again?

Perhaps it was the fog. In any case, I don't know exactly what I was thinking. In the end, I decided to try to hold 92 seconds for every 1/4 mile. Again, so simple.

Deceptively so.

Did the warm-up, and felt great. Had a little tightness in my calves, no doubt residual stress from the crazy-hard bosu class that I attended with Mom Sunday night. Ouch! I haven't jump roped or balanced that much since 5th grade! But I had a blast, and was really inspired by what a great job Mom did. But my calf was still nagging a bit, but I figured it would loosen up after I really got going. I could also feel a bit of tightness in the quads, but again, figured things would loosen up.

After stretching a bit, taking in some water, and then stretching a little more, I re-evaluated my stomach. The wonderful restroom facilities at the UWF Track Complex loomed in the distance, a mere 100 meters away.... should I go?

I looked at the orange track - so inviting, the wonderful numbers painted reassuringly on the rubbery surface, and then up at the bathrooms. If given a choice, I would rather start my set a few minutes late with the piece of mind that my stomach "issues" would be okay, rather than starting the time trail and feeling the need to - ahem, drop a piece on the track. Gross - I'm sorry! But we all deal with these internal issues.

When in doubt, I've discovered, use the bathroom.

8 minutes later, I was back on the track, going through my final run down of a few more sips of water, and a few quick stretches. Was I delaying the inevitable? Of course. Did I think about my bathroom stop? Yes. And the worst part? Was the realization that I could have been almost half way done, had I not used the bathroom.

What can I say? (So sorry again...) Haste makes waste.

While approaching the start, I though about the key words I would use. I reminded myself of Elizabeth's blog. I thought about all the inspirational things I've read, images I've seen. I thought about the upbeat music I listened to on the drive to the track (wish I could say it was something uber-motivational, but no. My sister - the same one who loves "Alvin and the Chipmunks" - gave me the new Brittney Spears CD. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's been a staple ever since I got back from Philadelphia. Today, "Get Naked"/Track 9 was blaring in my car. So cool, had I been 18, looking "fabulous" in the latest fashions and driving a cool car. But no. I was in sweaty running gear, my hair pulled back into an untidy pony tail, driving the Camry. Glamorous indeed!) But hey - whatever helps.

And finally, I thought about what I wrote yesterday. I wanted this test, I wanted to "find my fast", overcome the physical stress and mental demons. It was my time!

I honed in on the keywords, and took off. It was now or never. My time, my time trial.

But this was different: rather than going for the negative split, I started out fast. Out a little harder that I've gone before. But that was okay - I was testing, trying to discovery new things about myself, figure out what worked, what didn't. And what would happen if I didn't go as fast as I wanted? Well, at least I would know that I tried. I would go down fighting.

First lap, I came across exactly in 90 seconds. Excellent! I used the words "focus" and "relax" to steady my breathing, relax my body, remind myself that I still had another 11 laps left to go. I came across the 1/2 mile in 3:02. The 3/4 mile in 4:33. And then the first mile in 6:04.

I'm not one for a lot of swearing in public, but What the hell?

I haven't done jack squat in 4 weeks, except for a few structured workouts. I enjoyed a lot of time off, and even more junk food than I care to imagine. And more red wine on top of that. I was waiting for myself to implode, waiting for my time where I would self-destruct.

But a small voice in the back of my head wouldn't be quieted. It kept repeating: Believe. Believe. Believe. Because you deserve it.

And then I fell into my zone. I was beyond work, beyond pain, beyond effort. It was just me, myself, the track, and the fog. One lap became the next and last at the same time. It was like Gandolf from "Lord of the Rings", where one day for him in eternity became the equivalent of 200 lifetimes of men. I wish I could share my thoughts, my feelings, but everything was so intertwined. I was dimly aware of my second mile split recording at 12:15. But at that point I had lost track of the numbers of laps completed: only my times, my splits kept me grounded.

I was both oblivious to my feelings and highly tuned in all at the same time. It was unexplainable: I felt like I was floating, but still working my tail end off.

My watch read 12:15 on the dot. I must have finished 2 miles... at this point only 1 more mile to go.

4 laps. Break it down. Simple. I've done this before. I've done this today. Just hang in there. Believe.

Lap 9 and 10 still had me in my zen-like state. The intensity went up a few beats, and I had to really focus to maintain my concentration. What had felt so easy, so effortless at the start, was now major work. I became aware of other people on the track, of the lawn crew sweeping debris off the inside late, of the fog gradually lifting. And as I became aware of my surroundings, on those final few laps, I also became aware of my effort, my work output, my breathing, the pain. Just as the fog lifted, exposing the the world for all to view, so too was my own awareness. I could feel my conscious state surface, pushing aside the zen-like place I had achieved during the meat of my 5K.

With each step, with each bound forward, I became increasingly aware. My body, my breath, my mind. My demons were screaming at me to stop. I could feel stabbing pain in my calves, and with each pounding step on what had initially felt like such a springy, rubberized surface, my quads protested in agony.

What was I doing to myself?

Where did that come from?

What was I doing?? WHAT WAS I DOING?!?

No - not now. Not here. My mental dialogue did nothing to detract my pace. With the lightning quick reaction of a race horse, without thought or reason, I blew a hole in my mental demons, shot them back to hell where they belong.

I responded by adding an extra burst of speed: I was already in pain, why stop now. Statement, not question.

And for an extra bonus: I'm doing this to myself because I want to improve. I want to get better. I believe in myself. Thanks Elizabeth.

The final 1/2 mile was probably the most painful I've ever been in. But it was also the best. Because of the pain, because I was pushing so hard, because I was overcoming my physical and mental obstacles. I was focused, I was determined, and I believed. In these moments, of extreme exertion, we find ourselves. We find out who we are, and what we're made of. It's not always easy, and it's not always pretty. There will be down times, instances where we simply can't move forward. But other times, things will "click", we'll find our groove, and in spite of everything that we throw at ourselves, we overcome. We persevere.

Today was one of those wonderful moments.

For 18:22.8, I got to run my heart out. I got to experience the best of what my body and mind had to offer. And I was happy with the result. I know that it won't always be easy or pleasant, that I won't always get to set a new record, but for those glorious minutes, I quieted my physical and mental demons. I survived, I persevered, I believed.

The finish was in sight.

I powered across and hit my watch.

I saw stars. I saw the wizards. Hell, I was the wizard.

I bent my head, placed my hands on my shaking knees, and tried to get my bearings. I heaved, and gasped, still in disbelief over what I had just done. I knew I could, I had believed in myself, had thrown down a great time trail, and now was reaping the rewards of my effort: wibbly legs, a set of lungs that sounded like a diesel train, and the inability to think and process clearly.

And that's when I saw the track surface. It looked wonderful. It looked enticing. It looked like freedom. It became my new best friend.

Without thinking, without caring about how I looked, or who was around, I took my hands off my knees, closed my eyes, and flopped onto the track.

In essence, I became the Flopping Fish.

There I lay, my back on the track, lungs heaving, eyes squinting, oblivious to my surroundings.... stars fading in the distance...exploding into beautiful bursts behind my eyes and in my subconscious. The fog swirled overhead, my legs gave the odd twitch, and I could feel my heartbeat in my head. The sky looked blue overhead through patches of fog, and I wondered if this is what a fish felt like (minus the leg spasms) after they had been reeled in. No idea where that thought came from, except for the fact that there I was, laying on the track, and twitching. Not dead - no. But feeling like I had just returned from a different dimension.

After a glorious minute or two, my breathing calmed and my body relaxed. The fog was still lifting, and gradually - as I had during my running piece - I became more aware of my surroundings.

And the 3 people approaching me, about 20 meters away.

"Are you okay?" One of them asked. I could see the concern in her face.

Her companion, didn't seem all that reassured by my response. "I'll be fine. I'm just relaxing." Who DOESN'T relax by laying on the track, eh?

The third just stared, mouth agape.

I put myself in their shoes: some crazy girl, running circles and circles around a track, making the noise of a passenger train, and foaming at the mouth. Abnormal? Yes...

I tried my best to smile, and stand up. My legs felt like they were being stabbed by a thousand pins and needles, but I didn't think that 3 elderly friends would be reassured by this statement. So instead I smiled, and commented about, "What a beautiful day... I think I need some water." And I hobbled back to my keys and water bottle.

They thought I was nuts. Certifiable. And for 18:22.8 wonderful minutes, I felt beautiful. And a little crazy. Because you have to be in this sport. It's the nature of the beast...

And afterwards, I got to relish, to experience the beauty of a Fish Flop. All things being equal though, it wasn't really a choice. At the time of my finish, I really didn't have the strength to keep standing, so there really wasn't an alternative. But it was a new experience, something that I'll treasure. A moment captured in time, to be relished and savored.

Next time you've got a race, a hard effort - enjoy your Fish Flop! And while you're at it, go down with style (if you can)... you never know who'll be watching.

Testing? Testing!

The time has come. The time has arrived. The time is here.

I need to find my fast.

I haven't needed my fast since Clearwater or Timberlake.

If anyone knows where it has gone, I would appreciate the help. You see, my coach is evil. He's got a quirky sense of humor, and seems to think that by giving me "testing" this week, I'll go fast. And at a certain point, he's right. I will go fast, but it just might not be for as long or as as far as he (or I) would have hoped.

But that's also one of the great things about beginning-of-the-season testing: no pressure! (Those of you rolling your eyes, hear me out. Believe it or not, I only half believe this myself... but by writing it, I think that I might, just might, be able to convince myself). What was I saying? Oh yeah, no pressure. Sure. That’s what we all say. Ha ha. Somewhere humpty-dumpty just fell off a wall, laughing.

Cracked, into thousands of little pieces! No one could put him back together again. Cracked under pressure. Just like the bikers in Le Tour, sliding backwards off the peleton up the mountain. They've cracked. We all do at some point.
But I think that's the point, though - the idea of "no pressure". It's just that, an idea.

No matter what we do in terms of racing or testing, we're always going to feel pressure. Why? Because we want to do our best. We set a goal, see an opportunity, and want to seize the moment. It doesn't matter if we're going for a new personal best, a new all time best split, or just aiming to finish strong: we still set our own bar, our own goals. Because that's simply the nature of what we do.

And by definition, it's nearly impossible to separate the meeting of our goals from the idea of "no pressure". We may tell ourselves that there's "no pressure", but who are we really kidding? Deep down, in the dark crevices of the back of our mind, where we rarely venture for fear of what we may find, we know that we want to achieve our goals, we want to go fast. There’s no dialogue, no polemic, no argument, no discussion. We go fast, we feel pressure to go fast, because it’s simply the nature of what we do.

We may feel less pressure at the beginning of our season, or the start of base training, but the pressure to excel is still there.

If it weren’t, we wouldn’t be who we are.

So at the start of this week, I was nervous. Memo had sent me my testing schedule last week, so I knew what I had in store. (Which brings about a different point all together: which is better – the fear of the known or the fear of the unknown? Different blog!). Last weekend during the funeral and trip home, I would occasionally flash forward to this week, knowing full well what was in store. Did it help? Maybe a little – I probably would have eaten a few more pieces of carrot cake had I not had any testing (after all, who wants to run full stop around the track for 5k lugging an extra 5 pounds of carrot cake?). I got in all of my workouts (not that big of a deal, I am after all, still in my first week of base training!) – and mentally prepared for this week.

And that’s also what testing week is all about: the mental side.

Ah. Yes, the lovely mental aspect of sport. The power of our mind.

The side we visit frequently, yet rarely realize it. Or maybe we do, but don’t like what we find. Every time we run, bike, swim, lift - the little things we think, the thoughts that run through our mind, the whispers that flash through our head without previous thought – we carry these feelings and ideas with us. And they affect our performance just as much as our physical preparation.

And that’s also why testing is scary. Not only do I want to do well, achieve the goals I set, but I know that I’ll inevitably face my mental demons. Yes, I’ve got plenty. And the more I talk with friends and read about other athletes, the more I realize that we all have our own set of hellions dancing around our heads, conjuring up whispers of fears and doubts.

Mine come up at the most inopportune of moments: times where I’m pushing my hardest, but feeling my weakest. I’ve been visited by these fiends before: during Timberman last August. They reared their ugly heads, blew holes into my race strategy, made me believe in my own weakness, and left me stripped, broken, and bare after biking. It would have been so easy to give in, to believe their lies. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t let them win, and I refused. So with reckless abandon, I let go of my fears, freed myself from all constraints, and threw total abandonment into the wind. And what did I do? I set a new half marathon pr. Amazing what the mind can do, when it’s ready and willing. Simply incredible.

That race was a breakthrough: I experienced a plethora of emotions, a roller coaster ride of sorts for my head. And I’m grateful: because now I know.

I am grateful for Timberman, because I know what it’s like.

I know what it’s like to go from one spectrum to the other. To feel like you can’t do anything, that you won’t be able to finish, that you aren’t any good and don’t deserve to be there. But I also know what it feels like to overcome those thoughts, push through those feelings, and emerge reborn and stronger on the other side.

It wasn’t easy, and I’m still scarred from the battle. But I remember. I know what it’s like, and I know what it feels like.

And I’m stronger for it.

And that’s also why testing is scary.

Mental demons. Like I said before, they come up at the most inopportune of moments – times when I’m trying my hardest, pushing my limits, setting new heights. They want to sneak their way in, to slow me down. They try to tell me that it’s okay to slow down, you don’t have to go that fast, no one will ever know…

But they’re wrong.

I’ll know.

I know.

And I don’t want to ever regret not doing something. I already went through that after my bike ride at Timberman, thanks. Never again.

And I don’t want that feeling of regret. I don’t want to feel as though I haven’t given it my all, put my best effort on the line, given all that I could.

And testing, for me, is all about pushing those limits. And setting new ones, if possible.

So is it scary? Undoubtedly so.

But a few weeks ago I wrote a blog about “Challenge vs Opportunity.” This testing week is not about a challenge, it’s about The Opportunity to overcome my mental barriers as well as about setting new physical standards.

When I line up on the line, what will I think?

As of yet, I haven’t quite got that figured out. I know that I’ll have imagined myself succeeding, pushing the pace, feeling the breath escape my body, feeling my heart beating and pumping blood to my muscles as I go, faster and faster. I’ll use cue words to remind myself of my amazing physical power and incredible mental strength.

And the pressure that I place on myself will only help me go faster. Because I do this sport for fun, because I love it. And while I want to succeed, to blast past my old barriers, I also try to keep things in perspective. This is fun, and I love it.

I guess that’s why I’ll go fast, do my best. Because I love this.

And testing is just another reminder of how much I love this sport, how hard I’m willing to push, how mentally tough I am. Even if I don’t set a new pr (although I’ll try my damnedest!), I know that just by lining up on the line, I’m already further ahead than if I had never attempted this feat in the first place. I won’t crack under the pressure, no, I’ll thrive.

That’s what this is about. Tomorrow, I’m going to find my fast. Again.

Because I already did today.