How Fast Can You Run?

I am not a good runner.

My form is awful, I am terribly slow.  I pant.  Groan.  Not a pretty sight.  Right now in my triathalon training, I can run 1 mile. Which I consider quite a feat considering that 7 weeks ago I panted walking up and down the stairs.

But back to running.

How bad is my running?  This bad.

When I was about 14, our dear friend Tom Brennan lived with us on Governors Island.  He was like a big brother to me.

And in true “big brother” fashion, he really knew how to piss me off.

We were playing cards one summer afternoon.  I am quite sure he was cheating.  Probably I thought that because I was losing.  But never mind.   I mean, I am not a sore loser or anything.

Usually.

I am not exactly sure what happened.  I know I threw cards at him.  And he laughed in my face.  Then ran out the door and around the quad where we lived.

So, naturally, I chased him.  Eventually I caught up.  I was in an all out sprint.  He was barely breaking a sweat.  

Then came the huge insult.  He turned around and started running backwards.  I am chasing him like a crazy person, running as fast as I possibly can, and I could not come close to catching him.  Running backwards.  Laughing the whole damn time.

I can only  hope, that like wine,  I will get better with age.

Aren’t You Brendan’s sister?

Old habits die hard.

Smoking. Which I don’t.

Swearing. Which I do.

Competing with your siblings and always wanting to win.  Check.

I spent the weekend in NJ visiting my parents.  They live on a lake, and the kids love swimming, tubing and fishing off the dock.

My sneakers made the trip with me, my resolve being to jog 2 miles once during the weekend.  I brought my bathing suit as well, in case Lucas wanted to go in.  I was really hoping not to have to wear it.

I love water.  Love to swim.  Love pools.  Like the ocean. 

Lakes.  Not so much.

Now I have two awesome brothers.  When we lived on Governors Island, my brother Brendan was like---a social butterfly on steroids.  He knew everyone.  He talked to everyone.   It got to the point where I would meet people at the baseball field,  or at the bowling alley—and they would say to me “Aren’t you Brendan’s sister"?”

“Ummm, no, he’s MY brother”.   What  oldest child wants to be defined by their LITTLE brother?

Yeah, me neither.

So as much as I was not wanting to swim in the lake-of-green-slimy-seaweed, when Brendan asked me to go for a swim I did not refuse.  Mostly because I have not had an open water swim and thought it would be good practice.

But I also knew that he was a good swimmer, would be good motivation and I thought it would be fun. Also, I thought maybe I could keep up with him. 

I pretty much looked at the back of his bald lovely head the whole way, but some things never change.  No matter how old you get, you don’t want to lose to your little brother.  I would pour on the gas for a few yards, chanting in my head “He’s your little brother, don’t let him win” over and over in my head.  

It made no difference.  His head got smaller and smaller in the distance.  And I was okay with that.

Until we got out of the water and he asked his wife if she had gotten pictures.  He wanted one showing how far ahead of me he had finished.

Like I said, old habits die hard.

The All Clear

Today I had a date with this:

And this:

And this:

Yes,  today was the day of my annual scolding  physical. 

When I mentioned to my doctor that I was training for a triathalon, her first look was of horror.   I am also pretty sure she stifled a gasp.

Once she righted herself in her chair, she asked me all the relevant questions.

How much do you exercise?

More than I ever thought I would.

What are you eating?

Too much it appears.

What distances are involved in the race?

600 meters swim,  14 mile bike ride and a 5K run. Or walk. Whatever I can manage.

It was after I answered that last question that she seemed to relax.  Apparently when I said “training for a triathalon” visions of Ironman popped into her head.  Marathon thin, muscle bound runners and olympic-rate athletes competing in grueling fashion.

Considering that, I am surprised she did not laugh me out of her office.

Apparently I am almost the picture of health.

Do you smoke?

Not since….never mind.

Do you do drugs?

Nope,  I’m square like that.

Do you drink alcohol?

Yes.

How much?

One bottle  glass at night.

This is where she told me that alcohol involved empty calories.

And I nodded and smiled that “go to hell” smile that I get when I can tell I am about to get unsolicited advice.   She left it at that.  Which is a good thing.  I earn every single last one of those empty calories and I will spend them as I darn well please.  

So I have been given the all clear.  Good thing since I started this exercise program about 6 weeks ago.  Kind of like closing the barn door after the horse is already out.  Me being the horse.  

I left with a request to come back in 6 months to “chart my progress”.  I think that might be code for “I want to see if you are capable of sticking with this” but that could be the cynic in me talking.

And Now for Something Completely Different

I am a Weight Watchers know-it-all.

I know it all, but I can’t apply it all. Ever.

I am quite sure I could teach an entire class on the ins and outs of point exchanges, the value of water consumption, the conversion of exercise points. Except that when it comes to getting off those last 10 pounds and maintaining goal weight, I fall flat on my face.

Weight Watchers saw me through close to 100 pounds of baby weight. I am pretty sure 50 of those pounds were lost without a drop of sweat.

Just sayin’.

WW has always been a plan I have had success with.

Until now. I am stumped.

When I started working towards my triathalon goal over a month ago, I made a conscious effort to count points. I cut back on alcohol (no easy feat), started drinking tons of water, getting in lots of fiber and veggies. I exercise 5-6 times a week for an average of 40 minutes per workout.

And I have lost 5 pounds. The same 5 pounds I had lost 2 weeks ago. And I must admit I am beginning to get discouraged.

Now, I have never been one for fad diets. Except for one brief flirtation with the Scarsdale diet when I was in high school. But we no longer speak of that. Except in therapy. Suffice it to say the only thing I learned from that escapade was if you want to eat chocolate chip cookies, do it in the closet.

Come to think of it, that explains a lot.

But I digress.

So this journey is certainly not to attain a weight loss goal. But one would think that all this exercise would yield some weight loss benefit. Right???? Not so much. So I am going to try something completely different.

Now, before you go all “Oh no she didn’t” on me (Leigh), it is not the "eat only cabbage one day, only bananas the next" diet. Although that has been utilized by someone in my family who shall remain nameless. Dad. It appears to be a balanced and moderated approach to shaking up your metabolism and eating healthy. And right now I am willing to try something different to see what happens.

I found it here: The Flat Belly Diet.

The book should be here in a few days. Now I am off to chew on bark baby carrots.

Spinning Prince Found

And he lives here:

www.spincitytraining.com

And he rides this:

 

When I went in I looked like this:

And I left looking like this:

 

Amazing, no?

Actually that lovely lady in blue is my friend Julia who was so kind as to coerce me   invite me to Spincity. 

It was fantabulous.  The music was awesome.  The instructor was great.  A true motivator.   I realized that I have been spinning for the sweat, and not for the form.  I learned a lot about good form.   Seems I have a long way to go. 

One ride at a time.

To Clip or Not to Clip?

REI is the bomb.

We spent an air-conditioned afternoon there last beastly-hot weekend, scoping out all of our triathalon-related necessary items.

Bikes. Helmets. Clothing you can swim in. Wet suits to put over the clothes you swim in. Learning the difference between clip and clip less bike pedals.

I know from close-to-my-heart experience that I am going to have trouble getting used to the bike clips. Or anything that requires a tremendous amount of coordination. My nickname in college was Grace. Need I explain?

Okay then.

I worked in a deli at the University of Michigan. One of my jobs was to use the meat slicer. (You can open your eyes, this has nothing to do with missing digits). So I had to open all the necessary items and slice them up- turkey, corned beef, cheese, the works.

The ham came shrink wrapped in this long metal container. I would open one end of the long can, tip it upside down and the ham would slide out.

Except this one time. The wrapping was melted to the other end. So I could not get it out. So I took the long metal container in both hands and started to shake it up side down. Still nothing. I shook harder. And harder. And harder.

And in one quick motion the ham went flying out into the sink. But I had so much momentum going with my arms that when the can lost all it's contents, I ended up smacking myself between the eyes with the can. I hit myself so hard I had a golf ball sized egg between my eyes. Very attractive. After nearly passing out, the manager of the deli made me go to University Health Services to get checked out.

That was quite embarrassing. Was injury work related? Sort of. Explain what happened. I hit myself in the head with a can of ham.

I just hoped that the doctor wasn't that cute.

It went from being grotesquely bruised, to moderately red, to just looking like a large pimple in a few weeks.

Which brings me back to our current question. To clip, or not to clip?

Kissing Frogs

I have taken a fair amount of exercise classes in my life. When we lived in ND I was an aerobics nut. I practically lived at the Y every morning.

There were a few instructors that I loved, some were okay, some I really disliked. I kissed a lot of frogs, and found a couple of princes.

Adrienne and I are still looking for our spinning prince. So far we have kissed 2 frogs. The last one was the yuckiest.

Monday morning Adrienne I arose and headed for the Y. Adrienne does not speak for at least an hour after waking up. Sometimes 2 hours. So our morning routine is entirely without words. I shake her foot at 5:35, she gets up, gets dressed, comes downstairs, gets her water, gets in the car. All without a word. We drive to the Y. In silence. We enter the Y. In silence.

When we got to the spinning room, there was this chatter coming from inside. I figured the instructor just chatted a bit before class began.

I wish.

She had this twangy, kind of grating voice. And she never shut up. Not for the whole entire hour. She played really loud Woodstock music. Adrienne loved that. Not. And kept talking to us about visualizing cycling through a corn maze. When all I was really visualizing was a muzzle. It was excruciating.

So we still have 4 more instructors to try.

Here's hoping one of them turns into a prince.