Two 3.6-mile city rides on new tires, road not dirt, through which I can feel every pebble on the road and on which I go noticeably faster, and with front and back lights (though not even the rear one was necessary). The option is good.
Swim 2K.
I must have left my swimsuit at the gym last time I swam. It wasn't in lost and found so I swam in my bathing suit, a tankini whose neckline is conservative (this is me, after all) but still not cut for laps. I need new jeans, too, and so I have to shop for the two most trying items at once! Yea! (Shoes are more boring, but I don't live in hopes that I will ever find The One Perfect Shoe.) Plus I could use another bra but I know where to find what I want if it's still available.
Two kilometers are 60 laps in this pool, 120 lengths, and three nonconsecutive lengths were butterfly. For the first time, 20 meters of fly didn't slay me. I could have done three 25-meter lengths, I felt, had that pool been open; my lengths weren't continuous because I still cannot do a damn flip turn. SEM tried to teach me with both of us in a pool, but it didn't take; and I have to assume everyone else I am likely to meet would be leery at teaching something that might involve bodily contact. So I have to visit SEM at camp; he's the only person I know as absent of body taboo as I am and who also knows and can teach me to turn.
I was a block into the walking start of my run when J decided to continue her walk a little farther and turned to accompany me. We talked of babies (hers and others), the perils of jeans-shopping, and husbands' odd clothing ideas. We crossed into the park, whose perimeter I was going to run, and parted.
5K around the park.
Afterward I entered the neighborhood at my neighbors' street rather than my own, in case anything was going on. AEK was throwing a ball for E's dog with one of those atl-atl ball-throwing thingies that not only increase your range but spare you dog slobber, and she lent me her toilet and then gave me pints of water.
Later in the afternoon Kal came over to fetch boxes for her move and we took pictures of her new house--hooray, a move that brings a friend closer rather than farther.
I really like my neighborhood.
Eight miles. Up, down, around and around, from Glacier Gorge trailhead to Mills Lake. Buttclenchingly unnecessarily cold.
Also, very pretty. We passed wapiti in Moraine Park, leading me to say "wapiti wapiti" since I am incapable of saying only "wapiti." The parking lot at Glacier Gorge trailhead has been moved and the original is being restored closer to a natural state, for a grand total of the same number of spaces. The NPS is promoting, I hope, more shuttle bussing by not increasing the uphill parking. The massive pasturage for cars downhill is big enough.
I have more to say about Mr. Stanley of the Stanley Steamer car and the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, but for now, I'll just say I hope he's happy. He is credited, at least in his own hotel, with beginning the idea of automobile touring in the United States.
And I'm part of the problem! Hooray! Just after 10, we put Cassidy into one of the last spaces and starting bundling up. The temperature was no lower than 20, fine, but the wind howled at gale force, damn. Smartwool socks, titanium bra, polypropylene underwear, turtleneck, Gore-Tex pants and parka, gaiters strapped under boots and hooked to laces, gloves with sleeves, hat, hood up. Contacts in case I needed goggles. Backpack full of fleece pants, running pants, heavy fleece jacket, lighter fleece vest, spare socks, face mask, Clif and Balance bars, two liters of water, camera, wallet, glasses, matches, compass, walkie-talkie, mylar topographical map. Snowshoes and poles.
And away! As soon as we got into the trees, the wind tunnel effect of the straightaway calmed somewhat. Somewhat.
Pretty! Snow! Boulders! Frozen creeks! Pretty! Up we clomped. Cliffs! Halves of mountains! Pretty!
I have read that 90% of Rocky Mountain National Park's visitors see the park only from their cars. On the trail today were a friendly number of people, not constantly in sight as has happened on the Bierstadt trail and as usually happens on the more popular trails in the summer. We met three women who had to be in their 70s as far up-trail as we were and whom I aspire to.
Because we overshot toward the Loch and backtracked to Mills, and because on the way down, we backtracked again because we didn't recognize the trail, we wound up doing about eight miles instead of over six. We didn't recognize the trail downhill because we followed the signs and therefore the marked, summer trail, rather than the haphazard winter trail people improvise. There were snowshoe and ski tracks, and it was marked, so we returned to it, but we knew it wasn't right. Were we going to end up on Bear Lake Road far downstream? Or where, exactly? Sighting the road about halfway through was reassuring.
I'm supposed to have a sense of direction, and RDC too. But snow is disorienting!
Two 3.6-mile city rides.
5K run. I ran more of the distance than I have previously, getting nearly back to my building before "Hail, Hail."
Reading my triathlon book, I learned that the Olympic distance is much closer to the sprint than a midpoint between sprint and Ironman: 1.5K swim, 40K bike, 10K run. As sore as I am after a run, I shouldn't say I am confident I can do a sprint triathlon, but I kind of am; what I should aim for is an Olympic-distance event.
Swim 50 laps in the indoor pool, which I now suspect could be 20 yards, not 20 meters. Of course I can feel the difference of at least five meters between it and the outdoor one, but it does seem even shorter than that. If it's 20 yards, not meters, then a mile is 44 laps, not 40, and the 50 laps I swam today are therefore, uh, 1.83K and I would have to swim 55 laps to log 2K.
Those who work there have claimed it's 20 meters, but I have previously heard members murmuring, and today I have a better reason to think so. I swam one lane in from the westmost one, and in the westmost one swam a nine- or ten-year-old boy with an elderly man walking alongside or sitting at one end, coaching. At one point I broke to ask if he was a grandfather or a coach. He said he was both, and we smiled. He was a nice coach, I thought: encouraging (praising the degree to which the kick broke the surface--just enough, not too much) and giving sensible advice (keep the elbow higher than the wrist) and obviously, for all the 70+ years I'd give him, still a swimmer himself.
The boy and I finished our swims at the same time and fished ourselves out, freeing two lanes for an approaching swimmer to choose from. She asked how many laps make a mile, and I said 40 in this one and 32 in the outdoor one, since this one is 20 meters and the outdoor 25. The man told me nay, that it's yards.
The reason I want him to be right, even though it would mean I haven't swum as much this fall and winter as I've credited myself with, is that the next thing out of his mouth was, "You're good enough to be a masters swimmer. Why aren't you?"
I kinda wondered how he knew I wasn't. Do masters swimmers get a diamond tattoo indicating Imperial training on their foreheads (Dune reference)? Do my paunch and flab betray how unready for competition I really am? Or does he know all the masters swimmers in Denver?
Obviously, I want him to be right about the pool length because that would mean he has as good an eye for all things swimmy as I would like anyone to have who watched me swim and thought I was good.
I am a good swimmer, by the bye. This morning I read in my triathlon book about fist gloves, which you wear to prevent your hands from extending and cupping in order to force you to get a feel for the water, to pull with your forearm as well as with palm and fingers. I already keep my elbows above my wrists, and today especially during my middle, sprinting 10, I felt how much I do use all the surface area of my arm to push water.
Still can't do a flip turn, though. I can do a sort of mangled manuever that reverses my direction, but a flip turn it's not.
P.S. Yep, it's 20 yards.
On the beach! Yes!
We walked from South Inlet Park in Boca Raton, where our towels waited for us, down to Deerfield Pier, where we could go into a restaurant in bare feet and buy cold liters of water.
Even along the water, the sand wasn't very firm, and we postholed the whole way, using lots of unaccustomed muscles and picking up pretty shells.
2.2 miles. Plus swimming!
Besides actually doing the distances, the absolute minimum that's not happening, I learned the most from this book about nutrition and core strength, which are my weaker-than-weakest points.
Christina Gandolfi, editor.
On the beach! again!
We met a 70-year-old yellow-naped Amazon named Polly. You could tell she was old by the state of her feathers. She and her people sat on the sand, she between them, and really nearly in a sit rather than a sand, and she ran her upper mandible through the sand and kept up a constant muttering, beginning with "hi" as we approached, laughing when any of the four of us laughed, and saying "Bye! bye! bye!" as left.
2.2 miles.
Now, a real swim would have been from the jetty at the inlet to the pier, but no. I have not tried to do the equivalent of lap swimming in open surf in ages. I did some distance, with goggles against salt water, but I could breathe only to the shore side because of the surf on the ocean side. I also did as much butterfly as I could manage, maybe 50 meters: no flip turns.
Jog 3 miles. I went slow, but today for the first time--somehow despite shunning all exertion for, what, almost a month?--I felt like I could do the whole distance. Yes, I've been running for six months and today I could run three miles. Dedication, baby.
I had the unrealistic plan to do all my distances today--a sprint triathlon after almost a month of nothing more than walking and bike commutes, this after reading but not heeding The Woman Triathlete. But I forgot my swimsuit so I only spun.
I wanted to use a spinning bike because they are closer to actual riding than Lifecycles, but I only just found out today that because they are meant for class, they have no metering, no rpm or even a clock. There are only two spinning bikes outside the spinning class, and one had clips my shoes couldn't mate with so I had to use the other, with cages. I spun hard for 25 minutes, 25 minutes not 60, and I don't kid myself that my rate was close to 12 mph.
For a while now I have been dreading the run being at the end, because it is hardest. I figure the order has a few reasons. Perhaps something to do with physiology, that the body does these activities best in this order? Maybe something to do with exhaustion and danger to others, because if you swim especially in open water at the end you're more likely to drown and weary cyclists crash more and won't someone think of the children. Mostly, though, I think that most people consider the run the easiest, something possible after the others.
That I can't spin at 12 mph for 60 minutes (that I am sure of yet) doesn't bother me: I'm not in this thing to win (or place or show), and I can do the distance (she says, having not biked even six miles in a row for yonks), and if I have to walk the 5K I can do that too.
But I don't think I'll have to.
Two 3.6-mile city rides.
This morning the thermometer read about 25 degrees, absolutely fine, but because of either my throat or possible incipient illness or the stiff wind, I actually turned around less than a block from home to fetch and wear a facemask. Folded down away from my nose and even from the top of my mouth, but still.
Just call me Rosie the Riveter. Today I nearly did the three triathlon sports at the sprint distance. I swam .75K, biked 20K (at least), and knew before I started that the 5K on foot was more likely to be at a walk than a run. And so it was. But I did it!
Not only did I not get a speeding ticket today, I met a dog--half border collie, half husky, black and white with a plumey curled tail. Plus I met the Lab-Irish wolfhound cross again. Cars are evil.
Two 3.6-mile city rides.
It was nearly cockatiel murder for me to leave the house only a half-hour after I got home, but I did. I walked to the next street over with a bookgroup neighbor walking her dog, chatting about her dog and yoga and her being 16 weeks pregnant, stopped to talk with another neighbor (mother of Increase's birthday-mate*), and finally arrived chez AEK to go to yoga with her and her friend Ines.
Two hours, lots of balancing, lots of poses whose names I don't know. That doesn't mean much, because plank, table, swan, down dog, up dog, warrior, eagle, cobra, bridge, tree, salutation, warrior, devotional, child, and corpse (the latter three being my favorites) are about the extent of my repertoire, by which I mean only that I know, not necessarily can do, the pose. We did lotus and peacock feather pose and triangle. The instructor roused us from corpse with a low, faint gong or chime, but not before I joined the ranks of Those Who Sleep Aloud During Corpse Pose. Plus I loved how she described the stretches: "just until it feels delicious [or yummy]" and "open your armpit like a yawning mouth." Plus I love how yoga instruction is given, as if, yeah, I can move my pubic bone independently of my tailbone and consciously relax the flesh at the tip of my nose.
* Her and her wife's baby boy shares Increase's exact birthdate, so he is my Increase-surrogate the way a coworker's son, a day older than Emlet, is my Emlet-gauge (I don't see him enough for him to be a surrogate, but he gives me an idea of how tall Emlet is and what milestones she might be knocking over).
Two 3.6-mile city rides and one 3ish-mile run. This meant the chances of my going for a swim or to yoga were nil, and so it was.
Today I ran with the runners at work over lunch, their four-mile route. I was ready to walk when as we approached--I hoped--the turn-around point. I puffed, "People, I'm walking," and Tale said the turn-around was just ahead and they'd join me on the way back but someone else encouraged, "You can do it!" so I did it, trotting up to that point. Then I did walk a bit, started running again, caught up after about a half mile (they slowed, and Tale turned back for me), and kept kind of up until the last half mile. I need a new bra.
One 3.6-mile city ride. RDC picked me up to grocery-shop afterward and thank goodness, because it was positively frigid, in a not-really-but-unexpectedly 34-degree way.
My hip feels a lot better--less like a labrador's--but I woke all crampy. There is nothing better for cramps than swimming, and I swam a mile. Then I did 20' on an arc elliptical trainer (the regular ones being occupied) at 40% resistance and 100% incline. I feel hugely better. Also the gym's medical scale registered me at three pounds less than the house scale.
Two 3.6-mile city rides.
I have no excuse to whinge about my fat, because I eat crap all day. It doesn't matter if I bring a banana for elevenses and an orange for mid-afternoon because no matter what healthy food I bring I almost always eat crap as well. There are the people who put out the candy dishes and there are the people who raid those dishes, and I am the latter. Today I am actually proud of myself for not having a dozen M&Ms here or a miniature Reese's there.
Two 3.6-mile city rides and one 3.5+ mile run.
I ran at lunch with the Dot Org runners, the two who were going out. I had forgotten my iPod and I cannot run alone without that--let us stay within the realm of possibility. Unsurprisingly, the companionship of better runners is a better motivator than Morphine and Pearl Jam.
5K in 33'30" at 1% incline, averaging I guess 5.5 mph, then a quarter mile at a nice stretchy 15% incline and a cooldown at an even lower mph and incline until my pulse was under 125.
That's two 5Ks in two days. I know I'm supposed to pay attention to how my clothes fit and not to the scale, but the middle number on the home scale rolled up to the next decade last week. That was once, and it scared me so much that I continued the bold effort I noted earlier this week not to graze. The medical scale at the gym balanced at the same number last week and today, but that number is at least in the previous decade than the house scale's figure.
5K in 32'30" with 1% elevation gain throughout; total 3.5 miles in 37'.
I forgot socks but ran anyway. The other times my feet have gone commando, I've blistered my instep. This time was no exception. Plus I opened them. Plus this is the first time on a treadmill that my hip has ached afterward (sometimes for days) so I think it is (I have made it) an actual injury instead of just a being unaccustomed to running on hard surfaces. I need to run in the park after work instead of at noon from work so as to avoid pavement, I guess, which is unfortunate because lunch is a much better time for me.
I ran 5K in less than 32'50. I shouldn't have. I could not swim afterward because I couldn't stand the chemical'd water on the beds of the blisters. Should I be concerned that, three days later, they haven't crusted over yet? They've been covered with antibiotic ointment and huge band-aids since, but I walked a mile downtown on Thursday night, a half-mile to the tailor on Friday, and again around downtown yesterday. Perhaps I shouldn't.
The first outdoor swim of the year happened in ocean, which is best; but the first outdoor swim of the season happened today, in a heated pool. Yesterday, when the pool opened, it rained and I did a lot of wallowing. Today I swam a very long kilometer, long because I barely kicked. The blisters are no longer raw and the right one is fine, but the left does not enjoy being flexed. Because I didn't use my legs much--in half the laps not at all but used a float instead--I could easily go seven and nine half-strokes (where a stroke is both arms) between breaths.
3.6 miles. With hills, even. Nisou heard my footfalls on the uphills because there I plod like a dromedary.
Groovy. According to Google Pedometer, which tool I've been waiting for, my usual bike to work is 3.77 miles, not 3.6. I feel thinner already. And it's just under a mile around Ferril Lake in City Park.
My favorite, or at least daily, bike ride in high school was 7.79 miles. The three-point swim in my lake is just over half a mile, and it's just under a mile end to end. My road, from Boston Post to the turnpike (when you walk there through the woods, it's the turnpike because that's what that stretch of road was when father was a boy), is 1.1 miles. When Griswold Point existed, my walk or run (I did try to run one summer, barefoot and in a bathing suit) was 1.75 miles from my beach to its tip.
Run 5 miles in 57' at a 1% grade, minus a 45" pee-break at the 5K point. I trotted bathroom-ward on the indoor track, approaching a mirrored wall, and that was an unpleasant view. Also, my pain level jumped as soon as I left the treadmill for the padded track, not as much as it would on actual ground, but still.
Two 3.7-mile city rides and a 5K run. I have got to do more lunges or something for my knees, because this inability to run down stairs is tedious.
The work-gym-home commute, which is 9.6 miles and not the 8.3 I'd estimated, plus a half-mile swim (.8K) and a (nearly) 12-mile bike ride up to the top of Cherry Creek Trail, just before its plummet back down to the creek and under I-225. When I got home, I asked if there was time for a 5K run before dinner: no, which I did not regret.
I thought I might walk three time around the pond in the park after dinner, which would be three miles: the distance, if not relative speed. Throughout dinner I managed to talk myself out of that, but after dinner back into it, and we strolled through the park at sunset. As is now our habit, on our way back we came down the next street over, where almost everyone lives, and indeed we stopped to chat with these two and throw a ball for their dog, and farther along play with these three and their friend and her dog, and along came Scarf and Drums and Monkey.
It occurred to me in a different way that I am part of a community that I have wanted for years, since I left campus in 1994. Not long after Jessie returned to Massachusetts from California, she ran into friends on the sidewalk and wrote something about that being why she came back: so she could randomly happen into people and talk for a while. My neighborhood is not as stable as a hometown or a college town, but I like it.
AEK and I ran in the Cherry Creek Sneak today. I ran the first 100 feet or so with her and then dropped back; her time was 28'something" and mine was 32'51". I ran a race!
And whee, the time as I crossed the finish line was 32'51" (accelerating at the end to get under 33'), but I started a bit back in the pack, so from start line to finish my official time was actually 32'19", squeaking me just into the top third of my division (F35-39). What's interesting (to me) about this page, if the link works, is the snapshot of generational names it gives.
And then it was 8:30 and we returned home for pancakes and coffee.
Later in the day I swam two thousand of the most casual meters ever. Because I barely exerted myself, I practiced breathing on 7s and even 9s rather than on 5s. My respiration has grown much stronger over the past year, so progressing from 3s to 5s wasn't hard.
Bike 9.6 miles in three legs. Run 3.8 miles. Swim 1000 meters.
I have read you should alternate sprinting and walking. I don't. I have to represss a snort when people ask how my training is going, because while I am sure my performance would be better if I tackled the sports systematically, I don't. So anyway. I ran, and there is a usual turn-around spot on this route so the full distance is four miles. In addition to knowing that I am not a rigorously physiologically correct athlete, I know too that turn-around points are also where I slow to a walk--I do better on loops. So I continued to the next major street, and when I turned there (being forced by traffic rather than an arbitary point), I didn't stop. 3.3 miles at a chugging jog, walk a half mile, and sprint--this is a relative term, of course--another half-mile, then another half-mile cool-down.
This route is along the median of an avenue that deserves the name, since it is in fact lined with trees, even tunneled with trees (elms, and I prefer to be in denial about their fate). The surface is a path of packed dirt, and the trees make it the shadiest route near Dot Org.
Almost an hour after I finished, my pulse was 54 bpm, which is fine. Hail the packed dirt, because my hip doesn't hurt yet either.
Swim a half mile in the indoor pool because of overly cautious cowards who'd spotted lightning miles away.
Then I ran 5K at 6 mph! the whole way! A ten-minute mile! On a treadmill, but afterward I did not hobble, and that is saying something.
Two 3.7-mile city rides and a 5K run with a podcast of electronic music of 150 bpm. My time was abysmal: though the beat was fine, I have no length to my stride at all. Part of that is stupid knees; most of it is lack of weight-training. I didn't expect to do 6 mph on pavement as I did once on a treadmill, but 4 mph is pathetic. Perhaps I could hire a lion to chase me. Or a jellyfish. I hate jellyfish.
It's only .75 mile from the trailhead to the foot of the glacier, but there's a good grade to the start of it that must be a torrent in spring. It was 90 in Denver, less than that at the trailhead at 10,000 feet, and less than that again near the glacier, remaining snowpack, and the pond at the glacier's foot. The pond was lovely but, solitary as we were late on a Saturday afternoon, I didn't swim.
Stairmaster, 15' @ 68 steps per minute; elliptical, 15' @ 20/20 incline and level 11, 130 strides per minute. Hard cardio work that doesn't slaughter my knees: excellent.
Swim 800 meters: I guess I've never gone at this time to learn that at 6 p.m. on Sundays, most of the pool is dedicated to water polo.
9.6 city miles in three legs. Run 5K with a gain of 110 vertical feet at 6 mph. Swim 1000 yards in the indoor pool because of lightning.
We biked to Whole Foods to have smoothies from the embedded Jamba Juice (one day we will have bananas in the house again) before heading for the gym. RDC went to the pool and I returned to the trail to do the bike portion of the race. Twelve miles in a bit less than an hour: I'm not fast. Back at the gym, I found RDC at the bike rack on his way out; I locked up and hopped on the treadmill for the 5K run (33') and then dove into the pool to swim 1000 meters. I swam smoothly and in fine form, five breaths per 25-meter length and five half-strokes (one armpull is a half-stroke) per breath, which is good for me, better this season than ever before.
Then I pedaled slowly home. It began to sprinkle, light and cool, and I took off my non-prescription sunglasses. I've been swimming in contacts recently, and that will be better for race day: I'll be able to see my way in and out of the water. Also the non-rx glasses are sturdier than the nine-year-old rx ones.
As ever, my shakiest element is the run. Aurora Reservoir should be between 63 and 73 degrees, and though my regular swim is in a 78-degree pool, 63-degree water won't paralyze me. I expect that everyone swims faster in open water since she doesn't need to slow for turns, but the number of swimmers, especially trying to make a tight turn around a buoy, might cancel that advantage. The bike route has "rolling hills" and I might be a little stronger with several ups and downs rather than the one of each on my usual stretch of trail.
Though I don't train in any discipline, I have been biking and swimming regularly all my life, since I mastered the doggy paddle and a two-wheeler at about age 5. Running, not so much. I don't run much and almost never on actual ground because of pain--damage I haven't investigated--in my right hip and both knees. The swim will energize me, I'll push myself on the bike, and then I hope not to cripple myself on the run after not touching actual ground in weeks.
One 3.7-mile city ride. I would have ridden home, too, except I was in glasses and am made of sugar and RDC was out anyway.
Bike 9.6 miles in three legs. Swim 2000 meters. I'm working on keeping my head up, looking at the other end of the pool. It's the one piece of advice someone gave me last year that I couldn't work immediately and naturally into my freestyle--because to do so really engages what should be my abdominal muscles but aren't.
Swim 800 meters in open water, woohoo! My one actual swim at the race site before the big day. It was okay water, not crystal clear, but at least green and not brown. It was 70 degrees, which felt great since my usual lap pool is 78.
Two 3.7-mile city rides, despite the day of the week, because the mandatory face-show for the race happened to take place next door to Dot Org. It meant I could put my bike in the building as usual and not carry a lock.
The short version: I was satisfied with my performance until I checked the results. I wanted (to want) only to complete it, not to compete, but a final time of 2:04 disappointed me. I would have been under two hours if I had transitioned better. At least I placed in the top half, both overall and within in my age bracket, in the swim. Lesson: be happy within myself without consideration of numbers or comparison.
The long version: Last Monday at bookclub, AEK remembered that the triathlon was six days away. "Can I come with you?" Was she insane? I wanted to leave at 5:30, and AEK more than most people does not get up early (except to ski). Maven wanted to come too. I was touched and pleased and slightly dubious, the more so after I ascertained that all attendees had to be off Powahton Road by 7:00, when the first wave entered the water. RDC and I had already determined that he didn't need to go, because we have one car and I didn't expect him to get up before dawn either. But they were adamant: "You can't go to your first triathlon alone!" said AEK. Better yet, we would take her car, and lo, I wouldn't have to drive afterward, and could even braid my hair after I left the house, and RDC could go fishing as he strongly desired to do.
I slept little and fitfully after 3, and RDC got up at 4 to drive up the Poudre Canyon and hike up the river into RMNP and harass the trout. I got up at 5, RDC 20 minutes gone, and he called at 5:05 to make sure I was up. He'd made the buddy breakfast, and I wheeled the buddy to his usual daytime spot at the living room window except it wasn't daylight yet: Blake did not like the looks of this in the least. I made my smoothie--banana, yogurt, frozen blueberries, a dash of orange juice, a suggestion of protein powder. I dressed: running shorts, bra, running tank (three layers breastal support total, not nearly as high on my sternum as my regular swimsuit but cramming my bust enough to reduce drag somewhat, especially since I'm not at the level drag makes a noticeable difference, though I did shave my legs), wool socks, bike shoes. I checked my pack: chip and ankle strap; numbers for torso, bike, and helmet; goggles and swim cap; bike helmet and gloves; sneakers, Thorlite socks, evaporative neckband, sweatband. Plus six pints of water: one to drink on the way, one on the bike, two mixed with Cytomax for transitions, and two frozen in a bottle for afterward. Also a towel, not for drying but to lay my gear on and get sand off my feet after the swim; a small bottle of alcohol to dry my ears after the swim; another banana and two packets of energy gel; sunscreen, eyedrops, another pair of contacts, prescription sunglasses just in case, lip balm, phone, insurance card.
Also a totem. HEBD crocheted me a small--smaller than my palm--pouch and when she gave it to me I'm pretty sure she called it a totem. It hangs in my study on one of those quilted boards with ribbons for notes and photographs (also a gift) along with Emlet's and Siblet's birth announcements and a yellow rose from Granny's grave and things like that. I have a tiny blue glass cat from childhood that lives in my little cedar chest. "That," not "who," because if I ever named it, I've forgotten, and because before today it had been out of that box maybe once since the box arrived late in twelfth grade, to accompany me to the GRE. I might not have thought to bring it then except that it had helped me take the PSAT and probably both (or three?) SATs. That went in, and a Blake crest feather, and a shell from my beach, and a piece of Granny's sea glass. I strung my engagement and iolite rings on Tigger's box chain and added those three things and called it done. I might have left my rings on, but they wouldn't fit through the crocheting whereas without them Tigger might, and I wasn't going to risk him in the swim or run.
On the porch swing I drank my smoothie and smeared peanut butter on most of an apple (Blake got a slice) and sucked down water and watched bats flitter toward their beds. I re-inked myself, since sweat and sunscreen had faded yesterday's marks. I went in for a final pee and to brush my beak--three minutes, max--and on the way back stopped dead in my tracks between dining and living rooms because my bike was no longer propped on the porch. I churned into overdrive and burst out the door to see, of course, AEK and Maven loading my bike into the car. Oh.
Google steered me east on 70 and south on 470, but yesterday the Oprah chick had warned about traffic on 470 and Wednesday when I drove from work all I had to do was go east on Sixth, which eventually turns south. So we did that, and while we did join a one-lane traffic jam eastbound on Quincy, this way did spare us two or more miles of it. As traffic jams go, it was okay--unidirectional and unidestinational--and we were parked by 6:20. I ate my banana as we packed up, gave Maven the totem to keep in a pocket, hugged and kissed my friends, and mounted Shadowfax to ride the mile to the race site there to to rack the bike and set up for the transitions.
Goggles and cap in hand, I entered the swim chute. The swim entry was the boat launch--concrete to two feet down--and thank goodness, because with 25 waves of 125 women, the less churning of "lake" bed at entrance and exit the better. I am really glad I did the open-water swim on Wednesday because even with many fewer participants, it gave me an idea what the actual swim start would be like. AEK and Maven shouted for me from the fence--they'd found me, that was amazing! Sally Edwards, who perhaps started this event? but who is anyway a fitness author and cheerleader, counted each wave start at four-minute intervals. As with a ski lift, once one wave had started, the next group could enter a corraled bit of water. Each wave had the same cap color (mine had the decency not to be orange or pink) and while we waited in the water, Edwards would give us a word for a mantra (wave 10's was "sensational" and while I might rather have been "invincible," at least I wasn't a Pre-Teen Sensation called Mavis) and ask what the best cap color was ("Purple!") and have us high-five our wave-mates ("You go, girl!") and it managed not to feel hokey at all.
The swim start was a total hippopotamus wallow. You know how as the rains end and the rivers dry, each hippo lives in a smaller and smaller bit of water, and then mud, and then the fighting begins? There wasn't any fighting and I didn't get kicked in the head or, as far as I could tell, kick anyone else in the head. But it was a tangle and I was nearly to the first buoy before we finally spaced ourselves. The 750m course was triangular with the apex at the boat launch, and I, unable as usual to swim in a straight line without a stripe under me (possibly the open-water goggles would have helped, since they would have afforded more peripheral vision, but fog is fog), nearly went left of the first buoy. It was within arm's reach of my right arm, instead of my left. Whoops. I put it on my left side and headed for the second buoy. This every fifth half-stroke that I've been breathing? Out the window. I breathed every left stroke until after the second buoy, in the homestretch, and I so badly wanted not to go off course that I checked more often than I needed to, wasting time.
And then! The thing that killed me! With the concrete ramp under me, I ripped off cap and goggles to start the ride with a nice cool wet head, ran up toward the transition area (grinning at AEK and Maven who found me again), and located the four racks for wave 10, but I could not find my bike. Again, good drugs: I was angry and frustrated but not paralyzed by these emotions. Once, I glimpsed the bike and headed toward it, but it moved away from me. Perhaps Shadowfax knew that I would have liked to have a street bike for this section of the race. Finally I ran the elusive thing to earth. Whew. I whipped on shorts and dropped to gulp Cytomax, bite sport goo into my maw, squirt alcohol into the porches of mine ears, rub sand off my feet, pin the number to my front, and don socks and shoes. I buckled my helmet, shoved hands into gloves, triangulated the particular rack with a tree and a bluff and a building--for next time I know to do that first and to know not just that there are x racks per wave but that mine is the yth rack from this direction and the zth from the other--and walked the bike to the gate. I lost minutes upon minutes in this transition.
The 20K bike ride was fun. Yes, I have a mountain bike and it's heavier than a street bike, but it has street tires on it. I hadn't bothered to remove my lights and rack because again, I am not at that level, and besides, mountain bike. RDC asked me if I wanted to carry a toolkit, and that'd be real nice if I knew how to use it but since I don't it'd just be weight and guilt. The only weight I wanted was the goop in the tires that has saved me from many a flat, and I relied on that to keep Shadowfax from throwing a shoe. If the bike spit out its bit, well, I can get a chain back on with my fingers. A couple of weekends ago we checked the gears and brakes, but otherwise the only maintenance I did was to pump psi high enough to feel every last crumble in the road. Shadowfax was naughty to hide during transition, but I expected it to behave during the race itself and it did. Whatever slope I was on, I spun. My bike is geared low enough and I am not in shape enough that any pedaling in even the highest gears effects no change in speed on descents, but I spun anyway. I am a calm swimmer and I did not expect to push myself on the run, but the ride was fun and I grinned maniacally throughout.
I found my spot quickly on the second transition and only had to shuck bike shorts, change socks and shoes, tie on my neckband, and gulp the other half of the water and goo, but I spent another minute trotting to where someone had left a Usan flag on the ground to drape it over the rack. This was such a touchy-feely race, what with the high-fiving and the volunteers in the water who'd reassure you if that's what you needed or accompany you the full distance, whew, that I still didn't know transition time would count toward the total. So I scampered quickly but didn't scurry to the 5K run start.
Where AEK and Maven found me again! I scooped up a cup at the first water station and they were just past it, and I shoved the empty cup into AEK's hand. Thanks! Now, I realize the limitations of the location. The race can be at Aurora Reservoir because the facility is nearly in Kansas so doesn't have a lot of traffic to disrupt, and it doesn't allow motor boats so doesn't lose as much revenue as Cherry Creek or Chatfield Reservoir would from half a day's closure. Having an out-and-back bike route on a suburban road is one thing, because the road is wide enough to accommodate four bikes abreast in each direction plus the double yellow line makes for an obvious divider, but an out-and-back run on a regular-width sidewalk is not such a clever set up. The by-phrase "on your left" meant nothing and those people I passed I did so when no one was oncoming, and I tried to keep right but walkers made that inefficient, and sidewalk? Ow: not a good running surface. The worst thing was that people to the left on my way out were congratulating people on their way back, and I kept hearing "You're almost there!" when I had barely begun. I set myself a pace that I thought I could maintain and stuck to it. And I guess I have no sense of how far five kilometers is, or even how far a mile is, because when I got to the first mile marker all I could think was, that's it? The turn-around on the bike hadn't felt like six miles at all, but the turn-around on the run never came at all. Except it finally did, and I hadn't walked on any of the slight hills, up or down, on the way out, and so I didn't on the way back either.
Nearly at the end stood AEK and Maven again, waving a hot pink ("We know how much you love pink") sign that read, "Go Lisa!" AEK yelled reallyfast, "We'll meet you at the playground past the finish line." Past speaking, I thumbsed-up with my left--the non-gimpy thumb--and sprinted for the end. (I had given a thumbs-up to some participants who were walking their bikes up hills, but did so with my right hand. My right thumb doesn't straighten fully, and I always worry that people think I'm being sarcastic. Whatever.)
Oh yeah, and I crossed the finish line, high-fiving Sally Edwards as I did. I was handed a bottle of water and a medal and someone misted me and I was done. These percentages are the reverse of the usual: 76% means I would have been 76th in a field of 100, not 24th.
I found the playground but had a more pressing need. Lavatories stood alongside, with a line out the women's door. Fuck that. I knocked on the men's door and entered, calling "Woman coming in!" and anyone who had a problem with that could kiss my sweaty ass. But no one said anything, a damn good thing. Now I was dry inside and out.
For all I had drunk--a half gallon in the past four hours--I didn't pee much: that's how much I had sweat. I finished by 9:45, but the day's high was 104 and it was probably over 90 for the run.
My sweet friends found me as I emerged from breaking whatever law and waited while I skittered down the beach to dunk myself again. I could have stayed there forever. The worst part of the day was waiting 30 minutes to get out of the transition area: the exit crossed the start of the run, so people could only get out in gaps between racers. We walked the mile to the parking area with AEK remarking on how I was still pacing faster than they were. On the way home we stopped at a farmer's market ("Unless you mind? Are you too tired?" "No. I am going to eat peaches until I explode"), and a shopper exclaimed how how strong my (bare) feet must be. It struck me as extremely funny that my feet, and not the numerals pinned to my front and inked on my skin ("I am not an escaped convict!"), are what he noticed. And my number! I hadn't thought of the calendar, only that I didn't know who sat on the English throne in that year--some Dane named Cnut, whatever--but Haitch pointed out it's her birthday. So she was there with me too, whee!
On the Formigny's front door, Stick and his mother had taped up a sign! It said things like "Congratulations!" and "Way to Go!" and had little drawings labeled swim bike and run, and Stick's lettering and spelling are extremely advanced for a not quite two-year-old. Also it had decorations in scribbles in many different colors.
All day I was tired, but not sore or weary. I think I felt the lack of sleep more than the race, yet afterward I didn't sleep. I ate peanut butter toast and bananas and peaches and drank lots of water and watched "Pirates of the Caribbean" and pet the buddy head and made RDC stop for ice cream on his way home.
Swim 2000 meters, smoothly and steadily.
The master swimmer told me last summer to look forward, not down, and I have to find a swimming book to advise me on that. Besides technique, and lazing about form, strength training is the most important thing I must do for my swimming.
Chatfield Reservoir is 25 miles away: why does getting there take almost an hour? Given how long the drive is and the time to set up the inflatable kayaks, you kind of want to go for a long, long time.
Next time we might try Aurora Reservoir, which isn't bounded by trees--Chatfield has trees except along the dam--and doesn't have a view of the mountains--it's farther east and in a hollow--but, crucially, doesn't allow motors (evidently excepting a police launch). I really don't like motor boats.
Three miles through water so churned up by motors that I called it practice for open-sea kayaking.
The possibility was to hike up a tributary of Bowen Creek deep into one of the old-growth forests in Colorado. We found the tributary, on the south side of the creek, easily enough from the north-of-creek trail, but didn't get far up the tributary: It really was wilderness area, no official trail and no unofficial one other than an elk run.The tributary itself had tributaries, little streams that I am not allowed, west of the Mississippi, to call brooks. I did not want to lose the main channel, but streams and scrub necessitated leaving its side, even leaving earshot. So we stopped about a quarter mile up.What we saw was lovely, the creek jumping down rocks and carving out channels, the streams running sometimes above and sometimes under ground, the ground itself damp enough in this fold of the Never Summer Range that it had, no lie, actual moss on it! Because this valley traps so much moisture and is accessible only with difficulty and not so much with trucks, some of the trees are 600 years old and four feet in diameter. We didn't see any of those, but we were certainly in an old-growth forest, with canopy and saplings and the best kind of utter quiet--wind, water, and birdsong.
I was wearing a framed pack with 25 pounds, since this was a test for proposed back-country camping later this summer. I just bought the pack yesterday after a prolonged set of fittings and trials of various models. My torso length is apparently short, which I find humiliating. In whose universe is a 5'7" woman with my shoulders a small? In the universe of Gregory packs, I guess. I had never heard of Gregory--are they to Arcteryx and Marmot what Tuffskins are to Levi's? The Marmot Femme Nikita (!) didn't quite work, nor did an Osprey. And so the Gregory came out, and I confess that my first reaction after slate blue and sage green packs was a girlish revulsion to its color. I said to the patient saleswoman--somewhat glad of such a perfect occasion--"Please don't tell me I have inspired anything...burgundy." This she (reasonably) didn't get but I was able to (amazingly) give a three-sentence explanation of "Kinky Boots." She knew Peter from "Love Actually," who is a drag queen, who meets the inheritor of a failing shoe factory, who together retrofit the plant to make, not conservative oxfords, but two feet of tubular red sex with steel shanked stilettos, and whose first failed experiment in drag-wear is boots in burgundy suede with a sensible low chunky heel. And I was only somewhat glad of the perfect occasion for that line because my new pack is not, alas, available in fuckme red pleather. I possess something burgundy now, and calling it "plum" doesn't help. We adjusted this and that and buckled and zipped and cinched and tugged and filled it with bean bags: an eight-pound bulk at the bottom, two ten-pounders, and another eight-pounder on top. So well does it fit and balance that I swear it is an offshoot of my body. I ran the stairs (the REI store is three storeys) a few times and climbed the boot-trying-on fake hill and did one-legged squats and wore it and the weight around the store for almost two hours and except for the color, I love the hell outta this pack.
Especially I love wearing a dress and going commando while wearing an internally-framed pack! Even underwear, let alone shorts, would have required at least unbuckling the hip belt for peeing. And a skirt would have had a waist. I love this dress.
Our turn-around spot was lovely, with frigid pools and small cascades and a pebbled beach where spring floods had carved a shelf into the bank. I shrugged off my pack and shucked my dress to dry in the sun. I felt extremely stupid in bra and boots alone--it's really not a good look--and felt much less naked in my altogethers. We ate our sandwiches and basked in the sun and so forth.
My knee didn't announce itself for seven miles. I finally arsed myself to find a doctor who accepts the new health insurance and have a general examination in two weeks, and if she doesn't agree that my right knee sounds like a handful of Mexican jumping beans, I will pout.
Eight miles, less than seven off-trail, with a pack.
Two 3.7-mile city rides. I let my right leg just come along for the ride after a couple of high-geared starts reminded me what bad technique that is.
Two 3.7-mile city rides.
Monday afternoon I saw a woman and boy on a tandem looking like she'd picked him up from summer camp. I waited at an intersection near them, and he was narrating some melodrama from the day as only a nine-year-old can.
Tuesday afternoon I got to pet the horse cops, who were in the hinterlands instead of downtown for the National Night Out. The horses are yet another thing I miss from working downtown.
Wednesday morning I met a Bouvier. I don't think I've ever seen one before.
This morning I saw Maven as we both headed for work. Hooray for the foot-powered commute! We talked about the upcoming book (Kal doesn't like it, though I didn't know that at the time) and another dress she will probably fit better than I do and whether she's coming to ballet in the park tonight. (Unfortunately, what came out of my mouth was, "Are you going to ballet tonight with AEK and I?" I blanched, and gabbled desperately, "Me. With AEK and me.")
Dresses! We had a clothing swap several weeks ago and Maven took the two dresses I brought, a short yellow sheath that has been snug across the beam for a while but which was now snug across the bodice and tight across the ass, not a good look in yellow silk, and a long simple celadon number that has always been snug across the bodice--reasonable in stiff linen--but now didn't want to zip.
And last summer or the one before I bought a white linen dress from J. Crew. White linen is already dicey, but it had a huge seam across my non waist and possibly a vertically bisecting seam as well and it's not doing me any favors. Maven is paler than me so it might not work on her either. Maybe we should make like Henny and dye Ella's dress in tea. One of the later All-of-a-Kind Family books
However! The Little Black Dress I bought in 1990 that, sometime in the past, I thought I really should give up on, maybe fits acceptably. It is certainly snugger than it was, but it doesn't give me pit-tit and my paunch isn't nauseating. I can't say it made RDC fall out of his chair, as the 1990 man did, but he thought it was fine (in more than a "you look pretty" way). I love simply cut clothes: it does not scream its year to me as much as some glaringly (to me) outré other, trendier pieces do.
Two miles, my first such long swim of the summer. But I have gained some endurance, because my shoulders never bleated, neither in the third k nor afterward.
If I hadn't been breaking in new boots--which luckily didn't need any breaking--this is the sort of hike I'd've worn hiking shoes with. As with the Hawaii trip, while I wait for RDC to process official pictures I rely on the kindness of Flickr strangers.
This picture was taken in late June; late August had less snow. We saw more green than this and autum wildflowers instead of spring.
It was heart-stoppingly specatcular, especially the weather. We had strong sun, light rain, heavy rain, and light snow, and all the clouds and variations in light that such changefulness warrants.
Today I finally saw someone about my knees and learned to no one's surprise that inadequate muscle means running stresses my knees and hips. Also, I have very bendy joints (this I knew) which I mention because the physician actually used the phrase "loosey-goosey," which cracked me up.
But I probably would have swum after work instead of jog if I had remembered my swimsuit. Instead I had sneakers. Goal: a 10K, so more than 6.24 miles at a time, with more incline than I have used previously. Frankly, the idea of running for more than an hour at a time sounds like the worst bore in the world, so I am looking at >10 mph for the whole 60 minutes. Shyeah.
I've gone to a few sessions of physical therapy after finally consulting a physician about my knees and the pain during and limping after running. The consensus is that I have loose joints--which is no news to me, because despite being unable to do a split since my early teens, my bendiness otherwise still surprises people--made looser because of my unorthodox postures.
Sitting like a grown-up is uncomfortable no matter how much I raise my feet. I prefer left knee up, left foot by left buttock, right leg bent and lying on the seat. Sometimes I mix it up and sit the other way except then the right leg interferes with mousing. Or tailor-style. I have stopped sitting with legs bent on the seat and feet nearly under my butt, because even years ago even I could no longer ignore how stiff and painful that left my knees.
My primary-care physician recommended a sports physiologist, who used the term "loosey-goosey" of my knees. That delighted me, a phrase I haven't heard since elementary school. She recommended physical therapy, and the PT decided that the inner fourth of my quadricep--VMO? something like that--is underdeveloped and the IT band is tight, and this, in addition to my genetically loose, pretzeled-looser knees, has led to my knees pointing not straight but to the side.
A friend in college observed in surprise that, with me seated with my legs straight in front of me, the soles of my feet bent inward at the ankle could lie flat on the floor. In one of my first yoga classes, the instructor praised my ability to lay the hand of an arm bent above my head flat on my spine. I always thought my legs' tendency to splay when I sit was due to fat on my inner thigh. I'm sure fat is part of it, but my loose knees cause it too. Loose joints, tight ligaments: middle age. Hooray.
So I have vicious exercises to do to strengthen that bit of quadricep and, in addition to stretches, an even more vicious instrument to loosen the band. I decided to buy one because I knew RDC had mentioned a tight IT band as well. I didn't know its name but at my second visit I asked for the giant column of pain. It is a 3' long column about 6" in diameter, and you plant one foot along it, perpendicular to your body, and you drag your body, on the side, up and down the rolling column, from hip to knee. Hurts like a sumbitch, that does. Also Blake's afraid of it, no surprise there.
The PT stuck biofeedback doohickeys to that muscle and had me contract it as tight as I could, and then I had to contract it for 10" on, 10" off, at 85% of the maximum, and also do leg lifts at 75% of that maximum. What's interesting to me about that is the measurement: whatever electrical impulses the device measures, my left leg can achieve only three quarters what the right can. That's how strongly dominant my right leg is, as I already knew from skiiing but now can put a figure to. I can't particularly turn at all but I am worse turning right when that leg has to unweight and let the left leg be in control.
Toward the end of freshling year of college I sprained an ankle. (My sister still gripes that I wore bluchers to her college graduation, but my foot was still too swollen to fit in dress shoes.) It was the end of school, so of course instead of studying for exams, I was playing Frisbee on dewy East Beach (gee, and I wonder why I won a spot on academic probation that semester?) and down I went. The nursing and PT majors in my hall wrapped me in an Ace bandage and sent me to the infirmary, and at the infirmary I was assigned some physical therapy.
This clinic was more used to dealing with college athletes and the male therapist clearly found my squishy freshling-15'd self beneath his dignity. He had me resist his manipulations of my ankle and was disgusted at my inability to do so; he expected I sprained my ankles often and was perhaps disappointed or disbelieving that I didn't. (But that I didn't was perhaps because I seldom did anything more strenuous than walking; the Frisbee game was procrastination, I'm sure.) He had me stand, in a doorway to catch myself, on one foot, hands at my sides, eyes closed. He was behind me and after a few minutes yelled from where he was working with a more deserving athlete that I was meant to have my eyes shut. They were, and he was as angry that I had that much micro-muscle control.
That's one thing I can still do well, and at PT I stand on a little platform whose support is a half colum and balance, front to back and then side-to-side. It's too easy on two feet eyes open and still doable on two feet eyes closed. I'm working on one foot, and of course that's my one favorite exercise, the one I can do easily already, that's probably so ankle-oriented that it does my knees and hips no good at all.
I haven't been actually exercising much but those sessions feel like a workout on their own.
Also yesterday morning I attended a flip-turn clinic at the club, and am I ever stupid at applying what I've heard to what I do. If the coach--who was excellent, supportive and encouraging and god knows long on patience--had an underwater speaker so that he could have told me what to do while I was doing it, instead of all of ten seconds before, maybe I could have got it more. I would repeat his instructions after he gave them and again as I was underwater ready to do them, to little avail. He had us splash the ceiling of the indoor pool room, two storeys overhead, to learn how much force he wanted us to apply to a turn; he told me to snap my hands from hips to over my head with as much force to achieve a flip as I use to somersault. But not to somersault, because the point is to reverse direction, a 180, not a 360. And to do all this 18" down, not shallower because of turbulence on the surface, and not deeper because of water pressure: torpedoes travel at 18" down as well, for the same reasons of efficiency. And to aspire to not breathing within the flags. Pushing off, I can get beyond the flags underwater no problem, but not to breathe within the flags on the approach to the wall? Yii. And to be able to turn well before trying to mix the turn with the push-off so you don't miscalculate and slam your ankles. Yes indeed.
He also had us guess who won the swimming medals at the 1904 London Olympics, and I guessed an Australian, based on the name of the "freestyle" stroke, the Australian crawl, but it was Mohawk Indians because they swam crawl instead of breaststroke. This makes me wonder why freestyle is called "Australian crawl" rather than the "Mohawk crawl" but perhaps their being allowed to compete was meant to be honor enough, without getting a stroke named after themselves as well.
Or not: the 1904 Games were in Missouri. Maybe he had his city wrong? Or maybe the Mohawks had the best swim time but from a bit called "Anthropology Days" rather than from the officials events in which whites only competed. Oh: Wikipedia doesn't name the event, but it was in 1844, in London, and of course breaststroking whites sneered at crawl for being "unBritish."
I have no idea how far I swam, because I was concentrating on making turns rather than counting them. I cannot claim that the majority of my turns flipped successfully, but some of them did. I was very excited.
I took advantage of what might be the last, or perhaps only nearly the last, weekend days the outdoor pool will be open this year and swam two miles. I attempted flip turns during the first 500 meters but I still need to practice them separate from swimming. I did most of the last 25 meters in butterfly and persisted through a muscle seizure before the halfway point, until about two lengths from the end when I surfaced with a shriek. Naturally it was that moment that RDC witnessed, having finished his workout and come to look for me. Hi, I'm suave.
Two miles.
Two 3.7-mile city rides.
In the evening I had pool practice, as recommended in the week before the certification dive.
Also I officially hate wetsuits. No one told me you cannot move in one. I was like Linus (I think? maybe Charlie Brown) and Calvin in that when adequately dressed for conditions, I was immobile and unable to build snowfolk or swim. I do not cuss imaginatively enough to get myself in and out of seven millimeters of neoprene. I am going to wear a thing this coming weekend but I am not going to enjoy it in the slightest. Sixty-two-degree water is not that cold, not for four 15-minute dives. What's going to be unbearable is having to remain in a damp wetsuit in between dives and worse, wriggle into and out of it while it's wet.
The horror, the horror.
My first ounce of deliberate, non-walking exercise in several weeks. I climbed on the stairmill for 15', ran one mile (only one, but at a steeper incline than previously), and did some weights, concentrating on my back, core, and quadriceps. It felt good.
The thermometer read just over 20, but the sun was thoroughly out. The sun was thoroughly out, but its angle has been low enough, the days short enough, and the temperature cold enough that Wednesday's snow is still on the ground. After a late morning snack of a Honeycrisp apple and gingerbread cookies, I drove down to Haitch's and my favorite stretch of the Highline Canal trail.
I saw a peregrine falcon, an enormous Swainson's hawk, either two or twice, and a rabbit. And other critters, of course, but only the usual suspects: squirrels, magpies, flickers, and dogs. And horses. One side of the trail is peppered with McMansions but the other has older horse properties with horses to match. On the way out, I stopped to watch an Appaloosa gambol in its yard while its stablemate browsed desultorily nearby. The fence was only four feet high and I was sure it had enough room to run into a jump but no such luck (for me). On the way back, both horses lay in the sun. Perhaps I missed how the idle one tuckered itself out.
5.2-mile walk, with Haitch reminisces if not the actual Haitch.
After work, unaccompanied and unprodded by RDC. A miracle. And the point of having my own car when it's too dark or cold or icy to bike.
I did the "fatburner" program on the elliptical, because having a pulse of 48 bpm and negative blood pressure, which might result from overly intense cardiac exertion, doesn't do me any good when it's the flab around my belly that's going to kill me. 30', level 11, over 130 spm.
Then some weights.
30' on the elliptical, in the "fat-burning" mode which felt like a stroll through the park. Stupid thing. Later I talked about it with AEK and RDC, who opined that the easy range is for people so out of shape or obese that the cardio range would actually be dangerous for them.
And I even would have gone on Friday, at lunch, if I had remembered its early closing.
I did a lot of stretching then 15' on the stairmill at level 8, something over 43 floors when I stopped paying attention. Also I ran two miles at 5.1 mph, not the 6 mph at which I could just complete 5K but with a 2% incline instead of barely 1%. I'm going to work up to 5K at 2%, and then up to 5%, and only then increase my speed.
My first 5K in a long time, at 5.2 mph and 2% incline, covering 420 vertical feet and taking 35'.
After a few minutes to warm up and stretch, I ran 3.5 miles in less than 43' at an incline of 2% and occasionally 2.5%, with a gain of more than 450 vertical feet. 3.8 miles total with cooldown.
I got on the treadmill and warmed up but as soon as I accelerated to a run, my knees started protesting: I had not even thought to tape them. Forget it, I decided, and used an elliptical instead. Fake exercise. 30' @ 100% incline and 45% resistance, and I didn't need my 150 bpm dance-mix thingie to tell me the elliptical works me less than the treadmill. On a treadmill, 5.2 mph is about as slow as I can comfortably run, and 150 or 151 bpm is fine for that, but I needed lower resistance on the elliptical to match my pace to the bpm. Solution: mixes with different bpm. Whoever assembles these free podcasts (DJ Steveboy) makes them in a range of bpms.
