I hate running

I did it. I started a "I hate running" FBook page. We've got 15 members as of today. I giggle every time someone else "likes" it. Let me tell you why I hate it (and, if pressed, why I love to hate it):

1. I can't find my pace. In the first 100 steps, I reach a point of oxygen deprivation that makes me look down at my watch and see that my pace is, gloriously, twice that of my norm. It takes another 100 steps or so to convince myself that it's worth slowing down so that I can make it to the end of the drive.
 
2. Cars that pass too close. There is no shoulder on the road where I run, so I try to hold my lane as long as I can. (This would fall under the "love" category of running. Who doesn't like to feel this brassy?)

When the cars take the time to slow up and go into the far lane, I offer a wave, Thanks for not killing me! When they don't move over and instead pass within a breadbox's width of taking me out, I throw my hands up in exasperation at their rearview mirror (which, incidentally, just parted my hair). If I'm alone, I do this after they've rounded a corner.

3. Gangsters out for a stroll. The last 2 times I've been out, I've been greeted by scary men. Granted, they are probably the nicest guys ever. But the first nicest guy ever was parked in the woods, in a white undershirt, in an old white car. And this is the kicker: He didn't wave at me. He didn't do anything. This is the first move of killers everywhere.

Then today's gangster was walking toward me on the road. I thought, I should start running now (I was hot off the first 100 step blowout) and I met up with him at thrice my usual pace. I saw he was walking with a radio headset thingy on (camo! first clue), but here's what set my radar off with a clang: He was in blue jeans. This screams no purpose at all, out for a joy walk, enjoying a pretty fall day, who knows what he might do next? You can see why I was scared.

4. Keeping up the facade. If you take a single day off running, or a week in my case, it's sure that the world (minimally, your friends) will drive by and notice your pace when you decide to re-enter the addiction of the sport. The ones who don't run will think  And she calls that running? and the ones who do run will think She took yesterday off.

Peak2Peak - 4th place! And my nemesis.

I raced Peak2Peak this weekend at Crystal Mountain! I was hoping (praying) for Top 10 (I was 12th last year), so imagine my face when I saw the results... and I was 4th in my group. Before I could help myself, I leaned over to the guy next to me and was like, Do you see this sh!t?

Then I tried very hard not to boogie around in celebration in the room full of manly men and their tight pants.

But if you are wondering how it went with my nemesis, this should answer your question:

Let's just say I've got my work cut out for me in 19 days...

But it was a great race - even though we woke up to pouring rain and 25mph winds that blew our bikes sideways at the top of the mountain!

At the start this year, I got out in front of the pack - totally new for me. I've spent many a race in the back comparing shades of pink and cuts of women's jersey. I was shocked to find that if these women up front slammed into a rock on the trail or took a turn too wide, they let out a yelp of profanity. Did swearing make them faster? I wondered, marveling at a training tip I could adhere to at last, and swiftly. Yes, it appeared so.

Soon, though, I fell off the lead pack and it was down to me and my bike and just gutting it out. And this is when the crisis always begins.

Confession: I always go though a mid-race crisis. I love the start of a race, I'm flying, we're all together, tearing it up, duking it out, kinda like a party on wheels. Then, reality sets in. I start to realize I might pass out, I can't breath, and there is no way I'm going to keep up with this group I've been trying to hang with.

And so, the party is about over. I have about 20 miles left to do and, if history repeats itself, I will do a good chunk of it alone.

Then I have this dangerous epiphany: I could be warm (dry, toasty, breathing) right now. Then I start to commit to a new series of goals: That I will never race again, that I will not speak to my biking friends, that I will find a hobby that doesn't involve Hammer gel.

But then I land at the finish line and there's a bunch of goofy biker friends with crooked helmets, all happy and tired and dirty and cheering me on. Crisis averted.

Here's the data/route if you are curious on what the race entails:

Here's more info on the P2P race if you want to go for it next year! And check out Crystal Mountain for a great place to ski this winter and/or for a skiing staycation!

My secret (training) weapon: A nemesis

My training this year is better than any other. It's because I've found the perfect training weapon: A nemesis.

It all started a month before last year’s Iceman when I met and rode a few times with a guy we'll call "Jake." Sure, I liked him well enough when we met. We were about the same speed and skill and had the same working schedule, so we found that we could ride together (this proved handy for me, as I fear the woods, dark and bears). And while we had strictly different tastes in music, I let it go, for a new biking friend is hard to come by.

But it wasn't until later, riding neck-n-neck in the Iceman, that I grew to like him well enough to declare war.

The Race
At the Iceman start line last year, we nodded coolly to each other and ate our Gu, looking about all-friendly-like. I could see by his casually crafted stance that it was time to get down to business.

In the crush of the start, I lost sight of him. I didn’t know if he was ahead of me or behind me. I started biking hard, worried, tense. Then, at the first road crossing, my husband Tim let me know he was ahead of me but not by much.

This, surprisingly, gave me the advantage. I found my pace, I conserved, I schemed. I spent the race creeping up and picking spots to sprint, keeping him out of sight but within reach. (Translation: I told myself if I ever saw him again, I would pass him going wide open.)

As the race wore on, my plan came together with just a few miles to go. To my shock, there on the hill before me, sat a yellow jersey creeping up a hill. I’d spent the race preparing for this moment. He, on the other hand, had spent the race in an all-out effort, not knowing if I was close or too close.

I looked at my odometer. Yes, two miles to go. Could I maintain a sprint for that long? Possibly. Could I resist passing him now that he was in my sights? Never. 

As I came up behind him, I greeted him with a jovial, “Why, there you are!”

This, friends, was the wrong thing to say.

It was like putting him in turbo mode. While he was bathed in sweat and busting every vein in his neck, he found, with those four little words, superhuman strength.

The race, after 2 hours and 45 minutes was on.

I crested the hill ahead of him and took off, only to have him shoot past me on the downhill, his fear of death slightly less than his fear of losing. On the next hill, I caught him and outclimbed him again, much to my delight and his horror. I was feeling very, very friendly at this point. We’re all just friends here, right? No hurry to get ahead of one another, as long as I was in front. But the top of the hill turned the game again and he ripped past me.

This went on for several treacherous minutes, up and down, passed and chased. We could hear the crowd of the finish line screaming in the distance. We were pushing and praying, each hill harder than the last.

Then, in the final stretch, he pulled out his cape and took off, gaining the lead. And never looked back.

17 seconds. 17. This is all he had on me. 17.

And while there was plenty of ribbing at the finish line, the unspoken hung in the air: Next year, there would be blood. And I had, without even realizing it, found the secret training weapon.

I urge you to also find someone who is about your speed, skill and temperament to train with. It helps too if they aren’t totally annoying. To have a perfect training partner/nemesis, there are some conditions that must be met:

1.     He must not be a woman and/or your age. By this I mean, find someone who isn't directly competing with you. This person may be in the men's class, may be 10 years older or 10 years younger, but definitely not in your exact class or age group in a race. This makes the self-inflicted competition "just for fun." Kinda.

2.     He must not be your husband. He can be someone else’s husband, but definitely not yours. This means all outings are completely free of laundry that is folded but sitting in the basket for the third day in a row.

3.     He must be your speed. Too slow and you will feel all she-man and showy when you tear past him on a straightaway. This, along with spandex pants, will erode your femininity over time. Too fast and you will start thinking of sabotage.

4.     He must never ride more miles than you in any two consecutive weeks. He will prove himself quite useful to you in this way. The couch won’t be nearly as tempting when you see his bike strapped to the back of his truck in the school parking lot at morning drop-off.

5.     He must be out to kill you. This means he will try to beat you on all the hills during training. This makes a trail ride go much faster, keeps you guessing and also, because of #3, means he will only succeed every other time, thereby keeping his goal of killing you firmly out of reach and, therefore, your training on target.

6.     He must want it as bad as you do. Will he post his Garmin to Facebook later in the day? Maybe. Will you? Of course. There’s posturing and name calling and death threats. Again, more of the good stuff I told you about.

These are just a few tips for keeping your training honest this year. There’s no better way to push your limits than to have yourself some friendly yet fierce competition with a nemesis. And with the Iceman less than 4 weeks away, things are getting heated. No one is going out on the trail without someone else taking note. Who will win this year? It’ll be down to seconds, I’m afraid. (By this I mean, him coming in second to moi.)

The pleasure of a fall day

I love this time of year when our Michigan maple forests are turned on end. It’s like being able to walk in the trees. Their beauty, having spent the entire summer decorating the sky, comes down at last for mere humans to revel in, a pool of color.

I spend fall days looking for reasons to go out in the woods and with two small boys, I don’t have to look far. They swing on the wooden set out back, the scuffed oval of dirt under each swing covered, then cleared of leaves each afternoon. Our gray kitty watches from one side of the swings, our calico steps too close and I shoo her away.

“Mom, we need a pile of leaves to jump in,” Nelson yells, his perfect oval face swinging above the oval of dirt. He pumps his legs hard, this, his first fall where no underdog is needed to get going. The freedom of moving himself through the air, high enough to kick the maple tree branches above the swingset, lifts him with mischief.

“Make two piles, mine first!” Kendall is never far behind a good idea and always on top of taking the lead.

I rake two piles, first Nelson’s, then Kendall’s, pulling the yellow and brown leaves of the pin cherry trees into the pile, their thin black branches falling each year with their leaves, creating a pokey, dirty start. But they always come first and the boys’ impatience, and mine too, is too much. They have their first jumping in the cherry leaves, with the brownish pink of cherries smushed into their clothing. I overlook this, the laundry detail. The sight of the first tiny yellow leaves on the bright green grass outweighing it.

Then, in a few days, the others start to fall. The wide cupping leaves of maples, their colors sharper, red, yellow or orange, or a combination of all three, paper the yard. I let these fall a day or two, their fat happy colors covering the grass until the boys howl that their piles could be twice as big now.

Then I rake them, the large leaves making the pile three, four times the size of those with the delicate cherry leaves. The maple leaves cooperate with the boys and fluff into the air when they land and settle back down on their heads in welcome. It’s like showering them with happiness. And I love that my boys take this for granted, this abundance of Mother Nature, this thrill of leaves and sunlight and grass and crisp air filling their lungs. This I can share with them, this pleasure of a fall day.