there's free stuff out there!

DC Rainmaker is giving away a 310XT --see blog for details

You know, I have a 305. It's a perfectly good tool. It is. But I can't swim with it. And also, it's getting old and flakey. For example, it doesn't like uploading data unless I'm real super nice to it, and talk to it real sweet and pet it.

Even though I've given it a name, and a home of its own.

Garmin, you ingrate.

ANYway. 310 XT: so far, I have heard no bad about it. An upgrade would be cool, wouldn't it?

St. George Postmortem Notes

It is customary, post performance, to determine what went right, what went wrong, who can be blamed, and what are the most plausible excuses for poor performance. This is commonly called a postmortem examination, 'cos it's Latin and it sounds smart, like you put your best brain cells into the effort. Ideally a thoughtful postmortem will determine the cause of death and analyze how things could have been improved for the victim. The goal is to eventually land on a satisfying conclusion that will help the living let go, move on, and stop playing with dead things.

I've had a couple weeks to cool down and think about it all, and also learn a few things. It's been very satisfying.

I re-read my race report, then walked away, then read it again and thought my god what a bitter, nasty, horrible race report. It almost seems like I didn't have any fun at all. Which is sort of true, I wasn't having any fun. I'm pretty clear on that point. Nonetheless, it bothers me that I wasn't having fun. I trained for this race - and I knew it would be difficult. I'm dissatisfied that I fell apart so catastrophically as to not even enjoy the experience.

My lower back hurt, solid, for a week after the race. I seriously damaged it something awful. Then it got better after stretching, massage, and general laziness. I've been trying to enjoy my recovery, and it's been bittersweet. On the one hand, it's nice not to be training for an Ironman and sleep in, and enjoy weekend time with my kids. On the other hand, I really seem to enjoy training for an Ironman. Just maybe not all the time. So I'm kind of missing it.

I'm a little closer to figuring out why I didn't have fun. This weekend I got back outside on the bike for the first time since St. George. Bones and I elected to ride up Tramway as prep for Iron Horse. I was happy to be outside in the sunshine with no training pressure.

Tramway is a reasonably difficult climb in the City that holds some respect. The first time I climbed Tramway (all 6 miles of it) I was rather proud of myself. It's not super steep (maybe 6% or 8% at most) but it's long, and climbing it without popping is a task that takes practice.

I had initially convinced myself when I signed up for IMSG, that the bike profile looked about like climbing Tramway roughly 8 times. I spent many weeks of paper research convincing myself that no, it couldn't possibly be that steep, and many a ride up Tramway gritting my teeth and thinking there is no way in hell I'd be able to do this 8 times.

After extensive review of the GPS data for Tramway and many many breakdowns of the IMSG profile map, (the map says this many feet of ascent, over this distance, etc. etc.), I convinced myself that surely IMSG would be a little shallower than this. In preparation, I completed many trips up Tramway chewing on the idea that it would be far worse than what I would get to experience during the race.

This past weekend's ride was like a PTSD flashback: climbing up Tramway on Sunday, Bones and I agreed that yah, it was about exactly the same as riding the St. George bike course. It may be shallower on paper, but it felt almost exactly the same, qualitatively.

About 20 minutes into my easy pace Sunday ride my back started to hurt and would not stop. There I was, mentally, in exactly the same place I was about 40 miles into the Ironman St. George Ride, thinking "huh, that hurts, I'll just stretch it out and it'll relax".

Except that much like St. George, there was no relaxing. There was no position that got me out of that pain: it stuck to me relentlessly and didn't quit until I got off the bike. The rest of me felt absolutely ready to ride. My legs felt strong, my heart and lungs felt fully on-line. And yet, WTF is up with this back thing?!

Here is my dead thing. How did it die? What was its cause of death? How can I learn from this to make the next thing better?

On reflection, I think I know exactly what happened: I traded saddles about 6 weeks before the race.

Yes I know that was probably not smart. In my defense, I traded to a saddle that a) worked better than the one that was currently on the bike, and b) was identical to a saddle I have on my tri bike. At the time, it seemed like a much needed improvement, and the timing seemed like it would work -- I'd be doing some long hard rides on the new saddle in plenty of time for the big day. So while it was different, it wasn't super weird different. This was a known difference.

I'm recalling now that when we (my professional LBS bike fitter and I) put the new Cobb V-Flow saddle on the bike, we observed that it would not go as far forward as the current one (Selle Italia Glamour), and that this may or may not be a problem.

The new saddle (which I totally recommend, by the way, I love love love the Cobb on my Tri bike) does not have the same adjustability on my road bike as the old one. To which I said, "it's better than the one I have, I think it'll be OK."

Since we couldn't move the saddle forward farther, I am seated just behind the cranks on the Cobb. And when the rider is seated just behind the cranks, she ends up using her back to do some of the work, instead of getting her legs to do the whole job. And when the rider has just come out of a hypothermic swim, and her muscles are frozen, it seems they don't adjust well to being over-stressed by doing extra work on a ride that has a whole lot of climbing.

Ya think my back hurt a little?

During my experimental PTSD climb up Tramway, I discovered how much that pain tore out of my ride - it slowed me down immensely. Physical pain is fatiguing, and when there's no way to get out of it, well, it's no wonder my ride sucked.

On the plus side, because my back was killing me on the ride, I think I effectively saved a lot of energy for the run because I was unable to push very hard on the bike. That's not to say the run was easy for me - but it does explain a PR on freakishly hilly marathon course.

I don't have a moral for this story, I'm just glad to know what the problem is, and what to do about it now. I'm experimenting with a new saddle (the Adamo) in a better position, and I'm still stretching my jacked-up lower back (it's still not 100% happy with me). I'm worried that Iron Horse will be painful, but now I know why, and I know what to do.

Lesson learned. Postmortem complete.

What's next?

the Ironman Utah Race Saga

While the memories are still fresh and my legs are still hurting, my brain cells are not really all there so this race report is going to be kind of muddled.

Yesterday, I finished Ironman Utah, or Ironman St. George. Still not sure what they're calling it yet, depends on who you talk to. This was my first official 'branded' ironman race, though I have previously completed two iron distance races (Beach to Battleship and Vineman).

The short version: it was heinous.

Ironman Utah is a two transition point to point race, starting at Sand Hollow Reservoir in nearby Hurricane, and ending on Main Street in St. George.

I travelled to Utah with my Outlaw team mates and sherpas (I think there were 9 of us doing the race) and my family. Many of us stayed in a rental house in St. George blocks away from the finish line. We'd been freaking out about weather and water temps all week. Water temps rose and fell, some reports as high as the mid-60's. Weather reports were equally squirrelly: three days prior to the race a huge scary sandstorm with 60 to 70 mph wind gusts had blown through town, various forecasts called for winds, rains, frozen mix, frogs, etc. We had a lucky break in the weather on race day: low winds, mild temps (high in the 60's). The lake temp race morning was reportedly 58 degrees

I woke up race morning completely panicked. My stomach had kept me up for a few hours in the night, something I ate did not agree with me and continued to keep me shaky all morning. I struggled to get food down.

We took a bus from the town center to the reservoir - well organized and efficient transport to the race start. Transition area was kinda small and not well supplied with porta-potties. Though we had arrived an hour and a half prior to the start, I stood in line for a toilet for over an hour -- it was absolutely necessary. After that, my stomach settled. My head was another story - I looked like a deer in the headlights, completely panic-stricken.

I hurriedly got my wetsuit on, begged some silicone for my ears off another swimmer (my new favourite trick for cold water -- keeps me from getting nauseated, and also helps retain heat), and put on three swim caps. I used the "sandwich" method -- one silicone cap close to my head, followed by a neoprene cap, followed by the required Ironman race cap on the outside. This was also a great trick for retaining warmth.

Mo and I trotted out of the changing tent as I choked down a super-caffeinated gel. Most of the racers were in the water, but we were among several hundred still making our way down to shore. I think logistics on this race for the morning were kinda buggy due to the porta potty situation. Just as we arrived on the sand, the cannon went off. No turning back now...

My face hit the water and immediately hurt, then went numb after a few seconds, as I fought to stay away from the kicking legs and thrashing arms of other swimmers. I felt, finally, like a professional in the water. I think my experience in Lake Ponchartrain two weeks prior had pretty much knocked every open water fear out of me. I have learned to deal with swell, chop, bad taste, poor visibility, puking, salt water, and now extreme cold, without panic. I don't like any of those things, they're not fun, but they no longer freak me out. I felt confident enough to try and find feet to follow - hey, why not let someone else plow the field, right? But every pair of feet I found I got too close to, and had to move on.

I was never alone in the swim. The buoys were yellow and orange, which made sighting difficult, since the swim caps were yellow for women and orange for men. Luckily the turn buoys were red -- I had to stop a few times to get a good sighting, and then moved on.

Though I'd been struggling with wetsuits for months, my teammate's borrowed Blue Helix turns out to be exactly right for me - it felt like a stretchy, buoyant, warm second skin. I kept thinking to myself "wow, this wetsuit is great. This is my super suit!"

About 2/3 into the swim I realized my fingers felt odd. I couldn't keep them together. I realized that my hands were no longer catching the water. Then I couldn't really feel my hands. I started to try to swim a little harder, to build up some body heat. I knew my fingers were a lost cause, but I could tell I was starting to get cold. I exited the water in 1:42, and couldn't feel my feet as I started to walk - slowly - up the boat ramp. Nothing worked. It's a shame my swim time was so crappy, I felt like I was really doing well.

Like I said - I was never alone. Transition was FULL of people, male and female - getting dressed. I had my bag, but I couldn't take my arms out of my wetsuit sleeves, couldn't take my cap and goggles off. I ambled into the changing tent and some gracious warm person found me and dumped out my bag. We found my towel. My fingers were totally useless, they formed into claw-shapes, and I couldn't will them to straighten out. My changing attendant had to completely dry and dress me - do my hair, help me get my bra and shorts on, socks, gloves, everything. I wasn't quite sure that leaving transition with my hands dysfunctional was a good idea, so I warmed them a little more on her body before I trotted over to my bike. My transition time was a really long 23:17.

I tested my brakes right away - yes, the hands were sort of working - at least that much was good. I pedalled off. I discovered quickly that although I could brake, I could not shift -- my hands could grasp but not in all directions. I had to reach down and shift with my thumbs. My stomach was now awake and ready for food - I had some catching up to do from not having a great breakfast.

We'd scoped out the course the days before - the parts I had worried about, the two main loops, I knew would be physically taxing but do-able. The course from the reservoir to town, I also knew would eat up energy if I wasn't careful. So my job on the bike was to meter the energy out carefully - it would be a long, hilly, horrendous day.

I elected to bring the road bike to this race. Lucky has clip-ons just for Ironman St. George, as well as a big ol' climbing cassette (11/27?) and compact cranks. I had notice the transition area was about a 50/50 split of tri-specific and road-specific bikes.

The course is a lollypop style layout, with about 1 to 2000 feet of climbs in the 21 mile "stick", and then a gradual ascent of about 2000 feet in each 43-ish mile loop. The wind was moderate on the first loop, but picked up in the 2nd loop significantly. Early on in the first loop the first Pro racers passed me. Yes, they were already about 44 miles ahead of me - having started 15 minutes before me, and being THAT fast was pretty awe inspiring. Interestingly, I saw the leaders, and then there was a really long gap before I saw more pros. More pros passed as I went around the first loop, but the were spaced pretty far apart.

I noticed that my lower back started to hurt and it never really let up. This hadn't really been a problem I'd noticed in training, but on race day it was more or less constant. I spent as much time as I could stretching, up, out of the saddle, whatever I could do to relieve it. I figure it was the constant steady climbing and headwind in the 2nd loop that did me in. I finally took 1 ibuprofen and 1 tylenol late in the 2nd loop, when everything hurt and I was in a pain haze. Interestingly, that's the only pain meds I took all day.

When we'd scoped out the course I thought it looked really scenic - lots of gorgeous views. I had remarked on the iffy-ness of the pavement from the car, which turned out to be completely sucky from the bike. The biggest climbs on the course were definitely significant, but not impossible. They had beginnings and they had ends.

On race day it was another story -- the wind started on the first loop, and increased as the day went on. Between the wind, the rough pavement, and the constant climbing, I just felt my will to live being gradually sucked away. The first major hill was much steeper than I was mentally prepared for. The second one, the "Veyo Wall" was long and ended steeply. I saw people walking on both loops on both hills. I managed to get up them both on both loops without stopping, though it was very hard.

My rest stops were minimal, rolling stops. I'd grab a banana or food at the start of the aid station, shove it in the food hole, and dump the skin by the end.

I pretty much stopped enjoying the race somewhere around my first pass through Gunlock, about 40 miles in. I wasn't making satisfying progress, my speed was low, my back was killing me, and felt I was solidly at the back of the pack getting passed by fast age groupers and pros. Although I was conserving my effort I was passing people who were clearly in worse shape than me, so the course carnage was pretty ugly. I went into a dark place mentally and didn't really come back. I talked to someone on the course who mentioned that there would be a cutoff on the first loop. This was news to me (and yes, I did attend the athlete briefing). I thought about missing the cutoff, and decided that not making the cutoff wouldn't be a bad thing. It would mean I could get off the bike and do something else. Anything else.

At the special needs stop I ran into a team-mate who had also stopped having fun, and decided to wait for his fiancee. I'd passed her awhile back and expected her to find me quickly. I told Michael this race had stopped being fun for me too, but I figured I'd keep going until they pulled my chip.

From the special needs stop they confirmed that to make the cutoff I'd have to be at the next rest stop by 2:30. It was 1:40. The next aid station was downhill. So I dropped off some kit I wasn't using (knee warmers, gloves, windbreaker) said goodbye to my friend, and left.

Dammit. I would make this cutoff. My teammates, however, would not. I later found out that we'd been told wrong -- the real cutoff was 2:10, and they didn't make it.

The loop was completed with a long, flying descent back into town at about 35 to 40 mph, and then changed direction into the teeth of the wind. Though I'd tried to be conservative on my first loop, I found I was really digging deep on the second loop. My splits show a pretty consistent time for each loop, averaging a really depressing 13.77 mph on the first loop, and 13.59 mph for the second. What the splits don't show is the increasing windspeed, headwind in all directions, my unrelenting back pain, and my complete frustration with all things climbing on a bike. Even the flying descents were frustrated by a 20mph headwind - I lost about 10 mph of my free speed on the descent back into town.

I talked to several in the 2nd loop who seemed equally depressed about making the cutoff. One rider had come from Puerto Rico, he said 'there are too many hills. Not miles, hills.' Again I passed a number of riders who had clearly spent a lot of their energy on the first loop and had little left. I'm not sure how I had anything left, and I was hating everything. The sharp climbs that I managed in the first loop were an outright battle in the second loop. I worried that I wouldn't be able to ride them, but I'm happy to say that I never had to walk or traverse the climbs, though I saw many who did.

The final cutoff on the bike was 5:30 at transition 2. I realized it would be tight, especially since I lost speed in the descent. Additionally, the course put one last unexpected hill in the final miles before the finish. I made it into T2 at 5:20.

Shit.

I got off the bike and realized that I couldn't stand up straight. I'd done minimal stops and had barely been off the bike in over 8 hrs (total ride time 8:14). I hobbled into T2, where another gracious and patient attendant helped sort and dress me. I put a generous coating of bodyglide on all the sore spots, and trotted away from T2 in 11 minutes.

I'd hated the bike so much that I was in a frame of mind to go home and take a bath, not run a marathon, but there I was -- trotting away from T2.

My spouse had done a personal recon of the course - days before the race, he'd run it with the Garmin and came back with the following report: "that run course is insane." The course consists of two out-and-backs with a terrain profile that looks like an EKG: basically, all hills. You're either going uphill or downhill, there were no flat spots anywhere. He'd told us which were the most run-able parts, and which were the parts we should plan to walk. As I've done in ultra races, that became my run plan here: run the runnable bits, walk the hills. My ITB had quit on me in the last mile of Ironman New Orleans, so I figured it was a matter of time before it would quit on me during this race. I was convinced that my only hope of making the final cutoff (9pm for the 2nd loop of the run) was to run on it as long as it was holding up, and put as much time as I could behind me.

The first half of the out-and-back is net uphill, aid stations every mile stocked with the relentlessly cheerful volunteers from the City of St. George. My stomach had started to feel queasy at the tail end of the bike, so I had to really watch what I was putting in the tank. I regret to say that I was not a happy camper, the bike had beaten the fight out of me, and it was all I could do to focus on my race. Which meant I didn't enjoy the scenery, I didn't make friends on the way, I didn't stop, crack jokes, sing songs, anything. I just ran. I was mad, I couldn't find my happy place, and I wanted to go home. The only way I could see to get out of that race was to finish.

Much of the course was marked with traffic cones, and on the steeper uphills I adopted a run/walk strategy where I would run every other cone and walk in between. I ran the first half of the out-and-back in 1:20.

And uh, that's when the race got weird: the whole rest of my run was like that. My run splits for each 1/4 of the run were 1:20, 1:20, 1:26, and 1:19. In fact, I finished the race with an overall marathon PR of 5:28 - I haven't run that fast in any race of that distance, let alone on that kind of freakish terrain. On the second loop, I really was the only person on the course who was still running - I passed a lot of walking dead, totally shelled people who were done for the day.

Yeah, I don't know what that was about. I suspect the caffeine I was taking in had something to do with it. I was taking in caffeinated gels so often that nothing was hurting anymore. Including my IT Band - which never even whispered to me.

I had an overall stated time goal: do better in this race than I did at Vineman, where I snuck in just minutes shy of 16 hours. I finished Ironman Utah in 16 hours and 3 seconds, thank f*ck, not quite making my time goal but by then I could not have cared less. This was a way harder course.

Am I disappointed in my performance? Yes and no. I knew going in that I was not the climber I wanted to be. I know it will take years of training before I'm a skinny climber f*ck, and I seem to keep improving, so I'll keep working on that. My swim performance has everything to do with swimming in outrageously cold water, and my run time is, well, freakish. I don't know where that came from. Temperature played a significant role - I don't do well when I overheat, and this course had reasonably low temps. Mostly I'm disappointed that I wasn't able to throw it out and just have fun -- I think that had everything to do with personal pressure, and being pressured by cutoff times.

Did I care about a PR while I was on the course? Not at all - I just wanted to go home.

Would I do this race again? Now is a really bad time to ask me.

Would I recommend an Ironman (tm) race over an unbranded race? Not on your life. To me, the un-branded races are as well organized, if not better. I knew going in that IMSG, being the first race at this location, would have bugs and would probably be disorganized. Overall I thought the race was well run, the volunteers were first rate, and I think WTC did a good job. There were niggles - but I know it's a quality organization who will continue to provide quality events. In the end, however, I lost my special needs bag (containing some bike clothes) to the race, as well as glove that was misplaced in T2. This was the first time I've ever lost kit; I talked to a number of other racers who also lost bags. The WTC personnel I talked to about this seemed overwhelmed and generally uninterested.

The poor dissemination of information on the course (muddled cutoff times, etc) is something I've heard other people complain about at other "Ironman" races. It could have happened anywhere. At the end of the day, "Ironman" is a brand name, and the M-dot has some reflection on the quality of a race. The Ironman people own more races than other race organizers, and they have the cache of their corporate name. They put on quality events in interesting locations, but they are not the only event organizers out there.

At the end of the day, I've raced other non m-dot races which were also high quality. I do races because I want to do them, not because I want a tattoo (though there is certainly nothing wrong with having that goal either). To me, one big plus of non m-dot races is the complete generosity of the cutoffs. They really do want you to have fun, and they're not invested in you joining the tattoo club.

I was surprised to hear that the overall winner had an outrageously fast time (less than 9 hrs), and not at all surprised to find out that he was also a champion mountain biker. The spread between the finishers was pretty broad - I think many people found this race to be a huge challenge.

I didn't find my happy place until the finish line, and the few people I spoke to on the course were in a similarly miserable state. Perhaps later I'll see humour in this. It's only been 24 hours, after all.

Movie Clip Wednesday: Best Comedy Scene

Moi's post on Movie Clip Wednesday has inspired me to jump on the bandwagon. It's my blog, and I'll do what I want. I'm taking a left turn here...

Her clip from Clerks 2 reminded me of a scene from one of my all time favourite comedy films, "The 40 Year Old Virgin." This film totally taps my inner teen-age boy. Yes, I have an inner teenage boy, and he has limited impulse control, and is politically incorrect, and gives bad advice, and says all the wrong things...not unlike his outer 40-year-old mommy.

Plus, what's more fun than riffing on something totally politically incorrect?

I don't care how cliché this film may or may not be, this is how I fell in love with Seth Rogan, and Steve Carrell. Behold, the comedic genius.

my year of good stuff

Ok, I admit. I have been a little lax in my posting (one post in 6 months? bad girl!!). That's not to say that I haven't been doing my thing - far from it (come visit me at my other blog if you have the stomach for it). I think I've had a really excellent year, and I'll put it all down here while I'm thinking about it and feeling good about it.

working backward from this weekend...

Ghost Town 38.5
Last Sunday I ran 40 miles. The race (Ghost Town) was only 38.5 miles - but I'm 40, and I wanted 40. So Beloved and I walked an additional 1.5 miles. The race was hard, but that last 1.5 was excruciating. I don't recommend it (getting extra mileage, that is). Total time: 9:23 for the 38.5, plus another 20 or so minutes for that last 1.5.

The course was mostly jeep trail with some paved at the beginning and end, and a few sections of singletrack. The terrain was varied, Garmin says it was at least 7000 feet of climbing, all told. I ran where I felt like it, I walked where I felt like it, I took the day to do my thing. I felt best in the last 10 miles when the heavy caffeine started to kick in (I save my caffeinated gels for the back half of the race).

Even though my feet were aching, I had no other issues to speak of: my nutrition was fine, I was tired, but I had no mechanical failures. No ITB issues, no springs or sproings, no nothing.

I look a leetle too perky here, that's how I know this was early in the race.

It was a hard race, no doubt about it, but I guess it still hasn't hit me that I actually ran 40 miles. Somehow that's become No Big Deal.

Huh. Maybe that's a sign...

Beach to Battleship
I did another Iron distance in late 2009. This one was an emotionally satisfying event - I had a really excellent race in which I did not bonk, I felt good, I had no stomach issues, and most importantly, I did not overheat. I finished in 13:53, which is 2 hrs faster than my previous Iron distance effort.

Two hours. I could hardly believe it myself.

I really think the temperature made a big difference. Also, the flatness of the course was a big contributor. Compared with Vineman, well, this course is just not the same. But I'm better trained and smarter, and faster. These are all good things.

This course featured a downhill swim. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not: The swim was in the causeway with the tide - about a 0.5 knot current. My fellow Outlaw SW Tri Gal says we looked like we were on a conveyor belt. Swim time: 1:10.

I can never hope to post a time like that in another race without the benefit of a current, but it sure felt good to see that time on the day.

The bike was also flat and fast-ish. We thought we had died and gone to heaven when the locals told us that under normal conditions, the back half of the loop would be with the wind. Alas, that was not the case for us on race day. The back half was in a headwind, feeling like we were going nowhere. The last 20 miles were particularly demoralizing, and seemed to take hours. Bike time: 6:50.

oh yes, it does feel good to get off the saddle, no matter how cool looking it is.

The run was not so flat, there were a few hills along the route. Still, it was fun and I was ready for it. I went into it prepared to do whatever it took to finish the race and was astonished to find myself full of energy to run, run and keep running. I ran to the first aid station thinking I'd just see how far my energy took me and then walk if I had to, and I was stunned to find that I had bags of energy left.

Had it not been for my IT bands both falling apart on me (not one, but two), I'd have run the whole thing much much faster. My energy was there, but the legs just were not - I felt them start to go at the start of the 2nd loop of the marathon, and by the end, I was in agony.

In retrospect, the week before I had been leveled flat with a flu-like thing and had done no stretching. Seriously. I was sick and did nothing but lie still and wait for the swine flu to pass over me. I think the week of inactivity gave me an awesome taper, but killed my IT bands.

at this point I felt like I could run forever! Bring it on, bitches!

As it was, I had a PR for marathon distance in any race. Run time: 5:23

I think this result is all about consistent training - I'm reaping the benefits of being OCD about my training, doing whatever my coach says. Thanks, Coach!

After that race my legs were pretty useless for a couple of days.

Palo Duro 50K
For me this was the best 50K run ever, bar none. Palo Duro Canyon is a neat little surprise in the middle of the flattest and least exciting part of Texas. We started running in the dark, and as the light rose it revealed a desert palette of reds and browns, and a green strip of river through the bottom of the canyon. The trails of Palo Duro Canyon feature gently rolling hills through desert badlands and riverine habitat. It's just cool!

I tore a hole out of my last 50K run, and PR'd (7:08). I was 90 minutes faster than my Bandera 50K. The last 5 miles I ran faster than I had run the entire race. I was filled with joy for running. I was ecstatic.

I know -- that's weird that it took 27 miles to get to that happy emotional place. WTF?! Perhaps I was just that loopy from dehydration. I don't know.

I love you, man!

I do know that I had no ITB issues for that race. Yah - a 50K and no mechanical issues, unlike the Bandera Rocky Rock 50K Course From Hell. Which I will go back to someday, just because I can.

Vineman 70.3
I went back to Vineman to do the half partly to have a good time with my buddies, and partly to convince myself that I wasn't afraid of the course. And I wasn't.

But maybe I should have been.

Vineman 2009 was my first 70.3 race under 7 hours (6:54), a PR which took every cell in my body to achieve due to intense heat. I know I complained that the Vineman full was inhospitably hot (96), but the 70.3 had it beat: we got back to the car thermometer after the race, which said the temperature was a scorching 102.

Dude, I am cooked.

I know. That ain't right.

This was probably exacerbated by the fact that my Old Lady age group was the next-to-last out on the course. I understand they switch it up every year so that no one age group feels heat of the day, which is good. Or I'd complain. Loud.

The swim was gorgeous, as I remember (45 min). The bike was far less taxing than I remember (3:17), but the run was brutal - like trotting through a 13.1 mile sauna with occasional sprinklers. My run time (2:36) is a reflection of how hard I had to work in that heat. Still, I felt it was a success and I feel I had a really good day. I know if the heat hadn't totally cooked my eggs, a 6:30 was within my grasp.

I also had a moment of light when I saw and spoke with Sister Madonna Buder on the run course. Sister Buder looked strong, and I stopped and waved to her and said, 'you're my hero.' She responded with something sweet, and encouraging. She is amazing. I heard later that 21CM had a conversation with her in transition that went something like this.

21CM: I think you're amazing
SMD: I think everyone is amazing.

Anybody who is so fearless and so giving and so beautiful about her ability, well, what's not to love and admire about that?!

So that's my backwards year. Looking forward, I'm ready to vomit thinking about IMSG...but before then, I'm going to do Ironman New Orleans ('cos that looks fun), and whatever comes up with my Outlaws, my friends, my family.

One race at a time...