I Lived Through A Whole Century

At 3:15 AM on Sunday morning my alarm clock went off. I have the radio set to NPR, so my first thought when it came on was that my neighbors were having a raucus party with Diane Reams. As I gradually became coherent, I realized that I had done this to myself. On purpose. Thinking that it would be fun. You see, several weeks ago, in a fit of post-Triathlon madness, I signed up for a few events that are slightly to more-than-slightly out of my athletic reach. Sunday's event was one of the latter.

My friend Jill, who trained with me for St. Anthony's, is a very strong biker. She zoomed past me a few minutes into the bike and I never saw her again on the course. I say all of this to try to explain that it was not completely ridiculous for Jill to suggest doing a Century Ride (a nice way of a 100 mile bike ride). It was, however, completely ridiculous for me to say I would go with her.

I am not a strong biker, and I do not own a bike that is shiny or meant for racing or capable of moving fast. I have a hybrid that weighs about as much as a baby elephant and moves with comparable speed. I'm not saying I don't love my bike, I'm just saying I don't want to spend an extended amount of time actually riding it. For all of these reasons, when Jill suggested signing up for the Montauk Century, I accepted immediately.

I began my trek into the city at 3:30 AM. While on the subway, I met one of those cyclists that whizzes around Prospect Park on weekday mornings. The kind that rides 100 miles in a day for "training". He, obviously, was totally jealous of my dope ride. We arrived at Penn Station to find around 1,000 other cyclists checking in for the ride. I never cease to be surprised by the number of people in NYC who will give up their weekends to wake up early in the morning and hurt themselves. I found Jill among the mass of crazies.

After several LIRR trains (a breakdown and a transfer), we arrived in Babylon and got our bikes. About 25 miles into the ride we had our first experience with what cycling is really all about: Food. Each rest area (there were 4 along the course) was chock full of Nutella, pretzels, Gatorade, water, ice cream, chips, hummus, candy, and various other highly refined carbohydrates. Between the Gu I had on my bike and the amount I ate when we stopped, I don't think I burned a single one of my own calories on this ride. This clarifies the mystery behind "biker body", which seems to be "super cut legs and a puffy midsection." It was truly amazing, and right up my alley.

The whole thing took us about 7 and a half hours (counting about a half hour at each rest area to chow down and an EXTRA stop for lobster rolls in Amagansett). I learned a lot of things during this extended period of bike-butt contact. I learned that Long Island is lovely and houses a disproportionate number of rich people with a penchant for landscaping. I learned that a fluid pedal stroke makes biking easier and faster. I learned that, with practice, I can clip out of my pedals and lean forward on my bike and stop WITHOUT falling over into oncoming traffic. Most importantly, I learned that my slow bike time in the triathlon had less to do with the fact that I have a crappy bike and more to do with the fact that I am a crappy biker. I am glad I figured this out, because it taught me to stop blaming my inabilities on improper equipment. This was a lesson I learned for almost an entire hour. I SO need a new bike.

Happy Mothers Day!

A few weeks ago I signed up to do a 10 Mile race on Mothers Day with some friends from work. I thought it would be fun, and a good way to run a long race while already being in good shape from the triathlon. Unfortunately, I underestimated how lazy I would be when the triathlon was over. I have exercised precisely ONE time since coming back.

My idea was to go to bed early on Saturday night and wake up refreshed and energized on Sunday morning, banking on some kind of store of residual muscle strength to carry me through the race. Instead, I stopped by a TNT Social for "one drink" that turned into "many drinks". I now realize that I exercise astonishingly poor judgment in the face of uncertainty.

At 6:00 AM I woke up and considered skipping the race entirely in favor of lying on my couch and eating doritos. This resonated too much of old Molly, so I hauled out of bed and went across the street to 5th Avenue Market for some Naked Protein shake and Gatorade that revived me enough to get dressed and leave my apartment a mere 15 minutes late.

I met up with Carol and Jen before the race and was feeling halfway normal by the time we lined up at the start. When the horn went off, I jogged an easy mile and was feeling great! Surprisingly, I actually felt great for the whole race and finished in just 1:30.03! We have been told through the whole training process that experience is the best way to know what works for you. On Sunday, I learned that a bottle of wine the night before a race is like jet fuel. Lesson learned.

Happy Mothers Day!!

I DID IT!!!

Against all odds, on Sunday, April 29th, I became an endurance athlete. After 3 hours and 3 minutes of swimming, biking, and running, I threw myself across the finish line of the St. Anthony's triathlon in Florida and cemented my fate of becoming the biggest loser I know. Years of serious attention paid to increasing my tolerance for alchohol, nicotine, and hours passed without sleep were instantly replaced with the desire to cross as many finish lines as possible wearing as much Lycra as I could find. Preferably while riding a SUPER dope bike. I'm getting ahead of myself though, here is where it all began....

Many months ago, Anne Clare and I went out drinking. After stumbling through various East Village bars and kicking bankers off mildew covered pool tables, we made the beer fueled realization that we were capable of just about anything. Moreover, that we were ATHLETES. Luckily, we are both in possession of the kind of stubborn pride that even sobriety and stomach clenching fear cannot assuade. We tried to call each other's bluffs by suggesting we attend an information session for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's Team In Training. When we both ended up there, we stepped it up a notch by signing up to compete in a triathlon. Somehow, weeks later, we found ourselves awake on a Saturday morning in December covered from head to toe in Lycra and shivering in Central Park. Months passed, filled with horrible things like "hill repeats", "cortisone injections", and "Gu", but somehow we kept showing up. Somehow we started having fun. Somehow we stopped drinking so much BEER.

All this sunshine and confidence were replaced about two weeks ago with a feeling that very much resembled nausea. At 5:00 AM on Friday, April 27th, we were picked up at my apartment by a surly driver who transported us and all of our hard earned gear to JFK for our flight to Tampa. Apparently, five months of deluding ourselves had culminated with the horrific fact that we were going to have to go to Florida and compete in a triathlon with 5,000 other people (many of whom should actually be there). We decided to have some serious burrito and chill out.

Upon arriving at the fabulous St. Petersburg Hilton, we were told that there were no rooms available until later in the afternoon. Like any good athletes, we decided to take this time to push as much food into our stomachs as possible. Anne Clare, Jason, Kirby, and I shopped the hell out of the local supermarket and had lunch by the hotel's pool. We then checked in, unpacked, grabbed our wetsuits, and joggged down to the beach where the swim start would be. After watching NYC Coach Scott give us a truly stunning display of the TNT Wade In start, it was time for our first open water swim. Open water swim, it turns out, is a euphemism. What it actually means is 150 terrified neoprene covered people waddling as fast as they can towards the ocean until they flop over like penguins and start shoving each other in the head to try to keep themselves from drowning. This made AC a little nervous. However, like a true competitor, she put her head down and kept on swimming. This was a turning point in my relationship with my good friend and training partner. It was the moment I realized she was insane.


After swimming practice, Team Brooklyn (me, AC, Jason, Kirby, Jill, and honorary Brooklynite Laurie) went out to dinner with our friend and Coach, Peter. Peter was a lucky find in this process. He is in possession of a wealth of knowlege and a manner of conveying all his experience that effectively transforms panicked first time triathletes into Zen master icebergs. Peter is a lot like Yoda, only a great deal taller. Peter is also a VERY dope triathlete.

The next morning was time for open water swim #2, which was a lot like #1, but earlier. Afterwards, we checked our bikes in, got our race packets, and went back to our hotel to eat a LOT of pasta. At the TNT pasta party we heard from Six Time Ironman World Champion Dave Scott (that has to be said in one breath), and an honored teammate from New Jersey. Honored teammates are just like regular teammates, except they beat cancer and THEN did a triathlon. They are not to be messed with, and if you pass one at any point during the race you go straight to hell. My mom and Kelcey showed up that day and provided much needed support for me while I tried to stop twitching everytime I saw water. After dinner, we had a few more helpful words from Coach Scott and wrote our names on the front of our jerseys and the names of the people we were doing this in honor of on the backs. Then we went off to bed, where visions of carnivorous manatees haunted us until dawn.

At 4:30 AM the next morning (actually, not quite dawn), our alarm went off. I was expecting to feel totally exhausted at this point, but it is amazing what adrenaline and terror can do to get you up in the morning. AC and I had a cup of coffee, packed up our transition bags, and walked over to the race. At the entrance to the transition area, we waited in line with all the pros and serious athletes and thought about how our stomachs were feeling and what would happen if we had to throw up on the bike. Then we let strangers write numbers all over our bodies so they would be able to identify us if we collapsed on the race course (this may not be the reason). We then staggered over to our bikes and set up our transition areas in the dark, soothed by the melodic strains of "Who Let The Dogs Out" that were blasting over the loud speakers. St. Petersburg was collectively thrilled.

The transition area closed at 7:00 when the pro athletes started swimming. Since we are not pro athletes, we waited for two hours on the beach. During this time we had chips affixed to our ankles, forced down some Gu, and tried to make our hands stop shaking enough to pull our wetsuits on. At 9:10 we lined up at the swim start, at which time I experienced my first rational thought in 5 months: "How the hell did I get here?!" Since I needed a quick answer, I blamed Anne Clare (sorry) and the early stages of alcohol induced psychosis. The gun went off, and so did we! The swim was great, except for some girl with questionable sportsmanship who shoved me at the first buoy. I went a bit off course (twice) and had to be shooed back to the group by the helpful kayakers, but I got out of the water without being eaten by a shark or a manatee. Triumph.

The bike was not as pleasant, because bikes are not comfortable and the sun is hot. I biked as fast as I could, ate some more Gu, and made sure to drink as much water as possible. The real feat I accomplished during this portion of the race was not falling over while clipping in or out of my pedals. I got an A+ in that section. Unfortunately, I got a D+ in speed and pretty much everyone I was ahead of after the swim wizzed by me on their bikes. Whatever though, it's for the CAUSE not the WIN (shut up).

After racking my bike again, I pulled on my sneakers and hat and started the run. The thing about the run part of the triathlon is that it is awful. Your legs are pretty shot from the bike, and it is much hotter out than when you started. Also, running sucks. HOWEVER, it is the last thing you have to do, which makes it pretty dope. I ran and ran and walked and ran, and tried to remember why I was doing this, and ran, and walked, and ran. Then I was at the finish line, weeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!! That's about all my brain can remember from the last hour of the race. I saw my mom and Kelcey, and my coaches, and it was great to see them. Nothing was as great as drinking water and sitting down, though. That was amazing. AC came in right around the same time I did, so we got to spend the rest of the race watching everyone finish and yelling and clapping for the other TNT folks. We also got to run with Jason for the last stretch. His leg cramped up pretty badly, but since he is an enormous hero he did not lie down and cry as I would have if I were in his position.

What was truly astonishing about the hours after the race was not the fact that I was somehow able to end the night at 3:00 AM in a karaoke bar in the middle of a mall, but the fact that all my memories of pain, exhaustion, and kayakers, were replaced by a feeling of accomplishment and a desire to do this again. I realize I now that I should have taken this as a sign that it was time to seriously consider regular intensive therapy, but instead I signed up to mentor for Team In Training's Westchester team. I'm not going to think too deeply on all of this yet, but I am going to buy a really sweet bike to reward myself for being a total lunatic. People like prizes.

More pictures of the triathlon are in the photo section, and more info to come on how round 2 develops. Thanks to all my friends and family for supporting me through all this. No way could I have done it without you. You guys are superhero rockstars of the highest order.