In which it's the day after

The day after a big race is kinda like Dec. 26. All the prep, anticipation and excitement are over, and you're left with a feeling of, "OK, now what?"

When I woke up this morning, that was exactly what was on my mind. But right next to that were three other observations:

1. "Wow, I feel good. Not soreness, stiffness, anything."
2. "I can't wait to get back on my bike."
3. "I can't wait for that July 21 triathlon."

All of these surprised me. I've never completed a duathlon before and I thought the challenge of run-bike-run would leave me not feeling tip-top today. But I was wrong, and that realization - that my training was right on - was almost as good as finishing the race.

I was also surprised to be excited to get on the bike, as usually I'm eyeing it warily and wondering if I can just survive whatever miles I had planned. However today? I was psyched to not only get on, but - get this - clip in on both sides. That's right, Mike, BOTH FEET. I know. Look out, world.

The realization that the weather during yesterday's bike segment was probably the worst I will ever see has emboldened me. If I can survive that, I can definitely before a more confident, efficient cyclist. I'm already planning to go out tomorrow for a nice brick: 5-mile bike followed by a 1-mile run.

And I was surprised to be excited for the July 21 Iron Girl tri. The two months leading up to this duathlon were all-dread. Now, having completed it, I'm psyched to really kick it up a gear in this next race.

I headed to the Y this morning for my usual Monday a.m. swim. I changed into my swimsuit and hit the shower to get wet and work some conditioner into my hair. I emerged from the shower and stood in front of the long horizontal dressing mirror to put on my cap and goggles.

As I prepared, I noticed the two women on either side of me looking at me curiously, but trying not to. I couldn't figure out why until I looked in the mirror and realized that despite two showers in the past 24 hours, my race numbers were still prominently displayed in what I assume was fricking permanent marker (thanks, Wayde!) on my biceps.

I put on my swim cap and fastened my goggles to the top of my head. I strutted out of the locker room: Out of the way old ladies, one bad-ass duathlete coming through.

I usually swim 35 minutes, but today I stopped at 20 as my legs were a tad dead and I didn't need to kill myself. I spent the other 15 minutes in the hot tub and creeped on two excellent lap swimmers to pick up whatever I could from their form, breathing, etc.

As I sat in the hot tub slowly turning into a piece of linguini, I thought about my training goals for the July 21 race, 10 weeks away. Here's what I came up with:

• Improve transitions (moving from one segment to the next). Yesterday, my transitions basically consisted of forgetting stuff I needed and didn't remember until I was already back on the course. For instance, I forgot to put on my cycling shorts and biked in my running tights. A very special part of me is reminding me of that mistake today. I was lucky I remembered the bike.

• Strengthen my legs for the move from bike to run. My quads felt dead going from bike to run yesterday, and I want to have a much stronger run segment in the next race. That's where bricks (training in two events in one workout, such as a bike ride followed by a run) will come into play.

• Take a swim lesson. Sandy and I are already working on hiring an instructor to watch us swim and offer corrections. I need to be as efficient as possible with what I have to work with. The work I've put into ChiRunning has greatly aided my running, I want to do the same with swimming.

• Attend an open water swim clinic. There are beginner clinics offered in June and July, and I will be at one to get advice on strategy, swimming in a straight line and any other tips I can glean.

• Cycle with confidence, improve gear shifting and utilization - and clip in both feet. 

• Ride the course beforehand. I want to cycle the 10-mile run segment at least once so I know what I'm in for. I've heard this course is easier than yesterday's - definitely less hilly - so yee-haw.

And away we go.

Race report: Du Tri Season Opener

You know I had my misgivings (to put it mildly) about this race. So you can imagine my immense relief as I turned the corner and spied the finish line in the distance. Laser-focused on the inflated archway, I heard a familiar voice: "GO MOM!"

I looked ahead to the left of the chutes and there was my husband and three kids. I had no idea they were going to come and yet, there they were cheering me on, waving signs, hooting and hollering. I had run 2 miles in the rain, biked 10 miles in a downpour and was about to finish the hardest, hilliest 3.1 I'd ever done.

Sweet relief was 50 yards away, and there was my family. Oh my God. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I...well, let's go back a bit and we'll get to the thrilling conclusion below.

Flash back about 20 hours and Sandy and I pull into the registration area to pick up our packets. We got them and Sandy tested the water as she was going to do the tri, while I was doing the duathlon.

Massachusetts open water in early May

When we registered in January, I opted for the duathlon because I wouldn't be medically cleared to swim until at least February. I was nervous that would not give me enough time to feel confident about what is typically most people's biggest concern in a tri. I've been swimming since early April and, ironically, I feel quite good about my swimming - much better than my prowess on the bike. Go figure. Regardless, I didn't need one more thing to worry about with this race, so I was happy not to have to think about the open water, a wetsuit, getting hit in the head by other swimmers, etc.

As we drove away, we drove parts of the race course. It was hilly - comprising a decent chunk of a state park - and we knew that going in. Given both of us were not, let's say, the most confident gear shifters, we were concerned about how we'd handle the hills, but, hey, it was too late to really worry about that now.

Sandy and I went for a race-eve dinner and talked through what we needed to do to prep, stuff to do - or not - on race day. This conversation was mostly me asking questions and Sandy observing, repeatedly, "You didn't read the race packet, did you?" I did not. The 16-page document scared me shitless, to be frank. I'm used to running, where you get an email from race organizers a few days before the event: "Please pick up your packet the day before. There are water stops at Miles 1 and 2. Beer and pizza after." This tri race packet was frightening - rules, regs and all matter of stuff that freaked me out and made me feel like I was in over my head.

Sandy talked me through most of the "Don't forgets" and "Remember this-es" and we parted ways to go pack and hopefully sleep a bit.

I went home and packed my gym bag with a change of clothes for post-race; my running metronome (no headphones or music allowed); race watch; baseball hat; prescription sunglasses; one cycling shoe (more on this later); helmet; phone; cycling shorts; wallet; RoadID; a long-sleeve tech shirt in case it gets cold; a sweatshirt; a trash bag; and a water bottle.

One of the cool things about a multi-sport event is you can bring a bag of stuff (most of which you need) and leave it at the start, in your spot with your bike. Compared to running, where you leave everything locked in your trunk and only carry a car key and maybe your phone, this is a luxury.

I went out and put the bike rack on my husband's car, then inflated Rocinante's tires to 100 psi. Yes, I named the bike. The name makes sense, believe me. Race prep done.

A ridiculous amount of crap

I went to bed at 10, but truthfully started passing out on the couch around 9 pm. I set my alarm for 6 am and slept like the dead. I woke up feeling pretty good, save for usual pre-big-race nerves. I ate a small breakfast, again, pre-race nerves, and sat and read the newspaper.

I love first thing in the morning - no one is up but me. Even though it's early, I can eat my breakfast in peace, read the newspaper and start my day quietly. As I sat and read, I heard, "Plink...plink." Crap, rain hitting the pellet stove chimney. It's raining, ah, crud. I knew rain was in the forecast, but I was hoping it would hold off. The race is 30 minutes from my house, maybe it's not raining there.

Then I wondered, why am I doing this on Mother's Day? My day! Now, I think Mother's Day is a crock designed to sell cards, flowers and the like, so it's not that I expect a big production. However, why do I set out to do these hard things, and why did I choose one on Mother's Day?

Unable to find a definitive answer, I tidied up, grabbed my bag and quietly slipped out of the silent house, ready to get on with this foolishness.

As I entered the state park, where the race began and ended, I passed by full parking lot after full parking lot. Then I noticed athletes biking to the start/transition areas with their bags on their backs. This concerned me on two levels: First, I was apparently late enough where I was in No Man's Land parking. Second, I'd have to hump my crap and my bike to the start. Everyone was biking with special tri bags sitting on their backs like a big backpack. I can barely balance myself on the bike, how would I fare biking uphill (yeah, did I mention you had to go uphill to get to the start?) with a heavy duffle bag hanging off to one side? Not well, I can tell you.

I parked where I was told and called Sandy: "Um, I have to bike to the start?" This may have been in the race packet, I guess I should have read it afterall. If I knew I had to haul to the start, I would have condensed and brought a backpack.

Oh, and by now, it was lightly raining. Awesome. Happy Mother's Day. I was about to lose my shit, but I took a few deep breaths and did what I have found works best: See what others are doing. Yes, some people were biking to the start, but others were walking their bikes and bags in the opposite direction. OK, I can do that.

I got Rocinante off the rack, slung my bag over my shoulder and started what was a 15-minute walk - in the rain - to the start/transition area. Once in, a put my race number on my shirt, the bike and my helmet. Then I ran into my college roommate, Wayde, who happened to be volunteering. His job was to mark runners' bodies with their numbers. 546 went on both biceps and my right hand as I asked, "Is this to ID me if I go off into the woods?" He didn't answer. I found that unnerving.

"How old are you on your next birthday, 43?" he asked.

I nodded. 43 D (for duathlon) went on my right calf. If you have a thing about revealing your age, do not enter a multisport event.

All inked up, numbers on, I was then allowed to enter the transition area, rack Rocinante and get ready. As I walked in, Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" played over the PA: "Everything's gonna be all right/Everything's gonna be allright". Let's hope so, Bob. Sandy did give me the hot tip to bring a trash bag, because rain was expected. Amazingly, I remembered and tossed my duffle bag into the trash bag to keep my gear dry because it was now steadily raining.

Roc, ready to roll

With about 5 minutes to spare before we were to be kicked out of the transition area (where you leave your bike and bag of crap), I found Sandy and we good luck'd each other. I also ran into my friend, Lisa, who has done the race several times and was the person to put the bug in my ear on this one. She was relentlessly positive and supportive: "Go slow. Race your race. You got this." If you say so...

Everyone stood, got pre-race instructions (sharp turn warnings, road condition warnings; steep hill warnings, truly all warnings), had a moment of silence for the Marathon victims and then listened to the National Anthem. Before big races (the half-marathons, usually) I always tear up at the Anthem. I'm not sure why, maybe it's the excitement that this event I worked hard for is finally here. Maybe it's that I actually showed up. Regardless, I took the tearing up as a good sign. This was going to be OK.

Organizers shuttled the duathletes to the start and we were off for a 2-mile out and back. The triathletes would go off, be organized and start the swim later. About 100 yards after the start, I heard, "Go Melissa!" Terry, a friend of mine and Sandy's, was standing in the rain cheering me on. I was so grateful to see her, given I didn't have a cheering section. What a great treat.

Driven by the steady beats of the metronome, I ran the out and back. It was hilly. Awesome. But when I got into the transition area to prepare to cycle, I looked at my watch and was surprised I ran much faster than I have all year. I didn't feel like I was pushing or trying to "race" others, so that was a nice surprise.

I hit the transition area and changed my shoe. Yes, shoe, singular. So far, I only clip in on the left side. I like the clip because it creates a good, solid pedal stroke but I can't clip in on both feet yet as I'm still worried about tipping over if I forget to clip out before stopping or panic, etc. On my last ride, I clipped in on the left, which worked well. My right, dominant foot was still free, and if I felt I had to stop, I could just pull it off the pedal without worrying about twisting, unclipping and then planting my foot.

Given this was my first race, I thought of cycling in my running shoes and not clipping in at all, but given the rain and the lack of cages on my pedals, I was worried my shoes may slip off the pedals, which are built for clips, not sneakers. So clip in I did.

By the time I got to transition, it started to pour. Driving rain. My clothes were soaked, my socks and shoes were soaked. Everything was sopping wet. I switched my left running shoe for my cycling shoe, dropped my metronome in the duffel bag, toweled off my seat, handlebars and brakes, and then shoved everything back in the trash bag. I just wanted to get the cycling over with. I fastened my helmet, walked the bike to the Bike Out area and when directed, mounted and started the cycling leg...up another hill. WTF is with this course?

I made sure I was in a low gear and started up the hill. I immediately had one problem: my sunglasses were very hard to see through, splattered with raindrops. First, it was overcast and the tint made everything darker, and second the lenses were continually splattered with raindrops, yet I had to wear them as they are prescription and I am severely nearsighted. I can run without them (as I don't run that fast), but biking without prescription sunglasses would be suicide. I tried nudging them down my nose and peering over them, but that was more distracting. Oh, yeah, and I'm doing this all going uphill in an effing rainstorm - in heavy bike traffic.

I took it slow and steady and stayed to the left, allowing faster cyclists - really, every other cyclist - to pass me. I wish I counted how many times I heard, "On your left" during the 10 miles. Had to be 50+. But I'd just nod my head to let them know I heard them and would not wobble into their path.

I made it up the initial hill and assessed my situation. This was my first cycling race. Through essentially a forest. In a downpour. With limited visibility. I would take this very slow. So I did. The rain was unrelenting. My head was soaked through the gaps in my helmet and my feet and socks were drenched. At one pedal position, it was raining directly into my cycling shoe. It felt like someone was pouring a cup on water in my shoe. Horrid.

Soaked shoes drying post-race.

Throughout the 10 miles I watched cyclist after cyclist pass me, and I'd see how old they were by their calves. 63? WTG, girl, you look fantastic. I checked out people's calves, wow, they looked like they were carved out of marble.

One of my concerns going into the race was surviving hills. Still getting used to the bike, I sometimes hit hills in the wrong gear and pay for it. Maybe once a ride I have to dismount and do the walk of shame up the hill if I'm in the wrong gear and can't recover in time. I didn't want to do that during this race, so I paid special attention to the gears and ensuring I hit hills in the right one. But at the same time, I had to concentrate on the riders around me, most of whom were zooming by in close range. There was a lot of processing going on, but I can proudly say that even with all those hills I rode each one, no walking.

From Miles 1-2 there is a very large climb, one I heard of and read about before the race. It was too rainy to even try to read the computer on the handlebars that gives time, distance and speed to gauge when it was coming. But I knew we were in for it when I heard a cyclist off to my left say in a low voice, "Oh, here it comes..." Still, just took it in a low gear and took my time.

Pretty soon we were up and over the hill and heading onto a major route - with traffic, as in cars, trucks, etc. Still in a downpour. Hooray. I spied Wayde where he said he would be, at the bottom of a hill, flagging us to turn right. I yelled at him, "THIS SUCKS!" I heard him laugh as I took the turn. After the race he noted with a laugh, "You looked scared shitless."

I was, the degree of difficulty on this race was off the charts for me. It was hilly. There was a lot of bike traffic. It was pouring nonstop. And now we were heading for open roads with vehicular traffic. All I could think of is, "Next Mother's Day I will be at a spa."

But for now, I was navigating speeding cars, trucks and bikes on my left. It was pouring, my clothes were soaked and my wet brakes made a creepy squeak as they tried to grip wet tires off a wet road. But I soldiered on.

Soon I saw the Mile 5 sign and thought, "Halfway done. Survive this and you've got it made." It was at this point I realized I never changed into my cycling shorts. I was wearing compression running knickers and I figured I'd just slip the cycling shorts over for an extra degree of padding. In my concern about the cycling segment and the rain, I apparently forgot. I also forgot to change shirts. I had that long-sleeved - and dry - tech T in my bag that would have come in extremely handy as I was now wet and cold.

Around Mile 6 I spied a nice, high curb, one I could coast up to and stop, resting my right foot on the curb without having to dismount. I did just that so I could get some water. Between navigating bike and car traffic and the weather, the thought of trying to get my water bottle out of the cage, drink from it, then get it back in the cage - all while riding - seemed like a recipe for disaster. Five seconds after I pulled over to the curb, I heard a cyclist behind me, "Are you OK?" "Yeah, can't drink and ride, thanks," I assured her. I have to say, the other athletes were really supportive. With personalized bibs, spectators or staff would shout, "Good job, Melissa!" or "You got this 546!" Whether offering support up a hill or just checking to see if you were OK, the athletes and the race staff were great.

Before the race they warned us of a steep decent around Mile 7.5. I thought of that and realized, "Wait, if there's a steep descent that means there's a steep ascent." And it was. Once up and down that hill, I figured the worst of the hills were over. I was wrong. The 2-mile out and back in the first run segment was the end of the bike course, so up, up, up the hill we went near the end.

Alongside the road was a homemade sign: "CRUSH THIS HILL." Here's a hint: If you ever see a sign like this, it means the hill absolutely sucks. Which is did. But as I made the final turn at the top of the hill and the descent into the dismount area, I saw runners starting the last 5K. Wait, the cycling is almost over. If I can live through this, I can run the 5K and then I am a duathlete.

With about a mile left in the bike, I saw Terry again. "Let's go, Melissa!" she yelled. I replied, "Tell Keith I'm alive." Terry knows my husband and I figured she could offer an update on Facebook to him.

The road to the dismount area was downhill (of course). I pumped my brakes to slow down gradually and about 25 yards out thought one thing: UNCLIP YOUR LEFT FOOT. UNCLIP YOUR LEFT FOOT. I would be damned if I survived that hellish cycling segment only to tip over at dismount. I unclipped in time, but then my shoe had little purchase on the left pedal. But I really didn't need it as I wasn't pedaling, just coasting to dismount. I slowed to a stop as directed by a race official.

I put my left foot down on the ground and tilted the bike left, then gently, slowly swung my right leg over. I started to walk the bike back to transition and my legs didn't seem to want to work. They were stiff from cycling for 50 or so minutes and my quads felt like cement. How could I run?

At this point, I kinda didn't care. I survived the bike. Hell, I'd walk the 3.1 miles if I had to. Nothing was stopping me now. I racked the bike again, changed out of a soaking wet cleat into a damp running shoe, removed my helmet and walked over to the Run Out area. I ran out when directed and we were heading...up another hill. My quads felt terrible, so I walked a bit, ran a bit, walked a bit until they loosened up.

About a mile into the 5K I realized I forgot my metronome. Crap. Will have to keep pace in my head. I won't lie, the 5K portion was hard coming off the bike. My legs were tired, my quads were stiff and all I wanted was to be done. Plus, I developed a bloody blister on my right heel. I've never blistered in my 3 years of running, I think the wet socks and wet shoes did me in. And the course was still hilly. I was about 2 miles in and stopped to a walk to give myself a breather, a woman passed me and good naturedly said, "Hey, 546! No stopping now, you only have 1 mile left, let's go!" So I did, slowly shuffling, but running.

The last mile of the 5K mirrored the first mile of the first run leg, just in reverse. I knew we were close. I could hear the race announcers rattling off finishers as they crossed the timing pads. Soon we were at Mile 3 and I could see the finish line arch in the distance. We just had to pass through this short, wooded pathway, then the chutes were in the distance.

I came through the woods with one vision: the chutes. It's at this point of every race that you realize you are essentially done. You did it. You set out to do something and you did. All you need to do is look fierce for your finish line picture and cross the timing pads.

With this on my mind, I emerged from the woods and heard: "GO MOM!" Through my tired, wet fog I realized I knew that voice. I looked for the source and saw my husband and three children, all holding signs and hollering with joy. I have never been that surprised in my life.

See, my family rarely comes to see me race and I am fine with that. Races are early in the morning, usually a decent drive and to get three little kids up, fed and dressed in time is a lot of work. Plus, when they get on the site, it's boring if you're not racing. I never wanted to stick my husband with that. They did come to see me race at Gillette Stadium last year and it was great. That was enough for me.

Keith had asked me earlier in the week if I wanted them to come watch and I said no. I was apprehensive about this race and I didn't want to stress of knowing my family was there and waiting. Plus, it was early and I'd be mostly likely out on the course for 2 hours. They'd be bored, whiny, etc. And today it was raining. I couldn't ask them to wait in the rain.

But there they were. As I passed them, I heard Keith say to the kids, "Go!" and my 7-year-old daughter and 5-year-old son jumped the chute and ran to the end with me. I was choked up, shocked, tired, wet and on the verge of tears all at once. I can't imagine what the finish line picture will look like. My face should be priceless. I came over the pads and grabbed a water. A volunteered congratulated me and asked for the timing chip around my left ankle. I started to bend to get it and she said, kindly, "No, let me do it."

I walked around the chutes and found Keith and the kids and started to cry. Happy Mother's Day, indeed.

Sandy and I post-race. We almost look like we know what we're doing.

Post-race. Everything's wet.

In which I fear an impending race

You know, this duathlon was a great idea in January.

Not so much now that it's four days away.

I've yet to be this freaked out going into a race. Yes, I have gone into races before unsure. This seems to have entered a whole new category. I've been spending most of the week positive-self-talking the hell out of myself, but even that's not working as well as it has in the past.

Why I am so concerned?

• Well, for starters, I've never entered a multi-sport event before. I have little to no idea what I am doing when it comes to transitioning, etiquette, etc. The site had a 16-page packet with race details, setup, rules, etc., and I tell you that made me feel even worse in terms of the feeling-over-my-head-ness of all this.
• My running has been poor. I've been battling a back strain since March, so I'm running slower than normal and feeling less great than normal while doing so. It's manageable, but harder. I don't like harder, this jazz is hard enough as it is.
• I feel really underprepared for the 10-mile bike ride. I haven't been able to get enough time in to feel very comfortable in the saddle because I have extremely limited times in which I can train on the road. If the weather doesn't cooperate, I'm out of luck. I can ride the distance, for sure, but I'm still learning my bike to the point where I may tackle a hill in the wrong gear and get well and truly fucked. This course is hilly, so, there's the possibility of repeated fuckery throughout the back roads of Central Massachusetts. (I don't think "fuckery" is a word, but I like it.) Plus, I don't want to screw up and get myself - or another athlete - hurt. I also don't want to embarrass myself, and if you've read this blog you know that's pretty much my No. 1 life rule.

But, other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

I often write that the biggest growth occurs outside one's comfort zone. That is true. But this is so far out of my comfort zone it's nearly circled back around. There's a big difference between fear and stepping outside your comfort zone, and I'm trying to spy the line on this one - and failing.

Then, I have that voice, that little voice that for the most part I have banished to the outer regions of my brain. That voice that always advocates giving up or not even trying in the first place. It argues, "Hey, just don't go. You have one in July. Do that instead. You'll feel much more confident."

And that is true, and would make total sense, save for one thing: I'm pretty sure I can do this Sunday. I don't want to surrender.

So I have the "Don't try and you won't fail" old me battling "Give it a shot, you can do this" new me. One minute one voice is one top and the next it's the other. I've been trying to get out of my head all week out varying degrees of success.

And, exacerbating the whole mental battle is the fact that the second week of May is never kind to me. My mother's birthday and Mother's Day fall on that week and it's a time of emotional and mental turmoil for yours truly. I go into this week every year saying, "It won't get me this year!" and for 25 consecutive years it's roughed me up every time.

So, basically, I'm a hot mess and unsure what to do about this race.

In which I learn to ride a bike

It was the day before Easter and the snow was finally off the ground. The streets were clear and it was time to get my new bike off the trainer and on the road.

The bike had been in the trainer since late January, right in the middle of the living room, where I could pedal my heart out and watch guilty-pleasure TV. Yay, cycling.

However, my upcoming races weren't going to be held in my living room, and it was time to actually have the rubber meet the road.

My oldest wanted to take her scooter around the neighborhood, so I decided to accompany her on my bike. I didn't bother dressing in my cycling gear, we were just screwing around for a bit.

So dressed in yoga pants, sneakers and a sweatshirt (no helmet), I threw my leg over the crossbar, put my left food on the pedal and pushed off. I had put in hours on the trainer - hell, I was clipping in and out on that sucker by feel and with aplomb - so surely this would be a walk in the —

Oh. Fuck.

Broken free from the safe, secure and steady embrace of the trainer, this motherfracking bike and I were like Bambi on ice - off balance, wobbly, hurdling ahead and about to go down.

When I pushed off, the bike took off. It's a racing bike, it's light and fast. Capital F. I could get little balance and the front tire was bucking from side to side like it was having a seizure. This is not my 1978 banana-seat Huffy with the chopper handlebars, this mofo is built for speed. Literally.

Panicked - because I was not about to go down from Jump Street, especially in front of my daughter - I maneuvered the bike over to the curb and planted my right leg, no brakes, all desperation - very nearly crotching myself on the top tube in the process.

What the hell was that all about? I know how to ride a bike. What is wrong with this demon cycle? Or me?

I exhaled, glanced around hoping my neighbors didn't witness that cluster and tried to figure out how to ride this damn thing. What was I doing wrong?

I took off again and while slightly more steady, I was still more off-balance and wobbly than I expected. My center of gravity seemed off, the bike turned on a dime and, again, flew off just one pedal stroke.

I took a few passes around the cul de sac, not feeling in control. Plus, I was worried about my yoga pants getting caught in the gears, God, even my clothes were conspiring against me. I hopped off and wheeled this beast into the garage for another day, entirely spooked. I can ride a bike. What am I doing wrong?

What have I gotten myself into? was seared into my brain. You could almost smell my desperation in a post on the Lifetime Loser Facebook page.

Round 2

The next day, Easter, my daughter was itching to take her scooter out again. She wanted to me to go with her and automatically I said, "Yes, I'll get my bike." Then doubt set in. Hard. I was tempted to put off the short ride because, frankly, I didn't want to get back on the horse that metaphorically threw me. Seriously, what if I could not ride this bike?

I'll ride tomorrow, I thought. Yeah, that intention has historically worked really well for me. Thankfully, I recognized this as the mother of all stall tactics.

I decided I need to get back on that bike immediately, so I did. This time I wore my helmet and cycling shorts. I still wore sneakers, I had to get the basics down on this sucker before I even harbored the thought of clipping in.

She scootered around our neighborhood and I rode. Slowly. I got used to the balance between my body and the bike.

I figured out, small step by small step, how to ride this thing. Where to position the left pedal, so I could push off but not take off flying. How to get myself up in the saddle without catching the padding of my bike shorts on the seat (easy, lift your ass up and back, dummy). Now, let's do these both at the same time.

Next, where to position my hands. I realized my big problem from the day before was I had my hands on the top of the handlebar by the stem - a habit from childhood where the brake levers traditionally were. But on this bike, there are no brakes up on the handlebars, they're down on the drops (where the handlebars curve, the traditional racing position). I instinctively put my hands not only in a spot with little control or balabce, but no way to brake.

When I held on up middle top, controlling the handlebars and, therefore, front wheel was difficult. The front wheel would wobble side to side, like the bike was shaking its head, "No." Hence the wobble. Moving my left hand down to the drops gave me control and stability. Ah ha, that's much better - there's the control.

OK, now let's put this all together: left hand down on the drop, left pedal in the correct position, push off, lift your ass up and back onto the saddle in one swift motion, lower your torso, put your right hand on the right drop and go. There, all of a sudden, was a smooth start. I almost looked like a knew what I was doing.

I took a few laps of the cul de sac just working on this. Stop. Get down. Start over. Pedal a bit. Stop. Repeat. Once I felt better, I'd do a lap, then learn how to brake gently, gradually, without sending myself over the handlebars or bruising my most private, cherished places.

I did laps for about 20 minutes. Then I got a feel for the gears. I knew them cold in the trainer, but here in the street, it was almost back to Square 1: shifting up and down through the gears, smoothly, without sounding like I was tossing a box of wrenches, one by one, into a fan.

After a half hour my daughter and I headed home and I immediately felt better. It wasn't pretty, but it was a damn sight better than it was just 24 hours before.

Next stop: Leaving the neighborhood.

In which it's good to be bad

A couple of weeks ago, I posted the above on my Lifetime Loser Facebook page.

I was gently - and rightly - chastised by commenters for thinking that I suck.

Funny that "I suck" was my first reaction to an endeavor I hadn't done in quite a while. If a friend that posted that, I would have been one of the first to say, "Are you nuts? You haven't ridden in forever. Give yourself a break. You're a beginner."

Yet, did I extend that kindness and latitude to myself? Nope. I went straight to "You're terrible. You're doing a duathlon? In May? Are you high?"

I find it really hard to ditch those old feelings of "You can't do this" because for years, well, decades, that's exactly what I thought about most everything. I was firmly ensconced in my comfort zone and I was not budging, no way, no how.

I didn't want to try anything because I might fail or embarrass myself. And when you're overweight, you can feel like life is a daily reminder that you're a failure. The last thing you want to do is call attention to yourself by making a spectacle of yourself. I'll just sit over here, in the corner, in my tiny comfort zone, thanks. And, would you pass the chips?

When you're overweight, the world is full of "can't." One of the best things I learned while losing weight is that the world is actually full of can. You can do anything, you just have to give yourself the right time, equipment and instruction.

You lose weight and you gain confidence. You starting dipping a toe outside of that comfort zone. Then you venture out a little farther. And you realize: No one is watching you, hoping you'll fail. It's all in your head.

So you start trying things and, yeah, you stink when you start because you're a beginner. Just harken back to any of my early posts on running and bootcamp and you'll see.

But, you just keep trying and, what do you know, you get better.

It's funny, I'm almost having the opposite problem these days. I've been running for a few years now and just passed my 2-year anniversary at bootcamp. (And, really, if you read this post, who'd have thought I'd still be doing it now?)

Anyway, I've been doing relatively the same thing for years and I'm comfortable in those environments. Cycling and swimming? Not so much. It's jolting to be thrown back into absolute beginner status, but thinking about it, it's wonderful.

First, it takes me down a peg or two in the whole ego department and that's good for me. It reminds me that just because I can run and do squats that doesn't signify I will kick ass right off the bat at every activity.

Most importantly, it has reminded me that true growth - the best growth - comes outside that comfort zone and just because my comfort zone is larger and more accomplished than before, that doesn't make hiding in it any more acceptable.

So, here's to abandoning my comfort zone once again - on wheels and in water.

In which I am all-in for Sandy

It was Oct. 8, 2012 and Sandy and I were walking across the Public Garden on a gorgeous fall morning, all blue skies and sunshine (see above).

We were on our way to pick up our numbers for the start of the Tufts 10K for Women, when she dropped it on me:

"Pal, I think I'm gonna get a bib for the Marathon..."

There was no need to specify which one, in our neck of the woods, "the marathon" is "The Marathon."

I turned and smiled. Of course she would, she's Sandy and, frankly, if you know her that's a very Sandy thing to do.

"That," I said - both surprised and yet unsurprised at the news - "is awesome."

I've known Sandy since 1997. I had the great fortune to meet her when I started a new job, enjoying a very bizarre welcome lunch on my first day (I know she remembers it), and cementing what would become one of the best friendships of my life.

The marketing slogan for The Boston Marathon (as if it needed one) is "All in for Boston."

Sandy is all-in for Boston, much like she is all-in in pretty much every aspect of her life.

She's all-in for her family, especially her nieces and nephews, who are the luckiest people on the planet. 

She's all in for work, where she has expertly navigated the very tricky world of freelance journalism to craft a stellar career.

She's all-in for animal welfare, volunteering hundreds of hours a year at the Baypath Humane Society - for which she is running Monday and has raised nearly $4,000.

She's all-in for herself. Several years ago Sandy was diagnosed with a chronic autoimmune disease that would have felled many others, content to just survive. Not Sandy. She tackled it head-on and has committed herself to not only living with this condition, but thriving.

She took charge of her health and wellness, losing 50 lbs and getting fit. I started running in January 2011 and Sandy followed suit in September. Neither naturally gifted or talented in that department, we did not let it deter us. If you know us in "real life", this is not news.

We call each other our "domestic life running partner" and I can assure you that running a race with a friend, especially my friend, is one of the great joys of my life. We've accompanied each other from 5Ks to 10K, from half-marathons to, this summer, triathlons. (No, I'm not ready to marathon just yet.)

Sandy calls running and fitness our shared midlife crisis and she's not far off. We're always calling, texting or emailing each other tips, gear ideas, books or new races. Beware any email from us that starts "What do you think about..."

But, like many things in this life, health and fitness is more fun with a friend. And now Sandy has enriched my life in yet another whole new arena.

Lastly, Sandy is all-in as a friend. If you know Sandy, you're nodding your head. Once she's your friend, she is your friend for life.

Sandy was at my wedding. She was one of the first people to hold my first-born. She's supported me in countless ways. You know those friends who say they'll do anything for you, anytime? She actually does.

Last December I was seriously ill and seriously scared. My husband and I had to go to a doctor's appointment on a Saturday and we had no one to watch the kids. He called Sandy, and of course her reply was, "What time do you need me?"

Here's an excerpt from my journal on that day:

"Keith and I returned home and I gently stepped out of the car and up the front stairs. The door opened and there’s Sandy, wanting to know how it went.

“You’ve got this,” she said, before I could even start in on what happened. “You’ve got this.”

She was confident and positive, two attributes I sorely needed at that time. I could have cried I was so grateful for her presence, her positive attitude and friendship.

I immediately flashed back to the Rock n Roll Half Marathon we ran this past August. She was about 20 minutes ahead of me and near Mile 11 there was an out and back. I figured I would catch her, me on the “out” and she on the “back.” After about 10 minutes I spied her, she looked tired and hot, like everyone else.

I yelled across to her: “You’ve got this! You’ve got this!” She needed the encouragement then. I needed it now. We grabbed Subway on the way home, and Sandy and I sat on my couch, eating lunch and talking about the road ahead. Healing, getting back to normal and running. I need normal."

You've got this, Sandy. You've got this.

In which it's double trouble

I had more time to play with than normal at the gym today, so I decided to do a 20-minute track workout, followed by a 900m swim - the first time I've attempted to double up on tri events.

It's also the first time I tried to get my running and swim gear in the same duffel. I enjoy swimming, but man there is a lot of falderal you need to tote before, during and after.

Anyway, track went fine and on my way to the locker room to change into my swim gear, I thought, You know, you already had bootcamp this morning. You just ran. You could skip the swim.

Then, I swear, all I heard in my head was GET YOUR ASS IN THE POOL!

So I did.

Four laps into the 28 I planned, I was feeling a tired. Or, to be more precise, my brain was tired. My body was fine. Lap 28 seemed rather far away. Then I heard, SHUT UP BRAIN! JUST SWIM!

Whatever - or whoever - is in my head is very loud and demanding. I find it pretty astounding that after 2+ years of working on my health and fitness, I still have to battle those voices from time to time.

You hear it a lot in running: Get out of your own head. Your body is capable of so much more than you brain will allow. Stop listening to your brain and just run. Or, in this case, swim.

So I kept swimming.

Four laps turned into 14, then 24, then I was done.

And, what do you know, I felt better than expected.

This is a very small taste of what I'm looking at in July. It's still outside - well outside - my comfort zone, but I'm not as panicky about the outcome as I was just a week ago. And that's good.

Also wonderful: The fact that when I have free time, more often than not I want to ride my bike or hit the gym. Not because I have to, but because I want to.

I certainly still have my days where I plunk myself off the couch and do my best impression of a tuber, but I find it rather incredible that 9 times out of 10, if I have a couple of hours, I'm moving. Because it's challenging. I feel good after. I feel proud that I say, "I'm going to hit the gym" and actually follow through.

And, most amazing of all, it's fun.

I can hear your question, "Yeah, but how do you get to that point?"

Find something you like. Any activity, any challenge, as long as you enjoy it. It's got to be fun or you just won't do it. Keep trying until you find something you like - and you will.