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.

In which it's new year, new goals

Last year it started with a small word in the back of my head.

I find that many of the best ideas in my life start in the back of my head, marinading for a bit. The thought may pop in and out, wandering around for months until it presents itself and I think, OK, it's time to give this a whirl.

In 2012, my big goal was running a half marathon (and that thought marinated for months in 2011). It was such a rewarding experience, I ended up running two - two more than I ever expected in the first place.

Many people assumed my next move would be a full marathon, but the prospect doesn't intrigue me. At the moment. I may train for and run one someday, but it doesn't interest me now. Thirteen point one miles are plenty for me at the present time. Plus, I really don't have the time to train for a marathon until all three kids are in school full time, and that won't happen until fall 2014.

So while a marathon isn't in the plans, a triathlon is. It's a slightly scary thought and definitely outside my comfort zone, but some of the best things in my life have fallen into that category, such as running and bootcamp.

Last summer I starting thinking about a tri as this year's goal. It would be fun to cross-train, and good for my body to mix up my activity with swimming and cycling. And, of course, I would be able to play with more expensive equipment and gadgets. Because if there's one class of people who love gadgets and gear more than runners, it's triathletes.

I ran the idea by some triathlete friends last year, they thought it was great. But that's playing to the home crowd. Any time I've ever mentioned a running endeavor to running friends, they always respond, "YES! DO IT!" They are relentlessly encouraging and triathletes are the same way. They are not objective in the very best way; they will back you on anything.

So as 2012 turned into 2013, I looked ahead. I definitely wanted to 1to 2 half marathons this year. I already signed up for the Rock n Roll Half in Providence in late Sept. I'll probably do a half sometime in May, too. And in case you're wondering, no I can't believe I typed that sentence with such nonchalance, either.

But the itch to do something new wouldn't go away and when in late December a friend mentioned a local tri series, I took it as a sign it was time to step outside my comfort zone once again.

When registration opened up last Monday, I signed up for a May duathlon (bike-run on Mother's Day, no less) and an early Sept.  tri. They're both sprints, in that they're much shorter than the traditional Ironman-type events. I'm ambitious, not insane.

Over the past 2+ years, one of the greatest gifts I've found is the knowledge that stepping outside that comfort zone is where the real growth lies. As someone who didn't try anything for decades - because if you don't try, you don't fail - this is nothing short of revolutionary. But, if one adjective describes the past 2+ years, it would be just that.

So, once again, away we go. Stay tuned for the continuing adventures.

In which this loser is married to a winner

When you lose weight and get fit, you get all the credit.

All the compliments, all the kudos, all the praise and glory.

And that is fun and rewarding, for sure.

But in my life, there is one person who deserves just as much admiration as me, and that's my husband.

I've batted this subject around in my head on many a run and I never got down to writing it, but I thought today it's fitting as it is our 14th wedding anniversary.

Yes, I did all the obvious work, but Keith has done untold heavy-lifting behind the scenes. He may not be in the gym with me or eating how I eat, but he's done just as much work, with no public credit.

Just a few examples:

• All the childcare when I am at bootcamp or out on a run. Every Sunday, our Sundays don't start, really, until my long run is over. Then we can begin our day. If I have a race, push any plans back further. I get up at 5 am six days a week for work or working out. Every Sunday, Keith lets me sleep in, enjoy a leisurely breakfast and then go run, all while he's wrangling children (almost 7, 5 and 3), baking them cinnamon rolls and trying to wake the hell up himself. 

• He's supported us on his one income with three young kids and still somehow finding a way for us to afford bootcamp, 14 months of Weight Watchers, the gym, $85 running tights, race fees, you name it. (Yes, I work part-time for Weight Watchers, but that income doesn't pay many bills.)

• He's watched me fall asleep like clockwork about 35 minutes after I sit down on the couch every single time we try to watch TV together. God bless him for all the one-sided conversations he's had with himself before he realized I was asleep or about to be so with some nonsensical, mumbled answer to his question. After the kids are in bed and we finally get time to ourselves, alone, to relax and de-stress with "our" shows, I fall asleep. Every. Time.

• When I'm about to lose it, he lets me get my shit together, whether it's eating a meal or getting out of the house. 

I am positive person and that is on full-display here. But I am human. I struggle. And, seriously, when my program gets hard mentally or the scale is not moving, you do not want to live with me unfiltered. On the days it's hard and the kids are driving me crazy or work is demanding (or both, God help us), I just want to eat myself into a coma. But I can't and it's full-out war in my head. I am fighting every single instinct and habit in my brain and it is not pretty.

That pressure valve has to release somewhere, and I can be a bitch, to put it mildly.

When you love someone who's trying to change something fundamental about themselves, be it food, another addiction, habit, what have you, it's not easy. Nor pretty. Those spouses/partners deserve so much praise because supporting that person in any way they can is "Wuv, twoo wuv," to quote The Princess Bride.

I was at a healthy weight when we started dating. I was overweight when he got married and I was obese by the time we started having children. Never once did he get on me about me weight or told me to start shaping up. He left that up to me and I would guess silently suffered as I did, waiting for my head to get in the game. He loved me at 287 lbs and he loves me today. 

And, a reminder, he's seen me through 100+ lb weight losses twice. Twice. Not only was it richer or poorer, it was having and holding through thick, thin, thick and thin again.

He's seen me at my best and at my worst. And on those nights when he walks through the door and everyone in the house is yelling and/or crying and it's all hitting the fan, I am constantly amazed he has never turned on his heel and left for a calmer port, like Kabul.

And for that, I am truly grateful. I may be a loser, but when it comes to a husband, I am the biggest winner I know.

In which I've maintained my loss for a year

Last Nov. 1 I stepped on the scale at my regular Weight Watchers meeting and realized I made my personal goal weight.

A year later, I'm still there.

I just want to let that sink in for a bit. Historically, I've been excellent at losing weight, but terrible at keeping it off.

This is such a big deal, and to me, it's more impressive than losing 125 lbs in the first place.

All my life, I would strive, strive, strive for the "finish line" and once there (or when I got sick of striving) return to my same-old, same-old eating habits and behaviors.

I'm not sure why that was, other than maybe mentally I still had not gotten my head around the fact there is no "finish." Ever.

I don't like to bring that up to people who are in the losing process as it sounds depressing, dire and unattainable. But, you know, it's the truth.

So what was the difference this time around? How am I maintaining successfully?

A few thoughts:

I accepted that there is no finish line. There is no "on" or "off" program, you are on all the time, forever, end of story. Yes, there are lax - or outright bad - days, for sure, but I get right back on the horse, tracker in hand. I can't do what I did in the past and expect to hold on to what I have.

I embraced the PointsPlus program. Given its flexibility, PointsPlus is a program I can work for the rest of my life without too much mental stress or any depravation. When I gain weight, I can lose it. When I lose it, I can maintain it. It's so doable and realistic, I can live my life and enjoy food within reason.

I set goals away from the scale. Registering for races has keep me running and running has kept me motivated and moving. Training plans for big challenges such as half-marathons have given me a series of incremental goals spread over a period of time, goals that I achieve and of which I can feel very proud. These longer-term challenges and training plans have me constantly looking ahead while simultaneously working on them today - a potent combo.

I want to make it clear, however. You do not have to run if you don't want to. So many of us weight-loss bloggers run and love writing about it, I worry that people think they have to become runners to become healthy, fit, happy, people.

There are plenty of other activities that are challenging and amenable to goal-setting. The key is to find one you enjoy.

I found activities I enjoy. In addition to running, I love going to bootcamp twice a week. If you asked me on that first day, "Will you still be here in 18 months?" I'm not sure what I would have said. Probably, " *#&$, no!" But I'm so glad I have.

I accept I am a work in progress. I have decades of bad decisions, behaviors, habits and emotions surrounding food. I understand that it will likely take decades to unravel those knots and replace them better ones. No more expectations of perfection, no all-or-nothing.

I am kind to myself. I refuse to beat myself up. I still have bad days, but I restart as soon as I can. I also try to pull something positive out of it. If a decision went wrong - why? What caused it? What could I do better next time?

I work for Weight Watchers. Those of you who don't know me in real life are thinking, "Wait, what?!?" I haven't blogged about that very big part of my life because it's not smart to blog about your job unless you're paid to do so or own the company. I have neither, so I haven't.

I've been working for WW since last November, first as a receptionist and now as a leader. The job has challenged me and given me more than I ever expected. And one unexpected benefit has been that everyone on staff is a Lifetime member maintaining their weight. So if I'm having a problem, I can ask questions, commiserate, whine or beg for help when I need it. Maintenance is an art and you need other Lifetime members who get it because no one else truly does. Working several times a week with other Lifetimers has provided me with a built-in support system for which I are so grateful.

I am not perfect, nor do I have it all figured out. I am a work in progress. And if you're a work in progress, there's only one thing you have to do:

Keep working.

In which it's a beautiful morning

For 40.5 of my 42 years, I have never been a morning person nor, really, an "exercise" person.

So you could imagine how I would fare as a morning exerciser.

However, when I knew it was time to add regular workouts to achieve my weight-loss goals, I realized it had to be in the early morning, before the kids woke up. I tried doing DVDs during my youngest's afternoon nap, but when she crashed, I wanted to, as well. Getting a sweat on was not my first choice. Plus, with the other two kids under foot there was always an interruption.

Zero Dark Thirty it is, then.

I started getting up around 5 am and it took a good two weeks to not feel like hot death around 2 pm. But I realized that once I got in the swing of things and got my bedtime/wake-up time synched with enough sleep, it was doable.

I can't tell you how many times I've pushed myself through a workout with the mental urging: This is the hardest thing you have to do today. Get through this and the rest of the day is easy by comparison. By 7:30 am, the hardest part of your day is done.

I was thinking about this last Thursday during a run. I stepped out of the house at 6:30 am and it was dark. Pitch black, like, middle-of-the-night dark. I stood there for a second wondering why (later I realized we wouldn't turn the clocks back for another 3 days) and then headed back into the house to get my reflective can-see-me-from-Mars jacket and light.

I started out under a full moon, which was spookily darting in and out of thin, wispy clouds. Running my backwoods route, in the pitch black, under a full moon the day after Halloween: half-cool, half expecting a zombie to come at me from the woods.

As cars whizzed past, lit only by headlights, I was grateful for my jacket and light. On a side note, I see a ton of pre-dawn runners out without reflective gear. Seriously? A death wish. At least get a light.

Soon, the dawn started to break, as if someone was slowly turning up a dimmer on the sky. I got to the halfway point of my out-and-back, which that morning was at the crest of a small hill. I paused for a second and looked around, noticing the sun was streaming out over the horizon. The sky was pure blue. The hardy, remaining yellow and orange leaves on the trees seemed to glow as far as I could see.

It was so crazy beautiful, a gift I would never have received had I not become a morning outdoor exerciser. I would never see, nor appreciate, the sunrise over a gorgeous fall morning in Massachusetts. I am not a nature person, never have been. For me, camping is best done in a hotel where there is a comfy bed, no bugs and maybe a minifridge. So to really appreciate and enjoy this is quite the sea change.

So there I was, standing on top of this hill, looking out over a beautiful sunrise, early in the morning and I thought, for the zillionth time in the past almost 2 years: Who have I become?

Yes, I knew I could lose weight. But look what else came with that determination. I became a runner - a half-marathoner. A person who goes to bed early to get up early, go outside and run through the back roads of New England. And actually like it. All of that? Things I never expected but for which I am very grateful.

I feel like working out in the morning outdoors is almost like a secret club. We get our workouts done and sometimes it is the most beautiful setting just for ourselves. Whenever I see another runner or cyclist on the road at the same time, I always want to look at them, like, I know, right?

I'm not saying predawn is the best time to work out because the best time for you to work out is any time you will do it. What I'm trying to say is the beauty of the outdoors and this quiet time with nature is a gift I never expected to receive, but one for which I am very grateful.

The other day I was mentally running through my week while driving. I swear, it's like I have a cable news crawl constantly running at the bottom of my consciousness: Karate today, 4 pm...Daisies tomorrow, 5 pm....interview today, 2 pm...article due tonight....out of Chobani, get to the store...15 PPV left today...

Anyway, one of the things on my crawl was that tomorrow was Thursday and I immediately thought: I get to run. Not I have to run, I get to run. Whoa.

And that is what always amazes me about getting healthy and fit. The gifts you receive reach so far beyond the scale or clock. The unexpected are the sweetest and most cherished.

In which I try Bikram Yoga

Bikram yoga has been on my to-try list for well over a year.

I know people who enjoy it a lot, and the thought of a totally challenging, yet totally different activity from my regular running or bootcamp was appealing.

It seemed rather complementary to my two favorite workouts, and this afternoon I was finally able to finagle my schedule to give it a go.

But, as excited as I was to try, I was a little nervous. I had never tried Bikram before and it was outside of my comfort zone.

I have been running for almost two years and bootcamping for a year and a half. Even though I'll never win a race and I now only occasionally hit myself in the groin with a medicine ball, I do know what I'm doing, and that "I'll Make A Fool of Myself" mortal fear is long gone with both pursuits.

Returning to that slightly nervous area outside my comfy activity playpen was a little disconcerting. But, I remembered that not that long ago I was scared to run outside and I was scared to try bootcamp. And look what happened. I found two activities that I really, truly love, and have given me so much more than improved health and fitness.

Therefore, I shaved my legs, put on a fresh layer of deodorant and headed to the studio this afternoon for the 4 pm class.

I got there early to get a lay of the land: where do I put my shoes? Can I rent a mat? Where's the bathroom? And, most importantly, to ensure I got a spot in the waaaay back of the studio.

I indeed got a spot in the back of the room, which is heated to 100 degrees. I had concerns about how I would handle the heat, as I'm not flocking outside during the summer on such days, but - really - it was a dry heat. I laid down my mat and followed everyone else's lead: flat on my back, quietly relaxing like a lizard on a rock in the Mojave.

I could get used to this.

Soon, the instructor came in and we got down to the poses - 26 in 90 minutes. The instructor stood on a low platform in the middle of the room and, like a DVD commentary, narrated the class through the poses with a series of instructions, form checks, inspiration, reassurance and funny stories.

There were several new students in the class (which had about 24 people at 4 pm on a Saturday, impressive!), thank goodness. The instructor was very encouraging to new students, which I really appreciated, underscoring that we shouldn't try anything that causes pain or try to keep up with veteran practitioners.

Amusingly, I had to keep remind/stop myself from the temptation of Keeping Up With The Flexible Joneses. I'd look at some frighteningly flexible person, battle those natural competitive instincts and think, "OK, this literally is your first day with this. Do what you can and no more."

In prep for the class, I drank 64 oz of water throughout the day, and I had another 32 oz on hand for the class itself. Yes, like everyone else I was sweating like crazy, but the heat was comforting and soothing. My body felt like a lazy pretzel and I liked it.

Some poses I could do, others I had to modify quite a bit. I looked around the room and saw many others - newbies and vets - modifying, too. I saw all sizes and ages - it was no bikini triathlete supermodel class, thank goodness.

At one point, the instructor mentioned two quotes from Bikram Choudhury, creator of this discipline:

"Mess with the gods, don't mess with your knees" and "Kill your body."

The latter sounds pretty severe, but the instructor explain that what he really meant was "Kill your ego." Leave it at the door, come in and listen to your body. I loved that.

Soon, the 90 minutes was up and I was a puddle. I stepped out of the warm, welcoming bosom of the studio and into the changing/waiting area.

At first, the cool air was refreshing, but it soon turned into the realization, "COLD! I AM COLD!" I threw on my sweatshirt (which now has to be washed ASAP) and walked to the car.

As I walked out I took a mental inventory. I felt really, really good. Refreshed, relaxed and loose. The poses were challenging, yet doable, I will try to jam a class into my schedule every week.

The more I thought about it (and sweated), the more I realized how very good it is to be a beginner again - at anything. You're open and excited, and your ego is idling, not in overdrive.

You're learning and doing and trying something new. You may love it, you may not, but the real victory is in the trying; that stepping outside your comfort zone where real true growth occurs.

When I try new things, I'm still hesitant here and there because that fear of embarrassment still lingers. But I try, anyway, and that's a win every time.

When I was overweight (aka, all my life), I rarely tried anything new - especially activity - for fear of embarrassment. When you're overweight, you want to blend in, not stand out.

But now, even though the nerves are still there a little bit, I push through. I know no one else in class is watching me, except for the instructor, who just wants to me to relax and enjoy.

So I did.

Race Report: Tufts 10K For Women

I've been waiting to post this race report for a year.

That sounds a touch dramatic, but it is true, nonetheless.

I started running in January 2011. All I wanted to do was run a 5K. I finally did it, and then I wanted to run another one. Cut to June and I wanted a challenge, a goal for the summer. The idea of the Tufts 10K came into my head after I saw an ad on CoolRunning.com.

Six miles? I can't run 6.2 miles. It's so far, so much. But I went for it. If you read through last summer's posts, you'll see dozens devoted to my training for this race.

Before I began training, the longest I ever ran was 3.1 miles. But soon came 4. Then 5. By the end of training, I was up to 8. Eight miles! I ran 8 miles? That lead to other thoughts, which would be realized sooner than later.

I trained for 15 weeks (way too long, really) for this race, only to sprain my ankle three days before the race, walking through the parking lot of an apple orchard.

I was mad. Incredibly disappointed. Pissed off, you name it. I had to drop out of the race, which left me as gutted as I've ever been for something relatively minor. Reading through those profanity-laced posts a year later, the emotions are still so raw, so real.

Anyway, what's done was done and I was left with one vow: I will be running this race next year.

Jump to, "next year," when I found myself a two-time half-marathoner. All of a sudden, 6.2 miles wasn't the dramatic, amazing accomplishment it would have been a year ago. These days, a 10K is a short Sunday run. However, that didn't mean it wasn't significant, nor that it wasn't worth avenging, so I did. I wanted closure, plus, although I've raced dozens of times, I've never run an official 10K race.

Luckily, my domestic running life partner, Sandy, was all-in as well, so we headed into Boston on a blazingly beautiful Columbus Day to run through the streets of Boston and Cambridge.

The Tufts 10K for Women is a mammoth race. There were 8,000 runners and walkers, the largest field in which I have ever raced.

We gathered at the Public Garden, got our bibs and then hung out, meandering until about 10 minutes before the gun. In our meandering, I ran into my friend, Dani, who's a fellow Weight Watchers leader, runner and all-around inspirational person. Check out her blog!

Soon it was time to get in our respective starting areas, by pace time. Big problem: There were so many runners, there literally was no room to squeeze in. I've been in crowded fields before, but nothing like this.

Shooting from the sidewalk on Charles Street, looking toward the starting line (which was actually around the corner) on Beacon Street.

Looking toward the back of the pack (my people!) on Charles Street.

So, I waited for the race to start, standing behind the rope on the curb. When the crowd thinned enough to jump in, I was off.

This would be an interesting race because it was the first big race I'd run without music. Previously, the thought of running without music was horrifying. My legs will stop! I'll just want to walk. I can't do it. I need it.

Last summer, during a 5K my Nano crapped out and I freaked. This year, I was ready to run without as I have been training with a metronome. It's part of the ChiRunning approach that I've adopted (and love) and I find I run better without music, matching my footstrike to a pace of 170 BPM. I still run with music once a week because I do like it. But, for better form and pace purposes, it's no headphones, no music. And, you know what? I don't mind it a bit.

My only regret about the metronome is I sound like a ticking time bomb. I felt bad for anyone around me that didn't have music and had to listen to my beep-beep-beeping throughout the race.

Anyway, we were off heading through Back Bay toward Memorial Drive and Cambridge on one gorgeous day. The weather was perfect for running and the scenery was gorgeous. I half wished I stopped here and there and took pictures of the striking Boston skyline, but I really wanted to run this one hard.

When we turned onto Memorial Drive, I wondered if I would see one of my dearest friends - and a great runner - Jeremy. He lives just a few miles from the course and I figured I would spot him, and I did.

I shouted his name and gave him the double finger guns as I ran by at, if I recall correctly, somewhere between Miles 2 and 3. That's the picture at the top of this post and the best running picture I've ever had the privilege to be in. As you know, I normally look like I'm bring assassinated.

Anyway, I felt great and was running really well. My splits were around 10:50 to 11:00 a mile - very, very fast for me. Yay, metronome!

The course was flat and fast, and as I ran I thought a lot about the past year of running. How all I ever wanted was just one 5K and how that pipe dream turned into an activity I really, truly love. How I look forward to my 6:30 am runs. How I like studying and improving my form so I can keep running healthy.

I thought about where I was when I started running and where I am now. It seemed too fantastic, too good to be true, but it was. For real.

Sooner than I thought, I was past 5 miles and winding back into Boston, heading to the finish line on Charles Street. The clouds had dispersed, the sun was out and it was getting hot. I was ready to put a bow on this one.

I do want to take a second and thank race spectators. They are simply the greatest people because they are strangers who clap, cheer and tell you you're awesome when you need it most. I passed the 6-mile mark and I knew the finish was just around the corner. Since I wasn't listening to music, I could hear every spectator's shouts and cheers, and I heard my favorite spectator comment ever. I've heard it at many races and it thrills me every time:

"You're almost there! The finish is right around the corner!"

Before the race, I was hoping to come in a 1:15. About halfway through the race, my splits were so good, I thought 1:10 would be a possibility. At Mile 5 I switched gears and at Mile 6, I went into my fastest stride.

I glanced at my watch. It didn't look like 1:10 was going to happen, but I decided to keep pushing anyway, why not? Never give up.

I crossed the timing pads and stopped my watch. 1:10:02. Pretty close, nicely done.

I walked through the chute, grabbed as much water as I could carry and set off to find Sandy, who came in about 5 minutes before me.

We headed home, tired but mission accomplished. I may not have had the triumphant ending I envisioned last year, but you know what? In the end, it all turned out pretty damn great, anyway. I went from a person who dreamed big and did little to someone who dreamed big and realized her goals.

A couple of hours after I got home, Sandy posted on my wall on Facebook. The official times were up. Mine - 1:09:59.

Never give up, indeed.