Category: Weighty

A Special Hell

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Of late I’ve attempted to go to more of the fitness classes offered by my Big Fancy Gym. For one, it helps my cost-ratio-comparison calculator (hello, Excel!) and for two, it keeps me honest when it comes to working out. It’s very easy to beg out of the cardio bike at 30 minutes because there aren’t 12 other people doing it with me, and there isn’t a preternaturally chipper fitness freak in front of me eyeballing me and 12 other people on said cardio bike. Classes start at 60 minutes and some are 90.

Disclaimer: I do actually love my instructors. But it’s that special kind of love that smacks of… well… smacking.

Today’s experiment was “Group Fitness”; actually it’s one of 3 group-type exercises offered at my Big Fancy Gym. It’s the first time I had gone to this class and for sheer entertainment value (yours, mine, and ours) it cannot be beat.

It was helmed by a woman who is probably 2 years my senior, 50 pounds lighter than I am, and I would not want to meet her in a dark alley. Folks, when I say she was ripped, I mean that the girl in the Bowflex ads wishes she were this gal.

This class revolves around weights — as in, weights on a barbell that you lift and reach out with in various poses (on your back, in squats, in lunges, sitting, etc.) and other weights (not on a barbell) that you do the same, and then some good ol’ fashioned crunches that make your abdominal muscles scream at you for days. Also, she plays classic 70’s and 80’s buttrock for the soundtrack. I got my money’s worth.

What was wholly unexpected is that, upon entering and looking lost (my best defensive mechanism to date), the most frail-looking older lady came up to me (85lbs soaking wet, maybe) and offered to help me set up. She encouraged me to take lighter weights (“Don’t try to be a hero”), set me up, and then did her set-up. Her set-up was a little more aggressive than my set-up but boy howdy am I glad I followed her advice.

Many parts of my body want divorces from other parts of my body.

Our instructor kept checking in with me — publicly (“How’s it going Bobbie? You doin’ okay?”) — and all discourse was in that chipper post-Cheerleader “I’m loving the burn” voice you get only from people who, well, love the burn. “And we’re doing this for 8!” “In twos!” “Double time!” were common chirpy cheers.

Let me make this perfectly clear: if there were a way I could have ditched this class halfway through in favor of a couch and a Cabernet, I would’ve. As it was, I had cheerful participants all around me offering me helpful advice and if there’s one thing I can’t *stand* is the thought that *someone else* thinks I can’t do something. I don’t mind ME thinking I can’t do something, but that is not an opinion that is okay from anyone else. That sort of thinking got me into two half marathons, a triathlon, a two day bike ride, and a master’s program. Okay, so we can all agree that it’s a good sort of thinking.

But my biceps, triceps, quads, hammies, and glutes all agree: What the (*deleted expletive*) was I thinking?

Screams and Scares and Pizookie Pie

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Oh my. There are two things battling for Most Scary Aspect of Last Night: Maris Farms’ Haunted Woods, and my caloric intake.

BJ’s in Tukwila is known for good beer and pizookie pie (a large, warm cookie with a scoop of ice cream on top); the have this unfortunate aspect of their menu, however. Like most 1Up to Applebee’s type places (Cheesecake Factory, anyone?) they  have a menu that rivals a phone book, so that you actually spend time reading it. They should get Patrick Stewart or James Earl Jones to read it, I’m sure they could lend the proper gravitas to something as ubiquitous as a Cobb Salad. I digress…

At the end of the BJ’s menu, in very very small print, is the nutritional information (including horrifically realistic calorie counts) for everything you can get there. Having something as seemingly innocent as chicken pasta got me nearly four-figures in the hole, and the couple of glasses of wine followed up with most of a Cookies and Cream Pizookie Pie pretty much finished me. I’m fairly certain I’ve had enough calories to power me for the week. Scary, scary stuff.

Then we went to Maris Farms. Maris Farms is located out on the Sumner-Buckley Highway, and you just know as you exit the 410 E you aren’t in Kansas anymore. We were passed by a large red pickup truck with ANTLERS on either side of its rear-cab windows. ‘Nuff said.

The Haunted Woods at Maris Farms is ostensibly 30 minutes (not including line wait, which we didn’t have much of thanks to fast passes) and it feels longer. If you’re a screamer (Hi!) you will be hoarse at the end of it. If you’ve been there before, note that they do change it up — I went last I think 3 or 4 years ago, and there was definitely some novelty. The souvenir mud lining the base of my jeans and my black docs was part and parcel of the fun. This year it included dead bodies, zombies, ICP kids, hillbillies with chainsaws, ghosts, vampires, people being sawn in half, people being medically experimented upon, a weird set of walkways that make you feel like you’re being squeezed out of them, trick floors, pitch-black mazes, and people just scaring the hell out of you.

It is important to note that there are porta potties just outside the entrance and exit, but nothing midway.

I think I’m good for another 3-4 years.

Time Managed

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I love me some Halloween. Love it! I have gravestones I put out in my yard and skeletons I put in my entryway; the season is not complete unless there are two trips to the pumpkin patch. So when I realize that Halloween is 10 days away (pretty much) and I have done no decorating, have no costume, and have a limited number of hours left to contend with all of that, I get a little sad.

Lately I’ve had to force time for things that are not Boy or Work. Things like workouts, seeing friends, dates, hobby time are all limited to a few hours a week. If I have a project due (Harry Potter Hogwarts robe, anyone?) it can endanger the presence of the rest. If I have to travel for work (NYC last week), it can shove everything aside as well. Last week I worked out twice. One bike, one swim. That is not sufficient.

Making time for working out (which is necessary, because with the holidays approaching and cold weather incoming this little heifer gained some weight already) is a really big issue of late. I’ve managed to hit the gym 3 times in 4 days, and hope to get it to a regular 5x week, but it’s at the sacrifice of other things. There are just not enough hours in the day!

One might point out that if I didn’t sign myself up for thirty-odd things I wouldn’t have this problem. I suppose I worry that if  I give up one or two or three I’ll suddenly have pruned too much (like I do with plants) and I’ll be stuck with an ugly empty unproductive life.  The male person teases me about me worrying that my idle hands are the “devil’s playground” and, minus the religious implication, that may be correct.

It’s a mark of a grown up that part of me sees the logic in the Halloween products making it into stores so much earlier in the year. It may take that sort of planning after all.

Swim, Bike, Walk

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Thanks to the new fancy gym (yes, they made it better, and I will be blathering at length about how wonderful the gym is… later) I am back to swimming, and back to ENJOYING it, which is more important. I swam my half mile yesterday in 22 minutes, not bad for someone who quit swimming for 8 months.

I am not, however, back to running.

I got new shoes. They fit very nicely. But after about a mile and a half of running — hell, let’s be honest, “jogging” (my pace is nowhere near where it used to be, and I think I can speedwalk at the same rate) — my knee hurts, my shin hurts, and I hurt. The change in my gait is noticeable on a treadmill or on pavement, it literally *sounds different* when my right foot hits the ground than my left.  I’ve given it 3 good runs, between 1 and 3 miles each, and they end with me either limping, or walking a significant portion, or both.

At some point when running the half last year, I did something to that knee and I think in my bike training I cemented whatever it was. My kneecap, which I used to get taped for running, is very much different on my left than on my right. Looking down, my right kneecap is pretty flat, a normal kneecap. My left one is at about a 25 degree angle. It doesn’t bother me to walk, or swim, or bike (within the first 60 miles), but running? Running is a whole new branch of hell. Frankly, I do not wish to go back to physical therapy. I think the sports med doctor hit it on the nail when he gave me the choice: you can do phys therapy and finish out this run, and then you have to decide what you are going to do. You either keep up with physical therapy and keep running, or you don’t, but there will be no half measures.

I just didn’t realize he really meant “no half measures” included such previously thought small jaunts as a 3-mile run. I can remember a time where a 3-mile run was the “short run” for the week — and I can remember enjoying it. I figured he was talking about half-marathons.

Even the wonderful Music of Kevin that I got a year plus back is not helping overcome it. Instead of the beauteous endorphin rush I used to get two miles in, I get more and more pissed off, more and more angry, and more and more pain as I run. I am not, in short, having fun.

I Have Decided: no more running.

I’ll do tri’s, I absolutely will: but I will not do runs. I will speedwalk or jog and then walk (Because, having resolved to walk, I will see others run and feel all peppy in the moment). I will attempt to make up the time in the bike and swim parts, which I will enjoy. And I will take advantage of my new fancy gym, with its bevy of classes (including pilates and kickboxing).

I am not running anymore. There, I’ve said it twice, in a public forum. This time it’s real…

PS: Mindimus, I will still do the Rock and Roll Half with you… speedwalking 🙂

t-3.5 days and counting

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Today I packed.

I have a series of overnight bags, as a result of the odd circumstances of my next week. Attend me:

Wednesday: drive to Mom’s house, drop off dogs. Spend the night, because my Mom feeds me more than anyone on the planet, and it induces instant and immediate food coma. Driving 88 miles back does not seem like a good idea, so… spend the night, yeah.

Thursday: drive back from Mom’s. Go home, retrieve bike, and several overnight bags, and other biking gear. Head to Male Person’s house. Retrieve male person, drive to Vancouver, BC. Check into the Fairmont (have I mentioned how massively awesome it is to work for a travel company?), fawn over everything, enjoy the day.

Friday: drop off bike at appropriate spot, pick up ride packet, hit Lee Valley (if you like hardware, that is the place to go), visit the Lush Store, get to bed EARLY.

Saturday, 5am: wake up

Saturday, 5:30am: HEY, WAKE UP!

Saturday, 6am: arrive at Ride Start. Check in my gear bag, check in my food bag, hopefully I’ve had coffee by now or I’m a mess, and other people are likely going to not be happy around me.

Saturday, 6pm: arrive in Mount Vernon, WA. Observe butt calluses.

Sunday, 7am: leave Mount Vernon, WA. Ignore prescription recommendations on the Advil bottle.

Sunday, 5pm: arrive in Marymoor Park (Redmond), WA. Weep with relief and then sign up for next year.

Sunday, 7pm: male person better have my butt home by now.

Monday: work from home, likely standing because said butt is going to be under protest. Call in to 4 meetings. Thank my bosses profusely for the opportunity to do said work from home.

Tuesday: fly to San Francisco (for work)

Wednesday: fly home from San Francisco (for sanity)

Thursday: breathe. Do laundry, oh, and, work.

Did you catch that? I have to create a series of overnight bags:

  1. for mom’s house, which has nothing to do with my Vancouver requirements
  2. for Vancouver, which has nothing to do with bike trip requirements
  3. for bike trip, which has nothing to do with home requirements
  4. for home, which has nothing to do with bike trip requirements
  5. for SFO, which has nothing to do with home requirements

My dining room table is awash in clean(ish) laundry, small size travel bottles, and a vigorous debate over where the bottle of wine goes: bag 1 or bag 4. The wet wipes have made it into bag 3, as has the Advil; the reading material long overdue for perusal has made it into bag 2.  I am having a fashion debate over bags 1-2, and 4, as well as a debate over which set of bike shorts to wear on day 1 vs day 2. Do I have enough sunscreen packed? Enough disposable bags? Gu/Cliff Bars/shot blocks?

I still haven’t learned how to repair a busted tire. I may have to use the internets for that one.’

Next post: if not from Mom’s, then from the Fairmont in Vancouver.

Taper

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Tapering is described here (don’t you love Wikipedia? I love Wikipedia. I am totally going to marry it.) I am starting a long taper for the long Ride. This week while my mileage remains the same (112 or so this week), the long distance ride is going to be short — a mere 26 miles on Friday and on Saturday.  This is sad, because I got a new bike and it is really, really awesome. It’s a 2010 Schwinn Fastback, all electric-blue and white, and the only thing that hurts when I get done with nearly 60 miles is my back-end (not my back). I’m getting the seat replaced to help with that.

In an unfortunate turn of events, though, it has come to my attention that due to my nut allergy (yes, I get it, I’m a nut and yet I’m allergic to them) I need to provide my own food.

For two days.

Over 168 miles.

I still have to call the Ride to find out exactly what they want me to do: do I show up with a bunch of Amy’s Organics and tell them to have them nuked and ready? I have no idea how hungry I’ll be or what they will or won’t have that I can eat, nor can they seem to tell me. It’s frustrating, but I get that from a liability standpoint they don’t want someone dropping dead on the Ride.

Kinda defeats the purpose.

Giddyap

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You don’t change horses in midstream…unless the horse dies. Then you can either sit atop a stinky horse or get a new shiny horse to remove you from the stink and hopefully find you a good saloon… I digress…

I was riding the ol’ Cannondale along the Sammamish River trail Friday morning when I stopped about ten miles in. I had been doing awesome, pacing in the rain at 15mph (hey, for me that is good!) and not minding (well, not much) the puddle of water in my clippy shoes (note to self, get shoe covers). I got water, took off, heard a “wsh-chunk!”, and then a “scrape scrape scrape scrape”.

“Scrape scrape scrape scrape” is not what you want to hear on your bike, in the rain, 10 miles from your car, on a relatively deserted path. “Scrape scrape scrape scrape” kinda sucks. An untrained investigation showed that my rear wheel was out of true, it was scraping against the brake. With no prospect of rescue I rode the thing with a scraping brake in 10mph headwinds in the rain (not uphill but you get the idea) back. My pace slowed to 11mph.

At the earliest opportunity I deposited it with much angst at Mr. Crampy’s.

I am awaiting guidance via phone from Kyle “Mr. Crampy” of Mr. Crampy’s Multisport in Redmond. He called and left note that my bike, my lovely fourth-hand Cannondale, has died. It has died of a dead spoke, a need of wheels, messed up shifters, and the only good thing on it is its frame. I am going to need to purchase a new bike, because it is not safe.

When a man who does Ironmans each year for FUN and is ex-special forces is telling you not to do something because it is not safe, you listen.

I’m a bit nervous though: my old bike was a road bike with mountain bike tires (because skinny tires scare fat girls like me) and there’s this whole budget thing. Also, I have only ONE more long ride in training before the Big Day, and that is this Saturday. Ergo, I need to purchase, fit, and ride this bad boy within the next week.

It’s not as though I had a lot of other things on my plate — my brother got married this weekend, bought that new car, shifting jobs, school and PTA is wrapping up, and all of the myriad of normal life-things that waft in and out of my responsibility cloud. I’m actually quite glad I finally took the bike to someone who alerted me to all of this: I went to the local bike shop (we will not print their name, but they are VERY close to my house) and TOLD them I’d be on this thing for 2 days straight and they charged me 20 bucks and said good enough.

I won’t be going back there. I’m going to ride into the very orange sunset with something from Mr. Crampy’s.

Weighty Issues

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Getting a body fat scale may not have been a morale-engendering idea.

I will not publicly post my body fat percentage, but I even ran it by my doctor and my personal trainer and both flatly refuse to believe it. Both of these ladies are no-nonsense, non BS types (hm… now who do they remind me of?) so I’m going to assume that for some reason, it’s not working correctly.

I have lost body fat according to it. But 1% off of a bajillion percent is a small bps change, you know?

I was chatting with a coworker the other day (he finished an Olympic in 2:22, which is pretty damned good) and he teased me about how he wasn’t quite at the level such that he could “charge” for events. Well, technically I’m not charging, I’m raising money for cancer research, and I doubt that I could finish an Olympic in 2:22.  I’m half tempted to see how the Danskin turns out and then sign up for the Black Diamond Olympic, because then I’d have a challenge (only on the swim and run side — somehow, biking 24 miles is just so not really challenging anymore).

I have guilt. I have guilt that I’m somehow projecting athleticism or fitness that is not verified by my scale (or my figure, no matter what you say Jeff). I work out just enough to train for what I’ve signed on for, and to be able to eat whatever/whenever/however. The only reason I don’t weigh 120 pounds and am not rocking a size two is that I enjoy food and am not so good at the pushing the plate away thing. I do not match the visual standard of someone who does the things I have signed on to do (or even have done — If I told you I have run 3 half-marathons, and a triathlon, in the last two years, you would call bullsh!t on me). It is discomforting.

But as Sophia Loren said, everything you see I owe to pasta.  And I loooooooooove to carboload.

PS — by Saturday I will have spent 112 miles on a bike this week. I chafe. That is all.

Home Stretch

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Considering that I’ve only been in training 4 and a half months, I can call the next five weeks the home stretch. I’m following the training guidelines, and am on a first-name basis with my local bike fixer dude, as my derailer isn’t quite sure if it wants to derail my chain appropriately or derail my ride inappropriately. I blame poor nomenclature for its inadequacies and overcompensation.

I have, as of last week, made the minimum amount of money raised ($2,500) and am aiming to get my goal of $3,000 in. At this point, my goal is to stay on the bike for the two days of riding and hope my rear end doesn’t fall off.

Or maybe I hope it will. Since starting training in January I have gained — wait for it, wait for it — seven pounds. SEVEN. POUNDS. This is insane.

Ok, let’s put this into perspective: I weigh X.

At my lowest weight at this height, I weighed X-19.  At my highest weight at this height, unpregnant, I weighed X+40ish. (Yeah, I’m putting the “ish” there. I wasn’t proud of it, and it was a long long time ago). I am on the slighter end of this sliding scale but it doesn’t make me happy.

I have ordered a body fat scale (hello, whole new heights of things to obsess about!) and I’ve downloaded an app for that, and an app for this. I would really like to get back to at least X-7, which is where I was in the New Year and fine with that. I’d like even more to get back to X-19, or even perhaps X-25; but let’s not get too carried away.

That said, I have a new job 🙂 Perhaps that will help burn some excess calories?