Twit

Twitter is my modern D&D dice: I play with it here and there when I need reassurance that there are other geeks like me, and table it when I get too busy with grown up stuff.

Of late there have been some hashtag games on Twitter that I’ve been tempted to participate in, most notably #moviesinmypants and #thingsIhaveincommonwithWesleyCrusher (courtesy of @wilw aka Wil Wheaton, who is actually much cooler than Wesley Crusher). The problem is, my Twitter is attached to my Facebook, and my Facebook is attached to people at the office, and while I don’t believe that I give an aura of someone excruciatingly professional and remote I don’t know how serious I’ll be taken if I do things like tweet*:

The Ring in My Pants #moviesinmypants

or

I took myself way too seriously as a teenager #thingsIhaveincommonwithWesleyCrusher

Twitter itself has undergone an evolution in purpose and function since it began. It was first 140 character microblogging– something to say about your day or your opinions or your orifices or your cat, that sort of thing. With the accessibility of hashtags, trending topics, and increased user base, it’s become a collective gumwall for people to post upon. Much like the 1970’s Kilroy was Here, you can follow people you don’t know and watch them as they post to people they don’t know. I personally have sent tweets directed at Leonard Nimoy, Nasa, LeVar Burton, Wil Wheaton, Eddie Izzard, and Simon Pegg. I can *guarantee you* that none of them has read those tweets, but somehow knowing I sent them makes me feel better. I think.

I will say this: I adopted FourSquare recently and abandoned it just as blithely; an application by stalkers for stalkers has limited relevance in my post-SayAnything years. I would have a difficult time, however, giving up my twitter feed: it serves as endless bite-size entertainment, like leftover Halloween candy.

Which goes straight to my hips.

*Why is the action of using Twitter indicated as “to tweet”? Shouldn’t it be “to twit”? Or is that too honest?

A Special Hell

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?

Bleh

Lately I’ve been attempting to keep in shape with the full-contact pilates and swimming. I’ve succeeded in the sense that I’m not gaining weight… but I’m not losing it, either.

In other news, this picture reminds me of the pain that is full-contact pilates. This would be the “Petulant Child Pose”.

Swim, Bike, Walk

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 🙂

Glub Glub

Very little in my life is safe from the rationalization that an Excel spreadsheet offers. Within rows and columns, little formulas and “if” statements valiantly try to take the somewhat-partial data I have and render a decision for me. The spreadsheets are rarely seen by anyone other than myself, as it would be akin to airing my entire thought process — even those thoughts that you don’t tell anyone you have but you actually have. I have a coefficient for budget splurges based on average monthly temperature, for example.

The spreadsheet has had me purchase a triathlon wetsuit. I’m totally blaming the spreadsheet.

Renting a triathlon wetsuit is $40 for a six-day span (Thurs-Tues). Purchasing a decent one is about $160. I have 6  weekends of swimming ahead of me, and more if I end up doing the Black Diamond. $240 being patently more money than $160, I caved.

Would that it were that easy to get back in the water again. Swimming laps in a pool is a semi-boring chore that offers at least the diversion of the occasional mouthful of chlorinated water. Swimming in the open water means that occasional mouthful is of something that is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike water. There are *things* floating in there. It doesn’t taste good. 

The thing is,  having done a tri before, I’m shirking more than I ought. Even though my first few runs have been at a pathetic pace, I’m still in the “oh three miles no big deal it’s not like I have to actually *train* or anything” mindset, and this is naturally extending to my lack of workouts (only 2 in the last 4 days) and thusly the scale making noises at me.

I need to build a spreadsheet for that, I think.

T-1 day and counting

Greetings from the Fairmont Vancouver Downtown (helloooo, Robson street!) where I have discovered the following in the last 18 hours or so:

  • Even mild food poisoning sucks. Not sure how I got it, but I spent a large amount of last night in the beautifully appointed (if not small) WC in my hotel room.
  • My ride packet wasn’t mailed to the friend-of-friend’s house here, which means my butt has to check in (in a line) at 5:30am (even though I did everything they told me to to get the packet early!)
  • Everything I found on Robson street that I liked was either way too pricey or not my size. Except one thing, and I bought that.  Yes, it’s black.
  • No matter how well you list things out to pack, you will always forget something. This trip, it’s hair product…
  • The multiple-Starbucks-on-a-corner phenomena does in fact extend to Vancouver
  • The Hotel Fairmont is the bomb! 4 star hotel, 5-star bathroom products. Yes, it matters
  • I get pissy even when I’m not the one driving in Vancouver traffic
  • Jeff is a very, very patient person (he was the one driving)
  • The route down is mostly flat except for a spectacularly hilly exchange shortly after Bellingham
  • Up until yesterday, the weather predicted for the ride was sunny and 68 degrees. Now it’s rainy and 65, so I went and bought rain gear.
  • Rain gear is not cheap
  • They require you to have a bike bell even if you never, ever use it. I now own a bike bell.
  • Rodgers cell service Canada politely informed me they will be charging me $15/mb while I’m up here, so… yeah no pictures or tweets from yours truly until I get back to the states.

t-3.5 days and counting

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.