Happy Old Year

So it has been.

With the disappointments and frustrations of 2009 came gifts large and small: perspective, adventure, and a humble little box bearing a reluctant treasure called maturity.

Turning 41 means accepting that the days of being the hot girl at the beach are long gone. It means that doing 100 free repeats on 1:25 is about the best you can hope for. It means a sore knee can break your heart. It means an Ironman goal can turn into the satisfaction of a Danskin finish.

2009 brought, for the first time that I can remember, a tiny taste of boredom. How do you fill the 16-25 hours per week you planned to spend training for the Ironman when suddenly you can't?

With layoffs of colleagues, workload partially filled that gap. Our yard looks pretty nice. I was reaquainted with old friends and made a few new. I joined Toastmasters, and am a new, better person in public when I have to be. Mike and I took in the Sundance Film Festival, watched whales off Whidbey Island, and challenged our brains, hearts, and the soles of our shoes in Washington DC. We went to Kalaloch for the first time, and our beloved Stu Chin for the sixth. I watched football on television, even when the ironing was done. I had not one Girls Getaway weekend to sunny climes, but two. I tried cross country skiing for the first time. I swam 3 miles in rough salt water. I swam 3 miles naked in broad daylight.

I woke up one morning in August and weighed 118 pounds. And never felt fatter.

I second guessed my knee and its treatment, blessing and cursing the kind of doctors who are determined NOT to stick a knife into your body unless they are sure it will help fix you.

I celebrated how lucky I am that I have the kind of friends who ask:

"How is your knee or are we not talking about it tonight?"

And understand when you answer:

"I love you for asking, but indeed we are not."

I will get better.

Over the last few days, friends have reflected on the year that was. One lost both of his grandparents, and just last week, his uncle, too. Another lost his dog, and then deck fell off his house. So many lost their jobs. Some lost their true loves, one of them very suddenly on the day after Christmas.

What about me? I lost a year of triathlons. And gained a year of experiences I would not have had otherwise.

How's that for perspective, adventure, and, dare I say it, maturity?

Happy Old Year, and Happy New Year, too.

Thankful

The last of the kneedles

I had the last of 5 Supartz knee injections on Thursday morning, and was given the green light for low-impact exercise.

Friday morning I logged 15 minutes on the elliptical machine, ramp at 1, resistance at 3.

This morning I went for 20 minutes at 1 and 4.

So far, so good.

Bobcageon

As I curled up on the blue couch this morning, with a hot coffee in hand and the fourth installment of Twilight on my lap, I looked out at the fog hanging over the lake and thought to myself: there's no way.

Of course I was torn, because I've always wanted to swim outdoors on Halloween. All Saint's Day...so much the better.

I remembered the good-natured determination on Joseph's face yesterday at practice as he cajoled DT and me to consider swimming in the lake today. He said it would be fun. And also that he felt the need for some closure to what had been such a happy and memorable swimming summer. And that resonated. I had hoped for a goodbye swim at Madison beach a few weeks ago, but we ended up swimming elsewhere and all I got was cranky.

Was a November swim was more of a story I wanted to tell than something I truly wanted to do? There was only one way to find out.

By the time I reached the beach, the fog had burned off, the sky was clear and bright, and the water, while not perfectly smooth, was invitingly close.

The costume was not glamorous. Scuba hood with tunic (excellent second neoprene layer), wetsuit, booties, cap and goggles. I think Joseph added earplugs to his ensemble, and DT went old school with just a regular cap and wetsuit.

The water was a brisk 56 degrees. The initial ice cream headache took a few minutes to subside, but once we were moving, the water was actually was fairly pleasant. I think we were all surprised how comfortable we were. After a quick gut-check at the 9 Minute Dock, the Boys of Summer went "Cove or Bust" in November, while I went as far as the red slide at the tennis club. I think I was in the water just under 40 minutes.

And when we returned to the beach, we all acknowledged that it still might not be over. Another sunny weekend morning might find us back.

Happy 50th birthday to DT, who swims like a man half his age.

No symbolism here, but this song will always remind me of today:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qxGYnZCeTY

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

I spent last weekend in Palm Springs with Julie, Megan and Kari, celebrating our collective 40th birthday.

While I was there, I finished a book about another accomplishment. It's the new Glenn Stout biography of Trudy Ederle, the first woman to swim the English Channel.

Trudy was a member of the 1924 U.S. Olympic team, the first year a women's swim team was fielded. She swam to two bronze and one gold medal in the Paris Games, disappointing because her achievements up to that point had proven her the best American woman swimmer, if not the fastest female swimmer in the world.

She was crushed, but it didn't take her long to set her sights on the even greater challenge of the Channel crossing. It took her two tries, but when she completed the 21 mile swim in 14 hours and 31 minutes on August 6, 1926, she became not only the first woman to successfully cross, but she set a record time, beating the handful of men who had traversed the Channel before her.

The book describes how Trudy would retreat into her own "sphere" while she swam. A state of almost automated bliss and communion with the water. Sound familiar, mermaids?

Another cool thing about the book was the discussion of the evolution of freestyle, which was an adaptation of an overhand breastroke style of swimming called the Trudgeon (which Kari and I tried to replicate in the resort pool in Palm Springs after researching it on youtube. We called our version the Curmudgeon).

After her swim, Trudy revealed that she sang the words to "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" over and over in her head as swam from Gris-Nez to Dover.

Trudy passed away at age 98 in 2003. She never married.

Trudy and the other women swimmers on the 1924 Olympic team were breakthrough athletes, at a time when training and participating in sports was still a considerable taboo. So in a quiet and grateful tribute, I have posted the long-promised "grinning idiot" Danskin T1 photo above.

Recovery

Still Here Dancing with the Groo Grux King

I did it.

The alarm went of at 5 on Wednesday morning, and by 5:30 I was handing a check for $195 to the coach at Mercerwood Shore Club. I am officially back in the pool, with a new home. Through the end of the year, anyway.

I liked the workout, but I am warped for pool swimming for awhile.

"How are you?" yelled Mike Shaeffer from the edge of lane 6 when he arrived.

"A little rusty!" I answered, red faced and panting after a mere 200 meters.

"A little lusty?" Mike yelled back.

Swimcaps across the pool popped up and swiveled to see what he was talking about. And hence I have a new nickname, at my new pool, before I even had a single workout in.

Tomorrow I will wear a different suit and cap and hope for anonymity.

There is a price to pay for four months of lake swimming, in the shape of 2-3 weeks of pool hell, but I will open my fitness wallet for that pleasure any day.

Today I'd hoped to swim in the lake with Brendan and Geoff, but the bank of fog that rolled in during the wee hours, combined with Geoff's last minute "I'm out" voicemail had me hopping back under the covers.

I'm back in the pool tomorrow, with plans for a mermaid swim Saturday morning. The air temperature will likely be below 40, the dew on the grass excruciatingly cold as we scamper from the sidewalk to the shore. But since the water is about 20 degrees warmer, I declare that lake season is still not officially over.

Which brings me to the Groo Grux King.

Every summer I have a theme song (last year: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KE2orthS3TQ).

It's been a funny summer on that front; it's been a hard one to peg with lyrics and a beat without biking and running.

The early front runner was Into the Ocean by Blue October. Followed by Fireflies by Owl City. And then, sometime in July, I bought the new DMB CD, Big Whiskey and the Groo Grux King. And played tracks 5-7 over, and over, and over, on the way to the beach and back, week after week.

So here it is. The theme song of the summer of 2009 is a dark horse...Driver Education by the Indigo Girls.

Reading the lyrics won't do it justice, but youtube has no quality videos. Try for me:

I fell for guys who tried to commit suicide,
With soft rock hair and blood shot eyes.
He tastes like Marlboro cigarettes,
Reese's Peanut Butter Cups,
A Pepsi in his hand, getting off the school bus.

Films and drills and safety illustrations
The crushed cars of driver education

Now its tattooed girls with a past they can't remember,
Who pledged allegiance to a life of bending the curriculum.
She tastes like spring, there she goes again,
Drinking with the older guys, tripping by the lakeside.

Films and drills and safety illustrations
The crushed cars of driver education

When you were sweet sixteen, I was already mean and
Feeling bad for giving it up to the man just to make the scene.
Where were you, back when I had something to prove,
With the switchblade set and the church kids learning my moves?

I ran for miles through the suburbs of the seventies,
Pollen dust and Pixie sticks, kissing in the deep end
Of swimming pools before I knew what's in there.
We come into this life waterlogged and tender.

The song resonates because the two things I remember my about my 15th summer were driver's education...and learning how to swim fast. Maybe because this summer was dedicated to swimming only. And because the song reminded me of things I hadn't thought about in a quarter century. Oh, and that last line says it all.

Honorable mention: Shake Me Like a Monkey by DMB. Somehow I just couldn't pick a song with that name.

Still here dancing...

Love of my Life Guard

Last week Mike and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary.

And today, the man who has given me the best of everything for a decade and a half (and more, if you count all the good stuff that happened before the jewelry was exchanged that September afternoon in 1994) delivered another really great present.

I had a hard time rallying pals to for a lake swim today, but was really eager to go. It's gorgeous out, but summer is fading fast. Every opportunity to get into the water has become a precious one. As well as I know the southbound course from Madison Park, and as buoyant as I am in a wetsuit, you can't deny the dangers of swimming alone.

Mike volunteered to play lifeguard for me, hanging out with a book and a bagel on the beach while I swam for about 50 minutes. It was so reassuring to flip over as I rounded the dock out of the swimming area to see him standing in the bright morning sun, watching me.

There was a wicked little wind out there, pushing me south and creating some challenging ripples to overcome on the inbound trip.

When I returned to the beach, Mike had my NEW! monkey slippers in hand. What a sweet morning.

Wetsuit Welcome

Today I swam for the first time since La Jolla Cove. I have had to prioritize work, traveling and also giving up the pre-work swim to get in the office before 6 am.

Today's dip almost made up for it.

I wore my wetsuit for the first time since mid July. The lake temperature is still really nice; somewhere in the high 60s. Tatyana, Ruth, Jan and I enjoyed an easy round trip to the Cove, and I loved skimming on top of the water with the added buoyancy the wetsuit provides. I missed the feel of the water on my arms and legs, though.

I hope to hit the lake a few more times before flying to LA for a week on Tuesday morning and possibly hanging up my earplugs in for the season. It has been such a long lovely summer of swimming and so much more. I can't remember a happier one.

Since my last post I paid a visit to the loveable and capable Dr. O'Kane, who has referred me to a colleague who specializes in knees. Oh, and knee surgery. We are going to do one more diagnostic (something to do with a treadmill and lidocaine) on 10/14 and then we'll know for sure if exploratory surgery is the only thing that might bring me back to good.

It has taken almost six months, but I am actually starting to miss running. Maybe that's because it's autumn, the temperature is perfect, the leaves are changing, and all the stuff I'm allergic to has either died off or gone away.

I am dedicating the winter to fixing my knee -- it is my singular training goal.

I want to do triathlons again, perform well, and enjoy the lean fitness of that life.

I weigh 120 pounds today but don't think I've been this soft in a dozen years. Swimming makes me happy, but it doesn 't make me skinny.

I came home from NYC Wednesday to find a trophy from Danskin in the mail box. I guess I was third in the amateur elite category. I'll take that.

I will post the grinning idiot photo soon, and close the book on my 12th time around that race course.

Campfire Song

Allow me to begin with a brief photo essay of beautiful girls.

And our natural habitat.

Tatyana captured it best, didn't she, when she said that looking into the waves is like looking into a fire.

I have always found the ocean more mesmerizing to the ear than the eye, but I liked what she said.

The ocean has sung three words to me, commanding over and over, since I was a little girl: Return Unto Me. Not return to me. But return unto me. Somehow that extra syllable completes the musical phrase perfectly with every crash and ebb.

So over the last few days, we did just that.

Tatyana, Jan, Liz and I traveled to San Diego to take part in the 79th annual La Jolla Rough Water Swim.

There is too much to say about the magic of the weekend to do it justice. Consciousness streaming is wimpy writing, but it's the best I can do with the things I hope I'll never forget.

Lily's sparkly shoes.

Cheering for the waves, and making them bigger. (And diving into them anyway.)

Little kids being tossed on 6 foot waves and swimming on.

Having the race live up to its name, and then some.

Jan's hardware.

Liz's pace per 100: 1:39.

My pace per 100: 1:39.

Finishing 8th out of 18.

Chatting with Michellie Jones and not knowing it.

Being pictured as a horse on her twitter site.

Jan's "run through Architectural Digest."

The lifeguard towing the old local guy out of the cove on Monday morning, and wanting to be that guy, 40 years from now.

Taking pictures of random houses at Windansea hoping one of them was Raymond Chandler's. (They weren't.)

Tatyana's bikini bottoms anchored to her fins in the foamy wave ends.

World class body surfing in Del Mar.

Sand in your hoo hoo (and everywhere else).

La Jolla Love Suites.

Liz flirting with the guy with the red surf board.

The rest of us flirting with everyone else.

The best dang nachos on the planet at Karl Strauss.

The sparkle in Liz's eye when I said as day broke Sunday morning, Do you want to go for a walk?

My nose is peeling.

Return unto me.

Someone over the weekend said it was a cruel joke to have been born with arms and legs, and not a tail and fins.

Tribute to Earplugs

"There's something nuanced about them. It's like magic." -- Joseph (who wore not only earplugs, but a wetsuit this morning)

Pumpkin Spice Warm Down

So today for the first time I thought to myself, this has stopped being sensible. Not that it is going to keep me from charging into the lake in the rain and dark for as long as I've got company, but today it really seemed silly.

Geoff, Liz and I met at Caulkin's Landing in the windy rain, shuttled to Luther Burbank Park, shivered down the path to the dock, and hopped in. For the next 2.5-ish miles, I never got warm. The water was surprisingly smooth until we rounded the north end of Mercer Island and the wind turned toward us. I love swimming under I-90. Something about it seems so naughty. Liz and I swam the distance in just over 1:10.

Despite the "flashdance" shower of hot water from a gallon jug brought from home, I stayed awfully cold. Liz sat on my lap as Geoff drove my car back to LB, which was snuggly and warmed me up a little. Geoff saw I was still shivering and suggested we stop at Starbucks for some tea top off our core temps, which to me meant only one thing: a Pumpkin Spice Latte. PSL, which Starbucks serves up between 9/1 and Christmas, signals autumn to my taste buds like little else. I felt smug drinking one after a non-wetsuit swim. Fall, you can't catch me.

We ran into Mike, Tom, Tatyana and Howard chilling out over coffee after their MSC swim. Why do swimmers make me laugh like no one else? Do other sports have things like pull buoy humor, clock nazis, upside down lane dynamics and fin throwing rancor at 5:08 am? I don't know. But I'm glad we do. Dude, I think your cap's too tight.

It's been a really fun long weekend of swimming. I know our ranks will thin in the coming weeks, between chlorine addiction and diminishing daylight, but I'm in it as long as I can be. Trick or Treat.

You can Spin the Light to Gold

The same things look different.
It's the end of the summer.

For the first time in my life, I will go kicking and screaming into autumn. I will dig my heels into the thin layer of beach along the waterfront until they freeze.

They will tow the diving dock away next Tuesday. In the past I've loved this harbinger of fall. This year I don't want to face it.

Tatyana sent a note toasting a shiny new September.

Liz went back to MSC, fulfilling a promise she'd made herself to return to the pool first thing this month.

It was 5:55 before we were able to safely launch this morning. We talked of scuba lights and glow sticks.

Joseph said he would swim until DT's birthday on 11/4.

I swam to the cove today with two caps and earplugs. Thanks for waiting, boys of summer. And God bless you, Brendan.

What I did instead of IMC today

1. Swam 3.5 miles from Caulkins landing to the Seattle side of the I-90 Bridge and back.
2. Visited a neighbor who is remodeling.
3. Read about 100 pages of the new Philippa Gregory novel.
4. Worked for a few hours.
5. Cleaned the catbox.
6. Walked on the beach at Golden Gardens with Mika.
7. Had a nap.
8. Watched Jan and Tonya looking strong on Ironman Live.
9. Looked for a recipe for waffle cones.
10. Got some closure at last.

Cold Play

There's no denying it, the lake is getting colder. Yesterday at the beach, Mike said that the buoy thermometer has dipped below 70 for the first time since early July. I'd be kidding if I said I can't tell. You'd think one or two degrees wouldn't matter, but believe me, they do.

I made three round trips to the tennis club this week without my wetsuit. The two where I chased Geoff were fairly comfortable; he is faster than I am but I can keep him within a few strokes if I try hard. Exertion translates to warmth, at least for a little while.

It's one thing to swim 40-45 minutes in this temperature, it's another to swim for 1.5 hours, which I plan to do tomorrow as a perfect training session for the 3 mile Gatorman coming up Sept 13. So I called in the expert, Brendan, who is a veteran distance open water swimmer (he swims outdoors 5-6 months per year and I don't think even owns a wetsuit) to help me through it. He suggests vaseline, a silicone cap, and, wait for it...earplugs. To wit:

I prefer the basic 'silicone wax' type ear plugs that you mold into your ears. They are basically one-use ear plugs so buy a box of a dozen or so. I get them at Rite Aid but I bet you can get them at any drug store for a couple bucks.

Other than that - the thicker 'silicone' caps are also a bit warmer. The kind that come down over your ears and cover the back of your head down to your neck. When your head is warm, you can feel a lot more comfortable.

Last thing you can do is grease up a bit - just bring a jar of vasoline and lather it on. Arm pits and joint behind your knee lose a lot of heat. Be sure and have a rag to wipe your hands off because its a mess if you get that on your goggles. It usually washes off by the end of a 3 miler.

Well, nobody ever said open water swimming was a glamorous sport.

Today I ran 35 minutes on the elliptical machine. My knee hurts, but I am sick of feeling floppy.

Secret Sunday Skinny Dippers

I am a library felon. On a fairly regular basis, Mike and I discover messages on our answering machine that go something like this. (Cue automated voice) "Karin. Maria. Gardner. This is the Seattle Public Library alerting you that you have TWO. Overdue. Items. Please return them to your neighborhood branch as fines are accumulating daily."

I am also a parking gambler. I park on downtown or Greenlake-area streets a few times per week, but rarely bother with the paid parking sticker rigamarole. Tickets are rare, and I figure if I get a $30 parking fine once or twice a year, I am still coming out ahead.

So today, as we launched from Day Street beach just as God made us, I wondered, am I racking up another small misdemeanor? It turns out that public nudity is not illegal in King County. But, ironically, I discovered that open water swimming, at a greater distance than 50 feet from shore, IS.

Good to know. I guess if we had gotten caught we could have said we were swimming so deep for modesty's sake.

I am going to resist poetry here. And simply say if you are like me, and believe the water is your true habitat, you have to try it one day. Even if you are a grown up and you think you're past this sort of childish pleasure. Believe me. You're not.

I should tell you that 3.2 miles is a long way to swim in any case -- in a wetsuit, in a swimsuit, and in, well... nothing. We were chattery and spent coming out of the water (I was shaking so hard I could barely untie our swimsuits from the buoy line at the finish, which had been secured by a kind friend earlier in the morning -- not to mention trying to wiggle into the thing when it finally came free), but I loved doing something new and so undeniably mermacious.

Carpooling

So I picked up my neighbor Geoff at 5:15 this morning on the way to the beach.

"You've gotta love swimmers, we're always on time," he said, as he folded his tall frame into the passenger seat of my Miata. "There are three things in life where promptness matters. Swimming, fishing, and going to church."

Which made me think of the relative insanity of what we do. Some would say it's nuts to leave the warmth of your bed, drive across town in the dark, jump into the lake when the water and the sky are barely more than contrasting shadows (we are sighting off dock lights for the first quarter mile or so these days), braving chop and chill and who knows what other conditions...just to partake in our delicious ritual. Today, we already had 1.5 miles behind us when the sun came up.

I can't think of much else that would get me out of bed this early, or this gladly. I think I am blessed that there is something in my life that I love enough to make me do it.

Rise up, Rise up

If you had told me yesterday (or last week, or a month ago) that things would go down at the Danskin the way they did today, I would never have believed you.

Coffee in hand, I picked up Megan at 5:15. It was still dark as we arrived at Genessee Park, where we, and over 5000 other women, had racked our bikes yesterday in anticipation of today's event, the 20th anniversary Danskin Triathlon.

Megan and I have done this race together since 1998; she has missed 2 of the 12 years anticipating the births of her kids, and one of those years she came and cheered me on. Our Danskin is meaningful on so many levels, we love this race for many of the same reasons, and some personal ones, too. One of the reasons I love it is simply that we get to spend the morning doing something that makes us feel great, and doing it together.

My game plan today was this: Rock the swim (and try to win it), spin happily on the bike, and walk the run. Though I have finished as high as third place in this race, today was going to be my day to just enjoy the ride.

Following the national anthem, the elite wave hit the water at 6:45. I used my tried-and-true system of cranking hard for the first 100 yards to shake people off my feet and carve out some space. One woman swam alongside me for that distance and perhaps a little further, but to my surprise, in less than 500 yards I was alone out there, pointed straight at the first turn buoy. I was winning the Danskin!

Well, that of course was very motivating, and the half mile swim flew by. I came out of the water first, in a solid 11:27. Then came something I bet I will never, ever forget. The hundreds of spectators lining the swim chute started yelling and cheering. Hundreds of voices. For me.

Really?

It's like those voices picked me up and carried me into the transition area and out onto the bike course. I can't even describe how powerful it was. I just can't.

"You were grinning like an idiot," said Megan later. I am not surprised.

So off I went onto the 12 mile bike course. As I headed out onto Lake Washington Boulevard, the race escort motorcycle pulled ahead of me. I followed the flashing red and blue lights out to I-90, over the bridge, through the tunnel, down to the turnaround point, up the hill...and back to the tunnel. At about mile 8, Courtenay Brown, who is 30 years old, a pro, and who eventually won the race, swept past me with her mischievous smile.

With all of this motorcycle excitement, I forgot my race strategy of "spinning on the bike." Considering I have ridden my bike 6 times all summer, I am feeling sorta zooty about the fact that I held nearly 21 mph for the 12 mile course and ended up with the 6th fastest bike split in the race.

By the time I returned to T2, my knee was throbbing, and the banana I ate before the swim had started to talk to my tummy.

But...I was in second place. The red ribbon can't give up, right? So, without giving it much conscious thought, I didn't walk the run.

"Of course you didn't," Mike said later. "We all knew you wouldn't." Really?

So I started to sort of shuffle along. And through my head went this:

And take my hand. You know I'll be there if I can. I'll cross the sky for your love. Give you what I hold dear. Hold on, hold on tightly. Rise up, rise up, with wings like eagles. You'll run and not grow weary.

That's U2. The song is "Drowning Man" which is sort of ironic.

Which made me think of this:

But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary.

That's Isaiah 40:31.

I was passed by two other athletes before finally crossing the finish line. I shuffled at a pace just under 9 minute miles. It was enough, when all was said and done, to net me a 6th place overall finish in my 12th consecutive Danskin.

Ta da.

Catch Up Drill

Eek. It has been an awfully long time since I've been here.

I am committed to reserving this space for racing and training related musings (more or less) so when Mike and I spent the last week of July in Washington DC and my focus shifted to other things, so did my blogging habit, I guess.

The trip was great. I didn't train at all while we were there, though I think we walked 5-8 miles per day, which was a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because those many steps brought us to new experiences and knowledge; bad, because all of that foot travel threw my knee back to about April from a recovery standpoint. I have not run since before we left, and am back on the ice and ibu train. I ran into Dr. O'Kane in the Blockbuster parking lot the other day (as I was trying to get the chocolate cupcake icing off the butt of my jeans, nice) and we decided I should pay him another visit soon.

Since returning, I've had some memorable swims. The "religious experience" point to point with Kelly, Jim, Liz, Tatyana and Mike from Madrona to Madison on a gray Sunday. The chilly cove swim with dear Rob who gave up his speed for my safety Thursday morning and stayed with me stroke for icy stroke for nearly an hour. Rob, if you are reading this, I have a Starbucks card with your name on it. Thank you.

I am still loving the wetsuit-freedom, though the lake has dialed its temperature down since July. The weather is warming up and no doubt the lake will follow over the next week or so. I still hope to make it through Labor Day without suiting up except to compete.

Today was the 25th anniversary Emerald City Open Water swim. This event brings together top swimmers from around the area, including lots of kids. I have been thinking lately about my open water habit and wondering how long my friends and I will sustain it. Will we still love it when we're 50? When we're 60? My pod ranges from mid 30s to mid 50s...it was great to see the next generation of open water swimmers hit the beach today.

I finished a surprising third. Surprising, because (shame on me) I really thought I had a shot at winning the thing. I swam a :27 flat, which is my slowest time ever on that mile course, even though I felt strong throughout the race and hammered past a woman who swims for Whitman College in the last 100 yards (old age and treachery makes me the second loser).

Just checked the ceramic hardware from ECOs past and noted a :26.08 written on the mug from 1997 and a :25.33 for 1998. I didn't record my times for 2000 and 2004, but they must have been OK, because I have the mugs to prove a decent performance. Measuring open water distances is a fairly inexact science, I know, but when I stood up as the clock flipped to :27 I thought WTF??? It was still a fantastic morning with friends in and out of the water, but the clock was a downer.

Tomorrow is the Danskin. I felt like such a poser racking my bike with the elites today knowing I am going to walk the run. I'm sure the pink power will get me through; the Danskin is always my favorite day.

Le maillot jaune de mon coeur

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBjp1lsCaGs

The Ironman Canada Refund Check Came Today

Mike said all the right things.

Finally Fat Fish

For years I've wanted to swim the 3.2 mile Fat Salmon race from I-90 to Madison Park.

Typically, on the mid-July Saturday when the race falls, I'm off on a long bike ride or taking a rest day before Sunday's Sea Fair Tri. This year's knee injury brought the opportunity to swim it at last. Don't you just love silver linings?

I need to learn to hurt out there.

I swam the distance comfortably...finishing in 1:24. That's a long time to swim. By the time I reached the diving platform at Madison, I thought to myself...I should just keep going. It's a beautiful morning. Can I really be done already?

Someone once asked me, "How far can you swim?" and I answered "How far can you walk?"

That's how I felt yesterday. There seemed no reason to stop. I've got to find some speed somewhere. I know it's in the pool, waiting for me, but I just can't face it.

Tomorrow, Liz and I are ditching our wetsuits and starting naked swim season. I think it will be surprisingly liberating. I am tired of neoprene on my shoulders.

My friend Andrew once theorized that chlorine is a drug. Your body gets used to it, he said, and when deprived, starts to miss it. He said he always got the blues in August, because his body missed the chlorine after a few months of swimming in the lake.

My friend Joe once said that chlorine has made him bald.

I think they both might be on to something. My arms and legs are downy like they never get in winter. I've been sad lately, despite the glorious, glorious lake swim mornings.

Yesterday at the Fat Salmon it was like a big, lovely family reunion at the water's edge. I was 9th overall, 3rd in my age group. I swam way too wide, following someone I thought was Michael Jones whose navigation and late-race sprint capacity I trusted. His strong kick pulled me along.

Turned out to be someone else altogether. I bought Michael a chocolat-y chip frappucino at the end of the race all the same.

How Today Started

Wake up, sleepy head
I think the sun's a little brighter today
Smile and watch the icicles melt away
and see the water rising
Summer's here to stay
And those sweet summer girls will dance forever

Go down to the shore, kick off your shoes, dive in the empty ocean.

Tour de Mercer, Stage 2

This week and next, a group of about 30 of us are swimming around Mercer Island in 1.5 to 3 mile stages. We're raising money for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, while doing our favorite thing under the indulgent gaze of God and the occasional news helicopter.

Monday's Stage 1 was choppy and gray, as we swam 1.8 miles from the Mercerwood Shore Club to the dock at Mike Schaeffer and Connie Strope's house.

Liz and I stayed together (thanks to her patience with my wiggly swimming) and finished second among the women, we think, in the quest for the yellow thong(s).

Today the water was flat and the sky clear as we dove into stage 2, which is characteristically a choppy "mountain" stage since it spans the southern tip of the island and feels the brunt of the wind from the south. We swam a speedy 1.5 miles from the Schaeffer dock to the Beach Club.

I have not taken part in more than a stage or two of the Tour de Mercer in several years, but the rush of this event has made me wonder why.

Follow the story here: http://tourdemercer.freehostia.com/

My favorite things that have happened so far:

1. Sitting in the front seat of the Smershmobile with Sarah, Liz and Jim, while 25 others had to tough it out in the SRO back of the dump truck and everyone giving us hell for being female and cute.

2. Jim admitting he puts conditioner on his hair under his swim cap.

3. Liz swimming strong and pacing me perfectly.

4. Brendan holding me to my promise of shucking my wetsuit next week and being encouraging about it.

5. Seeing Don again.

6. Seeing Mike again.

7. Seeing the Transformers (?) balloon tied to Howard's leg in the distance in stage 1 and trying to catch him...without luck!

8. Rebecca's healthy elbow.

9. Kerry's inspirational stage 1 performance, hours before going in for chemo.

10. Anticipating the MI-5.

Spooky Swim

This morning, when Eric, Tatyana, Liz, Ruth, Joseph and I launched from Day Street Beach under I-90, the haze from last night's fireworks and our recent heatwave hung heavy. Our 3.2 mile goal post, the condo tower at Madison Park, was impossible to see.

We felt like extras in some apocalyptic B movie as we swam along the misty shoreline. The water, on the other hand, was buttery smooth and delicious.

We broke the swim into 1-mile sections, stopping just past the marina at Leschi, at Denny Blaine, and then home. The first mile was slow and sweet. Eric picked up the pace on mile two and I decided to hang on. By the time we started mile three, I was game not only to pace Eric but to try to put a little time into him, which I managed for awhile. We finished the swim together in about an hour and a half; not bad for the distance and the stops.

Today is Parents Day. Within minutes, mine, Mike's and our various siblings will be gracing my doorway, and shortly our nephews and niece will dazzle us with their best cannonballs in our backyard pool.

The haze has lifted. Life is good.

Mountain Goat Moments

Today is the first day of the 2009 Tour de France.

On an earlier post, I think I proclaimed the three weeks of March Madness "the best time of the year other than the three weeks leading up to Christmas when you're five" but I'm realizing that was a silly thing to say.

Welcome back, Lance. Come on in and stay awhile. I can't wait to have you and your 179 best friends inhabiting my imagination and my living room for the next 21 days.

I will get mushy about the Tour in a later post, perhaps when the peleton hits the Pyrenees. Today, I want to talk about my ride.

Relatively speaking, it was short (longer than the Tour's stage 1 time trial today, however!). For good luck I used the cool new water bottle that Jan brought me back from her stellar performance at Ironman 70.3 Boise.I rode 1:35, just from home to Juanita Beach and back. I felt slow but surprisingly steady on the hard 9-minute climb up Juanita Hill. As I passed a bunch of fairly fit looking GUYS, I was reminded why I love hills. I also am about 5 pounds lighter than my usual July weight (fat is lighter than muscle) and I felt the difference today.

My knee hurt a great deal until it warmed up, but then it started easing off. I couldn't fathom dismounting straight into a run, however. I think that's going to hurt, but I need to try it a few times before the Danskin in mid August.

I ran 3 miles on the treadmill on Thursday.

The pieces are coming together, but I'm still a little nervous about lining them up back to back. I've got 5 weeks. I am still deciding whether or not to withdraw from the Elite wave...that clear, first wave water is hard to resist, but I admit to feeling like a poser.

It's important to me to keep the Danskin streak going. This will be number 12. I will finish even if it means walking to the finish line and being the category cellar dweller. Or maybe I'll be great. My fastest Danskin is 1:08. I hope to beat 1:20 this year.

From Far and Wide, O Canada, We Stand on Guard for Thee

To say I have a complicated relationship with Canada would be an understatement. My parents were married there in 1954, and lived in Vancouver for five years while they waited for their number to come up so they could immigrate to America.

When I was a kid, we ran ragged on the beaches of Vancouver Island's West Coast...pitching tents on the sandy edge where the rainforest meets the ocean. Body surfing and falling in love in the way everyone does, just once, when they are 15. Turning white blond from the salt and the sun. Eating chocolate bars around the campfire that were not allowed into America because the FDA had some issue with the milk, but they tasted better than anything Hershey, PA could dream of cranking out.

At 23, I went to work for a Canadian company. That's when my real awareness of the nuances between Americans and Canadians began. Most days it's a blessing.

Someone gave me a book called "Why I Hate Canadians" last Christmas and weirdly it has made me love them more.

I think their national anthem is the most beautiful I know. I can sing it by heart. Out of tune, mind you, but by heart.

Comedian Kathleen Madigan says, "Canada is like your attic. You forget all about it, but once you spend some time there, you realize there's a lot of good stuff to see."

I don't know anyone in my (well-traveled, well-read, well-educated, well-bred) circle of American friends who has a hope of naming more than three or four Canadian provinces and territories, let alone all of them.

My second favorite vision of Canada is caught in the photo above.

It was snapped this morning at Sasamat Lake (also known as Nanchook! by those who hopped into the mermaidmobile at 5 am this morning at the Green Lake Park and Ride to journey to a swim race there). It is evergreen and brilliant blue and so very Canadian.

Conditions couldn't have been better...flat water, warm air and water temperature, no wind and terrific vibe, pre-race bagpipes notwithstanding.

Bob, Liz, Tatyana, Jeanne and I all posted solid performances. I swam the 4 K at 1:01.18...faster by about 20 seconds than my 2007 time and second in my age group. I rounded the first lap buoy at :30.47 and knew I'd need to raise my game to break an hour....I had more to dig for but didn't take it...I'm still too conservative on the longer distances but today was a good gauge of what I can do as I look ahead to the 3.2 mile Fat Salmon on 7/18.

Bob was 3rd overall and 2nd in his age group.
Liz finished a few minutes after I did in 5th in our division
Tatyana and Jeanne each won theirs.

We resisted wearing our "ribbons and rosettes" to lunch.

A gift to all of us was a very brief border wait and light traffic on the way home.

In the shower I noticed my abs hurt. I think it was from laughing so much today.

3 Otters & The Cold Rush

Saturday morning brought perfect swim conditions. Sunny skies and flat water. DT, Joseph and I opted for a "sight seeing swim" northbound from Madison Beach. We swam along the shoreline, under the 520 bridge, and across toward Husky Stadium.

Our turnaround point was a log platform DT knew about. We stopped there and just enjoyed the morning for a quiet while, but not before we laughed ourselves silly trying to climb up onto the slippery, rolling logs and trying to unseat one another. Drivers on the bridge could easily have mistaken us for three playful otters, instead of a trio of forty-somethings: an attorney, an accountant, and a girl who sells produce for a living.

Ran 25 minutes on the treadmill last night; my knee hurt badly until it warmed up then just thrummed along with a dull ache.

This morning we swam out to Denny Blaine -- my first time swimming the longer distance route this summer. We added a touch-and-go stop at the Cove on the return trip to get us into a more protected lie as the water was getting choppy and the boat traffic was getting thicker.

I came out of the water surprisingly cold; I waited for a few friends with my wetsuit off in the shallow end for about 10 minutes and I think it did me in. Even the heater in the car, a snuggle in bed with Mike and a hot shower have not done the trick. I'm on my second cup of coffee. I'm in fleece sweats, a long underwear top with a t-shirt over it and my penguin slippers. I've been out of the water for two hours and am still chilly and chattery. I think this is what Connor calls "the Cold Rush."

Looking forward to racing at Sasamat Wed! Hopefully I'll be warm by then!

Remembering Michael

I think the last time I thought a lot about him, I was still a P.Y.T.

I have over 500 songs loaded on my iPod, but not a single one of them is his.

As we arrived at the beach Friday morning, someone said, "Welcome to the Michael Jackson Tribute Swim."

This remark brought about a full range of reactions...people who were already tired of hearing about recent events, people whose strongest feelings about him had to do with court cases and a little boy being dangled over a balcony...while others hummed Billie Jean under their breaths and moon walked in their flip flops.

We reminisced about how old we were the first time we saw the Thriller Video. I remember being a 7th grade baby sitter, sneaking a forbidden glimpse at this new phenomenon called MTV...and being just that. Utterly Thrilled.

Like most of the good things in my life, my memories of Michael are connected to the water. Summer afternoons canoeing on Serene Lake with my best friend Tara were not complete without Thriller on the tape player that summer we were 14. What a simple, happy time that was.

I don't think I can say anything that hasn't already been said about Michael. But here is how I will remember him.

http://www.mtv.com/videos/michael-jackson/206759/man-in-the-mirror.jhtml

4 the Record

1. Road my Le Mond to work last Thur. Loved being back in the "commuter culture" though I felt awfully slow. I need to get in biker shape! My knee hurt pretty badly about 2 miles into the return trip home. Maybe my shoes/pedals are canting funny and need a tune up. Also had a (very loud!) flat on 40th Ave NE and had to walk the last few blocks home.

2. Saturday I swam at Colman pool and felt hemmed in by the lane lines. Lake swimming spoils me for just about everything -- even the outdoor, 50-meter, saltwater happiness that is the Saturday GLAD workout doesn't measure up. I left my usual lane which was crowded to join Tim who is the zennest swimmer I know. We grooved and were happy.

3. Ran 2 miles on the treadmill yesterday. After about three minutes a hot, syruppy pain exploded on the outside of my kneecap and flowed over and under it. I kept running anyway.

4. Today, as always, the Boys of Summer waited for me at the 9 minute dock. When I arrived, they were talking about the eagle that nearly buzzed Tim and Rick and me in that same spot last week. Then somone noticed that on the other side of the cable crossing, two huge eagles were sitting on somone's dock, each perched on a post and looking hungry. The unspoken thought in everyone's mind was...I don't want to go first...what if the birds think I'm a tasty morsel? As the slowest, it was my job to lead out. And I'm happy to report I held my position at the top of the food chain, but the back of the pod.

Asthmatic Amnesia

Seems weird to start a year planning to complete an Ironman and find yourself in June hoping to finish the Danskin.

Today I made a big step toward my more modest but still meaningful goal. I rode my bike outside for the first time since January. I rode for 41 minutes. 7 of them were spent climbing the long but shallow hill of 40th Ave NE. My knee was tender. I decided not to ice it afterward, thinking I'd rather not mask the ugliness if there is any. So far, it's OK.

I was surprised how bad my lungs felt. Obviously I'm not in cycling shape. I'm a recent respiratory infection survivor. Despite being fairly fit thanks to so much swimming, my lungs hated the ride more than my legs or even my hind end which hadn't come into contact with anything so painfully pointy as my sleek Selle saddle in many months.

It struck me as I arrived home that I'd neglected to take my asthma medication. Somewhere in the course of the last 6 months I forgot I even have it.

That and the noticeable reduction in stinky laundry have been a pair of silver linings.

Tomorrow brings the open water again. I've been listening to the Indigo Girls a lot this week and love these reminiscent lyrics:

I ran for miles through the suburbs of the seventies,
Pollen dust and Pixie sticks,
kissing in the deep end
Of swimming pools before I knew what's in there.

We come into this life waterlogged and tender.

More later on that.

Mermacious Marketing

Meet Chrissa. She is the American Doll Girl of the Year for 2009. The victim of a brilliant marketing concept, shamelessly priced at $95 (with a storybook about her, but without her swim team gear which will run eager-to-please parents another 24 smackers), I love and hate what she represents.

Dolls are made for cuddling (said the girl who still sleeps with a teddy bear named Tena which she received for Christmas sometime in the 1970s). We of the pre-Cabbage Patch generation get this. To spend nearly $100 in today's economy for a doll that you can't even really snuggle with is ridiculous and sad. She's made of hard plastic in some far away country; her carbon toeprint is astonishing and she's not even 10 years old yet.

That said, I think about this. Good for the American Doll people for issuing a special little girl in a swimcap (dispelling the myth that nobody is pretty wearing one). For girls of the next generation to think swimming is cool is worth a great deal. To have girls swimming laps and loving lakes, and realizing that having bigger shoulders than the boys means more than looking sexy in spaghetti straps, well, that's something.

Paradoxically, Chrissa makes me think of Livia. My friend Livia is over 85 years old. She of the Raggedy Ann generation swims 30 minutes of breastroke each and every morning, then retires to the sauna to visit with her friends before starting her day. Livia, who is originally from Latvia and experienced World War II like no one else I have ever talked to, is the heart of the 6 am hour at Green lake pool. We love her and are ever inspired by her.

While Chrissa and Livia may never meet, I believe that in their hearts, they are the same. Chrissa, and the girls who adopt her, could well be the Livias of the future. I hope so.

(S)he Remembers Being Small. Playing Under the Table and Dreaming.

This morning dawned Seattle perfect, all gray and green.

Despite the cold, I drove to the beach with the top down on my car listening to the new DMB. Despite the fact it was 6:20 on a Sunday morning, I played it loud.

I have not bought a Dave Matthews CD since Under the Table and Dreaming captured my imagination in the early 1990s. Shortly afterward came Crash and suddenly Mr. and Mrs. Suburbia were trekking to the Gorge Amphitheater in their freaking Subarus with their picnic baskets and wine coolers to hear them play...and the magic was gone.

The sad passing of saxophonist LeRoi Moore last summer got me thinking about the old sounds, and this morning I was so happy to discover that now, 10 months later, the reminiscent chords are captured on Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King in their full and beautiful glory. Moore played on some but not all of the album.

I arrived at the beach feeling Seattl-y and spiritually sated. Nice swim with Brendan, Connor, Jan and Liz to pair of pink buoys at the tennis club. In theme with the Seattle groove, we went to Starbucks after. Here is what you missed:

Tatyana -- heading on a long run
Jan -- cute new haircut and planning on a long bike ride
Liz -- going to watch the Furry 5 K at Seward Park in recognition of a canine charity she supports
Tim -- business is good in Paris and London
Connor -- expecting his second child later this summer
DT -- traveling to Dallas instead of Baltimore these days
Brendan -- planning to swim from Magnuson Park to Mercer Island in August, sans wetsuit
Joseph -- blew off coffee and was missed

Beach Party and Precious Rituals

Yesterday I swam in Lake Washington for the first time this year. The promise of a beautiful morning brought out so many swimmers, it was more like a party than a workout. My open water swim friends live in many different Seattle neighborhoods; often we don't see one another between early autumn and when the lake warms up in June. Friday brought a lovely reunion with many.

Robin, Tatyana, Ruth, Matt and I swam out to the Tennis Club buoys, while the others swam on on the Cove. Our swim was only 20 minutes each way, but a good first outing. I am still battling my tiny (but ever-improving) lung capacity, but felt especially strong on the home bound leg.

I love everything about the lake swim mornings. The body glide application, zipping your friends into their wetsuits and being zipped into yours, having unapologetic bedhead and loving everyone else's, the key-hiding rituals, the tentative steps off the beach and into the water, the colorful cap counting and buddying up...all the little things that happen before we even submerge are precious to me.

And the aftermath. The deck changes on the sidewalk while talking to your friends who are just as naked as you are under their towels and nobody cares, the speedy Starbucks drive by for a tall drip with room for cream, the funny looks from the non-swimmers (why is that girl so wet?) and the fast commute home for a hot shower and wetsuit rinse before starting the work day.

Bring on the summer. I'm going back in tomorrow.

Popsicle Stick #45

Gracious. No excuse for the radio silence from my side of the net. Oh yeah. Since I last saw you, I traveled to California and Canada, suffered for ten days from an insufferable respiratory infection, withdrew from the Ironman, and captured the summer's first hardware.

Let's skip to the good stuff.

Last weekend Bob, Liz and I left north Seattle at the precious hour of 4 am, pointing the car toward Forest Grove, Oregon, home of the Hagg Lake Open Water Races. I think only swimmers can be happy road trippers at that hour, and certainly we were.

Hagg Lake is hosted by the Gecko Tri Club, which did a great job of putting together the event, which included 800 M, 2 K and 4 K races. It was a perfect day -- warm, sunny skies, comfortable lake temperature and upbeat vibe.

I had hoped to swim all three races, but was still recovering from the creeping crud (above). So I decided to enter the 2 K, thinking it might be fun but not fatal. My goal was to break 30 minutes. The first 10 of them were pretty tough...my lungs were weak from being so sick and my body just wasn't used to moving fast. After rounding the second buoy, though, I started to feel good...overtaking a few folks and getting into rhythm. When I came out of the water at :27.40 I was surprised. I was handed a popsicle stick with "#45" on it. That meant I was 45th out of the water...OH NO...was I really that far behind everyone? I looked over my shoulder and saw that at least some of "everyone" was still in the water. Lots of them, in fact. In the end, being 45th overall translated to 10th among women and second for women over 40. Not bad for a first outing.

The best part was being greeted by Kim, Scott, Jake and Matthew in the finish chute.

Tomorrow morning, a big group of open water swim friends are braving Lake Washington off Madison Park. The King County Web site says the water temperature is 69 degrees. It's been a warm couple of weeks, but I'll have to swim it to believe it. I can't wait!

Happy Mother's Day

As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good old way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way.

O mothers let's go down
Come on down, don't you want to go down?
Come on mothers, let's go down
Down in the river to pray.

We drove north on Pioneer Highway and played Emmy Lou Harris as loud as we could stand with the top down heading into a rainstorm hitting the curves at full tilt singing at the top of our lungs and laughing until it hurt.

It was good to spend Mother's Day not feeling guilty about not being on my bike.

Primative Week

It's been days since I've slept for real.

Mike has been away and somehow it's become impossible to sleep alone.

And because I can't sleep, I'm not hungry. I have no desire to fuel up, and maybe as a result I've lost my appetite for speed in the pool.

Tomorrow will be better. Counting the minutes until NWA 165 from MSP touches down tonight.

Sometimes You Win, Sometimes You Lose, Sometimes It Rains.

“It’s a beautiful day for a ballgame. Let’s play two.”

Chicago Cubs Hall of Famer Ernie Banks was known for this catch phrase, expressing his wish to play a doubleheader every day out of his pure love for the game of baseball, especially in his self-described "friendly confines of Wrigley Field."

Two simple words “Play Ball” evoke the very essence of baseball. The smell of hot dogs and mustard and freshly cut grass. The sound of ash connecting with leather. And the leisurely, sexy pace of America’s game on a sunny, Saturday afternoon.

Calling baseball our national pastime, and as American as Mom and apple pie, to my way of thinking, is not enough. Certainly, baseball has found its way into our hearts, but more interestingly perhaps, its words have become a part of our national idiomatic lexicon.

You all know what I mean when I say “we didn’t make it past first base” or “I went shopping for shoes but I struck out.”

It’s worth mentioning that baseball movies have re-purposed the sport’s language to America’s vocabulary. In business we might say “If we build it, they will come” to underscore the potential success of a project. At home, when my nieces and nephews squabble over pointless things, they are told “there is no crying in baseball.”

But“play ball” has its own idiomatic meaning. It describes a situation where a person chooses to go along with someone else’s idea, perhaps despite their own misgivings.

My favorite baseball movie quote addresses just this situation.

In Bull Durham, Kevin Costner’s character, Crash Davis, wants Susan Sarandon’s character, Annie Savoy, to “play ball” with him. At a pivotal moment of their courtship, Annie asks Crash, what do you believe in?

And he says:

Well, I believe in the soul, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days."

Do you think Annie played ball? Absolutely. Wouldn’t you?

Odds and Ends

ODDS

Odds are good that I will swim these races this summer:

5/31 Hagg Lake 2 or 4 K
7/1 Canada Day Challenge 2 or 4 K
7/18 Fat Salmon 3 mile
7/19 Kitsilano 6 K
8/? Lake Padden 2.5 or 5 K
8/16 Emerald City Open 1 mile
9/13 La Jolla Rough 3 mile


ENDS

Today the Seattle Times announced the end of the University of Washington Swimming program. Football revenues have been abysmal, so other sports are paying the price.

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/sports/2009157966_budgetcuts02.html


When I was in Las Vegas last week Mike moved my bike out of our theater room where it had been on the trainer since January and hung it up in the garage.

Yost Pool Will See Another Summer

Some say a parent should teach a child to swim.
The Talmud

Withdrawal Symptoms

I guess we're down to the practical things now.

Dear Phil has stepped up with interest in my Penticton accommodations, which could be great because it would facilitate a quick transaction that I wouldn't need to think about much. I need to yank off the bandaid and minimize the drama.

The next step is to go to the IMC Web site and officially withdraw. I have time to do it -- right now, in fact. I even have motivation -- I want to get it overwith. And yet, I just can't seem to bring myself to type in the URL and read the fine print.

Tomorrow, maybe.

I've re-arranged my emotional furniture about this summer's race plans and for the most part it is starting to feel like home.

Swam well today despite being out of the water since Tue. I'm looking forward to a solid week ahead, though I left my swim suit at the pool (drat) this morning so will need to do at least 1 GLAD workout to retrieve it.

Speaking of water fashion, I need a new wetsuit. Mine feels like a pair of pajamas. I know I didn't shrink, but that thing got humungous over the winter. And open water swim season starts soon!!

Swimming Like It's 1996

Last week I swam five consecutive days. Each workout was over 3000 yards. I don't think I have done that in over a dozen years.

I used to live to swim. But then, after getting serious about triathlon, swimming became a 2-3x weekly "recovery" session between cycling and running workouts. While the summer lake swims have always been heavenly, especially over the last few years I have carried a lot of fatigue with me even into open water.

It feels good to be swimming for its own sake, and watching the clock become increasingly generous. There's a threshold for everyone; we'll see where mine is at 40. When I was 15, I set the Mariner High School 50 freestyle record at :25.2, and could hold race pace 100s around :56. When I was 28, I came within a second of each of these times. Not sure what will happen with a dedicated effort 12 years later, but you never know. Think of Dara Torres and what she has achieved. I have no aspirations for fast sprinting these days, but love how my 500 times keep dipping.

This week's highlight was "breastroke day" at the 5 am GLAD workout Thursday. I kept up with Bill (OK...I so I just streamlined in his wake for most of the workout) then was able to hang with the speedy John S during side-by-side 50s as the session wrapped up.

I am going to Las Vegas Tue for a couple of days, and am hoping to connect with the UNLV Masters while there.

15 Minutes of Fame

Today I did a timed swim: 1100 yards in 15 minutes. Nice to have a benchmark.

And it wasn't even a little taxing.

I Can Only Imagine

Why oh why was there triathlon on TV today, the day my resolve not to race finally took a solid shape?

And why oh why did the coverage have to bring this beautiful thing back to me?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GphmdhLMGE

Steeley Dan meets Iron Man on Easter Morning

I know what happens.
I read the book.
I believe I just got the Goodbye Look.

Last week a friend of mine asked me what I was going to do about the Iroman, and for the first time I uttered the words out loud: "I don't think I can do it."

There is something powerful about saying things out loud, isn't there? You can love someone quietly through your actions, but until you tell them, the sentiment lies a little dormant, doesn't it?

Some of my triathlete friends share chapter and verse on every ache and pain, filling the air with negative energy. Don't they realize that by talking about it, they are making their issues REAL? There is some mixed Velveteen Rabbit metaphor in here, but I refuse to dig for it, even in tribute to the Easter Bunny on this special day.

Back to Steeley Dan. Today the Ironman gave me the Goodbye Look. I know I need to meet its gaze soon. My knee hurts. I'm tired of fighting and waiting.

Yesterday we all went up to my parents' house on Camano to celebrate Easter and help get the yard in shape. My 14 year old nephew Jake and I got to talking about things as we snipped away at the dead ferns surrounding the driveway. He was excited about the rhododendron their family had brought to add to the yard. "We can't plant it until tomorrow," he said. "Because Easter is about new life and all that."

Right you are, kid.

This morning I compiled a calendar of summer open water swim races.

Come As You Are

6:55, 6:50, 6:45

Small triumph today of descending 500s at swim practice. Did them all pull to save my knee and was suprised I could push steadily deeper under 7 minutes without my feet. Fantastic pink power lane dynamics at Seattle U with Princess Maybe and Lauren. Her majesty promises a "reprise" in the morning.

Sunday I ran 2 miles and spun through a 42-minute long episode of House on Netflix. (Does that mean there are 18 minutes of commercials when House airs on network TV? Please, God, who has time?!?)

I felt reasonably good throughout Sunday's workouts. I did an easy swim at Meadowbrook before I saw Dr. O'Kane Monday morning. There's nothing really new to report (maybe this is ITB after all?), but he gave me the medical "all clear" to ease back in to real training. Phil gave me the spiritual green light. Now it's up to me to get on the bike (outside for the first time since Jan) and do some running next week. I'm aiming for a short ride Saturday unless it is raining like crazy. Phil says no big hills. I hate the pancake-flat Burke but maybe it will grow on me like the dreadmill did. Hope so.

Save Yost Pool

Where did you learn to swim?

Family lore has me learning to swim the old fashioned way -- My Dad tossed me gently but firmly ito the icy Index River on a camping trip and let me figure it out on my own. I was three. It worked. And I loved it from the start.

This debut was followed by a series of swimming lessons. I had the desire but didn't have a clue what to do with it. Swimming lessons were the highlight of every summer, growing up in the idyllic suburban Seattle of the 1970s. My mom would take Kimberley and me to Yost Pool, nestled in the hills above Edmonds, the small ferry-boat town on Puget Sound.

Kim, who is 16 months older than I am, was a strong, coordinated swimmer. Driven by the pressures of her schedule, or maybe a motherly over-estimation of the talents of her second daughter, my mom was convinced that we should be in lessons at the same time. That meant that if there was no class for less experienced kids at the same time as Kim's lesson, I had to step up and join hers. (Back then, the Red Cross was not nearly so stringent about swimming lesson progression as we are today!)

So, picture me as the scrawny, blue-lipped kid, tagging along. I remember being frustrated sometimes. Would I ever master chicken-airplane-soldier? I remember the sunny, cold mornings. That shocking sweetness of first immersion. I remember patient instructors, small victories, and learning to love the smell of chlorine in my skin.

I recall the day Nixon resigned, and the news coverage we watched that August morning in 1974. My parents remember me getting very upset and asking, If there is no president, can we still go to swimming lessons? Indeed we could. So we packed our suits and towels and headed for Yost Pool. The country may have been in turmoil, but I was going to get another shot at the elementary backstroke.

Yost Pool sits in a beautiful park-like setting. Sometimes, in the afternoons, we would take the bus or ride our bikes there and swim to our hearts content with our neighbors and friends, dreading the "clear the pool" clarion that would signal the end of yet another summer day. Then as now, I never want to get out of the water.

Today, budget issues have plagued the pool and indeed the city of Edmonds itself. Without help, Yost Pool will close. A grassroots effort to raise funds for the pool is underway, though about $20,000 short of its goal. If you remember Yost Pool, or if you remember a place like this from your childhood, please help if you can.

http://www.saveyostpool.com/

Mile Marker 1

Driving home from work last night, I decided it was time.

The treadmill had waited patiently, like a forgotten toy in the corner of the playroom, since mid-January. It's funny how much I've missed it, this implement of torture that I've refered to as the "dreadmill" for years, until last December's snows and short dark days -- and the remarkable amount of fitness I was gaining -- taught me to love it.

Last night, I set it up to run 1 x 12 minute mile, 4 whole minutes slower than the last mile I clocked.

The first 6 minutes felt good...a no issues from a cardio standpoint, of course, but the discomfort in my knee was pretty similar to...well...how it felt during the 8 minute mile mentioned above. I ran the last 6 minutes in a pretty significant amount of pain.

So...is it possible that after everything, I'm worse?

I iced my knee after I ran, and it felt fine by about an hour later. I spun for 30 minutes this morning...that niggling discomfort was there, but no real pain.

What does all of this mean? Should I go ahead and work back into training knowing that ice and ibuprofen are just going to be part of the journey this year?

Since virtually all medical avenues have been exhausted, and "nothing serious seems to be wrong" shouldn't that be all right?

Spin Cycle

Phil and I agreed on 2 x :30 trainer spins over the weekend as a good test for the health of my post-injection knee. It had been tender all week, exacerbated by running after planes, trains and automobiles Tuesday while carrying too much heavy stuff and wearing security-friendly shoes.

I woke up at 4 am Saturday, retreated with a book to the blue couch, telling myself it was too early though I was like a kid at Christmas wanting ride her new bike. Common sense prevailed and I read (Year of Wonders, by Pulitzer Prize winner Geraldine Brooks) and snoozed for a few hours.

So...armed with iPod and fortified by ginger-citrus nuun, I made my way downstairs around 6:30. I strapped on my shoes, mounted the bike, poked the big red start button on my heart rate monitor for the first time in months and...thump, thump, thump...whatever is that? Dang rear tire was flat. That's a new one. This bike has been not been outside since January. How is this possible? I messed around with the tube, the tire, the bike pump for about half an hour, but no air was going in that thing.

So...I checked out all of the usual places in an eager search for a 700 tube. None in the triathlon cabinet. Big goose egg on Mike's bike maintenance bench. False alarm when I found one in my commuter bag...but it was a 650, perfect for my Kestrel, which of course does not fit on the trainer. Ack! I had been so stoked for this workout.

I had a tighly choreographed day ahead, so I decided to use what little workout time I had left to do my usual sit up/crunch routine and spend some time on the Vasa trainer. Completing this but still feeling low, as I left the exercise room, my eye fell on...an innocently coiled 700 tube, that I had left on the ledge by the door after some autumn commute home from work.

I changed the tire (in less than 15 minutes, AND it held air!) and hoped I'd find time for a spin later, maybe during the basketball game?

In the end I was able to spin while Villanova stylishly smacked Pitt late Saturday afternoon. The 30 minutes were not hard from a cardio standpoint, but my knee remains tender. I hung beween 135 and 150 HR.

I spun again this morning. I was a little fatigued (I had about 12 hours of recovery -- could have used a little more but today is filled with other commitments) and my knee was tender again. I am icing now and it seems a little less mad than it was when I started typing this. My HR was about 5 beats lower than yesterday, but that is probably just the morning...my heart wakes up slower than the rest of me.

So...the jury is out. I am traveling Mon, Thur-Sun this week so the "ease in" will continue. Am hoping for a run along the bluff in Monterey but will have to keep it slow and short.

Of course I'd hoped to feel better by now. Time will tell.

Unhappy ND-ing

You heard it here second: I wish I was in Bismarck, ND right now.

I am really, really sorry for everyone in Bismarck whose basement looks like a swimming pool. I am also really, really sorry for the nice people I met in the Denver airport this afternoon who were booked on my (cancelled) Bismarck flight who had been trying to get there for a day and a half to see a newborn grandchild.

My own experience of trying to get the blizzardy, flooded capital of North Dakota was an annoyance, of course. But I had the option of flying home to a safe and warm place, awaited by the ever-yowling welcome of Betty the Cat. There's no place I'd rather be than in a basic motel room in Bismarck with Mike tonight, but being back in Seattle, surrounded by my creature comforts, is, well, lovely. Beats the fitful sleep many of the people I met today are experiencing right now across rows of seats at gate B80 in the Denver airport.

Here are some photos Mike took today.