A Cornucopia of Minutiae

Big congrats to the always amazing and prodigious D.C. Rainmaker for winning Best of the Blogs. And for nailing the Philly Marathon today. Holy cow!

I think my bowling injury is gone, thankfully. But bowling did manage to totally TAKE out one of my younger colleagues--who threw her back out and had to take a week off from work. So much for group bonding. I'm going to propose that next time, we eschew physical pursuits and just go drink.

Meanwhile, I'm back training. My schedule looks like this:

Sunday: Swim class (loads of fun, and I still suck)
Monday: Off
Tuesday: Spin class 6 a.m. (this is supposed to be 60 minutes but barely hits 45, don't understand why.)
Tuesday night: run on YMCA treadmill, where you get kicked off after 30 minutes. I manage to crank out 3 9:30 minute miles, which is obviously a complete lie since there is no replicating this in REAL LIFE. Say, outdoors, for instance.
Wednesday: 6 a.m.: swim drills from class. Set new time for swimming 100: 3:30. Sigh.
Thursday: Spin class 6 a.m.
Thursday: run 4 miles outside in the cold, at 4:30 p.m., in the gathering dusk. Am hanging on around 10:30 minute miles.
Friday: OFF!
Saturday: Run with my newfound SnailTrail runners. I am waaay out front again, with two other women. Eight miles finished in....1:37!!! Which is a 12:08 minute mile. In my defense, it was 22 degrees out and windy. It turns out that I'm discouraged even when I'm leading. The good news that I successfully avoided the evil post-run petite heroin-laced Starbucks vanilla scones.

Here we are at Sunday again, gearing up for swim class tonight.

I'm in town for Thanksgiving for the first time in several years, so I have the opportunity to run the YMCA Turkey trot, a 10k. I've only run two 10ks ever (is that possible?? What do I have against 10ks???) and apparently my PR is 1:07. So I'm pretty sure that will stand, but hope springs eternal!

And I'm still pretending that I will be running the Fredericksburg Blue Gray Half Marathon on Dec 14 (Hi Susie and David!).

In other news: Apparently you can only watch my television ancien comfortably, from one chair in this house.


Just try watching TV from this couch. You'd need a chiropracter.
I can't move the TV bcs the cable is on that side. And I can't move the couch cuz that lounge-y part is part of the couch and won't work on any other wall.

Believe it or not, this leetle conundrum led to a fight with number one daughter last night! I have so many ridiculous problems...it's just ridiculous.

So, it's OPEN MIKE. I need advice on my training sked, and my furniture arranging skills. Don't be shy!

Undone by Bowling

People, I'm a highly trained triathlete. I can swim, run and bike. I am in Good. Shape.

Reasonably.

Comparatively speaking.

So imagine my surprise when last Thursday my office decided to treat us worker bees to a few hours of bowling, and I learned that: I have no leg muscles!

Apparently? Bowling is nothing more than a prolonged series of lunges, all on the same leg. Over and over and over.

So of course, I woke up Friday having pulled, strained, sprained or otherwise damaged something in my hamstring. Sort of up near my butt. (Or maybe I sprained my butt. Sigh.)

I'm still trying to train for the Fredericksburg Blue-Gray Half-Mary on December 14. Which it turns out, is like four weeks away.

I was up to 9 miles a few weekends ago, but got very little running done in the past three weeks.

So, on Saturday morning, I put on my anti-anxiety cap, and wandered out to meet a new group of runners: the C&O Trail Snails, who bill themselves thusly:

Do you love running on the C&O canal towpath? [Yes!]
Are you more motivated when you know you will be running with others? [Most definitely.]
Are you happy to be running and not so concerned about your pace? [Err, I'm working on this one.]
Have you had trouble finding a group to run with that is not overly
competitive? [Hells yeah.]

I was there promptly at 8 a.m. on a rainy HOT (global warming) muggy November Saturday morning, and ran 7 miles with another woman who is a solid 11:30 min miler. (And hello, we turned out to be the FAST ones in this group. Woot. My kind of group! Although I do recognize that this might probably not be the best training for me. On the other hand, is always being LAST good for me??? I think not.)

By the end of 7 miles my butt/hamstring thing was screaming. I ended up limping to the car. And then limping to StarCrack where I had my usual decaf skim latte, and where the following convo took place (let's hope) in my head:

oh, don't those "petite vanilla scones" look cute! And small! And they're only $.75!! Or, three for $1.95. Might as well get three, I'll eat one here and give two to NOD when I get home.

Well, maybe I'll eat two. After all, I'm in PAIN.

You know what? You just ran 7 miles girlfriend! If anyone deserves a Petite Vanilla Scone, you do! NOD can get her own damn breakfast!

And before you could say Bob's yer uncle, I had consumed

640 CALORIES

They don't call it StarCrack for nothing.

Still to come:
A complete report on how my nutrition plan is coming along, plus updates on spinning and swimming, strength training, and not-heart-rate-training.

I can hardly wait.

(P.S. Everyone please stop blogging so I can catch up.)

Edna Irene Lowrey Scott Capen

April 15, 1923 - Oct. 24, 2008

Mom was a leg model. c. 1949

Who knew my mother liked dogs?? Undated photo.

She did like to party though. Also, undated, but I'm taking a wild guess from the furniture (all Colonial, all the time), that this was in the '70s, when she finally got her own apartment.

"That's not the woman I knew," was my main thought as my eldest half-brother began sharing his memories of my mother at her funeral.

My brother spoke of my mother finally finding happiness with her third husband, after two failed marriages, with whom she lived in the Bay Area for many years, before moving to the wilds of West Virginia only seven or so years ago. He remembered her for her sense of humor (I do concede that she had one), and for a lightness that she had about her that he said he inherited (this is where he started losing me), and that she never held a grudge (OK, now we're talking about two different people).

Of course, she didn't raise him. He and my half-sister were raised by their father and step-mother in California, while my mother and father lived in New Haven, raising me and my brother.

(It's like that Facebook relationship status: It's complicated.)

It was a tough funeral—even as I write I realize how ridiculous a statement that is. Are there easy funerals? Where everyone has had a chance to, you know, make up and laugh and remember good times and there's no pain ... you know, like the Hallmark cards of funerals?

One week after Mom's funeral, I went on my church's yearly silent retreat here.

It's about a five-hour ride from D.C., so I rode up with three woman I had never met before, and none knew my mother had just died. One woman started talking about Whidbey Island, and about a relative's funeral she attended there. How the entire family helped dig the grave, how the mother's ashes were sprinkled in, how the grandchildren placed mementos in the grave, and how everyone then covered the ashes back up.

And I found myself feeling jealous—of a funeral.

Well, Mom's funeral wasn't like that. But then her life wasn't like that either, so what did I expect?

She was a Depression baby, the first high school graduate in her family of six, and determined to have the nicer things in life. And that led to a life of "creative financing," as she liked to call it. She worked at Yale Law School, first as an at-home typist, then as a legal secretary, when women didn't work. After her death I found a three-page letter from her bosses to Yale's human resource office commending her work, saying she was the "best secretary" they had ever had, did the work of "three people," often worked weekends and nights, and asking for a big raise for her.

I also found a handwritten note from President Gerald Ford, thanking my mother for all her help during some visit he made to Yale.

So many things I could write about her, but I won't.

The woman I knew as a child was desperately unhappy. DESPERATELY. She tried leaving once, when I was in 6th grade, but took me and my brother with her.

That didn't work.

She finally left for good—by herself—when I was in eighth grade. I found out when I saw her dresser had been cleaned out.

The innocent years. 1962. Me and my older brother T.

I saw her regularly throughout adolescence. She'd meet me and my brother at a local diner for breakfast every now and then.

Reconnecting with siblings: My one-year-older brother T., me, and my nine-year older brother, B.

There was a long drawn out divorce. Long, contested, bitter, bitter divorce.

But I'm straying.

My mother was a strong person. No question she followed her dreams. She loaded up her car and moved cross country to Oakland, Calif., (when she was in her late 50s) with her husband-to-be, while I was in college, and started a new career at Clorox, rising to executive secretary to the president, where she worked until she retired at age 75.

She had moxie, that one.

So when I was asked to speak, I was at a loss. So much to say that was better left unsaid. So much hurt.

Instead, I read this:

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
--William Butler Yeats

Rest in peace, Mommy.

My Mom the Non-Planner

Hello good friends.

Many of you will have heard by now that my mother died last Friday, Oct. 24. Her funeral is Monday, Nov. 3, in West Virginia.

I don't think I can begin to express the depths of my appreciation to everyone who has written or called to express condolences, but I will try to thank you all individually.

Is it crass to notify people via blogger and Facebook? Maybe, but since that's where so many of my closest, dearest friends (some of whom I've never met) "live," that's where I chose to tell people.

Meanwhile, there is much family drama. Which, if you know anything about my family, you would expect. So far it's been at turns exceptionally painful, sad, hilarious, trying, infuriating, enraging, and so ridiculous that I fear no one will ever believe it. (If you ever watched "Six Feet Under," you have some small idea of the funeral home in West Virginia, just for starters. But that's actually one of the better parts to the saga.) I was allowed no role at all in planning her funeral, because of her manipulative control freak husband, and she is not being buried where she wished (hence the title of this post). Believe me, this is the ultimate exercise in letting go and letting God (please pardon the cliche).

I am trying valiantly to keep up some kind of exercise regimen because it is keeping me (somewhat) sane.

I returned to Bethesda this past Monday, went to work, but am taking Friday off to go to the beach with a friend for a day of rest and restorative yoga before traveling back for the funeral.

Meanwhile,

I KEEP FAITH

Gone Fishin'

Thanks for all the heart rate training advice. I'm going to write all your advice in one post...later.

Right now, I've got some stuff going on, so I'm taking a break. Hopefully it will be short, because I know how you people need me.

Not to be mysterious...my mother is very ill. Plus other stuff.

But for right now...

4:48:54

I dreamed last night that I ran a marathon and that was my time.

I was unbelievably happy. Like incredibly, indescribably happy.

And then I woke up. Bummer.

Is it an omen? A message? An invitation? A WARNING??

Who knows?

'Splain It to Me

I've started Heart Rate Training. First thing I did was figure out my max heart rate by doing a 3-minute step test (outlined in the handy TIMEX book that came with the HRM they gave me): step up and down on a 8-inch step for 3 minutes, get a number, add 45 to it (45 if you're of average fitness, 55 if excellent) = 179. Just for kicks I checked out this NEW IMPROVED formula and got 172. (208 - .7(your age))

To run faster, you have to run faster. Can we all agree on this?

Here are my target heart rate zones (according to the same book):

z1 90-108 bpm
z2 108-126
z3 126-144
z4 144-162
z5!!!REDLINE ABORT ABORT ABORT!!! 162-180

When I run, my heart rate shoots to above the high end of z5 immediately, proving that 179 is most definitely NOT my Max Heart Rate. I slow down. I slow down more. I sloooooow waaaaay down. I'm now doing 12:30 min miles and I'm at the high end or above, of z4.Z4!!!

It gets worse. In spin class last week, my average heart rate was 166 and my max? 213. TWO HUNDRED THIRTEEN.

I had to stop. I could barely keep it under 180.

But the funny thing is I don't feel like I'm dying or anything.

Saturday while running? Average: 155 / Max: 176. And that was doing 12:28 minute miles, cuz if I went any faster, I was quickly in the 180s and above.

So, to summarize:
To run faster you have to run faster.
To run efficiently, you have to train your body to use fat so you have to stay in the correct zone (2 & 3) (??? Something like this??)
To stay in the correct zone, I have to run slower.
Which means, I'm not running faster.

Have I got this right?

So, tell me please: HOW THE HOLY HELL DOES THIS MAKE ME FASTER??

Answer: It's Like a Mini-Vacation

Question: What's a colonoscopy like?

[If you are under 50, you might want to come back later. If you are over 50, and you haven't had one yet, it's time. Colon cancer is the third most common form of cancer and the second leading cause of cancer-related death in the Western world.]

Here's how you do it.

First, go to spin class. Then spend the day fasting, drinking only clear liquids (including coffee, thank God). At the end of the day you will feel svelte and supermodelish and filled with willpower. Enjoy that part while it lasts.

In the evening, drink a gallon of stuff available only by prescription because it is very likely toxic and basically makes you explode for the next two hours.

Now you REALLY feel like a supermodel (no offense to all the supermodels reading this).

The morning of: Wake up Number One Daughter and ask if you can borrow her camera to document things because, after all, "Katie Couric had her colonoscopy done live on TV." Number One Daughter: "Mom, news flash: You are not Katie Couric." So literal, that one.

Have your only child drive you to the outpatient center and on the way there, discuss the fact that you don't have a living will ("Moooooom, stop it!")

Things happen like clockwork. Until the anesthesiologist sees my heart rate of 45. Which I'm guessing is elevated because I'm so nervous. (Am I actually alive?) People get concerned and run around for a while. They stick a thermometer on my forehead (see, now you wish you had photos).

They cover you with warm blankies, wheel you in, stick in an IV, and before you can say "Bob's your uncle," you're off to your happy place and done in 20 minutes. Another 20 minutes to come back to reality. More warm blankies, a cup of tea, and a few graham crackers and you're home, feeling all clean and shiny, ready to tackle the world, since it's only 11 a.m. and you have the day off. "I totally could have gone to work," you think, "since I'm feeling fine!" New plan: Do laundry, clean house, sort mail, go for a run!

What actually happens: Lay down. Wake up six hours later.

Sigh.

If you're putting this off because you think it's painful, think again. If you're putting it off because your health insurance doesn't cover it, don't forget to vote! And if you're putting it off because you're scared of what they might find, you need to HTFU and just do it.

Now, 66.5% Fat-Free!

I had my first appointment with my tri-nutritionist yesterday. She measured my body fat with some newfangled piece of equipment that shoots electricity through your body (something like that). Result?

33.5 percent

Of FAT. (I share because I care!) Not the lovely 28.5 percent that the YMCA found at its so-called "fitness evaluation" back on March 1, 2008.

But the lovely Rebecca has a plan. I loves me a plan. My plan is to drop 10 pounds. Her plan is to get me to 30 percent body fat, and then skip on over to 25 percent body fat. Her plan will be delivered at my 2-week follow up, in um, 2 weeks. (It would have been one week but I have my COLONOSCOPY scheduled for this Friday. Is it strange that I'm looking forward to it because it means I get a day off from work?? Also, do stand by for complete coverage. If Katie Couric can do it, so can I.)

It's well established that people who log their food every day have a statistically higher percentage of weight loss than those who don't (not that that's ever convinced me). But this time, what the hey, I'm logging my intake over at livestrong.com, which has forums, workout logs, a database of every food item on the planet, and calculates everything automagically.

Nutritionist-to-the-Ironmen R. also said I only need to eat half a banana or a half-glass of orange juice before working out in the a.m. I had been eating a bowl of oatmeal with fruit and nuts and soymilk. (So. Freaking. Healthy.) Then I'd workout. Then I'd get to work and have breakfast number 2. Apparently? That's one too many breakfasts.

Who know knww KNEW?

So far I am TOTALLY FOLLOWING THE PLAN. (Today is day one.)

This was also day one of return to spinning. I discovered that my YMCA has spinning classes. And attendance is included in my membership fee. That fee that I'm already paying monthly. So all last year I paid my YMCA fee and then paid again to go spin at another gym. Granted it was worth the money to indulge my spin-instructor crushes.

I don't think I'll develop much of a crush on this spin instructor, although she's very lovely. However, she only played two "real" songs: Coldplay and Eva Cassidy. The rest of the time she played that technoeuropeanfakemusic (no offense). I felt like the lights should have been off, I should have had a drink and a cig in my hand, and someone should have feeding me pickup lines. Other than that, it was great! One hour in the bank of what-do-I-do-during-off-season.

Thirdly, the lovely people at Timex graciously sent me a heart rate monitor, which is terrific since I am too cheap to buy one.


They asked me to check out their triathlon training plans at www.timextrainer.com, and tossed in a heart rate monitor. I haven't checked out the tri training plans yet, but I have tested the heart rate monitor. And my verdict is this: It works perfectly. Except it's a little basic. It reports 1) your heart rate while you're exercising (although you can tap a button to get elapsed time but that's kind of a pain), and 2) your elapsed time at the end along with 3) your max and average heart rates during your exercise. So no splits. And no storing of any data.

So I can use this, but then I'll need to wear a watch if I want to time splits. If you're going to spring for a heart rate monitor, the

Personal Heart Rate Monitor
Price: US $50.00
Product Code: T5G941F5

is probably not the one, unless you ONLY want your heart rate.

Fourthly, I found a new running trail. I've lived in Bethesda for 12 years. I don't know when this trail opened, but it's RIGHT ACROSS the street from the YMCA to which I've been going for years. Sometimes it actually pays to look up. Especially when you're driving.

Anyway, I found the Bethesda Trolley Trail. It has bridges over two highways, it goes up and it goes down. It abruptly stops at some places and then starts again. It's near home.

I don't know whether it's the newness factor, but I've been pumping out 4.31 miles (slowly) never even thinking about walking (jinx).

I could go on, but I got me a debate to watch. Don't think that I haven't been developing new skills though, people. NBTR is all about the skillz:
Wowing my knitting audience with mad guitar hero skillz

I Swam 1750 Meters This Morning

Am I the last person on the Internets to see this?