Put me in, Coach

I'm not going to lie. I'm a competitive person. I get a kick out of being the best, the fastest, the strongest. Part of what drew me to the theater in the first place was the little surge of joy I felt whenever getting cast in the lead. I'm the lead! I'm the best! Forget if it was simply because I was the only girl, or the one who looked like the role the most (think typecasting), or any other non-me reason. Spotlight = me = yay!

This tendency has ebbed and flowed since leaving the theater behind. For a while I thought I could be the best hunter rider, until I realized that working for the best hunter riders around did not make YOU the best hunter rider around, and that to become the best hunter rider around you had to forfeit a normal life. Running? Meh. I gave being the best calorie counter a shot, but that too had limited positive results and a lot of paranoia. (Oh no! An extra half and half container in my coffee! Horror!)

Then I started cycling, and discovered that I was good at it. May I go so far as to say somewhat talented in it. My body, long legs, short torso, had a knack for spinning my feet around in circles. Realizing this, my old be-the-best-beast returned with gusto. I set goals, and rode with the intention of completing those goals: Hang with an A group by the end of the season, complete all 3 local climbs on the same ride, and complete 2 centuries.

Then, of course, I crashed and burned.

While the injury was instigated by poor bike fit, I'm pretty sure (as are all my friends) that had I gone on I would have eventually blown something up. One day, a coworker looked at an icepack on my knee and said, "Why do you train so much?" He's a crusher, so for him to think that I trained "so much" probably meant that I was training TOO much.

Now, finally, I'm back on the bike (FINALLY). My goal ampage is turned down a bit from eleven. I want to return to my Tuesday night speedwork rides by the end of August. I want to do one more century. I want to work in weight training and cross training. I want to gear up for cyclocross season.

I do not want to hurt myself again.

I do not know how to reconcile the above statement with my list of goals.

Thus, I have decided to splurge: I am going to hire a coach.

Even writing that feels pretentious and silly. I mean, a coach? Really? Just who do I think I am? What about my outdated kitchen? What about my car sans hubcaps? What about charity, or buying carbon credits, or any other better uses for my money?

On the other hand, I don't have the best track record when it comes to taking care of ME. I ask my body to do things it probably can't, or shouldn't, and it tries its best until it can't try anymore. Right now, I'm seeing a coach as my body's advocate more than mine.

Hopefully it will thank me by healthfully reaching all of my goals.

In Praise of a Much Maligned Friend

I have to admit, there has been a friend, a good friend, a friend who has always been there for me through all my injuries and athletic endeavors, helping me along, who I have been extremely cruel to. I have called this friend boring, a chore, a pain in the ass, and have extolled about how thankful I was not to have to hang out with them anymore since finding the bike.

All the while, this friend sat, collecting dust, patiently waiting for the day when I would need to seek out their help once again. Like the giving tree. Though I hadn't yet stooped to the level of the selfish little boy who took the leaves, branches, and trunk for my own devices (really? the trunk too? that tree was somewhat of an enabler, no?).

I decided to take an entire week not only off the bike, but off EVERYTHING. Running, walking, swimming, nada. I felt serene and zen during this time period, knowing that my extreme measures would surely (surely!) pay off in the end.

Today, I tried to test out my knee on the bike for the first time since my injury onset on 6/30. On this glorious, easy ride on my completely dialed in (thanks Cullen and Jonathan!) new bike, I would reap my rewards with a pain free spin of 20 miles.

Or my moral would plummet after the pain was there right from the get go the second my right leg had to work to pedal. I immediately decided to just go for 10 miles, just to see if it would spin out. The pain, just like last time, was worse on the uphill than the downhill, but left as soon as I could easily spin the pedals. I returned home, popped some Vitamin I, put on my icepack, and started to cry.

WHAT WAS WRONG? I couldn't understand any of it. To go from zero pain on the bike to this, after one ride, was too much to wrap my head around. I called my mom, a doctor, and lost it. She patiently told me to go see the orthopedist.

Duh.

Fortunately, Greensboro has an AMAZING orthopedist safety net in SEOC. My doctor from my ankle wasn't available, but his PA Karen was. In one hour. Off I went.

In the office, after the Xrays, I lost it once again, and explained with some difficulty what had happened and conveyed my confusion about the injury. She took my left leg, my good leg, and manipulated it all around. Then she took my right leg and did the same, asking each time if it hurt.

Nope. Nope. No. Nope.

She had me stand on my right leg, bend it slightly, and twist from side to side. Pain? Nope.

She took my leg again and started fiddling around with my kneecap. Did it hurt? Here? Here?

Nope, Nope, n...AAHh! Yes!

AH HAH! Finally! After a bit more prodding and one more X-ray, she said that I, like many women, have a patella that sits a little off to the side. Somehow, during that one ride, whatever angle the improper saddle position put me in, misaligned the kneecap so that it no longer fit into the right groove, but banged repeatedly against my femur, resulting in a bone bruise. So, no fluid, no ligament or tendon inflammation, and my muscle tone was good. As soon as the bone bruise healed, I would be good to go.

She ordered one more week off of the bike, but that I could spin on the trainer or swim, and that as long as there wasn't any pain, it was fine.

Then I asked a question I haven't asked in a long time: Could I elliptical?

Yes, as long as it didn't hurt, that would be fine too.

O, Elliptical. O, friend of friends. O, machine of zero impact and comforting rhythmic hum. Where have you been these past months, as I've been zooming off, logging miles and miles of road? Where have you been as I casually glanced at you, commenting to friends, "I can't even remember the last time I was on that thing."

Today, Running Magazine in hand, I ellipticalled, pain free. My calves awakened. My hamstrings started to stir. My running muscles slowly wiped the sleep from their eyes and started to work again. In a completely safe, comfortable, sustainable way.

And thus, good people, I am publicly expressing my love for my elliptical machine. Not only will it keep me in shape for the next week, but will get my running muscles re-warmed up and ready to rock n' roll. It is another, now publicly, stated goal to have my base mileage up to 20 miles a week by the end of August.

Sing in praise of ellipticals everywhere, friends to injured runners, cyclists, and athletes of all credos.

The History of My Owies

Last Tuesday, after a few weeks of easier riding following my Hanging Rock Conquer, I acquired yet another Owie in my long list of owies. The culprit this time?

No, it wasn't me this time, though it has been many times before.

Improper bike fit.

Yes, ladies and gents, though I've been riding and riding and riding some more on Vincent with nary a scratch, but one ride on a(n amazing gorgeous can't-wait-to-ride-it-again) new bike I tried to fit myself brought me crashing to my knees.

Or crashed my right knee, to be more specific.

During my fit tonight (another blog entry), I started to ask my friend, a former pro racer and general bike all around knowledger, about when I should start riding again, what I should do, etc. Which led to a general discussion about my past injuries, etc.

And then the bomb dropped:

Friend: When you're very active for a very long time, like you and me, things start to accumulate, it starts to catch up with you. How old are you?

Me: 28

Friend: See, you're just starting to get to the point where you can't bounce back like you used to, when a horse kicked you and it was no big deal.

BOOM!

I'm 28. I'm not yet 30, but I have put myself through a ringer in these 28 years. I have spent a good part of my 20s riding 8-10 horses a day, not to mention the lifting, dragging, carrying, and banging around that your body naturally goes through when working in the horse industry.

Add that to several years of dancing everyday.

Add to that a few running injuries.

Not to mention all of the riding, running around, and crashing I took as a kid.

So to satisfy my own curiousity, here it is, in all its glory. A complete list of all the injuries I've sustained over the years serious enough to stick out in my mind:

3rd grade: Broken left collar bone and dislocated left shoulder - horses

5th grade: Took off most of the skin on my left arm and some on my right arm - horses

19: Stress fracture to my left hip - running and general idiocracy

20: Stress fracture in my middle back and bruised tailbone - horses

22: Concussion with minor memory loss - horses

22: Bruised left big toe - horses

26: Severely bruised swollen right leg; almost kicked in the knee but not quite - horses

26: Bone bruise inside right ankle - horses

27: Broken right baby toe - horses

27: Patellar Tendonitis in my right knee- running

27: Severely sprained left ankle - running

Not to mention all of the countless times I've fallen off (I fell off horses about 8 times in the winter of 2008-2009 alone, some of them VERY near misses in terms of injury), fallen down, fallen over doing various things, but NOT getting hurt enough to stick out in my mind.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not an old lady by any means, and I have a very high desire to excel at this sport and to get back into running come fall/winter. And my list probably can't compare to others. Still, it's nice to review and see where I've come from as I continue to move towards where I'm going.

What goes up...

Climbing is an integral part of the cycling experience. No matter where you live, you seek out the hills, no matter how small they may be. Elevation gain/loss factors into a ride the way a coefficient figures into a math problem. 2+2 may equal only 4, but 2+2squared all of a sudden equals 6. In the immortal words of Spinal Tap, climbing takes it up to eleven.

On par with the hurts-so-goodness of the way up is the thrilling ease of the way down. Descending is the ultimate reward for a good climb. Watching the speedometer zoom up as you hit mphs that would be adequate even for a car, crouching down to create a precious, aerodynamic shape, carrying that momentum straight into the inevitable next hill. If climbing is the cake, descending is the icing. Sweet, sugary, and proportionally much less time to enjoy it.

Yesterday, I attempted my first real "climbing" ride. Hanging Rock. The normal advanced cyclists tick this ride off their list as an everyday training thing, no biggie, all in a days work. For me, a beginner cyclist who happens to have muscles that kick her up into riding with people much more cycling savvy, this is the type of ride I need to get very comfortable with very quickly if I want to keep improving. The ride not only has The Climb, but also many ups and downs to get there. If you don't ride smart, your legs may have the power to get up HR, but perhaps not the oomph to get back home.

I was lucky enough to gather together a wonderful, strong, supportive group of cycling friends who were all game for a leisurely adventure. I rode there with a light heart, anticipating testing my mettle and seeing what my legs were really made of.

When we arrived, during the climb before the climb (yes, you need to go up in order to get to the place where you have the privilege of going up even more), I started to get butterflies. Here it was! The ascent! The first of the local Triple Crown that I endeavored to conquer!

I settled into a rhythm in my easiest gear. I didn't allow myself to look any further than 5 feet in front of my wheel. I let my vision get soft. I chanted 1-2-1-2 in time to my pedal stroke, and payed close attention to my breathing. Deep, steady, slow breaths. Listening to my body to see how fast or slow it wanted to go.

Suddenly, I was at the top. I had done it. I had climbed Hanging Rock. And it wasn't nearly as difficult as I imagined it would be.

At the top, we ate, we laughed, we got water and regrouped.

Then, we had to go back down.

I was told that I could go as slow as I needed to, that my brakes were built to handle it, and not to be afraid to use them. I took all of this in stride, knowing that even though I was a bit nervous, as soon as I got going, I would be having so much fun that finding a descending speed would be second nature.

Or not.

The descent, ladies and gentleman, was not fun. Not in the least. I braked to the point where I was going slower than I normally go on the flats. About halfway down, my hands started to cramp up, making the experience even more fantastically non fantastic. Everyone else had zoomed out of sight, relishing the experience and freedom of whooshing down a mountain. Me? I was just a wuss.

Eventually, I made it to the main gate, in one piece of course, but still in a bit of a panic. This was supposed to be the ICING of cycling. And for me, an unabashed sugar addict, one who regularly eats Dessert Dinners and can't go a day without some sort of chocolate something, not liking icing was an antithesis of my core.

I pulled into the parking lot of the regroup point a little down on myself. Climbing for me was not going to be a problem. Getting back down will most likely be a problem. I know it's something I can learn to become more comfortable with over time, of course, and eventually I will trust my bike and my bike handling skills. But most people do hill repeats with the intention of focusing their attention on the up. I need to focus on the down.

The ride home was no problem, either. My maximum speed for the ride was 44.2, hit on a long winding road heading into a river basin. I have no problem with this type of zoomy. It's just something about the narrow, steep, MOUNTAIN zoomy that brings up images of doom to my mind.

Who knew that icing would turn out to be an acquired taste?

The Official Century

After my unofficial century last weekend, I was looking forward to a for real century ride. One with SAG stands and a large group of people and a well marked route. And no need for a cell phone.

I picked one that my friend Stan suggested and was also riding in, three hours away in Asheville. It was advertised as a "flat, fast course," one of the fastest centuries this side of the States. I went with no expectations, and Stan said he was going to shoot for a nice, 17mph average.

Quoth Stan: It's too pretty to go any faster than that.

Or not...

The night before I had a lovely pasta dinner with Monte, a GSO A rider, and Stan, a GSO strong B rider, and carbo loaded like a champ with some Greek Meatballs on the side.

Btw, have you ever had greek meatballs? Because they are probably the best meatballs I've ever had in my entire life.

Come morning, I awoke at 5:00 unable to get back to sleep, ate breakfast (Apple Cinnamon Cheerios), snagged a banana or two, and went over to the start location. I wasn't nervous, but I also had no idea what to expect. Riding a century, non stop for 100 miles, is definitely a milestone event.

I had pockets full of Gu and Shot Blocks, and water bottles full of Nuun. I was so ready for this.

Scarfed down the banana right before the start. And off we went!

The start? Not good. I think I'm learning more about my body when it rides, and my body when it rides needs a good amount of time to warm up. Too much too fast sends the heartrate too high too quickly.

And we were going pretty fast. Faster than 17mph, that much I knew for sure.

Eventually, I settle down into a pace and get myself under control. We're still moving along at a good clip, with no sign of slowing down. I don't even look at the computer. Sometimes I get dropped, sometimes I surge ahead, sometimes I pull, sometimes I draft. I'm feeling awesome.

The first rest stop comes up at around mile 48. Only then do I allow myself to glance down at the average speed.

20.1mph.

Holy Moly!

I fill my bottles, shove half a brownie, a banana, and 2 fig newtons into my mouth, and continue onwards.

The pace never slacked. Two more rest stops of face cramming action. After the final stop of three at mile 84, I lost track of my friends. One surged ahead, the other dropped back unbeknownst to me up a steep hill.

I kept waiting for my energy to lag, or my pace to drop, or my legs to give out. But guess what? They didn't. Not only that, I felt stronger the more I rode along. Several times, I pulled people up to the group ahead of us. I was clocking 24mph drafting at times. I conquered the long uphill section at the very end without maxing out my reserves. And honestly, I wasn't expecting to ride so well.

That being said, at mile 98, my left calf said, "I think I'm done now thank you very much" and proceeded to turn itself inside out. Had I any real mileage left, it would have been slow going.

But as it was, I had no mileage left. And it was fast going.

19.6mph average fast. For 100 miles.

Lunch? Lovely. Of me and my male companions, I was the only one to clean my plate completely. Chicken salad with cranberries and celery, black bean hummus with pita bread, pasta salad, and a peanut butter cookie.

I also got a post century massage, which took the edge off my calf immediately, along with my ice pack and compression socks. Can we say Sophie was actually prepared for once in her life?

So, here are some things I learned along the course of my first century:

1) My saddle is amazing. My butt didn't hurt once, not ONCE.

2) Eating on the bike is so so so important for long hard rides, because your body can only absorb about 30% of the calories you eat.

3) You can overeat on the bike if you're not careful, because you don't process all of the food, which can lead to bad things if you take in too much fat.

4) When coming up to a hill, downshift to an easier gear than you think you will need. That way, you can hit your stride halfway up without spiking the heart rate, and then have power to upshift and climb OVER the hill at the top. I know, I know, so they say, and guess what, it works.

5) Turning fast is hard but necessary to learn how to do if you want to ride with fast groups.

6) Golf courses mean hills. If you ever come across a golf course on your ride and don't want to climb, turn around.

7) Watch out for dropped water bottles/cliff bars/gu squeegees during century rides.

So now that my first official century has been properly slain, what's next for me?

Mountains.

As in Climb Every.

Not as in The Sound of Music.

OffnRunning?

Since when?

Not since March 31st, that's since when.

This fact didn't depress me until recently. Very recently. Last week recently. I was driving home from lunch, the weather was spectacular, and I thought to myself, "This would be a perfect day for a run on the Greenway."

Except that the "run on the greenway" was 7.2 miles, and I had maybe clocked about 12 miles.

For the entire month of May.

And zero miles for the entire month of April.

Cue panic.

This month, June, I will start running again. Tomorrow morning will be the first of a regular series of three weekly runs for me. At first, just 3 miles, with a "long" run of 6 on Friday. Then each week, I'll bump up one more mile per run. My goal at the end of the month is two normal runs for me (6-8 miles) and one long run of 10+ miles per week.

BUT.

I do not want to overdo anything. My long runs will be capped at 13 miles tops. I figure being able to bang out a half marathon will leave me in good shape for September.

I don't want to stop running. Running is portable. Running is centering. Running is empowering. Running got me through some tough times, and gave me something to focus on when other aspects of my life went blurry. As much as I love cycling, and God do I love cycling, for me to give up on running would be for me excise a part of myself I'm not ready to cut off.

So tomorrow, June 1st, 2010, I am once again OffnRunning.

Accidental Century

The Century. In the cycling world, this means 100 miles. It is not as difficult in any way as a marathon, but it is also not something to be entered lightly or without some training. They are supported (which means stocked rest stops where your entry fee gives you the right to stuff your face), well organized, and widely attended. Some of them have gut busting intentions (a local mountain century here is charmingly called Blood, Sweat, and Gears), others are slower and rambling.

I had signed up for my first century, the Fletcher Flyer, about two weeks ago. Last Saturday I did my thus far longest ride distance at an event called Cheers n Gears: 80 miles. I rode with a friend 20 slow easy miles to the event, and then blazed a 19.6 average for the next 62 organized miles, stopping to (yes) stuff my face at mile 32, and lazing at a vineyard drinking wine and eating pasta at ride's end. Hence the cheers.

Today, I gracefully backed out of plans for a 75 mile 3 mountain climbing ride in favor of a 62 mile 18/19 flattish ride that left from Lewisville at 8am. I thought it would be a nice ride before my century on the 6th, and the pace was fast enough to be interesting without the possibility of bonking, especially since this was a group ride, NOT a supported ride.

It was lovely. Well organized, fantastic strong riders, double pace line, no hammering or breakaways or sprints. It was exactly as advertised. We stopped halfway at a gas station for a little break, and the ride style allowed for easy conversation with your "partner" along the way. We got back to the parking lot with an 18.9 average. Not blazing, but not standing still, either.

I started driving home feeling awesome. Apparently, feeling a bit too awesome, because I realized that a C/B ride left from the Farmer's Market (which I was driving right by!) in exactly 30 minutes.

Perfect! A 16/17 mph spin to cap off my total at around 90, a perfect step up from last weekend! PLUS, I had refueled and rested my legs for a good 45 minutes. What luck! What timing!

I pulled into the parking lot, unloaded my stuff, and gamely prepared for the ride. It was a set route, so everyone but me knew the way. But I wasn't worried. 16/17 mph? meh.

Except that the ride leader was at the beach this weekend.

Very quickly, the pace turned from 16/17 to 19/20. This is my upper limit. This is what I average when I'm fresh on my Tuesday night rides. This was fast for me at my best. This was just plain fast.

And fast for a lot of other people as well, because very quickly we split into two groups. I was still hanging with the front people, though, and when I could tuck in and draft, things were fine. The momentum carried me through.

We never stopped to regroup, though. Leaders were riding through stop signs when cars were coming, clearly meaning that not everyone would be able to go at the same time. Which also meant that whoever was left behind (hand raised), had to double time WITHOUT a draft to catch back up to the group.

After two such incidents, both of which times I managed to catch up, my previous 62 miles reared their heads with a vengeance. It was mile 19 (28ish total). We were coming to a big hill. It was my turn to pull. Instead, I gracefully let the person behind me take it, and dropped back so I could get in line.

Well, take it he did, to a whole new level of pain. He hammered up the hill, with everyone else following behind.

And just like that, I was dropped. For the first time.

Sooner than I would like to admit, I couldn't see them anymore. I wasn't worried, though, because the group behind me would eventually sweep me up.

Or not, because the group was SO far behind me that they turned off on a road I didn't know I was supposed to turn on.

Yes, ladies and gentleman. I was not only dropped on legs that had gone about 80 miles at a hard pace, but I was also irrevocably and utterly lost. With no cell phone (why take a cell phone? I'm riding with a big group!)

Never fear. After lucking upon a road I recognized and knocking on a door for directions, I found myself pulling into the parking lot 8.7 miles over the normal route. A few gentlemen who were waiting for me were about to go driving in search.

The stats?

96.99 miles

17.8 average (which says a LOT about how fast we were initially going, since I slowed waaaaay down after the droppage).

An accidental century.

Am I completely happy about this? No. My body got whacked out today. Tomorrow is not going to be fun. My muscled are spent, and who knows what my arms/wrists/elbows are going to feel like. I gambled and lost.

At the same time, though, I was SO CLOSE to winning. Really. I honestly believe that if I hadn't had to bridge the gap (bike speak for catching up to the group) twice with tired legs, I could have gone on with the big boys for the whole shebang. I'm still up and walking, still coherent, and still ready to play. I rode 96.99 miles, baby! Fast miles! I'm a demon! I'm a beast! I'm a little bit stupid! I'm a little bit disappointed in myself for NOT staying with the group! I'm psyched for the Fletcher Flyer! I'm psyched for Tuesday night!

In other words, when not even getting lost when exhausted on a wicked hot day can sap your enthusiasm for a sport, you know it's for real.