The Long and Winding Road

Take one look at these and just try to tell me you aren’t a wee bit jealous that they belong to my feet:

Thought so.

Well, I’m here to report that they’re not just pretty, they’re totally, ridiculously functional.

In Krista-speak, “Squeeeeeee!”

You see, I’ve never had a pair of cool-looking running shoes before. Because running shoes aren’t supposed to be good-looking; they’re supposed to save your poor little feet from miles and miles and miles of pounding the pavement.  And somehow, every time I have gone to buy running shoes, turns out the ones best suited for me are, oh, say, the most atrocious-looking ones on the shelf.  Every single time.

Until last weekend.

I wasn’t in the market for new shoes. New shoes, in fact, were not even remotely close to being on my radar.  But at the race expo for the Madison Marathon, Endurance House had a booth set up…and as it always does, EH drew me in.  Seriously, that place is like my new Target. I can’t walk in there without spending money — and a good chunk of it at that.

And then I saw the pretty, pretty pink Zoot shoes. Pink! Not latte shimmer, or root beer brown, or some version of boring blue or grey.  Pink!

I instantly assumed that they were a) not for me, whether in pronanting, support, or any other kind of design, and b) didn’t come in my size.

But they were and they did.  And last night I wore them to do a quick brick workout.

I think I’m in love.

First of all, they’re triathlon-specific — designed to accommodate the way one runs off the bike: with more footfall mid-foot and less on the heel; with a slip-on system that doesn’t involve real laces but, instead, has quick-pull elastic in the place of laces; and with little drainage holes in the bottom of the shoes so that when you pour buckets of water over your head (as I’m prone to do), it just comes right out the bottom…like this:

Fun right?

Right. But the VERY VERY BEST PART?  No socks!

(again, squeeeeee!)

You heard me.  These puppies are specifically-designed for not wearing socks.  i.e., for ME.  So now I don’t have to take any extra time in T2, struggling to pull socks on over my bare, sweaty, just-biked feet.

I’m pretty sure I’ve died and gone to heaven…not having to wear socks anymore.

And, if I haven’t mentioned it, they’re pretty! and pink!

Life. is. good.

I once wrote:

Before and after. Misleading.

There are few events to which “before” or “after” can be accurately applied. Unless something happens in a split second—a car crash, a dropped glass—there’s always a chain of events that make up a shadowland that stretches between two units of time.

This aptly describes my relationship with numbers. As in, I don’t get too worked up about them. My attitude on turning 30?: How much difference is there, really, between being 29 and seven-eights versus being 30-and-a-day? On finishing an Ironman in a set amount of time?: Just making the cutoffs will make me incredibly happy, thankyouverymuch. On being late and trying to rush to make it to X place on time?: I’d rather take an extra 5 minutes and get there safely than get all bent out of shape about arriving at X:05 versus X:10.

And this, my whole life, has held true with weight, too. I don’t own a scale. Never have. I know roughly how much I weigh at a certain point. Ballpark only.

This isn’t to say I’ve never been fanatical about my weight. Quite the opposite, actually. But I’ve never let the scale — a specific number — control me. Rather, I’d get obsessive about other things, like exercising for hours on end. And instead of counting calories I would simply try to eat as little as possible.

That was long ago. College, to be exact. But things haven’t changed all that much. I’ve substituted the non-eating for more exercise. And even though I’m not going to the extreme measures I once did, subsisting on diet Mountain Dew, Mike n’ Ikes, and a half a bagel a day, how thin I am — or not — still figures prominently into day-to-day life. So much so, in fact, that during a recent writing workshop exercise, when asked to list one thing we think about daily, I answered without hesitation, “my weight.”

I’ve never struggled with my weight in the classic sense, but that’s not to say that I’ve ever been happy about how much I’ve weighed. Like a lot of women, I’m sure, I’ve always wanted to be thinner than what I was. Forget the athletic build and arm muscles — I want to be Kate Moss waify.

And then came yesterday.

I had a yearly checkup with my doctor. As the first order of business, the nurse checked my height (still 5′2″, sigh), and asked me to step on the digital scale.

I was. not. prepared.

I knew, even before the appointment, that I need to tone up and lose a few pounds. I know this because things just aren’t fitting quite right at the moment. Or, they haven’t been for a while now.

But the number I saw shocked me.

11 pounds.

Who knew 11 pounds could be so crushing? I lift 11 pound dumbells — two of them, with ease. But this 11 pounds? Woe-is-me heavy. I remembered looking at the picture my parents took of me running my first marathon three years ago in disgust, because I thought I looked chubby in my running shorts and tank top, especially standing next to my lanky sister. What I wouldn’t have given to be that “chubby” at this moment.

And that’s just 11 pounds over last year at this time. Not 11 pounds over where I ideally should be.

“I’ve never weighed this much in my entire life,” I told the nurse.

“Oh, they all say that!” she said.

She took my blood pressure, and the doctor reviewed the results from my previous cholesterol test. “You are in really incredible shape!” they gushed.

I gulped back hot tears. Except for weighing 11 pounds more than I ever have before.

For the rest of the day, I wanted to cry. I was feeling sorry for myself. Everyone I know is losing weight — my mom, my sister, my friend who JUST HAD A BABY SEVEN MONTHS AGO. They’re smaller than ever, and here I am, an Ironman under my belt, and I’ve PUT ON eleven pounds since last February.

Eleven pounds, on a 5′2″ frame, is significant.

To add insult to injury, they all barely exercise, while I’ve been working with a personal trainer two times a week for the past two months, and, a lot of days, putting in two-a-day workouts. I lift at lunch and spin or run after work, or vice versa. And I’ve been making it to the pool a couple times a week as well (with the exception of the last two). I know I’ve said that I was undertrained for the Madison half marathon, but “undertrained” doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ve exactly been sitting on my couch eating bon-bons.

And speaking of the bon-bons. I don’t eat any. In fact, I think I do relatively well in the eating department. Two hard-boiled eggs each morning for breakfast; a yogurt mid-morning; soup, sushi, or a protein shake for lunch most often; and if I need to snack, it’s a couple handfuls of nuts or trail mix, or a sugar-free Jello. I don’t eat sandwiches, or bread if I can help it and we never have snacks, cookies, or ice cream around. We just don’t. I have a Starbucks skim latte almost every day, but in the past six months, I’ve downgraded from a Venti to a Grande and eliminated any syrup, adding just two Splendas for flavoring instead. I drink diet soda, although not all that often…just once in a while when out for a meal and oftentimes, I don’t finish the whole thing.

Dinner is sensible about 60% of the time, but if I’m honest with myself, that’s where I’ve fallen down on the job.

I’m shorter on time than ever before — between training, a horse, two dogs, and a fiancee. Add to that the financial freedom I’ve seen of late in not living paycheck-to-paycheck and having to eat cereal, egg sandwiches, or quesadillas for dinner when both time and money are short, and what results is a lot more take-out orders for Indian or Qdoba or Thai. And although I try to make semi-smart decisions when ordering out (avoiding bread, adding vegetables), it’s still not the same as cooking at home, I know.

I thought about going back to trying the South Beach Diet, which I’d seen success with once before. Or this diet even — one that had piqued my interest a few weeks ago, but I veered away from for fear of it looking a touch too extreme.

But those things are a lot easier to do when you’re the only one affected by your eating. A year ago, I’d have started one of those programs yesterday. But living with someone changes things. Dinner decisions are no longer only up to you, or only about you.

So, for now, I’m going to give moderation a try. I’m vowing to do better on the dinner front. At least during the week, at least for the time being, there will be no going out for dinner during the week for me.

I’ve also signed us up for a Community Supported Agriculture (or CSA) share that should start in the next couple of weeks and take us right up until December. No more complaining that there’s no food to cook up, and as an added bonus, no getting a myriad of choices from the local grocery store in what’s available to make for dinner (which tends to make me feel overwhelmed and often leads to, “Let’s just pick something up on the way home from Qdoba”). With a CSA, that choice is made for you. You get a random assortment of vegetables that the farm delivers in a big box for that week, all of which is dependent on the time of year and what’s currently growing, and all of which is inherently good for you.

On the way back home from my visit to the doctor, I also panicked briefly, and silently swore off drinking for a month…maybe two. But I enjoy a good glass of red at the end of the night. I mean, really enjoy it. So for the meantime, so as not to totally take things to the extreme, I’m going to attempt to simply cut out drinking during the week. And if I want a glass of wine, then I get just one. Not half a bottle…even if it’s gooooood.

And so, we’ll see how this works. Because letting that 11 pounds just stick around? Totally unacceptable.

At the race expo on Saturday, Xt4 asked me how I prepared for races — if I got all juiced up and whatnot. I said no…there was usually no excitement or getting revved up. “I’m usually afriad,” I said.

But that wasn’t quite right. Chief of Stuff pointed this out. “You’re not a fearful kind of person,” he said. And I’m not. He was right. So, after a lot of words being thrown around to try to describe my mental state before races — trepidation, apprehension, et cetera — we settled on “focused.” And that fit.

Even before Ironman, I wasn’t wigging out. I wasn’t crying, or afraid (well, appropriate amount, perhaps), or overly animated. That morning, as I sat in the Monona Terrace listening to my Ipod, I visualized the day and approached it with the attitude that I had done all the preparing I could, and now, come what may, I just had to go from hour to hour until I was done.

I figured that this need to focus came from my other main “sports” growing up — alpine ski racing and showing horses — sports in which not everything is under your own control, and preparing through focusing — as opposed to getting yourself all jazzed up — is both safer and smarter.

But how I was feeling about the Madison half-marathon wasn’t a focus-thing — although I’d only discover that the next day. It was more apathy…a feeling I thought would go away at the gun the next morning.

It didn’t.

I started off just ahead of the 2-hour pace team, with the plan of staying ahead of them or at least keeping them in my sights the whole time. I would’ve loved to break two hours, but I knew that a 2:05 or so was a more realistic goal.

About two miles in, I felt awful, checked my Garmin, and found out why. I was running 7:56 minute miles. I just don’t run sub-8-minute miles, at least not lately.

So I slowed my pace. I waited for the pace team to pass me, which it did. And then I surged again, not wanting to give up my lead on them quite yet. But when I looked down at the 3-mile mark, I was still hovering just above an 8-minute mile.

A year ago, I could’ve held that pace with only a slight effort. But this time around, it was killing me. And I did something I never, ever do — especially in a race.

“Only three lousy miles we’ve gone?!” started the monologue inside my head.

All the time, my self talk goes something like this — take the mileage that I’ve put in, subtract from what’s left, subtract another mile (because at the end, I can do anything for a mile…so I don’t even count that last one), and say, “Only 9 miles to go, really! That’s nothing. That’s a Sunday jog.”

But I was having none of that positive-shmozitive self-talk crap that day. Nosireebob. I continued on with wondering how I was going to get through ten more whole miles. How I didn’t want to be out there. How I wasn’t going to be able to hang for a 2:05 or under finish. How I didn’t put in enough speed workouts, or enough miles in general. And then I did something I never ever do in the middle of a race. I started up a hill, and slowed to a walk. No water stop in sight. No reason to walk. Apathy, apathy, apathy.

It was the same hill that, a few years ago, during my very first marathon, I passed a handful of people like they were standing still. I remember a spectator yelling out, “Way to go! You’ve gotta be strong to pass on a hill like that.” And I kept on trucking. I felt strong. I was strong.

Now, three years later, three marathons and an Ironman later, and here I was, walking that damn hill. What was wrong with me? Seriously?

And on it went like that. Run, then for no reason, walk. People passed me, and for once in my life, I didn’t care. I’m the girl who ties to pick off people on the bike path and race them for crying out loud. And here I was, IN a race, walking…or jogging slowly…and just generally not giving a rat’s ass.

I thought about if I could just be done when I ran past my house (the route went right by our front door), and how I’d let organizers know that I wasn’t dead on the course somewhere. But then I realized I’d have to go through the trouble of returning my chip to the finish line anyway as I’d thrown away the instructions on how to send it it. Plus CoS was going to be at the finish line, and with the race going by our house, I couldn’t very well get my car out and drive there to meet him…although I could bike to the finish.

Then I got tough with me: “You’ll have to post on your blog that you just up and quit a race. For no real reason. And won’t that be embarrassing? You don’t want that, now, do you?”

And you know what I said to me?  “I really could care less.”

Yes, seriously. Welcome to my head.

Now to be fair to my body, I was having some semi-serious GI issues, and at mile 1.8, my calves started cramping.  So the running I could manage by that point was something just upwards of a shuffle.  But to be even more fair to my body, it was my mind’s fault that Sunday morning, for lack of a better word, straight-up sucked.

Or, as CoS diplomatically put it last night: “I knew you were having a rough day when the ketchup and mustard bottles were beating you.”

Yup. Guys dressed in giant ketchup and mustard getups. Kicked my ass. And I still didn’t care.

I just didn’t feel like me. Not at one point during that run. I actually articulated that thought — that my body feels weird, like it wasn’t mine.  And I just wanted to trade it in already. Be done with it.

That’s the part that gets me.  I’ve never, ever felt the way I felt on Sunday, and I’m still trying to figure it out. Was it just an off day? Or am I that burnt out on this whole running thing? From all of this in general? Do I run more now, to figure it out, or less?

I didn’t feel like me on Sunday, and in a weird way, I still don’t.  I don’t understand this girl who would let herself run-walk her way to a 2:19 half marathon — off pace from the slowest marathon she’s ever done. I don’t understand where she’s gone.  But in the words of the BoDeans, I’m looking for her somewhere.

Or, as we like to call it here…

Yesterday has been marked on my calendar for some weeks now.  The dreaded Anaerobic Threshold test in my Tuesday spin class.

Anything with “threshold” and “test” in the title should worry one a bit, especially if those two little words are used in conjunction with physical activity.

This test is also commonly called a “Lactate Threshold” test — not as in milk secretion, but as in a buildup of lactic acid in your muscles.  Sounds fun, right?  Read on.

Our friends at VeloNews put it this way:

The key in sport is the balance between the rate of lactate production and lactate absorption. During light and moderate-intensity exercise, the blood concentration of lactate remains low. The body is able to absorb lactate faster than the muscle cells are producing it.

However, as exercise intensity increases, there comes a point at which lactate removal fails to keep up with the rate of lactate production. This point is referred to as the lactate threshold (LT) and spells the beginning of the end of high intensity exercise. Excessive blood lactate and hydrogen ion concentrations combine to interfere with efficient and proper muscle contraction, and as a result, power output drops, suffering increases and you are forced to slow down.

Or, in the words of Bill the Spin Instructor: “Pedal until your legs feel white-hot and you want nothing more than to trade them in for a new pair.”

And what is all this pain and torture supposed to get you?  Well, most sports scientists believe that the AT/LT is the highest steady-state intensity that an athlete can sustain without having a heart attack for prolonged periods of time, and is the strongest predictor of endurance performance.

So, back to the test.  Bill the Spin Instructor has us warm up briefly, and then sets up a little cycling metronome at the front of the room — a black box that clicks loudly and has a red light that flashes at the same time. He set the cadence at 72 and had us match our pedal strokes with the light or click — same thing.

This, I think, is easy-breezy.  I’m even making small talk with the guys on either side of me, who are seemingly blown away by my Garmin 305. “Wow, that’s quite a dashboard!” one of them says. “Does it record elevation, too?” (ummm, unsure.) “You’ve gotta be hard-core to be using one of those,” adds the other.  I do not tell them that I barely know how to use it and am, in fact, not hard core. I am worried about the test…about throwing up on Bill…about having my whole body cramp up so that I have to be removed from my bike.  My mind goes back to a story Bill told some time ago about a guy whose calves cramped up so badly they had to grab the masseuse from the spa upstairs and have him work on the cramped-up guy for the remainder of the class, just so he could get off the bike.  I am terrified that one of these days, that will be me, and that today just might be my day.

But, back to the test. For increments of about one minute each (Although it could’ve been longer. I nearly left my body at this point), Bill has us up the intensity on the bike while keeping the same cadence.  With every minute that passed, Bill shouts, “Turn it up!” and we do.  Until most of the room is gasping and groaning.

I pedal until I think I might throw up, but before I can, Bill tells me that my cadence just dropped off and he needs my “number” — my heart rate at that exact second.  172.  Then I get to relax, spin, and wait for everyone else who hasn’t already to cry “uncle.”

We recover for a few short minutes.  “That should’ve sucked ass if you did it right,” says Bill.

Why yes, yes it did suck ass.  Apparently I have done it right.

“Alright. Let’s turn it up!”

Oh Holy Mother, I was not ready for this again.  But I dutifully turn up the tension on my bike and go to work making my legs try to up and fall off my body.  For some reason this sequence seems to go faster — perhaps because the sticky-note that Bill wrote my original number on is placed over my Garmin…or because I long ago disassociated from my body.

This time I cry uncle myself and volunteer my number to Bill.  175.  As I hear everyone else call out their numbers, it seems as though no one’s is as high as mine. In fact, the guys next to me are in the high 140’s.  This, I think, can’t be good.  But before I can actually ask what it means, Bill gives us another task.

He tells us we will have three minutes to get within 15 beats of our highest number.  We will hold that for god-knows-how-long (five minutes, perhaps?). Then we will pick a number between 3 and 5.

I spend this time trying to figure out Bill’s logic.  A number between 3 and 5? Would it be better to aim high, or low? Or by aiming low do you actually aim high?  Or vice versa? I am confuddled, so I just go with 4.

“Now,” Bill says, “You’ll take your number, add that to your highest number so far, and hit that heart rate. Go!”

So much math! So much pedaling! And good lord is beating that 175 a hard thing to do. I’m up and down out of my saddle, cranking the tension, and getting so lightheaded that I can barely read the tiny heart rate number in upper corner of my Garmin. Somehow, I hit 179 and collapse onto my bike, heaving.

Bill has us do this one more time.  He tells us that this should be a good indicator for us, as well, on our perceived rate of exertion (ya think?!) and that most people are not working at their upper levels of PRE when they think they are.  Well, amen to that! My new 9-10 PRE is definitely not what it was before.

The class breaks to stretch, and I take that chance to hop on the treadmills right outside the classroom for a ten-minute brick.  Who-wee. I haven’t felt legs that dead in a long time. But by the 7th minute or so, they were loosening up and feeling good — a good sign methinks.

And apparently one has to do these little AT/LT tests every six weeks or so to gauge progress.  Yee-gads. I was sort of hoping this was a one-shot deal…but here’s to hoping that next time, it’s just a teensy bit easier.

In any case, according to Bill, here’s how my HR zones break down this time around:

85% = 172

80% = 162

75% = 152

65% = 132

We came. We saw. We, er, well…finished.

I never intended it to be a race. From the two-ish three glasses of wine I had the night before to straight-up leaving my trusty Garmin at home, I was treating this past weekend for what it was: a training run with some great friends.

Mel was in from D.C., partially to see me I think, but mostly because she had talked her uncle into running the marathon at Christmas over a few-too-many beers (he smoked it by the way — 4:01 in his first marathon) and felt obligated, despite some serious shin splint-itis, to at least show up and cheer him on. Krista was trying not to max herself out after a grueling half-marathon trail run the previous weekend an a full-mary slated for next.

And it was a blast. We chatted (although not too much), pointed out funny or just plain ridiculous race outfits running past (a 60-some year old man in short-shorts and a lime green cut-off shirt comes to mind), squealed at the sheer cuteness out in force in the form of spectator dogs (the most popular seemed to be the Boxer, although I did spot one darn good-looking Vizsla), and now and then, shared what was being pumped through our earbuds. I asked, around mile 10 — that particularly dark point in a half-mary, what everyone was listening to. Krista? “Blake Lewis.” Me? “All American Rejects.” Mel? “Paint it Black.” Much laughter ensued.

We walked through water stations and then, at a designated point (which kept getting slightly farther ahead each mile) — the cone, a telephone pole, a mailbox — agreed upon by the group, we’d pick it back up into a run…or, er, jog.

We kept steady 10:30 minute miles, from what I was told later, and waited when one of us had to tie a shoe, use the porta potties, or was just plain tanking on a hill.

And we reminisced as to what a craptastic day this race was the year before — temperatures in the low 40s and wind — and how much nicer it was this year.

But I reminisced silently, too, about how fast I had been the year before — holding 9 minute miles for the majority of the marathon, sailing through the first 13 miles, having to hold myself back from running 8:30s, where my body and legs wanted to settle. Because the thing was, this was a training run, but it didn’t necessarily feel easy, or good.

The night before, I had told Chief of Stuff that I was having reservations about the race, mostly because I wasn’t as fast as last year. And, I don’t think I deserve to be fast, because I don’t. I haven’t trained to be fast (hell, I’ve barely trained at all). I haven’t earned it. But, I obsessed to him, those numbers mean something and when you do a race, they’re posted everywhere for God and everyone to see, loud and clear.

And then he said something very wise, as he’s prone to do: that the numbers mean nothing to anyone; they’re only significant to me. No one else really cares.

And I thought, hrumph! But then I thought, he’s right. I wasn’t more proud of him last year at the Green Bay Duathlon when he made the top of the field than I would’ve been if he had finished DFL. The important thing was that he was out there doing it in the first place….that we were all doing that.

And so, I cut myself some slack and just jogged. And for the first time in a long time I didn’t care how fast or not-fast I was going. The old me would’ve dropped my friends and told them I’d meet them at the finish line (which is precisely what I did to Mel and my sister during last year’s Green Bay marathon). But this me just eased into a pace and let it all go. And this me got to run around Lambeau Field lockstep with Mel. And finish right with her, too. And that’s right up there with a PR any day.

Photo Essay of the Day:

Lambeau Field atrium.

Mel and Krista at the starting line. I’m in there somewhere too…just short.

Mel, me, and Krista, jogging it through the first half.

Alternate view.

Me (white) and Mel (green) finishing together.

After the race.

Me, Mel, and CoS, cheering on Mel’s Uncle Mark (Krista is in the background)

The most popular sign on the course. Racers LOVED it.

Right. So for two or three weeks now, I’ve put off getting any real mileage in. I’ve consistently gotten in 8, 9 or 10-milers at least once a week, but nothing more. And I’m smart enough to know that that’s just not enough. Not for the two half-marys I have coming up this weekend and the next.

I’ve had good intentions.

I packed running gear the weekend of Anne-Drew’s wedding and didn’t even have a drink at the reception in hopes of getting a 13-miler in afterwards; but I was thwarted by a) not enough time in between the reception and post-reception (it was a daytime wedding), b) crazy-mile-an-hour winds and cold, and c) a running buddy whose doctor told her the day before to not run due to some serious shin splint-itis. And, given that my desire to spend time with said friend outweighed my desire to hang on for dear life for two hours or so while running along Milwaukee’s lakefront, I chose the former.

The weekend after that was filled with marriage preparation class (more on that to come) and family obligations, and after that, with more classes and more family obligations. Truth be told, I could’ve gotten those miles in last Sunday, but instead, after the whole fam-damly left, I crashed on the couch — something I never, ever do (I’m a bed-napper only) — hard. I figured I needed it.

I had resigned myself to not getting those 13+ miles in before this weekend, and using the Green Bay half-marathon solely as a training run (which, really, it would be with or without a long run or two). And so Tuesday night, I figured I’d try to get a solid ten miles in. Chief of Stuff was going to take the dogs to the dog park so I could just get running. I geared up, strapped on the ipod and then the Garmin, and prepared to head out the door, when the Garmin. just. died. Arrrggghhhh!

That threw me. Since buying the Garmin, I no longer have real running “routes” per se. I know approximately how long certain ones are, but I like that the little decimal point on the Garmin now tells me EXACTLY how far I’ve gone, and as such, I can just wander….and do. I complained and then wailed about what I was going to do. CoS asked if I wanted him to look up a route on Map My Run. I looked at the clock. 6:20 p.m. Looked back at him. Looked back at the clock.

“No, I just need to get out of here,” I told him. I was worried that given the way I run (i.e., slow), I was pushing things as far as getting those miles in.

“But how are you going to know how far you’ve gone?” he asked.

“I’ll just run around Lake Monona!”

Did I really just say that out loud? I didn’t want to run 13 miles. I wasn’t planning to run 13 miles.

Oh! Easy! What a great idea! Lake Monona! At 6:30 at night. Brilliant!

But I had said it, and so I would go. That’s how I’m wired. Maybe it’s why I don’t actually say a whole lot on a daily basis…because if I did, who knows what I’d talk me into.

So I started out. Clockwise around the lake. First mistake. I don’t ever go that way; I always go counter-clockwise. But this was the night of not-making-sense. So I just went with it.

A bit too fast, too. (Second mistake.) The good news about not having a Garmin strapped to my wrist is that I have no idea how fast I’m going. The bad news is that I don’t know how fast I’m going. The worse news is that I’m incapable — even after all of these miles I’ve logged over the last few years — of having any innate sense of my speed.

So by the time I got around the first third of the lake or so, where I turn off into neighborhood-central, I was already tanked. And it was getting dark.

Not to fear, says I. Things will be fine. I remembered nights of Ironman-training-past, and how wonderful it felt to be out running on nights when others were out drinking and carousing. I remembered covering these same miles on those nights, and feeling so good about it all afterwards. Inexplicably good. I was looking forward to that tonight — despite the ill-hatched plan (or lack thereof) of what I was undertaking…in the almost-dark, with the sky looking like it was going to drop a tornado down at any moment, and with no food and only two tiny little flasks of Gatorade strapped to my hips (having not eaten dinner yet, I still reasoned that I could take out the Cliff Blocks that were in my fuel belt because that would be better than not taking my cell phone…which as it turned out, it was.)

And things were fine. Great, really. Until, on the fourth wrong turn that resulted in yet another dead-end road to run back down to my original path, I found a sweet older woman gardening. In the near-dark.

I asked her how I get around the lake with the least amount of additional dead-end running from this point forward.

“Around the lake?” she gasped. “Oh, that’s a long ways. That’s too far.”

Thanks, tips. “I know, it’s about 13 miles,” I said. “I’ve done it before.” I don’t know who I was trying to convince — her or myself.

“Hmmm, well, I always ride my bike around because it’s so far. Are you sure you want to do this? That’s a really long ways.”

I explained that I was already 2/3rds of the way done, and I just needed to figure out what road would take me around to the bike path so I could hurry up and get home.

“You don’t want to do that,” she said. “That bike path goes through a bad area. You shouldn’t go through there in the dark.”

I was getting no-where. Of all the people to stop and ask. Nice woman, but good lord. What did she want me to do? Move in with her in lieu of continuing on? So I improvised.

“I have a friend who lives just this side of the bike path. I’m stopping at her house. But I need to know how to get there.” (I wasn’t completely lying. I do have a friend who lives in that vicinity, but I had no real intention of stopping to see her. I wanted to get HOME.)

“Oh!” she says, and proceeds to rattle off directions about parks on the left and boat landings on the right and a road that zigs and then zags and then another road that’s tough to navigate on a bike but I shouldn’t have any problems on foot.

Whew. Really? Was that so hard?

So off I trotted to her cries of “Be careful!”

I was going confidently in the direction of the bike path. Or so I thought. My first clue should’ve been a confused-looking man on a bike who, on his third pass by me called, “Do you have any idea how to get to the bike path?”

I just shook my head. “Sorry!” I called back. In retrospect, maybe I should’ve given him my directions so he could scout out the route for me. Although, then we both would’ve gotten lost.

Because twenty minutes later, I was no closer to seeing the lake even, much less the stupid road that would lead me to the stupid bike path. So, I did what I always do in these situations when I work out too long, too far, or in the wrong direction altogether. I called Chief of Stuff.

He was immersed in God-101 — a class he’s taking so we can get married in the church, in addition to all the other classes we’re taking (again, story for a different time). I could tell he answered right in the middle of a discussion. “Are you okay?” he asked.

I said yes, but I was lost. In Madison. Somewhere on the other side of Lake Monona. I left out the part about feeling like a complete idiot. To call S.O.S. on one’s bike in the middle of farm-country-unmarked-roads Wisconsin when you have your cousin’s rehearsal dinner to get to is one thing. But to ask for a pick-up because you have gotten yourself lost on a run? Whole different thing altogether.

He told me he’d call as soon as he was out of his class, but they were only about half-way through the agenda. I gave him a “fine,” which I think he took to mean as, “Ok, that’s great! I’d love to put in another hour in the dark,” but which I meant to convey, “You just put GOD ahead of ME when I’m out here in the dark, perhaps running in circles and maybe through unsafe areas? Asshat!”

In the miles that followed I worked through the fact that I was not, in fact, upset with CoS. I was just upset. And tired. And done. Or, wanting to be done. Badly. When, in fact, I was not.

Instead, I was running down some deserted street on the south side of Madison in the dark and jumping at every noise behind me. It didn’t help that the wind had picked up, and that every time a leaf blew up to me I sprinted just a bit.

Finally, I saw signs pointing me to the beltline — the main highway that runs around Madison. I no longer had a clue as to where the lake was, and didn’t care. Because it had gotten scary-dark out, which is not the sort of setting one might want for bike trail running. So I checked my ipod for the time (I had been running for 2:40 already — although the last part of that was solid run-walking out of boredom and occasional bouts of despair) and told myself, “Self, we will run to the beltline and then we will be done.”

And so we did. I spotted some landmarks so as to apprise CoS of my location when/if he ever called (hoping upon hope that if I said, “I’m by Veridian Homes, Walmart, Shopko, Kohls, and Goodwill,” he’d be able to guess the appropriate exit on the beltline), spotted a gas station that I’d walk to and wait at, and then I called my mom, since she had called earlier.

Mistake #3.

“Where ARE you?” she asked.

Not sure, I told her.

“What do you MEAN, ‘not sure’?”

“I’m not sure. I went out for a run and got lost. I’m waiting to get picked up.”

That set her off. “Well. Er-rin, this just isn’t good. This isn’t healthy. You need to not get so obsessive over this exercise stuff like you did last year. It’s not healthy.”

There were so many points to respond to, I didn’t know where to start.

Weren’t you the one who had recently encouraged me to wait to order my wedding dress until I “got into a little better shape”?

I didn’t get “obsessive” last year, I was doing a freaking Ironman!

Ummm, have you met my sister — your daughter — the one who smoked in front of you all weekend who you didn’t say boo to?

Instead, I just went with the obvious. “Mom, I didn’t mean to be out this long. I just got turned around.”

But that didn’t stop her.

“Running in the dark? That’s just not good. Honestly, you need to be smarter than that.”

I told her I was, and that I had intended to be home long ago, but things just didn’t go as planned.

(Just a thought, but maybe I should put in 13+ miles every night before talking to my mom. Seems to have a calming, zen-like effect).

And it went on like that, and on, and on. Her chastising me for being lost, after 9pm at night, when all I wanted was to have been home on the couch next to the fireplace in comfy clothes and having eaten dinner, long, long ago.

Finally, CoS called. He said he was sitting in class, thinking, “Ah, it’s only 20 more minutes or so until I’ll be done,” when he realized that 20 minutes was two more miles for me, and got up and left. (Great guy, that one. Definitely a keeper.)

Five minutes later, he had found me. By that time it had started raining a cold sleet. My eyes were burning from salt-sweat and allergies. I was clawing at my legs, which were inexplicably itchy. And I was freezing and starving.

But, I was done. And it felt good…eventually.

Next time, though, I’m going counter-clockwise.

I don’t think it’s a huge secret that my bike and I could have a much, much better relationship than we do. Hell, I don’t even have a name for it…er him? Or is it her? Right, you get the idea.

So yesterday, I had to make a work-related trip out to Verona. To a business on South Nine Mound Road to be exact. The South Nine Mound Road that’s on the Ironman Wisconsin bike course.

Last year at this time, that would’ve given me hives. Made me short of breath. Perhaps cry, even (Turns out Ironman made me cry much more than I do normally).

This time?

Driving down Verona’s main drag, it was almost as if I was right back there on that warm-enough day last September. Crowds cheering and waving. My back and butt aching in the most wonderful way. My head trying to wrap itself around the fact that I had only 20 or so miles left to go in this journey that had consumed all my time, energy, focus…and me in general…for the last year.

I was right back there. Proud of myself. And exited. And so caught up in this whole thing Ironman. The other athletes — the two Mexican athletes who seemed to flank me most of the final stretch of the bike route, into Verona and then to Madison. The incredible volunteers. My family and friends who were with me the entire grueling day.

And suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get back on my bike. I couldn’t wait for this year, even to volunteer. And I knew, in that instant, that I’ll do this again (Sorry, Mom!). It might not be next year, or for the next five years, but I think it’s somewhere deep inside me now. And quite frankly, I’m not sure it’s something I’d even want to exorcise.

Because there’s just something about this journey of Ironman. And it’s not about the recognition, or the crowds, or the regalia. It’s much more personal than that. Visceral, even. It’s about the transformation that happens when you’re on your third loop of the bike course in one weekend. Desperately alone. And you’re hungry and the sun that just got done singing your skin is setting and everyone else you know is relaxing on a pontoon boat or at a cookout. And you ride. Still, you ride.

And months later, when you are in a car on that course, dressed in work attire and not decked out in lycra and sunscreen, covered in a sticky mess of Gatorade, you will think back over it all and wish that you could do it all over again. Right here. Right now. You will itch to get back on your bike and start the process, the journey, all over again.

Years ago, sitting in a park in a land far, far away (also known as Vancouver) with the Ex’s sister-in-law, I watched as she fastidiously placed bright pink things that were supposed to resemble deli cold cuts onto bread for her two young girls.

What would ever possess someone to eat something that…well…er…pink? I wondered. And so I asked. What had made her decide to become a vegetarian in the first place.

She said it all went back to a fair she had gone to as a teenager. To a placard that diagrammed what part of the cow particular cuts of meat came from. And ever since, she couldn’t bring herself to eat meat.

I knew that could easily be me. I knew that as soon as my brain made the connection between the cow in the field and my dinner plate, that it was bye-bye-beef. And maybe chicken. And…well, you get the idea.

I’m a walking conundrum. I’ve long been an animal lover, crying at SPCA commercials or when I see a dead raccoon on the side of the road. In second grade I got into an all-out playground war over trying to save a bumblebee. I feel guilty when I off an ant (I said a little prayer for one just the other night when I accidentally “Windex-ed” it), or even a spider (even though they creep me out. I usually try to justify it by thinking that there’s not enough room in my bathtub/bedroom/kitchen for the two of us, and there’s not, but there’s still residual guilt.) Yet, I love venison, and pork chops, and a big, juicy steak. I am a meat girl, through and through.

Or, I was.

Until I saw this. Be forewarned…what happens to these cattle is a horrible sight. Nothing — and I mean nothing — that I have viewed has affected me so. I saw the news coverage, this very video, in fact, as I ran on the treadmill on a break from work one night. I gasped, audibly. And then I cried. Big tears rolling down my cheeks that I’m sure (or hoped) the other gym-goes would mistake for sweat (and deservedly so at that point — more than half-way through a speedy 5 miles). Because nothing — no living being — deserves the kind of death that these poor cattle had to endure.

I’ve never actually wanted to be a vegetarian, for so, so many reasons.

First of all, I hate to inconvenience others — people invite you over for dinner and have to make special accommodations, but only if you speak up and tell them you need accommodations; and restaurant decisions, especially in groups, are often fraught with the same problems.

Second, I live in Wisconsin and was born and raised in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where in both places save for the occasional big city (read: Madison and Milwaukee), one would be hard pressed to find even one vegetarian entree offered at any standard restaurant. And beyond that, vegetarianism just isn’t done where I come from. You’ll gladly eat the deer that was shot or the fish that was caught or the pork chops from Kooch’s market slaughtered fresh that week thank-you-very-much. In fact, I only recently became aware of vegetarian choices being offered at weddings (and it still isn’t done much, if at all, in the good ‘ol UP). True story.

My body also responds well to meat…protein. Not-so-much for carbs. Basically, too many carbs and I start looking like the Michelin man. But I also don’t do protein masquerading as meat. No veggie burgers, seitan, or phony-bologna for me, no siree. Which leaves me with…leaves, that’s what. Leaves and plants and vegetables in their natural state.

This does not a lifestyle make. Or a happy Erin for that matter.

Add to that that CoS has mentioned now and then how glad he is to not be dating a vegetarian. How happy he is to be with someone who shares his love of all things food. How wonderful it is to be able to explore new restaurants, try new cuisines, and not be limited by food restrictions.

So…the vegetarian thing. Seemed like a good idea in theory, but not so good in practice.

Until the video.

Now, suddenly, all meat looks to me like the animals it came from. Ground beef? Ground cow. That used to mooo. Chicken wings? Just missing the feathers. Pork chops? Makes me think of the pigs we showed at the Master Stockman’s competition at the State Fair when we were wee kids.

And it’s making me crazy.

A couple weeks ago, Chief of Stuff and I had a laid back weekend night out. We tried to go to the Greenbush for (the best) pizza (in Madison), but there was a ridiculous wait. “Let’s go to Dotty’s,” CoS suggested. Dotty Dumpling’s Dowry, for those of you not familiar with Madison, is one of the best burger joints you might find. Period. They have burgers of every make and kind. It was also the site of one of our first non-date-dates, and as such, holds a special place in our hearts.

And for the first time in my life, nothing on that menu looked good. In fact, it looked the opposite of good. It turned my stomach, all the ground-up cow. But I had also knocked off an 10-miler that day, and sometimes (oftentimes) intense workouts make me feel sick, nauseous. I chalked it up to that. But when it came time to order, I just couldn’t do it. So as not to look conspicuous to CoS, I ordered a chicken sandwich. And chocked down only half.

This will pass, I told myself. But it happened again the other night while cooking out at a friend’s house. I tried a burger, and couldn’t finish it.

And then again, on Saturday night, when CoS took me on an amazing date to Flemming’s, a high-end steak house. Our server gave us the standard spcheal about the beef only being of the highest quality, corn fed, and the meat cut in-house. This, on a normal night, with a normal Erin, would have resulted in much drooling followed by ordering the biggest steak I believed I could put away. Instead, I skipped over the entire meat side of the menu, and went straight for the fish. I settled on crab legs, and even felt guilty about that.

What the eff is wrong with me?!?

I don’t want to be that person — that person who makes others uncomfortable with her vegetarianism. Who looks like a baby at cookouts because I’m picky anyways and there’s only one meat-free dish and I just have a giant dollop of potato salad on my plate to eat. The one who has to be “taken into consideration” at holidays or group outings to restaurants.

That’s not me. I’m a meat-and-potatoes girl. Or, I was.

Arrrrghhh. ::much hand wringing::

Because I just can’t seem to shake this thing that’s come over me. So, for now, I’m making do and trying to wait it out. And in lieu of going totally hog-wild (pardon the expression) with the vegetarian thing, I’m attempting to be sensible about it. Since this whole affliction seems to be rooted in guilt, I try to eat meat-free when I can and when it doesn’t affect others. And when I choose to eat meat, I’ve been trying to buy locally-raised meat or eat at restaurants that do the same. And when that doesn’t work I resort to denial about what I’m eating.

Desperate times, after all.