Yesterday on my run I truly felt as though I actually had a piano strapped to my back. I don’t remember asking the training gods for the added challenge, but apparently they don’t really care. The whole week has been a little rough. It started out with a super early call time for my swim on Tuesday morning. I stumbled out of bed, put on my suit, and drove to the gym. I love that my gym is literally five minutes away (and yes, I drive). The short commute does not allow my brain enough time to register just how tired my body is nor does it have time to finish the debate of whether or not I should push my swim back until later in the day. In general, I am pretty good about not even allowing these thoughts into my head, but when it’s six o’clock in the morning and my bed is calling my name, it’s hard not to.

I made it to the gym without falling asleep at the wheel and counted six yawns between the parking lot and front door. As I handed over my member id, the super perky receptionist couldn’t help but make a comment about how I need to WAKE UP! I wanted to say, “Really? No kidding. Maybe you could fork over some of the “speed” you are on and it would make my morning a whole lot easier; not to mention I could probably finish my swim in about the half the time.” Instead I gave her a smile and headed to the locker room knowing that she didn’t want to be up and at work that early either.

I managed to get my butt in the pool and after about ten minutes the lights went out and the place was pitch black. I had a split second where I sort of felt like I was in the movie Jaws. It was dark; there was splashing, and it only made sense that somehow a shark would have entered the pool. Just as I was about to plan my escape, my brain quickly fired the thought “Wait, am I dreaming and is it possible I’m still asleep?” Nope, the power was out and we had to evacuate the building.

The rest of the week has felt a little bit like that experience. My legs have felt a little dead, my eyes a little heavy, and my butt a little sore. I knew that there would be weeks like this and I am prepared to push through these valleys. Ok maybe I’m not really prepared, but just like most things in life; you don’t really have a choice but to find your way through it…and so that’s what’ll I’ll do.

Training for a Triathlon Half-Ironman

A 1.2 mile swim, a 56 mile bike ride, a 13.1 mile run. You wonder what I was thinking when I registered for this event, and the truth is – I’m not entirely sure. I do know that I clicked the “register” button after having a glass of wine (or two) with my family on a trip home to Chicago in December. Sometimes we need a little push from behind or a bottle to take that next step. I embraced that little nudge and clicked the “register” button while my mother sat quietly next to me while shaking her head.

I woke up the next day realizing that not only had I just put another couple hundred bucks on my already well-used credit card, but I committed to doing a half-Ironman! Keep in mind, I’m not afraid of a challenge nor am I afraid of spending hours training for an event, it’s just that, well, that’s a BIG challenge and a LOT of training. At least I was smart enough to allow myself enough time to prepare. You know to get things like a swimsuit and cycling shoes and maybe one of those super tight, hot triathlon onesies. It’s all about how you look, not how you feel, right?

The race is August 2nd in Benton Harbor, Michigan. I chose that location in hopes of racing in 115 degree weather and, if I’m really lucky, the humidity will be at 95%, which will be ideal for the mosquitoes to stick to every inch of my exposed skin. I also knew that picking a race as close to Chicago as possible would be my only hope of getting the family to watch me crawl across the finish line. Let’s be honest, I’m going to need someone there to carry me to the car and spoon-feed me ice cream after the race. I’m just hoping they, too, are training for this.

I invite you to read my stories about the rest of this journey into “crazyland” right here in the Women’s Adventure blog. I’m heading into my fifth month of training and it’s been entertaining to say the least. I can’t say that I’ll be a resource for tips on how to do this best, but I can promise not take myself too seriously and be open with you about all the embarrassing moves I make!

(Editor’s Note:  Kristin is able to send us her blog entries when she comes to a town with internet access.  As a result, the entries are published as they are received rather than on the day the events actually took place.)

On May 11th my Aunt, Grandmother, and cousin drove me to the Mexican border and at 6:30 I turned north and began my walk to Canada. The three of them hiked the first couple of miles with me and it was strange to be standing there alone in the wilderness when they turned back. I have been planning for this adventure for such a long time I still cannot believe that it is really happening. Even now, seven days into the trip, I have to stop and think “Wow, I am really here, this is really happening.”

The desert in the morning is perfect. Cool and full of life. It is only the first week of my hike and I have already seen three hummingbirds, a horny toad and a bobcat. Unfortunately, the cool weather of the mornings does not last very long. You can see dawn’s ribbon of light approaching long before it hits. It may be beautiful, but it is a reminder of the heat to come. I have been trying to get as many miles in during the mornings as possible. I usually start walking at around 5:30 after a quick breakfast, stop at noon for a siesta and set up camp at 7.

There have not been a lot of people out on the trail and after the first two days of my hike I did not see a single person for the next 48 hours. It is nice to have the trail to myself but I am definitely looking forward to catching up to other thru-hikers who started earlier than me. The trail has been so beautiful and the views so varied that there is no opportunity for boredom. I am so excited to see what is around the next corner that I have to force myself to rest when it is time to take a break.

Two days ago I passed through what is called Scissors Crossing, a notoriously hot and exposed piece of desert. Even by eight thirty the sun was so brutal, I felt the need to take out the umbrella I keep in my pack so that I could walk under a little bit of shade. As I was approaching the road, I saw a wooden structure off to my left with a sign on it that read “Welcome PCT 2008 hikers.” It was filled to the brim with gallon jugs of water. After three days of extreme heat, it was pretty much the most beautiful thing you could have put before me. If I hadn’t been so tired I probably would have jumped up and down.

Yesterday afternoon I made it to Warner Springs (mile 110) and tonight I will be heading back out onto the trail. I feel safe and happy and cannot wait to see what lies ahead.

I hear mewing. I’m alone on a trail with my two twenty-five pound dogs who haven’t heard it yet. I stop. Listen. Definitely mewing. Coming from behind some thick brush about 50 meters from me. I actually do think for a split second that I might go investigate. But the moment passes.

Three days prior, I sat on the couch in my living room. Call it intuition or some other type of sixth sense, but I glanced out the window toward the Flatirons and caught sight of a mountain lion racing downhill. By the time I’d grabbed binoculars, he was way gone. It’s a blessing to see a mountain lion. A rare occurrence.

The next day, I read in the paper that a 2-year old male mountain lion had been tranquilized, collared, and moved from someone’s backyard two blocks way and back into the wild where he belonged. That lion was a male, though. Not likely to be the one raising the cubs I hear. My pups and I move on before anyone else sees us and finds out our secret. No, I won’t tell the division of wildlife. I don’t want the lion and her cubs disturbed. Yes, she’s chosen a high-traffic area to nurse her cubs. But, she’s not bothering anyone. And, I chose to run there. I could have run on the pavement, down Sixth street, to the river.

Later that same afternoon, I’m weeding in front of my house. A ranger pulls up his truck, gets out, and trains his binoculars up the hill. I’m thinking someone else has heard the mewing. Someone called the cavalry. I’m relieved when he drives away. I check the paper in the morning to see if any lions and cubs have been tagged and moved or euthanized. Nothing but a short blurb about two men who simultaneously tasered each other at a bar over the weekend. The lion can relax for a while. Law enforcement is busy with more important things in Boulder.
-Michelle

I miss my 20-year old, pre Multiple Sclerosis body. This was my thought while walking the second half of my morning run today. I’m not prone to whining. But heck, if I can’t vent in a blog, where else can I do it. I’m not talking about the way my body looks. I’m okay with the exterior (and posterior) of my 41-year old self. Nope. It’s the inside stuff that needs a facelift. It’s downright saggy. And because I have MS, it’s hard for me to determine if my digestive, breathing, and muscle weakness problems are caused by the disease or just the natural aging process. The fact is it doesn’t really matter. There’s not much I can do about MS or being over 40, except exactly what I’m doing. Eat right (my big downfall), exercise, and keep my stress levels low.

But the reason I run has always been less for my health and more for the way it makes me feel…which used to be good. Now it’s a little like gambling. I still bet each time I go out that I’ll catch a little glimpse of that athlete and connect with that effortless motion akin to my childhood dreams of being able to fly. Today, I couldn’t get off the ground. And maybe tomorrow will be the same. But, if I keep trying, I believe I’ll get there again. I always say that my health is where it needs to be when I can run 5 miles. Right now, I’m running downhill 1.5 and walking the remaining 1.5 back home.

That said, there’s always something good about being out. Everything’s in bloom right now in Boulder. You have to love purple and fuchsia blossomed trees. It’s like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. The Boulder Creek is also running fast. Makes a nice soundtrack with the beat of my feet. Complements the new Counting Crows playing through my iPod Shuffle. And hard as the run was, it still beats sitting in this office typing. I feel cleansed and awake. Because with running, there is an afterglow. So for now, I’ll stop my whining and bask in it for a while. Thanks for listening.
–Michelle

After years of travel in Central America, I finally stumbled upon the Pacific Northwest Coast of Nicaragua - the fishing community of Padre Ramos and the vibrant city of Leon. This good fortune has already changed the course of my life forever, and you just can’t say that every day of your life, so I had to write and tell you more about my new-found home and adventures.

In Nicaragua, I fell in love with the warmth of the people, the beauty of the protected nature reserves, and the splendor of the shoreline as it calmly embraces the belching and sputtering chain of volcanoes. The city of Leon is overflowing with museums, artists, poets, architecture, and history. I mean, who doesn’t crave authentic, cultural experiences? But after venturing to Chiapas, Baja, Honduras, Belize, Guatemala, and Costa Rica, I have learned to search for places that provide comforts, including safety and hospitality, yet stretch my perspectives in a challenging way. Welcome to Nicaragua!

Come with me, while I describe the reasons I have fallen in love.

Let’s begin with the Estero Padre Ramos Nature Reserve. It’s the largest contiguous mangrove estuary left in Central America, and it is full of life. The locals call it “la cuna” or “the cradle” because of its importance in providing habitat for baby fish, shrimp, sharks, sea turtles, birds, and crocodiles. More than 175 bird species including white ibis, roseate spoonbills, tricolored heron, magnificent frigatebirds, and orange-chinned parakeets, as well as three species of endangered sea turtles - hawksbill, leatherback, and olive ridley - rely on the estuary and the Pacific Ocean for their survival. I think my survival has also become deeply intertwined with this body of water, as I come to rely upon its fish for my food and its tranquility for my mind.

By sea kayak, the Estero has become my sanctuary and my social conduit into the community. The fisherman in their dugout canoes and pangas can not help but approach a single white female in a closed-deck Necky kayak.

When I need to restock on groceries or the energy of the city, there is no better way to spend the day but in an open-air market in Chinandega or Leon. Blocks and blocks of outdoors booths and tables display every sort of smell, color, and sensation you could ever imagine. In one section, there are giant sacks of spices – row upon row of pinks, oranges, purples, and reds for cooking and dying fabrics. In another area, fresh fish, pieces of pork, beef, chicken, lizards, and snakes. People are shouting out prices and pounds, slicing through flesh, wrapping it up, and throwing it towards the new owner. Hammocks, baskets, and leather shoes. Pinatas of Strawberry Shortcake, Winnie the Pooh, clowns, and donkeys. Men are working on industrial machines, creating and repairing shoes. They are playing cards, waiting for customers, and urinating on the walls. Clothes, toothbrushes, soap, Jesus totems, stuffed rabbits, jewelry, mattresses, towels. The Latin music is blaring in competition with the radio, which is screaming testimonials for the next political candidate. Peppers, tomatoes, scallions. Stuffed dolls, shaving cream, maxi pads. It is sensory candy, and I gobble it all up.

Tomorrow, I will return to the tranquil life of Padre Ramos and my kayak on the sea. The small homes and inhabitants will welcome me in their unassuming way. Slats of wood haphazard with scraps of metal, rope, and cardboard will present a home reception fit for royalty, due to the kindness and generosity of the people. Hammocks slung for beds with leaky roofs and sandy floors will burst with the most beautiful children armed with hugs and giggles. Barefoot and dirty, riding bikes, carrying wood, selling water, running free. Somehow they look older than the children in the US, but they also look exceedingly happy.

I am reminded that Nicaragua is the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, and just under 10% of the population live on less than $1/day. That’s 82% of the population living below the poverty line. But I am constantly impressed by the resilience and generosity of the Nicaraguan people. I am humbled by the faces of the children whose smiles turn my heart into the softest muscle. I know that spending my money here will hugely and directly benefit the local people and communities.

And so, I can only offer you this invitation on behalf of the people in my new community. Welcome to Nicaragua!

Author: Jennifer Shulzitski is an avid traveler, adventurer, sea kayaking guide and instructor in California and Nicaragua. She has launched a sea kayaking tour company with the local community in Padre Ramos to explore the Estero on Day Tours, Camping Expeditions, and all-inclusive Pacific Coast Excursions into Leon, Padre Ramos, and the neighboring Juan Venado Nature Reserve. For more information about travel in Nicaragua or sea kayaking on the Estero, you can contact Jennifer via email (Ibis.Exchange@yahoo.com), cell phone (011-505-621-2778) or visit her website, www.PointReyesOutdoors.com/Nicaragua.html.

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My name is Kristin Gates. I am a junior at Colby College in Maine and this is the first installment of my adventure on the Pacific Crest Trail. In mid-May I will be heading down to Mexico to begin a walk north on the PCT. The Pacific Crest Trail is a 2,655 mile footpath that stretches from Mexico to Canada through California, Oregon, and Washington. It starts in the scorching deserts of the south and after crossing the Mojave, climbs up into California’s high Sierras and then north through Oregon’s Cascades and Washington’s rugged wilderness.

When I was thirteen years old I made a promise to my Great Aunt that I would live life to its fullest. Unfortunately, she passed away when I was fifteen and, by the time I turned nineteen, I had never done anything particularly exciting with my life. By the fall of my sophomore year in college I had followed all the rules and done everything that was expected of me. But then, a fear that had been sitting in the back of my head began to creep up on me. A fear that one day, when I am old and gray, I will look back on my life and realize that my dreams had never been accomplished. That next semester I traded in my school bag for a backpack and my books for maps and a compass to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail.

In March of 2007 I flew down to Georgia by myself, got a ride to the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail from a hostel owner, and spent the next four and a half months walking north. Over two thousand miles later I was standing at the summit of Mt. Katahdin in Maine finishing my first thru-hike.

I went back to school in the fall, but the trail stayed with me. Lecture halls and labs left me longing for the freedom of the mountains. The world seemed so big and I could not bear to be trapped in such a small corner of it. That was when plans for a new adventure began to develop and, like so many travelers before me, my dreams turned to the west. I decided to try for the second jewel of the Triple Crown, the Pacific Crest Trail. The Triple Crown includes our country’s three main long distance trails: the Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and the Continental Divide Trail. I had first learned about the PCT while I was preparing to hike the AT. I remember smiling as I read its description and wondering if the trail would be in my future. By January of 2008 I decided that it was. Over the coming four months of my summer break, from May until September, I hope to make my way from Mexico to Canada.

The puzzle pieces are starting to fit together now. My gear is organized, my thru-hikers permit has come in the mail, and my plane ticket to California has been purchased. Now, all that stands between me and this adventure are the last 12 days of spring semester. Only 12 more days and I will be free. It is time to wipe the dust off my old boots. It is time to take a walk.

I will be updating this blog when I pass through towns to re-supply about once a week. I hope that you will join me on what promises to be an amazing adventure.

My attempts to get back on the training wagon have seemed feeble at times.  These days I relate everything back to the marathon only because for 16+ straight weeks prior to March 2, I ran my little heart out.  Motivation was not a problem because that big “M DAY” circled on my calendar wouldn’t allow me to slack for more than a day.  But now?  I seem to be dragging.  If you think I am exaggerating I will tell you this story.  Today at lunchtime I got up from my desk, grabbed my bag of running clothes and began walking towards the bathroom to change.  I got halfway there, stopped, realized changing my clothes, running, showering, changing again, and getting back to work all seemed way too hard so I literally pivoted in the middle of the hallway, walked back to my desk and sat back down.  I got back to work for a minute or so when I looked at the clock.  When the hands read 12:30pm I realized that while all the effort needed for a mid day run seemed preposterous, sitting indoors at my computer for the next 5 hours, without a mosey outside, sounded even worse.  So I got back up for a second attempt.  This time I made it all the way to the end of the hall and once I was there, it seemed silly not to change my clothes.  I managed to even get my shoes and eventually make my way out the door.

Amazing that 6 weeks ago I went out for 16 mile runs and today I cant even get myself out the door.  I managed only a quick 3 miler but in the end, I decided it was better than nothing.  I thought back about the time when what used to be my long runs, became my short runs; and about the fact that my short runs from before are once again my long runs.  If my short runs are now my long runs, then have my old long runs become?  Ludicrous.  As I thought about this fact today (not for long as clearly I was running for only a short 30 minutes) I realized that the only way that my runs got easier before was that I kept doing them.  They weren’t always easy.  In fact, my first 2 miler about 4 years ago was down right hard.  A few years later, 18 miles was easy.  Today, we are back to hard.  But I am confident that it is only a matter of time.  When I start running 6 miles, my 4 milers will feel easy, then I’ll push to hit 8 and my 6’s will become easy.  Eventually I’ll be back in double digits and think back on today, when three miles along the beach at lunchtime seemed sooo hard.  And I’ll laugh.  3 miles?  Piece of cake!  But not today.