It is easy to get caught up in the fear of taking on a new challenge.  I myself, am not a fearless person.  The trick is that I try and fool myself into thinking that I am indeed fearless, and then while my brain is caught up in the confusion, I quickly go sign up for a triathlon, or a trip to Alaska, or whatever else I may actually fear most.  Once I return to sanity, it is too late to get my money back.  A training partner of mine has mentioned that she thinks my mentality is- what is the point of doing something if there isn’t a slight chance of it killing me?  That may taking me a bit far. . .but I know on many levels she is right.  If you can easily do something all along, where is the satisfaction in completing it?  Fortunately for me, most things don’t come easily.

The challenge of the week (or maybe the month) for me is: Clipless Pedals.  As I increase the mileage on my road bike in preparation for my triathlon at the end of September, I am starting to learn the benefit of taking the bike a little more seriously.  In the 9 mile sprint course I did last year, I could pretty much fake my way through it.  Anyone can travel 9 miles on a bike if they have to.  But 26 super hilly miles gets a little tougher and I need every bit of help I can get.  Enter: clipless pedals. 

Supposedly they will give me more power out my rotations, and will help me stand up easier, and all in all make me a more efficient cyclist.  But despite all of the future benefits, it is hard to ignore the present setbacks.  I can’t get my cleats in the pedals.  I also seem to keep getting them in wrong, and they get jammed, and then I panic.  I haven’t actually fallen yet but I have gotten honked at. . .and I haven’t even left my neighborhood yet.  Everyone says it just takes some time, but everyone also says they have never heard of someone not being able to get INTO their pedals.  Usually getting out is the problem. 

So what does this mean for my cycling training?  Well, I was tempted to throw in the towel, and only ride under controlled circumstances in areas only sparcely populated with pedestrians or cars.  But this, of course, means that most of my favorite rides would have to be amended and I would also have to stop riding to work.  And I don’t know, but I am guessing that spending less time on my bike in the final 7 weeks of training will not do much for race day.  So caution to the wind I forced my brain to do a 180 and have decided to spend every possible spare minute with my bike.  But the question is- is it good to push myself beyond my comfort level and rise to the challenge?  Or is getting on my bike when I know there is a significant chance of falling, perhaps into traffic, just plain stupid?  I get a little worried about myself when the line between ambition and stupidity blurs. 

The whole experience so far seems painfully reminiscent of learning to drive a stick shift.  It took me days (okay, maybe weeks) to even make it out of the parking lot in my ’87 Isuzu Trooper that surely needed a new clutch shortly after my 16^th birthday.  And the first time I ventured onto the street, my dad had to pull the emergency break trick at least once and I felt like it was physically impossible that I would ever actually be able to drive a stick shift comfortably.  Hopefully though clipless pedals seem impossible now, some day, like driving a stick shift, it will just be second nature and I will wonder why it was ever so hard.  And why my dad’s hair seemed to turn grey so suddenly.

As much as I moan, complain, and often joke about coming in last, I have never actually come in last. Not once. But this past week I came pretty dang close. For the first time, I completed a swim/run biathlon that I have forever been terrified of. It happens 18 times a year, every year, for the past 7 years that I have lived in the Santa Barbara area, but I have never once done it. I’ve done the run and the swim more times than I can count, but fear has kept me from doing both. When I realized my fear was not of drowning but instead of coming in last, I realized I had run out of excuses (no pun intended). So last week I attempted it for the first time.

 I actually felt amazingly good on both legs. I remembered what my husband said (and that little blue fish from Nemo) and just kept swimming. Every time I wanted to spot the buoys or look for other swimmers, I simply did so while I kept swimming. Once on land I managed to get out of my wetsuit faster than I thought (I had visions of a 10 minute transition thanks to the new wetsuit that I swear is superglued to my body) and got myself off on the run with a few other transitioners still in site. I had some unexplained hamstring pain during the initial uphill, but is subsided quickly and I felt, dare I say, really good through the entire race. So I felt great, moved as quickly as I would have possibly imagined, and got to the turnaround with 1.5 miles left to run and. . .radio silence. No other competitors in site. One girl about a quarter mile ahead and one elderly gentleman about 100 yards ahead and that was it. How was this possible? I had fully expected to finish in the back but I felt so GOOD. How was I last? I kept on running and eventually saw a couple last stragglers behind me. But I ran the last mile and half in total silence; a vast change from the usual crowd I am surrounded with when I do only the run and finish in the middle of the pack. While quiet and a little bit lonely, I quickly grew to appreciate the peace. It was a rare moment where I just ran, with no other runners chattering nearby and no ipod; Just the salt on my skin and the breeze in my face and one lone course official directing traffic. I took a moment to yell a thank you to the officials who were still on the course, to see us last few make it in safely and I thought about how impressive and inspiring all of these back of the packers were (ok yes, toot my own horn just a tad) but seriously. I know the winners work really hard and all, but so do the rest of us! And we are out there for a long-ass time. We don’t have the satisfaction of first place medals to measure our success so we have to measure it in other ways.

I measure my success in completion of a goal. In finishing a distance I’ve never finished before. If I am not going to be known as being fast, I want to be known as being a trooper. Being known for running, swimming, biking, climbing, paddling, whatever- despite the fact that it takes hard work and the payoff lies only within my own ability to pat myself on the back. (And my parents and husband do a great job of this as well.) I took a test in the Triathlete’s Training Bible this weekend that measured natural born talent, and motivation. It was no surprise where the test thought my strengths lied. There is no doubt that I am going to need to work hard to accomplish my physical goals. But what would be the point if it all came easy? I am now on week 2 of my Olympic Distance Triathlon training program. I am looking forward to the trials and tribulations of training for a new distance.

How do you measure your accomplishments? Share your stories. I’d love to hear them.

Last night I completed my second ocean swim of the year.  Despite being lucky enough to grow up 7 blocks from the ocean and spending more summer days than not, at the beach, I still have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the ocean.  I love it.  I do.  Really.  But it still seems to cause me a moments (or hours) hesitation, when planning my frequent reunions with it.  Whether it be kayaking, surfing or swimming, there is something about planning a paddle into its depths that gives me butterflies every single time.  I think it has to do with the unknown.  Not knowing what’s under the water.  Not knowing how the waves are breaking.  Not knowing how fast the tide is moving.  The possibilities are endless and you never know just what to expect until you are actually in it; swimming, surfing, kayaking.  Last night was an excellent reminder.

In preparation for “tri season,” as I call it, (despite the fact that I have exactly 1 triathlon on my calendar and that will make two, total, for my lifelong count of triathlons) I am starting back on a swimming plan.  Though my 16 week training plan doesnt officially start until Monday, I am getting a head start getting myself used to the idea of being back in training.  Every wednesday night there is this fabulous little local event here that involves a 1k ocean swim and a 5k run.  Last year I attempted the swim for the first time.  And because my expectations were so low (my ONLY goal was not to come in last) the swim was a total success!  This year however, I feel like I should be a seasoned veteran.  I swam last week and did not come in last and beat my time from the previous year.  hallelujah.  Last night I swam again.  It looked calm.  The water was warm.  Perfect conditions, right?  uummmm, not so much.  Turned out that peaceful rolling swell was not so peaceful when swimming through it.  I had no idea you could get seasick while swimming.  Turns out, you can.  And to add insult to injury my husband decided to stay back and swim with me at the back of the pack.  Nice, right?  Yes, until he started treading water, doing the butterfly, and swimming to far off places and then back to me, so he wouldnt get too far ahead.  He  seriously had to work hard to “keep up” (I mean back) with me.  All the while he kept looking at me concerned and asking if I was alright.  I kept responding I was fine and that this (slow and not-so-steady) is in fact, how I swim.  He just couldnt believe that anyone could swim that slow and be fine.  But I was.  I swear.

A little nauseaous and a little deflated, I finally made it out of the water with my husbands not-so-subtle hints of just how slow I was ringing in my ears.  He had nothing but the best of intentions and a little concern for his potentially drowning wife.  But his butterfly beating my freestyle may have nudged me just enough and made me realize that I have a ways to go before I am ready for my race.  And this, is a great thing.  Because I may have been getting just a little too comfortable in the back of the pack.  Maybe I can work my way up to second from the back. 

And by the way, last night turned out to be my fastest time yet.  Go figure.

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. 

Just when you think you might be onto something. . . I finished a triathlon, a ran a marathon, I own more gear than any condo dwelling girl without a garage should.  I could definately fool someone into thinking I was a kick butt athlete.  As long as they never actually saw me in action.

It has been a long standing joke in my family that my greatest athletic ability lies in my willingness to keep on trucking, despite a lack of any actual talent.  It certainly was true through my youth, and I will even say that it stayed true through my college years as I got myself into the world of adventure sports.  Then, it was almost ok.  I figured of course, when I was learning to ski for the first time at 16 with friends who had been doing it since they were 5, of course they’ll be better.  At 18 I started rock climbing with folks who at 25+ had been doing it since high school.  I could only expect they would be leading while I was on toprope.  At 24 I even accepted getting dragged on my face for many yards learning to kiteboard, while the more adept watched and tried to hide their amusement.  But I must say that this weekend, while on a leisurely paddle on calm seas, it all started to feel a little old.

Since it was an almost record breaking 90 degrees in Santa Barbara this weekend, my husband and friends and I were fired up to get the kayaks that had been collecting dust all winter, on the water.  It was a perfect day.  The water was flat so no surf entry was needed although it didnt even matter since a dunk in the pacific would have been welcome on such a hot day.  All was well and fun until I just couldnt keep up.  We werent even going anywhere!  Just bobbing around paddling back and forth looking for dolphins but at times I could hardly even enjoy my surroundings because I was paddling so hard.  Not to mention getting seasick.  It didnt make any sense as no one but me would have even thought speed was an issue.  But the fact that I seemed to be working so much harder than everyone else got to me just a little.  Fortunately with good friends, no one seemed to mind.  But it still drove me a little crazy and got me thinking.  Kayaking is not new to me.  I cant even remember when I first learned as all my life I have memories with a paddle in my hand.  So when I cant use that “uneven playing ground” as an excuse for why a friend is stronger/faster/all around better at the sport than me. . .then what?   

I suppose this is just one of those humbling moments that life is full of.  And one of those times where I am supposed to remember that I have ALWAYS been active because I love it, not because I am winning any medals for it.  Its not like I wish I were a pro.  I dont even need an age group win, but it would be nice to atleast be able to keep up  when out for an adventure with friends. 

Fortunately it wasnt a big deal because being the kind friend that she is, jannine stayed back with me while our husbands forged on,  looking for sea life and every so often looking back at us, wondering what the heck we were doing back there.  Although I cant believe they would even wonder, as I was right where I usually am when out with athletic friends. . .a few steps behind.

Dont get me wrong, it was still a fabulous day.  Hot, sunny, got to go for a swim in the ocean, tried out my new (very NON waterproof) hatch in my lovely womens specific kayak, and got to end the day with one of those awesome showers when you wash a really really good salty day off and get ready for what is surely to be an excellent night’s sleep.  And in the end, I know that’s why I keep putting on my running shoes, busting out my kayak paddle, or pumping up my bike tires.  Because at the end of the day, we all had another great day. 

I have a vague recollection of making a deal with the devil a few weeks ago. In my last few days before the Marathon, I gave a whole new meaning to the term “active rest.” I iced and stretched multiple times a day, I consulted every sports injury book I could find, and I even tried at home, do-it-yourself accupressure, all in hopes of magically making my random undiagnosed general foot/leg injury go away in time to run the marathon pain free. I begged and pleaded in my own head with the running powers that be, to heal me. I even remember thinking, just let me be 100% for race day, then I’ll take all the time off my body needs. Doh! Rookie mistake. The words are coming back to haunt me in the days and weeks since crossing the finish line.

General soreness went away in a day or two, but the pre-race injury that so cooperatively stayed away on race day has come back with a vengeance. It is definately on the mend, but taking its sweet time. A few days off turned into a few weeks, and now it has been 16 days since I have been running. But who is counting. And ok, I did sneak one little walk/jog in there desperate to get back on the road, but I was dragging my reluctant pit bull and ended up doing much more tug of war-ing than actually running so it doesnt really count. I had thought so much about pre-race, it didnt cross my mind what might happen post race. As ridiculous as it sounds, my whole life had unknowingly been separated into two portions; pre marathon and post marathon. My days were so consumed by my training plan that every evening and lunch break were masterly calculated and planned days in advance. My friday night plans were dependant on how long my saturday morning run was going to be and my saturday afternoons were allocated to spend as much time recovering as necessary. Some might say I was a little obsessed, and I daydreamed about how great it would be post marathon when I could sleep in, drink coffee in my pj’s and suddenly have hours and hours of free time added back into my week. What exactly was I thinking??

I think I have settled into a little bit of post accomplishment funk, all made worse by an injury that is keeping me from running altogether. But If I were able to continue running afterwards, I kind of think I still might be in a similar predicament. 4 months of focusing on a very specific goal and then. . .nothing. Anyone is bound to feel a little down, right? I have actually found myself missing the songs on my ipod and searching for another excuse to put the earbuds in, just to bring me back. So now the problem is: what to do about this? Last night over corned beef and guiness, I began to drop hints to my training buddy about potential goals for the future. Has she heard about this triathlon? That half marathon? Trying to plant the seed of getting a new goal on the calendar, even if it is eons away. I think just having a big red circle somewhere in the datebook will help. But unfortunately I think she is still in the post race euphoria, excited to trade running dates for cocktail dates, and actually responding to all of her emails instead of reading the latest workout/recipe/blog on runners world. But lets not give her too many ideas. Selfishly I am hoping she finds herself searching for purpose and a way to work off all that corned beef soon so we can both be back on the wagon. In the meantime, I’ll try to enjoy having more time to walk the dog, watch more movies, and do more cooking. All of the things I thought I missed so much. Turns out, I enjoy everything a little more, when running is a part of my schedule, too. Maybe when my official training starts back up, I will remember this and appreciate just how busy my days are, just a little more.

After a crazy past two weeks of getting injured, then getting sick, I somehow, barely by the skin of my teeth, finished my first marathon yesterday!  I had spent the past 16 weeks training so it wasnt exactly out of the blue, but after an injury that kept me off running for a week, then the flu that took my very last week pre-race, I was struggling to believe it was even possible, right up until the friday night before.  I finally decided I would give it a shot, runny nose and all.  And I couldn’t be happier with my choice.  My running career has been short.  Evening jogs with my dad as a kid eventually sequeing into short jogs as an adult, but not until about 3 years ago I decided I wanted to BE a runner.  Whatever that means.  After crossing the finish line yesterday, even being the skeptic I am, I cannot doubt that I earned that runner status.

I expected to be stressed leading up to the race, but what I experienced was something totally different.  Instead of worrying that my training would fail me, or that after devoting 16 weeks of my life, 16 early saturday mornings to training for this, that I would have a performance better suited for an off-the-couch marathoner (yes, they do exist), I worried that my leg would hurt too bad and force me to leave the course and take the metro to the finish, or that my cold would fill my lungs and not let me breathe enough to run.  But I decided to take it bit by bit, and focused on getting myself to the starting line.  Once I was there, it was just a matter of doing what I came to do.

No matter how much advice I received leading up to race day, though much of it was fabulous, nothing could have possibly prepared me for what I actually endured.  To be honest, it was pretty much what I expected for the first 18 miles.  Starting getting tougher around 19, then by 22 the race was no longer physical.  4.2 miles from the finish there was no way I wouldnt make it.  I would crawl if I had to.  But my body was breaking down.  My hips felt like hinges that had rusted and broken off.  My feet felt like bricks.  And no matter how much water I poured over my head, it felt like it was 1000 degrees out.  But being the debater that I am, I talked my way through those final grueling miles.  I told myself that if I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, the miles would pass by on their own.  Each mile was not counting down to the finish but instead was one more massive accomplishment of its own, eventually equaling 26.2 massive accomplishments for the day.  Eventually, I rounded the corner just past the 26 mile mark, saw my family screaming and waving through a crowd of thousands of spectators and saw the finish line just ahead.  A lump formed in my throat at the sight of my dad, 6 time marathoner, cheering me in, but I quickly told myself I did not have enough energy to cry AND keep running.  So I swallowed and focused forward, eeking my way across the finish line.

It may be too soon to know what I really learned from all of this, but one thing, I just cant stop thinking about.  This is me, running day after day, week after week, and eventually, this is me, my body and my mind, knock knees and all, accomplishing an actual respectable feat.  I have a new appreciation for my skinny legs.  And a new appreciation for the power that my mind has over itself.  I had no idea that it would be my fierce negotiating skills that would ultimately get me across the finish line.  So though my legs wont bend today and I type with an ice pack taped to my injured ankle, I have to admit, there still seems to be a little extra spring in my step today.

To all of the aspiring adventurers out there. To all of you who think “Women’s Adventure magazine” sounds intimidating. To all who think in order to read our magazine (or our website), you have to be someone capable of being IN our magazine. This is for you.

Sure it would be nice to ski double black diamonds on opening day of the season, or run class V rapids, or finish and ironman, but the truth is, most of us can’t do those things. Not yet at least. Because everyone has to start somewhere and for many of us not born with the ability to run a 6 minute mile, the place we start, is at the back of the pack. And while our 10 minute miles and successful singletrack ride (the WHOLE way down the mountain and I didn’t fall once. . .but it took me almost 2 hours) may not merit an interview in the magazines, that doesn’t mean we don’t have great stories to tell. In fact, we probably even better ones since it takes us three times as long to finish!

So this here blog is for all of you starting out in new adventures. Follow me on my escapades, and feel free to add and post your own. Because we all love to have friends and training partners to share our successes and failures with. Starting at the bottom can certainly be intimidating but amidst good company you might just replace the frustrations with entertainment and have a lot more fun. Some of our greatest stories come from our mishaps while we are on that ever evolving learning curve.

And remember that starting at the back of the pack doesn’t mean you will always be there. But just in case you are, I promise, it is just as fun back here.