The Finish Line!

Well, it's done. Yesterday saw me swim, bike and run 32 miles along western Manhattan (and the Bronx . . . it was an equal opportunity triathlon), and I have survived to tell the story. Later this week I'll write more on the lessons learned and valuable insight revealed from swallowing a mouthful of the Hudson, but for now, on my day of rest, I'll hold you over with a few simple (though still profound) comments on my race to the finish.

1. You have to get up early to run a triathlon. Really early. Like 3:45am early if you live in Jersey. Lucky for me I had a husband who cared enough about me to fake alertness and drive down the Turnpike blasting the Zach Brown's "Chicken Fried." I can guarantee you we were the only people rolling through the Bronx jamming to country music.

2. Lots of other people do triathlons too . . . about 4,000 of them. But I have to say despite my training run-ins with poorly attired cycling snobs and Wallstreet types in Speedos obviously overcompensating for a lack of something else, these athletes were some of the nicest people I've ever met. Everybody was incredibly encouraging, eager to help out, and generally the opposite of every person I have run into at a New Jersey Dunkin' Donuts. There is quite a bit of camaraderie when we're all dressed like seals waiting in line for a port-a-potty.

3. Despite not having a fancy Italian bike or those pretentious clip on shoes, I beat the shit (sorry Mom) out of some of those chicks on the bike course . . . and all without changing gears . . .once. A few months ago, I decided to take a "naturalist" approach to cycling and committed to using only the power of my short muscular legs to carrying me up hills and through long flats. It was my way of giving the finger, or toe in this case, to all of those riders who were constantly clicking up the course. They may get to the top faster than me (some of the time), but my legs would look a hell of a lot better in short shorts.

4. The volunteers and crowds were some of the most enthusiastic and supportive people I have ever come across. They were also a bunch of liars. As I entered the final mile in Central Park, I heard shouts of "Only 1/2 mile left!" or "The finish is just around the corner!" Being appropriately concerned about the melodramatic moment of my impending finish, I began to sprint, (mistakenly) believing that I was just a few strides away from the end of this journey and conjured up every mental trigger for tears I could possibly muster; Jon's brain hemorrhage, the struggle of passing the Bars and moving so far away from my wonderful friends, and the incredible family members who had passed away from obesity and neglect of their own health. I began tearing up and sprinting through this mental montage through the finish. Then . . . there was another turn, or another "1/2 mile left!" And I lost it . . . no, not "lost it" as in I began sobbing though Central Park but "lost it" as in I was over it. I could only sustain my cinematic game face for so long before I just got pissy with all the onlookers and wanted to yell, "You said that shit 2 miles ago!" By the time the finish line snuck up on me, my mental focus had turned to whether my braid had stayed in place for post-race pictures. It had. It's about the journey though people, not the finish (because you can always take fake finish line pictures later).

5. And finally, a Jimmy Buff's stuffed double cheesesteak sandwich never tastes so good as after a gulp of the Hudson.

All Suited Up!

It was my original intention to swim the Hudson in just my "tri-suit" but after googling "death and NYC triathlon" earlier this week (hey, it's important to be well informed) I had a change of heart. Apparently a swimmer passed away in 2008 after being attacked by a swarm of jellyfish, and the critters have continued to be a problem in the last couple of years. The bodies and dragnet of state's evidence in the river didn't bother me so much, but a jellyfish sting really hurts like a bitch.

Armed with this new information, I made my way to Jack Rabbit Sports on the Upper East side to get fitted for my suit. I explained to the staff that this was my first triathlon and I was looking for something that would keep me warm in the water, deter marine life, and elongate my legs. After taking my measurements, she brought out what was essentially a rubber onesie that looked like it would fit my 19 month old nephew. I assured her that there was no way that 1) this suit was making it over my left butt cheek and that 2) even if it did I would have a panic attack from the constriction, and my mental health coverage for the year was already used up (shocking I know). She told me to just relax (a bit easier for her to do since she was in clothing that did not require special lotion to get a sleeve over your forearm) and that it was completely normal to feel like you couldn't breathe while standing up in the suit. I would eventually get used to the compression and barely notice that my kidneys had been pushed to the front of my body. Faced with either putting the suit on or having to look like a wimp in front of a store full of athletes (they were serious athletes too . . . the kind that don't wear makeup and have sock tans), I dragged the suit into the dressing room and began the 10 minute process of getting it on. I have to say, it wasn't as bad as I thought. All those years of trying to fit a size 12 toosh into a size 2 dress (that was obviously just cut small) had paid off, and I emerged fully zipped and ready for the three way mirror.

Because the suit is built to make swimmers buoyant in the water, there is about a two inch thick paneling of foam and rubber between the interior of the suit and the outside. Swimmers extol this padding because it increases your speed and efficiency in the water ten fold. I, however, thought it added unnecessary pounds and would gladly sacrifice 2 or 3 minutes of swim time for something a bit more slimming. However, the look in the sales lady's eyes told me I should not inquire about a different model that perhaps didn't accentuate my hips.

In the end, I not only got that suit, but I actually started to hit a groove posing in front of the mirror in my Wonder Woman Onesie. There was something very powerful in knowing that I would be using this suit to complete an event that I had dedicated countless hours and buckets of sweat training for. I looked as strong as I felt, and it was great to have the outside match the inside. Now, I just have to find a great pair of earrings to match!

Ursula's Yoga Madness

Check out Ursula's website (and if you can one of her classes) . . . This woman is responsible for many a clear minds and tight tooshes!

Thank you for everything Ursula!

(http://ursulavari.com/)

MFing Triathlon

With only one month left to train for the big event, I started to get nervous that my legs wouldn't carry me through all three grueling segments in succession. I mean, obviously I am a machine of incredible athletic prowess and steel will, but it's always good to get some extra insurance with those big purchases. So I decided that on Saturday I would host my own little suburban salute to the triathlon by competing (against myself) in a 25 mile bike, 6 mile run, and 1 mile swim here in Livingston. It was roughly the same distance that will be covered next month, and the only real differences were that my transition stages were downstairs at my in-laws and my swim was in the pool at NYSC (which in all truth is probably more disgusting than the Hudson). I completed the "MFing Triathlon" in a little under 4 hours (including changes) and am happy to report that I did not have to stop once to throw up or ask someone for a ride back home . . .

I would like to thank the following for making this victory possible:

To the drivers of Livingston NJ, without your recklessness and road rage I would never have been compelled to peddle my short legs so fast if not for the fear of you killing me on the way to an Ed Hardy sale. Oh, and to the soccer mom with too much face work and leathery skin driving the Lexus that almost side swiped me on the corner of Livingston Ave. and Northfield, I got your plate number.

I would also like to wish little Stephen a Happy 6th Birthday . . . I would like to say it was a pleasure sharing the NYSC swim pool with you and 15 of your closest friends yesterday afternoon, but alas it was not. Due to what I can only assume was a group effort to see how much urine you guys could seep into the pool, the temperature was uncomfortably warm. How about Chuck-e-Cheeses next year?

To the group of 13 year old boys who refused to give me free lemonade (when it was advertised as "free lemonade"), I would like to say 1) You are too old to be selling lemonade anyway you little creeps and 2) I hope you never get laid.

Finally, I would like to extend my warmest gratitude to the world's best husband for serving as my coach and assistant during yesterday's festivities. No one pulls of cheerleading from the couch like he does, and even though he ate the last piece of chicken breast I was saving for after the workout, he redeemed himself by ponying up for sushi last night.

Onward to New York!

Just Chew It

A huge part of any lifestyle overhaul is just getting out there and moving. But if one of those movements you're having trouble with is pulling your jeans up over your hips, sooner or later you'll have to turn your attention to the fork-lift (as in lifting your fork to your mouth). I did not turn in my resignation as the West Coast's Chapter President of the Chub Club by exercise alone, although it would have been easier if I could have. No matter how many squats, sprints, and sit-ups I mastered, the pounds didn't really start their downward spiral until I took a new approach to my diet. And you know what? It sucked. It really really really sucked. It's not fair that I have to watch what I eat when I log in seven or eight hours of exercise a week. Hell, I should be able to go through 1-12 on the McDonald's value meal menu with the amount of intervals I clock . . . but I can't. And neither can most people. Even you're shredding 500 calories a workout, you still have to create a daily caloric deficit to lose weight. Translate: "Congratulations on the 18mile bike ride . . .now put that mother^&*#ing bag of chips down."

I don't just like to eat, I love to eat. I love to have people over for a shrimp boil and beer, and I love to cook big meals for friends and families on the holidays. Food is the great common denominator in some of my favorite memories, and because of that I refuse to look at it as the enemy. Instead, food is my "frienemy" I will always have food in my life, and I will always have a great time when we're out on the town together trying new things. But sometimes my frienemy is just a little bitch that wants me to buy a pair of elastic pants.

For me, the best way to handle this relationship has been to focus on quantity. Seems silly I know, but it was quantity that got me into this mess and quantity that got me out. I made a deal with myself that I could east as many fruits and vegetables as I wanted . . . no limits. But in exchange, I would reduce the amount of simply carbohydrates and fats I consumed. I keep my plates around 30/70. 70% veggies and the other 30% lean protein and complex carbohydrates. For example, if we were having spaghetti and marinara sauce for dinner, I'd thrown in some extra veggies in the sauce and then serve mine over steamed cauliflower instead of pasta. Is it the same as a rich sauce over linguine? Hell no. But it's not half bad, and I got in about 4 more servings of veggies than the schlub eating the shells and a fraction of the calories. Another trick is doing breakfast for dinner and throwing in a whole package of spinach with an egg white scramble and whole grain toast. The variations go on and on. By focusing on fruits and vegetables as my diet's mainstay, I not only get all the essential nutrients I need to keep me going, but I can also eat a ridiculously big plate and still fit in my skinny jeans tomorrow.

I'm posting one of my favorite summer recipes below . . . Watermelon Salad. Its got tons of lycopene, antioxidants, and tummy filling water. Make yourself a big bowl and serve it with some grilled chicken or fish. You'll have a complete meal, a well fueled body, and zero guilt!

Watermelon Salad*

Seeded and Cubed Watermelon

Arugula or Some Other Peppery Lettuce

Red Onion, Sliced Thin

Maytag Blue Cheese

Toss all four together and serve cold.

* I don't know quantities because I'm Southern, and we never measure anything. But the general gist is to use a lot of watermelon for the sweetness and scale back on the cheese (you really won't need that much anyway because it's such a strong flavor).

The Glamorous Life of an Athlete

Long Run. Long Bike. Really Long Bike. Swim. I'm too tired to write but my face pretty much says it all . . .

A Friendly Public Service Announcement

Don't forget that there's a link to the right that allows you to donate (however big or small) and support my fundraising effort for the American Cancer Society. We're about $1,000 short of our goal and only two months left to go . . .

Your money goes directly to ACS and helps fund cancer research and treatment. It helps them out tremendously (it also helps my marriage out tremendously, because whatever balance I don't manage to raise is charged on Jon's credit card).

Thanks so much to all of you who have already donated (and there are a lot of you), and I look forward to writing thank you notes to the rest of you in the near future!

Ride Baby Ride

After months of training for the cycling portion of the race on stationary spin bikes, the time has come to hit the open road and invest in a bike that actually moves when you pedal. Now, if it had been entirely up to me I would have happily stayed on my spin bike, rocking out to Beyonce and never worrying that my life would be cut short by a texting teenager, but alas my coach informed me that I would be crushed by a sea of Schwinns on race day if I didn't start riding outside.

So Friday afternoon Jon and I hit a local bike shop where I was hooked up with "June Bug" (my new bike's name). June weighs in at a healthy 75 lbs and has beautiful red reflectors and long silver spokes. I gave her a test drive around the local neighborhoods and was shocked at how little riding a real bike resembled riding an impostor. First, when you're riding a real bike, you can't close your eyes, jam to "Stronger," and envision yourself ascending a steep hill in the French countryside. You actually have to keep your eyes open and look at the road. And let me tell you, looking out at a sea of Dunkin' Donuts and dry cleaners is not exactly the type of inspiration that someone will write a crappy book about. Second, there's no one next to you. Now, I don't believe in conversing while exercising, so that aspect doesn't bother me. What I do miss are the people you can gauge your own performance against and then later judge. If I can't beat somebody then what exactly is the point of playing? Finally, you don't have to worry about falling off of a stationary bike (most of the time), but with a real bike you're constantly worried that the slightest wobble will send you over the handlebars and into an intersection. Raised with a heaping does of fear and dread, I lock my arms and hold the handlebars in a death grip until I am safely at a stop. Today, after a leisurely ride around a quaint suburban neighborhood, my hands were black from holding on to June Bug so tightly, and I'm pretty sure I didn't blink for 30 minutes straight.

All these differences aside though, I am happy to have my bike and looking forward to getting to know her better. The two of us have quite the task ahead . . .

Happy Mother's Day Gwen!

My mother has been a tremendous motivator and source of strength through this last year. Perched from her seat on the sofa and peering over a People Magazine, Coach Gwen has dispensed valuable advice while still paying close attention the Home Garden Network in the background. The woman is an inspiration. Here are a few of the pearls of wisdom straight from the mouth of the lady I am lucky enough to call "Mom." I hope they are as helpful to you as they are to me . . .

"Sometimes getting out of the bed is just the hardest part of the day."

"It could be worse. You could be (insert ailment) in Iraq."

"Shazam!"

"Don't worry about it. Eat a Lean Cuisine and take a nap."

"Just don't think about it."

Treading Water

Top 5 Reasons I Don't Want to Go to Swim Practice

1. Chlorine does not taste good.

2. It forces me to wax areas that I would normally put off for a while . . .

3. We have to swim for a long time . . . a really long time.

4. My swimsuit makes my boobs look smaller than Esha's.

5. It's a two hour drive to the pool (I am not kidding).

6. I look like a sperm in my swim cap.

7. I miss Modern Family.

8. Did I say "Top 5 Reasons?" I told you, I really don't like going to swim practice.

Top 5 Reasons I Go Anyway

1. I said I would.

2. It gives me something to bitch about later.

3. I would prefer not to drift out with the tide in the Hudson.

4. It gives me something to bitch about later.

5. You guys can come up with the 5th one because I'm stuck at 4. . .

Things That Make You Go Ohm

If you had told me four years ago that I would be writing about the amazing powers of yoga, I would have choked on my red wine from laughing so hard and blown a puff of a freshly inhaled Parliament in your face. But alas, here I am singing the praises of a practice in which farting is not only expected but encouraged.

I was (and am) a tough chick. I can out-lift any gay man at the gym, and I glare contemptuously at the actresses on the treadmill working off their morning lettuce. So yoga seemed a little sissy for me. If I wanted a good stretch, I would have one of the neighborhood kids drag me down the driveway by my arms. But for a real workout, I'd stick to kettle balls and boxing gloves, thank you very much. I was an idiot.

My first yoga class was a little over three years ago with a teacher I refer to as Ursula, Goddess of Yoga. I was so sore for the week afterwards that I limited my fluid intake because squatting to go to the bathroom hurt too much. Yoga wasn't what you did after a workout. It was the workout. I began going to Ursula at least once a week, and followed her through two studios and even a very cool art gallery where the owner was kind enough to let us practice on Wednesday evenings. The physical benefits were hard to ignore (they don't call it "yoga butt" for nothing), but what kept me coming back was the sense of calm and centeredness after each class. No one in my life has ever described me as calm. In fact, you could probably fry an egg off the frenetic energy radiating from my body. But this class, and in particular this teacher, was the chamomile to my triple espresso shot.

The heat, the sweat, the flow, and the music all contributed to this exhausting afterglow of serenity. I had become an inadvertent yogi . . . well my version of a yogi. I didn't have dinners in tree houses, and I didn't register for wind chimes for my wedding, but I did become in tune with my own spirituality (which may or may not involve a superhero alter ego). I learned to push my body even when my mind said to stop, and I was addicted to sweating out my literal and figurative toxins.

When we got to New Jersey, I tried a few classes but none were my style. This one was too "gentle." That one was too "hippie dippie." The other one was too "gym like." But a couple of months ago, I found PowerFlow (http://www.powerflownj.com/index.php). It's a power vinyasa flow class in a heated room . . .you can google it to get details, but the basic concept is push up, sweat, lunge, push up, sweat, lunge, push up, gasp for air, and then stretch. You feel like you're going to die. It's amazing.

I don't think I could have gotten through this past year, with all it's ups and downs, without some sort of yoga practice. It was so essential to step back from the hard days and just breathe (and sweat and lunge). I didn't worry about competing with anybody (that might be a total lie), and I took the time out to stretch and appreciate my body after all it had done for me. That is especially true now. There are days when my hips and legs feel mangled after the constant pounding I put them through, and that's why I head to the studio even when I would rather sit on the sofa eating a bowl of mashed potatoes and watching a Law & Order SVU marathon. I go there to push myself just a little more, and then to give my aching muscles the attention they deserve.

Namaste . . . I win.

I See Rude People

As a native Southerner, and generally judgmental person, I am particularly offended when those around me fail to extend the most basic of courtesies. Because this blog is theoretically devoted to my training regimen, I won't even discuss the woman at Shoprite who brazenly cut me in the checkout line when I let my guard down to get a Vitamin Water or Raul at Dunkin' Donuts who stares blankly at me each time I thank him profusely for my iced coffee, practically begging for some recognition of my kindness. No, I will not mention those instance, but I will post a few pet peeves regarding my gym brethren,

1. Kindly Shut Up. In Spin last night, I was appalled that a cocktail party was taking place behind me as a young couple giggled and flirted loudly as I was heaving uphill. Firstly, if you can talk during Spin class, you're not doing it right. Second, the bike is the only apparatus that you need to worry about mounting. Not only do such conversations distract others from what is designed to be an intensive and meditative workout, they also remind some of us that in the quest to train several hours a day, we may not have shaved our legs in a while.

2. Please Move It. I enjoy a good circuit training workout three days a week to keep up the muscles, but what I don't enjoy is having some meathead, jump on a machine I'm using (and intending to use again) only to linger there for ten minutes trying to catch his reflection in the tanning oil so generously applied to his quadriceps. Move it or lose it buddy . . . Us girls are here to work.

3. I Would Appreciate It If You Please Throw Your Cell Phone In The Garbage. No one is so important that they can't take an hour away from their cell phone. And if you are, shouldn't you be somewhere else besides a New York Sports Club in New Jersey? People who are serious about their workouts go to the gym to work. They dedicate that hour exclusively to their sport, sanity, or saddlebags. It's disrespectful to that work ethic when you chat on the phone while lounging on a bench. You wouldn't bring your pillow and PJs to the office, so see if you can leave the cell in the locker.

4. Thanks For Not Peeing In The Water. As a newbie to the pool, I have found a few drawbacks to this water sport (no pun intended). My Wednesday night swims are at Asphalt Green on the Upper East Side which boasts one of the nicest pools in the city. However, last Saturday I did a run/swim combo here in Livingston, running to my local gym, swimming a mile, and then running back. At this less than illustrious pool, I was surprised to have to share the space with a four-year old's birthday party. I had the single lap lane, and they had the rest. In addition to big bouncy balls and foam tubes drifting into my lane, imagine my surprise to see little brown "gifts" perhaps meant for the birthday boy but so generously left for me. On the bright side, it's good practice for the Hudson.

Thank you for letting me vent!

Hey Mr. DJ

I first discovered the power of music in college when I sat perched in my bathroom sink, glass of wine in hand, cigarette drooping from my mouth, and "Anna Begins" blaring from my CD player on repeat. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "I am so amazingly cool and poetic. Nobody but myself and Adam Duritz understand what it's like to truly be this special."

Fast forward ten years . . . Cigarette is gone, wine is replaced by SmartWater (most of the time), and I have stopped sitting in bathroom sinks (mainly because when you're that close to the mirror fine lines are much more noticeable). But I still need music to keep me going. There's nothing like a little Ben Harper or John Mayer (don't you dare judge me) to keep the Vinyassas flowing, and many of you know that I am huge fan of Lionel Ritchie inspired dance parties. However, my workout playlist is suffering from a serious case of the 1990s . . .

I need new tunes!

I've had the same workout mix on my iPod since before Madonna went Kaballah, so it needs some updating. Obviously, my new "Tri-Mix" needs some fast tempo beats to keep me going, but don't get too crazy with the suggestions . . . I don't like techno inspired verses because I'm not a hipster. I don't like metal because I'm a girl. And I don't like rap because I constantly find myself criticizing the grammar. Basically, I like music that when I close my eyes, I can imagine myself as Beyonce in a dance off with J-Lo at the Grammys (obviously Beyonce wins). Lyrically, I prefer songs with the message of strength, power, or a general sense of superiority. Also, you gotta love a bad ass female power house. Pink, Christina, and Alycia are all welcome. No offense Taylor, but I could drag you by your extensions along my morning 6 miler.

So let me know what keeps you moving!

Ready. Set. Go!

Law school? Done it.

Bar Exam? Check.

Marriage? Own it.

Husband overcoming life threatening brain injury? So 2009.

Employment? We'll get back to that one.

Finally losing the baby fat (o.k. the adult fat)? Ancient history.

Move across the country? Did it in my sleep.

So what's a girl who has tried everything supposed to do next? My answer to that question was to sign up and train for the 2010 NYC Triathlon. This olympic distance event will have me swimming in the Hudson, biking up the Riverside Parkway, and running through Central Park July 18.

I've always had a competitive spirit (when fellow yogis are chanting "om" in class, I am quietly muttering "I win"), but was nervous about entering an endurance event having spent the better part of three decades watching the Golden Girls and eating Mexi-Melts. However, after spending the last two years working out with the best trainers any Grace looking for a Will could ask for, I knew that I was physically up for the challenge. I could run just as fast and just as hard as those long legged gazelles. And even if I couldn't, I was smart enough to put a leg out and trip them . . .

This recognition of my newfound (and hard earned) strength and athleticism made me incredibly grateful for what my body could do for me. Along with this appreciation came the realization that there were many people out there whose bodies were incapable of such feats due to disability and illness. This hit home in the Spring of 2008 when I lost my aunt to cancer. I remember thinking as I ran on the treadmill one afternoon, "What wouldn't she give to be able to move like this? To be healthy like this?" And I ran faster. Seven months ago as my husband remained confined in the ICU fighting a ruptured brain aneurysm, I took a break to run laps around the park across from the hospital to clear my head. I began to think how unfair it was that my legs could carry me anywhere, and he could not even sit up in a chair. And I ran harder. This is why I chose to compete in the triathlon for the American Cancer Society. I would be strong for all those others who could not. I would be their legs and arms (as long as they don't mind short arms).

This blog will be a chronicle of my experiences as I train for the event. It will be a venue for me to share everything from incredible workouts to bike shorts that make me look like a member of the Lollipop Guild. You can also use this site to donate to the American Cancer Society in support of my endeavor (just click the link to the below).

Welcome to my world of lunges, dolphin kicks, and the occasional middle finger salute!

CLICK HERE TO DONATE