Me.

Mom. Triathlete. Yogi. Foodie. Writer. Boss. Coffee lover. Side hustler.

I run for team Oiselle Volée and Skratch Labs.

Repeater (Nope, Not Fugazi)

Repeater (Nope, Not Fugazi)

On March 26th, I published a blog related to history repeating itself.  It's not always a bad thing; and when presented with choices, we might opt for the better route, hopefully, because we've learned a bit more.  Hopefully.

If I rewind the clock to 2014, I wrote a blog about getting high during a race.  In short, I had a shit day before the race and I planned to leave everything out on the course; my goal was to start behind Jane and see how far she could carry me.

Thankfully, I laid eyes on my target. We shall call her Jane...
So, Jane, ahem, is a lovely woman. Well, actually, she’s a bit of a shark. Let me explain: Jane is a beautiful woman who clearly takes care of herself. I look up to her dedication and her competitiveness; she works hard. And it shows. I’ve known Jane for years, although I don’t know her very well. Sometimes, I dream of grabbing a cup of coffee with her, but I’m fairly intimidated. She just appears more mature than me, no matter that only two-ish years separate us. I think too much.
I stood as tall as my almost 62 inch frame could muster with roughly 4 feet behind Jane. My right hand cradled my Garmin (out of retirement) ready to strike as my left foot crossed the white line. And we were off. I trailed behind Jane mesmerized by her bouncing, curly pony tail. I studied her arms while they swished at her sides, barely making contact with her torso. She moved with such efficiency. I felt like a goofy horse, clomping behind. I knew that my effort would eventually fail; I definitely started out too fast. Self doubt flooded my mind.
I refocused my gaze at the back of Jane’s shirt. Her graphite colored, high-tech tee-shirt clung to the curves of her body. The black pattern, thin black swirls, seemed to come alive. The shirt breathed with her movement. I could not turn away. Everything fell silent and disappeared; it was just me and the swirls. I stopped noticing the pain of maintaining a blistering pace (well, blistering for me); I stopped hearing my feet against the street; I stopped seeing the people around me. And just like that, the unexpected happened. I started to pass Jane on a hill.
There was no need for me to dial down my pace, but I feared my future if I passed her. I couldn’t take it anymore...there was no choice. I pushed up that hill to pass Jane. I never looked to my left as I flew up the hill. With eyes facing front, I crested the hill and continued to push the pace. At that point, I stared to panic. Shit! Now, who will I target? Jane was my goal, but Jane was gone. I never imagined being in my position that I failed to develop a Plan B. After a minute or so of freaking out, I reeled it in and chanted a mantra in my head: DO WORK. HARD WORK.
— Me, in 2014

Sunday's race started nearly the same; however, I didn't plan any of it.  I did plan on using some early morning quiet time to settle my nerves.  I did plan on using my warm up to clear my mind.  I did plan on not being disappointed with my time, knowing that being faster WAS in the plan.  Sigh, big plans for a little girl. 

Without realizing it, I did line up about 4 feet behind Jane; my heart skipped a beat as I watched the reflection of the sun in her pearl earrings.  I haven't followed her training much, so I was unsure of her current fitness level.  Oh well, maybe I'll hang with her for a bit and then drop off.  But that didn't happen.  I fell into the same trance as I had before - her ponytail, her arms, the fluidity with which her shirt came to life on her body.  A few times I fell further behind, only to catch back up as we approached a hill.  At one point, a little more than halfway through the race, we were side by side.  We continued together for a bit before I mumbled to Jane 'c'mon girl', teasing her to push the pace.  With about 1.5 miles to go, I dropped Jane, never looking back.  I pumped my arms through the home stretch, with the mantra 'ALL HEART' pounding through my head.  Just before I crossed, I caught a glimpse of my girls cheering from their station.  

I initially felt relieved after finishing; being damn proud that I was able to focus.  Sure, the actual race wasn't my best and a few times the hills got the better of me; however, I crossed with kick, leaving almost everything out there.  As the 3rd place in my age group was announced, my heart sank.  My goal was to place 3rd again, but I knew I was about two minutes slower than the previous year.  Disappointment quickly faded as my name was called for 2nd place.   Certainly, this was a great moment with my girls, again, cheering me on as I accepted the coveted coffee mug.  

There are so many reasons why this race means so much to me, why I put so much emotion into the outcome.  Enough reasons to make me cry all over again:

This was the first race my parents went to.  My Dad watched the field in awe and saw me in a different light - finding confidence in my stride.  This was the first race my girls remember cheering at - lined up by the finish line with a cowbell in hand.  This was the first race I actually placed in my age group; something I never thought could ever be possible. I saw what was impossible become possible. And it was used to launch me forward in a different way. I was proud that I could be a former fat kid, never coming from sport, actually participating WELL in a physical activity. It's both now a strength and my weakness. 

This race continues to show me that whatever I do, the possibilities are limitless. I need to believe in my abilities: natural, trained, and those of the heart.

 

 

 

On Boston

On Boston

A Letter to Myself

A Letter to Myself