The pool is an interesting place. It has it's own language, structure, timing and etiquette. As a runner turned triathlete and a woman who learned to swim at the ripe old age of 38, the pool and all of its intricacies were and in some sense still are a bit of a mystery.
Words like yards, laps, intervals, on the top, on the bottom and of course, lane sharing all had to be negotiated and learned. I was oblivious at first and am sure I pissed off a few of the more seasoned folks more than once. Rather than clue me in, however, they would smirk and make snarky comments. Not really helpful since I had no idea what I'd done to be offensive.
I joined my first Master's class in 2006 or 2007 at the behest of a good friend who swore by it. I felt like an outcast member of some secret society who by mandate had been forced to accept new people. I didn't behave like the rest of them. I didn't understand their language or the basic lane rules. I'd never swum with others. How was I to know? The class was led by a man who basically read the newspaper while everyone carried out the workout he had printed or handwritten before the session began. No instruction, no coaching, nothing. He basically sat there, yelled out the random comment to someone in his inner circle and then went back to his paper. I asked him, "How do I get better at this?" His answer without bothering to look up, "Swim more." Right. I had a very messy stroke and some bad habits that with a little coaching would have saved me a lot of time over the course of the next several years. But he couldn't be bothered. I'd come into Master's swimming with high hopes and left it deflated.
Fast forward to 2012. I was coming off the second round of Posterior Tibial Tendonitis and wasn't sure what my tri racing future held. One tipsy night the previous spring, I'd told my good friend Bobbi that if my foot made it through the summer training and races, the next year I'd do a half ironman with her. My fourth and her first. I figured, like all smack talking tipsy chatter, she'd forget all about it. Wrong. That woman has a mind like a bear trap. Just before Christmas she sent me a PM on Facebook: "So, how's your foot?". UGH. I knew where this was going. Before you knew it, I was signed up for the Patriot 70.3 in Williamsburg, VA. DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN. How did I let this happen? As I clicked PURCHASE on the race website, I thought, "Shit, I haven't swum in about a year." It was time to find a place to swim. 1.2 miles in a river with a lot of current is a long way.
Our recent house purchase put me very near a swim center. Walking distance, in fact. I figured without the hassle of trying to get to the pool, I'd probably get there more often. Then, while perusing the tri club Facebook page, I discovered another Master's class. All the triathletes were swearing by it. Jenn's Master's Class. Get in before it fills up. Fills up?!?! Must be pretty good. Though my previous experience was terrible, I thought I'd give it a chance. And in January, freezing to death beneath four layers, I headed to the pool. Turns out joining that class was the best decision I ever made on the swimming front. By far.
Over three sessions (three consecutive winters) Jenn coached me into FAR better stroke form, alternate breathing and even breast stroke. I learned the lingo, how to count on the interval and how to move to the left at the end of a set. I picked up speed and I felt successful. And most importantly, I loved my lane mates! Mary, a strong swimmer with impeccable pacing; Joe with his big shoulders and ability to pull you along in his wake and Marina, who couldn't count but provided much needed comedic relief for those very long main sets. They were great incentive to head to the pool when it was a mere 18 degrees outside. Those three winters were swimming bliss. Then something great and tragic happened simultaneously. I got too fast. My lane mates, who had spent more than their fair share of time being "rushed" at the wall, voted to kick me to a faster lane. I was sad but I knew it was time to go.
By February of 2014, I was in a new lane with a new set of folks. I thought we'd be fast friends. Joke around during the rest like Mary, Marina, Joe and I had. No way. This lane was serious. I was middle of the pack pace wise so I fit in but I didn't really like the mood of the lane. Nevertheless, I stuck it out. Week after week I showed up, jumped in and did what needed to be done but most of the joy of swimming with friends had faded. The winter Master's session ended, tri season began and before I knew it we were all back at the pool listening to Jenn describe the night's workout while the snow floated past outside.
Winter session 2015. I am in a lane with a woman I'll call Sally. For the latter part of the 2014 session, Sally was in my lane. Moved there, as I was, because she'd begun to "overswim" hers. We didn't have a lot of contact at first. The random exchange during rests, confirmation of the interval and the occasional conversation in the hot tub after practice. She was annoying but nothing I couldn't live with. Let's face it, my previous lane mates would be a hard act to follow.
Very quickly I figure out, "annoying" has somehow become "obnoxious". I greet her, say hi. I tell her I really haven't been swimming much. She chimes in, "I haven't swum since August!" and then goes on to describe how she hasn't swum because she was in this 100 mile running race or that 50 mile one. She is very boastful and loud. We jump in. She proceeds to swim as fast as she can for the warm up giving another woman and me very little rest at the wall. I clock her in at 1:47 per 100. We are supposed to be the 2:05 lane. In swimming 5 seconds is a LOT. 17 seconds means you need to move up two lanes! She won't budge. For some reason she's decided that she and I are in a competition. The other woman does another 100 with us and then switches lanes.
UGH. I like the other woman. Now, early in the season, I am stuck. Stuck with obnoxious Sally. At the next break I ask her why she doesn't just switch lanes. "I'm not really that fast." I look at her confused, "You keep swimming 1:50s in the 2:05 lane. Why don't you swim in the 1:50 lane?". She doesn't reply and pushes off. It's official. I hate her. I decide then and there she needs a dose of her own medicine. I let her tire herself out (her typical pattern) and then pick up the pace. I rush her at EVERY wall for 500. I am tired at the end but she looks beat. When hot tub time rolls around she is there talking loudly over everyone about her races, how great she is, etc. I roll my eyes and find Marina. "UGH I hate her." I say to Marina who immediately knows who I'm talking about. "Yeah, nobody likes to swim with her. Everybody but you has left her lane." I am a little surprised but then understand. My next thought is, "How do I get out of her lane?" I am too fast for my old lane, too slow for the lane Sally should be in. I am stuck. I decide that next week, I will switch.
Tuesday, we line up to swim. Just as I am about to jump in to my favorite lane, Jenn stops me. "Elisa, you're over here with Sally." NOOO. I don't want to be over "here" with Sally. I try to make an excuse for being in my old lane. "No, you're here." Jenn says with authority. UGH. Plan, feeble though it is, foiled. Not to lose momentum, Sally ups the ante. On the endurance set where we are to swim at 2:05 for 400 I ask her to just split the lane. She agrees with the snarky comment, "Because you don't want to get lapped." YES. True, only until she tires herself out in the first 100, but also because I want as little to do with her as possible.
Later, I ignore her in the hot tub. She tries desperately to get my attention. I can't figure out why. Then, she says it. "I think you're a faster runner than I am." I don't say anything. She begins to prattle on (in her baby voice) without prompting about her race time compared to mine in the last ten miler we both happened to be in. Yes I was faster and yes I am about 8 years older than she is. Then it hit me, I am her "target". Sally, it turns out, is like Lance Armstrong. She needs someone to lose so she can win. It's less about the intrinsic challenge and more about being outwardly competitive. Though truth be told she won't admit that she's competitive - something I hate even more. But that's another blog.
Still, her presence in the lane is making me really hate Master's swimming. Something I loved so much has become something I dread. I have started to skip class and swim on my own. I miss my friends. I miss Jenn's workouts and her coaching but the alignment of the lanes this year doesn't provide the right assortment of folks for me to switch. I am stuck smack dab in the middle of POOLITICS. I have to smile. For a woman who started out feeling like an intruder in a secret society, I have come full circle. Here I am embroiled in a political battle of wills AT THE POOL.
I am now a part of the clan. The secret society. The swimmers. With all of the newly found friends, obnoxious Sallies and hot tub humor, I have somehow found my place. What's next? Will obnoxious Sally drive me to hold her head under in the hot tub? Will I force myself to swim 1:50s just to escape? Who knows. But no matter what, I am officially part of the Poolitics and that makes me almost teary eyed. SPLASH.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Friday, April 24, 2015
A Good Goddamn
The 10 miler by all accounts was a good, solid race for me. Not a PR by any means but solid. I don't normally run "with" others. I like the alone time and the ability to focus on my race, how I feel and get a sense of whether I can push it or not. Also, I don't "chat". In fact, my theory of the case is that if you have enough breath and energy to chat, you aren't running fast enough. Plus, nobody REALLY wants to hear about the ten different cereals you've tried this week. Sorry.
I ran the race with my good friend Bobbi's husband Kevin. He's almost a foot taller than I am (I exaggerate but not by much) and has a much longer stride. But that said, he was able to match my pace and keep me steady (he could have run MUCH faster I think so am happy he sacrificed his time for me). We didn't chat apart from a random word here or there - the benefits of running with a man. And though he easily crossed the finish line first, I wasn't far behind. Well done both of us.
Enter the rest of the training week. I was utterly uninspired to do anything. You would think that after a recovery day and a few well earned carbs at Sunday brunch I'd be raring to go. Nope. In fact. I could have cared less. Less than less. As my grandfather used to say, I didn't give a good goddamn. I know that word is offensive to some but it was his way of expressing his ultimate "I don't care". One part "could care less" and two parts, "general irritation" at either not caring or being forced to think about caring ... more.
As I pondered the "good goddamn" and not caring to give one, I reflected on some of the times my grandfather had used that word when he DID give one - a GDD. Once when he fixed the 987 year old black and white TV with a pair of pliers, a screwdriver and aluminum foil he exclaimed, "Well, I'll be goddamned!" (clearly not religious my grandfather). When he got more from his garden than he thought he would - my grandparents grew their vegetables for winter sustenance, I'd hear, "Good goddamn!" So the fact that he didn't give one at any given time was clearly a serious consideration about whatever was being discussed.
Back to the workout week. NOT one GGD did I care to give and I could not pinpoint the reason why. Tired? Yes. Not fully recovered? Maybe. Depressed ... probably not. I couldn't quite figure it out. Wednesday rolled around and I did a short run. Disaster in running shoes. I was hot, cranky and generally not in the mood. Didn't help that the work week was barreling down on me like a herd of angry dogs but still, I can usually rise above. Thursday. Swim day. I binged watched Drop Dead Diva instead of going to the pool OR running. SIGH. For whatever reason, to quote Jo dee Messina, "My give a damn was busted." My mind churned with guilt! I am usually the LAST person to skip a workout for something trivial. I panicked. What's wrong? Maybe I really am OLD. Maybe this is how it starts - you stop caring for one day and wake up and it's ten years!
So after beating myself up for another day at work, I decided to relax and just see where all of this was going. On Friday, I woke to find myself amazingly and without explanation, giving a GOOD GD! Maybe it was the break and the rest. Maybe it was taking the pressure off always having to be ON. Maybe it was just letting myself be human for once. Maybe it was Drop Dead Diva. I'm not sure but I do know this. Sometimes your "give a damn" just needs a break. Mine did. Glad I listened because now I'm BACK and on my way to the pool.
I ran the race with my good friend Bobbi's husband Kevin. He's almost a foot taller than I am (I exaggerate but not by much) and has a much longer stride. But that said, he was able to match my pace and keep me steady (he could have run MUCH faster I think so am happy he sacrificed his time for me). We didn't chat apart from a random word here or there - the benefits of running with a man. And though he easily crossed the finish line first, I wasn't far behind. Well done both of us.
Enter the rest of the training week. I was utterly uninspired to do anything. You would think that after a recovery day and a few well earned carbs at Sunday brunch I'd be raring to go. Nope. In fact. I could have cared less. Less than less. As my grandfather used to say, I didn't give a good goddamn. I know that word is offensive to some but it was his way of expressing his ultimate "I don't care". One part "could care less" and two parts, "general irritation" at either not caring or being forced to think about caring ... more.
As I pondered the "good goddamn" and not caring to give one, I reflected on some of the times my grandfather had used that word when he DID give one - a GDD. Once when he fixed the 987 year old black and white TV with a pair of pliers, a screwdriver and aluminum foil he exclaimed, "Well, I'll be goddamned!" (clearly not religious my grandfather). When he got more from his garden than he thought he would - my grandparents grew their vegetables for winter sustenance, I'd hear, "Good goddamn!" So the fact that he didn't give one at any given time was clearly a serious consideration about whatever was being discussed.
Back to the workout week. NOT one GGD did I care to give and I could not pinpoint the reason why. Tired? Yes. Not fully recovered? Maybe. Depressed ... probably not. I couldn't quite figure it out. Wednesday rolled around and I did a short run. Disaster in running shoes. I was hot, cranky and generally not in the mood. Didn't help that the work week was barreling down on me like a herd of angry dogs but still, I can usually rise above. Thursday. Swim day. I binged watched Drop Dead Diva instead of going to the pool OR running. SIGH. For whatever reason, to quote Jo dee Messina, "My give a damn was busted." My mind churned with guilt! I am usually the LAST person to skip a workout for something trivial. I panicked. What's wrong? Maybe I really am OLD. Maybe this is how it starts - you stop caring for one day and wake up and it's ten years!
So after beating myself up for another day at work, I decided to relax and just see where all of this was going. On Friday, I woke to find myself amazingly and without explanation, giving a GOOD GD! Maybe it was the break and the rest. Maybe it was taking the pressure off always having to be ON. Maybe it was just letting myself be human for once. Maybe it was Drop Dead Diva. I'm not sure but I do know this. Sometimes your "give a damn" just needs a break. Mine did. Glad I listened because now I'm BACK and on my way to the pool.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Happy Returns
It's been a while! Or if you're a blogger (a year and almost a half), forever. But after a long hiatus and attempts at other blogs, I am back!
Catching up .....
Raced in 2014 with some pretty decent results. 1st in my age group and 5th overall in my first EVER duathlon. 5th overall in my local running series (until I sprained my ankle in October and had to forfeit the remainder of the races - SIGH). Always the feet and ankles with me.
That said, my routine of stretch, Footz ball rolling and massage are paying off. My Plantar Fasciitis and Posterior Tibial Tendonitis are being well managed. AND, it's the beginning of the 2015 Triathlon Season.
That said, I still feel a little behind. I need to lose some weight. 7 pounds to be exact. And cresting the hill of (AHEM) a monumental birthday does not make it easier. Also contributing to the melee is the new work environment. Cookies, cakes, snacks. UGH... Long meetings where you are forced to eat take out food. And if stuffing in the treats isn't enough, there is always the "open plan" work space where you can contract any number of unique viruses that throw your training into a tailspin. SIGH.
I need to come up with a plan. Stat. In the meantime, as I recover from the latest virus (#2 this winter), I am in the final training week before my FIRST race of the season. The Cherry Pit 10 miler.
Last year, I ran 8:23s. Pretty decent showing coming off tendonitis. I've been running more this year and trying to build faster "mile drills" into my running through the coach appointed workouts. I want to run 8:15s but somewhere deep inside, I am afraid to want that. Afraid that if I don't meet that mark it will mean something more than just a "missed time". I don't know why, but that's how I feel. That said, I know I need a goal pace. A good solid race pace that's achievable. 8:15s seem feasible. Again, nervous. What if I can't do it? What will that mean and why do I care so much this time?
The fact that I've arrived at this point in the season still 7 pounds over my race weight makes me .... depressed. I feel like I just haven't done enough. When the race is done and dusted, if I am slower then the conversation will begin. The one where I am not enough. Didn't do enough. Try hard enough.
Stop. I need to think about what I can do here and now with what I have. I am healthy. I have been training pretty consistently all winter. No matter what. I'll learn something. Even if it's something I don't particularly care to see.
Right now I can follow the process. Do the work out on the schedule. Pretty soon the fitness will come. Don't chase! Don't eat a bad dinner. Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.
Swim 2100/Bike HARD/Run gently. Ready .... set ..... GO!
Catching up .....
Raced in 2014 with some pretty decent results. 1st in my age group and 5th overall in my first EVER duathlon. 5th overall in my local running series (until I sprained my ankle in October and had to forfeit the remainder of the races - SIGH). Always the feet and ankles with me.
That said, my routine of stretch, Footz ball rolling and massage are paying off. My Plantar Fasciitis and Posterior Tibial Tendonitis are being well managed. AND, it's the beginning of the 2015 Triathlon Season.
That said, I still feel a little behind. I need to lose some weight. 7 pounds to be exact. And cresting the hill of (AHEM) a monumental birthday does not make it easier. Also contributing to the melee is the new work environment. Cookies, cakes, snacks. UGH... Long meetings where you are forced to eat take out food. And if stuffing in the treats isn't enough, there is always the "open plan" work space where you can contract any number of unique viruses that throw your training into a tailspin. SIGH.
I need to come up with a plan. Stat. In the meantime, as I recover from the latest virus (#2 this winter), I am in the final training week before my FIRST race of the season. The Cherry Pit 10 miler.
Last year, I ran 8:23s. Pretty decent showing coming off tendonitis. I've been running more this year and trying to build faster "mile drills" into my running through the coach appointed workouts. I want to run 8:15s but somewhere deep inside, I am afraid to want that. Afraid that if I don't meet that mark it will mean something more than just a "missed time". I don't know why, but that's how I feel. That said, I know I need a goal pace. A good solid race pace that's achievable. 8:15s seem feasible. Again, nervous. What if I can't do it? What will that mean and why do I care so much this time?
The fact that I've arrived at this point in the season still 7 pounds over my race weight makes me .... depressed. I feel like I just haven't done enough. When the race is done and dusted, if I am slower then the conversation will begin. The one where I am not enough. Didn't do enough. Try hard enough.
Stop. I need to think about what I can do here and now with what I have. I am healthy. I have been training pretty consistently all winter. No matter what. I'll learn something. Even if it's something I don't particularly care to see.
Right now I can follow the process. Do the work out on the schedule. Pretty soon the fitness will come. Don't chase! Don't eat a bad dinner. Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.
Swim 2100/Bike HARD/Run gently. Ready .... set ..... GO!
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Torqued
UGH!
This past Wednesday I went for a nice run around the neighborhood. Nothing crazy, just your average everyday sweep along the sidewalks of beautiful Riva Trace. The sun was shining, the trees were beautiful and I was thinking affectionately about the 81 year old woman who just died after her last marathon. I was sad that she died but felt happy that the last thing she got to do was something she really loved for the better part of what I think was 50 years.
SCRRRRAAATCH! My memories were violently interrupted like a record needle scratching vinyl. As I turned the corner and passed the entrance to the retirement home, I stepped onto some leaves strewn along the sidewalk. My foot immediately went down into a hole in the sidewalk I could not see beneath the leaves and turned inward. My left foot, firmly planted on the concrete was able to take the weight and I was able to remain upright instead of face planting into the sidewalk or falling with the weight of my entire body onto my ankle.
That said, remaining upright still wasn't pretty. I looked around. There was a little, older lady approaching with her cane. I think I both shocked and appalled her with the litany of expletives that left my mouth. I doubt there are more creative ways to use the "F" word than I came up with. Immediately, panic set in. How hurt was I? Could I make it home? I was a mile from home and it was getting chilly out. I had on lighter clothes because I hadn't counted on walking. CRAP.
I started running again after walking for a couple of minutes. To my surprise, no pain and no swelling. Good sign, I thought. I gave it a couple more minutes to see. Still no pain, no swelling, no burning. Great. I can at least make it home. Gingerly navigating the sidewalk, I made it home.
First order of business: Ice. I dug out the gel ice strip and put it on my foot. Next, I took an aspirin. Ok, the rest remains to be seen.
The next day, the top of my foot was sore but not swollen and though it was sensitive to put weight on it, I could walk and move my toes around. PHEW!
However, here I sit today, SUNDAY still unable to run. UGH. My foot is improving but still sore. I guess the moral of this story is cut down all the trees so there are no leaves. KIDDING. I need to watch my footing. The very last thing I need is yet another injury!
On the plus side, my ankles, feet and core were strong enough to endure a particularly bad twist with no lasting damage. That is definitely PROGRESS!
This past Wednesday I went for a nice run around the neighborhood. Nothing crazy, just your average everyday sweep along the sidewalks of beautiful Riva Trace. The sun was shining, the trees were beautiful and I was thinking affectionately about the 81 year old woman who just died after her last marathon. I was sad that she died but felt happy that the last thing she got to do was something she really loved for the better part of what I think was 50 years.
SCRRRRAAATCH! My memories were violently interrupted like a record needle scratching vinyl. As I turned the corner and passed the entrance to the retirement home, I stepped onto some leaves strewn along the sidewalk. My foot immediately went down into a hole in the sidewalk I could not see beneath the leaves and turned inward. My left foot, firmly planted on the concrete was able to take the weight and I was able to remain upright instead of face planting into the sidewalk or falling with the weight of my entire body onto my ankle.
That said, remaining upright still wasn't pretty. I looked around. There was a little, older lady approaching with her cane. I think I both shocked and appalled her with the litany of expletives that left my mouth. I doubt there are more creative ways to use the "F" word than I came up with. Immediately, panic set in. How hurt was I? Could I make it home? I was a mile from home and it was getting chilly out. I had on lighter clothes because I hadn't counted on walking. CRAP.
I started running again after walking for a couple of minutes. To my surprise, no pain and no swelling. Good sign, I thought. I gave it a couple more minutes to see. Still no pain, no swelling, no burning. Great. I can at least make it home. Gingerly navigating the sidewalk, I made it home.
First order of business: Ice. I dug out the gel ice strip and put it on my foot. Next, I took an aspirin. Ok, the rest remains to be seen.
The next day, the top of my foot was sore but not swollen and though it was sensitive to put weight on it, I could walk and move my toes around. PHEW!
However, here I sit today, SUNDAY still unable to run. UGH. My foot is improving but still sore. I guess the moral of this story is cut down all the trees so there are no leaves. KIDDING. I need to watch my footing. The very last thing I need is yet another injury!
On the plus side, my ankles, feet and core were strong enough to endure a particularly bad twist with no lasting damage. That is definitely PROGRESS!
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Triathlon Roadmaps
It's a Tuesday night and I am sitting here in a hotel room in Boston, MA, half listening to Man vs Food, eating a salad and longing for my running gear. Boston is such an awesome place to run. Little more than three blocks away from my hotel is a wonderful trail that runs along the river. Lots of runners, walkers and cyclists weave their way around each other on the tiny paved path in a dance of the fitness determined. Tonight, I wish I could count myself among them.
SIGH.
I am here for the bi-annual Sales Meeting that my company has every year. Today I had to present my product and product updates for all the sales folks. It was nerve-wracking but fine. I don't like public speaking but it's a necessary evil in my job. Typically, all of the presenting participants are invited to dinner to mingle and press the flesh of the revenue generators they hardly ever get to see. Let's face it, they have better things to do than hang out with a bunch of product folks. Because of this, I decided not to pack running clothes or shoes because I figured (as has been the case in the past) that I'd go straight from the meeting to dinner. But this time, that was not the case. I ended up dateless for dinner with nothing but time on my hands.
UGH! I could have gotten a nice, long RUN in.
Oh well, I guess there are just some things you can't account for. Not being "required" at dinner is one of them. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed. I like our sales folks. They are fun, positive and vibrant. They keep the faith and add cheer to a company that sometimes has trouble seeing the opportunities for the risks. I love them for that. They believe!
So my thoughts turn from technical product roadmaps to the triathlon off season, my lackadaisical training regime as of late (sorry Coach Liz) and what the next season will hold. I have pondered another 70.3 race and when it's all said and done, I don't wanna. AND, I feel GUILTY about that. I did not have what I would call at GREAT race this year. I trained, stressed and really put the time in only to have it not work out on race day. STILL, I feel some sort of odd obligation. So as I sit here sort of pouting and pondering next year's race calendar, I realize that putting together next year's roster of races is not unlike certain aspects of product management.
As a product manager, you consider your buyer and/or user (me), what characteristics, abilities and limitations she has and build a product that meets her needs or addresses her pain points. As the "user" I've had some good training experiences and some not so good ones this season. I have sensitive feet that need constant monitoring due to past injury and a longing to get more than two rest weekends of my summer back from relentless triathlon training. I love to train and combine my vacations with training and/or exercise (there is a difference). If I had a wish list for swimming, I'd swim in the sea every. SINGLE. day. Rivers freak me out and there are always those damn jellies! I am very busy with the day job and really need to race in events that "sharpen the spear" instead of build toward something big.
When I consider myself as the "user" of my race season, the complexion changes. I become less emotional and more logical about what's best for my body, mind, spirit and life.
I ponder the requirements list for a good race calendar:
If I were to try to design a schedule for the me tri user based on these requirements I would choose Olympic distance tris and/or duathlons. And you know what else? I would NOT feel guilty. I would feel like I'd MET the requirements and answered the pain points.
So as I sit here and type instead of run, maybe the best way to think about the new season and assuage my guilt is to see it through the lens of a product manager. Internalize what the requirements are instead of what I feel on emotional level is "not enough". I can then choose races and set goals around the time for those races that make me feel proud for having made the effort.
The product approach, who would have thought?
SIGH.
I am here for the bi-annual Sales Meeting that my company has every year. Today I had to present my product and product updates for all the sales folks. It was nerve-wracking but fine. I don't like public speaking but it's a necessary evil in my job. Typically, all of the presenting participants are invited to dinner to mingle and press the flesh of the revenue generators they hardly ever get to see. Let's face it, they have better things to do than hang out with a bunch of product folks. Because of this, I decided not to pack running clothes or shoes because I figured (as has been the case in the past) that I'd go straight from the meeting to dinner. But this time, that was not the case. I ended up dateless for dinner with nothing but time on my hands.
UGH! I could have gotten a nice, long RUN in.
Oh well, I guess there are just some things you can't account for. Not being "required" at dinner is one of them. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed. I like our sales folks. They are fun, positive and vibrant. They keep the faith and add cheer to a company that sometimes has trouble seeing the opportunities for the risks. I love them for that. They believe!
So my thoughts turn from technical product roadmaps to the triathlon off season, my lackadaisical training regime as of late (sorry Coach Liz) and what the next season will hold. I have pondered another 70.3 race and when it's all said and done, I don't wanna. AND, I feel GUILTY about that. I did not have what I would call at GREAT race this year. I trained, stressed and really put the time in only to have it not work out on race day. STILL, I feel some sort of odd obligation. So as I sit here sort of pouting and pondering next year's race calendar, I realize that putting together next year's roster of races is not unlike certain aspects of product management.
As a product manager, you consider your buyer and/or user (me), what characteristics, abilities and limitations she has and build a product that meets her needs or addresses her pain points. As the "user" I've had some good training experiences and some not so good ones this season. I have sensitive feet that need constant monitoring due to past injury and a longing to get more than two rest weekends of my summer back from relentless triathlon training. I love to train and combine my vacations with training and/or exercise (there is a difference). If I had a wish list for swimming, I'd swim in the sea every. SINGLE. day. Rivers freak me out and there are always those damn jellies! I am very busy with the day job and really need to race in events that "sharpen the spear" instead of build toward something big.
When I consider myself as the "user" of my race season, the complexion changes. I become less emotional and more logical about what's best for my body, mind, spirit and life.
I ponder the requirements list for a good race calendar:
- Not so short that's it's boring (sprint) but not so long that I am panic stricken if I miss a long brick (70.3 or over)
- Breaks the monotony
- Fewer jellyfish stings
- Allows for more pure run races
- Keeps my weekend training down to less than three hours
If I were to try to design a schedule for the me tri user based on these requirements I would choose Olympic distance tris and/or duathlons. And you know what else? I would NOT feel guilty. I would feel like I'd MET the requirements and answered the pain points.
So as I sit here and type instead of run, maybe the best way to think about the new season and assuage my guilt is to see it through the lens of a product manager. Internalize what the requirements are instead of what I feel on emotional level is "not enough". I can then choose races and set goals around the time for those races that make me feel proud for having made the effort.
The product approach, who would have thought?
Monday, September 23, 2013
Running Through
Yesterday was long run day. Typically on long run day, I anticipate mileage north of 10 that is slow and not particularly aggressive. I call it my "stroll". It's a good zone 2 workout without a lot of speed. A half and half builder of mental toughness and good running "base".
Yesterday was different.
On Thursday, I logged into Training Peaks to see that the coach had posted this as my long run workout for Sunday: 14 miles/1:50. Followed by, "You have a good base coming off your Half Ironman." She had some other stuff in there too about pacing and for which mile but I looked right past all of that to what really mattered: 1:50.
RIGHT. Need I mention that during said 70.3 I dehydrated and had to WALK a good portion of the run? HMMM. Need I also mention that it's been a couple of weeks since I have done a long run (hello TAPER). To say the least, I was a bit ..... incredulous.
But then, I asked, "What if?". What if I just hauled my ass out there and ran that long run like a race? Could I get close to 1:50? The weather was supposed to be perfect - 70 degrees and cloudy. My kind of day. SO why NOT?
I drove to the Baltimore-Annapolis Trail. The only place I could think of that had already done the hard work of counting the miles (with mile markers). I knew the terrain (always a comfort) and there were enough hills to partially replicate what I would encounter on race day. I did a quick inventory. Hammergel, check. Water, check (there is water along the trail so dehydration would not be an issue). Sunscreen, check. Mental attitude in the positive, double check.
I took off with the fancy Timex watch in tow. I wanted to get an idea of pace so I decided that equipment was in order for this long run. I decided to warm up for three miles and then build. After the build I would RACE the rest of the run. Despite ignoring most of her instructions, I knew my coach would get it. I needed to understand where I might blow up, how and under what sort of circumstances. I needed to see if I could come close to 1:50 without blowing up. But that's the rub. I had to be willing to blow up.
At the end of three miles, I felt great. Time to build. I looked at the fancy Timex. I was pleasantly surprised at my time. I was ahead of where I thought I would be. I was encouraged. Next up, the build. I kept reducing my time by 10 seconds per mile, then 15. I neared mile 6 and picked up the pace again. It was slightly uphill but I kept the increased pace. I covered the next mile, ate some Hammergel and turned around. Time to RACE. I set my sights on sub-nines. At this point in my healing adventure, this is a good time for me for a 14 mile run. When I looked at the fancy watch at mile 8, I couldn't believe it! I was doing FAR better than just sub-nines. I was crushing it. I picked up the pace again. Systemically, I felt fine. My glutes, however, were beginning to give way.
Mile 10. Always the hardest mile. It's in that middle place where you really have to focus. I was tired, my form was slipping and I was losing mental focus. STEADY PRESSURE on the HILLS, I kept repeating to myself (sometimes out loud) to bring my focus back to where I was. Here, running. NOW. FORM. KEEP the FORM.
By mile 11, it was all uphill. Steady pressure. As I ran, the sensation to stop and walk washed over me. I declared NO out loud. I began to run past the sensation. As I ran past it, I ran past what felt like a film of the former me - a diaphanous membrane with the texture of a bubble. The old me. The injured me. The me who has been holding me back. The fearful me. I ran through her. Through the bubble, the fatigue and doubt. I simply just ran through. I felt her trying to claw me back. As if she were saying "Wait, you don't know where this will go. You could fail or get hurt. You could...." I kept running. I slipped through the membrane and mile 13.
ONE MILE TO GO. I was still running. As fast as I could go. Leg turnover, excellent. Speed, good. Glutes and hamstrings, OUCH.
As the "finish line" approached, I looked down at the display of the fancy Timex: 2:06. NOT bad. NOT bad at all. Sub nines for training means sub nines for the race. Tired, sore, achy and happy, I stretched and listened to the birds singing around me.
I glanced back up the trail, through the trees to the wooden bridge where legs burning and at their limit, I defied myself and ran through. I smiled. I didn't blow up. I made it. And I will again. Metric Marathon, here I come.
Yesterday was different.
On Thursday, I logged into Training Peaks to see that the coach had posted this as my long run workout for Sunday: 14 miles/1:50. Followed by, "You have a good base coming off your Half Ironman." She had some other stuff in there too about pacing and for which mile but I looked right past all of that to what really mattered: 1:50.
RIGHT. Need I mention that during said 70.3 I dehydrated and had to WALK a good portion of the run? HMMM. Need I also mention that it's been a couple of weeks since I have done a long run (hello TAPER). To say the least, I was a bit ..... incredulous.
But then, I asked, "What if?". What if I just hauled my ass out there and ran that long run like a race? Could I get close to 1:50? The weather was supposed to be perfect - 70 degrees and cloudy. My kind of day. SO why NOT?
I drove to the Baltimore-Annapolis Trail. The only place I could think of that had already done the hard work of counting the miles (with mile markers). I knew the terrain (always a comfort) and there were enough hills to partially replicate what I would encounter on race day. I did a quick inventory. Hammergel, check. Water, check (there is water along the trail so dehydration would not be an issue). Sunscreen, check. Mental attitude in the positive, double check.
I took off with the fancy Timex watch in tow. I wanted to get an idea of pace so I decided that equipment was in order for this long run. I decided to warm up for three miles and then build. After the build I would RACE the rest of the run. Despite ignoring most of her instructions, I knew my coach would get it. I needed to understand where I might blow up, how and under what sort of circumstances. I needed to see if I could come close to 1:50 without blowing up. But that's the rub. I had to be willing to blow up.
At the end of three miles, I felt great. Time to build. I looked at the fancy Timex. I was pleasantly surprised at my time. I was ahead of where I thought I would be. I was encouraged. Next up, the build. I kept reducing my time by 10 seconds per mile, then 15. I neared mile 6 and picked up the pace again. It was slightly uphill but I kept the increased pace. I covered the next mile, ate some Hammergel and turned around. Time to RACE. I set my sights on sub-nines. At this point in my healing adventure, this is a good time for me for a 14 mile run. When I looked at the fancy watch at mile 8, I couldn't believe it! I was doing FAR better than just sub-nines. I was crushing it. I picked up the pace again. Systemically, I felt fine. My glutes, however, were beginning to give way.
Mile 10. Always the hardest mile. It's in that middle place where you really have to focus. I was tired, my form was slipping and I was losing mental focus. STEADY PRESSURE on the HILLS, I kept repeating to myself (sometimes out loud) to bring my focus back to where I was. Here, running. NOW. FORM. KEEP the FORM.
By mile 11, it was all uphill. Steady pressure. As I ran, the sensation to stop and walk washed over me. I declared NO out loud. I began to run past the sensation. As I ran past it, I ran past what felt like a film of the former me - a diaphanous membrane with the texture of a bubble. The old me. The injured me. The me who has been holding me back. The fearful me. I ran through her. Through the bubble, the fatigue and doubt. I simply just ran through. I felt her trying to claw me back. As if she were saying "Wait, you don't know where this will go. You could fail or get hurt. You could...." I kept running. I slipped through the membrane and mile 13.
ONE MILE TO GO. I was still running. As fast as I could go. Leg turnover, excellent. Speed, good. Glutes and hamstrings, OUCH.
As the "finish line" approached, I looked down at the display of the fancy Timex: 2:06. NOT bad. NOT bad at all. Sub nines for training means sub nines for the race. Tired, sore, achy and happy, I stretched and listened to the birds singing around me.
I glanced back up the trail, through the trees to the wooden bridge where legs burning and at their limit, I defied myself and ran through. I smiled. I didn't blow up. I made it. And I will again. Metric Marathon, here I come.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Somewhere left of stellar
This past Saturday, I participated in my first 70.3 race since 2009.
Having promised a good friend that I'd do it with her (it was her first and my 4th), I mustered up the guts to start a Master's swim class in January (YES, I love getting in the pool when it's 23 degrees outside) and hired an excellent tri couch in April. I trained hard. When it was all said and done, I did more than 96 hours of biking, 69 hours of running and 55 hours of swimming. The race should have gone off without a hitch. Physically, I was ready.
As my coach often says in her blog, being physically fit is not all that matters. I agree. Your mental game is just as important, if not more so than your physical fitness. For me, I've always been able to power through, to really suffer when others give up, to put 10-15 seconds worth of time into someone because I know that mentally it will hurt them far more than it will physically hurt me (to quote Coach Liz). I can suffer. I am willing to suffer. But suffering was not the issue with this race. The challenges were far more subtle and frankly, exactly what I needed to finally face the work I need to do if I intend to get better at this triathlon racing business.
The swim started off in a river with a pretty substantial current. Having really brought my swim up this year, I felt confident and strong. Even when the current sent me hurtling toward the channel marker pilings (where I cut my foot on barnacles), I still managed to right myself and swim on. I came into transition in well under an hour and for me, in that crazy river environment, this was a success!
The bike revealed what I've known for some time and literally tried to ignore or hide or just not address. I am an aerobar wimp. I suck at using them. I am not a confident bike handler and I spook very easily at the prospect of falling, so the aerobars really freak me out. Nevertheless, because of this fear, I suffer and not in the "I know I'm doing well and it's worth suffering way." The course traveled over 55 mph roads with no shoulder. At one point, I heard a diesel engine and a low honk of a truck horn. I looked over to see the hubs of a giant tractor trailer passing by my head. REALLY?!?! Who the hell thought this was a good course? Needless to say, between my near non-existent aerobar skills (I have trouble eating and drinking while in aero) and the constant stream of 55 mph traffic, I never could get a rhythm going on the bike. As I churned past blind turns as fast as I could to escape danger, something occurred to me. Despite all of my physical prowess, nerves and a lack of proper hydration were starting to take me down. I tried hard to hydrate but by the time the bike segment was almost over, I knew my run was toast.
There is nothing like going into a run, knowing you are behind the eight ball. I knew on the second mile that I was in for it. I tried to push through. I began hydrating like crazy. Alternating Osmo with water. The Osmo worked nearly instantly and I did feel a little better but it was already too late. By mile 7 of 13.1 I was walking. Sad, angry, disappointed and downtrodden, I continued. I knew I wouldn't quit but I also knew that all of that work, all of those hours, all of that sacrifice was going to be unraveled by a bad run.
I picked up the pace and started running again. My stomach churned. I couldn't get my blood sugar stabilized. I walked and ran until I finally finished. Far off the time I'd planned and much worse for the wear mentally.
The good news about this race is that unlike many situations in life, triathlon puts right in your face precisely what your weaknesses are. You are forced to face them in all of their ugliness and decide, "Will I take this on and get better? Or will I just keep playing this game with myself and trying to avoid what needs to be addressed?"
After the Patriot race, I know the answer. I need a plan. I am good at planning. And I am DAMN GOOD at sticking to a plan. What I am less good at is owning up to the fact that I am afraid. I am afraid of falling, of being out of control, of not being able to balance and swerving into a lane with a car that will kill me. I am not confident on the bike. I am afraid of my lack of confidence and my ability to react in an emergency situation where good bike handling skills will be required to avoid injury or death. Because of these fears, I have become something that I fear more than anything else in this world: mediocre. I am a mediocre athlete. I don't do well with mediocrity.
So more than anything that could possibly motivate me, my disdain for mediocrity will drive me to push past my comfort zone. I admit defeat. I admit fear. I will allow myself to be open and as the amazing Diana Nyad says: FIND A WAY! If you don't like it, FIND A WAY. I hate it. I hate being mediocre. I hate being afraid and mostly, I hate letting myself down.
I will find a way! I won't scale the mountain only to drown in a puddle. I will create a plan and race with the confidence that no matter what, I addressed all my fears and brought everything I had to the race. EVERYTHING.
EVERYTHING.
Having promised a good friend that I'd do it with her (it was her first and my 4th), I mustered up the guts to start a Master's swim class in January (YES, I love getting in the pool when it's 23 degrees outside) and hired an excellent tri couch in April. I trained hard. When it was all said and done, I did more than 96 hours of biking, 69 hours of running and 55 hours of swimming. The race should have gone off without a hitch. Physically, I was ready.
As my coach often says in her blog, being physically fit is not all that matters. I agree. Your mental game is just as important, if not more so than your physical fitness. For me, I've always been able to power through, to really suffer when others give up, to put 10-15 seconds worth of time into someone because I know that mentally it will hurt them far more than it will physically hurt me (to quote Coach Liz). I can suffer. I am willing to suffer. But suffering was not the issue with this race. The challenges were far more subtle and frankly, exactly what I needed to finally face the work I need to do if I intend to get better at this triathlon racing business.
The swim started off in a river with a pretty substantial current. Having really brought my swim up this year, I felt confident and strong. Even when the current sent me hurtling toward the channel marker pilings (where I cut my foot on barnacles), I still managed to right myself and swim on. I came into transition in well under an hour and for me, in that crazy river environment, this was a success!
The bike revealed what I've known for some time and literally tried to ignore or hide or just not address. I am an aerobar wimp. I suck at using them. I am not a confident bike handler and I spook very easily at the prospect of falling, so the aerobars really freak me out. Nevertheless, because of this fear, I suffer and not in the "I know I'm doing well and it's worth suffering way." The course traveled over 55 mph roads with no shoulder. At one point, I heard a diesel engine and a low honk of a truck horn. I looked over to see the hubs of a giant tractor trailer passing by my head. REALLY?!?! Who the hell thought this was a good course? Needless to say, between my near non-existent aerobar skills (I have trouble eating and drinking while in aero) and the constant stream of 55 mph traffic, I never could get a rhythm going on the bike. As I churned past blind turns as fast as I could to escape danger, something occurred to me. Despite all of my physical prowess, nerves and a lack of proper hydration were starting to take me down. I tried hard to hydrate but by the time the bike segment was almost over, I knew my run was toast.
There is nothing like going into a run, knowing you are behind the eight ball. I knew on the second mile that I was in for it. I tried to push through. I began hydrating like crazy. Alternating Osmo with water. The Osmo worked nearly instantly and I did feel a little better but it was already too late. By mile 7 of 13.1 I was walking. Sad, angry, disappointed and downtrodden, I continued. I knew I wouldn't quit but I also knew that all of that work, all of those hours, all of that sacrifice was going to be unraveled by a bad run.
I picked up the pace and started running again. My stomach churned. I couldn't get my blood sugar stabilized. I walked and ran until I finally finished. Far off the time I'd planned and much worse for the wear mentally.
The good news about this race is that unlike many situations in life, triathlon puts right in your face precisely what your weaknesses are. You are forced to face them in all of their ugliness and decide, "Will I take this on and get better? Or will I just keep playing this game with myself and trying to avoid what needs to be addressed?"
After the Patriot race, I know the answer. I need a plan. I am good at planning. And I am DAMN GOOD at sticking to a plan. What I am less good at is owning up to the fact that I am afraid. I am afraid of falling, of being out of control, of not being able to balance and swerving into a lane with a car that will kill me. I am not confident on the bike. I am afraid of my lack of confidence and my ability to react in an emergency situation where good bike handling skills will be required to avoid injury or death. Because of these fears, I have become something that I fear more than anything else in this world: mediocre. I am a mediocre athlete. I don't do well with mediocrity.
So more than anything that could possibly motivate me, my disdain for mediocrity will drive me to push past my comfort zone. I admit defeat. I admit fear. I will allow myself to be open and as the amazing Diana Nyad says: FIND A WAY! If you don't like it, FIND A WAY. I hate it. I hate being mediocre. I hate being afraid and mostly, I hate letting myself down.
I will find a way! I won't scale the mountain only to drown in a puddle. I will create a plan and race with the confidence that no matter what, I addressed all my fears and brought everything I had to the race. EVERYTHING.
EVERYTHING.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
