My First Triathlon: Rocketman of Ignorance

Just a note on my first triathlon.  It was in 2003, and it was in Alabama.  It was the Rocketman, outside of Huntsville.  I trained for an Olympic distance, which turned out to be a Sprint.  I rode a $200 Cannondale that I bought from the classifieds.  It snapped a spoke while I was riding, and it sounded like one of those New Year's clackers while I rode.  The run went fine, its my thing.  

For the swim, I was pleased to find out it was a shorter distance than initially thought, and I was pretty proud of my purple speedo two piece that quite resembled my favorite work uniform EVER when I was a "float girl" at the Wave Country. As soon as I hit the water, my throat closed up.  I was so terrified that I could never put my head under water and had to dog- paddle the full half-mile.  Rescue canoes followed me the whole time yelling through bull horns that they were "getting" me "out of the water".  I was "not competent to finish the swim".  Determined and drowning that is what I was, and bless those poor men in the rescue canoes, they let me finish.  The whole time, one was rowing the canoe, while the other had his hands out to grab me if I completely gave out.  

The bike was ridiculous, I mean we can all ride a bike, but competitive biking is an entirely different phenomenon.  I rode the whole route standing on my pedals, MY REGULAR WALMART BMX PEDALS.  I thought that bike shoes looked like elf shoes and assumed that only the pros and the Olympians used such advanced gear. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived.  I had my brother's elementary school helmet that resembled a strange green egg, and  then there was the spoke snapping.  Most unfortunate, and I think I was penalized and maybe disqualified for that and not having those end stopper things in the handlebars.  The penalty and/or disqualification bothered me none.  I was clearly lucky to escape with my life, and my purple speedo.  

Ahh, 2009 shows us a completely different Betsy Sloan.  This year, at the Music City Triathlon, I came in 4th in my age group.  I both survived and thrived.  I have a Trek 5200 that was the best birthday present ever and a personal relationship with the girls at Splish who make my suit. More on the Music City later, but joining a running group and a swim group helped me exponentially.  I also started bike classes with Todd Nordmeyer this summer.  There is a lot more to biking than I thought, and it is my weakest link.  Look for my Music City Tri update!!!

Hood to Coast "The Mother of All Relays"

Oh Yes, Sports Fans,

It is that time of year again.  Hood to Coast is in four weeks.  My team, the Yazoo Growlers, are taking 12 people to cover the 197 miles from Mt. Hood to the Coast in Oregon.  While I consider myself a competitive runner, I refuse any preconceived notions about my performance ability while there, for the following reasons:

1)  I will be running at 2:00 in the afternoon, I will be running again at 2:00 in the morning, and I will be running at some point during the following day.  

2) I will inevitably blow out a 6 minute pace on the first leg, rendering me near crippled  for the following two legs.  This means that on my last two legs, I will only run fast in the hundred yards after I leave the relay point (while my team can see me) and the 100 yards as I approach the next relay point (while my team can see me). This is what I do.

I have done this race or a race like it for three years.  I had to skip last year while I was breast feeding.  I did not however skip the year while I was pregnant.  This makes me think that while I might pretend that I am not a hardcore athlete, the fact that I was willing to go on a 24 hour race relay while pregnant (just three months-ish) indicates that I might take my workout routine a little more seriously than I think.  

!n 1996, my Hood to Coast team name was Big Fat Fun.  In 1997, we lost out on our lottery to get into Hood to Coast and we tried a different relay in Rhode Island (Live Free or Die).  It was called Reach the Beach, and as mentioned, I was pregnant when I ran it.  On the Reach the Beach relay, local townships sponsored the race and gave out chicken noodle soup at the various relay stations.  While I had not had Campbell's chicken soup since the last time I had strep throat in elementary school, it hits the spot when you are pregnant and in Rhode Island and have just finished a long run at 2:00 in the morning in the rain.

Anyway, this year we are back in Oregon and I am psyched.  I am in van 2, and we have some great runners.  I am running leg three, which, in my opinion, means we have the best sleep times and the best route.  My van members are as follows: Robbie, Wood, Dru, Riney, Me and Pam.  Van 1 members are Allan Horner ( the great organizer and money handler), Sara, Rowan, Edith, Chris, and Sean (runner of the 3 hour marathon).  Impressive, right?  I will post a review of this year's trip and happenings following our return home.  

I am 33 After All

So, we Sloans had a massive family crisis last week.  It meant getting to a funeral and funeral visitation and plucking a babysitter I had never used before out of thin air to whom I abandoned my child.  THIN AIR, I tell you. I rescheduled all of my work appointments to the following week and gave myself up to the family crisis.  I am not quite over it, but life is marching on, and it is now next week.  

All of my work appointments are rescheduled.  I know this, but somehow the click did not occur and it is Tuesday morning - a morning on which I do not usually work- and I have had a lovely morning.  I am feeling like I have gotten back into the swing of things.  I have had a great training run with the baby in the jog stroller(the Music City Triathlon is two weeks away at a new and exciting location), I did my weights workout, and had a great yoga practice while the baby napped.  I gave myself an intense conditioning treatment in the shower and stepped onto the bath mat in time to hear both my cell phone and my home phone begin to ring.  

I answered the phone in my towel and heard the administrative assistant at the offices of the non-profit where I work state calmly that my 10:30 appointment had now been waiting for one hour.  ONE HOUR!!  ONE HOUR!!  My hair is wet.  No makeup.  I have a 25 minute commute to my office.  I don't even know if my son is wearing clothes.  These appointments have already been rescheduled once, and they are important.  Not completing the testing for these two children on this day could mean delayed grade placements which will affect the rest of their education.  They were delayed once and cannot be delayed again.  

SO, I told Kelly that I would be on my way in exactly five minutes.  I pulled something to wear over Ivan's head and got two bottles ready.  I could not get in touch with my husband (of course), my mother was otherwise occupied and our babysitter is on a mission trip to Mexico.  I sat down to complete testing in my office wearing jeans and a tank top and flip flops.  My hair completely shower wet.  No make-up.  No moisturizer.  I handed off Ivan to Kelly, and sat down to work noticing that there is something crusty on my jeans.  Testing got underway and the student I am testing is delightful.  Fabulous social skills and completely enjoyable, but I  am just ridiculous.  

The thing is I am 33 years old and for as long as I have known myself, all 33 years,  I have had this un-fixable inability to maintain a calendar in the midst of a crisis.  I will show up at the completely wrong day or time or not show up at all, like today.  A consequence of knowing me seems to be that at some point I will show up for a past or future appointment or lunch date.  I've attended parties on the wrong night, gone to get my haircut at not even the remotely right time.  

I can't seem to kick it.  It seems to be tied into my emotions in some way, as if the only way I can really get it all out is to show up at your house in full party dress the night AFTER the big night.  Or, forget to come to work on the most important day of the year, and then have to barrel over like a bat out of hell in dirty jeans and flip flops.  The epitome of the unprofessional.

Mizuno!!!!

Before two months ago, if you had said the word "Mizuno" to me, I would have responded "geshundheit".  I have been wearing Sauconys for the last three years since I gave up on my beloved Nike Air Pegasus.   The Sauconys provided, I felt, both comfort and support when my orthotics were added.  I was running injury-free which means a lot, though my running group was making comments.  Sara told me I ran like an "old man" and Robbie told me that I seemed to be "slapping" one foot.  Also noted was some seriously funky wear on the bottom of my shoes.  

Even with funky wear, there was no injury.  So, I contented myself with my injury free running and accepted my "old man" "slapping".  

UNTIL, I inadvertently met a Mizuno rep at a party.  Like I said, I had heard very little of this Mizuno.  Mike, the Mizuno Rep, told me that he thought my Saucony Hurricanes combined with orthotics sounded like a heavy shoe for me and wondered if I might need a lighter shoe that had less dependence on an expensive orthotic for a good fit.  

Anyway, he offered to send me a pair of Mizunos to try out.  I have been running in them for two months now and I am pleased to post pictures of my new Mizunos compared to my Sauconys at equal run times.  The Mizunos feel light on my feel and I have stopped running like an "old man".  Also, they are quite pretty.  

The Secret Upside of Death

I was inspired to begin my blog by a quote I read in the New Yorker.  It is by Nora Ephron, and rang so true that I could not help but share.  

"The amount of maintenance involving hair is genuinely overwhelming," she has written."Sometimes I think that not having to worry about your hair anymore is the secret upside of death."

The abuse I pour down upon my meagre supply of hair is ridiculous.  The swimming, the sweat, the washing, the drying, the rolling, the spraying.  No amount of work guarantees good hair.  Or, and maybe even worse, I sometimes leave my house with the confidence that my hair looks great, only to find that in the car, on the way to the party, my hair has outfoxed me.  It has frizzed or fallen or worse, the appearance that all my split ends have run races to the roots.  I live in fear of humidity.  

I am avoiding balancing my check book in an effort to avoid knowing how much I have spent in the last two weeks on desperate attempts to heal my mane. I am putty in the hands of any peddler of hair repair. 

The Bumble and Bumble.  

The Katira Hair Masque by Philip B.

The Phyto No. 9

The Davines nourishing repairing mask

The pre-swim Barex hair oil

and even as I write I am salivating over the Philip B. White Truffle line that may force me to make the most difficult decision of all:  Is my son's college education less important than the possibility that his mother could come to high school graduation with shiny shiny hair?  

Can a triathlete have good hair?  Is the White Truffle line available on ebay?  Can I wear my hair in a bun for the rest of my life?