"You will crash." I've been total this a couple times since I've started riding. "It is inevitable if you ride a lot. Everyone does it at some point." When I first started riding, I was down right petrified of falling. And seeing as I could barely stop properly or clip in my shoes without toppling over, I had every right to be. However, over the past year, I've gotten more confident and less paranoid about falling. Maybe it doesn't have to happen me...
So this Sunday, we had just finished climbing and Mark was having me pound the flats. Mark and Glen have been my unofficial cycling coaches since I started this mid-life crisis triathlon mania. And can't thank them enough. I've definately come a long way on the bike and Sunday was no exception. I could tell I was riding the best I ever have on that trail.
We were on a the River Mountain Trail Loop, which is a road bike trail, but it also has it's fair share of pedestrians in certain parts. It's not unsafe to get going pretty fast on the trail, as we are unsually the only ones on it. But of course, we always slow way down when we see a pedestrain and call out to let them know we are coming.
So that's how it was. I was going about 30mph and there was not a soul in sight and Mark was right behind me telling me I could catch up with the rest of the group, push a harder gear... Then I see this guy on a skateboard. He's off the trail. I'm not sure what he's doing. Then suddenly he jumps on the trail, not facing me, in my lane of traffic. This is not good. I yell out "On your left!", start to brake, and pass him on the left. Please, just stay where you and everything will be fine. But I'm going really fast, and this guy is oblivious. I could see the ipod headphones in his ears. Then he jumps on his skateboard and slides into the left lane. OH SH*T!!!! I've got nowhere to go. I'm off the trail. I'm in the rocks. He's still moving to the left. I'm going to hit him. BAM! I feel myself slam into him. We're flying through in the air together. I'm gonna hit the ground soon. This is gonna suck. I'm really gonna get hurt. BOOM! Thud. Ugh. I felt my body hit the ground, then my head. I jumped up. And...I was fine. Oh my God. I'm alive. I'm ok. I walked over to the skateboarder who had landed just a few feet away. "Are you ok?" I asked him.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Dude I'm so sorry. Are you ok?"
"Yeah. I'm fine too. Wow, are you sure you're ok? Are you hurting anywhere?" He showed me his hand which had a small cut, and one of his knees was a little scraped up. But other than that, he was indeed fine, and walking around. I apologized that I didn't have any wipes or bandages to help clean up his cuts. I think after this, I'm gonna start carrying some on my bike.
By this time, Mark had gotten over to us. He seemed just about as shocked as we both were. And kept asking over and over again if we were ok. After we established again that we were, miraclously, unharmed. I looked over at my bike. It looked ok. But the handlebars were bent up and one of the shifters had been torn clear off. "Can I ride it back to the car?" I asked Mark.
"Yeah. I think you should be fine. But it's definately a little busted up."
Better the bike than me. So the skateboarder and I parted ways after asking each other one last time if the other was ok and marveling at how incredibly lucky we both were. He started walking back to the neighborhood next to the trail, and Mark and I started riding down the trail back to the car which was only a couple miles away.
"Man, I just can't believe that crash! On a scale of 1-10, that was like an 11. I was scared to go back and see you. I thought you were gonna be torn up. And what the hell was that jackwagon doing riding his skateboard in the middle of the trail with those damn things in his ears? That just pisses me off. "
"It's ok. I'm fine. He's fine. That fact alone is amazing. I'm not mad. I'm just happy to be in one piece. This is the luckiest day of my life, honestly."
"Man! I just can't get over that crash. It was so high speed. You just plowed into him like a football player. You threw him into the air like chair at a picnic. (I had to laugh-what a great simile.) And then you just jumped up like it was nothing. You are tough."
"Yeah, too bad I didn't have a helmet camera on. I could have sold the footage to Jackass. And I'm not tough, just lucky. Very, very, lucky."
And I am lucky. When I got home, all I could find were a bunch of bruises on my right arm and leg. All in all, a miracle. No road rash, no broken bones, still had all my teeth intact. And the skateboarder. He wasn't even wearing a helmet. When I think of all the things that could have happened... Good God, we were fortunate.
So now I've gotten the inevitable crash out of the way. Hey, I've always done things in a big way. Hopefully, that will be my last time. Or at least my last time crashing at 25 mph.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Just One More Hill?
As you all know, I'm going into my 2nd year of doing triathlons. It all started innocently enough. I had just had my last baby and faced the depressig task that all new mother do of losing the baby weight, which for me, unfortunately was quite a lot. Blame what you will, genentics, water retension, eating 4 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday between meals...but the fact remained that I was fat again. So I decided that maybe a little exercise would move things along. So I found an article in a Weight Watchers magazine that outlined a 12 week program to take you from walking to running a 5K. Decided to give it a shot, and then it all snowballed from there.
So here we are a year later. And I'm trying to decide what my athletic goals are for the year. By far, my worst area in triathlon is cycling. Mainly because I have no idea what I'm doing. But I don't like to let minor details like that stop me. As my Uncle Jim always said, "If you don't know the words, just sing louder.". It's kind of a family moto so to speak. Those of you who know me, know that this behavior is indeed genetic. So 2011, cycling it is!
I've been very luck to have Glen's cycling buddies let a clueless beginner like me tag along. They've been exceptionally nice and have not made fun of me too much. One of the guys, Mark, has even started riding with me for parts of the ride and schooling me on various things I probably should know like cadence and gear changing.
Today, we did a 60 mile ride. Let me just tell you that the moral of today's story is that ignorance is bliss because had I know what this ride would entail, I would not never have agreed to such a thing. It started out easy enough with some rolling hills. Then came the climbs. I spun up the 1st two pretty good and was feeling somewhat impressed with myself. Yeah, I'm getting better! But then came more climbs, and more climbs, and more climbs, and...I was getting weary, not to mention pissed off. When exactly was this going to end? Ok. I've had my Rocky moment. Duh, dunt, duuh...Duh, dunt, duuh. Now this road needed to get flat. Becasue I was done with hills.
But apparently the hills were not done with me. In the middle of this torture, Mark notices I'm fading and rides up next to me. "Come on girl, you got this! Big effort. This is the last hill." Really! Really! Okay, okay, yeah right, I got this. So pick up my cadence and do my best to power up it. Only to find...another hill. Grrrr.
Here comes Mark again, " Ok, last one."
"Really? I thought I already did the last one?"
"No, this is it. The last one." What choice do have but to believe him? So I pick up my cadence again and get up the hill. But...you guessed it. It WASN'T the last hill. @#%$!!!!
Now I'm breathing hard and getting mad. I'm giving Mark one word answers as he continues to talk about the infamous "last hill".
"Please stop lying." I say through clenched teeth.
"I'm not lying"
"Yes, you are! You keep saying one more hill and it's not."
"No I didn't. I said one more hill and then a long slow climb."
"Uhuh. And then some more hills after that."
He offered me some encouraging words and then let me finish battling up the hills on my own. Cursing the day I ever decided to try triathlon. The day I decided to focus on cycling. Why did I tell people to push me? I'm challenged enough as it is. This is not a sport for an overweight mom. I should be scapbooking or ordering baby gadgets online or whatever it is normal women my age do.
But then we finally hit the down hill back to the car. And it occurs to me. I just rode 60 miles. I just rode 60 miles! Not bad for an overweight mom of 3. And much cooler than scapbooking (no offense to those of you who scapbook I hear it can be quite the skill to master). Looks like I'll be back out here again. 2011 is, after all, the year of the bike according to my calendar.
So here we are a year later. And I'm trying to decide what my athletic goals are for the year. By far, my worst area in triathlon is cycling. Mainly because I have no idea what I'm doing. But I don't like to let minor details like that stop me. As my Uncle Jim always said, "If you don't know the words, just sing louder.". It's kind of a family moto so to speak. Those of you who know me, know that this behavior is indeed genetic. So 2011, cycling it is!
I've been very luck to have Glen's cycling buddies let a clueless beginner like me tag along. They've been exceptionally nice and have not made fun of me too much. One of the guys, Mark, has even started riding with me for parts of the ride and schooling me on various things I probably should know like cadence and gear changing.
Today, we did a 60 mile ride. Let me just tell you that the moral of today's story is that ignorance is bliss because had I know what this ride would entail, I would not never have agreed to such a thing. It started out easy enough with some rolling hills. Then came the climbs. I spun up the 1st two pretty good and was feeling somewhat impressed with myself. Yeah, I'm getting better! But then came more climbs, and more climbs, and more climbs, and...I was getting weary, not to mention pissed off. When exactly was this going to end? Ok. I've had my Rocky moment. Duh, dunt, duuh...Duh, dunt, duuh. Now this road needed to get flat. Becasue I was done with hills.
But apparently the hills were not done with me. In the middle of this torture, Mark notices I'm fading and rides up next to me. "Come on girl, you got this! Big effort. This is the last hill." Really! Really! Okay, okay, yeah right, I got this. So pick up my cadence and do my best to power up it. Only to find...another hill. Grrrr.
Here comes Mark again, " Ok, last one."
"Really? I thought I already did the last one?"
"No, this is it. The last one." What choice do have but to believe him? So I pick up my cadence again and get up the hill. But...you guessed it. It WASN'T the last hill. @#%$!!!!
Now I'm breathing hard and getting mad. I'm giving Mark one word answers as he continues to talk about the infamous "last hill".
"Please stop lying." I say through clenched teeth.
"I'm not lying"
"Yes, you are! You keep saying one more hill and it's not."
"No I didn't. I said one more hill and then a long slow climb."
"Uhuh. And then some more hills after that."
He offered me some encouraging words and then let me finish battling up the hills on my own. Cursing the day I ever decided to try triathlon. The day I decided to focus on cycling. Why did I tell people to push me? I'm challenged enough as it is. This is not a sport for an overweight mom. I should be scapbooking or ordering baby gadgets online or whatever it is normal women my age do.
But then we finally hit the down hill back to the car. And it occurs to me. I just rode 60 miles. I just rode 60 miles! Not bad for an overweight mom of 3. And much cooler than scapbooking (no offense to those of you who scapbook I hear it can be quite the skill to master). Looks like I'll be back out here again. 2011 is, after all, the year of the bike according to my calendar.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Sh*t My Kids Fight About
First of all, my sincere apologies to all my readers (even if there are only like 3 of you). I've been very very bad about updating this blog. In fact it would be accurate to say that I've been down right neglectful. Sorry if I have caused anyone with abandonment issue grief. I did not leave you. I do intend to still write.
My excuse is that time is hard to come by since going back to work. And when I do find myself with some time, I usually spend it doing something incredibly thrilling like doing laundry, doing dishes, or swiftering my kitchen floor for the upteenth time. (And, yes, "swiftering" is now a verb- although I'm not sure if it has made it into the dictionary yet).
You see, I was not living in reality this past summer. Between the months of June and August, I was a stay-at-home mom that got paid. But at the end of August, I faced the truth. I actually have to work for this money. It doesn't just fall from the sky into my bank account. Sucks, I know. So here I am, frantic once again, trying to do everything I did when I stayed home and work.
But, I digress. Onward to the topic of this post. Sh*t my kids fight about (Do you like how I put that little * in there instead of the i? Now it's rated PG).
So I've started trying to get the boys to do more chores. I have faith that the DAY is coming. The DAY I am talking about when my kids can actually be a help rather than a hinderance to household cleaning. The DAY is when they will be able to run laundry, fold clothes, clean bathrooms, clean the kitchen, vacuum, etc all by themselves. My God, I'm getting giddy just thinking about it. Imagine...
But they're not there yet. Having them "help" is usually a bigger pain in the a$$ than just doing it myself still. But, instead of giving the man a fish I want to put in the extra effort and teach him how to fish. Maybe if I really work on teaching them a few basics the DAY will come sooner.
So today, they helped me pick up Honey's caca in the backyard. Honey is our dog and caca (for those of you who are not hispanic) is dog sh*t. Mateo voluteered to hold the bag, but I had seniority and said that was my job. He and Nico were the scoopers. I held the bag and supervised. It started out good. Since I hadn't done this in a while, there was an abundance of caca to be found and scooped. They were quite excited the first few minutes.
"Hey, look at that huge piece!" I said. Both boys lunged at it, but Nico was the first to scoop it up. Mateo burst into tears.
"NICO! That was mine! I wanted to scoop up that big caca!" wailed Mateo.
"There's lots of caca in this yard. I bet we'll find a bigger piece." I said, "Let's look over by the fence. That's Honey's favorite place to go caca." Isn't it gross that I know this?
Mateo and Nico sprinted over to the fence like two athletes fighting for 1st place.
"Wow! Look at all this caca, Mateo!" said Nico with delight.
"Yeah, but it's all little small pieces." sighed Mateo in defeat. No big caca. What a let down.
So we kept cleaning up dog sh*t for another ten minutes or so.
"Mommy, I'm getting tired. This job is really stinky." moaned Mateo. Nico's interest, meanwhile, was as intent as ever. He getting very mad if I did not acknowledge and praise him for every piece of sh*t he put in the bag.
"Ok, that's enough. We got most of it. Let go was our hands." I said.
"But, mommy, look! There's still caca." said Nico " We have to pick it up!"
"We'll get it next time, ok? I promise you can come pick up caca with me again soon."
Ah yes, some parents promise to take their kids to the park or Chuck E. Cheese as a treat. But so few consider picking up dog sh*t together as way to spend quality time. Nico, at least, looks forward to doing it again. And I look forward to the DAY that they can do this fun activity all by themselves while I sit on the couch and watch TV (will that ever happen again?...oh well, different topic)
My excuse is that time is hard to come by since going back to work. And when I do find myself with some time, I usually spend it doing something incredibly thrilling like doing laundry, doing dishes, or swiftering my kitchen floor for the upteenth time. (And, yes, "swiftering" is now a verb- although I'm not sure if it has made it into the dictionary yet).
You see, I was not living in reality this past summer. Between the months of June and August, I was a stay-at-home mom that got paid. But at the end of August, I faced the truth. I actually have to work for this money. It doesn't just fall from the sky into my bank account. Sucks, I know. So here I am, frantic once again, trying to do everything I did when I stayed home and work.
But, I digress. Onward to the topic of this post. Sh*t my kids fight about (Do you like how I put that little * in there instead of the i? Now it's rated PG).
So I've started trying to get the boys to do more chores. I have faith that the DAY is coming. The DAY I am talking about when my kids can actually be a help rather than a hinderance to household cleaning. The DAY is when they will be able to run laundry, fold clothes, clean bathrooms, clean the kitchen, vacuum, etc all by themselves. My God, I'm getting giddy just thinking about it. Imagine...
But they're not there yet. Having them "help" is usually a bigger pain in the a$$ than just doing it myself still. But, instead of giving the man a fish I want to put in the extra effort and teach him how to fish. Maybe if I really work on teaching them a few basics the DAY will come sooner.
So today, they helped me pick up Honey's caca in the backyard. Honey is our dog and caca (for those of you who are not hispanic) is dog sh*t. Mateo voluteered to hold the bag, but I had seniority and said that was my job. He and Nico were the scoopers. I held the bag and supervised. It started out good. Since I hadn't done this in a while, there was an abundance of caca to be found and scooped. They were quite excited the first few minutes.
"Hey, look at that huge piece!" I said. Both boys lunged at it, but Nico was the first to scoop it up. Mateo burst into tears.
"NICO! That was mine! I wanted to scoop up that big caca!" wailed Mateo.
"There's lots of caca in this yard. I bet we'll find a bigger piece." I said, "Let's look over by the fence. That's Honey's favorite place to go caca." Isn't it gross that I know this?
Mateo and Nico sprinted over to the fence like two athletes fighting for 1st place.
"Wow! Look at all this caca, Mateo!" said Nico with delight.
"Yeah, but it's all little small pieces." sighed Mateo in defeat. No big caca. What a let down.
So we kept cleaning up dog sh*t for another ten minutes or so.
"Mommy, I'm getting tired. This job is really stinky." moaned Mateo. Nico's interest, meanwhile, was as intent as ever. He getting very mad if I did not acknowledge and praise him for every piece of sh*t he put in the bag.
"Ok, that's enough. We got most of it. Let go was our hands." I said.
"But, mommy, look! There's still caca." said Nico " We have to pick it up!"
"We'll get it next time, ok? I promise you can come pick up caca with me again soon."
Ah yes, some parents promise to take their kids to the park or Chuck E. Cheese as a treat. But so few consider picking up dog sh*t together as way to spend quality time. Nico, at least, looks forward to doing it again. And I look forward to the DAY that they can do this fun activity all by themselves while I sit on the couch and watch TV (will that ever happen again?...oh well, different topic)
Monday, August 16, 2010
Losing the Spice of Life
I really like spicy foods. When I was kid, I used to get the "suicide" chicken wings at Elmwood Taco. Those of you from Buffalo know what I am talking about. You also know that no one in Buffalo calls chicken wings Buffalo wings, because there is only one kind of wing. A super hot one with lots of blue cheese dressing. Or what about a hot chicken finger sub smothered in blue cheese from Jim's Steak Out? But, I digress.
I don't just like hot stuff, I like things that have a lot of flavor. I like all kinds of ethnic spices too. Mexcian. India. Well, let's be honest, all food really.
So here's the problem. Although my family memebers have very spicy personalities, they have the blandest taste buds ever. I seem to have married the only hispanic man that does not like spicy food. Max's only complaint about my cooking is that "it's too spicy". How, I ask you, can something be too spicy? But Mateo and Nico have followed suite and declared that "this food has too much spice!"
I have tried to tone it down, for everyone's sake. But still find myself making things that are rejected due to "too much spice". Many times, I don't even realize that what I am preparing is too spicy until it is too late.
Here's an example. The other day, I made a meatloaf that had some mild enchilada sauce and chili powder in it. Nico took a bite, gagged, spit it out and said definatively, "No! Hot!".
Mateo replied, "It's okay, Nico. You can do it. You just have to eat it like this. Watch." He then proceded to show Nico how to take a miniscual bite of the meatloaf and immediately chase it with a huge slug of apple juice.
Ok, maybe that was a little to spicy. I guess even mild enchilada sauce can be spicy. And oh yeah, the chili powder. I see that now. But, they are getting older. When is one old enough for some spice? I mean what do people in Mexico feed their kids? I bet the 5 years olds there eat chile rellenos every day.
I may have to accept that my boys have inherited their father's bland taste buds. At this point, my only hope is Daniela. But if she also rejects my spicy food, I may be doomed to live a bland life...at least when it comes to food.
I don't just like hot stuff, I like things that have a lot of flavor. I like all kinds of ethnic spices too. Mexcian. India. Well, let's be honest, all food really.
So here's the problem. Although my family memebers have very spicy personalities, they have the blandest taste buds ever. I seem to have married the only hispanic man that does not like spicy food. Max's only complaint about my cooking is that "it's too spicy". How, I ask you, can something be too spicy? But Mateo and Nico have followed suite and declared that "this food has too much spice!"
I have tried to tone it down, for everyone's sake. But still find myself making things that are rejected due to "too much spice". Many times, I don't even realize that what I am preparing is too spicy until it is too late.
Here's an example. The other day, I made a meatloaf that had some mild enchilada sauce and chili powder in it. Nico took a bite, gagged, spit it out and said definatively, "No! Hot!".
Mateo replied, "It's okay, Nico. You can do it. You just have to eat it like this. Watch." He then proceded to show Nico how to take a miniscual bite of the meatloaf and immediately chase it with a huge slug of apple juice.
Ok, maybe that was a little to spicy. I guess even mild enchilada sauce can be spicy. And oh yeah, the chili powder. I see that now. But, they are getting older. When is one old enough for some spice? I mean what do people in Mexico feed their kids? I bet the 5 years olds there eat chile rellenos every day.
I may have to accept that my boys have inherited their father's bland taste buds. At this point, my only hope is Daniela. But if she also rejects my spicy food, I may be doomed to live a bland life...at least when it comes to food.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Batman and Robot Legs
Today NBC re-aired their coverage of the 2009 Ironman World Championship, so of course I DVRed it and watched it with the kids. Right away, Mateo recognized it as "Mommy's race". Haha, not quite. I do little managable sprint triathlons, not 112 mile bike rides followed by a marathon. But, as I have mentioned in the past, this is one of the advantages of having small children. They think you're a super hero.
Nico, in fact, is convinced that I turn into Batman when I put on my wetsuit. He kindly ignores the fact that the real Batman's suit doesn't cling to a post-baby belly. A dead give away in my opinion. When we are watching the swim portion, Nico reminds me about Batman.
"Batman swims! It's you mommy!"
"Hey, mommy," chimes in Mateo, "which one's you?"
"I'm not in this race, Mateo."
"Oh" he replies, "Mommy, I'm confused. Are you Batman or Ironman. This race is an Ironman."
"I'm Batman. Hey, let's just watch, ok?"
"No, let's just talk!" Mateo then proceeds to ask me one question after the next about the race. He is occasionally interrupted by Nico asking over and over again which one of the racers is me.
The coverage follows the elite racers and then, of course, introduces us to a few of the age groupers with inspirational stories. Cancer survivors, stroke victims, amputees. The story that captures Mateo attention is that of Rudy Garcia-Tolson who was born with severe birth defects and did not have lower legs. He was riding his bike with two prosthetic legs which fasinated Mateo.
"Look at his legs. Why do his legs look like that?"
"Because he wasn't born with good legs, so doctors had to make some for him. Cool, huh, they're like robot legs."
Mateo looked a little nervous and asked, "Mommy will I need robot legs?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you were so lucky to be born with perfect legs. That guy wasn't so doctors had to make him perfect legs. Perfect robot legs so he could race."
"Mommy, I have robot legs?" asked Nico
"No, your legs are perfect too. I'm so lucky that all my kids were born with perfect legs and are healthy." At this point, I'm tearing up. Damn inspirational stories.
"Mommy, I want robot legs." said Nico.
"No, Nico. Remember, you have perfect legs. You don't need robot legs."
"I want robot legs! I want robot legs now!" I tried to explain again that he could not have robot legs and when that didn't work I tried to distract him & calm him down. But, Nico was hell bent on a pair of robot legs and totally pissed off that I could not amputate his legs immediately and fit him for some prosthetics. In the end, the solution was to close him in his room where he promptly feel asleep after about 5 more minutes screaming about robot legs.
Back to the triathlon. The elite guys were on the run and Mateo was quite into it. Craig Alexander was closing in on the lead, and about to pass the guy who was currently in first place. As he came up on him, Mateo said, "Uh-oh. Look out. Here comes Alexander!" Mateo was very excited to see him win.
After that, the coverage shifted to the women's win and the age groupers. Lots of people hobbling along, trying to make the cut off. People starting to walk, collasping.
"Hey, why are those people stopping and lying down?" asked Mateo.
"Because they're tired."
"Why?"
"Because they've been running for a really long time and they're really tired."
"Oh. You don't get really tired, mommy. You don't lie down in your race."
That's right because I'm Batman. I am, however, too tired to do the dishes...
Nico, in fact, is convinced that I turn into Batman when I put on my wetsuit. He kindly ignores the fact that the real Batman's suit doesn't cling to a post-baby belly. A dead give away in my opinion. When we are watching the swim portion, Nico reminds me about Batman.
"Batman swims! It's you mommy!"
"Hey, mommy," chimes in Mateo, "which one's you?"
"I'm not in this race, Mateo."
"Oh" he replies, "Mommy, I'm confused. Are you Batman or Ironman. This race is an Ironman."
"I'm Batman. Hey, let's just watch, ok?"
"No, let's just talk!" Mateo then proceeds to ask me one question after the next about the race. He is occasionally interrupted by Nico asking over and over again which one of the racers is me.
The coverage follows the elite racers and then, of course, introduces us to a few of the age groupers with inspirational stories. Cancer survivors, stroke victims, amputees. The story that captures Mateo attention is that of Rudy Garcia-Tolson who was born with severe birth defects and did not have lower legs. He was riding his bike with two prosthetic legs which fasinated Mateo.
"Look at his legs. Why do his legs look like that?"
"Because he wasn't born with good legs, so doctors had to make some for him. Cool, huh, they're like robot legs."
Mateo looked a little nervous and asked, "Mommy will I need robot legs?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you were so lucky to be born with perfect legs. That guy wasn't so doctors had to make him perfect legs. Perfect robot legs so he could race."
"Mommy, I have robot legs?" asked Nico
"No, your legs are perfect too. I'm so lucky that all my kids were born with perfect legs and are healthy." At this point, I'm tearing up. Damn inspirational stories.
"Mommy, I want robot legs." said Nico.
"No, Nico. Remember, you have perfect legs. You don't need robot legs."
"I want robot legs! I want robot legs now!" I tried to explain again that he could not have robot legs and when that didn't work I tried to distract him & calm him down. But, Nico was hell bent on a pair of robot legs and totally pissed off that I could not amputate his legs immediately and fit him for some prosthetics. In the end, the solution was to close him in his room where he promptly feel asleep after about 5 more minutes screaming about robot legs.
Back to the triathlon. The elite guys were on the run and Mateo was quite into it. Craig Alexander was closing in on the lead, and about to pass the guy who was currently in first place. As he came up on him, Mateo said, "Uh-oh. Look out. Here comes Alexander!" Mateo was very excited to see him win.
After that, the coverage shifted to the women's win and the age groupers. Lots of people hobbling along, trying to make the cut off. People starting to walk, collasping.
"Hey, why are those people stopping and lying down?" asked Mateo.
"Because they're tired."
"Why?"
"Because they've been running for a really long time and they're really tired."
"Oh. You don't get really tired, mommy. You don't lie down in your race."
That's right because I'm Batman. I am, however, too tired to do the dishes...
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Buffalo 5K
When I first started this running thing, my only goal was to finish a 5K. I didn't really care about my time, but I figured whatever it was it would be my benchmark, my starting point. After all, I could only improve from there. So I finished my first 5K in January around 36 minutes and set 2 new goals. The first being to be able to run the entire thing, and the second was to run it under 30 minutes.
I reached my first goal back in May, and then was able to run the entire 5K at the end of my July triathlon. My best 5K times were right around 31 minutes, so I knew I was getting close. Physically, I was totally capable of doing it. I was pretty sure it was the mental part that was getting in my way. Isn't it always?
So in my attempts to not totally fall of the wagon with my training, I decided to do a 5K when I was in Buffalo. Originally, I was going to do one that benefited the Ronald McDonald House, but other plans conflicted and, as luck would have it, it turned out to be a good thing because it was pouring rain that day.
I figured my Buffalo 5K was not to be, but luckily, I ran into Beth, a friend of my mom's, at my future sister-in-law's bridal shower. She was doing the finish line for a 5K that benefited a local high school, so the race was back on.
My mom recruited her friend, Brigid, to do the race as well. And, thankfully, Brigid offered to let me leave Daniela with her babysitter. Taking 3 small children to a 5k does not a warm and fuzzy memory make, so no one had to twist anyone's arm to agree to that.
We arrived at Brigid's house with the kids and Mateo & Nico immediately ran into the house and started playing with all of Brigid's kids' toys. Mateo found her son, Will, and declared that he would not be coming to my race but "staying with this kid". So, we left Mateo behind and Brigid, my mom, Nico, and I got in the car. As we drove away, I saw Mateo and Will cruising around the driveway in a mini jeep, Will in the driver's seat and Mateo riding shotgun with his arm around Will's shoulder. Very funny.
Surprisingly, my dad had also decided to do the 5K. He is a former triathlete who used to be a very fast runner. However, he's had many injuries and surgeries, his most recent being a hip resurfacing less than a year ago, so he has been sidelined from racing for a while. But, he's been feeling better and decided to give the race a go.
So Brigid, myself, and my dad lined up at the starting line. The horn went off and we started running with the crowd. Brigid sped right ahead, but my dad held back. I figured I should probably stay with him. There are plenty of 5Ks out there to run, no reason I had to have a PR on this one. So I hung back with him, but after a couple minutes he said, "You know, you're allowed to beat me. Why don't you go catch Brigid?"
So I did. And I was actually passing people, believe it or not.
I came to the one mile mark and a guy was standing there with a stopwatch yelling out times. "9:17". Hey, that's kinda fast. I might have a shot at getting under 30 minutes. So kept pushing myself wondering if I could, in fact, catch up with Brigid.
As I approached the turn around, I saw Brigid running towards the finish. I wasn't that far behind. So I kept going. I past by the guy with the stopwatch again, which was the 2 mile mark on the way back, and I heard him call out 18 something. Ok. This is going to happen. Unless I slow down a lot, as in start walking, I'm going to finish this thing under 30. So I pushed myself ahead, but I was wanting to stop. I glanced at my HR monitor and it was in the 190s. But I had less than a mile to go.
Don't stop. Don't walk. Just keep running. At this point, I distratced myself by finding people to pass. People just a little ahead of me that I could probably reach if I just didn't stop. Stopping now would mean not breaking 30, and that wasn't going to happen.
I was getting close to the finish, but it seemed further away then I remembered. The last half mile was killing me. Some off those people I past started passing me. I knew my pace was slowing down, but if I pushed harder I knew I wasn't going to make it. I'd have to walk.
Finally, I reached the 3 mile mark. I could see the timer at the finish line and could make out that the first digit was a 2. Go faster! As the timer came into full view, I could see the next digit was a 9. Hurry!
As I ran across the finish line, I saw the time 29:41. I saw Nico jumping up and down. And I could hear him yelling, "Mommy! It's my mommy!" Even though I'm pushing myself during a race, I still find it surprising how physically worked up I am when I finally stop. As I was still trying to catch my breath, Nico leapt into my arms, and I almost fell over.
"Mommy, you fast. Mommy I see peoples racing. Racing fast. Fast like this" And with that comment, he jumped out of my arms and started sprinting away from me. And so began my next race. Despite being so winded, I was able to catch up to him fairly quickly, but of course, he insisted that I carry him after that. So getting my heart rate down was no easy task.
We caught up with Brigid who had come in ahead of me and also had a 5K PR. We saw my father cross the finish line. Nico was very excited to see grandpa running and immediately wanted to jump on him too, but I walked around with him to distract him and give my dad a minute.
All in all, a good race for everyone, including Nico who now likes to play "racing". Which I think is just code for running away from me.
I reached my first goal back in May, and then was able to run the entire 5K at the end of my July triathlon. My best 5K times were right around 31 minutes, so I knew I was getting close. Physically, I was totally capable of doing it. I was pretty sure it was the mental part that was getting in my way. Isn't it always?
So in my attempts to not totally fall of the wagon with my training, I decided to do a 5K when I was in Buffalo. Originally, I was going to do one that benefited the Ronald McDonald House, but other plans conflicted and, as luck would have it, it turned out to be a good thing because it was pouring rain that day.
I figured my Buffalo 5K was not to be, but luckily, I ran into Beth, a friend of my mom's, at my future sister-in-law's bridal shower. She was doing the finish line for a 5K that benefited a local high school, so the race was back on.
My mom recruited her friend, Brigid, to do the race as well. And, thankfully, Brigid offered to let me leave Daniela with her babysitter. Taking 3 small children to a 5k does not a warm and fuzzy memory make, so no one had to twist anyone's arm to agree to that.
We arrived at Brigid's house with the kids and Mateo & Nico immediately ran into the house and started playing with all of Brigid's kids' toys. Mateo found her son, Will, and declared that he would not be coming to my race but "staying with this kid". So, we left Mateo behind and Brigid, my mom, Nico, and I got in the car. As we drove away, I saw Mateo and Will cruising around the driveway in a mini jeep, Will in the driver's seat and Mateo riding shotgun with his arm around Will's shoulder. Very funny.
Surprisingly, my dad had also decided to do the 5K. He is a former triathlete who used to be a very fast runner. However, he's had many injuries and surgeries, his most recent being a hip resurfacing less than a year ago, so he has been sidelined from racing for a while. But, he's been feeling better and decided to give the race a go.
So Brigid, myself, and my dad lined up at the starting line. The horn went off and we started running with the crowd. Brigid sped right ahead, but my dad held back. I figured I should probably stay with him. There are plenty of 5Ks out there to run, no reason I had to have a PR on this one. So I hung back with him, but after a couple minutes he said, "You know, you're allowed to beat me. Why don't you go catch Brigid?"
So I did. And I was actually passing people, believe it or not.
I came to the one mile mark and a guy was standing there with a stopwatch yelling out times. "9:17". Hey, that's kinda fast. I might have a shot at getting under 30 minutes. So kept pushing myself wondering if I could, in fact, catch up with Brigid.
As I approached the turn around, I saw Brigid running towards the finish. I wasn't that far behind. So I kept going. I past by the guy with the stopwatch again, which was the 2 mile mark on the way back, and I heard him call out 18 something. Ok. This is going to happen. Unless I slow down a lot, as in start walking, I'm going to finish this thing under 30. So I pushed myself ahead, but I was wanting to stop. I glanced at my HR monitor and it was in the 190s. But I had less than a mile to go.
Don't stop. Don't walk. Just keep running. At this point, I distratced myself by finding people to pass. People just a little ahead of me that I could probably reach if I just didn't stop. Stopping now would mean not breaking 30, and that wasn't going to happen.
I was getting close to the finish, but it seemed further away then I remembered. The last half mile was killing me. Some off those people I past started passing me. I knew my pace was slowing down, but if I pushed harder I knew I wasn't going to make it. I'd have to walk.
Finally, I reached the 3 mile mark. I could see the timer at the finish line and could make out that the first digit was a 2. Go faster! As the timer came into full view, I could see the next digit was a 9. Hurry!
As I ran across the finish line, I saw the time 29:41. I saw Nico jumping up and down. And I could hear him yelling, "Mommy! It's my mommy!" Even though I'm pushing myself during a race, I still find it surprising how physically worked up I am when I finally stop. As I was still trying to catch my breath, Nico leapt into my arms, and I almost fell over.
"Mommy, you fast. Mommy I see peoples racing. Racing fast. Fast like this" And with that comment, he jumped out of my arms and started sprinting away from me. And so began my next race. Despite being so winded, I was able to catch up to him fairly quickly, but of course, he insisted that I carry him after that. So getting my heart rate down was no easy task.
We caught up with Brigid who had come in ahead of me and also had a 5K PR. We saw my father cross the finish line. Nico was very excited to see grandpa running and immediately wanted to jump on him too, but I walked around with him to distract him and give my dad a minute.
All in all, a good race for everyone, including Nico who now likes to play "racing". Which I think is just code for running away from me.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Fishies!
Forgive me, readers, for not updating this blog for a couple weeks, but as you know I am quite lazy and always half distracted by one of my children. I know I left you hanging about the Carlsbad triathlon, and I promise I will write about it. But today I am inspired to write about a different topic, so I will tell you about the fish.
I'll start off by saying that we used to have two fairly decent sized fish tanks before we had kids. Ahhh, yes, the golden years and we didn't even know it, but I digress. Anyhow, Max was very into these aquariums for a time, but eventually decided they were too much work and gave them away.
Fast forward to the present. I will admit, I started it. So technically this is all my fault. At the beginning of the summer, I took the boys to Walmart and let them each pick out a Beta fish. Mateo picked a red one which, surprise surprise, he named Mario after his video game hero. Nico picked a blue one who he named Luigi although Mateo argued that the fish was not green so it probably shouldn't be named Luigi, but Blue Mushroom. But by that point, Nico was no longer listening to Mateo, or myself for that matter, and was wholely absorbed by the fish.
"Mommy, fishy has eyes. Mommy, fishy has a tail. Mommy, fishy is blue." Nico said as he walked along jostling this poor fish.
"Yes, Nico. Now carry the fish gently. Don't shake him." Yeah...right. Nico had already dropped the fish 2 times on our our way to the check out. When I suggested that maybe I should carry the fish, he shrieked, "NO!" and violently slammed the plastic container with the fish inside it against his chest. Uh oh, maybe this was a mistake. But it was too late. I already said we could get the fish.
I let Nico hold his fishy the whole car ride home thinking that it may never live to see our house. But it did. And I put both fish in a small tank that had a divider so they wouldn't kill each other. Mario & Luigi, our new friends. No sooner had I turned my back on that fish tank than Nico had flipped the lid off and was reaching his hand inside. "Oh!" he yelled, "I touched fishy!" and he exploded into a fit of laughter. Telling Nico not to touch the fish and leave the tank alone is, of course, totally useless. I may as well tell my dog not to go outside and leave the door open.
So the fishies' new residence was on top of our refrigerator. I took them down a few times a day for supervised visits, of which Nico spent the entire time trying to touch them. It was during one of these visitations that Luigi met his unfortunate demise. Daniela woke up from her nap and I went to go get her, leaving Nico alone with the fish. I was delayed for much longer than I planned due to a messy diaper change that necesitated a quick bath and outfit change (yes, one of those.) Upon my return, Luigi was pronounced DOA. Nico had put him in a Pez dispenser. I will spare all you animal lover the gory details.
Meanwhile, all of this fish watching seemed to rekindle Max's love of aquariums.
"We should get an aquarium again." he told me.
"Really? I thought you said it was too much work to clean."
"It's not that much work."
"Actually I think you said you didn't have time to clean it. Do you have a lot more time now that we have three kids?" Ok, that was a low blow. I know. But REALLY?
"Yeah, you're right." But, obviously, that's not what he meant. He doesn't think I'm right. He's just done discussing it. The wheel had been set in motion and there is nothing I could do to stop it now.
Predictably, a few days later he returned from Walmart with the boys and a whole new set of fish and a mini aquarium. Not a simple tank like Mario's current home, but one with a filter and a light. A definate upgrade from his last pad.
"This cannot go on top of the refrigerator. Where will this go?" I ask.
"In their bedroom." OMG. Bad. Idea.
"I give these fish less than a week. Nico will kill them all."
"I don't think he'll be able to get up on top of the dresser and get the lid off." Ummm...ok. Denial. It's ok, that's how I deal with a lot of things too.
So Max set up the tank and Mario joined 4 new friends who he immediately started attacking and killing off one by one. Oh, yeah, and Nico immediately figured out how to stack up some storage bins in his room so he could reach the tank, take off the lid, and "play" with the fish.
"Mommy! Mario goes fast."
"Wow. Ok." I say as I surf the internet and ignore my 3 small children.
"Mommy! See! Mario drives a car." Nico exclaimed as he shoved a small toy car in my face. I glanced at it, then did a double take and gasped. Slumped over in the driver's seat was Mario the fish! And he didn't look fast. He looked dead. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt and threw him back into the tank. A few hours later, he was swimming around. A miracle.
When we left to visit my family in Buffalo 2 weeks ago, Mario was the sole survivor of the tank and looked worse than a Civil War vet.
"I can't believe he's not dead" Max marveled.
"Yeah... I know." I replied. I was beginning to like Mario. Mario and me surviving Nico together. He looks like I feel somedays.
So on our way home from the airport today, Max announces that he got more fish while we were gone. Bigger fish.
"But won't Mario and Nico kill them." I asked
"No, Cifi gave me his old aquarium." And so we walked in to find a 30 gallon aquarium set up in the living room. And there was Mario. Who did look very small swimming next to two massive goldfish.
"Nico won't be able to get into this tank." said Max knowingly as Nico busily started empying out storage bins and pushing them to the base of the fish tank.
I'll start off by saying that we used to have two fairly decent sized fish tanks before we had kids. Ahhh, yes, the golden years and we didn't even know it, but I digress. Anyhow, Max was very into these aquariums for a time, but eventually decided they were too much work and gave them away.
Fast forward to the present. I will admit, I started it. So technically this is all my fault. At the beginning of the summer, I took the boys to Walmart and let them each pick out a Beta fish. Mateo picked a red one which, surprise surprise, he named Mario after his video game hero. Nico picked a blue one who he named Luigi although Mateo argued that the fish was not green so it probably shouldn't be named Luigi, but Blue Mushroom. But by that point, Nico was no longer listening to Mateo, or myself for that matter, and was wholely absorbed by the fish.
"Mommy, fishy has eyes. Mommy, fishy has a tail. Mommy, fishy is blue." Nico said as he walked along jostling this poor fish.
"Yes, Nico. Now carry the fish gently. Don't shake him." Yeah...right. Nico had already dropped the fish 2 times on our our way to the check out. When I suggested that maybe I should carry the fish, he shrieked, "NO!" and violently slammed the plastic container with the fish inside it against his chest. Uh oh, maybe this was a mistake. But it was too late. I already said we could get the fish.
I let Nico hold his fishy the whole car ride home thinking that it may never live to see our house. But it did. And I put both fish in a small tank that had a divider so they wouldn't kill each other. Mario & Luigi, our new friends. No sooner had I turned my back on that fish tank than Nico had flipped the lid off and was reaching his hand inside. "Oh!" he yelled, "I touched fishy!" and he exploded into a fit of laughter. Telling Nico not to touch the fish and leave the tank alone is, of course, totally useless. I may as well tell my dog not to go outside and leave the door open.
So the fishies' new residence was on top of our refrigerator. I took them down a few times a day for supervised visits, of which Nico spent the entire time trying to touch them. It was during one of these visitations that Luigi met his unfortunate demise. Daniela woke up from her nap and I went to go get her, leaving Nico alone with the fish. I was delayed for much longer than I planned due to a messy diaper change that necesitated a quick bath and outfit change (yes, one of those.) Upon my return, Luigi was pronounced DOA. Nico had put him in a Pez dispenser. I will spare all you animal lover the gory details.
Meanwhile, all of this fish watching seemed to rekindle Max's love of aquariums.
"We should get an aquarium again." he told me.
"Really? I thought you said it was too much work to clean."
"It's not that much work."
"Actually I think you said you didn't have time to clean it. Do you have a lot more time now that we have three kids?" Ok, that was a low blow. I know. But REALLY?
"Yeah, you're right." But, obviously, that's not what he meant. He doesn't think I'm right. He's just done discussing it. The wheel had been set in motion and there is nothing I could do to stop it now.
Predictably, a few days later he returned from Walmart with the boys and a whole new set of fish and a mini aquarium. Not a simple tank like Mario's current home, but one with a filter and a light. A definate upgrade from his last pad.
"This cannot go on top of the refrigerator. Where will this go?" I ask.
"In their bedroom." OMG. Bad. Idea.
"I give these fish less than a week. Nico will kill them all."
"I don't think he'll be able to get up on top of the dresser and get the lid off." Ummm...ok. Denial. It's ok, that's how I deal with a lot of things too.
So Max set up the tank and Mario joined 4 new friends who he immediately started attacking and killing off one by one. Oh, yeah, and Nico immediately figured out how to stack up some storage bins in his room so he could reach the tank, take off the lid, and "play" with the fish.
"Mommy! Mario goes fast."
"Wow. Ok." I say as I surf the internet and ignore my 3 small children.
"Mommy! See! Mario drives a car." Nico exclaimed as he shoved a small toy car in my face. I glanced at it, then did a double take and gasped. Slumped over in the driver's seat was Mario the fish! And he didn't look fast. He looked dead. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt and threw him back into the tank. A few hours later, he was swimming around. A miracle.
When we left to visit my family in Buffalo 2 weeks ago, Mario was the sole survivor of the tank and looked worse than a Civil War vet.
"I can't believe he's not dead" Max marveled.
"Yeah... I know." I replied. I was beginning to like Mario. Mario and me surviving Nico together. He looks like I feel somedays.
So on our way home from the airport today, Max announces that he got more fish while we were gone. Bigger fish.
"But won't Mario and Nico kill them." I asked
"No, Cifi gave me his old aquarium." And so we walked in to find a 30 gallon aquarium set up in the living room. And there was Mario. Who did look very small swimming next to two massive goldfish.
"Nico won't be able to get into this tank." said Max knowingly as Nico busily started empying out storage bins and pushing them to the base of the fish tank.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)