I used to be better at my job

Date: April 4
Mileage: 31
April Mileage: 36
Temperature upon departure: 41

Had one of those long, frustrating, hectic days at work that buzzed by before I ever looked up at the clock. I came home, ate because I felt a little hungry, and headed out on Roadie. At first I put the bike on top of my car, but when I couldn't get out of my driveway due to shin-deep slush, I just saddled up and rode my bike from my house - slush, mud, gaping potholes on all. I should do cyclocross.

I had a great ride, and I was amazed how little traffic there was. There didn't seem to be a car on the road. When I finally completed the climb back home, I found out why - it was 9 p.m. I don't care what people say. I love Daylight Savings Time.

Also, today I found out I won an award from the Alaska Press Club! I wanted to thank Mary for leaving a comment to inform me of this. Turns out I won third place for "Best Layout and Page Design" for a page I designed back in November called "Hanging 10 at 10 degrees" (It's about people who ridiculously attempt a summer sport - surfing - in the middle of winter in Alaska. How could I possibly relate to such a thing?) I was happy about the award, but it's hard not to feel overshadowed by my place on the short podium.

See, when I was a bright-eyed graduate fresh out of college, I secured the feature editor position on a circ.-7,000 community newspaper in Tooele, Utah. What a great job, right? I was but a week on the job when I rolled into work bright and early on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001. When I stepped into the newsroom, it was just a few minutes after 7 a.m. MST - just in time to see something very shocking live on the T.V.

That day, I had a reporting assignment prescheduled at the Deseret Chemical Depot. I was supposed to participate in a mock decontamination drill the DCD had planned, then come back to the office to complete my duties as feature editor. Convinced that World War III was beginning, I still drove out to the Depot because, well, it was my job - a brand new job - and I didn't know what else to do. The problem is, the Deseret Chemical Depot is a chemical weapons incineration plant. They store chemical weapons, massive quantities of mustard gas and other lovely products that could easily wipe out the entire western half of Utah with one swift hit. I arrived that the depot at about 7:30 a.m., just a few minutes before the entire facility went into complete lockdown. No one was allowed to leave, including me.

As the only "media" within reach, the DCD commander dragged me into his office and explained the entire situation to me. He spent over an hour with me alone, waxing eloquent about the futility of terrorism and the stregnth of spirit in America. I scrawled pages and pages of notes, convinced that I, a measly feature editor, was about the write the Tooele Transcript-Bulletin news story of the year.

When the Depot finally cleared me to leave, I drove as fast as I could back to the office, equipped with my Pullizer-worthy notes and action photographs of soldiers barricading the entrances. What a great local tie-in to the news story of the decade, right? When I got back to the office, I excitedly told my editor what had happened. He smiled and told me to give my notes and photos to a news reporter. "You have feature pages to design," he said.

And as I watched the Pentagon burn, the Twin Towers fall, the entire world as I knew it collapse around me, I designed a freak'n feature page. It was about a guy who builds cement flower pots in his backyard. I slapped it together, sent the thing to press, and turned back to watching the TV.

When the 2001 Utah Press Association awards banquet came around the following year, guess which page won first place in the "Best Feature Page" for small newspapers? That's right. The one dated Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

I think that was the day I lost my passion for these awards. Or maybe it's because, with just a week of experience behind me, I created something I'll never be able to top.

Turtle

My coworker took these pictures of Geoff making the transition from foot to bike - that smirk on Geoff's face is his reaction to all the cheering he received because he was the first runner in. I got my triathlon results today. I jogged the 5K in 31 minutes (I expected as much.) I climbed the 7.5K mountain bike leg in 29 minutes (at least that time was in the top half of all competitors, which I think is not bad for racing at my "commuter" speed), and finished the 5K ski in a dismal 41 minutes. There was only one guy in the entire race that skied slower. Judging by the amount of time I spent on the ground, I'm guessing that guy broke something.

This winter has been my first experiment with regimented exercise - training if you will - and I am definitely learning something about my physical inclinations. Geoff has been blessed with the enviable talent of both speed and endless endurance. I, unfortunately, will never have speed. But I do believe that endurance is within my grasp.

See, I lack the two most important qualities for speed - the muscular makeup to achieve it, and the competitive drive to work for it. In all honesty, I raced a sprint triathlon at the same speed I would have if I was running a course five times as long. I waved at runners as the blew by me and made self-depreciating comments to the skiers who stepped over me on the trail. Even without taking the race seriously, my "go-get-em" drive was seriously lacking.

And this is the exact reason why I believe I could be so good at endurance. My body finds this physical threshold of long-term comfort, and it holds me there. There isn't a competitive synapse or hormone burst in me that's willing to break it, risk it for something better. And I could just continue at this level for - well - I'm not even sure how long. I remained at this level for most of the 24 hours it took me to do the Susitna 100. I didn't experience any discomfort beyond general sleeplessness and soggy chill, and my muscles recovered very quickly after the race. As it turns out, my "Sea to Ski" experience was somewhat similar.

I am a turtle. A spectacularly slow turtle. But I do believe that, with the will to do it, I could use my turtle powers to finish just about any distance, within a time that's considered reasonable, and have a great time doing it. All I need to do is work to increase my comfort threshold - for example, adding miles per hour to the the speed I can comfortably bike at. If I can do it for one hour, I can do it for 24. I'm not saying I'm certain of this. But I do hope to test this theory further as the summer season approaches.

Triathlete

Date: April 2
Mileage: About 5
April Mileage: 5
Temperature upon departure: 35

Today I raced the Homer Sea to Ski Triathlon.

Ok. Maybe "raced" is a bit of a stretch. While fighting off wind exhaustion and sore calves from yesterday's "out in the weather" camping marathon, I jogged a 5K, pedaled a pretty decent 7.5K mountain bike climb and - while still spectacularly awful - did manage to get through a 5K cross-country ski without stabbing myself with a ski pole.

But the important thing is, I completed my first triathlon. Which (I think) makes me a triathlete. Never mind my general disdain of running, the fact that climbing is my weakest link as a cyclist, or my stunning inability to stay vertical on a pair of skis. I am Ironwoman.

Geoff and I decided to do it on a lark. It was a sprint event after all, so there wasn't too much worry about not finishing or hobbling to the end. Plus, today was a beautiful day. And, according to current forecasts, it may be the only one until May. It was a good way to spend an afternoon - meeting athletic neighbors, getting some good exercise. I decided from the get-go that I wasn't going to race it hard. We took off from the Mariner Park (the "Sea" part of the name) at 1 p.m. Headwinds were blowing fierce right into our faces, which made it feel much colder than the 35 degrees it was. Still, that didn't stop Geoff from taking off like a flash and finishing first on the running leg with what he guestimates was probably a 18 or 19-minute longish 5K (the results aren't online yet, but I'll be happy if mine was close to 30 minutes.)

Those 10-minute miles placed me solidly in the back third of the pack, so I had the thrilling opportunity to pass a lot of people on the bike leg. We were climbing, climbing, I was riding easy and passing cyclists (OK. So most of them looked suspiciously younger than 16. Still). When we reached Highland Drive, the gravel road was a slushy, icy, unplowed, pothole-filled mess. I was so thrilled. "Finally!" I thought. "This is my event." Forgetting that I had filled my tires to a solid 45 psi, I tore through the slush with reckless abandon, swerving down the rolling hills and pumping hard up. I passed more people. Mud flew in all directions. I flew forward. Dozens disappeared behind me. I was reaching the middle of the pack - I was beating many of the relayers. The race would have been mine - but then it was time to ski.

The ski started out with a steep downhill. I missed the first turn and planted my bad knee in hard ice, literally screaming out in pain because I was unable to hold it in. The trail was icy and hilly - unfortunantly for me, it was mostly downhill. Skier after skier flew by. I limped along. At one downhill, I fell near the top, lost my pole, skidded all the way down, and literally had to crawl back up the hill to retrieve it. Then, after failing to duck-walk up another steep, icy hill, I abandoned my vertical stance again in favor of a few quick frog hops (I learned this technique as a mediocre snowboarder.) There are so many ways to explain why my ski leg was so, so pathetic. And yet, I had fun. The sun was shining. I could hear a bull horn blowing in the distance. What was there to complain about?

I think my final time was about 1:40. I really hope my run/cycle was under an hour, and only the ski was that mind-numbingly awful. The truth is, I didn't keep track of my time, so I don't really know. But I didn't race hard. I feel better now than I did when I woke up this morning (except for my knee, which broke open again on the ice skids). So, all in all, I'd say I came out ahead.

By the way, about that picture - my feet aren't really that big. In my ignorance of European sizes, I bought a pair of ski boots that are really about a men's 10. I wear a women's 8.5. Could that be my problem? I'd like to blame something.

Triathlete, out.