Bike versus car: bills, bills, bills

Whenever most Europeans hear the words "America" and "health care" in one sentence, they'll most likely add "trouble" in their heads. Funnily enough, although we spend a lot of time talking about health care, no one in my circle of friends and family has experienced those three things simultaneously. In fact, most of us are happily (if not expensively) insured, and in those few cases where people aren't, one usually doesn't hear a whole lot about it.

Now that didn't mean that when I lost my bike v. car battle, I didn't worry just a little. After all, although Tricare has been incredibly fair and helpful over the years, this was America, and who knows what kind of fine print Tricare had hidden away somewhere that would preclude health care for people dumb enough to ride their bikes on Georgia roads. And even though husband-dear told me that I would be fine, and Tricare would cover the ambulance ride, the care I got in the ER, and pretty much everything else, I wasn't so sure. I asked around about other people's experiences, and heard all sorts of horror stories. From insurance companies refusing to pay because the expenses were the result of an accident, leaving the person to battle with the other party's auto insurance, to insurance companies promising they would pay, not following through and not telling their customer about this, leaving them to deal with charming collection agencies, to auto insurance companies refusing to reimburse the victim's health insurance, which led to all levels of bureaucratic hell.

But after having followed the required "call your PCM within 24 hours after having received emergency care", I decided there was little I could do about anything, and let it go. No, really, I did. I was too busy pondering the future of my tri-career to worry about pesky little things such as medical bills. I know, I know, thousands of people go bankrupt over medical expenses every year, and I'm more concerned about whether or not I'll be able to beat my 6:26 half-iron record next year.

Anyway, until the EMS bill came in, that is. A grand total of $500 for a ten-minute ride. Since I was expecting an amount closer to a thousand, the amount itself didn't do much for me (except lead to a whole lot of speculation about why Georgia ambulance rides are so cheap). The fact that I was receiving a bill in the first place was, however, a lot more alarming. Although I don't know about other, possibly fancier, health insurance companies, I do know that when you're with Tricare, you don't usually see a bill. Unless someone screwed up, in which case you're in for a lot of lengthy and potentially blood-pressure increasing phone calls. And that was the last thing I was looking forward to. Since the bill had the ominous "You are responsible for making sure your insurance company pays this bill, and will be responsible for any late payments" warning on it, you can imagine that I had immediately determined that Tricare would forget to pay, and I would end up owing the EMS company thousands and thousands of dollars in fees and interest, and would end up going bankrupt.

What can I say? I have a very creative mind.

Anyway, the bill came in on Thursday night, and that week was a particularly busy one for me. So busy, in fact, that I forgot to call the EMS company or Tricare, and when I remembered the bill on Sunday night, I was so worn out, the prospect of bankruptcy and financial ruin just didn't do it for me anymore. Of course, how these things work is that the Tricare notification of payment came in the next day. They had in fact, in a burst of efficiency, paid all of my bills: the EMS, the ER, the pharmacy, everything. It was awesome.

But not as awesome as seeing what Tricare actually paid. For those of you not familiar with Tricare, it's basically a government-run program (which makes the notion of military members opposing universal government-regulated health care a contradiction to say the least, but I digress), which means that if you go to an off-base facility where the patients will be charged, they like to control what something costs. Although they cover almost everything (well, except IVF...yeah, I know, very ironic), that doesn't mean they'll pay full price for it. Your doctor may charge you $100 for a test, but if Tricare will not pay more than $50 for that test (they like to call this the "approved amount"), then that is what the doctor will get. And to prevent doctors from rolling the remaining amount over onto the patient, Tricare also lets the doctor know what they're allowed to charge the patient. So even though I thought that the $500 for my ambulance ride was reasonable, Tricare apparently didn't think so. The amount they paid? $114. Yes, that would be a little over a hundred dollars. Call me strange, but I almost feel bad for the EMS company. With all the military folk and their dependents around here, there's no way they're even close to breaking even with amounts like that.

After about five minutes, however, that sense of guilt disappeared, as I realized that my bills had been paid, and the fight about who would pay for what was off my plate. People have been telling me I should call the driver's auto insurance company and demand a settlement for pain and suffering, but you know what, I'm not going to. Personally, I'm just happy to know that all this has been taken care of. And for all those times during baby-gate that I cussed out Tricare for not paying a single dime? I'm sorry about that Yeah, nope, still not cool with that. Sorry.

Bike versus car: Reality check

Just a few moments ago, I decided to look over my bike and bike shoes for the first time after Sunday's accident. Since the only part of the car to actually hit me was the mirror, I wasn't expecting to find a whole lot. I mean, yes, I had tumbled off my bike afterwards, but a mere fall doesn't do a whole lot to your bike. Trust me, I have ample experience.

So I walked into the garage, looked at my bike, and the first thing I noticed was that the left handlebar was bent. Although I remember the nose of the car streaking right by me, I didn't remember it hitting my bike at all. Could it have really been that close? Really? Husband-dear appears in the garage, and I show him the bike too. He frowns, straightens it out (long live carbon fiber!), and the offers up that it could have happened when the police officer put the bike in his trunk to drop off at our house. Good point. We both like that.
Then I notice that the plastic little cover on top of the right gear shifter is cracked. OK, well, that can be explained by my falling into the grass. And although it can't be fixed, I will do just fine with a little crack to remind me of my guardian angel.
Just as I'm about to congratulate myself on the fact that it all really wasn't so bad, I pick up my bike shoes. And notice that the clip on the left shoe is completely bent forward. Bent at an angle that is obviously not the result of me falling into the grass. An angle that could have only been caused by something hitting it from behind. Something solid, like, oh, I don't know the nose of a car. The nose of the car that apparently hit the clip on my shoe a mere quarter of an inch away from my leg, but not my leg.

For the first time since Sunday my cavalier, "It wasn't a big deal at all, really, I will be fine, so what's the fuss." attitude has cracked just a little. A bent handlebar, fine. A cracked shifter cover, cool. But the car hit the clip on my shoe, not the shoe itself, not my foot, or my leg, and all I have is some mirror-shaped bruises?
Yeah.
Nothing better happen to me in the next ten years, because I obviously just used up all of my luck.

Bike versus car: No class today

There's a statement in my syllabus which goes something like this: "In the event of a class cancellation, an email will be sent out to the address you have on file in bannerweb. Make sure you check that email address regularly". Whenever we walk through the syllabus, on the first day of class, I always add, "But I don't think I've ever had to cancel class before, so don't worry about that," and all my students laugh half-heartedly, while I can read in their eyes that they wish the impossible-tough-as-nails Dr. D would cancel class. Just once. During major events such as homecoming, a general election, or major storms, some of them will even hopefully offer up the possibility of cancelling class, but it just never happens. Rain, high water, free food at the Student Union, landslide victories, and tornado watches, nothing has ever stopped my classes from happening.

If anything has ever proven that we all need to eat our words at times, that right there does, as today is the second day this week I've been unable to get up off the couch, and I do mean literally unable to get up off the couch. And it's not even my fault. Well, by earthly standards anyway.

This past Sunday, I went out for a short bike ride. I didn't want to go on the ride, but as I always do, I went anyway, because lately, if I go with my gut and only do what I want to do, I'd be doing very little indeed. As you might have surmised from my past few blogs, I have not been in the most loving, tolerant, go-with-the-flow kind of moods, which has extended from my work to pretty much everything else in my life. In fact, whenever I've been going on runs, swims, or bike rides, I have used that time to complain, either in my head, or out loud to God. I mean, what has He been thinking these past few months. Why has everything been so hard? Why can't I get a break? And, most importantly, why won't He answer me?

Well, the second lesson of this blog is that you gotta be careful what you wish for, because this past Sunday God not so much spoke to me as He gave me a big old smack on the ass. Literally. Only He used a car to do so. A white Honda, if I remember correctly.

While I was cycling down a parkway near our house, a beautiful straight four-lane highway with wide shoulders and kvetching about the crazy wind, my tired legs (unacceptable! I'd only ran nine miles the day before! C'mon!), the fact that it was Sunday which meant tomorrow was Monday, and goodness knows whatever else, life suddenly slowed down. At first there was the nose of a car that edged up to within an inch of leg. Then there was a deafening crack, and after a moment of utter silence an intense pain in my side told me that crack had been something hitting my body. I remember managing to unclip my feet from my paddles, and tumbling into the grass, where I lay wondering who was screaming. That would have been me. I looked over, and saw a white car screeching to a stop. A woman came running up to me, in tears, her cell phone in her hand, "I'm calling 911, are you OK? I'm a nurse, are you OK?"

For one second, I stopped. Was I OK? Well, obviously, I wasn't dying, I was breathing, my limbs appeared to all be working, and aside from the stinging pain in my side, I was OK. My mind, the same one that talked me into running a half marathon with two injured knees, the one that keeps me going after an eighty hour work week and twenty hours of sleep, started to pipe up, and tell me I could just get up and get home. I mean, yeah, you just got hit by a car, but you're not bleeding, you're not dying, so seriously, man up, and get your ass up off the grass.

You will all be delighted to know that for the first time in a very, very long time, I told my mind to can it. My hip was killing me, I'd been hit by a car going 55 mph, I could tell my bike was bent up, and I was not OK. I was not going to pretend to be superwoman here, lying on the side of the road.

So I told the lady my hip was hurting really badly, and it needed to be checked out. The lady relayed this information to the 911 operator, and as my breathing finally settled down, she started to get more and more upset, "I didn't see you! I was talking to the kids in the car, and I didn't see you. But look at you, how could I have not seen you (I always ride in a neon yellow jersey). I am so sorry, oh God..."
What happened to me then is what happens to me a lot when I'm upset, but people around me are even more upset, I become this really calm person. Not sure where it comes from, or why I can't conjure that woman up more often, but there she was. Patting the woman's hand, I told her I was not dying, and was probably going to be OK. I told her stuff like this just happens, and it's not as though she did it on purpose.

The ambulance showed up at the same time as about four police cars, as well as a fire truck. Apparently, our county doesn't take chances with accidents involving cyclists, and pulls out all the stops. Well, that, and the fact that, according to the EMTs, it had been a slow Sunday afternoon, probably helped to bring everyone out too. Information was taken down, and one police officer was dispatched to notify husband-dear of my accident. And it wasn't until the EMTs pulled the stretcher up to push it into the back of ambulance, when I saw all the traffic backed up on the parkway, and the broken mirror lying on the side of the road, that it hit me, I have just been in a car accident. And I'm still conscious to talk about it. What a miracle.

Anyway, the next two hours were spent in the ER, talking to doctors, nurses, police officers, and assuring the boys (as well as husband-dear) that I really was going to be OK. And I am. Nothing was broken, I was diagnosed with a "severe contusion" (as well as a case of really stinking good luck), and sent home with some wicked pain killers.

So I've spent the past day on the couch, on my right side, occasionally shifting the pillows I use to prop myself up around, and requesting a fresh ice pack. The outline of the mirror that hit me is slowly starting to show up on my behind, and the bulge means I've only been able to wear shorts or sweatpants.

While I think my back will feel good enough to go back to work tomorrow, being forced into two days of bed rest has been somewhat nice. Painful, but nice. Just note that you really do need to be careful what you wish for

Tri, tri, tri...

I debated how to start this post for a little while. I would have preferred to start with a sentence like "I am not one to brag", or "I don't like to pat myself on the back", but as right now this just isn't true, I won't. Since kicking off with something like, "well, it was about freaking time", or "Jeez, finally, already" seems just too un-Dutch for me, I'll just avoid the whole opening sentence drama altogether by blabbering on about how hard it has been to find an appropriate way to start this thing.

Right, noticed how well that worked? Anyway, now that we got that out of the way, I really can't wait to tell you that I finally shook the curse of the eternal fourth place, and placed second in my age category in yesterday's triathlon. Second! Not fourth, not third, but second. Not to be outdone, obviously, husband-dear decided to simply smash the competition and placed first in his age category.

For those of you who have been reading along for a while now, this particular triathlon should be familiar. It was the very first triathlon I ever competed in, back in 2009. Back when it took three bags and two trips to the car to ensure I had all of my gear. Back when the thought of swimming 750m, biking 15 miles, and running a 5k back to back absolutely freaked me out. It was the triathlon we almost didn't do in 2010, and the 2011 triathlon where an army of ants decided to play "occupy Trek" on my bike. In short, it's the triathlon husband-dear and I keep coming back to.

In a way, this triathlon has spoiled me for life. It is one of the largest in the region, a major qualifier, and as a result, it is organized to a t. There are people at every turn and corner in the bike course, enough food at the different aid stations to supply the local homeless shelter with enough food for a week, there are multi-colored buoys in the water to guide you along the way, and they play the best music before and during the race. Having to stop to ask for directions at the half ironman last April, or squint through the fog to find the next buoy (as was the case at the Olympic in May of last year) was something that would have definitely not have happened at "my" triathlon.

But in spite of my adoration for this particular tri, it also put me under the "fourth place forever" curse. This started back in 2010, when I was about two minutes away from ending up on the podium. That same year, the exact same thing happened at a sprint tri I did in August. In 2011, my fourth place felt even more ridiculous, as I was in third place until about thirty feet away from the finish line, when the eventual third place winner ran up beside me. We raced down the chute, and in a finish that would have made the Preakness proud, she won by literally one leg's length. It was awesome. In a very sucky way, but awesome nonetheless.

This year, we weren't going to do this particular triathlon anymore. Having completed a half iron only five weeks ago, and planning another one for the fall, competing in a sprint just didn't seem to fit our schedule or our budget. But then husband-dear bought a tri-bike. And as every one knows, new toys need to be tried tested out. And so we signed up for this triathlon about two weeks ago, and immediately realized that, uhm, yeah, it might be a good idea to dial back those 60 miles rides, and focus on "red lining it" more than pacing oneself.

Now the triathlon almost didn't happen (again). Last week, husband-dear threw his back out, and just when he thought he was all well, he pulled a DixieChick when getting on his new bike, and banged his leg against the sprocket in such a way, he was left with a bump the size of a goose egg on his ankle. But fortunately, husband-dear is made of strong, sinewy stuff (that cares a lot about wasting a $70 entry fee too), and so yesterday morning, we drug ourselves out of bed and got ready.

It was fun to see how I've moved from three bags and back-up shoes, socks, goggles, shirts, turkeypans, extra water bottles, and pants, to one bag and no back-ups. It was also strangely rewarding to see how my personal transition area was the tiniest on the entire rack (with some women bringing their bathmats to lay out their gear), with the least "extra" things on it (no sunscreen, extra handtowel or water bottle for me). And when I was warming up in the lake (the outside temperature was 65F, while the water temperature was 83F - go figure), and two women, their purple caps denoting them as "novices" asked me which buoys signaled the turn-around point again, I realized that no matter how I placed or how well I did, I at least appeared to know what I was doing. And that's worth something too.

But even though my time was exactly the same as it was last year (ten seconds off, I kid you not), I placed. Second. It was a-ma-zing. And sure, I can probably attribute it to the size of the field (there were fewer women than last year), just as I can blame my second place at the half iron in April on the fact that only two women in my age group finished the competition. Knowing me, that's exactly what I'll do come tomorrow. But right now, I'm going to bask in this victory, and go stare at my trophy some more.

Euphopric (ok, and slightly exhausted)

In line with Friday's post, I thought I would stick with the "adjective" theme. And so I am happy to tell you that for the past three days, I have been nothing but euphoric. And exhausted, but euphoric definitely wins out. Remember last Friday, when I wrote that I wasn't sure what I was thinking when I signed up for this half ironman? Well, apparently I did. Know what I was thinking, that is. Because, for the first time in a long, long time, I am proud to report that this was the best race I have done in years. Centuries, perhaps. No injuries, no racing for third and losing, no bugs on my bike, and no getting lost on the swim. Instead, there was a great camaraderie among the competitors, awesome crowd support, a PR that beat my planned finish time by an hour and fifteen minutes, and a second place in my age category.

Now, in all fairness, I should add some caveats (obviously, or I wouldn't be the eeyore I am)

For one, there were only eleven women in this entire race, making the competition in my age group fairly non-existent. And although husband-dear will tell you that's just a sign of how tough the race is, I'm more likely to tell you I got the plaque just by showing up. However, in the spirit of the moment, let's just keep that between you and me.

In addition, the swim was possibly the craziest open water even I have ever been in. First of all, it was in a river. A river, people. Not a calm, warm lake, no, a live, bustling river with some serious white water rapids down stream. So there was no wading into the lake before the start, getting yourself a little wet and gearing up for what was to come, oh no. You got on a floating pontoon, put on your goggles and your bright pink swimcap, and jumped off when the gun shot sounded. Into water that was about 60F, and moving at a fairly rapid pace. I'm not sure my heart has yet figured out what happened. It felt as though we had just jumped off the Titanic into the icy waters of death, or something equally dramatic. It was colder than a witch's tit, there were fish everywhere (not to mention people in boats casting off as though there weren't hundreds of swimmer freestyling by), and, oh, the water was actually so clear, you could see the bottom (and thus the broken bottles, rotter boats, and schools of fish), which I thought was really interesting ("Cool! You get to snorkel and race!"), but apparently really freaked out some of my fellow contestants. Third, the current was amazing. Really, it was. I swam the first .6 miles in 18 minutes, an absolute record for me. But then came the bright yellow turn-around buoy, and suddenly it was as though we were all swimming in one of those endless pools: working our butts off, but not actually getting anywhere. I swam, and swam, and swam, and swam, and somehow the boat dock that marked our finish was just not getting any closer. Then, finally, twenty-four glorious minutes later, the boat dock was within reach, and I tried to stand up. Tried, as the river was still as deep as it had been minutes before. Again, the lake-swimmer that I am, I expected a beach, or at least some sort of sloping bank. But no. And so I imitated every single swimmer before me, swam up to the sloping dock, grappled for a hold on the busted up boat dock, and crawled up on to the rough concrete (let me tell you, those swim-finish pictures are the best. ever).

Then came the bike. 56.1 long miles on a seat narrowed than my foot. The bike was the portion I was least worried about, but apparently, I should have been a little more concerned. Not about my ability, as the bike itself went great, but about the actual course. You see, this race was what us athletes optimistically call the "inaugural" race, which is a lovely euphemism for, "hey, this is the first time we're doing this, so crap might go really wrong. Just FYI" . Practically, it means that the race director probably does not have all the kinks figured out, and, you might end up cycling into Alabama on accident, as one competitor did, because the signs were non-existent. Although I didn't end up on the wrong side of the river (which is really quite the miracle, knowing my tendency to get lost in the "zone", and completely miss things such as signs and waving volunteers), I did end up having to stop at one particular intersection where all the signs had disappeared, and ask a group of onlookers which way all the cyclists had turned, which just makes you look somewhat dorky. Athletic, but dorky. And for those of you who really want all the nasty details, the bike leg did not have any port-a-potties either. None. Imagine hundreds of athletes who have just swallowed about five gallons of river water, who are hell bent on proper hydration, and who will maintain that 17mph that they were aiming for, and you can see what pretty much all of us ended up doing. In case you can't, think Tour de France, downhills, and "you gotta go when you gotta go". Yeah. I felt like such a bada**. A disgusting bada**, but still, a bada**.

So you've swam your heart out, you've finished the bike (and your butt has vowed to NEVER talk to you again), and then all that lies between you and the finish line is a 13.1 mile run. And in this race, the race director has decided to break this down into two loops. At first, this did not sound like a good idea to me at all, but once I started, I realized how great it was. You get to see all the athletes, who are all beyond excited with the idea that they will be done soon, and ready to cheer everyone on with a "Way to go 36!", "Hang in there number 15!", and since you pass by the same aid stations several times, the volunteers get to know your preferences, "Number 36, you can take your hat off, we got your ice ready for you!". It was so encouraging, and completely made up for the fact that some of the people in the city had not gotten the memo about the half iron, and thus spend their time waiting at blocked off intersections, cussing at the runners passing by. You can't win them all.

So I spend 6 hours, 26 minutes, and 8 seconds on my feet on Saturday. And had I not spent five minutes rolling around on the ground in the transition area, trying to get out of a very much stuck wetsuit, I might have even broken the 6 hours and twenty minutes mark. So obviously there will definitely be another half iron.

Now excuse me, I have a plaque to hang on my office wall.

Terrifyingly, confusedly elated

I'm not sure if the phrase "terrifyingly elated" makes any sense to you, but that's pretty much what I feel like right now. Actually, let's add "confused" and "nervous" to that. So "Nervously confused and terrifyingly elated". I did not think it was possible to feel all those things at once, and judging by the rumbling in my stomach, my body isn't very happy about it, but there you have it.

Let's start with the confusion. When I started to write this blog, I was merely terrified, nervous, and elated. But then, lo and behold, the change that Blogger has been threatening to implement is here, and oh-my-god-what-happened-to-my-dashboard. Everything is white, light, spacious, and, worst of all, completely different from how it used to look. It's just like with running shoes - you found a pair you like, and before the year is up, the maker decides to "improve" the "running experience" by "further adapting" to "today's runners' needs". Or whatever. I liked my blog the way it was, and now it's weird, different, and I'll have to relearn my way around it. And honestly, living in the south is confusing enough as it is. I don't want that on my blog. Call me neurotic, a type-A personality, whatever you like, a) you're probably right, and b) it doesn't change the fact that I don't like it.

Alright then, time to put Sheldon Cooper away, and move on to the elation. For a half-empty-gal like myself, just typing that word is odd. But it's true. I have been feeling elated. And for not just one, but two reasons. First of all, yesterday I heard that I had been nominated for and won the "Excellence in teaching" award at work. Apparently, several of my students nominated me, and I won.
I won, people. I never win anything. And now I not only won something, but I won because in spite of all the huffing, the puffing, the eye rolling, the whining, the complaining, my students like what I do. Enough to nominate me. That is enough to make me want to cry. Again. It makes it all worth it.

Second, I also just found out that Jimmie has made the high school marching band. In the south, where high school bands are on a par with football teams, that is a Big. Deal. Everyone who can't play football and isn't a girl (as cheerleading is still very much for girls around here), wants to be on the marching band. And so did Jimmie. He had been practicing his trumpet around the house for weeks, much to the joy of all of especially his four-legged housemates, but apparently all the loud screeches, the endless scales, and the constant hunt for chapstick for his cracked lips was worth it, as this morning the band director emailed us that he was in. And just because I am one proud momma, I'm going to tell you that our high school marching band is one of the best in the state, has won several championships, and marches like no other. I have not looked at the fee schedule, the summer camp schedule, or the weekly training schedule yet, as I'm sure those will take away some of my elation, but for now, I'm happy for Jimmie. For the little kid who used to get picked on so bad he didn't want to ride the bus to school. That same little kid who is now going to march with the best.

And the terrified part? Well, for some reason I don't remember myself, I will be getting up at around 4:30 tomorrow morning (pending negotiations with husband-dear regarding departure times), and together with several hundred other people swim 1.2 miles, bike 56.1 miles, and then finish it all off with a nice 13.1 mile run. Hopefully within eight hours. And it looks like it's going to rain. Terrified doesn't even begin to describe it.

So there you have it, it is possible to be happy, confused, and scared to death all at the same time.

The wrong side of the tracks

I have a thing with railroad tracks. Ever since I was a little girl learning how to ride her bike back in Holland, railroad tracks have scared the bejeezus out of me. There was something about the dark, gleaming iron tracks, with the treacherous gutters on either side just waiting to reach out and grab your tire, that made me want to avoid railroad crossings at all costs. When I was little I would cross railroad tracks at a snail's pace, until one near-crash made me realize that going slow was actually the antithesis of a solution. Over the years, I figured out that speed and angle was the solution, and so Dutch railroad tracks slowly lost their sense of doom for me.

But then I start riding a roadbike. A bicycle with tires no wider than my thumb. A tire that is just dying to get stuck in ruts in the road, lose its balance while crossing into the gutter, and cause a fall and certain death at railroad crossings. Fortunately, Georgia is not exactly awash in railroad crossings, so for the past few years, I have not had to worry about dealing with the slick iron, the uneven pavement, and the gaping gutters. But then we started adding on the miles, and there was simply no avoiding the ancient, poorly maintained, barely used, but oh so quaint railroad crossing south of our town.

The first time I had to cross the uneven, slippery tracks, I squealed and complained the entire road leading up to the crossing, then unclipped my left foot from its pedal, just in case I needed to stop and get off, and slowed down to about 7mph. As the months wore on, I got better at navigating the track, although husband-dear and I never got careless. Never.

That's why whenever we approached the tracks. we always slowed down, made sure we're not right behind each other, and took the tracks at as much of an angle as possible. That's why we always keep our eyes on the road, and keep our conversation to a minimum. That's why we don't draft, and give each other space to swerve or stop if need be.

So one would think that two experiences athletes like ourselves would know to be extra careful on the last long ride before this season's major race. We would know to make sure we took the crossing at an angle, keep our eye on the other person, and stay a couple of feet behind them just in case.

One would think, yes. One would. But obviously, last Saturday, neither husband-dear nor I did that. You know, think. Instead, we were having too much fun riding together, talking, and planning next week's race. And so when we came upon the railroad tracks, we were not at the angle we needed to be. I was right next to husband-dear. Oh, and we were far too close to the side of the road.

You can all imagine what happened next I'm sure, even though I still have a hard time remembering exactly how it happened. Husband-dear's front tire hit the little gutter at the wrong angle, and gut stuck. The bike slide out from underneath husband-dear, who went down with a loud thud and an even louder "Whoa!". Cycling right behind him, the only thing I could do to avoid hitting his bicycle was swerve to the right, in the direction of the railroad tracks. My front tire hit the gutter as well, my bike slid out from other me, and with an apparently amazing display of acrobatics, my right foot unclipped, my right leg swung up, and as my bike came down, my body twisted counter-clockwise, and swinging out my right arm, I was able to break my fall ever with a loud thud on the gravelly pavement.

Immediate triage revealed bent handlebars (my bike), a broken gear line (husband-dear's bike), a ripped pair of bike shorts (husband-dear), a chafed, bloody arm (me), a chafed, bloody hip (husband-dear), a bruised knee (both of us), and bruised thigh (me). And as so typical to the south, a passing runner with his dog stopped to see if he could help. And when he realized we were bruised, bloody, but fine, he, in good southern fashion too, stayed and chatted. About an upcoming race. Endlessly. 

So does this mean we're not racing on Satuday? Of course not. I might look, to quote one of my students today, as though I've been in a knife fight, and our local bike store owner might have once again been able to add to his retirement fund, but we. are. racing.

We just better check out the bike course to make sure there are no railroad tracks we need to cross. Because I will get off and walk.
For real.

Skinning the cat

Husband-dear is not one to use, or for that matter, like, any of the sayings that the Dutch are so fond of. Whenever I start a sentence with "Well, you know, in Dutch we have a saying that..." I can just feel him working his best to not start rolling his eyes. He's more the "tell it like it is" type, so all these sayings about trees, birds, big legs and wealth, and wells are just for him. And in case you're worried, no, he dislikes American sayings just as much. You will never even catch him use a word such as "doohickey", or "thingie" - husband-dear will in all cases think before he speaks, and so he never has to struggle for a word. That must be nice.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to get to is that during the past few months, I finally, after all those years, got husband-dear to get off his anti-saying high horse (sorry honey), and use a saying. Just one, the same one that he's been using over and over, but it's a start. Honestly, I don't even think he's aware of it (yet).

Lately, he's been telling that I have been "skinning the cat my own way". Yep, the very first American saying my husband ever uses, and he picks one that involves torturing fuzzy little animals with really big eyes and fluffy tails. Anyway, I digress. The question is, of course, why would my husband be telling me that I need to/am/will skin(ning) the cat my own way?

Well, the answer is that I've been doing something that I've been keeping a secret from pretty much everyone.
I have spent the past four months training for a half ironman.

In case you just went, "A what?", a half ironman is an insane sporting event created for die-hard, slightly derailed athletes who are not yet ready to completely sacrifice their lives and participate in a "real" ironman, and therefore sign up for a race that "only" entails a 1.2 mile swim, a 56.1 mile bike, and a 13.1 mile run. And the reason I haven't told anyone is because I was worried I wasn't going to make it through all my training with my knees and my legs and my feet, and didn't want to look some idiot who announces something to the world and then doesn't go through with it. Since the race is a week from tomorrow, I think my knees, legs, and feet will be OK (but let's all knock on wood right now anyway. Thanks).

So where does this poor furless cat come in? Well, most half-iron training schedules involve things like swimming three times a week, biking two hours twice a week, running an hour four times a week, and other things that assume that the athlete has a normal job, at a normal commuting distance. The idea is to spread out the heavy workouts as much as possible, so you don't overtrain and end up injured. Great idea. If you have a normal job and a normal commute. As you all know, I have neither. My days usually start at 5am, and if I'm home by 6:30pm and have only a little work to do, it's been a great day. So there is just no way I can come home, bike for two hours, and retain my sanity. Subsequently, husband-dear and I came up with an alternative, a very alternative, training schedule. One that involved scheduling minor workouts throughout the week, and three heavy workouts back to back on Fri-Sat-Sun (a swim, bike, and bike-run, if you want to know), which according to all serious half-iron training plans is an absolute no-no, but which, according to husband-dear would actually work out beautifully ("since you''ll be exhausted start the run portion of the tri, it's great that you're training yourself to run on Sundays, when you're tired and hurting from the other two workouts"). Oh, and it worked out beautifully, if you discount the fact that some Sundays I was so tired, I could barely stand up straight. And that training schedule, that was, according to husband-dear, where I "skinned the cat my way".


So anytime I would read an article or a blog about the ideal training program for a half-iron, and talk to husband-dear how there was NO way I could do a half-iron since my schedule was NOTHING like theirs, and I was so obviously going to COMPLETELY fail at this, husband-dear would just remind me that I was getting my training in, I was, well, skinning that furry little four-legged creature differently from everyone else.

Obviously, we won't know if this whole alternative skinning technique was effective at all until next week Saturday. So until then, I'll just keep mistreating this poor kitten my way, and we'll see how it turns out.

Thinism

So we've been all children here, and we probably all remember our moms starting a sentence with something like, "I don't want you going out so late at night..." that somehow ended with us in a wreck, pregnant, destitute, or on drugs (or perhaps all four at the same time). Or perhaps it was just my mom's vivid imagination. At any rate, I think that everyone is familiar with the notion of sliding values, you know, the exact thing your mom was worrying about. If you start going out late, you will start running with the wrong crowd, doing what they're doing, and before you know it, you'll think earning your living by holding up a cardboard sign at the entrance to the railway station is perfectly acceptable.

Just last month, I realized that living in the south has somewhat been like that, at least as far as weight issues are concerned. And I know I'm probably going to offend scores of readers with this, so if you are not feeling your body today, please go here, here, or here. I love you and you're awesome no matter your size, but I am going to talk about weight today.
Sorry.
You see, over the past years, I have had to come to the conclusion that southerners appear to be far more likely to be overweight than any other part of the country. Thank goodness, my observations have been backed up various scientific studies, so please don't yell at me for being..uhm..I believe the word is "size-ist".

Anyway, the fact of the matter of is that besides our own town, which is populated mainly by military folk, who by virtue of their career, have to stay in shape, most other places are populated by people who could lose a pound or two. Or ten. Or fifty. And my point is not that they should, or shouldn't. Honestly, besides worrying about potential health issues, I am really fine with whatever weight you're OK with. I'm not going to tell you to lose weight, because I just don't care. My point is that it's so easy to take this as the norm, and forget what you once thought was "normal" body weight.

I remember when I first ventured out to my current job, I was taken aback by the number of large people. It appeared that the majority of people on and off campus had weight issues. But what's interesting is that I've stopped noticing. Freshmen with bellies hanging over their jeans don't make me take notice anymore. Young women who struggle to walk up stairs because it's almost impossible for them to bend their knees are just another coworker, and men who can use their stomachs to rest their arms while sitting down are just comfortable. It's normal to see students eat an egg biscuit for breakfast every morning. And chic-fil-a for lunch every day is nothing to make you sit up either. You clean your plate, and if it's fried it's good.

In fact, weight issues are apparently so commonly accepted down here, that I have had some really interesting conversations in the past few years. I've had students ask me if I've "always been this skinny", I've had people at meals tell me I need to eat more as I obviously need to fatten up, and people have asked husband-dear, after he lost about three pounds (of unnecessary belly weight), if he was doing OK, or if he needed to talk, since he'd lost some weight, which can obviously only be a sign of something baahaahaad. But last week I had a  conversation with someone in the athletics department no less, that took the cake.

We were talking about a university-wide blood drive, and I asked if I could donate blood, as I have lived in Europe for more than 6 months.
"Sure, you're fine. "The man looked me up and down, "I just don't know if they'll let you donate because you're so thin."
"I'm sorry?"
"You have to weigh at least 108 lbs to be allowed to donate."
"Uhm, well, trust me, I do."
"Well, they may not let you anyway, because you just don't look like you could handle it."
"What?! Are you serious? I could outrun all of them."
"Yeah, " at least he started to laugh, "I know. But still, they want to make sure you're healthy."

Healthy?
Look, people, let's do the numbers here. My BMI is 19. According to the Department of Health and Human Services, that is considered a normal body weight.  My cholesterol is in the normal range. My blood pressure is something like 110 over 70. I am allowed to consume 1600 calories a day to maintain my normal body weight. If I burn more by exercising, I eat more. On a long bike day, I can consume up to 3000 calories a day, and I do. Trust me. I run, I bike, I swim. I eat. Lots and lots. Really. But because I exercise, it doesn't go anywhere. I get my daily vitamins, and if I don't, I take a supplement. I eat proteins, fat, and carbohydrates. I probably don't drink enough water, but I try to stay away from regular sodas. I may not have any belly to rest my arms on, but let's talk about that caboose I'm carrying around with me. You may not like me, but you may not call me unhealthy. Or skinny. As I am neither. I am healthy.

So I've made a pact - I'm not going to take it anymore. From now on, if anyone tells me I need to eat more because I'm skinny, I'm going to tell them that I am exactly where I need to be for my height and weight. If anyone asks me if I've always been this skinny, I'm going to tell that I'm not skinny, I am normal. And if they keep on pestering me, I'm going to tell them they're a bunch of thinists.

Take that.

Now excuse me while I help myself to a chocolate martini.

Lessons learned...

...from the Savannah Rock 'n roll 1/2 marathon:

1. If in doubt (or pain), race anyway. Whether it's your hips, your back, your knees, just go. You may not PR like you did on the training run three weeks earlier, but you will still run a respectable time (1:57:35), assuming you get a massage earlier in the week and take plenty of ibuprofen.

2. Getting anywhere early is a really good thing. Especially if there are approximately 17000 runners who all need to get from the Savannah mall to the start line in about 100 buses, there are no signs pointing you to said buses, and the mall parking lot is about the size of a small country.

3. Always bring a map. Even if you're taking said bus to the start line. Your busdriver may be from Jacksonville, Florida, have arrived just a few hours earlier, and have no clue where she's going, thus taking you on an interesting, yet nerve-wracking, hour-long tour of downtown Savannah. A map could have solved a lot of people a lot of heartache.

4. A line in front of a port-a-pottie always takes longer than you think. So don't pick a port-a-pottie at corral 20 when you need to start from corral 5. You may have time to "go" one last time, but this will also entail a mile-long warm-up run during which you will need to remove your warm-up pants, warm-up shirt, and get your ITB straps on, in order to make it into your corral on time.

5. In spite of all the logistical headaches involved in a huge race, the adrenaline rush you get from tens of thousands of spectators lining the streets is totally worth it.

6. Railroad tracks are The Devil.

7. In spite of what everyone said, 60F and 12mph winds are cold. Very cold. Wearing your thermoshirt under your bright-pink running jersey was possibly the best decision of your life. Or at least on a par with marrying husband-dear. 

7. Middle school cheerleading squads rock. The. World. Yes, you might be running 13.1/26.2 miles, but they're out there before you are, in the cold, in tiny skirts and tops, cheering for people they don't even know. And they don't get a medal at the end either.

8. Mile 10, 11, and 12 suck. Always. Be prepared.

9. Running the last mile to Eminem's "lose yourself" is the Best Thing Ever. Nothing like someone telling you you get one shot, and you better not miss that chance, to push your mile pace up to a 6:53.

10. When you finish, you raise your hands in the air and you thank your respective God(s) for helping you survive without gut-wrenching pain

11. Always, always, always pack a lot more after-race clothes in your drop bag than you think you will need. Those rocking-awesome "space blankets" that they tie around you at the end of the race do nothing for your hands, legs, neck, and face. You may look awesome, but you will be cold.

12. Whenever there's an hour-long line, curling around the entire park and the famous Savannah fountain, for the shuttles to get back to the mall parking lot, totally believe your friend when he calls you to tell you there is another set of buses waiting two blocks over. Walk over there in complete innocence, join the people standing by the buses, get on the next bus that pulls around the corner, all the while wondering why on earth not more people from that hellishly-long line know about this. Then, as you drive down the street, and you see the same hellishly long line feeding on to the street you just walked over to, don't feel bad when you realize you just cut in line. You did just run a really long way, after all.

13. Eats lots of greasy food afterwards. You earned it.

14. Plan your next race.

Hallowe...oh never mind

I was going to get all excited about Halloween this year, and then I realized it was going to fall on a Monday. A Monday people! I don't care what people say, nothing is as much fun as it could be when it falls on a Monday. Even Christmas is marred by that "oh jeez, we need to get back to work again" cloud of darkness, whenever it happens to fall on a Monday. Therefore I propose that we a) make Halloween a federal holiday, allowing poor workerbees like myself an entire day to carve pumpkins, drink pumpkin spiced lattes, and engage in other pumpkin-related activities, before we have to deal with hordes and hordes of polyester-clad children who are high on sugar, and b) always hold in the last Friday in October.

Why my scrooge-like attitude towards Halloween, you ask? It really has nothing to do with Halloween, really. This weekend, while on my last pre-half-marathon run, my body decided it was having no! more! of! this! running! thing! and hence I was forced to walk home after five miles. I wish I could tell you what is wrong with me, but I can't. I'm sure it has something to do with my ever-irritable ITB, but since the pain now includes my hip, and radiates all the way up into my lower back, who knows.

I would also love to tell you I dealt with it in a graceful manner. But, alas, I didn't. Instead of realizing I would not be PRing in next week's race and moving on, I came home in tears, cried on husband-dears shoulder, and whilst sitting in my ice bath, threw all the rubber duckies on the side of tub across the bathroom.

(On a side note; true love is when your better half walks in, sees the duckies lying across the floor, and asks you, "Would you like me to pick those up so you can throw them again?")

So do I want to hand out candy to a bunch of kids tonight? Of course not. I'd much rather sit on the couch, pout, and think of ways to convince the physical therapist tomorrow that I really need lots of high-end painkillers. I want to call Mary (she of the running store, who since moved to Italy), who went through the same thing with a marathon last year, and commiserate. I want to whine and complain about how totally unfair this is, and eat all the Halloween candy we bought myself.

But since the girls next door already stopped by yesterday to tell me they were going to dress up as cheerleaders (lest we don't recognize them), and the neighbor on the other side dropped off a bag of candy for us to give to hear younger son who is deathly allergic to anything peanutty, I guess I'll participate in this year's Halloween anyway. Perhaps I'll find an old overcoat, top-hat, and cane,  pretend to be Ebenezier Scrooge, and nag at all the children.

Huh.
That's actually not a bad idea at all.

Now excuse me while I go do some stretches...

Tri-bugs

Getting ready for a race just isn't what it used to be. When husband-dear and I just ran road races, all we did the night before was eat our tri-pasta (although back then it still went by the name of "pasta salad"), and go to bed on time. Once I (and later, we) started doing triathlons all that changed. Now we have journals, check lists, pre-race, post-race, and TA (transition area) bags, as well as a car full of supplies "just in case". I'm serious.

I mean, think about. A triathlon includes swimming, biking, and running, which means you not only need equipment for all three events, you also need enough fluids and nutrition to keep you going for the entire race. Last weekend, when both husband-dear and I raced, I counted the number of water bottles I ended up loading into the dishwasher afterwards: twelve. Yes, people, we went through six waterbottles each. Granted, that included pre-race hydration, post-race recovery drinks, the prerequisite water bottle to get the sand off your feet from the beach, as well as our race bottles, but still. Twelve bottles. Oh, and a camelbak. We were hydrated up the wazoo.

And although I won't bore you with my entire equipment checklist, let's just say that includes such items as: goggles (can't see without them), lube (to stop the wetsuit from chafing your skin, nothing kinky, get your mind out of the gutter), a spare everything, helmet, biking shoes, running shoes, a towel ( the only way to claim your little 1x1' area in the transition area), and a spray-on sunscreen. And as of this past Saturday, I'm going to have to add bugspray to that list.

Yes, bugspray.

Just when you thought you had seen it all as far as bugs went (cockroaches the size of your palm, termites dying to chew up your home, and ciccadas loud enough to wake the dead), there was yet another gigantic eeuw! to add to my list.

You see, this particular race required its participants to "pre-rack" their bicycles, i.e., put their bikes inside the transition area (on a, you guessed it, rack) the night before the race. And so husband-dear and I trekked out the event area, and dutifully numbered and racked our bikes the afternoon before the race. On a side note, as most tri-bikes cost the equivalent of a small car, I always find this an interesting practice. Even more so since no one ever complains. It helps, I suppose, that the event has a night guard on duty, and that no one, well except you all now, knows that the aggregate value of the six hundred or so bikes out there could really help the US get rid of some of its deficit.

And in case you wondered, no, husband-dear and I don't ride tri-bikes. I'm Dutch, after all.

Anyway, when we showed up the next morning, not only was I delighted to find my bicycle to still be there, I was also thrilled to find my bike covered in lines of tiny little ants. Yes, ants. A closer inspection revealed them to be the harmless black variety, which led to a minor celebration on my part, as I can't imagine riding a race on a bike covered in fire ants (actually I can. It would probably be my fastest race to date). After that small victory, however, I was left to wonder a) how these ants got here (we were next to a beach, after all, not the most logical site for ant hills), b) why they had crawled all over MY bike, ignoring the two $5k bikes next to mine, and c) if they would just stay on the bike while I rode it, crawling all over me as well. I could just imagine what the feel of tiny little ants crawling into my tri top and stampeding across my back would do to my time (or race pictures for that matter).

The ants appeared unperturbed as I inflated my tires, checked my brakes, and taped three gels to the seat post. They also didn't appear to care much about the two waterbottles that appeared out of nowhere either.

When husband-dear appeared to borrow the pump, he noticed the ants too, "Well," he said practically, "Looks like you'll have to add bug spray to your check list from now on."
"Apparently." I was not amused,
"Or get a termite protection plan for your bike."

Indeed.

The best part of the whole ant-experience (and yes, they did disappear once I started riding), was when we walked down to the beach for the start of the race and I caught the following conversation between a toddler and her mother:
"Mommy! There's ants in the sand! There's ants all over the sand!"
"It's OK, they're not going to hurt you."
"But I don't like ants! And there shouldn't be any ants on the beach!"
"Oh honey, this is Georgia, there are ants everywhere."

Very true.

Recipe for success, sometimes: Tri-Pasta

Tomorrow will be our second triathlon of the season, and I was preparing our customary pre-race dinner just now, I realized that that is one thing I've never shared with anyone: our absolutely delicious Tri-Pasta.

I first made this dish when I was a poor college student on a hot summer evening who realized she needed some veggies. Never in all of my library-computer-lab-filled days would I have imagined that this recipe would become the one and only thing my husband (husband? What husband? Me? Marry? Hah!) would eat prior to major races (I'm sorry? Did you just say races? As in sporting events? Really? Hah!). Yeah, I'm telling you, I had no idea.

Anyway, for all of you dying for a cold, yet healthy dish during these three-digit-days, or for those of you who have been on the lookout for a perfect pre-race meal, here is my first (and probably only) blog-recipe:

Ingredients:
A box of tri-colored pasta (Just 'cause it looks prettier. You can go all health and get whole wheat pasta too, but prior to a race, we like to carboload. A lot).
A cucumber (English or American doesn't matter)
Two/three tomatoes
A block of feta cheese
Can of whole corn
Bacon
Oil
Vinegar
Various herbs and spices
A large bowl (with lid preferably).

Boil the pasta, strain it and then let it cool off. Make sure that if you put it in the fridge, you cover it, or else it will harden too much.
Bake the bacon (or if you're like me, and you tend to burn regular bacon, buy a microwave-ready package and stick in the microwave).
Let the bacon cool and then cut it into tiny squares, then put it in the bowl.
Strain the corn and put about 3/4 of a 16oz (448gr) can in the bowl as well
Cut up the cucumber into very small pieces. You can leave the rind on or not, it's entirely up to you. If you must know, however, we leave it on, 'cause husband-dear thinks it's healthier. And he's probably right. Put cucumber in bowl.
Cut up the tomato into (you guessed it) small pieces. Try to include only the "meaty" part, since if you include a lot of the gooey (for lack of a better word) tomato parts, it's going to leak all over everything else. Add tomato to bowl.
Cut up the feta into squares, or triangles, or whatever shape works for you. It's hard to tell you how much to use; we buy an 8 oz block (227gr) and use about 2/3 of it. The feta goes in the bowl too.

Mix up all the ingredients. This is the point where you check if each ingredient is equally "represented" so to speak. You don't want a whole lot of corn and very little cucumber, for instance (can you tell I'm not really an exact science cook?).

Add the pasta. Mix the whole thing up again.

This is when it's time to make the dressing, and get a little creative (yes, even more). I just add 2 parts of olive oil, 1 part vinegar, and then mix in salt, pepper, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, basil, parsley, oregano, dill weed, and a hint of sugar. However, husband-dear has been known to just add Balsamic vinaigrette, and that works too.

Add the dressing to the salad, and you have got yourself one great example of a pre-race meal. And please don't feel like you have to call it tri-pasta either. We just started calling it that last year (husband-dear thought it was the funniest thing, as we eat it before tri's, and use tri-pasta. Yes, I married a dork. But a loveable one).

Anyway - Enjoy!