The race that almost wasn't, was, then was again

I'm not big on writing race reports, as the discussions of finished races are called in the world of athletics. I'm pretty sure none of my readers care about whether or not I use caffeinated or non-caffeinated gels during the bike portion, and that you all can also live without tales of painful chafing and how to get out of a tri-top. I keep a race journal I keep where I write about things like that, so I'll remember to wear lube, bring extra socks, and not wear my white, leaky goggles. But I keep race tales to a minimum on this blog. 

As a result of that, I completely forgot to tell you all about my last triathlon of the 2012 season. It was what you might call an unintentional race in that I had no intention of doing it. I had done the race twice before, in 2009 and 2010, and since I wasn't overtly impressed I didn't feel the need to do it again. I had also just come back from a five-week study abroad program in China, one you might remember as being particularly challenging (read bug-filled), and so doing a race was the last thing on my mind. But then husband-dear signed up to support a friend who was doing his first tri, and since I couldn't imagine just standing by the sidelines doing nothing (heaven forbid), I signed up too. 

Race morning started early (normal), dark (also normal), and with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder (not normal). But since none of the race officials said anything, and us athletes sure as heck weren't going to suggest shortening or, heaven forbid, canceling our race, we continued setting up. Keeping an eye on the flashes on the other side of the lake and using ample plastic bags as rain was threatening to join the party. We were all assembled on the beach, eyeing the wavy lake in fear, when the sherrif himself suddenly made an apprarance. The smokey-the-bear-hat-wearing, vastly overweight middle-aged man looked extremely uncomfortable walking in between the scantily clad triathletes, and I would have laughed had I not feared what was bound to come. And indeed, a few minutes later the race official announced that the sheriff's department had ordered the race delayed for thirty minutes due to the thunderstorm. And with that announcement came the rains. 

So there you are, dressed in a skimpy tri top, tri pants, and a swim cap while the thundering is roaring on the other side of the lake, the rain is beating down and there is no place to go but wait on that little beach. And wait. And get really cold. And grumble at the sheriff's department, as the thunder is obviously miles away and all they're accomplishing with the delay is to ensure everyone is really wet, cold, and at this point suffering from a seriously derailed race nutrition plan. 

But the thirty minutes passed, and although the thunder was still rumbling on the other side of the lake, and the rain was still beating down, the race was given the go ahead. And so off we went. Into the choppiest, wildest water I have ever had the pleasure of racing, only to be followed by the scariest bike portion ever. And that is not a hyperbole, people. The hairpin turns are enough to give you pause on a dry and sunny day, add a boatload of water to the mix and the resulting slick pavement and you have one hell of a ride, as evidenced by the numerous crashes I witnessed along the way. (And may the record state that all the crashees were young guys without shirts on, which leads me to conclude that exposing one's nipples to fresh morning air is a prelude to all kinds of craziness, as well as a less than thoughtful attitude as I don't think I need to describe the painful, bloody chafing that was clearly visible even when traveling at 19mph). 

So by the time I got to the run, I wasn't expecting much as far as time went. You can imagine my surprise when I realized I was minutes ahead of plan. Thanks to the rain, the run, usually a beast as it leads through open fields without a hint of shade, was truly exemplary, and I finished seven minutes faster than my previous finish at this race. And to top it all off, this was enough to land me first place in my age category. To say I was amazed was an understatement. And elated. And slightly smug: three races, two second places, one first. Who would have expected that from the clumsy girl who was always picked last in PE. 

Fast forward a year later, and humble pie had replaced the smugness. A strained adductor and a broken toe had brought my half iron training to a screeching halt, and when husband-dear signed up for this race to support another friend, I signed up because I knew that standing on the sidelines would send my eternally precarious mental equilibrium over the edge, even though I also knew I would have to steel myself for the fact that I was going to suck. At least compared to my 2012 result. But anything was better than not racing, or at least so I told myself. And kept telling myself over the next few weeks. As a perfectionist whose motto 'do it right or don't do it at all', this attitude flew directly into the face of everything I had always told myself. I have always wanted to do better, to be better, since as far as I'm concerned, standing still is the same as going backwards. Improvement is the only way forward- go team DC! (insert sarcastic remark here). But with physical therapy still in full swing, and a toe still in recovery, I knew that this time around I was just going to have to give myself participation credit. There was no way I was going to improve on last year's amazing time, and that had to be good enough. It's what I told myself on my runs, my long bike rides, my swims. It's what I told everyone who asked. Whatever I did was going to be good enough, and I didn't like it, but that's how it was going to be. 

The morning of the race, the hottest dat of the summer to date, I looked out at the smooth-as-glass lake and felt something I had not associated with triathlons for years: nerves. Nerves because I was going to do something I hadn't done in years: just race. Not for a time or a place, but just to finish. And it was a scary prospect. So I prayed that I would at least be an inspiration to those around me, many of whom were novices, and that I would just have fun. 

Now I don't know about the inspiration, but I sure had fun. I joked with the other ladies about the swim before the start, yelled encouragement at people on the bike, apologized for being a doofus in taking those hairpin turns, and giggled when one man told me 'aw, that's alright sugar.' I went into the run refusing to do the math on my pace in order to finish at a certain time, and instead called out to a girl I recognized from last year, and chatted with a man who knew both my dean and the university president. And finished. 

Ten seconds slower than last year. 

For the longest time I refused to check the results board. As I told husband- dear, I had given my all, and that was good enough. Finally, finally, after catching up with all the women I had spoken with during the race, and exchanging many sweaty, salty hugs, I made my way over to the board, and apparently whatever I did was also good enough for another first place. 

Sometimes life is not just good, but really good. 

Mellow yellow

I was going to start this post with a statement like, "And for the 7th year in a row, I present to you, the start of the academic year", when I realized I wasn't even sure if this was my 7th or 8th time starting yet another fall term. I'm certain I could do the math, had my brain not already been reduced to its usual middle-of-term state of muddledness. It took only a week this year, and that has got to be a record of some sort. 

So, yes, the era of no-to-do lists and no solid commitments has once again come to a screeching halt, and last week Monday, I pulled on long slacks and a dress shirt, prepared my lunch, and lamented that I couldn't believe summer was over already, only to drive off on my 90-mile drive one more time. The attic will not be cleaned until Christmas, my pictures won't get sorted until Thanksgiving, and I will just have to bribe one of the boys to get fridge cleaned. 

The last three weeks of summer were absolutely awesome. My decision to not do anything I didn't feel like worked out so well, I may make that attitude a staple of all of my breaks. Our skirtboards may never get repainted, and I doubt that I would ever wash our windows again, but who needs a clean, painted house when you can have peace of mind instead? (Yes, and we all know that that is not quite how it works for me, but the thought is so nice, people, really, it is). I did miss blogging (yes, really), but I was just too busy swimming, reading, and sleeping, to get around to it. I do think my spontaneous, unannounced, and unilateral decision to unplug scared some of my overseas family members (Hi mom!), but man, it was awesome. I may really need to rethink this working stepmom thing I got going here. Who needs fulfillment from a career when you can have entire days to yourself?

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that life has been pretty good down south. I think I may have finally figured out how to keep myself happy and sane out here in dixieland. If I had known that all it would have taken was a pool and a stern email from husband-dear telling me I had earned the right to do nothing, I would have arranged for that to happen years ago. 

As the students are trickling back in, and I start teaching next week, I know you all expect me start a wordy lament about teaching schedules and course content, but with my 50% grant-based release time still firmly in place, I can't even produce the tiniest of rants. I'm actually pretty happy about all the stuff going on this semester. 

I know. I'm sorry. 

On an upnote, however, advisement starts tomorrow, and I'm confident that will quickly undermine my mellowed-out state of happiness. So no worries, Dr. Gripe-and-Complain will probably be back soon. 

Until then, I'll be over there in the corner, smiling at everyone. 

The to-do list

While in past summers, it was safe to say I was pretty much married to my to-do list, this summer had been different. It's not that I don't have a to do list, because I do. I have an entire spiral notebook dedicated to my to-do lists, with separate sections for daily and long-term to-do lists. It has checkboxes, different shapes and colors mini-post-its, a place to keep my pen, and is basically a geek walhalla in between two covers. 

But even though it's full of things I decided I must do before heading back to work (paint Ozziez's room! Sort through pictures! Clean out attic!), I have not touched it since I came back from Ireland, three weeks ago. I've carried it around with me, and it's currently sitting on the coffeetable, staring at me in reproach, but I have simply refused to open it and look at all the things I should have done, should be doing right now, and need to do in the next three weeks. 

This has created an interesting situation. For one thing, I keep forgetting to do things. Like run to the bank to get my hard drives from our lock box, schedule the pool guys to come and paint our deck, and cleaning out the fridge. It also means that when I get around to doing things that I remember from my to-do list, such as sorting through my pictures from Christmas, I do it when I feel like it, and quit when that feeling goes away. I feel like the main character from Office Space, when he's just come out of a hypnosis, doesn't go into work for four days, and when he does, and his boss tells him he's been missing a lot work, he replies with, "Well, I haven't actually been missing it."  Yes, I am definitely less organized (for instance, because I have yet to finish moving certain teaching materials to another computer, on account of I quit when I didn't feel like doing it anymore, my desk is covered in a jumbled combination of used and empty CDs), but I also find that I just don't care. Whatever I'm forgetting is, and this is a shocking revelation to me, really not that important. The fridge, for one, is just not disgusting enough for me to get worked up about it. And if something is important enough (such as scheduling our termite inspection), I am more than capable of remembering. Even over a long weekend. 

So yeah, I'm not sure what to make of this new situation yet. You see, it really means I, like the guy from Office Space, only do what I feel like, unencumbered by to-do lists. So I haven't checked my email as regularly as I should have, not responded to emails from dear friends, not updated my Facebook page in weeks, and we all know how much my blogging skills have fallen to the wayside. Yet I know that those are things I usually like to do. Apparently just not right now. 

However, in line with my current laissez-faire attitude I'm going to cut myself some slack. The 2012-2013 academic year was quite the doozy, with promotion and tenure, a grant, conferences, publications, and it would seem that I just need a break. Between you and me, I honestly kind of like the relaxed me. And I'm sure that once August 5 rolls around, I will be wound tighter than a slinky on espresso. So for now, if I don't respond to your emails, phone calls, or messages, it's not because I don't want to. I just don't right now.

Driemaal..

..is scheesprecht.

Na het verrassende succes van de gevulde koeken van vorige maand was ik overtuigd dat alle Nederlandse lekkernijen vanaf nu binnen handbereik waren. Brinta, roze koeken, spekkoek, erwtensoep, de Amerikaanse recepten zijn allemaal te vinden The Dutch Table, en dus was het een kwestie van tijd maken en de juiste ingedrienten kopen, voordat al die versnaperingen ook in mijn pantry te vinden waren. 

Mijn eerste, of nou ja tweede, success story zou eierkoeken worden. Hoe moeilijk kon een koek die voornamelijk uit eieren bestaat nou zijn? 

Nou, erg moeilijk. 

Het begon met het recept van The Dutch Table. De eierkoeken, die tot mijn grote verbazing corn starch bevatten ( een middel waarmee je sauzen dikker maakt), waren groot en dik, mooi goudkleurig, maar ook hard en redelijk smakeloos. Manlief en de jongens vonden ze heerlijk met jam of honing, maar laten we wel wezen, een eierkoek behoort men met honing noch met jam te eten. 

En dus werd het tijd voor het zwaarder geschut: mijn oom Jan (die voor de verandering ook eens echt Jan heet). Jan is namelijk professioneel brood en banketbakker. Zo iemand die om middernacht naar zijn werk gaat zodat wij allemaal vers tijgerbrood, sesambolletjes, en slagroompunten kunnen kopen. Die na bijna veertig jaar dienst de favoriete patient van zijn tandarts is, en niet omdat hij zoveel snoept, maar omdat suiker in een bakkerij letterlijk in de lucht zit, en hij dat decennia lang al aan het inademen is.  Iemand wiens baan een duidelijk nuttige bijdrage aan de samenleving levert (terwijl dat bij mijn baan nog maar te zien valt). Na een recept dat maar liefst 75 eierkoeken zou produceren afgewezen te hebben als ietwat onrealistisch, kwam Jan met een simpel, klein recept aan. Eieren, bloem ('dat is flour voor jou'), suiker, citroenschil en bakpoeder ('en dat is baking soda voor jou'). Het leek reuze makkelijk. En dat was het ook. En de koeken zagen er prachtig uit. Alleen smaakten ze werkelijk voor geen meter. Niet zoet genoeg, en met een vreemde vissige bijsmaak. 

U begrijpt, dit was het. Het teken dat opegeven geen optie was. It was on. Challenge accepted. In it to win it. 

En zo ging ik op zoek naar een Amerikaans recept. Van een Amerikaanse kok. En kwam na veel wikken en wegen bij een recept uit dat wel wat leek. Zo was er geen corn starch nodig. Maar wel baking soda. En baking powder. En als semi-wannabe-bakker weet ik dat je die combinatie nodig hebt als je enige fluffiness wil krijgen. Wel moest er corn syrup aangeschaft worden, en de oven op een onfatsoenlijke temperatuur voorverwarmd worden, maar mensen, dan heb je ook wat. Want deze derde keer zijn ze dus mooi gelukt. Perfect, goudbruine, luchtige, plakkerige eierkoeken. Van Amerikaans mega-formaat, maar dat nemen we voor lief. 

En ik heb maar meteen besloten dat mijn volgende poging boterkoek gaat worden...en dan? De moeder van alle banket: spekkoek.

Queen of tarts

Many people have asked me about my favorite part of my recent trip to Ireland. Because I live in the Bible belt, where, to borrow from Ms. Austen, sensibilities are many and sense is hard to come by, I have yet to share the absolute best part of the trip with anyone. Instead, I talk about other parts of my trip, such as seeing the Book of Kells, touring Dublin with Mary, exploring County Wicklow, or the inspirational nature of the conference, or perhaps even the success of my presentation. All truly exciting and wonderful experiences, but none can hold a candle to the high tea Mary and I shared on my first day in the country. A first day that was marked by rains, winds, and temperatures in the high 40s. A day so full of new impressions and freezing ankles that when Mary suggested finding a tea place she had read about on TripAdvisor that was known for its pies, cakes, scones, and tarts, saying yes was the only logical thing to do. So, using her ever-useful city app, Mary guided us across Temple bar, through crooked streest, past bars, boutiques, and lots of Carroll's tourist shops. And just when we were about to guve up, we both looked up, and saw the bright red sign with the infamous name 'Queen of Tarts'. Yes, Queen of Tarts. And now you know why I have yet to share this with anyone down here. In a part of the world where talking about armpit hair by innocent first graders at summer camp is seen as the worst kind of inappropriate (yes, this did indeed happen. Back in 2008 in fact), just  mentioning the name of this particular establishment is enough to give most people a fit of the vapors. So I have refrained from sharing this particular tidbit. (And that expression would be a no-no as well..just so you know). 

But I digress. 

The Queen of Tarts was easiest the smallest eatery in all of Dublin: six tables were squeezed together in front of the most scrumptuous display of tarts, pies, and pastries, and patrons had to watch their elbows and knees lest one of them ended up in their neighbor's scone or pot of tea. The decorations in the shape of lots of red hearts, and references to various species of womanhood one might describe as 'tarts', did an amazing job walking the fine line between cute and camp, and gave the place an uncanny resemblance to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shoppe in the Harry Potter series. In one word, it was awesome. 

In spite of the rain, cold, and the fact that it was Sunday at tea time, one small table next to the display case was empty. Mary and I quickly made it our own, and proceeded to have a very warm, delicious, and much-appreciated tea. 

And seriously, can anything trump sharing a pot of tea, a slice of pound cake with an old friend on a cold day in a teashop called Queen of Tarts?

No, I didn't think so either...

Tir Na Nog

And now for something completely different (no pools, no toes, no hips), let's talk about Ireland.

Does anyone remember the show The Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog?  Or was I the only nerdy graduate student who wasted her time watching a show about battles for ancient Ireland? And who, on a side note, also wasted a lot of time with Mork & Mindy and Are You Being Served ("are you free, Captain Peacock?") reruns? Imagine if I had spent all that time studying! I could have actually gone somewhere and made something of myself!...oh..wait..well..)

Anyway, the Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog was my first encounter with Ireland. Well, that and the lovely mother from Titanic who, as the ship is sinking, puts her children to bed and reads them a story about, there you go again, Tir Na Nog. Growing up in Europe, I was, of course, more than familiar with the ongoing "troubles" in Northern Ireland (and possibly even more familiar with the music about that era), but the rest of Ireland was always little more than a haze of green fields, rain, druids, Celtic women in large dresses singing old songs, and stories of immigrants trying to get across the ocean to the US.

Fortunately, my ignorant little soul is going to get an opportunity to educate itself on Ireland, as next week I will be at a conference to Dublin. There are a lot of downsides to my job as a professor, the crappy pay, the long hours, the difficult students, the crappy pay, and well, you are all more than familiar with the long list of woes, but one of the major perks of working in academics is the opportunity to travel. Granted, you do need to conduct some research, turn it into a paper, and then get it accepted by said conference. And you also need to make sure your university is willing to pay for at least part of the cost, but once you've achieved all of that, this traveling gig is a real perk.

In my case, the paper that landed me at the major international conference to be held in Ireland focused on the study that involved research assistants and Steve, my former colleague who is busy finishing up his PhD at his Big Midwestern University. Much to our surprise, we found some pretty interesting things, and fortunately, the reviews at the major conference agreed, and so this Saturday I will be on my way to the airport. The conference doesn't start until Tuesday night, and since exploring a country by myself isn't half as much fun as exploring it with a friend, Mary, she of running awesomeness (who in a less awesome move, transferred to Italy) is flying up to meet me, and we will exploring this rainy, green, druid-filled country together. Not only has Mary been to Ireland before, she's an even better planner and tour guide than I am (as proven by the fact that she's already figured out which bus to take to the airport to pick me up), and she's pregnant and has already threatened to buy me every single drink she wants but can't have. This is what I would call a win-win situation, people.

To be honest, not all is well in Dixiechick-travel-adventure-land. Lately, I've become a little freaked out by my accommodations. Because my university is generous but not exactly in a Daddy Warbucks kind of way, I'm having to pay a considerable chunk of the expenses for this trip out of my own pocket. And back in February, when I booked everything, saving on accommodations seemed like a great way to go. So I booked a room on campus. A single person dorm-room. Back then it sounded great, it cost only 43 euros a night, included breakfast, I'd have access to a kitchen, the campus gym and pool, and did I mention it was only 43 euros a night? But now, as my departure date inches closer I'm starting to feel a little queasy. What if I'm surrounded by partying students? Or worse, man-sized roaches? Or a really, really nasty bed? According to husband-dear, this is a) slightly ridiculous, and b) probably still a remnant from the accommodations trauma I endured in China last year. In order to assuage my fears, he suggested I look at pictures online, as it really couldn't be that bad. And so I did. People, I am paying 43 euros for a monk's cell. Or, if you're from Holland, a prison cell. Cinder blocks, a bed, a desk, and a bathroom so small I have the feeling I'll be standing on the toilet to take my shower. Fortunately, reviews call it "clean", "modern", and make no mention of bugs or dirt (although some did complain about partying Italian students), but still, part of me wishes I had just splurged and checked into a nice hotel downtown (although, as husband-dear points out, I would still be freaking out about bedbugs, and he is so right).

But accommodation-fears aside, I am excited to finally see Tir Na Nog with my own eyes, meet up with a good friend, catch up with former colleagues at the conference, and, of course, present Steve and my work to the academic community at large. I will keep you posted.

And that's all I have to say about that

So 2013 will probably not go down in my personal history as the most athletic year ever. I know, I know, the year's not even half over yet, and it's possible I'm being slightly overly dramatic, but sheesh, people, sheesh!

First there was that pesky hip/ groin problem I told you all about. You know, it hurt, I rested, it still hurt. I rested some more, but no cigar. Not only did that nix my chances of participating in the half ironman I had been training for, it also pretty much made it impossible to swim or bike. I could still run, thank the Lord, but long training rides or swimming using my legs was out of the question. Hello pathetically short rides and floaties! You can imagine I have just been an absolute bundle of joy these past weeks. 

But, as the problem-solving, type A, oh-my-god-I-have-to-train endorphine junkie that I am, I of course wasn't about to just let this run its course. While well-meaning friends said things like, why don't you just take it easy and float around in your pool, and, you know, rest will make it all better eventually, I was in my PCM's office at three weeks. And when her admonitions to just rest and ice did nothing for the next two weeks, I got a referral to see an office specialize in orthopedics and sports medicine. Yes, I may cry when I've had too little sleep and I can't find my favorite pumps, but when I put my game face on, I get things done. Even things involving the notorious government-run health benefits plan, Tricare. 

So last week, I went to see said orthopedic surgeon. After filling out an 11-page questionnaire that not only covered my medical history but those of my parents and siblings as well, and three x-rays, I had my diagnosis. And something else. But I'll get to that in a secod. As expected, I had a strained adductor, as well as tendonitis of the iliopsoas. Say what? Or as the Dutch would say: Broodje kammewattes? I have basically messed up the thing that connects my muscle to the bone as well as a tendon that runs in that same area. Fun! Fortunately, this is America, and there are solutions for everything, which in this case was physical therapy. Great. 

But there was another small issue. Minor, really. You see, when the doctor looked at my x-rays, he noticed a funny lump on the ball of my hip. This is, apparently, not normal. It even has a fancy-pants name: femoral acetabular imingement. For those of you into Googling (or Bing-ing), my particular kind is known as a cam lesion. And what, you may wonder, is the prognosis? Well, fortunately for you, I wondered the same thing, and asked. So according to this doctor, and every single website I have read since then, it could lead to early onset arthritis, surgery, and hip replacement. Good-y. The first sign of the lump on the hip becoming a genuine problem is a clicking noise, so I was to keep my ears out for that. 

So after that strange news (hi! I know you're here for a groin injury but let me tell you about something unrelated but pretty major that is wrong with you! You're welcome!), I went off to physical therapy. And one would think the story ended there.

Alas! There is a third thing. Yes, really. And this can really only be blamed on my own complete klutzy-ness. Last Friday, as I was playing with Shelby, I ran past one of our bookcases. Well, that was my intention. I made it past, my leg made it past, and the majority of my foot did too. Only my little toe decided to stay behind. The same little toe I broke back in 2009. You can imagine what happened next: A very blue, very swollen, and very broken toe (on an upnote, I did not cuss or cry, which is, if you know me, truly worth mentioning. The dogs just seemed really surprised at the very long and loud primordial scream I produced instead). So instead of running, biking, or swimming this weekend, I have instead been hobbling around in a pair of flip flops, grimacing at every movement, and googling questions about the duration and size of swelling and bruising. 

And that is why this morning, I sat at the physical therapist's looking like this:

Electrodes for my hip, a sneaker on one foot, and a flip flop for its bruised and swollen sister. 

And when I did my leg-lifting exercises this morning, guess what I heard? Yep, an onimous clicking sound. Bright orange walker with tassles and a bicycle bell, here I come!

I am, to use a good old southern phrase, such a mess. Thank goodness for pool-tinis.