Swim Bike Run

As I promised yesterday, here are some of the pictures husband-dear took during the triathlon. Not all of them are very flattering, in fact, I might as well warn all of you now that very few of them, well, none of them actually, make me look good. I'm sweaty, red-faced, and wearing shorts and a bathing suit. I can think of better premises for a nice photograph, but I guess you won't find those at a triathlon. In spite of this, the pictures do give a good idea of what a triathlon is like. So enjoy (or shudder - take your pick!)

The three musketeers. At this point we were all chipped, bodymarked, "racked"(meaning your bikes are in position) and ready to go. Well sort of anyway. I mean, you can only be so ready at 6:45 in the morning















Inside the TA, or the Transition Area. I was doing some last minute check-ups ("are the valves really tight enough?") and making sure all of my things were lined up in the proper order for the transition. And no, that is not being neurotic, honestly. I practiced transitioning in the backyard earlier this week (and this can possibly be classified as neurotic) and discovered that if things weren't in a certain order, I would seriously put my shoes on before my shorts, and we all know that that does not work. The people behind me are all wearing wetsuits, but as it turned out, the water temperature was, fortunately for me, far from cold.








On the beach, at the start chute. The color of your cap denotes the class you're in. The caps were so tight, I threw mine away right after the race. At this point, we pretty much realized there was no turning back now.










Forty seconds away from start time, and a last-second check of where those yellow triangular buoys are at.












And we're off. I was really worried I was going to be kicked or hit, but it really wasn't too bad. The three of us stayed back a little bit, where there was more room. Once people started to spread out, there was enough space to swim to the front of the pack without getting clobbered. So for those of you considering a triathlon, but worry about the swimming; it really is not as bad as it looks.





It's the monster of Loch Ness! It's AquaWoman! It's the Little Mermaid! No, it's just me, trying to get out of the water without tripping on the mud and landing on my face.











The swim does not officially end until you have run up the beach and a small hill into the transition area. Running through that sand was probably the hardest part of the entire race, and I was almost happy to get on my bike. The strap around my ankle is the chip they use for timing purposes.








The last leg of the bike course. Husband-dear and
I had ridden the bike course a week before, and so I knew what to expect. All I can say is thank heavens for smart husbands, because those hills would have had me quivering in my sneakers. And also a great big thank you to the local fire station, where all the fire fighters on duty stood on the curb and whistled and catcalled at all the female participants. We all know we don't look our best out there, but it sure made us feel like we were smoking!




Although you feel as though you've deserved a break after swimming and biking, you still have to run a 5k. It doesn't sound like a lot, and it's not, but when I started running, all I could do was tell myself it would be over soon.















The finish line. Nuff said.













We may not look our best, but we're all officially triathletes now, and very excited about it.













So I've started shopping around for my next triathlon. There is one in October, at St. Simons Island, but there are also a couple of good ones in South Carolina and Virginia. What do you think?

1:49:44

1:49:44 - my finish time for my first triathlon. Am I proud? Heck, yes! Did I have fun? Oh yes! Do I still, even after a long scrub in the shower, still have the four numbers on my legs and arms showing? Yes, but I wear them proudly.

So yesterday I was pretty much ready to give up. I was scared out of my mind, felt completely unprepared, and had no clue how I was going to handle all the transitions. The debriefing we went to did very little to alleviate my fears. But in all honesty, if you had heard the million and one rules we had to be aware of (have your chinstrap on your helmet fastened at all times when handling the bike, don't draft, don't linger on the left, rack your bike in the correct place), the three different course we had to know (sprint swimmers, follow the yellow triangle buoys, not the yellow circular ones, and remember to hang a left on Knoxville Road on the bike course), and all the other little bitty details (wetsuits will be legal, the ends of your handlebars must be plugged, you cannot wear an Ipod) you would not have felt any better either.

But as I got my three (!) bags ready last night, I started to feel a little better. On a side-note, the amount of stuff you need for a triathlon is amazing. As a runner by trade, I'm used to slipping on my shoes and heading out. A triathlon could not be further removed from that. Just for the first leg you need a special color swimcap, goggles, a swimsuit, and flipflops to take you to the first chute. Then you need your bike, a towel, helmet, glasses, gloves, socks, shoes, waterbottles and gel packs for the run and the bike ride. And that is not even counting all the back up tools, socks, powerbars and other ends and odds you will find yourself toting to the event.

This morning, after setting up my bike and gear in the transition area, and getting chipped and marked up, I was once again ready to kick some butt. Excuse me, KICK SOME BUTT! The sun was shining, the water was a nice 71F, and the women in our age group were all equally nice and helpful. I had so much fun swimming, biking and running, that on the first two legs, I had to tell myself to slow down a little bit, as I was worried I would waste all of my energy before the run. In fact, I liked it all so much, I think I have discovered my new addiction. I've already found another triathlon I want to do in October. And I'm actually thinking I may not want to wait that long. It's too much of a rush.

Husband-dear, who doubled as my coach, driver, personal mechanic, and cheerleader took a whole bunch of pictures, which I will try and get online tomorrow. For now, I am going to enjoy the post-tri-high.

Swim-Bike-Run! That's all there is to it.

The ATL

As a rule of thumb, I don't like forwarded emails. But this one was so funny, and so true, I simply had to share it. I recognized almost all of them (cow-tipping included), let's see how far you can get!

"Atlanta
This is for anyone who lives in Atlanta, who has ever lived in Atlanta,
has visited Atlanta, ever plans to visit Atlanta, knows anyone who lives
in Atlanta, knows anyone who has ever visited Atlanta or anyone who has
ever heard of Atlanta, Georgia.

1. Atlanta is composed mostly of one way streets. The only way to get out
of downtown Atlanta is to turn around and start over when you reach
Greenville, South Carolina. All directions start with, "Go down
Peachtree" and include the phrase, "When you see the Waffle House."
Except that in Cobb County, all directions begin with, "Go to the Big
Chicken and..." Peachtree Street has no beginning and no end and is not to
be confused with Peachtree Circle, Peachtree Place, Peachtree Lane,
Peachtree Road, Peachtree Parkway, Peachtree Run, Peachtree Trace,
Peachtree Ave, Peachtree Commons, Peachtree Battle, Peachtree Corners,
New Peachtree, Old Peachtree, West Peachtree, Peachtree-Dunwoody,
Peachtree-Chamblee, or Peachtree Industrial Boulevard.

2. Atlantans only know their way to work and their way home. If you ask
anyone for directions they will always send you down Peachtree.

3. Atlanta is the home of Coca-Cola. That's all we drink here, so don't ask
for any other soft drink unless it's made by Coca-Cola. And even then
it's still "Coke." A carbonated soft drink isn't a soda, cola, or
pop...it's a Coke, regardless of brand or flavor. Example: "What kinda
coke you want?"

4. Gate One at Atlanta's Hartsfield International Airport is 32 miles away
from the Main Concourse, so wear sneakers and pack a lunch.

5. It's impossible to go around a block and wind up on the street you
started on. The Chamber of Commerce calls it a "scenic drive" and has
posted signs to that effect, so that out-of-towners don't feel
lost...they're just on a scenic drive.

6. The 8:00 AM rush hour is from 6:30 to 10:30 AM. The 5:00 PM rush hour is
from 3:00 to 7:30 PM. Friday's rush hour starts Thursday afternoon, and
lasts through 2:00 AM Saturday.

7. "Sir" and "Ma'am" are used by the person speaking to you if there's a
remote possibility that you're at least 30 minutes older than they are.

8. A native can only pronounce Ponce De Leon Avenue one way, so do not
attempt the Spanish pronunciation. People will simply tilt their heads
to the right and stare at you. The Atlanta pronunciation is "pahnss duh
LEE-on"

9. The falling of one rain drop causes all drivers to immediately forget
all traffic rules; so will daylight savings time, a girl applying eye
shadow in the next car, or a flat tire three lanes over.

10. If a single snowflake falls, the city is paralyzed for three days, and
it's on all the TV channels and radio stations as a news flash every 15
minutes for a month. All the grocery stores will be sold out of milk,
bread, bottled water, toilet paper, and beer.

11. If there is a remote chance of snow, and if it does snow, people will be
on the corner selling "I survived the blizzard" tee-shirts, not to
mention the fact that all schools will close at the slightest possible
chance of snow.

12. Construction on Peachtree Street is a way of life and a permanent form
of entertainment, especially when a water line is "tapped" by the
construction crew and Atlanta's version of "Old Faithful" erupts.
Also, construction crews are not doing their jobs properly unless they close
down all major streets during rush hour.

13. Atlantans are very proud of our racetrack, known as Road Atlanta. It
winds throughout the city on the Interstates, hence its name.
Actually, I-285, the loop that encircles Atlanta, has a posted speed
limit of 55 mph (but, you have to maintain 80 mph just to keep from
getting run over) and is known to truckers as "The Watermelon 500."
The Georgia 400 is our equivalent of the Autobahn. You will rarely see a
semi-truck on GA 400, because even the truck drivers are intimidated by
the oversized SUV-wielding housewives racing home after a grueling day
at the salon or the tennis match to meet their children at the school
bus coming home from the college prep preschool.

14. The last thing you want to do is give another driver the finger, unless
(1) your car is armored, (2) your trigger finger is itchy and (3) your
AK-47 has a full clip.

15. The pollen count is off the national scale for unhealthy, which starts
at 120. Atlanta is usually in the 2,000 to 4,000 range. All roads,
vehicles, houses - everything - is yellow from March 28th to July 15th.
If you have any allergies, you will die. But other than that, it's a
great place to live!

16. Possums sleep in the middle of the road with their feet in the air.

17 .There are 5,000 types of snakes and 4,998 live in Georgia.

18. There are 10000 types of spiders. All 10,000 live in Georgia, plus a
couple no one's ever seen before.

19. Raccoons will test your crop of melons and let you know when they are
ripe.

20. If it grows, it sticks; if it crawls, it bites.

21. Georgians don't really seem to grasp the concept that a tractor is NOT an all-terrain vehicle. They do get stuck.

22. "Onced" and "Twiced" are words.

23. It is not a shopping cart, it's a buggy.

24. Fire ants consider your flesh a picnic.

25. People actually grow, eat and like okra!

26. "Fixinto" is one word (I'm fixinto go to da sto').

27. There ain't no such thing as "lunch." There's only dinner - and, then,
there's supper.

28. Sweet Tea is appropriate for all meals and you start drinking it when
you're 2.

29. You don't have to wear a watch, because it doesn't matter what time it
is. And anyway, you work until you're done or it's too dark to see.

30. You know you're from Georgia if: (1) You measure distance in minutes or
beers, or (2) You know what a 'dawg' is.

31. You can see a car running in the parking lot at the store with no one in
it, no matter what time of the day or time of year.

32. All the festivals across the state are named after a fruit, vegetable,
grain, insect or animal.

33. You install security lights on your house and garage - and then leave
both unlocked.

34. You carry jumper cables in your car... for your OWN car.

35. You know what "cow tipping" and "snipe hunting" are. But, if your
friends have talked you into snipe huntin' more than once, you gotta be
from Alabama or somewhere.

36. You only own four spices: salt, pepper, ketchup and Texas Pete.

37. The local papers cover national and international news on one page, but
need 6 pages for local gossip and sports.

38. You know that the first day of deer huntin' season should be a national
holiday.

39. You find 100 degrees Fahrenheit "a little warm" and go for your jacket
when it gets below 80.

40. You know all four seasons: Almost summer, summer, still summer, and
Christmas.

41. Going to Walmart is a favorite past time known as "goin wal-martin" or
off to Wally World"

42. Fried Catfish is the other white meat."

Triathlonitis

Last August, signing up for a triathlon sounded like fun! A challenge! A nice break from all the running! A great way to keep me in shape over summer! Yay! Well, you can all take away the exclamation marks and the yays, because the triathlon is this Saturday, and all I can think about is how I. really. don't. want. to. do. it.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure how this triathlon thing got started. I know it had something to do with my beloved friend Kay, who after having had two babies in two years wanted to get back into shape, and a second friend, Shelly, who always wanted to do the Disney triathlon. The two of them then somehow came to the conclusion that the three of us signing up for a local sprint triathlon would be an excellent solution to all the problems. And since I didn't want to rain on their well thought out plans, and May 30, 2009 seemed lightyears away, I signed up too. In the meantime, I wrecked my ITB, broke my toe, had to cancel a half marathon, had way more work than I had planned on having, and so the fact that I didn't have to spend all my time running, but actually had to alternate between three different branches of sport, sounded like a great solution to all my problems.

The three of us have spent the last few months swimming, running, biking, doing various combinations of all three, practicing our transitions, and up until about two weeks ago I was ready for it. And I don't just mean ready, I mean READY. I mean "HOOAH! LET'S KICK SOME BUTT!" ready.

But now, I don't know anymore. My last two swims have sucked, I have been too tired to run, and although husband-dear and I biked the 15 mile loop I'll be doing on the race on Monday, and it went very well, the lake looked positively scary, and felt freezing. Why anyone wants to swim in something cold, that has live beings in it, and that you can't see through is beyond me. Yet, somehow, I'll be doing just that in only a few days. I feel like a five-year old, but I really don't want to do it. I just know I'm going to suck. I'll get a flat tire. Or fall off my bike. Or get clobbered during the swim. Or I'll be unable to tie my shoelaces after swimming my butt off. Or I'll have to use the bathroom during the bike ride. Or I'll be so tired, I won't even be able to run the measly 5k at the end. So why did I sign up for this again? And why did it seem like such a good idea back then? Why can't I just be like all other people and just climb on a machine in the gym once in a while? Why do I have to do all these weird things to stay in shape? Why do I even care about staying in shape? Right now I just want to sit on my couch, each chips, and watch bad TV. But no, someone had to go and sign up for something hard. And it was dang expensive too, so it's not like I'll cancel. Please remind me to not do these things in the future. Thanks.

Oh, and if you're near Lake Tobesofkee on Saturday morning, and you hear a lot of cussing, that's probably me.

Stay At Home Moms Day

I know I've blogged about this before, but after a positively exhausting day, I figured this is something that could not be repeated often enough: Praise to all stay at home moms. I don't know how you all do it. After another day staying at home, with "nothing" to do but chores, errands, and taking care of kids and husband, I am exhausted. And the day isn't even over yet.

Getting husband-dear out the door in the morning is the easiest part. He's all grown up, and generally knows how to feed, dress, and get himself out the door. Although I do have to admit that from time to time, I do need to run after him with his lunchbag, gymbag, or ID. But, hey, I'm sure that's happened to all of us. Once the kids are up, it's a whole different ballgame. I used to have complete and utter admiration for friends who could fix breakfast for one kid with one hand, use the other to calm down a family pet or the baby, talk to child number 3 about school, and yell at child number four to hurry up and get out of the shower, but, hey, this morning I realized that although we only have two boys and one dog, I'm becoming pretty good at the whole balancing act too. I can make breakfast, set out lunch, get a kid up, feed the dog, and talk to our youngest about the weekend, all in the blink of a moment. In fact, today I even managed to squeeze a shower in there, is that amazing or what? And all this from someone who used to need an hour of silence, solitude, and a really long shower to get going in the morning.

Then, and this is what blows my mind away, once the kids are out the door, it just keeps on going! You would think that moms would pretty much be done once their offspring are gone, watch some Ellen, maybe a little Martha too, but no, with an empty house, every mom, and apparently me too now, realizes that this is the perfecttime for a) scrubbing the front porch, b) mopping the floors, c) doing laundry, d) deep-cleaining the kitchen, e) doing groceries, f) transferring files from the old computer to the new one, or g) all of the above. Even as a stay at home mom, I am an overachiever, hence I went for option g. Yay.

So now it's 2:40pm. Husband-dear and the kids are about twenty minutes away from coming home. I should have some peace and quiet. The key word here is should, as I just realized that the checkbook really needs to be balanced too. How do you all do this and stay sane? Why are there no more postal moms? In fact, why do we even talk about "go postal", when obviously this life would be enough to drive anyone over the edge, and there should be obviously be a phrase such as "go vaccuumy", or "go bleachy".

So let's forego all this silly holidays, an instate a holiday for the people who really do it all: A Stay At Home Mom (or Dad) Day. We could do it sometime in the spring, right in the middle of spring cleaning, and send all of our stay at home parents off to a spa, while everyone else takes over for a day. Sounds just wonderful...now I have to go as I just noticed our dog chewing on a picture album.....Zoe!

Weekly chat

I first started chatting online probably sometime in 1994 or 1995. Now before you think that I've spent the last fifteen years wasting time behind a computer, well, I probably have. At least a little anyway. The only excuse I really have is that conducting research is a very lonely business, and when you're stuck behind a computer eight hours a day, you will do anything to alleviate your boredom. So over the years, I have logged an impressive, and somewhat depressing, number of hours in various BBSes, forums, and social networking sites, and have accumulated at least four active email addresses. Thanks to the miracle that is technology, I thus have a vast archive of saved emails, some of which go all the way back to the 1990s (in case you were wondering, yes, I am one of those neurotic packrats who will keep very important emails in an archive, so be careful what you send to me, I may actually keep it). When I look back over the years, the one thing I've noticed is that my online mannerism haven't changed a whole lot. I may use bigger words now than I did then, and write about different things, but I still use the same abbreviations, smiley faces, and expressions. I think I first used ROTFL in 1995, and I still use it today. I like to include lots of :) and ;) in case I get taken too seriously, and I am definitely the queen of the understatements, and run-on-sentences.

So shat's so interesting about all this that I would devote a whole blog to my online behavior? Well, when you teach online, you are forced to have weekly online chats. These bascically serve as virtual office hours, where you are available for your students in a special chatroom. It's a greart idea, but to me, it just feels very weird. It doesn't help that I'm identified by my first name, instead of my last name, either. I can't help writing the way I always do, with a lot of "LOLs", smiley faces, and little jokes. That combined with the fact that my students act as though they're on MSN too, means I feel as though I'm 25 again, secretly chatting with friends in class. But I'm not. I'm supposed to be all professional, aloof, and definitely not funny. And yet I can't talk like that in an online setting. It's so very strange. I think my students really like it, but still. Somehow it doesn't feel right. Too personal. Perhaps I need to take an "how to chat professionally" class. What do you think?

De Nederlandse Club

De laatste week is een week van "firsts" geweest, zoals ze dat hier in de VS zo mooi kunnen zeggen. Eerst breek ik al mijn eigen regels door online Nederlandse spullen te bestellen. Blijkbaar was dat niet genoeg om mijn behoefte aan alles Nederlands te stillen, want maandag ben ik ook nog eens voor het eerst naar een ontmoetingsavondje met Nederlandse vrouwen uit mijn stad geweest. Belachelijk. Nou ja, niet dat er iets mis is met Nederlandse clubjes hoor. Helemaal niet. Het is alleen niks voor mij. Nou ja, was, dus.

Ik moet eerlijk toegeven dat ik nogal wat vooroordelen heb tegenover Nederlandse clubjes. Of eigenlijk, tegen alle soorten clubjes. Breiclubjes, hardloopclubjes, scrapbookclubjes, bowlingclubjes, wandelclubjes, caravan clubjes, het is allemaal niet aan mij besteedt. Helemaal als er t-shirts of bij elkaar passende outfits bij komen kijken. Brrr. Niet dat ik nou een asociale einzelganger ben, nee hoor. In tegendeel zelfs. Bel me op, spreek met me af, ga mee hardlopen, of samen punniken, of foto's inplakken, ik ben er voor. Breng jij de koekjes dan zorg ik voor de thee. Ik hou er gewoon niet van wanneer je in verband iets doet met mensen met wie je anders echt niet door een deur zou kunnen. En soms doe ik dat wel hoor. Zo erg ben ik nou ook weer niet. Spouse's groups, etentjes met mensen van het werk, vrijwilligerswerk voor de chapel, ik doe het allemaal braaf. Maar meer dan dat, nee. En een Nederlandse club is al helemaal niks voor mij.

Bij het woord 'Nederlandse club' krijg ik altijd al van die rare beelden. Van die sjoelbakkende, sinterklaas vierende, Oilily dragende oudere expats die maandelijks samen komen in Atlanta. Of van die Nederlandse clubjes waar mijn moeder vroeger nog wel eens met frisse tegenzin heen ging, waarbij vrouwen met een enorme aardappel in de keel om 11 uur 's ochtends aan de sherry ging want "kind, dat is gewoon reuze gezellig!". Dus nee, dat soort clubjes zijn niet aan mij besteedt.

Maar ja, soms dan rol je per ongeluk ergens in. En dan blijkt het nog best wel leuk te zijn. En dus moet je al je woorden weer opeten, om nog zo'n leuk Amerikaans gezegde te gebruiken. Het begon allemaal met een toevalige ontmoeting bij ons in de stad. Op Konningedag ook nog eens. Manlief en ik waren even winkelen, en net toen we in de auto wilde stappen, zag hij een Nederlands nummerbord op een auto naast ons.

Het erna volgende gesprek ging ongeveer zo:
"Look honey, a Dutch plate."
"Sure."
"No really! A Dutch tag, look!"
"Oh. Well, it's probably someone from Volkel."
"No, look, there's the lady who drove it, she's wearing an orange shirt, she has to be Dutch."
"No, she's not. Orange is just a popular color"
"Would you just go after her already?!"

Dus ik er op een drafje achteraan, en jawel, Jeanine was Hollands. Nou ja, Limburgs, dus ze was Nederlands. En laat zij nou elke maand op een maandag avond met zes andere Nederlandse dames afspreken om koffie te drinken. En dus wat gebeurde er? Juist. Dixiechick werd ook uitgenodigd. En zo begaf ik mij afgelopen maandag avond met prachtige southern directions (na de school links, daar staat een grote schuur, dan bij de grote groene truck rechts..) naar het huis van Yolanda. En alhoewel ik manlief had toegezegd met een uurtje thuis te zijn, kon ik me moeite drie uur later dwingen om op te staan. Het was namelijk, tot mijn grote verbazing, echt heel erg gezellig. En dat was niet omdat er stroopwafels waren. Of echte Nederlandse koffie. Nee. Het was gewoon leuk om weer even Nederlands te babbelen. En onze Amerikaanse mannen te vergelijken.

Dus. Ondanks al mijn vooroordelen ben ik nu toch lid van "het" Nederlandse clubje bij ons in de stad. Je herkent ons aan de Nederlandse nummerborden voorop de auto's, de NL stickers achterop, of in mijn geval, een koe met "I love holland" kussentje aan het achterraam. Het moet niet gekker worden. Wees gerust, als er t-shirts komen, ik doe er niet aan mee.