As promised, my Nation’s Race Report is much happier than previous posts. It was a great day and a huge step forward! Or more like 25 miles forward. (Plus the swim and run which were mehhh and pretty good respectively, but not revelatory.)

I focused a lot of my energy this summer on on getting confident on the bike again, and Nation’s was my proving ground. I finally started riding on my aeros in the month leading up to it, but was still hesitant about cranking up the speed out there. On race morning I felt like I had to choose between speed and pushing myself out of my comfort zone , and I knew pretty clearly the answer had to be the latter.

Let’s  back it up here and take it from the top (of race weekend).

Blog regular, Chris, was of course insta-addicted to the tri-life after crushing his first sprint in May, and had been very easily cajoled into making Nation’s his first Olympic. (Wait till you hear what other sporty craziness he’s been [easily] cajoled into in another post soon-to-come.)

As has become our tradition, Chris and I went to the expo and packet pick-up together on Saturday. There we met up with our hero, Kona-bound, Ellen, who was kind enough to wait for our slow, late asses to show up. We picked up our packets, and got Chris switched last minute into the DC Tri Club wave (more on that to come – annual Club dues are worth it just for this perk though.)

Then the cajoling continued as Ellen convinced Chris and I to do a minute-sprint challenge race sponsor, Etihad Airlines, had set up on some sick Trek tri models. I thought I’d be spared because I’m usually too short to participate in things designed for the general public like this – but alas Etihad/Trek had thought of everything and one of the bikes was small enough for me.

The challenge seemed simple enough: just go as far as you can over 60 seconds. They had the trainers set at an absurd weight though, and the bikes shifted way the f*** down, and just 60 seconds left us wobbling away on jello legs with anaerobic heartrates and gasping for air. Thanks, Ellen!

Once that was done Chris and I shopped for a bit – or I should say Chris stood patiently nearby while I touched everything in the expo and embarrassed myself pretty good  at TYR when I mistook a male speedo for adorable lady bikini bottoms. (I recovered by insulting the very nice TYR rep’s selection of actual women’s suits. [Seriously though, is it that surprising that not all women want to wear pink? Or flowers??])

Once I had bought all the things – except that men’s speedo – we rode our bikes to transition on the Mall. I wasn’t sure about the best way to navigate there, but Chris blindly followed my improvised and slightly death-defying route, and we miraculously hit the lights perfectly at all the heavily automobiled merges I forgot existed southe of Constitution. Bike racking was uneventful and we opted to take one of the very convenient shuttles back to the race hotel, which happens to be 3 blocks from my apartment. We collected my husband, put on clothes that smelled less terrible, and went to a geriatric earlybird dinner.

In the morning I followed my usual Nation’s routine hoofing my gear the three blocks back to the hotel and taking a shuttle back to transition. Chris ubered from his place in Virginia, and was basically there when transition opened. About an hour later I rolled in, still with plenty of time to set up, fill my tires, mix a few water bottles with Heed – my favorite on-the-bike fuel, porta-potty (duh, always), and wetsuit up.

It had rained off and on all weekend, and was drizzling until right before the National Anthem. I was nervous the swim would be cut again, but it was not. The water temp that morning was 77 making this the first year I’ve been able to swim Nation’s in a wetsuit. Like most folks, even with the water that warm I always opt for my wetsuit (sleeves and all!) if it’s allowed. This was the first time I questioned that decision while in the water…

…I’ll get back to that in a hot sec. The DC Tri Club has had its own wave the past couple years that gets to go right after the elites, and it is EVERYTHING. It means you’re not podium-eligible, but my (in)ability to swim already means I’m not podium-eligible so who cares. When i’ve done Nation’s in my age group I’ve had to wait over an hour to get in the water. Going out in wave 4 instead of 16 is so damn great.

It’s also fantastic to start the race with your club. All that positive energy and support and getting to be with people you know makes a huge difference to how happily and comfortably you start the race.

Nation’s is a time trial start, and Chris and I ended up in the last or second-to-last group in the Tri Club wave. This I think was a mistake. And one I need to stop making. While swimming is indeed my weakest event, I need to give myself a little more credit and recognize that I am still faster than at least half the pack usually. By slinking to the back again and again I keep jumping in to find myself trapped behind a wall of people I’d like to pass. In a huge race like Nation’s finding a lane can take a couple hundred meters (which is what happened.) Then, no sooner had I found some space, the frontrunners of wave of men behind us (40-44 I think?) began swimming into and over me.

The whole swim felt like that. A struggle between myself and people either significantly faster or slower than me. The patches of river in which I found room to actually put my head down and really swim were few and short-lived. And, getting back to that wetsuit, the water was really warm so every time I got swimming for real I also started to feel overheated. It’s bizarre to be able to tell you are sweating while in the water.

At 1300m the swim course hung a hard left back to the dock, and there all hell broke loose. Logistically I don’t even understand what was happening, but there were so many people and a lot of them were struggling. Side-stroking and doggie-paddling, and some just treading water. I tried swimming wide around them but I could not catch a break. I ended up slowing WAYYY down and the last 200m took me probably seven minutes. bringing my swim to an embarrassing 35:19. The water was choppier than usual because of the wind and intermittent rain, but the weather wasn’t bad enough to pardon that slow a time.

I was disappointed with the swim but shook it off, because that day was all about the bike. I had a pretty crap swim-to-bike transition as always, (I really need to make that a focus next year,) and then had a bit of a shaky mount. But once again the benefit of the DC Tri Club early wave saved the day. Besides the elites we were the only folks out on the bike course for the first loop, which left me calm and comfortable enough to settle into my aeros.

That first loop was great, and I felt my confidence – and even speed! – building. I didn’t push the speed all the way, but I was still able to feel how just that more dynamic body position is going to make a huge difference in my performance. I ended up only about a minute slower than I was last year riding the same course with less wind  and actually pushing for speed.

The second loop started to get crowded, but I’d already gotten myself so comfortable, and I was feeling so proud of myself that I was able to ride in aero almost the entire time. On this loop I started to encounter some of the assholery I see every year on the bike in Nation’s. People passing on the right, not calling their position, and drafting. I passed one woman halfway through the second loop, and she immediately hustled to repass me and then cut me off. I comforted myself that I was focusing on justing riding in aero and not anywhere near my speed abilities, so screw her.

Finishing loop 2 I felt great, but the worst part of the day was coming up: the 14th Street Bridge.

Dun. DUN. DUNNN.

I am learning that I don’t have to push myself till I break, so I gave myself permission to not ride my nemesis bridge in aero. It seemed more important to have a safe, clean ride. Plus it was actually quite windy even on the rest of the course, so I knew the bridge wind was going to be terrifying.

If I may direct your attention to my math from last year, between my very light 44cm P3 and my 4’10” body, all told I’m rocking no more than 130lb on the bike, which is nothing to that bastard Bridge wind. And the wind this year, like last, was blowing  across the bridge rather than as a head/tail wind. Just like 2014, no fewer than five times during those monstrous last miles, gusts bisected the Bridge so mightily they nearly swept Koopa’s tires out from under me. I had to actively fight to stay upright. Beyond my continued (but waning) trepidation on the aeros, the crosswind was so strong I actually wanted to be less aero – be more of an obstacle to move. Honestly I have no idea if that’s the best strategy for someone small like me to take the bridge on, but it made sense at the time. Once again like last year I hurled quickly swept away expletives into the gale force winds. I don’t know if other people heard me screaming, “f*** you wind” or not, but I probably (definitely) expended too much energy on the f-bombs.

Eventually that too passed, and it was on to the run. It’s September, so obviously I have at least one stress fracture in at least one ankle, making a mixed bag of my favorite and otherwise-strongest discipline.

Last year was pretty warm during Nations, and 2013 was hot as hell, plus without benefit of the DC Tri Club early wave, in 2013 I had to wait over an hour to swim and didn’t hit the run until close to 11. This year it was overcast, drizzly, windy (sucked on the bike, but pretty nice for the run) and the Club wave meant I hit the run around 9am. All forces combined to make it one of the most pleasant 10ks I’ve ever done. Plus, I learned after bonking during the scorching 2013 Nations, to be really vigilant about bike fuel, and now I drink a bottle of Hammer Heed on the bike and head into the run feeling great. (I have met some people who say it makes them poop so, proceed with caution, but I swear by Heed pre-swim and on the bike.)

I also had a pretty quick transition into the run – the same canNOT be said for swim-to-bike. I really struggle with T1, with having to pee every time I come out of the water, and wanting to rehydrate some before mounting. I just cannot get my shit together to move quickly from the water to the bike. But at 2:08, T2 was close to a PB.

On top of the near-perfect run weather, I didn’t feel my ankle at all which was a huge relief. I’ve basically been only running on race day lately, so I was feeling undertrained, but still managed the 10k at 7:43 min/mile pace. I’m not sure how my splits worked out, but I finished feeling like I could have definitely pushed it a little harder. I was afraid to pick up the pace on my ankle – especially in the first couple miles, but now I wish I’d stepped it up a little. I still made pretty good time, but it’s kind of disappointing to finish with gas left in the tank.

(Fun-but-a-little-mean-spirited side note: Remember that rude lady who cut me off on the second loop of the bike? Turns out she was only on her first loop when she pulled that rude bs, because as I set out on my run, I saw her ride by towards the Bridge. And I am not ashamed to say, I laughed to myself [outloud] that she still had that nightmare ahead of her while I was in the homestretch. I used this as inspiration to cheer on any runners I encountered who seemed to be losing steam, yelling, ‘just think! Some people are still stuck on the 14th Street Bridge!’ It got some laughs and appreciative nods, so karmically I think I’m ok even though I totally relished the fact that she was still in a windswept suspended hellscape. :))

Total time was 2:53:18, which was slightly faster than NYC – though transitions there were insane (half mile run from the swim to T1!) and the bike and run were A LOT hillier, and it was about 30 degrees hotter that day, so in a lot of ways that feels like the stronger race performance.

Taking advantage of the DC Tri Club wave means I wasn’t podium eligible in my age group, but I was 6th out of the 50 Club women in my wave, and 3rd on the run. I was pretty pleased with that placement, but much like NYC, this race was another reminder that my performance is really inconsistent between the three disciplines.

Whether or not I could have been faster on the bike or run (definitely and probably), and despite dawdling through transition, and despite the fact that I am still just a terribly slow swimmer, Nation’s was a huge victory for me. I’m so glad I chose to push myself out of my (very narrow) comfort zone, opting for progress over pace on the bike. I know I could have ridden the course faster, but I don’t think I could have walked away more proud of myself.

That pride and confidence – and plain and simple competence – open a lot of doors for me. I’ve been embarrassed of how far I’ve fallen in my cycling abilities. The decline was mostly in and of my head – a psychosomatic descent where I let my fear convince me I couldn’t ride. I’ve been so embarrassed this summer I rarely rode with friends, and didn’t branch too far from the security of Hains Point or take advantage of any of the Club’s long group rides that make such a difference in one’s training. Now that I feel like a cyclist again, I can reinvest my efforts into proper training for next season. Only now that I feel like I’ve relearned the fundamentals, can I actually improve on them. (And hopefully become legitimately competitive.)

Walking away from Nation’s 2015 (toward brunch and beyond) I was feeling so proud of how far I’d come that I decided I had to do at least one more race this year. Between my ankle and home-selling and buying I withdrew from Augusta 70.3, but I wasn’t ready to be done, so I signed up with 3 hours to spare for the Giant Acorn Sprint on Sept. 28 in Lake Anna. VA. More on that next time! (Hint: IT WAS AWESOME.)

I swear the Nation’s Tri Race Report is coming, and that it will be much happier than this entry. Because Nation’s was awesome and energizing and I couldn’t have been happier with that day. But today is not that day. Today is a not good day. It’s a day when my health obstacles have locked me into a self-loathing pity party, and the feeling of being betrayed by my own bones and body seems insurmountable and unfair as hell.

So that’s what today is about. I would not judge you if that opening sent you running from this page, but I’ll continue nonetheless.

First a quick two-weeks-ago detour to confirm that my right ankle is indeed stress fractured. I knew going into the ortho that that was going to be the diagnosis so I felt pretty numb to it. I told my poor doc that, f*** it, I’m finishing out the season. I figure I spent the last two falls in a boot dropping out of races, so, fully realizing I might complete the fracture if I race on, I’ll take that chance this year and do the races I gleefully (stupidly) signed up for back in the healthy days of winter.

Except for Augusta 70.3. The doc signed my refund form (I have learned now to always buy insurance) so I’ll be foregoing Georgia this year. That’s fine, Scott and I are actually moving the day after the race so it was going to be tight anyway. But I am a go for Army 10 and most importantly, for New York. I also signed up for a sprint this weekend (Giant Acorn) because after the awesomeness of Nations I didn’t want to be done multi-sporting for the year.

Aaaaanyhow, meandering back to that stress fracture, my ortho agreed that my bones seem excessively unreliable and sent me to get a Dexascan – i.e. a bone density test. Going into the test I was torn. Obviously I didn’t want to hear that I have a bone density issue, osteopenia or even osteoporosis. But having a definitive answer   would at least offer some comfort and closure (and maybe absolve me of any fault in my injuries.) With a diagnosis and a reason for the breaks, there would be a recourse: work with an endocrinologist and nutritionist and my ortho and try to do something about the bone density.

But of course that was not to be. I got my results back a few days ago and I’m in the normal range for my age. So, yay? Back to the drawing board? I have been speaking with a nutritionist and will see if I can do better there, but I don’t have a lot of hope that a diet adjustment will heal my cracky (crappy) ankles. I already eat pretty well, and my biggest vice, wine, ain’t going anywhere.

So, back to today. * Sips wine. * Today the last few weeks finally hit me like Tanya Harding. (To the ankle though, not the knee.)

I finished up work a little later than I had hoped, and my plan to head to Hains Point for a short bike/brick ahead of Sunday’s sprint had to contend with the last day of summer’s shrinking daylight. I got all my crap together and headed out the door around 6:45. I was about to call the elevator up to my floor when I started doing the math in my head. (Never good.) Once I got to the car, loaded up Koopa Troop, and got to the Point, it’d be after 7pm. And that’s without accounting for the Pope-ageddon traffic fuckery going on in DC right now. Then, 45-60 mins on the bike to cover around 15 miles would have me hitting my run very much in the dark. And honestly, I don’t know how safe it is there in the dark. Plus, not knowing how the ankle would be, I knew there was a chance I’d get a mile in and have to walk the next two back to the car.

I hemmed and hawed at the elevator (which for me means a string of almost inaudible f-bombs and groans) and decided to scrap the Point.

So what to do instead?

It was late enough that the Y pool would likely be packed. We’re moving so my trainer is in storage, and again, thanks to el Pope, I was wary of riding my bike down to the mall or anywhere else, including Hains. Normally I’d turn such an evening into a run. But of course I couldn’t do that. And that’s the point in the crazy brain train when I started to emotionally rupture.

As my irritation and anger and blood pressure all climbed, the cruel bitch of a cycle kicked in where, all I want is a run to relieve tension, but the very inability to run is what’s provoking said tension.

It ended in tears. And no workout. (I did do [solidcore] this morning to be fair, and biked a few miles there and back. But I really needed a double today to make up for some Sat-Mon laziness.)

Instead Scott and I picked up boxes and bubble wrap, and I confessed to him how unhappy I am. How unfair it all seems. (Knowing full well how toddleresque calling anything “unfair” is.) How scared I am that I am going to have to run a marathon in 6 weeks with almost zero run training under my belt. How bad that fact makes med feel about all this fundraising and asking people to donate – knowing how pathetic and unprepared my performance will be that day. And how terrified I am for my future in endurance sports knowing this will probably always be an issue, and knowing that on Monday I am committing once more to try for 140.6 next summer.

So today was hard and it was a reckoning and I was angry and honest and a little petulant. And in a few hours my alarm is going to go off and while I’m likely to still be feeling pretty crummy, I’m going to have to get in the pool and swim/bike/limp onward. I don’t have a happy note to end it with today. This journey (and I realize this is the point) is tough, and often unforgiving and lonely, and I just hope it’s worth it. Worth something. * Last sip of wine. *

Long overdue, I finally read Christopher McDougall’s Born to Run a few weeks ago (well I listened to it because Audible is the s***) and I loved everything about the book. I can’t believe I waited so long to finally pick it up. Recommend to all – especially fellow runners/triathletes looking for some extra literary motivation to get through the back end of race season! (Or to anyone mulling over your next athletic footwear purchase…)

Of course the events described and the cast of characters are fascinating, but I especially loved the evolutionary biology discussed in the book, and the hypothesis that we picked our knuckles up off the ground because we wanted more oxygen to enable humans to evolve into endurance athletes. We succeeded as a species where stronger and faster (and potentially smarter) relatives like the neanderthals did not, because, of all the crazy things, we could run forever.

As McDougall explored our running-enabling physiology including the shapes of our feet, our sweat cooling systems, our achilles tendons, glutes that won’t quit (I especially thank my Italian side for that one) and the nuchal ligaments we share with dogs and horses but not other primates, I felt bizarrely proud to be human. (Definitely not always the case these days…)  Reading about (listening to) this evolution that makes us uniquely situated to run long distances has become an inspiring addition to my training regimen since I picked up the book.  Who am I to deny my evolutionary destiny and the millions of years my ancestors put in making me the athlete I am (or at least could maybe be) today (or perhaps tomorrow? next season?)?

As a side benefit, and I’m sure other swimmer/biker/runners will relate to this, it’s nice to have a rebuke based in scientific theory, to those folks who are made uncomfortable by our commitment to endurance sports and who try to tear you down by saying, ‘oh well, you know running is so bad for your knees’ or ‘it’s not actually good for your body to go that long and be pushed that hard’. I know that the (MANY) people who say these asinine things to me are threatened and really trying to excuse their own laziness, but it still drives me crazy every time. Usually when someone tries to suggest that triathlons are probably making me unhealthy I point out that my blood pressure is 90/60, my resting heart rate is 42, my LDL is way under 100 and my HDL is more than twice where it needs to be to be protective against heart disease. In sum, I’m pretty effing healthy #thanksomuchforyourfalseconcern. (Can you tell how much these statements irk me??) Next time someone tries to tell me how bad my running is for me, rather than harangue about my own health stats, I think it may be more effective to say, actually, we were born and built to do these things. (So stop worrying about me and get your ass moving! [And put down the g-d snickers!])

* End rant. *

Part and parcel to our endurance-honed anatomy, running was and is a communal activity, likely to have been historically shared by men, women, young, and old. And while most of us no longer run hours on end in pursuit of a meal these days – although you could argue that a lot of us run to justify brunch ( * slowly raises hand * ) – the fact that we still love to get together in huge groups to tackle  miles and miles is not actually as weird as those couch potato friends might think – it may be built into our DNA. (I make this point [or echo McDougall’s] while still recognizing that sometimes running [and swimming and biking] is pretty terrible, and there have been many moments in training and racing where I have had to seriously question whether I actually like this hobby or not.)

Inevitable low moments aside, this morning I had the great pleasure of experiencing an unexpected, inspirational moment (or 51 moments more accurately) of community as I put in 10k around Central Park.

Scott and I were in New York with my folks for a theatre weekend. (In other news, omf*** everyone needs to take out a second mortgage or harvest your organs [you do not need two kidneys c’mon] and get yourself some Hamilton tickets, because that is the best thing that’s ever happened on a stage anywhere ever I mean it.) Aaaanywho, yesterday (Saturday) morning the struggle bus ran me down and then backed up and ran over me again, and then rolled forward back over my shredded glutes and legs and basically I was a holy terror when I woke up confronted with the prospect of a run. Dunno why, just was.

At a moment when I was definitely looking for someone to collude in my excuse-making, Scott, the hubster, asked me point blank if I could afford to skip a run at this point in the season.

UGH. NO. OBVIOUSLY I CAN’T. JEEEEEZ.

With my queue of excuses rendered instantly impotent, Scott offered to come run with me. Normally I run solo, seeking the meditative effects of an hour or two alone with the road, my thoughts, and the latest Pitbull turned up to 11. Ya know, basically the definition of restorative peace ad quiet. (Does that description illuminate my personality to sufficiently explain why I don’t do yoga?) My usual desire for solitude notwithstanding,  some run-company (runpany?) actually sounded good. I’d bitched and moaned for so long that we only had time to get in 4 miles, and it was a hot and sweaty and kind of miserable half hour in Central Park, but we got through it and of course were both happier for having done so. Scott had never been running in the Park and of course thought it was a great place to workout, so we agreed to run again today (Sunday) before heading back to DC.

A few hours after the entire hotel was woken up by multiple 5am fire alarms, Scott and I hit the asphalt again. This time we decided to do the whole Park loop – which is almost exactly 10k. Sorry, I misspoke. This time I decided to do the whole 10k loop, and didn’t tell my darling sweet perfect man until we were at the very northernmost (aka farthest-away-from-the-hotel) part of the loop heading into mile 4 and about to hit the worst hill of the day. Scott is insanely athletic, but hasn’t been running much this summer, so he wasn’t suuuuuper happy with me at that point. But we slowed down a touch and he pushed through like a champ, (or I dunno, like someone whose body has evolved over millennia into a running machine???) rocking 10K in about 8:15/mile despite the hills, heat, and lack of training. So there’s exhibit A of community and support. But of course he is now contractually obligated to support me in sickness and in health and in marathon training. (Especially if he wants to get his hands on the Italian glutes I mentioned earlier!)

Communal endurance sporting exhibit B was your classic kindness-of-strangers situation – or I guess kindness-of-volunteers more accurately. As we fell into pace with the weekend throng of Park runners, there were New York Road Runners (NYRR) volunteers cheering everyone on. About a mile in we came to a misting and water station manned by even more volunteers, and I realized Scott and I had found ourselves in the middle of an organized training run.

I joined the NYRR club when I registered for the NYC Marathon, so I gladly and guiltlessly took advantage of the water stations along the loops. The unexpected morale and hydration support made our run so much happier and healthier, and even a little bit emotional. So many people were out pushing themselves running. And so many people were out lending their own voices and energy to motivate total strangers. People sacrificing their Sunday mornings to make themselves and each other better. That’s pretty powerful, at least I think so. Maybe I was just feeling extra emo and vulnerable after a weekend of exceptional theatre (in news related to my earlier parenthetical, Fun Home will break your heart in a million zillion billion pieces, and you will be so glad it did! Go see it!) but as I silently thanked each and every volunteer and fellow runner, and reflected on a damn good book, I felt like I was part of something bigger, more important, and more primal than myself. It took a million years to get here and I will not waste it.

Today was a good day. Today, I made progress – progress that I could feel. Every ride, run, swim is presumably running biking swimming me closer to my goals, but some days that progress is tangible and cheesily enthralling.

I woke up sore from a tough week and rode to [solidcore] where class was hard as hell but fun as hell too when I was pleasantly surprised that a bunch of workout besties were also taking class. My legs felt like spent cement even before our hamstring, glutes, and adductor sets sought to break my poor rubber-muscles down fiber by fiber. Climbing back on Koopa Troop for the mile back home after class, I could barely lift my leg over the 44 frame (yeah you read that right). It was GORGEOUS out though, and as I pedaled, the beauty of the day overshadowed (oversunned?) the lactic acid flooding my dead tired legs.

The sensations of the still-early sun, the mostly-clear streets, the satisfaction of an ass-kicking work-out, my loose shorts and tank blowing in a slight breeze, and the confidence gleaned from having put in the miles this summer combined into a little mid-morning euphoria. I realized, holy shit, I’m enjoying being on my bike. In the city. I don’t feel scared. I’m not death-gripping the handle bars. And I actually want to stay out here and ride further than just the mile and change home.

So that’s what I did.

I threw in a few extra turns and miles and took my time getting back. I walked into the apartment in a great mood, encouraged that I could actually feel and witness the progress I’m making.

Scott went and got us some Sbux egg sandwiches to celebrate (I’m a yuppie and I’m not ashamed.  [And if that’s a surprise to you dear reader, might I remind you that this is a blog about triathlons.  Yuppiedom pretty well assured by the subject-matter.]) After a few hours packing (ugh, moving. [Anybody want to buy a one-bedroom condo in Logan Circle DC???]) and lazing, I loaded Koopa Troop into Yoshi and headed to Hains Point to pedal out a few more miles.

My legs felt like lead and lactic build-up, so I decided to just do a few slow and easy laps to spin them out and at least put in more time in the saddle. It’s the only way to build the confidence and the handling skills.

At a slow clip, as I headed into my second lap I reached out to the end of my right aero and shifted into a higher gear for a little more work. As I did so, I let my arm hover over the shifter a minute, and, letting the good day motivate me on, dropped it down onto the aero bar.

As soon as I dropped my elbow onto the armrest, I felt a wave of hot/cold panic sweep over and under my skin. The prickly tingly fear that tries like hell to take over your thoughts and motor skills has become all-too familiar. I forced myself to remain in place, and recited the mantra I’d worked out before NYC Tri with Ellen: “Calm the fuck down, Liz.”

Seriously, that’s it. Calm the fuck down, Liz. And it works! It’s great. I repeated it out loud a few times, and as I did, the cold sweat and nausea subsided. I forced myself to breath, and told myself I was doing great. And I managed to hang on and hang out there on that aero, growing calmer over the course of a couple miles.

I didn’t work up the courage today to move the left arm to join my right, so I’m sure I looked like a clown biking around the Point in a half dynamic position. But I didn’t care. This was real progress. First the rediscovered joy and extended commute of the morning, and now this tangible move in the right direction.

I practiced moving my right arm on and off the aero bar a few times, and then spun out an easy couple miles to finish. As I strapped KT back onto my bike rack and maneuvered Yoshi through the tourist-clogged DC streets home, I felt so proud and so hopeful. I’ve still got a long way to go, (and there is no there there?) but at least I’m starting to see the distance I’ve already covered.