A Sea of Tissues

When you're an athlete, getting sick can be devastating. When you're an endurance athlete, the time you spend being sick is measured painstakingly in how much you're losing by giving up that training time to let your body fight off whatever's ailing you.

When you're a total poser like me it's a double whammy because not only are you lamenting the fact that the Bolder Boulder is a month and a day away and you haven't run since the last post you created on your blog, but you're even more discouraged to jump back in than those who actually are in shape or work towards getting there on a more regular basis.

These are the things I'm pondering as I sit in a sea of used tissues, my nose still totally stuffed up, and pop more Benadryl-D into my mouth. This part of the situation is not unusual for me; as the carrier of perhaps the worst nasal allergies of anyone on the planet, tissues, Benadryl-D and stuffy sinuses are part of my life. Nausea, chills, fever, aches, a perpetual headace and deep bronchial coughing are not, and I wonder how I managed to catch both a cold and the flu at the same time. I have spent a lot of time today downing juice and Echinacea and Cold Snap, taking it easy and threatening ye gods above in many ways if I don't get better by Sunday night.

Sunday night is the Jimmy Eat World show, which I've been looking forward to ever since my best friend Shawn introduced me to the band a couple of years ago. When you're home sick you have lots of time to ponder these things, and aside from my occasional threats and channel surfing I've spent a lot of time on the web today. I checked my e-mail earlier to find a new e-mail from Shawn; it was a chain forward with a touching story attached, one of those ones that ends with such things as "Remember: someone is thinking about you right now. Someone's day is made every tiem you smile..." and the like. I had received this one in particualr before, and even Shawn, who sent it to his zillion other friends as well as me, commented on its being sappy but this particular story touching him, so I read it all the way through anyway. As I read through those sweet little "someone's thinking of you" comments at the end, I started to think about my relationship with Shawn.

Shawn may be the only person who brings a smile to my face every time he crosses my mind. My boyfriend is wonderful and he got me to quit smoking, but we still get into weird places and have nagging doubts and sometimes, I get the worried look rather than the smile when I think of Gregory. The only time I've been worried thinking of Shawn was after we got in a huge fight and didn't speak for about two weeks. This isn't unusual; Shawn recently moved to Denver and we talk whenever it's convenient for us, most often when he's coming up to Boulder or when I'm in Denver, but it's not a big deal to go a period of two weeks without chatting. These two weeks were rife with concern and fear that I'd lost my best friend. Most of my other friends I'm rather ambivalent about, but Shawn, and the group of people I know through him, always make me smile. He called me after about two weeks and I called him back, and through a series of phone tags and brief calls we met up for dinner and made up almost instantaneously. Shawn showed me the collegiate party scene, how to cut loose and step out of my work-centric self and anjoy life a bit. Shawn also came to my rescue when I went on the worst date of my life and took me out the next night for what was one of the best nights of my life. If we'd gone to high school together, we would never have known each other: he's cool in every possible way, and I was and, in many ways still am, the quintessential band geek. He hangs out with the coolest people, goes to the most awesome clubs, and is one of the most popular people I've ever known. Shawn could walk into a room with any eclectic mix of people you could think of, say, or example, a neurosurgeon, a rock star, a bitter gothic poet and a Valley girl and have everyone talking to each other and laughing together in minutes. He makes the party...because he's sweet, funny, light-hearted and has a great sense of humor. He has a reputation for being a bit of a flake, but he's always there for his friends when we really need him. When my ex and I split I called Shawn crying, and he dragged me out of the apartment my ex and I shared for the following weekend to go to the X Games with him and a bunch of our other friends. Some of my most crazy experiences have involved Shawn, but also, some of the most honest and important.

Shawn is gay, and he and his boyfriend are very much in love. I am also crazy about his boyfriend--the three of us used to work together-- and we get along really, really well. I've known a lot of couples and a significant number of gay couples, but I can honestly say that I rarely have the kind of faith in a couple being really, really happy together and staying together if they want to, as I do in these guys. My mentor and her husband, who went through substance abuse treatment for him while she was pregnant and shortly after she gave birth to their son, and my little sister and her boyfriend, who have the best dynamic you could ever imagine between two people, are among the others. There's a stereotype in the gay community, and it's often true, that gay couples are more promiscuous than straight and that monogamy is a greater challenge for a gay couple. It's actually the case that monogamy is a challenge for eveyone, but gay people are more open about most things in general and monogamy just kind of falls into that category. These two have a great relationship, and I'm crazy about the two of them. So when Shawn asked if I would be the surrogate mother for he and Bryan, I didn't even think about it. I agreed instantly.

This is usually the type of conversation we'd have amidst a drunk "I-love-you-so-much" type of moment, and I think the fact that we were sober when we first spoke about it is what really made it one of the most important--and firm--decisions I've ever made. We were talking and laughing, we were at the X Games and on our way to a bar, but we were just goofing off and talking about having kids and Shawn asked, almost offhandedly, if I would be a surrogate mother for he and Bryan when they want to have kids. I replied, almost offhandedly, that I would, really without even thinking about it.

"Really?" He asked, looking at me. The look on his face suggested that he knew how quickly I responded and he was giving me an out if I wanted it.
"Really," I replied, looking back at him. I didn't think about it again, and while pondering the issue further, I found that it really was true. I would gladly be a surrogate mother for Shawn and Bryan. They both wanted children, they were in love, and they were two of the most incredible people I'd ever known. It was a significant moment that lost its sacred quality once we started joking about it, but we've spoken about it since and I've always been just as willing. We've discussed it seriously, and Shawn has expressed sincere gratitude, but truth be told, I honestly can't imagine saying no. I can't imagine NOT being their child's surrogate mother...partially because it would be a part of me as well, and partially because I would always be in that child's like, but mostly because if I had the opportunity to give my best friend the chance to be a father, that's the greatest gift I could ever give. Shawn has already given me what I treasure most: his friendship. I don't have very many friends, but all those that I value, except members of my family, have all come as a result of my friendship with Shawn, including Bryan and of course, Shawn himself.

Being a surrogate mom is really the least I can do to say "thanks".

Getting It Back

Any endurance runner worth their salt will tell you that stride is key. Not just the length and pace of your steps, but the way you're holding your body when you're moving. As a former short-endurance athlete whose lungs are desperately trying to rebuild tissue, I can tell you that missing my stride lately has been a nightmare. It has turned what was once a generally pleasant activity I could do virtually anytime, anywhere (hey, no matter what Nike is telling you, all you really need to run is a decent pair of kicks. The rest doesn't really matter.) into a rather unpleasant lesson in muscular rediscovery. My legs ache, my back cramps, and the big ol' belly I'm now hauling around after the past year of a relatively sedentary lifestyle is starting to really weigh on me. Indigestion used to be an occasional, short-lived moment of misery; it's now consuming half of my waking hours and I am finding that I can no longer eat "whatever I want". Oh, and in addition to all of this new stuff, the old stuff is back too: side and shoulder cramps, the latter being the worse of the two.

Honestly, lately, it's been rather a trying time to keep going with all of this stuff. I've been cigarette-free for nearly a month (three more days and it will be!) and I'm really learning what smoking for all of those years has done to me. I keep plodding along, hoping things will get better, going about my so-called training halfheartedly and telling myself it will get better. This morning, for a change, it did.

I was just doing my little neighborhood loop, taking my time, trying not to outpace myself after I blew the first third of the run by moving too quickly and then having to walk to regain my composure, as well as my will to keep breathing, when something changed. I don't know what it was, but I fell into step. My legs got lighter. Things became easier, my shoulder cramps began to loosen up and my upper body fell into perfect rhythm with my lower. I, the occasional atheist and generally religious nonconformist, was about to say twenty Hail Marys when I realized what it was. I'd gotten my stride back.

It wasn't something I ever noticed before, because back when I was running seven-minute miles I was a kid, I just did it. It wasn't anything to pay attention to, it was just what had to be done. As a gangly twelve-year old (don't worry, she's still kicking my butt) with long, coltish legs I developed a larger stride than most kids my age; my former coach used to say it made him uncomfortable to watch me run, but it got the job done. Now in my early twenties, my torso's grown to round out the lengthy runner's legs I was born with and I found that I needed to make more adjustments to my form and pacing to try to fit my newer, longer frame. And now that I've got it back, I just hope I can hang onto it. My inner twelve-year old is dancing with glee, while simultaneously saying "duh!" and wagging a finger at me. Of COURSE I couldn't run the way I did when I was twelve. That was over a decade ago and a lot had changed. This morning I figured out just how much, and man, did it feel good. Instead of dreading my next run I am looking forward to it. Stride helps you pace yourself, organize your timing and speed, refocus your attention and movements to the parts of you that really need it (for example, if you're cramping badly you can batter accommodate that when your form is working for you) when necessary; it straightens your posture, which helps you breathe better, and gives you more flexibility in timing your workout. It's the component that makes everything else fit together, and when you get it, there's a "whoa!" moment where you kind of ponder why you haven't been doing this all along. Maybe your form isn't perfect "runner's form" according to this training guru or that, but man, if you find something that works for you, hang onto it for dear life. I would've stayed out this morning and explored further, except that whole work thing was calling my name. I'll be out tonight working with it some more...I just hope that after getting it back, I don't lose it too quickly again.

Heartburn? Seriously? You WUSS!!!

I'm the first to admit I'm a total pansy when it comes to being in pain. Some people deal with it okay, some people get all macho and won't admit that they're hurt or injured if they're bleeding from the eyes, and some people cry when they get a papercut. I would be one of those in the third group. I don't deal well with pain and I'm not afraid to admit it. If you read Lance Armstrong's books he talks of ascending 14% grade slopes in the French Alps with freezing sleet coming down, feeling as if his calves are on fire from the steady pumping to get the bike up the damned hill. I'm not Lance, and since I'm not sponsored by US Postal, pushed along by throngs of fans from every nation, every culture on the planet, or spending 8-12 hours every day training, I tend to just pack up and go home when adversity hits. My sponsorship comes from myself, my only fans are my boyfriend, my friend and family, and my loving little kitty, and I spend maybe 8-12 hours a month training. As a recent bet with an Ironman-athlete-in-training-boyfriend demands, however, my training regimen is in for a long-overdue overhaul.

I am lazy, however, and so instead of sitting down and mapping out a schedule, I tend to train when the urge hits me. Usually, that's on the weekend, while my boyfriend is putting in his four hour-long bike rides and three hour-long runs and hour-and-a-half-long swims...I'll laze around for awhile and then get off my butt, haul out the cruiser, and go for a ride or toss on my sneakers and jog for a bit. This past weekend I decided I'd ride for an hour (while Gregory was out with the Boulder tri club for four). We were going to do a post-ride half hour run at the reservoir so it seemed like a good way to warm up...and I'd meet him out at the res afterwards. I was feeling good, so I threw on some shorts and a tee shirt and hit the road. It was a beautifully mild spring day, one of those days when you thank your lucky stars that you live in Boulder, Colorado, home to more sunny days than the two Sunshine States. It was, in other words, an absolutely perfect day to ride. Unless, of course, you factor in the climate in my stomach.

I'd gotten going and was keeping a pretty good 16-20mph pace, keeping the bike in her upper gears, working my quads, and was about a mile from my house when I felt a mild achy, burning sensation in my chest. I figured I'd ride it out and kept going. Another couple of miles later, however, I was having trouble maintaining my posture on the bike. My chest felt like there was a vat of battery acid erupting inside of it. For a few minutes I seriously debated whether or not I was a qualifying candidate for cardiac arrest (blood pressure: good, ex-smoker: bad, weight: pretty good, stress level: bad, especially right now, etc.) and then I realized I was just suffering severe heartburn. But man, it was the heartburn that they make those "purple pill" commercials about. I kept trying to ride, wanting to get in at least a solid hour, but alas, the pain won out in the end. I ended up stopping at a gas station for some Pepto-Bismol, which, unfortunately, didn't work as quickly as it's commercials would have you think, and a Gatorade which, once I swigged enough of it to get the chalky taste out of my mouth, posed a new problem: what the hell do I do with this Gatorade? I have your fairly standard-looking cruiser: fat tires, heavy frame, chain guard, fenders...and no cages for a water bottle. Fortunately, I also have a battery attached to it for a high-tech lamp rig I've got for night riding, and as it happened I'd left it on when I went for the ride. It's attached with a lengthy Velcro strap, and so I spent my ride home, curled over the handlebars in agony, with a Gatorade bottle/battery jerry-rigged to the bike's crossbar, sharing the metal pipe with the battery pack nestled close beside it.

To make matters worse, my situation hardly improved at home. I ended up e-mailing Gregory, knowing he'd pick it up on his cell, to let him know I wouldn't be at the res. I curled into a fetal position and waited for the burning to eat me alive. It really was that bad. Gregory was extremely sweet about it and commiserated kindly, but I kicked myself for the rest of the day.

Now as I look outside at the heavy, grey clouds dropping rain from fine mists to bursts of hail all over Boulder, my spirits are as damp as the streets. Mt stomach, however, is just dandy, and my new kicks are beckoning from the door. It sucks to do anything in the rain, but I figure this'll make up for wussing out over the weekend.

THUD!---OW!!!

Sometimes you just sit wondering what to write because the title says it all. THUD!---OW!!! accurately describes so many things, in fact, that it's getting tough to enumerate. Consider:

-Getting bike gear off at work when the wire for your headphones gets caught around your bike bell and jerks your face into your handlebars...by your ears. To add insult to already-smarting injury, the CD skips too and several coworkers are passing by trying to preserve some facade of your dignity by pretending they didn't see it. Hey guys, it's okay, I know you all saw the handlebar faceplant-by-way-of-headphone-wire. Thanks for trying to be cool about it.

-While juggling backpack, commuter jacket, headphones, and helmet up three flights of stairs, dropping helmet on third-to-last stair to watch it bounce to bottom of second flight of stairs. Toss other stuff into pile on floor of third-floor landing and pound down stairs, retrieve helmet, then pound back up stairs to find your director smirking at you as you huff, puff and wheeze your way back up. (This is only partially true, at least the sarcasm part is; my director has been a huge supporter in my quest to quit and I really appreciate it.)

-Passing by friendly neighbor who ALSO bikes everywhere...going up the stairs to your floor, carrying your bike. Problem: He's also carrying his. Next Problem: You have headphones on. Yet Another Problem: He says something and extends hand in friendly gesture, to which you can only give big openmouthed grin and slight wave as you truck your bike carefully past him--and his--to your mutual floor. Hopefully he saw the headphones and put two and two together; otherwise from now one you're the friendly neighborhood Gaping Mute.

-Using an extended hand jamming into a pedestrian-signal-button as a last-ditch stop effort. This came as a result of multitasking: I was trying to pedal AND look where I was going. Okay, not just multitasking, pre-coffee multitasking on a day I woke up late and was racing out the door (sans coffee) to get to work. Somehow I underestimated the rate at which I was traveling forward and thought that my chicken-bone hand and attached chicken-bone wrist would be enough to stop me once I got to the signal button. I extended my hand, aligned it with the button, and realized a moment too late that I was going about seventeen miles per hour, which is about sixteen and a half miles per hour too fast to be traveling when attempting such a stunt. I DID stop, thank God; otherwise my non-arrival at work would've been announced that morning in wailing sirens as the EMTs from Pridemark Paramedic came to scrape my innards off of the highway. The innards that hadn't been totally vaporized by whatever vehicle flattened me in its seventy-mile-per-hour race through the light, that is. I stopped, and the jolt of pain that went up my hyperextended elbow and through to my shoulder sang like a high note shattering crystal...and I bellowed like a twenty-three year old crybaby. (The wrist, elbow, shoulder and other auxiliary joints recovered quickly, thank goodness.)

There's an authenticity to athletic klutziness that can't be designed elsewhere. Usually if you're a klutz or do something ostentatiously stupid people kind of cringe inwardly and feel bad for you. Most of the time, this reaction occurs as a result of empathy, that is, the ability to relate to another human being's plight. When you're doing something athletic, however, and you're not one of the kings or queens of slapstick comedy like Adam Sandler or the Three Stoges (this distinction is important, because they can get away with it), people just feel this rather humorous disgust. Instead of, "Oh, that poor girl," it's "Aw, that poor bastard." It's not empathy, it's more like sympathy, but mixed in with something darker, more malevolent, more woeful. Something that tells you your audience would never be so stupid as to attempt what you just did, but if they were, they'd have done it right.

Thoughts that comfort me in these dark, desolate times of desperation and plots of demise: warm summer days (after the race, of course), fuzzy kittens, sunshine streaming through the window on a Sunday afternoon...yeah, right, whatever. Truth be told, summer days in Colorado are notoriously hot, a sneaky little fact about the place they don't tell you in guides provided by the state tourism board (yes, an extra mile closer to the sun will bring you champagne powder in the winter...and desert-dry heat in the summer that will fry your skin like you wouldn't believe). There's one fuzzy animal who is ALWAYS a comfort, no matter what the ailment, though she's four years old so not a kitten and, well, yes, soft and fuzzy and super-cute, which is why I put up with the allergies. My apartment faces west so there would be lovely afternoon sunshine...if the apartment building across the "lawn" weren't across such a narrow strip of lawn I'm lucky if I ever see sunshine from inside here. But there's one thing I know for sure that always makes me laugh. There's even a true story that represents it, and it charms my inner (bruised, beaten, klutzed-out) athlete out of hiding time and time again): there is always a bigger idiot/nutjob/lunatic than you. There will always be someone more competitive, more obnoxiously devoted, more psychotic, more involved, or just more short of luck. In my case, the story involves an anonymous friend. My friend is everything more athletic than me: more devoted, more involved, more dedicated, more in tune with his training schedule (mine is like, hey, maybe i'll run today; his is: i will run for forty-five minutes today and do an hour and a half swim) and therefore, in better shape. I have little going for me here, except for one thing: his balance sucks. He made the mistake of sharing this with me, and it's my last shred of totally pathetic comfort when I make a total imbecile of myself otherwise. He rides, as do most people I know for whom cycling is somewhere between a serious hobby and an Armstrong-esque addiction, an excellent roadbike, lightweight, skinny-tired, with all the standard features: arrow bar, tachometer, and, of course, clip pedals. You know, the ones that look like they're broken if you're used to looking at "regular" pedals, you have to wear cycling shoes to clip into them and once you do you're "clipped in", or better known as "the reason that guys who looks like the Village Idiot is out teetering back and forth on his bike in front of traffic waiting for the light to turn": he's clipped in, and he doesn't want to unclip. I still don't understand their purpose. This is why I ride a commuter bike or, as this particular anonymous friend refers to it as, a "tank". Unfortunately, he's probably calling it that for its weight rather than firepower...anyway, my friend's what I call a "real cyclist", you know, head-to-toe Pearl Izumi chamois and jersey, power gels and bars and God knows what else tucked into the pockets in the back of the jersey, Shimano bike shoes, helmet that streamlines the back of his head into his total cycling form so he's more aerodynamic, the whole nine. Anyway, as I said, my buddy's balance isn't anything to brag about, and he once said that, a couple of times each year he'll be coming to a stop and preparing to unclip, and just kind of blank on putting his weight to the correct side. Now, when cyclists unclip at a stop, they'll only do one side and put their weight down on that foot while stopped. If they shift their weight to the wrong side, they...fall over. Or so I'm told. My friend swears it's true, and I think I'm going to have to start spying on him, because this, to me, is what is intrinsically wrong with (and why I'll never get them myself) clips. I've been wanting to see this for ages: some all-out cyclist looking smooth as butt'a coming to a stop...and then literally falling over to one side. Once you're at that point, you're stuck just falling, you can't possibly unclip fast enough. It's been something I've longed to witness for a very, very long time, in part because I KNOW it happens, and this is the first I've heard anyone actually admit to it, and in part because whenever those sleek road riders pass me on their sleek Giants and Schwinns in their sleek chamois and aerodynamic headgear I feel slightly inferior on my "tank", dressed in whatever work clothes I'm wearing and my commuter jacket, hauling a big blue backpack or a black messenger bag on my back.

But I will never fall over at a stop on the tank, at least not for lack of clippage. And someday, they probably will.

Why Using A Cruiser To Try To Break A Record Is NOT A Good Idea

One of the best things about living in Boulder is the fact that, almost year-round, cycling is an available mode of travel. Whether it's the dead of winter or smack in the middle of the blistering high-altitude summers, the weather is rarely nasty for any longer than a couple of days straight and, if you're like me and your bike isn't just your preferred mode of travel (because it's also your only one), fortunately Boulder also sustains a healthy convenience-store climate for those days when conditions are too incelement even for a quick trip to the grocery. Most of the time, however, "temperate" describes Boulder beautifully, with more than 300 days of sunshine a year (hey, I learned something in my college orientation) and temperatures generally ranging between 45 and 75 degrees. As it's also a relatively small town, biking anywhere usually means a pretty quick trip and, at the end of any given workday, a much easier one than that offered by a motorized vehicle and a deluge of Denver-area and Longmont residents making a mass exodus. (Note to said residents: that's me flying by you on my beautiful turquoise cruiser, laughing hysterically at your plight. Sorry, cycling has to come with some perks, and most of them make themselves known at rush hour.) There's a going joke that you can get anywhere in Boulder in four minutes.

I made mention of this joke to my boyfriend about a month ago while discussing the pros and cons of riding everywhere, and he looked at me as if my nose had suddenly fallen off. While checking to make sure it was still firmly attached to my face, I queried the look. As it turns out, Gregory didn't believe you could get anywhere in Boulder in four minutes, maybe downtown but not to outer areas. He stated that he'd never make it from his house, at the far south edge of town, to mine, at the northernish part of town, in less than fifteen. I was, at the time, in the middle of baking bread for him and figured what better way to test this out (read: prove him wrong) that to sidle on over to Maison de Gregory on my cruiser with my backpack full of bread strapped to my back. I arrived panting but only thirteen minutes later, extending foil-wrapped baguette in friendship and a thumbed nose in competitive inquiry.

Now it's become kind of a thing for me to try to beat out thirteen minutes. I did that ride while I was still a (stupid) smoker and now I figure, hey, it's been almost two weeks, my lungs should be doing better by now, and the other night I took almost the exact same route to Gregory's house to try to beat my thirteen minute ride. I had my backpack, my lamp, my gorgeous cruiser...and my totally shot, desperately-trying-to-recover lungs. What they DON'T tell you about quitting smoking is all of the not-so-fun stuff that happens mostly as a result of your body recovering-rapidly-from the death, destruction, mayhem, chaos and general discomfort YOU'VE been dumping into it for however long you've been a smoker. For me, it was seven years, and my lungs are getting revenge now. Of the fun stuff nobody tells you you get to deal with as a result of quitting, a few of the problems I'VE experienced are:

1) Colds: most ex-smokers catch at least one and it lasts at least a week. I've caught two and, thanks to a background in the natural foods industry and sympathetic colleagues, have been able to brain them with herbs and homeopathics before they got too bad. This is basically your body's way of kicking your ass for doing something so stupid for any length of time, and it happens because, well, whe you're a smoker, you pretty much have constant respiratory issues, whether you realize them or not, so the cold(s) you get when you quit are really just your body's way of recovering from the self-inflicted illness (i.e. painting your lungs with tar) you've had for however long you smoked.

2) Trouble breathing: that's right, Hercules, you may be trying to feel like a million bucks but you're body's not quite ready to let you. Asthma checks in with you once you've quit, usually temporarily but sometimes forever. My grandmother has the worst hacking cough you've ever heard; it is truly alarming if you don't know to expect it and I've had many well-intentioned, but ill-informed, friends bolt for CPR mode once they hear my grandma for the first time. Usually we have to calm them while getting Gram a glass of water, so we usually try to forewarn them now. She never got it until after she quit smoking. For most of us, however, we merely experience temporary asthma symptoms. I was living with allergy-triggered asthma already before I quit, and while smoking just made it worse, quitting has had its own vengeance. As my lungs get more and more used to the idea of breathing in air that's NOT tainted by tar they're struggling valiantly to spew up the tar that's already in there, resulting in coughing fits for me.

There are other strange symptoms aplenty, including lowered stress thresholds, cravings ("nic fits"), restlessness sometimes to the point of sleeplessness, heightened sensitivity to other substances like caffeine and alcohol, but those are all the "duh" ones. You don't expect a cold or an asthma attack, and you don't expect to pull into the parking lot of your boyfriend's condo complex to find you got there in eighteen and a half minutes and you're coughing and wheezing for want of more pure, clean air than you can possibly suck into your poor, diseased lungs especially at an altitude of roughly 5400 feet, where the amount of pure, clean air, or any air for that matter, is severely lacking. I had to call my boyfriend to have him cart my bike up the stairs to his place, and when he got down to find me, sprawled out on the floor of his praking garage, heaving, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully and mused over the possibility that trying to break thirteen minutes on a commuter bike wasn't the best idea. I harrumphed emphatically and glared, still wheezing, as he tucked my bike into his storage space, and shook my head for extra emphasis as he started in on the idea of trying it out on a road bike, y'know, something that weighed maybe a third of mine, when suddenly it dawned on me that if I kept riding my cruiser and didn't opt for a road bike anytime soon, by the time I did get a road bike I'd be able to fly on it, between the increased longevity of my ex-smokerhood and my already-brilliant ability to cruise town on a commuter that weighed in around thirty pounds. I have to say, though, that it's not fair for me to claim this idea; Gregory's planted it long enough ago, but suddenly it all made sense, and I could picture myself in a black chamois and purple-and-white stylish Pearl Izumi jersey like my mom's, clipped into a practically-weightless road bike, cruising along with Gregory and his fellow triathletes, a big, bug-smattered smile wrapped around my face. I grinned at the thought, then coughed mightily, spat, and wearily accepted the glass of water Gregory extended towards me. I wasn't there yet, but I would be someday.

An Ass-Kicking From My Inner Twelve-Year Old

It's funny how, when you spend the first half of your life an athlete, the second half can come skidding quickly to a halt once you try to regain that early experience. Gratefully, I am sitting here now, still in my warm-ups from my earlier "jog", a well-used single-word expression for an activity at which I formerly excelled. That activity now needs a few more words to describe it accurately, and while it's a much more painful experience than before, it's become a much more colorful one as well. Phrases such as "tar-infested tissue", "spasmodic wheezing" and "iron lung" never crept into my head as easily when I was a twelve-year old cross-country athlete with a personal best 6:54 mile, as they do now, at the merciless old age of twenty-three.

When I was a kid, running was just a part of my life. My mother and then-stepfather, both triathletes, fostered a greater sense of well-being in what I have come to rediscover as my greater pain and suffering. We ran in all sorts of events when I was growing up in Florida; my wardobe littered with shirts advertising "The Times Turkey Trot" or "The Jingle Bell Run", I ran as part of my family duty, as an extension of my cross-country training, as something to do. To this day my mother is an avid cyclist and swimmer; a hip replacement a year ago took her off of the running/triathlete circuit for good but she has, at nearly fifty-one years old, a solid-rippling-muscle-below-perfectly-tanned-skin athlete's physique. She smokes cigarettes, but somehow she can do both. I tried the same only to find miserable failure. At twenty-three years old I was facing a relatively sedentary life bookended by gradual, though slightly exponential, weight gain and a pack-a-day habit myself.

Enter Gregory, a recent Boulderite with a tech company, a south-side condo and an affinity for endurance events. We met, I became mesmerized over a couple of dinners and a bottle of Burgundy procured from Paris, and realized that my smoker-friendly, body-abusive lifestyle wasn't going to fit well into my non-smoking triathlete boyfriend's very well. Having enjoyed a series of relationships in which I became what I now ruefully acknowledge as the "almost perfect girlfriend", the "almost" part describing how, in fitting into their lives I kind of lost myself in the process, I didn't want to do that with this one. However, I was beginning to realize, after being on the receiving end of a dozen or so piercing glares shot my way upon lighting up a cigarette, that I didn't necesarily need to "fit it" to kick the habit; actually, it just gave me a better reason than any I'd had previously. Dating a nonsmoker was getting to be a nuisance to my smoking self. Having to constantly brush my teeth, carry mints and gum, suck on Listerine strips and know that I still reeked and my breath was still terrible every time I kissed him was starting to drain me of all of my happy-smoker energy. Not to mention that, in spending an extraordinary percentage of my time with my gorgeous boyfriend, my inner twelve-year old was beginning to reappear, and boy, was she pissed. She took one long, carefully-measured stare at my protruding belly and fat thighs and sighed deeply. Offering up a look of bewilderment, she faced me and spat quickly, "What the hell did you do to me? You look like shit!"

I was about to chastise her language and offer up a plethora of half-baked excuses when I took a good look at her and realized that, language aside, she had a point. My inner twelve-year old had long, lean, tanned legs with rock-solid calves and thighs madfe of solid muscle. She had a tight, almost nonexistent belly and no "I look ridiculous in a sports bra" complex. Looking into my former self, the athlete formerly known as me suddenly realized why Gregory did hours on his trainer in his apartment when he couldn't ride outside because of heavy winds, why my mother, despite her smoking, busted out a sixty-mile ride on the weekends out to Carter Lake or Horsetooth Reservoir or some other beautiful area of Northern Colorado, why every once in awhile even over the last few years I'd get the bug in me and hit a trail for a few-mile hike, or go for a bike ride out ot the nearby reservoir, or something of the like. You don't need to be an Olympic athlete or even in training for your first Ironman to want to feel good. Sometimes you just need to shove the chair away from the computer, kiss your boyfriend on the forehead and get your ass out the door. My inner twelve-year old is now happy with me.