The Rematch … It’s On Devil’s Canyon … It’s So On. I’ve Got Backup This Time

It’s that time of year again … the time when I challenge my weary bones and muscles … the time of year when I pretend I can swim freestyle knowing full well that it never works and I just end up swimming the backstroke and floating my way to the finish line. It’s that time of year where I step out of the “mom” box and step into the badass frame of mind which lasts up to 24 hours, then I go back to being defeated. It’s … Tinman Triathlon time and Devil’s Canyon awaits.

Pinche Devil’s Canyon. It’s on … It is so on.

Image via Durtbagz.com

 

I’m counting down. I’ve got about two months to whip this Guat body into Tinman shape. Don’t get me wrong the Fight For Air Climb certainly put my quads where they belong, it’s just the rest of my body that needs to cooperate. Specifically, the old parts. The parts that take Glucosamine and something called CoQ10. But I’ve decided to add some yoga and stretching to the mix, because my lower back seems to be aging faster than any other part of my body. Although my knees are a close second, and I’m afraid I’m going to need both to conquer Devil’s Canyon. So if you have any pointers feel free to share them.

However this time, the Tinman experience will be different. The training will be different. I’ll have someone there. My son. My four-year old son has agreed to enter the Tiny Tots Tricycle Triathlon. A super miniature version of the race and I’m excited to see him cross the finish line.

This of course means that I’ll be doing double duty when training. I can’t really go at full speed when training with him, so I’ll have to do my training whenever I can get it. This usually means at the break of dawn, which sucks for a night person like myself, or it can happen in the dark of night where suspect people usually walk the streets and I have to keep my Hapkido skills on high alert. Win-win I guess, but at least I have one day during the weekends where I can get my muscles up to Tinman status.

My son is pretty much at Mini-Tinman status when it comes to biking and running. He’s pretty high energy all we have to do is extend the road he covers. However we do have to practice our swimming a bit more, so the Lightening McQueen floaties and goggles will be making an appearance.

We’re both excited about the event and all I’m hoping for is that he finishes the race. He doesn’t need to be first. He just needs to finish. As for me? I don’t need to be first either. I just need to conquer Devil’s Canyon. It kicked my ass last year and I’m hoping the incident doesn’t repeat itself. In truth all I want to do is finish my race before the Tiny Tinman race starts. I want to be at the starting line cheering him on and be part of his pit crew when he gets on his bike. So I definitely need to get into kick-Devil’s -Canyon’s-Ass Shape.  It’s a rematch. Definitely a “Thrilla in Manila” type of event.

Stay tuned.

 

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• Despite Devil’s Canyon, It Was The Best Hour and a Half I’ve Had This Year. I Am A TinMan

 

Fitness Party Lessons

I know I have rhythm, I’m a regular Solid Gold dancer with slick Latin dance moves. It’s in my Guat blood and in truth it’s one of my favorite traits. But I’ll admit I was a little nervous. I had never participated in a Zumbathon. In truth I’d never even done Zumba, but as I mentioned before it was for a good cause. So I suited up in my best Costco sweatpants and t-shirt and was on my way.

Zumbathon Logo.

I didn’t know what to expect, but I can honestly say I didn’t expect to see this type of chick there. However when I walked into the basketball gym, I saw them … Dude. There they were all decked out in their full on Zumba gear, bracelets and hats included. I thought who the hell wears a hat when they workout. I mean if it’s not a baseball cap to hide your messed up Iris Chacon-Amanda Miguel morning hair, who wears that? Who wears hats like that to sweat?  Who does that? Zumba groupies I guess. I had been informally introduced to the Zumba groupie. I’m sure you’ve seen her, she’s the kind of chick that wears makeup to workout. After this encounter I wasn’t sure I was going to be enjoying this fitness party adventure.

The Zumba Groupies

But after a while, the majority of the Zumbathon people trickled in and most of them were wearing the “normal” sweats, shorts, yoga pants and t-shirt attire. Most of them were people from my old high school, most of whom I hadn’t seen since I graduated, and I was all right with that. There’s really no need to see certain people after high school, and some of them you don’t even want to run into on Facebook. Unfortunately, they find you. But I was willing to cowboy up and have the numerous Oh-my-God!-how-have-you-been conversations for the sake of raising money for my old acquaintance battling cancer.

So after all the hello hugs, I found a spot with my buddies and began the “fitness party” adventure. I had been warned that it might be a serious workout and that I might need to take several breaks within the two-hour frame. But in truth I was all right. I felt like I was on a dance floor at a wedding, only this time I was wearing my New Balance and not some killer high heels that would emotionally and physically damage my feet. Now don’t get me wrong there was a lot of sweat, but it didn’t feel like I was working out, which I guess was a good thing.

I enjoyed my first Zumba encounter, although there were a couple of things I learned through this experience.

The Zumba instructors and for some reason the groupies got into the shot.

I learned that the fake excited dance teacher that you see in DVD/videos really does exists. It’s not a myth. She’s real. She has all these cartoon character facial expressions and cheesy sayings that she really shouldn’t use, but she does because she thinks it’s going to motivate you. It doesn’t. It makes you lose faith in the Zumba philosophy, and it just makes you wish you hadn’t wasted money on that particular exercise DVD. Sadly I couldn’t turn her off. She was live and in progress. I was so grateful to learn that there were five other instructors that day and that fake happy dance teacher would not be returning to the stage. I also learned that the sixty-year old, gray-haired Zumba dance instructor was the most badass of them all. Sweat was pouring out when this lady took the stage.

Lesson Number Two: You Gotta Commit. In both life and Zumba, you gotta commit. I’d never taken a dance class but apparently it’s kind of like monkey see-monkey do. You pick up the dance moves as the routine progresses. Some of the moves were a little bit too involved for me. They were a little bit too much for everyone except for the Zumba groupies down in front. But as I saw the people in front of me half-ass the moves I thought  … dude that looks terrible. So non-athletic and non-dancer like.  I can’t be looking like that. Either you’re in or you’re out. So I fully committed to all the steps and if I messed up the Flashdance moves …  well … then … I went down in flames and I got a couple of laughs in the process.

Working it on the Zumba dance floor.

Lesson Number Three: Be Prepared to Pump It.  I had no idea that Zumba had a lot of these chest-pump dance moves. A lot. I felt like I was in a rap video — you know the kind where the chick is wearing Daisy Duke shorts with six-inch heels, and all of sudden takes a wide stance, puts her hands up in the air, and does her best Beyoncé-like chest pop. Apparently it has something to do with the abs, but I wasn’t feeling it and I looked nothing like Beyoncé. More like a chick with back problems, but nevertheless I remembered Lesson Number Two and forged on.

Two hours went by pretty quickly and in the end everyone was pretty sweaty from all that chest pumping. It was such a success that they said they might be planning another one in the fall. And who knows I might go again and learn a couple more lessons. But hopefully by then people will not feel the need to take pictures and post on them on Facebook. Maybe they’ll just take pictures for the sake of taking pictures.

 

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• My RSVP to the Fitness Party (thewishfactor.wordpress.com)

My RSVP to the Fitness Party

I’ll have to admit. I had to look it up.

I wasn’t aware of this phenomenon. In truth I hadn’t been to the gym since my college days where step classes were the latest workout rage. I’m not fond of gyms, too many beefcakes checking themselves out in the mirrors and too many naked chicks in the locker rooms admiring themselves. I’m not into narcissism so I like to work out in the privacy of my own home where I can where sweatpants and nobody will judge me for not wearing a matching sports bra. Or I exercise outdoors where there is nothing to admire but nature.

So when someone sent me an invitation for something called a Zumbathon, I had no idea what they were talking about. But Google enlightened me. Apparently it is something well-known in the fitness world. It involves Latin dancing and exercise moves that make you sweat in a fun way. That is just Zumba, but a Zumbathon is a two or three-hour session of this moving and shaking. I guess it’s a nice way to shed the pounds. They call it the “fitness party.” I’m not sure I like this phrase. My idea of a party does not involve exercising. Dancing yes, lifting weights and sweating in front of people? No, not really.

But nevertheless this whole Zumbathon was for a good cause. They are raising money for an old high school acquaintance who has Leukemia. So I thought if it’s for her, why not. We weren’t best buddies and we didn’t hang out and eat Corn Nuts together at lunch, but we had a few laughs when we joined forces at track meets. She was the track and I was the field.  Believe it or not my scrawny 130 pound self was a shot putter and a damn good one. I always came in first place against opponents. They underestimated me. I had a lot rage. Boys. They suck in high school. I mean they suck all the time, but more so in high school.

My only hesitation was the whole running into old high school people. I don’t like running into people, which is probably why I’ve fallen off the Facebook world. People find you and I’m more of the if-I-want-to-hang-out-with-you-I’ll-call-you frame of mind. But it’s for a good cause so I sent in my RSVP and will be participating in this fitness party this weekend. I better brace myself for the whole Oh-My-God-I-haven’t-seen-you-in-years-what-are-you-doing-now conversation. Plus all these people will probably be taking pictures with their camera phones and immediately posting it on their Facebook status. What is that? What is that! I’m not into being tagged and broadcasted on pages so that other high school people can find me. But I’m sure I’ll be all right. I’ll bring sunglasses.

However in terms for the actual exercise part of this event. I don’t know. How do you train for this sort of thing,? I don’t think you do, really. I mean it’s not a sport. I’m still in pretty good shape because of my recent Fight For Air Climb and I’ve kept up with my regular workouts. So I don’t think I’ll be out of breath. And there’s definitely no need to practice dance moves, because those are just natural for my Guatemalaness. So I guess will just have to see what comes out of this fitness party.

 

Image via LeFunny.net

 

Hopefully I won’t end up looking like the chick on the right during this whole event. I’ll keep you posted.

 

63 Stories

The countdown is on … Five days.

I got five days until the big race. The Big Climb, actually, and my quads feel like Randy Macho Man Savage‘s, but in reality they look like toothpicks. Really strong toothpicks, though. The big beefy kind that you get at a steak house, but no matter the size, they’re going to take me to the rooftop of the second tallest skyscraper in the city. I might not finish first, but I’m gonna haul ass and do my best to finish strong … even if it’s to finish at the top of my “age rage”. You gotta be happy finishing at the top of your “age range” right? I mean that’s how they level the playing field. But you also hope that you kick some 21-year-old butt and that a 65 year-old Muscle & Fitness Athlete of the Year type of chick doesn’t leave you in the dust. That’s all you really hope for right? Well, that and not falling up the stairs and causing pedestrian traffic.

So am I ready? Is Team Guat ready? Have I been training?

Most people have been putting up training logs on their fundraising page. I guess as evidence that they’re not slacking off – evidence that they’re committed and that people’s donations are pumping up their spirits to finish faster. I don’t need to be doing that … my people have faith in me. They know that if I say I’m going to do something, I will slather myself up and down with BenGay in order to get it done. I will run at around my neighborhood at 9 o’clock at night, hit the bleachers at the local high school on weekends, and storm my parents’ wooden staircase when the weather (or time) does not permit me to go outside. I work out. I’m prepared. I’ll get all Rocky Balboa on them.

But regardless of the workout, my Guat spirit is getting it done. It’ll get me to the top. I don’t know if I’ll still be sprinting by the time I get to the 40th floor with 20+ more floors to go, but I’ll still be moving. I’ve got the iPod loaded and my knees fortified with Glucosamine … well my knees could probably use a little more lubrication, but I think they’re used to the wear and tear going on around here. Ice packs and BenGay are common household items. I stock up. I should be, I know this little challenge is gonna require a lot of TLC when I’m done.

What’s ahead of me? 63 stories. About 1,400 steps. Now knowing this doesn’t necessarily make it better. In fact it may cause even more nerves because of the crazy number itself, but I tell myself that it can only help me. When I feel like I’ve done enough working out for the day I think … it’s 1,400 pinche steps. Holy Crap!  I could use another ten minutes of burn. So I take a deep breath, raise up the volume on my little iPod and keep running, keep stepping, keep lunging. Don’t know if that extra time is gonna help, but I’m sure I’ll find out.

.

And you’d figure with all this sweat and working out that I’d at least lose a few pounds or that my pants would fit looser, but I’m still racking up the same numbers and my stomach is still the stomach of a mother of two — no Shape & Fitness models up in here. I just tell myself that my legs are getting most of the lean muscle. It’s the silver lining.

I also remember that I wasn’t in it to lose weight, I’m never in it for that. I’m in it to honor my dad. I’m in it to raise money for the American Lung Association and help others with lung disease. I’m in it to reach the top.  I’m in it for the challenge that 63 stories can bring to my Ben-Gay loving body and knees.

My Eat-Pray-Love Moment Without Boarding a Plane to India or Bali

As I mentioned last week I finally got around to lacing up my New Balance and get back on the workout wagon after being kicked in the ass by the flu. And in doing so, I’ve added challenging goals to help me get back in good Guat health condition. This includes roller derby class, which is not only a massive quad and butt workout, but also scary as hell. And then there’s my big American Lung Association Climb coming up. But I thought I’d also embark on another challenge. Something that’s supposed to balance out my entire body, because you know me … I need balance.

Meditation.

For the next 21 days I’ll be participating in a meditation challenge to try to improve my whole wellness – body, mind, and spirit. I’m challenging my body in all sorts of ways that require BenGay, why not challenge my mind, right? I mean I got Advil if necessary.

Meditation … that’s one of those hey-that-looks-easy experiences, but it’s really not.

Image via loveofmantrameditation.com

I see it happen on television and movies. They sit there, in their kindergarten style cross-legged position, with their fingers doing that circle thing, listening  to weird New Age Music that’s composed mostly of wind instruments with names I can’t even pronounce. They look like they have peace and stillness, but they’re actors. They’re just pretending to be centered and balanced.

I can pretend to be too, but for the sake of this challenge I’m supposed to be serious and tap into that peaceful side of the Guat. I’m supposed to empty my mind of all thoughts and worry. I don’t know if I can empty my mind for more than five seconds. I might get bored with empty. I think too much. I talk too much. I’m a writer … it happens.

But don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind sitting on the beach, hearing the sounds of the waves and just relaxing. I don’t mind hanging out by myself in the late hours of the night when everyone is asleep, reflecting on my day and being surrounded by a nice quiet, not the creepy Hitchcock kind of quiet, the nice kind which is usually accompanied by tea. I don’t mind that. But apparently that’s not meditating. I was schooled.

I’m not a big meditating person. It seems a little difficult for me, freeing my mind of thought. I thought I did that while I was asleep, but apparently I don’t, which is why my friend sent me that 21-day Meditation Challenge email. So I thought why not, what have I got to lose? Fifteen minutes every day for 21 days, I can do this. I can have an Elizabeth Gilbert Eat, Pray Love moment without boarding a plane to India or Bali.

I may wind up more relaxed, more balanced, more at peace and less likely to get all George Costanza on somebody when they piss me off, but then again nothing may change and I might just enjoy the quiet of the night without the repetitions of a mantra, without the OOOOOOMMMMMs, without the New Age music. I might realize that a good piece of chocolate, my DVR, and some quiet is all I really need. Don’t know. But I’ll find out.

Going Shirtless

In truth, I’m a little nervous.

Is it because this is a new race? A new course? No. Not really.

Is it because it might rain tomorrow during the triathlon? No. Not really

Is it because my friend said she could do the swimming portion in seven minutes? No. Not really. That was more of a holy-crap moment.

Is it because I thought the race was next week and I had another seven days to train? Well … yeah … a little but that’s not the real reason.

Image via Durtbagz.com

It’s my shirt.

My shirt.

Every athlete is a little quirky, a little superstitious.  Before every competition, race, or game, they have their routine. They have their order. They have their groove. Baseball players may swing the bat and tap their cleats twice. Basketball players may bounce the ball three times and then spin it before shooting a free-throw. Football players may butt helmets and hit each others shoulder pads. Runners and swimmers may shake off their legs and do a couple of squats before taking the starting blocks.

Every athlete has their routine, their quirks. Mine … broken. This makes me nervous. It’s not like I was going for first place, but I’d like to not suck and this shirt … this shirt mattered. My “pre-warm-up” ritual … not the same. Doesn’t feel right. Literally.

It’s my shirt. It’s not a special triathlon shirt. It’s not a hundred-dollar Nike running shirt. It’s a black v-neck Addidas breathable fabric shirt. It’s been washed over and over and over again. It’s the shirt with no chaffing. It’s worn out in just the right places and it moves with me as I run.

Through 100-degree heat or fat drops of rain beating down on me, the shirt did well. It did well on a track. It did well on a bicycle. It did well in chlorinated water. It was an all-around bad-ass shirt — a can’t lose me shirt. So you could see why I’d be a little nervous. I don’t want to do two wardrobe changes as I transition sports.

Those of you saying why not just get another shirt?

Dude. Have you every played a sport?

This is the shirt.

I tried to find something else, something similar to it, but I had no luck.  The fabric was too clingy. The sleeves were too short. The material was not soft enough. The shirt didn’t feel right. It just didn’t. So I might just have to take multiple shirts in order to feel comfortable in every leg of the race. It’s probably all in my mind. But athletes are crazy and neurotic beings — well at least this Guat. And sports … dude it’s all about the mind.

When routine is broken, my comfort and confidence levels go down a notch. But I’m hoping these wardrobe changes will help even that out and set my mind at ease.

I’ll pack some chocolate just in case.

 

 

 

The Crazy Hill and The Mighty Stop Sign

It’s a stop sign. A red octagon with white letters. And normally this traffic sign is insignificant. It’s a stop sign. You stop, then go.  But this stop sign … this one, represented a woo-hoo! moment for me. A holy crap I can’t believe it.

It sits there at the top of a long, winding incline, practically at the top of a mountain. Taunting runners and bikers alike.

Had I attempted to reach the top before, during my previous triathlon training regiment? Yes. Did I make it? The first time I barely reached the 25 MPH sign. The second time … well … the second time I reached the deer-crossing sign and told myself I could do it. And I made it, huffing and puffing and gasping for air, but I made it. It took two attempts and many bike training sessions in between to build up enough endurance to reach the mighty stop sign.

I told myself that this time around I would make multiple trips over there, but seeing how it had been raining last week, and then hitting temperatures of 102 and 104 degrees Fahrenheit the week before, I hadn’t gotten around to as much bike riding as I wanted.

Image via Durtbagz.com

But I needed to cowboy up, because in my last triathlon Devil’s Canyon kicked my ass, and I didn’t want a repeat performance. Although I’m not sure what the bike course looks like in this race, I’m certain they’ve got hills and mountains. So this weekend I busted out my two-wheeler, with its new tires, and hit the pavement.

Now I wasn’t planning on visiting that crazy hill with its stop sign today. It had been a rough morning and emotions were running high in the Guat household. In truth, when I left the house I was thinking of riding  about five or six miles and then just heading over to the 7-11 for some chocolate, but found myself riding  to the state park instead, looking at that crazy hill and its mighty stop sign. As I stood there, I noticed all these racing bikes whiz right by me and I thought … oh hell no, even if I don’t have Gatorade I’m going up there.

I found myself pedaling towards that crazy hill and the stop sign.

Now once I got to the 25 MPH sign I thought yeah … I’m feeling pretty good. I haven’t even shifted gears, but once I got to the deer-crossing sign I began contemplating just turning around. My quads had not prepared for a ride of such magnitude and altitude. But I kept going. I kept saying, just one more sign, or just one more tree and I’ll turn back.

However, I just kept going. And in truth it wasn’t the upcoming triathlon that was fueling my inspiration to reach that pinche stop sign. It was the family drama that took place that very morning that pushed my Guat butt up that hill. My frustration and anger fueled me all the way to the top. All I could think was if I made it to the top at least something positive would have happened to me that morning. I would have a happy, triumphant moment among the crappiness.

And you know what? Anger works, man.

I reached the top passing all the racing bikes that had zoomed by me earlier. I got off my bike and smiled. I grabbed hold of that stop sign, while trying to catch my breath. I stood there for a moment. Red-faced, sweaty, huffing and puffing. And victorious. I had made it on my first attempt. And it felt good. Real good. I don’t know how it’s going to feel tomorrow, but today it felt good.

Some random couple drove by as I was feeling the thrill of conquering that crazy hill and reaching the mighty stop sign. They looked at the bike, then at me, and smiled. It felt pretty good to have a random stranger give me an imaginary high-five with a glance.

However as I was taking deep breaths, in order to try and catch my breath, I didn’t get a whiff of fresh mountain air that athletes need after such a victory. My oxygen was tainted. Tainted with the smell of fresh horse manure. And not just a little bit either. I think they were giving a group tour or something because there was a definite aroma in the vicinity.

So I grabbed my bike and made my way down hill. I wish I could have stayed a little bit longer and relish in the moment, you know, take it all in, but unfortunately horse crap isn’t really my thing. And it wasn’t great for my deep-breathing victorious moment either. Maybe next time will be better.

 

With The Help of DayQuil, NyQuil, and Ricola I See A Lot of Checkmarks.

Those calendars days stare at me. They lay there bare naked, no checkmark. They mock me. Damn it.

I started off so well. I was bionic and I crossed off each day in victory — overcoming the lazy I-don’t-want-to-workout early stages of training. The calendar marked my awesome daily athletic progress with large checkmarks. I got an enormous sense of satisfaction marking those days off. But now … now I’m just a regular body filled up with DayQuil, NyQuil, Ricola Cough Drops, and empty calendar days.

Image via Durtbagz.com

The flu is a bastard.

Sleeping about three to four hours a night for the past few days kicked my ass. My enthusiasm for triathlon training went down hill. The sad thing is I didn’t even have the flu this week. It was my kids. That children’s Advil and Tylenol work their magic for about four hours and then it’s over. The crying, the bad moods, the coughing, the congestion, and the mucus set off the night shift alarm, and I’m the supervisor.

However now, not only am I the supervisor, but I’m also a patient. So, I’m all about the over-the-counter medicine traveling through my body. Vicks Vapor Rub, bring it on. Tea with honey and lemon to comfort my body, yes. Thai shrimp soup, spicy to sweat it out, most definitely. I’m trying all methods to make this 37-year old Guat body recover as soon as possible so that I can return to my exercise mode. When training for a triathlon, you need every day, well at least I do. I’m 37.

I look like crap and feel pretty much the way I look. No mineral makeup to cover up this mess. The flu is in my blood and seeing the three calendar days without check marks burns me out. Stupid virus.

Why? Why is it that whenever you decide to get all jazzed up about an event or adventure there is always something that gets in the way? The flu. No babysitter. Sprained ankle. A flat tire. Your period.

All these little impediments momentarily stopping you from succeeding. Don’t they — the Powers That Be, The Universe — know that the race itself contains plenty of obstacles that challenge your body. You don’t need any extra rings of fire. You don’t need anymore downers.

You really don’t.

But nevertheless it happens and you just have to lace up the shoes and move on. There’s nothing that can be done about those three check-less days. There’s nothing that can be done about the 72 hours I lost. They’re gone. I can’t look at the calendar without wincing. But at least September is coming up and I don’t have to look at the month of August. It mocks me.

But September is a new page on the calendar, and all I see is checkmarks in my future. With the help of DayQuil, NyQuil, and Ricola I see a lot of checkmarks.

Giddy up!

 

 

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Gaining Some Perspective: I’m Still Bad-Ass

You try to gear yourself up for the big day, and you’re feeling like you’re almost there. You got the tights and the cape and you’re feeling like SuperWoman. But then someone rips your cape and the letter “S” just  looks like squiggly art from a preschooler.

I was trying to get motivated for my big race tomorrow. I was trying to feel less anxious. I was listening to some jamming tunes to pump me up. I was feeling athletic like. I was feeling Bionic Woman like. But then there came Debbie Downer, finding some way to say something negative.

They mention the fact that the race starts at 7 a.m. SEVEN, which meant I needed to be there around 6:30 a.m. That meant I had to leave the house around 5:00 a.m., which meant I had to wake up around 4:30 a.m.

“You’re not really a morning person, you know.

Maybe you should’ve got a hotel room, close to the race.

You didn’t even tune-up your bike. You could get a flat tire along the way.”

“Yeah … I could get hit by lightning while swimming and then drown.”

I should really pay attention to the Caller ID. Just because the phone rings, doesn’t mean I should answer it. Especially the day before the race. I wish they had some sort of caller ID for person to person conversations too. I don’t know how that would work, but it would be awesome. MIT or Caltech people you should really get on that.

In any case I began feeling more anxious about my abilities. More deflated. I could feel the confidence slipping. I hadn’t trained as much as I would have liked, I could have done better. I wasn’t feeling as confident as My Warrior Dash.

But then I came across this message and it helped me gain some perspective.

Image via quotablecards.com

 

I am bad-ass and extraordinary in my own way.

Giddy up! 4:30 a.m. wake-up call here I come.

 

 

 

 

My Tinman Update #2

My booty muscles were not prepared.

I hadn’t ridden my Bianchi Avenue Hybrid Bike in over two years. It’s a comfort bike. It’s got a BodyFit cushioned seat. Lies. All lies. My butt was not feeling the cushiness. I had forgotten about my muscles back there. They were out of shape. I never knew my booty could be out of shape. But it was. That’s what I get for neglecting my Bianchi for that long. However, I’m sure my back-end will be fine after a couple of rides.

Image via Durtbagz.com

The sad thing is I didn’t even bike that far. Maybe like five or seven miles. I would have ridden more, my booty muscles weren’t the issue at the time. They didn’t start hurting until the next day. It was my bike. It was undergoing some technical difficulties.

Air. I needed air. There was all kinds of air outside, surrounding me, whirling about in the California sunshine, but not so much in the back tire. So my ride was cut short. I thought I had inflated it, but for some reason it was escaping.  

However regardless of the short ride, I was glad to be pedaling again. In truth I was a little scared at first. Wobbly. Trying to stay coordinated. Wondering if I was going to fall. But after the first mile, I found my biking legs again. And I truly enjoyed my surroundings.

The Lake

 

I forgot how awesome it was to bike around this lake, in addition to working out my quads and butt muscles. After this ride I did feel inspired to continue training. The running was getting to me. I was lacking motivation as my New Balance pounded the track. I couldn’t find the awesomeness of this preparation. However, changing it up to the bike this week seemed to help my muscles say: Woo-Hoo! Bring it, girl! We like these fresh moves. We’re finally on board. 

Even though we need more time to workout and prepare we’re on board Guat. We’re tight on time, we’re not sure we’re going to make it, but if you work us out, we’ll help you finish the race.  You’re crazy, but we’ll help you.

Even my booty was on board.

Giddy up!