Finish Line Baby, Finish Line

I’m hoping the yoga worked, because The Countdown is on!

I’m already writing my thank you note to the creators of IcyHot.

I’ve got five days. In five days I tackle my yearly challenge: The TinMan Triathlon, not to be confused with the IronMan, but pretty badass nonetheless. I still get black ink finely printed on my awesome calf muscle and tricep. Once I see it, I’m transformed. No longer the mother of two: diaper changer extraordinaire, referee of superhero cape battles, Lego mastermind builder, and Nickelodeon remote control screener. I’m no longer the struggling writer who gets the it’s-not-you-it’s-me rejection letter. No longer a wife or daughter just trying to stay above water. It’s just me … the Guat … TinMan candidate.

Image via Durtbagz.com

I’m looking forward to that feeling. I’m looking forward to the starting line and enjoying my New Balance hit the pavement, my feet staying on the pedals, and my toes splashing in the water. And even though I’ll be sweating, and huffing and puffing, I’ll probably be enjoying every minute of it. Maybe not the Mission Impossible uphill battle of Devil’s Canyon. But once I reach the top, and hopefully not fall and break a valuable appendage while speeding my way down, it’ll be all good.

But this won’t be the best part.

As I mentioned before, the best part will be watching my son run his first triathlon: The Tiny Tots Tricycle Triathlon. I look forward to watching him smile as he crosses the finish line. I look forward to the thumbs up he’s going to give me. I look forward to taking our picture together with our matching medals. It’s cheesy, but it’s been on my Bucket List-Life-to-do list and his Sandbox Adventure List. He wants to be like Wreck It Ralph and get a medal and he’s been training well.

The biking and swimming sessions seem to be going well for him. The running? Well let’s just say he takes after me … he doesn’t thoroughly enjoy it unless he’s chasing a baseball, football or soccer ball. He sort of just trots his way around the track, but if he sees someone else running in front of him he feels the urge to speed up and pass them. So I’m sure when it comes to the race, he’ll be all right.

Me? My training?

It’s going slower than usual and time hasn’t really been on my side. So I had to do some things that I normally would never do.

Never.

But I’ve done what I had to do — whatever it takes to make sure I finish the race before my son starts his. So I’ve sacrificed. Sacrificed something valuable.

Sleep.

I wake up at the crack of dawn to work out. I hate dawn. I’m more of a dusk kind of person. Dawn is for sleeping, especially when you’re a night person and go to bed at midnight or 1 a.m. I tried the go-to-bed-earlier routine, but my internal clock doesn’t let that happen. I’m used to decompressing and enjoying the awesome quiet of the night. Meditating. And I’ve realized that I really need my Namaste moments, otherwise I’d probably throw someone off a cliff.

So I sacrifice sleep. I flop out of bed to ride a bike, run, and yes even swim. And I’ve got to say out of all the early-bird routines, the swimming seems to be the most relaxing. Surprisingly I flop out of bed with less hostility when I know I’m hitting the pool. Still cranky though, but not as bad.

However, all of it for a good cause. Finish line. Need to make the finish line so that I can see my son cross his starting line. That’s what I keep telling myself when the alarm rings at 5:30 a.m. That’s what I tell myself again after I hit the snooze button. Finish line baby, finish line.

 

 

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I Realized That Tylenol Sucks

I’m no Flo Jo, no Lance Armstrong, no Michael Phelps. I’m not in Olympic shape. I’m not in triathlon shape. I’m not even in junior high school nerd shape. I’m not swimming. I’m not biking. I’m not running. I’m barely walking.

Image via Durtbagz.com

Apparently the flu is contagious in this household, and when it’s accompanied by a fever, crankiness and the inability to perform basic functions like throwing out the trash are common side effects. So not only am I sleep deprived, but also lacking the time to tone and condition my muscles as I find myself the only capable and functioning adult in the household.

During this health conscious time, I’ve realized that Tylenol sucks. It just doesn’t work. Acetaminophen. It doesn’t matter if it sounds all fancy-SAT-like coming out of the pharmacists mouth. Acetaminophen. It still sucks. It’s supposed to relieve pain and reduce fever. Lies … all lies. I should have read the fine print more closely … It says minor aches and pains. Minor. Stuff like papercuts or hangnails, I guess.

Perhaps if I would have started the ibuprofen regiment earlier the germs would not have overpowered everyone’s immune system and I might have made time to train for the Tinman Triathlon. If this Advil for Infants and NyQuil for adults doesn’t work I may in fact come in last place at this race. I used these flu drugs before and they seem to do the trick, but it may take a while. Last place … stupid Tylenol.

Although, there’s nothing wrong with last place, but if you know you can do better … it sucks. So I hope to carve out time this weekend and begin a daily training routine to help my Guat body do well in this race.

In any case the countdown continues and I forge ahead with my plans. Once again I’m in it solo. Now, I understand why a couple of my friends were hesitant to accompany me during the Warrior Dash. That was intimating and most of them were concerned about the obstacles. But this triathlon has zero obstacles and yet again I had no takers. 

Well one friend was up for the race, but seeing how she had neck surgery just a little while ago, it might be a good idea to sit this one out until she’s recovered. The neck seems to be a vital piece of the human body. You need it to work properly. But everyone else seemed not too keen on the idea as I got no response from my email.

That’s O.K. I meet all kinds of interesting people during a race. We all sprint the straightaways. We all don’t want to get beat by the sixty-year old Ironman looking chick. We think about walking the bike up that killer hill.  And we all share the same goal: finish the race without injury.  

With the help of Advil and NyQuil the training begins. Giddy up!