The Triathlon, Part IV

There’s a sign at the Y informing swimmers that the presence of feces in the pool constitutes something called “code brown”. I made the mistake of thinking about this too hard while swimming and laughed underwater, sending a shot of chlorinated liquid up my nostrils. Swimming has gotten easier over the past few months, but it’s still the hardest of the three sports that make up the mini-triathlon, now just fourteen days away. I can swim 10 laps without stopping, up from three when I started training. There’s 44 laps to a mile at my local YMCA pool, and the swimming portion of the race is 1/3 of a mile, or just under 15 laps. I’m not sure how this is going to work on race day, unless I just go really, really slowly.

I’ve definitely gotten into better shape; I have noticeable triceps now and I can’t stop touching them and showing them to people, but being in good shape is all relative. The first time I ran around Horner Park without stopping, the music in my head shifted from the theme to Chariots of Fire to the Rocky theme song as I rounded the corner to finish the last fifty yards to my house. Some boys sitting on the porch across the street started laughing, and I wasn’t sure why until one of them yelled:
"Joo wanna take a breather?" I pretended not to hear them and ran up my front steps like Rocky at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Once during Adult Lap Swim Time at the Y I stopped to ask the lifeguard how many laps make a mile because I’d forgotten. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, his straight brown hair hung down into his eyes, and the Beach Boys’ "Surfing USA" blasted from a portable radio next to his chair.
"How many laps make a mile?" I asked from the shallow end of the pool. He looked at me from his perch.
"What?" he asked over the music, a rescue tube hanging over his shoulder like a large, reddish sausage.
"How many laps make a mile?" I repeated, louder this time.
"Do you need help?" he asked.
"No," I said, the skirt of my bathing suit floating up to my waist in the water, did I really look that bad?

I haven’t lost any weight but my clothes are loose; I can pull my jeans off without unzipping them, which is a fun party trick. I thought I was ready for a new bathing suit - one without a skirt, but I just don’t have the confidence to flash my pale, meaty thighs to the world, powerful and muscular though they may be. Sometimes I feel like Bruce Banner’s half-creature, the thing he becomes just before turning into the Hulk, minus the shredding clothes and the rage. Sometimes people notice that there’s been a change in my appearance, and I’m always disappointed when they don’t.

Today I’m going to attempt all three parts of the triathlon, with breaks between them. Wish me luck.

The Triathlon, Part II

Yesterday I decided it was time to hit the pool, but not before sustaining a minor injury at home while cleaning the kitchen. For months now I’ve been meaning to go through the cabinets and sort everything into piles: one for the trash, one for recycling, one for the Salvation Army, and one to keep; then put everything back in a way that makes sense. I've never gotten around to it, because it seems too huge of a project and I get overwhelmed. I started with the microwave nook. We have a miniature purple microwave that only has one setting, and it lives in a cabinet under the kitchen counter. Crammed above it on a wobbly shelf that’s missing two pegs is my mother’s dark orange cast iron Le Creuset stock pot from her first wedding in 1964, and resting on top of that is an inverted tray. I pulled the tray, sending the cast iron cookware on a short trip to the floor, connecting with my shins on the way down. I actually cried, I felt like such a baby but no one but the cats were around to witness it so I indulged. The stock pot had a scratch in the orange enamel that ran from top to bottom, and I had the beginnings of at least three bruises.

I spent the next six hours taking things out of cabinets, filling up bags of recycling and taking them into the alley, dusting, vacuuming, and putting things back. Intermittently I checked the Irving Park YMCA pool schedule. Along with the schedule was a page listing pool protocol, and information on pool closures:

The pool will be closed for the following reasons:
Vomit/Bodily Fluids/Feces
Missing Swimmer
Fire
The pool with NOT be closed for the following reasons:
Severe tornado watch/warning or weather alert
Lightening

I was amused and horrified, and chuckled at the misspelled “Lightening”. I couldn't imagine how a swimmer would go missing in such a small pool, or how a fire could break out, and decided right then and there that if I ever saw vomit, bodily fluids or feces I would withdraw my name from the triathlon, or just skip that part of the race.

By early evening I was tired from housework, and my shins were angry from their run in with the stock pot, but I couldn’t possibly let another day pass without swimming. This is sure to be the hardest part of the race for me; while I have the stamina for it I’ve never been technically proficient at swimming. I took lessons when I was about six or seven, and was afraid of putting my face in the water. At summer camp I never moved beyond Advanced Beginners, and though I've participated in a few distance swims, I always bring up the rear.

I piled everything I needed into two pannier bags and set out into the cold rain on my bike. At the front desk of the Y I bought a swim cap and a Master lock from the same woman who'd taken my registration a few weeks ago, and as soon as I reached the women's locker room I had to go back upstairs and ask her for the pass code to get in. I almost forgot it again on the short journey back down, and had to try it twice before I got it right. I’d reversed the numbers in my head, something I do frequently with phone numbers and addresses. At least twice in the last month I’ve gotten lost looking for addresses that I’ve written down incorrectly. I’ve never been tested for dyslexia, but if there’s a dyslexia specific to numbers I’m sure I have it.

I chose a locker and set my things down, and realized I’d have to remember the combination on the Master lock. Great. I left the sticker with the combination on the back in case I forgot it between now and when I came back for my things, which proved to be a useful strategy.

I suited up and went into the humid shower room where a woman with a tattoo on her shoulder was rinsing off, then opened the heavy door to the pool.

It was even more beautiful than I remembered it. Besides the words “deep” and “shallow” spelled out in tiny blue tile, there were intricate designs along the walls, and numbers indicating how many feet deep the pool was in any given spot.

Along the shallow end of the pool was a banner reading:

Irving Park YMCA Iguanas
2006 Champions
Boys division, age 8 and under

The banner was flanked by two shelves covered in trophies. Along the length of the pool were two large boards spelling out the pool rules, the first one covering rules A through G, the second H through P.

There were four lanes, and five people in the pool. I took the far left lane, next to a dark haired man in goggles, his eyeglasses folded neatly at the edge of the pool. I wore my glasses into the pool like a ninety year old man. My father once lost a pair of glasses this way while swimming in the ocean, and I lost a coveted pair of vintage sunglasses by diving into a lake with them on my face, but I figured someone would come to my aid if my glasses slipped off at the Y. I swam the length of the pool and saw a sign off the deep end that read: “44 laps to a mile”. I swam a few more lengths before realizing that I didn’t know if a lap meant the length of the pool going one way, or both. I asked the distracted lifeguard, a serious woman in her early twenties who clutched a clipboard to her chest. To my dismay, a lap was both ways.

“A mile is 88 times back and forth” she said, and dribbled a red rubber ball onto the damp floor from her perch.

I’d lost track of how many lengths I’d swum, so I made up a number – 8, and decided I would try to swim a quarter mile, or 22 lengths. By the time I was done I could hear the pulse of my own blood in my ears and was breathing hard. I was so tired once I got home that I weaved up the back stairs, and almost dropped the bike a couple times. This morning I registered for the "Adult Intermediate" swim class to get some help with my form. I wanted to sign up for "Adult Stroke Clinic," but it had been canceled due to lack of interest. It's just as well I guess, it's a terrible name for a class.

The Triathlon, Part I

This morning I woke from a dream that I was swimming in salt water. It reminded me of last summer on Cape Cod with Muggy and MamaVee, when, having not swum in an ocean in almost twenty years, I tasted my lips and exclaimed: "It's salty!" Muggy and MamaVee both laughed. Once out of the water I still felt the pull of the waves undulating over me, rocking my insides back and forth.

A couple months ago while instant message chatting with MamaVee, she mentioned that she was looking for a training partner for a mini triathlon this summer on the Cape.

"Wouldn't you need someone local to train with you?" I asked.

"As long as I know you'll be there on race day, that's all the motivation I need," she responded. I changed the subject for a while, but MamaVee was persistent.

"I'll ask again," she typed, "do you want to do the mini-triathlon with me?"

I asked about dates: July 19th; I asked how "mini" we were talking: 9 miles on a bike, 3 miles running, 1/3 of a mile swimming; before our conversation was over I said I'd consider it.

I bike to work about three seasons a year, so biking nine miles doesn't intimidate me - I cover eight miles each way when I commute. Running... well, I was a distance runner in high school, and although it's been twenty years I think I can work my way up to it. Swimming would be the most challenging for me, especially in open water... open, salty water.

I looked online at the results from 2008; the fastest entrant was 43 year old George Bent, who completed the race in 45 minutes, 59 seconds; the slowest was 23 year old Akayleia Frehner, who finished in 2 hours, 2 minutes, 47 seconds. 598 people between the ages of 13 and 75 had completed the race, 7 people started but did not finish. The youngest entrant was 13 year old Alison Horst, who finished in 1 hour, 19 minutes, 11 seconds; the oldest was 75 year old Lucy Duffy, who came in just ten minutes later. Give the woman her props.

I mulled it over. I've been biking to work for about a year and a half, minus winter, which accounts for quite a lot here in Chicago. I started in September 2007 in response to my unacceptably long commute time - 1 hour 15 minutes to travel 8 miles on public transportation. It's not always that bad, but you never know until you're actually on the bus or train, and then you're stuck. On good days it only takes 45 minutes, which is how long it takes me on a bike. I biked from September through late November, and once winter hit I stopped until the following April. I thought that with more experience under my belt I'd make it further into winter the following year, but as anyone will tell you, last winter was bad. Really bad. Record breaking temperatures bad. I've biked to work once since December, and I've lost all my hard earned muscle tone.

I decided that I was in, I'd do the triathlon with MamaVee. I did some searching online for a swim class, and discovered that the Y on Irving Park has a pool, and only costs $45 a month for a membership. I signed up and went to a complimentary "commit to be fit" consultation, which I thought was going to be a rudimentary check of my vital signs; height, weight, body fat percentage - but it was much more involved. I spent an hour and a half with a fit young staffer named René who asked me to fill out some paperwork stating my goals, took me on a tour of the facilities, and showed me how to safely use the weights. Halfway through my consultation we walked past a disheveled man seated at the photo ID area at the front desk, missing three front teeth, and smiling like it was Christmas. In that moment I knew that this was the gym for me; with an SRO attached to the gym, and residents clambering downstairs at all hours checking their mailboxes and enjoying complimentary coffee in Styrofoam cups, there's no chance that any overzealous fitness enthusiasts will harsh on my Y loving buzz.

Then René led me downstairs and showed me a room I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams. Back in the late 60's the Chicago Bears used this Y to work out, and as an homage to this glorious era in its history it now houses a room known as "The Bears Den", where upsettingly fit older men surrounded by posters of Oscar de la Hoya and framed, signed photos of 60's era Bears players lift free weights and punch heavy bags. A man who resembled a photo I'd seen recently in a Sky Mall catalog was lifting free weights rapidly, breathing in every time his arms lowered, and out when he lifted them up. His head was bald with a thin white fringe of hair, his neck ropey and muscular, and he sounded like he was practicing Lamaze breathing. Overhead, a sound system piped in Billy Idol's "White Wedding."

Next René showed me the pool, and if the old toothless man and Jack Lalanne's doppelganger hadn't already sold me, the pool stole my heart in an instant. The entire room was covered in small blue and white tiles, the words "deep" and "shallow" were spelled out in tile in the pool, and I felt certain that at any moment I would see a group of ninety year old Russian men arriving for their daily exercise.

Finally René showed me the weight machines. I hadn't used a weight machine in at least seven years, and when René asked "how does the weight feel", I kept saying "It feels good." The next day I was so sore I couldn't even bend over enough to tie my shoes, and had trouble getting in and out of the car. The soreness did nothing to dampen my sense of accomplishment, so when I saw my friend Kelly, a repeat marathon runner, I told her all about my new favorite gym. "No matter how out of shape I might be," I told her, "at least I have all my teeth." Then I told M's colleague Eric, who said a friend of his had gotten staph infection from working out there.

I haven't been back since, but I had an unexpected day off today, and was feeling vigorous. Whenever I have a day off, I imagine all the amazing things I can do with it. Years ago at the lefty, Quaker summer camp that I went to, one of our counselors was a former Amish man named Gunther who had subversively taken photos of a barn raising and showed them to us one night in a slide show presentation. After showing several images of straw hatted men hammering two by fours and raising beams, he said, in his adorable German accent: "dis vas befoe breakfast," and after showing us several more said "dis vas befoe lunch." I often hold myself to this unrealistic measurement when thinking of my daily accomplishments. It was 8am when I woke; I collected dirty dishes, put them in the dishwasher, added detergent and set it to run. This was before breakfast. Then I started cooking sausage bought from the Green City Market and eggs - over well for M, over easy for me, while listening to Flight of the Conchords, singing along and laughing as if it were the first time I'd ever heard it. This was before lunch. At 11:30 I got on my bike and headed for the Y.

I found a through street that allowed me to avoid the underpass of the Kennedy Expressway, parked the bike, and walked in. I went to the ladies room, where a faucet was running on its own. I picked a stall, pulled down my pants, and sat on a surprisingly warm toilet seat. I told myself it was from the radiator heat, not it's previous occupant, and finished my business. Then I washed my hands and managed to get the water to slow to a trickle - it wouldn't turn all the way off. Then I pondered what to do with my time here. Not wanting a repeat of last time, I decided to pick just one thing. I'd follow René's advice on how to build up to running 3 miles: walk for half an hour on a treadmill, alternating between 4 miles and 6 miles an hour in five minute increments. I went to the cardio room and started walking on a treadmill, and in a few minutes was running and sweating. For fun, I placed my hands on the pulse check bars in front of me, which prompted the message "checking your pulse while running is not recommended" to flash on the screen. According to the chart on the right side of the machine, my pulse was dangerously high for my age, but I persevered. I ran until I turned bright pink, until the aging man on my left slowed his own pace and watched me, possibly for signs of distress. After half an hour I'd run/walked 2.16 miles, and burned just over 200 calories.

I have to admit, it felt good.