Ironman countdown day four, or three, not including race day. Some years, about now, I'm giddy and silly and dancing around the house. Some years, I'm chewing through the walls I'm so cranky and nervous. Other years, I'm so frazzled from trying to pull everything from different compartments of my life together, that it's just one insane swirl. This morning, I woke up to what I can only describe as a hint of nervousness (can I have waited three hundred sixty days before getting nervous before such a potentially nightmarish day?) mixed with a hefty wave of melancholy. Sprinkle with world news that can leave no sane person without a terrible stomach ache, and that's where I am. Now, to wolf down my last meal before leaving in our beloved mini-van towards Madison, Wisconsin.
First, a discussion of gear. Believe it, this photo-array of the packings that I'm taking is a typical selection of what Iron-geeks bring to their lodging prior to race day. Two of just about everything, and one of every sort of race day weather attire. Bike, swim, run gear galore, plus three days worth of weekend-er clothes to enjoy what is a bit of a retreat, reunion, celebration, as it might be called.
The Unencumbered Woman does one better, which is, as usual, I can't imagine leaving for five days without a selection of yarn projects. I'm taking three (or is it four?) yarn works. One, my needlepoint benchcover; two, a pair of worsted weight socks that I started yesterday, and an Doris Chan motif skirt. That, along with a Joyce Carol Oates novel, my training log and calendar, camera, smartphone and sundry chargers, I'm all set for leisure time.
And what about race preparation? I'll jog a bit in Madison, swim on Saturday morning, perhaps tool around on my bike, but for the most part I'm finished with exercise. Yesterday, I got up early enough to swim with my team, and that felt nice. Then, in accordance with the fact that I've been primarily walking since I crashed my bike, I went for a long walk at around noon. By the end of the day, I was wondering what had happened to me. Where is that fighting spirit? Do I care how fast, how hard, how long I take? Simple burnout, fear of failure, or even battle fatigue from a crash and sore breathing three weeks prior to race day. I don't really know, and at my ninth Ironman, it hardly matters. Frankly, this woman has done her job, but enrolling and participating in the Ironman has given me a focus for my years worth of exercise. Most don't believe this, but I know I'd have a hard time getting out twelve months a year and exercising without this sort of encompassing goal. Now, after so many years, the ritual is set and it's almost easy for me to go through the training motions.
And then last evening, as I sat watching daughter's martial arts practice, it dawned on me. As I repeat something that I can savor, year in and year out, our life here in suburbia, the stars of the show are evolving and growing and moving and changing. On the eve of a black belt promotion, that little pipsqueak that cheered me on in 2008 is grown to the size that her sister was in 2008. And big sis, well, there's no shortage of emotional pull in this house as we watch her successfully navigate her first month at a humungous suburban high school. We're so proud of these beautiful, funny, athletic, creative kids, and we're preparing for the next phase.
So what will the next phase look like? Who can know. And maybe this, as much as anything, keeps me coming back to Ironman. I, as much as I love chaos and adventure, am a creature of habit. I grew up in a quiet, predictable, safe home. I was fortunate to grow up in the number one hippie town in the US, and raised by loving, older parents of the WWII generation. My empathy spans the decades and the movements, but at bottom, I crave simplicity. A workout plan, a sweaty day, a healthy hippie meal, and a jigsaw puzzle to toil over. Amidst the rocky world news and national news that leaves so many of us feeling utterly help/hopeless, day after day, I can repeat this ritual race. While I'm at it, I can share my perspective with others, I can honor my own integrity when possible, and finally, I can get some of that mojo out, that a middle aged woman is totally proud to possess. From year to year, I can remember what it was that was happening in years past. Ironman has become a marker, and so, let's go!
Taper, you say? I'll show you a taper fit for a queen. Taper time, in Ironman Speak, is all about cleaning house, organizing tri-gear, catching up on the Netflix queue, and finishing projects. Throw in some yard work, garage & and basement cleaning, you get the idea. Last night we polished off the summer skirt project, otherwise known as the Zuma Skirt, designed by, yes, Doris Chan. Hooked from the always divine and not too-ungodly expensive, Tahki Cotton Classic Lite, we're lookin' stylin for a late summer evening.
And: "You treat me like I'm an adult and I'm just a little kid!"
I brought out one of my main photographers, and she did me justice. There was a bit of arguing about the clarity of shots, but, as my companion insisted: "Mom, If you get mad that it's blurry I won't take pictures of you anymore!" And so, again, point taken.
Our fine photographer also insisted that we pose in front of the "pretty bungalow. I was going for the art shot of the soon-to-be Oak Park teardown. Not much agreement, here.
Just you wait, this'll be gone soon. Or, at least unrecognizable.
"Now...Get me like I'm tearing down the house, get it?"
Yup, it's vino time.
See, that's a good one, Mom! I was trying to capture all of the extra western light that's flooding over the former attic and roof of the house, but the haze is pretty sharply white.
Great Teamwork.
And, taper time, lots of sing-along music. It's what gets us through on race day and until then....
Taper time! We're nearing the date of Ironman Wisconsin, and here I am, decreasing my training volume, catching up on sleep, eating, dealing with personal affairs, and beginning preparation for the execution of my Ironman plan. Might seem complicated, but really, to the Unencumbered Woman, it's just another excuse for fun and games. Yesterday delivered a fantastic massage from the masterful hands of Debra, who's been working on me for at least eight years. It was hot as anything on my ride to and from the appointment, and as I rode through the lush suburbia of River Forest, I was on the lookout, as always, for something interesting. LF, you might realize that I don't say a lot about River Forest, but the place is not only a spectacular glimpse at Suburban Grandeur vis-a-vis early twentieth century estate homes, but the abundant mid-century homes are jaw-dropping. In my time here in the midwest, we've lost many of these homes to tear-downs, but there are still oodles of these homes that I simply adore. Everything from custom made architectural streamline gems to Jetsonian midcentury modern to sprawling sixties ranches that offer so much to the imaginative, creative soul.
south beach aqua trim, beamed ceilings, slab foundation, white brick, paneled windows and more, if only we could get in for a look-see!
Taper time is always a great opportunity to organize a room or two, and to work on abandoned projects. Today, we're looking at the "world's longest sock".
the world's longest sock...ok...someday to be the world's longest sock.
I've also made time in my hectic week to make sure that I have a lie-down space on my front porch/office/yarn goddess room. It's took me a while to figure this one out, legs have been hanging off that sad little love seat for far too long. Taper time? Fix it, goddamn!!!
chair plus love seat? equals suitable lie-down couch. yes!
Finally, Addie and I finish our shared endeavor of the summer. All three seasons of the pathetically hilarious Arrested Development. I'm not going to bother to defend my love of this 2005 TV show. If nothing else, LF, it'll give everybody something to say when they point to me, and say, "she wasn't so politically correct, after all, was she!"
When prompted, Addie admits that of all the characters, she thinks that I'm most like Lucille Bluth.
It's fun to meet the adolescent at adolescence. So we've slumped on the couch all summer, going through each outrageous episode together. She laughs out loud just about as much as when she watches Portlandia (hardly ever), but I nudge her every few moments and beg her to laugh out loud. She always replies, "Mom, I think it's funny, I just don't like to laugh." And so it goes. My child, in utter control. Me, a wimpy, adolescent parent playing at being the one who knows what she's doing.
Now there's a great send-off for my final week of Ironman taper. This will be the eighth time I've ponied up for a race of this distance, and as much as ever, beneath it all, it seems a juvenile pursuit which could just as easily deliver total humiliation as it could deliver total Jutzpah or even physical harm. I dug around for a Lucille Bluth quote that might sum things up for me, but really, the gal's a bitch and I'm not like her. Truly, however, my favorite character and all time Diva Liza Minelli is Lucille2 and here's what I found from her script:
"Yes. I'm foolish and I'm funny and I'm needy. Am I needy?"
First, a discussion of gear. Believe it, this photo-array of the packings that I'm taking is a typical selection of what Iron-geeks bring to their lodging prior to race day. Two of just about everything, and one of every sort of race day weather attire. Bike, swim, run gear galore, plus three days worth of weekend-er clothes to enjoy what is a bit of a retreat, reunion, celebration, as it might be called.
