A Weekend Taste of Being the Best

This past weekend, Boston Performance Coaching and the Cape Cod Triathlon Club held a training camp at the Nickerson Park in Brewster, MA.

The schedule promised serious ass kicking training, with a jammed schedule that made me wonder if I would've been better off signing up for Patriot HIM that Laura Miyakawa would be racing on Saturday. Friday promised some bonding, orientation and fire camp. Saturday, 2.5 hrs of swim clinic, followed by quick lunch and nutrition talk. Then some more swimming: this time 1 hrs. of open water clinic. Then 2 hrs of ridding and a running clinic to top off the day.
Sunday will bring a mock triathlon, with the option of choosing your distance: sprint, Oly, or any combination or hybrid of the two.

I arrived on Friday night after the bonding had been done, to enjoy a bit of the camp fire with Noah and then hit the bed. An early morning was expecting us the next day.
Saturday I wake up at 6 am, to have a quick breakfast, get ready for swim clinic, but most importantly, to measure up my fellow campers. Having arrived so late the night before I had missed the chance of meeting everybody, so I had no idea where I was standing. Knowing my limits and abilities, I always expect to be on the slow side of the pack, so I desperately wanted to know by how many I would be beaten.
I meet a couple of guys who look pretty bad ass and one or two older women who is impossible to know. Many times I've made the mistake of giving sweet glances to grandmas, only to have them kick my butt during a race.

Coach Ali Winslow arrives to camp from an early trail run that I skipped, given the many injuries that my left leg has and that has taken me out of running for 22 days now (not that I'm counting or anything). I hug her and ask how many campers are we expecting. Around 30 she says. Woo woo, what? I'm ok with 10 people beating me, but 30? You won't be the slowest one, I promise, she tells me. Hmmm... I have my serious doubts.

We drive to the pool, get swim caps and goggles and hit the water. Swim coach asks us to take the whatever lane we think we belong to: first for advanced, middle for intermediates, last one for beginners. I think it over since my normal swim practice has 5 lanes: extra bad ass to I need flotties swimmers. I decided for the middle lane and if I need to move to beginners, so be it. 200 for warm up coach says. We start swimming and I take 3rd turn. By the 4th stroke I start tapping the front swimmer's feet. You go, you're faster than me, he tells me at the other side of the pool. We start with basic drills and the coach warning us how awkward we'll feel, since we don't have a strong swimmer's core.

One drill, two, three, and I keep leading the lane, since the rest is a bit slower than me. I only have Noah tapping my feet every now and then. At the end of every drill, coach looks at me and tells me: That was awesome. That was perfect. You won't have any problems with this drill cause you're balance is right on and you have such a strong core. The rest of the lane ask me to go fist on every drill so they can see, and tell me: you've been doing this swim thing for a long time right? I smile and point at coach Ali who's swimming in the lane next to me and say: it's all her.

Open water comes and we're to practice mass starts. Ali instructs Jeff, Noah and me to start 10 sec. after the rest to chase them and swim over them. We do so I and give 4 of the front pack swimmers a taste of how it feels to be dragged by the ankle and then push down and swam over: something I'm very familiar with.

The theme goes on for the bike. I choose to go on the ride with coach Ali and as she stays at the back with others on a "Ali Winslow teaches you to ride a bike" tour, she keeps yelling at me what I should be doing: Come on Mexican! Faster! Hammer that hill! Faster cadence! Drop a gear, put one on! By the end of the ride I taken on 9 more miles than the rest of the camp.

Sunday comes and I'm pumped to do this mock race as now I know I can take most of them, at least on the swim and bike. We get to location and as I prep my transition, I realize I dropped my helmet somewhere back at camp. Rookie mistake. I have to drive now back to camp to get it, which means that I'll miss the start, hence my chance to crush others. I still manage to come back for the bike portion and as I take off, I pass one, two, three on the way. I get to a Y on the road and as is my trade mark move, I manage to take a wrong turn and get off the curse. Luckily, Shannon, a fellow camper has obviously made me her to-beat goal and follows me around. Some miles in I realize that we're on our own, so I decide to keep riding on a straight line until I reach 10 miles and then turn around. Shannon follows right behind me, stepping on my toes, which pushes us both and we keep an average on 19 miles p/h for the 20 miles. Something I had never done before.

Coming back from the bike I take on my first attempt of a run -with permission of coach Ali- only to discover that my foot is still injured and run two painful and miserable miles. I get back and decided to do the swim that I missed. When I finish there are still some people out finishing their long curse, but most of them stopped at sprint if not sooner. Someone comes and tells me how she tried to catch me on the bike to tell me I was missing a turn, but she just couldn't keep up. You were flying! she says. Then a second one comes and tells me how she went to the beach to look at my swim, and how great of a stroke I have, and how fast I look out there.

The mock race comes to an end and a quick Transition Clinic conjures in the parking lot. I change and refuel as listen, and I'm tempted to share one of the best tips I've received: Vaseline your cheekbones and the punches at the swim will slide off. I hold it back thou, as I realize the rest has had enough of scary facts and experiences this weekend. I do however, encourage the guys to wear tri shorts under the wetsuit: volunteering for Mooseman HIM a few weeks back, an athlete peeled off his wetsuit in front of me, only to reveal he had nothing underneath. Is not only not OK to shock beyond reasoning a volunteer, but is close to impossible to put on bike shorts when wet.

At the end, athletes thank the coaches for putting this weekend together and express how much they've learned. And I couldn't agree more. Besides having a weekend away in a beautiful place and having lots of chances to train and spending time with good friends, I did learn a ton. I learned some new cool swim drills, I learned that I move way to much on the bike and loose too much energy doing so, that my foot isn't healed yet. But I also learned what it feels to be on top. How much more fun is racing when you know you're gonna take some heads on the course. Yet, the most valuable thing I learned, is that you are never at the bottom. That it doesn't matter how much I think I suck or how slow I think I am, there is a whole group behind me that are, just like me, trying their best.

I have the annoying quality of always complaining of how slow I am and making fun of it, but this weekend I learned that is not ok. Not just because that frame of mind doesn't help in any way to grow as an athlete, but because is not fair to me and to a bunch in the back, that as surreal as it may sound, are trying to catch me.

How this time, my first time sucked too.

Finally the day when I would run my first half marathon came.

After weeks of nervousness, small panic attacks and awful runs (cause of said panic attacks), a week before the race I went for it and did a 13 mile run. Having finished that within my estimated time, I felt ready to let the bitchin' go and started to get exited to run my very first 13.1

The day before I got myself in total war strategy mode. Slept 8 hrs. the day before, had a 20 min stretch-your-legs run and then relaxed for the rest of the day. I downed 7 water bottles, 3 with recovery mix. Had hearty bfast, had sweet potato & plain chicken for dinner. Man, I was as ready.

Still, I was more anxious and more nervous than before any other race I've ever done. Much more than my first triathlon. Why? Cause it was all about running.

Not that I'm a fish, or Lance's lost twin sister, but if I'm not exactly good at something, that, is running. It has never been natural to me, I've never been good at it, I've never been fast and it never stops hurting. And this race was all about doing it for 2 hrs. But I had trained as much as I could have and I knew that I was going in as ready as I was going to get.

The morning of the race I meet with my fellow BPCers LVO, Jeremy and Kelly. We discuss in the car how the wild card here is the sun and how it may kill us while trying to convince Jer that really, 87 degrees is not you're ideal half-marathon-running temperature.

We get to the starting line, Jeremy decides to wait for the starting gun within his 7ish minute mile pace group, while LVO and Kelly walk to the 9ish minute mile with me, to not leave me alone, as I'm pretty nervous and I keep repeating: I'm gonna pass out!

5,4,3,2, Hoooonk! From step one to mile 1 I keep thinking how I did this last week and I was fine, and I finished in a decent time for me and it was all about doing it again. The sun thou, was certainly beating me, relentless and feeling twice as hot because of the blazing asphalt.

Now, I need to mention here that I'm a sweat machine. In a controlled-temperature room lifting weights, I sweat like a chicken being roasted, or my personal favorite, like a whore in church. I'm not sure why, but that's how I'm wired. This time, running, in a close to 90 degree weather with no shade, by mile 1.5 I was already dehydrated.

Mile 2 to 5.5 were miserable. All I kept thinking it was how I had to bail, and how I just needed to get to mile 4 to find my cheering bosses and asked them to drive me home. How I would say: dude, today was not the day. Today is not gonna happen. How I would then on Tuesday have to tell my coach Ali, that I had quitted by mile 4, that I didn't feel well, that it was hot and what not. And then I would imagine her face and disappointment. I would think then of how many long runs I had done leading this race and how it was really just about keep moving one leg after the other.

Finally mile 4ish came and my cheering crowd is there, with Boden letting me know how he's running the whole marathon the next day, and not the half like me. Their faces carry me to mile 5 .5 where LVO passes me on the way back and after high five-ing me I see Laura Miyakawa holding the best "Run like a Gorilla!" sign and I really want to stop and hug her, but I know that if I stop I may not be able to run again.

Turnaround comes at mile 6, and I quickly realize that my time is completely fucked. I would have to run the remaining 7.1 miles at a 8 min/mile pace, which I've only done once, for ONE mile, thank-you-very-much, to finish at my estimated time. Knowing so, I feel pretty shitty and frustrated, but also gives me a sense of freedom: Oh well. I guess the best next thing is finishing, so let' go for that.

Mile 6.5 brings Laura M again, mile 8 brings my cheering bosses once more. Around mile 9 I pass for the 100th time random guy who, oddly enough, is wearing a baggy grey cotton t-shirt and slow down to chat: You know I'm only out to beat you right? What? he asks. Yeah, my time I fucked now, so I'm now out to beat you. I need to crush someone. You're funny! he says. No I'm not, I think, but let him believe I'm kidding while he stupidly sprints to pass me, using his last gas. I stay in the back for a bit while someone recognizes my BPC jersey and asks me: You're Ali Winslow's? Yup, I'm hers! K, bye! Catch again with the baggy grey shirt guy and after the mandatory: is this your first? yup, you? yup! Is hot men, this sucks! I know... I drop him behind until I only hear from the back: ok, bye! See you soon... and like that he's gone.

Mile 10 and I try to cheer me on by thinking I have just a 5k left, but at this point I'm well overcooked. Mile 11.5, and Laura M pops out of nowhere in Downtown Crossing with a "Just keep Running! sign and I try to decided if I want to yell: I LOVE YOU! or GO HOME AND MAKE ME TACOS! as we're to celebrate the race with fish tacos at her place that night.

Mile 12 and I wonder if I could repeat the miracle of the 8 minute mile again, and while I wonder I see the finish line. In my mind I'm sprinting, but I'm quite sure that of a sprint it only had the intention.

I'm finally done. I have to stop and lean on my knees as I'm dizzy and unbelievably hot as a volunteer asks me if I'm ok. I say yes out of pride but I'm not all that sure. Coming into the tents i grab as much water as I can and drop some ice cubes down my neck. Well, that sucked.

On the after hours I get calls, texts, facebooks asking me how it was and congratulating me on my first. At taco dinner everyone wants a recap. I honestly want to be happy about it, but the I finished my first half joy is completely washed away with the disappointment of finishing in 2:31.

2:31. I know Mexican power walkers who walk a 13.1 faster than that. 2:31, that is 30 min more than expected. 2:31, in a word: sucks.

Yet, I lived to see another day and to go back and think of what went wrong, and to maybe one day, pretend that I'm a virgin and give my first, a second go.

Season Opener and the curse of the crappy weather

May 9th. For the rest of the world is Mother's day, time to be corny and cheesy. For a few chosen ones, is time to come face to face once again with the first triathlon of the season in New England.

Why is this so important? Because is New England, no less.

This is my second year in the triathlon world, and to be quite honest, my first racing. Last year while I completed 5 sprint triathlons and 1 olympic -or "Oly", as the insiders call it- I was merely participating in them. This year, after months and months of hard, horrible training; after more 5 am wake up calls than I care to count and more hot Epson Salt baths at night than is probably healthy, I finally raced my first triathlon.

Day starts at 4:30 am, time to gather all bags that have been pre-packed the night before and the water bottles with pre-race, race and post-race drinks.

As I drive to Hopkinton I can't help but remember where my mind was last year and how much I've changed. As I start to recognize the roads, I begin to feel giggly and nervous. I'm about to do this. Again.

In the parking lot I instantly recognize bright blue and orange BPC jackets. My two coaches, Vic Brown and Kelly Cassidy are already there. We hug and scream like we haven't seen each other in years and start our walk to transition area. I pick up my numbers without and I.D. promising the volunteer that Natalia is me, I swear! Then the religious body marking ceremony begins. Kelly and I strip out of jackets and pants and beg the girls to do so quickly. Is 43 degrees out here, with winds that promise not to cooperate.

Walk to transition to lay out bike, shoes, helmet, more shoes, body glide... looking around for familiar faces. Many friends to hug, to wish good luck, to complain about how horribly cold it is. Looking around to see who may recognize my uniform, new and shiny, and to how many I will clearly be wearing the wrong colors. Coach Kelly: wear it with pride girl! With pride! And I sure do.

Time to warm up as indicated by coach Ali the previous night, cause there's no rest for the wicked. Coach Kelly and I head out to do a quick bike, a quick run and ignore the order to warm up in the water. We can't feel our feet or hands. Is 43 but feels like 30. Gladly we squeeze in our wetsuits, secretly praying they'll zip up. Time to walk down to the beach.

The sand is frozen and the wind only seems to pick up. The buoys are floating away and no one appears to do anything to stop them. We make our way into the water: the sooner the better. Let's get over this and if we are to die frozen, it better be now. It's 62 degrees. Yes, the water is warmer than the air. Can we exchange the run for an aqua-jog?

The wind is only picking up and this reminds me too much of last year, me, crying in this same beach, telling Coach Vic how I really think I won't survive, and I really think I won't do this.

I spot Vic and quickly walk my way to him to ask for advice, this year without crying tho. Just as last year, he assures me I will be fine, just don't aim to the buoy. Aim to this and that point and the wind will do rest. And breathe only on your right side. Ok, is all A. o.k. Coach Vic tells me I'll survive, then I'll survive.

20 seconds. 10. There they go. Elite and 20 to 34 y/o men start to swim. Elite women, 20 to 34 y/o and me, watch in disbelieve how off course they are and how it seems like they're not moving at all. Now one, two, three take their caps off and wave them to call for help. Guys, this is not exactly what I would call encouraging...

20, 10... Here we go. It's go time.

The wind is way worse that it looked from outside. It doesn't matter right or left breathing, the water slaps you in the face, and the other 100 women swimming slap you everywhere else.

I swallow water one too many times and I start panicking. Am I gonna have to call this off? I spot coach Kelly just next to me. She seems alive to me, then I must be alive too. I try to remember everything coaches Vic and Ali have told me: hands like paddles, push your torso down, spot slightly every 3 strokes... swim like a gorilla Natalia! I dolphin kick my way around one buoy as the first woman goes down, up in the boat. I put my head down and repeat my mantra: Swimming like a gorilla, swimming like a gorilla... Beach at last! I run to transition, dizzy and disoriented, wishing I would've done more 200's/push ups/squats combos.

Wet suit off, bike shoes, helmet, jacket, sun glasses on. Big sip of my coach "legal crack" drink and off I go.

Fast legs, fast cadence, small circles, relaxed shoulders... I spot my first victim. Oh! Lady in tennis shoes, you will not be faster than me! On your left!

Is funny what a piece of clothing will do for you on race day. I feel the weight and responsibility of wearing the BPC uniform and think of what other people may think if I slow down: what kind of "performance coaching" is that? Com'on, there's no pain. "This is what training is for" Laura's voice comes to my mind... Dude with Lakers shorts, you are so, so not going to pass me.... On you're left!

Finally the dismount sign. Try to run thru transition but my feet are completely frozen. Helmet, bike shoes off. Running shoes on.

Here. We. Go. Fast legs, fast cadence coach Vic's voice repeats in my mind. Fight the wind with your arms, on your toes, coach Kelly's interrupts. Go Baby! coach Ali's yelling comes next. Mile 1 down. Zip of water. Mile 2. Big hill... oh lord. I decided to sprint it out and get over it as fast as I can and my plan works. Now comes the bridge that with the 50 miles p/h wind seems like the bridge to nowhere. Down the bridge and I hear the music coming from the finish line. I spot my final target: lady with the baggy grey cotton t-shirt, I'm sorry. I'm gonna have to pass you. I gather all the voices in my head. My coaches and peers all talk to me and I somehow dig deep and find one last sprint.

Finish line at last! Time to hug everyone, to dance to the up beat music, to tell the tales of how horrible it was. To high five everyone for yet another great time.

Last year I survived. I finished. This year I was out to beat me, and I did. By ten minutes or so. This year I was out to race and to make my uniform proud. And in my own terms, I did.

Until next year Season Opener. I'll see you and your crappy weather once again.