Today marks the start of week three of my triathlon training regiment. Surprisingly, I have not yet acquired the body of the model on this month's cover of Shape magazine, but I feel good, strong and am pretty confident that in the past month I have consumed much more ice cream than that model. But it's July. And I'm training.
Week two was a bit rough. I had a cold. I didn't miss a day but I suffered. I especially suffered on Saturday's run.
I've been in Cape Cod the past week, a little town called West Falmouth. If you look at the arm of land that extends into the ocean from Massachussetts, Falmouth is the shoulder. I packed my running sneakers and biking gear, as any good triathlete in training would. On Saturday, in the breezy cool of early evening, I set out on the road for a four-mile run, the longest distance yet.
In this lovely little town of Cape Cod, there were lots of joggers and cyclists doing the same and cars cooperating, driving slow and swerving in an encouraging way. All the powers that be were on my side, except for the biggest power that be, me. And I ate an apple about 1/2 hour prior to the run. Fifteen minutes in, the apple struck back.
There were also hills. Little ones, but bigger than any I'd dealt with on the bouncy track by the East River that has been my training ground so far.
I did the whole four miles. I came home and collapsed on the living room mat, my head between two worn wicker chairs, skin slick and pocked with red, bowels still regretting that apple, chest heaving. Hard. This is hard. Why were all those other joggers smiling? Why do I never feel so out of shape than after I jog?
We boiled lobsters later. I think they were good but the apple was still upsetting my appetite. Luckily I recovered in time for ice cream.
The next day's 10 mile bike ride was heaven. As was Tuesday morning's. All that open road, rolling hills that make you work hard then reward twice as much.
