Sometime in the middle of the night, not quite asleep in one of two full-sized beds in a Motel 6 in Elkton, Maryland (I never manage to actually fall asleep the night before a race), I heard a distinct patter and rumbling outside. A thunderstorm. A big one. The room was still dark, or as dark as it had been when I turned off the light and feigned sleep at around eleven--charcoal gray with a white shine of tall streetlamps or the all-night truck stop across the street. When the alarm on my cell phone went off at five thirty in the morning, the thunderstorms were still going strong. Very strong. Gusts of rain in the streetlamps and curbs flooded and streaming with water. I delayed loading the car as long as I could, and then I snuck under the dripping eave and made six trips to get everything in. I was wet. And cold. And pretty sure, or hoping, the race would be called off.

Since last post, two significant things. Number one, I moved. Never underestimate the mental, physical and financial anguish of a move, before, during and for months afterward. Number two, I completed an Olympic-distance triathlon. See previous comment on mental, physical and financial anguish, and double the physical anguish. Rather than expatiate on these events in one long entry, here's a brief reference for the summer in review:

1. Finding an apartment.
2. Looks like Brooklyn.
3. Acts like Brooklyn.
4. It Is Brooklyn.
5. Sprints and the Never-Ending Cold
6. Ithaca is Gorge-eous
7. Triathlong
8. Botched Recovery (below)

After the race, when I was supposed to be recovering, instead I did: one two-hour tennis lesson, one intense hour of tennis session followed by a 3-mile run, one hour of yoga, play in two softball games, not sleep much, and a bit of furniture rearranging. I blew my recovery week. I hurt my back again. I'm tired and back to full training to gear up for the next race--an Olympic distance in North East, Maryland next weekend. Shoot me.

August 6, 2006. Ithaca. My second Olympic distance race ever. Last year was the New York City triathlon, amazing because there's no need to rent a car, book a hotel room or make any preparations to leave town. Brutal because you swim in the Hudson, and finish with a hot run in Central Park among top athletes who have kicked your ass in the park most of the season. But that was last season, when I was self-trained and foolish. Now it's this season, when I have a coach, know how to fuel before, during and after workouts, am not prone to giant mood swings and may not be faster, but feel strong. Or ready, anyway.

All over the little town of Ithaca, they sell an abundance of two things: Cornell-emblazoned items and "Ithaca is Gorge-ous" emblazoned items. I bought neither. Though I did buy a stack of used books, the third thing they sell in abundance, in several used bookstores and on outdoor tables in the center of town on summer days.

Ithaca is five hours northwest of New York City. I know this now, having driven there one Saturday and back the next day. I did not know this when I signed up for an Olympic-distance triathlon in Ithaca. I only found this out when I mapquested the directions the Friday before the race, about four weeks too late. Luckily, Ithaca is a town where you can get a last minute motel room, though not an inexpensive last minute hotel room. Apparently, Ithaca is a destination. And it has a lot of gorges. Or because it has a lot of gorges? And a university that is ivy league, though an ivy league where people are always unsure of its status. "Is Cornell an ivy league?" will almost always be asked at the mention of its name, as if it got in by the skin of its teeth, or because they needed one more. Close enough.