The SOMA Triathlon is held in Tempe, Arizona, a city in the middle of Phoenix and home to Arizona State University (there’s a painted A on the mountain to prove it), which is built on the shores of Tempe Town Lake. The SOMA Triathlon is my last triathlon of the season, and, as I’ve joked, possibly of my life. This may be true. I’m getting burnt out, and the runs ain’t getting any easier.

There’s something about being in Phoenix, though, that takes away some of the burnout. Everyone here seems to work out. My sister’s neighbor not only runs marathons, she wins them. Of any eight women she knows, six will be competitive athletes. The shoulders on the road are wide, hills rolling, weather’s perfect and cyclists abundant. When my sister says I’m in town to do SOMA, everyone is familiar with the race, some of them are even participating. It’s in the weather, it’s in the culture, and it makes you happy to be part of it. And when I registered for the race, they gave me a T-shirt I actually like and plan to wear—stretchy and cut for a woman, tastefully designed.

Here's a phrase I hear a lot in my training: kinetic chain. What this means is everything's connected. Especially pain. That one pain leads to another. A pain in my right heel that started in December is related to a pain in my left iliotibial (IT) band and hip that started three months ago, and the hip and thigh pain is related to a recent nagging backache, even though the backache immediately followed two sessions of hog wild tennis (played when I was supposed to be recovering from a race) and one damn long yoga class. At least this is what I learned last night after meeting with a physical therapist in Long Island. I think he's on to something.

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.

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.

About a day after I moved, I got a cold. I shouldn't be particularly surprised. The strain of moving, the intensity of training in the middle of race season, the 2-inches of black dust I removed from the blinds on the windows, much of which found a new home in my nasal passages and lungs. Except that this didn't turn out to just be a cold. This was a bastard of a cold, and it hung on and hung on and hung on.

Long Island is not far from the city. A quick hop into the Bronx, cross over the East River, pay a toll on a bridge called the Throgs Neck and you're there. It's especially quick at quarter to six on a Sunday morning, the designated time of race day departure and also about the only time roads in and out of Long Island are traffic-free.

I've got my first triathlon of the season coming up. This one. It's a sprint distance, which means short. Called sprint because I think they're meant to be done fast, at high speeds rather than at endurance, make yourself last speeds. I'm not sure I have more than one speed, but I'm not sweating it. At least not since I rented a wetsuit, which feels more like a fatsuit or a sweat-your-ass-off suit. When I tried it on then peeled it off, it was too damp to hand to the clerk. "You don't want to touch that," I said and carried it to the register myself.

I want to love running, but it's so hard to love something that doesn't love you back. Ever. Okay, once in a while, but not nearly enough. Especially when it loves all the other runners in Central Park and I have to watch them basking in the rays of its love.

Like the woman in bright yellow tube socks and stylish spandex (there is such a thing) cheering on fellow runners sprinting to the end of their morning run, the sprinters flushed and smiling, not doubled over, bright red and exhausted.

Like the lanky woman with a high kick and red-dotted soles cruising up hills as if they were downhills, a gaze focused and intent, and a pursed mouth, meaning she wasn't the least out of breath, or she was actually a machine that doesn't require oxygen.

Like the tall blonde boy, a body my mother would call skin and bones, who takes all six miles of the park in ten strides or less.

Like the Asian boy in loose pants and a white v-neck with a shoulder bag scurrying uphill past me as if to get to class.

Like the wheezing man practically walking up the hill past the boat house who I actually cruised past, and he passed me later.

When the alarm goes off, the view out the window is the same as when I went to bed, dark silhouettes of trees and barely enough contrast to make out the sky or the building across the street, except there aren’t lights on in any of the windows anymore, and instead of the hush of passing cars and muffled snap of closing car doors, it’s just quiet. I’m not sure I slept. It was a conscious sleep, at best, and though I’m not nearly as nervous as the last race, I still have to rent a car and make it to Brooklyn in time to register. And there’s always the chance I’ll forget to pack something essential and irreplaceable, like my bike shoes or helmet, though they’ve both been in the bag on the kitchen counter since last night, packed and ready to go. For all these reasons--the darkness at waking, the nervous sleep, all the things I can forget to pack--I say I don’t like racing. I don’t.

Or at least it feels that way. But let's not make this an entry of irritating excuses for neglect and laziness. Let's just get down to it. It's been two months since my last post.

Which means it's been eight weeks that I've been back on the triathlon training circuit. It's much better than the last time, though I feel like I say that every time I start training again. Really though: I haven't gotten sick; I haven't been ending my days by picking a fight with my boyfriend then passing out on the couch; I haven't been crippled by back pain; I haven't blown off every friend I have with the excuse, "I'm training." I think these are good signs.

The race is four days over. An hour after I crossed the finish line (running, thank you), I still felt nauseous. Two meals and a few hour after that, I was raring to go. Bought a pair of sneakers, went to see War of the Worlds, reclaimed part of my life. How was the race? I'll tell ya...

If you've read some of the posts of my training, you may know that I hit a bit of a slump in the form of a chest cold about a month before the race. This came just as my back was almost better. It was the same week all the wheezing joggers in the park breezed past me. The humidity kicked in. I found out my pool was a few meters shorter and I was a slower swimmer than I had ever known. I say this, because, well, I learned that a lot of the training and the race is mental. And mentally, I may not be a triathlete. Let me continue.

4am Sunday morning, July 10.

I think I've hit it. I'm five+ weeks with a back injury, slowly but surely getting better, but still not quite right. Started a full-time job two weeks ago. Had three consecutive workouts--a run, swim and bike ride--where people who shouldn't have kicked my butt. Like the hairy, wheezing man in Central Park walking up the hills and shuffling down them. He kicked my butt. A cold has wrapped itself around my throat, chest and vocal chords and is holding on tight. It may be time for a break.

Two workouts from the end of week 11 and the beginning of performance training, my back gave out. It's done this before. Razzle fratzen. I woke up on Friday morning feeling stiff from the long, hard bike ride the night before. When I tried to stretch myself out of it, it all locked up and that was the end of that. You never realize how much you need your lower back until it refuses to work, like washing your face which requires a slight, oh so painful bend forward if you don't want the water to dribble down your shirt. Flipping your hair into a towel after a shower. Taking your socks off. Lacing your sneakers. No, no, and no way. There are lots of things laying around the floor of my apartment. The envelope that slipped out of my hand. The coffee grounds that missed the garbage can. A Staples receipt. It's where I dropped them. It's where they'll stay, for a little while anyway.

Ten weeks down, seven more until race day. Can that be? I'm doing about nine workouts a week, three each of swim, run and bike. I've opted not to do the optional workouts, have been most consistent on the swims and am a little behind on the biking. This week is the peek in terms of volume, including a 2500 yard swim, 60 minute run and 50 mile bike. Next week is a taper week, and then I start speed training. All in all, I feel better than last year. Not as tired, a bit stronger and faster on the bike. Then again, not working helps a lot.

Hand out the cigars. I not only handed in that critical paper I've been whining about last night, I also picked up my new baby. That color means it's fast. It's from a super fantastic shop in Babylon, Long Island. To get to the shop from the city, you have to take all those bridges and roads you've heard buzzing in the background of traffic reports--Kosciuzko bridge, BQE, Cross Parkway, Southern State, LIE. And you drive through all these towns that feel like pages you've read out of a book, at least growing up on the other side of the tracks in Jersey: Garden City, Farmingdale, Jones Beach, Amityville. But the shop is a real bike shop, not one that tells you to call back tomorrow five days in a row. They spent over an hour with me, fitting the bike just right. And then a friend picked me up and we went for a ride in a lovely park at sunset, the grass littered with deer, the clouds turning into pink and purple dust, metallic slivers of what I assumed to be the Long Island sound churned up in the wind, and oh yes, the wind. What a wind. With every loop it got stronger, puffs of it blowing me sideways and backwards, making my legs work harder than they were able, reminding me that it's not just the bike that makes you move. The bike is only the first step.

Two entries back, I mentioned that triathlon thing. Almost a month later, I'm officially registered and faithfully training. The registration is non-refundable, but I'm still not convinced the training thing won't fall apart at any moment. There's this weekend in Baltimore, a trip to DC, June weddings, beach holidays, a mountain bike that's killing my shoulder and shortening my rides, a girl at the pool I'd like to punch... so many things to make me so close to sleeping in and chalking it up. But then there's the food. So much food.

I've started training again. Sort of. It's not the first time this year I'm saying this.

I said it in January with the idea that I'd have a good six months before the NYC Triathlon. I bought and read a comprehensive triathlon training book, the only one that included a long base building period followed by the more classical 16-week training regimen. But instead of "building a base", I went on some long, sporadic runs and gave vague answers to anyone who asked if I was training again, anyone I'd been fool enough to mention it to in the first place. I clocked some miles on the treadmill. Took a swim lesson. Not quite the "base" I'd hoped for, but not completely sedentary.

Please stand by for full triathlon coverage and a long story associated with race results. My recovery days are filled with laundry, schoolwork and catch up on life in general, which is much easier to do when your days are not flanked with long workouts and commutes to the pool. How was it? Amazing.

It's ten days until race day. How do I feel? Ready.

This morning I woke up at 6:30am sans alarm, which has become the norm, and other than the knot of pain in my right shoulderblade, the most noticeable thing was that I was awake. Fully awake. Not the I'd-like-to-sleep-another-two-hours kind of awake, but the first-day-of-vacation, snowday-from-school, body-twitching-to-move kind of awake. And I was hungry.

Although it's probably not remotely interesting to anyone but myself, I'm fairly obsessed with the training I've been doing for the triathlon. I'm nearly done with the seventh week of training and this obsession may stem from my amazement that I've actually come this far. Or maybe I've just gotten used to the gloating feeling that comes with exercise done at 6:30 in the morning. But what does seven weeks really add up to?

I'm in the middle of my sixth week of training for a triathlon and I'm exhausted, as is the dog, as is my boyfriend. They're not training, but the alarm clock going off at 6am a few mornings during the week is taking its toll on all of us. This morning, it was 6:15am for a 15 mile bike ride. This isn't a long bike ride but it seems that every ride in the city winds up being a frustrating one. Cycling has to be my favorite sport in the triathlon, at least the one I have the most experience with, but New York is an incredibly unfriendly city to bike in.

Potholes, cab drivers who either don't use their mirrors or intentionally cut you off at the last minute, traffic lights, exhaust fumes, construction debris. The "greenways" that are the perimeter of Manhattan offer stunning views and even at 7am, enough pedestrians, roller bladers and joggers to make anything above 10mph a reckless speed. (10mph is not an adequate training pace.)

A 15-mile bike ride to and around Central Park on this mild, sunny day in August marks the end of triathlon training week five. I asked my boyfriend if he could see a difference. A flatter tummy? Chiseled calves? Yes, he says. You're much more tired and cranky.

I bought a pull buoy. I did not know what this was five weeks ago. I wrote the name on both sides of it in permanent marker, like summer camp.

Maybe you don't know what a pull buoy is either. It's a piece of styrofoam that costs $13 when Speedo makes it and stamps their name on it. You put it between your legs so the back of you floats and you can pull yourself through the water using only your arms. Your legs are stuck holding the styrofoam. If you've been struggling to swim for four weeks, it makes you feel like you can actually swim.

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.

One week of triathlon training is in the bag. My inbox has about 10 unreturned emails ranging from one to 30 days old. My typewriter has been idle long enough for puddles of dust to collect in the keys. I've just consumed half an order of nachos from Bennie's Burritos and am about to spend the rest of the night on the couch watching a New York documentary. I wiped a mossy layer of black dust from the fan blades this afternoon. I took half my nail off dunking the clothes deeper into the washing machine. This is how the summer goes. Well...

About a month ago, inspired and encouraged by a friend, I decided to train for a (mini) triathlon and, in turn, inspired, encouraged and bamboozled another friend to join me. This morning, at 6:45am, we met on the corner of 7th Street and Avenue B to officially begin our 10-week program. The program consists of 4-5 days a week of alternate cycling, swimming and running workouts that increase in intensity until the race on the 19th of September. A few blocks down Avenue B, my friend asked, "Are you going to keep a training journal?" I am.