Jem Publishing

This week I have been feeling a bit crapola.

Not tooooo bad … just … well, like I said, a bit crapola (must I repeat myself?).

It can’t be the alcohol because I don’t drink. I gave that up last year. It was not so much of a decision as it was a “cellular urging”. My body decided it didn’t like it anymore and made me make the drastic, potentially life-changing decision to stop drinking.

Some didn’t like it. But I did, and that’s all that mattered.

In the months and weeks prior to this big decision, I had been thinking about it. It was playing on my mind. But I just couldn’t bring myself to call it quits on the grog (not that I drank much anyway). Then I reached that wonderfully magical headspace – you know the one – where the tough decision all of a sudden become really really easy.

As I said, it wasn’t so much of a decision … I was compelled by my body.

In the last few weeks, and especially this week, I have had the same little nagging thoughts. It’s playing on my mind … and my stomach. It’s my diet.

It ain’t real flash. I have been consuming too much sugar, too much fat and not enough green leafy stuff. I think they call it “salad”. It might as well be a foreign word.

And water. Don’t get me started. I’m having a great deal of trouble getting in all the water I need to run my body smoothly each day, let alone exercise with any intensity.

I’m about to hit that magical headspace once again. I can feel it closing in on me. This time, I shall get a jump on it in two simple steps.

1. Remove emotion from my impending “challenging” decision. Check.

2. Make the decision. Check.

With diet so vital to survival and quality of life, it’s important I learn to manipulate it to my advantage. I also feel a level of guilt that I live in such a fortunate and nutritionally abundant country and, by eating rubbish, I am effectively choosing malnutrition. Just because it tastes nice. It’s body abuse, plain and simple.

It’s time to stop.

This week (and for the rest of the weeks of my life), I will be making a concerted effort to make better dietary decisions, choose better foods, choose to drink the water I need, choose the salad, choose the fruit, ditch the TimTams, ditch the Coke, ditch the chips, ditch the junk.

I feel better already.

( ) x

Last triathlon season has only just finished and my training for the next has begun. Being very unfit and inherently un-talented, I need all the training and practice I can get!

I’m two days into it. Thankfully, I’m not sick of it yet. Go me! If I can keep this up, there may just be some hope for me. Hmm … we’ll see! Either way, I think it’s going to be a long winter!!

In an effort to keep myself focused, I have set some season goals. I am familiar with the “goal-setting” concept, although I am not so familiar with the “goal-achieving” concept.

The first goal on my list comes around in October … it’s a little event we have down here in Tassie called “The Burnie 10″ (see the link in the sidebar on the left). It’s 12km … okay I’m joking, it’s 10km. I have run it more times than I care to remember (once I ran it in the hail on my birthday!) … maybe 10 or 12 times? Not sure. My PB is around 52mins. Set 50,000 years ago – when I was at high school. And fit.

My challenge, should I wish to accept it (and I do), is to kick 52mins’ arse. You heard me. It’s going down.

So yesterday I went for an easy run. And it was easy, I didn’t challenge myself to run fast – I just chugged along at a sustainable pace. The distance was 4.33km (hey, that 30m means a lot to me!). I got home in 28:54mins.

Riiiiiiiiiight.

My 10km goal is looking more than a little shaky. Yesterday’s run pace was 6:40m/km. 6:40! I could probably walk faster than that.

I have to admit, I’m very embarrassed.

So, can I go from 6:40 pace to less than 5:00 pace in seven months? Dunno, but I’m gonna find out.

x

Lately my triathlon training has been more than a little hit-and-miss. Hey, I get busy okay?

But I can’t use that as an excuse. Basically, I’ve been lazy. I’ve been sleeping in, making excuses and sitting on the couch. Not good. I’ve been embracing the whole rest period concept.

Not anymore.

Next week marks the start of my prep phase. Base season is about to begin. And, being a newbie to the sport, I need all the training I can get. I need to swim, cycle and run. I need to drop weight. I need to learn skills.

I also need to believe I can do it. It’s been the missing link for a long time. But now it’s time to stop being a big-girl’s blouse and just get in a do what I need to do. I have goals that are begging to be achieved!

I’m pumped and ready to roll!

Got myself an indoor trainer a couple of weeks ago. It means I can train at home on the bike while my little guy has a sleep. It’s brilliant, if not a tad boring.

So here I go. A full base season leading into the next competitive season. I’ll blog about it. My goals, my training, my nutrition. It won’t always be pretty, it won’t always be positive, but it will be real.

Wish me luck.

X

Nice topic I’m sure.

Glad I’m not eating … oh wait, I am. It’s all I seem to do at the moment.

So, yeah, sweat.

Yesterday I went for a long run … 12km. It was a tad ambitious of me considering: my hydration levels, my fitness and the weather. Frick it was hot yesterday … sticky, humid with a hot wind.

Nonetheless, I figured I’d just plod along, there’s no hurry!

But I thought I’d better take my phone as I’d be travelling quite a distance from home, on quiet country roads. Just in case. Anything could happen.

Problem: where will I put my phone. I don’t want to carry it, I HATE having things in my hands when I am running. Ooh, I know, I’ll stick it down my crop top. I have a fabulous tight, flattening crop top which holds the bazoombas in well, the phone won’t bounce out of there. It’ll be perfectly safe.

What a cunning plan.

If only it wasn’t so hot. I sweated all over my phone, didn’t I? 

When I got it out of my crop top, it wasn’t working. Bugger. I opened up the back and all this (let’s call it “water” … much more becoming) came out. Oh crap. I don’t want to have to get a new phone, that one was perfectly fine. For two hours, I dried it out on the window sill. Put the battery back in, no go. Crap. Double crap. Hubby suggested the “water” had shorted out the battery and maybe it just needed a jump start. Plugged it into its charger and it was away.

Hooray! It lives! It’s a miracle! See, that’s why I only have Nokias.

Lesson learnt. I am now off to buy myself a Fuel Belt. A very handy option for long runs and it means I can carry the all important phone. Maybe I should write to Nokia … they might be able to create the “Sweat Phone”. Think of the gimmicks … it could come with a little Pat Cash-style sweat band!! Brilliant.

( ) x

Remember Eric The Eel from the Sydney Olympics?? Wasn’t he great?

We Aussies just love an underdog, don’t we? A battler, a struggler, a straggler?

Yeah.

Well I was all of those things on Australia Day.

You’d have lurved me!

January 26, 2010 was a special day for me. It marked the longest triathlon I have ever done. The furthest I had swam, cycled and run back-to-back. It doesn’t really sound that far … but 400m swim, 16km bike and the 4km run was a long way for me!

I had two goals: to finish and to finish in a time of 1hr 25mins or less.

Tick and tick! Achieved. How proud am I?

I finished in 72nd place. That’s stone cold, stinking, dead last - by a loooong way.

The man at the run turn actually picked up the witch’s hat and ran with me for about half a kilometre after I had turned at 2km. He then got picked up in a car. I wanted a car. A course marshal on a mountain bike rode with me, egging me on and allowing me to “draft” behind him!

I wasn’t alone!

The winner, Jonathon Hitchens, recorded splits of 6:18mins (400m swim); 24:06mins (16km bike); 13:11mins (4km run) to finish in a time of 43.35mins!

Here are my results … it’s quite amusing.

It’s alright really, there’s no need to feel sorry for me!

The upside to that sad state of affairs is I can’t get much slower. It’s all up from here!

x

It’s fair to say that the Em From Jem operating system has undergone a pretty significant upgrade of late. Yeah, I’m a whole new Em.

Well, that’s not entirely true … I’m the same old Em, just a bit shinier, fresher and I “run” a bit more smoothly. Oh, and I have a few more bells and whistles. That’s bells … with an “e” … tch!

Yes, Em From Jem 98 has been upgraded to Em From Jem Vista! Minus the cool desktop sidebar you can fill up with widgets – I’d love one, but I’ve nowhere to put it. And who needs widgets anyway?

In all honesty, my harddrive was full of viruses and glitches. Ran like shit and was terribly temperamental. It had this terrible habit of hanging onto files I had thrown in the trash. They just wouldn’t delete! And don’t even try to upload some shiny, new exciting files – it just wasn’t having a bar of it!

Thing is, I had tried many times to give harddrive an overhaul. It just never worked before.

It seems my built-in file clean-up wizard was shit. The program didn’t work and for this major overhaul the big guns were brought in. Commercial cleaners, or something like a huge, hulking Reg-Cure for my overcrowded C: drive.

Reg-Cure marched into my harddrive and broke me down – quite swiftly and expertly (and without warning in what I thought was a rather vicious attack) – connections were cut, wires were uncrossed and you know how you always have a funny little cord and you don’t know where it goes? Well, that was finally plugged in.

Helaleujah! I am reborn! I have seen the light! I have been awakened!

Oh, sorry, that’s right … I’m going with a technological metaphor.

My bad.

After I was so rudely broken down and left in pieces, I discovered something amazing. Hidden away in a dusty old folder at the back of my ROM was a program file which allowed me to rebuild myself.

Yeah, did this upgrade all myself. And what’s more … I am now self-powered! Oh yes! Or should that be, empowered? … or should that be EM-powered?!! Oh, yes I like that. Hey, I just invented something!!

Needless to say: those useless, negative files which were dragging me down have been kicked to the curb once and for all and the C: drive is a much tidier, organised, clutter-free place. It’s much more peaceful in there.

The system is still not perfect, wires sometimes want to return to their former connections (understandable after 20 years), and sometimes that funny little cord falls out but mostly I can rectify these issues. Wires are bossed around and that cord doesn’t stay out for long! I also have greater faith in my anti-virus … it’s gonna have to fight to get through my defences!

Yeah, I’m running much sweeter these days.

(I realise I may have misused some of the technology terminology … but hey, it’s poetic license and you’ll get over it!)

THEY lined up on the start line - an eager, energetic mass of colour: there’s Orca, Oakley, Polar, 2XU, Skins, Jaggad, adidas, Zoot. A gathering of walking, talking, laughing advertising billboards … right down to their asics running flats and bright-orange Yankz shoelaces.

Right at the back, there’s one … in Kmart gear. Kinda sticks out like dogs’ bollocks.

READY … the elites assume ‘the position’ … SET … game face on … GO … the bright and colourful racers take off at a cracking pace, settling into rhythm and stride. Performing just like the athletes they appear to be.

The one at the back trundles along. Off the back right from the start. Performing just like the athlete she appears to be.

As she meets the elites heading on the return lap, she smiles. For her trouble she gets a few: ‘Good works’ and  ’Keep goings’. That’s enough for her. That’s acceptance of her having a go.

The rack of bikes is impressive. Giants, Cannondales, Treks, Scotts and her personal favourite, Felts. Tens of thousands of dollars worth of bikes. As she finishes the run leg, she heads to hers.

It doesn’t really belong. But at least it’s easy to find … oh wait, that’s because there are only two bikes left on the rack. All the others are out on the road.

She grabs her rusty 15-year-old mountain bike and takes off. It’s tough going, especially with the fat, off-road tyres and the dodgy gears. But mostly it’s tough going because she’s a shithouse cyclist.

She’s lapped multiple times during the leg, but always with the ‘Keep goings’ and ‘Hang in theres’. She returns her bike to the rack in last place. Most of the elite athletes have finished the entire race already.

Just one leg to go now … one last run.

Uh. Oh. Her legs don’t work. What the? Come on legs, move. It’s barely a shuffle. Come on … move already!

When she finally crosses the line, some elites clap and cheer … she places second-last. Her friend (who got her into this caper) gives her a hug and tells her she’s proud of her. There’s a real warmth and, although, she came almost last, and was slow and has no decent equipment, she feels accepted. She feels supported. She feels relieved.

She’s hooked.

Thanks K for introducing me to multisport … can’t wait for the tri in December. x

The other day, I had the honour (or not, depending on your view) of meeting a well-known, high-powered politician here in Tassie. (So a nobody then? Glad we sorted that out.) Actually, I met a bunch of them. All the sitting members of a particular party. The big wigs. The movers and shakers. The connected. The suits.

I felt right at home in my cargo shorts and singlet top.

These were powerful men and women … and they knew it. And I was little old me … and I knew it.

Now, without opening the whole political can of worms, I will say this group of politicians represented a party I tend to lean away from. I find it a challenge to agree with their doctrine … and a couple of specific policies I am vehemently against. But, hey, in essence (especially at a State level) I am a swinging voter … so I’ll hear what everyone has to say!

So here I am, sitting at a laptop in a small room with a colleague working on a project. The bunch of suits wander in – they don’t all fit, the room is too small. One or two are just poking their heads in the door. If they weren’t so serious, stuffy and stuck up I would have laughed out loud. It looked comical.

They knew my colleague and shook his hand. I was introduced to everyone as “Em”. That’s it, just “Em”.

Riiiiiight.

So, I don’t matter? Strangely, that’s fine by me because I don’t really want to matter to these people. Not on a personal level.

I imagine the lack of elaboration on my name or my role was a protective thing because my surname (not me) is rather strongly associated with the other major political party in Tasmania and that would have just been awkward, right?

I shake the hand of the party’s Big Guy and do you know what I get? Barely the ends of his fingers! Like a tiny little bit of hand, not a proper handshake at all.

What’s with that??

I figured I must have had Other Party written all across my face and he didn’t want to get any on him.

Seriously?! Why do some men do that? Blokes will give other blokes nice firm handshakes. Proper ones, that actually say:

“I am pleased to meet you and to show you how much I respect you as a person I will now share with you the full force of the germs on my hand.”

With women though it seems to be:

“I’m a big powerful bloke. If I shake your hand in the regular way I may crush your dainty bones with my amazing masculine strength. So here, have a floppy fingertip shake.”

Yuk.

In all honesty, my suspicions were confirmed and I was suitably unimpressed.

My training for the Burnie 10 was going really well … a couple of weeks ago.

Sure, I wasn’t going to set the world on fire, but I was aiming for around the 55mins mark … a time that is just a tad slower than my best time Burnie 10 … when I was in high school. And significantly fitter.

Then I got the flu.

Bloody kids, when you want them to share their toys they turn into possessionist Nazis … when you want them to keep their snot to themselves they decide to share.

Unfortunately I went down like a sack of spuds and spent amost a week in bed. I managed to hit recovery in time for the weekend’s RYL2 in Anglesea and was able to go … but it was a bad idea (health-wise) and I went downhill again.

However, it’s amazing what a week of antibiotics will do, and this morning I took my place on the start line (along with 5000 of my closest friends) to run the 10km out-and-back course.

I went in with absolutely no expectations and no pressure (from myself or others). And I also went in with my friend’s 9-year-old daughter. We had decided to run together. It was the best thing I could have done, in my un-trained condition, because I allowed all my focus to be on G, instead of on me. I wasn’t running a race, I wasn’t aiming for a time, I didn’t even take my sports watch. It was just G and I trying to get around the course as best we could. No pressure.

It was the first time G had run 10km and she did a fabulous job. The whole time, we just talked about how proud we were going to be to get over the finish line – how proud I was of her, and how proud she should be of herself (because that’s what matters most). She talked about how she was going to tell her PE teacher at school and what she’d say.

And we counted down the kilometres.

We walked when she needed to, we stopped at the toilets when she needed to, we drank at every drinks station and I poured water on her head when she got hot.

And we counted down the kilometres.

But mostly we were quiet … we were just doing our thing, lost in our thoughts. Me, with my rhythmic stride, and G plodding along beside me – her little legs doing twice as much work as my long legs, and with no rhythm whatsoever!! We’d talk occassionally and set mini goals, or we’d urge each other along as we saw each distance marker.

And we counted down the kilometres.

Just before the nine-kilometre mark we decided there would be no more walking until we crossed the line. Just do our thing, don’t think about how tired we were, how hungry we were, how much our feet and legs hurt. Our legs were heavy by this stage …  I have to say I’d about had enough.

(Note to self: I need to work on muscular endurance … the lungs held up fine, the legs couldn’t keep up.)

As we turned into Mount St and headed up the final hill to the finish line, we felt a surge of pride and happiness from completing this thing together. I’m so glad we ran together – for me it was so much more uplifting that if it had just been me and my iPod.

Thanks G … no more kilometres to count!!

I’ll sleep well tonight.

x

If I had a better bike would I be a better cyclist?

Would I suddenly have more skills, more strength, more talent (or some talent!)? Would I suddenly be more comfortable conquering the hills on the back roads of Thirlstane and Sassafras? Would my arse hurt less? Would my legs hurt less? Would I have less back and hand pain? Would I suddenly have more bravery when I’m ripping down hill at high speeds?

Nup. Nup. Nup. Nup. Nup. Nup. Nup. Aaaaaaand …  Nup.

What would it give me?

More respect as an athlete (and I use the term “athlete” very, very loosely)? More confidence? More motivation.

Maybe. Probably. Maybe. No guarantees.

But it definitely won’t make me a better cyclist. Only I can do that. And training is training, regardless of the bike I am dragging around underneath me. A $5,000 bike is not going to make me significantly faster or better – because there is no substitute for miles on the road.

Hey, I’d love a nice shiny road bike with the Look clipless pedals, carbon forks, oh-so snooth Shimano 105 gearing, women’s specific seat and aero bars. But I don’t need it. My trusty old mountain bike – with the clunky gear changes, rusty chain and cogs and the big chainring that doesn’t work - will do the job for now. I’m not forgetting the fact that I am a novice, novice athlete and at this stage in my triathlon career I just can’t justify the expense. I might do this season, hate it and never do another tri again.

But I really can’t see that happening. I suspect I’ll get addicted.

But if I have a good season this year (in the novice, novice section) and show that I am serious about triathlon, then surely I have a great argument to take to my financial planner, um husband when I do need a new bike.

And I will need a new bike … but I will farewell my trusty, rusty old mountain bike with a great deal of respect. It owes me nothing and has put up with a lot. This is a bike I won in a raffle when I was in grade 12 … with a ticket I didn’t buy (no I didn’t cheat … we ran the raffle and as a thankyou we got a free ticket each). Oh, and that ticket was No. 1. 

That was more than 12 years ago. At the end of this summer, I think it will have deserved a rest!!

When I have a spare $3000, I am so buying this baby! I wonder if they make it in black …