Scaredypants Groffy and the Tunnel of Doom

I don’t hate many things. There are some critters, namely venomous spiders, snakes and sharks, for whom I have a healthy respect. Heights don’t bother me too much and public speaking just makes me uncomfortable. And after years of loathing cilantro and brussel sprouts, I have found that I actually quite like both when prepared properly (i.e. not boiled to death and smelling of feet, in the case of brussel sprouts). The closest that I have come to hatred in recent years is my ongoing disdain for clowns. The closest, that is, until I came to Davos and rode through the 2.7 km long Landwasser Tunnel.

I can safely say that I hate the Landwasser Tunnel with the burning passion of a thousand suns. The first time that I went into the tunnel I was worried that I wouldn’t come out alive and, despite having successfully passed through it a number of times since, I still enter with a sinking feeling of dread. Among its many charming characteristics you’ll find: almost total darkness, seriously confined space, a significant temperature drop, the distortion of automotive noise that both amplifies and makes the vehicle’s direction unknown (one scooter can sound like a fleet of tanks, ready to surround you), recycled auto emission-laden air and trolls*.

Not surprisingly, when I safely pop out the other side of the tunnel, I have a white-knuckle grip on my handlebars and it requires a few kilometers of riding before my shoulders drop from ear level. The most startling part of reaching the end of the tunnel, however, is the contrast that meets you. From a dark, scary and confined space, you emerge into the bright, dazzling open Swiss countryside. And while I hate the feeling that consumes me while inside, it is this contrast helps me see the world with a different perspective. In other words, the hatred of the tunnel, really just my fear resulting from a skewed perception of danger, allows me to appreciate the non-tunnel riding that much more. Yes, I hate the tunnel, but I will continue to ride through it, mostly because I have no other option to reach my destination. I ride though that terrifying, potentially troll-filled tunnel with the hopes that I’ll reach the other end safely. Somehow, I always do.

• Okay, I haven’t actually seen a troll in there, but it always reminds me of the descent into the mines of Moria from the Lord of the Rings. Like with the orc drumming, I expect the car noises to be followed by trolls, orcs and the Balrog. (And, yes, referencing the Lord of the RIngs officially makes me a dork.)

P.S. Yeah, I know... the tunnel is a completely overworked metaphor. In my defense, I’m an athlete, not a writer. If you want real writing, my amazing sister is the Groff with the writing chops. If you want blog posts from the endorphine addled brain of a triathlete, however, you are in the right place!

Why Chris Solinsky is my hero

On May 1st, in his first attempt at the distance, 25 year old Chris Solinsky broke the American record in the 10,000 meter, running a whopping 26:59. In doing so, he became the first non-African to break the 27 minute barrier and is only 1 of 31 men to ever accomplish this feat. While all of this is undoubtably impressive, I am most in awe of how fast he is in spite of his size.

At 185 cm and 73 kilos, Chris is substantially larger than the other members of the sub-27 club, who average 169 cm and 55.6 kilos. To watch him run, however, you realize that he manages, through perfect mechanics and a massive engine, Chris is able to run as fast as he does. His large frame is durable, allowing him to pursue years of hard running without breaking down with injury, and he trains with relentless tenacity.

So why is Chris Solinksky my hero? This phenomenal runner is an inspiration to me because he proves how someone without a conventional runner’s build can still run quickly. Naysayers may say that a taller, stronger athlete (like me!) can never run as quickly as the little runner-types, but Chris proves that with hard work, a perfect run form and tenacity, anything can be possible.

Davos-Dorf= Perfekt (minus the Schnee!)

On Monday, I took three flights and three different trains to arrive in the middle of the Swiss Alps. Amazingly, my bike and bag managed to make the entire trip with me, despite some tight connections! My final stop was Davos-Dorf, my training base with the D-Squad for the next few months. Despite overcast skies and incessant rain (and snow this morning!), I’ve been blown away by how lovely the area is. Imagine alpine meadows filled with wildflowers and bell-toting Swiss cows and you might get an idea...

While I would love to spend time lolling about in fields with the aforementioned cows and eating fondue, my reason for being here is simple: I need to get in serious race shape. I quite a bit of work to do, as the first half of my season, both in terms of training and racing, was profoundly impacted by my injury. This season is a building year and the work that we put in this year will pay off at some point. Maybe towards the end of this year, maybe next year... All I know is that I’m surrounded by the right training partners, I’m under the guidance of the right coach and I’m in the right training location to put in the hard work that I need in order to improve. Davos was not the easiest training grounds to get to, but I’m finding out that sometimes the hardest and most time-consuming destinations to reach are the most worthwhile ones.

Goodness gracious, great balls of... tar?!

When you start a triathlon, you expect to encounter certain obstacles over the course of the race. The challenges could be personal, as you come face to face with the discomfort of physical strain or with your doubts and uncertainty. Depending on the terrain or weather conditions, the difficulties can be forced upon you.

What you don’t expect, however, is the risk of swimming into balls of tar. At this weekend’s Grandman Triathlon in Alabama, a fundraiser for a local environmental group, triathletes racers dove into the waters of Mobile Bay, uncertain of whether their race would be affected by the oil spill following the Deepwater Horizon rig explosion. Despite the strong petroleum smell and dead fish in the bay, the triathletes hazarded a swim around the 1/3 mile course. Fortunately, no tar balls were encountered in the race.

While the 2010 Grandman Triathlon was able to be run, other triathlons will probably be cancelled due to adverse environmental conditions following the oil spill. I’m not an expert in marine ecosystems or in economics. I can’t speak to the potential economic impact of the rig explosion on the fishing and tourism trades in the Gulf or the deleterious effect of the oil on wildlife. What I do know, however, is that when the water is too unsafe to be able to run a triathlon, something is seriously wrong.

Home!

A week ago, I rolled off the Dartmouth Coach in the midst of a trans-Pacific, jet-lag stupor and the post-DNF funk. WIthin 24 hours, however, I was already feeling revived and looking forward to getting back to training in Hanover. The Upper Valley is, without a doubt, one of the best places in the world to train this time of year. Cool, but not cold, temperatures, and the springtime reawakening of the landscape make this hilly, rural area an invigorating training base. Add the favorable conditions to the incredible network of seemingly endless trails and backroads and you can see why I was so excited to return home for a training block!

I freely admit that I am a bit biased in thinking that New Hampshire surpasses Colorado and Australia, two places I’ve been fortunate enough to live and train, for a training environment. As a small-town girl from the day I was born (in Hanover!), rural, close-knit Northeastern communities will always resonate with me in a more profound way. Quite simply, I feel more settled and complete here than I do anywhere else in the world. As someone who spends most of the year on the road, this sense of belonging is incredibly important. When you live out of a suitcase in a high-pressure environment, you need to stay grounded in some way. For me, having a strong sense of where I am from and knowing that I have a solid, supportive network keeps me on track.

Over the next month, I have a lot of work to do. In a sense, I have to play catch-up, trying to gain back some of the fitness that I lost with my injury. As long as I can resist the siren song of Vermont cheese and ice cream, I can’t imagine a better place to regroup and move forward into part 2 of my season.

Looking forward (and not behind... too much)

In triathlon racing and training, like in life, you have good periods where everything is going well and the pieces just fall into place. Naturally, you also have "bad" periods where it feels as though you are fighting the current to no avail. The past couple of months I've been in a bit of a rough patch, but rather than feel too sorry for myself or bemoan my bad luck, I'm looking forward and ahead and hoping that these challenges will make me a stronger athlete and person. After all, what choice do you have? Either you: a) wallow in self-pity or b) be proactive and "get on with it", as Coach Daz would say.

I'm currently writing from Seoul, South Korea, where I experienced the most disappointing of a series of three disappointing races (Mooloolaba World Cup, Sydney WCS and Seoul WCS). Starting the race, we knew that it was a crapshoot as to whether or not I'd be able to race well. The odds were stacked against me, but there was a chance that I might be able to pull out something special. It was a "big ask" , as they say in Australia, as I had fractured my sacrum 7 weeks ago in a little bike crash (only a couple of weeks after a sinus infection and unintentionally running over an innocent pigeon on the bike path- all bad things come in threes!) and have since had to deal with serious back pain. Considering the fact the bike course was highly technical and accelerations on the bike tend to cause my back to painfully spasm, essentially locking it down, it was a gamble. Unfortunately, I did spasm on the bike and had to pull out- a DNF result is always a bummer, but this one was particularly so.

So where does that leave me? Obviously I am a bit frustrated and sad. When you picture your season, you never take setbacks like this into account. All I can do is look forward, get in a good block of training to catch up a bit after losing fitness and persist. It won't be easy, but nobody ever said that the occupation that I chose was an easy one. Actually, to be more accurate, the good periods are easy and the bad period stink, but it is our reaction to the hard ones that define us.

Off to get some kimchi and bulgogi. Maybe chili, garlic and fermented cabbage is the secret cure for an aching back...

A bad day at the office?

If I had a real job, a bad day at the office would probably entail endless meetings, looming deadlines and an incompetent boss. For me, a bad day at the office is a disappointing result in a race that takes place in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, Sydney, surrounded by friends and family. My life is pretty darn good.

While I would have loved to share in the great results of some of my fellow Americans and my amazing training partners, today's race at the Sydney WCS just wasn't meant to be. I tried the best that I could today, fought against some pain that has been hampering me for a few weeks and ended up pretty flat. Some days you can give 100% and you still fall short.

A special shout out to Barbara Riveros Diaz, today's winner and my training partner in the D Squad. Barbara, my "little sister", is one of the kindest, toughest girls I've ever met. I'm so proud of her! She has worked so hard and her efforts have paid off, serving as a reminder to keep plugging away and, someday, it will all pay off. Until then, I'll just try to remember how blessed I am to be able to lead the life that I do. Racing in the Sydney Harbor, around the gorgeous Opera house, being cheered on by Canberra pals and Oz and US Groffs? And meeting Edwin Moses after the race? Man, am I lucky!