Week 15: What’s Next?

Read all my weekly updates about being a Professional Triathlete

We own two cars. One has a front end that’s all smashed in. If I’m driving that car, people always let me merge. They get out of the way quickly. When I used to park in the neighborhoods around USC, no one ever questioned if I belonged on the street. I can basically do whatever I want in that car, because I clearly do not care.

The other car is a 2005 Prius. Not only do people not let you merge in a Prius, they’ll speed up to pass you — even if you’re going over the speed limit. And when I used to park it in LA, I routinely got notes left on the windshield with variations on: “Stay out of our neighborhood.”

I’m pretty sure I don’t actually change based on which car I drive. Maybe I’m wrong though. Certainly, if I went based solely on how other people treat me I’d constantly be confused about my self-identity.

With that in mind, here was my week.


My rest day became a sit-in-front-of-the-computer day when a co-worker emailed to ask if I could fill-in for him because he was sick. Since it was already 9:15 a.m. and I hadn’t eaten or showered and it takes an hour to get to the office, I said, “Sure, but I’ll need to work remotely.”

There really isn’t a faster way to end up feeling terrible about the world and people than spending the day on your laptop, by yourself, scanning news feeds and wires, social media aggregators, and online comments.


If there’s a standard day, so much as I have one, Tuesday was it: Answer some emails, swim workout, finish writing and submit a story, talk to some editors, hard bike workout, make a few edits to a story, then go out for dinner.


How long can you delay your least favorite track workout? That’s the question I attempted to answer Wednesday morning.

Also, I was in a terrible mood and hated everyone. Since Tupac the Cat was basically the only person I spoke to most of the day, he got an earful.


Standard Day, Pt. 2: Only one workout on the agenda and one big story that I just…needed…to…finish. I procrastinated extensively. I even made an Instagram story about my day. It included a photo from the Safeway at 9:45 p.m.


Holiday weekends don’t mean much to me, but the one thing I’ve learned about Fridays before holiday weekends is: you can not get people to return your calls. You might as well throw in the towel by midday. So I did. Emailed, swam, ran, finished up the story and edits, and had a beer.

The Weekend

We went to Pacific Grove for the weekend. And, no, not because of a race. Occasionally, we go places even when there isn’t a competitive timed event.

It was primarily because we had an appointment to drive off-road Land Rovers Sunday afternoon in Carmel Valley. (Just let that one go by, honestly.) But we also ran and rode and ate at a really good new restaurant in downtown PG.

However, I forgot it’s Memorial Day weekend. I also forgot that “people are feeling optimistic about the economy,” which is hilarious to me, because DO YOU PEOPLE NOT SEE THE SIGNS OF THE BUBBLE BURSTING — especially around here. I probably should have just yelled that at every massive tour group that went by us. Basically, I forgot there were going to be more tourists and tour vans than ever. I did quickly remember, though, when I had a hard 11-mile run with 15 x 3′, starting at half pace and descending. It is hard to run your fastest pace possibly on #11, while dodging people taking photos or streaming out of buses, golf cart drivers, and sand, so much sand. I was way too buried to try to avoid the tourists. I pretty much just assumed they’d avoid me. And I may have dead-ended into a golf course at one point, but I was not going to slow down or screw up the effort. Which is how you end up running 6:12 pace on cart paths, scaring golfers and hoping one of the turns will eventually lead you out of this stupid resort.

This weekend is Victoria 70.3, then I’m home for about a week (during which I race the Dipsea) before I leave for Costa Rica. Once the craziness of June is done, I suppose it’ll be time to seriously Ironman train. Like for real.

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