taking the leap, again.

I could list all of my excuses, such as "I was in New York eating fried chicken" or "My cat has seasonal allergies" or "The weather was perfect so I rode 70 miles with no prior training or preparation and then slept for like 48 hours afterward." All of these things are absolutely true, but really aren't good enough to explain my disappearance. Therefore: Profuse apologies, etc.

Lazy bloggers go straight to hell, obviously.

Anyway, here's the most exciting thing that's happened since I last wrote:

New bike! (Kidding.)

Arvan, Andrew, Kendra, Megan and I rented a house with a horse-bike in the basement and went to Ironman Wisconsin to cheer, volunteer and -- gasp -- sign up for next year. (Can we just pause for a moment and talk about how awesome it is that my long-time California friends now know my brand-new Minnesota friends, and everyone likes each other, and now we are all going to climb ridiculous hills and moo at cows together? Triathlon is such a beautiful thing.)

Full disclosure: I was on the fence about IM Wisconsin. I originally thought I wanted to do it, but then the bike course changed and Barlow Hill happened. And on top of that, the mister and I have been discussing big life choices and were considering moving back to the West Coast, and I didn't want to commit to 140.6 while moving across the country and looking for a new job and trying to build a new friend network.

I was also sick with the weather-is-changing cold that always seems to happen to me at this time of year.

But in typical fashion, there's just something about Ironman that sucks you in.

Maybe it's the beauty of the swim start, sun rising over the water, the air full of energy and nerves and excitement and hope and yes, a little bit of fear.

Maybe it's getting together with friends and teammates and cheering each other on.

Or maybe it's this song playing while runners head into Run Aid Station 1 and Arvan asks them to wiggle-wiggle-wiggle for ice and they actually laugh and do it.

So I signed up. Which means I will have to live on my bike for the next year and make leg presses part of my normal routine and teach myself to come to terms with hills.

And it also means we're staying put in Minneapolis.

the imaz in-crowd

As I'm sure you've figured out -- since it's all I talk about all the time (besides cats and poo, of course) -- I got into Ironman Arizona and will hopefully be completing my very first 140.6 next year.

Getting into this race was a feat in itself. Since I'm not a pro triathlete (ha!) and IMAZ sells out in mere minutes online, I bought a plane ticket, got my ass down to Tempe and volunteered so I could secure a spot. And even this was no guarantee -- there were rumors that the volunteers far outnumbered available race spots, and people were freaking out, myself included. (Dear Coach Mark: Sorry for the 5 million losing-my-shit e-mails asking about potential back-up plans.)

The worry escalated to the point where people tried to camp out at registration, but the city ordinance does not allow camping at Tempe Beach Park, so the police made everyone leave.

Of course, we all returned at 4 a.m. to form a huge line outside the park. And registration didn't start until 8 a.m.

(Side note: Can you believe there were this many people who were absolutely, single-mindedly determined to pay half a month's rent to sign away all of their free time for the next year preparing for an event that could involve up to 16:59 hours of non-stop exercise, with possible self-shitting and puking? Dear people in line: Same kind of crazy. Hugs!)

Thankfully, persistence paid off, and as far as I could tell, no one was turned away from on-site registration -- not even the folks who didn't volunteer.

Even though we were all lucky, I definitely learned some things that made the process easier. Here are some tips:

1. First and foremost, volunteer. I cannot stress this enough. If you're serious about IMAZ and this is the race for you, you have to go down there. Unless you have money to burn and can afford the $1,400 Ironman Foundation entry slots (which don't go as quickly, for obvious reasons), online registration is pretty much impossible. Also, being there in person has its perks: You can familiarize yourself with the course and the transition area, watch the chaos that is the swim start (!!) and meet some of the athletes who will be at the starting line with you the following year. (Contrary to popular belief, not all triathletes are stuck-up, self-absorbed snobs. And this race has a lot of first-timers, so it's fun to swap stories of how you got into triathlon and what made you crazy enough to want to do an Ironman.)

2. Choose your volunteer spot carefully. There are pros and cons to every shift -- you just need to ask yourself what you want to accomplish over the weekend. If you want to see the final hours of the race (always the most inspirational, in my opinion -- I cry every time), you'll want an earlier volunteer shift. If the finish line doesn't matter so much to you, consider taking one of the last shifts (i.e., closing down the run aid stations), which also often have the added perk of the "speed pass," a special wristband that gives you priority registration over the other volunteers, so you don't have to go straight from your volunteer shift to standing in line and can maybe -- just maybe -- get some sleep. Other inside tips: Security staff gets a special T-shirt that allows them access to the finish line, which is pretty cool. However, security staff also has to keep rowdy bystanders off of the course and will often get cursed at by random strangers. Again, pros and cons. (Personally, I was very curious about the volunteer spots in the men's changing tent. But then again, I'm a dirty pervert.)

3. Work your entire shift. Because you won't get your volunteer wristband if you leave early. And you won't be able to register before the general public without that wristband. Bonus points: Work your entire shift in costume. Even better if you are cross-dressing. Because there's nothing like making people laugh hysterically while they are in aero position.

4. Bring a camping chair. This was the best advice I received. When you're in that registration line for hours, you'll want to sit down. And the cold, hard asphalt is not exactly the most ideal spot. Also a good idea: Wear layers and a hat, bring a blanket and fill a backpack with snacks and water. A thermos full of hot coffee isn't a bad idea either. Even more awesome: Have nice friends who don't care about sleep and will bring you coffee in line.

5. Don't forget your credit card and ID. This is what you'll need to register. They don't take cash. (What's cash anyway?) Basically, they charge your card $700 and then send you an e-mail about a week later with a link to more detailed registration information. (And I don't joke when I say "more detailed" -- Ironman is serious about your medical history, and they also want your "story" -- any extra info they can announce when you're crossing the finish line. Dear Ironman: I really, really want you to call me "Seattle's most famous cat lady." Hint, hint.)

6. Finally, have fun. Because you're about to surrender your entire social life and all of your money for the next year, so you might as well make IMAZ registration your one final hurrah before you become a poor hermit who passes out from exhaustion every night by 8 p.m. We made it a reunion weekend -- I rented a house with Arvan (who has been my tri buddy since my very first triathlon ever and now we are both IMAZ-bound -- yay!), Layla (best moral support ever and an über volunteer who worked not just one but two shifts, even though she wasn't registering) and Adam (local tour guide and resident cross-dresser cheerleader). We drank every night, wore stupid outfits, sang Christmas carols (note: this was pre-Thanksgiving), ate a lot of omelettes, killed a very large cockroach (don't ask) and barely slept all weekend. (You can read more about the amazing-ness on Adam's blog here.) Other hijinks included:

(Thank you, Layla, for capturing my truly stellar aero form. Dear Coach Mark: Look, I'm a real triathlete!)

It was awesome. And I can't wait for next year, though I can skip the cockroach part.

inspiration

Nothing makes you want to do an iron-distance race more than watching your friend go through the experience. I flew back to California this past weekend (I think maybe I'm addicted to airports?) to volunteer at the Vineman 140.6 and support Arvan for his first full.

This involved getting up at an obscenely early hour to start my shift as a bodymarker (yes, that's a real thing, and yes, I got to touch a lot of biceps and legs) at 4:30 a.m. I can't believe people trusted me with a Sharpie and their limbs after I got only 2.5 hours of sleep and was quite possibly a little bit hungover.

We can thank the Postal Service for that one.

(By the way, if I bought tickets months and months in advance to see a band who released only one album a decade ago and then I flew from out of state to use said tickets, does this mean I'm somehow psychologically stuck in my mid-20s? Perhaps that example of overanalysis is yes.)

Anyway. So I was saying: Arvan.   

I remember the first time I met him. I had signed up for Heart & Sole's marathon training group to prepare for Portland in 2010. Our first long group run was in Sonoma, and Arvan was there, doing the Jeff Galloway run-walk thing. He had never completed a marathon before. 

And now look at him. All pumped up and ready for those 140.6 miles. I will never stop being amazed by where life can take you.

I bodymarked Arvan on race morning and drew a happy face on his leg for good luck.

(A few random side thoughts on bodymarking, since this was the first time I ever did it: It's a little strange and oddly personal. You touch strangers and get up close to their skin. You see the scars on their knees from when they crashed their bikes, or grim lines that are reminders of past surgeries. You feel the stubble on the men who tried to shave for the event but didn't quite get it right, and you feel the stubble on the women who basically just don't believe in shaving, period. You see people's tattoos and you wonder about the story behind them. You feel a little apologetic when a shivering athlete has to take off her sweatshirt so you can write on her bicep, a little awkward when you have to kneel in front of a male athlete with his sweats around his ankles. And sometimes those strangers ask you to write a name on their arms -- something they can look at and remember and honor during the toughest parts of their race.)

The other fun thing about Saturday's race: The full and half Aquabike and Barb's Race were also happening at the same time, so I got to see several familiar faces, including Gwen.

Isn't she adorable waving in her wetsuit? 

Gwen was an incredible mentor when I started getting into open water. She printed out aerial maps of the Russian River for me, pointed out all the shallow parts, warned me about the big "weed patch" growing in the water and basically just kept me from freaking out. I wouldn't be where I am now without her.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Friends are the best part of triathlon.

That and scavenging (well, if you're a hoarder, which I am not, except for maybe when it comes to cats and any kind of food item that has truffles in it -- I seem to have endless jars of truffle salt). Because so much shit gets abandoned at races that you could basically redo your entire summer shoe wardrobe:

Arvan finished in 14:48:18. I wasn't at the finish line (largely due to my lack of sleep the night before -- ack!), but Thai was there -- she ran him in and said he was practically glowing. Then she texted me this photo:

Rock star status!

ragnar

It's Saturday night, and I'm typing this from bed. For some reason, I'm exhausted.

Maybe it's because last night was a late one -- a five-hour Ragnar Relay volunteer shift that ended after 10:30 p.m. (Funny how this all turned out -- I went from almost captaining a team to volunteering on behalf of Derrick's team, a.k.a. Team I Need More Cowbell. I guess if I can't run, helping someone else is the next best thing, right?)

I worked Exchange 11, which was at Petaluma Junior High.

Somehow I roped Emily into giving up her Friday night to keep me company.

As each runner approached the exchange, I made sure their teammate was waiting in the chute for the hand-off. This was especially exciting when the teams were in costume.

But it was sad when the teams were unprepared -- there were a few runners who made it to the exchange before the rest of their team, so they had to wait around and lost time. (In the photo above, that's what the guy in the background sitting on the rock is doing. Poor guy.)

Meanwhile, Emily tracked the time that each runner came in and passed off the baton (or in this case, the official Ragnar slap bracelet) to a teammate. The timing sheet looked like this:

As you can see, it involved the extremely high-tech tools of pen, paper and watch.

Our exchange was fairly busy until about 7:30 or so, and then things slowed down. And the sun set. And it got cold. I went to the end of the street (wrapped in a Mexican blanket and three layers of clothing, plus a reflective vest) to direct any runners coming in, and for awhile, on the dark corner, it was just me, this sign ...

... and a creepy rustling sound that turned out to be a baby possum.

I tried hard not to think of serial killers, zombies and hitch-hiking ghosts.

volunteering

Clearly, volunteering at Vineman today was rough.

Not only did Layla beat me silly with this Gatorade stirrer, but I was forced to watch elite athletes in spandex do amazing things, all while I drank Irish coffee. (The last part was my idea -- I figured if I was going to volunteer for hours, I might as well maximize my time.)

I was at the aid station at the bike/run transition. I said the word "water" more times than I ever imagined possible. And there were a few moments when I thought my arm was going to get ripped off by a very forceful water-grabber. But it was fun. And I liked being able to help out.