Michelle Barker's Blog: Hearing Voices, page 5

Wearing Sweatpants to the Apocalypse: March 31st

Stanley Park Seawall. March 31, 2020

 

Today, Dr. Bonnie Henry tells us, is an important day in BC. We will find out today if our efforts at social distancing are making any difference. Of course I hope they are. But I also hope Vancouverites don’t get the wrong idea and go back to jamming all the seawalls.

We are a city of people who like to be outside—especially on those rare days when it isn’t raining. So I understand the impetus to hang out at the parks and beaches. I am a runner and a cyclist; I like going there too. Except not lately, because up until very recently a two-meter berth on Vancouver’s seawalls has been impossible. I’ve had to change up my routes, which I resented at first, but it’s allowed me to explore new parts of the city—and that’s been great.

While this disease is causing devastation all over the world, I believe it is also heralding some good things. A lot of gym enthusiasts, unable to pump iron at their local gym, are lacing up their running shoes or getting onto bikes that had long been ignored. Parents are developing an immense appreciation for their children’s teachers. All of us are remembering how important and incredible our health care workers are. (Maybe nurses and teachers will finally be paid what they deserve? One can only hope.)

It’s taken a pandemic for me to realize our family, spread across the globe, can connect online once a week and visit face to face (I know, duh, but apparently I’m a slow learner). Ditto meeting up virtually with my close friend in Edmonton. People are watching out for their neighbours, parents, grandparents. Innovation and cooperation are everywhere.

Yes, there are the bone-headed Corona parties and the college students spring-breaking hard and ignoring all advice to stay home. But I’ll let someone else shame them. Every night at 7PM I think of my daughter and her friends in Toronto, as well as my doctor friends in Vancouver—all of whom are risking their lives in dangerous conditions with inadequate safety equipment, all of them proud to help. Every night I listen on the news to people like Bonnie Henry, Adrian Dix, and Justin Trudeau, and I am thankful for where I live.

We will be changed by this disease. It will be a long time before I’ll feel comfortable in a crowd again. People are losing their jobs. Our economy might never be the same. But if ever there was a time to reflect on the future of our world, this is it.

I hope to write a bit in this space every few days, so you’ll be seeing me again soon.

In the meantime, stay safe, everyone. Wash your hands. Flatten the curve!

Writer in Training: Year-End Thoughts

The end of the year is a natural time for reflection: what went well, what didn’t—and why. At the last swim meet I attended, I had a great conversation with a fellow swimmer about Ironman training. He thinks of it as, essentially, problem-solving. You try something, and maybe it doesn’t work—and you end up bonking on a ride or pulling a muscle. And you realize, okay, that is not the way to solve this problem. So you try something else.

For me, 2019 was a year of three steps forward, five steps back, but somehow I managed to accomplish the things I’d hoped—the main one being to complete my first Ironman. It didn’t turn out quite the way I had envisioned, but I think Ironman is like that. It’s never the way you envision. On race day, there are so many variables that are out of your control, you never know what will happen.

Training is another matter. It’s something that is, for the most part, within your control. But it’s tricky: what works for one person doesn’t necessarily work for someone else. That’s where the problem-solving analogy comes in.

I didn’t do many races in 2019. My year was focused on the Ironman, and while many people do a 70.3 to warm up, I’d already been battling a serious injury and didn’t want to jeopardize my slow recovery. So my only warm-up was the Sasamat Canada Day swim, which turned out to be a good confidence-builder. Post-Ironman, there was a 10k race that I was quite pleased with, but it ended up exacerbating a piriformis problem I shouldn’t have had in the first place. Post-Ironman rest—actual rest, not pretend rest—is something I will be doing differently in 2020.

In fact, not enough rest was one of the main things I did wrong last year. I’ve always taken one day off a week, but last year I definitely did not take enough down weeks (okay, I hardly took any). I paid the price in injury. The formula I’ve been advised to follow is three weeks hard, one week easy. I haven’t made many New Year’s resolutions, but this will be one of them.

My biggest challenge last year was my Achilles injury, which happened as a direct result of running my long runs too fast. I’d like to say I didn’t know better, but I’d been to a talk with Altra Running founder Golden Harper the previous fall. He explained the science behind long slow distance, and I decided to ignore him.

But injury is a good teacher. I have now slowed way down and have actually stopped a run early on several occasions when my body was sending messages that something didn’t feel right. Anyone interested in the concept of slower training should have a look at this TEDx talk by Dr. Stephen Seiler.

2019 also had a lot of bright spots, one of which was an evening I attended with pro-triathlete Rachel McBride. Among the many useful things she talked about, one in particular stuck with me: do the races you’ve always wanted to do now, because who knows how long you’ll have the opportunity? It inspired me to join a masters swim team and to sign up for the BMO marathon in Vancouver. I’m hoping the marathon is not a terrible idea. The plan is to run it as training for the Ironman and to stay injury-free during my training. We’ll see how that goes.

Over the next few days I’ll be sitting down with my giant calendar and figuring out my 2020 training plan (in pencil). There are a few more swim meets on the horizon, and the marathon is in May. I’ll do the 4k Canada Day swim again next summer at Sasamat. Ironman happens at the end of August, in Penticton. And then—rest.

Happy holidays, everyone. If you have training resolutions or lessons learned that you feel like sharing, please leave me a comment—I’d love to hear about them.

 

Writer in Training: Swimmers, Take Your Mark

Photo by Keely Langford

Several years ago, one of my kids swam competitively for one season, and I discovered the world of swim meets: psych sheets and heat sheets, forearms covered in numbers (distance, race number, heat number, and lane number). As seems to happen often, when I am sitting on the sidelines, I get ideas. That was how I ended up playing hockey for a few years (badly, it’s true, but oh it was fun). And it’s partly how I ended up swimming at a master’s swim meet yesterday.

I say partly, because my swim coach had to nag me for months to join the team. I loved the idea of competing, but it also made me a bit nervous. I’d have to dive off the blocks—and what if I came in last?

Then, about a month ago, I had the privilege of listening to pro-triathlete Rachel McBride speak at a friend’s home. She had a lot of good advice, including this: don’t wait to do the races you want to do. You don’t know how long you’ll be able to race in your life. Things change. Shit happens. It made an impact on me, and it got me thinking about what I still wanted to do sports-wise that I hadn’t yet done. And I thought about the swim team.

My coach reassured me that the team was all about having fun. No one cared if I messed up my dives or came in last—so I signed up.

A week before the meet, I went to the dive tank at VAC and practiced diving with my goggles on—something that had never worked for me before. They’d always flown off my head.

“Tuck your chin in,” my coach said. “Don’t try anything fancy. Just look down and go.”

Mostly that worked, which made me feel a tiny bit better. But I was diving off the side, not off the blocks—which is quite a different thing. You don’t realize how big those blocks are until you’re standing on one and looking down, knowing there are about a hundred different ways to screw this up.

Luckily I wasn’t the only one feeling nervous about this, and swimmers were able to practice off the blocks about a half hour before the races began.

Of course I’m writing about the meet because it was amazing. There was every shape and size of swimmer imaginable. Some were beginners; some set meet records. One man, age seventy-nine, swam a 200m fly. If you want to fully appreciate what that means, go find a pool and try 50m of it—if you can. When he was done, the entire place gave him a standing ovation.

Some of my races went far better than I ever would have expected; some were dismal. Ditto my dives. A few went off perfectly. You do feel like a boss, head down, poised to launch yourself into the pool—until you do something stupid and your goggles fill with water, and guess what? You have to swim like that for the entire race. Yeah, that happened. It was terrible. I could barely see where I was going and only knew where the end of the pool was when I touched it.

But I loved it—watching teammates surpass their expectations, cheering them on, going out for a well-earned dinner afterwards. I’m grateful I was able to do something I’d wanted to do for years—and I can’t wait to do it again.

 

Writer in Training: Rest is a Four-Letter Word

Anton Darius | @theSollers

It turns out I’m quite good at what my daughter calls pretend-rest. This is when you know you’re injured but you don’t really want to admit that what you need is time off, so you only pretend to take time off. You do more or less the same workouts—maybe a bit shorter or a bit slower, but you don’t really change anything.

And your injury doesn’t go away. And you start wondering why it’s taking so long to get better. And there is a part of you that knows what you really need is to actually take time off. OFF. Like, stop doing the sport that’s causing you trouble, and stop doing the other sport that’s contributing to the trouble.

I don’t know of a single triathlete who likes taking time off. We get a little angry when the idea is suggested to us. In fact, the process of coming to terms with rest involves the five stages of grief (and I’m not even kidding): denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

If you can make it to acceptance, it all becomes okay. But getting there is rough.

I tend to spend a long time denying there’s anything wrong. When that stops working—because at a certain point, you can’t hide the limp anymore—I get angry. Sometimes my injuries really do come out of nowhere, but more often than not they’re my own fault. I’ve pushed too hard or done something I know I shouldn’t. In this case, it’s a hangover from Ironman. I don’t really know what happened—except, I guess, Ironman happened. It was a long day.

The bargaining stage is where pretend-rest comes in. I’ll stop riding and will only run, or, I’ll stick to the flats, or, I won’t go hard, I promise. And I mean, sometimes you can get by with that. I’m all for pretend-rest if it works. But usually it doesn’t.

When you finally realize you’re not getting better, the hard truth starts to sink in: yes, you actually have to TAKE TIME OFF. Prepare to be bummed out.

I’ve been off for about ten days now. I have come to a full acceptance of it. And, miracle of miracles, my leg is getting better. If this sounds a bit like kindergarten rehab, that’s because it is. When you rest, you get better. There is nothing complicated about it.

Does it bother me I can’t snack on potato chips anymore? Yup.

Does it bother me that every passing day I feel like a little more of that hard-won fitness is slipping down the drain? Yup.

But as it has been said by someone smarter than me, sometimes the longest way round is the shortest way home. If I’d done this properly in August, I’d be better by now.

The only other advantage to rest is that it has allowed me to spend extra time doing another four-letter word: work. Is that actually an upside? I’m not sure.

 

Writer in Training: Withdrawal

I sort of expected to feel down after Ironman. Anytime you prepare that long and with that much intensity for something, there’s bound to be a letdown once it’s over. But letdown doesn’t begin to describe what the month of August was like.

I’m not the type of person to get depressed. Even a bad mood is fairly rare for me. But the past month has been like a lingering dark cloud—and it’s been surprisingly hard to shake.

For a while I didn’t realize what was going on. I put it down to my work, much of which centers around Germany and World War Two—not exactly an uplifting topic. I figured maybe it was getting to me. Then one afternoon my daughter called.

“Ever since the race I just feel shitty,” she said.

The race. Of course.

It was a relief to hear I wasn’t the only one.

There’s an obvious component to the post-Ironman blues: the goal you’ve ordered your life around for upwards of a year has been achieved. In that way it feels a lot like finishing the draft of a novel. It’s over; you’ve done it. Now what?

What I should have realized, but didn’t, is that when you suddenly stop training, you no longer have that constant flow of endorphins. Turns out, I’ve come to depend on them. Given that there is a proven link between exercise and mood, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what happens when you stop exercising.

Physically, it’s been good for me to take a break from training. My body needed the rest, and there was a stack of work on my desk that required attention. But it’s been a month, I’ve had enough rest, and I can’t justify a committed potato-chip habit if I’m not getting outside to work it off.

I’m easing my way back into structured training and am already feeling better. Next race will be easier; I’ll know what to expect and won’t be blindsided by it.

Happy September. Happy off-season training. And, well . . . happy.

 

Writer in Training: You’re Never Ready

It turns out, Ironman is a lot like childbirth. The pain gets forgotten. The hours of labour seem abstract: could it have taken that long? And no matter what you’ve done to prepare for the baby, when it finally shows up you realize you’re not ready.

A friend asked me what advice I would give to anyone doing this for the first time. Now that I have some distance from the race, I feel like I can think about it more clearly.

So, here goes, in no particular order:

Pace yourself. In a race this long, pacing is of prime importance. You have to know how hard you can push and still have some gas left in the tank for later. If you don’t do this, you will suffer.
Unless you enjoy 3.8km of chaos, swim on the edge of the pack. Yes, you’ll swim a bit farther, but it will be peaceful and pleasant, and the trade-off is (in my opinion) worth it. You want to come out of the water feeling like you didn’t do anything—not like you’ve just been chewed up by a thousand propellers.
Dehydration is a problem that is totally preventable. Drink on the bike. Drink more than you think you need to, especially if it’s hot out. I’ve had heat stroke before and it is incapacitating. Don’t make this mistake.
Train your headspace. Mental training for the Ironman is easily as important as physical training. You need to be comfortable in your head for a long, long time. You need to develop ways of coping with this race: how to talk to yourself, what NOT to think about. I practiced this a lot, and I’m glad.
Bring Band-aids & Tylenol. Does this require more explanation? No, it does not.
Bank sleep the week before the race. A friend told me to do this. He said I would thank him for it. I am thanking him. You probably won’t sleep much on the night before the race, so make sure you’ve slept well the previous week.
Give up on a projected time. Another friend told me to do this, and it was great advice. Having a projected finish time adds unnecessary pressure, and there’s already enough of that.
Be wary of special needs. Carry the essentials and don’t count on getting your special needs bag. At least one person in the race did not get theirs. It happens. If half your nutrition is in there, you’re hooped.
Don’t dawdle before the swim. I mentioned this in my previous blog post. The morning happens quickly. Get your transition stuff organized, get your wetsuit on, and don’t waste time. I did, and it caused a lot of needless panic.
Don’t worry about things that are out of your control, but prepare for what you can. Check the weather forecast; give yourself clothing choices in your transition bags; know how to change a flat.
Ride the course. Ride the course. Ride the course. It’s that important.

No matter how prepared you are, something unexpected might (and probably will) happen. As a swimming friend told me: you’re never ready for Ironman. I believe this is the truest thing one can say about this race.

Ironman is like childbirth in another way, too: the post-partum blues.

When the day is over, you’re going to feel sad, and a little lost. You’ve spent upwards of a year organizing your entire life around training for this race. You’ve been thinking about it, reading about it, talking to other athletes about it. . . and now it’s done.

There comes a time when you have to stop re-watching the race video obsessively (what?), stop looking at your photos, and MOVE ON.

Really, the only solution is to sign up for another one.

(And people wonder how I ended up with four kids).

Writer in Training: Ironman Canada Race Report

Spoiler alert: I finished it

Writer in Training: Countdown

 

Race day is less than two weeks away. I have my bib number. I’m checking the weather forecast obsessively. This thing is getting real.

I made it up to Whistler last week for a good long ride—165km, most of the course, including the climb up Callaghan twice. It was exactly how I expected it would be: great the first time, savage the second.

All of my long workouts are behind me now. I’m happy with the way swimming and biking have gone. I feel ready—or as ready as I’ll ever feel. And I’m happier with the run than I thought I would be. Yesterday I went out for a 25km run at the end of a heavy weekend. It was hot outside and I was tired, but I managed to hold my run/walk ratio at a decent pace for the entire 25km.

This was a huge improvement over last weekend’s run. Was it the shoes? Haha, maybe. But I also think expectation has a lot to do with it. Last weekend’s run was so hard, that was what I was expecting yesterday. For me, anyway, expecting something to be hard is a good way to go into a workout. Usually it’s not as bad as I think. Expecting it to be easy and then wondering why you feel so horrible—that doesn’t work well for me at all.

It won’t be the run I wanted on race day, that is for sure. I wanted to run the entire marathon. It would be a mistake to do that, because I’m not trained for it and I’d just blow myself out by 15km. I would like to make excuses for what didn’t happen during my run training, but there’s no point. The Achilles injury was entirely my fault, and the recovery has been long and frustrating. That’s the whole story. The marathon will mostly be about survival. Even the people who put together the Athletes’ Guide know it:

What remains to be done: pick up the last items I need (Snickers bars, extra bike tubes, sunscreen); get my bike tuned up; get in one more massage; hydrate; sleep.

Try not to panic.

This is the race I have dreamed of doing for decades. I will be doing it with my daughter, and one of my sons (my stalwart training partner) will be cheering us on. Whatever else happens, there is that.

Writer in Training: Fun and Horrible

Today I received the following texts from my daughter:

“I can’t wait to race.”

“It’ll be so fun.”

“Also horrible.”

That pretty much sums up what we are facing in (eek) three weeks.

My body is more or less back to normal. That means I went on the longest run of my life yesterday: 30km. Let’s be real about what I mean when I say run. I ran more than I walked, yes, but I did not run the whole thing. That is a goal for another year.

It was fun, at first. Really, it was fun for about 23km. And then it was horrible.

I am one of the happiest runners on the planet. I love running, and I appreciate it because I pay such a high price to be able to do it. I can’t just lace up my shoes and step out the door. I have to do core and glute work first, and a series of ankle and foot-strengthening exercises to make sure my body doesn’t fall apart. Afterwards I stretch, and I roll everything out. It is time consuming, but it allows me to do what I love.

So when I say I’m not having a good time running, you know it must be bad.

Maybe bad is the wrong word. Hard. Running long distances is hard. And I love my run playlist, but even that got old after a while.

I think the problem is that I’ve been in denial about the marathon ever since I signed up for this race. After yesterday, I can’t deny it anymore: I am going to have to run 42km, on very very tired legs, and it’s going to suck. Any dreams I had of surprising myself with my run time have gone down the toilet. I’m not in favour of reality, but when it stands right in front of you and stares you down, you really can’t ignore it.

What cracks me up is that I sat there yesterday before the run deliberating: should I run in my Hokas or my Asics? As if it would have made a single bit of difference. For the record, I ran in my Asics. Next weekend I’ll try my Hokas. I’m quite sure it will be just as bad.

Here is the one consolation.

After 30km, you can pretty much eat what you want.

Happy training!

 

Writer in Training: Lessons From the Canada Day 4K

The conditions couldn’t have been better at Sasamat Lake on Canada Day. Beautiful sunshine, no wind, and a bunch of crazy people getting together to race. This would be the farthest I’ve ever swam. I wasn’t nervous. I did wonder what it would feel like, but I knew it would be good preparation for the Ironman.

Short answer: I was very pleased with the race. I finished faster than I expected to and did not feel beat up at the end. But a few things happened that are worth a comment or two.

Long distance is all about pacing. You have to choose a pace that you know you can sustain. The trouble is, most people go out too fast, and it’s tempting to join them. You see the pack moving away from you and you think, Oh God, I’m going to come in last. Resist. Swim the pace you’ve chosen and ignore what everyone else is doing. Some of them will be able to sustain that pace, but some are going to run out of gas. And running out of gas when you’re still in the middle of the lake doesn’t feel good. You don’t want it to happen to you.

Long distance is also as much mental as it is physical. Maybe even more so. About 300m in, I had the thought that YOU MUST NOT HAVE: I’ve only done 300m. I have to swim 4K. How will I ever do it? No. You have to shut that down, shut it down hard and don’t let it out again or you will freak yourself out. Do not look ahead. Do what you’re doing, and don’t think about it.

So, I did. I stopped thinking about it and then I thought, okay, now what? What do you think about for all that time? Usually I think about my technique, but that gets old fast. Then I started running songs through my head. Finally I stopped thinking altogether and just swam. I listened to my breath. I fell into a rhythm where my body was moving but I was almost disconnected from it. That’s the place where you want to be. I have to remember that. It’s the simplest thing, and it’s the best feeling ever.

Next up (fingers crossed): IMC. The swim will be a tiny bit shorter, but there will be a few other hoops to jump through before the day is done