Packing and posting makes it feel real

The fact that I'm actually doing RAGBRAI started to sink in as my weeklong-rider friends left Des Moines on Saturday and promptly began tweeting/Facebooking from Council Bluffs.

It became even more real while I packed today. I'm really going to spend four days in a row with no transportation other than my bike and no clothing items that don't wick sweat away?

The tricked-out bike sitting in my living room — thanks to some trusting and generous friends, it has doubled its sunscreen/water-carrying capacity — and the single backpack for four full days away says yes, yes I am.

See that little blue band? That means I'm RAGBRAI-approved. 

I'd of course been thinking of my packing list on and off for the prior week, and the realization that I wouldn't need pants that clasp for this entire trip had me delighted (almost as happy as I was when it dawned on me that I had a free pass to be sweaty and sunscreen-slick, without judgment, for four full days).

The perk of this became even more apparent as I packed nearly 48 hours before my departure: Every other vacation I've taken in recent memory has required clothing that I might wear before leaving.

For example, when I pack a few days for a wedding, if I put a certain pair of shoes in early, I have to make sure I won't need those for work. Or, though I've doubled up on many toiletries like hair product and face powder, there are still a few things that I have to leave myself notes about.

But not for RAGBRAI. Bike-and-beer gear has no place in the office. Stylish, delicate clothes and scented body products aren't necessary while riding across Iowa.

In the meantime, to make the event seem even more official, I've got five people to get to Perry over two trips. If that doesn't drive it home, I don't know what will.

Ignoring conventional wisdom

If there's one thing I know about preparing for major athletic events, it is this: Don't make big changes before the big day.

So literally a week before I begin RAGBRAI (I'm jumping in at the middle, remember), I went out and bought bike shorts and a sweat-absorbing headband.

I didn't become so much of a n00b that I failed to test these items out before the kickoff, though. That counts for something, right?

Thoughts from a 25-mile ride that began when it was 88 degrees (heat index in the 90s):

* My favorite part of the bike shorts may be how high-waisted they are, at least on this child-sized adult. I like my odds of preventing further tramp-stamp burns.

* My least favorite part of the bike shorts is wearing them when I'm not on a bike. I don't recall what wearing a diaper felt like, but I'm willing to bet that this is a very similar feeling.

* The shorts are an appropriate length, but wow, there is a LOT of incredibly pale skin seeing some direct sunlight. Will there be a vat of sunscreen into which I can be lowered before putting on my clothes?

* The Halo sweatband purchase will probably pay more dividends for me than the padded shorts. What sold me on it in the first place was the little ridge that diverts sweat toward your jawline instead of directly into your eyeballs; this is just about as good as advertised. (The corners of my eyes did catch a few sunscreeny sweat droplets.)

It's also a good thing I've resigned myself to tan lines instead of exposing maximum skin in hopes of an even skin tone, because with the Halo band and my sunglasses shielding the upper third of my face, I'm going to be a walking gradient for a while after RAGBRAI.

But put all this together, combine it with my hand-pump-bearing road bike and throw on some bike gloves, and I look like I belong on RAGBRAI. How far I've come from old college T-shirts and a hybrid!

You know nothing, Little Runner!

Last Wednesday, I congratulated myself for what seemed to be a RAGBRAI trial run: a ride with a lunch stop in the middle and a little bit of heat/wind at the end. I've totally got this.

Um, not quite. The 65-miler lacked humidity, 90-degree weather, more than a few hills, more than a few stops, fried food, frozen treats and beer.

But don't worry. I got all of that in Sunday, and I can handle it. Mostly.

I rode with several of my RAGBRAI companions from the Principal Riverwalk up to Big Creek and back that day, which was everything I've come to expect from July in Iowa. Throw in the hills on the Neal Smith Trail, plus some residual fatigue from the previous day's run, and I was a little uncertain about how well a 50-plus-miler would go.

The first prolonged one came at Latitude 41, and the idea of lunch had me positively giddy. I ordered a Summer Shandy and a catfish strip basket and tucked right into both.

It was so delicious ... and so greasy. Did we really have to get back up and keep riding north and then turn back around? We couldn't just nap? No? UGH.

The next seven or so miles were not the easiest miles I've ever done. My first all-fried-food meal in months sloshed around, and the beer's carbonation didn't bring me any relief until well into our next stop (at Big Creek).

Almost as good as the relief from the grease? The 25-cent Fla-Vor-Ice I got at the air-conditioned concession stand. So much welcome coolness.

When we trusted that the rain on the radar had passed, we hopped back on and flew. The hills were mostly down; the wind, mostly at our backs. I felt strong, cheerful and grateful for second-half momentum — and then we stopped again. Latitude 41 was still there and still open.

At the time, I would've rather kept going. But that's not what we're going to be doing in a few weeks. In a few weeks, we'll be riding only long enough to build up a thirst and a hunger. So it was good that we stopped for another beer and another few glasses of ice-cold water.

And really, come to think of it, our stop-and-go riding was done during the sunniest part of the day. After that beer, we stopped only for a bathroom break on the 16 miles back to the starting apartment, under a sky only just bright enough for my sunglasses to still help, not hinder.

So how did I feel upon our return? Surprisingly, just sweaty and of average fatigue/hunger. Not dehydrated, sunburned or queasy. And most of all, content with how my stomach handled a true RAGBRAI simulation.

Still to be determined: how my legs and seat will handle RAGBRAI.

The final farmers tan frontier ... for training

I'd been wondering whether and when this would happen: a tan line on my fingers from wearing bike gloves.

Late last week, it did. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, but reinspection has shown me that I indeed have two-toned index fingers (and that the left one is darker than the right one).

It's not my imagination. It's there. However, if you can't see it, blame my poor photography skills.

But as fellow RAGBRAIer Regina pointed out, we've still got event wristband tans coming for us. The best, or worst, is yet to come, depending on how you view farmers tans. (In my case, with amused resignation, and gratitude that it's not a farmers burn.)

Where else can I acquire new tan lines?

I may never undo what will happen to my forearms and lower upper arms, because I fear for how scorched my back will become if I wear my tank tops -- they're racerbacks.

Sunglasses-inspired raccoon eyes are almost a given, if I'll be out in the sun more than half a day.

I might be lucky enough to see white stripes down my jaw line from where my helmet hid the skin, but I doubt I'll see any hue on my legs between beige and lobster.

Check back at the end of July to find out what a tie-dyed mess my skin has become!

The badge of honor for bikers

Warning: I'm pale and thus burn easily, and only certain body parts' skin will adapt to this by developing a base tan. 

Nearly constant talk of sunburn, sunscreen and tan lines will not end until RAGBRAI does, so if this bores/repulses you, unbookmark my blog until August.

Recently, fellow runner/biker Emily and I were trading updates on our various sunburns that had faded into farmers tans (for her, the back; for me, the neck/upper chest).

The talk went from past to future damage when Emily mentioned how she was looking forward to spotting a bike-shorts tan line on her thighs.

A few days later, as I surveyed my own skin situation, I realized that we each are measuring our biker creds by our tan lines.

While Emily's keeping an eye on her legs, I'm watching my wrists. Apparently, my skin reflects my farmer ancestry and not my Italian descent, because I can only really, truly darken my arms and neck.

So while my forearms grow darker — emphasis on the "er" and not the "dark" — the padded bike gloves I'm so fond of have been shielding my hands from the sun.

(Which, according to a recent conversation I heard about Diane Keaton, is an incredibly wise move — the backs of your hands will evidently show the most signs of aging.)

This is turning my wrists into a definite border. It's most prominent on the inside, because of how I tilt my arms as I hold the handlebars, but I'm willing to bet that within weeks, those who haven't been tipped off by this blog post will start commenting on it.

It may look silly, but like Emily with her future two-toned legs, I'll wear the proof of my training with pride.

Yawning at milestones

Yesterday I rode 50 miles on the Raccoon River Valley Trail, going from the Waukee trailhead just past Linden and then back.

I was very happy with this effort for a number of reasons.

* First, I actually got out of bed and the apartment to do the ride. Motivation was not strong yesterday morning.

* I managed to head straight west on the trail without having a weather crisis.

* During the vast majority of the ride — I'd say about 80 percent of it — I felt strong ... and this even included a few windy-in-my-face stretches.

* I finished much faster than I'd expected: 3 hours, 23 minutes (plus a few breaks, but not many, and not for long). I'd prepared myself for about four. That's good for a 14.8 mph average.

* And I didn't acquire any new sunburns! (OK, a lot of the trail was shaded, but still, my diligence in applying and reapplying should be applauded. Positive reinforcement here, folks.)

It wasn't until I got back to my apartment that it dawned on me that none of my pride involved the fact that I'd ridden 50 miles. The distance was no big deal, except that I'd successfully blocked out the time needed to fit that much riding in.

Thinking back to the weeks since "biking season" began, I realized this shrugging-off of distances was a long time coming. A few times, I'd caught myself dismissing the shorter rides as "only" 20 miles.

"Only" 20 miles? Remember what a sweaty effort that was on your previous bike — a perfectly nice hybrid? It wasn't impossible, by any means, but I considered that a pretty significant workout. (Granted, with the hills I encountered out in the country, I was justified.)

But just like how, relative to past rides, 50 is long, 50 is short compared with what I'll be doing for the rest of June and July — 55, 60, 65 and 75 are all on the schedule.

So it's probably good that I didn't start bragging about my accomplishment on every social media outlet that I could. If I thought 50 was the world's biggest deal, then that would likely mean I wasn't mentally and/or physically ready for the serious training and for the main event.

(One tiny brag, though: This and my early May 50-miler have doubled the number of times I broke the 50-mile barrier from April 2011 through April 2013. To be honest, I don't even know how often I broke 40 miles during that stretch.)

Sunburn update

A nerve-racking week-plus without riding made me determined to build two solid rides into my "weekend" (Sunday and Monday, my two days off from work).

I did 30 out-and-back miles Sunday morning, starting on the Clive Greenbelt trail and turning around at the SW Fifth Street pedestrian bridge. All conditions — temperature, wind, elevation, restedness — were optimal; until one final uphill struggle, I was averaging 15 mph.

A chunk of this ride followed the Hy-Vee Half Marathon route, but I am happy to report that I was actually in a state of mind to appreciate the trails rather than wonder angrily why I was even doing this.

Sunburn acquired: a set of parentheses on my shoulder blades, facing like this ) ( . It's the spot where a racerback tank top exposes skin, but where straining sunscreen-covered hands can only swipe awkwardly.

On Monday afternoon, I squeezed in 40 miles, taking the Greenbelt trail to the Raccoon River Valley one. I absolutely loved how quiet, new and rural the stretch from the Waukee parking lot to Minburn was; I was less enchanted with the wind that day.

Still, because it was an out-and-back, what the wind took from me at points, it also gave back. Legs that were tired from the previous day's effort and the current day's 20 mph winds managed to average a 14 mph pace.

Sunburn acquired: several irregular splotches on my legs. This one is deeper than the parentheses, probably because it was on skin that rarely receives direct sunlight ... let alone for three hours. I'll just share photos, for your amusement/commiseration.

I have shorts on, though you can't see them. What you CAN see, however, is the outline of a Band-Aid around a cut I received Sunday night. Evidently I protected not just the wound itself but also the inch or so of skin surrounding it. 

Evidence of the shorts ... and the sunshine hitting my parallel-to-the-ground thighs directly. 

How did this happen? I wore running shorts instead of the knee-length shorts that keep my skin from rubbing awkwardly against the seat and, apparently, from being roasted in the sun.

I never want to be sunburned, let me make this clear, but I'm taking a very optimistic outlook on these burns. Better to find all the weirdly sensitive spots now so I can slather them in sunblock during RAGBRAI.

The evolution of my RAGBRAI fears

When I made my RAGBRAI announcement, I mentioned how many fears were swirling around my head.

Now that I've been biking for a couple of weeks, I wish I could say I'd put them to rest. However, it turns out that training simply changes the topic of my worries.

First, before I even signed up, there were the logistics questions, namely where I'd be staying and how I'd get back.

The former was put at ease by the friends who have a guaranteed hotel room — and therefore room on the floor — for me; the latter, somewhat eased (though not settled) by the same friends' breezy assurances that whoever's taking them home can take me, too.

Then came the fitness fears. I read the training suggestions on the RAGBRAI website and did the math on how far short I would fall. Hastily, I canceled one of my running days each week — I was still preparing for the half marathon then — and in response, Iowa canceled its springlike weather.

So once the race and my rest week were both over, I hit the bike with a vengeance. One Sunday, I did 52 miles with only water to sustain me; the following day, I logged 30 miles and did more than "just survive"; and a few days later, I went for what I found myself calling "only a 20-miler."

It was then that I realized my legs and seat region will be just fine for four consecutive days of riding. But you know what might not be? My skin.

I attributed my first sunburn to the foolishness of allowing a winter-pale Midwesterner to sit on El Bait Shop's patio for half an hour midride.

The next sunburn I got from biking — not my next sunburn, period, but the next bike-related one — was a bit of a puzzle. Sure, I'd been outside for hours with no sunscreen, but I was tilted forward on an overcast day ... must've been windburn, right?

Then came the "tramp stamp" sunburn, at which point I began panicking about how to ward off blistering during four whole days in the late July sun.

Sure, my skin will have had time to adjust by then, but I'll still need sunscreen ... and I'll still need to reapply throughout the day ... and I'll still need to figure out where to store it in a place where it won't melt.

I might just have to be the equivalent of the kid whose mom makes him/her wear a T-shirt to the pool over his/her swimsuits (yes, that was me) — maybe I'll just wear a burqa.

I returned to running and survived

I finally went on my first post-race run, and it exceeded my expectations.

Yes, those expectations were set awfully low: I steeled myself to expect buckets of sweat; burning muscles and possibly skin; wheezing; and anger at how fast my fitness had faded.

Upper 60s and sunshine still felt warm to hot, depending on whether I was near trees or in a breeze, but it sure wasn't the misery of our random 80-degree April day — the sweat situation was still closer to a glowing mist than a raging river.

It took me 1.68 miles to cave to the temptation of walking it off, and I did work in a few more walk breaks during the rest of the 3.5-miler. That was OK, though; these breaks were far different than the frustrated stops I made during the half marathon.

The weirdest part was how slow I felt, not just because I was deliberately not pushing myself, but more so because of all the biking I did Sunday and Monday. I've gotten used to covering more ground in less time, apparently.

Don't get me wrong, I was happy to finish. My phone-carrying shoulder, after its week-and-a-half reprieve, became a little crabby with me, and I was more than ready to gulp down some water and take a shower.

I think running once in a while during RAGBRAI training can and will happen, however. Maybe just once a week, and almost definitely in the cooler evening hours (before any half marathon training begins again and forces me to demand more of myself, i.e., not to dodge all sunshine and all warmth).

Running just for fun, not for a purpose — now that will feel strange.

When a runner becomes a rider

Once upon a time — 2007 and 2008 — the only exercise I got was through biking. (Before that ... well, let's not go there.)

Obviously, that changed. Here I am in May 2013, having spent basically all of my workout energy from fall 2011 through last month running — then suddenly flipping the switch to biking.

Two consecutive days of longer rides does not constitute a complete lifestyle change, but there are definitely some differences in post-ride life from post-run life.

* First of all, I'm hungry right away and not nearly as thirsty. It makes more sense intuitively, though it is less convenient — instead of happily taking time to stretch, change clothes, use the bathroom, pester the cat, etc., I just want to bury my head in the fridge.

* Much more helpful is how not sore and achy I've felt. My legs and back did complain a little bit during rides, yet when the foam roller came out, almost nothing felt knotty.

Let me repeat that: Almost nothing felt knotty. It's the only time so far I've rolled my IT band without grimacing, or wondered how to pile more weight onto the backs of my thighs to really work my quads.

OK, my glutes were still tender, and my calves did have a tight spot or two ... and the inner thigh exercise was finally worth the incredibly awkward and unnatural positioning. Otherwise, I would probably be able to put the foam roller on the high shelf of the closet and forget it was there until fall.

* Sometimes it can be hard to find a comfortable position besides reclining after a run. After a ride, everything except sitting on the bike seat seems perfectly cushy and cozy. Climbing back on the day after a 50-miler, on the other hand ...

* And finally, there are the odd sunburn spots. That's not to say I don't burn, or burn in weird places, while running — I do. (Except when real winter arrives in Iowa.) They're just different than the weird places I've already burnt myself while riding.

Before Monday, back when it was cooler and required more clothing, I'd only burned my face/neck around my helmet and sunglasses. It looked super-hip.

Far more awesome, though, is the "tramp stamp" sunburn I got from a shirt that slid up as I leaned over for, oh, two-plus hours. It goes about two-thirds of the way across my waist and is just about a centimeter high, but wow is that skin pink against the ghostly white of the rest of me.

Distant runners-up to the tramp stamp are the two splotches on the insides of my wrists, right where I rotate my arms about 45 degrees to hold on to the handlebars. Like a watch tan line, except only an inch wide.

So, if the first two real days of RAGBRAI training are any indication, I shouldn't worry about the eating/drinking while riding, or the demands it'll make on my muscles — only whether I can dip myself in a vat of sunscreen at each and every stop.

Mostly wordless Wednesday: Always wear sunscreen

I present to you my arm, photographed Monday.

Yes, that is a litterbox in the background.

The various colors you see are not shadows — they are different epochs of sun damage.

At the very top is what's covered by my exercise T-shirts; it spent most of last summer hidden because that meant less skin to slather in sunscreen.

In the middle is last year's farmer's tan, hanging on determinedly despite living in the Midwest.

And at the bottom is what happens when you do a half marathon in sunshine, then refuel at a shade-free picnic table. (That part is slightly exaggerated by shadow, but in real life you can definitely see it without straining your eyes.)

I should have put sunscreen on before the race, or before brunch, but I always forget that my arms can — and will— burn, too.

Now I have Neapolitan ice cream arms. Feel free to laugh when you next see me in a tank top; the "chocolate" portion will go away, but I think the vanilla and strawberry contrast is there to stay for a while.

I hope this cheers people up on what was forecast to be an overcast, rainy and chilly day.

My legs are so bright ...

Yesterday, the sun was shining; the temperature (both real and feels-like), well above freezing.

It was time to pull out summer running gear, which I did with only the slightest of hesitation. One can usually turn back around and change clothes, if the weather teases you as it did to our running club.

Into the living room I walked to get my phone, sunglasses and shoes. The cat was sitting, loaflike, on the couch, and I started to mock him for his sedentary tendencies ...

... and then I saw the look on his face. Yes, my cat was making a face, one usually reserved for squirrels and small children, at me: a mix of horror and disgust.

You can call me a crazy cat lady, but I swear he was revolted by my survivor-of-a-Midwest-winter legs. Their blinding whiteness and visible dryness offended his eyes.

And once I got outside and pulled my sunglasses on, I too sneaked a fearful glance at my gams. Not even tinted lenses could hide how pale they were.

But on the plus side, at least they match my feet (which won't be true after a few months of wearing socks and shorts this summer).

Web wrap-up: June 25 to July 1

Running Is Funny: An Army Jogs on Its Stomach. Mike shares the vision of a Pennsylvania man who launched a series of races, called Jog 'n Hog, based on the Krispy Creme Challenge. Each race's eating portion is tailored to the city's particular specialty.

I liked this post because of the regional delicacies it described: pepperoni balls, ice cream and clusters of caramel/nuts/chocolate. And I thought it was worth sharing because of the call for what your city's food item would be.

Des Moines is apparently known for steak de burgo and Graziano's sausage. My former residence, Rockton, would have to feature Dairy Haus ice cream, and my true hometown, Roscoe, would definitely serve up pizza from Pietro's; extending to my home metro area, we could pig out on Edwards Apple Orchard donuts, anything from BeefaRoo or Swedish pancakes.

Now I'm hungry for home.

Another Mother Runner: Time to Talk Dirty. Sarah lists punny slang terms that describe mud race phenomena. I did the Warrior Dash last year, so this sounds pretty familiar as well as accurate. My favorite? "Souv-in-ear – the keepsake dirt you find in your ear three days after the race." For me it wars more like souv-in-toenail, but that's much less catchy.

Well: What Runners Can Learn From Cheetahs/Running Is Funny: Other Things Runners Can Learn From Cheetahs. The New York Times article (first link) is highly scientific and discusses the mechanics of how cheetahs and greyhounds move so fast. What humans can learn from them, it says, is that strong thighs and lighter shoes probably help, but that "there’s no indication" that the critters' lolling tongues boost speed. Michael Jordan probably would beg to differ, and judging from some of my hot-and-hilly runs, I'd say it's at least worth a little psychological boost. That's probably just a child of the three-peat era talking.

Mike's post, the second link, is easier to digest. Lots of pictures of cute cheetahs of all ages and sizes. Also, there are far-more-practical tips from cheetahs: I don't think I'll struggle putting "Cuteness trumps speed" (I've gotten some hollas recently, sunscreen, sweat, grimace and all) and "Recovery days are very important" into practice.

RW Daily: Congrats to Our 1 Millionth 'Avid Runner'!. Mark Remy points out, correctly, that articles never describe "runners" without using the adjective "avid." He explains the distinction:

"Avid runners are people who run and then talk about it, even to people who don't run and don't care. Also, avid runners wear race T-shirts instead of giving them to Goodwill."

Hurray! I'm an avid runner, because I talk about it to people who neither run nor care! Thanks, Mark.