Social Processes and Tales of Glutes and UW

I've been trying to write this blog post for a month.

I'd had it all planned out: I'd write about how to train hard in graduate school. It'd be awesome. So I'd grab a glass of water, sit down, and open up a tab. I'd try to type. And my fingers would resist, bracing themselves for grandiosity. Trim 10 Minutes Off Your SAT-Solving Algorithm With This One Cute Heuristic. Three Researchers Extend The Simply-Typed Lambda Calculus, And You Won't Believe What Happens Next. Normal people say "like pulling teeth." I think a more apt comparison is "like writing an NSF research proposal."

Alas.

My friend Chandra asked me last month how I manage my time so well. She said that she and another first-year had been talking about how good I am at it. I remember thinking, "oh god, is that really the impression I give?" I have a few things I really like, and I try to build my life around them. All the while, I spend entire Sundays stubbornly hacking away at problems I could probably solve in thirty minutes with a fresh mind the next day. I forget to do basic human things like eat and drink.

The reason people think this, I guess, is because I don't complain a lot. And I'll tell you why I don't complain: I'm happy. I spent three years reflecting on whether or not this was what I wanted to do with my life, and I concluded that yes, it absolutely is. There are few things I'm sure of, and this is one of them. But I should probably complain a little.

Here's what training in graduate school is really like: Some weeks are great. Your research is going super well. You made a breakthrough, got so much done. You don't have much classwork to worry about, and you actually did all of the reading for your reading groups for once. You're still working more than a standard nine-to-five, but it's fun, so you don't really mind. You run-commute some days to save time. There are showers downstairs. Cool. Nobody looks at you funny when you leave at 4:30 PM on a Wednesday to make it to track practice. You meet a dude in your lab who's like, "yeah, I lift," so you have a lifting buddy, too. Your social life is glowing; everyone is awesome. Seventy-five miles, smooth.

Here's what training in graduate school is really like: Some weeks are a mess. You're kind of at a boring point in your research, and you have a super cool side-project you'd rather be thinking about, but you know that you need to get through this part so you can get a paper out of it, because there's some other cool stuff you did that is probably paper-worthy. You also have a take-home midterm. You know that if you put it off, you're going to be thinking about it while you try to do your research, so you try to get as much done as quickly as possible. You get stuck on one problem, and it's 4:00 PM on a Wednesday, and you say, whatever, thirty minutes and I'll leave for practice. And then it's 5:00 PM. And then 6:00 PM. At 7:00 PM you cave and realize practice isn't happening (but at least you solved the problem) so you run-commute home in jeans and a T-shirt. You wake up at 6:00 AM to do a tempo and some 800s, but part-way through the 800s you're like "oh god, I feel awful," so you head up the hill for a Fartlek instead.

(And I haven't even had a paper deadline yet.)

XC did not go well for me. I ran in two meets, and I was really tired for both of them. They were slow. I figure I'm adjusting to a new lifestyle; it will take time.

It ended abruptly a few weeks ago when I tore a glute lifting weights. I was in a hurry to try to get to a board meeting, so I didn't warm up. During my sixth deadlift rep I felt a sharp pain. It was slight, though, so I figured I'd be fine if I just rested and kept going. A few reps later, it came back, searing, shooting. Pride carried me to the locker room, where I stared at my locker, wondering how the hell I was going to get out of the gym without anyone noticing. Please don't notice, please don't notice, oh god this hurts so badly that my vision is going black and I'm going to faint. I need to lie down. I guess I'll lie down.

The message I sent to Pavel, my lifting buddy

I couldn't actually get off the ground, so someone in the locker room called over a lifeguard. The lifeguard thought I was "having cramps," so she kept trying to convince me to get up. Every time I moved, my glute went into a violent spasm. So the firemen came, and then the EMTs, who got me up onto a stretcher (I had never screamed so loudly in my life) and carried me out of the gym. The whole time, I was like, please don't notice, oh god, this is so embarrassing, everyone is going to think I'm weak and I don't know what I'm doing, and I really don't want this attention, please don't look at me, please don't look at me.

This sounds like a miserable story, sure. It's a memory I hold kind of fondly, though. In part because it's hilarious. I mean, I had to take an ambulance from the gym to the ER which is literally two minutes from the gym (the bill to my insurance for this was $750), and the only thing I was concerned about was not being noticed.

But also, Pavel went with me to the ER. And then he texted Zach, a professor in our group, who picked me up after five hours of morphine, muscle relaxers, and periodic screaming. I wouldn't have asked for help on my own. I would have probably taken an Uber.

I got in the next day to this:

Best research group ever

I'm usually the person who does this sort of thing for other people. So it had never occurred to me that anyone would do it for me. Zach did. And the whole group signed it.

One of the reasons that I waited three years before starting graduate school was to find balance. In college I was super intense. I worked very hard and kept mostly to myself. Everyone knew me, but nobody knew me. So I had to find out how to balance my life a little. I found a second family in Seattle: Club Northwest. I poured myself into my running.

I didn't expect it to work both ways. Graduate school balances me, too. I am surrounded by people I love, doing something I love. It's nice to have two things going for you, because running, like research, ebbs and flows. 

I've barely been able to run for the past few weeks. But it's honestly been OK.

Like Riding a Bike, Part II

These were my thoughts going into my first triathlon:

• Hahahaha what am I doing with my life
• Whoever thought of this sport was clearly a cyclist
• I'm literally the slowest cyclist ever and I'm going to get passed by everyone
• I am going to be the only person with a hybrid
• I might crash my bike
• Whatever, I have nothing to lose

I had to show up the day before the triathlon to rack my bike and pick up my bib. I didn't want to, because typically I hate being around people talking about racing the day before I race. It's like all of those mid-40s women in Boston Marathon jackets at every marathon ever talking about PR this and BQ that and blah blah blah. I just want to sit in my living room and eat sweet potatoes and watch Portlandia. 

Actually, though, it was kind of nice, because the race was super beginner-friendly. The first woman I ran into was also a first-time triathlete. She had a fancy road bike. She was nervous about the swim. 

I looked around when I racked my bike and I noticed that plenty of people had hybrids. I mean, most people had road bikes or tri bikes, but there were a bunch of beginners with hybrids. It made me feel less embarrassed about my bike. 

My hybrid next to some bikes that actually make sense for racing

The bibs we got said "I tri for _______." I filled in the blank when I got home. "I tri for oh god, who knows; what the hell am I doing?"

I laughed at myself a little and put the whole thing into perspective: I couldn't even ride a bicycle a year ago. Now I'm racing 20K. Nothing else matters. Also, this is supposed to be fun. So have fun, god damn it. 

I woke up at 4:30 AM and left for the race early. This turned out to be a good call, since there was a line for parking, and then a line for someone to write all over you with a black permanent marker, and then another line to get into the transition, which closed at 6:30. I made it at 6:15. 

I stripped down to my tiny little bathing suit and left my stuff neatly arranged in the transition and then left. Then I realized I was freezing and everyone else had clothes on or a tri suit or wetsuit so I went back in and got warm-up clothes. 

The swim waves were in reverse order of age, which kind of sucked because it meant I'd have no idea where I was in the overall race, but at the same time it meant I could count "kills" Ragnar-style on the run. I warmed up for my wave and felt focused and ready to go. I lined up in front of the swim wave, which was a good call. 

Gun and then chaos. Everything I knew about swimming technique went out the window when I realized I couldn't see anything in the murky lake water with my Women's Vanquisher 2s. Do they make clear goggles for open water swimming? Is that a thing? 

I just kind of swam at a moderate pace trying not to go drastically off-course. The lady next to me kept alternating between fast freestyle and slow breaststroke. She kicked me in the face a few times. I kind of liked it. It reminded me of warm-ups before meets when I was younger, when we had 20+ people in a 25 yard lane.  

I caught up with the wave in front of me. Before I knew it, I was out of the water. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to jog the transition or if there were rules about not running or something weird, so I awkwardly shuffled into the transition area. 

What am I supposed to be doing?

I put on some clothes and socks and shoes and took my bike off the rack. Even though I knew I was still racing, I felt no real sense of urgency. Probably because I was terrified of the whole bike thing.

I ran my bike over to the bike start and took off. I remembered how to ride a bike, so that was good. My muscles burned pretty much immediately as I tried to ride hard. I'd never actually tried that before. I was pretty convinced it was going to get worse and worse as the ride went on, but in actuality, it just kind of stayed the same, and I just kept grinding. 

I passed a lot of people. I honestly didn't expect to pass anyone. They were from the waves ahead of me, but still. There were slower cyclists!

There was one sharp turn into a steep uphill. I tried to shift gears. I'd waited too long. My feet flew off the pedals. There was someone immediately in front of me and someone immediately behind me. I veered off to the side and tried to find my pedals again and not fall over. The lady behind me said "on your left!" and I was like "oh god, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" and she almost collided with me and had to stop. I turned back and asked if she was OK and she said yes. I apologized again. Somehow, I didn't fall. 

The rest of the bike went well. That was the only hill I messed up. Most of it was gradual. It was kind of cool, actually, because they blocked off an entire bridge for us. So there were no cars, no pedestrians, just cyclists. No stoplights. I could seriously just ride as fast as I could (as long as I had something left for the run).

I can do anything!

The bike was over before I knew it. I ran my bike back to the transition and noticed that every muscle in my legs was burning. So this is why people do bike-runs.

I struggled to get my bike back on the rack (it's really heavy) and then ran off to the start of the run. Except actually I just ran in the wrong direction confused and lost about twenty seconds before finding the actual exit. Then I ran off to the start of the run.

I ran as fast as I could without dying. I decided it was probably half-marathon pace. It hurt a lot. I kind of liked that. It was a new challenge. Usually races don't hurt until the end, but this run was a mental battle from the start. Game on. 

I counted kills. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. This is going to be tough. 13, 14, 15, 16, 17. It's just the end of a half-marathon. 35, 36, 37, 38, 39. Tempo pace. 51, 52, 53, 54, 55. Haha, I'm so fast. 71, 72, 73, 74, 75. You guys are making this easy. 96, 97, 98, 99, 100. 

I stopped counting at 100, just in time for a huge hill. My first thought was "are you freaking serious," but then I just did a five minute countdown (some short surges) to break it up mentally. I flew past more people on the hill and it felt good. I saw the finish and I ran as fast as I could, which wasn't very fast, but it was fast enough to overtake some lady from my age group. And I finished my first triathlon.

This was sent to me in an automated email with the message "Dear Talia, did you smile at the finish?"

I almost started crying. Like happy-crying, the way I felt after my first marathon. I don't know why. 

I finished 24th out of 850 women, and 4th in the 25-29 age group out of 109 women. These were my times:

Swim - 10:29

T1 - 3:51

Bike - 41:19

T2 - 1:36

Run - 19:54

Total - 1:17:07.2

I don't know how far the swim was. It felt slow for me, but mostly because I was trying to not swim off in the wrong direction. My run was actually the fastest run out of anyone there, so that was cool. But really, I was most impressed with my bike, even though it was a solid nine minutes behind the winner. I'd honestly assumed it would take me over an hour.

Here are my thoughts after my first triathlon:

• That was the most fun I've ever had racing 
• Whoever thought of this sport was clearly a cyclist
• That was like a solo relay; it went by so quickly
• I understand now why people practice transitions
• I'm totally getting a road bike
• I'm going to be awesome at this when I actually train for one

I went straight to the bike shop and got the Raleigh Capri 2 I'd been eyeing. 

Farewell, Raleigh Detour. You were a great bike to learn on!

Like Riding a Bike, Part I

I never learned how to ride a bicycle growing up.

I tried. I rode my bike with training wheels and I loved it. When my parents took the training wheels off, they told me, "it's exactly the same, just ride like you always do."

It wasn't, and I was a stubborn little kid, so I pretty much stopped trying after that.

In high school, my classmates went on a field trip to Block Island. Everyone bikes around Block Island. I tried to learn again before that. This time I was able to get moving without training wheels, but I could only go in tiny little circles, I couldn't go straight. I decided not to go on the field trip.

I grew up swimming competitively. I swam for the Bay and Ocean State Squids, which doesn't exist anymore (there's some history in that link) but used to be one of the top swim clubs in New England. I was an OK swimmer. I was never fast enough to swim for Maryland, which is why I started running, but I was OK. I swam a 5:42 500 free and a 2:40 200 fly LCM (2:23 SCY). The 200 fly was my favorite, but I liked distance freestyle. I did the Save the Bay swim (1.8 miles open water) twice.

Me and my family after Save the Bay 2007

So everyone who ever knew this about me would be like, "you should do a triathlon!" Then I'd say, "I don't know how to ride a bike." They'd interpret that as "I don't know how to race a bike" and start telling me that "the bike is the easy part." After like ten minutes I'd finally convince them I literally couldn't ride a bicycle. At all. Without falling over.

Enter Cascade Bicycle Club. At age 24, I finally got sick of this dialogue and decided I needed to learn how to ride a bike so that I could do a triathlon. I took lessons.

The formal environment really helped me. Most adults who learned how to ride as children take it for granted. When you ask them how to ride, they say they just kind of ride, "if you go fast you won't fall," "it's easy," "you just have to do it," "my older brother just pushed me down a hill; I can do the same thing for you if you want." I could say the same thing for swimming, which is honestly so ingrained in my memory from childhood that it's like walking to me, muscle memory, smooth and easy.

But I don't. I teach people all the time. And I never do that. I break it down.

So William Gerdes had me balance in place on the bike. He had me start and stop. Then start and pedal and stop. Downhill. Uphill. Then turn. Then shift gears. Turns were terrifying. Everything was terrifying. I screamed a lot. But I kind of like being scared.

I bought a bike.

Raleigh Detour

It was the most stable bike ever. It felt like it had training wheels on it.

In between lessons, I brought my bike to a parking lot like a little kid, and I practiced starting and stopping and turning and shifting. 

I took the Back to Basics course. There were other adults who were new to riding or riding again for the first time in a long time. That was cool.

Eventually, muscle memory kicked in, and I could just kind of do it. But I was still scared of riding my bike anywhere. There were cars. I didn't know how to signal without falling over. How was I supposed to ride my bike in the street with cars? I bought a car rack and drove my bike down to the Burke-Gilman Trail. I rode my bike for a few miles, turned around, rode back, and then drove my bike home. It felt ridiculous.

I got an email from William that Cascade was trying out a 1:1 mentorship program to bridge the gap between Back to Basics and Urban Cycling Techniques. He thought I was a good candidate. I said yes.

Michele Finkelstein was my mentor. We met up and did things I didn't feel comfortable doing alone. We rode in the street, from my place to the Burke-Gilman Trail. We locked our bikes on racks. Put our bikes on the bus rack. Signaled and signaled and signaled until it felt comfortable. I kept practicing on my own.

One morning, Michele rode with me to work. Then I racked my bike.

Shut up, I didn't know it was the wrong way, I fixed it later

I was going to bus home, but it was a Friday and I had the time so I was like, you know what, why don't I just ride home too? So I did. 

I stopped working with Michele and kept riding alone. I took Urban Cycling Techniques. I was probably the least experienced person in the course, but everything I learned was super useful, and I left really feeling comfortable riding in the city. I also learned some cool tricks I think most of my friends who have always been riding don't even know, like how to counter-steer to quickly turn and avoid colliding with an object and how to brake super quickly in an emergency without the back of your bike coming up.

I moved closer to work. I started riding to work every so often. I tried to get out on my bike every week. I signed up for a triathlon.

All of my serious triathlete friends told me to just use the bike I have and have fun for my first triathlon. So I didn't do any triathlon training. I kept running like I always do, I swam a few times to make sure I could still cover the distance, and I kept riding my bike every week. I never tried to ride my bike fast.

The triathlon went well. I surprised myself. It was fun, too. I'll write a race report soon.

Between the Legs

I used to have no idea why people do those Ragnar relay races.

I still have no idea. But I agree that (for some reason) they actually are fun.

I got over my mess of a marathon pretty quickly. But for the first time in seven years, I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my running. So when my friend Dave hit me up like "one of our runners is hurt, want to run a Ragnar?" I was like "why the hell not?"

That's a lie.

I was actually like "but what about work?" and "I don't have the money for this right now" and "I might need to cover my coworker's on-call rotation" and "how will I get any sleep?" and "but if I park my car in Burlington, how am I going to get to it after the race?"

Luckily, Dave took all of my anxieties in stride and found a way to make it work. Which is how I found myself at the Alger Park & Ride at 6:55 PM on Friday, waiting for a van full of mostly strangers to pick me up and bring me to my exchange so that I could run three times overnight.

My team outfitted me with a bunch of flashy things because it was getting dark. I looked like an alien. I jogged up for about a mile, did a few strides, and then hung out on Old Highway 99 waiting for a total stranger to hand me a slap bracelet. Team Stilts/Uterus Catchers was complete.

Boom, baby!

Our team was pretty fast, and the fastest teams started last. So the slower teams were hours ahead of us, and at this point we were yet to catch any of them. So I ran a solo 5K tempo on Old Highway 99 at 8:30 PM after a full day of work. I felt awful. It took me 20:56 (6:45 pace).

My uterus did not fall out.

I complained a lot. You know. "Oh my god, that was so slow" and "that was way too hard" and "I have no idea how the hell I'm going to do my next two legs." Then I realized that's totally not the point of Ragnar.

I put on some dry clothes, wiped myself clean with Shower Pills, ate a Lara Bar, shut up, and had fun.

At about 11:00 PM we drove to our next major exchange for some sleep while the first van ran their second legs. All of the slower seeded teams were there, so it was extremely crowded and there was nowhere to park anywhere near the high school where there was indoor sleeping. I broke out my sleeping bag and pillow, put in some ear plugs, covered my eyes with one of those airplane sleeping masks, and passed out on a patch of grass with about fifty other runners. When I woke up, everyone was gone.

Except my van.

It was about 2:00 AM. I think. I don't really remember. I didn't look at the time because I didn't want to think about how little sleep I was getting.

Juliana, bless her heart, was the first runner in our van. Her second leg was 8.7 hilly miles. It took her 58:18 (6:37 pace).

I threw on my college uniform.

And some arm warmers for good measure. 

When my leg rolled around at 4:30 AM, I was so delirious and giddy that I enjoyed every single second of it. It was only two miles, so I didn't get to enjoy it for very long. But it was pretty much a straight hill climb. I'm usually terrible at hills. But I felt really strong.

We were finally catching up with other teams, so I got nine "kills." Every time I saw another runner (another bouncing light in the distance) I focused on catching them. My brain was still asleep. I was running through a dream. It took me 13:38 (6:49 pace).

"I'll just pretend it's XC"

We were at an LDS temple and some dude in a religious van was totally thrilled that I had passed him, and all of his friends were making fun of him for it. I didn't know what to say since I wasn't sure if I would somehow offend him and at that point I was just trying to have fun and run my heart out.

We closed the van door and drove on.

The sun was rising. And we were at Deception Pass. Jesus fuck. I could have sat on that bridge forever. I think I get it now.

The next exchange was at a gas station. I walked in absolutely determined to get real food and some coffee. I walked out with a bag full of Goldfish® Baby Cheddar and some gummy worms. Whatever.

At the next major exchange, I dozed off for 30 minutes. I woke up at 6:30 AM. I felt excitement, dread, and exhaustion all blissfully brewed together into some concoction that I knew would be enough to fuel my third run. Or maybe that was the coffee. And pancakes. And bacon.

I was getting to know my teammates in my van in a way that you can only get to know people that you spend twenty-four sweaty hours with cramped up into a small space doing something crazy together. And I'd run into several of my friends and Club Northwest teammates along the way.

I was happy.

The sun rose. And rose. And rose. It was hot. My teammates all put on sunscreen, and I was like nah, I don't need that stuff; it's only 5.8 miles.

Before my leg, I doused myself with cold water. "If I look terrible," I told my teammates, "just throw some water at me from the van. I like that kind of stuff."

It was noon. It was eighty degrees out. I was supposed to run this:

That first hill tho

To my surprise, I felt great. I felt smooth climbing and fast descending. I kept track of kills. And this time there were lots of them. 18, 19, that's like almost a marathon of kills. My van drove by. They literally threw a water bottle at me. Like not the water. The actual bottle. A van almost rear-ended them and honked and the water whizzed by my head and landed in a ditch. I laughed and kept running.

20, 21, my van drove by again. This time Fat Brock got out and crossed the street and handed me a bottle of water. I drank a sip and then poured the rest on myself again. Thank god.

I logged 32 kills and ran 38:15 (6:35 pace).

Dave made these awesome spreadsheets.

A couple of our runners got lost I guess, and Dave took a tumble. We still finished in 23:41:52 for sixth mixed open team and thirteenth overall.

Uteri still intact.

I'd totally do it again.

The Perfect Storm

Sometimes, you have the elusive perfect season. Your training is flawless. You never get sick or injured. You run a PR during your tune-up race, then smash it during your goal race.

More often, though, you have to clear a few hurdles.

Occasionally, your whole season is Hell's Steeple and you keep tripping and falling on your face.

Something like this

Last fall, I pretty much had the perfect season. When it was all over in December, I decided I would take a short break and then slowly build back into marathon training. During training, I'd run eighty miles per week. I'd race the Resolution Run 15 Miler as a tune-up, and maybe also the 20K. I'd run the Eugene Marathon in May. It would take me two hours and fifty-nine minutes.

This is what actually happened: One January morning, I woke up with a large bump on the right side of my forehead. It hurt. I ran ten miles and then drove to Urgent Care. They told me that I had an infection and prescribed antibiotics. I took the antibiotics and the bump went away. Just a hurdle.

One week later, I felt the same pain behind my ear. There was a bump there too. I consulted Dr. Internet and decided that I most definitely had shingles. I went back to Urgent Care. They told me I didn't have shingles and that it was just a swollen lymph node. The boil in my forehead had drained into the lymph node behind my ear. Ew, gross. But still, just a hurdle.

A couple of days later, I woke up to pain inside my ear. I went to my doctor. The infection had spread to my middle ear. The antibiotics weren't doing anything. It was probably MRSA, or some kind of antibiotic-resistant strain of staph. She gave me different antibiotics. Just a hurdle, but come on, dude.

The infection lasted over a week. In the meantime, I was trying to slowly build back my mileage from the break. I was barely running by my own (albeit twisted) standards. But I underestimated how compromised my body was. The lingering soreness in my outer right ankle developed into the unrelenting, sharp, stabbing pain that I know very well: Peroneal tendonitis. Shit.

I extended my break a little. I cross-trained some more. I went to physical therapy. And I gradually reintroduced running. All was good.

Then I strained my adductor.

Back to the bike. Then to the Alter-G. First for easy runs, then for tempos. I could hardly run at all at full body-weight, but at reduced weight I could run medium-long tempos at 6:30 pace. So I did a lot of those. They kept me sane.

I scratched from Eugene and signed up for Grandma's Marathon because it's the only decent June marathon in the country. I tried to balance my ambition and my health.

It always looks more reckless retrospectively.

I supplemented my lower mileage weeks with lots of biking. By the time I got to week sixteen, I felt awful, even though I'd been used to running three week cycles of fifty-five, sixty-five, and seventy-five miles for pretty much all of last year.

But I made it. I hit my normal mileage again. I started to feel better. I had some pretty damn good workouts.

So I flew to Duluth, Minnesota on a Thursday, crashed in the university dorms, and got ready to race. I was alone for most of the weekend, a puddle of nerves, nausea, restlessness, and excitement. My friend Jamie showed up at 10:30 PM on Friday. I wanted to be annoyed at her for getting in late. But I actually felt a lot more calm. There was something soothing about having a friend in the room, even if we wouldn't actually have any time to catch up and hang out and we both had to get up at ass-o-clock to push our bodies as hard as we possibly could. For the first time all week, I slept like a rock.

Jamie's alarm went off at 4:00 AM. I got out of bed at 4:45 AM as she was heading out. We exchanged half-asleep mumbles. That was the most I'd see of her all weekend.

It was pouring and I was standing there in spankies and a singlet trying to not freeze my butt off, but to still secure my spot in the starting corral. I was one of very few people my speed stupid enough to do this. Most of them were hanging out under the edge of a roof, warm and dry. A courteous runner handed me a garbage bag. I poked a hole in it and wore it like a shirt. Thank god.

This outfit doesn't go very far in the rain.

When the gun went off, I settled into whatever the hell pace felt right, which was supposed to be 7:00 pace. I don't own a Garmin or anything like that. I hit the first mile in 6:58.

The second mile was a little fast, then I backed off and settled into the 6:55-7:00 pace I was trying to hit. My shoelaces (which were definitely double-knotted) came undone at mile five. I tried to fix them, then they came undone again. They were soaking wet and the knots weren't holding. I tried to fix them again, and this time I tucked them into my actual shoe. They came undone again, so I gave up on that. I'd lost probably thirty seconds on this stupid stint, so I decided to make it all up at once, which is probably the second dumbest thing I did during that race.

The next seven miles were uneventful, except that there was a dude in a kilt running my pace, and I was determined not to lose to Kilt Boy. The rain stopped.

Around mile seventeen, I started to feel really bad. Stiff neck, burning muscles; I figured I was hitting the wall early. But I'd taken in a gel already, and I'd been drinking plenty of water and Powerade, so I wasn't sure why. I tried to remember what my coach told me. Relax your muscles. Smile every mile. Stay positive. Something about waxing and waning. It'd come back, I just needed to be patient.

Fading. 7:15. 7:30. Something.

At mile twenty, I started wheezing. I  tried to talk myself out of it. "No," I said out loud to my lungs, "stop." At mile twenty-one, I figured maybe some water or Powerade would make me feel better, so I took one of each. Ice cold. I chugged. It got worse. Much worse. Asthma. I remember this. Asthma.

I still knew at that point that if I jogged it in at my easy pace, I'd qualify for Boston by about twenty-five minutes, and then I could run it with my sister. So in the logic that only ever makes sense at mile twenty-one of a marathon in Minnesota when you can't breathe, I was like, jog it in, Talia, just jog it in. Except this wasn't the wall I remembered from NYC, the but-I-only-have-one-speed haze; this was the fire that can only be described as The 800 Feeling. I had to run an 800 for five miles.

The wheezing got worse. People around me were cheering me on, trying to encourage me to keep going, telling me they'd run with me. Kilt Boy passed me. I couldn't get out more than a word at a time. Finally, I turned to one guy and said, "ASTHMA." He ran up front to find a medical tent for me, then ran back to tell me where it was.

I was sitting in a military vehicle trying not to suffocate while a nice military woman tried to comfort me.

I was in an ambulance being drilled by questions from EMTs that I couldn't answer because I couldn't talk.

There was this thing that looked like an inhaler so I grabbed it as quickly as I could and tried to use it but then I heard "the other way, it's like a fake inhaler" and I flipped the nebulizer in a panic and took a deep breath and left it there breathing in and out and in and out and oh my god I could breathe. My lungs filled with the cool, misty, bitter bronchodilator.

I found this on Google Images and quite frankly have no idea what the hell she's spraying in her face, but this is pretty much the only way to explain how refreshing it felt to be able to breathe again.

When I finally felt like I could safely part with the nebulizer, I gave the EMTs my information, then told them that no, I didn't think I needed to go to the hospital. I looked at my watch and realized that I could still technically qualify for Boston if I jogged it in. I started to get up.

My legs didn't move. They had a hell of a lot more sense than my mind.

I slept all day. I woke up at 6:00 PM and ordered a pizza. I ate the whole pizza. Then I went back to sleep and woke up the next morning.

Now I rest. Now I stop feeling sorry for myself. Now I figure out what to do about this. I've already been in to see my allergist. This is what sport is. This is what being an athlete means. Shit goes catastrophically wrong, we fail, we learn, we move on. We accumulate experience and wisdom and become better athletes as time goes on. And when we finally succeed, it's just that much sweeter.

Identity and Sport: Why it Matters

In October of 2014, FloTrack posted a story about Matt Llano, the first openly gay professional distance runner. The video was posted on National Coming Out Day.

FloTrack's Facebook page was immediately flooded with comments to the effect of "who cares if he's gay," "why does this matter," and my personal favorite, "61:47 is a slow half-marathon; you're only featuring him because he's gay." Most of these comments have been deleted.

I defended Matt Llano and I was personally attacked for it:

At least he apologized?

It's easy to pass this guy off as an anomaly, but homophobia is still pervasive in sport.

Before my running days, I was a competitive swimmer. I remember one travel meet in Buffalo. All of the boys tried so hard to prove they weren't gay that some of them slept on the floor. I was supposed to share a bed with another female athlete, and she refused without telling me why. So we ordered a cot for the hotel room. She made me sleep on the cot. The cot was hard and I didn't get much sleep. Outside of the hotel room, I heard one of my teammates tell her "at least she's only half lesbian."

That stuck with me so much that I never discussed my bisexual identity with my swimming teammates after that, or with my running teammates in college. In fact, when I moved to Seattle, I went back into the de facto closet.

Let me explain the de facto closet. Many who are not explicitly homophobic, who are accepting and tolerant, seem to think that sexual orientation is a private matter that should not be discussed unless it is prompted for. Sometimes that's protective instinct. This post might influence my career potential in the future. Someone might find it and decide that I am an apt target for a hate crime. That's life, I guess; I'm OK with it. Identity is only a vulnerability if it is something you are ashamed of.

But sometimes, it's the view that identity is fundamentally a private issue. After all, they don't run around telling people they're straight, so why should Flotrack announce that Matt Llano's gay? Why should I be open about being bisexual?

The reality of the situation is that unless you come out, people assume you're straight. So if you're not out of the closet, you're in the de facto closet. And that's OK; if it's not safe to come out, you don't have to come out. That's fine. But it's really uncomfortable. It's living a lie. Imagine living in a world wherein everyone assumes you're gay, where that's the norm; wouldn't it get uncomfortable after a while? Wouldn't you want to say "by the way guys, I'm not gay"?

In sport this is even more true for men because sport is perceived as masculine, but gay and bisexual males are perceived as feminine, so they are even less visible.

Visibility is important. High-profile LGBT athletes open up dialogue. They have influence. They inspire. And they provide a gauge. You can see your friends' reactions before you open up. Do they post about how disgusting it is that Matt Llano is interested in other men? Do they say it's against God's will? Do they say that they think it's fine that he's gay but that he shouldn't tell anyone? Do they refrain from commenting? Or do they support him whole-heartedly and defend his decision to go public?

It wasn't long after Matt Llano's post that I got fed up with living a lie and came out again myself. I was met with overwhelming support by my Club Northwest teammates. I am a lucky gal.

It doesn't get much better than this.

Olympic decathlon gold medalist Bruce Jenner has gone public with her transgender identity. She still says she's OK with the pronoun he, but identifies as female, so for the sake of this post I will use she. I've seen a lot of the same reactions. "It's cool that [s]he's transgender, but why does [s]he have to be public about it?"

Actually, it's alarmingly refreshing to see non-LGBT athletes accept Bruce's identity. My guess is that these people are tolerant and open-minded, they just have a lot to learn.

Bruce's story is going to open the dialogue for trans-folk. This dialogue is decades behind the gay, lesbian, and even the bisexual dialogue. For starters, most people don't even understand what it means. The key is first to understand the difference between biological sex and gender identity.

Biological sex is a combination of your chromosomes and physical characteristics. For most people, these fall into clear categories and we are either male or female, but the same is not true for everyone. Caster Semenya is a great example of an intersex woman; that topic alone warrants its own post. (As an aside, this term is not totally PC anymore, and a lot of people prefer to talk about assigned gender or assigned sex at birth; my knowledge was out-of-date when I wrote this.)

Gender identity is, well, an identity. If you feel like you are male, then you have a male gender identity. If you feel like you are female, then you have a female gender identity. Again, for most of us, this is clear, but there are far more than two gender identities, and some refuse to identify at all.

A cisgender person has the same biological sex and gender identity. If you have never once thought about the difference between biological sex and gender identity, then you are probably cisgender.

But that doesn't mean that everyone is the same. A transgender person has a gender identity that is not in line with his or her biological sex. Some choose to operate to align the two; some don't. Some present themselves as the gender they identify with; some don't.

All of this is a spectrum just like anything else. And all of this is independent of sexual orientation completely. A transgender person can be straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, queer, asexual, whatever. They are independent variables. But for the sake of this post, I'll leave it at that.

Some states that legally protect lesbians, gays, and bisexuals from employment discrimination don't even protect trans-folk. Being openly transgender in today's society is probably a much more difficult experience than being openly queer.

So why does it matter that Bruce Jenner is transgender?

• This will open the dialogue in the sporting community as well as the community at large.
• Bruce Jenner has influence.
• The transgender community can draw strength and inspiration from Bruce's story.