Attn West Coast: Winter is not always terrible.

There's a feeling in the northeast that I had forgotten about. Sometimes it's really lousy and nasty out for a long time. Like how it stays cold until the end of March but there's no fresh snow, it's just cold and bitter. But all those months of gray make that first spring thaw so much more beautiful.

I won't even pretend to have endured months of cold - I've only been home two weeks - but on Wednesday, I saw the sun after days of storming that dumped nearly two feet of snow in my backyard.

It is becoming a family tradition to take a trip to a different South-Central than the one I'm used to - the South-Central Maine Coast. Since I first visited Acadia National Park in middle school, I have thought it to be one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. My appreciation for it rivals my alter ego's love of the Central California Coast. On Wednesday, via snowshoe, I was fortunate enough to see those parts of the park that truly remain untouched during the winter. The ground was uniformly covered in a thick but manageable layer of snow, leaving the branches of every tree weighted with heavy powder. The sky was as bright a blue as I've ever seen, dotted with fluffy white clouds. And I could feel the cleanness of the air, an unusual crispness compared to the atmosphere in LA. Sounds like heaven, right? Yeah, I think it was.

Anyway, after stomping through the woods and making our way down to a beach, my brother and I climbed up to where a trail meandered alongside the Park Loop Road - usually busy with traffic in the summertime, but silent except for the occasional snowmobile in this season. By 2:00pm, the sun was noticeably lower in the sky and a few large gray clouds drifted over it, causing the ripples in the small inlet by Otter Cliffs to go from their gleaming silver to a matted navy blue. Simultaneously, another cloud drifted just below the sun, and the rays of light shone through it like distinct beams. And that was it. That moment made the gray of the days before and the icy cold temperatures and the biting winds worth it.

I guess all the stars aligned this week - the weather was beautiful (cold, yes, but bearable), there was fresh snowfall, and I had nothing else I needed to do. In a little over a week, I will be back in class four days a week, undoubtedly swamped with problem sets, and hopefully training hard for spring races. A day like that made all that worry melt. I don't know what I want to do with my life, but I want more of this.

Let it Snow

On Tuesday, I got the rare opportunity to be a trailblazer. It flurried on Monday, leaving a thin white coating on the ground. The light but relentless snow shower continued through the night, and when I woke up the next morning, the dusting had been augmented to a thick blanket of three or four inches. I had already been looking forward to a trail run, now I was really stoked.

The main path at the state park had some footprints to follow, but as I turned down a windy trail through the woods, there were no tracks except those of a wandering deer, twisting between trees. In front of me, the ground was totally undisturbed - effervescent powder waiting to be kicked up for as far as I could see. At first, I stumbled through the snow, but soon enough I felt like I was skating across it. Without a clear path ahead of me, I took some wrong turns and left misleading tracks for my followers. I stayed focused on the trail, and when I reached a clearing, looked up and couldn't help but smile at the quaint, untouched beauty of the scene.

When I got to the hillier, more challenging trails on the other side of the park, I realized that I was hardly even looking down. It occured to me that this winter marks my five-year anniversary with running. I first discovered the freedom that came with the sport, and later the connection to nature trail running brought. I literally have run these trails so many times that I know where all the rocks are, and my footing was more than just natural, it was preprogrammed.

It didn't seem like an hour had passed when the trail dumped me out at the parking lot. When a run is more than just a workout, that's when putting in training is all worth it. And when I get to blaze my own trail through snowy woods, that's when I don't miss California.

California Appreciation Week

It's no secret that I've been hating on California this year. Well, mostly LA, but my itch to leave has me gazing east, passively insulting the rest of the state. Last week, I remembered that Southern California has its moments. This week, I reminded myself that LA is not California, and that the Central California coast might actually be the most beautiful place I've ever seen.

So I was lucky enough to be blessed with a wonderful finals schedule - my hard exam was on Thursday, and my easy exam on the following Wednesday. After months of homesickness, you can imagine my disappointment when I learned I would have to stick around LA for an extra six days for a test that will probably take my forty-five minutes. Until I realized I don't have to stay in LA. If I'm going to have six extra days to spend on the west coast, you can bet your bottom dollar I'm not going to sit around LA. I have a car so I can use it. Seemed like a good opportunity.

Agenda: Drag travel buddy from hungover-still drunk?-Saturday-morning-slumber. Load tent and sleeping bags into the '99 Accord, affectionately dubbed "Gladys" by my dad. 101 North.

I love my family, but I'm pretty sure we're not normal. Most of my friends would maybe go to the beach if they had an extra week, or go home to a friend's house, or maybe even fly up to the Bay to spend a few days in San Francisco. Only my mom would excitedly suggest that I catch the peak monarch butterfly season in Pismo Beach. And I wouldn't want it any other way. Lately, I've been using the "someday at a dinner party..." reason for lots of things I do. Someday at a dinner party, someone who doesn't know me will talk about triathlons and I will be able to say I did an Ironman. Someday at a dinner party, someone will mention the monarch butterfly migration on the Central California coast and I will be able to be a participant in that conversation. It's the same reason you would want to go see the Aurora Borealis or the geysers in Yellowstone - there's something so cool about things that people don't control.

Vineyards on the 101

So Pismo Beach it was, and after three hours of sickeningly beautiful scenery on the 101, we arrived. It was exactly as I remembered from the last time I had stopped there for lunch on the way up to Big Sur.  Everything is so charmingly tacky. There are these giant clam statues set up at a couple of landmarks in the downtown, and for the holiday season they had been painted like Rudolph, complete with antlers and a creepy grin. One of these locations was conveniently outside the visitor center. I went in to ask where the best place to see the butterflies was - I assumed there were lots of places - and the woman working there showed me a map and told me to drive until I saw cars parked on both sides of the road and then get out and go to the right. She said you can't miss it.

She was right. For a Saturday afternoon in the dead of this sunny California winter, there were cars lining both sides of PCH, everyone flocking over to a grove of eucalyptus trees on the side closest to the water.  As we walked in, we saw a few monarchs flutter around, then a few more, then a few more. When we finally got to the trees, I looked up through a set of binoculars. The monarchs were clinging to the branches, lining the tree like leaves.

It was the most spectacular sight. These butterflies flew all the way down to the Central California coast from various locations in Canada - from Vancouver to Saskatchewan. That's right, these tiny, half-gram bugs fly up to fifteen-hundred miles with those little paper-thin wings. The warm temperatures (and probably beautiful scenery and friendly people) draw them to Central California, and they flock to Pismo Beach in particularly large numbers because of the unique protected grove of eucalyptus trees. It could be any species of tree that they come and cling to, it just so happens that these protected trees are eucalyptus. During this winter season, they mate, and once they have laid eggs, their incredible five-month lives come to a close. The next generation is not so lucky, they make the first leg of the journey back to Canada, but only live a few short weeks before they stop and give life to the next generation. It takes five generations for the butterflies to get back to where they came from. And after a summer in Canada, the cycles starts again.

Life on Earth really is nothing short of amazing, and I'm glad I didn't live my whole life without knowing this tiny animal's story.

Still in a zen state of mind from the butterfly watching, we walked from the grove down to the beach. Pismo Beach is definitely beautiful, with breathtaking views of cliffs to the North and a sort of ethereal mist hanging over the hills to the South. The one drawback is that cars are allowed on the beach during the day. It's kind of disconcerting to see speed limit signs in the sand. Anyway, it was a gorgeous day, warm even for California at nearly 80 degrees. I was perfectly content sitting on a dune watching the water.

After checking into a campground and pitching the tent, we drove down to the town for dinner. Splash Cafe's "World Famous Clam Chowder" looked too good to pass up, so we took our classically cheap styrofoam bowls down to the pier and joined the rest of the town in watching the sun sink down over the Pacific. Okay, I'll give California some credit here - there is nothing like a sunset on a beach on the West Coast. Especially in December. The whole sky faded to a deep purple color before it eventually became dark.

The night ended as any good night camping should - with s'mores, star-gazing on the beach, and a 9 o'clock bedtime.

Before heading home, I was talked into a new adventure. I wouldn't say I'm afraid of horses, but I was never one of those girls with the horse sweater and posters on my walls. Despite some initial nervousness, it was definitely worth it to see the coast on horseback. My trusty, if borderline obese, steed Sheila and I rode along beautiful equestrian trails from the ranch out to the beach, trotted along in the sand, and crossed through water to get back to the dunes.  The contrast of the gold sand against the pure blue sky was so remarkable that I felt like I was in a dream. Back through strikingly green woods along a little brook, and we were back at the ranch, where, in any good competitor's style, Sheila decided to sprint that last 200, while I nearly had a heart attack on her saddle.

A stop in Solvang on the way back to LA reminded me of the charming quirkiness of California, and the trip was complete. I knew it was a success not only because I had seen what I went to see - the butterflies - but because I was driving back to LA with a different attitude. Even as we hit that bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 101 in Silver Lake, I knew that outside these city limits existed a world with an infinite number of little miracles and stories.

California, I'm sorry if I have insulted you. North of Sherman Oaks, you are really quite nice.

Back in the Saddle

The end of the semester is finally here. In September, it seemed like this week would never come, but here I am, two final exams away from home. When I came out to LA in August, I couldn't think past November 7th - it was such a big date, a date I had been counting down to for an entire year.  It's hard to believe it's been four weeks. Recovery has been wonderful, and I will never forget the whole experience, but it's time to start working toward the next challenge.

Yesterday I used my car for the exact purpose that made me buy it. Equipped with my bike and a riding buddy, I drove out to Malibu. There are so many things that frustrate me about LA - the traffic, the pollution, the prices, the superficiality - but sometimes I focus only on what I don't like and I become blind to all the good. An overcast, drizzly Sunday afternoon on PCH shed light on the best of LA for me.

After driving through Santa Monica, PCH becomes everything I love about California, and America. There are some stores and restaurants, but the attraction is the landscape, where the hills melt into the Pacific. Obviously you're going to see Lamborghinis whizz by, but there are also a fair number of beat up station wagons with surfboards strapped to the roof - a rarity in the most image-driven city in the country. I don't need to plan a trip to Malibu. Park on the side of the road somewhere that looks like a good starting point and go.

Yesterday, that starting point was just past Will Rogers State Beach. We rode up to Pepperdine, climbed up to the top of the campus, then continued north on PCH. It started to rain as we descended out of Pepperdine, but it was kind of refreshing. I never picture rain when I think of riding in Malibu, but it was more enjoyable than you would think. This summer and fall, long rides taught me that I do my best thinking when I'm out pedalling. Without that weekly release for the past six weeks or so, I've been letting all this stress build up. Out in the rain, pushing a quick cadence over the rolling hills in Point Dume, I felt free again. Of course it's nicer to ride when it's 70 and sunny, but somehow the rain made me feel more focused and connected. We turned around where PCH juts back to the coast after Point Dume, and cruised back. The road flattens out as you get back towards Santa Monica, so the last five miles were really fast. Climbing up canyons, I hate my triathlon bike, but the feeling of being in aero and powering down PCH makes up for it and then some.

Yeah, LA can really suck. But for every skinny fake blonde girl in the hills, there is a surfer or a cyclist or a runner who puts up with it all because they think it's worth it to live the life of a laid-back Southern Californian, soaking in the sun in December. Life can be simple. Don't cry for me, I'll be just fine spending my weekends climbing in Malibu or Palos Verdes, running up Topanga Canyon, pulling on my wetsuit at Tower 26. And on that note, with a more optimistic outlook, I'm ready to saddle up.

The Untimed Run

I like to run.  I know it sounds obvious - I do triathlons therefore I must like running.  But seriously.  At first I ran for fitness.  Then I got addicted to the feeling of accomplishment at the end of every run.  Now, I've learned to just like the exercise in itself.  Through years of running, all the ups and downs of college, and months of ironman training, my mind has reached some twisted state where I actually enjoy the feeling of all my parts working together to propel me forward.  I love that part of the run where it all starts to hurt.

In high school, I ran for distance.  I had my easy three-miler, my regular ol' six-mile loop, and the ten-miler that always got in my head.  Trail running was always bittersweet for me.  While I got such a rush from being in nature and the constant challenge of the terrain, never knowing exactly how far I went ruined that joyous experience of adding up my weekly mileage every Sunday. When I was running, I would think about writing that number in the log book and that would keep me going.  I never even liked to wear my watch - thinking about paces stressed me out way too much.  At the end of a good run, I wanted to just feel like it was a good run, not look at my watch and define by a number that it was not a good run.

Triathlon gave me a new perspective, and ironman training really changed the way I saw running.  Training became all about hours, not miles, so I started running for time instead of distance.  I really took to it quickly.  That six mile loop might take longer some days, but an hour always takes the same amount of time.  It added some seriousness to my training.  When I ran on roads I had mapped out, I always knew my pace.  On days when I didn't run measured routes, I explored new places.  Trail running became my new favorite activity.  I didn't feel like timing was becoming any sort of burden, until today.

I'm in a strange place right now.  Right before the end of my semester, I find myself on the tail end of recovery and the beginning of spring base-building.  I'm not even sure what kind of workouts that entails.  So today I just went for a run.  I ran a five-mile route I used to run all the time as a freshman.  Today was a rare gem where I found myself on no particular schedule until the afternoon, so I took advantage of the free morning to run errands then go for a relaxing jog.  I know I left the house around 10:30... or maybe 10:45? And I know I got out of the shower at 11:45.  But I have no idea what my running time was.  I accidentally, and miraculously, left the watch at home.

At every stop light, I grabbed my wrist to press the stop button that wasn't there.  I felt so naked.  It was as though I was taking my first steps after a long bedrest or after losing twenty pounds.  A weight had definitely been lifted. I didn't think about time.  Or distance, really.  I just ran.  It ended when it ended.  And without any sense of time, I just enjoyed running.   Downtown LA did not provide me with clean air or nice scenery, but I literally just enjoyed the motion.  And that's when you know you like running.

Down Time

I trained hard, raced hard, and celebrated hard. Everything went as well as I could have planned. That moment, crossing the finish line, was undoubtedly the best moment of my life - a moment that only happened with my own hard work and the support of people who genuinely care about me. The whole thing exceeded by expectations, and the high has been unreal. Now what?

Neglected group projects, essay due tomorrow, normal sized portions at meals, that's what. I totally get the post-Ironman blues now. With my schedule all opened up, I'm free to do things I normally wouldn't have time to. But guess what I want to do? Swim, bike, and run. That's why I started Ironman training to begin with - because I like to train for triathlons. It's kind of weird to just admit that. For so long, I've been able to pull the Ironman training card to justify my ridiculous workout schedule. Should I be embarassed to tell people that I just flat out like putting myself through all that? I mean I was only training for an Ironman because I wanted to do an Ironman, but somehow that's more acceptable. At any rate, right now, while I am most amped up about my sport, is when I really should be on the sidelines. School provides a somewhat unwelcome distraction, and as the end of the semester nears, it's much easier to get caught up in the projects and papers and not miss training so much.

When I'm forced to have down time, like I am right now, my favorite activity is planning what I'm going to do when I get back out there. Fortunately, I have a lot to look forward to. A month in New England for winter break will definitely have its perks. I have always loved winter running - there's something so serene yet badass about bundling up and pounding the pavement while snow is falling. Then there's the potential for some quality cross country skiing and the certainty of at least one trip up to Maine to just appreciate the vacation. Coming back to 'SC in the spring will bring a new level of intensity in triathlon training as the team gets ready for Nationals in April. Junior year in engineering also promises to continue to hold new challenges, and hopefully new opportunities to get a job. The more I think about it, there's going to be a lot going on very soon.

Maybe this down time is just the calm before the storm.

Becoming Silver

I've been on about a month-long posting hiatus, and god was it an incredible month. It has just taken me a while to collect my thoughts to the point where I can put them in words.

My tapering period was uneventful, serving as just a short glimpse into life post-ironman. I was expecting it to be sort of a tease - a welcome period of no alarm clock on Saturdays and thirty minute runs. I had built it up in my mind as this magnificent three weeks that I had spent months working to earn. Honestly, it was a disappointment. Sure, it's easier to sleep in than go for a ride on the trainer at 5am, but what is there to gain from that? There's no test of character and commitment when I wake up at my leisure and do short, easy workouts. My whole training period has been defined by constant growth, and it all came to a halt during taper.

During the few days leading up to the race, taper all seemed to make sense. My legs were fresh and I was not mentally exhausted. By Friday, I finally felt ready and could envision myself succeeding. I drove out to Las Vegas with friends and just relaxed. Ironically, in the days leading up to the biggest triathlon I've ever done, the last thing I wanted to talk about was triathlon. I met my brother and on Saturday we picked up my Dad. All of a sudden, things got real and the race was actually about to happen.

Sleeping the night before the race was nearly impossible, but I managed to doze off for an hour or so at a time, and then wake up in a panic. I had been nervous about the hills on the bike for a long time, but the night before, I started to get nervous about everything - the swim start, the swim finish, maintaining motivation the beginning of the bike, getting spooked halfway through the course when I realized I still had to run a marathon. When the alarm went off at 5am, I was still in a frenzy. I hadn't bought everything I wanted for breakfast and I had forgotten to fix my bar tape. Little things I should have taken care of earlier were coming back to haunt me, so I found food and hastily made my way to transition.

Once I took care of my bar tape and pumped my tires, all that stress melted away and I was overcome with a total calmness. I chatted with other athletes getting ready for the long day ahead and basked in the moments leading up to my first ironman. My brother came down the hill and up to the fence of the transition area to see if I had figured everything out. I was just smiling, and told him that today, I was going to do an ironman. I felt incredible.

Deep water swim start

After getting my wetsuit on, I paddled around in the water for a few minutes and got acclimated. I treaded water at the deep water start line for five minutes or so while they played the national anthem and we all prepared ourselves. There was a bridge right over the start, and I looked up to see my family. Waving to them just seconds before the gun went off was so reassuring. From the moment we started, I felt great. I could not have imagined having a better swim. The entire course I felt relaxed and strong, trying to use only my upper body and save my legs for the long day ahead. I was out of the water in 1:18, the 80th fastest swim. I had expected closer to 1:30, so I was all smiles going into T1.

A quick transition and I was on the bike! I couldn't wait to get started on this long course, and I took it really easy in the first five miles to save myself for the next 110. Definitely a good decision. The first 25 miles were beautiful, rolling hills with breathtaking views of Lake Mead and I genuinely enjoyed every minute. I passed a lot of fast swimmers in the first ten miles, which was a huge boost for me. The next 87 miles were harder. The rolling hills miles 25-90 were much steeper and it was hard to maintain momentum. I would be spinning away in the little rings going up, then blasting down at scary speeds. There were some tough headwinds, but it seemed to even out more or less. I also had amazing course support. Between the USC Triathlon Team and my family, I saw someone at least every ten miles. Everyone else on the course was jealous of my rowdy fan club.

Big desert, small triathlete

Had the last 22 miles on the bike been like the previous 90, it would be a hard course. But Silverman is a brutal course. At mile 92, we turned onto a desolate desert bike path - literally just sand and power lines stretching for miles and miles. I reached the dreaded Three Sisters - three consecutive 18% grade climbs, of 200-600 yards each - and was happy to put them in my rear view mirror. The next five miles were straight into a strong headwind and on a false flat path. It is incredibly demoralizing to feel like you're on flat ground but struggle to maintain 10mph. With 10 miles to go, we turned onto the road again and a few rolling hills later, made our way to transition. I have never been more ready to get out of the saddle. I had been hoping to be around 7:30 for this tough course, and I came in at 7:14, the 110th fastest split.

Out of T2

Off for a quick run. The first six miles were very smooth – I stopped at every other aid station and maintained a decent shuffle up and down the hills.  I saw Kevin around mile 5 and I was still smiling – “There’s something wrong with you! You shouldn’t be smiling” he yelled. But I felt great, at least for a little while. The sun was setting and the magnitude of the twenty-six mile run hadn’t really sunk in yet. But I knew that in a few miles, I would be digging really deep, and I would have to find that strength in me to finish even when it hurt a lot. Knowing that there were tough miles to come, I focused hard on eating a Gu whenever I could and having Gatorade at every aid station I could stop at. I was tackling hill after hill, wondering when they would end. By the time I reached the eighth mile, I realized that there were going to be no flat parts. I hadn’t really been sure about the run course before since I hadn’t had time to drive it. This was a depressing realization and I hit a wall. I walked for maybe 100 yards then told myself to just make it to the halfway point then reassess. I saw the whole fan club and got a huge rush of adrenaline. Get through Mile 15. Then you can walk. I kept powering through and met up with a running buddy for about a mile. He was walking when I caught him, so I pushed him to run. When we reached a hill just after Mile 15, he started walking again, so I did too. It only took a few strides for me to realize that if I started walking I would never stop. By this point, it was completely dark and I really had no perception of where the course, went. I was just following the cones and trusting the mile markers.

By the end of an ironman, going down hurts more than going up. I saw my team every single mile, which provided a lot of motivation. With five miles to go, I realized I would definitely make it, and I started to get emotional. Unfortunately, I couldn't sustain the faster pace I started running at Mile 21, so I had to slow down for the last 2.

Trying to keep up with my running buddy Jason

Into the chute!

In the pitch dark, with only a glowstick for visibility, having exercised for 13 and a half hours, I saw the finish line. I had been in a good mood all day, always smiling for my team and family, but my happiness was literally unbounded as I ran my final meters to the chute. Crossing the line, breaking the tape, throwing my arms up in victory, I couldn't help but cry. 13:34:08. 1st Female 20-24, 6th Female Overall, 84th Overall.

Kevin and I at the finish, on the phone with Mom

The proud father

Hugging my brother, my dad, and my amazing teammates, and crying to my mom on the phone, I could feel the shared joy of the moment. I can say without any hesitation that that was the best moment of my life. I took a risk last Sunday. I have never worked so hard for something in my life, and yet I still went in not knowing if I could do it. Six months of training preceded this. There were a lot of sacrifices in those months, a lot of soul-searching, a lot of prioritizing. I don't think I have ever put six months of my life into anything like this. I know it's sickeningly cliché, but it's true - nothing worth having every came easy. Nobody can ever take that day away from me. Last Sunday, I became iron. No... SILVER.

Joy.

Last Sunday, I went 140.6 miles and learned that people don't have limits.