Oh, no, not another blog post about exercise...

You may have noticed I'm a daddy and a husband; I think we've posted something about that before.

I've been "racing" triathlons for a couple of seasons, but have so far avoided boring all six of you with posts about my "races". I've now decided to risk annoying you and write occasional posts on the topic when it strikes my fancy.

To be clear, "triathlon" here only means that I swim, then bike, then run during the same race. Many folks think of "Kona Ironman" when they hear "triathlon" -- that's so far from what I mean that you can't see it from where I am without a good telescope. And I should emphasize that when I say "racing", I am using that term extremely loosely. I am a slow triathlete -- I have about as much chance of winning any given event as I do of being elected Pope. (And yes, I do actually pay money to do this to myself. No, I've not had dain bramage, at least not the last time I checked.)

This year, I am preparing for four races, including one Sprint, two Internationals, and my first half-Ironman distance event. Triathlon season around here ends in October and doesn't really start until late March or early April. That's a long gap, so it's a good time to work on my two limiters -- running and swimming. (I'm least slow on the bike, slower on the run, and plankton regularly pass me on the swim leg.). To keep myself motivated, I signed up to attempt my first full marathon -- the Rock and Roll Marathon in DC on 16 March -- and I've been working with my fellow Masters swimmers who patiently put up with my lameness in the pool.

Yesterday was my last long training run prior to the marathon itself. The first 12 km took me past National Airport along the Mount Vernon Trail, heading into a chilly, blustery wind (the first rule of running is the same as the first rule of biking: it's always uphill and against the wind) filled with snow flurries. Cold, but I did have great views of the monuments on the Mall and of the National Cathedral, and greetings shared with my fellow runners, including two women with the brightest pink hats I have ever personally witnessed.

Birds also played a role in the run. The Canada geese along the Mount Vernon Trail couldn't be bothered to get out of the way of the guy in the bright green jacket trying to run through them. (I never knew birds could look disdainful until yesterday.) And then there were the two ducks. Duck #1 was waddling along placidly until Duck #2 aggressively approached from the side, and in Duck terms, It Was On. Both ducks reared up to their full heights and started quacking and flapping madly, until one of them lunged at the other, which flew off with the second duck in hot pursuit. Maybe one of them was dating the other duck's mate?

Soon it was time to face the hills along the Custis Trail for the next 12 km. I was a bit worried at first, since my worst recent running experience was on exactly this stretch of trail about a month ago. This time, it was a bit different. The climb out of Rosslyn was straightforward until I reached Ballston, and then things got a bit more difficult. First, the wind picked up. Then snow flurries became more numerous. Then I realized I hadn't really eaten well that day and my energy levels were dropping. Finally, I noticed I was starting to shake and wobble a bit, and my legs were really sore. Plus it was getting dark. After 10 km, I decided it was probably stupid to risk injury two weeks prior to the marathon, and sent up the bat signal for a rescue by Mama Geek.

Recovery was both great and painful. Coffee stout is delicious when done as well as the one I had last night. Middle-of-the-night charley horses in one's calf that are so severe one wakes up shouting are to be avoided, however.

Lessons learned? Better fuel before and better stretching afterward would be good ideas. Running hats fly off in windy weather, even when strapped down tightly. Don't be afraid to call for rescue if you really need it - don't risk injury two weeks out from the race. And don't expect geese to move aside for a mere slow triathlete.