New #30: Complete a Triathlon

This was no ordinary new. Forget eating an exotic food or learning a quaint craft. This was a new of champions. It's hardcore. It involved months of training, sweating, fatigue, frustration and fear. It was a new many other news (New #25, New #29) built up to and wanted to be.

It was the Loveland Sprint Triathlon.

750 yards of swimming. 13.5 miles of biking. 3.1 miles of running. Back-to-back-to-freakin-back. That's what I was up against. But I'm happy to report ... I kicked it's ass.

The journey (and I mean that, it really was like a relentless odyssey) began a few months ago when my friend Jessica suggested we give this tri a try. Sure, why not? I figured. I try to get myself to the gym as often as I can, why not work out with a purpose? But this kind of training was way beyond the elliptical. Actually, it didn't involve much of the gym at all. Instead, I found myself swimming through algae-filled lakes (see Jessica's account of that adventure here), biking from town to town and (gasp!) jogging up and down the street. I am far from a jogger. But I pushed it as much as I could, every workout reminding myself that the more I hurt now, the less I'll hurt during the event.

But no matter how much I trained, nothing could shake my nerves leading up to the big day. What if I get kicked in the head and drown during the swim? What if I get a flat during the bike ride? Will I die during the run? Somehow I fell asleep the night before the race - and woke up at 6 a.m. the next day to head off to the torturous triathlon.

The event was held next to a lake in Loveland. I loaded my gear in the designated transition area, where hundreds of other competitors were doing the same. Most people looked like they really knew what they were doing, so I just mimicked them.

Me, Jessica and Raquel: The Tri Trio

By 7:45 a.m., it was almost go time. Wading in the lake, I waited with my heat for the gun shot. We heard some sort of "go!", and with that the race had begun. Immediately, the water went white with about 60 people swimming, splashing and struggling to move forward. It was really animalistic! People clawed and kicked their way through the water, literally swimming over anything in front of them (people included). Luckily, I got out in front of the pack right away - thanks to an entire childhood of competitive swimming. But even up there, I more than once encounter a person suddenly turning 90 degrees and swimming right into me. I powered through, but ended up using more energy than I'd hoped. By the time I hit the sandy shore, I was pooped. But this was only the beginning.

Next I had to run about a 1/2 mile to the transition area, were I dried off and put on my biking gear. I had arranged my shirt, shorts and even shoelaces so I could put them on as swiftly as possible. But the speedy change I'd imagined was instead used as a slow-moving minute to catch my breathe. Still, there wasn't much rest for this weary triathlete. I soon hit the pavement and began pedaling forward.


The bike leg started on major streets, but soon turned north toward a long stretch of open, hilly road. It would have been void of any other pedestrians - except during this race, hundreds of volunteers turned out to cheer us along the way. It was very encouraging to have a whole fan club telling you how awesome you are. Plus, with many of the roads closed off for us, I really felt like a cycling celebrity.

About 45 minutes later, I had biked back to base camp. Time to ditch the bike, strap on my running shoes and "run" ahead. Sigh. As I'd feared, this was definitely the hardest part of the race. After I was able to get past the notorious runner's wall (when breathing becomes more of a labored pant), I was able to set a steady but slow pace. I was doing great for myself, but other athletes quickly began to pass me. There was one point of interest in that, though. For some reason, they had written the age of each participant on the back of their calf. So as someone would jog by, I would play a game with myself and guess their age. Sadly, I didn't need the number to tell me many of these people were much older than me. And their ages indeed confirmed many were 40, 50 and even 60+ years old. At least I made them feel extra good about passing me, the 26-year-old.

The last mile of the run was killer. It was the one time during the entire race that I began pouting and decided this was a really stupid idea and that I'm definitely never doing one again. Hmph. Even with the finish line in sight, it was hard to find any strength left in my muscles to push ahead. Thankfully, I was able to power through the last few yards.

Rounding the final corner. Below, I smile because it's almost over.

Then, 1 hour 36 minutes later, the moment I'd been anticipating for months arrived. I finished a triathlon! Before I could celebrate too much, I wobbled over to a water stand and plopped down on a bench. I was heaving and aching and sweating like a madman - but I had done it!


Surprisingly, it didn't take too long to find my feet again and enjoy the festivities, including food and music. After the results were posted, I was shocked with another surprise. I placed third in my class! Woohoo! Now, with a medal earned for my efforts, I think I'll ignore the near-death runner I was toward the end of the race and most definitely give a tri a try again.

New #29: Drink Wheatgrass

Ever wonder what grass tastes like? I've never been very curious to find out myself. Not being one of those people who finds freshly cut grass aromatically pleasing or soothing or anything of that sort, the wheatgrass shots offered at juice bars never appealed to me. But year after year, I'd always see people at Jamba Juice taking these shots and apparently feeling really good about it. So with my first sprint triathlon approaching, I decided to see what the hype was all about. As it turns out, grass tastes pretty much exactly as you'd imagine: green and gross.

I went to Jamba Juice, where wheatgrass is going for about $2 a shot. Cheaper than a shot of tequila - but really not half as fun. When ordering, I asked the cashier what's so special about this grass. First she told me that it's filled with antioxidants, which didn't really impress me. However, I was surprised to learn that each shot is equal to about 2 1/2 pounds of vegetables. Now that's what I like to hear!

After I ordered, the juice barista went over to this little field of grass growing in the back of the shop. She grabbed a chunk of the grass, picked up a knife and began hacking it away. The green shoots were then shoved in a strainer thing, which seemed to pee out the grass juice and poo out the grassy pulp. Yummm. With the grass juice in a little clear tea kettle, the lady poured me a shot and served it with an orange slice on a fancy dish.



Then it was shootin' time. Luckily I've had lots of practice with other types of liquids. It's a good thing, because this shot was gross! It didn't have that semi-yummy nature taste like you find in other healthy foods. No, instead it just reminded me of falling face first into a lawn. Not what my taste buds were craving. At least the orange slice was a nice addition to help wash it all down.


After my shot, I didn't grow giant Popeye arms, or even any hair on my chest. I guess I'll have to wait a while to see if the wheatgrass actually improves my health at all. Maybe I won't even notice if it's working, like if it prevents some illness and I don't get sick in the next few days. If nothing else, at least now I can stand next to other health snobs and shoot my grass with the best of them.

New #28: Watch the World Cup

This was one new I shared with the rest of America: watching (and caring about) a pro soccer game. Yes, I jumped on the bandwagon rolling along with the black and white ball during this year's World Cup.

Without a TV, I'd mostly followed games in the news, hearing about them after they'd been played. It wasn't until it came down to last one that I knew I had to watch it live. Not only because it was the finale, but because the Dutch, my people, my motherland, had made it to the finals. So maybe they didn't win, but I had a great time cheering them on and getting a taste of the sport the rest of the world just can't seem to get enough of.

Ben and I went to watch the game at a local sports bar, where even on the Sunday afternoon it was filled with people in orange and blue, the Netherlands and Spain's colors. Coming in at half time (or whatever they call it in soccer), we were lucky to find a seat. I ordered a Heineken, adjusted my ears to the ringing vuvuzela and began to watch the game.

Just in case you're not sure what a TV or a soccer game look like,
I took this picture.

It didn't take me long to fall in love with the over-the-top theatrics of the game. These guys are drama! Every few seconds one of the players would flamboyantly fall to the ground as if someone had just taken a bat to their leg. In reality, they were just trying to flag that yellowcard for a penalty shot (if I'm getting my soccer lingo correct). It was so obvious it was all an act, one case in point being when a Spaniard fell to the ground grasping his shin, only to spring up like a young gazel seconds later to run after and shove the guy who allegedly kicked him. Too classic. Ben thought they were all wussy cry babies, but I appreciated their efforts in acting hurt. It was all very European.

I also thoroughly enjoyed slow motion clips. The best were the ones that came after the guys tried to head butt the ball. It's hard to even describe the faces they'd make, but more times than not they resembled a baby seal being born. That was my interpretation, at least. See for yourself with this slo mo montage.

Even without either team scoring until the last few minutes, the game moved along so fast, with the ball continuously bouncing up and down the field. And the players kept giving it their all for 90 minutes straight - even all 123 minutes, in this case. In the end, the one and only goal was made by Spain. But I'm still proud of the Dutch for getting so far and playing such an great game. And no matter which team wins, I'm always a sucker for how happy the victors get, especially with the misty eyes.

All in all, any sport that mixes this much athletics with acting - not to mention marvelous slow motion clips - is a great sport to me ... although I'm sure I'll forget that until the next World Cup. Hey it's a start, America.

Cheers to soccer!

New #27: Brew Some "Shampoo" and Use It

Recently I've discovered Stumble Upon, which, simply put, is the best internet invention ever. All you have to do is let it know what you like (art, alternative music, anarchy, whatever), hit "stumble" and it will pull up a random website you'd be interested in. So. Addicting. Anyway, one of the first sites I came across was a potion of sorts, explaining how to make your own shampoo. Really, the "shampoo" was just baking soda and water. One tablespoon baking soda for every cup of water, to be exact. This article also talked about the evils of traditional 'poos, how they're basically a detergent that strips your hair of natural oils and leaves your scalp dependent on more chemicals and products and what not. You can read all about for yourself here. I bookmarked the page thinking it was somewhat interesting. Then I ran out of my own shampoo. With a new needed on the horizon, I decided to give homemade haircare a try.

The formula was ridiculously easy to make. All you need is one tablespoon of baking soda mixed with one cup of water. I just funneled these into my empty evil shampoo bottle, gave it a shake and was good to go.


In the shower, I got my hair wet and poured a tiny bit of the potion on top. Unlike other shampoos that bubble and foam all over your head, this just felt like I was pouring on cold water (which is kind of all I was doing). The directions said to add little bits of the baking soda/water mix and massage it into your scalp. Without bubbles it was hard to tell if I was getting it all over my head, so I just kept splashing on more and more. In the end, I'd gone through about half of the bottle. It actually left a funny soapy/waxy feeling on my hands, but seemed to wash out of my hair well enough. Or so I thought.

After the shower, I was thrilled I was able to comb through my hair without it falling out (it is a little scary using baking soda - which kills all sorts of things around the house - on your head). All was well ... until my hair dried. Then that soapy/waxy feeling surfaced in my hair. Reading back on the original directions, it said to use just a small amount of the shampoo each wash. I guess "apply liberally" does not apply to baking soda shampoo.

My hair felt like straw all day, and was a nightmare to get a brush through. But I have to say, it was indeed clean, which is the basic purpose of shampoo, I guess. I may use it one or two more times to see if using less leaves less of a yucky feeling in my hair. But realistically, I'll probably be buying another bottle of the devil's shampoo next time I go to the store. Sorry, hair. I'd rather you feel nice and soft, even if it means you're a detergent-rinsed chemical junky.