Ironman C’oeur d’Alene – June 24, 2012

 Last June I signed up for my first (and probably only) Ironman competition – Ironman C'oeur d'Alene, which will be run on June 24, 2012. For years I've had no interest in trying an Ironman. The race is a 2.4 mile swim, 112 miles on the bike, and a 26.2 mile run. I've never swam, biked, or run any of those distances. Two years ago I completed two half-Ironmans and that probably was the half-step I needed to at least start thinking about what it would be like to complete an Ironman. But mostly what I thought was that it would be hell and I wasn't interested.


But last year several of the people I trained with completed Ironmen. I tracked their progress on-line and cheered their success . And surprisingly, when Craig Strong, who heads up Precision Multisport, announced plans for a group effort to train for CDA in 2012, I decided to go for it. I guess I figured if I was going to do that distance, it would be best to try it while I'm still young. Right?


A writer friend of mine insisted that I should write a book about training and competing. She recommended I keep a record of my daily training. So even though I'm technically in the "offseason" I started in September to keep a blog The Road to C'oeur d'Alene of my workouts. It's not really very interesting, but it will be helpful later if I do write a book or story about the race preparation.


So far in the eight weeks that I've been logging the workouts I've trained about 7 to 9 hours per week. Light workouts, not much intensity. When we get into serious training mode, we will average more like 14 hours a week and the workouts will be more intense.


 It will all be over in another 225 days.

My Father's Ice

My short story, "My Father's Ice," has been published in Johnny America  - a literary journal.  You can purchase the publication online at these stores.  Below is an excerpt from the story: 

My Father’s Ice

I have come to the Whitney Museum today to find Harry Giles. Not the wealthy investment banker with the beautiful socialite wife. Not the man who read “Goodnight Moon” to his daughter every night for a year. I want to know about the young man who dropped out of Cornell to follow his hero to an abandoned Brooklyn tenement in the pursuit of art. What happened to that boy? The boy who would become my father.

<>

Last week my mother, not the most sentimental of women, sent me a picture of her and my father taken at their senior high school prom. She was getting rid of clutter and this cheesy photograph didn’t make her cut. She’d attached one of her annoying yellow post-it notes, on which she’d scrawled, “Carly – Look at that hemline!!!” Mother loves her exclamations.


The photographer, naturally, focused on my mother, blonde and sunny in a red mini-dress, with her swimsuit-model perfect body. She’s held that beauty through the years, refusing to pass it on to her only child. My father, with a sweep of dark hair covering his forehead, stands off to the side and looks uncomfortable in his rented tux. His hands dangle. He can’t decide what to do with them. Of course it doesn’t matter. No one’s going to notice him.


I am my father’s daughter. Dark. My arms too long, my hands anxious when they have nothing to do. My smile always a heartbeat too late for the photographer’s flash.


My mother thinks I’m shy because I don’t share every opinion that pops into my head. But I’m not shy, just quiet, like my father. He kept his thoughts to himself. Although he once told me it was not a sin to leave a thought unexpressed, I’m sure he never shared that opinion with Mother.


There was a certain sadness about my father. I would notice it in unguarded moments – as he sat at the kitchen table not reading his newspaper or when he looked blankly at a traffic light that had turned green or when he stood in his den and stared at the walls that used to hold Gordon’s photographs.

<>

After months of careful deliberation, I’ve decided to attend the Whitney’s exhibition, “Gordon Matta-Clark: You are the Measure.” Mother will not be pleased.


“You are the Measure?” she’d say if she knew what I were doing. Her face would be crinkled up, her words splashing like sarcasm-filled water balloons. “That’s so typical of the Whitney and their pathetic championing of obscure losers. Gordon Matta-Clark has been dead thirty years. It’s a waste of time, Carly. What do you think you’re going to find?”


Sometimes, when I imagine what my mother might say, I become angry, even though she hasn’t actually said anything. And then, in my mind, I deliver a brilliant retort.


“You know the difference between you and me, Mom?” I would ask her. And in my imaginary world she realizes I am being rhetorical and waits for my answer. “You never understood why Dad ran off to New York,” and then as she gives me that look where she raises her eyebrows as though she’s not sure she likes what she has heard but has to hear more, I look into her eyes and I say, “I never understood why he came back.”  

The entrance to the Whitney is choked with middle-aged tourists. They’re not...


The picture posted above is of one of Gordon Matta-Clark's projects.  If you are unable to find a copy of Johnny America, please let me know and I will email you a copy of the story.   

Story Club - Thursday, October 6

I will be one of the featured writers at Dana Norris's Story Club at the Uncommon Ground at 3800 North Clark St. in Chicago on Thursday, October 6.  There is a nice promo announcement on me on the Story Club  facebook page . 

The event starts at 8 pm, but open mic aspirants should be there by 7 to put their names in for the five open mic slots.  Each writers is given 5 to 7 minutes to read / tell a story.  It's a lot of fun, the crowd is friendly and the service and food at Uncommon Ground is exceptional. The beer is good, too.

Hope to see some of you there.