Okay, so I am not by any means a speed demon, but I can’t help but feel like one as I zip through the streets on my newest tri toy: an all carbon fiber Trek Madone road bike.

I’m not quite sure where this bike falls in terms of low-end/high-end, but it was a major improvement from the previous bike. My old bike was a Trek Pilot, and had lasted me six years. The bike in itself is a perfectly fine bike for a beginner triathlete. I could have gotten away with using it for my first season. But I’m making changes in my life and needed a new start, so what better way than to buy new gear?! (I thank my lucky stars that my husband agreed with my logic. It got him a new mountain bike after all.)

I was eager to take my bike out for its first real bike ride. That only lasted for a brief moment before utter fear and terror started coursing through my body. Why you ask? Well, I have what some might call a “natural talent” for crashing every bike I have ever owned. At age five, my desire to be just like my brother  was so strong that I jumped off a two foot bike ramp (just like him), and crashed (just like him). At age ten, I managed to thread my entire leg through the spokes of the front tire of my bike (the whole neighborhood stood around to watch the tire be removed with bolt cutters). At age sixteen, I crashed into a parked car that was in a nearly empty parking lot. (Remember that scene in Titanic where Rose drags her hand down the window of a steamy car? If you replace the steamy car for a dirty one, and imagine the passenger side door instead of a window, I recreated that hand print exactly.) At age nineteen (oh yes, there’s more), I took my first road bike out for the first time, hit a curb, and crashed as I was on my way to the bike shop. Total bike ride duration: not even 5 minutes.

You would think that I have learned my lesson, but here I am, immersing myself into a sport that requires biking. I believe this is the definition of being insane.

I decided that a relatively easy, flat trail would be best for my “first” bike ride. Therefore, we (me, my husband, and a friend) headed down the Burke-Gilman Trail; a lovely paved trail that winds its way around Seattle, giving a great view of Lake Washington along the way. The sun was out, and it was a relatively decent day for being in Seattle in autumn. I started out hesitant and scared, but quickly began picking up speed as I became comfortable with the feel of a new bike.

The lightness of the carbon frame made the ride effortless for my legs, freeing my mind so that I could concentrate on not crashing enjoy the beautiful scenery. It was a thrilling bike ride; one that redeemed all the past ones that ended in a bloody mess. And then the weather turned on us. It began to rain (as it does in Seattle), but I was not about to let that ruin my first amazing bike ride (without getting hurt) in the last decade. I was determined to finish this bike ride strong, and free of a gravel-lodged-in-the-skin catastrophe. By the end of the bike ride, I was absolutely sure of one thing: my new bike was magical.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the bike. Maybe in the last six years I have actually learned how to ride a bike? Or maybe my training over the last few months has improved my balance, making it impossible for me to crash? Or maybe a fairy came in the night and… (what? Face it, a fairy is just as likely to have happened as all the other options. In fact, it is probably the most likely.) In any case, I have a new found love of biking. Just don’t expect me to jump any ramps, or bike through parking lots any time soon.

I have recently made the decision to become a triathlete. I knew what this meant: swim, bike, run. I could already ride a bike, and I was pretty confident that I could run (running without tripping over myself, now that’s a different story). But swimming? That is uncharted territory.

Oh sure, I can swim. I know the basics: the doggie paddle, kick the feet, flail the arms. I perfected these skills after being thrown into a pool as a kid, and found myself desperately thrashing in order to keep myself afloat. It took me a solid 10 seconds (which felt like an enternity) before I realized that I could stand on the bottom of the pool with my head safely out of the water. Needless to say, I obviously wasn’t a fish in a former life, and quickly formed a hatred (more like a fear) of the water.

But becoming a triathlete was about changing myself and facing my fears. So there I stood, next to a pool for the first time in many, many, many years (not including just sitting by a pool at a hotel or some luxury reason). These were some of the thoughts that were running through my head:

“Oh. My. God. I am going to drown…”

“I must look FAT in this swim suit.”

“Oh good, life guards.”

“What do I do? I’ll dip my toe in first.”

“Why is everyone staring at me?!”

“Do the goggles go under or over the swim cap?”

“How do I put this swim cap on?”

“Nope, not like that.”

“Oh. My. God. I am going to drown…”

I finally got into the pool. Achievement unlocked! Next mission: letting go of the wall. That’s right; I hung onto that sucker for a good five to ten minutes. I didn’t hold on because I was scared (okay, that’s a lie), but because I just plain didn’t know what to do. Luckily, I had a friend there to coach me through some of the basic strokes. I watched him swim a few laps before I even thought about letting go of the wall. I somehow mustered up enough courage to attempt the freestyle stroke.

Before I tell you what came next, please remember that I lacked the complete basic skills to swim any stroke that’s not the doggie paddle.

I took my first few strokes and immediately discovered that I had not yet learned to breathe while swimming. So yep, you guessed it, I took my first huge gulp of pee infested (people still pee in pools, right?) pool water. As I gasped for air and endured the burning pain of water being shot up my nose, I had sudden flashbacks of my terrifying near-drowning experience, re-instating my fear of swimming. I did a few more failed attempts of the freestyle stroke before my friend and I decided it would be best to stick with the breaststroke (which, for me, was a much easier stroke to use to learn how to actually breathe while swimming).

It’s now been five weeks since that first swim. Looking back, I must have been the most disgraceful person known to the swimming world (on top of not knowing how to swim, I couldn’t even swim the length of the pool without stopping). But I’m glad I faced my fear because now I can swim a whole mile (a big accomplishment for me). I might not have the best form, and I may be the slowest swimmer out there, but this triathlete will continue to swim. If I don’t drown first.

I made a decision that has changed my life. I have decided that I am going to be a triathlete. Did you get that? A TRI-ATH-LETE. ME! Of all people. It was a decision that was unlike me. Or at least that’s what I thought at the time. I mean, how can this overweight, unmotivated couch potato find the strength to do a triathlon? And not only do a triathlon, but become a triathlete (meaning that I will continue to do triathlons, meaning more than one)? It was an unthinkable thought that I couldn’t wrap my mind around. Hell, it is six weeks into training and I’m still in shock. So, do I regret my decision? Not one bit.

The last six weeks have kind of been a metamorphosis period for me. I have found that my body has changed, and not only that, but my mentality has changed. My way of life has changed. Before my decision, I was unhappy with parts of my life. It’s not that I have a bad life. On the contrary, I have a good job with a great boss. I’m relatively healthy (if you overlook the overweight part). I have a good husband, and dependable friends. And yet, I managed to be unhappy with it all.

I never felt satisfied, and because of that, I always felt at a loss. It made me feel like I had no control; that I couldn’t change what was around me. And the more I thought about it, the worse I felt about myself. In the end, I caused damaged to my confidence, my self-esteem, and caused the relationships in my life to suffer. I began to isolate myself and only pretended to be happy. But secretly, I was fighting a battle.

Then one day, I was tired of it all. I didn’t want to be unhappy any more. I didn’t want to feel miserable. I knew that I couldn’t control, or change what was around me, but I could change myself. It all sounds cliche, I know, but this was my first step towards being happy again. It was my chance to regain my confidence and become a person that I can tolerate.

So, after feeling good about my first step, I decided to take another. I thought to myself, “Self, what do people do when they want to change themselves?” I had a few choices, one including getting plastic surgery. But since I didn’t enjoy the thought of my face being ripped off and being placed on Nicolas Cage, I took the less dramatic approach. In these types of situations, you join a gym in hopes that you go on a regular basis, get in shape, and lose weight. And that’s what I did.

I started to go to the gym maybe once a week. I called this my break in period because even though I have been in a gym before, I felt like I didn’t belong. I was the ugly duckling of the group, but I was determined to eventually dominate all of those who stood before me. Needless to say, those poor fools had unknowingly entered a competition, and I was going to show them that I could win. My new found motivation led me to the workout that would change everything.

As I recall, I was on the bike when I suddenly got bored and decided to run on the treadmill instead. It was in the second mile of my run where I had the magical revelation that I just biked AND ran. And do you know what? I felt great about it. I felt strong. The only thing that was missing was swimming, and then I could do a triathlon. BLAM-O! It hit me. Why can’t I just do a triathlon? I’m two thirds of the way there already. It only made sense, somehow, in some twisted form of reality that was in my head.

It was in that moment that I decided to do a triathlon. And not only did I decide to do a triathlon, but I wanted to become a triathlete. A triathlon would be easy. Anyone can do a triathlon. But to become a triathlete meant changing my lifestyle in a way that would continue after I finish my first race. It meant changing how I looked at myself and others; a change that I was looking for when I took my first step. And so far, I love my change. Not only am I reaching my weight loss goals, but I’m starting to smile more. I feel myself growing stronger every day, in body and mind.

I can’t wait to see what happens on AND after race day.

The Girl in the Back

I was never much of a talker. Always an observer. I would watch people at group functions, stealthily blending in to the background so I could avoid interaction. Sure, I could be the life of the party, but that rarely happened. Just thinking about it tires me out. But I didn’t hate people. In fact, I wanted to socialize, and be “out there.” So what was wrong with me?

The answer: nothing. I just didn’t know that I was an introvert.

My Inner Innie

Stating that I am an introvert is not a big deal. It was blatantly obvious to my closest friends that I was one. But this realization has been a revelation to me. I now know that I can’t make myself be extroverted, but I can learn to deal with, and accept, what it means to be introverted.

So, what does it mean to be introverted? It just means that my Innie needs some alone time. There’s a lot that goes on in this world, and my brain just can’t keep up. I find that I’m easily overwhelmed, or overstimulated, by external situations. Even seemingly nonchalant ones. When I find myself in these predicaments, I tend to clam up, stay to myself, and grumble at anyone who tries to interact with me. Don’t mistake this as me being a grumpy person, or me hating people. I’m just depleted of energy.

The Struggle

I’m learning how to manage my time; balancing my alone time with social time. It hasn’t at all been easy. The problem: I don’t like being alone. As you can imagine, this creates quite a struggle for my Innie. I’m never able to fully recharge my battery.

A quote comes to mind: “I don’t want to be alone. I want to be left alone.”

However, I have realized that my Innie needs alone time if I want to stay a happy person. I just have to learn to adjust to this new feeling. I have to learn to entertain myself, motivate myself, and keep myself preoccupied so I don’t let external distractions over take my Innie.

Okay, so he wasn’t really an axe murderer, but I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was that I didn’t trust the guy. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

It started when I agreed to go to a friend’s cabin – a place that I have never visited. The cabin was a 6 hour drive away from home. Now, if I were a kid again, this 6 hour drive would mean endless fun by playing “Corners” in the back seat with my brother. (“Corners” is the game where you squish the other person every time the car takes a sharp turn/corner.) But now that I am older, the drive meant 6 hours of being uncomfortable, and enough time for things to go wrong. Because of those reasons, I wasn’t looking forward to this drive, but I hopped into the car anyways thinking that this could be worth blogging.

I was the fifth person to be crammed into the midsized sedan, and was lucky enough to get a window seat; however, that meant that I had to share my personal bubble with someone I barely knew. To make things worse, that person was violently head bobbing from falling in and out of consciousness. My face was plastered to the window, trying to avoid getting a black eye, when suddenly, “tat, tat, tat.” The car started to make unusual sounds, and was shaking. It would have felt great, almost like a massage, if I wasn’t grasping the car door with white knuckles. We pulled over and discovered the problem.

Our shredded tire.

The tire didn’t just go flat; it was freakin’ ripped apart! There were pieces of the tire left on the road! That meant that my worst fear came true: we were stranded in the middle of nowhere. So, we called AAA and requested for a tow truck to come pick us up. The only problem was that the tow truck was an hour and a half away. So, we sat waiting in the car, watching the sunset.

The beautiful sunset in the middle of nowhere.

The sun finally went down, so of course, that’s the time that people decided to try to help. Really?! The only person I know who helps people at night is Batman, and we all know that he’s too busy saving Gotham from its own peril. So who were all of these other people? I came to the only conclusion that was possible: they were all axe murderers.

Our first questionable “good Samaritan” was a foreign tow truck driver. At first glance, we thought that he might be from AAA, but something wasn’t quite right about how friendly he was acting. He was a bit too friendly, if you catch my drift. Yep, I could sense it; he was definitely an axe murderer. Why else would he suggest towing us for free? He just wanted to transport us back to a location that was convenient for his killing. Not being fooled, I cautiously took a step back every time he took a step forward. He finally caught on that we wouldn’t fall for his trap, and left us alone. Below is a self drawn picture of what would have happened if we went with the guy.

Our untimely death – Courteous of the Axe Murderer

Another axe murderer stranger pulled over to “help” us. I’m usually good about not judging people, but when a guy with no shirt, or shoes, pulls over and starts running toward you with a crazed face, you have the instinct to lock the doors and to roll up the windows. So that’s what I did (don’t lie to yourself. You would have done the same thing.). At this point, I just wanted our AAA guy to save us. And he did. An hour later.

Josh, our AAA tow truck driver. Thanks Josh!

By the time we got to the car repair shop and picked up our rental car, I was beat. It was a big day for me after all. I was stranded, was almost killed by, not one, but two potential axe murders, and spent 3 hours with a complete stranger (granted, our driver was very nice and pleasant to talk to). In all honesty, it was too much excitement for my comfort, but I survived and was able to write about it.

I have a secret. I hate writing. I’ve never liked it. In fact, I try to avoid it. I don’t remember when my hatred began, and I don’t even remember what made me so averse to it. I DO, however, remember a moment in high school when my English teacher pulled me aside after class and asked me (in all seriousness), “Is English your second language?” WTF? Was my writing THAT bad? So bad, in fact, that she recommended I stay after school for several weeks to do one-on-one teaching? My confidence for writing was never the same.

So then, you ask, “Why in the world would you start a blog?” And in response, I say, “Isn’t it obvious?” This blog is about “stepping beyond the comfort zone.” Therefore, I’m diving head first into my zone of absolute discomfort by maintaining this blog.

The idea of my own blog started with me on the couch while my fiancée labored over his computer, running his own business. That’s when he so graciously compared my laziness with his productivity. I thought that’s why we were together – because opposites attract. Right? That excuse obviously didn’t suit him well because now I’m here, on my blog, writing this post.

At first, I didn’t know what I would write. I live a dull life where my idea of a fun night is watching prime time TV. And then, BLAM! It hit me. The whole point of starting the blog was to get me off the couch. So I thought, why not have a blog that gets me to do a whole lot of things off the couch?

Me not sitting on Mr. Couch

There it is: my story. Maybe I’ll learn to like blogging. Or maybe it will end up in the “I’m never going to finish this” pile, along with reading Moby Dick. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but hopefully the things I decide to do will improve me, and help me grow. In the very least, I hope to say goodbye to my dear friend, Mr. Couch.