I can't run or bike, but I can ... smile?

Despite tossing my shiniest pennies in the wishing well and pretending I don't have a problem, I feel compelled to publicly confess that my foot injury continues to leave me beleaguered.

Frankly, though, I do believe the triathlon from two weeks ago was not as big of a contributing factor to the decompensating well being of my feet, as was just the general hope that things would get better if I only wore high heels two times a week instead of six, simply took it easy ... and then trying to take it easy only to fail miserably.

Indeed. It is time to reschedule that physical therapy appointment.

Until then, it would be imprudent to train and risk further injury. This weekend's perfect weather, however, stirred up almost enough temptation for me to say, "Aw, forget about it. I'm hitting the pavement."

I did say, "Almost enough."

Currently, I can still walk, though, and my pups must be very thankful for that. During Sunday's late afternoon stroll through the uptown streets of my city, I was living in the moment, choosing to not be upset about this predicament and to soak in the extraordinarily picturesque day at my feet.

It was easy to do.

Passersby must have thought I looked ridiculous, walking a black Great Dane and a Yellow Lab mix with a smile plastered as wide across my face as far as east is to west. How could managing those guys be enjoyable?

Who cares? I was celebrating the gift of a partly sunny, mild and breezy day, and being thankful to God for my life and for the many, many good things in it.

Though I can't run or bike (swimming is probably out, too), I'm going to put aside the racing, negative thoughts that coincide with being inactive during recovery, and appreciate what I am able to do. Perhaps I'll now spend my triathlon training time practicing Yoga and hitting the Y to focus on much-needed strength training.

If the world is going to pass me by as I recover, I might as well smile, wave at it and give it my love.

Mourning fading body markings

My race #176.

I hate to admit it, but I become a little sad when my body markings from a triathlon begin their inevitable fade.

After all of the race belts, heart rate monitors and ball caps have been stripped from us, clean, dry clothes have replaced our damp, sporty tri suits and we've moved on to watering the vegetable garden instead of a state park lake watering us, those markings continue to serve as that last reminder that can still cling to us of what we've just accomplished.

During my post-race shower, I do lather-up my arm and calf where a race volunteer painted my race number and age, respectively, on my skin at 6 a.m.; I just don't work hard to completely remove the ink, scrubbing a little less on those spots than on the rest of my body.

Me speaking at a Chamber seminar.

Then, I make sure to at least wear a sleeveless top - a skirt, too, sometimes - to the office the following Monday. "Oops. I thought I got all of that off," I'll say with feigned alarm and indignity after a coworker will have pointed out "some black stuff" on my arm.

They'll now, of course, know to no longer do that.

What that temporary, numerical, black ink does for me after I've switched back to news girl Monday morning, is remind me of something unique and cool I did over the weekend. It reminds me of how different I am in this regard than most people I know; a state of being I used to be frightened of, but one I now warmly embrace in large part because of this sport.

Heck, yeah, I raced ... and it was awesome

Through a series of injuries and intense workload at the office the last year, I've had little time to train or race for a longer distance triathlon.

In fact, I should not have even raced Saturday.

But that sense of invincibility that plagues (er, benefits) us in our youth, reappeared and kept whispering to me, "Eh, it's just a two-mile run. How bad could it be?"

As it turns out, about as bad as I thought, but I'm getting ahead of the story.

At the last minute, I registered for the inaugural (there is no such thing as "first annual," folks) Giant Eagle Multisport Festival's Tri for the Cure at Alum Creek State Park in Columbus, Ohio. This park is the scene of my first triathlon just three short years ago, and holds a very dear place in my heart.

The distances would be very short, and I was ready to give it my all.

With a 250-yard open water swim, 77-degree water temperatures and the best time trial start to which I've been witness, I was down-right eager to get started and to push myself harder than before.

Harder than before ended up meaning just under eight minutes to finish the swim, but as I was recalling those waters three years ago, when I was backstroking and wearing noseplugs, wondering how on earth I'd ever make it to the end, eight minutes for me is standing ovation-worthy.

The seven-mile bike was a lovely course winding us through a perky, well-to-do residential neighborhood and I felt pretty strong most of the ride. I even passed a couple people going up the one and only hill at the end. I told my husband and photographer, Gary, before the race, "I should be done in about 30 minutes." With 29:48 on my HRM coming up on T2, I was spot-on with my prediction.

My legs were heavy, of course, having just come from the bike, so I took it a little easy starting out on the run. Luckily, that feeling was sustained only briefly and I was able to increase my pace.

I was, however, dismayed to see that midway through, part of the run would take place in the grass.

You see, my latest injury has involved my feet and I knew that the rocking on the uneven ground would likely produce pain greater than I had gambled on.

The truth is, after an x-ray revealed no bones were broken, I had been taking it easy - even wearing running shoes to a business casual work environment - as I had been saving up my physical health capital for this race in case I decided to participate at the last minute ... which I clearly did.

So, I was prepared to expend a little of that capital, but that grass run emptied out the bank account slightly more than I'd anticipated.

My main goal for participating in this race trumped my concerns about my feet in the hopes that it would yield a capital gain of another sort: my mental health capital.

Because it's been a year since I've competed in a triathlon - I did manage to squeeze out my first half marathon in October 2010 and run the Flying Pig Half Mary this May - with each passing day I was watching the 2011 tri season pass me by.

Friends were posting race reports online, showing race-day pictures and sharing personal bests. All while I sat on my rear and ate hamburgers and cookies. This is not usually an issue when I'm training, but those calories certainly add up when I'm not.

Frankly, it was depressing.

I needed to get in to the game - albeit briefly - to feel like my old, slow triathlon self again.

However much I may have hurt physically, I more than doubled in feeling good again. It was well worth the trade-off.

Just look at this last photo! This girl couldn't have had a better day ... and my feet are feeling better now, too. All truly is well.

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I came in 86/168 overall with a time of 58:08, ranked 142/168 on the 250-yard swim with a time of 7:54, ranked 77/168 on the seven-mile bike with a time of 29:48 and ranked 74/168 on the two-mile run with a time of 17:01.

A change of pace

My latest column for The Times-Gazette:

The annual Festival of the Bells Firecracker 5K is this Saturday and I challenge every runner and walker to come on out for some lighthearted competition through the streets of beautiful uptown Hillsboro.

In case you hadn't heard, the race is being moved from the cross country course at Liberty Park to Hillsboro's uptown streets, and I am really looking forward to the change. I enjoyed running at the park when I competed in the Firecracker two years ago, but a lot of the half-marathons and triathlons in which I compete typically take place on the road. It's what I prefer.

According to Pat Reinholz, the coordinates the Firecracker, I must not have been alone.

Click here to read the rest of my column.

The name I won't let them call me

Me, right, as an unhappy teen.

The slicing, cruel words that formed the blueprint for the first batch of self-esteem that underpinned my teenage and young adult years are unforgettable.

"Stupid! Ugly! Loser! Dumb!"

Whether hurled by the boys or by the girls, to my face or behind my back, I would try for the next several years to shiver, shake and squeeze out of their mold.

Like millions of pieces of gum stuck to my body forming that mold, I would spend time each day, slowly peeling off one sticky little piece of embarrassment and untruth at a time.

Maybe someday I'd be able to see what I really looked like underneath the world's casting and coloring of me.

The great news is that I did. That journey is another blog post, but a new lease on life in college, some maturity that comes through experience and, most importantly, the saving grace of Jesus gave me a much-improved, second batch of self-esteem.

Even with a house full of self-confidence these days, on occasion I hear those words in the air, caught in the breeze between two nearby trees, usually on a cloudy day.

I don't hear them for long.

Me, front center, with friends in Slovakia after college.

It is, however, the word that was never used by the kids that lingers with me most days; like a soft ghost sitting in the corner of my room, her legs crossed, her elbow on the back of the chair and her hand gently resting on the side of her face. "Are you sure?" her gaze seems to ask of me.

That one word they could never cast my way, an arrow of such outrageous fortune that I do everything I can to this day to avoid it being thrown my way by a new cast of characters.

One less word with which to hurt me.

They could never call me fat. If I could at least control that, I would feel ahead of the game ... at least until the next insult.

I was always a skinny kid and young adult. At my heaviest I weighed 140 pounds for about a year in college. I found a way to get motivated and I soon dropped 20 pounds putting me back at Lora size, which is approximately where I remain currently.

You see, if I could stay skinny, that would be one less weapon in their arsenal.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, everyone makes stupid or dumb mistakes, comments, decisions. Loser is a nice general term which covers everything negative you believe to be true about yourself. If you're a bully, it's really a nice catch-all term that I would personally recommend.

Though when someone is thin, fact certainly must reign over opinion. It's rarely in dispute, at least in Flyover Country.

Toyota Olympic Tri on 9/27/09.

It's no secret that I train for triathlons because the workouts are so intense that weight loss/maintenance is nearly inevitable. I also enjoy eating, so I choose to alter my physical activity more than my diet.

I've been able to move past from the things that were said about me in so many ways. I just hadn't realized until recently, upon thinking about graduation during this graduation season, and about my school years, how I'm still living my life because of that one thing unsaid.

I've been able to forgive those kids (they were kids, after all) and I find myself grateful (not happy) at times for those experiences. They've made me tougher.

I'm not proud that I still allow this part of the past to affect my present, especially when considering how much I've been able to leave behind, and care even less what people say about me (90% of the time), but there does exist a silver lining with the cloud.

Though the name they didn't call me might be the underlying compelling for training and racing, it has brought me in to a sport that I have come to love as a big part of my life. I love to run, I enjoy the challenge of swimming for a couple miles and I enjoy the courage cycling for long miles pulls out of your soul.

Now, if I could just find out what that lady ghost wants, I'll have good material for another blog post.