The pool was cold this morning, which made me go so much faster. I started doing 250-yard sprints today. Well, they're not really sprints because I'm supposed to stay within my aerobic threshold, also known as the fat-burning threshold, or zones 1-2. You know that I'm working on building my base, right? Well, more on that later, but basically I am supposed to be working at no more than 60-80% of my maximum heart rate. If I go over, I have to slow down.

I woke up at 5:15 to Matt's alarm, which, though blaring, is still better than the one in my phone, which seems to set itself to endless snooze reminders and will just not shut up. Because cold, pitch-dark New York winter mornings are so conducive to procrastination, I did not get to the bike until 6:30, which made me way late for the pool. The swim, when I started, went, um, swimmingly! Nice smooth strokes, steady breathing and great posture. I love gliding through the water like that—relaxed and zoned out, with nothing to do but think and count strokes. It's like a mini-vacation in my happy place.

Ahhhh. Six hundred yards and I felt great. I was taking my two-minute rest, which I happily did not seem to need at all. Everything was peaceful in the deep side of the pool—it's always quiet that early in the morning; just a few serious swimmers and a lifeguard.

I like resting my arms on the cool tiles of the wall, just over the water's edge, so I sprawled out and closed my eyes. The light tickling sensation I felt on my hands soon after was a little strange at first. It was almost as if one of my kids was gently touching my fingers. Lazily, I turned my head to see who it was. He was looking right at me, only it wasn't one of my little guys; it was a huge black waterbug.

I went under. Just sank. My heart pounding and jumping out of my chest, I gulped water in silent, slow-motion terror. When I came back up, I was screaming—loud, hysterical, horror movie-caliber screaming. Have you ever been to an indoor pool? The acoustics are wonderful. The half-asleep lifeguard fell out of his chair, jumped up and fell into the pool. The other swimmers jerked their heads up, like bird dogs looking for prey—surprised and alert.

I pulled up and was out of the pool in an instant. Secretly, I've been practicing this move for some time. It is no easy trick to pull up and climb out in one smooth motion and look good doing it. Until today, it hadn't been going well, as I am not exactly agile to begin with. But luckily, no one is ever there to watch—just the lonely guy, the lifeguard and a couple of elderly Chinese ladies. This time, however, it was different. I flew. Not exactly like a fish, and not like a bird either. A rocket, maybe. Anyway, you get the picture—I was magnificent! Sadly, I now have two water-related phobias—dead bodies and waterbugs.

Dear Lonely Guy in the Next Lane,

I know that I must look really interesting with my swimming goggles, nose clip and red, white and blue Supergirl bathing suit, but really, I am here to swim. Please know, however, that I love to hear about your struggles growing up and how the neighborhood has changed. Your neighbors do indeed sound like assholes and I understand that you find the baby next door irritating. I am also immensely grateful for all the swimming tips; I didn't realize that my wrists were too limp. And I really freakin' appreciate your concern that training for a triathlon may just be too much for me. Thanks. What time are you here tomorrow?

Dehydrated and constipated, I de-plane and head for the luggage carousels. It happens to me every time I travel – I'm groggy from the takeoff nap (it puts me out every time) and I look and feel like crap. I am here with my three guys to spend Christmas in St. Pete Beach, Florida. I know, it sounds good – warm and relaxing with barbecues, sunsets and lots of time on the beach. We come here every December to find a bit of sun and sanity. This year, however, there is a cold front sweeping the east coast. Twelve inches of snow in New York, a tornado watch in West Palm Beach and chilly rain falling here in Tampa Bay. Oh well, at least we have our health...

After dropping the bags at the condo, we head over to the "health food" store (don't you love that real food has to have a special label?) to get us through the next few days. We hit the local gym right after. As usual, Bodynamics is running a holiday special — 35 bucks per month! As we fill out the paperwork, I catch the cute girl behind the counter curiously eyeing my lips. What is that about? She can't seem to avoid looking at me... Oh shit! The cold sore! Yes, that's right — I have a humongous growth on my lower lip that resembles an aging raspberry. This is how she will remember me, but who cares? I am in Florida and the first spin class is at 6am tomorrow!

I love this video!

I scoured the web for triathlon blogs and message boards until I found someone who was willing to take the time to chat with me. He had just raced in the New York Triathlon and qualified for the Lake Placid Ironman in 2010. He talked about the good, the bad and the ugly of racing in a multisport event. It did sound ugly and bad, but for some crazy reason it turned me on. So, he gave me a basic game plan to start with and wished me luck. With the shape I am in, I'm gonna need all the luck I can get...

And this brings me to the reason for this blog.

A friend lent me a "First Triathlons" book, filled with stories of, well, first triathlons. With each account, I became more and more crestfallen. These were stories of former college track and swim superstars, not beginner athletes. I could not relate to a single one. How was I ever going to measure up, let alone follow? See, it doesn't take much to discourage me.

But screw it! I don't need to place first, second or third. I don't care if I am the last one in, thirty minutes after everyone else has eaten their complimentary fruit and taken a toothy picture with their medal. I just want to limp over the finish line.

So, I am going to keep a journal of my adventure and share all that I learn along the way. Hey, I can even contribute some useful information. You see, I am a health counselor. I already know some stuff. If you hate sports, need inspiration, want to get the flab under control or just lose a few pounds, and find my story worth following, give me a shout. I need you to inspire me as well.

My inspiration was the 2009 New York Triathlon. All those people doing the unthinkable—specifically, jumping into the Hudson River. It just grossed me out. That water must be super toxic; I expected to find them glowing as they emerged from their swim.

Instead, I saw myself. Not then, not now, but soon. And I started thinking...

You see, I am not an athlete. Never have been. Most of my adult life I have been five or ten pounds away from the perfect weight. Two pregnancies sixteen months apart did not make matters any better. Hey, I love my little guys and treasure all the gifts they bestow upon me. Do I love what bringing them into the world did to my body? No, I do not!

It took me a long time to figure out how to find the time to make it to the gym. There were a few things standing in my way. First off, I hate to exercise. Oh, what the hell—that is THE reason. Making the time for something I hate? Not easy.

One day, in August of 2008, I caught a glance of myself in the mirror and realized that things were heading south. Literally. That week, I went to the gym and got a membership. Matt, my husband, was not so optimistic—he gave me two weeks to land back on the sofa. Proving him wrong was enough of an incentive for me, so I did the only thing I could: I started going to the gym before I was fully awake. I put my clothes, water bottle and iPod out the night before and set the alarm for 4:45AM (yes, AM). It stuck. The following summer, I was still at the gym five days a week, waking myself up to to the groovy tunes of the Bee Gees, as I warmed up on the treadmill.

Until the New York Triathlon.