The "I" in "Team"

Team sports in our country have gone to hell in a handbasket. And I'm not talking about some nice Dorothy from Kansas, flowery and foofy picnic basket with fresh baked homemade cookies inside. If only our beloved sports were in that wonderful condition. Instead, team sports are carting off to hell in a frayed, sharp edged, stanky basket that holds nothing but the soiled remains of used syringes and the putrid stench of inflated egos. Blech!

It's a sad state of affairs.

Many a journalist and critic have spouted superfluously about their disbelief in the state of today's sports. Cheating has become so rampant and the lies so unimaginable, we barely blinked an eye as Tyler Hamilton, cycling's neo-Houdini, denied doping charges by telling us how he'd channelled the energy and genetic make-up of his miraculously vanished twin fetus. So when Floyd Landis stepped forward in his drug allegation brouhaha to claim that a bottle of scotch had altered the composition of his blood cells, we barely chuckled in astonishment as we flippantly turned the page to the Barry Bonds fiasco. C'mon Floyd... Tyler Hamilton has already trumped you with a vanishing twin fetus, you've gotta come up with something better than a bottle of alcohol! Jeez Louise... At the very least, how about a claim to having been gang-raped by Marion Jones and Justin Gatlin? Or, better yet, what about those EPO aliens that came down from outerspace, siphoned all your blood out of your eyeballs and refilled your veins with the miracle blood of their fearless leader.

All joking aside (for a second), Tyler and Floyd are just the tip of a very large iceberg in a very big drug problem in sports. We are living in what has become known as the "Steroid Era." In fact, steroid allegations are released so frequently, I heard the New York Times is already coming out with a weekly sports-gone-bad supplement. It's called "Dope."

The truth is, though, I don't think steroids are the problem. Steroids are just a mere byproduct of the state of sports in our world. Steroid use is a symptom, not the disease. The true problem with team sports in today's culture is that it is no longer about the team. Somewhere along the way, with all the money and the media, we forgot about the "team" in "team sports". I just double checked the dictionary and apparently there is still no "I" in "team." Then again, maybe it's written in invisible ink cause somewhere along the way we definitely took a left into "selfish gain" when we should've taken a right into "team unity." And so here we are in a new age that I affectionately call the "Selfish Era".

Terrell Owens may very well be the poster-child of the Selfish Era, and he's not even accused of using steroids (Lord knows, NFL players don't use steroids at all. In fact, they're all celebate too.) Terrell, or T.O. as the rest of the world calls him, suffers from an acute case of Fat Richards Disease. In other words, he's a big dick. T.O. is a child who refuses to grow up. He acts so much like a 3 year old, even 3 year olds don't want to be associated with him anymore.

For the record, T.O. is a football player and football, as we know, is a team sport. However, like most toddlers, all T.O. cares about are four things: Me Me Me Me. I will freely admit that T.O. is a great football player; arguably the best wide receiver in the NFL. He has a lot going for him. Unfortunately, every one of T.O.'s actions - on and off the field - acts in detriment to the team mentality. As I said, he's a big dick.

T.O. doesn't follow direction, he doesn't respect his superiors, he doesn't abide by his word and when all is said and done, he doesn't care about anybody else but himself. He is a selfish ass and if he weren't such a goddam great football player, he'd be sitting at home cursing the world for being so unfair to him. Truth be told, if he keeps up his inane behavior, he may find himself there sooner than he thinks.

Unfortunately, T.O. isn't an anomaly in the sports world. To the contrary, the disease runs very very deep. Barry Bonds (baseball), Latrell Sprewell (basketball), Jose Conseco (baseball), Kobe Bryant (basketball), Ron Artest (basketball), Justin Gatlin (US Olympic Team, track)... and the list goes on and on. All of these guys play ON athletic teams, they just don't play FOR the teams - they play for themselves. Their goal is simple: to get more well known, more money and more fame, regardless of what they've to do to get there.

Steroids, my friend, aren't causing the selfish behavior. Selfishness breeds steroid use. By taking performance enhancing drugs, they are feeding their selfish machine - making them stronger so they can get more money and notoriety and then having to continue the steroids so they can live up to their hype. Very little of this has to do with helping their team succeed.

But wait, there's more. We haven't even talked about the irony yet. And there's always irony.

The irony of the Selfish Era is that individual sports like triathlon, snowboarding, golf and skateboarding, breed more unity than most major team activities. How many times, as a triathlete, have you encouraged - or been encouraged by - another competitor on the race course? Did you know that the pro triathletes at Kona come out to the finish line to cheer on the last of the Sub 17s? I challenge you to show me the selfish nature of that act.

Tiger Woods recently encouraged drug testing in pro golf. Some might shirk at that comment. In fact, I'm pretty positive that a lot of people laughed at it. Drug testing in golf?! they spat sarcastically at the SportsCenter crew. For godsakes, we know Tiger is not using them - and whatever other golfers are using, clearly it ain't working. No harm, no foul.

But let's try to keep our sarcastic comments to ourselves and not be over-critical of Tiger's intentions. The simple act of Tiger's encouraging drug testing in golf, was a tremendous example of unity and community. Essentially, Tiger is saying that if there are bad seeds in this bunch, let's all work together to get rid of them. We will not harbor criminals. We do not welcome cheaters (or, in some cases, women) on our greens. Golf, like triathlon, tennis and so many other sports, is an individual activity, but it is not a selfish sport. Perhaps other sports should look towards these activities as an example.

Don't get me wrong, I am vehemently against the use of performance enhancing drugs. Athletes must work together to put a halt on steroid use in sports. And by doing so, perhaps the unity will quell the rising tide of selfishness that has violated the very fabric of our national pastimes.



Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this page are strictly those of the page author (which is me) and do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of the page owners (which is me as well). The page owner (yeah, me) reserves the right to remove any material deemed to be of offensive or inappropriate nature (which I would've written myself). (Wait a minute.. why am I disclaiming myself? Have I truly gone mad already?!)

Oh Come, All Ye Dissidents

Los Angeles is a town of extremes. The Wealthy and the Poor. The Democrats and the Gropenfuhrer. The Haves and the Havenots-but-are-willing-to-give-up-everything-for-the-dream-of-one-day-Having.

The beautiful thing about living in LA is that you get to experience these extremes on a regular basis. Sometimes even at the same time. Take today for instance. While stopped at a traffic light I gazed mindlessly into the supermarket parking lot on my left. There in front of me was a fairly tall African American security officer speaking to a not-quite-as-tall homeless looking white man. Just the sight of the two of them elicited all sorts of thoughts about the tremendous advancements in racial equality we've experienced in our country over the past 50 years. Isn't it wonderful, I thought as a somewhat stilted version of Ebony & Ivory played in the rusted jukebox of my mind. In fact, according to this rather small supermarket survey, we've equality-ed ourselves right through to inequality again - apparently the white man is now the one on the outside. The segregator has become the segregatee. And just as my mind was flowing into a wonderful tangent that involved Tiger Woods, Iman and the Macy's Labor Day Parade, I noticed the homeless man yelling frantically while the security guard pointed, angrily demanding that Whitey vacate the premesis.

Wait a minute, I thought, what happened to our racial harmony?! Can't you people hear Ebony & Ivory? Hold on!! THERE IS NO VIOLENCE ALLOWED WHILE STEVIE IS SINGING!!

And just as we were side by side on the piano, the white homeless man turned around and started walking out of the parking lot. As he walked I could see that he yelled something - I just couldn't hear it. No need to worry though, cause the security guard sure heard it. And whatever it was that the homeless man said, I can pretty much guarantee you, it wasn't too nice. I'm guessing it was a reflection on a previous time, when we weren't all so goddamn racially equal. Or maybe it involved the security guard's mother, which is never nice. Either way, the security guard, in what I can only imagine was a clear breach of his employment contract, ran up to the homeless man screaming and yelling in a rage, reached his arm back and - THWAPPPP!!! - smacked the bejesus out of the homeless guy.

As you can probably guess, homeless guy wasn't too happy with the beat down, so he turned around and started kicking at the security guard. Next thing I know, it's a full-on throwdown with fists flailing and feet kicking and people running over to help but not knowing what to do so they ended up just standing around feeling - and looking - quite useless. Just as I was about to take a dramatic Bo & Luke Duke type of turn into the parking lot to save the day, the homeless man turned around and ran away. Which is good, cause this violence really didn't need to escalate any further and besides, I really had no clue what I would've done when I got there either. I'm sure I probably would've just stood around being as useless as all of the others.

Eventually the light turned green and I continued on my way. A few minutes later, finally recovering from the sight of a seemingly violent protest of the homeless, I arrived at my destination: the Post Office.

Why, pray tell, has the Post Office become a magnet for the wackos? It's as if you had to act like a freak in front of the Post Office before you are recognized as an official Weirdo and people start avoiding you when they walk down the street. Random crazy Post Office behavior is like a Bar Mitzvah for the insane - it's their official entry into Wacky World.

So anyway, I'm walking up to the Post Office and I see two people lounging about on the sidewalk under a beach umbrella and sitting at a table with a couple of anti-Bush signs hanging about. Now, being in a very very Democratic state, it is not uncommon to see lots of anti-Bush hoopla all over the place. Sure, it's like preaching to the converted, but that's another story entirely. This anti-Bush protest, however, was not your regular sit-in. You see, these two people weren't just sitting about spouting their Democratic rhetoric. Oh no, this one was much better. Get this - they were sitting amidst all of their "change the world, we're going to hell" paraphernalia as they sang - yes, sang - in two part harmony - yes, two-part harmony. As if this Mamas and Papas reunion tour wasn't enough, you had to hear what they were singing. Clearly it was some sort of peace protest song, but it was belted out to the tune of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for anti-Bush protests. Hell, I like a good non-violent protest as much as the next guy. But to have a two person protest in the middle of summer, to the tune of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing?! There's a fine line between protest and just plain wacko. Besides, if you're singing a Christmas carol, can that really count as a protest anyway? Does anybody have a protest rule book I can borrow?

I couldn't believe my eyes - or ears, for that matter. In fact, I couldn't believe it so much, I started laughing at them. Other Post Office dwellers looked at me with a twinkle in their eye, as if they too wanted to laugh but were too scared the peaceful protest carolers may morph into violent psychopaths.

That's wonderful, I said looking around to my fellow letter mailers. And as I thought about the violent outburst in the parking lot but a few minutes before, I wondered if a good Democratic Christmas Carol may have calmed the rambunctious energy of the Supermarket brawlers. Maybe if I had driven into that parking lot, screeching and squealing my tires in announcement, and jumped out of the car with all sorts of Superhero fanfare, and suddenly began singing, at the top of my voice, a wonderful version of Good King Wenceslas - maybe that would've quelled the violence. And maybe I wouldn't have been as useless as I previously imagined.

I guess the truth is, we just don't have enough singing protests in this town.

From The Streets Of Penticton

Imagine you were a street in Penticton today. After a full day of tires thrasing across your body, the incessant pounding of running shoes hammering into your very being, the unrelenting jumps for joy of spectators battering your backbone as they bellow callously in your ears. The brutality you experienced was undoubtedly excruciating. If you were a street in Penticton today, you'd probably wake up this morning with one helluva hangover - and a fairly sore backbone.

But there is a pain that is bad and a type of pain that is good. And I would think, if you were a Penticton street today, the pain you'd be experiencing would probably be of the good variety. Similar to that fireman who, seconds after saving the life of a baby in distress, falls through the woodwork and breaks a leg, somehow the pain is worth it all.

In fact, I'd imagine if you were a Penticton street yesterday, that after awhile you'd even have stopped feeling the pounding. That as the energy of the racers surged into your skin, you would have become electrified. And maybe you'd even have gotten to a point where the pain gave you strength, and all of the sudden you found yourself striving for greater elasticity, for anything you could do to help propel those racers forward.

If I were a guessing man and you were a street in Penticton, I'd imagine that everytime a racer crossed that finish line, you felt a sense of pride. As if you helped drive that racer forward. As if you yourself lay face-to-face with death so that this racer could get through to the end. In fact, I'd probably guess that with each finishers cheer, your pride grew exponentially. And as the last of the racers were passing across your being, you reached deep down inside and gave everything you had to propel them forward. Even as Sherri Lee, the last of the sub-17s, crossed over your body, you still didn't give up. The clock had stopped, but the racers didn't. And so neither did you.

And maybe after all the aid stations were moved away and the spilled Gatorade evaporated into air, after the road barriers were dragged off of your sidelines - maybe you laid there trampled and trodden, unable to rest from the enduring memories streaming through your mind of your days incredible experience.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, your memories faded into sweet dreams until you woke up this morning to a new day. Beaten. Battered. Bruised.
But proud.
Very very proud.

To all Ironman Canada finishers,
CONGRATULATIONS!
From the streets of Penticton.

Ironman Canada: Thoughtful Wishes From A Self-Important Fool

I've got a few friends racing Ironman Canada this weekend and I've got to say I'm a little bit excited for them. When I think about the amazing experience they are going to have, I can definitely feel something fluttering about in my stomach. Perhaps it's not a full family of butterflies frolicking down there, maybe just a house-fly jacked up on crystal meth. But its a fluttering feeling nonetheless.

For a few of these friends, IM Canada will be their first Ironman distance race. Ah, I remember back whenI was younger and doing my first Ironman race. What was it... four?... no wait.. five...yes, five weeks ago. Those were the good ole days, my friend, back when men were men and I was freaking out. It was a mere few days before my first foray into Ironmania. The excitement and anticipation. The fear and nausea. Just thinking about it makes me eek out a smile and silently scrunch out a harumph.

And so I sit here an Ironman, with my vast library of IM racing knowledge, wondering what great life-altering insights I could impart onto these puerile little neophytes; these defenseless little lambs, their heads peering with naive curiousity into the drooling jaws of the lion.

Oh, my little tender ones. You are opening a door to which you know not what lies beyond. It is a door into a new world; a door into your soul. Let me tell you, Ironmanettes, let me tell you what lurks behind that door. There is a monster in there. A big, ugly, horrific monster. It is a monster that can rip you apart with one brash stroke of it's claws. It is an evil being with deadly fangs that can violently tear the heart right out of your chest. It will hold up your heart in it's paws with pride, as your lifeblood floods the streets. And that monster will stand there over your heartless body, shrieking and screaming and ferociously rejoicing in it's ability to destroy you.

But you need not be scared, my pretty, because there is a way. Ah yes, there is a way that only the initiated will know. But I am here to tell you, and it is so very simple. Come around, little kiddies, come around and listen. For the answer is so very easy.

All you must do, when you open up that door, is embrace the monster. Wrap your hands around the monster and embrace him. Let him know that you are not scared, that you will not turn back. Demand to all that can hear that you will keep moving forward, under all circumstances. Through rain, sleet, cramps, pain and agony - nothing will stop you from taking another step. Let the world know that no matter how hard he screams and tears and claws at your soul, the monster can not rip the heart out of you.

Yea though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you shall fear no evil.

And if you do that steadily and continuously, trust me, you will suddenly feel that monster fall into your arms. The monster will cuddle against you like a defenseless kitten.

And when you find yourself crossing the finish line, hands triumphantly in the air, a smile stretched across your face, you will feel victory in your heart, for you will have conquered the beast.

So march forward, one and all. Feet pittering and pattering upon the pavement in dissonant unity. Ironman awaits. And you're gonna have one helluva great time.

It's All So Very Sketchy...

I'm sitting at a chair in Starbucks right now. There's a guy in the chair next to me who is clearly an artist. It's really the drawing pad and the charcoal on his lap that gave it away. (You can call me Sherlock Holmes, if you like. I don't mind.) I think he's drawing me. That is to say, I recently noticed that he keeps looking over at me every minute or so, then goes back to his drawing pad. Then looks at me again, and back to the drawing pad. Dead giveaway, really.

So I'm sitting here, all of the sudden feeling a bit self-conscious, and wondering what the hell the common protocol is for when you think somebody is drawing you. Do I just lean over and say, Excuse me, sir, are you perhaps drawing me? That seems a bit awkward. Maybe I can casually try to walk around and glance over his shoulder. Though since his back is against the wall, that could prove to be quite a bit difficult without a jackhammer and some sort of drywall remover. Perhaps if I give him a good swift kick in the shins, he'll double over and I can peak a glance.

Such dilemmas.

But all of that won't really answer the most important question of why he would be drawing me. Do I really look that unique? Are my features that grotesque? If he is in fact drawing me and I think it's ugly, shouldn't I be allowed to take the drawing away from him? I mean, wouldn't it only be natural for me to own the rights to my own image. Perhaps if he says that he is, in fact, drawing me, I should tell him to stop immediately until I call up my attorney and get a release form drafted up for his signature.

Maybe I'll just sit here and start constantly shifting in my seat, thereby screwing up his drawing. Want me to pose for you Mister Replicate-My-Image-Without-My-Permission Guy?! Well how would you like it if I moved my arm HERE!! And maybe now I'll drape my leg over THIS! How's that drawing coming along now?!

Oh wait.... he's not looking at me anymore.
Never mind.

I Can't Be Here Now Now. How 'Bout Tomorrow?

Sometimes I stare at a big blank piece of white paper, desperately trying to think of something worthwhile to write. Well, maybe it's not exactly paper, more like a computer screen. And, sure, maybe it's not all white, there's actually a blue strip on top, a little bit of orange, some grey... come to think of it, it's all fairly colorful.

Yeah.... so sometimes I stare at a blank space and I don't quite know how to fill it up. I'll sit there for minutes on end, racking my brain for some wee tidbit of a story that might breed a modicum of intrigue worthy of your attention. But, alas, you could practically hear the tumbleweeds swooshing about and thwacking against the walls of my cranium.

At that point, I sometimes just start typing, if for nothing more than to calm the tumble-swooshing in my mind. Eventually, amidst my random typing some story tends to evolve and I get so engrossed in the story, describing every minute detail, every emotion and interaction, that by the time I come back to my senses I've realized that I'm already three pages into the damn thing. So I bring it to a close. And as I read over what I have regurgitated onto the once white/orange/grey space, I marvel in the fact that I haven't really said a darn thing at all.

My life, it seems, has become a never-ending Seinfeld episode.

Things happen - they're funny, heartbreaking, ridiculous, dramatic, idiotic, overwhelming, underwhelming, midwhelming... all these different things happen, and though they're so tragically meaningless, they tend to draw even me in. I get caught in my very own spider web.

So I keep trying to convince myself that there is brilliance in the minutiae (great word, minutiae... so much fun to type.) I persuade myself that the little things in life are the most important. The little things, I'm convinced, are really the big things. In fact, that's the funny thing about the big things in life; most of the time you don't recognize them as big things until long after they're done. They start out as little things until one day you realize that it's changed your life, which might very will be the definition of a big thing.

Think about it. Each little training day you have seems so meaningless when it's happening. You don't go out on one fifty mile ride and all of the sudden feel like an Ironman. But one day leads to another and one mile stretches to two. And as you're finishing mile one hundred thirty five of a one hundred forty-plus mile day, you realize that all of those seemingly meaningless training days have added up to one big thing. They've changed your life.

I guess all of this gobbledy-gook could make you learn to appreciate the everyday. You know, maybe it could make you sit around and meditate on the breeze blowing through the trees, or treasure in the joy of your every breath. Unfortunately, I barely have the patience for any of that stuff.

The whole concept seems like such a small thing anyway.

The Seventeen Day Free Ride

It all changes after seventeen days. Nobody else is ever going to tell you this information, so make believe you don't have ADD for a second and pay attention. Better yet, with your memory, why don't you write this down somewhere. Mark it on your calendar, even. Seventeen days.

Let me explain...

One of the many great things about Ironman training is the amount of calories you burn on a regular basis. In this crazed world of never-ending fad diets, Ironman training is arguably the best solution. Why give up gorging on a loaf of delectable Hawaiian Sweet Bread when you can go for a seven hour ride and two hour run instead. Hell, you might as well make it two loaves - you're gonna need the carbs.

But wait, it gets better... There comes a point a few months into the intense training where your body's metabolism takes a drastic turn from good to gooder. All of the sudden, you're burning up food like a wildfire in a marshmallow factory. You suddenly realize that within 24 hours just about everything you put in your mouth will be quickly annihilated by your body as if it never existed in the first place. It's somewhat existential, I guess -- if the food disappears without anybody seeing it, did it really exist in the first place?

Throughout the height of Ironman training, your body's metabolism is at it's peak. It becomes a finely tuned machine, processing all it consumes as efficiently and effectively as an auto assembly line. Suddenly you realize that you've essentially built yourself a Free Food Pass, able to chow down just about anything you want without turning into the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. Sure, you want to try to stay healthy. Hell, some days you're out there exercising for so long, you really only have time for one or two meals a day anyway. Why not reward yourself with a few slices of pizza. Extra pepperoni, if you will. And while we're at it, why don't you pick up a vat of that ice cream, it sure tasted good last night.

Then, of course, you race your Ironman and your training comes to a screeching halt. Maybe you manage to get out there a week or so after the race for a short run or a slow spin on the bike. But you finally have the freedom to put your life back together so the training regimen becomes drastically different. And guess what? Your metabolism hasn't realized that Ironman training is done. Everything you eat is still getting burned up quickly. That side of cattle you gorged on to celebrate the Ironman? Gone in a day.

A few days later you realize that you're in dieters heaven. You've managed to change the very functioning of your own body, allowing you to eat just about whatever you want without the impending fear of porkiness. This is heaven, you think to yourself. I've trained and gone to heaven.

It's amazing, you tell your friends between bites of hamburger. I can eat anything. Truly incredible, you say as you shove french fries into your cheeks.

I'm here to tell you.. enjoy. Eat, gorge, chow, ingest. You know why? Cause it doesn't last. Eventually your metabolism is going to catch on to what is happening - and it ain't gonna be happy. Those potato chips aren't leaving your body so easily anymore. Oh, and that extra side of bacon you had for breakfast ain't goin' anywhere either.

Though it took you half the year of strenuous training to get to the point where you can eat anything you want, you know how long it'll take for it to all go back to normal? Seventeen days.

So enjoy, cause eighteen days after your Ironman, you're gonna find yourself back in the exact same place you were seven months ago... staring down at a sad, wilted plate of lettuce greens as you start thinking of when you can squeeze in another year of Ironman training.
________________________________________________________________

Star Spotting Of The Day: Christian Slater, soon to be featured in either some VH1 inspired "Where Are They Now?" show or a "Hollywood Drug Rehab Recap" rerun on Entertainment Tonight.

Location: San Vicente Blvd, Santa Monica

What He Was Doing: I was in the middle lane on my bike, he was stopped in his black GTO in the right hand turn lane, sipping on some frappacino or macchiato or one of those foofie whipped creamed Starbucks beverages at 6:45 in the morning.

14 Random Things I'd Tell First Time Ironman Racers If Anybody Ever Asked Me

1. Stick with your plan.

2. Inevitably, things will happen that won't allow you to stick with your plan.

3. In case of #2, make believe Plan B is your plan. Stick with that one.

4. No matter how bad and irreparable things may seem, they will eventually get good again. Unless you die. But you won't. So don't even think about that. I'm sorry I brought it up.

5. Every once in awhile say something encouraging to another racer. It'll make both of you feel better and the sound of your voice will remind you that you're still alive. (I still feel kinda bad about that dying comment)

6. Don't try anything new on race day. Unless its got the words "chicken" and "soup" in it.

7. No matter how hard it seems, you had much harder training days.

8. Before you get to the starting line, make sure you know the reason you are doing an Ironman. Write it down, remember it. If everything else dramatically falls apart, this will be your source of hope. As Nietzsche's middle-of-the-pack triathlete-racing second cousin once said, He who has a why to race an Ironman can bear with almost any how.

9. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Train hard, race easy. Be here now. It's time you made a withdrawal from the Mantra Shop. You'll be surprised how well a few simple words will keep you on track.

10. Be here now. (see, the mantra works already). Don't worry about what is behind you and stop your mind from thinking about what lies ahead. All you can affect is right here, right now. An Ironman is not 140.6 miles. It is one stroke, one pedal, one step and you keep focusing on that one step and repeating it until you feel a finisher's ribbon crossing your chest.

11. Figure out what you need to eat and drink months before you get to the starting line. All the training in the world will add up to a load of bull pucky if you don't pay attention to your body.

12. Take it easy throughout the day. An Ironman race doesn't really begin until somewhere around Mile 16 of the run. If you pace yourself well, you'll be zipping by people during the last 10 miles like they were passed out on the side of the road. Which they probably will be. Try not to kick them in the face as you run over them - that's just plain rude.

13. Stay positive. Stay calm. As Yogi Berra's triathlete-racing Australian neighbor's uncle once said, racing Ironman is 90% mental, the other half is physical. Maintaining a calm, positive attitude throughout the day is oftentimes the difference between a good race and a really crappy one.

14. Remind yourself regularly that you are racing an Ironman. Relish the experience. Enjoy the day. The miracle isn't that you will finish - and you will. The miracle is that you had the courage to start.

Che Guevara Would Not Be Proud

So I get to the library this morning at 9:30, only to find out it opens at 10am. Since when did libraries start opening at 10am? Don't people read before 10am?! This is crazy, I think. Absurd even. And so I stood there for awhile pondering the societal implications of library working hours as it relates to the proletariat's continuous struggle for civil equality.

And then I looked at my watch.
9:35.
OK, that wasted five minutes. Twenty-five to go.

I realized that the Library Cafe was open. You see, the city of Santa Monica just built this new fancy shmancy library with more books than you can imagine, free wireless Internet access, rooms where you need secret security clearances to enter, a super-advanced highly-technical book check-out operating system and, of course, a Cafe. Which apparently opens before the actual Library does.

With twenty-five minutes to kill, I decided to venture into the Cafe courtyard to take a seat at one of the many quietly comfortable tables. As I walked outside I noticed about ten other people scattered around in various stages of time-kill, all of whom clearly must be equally flabbergasted as I that the library doesn't open until 10am. Maybe we should start a protest, I thought. Right here in the Santa Monica Library Cafe, maybe we should all get together and make a statement about Library working hours. We could change the world.

But, alas, though I really enjoyed Motorcyle Diaries, I am far from a Che Guevara type. So I sat down at a table right outside the locked library doors and started reading my book. Which, I've got to admit, felt kinda ridiculous. Like having a picnic on the front lawn of Applebee's. But whatever.

I looked around at the other folks in the courtyard. There was the college-looking student sitting like a wallflower in the corner, bobbing her head silently to the beat of her iPod. Granny McReadalot was at the table behind me, with her thick glasses and stack of books-on-tape. Across the way there was a quiet kid, about 19 or so... jeans, t-shirt, blonde hair in a crew cut, just sitting calmly and silently.

It was almost soothing in there. All of the sudden, as if on cue, in walked the loud obnoxious guy with the booming, cigarette-gravelly voice and the know-it-all attitude. He saw the quiet kid across the courtyard and apparently marked him as the primary target.

You in the military? he yelled over to the kid as he walked up to his table.
The kid mumbled something that sounded like a long way to say Yes.

Good for you, you'll be great, Gravel Guy said. I was in the army. Sounds like you have an accent, where you from? he continued without barely taking a breath.

Russia, the kid replied, clearly wanting this strange overpowering man to go away.
As for the rest of us in the courtyard, clearly it was showtime.

Russia?! Gravel said with a lot less excitement than I made it out to sound. He continued... I was station'd over there once I know some Russian lemme tell you what I know howta say in Russian.

And suddenly my ears perked up. This might be a better show than I expected.

I gotta word for ya, the Gravel Guy, said. Kamchatka. You know what that means? Kamchatka.

Kamchatka?! I thought, as I glanced over at the guy to see if he was serious. Isn't that a type of vodka?! Is this guy retarded?!

I couldn't see the Russian kid roll his eyes, but I can only imagine that's what happened.

OK, I've got another one for you, Gravel retard said as he uttered four or five words that, through my linguistically challenged ears, sounded about what I would expect Russian to sound. At the very least I suddenly had a craving for a very cold shot of Kamchatka.

You know what that means? he asked as the Russian kid sat there in what I can only imagine was a mixed bag of fear, anger and annoyance. The kid nodded and looked at the guy like he was crazy, like if this obnoxious American stuck around much longer he'd go all Ivan Drago on his ass.

What does it mean?! I began silently yelling to myself as I perked up my ears hyena-like. For the love of borscht on a hot summer day, tell me...WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!

And when he said it, I could barely believe it myself.

Turn down your TV set, he said.

This was one of those moments where suddenly it felt like the entire world had gone silent. Like everybody from the Santa Monica Library Cafe to the Yablonoi Mountains had suddenly stopped what they were doing and turned around to stare in bewilderment at Gravel Guy. Here we are sitting quietly in the Cafe as we wait for 10am to roll around so the damn Library can finally open their doors and let all of us good, honest working class people partake in what we Americans like to call "freedom." Meanwhile, some moron is using up quality oxygen to let a poor, innocent stranger know that he has the ridiculously impractical ability to utter the words Turn down your TV set in Russian.

At this point there was nothing further to say.
The library doors were opened. And democracy prevailed.

From The Annals of Be Careful What You Wish For

I've said in the past that I wanted to remember every emotion from my first Ironman experience. It was such a special event in my life for so many reasons, I don't want to forget the feelings. Of course, here I am saying this just 3 weeks after the race. A bit pre-maturely sentimental perhaps. Maybe I should actually wait a couple of months before I look back and memorialize the damn thing as if it were the most momentous event this side of Jesus pulling a Houdini three days after he died.

The thing is, though, I can't help but think about the different feelings I had throughout that Ironman day. Every once in awhile I'll be sitting about doing a lot of nothing, when I just start thinking about the second loop of the swim, or the climb on the bike at mile 100, or....

My Ironmind is at it's most active when I'm out exercising. I guess it all makes sense. I mean, as I'm pedaling on my bike it's only obvious that I would think about my Ironman bike ride. Maybe it's the honey wheat pretzel guy, or seeing Catherine for the first time - or maybe just those few blocks through downtown Lake Placid where the throngs of people were screaming for me as if I were actually a superstar - as if I were even within 3 hours of the leader. I wasn't. But it still feels good.

And that's the thing I realized, is that I keep remembering those good feelings. The feelings of achievement, of the crowd yelling my name - the excitement of being a first time Ironman. And these are the emotions I was talking about up there in the first paragraph. They are the ones I want to hold on too as tightly as I can, to grab them and bear hug them with all of my might until they are firmly Crazy Glued to my heart.

Those are the emotions that get me excited to exercise again. Biking and swimming have been fine since the race - almost enjoyable. No pain, no tiredness (no schedule and no heart rate monitor.) Running, on the other hand, has been a chock full o' fatigue. I can barely get through three miles without my legs pleading for an Ottoman - and I ain't talkin' about no Empire.

I went for a run this morning. As usual, my legs were pretty darn tired when I started and didn't seem to get better throughout the 4 mile shuffle. Around mile 3 I was struggling up a very shallow climb with such effort it had surpassed the point of near embarrassment and slammed right into the wall of pitiful. I could see the final turn a few blocks ahead of me, knowing that if I could just make it to that street it'd be downhill all the way home. But my legs... ah, the legs. They just didn't want to move. Then the ever-so-slight twinges of pain started creeping into the hamstrings. And the stomach started growling.

Here I was, an Ironman, and I didn't know how I'd make it through my 4 mile run.

And then it hit me like an Acme Anvil on the head of Wile E. Coyote. This is EXACTLY what it felt like at Mile 14 of the Ironman marathon. This pain, the agony, the utter sense of defeat. This was it.

The thing is, it's not a good feeling. In fact, it's a pretty crappy one. But it's part of my experience, whether I like it or not.

And so I guess no matter how much I try to push all of these painful memories under the rug, I can't ignore them. Eventually I'll just end up tripping over the damn feelings and bashing my face right into them.

I suppose that the pain and challenge just makes me stronger. I'm sure if the adage is correct, I must've built up all sorts of character I never had before. But seriously folks, when I said I wanted to remember all of the emotions from my first Ironman experience, I thought we all kind of assumed that I was just talking about the good ones.

Left Leg First

This morning I put my pants on, left leg first. It felt weird. Surreal, even.

For the better part of thirty-nine years I've woken each day and put my pants on right leg first. That's approximately thirteen thousand one hundred and forty consecutive days of shoving my right leg in my pants before my left. And then today it all changed.

I know what you're saying right now. Who cares, you're thinking. I really can't give a flying frittata how he puts on his pants in the morning. In fact, I'm surprised to hear the little such-and-such can even dress himself at all.

Well, before you fall off your high horse and break a barnacle, why don't you stop interrupting me for a change and let me continue.... jeeeez.

OK, where was I.... Oh yeah, my pants.
It felt so weird to put my pants on differently that I got to thinking about it quite a bit today. I started thinking about the repetition in our lives. How we go on day after day, year after year, living our same habits in our own same ways. It becomes so incredibly incessantly monotonous until we virtually become numb to the feeling of our everyday activities.

Have you ever been riding your bike down a long road - or driven down the highway - and had your mind wander? Where all of the sudden you come back to reality and for the life of you, you can't remember the last ten minutes of your ride. Isn't that scary? Now what happens if you get to middle-age, and suddenly you can't remember anything interesting that happened in the last ten years of your life. That'd probably be a bit scarier.

Prior to my Ironman USA extravaganza, a fair few Ironman racers told me to stay in the moment and enjoy the experience. At the end of the day, they said, regardless of whether you have a good race or a bad one, what you'll remember most are the feelings you had throughout the day. So there I was on race day, plugging along at my pace, and continually trying to remember every single feeling that I had at every single second. I wanted to catalog every emotion of every mile so that in the future I'd be able to relive those feelings at the snap of a finger.

The thing is, by the time I got to race day I had already logged in so many endlessly monotonous training miles over the previous months, that my mind had already been conditioned to not pay attention. So while I was out there chugging along through the hours at the race, I had to learn how to do things differently. Instead of letting my mind wander, I had to force myself to stay in the present. In a way, I guess I saw the same experience from a different perspective. And that, in itself, was a wonderful experience.

So then I started thinking, maybe this is the answer; maybe sometimes we just need to get a new perspective to truly appreciate the everyday. Perhaps when I brush my teeth next, I'll start with the top left quadrant instead of the bottom right. And maybe tomorrow I'll once again put on my pants with the left leg first.

But I doubt it.
It felt really weird.


[Editor's Note: These are the types of things you think about when you are stuck in Los Angeles traffic. I really need to stop driving on Fridays.]

[Writer's Note: There really isn't an editor for all of this nonsense. If there were, he wouldn't allow half the crap that comes out of me to make it online. I sometimes just call myself the Editor. It makes me feel important. We all have to have fantasies.]

Don't Forget To Tip Your Waitresses

As many of you know, I started this blog to recount my journey from desperate dreamer to proud Ironman. And boy oh boy, it's been quite an adventure. Along the way we've had our share of laughs and tears and more than a few swear words. Throughout the months I've received tremendous support and encouragement from people all around the globe who apparently are bored enough at work to read this crap that I write. I thank you all from the very depths of my heart. So deep it practically hits my intestines.

So here I am, an Ironman. (If you haven't yet read my story about the Ironman experience, I recommend it. It's long but worth it. You'll laugh, you'll cry...you'll get indigestion. But in a good way.) And now I'm faced with the big decision of what to do with this damn blog. Truth be told, I've really learned to love writing my nonsense here. It's become a bit like a puggle, if you will. It started off kind of ugly and annoying, peeing and crapping all over my Post-Toasties, until one day I woke up and realized I had quite a bit of affection for the little bugger. And now that it's all up and grown, I've got to figure out what to do.

There are so many stories and thoughts I still want to share with you about Ironman racing and triathlon. Some pretty funny. Some maybe even a bit insightful (though it's best we not give me too much credit). On top of that, Catherine and I got slots for the New York Marathon. I don't know if we'll actually run it this year, but there is a chance that more training might be in my future, and that always makes for pretty good copy.

What this all means, I guess, is that I'll still be writing some more. Hell, now that I'm not training for an Ironman, maybe I'll even write more than I did before. Aren't you lucky? (correct answer: "yes")(other acceptable answers: "thank you sir, may I have another", "sir! yes sir!" or "fo shizzle my nizzle")

Here's the thing - I'm just trying to figure out an overall theme for this blogging nonsense. I mean, we've gotta have a theme, don't we? I can't just go all willy-nilly on yo' ass. That's not fair. So I'm thinking... trying to come up with something. In the meantime, if you've got any suggestions, please feel free to drop me an e-mail. Cause right now I ain't got no idea nohow.

Ouch! - or - Ironman USA / Lake Placid: A Race Report

Somehow you do it.

You survive through eight long months of emotionally and physically draining segments of non-stop training: hour after hour, day after day, week after week. Thousands of mind-numbing laps in the pool. Endlessly painful hours in the saddle and relentless pounding on the pavement.

And then one day you wake up and you are crossing the finish line of an Ironman race. Just as quickly as it started – poof! – it is done. You have lived your dream.

As we all know by now, Ironman is a journey, both physically and emotionally. And I have to say, it was quite an amazing adventure that Catherine and I had with this Ironman Lake Placid thingy. After all the training, the ups and downs, the good and bad, both Catherine and I not only finished the Ironman USA race, but we did an amazing job, if I may say so myself. And I just did. Not only were we both strong crossing that finish line, but we clocked in at just about the exact times that we had predicted.

So without further ado (and in order to avoid me rambling on in some meaningless, pseudo-philosophical tangent), let me get right to the race details. This is long, there is so much I want to tell you... so please bear with me. I’ll do my best to narrow it down. And I'll toss in some low-brow humor to make sure you’re still awake. So stay with me here. It pays off in the end…

THE PRE-RACE DRAMA

I knew that there were only three things I had to focus on for me to have a successful race. Three very simple things. I like to call them my Ironman Psalms:

* IM Psalm #1: SLOW and EASY. If I kept a slow and easy pace, I wouldn’t burn out. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Silly saying, but catchy enough to work.
* IM Psalm #2: DRINK and EAT. Nutrition could so easily be my downfall. As long as I kept drinking and eating, I would survive.
* IM Psalm #3: STAY POSITIVE. A positive attitude is the key to a successful Ironman. So I plastered on my positive smiley face.

The three Ironman Psalms were my bible for the day. But in Ironman, it’s all about the unknown. The tension and anxiety that oozes from the beginning of an Ironman boils down to a fear of the unknown. It’s a long day, anything can happen. Maybe that wee-bitty bolt on your bike’s handlebars will suddenly break halfway up the hill. There’s always the chance that your stomach will finally revolt against the Gatorade you’ve been training with for months. And what about the feared cramps? Those dreaded cramps.

So as you stand there toeing the line, eagerly anticipating the starting gun, this myriad of doom-laden possibilities courses through your brain. Please God, you pray, suddenly realizing you are not an atheist after all. Let me have a good race.

And then…BANG!
It’s time to go.

But wait, I’ve already gone off on a tangent and didn’t even start my story. See what happens when I’m left to my own? Alright, let’s try this one more time...

Catherine and I got to the race at 5:15 am and, with our bodies numbered, walked into the transition area to remove the plastic bags on our rain soaked bikes and load up the bottle cages with our super special race fluids. Officially, we had been up since 3:45 am when the alarm clocks went off. Unofficially, we’d been up for nearly 24 hours. Show me a person who sleeps the night before their first Ironman, and I’ll show you somebody who’s got a secret stash of Valium.

After giving my bike the once-over, I noticed the valve on my tire was bent and the tire had lost a bit of air overnight. I didn’t want to stress about it so I did the next best thing – I started justifying. It must’ve been the evening’s cold that let the air out, I thought as I pumped it back up and put a valve cover on top of it. The tire will be fine, I tried to convince myself, albeit somewhat lamely. (Lamely?!)

We left the bike area and walked over to our transition bags to stuff in a few extra last minute things. Let’s give my bike a final look-over, I said as we finished with the bags. I’m a bit nervous about that rear tire. We walked back to the bike and as we got there I unscrewed the valve cap. Suddenly it let out a resounding hissssssss. (That hiss, by the way, is officially known as one of the worse sounds to hear right before a race.) Shit! I screamed. Flat tire. Within a second, my adrenaline spiked. Red-lined, to be exact.

Shitshitshitshitshit.

I frantically took out my tools and tore off the flat tire. I ripped out the tube and threw it aside. I reached over to my bike and grabbed one of my two spare tubes and started cramming it into the tire. But wait… I looked at the new tube and it, too, had a broken valve. DAMN!! AAAAAHHHHH!!! I screamed as I threw the tube aside. I reached into my saddle bag and took out my very last spare tube. I started shoving that into the tire as quickly as I could with my hands violently shaking in fear, anxiety and panic. Visions of disaster floated through my mind like seagulls crapping on my brain.

I sure hope I don’t get a flat on the course, I tell Cat maniacally as I scrambled with the wheel. I have no spare tubes left. I’ll be out of the race.

Within a flash, she was gone. Five minutes later she returned holding two extra tubes that she bought for me at the tech station. [Yet another line item on my long list of reasons why I love her.] Here you go, she said as she handed the tubes to me.

Finally the tire was fixed. And with two extra spares in my bag, I felt more comfortable. Disaster averted. No more danger, Will Robinson. I took a deep breath to calm myself down.

[inhaaaale]
[exxxxxhaaaaaale]
Whew!

With the pre-race drama complete, we put on our wetsuits and walked to the swim start.

SWIM
The Days Swim Challenges:
* Random moments of highly aggressive swim violence
* A solid uppercut to the right goggle, twisting and smashing it against my face
* A hefty slap to my left goggle, filling it up with water
* A bad case of the zig-zags. Straight line swimming? I don’t think so.

The Ironman USA swim takes place in beautifully serene Mirror Lake just on the edge of downtown Lake Placid. The swim is an easy out and back that you do twice, broken up by a short little 20 foot trot across the beach.

About 15 minutes before the race start, Cat and I meandered into the water together to do our pathetic little swim warm-up. We started out by floating on our backs to calm the nerves. That, of course, didn’t work out so well. So after 30 seconds we stopped.

Not wanting to tread water for ten minutes, most participants stand around the edge of the lake in the shallow waters until the race start. We decided to follow everybody’s lead and got ourselves over to a large group of people on the side of the lake about halfway back from the starting line. We stood there together as the Star Spangled Banner was belted over the loud speakers.

With the National Anthem finished, we only had a few minutes before race start. Our nerves were at a high. The time had come and there was no turning back. When the announcer called out the 1 minute mark, I turned to Cat, kissed her, wished her good luck, told her I loved her and swam off closer to the front and the middle of the pack where, as it turns out, there was not a single person within ten feet of me.

The nifty thing about the Mirror Lake swim is that all of the buoys are connected by a yellow rope which runs about 3 feet under the water’s surface. So if you are brave enough, you can swim down the center and just follow the yellow rope as if it were a lane line, never needing to look up and make sure you are on course. Of the 2,156 participants, I’d say at least 1,000 thought that might be a good idea. As you can imagine, cramming 1,000 swimmers into a 10 foot width can make for a very crowded, particularly violent swim. Knowing it would get pretty hairy out there, I decided to take it nice and easy and stay in the so-called calm waters about 20 meters away from the buoys.

BANG!

The gun went off and I started swimming. It happens so quickly, there’s not even time to think. One second you’re a regular schmo listening to a crappy version of the national anthem as you stand calmly peeing in a lake, the next second you’re suddenly an Ironman racer. That was surreal - for about three seconds. Then, of course, I had to keep moving forward.

I could see hands and feet flailing all around me, but nobody was touching me. This is great, I thought as I swam along. Take it slow, focus on the form. Stroke, reach. Stroke, reach. I figured I’d hit the pack soon and the pushing and shoving would commence, but after a couple of minutes I was still swimming in my own bubble - nobody laid a hand on me. Stroke, reach. Stroke, reach. I found myself surrounded by slower swimmers so I navigated myself through the open holes. One open spot to another I’d glide through. Stroke, reach. I didn’t really bother to lift my head up and look for the buoys since it appeared we were all headed in the same direction anyway. As long as I saw feet in front of me, I figured I was swimming the right way. So I just kept looking for the open holes. Stroke, reach. For ten minutes I did this, barely a hand pushing me, nary a foot kicking in my face. This is great, I thought. Whomever said an Ironman start is chaos definitely didn’t follow my race.

And just as quickly as that thought hit my brain, I looked down and saw a yellow rope right under me.

Aaaww shhhit…

You know that feeling when you run a red light. Maybe you’re driving five or ten miles per hour above the speed limit, too fast to stop when the light turns red, so you have to blow right through it on a wing and a prayer and a sickening feeling of impending doom. Maybe your life doesn’t quite flash before your eyes, but the movie reel is definitely queued up and waiting. It could all end in a matter of seconds and there is nothing you can do about it.

That was my feeling when I saw the yellow rope. Impending doom.

I braced myself for impact. Two seconds. Five seconds. Seven seconds. Nothing. I thought I was safe, I had avoided the collision. That’s about when it happened.

An arm reached out of nowhere and belted me across the jaw. I looked up only to see a wall of kicking feet one or two inches from my face. I was being pushed by people on my left, punched by people on my right and somebody behind me was starting to swim right over my body. I turned my head to breathe and swallowed a vat of Mirror Lake. I tried to slow down but it was impossible, the pack just kept swimming forward. It was a stampede. I realized that if I slowed down I’d get pushed under the water and swum over by the 1000 people behind me. I couldn’t go to the left or right because we were packed like sardines and the only way I could speed up was to swim over the 1000 people in front of me. There was no escape. I had visions of those kids in Cleveland who got trampled at The Who concert in the 80s. I don’t want to get trampled and killed like I was in Cleveland. I don’t like Cleveland. I don’t even like The Who! HELP!!!

Realizing the reality of my situation and the futility of thinking about Cleveland at a time like this, I entered survival mode. My Stroke and Reach turned into something more like a Punch and Block. As each arm hit the water, I’d throw it in front of my face to ward off the kicking in front of me. And I started kicking my legs harder to push off the people coming up behind me. I was no longer a swimmer but a fighter standing on the ropes, blocking the non-stop barrage of punches. Stroke, block. Stroke, block. I pushed forward as aggressively as I could. Stroke, block. Hit, punch, push, kick. Stroke, block.

Finally, the violence abated.
Suddenly nobody was in my way anymore.
This is some fucked up shit, I said to myself.

I focused on my swim again as I moved further away from that yellow line. Maintain the flow, I told myself. I got back into the groove. Stroke, reach. Stroke, reach. All I have to do is just keep swimming, I told myself. Just keep swimming until they tell me to stop. And so I did. And it felt great.

I finished the swim in 1 hour and 8 minutes, about 9 minutes faster than I expected and completely relaxed, not a pinch of fatigue. I was ecstatic. Holy cow, this is turning into a great day already.

I unzipped my wetsuit, jogged over to the “peelers”, lay down on the ground and –WOOOSH! – it was off. I got up and started the quarter mile jog down the carpet, through the throngs of cheering, screaming, yelling spectators. I hadn’t gotten but 50 meters down the chute when I heard my name being called over my left shoulder. I turned around to look back and saw my mother and step-father jumping up and down, waving and screaming my name, smiles stretched across their faces. I was wet, it was cold, but my heart warmed up at the sight of them. I wanted to stop and go back to them. I wanted to tell them that I had a great swim, that I was so happy with my time. I wanted to let them know that I loved them and that it meant so much to me to see them standing there and yelling. But there would be time for that later – I continued my absurdly long jog to T1.

SWIM TO BIKE TRANSITION
The Men’s changing tent was a cross between absolute chaos and an afternoon tea party. Half the people were dumping their transition bags on the ground, tossing miscellaneous stuff out of their way, throwing on their riding gear and running out the door. Then there were the others – like me – who were just trying to move quickly and confidently while staying calm, cool and collected. I reached into my transition bag and took out my bike shorts, arm warmers and the other few items I needed. How was your swim? I asked the gentleman sitting to my left as I changed into my bike clothes. Pretty good, he said, nice warm water out there huh? And we chatted it up as we calmly changed into our biking clothes and quickly went on our way.

BIKE
The Day’s Challenges:
* Rear derailleur rubbing against my spokes whenever I climbed hills (and there were a lot of hills)
* Saddle sore, also known as butt chafing, during the last 40 miles.
* The usual sore, painful back
* Tired legs
* A whole lotta peeing

The Lake Placid bike ride is deceptively challenging. It is a two-loop course that’ll kill ya on the second loop if you don’t take it easy on the first loop. The first 30 miles are a triathlon racers wet dream, highlighted by a 6 mile downhill where you can reach speeds of 50 to 60 mph, and 10 miles of flats where you can pound forward pretty smoothly. Mile 30 is when the uphill really begins. There’s the three mile climb up to Wilmington, the rolling out-and-back to Haselton and then the 9 mile climb back to Lake Placid. In truth, it sounds a lot worse than it is. After having trained on unrelentingly steep and excruciatingly long canyon climbs, these were a piece of cake. The Lake Placid climbs are not that steep and are far from unrelenting. To the contrary, they are continuously spotted with easier or flatter parts to allow for recovery. What they call a 3 mile climb to Wilmington is really just a 1 mile hill with a few rollers. Same with that 9 mile climb, it’s just two 1 mile hills with a bunch of rolling climbs scattered throughout. That said, if you don’t take it easy on the first lap, those last 25 miles will eat you up and spit you out like a wee little hors d’oeuvre. Many people warned me of this, so I repeated to myself the first of my three Ironman Psalms: Slow and Easy. And I took it VERY easy. People were passing me throughout that first lap as if I were riding backwards. But I just kept telling myself to stay slow, stay positive (Psalm #3) and, hey, while I’m at it I should have something to drink (Psalm #2). All I have to do is finish. If I stick to the plan, that’s what I will do.

So I piddled along. And I wondered where the hell Catherine was. I figured she’d pass me by now but I hadn’t heard hide nor hair of her. Did she have a rough swim? Is she OK? I tried to not let these thoughts drag me down. I kept pedaling in my sea of concern. Finally, at the out and back around mile 40, I saw her riding towards me and looking pretty damn strong. I breathed a sigh of relief. How are you feeling? I yelled at her, wanting to stop and hug her. Wanting to tell her I loved her and congratulate her on us getting this far. Great! she screamed back as we quickly rode beyond shouting distance. And I smiled a smile that started at my heart and extended to hers. How sickeningly, beautifully poetic.

By the 52 mile mark I hit the last big climb before downtown. Lo and behold, I was still feeling pretty good. I was keeping it slow and easy, drinking and eating continuously and, hell, I was as positive as a goddam meadlowlark in a field of friggin flowers. As I climbed the hill I looked up to see my family yelling and screaming at me. A sight for sore eyes. Seeing them got me even more energized and I Lance Armstrong-ed my way to the top of that hill like it was a speed bump. Alpe d’Huez, my ass.

One of the best parts of the Ironman USA race is riding your bike through the thousands of cheering, yelling, screaming spectators lining the roads through the town of Lake Placid. It is mayhem, but mayhem in a good way. The energy elevates you.

As you weave your way through the enthusiastic throngs, you know what its like to be a superstar. I heard my name announced from the loud speaker, and the crowds cheered louder. And so I curved along those streets like I was the Tour de France winner (without the steroids, of course). With each turn, I picked up the pace and rode the energy, trying to soak it all in. As I passed by Mirror Lake I saw Cat’s family, jumping up and down, waving and yelling my name. YEARRRGHH! I screamed back at them, too swept up by the crowds to dribble out anything coherent. They probably thought I became retarded after that first bike loop. For a second, I thought I did too.

I turned the corner and rode in front of the Olympic Arena, where I saw my father and step-mother waving and screaming with smiles on their faces. Should I stop? I thought for a second. Should I slow down and let them know that I’m feeling great, that I’m having a wonderful day? But no…. I waved at them as I tossed my arm warmers to the side. I zipped around the last corner, and just like that, the crowds dissipated and I was back out on my second loop.

I took physical inventory and realized that the stomach wasn’t doing great. I needed solid food in me. I took a bite of Powerbar, but that didn’t do the trick. Suddenly I heard something hit the ground behind me. Whaaa?! I felt my back pockets but could sense nothing missing. I looked back, but saw nothing. Suddenly another rider pulled up alongside me. Were those your pretzels that fell on the ground? he asked.

Shit. I said as I reached back to my shirt pocket only to realize they were missing. Yeah, I guess they were, I said.
Damn, damn, damn, I thought. I could really use those pretzels.

Do you want some of mine?, he calmly asked as he rode by my side.

Huh? Um… uh…I stumbled on my words, a bit taken aback. I wanted his pretzels badly. In a normal world, I would’ve jumped over and strangled him for those pretzels. I would’ve ripped the pretzels out from between his very teeth. But I wasn’t in a normal world, and I’m not much of a strangler. Or a teeth ripper. Instead, I felt guilty. I didn’t want to deprive this racer of his pretzels.

No thanks, I said. I have Fig Newtons. I’ll be fine with those.

No really, he continued as he quickly opened up his bike bag, pulled out a plastic baggie of pretzels and handed them all to me. Take them, he said.

Wow…thanks, I replied in relief, shock and gratitude as I grabbed the bag from him.

They’re honey oat pretzels, he yelled back as he rode off into the distance.

Honey oat pretzels?! I thought to myself as I rode along the street holding the bag. Are you fucking kidding me?! I HATE honey oat pretzels… Ever since that time I gorged on a bag until near nausea, I’ve despised the damn things. But, alas, I needed solid food to settle my stomach so I opened the bag and took one in my hand.

As I took a bite of the pretzel, the heavens opened up, the Lord’s Choir began singing and angels danced a happy jig on my shoulders (or was it a tango?!). At this point in this moment in this place, these pretzels were the single best morsel of food that I had ever tasted in my life. Wow, I said out loud. I ate about three more pretzels. Wow. Soon my stomach calmed down. I decided to save the rest of these tasty little treats for later.

I’m not going to say the rest of the ride was uneventful, but I will spare you the gruesome details. Suffice to say, my legs were tired, my back was tired and I had to pee every 30 minutes. However, I kept it slow and easy (Psalm #1). I kept eating and drinking (Psalm #2) and, godammit, I stayed positive (Psalm #3). And I finished the bike in 7 hours and 11 minutes, about 20 minutes faster than expected. As if that’s not enough, I was only 2 seconds slower than Catherine’s bike time! What’re the odds.

BIKE TO RUN TRANSITION

The moment I rolled into transition a volunteer took my bike from me and started rolling it back to the bike rack while I ran to the changing tent. As soon as I got into the tent, yet another volunteer came over to me, asked me if I wanted help, then took my transition bag and dumped it all on the ground in front of where I was sitting. As I changed my clothes, he sat holding my bag and waiting for me. And this is where we take a brief moment to give a shout-out to all of the Ironman volunteers who go above and beyond the call of duty for the athletes. I wish I could hug each and every one of them individually. Instead, I’ll just loft out a hefty, hearty THANK YOU, and continue on our way out of the changing tent.

RUN
The Day’s Challenges:
* Blister on my small toe, left foot
* Random, oftentimes excruciating pain in right foot
* Legs that were tired as all hell
* Seemingly non-stop peeing
* Apparently some serious chafing in the nether region, which I didn’t realize until later.

An Ironman race is really about the run. More specifically, it’s about the last 10 miles of the run. The swim and bike are just warm-ups for the marathon. Fortunately, I love running.

The moment I walked out of the changing tent and crossed the timing mat for my marathon, the crowd was going crazy. They were yelling louder than I’d heard them before and the cowbells were in a clanging frenzy. A marathon begins with one step, and my first step was right onto Cloud 9. This is amazing, I thought. I feel like the winner. I realized how ironic that thought process was about ten seconds later when the race leader passed by me and turned into the finish line. All of the screaming and yelling suddenly made sense - and it had nothing to do with me. Oops.

The IM USA run course is not that bad. In fact, it's quite gorgeous. It’s a two loop course through tree-lined, river-lined roads, with two out and backs. You pass through downtown a total of four times. Think of it as shaped like an “L” where downtown Lake Placid is at the point where the two lines meet. There are only two major hills on the course (well, since you do them twice, let’s call it four major hills) and they’re right in a row as you head back into town (Miles 10 and 11, 23 and 24). They’re short, probably only a quarter mile long, but they’re steep little feckers and if you don’t have any legs left or if you’re not keeping that ever-so-popular positive attitude, you’ll quickly learn to really hate these hills.

Remembering Ironman Psalm #1 (Slow and Easy), I started my marathon at a piddlingly slow shuffle – a pace that I felt confident I could hold for 26.2 miles. I also made the decision to walk all of the Aid Stations (they were spaced about a mile apart). That 10 meter walk not only ensured that I took in enough fluid and foods (Psalm #2: Eat/Drink), but it also gave me a little reward for not having walked since the last Aid Station (Psalm #3: Stay Positive). So off I went, piddling along like Winnie The Pooh on an Amazing Adventure. From Aid Station to Aid Station I shuffled, never thinking of the full road ahead of me. To borrow the words of E.L. Doctorow, racing an Ironman is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but somehow you can make the whole trip that way. My Ironman headlights only extended to the next Aid Station, yet I knew that this would get me through the entire race.

I hit the first turnaround at mile 5 and felt great. As I started heading back towards town I saw Catherine running up the street towards me. Good Lord she looked great! We ran towards each other in the middle of the street with our arms outstretched. KISS ME! I yelled as we ran into each others arms.

We’re doing great! I said as we embraced. I love you!

And off we went. I headed back to town as she continued up towards the turnaround.

The race number you wear during an Ironman has your name on it. It’s one of the best parts of Ironman racing. As you run through the crowds, you get a non-stop barrage of people cheering you on by name. You wouldn’t believe how much that drives you. Every time you hear your name, it picks you up and makes you stronger. And as you hit the last hill before entering downtown Lake Placid, the cheering pulls you up like an emotional chairlift. And though it’s incredibly steep, you somehow find yourself going faster at the top than you were at the bottom. So by the time I started the flat two mile out-and-back next to Mirror Lake, I was running on clouds. And when I saw my family (and Catherine’s) at mile 10, frantically screaming for me, I felt such warmth and pride. My father started running up the sidewalk at my pace, asking me how I’m doing.

I’m feeling pretty good, I yelled back, somewhat surprised that I was able to yell so coherently. My legs are really tired, I continued, but I’ll get over that.

You look great, he screamed. Keep it up!

I soon hit the turnaround and headed back into town when I saw my sister standing there waiting for me. I’ll run with you for a half-mile, she said as she started shuffling along with me.

Sometimes it’s the small things that make a race better. It’s the surprisingly comforting taste of pretzels at just the right time. It’s the stranger who yells “You look strong! You look like a runner!” It’s the random spectator sitting silently on the side of the road - as you look straight into their eyes you can see their heart and are instantly overwhelmed with the pride and awe they have for you. The comfort of my sister running by my side, the release in letting her know how I was feeling (blister on left foot, right foot in serious pain, legs tired, but I’ll manage), the companionship, even for just a brief few minutes – it meant the world to me. As we got back to the family she peeled off to the side. I’ll see you in 13 miles! I told her as I continued back out of town.

I’d like to say that the last half marathon was uneventful and, for the day or two after the race, I’d have said it was. But the reality is that it was far from uneventful. It was extremely painful. When I got to the mile 14 Aid Station, I’d nearly had it. I didn’t know how I was going to keep running. I didn’t think I had any energy left in me. As I walked the 10 meters of that Aid Station, I looked for anything inside of me that would keep me moving forward. Anything whatsoever.

My race started there at mile 14.

There’s a poem by Walt Whitman called O Captain! My Captain!. That is how the poem starts, with those words, O Captain! My Captain! It’s funny how so much meaning can be put behind such simple words. For months, those four words have reminded me of Catherine. They remind me of the way she motivates me, inspires me and awes me. Those words drive me. And every time I say those words, I can feel Catherine next to me, pushing me forward. It encourages me.

And so, as I walked through the mile 14 Aid Station and searched for any speck of inspiration to keep me positive, the words immediately flowed out of my mouth.

Oh Captain! My Captain!, I said to myself. And a hint of energy surged through my body as memories of our tough training sessions came to mind. Oh Captain! My Captain! I said louder as I reminded myself that I was stronger than this. Oh Captain! My Captain! I repeated as my legs started running again. Over and over again I uttered those words. I said them silently and I said them out loud. And each time I repeated them, I felt Catherine next to me. And it lifted me off the ground. It drove me further.

I miraculously made it to the mile 18 turnaround and started heading home. I did a physical inventory and immediately sensed the reserves dropping rapidly. I needed some serious fueling at the next Aid Station if I didn’t want to hit the wall. And I really didn’t want to hit the wall.

I plugged along, around corner after corner, desperately looking for that Aid Station. What seemed like never-ending miles, was really just a half of a mile, but it lasted so goddam long. Finally I saw it – the Aid Station loomed a few steps in front of me. As I approached the Gatorade table, I stopped to down a glass then moved on, solely focused on the food. Fig Newtons, bananas… I needed food and I needed it bad. I drank more water and grabbed a banana. Suddenly, in my delirium, I saw Catherine on the other side of the street. A sight for sore eyes, for sure, but all I could focus on was getting food in my system.

Hi honey! she yelled at me. I glanced over at her in a daze. I wanted to speak but nothing came. I need food, I thought. Must eat food.

You’re heading home! She screamed.

I must say something, I told myself. I must say something.
We all are! I yelled back. Then turned around and continued on my quest for food.

We all are?! What the hell did that mean?! What I meant to say was We are both doing great. We are both going to make it and we are both headed home right now.

We all are?! How lame. I continued running, the thought of my retardness (yes, retardness) keeping my mind occupied for the next couple of miles. Or at least until mile 20 when it felt like I broke my right foot.

My foot had been hurting for the past 10 miles, but it was right before the turn back into town that it turned to hell.

SHIT! I yelled as I slowed to a near stop. What had progressively felt worse and worse finally felt like a bone chip on the outside of my foot. I hobbled along for about 20 feet, desperately wanting to continue running. I didn’t want to walk. I can stand the pain, I told myself. Just keep moving. Step, limp. Step, limp. As I turned the corner towards the hill, I looked up. About 50 feet away was a man with one leg who had been racing in front of me the entire day. Here he was, at mile 20 of the Ironman marathon, running smoothly with one real leg and one plastic one. As I looked at him moving smoothly, I couldn’t help but be inspired. There’s a saying that goes something like this...

I used to complain about my shoes until I met a man with no feet.

How apropos, I thought. If I’m going to complain about my hurt foot, I told myself, I need to do it to the guy who’s only got one leg. That’ll show me. After all, here was a man with one foot who was doing just fine. What right did I have to complain? So I shut my trap and remembered Ironman Psalm #3: Stay Positive. I moved towards the center of the road where I could run on flat pavement, and I sucked it up. I can deal with this, I told myself. And so I picked up the pace.

As I reached the last hill at mile 24 it was mayhem. Hundreds of people had lined the road and they stood there slamming on their cowbells, screaming in their bullhorns and smacking on their clackers. In fact, that sentence would probably be more impactful if it were written in Dr. Seuss-speak. Let’s try again…

As I ran up the hill, hundreds of spectators ranged and clanged their double-flanged cowbell-thwackers, they smacked and clacked their yikkety-yackers while they screamed hip-happy hoorays into bullhorn-blasters. They drew me up that hill, pushing and pulling me faster and faster. And my heart grew three sizes that day.

And when I made the left hand turn at the top of the steep hill, only 2 miles from the finish, and I saw the line of thousands looking down on me, clapping and cheering and yelling my name… right then I knew.

I did it.
Tears welled in my eyes as I high-fived my way up the hill.
I did it, I said aloud. I did it.

And as I made the last right hand turn for the out-and-back, I saw Cat’s brother and nephew standing there, smiling at me, cheering for me. I did it. I ran up to them screaming as hard as my lungs could scream and slapped them high fives as hard as I could slap.

I did it!!

I picked up the pace even more as I headed out to the turn around. I reached into my back pockets and threw away all the miscellaneous foods I wouldn’t be using anymore… the extra gel packs, the endurolytes, the honey oat pretzels. Oh, those wonderful honey oat pretzels. I hit the 25 mile turnaround and started the final mile towards the finish line.

I did it.

I was desperately looking for Catherine. She must be right behind me, I thought. I want to share this with her. As I neared the final Aid Station, I didn’t see her. As I reached the crowds again, I still didn’t see her. Finally, as I ran down the slope towards the final turn into the Olympic Oval, I saw her on the other side of the street.

Cat! I yelled above the crowd. We did it! We did it!

I turned the corner towards the Olympic Oval and ran down the first straight away. I wanted to soak in the enthusiasm of the crowd, to feel them all. I wanted to share this feeling with everybody. I reached my arms out and floated on their energy. As I neared the end I looked in front of me and saw my father and step-mother straight ahead, cheering me on. I high-fived dad and took the final turn into the Olympic Oval and the cheering masses.

This is it.
I did it.

I didn’t want to forget this moment, the people, the energy, the sight and sounds of it all. I closed my eyes and ran.

As I came around the final turn I saw the finish line in front of me and all I could do was jump up and scream. And scream. And scream. And let out all of my pride, my pain, my fear and accomplishment. I wanted to scream loud enough that the entire world could hear me. I did it!

I DID IT!!!

I saw my mother and Catherine’s mother standing right in front of the crowds, about 20 meters from the finish line. I ran over and gave my mother a kiss. I did it, I said.

I did it.
I am an Ironman.


* * *

You’ve probably heard it all before ad nauseum, the philosophical ramblings of the inner-meaning of Ironman. That it is a test of who you really are. That crossing the finish line will change what you perceive to be life’s obstacles. That it is a metaphor for how you live your life. Honestly, I don’t know if I have experienced all of those feelings yet. They are sneaking into my consciousness, but not yet fully there. Perhaps in the weeks or months to come, I will look back on my first Ironman experience and regurgitate all sorts of drivel about the race’s parallels to the sufferings of humanity, until I find somebody who is actually comatose enough to listen to me. In the meantime, I’m happy to be proud. And I am extremely proud. I’m proud of what Catherine and I accomplished over the past 8 months. And I’m damn proud of what Catherine and I accomplished on July 23rd, 2006.

You can say that it took me thirteen hours twenty two minutes and forty six seconds to live my dream. But that wouldn’t be the truth. In reality, it took me thirty-nine years and seventeen weeks to make it all come true.

I am an Ironman. And whatever that may mean in the grand scheme of things, I don’t yet know. But I went the distance.

I am an Ironman and nobody can ever take that away from me.

“Oh Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done.
Our ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.”