My Own Private Ironman

First of all, I apologize.

I know, I know, my Ironman Arizona race report is looong overdue. Like crazy long overdue. Like I may as well start writing a race report for Coeur d'Alene at this point (exceptin' for the fact that I'm not racing Coeur d'Alene. In fact, I only recently learned how to spell it correctly.)

To be honest, I've been traveling like a fool since the race and have been in non-stop meetings.

At least, that was my initial excuse. I was going to tell you that about a week ago but then, as time went by, I realized that the excuse was running thin (though no less true... I'm not back home until next Monday if you really want to know.)

In all reality, it takes me an unbelievable long time to write a race report. As you may know, I tend to ramble on with my writings. When it comes to race reports, I don't just want to talk about the course and how slow/fast I did it (mostly slow), I want to be able to share my true experience and my feelings. True experiences take time.

That was my second excuse. I actually bought into that one as the true reason until I realized that it doesn't entirely cover everything. Which leads me to the real reason I am a wee bit delayed in sharing my Ironman Arizona race report with you, my wonderful peeps.

You see, Ironman Arizona opened my eyes to me. It revealed my greatest strength and my strongest weakness. It laid bare the true essence of who I am.

Unfortunately, I have yet to figure it out.

You know that feeling when you recognize that something really big and super important just happened, but you can't quite figure out what it was? Take the movie "My Own Private Idaho" as a for instance. I saw that movie when it came out, decades ago. I think about that movie a lot because I know, without a doubt, that it revealed a deep-seeded philosophy of life that reflected upon everything in existence. I just have no friggin clue what it is. In fact, I don't even know why they decided to call it "My Own Private Idaho," but I have a pretty good hunch that, whatever it means, the title selection is brilliant.

This is exactly what my Ironman Arizona race report situation is like. There is something big in here, something that will reveal my entire character and alter the very course of my existence. I keep talking about the race, writing about it, digging in further to my race report and my experience out there in the desert. I am so very close to figuring it out. So very close to having this gosh darn race report complete.

Rest assured, whether or not I get there, I'll share it with you soon.

A Better Chance For Kona

So I'm sitting here at the airport in Birmingham (which is not Binghamton, despite my east-coast-centric tendency to call it that) and I get into this conversation with Chris. You don't know Chris. I mean, you might know Chris but I'm not sure, I don't have access to your Facebook page to figure out who you are and aren't friends with. If you don't know Chris, you should. On top of being an extremely nice guy, he's also quite funny. Chris is a triathlete and, from what I can gather, a fairly fast one.

So anyway, I'm sitting here at the Binghamton airport, browsing on my computer when I notice over there at the Ironman eBay auction that a slot for Kona is going for over 30 thousand dollars.* Thirty Thousand Dollars?! I say out loud to all who could hear me, which pretty much consisted of Chris (not a big airport out here in B-town). He too thought it was ridiculous.

That's ridiculous, he said.

And after a moment of thought in which I could actually see the cogs of his brain churning, he continued. I would never pay to get into Kona. Not even through the lottery. The only way to get into Kona is to win a slot at a race, otherwise I wouldn't feel like I earned it.

I was silent. Almost embarrassed. After all, I’m slow. I’m not going to qualify for Kona unless everybody in my age group comes down with hepatitis (A, B or C) the day before the race. My chances of racing Kona happen to be the same exact odds as my chances of winning a slot in the Ironman lottery. That’s my only hope. Naturally, when Chris expressed his feelings about the matter, I couldn't help but smirk in the type of way that says, ummmm….awwk-waard.

I shifted in my seat in the same uncomfortable way us people who never bring home medals tend to shift in our seat when the conversation comes around to how fast everybody else is.

It was just about then that Chris began to backpedal.

I mean, that's only how I feel, he said, implying that if I wanted to cheat my way into the World Championships, it was my prerogative to be an outcast.**

All of this got me thinking a little bit about my history with the the Triathlon World Championships. For well over a decade, my triathlon goal was to race Kona. Period. That was it, end of story. The only race I wanted to do was the Hawaii Ironman. If I could just do that, I told myself, I’d be happy for the rest of my life.

Naturally, I signed up for the lottery every year. Of course I paid the extra fifty bucks for the super-special access that supposedly gave me a better chance of winning a slot (in addition to the “premiere member” discount at the Ironman store, which I still have yet to use). Every year I woke up on lottery day with nervous anticipation, knowing for certain that my name would be on the list. I didn’t pay that extra fifty bucks for naught.

The disappointment usually sunk in the second time I looked through the list and didn’t see my name. The first time I scanned the list I figured I just looked at it too quickly and missed my name. But the second time, when I read every single letter of every single name, that’s when I realize that another year has gone by without me in Kona living my dream. Some years I didn’t even bother to do any other races.

It’s a sad existence when you sit around waiting for your dreams to knock on your door instead of walking outside and grabbing them yourself.

One day, after many years of lottery disappointment, I finally realized I had two choices: I could wait forever for something that may never happen, or I could go out and race an Ironman.

I did IM Lake Placid in 2006 and IM Arizona in April 2008. I had an incredibly exhilarating experience in 2006 and a dramatically challenging experience in 2008. I trained hard for both and understand the sacrifices one needs to make just to get to the starting line.

I was naïve back in my pre-Ironman dreaming days. I have now lived my dream and understand what being an Ironman really means. For us that will never qualify for Kona, Ironman is more than just a world championship. I’ve come to believe that, in the same way an Ironman is a celebration of your torturous training, getting that lottery slot for the Hawaii Ironman is a celebration of all the Ironman racing experiences you’ve done before. It is the pinnacle of the Ironman life.

Which leads us smack into the wall of my hypocrisy.

As I was sitting there with Chris, I couldn’t help but think of my friends who put their names in the lottery year after year in hopes of going to the Big Show, just as I did years before. I thought of the ones who refuse to do any other Ironman race, who barely even race triathlon anymore, who barely even workout, but still vie for that treasured lottery slot.

I began to judge them. I imagined how much I would despise them if they got into the Hawaii Ironman by just signing up, when so many others, like me, are out there slogging through endless training, grueling races, making sacrifices and giving it their best shot in tough conditions with no chance of every qualifying. The people who race other Ironman events, they sign up for the lottery with blood, sweat and hope. They know the dream, they’ve been there. They have tasted Ironman and know what it means. They get the credit. Yes, the credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.***

As for those others, those that hope beyond hope to hit the jackpot, the ones who dream of accomplishing their dreams without any effort. Frankly, it makes me sick.

Call me a hypocrite, call me an elitist nitwit, call me what you will, but dreams don’t come easy in this world. I’m very much in favor of the Ironman lottery. After all, we are the only sport in the world that enables any shmo to race side-by-side with the world’s best athletes. However, there are so many shmo’s already in line that have made the sacrifices, that have been chasing the dream, it only seems fair that we’d get a better chance to reach it.



* Editor’s Note: the slot actually sold for over $45,000
** Editor’s Note, Part Deux: Chris didn’t mean any of the conversation in a judgmental manner. I just make him sound that way. He’s actually an open-minded guy
***Editor’s Note, Number C: That last part is a Theodore Roosevelt quote. I didn’t make it up, I just wish I did.

Post-PartIM Depression

As you can very well see (and as some of you have pointed out), my race report from Ironman Arizona is overdue. Unfortunately, one of my many faults is the length of time it takes me to write a race report. The longer the race, the more time it takes.

Trust me, I'm working on it. Hopefully it'll be worth the wait.

Suffice to say, I no longer have to walk with crutches and I think the antibiotics are working.

In the meantime, I'm out in Tuscaloosa, Alabama right now at the Triathlon Olympic Trials and I have to admit it's pretty darn awe-inspiring. You know that lump in the throat and the watering in the eyes that we get watching the Ironman Championships every year? Well, same thing happened to me at the Olympic Trials.

At first I was confused. I thought maybe somebody through tear gas into the crowd. But that didn't make sense so I quickly ruled out that theory and figured I must be choking on a bit of food. But I soon realized I wasn't eating anything.

Could this possibly be tears, I thought to myself in the most manly way possible.

Sure I may cry watching the finish of an Ironman race.... but watching an Olympic distance? I don't think so.

But, lo and behold, I couldn't help but wallow in heart-wrenching awe while I watched the rays of joy emanate like missiles from Julie (Swail) Ertel as she held the finishers tape high above her head reveling in her confirmed spot on the US Olympic Team while at her feet, Sarah Groff, the third place finisher, lay fallen on the ground, motionless, exhausted, defeated.

Every Greek tragedy (and quite a few Italian ones) played itself out in the Olympic Trials.


OK, I can't talk much longer. I've got a race report to write.

Ironman Hell-izona

As you may know, I just raced Ironman Arizona. This is not my race report.

My race report will give you the gruesome details of all the course, the race and the experience. Suffice to say, if I had to sum up Ironman Arizona 2008 in one word, it'd be this: fuckingbrutal

I'm sure my race report will wax poetic about all sorts of hidden emotions I have yet to uncover, but I guarantee you, any words I use will be just loquacious dilly-dallying around that single concept. Fuckingbrutal.

As I hobble around on my crutches, like a war-torn semblance of the man I used to be - a bruised and battered body covering like armor the piercing pain of accomplishment - I am trying to find some form of meaning from this experience.

There are lessons to be learned, that is for sure. I just don't know what the hell they are yet. In the meantime, if you're looking for some extra bedside reading, you might want to peruse my Ironman Lake Placid race report. That was the first Ironman I did. I will be referring to it. Arizona was my second. There is a big difference between your first Ironman experience and those that follow. Nobody warned me about that. I never knew.

Details will follow shortly after I recover from this post-traumatic stress nonsense.

Eat The Hot Dog

Ironman Arizona is tomorrow. Wow.
I can't help but wonder, as I sit in my hotel room, how the heck I got here. It seemed like the decision to race Arizona was so sudden and thoughtless. As if somebody asked me, would you like a hot dog for lunch? And at that moment in time, a nice warm hot dog actually sounded like a great idea.

Now here I am, six months later, and it's time to eat the hot dog. Truth be told, I might be just as happy with a turkey sandwich. However, apparently I already ordered this hot dog and prepared all the fixings for the hot dog and now I've got to eat this hot dog and there's really no way to change the fact that the hot dog is tomorrow.

Last night I reached the pre-Ironman stage of restlessness, anxiety and doubt (RAD, for short). I know it's going to eventually merge into serenity and powerlessness (SAP), I just hope that happens sooner rather than later.

I've been reading a variety of articles about racing tips to make sure my plan is solid - and then convincing myself that, despite what I've read in the articles, my plan is solid. I've also been re-reading some of my old posts of the Ironman advice I've given to others and realized that it might be time to take some of my own medicine. So what I'm going to do is segue into a revised post from awhile back about this feeling I'm feeling right now. This over-whelming palpitation of fear and excitement. The ferocious rumbling of anticipation and dread. I remember this sensation in the pit of my stomach, wondering whether it is butterflies of amazement or tremblings of disaster. Oh, if there were even a way to know the difference.

I know that later today I will be solemn. When I walk through the Ironman village I will still wonder how I got here. Whether I did enough. Whether I am prepared.

I did.
I am.

Ironman is a fantastic voyage. It is the defining crossroads where your biggest dreams meet your darkest nightmares. It is the one day where everything that is good and everything that is bad square off in the ultimate challenge. The classic battle of good and evil. White Spy vs Black Spy.

I have traveled down that road. I remember how it feels.

And when I wake up on race morning, I will prepare myself like I've done time and time before at all those triathlons in my past. There will be anticipation in the air, but it will be more relaxed than I think.

And when I stand on the beach amidst the thousands of participants, the thousands of spectators, the hundreds of volunteers, the National Anthem being sung over the loudspeaker, I will look out into the waters before me and realize, once again, I am standing on the precipice of my future. My new life hangs before me.

The starting gun will go off. And it will be surreal.
And then I will begin to race my race, the race I've been preparing for all of these months. And I will do it right - I will race my race the way I want to race. I will do it. Because that's what I've been preparing for. And that's what I'm ready for.

The hard part is done. I may not believe that now, but I will when I am standing on the other side of the finish line. The Ironman is a celebration of what I've already done. It is a celebration of who I've become.

So I've tried to remind myself of the 28 pieces of Ironman advice that has helped me in the past. First, there are 14 random things I'd tell first time Ironman racers. And then there are 11 things Ironman racers will tell you before your first race all of which seem true now that I've been down this road before.

But all of this boils down to what are arguably the three most important things that got me through my first Ironman and will get me through my next. These are them...

1. SLOW and EASY.
Go slower than you think you should. Lots of people will pass you in the first 125 miles of the race. But if you take it slow and steady, maintain a consistent pace, you will be smiling through the last 15 miles and feeling strong while those others are cramped, tired and struggling to walk as they stand crying by the side of the road.

2. EAT and DRINK
You've done the work already. Your body is ready; you are in shape. The only thing standing between you and the finish line is consistent nutrition. Know how much you need to consume each hour, and do it. Nutrition will be your best friend or your worst enemy. It's your choice. Make it your friend.

3. STAY POSITIVE
This is arguably the most important of the three. You will go through a rollercoaster of emotions throughout race day. Through it all, stay positive. In the worst of times, stay positive. When your body is tired, your legs unable to move another step, don't give up. When you get to mile 130 and every atom in your body wants to stop. Don't. Let your mind take you to the finish line. Stay positive and you will get there. The mind controls the body, don't let your body control your mind. Stay positive, and you will be an Ironman with a smile.

One more day. One more race. One more adventure.
It's time to eat the hot dog.

See you on the other side,
J.

Tempe-rature

I leave for Tempe tomorrow. In four days I'll be racing Ironman Arizona. There's a lot of nonsense bouncing off the walls of my cranium. Here are a few samples...

1. The weather: This morning I went to Accuweather.com and typed in "Tempe, Arizona" only to learn that on Sunday, the day I'm racing Ironman Arizona, the day I'll be traveling 140.6 miles under little-to-no shade, Tempe will be suffering from a 24 hour heat wave. Though temperatures this week are in the 80s and temperatures next week are expected to be in the 80s, temperatures on Sunday are supposed to reach 98 degrees.

2. Chicago Marathon: Due to unusually hot weather, one person died and 50 people were sent to the hospital at the most recent Chicago Marathon. It was only 88 degrees.

3. Sweat: Here's a little known fact for you, sodium melts at 98 degrees. When we sweat, we lose salt from our body. When you lose too much salt, you can suffer from hyponatremia. At it's most extreme, some of the symptoms of hyponatremia are seizures, coma or death, all three of which I'd rather not experience on my trip to Tempe. I've done a lot of online research and can't seem to find anywhere that lists a symptom as "Ironman PR". That said, if sodium is melting at 98 degrees and the air temperature outside is 98 degrees, that means the moment the sweat comes out of our pores, the salt dissolves. I suppose it's the heat equivalent of peeing outside in sub-zero weather. I'm not sure what it all means, but if the words "coma" and "death" are involved, I'm pretty sure it can't be good.

4. Fever: The average temperature of the human body is 98 degrees Fahrenheit. A change by more than about 1 degree indicates ill health. Again, I'm not sure what this means during the Ironman race, but it's probably not going to be listed in the "positive" column.

5. Calves, not the 'moo' kind: My doctor told me to apply heat to my calves before doing any exercise. That will loosen up the muscles, he said, and reduce the risk of injury. I'm hoping that the ridiculously hot outdoor temperature will be the equivalent of continuous heat on my calves, in which case, my fear of not being able to run the marathon just ratcheted down a notch. Let's put that one in the 'positive' column.


More to report when I get to Tempe.

The Fear of Fear

I am driven by fear.
Fear of pain. Fear of failure. Fear of not living up to my lofty expectations of life.

Fear isn't cast down on me, I am not a victim. My fear is a part of me. I am fear. It is me.

My fear is subtle. It doesn't stalk me or hound me or jump out of the closet like a banshee. My fear does not wear a hockey mask.

My fear is a foe and a friend. It is my worst enemy and my closest companion. It is an obstacle constantly blocking my way, challenging my courage, trying to break my will. It is the debilitating weakness that bolsters and buoys my strength. My fear is my fortitude.

Fear ties me down and lifts me up. It is the hamster in the cage that spins the wheel that creates the energy that makes me go.

I fear long and strenuous workouts. I'm scared to start; petrified of the possibilities. I don't know if I can get through. I question whether I can bear the pain. I doubt my very ability to survive.

I read my past like a book, the endless stories of success. But all I feel are the spaces of weakness hidden like cowards between the words, behind the truth. My fear makes me blind.

I walk to the pool, I climb on the bike, I step on the pavement. In the first step, the first stroke, the first moment - I am fear. I am free falling. I am a BASE jumper, soaring from the highest bridge. No parachute, no net. Nothing but my will to survive; learning to fly.

I start by playing mental games. To reduce the strain and quell the fear. I count my laps backwards. 23, 22, 21... I break down my effort into minuscule goals. Just swim to the other side of the pool. Run to the end of the block. One more mile. One more step. One more second.

These are the things we do to fight the fear.

And soon I become so engrossed in the process, so mired in the moment, the fear begins to dissipate. It weakens. I absorb the energy and charge faster, stronger, harder. I force the fear to cower in the corner. And there comes a point in every day in every workout when everything changes. When the mental games to quell the fear, reverse. When I am no longer fighting the fear, but it is fighting me.

From whence I was the servant of fear, I emerge the master. I increase the strain. I push myself to go further. To go faster. To go harder. I incite my mind and challenge my body. The adrenaline warms and simmers and boils as I strive for every second to be better than that before. I am king. I am power.

I conquer the fear.
There is no fear.

And as I finish the swim, the run, the bike – as I take the final step across the final moment of my adventure – I emerge the victor. I am brightened by an eternal glow.

And as I stride towards my home, shoulders back, head held high, I am proud of what I’ve done. I am success. I am the conqueror. And though I can sense the growing pitter-patter of fear’s feet following close behind, waiting to jump once again upon my back, I don’t fear fear.

Fear does not hold me back, it pushes me forward. My fear is not my limiter, but my driver. It is my engine. It is my mirror. It is my friend. I embrace my fear, for my fear is me.

A Psychosomatic Semblance of Sanity

My grandfather is dead. No need for condolences. I mean, you can condole if you want, but I'm not telling you he's dead so you can give me sympathy. I have a long list of other things that I would tell you if all I wanted was sympathy. We can get to that later.

My grandfather was a gentle man with a strong character. He had great fortitude and a strength of mind that commanded respect. He was a loving and tender man. In some mysterious ways he was always the controlling force in any room, despite the fact that most of the time he remained silent, content to just be listening.

My grandfather had 9 siblings and lived longer than any of them. Which, if you know my grandfather (which you don't, but I'm trying my best to explain if you'd just stay focused), is amazing. When God was handing out the "sick" genes, somebody must've slipped on a banana peel and spilled extra into grandpa's basket. He was a magnet for disease. I think he may have gotten every sickness ever invented, and then some.

His heart wasn't so strong, so he got a pacemaker at an early age. That led to numerous open-heart surgeries and bypasses and other reasons for ridiculously sharp objects to be slicing and dicing around his chest cavity. He conquered just about every form of cancer known to man. He had allergies and sinus headaches. There are at least five doctor's who are putting their kids through college, thanks to my grandfather's fragile constitution. You're welcome.

As far back as I can remember my grandfather was always in and out of hospitals. In fact, there are no videos of me as a baby because my grandfather was in the hospital for the early months of my life. Apparently he was the only one who knew how to work the video camera. (As if a video camera is so difficult to figure out. Could it really have been more challenging than pressing the "record" button?! I guess it shows you how mechanically inclined my family is. It's a wonder we can even tie our shoes without some technical support.)

But there's one thing my grandfather always wanted - and that was to live to see the millennium. He was born sometime in the early 20th century and wanted to live to see the clock turn over to the year 2000. He was a very determined man so, of course, he accomplished his goal. And, of course, he was in the hospital when it happened.

On December 30, 1999, just two days before Y2K did absolutely nothing to a nervous world, I got the call that my grandfather was going into the hospital. Yes I was concerned, but the truth is that the incident was equivalent to, say, you telling me that you're going to the market for pork rinds. I'm concerned you're eating pork rinds, you shouldn't do that. It's not good for a healthy heart. But the fact is that you go to the market on such a regular basis, I know you'll be back and it'll be ok, though maybe you'll be a modicum less healthy than you were before.

You probably think I'm going to tell you that grandpa died there in the hospital on January 1, 2000. That would be poetic, but it's not the truth. My grandfather should've died many times before, but he wanted to live through to the year 2000 and he did, if by nothing else than sheer determination. He saw the turn of the millennium. He got out of the hospital, and was happy. He saw all his children and grandchildren and was happier. He bounced back, as he always did.

Later that year, he went to the hospital again and never came out.

[That's a very long set-up to my story so I'm really going to do my best to not ramble on. Though telling you I'm not going to ramble on is an example of me rambling on. OK, enough already.]

In many ways I am like my grandfather. I am often silent, pensive, aware. I say some of the same things he used to say. I am stronger of the mind than of the body. I am determined. And, unfortunately, I'm sickly.

Of all the damn genes in the family lottery pool, I ended up walking away with my grandfather's sick gene.

Since I was a child I've battled sickness on a regular basis. When I was five years old I got pneumonia and was sent to the hospital. (As it turns out, two floors below me was my grandfather, who got sent to the hospital at the same time for some sort of heart something or other. My family would go up and down the elevator, splitting the visiting hours between the two of us.)

As I grew older, I came down with all the basics. Chickenpox, mono, you name it I got it. My allergies were horrendous. I also seemed to be prone to breaking bones. As I reached the high school years, it was like I had a perpetual cold. My entire schooling was spent sniffling, sneezing and feeling run down. The fever would come on about 3 or 4 times per year and knock me out. If my high school yearbook had a category called "Most Likely To Get A Highly Infectious Disease," I would've won that one hands down.

But I've always been athletic and have always tried my best to care for my body. As I get older, I suppose I've gotten more accustomed to the fragile nature of my attraction to sickness. Spirituality has started creeping into my life. I've dabbled in yoga, meditation and have sauntered down various streets of serenity. I've become fascinated with the minds power to heal the body. Sometimes I figure my mind may be my only hope.

Emotionally, I'm a relatively even-keeled person. But, like anybody else, I get nervous. Athletically, this most often happens about 2-3 weeks before a race. The longer the race, the greater the internal pressure, the stronger the stress.

Which brings us to Ironman Arizona. In case you haven't been counting, its less than two weeks away. I'm deep in taper mode right now. My training has been going well, all things considered. I've proved to be so much stronger this ironman training than my struggles leading up to Ironman Lake Placid.

My swimming has been better than ever. My biking is spot on. My running is infinitely better than it was for Lake Placid. My body is ready. In fact, dare I say that I've even been looking forward to the race. Especially the run. I want to see what's going to happen on the run. Back when I was training for Lake Placid, I couldn't do any runs faster than 10 minute miles. It was frustrating. I cursed a lot. It was the slowest I had been in my life. I think I cursed every moment of every step. I ran out of curse words to say so I'd just focus on one and keep repeating it. A curse word per mile - that kinda sums up my Ironman Lake Placid training.

These past months have been different. On some runs I've averaged 8:30/mile or faster. My speed runs are in the 6:15 to 6:45 range. The long (14+ mile) runs are around 9 minute mile averages, with a few 8:30-8:45s thrown in for good measure. It makes me happy. It makes me think I may be able to get the speed back that I had when I was but a young whipper-snapper. It makes me almost excited for the Ironman Arizona run.

In true sickly fashion, about 2 months ago I came down with a brutal case of the flu. I get the flu every year, like clockwork. In fact, we've now got an arrangement, the flu and me. It doesn't try to sneak up on me anymore. It just pleasantly knocks on my door. I open up and welcome it in. We have a cup of tea, maybe some crumpets, and then I let it have it's way with me for a couple of weeks. Shortly thereafter, we part ways with a handshake, a smile and a "see you next year, give my love to the wife and kids."

Since I recovered from this year's flu, I've been plagued with this crazy post-nasal drip. Sometimes that happens to me. Whenever I go biking or running I cough and cough and cough like I'm hacking out a lung, an intestine and maybe even a pancreas (assuming it's possible to cough out a pancreas, I wasn't real good at biology). The coughing is annoying - not just for me, but for everybody else around me. It forces me to stop and lean on the side of the road like I'm dry heaving. But there's nothing to heave. Just more coughs. And maybe a pancreas being jiggled loose.

Add on top of that this flu-ish feeling that's been coming on for the past couple of days. More than anything, it's frustrating. I really don't want the flu again - especially this close to my race. About 20 miles into this weekend's 80 mile ride I felt the fever coming on. I slowed down and thought of turning around. But I kept going, easy and steady, and made it through. Hopefully that won't come back to haunt me.

More importantly, I can't run. Two weeks ago I was doing a track workout and halfway through my 800 repeats, my calves stopped repeating and started cramping. I stopped, walked, stretched and tried to do a slow warm-down, which pretty much turned into me sitting down on the track in frustration as people ran around me and wondered why I was being such a numbnutz. Since then I haven't been able to run at all. The three hour run I had on the schedule for last week lasted all of 2 minutes and 35 seconds before the pain took over.

I've been going to physical therapy. Electric stim, ultra sound, massage, ice, stretch, blah blah blah. You know the drill. I've been doing my runs on the elliptical and started pool jogging this week. Two weeks out from Ironman - the Ironman where I was really looking forward to running - and I can't even dash across the street without cringing in pain. And even if I could dash across the street, I'd be doubled-over on the other side hacking out some pretty important internal organs.

The crazy thing in all of this is that I don't feel stressed anymore. People ask me if I'm nervous or anxious. No, I say in a calm tone with a hint of "what do you mean?" attached to the end, just for good measure.

You see, I've been racing triathlon for about 16 years and have just about reached a point where I'm almost starting to notice some patterns.

There are a few things that seem to happen to me on a regular basis during the weeks leading up to my races. First, I feel like I'm getting sick. You know, fever, run-down, all-I-want-to-do-is-lay-on-the-couch type of sick. Secondly, my legs stop working. And when I say "stop working" I mean that I get a debilitating injury. It's normally the calf or achilles that puts me out of commission for a couple of weeks. On top of that, even if I could actually go for a run, I sometimes come down with an annoyingly rambunctious cough that limits me from doing any exercise whatsoever. Then there's the surprising symptoms behind Curtain A. I never know what they're going to be. One year it was a slightly sprained wrist. For another race I came down with such incredible back pain the days before, that I was left completely incapacitated. I literally could not stand up the day before the race. I had to spend the entire day laying flat in bed or on the floor.

When all of this happens, I tend to do what any normal person would do - I freak out. I get frustrated. I complain. I get angry. I get short-tempered. Then, somewhere in there, it slowly transforms into a sort of serenity. I start recognizing that I can't change what I can't change. It is what it is. Which is apparently where I am right now.

Miraculously, come race day everything usually feels fine. Sure the calf may not be as strong as I'd like it to be, but I can still go the distance - whatever the distance. More importantly, the back doesn't hurt (I PR'd that race), the legs don't give out, the coughing stops (I PR'd that race too). It's as if some TV preacher reached out his miracle-making hands, touched my forehead right before the starting gun, uttered some speaking-in-tongues gobbledy-gook and, kla-pooooie, I was relieved of all my ails. Constant miracles (which might be a good title for the book I'll never write about my racing experiences).

After the race, the symptoms never return. The coughing is gone, the back feels fine, the legs are perfect. Through it all, I come to realize these seemingly real problems are psychosomatic reactions to stress. And I realize that the power of the mind never ceases to amaze me.

Fast forward back to today. And I can't help but wonder if these injuries, this sickness, this cough - these symptoms that feel so real... are they? Will they just miraculously go away again or, this time, this year, do I really have these health problems?

Yes, looking at the patterns that emerge again and again in my pre-race history, I can't help but think that all of these problems are in my head. I can't help but wonder if I really pulled a muscle in my calf or if it's a psychosomatic reaction. I can't help but question whether or not this cough will magically dissolve the moment I toe the starting line.

But here's the problem, if it's all a psychosomatic reaction, then I can't possibly be as relaxed and calm as I'm feeling now. These reactions must be from stress. There must be a ball of anxiety growing inside me that is filtering pain throughout the various limbs of my body. But I feel normal. I feel relaxed. Which leads me to a fear that this feeling of serenity might be a farce.

After all, there are only two ways to explain all of this. Either my body is really and truly falling apart and my mind is staying in the peaceful sense of serenity that I've been hoping to achieve. In which case, it's going to be a painful, coughingly frustrating Ironman.

On the other hand, maybe it's my mind falling apart behind the scenes. Maybe my body is just a victim - an outlet for the hidden fear that shoots with a silencer through my veins. And all this serenity hooey that I've fooled myself into may just be some sort of psychosomatic semblance of sanity that helps me survive.

I suppose I'll figure out the answer when I get to Arizona.
It is what it is.

A Little Etiquette Maybe

I found a little something that might be beneficial to some of you people out there. You know who you are.

*** *** ***
A friend of mine came up to me the other day and told me that the Theory of Three has altered her view of lap swimming. Now, whenever she is sharing a lane with two other people, she has something to think about. She marvels in the various roles played out in a 25 yard lane. She becomes mortified by the douchebaggyness of certain swimmers, is amazed at the pinhead maneuvers and revels in the victimization she witnesses.

It has made my lap swimming so much more enjoyable, she said. At least I recognize that everybody is playing a role. It's just the natural order of the universe in play. Like NASCAR, but without a Home Depot logo on my ass.

And just as I was about to say how glad I was to have helped her out, she continued on...

But something happened in the pool the other day that I just couldn't figure out. I think I found the rabbit's hole of the Theory of Three.

I was intrigued. Catherine and I had thoroughly analyzed the Theory of Three from every angle. So I listened. Here's the story she told me...

My friend, let's call her Alice, was swimming laps all alone in a lane when another, seemingly friendly woman, flagged her to stop. As Alice reached the end of the lane and looked up, the woman leaned down and, in a gracious tone, asked Alice if she and her friend could share the lane with her. Glancing at all the other over-packed lanes and recognizing there were not a lot of other choices, Alice said yes, no problem.

Alice continued on with her swim.

As usual, when Alice reached the other side of the pool, she touched the wall, turned around and began swimming back. That's when she saw it. Coming up on her were the two new women. More importantly they were both on kickboards and - get this - they were kick-boarding side-by-side. No room for anybody else to pass. That's right, they had asked if they could share the lane, then they took over the darn thing. There they were, just yakking it up as if nobody else was in the lane with them.

Needless to say, Alice was perplexed. My God, she thought, it's two douchebags in one lane. This proves everything about the Theory of Three wrong. The world went into a tailspin, everything started getting blurry. She was confused. Or was she?

So let's consider this a quiz. What do you think? Two douchebags? Or was there still a douchebag, a victim and a pinhead? If so, who played each role? (answer below)







Answer: Alice was clearly the victim. As for the woman who initially asked if she and her friend could share the lane, she was the douchebag. Her douchebaggyness was exemplified in her dishonest communication. She had no intention of "sharing" the lane but really wanted to "take over" the lane. She had the audacity to try and deceive Alice. Douchebag. The other friend, the one who just went along with the plan, well, there's your pinhead.

The Bright Side Of Pain

I'm in the last stages of Ironman training. In less than 10 days from now I'll be sliding stomach first into the taper period, where doubts and pounds seem to build at a fairly rapid pace.

These last few weeks of Ironman training are always the most challenging. It's when the volume of activity in all three sports reaches it's peak. When the hours you spend exercising start equaling the hours you spend sleeping.

On any given week, I'm logging in 175 miles on the bike, 12,000 meters in the pool and about 35 miles pounding my legs on the pavement. I'm power lifting to build muscle mass and redlining through intensely fast workouts to build speed. I'm eating not to survive, but to recover. I'm sleeping not for relaxation, but for the ability to wake up before the next sunrise and push myself to the limit once again.

The rare moment when I'm not moving are spent with ice packs rotating around the various pain points of my body.

Because it's at this period of Ironman training when pain is at it's peak. It's constant. I go to sleep with tired legs and wake up with aching muscles. I grunt when I walk up stairs and moan when I try to get down on the floor. It seems the only pain-free peace I have is sitting on the toilet. Some days I never want to get up.

Everything hurts.
But still, the training must go on.

Last Sunday I woke up at 5:30am to do my 7 1/2 hour bike ride. 112 miles. 5500 feet of climbing. 20 to 30 mile per hour wind gusts. If everything felt fine, it would've been brutal. But, alas, I'm in the heat of Ironman training. Did everything feel fine? If by "fine" you mean "everything hurts," then yes, everything felt fine.

I started the ride off slowly, mostly because I was in too much pain to go any other speed. I got into my painstakingly slow groove and pedaled up the coast. 10 minutes turned into 30. 30 into an hour. My mind wandered about. I went in and out, into the here and there, the this and that. I thought of things and stuff and such and such. And soon enough I got to the rolling hills part of the ride.

I was relaxed and decided to push a little harder, to get up these hills and prove to myself that I'm in Ironman shape. I focused my mind, honed in my eyes, shifted my gears and pushed.

Ooh. Ouch. Ugh.

Within 15 seconds I realized that my plan wasn't going to work out so well. Screw this, I muttered. I backed off the gears, sat up and slowly spun myself up the hills. Frustration began to seep into the weak corners of my brain. The fluid of doubt started coursing through my veins.

Why do I do this, I thought to myself. I want to be strong, I want to be fast, I want to be better than me. But I'm not. I'm not. As I pedaled further, I sunk myself deeper into the downward spiral of despair. I doubted my ability, wondered if I'd ever feel like I could move faster than a snails pace. I bowed my head in sadness and looked down at the ground just as a snail passed me by.

It was at about this time that another rider approached.

Her name was Betty. She was going just a little faster than me so I mustered up everything I had, picked up the pace and held on. I needed motivation. I needed anything.

Betty has completed nine Ironman races and was just trying to get back in shape for the new season. As we rode together, we struck up a conversation of all things triathlon: the ghosts of races past and ghosts of races future. Of training and traveling and balancing life on the pinpoint of sanity.

You're training for Ironman Arizona? she said after I shared the info. That's right around the corner. You must be in pretty good shape.

I chuckled slightly. I might be in good shape, I said. But it's really difficult to tell. Everything hurts. Always. I'm always in pain.

She smiled a triathlete grin - the cheek to cheek gaze of somebody who has been down that road, who knows the feeling. I miss that, she said. I miss waking up in pain.

We talked on a bit further, but my mind revolved around those comments. I couldn't stop thinking about what she said. About the enjoyment of pain.

And somewhere down the road it started making sense. I suddenly realized the gift I've been given. The gift to feel. To know I'm alive. To sense in every moment of every hour that I've pushed myself to the limit.

If there is a bright side of pain, I suppose it is this. It is the constant reminder - every second of every day - that I am in shape. That I am doing exactly what I want to do. That I have set my goals and am achieving my dreams.

If there is a bright side of pain, it is the continuous reminder that I am proud of me. I guess she's right - why would I ever want to let this feeling go?

Enough already

Seriously, folks, is this really necessary? I mean, c'mon.. enough is enough people.



*link courtesy of Catherine The Girlfriend

Your Body's A Temple, Mine Is A Shotgun Shack

IMHAMO (In my high and mighty opinion), one of the best things about Ironman training is the metabolism's reaction. In fact, my Ironman metabolism is the sole reason why I want to keep up this level of training. (I won't keep up this level of training after Arizona, but I want to. It's the thought that counts.)

I've already been blessed with high metabolism, but this incessant training takes it up a notch. I can eat and eat and eat - and it's all like throwing paper into a fire. In a matter of minutes, it's as if it never existed.

As you probably have heard, one of the most critical aspects of Ironman racing is nutrition. On race day, the right nutrition is the difference between a great day and an IV drip. But even before race day, nutrition is critical. Throughout training, the right nutrition is the key to recovery. And if you recover properly, you don't get injured, you don't get sick and you can wake up again on another day at another ungodly hour to do another ridiculously long workout.

Eat healthy, they say. You're body's a temple, they say.

Well let me tell you, if my body's a temple, it's much closer to the Church's Chicken end of the spectrum than the Taj Mahal. Seriously folks, let's look at this one.

All this Ironman training creates such a high metabolism that you actually burn off the food before it even touches your tongue. It's a Get Out Of Fat Free card.

So be honest, if you could eat as much as you want of anything you want anytime you want, would you really be lining up at the salad bar? Do you want to nibble on carrots until you start growing a little bunny tail? No siree bob. If didn't have parents, I don't want to eat it.

Give me a burger, a steak, an entire chicken. I'll have a large pizza please with everything on it. In fact, make it two. Give me a Fred Flintstone portion of spare ribs and don't forget the extra sauce. Do I want fruit or potatoes? Bitch please... fruit?! Don't insult me. Give me potatoes, top them with cheese, and pile all the chili you've got on it. While we're at it, a bucket of ice cream would be nice. Some chocolate. A cheesecake. A wafer thin mint.

Now excuse me, I need to go eat.

The Theory of Three: Rule 4

We've all heard the stories of Albert Einstein. How, like a regular schmo, he drudged through his day job in a patent office, gossiping around the water fountain (or whatever drinking apparatus they had back then), complaining about the boss and bitching about co-workers. Then, like an intelligently caped crusader, he'd go home and transform into a savior of all things mathematical. He'd compose complex calculations ad infinitum that would all eventually lead to the Theory of Relativity. And the rest, as they say, is history.

In some ways, Catherine (my wonderful girlfriend who is quite a bit more physically appealing than Mr. Relativity) has been paralleling Einstein. Though she spends her days in the monotony of office work, she has stretched her mind to develop one of the world's most important axioms of pool training. I like to call it the Theory of Three.

The Theory of Three (ToT) is an important one to understand and there are only a few rules, so try to control your ADD for a couple of seconds and pay attention.

The axiom states that in any given lap pool situation...
1. If the lane has three swimmers, inevitably one person will play the Douchebag, another the Pinhead and the third the Victim.
2. In no instance will you ever see duplication. Never will there be two Douchebags and a Pinhead, or three Victims, or any other similar combination. According to the Theory of Three, there are always three individual roles and they are always clearly defined.
3. The Theory of Three is irrelevant if there are only two people in a lane. The Theory of Three becomes exponentially more complex when four or more people share a lane. (We won't get into that one now. That's for the advanced class.)

The trick is (and this is where the intense calculations come into play), the role you play isn't always the same. One day you may be the Pinhead and the next thing you know - kaBLAM! - you've suddenly turned into the Douchebag.

If you don't know what role you play, don't be concerned. It is sometimes difficult for an inexperienced individual to truly determine the defined role without the support of an experienced lap-ematician. As far as what the lap-ematician does....well, this is where it starts to get a bit more confusing.

To truly determine what role you end up playing on any given day at any given second requires a variety of complex calculations that balance the time of day, the individual personality types, water temperature and a number that we like to call Catherine's Constant. Catherine's Constant usually equals 6.283, that is, unless it's Monday or Friday, in which case the number is doubled. Oh, and on Sunday mornings between 9:30 and 11am, the number is cut in half. I almost forgot that one.

I told you it was complex.

For those that are mathematically inclined, here's what the actual calculation looks like:

Your ToT role = (square root of (length of lane)) * (water temperature / the number of letters in your Chinese astrology animal sign) - ((time of day (unless it's Monday or Friday) + (the number of accessories you use in your swim workout (flippers count as two, so do paddles)) - (size of your bathing suit (in square inches) / your waist size) all multiplied by Catherine's Constant

If your number is over 100, guess what. You're the Douchebag. The Pinhead falls inbetween 1 and 99. As for the Victim, if the final calculation comes out to 0, then it's you.

As you can imagine, conquering this calculation requires a white board, a blackboard or, at the very least, a scrap of paper and an Erasermate. Unfortunately, most of us are too busy swimming to spend the time determining our ToT role. The good thing is that most of the time you can pretty much rely on your gut to figure it out.

Of course, as you may have already figured out, this all leads me back to the swim I had the other day.

I got to the pool at the ungodly hour of 6 in the morning. It was still dark out, but I had 5500 meters to get through and the pool closes at 8.

Yes, 5500 meters... I couldn't believe it either.

The good news is that the pool wasn't that crowded. When you take into account the early morning hour, the cold temperature (well, cold for Los Angeles. I think it was 55 degrees) and the fact that it was an outdoor pool with a 50 meter lane, there weren't a heckuva lot of people swimming. In fact, when I got into the lane, there were only four of us there.

I slid into the water and started my workout at a relaxing pace. Back and forth I went, knocking down the meters as smoothly as possible. As my body warmed up, I started picking up the pace a tad. Nothing too demanding, but a nice steady groove that I could maintain for the 3 1/2 miles.

After about 1500 meters I realized that I had the entire lane to myself. I enjoyed the solitude while it lasted. Unfortunately, I knew it couldn't possibly last that long.

It was right after I bounced off the wall at the far end of the lane when I noticed the new person who had climbed into the pool and began to swim. It was hard to miss him.

He was one of those guys that pushes really hard when he swims. And though he moves at a fairly decent clip, he's doing it all in a wacked-out kinda way. His hands are slapping the water, his feet are kicking like scissors gone wild, his body is twisting and rotating in contrary movements and overall there's a heckuva lot of flailing and splashing. Picture the Tasmanian Devil trying to swim laps. That was my new lane-mate - Taz. Water was flying all over the place and all you could see was an arm popping out here, a leg jutting out there. And, best of all, since he required so much space to maneuver, he was swimming in the middle of the lane. As you may already know, I love that.

I've seen these types of swimmers before. They go really hard the moment they hit the water, pushing and driving so that they look fast. But after a few laps they're all out of steam. My competitive ego has a tough time letting these swimmers pass me by. I've worked hard, I've fine-tuned my form, I've focused. I suppose I want to feel like all that work isn't for naught - that in any given race, a bus-load of Tasmanian Devil-like swimmers won't blow me out of the water.

At the same time, my ego also knows that in a few minutes I'll zip by them like they're standing still.

Of course, within a few seconds after I first saw him, Mr. Splash and Flail swam right by me and my ego, nearly kicking me in the face with his man-eating scissor kick.

Now maybe I'm a little crazy, perhaps a bit too sensitive, and definitely a competitive summobitch, but I had the distinct sense as he swam by me that he did it with attitude. If there's one thing I don't like, it's attitude when you pass me by.

You're a douchebag, I said to him (which actually just resulted in me swallowing a bunch of pool water, considering the fact I was still swimming and my head was underwater). I wanted to pass him by. I wanted to dust him. I wanted to make him swallow his ego and bow at my feet. Building an effigy of me would be ok too. But I tried to be patient. I told myself to hold on, he'd tire out soon enough.

I got to the other end of the pool just as a new lane-mate entered. Lane-mate #3. Uh-oh.

I thought about the Theory of Three. I already knew there was a Douchebag in the lane. That left a Pinhead and a Victim. I wondered which would be me.

I had a bit of a break in the set, so I stayed on the edge of the pool for 30 seconds before I pushed off again. As I continued down the lane, all of the sudden I came face-to-foot with Lane-mate #3.

She was wearing what looked like a short-sleeved wetsuit. She had long legs and lanky arms, which is important to the story as you'll realize in a second. As it turns out, she was doing the breaststroke. And with those aforementioned long legs and lanky arms, it was a very long-reaching breast stroke. With each kick of her legs, her feet practically stretched to the other side of the lane.

I had visions of the game Wack-A-Mole, where her feet were the wackers and my balls were the mole. I cringed. Why is she doing the breaststroke in this lane anyway?

You've got to be kidding me, I said as I slowed down behind her and swallowed pool water again by talking underwater. We're not in the slow lane here people.

This lane was clearly marked as the "Medium speed" lane. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but breaststroke ain't no medium speed. Regardless, I need to get by her before I get sucked up into the backdraft of her propeller-like legs. I moved to the far side of the lane, with the hopes of passing her and keeping my family jewels intact. As I pushed hard and began to swim by, I looked up.

Uh-oh.

Mr. Splash and Flail was rapidly approaching. He was, of course, smack dab in the middle of the lane. It was like a Mac truck coming right at me at full speed. I felt like a squirrel that was about to be smooshed and there was nowhere I could go, nothing I could do but hold on to my nuts and pray for my life.

For what seemed like minutes, I floated in shock. I never thought this is the way it would end.

Suddenly, in a flash of opportunity, I saw a space. I dropped back and went behind the breaststroker's legs just as the Mac Truck-like Splash and Flail whizzed by me. I don't think he even noticed me. I was a pebble in the road. He was a Douchebag.

With the coast clear and me safe, I moved back over to the opposite side of the lane and pressed forward, zipping by the breaststroker as quickly as possible. Suddenly it all made sense. She's the Pinhead. After all, who jumps in the Medium lane and just does the breaststroke back and forth? A Pinhead, that's who.

And since he's the Douchebag, that makes me the Victim.
Again.

This is the way it went for the next 20 minutes. Douchebag splasher annoying me with his form, Pinhead breaststroker oblivious to the fact that people are trying to swim in this lane. Back and forth I went, each lap getting more and more angry. I'm a Victim here people. I'M THE VICTIM!!!

I pushed harder, desperately trying to catch up to the Douchebag and pass him. I wanted to show him a lesson. I wanted to prove that I was better. Faster. More manly. And goddammit, I've got good swim form!! But, alas, with all my scheduled rest breaks, anytime I was about to catch up he had time to move further away.

After about 10 more minutes, he must've gotten frustrated with the breaststroker because all of the sudden I noticed he moved over to the fast lane.

HUH?!?! [cue sound of tires squealing and screeching and coming to a halt.]

The fast lane?! What the fuck?! You can't move to the fast lane!! YOU'RE NOT FAST!! I'm faster than you. If anybody should be in the fast lane, IT'S ME!!! And I'm NOT in the fast lane, am I!?! I'M IN THE GODDAM MEDIUM LANE SO GET YOUR SORRY DOUCHEBAG ASS BACK OVER HERE LICKETY SPLIT!!!

These are the things I was yelling in my head as I swam back and forth in the medium lane. I was pissed he moved over. Angry as all hell. He's not fast. He shouldn't be allowed in the fast lane. It's not fair. IT'S NOT FAIR, I TELL YOU!!!

I pushed harder. I was fueled, angry, perturbed, upset, and any other synonym you want to put in there. I was also coming to the end of my workout.

I had six 100s to go, with ten seconds of rest between each one. As I waited at the end of my lane for my rest period to end, I glanced over at the fast lane. Lo and behold, Mr. Douchebag was just coming to the end of the his lane as well. This is my chance. This is it. The butterflies started building in my stomach. My time has come.

He pushed off the lane while I still had 5 seconds of rest ahead of me. Everything was going just as planned. I love this.

As I pushed off for my first 100, I found myself catching up to Mr. Splash and Flail within 20 yards. It was like I had an outboard motor coming out of my butt. I flew through the water with the greatest of ease. And as I passed him by, I gazed at him with the leer of death. I threw at him all of the attitude I could muster, and topped it off with a patronizing sneer.

How do you like that, Taz m'boy?!?! You think you're better than me?! I shouted in my mind. You think you deserve to be in the fast lane?! Well, my friend, you don't!!

And realizing that I had 6 of these to do. I decided to keep going with my underwater tirade.

Welcome to goddam frickin groundhog day, I screamed in my head. Every 2 minutes I'm going to pass your ass and I'm going to do it with attitude. The only sound you're gonna hear is the echo of me laughing and snickering at you.

I smiled. I laughed. I swallowed more pool water.

And as I finished my first 100, I chuckled as he pushed off from the wall just 5 seconds before me.

Within a few yards of beginning my second 100 - BAM! - I passed him again.
Ka-BOOM! I did it a third time.
Groundhog day, motherfucker, I screamed silently as I passed him on my fourth 100.
You like me now!?!? I bubbled on my fifth 100.
And as I blew by him for the sixth time in a row, I had a sense of serenity flow through my body. It lifted me and pushed me through that 100 faster than I had been swimming all day.

I won. I'm the best. King of the world.

My swim was over. I smiled and got out of the pool with pride. I walked into the locker room with my head held high. I dried my body and squeezed into my warm dry clothes. And as I walked to my car, it suddenly hit me.

My calculations were wrong.

I reviewed the mornings activities. Over and over it went in my mind. Every scenario, every stroke, every thought. Soon it became clear. I realized that I had forgotten about Rule 4 in the Theory of Three.

Theory of Three, Rule 4: If you always think you're the Victim, you're probably the Douchebag.

Yes, it was me. It was me that was the Douchebag. I was no Victim here.

Sure, the breaststroker was the Pinhead. But my friend, the splashy swimmer - why he was merely the Victim. The Victim of bad lane circumstances, the Victim of my asshole-ishness, the Victim of Catherine's Constant. I thought he was the Douchebag, I was convinced he was the Douchebag, but that was merely a classic case of Douchebag transference. I had mistakenly redirected my Douchebaggyness onto the unsuspecting Victim.

It's a tricky thing, this Theory of Three.
Hopefully it'll make us all better people. I know I need all the help I can get.

Swim All Over Me

Afternoon Workout
SWIM
3500 yards (speed work)
Main Set: 6x(100 easy + 2x 50 hard with 15 sec rest + 2x 50 hard with 5 sec rest) + 20x 25 at throw-up pace.

Mental state: Peachy keen

Physical state: I think my shoulders dislocated somewhere in the middle of the 50s. It was like swimming with a couple-a rubber bands for arms.

Random Comments: How come it's always where I am that seems to attract the older people who always swim in the center of the lane?

I don't want anymore flippers smacking me in the face. I'm getting sick of flailing hands thrashing me in the legs. I don't want to have to swim so close to the buoys that I smack hands with the person in the neighboring lane (who, by the way, happens to be wearing a big college ring or something of the sort that practically rips through my hand). And I've definitely had enough with stubbing my finger on the lane line buoys and replaying that fear in my head about breaking my fingers before race day. Breaking fingers on the buoys while swimming laps is almost as embarrassing as getting run over by a Port-a-John.

I suppose this says something about my swimming. Perhaps I have a swim stroke that makes people feel comfortable. They look at me going back and forth and think, why that seems like a nice enough chap. I think, by golly, I'll just jump into the lane with him and see if I can push him into the buoys.

Maybe I need to act more forceful.
Maybe I just need to figure out how to do a flip-turn. If you flip-turn, they don't have time to ask if they can share the lane. As for me, I touch the wall at each lap and look up. It's as if there's a sign on my forehead that says, come on in. Swim all over me. I don't care.

Yeah, I definitely need to learn how to do a flip-turn.

The Swim Was Crap

Morning Workout
RUN
16.5 miles
2 hours 30 minutes
440 feet of climbing
Pain level: Nothing to complain about. Except the achilles, I can complain about the achilles if you want.

SWIM
4000 yards
Mental state: Drained. Like spaghetti.

Random Comments: Have you ever seen "Caddyshack"?

Let me tell you about today's swim.

I decided to go to the Santa Monica College pool to do my swim today, mostly because I was really tired after my run, it was a beautiful day and swimming outdoors in a nice, clean pool is just about the best thing to keep me motivated. The thought of trudging through 4000 yards inside the depressing dankness of the YMCA brings on an instant wave of depression.

I eased my body into the refreshingly cool water and began to swim. I was swimming slowly, but that was expected so I didn't get too worried about it. Suddenly, at about 15 minutes into my workout, I heard the lifeguards yelling something. I got to the end of the lane and stopped to figure out what they were saying.

Get out of the pool!! Everybody out of the pool now!!!

I was confused. Were they talking to me? Was I part of "everybody"? Or were they just talking to the masters swim class that was finishing up in the 7 lanes next to me.

Everybody out of the pool NOW!

I looked at my lane-mate, a bit befuddled. We both shrugged our shoulders, hoisted ourselves out of the pool and stood on the deck with the rest of the crowd.

Everybody started talking, mumbling and grumbling about the inconvenience.

I looked at the person standing next to me. Maybe it's a shark scare, I said in what I thought was a pretty darn hilarious joke. He didn't laugh. I shrugged my shoulders and walked over to my towel.

The pool is closing, a lifeguard announced. Refunds will be offered at the front desk.

Closing? Refunds? Huh?

One of my deep, dark, unfounded fears, is getting eaten by piranhas in a pool. Before you say anything, let me tell you that I know I'm not going to get eaten by piranhas in a pool. The chances of that happening are pretty low. Truth be told, I don't know if anybody has ever been eaten by piranhas while swimming in a pool. Still, it's something I think about, so please give me that courtesy.

Anyway, I glanced in the water, half expecting to see a school of piranhas. Nope. Nothing. However, why take chances - I decided to skip my swim workout and go eat enormous masses of food instead.

I grabbed my bag of clothing and started walking out. On my way, I stopped another lifeguard to ask what was going on. I suppose I had already assumed this was the case, but to hear him confirm it. Well.... blech.

Somebody had taken a crap in the pool.
Yes, you heard me right. Somebody shat in the deep end.

What makes this even worse, is that this is an adult-only pool. No kids. That means an adult, confident enough to swim in 12 feet of water (where said crap was discovered), decided that instead of walking the 100 yards to the bathroom, instead of maintaining some sort of decorum and decency, they would just take a shit right there, right then, and hope nobody would notice despite the crystal clearness of the water.

Disgusting.
Revolting
Vile.

I headed for the door. But somewhere along the way I stopped. A little voice inside my head was whispering to me. Every workout counts, it said. Every workout counts.

Knowing that I would never forgive myself if I ignored that voice, I turned on my heels and reluctantly meandered over to the Kiddie Pool/Splash Pool/Pee Pool. I found a lane with people that seemed to know how to swim, eased myself into the 85 degree jacuzzi-like water, and finished my 4000 yard workout.

When I was done, I walked into the locker room and turned into the bathroom. I've always thought this was a clean bathroom. Then again, I suppose a good way to keep the bathroom clean is just to have people shit in the pool.

This Is The Point Where a G**damn GPS Might Come In Handy

Morning Workout
BIKE
99.79 miles
6 hours 24 minutes
3060 feet of climbing
Pain level: Annoyingly fatigued

Random Comments: About a year ago the speed/distance sensor on my bike stopped working. One minute it would show me doing 22 miles per hour, next minute it's at 2.2 miles per hour. It was annoying. I'd finish a four hour ride only to have my monitor tell me I rode 14 miles. Now I'm definitely no super-cyclist, but I know I can go further than 14 miles in four hours.

I thought of getting the sensor fixed. For months I talked about replacing this part or fiddling with that part. Then I realized that I really didn't want to get the darn thing fixed anyway. Honestly, I kinda despise having this clock constantly telling me how slowly I ride. It taunts me. It mocks me. I end up pushing myself to the point of exhaustion and then get frustrated in the end.

So I took the speed/distance sensor off my bike. Actually, I think I ripped it off. I may have uttered some profanities in the process.

You want to keep telling me how slow I go, you little shit?! I'll show you who's the boss. [I tear sensor from the bike.] How does THAT feel, fucker?! How do you like that now?! You wanna tell me I'm slow NOW?! HUH?! Speak up, punk!!

So anyway, when I go for my rides nowadays I really have no idea how far I ride until I can get home and map it all out. I can make a guesstimate - figuring that my average pace is such-and-such, and then multiply that by so-and-so, until I come up with a number that sounds like something I'd be happy with.

Take today, for instance. At about 5 hours into my ride I started the calculations. If I take 16 miles per hour times 6 hours.... but wait, maybe it was 15 miles per hour. No, that's not good. 15.65 miles per hour times 6 hours 17 minutes. Maybe that's what I need to do.

After about 40 minutes of doing complex multiplication in my head, I realized I had no clue how far I was going to ride. All I knew is that I wanted to do more than 100. And from what I can gather from the calculator in my brain, 6 hours and 10 minutes of riding would get me to 100. No problem. Just to make sure, I rode 6 hours and 24 minutes.

When I got home I took my ice bath, showered, dressed, ate and, while laying on the comfort of my couch, mapped out my run. I couldn't believe the results. I checked my mapping again. Yes, it was right.... I rode 99.79 miles.

99.79 miles?! Are you f***ing kidding me?!

I was pissed. Less than a quarter mile short of a hundred?! This is crazy. I felt like getting up and running my bike around the block. 99.79 miles. For goodness sakes. this is the point where a goddamn GPS might come in handy.

The Morning Boot Camp

Morning Workout
RUN
1 hour 21 minutes (8.3 miles)
Pain level: Moderate

LIFT WEIGHTS + STRETCH
Some power lifting. Not that I'm very powerful, but I try.

Random Comments: Since I had some weight lifting on the schedule and since I had a breakfast meeting planned, I decided to save some travel time by starting and finishing my run at the YMCA. The festivities began at 6am.

The Y is only 6 blocks from the ocean, so I had the joy of running up along the coast in the early morning hours. If there's one thing I learned about running up the coast at such a time (and I reckon that I learned at least one thing, if not more), it's that there are a heckuva lot of women out there huffing and grunting in their boot camps.

I'm not sure if you're familiar with the boot camp phenomena. For all I know, this may be a very LA type of thing. Basically, you pay somebody too much money to tell you to do more sit-ups. Technically, the leader is supposed to act as a drill sergeant and get you into shape. Hence the "boot camp" name. The truth of the matter is that, though there are a lot of drills, there's not a lot of sergeanting involved. From what I can gather, it's a half hour of sit ups, push ups, jumping jacks and potato sack racing.

This whole boot camp thing seems to be quite the cash cow though. In just 1/2 mile I saw no less than four boot camp leaders guiding their group of yoga pants wearing, tight shirt sporting, scrunchy-wrapped poneytail-ing, 30-something women through the same sorts of exercises I was about to do at the gym when I finished my run. The thing is, the boot camp clientèle - ALL women. I mean, nothing but. The only outie genitalia was with the boot camp leaders.

If I were a single guy (which I'm not) and if I were looking for a new woman to date (which I'm not) and if I were sick of the ridiculous bar scene (which I am) and if I became frustrated with online dating (which I was), I'd be signing my sorry ass up for an early morning boot camp. Not only do you get to hang out with the aforementioned yoga panting women, but if you play your cards right, you can get yourself some pretty ripped abs.

Every Workout Counts

Here's the deal. It's Friday, March 7. There are only 5 weeks until Ironman Arizona. That means 3 weeks of training, 2 weeks of taper. I started February with a leg injury, which stopped me from running for 2 weeks. Just as I was supposed to start running again. I got the flu. That put me completely out of commission for almost 3 weeks. Next thing you know, here I am in mid-March, with only 5 weeks to go, and I'm still trying to get back into the shape I was in 5 weeks prior.

I'm already one month behind.

Five weeks. 37 days to be exact. Five weeks sounds like a lot of time. 37 days sounds like I'm in big trouble.

At this point, I can't freak out. All I can do is focus. I can pray that my leg injury doesn't lay me up again. I can pray that I will have enough conditioning to get through this darn race. And while I'm praying and focusing, I need to exercise. Because at this point, with only 3 weeks of quality training, with only 37 days until the big show... at this point every workout counts.

Every step counts.
Every stroke counts.
Every beat counts.

As I geared up for Ironman Lake Placed a couple-a years ago, I laid out my schedule daily. I'm not a big fan of reading people's daily workouts - I find it boring. I'm assuming you do too. So let me apologize in advance. But sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. Especially when you get to the point where I am. Where the clock says "t minus 37". Where every workout counts.

Ironman Expert

Are you training for your first Ironman? If so, you should ask me any of your questions because I know all the answers. I am an Ironman expert.

I know the ins and outs, the dos and dont's - I even know the ifs, whys and buts. If you really want to push me, I may reveal to you the heretofores and therewiths.

I can tell you exactly how to train, precisely how to race and unquestionably how to focus. I will tell you what you did wrong, what you're about to do wrong and what you should've done wrong. I'll applaud you when you've done something right, but will show you how it created something wrong. Cause that's what we do, us Ironman experts. If there's anything done well, it must create something done poorly. After all, every rose has it's thorn, just like every cowboy sings his sad sad song.

What are my credentials, you ask? Why am I an Ironman expert? Simple question, because I've trained for and finished one. Ironman Lake Placid, thank you very much. One of the hardest Ironman courses out there.

What's that? Repeat the question again please...?

Yes, that's the only one I've done.

Say again?

No, I haven't done any others. Just the one. But, really, that's all it takes.

If you have actually bothered to talk to people about Ironman racing, you may have noticed this crazy and somewhat silly phenomena: people who have raced in only one Ironman have a tendency to consider themselves an expert in the distance.

I've done one, hence, expert.

Frankly, it's a tad bit annoying, the arrogance. I sometimes annoy myself just listening to me talk in my Ironman know-it-all jack-ass-iveness.

One thing I've noticed is that the comments from us so-called Ironman experts rarely come across as a "take it or leave it" type of attitude. It's not presented as some friendly advice that you can do with what you may. Instead, the advice is usually spewed forth with a tone of staggering omniscience - as if God Herself were channeling Her supreme knowledge through all first time IM finishers and blessing them with the power and grace to spread the true Ironman Way (capital I, capital W).

Listen to me, all ye IM neophytes, we might as well say. For I, the all-knowing, have come to enlighten your soulless minds about the Holy Truth of the Holy TRInity. If thou doth truly desire the ultimate attainment, to swimeth, biketh and runneth until thou cuppeth have toppled over, then follow my footsteps, do as I doth do. For in my tread though shall achieve serenity and tri-sanctity. Hear me, my feeble abecedarian, for without my Words ye shall be doomed to enter the valley of the shadow of death somewhere around mile 16... and then you're really gonna be screwed.

It's all a bunch of bull-hockey if you ask me. Seriously, what right do I have to tell people what to do. What right do ANY of us first timers have to lecture the newbies? Sure we can give advice, sure we can share our experiences - but why do we have this need to have it be the end-all be-all? Is it our controlling attitude? Cause Lord knows this triathlon crap sure brings out in us our most hyper-controlling, obsessively nauseating personality traits.

Here's the funny part (well, maybe not ha-ha funny, but a little peculiar funny), the more Ironman races one completes, the less likely they are to give advice. Seriously, pay attention to this one.

After somebody completes two Ironman races, their comments usually make a turn from lecturing to mere suggesting. It's no longer "you need to do this" but more along the lines of "this seems to have worked a few times in the past."

By the time somebody completes three Ironman races, they'll probably only answer questions when asked. After three Ironman finishes, racers don't seem to even bother giving advice. In some cases they barely even acknowledge having done the races in the first place.

I suppose that it's like golf or wine - the more you experience, the less you realize you actually know. When I first started playing golf, I was superb. My stroke felt great, I'd hit some pretty impressive shots, and always had a wonderful time out there. After playing a bunch of times, all of the sudden I tried to improve. I began to focus on my swing, my stance, my tempo. Suddenly everything went to hell. The more I engaged and focused, the more confusing it became. Perhaps after many an Ironman, one realizes that it is the one part of the sport over which you can't maintain complete control. The more you try, the less it works.

I am training for my second Ironman right now. I'll be racing Ironman Arizona this April. I had such an amazing time during the Lake Placid race in '06 that I'm actually looking forward to Arizona. Of course, that's probably my biggest mistake right there. But I've only done one Ironman so far, so there are no mistakes I can make. I am perfect. I know everything. I'm an Ironman expert.

Any other questions?

A Swimming Personality

I love watching people swim. You really can learn a lot about people by watching their stroke. It's kind of like a lie detector test - in only 25 yards you can discern their true nature and extrapolate everything about their lives.

OK, maybe it's nothing like a lie detector test. But, like fingerprints and earlobes, everybody's swim technique reveals, in it's own little way, insights into their unique personality.

OK, maybe earlobes and fingerprints don't say anything about a person's personality. But at least they're unique. Like swim strokes. Now stop being such a fuddy duddy and let me get on with my point.

There's this one guy who swims at my pool, let's call him Mr Methodical. As you can probably tell from his name, this fella is a fairly orderly swimmer. Every stroke is, slowly and deliberately, exactly like the last. It is as if he's perfectly calculated the precise position of his arm through every moment. With diligence and focus, he slowly ensures perfection in every position. The angle in which his hand re-enters the water is so precise, you'd think he was swimming with a protractor.

In watching him, you can only assume that Mr Methodical is a by-the-book type of guy. Probably a numbers person - accountant, bookkeeper or something of the sort. I wouldn't be surprised if I learned that he lays his next day's clothes out before he goes to sleep at night. Scrubs his teeth the exact number of brusha-brushas every evening and drapes his t-shirts on hangers in the closet. He probably has his jeans dry cleaned. He's that guy.

Then there's Bench Press Boy. He's not actually a boy, more like 50 years old. Definitely a man. He's quite muscular this chap, very fit fellow. He always swims with goggles, snorkel and paddles. He's a short one, probably topping out at 5 foot 5ish, but very strong looking. One can only imagine that he'd probably be able to bench press me holding Catherine holding my refrigerator (if, hypothetically, I could even hold Catherine holding my refrigerator. I can't even hold my refrigerator.)

Bench Press Boy jumps in the pool with all his gear strapped to his hands and face, then swims frantically the 25 yards to the other end. After the 25 yards he is so wiped out, he has to remove the goggles and snorkel and take a 2 minute rest. Maybe even 3 minutes. He then replaces all the gear back on his face, hightails it back to the other end of the pool, removes the gear and rests for another 2-3 minutes. It's tiring just watching the poor fellow. This little charade continues for about 400 yards, at which point he's so damn tired I wonder if he'll be able to pull himself out of the shallow end. But then I see his face and that smile of satisfaction oozing from his eyes.

It's a great workout for him, even if it seems ridiculously inefficient to some others. Somebody who is so fit should be able to swim further than 25 yards. I sometimes want to slap him across the face and teach him that he doesn't have to push so hard. But, alas, I've realized that this is Bench Press Boy's personality. Like his swimming, it's short and hard.

He may not be the best at everything he does, but he tries his hardest. He's got focus and determination and it may not get him to the top of the leader board, but gosh-darnit, he's happy right there mid-board. I'm gonna bet all the money in my wallet (which, sorry for you, is only four dollars) that Bench Press Boy is a great, loving husband and a strong, demanding but loving father. He may be a bit stubborn, but he's not afraid to tackle the tough problems the best that he can. And really, when it comes right down to it, what more can you ask from anybody?

But wait, look over to the right! There's Sir Aqua. We love Sir Aqua. I'm not yet sure if Sir Aqua is retarded (not that there's anything wrong with that) but from his swim technique you'd probably think so. I love watching Aqua in the pool because he's such a mystery. First of all, he always wears his aqua colored Speedo, the same exact color as the 60 year old tiles that line my grandmother's kitchen. Creeping from the sides of Sir Aqua's Speedo is, as always, his jock strap. Never a pleasant sight in the early morning hours, but funny nonetheless. After all, who really wears a jock strap anymore? Helloooo, can somebody please answer the phone? It's the 1970s and they want their jockstrap back.

To accompany the fashionable Speedo, Sir Aqua wears a similarly swanky aqua colored swim cap. They must've had a close-out sale in the aqua aisle down there at the Target store.

Sir Aqua never spends much time in the water, usually only 5 to 10 minutes. I saw him in there the other day. He was holding a kick board out in front of him. Hands firmly grasped on either side, arms fully extended, the kick board was gliding on the top of the water. But instead of being prone and kicking to propel himself, as most normal people do when using a kickboard in the pool, Mr Aqua was just walking through the water holding the kickboard in front of him. In essence, he was taking the kickboard for a walk. Imagine going for a bike ride, but never actually sitting on the bike - just walking it down the street. That's how Aqua was swimming.

He'd walk through the shallow water with the kickboard stretched in front of him and then, upon reaching the deep end, frog kick the 10 yards to the end of the pool. He'd turn around, frog kick the 10 yards back through the deep end, then walk the kickboard the rest of the way through the shallow water. Turn around, repeat. Retarded.

Understanding that he is not rehabilitating any injured appendage, it is hard to deduce a true personality from such a swim technique that doesn't, at the very least, involve a short bus and plastic utensils with no sharp edges.

As for me, I saw a video of my swim stroke last year. Fairly fluent, with arm angles near the correct position. I'm rarely consistent with my arm movements. It looks fine to the average passer-by, but dig a little deeper and you'll find flaws in the system. A protruding thumb. A mis-angled water entry. I try hard. I push hard. I challenge myself to go faster and farther and stronger and harder. I think I'm doing great. I think I'm special. Inevitably, though, I end up smack dab in the middle of the pack.

I suppose you can deduce all you want from that one.