Iron Kegger

What's on tap this weekend?

Well it depends upon who you ask. Walking around UT last week, all appearances indicate the answer would be "Old Milwaukee" or "Pabst Blue Ribbon" or "Bud," something cheap and plentiful.

Why?

Because even being old enough to have fathered those undergraduates, and even being slow and way below average triathlete, I could still kick most of their asses in any discipline at any distance.

Swim. Bike. Run.

Sprint to Ironman.

You pick it, junior, because you're a disgrace. Nineteen years old and pot bellied.

Are you kidding me?

And it wasn't just the rare "hefty" kid. It was everywhere. A majority of waddling, carbon based life forms that weren't even fully emancipated from mummy and daddy.

And not in the agriculture college town of College Station where they slaughter and eat their own pets for breakfast. No, in liberal tofu eating Austin.

Well, me and the "old" folks have a different kind of activity "on tap." Tomorrow is a wee brick workout--swim, bike and run back to back. All at Ironman pace. 30 minute swim, four hour bike, 40 minute run off the bike.

And Sunday, we aren't sleeping it off either. For me it's gonna be a couple hours running above Ironman pace and negative splitting a long run.

Tyler Durden (Fight Club) was heard to remark that he "didn't want to die without any scars." Well, me neither.

Wanna come, junior?

Nope?

I didn't think so.

Playing With Gravity

Mother Nature can be a dangerous bitch in Texas, but only once every few years when there is a tornado or a hurricane or if you forget to hide inside from her during the summer months.

In Colorado, her beauty and her danger are both in full flower--every day. In large part, this is because the ground forgets to stay "down." It tips up at dizzying angles as forces in the earth collide and bang the mountain plates together, thrusting them skyward.

Because ground is "up" instead of "down" sometimes, you can't see the thunderstorm, hiding behind the peaks. White fluffy clouds sneak over, barely scraping the tops of the mountains and looking for all the world like innocent cotton swabs. But in an instant the wind changes and the cotton swabs give way to cold blankets of coal-colored water, spewing rain and hail and even snow in July.

And you try to escape, but you can't. Although you had dressed for a cold ride, it is not enough. You are clammy with sweat and overheated after climbing 4 thousand feet from the valley floor at Dillon over Swan Mountain Road and thence to the Continental Divide at almost 12 thousand feet.

But at the top of the pass, there is no shelter from the wind, which is now blowing at 30 miles per hour, air temperature 40 degrees, cutting right through to the sweat congealing on your chest. You snap a couple of pictures and try to dive back to Keystone and the warmth of the Starbucks store.

But on the way down, your tires are getting wet and you dare not bank fully through the turns, lest your tires slide out from under you and gravity takes its toll. And the slower you go the longer you will be in the cold. But the faster you go, the colder you are. And your front tire is shaking at 35 miles per hour because you cannot stop shivering.

And you always do these climbs, because descending is not "real" if some bored teenager rents you a townie or mountain bike with a comfort seat and drives you to the top of a pass. And riding just isn't the same where the horizon and mother nature are predictable. It is the risk of not overcoming that gives the avoidance of failure some taste. And it tastes good. Not sweet. More complicated than that. But good.

You can see opportunity for more taste all around. Turn up the valley and head toward Breckenridge and you cannot help but see a rocky monolith towering over the peaks making op the ski area. That, pictured above, is Quandary Peak.



Quandary gives you over 14 thousand feet of gravity to play with. It is the tallest point in the Ten Mile Range in Summit County, Colorado. And without all that oxygen weighing you down, thoughts are clear. Not terribly lucid, but clear. At least at the time.



Tomorrow morning, at first light, three Ironman finishers will go out to play. Why do we do all that training and nonsense? Put this down as one of the reasons.

Stay Puft Marshmallow Man Eats Colorado

I'm trying to get back on the wagon.

Really, I am.

I'm shedding my Houston-get-it-done-yesterday-state-of-mind.

I'm shedding the unknown number of pounds of goo around my middle that comes from undisciplined eating.

(You know, if no one sees you eat it, the calories don't count. I have this on good authority).

I'm shedding the attitude that is all too willing to hypothesize about the meaninglessness of non-key workouts 4 months before an Ironman race.

And I'm trying to become un-pissed-off about UPS losing my bike, ripping off the luggage tag labels that were supposed to be unrippable, having it arrive two days late in a bike box where all four locks had been cut off and with a rear deraillure bent.

I need to find my pressure points. Woooo-Sah.

I need to eat more plants.

I need to eat less chocolate.

I need to ride my bike.

And I need my friends to show up here in Colorado as soon as physically possible so that cold nights can be properly spent over whiskey and beer doing absolutely nothing.

I am so glad I'm here. And now that my bike has joined me, let's find some Iron and get ride of this gut.

I Kick Jason Bourne's Ass

This just in: Trigreyhound Kicks Jason Bourne's Ass.

It's true.

I can't deny it.

And it's not just because I'm takin' my girl on a tropical ,20th anniversary vacation to make hot, sweet lovin' with my new marathon-running-weight-lifter body.

As if Matt Damon could survive that comparison . . .

Nope. I just happened to notice a little blurb in Runners' World where Matt Damon ran a 10K as part of losing weight he gained for a role.

Gained for a role? Yeah, right. Me too. I ate all those Kolaches to play the role of middle aged office worker.

And a 10K? Just a 10K? Phhht. PUH-LEEEEZE. You should hardly call it a race if you're done before the morning coffee break. What? You just run 6 miles? Cute.

And get this. He ran it in just a few seconds shy of one hour. Fifty Nine minutes and forty some-odd seconds.

Phhhht. Is that what they call running in Hollywood?

Three years ago, I ran a 48 minute 10K PR. This year, at 42 years old instead of 39 years old, my 800 meter track workouts are now 15 to 20 seconds faster than they were the year of my marathon PR. Are you trying to tell me that deskbound, 42 year old Greyhound could finish the race, go out for a coffee and a shower before Jason Bourne saw the finishing line?

Matt, just have your people call my people and I'll arrange some coaching sessions--for running or anything else in the "man department" that you might need help with.

P.S.
**I probably kick J-Lo's Ass in triathlon, too, which is a notable Kadunkadunk to be kicking. I'm just sayin'. **

P.P.S.

**I really needed that little boost because I have one more super long run before some recovery, and I'm feeling like Punky Brewster could mop the floor with me right about now.***

Don't They Have A Pill For This?

Well, it's been a quiet week in Spring, Texas, my home town, out on the edge of the megalopolis. Autumnal temperatures -- shivering dang near 50 degrees -- have descended upon the Gulf Coast, and that can only mean one thing:

Marathon training is proceeding in earnest.

I, myself, have been proceeding in earnest, and in so doing I am coming to the conclusion that endurance sport is anti-American. How could I possibly claim this? What am I? Some kind of communist? Some Euro-Kenyan wannabe? Well, let me explain.

No, let me sum up.

If you turn on the radio or the TV or open any magazine, you will be confronted with someone trying to convince you that you can have something for nothing--or at least something without effort:

• You can have a sexy core and abs of steel if you buy this machine and work out just 20 minutes a day, three times a week.
• You can be rid of the chronic disease that your lifestyle gave you if you just take this pill.
• You can have babes-a-plenty if you use this mouthwash or body spray.
• You can be rich without working.
• You can be healthy and happy and blessed if you buy this preacher's book.
• You don't have to change your life and quit eating yourself to death; you won't be obese any more if you take "small steps."
  

Endurance sport, however, is the opposite. For all the doping in sport, there is no "fast pill." You have to work hard. You have to hurt. Small steps won't do. If you want to run fast, you have to run fast. If you want to run far, you have to run far. If you want to race well, you have to race. There is no easy way. There is no victory on credit. You have to pay now. You get what you settle for, and you have to participate in your own rescue.

Dang, that'll never sell. That's not the American way. What about buy now and pay later? Yeah, let me know how that's working out for you.

**End of rant--I promise**

So, toting a history of wimpy racing, I've been trying to run fast, and far, and race this fall. Speed workouts with real runners like Scuba Steve and Coach T. Long runs without lollygagging. Training on the marathon course. Running the hills.

Today was the first in a series of warmup races--The Houston Half Marathon--three loops on a fairly brutal, rolling course. The computer simulators said that if I want to run a 3:40:00 marathon, I should do this half-marathon in 1:46:27, which to you and me, kids, is 8:07 pace. I used to do Yasso 800s at 8:00 pace. My previous best in a half was 1:56 -- although I was not going all out and it was not anything like a near death experience. My first half put me in bed for the whole day and probably was 2:30.

On paper, I ought to be able to run it, but they don't run the races on paper. They run them for real and the numbers don't lie:

Mile 1 8:32
Mile2 8:15
Mile 3 8:10
Mile 4 8:04
Mile 5 8:07
Mile 6 7:49
Mile 7 8:11
Mile 8 8:01
Mile 9 8:07
Mile 10 7:43
Mile 11 8:01
Mile 12 7:59
Mile 13 8:01
.23 (yes the course was long)

Total: 1:46:48
Avg. Pace: 8:04
Avg. HR: 155
Max Pace: 6:33
Max HR: 173

Of Course, Carrie was probably running her whole marathon today at that pace. I wanna be her when I grow up.

There may not be a pill for this, but there is a prescription. I did cheat only a little bit. I kind of had a pacer--except she kept running away from he while I thought I was going to puke. Coach T was kind enough to haul herself out of bed early this morning and join me for the third lap only. She was very mean to me, called me "old man" a lot, and nearly ripped my lungs out during mile 10. Thanks for that.

If I had managed to get through the water stops instead of wussing out, or if I had just puked and got on with it, the last miles would have been 7:50s. That's what Coach Garmin said I was running most of the time. I wish I could have run faster to make it work Coach T's time. It really was above and beyond the call to get up at 0500 after baby sitting well past midnight last night. I owe her.

So, imagine that. If you practice running fast, you learn how to run fast. So, supposdly I could run a 3:40 marathon on a course much flatter than half course I just ran. But that's not for another 80 days or so.

Hmmmmmmm. I wonder if I can hit 3:3?------

Especially without that pesky swimming and biking warmup.

On Hay, Barns and Rebellion

I went sub-8 last night.

I wasn't working out. I was sleeping. And for the first time in MONTHS, I managed to get almost 8 hours of sleep at a stretch.

When people ask me how I fit in all this training and a law practice, and parental responsibilities, I could be the hero, or I could be honest. Honestly? I don't sleep much--ever. And during the peak period, I'm not a very good dad or a very sharp lawyer.

This has combined to make me just a leeeeeetle bit cranky lately, and not very rational. Could you tell? Uhm. Yeah.

That crankiness persisted this weekend. I was pissed that I had to call it a day at "only" 95 miles on my bike ride on a very hilly route in very high heat. I had nothing left. I barely made it back to the car, nearly passed out when I got off the bike, and scrubbed my transition run.

Which made me even more pissed.

Almost fell asleep in the car on the way home, then couldn't sleep when I got home because of the pounding of my pulse when I tried to relax.

Which made me even more pissed.

Then, Sunday, I was pissed that I had to walk it in from between 17 and 18 miles on my long run. I had planned 20 in three hours. I made it only 17 and a fraction in 2:58. Never mind that you needed gills to breathe the Houston humidity and there wasn't a breath of a breeze. Never mind the high temperatures and lingering problems from the previous ride. No, I was irritated.

And continued to be irritated because I could not MAKE myself swim outside in yet more sun. I napped and went to swim inside. 4000 yards--not meters--in a short course pool.

The very perceptive amongst you will have noticed that the link to my training log has disappeared from my sidebar. I put off logging a few workouts, and but now I'm in total rebellion. I have to bill my time in my job, I have to call and let people know when I'll be home, and at this point, I'll be damned if I account for duration and heart rates in my "me time."

I'll hit the workouts as best I can, but what kind of person feels guilty about riding "only" 95 hilly miles in high heat and humidity and then scrubbing the transition run? What kind of person gets irritated at himself for running "only" 17-18 miles in high heat, and coming 2 minutes short of the 3 hour workout goal? What kind of person feels inadequate having swum only 4000 yards (not meters) in a short course pool instead of in the open water because he could not bear to be in the sun one more minute?

Well, apparently it's the kind of person who logs his training and heart rates, pretty much exactly like me. So, I'm quitting. From now until the race, no more logging. No more heart rates. I know what "tempo" feels like, I know how hard is hard. Enough with the numbers and the guilt and the data. I'll give it my best for the next three weeks, but that's going to have to be enough.

Realistically, I did good, long workouts two weeks ago--112 on the bike, 18 on the run, and 4000 long course meters in the pool. I'd give my training to this point a B+ for duration and a B- for intensity. So, the hay is probably in the barn. The logical part of my canine brain knows the fatigue that I feel right now is a result of loading that hay, and not from lack of fitness. But the psyche is not wedded to reality, nor is it necessarily rational. It's not real, but it sure seems real.

Of course, if this Ironman thing were "rational," everyone would do it. It would be average. If it were, we wouldn't have any part of it. Average sucks.

Working Out With Mickey

This is me` after today's ride in Galveston. I am wasted, and I haven't even had anything to drink.

Yet.

A number of things made the ride a true challenge.

1. Spring forward. SUCKS. Note to self: if you're going to drive an hour and a half to an early morning start of a group ride, don't do it on the Sunday you lose an hour of sleep.


2. Garminectomy: I charged my Garmin last night, but it refused to turn on this morning. So, the only computer I had along for the ride was a Mickey Mouse watch.

I.Kid.You.Not.

No elapsed, time, no heart rate data, no miles per hour. Just Mickey.

3. Wind: Sweet baby Jeebus I don't know how the wind could have been much worse. It was two out and backs for a total of 80 miles, and the wind we never really at our backs. Going out, it was enough crossways that you still felt wind in your face. Coming back, it was right in your face off the front quarter, blowing in off the Gulf. That is why 80 miles took an ungodly 4 hours 55 minutes. Which brings me to number:

4. Weather.com blows: Weather.com said the wind would be 15 mph out of the SSE, which would have given us a great tailwind on the homeward leg. Instead, the wind was out of the NE and built up to 20+ mph, meaning I was reduced to a snot slinging, slobbering, grunting, quivering mass of not-nice-word spewing . . . canine. If it didn't rhyme with duck, I pretty much didn't say it in the last 10 miles of my ride. If it did rhyme with duck, I said it repeatedly in all its forms--verb, adverb, adjective, gerund, and I don't know what else.

I couldn't even keep track of my progress or estimate how much longer the insanity would go on, because Mickey would not tell me how many miles I had left. He just smiled up at me and moved his four-fingered gloves around the dial ever so slowly.

And then at the worst possible moment, while clawing back into the wind, the song "It's a Small World After All" got lodged in my head like a blood clot.

Kill.Me.Now.

But the best part of the ride was seeing that my Iron Friend is totally ready for Ironman Arizona. She broke me like a twig by 70 miles, and she kept going for 100. I am told that I was able to do such things last year. It must have been my evil twin, Skippy, because this greyhound is feeling it tonight.

I guess this is a deposit into the Bank of Ironman, but the customer service at this Bank sucks.

Iron Weekend

I swam everybody out of the pool this afternoon.

Those of you who know me and my swimming might find that statement odd. But rest assured, there has been no jump in performance and I'm not on performance enhancing drugs (although it would be nice to be suspected at least once in a while).

I swam everybody out of the pool only in the sense that the length of my workout and my ponderous pace ensured that everyone who was there when I arrived had long since gone by the time that I finished.

You see, this is peak ironman training, and this was an Iron Weekend--a weekend where one approximates distances of an Ironman race over a multi-day period.

Right now, it is 90+ degrees outside and a million percent Houston humidity, but I am inside shivering and wearing a sweatshirt after a prodigious ice bath concocted with 40 pounds of ice. (So much is required because the tap in the master bath runs 80+ degrees because of the sun on the side of the house this time of year.)

Other odd behaviors this weekend included consuming an entire box of mac and cheese last night (along with four hot dogs mixed in) and still feeling hungry, consuming more "Boost" in two mornings than a rest home full of geriatrics, and falling asleep -- in a sub 50 degree ice bath.

So, uhm, yeah . . . Mrs. Greyhound is still out of town.

These strange behaviors were prompted by stranger still activities such as 101 miles on the bike in humidity that would drown a tropical fish, 18 miles running this morning through Houston air that smelled like a fish kill, and 4000 yards straight swimming.

I'm not iron ready yet . . . but I can see it from here.



Whiskey? Chocolates? You better believe it.

Triple Badasses

Success. The Prairie Dawg Leader and I finished the Triple strong--a pace line screaming through roundabouts in Vail and Eagle Vail and Avon at 30+ mph like the freaking Tour. I came, I finished, I learned, and I'm getting stronger every day. More to come later.

Prologue--MAKE IT A TRIPLE

Well, my peoples. My fine, fine peoples. Tomorrow we saddle up with the Prairie Dawg Leader (whose voice I have borrowed for this post) for a heaping triple helping of hypoxic lusciousness known as the Triple Bypass.

We'll do a little of this



on Juniper Pass.

Then we'll do a little of this



on Loveland Pass.


Lastly, we'll do a little of this




on Vail Pass.

120 miles and over 10,000 feet of verticle gain.

But who's counting?

Of course, when you're riding with Prairie Dawg Leader, costuming and the concomittant statement of intent is everything. So, all the appropriate appendages are shaved smoothe (inappropriate appendages staying as they were intended to stay) and I gots myself a new cycling Jersey that looks like this:




At the end of tomorrow, I'll either be a slightly more refined form of iron, or I'll be a mushy puddle of canine doo doo alongside some Colorado byway.

Wish me luck!

Copper Triangle

Last weekend was an 80 mile ride in Texas. This weekend was an 82 mile ride in Colorado. This weekend was quite a bit more difficult for three main reasons:

This:



This:




and This:




The highways we were riding had signs naming them "The Top Of The Rockies," and they weren't kidding. Our little jaunt took us 82 miles over three mountain passes, crossing the Continental Divide twice, and totalling 9468 feet of verticle gain on the ride.

The first pass, between Copper Mountain and Vail, is Vail Pass at 10,666 feet. Stronger rode up from the Vail side and joined us for the screaming descent down into Vail. She had to go back to her most important job (mom duty), so we continued on alone.


(John, Greyhound and Stronger atop Vail Pass)

The second pass, between Minturn and Leadville (the highest incorporated city in the U.S.) is Tennessee Pass; but, before you even get to the climb up the pass, you have to summit and descend Battle Mountain, which for me was four miles of pain in the smallest gear I could find.


(John and Greyhound atop Battle Mountain)


(Notch Mountain as seen from Battle Mountain)

Then, after some more climbing, you reach the former site of Camp Hale, where the 10th Mountain Division trained during World War II. There are pictures of the valley filled with barracks, and you can still see some of the foundations. That division, which fought in Italy and elsewhere, produced leaders and innovators such as Bill Bowerman (who founded Nike and coached Steve Prefontaine and other olympians), and the men who created Colorado's ski tourism industry from scratch.


(Former Site of Camp Hale)


More climbing and you finally reach the top of Tennessee Pass at 10,424 feet.


(Greyhound and John atop Tennessee Pass)

You don't actually descend that much from the pass into Leadville, because Leadville itself is at 10,159 feet. In fact, it's a pretty long pull though a windy valley to reach Leaville, but the views of Mount Elbert and Mount Massive are worth the effort.


(One of 3 or 4 dwellings that huddle in the valley beneath Mount Elbert and Mount Massive)

We were having some serious bonkage by the time we reached the climb (yes climb) into Leadville. So after some ideally engineered cycling nutrition (Fritos and Red Bull), we took on the last pass, Fremont Pass, between Leadville and Copper Mountain, at 11,318 feet.

After descending from Leadville to the bottom of the climb, the first 7 miles or so is usually a gradual ascent that is no big whoop. This time . . . whoop. As in kind of a big deal whoop.

Firm headwinds effectively made the climb start 7 miles earlier than usual. The last four miles are quite steep and difficult without the preceding 7 miles in the wind. Within sight of the top the wind from the other side of the pass nearly knocked me off my bike in the last 400 meters.

I have never fought so hard for altitude on a bike.

Never.

But those things that you have to fight for tend to give the most satisfaction.


(Greyhound atop Fremont Pass)

With weather approaching, we had to pedal like mad into headwinds to get down off the pass.


(Afternoon stormclouds gather atop the pass)

Finally, making it onto the descent proper, one could let go the brakes and fly. 43 miles per hour. That's living.

. . . . but I did not swim today, and barely was able to run 10 miles.

Next week--the Triple Bypass.


(Next weekend's ride)

Bring it.

Epic Day

July 5 is going to be an epic day. After a bit of a swim, I'll start my brick workout by riding with a buddy from Breckenridge over Vail Pass and down to Vail Village, thence to run off the bikes at 7000 feet above sea level, like the Irondog wannabe that I am.

But that's not the only reason July 5 is epic. Far from it. Two very famous and influential people were born on July 5. Least in importance is Huey Lewis, who is playing for your enjoyment in the sidebar. Best of all though, TriSaraTops, Mommy-Z-To-Be, is having her birthday.

Go see the Coolest Mom On The Planet and give her some birthday love.

4K

Even if others have been further and faster, there is a special feeling when you go further than you ever have before.

Today. Me. In the water.

4K.

4 Thousand Meters.

2.4 miles.

Sound familiar?

Whiskey and chocolates for everyone.

Afternoon Delight

So, after the masters swim today, Carmen Tequilo and I went for a little jaunt.

A little 102.74 mile jaunt.

Carmen love Greyound long time.

Solo

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

--T. S. Eliot

Fall, 1985. It was my senior year of high school. The school itself was one of those sprawling, gigantic high schools common to bedroom communities outside of larger cities. Among the 893 people on my graduating class, we could easily have sent members down to central casting to replace the ensemble in The Breakfast Club. We had preppies, cheer leaders, band geeks, brainiacs, stoners, athletes . . . all the stereotypes.

Anyway, I placed a sticker on the inside of the rear window of the car I drove. The sticker said "University of Wisconsin at Madison" and had the school's Numen Lumen symbol. I had won my audition to enter the school, and it was my statement: "I am not staying here. I am not going to the same college down the road where everyone else is going. It's clear across the country, and I am going by myself. But this is what I am doing."

At 18, I had never taken off alone before. It was a barrier to cross, and once crossed, everything changes. From that point on, I did not "live" at "home." That is "home" was elsewhere, not with my parents. I was too full of 18-year-old immortality to notice at the time, but it was an important moment, going it alone. A lot of important moments happen that way.

I don't know for sure, but today might be one of those moments too, on this journey back to Madison. I had plans for a big ride, a breakthrough in the bike training. I intended to start early, before an organized group ride, and tack on miles to exceed their distance. My plan was to do two loops to their one on the hilly Montgomery County roads that are my haunt at the weekend. I was going to do the ride with a friend, but my intended partner unavoidably had to cancel.

So. Me. In the dark. Pumping up the tires. Mixing the nutrition bottles. What to do?

Well, I knew one thing. I am not staying here.

When it was just light enough to be safe, I left. Solo.

I was alone most of the day, the long route group behind me, and catching short route riders as they came back into the start. The cheerleaders and drill team members who benefitted from the ride cheered me as I came first through the aid stations and road on past without stopping--like I was Floyd Landis or something. (THAT never happened in high school, I can assure you.) And I finished up the first loop.

But now what? The heat is coming, the wind is picking up, and the cheerleading aid stations will all be gone on your second trip around. I tried not to think as I mixed up more Perpetuem. With the bottles in place, I began again--solo--this time in the full sun.

They did not cheer as I left. They just looked.

Up to the half-way point of the second loop, one can turn around and save some effort. After that point, there was nothing for it except to get as low as possible on the bike to try and hide from a dead on wind that stretched the flags taut and felt like a convection oven. Even this does not work when your legs beg to stand during a climb. No cheering this time.

Except for one. Me.

We train in groups, we encourage each other in person and on the internet, and we cherish the friends that we make in this sport. But there are also those times, some of them very important times, where the aloneness is what forms us. When we are alone, like no other time, we have to decide who we are and how far we intend to go. Today was one of those times.

100 miles.

Solo.