The Artist Fomerly Known As The Tri-Geek Kahuna

**Editor's note: it is with great pleasure that I bring you a guest contributor, a man who was key in inspiring this blog and my exploits in the first place. I bring you the race report of the Iron Kahuna, one of the original tri bloggers**

35,000-FEET SOMEWHERE OVER NORTHERN MEXICO—Big thanks to TriGreyhound for allowing the Iron Kahuna to post this race report on Ironman Cozumel on his site. Those triathletes of a certain age will remember the Kahuna from TriGeekDreams, one of the first triathlon blogs on the Internet that suddenly went dark a few years ago, retiring like NFL Jim Brown did at the top of his game.

Well, the Iron Kahuna is back and badder than ever, at least for this single post.

About a year ago, Greyhound sent the Kahuna a message. “Hey, they’re starting an Ironman in Cozumel. How about we sign up?”

The Kahuna had one Ironman under his race belt—in Florida three years ago when the Gulf Coast did a nice imitation of a freezing fall day in New England. Still, surrounded by his tri-blogger friends—and with the proper training under his belt—it turned out to be one of the best weekends of his life. You can still see the Kahuna and Trimama getting their tattoos on YouTube (and yes, the Kahuna did cried like a little bitch, Trimama didn’t feel a think and Robo-Stu laughed his ass off).

Three years can make a memory hazy. The physical and mental pain of an Ironman recedes and eventually is stored into the that-was-no-big-deal? compartment in the brain. The tattoo looks a little less sharp, along with the clothing purchased in a frenzy after the Florida race. The Iron Kahuna was beginning to feel like the Rusty Kahuna. Though he had continued to race various distances over the intervening years, he wanted another crack at an Ironman.

So, Cozumel? The Mayan Riviera? With Tri-Greyhound? The Kahuna was in and signed up that day.

Well, training ebbed and flowed over the next 12 months. Juggling multiple jobs, four boys, a book tour (“Losing My Religion: How I Lost My Faith Reporting on Religion in America—and Found Unexpected Peace”) and two finicky calves, some weeks the triathlon training gods were pleased, other times they were extremely pissed.

There was something else heading into his second Ironman. The Kahuna didn’t have that epic, I’m-going-to-conquer-Mt.-Everest feeling in his gut. In fact, he had nothing. Little nerves, little anxiety, little excitement. He wondered if this meant his race was doomed.

Less than a month before the race, he competed in the Big Kahuna (no relation) Half-Ironman in Santa Cruz, Calif. and had to walk the last six miles of the run because his calf had popped. He decided during his long stroll toward the finish that he would drop out of Ironman Cozumel. That was the sensible thing to do.

Of course, after sleeping on it, he decided to eff his calves and at least get to the start line. The entry fee, airlines, hotel and food had already been paid. What the hell? He started running in the deep end of the pool—a practice that studies show keep runners in nearly as good of shape was running on dry land. He logged three hours on extremely boring Sunday morning. And he got Active Release Technique (ART) massages twice a week, sweating and tearing up at the pain caused by the doctor stripping away scar tissue.

So on Thanksgiving Day, he found himself full of doubts and pending doom but on a plane from Los Angeles bound to Cancun, Mexico. (By the way, if you’re thinking about doing Ironman Cozumel, there’s no easy way to get there. Most triathletes hopped a flight to Cancun, took a 50-minute taxi ride to a Playa del Something, board a ferry for a 45-minute vomit-inducing voyage to Cozumel, and then (in the Kahuna’s case) a 25-minute taxi ride to his hotel. Thank God Greyhound had wisely signed up for package deal from Endurance Sports Travel, which shepherded us along the way—he will never do another Ironman without its services).

On Cozumel, everyone soon discovered that the island produced few easy race days. If it was windy, bad for the bike. If it wasn’t, the heat could wreck you. Turned out, the triathletes got a little of both.

The swim had to be the best course in Ironman history. You start by walking along a dock that enclosed a pod of dolphins (that tourists swim with) and then jump off on the platform into the warm and crystal waters of the Gulf of Mexico. The Kahuna, a swimmer more than anything else, took his place in the second row of triathletes. He didn’t feel nervous, only under-prepared and wondering if his calves would hold up on land enough for him to see the finish line.

He didn’t hear the gun, but everyone took off and so did he. The ocean bottom, probably 30-feet below, served as a guidepost. He would look up at the buoy, and then find a spot on the bottom far ahead that was in line with it and just swim to it. He easily stayed on course.

The majority of the swim had a favorable current, enough that the Kahuna pulled off a PR of 54:48. Hmmm. Maybe this was his day! Running to T1, he felt a twinge in his left calf. Holy crap. Right then, he decided to go all out on the bike because he would, at best, forced to walk the marathon.

So he took off on the bike and for the first 20 miles or so, he flew, his speedometer registering a steady 19, 20, 21 and sometimes 22 miles per hours. Like a freaking idiot, he began calculating the math and thinking it could get under 6 hours on the bike. This Ironman was going to be easy.

But then, he turned a corner and his bike, buffeted by 30 mph winds, almost came to a stop. The landscape gave a clue as to what to expect: the windward side of the island didn’t support much vegetation because nothing much could grow against the strong, steady winds. He struggled to maintain a double-digit speed. The mental torture?

He’d have to pass by this section of the course two more times before he could get off the bike.

Near the end of the first lap, he rode back into town and was greeted, for the first time, by the locals. The Mexicans were the best fans EVER. It felt like being on the pitch at a major futbol game: ear-piercing noise makers and residents lined along the street shouting, “Vayamos (Let’s go!), “Si, se puedo (Yes, you can!), and “Animal (Animal).”

It wasn’t until the third bike lap (after not finding his special needs bag) that the Kahuna felt like was he was dying, thanks mostly to the wind and heat (93 degrees was the high he registered on his bike computer). He had taken in his nutrition well, but his body didn’t want anything more.

At T2, the Kahuna sat for a while trying to cool his body and thinking, “Now a marathon? Really? Why did I ever sign up for this?” It was a familiar Ironman panic that seems new each time. He found some solace in that everyone inside in the men’s tent seemed to be bewildered by the difficulty of the bike leg.

Finally, the Kahuna forced himself to get out of his plastic chair and onto the race course. The crowds, as stated earlier, couldn’t have been better. And the truth be told, the Kahuna’s legs didn’t feel too bad, despite being hammered on the bike. His body overheating was the problem.

Want to know the most depressing part of an Ironman for the Kahuna? Passing by the Mile 1 banner on the run. Only 25.2 miles left! That will play tricks on your mind.

The Kahuna slogged on, running (slowly) between each aid station (they were only 1k apart). At the stations, he forced liquid down him and ate only bananas (the one food that seemed even remotely appealing).

The field of triathletes seemed like a pretty even mix between North American and Central and South American triathletes, which left a language barrier and resulted in little talking on the run leg (different than other triathlons the Kahuna had competed in). But that was OK because the Kahuna didn’t seem much like talking. He just was trying not to totally blow up (secretly he was hoping his calf would pop and he could either a) walk the rest of the way or b) quit; however, his ART doc had too good of a job).

As the sun set, the island delivered another soul-crushing obstacle: clouds of mosquitos. These bastards bit the hell of the Kahuna, who wasn’t in the mood. Finally, a volunteer broke out some repellante and the Kahuna splashed it all over his body. Problem solved.

After lap 2 of the run, the Kahuna did some quick mental calculations. If he hustled, he could finish under 14 hours. Here’s the internal debate he had with himself for the next couple of miles.

“Push! You can break 14 hours!”

“What, are you crazy? That’s just an artificial barrier. You are dangerously close to a heat stroke. Be mature about this.”

“But 14 hours! And you only have a 10k to go. Think of all the training you put in. This is nothing.”

“Just walk it in. Be safe. You will still be an Ironman today.”

Of course, the bad guy won. The Kahuna hustled along, making sure he kept ahead of the 14 hour barrier. But as he closed in on the 26-mile mark, the Kahuna realized he didn’t factor in the .2 part of the 26.2-mile run. So he sped up even faster (by know, faster was a relative term).

Finally, the Kahuna turned the final corner and saw, maybe 50 yards ahead of him, the finish line and the large digital clock above it that read: 13:59:50. He was in too much of a hurry and in too much pain to hear the cheers of the crowd (or even hear what the announcer was saying).

He crossed the line (head up, arms extended overhead for the good finishing photo) and triggered the timing mat: 13:59:59.

The Kahuna swam, biked and ran his best race he could that day. The course was much tougher than expected. Throughout much of the day, he swore that this would be his last Ironman. He wouldn’t go through all this pain again.

But now, a few days later, he’s announcing his un-retirement. He’s got more Ironmans in him. The feeling of accomplishment after finishing one is just too good to not experience again. Maybe Ironman Brazil 2011.

Greyhound, you in?

The Best Laid Plans

You might recall how I asked Coach Kris for advice in formulating a plan for Ironman Cozumel. He gave me great advice: Plan A for the ideal day, Plan B for if something goes wrong, and Plan C for just getting to the finish. As it turns out, I needed all three plans just to get through the hardest Ironman course I have ever experienced in two hours slower than my unstated goal.

See, going in, I kinda had some numbers in mind. I thought it reasonable that I could swim--MAYBE--about 1:30 if the seas were kind. I had no idea what to expect of the current in Cozumel. I had trained to bike about 18mph if conditions were reasonable. Then, if I were strong and my nutrition was good, I might be able to hold 10 minute miles or so on the run. If it all worked out, I thought, based upon the results of my training, that I might finish in the mid to high 12 hour neighborhood.

Based upon my half-iron results on a hilly course and the higher level of fitness Coach Kris had given me this year, I think this was reasonable. But see, Ironman and Mother Nature have an unholy alliance. Here's how it went down.

The Swim: Plan A

I was nervous about the swim. Before the race I had the opportunity to take one practice swim on the course. The wind had decreased from the gales the day before, but it was still quite a challenge--two to three foot swells and strong current. I needn't have worried. Like everyone in the race, I had the swim of my life.

On the morning of the race, it was calm and still on the western side of the island. I jumped off the dock with 2000 of my closest friends and treaded water against the current until the horn sounded and we all pummeled each other on the way to the first turn buoy 500 meters up current. Because of the current, it seemed like it took forever to make that first turn. I choked down some sea water a couple times but did not wear myself out.

Squished and crowded around the turn buoys and we were heading back down current. This was like walking the moving sidewalk at the airport. I had some difficulty seeing the intermediate bouys as wakes and swells arose, but before I knew it I was at the far end of the course heading for home.

I was afraid how much effort would be required to get back to the finish, but the course must have been laid out close enough to shore that the channel current was not a factor. Each buoy passed in course and before I knew it, I was getting out of the water, fresh and ready to ride in only 1:20.

That's abysmal for some people, but pretty good for me and 10 minutes faster than Plan A.
"Sweet!" I think to myself. "10 minutes in the bank for later!"

Yeah. Not so much.

The Bike: Plan B

In and out of transition and I was on to my favorite part of the race--or so I thought. I love the bike, and the first few miles were going just as planned. I got my heart rate calmed down and settled into 20-22 miles per hour at a heart rate way under my thresh hold. I swam and rode so fast that Mrs. Greyhound and Superpounce barely made it out to the bike course to see me fly by on the first lap.

"Sweet," I'm thinking to myself. "I can put some more time in the bank for the eastern side of the island where they told us to expect cross-winds. I mean, how hard can it be? It's only 10 to 12 miles next to the open ocean. I've ridden 5 hours at Galveston before."

And then reality hit. We turned left onto the bumpy, rough, chip-sealed coastal road and were nearly blown off our bikes by a 30 mile per hour head wind with gusts even faster. My speed dropped from 20 to 15 to 14 and sometimes down to 12. It was less than 30 minutes into the bike, but I knew immediately that the numbers in my head were now just fantasy.

Time for Plan B. If I pushed over the edge here, the finish line might not happen at all. So, I dropped to the small ring and tried to maintain a cadence and heart rate while watching the mileage tick slowly by. Mezcalitos, the left turn back to Cozumel, seemed like it would never come. And all the while, I knew that I had to do that same stretch two more times.

By the time I reached the turn at Mezcalitos, my average speed had dropped from 18.5 mph to 15.8 mph. So Plan B was to see how much lost speed I could get back without digging myself into a hole. I road as fast as I thought I reasonably could without exceeding my target heart rates, and I got back some of my speed, but not nearly all of it by the time I made it back to the coastal road.

The second time through, I lost less speed off my average (the average being lower to begin with now) but several aid stations were now out of the water I had been using to cool myself, and my stomach was starting to rebel against Gatorade and calories. I was feeling bloated and stopped up, and yet I was bonking. I needed water to drink and dillute my stomach, not just pour on my head and torso. But second time around, there was none to be had.

The whole time on the coast road, I was counting pedal strokes--100 revolutions down in the aero bars at a time then start again. Don't look at the speedometer or the mileage markers because it is too depressing.

It was all I could do to go out for another serving from that course, but the two professionals in the lead of the male race lapped me as I got to town, and you can't stop and quit when the whole city is out cheering--even if they're cheering for someone else. I was able to get some water, but I was already overheating and was still 40 miles from home.

I don't remember much about the third lap. I was woozy and suffering and my body was in rebellion. Unlike a course with elevation changes, this one has you down in the bars the whole time and tears up the same muscles. By the time of the final turn into town, I could barely maintain 16 mph, even with no wind to contend with. I weaved a couple of times and thought, "Wow, I might crash. That wouldn't be so bad." There were also dark clouds over part of the island, and I half hoped for lightening in the hopes the run would be called off.

Yeah. That's not the place you want to be when you're starting the marathon. Plan C was firmly in play by this point.

The Run: Plan C

I have never come so very close to quitting a race as I did at T2 in this race. The fact that I continued cannot be attributed to toughness or character on my part. Character is what you do when nobody is watching. If nobody had been watching, I would have stopped. But my daughter was there, and she was watching. I don't want to raise a quitter. And I had written that damn fool thing about imagination, and I knew you had read it. So you were watching, and I couldn't stop with you watching me.

So, I put on my shoes, picked myself up off the deck of the stifling hot transition tent, and went out on the road. Still, it wasn't like I was prepared to flog myself anymore. I was done going to the well for the day. I was in the race in name only.

I walked for about two minutes and then started jogging with the goal of going very easy to the first aid station at 1km. With that accomplished, I decided to jog to the next aid station only 1km away. At each aid station I tried to catch up with water to get the calories to absorb again.

I made it all the way out to the far end of the three loop run course and managed to take on some calories without yakking. Turning around to come back, however, the slight breeze that had been cooling us running one way disappeared. Running in the same direction as the breeze, I started to overheat again in the muggy, tropical air. The dull headache I had been carrying became more pronounced. At the second aid station on the way back into town, the ground lurched and I almost lost my balance.

OK, this might be more serious, I thought. Suffering out of T2 makes no sense if you don't finish at all. So, I decided to be more careful. My aid station jogs became four minutes jogging, 1 minute walking, jogging to the next station, then one minute more of walking. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The second lap was the hardest. My body had still not come correct nutritionally, and mentally, you're still so far from the finish, it's hard to focus on the goal. I maintained the four minute jogs out to the far end and most of the way back, but those too deteriorated to three minute jogs and two minute walks by the beginning of the third lap, and thence to two minute jogs with three minute walks.

And I was not the only one suffering. Many were not jogging at all. It was fair carnage on the course by that hour, and they were not all pudgy one-timers who lacked training or experience. There were some very sharp and fit athletes who had been destroyed on the bike course and were barely surviving a 26.2 mile forced march.

One athlete, who was both young and fast, was curled in the fetal position on a cot at the medical tent furthest from the finish line several times that I went by. He was faster and fitter than me on any given day. And yet, slow and shame-faced as I was, I was faster that day. I finished. He did not.

He took the ambulance to a Mexican hospital.

But I finished.

And I went back to a nice hotel with a family who had only one Ironman they cared about in the whole race. They don't know that Yvonne Van Vlerken biked like a Norse Goddess and Rutger Beke won the men's race. They could not pick those people out of a lineup.

But they know I am an Ironman. And that is enough.

Vamos, Mexico!!

That was the hardest course conditions I have ever experienced at Ironman. Had it been my first, I don't know if I would have made it. Full race report to come when I get back to The States and dry out, but can I just say one thing?

Mexicans cheer WAY better than Anglo spectators.

WAY.

Not even close. We’re talking Mexicans are to Michael Phelps as Anglos are to me.

If you’re doing an event in the U.S., you’ll get the occasional “way to go, guys,” or maybe “good job” or the dreaded “you’re almost there” along with the ubiquitous “WOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

This would be sorry fare indeed, judged by the prevailing norms south of The Border. The people of Cozumel lined their streets and made them into the equivalent of a rowdy soccer match. Men, women and children were out all day long, cheering pros and age groupers alike.

They were beating on drums.

They were beating on buckets and pails.

They were beating on pots and pans.

They were singing and chanting.

They cheered audibly and rhythmically for every sad sack that was limping by, well into the night. We heard:

Bravo!! Bravo!!

Bravo, Muchachos!

Vamos!

A-r-r-r-r-riba A-r-r-r-r-r-riba!

We heard much that I did not understand (which might be best later in the day), But every competitor decked out in the Mexican flag was regaled with a rhythmic:

VA-MOS, MEY-HEE-COH!

VA-MOS, MEY-HEE-COH!

The little kids in their soprano voices were the best. They cheered every Mexican competitor as if he or she was an Olympian in the home stretch on the way to certain gold for the Mother Country.

Late in the evening, a little boy about 8 or 9 years old was sitting on a wall by an aid station as the walking wounded and left-over carnage from the bike course were limping through their marathon. In his little, heavily-accented voice he singled out an older, Anglo participant, and broke out his elementary school English training:

“GO! You-cahn-doo-eeet! You-cahn-bee EYE-RON MANG!”

The participant, to his great credit, acknowledged the encouragement. He looked straight at the boy and said:

“You can too. Some day, you can be an Ironman.”

Pay it forward people. Currency exchange is not necessary.

Imagination

"The man who has no imagination has no wings."*

So, here we are again, the night before another Ironman race. It is at this point that you start to wonder why it is you do this for "fun" and how it is that you will complete a 2.4 mile seas swim, 112 miles of cycling in the Caribbean sun, and a marathon on the Cozumel sea wall.

In the end, those types of things are completed with the same power that causes one to push "Register" on the race's internet site.

It's imagination.

That inner eye that let's you see history before it happens, to see what can be, to dare to do things, "not because they are easy, but because they are hard."**

You watch a race, and you do your first triathlon, and you watch an Ironman, and you begin to imagine that you can do this.

And you can.

Not all at once, but one bouy at a time.

Not all 112 miles, but the 10 minutes until your next drink.

Not all 26 miles, but 1 kilometer to the next aid station.

As long as you can imagine just that far into the future, just around the corner where only the mind can see, you have wings.

And when you have wings, anything is possible.


*Muhammad Ali

**John F. Kennedy

Coach Kris: The Man With The Plan

Dear Coach Kris:

I have this little race thingy coming up. I'm told there's a 2.4 mile swim, a bike segment of 112 miles, and then a marathon, 26 miles 385 yards. I suppose one should have a plan for such as this.

My first time at this distance my plan was: finish. If you wonder whether you're going to hard, you probably are.

My second time my plan was: don't die in the frigid swim, bike too strong, and then run just fast enough to get a "13" in the finish time.

I am unimpressed with my planning ability.

So, how do I make a plan for this race, and what should it be? One lap swim, the home stretch of which is downhill with the current. Three lap bike. Three lap run. I hear it's hot, flat and windy.

Your most obedient and humble servant,

Greyhound

P.S. Does Tequila make an appropriate recovery beverage?

*************************

Greyhound,

I hope the 13 in your finisher time was in the hour column not the seconds one. Here is a sure fire Ironman strategy that has work for many athletes of all abilities. It comes in a three stage format.

Plan A

Swim solid, but not too hard. You can’t win the race in the swim, but you sure can tank your race. Stick to steady pace. Current does not matter, everyone has it, so it doesn’t give you a pass to lollygag it on the return.

Bike CONSERVATIVELY! Every Ironman race I have seen implode has been due to over doing it on the bike. Start off moderate and get settled in. Bike inside a box, don’t let others influence you. This is your race and your day, don’t blow it by chasing some guy who is going to blow up later. Eat and drink according to what you practiced in your training and goal for peeing at least two times. If you have gone too soft on the bike, prove it on the run.

Run according to your pacing plan you have been practicing. Start off easy and be sure to drink, drink, drink! Monitor your effort and shoot for consistency. If all this goes as planned, you will be set for a great finish.

Plan B

Something goes wrong, whether it is you lost your salt tablets or blew two flats. Before you leave for your race, think about what can go wrong and plan that it will. Pack your special needs bags as if your life depended on it.


If your issue becomes more biological, think what has worked for you in the past. A good rule of thumb is when in doubt cut the simple sugars like Gatorade or gels. Drink lots of water, the more the better. If you throw up, don’t force it, back things down and try to reset your inner clock. Don’t try to over eat to make up for what you lost, just keep up with what your doing. On the run Coke can be your best friend or worst enemy. It can give you that added bit of energy you need on the run, but hit it too soon and get ready to ride the sugar roller coaster for 26.2 miles. Broth is great if they have it, but not all races do.

Plan C

Everything is going wrong!

Wipe the tears and dig deep for what motivated you to get to where you are. Slow down and just walk it out. At the end of the day, only you and a very few tri geeks really give a crap about your time. The fact that you did it plain and simple is the big win. Don’t believe me? Ask any kid if their dad/mom does Ironman and they will brag all day about everything but your PR (they don’t care). Your co-workers think you're crazy, they don’t care, they are just amazed you are alive.



Plan ahead and your day will go better than planned. Stay calm and don’t panic. You don’t want to look like Norman Stadler in 2005 at Kona, swearing in German and blaming everyone but himself for not doing things the right way.

Enjoy!
Coach Kris

It's Time

We interrupt this blog to bring you a very special news bulletin. It is time:

PR, Bitches!

Full race report to come, but I dropped 13 minutes from my half-iron PR.

And this course was WAY harder and hillier than my PR course or the flat, Ironman Cozumel course.

And my PR was set when I was 40. I am now 43.

And with the exception of about 8 miles at the end of the bike where I pushed a little harder, I was keeping Ironman heart rates all the way through.

Current Ironman pace at 43 years of age on a hard course = 13 minutes faster than old half-iron PR at 40 years of age.

**blink**

Coach Kris is a freakin' genius, riding with Coach Liz will make you fast, and Phil Shama will pimp your ride like no other.

I think I am seeing the light of possible at the end of this training tunnel.

Light as Iron--Morning Run

Shade and breezes and bending light. Morning behind a cool front that has cleared it all away: the tension, the smothering heat, the crushing humidity, the doubt, the questions.

Today, all I feel is almost nothing at all. My feet turn the earth beneath me like it is on ball bearings. The ground whispers by. I am running but I might as well be riding a bicycle with no chain. It is effortless.

Time stops. Or maybe all of time is now. Mile 16 is just as easy as mile 8 and as easy as mile four and feels like it would go on no matter how far over the horizon I ran following the rising sun. And all the while, my feet whisper -- swish swish swish swish -- at 180 steps per minute.

Back straight, body light, held aloft by something that defies gravity. I don't need to push myself because I am being pulled along.

I have been wondering how one makes it 140.6 miles to an Ironman finish line. I always do. How am I going to drag myself all day long and into the night.

Perhaps I won't have to. Perhaps I'll be pulled along.

Iron Juggler

Timing is everything.

If you want a simple and convenient run up to the Ironman, sign up one year in advance for a race that occurs before the intense heat of summer. To avoid burnout, start your real preparation about 6 months out when large numbers of your triathlon club will be out in training groups. Oh, and make an effort to be independently wealthy so that work will not interfere with your almighty training calendar.

Or if you like a challenge, pick a late season Ironman

So you can start training 11 months in advance

And so you can train through the heat of summer when no one wants to ride with you

And so you can train through the fall after most of your friends have already shut it down for the year

And so you can peak at the same time that the autumnal acceleration of work duties and trials and receptions is at its most intense.

Oh, and be sure and do it the year that fall temperatures decide never to show up in Houston.

Then you can develop some side skills in addition to swim bike and run such as

1. Eating pre-prepared crap in your car or at your desk

2. Experimenting with sleep deprivation

3. Mental calendarical juggling so that you can keep all or most of your training sessions and still do your doctor's appointments and that lame reception which lasts until 9pm after which you drive home and arrive at 9:45 and turn in 90 minutes later such that you sleep so late you miss your morning swim session (but not so late that you can avoid getting up and going early to the office) which swim session you must now fit in some time later in the day after the bike fit perhaps but before picking up the kid from school for piano lessons because of the spouse is on the scrap book retreat or perhaps this evening or perhaps tomorrow morning before the long run that is moved from Sunday to Saturday in order to run while the kid is at band contest due to the scrap booking retreat and that little thing called parenting.

Whew.

Given my somewhat timid and bookish nature, I have rarely been accused of having "balls." But right now, I'm pretty sure that whatever balls I have are in the air. I don't relish dropping them.

Ah, December. Glorious December. I can hardly wait.

Just Another Day In Paradise

Maybe we've been here before.

You know, that period of time right before an Ironman race where it's no longer this thing way out there for which you are preparing, but an imminent challenge. It gets real. Really real.

It's sort of like looking under the bed for that monster you were always afraid was there as a child only to feel the hot breath and see the yellow eyes of an honest to goodness monster.


My monster is the swim, so much so that I've been lately going off the reservation and swimming sets that exceed the distance prescribed by My Personal Yoda, Coach Kris. Fear will do that to you.

So here's the question I have about my particular monster. I know I can swim 2.4 miles in the open water. Been there. Done that. I'm pretty sure I can swim 2.4 miles without the aid of a wetsuit. But when the water starts moving up and down or side to side, or when I have to swim into a current, my weak little canine brain starts to despair.



Cozumel is a one loop swim course, leaving more time for despair and less opportunity to break the swim into bit sized pieces. In addition, the first half of the swim is into the teeth of the prevailing current that flows from south to north and which is used by divers to "drift dive."

Has anyone actually been in this water to know how serious this current is? Are we talking "lazy river" current or are we talking "Deliverance" current. I don't want to drift. And I don't particularly want to swim for an hour on the redline into a current before turning for home. But I think I hear banjo music.

SWIM FASTER!

Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice

Coach Kris tells me I need to train in the heat.

Which means that yesterday was a perfect day to train for Ironman Cozumel: hot, humid and windy as hell.

Niiiiiiiiiiiiice.

So, Coach Liz, my local IM COZ peep, and I went out for a two hour tempo ride in the middle of the day. I drank buckets. I sweated buckets. And it was the perfect conditions to simulate Cozumel.


Niiiiiiiiiiiice.


Nearly 90% humidity. Upper 80s for the temps. And winds gusting above 20 mph.

Niiiiiiiiiiice.

I'm so lucky to live where I can get such wonderful training.

yeah.

Love that.

Ask Coach Kris

**In the run up to Ironman Cozumel, I'm going to be asking my coach some questions, and publishing his answers here. If you have a question, enter it in the comments and we'll see if we can get the great and powerful Coach Kris to lend us his expertise!**

Dear Coach Kris:

When I am training in the heat, I notice that my heart rate gets higher and higher as the day goes on and as the temperature increases. I know sometimes "heart rate creep" happens when people are dehydrated and the heart has to work extra hard to pump thicker fluid. But this Saturday, I know I was super well hydrated because I . . . you see I was constantly needing to . . . well, trust me, I know.

But even when I'm well-hydrated, my heart rate really spikes when it is hot--like at Ironman Cozumel for example. Does my lactate threshold also go to the higher heart rate or does it remain the same? Specifically, assuming that my running threshold is 147, and I'm trying to keep it below threshold, does my threshold go up with the heat and "heart rate creep" or should I still stay below 147, even if my HR is 10 beats higher for the same pace?

Yours truly, Greyhound

Dear Greyhound: An excellent and very perceptive question my Iron Paduan. The answer is you'll have to run slower when it is hotter outside. DUH! (OK that was me writing, not Coach Kris).

Your Lactate Threshold remains constant. Your heart rate is increasing because your body is working harder to cool itself off. In the event you find yourself running in the marathon at Ironman Cozumel and you start to see your HR drift up while your pace remains the same, you should back your pace down to allow your HR to remain in it’s targeted area.

You can acclimate your body to work more efficiently by training in the conditions of your event, this will allow your HR to stay more in line. For you, Greyhound, it will be important that you do the majority of your training in the heat of the Houston daytime temps. This may be uncomfortable and against the vampire norms of H-Town, but it will allow you to adjust your body's response to the heat, and to practice HR control along with proper hydration technique.

Now get back out there and stop whining, Coach Kris

(OK, that last bit was mine, too.) If you have any thoughts or a question for Coach Kris, give us some love in the comment section.

Confidence

So, the Missus is checking on the price and necessity of "evacuation insurance" for transporting my mortal frame, in whatever injured condition, from Ironman Cozumel back to the United States.

Just in case.

Thanks for the vote of confidence, hon. kthxbai.

Get Busy

It's time to get busy. Colorado is done. Vacation is done. Work and fall and school are upon us. It's time to focus and to "gird my loins"--not least because 15 weeks from today is the first edition of Ironman Cozumel: 2.4 miles swum in a single lap in the ocean, 112 miles ridden in two laps on the island, and 26.2 miles run under the hot, Mexican sun.

My base fitness is good, but I am not in race shape. I'm not hard and lean and hungry. So, it's accountability time. Time to get focus and honesty and intensity back into the workouts after some Summer doldrums. Time to get control of the fuel system. Drop the nonessentials and the alcohol and the stubborn soft spots. There will be time for leisure and waste and softness and idleness and slack in December. Now it is time to get all parts of life organized around getting myself across the line as quickly as I can--while keeping the home fires burning at the same time.

So, watch this space. You are my accountability partners in this venture, and although it will not make for thrilling reading necessarily, I intend to post honestly what I'm doing and failing to do, not because my training is impressive. There are many who do more and faster than I do. I will post it here because I want someone looking over my shoulder.

Character is what you do when nobody is watching. I don't want to risk any failure due to lack of character. I'd rather be watched so I don't have to find out what I'm necessarily made of. So, if you don't mind, watch and hold me to account.

This week? Coach Kris prescribed some recovery from the Colorado Trip on which much epic cycling, hiking and trail running occurred. Fewer hours this week but some pretty good intensity in the medium distance ride and run this weekend.

Total Training Time: 9 hours this week.
3 swims for a total of 7600 meters.
3 runs for a total of 17 miles.
3 bikes for a total of 64 miles.

In the next 15 weeks we have to get from half-iron fitness to full-iron sharpness. C'mon, Coach Kris. Pour it on and let's get busy.

Preseason

What? Was there a sporting event of some kind yesterday?

Oh, that.

The end of the football season with some kind of contest with a ball. Yeah. I remember. I think I saw some of that.

But when you live in a house with two girls, neither of whom are football fans, sitting alone in your living room with your light beer and teams you don't follow in a sport you generally don't watch loses some of its allure. Great game, sure. But for tri-geek-hound, this weekend was the beginning of preseason, not the end of football season.

Ironman Cozumel is now 299 days away. And this time it's going to be different.

This time, I want more than just to survive the distance. I want to race, if only myself. I want to be in the fat part of the bell curve, not a tail end Charlie. And I want to maximize my potential in all three disciplines, swim, bike and run.

So, I've gone and hired me a coach and volunteered to be the lab rabbit on the Tac Boy and Bigun Podcast. And already its changed things. Why? Well I'm glad you asked.

Things have changed because I hired Kris Swarthout of SCS Multisport, which you can find at SCSMultisport.com. (You can find a link to his website and for his e-mail in the sidebar)

And let me tell you, Coach Kris at SCSMultisport.com is a freakin' genius. My workouts started on February 1, and just look how Coach Kris from SCSMultisport.com was able to improve my swimming with just one swim workout.

Here is actual video of me at the natatorium before being coached by Coach Kris from SCSMULTISPORT.COM:




Greyhound Before

And here is video taken this morning after completing just one, remarkable swim set from . . . .










(wait for it)










SCSMULTISPORT.COM

(subtle, non?)






Greyhound After

I mean, just look at me go! I totally rock now, thanks to Coach Kris at SCSMultisport.com. He has guaranteed that I will PR my Ironman, and shoot, I'll probably qualify for Kona on minimal training.

'Cause I totally rock now that I have a coach.

OK, so actually, most of that is not true.

I have to train.

And actually, I still only rock when compared to the long-trunk-wearing-one-length-at-a-time-wildly-kicking-morbidly-obese-New-Year's-resolutionists who are currently visiting the pool for the first time.

But I have hired Coach Kris, and I do think he rocks. This is the first triathlon coach I've ever had, and even in two workouts, I've already noticed a difference. The difference is significant enough that I'd already recommend a coach to anyone doing an Ironman. I'm no longer working out in a vacuum. I feel more accountable for hitting my marks and doing my sets. The details are important, and good enough isn't good enough.

With Ironman as with many other things, the devil is in the details. You don't get to the start line of an Ironman by making a resolution or a leap of faith, but in the daily grind, one stroke at a time. I'm glad to have someone else planning those strokes and holding me accountable.