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.

Running With Myself

Finish time: 6:04:09

This is where it started, you know. It started with running.

It started those years ago now, alone and early in the sweaty Houston mornings, when two sticky miles around the sleeping neighborhood at 11 minute pace was "cardio." That was when it was hard. Really slow, really alone, and really hard.

It started with the achy knees and the shin splints and the 800 calorie breakfast after the 400 calorie jog. Quitting running, starting again, getting injured, starting again, running well, running poorly, weighing 169 pounds.

Doesn't it always start that way? Faltering efforts on one's own, pain and foolishness. Pain and failure, glimpses of success, endorphins and thrill followed by the loneliness of the long distance runner when you wonder why you're the only one out in the cold rain on a Sunday morning. Even through the windshields, you see the looks of drivers on a morning like that. They think you're a fool.

Even as children, we scarcely learn to walk before we are walking fast and bobbling then running--usually away from the worried grownups who try and fail (as they must) to prevent us from running into things, falling and starting again.

I suppose it would seem like foolishness for a two-year-old to run from safety to skinned up knees. But, after all, that's how growth happens--for two-year-olds and for forty three-year-olds. Foolish and necessary all at the same time.

"I pray--for fashion's word is out
And prayer comes round again--
That I may seem, though I die old,
A foolish, passionate man."*

Off the bike this fool jumped in T2, and despite some lollygagging and habitual complaining, it felt good to get out into the sun and onto the run. My legs were not overtired and I was not overworried about completing the day's training task. I was blissfully ignorant about the features of the three loop course save the downhill and up between the arena where T2 and the finish were located to the lake park where the turnaround was. So, I practiced Ironman pace and decided to run past the first aid stations until a mile or two was under my belt.

Whisk-whisk-whisk-whisk. Light and easy were the quick steps that began to chew up little bites of feet and yards and miles. 138 pounds now--31 pounds down from a younger and slower self. The hills just meant smaller steps and slower pace but also the fun of gliding down the other side. The sun came and went behind sticky, humid clouds, but the warmth did not drain my energy. Steady on, and on with ease, one small landmark at a time, breeze sometimes but not at others.

There were lots of people on the run course, and the out and back nature of the route meant you would see them over and over. And there were lots of bands and music and entertainment and hooplah. Honestly, though, I was quiet inside, almost like I was out for one of those runs in the dark. I was out for a run by myself. Whisk-whisk-whisk-whisk. Smooth and steady--an occasional walk through an aid station and once to handle a side stitch on a hill that will not exist in Cozumel.

And then it was three laps done. Whisk-whisk-whisk-whisk. Two hours and a fraction and the knowledge that I could have gone much further still without going to the well. Thirteen minutes faster than my previous best when I tried hard and worried. 13 minutes faster as a passionate, and relaxed, fool.

I don't guess it matters how many Iron Distance races one has done. I always wonder at points in the year, "Who was that guy? Because there is no way it could have been me. I'm never going to do this."

But then at different points I know--at that point I knew--anything is possible for "a foolish, passionate man."* Cozumel awaits.

*William Butler Yeats, A Full Moon In March (1935). A Prayer for Old Age, st. 3.

Biking With Yoda

That spectator did not just call me "Tiny."

Yep. He did.

He called me "Tiny."

Judge me by my size do you? Mmmmm?

And well you should not. In cycling size matters not. For my ally is The Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are, not this crude matter. You must feel The Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere. Even between the land and the bike.

Better to be small it is, but large in the ways of The Force.

Fifty Six miles to the transition it is. Plan we must! Mmmm? Yes!

Big cyclists you are, and hammering the hills out of T1. Great warrior, hmmmm? Wars not one great.

Grave danger you are in. Impatient you are. Impatient I am not. Strong in the ways of the force am I. If the heart rate low and steady you keep, then strong at the end will you be. But you? Grave danger you are in.

Spinning up the hills I was, and low within the wind my shape I made. Fewer than 135 heart beats to the minute did I make. The Force was with me. 1 hour did pass and more than a third of the course had I run. To the end in less than three will I make? Always in motion, the future is.

Ah, hour two. Powerful you have become, the dark side I sense in you. But fear you? I do not! Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.

But my ally is The Force. Even smaller do I become and invisible to the wind am I. This is not the cyclist you are looking for. Move along. Slower I must go, but still there is no weakness. No impatience. Use the Force I must. Because . . .

Now the third hour is. A few minutes behind am I. And yet, no impatience. Three hours can I make? Do or do not. There is no try.

So through the wind I must ride until we turn for home and then flow with The Force at my back I will. 22, 24, 28 and 30 mph riding on the Force.

And three hours I did make, faster than my own efforts have yet permitted. Faster still could I have gone. And now run I will.

And when 43 years old you are, look as good, you will not.

Swimming with Ernest

In the early fall of this year we traveled to a city in the hills next to a lake that looked across the farmland towards the plains. In the lake were water plants, long and soft, dark in the morning light, and the water was grey and dark, still in the October morning.

Crowds went by and down the road to the water. And the noise around them did not stir them, each man alone with each other together. And it was a fine thing looking out over the water by one's self in that crowd.

The day had been cool before the sun, and we gathered by groups. Men in groups. Women in groups. Groups by age, the largest by far being men between 35 and 45. All these men with half a life behind and maybe less than half before, and lots of money between them; yet, all preparing to plunge in the lake and swim away from shore.

Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another. To all these men, it seemed a noble thing to swim that morning. We don't kill our food to survive any more. We don't run with the tribe until the antelope falls from exhaustion. We of the suburbs do not even hunt for fun. We don't shoot big game anymore. We don't battle game fish.

Even war is not the same. My enemy and I will never see each other's eyes. I from my country will try to kill him from afar on a screen. Only when pressed will we send our youth to be boots on the ground while leader and leading class dine in safety. He from his will prefer to kill everyone except my soldiers--relief workers, journalists, secretaries in office buildings. He will immolate himself (or persuade his weak contemporary to do so) because believes this will hurt me above all else. Acting as we do, are we, then, men at all? Where the "grace under pressure?" In modern war . . . you will die like a dog for no good reason.

But we are men. We were not made for lives of safety and comfort and electrons entertaining us with the struggle of others on a Sunday afternoon. We were not made to be fearful or still. Our excess makes us that way--excess money carried in our garages and homes, excess food carried around our bellies, excess status carried between our ears. Fear of death increases in exact proportion to increase in wealth. We were made for struggle, and ambition, for striving, for the fight, for the arena. If life does not provide it, we will create it for ourselves.

Hesitation increases in relation to risk in equal proportion to age. Reaching the middle of our years, we start to fear the arena is past. Then we search for grace under pressure and we'll reach almost anywhere looking to see it in ourselves. We try to be the heroes in our own narrative, for as you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary.

And it was so necessary that we stood with hundreds of our fellows, long before our sleeping, half-living friends stirred in bed. The dark was still upon us as we formed our ranks and our battalions. Commands rang out from the loudspeakers. The flag was saluted, the anthems sung. The dawn began and clouds took up the colors of from gray to pale purple to peach and then to gold. The hills looked out over the mirror lake and file upon file of hills beyond it. Group by group we took our place and came to the water, following the order to swim.

And once more we took to the struggle in the water, hundreds of men with perhaps less than half their lives before them. I moved forward in the surge while the man on the speakers shouted at us. The water was dark, soft and warm to the touch, and the air around our heads fresh and cool. Plants in the water brushed and grabbed my legs and the mud sucked me ankle deep.

I swam out hard and strong, head up at first and then pushing my face into the lake. At first, the air and water were good, smooth, and full. I breathed and blew and all was well. I swam with the group of men until I ran into one, tried to swim around, clocked another, and drank the brown, silty water. About 200 meters in, my shoulder ached from the unaccustomed wetsuit and I was just sick of the whole thing.

I choked, looked up and tried to keep myself on course. The far corner of the course seemed no closer, and I took a couple of breast strokes, as if there was something to be done other than swimming on. I don't enjoy swimming, and I am always looking to abbreviate the experience. But stopping would feel good temporarily. It does not solve the problem. Cycling is only allowed if you complete the swim. The more you half-ass it an complain to yourself, the longer it will take.

So, I looked for some way to swim that would account for the stress on my shoulders. I kept my head down for longer in order to make progress, and swam some off course. Lifting my head more often, I stayed on course, but swam slower. There is nothing heroic about a man swimming, except the finishing of the thing itself. So, nothing to do but keep going. Hercules or not, the manure in the Aegean stables still needs shoveling.

And shovel I did. Made the first turn far too slowly but glided around and swam for turn two. By now, faster swimmers from the wave behind had caught us up and I gave up more time trying to move outside to let them through. Again, trying to make distance between citing and a gimp shoulder made me swim like a drunken sailor. Correcting course, I finally made turn three.

More shoveling.

The waves at this race had some "slower" waves ahead and some "faster" waves behind, with a good alternation between male and female waves. By some freak of physics or combination of bell curves, I swam into a gathering of faster and slower swimmers all arriving around turn two at the same time, like bigger and smaller pieces of flotsam caught in an eddy. Again, I felt in the way, but could see the final buoys and the swim exit some 500 meters off. I pushed my face again into the lake, pulled hard, glided when I could, cited often, and tried to make this last bit count.

As the end came closer, it also came faster. No watch was on my wrist nor was one seen by me. I am what I am in the water. And I am not what I cannot be. Though always tempted to quit, finisher I will ever be, and finisher I was. Because man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.


**I don't know what kind of literary dweeb thinks of Hemingway while waiting for a swim to start, but I did. So, I tried to write it down.**

Chasing Butterflies: Iroman 70.3 Buffalo Springs Lake

"Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. "

--Nathaniel Hawthorne

I think my mental processor must be getting slower, or else my RAM needs to be upgraded. I have been trying to process a race report on the Ironman 70.3 Buffalo Springs Lake for days and days, and yet it just would not gel. It is a great event, and I am glad I undertook the challenge, and I had a lot of fun. But at the same time, it was the Murpyh's Law of weather--windy swim and bike, rain in Lubbock (WTH??!!!) and then a sunny hot run with high humidity -- in Lubbock??? How do you write any kind of unified account of that type of experience.

Then, things went from bad to worse when I read the race report from Crazy Jane, M.D., who seemingly just floated, unworried and untroubled, through conditions that I found very challenging. Since Jane has a license to practice medicine and the ability to prescribe medications to her psychiatric patients, I immediately suspected that she had been self-medicating. That, and I rationalized that the swim did smothe out for the later waves and the wind died down for the later waves on the bike. So. See, it was much harder for me. (Blah blah blah excuses and rationalizations).

And then I read a version of the quote set out above in reading a recent magazine article in connection with the Boston Marathon about Bill ("Boston Billy") Rogers. And it kind of snapped into place. I have been chasing butterlies, trying to get faster and be happier with my skills as a triathlete. The worst moments of the weekend happened when I was chasing the fastest, the inability to sleep the night before worrying about swimming open water without my wetsuit, bumming out about my swim time, being judgmental about my bike performance, pulling the plug in the last mile of the run rather than risk puking. The happiest moments of the weekned were when I just "sat quietly" (or as Mark Allen says, "quieted the mind") and just focused on the task at hand--making a good swim stroke, efficient pedal cadence or rapid foot turnover. If I had done that more, the race, which all in all should be considered a success, would have been even more of a positive experience.

The Swim



I swam what time?

The day began very windy, me shivering in the water before the swim start, sans wetsuit. I had decided to swim without one to begin getting accustomed to the feeling in advance of Ironman Cozumel, which is not wetsuit legal. I ran and swum a good warmup, which allowed me to start swimming without hyperventillating. I thought I was doing OK and would swim somewhere in the mid-40s, which is my normal, pedantic, half-iron pace, but it was not to be. I found the lake to be fairly choppy and sucked down much water. The swim times in the pros and the rest of the field would indicate adverse conditions and perhaps a course that was long. I saw myself bouys being blown and moved during the race. That said, with all the improvements to my swimming of late, I was not expecting to swim ELEVEN MINUTES SLOWER than I've swum the course before. I was not happy, as you can see:



Starts with "F" and rhymes with "Duck"

Note to the race organizers: 4 main buoys spaced 400 to 500 meters apart is not adequate for a half-iron race, especially one that starts in the dark and has lake chop. It certainly would neither kill you nor break the bank to have a little round buoy every 100 to 150 meters to aid in siting and provide interim goals for iffy, middle-aged swim novices.

The Bike

The bike involved a much quieter mind, and although I was not as fast as I had hoped, I showed some gains in fitness. I narrowly edged out my previous performances on this course, notwithstanding much tougher conditions than the last two times I did this race. I wanted to average a touch over 18 mph, and through the first 40+ miles I managed to do so. A stiff 20+mph wind from the north, and the last two northerly-oriented climbs out of Ransom Canyon, however, served to lower my average speed to such an extent that I could not bring it back above 18 by the time I re-entered Buffalo Springs Lake Park on my way back to T2.

Re-entering the park, one had to deal with car traffic on the road--getting stuck behind cars during a race?? That probably cost a couple of tenths of an mph off the average, but the main issue was one of safety. Note to the organizers: close the road over the damn to incoming traffic until the race is over.




The good news is that the parts of the course most like Cozumel--flat and windy--I did just fine. If the road does not tip up, I am in my element. I was able to just relax, hunker down, focus, and chip away at time and distance. Hopefully, this is a seed of confidence for a quiet mind on race day in November.

The Run

The good the bad and the ugly. The good was the relatively flat portions of the course where, notwithstanding some tired legs, I was able to get a rhythm going and set a sustainable pace that chewed up the distance and got me from aid station to aid station in good stead. I even overtook Coach Liz about a mile after T2, which surprised me to no end because she's a hard case and a great athlete. But, I took a cue from Hillary Biscay, "no walking in Ironman," (at least on the flats in my case) and every time I had a wave of discomfort, I just focused on my stride and rationalized, "the fastest way to get this overwith is to keep running." That is what one needs on Ironman day.

The bad--three very steep hills. It made no sense to run them on the day, so I power walked. It's just a tough course, so no excuses but no worries either.



The ugly--chasing butterflies. I wound up running a better pace on this course than I have in the past, due to my consistency (if not speed) running the flatter sections. Had I known that, I would have been content to keep the mind quiet in the last mile and a half and just suffer a little more discomfort and done even better.

At the time, however, I was thinking about the PRs and the time goal butterflies that had gotten away--indeed they were unrealistic given the swimming and biking conditions and might have been unrealistic even under ideal conditions. In so doing, the butterfly chasing brain began to ask, "what's the point? No need to puke if you're not going to PR." And so I began walking instead of channeling my inner-Hillary-Biscay. Coach Liz passed me back at about 3/4 of a mile to go. I should have run with her and finished a fun race with a friend, but I quickly cut her loose and hobbled until the finish line was comfortably in sight.




So, again, I finished Ironman 70.3 Buffalo Springs Lake. I did not get near the numbers that I had placed on myself, but in a sense, those numbers will come when I stop chasing them and just get down to the business of putting one foot in front of the other during individual moments.

Even more important than the numbers, however, was the experience and its fruits. I put some big deposits in the Ironman Bank on which I can draw in Cozumel in November, and learned a ton. Better still, the beer was great, the comeradery authentic, the after party loud and boisterous, and the hunger for more such races rekindled. The road goes on forever and the party never ends.

On Guts

On Memorial Day, 2009, I returned to the site of my first ever triathlon. And on the day, I was fairly satisfied with the experience. After all it was not my "A" race of the season, and I had modest goals. I wanted to do better than my first triathlon, and I wanted to have a comfortable swim with my head in a better place than my previous efforts.

I did all that. I had a modest PR, finishing the course in 2:51:25, which is a few minutes faster than when I first did it. I had a modest swim PR, finishing the 1500m in a workmanlike 33:31, again, a little better than my first effort. I had a really fun/strong bike split of 1:13:13, which is an average of 20.3 mph over a course with lots of turns, some climbing, and several places where one has to slow to nearly zero mph to U-turn and then crank it back up to race pace. Then, in the heat of the day, being somewhat satisfied with the day's efforts, I "phoned in" the run, just lollygagging through the 10K, way below my potential.



I was pretty happy with the day's work, and had lots of fun. So . . . why am I becoming less satisfied with the race as time goes on?

Of course part of it is because I'm way too analytical for my own good and I think too much. It was supposed to be fun, and it was. It was supposed to be a day of play, and it was. It was supposed to be a super fantastic time spent with friends, and it was all that and a bag of chips.

But part of it is because I am just analytical enough to know that the unexamined life is not worth living. So, tolerate a little navel gazing before I make a bigger point that does not have so much to do with me.

Not to take anything at all away from an awesome weekend--but I've been thinking. (Uh oh). For this race, I aimed low and I hit the target. I swam better, but I swam easy rather than test what I was made of. I rode well, but biking is easy--I love the bike, especially on a technical, crazy-fast course. And when the run was harder than I wanted, I just couldn't be bothered. I aimed low rather than risk failure. Big deal. Sure, a good day of practice and preparation for Ironman Cozumel later in the season. But not very gutsy.

This race report, however, is not a pity party for Trigreyhound. In thinking about Monday, I really did learn something. I learned something about guts, but not from my own performance or from the performances of the fast kids. There were some extremely gutsy athletes out under the sun on the Cap Tex Tri race course. And if you look only to the race clock I beat nearly all of them. But somehow I don't think the race clock measures the winner of the guts race very well.

Everyone in the race, from the fast kids on down, is enduring something, whether it is the pain of the effort or the conditions or (very often) their own negative head talk about their performance or their chances for success. I'm sure we've all heard that voice: Why are you doing this? What is the point? You're not going to win. You're not even getting any better. I, myself, often have to deal with the critic on the shoulder who questions whether I belong on the course at all, and I'm at least a C+ athlete at this point.

Think, then, how much louder and more authentic the voice sounds with someone who is not a C+ athlete. For example, what of the first-time triathlete who doesn't (yet) have the skinny body and the muscles and the flash bike with the aero helmet? What about the woman who, 6 months ago, hated buying swimsuits and looking in mirrors who is now in spandex, out in public, racing and raising money for Team in Training? They were out there suffering in the sun, sometimes walking, sometimes barely running as I went by them at my "slow" pace. What's going on in their heads? Maybe they have a better and healthier thought life than me. Maybe they never doubt. Somehow, I think they do hear the voices or the criticisms or feel the judgments; yet, they keep on going. They show guts. They risk failure. They endure.

My time was faster, but I don't think I "beat" them.

And then there were the two racers that I want to point out in particular. Again, I passed them on the run, but I know for a fact that I did not surpass them. They were both younger than me, enough so that I might have been their father. They were running together, both dressed in red team jerseys. They both had haircuts that were high and tight, because they were both Marines, combat veterans. They both had jerky, labored running form, because they were each running on a prosthesis to replace a missing leg.

Not two years ago, these soldiers probably gave little real thought to injury or death, cloaked as they were in the immortality peculiar to young men and athletes. Their identity, to their very core, was likely bound to their physical strength and bodies that would obey their commands, bounce back and do it again the next day. Now, here they were, with bodies that were missing limbs, incomplete, unruly, difficult, nonresponsive. And yet, they aimed high. They risked failure. They endured. I ran right past them, but they've been in my thoughts ever since.




I was faster, but I most certainly did not "beat" them.

That's what I want to foster in myself. I want to aim high. I want to risk total, abject failure. I want to bite off more than I can chew, and then chew like hell. And I want to keep on learning from the people on the course who really beat me. Semper Fi.

Rule No. 1

1st RULE: You do not talk about FIGHT CLUB.

2nd RULE: You DO NOT talk about FIGHT CLUB.

In the midst of all the work craziness this week, I confess that I have felt a little like someone who got beat up at fight club but couldn't talk about it.

I really don't want to be "that guy." You know the one--the guy who tells everyone in the office about his sprint triathlon or his charity ride or his marathon. I make allowances for "that guy" if folks are new to sport, because it's neat that they're excited about they're newly found health and fitness. Heck I probably was "that guy" not long ago.

But if you're four or five years in, it starts to get a bit unseemly if you talk as if you're the second coming of Dave Scott every time you do a 5k fun run or a 10 lap pool workout.

So, I very rarely tell people at work if I'm racing, especially a normal, build up race. It's a "need to know" kind of thing. If you "need to know" why I'm not available, you'll get told. If you don't know, you don't need to know.

But then, I'm sure that there are some people who wonder why I've been gimping around this week like I can't walk--sort of like the office worker who comes in with the shiner and can't talk about fight club. But you guys are in fight club--so I can talk, right?

Well, to tell the truth, I've got blisters that are all the more painful in my lawyer shoes, the result of trying to be a sockless tri-geek on race day. That was the end of the race. Going backwards in time, I ran the last 3 miles with a decent stride, but the first three and a half miles were severely hampered by a back spasm off the bike. The bike rocked -- nearly 20 mph average speed. Passed lots of people like they were tied to posts. Great fun--until the back started to get tight. Gotta get that bike fit looked at again.

Of course, I had a lot of people available for me to pass. That huge sucking sound you heard to your south on Sunday was me sucking in the water--literally and figuatively. It was overcast, I couldn't see, the wind kicked up some chop, I swam or got blown off course, and mostly I just had my typical beginning of the season freak out. I swam a better pace for all 4k of my two Ironman swims than I swam on Sunday for 1k. Which is why there were HUNDREDS of people in front of me on the road.

And I'm starting to get pissed off at this problem of the transition area being devoid of bikes when I get out of the water.

And the pissed-offedness state is usually about the time that I start to solve problems. I don't have to be Andy Potts for crying out loud, but this swimming like Mr. McGoo has got to stop.

So, there. That's why I've got a shiner and can't walk too well. Next up, the MS150.

Post Mortem: or Don't Run With The Skinny Chick (She'll Hurt You)

I couldn't stop thinking of her last night.

All night. She trouble my sleep. The trim, athletic girl with the beguiling pony tail who drifted in and then out of my marathon day.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't consumed with fevered desire for the leader of my pace group. I think a team of Swedish lingerie models with a supply of Cialis would have found me unresponsive last night.

No. It definitely wasn't desire. I was overcome with pain from trying to keep up with her. She went out at 3:35 pace when I would have been lucky to finish in 3:40 with all the stars aligned. Every time I moved in my sleep, the pain woke me.

Post mortem means, "after death." That's a good title. I'm dead. I.Can't.Walk. I managed to PR the marathon and the Houston course by about 4 minutes and 20 seconds, but once again I used my patented negative-negative split method. (TM) Run stupid and then die for the last hour of the race. Specifically, if your goal pace is 8:23, run 8:17 in the hillier first 10k, 8:15 from 10K to the half-marathon point, then slow to 8:52 from 21k to 30k, and 9:31 through to the end.

Then again, I had always envisioned death as being the end of pain. If so, this hurts way too much to be death. That was the most painful race of any type that I have ever done.

The pain or injury that I experienced in my legs back in November/December never totally went away. I babied it in training so that it was never acute and I could fool myself that the problem was healed, but it was there hiding. At the race, I started having pain in my calf and some in my hip flexors associated with uphill running approaching mile 7. That's a bit early in the race to start worrying if your chassis is going to go the distance. I think I altered my stride to deal with it, and by mile 18 I had no stride left. I was pounding along on stiff stumps rather than gliding with an efficient stride. If I tried to lift my heel and pull my knee through, both calves would cramp and threaten to end running altogether.

Essentially, I think the nature of the program and the quasi-injury caused me to peak early. I could have run faster and better back in December or November when I was running times consistent with a 3:40 marathon. I had to ease off, resulting in a taper that was too long, and lost some fitness, which I then squandered on race day by not racing smart.

So, I survived. I'm pleased with the PR, but already thinking how I could have done better. For my own benefit, and for those who are slaying their own marathon demons, here is my version of "If I had it to do all over again," beginning in training and going through race day.

1. Train Harder (kind of): How can I possibly say "train harder" when I hovered on the brink of injury? Well, I'll get to that. On race day, I felt like I had enough aerobic capacity for my pace until the very very end. The problem was muscular endurance sufficient to maintain pace without pain. If I were coaching me, I'd prescribe more muscular endurance training: long tempo runs above race pace, more extended runs at marathon pace, and generally increasing my long run pace by running more of my long runs with groups of runners faster than me rather than lollygagging through long runs listening to my Ipod.

2. Train Smarter (recovery): The reason I started to break down, I think, is inadequate recovery for my age and station. When doing run-focused training, my body was telling me I need a genuine recovery week, with dramatically reduced training, every third week. I think this would allow me to absorb more intense training without getting hurt and continue raising the peak instead of peaking 6-8 weeks before the race and feeling chronically tired and achy into race day. So, I needed to go harder when training, and rest/recover more effectively when not training.

3. Train for Efficiency: On my last marathon PR, I think my stride was much more efficient, in part because of running drills that I included in the program. I didn't do those faithfully this time. I need to be able to start with an efficient stride and then maintain that stride for longer. So, running drills, maybe the Striding On program, and work on core strength, such as with the "Pedastal" program.

4. Run Your Own Race: I don't think I'll rely upon a pace group again. This one went out too fast. Since the first 7 miles of the race have most of the grade changes, that was even more costly than simply running a few seconds per mile too fast. That said, I should have just realized what skinny chick was doing and cut her loose. I didn't. I hung with them for more or less through the half-way mark, and the damage had been done. Even when hanging with them, it did not feel natural to alter my stride or tempo over grade changes to maintain spacing rather than just do my own thing and keep even splits from mile to mile. So, the hard pace felt even harder. Especially on the Houston course, it would work better for me to go out easy through the first hills, gradually come back to the goal pace during the middle miles, and hopefully place myself in the position to run harder from 20 miles on in.

So, there it is. Live and learn.

Now it is triathlon season. I wonder if I can still swim?

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 Finishing And Starting Again

"The future is something which everyone reaches at the rate of 60 minutes an hour,
whatever he does, whoever he is."

"The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts."

--C.S. Lewis

If you take over 13 hours to race an Ironman, you will be watching the sun drift lazily and reluctantly below the mountains as you finally turn around between miles 20 and 21 on the run course in Idaho. The lake shimmers like molten gold, and if you're as lucky as we were, a breeze blows off the water with the promise of a cool night ahead. It is at this point that things start to really improve. Lies and pain give way to truth and painful joy.

For much of the previous hours, you have been fighting big negative thoughts with little rhythmic ones.Some people would say it is the psyche that's picking on you, asking you rhetorical questions that have no purpose on a race course, questions like:

"What are you doing?"

"You've already done one of these. What's the point? Look at those people already finishing. You'll never be as fast as they are, even if you quit your job and trained full time."

"If you're going to be THIS slow, you might as well walk. Why keep on running?"

"Nobody will care if you quit."

It might be the psyche--it might be Lucifer. Whatever. It serves no purpose for good. You will care if you quit. You know it beyond certainty, and you complain to yourself when you walk. So you drown out Lucifer--or yourself--with white noise--little thoughts as simple as the rhythm of your foot strikes and the song in your head.

"I'm gonna break
gonna break my
gonna break my rusty cage and run."

And as the sun finally disappears into twilight, the road tips up as you come back into town for the final time.

You can see the towers from the resort on the skyline, and you know you will reach them. That is where you will finish. The course is mostly quiet now. Many of the neighbors have gone inside for the night. You can see them through their windows. But some are still there. Someone who has been in their front yard all day cheering Ironmen in all shapes and sizes tells you it is 1.7 miles to the finish. Someone else is there later to tell you it is 1.2 miles. Yet again, another man on a bike, who has been in the same spot since you last saw him more than an hour ago, says, "Three more turns. You've got this. Good job." And one more angel whom you encounter unawares says, "six blocks; only six blocks."

You can hear the music and the loudspeakers and see the lights, and like whirling faster and faster down a funnel, it gets tighter, narrower, crazier and louder until you are just carried along. Somewhere you hear your name shouted and your child grabs your hand. Both of you are swept down the chute:

And even though the earth tilts sideways and your body starts to chill and shake and shiver, you know.

You know that those questions in your head were nonsense, lies that only seem true under stress.

You know that you'll do this again.

And you know why.

Because seeking comfort and avoiding pain are suitable motivations only for lower animals, not for human beings bearing the image of God.

Because pain and risk are the worthy price for taking the gift of life and using it.

Because burying the gift of your one and only life in the ground rather than drinking it dry and sucking the marrow from the bones is a sin.

Because $10,000 raised to fight the disease that grips your wife is only just beginning.

Because the reward of the hard journey is far better than the anesthesia of couch and table.

Because the happy few that live the adventurous life never let you feel alone.

Because everyone gets 60 minutes per hour to journey toward the future, and those 60 minutes should be full to overflowing.

Because the broad and plain highway does not go to your desired destination. The traffic is awful and the scenery sucks.

Because the narrow way is beautiful.

Because, you need it.



Because you're an Ironman.

I'm Gonna Break My Rusty Cage And Run

“So, are you going to be able to run after this?”

That was Bolder’s question. I had no idea, and I told him so. There were times on that bike ride, even in the second loop, where I felt like a superhero. Run? Bring it! There were other times when I felt like I was an accident victim doing rehab on a stationary bike as others whizzed by. Run? Rectum? Damn near killed ‘im.

Of course, isn’t that the very essence of Ironman? The risk and unanswered question of, “Can I [fill in the blank]?” Don't we keep going because we're trying to find out?

Anyway, as I reached the downhill slope that took us the last 8 or 10 miles into town, the wind was in my face, and I tried to just stay in a gear I could turn at the appropriate cadence in an effort to find my legs and settle my tummy, that threatened to go into open revolt if I fed it one more calorie while my body threatened to stop if I failed to do so.

As I said yesterday, my watch told me a good bit of news when I finally arrived. having turned in a decent bike split, I was well-positioned to PR. However, the quietness and shade of the T2 changing tent was awfully inviting. I wanted to sit there for awhile. I did not want to run a marathon. But I knew I had to. I also knew that the more time I took to get started, the more time it would take to bet finished, which is all I wanted to do at that point. So eventually, I headed for the door and started to jog.

The run course is a study in contrasts. Just outside the transition area, the course is a wall of sound, even as late in the day as I started the run. People lined both sides of the run course and cheered indiscriminately for strangers in the Ironman family. I also saw Iron Jenny and Nytro and the peeps, who consistently treated me like a rock star. The run through town and through the neighborhoods was the same way. When you were being cheered well or (very infrequently) cheered poorly, you wanted to run for them and were embarrassed when it was time to take a scheduled or unscheduled walk break.

And then there were the parts of the course where no one was watching, where the only sounds were those of the footfalls around you, and your own breathing. What do you do when nobody is watching? It feels better to walk, except walking imperils your goals and lengthens the suffering.

Then there is coming back into town for the second loop, as the fast kids are finishing and you know you are going out to be “alone” again. Gird your loins, grasshopper, because that is just plain dispiriting.

So, was I able to run? Yes.

And no.

Here’s the no: I had hoped to run between aid stations and go faster than IMWI, maybe by as much as a half hour. I can run a marathon under 4 hours, and SOMEDAY I’d really like to “run” an Ironman marathon within 45 minutes or an hour of my open marathon time instead of shuffling over an hour slower. From the get go, however, I was unable to execute my desired strategy. From the first step, I was in crisis management mode. Every time the road tipped up even slightly, some part of my body chose to complain--back, side stitch, calf cramp . . . . Me? I knew I would finish, but I did not have the mental fortitude to push through for 8 to 10 minutes at a time.

Here’s the yes: I was able to set smaller goals for myself and push through for 4 minutes at a time on the first lap, 3 on the second. When I was running, I ran well and with decent turnover. When I was walking, I did not extend my breaks. On the second loop, I metered my effort with the goal of breaking 14 hours, and I was able to do so.

I went into zombie mode leaving town on the second lap and running by the lake. Over and over, my subconscious sang the refrain from "Rusty Cage" that I posted the day before the race. My pace picked up on the downhill and flat stretches. I had caught some people in front of me and I was seeing friends on the out and backs. Mile 21 arrived and I glided downhill to mile 22. Four miles left and plenty of time to do it in. Mile 23, only a 5k now. I put enough time in the bank that I could afford not to suffer up the slight gradients coming back into the town.

One mile left, the sun is down below the horizon, as is the finish line. I can hear it. A couple more turns in the road . . . .

But that is another chapter.

Use The Force, Luke

When last we left our intrepid Underdog, I was sprinting from the male changing tent (You will be spared the visual horrors therein, even if I thought I had words worthy of describing them) past the women’s changing tent (the delights of which I shall ne’er be permitted to see and which I can scarce imagine) toward my trusty ride, Carmen Tequilo.

But the bike leg merits some prologue.

Carmen Tequilo has a new set of Zipp 404s, but I just couldn’t leave well enough alone. I thought it would be a good idea if she had fresh tires and tubes for the race. Little did I know, you have to be able to rip phone books in half and crush raw carbon into diamonds with your bare hands to change tires on Zipp wheels. I broke four tire levers trying to change the tires and tubes before finally getting help from the bike shop and just hoping beyond all hope that I did not suffer a puncture during the race.

Fast forward to Friday when I picked up my bike from Tri-Bike transport. It came off the truck with a puncture in the front tube, not a blown tube from heat, a pinhole puncture. Is this just a freak accident, or perhaps have I permanently damaged the rims in wrestling with changing a tire such that some burr in the metal is puncturing my tube? Paranoid beyond all measure, I took the bike back to the house and made the effort to change the tire. It was a multiple MF’er job with heavy duty tire levers, but I finally got the new tube installed. I inflated the tire and set it aside . . . .

and two minutes later it was flat again.

M*TH$R F*&%)@R!!

Now I know the Tri gods are punishing me for messing with my race wheels, or perhaps getting them in the first place. I hot footed it down to In and Out Sports and left the offending wheel with them, requesting an exorcism. A bored looking bike mechanic about 22 years old shrugged, looked at me in disgust as if I did not know how to change a tire, and told me to come back in three hours after he’d had time to slot me in.

He later claimed to have changed the tire with his bare hands and accused me of pinching it flat.

Little whipper snapper.

So, as I was sprinting from T1 to my bike, family and friends cheering like I had just given Mark Allen a forearm shiver, I was actually worried about the potential of puncture Armageddon hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles. But every other piece of equipment was checked and ready to go, right?

Not so much.

I had taken the trouble to set my Polar watch so it would show me my bike split, my miles per hour, and my heart rate, but as I mounted the bike and stood in the pedals to hammer away from transition, I looked down and

NUTHIN’

NADA

NYET

ZIPPO

No bike speedo at all. In order to gage my ride, I had to rely only on Jedi mind tricks. “Use the Force, Luke. Trust your feelings.” All I had was heart rate, perceived effort, and rough mathematical calculations of average speed when I passed a five mile mark. Not ideal, but not all that bad either. Why?

Because the course was gorgeous. BEE YOU TEE FULL. And the temps were ideal. It was pure joy in motion to ride a bike on that route, with people cheering all through town and beautiful scenery all outside the town. There are hills, but great descents and long stretches for recovery. It is a very tough but fair course, and the viewing is great for both racers and spectators. Every time I passed by transition, crowds cheered and there were bloggy peeps cheering me by name. Every time I passed near our house, Trimama and Mrs. Greyhound cheered me. I climbed OK, I descended great, and I kept fairly good tempo on the flats.

I even saw Bolder at one point in the near distance. (I knew it was him because nobody wears more BMC-Ho Schwag than he does). When I caught him, he asked, “So, are you going to be able to run after this?”

Ah, that IS the question, is it not? I admitted that I did not know. Time would tell, and my tummy was having something to say on the matter. What I did know, when I came into transition, was that I had turned in a sub-7 bike split without totally killing myself. Big deal, right? Well for me, it meant that only a medical emergency involving an ambulance would keep me away from a PR.

But how would I run? Time would tell.

Fifty-Eight Minutes--A Wildflower Race Report

Transition, early on race morning


Fifty-eight minutes. That's how much quicker I was this year than I was last year on the Wildflower course. But don't get the wrong idea. I'm still not what one would call "fast." If you start with a truly pathetic race performance as your baseline, it's not all that earth shattering to drop nearly an hour from your time. But still, this was a good weekend, and a good yardstick on the way to Ironman CdA.


Curly Su gets ready to race

The Swim



Last year, it was the swim that really put me in the hole mentally. Frankly, I panicked. The water temperature surprised me, I felt like I couldn't breathe, and every time I tried to put my face in the water to swim freestyle, I caught a face full of chop and choked and gagged. Over an hour later, I dragged myself from the water, having swum breastroke from kayak to kayak.

This year, a much more successful swim began the day before the race. I got in the water without my wetsuit to get comfortable with the 65 degree water and get used to swimming without the added warmth and buoyancy. The temperature shocked me, I couldn't breathe, and I nevertheless swam to the first turn and made myself figure out how to overcome the issues.

And I did it. By the end of the practice swim, I had acclimated to the temperature and was stroking and breathing well.

On game day, the air temperature when we go to transition was in the 40s. I was NOT looking forward to getting we. In fact I was dreading it. But, I jumped in with wetsuit right before my wave start to warm up, and it was a piece of cake. In comparison to the practice, I was warm, buoyant and confident. In fact, I was so comfortable and ready to go, I totally forgot to start my watch when the horn sounded. That was when the difficulties started---



but my mantra for the day was "positive and efficient." Rather than allow my mind to wallow in difficulty like I did last year, it was all about staying in the moment, remaining positive and finding the efficient way to keep moving forward. In the swim this meant dealing with contact, drafting some, getting around slower swimmers, adjusting my stroke, sighting efficiently, swimming to open water, and remaining patient--swimming one buoy at a time. It was still cold, I still swallowed some water, there was still contact with other swimmers, but 44 minutes later I was done--about 20 minutes faster than last year.

T1


Transition On Race Day

This is where it gets kind of funny. I set up my transition area exactly like I always do, but it did not seem to help.

I was, in fact, cold and shivering and disoriented when I got out of the swim into the massive transition area. It took a lot of effort to get my limbs to obey and get out of the wetsuit. I actually had to sit down, shivering the whole time. Then I took extra time to put on arm warmers. Then I started toward bike out. Then I thought I had forgotten something, which was not actually necessary until the run. But I went back because I was so befuddled. Then, apparently after dinner, a movie, some shopping and a stroll, I decided to get on my bike and ride.


This is how T1 is supposed to go

But 5 miles down the road, I wondered, "why are the toes on my left foot cold?"

It was because I was riding down the road with one sock on and one sock off. I laughed out loud when I discovered it, and at several later points on the ride.

The Bike



Last year, I tried to overcome a crappy swim by showing that I at least could ride a little. As a result of bad pacing and bad nutrition--i.e., Perpetuem, may it rot in hell--I shattered myself with 10 hilly miles left to transition. Result--a 14 mph average and nothing left to run with.

This year, I was riding with no bike computer, a smile on my face, and only a HR monitor and perceived exertion to go by. The first hour consists mainly of climbing sharply away from the lake and I barely made 15 miles in that hour. But it was "positive and efficient." I monitored heart rate and picked good gears where I could get the cadence nice and high, and the miles started to fly by. Riding Carmen Tequilo's Zipp 404s into the wind was like being on rails. I felt like I was invisible to the air, just tucking in and slipping on through.



And I also took time to enjoy the day. The scenery was just AWESOME. Unlike last year, the wildflowers were a riot of color. And then there were the other racers. See, when you're one of the last male race waves to go off, you spend a good portion of the bike getting passed by very fit women. Some guys have a problem getting chicked like that. Me? I'm just disappointed that I can't keep up once passed and motivated to train harder.

Then there was Nasty Grade and the climb to the top of the course. If you doubt whether it was nasty, just look at the course profile done by D.C. Rainmaker. Check out the wall you have to climb within the first mile or so, and then Nasty Grade at mile 40.



Nevertheless, I arrived with legs to spare and did not burn all my matches getting to the top. My new 12/27 cassette spun me to the top with a steady rhythm and I screamed down the other side---only pausing a couple of times to wonder whether I had tightened down all the parts properly when I put Carmen together.

Anyhow, the result of all this was a quicker time, better climbing and much more fun. I felt like I had something left for the run notwithstanding the ridiculously hilly bike course. About 30 minutes faster than last year.

T2

So, I managed to get both my socks on in T2, but did not run well coming in off the bike. Something about the climbing had taken a toll on my lower back muscles and glutes on the right side. But I limped onto the run course.

The Run--a/k/a "A Walk In The Woods"

Last year, Iron Jenny opined that Wildflower was harder than an Ironman. I did not believe her. Having done an Ironman now, I think I concur. The Ironman run courses do not tend to be hilly. Wildflower, on the other hand, does not tend to be flat. Imagine an Xterra half-marathon on mountain trails, perahps with live ammunition and a side of water boarding and you've pretty much got the proper image of Wildflower. The first two miles of the run, I tried to battle through the cramping burning glutes, but every time the road tipped up, I pretty much had to walk. Even then, I was walking in zone 3.

Then, between miles 4 and 5 you basically have to climb a wall on a dirt trail. Check it out, again from D.C. Rainmaker:



I was walking and going just about as fast as people trying to run the stupid incline. Then the course comes out into the full sun, and I began a multi-hour splitting headache and cotton mouth. Suffice it to say that what began as a survival shuffle slowed even more than that.



I think I kind wussed out and maybe could have run faster. It kind of frustrates me that I did not do so, because unlike some people, I love running. That's where this all started--just running a 13.1 mile road race with my little brother. But, at the end of the day, this is a warmup/race simulation for the big dance in June. So, realizing that they give the same t-shirt and medal to me and to the 5:30 finishers, I let the engine cool and coasted it on in. Sill, about 10 minutes faster than last year.

Lessons Learned

So what accounts for the fifty-eight minutes that I took out of last year's time? Sure, I am probably fitter this year. I am objectively faster, but not by that much. It is more a mater of how I am racing and who I am racing. Last year, I was racing against what I thought of other peoples' expectations of me, and I could not measure up to the fictional expectations. This year, I was only racing myself and racing the course, staying in the moment and focusing only on how to efficiently move forward through whatever obstacle the race course or conditions puts out there.

Anyway, not my best writing, but I wanted to get this out there. I'll post some more pictures from the weekend later in the week.