The Rules

“Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”*

Two more sleeps and I will be taking off for Cozumel. The trip is the fulfillment of a goal to compete in Ironman Cozumel. I signed up for the event over a year ago, and I have been following a triathlon training plan from Coach Kris since January. And I will be only one of a couple thousand people who have been training steadily for most of the year to complete that race.

But that process began long before January. And it began long before I ever signed up for an Ironman race. The process began over a decade ago and with very different goals.

First it was a gym membership and jogging three times a week. Off and on exercise. Off and on weight loss. Then suffering through a road race. Off and on running. Then suffering through a marathon. Then quitting.

Then starting again. Joining a gym with staff who encouraged me. A faster marathon. MS150 bicycling tours. The first short course triathlon. The first half-iron triathlon. Watching an Ironman swim start and swearing I would never do such a thing. 24 hours later signing up for an Ironman and one year later doing it. Now it's time for Ironman Number three.

So, if you read about Ironman triathlons or other endurance events--here or elsewhere--and you say, "I could never do that," you are wrong. That is simply an excuse to make you feel better for choosing NOT to do it. Assuming that Ironman and marathons are never your thing--which is totally fine--you can duplicate the process of becoming active and healthy.

But if you go against "The Rules" you are doomed to failure. You might as well repeal the law of gravity. Ask Wylie Coyote how that works out. Follow the rules and you can succeed.

Rule One: Start where you are.

You have no choice but to start where you are. It's no use bitching about being slow or being fat or being old or being achy or having bad knees or what have you. You are where you are and you have to move forward from here. If you bite off more than you can chew, you'll get hurt and discouraged and quit.

And if you have quit before. So be it. Start now again. Start where you are. It takes the average person 5 attempts to quit smoking, and I think it took me at least that many attempted programs over three or more years before exercise became automatic.

So, no more head talk about can't. Start where you are.

Rule Two: Use what you have.

Just like you are where you are, you only have what you have. Don't waste breath or mental energy on what you don't have. Is your time limited by a full time job? OK, so you cant' train 40 hours a week. No surprise there. But I bet you can roll out 30 minutes early and walk the neighborhood. I bet you can turn off the television and play soccer with your kid.

Don't have money for a gym membership? Use the playground.

Don't have motivation and discipline? I bet you have shame and laziness. Use those instead. Sleep in your running clothes. Set the alarm. Make a date to meet someone more disciplined than you are. The embarrassment and the shame of not showing on time will get you going. (Watch this space for more later).

The point: even things that hold you back can be used as tools if you are creative enough. Use what you have--whatever you have.

Rule Three: Do what you can.

I've already alluded to this in the prior rules. It does not matter how fit or how woeful your current condition is. You have to start with your current abilities and build from there. And there is no profit in being judgmental about what you ought to be able to do.

In fact, I might even add to this rule--do LESS than what you can while you're building the habit. Set the coffee maker the night before, go to sleep in your workout clothes, set the alarm 30 minutes early, and walk around the block or the neighborhood with a cup of coffee every morning for the next two weeks.

When this becomes a habit, you are ready . . . . to walk faster . . . to run a little . . . to play.

(More later).

The point is this: going forward, you are not responsible for failing to accomplish the impossible. But the flip side of the coin is that you are very responsible for failing to see and do the possible -- where you are right now, using what you have, and doing what you can.

*Arthur Ashe

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

But I Hate Exercise!!!

This is the fourth in a series of posts, primarily intended for folks who are not yet where they want to be in terms of being active and healthy. You can go back and read of the concrete benefits of exercise, encouragement that everyone can participate, a sermon to the effect that everyone should be participating, and a court room argument dispensing with most of the excuses why people do not. This, I hope is the first in a series of posts on how to get started and stick with it.

OK, OK! I hear you. You would exercise but you HATE exercise. Not so, says I. You don't hate exercise, you just suck at it. If you were good at it, you'd enjoy it. Don't you usually enjoy things you're good at? We just need to get you "good" at this.

And if exercise is drudgery along the lines of eating your vegetables or taking your cod liver oil, you are seriously doing it wrong. When it is done right, exercise is play--the best part of your day, the one thing you look forward to, the one thing that you refuse to do without and that dictates all the rest of your schedule.

Think I'm nuts? Ever heard of the runner's high? All those endorphins and oxytocin and stuff that athletes experience in the wake of a good workout are the same chemicals that course through your body in response to sex and orgasm.

(That ought to increase my google search optimization).

So what I'm saying is that exercise is as good as sex! Just like it!

OK, so that was a lie.

Great sex is still way better than exercise. If not, you've taken that whole Ironman compression socks look way to far. You need to find a balance. Make a little friend or text your spouse or something.

But I would say that great exercise overlaps mediocre sex. The point is this: when done right, exercise is way more like making love than eating Brussels sprouts.

So how do we get you from where you are now, to daily whoopie (i.e., exercise)? Well, Dr. Greyhound, your own personal Dr. of Sweet Lovin' has the prescription. I think there are three parts to this game plan, each of which has lots of ways to approach it. They are:

1. Developing The Habit
2. Increasing The Challenge
and
3. Celebrating Successes

Watch this space. More to come.

HTFU Greyhound

Enough of this taper-induced wussification.



Game Faces!!!!

It's Time

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

Greyhound For The Prosecution

This is the fourth in a series of annoying, kick in the ass posts. At this point in the sermon, the faithful reader has been presented with the undeniable benefits of the active and adventurous life, been cajoled with the encouragement that everyone can participate, and then confronted with my proposition that everyone, as a moral imperative, should be participating.

Now, anticipating the affirmative defenses and mitigating proofs of readers so accused, Greyhound, esq., rises in rebuttal with closing argument for the Crown. But fear not, gentle reader. There is mercy to be had at the bench and bar, and that will be the next post. Read on!

My Lords and may it please the court, Greyhound, esquire, for the Crown.

My right honorable friend hath propounded to the Court many and illustrious proofs wherein he claims the Defendant ought to escape the consequence of the charge wherein he stands accused, to wit, that he did knowingly and and voluntarily choose, both by neglect and by willing sabotage, to despoil the fleshly vessel given him. But, the Bard hath said, and methinks 'tis true here, that "oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by such excuse."*

We, here gathered, have heard it said, "I don't have time to exercise." No time? Are we to be given to understand that the Defendant has time to be dead--that is to die five years hence of his self-induced corpulence and be prematurely committed to the earth 20 years before his time? Defendant would trade 20 years of life for five hours each week of exercise and the consumption of some greenery?

Nay, my Lords. Defendant most certainly does have the time for exercise. He simply chooses not to do as he ought. Why his very wife and children took the stand as hostile witnesses for the Crown and most reluctantly admitted that the Defendant doth spend two or three hours each evening of the week on his most prodigious hindquarters consuming televised entertainment. Moreover, he does this so far into the night, whilst consuming such alarming quantities of delicacies not even seen on the King's table, that he is quite unable to rise in the morning. Why the common tradesman or laborer, with none of the Defendant's advantages, is most commonly about with the tools and accoutrements of his trade long before the Defendant so much as stirs an eyelid.

Indeed, my Lords, we have before us a cloud of witnesses, those objectively having much less time than the Defendant, who nevertheless complete extraordinary feats of daring do -- marathons, century rides, triathlons, ultra-marathon trail runs -- all whilst conducting demanding professions, raising children and contributing to the communities in which they find themselves. The law does not demand this of the Defendant, but only regular activity and perhaps the odd fun run. Yet, he refuses.

Time, my Lords? No. That is not the issue. "The future is something which everyone reaches at the rate of 60 minutes an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is."** This Defendant has simply made the choice to expend time in neglect and hostility to his own flesh--the very crime wherein he stands accused.

But then we hear, "Have pity on me, my Lords, for I am unable to comply with the law in that my mortal frame will not bear it." The Defendant then proceeds to complain of bad knees, or a bad back, or various and sundry injuries.

Injury? My Lords, the Defendant's plea is silenced in shame, or should be if ever he had any shame. The injuries of which he complains are not excuse for his crime of neglect. Nay, they are the very product and evidence of that crime. Had he been about his business many of those injuries would not exist. Moreover, we see before us the tales of Team Hoyt, Sarah Rheinertsen, Rudy Garcia-Tolson and any number of challenged athletes who, though they be missing limbs or the ability to make them move, are nevertheless in the arena, braced for the fight.

And I need not remind this Court that the Defendant does not stand accused of failing to be Michael Phelps. The charge is only that the Defendant failed to use what he had. In that he stands guilty.

Finally, my Lords, the Defendant doth protest, "but I don't like exercise. I don't like to run." Are we then to understand that the law may be avoided by those who find its duties distasteful? Surely not. And who among us has ever known a child who did not like to play tag on the playground at recess? Nay, my Lords. Properly understood, the Defendant's plea is just as nonsensical. In protesting that exercise is dreary, the Defendant would have us believe that play and recreation are toil. May it never be so.

Which, my Lords, brings me to the matter of sentence for these crimes, here proved and not avoided. Defendant should be sentenced to a lifetime of vigorous activity, without opportunity for parole. And it would the recommendation of the Crown that such sentence be carried out under the direction of the Warden, Trigreyhound, who has been known to say, "Training is recess. Go play."

Which will be the subject of my next post . . . .




*William Shakespear, King John, Act IV, Sc. ii (1594-96).
**C.S. Lewis

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Coach

With apologies to Johnathan Edwards.

This is the third in a series of posts. The first is here. The second is here. But this is the part of the show where you probably start not to like me so much--if you like me at all. Even some of you in the choir (those already engaging in an active lifestyle) will probably think I am taking this a little far. But having grown up Southern Baptist, I know no other way. I'm about to serve up some o' that "come to Jesus" luciousness. If you can hang in there, I'll issue an alter call and will help you down the aisle.

But if that is not your particular brand of vodka, there's a little red "x" in the upper right hand corner. Use it. You have been warned.

In the last two posts, I tried to lay out an inspiring case that "anyone can do this," that is, anyone can create their own healthier outcomes and participate in a vigorous sport. Now, I'm switching gears. Anyone and everyone can do this, but more, anyone and everyone should be doing this. And there is a moral component if you are not.

Now, bear in mind, I'm not talking to everyone. There are people who cannot participate in an active lifestyle and who suffer from debilitating chronic diseases that cripple and kill due solely to genetic factors. I'm just talking to the 99.99% of people who were born with two arms, two legs and sufficient ambulatory gifts to move themselves across the face of the planet.

So, yeah, brothers and sisters. I'm probably talking to you. And I'm talking about moral and ethical duties.


If you are Roman Catholic, I would point out that gluttony and sloth are both included in the list of seven deadly sins. In fact, between these two, you've got almost 29% of the list covered.







If you grew up in Baptist Sunday School like me, I'd roll out the parable of the talents and liken thee unto the man who received one talent and who, instead of investing that talent on his master's behalf, buried it in the ground. "Thou slothful and wicked servant . . . cast him into outer darkness where there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth."

Wow, that was cheery, huh?






If you believe in any kind of supreme being at all, I would simply ask how one can squander and dishonor the temple of a perfectly adequate body, especially when many don't have those blessings. How can we not live lives of thanksgiving in motion?






If you are a complete atheist, I would point out that you are a marvel of millions of years of evolution. Your very body was evolved to run. You are the hairless mammal of the steppes who is adapted to dissipate heat through sweat rather than respiration like the mammals you hunt. You are evolved to run four and five hours with your tribe at a time at a 10 minute pace until the antelope or deer drops of heat exhaustion and the protein and calories from its meat feed the ginourmous brain that sets you apart from Australopithecus. You, my friend, were born to run.



It's so easy, even a cave man can do it. Why are you sitting on your ass?

"OK, preacher," I can hear you saying, "Now you've left off preaching and gone to meddling. You ain't better 'n me just because you exercise, and if I don't wanna, that's my business."

True, friend, it is your business--if you alone suffered the consequences. But now I'm going to get really personal (as if I had not already). I want to talk about the people who count on you.

If you are putting yourself slowly to death with your plate and your inactivity, are not just an island nation having no effect on anyone else. The message you are sending by your choices to those who count on you is that they are less important to you than your cheeseburger or your reality TV.

You'd rather have Cheesie Poofs and put your feet up while watching electronic sedatives every evening than walk down the aisle at a future wedding.

You'd rather sleep an extra hour than grow old with a spouse.

You prefer fried Twinkies to playing with grandchildren.

And, prepare yourself, all you sedentary conservatives, for I am about to drop the conservative equivalent of the nuclear weapon ----------



No matter what your words say, your actions say that you expect and demand your offspring or your government to take care of you as if you were a helpless and incapacitated ward of the state rather than exercise personal responsibility by being a grown up and taking care of yourself.

**Gulp**

Gone too far have I?

Do we not think some of the same things about people who harm and prematurely abandon their families through abuse of drugs, alcohol and tobacco?

How is abuse of food and leisure any different?

So, I've probably pissed you off or touched a nerve or at least prompted a moment of thought. I hope so.

If you're human, you are looking for a way out, a way to mitigate or avoid altogether the moral charge I've leveled.

Well, watch this space because there's more on that later.

In the mean time, can I get an "AMEN" from the choir.

The Triathlete Next Door

This is the second in a series beginning with my last post in which I wrote concerning the blessings of my own good health and made the claim that anyone could find themselves in the same place.

At the end of this post, I'm going to tell you a dirty little secret about Ironman. But let's start at the beginning. The starting place is that it takes a very special kind of person to be a triathlete--or does it?

Look around you carefully, and I bet you can start to pick out the triathletes from amongst your neighbors. We have things in common, we triathletes.

If you see him in your neighborhood, he's probably a middle aged guy like me having a temper tantrum with Father Time and wanting to feel like he's immortal and forever young and vigorous.



Or maybe not. He could just as easily be a she--a brave, confident and headstrong girl (i.e., woman) in her late 20s who has been stewed in post-Title IX sports participation and told by her parents that she can do and be anything she wants. And when she's at her best, she believes them.



Or maybe she's over 50 and started road racing back before marathons had 30,000 participants, and she runs fast because that's the way it was done back in the day. Or she might even be a nun who is 75+.



Or the former governor of South Dakota.



But he probably has 2 or 3 $10,000 custom bike in the garage with power meters and carbon everything that he rides every weekend out in the Hill Country or on Peak to Peak Highway.

Or maybe not. He/she could just as easily be on a road bike with clip on handlebars in a group ride on weekends and spin classes during the week.

He/she might even be doing brick workouts by riding loops around and through the neighborhood to avoid drive times to the country that would take more time away from family.



But certainly he's shaved down and wicked fast and vainly gazes at his perfect body in the mirror while eating his organic free range everything and downing supplements.

Or maybe not. He/she could just as easily be fond of the occasional pizza and beer and hasn't touched anything other than a multivitamin. The significant other seems pleased with the appearance, and that is counted as good enough.

His/her body might not be perfect at all. She might have one leg.




Or he might have no legs.


Or he might be blind and unable to gaze into a mirror at all, let alone race without a sighted companion.



But you can count on this type of person to be independently wealthy or voluntarily poverty stricken in order to train 30 hours a week at the expense of family, friends and relationships of all kinds.

Or maybe not. He/she could just as easily be an early riser or figures out some other way to train when it is hard and inconvenient so that family life goes on.


So, yeah. These triathletes all have something in common. They have lots of time to train, or are very busy. They have perfect bodies or are (to borrow an pejorative term) "crippled." They diet strictly or not really at all. They are consumed by the sport or do it as a hobby. They are fast slow and middle of the pack. They have lots of money and flash equipment, or just an entry level bike and borrowed wetsuit.

And yet they are the same in one crucial respect. They have made a choice.

Whatever barriers to participation exist, and all of them have barriers, they have made a choice to push through. They choose to do and choose to be.

And the dirty little secret of Ironman? Anyone can do it. That's good news.

Or is it? Watch this space for more later.

You Gotta Have Heart

Only a few of you that I know personally have been aware that this fall I have been a little worried about my health. At the Austin Triathlon I experienced some pressure in my chest and higher than normal heart rates.

All I could think of was Steve Larsen, an elite former pro that died of a heart attack during an interval session on the track. Am I having a heart attack? Is this just indigestion?

Of course it was hot as balls and I'd had a wee bit of stimulants that morning.

Then in the Houston heat, I was doing an evening run and I felt a blip in my torso followed by a jump of my heart rate from 130 to 180+ with no change in my effort or pace. Again, all I could think of was Steve Larsen.

Of course, the job had been stressful that day, and I'd had a little bit more than my normal level of caffeine.

Then, as the training volume maxed out, I felt pressure in my chest and fatigue when I tried to get going in the morning or rose from my chair to go up the stairs. And all I could think of was Steve Larsen.

Rather than be the typical man and avoid going to the doctor -- especially in the run up to Ironman Cozumel -- I decided that it was a little bit stupid to risk sudden cardiac death in pursuit of a hobby. Ironman, for all the grandiloquence and purple prose expended in its praise, some of it here, is (at the end of the day) just a hobby. Call it extreme stamp collecting or model railroading on steroids.

So, I went to the doctor and went my way through the American Health Care System in search of an answer.

There was the Primary Care Physician visit with normal heart rate, normal blood pressure and normal resting EKG. Check. OK, but that did not really test my heart at stress, even though I was experiencing that icky feeling in my chest.

Then there was the referral to get a Holter Monitor to wear for 24 hours and while exercising. Check.

Then there was the referral to have blood drawn for lab work. Check.

Then there was the referral to (and selecting a) cardiologist to poke me and Check.

Then Dr. Cardiology though he might hear a heart murmur through his stethoscope; so, there was the cardiology referral to get an echo cariogram (essentially an ultrasound of the heart instead of a uterus, which would be an interesting search in my case).

Check.

And at the end of the day all the tests were normal. Indeed, they were way better than normal. I just needed to mix in some decaff and some tums.

**whew**

Four years of triathlon and three years of Ironman have made me healthy beyond my wildest dreams.

I am 43 years old and take no medications -- save for some acid reflux. No blood pressure medication. No cholesterol medication. No Viagra (**wink**). No diabetes medication. Not bad for a 50+ hour per week lawyer at an AmLaw200 firm.

At 43, I have no injuries or knee problems or back problems in spite of (or because of) hours and hours of training and physical training every week.

At 43, my resting heart rate is 51 beats per minute.

At 43, my total cholesterol is 169, "good" cholesterol of 71. Most people have to take drugs or pursue Veganism to get numbers like that.

At 43, my weight is 139 pounds and my body mass index is 23.1 -- while 2/3 of my fellow citizens are overweight or obese.

I am healthy and blessed beyond my wildest expectations. But here's the dirty little secret: t

There is nothing special about me.

If you are a person of normal health, even normal "bad" health for a person of your age, this could be you. Over time, within limits, slow and steady, this could be you.

This is good news. Or is it? Watch this space. More later.

LonghornTriathlon in 8000 Words (8 Pictures)

Beautiful morning.

Before the gun

That's not so scary, is it?

Love how this makes me look like I'm first out of the water. Not so much.
Note the studly SCS Multisport gear.

Early in the bike. Note how the shorter crank size that Phil put on there means my knees don't have to come way up into my chest. Allows a lower and yet more comfortable bike position.

Better position. Thanks Phil.

Finish Time: 6:04:09
Again with the SCS Multisport Stud In Training Gear.

Greyhound's California Adventure

Hey, peeps! I know from the website info that I have at least a few readers in Southern California from time to time. Well, I'm coming your way the latter part of this week.

And there was much rejoicing.

I know that's not exactly "stop the presses" material, especially since the LA Times is hardly in the "press" business any more, but I will be doing some training whilst in the area, balanced around full days of law nerd conferencing and business getting.

I am staying in La Jolla and thinking of bringing my wetsuit in the event that some folks with local knowledge might show me a safe place for an open water group swim.

I hear there's a relatively big body of open water immediately west of my hotel. I'm all over the local intelligence that way.

So, if there are any geeky tri-blogger types out there, maybe someone affiliated with the San Diego Triathlon Club, who could get me in on a group run or group open water swim or the slow lane of a masters work out, leave me a comment or e-mail me at trigreyhound at yahoo dot com.

On the other hand, I hear Macca is in Southern California right now, and we're totally tight Facebook friends, so maybe I'll "poke" him as well. Surely he's lost so much fitness in three weeks that I can hang with him, right?

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.**

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.

Ask Coach Kris: Conehead or Not?

Dear Coach Kris:

I noticed that at the Ironman World Championships this year, few if any of the top pros wore aero helmets. The speculation was that this was due to the heat at Kona and the better ventilation available by way of a normal cycling helmet.

Of course, it's hot at Cozumel where I'll be racing too, and aero helmets (like race wheels etc.) provide a bigger advantage to faster racers--i.e., not me. On the other hand, seaside wind could mean that I face a constant head wind at some point on which would make an aero helmet even more efficient.

So, the question: should an age grouper who will be racing Iron distance well under 20 mph in hot conditions wear an aero helmet or go for the increased cooling properties of the ordinary cycling helmet?



Greyhound:

Good question. This is going to come down to personal preference. I can not speak for the pros in Kona, but would guess they had made their choices based on hard proven results from training. You may have noticed Chrissie wore a traditional helmet on the bike and no hat on the run. This would have me guess she has some heat issues she manages in her own way.

For you Greyhound, I would recommend choosing a newer aero helmet with plenty of ventilation. Some, like the Lazer, even have ports to dump water on your head. If you can tolerate these, you should wear one. The aerodynamic performance advantages of an aero helmet at an Ironman distance has been proven in wind tunnels across the world. I have personally been a part of wind tunnel experiments at the Wright Brothers Wind Tunnel at MIT in Boston, MA and have seen just what they can do.

I hope this helps shed some light on your head wear choice delema. Keep trying things out and go with what works for YOU!

Cheers,

Kris Swarthout
USAT Level II Coach
USAT Midwest Regional Chair
USATF Level I Coach
Co-Owner SCS Multisport LLC
612-396-3801

Size Does Matter

I've often wondered: is bigger necessarily better?

If you were to believe half the things you see or hear in the media--legitimate media or the questionable forms that appear in 24 hour stores and Supreme Court cases--you'd think that size was the sine qua non of satisfaction. Indeed, the whole world economy has been in a downward spiral due to the bigger is better, people borrowing (and banks lending) money at too much risk in order to get that McMansion or house they can't afford.

And when was the last time a woman swooned over the little guy--and Tom Cruise doesn't count because he stands on a box. And I would further note for the record that there was only "Mr. Big" in the popular TV series. There was no "Mr. Really Knows His Business" or "Mr. Just Right" or "Mr. Rocked My World" even "Mr. Kind."

But again, how can bigger necessarily be better? I mean, how can something that doesn't fit feel good? What of size-induced discomfort? I mean who wants to climb on top of something huge that just doesn't fit and try to make it work? Is that really fun? Does that really feel pleasurable? You can see, I hope, how someone who is 5'4" (with all parts scaled to fit) might wonder about such things.

But finally, this weekend, I knew for sure my crank was just the right size for the job. A lot of guys resort to self-help when it comes to crank size. And sure, I like a "do it yourself" crank job just as much as the next guy. DIY can be lots of fun and should be a part of any healthy person's life. There's certainly no shame in it. But, this time I went to a "professional," if you get my meaning. And the professional attention made all the difference.

The feelings and sensations were mind blowing. I just kept going and going and going. Six hours I went. Seriously! Six hours! And a few minutes after finishing, I was ready to go again. It was so smooth and effortless, gliding like a well-lubed piston fitting and moving within the tight walls of its cylinder. Sometimes I pushed hard and slow. Sometimes fast and quick. Changing tempos and position and pace.

I think I felt the earth move.

So, big thanks to Phil Shama of Shama Cycles for persuading me to reduce the size of my cranks on Carmen Tequilo, the tri-specific bike in my garage-mahal. It totally changed my pedal stroke and positioning on the whole bike, enabled an efficient, circular pedal stroke and markedly reduced the fatigue of riding 100 miles. Seriously, every part of the bike fit better and every party of the bike worked better with my body just by putting on a shorter crank that fit my anatomy better. It was remarkable and I cannot overstate how much Phil's expertise helped me out. Phil is the Jedi master of all things crank and bike related.

What?

Why are you snickering and looking at me that way?

Of course I was talking about a bike. What did you think I was talking about?

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.

Winning Mullet

The runaway winner in the mullet song lyric contest was Carrie from Tri to Be Funny. I had to include a picture of her hubster, Shawn, given that he probably gave her the answers to the guy songs. He's lucky I didn't put a mullet on him to.

As a result of winning the mullet song lyric contest, Carrie is entitled to choose amongst three fabulous prizes:

1. A gently used Body Glide stick;

2. Pink compression socks; or

3. An itunes gift certificate.

She can claim her prize and make her victory speech via iphone in the comment section.