Category: Competition

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Running is King

I hated running and could fake a cry with the best of them if it would help me avoid jogging in gym class or later in sports.

But I loved biking, and did a bunch of mountain bike races, including Chequamegon Fat Tire 40 in Hayward, Wisconsin.  And while I have you, I’ll drop a reminder that I placed 1,500th out of 3,000 racers.  Exactly in the middle and 1,499 places behind Greg Lemond.

I swam a little bit, too.  My parent’s house was half a block away from the municipal pool in Beloit, Wisconsin and I spent loads of time hitting on girls and hiding boners in the shallow end. I love water, and while I was never a distance swimmer, I’ve always made time for a few laps at the local Y.

But running was a nemesis.

Frankly, it hurt.  My ankles have always been fragile and anything more than a dash to first base or out to play shortstop was too much.  In baseball we mainly ran sprints to loosen up and the teams I was on never overdid such tomfoolery.

Now, though, I realize that I missed the boat.  A little bit of distance running would have made me a better athlete, especially late in the game when the legs go south.  If I were ever a coach again, I would have to pull some hocus pocus out of my bag to convince the kids they need to run more.

Running is still hard.  It still aches the most of the three sports, but it is without a doubt the reason I have started triathlons.

Once I erased the mental baggage of running, everything else fell into place.  But I could have never done it without the Couch to 5K program.  I always went too far too fast and quit.

If you hate running, but have a perverted desire to do it anyway, I suggest you take it very slow and follow a Couch to 5K program to the letter.  No more.  No less.  Stay within yourself and let your muscles build naturally.

Without those seemingly inconsequential 60 second jogs back in January, Ironman Wisconsin never would have crossed my mind.  Running can be a bitch, but in my triathlete world, it is the real work.

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Nashville Ultra Marathon

They write books about this shit and several people I know have claimed to have done the deed, but until yesterday, I have never seen anyone actually DO an ultra marathon.  I was out there bright and early in effort to feel better about myself by volunteering.  My job on this day was to be a “bike monitor.”

I was supposed to show up at race time then sort of follow, or as it probably seemed “lurk” around runners for four hours.  I had no uniform or special sign distinguishing me from the other creepo bike riders, and i’m not gonna lie, it was a little awkward.

Me:  “Hey there, sorry for cutting you off, how are you?”

Random Runner:  “Urg!  I’m fine!”

Me:  “I’m volunteering, so I thought I’d ask.”

Random Runner:  “Oh, I wondered what the hell you were doing.  Thank you!!”

Me:  “Lookin good!”

The more I contemplated my task, the more I reasoned it was a little on the useless side considering I was monitoring Ultra Marathoners for their first 12 or so miles, which seemed a little like making sure a drunk can handle his first few beers.  But I kept focus and rode nearly 30 miles while peering into runner’s eyes for the slightest sign of weakness.

If there was hesitation I would cozy up close and point my water bottle toward their mouth.

“Sure you don’t want some water?!?”

“No, get the hell away from me.”

I decided the best thing I could do was make sure I knew where the last runner was and when I saw him, I had no idea who I had uncovered.  He had a big arch in his back and his style was unique to say the least.

I asked if he was doing okay, and he mumbled something about a “challenging climb” and forged ahead.  I rode away moderately confused and kept peeking over my shoulder to see if he was still standing.

When I got back to the start line (which all runners passed on their way to the other the back end of the race) I told organizers “There are 7 runners left on the course, including a guy that . . .”  And was interrupted with, “Oh, that’s Eugene, he’ll be fine.”

Eugene is 76 and was using an intriguing run/walk method where he’d run for two steps and walk for three or something like that.  I couldn’t quite figure out the strategy, but evidently it works because he has completed over 400 marathon or longer runs in his life!

If we put that into perspective and assume he didn’t start running marathons until he was 26, that’s eight marathons a year for 50 straight years!  Not only that, several of them were ultra marathons.  I noticed he was wearing a 50 States Finisher shirt and someone told me that he’s done that four times!  How’s that make you feel about your life experience?

If that wasn’t enough, I got to meet the 50K winner, who humbly knocked it out in three hours and twenty minutes (unofficial).  That’s about a 6:26 per mile pace and I’m telling you there were some bastard hills on this route.  My thighs were killing me and I was on a bike.

Ten months ago I could barely run to the mail box, and now, after watching an Ultra Marathon, I can see myself doing one at some point.  It won’t happen until after the Ironman, but it certainly seems possible.  Amazing what we can do if we put our mind to something.  If you don’t believe me, just ask Eugene.

Question of the Day:  I need to ask you all a question though.  There were several, I mean upwards of 25% of the people in this race that were walking often before mile 10.  I guess I don’t really understand why you would do an ultra when there are plenty of shorter races out there that you can run?

Ultra Marathon Day Diet:  Sun chips, mini-snickers (from aid station).  Grilled Cheese and potato tots from the Grilled Cheeserie Truck. Budweiser Tall Boy.  Fat Bottom Burger, 2 Pale Ales, Multiple Guinness, and a Schlitz in a bottle at Family Wash.  This must have been a cheat day.

Side note:  I Googled “Running Calculator” but typed in “Runny” by mistake and it led me to a calculator that tells you how you may have gotten your runny nose.

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A Runner's Conversation

You know, injury talk can be the worst.  I mean, if it bores me, then it must bore everyone else in the world.  It’s so self-serving, but I guess that’s what we do.  We talk about what’s on our minds and pain is important:

Me: “You’ll be happy to know that my knee is still a little jacked.”

You: “Well, this prick I work with is really getting on my nerves.”

Me: “Oh, wow.  Yeah, I haven’t been sleeping much lately!”

You: “Really?  Yeah, like today when he punked me right in front of my boss.”

Me: “Man, Yeah, I don’t know if it’s something I’m eating or money issue stress.”

You: “Sometimes I just feel like kicking him in the nuts!”

Me: “I’ve been meditating more and even thinking about going to church again because it’s wearing me down.”

You: “I called in sick today because I couldn’t face that asshole.”

Me: “I don’t know, maybe I just need to change my diet back to gluten free.”

You: “Speaking of gluten, I’d like to kick him right in the ass!”

Me: “Maybe I’ll just call my father and tell him he’s forgiven.”

You: “Well, I guess I’d better be going.”

Me: “I hear you.  Good seein ya!”

And so it goes.

I think this is why I like writing.  You either have to listen to what I’m saying or walk away.  Either way, I win!

So, last night was my first run in a while, and am happy to report, four miles with East Nasty and no knee pain.  In fact, I felt better after that run than I have after any run in recent memory.  I think it had a lot to do with rest, but mainly the strengthening exercises and an ongoing lust for my foam roller.

I had about 30 minutes to spare before the run, so I ran a little Jive Talkin‘ through the speakers and did a slew of warm-up work.  Everything from pushups and situps to running in place and jumping jacks.  I also did some hip flex and ass strengthening exercises (which are paying off nicely by the way).  By the time I left for the run I was sweating and wearing knee wraps.

This injury could be a blessing in disguise.  After powering my way from not running at all to a half marathon and eventually an Olympic Triathlon, I am finally getting a grip on balance and smart approaches, including the warm up.

In this way running is a lot like writing.  They tell you to sit down and write for ten minutes or so and that’s when you’ll actually be saying something worth reading.  In other words, warm up your brain. (In other, other words, I probably shouldn’t have published this crap!).

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Nashvegas Triathlon, Pt. 2 The Bike

This is Part 2 of my Nashvegas Triathlon experience, the bike.  The intro is the last paragraph of Part One, the Swim, which can be found here.

My bare feet glided down the slick pavement. The rain continued and I was suddenly freezing. I couldn’t believe God would put me through this and scurried to the bike transition in a daze.  I ran up to my row and looked down for my distinct white towel, but it was gone.  What the fuck?  I ran back and forth like a kid protecting his lunch money and completely lost my mind for the third time of the day.  Part of my strategy was minimalist and fast transitions.  Shoes . . . socks . . . helmet . . . gone.  But the only thing gone, was my bike.

Of course it was there and I retraced my steps and saw the lonely vessel crying in the rain along with my soaking wet shoes and socks.  Damn!  Why didn’t I think of that one? Not that it mattered. I made the split second decision to bike without socks.  I never thought about it ahead of time but it was clearly the right decision.  As I ran my bike out of its pen, I saw my screaming fan base and heard Heidi shout, “Wow, that was fast.” Maybe I was in a time warp.  Transition one – 1:45. Not too bad.

As I pulled away in the rain, my thought instantly transferred to the run.  I would be running sockless for the first time.  Then I thought about the pelting rain and how much this whole race was sucking balls at the moment.  I turned out of the park and headed for the Ashland City hills with the perfect competitive attitude.  Alone on a bike, soaking wet after a miserable swim, I yelled, “Fuck it!” and was instantly unstoppable.

One of my sure-fire strategies is to get mad at the world, David versus Goliath style, and embrace the obstacles.  In this case I knew the rain would fuck with people’s heads, make them cold and take away their edge, but mine was only sharpened.

While most triathletes ride with clipped pedals, I wore cages.  It is a distinct disadvantage that I used for motivation.

I took my time as I glided down Highway 12 on the flat section of the course. I passed several bikers, but kept myself in check for the long ride.  I drove the course the day before and knew that while the course was 25 miles, the last five were down hill.  I turned it into a 20 mile ride.

The first 10 were cake, but when the Olympic course turned of, the hills loomed. The first challenge was a steady two mile climb that started around mile 12. It weaved through the back roads of Ashland City and eventually dropped us into a makeshift sub-division that looked (and felt) like a disturbing place to spend your life.

With a 10K lurking, I didn’t want to burn the legs. I spun low gears and climbed at a moderate clip.  The rain lightened, but the roads were like oil.  I channeled Tour de France riders while imagining throngs of hungry fans grabbing for a taste of me.  Unfortunately the Ashland City populous had other plans that morning, though I did see one guy mowing his lawn and a couple dogs.

I always find the trust factor impressive at these races. At one point the bike course turned down a lonely country road and spun around about 200 feet from a true scene out of Deliverance.  I saw it the day before when I missed the turn.  It was a home so disheveled that I was afraid to approach the driveway for fear of staring at a shotgun.  I mean this place was literally covered in shit that nobody on earth would want, except this guy.  Just garbage and filth everywhere.  Broken windows, car parts, fallen trees, I mean, I can’t even explain it and I was going to take a picture, but figured that was a bad idea as well and got the hell out of there.

But back to the honesty. There was a simple cone in the middle of this road and it was the turn around point.  The cone sat in solitude and I could have easily swerved inside the mark to cut a couple feet off, or for that matter turned around in the middle of the block.  No one was there, and I assumed it was because of Deliverance guy.

I felt good and kept spinning my way back to town. I guessed there were 8 miles left and the last five would be like a bobsled course.  I kicked it in gear, pounding my way through the curves like Lance on ‘roids before I was rudely interrupted by a line of pick-up trucks waiting to turn onto “my” course.  I swerved around the gaggle of trucks and was oddly happy to see a cop waving me through to the main road, where more cars were waiting to make my blast down the mountain a nightmare.

Cars and more cars.  All going shopping or whatever cars do on Saturday morning in Ashland City.  They had no idea there was a race going on and I felt it was my duty to let them know.

I took over the lane as I saw the crest of the hill and prepared to scream downward.  I flew past a couple bikers sipping water and hammered the biggest gears.  I went to my lower grip and attacked the wet and windy road at 30 mph.  Speed picked up and I nearly lost it when my palm slipped off the wet handle bars.  One more mile to go and I didn’t let up, until . . . I saw the traffic.

Who were these people flooding the streets at 9:30 Saturday morning.  McDonalds, Walmart, Walgreens, all sucking the life out of people who moved to Ashland City to get away from such filth, but now they were trapped.  Lifelong country folk losing their roots to corporate America.  But worse, I had to negotiate through this mess.

At the bottom of the hill, another friendly officer waved me to the left.  Back onto the main road for a white knuckle battle with hundreds of shoppers, all clueless to the biggest race of my life.  I bobbed and weaved to safety then leaked down the right hand shoulder of the road with literally a foot between me and car mirrors.  No support, no signs, no friendly cops.  I thought I was lost and battled traffic like a New York bike courier with nothing to deliver except a fading dream.

My thin tire hugged the edge of the slick black top and I turned sideways to squeeze by the last pick-up blocking my way to glory.  I turned right and peddled down the exit street, drenched, cold, and convinced I laid down a good ride.  Official time was 1:20:35, nearly 20 mph.

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Iron Ego

I often wonder why I signed up to do Ironman Wisconsin.  It’s a huge physical and fiscal commitment that will take a ton of time and dedication but when I’m done . . . I walk away with a medal, t-shirt and the right to tattoo the Ironman logo on my right ass cheek.

Sometimes I wonder if this is a big ego trip that will make me feel like someone I’m not.  But the truth is, I believe this process will bring me closer to who I am.

Life can suck juice out of the best plans.  I mean, is it really natural for humans to sit in a classroom 7 hours a day until they are 22 years old, or in my case 30?  Then tackle a career by sitting at a desk 8 hours a day until you’re too old to move?  To top it all off, we spend the time that’s left on a couch or a rocking chair before hitting early bird supper.

I know I’m generalizing, but sometimes I walk around the office and look at dozens of people spending half their waking lives gazing at a computer screen.  And I can’t talk because I do the same thing, but frankly, that is some weird shit!

For me, the Ironman represents a quest to re-discover the purest form of my humanity.  It’s motivation that forces me to move, and along the way I anticipate dozens of side benefits–including some super tasty physiological treats.

But, there is definitely ego.  Or, at the very least, a need to rekindle a life of competition that faded away.  I played competitive sports most of my life and truly miss the high of winning.  But winning, when it comes to an Ironman or any kind of individual endurance sport, rarely means first place.

Winning is giving an honest effort to be your best and that is far more than clipping a few seconds off a stopwatch.  It’s about being healthy, clear, happy, honest, and releasing the person that’s been tied down in the corner.

And it’s hard when you invest this much in yourself because you have to evolve.  It takes patience and courage to leave the chair behind.  There must be movement, and when you move, it can seem like you’re running away from who you are.  But, for me, moving is simply re-discovering the best man inside and hanging out with him more often.

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Enhancing the Soul

Hello, my name is Mike, and I’m weak.  Sure, I have gone from barely jogging 60 seconds to completing a 1/2 marathon and Olympic triathlon in less than a year, but it feels like this engine is overworked and needs a tune-up.

I’ve lost twenty pounds, can easily swim a half hour, bike for two, and run further than I ever dreamed, but flow, flexibility and clarity haven’t caught up.  Tonight, I realized what was missing, and sometimes it’s as simple as buying into what you already know.

Strength, visualization, and music.

So, I expanded my chest with dumbells to the side, ready to change my world, and if my dog wasn’t licking my arm pits I might have gotten somewhere. I shook her off, then hit the floor for push ups like Bucky Badger after a string of Wisconsin touchdowns. A few curls, lunges, and the like but it all kinda hurt.

It was time for the mind.

I visualized lying back with a woman between my legs and looking in her eyes while effortlessly doing a sit up to kiss her lips.  The problem was, I wobbled off the side of the big bouncy workout ball and nearly landed on my squealing dog, which totally ruined the moment.

But music never does.

I swear, I don’t know what gets into me, but I find myself locked on talk radio half the time.  NPR, sports talk, morning funny guys, etc . . . and I am convinced that is one of the worst things you can do to yourself.  Bombs in Beirut, endless speculation over what’s wrong with the Titans, tired fart jokes.  Why do we get sucked into things that make us “feel” smart but don’t enhance our soul?

I dusted off a couple bombastic speakers, then took 15 minutes of my life to reconnect them to iTunes and two notes into U2’s “In A Little While” I was in tears.  It was real, too. I was throwing around more weight than I had in months.  My mind was lifted to a healthier place.  Next it was the Raconteurs’ “Treat Me Like Your Mother,” and the ab workout was my bitch.

Well, you get the point.  Strength, visualization, and music inspire and help us grow.  Overworking the same muscle, closing your mind, and talk radio help us die.

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Chasing Sasquatch (and The Red Wolf)

I’m not sure why the idea of running a race called the Sasquatch Trot was so intriguing. Until now I have been fueled by high profile events with lots of energy and people, but the hearing myself breathe on an isolated trail was exactly what’s been missing.

I got up early and drove along one of those unfamiliar numbered highways which never seem like the right road.  About 40 minutes in, my breakfast and coffee had other ideas than remaining in my stomach so I pulled off at the corner of 269 and Statesville Road to introduce myself to the fine folks at Three Forks Express Fuel.  I got the bathroom key, left a memorable aroma, and set out for Peaceful Hill.

The winding roads away from Watertown, TN were replete with “He has risen” white crosses, tractors for sale, and roadkill.  I had once again left my comfort zone and only had a love for training to blame.

There was a lonely, hand written sign at the base of the long driveway declaring I was in the right place.  Hay rolls sprawled in perfect symmetry like an alien culture dropped in for a wild weekend. The gravel poked my tires and led to to a creek bridge so low it would wash out in a light rain.  That bridge would double as the start line and I couldn’t have been happier.

We parked in a massive field about 400 yards from registration and they shuttled us in the back of a pick up truck.  I forked over 30 bucks to a very personable race organizer, Cody, who pushed the edge of fashion in his 70’s retro racer style with a hint of Richard Simmons.  He was excited to offer me race number 99 and pull two dollars in change from his own jacket.

It was all good as the 60 or so racers took a relaxing driveway stroll back to the creek where we stretched for ten minutes before holding up our right hands and reciting the highly useful and mandatory “Racers Oath.” This was led by the other organizer, John, and spoken with passion, conviction, and hint of “we are kinda crazy mother fuckers.”

The Racers Oath

Do to the dangers of this course everyone was required to give the following oath.

Everyone raise their right hand look desperately deep into the eyes of one of the runners next to you and repeat after me

RUNNER
* Might I say that you are looking fabulous today
* I want to let you know that you are my Sacagawea to my Lewis and Clark.

RUNNER
* Take a good look at my face because it is the last time you will see it in this race. It’s all backside from here on out runner

RUNNER
* Take a look at your shoes because I have tied them together. Just kidding runner

RUNNER
* We may get lost, injured, or cry but I won’t tell if yo don’t runner

RUNNER
*If I see a Sasquatch chasing us in the woods please understand that tripping you is for the greater good.

RUNNER
* Lets do this

70’s Retro wrestled the megaphone from John and interlaced witty banter with an undertone of love for his baby.  Cody was determined to make sure the 5 milers followed the pink tape and the 12 milers concentrated on yellow.  They warned of loose gravel, slipper rocks, sink holes and an imposing hill at mile three.  I wondered what the hell I was getting myself into.

The first mile was a nicely cut trail along the creek which veered toward the farmhouse as we began our circle of the property.  I was breathing heavy and realized I was too close to other runners when I nearly wrenched my ankle on a log I never saw coming.  I carved out space and settled into a relaxing pace with nature.

It was my first race in Inov8 shoes and I liked how the soft ground felt through the thin soles.  My eyes were glued 10 feet ahead, engaged with my only competition, the relentless terrain.

I found a zone and took in scenery while trying to squeeze Cody’s reference to “Rattlesnake Hill” out of my mind.  Trees whizzed by and I was alone with my thoughts, pounding wet leaves and hopping imaginary snakes. It was no longer a race, but a stroll through peaceful woods.  Then, I saw another runner in the distance.

He was wearing a bright red shirt and my bliss was swallowed by a horror movie. I was chasing him and being chased at once.  Running to catch, running not to be caught.  The adrenaline spiked and I felt the animal inside dig in for Mr. Red Shirt.

I was closing in and plotting navigation of a small creek when out of nowhere I heard a scream or a growl or something that put me on the defensive.  I looked to my left and saw . . . Sasquatch!

It took me about point five seconds to realize it was a costume, but there was something about the creature that gave it momentary credibility.  Later I learned it was John’s dad in the suit and I surmised there must be something about experience and wisdom that shines through a fake fur.

Mile two was a bit dicey, but the Sasquatch touch left a smile on my face.  I weaved up and down small hills and followed the pink flags into dense woods.  The path led us back and forth over a small and muddy creek then served a slippery 8 foot creek bank climb before continuing to the perimeter of a field where aid station volunteers did us a solid.  And it was a good thing, because our lives were about to become hell.

John said there was a big hill waiting, but I don’t think runners really “hear” those kind of words.  I actually thought I had already run that big hill in the previous succession of smaller ones.

Nope.

My crosshairs locked on Mr. Red Shirt (who was now The Red Wolf) and I watched closely as he attacked the steep hill and hit a wall.  I was 20 yards back and stayed on pace as we crawled up the gravel slope.

About 50 yards up, I remembered the advice many trail runners have given me, “if you can’t see the top of the hill, walk.”  I’m not sure if this is true with great runners, or short runs, but for me, it sounded like a damn good idea.  I fell into a walk as The Red Wolf spun his wheels.

About 30 yards later, I realized my walk was nearly the same pace as his run.  It was almost like he heard me think because at that moment, The Wolf slowed to a walk and we observed nature for the next few hundred yards.

The scenery was magnificent as we closed on the glorious peak where event photographer, Stephanie, waited to immortalize the “hill misery” on our faces.

I laid in the weeds and smiled with Mr. Red Wolf in sight.  Just then I heard someone yell, “Hey, here comes the first female runner!”

Before I could look behind me, a woman in bright pink shorts blazed past.  I still had about 30 yards to the top, but for some reason this triggered my man-card and I put my head down to catch her, which proved to be a vital mistake.

I was strong and knew that, once I got down that hill, the final two miles would be mine.  But the instant I crossed the top of that mountain I felt a sharp pain in the side of my knee.  The IT band reared its ugly head again, this time on the left side.

I knew I was screwed and kept waiting for my right knee to join in the fun.  I stared at the steep, rocky downhill and hoped the injury was phantom and would magically disappear.

I couldn’t even walk down the hill.  I had to turn sideways and hop on my right leg, grimacing as I watched The Red Wolf vanish into the thick brush.

It was true, wolves are never hunted.  His victory was secure, and I wasn’t even sure I would finish.

One by one, other runners flew past me.  I swore and bitched with every step, mostly because I wanted tackle the downhill with reckless abandon.  I was built for fast, athletic challenges and now I hobbled like a man without his crutches.

As bad as the knee hurt, I had that sneaking feeling it wasn’t serious.  The downhill was broken by a few flats which I jogged without much pain, but near the bottom, I met my match.

The hill gained pitch and slowing was hopeless without falling to my knees.  While it was one thing to lose The Wolf, it was quite another to be spotted crawling backwards like a lost tourist begging forgiveness from a bear.

I couldn’t stop, and wouldn’t crawl, so I let out a trail scream and hoped for the best.

My strides grew and I was covering 10 feet at a crack.  I looked above and leaped like Tarzan for a hanging limb and flung airborne through the trees; a man possessed.  Bark dug into my hands, leaves slit skin like paper cuts, and arms burned as I grabbed the last tree branch and launched myself to safety in a 3 foot pond of muddy water.

Okay, that didn’t really happen, but somehow I stayed on my feet and made it through a treacherous rock bed before heading to the open field.  The knee held up and I pounded the grass in a last ditch effort to secure The Wolf.

The energy I saved on the hill was paying off and I methodically picked off three runners that flew past me on the downhill.  That’s when I saw the opening.  With a mile left, The Red Wolf was in sight . . . and walking.

I leaned forward in a controlled fall and blazed the edge of the woods with my eye on the prize.  He was out there, but the course was tricky and I couldn’t really tell how far ahead he was.

The trail swung out, around, then right through one of the red barns where I braced myself for Sasquatch or big piles of horse shit, but neither got in my way. I raced hard toward the lake and briefly lost sight of my prey as he ran into another barn.

I put my head down to close the diminishing gap.  The Wold was a couple hundred yards ahead, but his bright red fur seemed close enough to grab.

The trail weaved like an “S” and took me into the final barn.  As I got closer I noticed the sliding door was only slightly open, which triggered a Sasquatch warning.  I just knew that wild man/animal would, at the very least, stick out his leg and trip me.  I was braced for a surprise attack and barely noticed the massive pile of hay bails blocking my progress.  I suspended the Sasquatch fantasy and dove head first onto the pile of straw and climbed like a man possessed.  I rolled off the backside, through the front door, and surveyed the horizon for red.

He was gone.  The only red left was blood trickling from my hands.

I crossed the hay bail finish line and stood face to face with The Red Wolf.  He gave me an evil grin, stuck out his paw and started making the weirdest sounds.  I was like, “who the fuck is this guy and why was I chasing him?”  Not really, The Red Wolf was a true gentleman/wolf who spoke quite eloquently and deserved the victory.

In reality, he beat me by two minutes and I probably wouldn’t have caught him with a good knee, but all of this makes for a better story.

Somehow the Peaceful Hill Sasquatch Trot is the perfect course for beginner or expert trail runners.  There is true love cut into them there hills and it shows.  The sprawling acreage is a gorgeous setting and the inaugural running class was a great foundation.  Add the wood carved Sasquatch trophies, live music, beer, food, and hay bail podium and you can start to see why this run is destined to be selling out, and I will be making another trip to Peaceful Hill.

More Pictures Here

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Swimming with Little Old Ladies

I am really hoping I transform into a butterfly of the mornings but it is a major challenge.  It doesn’t help that while I’m still lying in bed, 3/5ths of the Ironman Wisconsin team is Sweatin’ to the Oldies at the East Nashville YMCA (otherwise known as Margaret Maddox YMCA . . . which I plan to start calling it in hopes of creating even more confusion and randomness in my life).

I did eventually get to the pool by 7 am, which is pretty damn impressive, but my training buddies were DONE by 6:15.  I eagerly shared my lane with a snappy little old lady and the entire time imagined it was Margaret Maddox.  This seemed to help my production, and I worried the brute force of my stroke may actually splash her out of the pool, which would have certainly put my membership in jeopardy.

But Margaret was a pro and blazed her own trail.  Cutting through violent waves with the precision of a seasoned quilter . . . just like you would imagine anyone having a YMCA named after them would.

Adding to the curious Margaret-dynamic was that the guy in the lane next to us was absolutely crushing his stroke.  It was loud–bordering on obnoxious–and he was flying!  This was truly some Tarzan shit and more than once I peered creepily under the water to steal his secrets.  But there were no secrets.  He was simply overpowering the water like a fan boat in the Everglades and it was all I could do to keep from overturning onto my beloved Margaret.  I did, however, notice he couldn’t keep that gorilla-like stroke for more than a couple laps.

Speaking of gorillas, later today, I plan to post a scintillating story that re-caps my first trail run, the Peaceful Hill Sasquatch Trot.  The tale promises to be replete with struggle, passion, fear, scenery, monsters, injury and roadkill, but unfortunately no Margaret’s.

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The Fab Five

Tonight, it was dinner with four guys who just happen to be joining me for Ironman Wisconsin.  I was like, “Holy shit, everyone’s here,” but I shouldn’t have been that surprised because we planned to meet at Calypso Cafe to draw up training plans with our coach.  And while I’m not sure if it’s going to stick, for now we’re calling ourselves the Fab Five.

The first thing Jim said to me was, “Please tell me you’re drinking beer.”  I agreed without missing a beat and listened with a mouthful of hops as he segued into a tactical attempt to commandeer my basement for the next three months.

“You can stop me anytime, but Mark and I were thinking, since you have such a great basement, it would make a lot of sense if you wanted to be the headquarters for our P90x workouts.”  I told him I’d answer after I finished my Yazoo Pale Ale.

I think the guys would agree that one of the coolest things about training for this Ironman is the group we have assembled.  There is a wide range in experience as well as age.  Jim has done two Ironman distance triathlons, Kevin has done one, and everyone has done a 1/2, including Daniel and Mark.  I have done none of the above.

We have a lot in common, we’re all East Nasty, we are all sorta white, and we all have liked beer at some point, but tonight’s key realization was that each of us will represent a different age group.  I, of course, will be the oldest and impart serious wisdom as we glide through the process.

Our diet and staying in the moment are important.  We ate beans and rice like real runners and talked about how we planned to document the road to IMWI.  Mark immediately stepped to the front and gave us carte blanche of his video studio and staff to produce a high end video, which was super cool and a major team-player move.  I, on the other hand, squashed a dream by rejecting my basement as P90x headquarters.

What I like about what we have going is that everyone is kind of a “fuck-around,” but clearly respects that mountain in front of us.  We joke about everything and anything, but when the “I-word” comes up, these cats realize process is king.  This isn’t about ripping apart some race a year from now, it’s about building our mind, body, and soul.  It’s about coming together and trusting the true energy of life to build us into stronger people.  We’d all probably laugh about that line as well, but know it’s true.  There’s magic in the pursuit of something that tests your will.

Our coach never did make it, but the good news is . . . he was being held hostage by a serious running operation at another location.  As the oldest and wisest member of the this consortium, I am banking on the fact that “coach” accumulated even more wisdom tonight and the Fab 5 will be better off when he brings it to our next dinner table on Sunday.

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Mind Over Matter

I have never had a knee problem before, but last weekend I ran in Percy Warner Park and that could have been a big mistake.  I have gotten used to running through little aches and pains, but this felt like a scurry of squirrels had found some choice meat on the side of my leg.

Since I am the KING of self diagnosis, I started wondering if it had something to do with the slope of the road.  I was running around to the left and my right leg was on a lower plane the whole way.  It wasn’t bugging me on the uphills, but coming down put me in that happy-crazy-survival-mode like the guy who convinces himself he’s having fun even though he’s lost in the dark and getting chased by wild boars.  When I got the the bottom and regained sanity I thought, damn, I hurt this knee on the downhills.  As it turns out, I was right on both accounts.

Injuries are funny.  I have probably heard 100 people mention their IT Band.  It never sunk in.

Even a friend of mine who runs Percy Warner all the time said he loves running there but it’s hard on his knees.  Why didn’t I hear these warnings?  It’s like a little kid who has to burn his hand on the stove before he believes it.

I limped around Saturday and most of Sunday before I started to believe my running career was over.  Hyper-aging to the point where I even looked in the mirror a few times and thought “I really do look like my Grandpa.”

On Sunday and Tuesday I swam 35 minutes, then ran about 4 miles with the East Nasties on Wednesday.  The knee actually didn’t feel too bad, but after the run I did walk up on two dudes locked in a very “breathy” tongue-frenzy next to my car when I went to get my wallet for pizza.

Today, I was nearly committed to my Wisconsin Badger ban, but elected to DVR the game (and spend much less time watching) while I went for a short, flat run on the Greenway.  You know, just a little jog to see how it feels.

Nine miles later I was once again cussing myself for another glorious knee throb.  It honestly wasn’t too bad until I started mowing my lawn, but let me tell you I might as well have been dragging a plow through that backyard.  I was literally almost crying and this time it wasn’t because of the mole destruction.

So . . . I bought a foam roller and have been doing that, but I think the real trick is to stay out of my running shoes for a few weeks.  There is no way I want to hit January with tender knees and ankles.  If you need me I will be in the pool or posturing like Gandhi in one of Nashville’s fine yoga studios.