Yesterday, I ran a 12k. Today, I slept in before riding my bike a mile up the road to the local pub for lunch and a couple beers. Riding 111 more miles seemed like a daunting task at that moment. #IronmanWisconsin
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Is one of these you or someone you know?
Triathlon Simulation
This is how ridiculous I can be. I came home after work determined to lay around and watch basketball, which I did for about 5 minutes. I got up, stumbled into the kitchen, ate an entire box of cereal, then decided, not only to workout, but to simulate a Sprint Triathlon at the Y.
I jumped in the pool and did a quick 11 laps (about 550 yards). I did my best to imagine people beating the shit out of me, but considering there were only two old ladies on aqua bikes in the shallow end, it wasn’t easy. I completed my first event in about 10 minutes, then ran into the locker room to dry off and change into sweats.
Transition One, about 5 minutes.
The large staircase was a welcome challenge on my way to the Spin Bike. I deftly avoided a large woman talking very loudly on her cell phone and trucked toward the sterile room full of ugly machines.
I used to love working out inside at the Y, but after learning how to run outside, I’m starting to question the validity of “gyms.” I mean, I get the weight part, I guess, but there is a Cross-fit gym not far from here that is in an old gas station and I love it when they open all the doors and flex “in nature.”
Inside workouts kinda bring me down. But, I sucked it up and jumped on the Spin Bike next to a colorful woman doing short choppy steps on her Stairmaster, which I decided was some type of effort to be better in bed or on the dance floor.
I spun and spun for what seemed like forever, but looked up at the clock and it was literally only 6 minutes. I was stunned, and, similar to most of my workouts, contemplated quitting. But I didn’t.
There’s something about riding a stationary bike that is both bullshit and awesome sauce. I sweat like a nun in a porn shop. I mean, there were puddles building and the bike started to drift closer to my colorful princess.
Somehow I toughed out 25 minutes before heading to the janitor’s closet and grabbing a wet vac to slurp up the puddles around my bike. My new lady friend didn’t seem to care and I noticed her ass was moving with a little more steam.
Transition two, about 3 minutes.
On to the treadmill for a quick 25 minute jog, or so I thought. The minute that belt started moving I remembered how much I hate fucking treadmills. I put the incline on “one” and pecked along at a 9 minute pace for, oh . . . about . . . 2 minutes.
I couldn’t take it. My ankles felt like they were going to get swallowed into some kind of treadmill vortex never to be seen again. There was nothing left to do, but chuckle, power down, and look forward to tomorrow night’s run with the East Nasties.
Post script: I signed up for a 4 mile race on Thanksgiving morning and yes, I really did eat a whole box of cereal. It was a smaller box, but I estimated about 1,000 calories. Must be something to do with post-work-early-darkness depression.
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.
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.
Hot Yoga Virgin
Until last night at 8:15 pm CST, I was a hot yoga virgin. And while I didn’t have the same remorse I did after my first sexual experience, it was every bit as awkward.
In my defense, there is nothing quite as twisted as a yoga instructor starting class by spearing your left ankle with a two minute tree pose. I was a aging oak in the middle of a tornado. Bending sideways and tripping over its own roots.
I am trying to let go of judging yoga teachers, but I’ve had a hard time ever since my last instructor thought he would shit-can the ocean soundtrack for his falsetto. We’re literally in proud warrior and he is belting out Sinatra. A little Madonna with your sun salutation? And for an encore, let me present Kenny Chesney as you slither into child’s pose.
I was a mess and walked away from the quest for a quiet mind and peaceful heart. Until last night.
I survived the premature tree pose and (considering I am a tight-assed-hamstring kinda guy) settled into a decent groove. The mirror reflected my weakness as I spied the room full of women owning their poses. I shrugged off vertigo and fought through half moon. Sweat blurred my vision and the heat vent dried tears before they moistened my cheeks. But, like they tell you, I stayed with the pose.
I imagined relaxing as I pierced the rough waves off the beach at Kona. The sun shined as I soaked in the scenic 112 miles of rolling hills in Lake Placid. And I hummed along in meditation for a 26.2 mile run through the University of Wisconsin campus. I am, after all, an Ironman virgin as well.