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.
I marvel at my dog’s ability to hit top speed. She could be in a dead sleep and pop to all fours in less than a second. That same feat normally takes me several snooze sessions and a few groans. I’ll open the door and she’ll be at full stride chasing a bird the minute she hits the ground.
Her diet consists of the same exact thing every day. Roughly a cup of Blue dog food in the morning, a couple treats at lunch and another cup of food at night. She only drinks water.
Is there something to this?
I recently read “Born to Run” and the centerpiece of the story was the Tarahumara tribe that is famous for running super-human distances of 50 to 100 miles just for the hell of it. By all accounts their diet seems remarkably consistent and simple.
Hall of Fame baseball player, Wade Boggs, is another guy who pops into my head. He allegedly ate only chicken before games. He was one of the steadiest hitters I’ve ever watched in baseball. Nothing flashy, but almost like endurance hitting. Night after night he would step into the batters box and perform one of the hardest sporting feats with amazing consistency.
And as I write this, a friend reminds me of the old Dannon commercials featuring 100 year old Russians who ate yogurt like fiends. And man were they spry!
Now, I’m just throwing this out for discussion, but are modern diets too diverse?
It goes without saying that it’s harder to work out when we’re not feeling well or exhausted. Could we be putting unnecessary strain on our digestive and immune systems with a wide variety of foods?
Today’s Diet:
Breakfast: Coffee
Lunch: Salmon, broccoli, blue cheese potato chips, cinnamon rolls
Snack: Hershey’s Bar
Dinner: Homemade chicken noodle soup, cottage cheese, two small pickles
Writing drinks: De-caf Coffee, Seltzer Water
Armondo’s at it again. Now, he’s trying to convince me to do an all night trail relay. That might be easy for the Red Wolf, but I’m like the Purple Quail in this mix.
So, the route is 5 miles with 4 people. It’s actually only 12 hours, but all night sounds more dangerous. I hear there is a 24 hour run, but . . .
If you remember, this is the same trail that ransacked my IT band in the first place,
Chasing the Sasquatch
but as you know, I am not one to take losing lightly. (Maybe you don’t know that and maybe it’s not even true but these are dramatic points of the story that just need to be inserted for suspense). I have been known to climb jagged rocks to bring supper back to my family (dog) and traverse miles of wicked hot terrain to secure a metal cupful of water.
Yeah, so Armondo’s all like, “We can rest in tents in between laps.”
Dude, it’s working… keep talking.”
“And eat hard boiled eggs in our sleeping bags.”
Wow, man!
“Cornhole, acoustic guitar and lots of bears.”
Okay, I’m sold!
Well, I’m not quite sold, yet. Three 5 mile trail laps is a tall order for a man fresh off chicken knee syndrome.
I’m gonna kick the tires and see if I can get some more teams involved. It’s lonely on that trail and Purple Quail is afraid of the dark.
Before I get into this article, I’d like to congratulate myself on this being my 50th post.
“Congratulations, Mike! You actually stuck with something for a while!” –Mike.
Speaking of commitment, I would think a wetsuit, at the very least, is the Ironman equivalent of picking out wedding invitations. I mean, a wet suit? Yep! And frankly it has been a long time since I was this excited to try something on. I’m not sure, but I think it fits. The guy told me to pay close attention to air pockets under the arms and behind the knees because, “The last thing you want is water accumulation in those areas.” Damn straight!
This baby seems nice and snug with no air pockets, but along the same lines the tightness is a bit intimidating. I mean, during my point nine mile Olympic swim my chest got so tight I had to unzip my tri-top two minutes into the water. My initial thought regarding the wetsuit was that I might end up finishing Ironman Wisconsin’s swim naked.
That said, I don’t really think it’s too tight, but I will spend many nights freaking out my neighbors in the backyard just to be sure. Too bad I’ve drained the pool.
I’m always running to make a difference. Supporting cancer research, people without homes, or men who can’t pull up their own socks. And all of this reminds me of an uncomfortable experience I had one evening at Bally’s Fitness.
It was a bad day and I was in a bad mood, so I decided to get the blood pumping. It was the dead of winter in Rockford, Illinois and I threw on every piece of black leather I owned, grabbed my gear and went to the gym. The outfit was more about putting up a wall than staying warm. I hadn’t shaved in 5 days and carried a grizzled look that would intimidate even the toughest Walmart greeter. I wanted no part of health club chit chat and was ready to unleash frustration on some big plates.
I flashed my card and walked past the desk guy without a word. A hot chick gave me the once-over and I flipped her off with my eyes. The janitor whistled by, smiling over his mop bucket, and I was in no mood for his happy time.
Thankfully–with the exception of a man who looked to be in his 80’s–the locker room was empty. I sat on the opposite end of the long wooden bench and started unlacing my big black boots. I swore under my breath as a preemptive strike against anyone wanting to discuss the weather. I threw my left boot in the metal locker and it landed with an menacing thud. I was pissed and dammit, that old man had to know.
As I angrily ripped the laces from my right boot, I heard his voice.
“Excuse me, young man. . .”
I was incredulous. Was he talking to me? The baddest man inside this Bally’s Fitness locker room?
“Uh, yeah??”
“Would you be so kind as to help an old man put on his socks?”
Even in the darkness that was my life that day, I was astonished by his courage. Did he really just ask me to help him pull wool onto his pasty feet? Did he not see the intimidating beard? Did he not hear the silver buckle clanging against my black biker jacket? I was enraged, I tell you.
I looked him in his eye with the meanest scowl I could muster and shook my head in disbelief. I stood tall, delivered an imposing stance, and simply said, “Sure.”
So, there I was, on one knee in front of an 80-year-old man in baggy gray sweat pants pulling up his Pierre Cardin socks! I kept peaking out of the corner of my eye to make sure no one was watching and am quite sure dude witnessed the fastest sock application he’d ever seen in his life.
I staggered back to my bench, sat down and stared at fingers that were no longer virgin to old-man-sock lint. Speechless, and in a post workout daze, I decided to skip the weights and go straight to Red Lobster.
Now, I know what you’re asking, “What does all of this have to do with training?” Well, not a damn thing.
When Armondo suggested I join him and Justin for a mountain bike relay race, I swallowed my tongue. It had been years since I’d ridden trails, and it certainly wasn’t a race. So, in my signature haphazard form, I said, “Let’s do it!”
The race was set for Lock 4 Park in Gallatin, Tennessee, and I came to find out the trails are maintained by the “Lock 4 Trailblazers” who could not have been happy when they saw our team name, the “Lock 4 Falcons.”
The Lock 4 Falcons
Regardless, the “Blazers” put together a bitch of a course* full of rocky climbs, tight turns, and three hill white knuckler of a roller coaster.
Of course, I had no idea what was waiting. I’d never ridden the course, nor had I ridden the new Gary Fisher mountain bike I bought off a dude on Craigslist two days before the race. It was a big, enticing mystery that had me running for cover and peaking behind the black curtain at once. I was shaking in my toe clips and eager to unveil talents from my hidden past.
So, here I was back on a mountain bike ready to soar into the unknown world of Lock 4. Armondo (aka The Red Wolf) started the relay with a solid 55 minute loop and I waited by the gate for Justin to complete his. The minute I saw his red shirt emerge from the woods, my heart screamed to get out. It was on, and all I could do was hope I hadn’t forgotten how to handle roots, trees, rocks, and random animals.
I was off, and luckily alone, on the single track. I started slowly, but it didn’t take long to remember. I was dialed in, but it not comfortable to be racing a course when you have no idea what is coming.
I tore through the first mile or so with no problem. There were a few tight turns, but nothing that put fear in my belly. I curled around a bend, then tore into a straight away that immediately dropped over a seemingly endless hill of roots.
“Trust the bike. Trust the bike.”
I was feeling it now. I knew how to find a line and explode through the bottom. I felt good. I was back!
Then I came around a corner and saw a short steep hill which I climbed, then immediately dropped straight down off the backside. It was almost like a cliff, but rolled right into another steep 12 foot climb, then off the back edge again, straight down. There were three of these in a row and I was freaking out. Maybe I wasn’t back!
I pressed on.
Other than hitting the breaks with ridiculous frequency, I felt like I was making good time. I ripped into a badass banked bridge that you needed to hit hard or fall in the water, nailed several jumps, and took in unbelievable scenery along the lake. I felt good, maybe even like I would keep us in the game with an Armondo-like 55 minutes loop.
I hadn’t seen another rider the whole time until I crept up behind a guy in a gray jersey. I rode his back wheel for what seemed like miles, but he kept pulling away on the downhills. He told me it was his third lap and delivered a crushing blow when I asked if we were almost done.
“Uh, yeah. Only 3 and a half miles left.”
I sucked it up and gave everything I had to get by him for the next half mile or so, then I saw an opening on a short climb. I stood off my seat and dug in to pass him when I heard a loud clang. Suddenly I was spinning my wheels and not moving. My chain broke with 3 miles to go.
Now, I have absolutely zero technical skills with fixing shit and a bike is no exception. I watched as the guy in front of me pulled away while I went backwards down the hill. Back in the day, I would have thrown in the towel and walked it back, but somehow the newly reformed triathlete in me saw the challenge.
Instinctively I jumped off my bike and started running it toward the finish line. If I had a downhill, I’d hop on and coast as far as I could, reaching out with my leg to push off trees or rocks or whatever I could use as leverage. On the flats I put my left foot on the left pedal and pushed with my right foot like I was riding a skateboard. I was a man possessed and treated the experience like I was doing a brick.**
It was a never ending trail and one by one riders called out “passing on your left” as I sheepishly stepped to the side. There were 5 in all and everyone asked if I was okay. I chugged along with my feet flopping like a walrus and said I was fine.
It was not an easy task, but I wanted to win and felt like my time to that point was pretty solid. I slid down hills, climbed over rocks, and skate-biked my way to the end where I had a calculated “look of disgust” just to make sure everyone knew the trail didn’t beat me.
I ran my bike around the loop and passed the baton to Armondo. It was a stirring moment, and as mad as I was, I really felt good about being able to run that trail, let alone with a 30 pound bike in tow.***
Armondo knocked out another nice lap at around 54 minutes and a nice gentleman gave me a hand with my chain. I would get one more lap to prove my prowess, but not before I had a couple beers with my new friend Liz, who has done Ironman Wisconsin twice and dished out loads of actionable information (that I may or may not share with the Fab Five).
Justin made it through his second lap and I was off again. This time, no surprises other than I nearly clipped a deer in mid-air as I channeled my “inner Lock 4 Falcon” off the five foot rock jump. I was amazed at how strong my legs have become from all the training and truthfully didn’t get all that tired.
I split the trail exit and spun around the loop where Armondo was waiting with a camera. I slowly glided in his direction, posing big time for the camera before jumping off my bike. I high fived my Falcon teammates and the guy at the timing table yelled out, “Hey buddy, you might want to cross the damn finish line!”
Post script: The Lock 4 Falcons took home 2nd Place medals in the “Doing this for fun” division.
* After a little research I noticed that several bikers scored this course “fast” and not very technical. So, I guess that makes me a wuss.
** A brick triathlete lingo for combining two events at once in training. In this case, bike and run.
*** The bike/run lap ended up being 1:01 and my second lap was just over 55 minutes.
Note: This is the set up for the actual Lock 4 Six Hour Challenge story. That post should be directly above this one.
Sometime back in the late 80’s I bought my first mountain bike and got hooked. It was a mint celeste Bianchi Sika, which I still have to this day. I road that thing all over LaCrosse, Wisconsin during my second 5 years of college. Eventually I got the the serious bug and decided to tackle a race on my home turf, which was a 10 mile loop up and down the ski hill named, “Mount LaCrosse.”
A friend of mine at the time, Mark Frise, was a pretty heavy road biker who had just ridden from Milwaukee to Eau Claire and back just to qualify for Race Across America. He was hardcore and told me he reached down to pull a leaf from his wheel ten miles out of Milwaukee and cut his finger wide open on the spoke. Mark was my first exposure to genuine endurance athletes and their inspiring qualities.
Anyway, the 10 mile Mount LaCrosse trail was split into 3 sections. Uphill, which was 7 miles, the cross-path was 1.5 miles on the side of a hill in foot tall grass. The remaining 1.5 miles was straight down a ski slope. It was an absolute brutal ride and I was so tired by the time I got to the downhill I was literally leaning over the front handle bars to get enough leverage on my breaks to slow down, which wasn’t going so well.
I was plowing over moguls and dodging trees at top speed. This was one of those moments when you believe your life is truly endangered. I was way behind the pack, so screaming like a little girl wasn’t really a problem. I thought for sure I was going to break through the chalet doors and literally crash a wedding, but somehow I gained control and steered toward the start line, and my second lap.
There weren’t many people around and I had about 500 yards of flat ground to gain my composure. It wasn’t easy. I was a battered man, fighting back tears and ready for bed. I made a quick and sound decision– I was going to coast my ass right off the course and into the parking lot, never to be seen again.
I immediately felt relief and looked forward to private time with my futon followed by a night on 3rd Street with my drinkin’ buddies. It was an awesome feeling. But just then, I saw someone running toward me, shouting my name. “That a boy, Mike! Nice job. Only one more to go!!!”
I was like, who the fuck is this guy jacking up my perfect plan? It was Mark Frise, the man who had just ridden 500 miles in 30 hours. I had just ridden 10, and was wiping slobber from my lips.
“Hey, Mark . . . what are you doing here?”
“I came to support you man! You got this!”
“Uh, well, yeah . . . Okay.”
I wanted to quit so badly. I knew nothing of cycling nutrition and hadn’t eaten that morning. I stared at the “mountain” and peddled my way back into the woods cursing myself, Mark, and innocent squirrels.
About an hour and a half later I was raging down that same hill, scared for my life, but somehow managed to pull it together and coast toward the end. I looked for Mark, but didn’t see him. I didn’t see anyone for that matter and as I zeroed in on the finish line, I noticed they were literally taking it down. I was crushed, but inched my way closer. I wanted to shout “Wait!,” but just then, I heard the PA announcer.
“Hold on a minute, ladies and gentlemen, we have another finisher!* It’s . . . number 87, Mike Tarrolly from LaCrosse, Wisconsin!”
People rushed back from the bar, their bikes, their cars and gave me a rousing ovation. I was moved beyond belief. Then someone pulled me off my bike and gave me a big bear hug. It was Mark, and I power of that moment helps me push on every time I struggle with a ride.
*At first I felt like a total loser for coming in while they were taking down the finish line, but in reality 90 people started that race and I took 45th place. Half of the field quit.
This is kind of fun. I picked up Mattie (short for Matisse) from a rescue shelter about a year and a half ago and she immediately proved to be a great workout partner. I should note, this video was made about the time I started running and the transformation since that time is quite amazing.
