Category: Ironman

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How A Night Owl Woke Up Early

For most of my life I have been trying to figure out how I can make an early morning workout feel as comfortable as my bed.  Today could prove to be a major milestone in that quest as I was in and out of the pool by 7AM.  And for the record . . . the world may now end.

It’s funny how I’ve always known getting up early is one of the biggest keys in my life, but day after day, year after year, decade after decade, I have refused to make it happen.  And in every great story, there is drama, so hold tight, because today was dangerously close to every other morning of my life.

It wasn’t as much about effort as it was simply waking up and thinking, “what the fuck else am I gonna do?”  And waking up at 6 and asking that question isn’t all that rare either, but it’s usually followed by, “just lay down for a while and hit the gym at 6:30.”  A subtle, yet key decision the night before could have been the difference.  Simply loading my backpack loaded with a towel, goggles, flops, and my swim suit.

So, there I was, at the YMCA, changing and pre-showering at 6:25.  I even saw a friend who who were already DONE with her workout.  She said fellow Ironman in training, Mark, had just left after knocking out 19 miles in spin class.  One of these days.

I tickled the water with my toe and was happy it was relatively warm . . .

Fuck this is boring!  Isn’t the point of blog posts to make them interesting?  Why would anyone want to read about me taking a shower at 6:25 am unless it was with a woman or a nefarious group of rebellion life-stylers?

I know this is about training, but reading is about being engaged, motivated and moved.  This blog should be more about the tight fitting shiny blue lycra shorts that hug my curves as I glide through the slippery waters.  Then again, maybe soft core workout porn isn’t the answer either.

Okay, I think the bottom line is, I got my ass out of bed, but it didn’t happen today.  It happened over the last 9 months of committed training and better patterns in my life.  Tough changes are less about will power or fighting through them and more about natural movements.

There is no progress without action.  There is no satisfaction until you embrace intention.  The only way to beat resistance is to let it go.

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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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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.

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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.

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Why Not You?

I’m finally reading Born to Run, which is an otherworldly story about a mysterious tribe of super- centered and super-human athletes nestled in remote caves of Mexico.  They’re called Tarahumara (the Running People) and routinely run for dozens or hundreds of miles in the course of a normal day.  It is their lifestyle.  Children run free as soon as they leave the cradle, adults run for fun, ritual, and competition, and elderly Tarahumara continue this tradition late into life.

In Chapter 6 they referenced a 90 year old man who commonly hikes 20 plus miles into the mountains.  The writer asked another tribesman how a man of his age could complete such feats of strength and endurance?  In true Tarahumara fashion the man simply said, “Because no one told him he couldn’t.”

I once heard someone say “Florida is God’s waiting room,” and while it made me laugh, I always thought it was sad.  Sure, we get old, but I’ve never liked our culture’s view of aging.  Why do we settle for a pension, rocking chair and a handed down afghan while watching re-runs of I Love Lucy? (Well, besides the fact they are hilarious!?!)

My father has never been the healthiest of men and, in many ways, has succumbed to the myth of aging, but I have always admired his passion for being a good golfer.  In fact, because I don’t see him often, that’s how I gauge his health.  He can still hit the ball as far as me and routinely scores in the 70’s as he approaches that age.  More importantly, he does it often.

Like many people I have casually thrown the phrase, “It sucks to get old,” but never wanted to accept it.  Ache has always been a part of my life and in youth you simply play through the pain.  I’d drag myself back to shortstop and embrace the next challenge.  The body always adapted and found its way back to “normal.”

In January I attempted to run as an endurance exercise for the first time in my life.  I wasn’t sure I had the patience to stick with the “slow build” Couch to 5k program, but, for once was determined to follow the rules.  There were many days I didn’t want to go, but I dragged myself to NRC and met the group.  There were other times when I felt good on an off day and wanted to test my limits, but resisted.  I stayed on course and credit that program for everything I have done since.

The more we do something, the more it brands our fiber.  It becomes natural like running is to the Tarahumara.  Whether it is writing, reading, photography, dancing, swimming, biking, running; we can do it if we create a good base and develop habits.

The Tarahumara seem super human, but for them, running is easy.  It’s kinda like lounging in a recliner to us.  Running People don’t design spread sheets or sit through webinars, but they do make sales calls (in person) and drink corn beer like it’s a treat from God.  My guess is, to them, posturing in an ergonomic chair and staring at a computer screen sounds harder than running 100 miles.  It’s what we do that makes a difference.

So, I have set my sights on the “impossible.”  A 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike, followed by a full marathon.  The marathon alone (on my best day), will be 240 of those first day sixty-second-runs in succession.  The bike ride will take at least 6 hours.  The swim is the equivalent of 42 lengths of a football field.  But, like the elderly man, if I believe it, who’s to say I can’t?

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Do What You Love

He sat in my office with his arms gesticulating over his head in a foggy blur telling me “You’ve got great ideas, but it’s this, and this and that going on all over the place.  What you need to do is pull it all together.”

He has a point.

One of my biggest problems is focus.  I get into something hard core, then leave it for a shiny new object.  I have several blogs and video channels and have great starts on a lot of them, but they are wasting away like an extinct culture.

But training has me by the balls.  It reminds me of drumming, and just like sports, I have always had a jones for drumming.

I used to bartend at a dank little live music club in Rockford, Illinois and I would ignore customers much of the time to watch drummers.  It was vaguely creepy, but I just had to learn drums.

One night after my favorite band finished the drummer stood by the bar throwing away what looked to me like perfectly good drum sticks.*

I’m like, “Dude, what are you doing?”

“Ahh, these things are fraying all over the place.”

I said I would take them and another shitty drummer was born.

I lived across the street from the club above a t-shirt company that I owned at the time and went home that night, grabbed four card board boxes, and set up a “drum set” in my living room using lamp shades as cymbals.  While it might strike you as strange, I actually got bored with hitting boxes so I started lugging the entire club drum kit back to the print shop on nights when we didn’t have open stage.

I played those drums all night long.  Me, locked alone in an dark storage area, lost in my beats, and pissing off my only neighbor, but he was rather demure and had several issues he didn’t want his landlord to know about.

I was obsessed and drove local drummers crazy with my questions.

What’s your favorite drill?  How do you make that sound?  How do I clean cymbals?  Should I use a metronome or play to music?  How do I hold these sticks?  Who’s your favorite drummer?  Do you get a lot of women?

One night, I asked a drummer, if the shoes he was wearing were good drumming shoes.  He kinda gave me a look, then peered down at his loafers and said, “They are tonight.”

With that lesson in the can, I am doing my best to refrain from too many questions because it seems like people who are good at things (and do them often) don’t like to talk about them in social settings.  Too bad runners!  I have some fucking questions!

But, that’s for another blog.

My point is, I have the same passion for triathlon training as I did for drumming and it makes sense.  I’m an athlete to the core and for years he has been buried under a quest for irony.

Recently after seeing a post-triathlon picture of me smiling like a little kid, a friend of mine told me “You seem much happier as an athlete.  The lean without the mean.”

He has a point, too.

Like my co-worker said, I need to weave it all together.  I have been into so many things and have so many interests that I need to design it all into a lifestyle.  What fires me up more than anything is, I can see how training will be the catalyst that brings the diversity together.  It is slowly stripping irrelevant thought and letting me focus on the prize.

*  It’s worthy of note that this drummer has also recently gotten into running and is kicking ass.  This weekend’s Chicago Marathon will be his first and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he qualifies for Boston.

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Ironman Louisville: Pre Race

This is the first of a three or four or five part series on my first trip to watch an Ironman.  It was August 2012 and Jim and I went to follow our friend Kevin as he attempted his first quest of 140.6.

I had doubts about driving to Louisville to watch Kevin compete in the Ironman.  It’s sort of my nature to protect weekends and I knew a “yes” would deplete my body for the next week.  The year before I promised Jim I’d come watch him, but reneged on my word.  That guilt, along with my genuine interest in triathlons pushed me to make the journey up I-65.  It was a great decision, but I should have taken Monday off.

We got to Louisville Saturday night and met Kevin in the race hotel lobby.  It was nearly 12 hours before the race and he already looked humble.  He was standing in a storm at the base of a mountain, staring at the peak, with no choice but to climb.  Calm, confident, yet in touch with his mortality.

The three of us walked through downtown and stopped to stare at the finish line, which was plopped in the center of Louisville’s most bustling district.  That was Kevin’s goal and he’d have 17 hours to cross it.  The line that would finalize a dream.  It would signify that he was an Ironman Finisher.

The bartender talked too much, but it was probably a good thing. Kevin, Jim, and I sat on stools at the Irish Pub sharing a ceremonial PBR to consumate Kevin’s pre-race ritual.  We laughed a bit and joked about how horrible it would feel to finish the race, but not within the time limit.  You wouldn’t hear, “Mike Tarrolly, You’re an Iron Man!” It would likely be something like, “He dude, nice 140.6 workout, come back and try again sometime!”

No medal, no acclaim, no love, no pride.  Well, some pride.  But that 17 hour time limit would play a major part for all three of us.

Kevin went back to his room, while Jim and I surveyed the swim exit.  I stood by the water and looked up stream while Jim pointed at the starting line.  I almost couldn’t compute what Kevin and the nearly 3,000 other athletes were up against.  Jim’s finger landed on a spot nearly two miles up the imposing Ohio River.  It was difficult to see let alone think about swimming.  The 2.4 mile swim would be a major accomplishment for 99% of America, but to think about leaving the water, climbing on for a 112 mile bike ride, then running a marathon sounds like an 80 hour work week followed by a Saturday filled with Catholic weddings.

Jim and I hopped in the car and headed to his God-daughter’s place to hang before deciding what we were going to do that night.  We didn’t feel like drinking so we went and bought a 12 pack of light beer.

Her house was tiny and felt perfect for a law student.  There were lots of things on the walls, but the only think I really looked at was the couch.  I knew Sunday would be a long day.

I had one beer while Jim fell asleep in the chair.  His God-daughter texted and said the place was all ours to which Jim asked if I wanted the bed.  I REALLY wanted the bed, but the thought of sleeping in a strange woman’s bed seemed odd to me, which in itself is odd because I have done it dozens of times.  Maybe it’s because the strange woman wasn’t there.  I didn’t know who she was.  I didn’t necessarily know who the others were either and that never stopped me.  It was probably because it was Jim’s God-daughter.  That felt a little strange, but not to him.  He was between the sheets and out like a light in minutes.

The other thought that kept crossing my mind was . . . we’re in a new town, have this place to ourselves and we’re not drinking or throwing a party?  Then I was thinking, why does that thought cross my mind?  Does everything have to be a party?  I felt like a little kid in a grown man’s body. Crashing on a couch with a frilly blanket, both too short for my body. I didn’t sleep that well.

Jim was bouncing around the ginger bread house at 5:30 am.  He’s used to that hour, I am not and didn’t fall asleep until 2 o’clock.  I would be watching the Ironman on 3 1/2 hours sleep!

I slid into my East Nasty shirt and stayed in the shorts from my slumber and we were off to the race(s).

Even though it was early-morning-dark, downtown Louisville was bustling.  Hundreds of people charged up a single sidewalk toward the Swim Entrance.  Many carried posters of encouragement, others jingled cowbells, and Jim and I jogged along side of them until my left nut started pinging.  After about a quarter mile I had to stop and hid a limp for the next four hours.  I knew I should have worn underwear.

It wasn’t hard to find Kevin.  He was near the front of the thousands forming a line deep into the darkness of the morning.  It was an unbelievable spectacle.  Men and women of all ages standing in their bare feet, many in swim caps and shirtless at 6 am.

Kevin swayed back and forth every so slightly as he walked with the moving line and I asked him questions straight out of the “canned questions guide” from behind my video phone.

“How do you feel?”

“What’s going through your mind?”

“You ready?”

“Good.”

“Not much.”

“Hope so.”

Equally canned responses and I suddenly felt like a jack ass filming the moment for his grand children.  It was a fine line.  I was NOT an Ironman and was walking on egg shells because the last thing I wanted to do was put doubt in his mind about the enormous task staring down his swim cap. So, the next several moments were filled with stuff like, “We’re here for you buddy, let us know if you need anything on the course.”  To which I’d get a quick response of, “That would be illegal and cause for disqualification.”  Okay, shut up, Mike.  Just stand here and look like your calm.  Maybe that will somehow enter Kevin’s psych.  All of these things and I’m not even racing.

Kevin was really close to the front, but there were still hundreds of racers ahead of him.  At 6:50 the gun went off for the professionals start.  In ten more minutes Kevin would be in an urgent walk down the ramp and on his way to the water.  His two biggest fans squeezed their way through the crowd to find a vantage point near the pier.  It may have taken 15 minutes, but we were in row two watching one after another plunge their way into the murky silt of the Ohio.

Jim and I traded high fives with a, “here we go” and turned our eyes to the string of athletes now spaced out so far they were running down the dock to begin their journey.  AC/DC filled the air along with the voice of the Ironman shouting encouragement and direction to the swimmers which came in different shapes and sizes yet looked remarkably similar.  We watched for 5 more minutes, cameras high to get the money shot of Kevin, but neither of us saw him.  It was only 7:10 when it sunk in.  We had driven nearly three hours, gotten up at 5:30 am and missed Kevin’s Ironman plunge.

We did our best to shake it off and enjoy the moment.  It wasn’t hard.  People yelled and cheered for their friends, family, mom and dad as they took the leap of faith from the dock.  The sun was up on a glorious morning and we stayed and watched in awe.  I knew Jim was thinking it, but had to ask.  “You wish you were down there, don’t you?”  Without hesitation, he said “Yes.”

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Crushing Addiction

Hi, I’m Mike and I’m a college football addict.

For years, I have waited around on Saturday afternoons or evenings for my beloved Badgers to kick off.  I don’t literally wait, but the game usually lingers somewhere between my eyes and it’s hard to see the other offers right in front of my face.  This Saturday was no exception and at 7 pm I plopped on the couch waiting for God knows what.

It started off great.  Wisconsin was up 20-3 on the road against Nebraska’s double digit spread.  We were supposed to get crushed, and my boys were throwing haymakers, but I was still uneasy.  WAY off center and enlisting other addictions to balance it out.

Nebraska came storming back and in an instant, the game was tied.  Then we were losing.  Then we blew an opportunity to win the game at the buzzer.  Then I was bummed.  Then I was sleeping.

The point of all this discussion?  I don’t think it’s healthy and am entertaining the thought of letting it go.  That’s weak, boy!  Yeah, maybe it is, but I rarely feel good about games anymore. Even if Wisconsin wins, it is relatively empty and kinda just makes me smile in the mirror or something silly.  It’s tying myself to something out of my control.  Building an emotional connection with a bunch of college kids that wear the state logo.  I guess it’s a little like gladiator days, but those fuckers were killing each other.  It was life and death shit.  This is just a gaggle of college dudes that, win or lose, are gonna get laid after the game.

I realize that football is a distraction and not always bad.  But like anything, if you dip your pen in the well too many times, things are gonna get messy.  For me, that mud comes in the form of not getting anything done.  It strips the moment and steals momentum.

The NFL lost my interest for similar reasons about 10 years ago.  I can honestly say that I have no more than 2% interest on any given Sunday.  The replacement refs hooked me a bit, but now I won’t watch a down –and let me tell you– it’s a great feeling to get Sunday back.

So, with a bit of caution I declare that college football will slowly roll from my finger tips like a fumbled Hail Mary.  I know it won’t be easy, but the first step is admitting the problem.

Today’s Diet:
Breakfast – Banana, Coffee
Snack – Coffee
Lunch – Horseshit Lasagna, Bread sticks, unsweet tea
Snack – Fiber bar (this has got to stop!)
Dinner – Pickle, Green food in water, Chili Burger and fries at The Pharmacy, 2 beers.
Conversation: Great post-race discussion with Jim and Daniel along with a load of other unexpected runners and triathletes.

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How To Believe in Yourself

I wrote something in my last post that I wanted to take a few steps further.

There had always been a disconnect with running (and let me tell you that running was the entire piece of any triathlon puzzle for me).  It always seemed so hard (and still does), but building slowly and being a part of a group tricked me.  I have always been athletic and while I never saw myself as a runner, others did and I started to believe.

Whether it’s sports or art or music or business, we all have interests that seem to keep popping in our heads, and, at least with me, the reason I am slow to dive in is because I don’t really believe I can do something.  It’s like we have to prove it to ourselves.  That we are not only capable, but worthy of what we seek and desire.

I could walk around my office and ask 50 people what their dream is, and I bet over 40 would say something other than they are doing.  But why?  Why won’t they (we) go after true passions in life?

It’s no different in team sports.  Some teams just believe they are going to win.  But how did they get there?  By jumping in the fire.  Playing out of their league.  By winning.  And winning can be defined however we want.

We label ourselves and that becomes who we are.  “What do you do?”  “I’m a marketer . . .I’m a garbage man . . . I’m an accountant.”  But really?  Is that who you are?

I have always had a problem with that question.  Yes, for my daily job, I do marketing, but I am so much more than that.  I’m guessing you are too.  I have known a lot of people who say and live as photographers, artists, or doctors, who, quite frankly, aren’t that good at what they do.  The difference is, they believe it and keep doing it.  When you honestly live that life, you gain confidence and get better whether you like it or not.  Triathlons are no different.

When did you finally feel comfortable saying you were a triathlete?  After the first race?  The second?  Have you admitted it yet?  Does it define you?

There has always been a nagging voice inside my head that says, “You can do anything you set your mind to,” and while I trust that voice, I don’t always believe that voice.  Triathlons (running and swimming in particular) have slowly changed my tune.  My real passion is to be a creator and writer and film maker or something in those realms, and I’m moving toward the edge of that cliff and building confidence to dive in.  In short, all of this training and all of these races and support have rekindled my faith.  Faith in the right path, faith in myself.

We tend to ignore time, but it’s always there ticking away in our subconscious.  We say we’ll go after that dream tomorrow or next Saturday when have have all day to work on it.  But if we have a true passion in life, we really have no choice but to start now or it will pre-occupy days, nights and weekends that never show up.  We can do whatever we want, we just have to prove it to ourselves and believe.

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Crushing 1/2 Iron

As I limped around the house today, Jim and Daniel were in Augusta laying down personal bests in a Half Iron.  Jim’s flowing hair crossed the finish line at 5:27 and Daniel’s bouncy locks (in his first 1/2) dropped in at 5:31.  Needless to say, they and I are pumped.

Jim said the conditions were perfect and the course was “easy” but I say anytime you power your own body for 70.3 miles over 5 and a half hours, your accomplishment is legit.  That said, I’m starting to understand where he’s coming from.  And even Daniel said, “I had no idea my body would be able to hit some of those splits.”

The capability of the body is truly mind blowing.  I have always trusted its ability to heal and go the another inning or quarter or round, but never have I understood the literal interpretation of going the extra “mile.”

What starts with 60 second running intervals quickly turns into 5 minutes, then 10, then 20, 30, etc. If you would have told me I would EVER run for two straight hours and finish a 1/2 marathon, I would have called the loony bin.  That seemed so impossible, I can barely put it into words, but the question is why?  I watched Country Music Marathons for 6 straight years, even made videos for a few, and for some reason it never dawned on me that I TOO could do what many overweight, un-athletic, and even very old people were doing.  Running 13.1 or 26.2 miles.

There had always been a disconnect with running (and let me tell you that running was the entire piece of any triathlon puzzle for me).  It always seemed so hard (and still does) to me, but building slowly and being a part of a group tricked me.  I have always been athletic and while I never saw myself as a runner, tons of others did.  I started to believe.

I was off to the races, literally.  I kept putting another challenge in my sights and kept hitting those targets.  Each time my confidence grew and while the 1/2 marathon was quite a quest, it wasn’t until I did my first Sprint Tri that I felt like I belonged.  Total time was nearly an hour less than the my 1/2, but it was the combination of events and the strength of how I finished that made me stand up and take note of what was going on.  I just did the seemingly impossible and not only was I not tired, I felt great.

That said, the Olympic Distance intimidated me, mainly because of the swim.  And since I’ve rehashed this a bunch of times, the very fact that I completed the swim, carried 20 mph on the bike, and finished the 10k without pain gave me enough confidence to sign up for Ironman Wisconsin.

They say write it and it will come true.  And while I’m quite sure these stories will bore the fuzz off of many lips, I have to keep going.  Looking ahead at new targets.  Why do we do that?  I think it’s more than because we can, it’s because if we’re not growing, we’re dying.

Today’s Diet:
Breakfast – 2 cups of strong ass coffee from Barista Parlor, scrambled eggs, 2 sausage patties, french toast, water at Mitchell’s Deli
Dinner – Grilled fish, steamed spinach, pickle, too much bread!

* Injury Update:  I iced my knee for the whole Wisconsin/Nebraska game last night and considering the outcome, I should have been icing my head.  The knee is still a little tender, but I will likely take at least a week off from running and focus on yoga, upper body and core work, along with swimming.