Category: Triathlon

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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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Ironman Wisconsin, the World Series, and Weirdos

It is very clear, excessive drinking on your birthday can impact the pace of blog posts.  The good news is . . . my brain has been fried, so you haven’t missed much (with the exception of a few really good naps).

It all started Friday when I met about 12 friends at Pomodoro East for a few Yazoo Pale Ales and some food.  It was a great hang and the Fab Five made a complete showing, which was great because I like to re-enforce my omnipresent age and wisdom growth at events such as my birthday parties.

After that, it was on to Village Pub, where, like Cheers, they all know my name, but have decided to stop serving my beer because I was training so much I hardly went in there anymore.  True story!  So, went to my back up, Guiness and, just for kicks, ran their keg dry.

Saturday, I watched the World Series with, a big time Nashville power broker, and my ongoing disbelief of clueless big league hitters.  First it was the Yankees, now the Tigers.  Proof that pitching and defense wins pennants.  It reminded me of a baseball rule that I would like to see changed.  Mr. Selig, listen up.

I see all these batters wearing excessive padding on their elbows, ankles, chest, wrists, nipples, or whatever, and I have a problem with it because it takes some of the fear out of batting, which is a huge part of the game, but for years we’ve let guys like Barry Bonds wear a fucking bullet proof pad on his lead arm and dive into pitches without thinking twice.  (It would be akin to me swimming the Ironman with the security of a rubber ducky float).  My point here is IF you are going to let them wear battle armor when they are in the batter’s box, make them wear it on the bases, too.  It’s a legit request and Major League Baseball should start it next season.

Yesterday was my first run since the Sasquatch Trot two weeks ago.  As you know I tweaked the knee a bit and have been spending a lot of time humping my foam roller.  Our relationship was a little rocky at first, but I’ve learned to appreciate her on a new level and trust her to make me a more relaxed runner, and better lover.

Okay, anyway, let’s get back to Ironman’s for a minute.  Last night, I came home and tuned in my DVR’d version of Kona!  I didn’t watch it all, just got a little taste and man, did it fire me up.  If you get a chance, do yourself a favor and look up Kona Swim Start.  It is literally insane, in all the ways insane is good.

And of course that inspired me to swim tonight, and and I’m going to leave it at this, but there are some weird mother fuckers around YMCA’s.  After my brush with bizarro, I watched over my shoulder on route to the pool.  I picked the lane closest to the wall and repeatedly swam into it on purpose as practice my bodily contact for Wisconsin.  I know what you’re saying, “Who’s the weirdo here?”

Oh, and I just found this clip of Ironman Wisconsin, which is pretty bad ass.

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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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The Fab Five Plus One

So here we were again.  Sitting around a table at Calypso Cafe talking about how awesome we are, but this time, our coach was on hand to keep us in check.

Kevin showed up with a big smile and belly full of beer.  Daniel had paint on his face and looked mildly like a warrior.  Jim sat across from me wearing shades indoors while reading the menu.  Mark was late from his rock climbing class and I sported my new mustache.  If nothing else, the Fab Five make for an interesting story.

Just to give you an idea of how these guys operate, here’s a workout summary from today:
Mark – P90x, 16 mile run, rock climbing
Jim – P90x, 16 mile run, antiquing
Daniel – P90x, 5K Color Run for the ladies
Kevin – A solid 6 hour training day that included at least two bars and 3-4 bar stool changes
Mike – Winterized the pool, ran over to neighbors

I think our new coach, Robbie, was intrigued by the challenge that sat around him plowing down Caribbean food and defending their training strategies.

“By the time training starts in January, you should be able to swim 2,000 yards,” said the coach as we all shook our heads with mouthfuls of beans.

He went on to say, “I’m big on bike training.”

“Mmmhhmm…” chomp chomp.

“Any questions?”

Kevin chimed in, “Yeah, is it possible to overtrain?”

“Absolutely, it’s better to be undertrained than overtrained.”

I stared in Mark’s direction, just to make sure he heard that.

“What???” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Coach gave us a few inside angles on how to handle Ironman Wisconsin.  He also confirmed the rumor that during the swim dead bodies have been known to float to the surface with all the commotion.  This, of course creeps everyone out, but I have something else at stake.  That dead body could be someone I know!  Maybe that long lost buddy from high school who went ice fishing only never to be seen again.  There’s nothing like bumping into an old/dead friend in Lake Monona to freak you into a record swim time.

Robbie suggested we take a road trip next summer to get familiar with the bike course, which was greeted with clinking bottles of beer.  “Here here, road trip!”  I volunteered the family cabin in Lake Geneva and flashed back to the legendary bachelor parties I have thrown in my mom’s favorite place on earth.  If we do end up getting a stripper this time, it will likely be low key and she’ll have to be done with her show by 8 so we can go to bed.

The evening ended with a promise to do our documentary interviews next weekend and a Pearl Jam “10” like raised hand pre-game explosion.  “Let’s go!”

And go we did.

Kevin and Jim went back to 3 Crow Bar.  Daniel went to scrub the paint off of his face.  I came here to write this.  Mark went to Tae Kwon Do class.

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Friday Night's Alright for Writing

I used to get fired up beyond belief when I’d hear “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” by Elton John.  I’ve always been a huge EJ fan, but at some point I discovered that Bernie Taupin was writing all the lyrics, and to this day, Bernie is the only person in music that I truly want to meet.  And why not when a dude is dropping this kind of ink on his tablet:

It’s getting late have you seen my mates
Ma tell me when the boys get here
It’s seven o’clock and I want to rock
Want to get a belly full of beer
My old man’s drunker than a barrel full of monkeys
And my old lady she don’t care
My sister looks cute in her braces and boots
A handful of grease in her hair


Somehow Bernie always knew what was going on in my life.*  Dad was drunk, mom didn’t care, and I did want a belly full of beer.

I grew up in Wisconsin, which is the Harvard of beer drinking states and my degree was far more potent.  Every college town in Wisconsin claims to have the most bars per capita on a certain street or 3 block radius or along a river and after a lot of research, I can honestly say they are all right.

I’m not certain it’s something to brag about, but my drinking people can stand toe to toe with anyone.  A negative split comes natural to a beer marathoner.  We start slow for a couple, level out for the next 18 or so, then kick for the final 6.2, leaving .8 sitting as a rock in the middle of all the empties.

What does all of this have to do with the Ironman?  I guess the fact that I am home on a Friday night, writing instead of testing more beer to make sure it still tastes like beer.

Nine consistent months of training has created better habits and over the last couple months my urge to drink has slowly faded.  I’m not saying I won’t drink or don’t want to, but it is getting really easy to pass up.  Even after a horrible week at work (when my car would typically steer itself to the local pub) I will come home with intention of doing something productive.

The workout is always waiting and when you’re talking about an Ironman, certain things have to take priority.  Two months ago I would have felt a little naked if I didn’t have a 12 pack on reserve.  Now there’s not even room for beer with all the rotting vegetables in my fridge.

That said, as a proud graduate of Beer Drinking U, I never say never.  Tomorrow is Saturday and I could easily be drunker than a barrel full of monkeys.  Maybe that’s why Ironman Wisconsin is the perfect choice.

*  It should be noted that these are not necessarily my favorite Taupin lyrics.  I mean, they are good, but Bernie can wrench your heart dry, then fill you with nectar of the Gods thirty seconds later.

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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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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.