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.
Surround yourself with inspirational people. Even the simplest thing can lift you to greater things. For me it’s when someone unleashes a buried passion.
Daniel, gettin’ it done
On Wednesday, I ran with the East Nasties and the power of a group cannot be underestimated. It’s amazing how a bunch of motivated people can take your mind off limitations. I had been limping around thinking about my wanky knee for weeks, but the minute we took off, the energy of 250 people took me away.
I trudged along at a 9:30 pace, but just being out there again felt great and restored my faith. We ran about four miles and by the end my knee was an afterthought. I felt like I could knock out a half marathon, I went to 3 Crow Bar for some Guinness. Sometimes, I think our higher powers forgive a couple post-run-beers.
My first conversation is usually with Jim. He got me into this mess and now I poke and prod for stimulating insight at every turn. His run was much faster and he rattled off a list of plans for his Saturday. P90x in the morning, followed by a 9mile run, 8 o’clock bed time, then a 1:50 am 5K as an overnight Ragnar Relay simulation. All of this, and his foot has been bugging him for weeks. “Sometimes you gotta work through the pain.”
I hear that, buddy!
Then there’s Kevin. I watched as he did Ironman Louisville this summer which ultimately sealed my decision to take on Wisconsin. He routinely leads a pace group for East Nasty runs, is doing Ragnar, then following it up with the ball busting Flying Monkey marathon 7 days later. Between all that, he parties like a rock star.
I’m listening, bro!
As I was walking out of 3 Crow, I ran into a couple women that started the Couch to 5K program with me back in January. Both are running further than ever, and it’s likely that neither realizes their role in my success. One caught me a little off guard when she said she’s been studying to be a yoga instructor, and it’s things like this that truly make me happy.
Ironman Wisconsin training teammate, Mark
I think it’s because I love when people people follow a passion. I’ve spent a lifetime working on ways to improve my life, my habits, and my instincts. When someone shares a story like this, it literally strengthens my bond with humanity. Knowing we’re in this together is extremely comforting.
So, when I stop by Ugly Mugs every morning and see Andy and Matt working on their dream business before they go to a job, it jump starts my day. When I see workout posts from fellow Ironman Wisconsin teammates, Mark and Daniel, I dig deeper. And when I read inspirational posts of fellow bloggers it drives me to keep releasing my thoughts to the world. The words, the actions, the people lift me higher and fill in the blanks to this mysterious quest for higher purpose.
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.
I am amazed and delighted that WordPress filters spam messages so I don’t have to look at them. But, when I do, it only reaffirms, that I am loved.
Take this gem from Maragret:
I am very happy to read this. This is the kind of manual that needs to be given and not the accidental misinformation that is at the other blogs. Appreciate your sharing this greatest doc.
Who am I to turn down these pearls of wisdom from Burberry trench coat sale:
Never mind.I really think a little exercise would do you good.Keep your temper under control.If you would only try, you could do it.That’s a good idea.I am too tired to speakIt is not so easy as you think.It doesn’t make any sense to get up so earlyHow much does it cost? The editor over looked a print error.
And just when you are about to give up, sincerity oozes from someone like dresses coast:
Dude.. I am not a great deal into checking, but somehow I had to read a lot of articles upon your blog. Its awesome how interesting its for me to see you more often then not.
So, as you see, inspiration is everywhere, even in your Spam Bucket.
My good friend Roger is 5 weeks away from running his first marathon and has a photograph of me to thank. Actually he was in the picture too, and what happened to us that blurry night was an undeniable catalyst for change.
Our friendship started innocently enough around two years ago when Roger and I (Both Wisconsin natives) hatched the grand plan for Badger Nation Nashville at the Village Pub in Inglewood, TN. Wisconsin football was on a roll and we wanted to capitalize by using beer and cheese to seduce local residents into our social circle. After several PBRs we penned these highly sophisticated, yet simple bylaws that have Constitution-like staying power:
Official Badger Nation Nashville Bylaws
1. No rooting against the Badgers.
2. Spread word of the Badger.
3. Don’t shoot badgers. (Ben’s Law)*
4. Don’t diss Jeffrey Steele.
5. Meet at Village Pub & Grill when you can make it.
Fast forward two years after the “bylaw meeting” to my house, where a nice group of Badger Nation Nashville kids are celebrating another big victory. Roger and I had been drinking for about 8 hours and decided to give everyone a treat by singing Wisconsin’s Alma Mater song, “Varsity,” which was quickly caught on video. The playback was astonishing.
I had always felt pretty good about my body, but when I watched the video all I could see was a blubbery seal flopping around on a leather sofa. I begged fellow BNN member, Brian, not to post it on the web and thankfully he didn’t know how. I went silent and may have even retreated to my bedroom to sulk. What I didn’t realize at the time was, the video had a similar impact on Roger.
It didn’t happen immediately, but our minds shifted to training mode. Roger joined Weight Watchers and started running. I laid around for a few more weeks before Jim convinced me to do Couch to 5K training. I really didn’t want to run, but that video looped in the back of my mind. For the first time in my life I felt like a fat ass! I had no choice.
I have told this story a bunch of times and I’m convinced that taking a picture of yourself is the best form of motivation. Preferably late in the night after a drinking or eating binge.
Now, Roger and I are hatching different plans. Five short months after that fateful photography, we did the Country Music Half Marathon together and the ante continues to rise.
What started as a 5K for me has turned into Ironman training. Roger is ready for his full, with aspirations of a Half Ironman next summer.
It has been a dicey journey that started on a bar napkin and evolved into something etched in stone. And even though the Badgers suck this year, I think Roger would happily join me for an encore rendition of Varsity after the last game of the season.
* Montana Ben is a Pub regular who spends his summers in Montana shooting badgers so they don’t fuck with his cattle.
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!
