Posts

Posted on

Two Tales of Saturday Swims

This morning I met fellow Ironman Wisconsin training partner Jim, and another man with a plan, Stokes for a swim at the Downtown YMCA.  Jim set a nice pace and we knocked out a relatively easy 1500 meters in around 34 minutes.  I have finally found a decent stroke and wasn’t tired at the end, which made me wish I was swimming this well the first time I swam 1500 meters in competition.  It was a wildly different story.

Below is a summary of my first Olympic Triathlon swim.  Warning: It is not pretty.  

I probably should have kept looking at my feet, but it was hard not to notice the imposing swim course.  A bright green buoy waited 200 meters across the dark choppy current of the Cumberland River.  I took an ill-fated peek at the second buoy and it was so far away I could barely see it.  There was nowhere else to look but inside.

I crouched with 40 men, all vying for solid footing on the slime covered boat ramp.  Nervous laughter filled the air as we slid into and fell on each other on a chilly September morning in Ashland City.

The Olympic triathlon swim is 1,500 meters, but in these conditions, the lurking rectangle endless.  I’d swam the distance a couple times in a pool, but in open water, you can die.

I asked my friend Kevin (who had just finished an Ironman) for swim advice, and he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Try to relax.”

I knew it was all about staying in the moment because every time I looked at those buoys, I was beaten.  I needed to find the pocket and keep in my stroke.  But it was not to be.

The gun went off and 40 over-achieving men jumped on my back.  I fought for my breath and my strategy went from relaxation to survival.  Primal screams pierced my ears and I think they were all coming from me.  I let the pack race away and unzipped my tri-top so my heart would have more room to beat.

By the time I got to the first buoy, I was a humbled and frightened man.  I stopped in the water and gazed into the distance, then to the starting the dock, then the second buoy.  I faced a major decision while I treading water in this dirty river.  Cold rain fell on my swim cap like a Chinese water torture and each drop reaffirmed what an idiot I was for trying something so far above my capabilities.

I drifted toward the support boat in hopes they would make my decision easier.  Maybe they’d offer hot coffee, a blanket and a bagel.  It seemed so natural.  A peaceful ending to something probably shouldn’t have started.

More rain, more waves . . . more water in my mouth as I tried to catch my breath, which was amazingly elusive.

“Calm down, dude, fuck!” I said to myself as I looked overhead at the massive bridge above me.  I was on a military mission and quick decisions save lives.  I was very close to grabbing the side of the boat and floating to the shore, battered, beaten, but alive.

It was the easy way out, but I couldn’t face the disappointment.  Kevin, Allison, Daniel, and Heidi had come out to watch me beat this challenge and there was nothing about quitting after 200 meters that would have a good ring to it.

“Fuck it.”

I launched my “noodle float” back to the support team and said, “Wish me luck.”  I was going for it.

I had always had a dark fantasy about trying to survive a flood and now I was getting my chance.  But this isn’t quite what I imagined and breathing wasn’t getting easier.

I settled into a breast stroke, which was more comfortable and I knew from practice it wasn’t that much slower than my freestyle.  I should have started in it, but didn’t want to be “that” guy leaving the dock with a weak swim.

Once you have the endurance, swimming is all about form and being relaxed.  I plowed ahead with terrible form and breathing, simply doing all I could to go in the right direction. Normally triathletes “sight” their line while they swim, but I was literally stopping every 3 minutes and looking around like a fucking tourist.

Halfway to buoy two, I realized I was a good twenty yards to the left of the other swimmers.  Not only was this swim difficult, I was making my life miserable by taking a horrible line.  It’s one thing to be out of traffic, but it’s another to be on the course.

I was mentally shattered, but did my best to get back in line.  After what seemed like a entire morning, I reached the second green buoy and remember thinking this may have been the most impressive physical accomplishment of my life.

I treaded water again, gathering my bearings as imaginary turtles snapped at my toes.  A true story of survival if I’d ever written one. I was spent, depressed, and questioning my sanity; none of which seemed to matter to the dozens of swimmers thrashing around me.  But the simple fact there were swimmers bumping into me was an odd inspiration.  I wasn’t the last one on the course.

I stared across the river at the third of four buoys and took a deep breath.  The good news was, I was halfway home, which was also the bad news.

“Fuck, I’m only halfway there.”

I took off toward buoy number 3 and “being done” was the only thing on my mind.  But you can’t cheat your body or mother nature.  Even if I swam my best it would still take 15 minutes.  For most people that is an eternity in a pool, let alone a dank, log-filled river.

I sat myself in the corner of the classroom and went over the lesson plan one last time.

“Relax, embrace your stroke and find a groove.”

Just get to the next buoy, just get to the bridge, just get to that boat, just get to the swim exit.  Breaking it up is the only way to progress when you’re in quandary like this.  That’s what I did.

I felt like a man swimming across the river in wet 3-piece suit.  Making matters worse was the fact that I wasn’t absolutely sure which way the current was flowing.  I had asked 6 guys before the race and 3 said “this way” and 3 said “that way.”  Luckily it didn’t seem to matter.  If there was one grace of this swim, the current wasn’t overly strong in the wide section of the river.  I wasn’t thrown off course on my cross swims, but none-the-less, I might want to clear up the current direction before my next race.

When I reached the 3rd buoy I made a point of rubbing it with my shoulder.  A symbolic gesture as well as making sure I swam the absolute shortest path.

I was getting “close.”  But close was still about 6 football fields worth of swimming.

It wasn’t a matter of making it now.  I knew that I would get there, but how would I feel when I ran up that ramp to the bike?  Would my legs be shot from all this breast stroking?  I focused on using my arms.  Dragging my ragged body through the murky flow.

When you’re a little kid on a boat, there’s something about driving under a bridge that creates a sense of awe.  The concrete structure seems massive and intimidating, and that feeling came back as I swam below with the water drain-off escalating the impact of the rain.  I stopped for a moment to soak it all in with about 100 meters to go, then plunged like a carp and buried my head toward the target.

The “exit buoy” was orange and despite the overcast day, it grew brighter with every stroke.  The night before the race I had spread dishwashing soap on my goggles to keep them from fogging and the move paid off.  I can’t imagine how intimidating that conquest would have been if I couldn’t see, but the night before I heard a story about a former veteran who was now in the Paralympics doing just that.  Blind, and winning medals.  It’s amazing how these little stories can pull you through and I listen to all of them.

The throngs of people lined the swim exit, well maybe 50, and in my desperate hope for glory listened for their screams between strokes and labored breathing.  Nothing.  So, I just focused and sure enough, that orange cone was right in my face.  Finally, I stopped swimming and grabbed some strange woman’s hand as she told me to be careful walking up the slippery ramp.

Now I heard screams.

Allison, Heidi, Daniel and Kevin were giving me their juice and I gladly took it.  The first words out of my mouth were a scream of joy (not really words) and “That really sucked.”  You see, I had been calculating my swim exit strategy to take the focus off of my time, which I was quite certain was an hour, and that was a little deflating considering I thought I might do it in 30 minutes.  (Actual time was 41:52).

I glided down the pavement in my bare feet.  The rain was still falling and I was suddenly a tad cold.  I couldn’t believe God would put me through this but I scurried into the bike transition in a bit of a daze.  I ran up to my row and looked down to see in hopes of locating my distinct white towel, but it was gone.  My bike 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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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

Posted on

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.

Posted on

The Kid Inside

It was a bitter cold day in Beloit, Wisconsin.  Four 12-year-old boys stood in a one car garage contemplating their next move.  The Packers’ game just ended and they were anxious to recreate favorite plays from their favorite players.  The only problem was, two feet of snow.

Actually, that wasn’t a problem at all.  Weather never got in the way of fun, so they grabbed shovels and carved boundaries and yard markers into the dormant brown grass.  Their hands and feet went numb in the process, but they knew running a few plays would bring the appendages back to life.

The boys played for hours.  Their noses ran and it froze on their top lip.  Screams of laughter erupted whenever snow crept inside the warm parkas and chilled their raw skin.  It wasn’t about the cold, it was about how moving made them feel.  Landing face-first in a snow bank woke them up.  All-out-dives for a ball just off their finger tips was a great reason reason to try again.  It wasn’t conscious, but they knew movement healed them.

Most of us have stories like this from childhood, but there’s something about growing up that makes us forget the very nature of what makes us feel good.  We park at desks for 8 hours a day, drive in traffic for another, then sit around all night and watch television.  Only to wake up and do the same thing tomorrow — all the time wondering what is missing?

I suppose this starts in college when we lock down for hours in a dark library basement filling our brain with information we believe will make us successful.  It’s important to be smart and make lots of money being a doctor or lawyer or CEO of a company because we can take care of our family by keeping them safe and offering comfortable lounges where they can lay around and watch television with us.

We study for hours.  Often overnight.  Jamming information into our brain, then wondering why we’re tired and empty from all of these facts we’re digesting.  After years of devotion to learning stuff, we float across a stage to grab a piece of paper that we frame and stick on the wall (or in a box) before thrashing ahead to the world of professional desk guarder.

But we want to move.

Who is this person we’ve created, and why do we repress the kid that never wants recess to end?  Every time I hold the backdoor open for a kid or my dog, they tear off into the yard at full tilt.  They are immersed in the moment, in touch with the purest form of living and oblivious to pain or complication.

A lot of people ask me why I would want to do an Ironman and I’m not sure if I have an intellectual answer.  It has something to do with finding consistency with the best side of me. Leveling the spots where I am awake and passionate about the path.

Deep down, we all know “who we are,” it’s just a matter of finding that person more often and trusting the process like a kid would.  Training affects me in so many ways, but mainly, it reminds me to run, breathe, and be alive.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.

Posted on

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.