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Why Not You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Do What You Love

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

He has a point.

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

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

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

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

I’m like, “Dude, what are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, that’s for another blog.

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

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

He has a point, too.

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

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

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Ironman Louisville: Pre Race

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you feel?”

“What’s going through your mind?”

“You ready?”

“Good.”

“Not much.”

“Hope so.”

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

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

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

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

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Crushing Addiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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How To Believe in Yourself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Crushing 1/2 Iron

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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My Biggest Enemy

I tend to be an all-out ball buster.  Get me excited about writing and I will try to knock out a book overnight.  Introduce a captivating author and I will read her entire catalog in a week. Show me a new drug and I will shoot up until sunrise.  Well, not quite, but you get the point.

That is my biggest fear regarding training.  I get super hyped and occasionally forget the process takes a while.  No pace is fast enough, especially when I’m challenged or feel good.

This morning I set out to run 11.2 miles in Percy Warner park.  It is loaded with hills and my post-run health/mood would be the deciding factor for doing the Huntsville Marathon on December 8th.

I’ve biked and rode motorcycle through the park, but this was my first run.  It is absolutely awesome. The winding hills and nature put me in a totally different place and I nearly enjoyed every step.  I would highly recommend the Flying Monkey marathon to all of you hard core marathoners with a bit of an edge.

The first 3 miles were more or less uphill and I took it slow, but still got to that point around 29 minutes and felt fresh.  The next section had a few ups, but also serious downhills and at some point I felt a tweak in my knee.  It sort of came and went, then I decided to keep going, but on the flat ground.  My lungs felt absolutely great and I wasn’t winded at all.  But the knee wasn’t feeling so hot.

I did some digging and this sounds like a typical IT band issue.  I’ve heard others mention it, but never paid attention, now my ears are wide open.  Sounds like ice and rest are the best remedy.  Any other suggestions?

I’ve decided that Huntsville is a bit ambitious at this point.  Maybe that will change tomorrow, but a marathon is not worth putting my knee at risk when the intense training starts in January.

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A Triathlete's Friday Night

Picked up my little girl dog from school then blasted a 5 minute nap before staring at the living room ceiling for a while.  This quick sunset is throwing a wrench in my plans, though I planned to take the night off and relax for a beast of a run tomorrow.  I’m gonna tackle almost half of the Flying Monkey marathon course.  (One of my Ironman Wisconsin buddies, Kevin is doing the Monkey). From what I understand this bad boy has a serious reputation of being a bitch of a race.  Here’s how the organizers describe the course:

We will time and measure the distance, but the course will not be certified and it will not be a Boston qualifying event. If you get to the end and you (or your gadget) believe the route to be long, we won’t charge you extra; if you believe it to be short, just keep running. There will be no bands, cheerleaders, wave starts or crowds. We promise no marathon Personal Records, but we guarantee every runner a PR – a Permanent Remembrance of a well-earned marathon finish. We promise to give you approximately 26.2 tough and memorable miles, with a total of over 3600 feet each of elevation gain and loss, or over 7200 feet of overall elevation change.

Anyway, I’m only running an 11.2 mile loop, but I used to ride my motorcycle through this park and thought runners were absolute morons for running those hills.  Funny how perspective changes.  Now I’m really looking forward to the challenge and, if it goes well, I’m gonna sign up for the Huntsville Marathon (he said while sipping on a Horney Blonde from Horny Goat).

East Nashvillians will be happy to know that I stopped by Pizza Real for a little real pizza and now I’m nestled cozily in my basement at 10:30.  So, that’s how Fridays roll these days and I kinda love it.

Today’s Diet:
Breakfast: Protein shake, coffee, cream cheese bagel
Lunch: Fried Rice with shrimp, 2 egg rolls, unsweet tea
Snack: Fiber bar (see my arch nemesis)
Pre-dinner snack: 2 dill pickles, glass of water with scoop of perfect green food
Dinner: Pepperoni/mushroom pizza (5 thin crust slices) Blue Moon, Horny Blond

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Ironman Wisconsin in Perspective

When putting an Ironman in perspective, it may help to use landmarks and other interesting analogies to get you over the hump.  It seems like an intimidating task and merely 3 months ago I would have laughed at the thought.  But after finishing an Olympic triathlon I started to believe.  Granted, it’s roughly a quarter of the distance, but feeling your body move through the seemingly impossible gives you a great boost.

Ironman Wisconsin starts and finishes in Madison, but I thought it would be fun to breakdown the distances in another way.  Let’s start with the swim.

I’m a huge Badger fan and I got to thinking about what it would be like if they installed a one lane lap pool along the sidelines at Camp Randall stadium.  In essence, while you’re sitting in the stands,  sneaking hits of Whiskey from your flask and watching the Badgers beat up on Ohio State, you could track me real-time as I blasted back and forth for 42 lengths of the football field then back to the 24 yard line before stripping from my wetsuit to an ear shattering ovation after swimming 4,224 yards.  If things were going right, I’d be done by halftime and unfortunately miss “Jump Around” at the end of the 3rd Quarter.

Then I’d have one of the Badger trainers pull my bike from the tunnel and tear out of Camp Randall on my way to I-90, heading south toward my hometown of Beloit, and home away from home, Rockford, IL.  I’d wave to old friends at the Flying J truck stop and more fans as I screamed past the famous Clock Tower Resort on my way to O’Hare Airport.  I’d actually stop about 21 miles short of O’Hare, but magically be transplanted to the runway with zero exertion of energy.  One of the many fine baggage handlers would deliver my transition bag, let me change in the break room, and I’d be back on the road with fresh Yankz in my Pearl Izumis.

The run would wind right through the energy of downtown Chicago.  I would admire the skyline for miles before I was actually under it, then look up at the buildings and get dizzy as usual.  After I hit downtown, I would turn up the pace and roll through Cabrini Green completely unnoticed because pale white guys run through the area at will.  As darkness fell I would be winding through the notorious South Side with no more than Gu for ammunition and my sights clearly focused on the finish line at Midway Airport.

So there you have it.  Visualization is a powerful tool.  When you have perspective, mountains don’t seem as tall, oceans aren’t as deep, and Ironman’s aren’t as daunting.  But to be honest, I’m not sure this exercise has helped.

Race name : Ironman Wisconsin
Date : 9/8/2013
Address : Madison, Wisconsin
Country : United States
Race type : Triathlon (Full Ironman)
Organization : World Triathlon Corporation
Website : http://www.ironmanwisconsin.com/
Description Swim 4224 yards   Bike 112 miles   Run 26.2 miles
Taking place in Madison, the race features over 45,000 spectators lining the course through Wisconsin farm land and downtown streets of Madison. The finish line is the most recognizable of all the US Ironman events; it is located in front of the Wisconsin state capitol in the heart of Madison.