training – Page 2

July 5, 2013

Dr. Oz Responds to My Blog

I certainly didn’t need more proof that Dr. Oz is legit, but recent actions have firmly cemented his place in my Rational Celebrity Hall of Fame. He started by delivering a 6 am 5K in Las Vegas, which was an iron clad excuse for me to escape Casino karma, then followed all of that by responding to my race summary:

Oz here to commend you on forcing me to risk my life in an effort to hunt you down in the blistering heat. I am proud that my pulse came back so quickly after the ferocious race, but have foresworn egg white omelets after reading your piece. Plus the yolk has all the biotin to give my hair more shine and body anyway.

Now, let me tell you why this is a big deal. I work in marketing for a local television station and half the time I can’t get a reporter to answer my email. And here’s Dr. Oz, a legend of daytime television taking time out of a busy life to respond to a hackneyed blogger who lives with his mom. (Well, not really, but she is coming to visit on Sunday with a block of 10-year-old Wisconsin Cheddar, which I am not sure would be on Dr. Oz’s preferred list, but mom says it’s fine as long as I don’t shovel it down like I used to do with her beef stroganoff, which shouldn’t be a problem because I pretty much eat tuna from a can).

Even though I had fun with the Las Vegas 5K race summary, I really did get the impression that Oz is a good and level-headed guy. Other than his jewel crested massage table, he was every man’s man. And judging by the attention he got from women, I can easily confirm he has no problem with the ladies either.

If you didn’t know better, Oz was just a normal dude out barnstorming his way through the streets of Vegas while late night gamblers staggered their way back to nowhere. Race logistics are no joke and he rolled with all the punches, including the sketch PA system someone lined up for the awards ceremony. He even followed it up with a blog post of his own that includes a few stellar pictures of his new 5K rival.

So, in between celebrity interviews and the pressures of helping turn lives around, Dr. Oz takes time to acknowledge the Fab 5 on the Crushing Iron blog. Pretty cool. And now, let me be the first to acknowledge that his hair was indeed full of shine and body.

March 29, 2013

Why Do Ironman?

So, Racer K came out of nowhere and raised the bar for this blog and our training. Then Coach confessed he’s been slacking. It’s piercing honesty the world craves, and they delivered. It’s also a tough act to follow, but I certainly can’t ignore it.

I’ve never been able to come to grips with my age. No matter how hard I try, I’m always older than I think I am. Maybe that’s what keeps me young.

I started my quest for endurance last January at age 48. I couldn’t run a block. My swim was more or less a breast stroke. And my bike was hanging in the garage. Now, just over 12 months later, Ironman is looming.

I’ll racing my first Ironman in the 50-54 category. What the fuck? In 2012, the gentleman that won that age group at Wisconsin checked in at 10 hours, 17 minutes, and 19 seconds. I won’t win, but I will try, because that’s my nature.

I hear it all the time, “Wow, Ironman? That’s amazing, why would you do such a thing?” And normally, before I can formulate an answer, the person who asked has drifted back to their own problems. It’s natural, normal . . . very human. And, as silly as it sounds, I have had a real struggle with being human.

A lot of times I feel like I’ve wasted big chunks of my life chasing illusion. Something new to rub across my face while dreaming of the next conquest. And it’s easy to say Ironman is another in a long line of illusions, but it goes much deeper.

Ironman training tears at the very fiber of my being. It rips me apart and will slowly put me back together. When it’s done, I simply won’t be the same person, and that is very exciting because frankly it’s exhausting trying to be someone your not.

I played baseball for years, and every time I stepped on the field I lived in fear. Fear of failure, fear of not rising to the moment, fear of not being the best me.

In baseball you survive in isolation, even though you’re on a team. If the ball trickles through your legs or you strike out with the game on the line, you stand alone, with no one to blame. You instinctively pull your cap down to cover your eyes and drift far away from the beauty of the baseball diamond, which is now the ugliest place you can think of . . . and you never want to play again.

But it’s in your blood.

The team depends on you. You depend on you. Redemption awaits, and usually comes . . . if you show up.

The more you show up, the more people believe in you. The more you believe in yourself.

On Sunday, I showed up for my third triathlon. The fact that it was a “short” Sprint did not make it easy. Distance is relative, and my stomach churned. I fought back the only way I know . . . by pounding emotions deeper inside. Shoveling that fear into my psychological furnace and burning it for energy before the fire scalded my brain.

I filed around the edge of the pool and watched as other racers jumped into the water. I watched them swim into the snake pattern of the ropes and quietly told myself to relax. “Have fun” was the Fab 5 buzz phrase that morning and I quietly said it over and over to myself while the guy behind me rambled about some bike route he loves because it “seems like one of those roads where they would shoot car commercials.”

Shut the fuck up, man, I’m trying to have fun!

Of course, he was too, I just don’t quite know how to do it yet, but I will.

The swim was 300 meters, a fraction of my training distances, and for the first 100, I felt relaxed and alive. When I pushed off the wall toward my 5th length (of twelve), I lost my breath and sunk into swim anxiety.

I wasn’t tired, hungry for air. I pushed forward. I kept showing up. Then just before the tenth length, I decided to stop at the wall and stand on the edge to gather my bearings.

I’d never been happier to reach a swim wall and slowed to stand on the ledge. Hundreds of other athletes stood in line no more than two feet away and I wallowed in embarrassment. I worried what they would think, even though none of them knew who the fuck I was, or likely cared. But you know what? I didn’t want to be a post-race “story” that people laughed about at Cracker Barrel.

My chest felt like it might explode and I caved to the humiliation. I looked away from my fellow racers as I felt for the ledge with my foot. But I’ll be damned if there was no ledge and I sank like a ton of bricks straight to the bottom of the deep end! Now I was flailing like a baby bird trying to get my head above water, and surely the laughing stock of every triathlon party for years to come.

Somehow I sucked it up and pushed off to conquer length ten.

Eleven and twelve were no picnic. Form was gone and I slashed about like a wounded turtle. Somehow I made it to the end and found the energy to climb the ladder and run through the door into 40 degree rainy weather. What a fucking great time I was having!

I was dizzy, weak, and shivering. The trek from pool to my bike was about 40 seconds worth of running barefoot on frigid asphalt before crossing a rock garden covered with carpet.

This was a perfect example of a life situation when, in the past, I’d quickly decide to run to my car and get the hell out of there! It crossed my mind, but something inside this neural grid is changing. These are the things I want to face . . . I need to face.

While I may be getting clearer on commitments and decision making, that doesn’t mean I had a clear mind. I was absolutely flustered. I snapped my bike helmet tight, then tried putting on my Crushing Iron shirt, but it got stuck on the helmet! I tried pulling it over, but there was no chance and I was tangled inside like a monkey trying to escape a cargo net.

I took off the helmet, put on the shirt, then ran toward the bike exit hoping I was going the right direction. At least I was moving.

The bike was rather uneventful, but by mile 4 my feet were numb. Oddly, it didn’t seem to bother me and I found a comfortable groove in aero position. I was cruising at around 34 kilometers per hour (I can’t figure out how to get my speedometer language off of “Holland”) when I noticed blue hair and white knuckles as I approached a driveway. Two cyclists ahead of me whizzed by and sure enough, that big ole’ Ford LTD started pulling right into my lane. I reached for my breaks, swerved into the other lane and thought about how that little old lady was probably going to church –and how I don’t have a church– and potentially the next time she went to church I could be in a casket in front of her congregation as they dabbed her teary eyes and said it wasn’t her fault.

The roads were slick as ice from the onslaught of rain and she slammed on the breaks stopping just in time, so thankfully we didn’t have to meet in some ethereal world called “the ditch” in Murfreesboro, TN.

Ahh, so the bike ended with frozen feet and thighs, which is a great way to start a run. It was a legal shot of cortisone that took away any leg pain (real or imagined) I might have had. I labored through the run and crossed the finish line just about the time my I was warming up — which I suppose is a good sign considering I would have had about 11 more hours to go if it were an Ironman.

There is something about finishing a triathlon that does my body right. The dizziness from the pool is replaced by the sore butt on the bike and the ankle pain from the run makes you forget about your ass. It’s really a nice equation.

As usual, the race humbled me. There wasn’t much fanfare and the scenery was far from electric, but something about finishing is undeniably rewarding. You show up on a cold and rainy morning to put yourself to the test. You push yourself to the limits to see how far you can go. What you’re capable of. What life is capable of.

When people ask my why I would do Ironman, I never have a clear answer. It’s obviously the challenge and accomplishment, but I think it’s more about the journey. About how the training along the way brings out the parts of you that might normally stay buried. The confidence, the clarity, the humility. You become more comfortable with your beliefs. The commitment forces you to appreciate what’s really important and you begin to lose interest in petty distraction and “filler” that sucks energy from your true path.

About halfway through that run on Sunday, I was passing a guy wearing a beard, visor, and big toothy grin. He looked to be struggling a little and I asked him how he was doing. His smile grew even bigger and he said, “Well, if you’re gonna skip church, I can’t think of a better excuse.”

Right on, brother.

March 28, 2013

When Cats Interrupt Ironman Training

90% of the time my thoughts are steeped in training, but occasionally I’ll remember why I am a lover of human behavior and truly crave bizarrity. The following is a simple, yet highly representative example of why I find life so damn amazing.

My dog plowed through her last bit of food this morning, so I drove to PetSmart on my way to lunch. As I scoured the rows for a parking spot, a woman walked by in knee high black boots, a tight black dress and a body any red-blooded male would notice.

After parking I walked inside and, low and behold, there she was . . . looking at bird cages. It wasn’t a blatant red flag, but certainly pink. I went about my business and picked up a fresh bag of fish/rice delight for Mattie, and slung it over my shoulder like a cowboy on my way to the counter.

While suffering through an extended credit card mishap with the person in front of me, I noticed “Ms. Black Boots” standing in line behind me. She had a distant and mysterious look, along with several cans of cat food in her basket. She stared right past me, but was clearly in heavy thought.

She had a bit of a frown, almost a scowl, but then, in an instant, her face contorted into the biggest smile I’d seen all day. It was a startling transformation that came with a tinge of crazy only the creepiest of clown clown could manufacture.

Her arm shot like a laser at the magazines and ripped an issue of “Cat Lover” from the wire rack. Without missing a beat, this enigmatic woman started laughing hysterically and spoke in tongue while I leaned back on my heels looking for hidden cameras.

Then, in a move that may be unprecedented in the arena of public behavior, she starts “meowing” in very quick bursts while looking at the cover.

“Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow.”

I inched closer to the door and debated leaving Mattie’s food on the counter, but it was too late. The situation had officially arrived in “Whacksville.”

She unleashed a bellowing laugh, pulled the magazine close to her face and started planting real life kisses on the “Cover Cat.”

“Mmmm…. smack smack smack smack…. giggle…. mmm… kiss… kiss….. ohhh….. such a cutie… I love you!”

I’m looking at the cashier and he is completely oblivious to her behavior while waiting for me to pay. I quickly swiped my card and did my best to focus on the transaction, but all I could hear was, “Yummy….sooo cute… mmm… kiss… kiss… kiss…” I couldn’t stomach a look but would not have bet against tongue. She was insatiable.

Much like Bill Murray sauntering away from the destruction in Caddyshack, I abandoned the crime scene and marveled at the blessing I had just witnessed.

Anyway, there must be a lesson here and I am all ears.

March 27, 2013

Ironman Competition and The Fab Five

No matter how you slice it, Ironman is a competition. First, with yourself, then against the field. Everyone sets their goals and hopes to surpass them, all while knowing it’s not wise to tempt fate in one of the toughest races on the planet. Many things can go wrong, even the pros are not immune.

The five of us have been training together since January 2nd. For many of those days, Allison has joined us and we’ve embraced her as our “plus one.” A couple weeks ago, our “plus two” emerged in the name of John Wasky. An aspiring Ironman, fast eater, and great guy. He’s also a Wisconsin boy, which gives him more points with me.

We’ve hung out, had a few beers and trained with him on several occasions. Sunday, he joined (and beat) us in our first sprint triathlon of the year and his observations of the day struck a chord with me.

It may have been expected, but on a very cold morning, the Fab 5 delivered its first race performance as a group and the collective results were very . . . similar. John took note and etched some intriguing possibilities. Following is the 3rd straight guest post on Crushing Iron.

Some Food for Thought – by John Wasky

The new guy… unofficial #2 you might say. Triathlon nut, recently relocated to Nashville who found the perfect group of guys (and girl) to hang around with, put in ridiculously early morning workouts while most (including our spouses or significant others) are still fast asleep… and then do it again at night. Lastly, and mostly for sanity, partake in a little more fun than should be had on those days off at the 3 Crow or any local watering hole.

Fab 5 . . .

Even with my relatively limited time with the Fab 5 as a whole . . . I think that I can reasonably say that I have found a group of very similar highly competitive, number over-analyzers, much like myself. Given these facts, I did a little analyzing; which then turned into theorizing today.

Some food for thought . . .

I know that last weekend’s race was only a sprint, and I know increasing distances can greatly effect overall performance in each and every discipline. Take these unknown variables out and just have fun with it.

Could there potentially be a Fab 5 Wisconsin version of the 1989 Kona Iron War? All running stride for stride, pushing each to their max potential through the streets of Madison in some sick, convoluted game of human-running-chess between best of friends, yet fierce competitors. Finally, with one mustering that extra gear to separate himself on the climb up Observatory Hill with only miles to go on the run course (a la Mark Allen in the Iron War on Ali’i Drive), or push it to the max even after 140+ miles on that gradual climb around the Wisconsin State Capital on Mifflin, State and Main to the finish line.

Given the time set forth by each of the Fab 5 during the ADPiathlon this past weekend, it might just happen.

The total variance between 1 and 5 in bike time extrapolated over the full 112 Ironman distance would be less than 34 minutes (and be reminded that this is very early in the training process for the time gap to shrink even more) . . . , or a dreaded flat on race day, back to even in a blink of an eye.

The swim variances applied to a 2.4 mile distance….. a little over three minutes (we know that can be made up if someone has to take piss in transition….. or if T0 just didn’t go as well as planned pre-race for someone like Jim and he might need to make a little extra stop.) Hell 3 minutes…. If some recent history at Kona serves me right, in 2010, my beloved American Andy Potts excited the water at the pier a full 3 minutes ahead of the next chase group and he was reeled in within the first 20-25 miles of the bike.

Even though each competitor started at very different times, all 5 were within 5 minutes or each other, 3 finishing in nearly sequential order…. Odd I must say for these friendly competitors so closely bonded toward one goal.

1989 Iron War you ask…. This article below refers at length to the battle between two of greatest of all time during the World Championship in Kona while setting the marathon record that year.

http://triathlon.competitor.com/2013/03/features/chasing-the-240-hawaii-ironman-marathon_72334

or the book…

http://www.amazon.com/Iron-War-Scott-Allen-Greatest/dp/1934030937

I pose the question to you all, who will break first? Gents, good luck crushing it. I look forward to seeing it all unfold.

March 11, 2013

Mondays Can Kiss My . . .

For as long as I can remember, I have been trying to change my perception of Monday. It never fails . . . Friday night relief, Saturday relax, Sunday peace . . . turned anxiety. What is that? It’s surely no way to live. And then I see stuff like this posted and am reminded that so many of us live our lives that way.

Somewhere along the lines we fell into this trap and believed that “doing the right thing” essentially meant doing “the wrong thing.” We always hear that life’s not easy and it takes hard work and we have to suffer to enjoy the fruits of our labor. Well, I’m here to tell myself I think that’s a load of BS.

When Loveboy first screamed “Everybody’s Working for the Weekend” I took a step back and said, “Damn, they are right!” I didn’t understand it then, and I certainly don’t understand it now. But we get trapped. We confuse life with work. We focus on getting more stuff so life will be easier, but that stuff often makes everything more complicated.

How will I buy this, or that, or buy my dream house?

In 2005 I bought a BMW and have more or less regretted it ever since. I didn’t buy it for me, I bought it because I thought my dad would think I was a big shot. We often talked about my future “success” and for some reason that car entered the conversation a lot. I literally walked into the dealership one day and made impulse buy at BMW.

What did it do for me?

Well, it tied up my finances for the next 6 years. I was constantly worried about scratches, dents and repairs. And, a good portion of the time, it has made me feel like a prick. But now I’m at a point where I have a dependable car and no payment. For some reason I feel better about driving it now.

It has taken me many years, but I’m finally getting a grip on “living within my means.” For years I lived for the weekend and it did nothing but overrun my life with financial and emotional pressure. Dying five days to live two makes no sense.

I am nowhere near cured of this generationally transmitted disease, but I am more aware. More aware of what’s important, and certainly more aware of what doesn’t matter. I have spent many years accumulating stuff I don’t need, pouring my energy into empty pursuits, and neglecting my true passions. My perspective is changing and it starts with paying attention to what’s really important.

I have blindly raced after everything society threw in my face, and worse, instigated those desires in others by selling fear, success and self-confidence in a bottle. It doesn’t happen that way.

There is nothing more potent than a gut feeling. For years I have ignored mine, but it has never been wrong. It steers me toward truth, and now, with the help of training and positive influence, I am trusting those instincts. I am once again, believing that Monday should be just like Saturday.

January 21, 2013

The Beauty of "Off Days" in Training

There’s nothing like waking up on Monday after a rough weekend of workouts, rolling onto the floor, and relaxing into Shavasana pose. High ranking monks claim Shavasana is the most important part of yoga because it’s when we let the fruits of our labor sink into the fiber of our muscle, bones and mind. The real work is in the relaxation. The recovery is in the intention.

Then again, monks aren’t training for an Ironman.

In reality, my “off day” started early this morning with a 30 minute easy run and will end with an hour of light bike training while I watch another crappy documentary, like HIStory. I have mixed emotions about the intensity of training because, quite frankly, I am a big fan of monks!

But I get what’s going on and can already see how it’s paying off. A year ago mixing in a “light 30 minute run” would have been laughable. Today, it was a nice way to start, even though it’s a holiday.

I used to lift weights a lot in college. There were streaks when I’d lift 6 days a week for an hour and a half, including ab work, etc, but this weekend was probably one of my most impressive combinations of endurance workouts in . . . oh . . . ever.

It started Friday night with an hour bike ride on the trainer, which was mainly interval work and, while I realize an hour is just the beginning, that hard ass seat no picnic.

Saturday, I met the IMWI crew at 7:20 for some video shooting, then I and climbed on a Spin bike for an hour and a half, which included a pretty tough Spin class in the middle. At 9:00 we stripped down and went for a 20 minute run to complete the brick.

Sunday was a tempo run and to make a long story short we had a warm up and cool down, but still covered 9.5 miles in 80 minutes (8.24 overall pace) which was pretty tough, but felt good.

We all want to go fast, so, light runs, like this morning’s, are in some ways the toughest. That’s another reason why I will be coaching the Couch to 5k group a couple times a week. It forces me to slow down. To think about form. And to let go of my ego.

In an “Ironman Monk” sort of way I am learning how the light workouts are Shavasana for triathletes. They remind our muscles, bones, and mind what we’ve learned, but don’t wear us out in the process. I think, after some deliberation, the monks would endorse this philosophy.

January 21, 2013

A Flattering Look at the Ironman Wisconsin Team

If you’re on Facebook, please feel free to like our Crushing Iron page. We’ll be posting as a team and it’s likely to be full of fireworks that won’t be posted here.

This is Mark’s proud grin after being elected team captain for post-workout beer parties. Coach Robbie wondering what the hell he got himself into.Kevin’s recovery program in action. Daniel raising $3,000 for the homeless with his hair. Jim fighting a “mysterious illness” in week one of training. Shot of Mike from an emotional scene in one of his earlier movies.

October 5, 2012

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.

September 25, 2012

My Couch To Ironman History

I just recorded my first video blog for this site and will put it up as soon as I make a cool open and close that energizes, inspires, and/or makes me look like a total egomaniac. In the meantime, here’s a little history on my couch to Ironman journey.

So, what’s my story? I am a forty something young gentleman who, with the help of a certified Ironman, started running on January 23, 2012. I’m sure we made some kind of bet, but the true reason was how I looked in a video last November (which I hope to find and post). I looked like a fucking whale as I sat next to my buddy Roger and sang the University of Wisconsin anthem, “Varsity.” We were absolutely rocked off our ass and waving our arms back and forth (feeling pretty cool I might add) acting like we were in college celebrating another Badger victory. But when I saw the iPhone video I could not get over the fact that I had a beer gut and my face was swollen like I’d been sitting in a bar for the last 5 years, which I was. I tried to downplay it, like it was the angle of the shot, but I made a serious mental note that day that I would not take my slobby ass lightly.

The start of my running was a “Couch to 5K” program that started with 60 second runs surrounded by 90 second walks. I shit you not, those 60 seconds were like climbing Mount Helena to me. I was winded like a bitch, but tried to play it cool because there were a bunch of women around me and, I’m not going to lie, that is motivation.

This went on and on and we slowly built to a 5K on St. Patrick’s Day which I ran in just under my goal of 28 minutes because my Ironman coach who ran with me lied the whole way. “We’re way behind, gotta pick it up.”

This was me and the coach

So, I lumbered onward completing a 5 mile, 10k, 1/2 Marathon, a Sprint triathlon, numerous other 5ks, then an Olympic triathlon, which was nearly the end of my quest for iron.