November 12 was the last race of the "season." I'm throwing up the quotations because it seems silly for a middle aged-dude to think of his life in athletic seasons. I haven't done that since I was a collegiate lacrosse benchwarmer. It's more appropriate for my almost 9-year old heir, Mr. Joshua Squishua Quigshua, whose seasons are Fall Little League, Winter Elite Little League, Spring Little league, and I Don't Feel Like Playing Soccer.
Anyway, the race. We packed the whole gang up in the suburban assault vehicle, stashed our transition bags in the trunk, and threw the bikes on the back, this time with a combination Kryptonite lock. The race gave us a sweet deal on hotel rooms--$77/night at the Holiday Inn express--so we celebrated by getting two rooms, in the hopes of having privacy. You can guess how that worked out. . .
I'd done an almost-as-hilly race rehearsal the previous week, going 56 on the bike and 13.1 running in 4:45. Online race calculators predicted a 5:15 to 5:35 finish based on previous race history and course conditions. I very much wanted to do as well as I could, as the results here would be the last impression of my abilities as I start to gear up for Ironman Coeur D' Alene next June.
The next morning, we showed up at the race sight unseen and a little late, after orienting a local babysitter from a nanny service to the kids, who stayed at the hotel. Turns out the nanny cost more than the hotel, which incidentally has been tossed around by our 11 year old daughter as a way to make money at races. . . We paid for peace of mind, though, as she was CPR/First Aid certified, background-checked, and very experienced.
Lake Mead is lovely, and the transition setup was easy and intuitive. As this was an inaugural event, there were only twenty-some odd entrants in the Half-Iron distance race, a couple of whom didn't show. I didn't see a whole lot of 40-44 year olds, so it seemed my chances of another age group medal were good.
The swim was, well, an open water swim. I hadn't worn my wetsuit since September, and it was mighty snug. This threw my technique off a little. I seemed to veer all over the place, and I had to look up frequently to stay on track. I quickly settled into a passable rhythm, and was the second one out of the water. As we slogged out of the primordial murk, the olympic distance participants, including my wife and adventure-mate, were starting to wade into the water for their 7:30 departure. It was fun to hear cheers.
T1 went OK. I'd vaselined my lower legs in the hope of being able to take off the wetsuit while standing up, but I quickly wound up on my arse pulling at my legs. Next time I'll just start there and spend less time fumbling.
The bike course was gorgeous and fun. It was very hilly (4,100+ feet elevation gain over 56 miles), and I made a point of ascending in an easy, low gear ratio, spin style, so as to save my legs, and grinding a little harder on the downhills. I was quickly passed by a young twentysomething, and I worked at not chasing him too hard. Then a thirtysomething passed me, and I was in fourth place overall. As the bike leg wore on, I was surprised to find nobody else passing me. I was alone among gorgeous sandstone hills and navy blue lake water, and started to feel more like I was on a recreational ride than in a race.
I'd started a little dehydrated, and there were only two aid stations on the bike. I stopped at the first one to drink a whole water bottle, and exchanged the other two. Luckily, it was also pretty cool out, so by the end of the bike, I was completely hydrated, re-carbed on the 400 calorie per hour Perpetuem/Carbopro/Endurolytes combo that seems to suit me, and stocked up on salt tabs (one per half hour). By mile 56, I was a little relieved to be getting my butt out of the saddle. The flying mount and dismount that I've done with every bike commute since early October is now second nature. Included in T2 was a visit to the facilities that was the best indicator of successful rehydration.
I knew I'd saved something for the run, and I set off at a steady, low tempo pace, spurred on a little by the smell of BBQ wafting over from the finish line. At 1 mile, Karen flew past in the other direction, finishing her Olympic distance run. The first half was mostly uphill, and I worked on form and not burning it too hard. There were plenty of aid stations, and I swilled as much water and electrolyte drink as I could stand, in the hopes of staving off the bonk. At the beginning of mile 5, I started seeing the speedy twentysomething bicyclist ahead of me, and noted that I was moving up on him steadily. In my head I tried to remember how many were ahead of me. I counted three. This meant, if I was right, that I was threatening to break into the medals. Meaning of course, the overall medals, something I'd not yet done. This was an exciting possibility, but I reminded myself that there were still 8 miles to go, and I had 62 miles behind me already.
The difference between third and fourth place is in many ways larger than that between first and second--recognition versus obscurity. Olympic Gold medal games/rounds are exciting, but the Bronze medal matches always carry more of a sense of urgency. . . Bit by bit, I edged up on him, trying to stay within myself and not let the pursuit instinct get the better of me. Then we hit a steep hill, and I saw him walking. Sorry, I thought. You're done. I still felt strong, and I knew that I would pass him shortly. Assuming I could keep from getting caught behind, this meant that I was headed for the medals. I tried to be encouraging when I passed him, as I'd been with everyone I'd seen on the run, but the disappointment etched on his face seemed impenetrable. I'm not sure I would have felt any differently. At the turnaround, I noted only two in front of me, far enough ahead that I likely wouldn't catch them, and nobody fast behind me within rifle range. A steady downhill run to the finish would net me a medal. I kept the speed up just to see what happened, and with 2 miles left, I started to see the next competitor in front of me.
Had there been a few more miles, I would have caught him. But I was starting to feel the beginnings of some serious muscular soreness in my hamstrings and glutes. Given that nothing short of a two mile dead sprint was going to get me past him, I just kept a steady pace into the finish. Chickensh$%, in retrospect, but I worry that 44 year old legs couldn't have withstood the sort of enthusiasm that comes from a far younger part of me.
Finishing time was 5:13:30. This was over 30 min faster than my last 1/2 IM, and 90 seconds better than my most lofty expectation!
It remains unclear how far I can go with this whole Triathlon thing. Perhaps to the Big Island, but that seems presumptuous given that I've yet to do a full IM and it's not clear where I am on my "learning curve."
Cruising into the finish line was fun. Being in the top three, and having the kids watch the awards, was better. The all you can eat BBQ was the piece de resistance.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Tinfoilman (!!!) Triathlon Race Report
As is appropriate to the name, this is a short, quick, easy, sprint tri. And as the weather here in Tucson has gotten downright reasonable, any semblance of Iron-ness is officially gone, unlike the Firecracker Tri over the weekend of July 4 which, like all 3 of the races in the Tucson Tri Series, covers the same course around the U of A.
I actually took the day off before this one, unlike most Tris under 1/2 Iron distance. The incentive was not just to see what I could do with a bit of rest, but to possibly net myself a top 3 finish in my age group and get a cool Tinfoilman trophy. This was the first time in as long as I can remember that I've actually coveted a trophy for its own geeky sake.
As with many triathlons, the Tucson Triathlon Series punishes those with fast swim times by starting them last. This means 3-4 hour delays between the opening of transition to set up and the actual event. Yet another reason for mass start swims. In exchange for a promise of later guarded nap time free of kid responsibilities, I took both my steed and my wife's down to outside the U of A pool and set up both our transitions. In what was probably a great stroke of luck, Karen's tire blew out completely around the valve stem as I topped it off. Better to change before the race than during. :-}
After a leisurely breakfast, we went back and waited for our swim heats, bringing our oldest as photographer, and leaving the two youngers back with grandma Sandy.
Karen's swim was 2 heats before mine, so I got to cheer her on. Then I got in and paddled away for 825 yards:
The swim felt pretty good, and I hopped out and trotted out to transition. I've been working on "flying" transitions, in my 44 year old caucasian way, so I'd set the bike up with shoes on. I put my geeky aero helmet on, stepped on a towel to dry my feet off, threw some thin, 2-layer socks on, and took off running with the bike. Transitions weren't timed, but I'm pretty sure I was in and out of T1 in roughly a minute. My head still felt a bit underwater-ish, so the running mount was more of a trotting one. Most folks pedal on top of the shoes and put their feet in one at a time, but I just slipped my feet into both shoes at once. It worked pretty well, looks notwithstanding:
My power numbers on the bike weren't stellar--I held an average of 260 watts, and my 20 minute TT numbers usually run 300-325 watts. But I went pretty fast, for me: 23.5 mph average, and I didn't feel like I was burning it too hard. I felt smooth, and more importantly, I only got passed by one of my heat-mates (we were the last heat). A sprint tri, at least for me, is more of a VO2 max race than a Lactate threshold race, as an olympic tri is.
I passed Karen on one of her laps, and noted, with no small amount of pride and joy, that I thought she looked really cute even before I positively ID'ed her(!!!)
T2 was similarly blazing--I unstrapped my shoes and rode in with my feet on top of them, doing a properly executed flying dismount. I was into my shoes and running in probably 45 seconds.
It took me the first kilometer to feel like I had my legs under me, but then I got going pretty well. It helped that I got passed by some skinny punk-oid with the number "21" tattooed on his calf in sharpie (his age, for those who don't know). I let my heart rate run up from 155-ish to 159-ish, which is about as high as I can run it without making serious lactate. 5K goes pretty quickly, and it was over in no time.
Karen blazed it in 1:22:46, and was getting a head start on the bananas and gatorade at the finish line:
My line:
I was sixteenth overall out of 305 particpants, 20:35 for the 5K, transition times included in the bike. This was 5 entire minutes faster than my race in July on the same course, which didn't seem all that slow to me at the time. I was second in my age group, netting me the coveted hardware:
The only faster 40-44 year old was a Kona Qualifier. Granted, he was 4 minutes faster than me, for a race which is roughly 1/9th of an ironman. But I'm starting to wonder if my long-term dream of qualifying is neither all that farfetched, nor all that far off. . .
Training for Ironman Coeur D'Alene begins in earnest this December. But next, meaning next week, is the Lake Mead 1/2 Ironman, which is likely to be far more representative of my long-distance potential.
Thanks to EQ for all the photos. Thanks to KQ for joining me in enjoying this pleasant torment.
I actually took the day off before this one, unlike most Tris under 1/2 Iron distance. The incentive was not just to see what I could do with a bit of rest, but to possibly net myself a top 3 finish in my age group and get a cool Tinfoilman trophy. This was the first time in as long as I can remember that I've actually coveted a trophy for its own geeky sake.
 |
| You know you want one. |
As with many triathlons, the Tucson Triathlon Series punishes those with fast swim times by starting them last. This means 3-4 hour delays between the opening of transition to set up and the actual event. Yet another reason for mass start swims. In exchange for a promise of later guarded nap time free of kid responsibilities, I took both my steed and my wife's down to outside the U of A pool and set up both our transitions. In what was probably a great stroke of luck, Karen's tire blew out completely around the valve stem as I topped it off. Better to change before the race than during. :-}
After a leisurely breakfast, we went back and waited for our swim heats, bringing our oldest as photographer, and leaving the two youngers back with grandma Sandy.
Karen's swim was 2 heats before mine, so I got to cheer her on. Then I got in and paddled away for 825 yards:
The swim felt pretty good, and I hopped out and trotted out to transition. I've been working on "flying" transitions, in my 44 year old caucasian way, so I'd set the bike up with shoes on. I put my geeky aero helmet on, stepped on a towel to dry my feet off, threw some thin, 2-layer socks on, and took off running with the bike. Transitions weren't timed, but I'm pretty sure I was in and out of T1 in roughly a minute. My head still felt a bit underwater-ish, so the running mount was more of a trotting one. Most folks pedal on top of the shoes and put their feet in one at a time, but I just slipped my feet into both shoes at once. It worked pretty well, looks notwithstanding:
 |
| Poetry (poultry?!?!) In Motion |
My power numbers on the bike weren't stellar--I held an average of 260 watts, and my 20 minute TT numbers usually run 300-325 watts. But I went pretty fast, for me: 23.5 mph average, and I didn't feel like I was burning it too hard. I felt smooth, and more importantly, I only got passed by one of my heat-mates (we were the last heat). A sprint tri, at least for me, is more of a VO2 max race than a Lactate threshold race, as an olympic tri is.
I passed Karen on one of her laps, and noted, with no small amount of pride and joy, that I thought she looked really cute even before I positively ID'ed her(!!!)
T2 was similarly blazing--I unstrapped my shoes and rode in with my feet on top of them, doing a properly executed flying dismount. I was into my shoes and running in probably 45 seconds.
It took me the first kilometer to feel like I had my legs under me, but then I got going pretty well. It helped that I got passed by some skinny punk-oid with the number "21" tattooed on his calf in sharpie (his age, for those who don't know). I let my heart rate run up from 155-ish to 159-ish, which is about as high as I can run it without making serious lactate. 5K goes pretty quickly, and it was over in no time.
Karen blazed it in 1:22:46, and was getting a head start on the bananas and gatorade at the finish line:
My line:
| 16 | Thomas Quigley | 335 | 44 | 14 | 10:39 | 15 | 32:32 | 24 | 20:35 | 1:03:46 |
I was sixteenth overall out of 305 particpants, 20:35 for the 5K, transition times included in the bike. This was 5 entire minutes faster than my race in July on the same course, which didn't seem all that slow to me at the time. I was second in my age group, netting me the coveted hardware:
The only faster 40-44 year old was a Kona Qualifier. Granted, he was 4 minutes faster than me, for a race which is roughly 1/9th of an ironman. But I'm starting to wonder if my long-term dream of qualifying is neither all that farfetched, nor all that far off. . .
Training for Ironman Coeur D'Alene begins in earnest this December. But next, meaning next week, is the Lake Mead 1/2 Ironman, which is likely to be far more representative of my long-distance potential.
Thanks to EQ for all the photos. Thanks to KQ for joining me in enjoying this pleasant torment.
What Motivates Triathletes to Suffer? | Active.com
What Motivates Triathletes to Suffer? | Active.com
Triathlete exhausted at the Kona Finish Line.
Photo: Jesse HammondDave Scott and Mark Allen suffered immensely during the 1989 Ironman, the race remembered as Iron War for the awe-inspiring duel that took place between these two legendary athletes within it. In fact, Scott and Allen probably suffered more than any of the 1,284 other competitors in the race, and that is probably why they finished the race more than three miles ahead of any other competitor.
Allen’s most excruciating moments came about halfway through the marathon, when Scott, who had been towing Allen along since the first strokes of the swim almost seven hours earlier, threw down a vicious surge that threatened to once again finish off the man who had lost to Scott five times previously at Ironman.
“I responded, but barely,” Allen later wrote of those moments. “My reserves were reaching their limit… This is too much. My legs are killing me.”
Despite these torments, Allen found a way to rally and win the greatest race ever run. Which means Dave Scott ultimately suffered even more. Soon after Scott crossed the finish line 58 seconds behind Allen, a journalist asked the runner-up how the race had felt.
“I’m not sure I want to feel that again,” he said.
Accepting the degree of suffering that Dave Scott and Mark Allen bore in their Iron War requires exceptional motivation. What motivated Scott and Allen to embrace the agony they did in their epic showdown? It certainly wasn’t money. The prize for winning the 1989 Ironman was a meager $20,000. The second-place finisher took home $8,000.
One of my goals in researching my newly published book about Iron War was to discover what motivated Dave Scott and Mark Allen to reach so deep in that race. I learned that, while each man had his own personal motivations, perhaps the greatest motivation was shared—and not only that, but was the same motivation that draws every Ironman participant to the challenge. Scott and Allen just had more of it.
In 2008, a Canadian-born sociologist named Michael Atkinson published a paper titled, “Triathlon, Suffering, and Exciting Significance.” In it, he argued that the tremendous amount of suffering that all triathletes experience in training and, especially, in races is not a negative price that participants pay in pursuit of the rewards of the sport; instead, that suffering is itself the primary reward.
Atkinson argued that the comforts and conveniences of modern life have come to pamper us so much that much of the excitement has been drained from our daily existence. Our bodies are so coddled that we crave physical challenges. On top of that, we have grown mentally soft, and we know it and vaguely despise ourselves for it.
Triathlon represents a way to put some excitement back into our lives, to toughen us mentally, and to boost our self-respect. The sport delivers these rewards by affording us an opportunity to overcome great suffering. The prize that every triathlete seeks above all others is what I call the finish-line feeling—that tremendous feeling of satisfaction that comes when we complete a race and conquer the internal weakness that tempts us to quit.
It is no accident that the event that caused triathlon’s popularity to explode was Julie Moss’s famous crawl to the finish line of the February 1982 Ironman. We who watched it—the susceptible among us, at least—felt a powerful urge to suffer as she did, and to bravely defeat our suffering, as Moss did hers.
The more you suffer in a triathlon, the better the finish line feels. While the finish-line feeling is the ultimate motivator for the suffering we subject ourselves to in races, other motivators may inspire us to suffer even more, which enhances the finish-line even more, which boosts our willingness to suffer still further. The opportunity to win is one such motivator. Competition is another. Competition against an arch-rival works even better. A state of peak physical readiness—having your best day and knowing it—is still another.
In the 1989 Ironman, a perfect storm of circumstances conspired to make Dave Scott and Mark Allen willing and able to endure as much suffering as any athlete ever has in competition. And that’s one of the reasons both men redefined the possible on that unforgettable day.
Push your limits at a race.
What Motivates Triathletes to Suffer?
Triathlete exhausted at the Kona Finish Line.Photo: Jesse Hammond
Allen’s most excruciating moments came about halfway through the marathon, when Scott, who had been towing Allen along since the first strokes of the swim almost seven hours earlier, threw down a vicious surge that threatened to once again finish off the man who had lost to Scott five times previously at Ironman.
“I responded, but barely,” Allen later wrote of those moments. “My reserves were reaching their limit… This is too much. My legs are killing me.”
Despite these torments, Allen found a way to rally and win the greatest race ever run. Which means Dave Scott ultimately suffered even more. Soon after Scott crossed the finish line 58 seconds behind Allen, a journalist asked the runner-up how the race had felt.
“I’m not sure I want to feel that again,” he said.
Accepting the degree of suffering that Dave Scott and Mark Allen bore in their Iron War requires exceptional motivation. What motivated Scott and Allen to embrace the agony they did in their epic showdown? It certainly wasn’t money. The prize for winning the 1989 Ironman was a meager $20,000. The second-place finisher took home $8,000.
One of my goals in researching my newly published book about Iron War was to discover what motivated Dave Scott and Mark Allen to reach so deep in that race. I learned that, while each man had his own personal motivations, perhaps the greatest motivation was shared—and not only that, but was the same motivation that draws every Ironman participant to the challenge. Scott and Allen just had more of it.
In 2008, a Canadian-born sociologist named Michael Atkinson published a paper titled, “Triathlon, Suffering, and Exciting Significance.” In it, he argued that the tremendous amount of suffering that all triathletes experience in training and, especially, in races is not a negative price that participants pay in pursuit of the rewards of the sport; instead, that suffering is itself the primary reward.
Atkinson argued that the comforts and conveniences of modern life have come to pamper us so much that much of the excitement has been drained from our daily existence. Our bodies are so coddled that we crave physical challenges. On top of that, we have grown mentally soft, and we know it and vaguely despise ourselves for it.
Triathlon represents a way to put some excitement back into our lives, to toughen us mentally, and to boost our self-respect. The sport delivers these rewards by affording us an opportunity to overcome great suffering. The prize that every triathlete seeks above all others is what I call the finish-line feeling—that tremendous feeling of satisfaction that comes when we complete a race and conquer the internal weakness that tempts us to quit.
It is no accident that the event that caused triathlon’s popularity to explode was Julie Moss’s famous crawl to the finish line of the February 1982 Ironman. We who watched it—the susceptible among us, at least—felt a powerful urge to suffer as she did, and to bravely defeat our suffering, as Moss did hers.
The more you suffer in a triathlon, the better the finish line feels. While the finish-line feeling is the ultimate motivator for the suffering we subject ourselves to in races, other motivators may inspire us to suffer even more, which enhances the finish-line even more, which boosts our willingness to suffer still further. The opportunity to win is one such motivator. Competition is another. Competition against an arch-rival works even better. A state of peak physical readiness—having your best day and knowing it—is still another.
In the 1989 Ironman, a perfect storm of circumstances conspired to make Dave Scott and Mark Allen willing and able to endure as much suffering as any athlete ever has in competition. And that’s one of the reasons both men redefined the possible on that unforgettable day.
Push your limits at a race. Matt Fitzgerald is the author of Iron War: Dave Scott, Mark Allen & The Greatest Race Ever Run (VeloPress 2011) and a Coach and Training Intelligence Specialist for PEAR Sports. Find out more at mattfizgerald.org.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
San Diego Triathlon Classic
This past weekend, my lovely wife and I enlisted my folks to watch our three Bazoogers, packed up the bikes and junk, and headed to San Diego for a weekend of triathlon, dining, and generally having a 48-hour date. (!!!)
Generally, all went quite well. But the devil's in the details, of course. The biggest detail was a bit of self-inflicted stress. Being security-minded, I locked the bikes to Karen's car. Then being overly efficient, I deliberately left the bulky key fob for my Monstah Truck at home. Including, of course, the bike lock keys.
D'oh.
As I was able to determine right after arriving and figuring out my catastrophic error, case-hardened steel U-shaped locks are, as they should be, quite resistant to bolt cutters, hacksaws, and reciprocating saws. My Tasmanian She-Babe-O-Luscious Welder wife had suggested that a hand grinder would likely do the trick with the right blade, and we needed one anyhow, so I oughta just go buy one.
Inevitably, the grinder was the solution. But Ace Hardware at Point Loma didn't carry it, so I tried the less effective options first. On my way to Home Despot, I stopped by Moment Cycles, who hosted the race. Luckily, J. T. Lyons, the race director, knew someone who had a hand grinder. Big thanks also go to Steve Harrison, the bearer of the hand grinder with diamond blade, for driving out of his way and making the rest of the weekend possible. And sparing me the wrath of Karen.
Unfortunately, I was too worried about gittin' the job done to remember the camera, as a night shot of me holding the lock that held the bikes to the car while Steve's grinder threw off massive sparks would have been sweet. This is all I got, though:
So much for the Kryptonite (TM) New York Lock. Now I know how to blast through 'em in about a minute, just in case the Pediatric Anesthesiology thing doesn't work out.
Anyway, on to the race. The swim went well, in the sense that I was the fastest in my age group. But despite the fact that I've actually been swimming over the last several months, my swim leg has not gotten faster. Frustrating. When I breathed on my left side, I would drift quite strongly to the right. When I breathed on my right side, I went straight. Maybe a wetsuit fit thing, maybe a stroke thing. And then there was the inevitable scrum of passing people in previous heats. I think I'm actually someone who would benefit from the much maligned mass start, and not just because I played water polo in college. :-}
Biking felt solid. The course, which twice climbed a normally inaccessible hill at the Point Loma Naval base, was beautiful and fun. As it's my weakest leg and the one for which I have the least "feel," I stuck to my plans to "Train like a lion, race like a lamb," and "Go to war with the army you have, not the army you want." I managed to stay within the realm of my actual abilities instead of the ones I would have if wishes were quadriceps. My avg. speed was 20.2, MPH, which is pretty good for me on a 24 mile hilly course. Surprisingly, my bike leg was 14th out of 74 in my age group.
Transitions were OK, but not stellar. I've amassed the info on how to make them quicker, but have yet to practice things like rubber-banding my shoes to the bike and donning them on the fly, which would likely save me a couple minutes.
My numero uno goal was to finish strong. Having practiced transition runs after all long bike rides made a big difference in how quickly I found my running legs. I immediately felt strong, and started to savor my favorite triathlon pursuit: passing people on the run who passed me on the bike. A little too much, as it happens: I was cookin' along at about 9 to 9.5 mph, a pace which would allow me to realize a dream of finishing a 10K triathlon leg in under 40 minutes. But alas, my ego was slightly larger than my legs, and I had to slack off a little for the last 5K, finishing the leg (purportedly) in 43:29. On the bright side, this was still 2 minutes faster than my previous best 10K run split.
Nonetheless, I was happy with the result: 2:23:16, 5 minutes faster than my best/last Oly Tri, and on a harder bike course. As it turns out, though, the race officials found the course to be 10.2 Km. So FWIW, I would have crossed the real finish line in 2:22:26, with a 42:39 10K split. . . Karen finished in 3:20, which was far better than a summer of training in the Tucson heat had led her to expect. She's hooked on tris as well, and may very well be talked into doing a Half Ironman with me this coming spring!
The rest of the weekend was lovely as expected. We dined, we slept in, we left to come home when we darn well pleased. Could've used a couple more days, of course. . .
Generally, all went quite well. But the devil's in the details, of course. The biggest detail was a bit of self-inflicted stress. Being security-minded, I locked the bikes to Karen's car. Then being overly efficient, I deliberately left the bulky key fob for my Monstah Truck at home. Including, of course, the bike lock keys.
D'oh.
As I was able to determine right after arriving and figuring out my catastrophic error, case-hardened steel U-shaped locks are, as they should be, quite resistant to bolt cutters, hacksaws, and reciprocating saws. My Tasmanian She-Babe-O-Luscious Welder wife had suggested that a hand grinder would likely do the trick with the right blade, and we needed one anyhow, so I oughta just go buy one.
 |
| Mama Bear, blasting away with the Plasma cutter, which could have sliced through the lock in about 5 seconds. |
Unfortunately, I was too worried about gittin' the job done to remember the camera, as a night shot of me holding the lock that held the bikes to the car while Steve's grinder threw off massive sparks would have been sweet. This is all I got, though:
 |
| It's a thing of beauty. Really. |
Anyway, on to the race. The swim went well, in the sense that I was the fastest in my age group. But despite the fact that I've actually been swimming over the last several months, my swim leg has not gotten faster. Frustrating. When I breathed on my left side, I would drift quite strongly to the right. When I breathed on my right side, I went straight. Maybe a wetsuit fit thing, maybe a stroke thing. And then there was the inevitable scrum of passing people in previous heats. I think I'm actually someone who would benefit from the much maligned mass start, and not just because I played water polo in college. :-}
Biking felt solid. The course, which twice climbed a normally inaccessible hill at the Point Loma Naval base, was beautiful and fun. As it's my weakest leg and the one for which I have the least "feel," I stuck to my plans to "Train like a lion, race like a lamb," and "Go to war with the army you have, not the army you want." I managed to stay within the realm of my actual abilities instead of the ones I would have if wishes were quadriceps. My avg. speed was 20.2, MPH, which is pretty good for me on a 24 mile hilly course. Surprisingly, my bike leg was 14th out of 74 in my age group.
Transitions were OK, but not stellar. I've amassed the info on how to make them quicker, but have yet to practice things like rubber-banding my shoes to the bike and donning them on the fly, which would likely save me a couple minutes.
My numero uno goal was to finish strong. Having practiced transition runs after all long bike rides made a big difference in how quickly I found my running legs. I immediately felt strong, and started to savor my favorite triathlon pursuit: passing people on the run who passed me on the bike. A little too much, as it happens: I was cookin' along at about 9 to 9.5 mph, a pace which would allow me to realize a dream of finishing a 10K triathlon leg in under 40 minutes. But alas, my ego was slightly larger than my legs, and I had to slack off a little for the last 5K, finishing the leg (purportedly) in 43:29. On the bright side, this was still 2 minutes faster than my previous best 10K run split.
 |
| That's a "Hang Loose" with sloppy technique. |
Nonetheless, I was happy with the result: 2:23:16, 5 minutes faster than my best/last Oly Tri, and on a harder bike course. As it turns out, though, the race officials found the course to be 10.2 Km. So FWIW, I would have crossed the real finish line in 2:22:26, with a 42:39 10K split. . . Karen finished in 3:20, which was far better than a summer of training in the Tucson heat had led her to expect. She's hooked on tris as well, and may very well be talked into doing a Half Ironman with me this coming spring!
The rest of the weekend was lovely as expected. We dined, we slept in, we left to come home when we darn well pleased. Could've used a couple more days, of course. . .
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
PsyOps 101: Getting a handle on the gray matter
For me, one thing that has distinguished Ironman preparation from that of preparation for a marathon or half-Ironman is the smaller margin of error. Going 140.6 miles involves far more meticulous preparation and execution than a Marathon or even a Half Ironman. Overtraining can leave you just as stuck as not doing enough. Nutrition and hydration failures--which I experienced both at Marathon and Half-Ironman distance--could bring about an early end to the race. More than any format, Long Course IM absolutely requires some degree of thought, planning, and improvisational ability to handle the inevitable SNAFUs, and keep them from going to TARFU or FUBAR.
Within the context of sports, I am happily competitive and aggressive by nature. I want to win; I love to do my best and see what I'm capable of, and I genuinely enjoy a wholehearted effort. This is well and good for shorter distances, but one of the particular challenges of the Iron Distance is that this approach is highly correlated with burning out. The cost of burning out can be anything from a slow Marathon, to a walking Marathon, to a DNF. According to those who have gone before, there's really no chance to push things until the very end if one wants to finish.
For me, and for most if not all who have the internal drive to attempt a Full IM distance, taking it easy runs contrary to my intrapsychic makeup. My inner beast craves the raw thrill of pursuing and overtaking prey. As I found out in the Half-Ironman I did last June, the chase has its own seductive rhythm, which has little regard for pacing or plans. My inner Competitor wants to be better and faster, for the sheer vanity of it. And the Boss has to get them all on the same page.
Within the context of sports, I am happily competitive and aggressive by nature. I want to win; I love to do my best and see what I'm capable of, and I genuinely enjoy a wholehearted effort. This is well and good for shorter distances, but one of the particular challenges of the Iron Distance is that this approach is highly correlated with burning out. The cost of burning out can be anything from a slow Marathon, to a walking Marathon, to a DNF. According to those who have gone before, there's really no chance to push things until the very end if one wants to finish.
For me, and for most if not all who have the internal drive to attempt a Full IM distance, taking it easy runs contrary to my intrapsychic makeup. My inner beast craves the raw thrill of pursuing and overtaking prey. As I found out in the Half-Ironman I did last June, the chase has its own seductive rhythm, which has little regard for pacing or plans. My inner Competitor wants to be better and faster, for the sheer vanity of it. And the Boss has to get them all on the same page.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Bike Calisthenics, Pending Tri Bike, Natatorium Update
Yesterday I added bike-related calisthenics to my standard ride days. Hindu squats, calf raises with slow lowering, lunges, and backside-blasting leg extensions with a band. Today, I feel like a gay dinosaur, so I'm taking the day off. No weights yet, but I will add some when I'm sure I can do it without injury.
I told Karen that if all works out, my butt was going to be even larger. Her enthusiasm was resounding. ;-}
My current steed is an entry level road bike with aerobars. It has been berry, berry good to me, but if I am to do a full Ironman, and to continue with this sport, I think I could kick a bit more ass on a real, light, aero, slick-looking tri bike. At least that's what I keep telling Karen.
I'd been planning the purchase of a real tri-bike sometime before the end of the year, but I found the one I wanted on ebay for a ridiculous price (Allegedly NIB, $1000 less than retail!!), and nailed it down yesterday. Hope it's not too good to be true. Tune in next week.
This is not our only personal effort to jumpstart the economy. Construction of the Quigley family Natatorium continues apace. We've moved from plumbing only to rebar.
Amenities will include hot tub, lagoon with umbrella pole so parents can supervise from inside the pool, and a few jets grouped together in the deep end which should, when coupled with a swim tether, sorta-kinda simulate a swim stream. We'll see about that last one. It's for the kiddos anyway.
I told Karen that if all works out, my butt was going to be even larger. Her enthusiasm was resounding. ;-}
My current steed is an entry level road bike with aerobars. It has been berry, berry good to me, but if I am to do a full Ironman, and to continue with this sport, I think I could kick a bit more ass on a real, light, aero, slick-looking tri bike. At least that's what I keep telling Karen.
I'd been planning the purchase of a real tri-bike sometime before the end of the year, but I found the one I wanted on ebay for a ridiculous price (Allegedly NIB, $1000 less than retail!!), and nailed it down yesterday. Hope it's not too good to be true. Tune in next week.
This is not our only personal effort to jumpstart the economy. Construction of the Quigley family Natatorium continues apace. We've moved from plumbing only to rebar.
Amenities will include hot tub, lagoon with umbrella pole so parents can supervise from inside the pool, and a few jets grouped together in the deep end which should, when coupled with a swim tether, sorta-kinda simulate a swim stream. We'll see about that last one. It's for the kiddos anyway.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Swimming--technique, tools, etc.
Swimming, meaning the sport, is something we as a species do with a shocking lack of grace. Even the best of us bears more resemblance to shark bait than a waterborne mammal making deliberate efforts to get somewhere.
As a youth, I was a competitive swimmer, devoting myself to this retrospectively silly and boring pursuit to the exclusion of other sports that I likely would have enjoyed, to the exclusion of a balanced life, proper rest, friends. . . So I've got a little baggage around this particular leg of the Triathlon, which has to this point kept me from putting a significant effort into it. Yet it's far and away my best leg, relatively speaking. So I'm going to set the past, and my fundamentally land-based nature, aside in the service of overall speed.
To this end, I took my new Go Pro HD Father's day present to the pool to video some swimming. I attached it to a helmet mount, the helmet mount to a rock, and set it on the bottom of the pool. In addition to cute kid swimming videos likely to wind up on FB, this is what I came up with:
For the sake of comparison, here's Michael Phelps, our finest specimen of shark bait:
While I clearly ain't no Michael Phelps, I think my technique is pretty good. Just need to put in some time to get back a little of my youthful swimming strength, hopefully not at too much cost to running/biking.
Suggestions welcome.
As a youth, I was a competitive swimmer, devoting myself to this retrospectively silly and boring pursuit to the exclusion of other sports that I likely would have enjoyed, to the exclusion of a balanced life, proper rest, friends. . . So I've got a little baggage around this particular leg of the Triathlon, which has to this point kept me from putting a significant effort into it. Yet it's far and away my best leg, relatively speaking. So I'm going to set the past, and my fundamentally land-based nature, aside in the service of overall speed.
To this end, I took my new Go Pro HD Father's day present to the pool to video some swimming. I attached it to a helmet mount, the helmet mount to a rock, and set it on the bottom of the pool. In addition to cute kid swimming videos likely to wind up on FB, this is what I came up with:
For the sake of comparison, here's Michael Phelps, our finest specimen of shark bait:
While I clearly ain't no Michael Phelps, I think my technique is pretty good. Just need to put in some time to get back a little of my youthful swimming strength, hopefully not at too much cost to running/biking.
Suggestions welcome.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Firecracker Sprint Tri 7/3
Yesterday, I went for a long bike ride--54 heat and water supply limited miles, including halfway up Mt. Lemmon--followed by the recommended "quick run"--usually 15-30 min. The previously discussed Elixir of Life worked wonderfully, and didn't get lost because I added a between the aerobars bottle for it. I arrived at my post big-bike run with tons of energy, and ran 5 miles in 98-102 degree temps.
As with the Olympic distance triathlon I did in May (I'm 55th), I didn't take a rest day before this one, mostly in the name of keeping the pressure off and the expectations low. We had out of town friends staying at our house, so it was easy not to think about it. Too easy, actually, as I forgot a floor pump, water bottle, and extra CO2 cartridges for the tires. Luckily, there was a kids' race first. Then, race participants left at 15 second intervals with the slowest swimmers first. I was the third to last starter, and I had 1 hr and 45 minutes to go back home and get the extra stuff after racking my bike. Next time, I'll use an idiot-box checklist.
My avowed goals were to keep a solid, yet sub-meltdown, HR Zone 4 pace, and not let myself get thrown off my game by my own competitive urges to pass or avoid being passed. The savage lurking within my limbic brain had other plans, though, and the minute I saw a competitor, I snapped immediately into I wanna kick your ass you skinny little punk mode. The last half-hour prior to the race was spent warming up and wrestling with my inner competitor. By the time I lined up for the swim, the beast was harnessed again. Goal #1 accomplished.
The only race SNAFU was a temporary failure of HR and cadence monitors, which left my inner data geek a little vexed. The swim went well and smoothly. My swimsuit-only pace was about the same as my wetsuit pace in the Tempe Triathlon. Both transitions were reasonably quick and screwup-free. The 12 mile bike was the fastest race pace yet, and my first time averaging over 20 mph (21.4. to be exact). My glutes ached a little from the previous day's exertion, but they didn't fall off. Despite the blossoming heat--probably 93 degrees at the finish--I finished up strong on the 5k run, holding sub 7 minute miles, with just the vaguest hints of heat cramps towards the end.
All in all, it was fun. Maybe next time I'll prepare a little more. My time was 1 hour, 8 minutes and 20 seconds, which was good for a first one. It's still a perspective shot to realize that elite Ironman Triathletes do a race that is essentially eight times longer at my pace or faster.
As with the Olympic distance triathlon I did in May (I'm 55th), I didn't take a rest day before this one, mostly in the name of keeping the pressure off and the expectations low. We had out of town friends staying at our house, so it was easy not to think about it. Too easy, actually, as I forgot a floor pump, water bottle, and extra CO2 cartridges for the tires. Luckily, there was a kids' race first. Then, race participants left at 15 second intervals with the slowest swimmers first. I was the third to last starter, and I had 1 hr and 45 minutes to go back home and get the extra stuff after racking my bike. Next time, I'll use an idiot-box checklist.
My avowed goals were to keep a solid, yet sub-meltdown, HR Zone 4 pace, and not let myself get thrown off my game by my own competitive urges to pass or avoid being passed. The savage lurking within my limbic brain had other plans, though, and the minute I saw a competitor, I snapped immediately into I wanna kick your ass you skinny little punk mode. The last half-hour prior to the race was spent warming up and wrestling with my inner competitor. By the time I lined up for the swim, the beast was harnessed again. Goal #1 accomplished.
The only race SNAFU was a temporary failure of HR and cadence monitors, which left my inner data geek a little vexed. The swim went well and smoothly. My swimsuit-only pace was about the same as my wetsuit pace in the Tempe Triathlon. Both transitions were reasonably quick and screwup-free. The 12 mile bike was the fastest race pace yet, and my first time averaging over 20 mph (21.4. to be exact). My glutes ached a little from the previous day's exertion, but they didn't fall off. Despite the blossoming heat--probably 93 degrees at the finish--I finished up strong on the 5k run, holding sub 7 minute miles, with just the vaguest hints of heat cramps towards the end.
All in all, it was fun. Maybe next time I'll prepare a little more. My time was 1 hour, 8 minutes and 20 seconds, which was good for a first one. It's still a perspective shot to realize that elite Ironman Triathletes do a race that is essentially eight times longer at my pace or faster.
Monday, June 27, 2011
It's Official!
". . .successful athletes are those who equate "hard work" with "focused play."--Joe Friel, Going Long
As planned, I signed up today for the full 140.6 mile Ironman in Coeur D'Alene, ID, 362 days from today. It felt subjectively not unlike buying a bride's wedding ring: outward sign of commitment; significant capital outlay; low expectations of a refund if all doesn't go as planned.
Workouts have been good. I ran 22 miles last week and bonked less hard as the previous 15 miler last week, both due to nutrition and hydration shortfalls. But my resolve to get the nutrition/hydration thing remains unwavering. Per the Weather Channel, Coeur D'Alene's average high in late June is 74 degrees. Perfecto, no problema, you say. I sure did. That's why I chose it instead of Texas or Kentucky. But clicking the "Record High" checkbox on the page reveals a grim number: the highest recorded temperature in June in CDA is a downright Tucsonian 102 degrees. Would I train, upgrade my bike (wife permitting), buy plane tix, and then skip the race just because of a heat wave in Northern Idaho?
Nope.
So Tucson summer is just one big opportunity to get my nutrition and hydration game on, just in case all doesn't go as planned. :-}
Or, as Chopper Read would say, another chance to HTFU.*
An 80 mile bike ride under typical Tucson thermal circumstances this past Sunday went well. Which is to say, all hiccups were handled without injury or bonkage. For those who have never ridden it, the road from Tucson to Ajo/Three Points has some bumpy spots (reference comment about comfy bike seats in this video. . .my "bum" was starting to feel like it had made the visit he describes). Unfortunately, one of the numerous bumps on the shoulder dislodged a water bottle from my seat-mounted bottle holder somewhere between miles 30 and 40 of the ride. This bottle contained a concoction that I had dubbed the "Elixir of Life": a combination of substances I had designed to address to the above-mentioned bonkage, and which had been doing a marvelous job of just that until I lost it.
Said elixir consisted of ten scoops of carbo-pro (polymerized glucose for sustained release), ten thermolyte capsules (balanced salt with sodium, potassium, calcium and magnesium), all in 10 ounces of tea made with five double chocolate mate teabags. With a few squirts of agave nectar, it actually tasted reasonably good. And it felt, to some extent in a placebo kind of way, like instant energy.
The unfortunate loss of the elixir of life left me dependent on manned, credit-card operated aid stations for the rest of the ride. Luckly, I was thus equipped. Although it's worth mentioning that Arco only takes debit cards. Gatorade G2, along with water, got me through the rest unscathed. I even went for the recommended quick 15-30 minute run in the 96 degree heat when I got back.
*Thanks to D. C. Rainmaker for turning me on to this one. I found it on his excellent blog.
As planned, I signed up today for the full 140.6 mile Ironman in Coeur D'Alene, ID, 362 days from today. It felt subjectively not unlike buying a bride's wedding ring: outward sign of commitment; significant capital outlay; low expectations of a refund if all doesn't go as planned.
Workouts have been good. I ran 22 miles last week and bonked less hard as the previous 15 miler last week, both due to nutrition and hydration shortfalls. But my resolve to get the nutrition/hydration thing remains unwavering. Per the Weather Channel, Coeur D'Alene's average high in late June is 74 degrees. Perfecto, no problema, you say. I sure did. That's why I chose it instead of Texas or Kentucky. But clicking the "Record High" checkbox on the page reveals a grim number: the highest recorded temperature in June in CDA is a downright Tucsonian 102 degrees. Would I train, upgrade my bike (wife permitting), buy plane tix, and then skip the race just because of a heat wave in Northern Idaho?
Nope.
So Tucson summer is just one big opportunity to get my nutrition and hydration game on, just in case all doesn't go as planned. :-}
Or, as Chopper Read would say, another chance to HTFU.*
An 80 mile bike ride under typical Tucson thermal circumstances this past Sunday went well. Which is to say, all hiccups were handled without injury or bonkage. For those who have never ridden it, the road from Tucson to Ajo/Three Points has some bumpy spots (reference comment about comfy bike seats in this video. . .my "bum" was starting to feel like it had made the visit he describes). Unfortunately, one of the numerous bumps on the shoulder dislodged a water bottle from my seat-mounted bottle holder somewhere between miles 30 and 40 of the ride. This bottle contained a concoction that I had dubbed the "Elixir of Life": a combination of substances I had designed to address to the above-mentioned bonkage, and which had been doing a marvelous job of just that until I lost it.
Said elixir consisted of ten scoops of carbo-pro (polymerized glucose for sustained release), ten thermolyte capsules (balanced salt with sodium, potassium, calcium and magnesium), all in 10 ounces of tea made with five double chocolate mate teabags. With a few squirts of agave nectar, it actually tasted reasonably good. And it felt, to some extent in a placebo kind of way, like instant energy.
The unfortunate loss of the elixir of life left me dependent on manned, credit-card operated aid stations for the rest of the ride. Luckly, I was thus equipped. Although it's worth mentioning that Arco only takes debit cards. Gatorade G2, along with water, got me through the rest unscathed. I even went for the recommended quick 15-30 minute run in the 96 degree heat when I got back.
*Thanks to D. C. Rainmaker for turning me on to this one. I found it on his excellent blog.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Feelin' the Heat
"The more you sweat in peacetime, the less you bleed in war."--Chinese Proverb
My corollary: the more screw-ups you make in training, the fewer you make during a race.
Thursday was supposed to be a long bike ride with a quick run after. It wound up the opposite, as the rear shifter cable frayed and broke 12 miles into the ride, due almost certainly to the way I'd strapped it to the back of my Jeep. Oops. Time to use our real bike rack, even if it's a little extra effort.
I biked home with 3 gears instead of 21, and threw on my running shoes instead. The 15 mile run went easily, and I just beat the heat. Clearly a limitation to the length of any run/bike is the temperature at this time of year. And it'd likely be the death of me in any 140.6 mile race. This unfortunately rules out one possible venue--the Vineman triathlon in Napa, CA, which is next July. We got married over the hills from the Bay Area in June, without the protective cooling layer of fog. It was 100 degrees Fahrenheit at game time. Thanks, no thanks.
My previous long bike ride last week was cut short when I had only one malfunctioning CO2 cartridge to refill a flat, and no manual air pump. I wound up needing a 30 mile ride home. Oops. Time to suck it up and handle the extra weight and wind resistance.
Yesterday, I saw my Iron coach Spencer Roberts, who is also a personal trainer, for some new workout tips. I have, for the last several years, done calisthenics with a few hand weights, followed by a swim, based largely on the Navy Seal workout. My goal--based historically on participation in boxing and martial arts--has always been strength without excess bulk and loss of quickness. Spencer threw in a 38# weighted vest, "to save time," and some pushup/crunch and pushup/fly combos that were gnarly enough to end my workout a fair amount sooner. Mission accomplished.
Today was a mercifully foul-up free time trial/hill fest on the bike. I'd never done a time trial before. It was a bit like a 5K, I suppose. 22'48" for 8.34 miles (geographically determined distance) for an average of 21.95 mph. Not bad for a pinche gringo doctÓr newbie cyclist. I was inspired after peeking at another JCC trainer--Troy Pearson's--cycling resume. He was, not surprisingly, a fair amount faster. And a fellow member of the class of '85. Cool.
I think I'll keep posts to about 1/week until I start training in earnest 5 months from the event, whenever it is.
My corollary: the more screw-ups you make in training, the fewer you make during a race.
Thursday was supposed to be a long bike ride with a quick run after. It wound up the opposite, as the rear shifter cable frayed and broke 12 miles into the ride, due almost certainly to the way I'd strapped it to the back of my Jeep. Oops. Time to use our real bike rack, even if it's a little extra effort.
I biked home with 3 gears instead of 21, and threw on my running shoes instead. The 15 mile run went easily, and I just beat the heat. Clearly a limitation to the length of any run/bike is the temperature at this time of year. And it'd likely be the death of me in any 140.6 mile race. This unfortunately rules out one possible venue--the Vineman triathlon in Napa, CA, which is next July. We got married over the hills from the Bay Area in June, without the protective cooling layer of fog. It was 100 degrees Fahrenheit at game time. Thanks, no thanks.
My previous long bike ride last week was cut short when I had only one malfunctioning CO2 cartridge to refill a flat, and no manual air pump. I wound up needing a 30 mile ride home. Oops. Time to suck it up and handle the extra weight and wind resistance.
Yesterday, I saw my Iron coach Spencer Roberts, who is also a personal trainer, for some new workout tips. I have, for the last several years, done calisthenics with a few hand weights, followed by a swim, based largely on the Navy Seal workout. My goal--based historically on participation in boxing and martial arts--has always been strength without excess bulk and loss of quickness. Spencer threw in a 38# weighted vest, "to save time," and some pushup/crunch and pushup/fly combos that were gnarly enough to end my workout a fair amount sooner. Mission accomplished.
Today was a mercifully foul-up free time trial/hill fest on the bike. I'd never done a time trial before. It was a bit like a 5K, I suppose. 22'48" for 8.34 miles (geographically determined distance) for an average of 21.95 mph. Not bad for a pinche gringo doctÓr newbie cyclist. I was inspired after peeking at another JCC trainer--Troy Pearson's--cycling resume. He was, not surprisingly, a fair amount faster. And a fellow member of the class of '85. Cool.
I think I'll keep posts to about 1/week until I start training in earnest 5 months from the event, whenever it is.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
6/12--A 15 mile trot in 90-95 degree Tucson That Begs the Question of This Entire Endeavor
. . .why?
Nothing like a little trot in the morning to get the blood pumping, ¿Que no?
I bring a bunch of energy gel squares, a large floppy hat to cover my intractably pasty Irish skin, and a water bottle to be refilled at the numerous water fountains along the Rillito "River" park. The alleged river in question is, like everything else, bone dry, and remains so most of the year.
On the other hand, the blood, and the sweat pump pretty readily this time of year, as the mercury shoots upwards to uncomfortable temperatures by 9 or 10 am. An easy run at a slow heart rate turns quickly into a sweat-fest with a heart rate approaching my supposed maximum, despite my deliberately easy pace. I try to run on the dirt next to the paved path, as I surmise that running mostly on dirt has kept my knees happy and fully functional for the last 25 years and roughly 40,000 miles.
Today this turns out to be a less than stellar idea. As I approach the turnaround 7 miles from the car, one of the numerous prairie dog holes lining the path ambushes me. While daydreaming about the next water fountain, I step right in it, rolling my ankle quickly out with a jarring pop that I feel in my teeth and seem to hear over my iPod Shuffle.
This is not the first time I've rolled my ankle. One of dozens, actually. As a collegiate lacrosse benchwarmer, I rolled it a couple of times, both disastrous to my ability to play. As a trail runner over the last few decades, I've rolled it probably a dozen times. The residual ligament stretch from my initial injuries has allowed me to just "run through" it every time, and go on as if it didn't happen, without breaks in my running schedule.
But this one aches more than usual, and I have to concentrate to keep my stride even instead of limping. Temptations to walk or take a cab back to the car are held at bay by my realization that my goal is not just to do a half marathon, or a Half Ironman, as I did last weekend, but a full, 26.2 mile marathon, after a 2.4 mile swim and a 112 mile bike leg. The only other marathon I ran--almost 12 years ago--was distinctly uncomfortable, particularly at the end, even though I trained for it appropriately.
I need to get comfortable with discomfort, I surmise. This should be a good opportunity.
Much to my amusement, the next song on the Shuffle is "Shipping Up to Boston," by the Dropkick Murphys: "I'm a sailor peg, and I lost my leg. . ."
Any notion to do a few extra miles evaporates as the intestinal churning I get at the beginning of heat exhaustion kicks in during the last few miles. The air temperature in the car reads 95 degrees, which means that the blacktop on the path was likely 5-10 degrees hotter.
At home I take off my shoes and start rehydrating, as I'm lightheaded to the point of mild nausea. This is not a stellar idea--the shoes part. My ankle quickly begins to swell bigger and bigger, until I am limping, then on my back on the floor with pain. I notice that I'm shaking, either with hypoglycemia, or pain. So I down a few glasses of juice, which don't help. I do a one-legged crab walk to the fridge and continue hydrating. I hope, more than usual, that my pager does not go off. I'm on backup call, and a bit of a wreck at the moment.
My parents are in town helping to care for our youngest while I'm at work, and I call them and ask them to swing by the pharmacy on the way over and pick up a cane and a pair of crutches. It's hard to imagine I'll be walking in the next week or two, let alone training.
But experience with this sort of injury, and Rest/Ice/Compression/Elevation, pays off. I'm walking normally the next day, swimming and working out the next, biking the day after, and running without pain 4 days later, albeit cautiously.
Crazy, by most people's standards, perhaps.
But not mine. And only in a normative way. The short explanation is that this sort of thing is a manifestation of what I both enjoy and value, others' opinions notwithstanding.
Welcome to being me.
The six words in the DSM that get statistically deviant but otherwise functional people like me off the diagnostic hook are as follows:
"causing clinically significant distress or impairment."
Nope, none. Paying the bills, washing the dishes, coaching the kid's team.
Happier than a shig in pit.
More later.
Nothing like a little trot in the morning to get the blood pumping, ¿Que no?
I bring a bunch of energy gel squares, a large floppy hat to cover my intractably pasty Irish skin, and a water bottle to be refilled at the numerous water fountains along the Rillito "River" park. The alleged river in question is, like everything else, bone dry, and remains so most of the year.
On the other hand, the blood, and the sweat pump pretty readily this time of year, as the mercury shoots upwards to uncomfortable temperatures by 9 or 10 am. An easy run at a slow heart rate turns quickly into a sweat-fest with a heart rate approaching my supposed maximum, despite my deliberately easy pace. I try to run on the dirt next to the paved path, as I surmise that running mostly on dirt has kept my knees happy and fully functional for the last 25 years and roughly 40,000 miles.
Today this turns out to be a less than stellar idea. As I approach the turnaround 7 miles from the car, one of the numerous prairie dog holes lining the path ambushes me. While daydreaming about the next water fountain, I step right in it, rolling my ankle quickly out with a jarring pop that I feel in my teeth and seem to hear over my iPod Shuffle.
This is not the first time I've rolled my ankle. One of dozens, actually. As a collegiate lacrosse benchwarmer, I rolled it a couple of times, both disastrous to my ability to play. As a trail runner over the last few decades, I've rolled it probably a dozen times. The residual ligament stretch from my initial injuries has allowed me to just "run through" it every time, and go on as if it didn't happen, without breaks in my running schedule.
But this one aches more than usual, and I have to concentrate to keep my stride even instead of limping. Temptations to walk or take a cab back to the car are held at bay by my realization that my goal is not just to do a half marathon, or a Half Ironman, as I did last weekend, but a full, 26.2 mile marathon, after a 2.4 mile swim and a 112 mile bike leg. The only other marathon I ran--almost 12 years ago--was distinctly uncomfortable, particularly at the end, even though I trained for it appropriately.
I need to get comfortable with discomfort, I surmise. This should be a good opportunity.
Much to my amusement, the next song on the Shuffle is "Shipping Up to Boston," by the Dropkick Murphys: "I'm a sailor peg, and I lost my leg. . ."
Any notion to do a few extra miles evaporates as the intestinal churning I get at the beginning of heat exhaustion kicks in during the last few miles. The air temperature in the car reads 95 degrees, which means that the blacktop on the path was likely 5-10 degrees hotter.
At home I take off my shoes and start rehydrating, as I'm lightheaded to the point of mild nausea. This is not a stellar idea--the shoes part. My ankle quickly begins to swell bigger and bigger, until I am limping, then on my back on the floor with pain. I notice that I'm shaking, either with hypoglycemia, or pain. So I down a few glasses of juice, which don't help. I do a one-legged crab walk to the fridge and continue hydrating. I hope, more than usual, that my pager does not go off. I'm on backup call, and a bit of a wreck at the moment.
My parents are in town helping to care for our youngest while I'm at work, and I call them and ask them to swing by the pharmacy on the way over and pick up a cane and a pair of crutches. It's hard to imagine I'll be walking in the next week or two, let alone training.
But experience with this sort of injury, and Rest/Ice/Compression/Elevation, pays off. I'm walking normally the next day, swimming and working out the next, biking the day after, and running without pain 4 days later, albeit cautiously.
Crazy, by most people's standards, perhaps.
But not mine. And only in a normative way. The short explanation is that this sort of thing is a manifestation of what I both enjoy and value, others' opinions notwithstanding.
Welcome to being me.
The six words in the DSM that get statistically deviant but otherwise functional people like me off the diagnostic hook are as follows:
"causing clinically significant distress or impairment."
Nope, none. Paying the bills, washing the dishes, coaching the kid's team.
Happier than a shig in pit.
More later.
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