". . .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.
Monday, June 27, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)