Runku: Super Cold Speed work, 5M 1/16

Trying to go fast, 
when the wind and cold thinks different, 
is part of the fun. 

meet the news goals: same as the old goals

Just seconds ago, my 2011 triathlon season came to an end.  I did not cross a physical finish line.  In fact, this came three weeks sooner than I had planned and budgeted for.  Yet, it came to an end nonetheless and came to an end the way it should, with joy for what I have accomplished, reflection upon the things I have yet to achieve, and excitement for what is next.

Here is how we got here, exactly.

+++

Three weeks ago I put together one of the best bike run combos of my training period.  Recovered with a decent run the next day.  Commented to my wife later that night that I felt better than I have ever felt.

A week later I couldn't walk.

In a way, its funny (but mostly just infuriating) how vulnerable we can be when we feel the strongest.  I did not do enough of some basic precautionary things that I [ EVERYONE!!! ] should do when preparing for such a massive event.  More stretching, more resting, more, um, core-ing?   My body fooled my mind.  And in turn my mind screwed my body.

I blame my mind.  I didn't let myself relax, enjoy the process, and be proud of the things I did / have done / was doing.  And so.  My mind and body were completely out of sync.

Thus the giant knot of nerves sitting somewhere in my right ass.  When life sets out to teach you a lesson, irony is it's best tool.

+++

By many measurements, I've had a ridiculously great year.  I am extremely sad about how this one ended.  But I have a lot to look forward too.

I have a newly learned love for yoga.  A reinvigorated passion for swimming, and swimming well.  I am committed to getting rid of one full day of biking/running/swimming in my training plans in the future for a day of yoga, stretching, core and mind health.  I won my first age group, then did it again.  I knocked 30 mins off my half-iron time -- and had enough in my training to knock another 15.  I've lost another 10 lbs.

My goal when I started the endurance event lifestyle was to lose weight and have fun.  The weight is gone.  Time to bring back the fun. If that means hot yoga and green tea, then judge me all you want.  I'll be too motherfuckin' zen to notice. Bitches*.

*That may or may not be how zen works.  I still got a lot of shit to learn.

Run.

Run.

2:30 pm - To this point things have gone as near to perfect as things can go when you set out to workout for twelve plus hours. My memories of the day are clean, clear and picturesque. I am certain that there must have been some shining examples of human misery. But I saw very little of it. As such, my retelling of the day may come out more glossy than what actually took place.

However. I do remember the smell of the transition tent when moving from the bike to run. Mix sweat with urine with earth with farts with poo with suffering and you get the idea. Ironman markets a massive amount of gear and product. I do not intend to purchase the his and/or hers cologne set should it be made available.

If I had any hesitation in wanting to set out for the marathon, the overwhelming stench of the tent set me right.

2:40 pm - The first few steps of the marathon are down hill. I notice I have a slight pain in my right foot as I set out. One-thousand meters into the run it disappeared. Those thousand meters might have been the longest of the race.

2:50 pm – Chipp has come up on me and passed. He looks like he is doing better. That makes me feel good for him, but sad for me. I am already a little bit beyond my pace. I wish I could go with him, but I can ill afford to make such a stupid move so early in the day. I hang back and relax.

Of the core group I trained with I am now bringing up the rear. Yes, I noticed it. And counted it important enough to recount it in essay. So it would be a lie to say it didn’t bother me at all. But I learned enough humility from the people I love and respect to understand that I needed to let my friends go, keep a smile on my face and race with-in my means. It is a much smaller victory, for sure. But a victory. And one of which I still remain proud.

3:30 pm – We are out on the loneliest stretch of the race; for me at least. It is a stretch of country road that is an out and back and comprises most of the marathon. It is different than being on the bike. On a bike when there are spectators you can’t really interact with them. But here we are on foot and we could, if there was anyone with whom to interact, of course.

To me, running is a solitary activity. Often I have sought out small races in small places. But I even feel a sense of solitude in the largest marathons (40,000+) in crowded cities (D.C. and Philadelphia). It’s a lot like living in New York City to me. People all around you. All moving in the same direction. All going to the same place, ultimately. Some are on the sidelines to cheer you on. Others, well, they are sort of in your way and all you want to do is keep moving. Keep moving forward.

Out here on this road there is no one but us marathoners. There is tall grass. Running brooks. Countryside. It is lonely, but in a different way than it was for all my miles in Central Park. And it is every bit as wonderful.

4:15 pm – I am through ten miles. There is a photo that was taken of me in this range. I am smiling and there is surprise and joy on the face of my wife. I am starting to feel the fatigue of the day. But seeing my family and friends in town renews me. I like impressing them with my good humor. The way I am taking this on with joy, and continue to move forward with a grin.

5:00 pm – The turn around in the marathon goes by the house in which we are staying and right on past the finish line. Only fools who think too much of themselves – the sort of fools who would sign up for an iron distance event – would think the idea of passing by obvious points for stopping and being strong enough not to do just that is “neat”. I am one such fool.

5:05pm – There is something that has been going on all day that is, well, pretty awesome. Sure, sure, iron distance triathlon. Great. Whatever! I am currently a perfect 5-for-5 in “trashshots” that I have attempted.

The organization that runs ironman has some strict rules about where you can throw things out. You take on a lot of energy and fluids during the day. This produces a lot of garbage. Athletes are penalized for “abandonment”, or throwing away things in non-designated areas in order to keep the course clean. It’s a good rule.

To encourage folks to throw away their refuse within aid station areas the volunteers on the course have set up clearly designed targets for you to aim your throws – or as I am calling them trashshots.

I hit a card board cut out of a bear and a moose. I scored a goal in a hockey net with a half full bottle of water and on the run scored on regular jumpshot in a trash bin AND! -- the money shot for the day – an around the head, hook shot of a water bottle. Dead center.

Again, things were coming up Chapman.

6:15pm – I have moved through town. I don’t feel the worse I have ever felt, but I don’t feel the best, either. However, this is a day for perspective. For 16 miles into the marathon-leg of an iron distance triathlon … I feel pretty great. I finally let myself think about the finish line. Just not too much.

During training, to keep myself from ever thinking about what crossing the finish line might feel like, I would enforce stiff penalties for going there. I have a few tricks for enforcement. One way would be to sprint for the next two minutes, whether on bike, on foot or in the water. I would do this if I had any visions of the finish line. The other way would be to add up all the hours I had left to do train before I would be to race day – which anything more than a week out was near impossible task for a non math savant.

The danger in signing up, training for, or even watching the event on television is that it boils the day down to just a few moments. Yes. Those are special moments and should be remembered; but thinking about them too much has a funny way of tricking your mind into believing there isn’t still very hard work to do. And even here, with much more behind me than in front of me there is very hard work to do, indeed.

But I think of the line if only to calculate what I need to do to finish before sundown. It is the first time I put a concrete time goal into my head. It works out that if I run sub fourteen minute miles from this point forward I can make it. I am confident I can do this with ease, but again have enough respect to know that things could still go wrong.

I am pulling consistent 10 – 11 minute miles. Every time I go below 14 minutes I take the difference and put it in a bank, ready to be spent if needed.

Through to mile nineteen I have about eight minutes to spare to make my new goal. On another day I might have pushed through it. I have felt worse in marathons and certainly pushed through, but I still don’t know the event and how my body will react well enough to take any chances. For the first time I decide to walk and pull everything together. I have family I want to be smiling for in about three miles. That, more than five or ten minutes saved on the day, is my goal.

7:15pm – The home stretch. I have pulled myself off the back road and am making the final ascent into town. I remain steadfast in my commitment to run all hills. I am gaining on town center and see my wife. She is nearly tearful. “Get into that arena.” I bark at her playfully. My wife is routinely late for things. I have learned to abide it as this is not a fault of her character. It is fault of my character that my lack of patience allows me to get so annoyed so quickly. Yet, if she is late in this instance it would probably be a reasonable time to be disappointed with her. I half kid when I say it again.

I am down around the final turn around and I have one mile to go.

I am aware that I have chosen everything on this path, nothing was forced upon me. And yet it took an enormous amount of self sacrifice to make this moment happen. The sun is still out, and I am proud to have beaten it to the finish line. It looks remarkable over mirror lake.

People in town are going bananas. Still. They have been going bananas for 12 plus hours. They will continue to go bananas until the last sorry soul crosses the finish line. In the ten seconds I am in their life I am happy to absorb all the energy they have to give.

I enter the Olympic park and it is useless to fight back some small tears. A competitor has decided it is his time to sprint. We are not close to breaking one of the important hour marks. At all the hour marks, be it 10, 11, 12, 13 there is a crazy roar from the crowd to encourage competitors to make that arbitrary, but mentally important, goal. This is somewhat poor form on his part. But I let it pass. He’s got the legs to sprint. He’s not going to ruin my moment, and I decide to let him have his.

I focus on the finish. I hear Shaun Chapman, from Brooklyn, NY … and I am so overwhelmed I miss the rest. But that’s ok. I don’t need anyone to tell me what I already know.

I am an ironman.

America runs on ...

Until fairly recently I thought the word gregarious meant fat. Actually, I think I associated it with being jolly, but still, the word seemed to have its underpinnings in being large, with a side of affability.

In truth, for those who are not A.J. Jacobs and are not familiar with the etymology of gregarious, the word comes, almost directly, from the latin word gregarius - to flock. I enjoy the following definition from The American Heritage College Dictionary:

gre * gar * i * ous : seeking and enjoying the company of others; sociable

Why, that doesn't mean fat at all!

I suppose my confusion stems from being called this word for a large portion of my life. And, for another large portion, I was simply called: large portion.

Consider this tale of childhood trauma.

It is the end of the summer 1989. A young man, aged 9, and his well intentioned mother enter the temple of fashion J.C. Penny, or Penny's for those in-the-know. This fine stump of a man is confident, and why shouldn't he be? He is now able to consume a Big Mac on his own. He no longer needs the help of his father to tackle the five-scoop sundae, with peanut butter sauce, at Friendly's. This young man has important things on his mind, for this will be the year of long division.

But wait!

Who is that spindly looking fellow lurking in the shadows? Oozing with teenage rage and contempt for all things good, kind and honest. Why, it is a Penny's Associate and he wants to know if he can help. Clever rouse! He merely wishes to rid the world of childhood innocence.

Mother, "Might you have these pants in his size?"

Associate, "In his size? I will have to see if we have any Husky sizes in the back."

Like Adam hiding his nakedness from God in the Garden of Eden, this boy tries to conceal his his love handles, as well as the smushed snickers he probably has in his pocket, and cries, "Nooooooooooooooo ... " Until that cry turns into a faint sob.

Fad to black.

End Scene.

To this day I will not pet any dogs that look like they come from Siberia and refuse to support the University of Connecticut in any way.

I spent a number of years being the family butterball, miserably eating my way to my preteens. I lost most of that weight by swimming in high school, but quit this nasty, naughty habit during my first year of college.

I would like to blame genetics for this childhood obesity. My father sports a belly, my uncle has had a some heart problems, and my paternal grandfather, whom I have never known, died on heart attack number four. I may be genetically prone for portliness, but I should not be genetically prone to ignorance. That I blame on the government.

If you want to feel sorry for that 9 year old porker at Penny's consider this; all of the below are true:

• I can eat a McDonald's Cheeseburger in one bite.


• I hold a record, amongst our friends, for the most ribs eaten at an all you can eat rib house known, affectionately, as the Ribery. (11 meager racks).
  


• I invented a meal at my college called The Coronary - Two Over Easy Eggs, Topped with Cheese on a bed of french fries.


• I have smoked two packs of cigarettes in one day.


• I made a fort out of beer cans in the basement of my house in college.


• I have enjoyed eating at old country buffet.


• Every Wednesday (and I mean every) for a summer I drank, at least, two 40's of Old English, and ate a chicken fried steak, two eggs over easy and a plate of fries. THAT is how you eat fourth meal, my friends.


• I once offered to buy my friends late night snacks at Dunkin' Donuts then proceeded to order one dozen strawberry glazed donuts. When told that my friends may not particularly care for this variety said in my most serious tone, "What do you guys want?"

In the user and abuser culture anyone of these events could be considered "rock bottom". Taken collectively they should be considered crimes against humanity.

I think it is appropriate, then, that last Sunday (October 28th 2007) I set a personal best in the Dunkin' Donuts Marathon. I was two minutes from toppling the house record, which is still held by my nemesis, the champion of sweat (and sweet, coincidentally). I am only running a tortoise like 10 minute mile and in the Clydesdale category. To be considered a Clydesdale you must weight in excess of 190 lbs. But, at least now I have I have to stop and think, "Do I qualify? It's close".

I am no longer the family butterball, but the family workout freak. This is fine by me because I could crush most of those wimps and run away, safely, from the rest. (Oh, except for my Uncle Rick. He's been doing hard farmer's work since he was like, three. There's no way I could beat him in a fair fight or quick sprint. I'd definitely have to cheat.)

But most importantly, strawberry glazed donuts taste so much better 26.2 miles later.

I think.

I couldn't really tell, I sucked them down pretty fast.

The Hunt

Listen Old Running Man from Staten Island. Don't try and resist the unstoppable running force that is, The Chappie. He will conquer you! The Chappie has been training for this moment his whole damn life.

While you are chowing down on Weetabix; I'm training.

Poppin' your FloMax; I'm training.

Watchin' the Matlock. I'm training.

Okay old man, joke is SO over. Don't f with me. Like the cold hands of death I am gaining on you every second.

You remember that day back in 1943, there was that french girl you never had the balls to kiss?

Yeah, buddy, I'm here to tell you the I kissed her! Oh yes, even though she is well over 80 now, I kissed her. Just to make to make you sweat.

Oh, yeah, nice head band. Real nice. Is that to make up for all the sweat that you got pouring down your head as I come closer to my goal: Your destruction, and humiliation?

Are those blue blockers? No? They look like blue blockers to me. I can't tell exactly from back here as I am, currently, behind you.

But not for long Old Man cause I am LOCKED in.

I see you have a little fight left in you Old Man. You been using the extra strength bengay?

How does it feel to be chased down by someone young enough to be younger than your oldest child, but proabably older than your grandchildren, if you have any. Hmmm? How does that feel?

And how does it feel to know that I SUCK at long division Old Man? That's right. Can't do it. Don't know how to change a $20 bill either.

Oh, and in my day we didn't walk ten miles through snow cause we had Snow Days motha fucka. That's right, snow days. You know what I did on my snow days? Train to whoop your ass.

Boy. I really thought I would have caught you by now.

You are not a man, you are like some bionic running zombie. You aren't close to death you are the undead.

You know what? Whatever! I was just, like, pacing myself for a more important race, you know? Don't want some old fart ruining my game.

Oh shit, is that a cramp? I think that's a cramp. Jesus that hurts.

Well, at least my girlfriend whooped your ass. How does it feel to be beat by a little girl pops? Huh?

How ... does ... that feel?