My version of Black Friday

Thanks Alisha. The two hour ride today meant a lot to me.

Only triathlete WAGS will understand how funny this is.

Only a wife or girlfriend of a triathlete will understand the truth of this video.  I'm embarrassed on behalf of all triathletes.  Thanks Rob Stone for sharing it!  And thanks Alisha for (pretending to) listen to all my ridiculous, nonstop triathlon dreck.

Well, that was fun! Now what?

It is that time of year again.  The season is officially over.  The afterglow of my year of hard work is already waning; I get sick to my stomach when the term "race day nutrition" is used; the finisher medals are on their way to becoming either Christmas Tree ornaments or toys in the kids' "dress up bag;" the Halloween candy binge is almost over.  Almost.

I achieved almost all of my goals I set 1 year ago:

1. Finish Ironman Florida in < 12:30.  (Check!  Finished in 11:40.)

2. Finish Half-Ironman in < 5:50.  (Check Twice!  Finished in 5:04 and 5:22.)

3. Finish Olympic Triathlon in < 2:45.  (Check!  Finished in 2:26.)

4. Finish 10K at the end of Olympic Triathlon in < :45.  (Almost -- :45:20 was my best.)

Other personal bests include:

1. Best 1 mi swim in pool (:30:02)

2. Best 2 mi swim in pool (1:02:00)

3. Best 10K run (39:53)

As I begin my offseason every year, I try to put together a race schedule for the following year that will be challenging and one that will match my work/travel/family schedule.  Some years I have branched out into new races; other years I have simply tried to beat previous PRs on the same tracks.  To my running & triathlete friends:  I'm open for suggestions.  New races, new venues, new challenges will be given top priority.

At least one of my favorite races -- Rumpus in Bumpass International -- will not be back this year, or possibly ever.  Because it was usually my first race of the season, my season will necessarily start a few weeks later.  I suppose I am okay with that, because it means fewer runs and rides in the bitter cold.  But it is also very hard to swim on cold mornings, bike on a trainer for hours on end, and run either on a treadmill or in the wind for 5 or 6 months without an opportunity to compete.  The athletic season seems long and complicated until winter hits -- and then you realize just how short and brilliant that summer season was.  My body is looking forward to a less intense November/December, but my addiction to the buzz of competition will certainly give me the "shakes" all winter long.

A week off!

I decided several months ago that I would take at least one week completely off swimming, biking, and running after IM Florida.  Over the last 12 months, I only rarely took more than 24 hours off exercise, and when I did, I anxiously checked my biceps every hour or two, fretting about how much my muscles were shrinking. 

This week, I made good on my promise.  I have rediscovered TV, enjoyed several bacon cheeseburgers and about 5 pounds of Halloween candy, and I only set my morning alarm once all week.  My sister-in-law paid for a massage on Wednesday, the kids have mostly slept through the night, and my body has recovered very quickly.  It has been fabulous!  No anxiety, no regret, just rest. 

People have already asked whether I am planning on doing another Ironman.  I will not even consider that question, one way or another, for at least another week.  I'm grateful for a positive race experience, but I do not take my finish for granted. 

IMFL Official Race Recap

Race Report: 2012 Ironman Florida (Part 3)

The Run.  A Marathon in 4:38:14

I've said it before: vomit is the fourth discipline.  Below is a line chart that tracks my mile pace for the marathon.  You may be asking, "Why does he speed up by 2 or 3 minutes per mile after mile 19?  Shouldn't he be slowing down by then?"  I'm glad you asked.  I've added an icon to show what happened at exactly the mile 19 marker (and a little bit on the 19 marker.  Sorry Ironman folks).

Besides being totally cooked after the bike, I had also collected an incredible amount of air or gas in my chest that made running very difficult.

As I got to the halfway point, I felt awful.  I tried the porta-john, I tried burping, I tried just about everything.  I couldn't get into a normal stride because I had a painful bubble in my chest.  I could have gagged myself, but I didn't want to risk losing all my nutrition and fluids too early in the race. 

Have I mentioned that I have the best wife ever?  Mile 13 was one of the most painful miles of the whole race, but I was so relieved and happy to see Alisha there.  I told her that I was planning on walking the rest of the race.  She was supportive and told me, "Whatever it takes."  I'm sure she thinks this is all a very bad idea, and probably more so when she watches me run like a zombie through the latter miles of the marathon.  But she sent me on my way to finish.

Here is Rob at the halfway point, feeling the pain of the marathon, and receiving similar encouragement from his wife.

I think the typical age-group triathlete knows that if they go too hard, there is a real risk of not finishing the race.  So although I watched my mile average creep up 30 seconds here, 30 seconds there, I decided not to do anything that would jeopardize a finish.  But I tried to run, even though it was a slow run.  At each aid station, about every mile, I had a routine.  Dump a cup of ice into my hat and put it back on my head.  Stick a fresh ice-cold sponge under my collar.  Drink either an Ironman Perform (yuck) or a cup of warm chicken broth (nectar of the triathlon gods), and wash it down with water.  Pour any excess water down my back.  I tried to only walk the length of the aid station before I started running again.

My perspective also changed significantly when I ran past a man who had removed his prosthetic leg to reapply a bandage.  There he was, quietly completing an Ironman with only one working leg.  It is an image I will never forget.  For as much as my thighs hurt, and my gut felt like exploding, I have two legs, two arms, and a healthy heart.  If that man can complete the race without complaining, why can't I?

Finally, when I hit the 3/4 mark of the run, after I purposely guzzled a bunch of coke at an aid station, I approached the mile 19 marker and vomited for 2 minutes.  I've been there before, and the result is always positive.  Within a few seconds, BOOM!  I felt like a new man.  My good friend Aaron Walker had given me a copy of the poem Invictus by William Ernest Henley, which apparently is one of Nelson Mandela's favorites.  I began quietly repeating the final lines of the poem to myself, over and over:  "I am the master of my fate;  I am the captain of my soul."  Whenever I felt like slowing down, I repeated these lines and pushed myself along.  I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.  People around me probably thought I was getting space madness.
 
I rounded the turnaround at a good pace, and decided to finish strong.  I began passing dozens of people who had jogged or walked past me over the last two hours, and I knew I could beat 12 hours at this point.  At mile 22, I came across a guy my age who had just started walking.  I asked him,

"Hey, are you on your way to the finish?" 
"Yes, you?" 
"Yes.  Let's run together.  You aren't allowed to walk anymore until the finish." 

In my marathon days, I always tried to find someone running a similar pace, and teamed up with them to share motivation.  Marcus was from Georgia, had two kids, and was really interesting to talk to.  Whenever I felt like taking a walk, he said, "You wouldn't let me walk, so you don't get to."  And when he wanted to stop at the last water table, I said, "Nope, we're running this one home."  So our impromptu two-man team trotted along to the finish area.  Ironically, I ran my fastest 6.4 mile split (1/4 of the marathon) in the last 6.4 miles.  A negative split at the end of an Ironman is something I'll probably never repeat. 

As we approached the finish, we decided that we wanted to be in our finish photographs alone, so Marcus ran ahead and I high-fived about 100 people in the finish chute before crossing the line.  Here I am, already starting to ham it up with 200 meters to go.  Marcus is next to me.  It felt like we were running the fastest miles of our lives, but we were barely breaking 9:30/mi.

And here I am with Marcus after the finish.  Clearly he's on a better weights plan than I am.

A few tidbits about the run that I found interesting:

1. Running with the Pros.  It is not every day that you get to run with the greats.  Because the run is a two-loop course, when I was halfway through my first loop, the professional women were halfway through their second loop.  So I got to run a few strides next to Yvonne Van Vlerken, Mirinda Carfrae, and Meredith Kessler.  (The men were already running to the finish by the time I started, so I didn't see as many of them.)  This is the equivalent of a pro basketball fan getting to play pick-up ball with Lebron James for a few seconds.  I actually ran next to World Champion Mirinda for about ten steps and blurted out, "You're incredible.  I have a major crush on you."  Obviously, I'm a bit nervous around celebrities.  She laughed and ran by.  (She ran her marathon in 3:03:26.)

2.  Your Best Plans Sometimes Fall Through.    I had accidentally dumped a whole cup of ice water on my right foot, so I could feel the water sloshing around for about 6 or 7 miles.  I had the good sense to change my socks halfway through the run. I had a dry pair of socks in my "Run Special Needs" bag.  To avoid blisters, I put on the new socks.  But I tried multi-tasking -- I put on the new socks while I was sitting on a porta-john to save a few seconds.  As soon as I was done, I stepped out of the john without looking ... and right into a puddle up to my ankle.  So I finished the race with a completely soaked right foot.  I luckily did not get any serious blisters.

3. The Crowds near the Finish.  Within two miles of the start and finish line, various groups and families had set up motivational signs and other creative things to keep us moving.  One group of scantily-clad women and their scantily-clad boyfriends had set up "The Girl Zone," complete with loud music and a disco ball, and where one woman actually hit runners on the behind with her belt.  There was a "Beer Stop" and plenty of other funny signs that made that section really fun.  The runners couldn't help smiling around their loved ones and supporters.

4. The Suffering Away from the Finish.  Outside of that two mile zone, it was really bleak.  You have not seen suffering until you see the last half of an Iron marathon.  Athletes are sprawled out in front yards, lying on a random flatbed trailer, or curled up in a ball crying.  Most are walking or shuffling, completely unaware of how near-death they all look.  Crouched over, arms curled in front of them, looking through other runners to the next aid station.  One time, in the porta-john next to me I could hear a man alternately sobbing and vomiting.  At a couple of aid stations, there were runners who had completely collapsed and would be taken away in an ambulance.  When they say that the last half of the marathon is all mental, it is not just a cliche. 

5.  My Miraculous Knee.  Remember my achy-breaky knee?  I was more worried about this than anything else in the race.  I figured I had about 3 or 4 miles of running before the knee would become unbearably painful.  In fact, the day before the race, Rob and I did a very short practice run, and the knee already felt tender.  So I took two Aleve in the morning and two Aleve at the end of the bike, and waited for the hurt.  And waited.  And waited.  Through the end of the race, my knee never hurt.  It was nothing short of a miracle.  Here it is, just a footnote to my blog entry, and not the big thing that killed my race.  Between the many prayers, the cortisone shot, and the Aleve, something worked, and it likely saved my race.  For that I am very grateful.

6.  My First Trip to the Medical Area.  After you cross the finish line, a personal "finisher" volunteer wraps your arm around him and holds you up, and walks you through the finishing routine.  They get you a shirt, a hat, and a space blanket, then walk you to the photo area.  Then they ask your name, where you are from, and try to figure out whether you are coherent.  He asked whether I needed to go to the medical area.  I was on cloud nine at that point, so I told him I was fine.  When I tried to sit down and eat about 20 minutes later, I started to pass out.  So I had to stagger into the medical area, shivering cold and talking nonsense, where they wrapped me up in a blanket and kept feeding me broth and checking my blood pressure.  I was fine the whole time, though I couldn't feel my hands or my face.  Alisha posted a picture of me on Facebook for the sake of posterity, but I was really okay.  The whole thing is quite embarrassing, but I was definitely one of the luckier people in the medical area.  A woman two chairs away from me was on oxygen, and the guy to the right kept passing out in his chair.  You know, some people collect coins for a hobby.

Alisha and I sat down on the curb and soaked in the finish atmosphere.  It was so inspiring and exciting to watch people come across the finish line, one by one earning the title of Ironman.  The crowd cheered for every single one as if they were the champion.  We were apparently enjoying it so much that we missed Rob coming across the finish line.  But we met up afterward and snapped some victorious photos.  This event was over a year in the making, and it was all worth it.

Race Report: 2012 Ironman Florida (Part 2)

The Bike.  5:27:31.  Avg. pace 20.52 mph.

There were strippers on the beach.  Yes, "strippers" who were there to peel off your wetsuit.  As you exit the water, if you can get your wetsuit down to your waist, you simply lie on your back, and the strippers yank off your wetsuit for you.  It saves about a minute of struggling to get a wet neoprene suit off your legs.

The adrenaline was still high after the swim, so I ran past a dozen people on the way to transition.  A volunteer handed me my bike bag, and I ran into the changing room.  The "changing room" is a hotel ballroom that seemed big the night before.  80 minutes into the race, it was completely full of bodies.  People were frantically getting into their bike clothes, stuffing their pockets with nutrition, and running out the door.  A thousand of them, in a space probably designed for 300.  It was just as chaotic as the swim!  Outside the door, volunteers smeared sunscreen on my arms and neck, and I ran into the bike racks. 

As I have mentioned before on this blog, the bike is by far my strongest discipline.  It's how I salvage a decent time, even with my bad swimming.  And at Ironman I rode the bike like I stole it.  112 miles is a long time to ride, and I tend to get a song or two stuck in my head for the whole ride.  Lucky for me, Too Close by Alex Clare was playing before the race, and it lodged itself into my brain.  You might recognize it from the Internet Explorer commercial.  Fast-forward to 1:15 in the video for the bass riff.  (Ignore the strange characters fighting each other in the music video and imagine flying down the road on The Assassin while this song goes through your head.)




Is it in your head yet?  You're welcome!

The Iron distance is not conducive to running a "perfect" race.  Something is always going to go wrong, and the race is in large part how you deal with that challenge.  If I had to put my finger on the biggest thing that went wrong for me, it was my heart rate monitor.  It didn't work.  I have spent many hours in training, pinponting the sweet spot for my 100-mile heart rate.  My goal was to maintain 125-140 beats per minute.  No more, no less.  Instead, my monitor did not show my heart rate, and I was left guessing.

Because of my competitive nature and my preference for the bike, I tend to go harder than I should (unless I watch my heart rate like a hawk).  Of the 692 people I passed after the swim, 652 of them were during the bike.  I felt like I had wings.  I maintained a solid speed on the flats, and I powered up the few rollers on the course.  I only broke aero position to get water and gatorade at the aid stations.

When I rolled past the halfway marker, I had a bit of a shocker.  My Garmin showed that I had covered 56 miles in 2:35.  My fastest 56 miles EVER was 2:33 at the 2012 Kinetic Half-Ironman.  And I still had another 56 miles to go!  Whoopsie-daisy.  I deliberately tried to slack off on the pace for the remainder, but my bike time was still about 30 minutes faster than it probably should have been, and I paid for it for the first few hours after the bike.

Here is my Garmin data for the ride.  Apparently I burned about 6,500 calories over 5 hours and 28 minutes.  My speed remained relatively constant throughout (the dark blue line), even though I felt like I was easing off the throttle.

The bike course was nowhere near as crazy as the swim, but I must say that triathletes are terrible bike handlers.  At every aid station, I took my life into my hands by rolling close enough to the volunteers to get water and Ironman Perform (super-sweet drink like Gatorade, only very gross), I had to avoid weaving, swerving idiots trying to grab bottles without losing speed.  There were empty bottles, gels, and all sorts of debris on the road.  At the few 180-degree turns on the course, triathletes routinely took an inside bead on the corner and ended up rolling off into the grass.  I wanted to ask, "Is this your first time riding a bike?!" 

One section of road was particularly bumpy for about 8 miles.  You could tell when a big bump was coming because of all the debris strewn across the road.  Bottles, CO2 canisters, even spare tubeless tires.  I considered myself lucky that nothing flew off my bike when I went through that section.

One final comment about the bike.  I had heard from many sources that this race featured a lot of shameless, illegal drafting.  It was even worse than I had imagined.  Whole packs of 20 or 30 riders powered through the ride like a pro peloton.  This is highly illegal in triathlon, but the penalty for drafting is a 4-minute break under the shade of the penalty tent, where you can use the restroom, get more nutrition, and rest for a while.  I think everyone did the math and decided that the 30% reduction in effort was worth the risk of a 4 minute penalty.  I admit that at times it was difficult to avoid getting inside the 30-foot "draft zone" around other riders, but I never deliberately drafted on this course.  And when people snuck up behind, I sat up and shook my head, forcing them to go around me.  It's irritating, but I was only interested in running my own race.  And I passed whole packs of cheaters on the run.

Here I am finishing my ride.

Here is Rob starting and finishing his ride.

Race Report: 2012 Ironman Florida (Part 1)

"Eric Lacey ... You. Are. An. IRONMAN!" 

It was the moment I had thought about every day for the last year, and many times for the last 6 years.  All the workouts, the early mornings, the fatigued muscles -- it all came together in one euphoric moment in Panama City Beach.  People have asked, "Was it fun?"  Fun is a relative term.  I suppose triathlon is fun in its own way, much like making a million dollars or giving birth would be "fun," even if it requires a lot of hard work.  As I was running down the final stretch of road, with people cheering and high-fiving me on both sides, my body completely depleted and every muscle screaming, the endorphin rush was superhuman.  It was absolutely fun for that moment, and it made up for the rest.

Here are the official stats:
140.6mi Total:  11:40:09 (Overall rank 620/3061)
2.4mi Swim:  1:20:39 (1312/3061)
T1:  6:32
112mi Bike:  5:27:31 (660/3061)
T2:  7:13
26.2mi Run:  4:38:14 (620/3061)

Now on to the race report ... And a big thank-you to Alisha for tracking us with her camera all day.

We awoke at 4:30am to drive to the race venue downtown.  Body marking, special needs bag dropoff, and walking to the beach in a wetsuit.  In hindsight, I probably should have stretched.  Every morning and most evenings, I spend 10-20 minutes stretching.  And on the day of the biggest race of my life, I barely stretched at all.  I was also a little more nervous than usual.  Rob and I took a practice swim two days before the race, and the waves really complicated the entry and exit.  Once you see 3,000 people lined up on the beach, and realize that you are all swimming to the same buoy, you know that you are about to get the snot beat out of you.  And I did!

The Swim.  Split 1 - 37:48, Split 2 - 42:51, Total 1:20:59

The swim of Ironman Florida is well known for its difficulty.  It is a "mass start" in open water, which means everyone jumps into the water at the same time.  It also requires entry and exit twice, which can be challenging when the waves are high.  True to form, I started "in the back."  Unfortunately, everyone had the same idea.  As I waded into the water and tried to pick which wave I would dive into, I suddenly ran into a wall of wetsuits that weren't going anywhere.  People were in no rush to dive in, and probably for good reason -- When you are swimming for an hour or 90 minutes, there is no need to hit the throttle too early.

When I finally dove in, I immediately entered the washing machine.  Arms, bodies, elbows, legs, more legs.  I tried to get into my breathing rhythm as soon as possible, but every other stroke was interrupted by a variety of body parts swinging in my direction.  The swimmer in front of me stopped to get his head up (to sight or try to breathe).  I ran into him, someone ran into me, and more people ran into all of us.  Another phenomenon that I had not experienced before:  Being a part of somebody's stroke.  Swimmers regularly swept their arms forward, and finding a body in the way, they simply continued the stroke, pushing down on my back, and propelling themselves forward (and propelling me under the water).  I was only completely swum over twice, but I missed quite a few breaths simply because another swimmer had a hand on my back.  Fear not:  I returned the favor many times -- not because I meant to, but because there was often nowhere else for my hands to go.

Did I mention the waves?

I received my share of direct body blows.  One kick to my jaw made my teeth crack together so hard I thought I would break a few of them off.  I'm glad I didn't bite my tongue.  A kick to my chest took the wind out of me for a second.  And I received a direct hit in the right goggle that somehow made the goggle pop into my eye socket for a second.  When I popped it off my eye, it made a loud pop.  I'm surprised it wasn't black the next day (though it is still sore today).

Because the current pulled everyone left, people spread out very wide at the start, aiming to let the current pull them to the first buoy.  But that meant that instead of the crowd thinning out a half mile into the race, the crowd actually intensified at the first turn.

It was by far the most challenging swim I have endured, but through it all, I was much more calm than in previous triathlons.  There were several reasons for this.  First, I have repeatedly told myself that nobody intends to run into me, just as I don't intend to run into them.  I have a terrible habit of taking it very personally when somebody kicks me in the mouth.  Wouldn't you?  But in open water, you just have to let it go.  Second, my mother-in-law posted the lyrics to "Jesus Savior Pilot Me" on this blog a few days before the race.  I sang the lyrics in my head, and stayed calm through the swim.  And third, as a veteran of several events now, I realized that as crazy as the swim is, it is the shortest and least painful of the three disciplines, and I did my best to enjoy the opportunity to swim in the Gulf.

Here is Rob after the first loop.  He's the guy in the sleeveless suit & green cap.

After one loop, I came out of the water and ran up the beach.  Volunteers pour gallon jugs of fresh water into your mouth and hand you cups of water.  I took two and guzzled them, then ran back into the water.  On the second loop, I had a hard time getting to the right of the buoys.  The current pulled me to the left, and every time I tried to move outside the buoy, there were too many bodies there.  The good news is that you can swim inside the buoys all the way until the "turn buoy," at which point you have to swim on the outside.  The bad news is that when I tried to go around the turn buoy, someone ran into me and I smacked the buoy with my head.  The worse news is that my leg got tangled in the rope holding the buoy in place.  Yes, there was a moment of panic and a little more salt water drinking than usual, but I rolled over and freed myself before I freaked out. 

My calmness paid off in my speed.  I had a very fast swim -- a full 15 minutes faster than I had projected, and I felt strong throughout.  Coach Kim of Team Z also gets a bunch of credit for helping me straighten out my stroke a month before the race.  When I ran up the beach and looked at my watch, I knew it was going to be a good race day.

Here I am yelling, "Hey Alisha!  Hey Alisha!"  I survived!

Inside 24 Hours

Well, here we are.  Less than 24 hours until the start cannon.  A year ago, I was sitting by my computer, hitting the "Refresh" button every 15 seconds, waiting for the Ironman Florida registration to open.  (I registered in 4.04 seconds, and they tell me that the race sold out in something like 16 minutes.)  I put together a 52-week training program, and began the sacrifices.  A LOT of sacrifices.  Most of my training has taken place in the dark, hours before most people wake up.  After a long ride, I have to either go to work, or on the weekends, work on the shed for a few hours.  After morning swims, while I'm still blowing chlorine out of my nose, I'm sitting at my desk, making a living.  A good share of my "spare thoughts" have been dedicated to the details of the race:  How many calories? What exercises? Do I replace the shoes now? Do I wear the clear or shaded goggles?  To say that I've been obsessed with the race is an understatement.  I vaguely remember TV, but it's been so long, I wouldn't know what it looks like.

My family has also sacrificed.  A LOT.  Not every workout takes place during the wee morning hours.  It's hard to fit in a 5 or 6 hour bike ride without cutting into family time.  My wife has listened to my endless comments and self-absorbed concerns about the race for a full year.  At least 50% of my communication with her over the last 52 weeks has had something to do with this race.  Details about workouts, aches and pains, gear, swim technique, you get the drift.

Through it all, she has been so supportive.  I couldn't have gotten here without her support and her understanding.  I will owe her probably for the rest of my life for her patience.

Now back to the self-obsessed triathlon drivel ...

Here is the Assassin in the bike transition area.  Unlike regular triathlons, where you set up a towel and lay out all your gear, here they hand you a bag with all your bike gear in it, then send you to the "changing area."  When you come out, you run into this corral and get your steed.

Here are the various gear bags.  One each for T1 and T2, and two "special needs" bags.

You know you are an old man when your "Run Special Needs" bag contains hospital-dose Aleve, band-aids for the nipples, extra vaseline, and Preparation H wipes.  I have no shame.

And don't ask me how I fit 10 gels on my aero bars.  It's a regular breakfast buffet with a range of artificial flavors!

To have your name on your transition spot makes you feel like a professional.  That's like flying first class, except it's BYOB.

Two dudes ready to bring the hurt.

Welcome to Planet Ironman

Welcome to Planet Ironman ...

Where body fat is illegal.  This is the registration tent.  I usually get a little intimidated by the muscle-bound titans who show up at half-Iron events.  Planet Ironman is a whole other level.  We went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things.  Normally, Wal-Mart is the best place to get a snapshot of the people who inhabit the city.  But we saw a bunch of skinny folks from all over the country, buying frozen pastas, chocolate milk, and band-aids.  One guy was already wearing his timing chip on his ankle.  (In case the race got moved up?)

Where if you don't have a $12,000 aero bike, stay off the main drag.  There is a nice piece of road between our hotel and the official hotel -- about 8 miles of smooth road with a bike path in parts.  There is a constant parade of high-end tri bikes rolling in both directions.  It's like rolling thunder, without the noise.  Or the mustaches. 

Where the Gods of Ironman rub shoulders with the mere mortals.  It's not every day that Miranda Carfrae (world champion 2011, second from right) strolls into town and takes photos with age-group triathletes.

So far, I've enjoyed the Iron experience.  I enjoyed Chesapeake Man in 2006, but this race feels glossy and professional, like a Maserati filled with Mad Men characters.  It has been nice to soak it in, and to enjoy the event.

Oh yeah, I suppose there is a race in 2 days also.

Taking a salty sip before the big drink

We're inside 48 hours now until start time.  Rob and I got up early today and went to the race site to test out the salty waters of the Gulf.  I was a bit nervous about the waves crashing in, and rightfully so.  The first 100 meters can be a bit sketchy.  I got a few mouthfulls (and nosefulls) of salty water right at the beginning.  After that, though, it got a little easier to get into a rhythm.  The water is about 70 degrees, which is not much cooler than the swimming pool. 

But did I mention that the Gulf is salty?  It has waves, too.  I've played around with waves before, but I've never tried to swim right into them.  I did my best surfer impersonation and tried to duck under the break.  A couple of waves about knocked my goggles off my face.  And it only takes one mouthful of that salty water to ruin your day.  Coming back to the beach, when you get behind a big wave, you can't even see the tall buildings on the shore.  I literally thought I had turned around and was swimming the wrong way.  I suspect sighting will be very difficult on race day.

On the bright side, just getting out and swimming in the Gulf did a lot for my confidence.  I took some time to just bob up and down with the waves and get a feel for the rhythm.  If there weren't 3,000 other people swimming with us on race day, it might be a fun swim.

We snapped a few photos for posterity's sake.  Ignore the fact that we're both wearing women's flip-flops.  Iron Men are sensitive like that.

Friday morning roll with a smile. Ignore the rain.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I actually enjoy running, biking, and swimming.  Training for a big event seems to suck all the enjoyment out of these activities.  All the focus on heart rate, nutrition, recovery, speed, limiting risk, peaking and tapering can make everything too clinical. 

Friday morning, the road was soaked from rain the night before.  As is customary for the days when I plan on riding 100 miles or more, mother nature does her best to sabotage those plans.  (See, e.g., derecho, merciless downpour, and a freezing cold ride in the rain that I had to cut short because I could no longer feel my hands.)  Since it takes me hours to clean up my tri bike after a rainy ride, and since the tri bike is 15 times more dangerous on wet roads, I decided to take the MacAttac instead.  I maintained a moderate pace, but I took the time to enjoy the time on the trail.  I really am lucky to be able to ride a bike and enjoy nature on these rides.

This is actually a photo from a 50-miler a few weeks ago, when the weather was much nicer for a ride.  But my smile on Friday was just as wide.

The ride was not without its challenges.  I came screaming across an intersection just before a light changed, and when I hit the trail on the other side, my front tire went flat ... quickly.  Not only was the tube flat, but my tire had a gaping hole in it.

Here's a tip from my days as a mountain biker.  When your tire looks like this:

Take a dollar bill, fold it up, and put it on the inside of your tire (between the tube and the tire).  It will keep your innertube from bulging out of a hole like this, and it will keep road debris from entering the hole and popping the tube.  Believe me, it works.  (I rode the last 17 miles of my ride with Abe Lincoln staring through this hole.) 

After fixing the flat, I ran out of calories and nearly wrecked on an uneven section of pavement in a dark tunnel.  And my road bike picked up a pound of road sludge that may never come off.  But on a ride like this, nothing could get me down.  I committed myself to enjoying more rides just like this one.

Knee Doping

I have denied it for a full 24 hours, but it's time that I come straight with my readership ...

I'm a knee doper.

Yes, it's true.  On Tuesday, I received a cortisone injection in my left knee to get ahead of my pes tendinitis.  I suppose all my victories going forward will be noted with an asterisk because my knee has received a performance-enhancing substance.

You didn't really think that natural knees could be so fantastically endowed, did you?

In truth, I have struggled for the last few weeks with tendinitis in my left knee.  This injury is different from stress fractures or more abrupt injuries, because it comes and goes like a cat through an open door.  No rhyme or reason -- sometimes it's there, sometimes it isn't.  I had figured out that with Aleve in my system, I could run 6-10 miles with pain at about 3/10 (a 10 meaning so painful I can't walk).  The problem is that I'm not running a 6-10 mile race.  Anything that hurts 3/10 after 10 miles will hurt 13/10 by mile 26.  The doctor offered a cortisone shot, and everyone I spoke with seemed to agree that this would be an instant fix for the discomfort.

Well, apparently not an "instant" fix.  Nobody mentioned that it would actually be 10 times more painful for the first 24 hours, until my doctor mentioned it (after giving me the shot).  I was also not prepared for the shot itself.  I don't usually flinch when I get a flu shot or even a tetanus shot.  How bad could a shot into your knee be, really?  After the doctor looked at the knee with the ultrasound, he prepared the syringe and started talking to me.

"So how many kids do you have?"

"Well, I have a 5 year old daughter and a 2- SONOVA!!!" [yanking my knee away instinctively]

Apparently that part of your knee is not as conducive to needles as the fleshy part of your arm.  It was 4 pricks of a very uncomfortable needle.  It felt like the shot went into my knee bone, or whatever that is.  But then, voila! My knee almost immediately began to feel better.  I thought, "Wow, why didn't I do this a few weeks ago?"  So I asked the doctor, "So now what?  Do I just go on with my training?" 

His response: "Oh, well, it'll be fine until the numbing agent wears off, but for the next 24 hours, it's going to hurt like SH#T.  Don't worry.  It'll get better each day."

What the what?  This wasn't supposed to hurt.  It was supposed to fix the knee.  For the next 6 hours, my knee DID feel better.  I thought, "Maybe I'm a part of the population that is uniquely suited to receive cortisone injections without the side-effects."  Maybe riding my bike is actually good for it.  Halfway into my bike ride home, I learned otherwise.  The pain and stiffness hit me like a swift kick to the ... err, knee.  It was all I could do to finish pedaling home.  Last night, it was so painful, I couldn't even sleep for much of the night.  (And when I did fall asleep, on my back with my leg propped up just so, I snored so loudly that Alisha snuck away and slept on the couch.  I've said it before ... I have the best wife!)  My doctor had very accurately described the pain in one word.  I suppose that's why they go to medical school.

It has now been 24 hours.  Is it better than last night?  Yes.  Is it less painful than before the shot?  No way.  If this thing works, it could be what saved my Ironman.  If it doesn't, then I'll feel like an idiot for subjecting myself to a shot in my knee.  (And the dubious title of being a knee doper.)

Time to Panic. (Almost.)

I've run a lot of races in the last 15 years.  Almost without exception, in the days or weeks prior to a big event, something goes terribly wrong with my body.  A new sore joint, nagging pain, freak accident -- you get the jist.  I don't think it is a psychosomatic response or an excuse to sit out the event.  I have run plenty of races with minor aches and pains.  It actually takes something rather significant to derail me (like a stress fracture in my tibia in 2009 a week before a marathon).

About 10 days ago I ran 18 miles around Burke Lake.  I knew I would be sore afterwards, but a new soreness crept into my left knee that I haven't felt for a few years.  About 3 years ago, when I was training for the Marine Corps Marathon, after an 18-mile training run (apparently my unlucky number), I had a very sharp pain in the same part of my knee.  That injury ended my hopes for the marathon, and I took two months off running before ramping up again. 

That pain is back.  The difference this time is that I've worked too hard to not race Ironman.  I have continued to run since the Burke Lake run, though at shorter distances and at a much slower pace.  The knee pain is still there, nagging with every stride.  This morning I went to a knee specialist to make sure I wasn't risking permanent damage to the knee, and he diagnosed me with Pes Anserinus Tendinitis.

Here is an image of the "pes tendon."  It passes over a bursa sac that can get inflamed as a result of impact, inflexibility, and ... wait for it ... wait for it ... OVERUSE.  (Saw that coming, didn't you?)

The bad news:  This takes a long time to completely heal.  6 weeks or more.  And IM Florida is in 3.5 weeks.

The good news:  With enough painkillers or a cortisone shot, I can continue to train for, and race in Florida, and the risk of long-term damage is pretty low. (Yay! Running in pain!)

For now, the Doctor gave me Aleve to bring down the swelling.  If it still hurts by next Monday, it's time to panic, and he promised me a corisone shot. 

This latest development is frustrating, to say the least.  It's not easy waking up early every morning and training for 11 solid months for Ironman.  Every swim in the cold pool, every bike ride in the dark, every energy-sapping run, time spent away from my family, time spent not sleeping when I'm clearly exhausted -- I tell myself that the payoff will be worth it.  At this point, the payoff is less certain than it was a couple of weeks ago.

I should have stolen this sign

Home of the MacAttac!

Well, this is interesting (to me).

I met with a swim coach on Monday to get a stroke analysis.  Yes, it's about 10 months too late for that, but my goal is to get some objective feedback on my freestyle and to correct one or two habits that are slowing me down the most.

The coolest part of the stroke analysis is getting yourself filmed.  I have never actually seen what I look like when I swim, and while I think I've corrected some bad habits, it's hard to tell without seeing yourself.

Right away, the swim coach pointed out 3 major issues with my freestyle:
1. Underwater pull
2. Entry
3. Recovery

In case you're keeping track, that's basically every part of swinging your arms.  I suppose that means I have a lot to work on. 

If you want to offer your own critique, here are the videos:

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/remscoq9m5cheil/Wh2PM5VHRh

It's clear from the videos that I have NOT corrected some of my bad habits!  Time to get back in the pool to work on it ...

One Month To Go

Saturday I ran around Burke Lake 4 times.  (18 miles as the Garmin flies.)  It took me 2 hours and 38 minutes.  It was probably a mistake to run the last 2 miles, but when you feel good, you have to get in the miles.  And the obsessive-compulsive part of me couldn't simply turn around in the middle -- I had to run the final fourth loop, even though my left knee registered a new protest.

Every once in a while I have the fantasy that I can focus on running for a year and qualify for the Boston Marathon.  But every time, and I mean EVERY time I run past about 16 miles, I remember why I hate training for Marathons so much.  Running is fun and exciting and free for about 10 miles.  Anything after that is a war of attrition.

And speaking of miles, I just completed my 11th month of training for IM Florida.

September was supposed to be my "peak" month.  And while I didn't hit my highest totals in any single category, I hit my longest distances, highest total hours, and actually felt very good through it all.  I have been very lucky so far with injuries and motivation.

My yearly totals for swimming and running are the highest ever for me (and biking is probably a close second).

Swim: 126.94 mi
Bike: 3293.10 mi
Run: 680.28 mi

Am I ready for this race?  Not really.  Am I ready to be done with this training schedule? Absolutely.

Why do I do this?

Why do I look up photos of the swim start at IM Florida?  I was just starting to sleep through the night again.  And then these beauties found their way into my google search.

I think I'll start putting myself in the washing machine as part of my training.  One or two spin cycles per day.  Or feel free to just elbow me right in the nose whenever you see me.  Time to start getting used to it.

For Your Reading Pleasure ...

It's here!  The Athlete Guide for IM Florida.

Inside, you'll find gems like Running Rule #1:

So if you find yourself crawling the final 26.2 miles to the finish, please relax!  You aren't violating the official rules.  But if you decide to Moon Walk, brace yourself for a penalty.