Georgetown, DC

I've worked in Georgetown for the past 7 1/2 years. Although it's a mile from the nearest Metro station, and the restaurants are expensive, it's a great place to work. And it's an even better place to run. The C&O Canal Towpath and Capital Crescent Trail run through the middle of Georgetown, and both trails are gorgeous. It is amazing to me that I can run 15 minutes and feel like I've completely left the city behind.

Friday January 27th it was 62 degrees in the early afternoon. I was ethically obligated to run. I never know how many days, months, or years I will be able to run. I hope it's a very long time. But I am grateful on every run that God gave me two eyes to see beautiful things, and two legs to carry me there.

Key Bridge and Georgetown Waterfront.

Capital Crescent Trail (Potomac on the right)

Races in Retrospect: Rumpus in Bumpass 2011

I just signed up for the Rumpus in Bumpass 2012, so I thought it fitting to give a brief race report from last year's Olympic-Distance Tri.  And since I vowed at the end of last year's race that I would never, ever, ever sign up for another April race again, I'm still trying to sort out why I pulled the trigger again this year.

I always thought Bumpass Virginia had an unfortunate name, but it makes for a cool event name.  It's right up there with the Horse Butte Wind Project in Idaho.  (You clicked on the link, didn't you!)  If they ever hold a triathlon at Horse Butte, please sign me up!  Normally triathlons in Virginia don't begin until later in the year when the water temperature is higher, but thanks to the cooling needs of the two Lake Anna Nuclear Reactors nearby, the water is always "a little bit warmer" than usual.  Don't worry Mom. I wear an aluminum foil hat underneath my swim cap.

That said, "a little bit warmer" can still be in the 52-60 degree range.  This is not bad for the wetsuit-covered portion of your body, but there's very little you can do to prepare your face for that sort of shock.  Here's the only training exercise I have found that helps prepare you, and it's one you can do in your own home:

1. Fill up a large mixing bowl halfway with ice, then fill it the rest of the way with cold tap water.
2. Walk away for 15 minutes.
3. Return to aforementioned bowl, then quickly plunge your face in and out of the water about 3,000 times.  Feel free to sob in between the first 20 or 30 plunges.  It has a soothing effect.

On this particular morning in 2011, I took advantage of the 10am start time, and drove to Bumpass the morning of the race.  It's a nice luxury to sleep in your own warm bed the night before the race.  However, the whole trip down, it rained. and rained. and rained.  And the temperature gauge on the Prius dropped. and dropped. and dropped.  An hour before the start, I was curled up in my car with the heater on full blast, looking out the windows at the other hardcore triathletes who were also neatly tucked into their running cars.  It was pouring, and it was still below 40 degrees.  About 10 minutes before race time, there was literally a mass start that began in the parking lot and simply continued into the water.  I've never seen anything like it.

Some days are made for personal records.  This was not one of those days.  I decided shortly before the start that I would chalk up this triathlon to a training experience, and not worry so much about the speed or the transitions. 

The first three photos should be labeled, "The Three Phases Of Misery."

Yep, the swim was just as miserable as I expected.  Because I wasn't aiming for a PR, I took my time in the transition area.  Arm-warmers?  gloves? coat? hat?  Yes, yes, yes, and yes.  Transition 1 took about 4 minutes, which is an eternity in olympic-distance races.

And the bike?  Even more miserable.  If only I could have worn that wetsuit, I might have enjoyed the rainy ride more.  That said, I have a good deal of experience in riding in adverse conditions, and I had the presence of mind to lower my tire air pressure to 90psi just before the race.  That probably slowed me a few seconds, but it helped me avoid a nasty wipeout.  I had to resist the urge to holler "90psi!!" to the carnage I saw at every corner.

On the run, I gave up on staving off hypothermia and faced it head-on.  No more arm warmers or coat.  Besides, how would I get a flex photo if I'm wearing a coat?

Because I had not been pushing myself 100%, the run was relatively pleasant.  My legs were fresh, I had plenty of energy, and in a momentary break in the clouds, I really enjoyed myself.  The only challenge was the "trail run" section -- usually a highlight of this triathlon, but on this day a soupy mess that devoured a small army of triathletes.

In the end, I didn't set any new records, but the experience was exactly what I had expected -- a training opportunity under adverse conditions.  I will just pray for moderately warmer temperatures in 2012!

Need a Little Motivation?

Here is the official highlight reel from Ironman Florida 2011.  If you watch this video and are not inspired, then you, my friend, are too heavily medicated.

If I Had 500 Dollars ...

If I had a spare 500 dollars, you would think that I would get my rusty Prius's hood repainted, wouldn't you?

You'd be wrong.  I would spend $500 getting my bike professionally fitted. And that's just what I did!

What is a bike fitting, and why is it worth every penny of $500?  I'm glad you asked.  Some years ago Dr. Andy Pruitt began standardizing some of the ideal measurements and angles for a rider's optimal position on a bike.  His work is now part of the Specialized BG Fit system.  My old Schwinn Stingray with a banana seat had one position -- seat low & ape bars as high as they go.  A good road or tri bike these days has a lot more variables -- stem length & angle, seatpost length and position, handlebar width, crank arm length, footbed, cleat position, and for tri bikes, armrest position, aerobar length, angle, and position, and so on. 

Here is a clandestine photograph that I snapped with my Iphone of the fitting and the professional fitter (Clovis Anderson at Freshbikes Arlington).  This place is equal parts Dr. Frankenstein's office, snobby bike shop, SEAL command center, and espresso shop.

Clovis (a former professional racer and Dr. Pruitt-trained BG Bike Fitter) places your bike on a trainer where two cameras (one front and one side) record your movement on the bike.  A big TV screen in front of the bike shows you the front and side view of yourself riding.  (Who knew my gut hangs so low when I ride?  That knowledge was worth at least $5 of the $500.)  Clovis takes a bunch of measurements, including flexibility, leg & arm length, leg angles, and so on, then starts making adjustments to your bike.  Once the adjustments are made, the cameras record you in your new position, and you analyze old vs. new on the TV screen.  When you get everything dialed in correctly, and after a few follow-up visits, Clovis emails you the videos and measurements for future reference.

Here are some of the details of the report that Clovis generated:

To be clear, a road bike fitting only costs $150, and a tri bike fitting costs $200.  But in my case, a number of adjustments were necessary:  shorter, less angled stem ($65) + footbed with longer arch ($60) + longer crankarms ($175) = $500.  I would hate to advertise a $150-200 fitting to my millions and millions of blog readers without disclosing the likely cost of necessary upgrades.

I can hear it already.  "Bike fittings are for the free-trade mocha-latte swillers who ride Pinarellos and belong to yacht clubs."  Yes, that's 99% true.  But on behalf of the 1%, I must admit that since my fitting, my rides on the tri bike have improved in 1) power generation, 2) back condition, and 3) speed.  These are not minor factors in long-distance triathlons. 

So the Prius hood (and my yacht club membership) will have to wait another year.

Transition Area Number One

This is how far out of hand my obsession has become.  No, this is not an episode of "Hoarders."  This is my car parked at the office this morning.  The Ghetto Prius is literally my transition area much of the time.  Note that my tri bike is disassembled in the back seat for a lunchtime ride.  I would put the bike on the nice bike rack on our Escape, but that vehicle was overrun with carseats 4.5 years ago.  So two old towels stretched across the back seat will have to do.  Note also the virtual "drying rack" I've created to hang the paraphernalia from this morning's swim.  Towel between the front seats, goggles, cap, and shorts hung on the rear view mirror.  I've cracked all 4 windows in hopes that the interior of the car won't smell like swimming pool tonight.  Let's be honest -- It won't help.

I've learned a few things as a middle-aged weekend warrior.  For example, trying to squeeze in weekday workouts, especially multiple workouts in a day, requires lots of gear.  Every time I leave the house in the morning, I feel like an old swayback pack animal lugging more bags than I should.  Today I have a bag of bike clothes & gear, another bag of swimming gear & toiletries, my briefcase for work, two cases of muscle milk, gatorade, recovery drink, and a Diet Coke for good measure.  I will likely change in the car at lunch today for my ride, then change back again to go back to work. 

You're probably wondering, "Don't all the other attorneys at that fancy DC law firm mock him for his ratty car?"  Yes.  Mercilessly.  Like most garages in DC, our building's garage has a number of very fine cars that are driven by very fine people.  It is not a stretch to say that my car is in the bottom 1% of that "very fine" population.  So why not go all the way and hang a wet towel between the seats? 

Races In Retrospect: ChesapeakeMan 2006 (Part II of II)

Longest Ride of my Life

I shook off the dizziness that comes from a couple of hours in the water, and I got on "The Rocket."  Each of my bikes has typically had a sweet name.  The Cannondale Ironman 2000 was one of my favorite bikes I've owned, but looking at the photos now, I definitely should have sought a professional opinion on the fit.  My body was stretched into a funny angle, which would not have been a problem for most rides, but a 6.5 hour long ride brings out the worst in everything and everyone.

My strength in 2006 is still my strength today -- I'm a solid biker.  And I had trained harder for the bike than the other two disciplines (likely because it's the most fun training of the three).  I had completed 5 century rides over the last 9 months.  Although it was windy and I started way at the back of the pack, I started reeling in other bikers one by one.  This is a pattern I've continued in the years since -- swallow my pride during the swim as people swim over the top of me, then inflate my ego while I pass them on the bike portion.

So what went wrong during the 112 miles on the road?  In my (very) limited research on ironman training, I had read that cadence should be somewhere in the 90-95 rpm range at low resistance.  This may have been a good strategy for a hilly course, but this course was totally flat.  The result of spinning so fast was that my knees got inflamed and my IT bands got incredibly painful around mile 100.  I had never gone more than 100 miles in training, but I had assumed that the extra 12 miles would be a snap.  At about mile 100, my left knee in particular was so painful, I got off my bike at a porta-john and had a mini-breakdown. 

When Things Look Bad
I recently read an interview with a pro triathlete who said that in extreme-distance events, there will be times when you feel extreme euphoria, and other times when you feel like you may never walk again.  The important thing is to remember that both of these times will eventually pass, and you'll get back to normal racing again.  At mile 100, I definitely felt like I would never walk again.  The next 12 miles, I blew what would have otherwise been a respectable bike split.  With the wind at my back, I pedaled the minimum possible to get me home.  Each pedal stroke brought more pain from my left knee.

As I rolled  (and I mean rolled) into the bike finish I couldn't hold it back anymore.  I sobbed uncontrollably in front of everyone, including Alisha.  In fact, I think that's the first time she had ever seen me cry.  I wasn't crying just because of the pain -- I was crying because even though I was not as prepared or as experienced as I should have been, I had nonetheless worked very hard for a solid 9 months.  The bad night's sleep, the early morning Seminary, the jellyfish stings -- everything seemed to have gone wrong.  Alisha and I hugged, and I told her I was done for the day.  A volunteer handed me my "run" bag, and I decided I would change out of my bike clothes while Alisha looked for a doctor. 

Why I Love Triathletes
In the changing tent, I wasn't the only one in bad shape, but I was the only one quitting.  I sat down to change my shoes, and another competitor said, "You can't just give up.  None of us feel great.  At least start walking."  He handed me 4 ibuprofen and told me to "drink lots of water or you'll ruin your kidneys."  When I came out of the tent, I told Alisha I was going to try.  In a momentary lapse of her cheerleading, she said, "You don't have to do this!  Stop now!"  (For the record, this is the only time she has ever tried to talk me out of a race.)  I still could not bend my left knee, but I started hobbling away from the transition area. 

At about 100 meters, I couldn't stand the pain.  I started sobbing again and turned around.  Almost immediately, another competitor grabbed me by the shoulders and physically turned me around.  "Come on, keep going."  This is why I love triathletes -- they are as competitive as any other athletes, but they will not hesitate to help a struggling competitor.  It happens every race, and I have tried to return the favor anytime I get the chance.  I made it to the aid station at mile marker 1, and again started to turn around.  Yet another competitor said, "Don't quit -- just keep going."  So I did.

Pick the Next Object ... and Run to It.
When did I first get interested in Ironman?  In eighth grade, a guest speaker came to speak to us.  He was one of the early Ironman triathletes -- I unfortunately can't recall his name -- and he gave a slide presentation on his experience at Kona.  His description of the race was heroic and sowed the seeds of my future obsession with multisport.  But the part of his presentation that I recall most clearly is that of the run. 
He explained that when he thought he could go no further, he picked one object -- a telephone pole -- and told himself that he could run to that pole, and that he would be all done.  Before he got to that object, he picked another object and set the same goal.  In doing this, he made his way to a 5th place finish at Kona.  I certainly wasn't in the running for 5th place, but I was running out of time.  In iron-distance events, if you do not complete the race in 17 hours (basically by midnight), they pull you off the course.  I did the calculation, and if I walked, I would run out of time several miles before the finish.  At this point, I was committed to finish, and I didn't want to come up short.  So I picked a telephone pole and started running toward it.  Then I picked another, and another, and another.  I did this for almost 17 miles, largely propped up on an unhealthy dose of ibuprofen.  The only interruption was a big vomit, right in front of an aid station.  (This has also become a tradition in long-distance triathlons.)

It was pitch black outside, but I had bought myself enough time, I could walk the last 6 or 7 miles.  For the record, THIS TAKES FOREVER!  I don't recommend it unless you are on the verge of dying (as I felt I was).  I've been very fortunate in my life not to have any major accidents or injuries.  But during the last few miles of ChesapeakeMan, I could have died and it just wouldn't have surprised me.  I could barely move my legs, I was bleeding in a variety of places, and I was completely out of energy.  The "sag wagon" -- actually an ambulance -- kept creeping up behind me like a vulture, just waiting for me to take a fatal stumble.  He even flashed his lights periodically, as if to say, "Just give up. You're done."  But I kept waving him off.  At the aid stations, I could hear the staff running through the small handful of competitors still on the course.  "Yeah, number 108 is still out here..." 

The Finish
At the final mile marker, Alisha met me, and we enjoyed a cup of chicken noodle soup.  The two of us walked together for the last mile -- a special bit of support that I really needed.  As we got near the finish line, I picked it up to the "ironman shuffle" (a walk that is designed to look like running).  Although it was close to 11pm, and the finish area was almost completely empty, the music was blasting and the announcer still called out my name.  "Eric Lacey from Oakton Virginia!"  They placed a big heavy medal around my neck, and all the pain and fatigue went away.

That's an iron smile!

Swimming the Distance

My work on swimming form over the last two months is starting to pay off. This morning I swam the full 2.4mi in 1:29:30. Yes, I will still likely be in the bottom quarter, but that's a 43-minute improvement over my 2006 time. 43 minutes!! Those hundreds of miserable, boring laps in the early morning hours are apparently just the right remedy.