Fading Numbers

It’s been at least several weeks since my last post, which happened to have coincided with the end to my rookie triathlon season.  I guess a great sign that you’re addicted to the sport is the immense depression that accompanies the start of the “off season”.  It was a whirlwind ride to get from point-A to point-B (a sorta couch potato to quarter-ironman in a single season).  I certainly could not have anticipated this dramatic letdown effect that I’ve been forced to face.  With that though, I’m still clinging to one last race, The Seacoast Half Marathon next week (11/14/2010).  Yeah I know, it’s not a “tri”, but it’s my “A” race from a running standpoint.

Reading others’ blogs I have found that I thoroughly enjoy their “race reports”, a written review of how a race went, including preparation (down to how many grams of Vaseline they applied to their toe blisters), nutrition (“I changed the brand of oatmeal I ate in order to gain a competitive edge.”), port-o-potty maps and schedules, in case you still haven’t been able to figure out how to pee in your wetsuit and swim at the same time (I tried.  I couldn’t), descriptions of that sound of a disc wheel blowing by you at 28mph, uphill, by the cyclist wearing the $499 aerodynamic helmet and who’s bike paint and clothing kit match perfectly (yes, I’m jealous), and conversations some runners had with a competitor while sprinting the last quarter-mile to the finish (“I’ve been holding back the whole race.  Are you ready to get your ass handed to you?”).  Seriously though, I learn a great deal from these reports.  I’ve been too caught up in my “Me vs. Me” attitude this season that I think I missed a lot of that sort of thing out on the courses.  Don’t get me wrong, I still pay attention to how I finish within my age-group, after all, I’m a male, so I still have a competitive “spirit” about me.  Whenever a guy passes me I’m looking at their calf for their age.  I want to know where I stand.  I want to get better with each race, each season, and in each sport.  And in essence, as long as I keep beating myself and improving my times, it only stands to reason that I will surpass those who are remaining content in their accomplishments and stagnant in their training.

I’ve decided to do a series of retrospective race reports to reflect upon my first triathlon season. It will include some of the ups, downs, weird moments, inspirational flashes, and other observations along the way, including the rookie mistakes that I made.

I wish I could tell you that I had a plan in preparing for my first season.  Everyone else did (or seemed to).  It’s all I kept reading about, hearing about, and being implored to create.  Well, I didn’t.  What I mean by that is that I didn’t have the next 7 months of my life mapped out on a calendar, with each meter swam, pedal stroke spun, fingertip drill completed, and fartlek run fulfilled.  I was merely trying to be a sponge, enjoy the sport, learn the lingo, and immerse myself in the company of amazing people and families, all in the spirit of fun, health, and life.  I was okay with going “planless”, after all, they were just “short” distances.  I can already feel my attitude about this evolving.  Without a plan fashioned by guidance and experience, I know that I will only go so far on my own before I plateau, and knowing me, this will breed frustration.  I awoke each day knowing “approximately” what I’d be doing for the next several days to a week, based on what race was coming up and how long I had to prepare before it was upon me.  As I discovered weaknesses (at first everything was a weakness), I would alter this “ghost-plan” to improve them.  Example:  Upon comparing my split results from my first two triathlons with others in my age-group, I quickly noticed that all of that work I had put into the pool to learn to swim efficiently the previous 8 months was paying off, but everyone was going 1.5-2.0mph faster than me on the bike, and although my 5k race times per also improving, trying to “run off the bike” was a whole new kind of running that my legs were just not accustomed to.  So, by mid-season I replaced one of my weekly swim workouts with a harder bike workout, and I added a regular bike-run brick workout. Anyway, my basic plan was this in its simplest terms: - when time, life, and schedule permitted, I would alternate swim, bike, run, swim, bike, run, swim, bike, run workouts, etc.  Within that context I would alternate speed and endurance workouts.  Essentially I had only 6 workouts:

1) swim speed (a lot of 50, 100, 200m drills/focus)
2) bike endurance (a single weekly long ride, a lot in aero-position)
3) run speed (fartleks, track, sprints)
4) swim endurance (a single long paced swim)
5) bike speed (quick bursts over short distances, hill repeats)
6) run endurance (as single long paced run, often with negative splits)

I did not assign days or write them on a calendar.  If on Sunday I knew I could plan to be at the pool for 5am before work the next day, I’d do my swim/speed workout on Monday.  If I wasn’t able to find the time to workout Tuesday, but on Wednesday I was able, I’d do a different sport and the opposite type from the previous workout (so, if my previous workout was a swim/speed, my next would have to be either a bike/endurance or run/endurance).  Doesn’t it seem simple?  That’s it.  That’s how I structured my workouts during the season.  For me, during my newbie season (3 sprints and 2 Olympics  --  with five 5k’s and a half marathon thrown in), it’s what worked in my life.  Let it be known that I just signed up for my first Half-Ironman (The Pumpkinman), on 9/11/2011, and I already have in my possession a detailed 5-month training plan to build to that distance that is very specific to my experience and needs.  Like I said, I know I can only go so far being “planless”.  At the “Half” distance, if you want to do well, I think a plan is highly recommended.

Well, it didn’t take long to experience my first few mistakes.  I signed up for 5 triathlons and 6 road races this season, aggressive for a first-timer, but I had nothing to lose and a wealth to gain.  However, I had 3 Sprint distance races with Olympic bookends (Oly, Spr, Spr, Spr, Oly). Neither is recommended (that many races, and starting with an Olympic distance).  Five tris could be justified. Unfortunately, mine were rather clustered together early in the season, then again later on, and this made both training and recovery quite difficult.  I did choose all “local” races though (highly recommended).  By this I mean that it would not be an issue driving to the race the morning of the race if I chose to do so.

The Mooseman Olympic (International) distance race, the first weekend in June, was my first triathlon.  I wanted my first to be an actual “Ironman” sponsored event to get the full effect of the “hugeness” of the sport.  I wasn’t disappointed.  Within 10 miles of the venue you begin seeing the Ironman logo on just about everything.  Once at the venue, it’s inescapable (stickers, key chains, sunglasses, visors, socks, wetsuits, goggles, transition bags, shot glasses, chip clips, bikinis, onesies, disposable diapers, etc.).  Although a morning person by nature, I decided to get a room up near the venue.  The problem is that I made this decision the week before the race.  Bad idea!  “No vacancy” was a theme I encountered about 20 times on the phone and internet during an afternoon of frantic attempts to mitigate my “out of character” poor planning woes.  The room that I booked  was 2 hours north of my house, and 30min past the venue, which just meant that I essentially saved 90min of driving time on race morning.  All to gain 90min of sleep?  Baaaaa!  Yeah right!  “No one sleeps the night before a race,” I was told several times.

I drove up to the venue (Wellington State Park), the day before, so I could pick up my registration race packet, walk the beach, find my bike rack spot, drive the bike and run courses, visit all of the vendors, and take in the entire experience as best as I could.  This isn’t necessary for non-Ironman sponsored events (in my opinion), but this one was, plus it was my first ever triathlon.  Since I heard about that “not sleeping” thing the night before, I decided to skip all of the evening-before activities, dinner, and Q&A sessions with the Pro’s, and just get to my hotel room early and chill.  There is a rule that I kept hearing about for months, “Don’t try anything on race day that you haven’t already tried in training.”  Well, for 4 of my first 5 races, I did, and I usually regretted it.  Lesson learned.  At about 8pm the night before the race, I took half of a Valium, convinced it would be worn off by my 3:45am alarm time.  Well, I don’t think it wore off until about the post race meal.  And it didn’t help me sleep either.  Never again.  

There’s a saying in sports that when you score a touchdown, hit a homerun, or nail a game winning basket, “Act like you’ve been there before.”  I tried.  I really did.  My nervous energy had to have been apparent.  I found myself staring at $8000 bikes, pretending to “talk shop” with the other racers who were setting up their transition areas on either side of me, and feeling awkward about dropping my drawers in front of about a thousand people to get body-marked (the single coolest right of passage for any triathlete). Make no mistake about it, I was scared shitless, but I think I covered it up very well.  Over the next 45min I think I used the port-0-potty about as many times as I checked , double checked, and triple checked my transition set-up.  Nine I think was the final tally on that.  During that time the light sprinkle interrupting the sparse rays of sun was starting to turn into a steady rain from the solid ebony ceiling.  Contemplating the change into my wetsuit, word was spreading that because of a severe weather warning, the start of the swim would be delayed 1 hour.  Packs of athletes began covering their bikes’ handle bars and seats with plastic shopping bags and accessory rain gear (I hadn’t planned that well). While wading through the small ponds and streams that had developed amidst the metallic bike racks, lightning and thunder took over the stage.  Most began seeking shelter.  I hurried to the beach down at the swim start and huddled under some sort of open wooden structure with about a hundred others, right next to a woman wearing an official USAT referee badge around her neck and holding a Blackberry with an animated Doppler display on the screen.  The news wasn’t good.  Although I was standing about 50ft from the water’s edge, it was not visible through the sheet of water engulfing the local airspace.  Standing.  Waiting. Soaked. Discouraged. Nearly a year learning to swim, 3 months of riding my new bike, cutting 5 minutes off my 5k times since last fall, and today was NOT going to be the day that I became a triathlete. With no let-up on radar, the official announcement blares over my neighbor’s 2-way radio, “We’re gonna have to cancel the swim.  We will still race, but the bike will be a single-file time-trial format start from transition beginning at 9:15.”  The monsoon, perhaps the worst that I’ve ever seen, lasts another half hour.  A second announcement comes in, “Due to flooding on the bike course, we need to shorten the course by 11 miles by eliminating the final lollipop loop.  The run will remain unchanged.”  For as “up” as my heart had been leading up to the start gun, it had just sunk to a depth that I wasn’t aware existed in me.  I begin thinking of going home (many actually did).  I should’ve been with my wife at her Relay for Life overnight event just north of Boston anyway.  She had our two young kids with her, undoubtedly would be up all night, and all I could think about was how I hoped this horrific weather had avoided them, wondering if they were dry and safe.

By the time all of the athletes who stuck around for a “good workout” were lined up with their bikes, it was about 9:30am, 80 degrees, humid, and not a cloud in sight. The word “gorgeous” comes to mind.  Inside my body there was a fight brewing.  Due to the excitement of the moment, my heart rate never felt below 140, even standing still, yet my limbs felt demented from the remaining Valium obviously still circulating.  Cotton mouth and the uncomfortable feeling of wishing I had taken that 10th trip to the bathroom were the last symptoms to hit me as I approached the timing mat.  A last look to be sure my timing anklet was secure, the flagger gives me the signal to mount.  The screaming and faithfully brave fans that remained lining the bike shoot were welcoming and deafening, cowbells and all.  That was just the giddy-up I needed.  If you can’t smile now, you’re probably dead.  Hardly a sole knows me here, yet in the first 300 yards I’ve heard my name bellowed twice and my race number a few more.  To whomever you were, Thanks!

After leaving the confines of the race venue, it gets so quiet that’s it’s sort of unsettling.  I’m trying to just take it all in, but I feel heavy, groggy, unbalanced.  The only thing I can hear is the wind going through the vents in my helmet. I fall madly in love with that sound. It's all I can hear.  Nothing else exists.  It submits me to become one with my bike.  It’s the first time I have ever felt this way on a bike.  I’ve never experienced a runner’s high, but this has to be the cyclist’s equivalent.  Am I the only one?  Does the quiet rushing air only affect me this way? It’s become the “moment” during each triathlon that I most long for.

I’m in the White Mountains of New Hampshire now. During my car ride through the bike course the day before I realized I was going to need that adrenaline rush on race day because all of my training was not going help me on these hills.  Wow!  Three times as steep and four times as long as anything I had trained on, these “hills” were wicked (for me).  I began wondering if at some point I’d have to dismount because I wouldn't be able to handle the grade, reduced to a walk, bike at my side, tail between my sluggish legs, defeated.  My new goal became:  “Stay on the bike!”

According to my training log, my post-race notes state that “legs felt flat until somewhere between miles 5-8.”  I must have been caught up in the orgasm of the wind raging through my lid to find my groove any sooner.  My notes also state, “only drank about 12oz of P90X Recovery drink on the bike.”  Um, excuse me, Roosta, you’re not recovering yet – you’re in the middle of the hardest bike ride of your life.”  Ah yes, the things I have learned.  (Now I’m a Hammer Nutrition guy and use Heed and/or Perpetuem as my race-day liquid nutrition source).  However, that wasn’t my only mistake – Only twelve ounces of hydration on the bike???  Ah yes, the things I have learned.  This lack of hydration bitch-slapped me near the end of my first mile on the run, and continued to do so throughout the next 5.2 miles.  The course, although somewhat hilly, felt immediately mountainous. Struggling to “speedwalk”, I couldn’t get my focus off of the incredible heaviness in my legs and the dizzying heart rate.  Each hill, despite distance and grade, was a wall.  I didn’t feel this way 2 weeks ago when I did a mock Olympic distance race (just to prove I could do it).  I had swam 1500yds in the pool at The Works at 7am, immediately drove to South Berwick and rode the Pumpkinman Sprint course twice, then hopped off my bike at the Gori house and ran 6 miles.  “Wow, I can actually do this.”  Today though, while scaling another wall, I begin wondering why the F am I feeling so horrible.  I pass the first water station at about mile-2.  I look down at the two 8oz bottles of Gatorade on my Fuel Belt.  They’re still full.  I’m almost 2 hours into a race on an 80 degree day and all I’ve ingested is 12 ounces of a “recovery” drink.  That’s got to be it.  There can’t be another reason.  I kept telling myself, “You are NOT going to walk.  There will be no walking today.  You push through this.  Don’t you frigin stop!”  Now the nausea has crept in and although I’ve just figured out that I need to drink, the thought of puking in the breakdown lane if I throw back some Gatorade isn’t that appealing to me.  Clearly the worst I have ever felt in all of my training, the legs finally stop churning.  I just need to rest and get my heart rate down and I’ll be fine. If I can do that, this nausea will resolve and I can run again.  I see the sign that announces the “Turn around” point.  That inspires me to run again, but it only lasts about a hundred yards.  Walking, but at least on my way back to the finish now, a demanding voice is coming towards me, barking out orders repetitively, “Shawn! Drink!  You need to drink!  You can make it!  Drink!”  Christine Campanella, a friend that I hadn’t seen in over 12 years (except for the afternoon before while roaming the registration area), has obviously also noticed my two full bottles of hydration attached to my hips.  I don’t know who looked more concerned, me or her, but I stopped in my tracks and initialed her orders.  Over the next 2 miles I sipped on the 16oz I had with me until it was gone.  I stopped and walked for several hundred yards three more times, but by the mile-5 marker, I was steadily running, nausea-free, and stable appearing.  As I approached Wellington State Park again, the heavenly sound of cowbells and the inviting cheers of strangers presented themselves again, and it never sounded better.  I had no strength to run faster, but I had the will, and that was enough.  It only felt like the easiest, fastest quarter mile I have ever run.  I’m not naïve. It was clearly the slowest and most grueling, but I crossed the finish line with grit in my teeth and a grin on my lips . . . . a mere "duathlete."  My quest to become a triathlete would have to wait, but not long.  Next week is the King Pine Sprint.

Although my goal was to try to finish around the 50th percentile in my age group for each race this season, I was 78/86 at the abbreviated Mooseman.  Humbled, I can only get better from here.

I Think I Need a Bigger Gun

Back at the end of May, my wife, Karen, my son, Carter, and I were all roaming around the Kittery Trading Post in search of stuff for Cub Scouts.  Aside from his Class-A uniform, Tiger Cub Manual, and a milled walking stick, Carter really didn’t have anything. No, wait, he does have a pretty cool mummy-style Eureka sleeping bag in Washington Redskin red and yellow (I wasn’t present during the ordering process).  But he doesn’t have any stuff like a canteen, any cooking utensils, a compass, or jackknife, (all staples of the scouting life).

Am I the last person in New England to realize how cool The Trading Post is?  You could spend a 3-day weekend in this joint (and some do – we call them “tourists”) and still not see everything.  And c’mon now, these days you can get a frigin Flo’s hotdog, or three, or seven, if you need a lunch break from shopping at “The Post”. (FYI: I like mine with hot sauce and mayo.  And yes, of course, I can eat seven of them).

So we’re roaming around the top floor and I stumble upon the rack filled with “lights”.  I stop in my tracks, grab my goatee, and begin contemplating my triathlon training (it’s an hourly occurrence).  Lights? Hmmmmmm.  Ones that wrap around your waist and attach to your Fuel Belt, headlamps, ones that strobe red, ones that adjust peripherally, and ones that even double as a distress whistle.  Yeah, if I were lit up light a Christmas tree just think of the possibilities.  I could train at night, in the dark.  I could have access to all 24 hours of the day.  That’d be one less restriction.  I’m already restricted by The Works Athletic Club being nearly 40min from my house and the Seacoast YMCA pool having horrible hours for adult lap swims.

“Hey Hon!  I should really get a light so I can go out on early morning and later evening/nighttime runs without compromising safety!”  (There, the seed has been planted).  Now where are those compasses and canteens?

For reasons I will not get into, Father’s Day was exceptionally special for me this year.  My Dad and I enjoyed what has become our annual trek to Fenway.  I simply do not spend enough time with this man, so it seems that every time that I do I learn a little something more about why I am who I am, and after each encounter I know that I am about to become a better father because of it. Another individual who regularly has this affect on me is my wife.  Her and I completely understand that we will never love each other like we love our kids, but we have come to realize in recent months that it’s a really close second (a photo finish if you will).  I love her more now than I ever have in my life.  On Father’s Day, aside from the most special handmade gifts from my kids, heartfelt cards containing verses chosen with care, and time together I’d never forget, a small red envelope holding a gift certificate to the Trading Post was opened.  Suddenly, tunes from Dexy’s Midnight Runners fill my noggin.  Thank you, Karen.  A Christmas tree I will become.

A few weeks back (I think it was a Friday), Karen got home from work a little later than usual.  I had fed the kids dinner and gotten them in their jammies.  We had planned on a movie (On Demand) and some of Karen’s famously delicious homemade salty popcorn in a brown paper shopping bag.  When I try to make the popcorn it never comes out like hers.  It sucks.  No one wants to eat it, and she just ends up making a new batch.  Her peanut butter sandwiches are the same way.  Her boiled water always comes out better too.  I don’t get it.  It’s gotta be chromosomal.

I asked her if she would mind putting the kids to bed while I went for a run, then I’d shower while she did her Reddenbacher thang.  She agreed, so off I went to go get dolled up in my fluorescence and new “running lights”.  Although very late August and still almost 80 degrees, 8pm is more similar to midnight than it is 6pm.  I’m planning a 6.5 mile run tonight, my first “night” run, so I’m strapping on both my lights – the one that will attach to my Fuel Belt and has a 60-meter front beam and a red strobing rear flasher, and also my 80-meter headlamp that I’m wearing over my visored cap.  I venture through the kitchen toward the door, but then pause as my hand reaches for the knob.  Looking over my left shoulder, the scent of garlic spaghetti still roaming the air, I redirect my gait and head to the sink where Karen is rinsing some dishes.  I pull a bright orange sheathed paring knife from the sill abutting the faucet.

“What are you doing?” she says with one eyebrow raised.
“I don’t know.  Just in case, I guess.”

“Just in case what? You come across a skunk?” Ha!!! If you have to kill a rabid skunk with that ‘lil thing, don’t you dare come home tonight!”

She’s kidding (I’m hoping).  OK, maybe not so much.  But a skunk is the last thing on my mind.  I can out run a skunk.  I’m thinking bigger, badder.  I’m thinking horror flick gone terribly wrong and I’m the “B” actor tripping over the pine needles without an ability to scream for help. Actually I’m thinking, “Damn, I hope this thing is big enough.”

The first 100 yards are merely just walking down my driveway to get to the road.  I found myself continually scanning left and right to be sure I wasn’t interrupting the course of any fanged nocturnal predators.  This caused some vertigo, much like I suppose sitting at a tennis match at Wimbledon would.  Once at my mailbox, a final adjustment to my headlamp, a few stretches, and I was off.  It doesn’t take long and I am now “between” streetlights – of which there are only two on my entire road.  Quickly the “freaking out” thoughts begin.  At this point just the sound of a cricket doubles my heart rate.  I easily unsheathe my knife a half dozen times over that first quarter mile.  I can’t decide if it’s best to run with the blade exposed, or if I should just keep it in it’s sleeve.  I am practicing desheathing it now.  How fast can I do this?  The next thing I know I am running in the middle of the road, equidistant from the trees lining each side of the street. This is the furthest from danger that I can be.  This gives me the best chance to prepare myself for an attack, no matter what direction it comes from.  Wait. Shit! Except from behind.  Great, now every 20 yards or so I find myself pirouetting to do a quick posterior scan. My form is clearly suffering.  I’m expecting pain in places I didn’t know I had thanks to the spontaneous dance moves I’m forced to perform just to curb my anxiety. Despite this though, I’m currently setting a record pace for the fastest mile in North America.  In no time I have made it to Rte 27.  This road is twice as wide, has a large breakdown lane, abuts Rte 101, and contains streetlights every few hundred yards.  Thankfully I no longer feel like I’m competing on Survivor or filming an episode of Man vs. Wild and I can now just get into a good running groove.  These lights are awesome.  I can appreciate them now that I’m in a zone. Still a little humid, a light mist starts to fall.  This just adds to the eerie feeling that I can’t seem to rid myself of, although it’s improving with each foot strike. It no longer feels necessary to run on top of the double yellow lines so I cruise over into the breakdown lane.  I’m seeing traffic now, and they are surely seeing me.  As each car approaches, I get that high beam flash so the driver can get a quick “better look” at what is coming at them. They usually slow for a moment until they’ve identified that it’s just me. I can’t be missed.  Even if you’re texting, driving with one knee, sipping a beer, and eating a Big Mac, you’ll see me. Sneaking up on 8:30pm, I hit my turn around point, unaware that I’m about to use my “fight or flight” response a few more times than I had planned.

During about a 200 yard stretch, shortly after my turnaround, I pass through (or under) some power lines.  The area is open on either side of the road.  No trees exist so you can see for almost a good half mile. Around the next curve a set of headlights are approaching.  No high beam flash, but the vehicle is slowing a bit.  It’s slowing more.  It’s crawling now.  It’s still about 100 feet in front of me.  It’s gotta realize I’m a runner by now.  I give him a courtesy wave and motion for him to keep going.  Within 20ft of me it comes to a complete stop, right in its lane.  It’s a white cargo van.  I stop dead in my tracks.  The hum of the engine is all that I hear.  I am completely blinded by the headlights.  What the fuck is this guy doing?  I take a quick look behind me.  I can run and hide into the power lines if necessary.  It’ll suck, but it may be my only chance.  I’ll need to turn off  my lights so he can’t see where I go.  Like, right now.  Just go.  Now!  Don’t chance it.  Seriously, what is this frigin driver doing?  OK, if this were a 1958 red and white Plymouth Fury I’d have more of an appreciation for the Stephen King scene that I’m taking part in, but it ain’t, and now I’m feeling a wee-bit threatened.  I cower and lean away from the van, nearly walking in the ditch as I hear the passenger window go down.  A few mumbled words I can’t comprehend fall out onto the pavement.  I desheath my hunter-orange paring knife, brandish it in the beam from my headlamp, towards the jargon, and with my best Jack Nicholson impersonation, “Don’t ever stop a runner at night! I’ve got a knife, Man!  Now get the fuck moving!!!”  Before my last F-bomb reaches the kidnapper’s getaway car, I am in an all-out sprint, running 4-minute miles (even if it was only for 20 seconds).  The van guns it, ripping up the pavement, surely leaving it tattooed. Shit!  This freak is gonna turn around and come back for me.  Run. Roosta. Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuun!!!!!!  I get to the next street light, turn off my lamps, and crouch down behind a tree and some shrubs.  Waiting . . . waiting . . . nothing.  No car.  Just more crickets.  OK, I’m fine. He’s not coming back for me.  Lights back on. I start running again – a faster pace of course - all I want to do now is get home and have some popcorn.

As I navigated the turn off of Rte 27 and back onto my “side” road, the apprehension rose.  It was gonna rise anyway, but thanks to my recent encounter, it felt more exponential than insignificant.  The next 9/10 of a mile contained 2 streetlights. Oh, by the way, for the record, I never resheathed my knife.  It was ready for carving and filleting at all times.  Anyway, it was back to running in the middle of the road.  If anything was going to ambush me, I wanted a little bit of reaction time as well as a 15-foot head start.  Without incident the next half mile slides under my feet, up the big hill, around to the left, and I can see the first of the two streetlights, glaring down onto the road through the steady thick drizzle.  Then . . .  I see it.  Before my heart has a chance to rattle off another compression, I become motionless.  The profile of a large black four legged figure struts out from under the light pole into the roadway.  The moment that I freeze, so does “it”.  Obviously, we’re both curious. “What are you?” I’m thinking.  “How would you taste? It’s thinking.  Turning to face me, it lowers its head and raises its back.  I can sense the aggression mounting in its fur.  “Oh Shit!  Great!  Fine!  So, this is how it is going to go down tonight, huh? Okay, do what you gotta do. I’m ready to dance.”

The staring contest only seemed like it lasted about 30 seconds.  In actuality, it was surely more like three, but I’m probably exaggerating.  Creeping, head down, as if rehearsing aerodynamics, he slowly worked his way toward me.  I quickly realize that I need to make a choice.  If he continues forward, soon he will be out of the light and into the dark, and it will be very difficult to see him, despite my headlamps - a clear disadvantage for me.  I may need to actually show some aggression and head towards him as he is still within the best lit area on the road (and get there soon!).  I take a couple of quick hops in his direction and I can begin to hear and see the lights of a car approaching me from behind.  Yes, my first thought was, “Watch it be a white cargo van.”  As it got closer I walked into the middle of the road with my left hand raised, signaling it to stop.  When it clearly was disobeying my commands, I raised my right hand and started waving it to slow down.  Nothing.  No response.  In fact, the bastard actually sped up, swerved around me, and left me for dead.  Appreciating that I was wielding a knife while attempting to get this Samaritan to stop at 9pm on an extremely poorly lit road, I quickly forgave them, but as the taillights faded, I realized that I had now completely lost sight of my stalker.  He was gone.  He surely knows where I am, but where the Hell is he?! I frantically began performing one quadruple Lutz after another, trying to capture this beast in either of my two Tikka lights. “Where are you?  Dammit!  C’mon!”

I’ve got to bolt.  No, I’ve got to Usain Bolt!  If I can make it to the next street light I should be fine.  Don’t turn around.  Just breathe. Don’t stop for nothing. And don’t fall and impale myself on this dinky little piece of weaponry.  Now GO!!!!

Before my heels even make it out of the streetlight glow and into the black, I can sense that I’m in a rundown.  How much of a head start did I get?  How much time did he afford me?  Where did he come from?  Am I slower than I think?  Do I have a HammerGel I can rip open with my teeth and toss to him?  Will that appease him?  Should I suck down the Gel myself (and consider it my last meal?).  Run Roosta Ruuuuuuuun!!!!!!!!!  I’m no longer contemplating my first ocean swim next month at The Lobsterman triathlon and the recurring nightmares I have about the movie “Jaws”.  I’m now suffering through replays of another movie, “Cujo”, that scene where he is ramming his frothy disheveled head into the side of a Ford Pinto.  The smell of his breath is crawling over my shoulders. His claws tapping the pavement are syncopated with my Mizunos, and becoming more pronounced. If I look back to calculate my shrinking time advantage it might cost me an arm.  Finally captured by the gleam of the last street light, I can see my mailbox. It’ll be a sharp right then down the final rock-covered, tree-lined chute to the house.  There are hundreds of screaming fans and volunteers.  Andy Schachat calls out my number and name from my front porch.  The calves of three other triathletes in the chute come into view (marked with a “41”, “43”, and “40”) and I reel them in one by one as if they were running backwards.  The rocks turn to pavement, darkness disappears as my motion sensor light locates me, and I raise my arms, fist still clenching my open blade.  I slap my stopwatch and collapse onto the stairs of my mudroom.  I’m breathing and not bleeding.  I must have won tonight. I made it.  I'm alive.  After fumbling for the hidden key to get into the house I take one last look out of the window down the driveway.  Before I have the opportunity to scan the yard for sets of glowing red eyes and foaming mouths, the sensor light gives up, once again casting the house in darkness.  Lancing the kitchen door open I unexpectedly suffer one last chill.  Karen turns to me, “How was your run?”

Placing my knife back on the sill, “Um, if I do that again, I’m gonna need a bigger gun.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll shower and tell you all about it over a bag of popcorn?”

It was You, wasn't it?

You CAN Get Here From There

Within about a year of my son’s birth in 2004 I had obviously enjoyed my sedentary life a bit too much.  245 pounds was the heaviest weight that I “knowingly” was.  I may have been 250+, but have no proof of this.  There still is no CSI-like testing or carbon dating to confirm this, so it will have to remain here say for now.  For a guy who is about 6-1, this is not horrific, although medically I could be labeled as “obese”.  My cholesterol spent a couple of years in the mid-300’s (Okay, so it was 8 years), and my blood pressure was always considered borderline.  Being a clinician, knowing what I knew about medicine, it was still very difficult to be introspective and actually make a legitimate attempt at diagnosing myself with depression.  Hey, numbers don’t lie, but depression?  Really? Me? Frankly, I doubt it, but I knew I needed to get the one thing back into my life that had provided me with immense enjoyment for many, many years .     .     .    music.  I had gone nearly a decade without it (1997-2004).  In my “earlier years” (let’s say 1983-1990) I had played drums and various other instruments (poorly), before eventually studying at Berklee in Boston for over 2 years (90-92). A few bands and a couple of CD’s later, and it was time to move on.  Move on at least from the, “I’m gonna make it big” attitude, to the, “WTF am I gonna do with the rest of my life?” -(around 1995).  

Anyway, fast-forward through 6 years of college, a marriage, and a child and we arrive in 2006. With the support of my wife, I went in search of a new “gig” and eventually found it.  At the time it was the perfect playing situation and exactly what I had needed.  Despite a few years of hard work, along with an immense amount of fun and reward, I began to realize that no matter what age, no matter what town, no matter what genre of music, the “business” side of music is just plain discouraging, and it reminded me of the reasons why it turned me off roughly 12 years earlier.  The band I had been in for 3 years now, steadily gaining momentum, disintegrated in a matter of months, just after our debut CD was released.  (By the way, if you want a copy, let me know – I’ve got plenty left).

Available on iTunes, Amazon, Rhapsody, and through CDBaby

But now here is the ironic part.  Two weeks before that CD release party (which was Aug. 1st, 2009), I am sitting at my mother’s house, alone, preparing to go work an overtime shift in the local ER, when I decide to put on the TV to kill a little time.  A replay of the previous year’s 2008 Ironman World Championships is just starting and I suddenly find myself unable to move from my seat.  My mind immediately flashes back to Julie Moss in 1982 (see previous post dated Sept 5th, 2010).  No, seriously.  As the stories unfold on the screen, I become a blubbering idiot (it’s not hard to do), but more importantly I am inspired. 

In the previous 2 years I had taken up a little running and doing P90X.  Running is easy, right? I mean, it’s simple enough.  It’s cheap enough.  You can do it pretty much anywhere.  All you need is a pair of sneakers (and even that is debatable now).  So how did I start?  A few colleagues of mine told me that I should do a 5k with them for fun (back in the spring of ’08).  “C’mon. The first one of the season is 6 weeks away.  You’ll have plenty of time to get ready. Just get out there and start running, like three times per week.” 

First of all, what’s a “k”?   (Oh, 5k is 3.1 miles?  Good, now that I understand).  What the Hell.  I’ve got to start somewhere.  On my way home that night I calculate that it is 9/10 of a mile to the end of my road.  Okay, so tomorrow I will run to the end of my road and back – not even 2 miles.  Piece-O-Frigin-Cake!  I apply my “less than one year old” $39.95 “running” shoes and off I go.  There is no stretching.  There is no warm-up.  There is no heart rate monitor, or Garmin GPS wrist device, or even an mp3 player.  Hey, at least I wasn’t wearing old cut-off frayed Levi jean shorts and a Virginia Slims belly shirt with knee-high tube socks.

 
(perhaps a little something like this . . .

 

By the time I get to my mailbox, 100 yards away, I’m already thinking I should’ve packed some survival gear cuz I may not make it home tonight (This is gonna take a while, or kill me).  I am not concerned about time, or pacing, or heart rate zones.  I should be concerned about how much daylight is left, even though it’s only about 3pm.  So, I’m guessing it was upwards of about 20 minutes, but I make it to the end of the road.  However, there is no way that I am running back.  Oh no, I’m done. Defeated.  Stick a fork in me.  With my tail between my legs I start my "recovery" walk back home.

For the next 4 days I am walking like I have a stick lodged someplace where sticks have no business being lodged (don’t go there).  My ankles and right knee are killing me.  I am told that I probably just went too far for my first run.  “What?  Ya think? But I didn’t even go a mile! And that was like almost a week ago.”

“Well, what are you running in?” I am asked.

“I’ve got some really comfortable running shoes from last summer.  They're broken in great.  I wear 'em every day.”

“Last summer? You wear them every day?  Like all day long? How much did you pay for them?” I'm interrogated.

“Um. Yes. Yes. Yes. And about $40. Can I go now?  You're scaring me."

“Okay, there’s your problem.  Go get a new pair of actual running-only shoes, and don’t spend less than $100.”

Advice accepted. Purchase made. No pain since.  Well, whatdya know?  The difference between very used $40 sneakers and new $100 running-only shoes was the difference between the desire to never ever run again for the rest of my life versus wanting to run farther, run faster, run with strength, and run with purpose.  Five months later I run my first half marathon.  Yes, that’s right. I did four 5k’s, an 8k, two 10k’s, and a half marathon in that time.  Hmmmm.  Well, next year I'm gonna need a watch. Next season I’m running faster.  Next season my friends will be chasing my ass.

Ok, let’s flashforward from my flashback.  Remember, I am at my mother’s house, about 14 months ago, watching the Ironman World Championships, sobbing with inspiration of a magnitude that I can only recall experiencing a few times in my life, at least on this level.  Within days I am having a conversation with Dan, a college friend, and fellow colleague from upstate New York.  The topic?  Bikes.  I need one. Why?  I’m going to become a triathlete (maybe even an Ironman one day).  I obviously have no grasp of reality here, but it is my secret, so I guess I'm the only one who can squash it at this stage.  Dan is a cyclist.  He’s on a sponsored team and competes around the country.  I don’t know the first thing about bikes.  (Heck, I don’t know the first thing about triathlon).  My current bike is a 1991 Fila Vitos mountain bike, a 21st birthday gift, weighing about the equivalent of a small riding lawnmower, and probably as nimble.  Dan’s my man.  I have no idea what I am getting into, but I will learn.  I sell some musical gear on Ebay to build up my PayPal account until I hit the budget that we agree will be necessary for a "decent entry-level first road bike", $1000 (we hope).  After about 40-50 bike reviews and assessments, 7 weeks, and 3 lost auctions, I finally win a 2006 Giant TCR C2 in mint condition, fitted with mostly Shimano 105 and Ultegra components.  But the win comes in late October, just enough time to get it assembled, be fitted, and take it for a single 17 mile ride before putting it on an indoor trainer in the basement for the winter.  My ass kills for about 2 weeks after my “first ride”, and I can’t climb stairs for 3-4 days, but I have a bike.  There is a winter full of spin classes in my immediate future.  Now I need to learn to swim.

Bike in the box (parking lot of FedEx)

First ride . . . . . . . . EVER!!!!!

That’s right.  I can’t swim.  Apparently this is crucial in triathlon.  Okay, I can tread water, float on my back, and propel myself around just enough to promise you that I won’t drown, but not with much confidence.  I did pass my father’s swimming test in the summer of 1979 up at my grandmother’s summer camp.  The deal was this:  If you could swim from the end of our dock to the end of the neighbor’s dock, without touching bottom and without stopping to rest (about 100 yards total), you’d be granted permission to swim unsupervised, as well as be allowed to take the row boat or canoe out onto the pond “solo” as long as you had a life preserver on.  But aside from that, I really can’t swim. After purchasing some black knee-length Michael Phelps-endorsed Speedos (any bit of help I can get), and some poorly fitting goggles, I head to the local YMCA.  I am familiar with this pool because for 2 years we have been bringing our kids here for swim lessons (I should have been paying attention more).  At least I know some of the staff by name and don’t feel intimidated being surrounded by “families” versus “athletes in training”.  For a couple of weeks I had been rehearsing what swimming might actually look like.  I would even lie on my weight bench at home and mimic “a stroke” (no, not that kind of stroke, although it may have resembled one somewhat).  How do I position my face?  How do I breathe?  Do I breathe to the right? The left?  Both sides?  Do I breathe every stroke? Two? Every third?  Do I kick at the knees?  Do I kick at the hips?  How hard do I kick?  How fast? I immediately realize that I better be sure a lifeguard is on duty when I show up at the pool. 

Okay, that sign on the wall says 1 Lap = 50 meters.  Is that to the other side? Or is that down and back?  Meters?  Is that more than a yard, or less than?  I mean, I know I can swim 100 yards (after all, I passed that test when I was 9).  So, I pick a lane, the only available one, and it happens to be right next to this guy who appears to be in his 60’s, full head of grey hair (even his eyebrows were almost shoulder-length), about six foot six, and about 220 pounds (soak and wet or course). This guy hasn’t stopped swimming since I entered the pool area.  Back and forth, forth and back, with what I later learned were “flip turns”.  Ha! Cool! Just like Michael Phelps does!  I confirm the lifeguard’s presence (at least 10-12 times), throw down the goggles, scan the crowd for video cameras (I don’t want this on YouTube later), and pray no one is looking. By the time I reach the other end of the pool I have successfully taken on water, first the left lung, then the right, but miraculously I am able to avoid the need for CPR.  I think I have just swum 50 meters.  I later learn it was only 25, but at this point I’m really not keeping score, however, I’m losing:  Pool-1, Roosta-0. 

It takes a month or two, but I finally admit that I need help.  I join a local fitness complex, The Works, mostly for the Master’s Swim Classes that happen to occur three times per week, and one of those times is in the early afternoon on my day off. Perfect!  With much anxiety I show up to my first class with about 4 others (not newbies) and introduce myself to the instructor.  On the dry erase board is “Today’s Workout”.  It starts with a 400yd warm-up.  Um.  Ummmm. Yeah.  Ugh, yeah, I can’t swim to the other end of the pool and back without needing a 5 minute break, a recovery meal, and a deep tissue massage.  Now you want me to do that 8 times!?  In a row!? Without stopping !?  As a “Warm-Up”!?  OK, fine. I did come here expecting an ass-kicking, so an ass-kicking I will accept. About 30 minutes later I finally finish my 400 yards.  "Ok, I’m warmed up now." (restate this line with sarcastic nuance).  "OK, I’m warmed up now.  Can I go home?  I’m exhausted."  Kidding.  Not really, but I stayed.  I fudge my way through some breast stroke laps, some kick drills (at least I can hold onto a flotation device for that), and some basic swim drills (which I actually found extremely helpful and continue to use today).  Everyone has finished the class, left the pool, gone home, showered, completed their holiday shopping, and are now heading out for dinner, and I’m still there for another hour finishing the workout.  I’m toast.  I'm burned toast.  I'm a 5-alarm blaze with no hydrant for hundreds of miles. I attend one more class the following week and realize, “I’m in over my head.”

Through the P90X Message Boards, of which I posted and followed daily for over a year, two of my friends, one from California and one from Idaho, tell me about Total Immersion, a specific swimming technique used by triathletes for endurance swimming.  Within a week one of my friends has sent me his copy of their instructional DVD.  Lesson by lesson I slowly work through the entire DVD, "Easy Freestyle".  It takes about 4 months of going to the pool 3 times per week.  By the time the triathlon season is upon us (June 2010), I am setting new PR’s (personal records) for distance and times nearly every week, with my longest swim to date being 3500 yards (a far cry from my first day in the pool = 25 yards).  Best of all?  It feels nearly effortless.  As I write this today it seems that the swim is now the sport that I must consider my strength.  Did I just say that?  Or is it that I simply neglected the bike and run for so long that those two simply became my weaknesses?  The proof may be in my results of the 2010 Timberman Sprint Triathlon a few weeks ago, as well as the Pumpkinman Sprint race this past weekend.  In the Timberman, out of 1069 total entrants I had the 125th best swim time.  To improve, however, I must keep reminding myself every day that there is room to do so . . . in all three sports.  
Although I started running in 2008, making it the sport I have the most “experience” in, I am quickly realizing one thing . . . . . it’s ugly!

About 2 months ago I posted some pictures on Facebook from the King Pine Sprint Triathlon, my first ever triathlon.  There were about 5-6 pics of me running, each at different points in my stride.  Within a few days I was getting “advice” – and I say this in a very nice way, trust me. “Your arms are too high”.  “You’re arms are crossing your midline”.  “Your shoulders seem very tense”.  “You’re heel-striking”.  I can’t agree more.  I know that all of these things are bad.  And what I mean by that is that they will not only limit me by putting a ceiling on my progress, but will also likely lead to injuries down the road.  I need help.  I can’t fix these on my own. Yet, I also can’t spend any money on a coach. “Re-enter”, Shelly. 

See what I mean?

I’d guess it’d been about 22 years since I had seen or spoken to Shelly, a high school friend, but through Facebook, we had become internet acquaintances again.  She’s a runner – track, cross country, road races at every distance.  But more importantly, she has the spirit of sport and the kindness you usually only read about in fairy tales.  

“Shawn, I can help you.  It will be fun.  When do you want to start?”  

Within 2 weeks we are on a high school track.  She is showing me stretches, drills, and going over several different workouts based on the goals I have discussed with her.  It’s a complete overhaul.  A much needed one at that.  The ceiling can now be raised.  I will be stronger.  I will become faster.  I am now just starting to actually look and feel like a runner . . . and I’m loving it.  Thank you, Shelly.  Your gift will not be forgotten. 

So there it is, my little journey to here.  No one ever said that I couldn’t.  The problem was that I never said that “I can”.

Total Immersion Freestyle Swimming Demonstration

Learning to Crawl . . . Literally

I am not yet twelve years old.  Cable television in my little town in Maine is still 3 months from becoming a reality.  The snow on the TV is reduced to a mere flurry thanks to adjusting the antenna on top of the roof from the comfort of the living room, yet I have absolutely no idea what I am watching from my stretched out position on the floor.  It is a typical weekend afternoon with ABC’s Wide World of Sports. You know, the “thrill of victory” and “the agony of defeat”. Normally this would involve the hysterics of Curly running around with a bucket of confetti, preparing to “soak” a few members of the crowd in a sea of colored scraps of paper, or crashing ski jumpers knocking themselves unconscious into crowds of unsuspecting onlookers, or stubby-armed, leotard-wearing weight lifters, covered in chalk dust, hoisting sagging barbells over their heads as they quiver at the knees.  But today is different.

 

Julie Moss, a 23yo California college student working on her exercise physiology degree, is collapsing over and over and over again just a few hundred yards from the finish line of the Ironman Triathlon in Hawaii.  Bib #393 is stylin’ in a light blue and white tank top, light blue shorts, and a blue and white plastic mesh baseball cap.  She was the leader by twenty full minutes over Kathleen McCartney entering the marathon leg.  Julie, while looking strong and still actually “running” in her New Balance treads, was previously heard yelling, “Hey guys! Find out how far back she is for me.” Soon, among hundreds of volunteers, a television audience, and her own soul, she will be fighting to merely stand, resembling more of a newly born filly on a lake of ice.  Her claims of having not trained for this event are now becoming apparent.

 

Alii Drive in Kona, Hawaii, triathlon’s most famous last stride, is upon her now.  It is where dreams are made, tears of relief are shed, tears of joy are released, and tears of torment are unconfined.  It is where fists get pumped, hearts either fulfill or rupture, speech may become garbled, gazes to the heavens recur, your guts eviscerate, and legs often reduce to jelly, refusing to carry the body any longer on this 140.6 mile journey. It’s a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride, and a 26.2 mile marathon.  But if you want to be called an “Ironman”, giving you bragging rights for the rest of your life, you must complete this in under 17 hours.  Unarguably, it’s a badge of courage surpassed only by that of a Purple Heart.  How can any human propel themselves over 140 miles in less than one day, only to struggle so mightily during that final 10 yards, yet out of the depths of sure failure and nearly insurmountable and anticipated suffering, somehow learns to crawl all over again?  This is Julie’s fate.  She is reduced to a crawl as she is passed by Kathleen, only to finish second.

 

You see though, it doesn’t matter how you get to the finish line. If you finish, you win.  It’s just that simple.  They say, however, that the best part of the journey is actually making it to the starting line.

 
“Julie Moss . . . you . . . are . . . an  IRONMAN!!!”

The life I have led from that afternoon in 1982 until now is neither triumphant or morose. It is not marred in disappointment or repeated failures.  So, like most commoners, it is simply filled with infamous accomplishments.  I’ve hit homeruns, but never made it onto ESPN’s Plays of the Week.  I’ve played drums in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans (just not all at one time).  I once set a high school basketball record for rebounds in a half, but missed a lay-up in the final seconds that would’ve won the game.  I’m preparing a second draft of a book that I have written.  After 9 years, however, it’s still not worthy of publishing.  I struck out 18 batters in a 7-inning baseball game, but lost the game on my throwing error after fielding a sacrifice bunt.  I have two medical degrees which I actually use to produce an income (not everyone can say this about their college degree).  I won a nationwide “Extemporaneous Writing” competition without performance enhancing drugs.    I took my driving test in a snowstorm, and passed, one hour after losing my virginity.  Why is that important?  It’s not.  It’s just damn funny.  So, these are just a few of the  kinds of things that verifies my life has been pretty cool up to this point.  I’d be a fool to complain about a single second.  To me though, personally, there just isn’t anything “extraordinary” on this list.  

It took nearly 40 years, but I’ve come to realize that your greatest asset is your health.  The greatest assets that you leave behind are the minds of those that you’ve affected, molded, and inspired, the most important of which belong to that of your children, your family, your loved ones, and friends. It’s much too early to tell if I will have any regrets in life.  I’m certainly not planning on any, but reserve the right to list a couple on my deathbed if I so choose.  One regret that I do not want is to have never made it to the starting line of an Ironman.  If I am afforded the privilege (and it is just that, an immense privilege) of making it that far, I will find a way to make it to the finish line.  So, I guess that means I would have accomplished TWO extraordinary things in my life.

 

So, right here, right now, I am imploring my immensely gorgeous, incredibly talented, hard working, exceedingly brilliant, barefoot running, supremely flexible and balanced loving wife, and unbelievably dedicated mother of our two amazing kids, to give me a gift.  It’s a gift that only she can give me.  It’s a gift of massive support, sacrifice, considerable patience, incalculable understanding and relentless encouragement.  A gift that will never go to waste and will never be forgotten --  a single gift that I will carry in my heart and wear on my sleeve, and a gift that I will give her credit for everyday of my life.   The gift?  -- hearing those words  just one time, in July 2012 in Lake Placid, New York. . . “Shawn Roussin, you . . . are . . . an  IRONMAN!!!”