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”.