Your Gift

On Sunday, August 14, 2011, I awoke feeling a bit of tightness between my spine and right shoulder blade, not unlike I have 2-3x/yr for the last decade.  I’ll just put some heat on it, take it easy for a few days, apply some Tiger Balm, and it will go away just like every other time this has occurred.  It was 6 days until the Timberman Sprint Triathlon race, a mere “warm-up” before my first attempt at my first Half Ironman (The Pumpkinman), so I was about to taper down my workouts this week anyway.  After a very restless night, I awoke with the pain being worse, but also an intense ache in my triceps area.  I had a surgical case to be ready for at about 9am.  By the time I arrived at the hospital I could hardly move my neck and the elbow had joined the achiness party.  No matter what I did, there simply was not a comfortable position.  I pulled aside one of the anesthesiologists and begged him for a trigger point injection where the pain seemed to be originating.  We ran up to the pain clinic and he injected me with 15mLs of Marcaine (a long-acting local anesthetic).  By the time I made it back down to the operating room I was already feeling much better.  Three hours later, when the case was over, the agony had not only returned, but now my forearm was aching and my upper arm began feeling “heavy”.  A second sleepless night, despite taking some old Valium that I had found from a previous episode a year ago, and it was back to work on Tuesday.  We had two back to back surgeries that lasted a total of about 5 hours.  By the time we left the recovery room after the second case, Dr. Harrell (the surgeon that I work with) had seen enough.  He walked me down to the ER where I was immediately escorted to a room.  My entire neck and right arm was engulfed with this sadistic aching.  The only part spared were my fingers. In one arm I was given a shot of steroids.  In the other, a shot of a non-narcotic pain medicine (because I had to drive home).  I left with scripts for Valium (a potent muscle relaxant), Oxycodone (a narcotic pain reliever), oral steroids (for the next 12 days), and Nuerontin (we’ll just call it a “nerve-dulling” medicine), as well as an appointment for a cervical MRI the next day.  Despite these meds, it was still so bad that my sleep was regularly interrupted for the next several days.  It wasn’t until I got a few days of high-dose steroids into me that I began to notice a hint of a difference; however, I specifically recall that it wasn’t until day #8 that I enjoyed (term used loosely) my first night of sleep.  But by Thursday the 18^th I felt fortunate that Dr. Harrell was able to pull a few strings at a PT office that had helped him last year, and I got in to see someone who performed some traction which was immediately helpful, although short-lived. By the time I was half way home all of my symptoms were coming back.  They did give me a traction device so I could do it at home a couple of times per day.  I’m now relinquishing any doubt -- I’ve got a disc issue.  Dr. Harrell (Rob), is already making plans for me to be out for 2 weeks after my surgery, yet I hadn’t even placed a call to the spine surgeon, Dr. Dirksmeier.

Actual cervical traction device that I used

Despite the urgings of all of the wonderful people that I work with to “go home” (almost daily), I adamantly refuse.  “I haven’t missed a day of work in my life. I’m not starting today.”

One of the surgical residents I was on a team with during my training over 10 years ago once told me, “Man, if you’re going to go into surgery, you must remember one rule: Don’t call in sick.  Only call in dead.”

At last check, I had a pulse.

Depiction of an MRI machine

The most uncomfortable position to be in for anyone with a “disc” issue in their neck is an MRI machine.  You’ve got to slightly extend your neck (this is bad), keep both arms at your side (that is worse), and lie still for 25 minutes (pretty much impossible).

My MRI was at 7am.  By 8am, I am back at my office, begging for mercy, in about as much pain as I can ever recall being in, but we have a full morning of patients to see in the office for which I had already prepped for the day before, then our weekly “Chest Clinic” meeting up at the hospital, then a few more patients in the afternoon.

Thanks to digital technology, by 8:15 I go into one of our exam rooms and upload the images of my MRI. I’ve never read a cervical MRI in my life, and have probably only seen a couple, but based on my symptoms and medical education, I know right where to look. 

“If there is a problem, it’ll be . . . right . . . oh shit!”

My face collapses into my palms, and I needn’t say what happens next.  I kick the door closed.  I need a moment . . . or two.  Thankfully, I’m able to get about 5 minutes, none of which I particularly recall.  After collecting myself I head out into the hall and see Dr. Harrell coming towards me.  He’s smiling like he knows something, like he has already seen my MRI, which would be just about impossible, “Alright Chief, when is your surgery?”

I pull a U-turn and we head into the room to look at the MRI together.  “Whoa, Dude!  Now THAT is not subtle.”

I don’t have much of a reply.

He continues, “Alright, when do you see Dirksmeier?  Do I need to place a call to get you in sooner. . . um . . . like today?  I’m no spine surgeon, but that has got to come out.  I’ve been there, man.  I had two discs that he took out – plus a cervical fusion, and the disc of this MRI that I’m looking at right now looks much worse than mine.”

I tell him that I’m seeing him one week from today.

“No you’re not.”

In 30 seconds he is on the phone and my appointment in changed to the following afternoon.

Yup, that's my MRI

Since my ER visit several days prior, I was only taking the narcotics (Oxycodone) and benzos (Valium) right before bed, and just suffering through the pain all day long so I could work, and drive, and be conscious for my kids in the evening.  Well, today was about to change that.  Kathy, our office manager, knocks on my office door.  I tell her to come in.  My office is pitch black and I’m laying in the corner on the floor, my neck is in the traction device, my right arm is propped up on two pillows, and I’m writhing.

“Kathy, I can’t do it any more.  I need some medicine (and I don’t mean Tylenol). I left all of the good stuff at home because I know I can't take it at work.”

My arm feels like I’m holding a 50-pound weight after going through a meat grinder (without the bleeding you’d expect). 

“Shawn, get out of here. The rest of the day is clear.  I’ll let Dr. Harrell know.  Just go, please!” she demands.

It’s the longest 32 minute drive of my life.  I averaged 15mph over the posted speed limit.  In my eyes, every yellow light was green.  Every stop sign was a yield.  Every time I had to touch the brakes I dropped an F-bomb.  After making it home and medicating, the next 12 hours are a haze.  I have a new appreciation for anyone with debilitating pain.  Apparently I fell asleep in a seated position on the couch, wearing my homemade soft color, and my wife, using physical force, was able to “awaken” me.  I stared at her blankly with my upper body kind of shaking awkwardly as I fought with the faucet of drool showering my chin and neck.  While sitting upright I announce, “My legs are frigin huge.  Look at ‘em.  My legs.  Look.  They’re huge, and swollen.  Look.  Do you see ‘em?”  I had been on high-dose steroids for numerous days now and my body was showing the effects.

Karen demands, “Let’s get you to bed.  C’mon. Shawn? SHAWN!? C’mon!” Karen sees me fading.  I have no fight left.  My brawl with the drool wore me out.

About the next thing I recall is turning off my alarm with no ill effects, no “hangover”, actually feeling quite refreshed, and aside from some neck stiffness, my arm feels the best it has felt since this all started.  My normal morning routine is performed nearly flawlessly.

After a fairly uneventful and mostly tolerable morning, I’m off to see Dr. Dirksmeier, the spine surgeon.  This is the man I trust. He did a similar (more extensive) surgery on my mentor, Dr. Harrell, a cardiothoracic surgeon.  Both he and my mentor are triathletes.  I reckon that before he even meets me, he “gets" me. He knows all of the things that I am going to say.  He knows all of the questions that I am going to ask.  Silently we tick by the same watch.  We have an understanding, but when it comes right down to it, after the taking of the history, and the physical exam, and the anatomy lesson while viewing the MRI, he finally has to cut to the chase, “You must have more races in your season?”

     “I have been training 8 months for my first Half Ironman, the Pumpkinman,” I tell him.  “I know you do that race too, so I don’t need to tell you that it is only 3 weeks away.  You tell me what I need to do in order to be able to do that race and I will do it.”

     “Well, that’ll be how long since your pain started?”

     The math has already been done, “Exactly 28 days.”

     He lists, “You have to be pain-free for 2 weeks.  You can’t have any numbness or weakness in your arm.  You have to have absolutely no expectations except to finish, so if you had a time goal, wipe it out.  It doesn’t exist. You can’t do another workout until the day of the race, except an upright stationary bike, but not until you are symptom-free.”

     To clarify, “So, if I meet all of that criteria, I can do the race?”

     “Yes, but the likelihood that it will set back your recovery and possibly cause a reaggrevation of your injury and symptoms are probably greater than 50%.  So, if you’re willing to mortgage your entire off-season training plan for this race in 3 weeks, which then endangers your 2012 season, you can do it.” I knew the direction he was leaning, but after that reiteration, I’m thoroughly confused.  Well, except about one thing.  At least as of right now, he is >90% sure I can avoid surgery AND have a symptom-free 2012 season.  (But it’s 3 weeks away, and I’ve trained for 8 months!)

The Pumpkinman

An hour later when I give Rob (Dr. Harrell) the news, he gets the “deer in the headlights” look.  He essentially already had me booked for surgery.  He’s looking at the calendar, moving patients around, looking at the call schedule, etc.  He was convinced.  And he’s been there, so I was just about as shocked as he, but elated still.  I think?  “Okay”, he says, “I guess I accept that I’m no spine doctor.  He didn’t steer me wrong.  He did my surgery and 2 months later I was training again with no recurrence of my symptoms and it’s been over a year and a half now.”

But most of you know where my head is at, right?  I’ve got 3 weeks.  Three weeks to do what I’m told.  I’ve got 1 week to get myself symptom-free, and 2 weeks before the race.  You know, that one I just dedicated 8 months of my heart to.  I can do this.  I WILL do this.

Hammering a hill at The Mass State Olympic Triathlon (July 2011)

A couple of hours later, while preparing dinner, and with my head still trying to get mentally prepared to race in three weeks (because I know that I am), I’m asked by Karen, “So, how’d it go (with the surgeon)?”

I cringe and the hair stands up on the back of my neck.  The crystal ball that was blocking my view on my dashboard during the ride home already prophesized this conversation.  I had memorized Dr. Dirksmeier’s exact parameters, word for word, and so, in my most confident and calm and convincing tone, verbatim, I begin to recite. I can’t look her in the eye.  If I do, I’ll crack.  When my brief dissertation is complete, I’m ready for the comeback dropkick in the chops.

     “You’re actually thinking about doing this? Seriously, Shawn?  Why? Do you think that is wise?  I don’t get why this is so important to you. You’re actually considering doing it, aren’t you?  Do you even have disability insurance?” (answer:  Yes – but it’s shitty) “Are you thinking about us (her and the kids)? What if this makes it worse? If it does, you may need surgery, right? What if you can’t work? You just got done telling me it takes 6-12 weeks to heel, yet this race is 3 weeks away.”

     “You’re right.  You’re right.  I won’t do it.  I won’t do it.  You’re absolutely right.”  My highly emotional, stubborn, impatient self, was taking over.  I had clearly not thought this through.  I had no bullet points to bring out of my back pocket to support my argument.  This conversation was promptly over, and as well it should be.  The better, more reasonable, and smarter half had easily won.  It was a one-sided debate.  I had no business even stepping to the podium.  Frankly, I am grateful.  I am very grateful for her.  As of the moment that I publish this posting, I have not met any of the criteria outlined by Dr. Dirksmeier.  I’m not even close, although I am clearly improving.  I’m still having episodic debilitating pain from my neck to my hand. I’m now able to sleep through the night most of the time having just taken Motrin.  However, the weakness is still quite impressive.  It is so bad it has affected even my penmanship.  I would need help putting on The Iron Roosta trisuit, never mind taking off a wetsuit after a 1.2 mile swim.  I can no longer do a single push-up, so leaning on aerobars is out of the question for one mile, never mind 56.  The slight impact of jogging even causes pain, so you can forget about a half marathon.

There will be no Pumpkinman 70.3 in 2011 for me.  All of that training for one race seems for not.  They say it is not the destination that makes toeing the line worth the sacrifice, but rather, the journey to get there.  But then the starting line was taken away from me.  And that’s not all that was taken from me.  Things I took for granted have dissolved.  My ability to hyperfocus on my nutrition has disintegrated.  I have put on 10 pounds since August 14^th.  My circadian rhythm which took me weeks and weeks of careful planning to reset has been retuned and is now dissonant with the triathletic lifestyle.  I miss methodically packing each of my training bags the night before my next day’s training session, then rechecking then two more times before I fall asleep on the couch by 9pm.  I miss making my nutrition plan for the day, the work week, and the weekend.  I miss hitting the grocery store three times per week for fresh produce.  I miss that 3:45am alarm that was so damn easy to awaken to.  I miss being halfway into my runs when the sun crests over the trees.  I miss listening to all of my motivational music on the way to the pool.  I miss taking that last sip of coffee as they unlock the door to the gym at 5:00am.  I miss counting laps.  I miss the kick drills (No, I don’t.  I still FN hate those :).    I miss topping off my tires with air and resetting my odometer.  I miss designing new routes on mapmyrun.com.  I miss counting calories.  I miss filling my water bottles.  I miss the stench of my sweaty workout clothes.  I miss needing to do a load of laundry consisting of all of my week’s training clothes on a Sunday night.  I miss logging all of my workouts in Training Peaks.  I miss talking about my workouts on Facebook.  And now I will be missing my most anticipated race of the year.

You see, all of these things are gifts.  They really are. I took them all for granted, but I awoke one morning a month ago and all of these gifts were taken away from me and I have no idea when I will get any of them back.  They will never be taken for granted again.  It has been nothing short of pure agony.  I have been depressed, displaced, and distraught.  I hope it is something you never have to go through (although I know some of you already have).  Unless you have, I guess it is incredibly difficult to comprehend.   The outpouring of constant support has been mindboggling.   This triathlon community has literally been checking on me hourly.  It is what has helped me get through each day.

So, today all I want each of you to know is that your next workout is a gift.  Be thankful that you have it.  At any second it can be taken away.  If and when that moment comes, you will beg for it back.  You will beg to be able to organize and pack each of your training bags each day, beg to awaken at 3:45am, beg to watch the sun shine over the trees during mile 7 of your 10 mile run, beg to do kick drills at the pool at 5am ‘til you can’t propel yourself forward another meter, beg to top off your tires and your water bottles and then ride until the skin on your crotch wears off, beg to run hill repeats ‘til you puke, beg to wash your stinky clothes, and beg to do laundry late on Sunday night so you’re ready for the next week of gifts. 

I will be at The 2011 Pumpkinman 70.3 this Sunday in South Berwick, Maine.  I will be beside each of one of you as you swim, bike, and run . . .  but only in spirit.  I would, however, like to particularly thank race director, Kat Donatello, for another gift.  Because of her generosity, I will be racing the 2012 Pumpkinman 70.3.  She has allowed my entry to be deferred due to injury. As irony would have it, the week before my injury I had already signed up for my first race of 2012, The Rev3 Quassy Half Ironman in Middlebury, CT, on June 3.  This race now becomes my first attempt at this distance.  I wanted it to be “in my backyard”, so to speak, but it was just not meant to be. 

My next attempt at 70.3 happens here

I will return with restored focus, enhanced determination, a flawless plan, and possibly in better physical shape than I have ever been.  I must allow myself to heal 100% and follow the plan of my physical therapists and surgeon.  My body will be rejuvenated, my mind will be unwavering, my heart will be tranquil, and as they all coalesce, I will again be prepared to conquer.

I’m still awaiting my next gift. When is yours?

"Look Mom, No Thumbs!"

I certainly didn’t go into the 2011 Mooseman International distance triathlon thinking that the demon that would strike me down would be T1.  Make no mistake, I had set unreasonable goals to begin with (I know, it’s easy to say that now).  I was hoping to PR each leg, which would mean a sub 33min swim, a greater than 18.6mph average on the bike, and the run completed in less than 58min.  Let me just say that it takes skill to avoid disappointment.  And I’m really not disappointed in my performance, just in completely overestimating the difficulty of the course (especially the bike). However, I was not at all prepared for setting the world record for the longest T1 in triathlon history (substantial embellishing here). Fortunately, I think it was unavoidable.

Three weeks prior to the race the water temp at Newfound Lake was watched daily on their website.  44 degrees is where those updates started.  I very seriously contemplated withdrawing. After all, I wasn’t looking to becoming the next member of the Newfound Lake Polar Bear Club. My friends had to regularly talk me down off of this cliff. A week later, 53! Then a week before the race a remarkable 72? That couldn’t be right --- a 28 degree increase in less than 3 weeks, during a month of constant rain?  Hell, at that point I had even decided to use my sleeveless wetsuit and go without my neoprene cap.  Thankfully, on check-in day, I had intelligently packed both wetsuits (my full sleeve and sleeveless, as well as my skull cap), because as I drove into Wellington State Park, the sign at the gate said “Water Temp Today: 59”.  It’s official then – this will be the coldest water I will have ever raced in.  Yes, I’ve swam in colder.  54 to be exact.  My very first OWS (open water swim), and the first time I ever swam in a wetsuit, was at the Pumpkinman venue in early May of 2010.  After swimming about 200 yards I began feeling hypothermic. With slurred speech I announced, “Yup, this was a dumb idea.  I’m outta here.”

The chateau that we stayed at for the weekend was dreamy. It was essentially 5 couples and 4 kids the first night, and an additional 3 more people for the second night.  And none of us felt cramped.  Well, except maybe for me.  My wife and I had a “full” bed, which would have been fine, but our 4yo daughter decided she was sleeping nowhere else in this enormous strange house except right between the two of us.  We were all in bed by 9:30.  I had about 18 inches of mattress and the inability to rollover without physically getting out of the bed. 3 hours later I am still in the same exact position and I don’t feel like I’ve gathered any REM sleep yet.  I make the decision to hit the exceptionally large couch (assigned to us) in the TV room right outside our bedroom.  I grab my daughter’s sleeping bag, unzip it to open it up like a full blanket, and instantly crash for 4 continuous hours of sleep. Within 30min after the 4am alarm I have put in my contacts, loaded my bike and transition bag into the car, eaten a cup of cheerios, a banana, and a tablespoon of almond butter, as well as downing a 6oz cup of instant espresso.  “Let the GI distress begin!”  My record for “pre-starting gun” trips to the bathroom or restroom-like facility (ie/ port-o-potty), is nine. Today is four.  A new PR!! WooHoo!!!

The Mooseman venue is very nice, but it is not family friendly.  This is largely based on parking, which got much worse this year. Triathletes are forced to park about a half mile from the transition area.  And this is the “good” parking.  Families are even further out.  And this year was even worse than previous because the owner of an enormous field fairly close to the park decided he wanted to charge “Ironman”, the race sponsor, over $30,000 for use of his property for the weekend.  Ironman declined, and so this year parking was just plain shitty.  I felt horrible for my wife, 7yo son, and 4yo daughter, who were coming to their first race. I don’t think either of them was too thrilled with a one mile hike at 7am.  I wasn’t too excited about mine.

It is pointless to bore you with any details whatsoever regarding the next 90 minutes between the time we arrived at the transition area and the dawning of the full sleeve wetsuit.  My set-up is simple. There is the undeniable OCD component, but with a minimalist approach.

A clear indication of how cold the water would be became evident about half way into the 200yd walk on the beach to the starting area (or what I call the “herding” area).  The wet sand was making the bottoms of my feet numb.
The digital clock shows about 15min until the gun.  I’m in the 3rd wave, at 7:38am.  I plan on getting into the water and staying there until our wave is called to line up and cross the timing mat to activate our ankle bracelets.  There is no easy way in.  I just need to walk.  This is no time for baby steps. I turn towards the water, focusing on the first buoy. Nothing else exists.  Methodically, yet purposefully, in a trance, I march until my chin hits the top of the water’s surface.  With each stride several more inches of my body were introduced to the near paralyzing stream that crept up the inside of my wetsuit.  Without a pause I launched forward like Superman.  Indeed, this water was like Kryptonite. Literally, it takes only a few seconds to begin experiencing the numbness. I can only tolerate my face in the water for 2-3 seconds.  Fortunately, accommodation occurs quite rapidly, but my hands and feet have followed suit and are quite pissed off.  With an easy and efficient stroke I glide out to the first buoy and back.  I end up in about 4 feet of water and begin jogging in place, however, I can’t ward off the lip trembling and swift conversion over to damaging teeth chatter.  Amongst a few nearby chuckling friends there also seems to be a slight sense of concern, “Look, the roosta has got some serious beak chatter going on there.  You okay?”

I reply, “I need to start this fuckin’ race before someone shoves a stick up my ass and sells me to Ben & Jerry.  I’ll even sing the National Anthem (with spectacular tremolo) if it’ll herd us into the water sooner.”  Obviously hypothermia is setting in --- I’m dropping F-bombs and marketing my crappy singing abilities to the public.

Okay.  My turn. After spending 4 minutes on the beach (out of the water), my wave is finally given the “Go!”.  The water is an unbelievably welcome new cocoon.  As has become my strategy, when it is a counter clockwise swim, I choose to be near the front to middle of the pack, but as far left as can be.  I only breathe to the right, so this allows me to get a better sense of where the other athletes are positioned around me.  I know none of them will be on my left so that gives me less to worry about, plus, in a counter-clockwise swim, by hugging the buoys, I’m assured of taking the shortest route to the finish. By being in the middle section, I won’t have to pass too many swimmers in my immediate line.  I figure the “nervous” and probably slower swimmers will choose the back, and they won’t catch me.  The few swimmers in front of me will either be faster and will pull away soon, giving me an “open lane”, or I can overtake them, knowing that there will only be a few of them.  It worked brilliantly before, and did so again today. Not for one moment did I stop my freestyle stroke during the entire 1500 yards.  Four hundred yards into the race I am passing blue-capped swimmer from the wave that started 4 minutes ahead of me.  By the half-way buoy, I begin putting a few of the orange caps (from the first wave) in my rear view as well.  My arms are tiring.  I don’t like swimming in a full sleeve (5mm) wetsuit, but it is a necessity today.  The numbness is no longer appreciable, and I’m able to keep the fatigue under control by focusing on a longer portion of the recovery phase of my stroke.  As I enter the final 200 yards, I begin to kick (something I avoid in non-sprint races to conserve energy and save my legs for the bike and run).  The instant I start kicking a bit, my right calf sends me a message, “Keep it up and I will shut myself down.”  It’s about to cramp.  It’s right on the edge.  It’s so bad and so close that I have to actually avoid pointing my toes at all.  This increases my drag dramatically, but the muscle is leaving me no choice.  As is my practice when approaching the shore, I swim until my fingertips start touching the sand beneath me before I stand.  I have no idea where my feet are.  They are clearly not attached.  I don’t even attempt to run.  The crowd is lining the beach.  This is no place to faceplant. I begin searching for the Velcro neck strap.  I know right where it is.  I can feel it.  I think? Maybe? I can’t grab it.  It’s right there.  I know it didn’t fall off.  Why can’t I grasp it?  By this point I realize I still have my goggles, neoprene cap, and green swim cap on, and my ear plugs are still in.  

While standing near the wetsuit stripper section I am struggling to remove each of these items.  They are waving me over.  I can’t hear what they are saying with my ear plugs still in, but they keep signaling me to come over.  

I yell, “I can’t find the Velcro! I think the zipper is stuck too!”  

Still they wave me over. “It’s okay, we can help.” A woman runs in behind me, rips the Velcro neck strap open, unzips the rear panel, and then directs me to two kids, neither of which appear old enough to drive. In super slow motion I manage to take the upper half of my wetsuit down to my thigh and I plop my butt onto the carpet.  The two volunteers begin their tug-o-war with the leggings.  My left comes off easily (probably thanks to the Pam cooking spray I had applied beforehand), but as I point the toes of my right foot, my calf knots up.  It’s over.  For 20 seconds I’m writhing, trying to stretch.  When it finally lets up I hobble over to a tree where I had placed my transition bag, one bike rack over from where I was set up, and throw my wetsuit into a pile.  The next big task is getting my ear plugs out.  It requires fine dexterity, of which all has vanished into the lake.  I have no pincher grasp. My thumb and fingers simply refuse to come together.  Neither side is working.  Another minute goes by.  I am helpless.  All I can do is just keep trying. I contemplate just leaving them in but wonder if that will screw with my equilibrium on the bike.  So, I keep trying.  Over and over again, repetitively pinching, until finally they’re out.  I waddle over to my bike.  Everything is arranged for the perfect transition. I glance at my watch.  I was hoping to be on the bike in 31min flat.  I'm at 32:30 as I arrive at the front of my bike.  I wrap my racebelt around my waist.  The latch is just large enough whereby I can easily secure it using my palms. The shoes are next.  This should be easy.  The shoes are new.  This will be their first race. The opening is huge, making it a breeze to slip my foot in.  The Velcro straps are large, and there is only one, versus my previous shoes that each had three.  My feet, as predicted, each slide in with ease.  As I reach down to secure the strap, it slips out of the buckle. Forgetting that I have lost all fine motor control in my fingers, I struggle to rethread it.  On either hand I have lost the ability to touch my thumb to any of my fingers.  I might as well not have thumbs.  I try using two fingers but am met with failure repetitively.  Frustrated, as the clock ticks, I realize that today will not be the day.  I won’t break 2:55:00.  If I spend more than three and a half minutes in transition, I may not even be able to pull off a sub-3hr time.  How many times, and how many ways do I try to thread this fucking strap before I decide to try something else?  I whip my right shoe off and bite the strap.  I feed it through the buckle and pull it through.  Yes, with my teeth.  And yes, on the first frigin try. Unbelievable .  So, now with both shoes on, I place my helmet on. The chin strap is small, and fairly taught.  Easily two full minutes go by.  It’s hopeless. I could be here a while.  I simply can’t grasp it.  I shake out my hands like I’m experiencing carpal tunnel syndrome, or my hands are asleep because I slept on them wrong.  The fact is, they’re not asleep.  They just won’t work.  It’s becoming comical, and not in a good way.  I’m feeling embarrassed actually.  I’m now looking around to see if anyone I know is watching me: my wife (who’s never been to one of my races), my kids, any of my fellow racers from my circle of friends?  Athletes are flying in and out of transition. What am I doing?  Standing still, messing with a damn chin strap.  There are very specific rules you need to follow in triathlon.  To name a few:  No drafting, no littering, all race numbers need to be displayed (on your bike, your helmet, your clothing), and no riding your bike unless the chin strap is secured.  If you don’t, you’re either penalized 2 minutes, or worse yet, DQ’d (disqualified).  

But then, a remarkable show of sportsmanship takes place.  It is a gesture that just so happens to be extremely common in this amazing sport.  The athlete who was assigned the space next to mine, and whom had arrived as I was putting on my helmet, has apparently noted that I haven’t moved in over 2 minutes, nor I have done anything but stand in front of my bike with my hands raised to my chin.  “Are you okay?” he asked in a European accent.

“No.  I can’t feel my hands.  I can’t buckle my chin strap.”
“Here, let me do it for you.”  He reached over, and in an instant it was done.
“I can’t thank you enough.  Let’s race.  I’ll follow you,” trying to show my appreciation.

“No, I’ll follow you,” he insists.  “You obviously swam a hell of a lot faster than me, so you’re probably faster on the bike as well.”

“Alright , brother, but don’t go passing me," I jest.
“I’ll wait til the run,” he counters.

We both get a laugh out of it.  We give each other a fist bump. . . . . I think.  My hands were numb, so I’m not sure.

 

RESULTS: Overall 3:16:13  277th/436, Age Group 40-44 = 54th/65

Swim (1500yds): 30:20 (2:02/100yds), 154th/436 total entrants

T1: 7:30

Bike (27.22 miles): 1:33:56 (17.4mph), 238th/436

T2: 2:05

Run (6.2 miles): 1:02:25 (10:04/mile pace), 335th/436

(recall that I started 8min after the official gun - swim wave #3)

There were no PR's today.  The swim was dreadfully cold.  It was easily the toughest bike ride I had ever been on. And because of the ride, the run was sluggish.  

But despite all that, I raced, I had a blast, and I got to hang out with tremendous friends.  But the most awesome part was falling into the arms of my wife and kids at the finish.

Resetting Circadia

We all have routines.  We all have biological clocks.  Most are endogenous or “built in” and usually based on the 24-hour day, however, other examples include weekly (our work weeks vs. weekend), tidal (the moon phases), monthly (ask any female), seasonal (more pronounced in certain parts of the globe – ie/ the Arctic Circle to reference one extreme), and annual. The most obvious of these circadian cues is daylight (which I think we tend to over micromanage with Daylight Savings).

Taken from Wikipedia, in order to be called “circadian”, a biological rhythm must meet these four general criteria:

1.    The rhythms repeat once per day (they have a 24-hour period). In order to keep track of the time of day, a clock must be at the same point at the same time each day, i.e. repeat every 24 hours.

2.    The rhythms persist in the absence of external cues (endogenous). The rhythm persists in constant conditions with a period of about 24 hours. The rationale for this criterion is to distinguish circadian rhythms from simple responses to daily external cues. A rhythm cannot be said to be endogenous unless it has been tested in conditions without external periodic input.

3.    The rhythms can be adjusted to match the local time (entrainable). The rhythm can be reset by exposure to external stimuli (such as light and heat), a process called entrainment. The rationale for this criterion is to distinguish circadian rhythms from other imaginable endogenous 24-hour rhythms that are immune to resetting by external cues and, hence, do not serve the purpose of estimating the local time. Travel across time zones illustrates the ability of the human biological clock to adjust to the local time; a person will usually experience jet lag before entrainment of their circadian clock has brought it into sync with local time.

4.    The rhythms maintain circadian periodicity over a range of physiological temperatures (exhibit temperature compensation). Some organisms live at a broad range of temperatures, and the thermal energy will affect the kinetics of all molecular processes in their cell(s). In order to keep track of time, the organism's circadian clock must maintain a roughly 24-hour periodicity despite the changing kinetics, a property known as temperature compensation.

For reasons of this posting, as it relates to triathlon, and more specifically to training, the obvious one to focus in on is #3, “entrainable”.

 

So, here is what you are thinking . . . . . . . how is this important to triathlon?  Well, it might not be important to your triathlon training, but it became an absolute necessity to my triathlon training in October of 2010, the moment I started my new job.  In the fall of 2009 when I started training for my first tri, I was working 3 days per week, 8am-8pm, usually Tuesday – Thursday.  You can imagine the potential for training having a 4-day weekend nearly every week.  The flip side of that is pretty much not being able to find any time to train on those 3 days that I was working. Let’s just say, I could almost always find time for those long endurance training rides, runs, or bricks, but I also had 3 days of recovery each week which is way too much too often and probably somewhat detrimental.

 

My new job, as a physician assistant, in thoracic surgery, is now M-F.  Two days per week I need to be in the Operating Room before 7:30am, and that is after seeing all of the previously admitted patients, at 2 different hospitals no less.  Now, there isn’t always patients admitted, but usually.  The other 3 days per week I need to be in the office by 8:00am, again after rounding on all of the admitted patients.  In surgery there is always someone “on-call”, someone who answers the pager when it goes off.  For me that is every day from 6:30am to 4:00pm (only M-F), as well as every other M-F being on-call 24 hours per day.  Are you seeing my dilemma developing?  At any point between 6:30am and 4:00pm I may be called to drop what I am doing to get somewhere (in a hurry).  On the weeks that I’m on-call 24hrs/day I may get awoken several times during the night to answer the pager.

So, when does this 41 year old age grouper, with 2011 ambitions to complete his first Half Ironman, find the time to train?  Let’s just say that I need to be done with my daily workout before 6:30am. This means a 3:45am alarm.  When I first got this job I made an attempt to workout in the evenings, after the kids went to bed (about 8pm), but my energy level was terrible at that time of day. I found myself routinely skipping them in lieu of a warm bed.  The other difficult part was falling asleep at 10:30pm after a great workout (wasn’t happening).

 

Afternoons were also not an option.  Upon leaving work around 4pm each day, I’d have to go pick up the kids from school/daycare, make them dinner, help with homework, and then hang out with them until bed – time I was not willing to sacrifice. Often after they went to bed it was the time of day that I’d open mail, pay some bills, do laundry/dishes/whatever.  So, what was left?  That’s right, 4-6am.  I had no choice, and that’s okay, because once I had figured out how to reset my internal clock, I started having the most productive workouts of my life.

 

 

After the first 3 months at my new job I was finally starting to settle in, so with the holidays in the rearview I put the plan in place.  Starting in January every 2 weeks I would set my alarm clock to awaken me 15 minutes earlier than the previous 2 weeks.  By April, when I officially transitioned into my 20-week Half Ironman training program, I was getting up at 3:45am each morning.  Of course, this sleep had to be made up somewhere.  That wasn’t difficult at all.  When you get up before dawn with the roosta, it’s pretty easy to fall asleep before 9pm, and I was.  Generally within about 10 minutes of me plopping my tail on the couch, I was fighting REM.  It is a fight I don’t mind losing and have no will to win anyway.

 

But will it be enough?  That 20wk training plan that I have requires 2 workouts per day 2-3 days per week, and always with a day of rest each week.  And that is where the adjustment must be made. I will need to sacrifice that day off in lieu of taking one of those evening workouts and shifting it to that “off” day.  Inevitably, on one of the other “double workout days”, I will just have to suck it up and do the evening one, which sometimes will be on the weekend, except I need to reserve the weekend days for those longer workouts lasting 2-4 hours, usually involving a BRICK.  

 

It took me 3 weeks in January to methodically go through that 20wk plan and make all of the adjustments to allow it to potentially fit “my” life.  It took me nearly 3 months to reset my circadian rhythm.  Yet, I still find myself needing to make weekly, if not daily adjustments to that day’s “plan”.  Why? It is an amazing sport that I love.  Where else can I be in the same race, alongside (ok, behind), the pros? You must lead a healthy lifestyle in order to coax your body into doing the extraordinary.  The families, other athletes, the volunteers, and fans, are simply the best of any sport. You’re never too old. After all you will always only compete against those of similar age. It’s never too late to reset your rhythm, but you’ll have to get up well before dawn if you want to crow with the iron roosta.

Pardon my Vanity

After a lot of drafts, drawn by yours truly, the final design of my logo was sent to a graphic artist at epixgear.com a few weeks ago.  epixgear.com is a site specializing in custom triathlon apparel.  They were the only site that I could find that would allow a client to order a single trisuit whereby most have a minimum order quantity of about ten.  Not only that, but they have 8 different templates and about 25-30 colors to choose from, and have a graphic artist that will work with you on a logo design.  And it can all be easily done from their website.  All communication that I had with their staff was super.  I never had to wait more than 24 hours for a response to my emails, even on weekends.

I'm hoping my trisuit is ready for my first race, The Mooseman International, but they have said that it usually takes 6 weeks for custom orders to be shipped, especially in the Spring due to high volume.  But I've seen a picture of my trisuit, complete with lettering and logos and I've got to say that it's pretty frigin cool.  I really don't care how vane or self-promoting it is.  It's fun, and for me, that is really what it is all about right now.  My hope is that as this blog gains popularity (if it does), and I become more established in the triathlon community, that I can use this as a launching pad for raising funds for charity.

So, without further delay . . .         

the iron roosta logo

"Screw you, Peter Benchley!"

Of the five triathlons that I signed up for in 2010 (I've written about 2 so far), the hardest one to hit the “order confirmation” button on was by far, The Lobsterman.  Not because it would be an Olympic (International) distance, or because it would be the week after The Pumpkinman Sprint, which I had also signed up for, but because it would be my first ocean swim event.  I don’t care if it is in a Bay (Casco).  The water is salty, there are currents, it’ll be really cold, and dorsal fin wielding, gill breathing, ‘I can detect a single red blood cell in 100 gazillion gallons of water’ predators will have easy access to wetsuit-dawning prey in that Bay (I just got a chill up my spine).  Go ahead, laugh all you want.  All season, every day, no matter what I was doing, if I thought about the sport, I thought about that event – in particular that swim.  It haunted me. I had nightmares. I may have even pissed myself at one point.  Fortunately, that weekend, there was a distraction.

You remember Dan, right? – from my previous blog post “You CAN Get There From Here”.  We had, as we ended up calling it, arranged to be each others’ “beotches”.  He drove out from Rochester, NY to race in The Portsmouth Criterium which was on Sunday September 19th, the day after The Lobsterman. So, Saturday he catered to me, and Sunday I made his day a little easier so we could each relax and focus on our personal goals for raceday.  Since this is a “retrospective” race report, I can honestly say that “retrospectively”, I don’t know that I could’ve done this specific race without his presence.  Dan and I went to PA school together (1997-2001) and have remained friends since. I'll admit though, it’s not exactly debauchery, blackouts, and bailouts when we get together.

After a fair five hours of sleep, my 4:15am alarm goes off and within about 90 seconds I am making my standard oatmeal, brown sugar, and almond butter prerace breakfast. I take it upstairs as Dan rolls off his air mattress.  I had been doing fine the last 1-2 days, but when I began putting in my contacts, the bottle of saline reminded me that I would be doing my very first salt water open swim in about 4 hours. A few palpitations later I find myself sitting on the john, not recalling how I got there. I feel nauseated and crampy, and I’m not even at the venue yet.  If you’ve learned anything about me on this blog, or because you know me fairly well personally, you’d know that there isn’t much to do race morning except eat and put in my contacts.  Everything is already in the car, my clothes for the day are laid out in the order that I’m going to put them on, and everything for breakfast is already on the counter, in the order that it'll enter the bowl, spoon perpendicular to the counter’s edge, and the handle to my oversized oatmeal mug facing west. The only difference this time? I’ve got a bitch to get out of bed.  Hehe!  Fortunately, Dan is also a Type A, although probably not as weird or quirky.  I told him the night before that we will leave at 4:45, and he is waiting at the door at 4:44, backpack slung over shoulder. 

The event heavily promoted carpooling secondary to limited parking on site, and it was first come, first serve.  The park opened at 6:30am for cars and it was going to be about a 90-95min commute (with a 9am start time to the race – the latest start time of all 5 of my races). I gave us a 15min buffer for “rest stops” if needed.  During the previous 4 races I didn’t have the opportunity to shoot the shit or talk shop, aside from the previous week when my wife came with me to The Pumpkinman, but at 5am she’s usually not in all that talkative of a mood, nor does she want to hear about the latest in wetsuit technology or how best to taper your bike interval workouts prior to a 70-mile Time Trial. So, it was relaxing to have Dan as my copilot.  At some point though he asked me, “How do you feel?”
“Until you mentioned it, Dan, I was doing great, but since you asked, I’m scared shitless. This is my first open water ocean swim.  I never even did a training swim in the ocean water.  Stupid, I know.”
“Yeah, you’ve brought that up a few times,” he chuckles. “All the more reason to swim harder and swim faster.”
“But Dan, I told you, today is just about enjoying every second of this race and finishing in under 3 hours. This will be the longest distance I have ever gone and twice as far as any race I’ve done this season.” (0.93 mile swim, 25 mile bike, 6.2 mile run)
To lighten me up, Dan informs, “Well, sharks go for the black object above them that looks and acts weak and wounded, so just don’t look like that and you’ll be fine.”
I call him a few inappropriate names in jest, but I immediately feel better . . . somehow.

Without a potty break enroute (astounding, I know), we pull into the park and begin maneuvering the dirt road toward the venue.  As we approach some flaggers I peer off to my right into the shimmering bay and my gaze falls upon 2 bright orange pyramid buoys.  My first thought is (which I clearly voiced), “That’s too far. That can’t be right. That’s out to that island. That must be frigin’ deep.”
Dan pipes in, “Dude, C’mon, that’s less than the distances you’ve been doing in the pool all summer. Don’t worry about it.”
Well, he’s absolutely right. To break my nervous tension I say, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger . . . unless it eats you.”  We laugh (but it's really only funny to one of us.)

See that buoy out there?

It definitely paid off getting here early as we get ushered to an area right beside the registration tent, the food area, and about 50 yards from transition. Prime!!!  I can’t throw the car in “park” fast enough, “Now where are those Port-o-Potties?  We passed a couple by the swim start and there were no lines.  There has got to be more, but I just don’t see them anywhere.  “Well, Dan, I’m gonna run down to those and hope that they are unlocked.”  I wasn’t expecting Dan to follow me with his camera.  The look on my face at the very end of the following clip is priceless.

Upon exiting the johns, Dan is nowhere to be found. I later learn he is off taking tons of photos (all of them integrated into this post are courtesy of him!).  After picking up my race packet and topping off my tires to the needed pressures at the tour bus (minivan) I head off to begin setting up my transition area and get body marked. This was the easiest set-up of my brief career. I have come to realize that frankly, I am a minimalist --- helmet backwards and upside down on handlebars (no sunglasses), race number belt draped over helmet, bike shoes just behind front tire (Velcro straps opened), running shoes (no socks) with some baby powder thrown in, as loose as they can be (Yankz laces) just in front of the rear tire, and water added to my powdered nutrition bottles.  That’s it.  It’s hard to screw that up.  And I don’t need to triple check things every 5 minutes for the next hour any more.  I’ve got bigger things to worry about (and they swim in the ocean).

Despite having less than an hour before the start, I can’t bring myself to even walk by the swim start.  I don’t want to see the buoys.  I don’t even want to see the water.  I do about a 10-15min light jog (in the opposite direction) followed by an equal amount of time stretching and loosening up.  After expressing a gelpack into my cheek and chasing it with some water, the inevitable arrives.  It is time to apply the wetsuit.  I have never swam 1500 meters in a wetsuit, so I’m trying to decide between sleeves versus sleeveless since I brought both of them.  I expect the ocean water to be cold, but will it be really cold?  If I go with sleeves my shoulders and neck may tire prematurely, but at least they will be warm.  Going sleeveless will surely prevent fatigue, but at the cost of becoming uncomfortably numb I suspect.  I based my decision on the fact that I just plain hate being cold.  Fatigue I can deal with if I have to – just stop swimming, float, and rest.  But I can’t get out of the cold water to warm up once I’m out there.  So, full-sleeve wetsuit it is.  Alright, I can’t put it off any longer.  Goggles, ear plugs, swim cap.  I estimate it was about a 300yd walk to the swim start. 

Once the beach comes into view I can’t stop looking at that second (and final) orange buoy off to my left.  If I can make it to that last buoy, adrenaline will get me back to the beach.  Of course, I still have to get into the water first, and that is the part that has been haunting me, interrupting my sleep for the last 7 months.  I descend some rock ledges to the wet sand and just before testing the water I turn to Dan, but he’s gone.  I haven’t seen a single soul that I know today.  There are no familiar faces.  No security woobie.  It’s just me, that jerk, Peter Benchley, engulfing my every thought, and the Atlantic Ocean.  Look at all of the athletes out there doing their warm-up swim.  They all look like wounded seals in fluorescent swim caps.  Nervously I march to waist deep water.  By the time I get there my feet are numb.  The loudspeaker blares that there are 2 minutes until everyone needs to be at the swim start.  I dive in (towards shore) just to get that initial cold water shock out of the way and allow for some water to enter my wetsuit to begin warming up.  It’s the coldest water I have swam in since mid-May when I did my first swim of the season at Spring Hill (that was 58 degrees).  Today it’s 61.  

The race director gives his announcements, wishes us well, then hands over the mic for The National Anthem.  My ear plugs follow the final notes into my ear canals as I decide that I need dead silence for the next 10min to meditate, find a Zenful place, focus intently on what I’m about to do, what demon I’m about to lay to rest, what terror I’m about to collide with.  It’s the clearest 10min my mind has ever encountered.  My wave (the third wave) is ushered into the water to the end of the pier where the official starting line is estimated to be.  I’m selectively in the back but close enough to others to provide me with a small sense of security.  I can’t feel bottom now.  I pirouette several times to be sure I’m not being stalked.  My hands now enter numbville, joining my feet.  My face will be next.  The first 50-100 yards of my swims, whether it’s the pool, a pond, a lake, or the ocean (I’m anticipating) are the worst.  I need that distance to find a groove, settle into my stroke, and get my breathing rhythm syncopated.  As I turn to look for the first buoy and choose my line, the ten second countdown begins.  I pee in my wetsuit for the first time.  It takes about 20 seconds.  I’m fine with the delay, but I’ve put this off long enough, “Okay, Peter Benchley, this is for you, you son of a bitch.”

I had been given some pointers and advice about ocean swims.  First was from Dan, “Don’t act like an injured seal.”  Yeah, thanks bro.  Second, at that distance (1500 meters), you may get thirsty – “don’t swallow any of the salt water”, and the taste “sucks”.  “The currents will screw up your swim lines, so sight more often”.  “The waves will probably cause some nausea”.  “Visibility underwater will be horrible”.  “The salt water makes you more buoyant, so you’ll probably swim faster than expected”.  That’s nice and all, but if I get a great swim time it’ll be because I’m trying to get my frigin ass out of that water ASAP, not due to a little salt holding me horizontal.
Well, everyone was right, plus I’m swimming with a purpose.  Once in a groove I begin sighting every 4-5 breaths.  I immediately come up on some other athletes and begin taking on water into my goggles.  WTF! These goggles are 6 weeks old and have never leaked.  I need to stop 3 times to empty them and readjust.  Finally they seem to be staying suctioned to my face and I can fall right back into my stroke like nothing happened, but now I’m pissed and my purpose escalates.  I begin treating this 1500m swim like it’s a mere sprint distance (500m).  As I round the first buoy I’m stunned to see two swimmers wearing light blue caps, from the wave that started 3 minutes ahead of me.  I feel much better now, but I’m wondering how much longer I can keep up this pace.  That second buoy is so far away that I can’t spot it, so I’m relying on the swimmers in front of me to guide me toward it.  Visibility underwater is less than 2 feet.  I can barely make out my fingertips in front of me with each stroke.  If you don’t look up (sight) every few strokes, you’re more likely to make contact with a fellow swimmer before you even see them.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’d rather swim in 200 feet of crystal clear water than 7 feet of dark murky water.  I have no idea how deep this water is or what is approaching me, so when a few strands of seaweed get caught in my fingers or drape themselves across my forehead, I begin a brief freakout phase, but I honestly think this improved my time.  I figured if I had the perfect swim, which I certainly was not confident that I would, I could sneak in around 35 minutes.  Finally approaching the second (final) buoy, the field is looking thinner, and I notice that I am passing other colored swim caps from wave 1.  Wondering if 35 minutes seems suddenly more feasible, I round that buoy and locate the beach, but my shoulders and upper back are bonking.  I choose not to sight as often, slow my stroke, and concentrate on my recovery phase.  Within 30 seconds I’m feeling that I’m producing my most efficient open water stroke of the season.  There is no one around me and it’s hard not to smile.  As I approach the shoreline, knowing that I can swim in water faster than I can walk through water, I elect to swim until my fingertips brush the sand beneath me.  When I stand, I stop, turn around, and take a few seconds to actually take in what I have just accomplished. I flip an imaginary bird into the Bay and say, “I win.”  Nothing can go wrong the rest of the race.  And my swim time means absolutely nothing (but I don’t mind telling you that I crushed my goal of 35min with a 28:39, 166th/388 total male athletes).

I walk.  No really, I walk, all the way to transition from the beach.  Everyone else is swiftly going by me.  I’m basking in glory.  It just doesn’t much matter how long it takes me to finish the race.  The swim leg is over . . . and I won.  I don’t see Dan until I arrive at my Bike.  I can’t recall a single word that I said to him in T1.  All I know is that I’m pretty frigin happy.

A quarter mile of gravel groomed the fan-lined road which led us out of the park.  Shortly after hitting the pavement and I get up to my speed and cadence, I fall into aero position, then that moment happens.  It’s that Zen-like, thrilling, hyperfocused, nearly orgasmic block of time where I hear nothing but the wind coursing through the vents in my helmet as I peer over my thumbs at the scrolling road.  I am one with the bike.  It lasts so much longer this race because the first half mile is all downhill, even needing to tap the breaks a few times secondary to congestion and corners.  I am grateful for this, but all good things must come to an end.  Having not driven the course, I have no idea what to expect.  A new friend, and local chiropractor, Brian, had given me the lowdown about the course a week earlier when we were paired up as volunteers on the Pumpkinman Half bike course. He told me it was a beautiful ride with several good rolling hills.  Then he said, “I’ll see you there.  I’m doing that race for the third time.”  When he told me what his time was from last year I figured at some point he’d pass me today (knowing that his age groups’ swim wave was a few after mine).  I didn’t think he’d pass me in the water, although I really had no idea how strong of a swimmer he was.

In my previous 4 triathlons I had gotten out of the saddle to hammer a hill a total of 8 times (twice in each of them).  So, I was a little worried when within the first 5-6 miles I had already met that quota. Fortunately, the climbs didn’t seem as long.  My previous PR (personal record) for a bike leg was 18.3mph at last week’s Pumpkinman Sprint race (14 miles).  I was confident I could hold a 17.5mph average over this 25 mile course.  By the turnaround point I had been forced out of my seat to crawl up an incline four times, and yes, this number doubled by the time I was back to the awesome fans and the gravel path.  Of course, the last hill was the most brutal. It was the first time I ever had to make a decision to push through the pain or risk falling over because I was going so slow.  Why though?  I didn’t feel like I was pushing the pace.  I kept saying to myself, “Dammit Shawn, what gives?  Was it the fact that I raced (my “A” race) last weekend?  Did that take too much out of me?  Am I flat because I spent the week recovering?  Was my nutrition off?  I know it’s a nice day, but it’s not that hot, so it can’t be sodium depletion or dehydration.  Okay, I had to quadruple the number of hill climbs, but they weren’t that long or steep.”  Anyway, I decide to spend the last quarter-mile on the bike recovering, mostly coasting, and trying to get my breathing under control.

The dismount is a breeze.  I walk my bike to the rack and hang it by the seat.  Leisurely, I take a seat in front of my tire and de-velcro by shoes.  My back and quads are thankful for the rest, but I wonder if I’ll need assistance getting back to my feet.  I easily slip on my Mizunos then pull up my calf compression sleeves another half inch.  I’ve told you in the past that with each race this season I broke a Cardinal rule - “don’t try anything on race day that you haven’t already tried in training.”  These compression sleeves on my calves are this race’s installment of that sin.  After the bike leg I still haven’t composed an opinion.  From the fence about 15ft away Dan asks me how I’m feeling and how the ride was.  I tell him it was the toughest ride of the season and I felt slow, “to just have stayed on the bike during that final hill climb was a moral victory.”  I grab my drink and walk over to him.  There is no urgency.  I’m clueless about my time because I forgot to start my wristwatch when my swim wave started.  “You didn’t happen to have started your watch, did you?” I ask Dan.
“Yup” he replies with a smirk.
“Do I have a chance at 3 hours or not?”
“Depends how fast you can run I suppose”, his smirk becomes a grin.
“If you tell me I have an hour to run 10k, then I think I have a very small chance.”
He now laughs, “Well, according to my watch, which is of course an unofficial time, you have one hour and six minutes.”
“What?!?!  Seriously?”  I lean against the fence and take a few more small swigs of my drink.  I think at one point we turned around and wondered if the food section had fired up any grills yet.  “Well, I better leave soon so I can have a 3-5 minute buffer in case something happens out there.”
We touch fists and I tell him I’ll see him at the finish line.

I’m 66 minutes and 6.2 miles from a sub-3hr Olympic (International) distance.  This past summer, on fresh legs mind you, each time I did 6.2 miles, I would average about 53-56 minutes.  Now I had to break 66 minutes, but it would be after the most difficult bike leg of my rookie season.  Let’s face it, the most discouraging and often painful portion of any triathlon (at least to me), is the first half mile or so of the run. The legs feel like waterlogged oak tree stumps rotting from the inside.  Your stride is nothing like you practiced in training.  Going another 50 feet seems unimaginable.  You surely don’t look like a runner.

Not far from T2 a woman (a volunteer I think) is cheering me on (I think?) – “Let’s go!  Turn over those long legs of yours!  Lengthen your stride!  High knees.  C’mon, you can move faster than that!”
What the frig?  Geesh, if she follows me the entire run I may be capable of finishing in 48min.  I invite her to be my personal coach and motivational speaker for the next 6 miles, even offering to pay her 100% of my winnings, but she laughs and replies, “You won’t win unless you get those legs moving.”
“Thanks coach!”
I’m not sure what to make of that exchange.  It doesn’t help.  My legs still hurt.  Termites are having their way with my thighs and I’m not expecting it to improve all that much.  So, I turn my focus on the mental game.  I’ve heard stories about this, but it was always during an Ironman event.  Well, okay, I’m a rookie and this is my longest race of the year, so I guess this is kind of my Ironman moment for this year.  My friend Amanda said she might be able to make it up here to cheer me on.  She had a 25-30 mile bike ride on her training schedule, but since the race didn’t start until 9am, she was fairly sure she could get in the ride and make it up to my race to see me on the course somewhere. Amanda is training for her first Ironman in June of 2011.  We live quite close to each other, and with my previous job allowing me weekdays off, and she running her own business, we did several long rides together over the summer.  We have very similar abilities on the bike, I can swim circles around her, and she can run backward faster than I can run forward, even with a tail wind.  Seeing her out there would be just the lift I need.  I’m struggling and certainly slowing.  I have not been able to find my running legs after a mile into this.  I’m looking for her.  I’m looking for something.  Anything.  I need some mojo.  The next hill awaits me.  I can’t accept any more of these after this one.  It’s all I've got left.  One foot in front of the other.  It’s a constant rerun in my head.  It’s the only way up this hill. I make eye contact with everyone lining the roads now.  I don’t miss a single set.  I need to see someone that I know. A second cousin’s neighbor’s coworker’s junior high school’s Home Ec assistant would be fine at this point.   As I crest the hill I can only look down, willing my feet, one at a time, to plant in front of me, moving me forward.  
“Wooooo.  Shawn!  (clapping)  You’re looking strong. You got this.”  It’s Amanda, and obviously she is delirious. I look strong?  “How do you feel?”
I say nothing.  I shrug.  If I think about how I feel, I’ll soon be walking.  I need to go to a place I haven’t been before, but I have no idea how to get there.  All I know is that if I keep going forward and follow the course, a finish line awaits me.  Moments ago all I wanted to do was finish.  Suddenly, I must be damn sure that I finish in under 3 hours.  A deep breath, relax my shoulders and neck, and increase my cadence.  I’ve got this.  From that second, until I hit the turn around mark, I don’t recall much of anything.  I fantasized about crossing the finish line and gazing at the red digital numbers as they approached three hours.

A tap on the shoulder interrupts my dream. “Brian!  Hey man! How’s it going?”  Not being sure what swim wave he is in (which really means how much of a head start I had on him), I’m not surprised that he has finally passed me, I was just guessing it would’ve been near the end of the bike leg.  
“I’m feeling pretty good, Shawn. You holding up okay?  Only a couple more miles, man.”
“I’ve been struggling most of the run, but I should be alright.”
“You’re fine.  Maybe I’ll find you later.”
And suddenly he is gone.  He takes off, and although I would’ve liked to have tried to hang with him to the finish, I just can’t go any faster.  It’s a major accomplishment to not reduce myself to a walk at this point.  Right now, that’s all that matters.  “Just keep running.  Just keep running. Just keep running.”

It’s getting close to noon now and the sun is out in full force. Although only about 60 degrees, it seems to feel more like 80.  I’ve been hitting every hydration station.  I chose not to carry fluids with me.  This may have been a mistake.  Or maybe I should have drank more on the bike.  It doesn’t matter much now.  I’m back at the point where I should be seeing Amanda again.  That’ll be a welcome sight.  Brian gave me the encouragement to carry me a mile or two, but I already know that I’m going to need substantially more for that final push up that last damn hill with just under a mile remaining.  It’s the same long hill that we coasted down at the start of the bike as well as the run.  That inevitable task has been fresh in my mind for 2 hours now.  “Save something for that last hill,” I keep saying to myself.  The problem is that my tank is empty right now.

As I take a left onto the last road that leads to the finish, and prepare to climb, Amanda is awaiting up behind the stop sign on a small embankment.  She walks down towards me.  Under my breath I am begging for some encouragement.  I am hoping she says something like, “Only 100 more feet.”  It would be even better if she said, “Only 100 more feet, and you’re way under 3 hours.”  
“Alright Shawn! You look great.  How do you feel?” again clapping.
I simply can’t speak. I thought about what I might say to her if I saw her again, but all I could do was throw my hands up in the air, palms to the sky, and shrug with a quick shake of my head. That’s it.  No energy to form words at this point.  Or maybe I’m just conserving what fumes are left.  I can’t waste calories moving my lips.  As I struggle to trudge on past her, I start feeling bad.  I mean bad as in Amanda drove all the way up here to cheer me on and show her support (after her 40 mile bike ride), and I didn’t even thank her on the course.  What a putz.  One word, “Thanks”, was even too much to muster.

The runner who is now passing me I have been secretly competing against the entire run.  I somewhat coasted by him down the hill during the first mile and we had exchanged positions numerous times since, never likely more than 50ft apart.  He had the number “43” on his right calf, and by the way, based on his physique, didn’t look like he should be in front of me.  That just goes to show yet again that it is not about the body that surrounds the engine, it’s about the engine that feeds the will (I just coined that).  Unless he is feeling like me, I’ve got no chance to overtake him one last time.  He’s appearing strong and is creating separation rapidly.  He left more than just fumes in his reserve tank.  He is actually driving up that hill, whereby my feet are not even leaving the ground.  So, in that respect, I would technically qualify for an official speedwalker.  I can now hear the announcer’s voice over the speakers with blaring music in the immediate background.  The crowds lining the streets are getting thicker and I can now see up ahead where the pavement turns back to gravel, the sign that there is only about an eighth of a mile remaining.  Without thinking about it, my speedwalking status turns immediately into a graceful and competent runner’s stride.  Engulfed with adrenaline, and not wanting to give the appearance that I’m about to puke, or having not trained enough, I put on the façade that “this is a walk in the park” (almost literally).  I think its working. Even a better feeling than that of completing my first triathlon was crossing the finish line at The Lobsterman today.  Twice the distance as I had ever gone before, and yes, in under 3 hours.  I made it . . . smiling yet again.

My official time was 2:54:28 (I started in the 3rd swim wave - 3 minutes after the gun went off)

Several moments after finishing, Dan found me and gave me some water.  After a few high-fives and pseudo man hugs, he asked me if I wanted anything else.  I think I said “yes, whatever you can get is fine”. 

As he walked away, I bent over to loosen my shoes, and when I stood back upright, the next thing I remember was lying on the grass with 2 guys kneeling over me asking me if I was okay.  I was a bit confused.  One of them looked me in the eyes, which were apparently not completely rolled up into my head, and shot off to go get help.
“I’m okay, I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“Someone went to get help at the medical tent.  Just stay down.”
“How long have I been down for?” as I sit up and hug my knees.
The remaining athlete, “I saw you go down.  You were right beside me.  Probably only a couple of seconds.”
“I think I just stood up too fast after I loosened my sneakers.  I’m okay now.”
Just then, a volunteer came over with someone from the medical tent, a Nurse Practitioner, and handed me a banana and some pretzels.  They helped me up and saw that I was steady.  I was embarrassed and humbled, but most of all I was sincerely thankful, and I certainly let them know.  What a tremendous community this is – triathlon (or multisport).  It’s like nothing I have ever been around.

Dan walks over to me and hands me a banana and half of a bagel.
“Thanks bro, but I just ate a banana.”
“What?”
“Yeah, right after you walked away, I passed out apparently.  They called some folks over from the medical tent who gave me a banana and some pretzels, which I scoffed down, and they hung out with me for a few minutes.”
“What? Did you see a shark or something.”
“No, you dink.  I’m fine - just stood up too fast and a little volume or salt depleted.”
“Damn, I would’ve thought you might of passed out before getting into the water, not after you crossed the finish line.  I’ve got a bag of really salty tortilla chips in the car with your name on it.  Let’s go eat.”
“I’ll race you there!”  The sweet smell of the post race spread was emanating from the other side of transition, which happened to be right next to my tour bus.

In each of the four triathlons that I completed this season, each had its unique set of obstacles, unforeseen complications, and challenges.  Some you can try to plan for.  Some you just can’t.  What remained a true constant was the immense sense of invaluable accomplishment as you cross the finish line.  It doesn’t matter if you finish first, or on the podium at all, or if you were the last one to cross that day.  And your time is surely secondary.  At one point in my very first blog post I stated, “If you finish, you win”.  Well, I got to win every race this season.  I’m 5-0 and looking to stay undefeated.

As we make our way out of the park, I look out into the bay and begin laughing.  The buoys are gone, and so is all of the water in the bay.  Reduced to nothing but a sandbar, like someone had pulled the plug out of the drain, I realize that I was probably swimming in 6-8ft of water the entire time.  But what I didn’t know, made me stronger (nor did it eat me).