The insanity of what I have committed myself to rings loud in my ears. My road bike has a mechanical issue. I dropped it off at the shop yesterday so my favorite "Wrench" could attend to it. With my bike in my hands suspended directly over head, I stepped backwards from the passenger seat to unload it from my roof rack and my jacket got caught on the door. Worried about my bike first and my jacket last, my arms remained over my head, supporting the bike, and my jacket shredded in two. Worse, the loss of momentum threw me off balance and I landed hard on the inside of my foot with my ankle turned funny and I instantly felt pain. My mind turned immediately to the possible impact an injury would have on my training. Never mind the enormous bruise on the underside of my arm which hit the top corner of the open car door, the prospect of not being able to run for a few days, or more, scared me.
Alas, after some ice and Advil, I'm fine. But it goes to show that this endeavor significantly impacts my awareness and psyche. And because of this change in me, I find myself doing crazy things without a second thought. Among those things are getting my fingers pricked again and again to test my blood lactate level.
I already wrote about my first test, which was meant to determine my lactate threshold on the bike. Those results are helpful in designing the most effective training...on the bike. But that information is useless for my training on the run. So back to Coach Dan and his latex gloved hands for another torture session.
The process went much like the first, only, instead of riding I was running on his treadmill. Every few minutes he pricked my finger, tested my blood lactate level and then told me to run faster. As this progressed, Dan redid three specific tests because he initially believed that he was getting flawed results. Why? Even as I ran faster and faster, the blood lactate level remained steady. He finally determined that blood doesn't lie and this could only mean one thing- I have decent running fitness. The value only increased just barely until I reached a hard pace, at which time the jump was obvious, indicating that my blood stream was being invaded by lactic acid and that I had reached my lactic threshold. In other words, I started to hurt!
Coach Dan looked at all the numbers (blood lactate level, heart rate, pace) for a few minutes and told me that everything seems to indicate that my Ironman marathon pace was right around a 9 minute mile, or just under a 4 hour Ironman marathon. Then I remembered that only 10% of Ironman finishers complete the marathon portion in better than 4 hours. I must have made a funny look because Coach Dan quickly responded, "But we can't forget that you still have a head attached."
A head that reasons.
A head that bargains.
A head that understands pain and tries to avoid it.
A head that can do simple calculations like, "I've completed only 4 miles, and still have 22 more to go".
A head that begs to listen to tired, angry muscles, a racing heart and a beaten body.
So, in a perfect world, with good nutrition, a 2.4 mile swim and a 112 mile bike that doesn't totally destroy me, I should ideally be able to hold a 9 minute/mile pace at the end of a long day in Madison.
After Coach Dan reminded me of the head still attached, I offered, "I'll work on that part." And it occurred to me, I can toughen myself up as much as possible over these next 10 months of training. But I'll only have 1 day to prove to myself just how headstrong I can be.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
You Spin Me Right Round, Baby, Right Round
Sometimes I can be a hypocrite. Or maybe a "flip-flopper". But that's a dirty word these days, isn't it? But I'm okay with that, and I'm okay with flip-floppers, even when they're politicians. Would I prefer to vote for someone who is totally sure of himself, or someone who is modest enough to learn from others and humble enough to admit when he was wrong? Hmmm......
I can admit that I'm a bike snob. I think I know everything and I have quiet contempt for those who think they know better. Once upon a time I had scorn from triathletes. "They can't make a decision," I'd protest, silently urging them to pick a single sport already. I also had less than favorable impressions of "indoor cycling" or "spin" classes. I had only taken a few indoor cycling classes over the year and I can safely say that the instructors knew little about cycling fitness. Spinning the pedals and 180 RPM looked more like a controlled convulsion than cycling to me. And I felt sad for the spinners who were in class with me who threw me off their bike. I'll be honest- I love my bicycles. A cyclist and his bike share an intimacy that can't quite be explained.
I met with a friend/congregant at 12 Corners Starbucks last week. As we were wrapping up our discussion, in walks my wife Rachel with two of her friends. Rachel handed me a flyer from the new indoor cycling studio in 12 Corners, Cycledelic. In my deepest bicycle snobbery, I brushed her off with a dismissive, "I don't spin." But I kept the flyer... (Hmmm....foreshadowing?)
As the day carried on, I grew intrigued. Before the day was over, I emailed Kathy, the owner of Cycledelic and, yada yada yada, I'll be teaching an indoor cycling class at Cycledelic Indoor Cycling Studio on my day off, Thursday evenings, probably beginning on November 17, after I've had enough time to learn everything I need to learn.
What changed me? It may have been Kathy's passion for cycling and her desire to share that with anyone who will listen, avid cyclist and beginning alike. It may have been Kathy's emphasis that classes at Cycledelic be based on sound cycling and fitness principles to ensure that clients get the highest quality experience and a true cycling workout. It may have been the orange chairs in the front lobby and the orange "C" in the Cycledelic logo. Yes, I love orange.
I sat in on a class last night with one of the instructors, Jamie. I can confidently say that Jamie gave me a solid workout that only built upon my IM training plan.
If you don't know yet, in my pursuit of the Ironman, I am working to raise $14,060 for CURED in honor of my nephew, Noah's fight against eosinophlic esophagitis. So at my request, my pay for teaching classes at Cycledelic will be donated directly to Cured. So merely by coming to my class, you can help support my effort to help Noah.
If you haven't checked out Cycledelic, I encourage you to do so. Whether you are an outdoor or indoor cyclist, or not a cyclist at all, they have fun classes that will give you a quality workout without the intimidation factor. And make sure to take note of the awesome orange chairs on your way in! Am I allowed to call "shotgun" for a lobby chair?
I can admit that I'm a bike snob. I think I know everything and I have quiet contempt for those who think they know better. Once upon a time I had scorn from triathletes. "They can't make a decision," I'd protest, silently urging them to pick a single sport already. I also had less than favorable impressions of "indoor cycling" or "spin" classes. I had only taken a few indoor cycling classes over the year and I can safely say that the instructors knew little about cycling fitness. Spinning the pedals and 180 RPM looked more like a controlled convulsion than cycling to me. And I felt sad for the spinners who were in class with me who threw me off their bike. I'll be honest- I love my bicycles. A cyclist and his bike share an intimacy that can't quite be explained.
I met with a friend/congregant at 12 Corners Starbucks last week. As we were wrapping up our discussion, in walks my wife Rachel with two of her friends. Rachel handed me a flyer from the new indoor cycling studio in 12 Corners, Cycledelic. In my deepest bicycle snobbery, I brushed her off with a dismissive, "I don't spin." But I kept the flyer... (Hmmm....foreshadowing?)
As the day carried on, I grew intrigued. Before the day was over, I emailed Kathy, the owner of Cycledelic and, yada yada yada, I'll be teaching an indoor cycling class at Cycledelic Indoor Cycling Studio on my day off, Thursday evenings, probably beginning on November 17, after I've had enough time to learn everything I need to learn.
What changed me? It may have been Kathy's passion for cycling and her desire to share that with anyone who will listen, avid cyclist and beginning alike. It may have been Kathy's emphasis that classes at Cycledelic be based on sound cycling and fitness principles to ensure that clients get the highest quality experience and a true cycling workout. It may have been the orange chairs in the front lobby and the orange "C" in the Cycledelic logo. Yes, I love orange.
I sat in on a class last night with one of the instructors, Jamie. I can confidently say that Jamie gave me a solid workout that only built upon my IM training plan.
If you don't know yet, in my pursuit of the Ironman, I am working to raise $14,060 for CURED in honor of my nephew, Noah's fight against eosinophlic esophagitis. So at my request, my pay for teaching classes at Cycledelic will be donated directly to Cured. So merely by coming to my class, you can help support my effort to help Noah.
If you haven't checked out Cycledelic, I encourage you to do so. Whether you are an outdoor or indoor cyclist, or not a cyclist at all, they have fun classes that will give you a quality workout without the intimidation factor. And make sure to take note of the awesome orange chairs on your way in! Am I allowed to call "shotgun" for a lobby chair?
Monday, October 24, 2011
Doughnuts, Dollars & Dirt
Sometimes the stars seem aligned just right for a perfect day. I'm neither astronomer nor astrologist, but the stars must have been in alignment yesterday. I have written in the past about just about impressed I was with the kindness of Coach Dan. Well, yesterday's events only confirmed and compounded those feelings.
Yesterday was Team Nice Tri's Super Spooky Nighttime Offroad Fundraiser Ride at the home of Coach Dan and his amazing wife, Bonnie. When Coach Dan told me, a while ago, that he had some ideas to help support my fundraising efforts for CURED on behalf of my nephew Noah, as I aim to raise $14,060 ($100/mile of the IM), did he ever mean it. So I loaded up my car and headed down to Canandaigua yesterday afternoon.
I arrived and Bonnie's and Coach Dan's home on the most beautiful fall day you can imagine. I pulled my mountain bike off of my roof rack and Coach Dan gave me a tour of the route which was an offroad trail through fields, woods and brush. I spent last summer exclusively racing my mountain bike, so by yesterday I had been exposed to quite a few offroad trails. The trail that Bonnie and Coach Dan built was terrific. It was obvious that they had spent a lot of time out in the woods, and that it was a labor of love. As I drove home last night, I thought it would make a great course for a cyclocross race or a short-track mountain bike race in the future. The biggest challenge of the course was the mud. The heavy midweek rains soaked a few sections of the course, and even Coach Dan's Pugsley with the nearly 4" wide tires slipped and slid. My wheels packed with so much mud each time I hit those few short muddy sections that my front wheel refused to spin until I removed the blockage. Honestly, you can't overestimate what fun it is to play in the mud as a grown adult. Wheeee......
We hung out at the house for a while, waiting for everyone to arrive. As the other brave souls started making their way to the "Nice Tri Training Center", we hit the trail again to put up the final coarse-marking ribbons, to start lighting the 100+ carved jack-o-lanterns that lined much of the course, and to get a mid-course bonfire going.
As the night carried on, we jumped on the trails again, everyone from children to a father dragging a kid-trailer through the heavy mud. With a bunch of athletes, you might have expected a competitive spirit, but we all checked our egos in the mud puddles and enjoyed a truly relaxed, casual and fun night.
I'm not sure anyone made it much more than 5 or 6 laps. It's not that we couldn't continue, but rather, the spread that Bonnie and Coach Dan put out was calling to us. Their hospitality was staggering. Would you invite several dozen muddy athletes into your home?
I was a sucker for the doughnuts. I don't know how many I had, but I figured that if my coach was serving them, they must have been healthy. Or maybe he was just doing his part to help me fill my elevated daily calorie quota. (Parenthetically, I got some fun responses to my call for suggestions to increased my weekly calorie intake by 6000-7000 calories, or, roughly, 1000 calories a day. My favorite came from my friend, Scott, who sent me a plan for consuming 6000-7000 a day! According to this plan, breakfast alone calls for the consumption of 8 eggs, 3 cups of low fat milk, 3 cups of cold cereal, 2 bananas, 3 1/3 tsp olive oil, 4 oz of cheddar cheese. I think Scott is trying to slow me down. Scott, I commend you on your evil genius!)
The rest of the evening was spent hanging out with new people. It was great to meet everyone, and it was fun to put some familiar names to faces. I was truly moved by the generous donations that were made to CURED to support my cause. What amazing kindness and generosity from people who had never previously met me. To all of you, thank you! You have pushed my campaign up and over the $3000 mark! Way to go! That gives me over 10 months to raise about $11,000. You can follow the status of my campaign on the right margin of this blog. If you have causes that are important to you, please remember to ask me for support. I'll be there.
To Bonnie and Coach Dan: Thank you! I know that you put unexpected amounts of time and effort into making last night such a successful evening. Thank you for your time, your effort, your hospitality, your warmth, your concern and your kindness. Thank you for organizing a terrific night of doughnuts, dollars and dirt. I will long remember it. You are good people!
Yesterday was Team Nice Tri's Super Spooky Nighttime Offroad Fundraiser Ride at the home of Coach Dan and his amazing wife, Bonnie. When Coach Dan told me, a while ago, that he had some ideas to help support my fundraising efforts for CURED on behalf of my nephew Noah, as I aim to raise $14,060 ($100/mile of the IM), did he ever mean it. So I loaded up my car and headed down to Canandaigua yesterday afternoon.
I arrived and Bonnie's and Coach Dan's home on the most beautiful fall day you can imagine. I pulled my mountain bike off of my roof rack and Coach Dan gave me a tour of the route which was an offroad trail through fields, woods and brush. I spent last summer exclusively racing my mountain bike, so by yesterday I had been exposed to quite a few offroad trails. The trail that Bonnie and Coach Dan built was terrific. It was obvious that they had spent a lot of time out in the woods, and that it was a labor of love. As I drove home last night, I thought it would make a great course for a cyclocross race or a short-track mountain bike race in the future. The biggest challenge of the course was the mud. The heavy midweek rains soaked a few sections of the course, and even Coach Dan's Pugsley with the nearly 4" wide tires slipped and slid. My wheels packed with so much mud each time I hit those few short muddy sections that my front wheel refused to spin until I removed the blockage. Honestly, you can't overestimate what fun it is to play in the mud as a grown adult. Wheeee......
We hung out at the house for a while, waiting for everyone to arrive. As the other brave souls started making their way to the "Nice Tri Training Center", we hit the trail again to put up the final coarse-marking ribbons, to start lighting the 100+ carved jack-o-lanterns that lined much of the course, and to get a mid-course bonfire going.
As the night carried on, we jumped on the trails again, everyone from children to a father dragging a kid-trailer through the heavy mud. With a bunch of athletes, you might have expected a competitive spirit, but we all checked our egos in the mud puddles and enjoyed a truly relaxed, casual and fun night.
I'm not sure anyone made it much more than 5 or 6 laps. It's not that we couldn't continue, but rather, the spread that Bonnie and Coach Dan put out was calling to us. Their hospitality was staggering. Would you invite several dozen muddy athletes into your home?
I was a sucker for the doughnuts. I don't know how many I had, but I figured that if my coach was serving them, they must have been healthy. Or maybe he was just doing his part to help me fill my elevated daily calorie quota. (Parenthetically, I got some fun responses to my call for suggestions to increased my weekly calorie intake by 6000-7000 calories, or, roughly, 1000 calories a day. My favorite came from my friend, Scott, who sent me a plan for consuming 6000-7000 a day! According to this plan, breakfast alone calls for the consumption of 8 eggs, 3 cups of low fat milk, 3 cups of cold cereal, 2 bananas, 3 1/3 tsp olive oil, 4 oz of cheddar cheese. I think Scott is trying to slow me down. Scott, I commend you on your evil genius!)
The rest of the evening was spent hanging out with new people. It was great to meet everyone, and it was fun to put some familiar names to faces. I was truly moved by the generous donations that were made to CURED to support my cause. What amazing kindness and generosity from people who had never previously met me. To all of you, thank you! You have pushed my campaign up and over the $3000 mark! Way to go! That gives me over 10 months to raise about $11,000. You can follow the status of my campaign on the right margin of this blog. If you have causes that are important to you, please remember to ask me for support. I'll be there.
To Bonnie and Coach Dan: Thank you! I know that you put unexpected amounts of time and effort into making last night such a successful evening. Thank you for your time, your effort, your hospitality, your warmth, your concern and your kindness. Thank you for organizing a terrific night of doughnuts, dollars and dirt. I will long remember it. You are good people!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
A Gift and a Challenge
With my increased exercise regimen, lately, I've struggled to maintain my weight. If that pisses you off, get over it. My body weight, like for many people, fluctuates. During my race season I tend to maintain a weight range that is typically 5-10lb lighter than during the colder, less active months. But now that I am training in three different disciplines, and for a lot more hours each week, even my typical race weight range has dropped somewhat. Cycling performance is determined by watts per kilogram. Watts refer to the power output that a cyclist's leg muscles are capable of producing. The lighter the athlete, the less kilograms of weight he or she is forced to propel. So it's not uncommon for competitive cyclists to have a race weight during the season, as I do, that is lighter than their typical off season weight. While lighter seems better in this case, there is a point at which it is counterproductive. Too light and a cyclist will struggle to produce the power wattage he or she needs to turn the pedals as fluidly as needed.
Since I've started my IM training, I've been watching my body keenly to be alert for any aches or pains which might indicate early signs of an injury, and to ensure that I'm maintaining a healthy weight. Well, with the added hours and the addition of running and swimming to my routine, I've taken off 2-3 lb. 2-3 lb., may not seem like a big deal until you factor in the significantly increased training I'll face as the IM approaches. While the intensity of my workouts will lighten as the IM approaches, I'll be swimming, biking and running much higher mileage to gain endurance enough to carry me to the finish line, God willing...
I dropped a quick email to Coach Dan earlier this week to inform him of my concern. He confirmed that the training volume with get "quite high when we move into summer 2012," and warned "it may not be possible to maintain weight with the load that (I) will have". So Coach Dan encouraged me to make a strong effort to maintain my weight now. Here's whenCoach Dan presented me with a gift and a challenge. He wrote: "You may need to eat an extra 6000-7000 calories during the week."
That sounds like quite a pleasurable commandment to fulfill, but, to be honest, lately I've been eating like a horse so I'm not quite sure how and where I'm going to fit an extra 1000 calories a day. Friendly's Happy Ending Sundaes? Fries dripping in oil and dunked in sugary ketchup? Clif Bars? Power Bars? An entire garden of fruit, and veggies? A loaf of buttered bread?
I'm going to make this post interactive. Offer me your best or worst suggestions for a 6000-7000 calories/week increase and I'll write again with some of your thoughts. Simply post a comment below or drop me an email at: mfield75@gmail.com.
For the meantime, I'm logging off until Saturday night for the final cluster in this long string of Jewish holidays. Until then, HAPPY EATING!
Since I've started my IM training, I've been watching my body keenly to be alert for any aches or pains which might indicate early signs of an injury, and to ensure that I'm maintaining a healthy weight. Well, with the added hours and the addition of running and swimming to my routine, I've taken off 2-3 lb. 2-3 lb., may not seem like a big deal until you factor in the significantly increased training I'll face as the IM approaches. While the intensity of my workouts will lighten as the IM approaches, I'll be swimming, biking and running much higher mileage to gain endurance enough to carry me to the finish line, God willing...
I dropped a quick email to Coach Dan earlier this week to inform him of my concern. He confirmed that the training volume with get "quite high when we move into summer 2012," and warned "it may not be possible to maintain weight with the load that (I) will have". So Coach Dan encouraged me to make a strong effort to maintain my weight now. Here's whenCoach Dan presented me with a gift and a challenge. He wrote: "You may need to eat an extra 6000-7000 calories during the week."
That sounds like quite a pleasurable commandment to fulfill, but, to be honest, lately I've been eating like a horse so I'm not quite sure how and where I'm going to fit an extra 1000 calories a day. Friendly's Happy Ending Sundaes? Fries dripping in oil and dunked in sugary ketchup? Clif Bars? Power Bars? An entire garden of fruit, and veggies? A loaf of buttered bread?
I'm going to make this post interactive. Offer me your best or worst suggestions for a 6000-7000 calories/week increase and I'll write again with some of your thoughts. Simply post a comment below or drop me an email at: mfield75@gmail.com.
For the meantime, I'm logging off until Saturday night for the final cluster in this long string of Jewish holidays. Until then, HAPPY EATING!
Monday, October 17, 2011
My Greatest Fear, Part 2
Okay, so I'm not really afraid that I'll be tackled by an antelope during the Ironman. But it would make a remarkable story. I have another fear, a real fear when considering an event that will take me all day.
I've competed in dozens and dozens of events over the years. Whether bike races or running races, there's always a similar vibe at endurance events, though big events have an electricity that is indescribable. The Chicago Marathon was my first, and when I arrived at the staging area a couple hours before the start of the race, I found myself lost in a sea of 35,000 people. Imagine running a 26.2 mile race with an entire stadium worth of people. It's amazing.
The big events, when well organized, are well equipped to deal with an enormous crowd, though, several years ago the Chicago Marathon was completely unprepared for a freak heatwave that resulted in a cancellation of the race in midst of the the event's running. But in normal circumstances, these events have enough water, bananas, bagels, volunteers, medals, barriers, cones, cops and portapotties for everyone.
THE PORTAPOTTY
Let's get one thing straight. I am a complete germaphobe. It started at an early age when my mother would caution my siblings and me not to walk barefoot in hotels lest our feet turn to stone. My fear was compounded when I contracted the salmonella virus. I wash my hands. A lot. When I lived in New York City, I anxiously awaited the arrival of winter when I could (sanely) wear gloves and subdue my germaphobia while riding busses and subways. I had a gift for standing upright on the subways without ever holding on. If you're sick and you shake my hand, I won't feel at ease until I've lathered and rinsed.
I try my best to avoid portapotties at races. But sometimes it's just impossible. Nerves take over. Pre-race hydration commands me. And long waits before the start of the race give me more opportunity than I would like to consider the fullness of my bladder. Alas, I am often left with no choice. Waiting for the start of a mountain bike last summer, I caved to the urge. I stood beside the single portapotty for 10 minutes while the guy inside had the most uncomfortable conversation I've ever overheard. I don't know what was going on in there, but I repeatedly overheard this stranger declare that he was good looking and had a good body. I think he may have confused the portapotty for a phone booth. Finally, I knocked. 2 minutes later he emerged.
The best invention ever, even greater than sliced bread, is the portapotty with the hand sanitizer dispenser. But to my dismay, not all portapotties are so well equipped. At each race in which I complete, I'm convinced that I am the ONLY participant to have a supply of hand sanitizer gel or anti-bacterial wipes. To me, it's as important as my running shoes or my bike helmet.
The Ironman is going to take me all day. I'm resigned to the fact that, at some point in the day, I WILL need to use a portapotty. This is a self-supported event. If I take water, a cookie, perhaps even a squirt of Purell from a family member or a spectators, I risk disqualification. So, besides for nutritional, medical and mechanical support offered by the race, competitors must carry all their needs with them. "They" (again with the proverbial "they") make aerodynamic water bottles and water bottle cages, as well as wind cheating storage bags and bins for other nutritional needs. But I've yet to see a hand sanitizer dispenser that's made to cut through the wind without causing added drag. Fuelbelt makes amazing products that allow runners to carry water, sports drinks and energy gels. Would I be the first to fill one of those bottle with Purell?
To my great relief, I've discovered a loophole that just may save the day. It's called the "special needs bag", and in those bags, which will be waiting for me midway through the bike and midway through the run, I may place anything legal. SIGH... Will I be the first ever to put Purell in an Ironman special needs bag? Perhaps I should seek sponsorship from the company. I cannot articulate just how proud I would be to wear the Purell logo on the chest of my jersey.
Here's to clean hands!
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Tempering Goals and Expectations
I'm never quite sure who the proverbial "they" are, but they always have a lot to say. "They" say that, unless you are an elite athlete, Ironman virgins should have no firm goals beyond finishing. I get that. I've done a lot of hard things before and the first time is always harder than expected. "They" say that somewhere between mile 20-22 of a marathon, runners "hit the wall". Dozens of people told me that before my first marathon. "They" said that getting to the finish beyond that wall was not a matter of training, but a matter of sheer will, or stubbornness. I heard it but I figured I knew better. "They" were right. I learned quickly at mile 21 in my first marathon why they call those last few miles a death march. I competed in a 6 hour mountain bike race last summer. Many, if not most competitors participate as relay teams, each member racing a lap, tagging his or her partner, and then resting for the next 40 minutes or so. I knew I could get through that race as a solo racer. But again, I thought I knew better, so in my great arrogance, I decided to compete on a single speed mountain bike- the same one I rode in my cyclocross race a week ago. With 1500 vertical feet of elevation on each lap and the temperatures reaching into the mid-90s, it turns out "they" were right again.
So I understand what "they" mean when "they" say that the goal should be to finish that first Ironman within the 17 hour time limit. Ultimately, that is my goal. But as my training progresses, I find myself doing simple math in my head, wondering, almost expecting a specific finishing time. Without too much logic and without a morsel of experience, I'm gunning for 13 hours or better.
I'm realistic about my swim. The cut off for the 2.4 mile swim in 2 hours and 20 minutes. 1 second beyond and competitors are disqualified from the race. I haven't covered that sort of distance yet. I have virtually no open water experience, and no experience to date swimming among 2499 others. But based on my pool swimming of just over 1/2 that distance in somewhere between 45-50 minutes, I'm predicting a conservative 2 hours. In 11 months I just may be able to exit the water a little ahead of that, but it's always best to err on the side of caution.
112 miles is a long bike ride. But cycling is my strength. I'm predicting a 6 hour bike. Contrary to my earlier humility, this isn't a conservative prediction. But in a perfect word, with decent weather and a vigilant mid-race nutrition plan, I think I may be capable of 6 hours.
Right now we're at 8 hours.
The marathon is the big variable here. I've run 4 marathons, though the last was 6 years ago before I was forced to retire from running on account of my chronic back problems. My marathon finishes ranged from 3:46-3:28. Since I've started running again, I've brought myself back to a comfortable pace that falls within this same range. I'm fairly certain that, by September, I'll be able to comfortably finish a marathon in less than 4 hours. So I'd like to say that I'm predicting a 4 hour marathon at the IM. However, I've learned that only 10% of Ironman finishes run a 4 hour marathon or better. And every time I've followed someone's race progress online, I've always been surprised by just how long the marathon takes them. Here's where my inexperience shows just how ignorant I really am, and where, if I'm not smart on race day, it will destroy my day. Yes, I'd like to say that I will run a 4 hour marathon to finish the day, but "they" tell me not to expect that. So I'm predicting a 5 hour marathon, which may be conservative or may be ambitious. I have no idea. But that's my un-prediction.
Okay, what about time for transitions between swim and bike, and between bike and run? Well, that's where hope trumps realism. I predicted a 2 hour swim, but I'm actually hoping for a swim between 1:30 and 1:45. That leaves me somewhere between 15-30 minutes to cover two transitions. Let's safely predict 10 minutes for each and in a perfect world and on a perfect day, that brings me to the finish line in roughly 13 hours.
It's a good thing 13 isn't considered an unlucky number for Jews. Maybe I better add just 1 more hour to my hopeful prediction just to be safe. Okay, fine. I'm predicting 14 hours. I know that if "they" are reading this, "they" are shaking their heads at me, maybe rolling their eyes a bit, thinking, "You IM virgins really are so naive..."
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
My Greatest Fear
If you've been following the IronJew postings, you might assume that swimming is my greatest fear as I anticipate the Ironman in 11 months. Well, that's just not true. As a congregational rabbi, I am constantly reminded of the fragility of life. We just never know what tomorrow will bring. Still in the midst of the Jewish "Season of Repentance," we recall Rabbi Eliezer's admonition to "repent one day before death. How does one know when it is one day before his death? Therefore, repent today!" It is a lesson that encourages us to live in the moment lest important opportunities pass us by.
During the High Holidays, Jews recite the "Unetaneh tokef", a somber prayer that has us wondering who will live and who will die. Who will die by fire and who by water? Who will be taken by illness and who by beast?
I've had many bicycle crashes over the years, mostly during races. Honestly, I think I've fallen more in this one year than I have collectively in all the years of my life prior. No doubt my focus on mountain biking is to blame. Gladly, none of my falls were serious. Sure, I have some scars, but those are merely badges of honor. But I have one great fear about the 112 mile bike section of the Ironman Wisconsin Triathlon and I was graphically reminded of it by news that emerged from South Africa this week. Take a look at what happened in a bike race:
Luckily, this guy was okay. But who knows what will happen when a brute from the wild chooses to take another one of us out. Ironman Wisconsin is affectionately called IMOO- "moo" being a reference to the prevalence of cows in rural Wisconsin. The fear of being tackled by a cow on the sleepy country roads of Wisconsin wakes me up in a cold sweat in middle of the night. Carnivores unite. We will not be beaten by the angry bovine.
The truth is, it's not unheard for athletes to be taken out by an animal mid-competition. Look at what happened to the lead runner in the 2004 Olympic Marathon.
Vanderlei de Lima finished the race, but he was so shaken that he lost his lead.
Eddy Merckx was the greatest cyclist of all time. What he accomplished on a bike has never been, nor will ever be duplicated. He won everything there was to win. Nicknamed "The Cannibal", he left nothing for his rivals. In the 1975 edition of the Tour de France, Merckx was punched in the stomach by a spectator as he was trying to catch his rivals on a mountain road.
A few days later, Merckx crashed and fractured his cheek bone, though he did eventually finish the race. Merckx lost the Tour that year. Many think that it was the attack by that animal on the sidelines that shook his confidence enough to ruin his chances of victory.
Okay, so maybe I'm not really afraid of being "taken out" during the race. Indeed, anything is possible, but I think it's more likely that I'll slip and fall on road kill than be tackled by a human or animal predator. That said, I certainly won't be singing the Jaws theme to myself as I make my way through the swim course in Madison, even if there are no sharks in Lake Monona!
Looking off for the next few days for the Jewish holiday. Until then...
During the High Holidays, Jews recite the "Unetaneh tokef", a somber prayer that has us wondering who will live and who will die. Who will die by fire and who by water? Who will be taken by illness and who by beast?
I've had many bicycle crashes over the years, mostly during races. Honestly, I think I've fallen more in this one year than I have collectively in all the years of my life prior. No doubt my focus on mountain biking is to blame. Gladly, none of my falls were serious. Sure, I have some scars, but those are merely badges of honor. But I have one great fear about the 112 mile bike section of the Ironman Wisconsin Triathlon and I was graphically reminded of it by news that emerged from South Africa this week. Take a look at what happened in a bike race:
Luckily, this guy was okay. But who knows what will happen when a brute from the wild chooses to take another one of us out. Ironman Wisconsin is affectionately called IMOO- "moo" being a reference to the prevalence of cows in rural Wisconsin. The fear of being tackled by a cow on the sleepy country roads of Wisconsin wakes me up in a cold sweat in middle of the night. Carnivores unite. We will not be beaten by the angry bovine.
The truth is, it's not unheard for athletes to be taken out by an animal mid-competition. Look at what happened to the lead runner in the 2004 Olympic Marathon.
Vanderlei de Lima finished the race, but he was so shaken that he lost his lead.
Eddy Merckx was the greatest cyclist of all time. What he accomplished on a bike has never been, nor will ever be duplicated. He won everything there was to win. Nicknamed "The Cannibal", he left nothing for his rivals. In the 1975 edition of the Tour de France, Merckx was punched in the stomach by a spectator as he was trying to catch his rivals on a mountain road.
A few days later, Merckx crashed and fractured his cheek bone, though he did eventually finish the race. Merckx lost the Tour that year. Many think that it was the attack by that animal on the sidelines that shook his confidence enough to ruin his chances of victory.
Okay, so maybe I'm not really afraid of being "taken out" during the race. Indeed, anything is possible, but I think it's more likely that I'll slip and fall on road kill than be tackled by a human or animal predator. That said, I certainly won't be singing the Jaws theme to myself as I make my way through the swim course in Madison, even if there are no sharks in Lake Monona!
Looking off for the next few days for the Jewish holiday. Until then...
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Mom
Okay, I admit it. I'm kinda' a momma's boy. I'm not ashamed. I call my mother every day. In fact, I call my father every day, too. Why not? Is it really that burdensome to spend a few minutes on the phone each day saying hello and checking in? And...if I don't call at the usual time of day, it's not uncommon for my mother to call me several hours later and ask, "Did you forget about me?" Did I mention, she's a Jewish mother?
I think I'm a pretty good son. We've had our differences, but we get along well and I make an effort to honor and respect my mother (and my father) as instructed by the 10 commandments. That said, I admit that I've blatantly rejected her wishes from time to time.
In my high school years, I raced my bike on a velodrome. If you're not familiar, google it. A velodrome is a bicycle track upon which races are held for specialized track bikes. Track bikes look much like road bikes with two major differences. No gears (we covered that early this week when I wrote about my Sunday morning race. By the way, I finished 8th of 43. Not bad for 1 gear). No brakes. Track bikes have what's called a fixed gear. That means that as long as the wheels are turning so are the pedals. So there's no coasting either. Try too hard to coast and the momentum of the revolving pedals will throw you over the front of the handlebars. Track racers can, indeed, slow down, but in a much more subtle way than one would upon a bike with actual brakes.
Track races at the Northbrook Velodrome in north suburban Chicago were held every Thursday night back then. Each race category competed three times each night. One of my few claims to cycling fame is that, back then, I used to compete against Christian VandeVelde. Google Christian and you'll see his long list of accomplishments. He's among the top professional cyclists in the world and he finished the Tour de France 4th several years back. As you can see below, (see Category 4 at the bottom) I was even ahead of him in the standings at one point during the season. But that didn't last long because, boy was he fast, even as a kid! Yes, I kept this piece of paper all these years. Wouldn't you??
Anyhow, I was planning to race on the Thursday immediately before my sister's Sunday wedding. My parents forbade me from racing. Understanding their concern that bicycle racing is a risky sport and a crash days before the wedding would be really bad, I raced, nonetheless.
It was a good night for me, as I remember. I placed well in the first two races and I feeling pretty strong in my third and final race of the evening. We were headed into the last half of the final lap and the field accelerated to a sprint. I saw an opening and an opportunity to jump to the front. But karma already wrote my fate for that evening. The rider just in front of me went down and, with no place do go and, at a sprint, no time to react, I rode right into his body and flipped over my handlebars. To my fortune, all of my scrapes, cuts and bruises were below the neck so, with a tuxedo on, I would not ruin the pictures after all. Nevertheless, that sure taught me to never disobey my parents!
I called my mother yesterday evening, as I always do.
"Do you really have to do that Ironman thing?" she asked.
"Here we go," I thought. "I'm sure planning on it. Why?" I asked.
"You could get hurt or sick!" she protested.
"I don't plan on it," I said. "This is a lot safer than the mountain bike races I did all season. It's a lot safer than bike races I've done for so many years."
Every once in a while my mother tries to convince me to find "another hobby". After my first bad crash in a bicycle race, maybe 20 years ago, she tried especially hard. Now, I'm at a point in my life where I don't take undue risks. I had a bad crash in a bike race in June, 2010 while Rachel and my girls were watching. Perhaps I'll write more about that in the future. That was a wake up call for me. I have responsibilities. I have a wife and children who need me, parents and siblings who love me, and a synagogue that tolerates me. So I am cautious when there's significant risk. I did well during my first season of mountain bike racing. But I assure you, I made up no time on my rivals while descending steep and rocky downhills. In fact, that's usually where I was passed by others, opting, instead, to attack on the way back up. Part of the reason triathlons initially appealed to me is because they are, in my assessment, safer than bike racing. No tight packs in which to get bumped around. No loose and rocky off-road paths. Triathletes don't often taking sharp corners at white knuckle speeds the way road racers do.
"Did you hear about the 35 year old man who died 50 yards from the finish line at the Chicago Marathon a few days ago?" my mom asked.
I paused. No, I only heard about the woman who was 39 weeks pregnant and completed the marathon, then checked herself into the maternity ward and delivered her baby.
"I'm not going to have a heart attack at the Ironman, mom," I insisted. She caught me off guard, honestly. I thought she was be more concerned about the 2.4 mile open water swim. When I spoke to my father on a recent Sunday, just after I came home from a 25 mile training ride followed immediately by a 3 mile run, knowing all about my limited swimming background, my dad joked, "Don't waste too much time training for the bike and run sections of the race. You'll probably drown first." So I was certain that would be my mother's real fear. But instead she feared that my heart would give out.
I'm not one to tempt fate and I'm not so arrogant as to believe that I'm immune to danger, or karma, but that has never been a concern of mine. Maybe because of my age. Maybe because there isn't a significant history of heart disease in my family. Maybe because I've run 4 marathons, countless other 5ks, 10ks, etc., and ridden in 100s of bicycle races and my ticker's never skipped a beat. But I can appreciate my mother's concern. She is a mother, after all. And the man who collapsed and died didn't appear, on the surface, to be at any more risk than I. William Caviness was a 35-year-old North Carolina firefighter who was running in order to raise money from burn victims. And he was a father of two young children.
Yes, this hits close to home. Too close. I understand, mom. And I promise to go for a physical well before the race to get my doctor's blessing to compete. For you, mom. And for dad. And for Rachel. And for my children. And for the rest of my family and my friends and my congregation.
I'll be cautious but I won't be afraid. Genetics are on my side. And that's what I told my mom. I reminded her that heart disease is not one of our family's genetic curses. And I told her that I have never had high blood pressure. And I told her that I have never had high cholesterol. I train with a heart rate monitor. I am so familiar with the patterns of my heart when I exercise and when I am at rest that I truly believe I would recognize any abnormalities. I notice when my resting heart rate is elevated, indicating that I am over-training and under-resting. I know my maximum heart-rate is 184, and it's terribly uncomfortable when it beats that fast. And I know that when my heart dips down to its resting point at about 41 beats per minute, I need to take a deep breath and stand up slowly, lest I become lightheaded and dizzy. And I know that, in order to complete a full Ironman triathlon, in order to sustain such a demanding physical effort for 10 or 12 or 17 hours, competitors must keep a close eye on their heart rate during the race in order to ensure it stays well below the red line.
So, mom, yes, I really do have to do this Ironman thing, God willing. But for your sake and for the sake of everyone I love and everyone who loves me, I promise to be cautious. For you.
I think I'm a pretty good son. We've had our differences, but we get along well and I make an effort to honor and respect my mother (and my father) as instructed by the 10 commandments. That said, I admit that I've blatantly rejected her wishes from time to time.
In my high school years, I raced my bike on a velodrome. If you're not familiar, google it. A velodrome is a bicycle track upon which races are held for specialized track bikes. Track bikes look much like road bikes with two major differences. No gears (we covered that early this week when I wrote about my Sunday morning race. By the way, I finished 8th of 43. Not bad for 1 gear). No brakes. Track bikes have what's called a fixed gear. That means that as long as the wheels are turning so are the pedals. So there's no coasting either. Try too hard to coast and the momentum of the revolving pedals will throw you over the front of the handlebars. Track racers can, indeed, slow down, but in a much more subtle way than one would upon a bike with actual brakes.
Track races at the Northbrook Velodrome in north suburban Chicago were held every Thursday night back then. Each race category competed three times each night. One of my few claims to cycling fame is that, back then, I used to compete against Christian VandeVelde. Google Christian and you'll see his long list of accomplishments. He's among the top professional cyclists in the world and he finished the Tour de France 4th several years back. As you can see below, (see Category 4 at the bottom) I was even ahead of him in the standings at one point during the season. But that didn't last long because, boy was he fast, even as a kid! Yes, I kept this piece of paper all these years. Wouldn't you??
It was a good night for me, as I remember. I placed well in the first two races and I feeling pretty strong in my third and final race of the evening. We were headed into the last half of the final lap and the field accelerated to a sprint. I saw an opening and an opportunity to jump to the front. But karma already wrote my fate for that evening. The rider just in front of me went down and, with no place do go and, at a sprint, no time to react, I rode right into his body and flipped over my handlebars. To my fortune, all of my scrapes, cuts and bruises were below the neck so, with a tuxedo on, I would not ruin the pictures after all. Nevertheless, that sure taught me to never disobey my parents!
I called my mother yesterday evening, as I always do.
"Do you really have to do that Ironman thing?" she asked.
"Here we go," I thought. "I'm sure planning on it. Why?" I asked.
"You could get hurt or sick!" she protested.
"I don't plan on it," I said. "This is a lot safer than the mountain bike races I did all season. It's a lot safer than bike races I've done for so many years."
Every once in a while my mother tries to convince me to find "another hobby". After my first bad crash in a bicycle race, maybe 20 years ago, she tried especially hard. Now, I'm at a point in my life where I don't take undue risks. I had a bad crash in a bike race in June, 2010 while Rachel and my girls were watching. Perhaps I'll write more about that in the future. That was a wake up call for me. I have responsibilities. I have a wife and children who need me, parents and siblings who love me, and a synagogue that tolerates me. So I am cautious when there's significant risk. I did well during my first season of mountain bike racing. But I assure you, I made up no time on my rivals while descending steep and rocky downhills. In fact, that's usually where I was passed by others, opting, instead, to attack on the way back up. Part of the reason triathlons initially appealed to me is because they are, in my assessment, safer than bike racing. No tight packs in which to get bumped around. No loose and rocky off-road paths. Triathletes don't often taking sharp corners at white knuckle speeds the way road racers do.
"Did you hear about the 35 year old man who died 50 yards from the finish line at the Chicago Marathon a few days ago?" my mom asked.
I paused. No, I only heard about the woman who was 39 weeks pregnant and completed the marathon, then checked herself into the maternity ward and delivered her baby.
"I'm not going to have a heart attack at the Ironman, mom," I insisted. She caught me off guard, honestly. I thought she was be more concerned about the 2.4 mile open water swim. When I spoke to my father on a recent Sunday, just after I came home from a 25 mile training ride followed immediately by a 3 mile run, knowing all about my limited swimming background, my dad joked, "Don't waste too much time training for the bike and run sections of the race. You'll probably drown first." So I was certain that would be my mother's real fear. But instead she feared that my heart would give out.
I'm not one to tempt fate and I'm not so arrogant as to believe that I'm immune to danger, or karma, but that has never been a concern of mine. Maybe because of my age. Maybe because there isn't a significant history of heart disease in my family. Maybe because I've run 4 marathons, countless other 5ks, 10ks, etc., and ridden in 100s of bicycle races and my ticker's never skipped a beat. But I can appreciate my mother's concern. She is a mother, after all. And the man who collapsed and died didn't appear, on the surface, to be at any more risk than I. William Caviness was a 35-year-old North Carolina firefighter who was running in order to raise money from burn victims. And he was a father of two young children.
Yes, this hits close to home. Too close. I understand, mom. And I promise to go for a physical well before the race to get my doctor's blessing to compete. For you, mom. And for dad. And for Rachel. And for my children. And for the rest of my family and my friends and my congregation.
I'll be cautious but I won't be afraid. Genetics are on my side. And that's what I told my mom. I reminded her that heart disease is not one of our family's genetic curses. And I told her that I have never had high blood pressure. And I told her that I have never had high cholesterol. I train with a heart rate monitor. I am so familiar with the patterns of my heart when I exercise and when I am at rest that I truly believe I would recognize any abnormalities. I notice when my resting heart rate is elevated, indicating that I am over-training and under-resting. I know my maximum heart-rate is 184, and it's terribly uncomfortable when it beats that fast. And I know that when my heart dips down to its resting point at about 41 beats per minute, I need to take a deep breath and stand up slowly, lest I become lightheaded and dizzy. And I know that, in order to complete a full Ironman triathlon, in order to sustain such a demanding physical effort for 10 or 12 or 17 hours, competitors must keep a close eye on their heart rate during the race in order to ensure it stays well below the red line.
So, mom, yes, I really do have to do this Ironman thing, God willing. But for your sake and for the sake of everyone I love and everyone who loves me, I promise to be cautious. For you.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Blowing Bubbles
"A father is obligated to do the following for his son: to circumcise him, to redeem him if he is a first born, to teach him Torah, to find him a wife, and to teach him a trade. Others say: teaching him how to swim as well." (Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Kiddushin 29a)
It's not enough information on which to judge the effectiveness of their parenting skills, but my parents never taught me how to swim. Not for a lack of trying, however. I remember my weekly swim lessons with Mr. Carlton. Mr. Carlton was a kind and gentle older man. Nonetheless, I always dreaded lessons with him because I was downright afraid of the water. I only remember two things about our lessons. I remember practicing the back float, while he held on to me, and I remember doing "bobs". I hated bobs because I was uncomfortable putting my face in the water and exhaling under water felt downright unnatural to me.
I remember coming home from camp one day, excited to tell my mother that I learned to swim. I sprinted off the bus and shouted out the news. The truth was, I couldn't swim. I only learned that I could float. From there I would do anything and everything with the rest of my body and, though it never resembled any official stroke, I called it "swimming". Still, I managed never to put my face in the water. It was a gift.
One of my earliest memories in the water recalls me caught underneath an inner-tube raft, grasping, desperately for the surface. My father pulled me to the surface. Thanks, dad. When I went to sleep-away camp, campers were required to pass a swim test in order to go boating, fishing, etc. To pass the swim test one needed only swim 12 laps non-stop. I confess before you, I cheated every year. The entire bunk swam together and nobody counted our laps so when my bunkmates were done swimming, I was done doggy paddling.
I never managed to find my confidence in the water. I was okay rafting, boating, etc., but I would never volunteer to get into the water. Just this past summer, Rachel and I went to Lake Placid for a week. We embarked on a day-long white water rafting adventure. I'm sure I held on tighter than anyone else when it got rough. When we hit calm waters, everyone in my raft jumped into the refreshing water...except for me...
Ironman Lake Placid was to take place that weekend. We spoke to a lot of athletes. I was asked half a dozen times that week if I was competing. "No," I said, "not much of a swimmer." I silently lamented that I would never have the opportunity to compete in an Ironman because, frankly, I couldn't swim. The week in Lake Placid, and, especially, watching part of the race haunted me for weeks. I wanted, so bad, to be able to be one of those Ironmen.
I finally realized that the only way to accomplish anything in life was to try. So I secretly researched online and I found Coach Dan. I told him about my limitations and he reassured me that, with more than a year to go before Ironman Wisconsin, he could turn me into a competent enough swimmer, as he did for others. I was doubtful. The thought of swimming 2.4 miles seemed about as ridiculous as climbing Mt. Everest, backwards, and barefoot.
When I met Dan on the shore of Canandaigua Lake, I could barely swim a lap without totally exhausting myself, and that wasn't for a lack of fitness, as I was still in race shape from my season of competitive mountain biking. Dan reassured me that my stroke wasn't "too bad" and he sent me home with drills.
I went to the pool religiously and my stroke improved, but I still couldn't make it more than a lap or two before I was gasping for air. I took a few more lessons from a variety of swim instructors, hoping one of them would give me that magical piece of advice that would change everything for me. And finally I met Kim. Kim is the swim coach who noticed that every time I stopped swimming, I was coughing up water. So what did Kim have me do? Bobs! "Blow bubbles," she said. And blow bubbles I did. Kim taught me how to breath while swimming, and specifically, how to properly exhale with my face in the water, and that made all the difference. If only I listened to Mr. Carlton when I was 5...
Coach Dan has a very specific training plan for me. Each day is a specific workout or two. On the bike and on the run, I've been pretty consistently following his orders. But I've taken some liberties in the pool. Why? Because I can, and that has been very liberating and empowering. My workout for this morning was to swim 10 reps of 100 yards for a total of 1000 yards, with a short rest between reps. Instead, I swam 2000 yards, non-stop. Why? Because I can. And it felt great. Just a month ago I would have never thought I could swim more than mile, and nonstop to boot.
It all comes back to blowing bubbles, to exhaling, to relaxing and releasing the tension, the nervous energy, the fear and the CO2 that has stood in may way all these years. If I only submitted, all those years back, when Mr. Carlton tried to get me to put my face in the water and blow bubbles, I just may have saved myself all those years of anxiety and fear, and I would have allowed my parents to fulfill their Talmud-guided directive to teach me how to swim.
Look at me now, mom and dad! I can do it!
It's not enough information on which to judge the effectiveness of their parenting skills, but my parents never taught me how to swim. Not for a lack of trying, however. I remember my weekly swim lessons with Mr. Carlton. Mr. Carlton was a kind and gentle older man. Nonetheless, I always dreaded lessons with him because I was downright afraid of the water. I only remember two things about our lessons. I remember practicing the back float, while he held on to me, and I remember doing "bobs". I hated bobs because I was uncomfortable putting my face in the water and exhaling under water felt downright unnatural to me.
I remember coming home from camp one day, excited to tell my mother that I learned to swim. I sprinted off the bus and shouted out the news. The truth was, I couldn't swim. I only learned that I could float. From there I would do anything and everything with the rest of my body and, though it never resembled any official stroke, I called it "swimming". Still, I managed never to put my face in the water. It was a gift.
One of my earliest memories in the water recalls me caught underneath an inner-tube raft, grasping, desperately for the surface. My father pulled me to the surface. Thanks, dad. When I went to sleep-away camp, campers were required to pass a swim test in order to go boating, fishing, etc. To pass the swim test one needed only swim 12 laps non-stop. I confess before you, I cheated every year. The entire bunk swam together and nobody counted our laps so when my bunkmates were done swimming, I was done doggy paddling.
I never managed to find my confidence in the water. I was okay rafting, boating, etc., but I would never volunteer to get into the water. Just this past summer, Rachel and I went to Lake Placid for a week. We embarked on a day-long white water rafting adventure. I'm sure I held on tighter than anyone else when it got rough. When we hit calm waters, everyone in my raft jumped into the refreshing water...except for me...
Ironman Lake Placid was to take place that weekend. We spoke to a lot of athletes. I was asked half a dozen times that week if I was competing. "No," I said, "not much of a swimmer." I silently lamented that I would never have the opportunity to compete in an Ironman because, frankly, I couldn't swim. The week in Lake Placid, and, especially, watching part of the race haunted me for weeks. I wanted, so bad, to be able to be one of those Ironmen.
I finally realized that the only way to accomplish anything in life was to try. So I secretly researched online and I found Coach Dan. I told him about my limitations and he reassured me that, with more than a year to go before Ironman Wisconsin, he could turn me into a competent enough swimmer, as he did for others. I was doubtful. The thought of swimming 2.4 miles seemed about as ridiculous as climbing Mt. Everest, backwards, and barefoot.
When I met Dan on the shore of Canandaigua Lake, I could barely swim a lap without totally exhausting myself, and that wasn't for a lack of fitness, as I was still in race shape from my season of competitive mountain biking. Dan reassured me that my stroke wasn't "too bad" and he sent me home with drills.
I went to the pool religiously and my stroke improved, but I still couldn't make it more than a lap or two before I was gasping for air. I took a few more lessons from a variety of swim instructors, hoping one of them would give me that magical piece of advice that would change everything for me. And finally I met Kim. Kim is the swim coach who noticed that every time I stopped swimming, I was coughing up water. So what did Kim have me do? Bobs! "Blow bubbles," she said. And blow bubbles I did. Kim taught me how to breath while swimming, and specifically, how to properly exhale with my face in the water, and that made all the difference. If only I listened to Mr. Carlton when I was 5...
Coach Dan has a very specific training plan for me. Each day is a specific workout or two. On the bike and on the run, I've been pretty consistently following his orders. But I've taken some liberties in the pool. Why? Because I can, and that has been very liberating and empowering. My workout for this morning was to swim 10 reps of 100 yards for a total of 1000 yards, with a short rest between reps. Instead, I swam 2000 yards, non-stop. Why? Because I can. And it felt great. Just a month ago I would have never thought I could swim more than mile, and nonstop to boot.
It all comes back to blowing bubbles, to exhaling, to relaxing and releasing the tension, the nervous energy, the fear and the CO2 that has stood in may way all these years. If I only submitted, all those years back, when Mr. Carlton tried to get me to put my face in the water and blow bubbles, I just may have saved myself all those years of anxiety and fear, and I would have allowed my parents to fulfill their Talmud-guided directive to teach me how to swim.
Look at me now, mom and dad! I can do it!
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Running on Empty
Why are fast days always so slow?
I survived the Yom Kippur fast, as I always do. It usually ends up being abou 27 hours of no food or water for me. Services started at 6PM on Friday. I like to arrive at least an hour early so I can make sure everything is in order. So we sat down to eat our final meal at 4ish. By the time we got home from services at the conclusion of the holiday and sat down to eat again last night, it was approaching 8. My challenge was to load my body with as many easily digestible carbs as possible, to rehydrate, and to replenish my depleted electrolytes because, the genius I am, I registered for a bike race for Sunday morning. I didn't want to arrive at the start line completely running on empty.
This morning I raced the Cobbs Hill Cyclocross Race. If you aren't familiar with cyclocross, google it. It's a blast. Cyclocross races are ridden, usually, on specialized cyclocross bikes. At a glace, these bikes look like road bikes with wider, knobby tires. But there are more subtle, yet significant differences. For example, on many of these bike the underside of the top tube (that which you stand directly over) is often flattened. Why, you ask. Because flat is more comfortable on the shoulder. Why should it matter how comfortable a bike is on the shoulder, you ask. Good question. Cyclocross races are often held on grassy field, hence the knobby tires. But what makes these races particular unique are the obstacles that cannot be passed while riding a bike. So, at full speed, riders jump off their bike and hurl themselves over barriers and up steep, loose, muddy inclines, often while shouldering their rig.
You see, I don't have a cyclocross bike. Yet. To give you an idea of the extent of my genius, I decided it would be fun to ride this race on a single-speed mountain bike with cyclocross tires mounted on the rims. That's right, 1 speed. I thought long and hard about the size gear I would run. I didn't want to run too small a gear because that would limit my speed in the flat and downhill sections, and because I was the only idiot riding a single speed bike, that would put me at a great disadvantage. I didn't want to run too big a gear either. Too big a gear hinders acceleration and because CX courses are twisty and turny, acceleration is key. Also, too big a gear would make pedaling up the hills too difficult, possibly causing my heart rate to red line, or worse, make pedaling up the steeper hills physically impossible.
Off I go on my practice lap. Taking a shart left turn out of a short wooded section of the course, I leaned a bit too hard and nearly rolled my front tire right off of my rim. I lost half of the pressure in my tire and a bit of tire sealant, but I managed to find a pump before the start of the race. I was relieved when I was able to pedal the entire way up the section of the course that took riders partially up the steep face of Cobbs Hills, though it took everything I had while standing out of the saddle.
Waiting for the race to begin, the official called riders to the line by name, one by one, based on the order in which they pre-registered. I was first, meaning I registered first. Shock... I asked the official if that meant that I get a headstart. I didn't.
3...
2...
1...
GO!!!
I went.
I had a mediocre start, largely because I was stuck with one gear and couldn't spin my wheels up to speed as quickly as everyone else, all of whom were riding fully-geared rigs. Nonetheless, I managed to stay in the front half of the group. I got up to speed and I started to make up a bit of ground. Towards the end of each lap, as I passed my small cheering section, Rachel and our two girls, Talia and Elly, I was recharged by their enthusiasm. On lap two Rachel shouted out, "You're top 10". I was shocked, honestly. With the limitation of my single-geared bike and the mere fact that I had fasted while everyone else was hydrating and carbo-loading, I had no expectations for this race.
I was caught in no-man's land for laps 2 and 3. I was riding alone. Then, heading up the big hill in lap #4 I was surprised to see several rivals ahead of me within striking range. That was enough motivation to push my heartrate out of the 170s range and into the 180s. Over the final lap and a half, I managed to catch and pass a couple of riders, just missing one more guy at the line.
Crossing the line, I was completely satisfied with my finish. I rode the race last year but I was not in race shape nor was I in the mood to suffer, so I finished very close to last. This year I was motivated to test my fitness. Additionally, a season of mountain bike racing did wonders for my bike handling skills and my confidence, so I was able to take the tight turns and the descents at speed. I didn't stick around to find out what place I secured. I had bigger and better things to attend to- Elly's 5th birthday party and one giant piece of cake. Call it retroactive carbo-loading!
I survived the Yom Kippur fast, as I always do. It usually ends up being abou 27 hours of no food or water for me. Services started at 6PM on Friday. I like to arrive at least an hour early so I can make sure everything is in order. So we sat down to eat our final meal at 4ish. By the time we got home from services at the conclusion of the holiday and sat down to eat again last night, it was approaching 8. My challenge was to load my body with as many easily digestible carbs as possible, to rehydrate, and to replenish my depleted electrolytes because, the genius I am, I registered for a bike race for Sunday morning. I didn't want to arrive at the start line completely running on empty.
This morning I raced the Cobbs Hill Cyclocross Race. If you aren't familiar with cyclocross, google it. It's a blast. Cyclocross races are ridden, usually, on specialized cyclocross bikes. At a glace, these bikes look like road bikes with wider, knobby tires. But there are more subtle, yet significant differences. For example, on many of these bike the underside of the top tube (that which you stand directly over) is often flattened. Why, you ask. Because flat is more comfortable on the shoulder. Why should it matter how comfortable a bike is on the shoulder, you ask. Good question. Cyclocross races are often held on grassy field, hence the knobby tires. But what makes these races particular unique are the obstacles that cannot be passed while riding a bike. So, at full speed, riders jump off their bike and hurl themselves over barriers and up steep, loose, muddy inclines, often while shouldering their rig.
You see, I don't have a cyclocross bike. Yet. To give you an idea of the extent of my genius, I decided it would be fun to ride this race on a single-speed mountain bike with cyclocross tires mounted on the rims. That's right, 1 speed. I thought long and hard about the size gear I would run. I didn't want to run too small a gear because that would limit my speed in the flat and downhill sections, and because I was the only idiot riding a single speed bike, that would put me at a great disadvantage. I didn't want to run too big a gear either. Too big a gear hinders acceleration and because CX courses are twisty and turny, acceleration is key. Also, too big a gear would make pedaling up the hills too difficult, possibly causing my heart rate to red line, or worse, make pedaling up the steeper hills physically impossible.
Off I go on my practice lap. Taking a shart left turn out of a short wooded section of the course, I leaned a bit too hard and nearly rolled my front tire right off of my rim. I lost half of the pressure in my tire and a bit of tire sealant, but I managed to find a pump before the start of the race. I was relieved when I was able to pedal the entire way up the section of the course that took riders partially up the steep face of Cobbs Hills, though it took everything I had while standing out of the saddle.
Waiting for the race to begin, the official called riders to the line by name, one by one, based on the order in which they pre-registered. I was first, meaning I registered first. Shock... I asked the official if that meant that I get a headstart. I didn't.
3...
2...
1...
GO!!!
I went.
I had a mediocre start, largely because I was stuck with one gear and couldn't spin my wheels up to speed as quickly as everyone else, all of whom were riding fully-geared rigs. Nonetheless, I managed to stay in the front half of the group. I got up to speed and I started to make up a bit of ground. Towards the end of each lap, as I passed my small cheering section, Rachel and our two girls, Talia and Elly, I was recharged by their enthusiasm. On lap two Rachel shouted out, "You're top 10". I was shocked, honestly. With the limitation of my single-geared bike and the mere fact that I had fasted while everyone else was hydrating and carbo-loading, I had no expectations for this race.
I was caught in no-man's land for laps 2 and 3. I was riding alone. Then, heading up the big hill in lap #4 I was surprised to see several rivals ahead of me within striking range. That was enough motivation to push my heartrate out of the 170s range and into the 180s. Over the final lap and a half, I managed to catch and pass a couple of riders, just missing one more guy at the line.
Crossing the line, I was completely satisfied with my finish. I rode the race last year but I was not in race shape nor was I in the mood to suffer, so I finished very close to last. This year I was motivated to test my fitness. Additionally, a season of mountain bike racing did wonders for my bike handling skills and my confidence, so I was able to take the tight turns and the descents at speed. I didn't stick around to find out what place I secured. I had bigger and better things to attend to- Elly's 5th birthday party and one giant piece of cake. Call it retroactive carbo-loading!
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Bloody Fingers
I have dreadful memories of getting blood tests at my annual physical when I was a child. I anticipated my birthday each year with a combination of excitement and terror. Excitement because, well, what child isn't excited about his birthday? Fear because of the anticipation of shots and blood tests. When it came down to it, a tiny prick on the finger was hardly a blood test and required what could only questionable be categorized as a real needle. It's ridiculous how much tougher my daughters are than I ever was. They have intentionally watched things being done to them that still cause me to look away. I don't exactly look forward to needles poking my skin these days, but I'm not afraid. That said, gazing upon those foot-long novocaine needles aiming for my gums gives my palpitations.
I spent about an hour with Coach Dan early this morning for lactate threshold testing. You know lactate, or lactic acid, our old friend, that stuff that builds up in our bodies when we push ourselves physically. Feel the burn? That's lactic acid. Lactate threshold is the point of exertion at which the lactic acid builds up so rapidly we begin to fail.
I arrived at Coach Dan's house and he led me to the basement, which he called the "Dungeon of Pain," and he wasn't exactly kidding. He set my bike up on the trainer and, after a 15 minute warm up, the suffering began.
Cyclists train with power meters these days. A power meter informs the rider of how many watts he's pushing at any given moment. It's a far more effective training tool than heart rate-based training. Coach Dan called out wattage numbers and my job was to keep my legs pushing exactly those watts for 4 minutes. At the end of 4 minutes, still pedaling, I extended my left hand towards Coach Dan's gloved hands with which he pricked my fingers, drew blood, and placed a drop of life into a small doodad that displayed the amount of lactic acid in my blood stream. As soon as that value was determined, he called out a higher number and commanded me to hit my new wattage target for 4 more minutes. This continued until I had no blood left. Actually, Coach Dan left me a few liters. These 4-minute intervals continued, without rest, until the lactic acid jumped significantly, indicating that I reached my threshold. After a brief rest, Coach Dan informed me that we'd do one more interval, a short one, as hard I could sustain for 60 seconds. It's a lot harder than it sounds, even to me as I sit comfortable on my couch. I don't know how to spell the grunts and groans that the effort squeezed out of me, but it was ugly.
The theory is that, as my training continues, my threshold will rise, meaning, I'm going to have to go through that hellish drill again. Oh yeah, he wants me to come back for a session on the dreadmill so we can determine my running threshold as well. Can't wait. Can you tell by my tone of voice.
It sure was reassuring for Coach Dan to suggest that my numbers looked promising, informing him that I just may be able to churn out a pretty swift bike split at the Ironman. Though, clearly, it will take continued hard work, high intensity, painful training, and many more bloody fingers!
So far, this journey has cost me blood and sweat. Bring on the tears!
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
The Snooze Button
I've always been an early riser. I don't think that's a function of my limited need for sleep or my general embrace of the wee hours of the morning as much as it is a response to my anxious personality. I'm constantly worrying about the things that need to get done and, in my typical fashion, I like to scratch items off of my to-do list long before they are due. So I wake up early to face the day and to begin the scratching.
I'm not sure those last few words sounded right...
I've diagnosed myself with W.O.C.D., Whimsical Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. No, it may not be an actual condition, but it describes me because I'm sorta' ODC about certain things, but not so much so that it gets in the way or impacts my life. Kinda of in a laughable, whimsical way. For instance, I wash my hands. A lot. I'm a mysophobe, (mysophibia is the fear of germs, if you didn't know). I have been so ever since I was a little kid and my mother told us not to walk barefoot in hotels rooms lest our feet turn to stone. My fear of germs only compounded when I was diagnosed with salmonella years ago.
I also have some other minor OCD-ish routines I perform during the day. When I was in high school I would check my alarm no less than 10 times before I went to bed, fearful that I would oversleep in the morning. And beginning in high school, I started to set my alarm at odd times: 5:52, 5:44, 5:36... Depending on the amount of extra sleep my alarm clock's snooze button offered, I would back up from the time I needed to actually be up in "snooze increments". I loved those extra few minutes, and yet I was not willing to sleep past my designated wake up time. So if I wanted to enjoy the blessings of snooze, I had to trick myself into thinking I was given those extra minutes. I so enjoyed waking up knowing that I had extra time to sleep that, at my craziest, I would set the alarm for, say, 2 or 3 or 4, wake up, and then reset the alarm for 5:28, when the snooze routine would commence. I know, I should have gotten that checked out by a doctor!
These days I check my alarm just 2 or 3 times and then set my alarm exactly 14 minutes, 2 snooze increments before I need to wake up. Today that meant my alarm first sounded at 4:31 (sorry, Rachel!) and I was out of bed at 4:45 to prepare myself to head to the gym for my morning training swim.
I'm usually up early, but often still feel quite sleepy. Snooze has its important place in my life, but because I don't ever use it to actually get more sleep, it never leaves me feeling more rested. But today, at that early hour of this dark and cold morning, I checked my email and I was soberly awakened by an old college friend named Adam.
When I was studying at Union College, Adam was in the graduate program. He and I connected over our love of cycling. Adam and I rode many miles together. I rode with others as well, but the only one I remember aside from Adam was Hugh, an English professor. I remember Adam as a strong cyclist. I always struggled to keep up with him in the hills and I know that our hours together on the road made me a stronger cyclist.
Adam woke me up twice in one day back in my college years. During my freshman year there was a big bike race scheduled somewhere in the hills outside of Schenectady. I planned to do the race but, as it approached, I forgot all about it because I was rushing a fraternity and was caught in "hell week" in the final days leading up to the race. Hell week ended on a Saturday night/Sunday morning at 3 or 4AM. I went back to my dorm room and fell fast asleep. Not more than a couple hours later the phone startled me awake. It was Adam.
"You coming to the race, man? I'll pick you up."
"Sure, I'm up. Why not?" I said.
Wake up #1.
Several hours later, after we registered and warmed up, we were sitting on the grass beside the road awaiting the start of the race when I fell asleep. I think I dreamed that I won the race. Then I was startled awake for the second time of the morning, only this time by the water of Adam's bottle dripping on my head and down my back.
"Get up, man! The race is starting!"
Wake up #2.
Today, Adam startled me awake for a third time. I was technically "up" but I was hardly awake. And then I read an email which informed me that Adam had made a very significant donation to my fundraising campaign for CURED. I was suddenly wide awake.
Wake up #3.
I always liked Adam very much, but after college we fell out of touch. Through the miracle of Facebook we reconnected, as people do. We've since exchanged a few emails and wall posts, but it's been almost 15 years since Adam and I had any real ongoing contact. Adam's gesture surprised and moved me, and sure as hell woke me up when I checked my email just before 5 this morning. So Adam, if you're reading, thank you for your generosity and for your friendship. It's acts of kindness like yours that keep me motivated to continue waking up well before the sun!
I'm not sure those last few words sounded right...
I've diagnosed myself with W.O.C.D., Whimsical Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. No, it may not be an actual condition, but it describes me because I'm sorta' ODC about certain things, but not so much so that it gets in the way or impacts my life. Kinda of in a laughable, whimsical way. For instance, I wash my hands. A lot. I'm a mysophobe, (mysophibia is the fear of germs, if you didn't know). I have been so ever since I was a little kid and my mother told us not to walk barefoot in hotels rooms lest our feet turn to stone. My fear of germs only compounded when I was diagnosed with salmonella years ago.
I also have some other minor OCD-ish routines I perform during the day. When I was in high school I would check my alarm no less than 10 times before I went to bed, fearful that I would oversleep in the morning. And beginning in high school, I started to set my alarm at odd times: 5:52, 5:44, 5:36... Depending on the amount of extra sleep my alarm clock's snooze button offered, I would back up from the time I needed to actually be up in "snooze increments". I loved those extra few minutes, and yet I was not willing to sleep past my designated wake up time. So if I wanted to enjoy the blessings of snooze, I had to trick myself into thinking I was given those extra minutes. I so enjoyed waking up knowing that I had extra time to sleep that, at my craziest, I would set the alarm for, say, 2 or 3 or 4, wake up, and then reset the alarm for 5:28, when the snooze routine would commence. I know, I should have gotten that checked out by a doctor!
I'm usually up early, but often still feel quite sleepy. Snooze has its important place in my life, but because I don't ever use it to actually get more sleep, it never leaves me feeling more rested. But today, at that early hour of this dark and cold morning, I checked my email and I was soberly awakened by an old college friend named Adam.
When I was studying at Union College, Adam was in the graduate program. He and I connected over our love of cycling. Adam and I rode many miles together. I rode with others as well, but the only one I remember aside from Adam was Hugh, an English professor. I remember Adam as a strong cyclist. I always struggled to keep up with him in the hills and I know that our hours together on the road made me a stronger cyclist.
Adam woke me up twice in one day back in my college years. During my freshman year there was a big bike race scheduled somewhere in the hills outside of Schenectady. I planned to do the race but, as it approached, I forgot all about it because I was rushing a fraternity and was caught in "hell week" in the final days leading up to the race. Hell week ended on a Saturday night/Sunday morning at 3 or 4AM. I went back to my dorm room and fell fast asleep. Not more than a couple hours later the phone startled me awake. It was Adam.
"You coming to the race, man? I'll pick you up."
"Sure, I'm up. Why not?" I said.
Wake up #1.
Several hours later, after we registered and warmed up, we were sitting on the grass beside the road awaiting the start of the race when I fell asleep. I think I dreamed that I won the race. Then I was startled awake for the second time of the morning, only this time by the water of Adam's bottle dripping on my head and down my back.
"Get up, man! The race is starting!"
Wake up #2.
Today, Adam startled me awake for a third time. I was technically "up" but I was hardly awake. And then I read an email which informed me that Adam had made a very significant donation to my fundraising campaign for CURED. I was suddenly wide awake.
Wake up #3.
I always liked Adam very much, but after college we fell out of touch. Through the miracle of Facebook we reconnected, as people do. We've since exchanged a few emails and wall posts, but it's been almost 15 years since Adam and I had any real ongoing contact. Adam's gesture surprised and moved me, and sure as hell woke me up when I checked my email just before 5 this morning. So Adam, if you're reading, thank you for your generosity and for your friendship. It's acts of kindness like yours that keep me motivated to continue waking up well before the sun!
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The Coach
I've engaged the services of coaches maybe 4 or 5 times over the years in my athletic pursuits. People who are not in the "endurance" world never quite understand. They either think the mere fact that I have a coach means:
1. I'm really, really good, or...
2. I THINK that I'm really, really good.
Neither is the case. It's hard to succinctly define what a coach does and means for an obsessive amateur like me. A good coach may fall somewhere between personal trainer, friend, therapist and cheerleader.
I found my first coach when I was living in NYC and training for my second marathon, the New Jersey Marathon. I ran my first, the Chicago, just about 6 months after I started running. What you'll learn about me is that I never do anything half way, which may be why I registered for my first IM before I have competed in any REAL triathlons yet. My goal was to finish NJ in 3:30 or better. I was about seven minutes off, but my coach did lead me to a PR (personal record) by 9 minutes; nothing to shake a stick at. I did ultimately achieve my 3:30 several years later. Actually, I finished the Wineglass Marathon in 3:28, and I prepared for that one all on my own, without any coach guidance. But that mere fact doesn't call into question the role of the coach in my pursuits.
I've been bike racing on and off for about 23 years. It wasn't until I hired a coach this past season that I finally won a race. In fact, under my coach's guidance, I won 5 races, 2 multi-week race series, and achieved two more podium finishes. To make things even sweeter for me, it was my first season ever competing off road. I've never raced a mountain bike before and, honestly, I was not terribly secure with my technical skills going into the season. I took my first 4 races. I thank my coach for that.
Now that my goals and sport have changed, I felt it would be important to find a coach who specializes in triathlons. I don't even know what I don't know yet. But among my biggest personal challenges facing me in the IM are:
1. Swimming 2.4 miles
2. Nutrition- I have a touchy stomach and unless I eat and drink properly, I'll be left for dead somewhere along the route
3. Bike tech. I'm embarrassed to say it, because I know everything there is to know about road bikes and road cycling, but tri bikes and tri biking are a different animal
4. Transitions. I know there's more to it than just ripping off my wetsuit, parking my bike, and lacing up, especially in an IM.
5. Everything else
I did my research and I found Coach Dan. After spending some time communicating on the phone and email, the first thing he wanted to do was to meet me at Canandaigua Lake for a swim to see where I was in my most challenged discipline. Later that day I got an email with a lengthy video podcast, analyzing a video recording of my stroke (if I dare call what I did back then a stroke). Having had maybe 4 coaches prior, all of whom I liked and who served me well, I have never had a coach who was so thorough and seemed so invested in my success as Coach Dan. I was pleasantly surprised.
Working with Coach Dan continued to go well and then I got another email. He wanted to meet me again. This time he would schlep all the way from Canandaigua so he could, again, record me swimming and assess my progress. Again, pleasantly surprised. It felt above and beyond to me, and his efforts and concern gave me greater confidence in my pursuit of IMOO.
But, while Coach Dan takes interest in my fitness, training, technique, etc., I soon learned that he also takes interest in my life, my values and my causes. I told him that I would not be wearing a Team Nice Tri (the name of his team) jersey when I race because, in my effort to raise awareness of and $ for eosinophilic esophagitis I would be racing in the Team Pig Vomit colors. Anything that surprised me about Coach Dan's attentiveness was then overshadowed by his concern and his kindness. "I may have some ideas to support your fundraiser," he said.
People offer this and that all the time, but ideas often have a way of dying soon after they are uttered.
Not with Coach Dan. He meant what he said, and now he's putting his money where his mouth is. He is organizing an informal fundraising evening in late October to support my efforts to help CURED and to help Noah.
I've never discussed religion with Coach Dan, but I know his Christian faith is a core element of his being. I may just be a rabbi, and therefore not fully qualified to say so, but Coach Dan is a good Christian, motivated to perform acts of kindness and charity.
After I try to secure a few sponsors to support Team Pig Vomit with significant donations to CURED I will have my custom race apparel made. When I do, I'll be proud to place the "Nice Tri" logo on my jersey.
Coach Dan, if you're reading, thank you! As we say in the Jewish community, may you go from strength to strength.
1. I'm really, really good, or...
2. I THINK that I'm really, really good.
Neither is the case. It's hard to succinctly define what a coach does and means for an obsessive amateur like me. A good coach may fall somewhere between personal trainer, friend, therapist and cheerleader.
I found my first coach when I was living in NYC and training for my second marathon, the New Jersey Marathon. I ran my first, the Chicago, just about 6 months after I started running. What you'll learn about me is that I never do anything half way, which may be why I registered for my first IM before I have competed in any REAL triathlons yet. My goal was to finish NJ in 3:30 or better. I was about seven minutes off, but my coach did lead me to a PR (personal record) by 9 minutes; nothing to shake a stick at. I did ultimately achieve my 3:30 several years later. Actually, I finished the Wineglass Marathon in 3:28, and I prepared for that one all on my own, without any coach guidance. But that mere fact doesn't call into question the role of the coach in my pursuits.
I've been bike racing on and off for about 23 years. It wasn't until I hired a coach this past season that I finally won a race. In fact, under my coach's guidance, I won 5 races, 2 multi-week race series, and achieved two more podium finishes. To make things even sweeter for me, it was my first season ever competing off road. I've never raced a mountain bike before and, honestly, I was not terribly secure with my technical skills going into the season. I took my first 4 races. I thank my coach for that.
Now that my goals and sport have changed, I felt it would be important to find a coach who specializes in triathlons. I don't even know what I don't know yet. But among my biggest personal challenges facing me in the IM are:
1. Swimming 2.4 miles
2. Nutrition- I have a touchy stomach and unless I eat and drink properly, I'll be left for dead somewhere along the route
3. Bike tech. I'm embarrassed to say it, because I know everything there is to know about road bikes and road cycling, but tri bikes and tri biking are a different animal
4. Transitions. I know there's more to it than just ripping off my wetsuit, parking my bike, and lacing up, especially in an IM.
5. Everything else
I did my research and I found Coach Dan. After spending some time communicating on the phone and email, the first thing he wanted to do was to meet me at Canandaigua Lake for a swim to see where I was in my most challenged discipline. Later that day I got an email with a lengthy video podcast, analyzing a video recording of my stroke (if I dare call what I did back then a stroke). Having had maybe 4 coaches prior, all of whom I liked and who served me well, I have never had a coach who was so thorough and seemed so invested in my success as Coach Dan. I was pleasantly surprised.
Working with Coach Dan continued to go well and then I got another email. He wanted to meet me again. This time he would schlep all the way from Canandaigua so he could, again, record me swimming and assess my progress. Again, pleasantly surprised. It felt above and beyond to me, and his efforts and concern gave me greater confidence in my pursuit of IMOO.
But, while Coach Dan takes interest in my fitness, training, technique, etc., I soon learned that he also takes interest in my life, my values and my causes. I told him that I would not be wearing a Team Nice Tri (the name of his team) jersey when I race because, in my effort to raise awareness of and $ for eosinophilic esophagitis I would be racing in the Team Pig Vomit colors. Anything that surprised me about Coach Dan's attentiveness was then overshadowed by his concern and his kindness. "I may have some ideas to support your fundraiser," he said.
People offer this and that all the time, but ideas often have a way of dying soon after they are uttered.
Not with Coach Dan. He meant what he said, and now he's putting his money where his mouth is. He is organizing an informal fundraising evening in late October to support my efforts to help CURED and to help Noah. I've never discussed religion with Coach Dan, but I know his Christian faith is a core element of his being. I may just be a rabbi, and therefore not fully qualified to say so, but Coach Dan is a good Christian, motivated to perform acts of kindness and charity.
After I try to secure a few sponsors to support Team Pig Vomit with significant donations to CURED I will have my custom race apparel made. When I do, I'll be proud to place the "Nice Tri" logo on my jersey.
Coach Dan, if you're reading, thank you! As we say in the Jewish community, may you go from strength to strength.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Monday Morning Race (A.K.A.- Goosed in the Pool)
I joined a new gym last month. I joined exclusively for the use of the indoor pool. I already "belonged" somewhere, but something about that first pool did something nasty to my sinuses. So I found a new pool. This one is indoors, so I can swim throughout the winter. I'm not going to tell you which one, because I don't want you to see me in a bathing suit. It's a relatively small pool- 20 yards and just 4 lanes. It's also unusually hot. The water is kept at about 89 degrees, which I appreciate when I first jump in, but after a few lanes, I quickly get overheated. Just one more challenge in my journey to IMOO.
The gym opens at 5:30.....ish..... And so I arrive at 5:25 in typical type A, anxious me fashion. Half of the time the gym is already open by the time I get there. The other half of the time, I end up waiting at the door with a couple other people for the ceremonial opening of the doors. It's a little irritating that, even on those mornings that the gym doesn't open early, I inevitably find some woman feverishly grinding away on on the elliptical. I discovered that she is the wife of the gym employee who opens up. So no big deal, but, hey, if the gym's ready to go, open the door a few minutes early for us early birds.
Then comes the morning race. Who can get into the pool first? Only 4 lanes, so walk fast, tear off clothes and jump in. I was relieved to be the first in the water today, so I chose the lane designated for "fast lap swimming", which I find ironic because I'm not all that fast. Though I do seem to tick off my laps a little faster than most in the pool at that hour. Beside the fast lane is the water-walking lane.
So off I go on my morning swim workout:
-1000 yards
-600 yards
-400 yards
-200 yards
I barely get 5 laps into my workout when someone decided to share my narrow lane. I'm not a pool snob, but I'm still finding my comfort in the water, so I like my space. I move to the outer half of the lane and I chug along. Imagine my surprise when he and I crossed paths for the first time this morning and, either he wasn't far enough over or he liked the way I looked in a bathing suit and I felt the full width of his palm on my behind. I looked over but couldn't tell if he winked from behind his goggles.
The truth is, it was probably a good experience for me- not just the unexpected contact, but the sharing of a narrow lane. Somehow I'm going to have to swim 2.4 miles in Lake Monona with 2499 others, and for someone who could hardly swim 3 months ago, that's an intimidating prospect.
So maybe I should tell myself that there's no need to rush to the gym in the morning. Regardless of when I get there, there's a good chance I'll be sharing a lane with someone. It may not be such a bad thing for me, after all. But then again, I'm not sure I can easily rid myself of my anxious obsessiveness. More than likely, I'll continue to wake at 4:45 on the mornings of my swim workouts so I can continue to race to the gym three times a week, hoping, praying that I will be the first one in the not-so-fast fast-lane!
The gym opens at 5:30.....ish..... And so I arrive at 5:25 in typical type A, anxious me fashion. Half of the time the gym is already open by the time I get there. The other half of the time, I end up waiting at the door with a couple other people for the ceremonial opening of the doors. It's a little irritating that, even on those mornings that the gym doesn't open early, I inevitably find some woman feverishly grinding away on on the elliptical. I discovered that she is the wife of the gym employee who opens up. So no big deal, but, hey, if the gym's ready to go, open the door a few minutes early for us early birds.
Then comes the morning race. Who can get into the pool first? Only 4 lanes, so walk fast, tear off clothes and jump in. I was relieved to be the first in the water today, so I chose the lane designated for "fast lap swimming", which I find ironic because I'm not all that fast. Though I do seem to tick off my laps a little faster than most in the pool at that hour. Beside the fast lane is the water-walking lane.
So off I go on my morning swim workout:
-1000 yards
-600 yards
-400 yards
-200 yards
I barely get 5 laps into my workout when someone decided to share my narrow lane. I'm not a pool snob, but I'm still finding my comfort in the water, so I like my space. I move to the outer half of the lane and I chug along. Imagine my surprise when he and I crossed paths for the first time this morning and, either he wasn't far enough over or he liked the way I looked in a bathing suit and I felt the full width of his palm on my behind. I looked over but couldn't tell if he winked from behind his goggles.
The truth is, it was probably a good experience for me- not just the unexpected contact, but the sharing of a narrow lane. Somehow I'm going to have to swim 2.4 miles in Lake Monona with 2499 others, and for someone who could hardly swim 3 months ago, that's an intimidating prospect.
So maybe I should tell myself that there's no need to rush to the gym in the morning. Regardless of when I get there, there's a good chance I'll be sharing a lane with someone. It may not be such a bad thing for me, after all. But then again, I'm not sure I can easily rid myself of my anxious obsessiveness. More than likely, I'll continue to wake at 4:45 on the mornings of my swim workouts so I can continue to race to the gym three times a week, hoping, praying that I will be the first one in the not-so-fast fast-lane!
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Pig Vomit
Let's be honest here, endurance sports are a somewhat self-centered pursuit. Even where there are teams, there's little team effort or team work in marathons, triathlons, and the like. Preparation for these events take enormous amounts of time that threaten to take the athlete away from other people, either with the absence of his physical presence when he's forced to train, or the absence of his emotional presence when he's busy day dreaming about the big event, or just too tired to pay attention. I do my best to ensure that my training does not deprive my family of either. I train early enough in the morning that, many days I'm home early enough to have breakfast with my girls and even wait for the school bus. My coach, Dan, schedules training blocks in, what he calls, "S.A.U.s"- Spouse Approval Units. And like a good Jewish husband, I asked Rachel's permission before I registered for IMOO (IMOO is the nickname for IM Wisconsin because, despite it's location in the city of Madison, Wisconsin in quite rural and cows are easily spotted along the course.)
Still, I feel a need to make such a narcissistic pursuit, like the IM, about more than me. That's why Team Pig Vomit was created. "Pig Vomit" is my nickname for my 10-year-old nephew, Noah. I know, what the hell sort of uncle calls his nephew "Pig Vomit"? Well, me, I guess. You see, Noah's an awesome kid. He's loaded with personality. He's funny and, like my youngest daughter Elly and like me, has a gift for discovering people's buttons, and he has amazing endurance in his ability to push those buttons over and over and over. So he and I have battles of the will. Neither of us relent in our efforts to irritate the other, but Noah has more staying power than I have. And once upon a time I finally shouted, "Go away Pig Vomit!" And a new identity is born!
Noah is an amazing kid and he bad luck. Several years ago Noah was diagnosed with Eosinophilic Esophagitis (EE), a miserable disease that attacks his body when he eats practically any food. Noah has endured more invasive medical tests and procedures at 10 than most do in a lifetime. And still, he has an incredible ability to smile and to have fun. Through all of the crap, he is always uniquely "Noah". And in that way, Noah amazes me.
This year Noah was diagnosed with a second disease that was brought on by EE. Gastroparesis means that his stomach does not empty itself of food at a normal rate. That often leaves him doubled over in pain, often feeling like he is suffering from a severe case of the stomach flu.
EE isn't as rare a disease as you may have guessed. However, it was only identified in relatively recent years. It's been called a mini-epidemic because it's being diagnosed at an alarming rapid rate. However, awareness is relatively limited, and therefore funding for medical research in the hunt for treatments and cures in limited. So every dollar raised makes an impact.
Team Pig Vomit's first fundraising event was the "6 Hours of Power Mountain Bike Race" which I completed in July, 2011. I raised about $2500 or so. I completed the race, though I made it harder on myself than I needed to, competing on a single-speed mountain bike race. That's right. No downshifting on a 10 mile course with about 1500 vertical feet of climbing. The temperatures rose well into the 90 and I suffered more than I anticipated. But I officially inaugurated Team Pig Vomit in the process and raised a few dollars at the same time.
I'm reaching higher this time. Team Pig Vomit is my effort to make the Ironman about more than myself. And this year I'm aiming to raise $14,060. That's $100/mile that I plan to complete at the IM. I'll need you help. I'll take your donations anytime- there's a link to the right. But no rush. I'll be asking you, officially, some time in the future.
Until then...oink-moo!
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Character Building
I'm pretty tired. The last few days have been mentally, emotionally, spiritually and physically draining. The Jewish New Year is a time of great anticipation and anxiety for a rabbi. These are the days when everybody shows up to services and everyone has high expectations.
1. Keep me awake and interested.
2. Finish on time.
3. Give me a spiritual experience.
4. Inspire or move me with your sermon.
I'm not sure how well I did, though I confess we finished a bit late on day 1. By the end of day 2, I was really dragging. And to make things a bit more difficult, the holiday flowed right into Shabbat this year. So three days of intense synagogue time.
I missed my workouts on Thursday and Friday because of the holiday. I can't ride my bike on Shabbat or the holidays because of certain religious restrictions on the holy days. I can't swim because I'm unable to get to the pool for the same reason. But I have found enough religious legal precedent to allow me to run. So after 2 long, tough days, I was up at 5 this morning, slipping on my running shoes for an early, pre-synagogue 7.5 mile easy run.
Easy....
It was in the 40's, pouring rain, the wind was howling and the sky was as dark as night for the duration of my hour and 3 minute run. To make matters more interesting, my mild cold managed to settle into my chest this AM. Before I made it 100 steps, I was coughing so violently I nearly puked on my running shoes.
I eventually settled into a comfortable pace and became immune to both the elements and my cold. An hour later I approaching my driveway feeling pretty good.
But why? Why the hell would I do that to myself? Never mind the elements, the early hour after two long, restless days and the depressing darkness of the wee morning hours, the rule of thumb says that with a head cold train lightly; with a chest cold rest lest you get sicker. I know the rule and I ignored it.
Why?
It's simple. Guilt and fear. If you've ever training for something serious, like a marathon, you know what I mean. Any missed workout is accompanied by deep guilt that come with forsaking a real commitment. And fear... Well, it may be 11 months away, but 140.6 miles in one day is pretty damn intimidating and the thought of committing more than a year of training for an event that, without perfect training, I may not finish scares me awake every morning, well before the sun rises, giving me enough time to train before my kids wake up.
So, this morning's run was just one more workout in a sea of countless 100s more. This 1 run alone didn't make me fast enough or strong enough to get to the finish line. But it was certainly the sort of workout that building character.
1. Keep me awake and interested.
2. Finish on time.
3. Give me a spiritual experience.
4. Inspire or move me with your sermon.
I'm not sure how well I did, though I confess we finished a bit late on day 1. By the end of day 2, I was really dragging. And to make things a bit more difficult, the holiday flowed right into Shabbat this year. So three days of intense synagogue time.
I missed my workouts on Thursday and Friday because of the holiday. I can't ride my bike on Shabbat or the holidays because of certain religious restrictions on the holy days. I can't swim because I'm unable to get to the pool for the same reason. But I have found enough religious legal precedent to allow me to run. So after 2 long, tough days, I was up at 5 this morning, slipping on my running shoes for an early, pre-synagogue 7.5 mile easy run.
Easy....
It was in the 40's, pouring rain, the wind was howling and the sky was as dark as night for the duration of my hour and 3 minute run. To make matters more interesting, my mild cold managed to settle into my chest this AM. Before I made it 100 steps, I was coughing so violently I nearly puked on my running shoes.
I eventually settled into a comfortable pace and became immune to both the elements and my cold. An hour later I approaching my driveway feeling pretty good.
But why? Why the hell would I do that to myself? Never mind the elements, the early hour after two long, restless days and the depressing darkness of the wee morning hours, the rule of thumb says that with a head cold train lightly; with a chest cold rest lest you get sicker. I know the rule and I ignored it.
Why?
It's simple. Guilt and fear. If you've ever training for something serious, like a marathon, you know what I mean. Any missed workout is accompanied by deep guilt that come with forsaking a real commitment. And fear... Well, it may be 11 months away, but 140.6 miles in one day is pretty damn intimidating and the thought of committing more than a year of training for an event that, without perfect training, I may not finish scares me awake every morning, well before the sun rises, giving me enough time to train before my kids wake up.
So, this morning's run was just one more workout in a sea of countless 100s more. This 1 run alone didn't make me fast enough or strong enough to get to the finish line. But it was certainly the sort of workout that building character.
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