YOU ARE AN IRONMAN

A week ago, exactly, I was standing up to my knees in Lake Monona waiting for the gun to go off sending me on a 140.6 mile, nearly 13 hour journey.  But if you've been following me at all, you know that this journey lasted closer to 13 months and covered many 1000s of miles.  I've have lived to tell you about it and now I sit down on a Sunday morning, not on my bike, but on my coach, and share with you the final lead up and the race.

I suffered in the final week before the race.  A stomach bug kept me away from training all together, and a doctor doubted whether or not I'd be well enough to race.  By Thursday night I thought I had it kicked, though, at that point, I was already down almost7 lb.  Not a good way to enter into Ironman weekend.  On Friday I loaded my car and we headed north to Madison.  I had my first normal and full meals on Friday at lunch and dinner.  I checked in and I was feeling very excited about the final push of this long journey.

I woke up early Saturday morning sick.  I was losing hydration rapidly and I was starting to panic.  I broke open a few Immodium and prayed it would get me through the next 2 days.  Saturday was a low key day as I anticipated what was to come.  On Saturday night I tried to stuff myself with carbs and hydration, but my nervous stomach struggled to accept what my body needed.

At 3:24 on Sunday morning my eyes opened.  I turned off my 3 alarms before they sounded, brushed my teeth and at my breakfast- a dry bowl of cereal, and a banana and a half with peanut butter.   I meticulously placed all my gear in my appropriate gear bags, I got dressed and I drank as I awaited the hour when I would wake my family.  Just before I woke my family I took a couple more Immodium for good measure.

Rachel and the girls awoke and dressed quickly, and before I knew it, we were headed to the hotel lobby to wait for my parents and Pig Vomit and his family.  The caravan of 3 hit the road and I closed my eyes to take in my final quiet moments of the day.  As Rachel drove us to Madison, I blasted Usher's "Scream" and started to visualize the day ahead of me.

The caravan pulled over near the transition area and everyone but the 3 drivers piled out of the cars.  My family wished me good luck, gave me final hugs and kisses, and we parted ways as I headed to transition.  I met my bike, placed the filled water bottles in the cages, switched on my bike computer and pumped up my tires.  I backtracked a bit to hand in my special needs bags after which a returned to transition.  I got in a 20 minute line for the portapotties and when my business was done I squeezed into my wetsuit.

It was a cold morning.  It was barely in the 50s and it was quite windy.  The wetsuit warmed me up instantly as I followed the lemmings to the water's edge.  The starting area was lined with 1000s of supportive fans.  The atmosphere was electric and I had goosebumps.  I put on my custom orange goggles, stretched my neon green Ironman Wisconsin swim cap over my head, and I kicked off my flip flops, never to be seen again.

There was a clear dividing line in the water.  Those who were more confident made their way towards the front.  Those less confident hung around towards the back.  There was a noticable empty spot in between the two in the water as we waited to start our day.  I personally lined myself up about three-quarters back on the outside, where I suspected I'd run into the least amount of traffic.

3...
2...
1...

GO!

I dove into the water and I swam.  And I swam some more.  As Coach Dan promised, the swim was, indeed, the most relaxed part of my day.  It was crowded.  Swimming amidst 2900 people is, well, physical.  There was a lot of contact.  Contantly.  In hindsight, lining up on the outside was not the best choice.  I struggled to make my way to an inside and more direct line.  I was kicked and punched, clobbered and run over.  I felt my feet grabbed and my arms shoved.  And I was guilty of doing all the same to others.  Not intentionally, of course.  But when one is trying to make constant forward progress among such a crowd, there's little choice.

Here's a visual:

Coming into the first turn, I found a traffic jam, as is often the case in triathlons with mass starts.  I kept my head in the water and did my best to make my way through the crowd.  The tradition at Ironman Wisconsin, AKA IMOO, is to moo at the first turn.  I did hear a bit of mooing but restrained myself.  Somehow.

As I made my way into the final turns, heading back to dry land, I contemplated what I had acheived already that day.  Swimming 2.4 miles once felt like a ridiculous impossibilility.  Not much more than a year ago, I couldn't swim to save my life.  Really.  Not much more than a year ago, I was afraid of the water.  The mere thought if swimming such a distance and among such a crowd made me anxious.  And here I was, finishing up the 2.4 mile swim leg, having not experienced even a moment of panic and, though not fast, nowhere near the 2 hour 20 minute cutoff. 

Swim time: 1:35:35.  5 minutes or so slower than I hoped, but with the traffic and outside line, I was perfectly satisfied.

A volunteer grabbed my hand to help steady my sea legs as I removed my goggles from my eyes and tried to catch my breath.  A few yards later I laid on the ground as a couple of eager volunteers ripped my wetsuit off of my wet body.  I held on to the waistline of my tri shorts just to be safe.  The unique aspect of IMOO transition is that it sits on the top level of a parking garage and athletes have to conquor the helix multiple times throughout the day.  Running the ramp barefood was not comfortable, but it was all part of the experience.

I was directed to an indoor ballroom labeled "men's changing", I was immediately handed my gear bag, and I put on my bike helmet.  Just in time.  Just seconds later an athlete sprinted past me and hit me so hard in the head with his elbow I nearly fell over.  Thank God for the helmet.  He wasn't even running towards the exit!  In an event as long as an Ironman, I'm not sure what difference those extra few seconds were going to do for him.  Two athletes getting dressed beside me asked if I was okay, one declaring, "Wow!  I heard that.  He sure got you!"  Annoyed but okay, I responded, "With the hurry he's in, he better f...king with this race!"  Though if he was in transition 1 at the same time as me, it wasn't likely.  Or possible. 

Dressed and ready, I ran to the bike area.  Two glove-laden volunteers dipped their hands in buckets and slathered my skin with sunscreen.  I quickly stopped at the porta-potty, a volunteer handed me my bike and I mounted my trusty steed.

 The first miles of the bike leg were cold.  It was still in the 50s.  I was wet.  And the wind was blowing.  I rolled off the helix, made my first turn into town and was greeted with an enormous crowd of roaring fans.  That's when I first saw my family, proudly wearing their Team Pig Vomit shirts.  Their presence and support gave me a huge smile and a giant boost.

The bike leg was a unique challenge for me.  My strict instructions from Coach Dan were to follow my nutrition plan exactly as discussed, to keep my power wattage within the designated zone, and above all, to keep my heart rate below the 140s.  I was taking in the nurtion and hydration as planned.  I had no problem keeping my power in my zone.  But I couldn't do anything to keep my heart rate down.  Even as I lowered my power output to a level that was very easy, a level that normally keeps my heart rate well below 140 beats per minute, my heart was just working too hard which, if sustained, would risk destroying my day.  I don't know if it was a few missed key bike workouts in the final weeks of training as a result of violent weather and some minor crises that required my attention.  I don't know if it was the sustained wind throughout the day.  Or if my stomach bug did something to my fitness, but the bike, my strongest discipline, did not go as I planned.  At 6:33:24, I was at least a 1/2 hour, but closer to 45 minutes off of my expected split.  Regardless, I had a great time.

The course was relatively hilly.  The biggest climbs were lined with 1000s of rowdy supporters.  1 woman at the top of one of the biggest climbs held a sign that read, "Smile if you peed yourself."  She looked every athlete in the eye and shouted, "You know you did!"  Well, she just doesn't know me.  Another woman didn't wear any clothing that was not hidden behind her sign that read, "Ironmen are sexy."  She looked the men in the eye and demanded, "I'm talking to you!"

Hitting the steepest and windiest of the descents, signs warned, "Caution.  Slow."  I tend to take those signs seriously.  The extra seconds gained by riding those short sections recklessly are not worth the risk during a 112 bike leg.  Besides, I've had enough bike crashes to last me a lifetime.  As I applied my brakes, a ride flew past me at 40+ MPH as he steered his bike into a sharp corner.  I said to a rider beside me, "He's not gonna make it."  He didn't.  He went off the road and ended up on his back.  He was fine but, as Forrest Gump once said, "Stupid is as stupid does."

The course takes rides 16 miles out of town and then riders must cover 2 laps of 40 miles before turning back to cover those last 16 miles.  After completing the first lap, I found my family once again urging me on.  Nothing kept me going more than their excitement.  A few miles into lap #2 I stopped at the special needs bag area.  I pulled up to the right spot and a volunteer already had my bag in hang.  She dumped it on the ground and asked what I needed.  I asked for the 3 full water bottles and the salt tabs, which she quickly handed me, and I was on my way.  She was a efficient as a pit crew in a Nascar race.  I thought about stopping at the porta-potties at the end of the special needs zone, but there was a line, so I figured I'd wait until the next feed zone.

My heartrate seemed to settle a bit in the second lap, but not enough to push my pace as I planned.  But it was also in this final half of the bike leg that I started feeling, well, full.  My stomach felt like it had 20 gallons of fluid in it.  It's one thing to bike like that, but the pounding of running and the feeling of fluid sloshing around in my belly was going to be prohibitive.  I started to alter my intake a bit.  I knew I needed to take in the scheduled amount of calories and electrolytes, but I wasn't sure I could take in 24oz of fluid per hour anymore.  So I did what I could to compensate, but I still wasn't feeling great.

I rode back into town and made my way back up the helix, where a volunteer grabbed my bike and another ushered me into the ballroom once again.  I was quickly handed my gear bag and ushered into the changing room.  I was about to change my shoes from a standing position when a volunteer grabbed my back, lead me over the a chair, dumped my bag and practically did it for me.  He handed me everything I wanted, told me he would take care of my stuff, pointing me in the direction of the exit.  2 more eager volunteers slathered me again and I was headed back down the helix. 

It was then that I questioned whether or not I'd be able to finish a full marathon.  My legs were feeling okay.  But my stomach was feeling extremely bloated.  As I made my first turn, I saw my family and I ran over to greet them for a few seconds.  Their enthusiasm once again reenergized me and I hit the road. 

The run course was fantastic.  A significant portion of the course was lined with wild spectators.  People who, for some insane reason, wanted sweaty, disgusting athletes to slap their hands.  Running up and down State Street 4 times was electric.  Nevertheless, the first 6-10 miles were the toughest of the race.  I probably lost 6 or 8 minutes stopping at porta-potties.  At one feed station, I was forced to wait at least 3 minutes for an empty one.  The one saving grace is that the porta-potties had hand sanitizer dispensers.  They must have known I was coming.

Running on the field of Camp Randall Stadium was silent.  And magical.  After exiting the stadium the course headed in the direction of a few significant hills.  When I reached Mt. Everest I was relieved to find EVERY running walking.  So I walked.  And it felt good.  By the time I reached State Street towards the end of the first lap, my stomach was feeling pretty good.  That was my sign to make hydration a focus once again.  At each feed station I took 1 cup of defizzed Coke and 1 cup of Powerbar Perform.  Each gulp gave me just enough energy to get to the next, a mile away.  I rounded the corner in the final mile of the lap and I saw my family once again.  I stopped to say hello, but I couldn't talk.  They wouldn't let me stay long.  "Go!  Don't stop!" they shouted.  So onwards I went.  I found a sign with 2 arrows.  1 pointed to the turn-around, the other pointed to the finish.  Seeming the finish, just yards in front of me but 13 miles away made me a little emotional.  "I'm gonna do this thing," I said to myself.  And so I went.

I was feeling strong.  Tired, but strong.  I couldn't talk anymore.  When I arrived at each feed zone, I couldn't even tell the volunteers what I wanted.  I just pointed.  It worked.  They were awesome!  With each mile past, I was 1 mile closer.  And in the final 10 miles I started to do some fuzzy math in my head.  My calculations indicated that, if I stayed on pace, I could finish in less than 13 hours.  I was dually motivated.  Personally, I needed to finish within that time.  It was a mid-race goal I set for myself, and come hell or highwater, I was going to reach it.  Also, I knew that Pig Vomit and his family were planning on driving home to Chicago after the race, as all the kids had school and my sister had jury duty, so I wanted to finish early enough to get them home before midnight. 

You're welcome!

Just before I hit the hills on the back of the course, I felt a sudden cramp in my lower abdomen.  Every step felt as if I had a knife piecing me.  I quickly diagnosed myself with appendicitis.  "What a feat this is going to be, to finish the Ironman with a burst appendix," I told myself.  When I began to walk to the top of Mt. Everest once again, I forgot about the knife in my side, at least until I started to run again.  That's when I remembered Coach Dan telling me that it was going to hurt no matter what, so I may as well run through the pain to get it over with quicker.  So I did.  The pain passed in a few miles and the final 6 miles were me vs. my will. 

The final miles hurt.  A lot.  But I never stopped running.  The road became a death march.  It seemed as if practically everyone was walking.  I wouldn't walk.  I couldn't walk.  I told myself, "I can run 6 miles in my sleep."  5 miles.  4 miles.  2 miles to go and I started thinking about the finish.  As I got closer and closer, I started speeding up.  I wanted to cross the finish line alone.  For 13 months I hit the pool and the lake, the roads, the trails, the treadmills and my bike trainer alone.  I was going to finish this bad boy all alone an nobody was going to get in between the camera and me.

I made my way around the Wisconsin Capital Building, picked off walkers left and right, veered left towards the finish while many others were just about the begin their second lap, and I started to sprint.  Seeing the finish line, hearing the roar of the crowd, catching sight of the race close ticking at 12:50:45 seconds, the power and emotion of the moment overcame me.  As I approached the finish line, I could have sworn I was smiling.  I guess I hide my emotion well.

I saw my family right at the side of the finishline, front row going wild.  I instinctively raised my hands through the length of the finishing straight and I heard I've been craving since I was a little boy and first saw an Ironman on television: "MATTHEW FIELD, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!!!!"

1 More Day

1 more day.  For 13 months, tomorrow has been the horizon towards which I have restlessly navigated.  For 13 months I have woken up at frightful hours to set out on another day of training.  Sometimes under dark skies.  Sometimes in temperatures below zero with fresh snow reaching above my wet and frozen ankles.  Sometimes in temperatures reaching to 100 degrees and beyond.  I’ve ridden my bike in the rain and in stiff winds.  I’ve trained in choppy waters and lakes as smooth as glass.  I’ve had setbacks.  I’ve been sick.   I’ve been injured.  I’ve been tired.  I’ve felt burned out.  I’ve had days when everything felt wrong and there was nothing I could do to keep my heart rate below the red line.  I’ve feared the water.  I’ve had panic attacks.  I’ve gotten swimming advice from my daughters.  Good advice.  “Daddy, you’re head’s not even in the water,” they’d demand.  But the tip of my nose was.  Isn’t that enough?

I’ve had great days.  I’ve felt strong and powerful beyond description.  I’ve floated over roads and trails and felt as if I could run or bike or swim forever.  I’ve gotten stronger.  I’ve gotten smarter.  I’ve gotten faster.  I’ve gotten fitter.

I’ve gotten more humble.  I’ve learned that the best intentions and the most well thought out plans get you only as far as circumstance allows.  I’ve become more flexible.  I’ve learned to adapt and to roll with the punches.  I’ve grown selfish and yet I’ve learned to make my self-indulgent pursuits benefit causes that help others.  I’ve learned to maintain a sense of humor no matter what. 

I’ve learned to eat and to drink right while running and biking.  I’ve learned to empty my bladder in the woods at the side of the road so quickly nobody even saw me leave the road.  I’ve learned to accept and embrace pain.  I’ve learned not ignore certain kinds of pain.  I’ve learned to make critical calculations when my body is tired and my mental focus is compromised.

I’ve learned to appreciate things and people more.  I appreciate the 4 pound bicycle frame that has sustained my body weight and my pounding legs for 1000s of miles.  I appreciate the inner tube that popped through my front tire on a long run but never punctured.  I appreciate the goggles that have given me the confidence to put my face and my entire head in the water and learn to really swim.  I appreciate the hydration belt that allows me to take enough fluid with me on long runs without having to actually carry anything.  I appreciate my GPS bicycle computer that has kept me from getting lost.  I appreciate my Pig Vomit apparel that has resulted in many inquiries, thereby allowing me to get up on my soapbox and advocate on behalf of CURED.

I appreciate my mother and her concerns, motivated only by her love.  When a young man dropped dead at the Chicago Marathon last year, she called and asked, “Do you really have to do this triathlon thing?”  A doctor recommended EKG confirmed that my heart was healthy enough, and gave my mom some peace of mind.  I appreciate my dad’s, um, sense of humor?  I guess.  That is, I believe, how he deals with some of his own concerns, especially when he told me not to bother training for the bike and run, as I’d never make it out of the water alive.  I appreciate my daughters who are, unwaveringly, my biggest fans, and sometimes my wisest advisors.  Just this morning Elly said: “If you get real sweaty during   the Ironman, you really should take a shower afterwards, before you go to bed.”  Would you dare argue with her advice?  And I appreciate my amazing wife, Rachel, not only for supporting me, but for putting up with me, for allowing me to follow my passion, for encouraging me to be who I am, and for agreeing to celebrate our anniversary in Madison, Wisconsin, focusing entirely on the Ironman.  I appreciate her patience and acceptance.

Tomorrow’s the day.  Tomorrow is the day we pack up the car with a small bag for my family and several large ones for me.  Bike.  Shoes.  Helmet.  Wetsuit.  Water bottles.  Nutrition.  Hydration.  Etc., etc.  Tomorrow we see the venue for the first time.  Tomorrow I jump into Lake Monona for the first time just to feet its water embrace hold my body about its surface.  Tomorrow I check in, I get my athlete wrist band, my bib numbers (#1602), my goody bags, and I begin to take it all in as I wait for the inevitable arrival of Sunday morning.

What would a 13 month journey to the starting line of an Ironman be if there wasn’t one last, final hurdle to clear? 

I’m injury free and feeling strong.  I was relieved to make it through my final long run without sustaining any aches or pains.  I have all my gear in hand and a well-established plan for pacing, nutrition and hydration developed by Coach Dan.  I have the fitness and the confidence I need to get me to the start line.  And I just hope I have the metal fortitude to get me to the finish line.  I also have one more thing…

I have a stomach bug.  After 2 weeks of business training in Omaha, I returned home late Friday afternoon to find Elly as sick as a dog.  When Rachel declared that she had been vomiting, I guess I didn’t do a good job hiding my fear.  “Don’t worry,” she said.  “I’ll deal with her.”

That was a selfless offer, but before I’m an Ironman hopeful, I’m a husband and a father.  Poor Elly spent much of the night being sick.  Saturday was better and by Sunday she was herself.  On Monday I was feeling a little queasy.  I ate very little and by Tuesday I felt fine. 

Then came Wednesday.  Yesterday was not a good day.  If you’ve ever prepared yourself for a colonoscopy, than you know how I was feeling yesterday and, so far, the first half of today.  Forgive the image, but at this point, I’ve kept no secrets and my body has become nothing other than an instrument, a machine to get me from point A to point B.  The week that was supposed to be spent feeding my body with healthy and proper nutrition and hydration has been spent, instead, just trying to hold on to any of it.

 I saw the doctor this morning because I felt desperate.  His pessimism about my participating in Ironman Wisconsin broke my spirit for about an hour.  And then I decided to let the Iron Spirit take over.  I didn’t spend 13 months of my life training to allow a little bug keep me from realizing this dream.  Ironman rules allow competitors on the final leg of the race to run, walk or crawl.  If I have to crawl, dammit, I will.

In Coach Dan’s final pre-race instructions to me earlier this week, he told me that somewhere around mile 18-20 of the run, it will hurt to walk slowly, it will hurt to walk quickly, I will hurt to run slowly, and it will hurt to run quickly.  So I may as well run quickly to get it over with as soon as possible.  I know Sunday is going to hurt.  I’ve trained myself to accept the hurt and keep moving.  Maybe this little hiccup will force me to arrive at the finish line a little later than I would have if I didn’t spend the week fighting to keep food and drink in me, but I will not let it keep me from getting there one way or another.

God willing, my next post will be written by a true and confirmed Ironman and still, always, the IronJew.  1 more day until I leave for the Ironman...

Taking Down the Christmas Lights

I'm still alive.  In case you were wondering.  Life has been a whirlwind since my last post.  The only constant in my day-to-day schedule has been my preparations for the Ironman.  Otherwise, I've been busy moving, unpacking, exploring new territory, being with family, reconnecting with old friends, transitioning my daughters to a new life and, this coming week, to a new school with friends yet to be made.  It's been an emotionally and physically trying journey.  On top of all this, I've been busy preparing for the next stage of my career. 

Many wonder what's next for me.  My next "gig" will utelize the pastoral skills I've hopefully refined in the active rabbinate, the people skills I've hopefully acquired over a lifetime of, well, interacting with people, and the business and sales prowess I hopefully have inherited from my family.  Tomorrow I am leaving Chicago for two weeks of business training in Omaha, Nebraska to prepare for the opening of my new business, Right at Home, a home care services business providing much needed support to the elderly and others who cannot fully care for themselves without an extra set of hands.

This very moment is one of the first undistracted hours I have had since leaving Rochester.  Just last week I was busy taking down the Christmas lights.  Yes, I know, it's August.  Yes, I know, I'm Jewish and we don't celebrate Christmas.  But we found more than just a few old strings of light strangling a couple trees just behind the house.  Every time I am about to sit down, I find something else that needs to be done.  Right now I see nothing.  Maybe I'm just too tired to see anything at all.

The training has been going strong.  I've exlored old routes and discovered new.  I've done multiple 100+ mile training rides, 20 mile runs, 2 mile swims.  My open water swims have been limited lately as there seems to be warnings of rip currents in Lake Michigan practically every day.  I'm not ready to be swept out to sea.  Yet.  This is the final week of heavy training before I begin the coveted taper weeks.  The race is coming!! 

This was supposed to be one of my heaviest training weeks.  It turns out I've missed two key workouts.  I missed a 65 mile ride earlier this week because of, well, this:

I hate riding in rain.  But I'll do it.  Lighting?  Not if I could help it.  And I could.  And I missed my final 100+ mile training ride the morning after Rachel broke her nose.  She took a shot from a 5-year-old head square in nose and everyone within earshot hear a loud crack.  X-rays confirmed it and, if God was giving me a test, I passed.  I chose my wife over training.  There is no choice.  In the end, the Ironman is all about me, but my life is all about those around me.  Am I worried about missing these workouts?  Not a bit.  If I missed long runs, I'd be more concerned.  But with a year of training in my legs, I know I can go the distance on the bike.  God willing...

So this is a glimpse of my life now.  Sorry for the absence over the past month.  I'm still alive.  And kicking.  This IronJew has just been too busy taking down the Christmas lights.

I Am Half Iron

I am cursed.  I just can't sleep.  I fall asleep no problem these days, despite the enormous state of finding myself in a transitional state.  But I don't stay asleep.  One might think that after competing in a 1/2 Ironman event, I would sleep like a log.  Rachel asked me last night if I was going to sleep in today.  "I wish..." I responded, longingly.  Sure enough I was up at 4:30 this morning, which is even earlier than usual when I don't have my alarm set.  What a waste of a triathlon.  The least I could have gotten out of it was a good night's sleep!

So here's the recap of Syracuse 70.3...

I was up at only a slightly earlier 4AM on Sunday morning.  Actually, that's when the alarm on my iPhone rang, but I had already woken up on my own about 5 or 6 minutes earlier.  I ate my bagel and banana, drank a bit, covered myself in body glide and got dressed.  I was surprisingly calm.  I woke Rachel at 4:45 and by 5:15 we abandoned our hotel room for the parking garage.  The girls were still sleeping in the room next door with my in-laws, who were kind enough to let them stay in their room.  The lady inside the GPS barked out directions, but even at that hour we were able to just follow the crowd.  We parked and schlepped all my stuff towards the transition area.

As we approached, I was stopped by a pink-shirted volunteer who marked my body with my number, 716, in permanent marker.  I made my way to my spot in transition and set up my stuff in my typical orderly, anal manner.  I tracked down Rachel and we headed down to the waterfront.  I asked one of the volunteers if she knew the water temperature and she reported that it was 75.1 degrees. 

Crap!  Now I was going to have to make a decision.  At 76.1 degrees, wetsuits become illegal.  Just the day before the water temperature reached into the 80s.  So it's obvious.  Wear the wetsuit.  Right?  Not so easy.  As I learned from Coach Dan, wearing a full body wetsuit in water that hovers close to the wetsuit illegal temperature can cause an athlete to overheat, thereby destroying his race.  I didn't want that to happen.  On the other hand, the buoyancy offered by my wetsuit gives me a heightened level of comfort in the water and allows me to swim faster.  I put my feet in the water.  It was definitely warm enough to swim without.  But as I looked around, it became clear that virtually every athlete was wearing a wetsuit, though some with a sleeveless suit, helped prevent overheating.  I made my final decision.  I would wear the wetsuit.  When I saw Coach Dan a few minutes later, he told me that I made the right decision.  Phew!

Per Coach Dan's suggestion, I put my face in the water and swam easy for a few minutes.  The water was a bit murky.  Even right near the beach, I couldn't see a thing.  That made me a little nervous, but after a few breathes I found my stroke.

Now it was time to wait.  The race started at 7, but the swimmers would be sent in waves.  Pros first, and them age groupers.  Men 35-39 whose last names start in the first half of the alphabet would be sent off at 7:35.  So, as I predicted, the pros were out of the water before I got into the water.

7:20
7:25
7:30

My wave was next.  My family came down near the beach to see me off.  I did what I could to stay calm.  I hung out at the back of the group, knowing that I was a particularly slow swimmer. 

90 seconds. 

I looked back and waved to my family.

60 seconds.

I waved again.

30 seconds.

I gave them a thumbs up.

10 seconds. 

I put my finger on my watch's start button.

GO!!!

Well, my start wasn't as dramatic as those you might see on television.  I didn't dive into the water enthusiastically.  I didn't sprint until I was too deep to run.  Instead, I casually waded my way into chest deep water, allowing the faster swimmers to pass, and then I put my face in the water and I swam.  And I swam some more.  I noticed something I've never experienced before.  I passed people in the water.  I noticed a few who were stopped dead in their tracks, looking nervous, trying to collect themselves.  I felt for them but I was relieved that I wasn't in that position.  And maybe a little surprised.  I swam a pretty straight line from buoy to buoy.  I felt that I was swimming easy, never pushing myself.  That was basically my plan.  I did feel my body heat up quite a bit in that full-body wetsuit and took the opportunity to stretch open the neck a few times to let the water in.  Instant relief.

I've read all sorts of accounts and advice regarding mid-race urination.  Most of them just don't fly with me.  My mother raised me to be, well, a bit OCD.  When I traveled in Egypt with my parents, my mom became quite dehydrated one day because she refused to drink so that she wouldn't have to use the public bathrooms.  I'm not much different, though a bout with salmonella while traveling in Europe and Morocco when I was a college student taught me how to make an exception in an emergency.  There are, indeed, porta-potties along the route for people like me.  For others, well, tri shorts have an absorbent chamois.  I did figure, however, that a "natural break" towards the end of the swim would be borderline acceptable.  In fact, I saw a number of swimmers just hovering towards the end of the swim whom, I imagined, were doing just that.  I gave it a go.  I really did.  I just couldn't do it.  It's just something I'll have to work out with a shrink one day. 

Along the way I wondered what my time would be when I entered transition 1.  I guessed close to 50 minutes.  Slow but sure.  When I took my first steps onto dry land and saw 43 minutes and change on my watch, I was stunned.  I swam the 1.2 miles at about 2:02/100 yards, which was much faster than I had been swimming lately.  And without pushing.  Ironman results gave me my proper time, but miscalculated my pace.  How dare they!  I'll be happy to teach them the math.

The run to transition was long.  I took it easy, as Coach Dan suggested.  "You went under 45!" my father-in-law shouted, clearly sharing my excitement.  "You want help?" shouted a couple volunteers.  "You bet," I responded.  I laid down on the grass, raised my legs in the air, and a split second later they had me successfully divorced from my wet wetsuit.  I found my bike, calmly put on my helmet and sunglasses, socks and cycling shoes, downed an energy gel and a gulp of water and ran my bike to the exit.  I mounted my bike, kicked off a water bottle onto the ground, silently cursed my clumsiness and hit the 56 mile hilly course.

I have to tell you, I was intimidated by this course.  After a flat mile, the elevation profile showed the next 10 or 11 miles going straight up.  From there on it all looks basically downhill, but Coach Dan warmed me that there would be more steep hills, just not as long.  The plan was to ride a controlled race, pushing my power at a designated wattage range, and closely monitoring the heart rate.  I kept my power within my zone, being cautious not to ride too high above that level in the hills.  My heart rate was higher than it was supposed to be.  That's what my computer said, anyhow.  My body didn't believe it.  I just never felt like I was working as hard as my displayed heart rate indicated.  So I continued to stay within my power zone.  Those first 12 miles were relatively slow on account on the extended climbing.  But things sped up significantly once I reached mile 12.  I wanted to achieve an average of at least 20MPH.  I don't know why.  Just because.  In the end I averaged about 20.5 MPH with a lot more to give.  Rachel asked me later in the day if I was having fun because, she said, I had a huge smile on my face as I rode into transition 2.  My only mistake during the bike, which could have been disastrous, was that I didn't take in quite enough fluid.  That will haunt me later in the day.

Transition 2 was quick.  I jumped off my bike, removed my helmet and shoes, threw on my running shoes and visor, downed another energy gel and a swig of water and off I went, feeling great.  I felt great heading into the run and through the first couple of miles.  It was getting hot out and I took fluid at ever aid station and tried to stay focused.

And then we hit the hills.  I made the elevation profile for the bike out to be more than it was in the end, and I did just the opposite for the run.  As headed downhill, the monster in front of me seemed to grow with every step.  I saw a long line of people.  Walking.  I would not walk.  I refused to walk.  It was steep and hard and it sucked and I wanted to throw up.  I slowed down.  A lot.  But I did not walk.  Then I turned right where the course flattened out, before it turned skywards once again as it lead us to the turn around.  I got to the turnaround and told myself to forget about these last 2 hills into I was forced to conquer them once again. 

Just past the bottom of those hills was a wonderful neighbor who was spraying suffered athletes with her hose.  Thank you!  Relief.  But brief.  And just a little bit down the road from there was the next aid station which had, in addition to aid, freezing cold wet sponges.  That was the greatest blessing!  Only, I think the cold water did something funny to my heart rate monitor because for the remainder of the run my heart rate was hovering between 0 BPM and about 70.  Add nearly 100 to that last number and we're talking business!  I made my way back to the transition area where I would see my family once again before setting out on my final 6.6 miles.  "How ya doin'?" Rachel asked.  "Hurting," was all I could muster.  I was dreading these final miles.

I finally arrived at the foot of Mt. Everest again, intent on scaling it's face in a run-ish.  Turnaround and down the hill.  That's when, after 65 miles of racing alone, another athlete decided to strike up a conversation  I wasn't really in the mood for conversation, but I did my best to be friendly.  Turns out that Matt from Boston was a bit faster than me.  I sped up a bit to stay with him for a few 100 meters, but I knew it wouldn't be long before he and I parted ways.  "Have a good finish," I bid him.  "I hope so," he responded, and then slowed down a notch to stay with me.  We headed down the steeped part of the decline and I flew past him.  Not intentionally.  I simply had so little muscle control at that point that if I didn't just let my legs go with gravity, I would have had to work too hard to slow myself down.  Sure enough Matt passed me once the road flatted out.

Cold wet sponges again.  Thank you, God.  Or whatever the volunteers name is who handed me the sponges.  Time to finish this thing.  Somewhere between 1 and 2 miles from the finish, someone scrawled on the road in chalk, "Last hill."  I was plenty relieved to be get that behind me.  I made my way towards the transition area where spectators lined the course.  I could see the finish line and I picked up the pace as much as I could.  I could see my family ahead in their neon green "Team Pig Vomit" t-shirts.  I waved.  I sprinted.  I smiled.  I raised my arms and I grabbed a bottle of water from a volunteer.  And a bottle of chocolate mile from another.  Matt from Boston was near the finish line and he shook my hand, wishing me well.  I saw Coach Dan just beyond the finish line and checked in with him.  And then I found Rachel.  A minute later the rest of the family caught up with us and Coach Dan asked us to get together for a picture.  I gave Rachel a big, tight, sweaty hug and smiled big, telling Coach Dan that I'd pay for that later.  "You earned it!" he said.

I grabbed the worst piece of pizza I've ever had from the athlete's lounge and threw half of it away.  And after a while we made our way back to the parking lot.  We loaded the cars and headed home, Rachel driving, me barely conscious in the passengers seat.  After 20 minutes or so I started to feel not so good.  The nausea was building and the world was spinning.  I couldn't close my eyes and I couldn't keep them opened.  1 closed and 1 shut minimized the dizziness just a touch and then I made Rachel pull over.  After 10 minutes at the side of the New York State Thruway, my stomach settled just enough to get some Gatorade into my body.  The more electrolytes I ingested, the better I felt.  When I finally finished the bottle, I felt like myself again, albeit tired and sore. 

In the end, I couldn't be any happier.  Without fully knowing what to expect, I was really hoping to finish in a hair under 6 hours, and I finished in 5 hours 23 minutes and 10 seconds.

Hmmmm.....  Maybe next year I can break 5 hours...

So, 1 Ironman 70.3 down, I'm not yet an Ironman, but I am 1/2 iron.

Come On Baby, Do the Locomotion

It's race week.  This Sunday will be my first real test as I hit the Ironman Syracuse course for a 1/2 Iron distance event- 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 mile run.  Years of experience in running and biking races tells me that I'll be pretty nervous.  In fact, I'm a bit anxious right now.  Those nerves tend to settle as soon as the gun goes off, though the swim certainly doesn't make me any calmer.  One way or another I intend to keep moving forward and get myself across the finish line.

It's been a frustrating few weeks for me in the water.  Intent on improving my swim, I found myself moving slower and slower.  No matter how much effort I put forth, I have been moving at a snail's pace.  I look at those in the lanes beside me who propel themselves through the water so effortlessly with awe.  And resentment.  At least I'll have the comfort of swimming in my wetsuit which provides both a sense of security, as it offers a tremendous amount of buoyancy, and speed.

Or will I?

It seems the recent warm weather has heated up the lake and the water temperature sits just on the edge of wetsuit legal.  So I guess it's best to prepare myself for the possibility of a 1.2 mile open water swim without my slick black neoprene water wings. 

I've learned, just this week, not to over-think things.  I've been trying so hard to swim faster that I have over analyzed every aspect of my form.  I have read countless articles and tried to implement so many tweaks that I have turned myself into a much less efficient swimmer.  If you're a golfer you know what I'm talking about.  Just yesterday I decided to forget everything I learned on the internet over the past few weeks and just swim like I knew how just a month ago.  To my great relief I was swimming 10-15 seconds faster per 100 yards.  I'm back, baby!  So when I get to the water's edge on Sunday, I'm going to try not to over-think things.  I've swam the distance and beyond many times.  It should be no problem.  I'll tell myself to just put my face in the water and keep moving forward.

The bike should be my strongest leg.  But it sure ain't gonna be easy.  Just look at the elevation profile to see how the 56 mile leg starts off: http://ironmansyracuse.com/files/2010/09/Syracuse_BikeElevation_2012.pdf.  I know the important thing to remember is to ride my own race.  I'm strong in the hills.  As long as I'm alive and conscious, I plan on making constant forward progress no matter how steep the road becomes.

It is the run that will be the true test of both strength and will.  It's a double out-and-back course which should be great for spectators, but that little bump in the middle promises to taunt and humble me, twice: http://ironmansyracuse.com/files/2010/09/Syracuse_RunElevation_2012.pdf.  I'm sure the directors of Ironman events have seen it all.  Or at least they've seen a lot.  Why else would they implement the following rule for the run portion of the race: No form of locomotion other than running, walking or crawling is allowed.  I can accept walking.  But I sure hope I'm not reduced to crawling.  And then I think the Ironman race directors are too strict.  Or narrow-minded.  What about rolling?  Or hopping?  Or cartwheeling, or somersault or skipping?   I'd sure hate to be disqualified if exhaustion reduces me to a mere saunter or mosey. 

I'm over-thinking again.  God, just get me to the start line and, one way or another I'll get myself across the finish line.

Wish me luck.  I'll need it!

I'll try and post a link later this week that will allow you to track my progress online as I mosey my way to 1/2 Ironman glory!

A Public Service Announcement- The Danger of Smartphones

What I am about to share with you is 100% true.  My story is not fabricated or embellished for literary impact.  What I will share with you is an actual account of events that finally made me fully appreciate the danger of smartphones if not used, well, smartly. 

This is how I recall events transpiring at the end of last week.

I've been distracted lately.  I have a lot going on in my life.  Besides for my usual family and professional obligations, and this year add to that my training commitments, I am wrapping up a 9-year tenure as rabbi at my current synagogue.  That alone brings quite an emotional response.  So now I find myself trying to finalize plans for the next stage in my professional life, selling a house, packing a house, buying a house, moving (and all the emotion these developments bring to a family), the beginning of my racing season and my first ever triathlons, and finally, this small thing called the Ironman in just over 3 months. 

Recently, two children of friends were confronted with health concerns more severe than the common cold.  I had just received an email from one of these friends who was offering an update about his daughter, who was admitted to the hospital.  At that moment, my concern for her well being was all that existed in my closed little world. 

I was at the gym when I received the email.  I had dropped my firstborn daughter for her tennis class and I was walking to the locker room to change into my swim suit for a training swim.  Many of us have had those moment when, with our gaze averted towards our smartphones, we've failed to see the oncoming hazards before us.  When I was hit from behind at a stop light last year, I was convinced the driver was texting because I sat at the light for a good 10 seconds before I felt the impact.  It wasn't as if I stopped suddenly, leaving her insufficient time to react.  And so, as I walked through the gym responding to my friend who was in crisis mode, I had no sense of the world around me.

It's been said that a victim senses impending doom a split second before traumatic incidents.  As I sat in the driver's seat awaiting a green light, I looked into my rear-view mirror only long enough to know that I was about to be hit.  And barely a fraction of a moment before I walked into the locker room, a dreadful sense of foreboding came over me.  In the deepest recesses of my heart, I knew with certainty something wasn't quite right.  That's when I looked up to see a woman standing at the mirror frantically pointing me back towards the door.

If you've ever jumped in freezing water, or witnessed an accident as it unfolded, or saw a child teeter on the edge and fall from the highest rung of a jungle gym, you know what it means to gasp viscerally and literally lose your breath.  That's what I did in the very moment that I realized that I had walked straight into the women's locker room.

Fortunately for the women in the locker room at that time, I didn't see anything that the walls were meant to shield, but unfortunately for me, I lost my pride and deflated my ego as I retreated in panic.  Mortified.  This IronJew quickly melted into a pile of humiliated goo.  I quickly ducked into the men's locker room, removed the hat from upon my head and changed my t-shirt.  I wasn't sure how else to mask my appearance.  If I had a beard, I would have shaved it.  After hiding in the pool for 40 minutes, I sat in the darkest corner of the gym until my daughter's tennis class ended, at which point we made a break for the door and I drove home without once looking back.

Technology is both a wonderful and a horrible thing.  It makes our lives more efficient and allows us to do things we never before thought imaginable, unless, of course, you grew up on the Jetsons.  But technology also has a way of taking us out of the real world and away from reality.  Sometimes we're so engrossed in our whatevers that we don't even see the world before us.  So I beseech you, don't let yourself become another casualty of the dangers of the smartphone.  God forbid you should experience what I have and be, forever, traumatized by the curses of the blessings of technology. 

No irony, of course, that this posting, and in fact, this entire blog, was made possible by the gift of modern technology. 

Take My Breath Away

Triathlon season is upon us and the source of my anxiety is soon to be realized.  A year ago I couldn't swim.  The human body with air in its lungs is buoyant, so I could float.  And flail.  But that was about it.  I've learned to swim sufficiently, albeit slowly.  I'm not planning on breaking any water speed records.  I just need to get from point A, well, back to point A again.

With the weather warming up and races upcoming, the time to get open water experience has arrived.  So I met Coach Dan at Canandaigua Lake to get a couple lake swims under my belt recently.  I managed to wriggle into my wetsuit.  Somehow, every other triathlete out there looks more impressive in a wetsuit than I do.  I think I probably just looked awkward.  I was anxious to swim in the wetsuit, however.  Triathlon wetsuits provide added buoyancy that make it practically impossible to sink, and because they force the athlete to sit higher up in the water, the allow the athlete to swim faster.  But they also provide a comforting degree of warmth in otherwise uncomfortably cold water.  Swimming the buoys and back again at Kershaw will take me nearly a mile.  I've got this.

I walk in the water up to me knees.  Coach Dan gives me a few tips.  I jump in and off I go.  Only, I can't breathe.  At all.  I think I'm having a panic attack.  The last 10 months of training flashes before my eyes.  "I can't do this," I tell myself.  I can barely swim 3 strokes without thinking I'm going to suffocate.  How am I going to swim 1.2 miles in the Syracuse 1/2 Ironman, and 2.4 miles in Madison.  I'll fake an injury, I think.  Maybe I'll be lucky enough to suffer a real injury, I hope.  I can't tell people that I panicked and chickened out.  I've already raised more than $15,000 of other people's money.

I stand up and catch my breath.  I ask Dan a question I didn't really have.  I take a deep breath.  I compose myself.  And I go.  And I go.  And I go.  And it's okay.  Granted, my navigational sense in the open water can use some refining.  As you can see from the GPS tracks below, I took a bit of a turn off course until I finally figured out that I was headed in the wrong direction.

I stopped a few times along the way to speak to Coach Dan and get his continued guidance and I made it back to shore without any more incidents.

On my way back to Canandaigua early yesterday morning, I recalled a brief conversation I had with my 8-year old daughter, Talia.  She wanted to go for a swim last weekend.  I told her that the pool was broken and the water was way too cold.  She protested that it was hot out and she didn't care how cold the water was, to which, I responded that super cold water was dangerous for swimming and made the simple task of breathing difficult.  It then occurred to me that my earlier "panic attack" may have just been the shock of the cold water taking my breath away.  So I vowed to let the water into my wetsuit before I started swimming this time.

And so I did.  Sure enough, the shock of the cold water sucked the breath out of my lungs.  After a few seconds, the torture passed, I put my head in the water and swam my mile straight crooked without incident. 

Sometimes, all it takes to solve problems is discovering their true source so one knows how best to confront them.  And what a boost for confidence to learn that my panic attack was no panic attack at all.  It was merely a brief sting of cold suffered especially by those, like me, who are truly "fickly"!

Feelin' Fine and Lookin' Fickly!

I've been training for Ironman Wisconsin for 10 months now.  For most of my life, I can remember being in a state of training for something.  But I've never committed to a goal quite as lofty as the Ironman, nor to a training plan quite as long and difficult as this.  Indeed, the last 10 months have been a journey.  And without question, the next 3 months will be the most trying part of it.  With a move upcoming and a career transition, I'll have my hands full even without the training.  But when I looked ahead at my training plan last night, my suspicions were confirmed.  It's time to add significant volume to my training load so I can best prepare my body to endure the rigors of the Ironman.

After 10 months of training I feel great.  I can confidently say I feel fitter than I have ever been in my entire life.  I don't get winded easily.  I have to push myself harder to raise my heart rate.  I recover quickly.  Despite the significant emotional stress that necessarily accompanies the pending major life transitions, I basically sleep like a log.  I bike and run faster and with less effort than before.  I still swim slowly, but I can cover distances never before imaginable to me with the greatest of ease.  My body has become the machine I have trained it to be.

Since I have transformed myself into the invincible machine of bulging muscle, I have noticed a disturbing development.  People I haven't seen in a while look upon me with a little concern.

"You lost weight..."

"You look thin..."

"Are you alright?"

"Are those your...ribs?"

"You look a little...sickly..."

Usually when others notice that we've lost weight, it's a compliment.  This time, not so much.  And the truth is, I've taken almost no weight off.  I've done a pretty stand-up job of keeping my body weight where it was when I started this ridiculous endeavor by eating obscene amounts of food.  Yes, that's my reward.  A guiltless 1/2 carton of Chips Ahoy every night.  Hey, it's carbs.  Don't judge me!  But I've certainly taken off some body fat and thinned out.

Do I look gaunt?

Do I look skinny?

Do I look like a 90 lb. weakling?

I couldn't possibly be a wimp if I have endured these 10 difficult months of training.

Do I really look sickly?

No I do not.  I look "fickly," thank you very much.  That's right.  Fickly.  I'm so fit that I look almost sickly!  But sickly won't get me to the finish line in Madison, let alone the starting line.  So I've coined the term, "fickly".  Feel free to use it.  Just give credit to the IronJew.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not glorifying the unhealthy thinness of being.  I'm actually quite disturbed by society's accepted standard for the perfect body type, especially as the father of two daughter.  I've always encouraged my daughters to accept themselves as they are- to embrace healthy habits, yes, but to indulge in ice cream and Chips Ahoy when the mood hits.  I've never aspired to be fickly, nor have I consciously tried to make myself become fickly.  But as long as I do, I may as well embrace myself.  So what if I can wrap my arms all the way around myself twice.  You can't bring me down by asking if I'm sick.  If you offer me food to fatten me up, as long as it's kosher and not cucumbers, I'll eat it.  But for as long as this training regiment continues, all it will do it fuel me for a few more miles.  You just won't see a noticeable difference until I finishing the Ironman and let myself go!

Fickly and proud!

My Badge of Honor and My Curse

My father has an odd sense of humor. But then, I supposed I do, too. After any surgery or procedure he's endured, he's guaranteed to offer any takers a memorable opportunity. "Wanna see my scar?" he asks. Few have taken him up on his offer.  I have a variety of scars all over my body.  I'm yet to offer people the opportunity to gawk, however.  I have a prominent scar on my lower left abdomen. When any doctor has seen it I am instantly questioned about its origin. I also respond, with a straight face, that I had my appendix removed. Inevitably, the doctor looks at me, a little disturbed, and says, "Wrong side..." This is the point at which I always cave and confess that I crashed in a bike race when I was 16 and that it's merely my battle scar. A year ago, almost exactly, I competed in the Ramble Around Prattsburgh, a mostly off-road bike race. This was my second race on a mountain bike ever and also #2 of 3 within just an 8-day period, so I opted for the 15-mile course instead of the 30-miler, though it turned out to be closer to 17.

 Can you spot me in the orange helmet at the beginning of the race, looking cold and wet?

In the first couple miles of the race, the course took the entire field down a long, rough, rocky jeep road.  I found myself caught behind a few riders who were even more timid than I, and after following for a few moments, I decided to make my move and pass.  I was on the right dirt track of the jeep road and my plan was to cross the grassy center and pass to the left.  Only problem was, the lip was higher than I realized and I didn't manage to lift my front wheel nearly enough.  At better than 30 miles per hour, I washed out.  I managed to get back on my horse quickly and before long I was flying down the road once again.

At the bottom of the descent the two courses split.  The 30-miler turned to the right, and the 15-miler to the left.  To the left I went and I hammered away on my pedals, wondering, incessantly, how far back in the field I was.  After 5 miles or so of seeing no other riders, I thought there was a chance that I was somewhere near the front, but figured that, having gone down, at least a couple riders must have gotten away from me. 

For the remainder of the race I rode hard, hoping to catch whomever was evading me; and I rode scared, afraid I'd be caught from behind.  When I made it to the finish line, I saw just one other rider who crossed the line ahead of me, so I assumed that I finished second.  I was pleased.  I couldn't stick around long, as I had an evening commitment, so I informed the race director I wouldn't be present for the awards ceremony.  I discovered later that the kid who finished ahead of me had actually just finished and won the 8-miler, so it turned out that I won after all, and by 14 minutes to boot.  Not bad for a day's work.

After I crossed the finish line and the adrenaline faded away, I noticed a pain in my left calf.  Looking down I discovered a long, deep gash along the inside my calf which was swollen to twice it's natural size.  In the heat of battle, I never noticed my injury- neither when I fell nor in the miles that followed.  Over the coming weeks I recovered and my new scar became my badge of honor- a symbol of triumph over adversity.  I finally had a scar worthy of bragging rights.

Wanna see my scar?

Fast-forward to a couple weeks ago and I start developing a pain in the back of my lower left leg- the calf, the Achilles, the ankle.  I've heard horror stories about Achilles injuries and I wasn't going to take my chances by ignoring this one so close to racing season.  It turns out, those with the expertise and experience to judge, believe that my badge of honor on the back of my left leg is likely the culprit for my latest injury.  Scar tissue accumulated below the surface, and muscle adhesions developed throughout the area.  I took about 10 days off of running and have started to return slowly and cautiously, hopeful that I've made some real progress with the help of a fantastic chiropractor and a masochist of a medical massage therapist.  Coach Dan suggest this particular massage therapist.  I don't know what your experience with massage may be, but I assume, if you've gone back for a second massage, it was nothing like this.  Let's just say I got the crap beaten out of me.  Several times now.  The first was indeed the worst, when my leg was the most delicate.  If I wasn't so damn tired I probably would have cried myself unconscious. 

Alas, I think we're getting to a point of recovery.

So it goes that my badge of pride becomes my burden.  Four months and one day from Ironman Wisconsin and I hope for no more setbacks so I can begin to focus on increasing the volume of my training to help get me to the starting line in Madison.  The finish line?  Well that's a whole separate adventure.

In the meantime, I stick to my mantra: I will not allow my emotions to negatively impact the physical health of my body!

The Good Life On Two Wheels

Sometimes training is a burden.  Okay, it's often a burden.  Fitting it into a busy schedule is often a challenge.  Waking up before the sun, day after day is draining.  Some days my body is so tired, I cannot imagine how I'll propel myself through my next workout.  And sometimes, for no reason in particular, but for every reason under the sun, I just don't feel like swimming, biking or running.

Yesterday was not one of those days.  Thursday is my day off and I was looking forward to 3 hours on the bike.  What I love about Rochester is, just 10 miles away and I feel like I'm somewhere completely different.  I have a lot of stress in my life these days as I anticipate a major transition.  I needed a morning when I would be "somewhere else."  Anywhere else, really.  Only, yesterday, it didn't take 10 miles, or even 5 to be somewhere else.  A heavy fog clouded my route just a couple miles into my 56-mile route.  It wasn't long before I was soaked with condensation.  But worse, it was downright dangerous.  I left at about 6:45.  Because there was already daylight, I didn't have my lights with me.  And, well, I'm too stubborn to turn around.  For about 15 miles, I was in a fog.  For once literally and not figuratively.  Nothing in my stressful life dared creep into my consciousness as I was focused on the road ahead of me and the traffic behind me.

I don't advertise the fact that I have a terrible sense of direction.  I inherited that from my father who, inevitably, always got us lost on the ski mountain and navigated us to runs we had no business skiing.  Thank God for MapMyRun.com and the invention of the GPS bike computer.  I chart out my routes online, upload them to my little handlebar-top computer and I am alerted about 100 yards before each turn.  When I took a left in Victor yesterday, I was hoping the, "Road Closed in 1 Mile" sign was more of a suggestion.  When the pavement turned into gravel, I became a little worried, but figured I could pass through a hopefully short stretch of chewed up road.  But when I ran head to head into heavy machinery, I wondered if and how I could circumnavigate the obstacle before me.  I hopped off my bike and walked, looking for a way around, when I head a voice emerge from the fog, "You need to get through, Buddy?"

"Can I?" I asked, pointing to the road off to the right.

"Sure," he said.  "The road opens up just over there.  As I walked my bike through mud, rocks and water flowing from God-knows-where, my new construction worker best friend shouted, "Hey!  How much did that bike cost you?  It's all streamlined and stuff."

...and stuff...

I tried avoiding the question with a quiet smile, but that clearly wasn't sufficient for him.  "That must have set you back $1000," he shouted.

"Let's just say I spent more than I should have," I retorted, while making a promise to myself to increase my intended donation to CURED.  When I finally made it to the road, with a sigh of relief, I jumped back on my bike, only to discover that the construction sight jammed up my cleats and I couldn't clip into my pedals.  After a minute or two of stopping my feet on the road like a 5-year old having a tantrum, I was able to force my shoes to lock into my pedals and I set out for the remaining miles of my morning adventure.  Barely a moment later, the fog finally burned off and I found myself enjoying the most beautiful morning I could remember in a long time.  A while later I shed a layer and let myself dry out, from the outside, in.

With about 15 miles remaining, I entered Mendon Ponds Park for a loop through its windy rolling hills.  The moment entered the park I noticed an unusual number of butterflies perched upon the roadway.  For the entire duration of my transverse through the park, I was greeted with countless 100s of Red Admirals.  It was quite a sight to behold.  As I made my way along the road, the butterflies cleared away, making way for me.  I felt as if I were Moses, parting the sea, or better, a leader in the Tour de France parting the throngs of wild spectators along the steep mountain roads.

I was training.  Hard.  56 miles and 3 hours later and I was beat.  But every minute reminded me why I love cycling.  Sometimes it's not about the goals.  Sure, that gets tossed in there by mere virtue of the hours, the mile and the effort.  Sometimes it's just about loving life.  And for 3-hours yesterday, my life was sublime.

Widows and Orphans

If you read my last post, you know that I was petrified that my wife was going to share her cold with me.  Well she hasn't, yet.  Directly, anyhow.  But my 8-year old daughter, Talia, seems to have just come down with the bug.  I went to check on her last night and I found her sleeping in bed with a Kleenex shoved up her nose.  When I told her about it this morning, she suggested that she must have fallen asleep while blowing her nose, and then asked if I threw it away.  One day, perhaps, my children will regain their faith in me...  And also maybe enough sensation in their nose to be able to tell whether or not there is a tissue stuck inside.

I haven't come down with the cold, yet, but karma did bite me in the leg last week.  A nagging soreness in my left ankle/Achilles heel is beginning to make me a little nervous.  My running is temporarily suspended.  Though, I suppose, this is a good week, if there is such a thing, to be nursing an injury.  It's a recovery week, meaning, my training schedule is quite light.  Oh, yeah.  Did I forget to mention that it's also been snowing all week?  Yeah, the final week of April and I woke up with more than just a dusting.  I can't ride outside in that.  Do you have any idea how dirty my bike would get?  Yes.  A good week, if possible, to sustain an injury.  So, now just over a month away from my first triathlon ever, and I'm hoping and praying desperately that this little pain dissolves better than the powdered calories I put into my water bottles.

When Rachel and I were in Lake Placid over the summer, watching the Ironman, we noticed that practically every athlete seemed to have a uniformly dressed entourage.  "Team Gary" or "Team Tanya" were all wearing brightly colored t-shirts, displaying team pride and making themselves more easily identifiable to the athletes they were supporting as they raced by.  After I declared my intention to compete in an Ironman, Rachel decided that team shirts would have to be made. 

"Team Pig Vomit" already has an eye-catching, neon logo for the team uniform.

With a couple, shorter, training races coming up in late spring, early summer, I decided to have a few sample shirts made.  Printed on neon green, Team Pig Vomit cheerleader jerseys are certain to capture my gaze as I mosey along the course.  But I also felt it was important to customize each shirt for each of my primary supporters.  Before the Ironman, I'll be certain to make a shirt for my nephew, Noah, with "Pig Vomit In the Flesh," or "Team Mascot" printed across the back.  And while I haven't figured out the wording for each member of my family just yet, I didn't have to think hard to find the right caption for my wife's and daugthers' team shirts.

While in Lake Placid, I noticed more than just a few team shirts declaring something like, "140.6 miles until I get my son back," or, "Have you seen my husband?  He left a year ago and said he'd be back after this race."  So, carrying on the IronJew theme, Rachel will wear IronWidow on her shirt, and the girls will wear IronOrphan.  When I showed Talia the sample shirt that managed to fit better on Elly, she said, "That's sad."  When I asked her if she wanted her shirt to say something different, she responded, "No.  It's funny, too!"  And then she demanded I find a pixelated font to support her recent obsession with all things pixel. 

Honestly, I don't believe I've allowed my training to usurp too much family time.  But even family time has been flavored by Ironman.  I'm certainly less energetic some days than my family would like.  I stretch my sore muscles in the darnedest places.  I try and get home by a certain hour so I can get adequate sleep before waking up early to train.  I can be ornery after a hard day's training, and anxious when new pain develops in my body. 

I cannot underestimate the sacrifice and commitment that my family has been forced to make for my silly goals.  In a way, my children have never known any different.  As long as they've been alive, I've been training for something.  In a way, Rachel doesn't know any different.  As long as we've been together, I've been training for something.  But more than that, Rachel knows and understands me better than anyone in the world.  And she knows that my goals, and my training, and my crazy routine, and my races all keep me sane.  -ish.  She knows that this is just who I am.  I don't know if she loves me because of it, or in spite of it.  But either way, I owe them all.  So once this Ironthing is over, I plan on giving myself back to my family.  At least for as long as they can tolerate me.  Which may be only as long as it takes to travel back home after the big day.

I'm Afraid of My Wife

I love Rachel dearly.  She puts up with all my garbage.  She's come to my races for years to cheer me on.  She's bandaged my wounds sustained in mid-race bike crashes.  She washes my sweaty, stinky running and cycling gear.  She's a trooper.  I just realized that we'll be celebrating our 14th anniversary in Madison.  I imagine I won't be much fund, as I'll be trying to rest up for the big race that is slated for the following day.  Sorry, Rachel.  Thank you, Rachel.  I owe you, Rachel. 

Rachel and I clicked instantly when we first met 17 years ago.  The fact is, Rachel was set up with my oldest friend, Derek.  The other fact is, I stole her away.  The commentary is, he deserved it.  The other commentary is, Rachel and Derek were not meant to be.  In the 17 years that we have been a couple, Rachel and I have experienced the highest of highs and some pretty tough challenges.  And through it all, we've been unshakably bonded together as a couple and as best friends.

I love her.  I respect her.  I admire her.  But the fact of the matter is, I am afraid of her.

Let me reference my post on October 17, "My Greatest Fear, Part II".  My mother raised me to be, well, just a bit OCD.  She used to tell my siblings and me that if we walked barefoot in hotels our feet would turn to stone.  Add to that my bout with salmonella when I was 21, and washing my hands has become a prevalent part of my daily, hourly, minutely routine.  The truth is, I'm not a bad patient.  When I'm sick I deal with it.  In my 9 years as rabbi of my synagogue, I've probably taken 8 sick days.  5 of those were following back surgery.  I worked at home and wrote some mean sermons under the influence of some serious pain meds.  I don't complain when I have a cold.  I don't beg for attention and compassion when I am feeling under the weather.  I deal with being sick.  But I'm scared to death of getting sick.

Rachel has a cold.  The nerve.  Does she not know that I have to be up at 4:15 most mornings and that my body, and especially my respiratory system have to be working perfectly at this point in my training.  I may as well wear latex gloves and a mask at home.  Rachel asked me to change the channel last night and I have her a look of dread which she instantly understood.  Well, what was I supposed to do?  Tough the remote that she already touched?  Put on Desperate Housewives if you want.  I'm not touching that!  I keep a separate hand towel at my end of the vanity, and I've rewashed my hands after I've realized that I dried my hands with her infected towel.  Today we had lunch together.  I asked her for some Advil to wash away the soreness from a training injury.  She asked how many.  I said, "How ever many come out when you pour the bottle into my hand without touching the pills."  Sheesh!  Did she really have to ask?!

I know.  I'm an awful person, and certainly an awful husband.  But what's an aspiring Ironman supposed to do?  Get sick?!

Next post: Karma, aka, What Goes Around, Comes Around!

Garmin Forerunner 610 Raffle

I have a gently used touchscreen Garmin 610 in great shape.  It comes with extra straps but not with HR belt or shoe pod.  I am raffling the unit off to help meet my fundraising goals as I strive to raise at least $14,060 for CURED Foundation in my training for Ironman Wisconsin to support my 10-year-old nephew, Noah, who suffers from eosinophilic esophagitis and gastroparesis.  Please help and hopefully you'll win this awesome running watch.  Drawing will be in 2 weeks- May 1st.

$5 donation for 1 raffle ticket.
$10 donation for 3 raffle tickets.
$15 donation for 5 raffle tickets.
$25 donation for 10 raffle tickets.

Donations can be made online at: http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/matthewfield/pigvomit (or click the pig to the left)

IMPORTANT NOTE: PLEASE EMAIL ME AT MFIELD75@GMAIL.COM AFTER YOU DONATE TO CONFIRM.  OTHERWISE, IF I DON'T KNOW YOU, I WILL HAVE NO WAY TO CONTACT YOU IF YOU ARE THE WINNER.

Please also forward this to as many people as you know.  Though more tickets sold may slightly decrease your odds, it helps Noah and many others.

Thanks for your support and good luck!!

An Intimate Matter

I've started to put a little emotional distance between myself and this whole Ironman thing.  I think this is an important step towards achieving something so trying.  I now see training as a science.  If I get too emotional about it, I risk lighting the whole things up flames.  The passionate striver within me wants to push through every challenge that arises.  But the pragmatist in me understands that attempting to push through certain pain will likely derail my entire plan if injury arises.  I've had aches and pains throughout my nearly 9 months of training.  Some of them I know I can ignore.  But every once in a while I feel a twinge that strikes fear in my heart and puts me on the immediate defensive.  A constant awareness of my body and an ongoing dialogue with Coach Dan has altered my training plans on occasion.  Being honest with myself and my coach has allowed me to successfully deal with the minor issues that have arisen and has allowed me to continue to move forward.  Even when I'm not getting physically stronger, I'm getting mentally tougher.

Just as my training is a science, my body is just a tool, a machine.  I do what I must to care for my body so that it will perform at its peak.  I fuel it with the best foods.  I stretch and massage away tight muscles and minor aches.  I do exercises every other night beside my bed to help strengthen my injured shoulder.  I continue to work on strengthening my core so that my chronic back pain doesn't leave me on the side of the road in Madison.  I shave my legs once a week to keep myself feeling fast and fit and to allow myself to be identified with the endurance community.  I drink more water than I ever have to ensure that I wake up fully hydrated and ready to train.  I take 6 vitamins and supplements each day to keep my body healthy.  I ice minor aches into numbness.  I wear ridiculous compression socks to keep my blood flowing in my legs, allowing a faster recovery.  I throw apple cider, frozen fruit and a whole bunch of whey protein powder into my Magic Bullet after particularly hard workouts to help repair damaged muscle tissue.  My body is no work of art.  I'm hardly Michelangelo's David.  But my body, like yours, is a miracle, and I intend to do everything in my power to keep it going at full steam.

I've been an obsessive cyclist for most of my life.  I want my bikes to ride well, to look good, and to be grossly anorexic.  Though not the worst of them, I am, what cyclists call, a weight weenie.  I want my bikes to be as light as possible.  I have hand chosen certain components and accessories because they are the lightest.  The unseasoned will look upon my road bike saddle with dread.  "How do you sit on that?" they wonder.  "It's so small.  It's so hard.  Doesn't that hurt?" they wonder.  "I'm used to it," I retort.  "And it's so light!" I brag. 

I picked a similarly cool-looking, lightweight saddle for my triathlon bike.  Only, being new to triathlon bikes, it wasn't an educated choice.  A rider's position perched upon a triathlon bike is somewhat different than the same rider upon a road bike.  With his upper body resting upon his forearms and his butt pushed forward upon the bike, the triathlete's hips are rotated forward, thereby putting more pressure upon his, ahem, unmentionables. 

As a bit of a bike snob, I figured that I knew better, but after my first 3-hour ride upon the tri bike and a very pretty saddle, I was just a little impotent, uncomfortable.  Along comes the Adamo saddles...

I know.  It doesn't much look like a bike saddle.  That's what I thought, too.  In fact, being a bit of a traditionalist, as far as cycling goes, I think I rolled my eyes the first few times I saw one of these.  But the most intimate parts of me were screaming for relief and with 112 miles to cover, I was willing to consider something that looks strange and weighs more grams than I would have once thought was acceptable.  At least, I thought, nobody will see my weird-looking saddle when I'm sitting on it. 

Last Thursday was my first 3-hour ride, and, in fact, my first ride, altogether, upon my new saddle.  Observation #1.  I'm an idiot.  I didn't tighten the bolt nearly enough and before long the nose began to tip down towards the road as I fought not to slide right off.  A quick stop, a few turns on the hex wrench and off I go. 

Observation #2 never came.  3 hours later, as I pulled up my driveway, it occurred to me that I utterly forgot about the saddle beneath me.  My legs were tired and my lungs were burning, but my, ahem, unmentionables thanked me for compromising my vanity and a few grams for the sake of my virility.