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.