Tri-Asshole Redux

Guess my Tri-Asshole blog post touched a nerve.  It was so nice to see y'all respond to the post, but to be honest, I'm fine about the whole episode.  At first, I'll admit my feelings were pretty hurt.  But I quickly realized that his comments reflected more on him than the race itself.  To be fair, I also know that Ironman Arizona is among the "easier" Ironman races. I picked it for a reason in that I wanted to enjoy my first Ironman and get my sea legs, so to speak.  And that's just what I'll do.  There's no shame in completing any Ironman of any kind.  Anyone who's ever embraced the spirit of the sport knows that. Back to spirit.  While Tri-Asshole and I interacted for only a few seconds on an elevator ride, that conversation has already yielded tangible gains in my training.  Tonight, I swam a 1:16/100, my new PR by a whopping SIX SECONDS.  I didn't know I had that in me at this stage of training. Coach Gerardo did, but I doubted him.  (When am I going to learn?) And that was after cycling 35 miles this morning that included a 75-minute zone-3 time trial.  AND, that swim PR came at the end of a 2,250-yard swim session with the Fortius gang tonight.

How did it happen?

It would certainly be more dramatic if I indicated that I had visions of smashing Tri-Asshole's face in while swimming to new heights (or is that lows, in this case).  But it's just not true. What Tri-Asshole did was simply motivate me to work harder the next few weeks.  To make sure I sweat just a bit more.  To not ease off on the gas pedal.  To not coast until after I cross the finish line.

I got a swift mental kick in the ass.  And I feel outstanding.

So, what I am saying is that I've turned a potentially mentally damaging situation into a healthy positive.  I'm not sure I would have reacted in quite that manner a year ago -- whether in the workplace or in the gym.  I do think endurance sports training has enabled me to find some mental and emotional padding that allows me to bounce back from stinging comments or even physical pain.  It is an invaluable asset in a chaotic world.

It just took a real jerk to remind me of that.

Before I finally go to sleep tonight, I'll be sure to think fondly of him.  I owe him one.

38 days and counting.

Underdog!

I tried to write last night but internet access was down in my condo. A rather ironic scenario played out at home that I have to share.  It started with my recent post about my Muse mantra, "John" commented and asked if I had a "short man's complex."  I thought about that for a while before responding.  There was a time where the answer would have certainly been "yes."  I used to practice martial arts for a period of years in my mid-20s, primarily because I think deep-down I wanted to prove to other people that I was tough enough.  That I wasn't just a little shit, I could defend myself.

Somewhere closer to my 30th birthday, I realized that I didn't need to prove anything to anybody.  And triathlon has taught me all that matters is proving something to yourself.

That said, I would admit I have a lion-sized underdog complex.  David vs Goliath.  Rudy walking on to play football for Notre Dame.  Cinderella Man.  The kind of complex where my fuel grows with other people's doubts whether it's about my ability or the severity of a particular challenge.

So what's the difference between an underdog complex and short man's complex? Semantics?  Not to me.  I think it has everything to do with confidence.  The former is about challenges.  The latter is about insecurities.  I've pushed myself to my physical and mental limits (with more to go) in this sport, and I know what I'm capable of.  Confidence allows me to shrug off jokes or jibes about height, skill or appearance.

All that said, I wound up last night with what can only be described as a moment of karmic, comic irony.  Both fire smoke detectors in my condo started chirping late in the evening, reminding me that it was time to replace the batteries.  Problem is that they're obviously on the ceiling.  And I had no new batteries in the house.

Oh, and even if I did have batteries, there's no ladder in the house either.

There I was, perched atop the leather reclining chair in my office, a step-stool stacked on top of the seat.  Stephanie guarding my legs so the chair didn't spin around and knock me off.  Standing on my toes, reaching for the detector units.

Short man's complex indeed!

And yes, I did fix the problem. I ripped both detectors from the ceiling.   Now, only dangling wires remain.

Short man's complex...sheesh!

52 days and counting.

Atonement Day

Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, began last evening and continues through tonight.  It is the traditional point in the Jewish year where Jews pause their life to reflect on how they're living it.  As we look inward, we try to be honest with ourselves on how we've treated others.  Have we done enough for others?  Have we lived to our true potential as a person?  Where can we improve and how might we do it? It can be difficult for some to look inside and take time to make those assessments.  For me, I tend to do it all the time.  There's a lot of time to think when you're training for an Ironman.  Or when you're taking a recovery day to attend synagogue, as Stephanie and I are doing.

And what have I observed?

I've observed that Ironman training takes up a big chunk of my free time. Which has been a convenient excuse for me to limit my philanthropic efforts.  I can definitely improve there.

I've observed that Ironman training is an incredibly selfish pursuit. I'm often racked with guilt that I don't spend as much time as I'd like with Stephanie or my family and friends.  Or my co-workers, who must be frustrated at least occasionally with my flexible schedule.

I've observed that I'm a competitor.  I've always known this, to be fair.  But I've been in touch with it even more over the past year, especially since joining the Fortius Racing Team.  I fear being the slowest of my group.  And I detest losing. I hate losing in practice.  I hate losing in a race.  It doesn't matter if it's my own teammates.  I hate losing.  I want to win.  Period.  While that kind of obsessive drive helps me push myself harder both on the course or in the office, perhaps it can rub people the wrong way.  People who enjoy the more social aspects of the sport or maybe don't have the same competitive streak.

I've also observed that even when I try hard to avoid it, my pride may take over.  There's a fine line between pride and vanity.  I've crossed that line a few times this year, at least in my own mind.  I'm embarrassed when that happens.  There's no way to take it back.

What's nice about Yom Kippur is that it's a day of forgiveness.  A day where old promises and decrees are declared null and void.  So long as there's an honest intention for fixing our foibles in the future.

During the course of my passionate pursuit of this Ironman goal, I'm sure I've hurt others -- at least unintentionally.  I've never tried to harm anyone on purpose, that's for sure.  And when I have bothered someone in particular, I've done my best to apologize immediately.

So to those who have been frustrated my actions -- on the race course, at practice, at work, at home -- I'm truly sorry. I will try to do better this coming year.  I will try to keep my competitive streak in check, especially my temper.  I will continue doing my best to juggle family time and training time.  I will try not to let my ego get the better of me when I'm feeling good about myself.

And I will fail.

But I will always give my best effort to be my best.

That is one promise I know I can keep.

62 days and counting.

"I Didn't Think He Had It In Him"

Chris made my night tonight after our Fortius-coached swim workout (2,300 yards) with one simple comment he relayed to me from a mutual friend. Both Chris and our buddy Murray raced at Malibu this past Saturday.  Chris braved a sprained ankle that still hadn't healed to complete the swim and bike portion, forgoing the run for obvious reasons.  I'm proud of Chris for sticking with the race as best he could.  It would have been rational and easy to not enter the race at all.

After they both finished, Chris and Murray checked my race times on site, which prompted Murray to say, "That little guy got fast!  I didn't think he had it in him!"

There aren't a lot of things one can say that instantly take me from zero to Mach 5 on the Feisty Meter.  Telling me what you don't think I have "it" in me is probably at the top of the list.

The "it" is what I'm made of.  I'll never be genetically blessed as an athlete.  I'm not big.  I'm not really that strong.  I have to work harder than the others to be relatively as fast.  But I am a fighter. And the entire reason I can finish within the top 10-15% of my age group is because I want it more than the next guy. No matter how big or bad he thinks he is.

Murray's comment is especially meaningful because he's been there with me in my triathlon training since the beginning.  He's seen my flailing, frustrating swims at Zuma every Sunday of the 2009 triathlon season.  He's dropped me on the bike in Malibu when I couldn't keep up with him and Chris.  Based on m prior performances early in my training, Murray had every reason to wonder if I had "it" in me.

But current performance isn't always indicative of inner hunger and drive.

I'm not sure how much faster I can get.  I'm feeling pretty good at the moment.

But I do know that I WANT to get faster and become better.

Oh yes.  I do have "it" in me. I always have.

Never, ever doubt that for a second about me.

66 days and counting.

Random Ramblings

My body finally said, "Enough is enough!" during my morning Tour de Valley bike ride. Though the statistics from my ride indicate otherwise, it felt like I was cycling in tar.  I actually rode faster this Tuesday compared to last week's session by a *whopping* .1 mph (sarcasm intended!), traveled nearly 2.5 miles farther (though I rode seven minutes longer) and climbed an astounding 20 more feet.  Despite the slightly improved week-to-week performance, it felt like I was working much harder today even though my average heart-rate was actually several percentage points lower this week as well. Why is that?

For me, a surefire sign of fatigue occurs when no matter how hard I try to gain speed, my heart-rate remains at a lower rate, almost a full zone lower.  It doesn't add up though.  I slept well the night before and enjoyed a rare off-day from training on Monday.  My nutrition wasn't terrible either.  Here's what I ate:

-- Eggs, bacon and pumpkin pancakes for breakfast

-- Cinnamon-raisin toast with peanut butter, apple and cheese for lunch

-- Clif Bar for snack

-- "Healthy" Chinese food for dinner (OK, it was about as healthy as Chinese food can be!)

-- Protein shake with frozen organic berries and two tablespoons of ice cream

Granted, I could have eaten more greens.  No doubt there.  But I did have Omega-3 Oil-infused Carrot Juice from Trader Joe's, so leave me alone!

Despite not being able to figure out exactly what's going on, I decided to skip my evening swim in favor of a massage from LA Body Mechanics and Fortius teammate, David.  It will help me going into my Malibu Triathlon race this Saturday, and I can make up the swim tomorrow morning anyway.

Ah, the Malibu Triathlon.

This used to be my Rose Bowl of triathlons.  The Grand-Daddy of Them All.  The Nautica Malibu Triathlon is special to me because it marks my first triathlon.  We always remember our first, right?  I can still recall how nervous I was.  How I bought a hotel room 20 minutes away to make sure I would have enough sleep the night before the event.

(Pause...I'm re-reading this and I just realized how much of a double-entendre this entire section is!  Wow!  Mom, I'm talking about triathlon I swear!!!)

How I looked like Charlie Sheen's character in "Platoon" when he went on his first jungle patrol -- loaded up with junk I'd never actually need but other people told me I would. Practically fainting from all the unnecessary weight in my transition bag. Towel to dry off.  Gloves for a 18-mile bike ride.  Tupperware to dip my feet in after the swim to clean my feet.  And the extra food on my transition towel.  Oy.

I actually paused to eat an entire banana in T1 before venturing out on the course. That was after toweling off completely from the swim.

And I remember how proud of myself I was for finishing my first race.  Such elation!  Nevermind the time was 1:44 and change for a half-mile swim, 18-mile bike and a 4-mile run.  I was officially a "TRIATHLETE" and that's all that mattered.  Except that I vowed to complete the Olympic triathlon course the following year (2009).

"Aw, you completed your very first triathlon!  That's nice, Ryan.  Now get on to the next big goal."

Yep, that's sort of how I roll in general.

Last year, I trained practically all year for Malibu Olympic.  Or "all year" by my own definition at the time, which meant no more than five days a week, tops.  No double workouts.  Certainly no bricks.

I saw real progress in my training, finishing the Olympic course in 2:44.

But for both Malibu triathlon experiences, it was about something more.  The challenge loomed large. The Unknown was even larger. Could I finish?  What if I cramped up?  What if I got a flat?  What if I was the slowest in my age group?

Questions, questions, questions.  All questions that led to a heightened sense of exhiliration when I finished the events.  Relief!  Joy!  Pride.

Which brings me to this year's Malibu Triathlon event.  It's a blip on my training radar.  In contrast to last year, I haven't been on the bike course for several months, probably since the Amgen Tour rambled through Malibu and Agoura this past spring.  I have a goal time of 2:25 for this event, but even if I don't hit it, it's no big deal.  Ironman is the real prize this year. But honestly, I'm a little sad about that. I miss the excitement and anticipation of the Malibu Triathlon.  I miss the wonder and speculation.  The naivete, so to speak.

Now, all that is put on hold for November 21, 2010.

Though I hope to call upon a little bit of the magic of my first time to make this event just a little more special.

Geez, I've become a triathlon slut!

73 days and counting.

Change of Pace Day 3

This week's theme clearly has been about shakin' up my trainin'. Today I "borrowed" Steph's iPod (mine's broken) and ran w/ music for the first time in months.  We won't get into the exact tunes on said iPod, or which tunes I chose to listen to while running.

Yes, in some instances, my Man Card would likely be pulled.

Yet I don't care.  What a boost to run with something other than my own thoughts!  Now I understand why iPods or any other music player are illegal in sanctioned races.  I felt a noticeable energy surge in this workout compared to other runs -- though my mere five miles in one hour would suggest otherwise.  Of course, I had five, three-minute hill repeats as the main segment of my workout.

I know.  Excuses, excuses.

In another training schedule shake up, I swam at Van Nuys Sherman Oaks pool this morning on my own with the Olympic-length lanes.  This made a big difference in my T-pace for some reason.  I was much slower than usual, yet I managed 2,650 yards in 55 minutes.  Here's the workout:

WU:

-- 300 easy

-- 3 x 150 (kick, pull, swim)

-- 6 x 50 (10 sec rest)

MS:

6 x 100 (10 sec rest)

500 TT

CD:

-- 200 easy swim, 100 easy kick

-- 200 pull

Admittedly, it was nice to have a lane essentially to myself and not deal with unnecessary delays between sets.  I could jump in the water, work at my own (rapid) pace, take quick breaks when I needed them, and plow through the entire workout.  As a result, I was able to swim more yardage than usual.  However, that yardage was slower, as I mentioned.  My six 100s were closer to a 2:05 pace and my 500 TT was a fairly abysmal 10:21, a 2:04 pace. That's what I used to swim at the beginning of the triathlon season when I first joined Fortius Coaching in November 2009.

I'm going to chalk this time up to a nuance of swimming long and hard for several sets.  I've swam TTs nearly a full two minutes faster than that, so no worries.

Tomorrow, my week of changing training pace may continue.  I'm without my four-door car for the week as Stephanie's decrepit Mustang is still at my Dad's auto repair shop, being coaxed to live just a while longer.  I don't have a ride to the Fortius workout and haven't heard from Coach Gerardo yet on whether he can pick me up.  If not, I'll be joining a new LA Tri Club group tomorrow at 7:15 a.m. in Encino for a 65-mile ride to Simi Valley and back.

It's definitely strange how much my training schedule has shifted this week.  And in the past, as a younger Ryan Schneider, this would have bothered me greatly.  I was an "order" guy.  I needed everything to happen the way it's supposed to happen!

Not so much now.

I think part of that is just getting older, hopefully a little wiser and a lot more flexible.  Perhaps some of it can be attributed to training too.  Flat tires happen.  People crash.  Roads are closed.  Water is too cold to swim in.  Water bottles fly out of cages.

Shit happens.

The clock still runs.

Gotta finish the race.

Until tomorrow...

77 days and counting.

Change of Pace

Today went according to plan, right until it didn't. Sounds like a Yogi Berra-ism, right?  Well, it is.  I cycled to work from Sherman Oaks to Burbank using Chandler Blvd., which traverses a good chunk of the San Fernando Valley.  It was such a relief NOT to play vehicular dodgeball or Frogger for a change.  I could enjoy myself on the bike.  No heart-rate monitor.  No rush.  No worries!

I was on track to attend the 5:30 p.m. weekly Griffith Park brick workout, but a work emergency quashed any possibility of that happening.  Thank goodness!  I had a fantastic evening and still got my brick workout in.  I left the office around 6 and essentially time-trialed home in 34 minutes via Chandler and courtesy of a small paceline of speedy cycle-commuters.  Seriously, I think I'm going to invent a sport called Commuter-Cross!  But that's a different post for a different day.

I got home around 6:45 p.m., ditched my bike and called Steph to see where she was.  Unfortunately, the answer was about what I expected...stuck in traffic.  But, Steph wanted to join me for running!  This hasn't happened in months so I was thrilled. I circled the block a few times warming up until Steph was ready to join. I got my heart-rate zone 3 out of the way in the first half-hour so I could spend time running at Steph's pace.  We jogged for another 30 minutes together; of course, Steph wanted to push it on the last block.

Instead of showering and eating in, Steph and I walked immediately to the Blue Dog Tavern for burgers and beer.  A spontaneous date!  We laughed, caught up and just had a great time hanging out.

It's moments like that where I realize how regimented triathlon training is.  And how welcome a change of pace can be.  Both literally, as in changing the pace of the bike and run based on how I'm feeling and the situation in the moment.  And figuratively, as in rolling with the punches and actually having an even better evening than I would have expected.

I'll try to remember that throughout my training in the coming weeks and months.  Things may not always break my way.  Plans will change.  Especially next year when there's more going on at work than ever before.  But if I can realize that sometimes the unexpected just may be an enhancement, then I think I'll be in great shape.

79 days and counting.

The Only Choice

I grew up going to two schools, public and Torah. At the latter, we'd discuss Judaic teachings, of course, but we'd also cover more general moral lessons too.  One always stood out to me.  This is the scenario: You're at the beach. You spot a random stranger drowning in the surf.  Nearby, your favorite pet dog is swept up in the tide and current as well.  You can't save both.  Pick one.  There is a right answer.

As a child, this was a true dilemma.  Your pet is a family member, right?  But really, it's obvious now which one you should save, I hope.

Now what the hell does this have to do with triathlon?

I found out today during the bike portion of the Santa Barbara Triathlon long course, metaphorically speaking.  After an intense, choppy and frigid swim, I found myself struggling up the first several miles worth of climbing on the bike.  Until mercifully, I reached the top to begin a fairly steep, technical descent filled with switchback turns.  It's the kind of descent that sneaks up on you in a race because the first few miles on the bike are usually spent recovering from the swim, and then the focus turns to keeping the heart-rate in check on the climbing.  It's easy to fall into a hypnotic mental and physical rhythm because doing so dampens the pain in your quads, neck, shoulders and lower back.  The challenge becomes balancing relaxing on the downhills while remembering how dangerous they are.

Unfortunately, I saw just how dangerous they were firsthand.  As I began to rocket downward, I realized I was carrying too much speed around the right corner heading into El Toro Canyon.  I squeezed the brakes...hard.  Flashbacks of my Santa Susana Pass crash in 2009 raced through my head.  They helped me avoid panicking though as I looked through the turn, composed myself and corrected while staying on the right side of the road.  But someone was riding behind me closer than they should have as I crushed the brakes.  The cyclist consequently veered around my left-side, forcing him farther out beyond the double-yellow lines on the turn.

Things went real bad from there.  His back wheel wobbled and skidded on loose dirt and leaves. He tried to correct the skid, lost control, and slammed down on his left side, hurtling down the street on his shoulder, legs and back.

I keep playing in my mind the grimace on his face as he slid down the street.  I can see the whites of his teeth and wince in his closed eyes.

The sad part is I kept pedaling for a moment, choosing between competition and compassion.

It's not really a choice.  Compassion quickly won out -- but not without a brief internal struggle.  I work hard to arrive at race day ready to do my best, and once the starting gun goes off, that's my reward for all the hours spent training and preparing.  It's my time to shine and see how I stack up with the best!  Still, what kind of man would I be had I kept pedaling, even finishing with a personal best?  That's something I would have regretted quite possibly for the rest of my life.

Thankfully, I won't have to put myself through that kind of self-torture.  After the accident, I slowed, pulled over safely several feet downhill, turned around and rode back up the incline to check on the rider.  He was standing, hands clutched on knees, waving me off.  "I'm alright, get back to your race.  I'm OK," he said.

I shouldn't have listened.  The impact sounded horrendous and looked even worse.  But, the man told me he was fine.  I asked him if he was absolutely sure and if he was going to try and continue. He said yes to both.

I solemnly turned downhill and resumed my race.

I later found out the cyclist needed an ambulance and was placed on a flatboard.

On one hand, I know I did the right thing by stopping.  On the other hand, I didn't do enough by neglecting to stay with him until medical attention arrived.  I knew better.

However, I would have done exactly the same thing as the downed rider.  I wouldn't want someone else's race ruined because of my crash.

I keep telling myself that.

Maybe I need to go back to Torah school.

84 days and counting.

Why the Negativity?

Is it a full moon or something? Usually, the Griffith Park LA Tri Club brick is filled with positive energy and nothing but encouragement.  Maybe it was the 90-degree-plus heat at 5 p.m. Or the huge swells that hit Santa Monica this morning.  But something was different tonight.  Three different Tri Clubbers offered nothing but discouragement in three separate conversations.  Two of them didn't mean anything by it, both commenting either on their fatigue or a poor race performance at the Santa Barbara Triathlon.  The third (and his friend) flat out warned me about marriage and begged me to get a pre-nuptial agreement because he had just lost hundreds of thousands of dollars in a settlement.  Both friends chided me about being closer to the "unhappy 50%" who get divorced.

Gee, thanks guys.

The places where I go to train are equivalent to a spiritual and physical dojo. I expect negativity, like shoes at a martial arts studio, to be left at the door.

Today, the dojo was muddied.  Footprints stained the white canvas.  It's ugly.  And unappreciated. Ironically, this comes on the same day I interviewed a leading sports psychologist for a freelance magazine website story I'm writing.  We discussed the benefits to blogging or journal-keeping, along with the risks.  Without tipping my hand or my source's viewpoint, one of the risks associated with blogging or journal-keeping is reflecting on the negative so that it becomes self-destructive.  I'm going to take that feedback to heart tonight.  I'll clean up my mental dojo, sweep up the dirt and grime, and look forward to another day of training tomorrow.

Tonight reminded me of how powerful words can be.  Just a few poorly chosen ones can negatively color someone else's mood or general outlook.  I'm vowing right here to strengthen my resolve to encourage others, and if I have something to discuss that could be construed as negative, I'll think twice and ask myself if it's helpful, valuable and necessary information to share.

If it isn't, I'll keep my mouth shut.

Some nights, blogging is really hard.  I write words down almost just for the sake of keeping my ritual intact.  Tonight, it's as if I'm pouring back garbage into a wastebasket and rapidly jogging down the hall to throw it down the chute.  The process is short, messy, stinky and I want to get it over with quickly so the room the wastebasket sat in can return to its normal aroma.

And now the cleansing part:

-- Just because other people's relationships fall apart doesn't mean mine will.  I'm 100% confident of that.

-- What happened to other people at the Santa Barbara Triathlon in years past is their experience.  I'm about to define my own.

-- Yes, an Ironman will take a huge toll on my body and mind.  I should expect at least a month to fully recover, and that's totally OK.  I have no problem with that.

Good.  Got that over with.

And now, I return to my normal, happy outlook on life and training.

Good night, all.

87 days and counting.

Forging Ahead

Somewhere in the middle of my 9.5-mile Nike/Westridge trail run this morning -- between the 20-degree temperature climb, running past a mountain biker with a parrot on his shoulder, narrowly escaping multiple bee stings from a small hive clustered at a rest stop drinking fountain, and inadvertently insulting two Ironman women triathletes -- I had a vision. I was tired, hot, sore and running low on water.  I already thought I had hallucinated considering a magnificent red parrot squawked at me on a descent. (I'm pretty sure he said, "Too slow!")  So, having a vision as heat waves undulated from the dusty gravel seemed totally normal.

There, at my weakest point, at the end of what would become a 16.5-hour training week, I physically felt myself becoming stronger.  I felt like a piece of iron being forged into something powerful. Pounded.  Blasted.  Shaped.  Hot.  I pictured one of those movie scenes where the angry hero descends into his weapons lair and creates his signature weapon.

Only in this vision, I was the weapon.

I realize I sound more like Leonard from Full Metal Jacket than William Wallace from Braveheart.  And I don't really care.

After this weekend, I'm harder.  Stronger.  Tougher.  Better.

I'm rounding into Ironman form.  I can feel it.

I had ridden 101 miles on Saturday at an 18 mph pace, with 4,000 feet of total climbing.  It was only my second century ride I've ever done.  I felt superhuman throughout the day.  Nothing could slow me down and I never really tired out.  The highlight was a pace line with three other cyclists on the final five miles where I averaged around 23-24 mph.  The guys complimented me after, thanking me for pulling them and telling me I made their wives happy because they'd return home to their families ahead of schedule.

I've never been complimented on my cycling before, especially by strangers who were no slouches themselves.  I'm always struggling to keep up with other LA Tri Club or Fortius members whom I deem better.  To be acknowledged for my own skill was refreshing.  Special.  That alone probably fueled my three-mile "recovery" run off the bike. I've never done that before either.

And just one year ago, there's absolutely no way I would have been able to run 9.5 miles the day after a century.  In fact, last year I bonked on the last 25 miles and Frank had to essentially tow me into port.

What a difference a year makes.

Sure, this morning's run was slow and stiff.  But I did it.  I survived what turned out to be 93-degree heat and kept my heart-rate in zone 3 at the highest.  That was a huge moral victory for me. I proved to myself I could bounce back the next day after a tough workout.  In the heat -- without overheating.

I didn't technically race this weekend, but mentally, it feels like I did.  Something changed in me.

During my ill-fated Ironman conversation with the two women this morning -- ill-fated because I made a joking comment about people with "140.6" stickers on their car, which they both have! -- one of them remarked that their Ironman training was harder than the race itself.  If that's the case, this weekend helped prove her point.

Yet I have three full months of training as of yesterday.

I want more training!

90 days and counting.