Blogging is Hard

Triathlon is easy when your life responsibilities are few.  I have a career and a great fiancee, along with a fantastic family and close friends whom I'd like to see more. I don't have kids.  My job doesn't suck.  I'm healthy, Steph is healthy and our parents are healthy.

Life is pretty awesome.

However, that doesn't mean it's not busy -- even with the relatively few commitments Steph and I have.

I've been up since 5:30 a.m. (though I cheated with a nap after swimming at 6). I went to work, rushed to the track for an evening Fortius-coached running workout (two timed 400s, two timed 800s and a timed 1,200 along with drills), rushed home, showered in five minutes (literally, I timed it) and bolted with Steph to dinner in Studio City.  I just now am finding time to blog.

Last night, I didn't even have the energy to try.  And it was another one of those crazy busy days.  I admit I could wake up earlier than I have been late, but the Ironman training volume has been increasing and I need my rest when I can get it.  Maybe the stress of it all combined with some fatigue led me to lock my keys inside my condo yesterday morning.  Fortunately, since it was the Griffith Park brick workout, I had my bike with me and a change of clothes.  So I dashed from Sherman Oaks to Burbank (in 35 minutes, with traffic, thank you very much!).  Worked through lunch into the early evening, time trialed to Griffith Park to catch the end of the group bike ride and ran for an hour in the hills.  From there, Coach Gerardo was kind enough to drop me off at home after I bribed him with dinner at Sharkey's.  By the time I got home, unwound with Steph and got ready for bed, it was already 10:30 p.m.

I realize that doesn't seem late for many of my friends.  But at the frenetic pace I tend to keep (by my own preference), I wonder if my 10:30 p.m. feels like most people's 3 a.m.

Anyways, my point to all this is that blogging is hard right now.  I had this wonderful vision of blogging every single day leading into my first Ironman.  And, like the tail-end of a sprint where you simply start to run out of gas and willpower, I'm starting to feel the same way about blogging.  I love it, and I really mean that.  But, it's sometimes getting squeezed at the expense of the rest of my life.

This is not my farewell to blogging.  Far from it.  Blogging has actually helped me understand and appreciate my Ironman experience far more than had I not done it.  The days would have blurred together. The insights would have been missed, along with the special milestones.  If not for my blog, this journey would have felt like a slog, not the adventurous roller coaster filled with blind corners and unforeseen drops and loops.

I guess all I'm saying is be patient with me, if you've been supporting this site over the past several months.  I will not let you down.  I will not let myself down.  But there may be a day or two here or there where I just might not be able to fit the blog in.  Sometimes life does move so fast that if you do slow down, you just might miss it.

Every once in a while, I just need to live and not chronicle living.  Last night was one of those nights.  Tonight almost was too.

Let's see what tomorrow brings.

107 days and counting.

And Now What?

Watching an Ironman in person felt almost as grueling as participating in one.  Or at least a Half-Ironman! You're outside, on your feet, in the sun, for upwards of 15 hours.  Scoping the perfect spot to cheer for your friend or loved one.  Hoping you'll be in the right place at the right moment.  Hoping he or she will acknowledge you.  Just for a few seconds as they run, bike, limp or jog past.  Those moments are the only thing you have to break up a whole lot of waiting.  Then, after hours upon hours, from dawn to dusk, you watch your buddy triumphantly run those last 100 yards to the finish.  Arms raised.  Broad smile.  Sweat pouring.

And then it's over.

I'm not sure who is more bummed that Vineman Full is finished; my friends who completed it, or me.  I was merely a spectator, but I felt -- I feel -- so invested in their success that for hours after my friend Rusty crossed the finish just shy of 13 hours, I found myself wondering one thing:

"And now what?"

"And now what?"

Seriously, after the race it could have been December 26, or January 2.  Massive buildup, a triumphant, sudden conclusion, and then wham!  The clock stops, your Ironman ends, you go to dinner to celebrate, and the day is over.  The next day comes, you celebrate some more, and then it's back to reality.

The rapid finality of my friends' Ironman experiences shocked me.  It drained me.  It taught me.  It's almost unfair because to those who don't know, it's "just" a mind-boggling athletic accomplishment.

There's so much more though!

Nobody can understand all the solitary hours of training unless they do it for themselves. The inconveniences.  The sacrifices.  The physical anguish and mental fatigue.  That's what makes an Ironman special.  That's why I got teary-eyed (again) watching men and women cross the finish line.  Total strangers. The race is the crowning achievement of a challenge few people choose to endure.  The race is the finale.  The culmination.  The validation.  I think it's that knowledge of their struggle that connected me to all the athletes on the course this weekend. I knew what each of them was thinking because I've been there myself. "Just a little bit more." "Damn it I hurt."  "I'm thirsty."  "I want to quit."

But they don't.  They won't.  They can't.  They shuffle forward.  Alone.  With runners and supporters all around them.  Each engulfed in their own narrative.

And all us fans see is that five-second glimpse of our loved ones.  We try to assess their performance in that moment.  How do they look?  What's the pace?  When will they finish?  Did they even see me?  Meanwhile, on the inside, the triathlete is enveloped in self-analysis.  One lap down.  Two laps down.  Need more fluids.  No cramps yet.  Will that blister pop already?

How strange it was this weekend to have lived in both worlds of the Ironman, spectator and participant.  Yet I didn't quite feel immersed in either.  I ran one lap of the marathon course as part of my weekend training and biked part of the course as well.  I avoided the competitors as much as possible to ensure the race officials didn't think I was pacing anyone.  I didn't accept anything from any aid station, despite several volunteers offering.  This wasn't my Ironman.  No thanks.  That's bad karma, as far as I'm concerned.  And, as a spectator, I was gone for hours at a time training on the bike or chatting with other friends.  I didn't sit or stand in one spot in the summer heat, like so many other dedicated fans.  I could take a break.

I was in triathlon purgatory.  I loved it.  I hated it.

At the same time, I learned so much.  First and foremost, I didn't realize how glib I was when I referred to my fiancee and me as Team Schneider because of how dedicated she has been in supporting my journey.  After experiencing what she goes through on race day, I haven't come close to describing how important it is to have that kind of partner.  And how hard it is to be a supporter in this sport.  I'm atoning for that here.  I've also realized that it's not the Ironman that makes Ironmen special.  It's the work that goes into becoming an Ironman.  The work nobody sees. If you don't savor those quiet, exhausting moments, if you don't appreciate the journey itself and every single lonely workout, then the day after an Ironman could become the hollowest of days.

Because "And now what?" is an unanswerable question.  Rather, it's an insatiable appetite.

Maybe that explains why I'm always so damned hungry.

110 days and counting.

The Last Date

Stephanie and I had our last date tonight. As weird as it may seems, it's true to a degree.  After this evening's date at the Hollywood Bowl, never again will I pick Steph up from a home other than our own.  I met her at her now former apartment near Park LaBrea early this evening. It didn't really hit me until on our way dodging traffic to the jazz concert, when Steph started to reminisce about all the dates we had had over the years that started just like this. And how that sense of excitement when she opens the door to greet me after primping to get ready will never be quite the same.  Of course, now we're roommates for life.  Which we're totally excited about!  But it's interesting to briefly pause and reflect on one period of our lives formally ending -- the "single dating period" years -- while another starts.

Steph and I both understand that you never stop dating your partner.  For the moment that occurs, the relationship really falters.  But that sense of two lives lived separately in two places is now in the rear-view mirror once and for all.  Tonight really marked the official tipping point of two lives becoming one.  An engagement ring is a symbol.  Closing the door of an empty apartment and opening the door of a now overflowing one is real. And very special.

Our last date rocked.  I can't wait for the next one.

115 days and counting.

From Tin to Steel Man Part III: Post-Race Vacation

Every romantic holiday should start by shotgunning beers. At least mine did!  Stephanie and I celebrated our Half-Ironman achievements with my Fortius teammates at a friend's home in Santa Rosa.  I knew it would be a raucous time when Mike sent me a text message, "We gonna shotgun beers!"

Uh, OK.  Actually, I think I texted back, "Fuck."

I hadn't shotgunned a beer since college, back when I was known as "Twiggy" and "Two Beer."

After 70.3 total miles in nearly 90-degree heat, I knew I'd be "One Beer."

We all laughed, drank (fairly heavily), traded race-day stories and ate a ton of carbs -- all with the Tour de France playing in the background.  It was this triathlon dork's dream party.

So began what has turned out to be a decadent week off from training, which I've enjoyed as thoroughly as the race itself.  So far in this racing odyssey, I've really yet to take adequate time to savor a race experience to the fullest.  I'm usually analyzing (and re-analyzing) every detail, immediately writing the blog, planning the next race and comparing notes with my fellow competitors.

For once this season, I decided to fully unplug and do what's most important: celebrate with my fiancee.  No Facebook (well, a little).  No Twitter.  No blog.  Just Steph and me.  Roadtrip companions.  Riding down PCH, no hotel reservations, no destination in particular, no plans.

No problem!

I've probably written about this before, but triathlon is a selfish pursuit.  It requires a lot of dedication and discipline, often coming at the expense of friendly social outings with mates and family.  That can pose problems in a relationship, especially if the other person isn't a triathlete.  That's why I've tried to ensure that Steph knows  that even though I'm doing the actual racing, she's my real race companion.  The person who makes my motor run.  The inspiration that makes me go just a little faster.

When I compete, I refer to us as Team Schneider.  And I really mean it.  But if that's the case, then WE need to celebrate better.  And that's what we did Sunday, Monday and Tuesday.

On Monday, we drove the Vineman 70.3 bike course so I could show Steph the route's beauty. Of course, that meant showing her several charming wineries that nearly led to impromptu wedding venue visits.

Annnnnnd we're moving right along. ... I sped up a little more at those intersections!

We had a good time talking about the key moments in the bike race and where exactly they occurred. I think it helped Steph visualize more of the experience since she could only see me during brief transitory moments.  We then took River Road past Guerneville all the way to Bodega Bay, stopping whenever the thought struck us for photo opps, an oyster shucking lesson and eventually a gigantic burger in Point Reyes further down on PCH.  Did you know Sir Francis Drake visited North America in 1579?  Yeah, neither did I.  Apparently he stopped in the Point Reyes area, maybe because the burger was just that damn good.

We eventually snaked our way on Highway 1 past Mount Tamalpais, through Saulsalito, past the Golden Gate bridge (hiding behind the clouds) and through the western most part of San Francisco.  By then it was close to 7 p.m. and we realized our plan of reaching Big Sur by sunset was going to fail.  But this turned into a big win since we had been trying unsuccessfully to visit with Steph's best friend Annie the entire weekend.  We shifted course to Annie and David's apartment in Los Gatos and enjoyed a late-night feast.

Tuesday was largely uneventful as we leisurely drove home from Annie's.  The key words are leisurely and uneventful.  Both my life and Steph's are so heavily scheduled that the notion of "free" time for either of us is almost unheard of.  This vacation was special not because of what we did, but what we didn't do.  We didn't rush from activity to activity, or plan around my training.  Of course, we did touch down at home around 4 p.m. only to leave a few hours later to enjoy another feast -- this time in Santa Monica -- with our good friends Erika and Adam.  (If you haven't eaten at Rustic Canyon, I'd recommend it. Though I'd avoid the pork chop unless you like it on the drier side.  The corn soup, crispy polenta, lamb meatballs and assortment of desserts more than compensate.)

We got home around 10:30 p.m. Team Schneider's whirlwind five-day Half-Ironman had crossed the finish line.  Much like how I looked at the end of the race, that's how I felt by the time the long weekend was over.  Gloriously spent.  We left nothing in the proverbial fuel tank.

To all my friends racing Vineman Full: I hope you will celebrate as hard as you trained.  I hope you hug or kiss the people in your life whom also sacrificed to help you reach your goals.  I hope you let them know how much it means to them when you see them screaming for you at every transition -- knowing they're really waiting several hours at a time just to catch a glimpse of you.

We couldn't do any of this without our race partners.  I can't do it without mine.

And I'm happy -- almost happy beyond words -- that I don't have to.

I may be signing off for a couple days.  If something comes up worth writing about during my time off, I will blog. If not, I'd like to spend more time with my friends and family before I dive back into the deep end of Ironman training.  I know what's in store for the next four months.

121 days and counting.

Resting And Loving It

No workout yesterday.  One hour of yoga today. This taper business is really starting to appeal to me!

I'm sleeping in -- well, as much as the little monster upstairs allows me to -- reading, watching sports live when they're actually happening...this is awesome!

One of the weekend's highlights included attending Fortius teammate Mike's Ironman Lake Placid send-off party.  As always, it's great to see everyone when we're not wearing spandex or swim goggles or fuel belts or smell like chlorine.  We shared training stories, watched the Ironman St. George DVD that featured a cameo from Fortius teammate Paul, and put Mike on the spot to talk about the sum of his training and thoughts going into his big race.

Amidst all the jokes I realized that my send-off isn't too far away.  Just over four months now.  Where did all the time go?  If it wasn't for this blog, the whole thing would be a blurry dream that almost doesn't seem real.  And yet I sit here, on my couch in the morning, exalting in my days off from training.  In a few years, I'll likely have kids and long for the moments when I can just train for 2.5 hours because I can.  I try to keep that in mind often, but at this very moment, taking a break just feels really good.  So I'm going with it.

Over the next few days, with a lighter training schedule, I may not have as much to write either.  Instead of forcing it, I may take a break from the blog too.  We'll see.

Besides work, the rest of the day consists of taking my bike in for a pre-race safety check and buying new gloves since I lost one on my brick on Saturday.  I'll squeeze in yoga either during a 5 p.m. session at our work gym or at 7 p.m. at Black Dog (more likely).

That's all I got for now.  Fairly uninspired stuff today, I know.  But, I'm just kind of mellow at the moment.  Resting.

Ahhhhhhhhh.

132 and 131 days and counting.

We Are All Witnesses...To What?

How perfectly convenient that today is my off-day from Ironman training. Normally, I'd write about enjoying some rest and relaxation.  But the truth is, I'm a little worked up.

I got sucked into watching the LeBron James ESPN special last night, which fueled me to post on Facebook some initial reaction to the news that King James was "taking his talents to South Beach."  In this 140-character limit society, I succinctly outlined that I think James cheapened his legacy in pursuit of a more immediate path to winning an NBA Championship.

This led to -- no joke -- 23 comments on my page.  Granted, at least five of them were replies from me  defending my statement.

I'm getting pretty sick of whittling every thought or sentence down to two separate statements.  So, in response, here's my thoughts on the counterarguments lobbed against me, and why I disagree.

-- You'd do the same thing!!  One person, apparently an uber-James supporter, tried to put the Nike on my foot by asking if I had a dream job would I not take it due to loyalty.  The truth is, I've been offered more money and other perks to leave my current job for organizations with bigger and arguably better resources. While remaining in the entertainment business that I love.  I turned them down.  I work for an organization that deserves but never demands loyalty.  I've been treated extremely well, and want to return the favor.  I want to help build something special here -- even when times aren't always the best.  So yes, I walk the talk on this topic.  In other words, I would have stayed in Cleveland.  Especially after spouting how important the city, region and state are to me my entire life.  I would be tied to Cleveland, and the city would be tied to me.  Even if it meant never playing in a championship.  If that were to be my destiny, so be it.

-- Kobe would have left if he were in Cleveland. Maybe.  But he didn't leave LA even though he complained loudly about doing so (just like LeBron).  And, by the way, Kobe chose to stay with no guarantee that the Lakers would land Pau Gasol. To me, what helps define greatness in sports is building a legacy.  For one team.  Through all the ups and downs. Kobe. Jordan. Bird. Magic. Reggie Miller. Stockton. Duncan. Robinson. Paul Pierce (ugh, I hate including him on this list!). The list goes on and spans several sports.  Call me old school, but loyalty to one organization throughout a Hall of Fame career means just a little bit more than bouncing from team to team in search of glory and rings (are you listening, Shaq?).

If Kobe had left the Lakers to pursue titles elsewhere, I'd be saying the same thing about him.

-- Cleveland brought this on itself. How? They tried to do everything LeBron asked.  He wanted a center?  They brought in Shaq.  He wanted a complementary third piece?  They brought in Antawn Jamison and Mo Williams.  They brought in a top-notch coach, Byron Scott, who commanded the respect of one of James' closest friends, Chris Paul.  All the while, King James kept the franchise hanging at his beck and call.  Granted, this is as much Dan Gilbert's fault as anyone else's.  And we won't even get started on that letter he wrote.

OK, we will.

Seriously, what a poor choice of words.  I agree with Gilbert's sentiment and passion, but keep LeBron specifically out of it and focus on the future.  (Maybe a few cleverly worded jabs of the kind Phi Jackson has made a career of sharing.) That would have been a huge step in the right direction.  If I were a fan of the Cavaliers, that kind of message -- sans the overt James vitriol --would have fired me up to stay upbeat about my team in the wake of such devastating news.  Now, Cleveland looks even sadder and more pathetic a destination than before.  Which sucks considering the Cavs need a new plan for how to stay relevant in the League now more than ever.  Way to unintentionally shoot yourself in the foot, Dan.

-- Miami will go undefeated! Sure, just like the Dream Team Lakers with Karl Malone, Gary Payton, Kobe, Shaq and Fisher.  Or the Jail Blazers virtual All-Star teams of the early 2000's.  People, it takes a village, as the saying goes.  And a heck of a coach to mold all those personalities and egos.  I agree that this trio has the potential to be among the greatest the League has ever seen.  But it's about the supporting cast. As good as Magic, Kareem and Worthy were, the great Showtime Lakers teams had Cooper, Byron, Rambis, McAdoo, AC Green, etc.  Jordan's bulls had Pippen, Kucoc, Grant...uh...who else did they have?

Oh that's right, Jordan elevated average players' games enough to win multiple titles.  With rosters only slightly better than the recent Cavs teams.

Chosen One?

Savior?

Really?

So in the end, exactly what are we all witnesses to?  From where I sit, a self-absorbed, confused, massively talented young man taking the easy way out to a Championship ring.  Someone who truly did listen to his mother and did what was best for him -- and only what was best for him.  LeBron didn't even have the class to tell Cleveland properly before the actual announcement, instead giving way to higher ratings and greater drama.  Did LeBron's momma weigh in on that too? And using children as a backdrop?  It felt phony. Produced.  Too slick for its own good.

Sort of like LeBron's professed love for Ohio and his entire King James/savior persona.

Come to think of it, the fake glitz and glamour of South Beach is the perfect fit for LeBron.

Cleveland, with its collective hard-hat mentality and blue-collar work ethic, deserves better.  It always did.

134 days and counting.

Ryan's "Bad Boys" Episode

I'm almost afraid to set foot outside my condo this morning, for I have no idea what may lie in store. On Saturday, Stephanie and I experienced what we're referring to as "Weirdest Day Ever."  (This played off what we had called "Best Day Ever" about a year ago on a fantastic date.)

Last night, I nearly experienced "Longest Day Ever" courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.

Saturday's drama featured a horror movie plotline as the backdrop.  Yesterday's drama would have been the perfect "Curb Your Enthusiasm" episode.  And it all happened because I was trying to be a nice guy.

The fun started around 6:30 p.m. in the Carl's Jr. parking lot at the intersection of Santa Monica Blvd. and La Brea. I had left work early for two reasons.  First, my cell phone officially died during my brick workout on Monday.  Rest in Peace, oh hard-working Blackberry Pearl.  I'll never forget all the good times we shared.  Second, I was invited to attend a first cut movie screening with a production company at The Lot just off Santa Monica Blvd.

As is so often the case, I was foraging for food before the movie screening when I decided to settle upon Carl's Jr.  The food court across the street would be too complicated to navigate quickly to leave in time for the movie screening.  I ordered a chicken teriyaki sandwich and parked in the lot to scarf it down while reading a Sports Illustrated issue I just bought while purchasing my temporary replacement phone (a no-contract Nokia while my iPhone 4 is on reservation).

Just as I was finishing dinner (if you can call it that), a scruffy-looking man came over and asked me if I could spare any money for food.  Considering I was finishing my meal, the sky was shining, I was in a good mood with some time to kill -- and because I generally do give to those less fortunate when asked -- I provided some cash.

Now is a good moment to acknowledge that  many friends and I are split on this topic.  I know several generous folks who refuse to give money to those on the street.  I completely understand both sides.  My perspective is that it's "just" money and if I am so calloused as not to offer at least a dollar to someone -- regardless of how they use it -- then I've lost a part of my own soul.  My own sense of kindness and compassion.  I imagine what it would be like for me to have to ask someone else for enough change to buy a meal, and that thought alone is usually enough to open my wallet.  It is not my place to play G-d and tell people how to spend their money.  But if I can offer a moment of kindness that doesn't hurt me in the long run, I'm more than OK with that.

Of course,  I nearly had to tell that to the jail warden.

No sooner had I given the man money and started to back out of the parking lot then an LAPD squad car burst into the lot seemingly from nowhere and slammed its brakes directly behind my car.

And when I say "my" car...I mean my dad's car.

Try telling a cop who's pulling you over for what looks like a drug buy that, by the way, this isn't my car.  It's my dad's!

LAPD: "Put up your hands!"

RS: "Why?!  I didn't do anything wrong!"

LAPD: "Get out of the car immediately!  Keep your hand where I can see them!"

RS: "But I didn't do anything!"

LAPD: "Get out of the car NOW!"

I got out of the car.

I still have no idea why I'm being pulled over.

RS: "I gave the guy $5 cash!  That's it!"

LAPD: "Yeah, right.  Gimmee your license."

Meanwhile, I've got one cop with his hand on his gun staring at me while the other checks my record.

It's at this point that I realize A) I have an outstanding ticket that I need to pay. B) I'm being fingered for a drug buy, but am not totally sure. C) I'm not driving my own car.  D) My cell phone is dead -- so if I do get arrested I can't even make a call from my own phone.

Cue "Curb Your Enthusiasm" music.  All over feeling generous and giving a shady-looking dude $5 to get a cheeseburger.

As my record was being checked, I truly thought I had a very good chance to be arrested on suspicion of making a drug buy. I admittedly started to panic because the silent cop next to me wouldn't respond to any of my comments or questions.

RS: "Sir, you can search any part of me and my car.  I have no drugs, if that's what this is about."

RS: "Sir, will you at least tell your partner that the car is registered in my father Mitchell J Schneider's name?"

RS (exasperated): "Look!  I'm a triathlete for G-d's sake...I don't do any drugs!!!"

(Yes, I really said that.)

Finally, the record-checking cop -- the meaner of the two who stood almost two inches shorter than me if that's even possible -- told me I was free to go.  But before doing so, did I understand why I was pulled over?

Of course I did.  But Officer Mean further explained that the Santa Monica/La Brea intersection in particular was notorious for drug activity, and it looked incredibly suspicious for someone to hand something to a homeless guy and quickly pull away from the lot.  I agreed.  Then, Officer Mean told me I "was a better man than he was" for giving anybody anything, as he tells those guys to "pound sand" whenever they get close.

I understand his perspective and think it's equally valid.  In fact, I'm far more tempted to avoid giving money now -- which is sad.  It annoyed me that the person to whom I gave the money didn't even bother to leave the restaurant for just a moment to explain I had simply paid for a meal on his behalf.  I scratch your back, you scratch mine, right?  Wrong!  Of course, I'm not so naive to think the solicitor was completely clean.  Still, he left me hanging, and that situation could have ended a lot worse than it did.

Despite all that, I'm not sure this experience will deter me entirely from sparing some change.  I'd prefer to continue assuming that people are good until proven otherwise.  Shutting myself off to helping others because of one bad episode that lasted no more than 15 minutes doesn't feel right.

Just  please be ready to accept any and all phone calls I may be making to you.  They may be coming from a jail cell! (If my phone is even working.)

136 days and counting.

PS: Yesterday's events completely obscured the real big news of the day: I signed up for Ironman Coeur d'Alene in June 2011!  I'll write more about that later tonight or tomorrow.

Do the Work.

How I'm ending the day is pretty much how I started it.  Tired.  Lethargic.  Ready for bed. At least I can fulfill that desire instead of trudging out for an early morning brick.  Stephanie pretty much had to kick me out of bed this morning, literally.  She did so successfully, with the promises of making me oatmeal.  It helped.  My cycling felt about as slow as oatmeal transfers out from the ceramic bowl to the plastic one.  Please. Just. Go. A. Little. Faster.

For whatever reason, I just didn't sleep well last night.  I was ready to train at 4:30 in the morning, and since Trudy and Bam Bam have been making more regular early morning cameos lately, I figured what's the use of going back to sleep.  So I got caught in that "no doze zone" -- somewhere between being awake and drifting off to sleep.  It took me about a half-hour of cycling to wash the malaise off my body and generate some pedal power.

The run turned out much better.  The breakthrough from last Wednesday's Griffith Park brick with Coach Gerardo and Richard is really paying dividends now.  Despite my general tired state, running at tempo pace (heart-rate zone 3) felt surprisingly easy and relaxing.  My heart-rate never rose past 157 bpm but I was averaging what felt like an 8:30-mile pace -- and it was fairly effortless.  In the past, I would labor a lot more running at tempo.  Granted, I only ran a shade under 4.5 miles in just about 40 minutes.  But I felt like I could run another 4.5 or more at the same pace if not slightly better. Given my groggy frame of mind, I'll more than take it.

I suppose the real victory today was simply getting out of bed and doing the work. That's all you can do sometimes, as I've said before.  It's the difference between coming close to your race day goals and either meeting or exceeding your expectations.  You've got to put in the work, the time, the sweat and the effort -- whether you feel like it or not.

That's really all that today was about.  And at this point countless other training sessions I've written about. It's probably the theme of my Ironman training: Do the work. Period.

Speaking of, it's back to work tomorrow morning. At 6. In the pool.  Track session in the evening too.

Let's do this.

141 days and counting.

Hold On For 1 More Day

My celebration/commemoration of the Breath of Life Triathlon lasted all of 24 hours. Until I received an email from Coach Gerardo indicating that today marks the beginning of my taper towards Vineman 70.3.  And the stern reminder that "everything we have done the past few months is for this race."

As if that wasn't enough to force me to refocus on the race ahead instead of the race I just finished, I received in the mail today another omen: My Vineman 70.3 visor.

Breath of Life is soooooo June 27.

Out with one incredible life experience, on with another.  But something is nagging at me.  Tugging like a kid pulls on his dad's belt buckle for attention.

Where is the journey in all this?  The soul?  Where's the pause for reflection?  Jubilation?  Course correction?  Does it occur in the eight hours while I'm sleeping?  My 10 minutes in the shower each morning?

Being a "nester", I need at least a little bit of time to assess and put everything in its rightful place before moving on to the next project.  In this case, my first Half Ironman distance event.  I'm still busy remembering moments from yesterday's race before I put them in my mental scrapbook. Or in this more technical example, my blog.

Closing my eyes and really feeling the National Anthem, for example. Swaying gently side to side thinking of my grandfather and how proud he'd be if he were there physically in that moment.  Smiling to myself.  My pre-race ritual complete.

These are the moments I want to hold onto.  The moments that make a race an event, not just a training exercise.  The moments that threaten to escape me if I let them.  If I move too quickly from one memory to the next, like a bee anxiously finding the next flower while working herself into exhaustion along the way.  Never enjoying for a moment that hard-earned pollen.

We all train many long hours to achieve our goals.  And then we wake up at 4:30 in the morning, stumble out of bed into the darkness, don our wetsuits as the sun rises, and sprint earnestly into the salty water.

Then, we wish for the pain to end. For the finish line to show itself. Eventually, it complies.

And then the race is over.  The chapter is written.

Meanwhile, while the body recovers, the brain is still trying to figure out what the hell just happened.  At least mine is.  What did I learn?  What will be burned into my memory like a cattle brand?  What excess experience can I quickly snatch from impending forgetfulness?

I suppose what I'm getting at is that retention is part of recovery.  And recovery needs to occur before a new chapter begins.

That's where my head is at right now.  Even if my body is eager to take the next step on this Ironman odyssey.

Even as this Vineman 70.3 visor stares at me on my office desk.

There will be time to wear you soon, M-dot.

But not yet.  Not today.

143 days and counting.

How Training and Work Balance are Like Lakers-Celtics

So far at E3 this week, my balance between work and training has matched the Lakers-Celtics series.  Round 1 went squarely to training.  Decisively.  Woke up early to spin and fit in a yoga class before two parties Monday night.  Yesterday, training won out too.  Swam at 6 a.m. and still managed to attend two cocktail parties last night. Today, work wins.  Hands down. I thought I'd be able to wake up early to fit my 2.25-hour brick workout in before a packed day at the convention.  No dice.  Six a.m. came and went on my alarm clock.  So did 7.  Right up until 8:30 a.m.  I've got meetings until 4:30 p.m. today so I'm hopeful to bolt immediately after to make the 5:30 p.m. start at Griffith Park.  I've got one cocktail party tonight but it's not urgent I attend.  Worse comes to worse, I'll make this my day off this week and push the brick to Friday, when the show is already over for me.

As for games I want to check out, well, Bulletstorm is at the top of the list. As is Call of Duty: Black Ops. Throw in some Medal of Honor, Dead Space 2 and Killzone 3, and I'm a happy man.

But I'll be even happier if I can still manage to balance work and training effectively.

One lesson I have learned this week is still related to Lakers-Celtics.  I have a better appreciation for not being able to "get up" for certain days of training, just like a basketball team might not have the intensity necessary to win every game in a long series.  Sometimes, fatigue really does trump your best intentions.  That's what happened to me this morning, and like the Lakers, I don't panic or anything.  I just wait for the next opportunity to show up and put in the effort.

That said, the Lakers better f-ing show up tomorrow night.  No excuses.  Especially against Boston.

My prediction?  Lakers by 5. I called the Lakers in 7 at the beginning of the series but almost lost belief when Andrew Bynum got hurt.  But he's shown me a lot by toughing it out despite his terrible knee injury.  It's inspirational as I continue my training.

Now, work wins again.  I have to cut my post short and get ready for a day of meetings. And hopefully a solid workout.

154 days and counting.