Santa Barbara Tri: A, B or C Race?

In Training Peaks, my triathlon workout schedule manager, race days are indicated by little trophies with an A, B, or C on them. The Santa Barbara Triathlon is listed as a priority C, meaning it's essentially another training day that happens to be timed.

I'd like to believe I'll be able to keep that in mind when the starting gun goes off at 7 a.m.  But I know myself all too well.  Maybe you're beginning to know me too.

That C level priority is what dragged me out of bed this morning for a 6 a.m. swim and what compelled me to attend tonight's final Fortius-coached track workout.  If Saturday's race is "just another training day" then there's no excuse for me to blow off these last workouts due to the fatigue I'm experiencing.  That was my thought process throughout the day.  I wanted nothing more than to go straight home when I left the office around 5:30 p.m.  In fact, I debated doing just that throughout the commute.  There's the triathlon magazine web story I could be writing.  Or the packing I could be doing for Santa Barbara.  Or simply relaxing at home for an extended period, which hardly ever seems to happen now.

But the honest motivator was this: I knew that somewhere out there, someone competing in my age group this Saturday was training.  He was overcoming the heat.  The fatigue.  The excuses.  And If I didn't haul ass on that track -- perhaps against my better judgement -- then he was going to beat me by a few seconds in the race.

C-level race or not, I can't let that happen.

So, I ticked off two 400s, two 800s and another two 400s at a 6:00-7:00 minute mile pace along with a handful of striders and light lap-running.  Perhaps against my better judgement.  Despite my concerns, my heart-rate dropped quickly between laps, I didn't overheat nor did I exhaust myself.  Much like this morning's swim, where I tied my 100 PR at 1:25, I pleasantly surprised myself in the run.

And that's the gift I received for putting in the time today.  I had enough energy to perform at a high level for myself despite the fatigue and self-doubts.  Moreover, A, B, or C, level race, I know that by pushing myself just a bit further than I wanted to this week, I inched forward towards my ultimate A-1 goal: Ironman.

Let's see how I feel tomorrow morning!

86 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.

5 Day Energy Drink, Please

No blogging last night.  Got home at 1 a.m. after waiting 40 minutes to leave the bottom floor of the Hollywood & Highland parking garage following a stellar Dave Matthews Band concert.  I hadn't been much of a DMB fan since the late 90s, but that didn't matter last night.  My family convened to celebrate my dad's 64th birthday, though it was a surprise for him since he didn't know Steph, my sister Dana and her boyfriend Craig were also coming.  We bounced, clapped and swayed our way through the evening, laughing, singing and joking with one another.  Truly a memorable night -- except for the long wait to get home. Which leaves me scrambling for some energy tonight, despite still managing nearly eight hours of sleep by skipping my morning swim workout.  I'm heading to the pool in about 15 minutes, wondering where the energy to avoid sinking is going to come from.  The cumulative effects of a hard Saturday century ride followed by a long Sunday morning trail run, strength training, last night's concert, and today's 40-minute "slow" heart-rate zone 1 treadmill run have added up.  I really dislike admitting I'm tired, but I just am.  With a long-course triathlon race on Saturday (Santa Barbara Triathlon), I'm getting concerned that I won't have enough energy in the tank by week's end.  Coach Gerardo has assured me that tomorrow's tempo brick should further prepare me for Saturday, while if needed I can skip the Thursday evening track workout.

Honestly, that sounds quite appealing right about now.  I wish I had one of those 5 Hour Energy Drinks but instead could call it a 5 DAY Energy Drink to get me through the rest of the week!

It's only Tuesday?  Really???

88 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.

Hungry. Tired. Sore.

I must confess I'm only two out of those three.  After riding 101 miles and running three, I have a right to.  On top of that, I stood in a f%^$&* line for two hours waiting for food that never came at the Outdoor Cinema Food Festival in West Los Angeles tonight. As you can imagine, that didn't leave me in the best mood.  My body works overtime to deliver probably my best cycling outing to date and I reward myself with two hot dogs and (eventually) two slices of pizza for dinner.  Awesome.

Actually, the concept for the Outdoor Cinema Fest is fantastic.  Food trucks, summer, classic films, and music. The concept was so fantastic that people showed up in droves, literally eating the trucks out of all their wares.

Fortunately, a late night stop at D'Amores Pizza prevented me from going full on apeshit.

I'll describe the Cool Creeze Century in greater detail tomorrow.  But for now, I'll say this.  Last year, it took me 6:48 to complete the Ventura to Santa Barbara course.  This year, though the course was slightly different, I was 1:05 faster.  Seriously, I was an hour faster in one year's time.  Yes, I now have a triathlon bike and had the benefit of riding in aero for a good number of the miles.  But still, an hour faster?  while still being able to run after and having enough gas on the final 10 miles to stay well over 21 mph?  Didn't see that coming!

The Cool Breeze Century almost felt like last week's 72 mile bike ride.

More tomorrow though.  For now, I need sleep. Bad.

91 days and counting.

Who Knew?

Who knew that when I started my Ironman journey last November, it would lead to: -- Great relationships with an entirely new group of friends

-- The physique I always wanted but could never achieve

-- A greater appreciation for nutrition and healthy living in general

-- Improved confidence and mental outlook

-- A deeper appreciation for discipline, sacrifice and tolerance of pain

-- A reunification with my passion for writing

-- And now...freelance writing opportunities!

Yep, after a long hiatus from freelance writing, I've decided to dive head-first back into that world.  I'm working on two stories for a fresh triathlon magazine website and couldn't be more excited.  I'm almost as excited as competing in an Ironman in three months.

Three months!

Without this blog, I'm not so sure I would have gotten quite so much from my training.  I never expected the Ironman to change my life the way it has.  And this is only my second full season in the sport.

Who knew?!

Certainly not me.

92 days and counting.

Time Flies...

Some days there's just not a lot to write about.  Can't have an epiphany all the time, right? That's why epiphanies are special.  The daily ritual tedium is the rule, not the exception.  When we have a breakthrough, it's all the more significant.  Today was just one of those put-in-the-time ordeals.  Compounded by the Fortius-coached track workout being cancelled.  So, there I was, a solo runner on the Harvard-Westlake High School track.  Surrounded by the girls field hockey team.  Which, I'm sorry to say, looks like such a boring sport!  Seriously, let's chase after a ball with a stick with a bunch of kids who are afraid of said ball and afraid of hurting themselves or others.  Very compelling.

I digress.

The workout was fairly blase.  Warm-up mile, four strides, five 800s with 400 recoveries.  I was supposed to do a mile at a 6:00 pace but tragically ran out of time.  My 800 times were fairly decent, highlighted by steadily decreasing from 3:45 down to 3:20 on the last set.

My reward was a pool workout at 7:30 p.m.  I felt like molasses in the water tonight.  Definitely sluggish.  But I got through it.  Sometimes that's all you can do.  Get through it.

My reward for that will be another workout tomorrow -- on my typical day off.  However, a trip to the symphony on Sunday afternoon negates my ability to complete both an ocean swim and the scheduled two-hour run.  So you will find me at Tower 26 in Santa Monica at 7 a.m. with Coach Gerardo.

On the plus side, it makes my week fly by!

Time flies when your day is filled with tris.  My new mantra!

93 days and counting.

Stick It.

I read a triathlon blog today suggesting I consider why I'm competing in an Ironman. Why?  Because I'll need to recall that answer during the most difficult moments of the race.  When I hit The Wall, what will be my "one thing" that inspires me to fight through and continue? Ironically, I was thinking about that independently during my solo early morning brick workout at Griffith Park (images coming later tonight).  There's a lot to think about 12-18 hours a week without an iPod clouding the brain.

So why am I chasing this dream down?  Is chasing even the right word anymore?  It feels more like a hunt at this point.  A yearlong hunting expedition marked mostly by cagey patience, punctuated by moments of adrenaline-fueled energy bursts.

When I started my training, I really thought the Ironman was a bucket-list checkbox.  Or some project I could point to with pride when I have children.  "See, THIS is how you go after a big goal in life."

Those are nice reasons.  They're surface too.

As I've plunged down the rabbit hole of my psyche these past 10 months, the motivations I've discovered there may be a little darker than initially thought.  I've hinted at it before.  On some level, my Ironman will serve as a giant "Stick it!" to doubters throughout my life.  People whom I've never really forgiven for hurting me.  People who took something from me.  Physically or psychologically.

Garbage I haven't let go of after all these years.

Garbage I need to leave out on the course that day.

The club soccer coach who cut me from the all-star team without explanation or compassion.

"Stick it."

The freshman basketball coach who cut me for two years before sticking me at the end of the bench in ninth grade to stew as a sideshow.

"Stick it."

The neighborhood bully whom I let push me around as a skinny, self-conscious kid.

"Stick it."

The fraternity bros who didn't pick me for the A-list sports teams because I was too small or not fast enough in their eyes.  Or not cool enough.

"Stick it."

The childhood friends whom were always a little bigger (OK, a lot bigger), faster, and stronger.  And who always got the girls.

"Stick it."

The grade school girls who passed me over because I was too this, or not enough that.

"Stick it."

So, yeah.  You wanna know what my line will be at mile 18 in the heat?  When my legs decide to crap out on me?  When my head hurts and I still have another eight miles to run?

I'll think of Karen Takeda.  I'll think of Mr. Dicus.  I'll think of Chad Tosensen (or whatever the hell his name was).  I'll think of all of them.  And the pain.  Both visceral and recalled.  Present and past.

And I'll grit my teeth and keep moving.

Stick it.

That's my one thing.

Find yours.

94 days and counting.

Learning to Run

I never expected running to be the part of my triathlon training that needs the most work. But according to Coach Gerardo, it's the toughest of the three tri-disciplines to master.  We're aided by equipment on the bike and the water in the pool.  But on the track, road or trail, it's just our bodies and the ground.  Apparently, a lot can go wrong in between the two, as I learned tonight in a special one-on-one coached workout at Van Nuys Sherman Oaks park.

In my hour workout that more closely resembled a learning-by-doing tutorial, I learned so much it's still hard to organize my thoughts three hours later.  For starters, my body is working against itself in my current stride.  I need to lean forward by 7 percent at the ankles.  Don't ask me how exactly to ensure it's not 8 or 9 percent.  Doing so will help instigate proper momentum, which can be further accentuated by propelling my arms in a Nordic-track like motion.  But not just any Nordic-track motion.  My elbows must retain a 90-degree angle and remain at the mid-chest level while my hands should be soft enough to cradle a rolled piece of paper.  My gaze should remain 35-feet in front of me, though currently I find myself staring down to ensure I'm leaning forward.  And when I'm not thinking about all that, my hamstrings should be firing my legs so I'm kicking high on the back stride before powering forward to land on my feet at the widest part of the shoe -- as opposed to the heel where I currently strike.  Oh yeah, when my brain is juggling all that, I need to tighten my abs for more power on the arm strides.

I feel like I ran an 800 just from typing that last paragraph!

However, all the minor adjustments and major helpings of patience started to pay off by the end of the tutorial.  Gerardo asked me to mimic his stride without thinking about it, and when I did it felt absolutely effortless.  I won't go as far as to say I was gliding, but I certainly was striding forward at a relaxed yet faster pace.  Then, I ran an 800 with these same principles in mind and Gerardo said I looked like a different runner from just 60 minutes prior.

I felt like one too.

I have sheets of paper with checklists and drills to incorporate for future workouts.  I may need to even buy a pair of track shoes to help my feet strike the ground properly.  Especially since my stability-structured shoes and podiatrist-prescribed orthotics create extra padding that makes proper foot-striking more difficult.  But I'm hooked on this idea of a more efficient stride.  Like perhaps it's the vaunted red pill that will take me down the rabbit hole into the world of Boston Marathons and US/World championship-qualifying times.

Hey, a guy can dream, right?

Dreams.  Isn't that what all this is about on some level?  Being able to feel like an elite athlete training for peak performance?  Instead of the guy reading about it on ESPN.com?  To have a coach monitor every stride to fine-tune the seemingly smallest detail that could lead to a personal-best finish?  Even if that moment is just that, a fleeting instance of glory at a local race on any given Saturday or Sunday?

Why should the pros have all the fun?

It's what moves me in the morning when it's hard to get out of bed.  And tomorrow, when I'm stumbling towards the shower at 6 to wake up and prepare for a two-hour morning brick, I'll lean forward about 7 percent to see if I can get there a little more efficiently.

95 days and counting.

Monday: Second Best to an Off Day

Triathlon training is the uncommon cure to a common case of "The Mondays." You know The Mondays...the slightly annoying, slightly depressing malaise that sets in after a blissful weekend.  In our case, in the world of the obsessed triathlete, it often consists of a Half Ironman divided over Saturday and and Sunday.  For those less fortunate, it's an emotional hangover or perhaps even a physical one.

But my Mondays are now the second-best thing to a day off in Ironman training.  Today, I spun on my trainer for 45 minutes while catching up on Mad Men.  I'm enjoying this season so far, incidentally.  It's grittier and shaping up to be a little nastier.  And subtly, I think the directors have made a very nice switch from the idyllic nature of the late 50s to the more pressure-filled world of the early 60s.  Camelot clearly has burst.

But that's not what I enjoyed most.  It was the fact that I my coaching itinerary was to stay in heart-rate zone 1 while maintaining a healthy cadence.  This yielded fresher legs, a healthy coating of sweat and the feeling that while I probably didn't gain anything from the workout physically, I still felt relaxed and ready to take on the day.  That's plenty.

The second part of my workout called for either a strength session or yoga.  Not wanting to over-exert myself, I opted for yoga.  Suddenly, Monday evening felt like Sunday evening.  I dare say that while I worked a full day today, it still feels like a three-day weekend.  How often can one say that after still completing nearly two hours of training?

The meat of my 18.5-hour training week begins tomorrow.  I've got a coached track session with Gerardo to improve my stride and a coached swim workout.  Somewhere in between I've got a big day in the office.

In other words, Tuesdays are the new Mondays in the world of the Ironmadman.

96 days and counting.