Ode to Gator Bike

It has been just over a year since I purchased my first road bike -- a sky blue Cannondale that had made the trip all the way from Florida to sit in a garage in Arizona, until a beautiful thing called Craig's List brought us together. The addition of the Cannondale made for four bikes in my garage. I also had a Jamis that I was renting, my roommate's something-or-other from Target, and a white Trek 700 (which I will refer to from here on out as Gator Bike). This made my initiation into bike culture complete. The two-wheelers had completely taken over my garage.

The one inalienable truth about bikes is that you can't have just one . . . or is that potato chips? In any case, it's true for both. Different occasions, different places, different weather, call for different bikes. I wouldn't ride Cannondale to the bar and then attempt to clip in after a pitcher of Hefewizen, and I wouldn't show up to Ironman with Gator Bike. Every bike has something different to offer and some unique personality traits. Simply put, bikes are like people.

Of the now five bikes that have called my garage home (Bianchi became part of the family last June), my favorite is Gator Bike. GB has been handed down four times, but was originally purchased by a guy who was 6'4". I am only 5'8" -- you do the math. It is entirely too big for me, and I imagine that I must look like a circus clown when I ride it. The front derailer doesn't work, so I use the big ring for EVERYTHING. Climbing, descending, whatever. The back derailer isn't much better and will shift at random which, come to find out, can be pretty unsafe. But the best part of this fine cycling machinery is the horn which is in the shape of an alligator head. He has one wonky eye and a snarly grin and when you squeeze his snout he squeaks like a dog toy.

Meet Gator Bike.

If GB was a person I imagine he'd be that guy that everyone wants to hang with. He's easy going, unpretentious, he tells the best stories. He'll drink a few cheap beers and school you at pool or darts, or he'll enjoy the complex aromas of good glass of wine and talk in depth about American Foreign Policy. When he arrives, everyone thinks, "Sweet! GB is here!" (This part is not made up. As it is, even with rider, people are generally more excited to see GB than they are me. "Squeak the horn!" is usually the welcome I get when I show up on GB.)

GB and I are kind of like an opposites-attract-match-made-in-heaven. I like things clean and in perfect working order. I like my work to be efficient and precise. I am quiet and reflective. I would rather not be the center of attention. But GB has chosen me, and I can't tell you why, but I'm glad he did. He is much too cool, too outgoing, too worldly, too fun, to be hanging out with me. But here we are, most mornings catching the sunrises and cruising down the 16 mile bike path. Especially in the summer months when the asphalt will melt your wimpy road bike tires, GB and I spend a lot of time exploring the path -- parks, golf courses, neighborhoods, schools, ponds, soccer fields. During monsoon season there are evening downpours that leave the path totally saturated, but we don't care. We tear through the puddles and flooded sidewalks without hesitation, flinging mud and dirty water everywhere.

Simply put, GB allows me to have adventures that I would never get to have on my road bike. I can take risks without worrying about damaging a tightly tuned bike. I drop off curbs, jump over bumps in the road, mash through the gears -- things you'd never do on a delicate road bike. GB makes me much cooler and much more confident than I really am. He makes me embrace things that I fear: adventure, risk, the unknown. He makes me better, stronger, faster.

After the Ironman last spring, and all the training that preceded it, the last thing I wanted to do was get back on my road bike. However, I missed that "wind-in-your-hair-freedom" of the bike, so I dusted off GB and filled up the tires. For weeks on end we did a 30 mile out and back, daily. My times were getting faster, but I didn't think much of it. As the weather cooled, I began taking Bianchi out on Saturday mornings for about 40 miles. The first 40 miles went ridiculously fast and I assumed it was a fluke. Over the next few months my times dropped dramatically and I was beginning to feel like maybe I no longer sucked at the bike. Like maybe, without even realizing it, GB had made me, well, fast.

The final test came just a few weeks ago at my Half Ironman "season wrap up." The outcome? Fifteen minutes faster over 56 miles, averaging well over 20 miles an hour. (But no worries -- I still got my dose of humility during the swim, as always.)

As I walked Bianchi home that day and leaned him up in the garage next to GB, I gave the gator a squeak and a quiet thank you. I had no doubt that he was the one who deserved the credit. I thought back to 18 months earlier when I first inherited Gator Bike and I remember being fearful -- fearful of riding a bike in general (it had been decades since the pink Schwinn of my childhood), fearful of traffic, of hills, of speed, of falling, of making mistakes.

I'm sure everyone can think of someone in their life that pushed them to a place they didn't necessarily want to go. A coach, a teacher, a parent, a friend, who created some sort of resistance or challenge or level of discomfort -- for no benefit of their own, but just to unlock the greatness they saw inside of us.

Although just a bike, this is what GB taught me: to embrace your fears and your deficiencies; to appreciate those that ask more of you than you think possible; and then to thank them for seeing in you what you yourself did not. Initially, these people motivate us to do our best. But eventually we find that the gift they've given us is actually the motivation to do out best, even when no one is watching. When I used to look at GB this is what I saw: old school steel frame, heavy as hell, white with lime green writing, gator shaped horn. But come to find out he's much more than this. He is a period in my life when I grew up, when I realized you are as good as you believe you are, when being my best became not only satisfying, but liberating.

I used to think GB was too good/cool/fast for me. I would get mad and frustrated when the work was hard, when I would make mistakes. I would ignore him for months, assuming that the only way to become a faster road biker was to ride my road bike. But GB has proven to be like that friend that you can always go back to. He doesn't want an apology or a thank you or any of the credit, he simply wants to help you work hard, become better, find confidence, set you free. He just wants to fly up and down the bike path together, "Squeak, squeak! On your left."

Ironman Take 2

A Tale of Two Cities, the best of times the worst of times, words vs. numbers, left brain vs. right brain. To write about that day is to tell two entirely different stories. One is unequivocal, orderly, and told through splits and rankings and hours, minutes, seconds. The other is emotional, chaotic, illogical and told by the heart.

It was April 13, 2008, my 27th birthday. The alarm clock woke me at 4:00 am. I arrived to prep my bike at 5:00. My race number was marked perfectly on both arms: 1953. I had 15 minutes in the water before they fired the gun at 6:30. Only a few minutes into the race and my heart rate was flirting with the 180's when it should have been 155, MAX. It took me an hour to swim the first mile and 49 minutes to complete the last 1.4. Out of 2027 people who began the race and exited the water, I was in 1968th place -- with only 50 others behind me . . .

. . . I was suprisingly relaxed that morning, given what I was about to do. Fruit smoothie, cup of English Breakfast tea. I woke my three friends who had stayed with me that night in anticipation of a long day of spectating. When I got to the course I went to work on my bike. As the dawn approached and the sky grew light, I looked up from my bike to take it all in. I glanced up at the bridge that spans Tempe Town Lake and for a moment my eyes locked upon three figures silhouetted by the pastels of the approaching sunrise. As I watched, the three became five with the addition of a dinosaur and what could only be a blow up man. There they all were, my three friends, K-Rex and Pedro. Long story, better saved for another time.

I was calm until the gun went off. Immediately I knew I was too far forward in the pack and I was about to be run over by every other swimmer out there. I panicked. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't put my face in the water. I rolled over and tried to take a couple backstrokes, but each time the choppy water splashed across my face, my lungs tightened up even more. I heard someone next to me, "I can't do this. I CAN'T DO THIS!" I stopped and looked around and saw a few people -- wounded, struggling. Can I do this? If I didn't calm down, then no, I couldn't. Why are you here? You don't have to be here. Call that safety boat over and you can end this all right now. My friends waiting at transition, my family watching online, my team, good God my parents! No, I will do this, You MUST do this. What is the cut off? You can't be sure, you didn't pay attention to cut off times because you didn't anticipate this. You thought this was going to be easy? It's the God damn Ironman!

So I stopped, twice. The first kayak was paddled by a girl about my age. Before I let go she said to me, "You're doing amazing." And with that I sunk back down into the murk. I stopped a second time before I took control -- before I felt my first deep breath and forceful exhale, before I saw a glimmer of hope and imagined exiting the water and standing solidly on the ground, before I found a rhythm, before I just, swam . . .

. . . My coach had anticipated my swim to be about 1:15. I was 35 minutes behind, and I would NOT make it up on the bike. I was immediately aggravated by the gusty headwind leading out (and up) of town. The further I got up the gradual hill, the slower I got: 15 . . . 13.5 . . . 11. . . 9 . . . 8.5. So much for a 6 hour bike ride. 800 calories, 300 ounces of liquid, heart rate 155, temperature 90 degrees. Still, you dig in and grit your teeth and race the person in front of you until you catch him. Once, twice, three times, 763 times. By the end of the 6 hour 55 minute ride, over which I averaged 16.1 mph, I was in the middle of the pack. Number 1205. 114.4 miles, or 9 hours, down. 8% of the field had already dropped out . . .

. . . On the bike, even when the speeds are slow, you move, react, observe everything in a "hyper speed" sort of state. Your senses seem heightened. You listen for the slightest noise, perhaps a bike coming up behind you. You watch for the smallest of debris in the road, dodging everything in an attempt to save your next flat for another day. You see bodies but not faces. You exchange words but you don't talk. By this time I had come to accept that I would be far off my expected finish time, and I didn't care. I let the numbers go; they didn't matter any more. What was happening was far greater than anything you could measure . . .

. . . I started the marathon, 26.2 miles, at 4 pm. The volunteers in T2 told me it was 97 degrees outside the cool, shady tent. The loop was about 8.5 miles long. I needed about 400-500 calories on the run but couldn't get past 100 without making myself sick. The sun set at about 7 pm, leaving the last loop to be run in the dark. A couple friends escorted me on bikes through stretches of my last 9 miles. They brought good news with them: I had passed nearly 800 people since the swim. "Perfect 10 minute miles," one of them commented, "Just since we've been riding next to you you've passed another 50 people!" At this point, only about 15% of those left on the course were still running. The only mile I clearly remember was 22, because I bent over in front of the mile marker with an immediate urge to be sick. Then I had only minutes, seconds, I heard someone say "Quarter mile!" 13:41:25. 1689 people finished the race in the alloted 17 hours, only 83% of the field. It was the 3rd highest drop out rate in Ironman history. I had passed 1142 people. I was number 885 of the original 2027 . . .

. . . The run doesn't have that same lonely, blind feeling as the swim. And it doesn't have that isolated, fish bowl feeling of the bike. The run is something you can share. Your world moves in the same way as those around you, you no longer feel alone. You see faces, you have conversations, you smile, you laugh. You realize that you have everything with you, right now, that you need to make it to the finish: two feet and an iron will. You realize that these people you've been trying to get past all day make up the greatest company you will ever find yourself in; and the miles that you can't help but to wish away, are miles you will want back before the day is even over. You look into the eyes of friends, family, who you've seen since 6 am, and you remember their excitement the first time they saw you exit the water, and the next time they saw you on the first bike loop, and the third time they saw you on the THIRD bike loop, because they were so busy cheering for ALL THE OTHER Iron people that they missed YOU on the second loop entirely, and you know what it is to feel unwavering support and immeasurable love. And when you finish, they are there, as enthusiastic as they were 13 hours ago. It's as if THEY have completed the race. And they have. One person can't do this alone . . .

I was reminded that day that sometimes things get hard, so hard, that just to finish, you need a reason greater than yourself. Numbers don't cut it. For all my "reasons" that were there that day, as well as those who where there in spirit, thank you. I began because of me and finished because of you.

Ironman Take 1

Holding on with both hands and bobbing up and down with the choppy water, I clung to the side of the kayak. I watched the number on my watch flash with every beat of my heart: 181, 181, 182 . . . and listened to my own panicked breathing, shallow and labored.

I clipped in with my left shoe and heard someone behind me say with formidable encouragement, "Have a good ride Kelly." I shoved away and clipped in with my right. Here we go, just a nice 112 mile ride.

He was waiting there when I exited the T2 tent. All he said was all I needed to hear, "Twenty-six one mile jogs."

I stopped to tread water and raised one fist above my head -- come to find out this is the NOT SO universal sign of distress. I tried to call to someone for help, but a little like a bad dream, nothing came out when I opened my mouth.

I reached the top of the hill, the unrelenting headwind hitting me square in the face. My current speed read 8.5 mph. "BRING IT!" I snarled. It couldn't get worse, it might get better, and a bigger challenge would make for a better story at the end of the day.

"You'll keep this on for the next 4 days." he said. I looked down at my wrist as he snapped the closure on the silver hologrammed wrist band that read FORD IRONMAN 2008. "Holy shit," I thought to myself, "you're really doing this."

"How many times have you been here before?" the sign along the side of the run path begged. Presumably a simple question. Or perhaps intended to be a little more profound. How many times have you been here before . . . exhausted, running on empty, alone, scared, wanting nothing more than to stop? And then you don't. And the next moment you don't stop, again. And the moment after that you don't stop. And you put all those moments together and you get something amazing. How many times have I been here before? COUNTLESS.

I was a dot in a sea of bobbing pink and green caps. I watched the line of black wetsuits flopping into the water one by one. Looking out onto the first 2.4 miles of the next 140.6 miles of my life. "Welcome to the BEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE!" the announcer boomed into his microphone.

"Six miles until Ironman!" my dad yelled as I ran by in my last loop. By this time 10 of the high school girls I coach had also gathered in the same area to emphatically cheer me on into the finish. Signs, yelling, screaming. I realized then that you can feel love -- that love is the negation of all pain and fatigue. Love is the greatest renewer. "Right now three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love." 1 Corinthians 13:13

I had only been on the course for about 15 seconds when I heard the announcer inform the crowd that the pros were coming through for their second lap. For a moment I thought it would be exciting to see them pass -- their perfect bodies and top of the line gear, their sponsors' names zooming by at 25+ mph. My next thought was: Mother F*ckers! The race is only 2 hours old and they are already 38 miles ahead of me?

When the sun goes down and the course gets dark, everything gets quiet, very quiet. You can hear the shuffling of footsteps, but even those get lighter and softer. You go inward, you have no energy, no emotion left for the outside world. All you have goes to turning your legs over, one after another, after another . . .

After the most self-doubting sixty minutes I've ever experienced, I was at the turn around buoy. I had only one hour and twenty minutes for the return trip plus an additional 500 meters. Would I even get the chance to bike the 112 and run the marathon? Or would it end here in the water? Would those 1000s of hours of training be for nothing? Was the Ironman just too hard for me?

At some point I crossed the finish line back into the real world. I had asked more of myself than ever before, I had allowed myself to go places I never knew existed, I had been to the opposite end of the world and back, I felt like I had lived a lifetime in a day. I don't remember the cheering or the signs. I don't remember Mike Reilly saying "Kelly Vanek! You are an Ironman!" By that time I already knew. All day long I had known. I had had the guts to train for it, surely I had the guts to finish it. Race day is not a test of skill, it is a test of patience.

This is how that day, "the best day of my life" exists in my head -- as bits and pieces. As memories that stand out for a moment, then fade back into their surroundings, as if they are all part a long, meandering, cluttered, dream. The timeline is disordered, the story line seems unreal, the characters include all my friends and family, an inflatable dinosaur and blow up Mexican Man named Pedro. Yes, this MUST have been a dream.


All you learn from such an experience is unfathomable. Since April, I have tried to sum it up in a few pages. I've tried to define it with some overall theme. It isn't possible. It is too many things, too many moments, too many lessons. What I do know is that April 13, 2008, was, as predicted, the best day of my life.

I had felt my highest high, which made me vulnerable to my lowest low, which I think I also reached in these 6 months post race. When one day has the capacity to change your life, every other seems wasted, sad, uninspired. "That event ruins people," I once heard someone say. Perhaps, but if it didn't ruin me that day, it sure won't ruin me today.

Ironman is not the Holy Grail of athletics, it is not Kilimanjaro, it is also not a thing to do just to say you've done it. It won't make you a better person and it won't take anything away from you. But I think amid the haze of the event and the dreamlike recollection of all the moments connected to that day, I think it does offer you a few seconds of the most pristine clarity.

You realize that everything you do, become, accept, renounce, love, endure is a choice. And so I choose to add this caveat:

April 13, 2008: the best day of my life . . . so far.

Chicken Killer

I was told the other day, in what was the most unique pick up line I think I've ever heard, that I have "chicken killing hands." I had been given the job of playing wingman that night and so had been talking to Joe for a couple hours at this point, and had given him a fair idea of the kind of person I am -- that I would take his comment as a compliment, like it was intended, and not haul off and slap him like any number of other Scottsdale bar go-ers.

Like Joe, I'm a little weird, so I got what he was saying, but asked him to explain anyway. He said my hands told a story of a woman who was strong and feminine, powerful and lean, graceful and dangerous (if you're chicken). It was the compliment of all compliments, and here's why:

I am aware of the struggle of women, especially in terms of athletics. Sacrifices and risks of others allow females today to run the Boston Marathon, participate in NCAA sports, take pride in their athleticism, and not even think twice. But this is not to say that the struggle is over and female athletes now find themselves in a kooshy world of pink sports bras and running skirts. There are still misconceptions and assumptions: female athletes lack femininity; strength is intrinsically a masculine quality; female athletes can't be strong AND beautiful.

In high school I got caught up, like many, in conforming to what I thought others regarded as beauty. I wasn't healthy and when I looked in the mirror I didn't see what others saw. I saw imperfection. It became an obsession and put a permanent stamp on my psyche.

When I went to college I knew this would be my opportunity to break free from everyone's expectations and critical watchfulness. I had to do something real and tangible to make this break, and so I joined the rowing team, where, it's not only helpful but essential that you are strong and heavy. (A weird sport, the physics of which are better saved for another blog.) Once again my fanatical tendencies sent me in a new direction. I worked to become strong, as strong as some of the members of the men's team. I saw my body change in ways that I had been taught NOT to appreciate. People no longer saw me as beautiful or feminine, nor did I. But I could row a boat faster than most everyone, and so for four years it was all worth it.

Then I was 22, out of college, and still lost. I had been from one extreme to the other. I had been feminine and slight, I had been strong and manly. I had conformed, I had rebelled. I was living, even promoting the assumption that I hated: that you could be feminine and you could be strong, but you couldn't be both.

So here was the next challenge I would undertake: to be feminine and strong in equal parts, to be happy in my own skin and healthy in my pursuits. To draw the attention of others not for attention's sake, but because I thought this cause was important. At this time I also started my career in coaching, so here I was with 50 highly impressionable teenage girls. Who, or what, would they have to look up to?

It started very simply with running -- signing up for a 5k unbeknown to anyone, then a half marathon with my running friend Becky (who deserves credit in this story of my development), then the marathon. What a great feeling of independence, of confidence, of strength this gave me. Miles came and went, and I realized that I still had a great deal of work to do. To get the attention I wanted I had to make a statement. What would propell me to a level of athleticism that would make people take notice? The answer was easy -- the Ironman.

I trained quietly at first, not telling anyone for some time what I planned to do. Then it started to happen, people would stop me, at the car wash, the pool, the airport, the guys at the gym told me to keep up the good work, the people at the grocery would comment on my healthy selection of food. People would tell me I looked fit, athletic, they would ask me what I was training for. And to be honest, I'm not sure what they saw -- when you see yourself everyday, you can't SEE change. But I could feel it -- swimming was smoother, biking was faster, running was flying. There were moments while training that, regardless of how I looked (ie gross), I felt beautiful! There's something about a body in motion that is gorgeous, and perfect, and not to get religious on you, but divine! And when you move into that world, a world where you are using yourself as God intended you to, you carry that purpose with you every moment of the day. What a feeling of confidence, love, perfection, beauty. Maybe that's what people see.

A couple weeks ago, I spent time with family members I haven't seen in years, long before I started this triathlon endeavor. A handful of times I overheard an aunt here and an uncle there talking to other friends and family and above the whispers I would catch words like "Ironman" and "athlete."

And I think back to what I've wanted to be all these years, how I wanted to be perceived by family, friends, strangers. Beautiful, yes, feminine, of course, healthy and strong, undoubtedly. But most of all an athlete, because an athlete, to me, was all these things. By no means have I ARRIVED -- I still fall off my bike, trip going up the stairs, struggle with the same psychological issues as always, but I know where I'm going and what I'm becoming. An "athlete." A mix of all those qualities that I've learned are NOT at odds with each other -- strength and femininity, power and beauty. I am not anything new, I am ALL the things I've ever been. I am a chicken killer.

Chasing a High

Ah . . . the smell of neoprene in the morning.  How I've missed you.  I zip myself up, adjust my cap and goggles and look out on to the water where I've been a handful of times before; still, the same nervousness always wells up inside of me as I stand in the corral, waiting.  But I am more HOT than anything, and look forward to getting in simply so I can cool off!  I have had the great fortune of choosing to race on weekends where the temperature soars way above normal, usually 10-15 degrees above average.  Last October at the Soma Tri: 92.  Ironman in April: 97.  Tempe International Tri: 105.

It's been seven weeks since I stood in this same place with 140.6 miles in front of me.  It seems worlds away now, like someone else completed the race, but their memories are stored in my head.  Or maybe it is better described if I liken it to an out of body experience, where I floated above myself and watched the race unfold.  Hard to explain, so I won't even try.

The build up to an Ironman event is nothing short of TOTALLY and COMPLETELY over the top.  The closer you get to race day the faster time passes.  There aren't enough hours in the day for the miles, the sleep, led alone life and work and things unrelated to the race.  But you get it done, you stay afloat, you run on adrenaline knowing that in the end you'll be rewarded in the form of six little words: Kelly Vanek, you are an Ironman.  Everything is done towards one end, and that is going 140.6 miles in 17 hours.

People look at you with wonder and disbelief.  They call you crazy when you tell them what you're preparing for.  You revel in that feeling, that you're about to do something that others never will, not because they think it sounds too hard, but because they think it sounds impossible.  It's a drug.  It's a high.  I admit it.

That feeling is the reason that I've gone from 5ks to 10 milers, from half marathons to full marathons, to triathlons, from Olympic, to half Ironman and finally THE Ironman.  It's the reason that the super Ironmans now exist, as well as the ultramarathons and 157 miler through the Sahara.  Endurance athletes are crazy enough to try to chase their last high with some even more outrageous stunt.  The deeper they fall into this abyss, the more ridiculous and unreasonable the challenges become.  For the desired feeling that once took 5k and 20 minutes, you're now training for 12 months, racing for 13 hours, and hoping you don't die.

Needless to say, after Ironman, I suffered from some serious withdraws, and tried to fill the void with naps and a jog here and there.  I felt lost, purposeless.  I had accomplished this huge thing and reached a goal that for 10 months had been my reason for EVERYTHING.  What now?  I tried to sign up for the next open Ironman AZ and learned that registration begins one year in advance, which means I still have six moths to wait before I can officially set my sights on another 140 miler.  Then last week, in a frantic, needy, midlife crisis sort of state, I signed up for a local Olympic tri to be held that upcoming Sunday.  As soon as I pressed the send button and my registration drifted off into the nebulous of cyberspace, to be received by active.com, I immediately felt better.  It wasn't an Ironman, but it was a fix that would at least get me through the week.

In those five or six days I realized this: there are things that are consistent about racing, no matter what the distance.  There is always the moment of unhappiness when the alarm goes off at 4:30 Sunday morning, and you think, "WHO voluntarily wakes up pre-5:00 am on a Sunday to work their ass off for three hours?  Damn type A personality . . ."  There is always the nervousness that seeps in as you set up your transition area.  You pull you gear out and carefully place it, piece by piece, in logical order to make your transitions smoother.  You also always come through T1 like a bulldozer so that when you come through on T2 your first thought is, "What the hell happened here?"  You blame the athletes on either side of you.

There are the smells of the triathlon.  The neoprene, the toxic body marking pens, the new cheap swim cap.  There are physiological effects that you can always count on.  There's the "no-blood-in-legs" feeling when you exit the water, and the "forgot-how-to-run" feeling when you get off the bike.  There's the feeling of euphoria as you approach the finish and float through the last 200 meters.

And most importantly, for me, there's the foot race.  Mana a mano.  Every time I race a tri I fantasize about the moment that I can put my running shoes on and start picking off those athletes in front of me.  It's jungle rules on the run.  Runner vs. runner.  Pass or be passed.  YOU are the only determining factor in your speed.  There is no $600 "bells and whistles" wetsuit, or $8000 lighter than air carbon fiber bike that you can hide behind on the run.  I drag my clearance wetsuit through the water and I push my 50 pound aluminum bike frame up the hills, but when the shoes go on, the gloves come off.

And I realized, last Sunday in the first mile on the 10k, that I was feeling that high again.  These are the moments, whether there's 6 of them or 26, where I get my rush.  The intensity of racing never fades.  Maybe the preparation is different, the fan fare.  My mom is not on the sidelines saying Hail Mary's.  But the feeling of speed, or flying, of racing is always attainable if you want to push yourself to get it.  The setting is not as grand and the anticipation of the event is different, but I realize now that the high IS the same.  Within those miles, 37 or 140 it makes no difference, I can, if I choose, go to a place where I have never been before.  I don't have to chase that high with more miles and more hours, but rather, a greater level of determination and commitment to The Race.

For now, I will hold off on the the Sahara race.  I'm sure it would be one of those "unseasonably warm" weekends anyway.

Thriller

Of the three disciplines, swimming is by far my least favorite.  It is a chore to get myself to the pool, where as going for a ride or a run feels like a vacation.  I also suck as a swimmer.  I'm all about the power of positive thinking, hard work, put your mind to it blah blah blah.  The only exception to all this: me and freestyle.  My technique is so bad that I don't even consider swimming a "workout."  I can't go fast, so I can't get my heart rate up.  Even if you could sweat in a pool, I wouldn't come close.

I swim with a masters team because I'm not motivated enough to go to the public pool and do laps by myself.  There are three workout options: morning, noon and early evening.  I usually go at noon.  I walk directly to lane zero, which I share with Brian, who swims like a hydroplane, and Nancy who is 74.  Both of them, despite their handicaps, are still smoking fast, compared to me.  Although I leave each session feeling accomplished, I still suck and I am beginning to realize that I always will.  I will never catch up to those that have been swimming all their lives, those who use swim jargon and don't have to think twice about it . . . 8 25's on the 30, descending 1-4, IM order, start on the top . . . whatever.

Then tonight I went to a later workout hosted by the "Tri Group," an off shoot of the mainstream masters.  They meet from 7-8 pm, so I rushed over after work and changed in the locker room.  I burst out onto the deck in time to catch a glimpse of a group about 30 strong, different shapes, sizes, ages, all waiting for the 6-7 pm masters to finish up their Butterfly 50's.  Ugh.

I walk over to lane Goose Egg, which is apparently the happening place, because there are six of us who want in.  The coach asks for one of us to move to lane one to even things out, and riding some weird wave of confidence, I volunteer.  We start the workout and I feel this calmness that I have never felt with the masters.  I have time to think about each stroke and I'm not worried about Brian and Nancy passing me . . . or lapping me, I should say.  I just swim.

I take a moment as I finish the warmup and look around, and what I see is, well, scary really.  I'm not sure you could even call it swimming.  It seems that the mainstream swimmers appear only in the daylight, and then, under the cloak of night, illuminated by the hideous stadium lighting, emerge the triathletes . . . DUN DUN DUN!  I'm sure our ugly technique and terrible body positions send chills up the coach's spine.

I get into the rhythm of the workout and imagine myself and my fellow sucky swimmer friends as characters in Michael Jackson's Thriller.  There's me with my noticeably retarded right side and Quasimodo like stroke.  Peggy, who I'm sharing a lane with can definitely not see and this becomes increasingly apparent when she keeps drifting over to the wrong side of the lane when we're about to pass one another.  She stops between each lap, closes one eye and strains the other in an effort to read her digital watch.  But she sill can't see it and ends up asking me to read it . . . every 100 meters.  "How much time left now? . . . How much time left now? . . ." Fifteen minutes Peggy . . . 13 minutes Peggy.  In my Thriller world, Peggy is Cyclops.  I think about how goofy we must all look, flopping around.  I would say "splashing around," but none of us can get our hips high enough to churn up any water.

In the locker room after practice, I change out of my suit and overhear two women talking.  They are venting, frustrated with body position, breathing.  One says the coach is asking her to do five different things at once and she can't keep it all straight -- catch, reach, relax, rotate, wait.  And I think, I CAN RELATE TO THIS!  I TOO SUCK!  It is nice to now know that this underground world of swimming exists -- this world of swimmers who are not good, or fast, but who are out there, trying.  We are here, in the dark, lit by the moon, in the pool when all normal people should be warm and safe at home . . .

I leave feeling accomplished, with a sense of belonging, a skip in my step and a song in my head . . .

It's close to midnight and something evil's lurking in the dark,

Under the moonlight you see a sight that almost stops your heart,

You know it's Thriller, Thriller Night . . .

How NOT To Spend Super Bowl Sunday

Today, Super Bowl Sunday 2008, is the two year anniversary of the day I almost died while working out, the first time.  This was long before my triathlon days and only two weeks after my first marathon.

The story goes like this:

Matt, a friend of mine, had invited me to go to Huntington Beach with him where he would be running a marathon in an effort to qualify for the upcoming Boston.  He asked me to go along with him and suggested that I run the half -- guess he thought I needed something to do during the MERE 3 hours it would take him to pound out 26 miles (this guy was a machine).  I decided to go along in support -- after all, there were worse things than running 13 miles and hanging out with Hottie Matt in California for the weekend.  And what was a measly half marathon after completing the full distance two weeks prior?

In a perfect world the weekend would have gone like this: 

Matt qualifies for Boston in sub 3:10, I set a personal record, and we spend the rest of the day drinking at a bar on the beach and rooting for the Steelers.

In a slightly less than perfect world:

Matt qualifies for Boston, I run a slow half marathon, and we make it to the bar in time to see the Rolling Stones perform and catch the second half.

The real world, however, was neither perfect, nor less than perfect.  It was, quite possibly, the worst case scenario.  Let me set the scene:

The morning was classic California, foggy and damp.  The course was a maze of So Cal neighborhoods full of rolling hills.  My perspective was skewed after my recent marathon success.  Thirteen miles was nothing!  And right there I had made my first mistake -- not respecting the distance.  I went out entirely too hard.  My splits were way too low, 15-30 seconds faster than planned.  My heart rate was far too high, 10-15 beats out of range.  I made a half-ass effort to slow down, but my ego was speaking louder that my head.  Instead, I kept on pushing and blew by all the water stations in an effort to save precious seconds.  

I knew Matt would qualify for Boston -- that wasn't even a question.  I guess I too wanted something to celebrate at the end of the day.  So I just kept running -- FAST.  But then towards 8 or 9 I felt myself slow down, and the hills became harder to climb.  I tried to calculate how much I could slow my pace and still make it in under two hours.  Then my recollection gets foggy.  I remember feeling so exhausted that I had trouble keeping my eyes open.  I would run ten steps with my eyes closed, open them for two, then close them for another ten.  If mile 9 was "foggy" then 10 was "blurry" and by 11 I had totally blacked out.  I have no memory of running the last two miles.  The rest of the story was retold to me by the race medical staff:

I crossed the finish line and immediately collapsed into a planter of shrubs and flowers.  If I did one thing right that day it was choosing the right place to pass out.  I keeled over right next to the medical tent so that all the two medics had to do was pop out the door and carry me right back in.  I was hooked up to a machine, my vitals read.  I was immediately put on oxygen, an IV, and they continued to monitor my  heart rate, blood pressure, breathing etc.  The next thing I remember is coming to, being yanked up into a seated position and throwing up everything in my stomach; and when there was nothing left to throw up I sat there, dry heaving until my stomach muscles ached.

The next few hours were frightening to say the least.  When your body is in shock, nothing works properly.  It becomes hard to focus your eyes, you can't form sentences, it's hard to move and every muscle cramps when you try -- even your arms.  You shiver like you're in the middle of a snow storm and you heart beats like you're still running the race.  The only thing you can do is try to hydrate and wait it out.  An older male medic had been assigned to me, and so he stood there, continually refilling my paper cup, alternating with grape gatorade and water until I thought I would burst from all the liquid in my belly.

I lay there, wondering how I would find Matt, worrying that I had done some type of permanent damage to myself, and thanking God that I had not written my emergency contact info on the back of my race bib.  My mom did NOT need to know that I was laid out, attached to an IV, somewhere in California.  The rest of the weekend was not as glamorous as expected.  I spent a lot time kneeling in front of the hotel toilet; I think I even threw up in the shower -- NICE!  I threw up so much grape Gatorade that I haven't been able to drink it since.  

Fast forward two years . . . obviously I survived.  I survived to see my finish photo on "Action Sports International" -- me in mid-fall, eyes closed, looking as good as I felt.  I haven't had as serious of an incident since, and I obviously learned something about my "limits" in the process.  Well, I guess I should say that I HOPE I learned something in the process, because I will admit, and this is the most concerning part of this story  -- my first question upon waking up in the medical tent was:  DID I FINISH???  And the second:  WHAT WAS MY TIME???

And the answer is . . . drum roll please . . . 1:56:35.  Just 73 seconds faster than my personal record.  I nearly kill myself for 73 seconds?  I just wasted 73 seconds searching "past results" on active.com!  The sacrifices we're willing to make as athletes are sometimes unwise and many times not worth it.  We are weird, arguably stupid people . . . but we do have good stories.

I guess maybe it goes to show that you can take the athlete out of the race, but you can NEVER take the race out of the athlete.

Led Zeppelin

If you've ever run a marathon, you know that one of the hardest post-race questions to answer is: How did it go?  First of all, where to start? I could tell you about the shear fear that I felt at 14, wondering if I had gone out too hard and if I could hang on -- FOR ANOTHER 12 MILES.  I could tell you how my legs felt like cement blocks at 16.  I could give you a great visual of what I can only describe as a "toe explosion" that happened around 25.  But I think most of what "happens" during a marathon happens in your head.  This is not to say that for 26 miles I am contemplating great philosophical questions.  Rather, I'm all over the board -- I think about emails I need to respond to, the fact that my first, middle, and last name use all the vowels in the alphabet (I know!), advanced multiplication in an effort to project my finish time.

What is interesting, unexplainable and usually unplanned are those thoughts/words/feelings that your mind ends up clinging to in an effort to motivate, or maybe distract, or maybe just comfort you.  Certain words become mantras.  I use the word "float" and imagine my feet never touching the ground.  Just gliding from one mile to the next.  Sometimes there are signs on the course that grab your attention.  My favorite thus far in my marathon career: "The Wall is only a Pink Floyd song!"  Or maybe someone yells something catchy that sticks with you: "Ten in the tank!"

And then there's the music.  Let me first defend myself by stating that this marathon I'm talking about was, in fact, the ROCK AND ROLL MARATHON.  But I do have to admit that I am an I-poder.  I get a lot of flack from my "au natural" running friends.  And maybe the true marathon experience/demons are only realized sans music.  Regardless, I spend marathon-eve loading up the I-pod/Nano/Shuffle (What's it going to be next year Mr. Jobs?), trying to figure out if Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch will really motivate me through mile 19.

For all the negative things that can be said for marathoning with music, let me counter point with this: one of my most focused and clear moments during last weekend's marathon came during Led Zeppelin's Kashmir -- song 5o of my marathon mix.  It felt like a movie, when the character plays out in actions the lyrics of his theme song.  There I was, with Led Zeppelin singing my internal dialogue, a song which they had obviously written for me at this very moment of my life!  I look up into the clear, bright Arizona sky and Robert Plant reads my mind:

"Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream.

I am a traveler of both time and space to where I have been."

They run with me through uncertainty and fear.  Can I hang on?  Will I make it?  I try to think about mile 9 and live in that feeling for a moment -- when life was good and I loved running.

"All I see turns to brown as the sun burns the ground.

And my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasteland,

Trying to find, trying to find where I've been."

I turn a corner which puts me in striking distance of the finish and realize that it's almost over -- not the marathon, but the build up, the anticipation, the planning, my purpose -- and for a moment, JUST ONE, I am sad to see the end closing in.  I am about to leave this place that I love, this battle that I love to fight, this other world.  Here, we are at home, we are family.  Our intentions and efforts are pure, true, and inspiring.  If only it didn't hurt so much to get here, I would come back everyday.  In fact, I would never leave.  Sing it boys . . . 

"Oh pilot of the storm who leaves no trace, like thoughts inside a dream,

You've the map that led me to that place, yellow desert stream.

My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon, I will return again

Sure as the dust that floats high and true, when moving through Kashmir."

In the end, isn't life just about making connections, building your own story with music, words, people, places, experiences that mean something to you?  Find meaning, create meaning, wear your I-pod, listen to your steps -- material for life is everywhere -- especially on the marathon course.

Aristotle

My college rowing coach was a minimalist when it came to anything but coaching.  There were very few inspirational speaches, sparse motivational comments of any kind, and you can bet there were no group trips or practices wasted  on "team bonding."  Nope, there was rowing, and alot of it.  That's why when she broke out with an Aristotle quote my senior year after a total team meltdown, everyone stopped dead in their tracks.  She had printed a copy of the following quote for everyone on the team -- a gesture so out of the ordinary for her and thus meaningful to me, that that very piece of paper has followed me around for the last five years, reminding me of this:

We are what we repeatedly do.  Excellence then, is not and act, but a habit.

Since that day I think I can confidently say that I have made my best effort to live by those words -- to pursue excellence in everything I do.  In some ways, an overwhelming thought.  To BE excellent, I have to practice excellence OVER and OVER and OVER again.  But on the other hand, I find some respite in knowing that it is not any one performance that makes me excellent or ruins me.  Rather, excellence is accrued over time with consistent effort and unwavering determination.  Inherently, these qualities, when met with passion, yield success. And yet success does not have to be defined as winning every time, or even winning once .  It is not about being the BEST or the BRIGHTEST.  The only thing that matters in pursuing our individual excellence is our own individual improvment -- wanting to be better, faster, stronger, smarter tomorrow than we were today.

We will always look  to other people's accomplishments and judge ourselves against them, but I try not to be discouraged by doing so.  Instead, I try to let the accomplishments of others serve as goals, and eventually stepping stones as I test and discover my own limits. Or then again, maybe I will never get there.  Maybe the pros and elites will be forever in their arena and me in mine, but why should that diminish my accomplishments?  I won't allow that to keep me from pursuing my own excellence.

I love those athletes that you pass during a race who shout in your ear "Good Luck!" or "You Go Girl!"  Those are the athletes who get it.  They know that my success, my pursuit of excellence bears no negative affect on their efforts.  Quite the contrary.  Their effort pushes me to be a little faster, a little more agressive than had they not been there.  And so the effort of your "competitors" is directly related to your own success.

When it comes down to it, there are very few of us who strive to WIN when we race.  I'm a decent age grouper , but I'm not looking for prize money anytime soon.  I think the healthiest pursuit is simply to try to improve on past performances, to make a habit of consistent improvement.

I am a week away from my fourth marathon.  My goal is to drop 14 minutes off last year's time, with an even further off goal of eventually qualifying for Boston. But the only thing I can count on for now is this: I will wake up that morning with the same combination of dread and anticipation as I always do.  I will leave the house fantasizing about my return.  I will get to the start line and make small talk with some of my "corral competitors."  Jungle mentality will take over for a moment when the ropes drop, the corrals condense, and the runners jockey for position.  But when the gun goes off and I start my watch, it's not them that I am racing.  I will be racing the numbers 4:03:04.  Because in the end there is no better feeling than crossing the finish line and knowing that you are better than you once were, no matter anyone else's time. And at the end of the day, with muscles full of lactic acid and a heart full of pride, I will know that I am that much closer in my pursuit, 26 miles closer to my own excellence.