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.