Woodard Wednesday: why 2015 was a splenectomy

My last post here was December of 2014.  This might be a time to tell you I needed a little break?

Ok, let's call a duck what it is:
...delicious.

I was burnt out.  And not just on writing a blog, I was burnt out on a lot of things.  I've been in hiding, and for that, I do not apologize.  But I will admit to missing you, quite terribly...

me hiding, or just a stupid reason to put an elephant pic in my blog

So where have I been?  Let me explain.
No, there is too much.  Let me sum up.

Last you heard, I had just completed another Ironman and damn near died.  While Cozumel is a beautiful place, I'm happy that it didn't become my final resting place.  At least not yet.  I barely trained on the bike, and surprisingly had a tough day.  Funny how that works, eh?

What you didn't read was that during the summer of 2015, I had yet another disastrous performance at Ironman Mont Tremblant.  Don't get me wrong, I finished the beast.  But it was ugly.  Kardashian ugly.

Why?  I didn't train.  I wonder how many times I need to show up on race morning being SIGNIFICANTLY undertrained to realize that it is a stupid plan.  More so, I wonder what would happen if I showed up that day well trained.  I'm pretty sure I would win.  Just sayin'

2015 will forever be known to me as a year of transition.  I was the proud co-owner of a PT clinic called F Squared PT, which after eons of thought and deliberation, I decided to leave.  It was quite amicable and I love those I left more than bacon.  Nonetheless, leaving your job of 6 years, especially one that you started from scratch, was tumultuous.

I also worked like a maniac during all of 2015 with my mentor, LJ Lee, out in Vancouver towards a manual therapy certification as a physio.  Academically and emotionally, one of the hardest experiences of my life.  I'm still waiting for the sedatives to wear off to ascertain if it was worth it.

Oh yeah, still "working" on that PhD.  Expected dissertation defense date: who freakin cares anymore.

But the juicy part of 2015 surprised me more than anyone else, dare I presume.  Late October I found out that after 11.5 years, I was getting a divorce.

Have you ever seen your spleen?  I mean, like actually seen it physically?  That would be pretty surprising, right?  Yeah, late October was like seeing my spleen.

I was in a position where I was afforded the opportunity to ask myself some questions.  Not big questions like, "why do my lips look like that," but even bigger ones like, "what am I doing with my life?"  "What makes me happy?  Truly happy?"

The answer, in it's detail and splendor, will be laid out on these pages and posts to follow.  I won't ruin the full surprise now, but here is a teaser:

Personal growth, helping people grow professionally and personally, laughing once a day so much it hurts, being the recipient of slobbery kisses (from dogs and others), fitness, being a triathlete again, doing nice things for people because I like to, remembering that each moment is a treasure.

That, dear friends, is a recipe for some self love and healing.  I plan to detail my progress in the weeks, months, and years to come.

So I wonder, now that I just got all vulnerable and showed you my spleen, what makes you happy?  Truly happy?  What are you living to do?  What is your purpose?  If quite suddenly much of your identity was taken away from you, what would be left?  Who would you be?

I hope you can answer those questions.  But my guess, not to get all professor on you, is that many of us really don't know.  We are just surviving - aimlessly floating through each day, so caught up in the stresses of life and the labels with which we identify, the simplicity of the morning sun shining on our face is a miracle unrecognized.

My eyes are open.  I see that morning sun, and that bitch is bright!  But you know what?  I look damn good in shades...

To 2016, a year of growth and discovery.  An opportunity to do things that scare us, to fail, to learn.  I for one plan to live fully, without reservation or crippling fear.  I look forward to telling you how that unfolds.

Loving you like flowers love the rain,
Dr. Chad

Ironman Mont Tremblant 2014 Race Report

Dear victims of neglect and shame, I owe you an apology.  It has been far too long since we last caught up, and for that I am ashamed and deserve a public flogging.  Life happens, fires require extinguishment, blogs get neglected.  It’s a tragedy of Shakespearean quality.

So what better way to come back into your lives than with a race report!  The following is the gory account of my recently completed 4^th full Ironman distance tri: Ironman Mont Tremblant 2014.  Let’s call it, “Sugar, Bludgeoning, Gooseflesh, and Rocketfuel!” (the name will make sense later…)

Back Story

I did this same race last year and still have the scars to prove it, both physical and emotional.  It was a terrible race for me.  I had woefully undertrained and got what I deserved.  I finished the damn thing but was completely miserable almost the entire duration.  I would write about it here but it’s just too painful.  See my previous posts if you’re a sadist and want to enjoy my pain.

After that debacle last year, I immediately signed up for 2014.  I needed a redemption race.  I needed validation.  I needed medical attention.

So my preparation this year was going along quite smoothly during the winter and leading up to a half IM in Florida this past April 2014.  I was proud of my bike performance, had a decent enough swim and run, and was feeling like I was on the right track to smashing IMMT!

Then I stopped training for 2 months and gained 20 pounds.  Oops…

As mentioned before, life happens.  During this time I was just keeping my head above water.  Clearly the way to do this was to eat copious amounts of processed carbohydrates.  What could go wrong?

Around early June I finally snapped out of it and got back on program.  I again felt motivated and ready to CRUSH Ironman Mont Tremblant.  The only difference now was that several parts of my body would jiggle merrily when I moved too abruptly, and I would gasp for breath after climbing 2 flights of stairs.  I had some work to do.

Compressing a very long and arduous couple of months into one paragraph is the only way I know to convince you to keep reading.  I trained.  I stopped eating like a maniac.  I focused.  I spent hours looking in the mirror and practicing my angry triathlete face. 

And now the calendar told me it was one week until race day.  Oh boy!

Side note: I’ve always thought that really serious triathletes could be spotted by the baby skin-hairless quality of their entire body.  That’s right, true triathletes had one common enemy: the dreaded hair follicle.  At previous races I was always slightly ashamed to be sporting my hairy legs, trimmed and well groomed or otherwise.  I could feel the eyes of judgment from the other competitors.  I knew what they were thinking: “Look at that poor hairy fool with his dreadfully hairiness.  Doesn’t he know how critical it is to shave ones legs to become a real triathlete?”  Then they would walk away, making not a sound of friction or wind resistance between their impossibly smooth appendages and the world around them.

That being said, I decided this was the year to get serious.  The only problem was that I was super uninterested in having razor burn on my legs. 

Solution: waxing!  That’s right, I decided to pay someone a pretty good amount of money to angrily rip the hair from my body, right out from the root!

I’m not terribly religious, but this must have been hell.  I made promises in that room to God, Buddha, Ganesh, and Anne Rice.  I also realized that I clearly didn’t know human anatomy nearly as well as I had originally thought.  I will go on record saying that the hair follicles on your inner thigh are directly connected to your appendix.  I swear they went that deep, at least.

So now I was ready!  I had trained.  I was less jiggly.  I was smooth enough to be in someone else’s clothes without them knowing while they were still wearing them.  Let’s do this!

The race site

Mont Tremblant absolutely does it right, end of story.  The locals are so pleasant and happy to see their town overrun by a few thousand people in compression garments with ravenous appetites.  The village is like a miniature Disney attraction that is just too adorable.  The scenery is astoundingly beautiful.  If there are better places to have an Ironman race, I am not yet aware.  Go there, you must.

The RACE!

The Swim (aka: the bludgeoning)

The swim takes place in this pristine lake surrounded by mountains and evergreens.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was almost enjoyable.  Don’t worry, I know better.

You see, I am a slow swimmer.  I did this past swim in 1:39.  Well before the cutoff time but really pretty abysmal.  The problem with being a slow swimmer, especially one who is male and between 30 and 34, is that your wave starts the swim immediately after the pros and immediately before the other 2000+ swimmers get in.  A good number of those 2000+ other athletes swam much faster than a 1:39.  I know because each one of them let me know they were passing by punching, kicking, elbowing, scratching, clawing, and biting their way over my slow ass.  My favorite is when someone unknowingly swims up upon you and in a matter of seconds has somehow mounted you from behind.  Imagine my surprise and delight to be swimming along and suddenly realize someone has managed to swim up between my legs and is now using their entire body to press me underwater.  It’s like a normal Friday night in college, but in wetsuits.  Actually, I think the wetsuit thing was also tried in college, but that’s for a different blog.

I know none of these freakishly fast swimmers intentionally tried to kill me.  I’m sure it wasn’t their purpose to crack my skull with their furiously beating feet.  And yet, I’m pretty sure I came close to meeting my maker in that water. 

Call me crazy but I miss the days of one giant mass start.  Those who know they are fast can fight it out in the front.  Those, like me, who know they are not fast can find a nice safe spot in the middle of the pack where the possibility of getting a watery beating is somewhat diminished. 

Either that can happen, or I can just learn to be a faster swimmer.

But just to drive it home, here is the site of me getting on my bike after the swim.  Notice how many bikes are around me?  Yeah, that means that all of the other swimmers were already well on their way into the bike ride.  How embarrassing!

The Bike portion (AKA: 6.5 hours of gooseflesh)

Canada is cold.  I accept that.  But in August?  Apparently so.

I knew going into this bike ride that I had to play it safe.  My goal was 6.5 hours-ish for the bike portion and I knew I was capable of that.  I put my head down, kept my power output right where I knew it needed to be, and tried not to get upset when people would blow past me.  There was a nice gentleman who kept passing me like a champ going up hills, only to stop peddling on the downhill when I would pass him.  He was 60 years old.  Did I let this bother me?  I wish I could say no, but it was driving me crazy!  All I wanted to do was to just push really hard and smoke him, but I knew that wasn’t the race I wanted.  I ignored him, and everyone around me, and just rode my bike.

I was doing really well and staying on top of my nutrition plan and power numbers.  About 85 miles in though, I started to get a little tired.  I was ok, just ready to get off of the bike.  That’s when I had the first milligram of caffeine in two months. 

ZOOM, ZING, WHEE!  I had a HoneyStinger gel with 32mg of caffeine, not that much by most peoples standards.  And yet, I suddenly felt wonderful!  I wasn’t tired anymore, the pains and aches in my back and neck almost went away, and I totally smoked that old dude!

I finished the bike portion in exactly 6 hours and 30 minutes and was feeling great!

The Marathon (AKA: rocket fuel)

Running is what I love.  Every race I’ve done, I always feel good getting off of the bike.  Running is home base. 

My goal for this race was to hold around a 10-minute mile, or come in around 4:30.  My training hadn’t been fantastic with running, with my longest run being 16 miles during which holding a 9:30 pace was pretty tough. 

At the very beginning of the run, I had another gel with another 32mg of caffeine.  WOOHOO, YIPPEE, OH BOY!  That 10 min/mile pace seemed absurdly slow.  I started running a 9:30 pace for the first half mile, and even that seemed slow.  I decided, against better judgment, to just run according to perceived exertion.  Instead of staring at my watch all day, I was just going to run at a pace that felt good to me.  Imagine how happy I was after the first 2 miles to see I was just a hair over a 9 min/mile pace.  Was this stupid?  Would I crash?  Should I make myself slow down?

All good questions.  I ignored all of them.

The foremost reason I ignored them was the nutritional offering at the aid stations.  Where I usually do the marathon on coke (simple and immediate sugar with a touch of caffeine), this course was handing out cups of RedBull.  I used to race with RedBull and loved it, but let me remind you that I hadn’t had any caffeine for 2 months leading up to this race. 

After that first swig of sugar, caffeine, and God knows what else, I did indeed have wings!  I was holding a sub-9 pace without any problem at all!

I got through the first half marathon in just under 2 hours, and as is evident from the above picture, was terrifically pleased with myself.  Could I pull a sub-4 hour marathon during an Ironman?  Why not try?

I slammed back some more RedBull, thought a happy thought, and kept running.

The best part of the experience was that I was having fun.  This might have been due to a caffeine and sugar induced delirium, but what did I care?  I was counting down the miles to the finish line and smiling the whole way.  This is what racing should be like!

My official time for the marathon was 4:05* (the * is there because unbeknownst to me, the official timer started right after the transition tent where I had to make a porto-potty pit stop.   My actual pace for the marathon was 9:06 minutes/mile, which comes in just under a 4-hour marathon.  Unreal.

The Results and Recovery

My official finishing time was 12:29, a full 30 minutes faster than I had originally hoped, and a full 1:30 faster than on the same course a year earlier.  I couldn’t have been happier with my result.

As for the absurd caffeine and sugar intake during the race?  So what if I peed blood for a couple of days afterwards.  Who cares that at least one toenail will be making its final appearance in the next week? (photos not available)

The take home feeling for me was that I was reminded why I love this sport so much.  I set a goal for myself.  I pushed to reach that goal.  I learned, yet again, that I am capable of so much more than I really believe I am capable of doing.  My soul came alive that day and is still riding the high of the post-Ironman buzz.

I can’t articulate what it is about swimming, biking, and running across 140.6 miles that makes me happy.  I can’t say why I am looking forward to doing it again.  The only justification I can offer is that there are so few opportunities in this life to really prove to yourself how incredible you are.  There are a precious few moments or days when you face deep feelings of doubt and in the next moment overcome them.  So few experiences have ever given me the feeling of accomplishment and strength as I feel after doing a race of this caliber. 

I come alive during a race.  My mind clears and it’s like I can see clearly for the first time since last pushing myself that hard.  I find answers I have been looking for and am able to see my life’s struggles and challenges for what they really are: an inconsequential and trivial moment that bears little meaning or significance to my actual life experience.  I am reminded of the temporary nature of all things, that soon this race will be over much like this fleeting life we hold on to so desperately.  I am brought back into the present moment, which is all I ever have to experience.  A race is not about what you just did or what you have ahead of you, it’s about taking that next step and being present in your body and mind when doing so.  Life should be like that.  Perhaps life is like that and we just forget?

Or maybe I’m full of crap with what I just said.  We all know I do it for the shiny medal you get at the finish line!

A Reflection of 2013, Anticipation of 2014

Well it is January 1, 2014, and while my upstairs neighbors are presumably sleeping off the late night boozing they so graciously shared with the rest of the building via audio-havoc, I am enjoying a reasonable flute of chilled prosecco and feeling pensive about things.

There is much about the above statement that lends support to the notion that I am clearly an 86 year old woman trapped in a 33 year old dude's body, but let's not dwell on it.

I wanted to take a moment to reflect on the year that was 2013, and also ponder what might be in store for 2014 and what I hope to achieve.  This could get deep, people.  I might use hashtags.

As an athlete, 2013 was disastrous in many ways, and yet extremely constructive in others.  As I've written up in a previous post, IronMan Mont Tremblant was primarily a hot, steamy pile of mess for me.  I wish there was a better way to describe my performance, but it was just plain ugly.  Sure there might be a correlation to my level of training and fitness at the time, but I've never had a solid grasp of correlations, or anything about statistics for that matter.  Good thing I'm not getting a PhD…

Despite the messy and steamy nature of it though, it was supremely motivating.  Since that race, I have had a fire under me that has launched my training into new places: namely existent!  I'm afraid I am overwhelming my poor coach with my compliance.  He never saw it coming.  Poor dear.

In that vein, I have been on my bike 3-4 times per week and killing the workouts.  I don't get a kickback on this endorsement (which my lawyer will soon be made aware of), but I started taking classes at this cool joint called Tailwind Endurance.  Check this out: you put your bike on a computrainer with 15 other idiots too delicate to ride in the cold, and you cycle like a maniac all while going absolutely nowhere.  Brilliant, right?  Here's the best part: on the giant screen in front of the group is a display of how you are performing.  You see not only your current wattage output, but also how you rank among the other morons sitting next to you.  It's like a video game, athletics, and a college binge-drinking night all rolled in to one.  I'm in love.

In the several weeks I have been taking these classes, I have seen my FTP (functional threshold power, AKA: the number that proves how manly you are) jump by huge margins.  That translates to me going faster on the bike.  This in turn means we have one happy cyclist sitting here in front of a computer screen with an almost empty glass of prosecco.

And since we are talking bikes, check out my new baby pictured below.  I got a fascinating email from my accountant a few weeks ago which went something like this: "Dear Chad, the IRS is going to rape you in a couple of months.  Hard.  You will cry.  So will your unborn children.  If you have any business expenses coming up, spend them now."  You know the best part of being a physical therapist practice owner and having a blog to help "advertise?"  Tri bikes that are categorized as Damn Sexy are considered a business expense.

Boy bike or girl bike?  What should I name him/her?

I also just completed a 45 day Paleolithic diet eating and fitness challenge.  My blog is chalk full of entries detailing this experience, but suffice it to say that I am a fan.  Not only did I see incredible changes in my own performance, recovery, and svelte physique, but my fellow participants went through pretty incredible changes as well.  The winner of the challenge, and subsequently my Mom, shocked her physician with her results and was able to discontinue the use of daily blood pressure medicine.  That's big, people.  I was honored to have led such a group and alarmingly inspired by their determination and fantastic results.  This was a rewarding experience, and one I hope to renew again soon.  

As for my personal life, 2013 has been more rewarding than I could have ever imagined.  My business, F Squared PT has been consistently and marvelously growing in reputation and productivity.  I was offered a part-time faculty position teaching in a doctorate program of physical therapy at Touro College, which I graciously and humbly accepted and begin in a couple of weeks.  I have a beautiful soul whom I am lucky enough to call my life partner, not to mention being proud of the fact I haven't murdered for the insurance money.  I have 2 of the most outstanding pups a dad could ask for with whom I share a love so sincere I can't imagine it bested by any other (see below for their picture and prepare yourself for a collective "ahhhhhh").  My life has been blessed in 2013, and not in the stereotypical Hallmark sort of way.  When I say blessed, I mean only to convey the most heartfelt and overwhelmed feelings of gratitude and fortune.  I know I have worked hard to be where I am, but I also appreciate the serendipity and sheer dumb luck that has brought me to where I stand.  

And speaking of standing, I may not be able to after this last glass of prosecco.  #whatsinthisstuff

Maggie: a princess in every sense of the word

Mick: the sweetest and most loyal dog in the history of furry companions

So after all of that alcohol-inspired rhetoric about the previous year, what can I say about my hopes and ambitions for 2014?

I have learned over the years to avoid making firm plans.  That just gives the Universe an opportunity to toy with you.  Instead, I hope to succeed in the following points for 2014:

• Remember to take time for myself.  With the intensity and veracity of my schedule and life, it is easy to forget that I am important too.  Having a morning or two at home with just me and my pups is something that I hope to embrace in the coming year.
• Remember to prioritize what is truly important.  For 2014, I have a great many goals.  These include becoming a better athlete, a better partner, a better puppy-daddy, a better human.  My goals do not include trivial daily occurrences that can seem so monumental at times.  My goals do not include petty competition or ego-driven triumphs.  My goals should not serve a superficial/selfish aim, but rather should enrich the very person who I hope to improve upon.
• Strive to be the best I can be at what I choose to devote my energy.  If something is worth doing, it is worth doing right.  
• Remember to do things that improve and enrich other peoples lives as mine has been enriched.  I do honestly believe that the best way to appreciate the blessings and opportunities one has in their life is to help another achieve the same success.  Seeing the satisfaction, gratitude, and triumph through another's eyes is truly the best way to experience your own good fortune.  I hope to remind myself of that and make efforts to create such opportunities.
• Find ways to show my gratitude.  For example, I am stupidly grateful to you all taking the time to read the rantings of such an one as I (I think that is a Gilbert and Sullivan line…#muststopdrinking).  That so many of you, a considerable number being strangers, read what I have to say is humbling.  I am grateful and wish I could show you that in some way.  Until I figure that out, I'll just keep writing and you just keep reading.  It's what we do.
• And lastly, I hope to eat more guacamole and plantain chips in 2014.  If there is a more delicious snack in this world, I dare you to introduce me to it.

I have nothing but optimism and excited anticipation to see how this coming year unfolds.  There will be success.  There will be heartbreak.  There will be achievements paired with failure.  We have all been given the precious gift that is this life.  I plan to live mine to the fullest, and what better time to recall such a motto than the beginning of a new year.

Much love, immense gratitude, and pinch-me-awake joy,

Chad

Race report: IronMan Mont Tremblant 2013

It would seem that I waited until my 3rd IronMan to have that disastrous amateur race, but when I do something, I like to do it right.  I stunk up this race something spectacular, and yet, it has been my favorite to date.  It sounds demented, and well, it is...

Swim: I am a medium swimmer.  It is where I belong.  I feel no shame in letting the psychopaths who pull off a sub 1 hour swim go merrily before me at the sound of the cannon.  This race however was a wave start, which fantastically for me meant that my wave was directly behind the pro's.  That's right, I was up front with the psychopaths whether I wanted to be or not.  The bad part of this meant that the speed demons behind me got to climb over my medium-paced self all morning.  How lovely.

It was a bad swim, even for me.  My training was garbage and I couldn't have been happier to have gotten out of the water, albeit beautiful.  Looking at my swim time (1:43:53), I was a bit deflated.  Not only had I been beaten senseless the whole time by the faster swimmers elbows and feet that found their target of my face consistently, I felt slow...and old.

A perfect set up for a stupid bike performance!

Bike: biggest rule of race day is to follow your plan.  If you know you should ride a certain speed or put out a certain amount of power, the last thing you should do is change that plan on race day.  Did I follow this plan you ask?  Naturally not.  I got out of the swim feeling blah so it made perfect sense to PUSH my bike ride to make up for lost time.  Stupid...

10 miles in, my back started spasming.  I'm no math expert, but I was able to figure out I had 102 miles to go.  Not good.  I popped an Aleve with a bite of rice crispy treat, and ignored my body like all good athletes should.

By mile 30, the pitiful sounds coming from my mouth sounded foreign and absurd.  While it hurt my pride even more than my back, I had to sit up out of my aero bars.  For those not familiar with what this means, I basically threw an open parachute behind my bike to see if dragging it would slow me down at all.  Humph.

Approaching mile 56, I was ready for the first time to DNF.  Those nasty letters stand for "did not finish."  There are perfectly good reasons to DNF in an IronMan: busted bike, horrific crash leaving you temporarily blinded, kidney stones.  A sore back and a fussy knee just aren't on the list.  I sucked it up and continued.

With the aid of some caffeine, I started feeling good again at mile 70.  It didn't last.  By mile 80 I was getting passed by a lovely woman older than my mother.  Not an exaggeration.  If I needed one last bit of ego-crushing data from this day, seeing this woman smoke me on a hill did it.  I began to re-think my bold decision to not DNF.

The end of the bike ride was approaching and all I cared about was having a good run.  I started smiling again, fully knowing that my bike performance was an embarrassment to my loved ones.  "Whatever" I told myself.  "This is just a good training day" I said.  "Knee caps aren't really all that important" I considered.

All said and done, my bike time was a noteworthy 7:12:09.  I've read of turtles moving faster than that.

Run: FINALLY!  Something I'm good at!  The best part of sucking on the swim and bike portion of a race is that even if you're a mediocre runner, you are passing people like you're a freakin rock star.  And boy was I rockin!

My goal was to pull a sub-4 hour marathon, which means I had to keep about a 9:00 min/mile pace.  I was feeling like a champ and averaging an 8:45 pace.  Who's faster than this guy I'd like to know?  (for the easy answer, you could have asked the 1500 people in front of me, but never mind that).

A few miles into the run, the course veers off onto a gravel pathway for several miles.  I immediately got gravel in my left shoe.  Oh good.  Did I do the smart thing and stop for 20 seconds to take it out?  And take the chance of losing momentum or cramping up?  Crazy talk!  I'll just tough it out.  "I'm the fastest runner ever," I boasted.

All was going spectacularly until mile 12 when my belly finally decided to have a come-to-Jesus moment with me about the sugar filled garbage I had been eating all morning.  I was at mile 12.  14.6 miles to go.  I have no time for a grumpy belly, or Jesus for that matter.  I ignored it.

By mile 13, ignorance was no longer an option.  I was still averaging an 8:45 pace so I had a buffer of time already built in.  I made the call and decided to handle the situation, blue-watered port-o-potty style.  Unfortunately, that just seemed to encourage the bad behavior and the punishment began in earnest.

Dear reader, I will save you the details of the next 1+ hours of my life.  If you want to hear about them, you are a sick and twisted jerk and should confine yourself to a solitary life.  It was ugly with a capital U.

From miles 13 to 21 I was unable to get anything down other than ice chips.  At this point in the race, if you aren't getting calories in, you just aren't really moving much.  True to my exercise physiology training, my ice chips weren't doing squat for my energy levels.

I ran when I could, walked when I had to, and scowled at all living beings I could make eye contact with.

After mile 21 things started to settle down and I resumed some sloppy form of movement some might call running.  It wasn't pretty, but at least I wasn't crawling.

I finished the run in 4:38:28, for a total time of 13:47:06.  A far cry from my goal, while stupidly optimistic, of under 12 hours.

While the race did not go as planned, or even close to it, I somehow found it to be stupidly rewarding and meaningful.  Going through that much pain, wanting to quit pretty consistently for 13 hours, not knowing how you can take one more (gravel filled) step: it changes a guy.

Everyone faces demons during an IronMan.  You start the morning knowing it and are surprised by it every time.  The demons I faced during this race were some of the ugliest I have encountered, and I lived in the Midwest for several years.  But those demons, nasty as they were, opened my eyes to a simple and resonate truth: I am a fucking monster and can handle anything put in my way.

People ask my why I do this crap.  After punching them in the eye, I try to explain how something so painful can be so incredible.  An experience that destructive can somehow be concomitantly uplifting and inspiration in the eyes of an athlete.

I do this because at one point it seemed impossible...