Woodard Wednesday: The first time I should have died

Not the lightest of titles, is it?  Better than, "the second time I should have died," right?  Or the ever popular, "why didn't I die that day?"  We could go on, but perhaps I'll tell you why I am being so morbid...

I almost died...

More than once...

My favorite color is yellow...
(I'll periodically try to lighten this up with stupidity.  Now felt good for dose one)

Easter is soon approaching, this year marking my 17th anniversary of what feels like borrowed time.  Easter Sunday of 1999 could have been my last day.  This is a story of fear and crisis, acts of desperation, facing the unknown.  Oh yeah, I am in it too.

And since I am telling it, I'll be the dashing prince.

close enough

Approaching sundown I took myself, along with my 10 year old cousin, to a gas station to refuel the beast.  I drove a Dodge Ram pickup with tricked out wheels that were stylishly low to the ground and glimmering with chrome.  They had also somehow done something jazzy to the muffler so I sounded like quite the badass driving about.  Epically stupid.

Perhaps I was compensating for something?  For more on that, please see the blog penned by my police chief grandfather entitled: "My grandson goes to what kind of bars?"

I digress...

I was a student at the time, knee deep in undergraduate work.  You know what I wasn't knee deep in? Money.  Quite the opposite.  That day I worked an extra shift at the veterinary hospital to earn $20 in cash.  And no, it wasn't a lot of money back then either.

Getting to gas station, I went inside to prepay the $20.  With my wallet freshly emptied, off I went to fuel my dude-mobile.

Just as the ticker on the petrol machine was approaching the magic 20 buck mark, a man approached me very aggressively.  He was dressed in baggy jeans, a t-shirt, and a red handkerchief tied just under his eyes.  His approach was intentional.  He had an objective.

He also had a gun which promptly found it's intended target, my chest.

In a crisis, people say amazing things happen to them.  Time stands still.  Everything becomes clear.  They suddenly find a superhuman ability to channel a hidden martial artist and kung fu their assailant's tookus.

Yeah, none of that coolness happened for me.  I did all I knew to do: hold really still and hope the bad man would go away thinking I was not so interesting.

Strangely, he seemed to be incapable of waiver.  Our dance continued.

With face half veiled and gun at the ready, the young man demanded my wallet.  I complied.  He instructed me to open my wallet and show him the contents.  I complied.  Upon seeing the empty reality of said wallet, he demanded I produce some cash or he would kill me.  I could not comply.

I had no cash.  The only cash I had was used to pay for my gasoline.  He didn't believe me.

"Give me your money or I'll fucking shoot you."  I didn't doubt his sincerity.

Remember how I said people can do cool stuff when faced with a crisis?  Want to know my superpower?  It's impressive.  I stayed super calm.  I also achieved superior vision.  My calmness and my super vision gave me some critical tools.  What did I do with my calm?  What did I see?  The tale will tell itself, dear reader.  How are you supposed to click on the annoying add at the bottom of this post if I tell you the good stuff now?  Let's continue.

I explained to the man that I had no cash, which he could see for himself.  Being a non-smoker I kept loose change in the ashtray of the car, which I offered to him, to which he seemed unimpressed.  After a few rounds of give-me-the-money-you-don't-have-or-I'll-turn-you-into-a-less-alive-person,  he finally conceded.  The day was won!

Or not so much.

He asked me where my keys were.  I calmly told him they were inside the ignition.

Perhaps this is a good time to remind you of a detail of the story from earlier.  Remember who I had with me?  Yeah, my 10 year old cousin.  Guess where he was from the beginning of the story up until now?  If you guessed the passenger seat of my absurd truck, you are a big winner.

Nothing like a front row seat to this show.  So glad I was able to open his young eyes to some culture.

Our villain told me to get into the car.  At this point I realized the gravity of the situation.  Had I been upset by this point about my current pickle?  Oh yeah!  But when I saw the fear in my 10 year-old cousins eyes, I suddenly realized how bad a pickle this really was.  I'm talking super spicy pickle here.  The one you had better not touch your eyes for at least an hour after eating.

I asked our gunned man if the kid could get out of the car.  I didn't know what was about to happen, but I thank God I had the wherewithal to figure that it shouldn't have a witness.  The man agreed and I instructed him to get out of the car and go inside.  There was that calm stuff again.  I was really getting good at this.

I was told to start the car.  I did.  I was told to get out of the car.  Done.  I watched as this stranger with a covered face and a gun got into my car.  I stood.

And here is where my second super power really made itself known.  My vision became something otherworldly.  I swear I could have taken detailed images of things miles away and remembered them in perfect detail.  I could have seen colors in that sunset that an artist would have only dreamed.  Everything in my body shut down except my vision.

And what did I see?  How did I use this gift?  What did I memorize?

I saw the face of this young man.  I saw his eyes.

We had the briefest of moments where our eyes locked, him now sitting in my truck with the door ajar and gun still truly aimed and ready, me just a pace away.  In my memory now I would swear it lasted for minutes, that glance.  But I'm sure it was only a second or two.

This is a tale of fear and crisis, acts of desperation, facing the unknown.  That is what I saw in that moment.  I saw depth.  I saw sorrow.  I saw anger.  I saw panic.  I saw terror.

May I live 1,000 years and never forget those eyes.  And may I live twice as long and never have to see them again.

***Chad pauses for a breath and a moment of reflective appreciation***

And that's it.  That is where the story ends.  The rest is just little details that are inconsequential now.  Our intense moment of connection ended as briefly as it began, he closed the door and drove away in haste.

But one last little detail so as to not keep you wanting.  The police officer who arrived on the scene sometime later became a source of information, that night and beyond.  He told me great things, things that added quite significantly to my tale.

Turns out, the situation I found myself in that night was part of a gang initiation.  To catch us all up, a gang initiation is some sort of action or duty that a person is tasked with doing.  Once done, they have earned their right into a lifetime membership of their gang.  I won't go into details here, but people will go to great lengths to join some of these gangs, often finding them the only source of hope and salvation for their life situation.  But that's another story.

For this particular gang, the initiation was exactly as I've written out above.  Hold up a person, steal their wallet and money, take their car.  Oh, just one last bit: you were also supposed to shoot your victim in the chest before driving away.

About a week later, exactly that happened.  At another gas station less than a mile from mine, a man was carjacked near sundown and shot in the chest.  He was pronounced dead on the scene.

The cop who helped me that night offered this information.  He said I should have been that man.  He said that the assailant was most likely the same kid that held me at gunpoint.  He said his interaction with me would have been seen by the gang as a failure.  He did not complete his mission.  No shot was fired.

When I think back to that day, and even as I sit here writing this now all these many years later, I am filled with so many emotions.  A reminder of the preciousness of life.  A sincere and palpable fear that still echoes in me today.  A sadness for the reality of this young man's life.

My eyes were opened that day.  My vision was given to me.  I saw.

I saw how easy it would have been for me to have died.  I saw how easy it would have been for him to have pulled that trigger.

That day I saw, but today I see.  I see that my life is precious.  I see what I have available to me.  I see my life for what it is: a chance to wake up in the morning and smile.  I see my purpose.

17 years ago this Sunday, I saw.  Today I still see.  And what I see is beautiful, beautiful beyond words.

May my eyes close only after they have seen all they are destined to see, and only then, close peacefully and with the knowledge and contentment of a life fully lived.

Thank you for reading.

Woodard Wednesday: Stop trying to get better

Quick!  Think of all the things that are wrong with you.  What do you suck at?  What is that habit that you are always trying to break?  Or try this on for size: what would your closest friends/family say are your weakest attributes?

I'm willing to bet that it didn't take a lot of hand wringing and head scratching to come up with a list.  We are all so incredibly aware of our weaknesses, feeling the acuity of the disappointment or pain when said weakness rears it's ugly head for the world to see.

What are mine?  How much time have you got?  Seriously, the list goes on endlessly.  I truly do, and am in no way playing the martyr card here, have so many weaknesses and character flaws that I can't imagine listing them all here.

Perhaps some day I'll write a nails-on-the-chalkboard post that highlights some of the juiciest ones.  But for now, I am far too cowardly to list them.  And yes, lack of courage to talk about certain things is indeed on the list.

Let's take an example.  Let's say that hypothetically, in a parallel universe, a friend of mine has a habit of procrastination.  Poor bastard...

If you don't know who this is or why he is pictured here, kindly do not tell me about it.

This friend just loves to put things off, like to the point you would swear he was getting paid for it.  Regardless of when a project is due or when a deadline approaches, this idiot is waiting until the absolute last minute.  He usually waits until he has to pull an all-nighter furiously cleaning his apartment before guests arrive the following morning, again hypothetically.

He might even pay several thousands of dollars to take an exam to become a certified specialist in his field and not start formally studying until the night before the test.  There is only one conclusion here: I have dumb friends.

So what should this friend do, you ask?  Traditional thinking would ask him to beat that flaw out of himself.  A really solid and frequent self-flagellation should do the trick, right?  He can beat this with enough will power and structure, if he is willing to work hard enough.

But what if this characteristic is just really part of who he is?  He might hate it and wish it wasn't so, but imagine a scenario that my friend just accepted who he is and stopped trying to be someone he isn't?

Or better yet, instead of just accepting his total terrible fate, what if he focused on things he was good at and poured energy into those things instead?

Crazy talk, I know.

This is a good time to drop a bomb here: this friend is actually me.  Whoa!  Plot twist of the century.

I hate that I procrastinate.  I hate that I burn myself doing it once, and then do the exact same damn thing the very next day.  Every year I wait to train for an Ironman until it's too late to have a great race.  I wait to study until the night before the exam, even though I tell my students that is a sure way to fail.  I wait to write the Woodard Wednesday blog until 10:02pm on Wednesday night.  You see where I am going with this.

I have tried to fix it.  Set calendar reminders, meet with people that make me accountable, wake up extra early (who were we kidding on that one?), punish myself when I would falter, punish myself more severely when I would continue to falter, drink myself into a stupor.  Surprisingly none of them worked, not even that last one.

Why?  Am I just not motivated enough?  Did I not try enough?  Am I inherently just a lazy twat that can't get it together?

The answer: yes, all of the above.

I have learned that all the self-loathing in the world won't fix my issues.  Paradoxically, the self-loathing much more often gives me a good reason to feel annoyed and sorry for myself.  You know what happens then?  I put things off so I can adequately feel sorry for myself a while longer!

OMG, I even procrastinate procrastination!  It's a sickness.

And with all of that said, guess what?  I don't give a hooey about it anymore.  It's just what I do and I love that about myself.

Instead of focusing on a trait that is bad, what if I went tits out and focused on traits that were good?

Check this out: I just took a long-ass quiz called Strengths Finder 2.0 (no, I don't get paid to tell you this, but my people are going to look into it...  right after I find some people to be my "people" that is totally going to get going).

I'll save the results of the quiz for another blog, but here are the highlights.  I am good at some shit.

It might have been slightly more technical than that, but that was totally the gist.  Not only am I good at some shit, I am REALLY good at some other shit.  Like, for real.

Reading the evaluation results from this book was incredible for me.  It described me perfectly and told me what I am good at.  One might think they already know.  One might be wrong.

And so that is my theme for this week.  Instead of trying to be something I am not - instead of trying to stop a bad habit - instead of utilizing major self-hatred for my failures - instead of all of that, I am devoted to nurturing the parts of me that are already bad ass.

Because maybe, just perhaps, if I focus on the things that are so great about me and try to do those more, I won't have as much time and energy for the bad things anymore.  Wouldn't that be a rosy little side-effect.

I encourage you.  Make your list.  In all their slimy details, what are the things you really despise about your behavior?  Make it good and really worth looking at.  Then, promptly toss it in the toilet.

Who are you, really?  What are you incredible at doing?  I promise, there is one thing at least.  According to this book I mentioned, you've got 5 of them.

Dare I ask you to change your paradigm?  Dare I ask you to stop hating yourself?

Nah, you're right.  We had it all figured out before.  Let's keep doing it that way...

Woodard Wednesday: Watch your language

I am becoming increasingly convinced and irrefutably sold on the importance of language.  

And even if I just used the word “irrefutably” wrong, who cares?  It sounds cool when the first sentence is about language.  I needed a big word.

What I mean by that is not the particular language that we speak, but the language we use with ourselves.  And yes, in case you are wondering if this is going to be another Oprah-like blog entry, brace yourself for something AHHHH-MAAAAAA-ZIIIIIING!

I am a professor in a doctorate physical therapy program.  It is my honor to teach one of my favorite topics in the whole world, orthopedics.  Another name for the class: Evaluation and Treatment of the Musculoskeletal System.  In real person terms that means I teach about muscles and bones, and what to do with them when they say “ouch.”

On day one, I start with an activity that has nothing to do with muscles and bones, but also everything to do with muscles and bones.  Stay with me…

On that day I find the biggest muscle bound beau I can find in the class.  In PT school, there is usually one guy or gal that looks like they lift Volkswagen's for fun on the weekends.  I’m happy that my fitness capabilities give me the option to run away from them before being crushed or tossed about like a doll.

I ask that student to stand in front of the class and hold their arm out.  They are given the following information and instructions: “I am going to attempt to push your arm down several times.  I am asking you to not let me win at all and to use all your strength to keep your arm lifted as it is now.  No matter what, do not let me win.  Do you think you can do that?”

At this point, the class is interested to the point of visible salivation.  Look at how scrawny Dr. Woodard’s arms are.  This is going to be EPIC!  I’m convinced they are all planning my violent demise but just won’t admit to it.  This gives them a glimmer of joy, as surely the result of this contest will be a humiliating defeat for the guy grading their exams.

I now tell the student with his arm raised, “as we do this first test, I want you to think very clear thoughts.  Those thoughts need to be: ‘I am strong.  There is now way my arm is going to drop.  My muscles are huge and powerful.  I am a badass and can do anything.”

Without fail, I can hang from this outstretched arm, jump up and down on it, bite it, and absolutely not move the thing.

I then tell the student, “as we do this second test, I want you to think very clear thoughts again, but this time those thoughts need to be: ‘I am weak.  Even though I am going to try to hold my arm up, I will fail.  My strength is not enough to hold up to this challenge.”  I remind them they are not supposed to let me win and push their arm down, but to think those negative thoughts.

Without fail, I can break their position using 2 fingers.

Naturally, the class is devastated that I was not humiliated.  Vultures…

Did this super muscly weight-lifting student just get less strong?  Did his muscle atrophy and shrink?  Why did he get weaker, just by thinking weak thoughts?

The answer: our thoughts create more of a reality in our lives than another other force conceivable. 

That is true for this students shoulder and arm muscles; it is also true for every damn thing we do from moment to moment.  It is that simple. 

My question to you, and something I’d love to actually hear back about: what thoughts are you thinking that are making you weak?

“I’m too fat.  I hate my life.  The people at work are out to get me.  My boss is a douche and is trying to make me miserable.  I’ll be single forever.  I’ll never pay off my debt.  This race/run is going to be slow and painful.  I won’t qualify for Kona today.  That sushi last night gave me salmonella, or at least herpes.” 

You say those things, you are those things. 

Why are we so nasty?  Not to each other, but to ourselves?

Sports psychologists have known this since sports were invented.  When you have positive psychology, you perform better in sports.  Check out this link from the American Psychological Association: http://www.apa.org/helpcenter/sport-psychologists.aspx

So, how does this work?  The answer is clear.  It’s pixie dust…

The actual answer might be more complicated than that, but that chat could go on for chapters and chapters, and frankly, I should be working instead of writing this blog.  Ain’t got no time for that.

The simple answer: your body is under the control of your brain and nervous system.  Obviously for simple things like wriggling your toes, but also for the amount of force production and efficiency of movement.  The strength of a muscle contraction is directly controlled by how many neuromuscular junctions are firing per unit area of muscle and dumping excitatory chemicals into each other.  The more "happy juice" your brain squirts into a muscle, the stronger it will contract.  The happier your thoughts, the more "happy juice" you've got at your disposal.  See, biochemistry is actually not all that hard.  

You try to run a race saying internally that you suck the whole time, guess what?  You are going to suck.  You try being the student at the front of the class told to hold up their arm while thinking you are too weak to do so, your arm will fall. 

You try being a person living a happy and fulfilling life, but all the while repeating to yourself how miserable you are and how there is no hope, misery and hopelessness will continue.  This isn’t my opinion, it’s just a truth.

I challenge each of you readers to do the following.  Every day, physically write down 3 quick things you are grateful for in your life, and then one short paragraph about something happening in the last 24 hours that made you happy.  If it takes more than 3-4 minutes, you are trying too hard.

Here is mine from today:

Grateful for:  1) my adorable dogs who slobber on my shoes 2) my career that I freakin’ love 3) people who take the time to read my blog

Happy moment in last 24 hours: today I made my students laugh.  During the course of an intense lecture with really heavy material, I got them to laugh at me or something I said.  I was able to share a sliver of knowledge to make them better healers someday, but I did so in a way that they were able to smile.  What a gift is that for me to have access to?  And even better, I got to laugh right with them.  They might have been miserable all day, but in those moments, we were all laughing.  We were happy together.  Because of their presence, I had joy.  And perhaps even momentarily, my presence brought joy back to them in kind.

That’s it.

There is a growing body of literature and science on this stuff.  The science of happiness and positivity.  You want to change your life, read this book: The Slight Edge by Jeff Olson http://www.amazon.com/The-Slight-Edge-Disciplines-Happiness/dp/1626340463

Go ahead, tell me I’m a hippie and smoked too much dope in college and have clearly shorted out my brain.  Tell me all this is crap and that thinking happy thoughts won’t make your life better.  Tell me about how miserable you are and there is no hope. 

Just don’t be upset that after you’re done telling me that, I smile at you so genuinely and purely that you are convinced I am mentally compromised. 

I am happy.  My life is unbelievably amazing.  I have everything.

Those things are true because I, you guessed it, tell myself they are true every damn day.  I do so without pause and without wavering conviction.  Why do I believe in it so much: because telling myself these things has manifested exactly what was promised: happiness, joy, contentment.  

I had a hard enough life in year's past.  I am grateful for those times as I learned the power of sadness and depression.  But I am more grateful to be what I am now: the thoughts in my head and absolutely nothing else.  

Thank you for reading...

Woodard Wednesday: I'm scared to write this

What are you afraid to do?

Ok, I'll go first.  I am afraid of everything.  I'm also afraid of nothing.  I'm glad we had this talk and I could be so insightful.

Let me explain.  I have some scary things going on in my life right now.  Let's focus on those so I can work myself into a martini-for-lunch-needing-frenzy.  Here's a list: living alone and being single, watching my baby-boy (Mick) getting old, taking steps to open a new clinic with a team of people depending on me to succeed, and the completely rational fear of a rogue tree branch falling on my head in Central Park during a run ensuring certain death.  It happens; I've heard stories...

me as a cute baby, except it isn't me at all.  totally could have been though so I don't like your judgement

The first point of living along and being single.  The last time I was single, Facebook hadn't been invented.  How's that for some perspective?  Back in my day (yes I just said that) you would go to a loud bar and order overpriced drinks, stewing in your misery and hoping to find someone who's misery resonated with yours.  It was poetry.  How did you know if their misery matched yours?  You would go over and say something sexy, yet mysterious like, "where did you buy those pants?  I like them but find that corduroy chafes me like sandpaper."  It was simple, beautiful, and markedly awkward.

Things have changed.  Now, I have learned, you go to a loud bar and order overpriced drinks, stew in your misery hoping to find another miserable being.  But do you talk to them?  Oh no!  That's bordering harassment!  Now, you log in to any number of social apps on your phone and communicate with the people digitally.  Did you catch that?  You are sitting in the same bar, like 10 feet away, but you communicate through an app.  Holy hell, I am getting so freakin' old.

Why am I afraid of this?  How could I not be?  I'm basing my search for potentially finding my new mate on the merit of my phone auto-correcting my spelling.  The potential love of my life might block me because I mention that I am "getting over being sick" but actually reads "getting over being a ...."  You see why this causes anxiety?

I'm also afraid to see Mick, my super-pup, getting older.  He's a yellow lab and coming up on his 12th birthday.  For you non-dog people, that's like 247 in human years.  It's natural and a part of life, but twice a day I give him more pills than taken by someone who watches Dr. Oz.  He's been with me since he was 9 months old after being abandoned in a dog run in Brooklyn.  Knowing he is in the final bit of his life freaks me out.

And finally, building out a new clinic with a team of some of the best humans on the face of the earth: scary as hell.  If it was just me in this business and I failed, no problem.  I can dust myself off and return to a life of professional nose-picking spa services.  There's good money in that and work, work that I prided myself in for many years through college.

But having a team adds a whole new layer of hair-losing/hair-graying stress.  If I fail, what happens to them?  If I somehow miss my mark of perfection, surely their lives are ruined and no hope exists for them.  Reasonable assumption, I think.

Side note: if you are reading this and are on said team, please roofie yourself now so you forget what you just read.  Gentle suggestion, but powerful.

That's a scary list, and I haven't even started to tell you about that itchy rash.

So, why would I have started this post by saying that I am also not afraid of anything?  The answer is clear...

I am delusional.  Proudly so.

I might be single forever, or I might not.  Mick will move on to his next journey, perhaps today, perhaps in several years.  Symbio PT will succeed, or it won't.

Regardless what happens with these points, along with the myriad of other fear generators, I will still be me.  I will wake up tomorrow morning, or I wont.  I will still have this precise moment to live fully and experience the miracle that is my every breath.

I will not be afraid that said miraculous breath is tarnished with the aroma of day old coffee.  I will reach boldly for that breath mint and marvel at the profound simplicity of my life!

But here is my biggest fear, and this shit is real.  I am terrified of the following image: me on my death bed many many years from now, surrounded by those I love in my final moments in this reality, and realizing only in that moment that I lived a life unfulfilled because I was too scared to confidently attempt my dreams.  Knowing then, when the time for action has passed, that I missed my opportunity to possibly achieve greatness because I once decided it was safer, less scary, more reasonable to chose one path versus another.

That scares me more deeply than anything else I can conjure up.  Living a life of safety and comfort, because I am afraid, is a life wasted.  I decline that option, thank you.

My dream, the image that makes my eyes well with tears as I write this, is me on that same bed with all the same people, laughing to the point of pain at all the times I tried something and absolutely, without question, completely messed it all up.  Made a total ass of myself.  Totally crashed and burned.

I have come to realize that a full life is not one of safety that is governed by fear, but rather a life of adventure and trial.  A list of experiences, successful or otherwise, that made me face my fear and decide to cower or stand tall.

2015 was a year of transitions, an opportunity to realize that new realities existed.  2016 is a year to confidently march myself into that new reality.  To show the world that I will either succeed or have a hilarious story to tell.

I look forward to telling you that story someday...

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
Frank Herbert

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!

Ironman Florida 70.3 Race Report

After arriving in Florida on Friday, I had grand plans of possibly going to the race site and scoping things out or just having a day out on the town to myself.  What needed to be done was some tedious paperwork and note writing to insurance companies.  Instead, I slept.  I arrived at the hotel at 2pm, opened my laptop, and just as quickly closed it.  What was supposed to be a 30 minute cat-nap turned in to a full afternoon and evening of pure sluggery.  Is “sluggery” a word?  Slug-like sounds lame, so I hereby deem “sluggery” a word.

Moving on.

Saturday, the day before the race, proved to be a bit more eventful than originally planned.  Here was the plan:

1.     Check in at the Ironman village

2.     Rescue my bike from Tri Bike Transport and say loving things to it

3.     Go for a quick spin around the area on said bike as I had yet to actually ride it outside

4.     Resume sluggery in some form

The actual plan went something like this:

1.     Check in at the village

2.     Drive the full bike course to get familiar with it (good idea)

3.     Rescue bike as planned

4.     Become witness to the chaos that is my life…

The chaos started when I noticed my front brakes appearing to be too loose, almost like they had been released to change the tire.  The problem was they hadn’t been released.  I tried to fuss with it for a spell and quickly felt inadequate.  It doesn’t take long.  I then found a smart looking beau (and by smart, I think you know what I mean) and he too felt inadequate.  No problem.  I went over to the mechanic and asked him to take a look.  I was told the wait was 2.5 hours and a flat charge of $50.

What the what?  I was thinking this would be an easy fix, something akin to tightening some gadget or doohickey.  2.5 hours and $50?  No, no, I said.  I’m sure I can figure this out myself.

As it turns out, I couldn’t.  Neither could an impressive collection of cheerful athletes and spectators.  At one point we had somewhere’s around 10 people poking and prodding my poor bike.  It was like a multi-user prostate exam.  How embarrassing.  In the end, we failed.  Sheepishly I walked back over to the mechanic and got back in line.

While in line I called my coach.  That is what he is there for, right?  Random questions asked over the phone about mechanical issues with a bike.  He was concerned that it was not a simple fix at all but rather that my brakes might need to be bled.

What is this, medieval medicine?  I thought we were done bleeding people (and bikes) centuries ago.  When mentioning this to the mechanics they woefully reported they didn’t bring their “bleeding kit” with them.  I waited for a punch line but they kept a straight face.  I took it to assume there really was a thing called a bleeding kit. 

And here’s where the story gets annoying… (too late).  After some serious consideration of doing the race with only my rear brakes intact, and intense convincing by my coach that this would be a bad idea, I packed up the bike and drove to a bike shop an hour away for a bleeding session.

Well praise the Lord, after all that my brakes were working again.  The only problem was that it was now approaching 7pm and I had yet to resume the sluggery.  Dammit!  Oh well, I guess this means there will be no test drive of the trusty steed.

Fast forward to race morning.  You know when you hear something so distinctly that you would swear you heard it one way?  Such is the case with how I heard the closing time of the transition area in the morning.  I swear the dude said transition would close at 6:45am.  As it turns out, he apparently said 6:25am.  Imagine my delight to hear as I was leisurely walking towards transition, bike and gear bag at the ready at 6:20, that transition was closing in 5 minutes.  I believe I had a quick outburst of obscenities, likely poisoning the innocence of  near passersby.

In a mad dash I ran to transition area pushing down at least 3 elderly volunteers, dug out my junk from the gear bag, wrestled a pump away from a weaker looking athlete, and for good measure ran in 2 small circles while waving my hands in the air.  By the skin of my teeth, I made it in time.  How relaxing.

My swim start was 7:42.  Translation: stand around and count how many times you have to pee before getting in the water.  The final tally was impressive if I do say so myself.

The Swim:

We all know I’m not a great swimmer.  Middle of the pack is usually about right for me.  I’m not interested, or capable, of fighting it out with the strong swimmers.  Nor am I interested in getting clobbered repeatedly in the face by a stray foot attached to a breast-stroking swimmer in the back.  The joy of waved starts is that you’re surrounded by all of the above.  Fast people who started after you who find the most direct path to the finish line is directly over your body, and slow people you’re passing who have fantastically dense calcaneal bones that smartly find their way to the bridge of your nose at regular intervals.

That said, it was refreshing to see different colored caps now and then that started in front of me.  It was one of the more physical swims I have had in recent memory, which may be due to the weird course.  Instead of a big “U” shape, we went in a big “M” shape.  Lots of buoys to navigate = lots of swimmers in a small space.  There were more fists to the back of the head and heels to the face than I generally prefer.

All in all though, not a bad swim.  I climbed out of the shoreline sludge in 46:42, about what was expected.  Wouldn’t hurt my feelings to shave off 5-10 minutes though in future races.

The Bike:

Beginning my inaugural outdoor ride I was filled with excitement to see how my training was going to affect my performance and get a feel for my badass new bike.  Right off the bat, I noticed 3 problems.

-in my morning rush to get in and out of transition, I forgot to fill my water bottles.  First stop in 15 miles…I was gonna be thirsty.

-despite my seemingly strong efforts, I was getting passed like I was barely trying.  That hurts the soul as much as the legs, I find.

-my oh-so-fancy powermeter capabilities were not working.  All winter long figuring out my FTP and training zones, designing a race day plan on ideal wattage, spending embarrassing amounts of money to set this up, all for not.  Looks like I was on my own and had to rely on perceived exertion and cadence.

Not much I could do about problems 1 and 3.  I’d just have to get water later and I’d just have to deal with not knowing my exact power.  Problem 2 though was becoming rather vexing.  I felt like I was working somewhat hard and I was getting passed over like the jello mold at Thanksgiving.  My instinct said to push harder!  My training was solid and I should be able to keep up with these people, right?  But Lord knows, I will never forget the lesson learned in IMMT by pushing too hard on the bike early on.  I kept my perceived exertion where it should be and ignored the troves of athletes passing me.

My patience lasted for 5 miles. Then it stopped lasting.  Assuming my training was what it should have been and that something was wrong, I pulled over.  Imagine my delight at the irony of what I found.  My front brake, that just yesterday was not capable of reaching the wheel, was now ever so slightly constantly touching the wheel!  No wonder I had been passed so many times.  I was pushing against a lightly deployed hydraulic brake for 5 miles.

I unlatched the wheel, gave it a shimmy and shake, and saw I was in the clear.  Smooth sailing from here on out, right?  Nope.  Not 2 minutes later I was feeling slow again.  Pulling over, I see my brakes back to their old games.  I unlatched.  I shimmied.  I shaked…shooked…shook.  On the road again and feeling good.  It didn’t last.  For whatever reason, my newly fixed front brakes were now too fixed.  I had not choice but to release them.

The irony is delicious, no?  After all I went through the day before to make sure the damn things were working only to have to release them during race day and rely solely on the rear brakes.  To answer the age-old question: can you do a half Ironman with only rear brakes? The answer is yes.  Probably still better to have both sets, just sayin’.

With the stupid brake thing now fixed, it turns out I am kinda fast on the bike!  I was passing people, always saying cheerful things to them as I did, and was feeling great.  I wonder how my time would have been different had I not started the bike portion as I did, but I was still pretty happy with my result.  I averaged 19mph and came back to transition in about 2:52 bike time.  Not bad for an April race.

The Run:

Apparently I was not able to accurately estimate what 200 watts should feel like.  I started the run on, how shall I say, jelly legs.  Perhaps due in part to the amount of jelly donuts I had eaten over the winter, but presumably more so due to pushing a bit too hard on the bike.

I also hadn’t ran/rode the run course assuming it was going to be flat.  It’s Florida.  There are no hills in Florida, right?  You see where this is going.

The second half of the run loop (of which there were 3 loops of the run course) was indeed wonderfully flat.  The first half of the loop had some bitchin’ hills in it.  Add that to jelly legs and weather and humidity I hadn’t felt since last August and you can imagine how delightful my run was. 

My expected average pace was an 8:30 min/mile average or better.  I came in closer to 11:00.  There just wasn’t enough gas in the tank and those hills got walked.

As it turned out, the run was my highest age group ranking of all 3 disciplines.  Apparently all of us struggled with the run, which helped stop the hemorrhaging of confidence I felt at race’s end.  Still would have liked to pull in at least a sub 2-hour run.  Ended up being a 2:17 half marathon.

Post race pondering:

As a whole it was a great race and I’m proud to have finished where I did this early in the season.  I have a lot of work to do between now and my second attempt at the beast that is Mont Tremblant in August. 

The good news is that this race doubled my enthusiasm and energy to keep pushing forward.  This time last year I was just really starting my training, which never really reached respectable levels.  This year, in a word, I feel like I’m crushing it.  It’s a nice change to remember why you love something.  It’s a nice change to remember I love being a triathlete. 

Next event is a 7-day bike ride from San Francisco to LA, covering 545 miles in June.  The real countdown however has a big Canadian mountain at the top of it.  4 months until Ironman Mont Tremblant.  I plan to take no prisoners and eat no poutine. 

Ok, that’s a lie.  I’ll definitely eat poutine.  Maybe I’ll wait until after the race though…