WARNING!!! Carbon-ly Explicit Material!!

Tridaddy's IM Training Tip #5

You can't talk triathlon 24/7. "Quality Time" means no Ironman-talk during family activities.

Tridaddy's IM Training Tip #4

Don't spend a lot of money on a fluid trainer. Magnetic trainers are just as quiet...

if you break your kids in early.

"... AND POOH SAID, 'THANK YOU FOR THE HONEY RABBIT!!!' "

Tridaddy's IM Training Tip #3

Just because you're training for an Ironman doesn't mean you can shirk your fatherly duties. Pitch in wherever you can and remember, a happy family is a supportive family.

Tridaddy's IM Training Tip #2

A lot of people think training for an Ironman means sacrificing time with the family. I don't see it. Take a look for yourself. Here's a pic of our recent family barbecue.

Tridaddy's IM Training Tip #1

To save time, I sleep on my bike and start pedalling when the alarm goes off in the morning.

Racing Uwharrie

Those who have read my blog for a while know how I dog my Mizunos, possibly, the best sneakers I ever had. But, you don't know my other dark secret: buried in the deep recesses of my car trunk exists a hungry pair of beasts... my New Balance trail shoes.

For more than a year, they survived without stimulation. No grass cutting, no hiking, no plain old kicking around, and certainly no running. In fact, I forgot they were there... until Uwharrie. Driving through my second rain shower on the way to the 500 million year old mountain range, possibily the oldest in the world, I grew worried for my pretty-boy Asics, having never seen a speck of mud. Then I remembered my New Balance, sitting in the trunk just waiting for the right moment... waiting for Uwharrie.

Like my New Balance, the Uwharrie Moutains have seen better days. Once more than 10,000 feet, the Uwharrie's now rise only a 1,000 feet at their highest peak.
That's not to say there isn't some elevation gain in the race. We were reminded by the director early on not to leave it on the first ascent. Congestion on the narrow double track of that first hill caused most to resort to walking.

Though time has worn the mountain down nearly 9,000 feet it's trail reminded me that my 36 years on this planet meant comparatively little to it. Rocks and roots and trees and streams were obstacles at every turn. The quick footwork I developed with my early cadence work this season proved invaluable in thwarting the mountain from tripping me. Keeping my eyes on it's trail nearly the entire race, I slipped only once when I looked over my shoulder to check on another runner who fell. I never took my eyes of the trail again.

Techincally, it was a difficult run. My heart rate surged and dropped dramatically as I encountered peaks, passed runners, and eased my way down slippery slopes. Passing in itself required great skill and tactics as you never really looked up until you saw someone's sneakers at which point you were too close for a clear view of the single track trail. Quite often I'd catch up to someone, then back off to pick my lane for passing, if one was available. Sometimes, I just had to hang back and wait. Truthfully, I welcomed every one of those opportunities!

Nearing the five mile mark and only aid station on the 8-mile course my calves felt dead. I was certain I could sustain my pace but not so sure I could keep up the fancy foot work that kept me from stumbling like so many others I witnessed. I hit the aid station at exactly 50 minutes for a 10:00 per mile pace... truly amazing considering I walked the first ascent.

A small cup of Gatorade, an orange slice and less than a quarter banana later, my legs were back. Concerned about dead legs for the last ascent, I cooled down to a more moderate pace and 170-something heart rate when I caught up to a woman from Chapel Hill.

We talked about kids and daycare and triathlons and ocassionally her older son would pass us then drop back until eventually he moved ahead for good. Then a guy from Salisbury, NC caught up and we all ran together single file through a couple of streams and up some difficult climbs. We almost lost the trail once but, luckily I spotted the white blaze to our left.

We all cruised in together and shook hands over oatmeal cookies and Gatorade and thanked each other for the conversation on those last few miles. I never got the woman's name, but the guy behind me was Dave from Salisbury, NC. Waiting for the "Dead Legs Express" to transport us back to our cars, we met up with Rich from Hillsborough, NC, I believe.

Throughout the entire race, my New Balance trail shoes played bodyguard for my ankles protecting me from several possible twists and turns.
I couldn't have asked for a better performance from a pair of shoes I keep in the trunk of my car. For their effort, I took their picture with probably the most unique finisher's medal I've ever received: a handcrafted clay medallion.

Without a doubt, Uwharrie will see me next year at the 20 or 40-mile distance. And I can't help but think that a November Ironman just might be adequate training for the 40-mile effort in early February 2007.

Alas! Poor Gold Toe, I Knew Ye

I have never run a marathon, triathlon, or recent road race without these socks, bought by mistake nearly 10 years ago. And now, an era comes to an end, as my final pair, shipped back to me from Florida several months ago, developed this hole *sigh*. What now IM Florida? What sock is going to fill this gaping hole in my gear?

And then, there was one... and one is the lonliest number when you're a sock.

Rocky

Easily my favorite movie of all time. As I get older, it keeps getting easier to get all choked up and near tears at the end. Okay, okay... sometimes a few tears slip out. Little ones though!

That all started a few years ago and now that I have children of my own and have put their hopes and dreams before mine, it doesn't take much for me to let those little tears slip out. Laying on the floor watching Finding Nemo with Claudia... it has happened.

I was talking about this at work and someone thought it odd that I got choked up at Rocky, too. You say Rocky to someone and they think "underdog". Oh, you like stories of underdogs. Little fish with gimpy fin... bum from Philly.

Maybe.

But the real story isn't about being an underdog. Sure, both Nemo and Rocky are underdogs, but that's not why I love them. I love them because I have been there. I have pushed myself past where others will go, to places where no one can help me... and I made it.

At Florida I will do it again.

And just like Rocky, it matters little who gets the decision, because the winner is the person who realizes his dreams.

Superman, Part I

NOTE: Originally written in February 2006.

Never completely trusting the Weather Channel, I stuck my head out the door yesterday morning: 42 degrees and pouring rain. Being one of the few days with only one workout scheduled, I took the liberty of postponing my hour easy run until the afternoon.

By 10 am, the rain broke and by noon it was sunny. Then it warmed. Sweet!

I sped home like a bat out of hell trying to take advantage of the remaining daylight. It lingered I think just for me. Just for this run. I parked the car and ran into T1 (my house) practically ripping off my tie and unbuttoning my shirt as I bounded up stairs. I was changed in a flash and after a few quick stretches I was out the door.

Low fifties, sunlight, shorts, a long sleeve shirt and a cruise down Raven Ridge in hopes of making it to the lake before sunset. I crested the last hill and knew I had made it. A flock of geese honked overhead and the lake bugs were making their evening racket as if it were summer. I stopped for just a second to appreciate the otherwise silent view amongst the surrounding pines while the sun set here in North Carolina.

I could have run all night.

Superman, Part II

NOTE: This was originally written in February 2006.
In was a blistering 80 degrees Monday and I absolutely could not waste that kind of weather on my trainer. I left work right at 5 pm and was soon bounding up the my steps, once again ripping off my shirt, just like Superman. I quickly changed into bike shorts and a short-sleeve bike shirt (yes, I said short-sleeve!) and was out the door. Rush-hour traffic was a bitch at the two major roads I had to cross, but once across Falls of Neuse, it was clear riding to the lake. I even unzipped the shirt a bit, it was that nice! I covered 13 miles in 45 minutes, cruising back home just as the darkness set in.

I had hoped for the same thing yesterday, but realized I just couldn't get an hour ride in before it was too dark, so I set the trainer up in the yard. I averaged 18.5 for just over and hour, then set out for a 30-minute recovery run. Average pace was 9:52 and I covered just under 3 miles.

It's amazing how I can bike for an hour, than run 30-minutes at a 9:52 pace and not feel tired at all, but put me in a 10k at an 8:30 pace and I'm dying. I guess everyone has their kryptonite.

Cycling Carolina

Pedalling over the wooded hill I breathe in the smell of warm pine heated by the sun and watch the road shimmer at the peak of the next hill. Beyond it, the road dips again and crosses NC 96 at the immaculate white wooden church just before a small tobacco farm on the left. I pull a wrinkled hand-written map from the pocket of my Pearl Izumi bike shirt and dexterously unfold it with my right hand without breaking cadence. 21.5 miles: Bailout Point #1, and all is good. I keep cadence and pedal on anticipating my PB&J.

There is something about peanut butter that puts me at ease. To say it is my comfort food would be the understatement of the century and unlike many, I have fond memories of eating it in MRE's (Meals, Ready-to-Eat) while serving in the Marines. In fact, a lot of things about this ride remind me of Parris Island: the smell of pine, the sun, the old white church and the old highway. Not many people know that Parris Island was once an airfield and much of our training was spent on the sun bleached tarmac that resembled many of the country roads I'd cover on this Wilton Ruins ride.



So many abandoned barns lay by the roadside covered with young trees and vegetation as if the earth was trying to reclaim what was once hers long ago. I couldn't help but think there were memories too that would finally be exorcised when the barns were eventually overtaken and decomposed back to earth. And, as I rode these Carolina roads, I knew too that Parris Island was trying to reclaim me.

I thought (you can't help but think when riding six hours) that maybe I really was like Wil. Maybe there was a deep-seated reason why I did this, this training that takes me away from my family and pushes me to my limits... just like Parris Island did. Parris Island was elemental and primal and if you could train your mind to dig deep and claw for every inch of ground, you would survive. Don't ever waste your thoughts on fanciful ideas there...

I reach back and pull out my zip-lock bag of clementine oranges. Gripping it with my teeth, I peel it open and hold it against the aero bars to grab a few slices and stuff them in my mouth. The sugar hits fast and I stop my fanciful thinking and check my map. 41.9 miles: the final Bailout Point and I am still strong.

I put my head down and push hard towards 50 miles and my first rest stop.

The Citgo was not quite the country store I pass at the beginning of each ride so no fresh fruit was available. Instead, I fuel up on a Red Bull and replenish my water and Gatorade mixture.

The further I get into the countryside, the closer the roads resemble the tarmac at Parris Island. The dilapidated barns are in increasingly worse condition and I soon realize that I am not going to make it either. It is too hot, I am too sun-burned, and I have been gone too long.

After calling Sandi on the cell, I make my way to the intersection of NC 56 and NC 96, where I am hoping there is another church or country store, but find only another Citgo. Before I can even sit in the shade Sandi arrives. From the back of the Odyssey I load my bike and talk to CB while realizing that there will be other rides and things are not so final as they were once in my life.

Open Letter to My Shoes

Dear Mizunos,

I don't deserve you.

I haven't been out with you for several weeks since I started running with those new Asics. And we've both known for quite some time that I will be taking them to the big fancy triathlons like Pinehurst and Emerald Isle. But I needed you again this past weekend and you were there for me.

You were once my good shoes, but now I cut grass with you. I leave you in the rain. I cut your laces and test lace locks on you because my Asics are too good for something untested. I even left you on the sideporch for almost a week one time and you actually had spider webs on you. I just haven't been taking care of you lately.

Then, I needed you again for the UNC Wellness triathlon. I promised my Asics I would take them to this race, but when it looked like there might be a little mud... well, I couldn't get my new shoes dirty, so I asked you again for one last race. As always, we had a great time and for just a little while I thought we were perfect.

So what do I do? I kick you off into a corner on the side porch as if you were some cheap pair of grass cutting shoes. Then, I put on my new Asics.

That was wrong I know, but I can't help it. I just don't deserve a pair of sneakers like you.

Crack in the Road

I was up on Sunday with plenty of time to angle my seat back up from my previous angling down and remove my drink system since I lost the mesh stopper, so what do I do? I work on my blog and drink coffee, totally forgetting about my bike. So, the sun starts coming up and I get my act together before the house comes alive, hop on the bike and I'm off and riding down Durant Road.

It was the perfect two-hour ride... until I was almost at home.

Now, I've been lucky with timing lights for quite a while now right up until the point I got back to the intersection of Falls of Neuse and Durant. I had to stop and wait. So, the light turns green and I discover that apparently, I have the only bike seat with a sense of humor. I jump up to get on my bike and my shorts get caught on the seat exposing my crack and yanking me back down on the bar. Had I been agile enough to clip in I would have certainly fallen down in the only busy road of the day, ass exposed. However, I jammed my foot back onto the road, twisted my handle bars and would have fallen over top of those were it not for my left foot still clipped in. Then, I can't exactly explain what I did next, but somehow, I bounced back on my bike and started drunkenly swerving through the intersection left foot clipped in and pedalling with the heal of my right, crack still exposed. It's not until I'm back on soundly and cruising down Durant that I realize my crack is still exposed to traffic. If I knew my wife could see my like this, I would have left it exposed to give her a laugh. Instead, I pull up my shorts and head home.

All in all, a good ride.

Inspiration

Flatman's post inspired me to officially put this down somewhere and is a true account of how I finished my first marathon. It's not about a volunteer per se, but a spectator, who inspired me.

My projected time to finish was five hours. After taking a long hiatus from running, I decided much like Jessie's husband, to come back with a marathon. After 16 weeks of training, I was ready for the big race, the Marine Corps Marathon. I had no idea of the true size of the event even though as a Marine in Washington, DC many years earlier, I knew there was an entire company of Marines dedicated to making this race one of the best supported races in the country, which I have heard many people say that it is indeed.

Not only could I not grasp 18,000 people running a race, I had no idea of the number of spectators on the course. I would have to say that with exception of the bridges crossing the Potomac, almost the entire course was lined with spectators several rows deep. And the final mile, as you turned onto Route 110 was just a massive horde of people cheering and screaming for you as you hit that last mile. When I came off the exit and onto that road, as a straggler, practically alone, I didn't hear cheers, I heard a roar. Gives me chills and gets me choked up thinking about it now as I write it: THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE. A ROAR. For me... cruising in just ahead of my five-hour pace.

Corny, but I closed my eyes and pumped my fist once as I ran through the roar. But as the mile drew to a close, the crowd thinned as most near the end wanted to be at the finish line by the Iwo Jima Memorial. One short steep hill to go and I was getting tired. Maybe I'd walk. Just the hill. Nothing to be ashamed of, I'm going to finish under my goal by about 15 minutes. Don't hurt yourself trying to be a hero, my brain said.

My legs refused to give up that easily though and hit the hill running. But they faded fast... this hill is short, but steep! For a second I lost the rhythm that kept me going for four and a half hours and I stutter stepped, stopped, tried to get going, but couldn't. I told myself not to quit, but maybe all the negative messages from my brain caused my muscles to turn a deaf ear altogether. They didn't hear: DON'T QUIT. DON'T.

Just then, the owner from the small company I worked for, who I didn't ask to be there, who never said she would be there, was overcome with excitement and bolted underneath the rope, jumping out TO ME, this runner, her employee, straggling into the finish of some marathon, some race she didn't quite get, but was inspired by nonetheless, and I inturn, she said, had inspired her. ME? She cheered. My legs, jump-started by her excitement, picked me up and carried me through to the finish.

Energy is transferrable. It moved from her to me that afternoon and I felt it.

Support people. Cheer for them. Volunteers, spectators, whoever, you really do help people finish. I know it.

Thank you Grace for that afternoon in October!

New Heart Rate Monitor

Okay, I couldn't get the Heart Rate Monitor to link up with the watch last night so I called Customer Support and got hooked up in literally 5 seconds. Nike rocks!

So, I go in the bathroom here at work and put on my heart rate monitor and start things up. Walking back into my office my heart rate is 52-54. I sit down and start working and I drop down to 45-48. Then I start thinking about posting to my blog and I scoot up to 55-58.

Keep in mind I have had four cups of coffee today and I just got done paying $150 in cash to Walls Roofing (Thanks for the discount Larry!), but it still hurts shelling out dough... I imagine my heart rate goes way up when paying bills (Hmmm... possible test for the future!)

Okay, I'm a freak. I'm thinking of all sorts of crazy things to test this baby out on...

1. Running
2. Sex
3....

Wait,

1. Sex
2. Running

Okay, my five minute break is up. Back to work.

Solitary Running

I resolved to work an hour late Tuesday but wound up staying an hour and a half longer than that just to get half caught up from the recent landslide that fell on me. I was sad to have missed dinner with Sandi and CB, so I hurried home to see them before they went to bed. By the time I got home it was too late for our typical afterwork play, so I just changed over and started stretching. I was poking around to spend as much time with CB as possible when she came over and did a few stretches with me before flopping onto my stomach. She smiled. "Daddy only", she said. "That's right, only jump on daddy!" I confirmed. She jumped on me a few times more before leaning close and pressing her nose to mine. With wide eyes, she whispered, "Lub you daddy". I picked her up and hugged her tight, "I love you too!"

Sandi reminded us both that it was getting late.

With them off to read before bed, I drove down to the track. A family was playing softball in one of the school's diamonds, but with the exception of the mosquitos and other bugs that would eventually wind up in my hair, the track was empty. I ran an easy six while daylight faded. The "tinks" from the family's aluminum bat soon disappeared while I began my 880's in the half-moon light. Listening to only the crickets and my breathing, I imagined some satellite zeroing in on my solitary speck of movement from above while some Defense Department pogue watched and waited for something interesting to happen. No luck. Just me, the track, and a desire to win.

Life Changing Moment

My years in San Diego were truly my moment in the sun, I felt. I was young, athletic, adventurous and shared many great memories with my fellow Marines at the recruit depot. I also believed that at any moment, I could be called off to war and might possibly never make it home again. That reconciliation caused me to live life to the fullest spending every free moment basking in the sun and surfing the beaches around southern California. I felt that becoming a Marine had the most profound impact on my life. I was wrong.

When I met my wife, I wasn't looking for a girlfriend. I wanted to be single for the rest of my life and live it as close as possible to the way I did as a young Marine in California. But love is love and you can't fight it. Eventually we married, bought a small house and my wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. I could say that that was the most profound moment of my life and people would understand, but no, I can't say it was. It was certainly the proudest moment of my life, but not profound.

Saturday night as I prepared my gear for the Kerr Lake Triathlon, my wife was getting things together as well. Breakfast bars, grapes, bananas, milk, juice, water, snacks, sandwiches, sunblock, diapers, wipes, etc. She had it all packed neatly in a tiny cooler and bag. With a blanket and wagon, she would be well equipped for her's and our daughter's portion of the triathlon. As I crossed the finish line, I saw my wife pop up from her blanket and apologize for missing the picture. She was giving out breakfast bars and juice and blowing bubbles with some kids of other triathlon wives. I didn't mind at all.

But, earlier on in the race when I was exiting T1, I heard something that worried me. The emergency cart was speeding up from the water preceded by shouts, "Out of the way! Out of the way!" Triathletes moved aside as the cart took someone to the ambulance. Then, I heard someone shouting, "Where are his kids?!?!" At first I was worried, but then assumed that maybe the man on the cart was asking for his kids.

I read on a news feed this morning that the man had died from a possible stroke. I copied the story and pasted it into a post and published it. Right below it was the picture of me and my daughter. I cried. What had been a great family outing for me and my family was tragedy for another. It wasn't right to keep that story up. People had already come to my blog via a search for it. I just couldn't keep it up.

I will go home tonight and hug my wife and daughter a little bit harder and a little bit longer than I have in a long time. All I did was run a triathlon yesterday and now I feel as if my life has been changed by someone I didn't even know. That is profound.

Shark Eye and the Pool Monsoon Boy Cronies

I planned on 2900 yards in the pool today, but was actually closer to 2300, I think. I lost count around 1400 or so because of Shark Eye and Pool Monsoon Boy.

Shark Eye and Pool Monsoon Boy are the cronies for Chunky Middle Age Kick Ass Swim Woman. Normally in the same lane, she directs their workout as they hang on her every word like little guppies. Don't get me wrong, they all kick ass, much faster than I am, but that doesn't change what happened today.

Word had it that Swim Team #2 wasn't go to show up until 6:30 today so we "recereational" swimmers had the use of five, yes that's right, five whole lanes. The old dude who always wears a swim cap but still shampoos with special "swimmer's" shampoo had the lane next to the swim team (as he always does, I assume for the view) and I had my own lane next to him. I got in a few hundred yards before they showed up.

They usually swim in the same lane so they can easily huddle up and block others from doing flip turns because apparently, their workout is more important. But today, Pool Monsoon Boy decides to swim in my lane while Chunky Middle Age Kick Ass Swim Woman share another. Knowing that Pool Monsoon Boy is much faster and we had an abundance of lanes this morning, I recommend not doing circles and he agrees. Big Mistake.

For a while, things go smoothly, then I find myself on the same pace as Shark Eye in the other lane. Every time I take a breath, he takes a breath and fixes on me with what appears to be a Shark Eye beneath his right goggle. Is he looking at me?

Stroke. Stroke. Breath... there he is again!
Stroke. Stroke. Again... he's staring!
Stroke. Stroke. Go away Shark Eye!
Stroke. Stroke. Oh no!
Stroke. Stroke. Stop staring at me!
Stroke. Stroke. I can't take this...
Stroke. Stroke. My god, that eye!
Stroke. Stroke. Spray! Gasp. What the hell?

My rythym is broken (thank God!) as water splashes in my face from somewhere.

I do a few more laps, then as we are passing in opposite directions, Pool Monsoon Boy showers me again with spray from his overly wide arm stroke and apparent wrist flip as he cruised right down the middle of the lane.

Okay, I am normally an easy-going person, but today, maybe because of Chris' Wheel-Sucker post, or maybe just because no store in the Raleigh area seems to carry my beloved Grape Nuts anymore, I decide to not be nice and swim closer to the rope, but instead, move closer to the middle myself. No dice. Though I am now under the trajectory of his chlorinated monsoon shower, Pool Monsoon Boy doesn't budge. Now, I must admit, I am not proud of this and hesitate to write it, but damn it, I was mad.

So, I make a little adjustment to my stroke and with a little bit of a flip, the same flip that Pool Monsoon Boy must use, I flick a little spray his way on our next pass as he opens wide for air. Finally, he retreats from the center of the lane as I do myself, settling back in to my normal rhythm.

Okay... wall... that's 1400-- wait! 1600 right? No, wasn't the last one 1400, which would make this 1500. No! I can't be at 1500 this soon... Man! I lost count. Damn you Shark Eye, Pool Monsoon Boy and Chunky Middle Age Kick Ass Swim Woman!

Road Bike High

There was a breeze in my face that day, but I didn't feel it. I sliced through the wind in a way that seemed to defy the laws of physics while absorbing the energy of all the riders around me, sapping them of their strength and passing them by like children. I grew stronger and pedalled faster as if that equation about resistance was wrong. I burned through the miles. For the first time ever, I was one with my machine, fueled by the flourescent sports drink affixed to its frame, my frame. I rode on -- unbeatable.

I Believe

I'm a romantic. Not in the flowers and candy sort of way, but in the sense that I think I will win one day. It was this same sort of romanticism that lead me to join the Marines while my high school friends went to Yale and Brown. It lead me to do everything in my power to fight in the first Gulf War, though I never made it.

Now I spend my weekends pedalling through the countryside preparing for triathlons. Only the free-ranging roosters and black Lab at the corner of New Light and Lawrence Road know my dedication. They crow and bark at me as I pedal by several hours before the peloton will leave Blue Jay Point. They watch me chase some imaginary cyclist I will never catch. But that doesn't stop me.

Because I believe.

Gusty Ride

I should have known that Saturday's cold pouring rain was a sign, but I ingnored it. Even though the weatherman said it would be "gusty" on Sunday, I vowed to ride anyway. Vows are tough sometimes.

I raced through the neighborhood on my humble new Giant OCR2, across the main intersection and was finally into my ride. Not much traffic, sweet. Crossing the first bridge over the lake and heading uphill into the wind, I had some concerns about an NGG (no granny gear) ride. Then, when I hit the open farmland, my hopes of an NGG ride were shattered. Wind. 43 mph gusts. Whoa! Actually, I alternatively grunted two different four letter words for the next 40 minutes as I wrestled my bike through the wind, in Granny Gear, on the flats.

After a bend, the wind was at my side and I soon found myself leaning into it at what felt like a 45 degree angle just to get back in my lane. Wind caught my glasses and were it not for my helmet, they would have blown right off my face. My contacts dried out just as church let out and a lot of old people in Buicks began passing very close to me. I was certain they would make it back home for Sunday dinner and find a triathlete stuck to their car door.

When I finally made it to the country store at the half-way point, I seriously considered calling my wife to come get me. I imagined the conversation: Yes, I know my two-year old is napping. Yes, I know you're five month's pregnant. Yes. Un-huh. Yes. Yes, I know. I know. OK. OK already. I said OK, will you please come get me? Suddenly, 43 mph gusts didn't seem that bad.

I chugged some Gatorade, ate a PowerBar and convinced myself that the wind would be at my back on the way home. What I soon learned, however, is that wind is fickle. VERY fickle. I rode on, into the wind, in Granny Gear, on the flats.

Getting Faster

Gritting my teeth and spiting the wind I barrelled down New Light at 28.7 getting faster with each stroke of the pedal. Having already rode for an hour and ten, I couldn't believe I had the energy to go this hard, yet still I pushed it up to 30.1 on the flats! Another hill tried to tame me, but I crested that at 20.9 and spun down the backside shifting for just one more gear. On the brink of out of control, I saw visions myself at the bottom of the hill tangled in a twisted heap of bicycle and me. With a grin on my face I got low and went for broke.

Shift to Biking

I live to run. My wife used to call me Forrest, I ran so much. Wherever we drove in Northern Virginia, I could almost always say, "I ran there." Sometimes my wife would joke, "did you run there?" pointing at some obscure place like Roosevelt Island and I would laugh, "as a matter a fact, I did run there!"

Perhaps it's because I've never been injured running. Even during a span of five years where I averaged almost 40 miles a week, I never had so much as a blister. Not even during two marathons. No blisters. No injuries. I'm not fast, but my cadence is smooth and my feet rugged. I just love to run.

Or should I say, loved to run. For the first time in my life, I went running and thought, "I wish I was biking." I nearly stopped in my tracks and stutter-stepped just to keep going. Did I just think that? No! Yes. Oh no! I did think it!

It wasn't particulary cold this morning, nor was I too tired to run. I got almost 8 hours sleep last night, 3 more than my usual 5. I was even wearing my favorite running shirt. What's wrong with me?

Something has changed. The person who loved the purity of running, the no preparation necessary to run, the no special equipment necessary to run, the just me and the road idea of running is not the same. I used to dread cycling. Special shorts. Pump up the tires. Put on a helmet. Hope the brakes don't rub or the chain pops off. Oh yeah, and when you're through, wipe it down and oil the chain. Ugghhh!

But no, that's not all that bad anymore. Sometimes when I'm riding I think of all the ways I can take care of my bike, my first road bike, my baby. I find myself spending alot of time in the shed after a ride, tweaking this and fiddling with that and wondering if I should I adjust my seat height as my pedalling has moved more from toe down to heel down. Could this new love of tinkering be growing from my success at a couple of minor repairs to my 116k mile car? Am I becoming mechanical?

It's almost too much to process. Out of respect to my 18+ years of injury-free running, I need to end this post, this unfaithful entry to running. I love running... I love running... I will say it until the feeling comes back... I love running... I love running...

The Marathon

Heart. I lost it at mile 23 when the temperature hit 90 and left it by the side of the road in a pile of empty Gatorade cups. Despite the negative messages from my brain, my legs kept moving, addicted to motion. They would not quit.

While my mind spazzed and fretted about pain, pace, water, and how foolish I was to not bring even one pack of Gu, my legs took control and carried me through the finish, where they finally broke down and begged for mercy.

I spent 16 weeks training for that marathon and if I learned anything, I learned this: Heart can only get you so far, but Legs are a different story. Not only can Legs can get you 26.2 miles, they can get you all the miles in between, on the ground, in the pool, or on a bike.

Heart is overrated.

Morning Routine

I shut off my alarm in mid-beep and swung my legs over the side of the bed in a daze. It was too early, but before I could lay back down my trusty beagle-mutt darted behind me to lay on my pillow, practically forcing me out of bed.

I reached into my dresser in complete darkness and pulled out some shorts, a shirt, and my favorite thin socks by sense of touch. I dressed, then walked around all the creaky spots on the floor and steps, so as to not wake anyone. While I stretched down stairs, I tried watching an Ironman DVD for motivation, but it provided none. It was still too early.

Outside, it smelled like rain and was barely light. It's less than two weeks until my official training starts for the Kerr Lake Triathlon, so I've got to log some miles at a low heart rate. I jog to the end of the driveway, hit the start button on my watch, then take off on another morning run.