From the Finishing Chute: A Day to Remember

13:09:18. My finishing time for a day I won’t easily forget. Tears well up and my throat tightens even as I write this. It was truly an epic day that merged the base and the transcendent, the serious and the jocular, the quick and the dead (energy-wise).

The Swim
The day began clear and calm with a 7:00 am gun and two laps of a 1.2 mile course in 63 degree Coeur d’Alene Lake. It seemed interminable--weak swimmer than I am, but I was able to remain calm amidst the inadvertent fisticuffs and maulings that happen when 1800 athletes aim for the same turn buoy a half mile away. An hour and twenty-five minutes later I was happy to be out of the water wobbling to the bike transition.

The Bike
After being peeled out of my wetsuit in one second flat by a two-person team of “wetsuit strippers,” I all but sauntered to the changing tent and then my bike. (It was going to be a long day after all, no need to overexert myself). On the bike, I felt very much at home and set a comfortable pace that would hopefully leave something on the run. Often called the “rolling buffet,” the bike leg is where you get most of your calories for the day, so I set to eating and drinking every 15 minutes--with my watch reminding me when it was feeding time.

Most of the course was quite beautiful, with some hills and wind. It was a wonderful feeling to be ticking off the miles at an OK rate and feeling well within myself. Around mile 81, I saw some friends who were volunteering as course marshals. They proffered good cheer and set me up for the last 30 miles back to Coeur d’Alene.

One hitch, which turned out to portend big problems ahead: my stomach started cramping about half way through the bike. To try to reset it, I cut back on my calorie intake--a hard thing for me to do since I knew this would have implications for the run. Unfortunately, it didn’t help, and I came into the bike-to-run transition with a crampy stomach having taken in about the half the calories I should have.

The Run
After a relatively quick change into my running gear, I passed through a startling gauntlet of female volunteers donning sunscreen slathered latex gloves and headed out onto the run. My legs felt surprisingly fresh. I started ticking off distance with short strides and was feeling positive about what lay ahead. My stomach, however, had other ideas.

It went from annoyingly painful to truly painful, and I had to start walking at mile two. (Warning: unrated talk of GI problems ahead). Still walking at mile 3, I stopped to throw up behind a late model Toyota. Then, (still walking) at mile 5, I laid down under a tree for about 10 minutes as a last ditch attempt to reset my stomach. I was starting to bump against a DNF (did not finish), which I could not believe I was actually considering. “These were dark times, young padawan.”

My siesta under the tree, though, did just enough. Over the next two miles (still walking!), my stomach started to unknot, and the referred pain I was feeling in my neck and back started to go away. And at mile 7, hosanna in the highest, I was actually able to start running again.

With the temperature in the 80’s and not having had anything to drink or eat for about an hour and a half, I was in an unrecoverable hydration/energy trough. But, I’d run between aid stations (about a mile apart) and walk through the stations while I took whatever fluids and calories I could. And I felt good, up until about mile 17, where I started feeling nauseated every time I ran.

But, nausea I could take. At least my stomach wasn’t painfully cramped. So, undeterred, I kept running/walking, taking in calories at the aid stations until, just for good measure, I threw up again at mile 20, behind a late model tree this time. I knew at that point that I could probably crawl to the finish (an official mode of locomotion according to the Ironman rule book--seriously!), so I just decided to abandon my quest for calories and sip easy-emptying water as I ran/walked to the line. And I certainly wasn’t alone.

Finding people surprisingly serious and silent on the bike leg, the slog of the run opened many people up to the exchange of bon mots (at least while walking). And, with the sun beginning to go down and the temperature dropping, it was actually a serene trip over those last six miles.

The Finish
At the turn onto Sherman street for the last quarter mile, the road was lined with hundreds of cheering spectators who slowly closed in until the passage was about the width of a house hallway for the last 50 meters. Just for a moment, I got a glimpse of what Lance Armstrong must feel riding through the throngs on L’Alpe d’Huez. Amazing.

About 20 meters before the finish, I met up with my two sons (5 and 3), and they came across the line with me (see photo up top, just after). That was very special. For all that my wife and kids have sacrificed so I could train, I felt privileged to share the experience with them. It was as much theirs as mine.

Now, five days adrift, I’m still turning the day over and over in my mind. For all the growing I did during my training, that really was just prelude to the experience of Coeur d’Alene. From the swim to the bike to the very eventful run, I was stripped down to my essence and got a rare chance to see who I really was. And I think I’ve become a better person because of it. Until next time. Cheers.

From the Staging Area: Quiet Confidence

The time has come. I’ve registered, checked in my bike, gorged myself on carbohydrates, and queued up some brainless DVDs to enhance my pre-race digestion and relaxation. The only thing left now is to see how it all unfolds once I step into Lake Coeur d’Alene for the first leg of the adventure. One thing I know: The well wishes and support of friends and family over the past couple of days has been very uplifting, and I can’t thank you enough. One never knows how things will unfold in any type of racing, but right now I’m nervous, very curious, and quietly confident about the day ahead. Cheers.

Mnemonic Miles: My Final Long Run

Sunday was my last long run--eighteen miles that marked the beginning of my taper down to Coeur d’Alene. And like most long runs, it was a contemplative venture; mile after mile filled with thoughts that lead from one to another, flip back around, and then jump someplace else entirely. Yet this run was an even richer adventure of mind and memory than usual, placed as it was right in the middle of my 20^th high school reunion weekend.

You get your miles in when you can, and it just turned out that I couldn’t get around running over my reunion weekend. So after a few hours’ sleep following Saturday’s festivities, I was up early hitting the pavement so I could be done in time for the Sunday morning events.

My high school alma mater, Cate School, is arguably one of the more beautiful settings in the United States (biased opinion here), and it was no sacrifice to run around its environs: golden foothills dotted with California oaks, expansive views of the Pacific and Channel Islands--just wonderful.

I hadn’t run on these roads since I’d been on high school cross country, and I hadn’t ridden on them for nearly as long. And it was as if each foot strike cracked open a batch of nearly lost memories, not just of old rides and runs, but of good, almost magical times with friends and schoolmates. Of course, some memories welled up that marked loss as well, for times passed that can’t be revisited--something made even more poignant by a couple somber Morrissey tracks on my MP3 player.

Still, I was buoyed by the run. It reminded me that I’m one of the luckiest people on earth to have had the opportunities I’ve had; to be surrounded by marvelous caring friends (even if we see each other only occasionaly), and to be graced with a wondrously great family. It’s easy to lose site of all I’ve been given when I get caught up in the daily march of life. It’s good to know that one long California run can bring it all back to the fore.

From the Countdown: Track the Race Live

Anyone with a leaning toward the macabre can log on to Ironmanlive.com on race day (June 26) and track the leaders and others much less gifted (like myself) as we make our way through the all day venture over water, hill, and dale. Thoughts of encouragement will be much appreciated, to be sure.

Janus Charity Challenge: The Final Stretch

A great many thanks to everyone who’s contributed to Partners in Health (PIH) through my Janus Charity Challenge page. We’ve made great strides and are now just a little over $700 short of the donation goal. Partners in Health is top-ranked by CharityNavigator.org and does wonderful and innovative work the world over to improve the health of the poor. See what you might be able to contribute leading up to the June 25 cut off. To make a donation, please visit my official donation page: click here. The more money we can raise for PIH before the race, the more likely it is that they’ll be eligible for Ironman-related matching funds. Thanks very much.

The Labyrinthine Way

Graham Greene’s extremely powerful and moving novel “The Power and the Glory” had the original working title, “The Labyrinthine Way:” A little known fact that has almost no bearing outside of the halls of academia and the booths of dark coffee houses in the Castro. While slightly obtuse and less lyrical than “The Power and the Glory,” I find the phrase an apt description of the concatenations that bring us to particular points in life.

And it has surely been a labyrinthine way that has brought me to my taper for the upcoming Ironman Coeur d’Alene. It’s really hard to believe, actually. The whole thing started when I told my wife that I’d like to do an Ironman sometime in the next 10 years. Her first response: “That’s very cool, just not this year, please!” And that’s how it all began.

I can’t recall the exact details of how I worked around this (short term memory loss secondary to training-related hypoxia), but my use-it-or-lose-it qualifying time for the Boston Marathon had a lot to do with it. I’ve always wanted to do Boston, and you get only two years to use your qualifying time to enter. I didn’t do 2004, so 2005 was my last chance, so I had to do it. After glancing at the calendar, it seemed logical to springboard that fitness from Boston into a full Ironman attempt. And my wife, as wonderful and athletic as she is, acquiesced and bought into it all. So it all began.

Along the way to this, my last big weekend of workouts before the event, I’ve worked around virulent household sicknesses, too many school vacations, tropical storms, extreme sleepiness, and an out-of-state move scheduled for two days after my race (which includes selling our house). And while this may not seem like much at face value, I found it quite challenging, especially in the face of the often quixotic quest for more and more hours in the pool, in the saddle, and on the run.

Not one to burn the candle at both ends, I can’t believe I’ve actually gotten to this point and stuck pretty much to my original training plan, and I’m excited to see if it’s enough when I toe the line June 26. Regardless of the outcome, the training alone has taught me a great deal: patience in the face of barriers, persistence in the face of inertia, and often most important, quadruple lattes in the face of sleepiness.