Becoming the lyric

I’ve taken to listening to podcasts. Not the CBC or NPR sorts where lofty ideas are floated. My auricular  peccadilloes are a little less grandiose, yet so much more expansive. 

I do things to music. I have always done things to music. It composes, not so much the soundtrack of my life, but the libretto of my essence.  Long before the Walkman existed, I remember truckin’ (yeah truckin’!) around town with a portable mono cassette/radio in a small canvas purse-thing and a pair of Sennheiser earphones rescued from my brother’s garbage bin after Rusty, the family dog had chewed them within an inch of their phono 1/4 inch plug.  I still remember the odd looks I got on the ski slope as I got of the chair lift with this contraption strapped on to me like a man purse with brain scan attachment.

A few years later. Sony did introduce it’s revolutionary Walkman. This was truly revolutionary. Even though I had clearly invented the device a number of years earlier, Sony had managed to miniaturize a cassette player and create the first viable portable listening device. The build-up to my crescendo to a onanistic auralgasm through the use of increasingly miniaturized devices parallels a number of narratives of my life. But this isn't the place for it. Suffice it to say that sometime between Kate Bush and R.E.M. I made the leap from portable CD player to MP3.

Since that time I have never been too far from music. I pride myself on having perfect pitch...well, being able to distinguish and occasionally hit any note I hear. This isn't to say that I can sing. My family makes it all too clear that my singing is closer to Leonard Cohen than to Bon Jovi. That's fine. When I sing now, it is often inside my head or outside - with nothing but the asphalt disappearing beneath my clincher wheels. Or on anotherwise empty running trail. Singing out loud while swimming, on the other hand, has proven to be a little problematic -- more from a breathing point of view, than anything else. 

Sometimes, with earbuds connecting me to my little musical stash, I can reach the right note and put the melody together and find my voice. When I am in key, and I know the lyrics it becomes a little pocket of perfection. I can no longer hear the song. Just myself. When I'm in tune everything plays out according to a song sheet that was long ago written. With the right tune, all the training and effort coalesce into a forward momentum that releases endorphins that feel like a peaty whisky entering my blood stream. 

Podcasts extend this euphoric stream of consciousness into multi-hour sessions that would make a transcendental yogi blush. 

I know there are many out there that advocate listening to your own body instead of music when doing endurance training. Sure...maybe for some. But the delicious secret that isn't really talked about is that the music never leaves you. Long after the batteries have run out. Or during the race when you are forbidden from using earphones, your personal soundtrack continues beats on in harmony with your heart.

During Ironman Canada 2010, I had some precious tunes running through my head as I swam, biked and ran through the Okanagan. They cheered me, sped me up, salved my pain and ultimately reveled in the triumph of my personal best time. Apparently there was music all along the course. I never heard it.

To become the endurance athlete that I'm trying to be, I have learned the I first must become the lyric to the soundtrack of my life. Without it, everything goes out of sync and all around me cacophony echoes.

This is the coda. And the overture.

Spinning Tunes.

Photo by CJ Katz

So this week I went back onto the bike. I was never off it really, but it was  more often leisurely commutes to work or invigorating offroad gambles on knobby tires. The weather in this land has now turned to the nine month season that, amongst  many less-than-obvious benefits, includes no bugs. Other than the occasional foray with the cyclocross into the snow, or gingerly transporting a bike to and from a waiting car, there is little outdoor riding happening in -20 celcius.

But I got onto the bike - indoors. The hour-long experience reminded me how a fluid trainer forces you to be honest. On the road, unless you are doing the macho cyclist socks-match-the-shorts-thing, you can always coast. Or you can soft pedal and still propel yourself towards your destination. You can "cheat". 

Indoors, you are racing no one but the clock. If you cheat, you are just wasting your time - and even worse, you are in a basement or living room or kitchen and getting sweaty and being pathetic for nothing. You have to be honest and do the work...otherwise, why bother? Unless you must soft pedal for recovery, because of an injury or other viable reason, there are far better exercises and activities in which to engage rather than wasting time on a trainer. 

I administer an indoor bike class for my triathlon club. By administer,  I mean run, operate, lead, set up, collect, clean up and wake up for, every dark, freezing, godless, Saturday morning. I still shake my head about why I do this. I know why I do. I enjoy the experience and the energy I get back from the other riders. I'll go with that.  This year, I decided that I would lead a lot more of the sessions, rather than rely on videos, such as Spinervals. Why? I wanted to challenge my introverted self into stepping (or spinning) a little further out of my comfort zone and share with the participants some of the routines that I have picked up in my brief life as an endurance athlete.

So I spent a lot of time thinking and writing down a number of training sessions that would first not scare off the participants, and that would gradually challenge them and help them feel like they were not "cheating", or wasting their time at that crack of stupid early morning.

I spent an equal amount of time putting music together. Trying to find music that would work with the training, but that would be interesting enough to keep the participants motivated. My musical tastes are quite expansive, and include most musical styles - except the that big haired abomination that, sadly still flourishes and shows up on "Greatest Hits format" radio stations and local concert halls catering to geriatric, and financially destitute axe wielders...but I digress. 

I felt a little like a David Bowie character - I am what I play. I put music together that I hope will surpise, inspire and keep every spinning. Last time I tried this, I was told, by someone in the know, that my music sounded like it came from a Greek discotheque. I took that as a compliment. 

So I got on the bike and the trainer this week. On Saturday at 7 am, I unveil my workout to the paying participants who hopefully like it enough to want to come back. In cycling, they call the TT, or time trial the race of truth. For me this will be the race of honesty during which some key questions will be answered. Is this challenging enough? Is it interesting? Can I keep up and lead the class? Will I pass out? 

Whatever happens, I'm locked into this until the first thaw in May. Honestly? I think I'm looking forward to this.

Race readiness, showering and the importance of play

I'm a guy to who likes to shower. During peak training, on a good day, I'm sometimes up to three or four a day. An environmentalist would probably say that's a bad day. Mind you, I don't eat red meat...but I digress...and believe me, not-showering would not be good for my immediate environment.

But stink-loving technical fabrics aside, I think it is more about the routine, than the cleanliness. Sure, I put the "wet" in sweat, but starting the day with a quick lather, just seems right. finishing a workout, or a swim or a ride or a run with a quick, not too-aggressive scrub is just second nature now.

So the other day, I was greeted on a workday by she-who-shares-my-genes not with breakfast in bed, but with the request for a very early lift to school. Well, of course. A challenge is a challenge and I rose to the occasion, as it were. A few minutes of cursory hygiene and wardrobe selection later, I was in the car driving to work, via school.

 

Although I was conscious of the not-yet-shaved and showered feeling, I was not overly concerned as I knew I could catch up during the noon-hour swim session.

But I got to thinking. And while I'm still in the grips of T3, I seem to do more thinking than anything else! I thought about race readiness. According to the experts, race readiness is supposed to be how ready one is, physiologically and mentally to participate in a race or competition. Yeah, I suppose it has something with that. But what I really think it is about is how ready are you to go out and play?

Do you remember? When the little snot-nosed kid from next door came by and would ask if you wanted to go out and play -- what was the go/no-go parental decision usually based on?

• Was homework done?
• Chores? 
• Was it cold/were you appropriately dressed?
• Were you fit enough - not sick and capable of playing without getting hurt?
• What was the playing "history" with this snot-nosed kid? Any trouble with local authorities?
• Were you adequately fed and/or could you get back in a reasonable time for a meal?
• Would you benefit from the activity in any way?

These are all questions that any racer goes through before going to sleep the night before a race. Sure the specificity of them may be different, but the essence is the same. Are you ready to do this and if you are not, what will be the cost if you do it anyway?

So, I was driving back from the early-morning drop-off, unshowered, but completely confident that I had been ready to perform the unexpected task that was asked of me. But how ready was I to go out and play? How ready was I to go and run or swim or bike at any pace faster than a leisurely amble that I have mastered of late?

Well, judging from a near-PB on my first 10k race in years the week before, some solid off-road bike riding and a surprise 1300m swim earlier in the week, I could probably hang out and keep up with the snot-nosed kid.

This whole experience reminded me that  throughout the race season, but more so during the off-season, being prepared for anything is essential. Whether that anything is a pick-up game of football, a muddy trail ride, or even an early morning drive.

And why is it important to be prepared during the off-season? Because play is important. Play is what keeps you limber, agile and cogent enough  to take on the next challenge. Play is what will entice you into a novel activity that will re-energize your soul. Play is what will keep you young, even as, with every passing year, you will race with fewer people your age and against many more that do not remember the rotary phone, the 8-track or the Soviet Union. 

Most of all, and most importantly, play is what will give you a reason to look forward to having a shower...sometimes even having one with a close friend!

HOCl and the sweet smell of total body fatigue

Sixty-one days. That's how long it has been since I was last in the water with the express intent of doing something other than bobbing.

I distinctly remember the last time. It was late August. there were several thousand of my closest fellow masochists waiting to go from Point A to Point A  trying to stretch it into a 3.8km hour-plus sojourn in Lake Okanagan.

Now I have been in the water once or thrice since then, but that didn't really count as I also spent some time in a eucalyptus steam room, and that negates any actual attempt at exertion.

It has been a full two months. And on the first of November, I made my triumphant return to my favourite pool, the pool that has so much HOCL that it is used as a remedy for athlete's foot and a host of other conditions that I try not to dwell upon.

I have always maintained that swimming is not so much a sport, as it is a means of not drowning. It is one of the few public activities where there are actually people employed to sit around and, occasionally, save your drowning ass if you have a momentary lapse of understanding that lungs and fluid don't mix.

Sure, there are medics and other people with bandages at races and rides for those who fall, or have a pre-existing condition catch up with them. But in a pool, or on some swanky beaches there are folks out there to actually pluck you out of the water.

It is that sense of risk and danger that keeps some people away from the pool. Others it is the fear of how they look in a Speedo, or worse, how others look in a Speedo. The Mediterranean vacations of my past notwithstanding, I chose this day to return to the pool and, not one bit ignorant of the religious undertones, re-mmerse myself into a ritual that, for four years has punctuated my lunch hours.

To say it was a triumphant return, is a bit of an overstatement. Had I bellyflopped off the high platform and then completed 1000m using a one-armed butterfly stroke, then I could have bragged.

But no, I meandered to the free lane, avoiding puddles on deck, as I had forgotten to pack my pool sandles. I wear these more to deal with the "gross factor" of stepping in warm liquid of unknown providence, rather than out of a genuine concern for hygiene - see HOCL above.

Having found my place in the slow lane. I observed several other swimmers swimming clockwise circles and a walker bouncing to and fro and looking quite determined to splash as much water as possible.

I wasn't in any rush. I was back in my element. I had long ago conquered my fear of this aqueous substance, and somewhat overcame the embarrassment of the follicular overabundance everywhere, but on my palms.  I licked my goggles - an anti-fogging trick first used in this country by fur traders and gold rush prospectors, I believe. I stretched on my swim cap, put on the goggles and gingerly lowered myself into the 18c degree water.

And with a kick off the bulkhead, so began yet another season of the striving for a dull, happy fatigue created by swimming and that no other excercise can mimic.

Typing these words now I am surrounded by a subtle, but pervasive bouquet of Chlorine. And I know at last, as Frankenfurter once said. I'm going home.

Feeling Awkward and the OSM

From time to time, we all find ourselves in situations about which we may feel slightly uneasy. I was reminded of this by the recent World Triathlon Corporation's Ironman Access program launch and almost immediate rescinding of that program after considerable customer outcry on social networking sites. I've said my piece on this issue elsewhere...

But what I am interested in is that moment of discomfort. That instant when an individual (or a corporation's CEO) has an OSM -- an oh shit! moment. Everyone has had these. Something that seems like such a good idea at the time, actually turns out to be the worst of all possibilities.

Think of how you felt while getting stitches after using the pocket knife to tighten a screw. Or standing awkwardly, alone, after sharing an anecdote with someone whom the anecdote was actually about! Or, realizing that 300m into a mass swim start that maybe going full speed and keeping up with the leaders wasn't such a good idea, especially with more than 3km more to go. Or, my favourite, having your partner photograph someone who is not your partner straddling you in the cockpit of a car.

I've had more than my fair share of OSMs. Some of them in triathlon, and just as many, if not more in the dress-up, adult world. What intrigues me is that the moment of realization is not after the gaff has occurred. For me, the OSM happens just before the damage is done.

As I'm forming words in my mouth, but have not yet recruited my larynx, I have found my self inexorably hurtling towards uttering something that should never, ever have left my lips. It is like a train wreck. Everything is in slow motion. It actually feels like I've left my body and I'm looking down at the show. The verisimilitude is stunning. Sometimes it is even in 3D! What always whips me back into reality is the sudden sick feeling in my stomach, the unexplainable clammy hands and the palpable feeling of sickness that floods my blood stream riding shotgun with the adrenalin release. 

In my life, OSMs follow patterns. I see them coming. It is like Tourrettes but with a built-in early warning system. When I pay attention, I can stop them before anyone but my inner self notices. No damage is done. And actually, sometimes I may even learn from the only-in-my-head experience.

I'm in the middle of an OSM right now. I have very few definitive races planned for 2011, no set training plan, no regimen to follow. I've been sticking to a training plan for the past four years. This year...zip!

My OSM? Oh shit! I'm starting to gain weight, I'm sleeping too much and not very well, I'm eating the wrong stuff - at the wrong time and I'm becoming more and more lethargic in my own sluggishness.

At the height of my Ironman training two years ago, I could tell, when on my bike or on the run, if something was about to go wrong. I had become so attuned to my body that I knew that a slight feeling of confusion and lack of conviction meant I was running on empty. A quick jolt of carbs had me back in form withing a couple of minutes. Similarly, a twinge in my quad while climbing out of the saddle reminded me that I was pushing too hard and maybe I was running a little low on electrolytes.

Just days before Halloween, I look in the mirror and find that I've started wearing a scary costume that I haven't worn in years - I'm dressed like a couch potato, albeit a sweet one, I'm told.

This is my OSM! It is time to change my course, and alter it before it becomes my reality. Some may call it a wake up call. I think it is the end of T3 for me. It is time to HTFU and get back to living the lifestyle that works. Back to training tomorrow.

Training for what? Training for life.

Leaving Footprints.

In a different era -- BTE -- before triathlons existed – at least in my consciousness – my sport of choice was walking. I used to walk everywhere. I grew up in a place where the transit system was cheap, convenient and efficient, yet I often would start the day a half hour early and walk the few extra miles or 5 to get to where I was going.

Walking was my outlet, my time with myself – a time of pure and simple self-sufficiency. With such a history of walking, it was no surprise when good friend, SP, suggested we explore hiking the Appalachian Trail, that I fell for the idea. 

It has not occurred to me, until now, how back then, decades before I knew anything about chaffed nipples, I was learning about pacing, endurance and mental toughness.

 

Thinking back to that glorious time of self-sufficiency, dried food and iodine water purification tablets, I learned a lot about myself – during that gloriously challenging month clambering and hiking among the rhododendron, wolf spiders, moonshiners and invisible bears on the Tennessee/North Carolina portion of Appalachian Trail.

Preparing for that trip involved countless planning meetings at Dunkin Donuts pouring over maps and supply lists and equipment catalogs and bus routes trying to plan for the big excursion. The parallels between how I approached this and my current race prep are unmistakable, except of course, there is no Dunkin Donuts where I now live and I prefer to not take Greyhound to race sites.

On the training side, the tools were different, but the methods and theory were no different than what I have done for Ironman.  I would fill my pack with books – 70 pounds worth and walk for hours and hours up and down city hills, uptown, downtown and anywhere that seemed would be a challenge in my urban landscape.

I would try different socks and shirts and pants. I practised walking with and without water.  I would try granola bars and GORP and Snickers bars. Occasionally, I even splurged on some Gatorade. When my legs or my back and neck started to ache from the strain, I would take a break for a day or two and ride my 10 speed.

And in so doing, I became more confident in my abilities and even a little cockier.  Even though, as a teenager, I was apprehensive about jumping on a bus and traveling so far from home, I was beginning to anticipate the challenge.

When we finally arrived and found our way to the trailhead, we were greeted with several days of non-stop rain. All my hopes and dreams for a great adventure into adulthood were dampening, like my wool socks. I still have my journal from that time and that section reads like the last words of a man forever trapped underground with supplies dwindling almost as fast as patience. 

This was the same experience I found myself in some of my first races. All of a sudden, 300m into the swim, wearing a third-hand wetsuit that was too big for me, I realized that my arms were already tired and I still had 1600m to go – just to finish the swim!

The nascence of the terms “suck it up, buttercup” and “Harden the fuck up” are unknown to me, but it is precisely those sentiments that got me moving. In Tennessee, where we were holed up in our tent for days, stupidly waiting for the rain to stop, I hiked up out of valley and realized it was only raining in the valley! 

In Morden, Manitoba, it was a kick to the head from another swimmer that made me realize that I was in a half-iron distance race and it just wasn’t going to get any easier. 

The interval between my Appalachian adventure and start of my life as an endurance athlete is just over 20 years. In that time, I moved and lived some great adventures and had wonderful relationships and found the love of my life and together we grew a family that I still have to pinch myself about.

At the end of some of my races, I feel great, but always find that I could have done better had I just pushed a little more, or spent a little less time in transition. This realization leaves me often with a feeling of a void – like I missed some opportunity. 

Looking back at the decades between my youthful adventures and my middle-aged athleticism , I don’t feel that void.  I can’t imagine getting to where I am now without having experienced what I did in those 20-plus years.  I am sure, on further reflection, I will also discover even more examples of experiences that made me HTFU and get on with it.

Just this week, I finally completed the tattoo on my ankle. I never really wanted a tattoo, but the accomplishment of three Ironman races created in me a need for some kind of footprint in sand of where I’ve been.   

This marker of where I’ve been reminds me of some words I first read many years ago while I was preparing for my Appalachian sojourn. 

It is reportedly a quotation from Chief Si’ahl, (c. 1780 – June 7, 1866), the leader of the Suquamish and Duwamish Tribes. His name, was anglicised to Seattle. Take nothing but memories and leave nothing but footprints, he is alleged to have said.

I took that line, apocryphal or not, to heart as I entered the wilderness with a sense of awe and respect. 

As I exit an entirely different sort of wilderness, I see the footprint in indelible ink that circles my ankle like barbed wire grown into the fleshy bark of a tree.  

I must keep stepping forward, making new memories, if I am to leave any more footprints in the sand.

Looking back at my life as an endurance athlete.

On August, 29th, 2010, I completed my third in a row Ironman Canada at a personal best time. I had some interesting struggles and some triumphs and a pannier-full of revelations about myself, my abilities and what motivates me. You can read all about the race, my actions and my times in my race report.  


But this isn't the place to go over the individual race. I deliberately took my time before I blogged, just so I could put some distance between where I am now and the four years of preparation, training and racing that went into three years of Ironman.  


During most of September, I also struggled with what I've come to understand as T3. In triathlon, one contends with two transitions - swim to bike and bike to run - T1 and T2.  T3 is the transition from racing to not racing. It doesn't matter if you are a professional, a serious age grouper or just some guy, like me, who one day decided to get up off the couch, T3 is something many triathletes and endurance folk will probably face after they have completed their "big" race. Google Marathon Blues or post race depression for some more specific thoughts on this. Or for a quasi scientific/scholarly analysis, read an Ironman specific analysis here. 


I've been to T3 before and got the Tshirt. The best way out of it is simply to plan another event or activity before the end of the "big" race. Then you have something to keep training for. You have good reason to rest and do very little (you have to rest up before the big push). This pre-planning (some would call it goal setting) also helps you answer that most annoying of questions - "so whatcha doin' next?" 


But this time, I wanted to try something different. I have been training so long and so hard, I had lost sight of what I was actually doing. Looking back at my training blogs over the past four years, I have seen reduced time in the pool and significantly less time on the bike. I did spend more time running this year, but that had something to do with a new goal - the Fargo Marathon. 


Despite the reduced training time, I still achieved a personal best. Not because I was in better shape, I would argue that I was in marginally mediocre shape, training wise. I did better because I raced smarter. I had a faster swim, despite ending up on the rocks and losing time there. I had a crappy bike ride. Mind you I got hailed and rained on and faced surprisingly strong winds. But my pre-race plan was to not push as hard on the bike and save something for the marathon run. 


The weather conditions forced me to not push that hard on the bike and I had a tremendous run - I actually ran! In my third year of racing I figured out how to race this race and was pleased with my results. I broke 14 hours by 10 minutes. If I were racing Ironman Canada a fourth year, I'd be focused on getting an even faster time.

But I'm not racing #4. Not this year. I'm looking back from the finish line. 


Over the past four years my family has been very patient and understanding with the absentee member of the family. Training 17 hours a week meant a lot of time out of the house and a little too much time in the shower. At least I was the one who did most of the laundry. My hope for this year and beyond is to synthesize everything I've learned about myself and coping with challenges and make our family life a little richer. (We will actually be a lot richer since I won't be spending all that money on race fees, travel  and hotel rooms this year!). My hope is to spend more time living my life with my beautiful family and looking for opportunities to train with them, whenever possible.


Over the past four years I've also made some friends through the sport and through the various blogs and websites I've trolled around. Some have become truly special confidants and albeit virtual, training partners and friends. I have traveled thousands of miles to see some of them, or traveled across the continent with them as athletic support. I've also texted with them from airports, Starbucks, hospital waiting rooms and roadside motels  for their words of wisdom, encouragement and acceptance.

Over the past four years I have met some others that I met have broken my heart.


Looking back beyond the finishing tape, what have I learned? More than I'm willing to admit. I used to joke that through this training I'm getting younger. And I did. Physically, I reversed much of the excessive living and corpulence that had taken hold of me. Similarly, I reversed some of the closemindedness and intolerance that I found myself experiencing. Ironically, when I was most alone - 30 km from home on foot or 120 km on bike, I was nearest to when I used to walk miles and miles alone after school as a pre-teen and teen. And, during those long, training sojourns, I found myself having the same rich, creative, expansive thoughts that I had believed were gone forever.

Looking back what have I learned? 

• Procrastination is good, just don't make a habit of it.
• Be prepared to improvise and you'll not have to...much. 
• A little pain means you are doing it right. a lot of pain means you're not. 
• Hear from everyone, but listen to yourself.
• Those who have the least to give you sometimes give you the most.
• The more you spend (time and money) the faster you will become, but then what?
• Shower lots, but don't forget to moisturize.
• Swimming in a chlorinated pool in your running shorts will get the stink out.
• If you can't run, walk...but really, are you sure you can't run?
• Make peace with the wind. You don't have much of a choice.
• Experience fear, discomfort and disappointment during training - you'll respect them more race-time
• Asthma drugs rob you of Potassium. Stock up on your bananas and Fig Newtons.
• A little spit goes a long way...preventing fogging in goggles, for instance. 
• A C02 pump will quickly inflate your tire. A conventional pump will get you home.
• During a race, stopping feels great. Finishing feels better.
• If your butt hurts on the bike, stop sitting so much.
• If your loved one says she doesn't mind you training for 6 hours...again, spend time with her instead. 
• Non racers don't care about the details of the race. It's the bloopers that are interesting.
• There is no shame in lubing your nether regions. 
• Regular running shoe laces still work better than speed laces during long runs.
• You can save money by eating and drinking real food during training. 
• There will always be people faster and slower than you. Who cares! Just beat the nun!
• Every little while do a systems' check and see that you are on track, then adjust appropriately. 
• Make your experiences available for others to read. Learning should never be kept secret.