Back in the Pool

Well, it's been 19 months, almost to the day, since I was swimming regularly.  And 19 months ago, I don't think you could really call it swimming...more like floating up and down the pool.  I swam right up until April 10th, and Lilly was born on April 11th. So it has definitely been awhile.

The gym that we joined is two minutes away from our house, has all the cardio and weight equipment we could possibly use, and has a pool.  Jim and I spent a couple of weeks scouting out the pool in the mornings; seeing how crowded it was, what days were the most busy, checking out the swimmers.  Then, about 10 days ago, I decided that today (or that Thursday) was the day for my first swim.  I got to the gym as soon as it opened at 5 so I could choose my lane and have some time to swim by myself.  I'm not too fond of sharing lanes with people at public pools since the majority of swimmers aren't really swimming.  Most of them spend their time in the pool with fins and kick boards, doing breaststroke while keeping their head above the water, or floating on their backs doing some rendition of elementary backstroke.  True to the stereotype, three other lanes filled with the aforementioned people.

I felt pretty good for the first half hour.  The swimming felt easy and fluid and it was nice to be back in the rhythm (or as some like to say, the monotony) of swimming laps.  Then, a girl got in the lane next to me and unknowingly ruined my workout. This girl got in the pool at 5:30 and had the nerve to start swimming faster than me. Instantly, my competitive side kicked in (thank you, Dad), and I couldn't enjoy swimming anymore because this girl was lapping me.  I started doing absurd things; I stopped for a drink of water at the wall right before she was about to pass me, hoping that she would think she was only passing me because I was resting.  I pushed off the wall harder from my flip turns.  I told myself that she was faster because I was half way through my swim and she had just started.  I destroyed what should have been an enjoyable first swim back in the pool because I couldn't zone this girl out and swim at my own pace.  I came home from the gym in a filthy mood and I'm sure Jim was thrilled to get out of the house and workout instead of having to listen to me blame an innocent girl for ruining my morning.

The next Tuesday, I decided to go back for round two.  I wasn't sure how often this girl swam but I decided I wasn't going to take any chances.  I got there at five again and picked a lane on the opposite side of the pool.  Swimmers are usually creatures of habit and once they find a lane that they like, they'll stick with it.  When Jim, Jerry and I were training for the Ironman, we had our chosen lanes that we swam in for every workout.  Anyway, I saw the dreaded girl swimmer get in the pool at 5:30 again, in her lane.  I couldn't keep track of her even if I wanted to which meant that I had a wonderful swim.  It is completely and totally irrational, I know, but I just can't help it.  It's that same competitive nature that won't allow me to get in the pool and just swim for an hour.  I have to count my laps or do a certain amount of meters. Being this way is great on Race Day...but why can't I just enjoy working out?  I'm not even training for anything at the moment.  As Joseph has taught me, it's important to never think anything is your own fault, so in this case, I've chosen to blame Dad.  We've all been out for an "easy" ride with Dad, which is easy until someone has the audacity to attempt to pass us.  Those "easy" rides turn into time trials in a matter of minutes.  So I know it's genetic, and there's not much I can do to fight it.  I'll be in the pool on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 5am, finding ways to make my life difficult and looking for other people to blame, if anyone would like to join me.  

A Morning Like So Many Others

The alarm went off at 5:30. Feet hit the floor. Eyes stiff. My room, like outside, quiet, dark. The question: “back to sleep?” No. The proposed compromise: “Another thirty minutes. You need it. You worked late last night.” Some other time.

Hadn’t ridden outside in a while. Bike check. Flicked lights on downstairs. Wheeled the bike against the counter, where there is space to look, to work. Wiped everything that could be wiped. Tightened screws. Tri-flowed the rest. Brakes weren’t touching the wheel. Pumped up the tires. Bowl of Crispix. Sat wide-eyed, crunching. Another bowl. Half a carton of pineapple-orange juice to wash it down. Two packs of fruit snacks. Mental checklist: do I have everything? Gu’s. Bike top, shorts. Running shoes. Bike shoes. Socks. Helmet. Sunglasses – wait, don’t need sunglasses. Too early. Co2. Inhaler. Tire levers. Phone. Wallet. Ready. No. Water. I forgot water. Filled the camelback with water, the bottle with electrolyte replacer. Ready.

Drove to Walter E. Long Park. The truck’s manners poor this morning – loud as ever as I went through neighborhoods where people were probably sleeping and dreaming about anything but what they would actually be doing in a few hours. I drove without directions because I knew the way from Couples. I smiled for the first time of the day. Couples. Fifteen seconds.

Made good time. Beat the google maps prediction of how long it would take. I am fast even in my car, I tell myself. I am fast.

I parked behind Kevin’s white Integra. Exchanged silent nods. Got ready. I ran off to piss in the bushes, then pissed in the bushes. Kellen arrived after I did, parked. Ten minutes later, cars locked, helmets on, cleats clicked in, we rolled. Wind in the face. Sun still not up, but not dark either.

Mile fifteen into the fifty-six we’re supposed to ride. Gone by quickly. Legs felt like they’d ran eighteen miles forty-eight hours ago – which makes as much sense as saying they were tired but they weren’t tired, which they were. Second in the pace-line. Didn’t need to look at the speedometer to know we were moving. Fast. Past the country Cormac McCarthy wrote about. The old country. Barbed wire fences. Cattle and horses and grass. Dogs with no fences or leashes that bark and chase anything that moves. The cars in the gravel driveways are newer, for sure, and the houses have satellite dishes, but the quiet is still the same. The isolation still palpable, though diminished. And we rode.

We rode and for a brief moment we rode in the morning fog. We rode bravely, trusting the road extended further than we could see. The mist begged us for spiritual reflection, for deep thoughts -- as if by removing all the distractions that trees and houses provide and leaving you nothing but a short strip of road and your thoughts you will find something you didn't even know you were looking for. The fog lifted eventually and there was road ahead, though rough and cracked, there was road. And so we rode. Picking up the pace and slowing it down without a word, as if we had agreed on it all beforehand.

Kevin crashed around mile forty. He was behind me. I was behind Kellen. I turned to hear him scream and see him go over the handle bars and land in a grass ravine. Kellen and I stopped. It could have been worse, we both say at some point. A bruise on the hip, surrounded by scratches. His white jersey covered with a green streak of grass on the back, like he'd had a day behind a porous offensive line. His bike the worse for wear. Possible crack in the carbon frame. We talked about what happened. How he was feeling. No cars stopped. One honked. He said he was ok. And so we rode.

We got back to where we started. The cars still there. “Why did I get up early to ride in a circle?” I thought as I dismounted. Unlocked the cars. Threw the bikes in, the running shoes on. Always a good feeling getting out of bike shoes. Locked the cars. Started running. Kevin ran like a gazelle and I thought bad things about him and how easy he made it look. Kellen ran behind me and to people passing by we must have looked insane. Three shirtless men all chasing one another. The legs weren’t there, but they were, and so I ran and Kevin ran faster and we got back to the cars and slapped fives and said “nice job” or something generic and we talked about his frame and what he was going to do. Kellen arrived a minute later and went on a small loop through the park. Kevin joined him. My shoes were already off. I wasn’t about to put them back on.

They ran and I got my bike out of the car and put it in the bed and changed out of my shorts and top. Not even 10:30 yet. Another early morning ride to take its place among the others.

"Why do I wake up early and ride in a circle?"

I thought about that for a minute or two as I drove off. Then I plugged my iPod into my stereo and listened to Bruce Springsteen's "Lonely Day." What a great song.

Man Up

It has been too long since I felt the excitement of signing up for a race - any race - let alone an Ironman. Sitting at my computer today, waiting for the clock in the lower left corner of my screen to become 1pm EST, I felt the nervous anticipation of trying to beat hundreds, maybe even thousands of other triathletes in cyberspace to the punch and grab one of the few spots soon to be available in Ironman Wisconsin. I'd texted everyone about 10 times each in the hour leading up to registration opening, a slightly higher texting frequency than only high school girls. I was looking for assurance that others would be in this with me. The Ironman is without doubt an individual race, but there is nothing more strengthening and comforting to me than the feeling of knowing I have family out on the course. I needed that assurance now. The last seconds counted down and the window opened. I hurried to put in relevant information like age and address, some not so relevant information like profession and education, and some really irrelevant information like why I was interested in Wisconsin - is anyone really interested in Wisconsin? Then I waited as eternities passed by while the next page loaded. Part of me was thinking I'm off the hook if it's sold out and I'm too late. The other part was thinking how awful it would be if everyone got in and I did not. After another 10 minutes, the payment screen came up and I quickly entered my credit card information, not dwelling on the fact that the entry fee is the equivalent of a base level Tata motor car sold in India, and pressed 'enter'.

I'm in. And now the nervous anticipation really begins. The planning, the trash talk, the advice, the start of training, and marking off what already feels like too many weeks to even comprehend that race day will actually arrive. I love this feeling. I missed this feeling. I instantly feel attached to the commitment I know this requires. I am looking forward to the struggle to stay motivated and overcome complacency. During the day I will look at my coworkers sitting around me sipping their Diet Cokes and picking at the gross remains of the daily office birthday cake, and I will know that I am distancing myself from them in yet one more way. At night I will complain to my wife about how hard it all is, and she will listen to me, then tell me to man up because she has been through it and still holds the house record, oh, and is pregnant too.

The adrenaline of getting an entry will wear off, and the cache of saying I signed up for the Ironman will give way to the reality of the training, but I'm writing my first blog to remind myself of the excitement of putting a race on the calendar, of having a goal and working toward it. This is feeling I will not let fade.

Hold Your Breath Until You Drown

Hi triathletes, and welcome to your 5am swim practice. Today we’ll start out with a nice 900 yard warm-up: 300 swim, 300 drill and 300 kick. Then we move straight into a set of 3x100, breathing every third stroke, followed by 3x200 breathing every third and fifth stroke (changing each 50 yards). Then we’ll do 2x300, breathing 3,5,3,7,3,9 strokes, again, changing each 50. Then you can do a 400, with a breathing pattern of your choice.

After grinding through this hateful set of headache-inducing splashing, watching my stroke fall apart and my lungs fill with water, I canned the workout, not even bothering with the last 400 and forgetting altogether about anything more than 3 strokes. The coach said “how was that” and I said “probably my least favorite workout”. He said “you looked good at the end” and the elevator doors closed and I went home. Had a really nice run later, which was just as well.

Relationship Advice from Uncle Pete

How easy is it to live with a triathlete or to be a “partner” to a triathlete? I guess that depends on what your requirements are in a relationship. If you want someone who will always be there for you, who thinks Saturdays are for mowing lawns and visiting Ikea and Sundays are for social gatherings and church, you may be out of luck. If you object to grease stains on carpets (and floors and t-shirts); if you dislike having a cupboard shelf devoted to water bottles and another devoted to nutritional supplements, similarly, you might want to look elsewhere for romance. To truly love a triathlete, you have to appreciate pasta and beer as cornerstones of a diet. You must see artistry in lycra, and recognize the wisdom of having three or four pairs or sunglasses for riding and running. You need to regard chlorine as your favorite cologne, and know that today’s sleep-in is tomorrow’s 4am start. You have to regard the term “vacation” slightly differently from your friends, knowing it means going somewhere beautiful and living like a monk for three days and a slob the rest of the time, with one day in the middle devoted to wandering aimlessly around the streets of some town you have never visited saying things like “great job” while you get thirsty, tired and sunburnt. You need to recognize that walls are for race posters, closets are for t-shirts that say “finisher” and wardrobes are for sweatshirts and bike jerseys with m-dots on them. Running shoes and bike shoes take pride of place, usually at the front door or, if they are unbearably fragrant, outside where sunshine may kill bacteria but probably won’t, and anyway, dead bacteria smell pretty awful too, just like live ones. You need to be able to admire race hats, and say things about the various race jerseys that indicate more than benign tolerance. “Whatever” is not an acceptable answer when asked to choose between the Ironman Canada top and the Florida top. You need to enjoy bikes as art, and be able to sustain long conversations about wheels, cassettes, handlebar positions and frame materials. You need to know that Zipp has two p’s and Hed has no a. Watching the Tour de France will constitute a romantic evening. Power Bars become a staple snack. White thighs are a mark of distinction. Shaved legs are normal, as are 8pm bedtimes and piles containing more sweaty clothes than a football locker room.

I offer these handy tips because I understand that not all readers of this blog have been fortunate enough to encounter full tolerance of what may flatteringly be called the “triathlete lifestyle”. I don’t know what to say, really. It all seems fine and normal when you lay it out like this. But relationships are complex and sensitive things, especially relationships with women. All I can advise is that you persist in the knowledge that true love always finds a way. If she really is special, if she really is the right one, she will love you as you are. She won’t mind that you have your own Venus razor, or that you can eat a monster burrito in less than 5 minutes, or that you think a stick of bodyglide is a nice present. She will love you for who you are, and if she has any taste, she will love you for your bike too.

Three Races

It is summer in Austin, which means the sun rarely hides anymore, and when it does it is still eighty degrees and humid and still capable of turning the inside of a car into an oven. The sun never hides and you can tell who hasn’t been hiding from the sun because they have bronze calves [or for the more pale-inclined, a darker shade of white] and if they’ve been out on a bike their back is a mixture of different browns and their arms look like they’ve been dipped up to the bicep in brown paint and their upper-thighs look so white that it almost looks fake. It is a good time to be in Austin because beer tastes better and more deserved when it is hot outside. There is no shortage of places to drink a beer outside in this city. Summer in Austin also means, among other things, that it is triathlon racing season. So at least one weekend a month, hundreds, perhaps a thousand people wake up early and drive to some spot and put on spandex and a swim cap and race while most people are sleeping in. They are local races, done by a local company, with mostly local participants. There is beer at the finish along with soda and fruit and water and music and burgers or tacos and everybody stands around and talks about the race and then they slowly disperse and volunteers start pack everything up so by two o'clock you wouldn't have known that there had been a race at all. In the last month, there have been three such races: Couples Triathlon, Marble Falls Triathlon, Jack's Generic Triathlon - in that order. I competed in all of them. Here is some of what I remember:

Couples Triathlon had been billed by some as “the race of the year.” It was a re-match from the previous year, part two of the epic struggle of Experience versus Youth. Team “White Thighs and Mustaches” and their combined eighteen Ironmans versus Team “Young and Hung” and their combined one Ironman. Last year, experience had claimed the throne by thirteen seconds. Team Young and Hung had been reminded on a regular basis for the following 364 days that the margin had been thirteen seconds. Promises, bets, smack-talk, had all been delivered. Victories were guaranteed. Countdowns were started.

On race day, everyone was cordial, joking, as we usually are before races. No last second tire-slashes, no dropping of laxatives in water bottles. Joe and Dad looked like sex offenders with their dirty moustaches and skimpy speedos, so we kept our distance, as did all the mothers who had made the mistake of bringing their children to the race.

Team Young & Hung went off in the first wave. Team W.T.& M. off in the last one. The course itself was nice, though the bike had enough hills to be unpleasant, and the run was through mud and grass and had a long, steep hill towards the end of the run that got your heart rate high and made your legs burn. But it was a fun race and I stood at the finish line with Brogan, watching the clock, waiting for Joe and Dad. And Joe crossed and I knew it would be close and then a little later I saw Dad with his unmistakable gait, five hundred yards from the finish line and I stared at the clock and tried to figure out if we had lost and then he crossed and I didn’t know if we had lost or won but I knew it would be close. It was close. Fifteen seconds. This time, youth had won. Team W.T. & M. were gracious losers, saying that they had lost because we had cheated and because they had gone off in the last wave so it was hotter on the bike and run and because we had better spots in transition and other reasons that I have forgotten because there were so many of them. They claimed victory because they got first place in their category, and got to stand on a podium while we finished tenth in ours. [Our category had eight of the fastest ten teams in the race]. But despite their excuses and their attempts to snatch a sliver of pride from the humiliation of defeat, it was a good race. Made even better because next weekend was Marble Falls and that afternoon was Uncle Billy’s.

In 2009, Marble Falls had been the race of the year for me [other than Ironman Florida]. Joe and I had gone off in the same wave [which we never get to do because we are in different age groups]. We got out of the water together, I had ridden away from him, and then he had closed the gap on the run. For most of the 4.4 mile run I looked over my shoulder and saw his red visor and I put in surges and would look back and the red visor was still there and I was sure I would blow up and he would catch me because he always had caught me. But he didn’t that day. He finished twenty or thirty seconds behind me and it was a breakthrough race for me.

This year it was just as fun. A simple race, with transition in a parking lot, the run through residential neighborhoods, the bike mostly on the side of a highway. The water is warm and you got out of the swim sweating and the bike is hilly so you got out of breath on the bike and had your heart in your throat for most of the climbs. The highlight is the run, where it is quiet and paved. There are a few gradual climbs, but mostly it is flat, even downhill. It wasn’t as close as last year, because Joe had been studying for the Bar exam and had been avoiding his training as well as spending time with his brother or father, but it was still a damn fun race, and we still collected hardware. I got second in my age-group, as did Dad, and Joe pulled out third. It was also my best overall finish of the year. Ninth. It isn't until now that I realize how not normal that is. Three family members arrive at race. Three family members race. Three family members leave race with age-group prize. The bar is high in this family, I have come to realize.

Jack’s Generic shouldn’t take much more than an hour to finish unless you flat, which after Joe had found out that I had beaten him, told me he had three times on the bike. Last year, I had been hungover going into this race and did well [17^th], but knew I could do better. I registered for the open division instead of the age-group division for the first time. In the open wave, it is more competitive and you aren’t eligible for age-group awards but you get to go off in the first wave. I wanted to go with the big boys, see if I could hang with them. So I did.

I went off three minutes before Joe and Brogan did and I was out of the water in six and a half minutes. It was a short swim and I ran to my bike and started riding as hard as I could because I had fears of Joe or Brogan riding past me. I rode hard and my bike computer told me I was riding hard but my legs felt weightless, hurting for only brief moments on climbs. I knew I felt good when Paul Terranova, a 37 year old badass triathlete who routinely finishes in the top three in all the local races, rode past me and I was able to keep up with him. In fact, I passed him and then he would pass me and we did this for most of the ride – this game of pass, then recover, pass, then recover. I felt good and had a blazing second transition [four seconds faster than Joe] and I started the out-and-back run with Paul Terranova beside me and as we passed a volunteer he yelled “thirty seconds to second place!” and I smiled because I’d never been third in a race before and I don’t think Paul Terranova smiled because he is always that high up. The run went well, I saw Joe and Brogan and they yelled at me and I yelled at them and they said to keep it up and I tried to but I ended up finishing in fifth and cursing people who weigh 160 pounds. And I never thought I would get so excited about finishing fifth. And after locking himself indoor to memorize volumes of statutes and exceptions to rules, Joe finished 14th. I'm going to have a hell of a time holding him off at Longhorn.

So there you have it. Three races. All of them finished. Combined, all three of them shorter time-wise than an Ironman bike ride. But still a hell of a lot of fun. And still plenty of time to hurt.

What you think

In a beautiful post, Joseph looks at what you think in a ride. Read it and enjoy. It is a classic.

What I think is a little different, and is something like this:

You click into your cleats and begin rolling and make sure you are in the right gear and look around and feel the first pressure of a pedal stroke and it feels good and your legs start to respond with the easy fluency of legs that have turned hundreds of thousands if not millions of times over countless miles on roads in different countries and different races and on a windtrainer. You look at your legs like old friends who have come to visit and you wonder how they will be today, because even after all these years and all these miles, you never really know. They might be strong and get stronger, or they might feel strong and fade, or they might start off weak and get strong; you never know. The legs turn, and you wonder. You pass cars and hope they don’t do anything stupid like open a door without looking or turn right without indicating, and you think of all the times you have thought this, and how rarely it has happened that you have had to swerve to avoid an opening door or brake and roll around a corner glued to the side of a car, and maybe it’s a miracle that it hasn’t happened more often or maybe it’s a curse that it’s happened at all. Who knows? Today will bring what it brings, and you will take it as it comes, because there is no other way to take it unless you want to stay home and worry that you might die out there somewhere, hit by a drunk or side-swiped by a truck, and today could be that day, or it might never happen, and the only way you know is by going out and riding. You start to feel the sweat on your face and back, and your whole body now is cycling, the way it should, Five miles, you think, 90 to go. How will I go. We’ll see. It is always different and always the same. You always wonder, and you always get home. It is what it is. Deal with it. The miles go by. Friends. Work. Cars, What would it be like to live out here? Lonely. I’ve been lonely before. Is it a good or bad thing? Are there good or bad things except that I make them so? Blank it out. Just ride. You are here to ride, not philosophize. Let the road unwind in front of you. Feel the wind, feel the sun. Time to drink. Maybe a snack; you never know. Better early than late. Legs still OK. Ten miles. Twenty miles. All in order. Why do I do this? Why the long miles? What am I looking for? What’s out here? Why do I feel good when my legs hurt? What is it about hills and character? Hope my legs feel this strong at Longhorn. God, I will never forget Canada, coming up of that son of a bitch Yellow Lake. Never feel like that again, never. I feel good now. Easy. Strong. The way I should feel. If this were an Ironman, I’d have four hours left. Relax, hotshot. This is nothing. Not even a warm-up. When your ass hurts and your feet hurt and your back hurts, tell me how you feel. Then it’s a real ride. Nancy. Fifty miles. Water, Cool. Is it cheating to stand under the air conditioner in the gas station? How did the woman get that fat? She must eat and do nothing else? Wonder what she looks like naked? That’s beyond horrible. Erase the thought completely. Back on the bike. Legs feel tired but OK. This will end OK. I’m fine. Pacing is key now. Go as hard as you can but check it, check it all the time. You can fade quickly in this heat. Pace it. Measure it out. If this were an ironman, you’d have 26 miles to run after this. How do you feel now? Feel like getting off and running 26 miles? No way. On the day I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine? What is fine? Fine is an excuse, fine is average. Fine is one inch above collapse. Last words. But I don’t have to get off and run, do I? Just as well. A hill. No need to get silly. Nice and aerobic. Nice and aerobic? How bad do you want it? Will nice and aerobic get you to where you want to be? At mile 90 of an ironman, will this nice and aerobic hill be there to help you? Nancy. Ride. Ride like you mean it. Your legs will recover. Your body will recover. Your spirit will never forgive you if you dog it now. Just you and the road. Nearly home. Then it’s done, and you get to put the bike away and eat and drink and relax. And live with yourself and whether you were honest out here, or weak. Who the hell are you? Maybe you should find out.