For the six months leading up to this race I was secluded. I had moved down to Franklin, Tennessee and was living alone while working at the Fleet Feet about twenty minutes north in Brentwood near Nashville. Everyday I worked and I trained in a very focused, individual way. My simplistic apartment was bare but had everything I needed. So did the little town of Franklin. I was less than a mile from a coffee shop, an ice cream parlor and a southern BBQ drive through and only eight miles from challenging, quite and endless cycling and running routes. The location and the apartment were ideal.
Centered on the hardwood living room floor was a yoga mat, on top of which sat my bike trainer. Next to it was a small fan, a plastic stool, several half empty water bottles, my iPod, and a towel that needed washing, otherwise the room was empty. My bikes leaned against the hallway walls when they weren’t being used or worked on. Lined up next to the front door laid no less than ten pairs of shoes of different style; running, cycling, trail, triathlon, casual and flip flop, but mostly running. A plastic milk crate also sat on the floor next to the front door. It was filled with all the training essentials. I dug into it daily for any number tools including my helmet, sunglasses, HRM, Bodyglide, gloves, arm warmers, orthotics, tube change kit, electrolyte pills, multi-tool etc. My swim bag lay damp next to it.
Most of the time the kitchen was better stocked with Hammer Nutrition fuels and supplements than actual food. The counters were bare; never hosting more than a French Press, a blender and dozens of water bottles and coffee mugs waiting to be used or cleaned. Coffee, Perpetuem, protein smoothie was the liquid diet sequence most days. I drank most of my calories, it was easier and quicker that way. Eating was a chore. It was expensive, constant and sad. I did everything by myself, but I hated eating alone.
I had one cup, one bowl and a box of plastic utensils that I washed from time to time. The fridge and cupboard were either stocked or empty, but usually empty. The three 32 oz. Nalgene’s were always there however, constantly being emptied and refilled with cold water. It was hot this summer.
My bedroom was nothing more than a mattress and lamp on the floor in the corner, a small dorm-like couch in front of a borrowed twelve-inch TV with only four channels. Two triathlon posters were tacked to the wall, one simply read “Serious Triathlon” I read it, and lived it, every day. My closet had a better selection of cycling jerseys and tech tee’s than it did jeans and polo’s. The room didn’t always smell fresh due to the endless supply of sweaty clothes than lined the baseboards combined with the leftover scents of muscle creams, aloes and chamois butters, but when I had enough energy I would open the heavy window, it seemed to helped. Life was simple, focused and selfish. Lonely at times, but I liked it; it was the perfect Ironman training home.
Race week came and the apartment was packed. It didn’t take me long to load my car with a few duffle bags filled with the contents of the apartment, and throw my bike up on the roof rack. Stacey had flown into town the night before. It was time to head south for Panama City, Florida. I was excited, but I knew that when I came back things would be different. I would move out of my apartment and in with a friend in a real house, with real furniture, and real food. Leaving for Ironman meant leaving seclusion. Ironman is a long and lonely race. I felt well prepared.
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