Tennessee Asks, Ohio Answers

I almost convinced myself the opening lyrics to this Black Keys jam were stolen directly from my dazed head as I rolled through the random and endless miles this past spring. Middle Tennessee country roads seem to leave that impression, random and endless. Stuck in my own fog at the tail end of another long, boiling ride a few months back, this particular song jumped into my earbuds and everything began to clear up, kind of. I was worked over, dazed for sure, most likely dehydrated, and certainly over aware. At least now I was. The words in my head, they made sense, they talked to me. And for no other reason, as The Keys yelled at my brain and I pedaled back down my street, I began to wonder…

It’s almost as if my move to Nashville a year ago makes more sense now that they too have done the same. After all, we stem from the same Ohio roots and share the same reasons to move. Opportunity. Just then I remembered reading the latest Scene Magazine in which they chronicled The Keys' Nashville move and asked Nashvillians, what it said about both parties. I felt like asking the same question about myself.

Is it possible? Can the lives of an unsung industrious endurance athlete and an American rust belt blues rock duo possibly parallel? Is it possible miles on the tour bus and miles in the saddle eventually get you to the same tired place? Maybe, but I'm not complaining, it was my decision, as it was theirs. The truth is, like those guys, I came here to do a job, to work. Because, where we come from, tireless hard work is a pre-requisite for daily life; it is as elemental as rubber on the road.

At home now, on my front step, sitting in the sun, I can't figure out where I put my key three and a half hours ago. My mind is still locked on these questions. Is there something about the “Rubber City” raised, hard working, that sets us apart? Is there something about that place that lured both them and I to the eerily Ohio-like southern town? But for what? Challenge? Opportunity? Probably.

I couldn't ask or answer anymore questions at this point, I was too tired and wanted to go inside. My swelled fingers fumbled around in the saddle bag until my key eventually appeared and dropped to the ground. My legs exploded with acid and were not willing to bend with out a protest, I looked down at it, "damn it." I must have just stood there and stared at it for a minute at least, before finally committing to the daunting task of bending over and picking it up. "You got what it takes?" I asked myself just before reaching down. "Ugh, that was a pain in the ass" I answered as I stood up.

Not sure what all it's going to take in the end, but I've got one thing; a work ethic as hardcore as any deep Auerbach riff or sub-thirty-six minute 10k off the bike. The Scene Magazine laid on the chair in the corner as I walked in, folded open to a certain page. A few lines were underlined in red pen.

“Nevertheless, the indefatigable Auerbach says that he and Carney are here to work, and they’ve already started. Work, after all, is something guys from Ohio know how to do.”

Jim Camp

It's no secret that athletes in search of focused, uninterrupted, intense training use camps. Training camps are usually a several week block of hard work to prepare athletes for the coming season. Often times months away from meaningful competition, they demand a certain level of focus. Nonetheless they have been proven effective across many sports. Most days at camp are efficient and deliberate, every minute, workout, meal, sleep and stretch have a purpose and goal. Every measurable bit of life is put under a microscope and evaluated. Ultimately, training camps are intense, and require a certain level of seclusion, detail, and the constant drive for improvement.

Team training camps are a typical approach for a lot of sports. Think about spring training for MLB or late summer two-a-day's for high school football players. Unbreakable links of camaraderie are built among teammates during these camps. The mentality of "we are all in this together" builds a team from within as they endure the daily grind. Coaches are the camp directors, constantly pushing individuals to their limits while always holding the accountability to the team to the highest regard. Team camp's build a single, strong, cohesive unit out of a group of individual athletes.

But what if you fly solo? What if your idea of a training camp is more individual; more Rocky IV frozen Russian mountain side, and less mild spring Florida breeze? What if your goal is to build camaraderie more with the tools of your trade than teammates? What if you are your own coach and the athlete, the evaluator and student? What if you thrive on self discipline, personal accountability and solitude. What if your idea of camp is packing up your former team's car with only a few training essentials and driving many hours south to an unfamiliar place with simple intentions? To train, a lot, alone, for weeks.

Before Christmas I received a phone call from a local athlete I loosely knew and was a client of back home. We spoke in the past on occasion but it was always to a specific point and cycling based. We talked facts, numbers and evaluation and nothing more. Outside of the technical bike world, I did not know him well at all, but I knew of him enough to know the essentials. He was smart, quiet, unassuming, and a very elite athlete. His accolades, from what I understood, were on the national level and his craft was second to none when it came to the relationship between anatomical fit and mechanical function. Naturally, without really knowing him as a person or friend, but knowing what I did, I looked up to him, admired him, and was maybe even a little intimidated by his quiet allure. So an out of the blue phone call was definitely intriguing.

The initial call went something like this: "Hey, I am looking for a place to stay for a few weeks this winter to get out of the snow so I can train on my bike...and from the little time we have spent around each other, I think we seem to get along okay...I know you live in Nashville now, so I was wondering..."He went on, in an awkwardly confident sort of way, "Just to let you know, I am very clean, I am quiet and I love to cook, in fact, if I do say so myself, I am pretty good at it."

After a few more mutually nervous phone calls over the next few weeks we had covered all the details of his trip and settled on a day for his arrival. If nothing else he wanted to be well prepared, never caught off guard and fully comfortable with the whole situation. The first few phone calls were thorough; we covered all the bases. His inquiries were broad; the safety of my town, the elevation gain/loss of a typical local ride, would I mind if he decided to stay longer than a few weeks, the availability/quality of local coffee roasters and grocery stores, local group ride paces, extra bedding, and how long I let my French press steep. Detailed and comprehensive...to say the least. But to be honest it was appreciated and by the time he rolled into town in early January, even though it was all still a bit unknown, I felt like we knew his style and he knew ours.

Having obviously done the house guest thing before, he was a pro. Within the first twenty-four hours he made his presence comfortably felt, especially in the kitchen. He stocked the cupboards and fridge full with all of his carefully selected stock of everything natural, homemade, organic, grass-fed, caffeinated, and sometimes mysterious. His room and bathroom were set up simply; air mattress, pillow, bag of cloths, small tube of fruit extract body wash and a laptop. On top of his dresser sat a collection of electronic self monitoring tools like bike GPS, HRM and an iPod. Another bag sat in the corner filled with energy gels, powders and self massage tools and oils. The closet hung nothing but coordinated team cycling jerseys and a bath towel. His bike stashed in the corner next to ours. It, unlike himself and all his belongings, was not unassuming. It was simply bad ass. Speced with just about everything a cyclist could dream of, it was classic, sexy and clean. But when you asked him, it was something else. Something much simpler. It was his tool.

Over the next few weeks our guest settled into a very solid training and life routine. He worked just as hard as we did during business hours then would relax at home with us in the evenings. It was comfortable. We cooked, drank and ate while discussing the intricacies of each. Most conversations having to do with food, beer, music, and cooking took place at a pretty high level. Sometimes above my head. His knowledge of food and what it does to/in the body, and how it reacts to certain training loads was deep and surpassed the basics. To compliment that, his techniques in the kitchen were as exceptional as his ingredient range. Every night we hung out in the kitchen while cooking, aimlessly discussing life; things like the importance of phytonutrients for athletes, The Black Keyes newest album, the historical and fermentation process differences between a Doppelbock and a Belgium Strong Ale, iron and what it means to female athletes during their cycle, and the assertiveness and uniqueness of umami; I was often tempted to take notes.

Sharing the daily breakfast and dinner duties, we almost rivaled each other in the kitchen. Pulling out all the stops to offer up the best meals possible. The end results were fantastic meals and a kitchen tapping for mercy. Most dishes ended up getting rated on a "how much would I pay for this at a restaurant" scale. After a taste of anything he would calmly and specifically profile each flavor note from initial reaction to lasting impression on the tongue; with the same look on his face as a professor would have while analyzing a thesis. How could you disagree? His complex pallet and culinary expertise were rivaled only by his ability to pedal up hill (he hates cycling analogies).

Naturally, because of my intrigue, many discussions would turn toward cycling. Whether it was actually about cycling, or the bike, or maintenance, gear, or fit, it was easy to get on the topic. But he wasn't as eager to talk then. He would often times, in a clear effort, dispel the thought and move on to something else. It didn't take long for me to realize he didn't like talking about his job.

Eventually I came to appreciate and more fully understand his quiet perspective on cycling. His entire professional life had been surrounded by the sport. But he was a person way beyond just that, unfortunately, and for some reason, it was difficult for people in his life to see past his handlebars. The tools he used to do his job were not particularly interesting to him, but others could obsess about them for hours. His workouts were not riveting conversation pieces, but people pick his brain about training constantly. And cycling on a whole, although he loved it, was not something he cared to chronicle on a daily basis, but others wanted to hear him do so. It was clear to me that he had been striving for some time now, to be known as someone other than what he was best known for. He wanted respect for being more than a wrench and a bike racer and hated being classified as either.

It made perfect sense, over the last couple of days I had learned so much about him as a person. He was a great cook and was incredibly insightful. He had passions for other things like coffee and cars and pro football. So, to live with the label of "bike racer" had to be really annoying. Although it was a large part of this life, he didn't allow it to consume his life, so why should everybody else? Is that what national championship burdens you with for the rest of your life? His strong feelings about this situation made me realize it was something he struggled with for a while. I respected this about him, and in a way, I sympathized for him. From then on, rarely did I bring up, or did we discuss cycling. I was fine with it, because there was so much more.

But I guess there were the exceptions. A certain few times something he would read, or someone he would talk to would spark his inner velo-enthusiasm and he would have something to say about it. Most times though, I just sat and listened. I just tried to soak it in as a learning opportunity and just let him talk. Because he didn't say much, when he did, it was strong, meaningful and usually complicated. A few conversations that stand out dealt with things like; evaluating work loads as they compare to elevation changes on his coaching software, a particular saddle adjustability or lack there of, the morning he fit Stacey on her road bike, his and other bike fit philosophies in general, and the true differences between professional and amateur bike racers. I tried to hold on to his conversations the same way I did his wheel when we rode. Sometimes I fell off (he really hates cycling analogies).

All the while, our guest maintained his main focus. His training routine was specific and tough. Everything he did, whether it was foam roll, self massage, lift weights or ride his bike, was serious work. I rode with him several times. It was demanding for sure, but more than that, it was with intent and consistent. He rode purposefully with little emotion. Faced straight forward with little upper body movement, he sat for hours and pedaled, hard. The routes he mapped were killer, scaling some of the area's most notorious climbs several times within one ride. He found his favorite route on the web, it was aptly named "Hillz Killz" a twenty or so mile loop with over a thousand feet of climbing. He determined a particular ride's quality by how many "Killz" loops it incorporated.

Riding with him was never easy, but is wasn't flat out either. Typically it was only up the longest or steepest climbs that he would lose me, then it was my job to "put some pressure on the pedals" and get back on. That was his only advice; "stick to my wheel, and stay there, if you fall off, put some pressure on the pedals and get back on". If I could, great, if not, "sorry, see you at home". Unfortunately for me, his ability to climb and descend made my job pretty damn hard. Sometimes I recovered, sometimes I didn't. His unwillingness to slow down or wait was stern, but I didn't mind at all. After all, he wasn't here to ride with me, or anyone for that matter. I wanted him to do his thing; I was merely a shadow. I really liked riding with him, and did as much as I could. The demand was always there; I could feel it; my legs we taking a thrashing.

Rest days were fun days too. These days always started with big, hearty breakfasts, lots of great coffee and usually a spontaneous lesson about something he just read from the latest Cook Illustrated magazine. He was not afraid to lounge hard these days either. He would do nothing if that is what his body needed. The most he would ever do on a rest day was maybe a self massage or foam roller/yoga session on the living room floor while explaining the relationships between adjacent muscle groups. Then a walk and back to the coffee shop. Rest day nights were about prep for the next big load. He spent considerable time reviewing possible routes online and analyzing his previous workloads on his coaching software. He also did laundry, stretched, hydrated a ton and of course prepped his food stock. Only once did I see him tune and wash his bike. He rarely even looked at it when it was in the house.

By the end of his trip we were sad to see him leave. That morning, he packed up his tools within minutes, had a final press of coffee and was on his way. He thanked us for the hospitality. I thanked him back. Out the door, he headed further south for the next stage of his solo camp that I came to respect and admire so much.

After he left, as I reflected on the entire experience, I hoped that it was a successful time for him and that he got in the work he wanted. My legs reminded me of the work I did while he was here and I am thankful for it. At the end of the day, our guest came to our home as an acquaintance and an athlete in search of secluded quality training. He left us as a teacher, a friend, and more importantly a person unattached to a bike. No longer is he an illusive name tossed around the local cycling scene or an intimidating presence of fit, but a friend, a well rounded, funny, insightful, opinionated, educated, confident and unique friend. He taught us perspective and what it means to be driven, and he taught us about training far beyond the pedal strokes. But mostly, he taught us about himself, the non-cyclist. After two plus weeks of hosting one of the most unique people I have ever met, I thought about what his camp meant to me. The truth was, I had just gotten back from my own camp. Jim Camp.

Camp Mess Hall Highlights:

• Crusted venison tender loin with roasted parsnip puree and lemon garlic green beans
• Olive oil toasted steal cut oats with homemade yogurt, raisins, and cold milled flax seeds (a daily occurrence)
• Pan seared salmon and brown rice bowl with collards, spinach and leaks
• Caramelized halved brussel sprouts with bacon and leeks
• many varieties of homemade hummus (several batches) spinach, garlic, and red pepper

Top 10 of 2010. The Images. The Daze.

Like any good year 2010 was chalk full of the essentials; good memories, solid results and great pictures to capture it all. These are a few of my favorite shots from the year that was.

December 31, 2009

New Year's Eve at the Kurilko's (friend and teammate). Christian is

registering for The Mountaineer Half after a few beers. His concentration and liquid courage sure helped him click the submit button. A great night and perfect way to break in the

2010 campaign.

January 17, 2010

A few weeks later we set the season off in style with The Buckeye Trail 50k. Coach Scot and Corey let me take their lead as we approached the finish to a very demanding day. One of my favorite shots of the year is fitting for one of the toughest events of the year.

March 7, 2010

I took a short break from multisport training in March to revisit my original love; skiing! This shot was taken at a local skier cross competition at my home hill Brandywine. We were coming off the first big right-hand bank, I was in the lead in the green jersey! I placed in the first few heats and made it through the semi-finals but missed the podium on the day. Skiing will always be my first love and where I learned to compete, succeed, and face opposition.

April 18, 2010

In an effort to expand my horizons and build some early season bike strength I hopped on my road bike and started pounding the miles. As a result my cycling improved big time and I began to feel more comfortable on my road bike. This shot is from a very small, local, spring training, bike race series I participated in. The shot is really nothing special, but more importantly it made the list as proof. Not only did I race my bike in a non-multisport event but I stayed upright, won a preem, and actually liked it...a lot. Probably more to come in '11.

June 20, 2010

Maumee Bay Olympic Triathlon. This shot was taken less than a minute before the gun went off. How do I know that? You can spot me (bottom left) kneeling down saying a few words to the Man upstairs. I do this every race just seconds before the start. Along with a few deep breaths, it helps to calm my HR and puts me at ease. I love how this picture captured that moment.

July 31, 2010

We sat around for two hours before my wave went off at Steelhead 70.3 this year. For me it wasn't all that bad. I was just a bit anxious. Hat's off to Pops for not only sticking out the wait with me, but watching me race all day. This shot was taken after we had already been hanging around a while, sufficiently drenched, cold and pretty tired. Dad is my ultimate super fan!

September 12, 2010

Relax! That's exactly what we did after Rev 3 Half back at the Kaiser Motorhome at Cedar Point. It was perfect. We raced hard all day then came back to these awesome accommodations complete with food, beer, and great hospitality. You can tell in this shot that Jody, Corey and Aaron were taking life easy after jobs well done.

October 2, 2010

By October, the race season was wrapping up, but Ironman was looming. Having Lived in Nashville for a few months at this point my training was focused and unhindered by the Cleveland fall weather. However, I was super excited to take a short weekend break from training and fly back north to be in one of my best friend's wedding. This is Stacey and I at Jeremy and Sarah's wedding. It's also my favorite picture of her and I in 2010.

November 6, 2010

Needless to say tons of pictures were taken the week of Ironman and most of them were awesome and probably deserving of this list. From action shots to post-race celebration, the lenses captured most of the week's events. But none compare to this gem. Just after we had walked down to the beach the five of us took our last group shot before the gun. We were cold, scared and nervous. But then again, I probably don't need to explain that we were scared or nervous...just look at our faces. Five best training friends, right before the big day, totally prepared and nervous as hell. The perfect racing daze.

December 11, 2010

I topped off 2010 with the Huntsville Marathon with one of my best Nashville friends Drew. Read more about my time at Huntsville here. This is my favorite shot of the day. Drew and I all smiles at the finish line ready for some hard core R&R! It was the perfect way to top off the race season and year! I couldn't be happier with the day or this picture! Lovin the Fleet Feet Mylar too!

2010 was a total success in my book and I can not wait to see what the new year will bring. What ever it is, one thing is for sure. The racing daze will be out there and I am sure to find it. Happy 2011 peeps!

Recovered, Lost, and Found. A Rocket City Celebration

It's been five weeks since the Ironman finish line. For most of that time I let the workouts take a back seat to living real life. The first few weeks were nothing but that good old R&R. I slept a lot, ate more and did all the things I don't normally do fifty some weeks of the year. It was a well deserved and nice break. But soon enough I had the itch to move again. My body was feeling more and more normal each day. This was a good thing because I was to toe the line to the Rocket City Marathon down in Huntsville, Alabama in just a few short weeks. A decision I made a few months before Ironman.

Slowly, I eased back into running and swimming mainly trying to loosen up and get a feel back. The first few workouts were awkward and stiff...what I expected. With time they got better and I found a groove. Some days were worse than others, but ultimately things got better.

For the most part my running was very easy paced and short. I was technically training for the marathon but wasn't really gaining any fitness. In fact, what I learned was that I wasn't training for anything at all. All my short runs, easy swims and recovery spins were just that. Recovery. For the first time in my life, I was "training" for an event by coming down instead of building up. A new approach for sure. But it made sense. There was no way I would gain any real fitness between the Ironman finish line and Huntsville's start, and if I did, it was minimal. My best case scenario was to minimize the damage done in Florida and start the 26.2 as close to pre-Ironman freshness as possible. As the marathon got close, I felt my recovery coming along, I was on track. That's not to say I didn't do a few longer runs and short track sessions but once again, the intentions of those weren't to sharpen the knife but to buff off the rust.

As I sit now, less than a day from the marathon I find myself anxious for the racing daze. I am curious to find out what's left in my legs and how much of a fight they will put up to the inevitable pain. (it's still a marathon) But again, tomorrow's test is different. Most races I want to know the levels of my fitness, tomorrow I will ask my body how well rested it is. Unfortunately, I don't think it will let me know until somewhere between miles twenty-one and twenty-six.

The other unique aspects to tomorrow's run are my strategy, mental approach and expectations. As for strategy, I don't really have one (other than to stay patient and not push), and my mentality is more about enjoyment and less about focus. My goal tomorrow is not a time or a qualification. It is simply to have fun and enjoy the day with some good friends. My expectations have less do to with paces and splits and more with happiness and celebration. I plan to hold back if/when it starts to really hurt (it's still a marathon) and pace myself comfortably the entire run, never pushing the limits...a very atypical race approach for me. It might be tough at times, but I will resist because it's not the purpose of the day nor am I fit enough for the test.

For me, 2010 was a successful race year with several major accomplishments and milestones. I ran my first winter trail 50k in January, earned a spring half marathon PR, I PR'ed in all three distances of triathlon I raced (Olympic, 70.3, Ironman) and won my AG in one of my biggest triathlons of the season, while also making significant bike and swim fitness gains throughout the season.

I intend on reflecting on all of this during my run tomorrow. I will give thanks for my health and celebrate my hard work and discipline. I will think about the sacrifices I made to accomplish these goals and what the accomplishments themselves mean to me. I will think about next season too. What are my new goals and what sacrifices and I willing to make to reach them? It's pretty easy to be dead honest with yourself two and a half hours into a run.

I'm going to think about the low points I went through this season too; and give thanks for the ability to persevere. I will think about how I overcame adversity this season and learned to stick up for myself, be proud of who I am, and be accountable for my actions. I will give thanks for the friendships this sport has afforded me. I will reflect on the people in my life that help me reach my goals and support my racing daze. I will thank every single volunteer I see and cheer on other runners. I will run with my head up for a change; out of "the zone". I will pray as I run tomorrow. This marathon, when it comes down to it, is less of a race for me, and more of a time to celebrate, give thanks, and reflect. A time to consider how fortunate I really am. A victory lap.

November 6, 2010 Ironman Florida Race Report

It’s obvious that my season had been leading up to this race. Arriving in Panama City on Wednesday I felt relaxed. I was well prepared and quietly confident. The numbers had been spinning in my head for two weeks prior but now that I was in Florida, I was calm. I was able to ride that feeling all the way through the week. My teammates and family definitely helped the situation. The edge was off.

Saturday morning my relative race week Zen had all but evaporated. I was really nervous beyond what I knew to be typical. It was early and I was cold, really cold. Standing barefoot on the sand, my feet were already numb; I stared into the ocean without much thought. The sun was not up yet and the ocean was black. I had not eaten a ton all morning and didn’t even take a Hammer Gel thirty minutes out. Everyone was around and everyone was nervous, including spectators. I don’t remember much conversation. Fifteen minutes until the gun. By now, it wasn’t just my feet that were numb.

We kissed away our families and walked over to put our toes in the warm water. I stood with Corey on the beach after losing sight of Jody, Brian, and Aaron. It was good to be with a teammate before the start. We made our way towards the front of the twenty-eight-hundred athletes, I liked our position. We stood silent for a few minutes then they played the national anthem; I peed in my wetsuit one last time. A quick hug. Ten seconds. More silence. Gun.

I wanted to keep my HR low as I navigated through the masses in search of clean water. “Maybe I could have been a bit further up,” I remember thinking. To accomplish this I had to swim with my head above the water in a very elementary way to maneuver through the mess. It seemed to work. Soon enough was I was able to find some space, get on some feet, sight a clear line to the buoys, and settle into a nice rhythm. The small rollers were choppy and consistent and the current was pulling us to the left as we went out. At the first buoy I was about fifty yards inside and had to straighten my line. I quickly learned I would need to compensate for the current and play the angles. Not a big deal. The first left hand turn was a bit congested and I tried to get in and out as quick as possible. As I made the turn the sun was there, glaring. Basically blinded, I swam by feel and short view about three hundred yards to the next left hand buoy. Again a bottleneck, I made the turn and headed for shore. My pace at that point felt right and everything was under control. Other than a bit of fog that had accumulated in my goggles, probably due to the extreme variance in water and air temperatures, the cruise back to the beach was uneventful.

The tide was out and the shallow water was long all the way up to the sand. As I slowly jogged through the shin deep breakwater towards the turn around on the beach, I glanced at my watch. It read somewhere around twenty-nine minutes. I was happy, maybe even a little surprised. My strategy was not to negative split the swim but keep the pace relatively consistent on both laps. I liked the time I saw. After clearing my mouth with some fresh water at the beach water station I calmly jogged back into water for another go in The Gulf. Lap one of two: 30:24

The water was much more open this time and I couldn’t help but turn on the jets just a bit as I approached the first buoy. The turn buoys were less crowded and the sun was just high enough to spare me the glare. All said, the second lap seemed to go by even faster. I felt good; with only a little shoulder burn the last few hundred yards. At one point I even remember feeling A bit warm in my Profile Design Marlin wetsuit. I should have savored the moment, as warmth would be an elusive commodity the rest of the day. One more jog through the shallows and back up beach before the swim was a thing of the past. Lap two of two: 32:23. Wetsuit stripped, through the freshwater showers and into T1. Swim: 1:02:47 (1:40/100m)

It felt like a rat maze on the way through transition. We ran up and down several fenced walkways towards the gear bags before eventually making it to the changing rooms. That was annoying. I took a quick seat and methodically went though the process that I had practiced: shoes, helmet, race number belt, arm warmers, sunglasses banana. It was too easy to waste time in Ironman transitions, I know firsthand; this one seemed fine. I did forget one step though, towel off. I ran out of the changing room ready to ride, but still soaking wet. After yet another endless jog past the porta-potties and down the bike lanes, I was handed my rig just as I swallowed what remained of my banana. Too long but relatively seamless: T1: 6:41

On the bike and I immediately felt cold. Literally dripping wet with only partially dry arm warmers, I began the ride. The road out of town was bumpy and windy. Within ten minutes I was seriously cold and my mood was depleting. I glanced at my watch for the real time of day; it was just after 8:00am. Pre-race temps were in the mid-thirty’s so it could not have been much more than thirty-seven at that point. The sun was rising slowly and still behind the tall trees that lined the highway. I was critically frozen with no way to warm up in sight.

As more time went by I was getting passed left and right but there wasn’t much I could do, nor did I care. Performance, to be completely honest, was no concern of mine at that point. Ninety minutes into the most important race of my season, performance and game plan were not even on my radar because of the oppressive conditions I was dealing with. This is an unbelievable fact for me to reflect on. Straight up, I was too cold to care.

Back to reality, every part of my body was stiff and numb or in extreme pain and getting worse. My legs weren’t firing with any power and my arms were frozen stiff. My fingers were dead dark blue. I could not bend my wrists, shift gears, grasp anything, or squeeze a water bottle, I was flat out miserable and had four plus hours ahead of me. Without regret or shame I can honestly say I considered quitting several times within the first hour of the ride. The extreme cold had transformed into down right undeniable pain and I was losing hope. My lean, one hundred fifty some pound frame was unable to regain any warmth and was taking it on the chin. All I wanted to do was stop.

I really wanted to stop. I wanted the pain to stop and I wanted the cold to stop. I am not sure why I never actually stopped but the temptation was real. After riding way too slow for way too long and being passed by so many people I knew all I could do was continue to pedal. I was too numb to be mad or to process angry thoughts. Frozen in position, I just kept moving forward.

Corey rode up on me at one point, it was so good to see him. He was freezing too and just hearing that made me feel a little better; I wasn’t the only.

The rest of the day on the bike just sort of went on by in a monotonous blur. Over time I slowly thawed and was able to settle into a grove down in the bars with a renewed focus. But the damage had been done, I was way behind. I can’t say I ever truly warmed up, but the misery eventually faded. We fought wind gusts all day long and depending on the turn of the road we dealt with it more or less. I stayed on top of my calories and consumed every bit of my plan. Having been so cold in the morning I knew my body had burnt more calories than planned, so I made an effort to stay on the high end of my consumption ranges for the rest of the ride. Two 24 oz. bottles with six scoops of Hammer Perpetuem in each one did the trick.

The course was different from 2007 and included more inclines and out and back sections. Nothing significant but it is not pancake flat as it’s often advertised.

Special needs came at mile fifty-six. Still having little dexterity in my fingers I had the volunteer unwrap my Fig Newton’s and put them in my mouth after he handed me my fresh fuel bottles. Off I went in under a minute.

Hydration was a big focus of mine on the bike. Throughout training I have learned my sweet rate may be a bit elevated and that the more electrolyte fortified liquid I take in, the better I feel, plain and simple. I was drinking a lot of Hammer HEED. This also means I had to pee a lot. I stopped to pee once. Realizing the incredible waste of time it was I took a new approach. It’s not pretty, comfortable or easy but it’s fast. My new method was a time saver, however my cycling shoes never seemed to dry all day long…that’s all I’ll say about that.

I had a sense of urgency the last twenty or so miles. The wind was calm and I wanted to make up for lost time. I remember passing mile marker ninety and feeling good, so I recommitted. I rode as hard and controlled as I could on my way back to town. But I never fought the wind when it came, I stayed patient knowing it would be at my back soon enough. Several times throughout the final stretch large groups of riders would come up from behind and zoom past effortlessly. I learned about patience and fairness on the bike this season, it was easy for me to let them ride up the road without me. They did their thing, I did mine.

Coming back down the main strip into transition I was not slowing. I was behind schedule and not going to lay off the gas until the dismount line. Some athletes were slowing down as they approach the final mile; I stayed on a stiff pace until the last minute. Olympic pace at mile one hundred eleven probably isn’t textbook Ironman bike strategy but I wanted to get off my bike and run. Out of shoes, ass off saddle, and back in transition. Bike: 5:34:46 (20.1mph)

My first few steps were ridged. My quads were stiff as hell as I shuffled back through the maze of transition fencing. I was handed my gear bag and made it back to the changing rooms. Already my legs were feeling looser, an encouraging sign. Another quick sit, my actions were deliberate. Swiftwick Socks, shoes, visor, and Fuel Belt. Out of the changing room, past a few more transition obstacles and onto the run course. T2: 4:50

I was running. It’s always good to be running at Ironman. A large part of my pre-race focus and preparation was to run a successful marathon. This meant little to no walking. To do this I would have to be patient and resist the urge to go out too quickly. I would also have to fuel correctly with my Espresso Hammer Gel, Endurolytes and water at aid stations. I had Hammer Fizz in both 10 oz. bottles of my Fuel Belt also. I drank the entire first one during mile one. It tasted great. As a back up I had flat Coke at special needs but I wanted to hold off on that as long as possible.

Mile one split, 8:08. Way too fast. 8:30 would have been a little steep but acceptable, 8:08 was down right unacceptable. Time to slow down. The next few miles were consistently slower. So much so that I became a bit concerned. My effort seemed to be increasing while my pace was decreasing. Luckily, this only lasted the first few miles before I was able to stretch out and settle into an appropriate pace and effort.

The course is two out and backs with a loop in the park at the far end. I just wanted to get out to the park at this point. I ran steady and sipped on my flask. Everything was under control. As I continued to drink a lot I allowed myself to stop every other mile to use the porta-potty. These would be the only times I would break stride all marathon.

I made it to the park, ran the loop and headed back towards transition. There weren’t many supporters out that far, it was nice and quiet and I liked it. With my arm warmers now pulled down to my wrists I was moving steady. Around mile eight after taking a shot of gel my flask slipped from my hand. It fell onto the road two steps behind me, I took once glance back at it, decided backwards was a direction I didn’t want to go, and kept on running. Not the best decision I have ever made, but at the time, reverse was not an option.

By the time I made it to the turn around at thirteen I was in an unyielding trance. I saw my family cheering but I heard nothing except my own breathing. I didn’t feel much either; I was in a daze and probably a bit fragile but continued forward progress. I needed that damn gel flask. Plan B. Aid stations. Coke, grapes and oranges were my new nutrition strategy. At the time I fully accepted sugar and caffeine but I knew I would have to stay on it until the finish. A sugar high is good thing, until it runs out. Half Marathon: 2:04:41

It was a little deflating feeling leaving town for a second time, I remembered that feeling from 2007. But at this point, completely buzzed on Coke I kept my head up and left town with a smile. I had one goal; get back to the park.

I wish I remembered more about the run back to the park, but I don’t. I just remember getting to the loop and feeling good. It was still quiet back there, the sun was on its way back down and the air was cooling off. I had one more task at hand before my third Ironman finish. As I passed mile marker twenty, one thought passed through my sugar-stoned head, “run home.” A quick mental inventory of what was left in the tank confirmed my intentions. I would run back as fast as I could. I ditched my empty Fuel Belt bottles and arm warmers at the aid station and took off for twenty-one. Nothing mattered anymore except running, just plain old, hard running. My adrenaline was spiked and my pace was unsustainable. I knew I had to slow down a little but the idea was right. Give it everything I had until the finish. And that is what I did.

As I left the park and made it back onto the crowded streets my daze was thick. Life was a fiery blur inside my head that kept pushing me to run harder. I don’t recall much on the way back into town except the totally alive and numbing feeling of realizing how close I was to the finish.

With around two miles to the finish I remember trying to do math in my head while looking at my watch. I had an extremely thin chance of crossing before the clock ticked eleven hours. It would be close but my ability to calculate time was so impaired I couldn’t figure out how close it would actually be. It was a waste of time and energy to try and figure it out. I conceded with myself to just run. In that moment it was all I could do, just run with a brain turned off. The rest would work itself out.

With other runners and spectators all around me I was alone in my head. No dance party aid stations or drunken college kids cheering could crack my blank stare. I wasn’t interested in any of it, only running. Eventually I made the last left hand turn past Alvin’s Island and could feel the music and lights of the finish line. The adrenaline overdose of the last mile of an Ironman is nothing I can describe with accuracy. But I think that is one aspect of this race that makes it so exceptional. It is as indescribable as it is long. You will literally never know unless you’re there. There is little value in the story.

I entered the finishing chute and crossed the line completely alive and buzzing. “Welcome home” was my only thought. Marathon: 4:13:07 (9:40/mile)

I was escorted by a volunteer through the finishers process; Mylar blanket on, timing chip off, medal around neck, hat and tee-shirt in hand, and finisher photo snapped. Ironman: 11:02:09 (PR)

By now the numbing high I had been riding for the past two hours had escaped my body and was replaced by a very authentic pain from the destruction of the day. But even that pain was dwarfed with the embrace of my teammates and family. “Those things don’t get any easier,” I said to my Dad as we hugged.

I am nothing but happy with my third Ironman experience and am proud to have shared it with my teammates and family. I gave it everything I had, I did not quit, and I earned my best time to date. I will leave it at that.

Ironman Florida Approach

Before I wrote my Ironman race report I thought it would interesting to re-visit my pre-race strategy. I put it together with my coach the week before the race. However, is was truly developed and fine tuned all season long as I trained and raced. We collected data from many aspects of my training (nutrition, heart rate, pace, sweat rate, mood, processes etc.) and analyzed it all over time. This is what we came up with. It is actually quite simple, but specific and sequential.

Reviewing it now is a good way for me to reflect on what went according to plan and what did not. A plan or strategy is required to have success in triathlon (esp. Ironman). But they are meaningless without proper execution. The following was my 2010 Ironman Florida race strategy.

PRE:

Breakfast early, stay off feet, go back up to hotel room after check in

HEED to sip on

Chill out do nothing in AM, and munch on something

SWIM:

3x:30 race pace warm up @ race pace

Spend some energy to get in good position right at start

2^nd lap, cruise be relaxed

No need to negative split, stay consistent

Keep HR down between laps

T1:

Have a plan and be methodical

Be organized

Have a banana on the way out

BIKE:

810 cal = 6 scoops Perpetuem (down tube)

420 cal = 2 scoops HEED (saddle)

32oz Fizz water/ hr (aero) half empty at every aid station - refill

Endurolytes

Fizz in bento box

DRINK!

SPECIAL NEEDS:

Replace Perpetuem and HEED bottles - same solutions

Real food – Fig Newton’s ~200 cal.

Make it quick. In and out

T2:

Have a plan and be methodical

Quick stretch- quads, calves

Espresso gel and Endurolytes

RUN:

8:30 pace first 13, or slower if that feel’s too fast

Take it out slow and in controlled

DRINK!

Avoid walking at all costs

Last 5 miles are personal, overcome the expected pain

SPECIAL NEEDS:

Flat coke

Real Food

Endurolytes

Make it real quick if needed at all

Use aid stations for water

NOTES:

THURS/FRI – eat healthy but increase cal. slightly, increase sodium a bit

Possible sabotage – go out too hard early on bike…be in control

First hour be antsy…want to go faster…20-22mph is the goal; Endurance pace/HR

Feel good at special needs is the goal, then again at mile 90

Ask myself “can I cover an attack?” if not…I'm going to hard

If I feel I could have gone harder on the ride, fine…prove it in the marathon

Be in a position off the bike to take advantage of my good run shape

22-26 make it personal. It will hurt like hell. Over ride the pain. Welcome it. Expect it. Recognize it. I am mentally prepared for it.

601 Boyd Mill. Franklin Training.

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.