Ironman Race Report for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 10/19/2009
Oct 29, 2009 12:39 Filed in: Ironman
It's only been a few day since Kona, so I probably have a lot of different emotions still to process. But I wanted to write down what I'm feeling now and record the many interesting, exciting, and emotional things that happened to me during the week in Kona.
Kona week really began for me here in LA on Monday at the airport. A variety of Ironman athletes were on my flight, identified by their deer-in-headlights look and their oh so fashionable compression socks. There were first timers, like myself. Qualifiers who got to Kona through years of hard work. And Ironman royalty in Dave Scott, sitting just two rows behind me on the plane. The nervous excitement was palpable even there, several thousand miles away from Kona and still the better part of week away from race day.
From Tuesday on the very reality of the event was all around me. I registered, met athletes and volunteers, and was greeted in the middle of the official race program by an unexpected giant 8x11 glossy of myself. In my 38 years I've seen many a centerfold. I shouldn't be one of them.
After registration was over I took my bike up the Queen K and did some riding around the bike turnaround in Hawi. I felt good, strong, and excited. It's beautiful up there and the reality that I would get to ride 112 miles along that coast on the coming Saturday was thrilling. Stopping for an ice cream in town before heading back down the highway to Kona I met Germans, Italians, and Australians. It truly is an international event of the highest order.
On Wednesday, with Carrie now on the Island, the interviews began. First, TV for the Ironman people and some canned broll of me running along the bay. I spent 10 minutes on the phone with a writer from Outdoor Magazine and a good hour-plus with a writer and photographer from the AP. Then it was lunch, nap, VIP cocktail party, another airport run to pick up Carrie's mom (my parents came in earlier that afternoon), and another nap before heading to the Kailua-Kona pier for a 1am live hit for Al Roker on the East Coast. It was fun and well worth doing, but it definitely made for a short night.
Thursday morning began with an early swim in the bay off Dig Me beach. And let me just say, I can't imagine a better way to wake up. No coffee needed. Not only is it refreshing and beautiful and exhilarating, if you really do need your morning cup and you can swim out to the Espresso Barge where the coffee was flowing. If that was the ocean we had here to swim in I can't imagine ever missing a day.
The swim was great, but the rest of Thursday was packed. More broll of me running and biking. A large press conference where I met some of the other amazing participant stories, including that of Rudy Garcia-Tolson, a double leg amputee looking to complete the race with nothing but gluteal muscles to power his pedaling and running. That was followed by a quick lunch and then on to Sports Medicine Conference where I was a speaker, then a meet and greet with NBC producers and another interview, then on to dinner to experience the complete flair that comes along with being a part of the Ford Ironman World Championship.
Another short night was followed by another relaxing dip in the waters of the bay. Can you tell I love that swim? (The irony of that is coming, hold on). The last of the pre-race interviews finally happened, then it was time to organize my gear and drop it at transition. I really do love the way they do it at Ironman. It makes for a much more relaxing pre-race night and race morning. No transition to set up. No last minute equipment decisions to make. And very very little to take with me in the morning on race day.
With very little on the schedule, except relaxing and resting, I was able to enjoy a dinner with the many friends and family members who sacrificed to come out and support me. It was a great time to celebrate where I was, now three years after heart transplant and 20 years after my first cancer diagnosis. And it was a great and appropriate group of people to be celebrating with. Wonderful friends, coaches who first instilled the love of my triathlon, the coach who got me to Kona, Carrie, my parents, and my mother-in-law. It was the perfect way to get me relaxed and focused for race day.
For the first time all week I slept.
Waking up early, of course, I downed a good and complete breakfast and then headed down to transition on the race shuttle. Body marking was a breeze, special needs drop off was easy, and all last minute bike checks were a snap. The organization of the event is mind-boggling. You are never more than 5 feet away from a volunteer who is just waiting to be asked for help. To air up your bike, to guide you to bag drop, etc. They are everywhere, and they are eager. It's probably the best part of Ironman.
Getting in the water was the moment I most dreaded. I expected that my stomach would be a mess and that the nerves would be cranked up as high as they could go. The exact opposite was true. I was calm, relaxed, and loving the moment. About 5 minutes before race start, and after I'd gotten about 10 minutes of warm up in, I floated in my starting position, taking in the surroundings. The crowd, the athletes, the cameras and helicopters. This was the Super Bowl and somehow I made it on to the field. Very cool.
With a cannon shot we were off, and I felt good. Earlier in the week I told Carrie that my greatest fear was not finishing the swim. Not because I thought it would or could happen, but because of all of the scenarios in play it would feel the worst. The idea that my day could end so early, after so much build up, was an awful thought. But about 15 minutes into my swim I knew that finishing the 2.4 miles would not be a problem. My rhythm was solid and my glide was good. I was having no fatigue, no breath problems, and I was keeping pace with other swimmers on the course. I wasn't fast, but I was safely on my way to completing the first leg of the Ironman.
It's definitely a long way to swim. Also, once you get outside of the bay and into the open ocean you deal with some chop of the waves and swells that have a tendency to hide buoys. But you're also never alone out there. Even when I couldn't see other swimmers, there was always a surfboard or two no more than 20 feet away.
But past the turnaround and at least halfway home there were still on occasion other swimmers around. Not a lot. But enough for me to feel that my pace was still good and my stroke was still steady. The swells were getting to me a little. I started to feel a little sea sick and my head began to get woozy. I was getting off my swim line because of the hard to see buoys, but that was always fixed by a corrective command from a surfboard rider. And occasionally I noticed that my stroke was flattening out. But not once did I need to stop. My fatigue was minimal and my breath was still with me. I began to think about T1 and the first few miles of the bike. Most specifically the first hour of nutrition and how best to keep myself drinking.
As I got close to the pier for the final few hundred yards of the swim it was obvious that not a lot of other swimmers were around me. In fact, I was surrounded by surfboards topped with people shouting words of encouragement. My internal clock had me coming in closer to the two-hour mark than I was hoping for. I was hoping to be on my bike by 9am but it felt like that 9am was going to be the time for my swim finish. Not a huge worry. I could make up the lost 10 minutes or so somewhere else.
At the pier now, and less than 100 yards to go, the encouragement from the surfboards intensified. "Pull!" "Dig!" "You got this, Kyle!"
I could also hear the crowds on the shore cheering and calling my name. It felt good to have so much personal support as I was finishing the swim. If this was an indication of how it would be for me on the course the rest of the race it was going to be a great day.
As I neared the end I was a little surprised by the frenzy of the people around me. Yes, it was very exciting. But I had a long day ahead of me and I couldn't blow too much emotion with 14 to 15 hours still to come. Standing up, I was immediately grabbed and dragged the final couple of feet to the steps of the swim out. "Touch the steps! Touch the steps!"
"I will," I thought to myself. "Give me a moment. I've been laying horizontal for the last 2.4 miles and it's going to take a second to get my bearings."
A huge cheer went up as I touched the steps and I heard the announcer shout, "He did it!" But as I turned up the steps and began to make my way into T1 an official stopped me and said, "I'm sorry, you're done. You didn't make it."
My first thought was, "Yes, I'm done. Now move so I get to my bike." But then the last half of his sentence registered and I reflexively looked down at my watch for the first time since 7:00am. It read 9:20. The reality hit like a punch to the stomach. I didn't make it. I had an easy to complete 2:20:00 to finish the swim but for some reason it had taken me 2:20:08. I was 8 seconds too slow.
I think I shouted, "No!" But I really don't remember. I know that I sunk to my hands and knees right there on the steps and started to sob. Months of training and years of dreaming had ended because of 8 seconds. My worst case scenario was a reality. The day that I had prepared for was over before it really began. I wouldn't get to ride along the Queen K and there would be no magical night at the finish line on Ali'i Drive. I was crushed.
I was ushered up the steps and over to the medical tent so I'd have a place to sit down away from the cameras. Carrie met me there and joined the tears. My mom arrived, as did coach Paul. And eventually Diana Bertsch, the race director came over to me. She told me that watching me come up short was the hardest moment for her in 7 years of doing the event.
Then Blair LaHaye, the director of communications for Ironman, come over. She has become my friend over the last several months and both Carrie and I took to her immediately upon meeting her face to face in Kona. She couldn't hold back the tears either, but did manage to tell me that there was always next year. I managed to ask, "You'll have me back?" And she said yes.
It has since been confirmed by her, Diana Bertsch, and the CEO of the World Triathlon Corporation (the Ironman folks), Ben Fertic, that an invitation for 2010 was not just an emotional reaction to the moment. It was officially offered, and I of course have accepted.
About 30 minutes after coming up short on the swim I spoke with Bob Babbitt on Ironman's live coverage of the event. I told him that I was disappointed, but honored to have been a part of the event. That it was still a very good day for me and that I would be back in 2010 most definitely. But at the time I wasn't sure if I was being strong for the TV cameras or if I really did feel like it was a good day. At that moment I felt the pain of failure and the embarrassment of doing it so publicly. I wasn't exactly participating in the event anonymously. Friends had flown thousands of miles to support. I had sponsors. I was the CBS Evening News the night before. I was in the race program, not to mention dozens of newspapers across the country. And yet I hadn't even finished the swim.
After a couple of hours I got myself together and met a number of friends at the Fish Hopper, a restaurant that overlooks the swim start and finish. As we finished up what was for me a pretty subdued lunch one of the servers approached our table and called me by name. She told me that during my final 100 yards of swimming the entire restaurant was up and cheering for me. She said they were inspired by my story and my battle that morning. She then presented me with a card that everyone who works at the restaurant had signed with words of encouragement. I can't thank them enough for their time, their thoughts, and their words. It was exactly what I needed.
It was a great day. Disappointing, of course. It was not the dream that had put me to sleep so many previous nights. But there I was, three years to the day after my heart transplant and more than 20 years since I heard my first cancer diagnosis, healthy and happy and living the dream of so many people that I know. I have friends that are willing to follow me thousands of miles to support my endeavors. I have a family that stands by me in everything that I do. And I have a loving wife who has willingly joined the roller coaster that is my life.
October 10, 2009 was the best of days. It was a special experience that I will never forget. I am so grateful for every aspect of it. Including the way it ended. Because I think perhaps when it's all said and done it will make me stronger. It will make me wiser. And when I do cross the finish line on October 9, 2010, it will be that much sweeter.
Following my DNF that morning I thought that I would use the pain of that moment and the disappointment of the failure to fuel my workouts for the upcoming 12 months. But that night I went to the finish line to watch the magical final two hours. The smiles that I saw, the celebrations, the joy, and the pure happiness of the crowd for total strangers realizing their dreams... that is my fuel. That, and the words of kindness from the amazing staff at the Fish Hopper.
See you in Kona in 2010. Until then, I have some swimming to do. :)
Kona week really began for me here in LA on Monday at the airport. A variety of Ironman athletes were on my flight, identified by their deer-in-headlights look and their oh so fashionable compression socks. There were first timers, like myself. Qualifiers who got to Kona through years of hard work. And Ironman royalty in Dave Scott, sitting just two rows behind me on the plane. The nervous excitement was palpable even there, several thousand miles away from Kona and still the better part of week away from race day.
From Tuesday on the very reality of the event was all around me. I registered, met athletes and volunteers, and was greeted in the middle of the official race program by an unexpected giant 8x11 glossy of myself. In my 38 years I've seen many a centerfold. I shouldn't be one of them.
After registration was over I took my bike up the Queen K and did some riding around the bike turnaround in Hawi. I felt good, strong, and excited. It's beautiful up there and the reality that I would get to ride 112 miles along that coast on the coming Saturday was thrilling. Stopping for an ice cream in town before heading back down the highway to Kona I met Germans, Italians, and Australians. It truly is an international event of the highest order.
On Wednesday, with Carrie now on the Island, the interviews began. First, TV for the Ironman people and some canned broll of me running along the bay. I spent 10 minutes on the phone with a writer from Outdoor Magazine and a good hour-plus with a writer and photographer from the AP. Then it was lunch, nap, VIP cocktail party, another airport run to pick up Carrie's mom (my parents came in earlier that afternoon), and another nap before heading to the Kailua-Kona pier for a 1am live hit for Al Roker on the East Coast. It was fun and well worth doing, but it definitely made for a short night.
Thursday morning began with an early swim in the bay off Dig Me beach. And let me just say, I can't imagine a better way to wake up. No coffee needed. Not only is it refreshing and beautiful and exhilarating, if you really do need your morning cup and you can swim out to the Espresso Barge where the coffee was flowing. If that was the ocean we had here to swim in I can't imagine ever missing a day.
The swim was great, but the rest of Thursday was packed. More broll of me running and biking. A large press conference where I met some of the other amazing participant stories, including that of Rudy Garcia-Tolson, a double leg amputee looking to complete the race with nothing but gluteal muscles to power his pedaling and running. That was followed by a quick lunch and then on to Sports Medicine Conference where I was a speaker, then a meet and greet with NBC producers and another interview, then on to dinner to experience the complete flair that comes along with being a part of the Ford Ironman World Championship.
Another short night was followed by another relaxing dip in the waters of the bay. Can you tell I love that swim? (The irony of that is coming, hold on). The last of the pre-race interviews finally happened, then it was time to organize my gear and drop it at transition. I really do love the way they do it at Ironman. It makes for a much more relaxing pre-race night and race morning. No transition to set up. No last minute equipment decisions to make. And very very little to take with me in the morning on race day.
With very little on the schedule, except relaxing and resting, I was able to enjoy a dinner with the many friends and family members who sacrificed to come out and support me. It was a great time to celebrate where I was, now three years after heart transplant and 20 years after my first cancer diagnosis. And it was a great and appropriate group of people to be celebrating with. Wonderful friends, coaches who first instilled the love of my triathlon, the coach who got me to Kona, Carrie, my parents, and my mother-in-law. It was the perfect way to get me relaxed and focused for race day.
For the first time all week I slept.
Waking up early, of course, I downed a good and complete breakfast and then headed down to transition on the race shuttle. Body marking was a breeze, special needs drop off was easy, and all last minute bike checks were a snap. The organization of the event is mind-boggling. You are never more than 5 feet away from a volunteer who is just waiting to be asked for help. To air up your bike, to guide you to bag drop, etc. They are everywhere, and they are eager. It's probably the best part of Ironman.
Getting in the water was the moment I most dreaded. I expected that my stomach would be a mess and that the nerves would be cranked up as high as they could go. The exact opposite was true. I was calm, relaxed, and loving the moment. About 5 minutes before race start, and after I'd gotten about 10 minutes of warm up in, I floated in my starting position, taking in the surroundings. The crowd, the athletes, the cameras and helicopters. This was the Super Bowl and somehow I made it on to the field. Very cool.
With a cannon shot we were off, and I felt good. Earlier in the week I told Carrie that my greatest fear was not finishing the swim. Not because I thought it would or could happen, but because of all of the scenarios in play it would feel the worst. The idea that my day could end so early, after so much build up, was an awful thought. But about 15 minutes into my swim I knew that finishing the 2.4 miles would not be a problem. My rhythm was solid and my glide was good. I was having no fatigue, no breath problems, and I was keeping pace with other swimmers on the course. I wasn't fast, but I was safely on my way to completing the first leg of the Ironman.
It's definitely a long way to swim. Also, once you get outside of the bay and into the open ocean you deal with some chop of the waves and swells that have a tendency to hide buoys. But you're also never alone out there. Even when I couldn't see other swimmers, there was always a surfboard or two no more than 20 feet away.
But past the turnaround and at least halfway home there were still on occasion other swimmers around. Not a lot. But enough for me to feel that my pace was still good and my stroke was still steady. The swells were getting to me a little. I started to feel a little sea sick and my head began to get woozy. I was getting off my swim line because of the hard to see buoys, but that was always fixed by a corrective command from a surfboard rider. And occasionally I noticed that my stroke was flattening out. But not once did I need to stop. My fatigue was minimal and my breath was still with me. I began to think about T1 and the first few miles of the bike. Most specifically the first hour of nutrition and how best to keep myself drinking.
As I got close to the pier for the final few hundred yards of the swim it was obvious that not a lot of other swimmers were around me. In fact, I was surrounded by surfboards topped with people shouting words of encouragement. My internal clock had me coming in closer to the two-hour mark than I was hoping for. I was hoping to be on my bike by 9am but it felt like that 9am was going to be the time for my swim finish. Not a huge worry. I could make up the lost 10 minutes or so somewhere else.
At the pier now, and less than 100 yards to go, the encouragement from the surfboards intensified. "Pull!" "Dig!" "You got this, Kyle!"
I could also hear the crowds on the shore cheering and calling my name. It felt good to have so much personal support as I was finishing the swim. If this was an indication of how it would be for me on the course the rest of the race it was going to be a great day.
As I neared the end I was a little surprised by the frenzy of the people around me. Yes, it was very exciting. But I had a long day ahead of me and I couldn't blow too much emotion with 14 to 15 hours still to come. Standing up, I was immediately grabbed and dragged the final couple of feet to the steps of the swim out. "Touch the steps! Touch the steps!"
"I will," I thought to myself. "Give me a moment. I've been laying horizontal for the last 2.4 miles and it's going to take a second to get my bearings."
A huge cheer went up as I touched the steps and I heard the announcer shout, "He did it!" But as I turned up the steps and began to make my way into T1 an official stopped me and said, "I'm sorry, you're done. You didn't make it."
My first thought was, "Yes, I'm done. Now move so I get to my bike." But then the last half of his sentence registered and I reflexively looked down at my watch for the first time since 7:00am. It read 9:20. The reality hit like a punch to the stomach. I didn't make it. I had an easy to complete 2:20:00 to finish the swim but for some reason it had taken me 2:20:08. I was 8 seconds too slow.
I think I shouted, "No!" But I really don't remember. I know that I sunk to my hands and knees right there on the steps and started to sob. Months of training and years of dreaming had ended because of 8 seconds. My worst case scenario was a reality. The day that I had prepared for was over before it really began. I wouldn't get to ride along the Queen K and there would be no magical night at the finish line on Ali'i Drive. I was crushed.
I was ushered up the steps and over to the medical tent so I'd have a place to sit down away from the cameras. Carrie met me there and joined the tears. My mom arrived, as did coach Paul. And eventually Diana Bertsch, the race director came over to me. She told me that watching me come up short was the hardest moment for her in 7 years of doing the event.
Then Blair LaHaye, the director of communications for Ironman, come over. She has become my friend over the last several months and both Carrie and I took to her immediately upon meeting her face to face in Kona. She couldn't hold back the tears either, but did manage to tell me that there was always next year. I managed to ask, "You'll have me back?" And she said yes.
It has since been confirmed by her, Diana Bertsch, and the CEO of the World Triathlon Corporation (the Ironman folks), Ben Fertic, that an invitation for 2010 was not just an emotional reaction to the moment. It was officially offered, and I of course have accepted.
About 30 minutes after coming up short on the swim I spoke with Bob Babbitt on Ironman's live coverage of the event. I told him that I was disappointed, but honored to have been a part of the event. That it was still a very good day for me and that I would be back in 2010 most definitely. But at the time I wasn't sure if I was being strong for the TV cameras or if I really did feel like it was a good day. At that moment I felt the pain of failure and the embarrassment of doing it so publicly. I wasn't exactly participating in the event anonymously. Friends had flown thousands of miles to support. I had sponsors. I was the CBS Evening News the night before. I was in the race program, not to mention dozens of newspapers across the country. And yet I hadn't even finished the swim.
After a couple of hours I got myself together and met a number of friends at the Fish Hopper, a restaurant that overlooks the swim start and finish. As we finished up what was for me a pretty subdued lunch one of the servers approached our table and called me by name. She told me that during my final 100 yards of swimming the entire restaurant was up and cheering for me. She said they were inspired by my story and my battle that morning. She then presented me with a card that everyone who works at the restaurant had signed with words of encouragement. I can't thank them enough for their time, their thoughts, and their words. It was exactly what I needed.
It was a great day. Disappointing, of course. It was not the dream that had put me to sleep so many previous nights. But there I was, three years to the day after my heart transplant and more than 20 years since I heard my first cancer diagnosis, healthy and happy and living the dream of so many people that I know. I have friends that are willing to follow me thousands of miles to support my endeavors. I have a family that stands by me in everything that I do. And I have a loving wife who has willingly joined the roller coaster that is my life.
October 10, 2009 was the best of days. It was a special experience that I will never forget. I am so grateful for every aspect of it. Including the way it ended. Because I think perhaps when it's all said and done it will make me stronger. It will make me wiser. And when I do cross the finish line on October 9, 2010, it will be that much sweeter.
Following my DNF that morning I thought that I would use the pain of that moment and the disappointment of the failure to fuel my workouts for the upcoming 12 months. But that night I went to the finish line to watch the magical final two hours. The smiles that I saw, the celebrations, the joy, and the pure happiness of the crowd for total strangers realizing their dreams... that is my fuel. That, and the words of kindness from the amazing staff at the Fish Hopper.
See you in Kona in 2010. Until then, I have some swimming to do. :)
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Blog #9 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 10/7/2009
Last night I landed in Kona, the big race now just days away. Oddly, and unexpectedly, being on the ground here, seeing the many riders along the Queen K and the runners along Ali'i Dr, filled me with a sense of confidence.
The weather is holding just fine, which will be very important come Saturday. It's hot of course, but not too bad. There are winds of course, but nothing too terrible. And yes, there are nerves. But I'm not panicked by the sight of everyone with 2% body fat and their $14,000 bikes.
I can do this.
It really comes down to a couple of simple thoughts. 1) I have a plan that I know will get me to the finish line. 2) I know I have the ability to execute that plan.
That's really all it comes down to.
This is three very basic activities. It's a morning swim, longer than usual, but nothing that I can't do in under 2 hours. It's essentially a century ride up the Kona Coast and back. I can do that. In fact it will probably be much easier than the century I did in training, which was me by myself traversing the same old boring route along PCH four weeks ago. And then it's a marathon.
I've never done a marathon. But I've done 20 miles, also by myself. And also along a route that I've traveled dozens of times. This will be longer, but it will be new, exciting, and with a really great party at the end.
We are now four days away from Ironman. From the test of a lifetime. A day that will trump all days before it, and all of those yet to come. And I do believe that I am ready.
Or at least I will be by Saturday. A couple of rides along the course this week, a couple of morning swims and evening jogs, and the prep will be complete.
See you Saturday night at the finish!
The weather is holding just fine, which will be very important come Saturday. It's hot of course, but not too bad. There are winds of course, but nothing too terrible. And yes, there are nerves. But I'm not panicked by the sight of everyone with 2% body fat and their $14,000 bikes.
I can do this.
It really comes down to a couple of simple thoughts. 1) I have a plan that I know will get me to the finish line. 2) I know I have the ability to execute that plan.
That's really all it comes down to.
This is three very basic activities. It's a morning swim, longer than usual, but nothing that I can't do in under 2 hours. It's essentially a century ride up the Kona Coast and back. I can do that. In fact it will probably be much easier than the century I did in training, which was me by myself traversing the same old boring route along PCH four weeks ago. And then it's a marathon.
I've never done a marathon. But I've done 20 miles, also by myself. And also along a route that I've traveled dozens of times. This will be longer, but it will be new, exciting, and with a really great party at the end.
We are now four days away from Ironman. From the test of a lifetime. A day that will trump all days before it, and all of those yet to come. And I do believe that I am ready.
Or at least I will be by Saturday. A couple of rides along the course this week, a couple of morning swims and evening jogs, and the prep will be complete.
See you Saturday night at the finish!
Blog #8 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 9/16/2009
100 mile ride -- check. 20 mile run -- check. Spend the next three weeks a little panicked at how I'm going to combine the two, with longer distances, into the same day -- check.
Actually, as I hit the home stretch now, I'm not too panicked. My legs felt strong after my century ride and my feet held up for the entire 20 mile run. If I can say those two things at Kona on October 10, I should be in good shape. Of course, good shape is all relative. For me that means on my way to finishing between the 11:00pm-12:00am hour. I will certainly be chasing the clock at Kona. But I think and truly believe that I now have the tools to actually chase that clock.
One more tough weekend of workouts ahead should put the icing on the confidence cake. A seven hour brick on Saturday and a long swim on Sunday should be the final big workouts that my body needs to get me across the finish line. Then it's just maintenance, taper (a word I've been waiting a long time to say), and reflection on the upcoming job.
Of course race day won't be just a job. I need to be focused, for sure. I need to be about business, without a doubt. But it's also an opportunity of a lifetime. I'll need to be sure and soak in every moment. I don't want to get so caught up in my own work that I can't enjoy the fact that early into my bike ride I'll be seeing the greatest athletes in the world zipping down the other side of the Queen K Highway. If I can remind myself to ride my own race while at the same reveling in the surrounding spectacle, I should be okay.
I'll have almost three weeks to get my mental focus in line with the physical work. For me I think that's plenty of time. I'm going to hurt. I'm going to have some rough hours on the course. But this isn't chemotherapy. This isn't recovery from a heart transplant. It's an amazing event that by the grace of God I get to participate in.
In just over three weeks, regardless of how it ends, I'll be living the most amazing day of my life.
I can't wait.
Actually, as I hit the home stretch now, I'm not too panicked. My legs felt strong after my century ride and my feet held up for the entire 20 mile run. If I can say those two things at Kona on October 10, I should be in good shape. Of course, good shape is all relative. For me that means on my way to finishing between the 11:00pm-12:00am hour. I will certainly be chasing the clock at Kona. But I think and truly believe that I now have the tools to actually chase that clock.
One more tough weekend of workouts ahead should put the icing on the confidence cake. A seven hour brick on Saturday and a long swim on Sunday should be the final big workouts that my body needs to get me across the finish line. Then it's just maintenance, taper (a word I've been waiting a long time to say), and reflection on the upcoming job.
Of course race day won't be just a job. I need to be focused, for sure. I need to be about business, without a doubt. But it's also an opportunity of a lifetime. I'll need to be sure and soak in every moment. I don't want to get so caught up in my own work that I can't enjoy the fact that early into my bike ride I'll be seeing the greatest athletes in the world zipping down the other side of the Queen K Highway. If I can remind myself to ride my own race while at the same reveling in the surrounding spectacle, I should be okay.
I'll have almost three weeks to get my mental focus in line with the physical work. For me I think that's plenty of time. I'm going to hurt. I'm going to have some rough hours on the course. But this isn't chemotherapy. This isn't recovery from a heart transplant. It's an amazing event that by the grace of God I get to participate in.
In just over three weeks, regardless of how it ends, I'll be living the most amazing day of my life.
I can't wait.
Blog #7 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 9/2/2009
Forty days from now I will be treading water in Kailua-Kona Bay, waiting for the start of the Ironman. I will be riding 112 miles up the Queen K Highway with some of the greatest athletes in the world. And long after those athletes have finished their race, showered, eaten, and taken a nap, I will be running a marathon that hopefully ends at the finish line on Ali'i Drive.
In other contexts 40 days feels like a long time. If, for example, I was given 40 days in jail. Or if you were to embark on a 40-day road trip. And certainly the history of 40 days would indicate not just a long passage of time, but also a time frame that can produce monumental changes. It took 40 days for the Earth to flood in the days of Noah. Surely I can become a full fledged Ironman in 40 days.
I am on my way. This weekend will see me hit 85 miles on the bike and 17 to 18 miles on my feet. We'll follow that up with 100 miles on the bike the next weekend. And the swim workouts are getting long and more intense. But so is a little of the pressure I'm feeling.
In the past week I've appeared on L.A.'s top morning radio show, "Kevin & Bean," and I've taped an episode of the talk show "The Doctors." Add that to the CNN coverage, the NBC Sports stories that are still to come, and the many many friends who are making the trip to Kona to support my efforts, and it's clear that I'm not just any age-grouper doing an Ironman.
I am a heart transplant at the big daddy, the Ford Ironman World Championship. The fear of failing on that stage is very real.
But at the same time that the pressure ratchets up, so does the impending excitement. Today I'm working out alone and almost completely anonymous. What will it be like to ride the Queen K surrounded by (or more realistically "trailing") a field of 1800 great triathletes? What kind of energy will be generated by the helicopters overhead, the camera that is sure to be in my face for a good portion of the race, and the thousands of supporters and volunteers on the Big Island that weekend to celebrate the Super Bowl of triathlon?
No doubt it will be one of the most amazing, crazy, scary, beautiful, painful, and rewarding days I've ever had. And it now stands just 40 days away.
That in itself is pretty scary.
In other contexts 40 days feels like a long time. If, for example, I was given 40 days in jail. Or if you were to embark on a 40-day road trip. And certainly the history of 40 days would indicate not just a long passage of time, but also a time frame that can produce monumental changes. It took 40 days for the Earth to flood in the days of Noah. Surely I can become a full fledged Ironman in 40 days.
I am on my way. This weekend will see me hit 85 miles on the bike and 17 to 18 miles on my feet. We'll follow that up with 100 miles on the bike the next weekend. And the swim workouts are getting long and more intense. But so is a little of the pressure I'm feeling.
In the past week I've appeared on L.A.'s top morning radio show, "Kevin & Bean," and I've taped an episode of the talk show "The Doctors." Add that to the CNN coverage, the NBC Sports stories that are still to come, and the many many friends who are making the trip to Kona to support my efforts, and it's clear that I'm not just any age-grouper doing an Ironman.
I am a heart transplant at the big daddy, the Ford Ironman World Championship. The fear of failing on that stage is very real.
But at the same time that the pressure ratchets up, so does the impending excitement. Today I'm working out alone and almost completely anonymous. What will it be like to ride the Queen K surrounded by (or more realistically "trailing") a field of 1800 great triathletes? What kind of energy will be generated by the helicopters overhead, the camera that is sure to be in my face for a good portion of the race, and the thousands of supporters and volunteers on the Big Island that weekend to celebrate the Super Bowl of triathlon?
No doubt it will be one of the most amazing, crazy, scary, beautiful, painful, and rewarding days I've ever had. And it now stands just 40 days away.
That in itself is pretty scary.
Blog #6 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 8/26/2009
My coach has been trying to drill into me a change in my thinking for weeks. He keeps telling me that I have to stop being Kyle the heart transplant, and become Kyle the athlete. For me, as I'm sure it is for a lot of people, that's a hard switch to flip.
For years I've been a patient of one sort or another. It's dominated my life for nearly two decades. Some people are painters. Some people are great cooks. And some people are in fact actual athletes. I've been a patient.
But this past weekend I began to feel the shift. I began to feel a little like Kyle the athlete. I had a four hour bike ride on my schedule for Saturday and I actually thought to myself, "Great, light workout."
Would a heart transplant patient consider any kind of four-hour physical activity "light?" Honestly, most athletes wouldn't. Such is the screwed up world of Ironman training, where swim "warm-ups" are routinely 800 yards and recovery weeks consist of only 15 to 18 hours of workouts.
I am now knee deep in Ironman training, making the final push to Kona. There are less than seven weeks to go. Which means that that four hour bike ride from last Saturday will consistently become a four to five hour ride followed by two to three hours of running. And then Sunday we'll always be following it with three to four more hours of running and a long swim. This Sunday's swim is 3,000 meters straight, as an example.
Looking at those numbers it's pretty obvious - I am no longer Kyle the transplant patient. The numbers are crazy. And even more crazy, I actually feel good when working out. I feel strong. I feel healthy. And the day following my long bike rides up the canyons of Southern California, my legs no longer punish me for the previous days activities.
When I began my Ironman quest there was a big part of me that didn't believe I could make it happen. There were huge black clouds of doubt about how my body and mind would adjust to the daily pounding. But today, all of these many months later, those clouds have lifted. I don't just feel like Kyle the athlete. I actually feel like Kyle the Ironman.
And that feels pretty terrific.
For years I've been a patient of one sort or another. It's dominated my life for nearly two decades. Some people are painters. Some people are great cooks. And some people are in fact actual athletes. I've been a patient.
But this past weekend I began to feel the shift. I began to feel a little like Kyle the athlete. I had a four hour bike ride on my schedule for Saturday and I actually thought to myself, "Great, light workout."
Would a heart transplant patient consider any kind of four-hour physical activity "light?" Honestly, most athletes wouldn't. Such is the screwed up world of Ironman training, where swim "warm-ups" are routinely 800 yards and recovery weeks consist of only 15 to 18 hours of workouts.
I am now knee deep in Ironman training, making the final push to Kona. There are less than seven weeks to go. Which means that that four hour bike ride from last Saturday will consistently become a four to five hour ride followed by two to three hours of running. And then Sunday we'll always be following it with three to four more hours of running and a long swim. This Sunday's swim is 3,000 meters straight, as an example.
Looking at those numbers it's pretty obvious - I am no longer Kyle the transplant patient. The numbers are crazy. And even more crazy, I actually feel good when working out. I feel strong. I feel healthy. And the day following my long bike rides up the canyons of Southern California, my legs no longer punish me for the previous days activities.
When I began my Ironman quest there was a big part of me that didn't believe I could make it happen. There were huge black clouds of doubt about how my body and mind would adjust to the daily pounding. But today, all of these many months later, those clouds have lifted. I don't just feel like Kyle the athlete. I actually feel like Kyle the Ironman.
And that feels pretty terrific.
Blog #5 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 8/18/2009
Having grown up in the great state of Kansas (I now call California home) I have a healthy appreciation for severe thunderstorms and the havoc that they can wreak. Indoors is always better than outdoors; the lower to the ground you are the better; and always avoid being in any large bodies of water or near anything made of metal.
Enter the Utah Half-Ironman on Saturday in Provo.
The morning started perfectly. Nice and cool with a beautiful sunrise peeking out over the Wasatch Mountains. But as we made our way down to Utah Lake for our 6:45am swim start the heavens opened up and the storms rolled in. It began to howl something fierce. The temperature noticeably dropped 5 to 10 degrees. And the buoy that was supposed to be our turnaround point for the second lap of the 1.2-mile swim began to blow away.
So there was a delay. Followed by another delay. Followed by a "we're checking the weather radars and hoping to find a window without crazy winds and lightning."
At 45 minutes past our scheduled start -- and 45 minutes of standing around in wetsuits -- a small window was found and we were off. And the chaos of the moment, at least for me, cannot be overstated. To go from standing still for the better part of an hour, shivering, to "we're off and running the biggest race of your life" in a split second was not exactly in my pre-race plan.
Nevertheless, I got out of the water not too worse for the wear, but certainly off my game a little. I was behind the 8-ball on my nutrition plan (plenty hydrated, however, thanks to the timing of my breathing and the wind driven waves of the lake) and mentally I was pretty screwed up from the very auspicious beginning to what was supposed to be a terrific day.
On the bike, ready to roll, and the winds began to really kick up and more lightning could be seen in many of the directions that our 56-mile ride would take us. As I took a deep breath and thought to myself, What the hell am I about do?, my wife Carrie came up to me and said, "Just keep going. Don't stop unless they pull you off the course. I love you."
She got me started on my ride. I needed her to say something. She said the right thing. 56 miles would be done, come hell or high water, which was becoming more and more a real possibility.
The winds were rough. There were times when I was noticeably listing into the wind to avoid getting blown over. The rains came in buckets, and I swear in the distance I could hear the hammering of an arc being built. And the lighting and hail came; turning one of the most beautiful settings for a race I've ever seen into a scary scene of survival.
But through it all it was oddly exhilarating as well. As hail began to ping off my helmet and leave the occasional mark on my exposed face I actually started to smile. I was in the middle of nowhere, 29 miles into the bike leg and separated from safety and civilization by some of the angriest clouds I've ever seen, and I was thrilled. My energy and stamina all picked up and it was at that moment, when the conditions were the worst that I knew that I would finish.
I negative splitted my bike time -- something I never do -- and my final hour on the bike was by far my strongest and fastest. I had an absolutely terrific second 28 on the bike and it was largely due to the added challenge of riding in a thunderstorm that no sane person would want to drive in.
I pulled into T2 soaked and muddy but feeling great. I was hoping to change into some dry socks before heading out on the 13.1-mile run as a way to refresh my chilled feet, but to no avail. The storm had blown through transition and everything that I had there, from shoes and socks to towels and a clean shirt, was wet and muddy. Oh well. I would finish regardless.
Thanks to the soaking wet feet I got some pretty decent blisters in the early goings of the run, but I knew I would finish. My legs got tired, of course, and the ache in my feet got worse. But I knew I would finish. And even though the strength and energy that I felt at the end of the bike was largely gone by mile 10 on the run, I knew I would finish.
And I did. And it was great. My first half-Ironman was complete.
I can't say enough good things about the people who organized this race. Despite some horrific conditions they kept the race running smoothly and as safely as possible. I am eternally grateful to them and I'm looking forward to doing their event next year, when I can focus on the lake setting and surrounding mountains, instead of hail and raindrops the size of shot blocks.
And of course my wife, Carrie, who also did the race -- her third half-Iron distance. And the half-dozen or so friends who either did the race or traveled to Utah to cheer us on. It was a special day having you all there.
So, with the Utah Half safely in the books, only one more chapter is left to be written: Kona.
Enter the Utah Half-Ironman on Saturday in Provo.
The morning started perfectly. Nice and cool with a beautiful sunrise peeking out over the Wasatch Mountains. But as we made our way down to Utah Lake for our 6:45am swim start the heavens opened up and the storms rolled in. It began to howl something fierce. The temperature noticeably dropped 5 to 10 degrees. And the buoy that was supposed to be our turnaround point for the second lap of the 1.2-mile swim began to blow away.
So there was a delay. Followed by another delay. Followed by a "we're checking the weather radars and hoping to find a window without crazy winds and lightning."
At 45 minutes past our scheduled start -- and 45 minutes of standing around in wetsuits -- a small window was found and we were off. And the chaos of the moment, at least for me, cannot be overstated. To go from standing still for the better part of an hour, shivering, to "we're off and running the biggest race of your life" in a split second was not exactly in my pre-race plan.
Nevertheless, I got out of the water not too worse for the wear, but certainly off my game a little. I was behind the 8-ball on my nutrition plan (plenty hydrated, however, thanks to the timing of my breathing and the wind driven waves of the lake) and mentally I was pretty screwed up from the very auspicious beginning to what was supposed to be a terrific day.
On the bike, ready to roll, and the winds began to really kick up and more lightning could be seen in many of the directions that our 56-mile ride would take us. As I took a deep breath and thought to myself, What the hell am I about do?, my wife Carrie came up to me and said, "Just keep going. Don't stop unless they pull you off the course. I love you."
She got me started on my ride. I needed her to say something. She said the right thing. 56 miles would be done, come hell or high water, which was becoming more and more a real possibility.
The winds were rough. There were times when I was noticeably listing into the wind to avoid getting blown over. The rains came in buckets, and I swear in the distance I could hear the hammering of an arc being built. And the lighting and hail came; turning one of the most beautiful settings for a race I've ever seen into a scary scene of survival.
But through it all it was oddly exhilarating as well. As hail began to ping off my helmet and leave the occasional mark on my exposed face I actually started to smile. I was in the middle of nowhere, 29 miles into the bike leg and separated from safety and civilization by some of the angriest clouds I've ever seen, and I was thrilled. My energy and stamina all picked up and it was at that moment, when the conditions were the worst that I knew that I would finish.
I negative splitted my bike time -- something I never do -- and my final hour on the bike was by far my strongest and fastest. I had an absolutely terrific second 28 on the bike and it was largely due to the added challenge of riding in a thunderstorm that no sane person would want to drive in.
I pulled into T2 soaked and muddy but feeling great. I was hoping to change into some dry socks before heading out on the 13.1-mile run as a way to refresh my chilled feet, but to no avail. The storm had blown through transition and everything that I had there, from shoes and socks to towels and a clean shirt, was wet and muddy. Oh well. I would finish regardless.
Thanks to the soaking wet feet I got some pretty decent blisters in the early goings of the run, but I knew I would finish. My legs got tired, of course, and the ache in my feet got worse. But I knew I would finish. And even though the strength and energy that I felt at the end of the bike was largely gone by mile 10 on the run, I knew I would finish.
And I did. And it was great. My first half-Ironman was complete.
I can't say enough good things about the people who organized this race. Despite some horrific conditions they kept the race running smoothly and as safely as possible. I am eternally grateful to them and I'm looking forward to doing their event next year, when I can focus on the lake setting and surrounding mountains, instead of hail and raindrops the size of shot blocks.
And of course my wife, Carrie, who also did the race -- her third half-Iron distance. And the half-dozen or so friends who either did the race or traveled to Utah to cheer us on. It was a special day having you all there.
So, with the Utah Half safely in the books, only one more chapter is left to be written: Kona.
Blog #4 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 8/7/2009
I imagine that anyone who has done any long distance endurance race has at one time thought to themselves, either during training or in the middle of the race, "I'm an absolute idiot for trying to do this."
That was me this past week as I rode a very hilly and very hot bike loop in the Westlake Village/Thousand Oaks area of Southern California. For those of you in So Cal, you no doubt know the heat of which I speak. It's The Valley, it is August, and I began the loop at about 12:30pm.
Anyway, naturally when I reported my moments of extreme doubt to my coach his response was "Great! That's exactly what I was hoping would happen."
As I sat there, marveling at how un-Knute Rockne-esque my coach was for applauding the shredding of my confidence along the climb up Kanan Rd., he explained that it's impossible to do an Ironman without having those moments of self-doubt. And it's great to face them early, and get past them. That way when you hit them during the actual Ironman there's a sense of "I've been here before and I survived."
Makes sense. And it's the very reason I began my ride in the heat of the day. You need to face that adversity as much as you can in training so that it won't be heavy enough to sink you on race day.
I've also found that it aids in replacing negative feelings with positive thoughts. As I rode my bike yesterday, facing much smaller hills, I noticed my brain focusing on the ease of those hills and the strength that I felt in my legs. The comparison between the difficult, and the really really difficult, made the "plain Jane" hills feel like minor speed bumps.
So if in Kona, all I'm faced with is a series of minor speed bumps, well, it will be downright easy. Right? That's a rhetorical question. No answers please.
That was me this past week as I rode a very hilly and very hot bike loop in the Westlake Village/Thousand Oaks area of Southern California. For those of you in So Cal, you no doubt know the heat of which I speak. It's The Valley, it is August, and I began the loop at about 12:30pm.
Anyway, naturally when I reported my moments of extreme doubt to my coach his response was "Great! That's exactly what I was hoping would happen."
As I sat there, marveling at how un-Knute Rockne-esque my coach was for applauding the shredding of my confidence along the climb up Kanan Rd., he explained that it's impossible to do an Ironman without having those moments of self-doubt. And it's great to face them early, and get past them. That way when you hit them during the actual Ironman there's a sense of "I've been here before and I survived."
Makes sense. And it's the very reason I began my ride in the heat of the day. You need to face that adversity as much as you can in training so that it won't be heavy enough to sink you on race day.
I've also found that it aids in replacing negative feelings with positive thoughts. As I rode my bike yesterday, facing much smaller hills, I noticed my brain focusing on the ease of those hills and the strength that I felt in my legs. The comparison between the difficult, and the really really difficult, made the "plain Jane" hills feel like minor speed bumps.
So if in Kona, all I'm faced with is a series of minor speed bumps, well, it will be downright easy. Right? That's a rhetorical question. No answers please.
Blog #3 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 7/31/2009
Ten weeks to Kona. Should I be in panic mode? Is that plenty of time? Am I on schedule? Behind? Ahead?
I don't really know the answers to all of these questions. In two weeks I'll be racing at the Utah Half-Ironman, and perhaps that will give me some answers. But as I look ahead to that race, and train to be at my peak for Provo, it sometimes feels that my training -- just ten weeks before Kona -- isn't that different than it was a six weeks ago.
Maybe that's a good thing. Hopefully it's just a sign that my body is getting more equipped to handle the stress of hours in the saddle followed by miles on my feet. Perhaps it's also a sign that mentally I'm getting more equipped for the stress, the strain, and the agony that is sure to come. I was giving an interview to a writer this morning and she asked me what was the one thing about Ironman that I was most nervous about. And honestly I had to stop and think, not because everything makes me nervous and I needed a moment to qualify "most nervous." But because really, when you break it down, it's all very doable.
Swim 2.4 miles. Well, I've gone nearly two miles in training right now and I still have 10 weeks to add to that. It won't be a problem. I won't be fast, but I'll be fine.
Bike 112 miles. Sure, this is a long long day in the saddle. But I'm riding 50 to 60 miles in training right now, and if I absolutely had to add to that I could. And certainly after getting a handful of 80 to 100 mile rides in before the race I'll be able to do 112. It will be tough. Kona has its winds and it has its heat. And I don't exactly have the full box of tools that an Ironman typically has to work with. But I'll be fine.
Run 26.2 miles. Yes, this intimidates me a little. I am not a runner. But as I look ahead to that day in October I'm picturing relief at being off the bike, at making that cutoff, and being just a few hours and 26.2 miles away from the finish line. I'm picturing a surge of adrenaline knowing that even though I'm staring at a marathon, that's all that I'm staring at. I know plenty of people who've done marathons and they are far from great athletes. I can do this. Again, I won't do it fast. I will definitely be doing a lot of running in the dark. But I can do this.
So what does make me the most nervous? Maybe it's the spotlight. As a heart transplant recipient I'll definitely be in the camera's eye. There is media stuff going now, so I can only imagine what it will be like in October. But I signed up for this. I knew what I was getting into. So that's not really it.
Maybe it's the possibility of failure. Great athletes have bad days. They have problems, both physical and mechanical. I'm certainly prone to a bad day or two. (I can think of a few diagnosis days that I'd qualify as "bad days.") But I also know that if I do fail to finish...that if something does happen on October 10 that prevents me from finishing the race, I'll still wake up on October 11 and life will be good.
So really, as of this moment, there is nothing that makes me "most nervous."
Of course I reserve the right to change that answer at any given moment between now and the finish line.
Kyle
I don't really know the answers to all of these questions. In two weeks I'll be racing at the Utah Half-Ironman, and perhaps that will give me some answers. But as I look ahead to that race, and train to be at my peak for Provo, it sometimes feels that my training -- just ten weeks before Kona -- isn't that different than it was a six weeks ago.
Maybe that's a good thing. Hopefully it's just a sign that my body is getting more equipped to handle the stress of hours in the saddle followed by miles on my feet. Perhaps it's also a sign that mentally I'm getting more equipped for the stress, the strain, and the agony that is sure to come. I was giving an interview to a writer this morning and she asked me what was the one thing about Ironman that I was most nervous about. And honestly I had to stop and think, not because everything makes me nervous and I needed a moment to qualify "most nervous." But because really, when you break it down, it's all very doable.
Swim 2.4 miles. Well, I've gone nearly two miles in training right now and I still have 10 weeks to add to that. It won't be a problem. I won't be fast, but I'll be fine.
Bike 112 miles. Sure, this is a long long day in the saddle. But I'm riding 50 to 60 miles in training right now, and if I absolutely had to add to that I could. And certainly after getting a handful of 80 to 100 mile rides in before the race I'll be able to do 112. It will be tough. Kona has its winds and it has its heat. And I don't exactly have the full box of tools that an Ironman typically has to work with. But I'll be fine.
Run 26.2 miles. Yes, this intimidates me a little. I am not a runner. But as I look ahead to that day in October I'm picturing relief at being off the bike, at making that cutoff, and being just a few hours and 26.2 miles away from the finish line. I'm picturing a surge of adrenaline knowing that even though I'm staring at a marathon, that's all that I'm staring at. I know plenty of people who've done marathons and they are far from great athletes. I can do this. Again, I won't do it fast. I will definitely be doing a lot of running in the dark. But I can do this.
So what does make me the most nervous? Maybe it's the spotlight. As a heart transplant recipient I'll definitely be in the camera's eye. There is media stuff going now, so I can only imagine what it will be like in October. But I signed up for this. I knew what I was getting into. So that's not really it.
Maybe it's the possibility of failure. Great athletes have bad days. They have problems, both physical and mechanical. I'm certainly prone to a bad day or two. (I can think of a few diagnosis days that I'd qualify as "bad days.") But I also know that if I do fail to finish...that if something does happen on October 10 that prevents me from finishing the race, I'll still wake up on October 11 and life will be good.
So really, as of this moment, there is nothing that makes me "most nervous."
Of course I reserve the right to change that answer at any given moment between now and the finish line.
Kyle
Blog #2 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 7/24/2009
I don't want to compare triathlon to cancer, chemotherapy, or a host of other giant hurdles in life. It's a disservice to the people battling for their lives and in my opinion it belittles some of the accomplishment that people rightly feel when they cross that finish line. No one who did the Vineman 70.3 last weekend in the heat of Sonoma County thought they were going through something as transformative as chemotherapy. They know it's not the same kind of battle. But does that make the medal they earned less? Absolutely not.
But for me going forward the attitude has to be similar. I failed to cross the finish line in Windsor, California. (I know a group of very supportive friends who will bristle at my use of the word "fail," but the truth is that's what happened. No reason to run from it.) The heat and the hills, and perhaps a few missteps with my own nutrition, did me in. By the time I had my run shoes on and I was making my way to the run out of T2 it was clear that to continue further would be to get too close to the line of heat exhaustion. This was not my most important race of the year. So in the triple-digit heat that radiated down from the 2pm high sky I called it a day. A decision that was confirmed to be sound by the number of pro triathletes in the medical tent with me and the number of times over the next 5 hours that I filled up my emesis basin.
Discretion is the better part of valor, they say. It is good to be brave and never relenting... sometimes. It is also good to be smart.
I got knocked down and knocked out at Vineman, but I will get back up. The focus now turns to the Utah Half on August 15. That will become my half-ironman triumph that sets up my stretch run to Kona in October. That will be the finish line that propels me forward.
Getting back at it this week has been a little difficult. I didn't have the celebratory feel of a medal around my neck to end the weekend. I didn't have that proud moment that everyone who finished the race earned over 70.3 miles. But I will be fine. I will move forward. Always moving forward -- the mantra of the wanna-be Ironman. And I will get my 70.3 along Utah Lake in Provo.
And then it will be all eyes on 140.6 and the famous finish along Alii Drive.
But for me going forward the attitude has to be similar. I failed to cross the finish line in Windsor, California. (I know a group of very supportive friends who will bristle at my use of the word "fail," but the truth is that's what happened. No reason to run from it.) The heat and the hills, and perhaps a few missteps with my own nutrition, did me in. By the time I had my run shoes on and I was making my way to the run out of T2 it was clear that to continue further would be to get too close to the line of heat exhaustion. This was not my most important race of the year. So in the triple-digit heat that radiated down from the 2pm high sky I called it a day. A decision that was confirmed to be sound by the number of pro triathletes in the medical tent with me and the number of times over the next 5 hours that I filled up my emesis basin.
Discretion is the better part of valor, they say. It is good to be brave and never relenting... sometimes. It is also good to be smart.
I got knocked down and knocked out at Vineman, but I will get back up. The focus now turns to the Utah Half on August 15. That will become my half-ironman triumph that sets up my stretch run to Kona in October. That will be the finish line that propels me forward.
Getting back at it this week has been a little difficult. I didn't have the celebratory feel of a medal around my neck to end the weekend. I didn't have that proud moment that everyone who finished the race earned over 70.3 miles. But I will be fine. I will move forward. Always moving forward -- the mantra of the wanna-be Ironman. And I will get my 70.3 along Utah Lake in Provo.
And then it will be all eyes on 140.6 and the famous finish along Alii Drive.
Blog #1 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 7/16/2009
I find myself in an interesting position today. I'm inside three months to Ironman now, yet it's really been shoved to the recesses of my mind. That's because in three days I'll be doing the Vineman 70.3 -- my first half-Ironman. I am incredibly excited. Everything I've ever heard about the race is good. But I'm also more than a little nervous. It's a big step for me, my road to Kona, and for this new heart of mine.
Maybe what I'm feeling is what everyone feels on the cusp of a long race. "I should have trained more." I feel like I'm underprepared. Yet I also feel confident. Breaking it down into the three sports (none of which I excel at, and some in which I'm absolutely terrible) it feels very doable. The 1.2 mile swim. Well, I've gone well beyond that distance in workouts. And this will be a river swim in a wetsuit, which both should make it an even better swim for me.
The bike is 56 miles, but 56 miles through the wineries and vineyards of Sonoma County. It's a beautiful area and the scenery should give me something to focus on other than the never-ending pedal strokes and the rising thermometer as the day wears on. And the run... well, there's nothing good I can say about the run. I'm an anti-runner if there ever was one. But I suppose I can say this. Once I start the run the end of the race will be just 13 miles away. It will be hot. It will be hilly. But I can always walk.
This is a big weekend for me and my road to Kona. Good or bad, it will set my path for the remaining 12 weeks of my Ironman training. And good or bad, I'm promising myself that I will attack those 12 weeks with confidence and discipline. My biggest hurdle in training has been that wall between comfort zone and pain. For the 11 plus years I was dealing with the weak heart I became so conditioned to pull back from pain, to shy away from the danger of the uncomfortable, that it became automatic. Now that danger is gone. My heart is strong and healthy and capable of being pushed just like anyone else. My brain, however, still struggles with that reality. I'm having to break through that instinct to back off from the pain.
Part of it is the physical that I can do nothing about. My lungs sustained damage from chemotherapy and radiation and I'm working on about 75% capacity. When I'm out of breath, I'm out of breath. Unfortunately there's nothing my brain can do about that. But there are times when my brain is an enabler to those lungs. Hopefully this weekend I can successfully stage an intervention between the two.
70.3, here I come!
Maybe what I'm feeling is what everyone feels on the cusp of a long race. "I should have trained more." I feel like I'm underprepared. Yet I also feel confident. Breaking it down into the three sports (none of which I excel at, and some in which I'm absolutely terrible) it feels very doable. The 1.2 mile swim. Well, I've gone well beyond that distance in workouts. And this will be a river swim in a wetsuit, which both should make it an even better swim for me.
The bike is 56 miles, but 56 miles through the wineries and vineyards of Sonoma County. It's a beautiful area and the scenery should give me something to focus on other than the never-ending pedal strokes and the rising thermometer as the day wears on. And the run... well, there's nothing good I can say about the run. I'm an anti-runner if there ever was one. But I suppose I can say this. Once I start the run the end of the race will be just 13 miles away. It will be hot. It will be hilly. But I can always walk.
This is a big weekend for me and my road to Kona. Good or bad, it will set my path for the remaining 12 weeks of my Ironman training. And good or bad, I'm promising myself that I will attack those 12 weeks with confidence and discipline. My biggest hurdle in training has been that wall between comfort zone and pain. For the 11 plus years I was dealing with the weak heart I became so conditioned to pull back from pain, to shy away from the danger of the uncomfortable, that it became automatic. Now that danger is gone. My heart is strong and healthy and capable of being pushed just like anyone else. My brain, however, still struggles with that reality. I'm having to break through that instinct to back off from the pain.
Part of it is the physical that I can do nothing about. My lungs sustained damage from chemotherapy and radiation and I'm working on about 75% capacity. When I'm out of breath, I'm out of breath. Unfortunately there's nothing my brain can do about that. But there are times when my brain is an enabler to those lungs. Hopefully this weekend I can successfully stage an intervention between the two.
70.3, here I come!