Training
Blog #9 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 10/7/2009
Oct 29, 2009 12:39
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!
0 Comments
Blog #8 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 9/16/2009
Oct 29, 2009 12:38
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
Oct 29, 2009 12:37
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
Oct 29, 2009 12:35
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
Oct 29, 2009 12:33
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
Oct 29, 2009 12:31
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
Oct 29, 2009 12:28
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
Oct 29, 2009 12:27
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
Oct 29, 2009 12:25
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!
Four Months to Zero Hour
Jun 12, 2009 06:33
If you want to make four months seem like a blink of time, put an Ironman at the end of it. My body is definitely responding to my training. Last night I swam 2600 yards and quite honestly I didn't feel any more tired after the swim than I did before it. I'll take that as a good sign that my body has its sea legs (even if those legs don't seem to be pushing me through the water any faster). But in four months I'll be swimming almost double that - 4200 yards (2.4 miles) - and following it up with a 112 mile bike ride and a 26.2 run. Will I be ready?
Each week I'm consistently taking my long rides beyond 50 miles, and in four months I'm pretty confident that I can double that. I'm also talking with a Cannondale rep right now about getting an upgraded bike that will make those 112 miles even easier. As for the run, or in my case the run/walk, it's going. Last week my long run topped 7 miles and this Sunday I'll push it up to 10. By July 19 that distance will be up to a minimum of 13.1 miles, since they're not likely to change the finishing leg of the Vineman Half-Ironman to accommodate me or any short-comings I may still have on the run.
The best news on the run front is that I didn't want to kill anybody during my 7+ miler. Typically thoughts of homicide swirl in my head during the torture that is running (way worse than water boarding, if you ask me). But this time out I actually got into a decent place. Perhaps it was the course I ran; maybe it's just that finally my body has stopped fighting and has now acquiesced to the reality that running is a part of the routine; or maybe it was the soundtrack I ran to on my ipod. In case you're wondering it was Les Miz. That's right, I ran to show tunes last week. It actually kept me much more distracted than regular music. I'm currently deciding which Broadway show is going to get me though 10 miles on Sunday.
So back to my question, "Will I be ready?" At this moment the answer is "Yes." I'm sure over the next four months there will be times where the answer to that feels like a resounding "no," or "hell no," or "not in this lifetime you idiot who did this to yourself." But come October 10 my body, my mind, and most importantly my heart, will be ready.
Go Kona!!
Each week I'm consistently taking my long rides beyond 50 miles, and in four months I'm pretty confident that I can double that. I'm also talking with a Cannondale rep right now about getting an upgraded bike that will make those 112 miles even easier. As for the run, or in my case the run/walk, it's going. Last week my long run topped 7 miles and this Sunday I'll push it up to 10. By July 19 that distance will be up to a minimum of 13.1 miles, since they're not likely to change the finishing leg of the Vineman Half-Ironman to accommodate me or any short-comings I may still have on the run.
The best news on the run front is that I didn't want to kill anybody during my 7+ miler. Typically thoughts of homicide swirl in my head during the torture that is running (way worse than water boarding, if you ask me). But this time out I actually got into a decent place. Perhaps it was the course I ran; maybe it's just that finally my body has stopped fighting and has now acquiesced to the reality that running is a part of the routine; or maybe it was the soundtrack I ran to on my ipod. In case you're wondering it was Les Miz. That's right, I ran to show tunes last week. It actually kept me much more distracted than regular music. I'm currently deciding which Broadway show is going to get me though 10 miles on Sunday.
So back to my question, "Will I be ready?" At this moment the answer is "Yes." I'm sure over the next four months there will be times where the answer to that feels like a resounding "no," or "hell no," or "not in this lifetime you idiot who did this to yourself." But come October 10 my body, my mind, and most importantly my heart, will be ready.
Go Kona!!
Mandeville Canyon
May 18, 2009 12:51
It’s not exactly the Pyrenees, or even the local Southern California ride up Latigo Canyon, but this past weekend I made the climb up Mandeville Canyon on my bike. This was big for me for a couple of reasons. One, it’s a climb. My heart rate isn’t the hugest fan of climbs. It tends to climb right along with the grade of the road. But I made it up the 5-mile long 1000-foot incline with only one stop.
The second reason that this is big for me is because it’s a far more challenging climb than anything that I will encounter at Kona. The climb there is about 500 feet, hitting a maximum altitude of around 650 feet, and it’s spread out over the 12 miles leading to the bike turnaround in Hawi. Obviously Mandeville will never replicate the winds or heat that can accompany the climb to Hawi. But with continued work on the incline I will be more than prepared for the climbing in Hawaii.
All in all it was a very good weekend of workouts. A nice confidence booster as we begin to stretch the mileage in the coming weeks.
The second reason that this is big for me is because it’s a far more challenging climb than anything that I will encounter at Kona. The climb there is about 500 feet, hitting a maximum altitude of around 650 feet, and it’s spread out over the 12 miles leading to the bike turnaround in Hawi. Obviously Mandeville will never replicate the winds or heat that can accompany the climb to Hawi. But with continued work on the incline I will be more than prepared for the climbing in Hawaii.
All in all it was a very good weekend of workouts. A nice confidence booster as we begin to stretch the mileage in the coming weeks.
Five Months to Kona
May 11, 2009 09:49
This last weekend we crossed the five month mark until race day. Yep... that doesn’t feel nearly long enough to get myself ready. I had a great weekend of workouts - 4:00 hour bike/run on Saturday, good swim and run on Sunday (neither were too intense since it was “Rest and Test” week). But the five months will no doubt fly by at a rate that my body isn’t used to evolving.
I trust that I will be ready in five months. I know the work that lays before me, and I know that I will do it. And I know that my coach has put together a plan that will get me to the finish line. But I am tired after four hours of working out. How I am going to feel after four-times that length. Yes, I am expecting to take 16+ hours to finish my Ironman. Such is the plight of the athletically ungifted as they try and complete an Ironman after a heart transplant.
But a finisher is a finisher, and I won’t get a smaller medal than the people who finish six hours ahead of me. And finishing is really all I care about.
I trust that I will be ready in five months. I know the work that lays before me, and I know that I will do it. And I know that my coach has put together a plan that will get me to the finish line. But I am tired after four hours of working out. How I am going to feel after four-times that length. Yes, I am expecting to take 16+ hours to finish my Ironman. Such is the plight of the athletically ungifted as they try and complete an Ironman after a heart transplant.
But a finisher is a finisher, and I won’t get a smaller medal than the people who finish six hours ahead of me. And finishing is really all I care about.