The Ironman Swim Leg

2.4 miles in the water is no small feat, maybe if you have a boat and a couple of oars, or better yet, a freakin' motor, that distance would be less daunting, but when it's only you and the water, it seems, well . . . far. The tools at my disposal to cover the long & lonesome 2.4: four limbs, a flawed mouth with it's own growing propensity to swallow copious amounts of water and what can only be described as a lead weighted lower body. My 4 limbs do not like to work with even a mild degree of synergy. They actually prefer to flail wildly with no goal in mind. Now, about that water attracting mouth, WTF? Anyone who has spent time in the open water or a pool has likely suffered the indescribably uncomfortable gas and bloating acquired after a period of breathing in the perfect combination of water & air. I have been home for 45 minutes and I just know have recovered from the aforementioned discomfort, which explains the current exceedingly high level of angst in my writing. Lastly, the lead weighted lower body; I can't imagine anything more inefficient than dragging your lower body, conveniently angled at a 45, through the water with two arms working in opposition.

Uncharacteristically, I am admitting fault and may be seeking professional help. I suck at swimming. I would like to say that after all of this time I am getting better, but to my dismay, I cannot. My ability in the pool bears striking resemblance to the grace shown by a new born giraffe on dull figure skates stepping onto the ice for the first time, drunk. I've read books on swimming, I've studied video, I've even watched elite swimmers train. Actually, the latter is the reason for this post. Today, at Founders Park in Islamorada, I had the distinct displeasure of being lapped several times by three prepubescent Dara Torres & Michael Phelps clones. When I finished with my workout, and they finished with their warm-up, I observed, and observed and observed. Nothing has helped, I'm not faster, I am not more efficient, and (let's pour some salt) I even look a little worse in my swim trunks.

Enough self-loathing, for now. Time to strengthen my resolve and get back on the proverbial horse. I've decided that I am going to videotape my own swimming; and with a little luck I will increase my own level of awareness in the pool and subsequently either increase my efficiency or my speed. I would be happy with either.

If that doesn't work, I will have to resort to plan B: one of those underwater propulsion devices used by SCUBA divers to cover greater distances faster. Ironman will allow that, right?

See you at the pool Flipper, you little bastard.

Weston, Fl - Half Marathon

Last weekend marked the official '6 weeks to the Miami Marathon' date. This was conveniently celebrated by Weston's Annual Half Marathon. I must first commend my lovely wife on her spectacular performance in this race. Christi finished in third place, with gas left in the tank. Her improvement from last year to this year was huge - a 30 second per mile speed increase. Congratulations!! Your hard work is paying off!

I also placed in third in my age group. I owe my performance to a man in a yellow shirt. My running comrade lumbered up behind me at mile 9. Armed with his iPod armband, yellow shirt that can be seen from the space station, asthmatic breathing and cement feet, Ole' Yella (apt name from my experience) tucked in behind me to cut the head wind. Being that I am 6'1" & 195 I am the perfect candidate for a drafter standing as tall as Bilbo Baggins.

I didn't mind being drafted; the the nipping at my heals didn't bother me, it didn't irritate me that the pavement was being dented behind me with each thundering hobbit stride, I did on the other hand draw the line when the asthma infused breathing created a very localized tail wind. There is something very unnerving about someone breathing on your neck.

Time for evasive action. The younger, inexperienced me would have speed off and felt the repercussions around mile 12, but Eric 2.0 realized that this would likely be a mistake. So, I slowed, substantially. We went from a 7:30min/mile pace to 9min/mile, quickly. And, as I suspected, the shining beacon of light lumbered past. My turn friends. I nestled into the little draft zone behind him. When I say little, I am not attempting hyperbole.

We ran together, displaying quite poetically: the biting contrast between running economically & painstaking inefficiency. Step after step I formulated my hostile takeover plan. My intention was to 'turn it on' at mile 11.1. As we went through the water station manned by cheering teenagers I took my Gatorade in one hand and water in the other, down goes one, then the other. It's time . . . I don't really break away, I am not Usain Bolt, but I come up beside him and pick up my speed a little more. Tenacity was being showcased at that moment, this pace is significantly more taxing, we're down to a 7 minute mile now. Over the next mile Ole' Yella and I trade leading and trailing, but I notice that the once labored breathing is now a forced wheeze and the heavy feet are hitting even harder. Mile 12; it's time to crank it up. I speed up to 6:30, and the distance between him and I begins to grow, and grow and grow. Victory is mine!

I must admit, the last 1/2 mile of the race was hell. I had pushed very hard to put distance between Ole' Yella and I. I felt victorious for a moment but I still had 800 meters to go, so naturally without the desire to crush something small & yellow, my breathing became labored and my feet heavy. I experienced a personal victory during that man vs. hobbit race, but now I had to finish "THE" race. Fairly anti-climactic, I know. Oh well.

The 17th Hour

If you were a 78 year old nun would you compete in an Ironman triathlon? No, this question is not rhetorical. Enter Sister Madonna Buder, a 78 year old Roman Catholic nun from Spokane, Washington. If you are like me, you are sitting there expecting a punch line, but I assure you this woman is real and her story is one for the ages.

According to Wikipedia, Sister Madonna has completed over 200 triathlons including thirteen Ironman Triathlons. She is the oldest woman to ever complete Ironman Hawaii, the world triathlon championships. Christi and I learned of Sister Madonna while in Penticton for 2008 Ironman Canada. We were told that a 78 year old nun would be competing in the race this year, and this was not her first rodeo.

Although the day was filled with a plethora of stories of perseverance, tenacity, and iron will, Sister Madonna stood out as the crown jewel.

Christi and I shivered, standing on the bleachers at the finish line. It was 11:40pm, and it had been raining for hours. The cutoff time for the race is 17 hours and it was a mere 20 minutes away. There was a surprising number of people still crossing the finish line, people of various shapes and sizes and in various degrees of distress. At 11:50pm over the loud speaker, the announcer mentioned a name that I had forgotten in all of the excitement. "Sister Madonna is approaching the 25 mile mark of the marathon folks, she's struggling and really needs our support," even now, as I sit here typing this I can feel the response of the hundreds of fans surrounding the finish line in the cold, pouring rain. There was an instant uproar of cheers, clapping, whistling, and banging of whatever we could make noise on. Hundreds of people just poured every ounce of there energy into helping Sister Madonna finish that last mile before the 17hr cutoff. A shiver ran down my spine, causing the hair to stand to attention on my arm, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

At 11:53pm, the announcer went into a inspiring story of announcing Sister Madonna to the finish line with 30 seconds remaining at Ironman Hawaii 2 years prior. He spoke with an unmistakable level of pride when describing the event and her perseverance.

As the minutes ticked away and the rain continued to fall it became less and less likely that Sister Madonna was going to cross the finish line under 17 hours. 11:57, "Come on everybody, Sister Madonna needs our support, she has a little under 1/2 a mile to go" the throngs of fans were sent into an uproar once again.

Unfortunately, the clock struck midnight and the carriage of hope was turned back into a pumpkin. Sister Madonna had not crossed the line in time, she was still out there, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. Lets not forget that she has been in a perpetual state of forward movement for the last 17 hours. Just then, out of the darkness Sister Madonna appeared, her legs resembled a new born fawn while her upper body was contorted in a state of horizontal complexity. She was hurting, bad. As the magnitude of Sister Madonna's distress passed through crowd like the wave at an NFL game, the cheers reached a record level. The announcers words were rendered inaudible by the screaming onlookers.

Sister Madonna crossing the finish line at 17 hours and a couple of seconds, in the pouring rain and in considerable pain will be etched in my mind for a very long time. Anytime I think the discomfort of training is too much, whenever I want to take it 'easy', if the time ever comes that I want to quit, I will think of that cold August night. Sister Madonna is an inspiration.

Eric: A Brief History

I don't know if you know this, but I wasn't exactly a showcase of health and fitness 4 years ago. I know, I know, it's hard to believe, but it's true. I was exactly 50lbs heavier 48 months ago. I gained roughly 16.67lbs per year from the time I was 21, that equates to 174300 extra calories. Sounds about right!

When I met Christi I weighed in at a less-than-svelte 245lbs. Although I thought I looked good, it became abundantly clear as I saw photos of myself that I was much more of a man than I wanted to be. Christi's active lifestyle brought back fond memories for me. I tried to be a bit of an athlete through most of my formative years. Wait . . . that last sentence possesses way too much conviction. Growing up I played hockey, baseball, basketball, volleyball, track & field, golf, snowboarded, you name it, if there was a sport related venture, I was in.

Let me paint a a pretty little picture for you. Before Christi and I made the move to St. Andrews, New Brunswick in the spring of 2004 this is what the majority of my days looked like: I would wake around 12pm (often a little later) where I would wander upstairs and down a carafe of black coffee. I preferred not to eat breakfast, (I'm not sure it's still considered breakfast at 2pm?) as I was trying to stay 'lean', but if I indulged, it consistently consisted of a bagel with an initial slathering of butter and a generous second layer of complimentary peanut butter. I would usually head to my intellectually stimulating bartending position around 4pm where I snacked and consumed 5-15 glasses of sugar laden iced tea. The end of my shift was consistently celebrated with an ice cold pint of Rickards Red or 5, and a burger and fries.

If the mood struck me right, and 6 out of 7 days it did, off to the local sports bar we go. After a couple of rounds of Golden Tee, (the world's premier roller ball golf arcade game), more beer, and Shank"s world famous Boneless Wings (hot, of course) later, I was off to bed again, or Denny's.

This was my pattern for 3 years, but that 50lbs is still a mystery. I've racked my brain trying to figure it out, but with little success.

One brisk afternoon in April of '04 Christi and I ventured into a book store in Bangor, Maine. As I perused the health & fitness section I came a across a red and white hard cover book with no less than fifty 'before and after' pictures of men and women splattered on the front and back, even on the spine in all their splendor. Sadly, many of their 'before' photos reminded me of me.

That very day, Christi and I began the Body for Life program. A high intensity program of weight lifting and cardiovascular exercise. That time was not only the turning point for me, but the beginning of my long road to Ironman Canada.

Ride on brotha, ride on . . .