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.

Emery Behavioral Medicine

I used to be a big fat guy. I like to think this message really stood out in my last post, so I will use it as an elaborate segue into my unabashed self-promotion of the business Christi and I own, Emery Behavioral Medicine. Brace yourselves, this will get ugly.

When I proclaim that I was fat, I don't mean a couple of pounds overweight. And no, this is not just a little self-deprecating humor used to put a smile on your face. I am 6'1" and I weighed approximately 250lbs. If you look at any height-to-weight charts - that's FAT! My life consisted of restaurant food, beer, late night pub fare, beer, and copious amounts of other "calorie-dense" foods. I didn't mind too much though, I was enjoying myself immensely. Besides, I met Christi at that weight and she loved me for the Chris Farley lookalike I was, not the Charles Atlas wannabe I would eventually become.

Some of my fondest memories are associated with that lifestyle, the relationships that were fostered and continue to aggrandize today. It wasn't until a few short years ago that I happily traded in my 4am bed time for a 4am alarm clock. (There you have it, my first blogger segue. Not terrible, right?)

Being a business owner and personal trainer usually provides me with the scheduling freedom to precisely coordinate my Ironman training program. Most days I pummel the snooze button for the first time at 3:45am, by 4:25, after a quick shower & shave, I am eating a hearty breakfast and by 4:45am I am out the door to train. From my understanding this is pretty consistent with the insanity brought on by Ironman training, but my situation is a little different. Instead of heading out the door for an early morning hills session or tempo run, I am off to the office to train my first client of the day at 5am.

Christi and I are fortunate enough to own a private weight loss and personal training facility in beautiful Weston, Florida. The manicured landscaping and sprawling royal palms create the perfect backdrop for Emery Behavioral Medicine, located in the heart of our far from quaint town. Our facility provides a behavior based weight loss program as well as highly tailored personal training to the people of Weston and other local communities. Our clientele consists mainly of people seeking to increase their fitness and lose weight but we also have the luxury of training professional & amateur athletes, former Olympians, marathoners and triathletes. After all, variety is the spice of life.

I love my life and where the dusty path has led me. I must mention that without my mother, Christi's parents (all of them:-) and Uncle Gord, none of this would be possible. For this we thank you and please know that we are eternally grateful.

The take home message of the day: It's time to accept that 4am is wake up time, not bedtime.