Part Three: Ironman Canada . . . don't be such a spaz

Quick recap folks (necessitated by the writers strike forced hiatus. Unions.): Swim 1:19, Bike 6:22, 2x5min naked guy reunion. All aboard the Asics express, (Asics, refers to the brand of running shoes I was wearing. Express, refers to the fact that I was going to be running rather than walking, which is an expedited form of locomotion by comparison) the train is about to leave the building (fine, I will stop using that patronizing tone).

I was ecstatic to be off the bike. I felt pretty good at this point of the race, it was nice finally being on my feet and I was excited to be heading out for quick and easy 26.2 miles. Heading down the beachfront amidst all my adoring fans was highly enjoyable. All those people were there for me right? It was hot, but I was smiling, running light and fast. In hindsight it was probably a little too fast. My intention was to run the marathon portion of this never ending day with a negative split (second half of the run faster than the first people, we're never going to get through all of this material if I have to keep catching you up). I was running an 8:20 minute mile, with a relatively low heart rate, well, low relative to that of someone going into cardiac arrest via ventricular tachycardia, of course, but you knew that. I found myself fighting to bring my pace closer to 9:00 in order to stick to my game plan, but every time I glanced at my watch, 8:30, 8:20, 8:25? "Don't worry, that won't last long" whispered the legs to the brain, followed by a hollow evil laugh.

I headed out of town, the sun beating down on my shoulders, gladly accepting cold sponges offered by the IRON Army which I placed strategically in body cooling positions. No, not there. At mile 10 I was still feeling quite good. And then; the HILL of DEATH. My name, not theirs. When I drove the run route a few days earlier, this hill didn't seem so daunting. After 9 or 10 hours of perpetual forward motion this hill resembled, with striking similarity, Mt. Everest. I started to walk. My ego was obviously mad at me for walking so it wouldn't accept a comfortable walking pace, instead I was forced to speed walk with giant steps to the summit of my Everest. The first transition step from walk to run at the summit was met with a violent hamstring spasm, as was the second. This brought me to a sudden and frightening stop. How the hell am I supposed to finish the last 16 miles if I can't walk without a paralyzing hamstring spasm? Nothing I did brought relief and although my 3 mile pace prior to that moment was around 26 minutes, this next 3 miles took an agonizing 55 minutes. Tiny little shuffle steps seemed to be the only way I could avoid the excruciating hamstring spasms. The ancillary benefit? I looked like a speed walker, which is tremendously cool. With ice packed in my tri-shorts from my butt to my knees, I persevered.

Coming back up the Hill of Death wasn't nearly as bad. The ascent was significantly more gradual and I had a goal: catch the only man that was running up it. Not surprisingly, everyone around us was walking. For fear of a repeat offense by my hamstrings I had to keep running. I stared at the back of this man's tri-shirt and reeled him in. With each step, I got closer and closer. Eager for conversation, if only as a deterrent from the building overall body pain, I asked this mystery man a couple of questions when we were finally shoulder to shoulder. His name is Jim, he's VC from Edmonton, Alberta (Canada; a.k.a the country above the US) and this was his second Ironman Canada. Jim and I ran together for the remaining 12 miles or so. Or 20km, eh?

As time passed, we kept our pace. I continued alternating water and Gatorade each aid station while packing ice in the back of my shorts as my hamstrings grew sorer and sorer. We reached mile 15 where my wife, family and friends were enjoying a constant procession of athletes displaying various degrees of discomfort. Jim and I were met with signs of encouragement and playful poking, the distraction was a welcome one. As we continued on, Jim and I passed a man around mile 20 suffering from what can be aptly as projectile vomiting syndrome. He claimed that he was OK and content running porta-john to porta-john. Between the heat, and the sheer volume of miles we all put in, the increasing frequency of ambulances was not a huge surprise. My intestinal discomfort started around mile 20.5, sympathy pains for our fallen comrade I suppose. The thought of swallowing anymore Gatorade, cola, gels, pretzels or even water at this point kept me on the verge of a stomach emptying display.

3 miles to go. The crowds were growing, the excitement was building, the end was drawing near and I still felt like sh*t. One foot in front of the other. We rounded a corner heading down towards one of the final turns. Behind the huge crowd of people lining the street, the grandstand was visible, and over the cheering you could hear the announcer, Steve King, congratulating the finishers. My emotions were in turmoil. Attempting to stifle the river of emotion building inside me with a huge smile on my face and exhilaration coursing through my veins, I relented.

As we rounded the final corner, I could see the finish line. My head begged my legs to go faster, but my legs vigorously objected.

The blue carpet lined finishers chute, emblazoned with the Ironman trademark was incredibly inviting. There were people excitedly cheering the finishers as they labored across the line with one final attempt at a controlled stride. Each spectator in the crowd willing each athlete under the giant digital clock threshold. I heard voices yelling my name, but I could see no faces, my focus was narrowed, I wanted desperately to cross that finish line.

I crossed the line, beaming ear to ear, with my hands raised in personal victory. I was overjoyed to have my wonderful wife Christi find me in the finisher's chute. Christi made that moment even more special. I couldn't have done any of this without her.

After a thousand hours of training, 3300 miles to get here, and spending the last 12.5 hours swimming, biking and running, I had just finished the Ironman!


Eric Barber . . . YOU ARE AN IRONMAN! Feels pretty good.

Part Two: Ironman Canada, BEWARE . . . of pee

This portion of the race took a dreadfully long time. 6 hours and 22 minutes in fact. I will attempt to explain each passing second with as much detail as I can so that it will take you as long to read about my bike portion as it did for me to complete it. It's only fair.

Quick recap: I just finished a 2.4 mile swim. It took me 1hr 19min, not blazing fast, but not dead last. I stumbled, I was stripped, I navigated though the naked-dude mosh pit, I was lathered down (ahem, much quicker than Superman), I was cheered (thanks Bean!) and off on my bike I went. (I think that described the start of my race day even better than Part One).

The first 20-30 minutes of the bike is meant to be spent calming down from the swim, settling your heart rate and ingesting some much needed H2O. It's hard to do when you are being passed by 290lbs behemoths and women who may very well triple your age. Ironman is not a race of egos. Repeat: Ironman is not a race of egos. Right. Moving on.

There are two things you need to know about the bike portion of Ironman Canada. It is far and it is hard. Two other things; there will be times when you are having a lot of fun and there will be times when you would prefer to have rusty barbed wire stabbed into your eye balls, repeatedly. And two more things yet; unless you are in first place, or very very last place you will likely get urine and snot sprayed on you at some point during your adventure. Some of you laugh and the others need an explanation. Have you ever consumed copious amounts of fluid and held in your pee for 6 hrs? Probably not. Have you ever thought; "Hey, I really, really have to pee, but man I just can't bring myself to get off my bike?" Ecually unlikely. Exclusive EB Race Tip #1: If you see the guy in front of you slow his cadence down and he is not eating, drinking or stopping to take a photo, get the hell out of the way, he's gonna pee. I now know the real reason there is a no drafting rule in Ironman. In defense of the locomotive pee-er's, if a race is defined as steady or rapid onward movement: wouldn't it then be counterproductive to slowdown, not to mention stop?

As I mentioned, the bike leg consists of two 'big' climbs and 7 rolling hills in between. The first climb is Richter Pass, a 400-500m (1200ft-ish) climb with the perfect degree of incline, if you're a sadist. Interesting historical fact #1: In some ancient circles, 'sadist' and 'Ironman triathlete' are synonymous. Where was I? Oh yes, the climb. Actually, I want to discuss the descent, but first I must say how great it is to see spectators lining the road up Richter Pass. It's a logistics nightmare getting out there, with all the detours and road closures. Thank you for your support! As I reached the summit I was extraordinarily excited for the subsequent descent. I love to go fast. I have reached 49.9mph heading down Sugarloaf Mountain and it was as exhilarating as it was alarming. I was looking forward to surpassing that personal record on race day. Not so fast. (ha, ha). Once the wind in my ears reached a decibel level that necessitated a look at my speed, I glanced down: 45.5mph. What happened next was arguably the most terrifying moment I have ever experienced on two wheels. Just before I reached 50mph, my front wheel started to wobble, it was subtle at first but with each rotation the wobble grew more violent. Within a couple of seconds, my wheel was out of control. I was sure I was going to hit the pavement going 50mph. Outlook: not good. Lucky for me, I was able to slow my bike to pre-wobble speeds before I was forced to claim a gold medal in the Road Rash olympics. Once I pulled my heart out of my throat I was able to continue. As you can probably imagine, I stayed below 45mph on each descent that followed.

The rollers following Richter Pass, known to Ironman Canada athletes as the the 7 bitches, take a compounding toll on your legs. Each climb saps a little more energy and by the time I reached the final climb up to Yellow Lake I was definitely ready to get off my bike. I wasn't thrilled that I had a marathon to run, but being off of the painfully tiny seat was a pleasant thought. After reaching the peak of Yellow Lake, a long winding descent into town followed.

Once back at transition I gleefully handed over my bike to one of the proud members of the 5000 strong IRON ARMY, Ironman Canada's volunteers (the best in the world). I found my T2 bag (bike-to-run folks, try to keep up) and off to the change tent I went. After the, thankfully uneventful, naked guy reunion tour I was off on the run course. 26.2 miles to go. . .

To be continued . . . (I see a pattern developing here)

Part One: Ironman Canada; I did it for the tattoo . . .

Disclaimer: I have a penchant for explaining things with a degree of meticulousness only found in CSI forensics reports. For this reason, I have opted to create two parts, maybe even three, to fully describe the culmination of my Ironman journey. It's my blog, don't judge me.

(Insert 'movie trailer guy' voice here:) One man will overcome adversity to achieve his ultimate dream. He will undergo a test of human endurance, a daunting 140 mile trial of mental and intestinal fortitude, one that may ultimately lead to his untimely demise, all for one thing . . . the M-dot tattoo.

(Normal voice now) You may think that I am joking, but I, like tens of thousands before me have spent hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars to earn the right to pay for that M-dot tattoo. And yes, the ridiculousness of it stems entirely from one simple fact, the M-dot, this so-called badge of honor, is a corporate logo. Let's face it, no one has taken a long road trip in their '86 Ford Taurus through a little rain and over a couple of rolling hills only to get the FORD emblem tattooed on their calf. Maybe the tattoo would be warranted if it was a treacherous road trip, with dangerous river crossings, steep off-road mountain climbs and a sand dune expedition. But it would have to be done in an hardcore vehicle, something like an army-issue Hummer. On second thought, that particular tattoo might give people the wrong idea.

Before I venture into the mindless drivel that I usually bore you with, I would like to express my eternal gratitude to my glowing pregnant wife and hands-down winner of this years World's Greatest Spouse award for her unrelenting love and support. I wouldn't have made it to the start line of this race without you Christi, let alone the finish. You are the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart (which is huge, by the way).

A special thanks also goes out to my family and friends who supported me along this journey. It has been a long year and I want you to know that I appreciate all of you.

Now, about that nonsense. After two weeks, I am starting to resemble a normal human being again. The hair on my body is starting to grow back, my appetite is no longer that of a woolly mammoth (scientific fact #1: The assumption can be made that the woolly mammoth had a large appetite, on account of their mammoth size, ha), and I don't need to sleep 23hrs a day. Other than that, I am as insane as I was 2 weeks ago. Fortunately, this period of no training has allowed a certain degree of self-reflection to occur. Now about that race.

Ironman day started at 4am. The race morning rituals commenced, first there was the anti-rain dance, then the ritual lighting of a lavender and rose incense candle, then the rodent sacrifice, of course. Without these, all my races would be a mess. Christi, her brother Justin, our kind driver for the morning, and I made our way down to the Ironman start line. The air was a little thicker this morning. Perhaps it was the weight of the healthy respect for the distance we were about to endeavor or maybe it was the looming threat of OgoPogo; Okanogan lake's fabled creature that has developed a taste for triathletes.

After the unmemorable announcements preceding the swim, 2800 seal skin triathletes set off on their 2.4 mile aquatic adventure. The swim start at Ironman can be aptly described as a couple thousand overgrown piranhas racing towards a feast with complete and utter disregard for each other. In this semi-controlled chaos you are lucky if you come out with a couple of bruises, a goggle lens full of water and bloody scratch marks on your legs. Surprisingly, at one point in the swim I actually felt comfortable, 'hey, this isn't so bad' I remember thinking to myself. That is when the phoenix rose from the ashes and unleashed her fury on a few hundred fish-like triathletes trying to round the first corner. As I was being pushed from all sides, kicked in the face, and all but dragged under the water I saw two dead men on the bottom of the lake. More about that later . . . The swim was fairly uneventful but needless to say, I was glad when I grabbed a handful of sand after 1hr 19min of swimming. What? More about the dead guys you say? Alright then. Brace yourselves, this could get grim. As a safety precaution, Ironman officials enlist the assistance of frogmen; SCUBA divers that are placed strategically in areas of high risk to mitigate the potential of, uh, death. Those two dead men I saw were frogmen. I thought I was hallucinating, but when one of them saw my eyes bug out of my head, he smiled and sent a friendly wave in my direction. That may have been a hallucination too.

Out of the water, on my left, Christi's parents, Mary & Joe, standing in knee deep water cheering me on. I managed a smile and a wave while I drunkenly stumbled my way into the transition area. As I crossed the SWIM OUT threshold, I was faced with a childhood playground scene. There were 70 gray shirts playing an odd, I mean Stanley Kubrick odd, game of Red Rover. While attempting to find the weakest and most feeble of the group I decided to make a run for it, but instead of running through, I fell to the grass directly in front of the 'Rovers' and offered my feet as a symbol of my truce. Instead of holding me captive, they stripped my wetsuit and allowed me to continue with what little dignity I had remaining. I picked up my swim to gear bag and off to the change tent I wandered.

Picture this, 1500 naked men simultaneously bending over to put on their bike shorts in front of you. Now picture this, me, trying to walk past these men with the precision of a mine-field technician. Good times.

I made it through the naked guy change tent mine-field without losing an appendage. Now, with my bike shoes & helmet I awkwardly made my way to the sunscreen girls. There were two people in front of me, one very large, very hairy man, and one very tall, very muscular, very not-hairy young man (scientific fact #2: Biting contrast of each other, if you didn't notice from the descriptions. You're welcome). The sunscreen girls greased up Mr. Sasquatch with expedited precision. One sunscreen girl on the legs, the other on the arms, shoulders, neck and ears. Off Sasquatch lumbered. As the girls moved on to Adonis, inspirational music started playing, an angelic glow appeared and time slowed. Two other sunscreen girls seemingly appeared out of no where and Brad Pitt's stunt double was being greased down with the attention to detail you would give a newborn baby prior to their first day at the beach. As the 5 minutes ticked slowly by and the girls eventually all but ran out of sunscreen the young man jumped on his trusty steed and rode into the sunset. My turn. Without going into too much detail, I was on my bike 12 seconds later. Ouch.


To be continued. . . (gripping place to end isn't it?)

I taken over this blog. That's right hostile takeover of the infamous Fatman to Ironman blog! Correct I said infamous not famous. I'm pretty sure it's just me, Eric and his mom that read this blog and I have been jealous of it for quite sometime. Eric with his witty comments and hilarious tone that you just can't help but laugh out loud at. Well I can write pretty good...well I can think about things and from what I've seen that's all you need for a hostile takeover of a blog. Oh by the way if you didn't know already, and of course you do because your likely Eric or his mother, this is Christi "champion" Barber Eric's beautiful and pregnant wife.

I have watched Eric train for this Ironman for the last year and I thought I would share from an outside perspective the journey I have seen the ruggedly handsome Eric begin and will ultimately finish next Sunday. It began with the inspiration of actually attending the Ironman last year. He knew he wanted to do it, but just seeing all of those athletes spread throughout Penticton showing off their drive, determination and sheer toughness cemented something inside Eric. He knew he was an Ironman. Toughness is something that seems to appeal to Eric; rage music with yelling and screaming, skull and cross bones, tattoos, that whole scene (that's right ladies he dresses as good as a gay guy, but has the inner rage of a angry 17 year old kid). Luckily for me, he has channelled that tough guy image into something productive, the ultimate test of toughness in triathlon and sport for that matter, the Ironman. He will be accepted as an athlete for life after this, proving himself to the athletic world and to anyone who ever doubted he could do something.

After he was all hopped up on endorphins from hearing "You are an Ironman" ten thousand times at the finish of the race it was time to get home and let reality set in. He put in hours in the pool, spent a lot of time running in the Florida heat and went out for what seemed like days on the bike. Actually I don't think the reality of the Ironman hit Eric at all until about 4 hours ago. Right before I sent him away on the plane. He looked nervous and excited, that stunned looked. You know when you hear some really big news but your not sure you get it? He had the same look when I told him I was pregnant. I think it's the 'wow this is really happening' look. Truthfully I was kind of glad he had that look, before that I wasn't sure he understood the enormity of this race he was about to take on, but he did.

So now back to the reason I hijacked this blog in the first place. Besides the fact that writing your thoughts out online has some strangely therapeutic attributes, I wanted Eric to know that he's going to be great. I've watched how much time and energy he has put into this race and I just can't wait for it to come to fruition. It's going to be great. When I watched the Ironman last year I wondered what made those people so happy to cross the line? I knew it was hard, but the feeling was more than that. I now know that what I was feeling was not only the individual's accomplishment of crossing the line but the energy and love of all those watching who really understood what it took for their loved ones to become Ironmen. I can barely wait to see the love of my life have all of his hard work and effort be rewarded as he accomplishes one of his life goals. Eric Barber -You are an Ironman! I love you more than ever.

Boo-ya blog completed(I always thought that was a funny way to end a blog).

HEADLINE: Weston Triathlete Conquers Sugarloaf Mountain

I can see the headlines now; Fuzzy Foreigner Conquers the Highest Peak in Florida. Broadcast companies across all media will pick up the story. It will be minute 1 of my infamous, lucky 15. I will be the star of the television, the Internet's golden boy and radio's most talked about athlete. People will begin to forget the likes of Lance Armstrong and Michael Phelps. Michael who? Exactly. They will then learn that this monumental occasion, this pinnacle of my existence, this huge feat, was a 308ft mole hill. Sugarloaf Mountain; a mountainous misnomer. In this world of hyperbole, my instant celebrity will abruptly end, the endorsement offers will cease and I will no longer be a mainstay on Good Morning America, the Today Show or Regis & Kelly. Children around the word will take my poster of their walls, the shirts with my face & intellectually stimulating yet humorous quotes will be burned, my statues in Ottawa, Washington and London will fall. Quite frankly, the world will stop spinning.

Needless to say, I will not be sending the press release about my last training session in Clermont, FL. The hills of Clermont committed a quad destructing assault on my legs, but man was it fun. There is something to be said about the rolling hills of central Florida and Clermont's Horrible Hundred. My only concern was the constant looming threat of the Deliverance banjo.

I set out Saturday afternoon to tackle the Horrible Hundred, a 100 mile (really!?!) ride through the hills of Clermont. This was an overly grand ambition for two reasons; 1. I have been nursing a low back injury for about 2 weeks now. That's right, 6 weeks from Ironman Canada, with over a year invested in training and preparation, I hurt myself lifting weights. Poor little me. 2. It is called the Horrible Hundred for a reason. It's freakin' hilly. There is not a single flat spot in the whole of Clermont or Lake County for that matter. In fact, I think if you looked close enough you would notice the water running out of the lakes down into the towns below. Seriously, go look, I'll wait.

Sadly, the horrible hundred turned into a 4-degrees-less-than-horrible-65. It was a very long, very hot 65. Amidst the leg spasms, the dehydration, and the pain you feel after 4hrs on the bike I had a great deal of fun. Hill climbing is an extremely painful experience, between the lactic acid build up, your legs burning, your lungs being on fire, and the fact that you are only traveling 8mph, it's tough. It is all worth it though; reaching the top elicits a powerful feeling of personal achievement. A couple of times, when reaching the peak, I let out a ferocious roar of victory. That's perfectly normal, right?

Here's to going 49.5mph. . . Cheers!


(yes, downhill)

Ironman 70.3 Florida : In Restrospect

Sunday May 17th, 4am. Beep, beep, beep, beep . . . I don't think my iteration of the ear piercing alarm does it justice, but alas, I was awake. My excitement almost overcame the fact that my eyes were still glued shut. I usually sleep well in hotels, but this measly 4hour interlude was the exception. I managed to slide my rag doll body into my tri gear and start in on my very precise pre-race nutrition. Some may laugh, others will need an explanation, but my pre-race nutrition consists of a two Clif bars and alternating sips from a big bottle of neon yellow Gatorade & my SIGG water bottle. Today would prove to be a big step for me towards becoming the Fat Man to Ironman I intend to be. Out the door 7 minutes later than planned and 3 minutes earlier than my race-day usual. Off we went. Outlook: good.

By the time Christi and I reach the race site I am one part excited and 2 parts nervous. Of course, I maintain my calm cool exterior, but on the inside I am a fragile mess. The transition area was teeming with athletes, some quiet, with intense internal focus, others with big eyes darting left and right trying to take it all in. Although I would like to think otherwise, I was definitely more the latter than the former. After setting up my transition area with my mother's OCD tendencies shining through, off to the swim start I mosey.

Due to the overwhelming popularity of my age group I ended up in the second of two waves. I don't know why they would ever split up 167 adrenaline infused testosterone junkies into two groups but they did. I suppose it made for a little less 'clan of bull sharks feasting on a school of wounded yellowtail' swim start. I slowly crept down toward the water with a little apprehension for the water temp. This being a lake swim, my mind drifts to my childhood in Canada where the lakes, even in the middle of summer, never really feel warmer than ice water. To my utter surprise, the lake felt like a warm bath. Uhhh, creepy.

Although the swim was uneventful I did manage to cast water into my mouth just often enough to induce a three stroke burp count. Not distracting at all. Well at least this gave me a timer for sighting. I had also developed a swimming skills set that can aptly be characterized as bullet dodging or public drunkenness: no rhythm, a little wiggly & all over the place, reminiscent of my failed break dancing career.

The shore could not come quickly enough. Funny though, one of the last thoughts I had was to get my swim cap off quickly so not to suffer a similar fate as my last race. No, the swim cap did not cause some sort of huge time wasting issue, but my photo coming out of the water did look ridiculous. Not this time, pal. As soon as my head broke the crest of the water, off that neon green cap came. Cameras?

Scouting out the transition area on Saturday proved to be highly beneficial. I quickly found the red rocket, threw on my helmet, shoes, and race belt and off I went. A short hobble/run with the bike later, I was on two wheels and moving quickly.

I pledged not to repeat the quad assault I put my legs through on the bike during the Miami International Triathlon, so I held back a bit. Ensuring that I did not slow below 20mph but also ensuring I did not expend so much effort that I couldn't put one foot in front of the other for the impending 13.1. 30 miles into the bike is a turn around point, 180 degrees and off the other way you go. As I approached the turnaround, people were yelling, screaming and feverishly waving their arms as if to protest my advancement. I slowed, only to look down to my right and see a fellow triathlete covered in blood. This ghastly sight made me realize how risky 20+mph speeds can be. The man managed to speak through his crimson cloak to the 4 people tending to him. The medical team was on its way. I hadn't made it a 1/4 mile out of the turn before the flashing lights and sirens had reached him.

The rest of the bike proved anti-climactic. About 1 mile out from the T2 (bike to run transition, folks, try to keep up) I said to the guy beside me, half jokingly "now comes the fun part, right?" to which he replied dryly, "there's a fun part?" Well played sir, well played.

Transitioning from biking to running is an surreal feeling. I always feel like an action hero at the climax of a summer blockbuster. Explosions all around me, endless excitement and most importantly; me in slow motion! regardless of my pace or effort, I feel slow. This race was no exception. Because the race route took all 2667 of us on 3, 4mile loops, I planned to take it easy on loop 1, pick it up on loop 2 and bring it home on loop 3. Well, even the best intentions are fraught with disappointment. My plan was foiled by the evil being we all know as THE SUN. It was freakin hot. I managed through a 2 mile adductor spasm, I battled through the repeated change from asphalt to grass and back, I even toughed out the severe chaffing under my arms, but I could not defeat the sun. After the first 4 miles I was forced to drain ice cold sponges over my head, neck and chest and pour ice water everywhere else in order to continue. Every single mile from 5 on, I utilized the aid station to the best of my ability. First, two or three sponges, one for my head, one for my back, and one for my chest. Next, drink a cup of Gatorade, then a cup of water. From there I would take two ice water cups and pour one over my head which always resulted in a sharp gasp for air, and repeat. I found this technique would sustain a relatively 'cooler' body temp for about 1 mile.

As for my game plan, easy first four miles: average of 7:30minute mile. Next 4 miles, 8:30minute mile. Last 4 miles, 8:50 minute mile. So much for 'bringing it home'. The second casualty of the day was a man who on my first loop appeared to be in yoga's child's pose, stretching. When asked if he was OK? He replied with a casual "oh yeah". On my second loop, that "oh yeah" had turned into a lying face up in the bushes "oh no". As with casualty numero uno, there were 4 people tending to him. By the third and final loop he was enjoying an IV cocktail with the requisite oxygen mask chaser.

Coming down the chute of the Ironman Florida 70.3 brought a feeling of relief coupled with feeling of apprehension. 5 hours and 33 minutes for a half-Ironman (politically correct or not, that is what this race is and represented to me) means absolutely no less than 11.5hrs for Ironman Canada at my current fitness level. That makes for a pretty long day. Anyone know of a substance that can enhance your performance in athletic endeavors? No? I can't believe in this world there isn't a pill or a shot or something that you can take to make you a better athlete. Nothing? Really? Come on? Oh well. I guess I will just have to become a faster swimmer . . . and cyclist . . . and runner. Seems easy enough.

After the race, the food, the water, the massage and the stretch, I took the liberty of collapsing under a tree in the grass. My body, totally exhausted, was splayed out like a chalk outline at a police crime scene. With cool grass, the light breeze and the treachery of the race behind me . . I let out a deep breath, my eyes grew heavy and I dozed off into a peaceful sleep. . .

Ironman Florida 70.3 aka Orlando Half-Ironman aka Eric's Untimely Demise

As I sit here, I wonder if I can accurately describe the degree of unpreparedness I feel for the frenetic 70.3 miles looming in the not too distant future. Have you ever sat for an exam that you conveniently forgot was scheduled for that day? Have you stood in front of a couple hundred people to deliver a speech that you haven't practiced? Have you stepped into the ring with a prize fighter without jumping rope and unleashing a couple of combos on a heavy bag? As the metaphors for my unpreparedness become weaker and weaker I hope you get the idea.

Last night I received my "Athlete Guide" for Ironman Florida 70.3. The arrival stimulated the epiphany-esque realization that I am woefully unprepared for this event. The race occurs in and around Walt Disney World Resort. The swim, more specifically, begins in the magical fresh water Bay Lake at Walt Disney's Fort Wilderness Resort and Campground. Fresh water represents a couple of things to me: one, no buoyancy whatsoever. . . uh-oh. The thought of 1.2 miles of dragging my lead filled legs around a lake annoys me more than anything. It used to frighten me, but the thought acts like a gnat setting up a drum store in my psyche, obtrusive and obnoxious. A couple of months ago I would have been apprehensive, a little scared and I likely would work twice as hard to make sure I reached horizontal on the swim. Not this time. Nope, just annoyed. What was I saying? Oh yes, fresh water also represents this: At least I don't have to swallow 16 gallons of salt water while I swim. Should be a little less irritating to the stomach, I hope.

Okay, enough about the swim. There must be some hope for the bike portion. I think I may have mentioned previously that South Florida is flat. The only 'hill training' I get is pushing a big gear into the wind. Exactly. After taking a look at the bike course elevation profile I looked down at my skinny little legs and unloaded a sigh. There are approximately 5000 'little' hills along the 56 mile course. No worries though, the largest climb is a measly 211ft. I haven't climbed 200 ft of stairs in the past year let alone trained for 5000 ascents in a couple of hours. I am not in trouble at all. Totally prepared. Awesome.

Ahhh, the run. A sense of peace falls over me when I think of the run. I can always come back on the run. This is my foundation, my strongest sport of the three, my fall back, if you will. Except, I have run only twice in the last two weeks. One of those times was from the house to the car in the rain. Does that count? 13.1 miles on the Asics express after 56 miles on the bike? When is this race again? 3 weeks you say? 21 days?

Do you think they'll push it back?

Miami International Triathlon: A Success, I guess. . .

2:30:00 was my goal. Or was it 2:20:00, oh who can remember. Let's just say, for arguments sake that my goal was 2:30:00. Dr. Ego thanks you. Even with this beneficial adjustment, I missed my arbitrary time goal by about 1:13. Not bad considering I doggie-paddled the swim leg.

This was my first wetsuit swim ever. The race begins with 0.9 of a mile in salt water with roughly 90 of my closest testosterone infused '20 something' friends and I was up for the challenge. As you can imagine, getting into the seal skin suit was a bit troublesome, but with Christi's help, a few grunts and groans, I was all set. As I quickly learned, swimming with a wetsuit creates a level of buoyancy equal to swimming with a life jacket in the Dead Sea, I can only assume. That extra assistance was most definitely needed. Aside from a couple of mouthfuls of water, a few punches in the side of the head and the multitude of kicks to the melon, things went fairly well. I climbed out of the water after 26 minutes and stumbled my way into the transition area.

Sadly, T1 took a little longer than I am proud of, but getting out of my wetsuit proved only slightly easier than getting into it. Picture a seal hopping around on one fin trying extraordinarily hard to pull it's skin off its other fin. Exactly. Off on the bike course I go. The point that stands out in my mind was the gripping descent following the Rickenbacker Causeway climb. After reaching the peak I geared down, dug in and tucked. 3/4 of the way down the Causeway, with the wind howling in my ears, I peered at the bike computer. Having reached 39.3 mph or 63.2 km per hour for everyone in the world outside of the US, I pushed the envelope to reach 40mph but to no avail. Within the confines of the 30mph club I will remain. Sad face. I entered T2 after approximately an hour and 11 minutes. Not bad, rookie.

Sick, sick, sick. After disembarking from the red rocket that is my Felt tri-bike I downed 3/4 of a bottle of, no not Heineken, but a curious concoction of PowerGel Double Latte and water. I hurriedly downed the bottle and out of T2 I went. I lumbered all of 400 meters before the battle began in my stomach, the same battle I would eventually lose. This intense case of nausea and bloating quickly transformed this physical battle into a test of mental fortitude. By mile 1 I had lost. Into the bushes I went, only to return minutes later feeling no better than before. I pressed on, every step increasing the nausea and bloating. Oh, the bloating. Another pit stop at the turnaround point at mile 1.5 was in my future. 'No more stops, you will finish this race regardless of discomfort'. I fully realized at this moment why nutrition is vitally important. If this little incident had occurred in mile 1 of the run leg of the Ironman we may have been facing a DNF. Fortunately, my mind is tougher than my body because the next 4.7 miles were hell. Although my stomach issues substantially subsided over the next couple of miles, my quads began to attack me. Each step resulted in a sharp threat of spasm in the medial head of my quadriceps. Have you ever waken up in the middle of the night in the midst of an intense calf cramp? Don't answer that. Now, imagine your thighs threatening with each step, a similar fate. Go ahead, imagine, I'll wait.

The end of the race could not have come soon enough. Down the chute I went: 2:31:13 with a sprint finish. It may have looked like I sprinted through the finish line due to my innate competitiveness, but in all actuality, I had a date with the row of port-o-potties calling to me. You wouldn't want me to be late.

Well, see ya later.

Triathletes: To Shave or Not to Shave?

I am Canadian. At least, I was. I feel compelled to hand in my Team Canada badge next time I am at the embassy. Yes, I did the unthinkable. I am no longer deserving of that honorable label, I have shaved my legs, and my arms, and my chest, oh yeah, and my belly. I am no longer the kind, courteous, element-hardened Canadian I once was, I am now a slippery triathlete.

Two weeks ago, I entered the grocery store to pick up a 'couple of things'. I walked filling my cart with as many masculine items I could find, first man-item: beer. There were others, but everything between the beer and the tool of emasculation is a blur. As I approached the aisle of terror I strengthened my resolve and puffed up my chest. No big deal, walk up, pick one up, throw it in the cart and move on. Among the 9000 choices was a particularly feminine razor. Without too much hesitation, I reached up for the 55 blade chamomile and daisy razor made of lace in its baby blue package emblazoned with flowers and sunshine. This is the point of the story where you would expect a convoluted tale about someone approaching me while I was perusing the ladies razors, creating an embarrassing yet humorous anecdote. Well, no such luck friends. I dropped that razor into the cart and strutted all the way to the till.

The razor went two weeks without my use. This was not due to embarrassment, but due to the degree of the wooly-mammoth-ness of my limbs. This shaving session is no small undertaking. It takes ecumenical preparation, strategic planning and mental fortitude. So, after our fabulous evening at Stars on Ice, I decided it was time. Now, as I mentioned my legs and arms closely resemble the cast of Planet of the Apes, so using the sunshine & chamomile razor first was not an option. This virtual castration must begin with an electric razor trim. Bzzzz. Up one leg I go, and for the first time since my mid-teen knee surgeries, I can see my shin, in all its hairless glory. Even bare, it still personifies a man's youth, covered in misshapen scars chronicling personal mishaps. After the 40 minute session of trimming my leg hedge, it was time for a break. Now comes the difficult part, if you possess anything less than a cast-iron stomach, avert your eyes.

Into the shower I go, 2000 razor strokes later, I reappear. Hairless in South Florida. As I reached for the St. Ives with aloe, I realized something incredibly disheartening. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more emasculating than propping your foot up on the edge of a bathtub and running your cream covered hands down the length of your scar covered slip and slide legs. I like myself a little less today.

Yes, I am embarrassed. Yes, I do feel silly. Yes, I also feel like a triathlete and yes, I will be keeping my legs, arms, chest and belly in a perpetual state of hairlessness until Ironman Canada. 6 months from now.

It has been documented that triathletes shave their arms and legs for several reasons; none of which actually cast a large enough shadow to hide the giant flashing sign that states clearly, without hesitation 'completely ego driven' 'completely ego driven' 'completely ego driven'. Regardless, there are some legitimate reasons. Allow me to name a few:

1. Makes the post cycling crash care a little less difficult. They say there are two types of triathletes; the ones that have crashed, and the ones that will crash. Hairlessness mitigates the risk of infection.
2. Aerodynamic in the water. Hair creates resistance. Swimmers shave. Triathletes swim. Seems logical.
3. Keeps you cooler. Not looking, but feeling.
4. Makes massage easier. Have you ever tried to massage a Brillow pad? I rest my case.

Lesson #43: If you feel fast, you are fast.

1/4 Mile Walking Lunges

You know, Valentine's Day seems like a good day for a 1/4 mile of walking lunges. Yes this thought crossed my mind and yes, I feel the prick of regret thinking of it now. It all started several months ago when I was perusing the Crossfit website and noticed the WOD (workout of the day for those who prefer to read words over abbreviations) was a 1/4 mile of walking lunges. "1/4 mile Walking Lunges" was pasted there in all its simplicity and gawking awkwardly at me. The WOD had no further description and was completely devoid of any instruction, I was mildly intimidated. From my experience with Crossfit, they are ferocious opponents of less than full range of motion during exercise, and everyone knows I hate to disappoint anonymous website proprietors. Each lunge must have a gentle grazing of the trailing knee on the ground. Get low!

Fast forward 6 months. Travis, one of our facility's personal trainers and fitness aficionado declared he was going to attempt the foreboding and now aptly named, "1/4 mile March of Death". I, being the competition hungry fool that I am, intelligently piped up that I would also lunge the long and, what turned out to be loathsome, 1/4 mile. A 1/4 mile: once around a high school track or once down the length of a drag strip, or half of half of a mile. I like the last one, sounds short.

Saturday, February 14 2009, Valentine's Day. I was committed to my brick workout that morning, so off I went; 20 miles on the wheels and 2 on the Asics express. A little less than three hours later, I traded in my newly adorned flip flops for my Keyano's. The first 50 lunges were comfortable, not easy, but not exigent. The 51st lunge started the rapid downward spiral, by 100 I had to take a break, my legs were on fire. This little break allowed the lactic acid build up to decrease just enough to continue my procession of eternal lunges. Taking a split second break on each half century and century mark proved to be an effective method of mitigating the risk of Rhabdo. Even though I was past the 25% mark, my mind knew that this was only the beginning and my trembling legs unappreciatively concurred.

I finally reached the half-way mark having suffered through 175 lunges. You would think that 50% would represent both a literal and figurative turning point for me. Sadly, this was not the case. As the beads of sweat accumulated on my brow and the sun relentlessly beat down on my increasingly thinning mop, I proceeded. Lunge after lunge the proverbial 'burn' increased. Breaks every 50 turned into breaks every 40, and then breaks every 30 until I finally had to take a split second break every 10 lunges. I rounded the final corner, 300 hundred lunges down, 50 freakin' lunges remaining. I strengthened my resolve, I was going to finish this WOD with honor, non stop, the way a true Crossfitter should. That lasted 10 seconds. 40 lunges to go. With each step time slowed down until it looked like the climax of a summer blockbuster, minus the explosions & fast cars. Although the last 40 lunges took 4hrs and 14 minutes to complete, I made it. 350 lunges. Just like that.

Total time: 11 minutes 20 seconds. Total Lunges: 350. The delayed onset muscle soreness (DOMS for those who prefer capitalized abbreviations) was not so much 'delayed' as it was 'early'. No worries though, it lasts 2 days at the most, and I workout all the time, so I can expect soreness for maybe a day. Unfortunately, I felt the muscles soreness creep up on me before dinner that night, not a good sign, and this was only the beginning. I woke the next morning to lead filled legs and a brain that has lost functional control over those appendages. For the next 4 days, yes 4, I attempted to walk with a degree of normalcy, but to no avail. Daily activities I take for granted now became a labor intensive experience. Aside from the embarrassment I felt walking like a newborn fawn in pain, and the weird looks from random bystanders, I was, and still am, silently proud. My new found disability comes with a badge of honor. One that can only be understood by similarly mentally defunct individuals.

That's right, I'm defunct.

Miami Marathon & Miami International Triathlon

My goal, as previously mentioned, was to run a sub-90 minute half marathon. This goal was based on the assumption that a minimum of sub-90 would catapult me into the 6 Minute Mile Half Marathon Club. Despite the club's audacious name, I have aspired to be inducted for some time now. Although I ended up finishing in a mildly disappointing 1:30:24, my time translated into a 6:54 minute mile. Turns out my ability to run is superior to my ability to do simple time conversions. By the way, the induction ceremony takes place at #1 Legendary Lane, at 1pm on the first. You're all invited.

More importantly I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate my running partners. Christi, your ability to persevere through intense muscle cramping is an inspiration. I realize that you were disappointed with your performance but your completion of the 26.2 is a testament to your mental strength and I am confident your next race will be a monster PR.

Mary, congratulations on your 4th place age group finish and qualifying for Boston, again! Christi and I plan on catching up to you one day! Keep up the great work!

Dr. Amy, congratulations on your first 13.1! Take pride in your hard work and the subsequent flawless performance. You did an amazing job! It's 'tri' time now!!

There is little less than six weeks to my season opener, the Miami International Triathlon, an Olympic distance event held on Key Biscayne. Historically, the water temperature for the swim has been a shiver inspiring 75 degrees. As much as I enjoy arctic temperatures, the thought of a 0.9 mile swim in 75 degree water instantly produces a severe case of horripilation. Luckily, because the water is under 78 degrees, it is wetsuit legal swim. Hmmm, I don't actually own a wetsuit, even if I did, I don't have any experience swimming in one, but as you know, I am the world's premier triathlon swimmer (power of positive thinking, right?), so it shouldn't be a problem.

The bike portion is a 24.8 mile ride, divided equally into two 12.4 mile loops. Fortunately for me, we get to climb the Rickenbacker Causeway not once, not twice, not even three times, but four whole times. Don't get me wrong, the Rickenbacker could most aptly be characterized as a mole hill, but for a guy like me, that is to say a 'flat lander' it's a little more mountainous. These four 'short' climbs should exaggerate the consistent noodle leg syndrome I suffer from coming off the bike. Super.

The run, a little less than half of a half, (6.2 miles for those of you not keeping score) is a stimulating out and back along a pathway just steps from the Virginia Key bay. Transitioning off the bike to a alacritous bipedal situation is tough. The noodle leg syndrome does pass but it just takes time. All that said, this may be my only opportunity to rub shoulders with the super-elites. And when I say rub shoulders, I mean have my neck rotate, in hyper speed, on its axis, as I watch the leaders fly past me. Should be fun!

I am not sure what is more intimidating? The fact that I have never swam in a wetsuit? That can't be it, in fact, the buoyancy will probably make me a little less Titanic and a little more ocean liner. Maybe its the fact that I have never competed in a triathlon of this distance? Nah, I'm awesome. Perhaps its the fact that members of the US Olympic Tri team are competing in this event. Unlikely, since the only time I will see them is at the start, right before they take off like a herd of meth-amphetamine infused cheetahs. Maybe I am intimidated by the throngs of International Ironman Champions in the field. Did you ever consider that I may not be intimidated at all, and this last paragraph was simply a pathetic attempt at making this yawn-inspiring post a little less . . . snore. No, it's infinitely more likely that I am attempting to cover-up my insecurities through the use of sarcasm and, I use this term loosely; humor.

For those keeping score, I used a blasphemous 1200 similes and 240 metaphors in this post. Rookie.

3 Days Until the ING Miami Marathon

In 3 days I, along with 14999 other people, will be halfway across the MacArthur Causeway. The sun will be peering between the cruise ships in the port of Miami and my head will likely have exploded. I am sick. I have the sort of head cold that makes Kleenex & SinuTab stockholders very rich people. I am confident that my leaky, on the verge of exploding head syndrome will magically disappear by race morning, so no worries.

More importantly; I have designed a fairly unconventional training program for this particular race and have had three devoted and highly skilled runners volunteer to play guinea pig for the last 12 weeks. Christi, Mary and Amy, thank you very much for having faith in my program and I am extremely confident that you will all run a great race!! You have worked very hard and it will all pay off in 3 days. Good luck, run smart, run fast and we'll see you at the finish line!

Here are a couple of marathon tips that have come to my attention either through experience, reading or the rumor-mill. I am feeling particularly generous this morning:

1. Nothing new on race day, with a couple of exceptions: a. compression calf guards b. well, that's all really.

2. Stay hydrated. Along with the potential risk of being rushed to the hospital, dehydration poses other risks: a. 2% dehydration results in 8-33% decrease in endurance performance. b. horrifying muscle cramps.

3. Tip from unnamed ultra-marathoner: if you can feel (or hear) water sloshing around in your stomach you may need electrolytes & slow down on the H2O intake.

4. Warm-up by running fast but short. Warming up with a couple of pickups will not only loosen you up but it will make your marathon pace seem comfortable.

5. Don't let the excitement of the start dictate your pace. Almost everyone starts the marathon a little fast. Hold back a little, it's a lot more fun to pass those fools when they're gasping for air than it is to keep up with them at the start. Be confident in your pacing strategy, 26.2 (and 13.1) is a long way.

6. Keep a PMA. That's right, I said it, Positive Mental Attitude. But seriously, only positive thoughts while racing. Whenever you're having a negative thought, smile and replace it with something positive. Try repeating "I'm strong, I'm fast and I'm gonna kick your . . .", you get the idea. Only positives on race day. You've trained hard, you're prepared, RACE THAT WAY.

There are roughly 468,00 marathon tips out there. It is fairly likely that at least 3 of them should have made this list.


Good luck to my loyal training partners! Your competition will RUE the DAY!

ING Miami Marathon: Half Empty or Full

Albert Einstein once said "The true measure of a man is the degree to which he has managed to subjugate his ego." I know this, because I was there. It was a Sunday afternoon in 1903 in a Swiss Patent Office. True story.

Back to the task at hand; after learning the definition of 'manage' I was able to put his quote into context, and I came to a stark realization. That realization: I am confident I wouldn't register on Albert Einstein's Ego Subjugation Scale, aptly named The ASS. It was not until 1912 that the letter E became the most used letter in the English language. Go figure.

Last year during training for the Miami Marathon, I suffered a psoas injury. The psoas is a muscle that controls flexion in the hip, a muscle fairly integral to putting one foot in front of the other in an expedited fashion. By the time the marathon rolled around my persuasive mind had convinced my meek & feeble body that I was healed and completely ready for the impending 26.2. Around mile 11 my body had a few choice words for my mind. Precisely at that moment, Dr. Ego reared his ugly head, with his lavish pinstriped blazer, white-knuckling a rocks-glass of scotch, puffing on a Cuban, looking mighty dapper. Standing a foreboding 5ft 8in tall, he bellowed "Come on, you're fine, nothing a quick little stretch won't fix. Get movin', Sally." (Yes, that sorry looking character playing my ego is a doctor.)

Mesmerized by Dr. Ego's ability to make even an insult sound inspirational, I continued on. I will be no man' Sally today. Passing the exit to the finish line of the half, I heard that distinct evil laughter; Dr. Ego: 1, Eric: 0. Luckily, the pain took its time building, I only had to run the last 6 miles with a horrifyingly painful limp. I know, I know, you're probably saying to yourself, "Not you Eric, you exist clearly in an ego free zone". Well my friends, unbeknownst to you, I go toe to toe with Dr. Ego every day and he has a nasty right cross.

I sit here writing this, again, awe-inspiring post to mitigate my risk of a repeat performance. Although I am healthy this year, the marathon represents a likely over-training scenario for me. As I wrote that last sentence I can here that evil little voice in the bowels of my existence whispering "You'll be fine, you're a machine, a marathon won't have an adverse affect on you. Just don't taper as much and only take two days off afterward, no fitness lost and then you don't have to do 1/2 of what you said you would do. Remember Denzel Washington in John Q? Do you remember what he told his son who was on the verge of death? 'Always do what you say you are going to do,' have some damn integrity!!"

As I mentioned, I am writing this post to evoke a high degree of anonymous accountability for myself. There comes a point in every man's life when he reaches a fork in the road. My fork; a left turn to 13.1 or a right (it's actually straight, but for the sake of this analogy, we'll go with right) to 26.2 and all of its consequences. That sharp left turn leading to the finish under the 13.1 sign represents an ego-free zone for me. I think Zoolander said it best when he said 'I can't turn left'.

I don't think this post could have been any more convoluted, but I'll see what I can do next week.

Keep on keepin' on.

A New Year & 20 Days to ING Miami Marathon

It has been an interesting last couple of weeks to say the least. I can't decide which is stranger, running past two people 'physically' expressing their love to each other on the golf course or waking up one morning to be informed that I was sleep stretching, an interesting phenomenon that is exactly as the name suggests, actively stretching your muscles while sleeping. Christi brought to my intention that I had performed both the butterfly stretch and the knee to chest stretch while sleeping. I'm fairly confident that this warrants a generous research grant and it's own team of full time scientists.

In retrospect, the marathon training hasn't gone exactly as planned. First of all, I started the training program a mere 9 weeks ago with, be prepared for an understatement, mild back pain. I couldn't run 1 mile without my low back locking up and bringing me to a screeching halt. As time passed, and I implemented, finally, the program designed by the world's foremost expert in physical therapy, Steve Dischiavi, I began to feel better. Two weeks later, the Weston Rotary Half Marathon. 3rd place; respectable.

The 5 weeks since the 13.1 has been a tumultuous journey, both mentally and physically. Stress is an interesting thing, one day its a motivator, the next its debilitating. Stress is a dark, dangerous, and destructive beast. It's evil presents without logic or reason, preying on you during moments of weakness and vulnerability. The funny thing is, not so much funny, more sad, stress is completely internal. We create our own stress, it is merely a response to stimuli. Perception is everything.

In the last three Ironman training books I have read there is an impassioned 'warning' pertaining to an early triathlon season marathon. The warning heeds: marathons involve high volume, long distance, a big taper, and a fairly lengthy recovery period. Add all of those up and you are looking at a three week net loss in triathlon fitness. A staggeringly high opportunity cost; not exactly ideal.

I hadn't decided whether it was going to be the half or full for me in a little less than three weeks, until I wrote this gut wrenching and very moving post. Although I am confident I could have run my fastest marathon ever this year, 'could have' being the operative words, I have chosen to downgrade my marathon to a hopefully speedy and enjoyable 13.1. That leaves Christi and Mary in the A division, Justin, Victoria, Whitney, Carla, Rich, Roberto, Amy and I in the B division and Pat, Scott, Gord and Joe bringing up the rear in the S division (spectator that is;-).

See you on race morning, road.