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.