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.