You Gotta Have Heart

Only a few of you that I know personally have been aware that this fall I have been a little worried about my health. At the Austin Triathlon I experienced some pressure in my chest and higher than normal heart rates.

All I could think of was Steve Larsen, an elite former pro that died of a heart attack during an interval session on the track. Am I having a heart attack? Is this just indigestion?

Of course it was hot as balls and I'd had a wee bit of stimulants that morning.

Then in the Houston heat, I was doing an evening run and I felt a blip in my torso followed by a jump of my heart rate from 130 to 180+ with no change in my effort or pace. Again, all I could think of was Steve Larsen.

Of course, the job had been stressful that day, and I'd had a little bit more than my normal level of caffeine.

Then, as the training volume maxed out, I felt pressure in my chest and fatigue when I tried to get going in the morning or rose from my chair to go up the stairs. And all I could think of was Steve Larsen.

Rather than be the typical man and avoid going to the doctor -- especially in the run up to Ironman Cozumel -- I decided that it was a little bit stupid to risk sudden cardiac death in pursuit of a hobby. Ironman, for all the grandiloquence and purple prose expended in its praise, some of it here, is (at the end of the day) just a hobby. Call it extreme stamp collecting or model railroading on steroids.

So, I went to the doctor and went my way through the American Health Care System in search of an answer.

There was the Primary Care Physician visit with normal heart rate, normal blood pressure and normal resting EKG. Check. OK, but that did not really test my heart at stress, even though I was experiencing that icky feeling in my chest.

Then there was the referral to get a Holter Monitor to wear for 24 hours and while exercising. Check.

Then there was the referral to have blood drawn for lab work. Check.

Then there was the referral to (and selecting a) cardiologist to poke me and Check.

Then Dr. Cardiology though he might hear a heart murmur through his stethoscope; so, there was the cardiology referral to get an echo cariogram (essentially an ultrasound of the heart instead of a uterus, which would be an interesting search in my case).

Check.

And at the end of the day all the tests were normal. Indeed, they were way better than normal. I just needed to mix in some decaff and some tums.

**whew**

Four years of triathlon and three years of Ironman have made me healthy beyond my wildest dreams.

I am 43 years old and take no medications -- save for some acid reflux. No blood pressure medication. No cholesterol medication. No Viagra (**wink**). No diabetes medication. Not bad for a 50+ hour per week lawyer at an AmLaw200 firm.

At 43, I have no injuries or knee problems or back problems in spite of (or because of) hours and hours of training and physical training every week.

At 43, my resting heart rate is 51 beats per minute.

At 43, my total cholesterol is 169, "good" cholesterol of 71. Most people have to take drugs or pursue Veganism to get numbers like that.

At 43, my weight is 139 pounds and my body mass index is 23.1 -- while 2/3 of my fellow citizens are overweight or obese.

I am healthy and blessed beyond my wildest expectations. But here's the dirty little secret: t

There is nothing special about me.

If you are a person of normal health, even normal "bad" health for a person of your age, this could be you. Over time, within limits, slow and steady, this could be you.

This is good news. Or is it? Watch this space. More later.

The Sexiest Man Alive

Last night I was wondering whether I still want to do this. It was "once more into the breach" and an hour of 30/30s on the trainer.

Check. Done.

This morning it was "once more into the breach" for an hour of running including 3x7 min. hard.

Check. Done.

Walk to the scale.

Yawn.

Notice some additional ribs and abs and muscly stuff in the mirror.

Step on the scale.

140 pounds.

**BLINK**

ONE HUNDRED FORTY POUNDS BITCHES!!!!!

I. Still. Want. To. Do. This.

That is worth getting up early and doing two workouts a day.

That is a reason why.

Damn near 43 years old and 140 pounds with 9% body fat.

My tapered shirts need more taper.

My skinny suit fits.

I just cinched up another loop on the belt.

And Day-uhm, I'm a sexy beast. Nothing like hitting your race weight to make you feel like the sexiest man alive. I may be slow, but I LOOK FAST!!!!!

And, to paraphrase Fernando, "it is better to look good than to be good."

Can't wait to work out tomorrow.

Slug

I heard of a study the other day setting out the inverse relationship between temperature and productivity. Supposedly for every degree higher in average temperature, a geographical area will have 3.5% less in economic output. By this measure, Houston should be draining the nation's economy rather than powering it, for we have had the most brutal summer since I moved here 15 years ago.

Every morning when we awake, it is 80 degrees or very nearly. There is dew on the grass because the humidity is even higher than the temperature. The Garmin 305 finally and completely gave up the ghost, and so all the training feels artificial, i.e., with no numbers to upload, the training really never happened--notwithstanding the persistent fatigue and dehydration of just existing in the Bayou City. With no race in the immediate future, few if any friends really stoked about getting out in this weather, and no numbers to motivate me, this past two weeks has been very unmotivated. Times and distances have been completed, but it is all very pedestrian.

Usually, I will have had my sojourn to the mountains by this time of the summer, the better to cool my freakishly large brain and find again some reason to continue on commuting to my air conditioned box in the sky where I organize electrons into words and sentences and paragraphs designed to demonstrate the truth and justice of a client's position. This year, however, I have been delayed. The month of July has been a doldrums just waiting for that day to arrive.

Mrs. Greyhound left for the mountains in early July, and so add the training doldrums and the heat and the job to an empty house. I now know why unmarried men die sooner than married men. With no one here to motivate my better nature, all I want to do is eat bad food and drink alcohol while the clutter mounts up on every side. Again, it is a real challenge just to "get up and do what needs to be done."

And then, of course, the blogging. No blogging to speak of because who wants to hear "woe is me" from me? Not me. Not you either, I suspect.

But at least there is the tour. Although this year's route left a lot to be desired through the first two weeks, Phil and Paul are my soundtrack to July. I am even writing this in a posh, British accent whilst I dream of climbing my own alp. I arrive 9000 feet above sea level on Wednesday and Delilah, my road bike, arrives Thursday. I want to be dancing on the pedals not long after that.

And I want to be cold again. I want to sit outside in the evening with a hot drink or perhaps a good whiskey as the setting sun paints blue shadows across Peak 9. Maybe it will even rain. And as the light grows short and the shadows long, the air will chill. You can see your breath and know for certain that you're alive.

Wish you were here.

Running From The 1980s--How To:

**We now return to our regularly scheduled blog**

Several weeks ago, I got a cryptic text along the lines of, "I just finished my first 5k and it was AWESOME. Thanks for inspiring me."

I did not recognize the number at all, so thankfully, at the end of the text, the sender wrote, "This is Jeanie."

This made me chuckle, not only because it feels so good to think someone is out the door and moving because of you, but also because, in 1980, the notion that I would have been "inspiring" Jeanie would not have entered my mind.

In 1980, I was in the 7th grade--gee, what a great and confident time for all boys, especially those nonathletic boys who are about 5 feet tall and whose voices have not yet changed. Not awkward at all. Add to this that I had just moved to Oklahoma from Ohio, and was visiting a big, downtown church with my parents. It was my first time in a "youth group" (as opposed to children's Sunday School). Jeanie, among others, seemed otherworldly and really intimidating to me. I'm sure she never tried or intended to be, but she was an eight grader with blond hair and makeup and all sorts of other features that had not existed with my 6th grade classmates back in Ohio. Plus she ran in a pack with another blond, be-make-upped BFF, both of whom had features and wore matching, rabbit-fur jackets. Me, I never was permitted a "Members Only" jacket--the manly equivalent.

Alors, we knew fashion in the '80s, non?

Anyway, I grew out of my awkwardness over time as I got to know Jeanie and the other youth group members, and I continued growing after high school (thankfully). And recently Jeanie and the youth group have started meeting up on Facebook. In so doing, Jeanie (now the mother of at least four, including a stunning, college-aged likeness of herself) drafted me to be her running running guru. The changed circumstances give one vertigo.

To make a long story longer, Jeanie wrote me about doing her own triathlon, but bemoaning the fact that she did not yet enjoy the running part. "WILL YOU HELP ME ON THIS RUN THING??? I seriously have to whip myself to do it and actually do enjoy it once I'm there doing it." Here's some of what I wrote back, and I invite you triathlete friends to include your own suggestions for Jeanie in the comments concerning how you learned to love running.

Part of not liking running is feeling like you're not any good at it. You have to figure out how to make it fun, or at least enjoyable, or at least tolerable until your body adapts to where you can go for a run without feeling like you've been caned. There are some suggestions:

1. Do some of your runs with someone. If you have to meet someone, it will motivate you to get out of bed and you'll enjoy the exercise more. There are lots of more experienced runners who would like nothing better than to meet a newbie on their easy run day or for their warm up. Paying it forward is a big part of the culture.

2. Change your running routes. Drive to a park with nice scenery or other runners to watch or just somewhere new.

3. I-Pod. Gotta have it.

4. Create a simple training diary. Seeing progress will motivate you to keep going. At the beginning, mine was as simple as a dry-erase month calendar. I would put a red x when I ran, a Green x when I biked, and a black x when I lived weights. I wanted to have as few days as possible without x's and as many as possible with two x's.

5. Progress slowly--Sore muscles are inevitable, but if you always feel like you've been beaten with an iron rod, you're doing it wrong.

6. Run/Walk--the corollary to progressing slowly. It is easier to keep going if you break the run into bits, especially a run that is longer than you've done before. If you run 4 minutes, walk 30 seconds or a minute, whatever, it is easier to stomach. There are lots of run/walk programs on the internet if you Google "Couch to 5k," and you can start at whatever point of the program meets your current fitness level.

7. Have a Goal--The difference between a runner and a jogger is a race entry. Sign up for an event several months out that is beyond your reach, then plan how you're going to get there. An example might be a 10k in September. Then tell a friend who will hold you accountable. If it is a runner friend, use them to pick out which intermediate distance races you're going to do on the way. Then figure out how you need to train to progress slowly from here to there with an easier recovery week every three weeks or so.

8. Find a running group--there are lots of running clubs and training groups, some of which are set up for (or have programs for) people getting started.

9. Develop the habit--If you get on a schedule and run at the same time on your running days, you soon don't need motivation to get out the door. It is just something you do. (Incidentally, research has established that morning exercisers are most consistent, because nothing interferes with the early morning run.) Once it becomes a habit, you will find it is the best part of the day. If the habit doesn't take the first try, don't sweat it. Starting running is a bit like quitting smoking. Many people have to attempt it several times before the change becomes permanent.

10. Play--It will never be fun all the time, but if it is never fun any of the time, you won't stick with it. So figure out what would turn running (or any kind of training) into "recess" time for grownups. Is it running with your kid or a friend or a certain type of route or a playlist or running intervals or whatever? Training is recess. Go play.

Again, if you have suggestions for Jeanie or other folks wanting to get started this summer, put them in the comments.

Welcome to the Jungle

Welcome to the jungle

We got fun 'n' games

We got everything you want

Honey we know the names

When you're training for Ironman, Saturday morning is always time for the long ride. As I have chronicled, riding on the streets in Houston can be a bit of a struggle as slow-witted pachyderms in their SUVs and Pickup Trucks compete with you for habitat. But this particular Saturday, I only had one SUV that refused to yield place, and that probably out of ignorance or inattention rather than malice. Today's jungle excusion was difficult for a different reason.

In Houston, you know that the day is going to be a challenge if the windows are sweating with condensation before the sun comes up. This means that, in contrast to the interior of your home, which feels like a low-humidity meat locker, the outside environment is doing its best to mimic Equatorial Guinea. At 0530, when you stumble out to get the paper, the humidity clamps a hot, wet washcloth over your face, and you're cast into the sauna.

Perfect training conditions for Ironman Cozumel, to be sure, but unpleasant to say the least. Coach Kris ordered up a 2.5 hour ride followed by a 15 minute brick run, ordinarly plenty of work but nothing to write home about. This day, however, the sweat was dripping and flying off my bike helmet before I'd even made 15 minutes of work. And by the time I was running off the bike, the sun was in full force. I wimpered my way through the run-off (read "shuffle off") and headed for the AC. I had drunk 1.5 litres of fluid during the ride, and consumed 2 litres of fluid in the hours afterward, but there was little evidence of it. I was wrung. out.

But there was more jungle to come--actually the wildest and jugleiest jungle of them all. For you see, it was the day before mother's day, which means shopping is required. And this particular day, the recesison was nowhere in evidence. The traffic jams and parking lots were such that you would have thought it was the last shopping day before Christmas, except it was a billion degrees outside.

Yes, those of you with weak constitutions might want to skip the rest of the post, for Greyhound went shopping.

Even more, I took two girls shopping: Superpounce and her newly-teenaged friend Mini-KT.

OK, to say that I went shopping is to exaggerate, like many of the feats described herein. But this is my blog, and I at least get to be the hero of my own narrative. Actually, I mostly functioned like an undercover, surveillance detail from the NSA--watching from a distance and loitering outside stores as Superpounce and Mini-KT texted me about where they intended to shop next.

Between Aeropostale, American Eagle, the Food Court, and Justice, we were able to spend a little time at Macy's in order to find someing Mom-er-iffic for today.

And I survived the jungle by making it much of the way through the Weekend Journal.

Man On Wire

"This is your life, and it's ending -- one minute at at time."
--Fight Club

What a whirlwind the last couple of weeks have been. I'm usually pretty good at balancing training and working and family, keeping all the plates spinning and keeping all the balls in the air. But the thing is, when you live like that, there is very little margin for error. If the work creeps up ever so slightly, you start not to eat quite right or you lose a little sleep, and you miss a snack, and all of life starts to feel anaerobic. You never quite recover before the next interval. Everything starts to hurt a little more, you lose all intensity, your hobby starts to feel like a job and your job starts to feel like a sentence.

My job ramped up--in a massive way. One court hearing before the MS150 (brought about by bush league, chicken shit lawyering on the other side of the case) resulted in them spilling their guts on the courtroom floor when they realized the supposedly damaging document they were using as a prop was actually the wrong contract.

Then race home to fix quinoa and black beans for the peeps who were riding the MS150 with me.

Then watch a horrible looking storm front roll through and wonder whether Saturday was going to be rideable.



Then get up at o'dark thirty to fix breakfast for the peeps and see if we can ride.




Then drag them out to a ride start that did not occur because the lightening started just when we arrived--and I'm stressing about getting everyone out of bed and not showing them a good time (as if I can control the weather).


Then drive to Bastrop and settle for mere trainer rides when I wanted to ride across Texas with the peeps.

Then have the awesomest time ever with Terra Castro who came out to provide massages for the peeps. Best dinner conversation and smiles all around. Peeps are happy. Greyhound host is very happy.



Then ride through some of the toughtest wind ever on Sunday to finish up the ride.

Then race back to Houston so I could prepare to fly out on Monday morning to San Antonio for ANOTHER court hearing

Then two days of preparation and more bloodletting on the courtroom floor with the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals actually laughing at the other side's argument.

Then back to Houston where I missed my swim workout. (But thank God its a recovery week)

Then got three more appellate cases to put on the docket.

And I've got another brief due this week and two next week.

And all the while trying to be helpful (or at least not unhelpful) as Superpounce prepares for a very stressful piano performance

And looking at a full calendar of things to come

And it starts to feel that I'm not only a man on a hire wire doing a balancing act, but that I'm joined with a squad of ADD Spartan Cheeleaders bouncing up and down on my balancing pole while looking for their next hit of methamphetamine.

But at least I haven't spiraled into a multiple personality alter-ego bent on "project mayhem" or some other such stunt aimed at sticking it to the man and finding that primal man-ness that my generation has lost as nature's "middle children."

Oh. Wait.

Who is this guy who's life feels incomplete if he doesn't do 3 swims, 3 runs, 3 bikes and 2 strength sessions every week? What's that all about, Mr. Tyler Durden?

OK, so maybe I am a little "Fight Clubby" if you peel back enough layers on this triathlon thing. But you know what is not adding to the stress? This is the first year that I have someone doing the thinking for me. Someone else is watching the numbers and charting the workouts, and it is so much easier just to open the e-mail or sign onto Training Peaks, see what Coach Kris has on tap for the day, and just do it.

I used to think age group coaching was oh-so pretentious, or only for the fast kids, or not worth the money. Boy was I wrong.

If you really want to enjoy this sport to the fullest, get a coach.

Get.
A.
Coach.

Please Stand By

There's been so much to blog about, but no time to do it. For that, I apologize and hope that I don't forget it all before I have a chance to get back to it. For now, I've had an MS150 sandwich--that is a weekend event sandwiched between two hearty slices of court hearings and appellate arguments that required lots of prep time and left me with no energy or time for writing. Boooooooooo. It also slammed me with work that stacked up while I was in court, so I can't even write now. I need a clone to get all this done.

Coach Kris probably thinks I'm dead because I haven't been on training peaks, but I've only missed one workout, Coach, and that in a week where I probably need more recovery anyway.

So, bear with me and please stand by.

Time Warp

Supposedly, all seconds are equal. The clock ticks mercilessly by at the same pace all the time. Supposedly. But I don't believe it. I don't experience time that way.

I closed my eyes and then opened them again, and it was Monday morning. And then time ticked . . . slowly . . . by . . . and I swam . . . lap . . . upon . . . . laa-a-a-a-a-a-p.

And I closed my eyes, and then immediately opened them again, and it was Tuesday morning. And then time ticked . . . slooooooooowly . . . by . . . and . . . I worked . . . . in . . . . the . . . o-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fice. . . . .

And then I closed my eyes again, and immediately opened them and it was Wednesday morning, but I did not know what day it was or what I was supposed to do for several minutes.

And I worked.

And I worked out.

And time . . . ticked . . . by.

And then I blinked and it was Thursday morning. And Thursday crawled by with work and working out.

And then I only half blinked and it was Friday morning. And I'm starting to feel a little bit like Groundhog Day. Working. Working out.

The grind of the job is getting to me, and the recess of my Ironman training is in danger of becoming part of the grind instead of part of the recess. I know exactly why, and it has nothing to do with volume or lack of desire. Sure, Coach Kris has been challenging me, especially in the pool and on the bike, but it's no defect in the training schedule that is giving me the blahs.

If I were a kid, I'd say I need some spring break right about now. I love training. That said, I've been training too much by myself. I need to get myself back to a masters workout or a group ride or long run. And I don't really like racing. But that said, It's been about long enough since the marathon. It's time for an event of some kind to knock off the cobwebs and put this fitness to some real use.

Thankfully, it's just about that time. Tomorrow is a group ride with the Greatest Tri-Club on the Planet down at Galveston on the course for the Lone Star Triathlon--my first tri of this season. And in a couple of weeks, it will be time for the MS150, in which my Iron Posse will be riding plumb past the day one break point and staying at the Lost Pines Resort in Bastrop where we will be pampered and met by a Surprise Celebrity.

So, it's time to stay focused, hang on just a little bit longer, and then start withdrawing some of the deposits I've been making in the fitness bank.

The Bro Code

I went running with one of my bros this morning.

Actually, I went running with my only bro. Not a bro in the Barney-Stinson-Suit-Up-slam-two-red-bulls-and-let's-play-laser-tag-this-is-going-to-be-legendary kind of way. But in the biological sort of way.

Yes, it is true. Trigreyhound is not a genetic anomaly, a lone visitor from another planet. There is another who comes from the same shallow and slow end of the genetic pool as I do. I have a brother who shares both parents with me. This only goes to prove that human beings are capable of asexual reproduction because my parents certainly never got jiggy with it--especially not twice.

Anyway, if all works out in bro's career path, he will be moving to H-Town in the coming months to take a huge promotion that will assure his financial security well into the future. He is already working here regularly, while his family is still in the DFW Metroplex.

Bro has been competing in a "biggest loser" competition at work, so, being the kind an helpful person that I am, I offered to show him the near-town running trail along the bayou this morning.

**Dr. Evil Laugh Here**

Did I mention that bro used to be the "athletic one" in school, the one with all the social graces, the winning smile, the blond hair, and the girls? Not the solitary band geek? And that he has since become less athletic? Much less? That he hasn't done so much as a road race in years?

**More Evil Laughter**

So, yeah, a lesser man would have taken him out in the dark, put the hurt on him, and dropped him like third period French class.

But I am not a lesser man. At least not that lesser. This was the first time we had run together since we were children. (I don't count the Dallas Half, my first road race years ago, because we were not in any sense "together." He and his friends finished way before me.) The Bro Code says you never leave a fallen comrade behind. You don't drop a bro.

So I didn't. And we ran together for the first time since the Carter Administration in the dark of the morning, with a city around us stirring itself from sleep.

And it was good.

Day One

Today is day one.

Nope. Not day one of the new administration getting to work.

It is day one of Trigreyhound 4.0, a version that the developers say will be better, faster, and more powerful. But there's nothing like "day one" of a new project to make you feel like you've got your work cut out for you. Your desired result is "here" . . . . and you . . . . . are waaaaaaaaay . . . . . . . .





over . . . . .








. . . . wait for it . . .







here.


Athletic? Funny? Intelligent? Not. So. Much.

Like today--the first day back in the pool. It didn't feel as foreign as the first day of grown up swim lessons four years ago, but I sure didn't start out feeling fishlike. Skinny chick pace girl even haunted the swim because everything still hurt so much. But, I committed to an hour in the water, and an hour is what I did. Then, I ingored the sweet, smokey smell of bacon, and instead of the breakfast tacos I so wanted to consume, I opted for two cups of Trigreyhound's Miracle Museli (TM). (Go ahead, ask for the recipe). There will be no skimping on nutrition this time.

At least on day one.

There are all kinds of new things I'll be rolling out over the next couple of weeks to help make that journey. And I hope to be blogging all the way through to entertain you as well as myself. In the mean time, time will tell whether version 4.0 will have the hip design and ease of use of a Mac, or whether it runs like a pirated Vista knock-off. We'll know on November 29, the day of the Big Dance, Ironman Cozumel. As painful as that last marathon was, my next marathon will include a weeeee bit of a warmup act.

I Kick Jason Bourne's Ass

This just in: Trigreyhound Kicks Jason Bourne's Ass.

It's true.

I can't deny it.

And it's not just because I'm takin' my girl on a tropical ,20th anniversary vacation to make hot, sweet lovin' with my new marathon-running-weight-lifter body.

As if Matt Damon could survive that comparison . . .

Nope. I just happened to notice a little blurb in Runners' World where Matt Damon ran a 10K as part of losing weight he gained for a role.

Gained for a role? Yeah, right. Me too. I ate all those Kolaches to play the role of middle aged office worker.

And a 10K? Just a 10K? Phhht. PUH-LEEEEZE. You should hardly call it a race if you're done before the morning coffee break. What? You just run 6 miles? Cute.

And get this. He ran it in just a few seconds shy of one hour. Fifty Nine minutes and forty some-odd seconds.

Phhhht. Is that what they call running in Hollywood?

Three years ago, I ran a 48 minute 10K PR. This year, at 42 years old instead of 39 years old, my 800 meter track workouts are now 15 to 20 seconds faster than they were the year of my marathon PR. Are you trying to tell me that deskbound, 42 year old Greyhound could finish the race, go out for a coffee and a shower before Jason Bourne saw the finishing line?

Matt, just have your people call my people and I'll arrange some coaching sessions--for running or anything else in the "man department" that you might need help with.

P.S.
**I probably kick J-Lo's Ass in triathlon, too, which is a notable Kadunkadunk to be kicking. I'm just sayin'. **

P.P.S.

**I really needed that little boost because I have one more super long run before some recovery, and I'm feeling like Punky Brewster could mop the floor with me right about now.***

You May Call Me, "Coach"

Mrs. Greyhound and I have been getting after it. Hot and sweaty, groaning, even little screams. She's even complaining that she's having trouble walking right. 'Cause that's how I roll.

I mean personal training of course. What did you think I was talking about? Perverts.

Mrs. Greyhound has been following a "Couch to 5K" running program with the goal that all of us will do a Turkey Trot around Thanksgiving time. I am so proud. This has me totally stoaked and I am so looking forward to running it with her, stride by stride. But in the true Greyhound spirit, she's been taking it up a level. On days when she doesn't have running to do, she's been walking and doing strength training.

She's had a routine developed by Maria Gratia, but frankly, Mrs. Greyhound (like me) isn't a big fan of strength training. It can be boring if you haven't got a trainer to work with, and Maria Gratia is far too busy and too far away to work with Mrs. Greyhound three times a week.

So Mrs. Greyhound asked me.

***Insert Evil Laughter Here****

After her last two walking sessions, I conducted (at her request) a 30 minute circuit of core and strength training with some dumbells, medicine balls, Swiss ball, and body weight exercises. I think she complains more with me than she does with Maria Gratia; but then, I probably take less guff than Maria Gratia.

But she won't call me, "coach," and there's probably no double entendre when Maria Gratia tells her to "go down" on her lunges.

We've done it twice.

Exercised that is.

The rest is none of your business, but I will say that I'm not upset that my wife is sleeping with her personal trainer.

Marathon Training Is Simple, Right?

(A depiction of Pheidippides, the first marathoner, announcing the Athenians' victory moments before his death. I wonder if I'd run faster in his race day attire. Perhaps we submit Greyhound's Race Day Kit to a vote.)

I once saw a shirt, on Cafepress.com, that had the swim, bike and run symbols along with the Ironman distance of 140.6 underneath them. The caption then read:

Oh, you ran a marathon?
That's cute.

So, this marathon training thing shouldn't be that hard for a "multiple Ironman finisher" like me, right? After all, marathon training is simple, right? You don't have to figure out how to fit in all that biking and swimming, right? You just run, right?

Uhm, right. Sure, marathon training is simple, but simple (as in basic) does not mean simple (as in easy).

It's basic. You run.

It's not easy. You run a lot. Some of it quite hard.

Always with the freaking running.

This week, with all the freaking running, has been like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna git. Today, was tight calves and two miles required to get rolling. Yesterday was running in the humid sun, then the cold rain, and then in the humid sun again, all in 30 minutes. But those weren't the "key" sessions.

Saturday was an 18 mile long run right in the zone that felt great, notwithstanding the heat.

Tuesday was a hard track workout--Yasso 800s. This is where the rubber sole meets the road, and it has me wondering what my goal should be.

A reasonable goal for me would be to shave 10 or so minutes off my marathon PR, running somewhere between 3:40:00 and 3:45:00. This would mean running Yasso 800s at 3 minutes and 40 to 45 seconds, six of them this week, building to 10 before race day. So I warm up at the track, bemoaning the stinking heat and humidity, and take off for my first repeat. I ran it strong, but not crazy fast, and hit the lap button at 800 meters. **blip**

The numbers stared me in the face:

3:16

**Blink** **Blink**

OK, wait. There's no way I can run a marathon quicker than 3:30, let alone in 3:16. There must be something wrong. That is an abberation. I'll never hold that pace. You are not a sub-8-minute pace marathoner.

Time for repeat number two. Hit the lap button **blip**

3:33

OK, stop. You wussed out on that one. WTF? Why not run fast? If not you, who? If not now, when? Why are you such a mental midget? HTFU. Nothing bad is going to happen if you can't finish this track workout. You're only going to hurt. You're not going to die.

Time for repeat number three. Hit the lap button **blip**

3:22

That's more like it. Breathe, Kimosabe. Feel that burning in your lungs and sides, that tightness in your hamstrings? Feel that bile in your throat? That's weakness, sloth and slowness leaving the body.

Time for repeat number four. Hit the lap button **blip**

3:22

I think I'm going to thow up. I can't do two more like that surely. Shut up, pansy. You just have to do one rep at a time, a few meters at a time. Don't do the whole workout at once. Run one straight and one curve at a time. Hold form. Go hard and quit complaining.

Time for repeat number five. Hit the lap button **blip**

3:22

can't
breathe
If I stop now, I've done most of the workout.
'I can make up for it later.
This is good enough.

There is no "good enough." There is either complete or incomplete. There is either success or failure. You need to quit succeeding by redifining the goals downward. Don't think. Just run. Turn off your brain. Just go.

Time for repeat number six. I hit the start button and took off, trying to just see the portion of the track just in front of me. As with the previous laps, my breathing became labored sooner and sooner into each succeeding repetition. Eventually, there was no rhythm between my breathing and my strides. Without any rhythm at all, I was just taking in the maximum amount oxygen I could possibly process, with spit and sweat slinging off of me like a horse that had been run too hard. I struggled to hold some assemblance of form and keep my feet flickling lightly off the surface of the track. On the back stretch of the last lap, the pain was everywhere---feet, hamstrings, shoulders--it even felt like something had my groin in a vise. My past neck injury was tight, my shoulder and right hand went numb. The last turn. Last 100 meters of the day.

Hit the lap button **blip**

3:22

There is nothing like a session on the track to make you wonder who you are. Am I a middle of the pack runner, or do I just have a middle of the pack runner living in my brain? A man my age can only qualify for Boston by posting a 3:20:00. That's impossible for me, right?

Is it? Really? Maybe impossible for this year, but . . . maybe?

And then, this. Somehow this is all related to me. I'm not sure just how. This . . . a "man my age." I remember very clearly when my father was "a man my age." It was yesterday. I went to sleep, and then I was the same age my dad was.

Then, yesterday, my father received his first prescription for Alzheimer's medication. He's not quite 70 years old, and he's not nearly to the point of suffering disabling dementia, but still. Alzheimer's medication. His father before him had dementia. My dad will probably have it. I see the signs. I have seen them for a decade. Will I wake up figuratively "tomorrow" and have the same problems?

If I lose my mental sharpness, who would I be and who would I become when for so long, I have defined myself by my brainpower. Literally, my childhood nicknames were "Dr. Spock" and more usually, simply "The Brain." And these were my friends who called me "The Brain." God only knows what the jocks called me. I now make my living, and quite a good one, simply by thinking better than my competition.

When that is who you are, who do you become when the brain no longer works right? More imporantly, when that is who you are, what do you really want to be right now? How do you spend the next 27 years if you think you might lose your mind? How do you spend today? What are you running away from? What are you running toward?

Hit the lap button **blip**

On Being 42

**READER ADVISORY--I appreciated all the birthday wishes today, but I thought this graph was funny and thought you might as well. But look out. I'm grumpy and whiny and I haven't a right to be. So read on at your own risk. ***

Because I am 42, my hands are hurting as I type this. My running knees and swimming shoulders are fine, but my hands have the same arthritis my mom has, and it's getting to be that time. My knuckles are swollen so that I can't get my wedding ring off (good) or on (bad). I type for a living, so hand pain is to be my lot in life.

Or maybe it was the online Scrabble. I'm not giving that up even if they amputate.

Because I am 42 (and have been doing endurance sports for several years), I can wear my wedding ring when my knuckles aren't too swollen. When I was 35, I couldn't wear it because my fingers were too fat. Now, my fingers are just right, when my knuckles aren't all out of control.

Because I am 42, my life is a bit like the wonderful shortbread cookie I had to top off my lunch today. I know it must have been delicious, because I've had the experience before. But I don't have any memory of eating it. Why don't I remember living it more? Wasn't it good? Didn't I think so at the time? Why didn't I notice the good things when they were happening?

Because I am 42, I notice the doddering, middle aged men in the central business district, with their halting steps, their tentative faces, their resigned-to-life-posture, their flabby bellies, and their man boobs. Statistically, several of them will have a heart attack before this time next year. Several of them will probably die, of that or something else. A couple of them look like they could take a fall. They take cholesterol drugs, blood pressure medication, antidepressants, insulin, and erectile dysfunction medications. They are basically my age. Some don't know that their lives are almost over, and they've spent them in offices, just like mine. This horrifies me.

Because I am 42, the first steps I take in the morning are bent over and painful, and the more in shape I get, the more crippled I seem to feel getting out of bed. Because I am not resigned-to-life, I feel this feeling every morning at 0400 on my way to working out.

Because I am 42, my inner George Clooney wants to be a "silver fox." I'm no six footer, but I'm reasonably trim, somewhat muscular, salt and pepper hair, with a certain "distinguished" look, so I've been told. But then my inner Heathcliff Huxtable reminds me that George is a fantasy, and Heathcliff is reality. I am no silver fox or wild predator. I am domesticated. Indeed, I'm not only domesticated, I'm a Golden Retriever with social anxiety disorder.

But I still crave wildness.

And because I am 42, part of me wishes I was 22, with my 22 year old girlfriend, enjoying a wild freedom that I imagine is the life of my younger friends.

Except I wish I had a 42 year old law partner's pay check, and not that of a recent music graduate. And I also remember that I was already old at 22, sort of Bob Dole without wrinkles. I was cranky and conservative and responsible beyond my years, never closed down the bar, always acted responsibly, always in bed on time, and never hung over for rehearsal.

And I kind of regret it. It seems too late now.

But because I am 42, I see danger in wildness. I have a daughter who's of an age that things are starting to appear in her room that have never appeared before. Cosmetics. Lip gloss. Articles of clothing ostensibly meant to lift or support objects that are not even there yet. And I'm afraid. I'm not ready for this yet. She was 4 yesterday, and I was 35. And I read the Chronicles of Narnia out loud. And I want that back.

But I can't have it.

But because I am 42, I am not sitting still or going quietly. I am going to PR in the marathon in January. And, in April, I am going to ride from Houston to Austin on my bike for the fourth year in a row. And I am going to PR my Ironman triathlon in November 2009. I am going to kick my own 35 year old ass, and stuff any regrets down the throat of Father Time.

Because I am 42, I have some idea how fast this next year can go. And I want to fill it. Who's with me?

I'VE GOT THE POWAH!

F-ING CENTERPOINT, as it shall evermore be called here, obviously knew better than to tangle with my poison pen---er, word processor, because only a few hours after my post yesterday, the power came on in our house, and we were the first in our neighborhood to receive it.

Shortly thereafter, Comcast noticed I was giving it the stink eye, and our internet and cable service sprang back to life.

Don't mess with the big dog.

Hopefully, I'm not given to unnecessary whining, but I don't think the criticism of F-ing Centerpoint is unwarranted. Although they had a big job to do, restoring power in the fourth largest city in the country, there is every indication that it could have and should have done it much better.

Crews from other parts of the country were shaking their heads at F-ing Centerpoint's disorganized approach and mocking F-ing Centerpoint's crappy infrastructure and grid design. F-ing Centerpoint left the impression that it did not know what it was doing simply by handing out contradictory information. Yesterday for example, their website had four different sets of figures concerning how many customers in our area were without power or when substantial restoration could be expected. All on one website. And just up the road, Entergy had 97% of its customers restored (including in the Woodlands, i.e., with TREES) many days earlier simply through the expedient of advance planning to have a much higher ratio of workers to restoration jobs. Some of those extra workers have now been released to F-ing Centerpoint.

Kind of makes you want to be independent of the grid. Solar panels and windmills anyone?

Anyway, there was much rejoicing last night. Mrs. Greyhound went to the grocery store and purchased the bare necessities--frozen pizza, popsicles, and four bottles of merlot.

Yeah, four. Don't judge.

We packed the generator to the garage, cranked down the ac, and it actually got so cold we had to pull up the blanket. Good times.

'Cause That's How I Roll

**Note the Buck to Doe ratio in this group of triathletes**

Does This Outfit Make Me Look Fat?

I think I'm a woman trapped in a man's body.

OK, wait. That didn't come out right.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. But, let me explain.

No, let me sum up.

As you know, I haven't been feeling very iron-y lately, when I groan upon being asked to perform some physical chore around the house, I am often met with my wife's question:

"Are you an Ironman, or a noodleman?"

In fact, a better question is whether I'm a man at all. I'm beginning to wonder whether all this triathlon metrosexualness might have given me estrogen poisoning in the brain.

You see, when I look in the mirror, I don't see the non-reality that most men see. I don't imagine a life guard physique complete with a full head of hair, broad shoulders, washboard stomach, ripped abductors, tight buns, and awe-inspiring (*ahem*) "male definition." Indeed, I don't even see reality, a reasonably fit, 41-year-old man with a healthy body mass index who can run 13 miles in the heat without undue stress and who can easily swim a mile on a recovery day. Nope.

• I only see the 8 pounds above my peak fitness weight that I imagine is all a gooey spare tire where my waist should be.
  
• I only see the hair and the pasty whiteness of the middle aged office worker and crave a good wax.
  
• I start to weigh myself all too frequently and rejoice in the difference between a fully hydrated 148.5 pounds and a dehydrated 147 pounds.
• I wonder whether I need a food journal on fitday.
  
• I wonder if the cake that I ate at the partner's lunch does not "count" because it was not recorded in the food journal.
  

Now don't get me wrong. I don't want testosterone poisoning, and along with it the risk of inappropriate Speedo moments or too-much-information-too-little-towel-modesty conduct in the locker room. That said, being a girl is too hard for me. I don't know how you do it. I'd like not to see an optical illusion of goo and fatness when I look in the mirror. How about a little reality, for me and all the rest of us, guys and girls?

Hopefully, I'm beginning to feel the end of the psycho triathlete guy-ness. The running is becoming lighter and faster and easier. The swimming is becoming enjoyable again. Unplug the scales and let's go play.

Limp and Wilted

Well, it's been a quiet week in Spring, Texas, my home, out here on the edge of the Megalopolis where the coastal plain meets the piney woods.

These are what they call the "dog days" of summer, that time in August where life becomes like an old scratchy, vinyl record--what little you hear is obscured by noise and seems to keep repeating itself, never moving forward.

seems to keep repeat

repeat

seems to keep repeating itse--

never moving for--

forward

Sort of like the movie Groundhog day, only without Bill Murray, romance, humor or popcorn.

Every day starts the same. Even before you get up, the city has started to sweat. It's nearly 80 degrees in the dark, with humidity so high the windows on the houses and the skyscrapers downtown are sweating condensation. Your car sweats as you make your way from the kid friendly zone into the money making zone--i.e., from the suburbs where it is possible to have a yard and a non-lethal school to the central business district where it is possible to have a job capable paying for yard and school. As it happens, these two zones, which are needed by at least a couple million people in the megalopolis, are situated at least 20 or 30 miles away from each other and are designed to be traveled only by internal combustion engine.

I usually do the trek between 4 and 5, and right now, I'm trying to run. There's a bit of a breeze between the buildings downtown, but as soon as you exit the city, every flag is limp and wilted on the flag poles, looking like they've been soaked by a downpour and then baked into place. With no race on the horizon, and no friends to meet, even five miles feels like a chore. A watched Garmin never turns over the next mile. I feel like I'm running the same quarter mile over and over

the same quarter mile over

quarter mile over and

mile over and over

and over.

But even this black hole has little bits of light that escapes. Mother nature reminded us this past week that things are subject to change without notice. One morning on the commute, the freeway signs flashed

STORM FORMING IN THE GULF

FILL YOUR GAS TANK

Tropical Storm Edouard (that's Edward for you Anglo readers who live in those portions of the United States where English is still the common tongue) decided to form off the Cajun Coast and take a sight seeing trip to Houston. Edward turned out to be more like "little Eddie" or maybe Edouarlito, but at least it was variety. It gave the local news something to do other than car wrecks and shootings, and enabled at least one evening walk in temperatures that were marginally survivable.

And there were other milestones to break the monotony of the dog days. Superpounce, newly home from her 2008 World Tour, turned 11 today. She's still a tiny thing, but no longer so tiny that I can hold her entire frame in one arm to feel her first breath of the day---or her first breath ever. She's free of her cast and her ears are newly pierced. She reasoned, "if I can take a broken arm and an IV, then I can stand getting my ears pierced."

And like a Russian trying to weather the endless winter on the featureless steppes, I am managing to anesthetize myself from the sameness of it all with an addiction. With no race goal on the horizon, I've become addicted to Chain Love and Ebay for purposes of pimping out my road bike. Every time I see something new and shiny and carbony, I have to instant my bike adviser, discuss the merits of the new toy, and likely as not, pay for a new "hit" like a junkie in a back alley littered with syringes--or in this case seat posts, saddles, bar tape and handle bars.

And possibly later cranks and shifters and wheels.

If I switch from my triple front chain ring to a double, do I need to change out my shifters, and deraillures too? Should I just go for a whole new gruppo? Wow, that top-of-the-line SRAM Red looks pretty sweet.

**blink**

And like a true addict, the trip I'm on always fails to satisfy--like when Chain Love bitch slapped me with carbon handle bars that were 104 grams lighter than the carbon handle bars I had just purchased barely 4 days before. Sure they were way more expensive, but what's $1 per gram as compared to the unequaled rush of having the carboniest handle bars ever and casting aside that 104 gram anchor that you haven't even installed on your bike yet?

OMG, I so need a training group or a race or a program to shake me from this sweaty-hit-the-snooze-button-and-roll-over-and-have-another-pizza-and-beer-commuter-desk- job-hell that I've fallen into.

Feel free to stage your intervention in the comments.

PIFD

I have been suffering from a psychological syndrome that I am sure many of you Ironmen will recognize: Post Ironman Finish Dementia or PIFD. After Ironman, it is healthy to take a break from structured training, to use your fitness for fun, and to properly recover. If you become truly infected with the Ironman virus, however, the lack of a training plan or an impending "A Race" looming over you in the next six months is very disorienting. Nothing in your life feels quite "right" or organized.

Even though you're ordinarily content to be a slob, this lack of organization and "true north" orientation feels intolerable. You clean your garage, you clean your office, you do dishes, you buy new recycling bins, you develop a reading list, you plan menus, you write down errands on a Saturday and make grocery lists . . .

OK, you actualy type grocery lists on the computer, paying special attention to the aesthetics of font useage, margins and size . . . . not that I would do such a thing. That was purely hypothetical.

At any rate, you feel a bit lost without something written down to tell you what you're doing for the next six months and a physical goal to get you out of bed in the morning.

I only recently started to improve my condition. My next Ironman effort probalby won't occur until November of '09. My last two Ironman races were only 9 months apart. I can't possibly survive the next 16 months without either some goals to challenge and orient me or else anti-psychotic drugs. But what to do? I think the next year looks something like this.

This fall, I'll focus on run training with the goal of lowering my marathon PR in a winter race, potentially the Houston marathon in January. I want to see just how fast I can go, and marathon training is something I can do, even at a relatively high level without taking time away from the family. But if not Houston (where I hold a spot in the sold-out race), then what? What other races in the January-February time frame are cool, flat and fast? I need a reserve race, because I am NOT going to waste a PR effort on a day with bad weather.

But what else? I'd like to work on my pathetic swimming with a coach and become more competent. Can I do that during the fall as well? If so, how? And what lead up races should I do to the marathon? What is everyone else running this fall? What to do, what to doooooo?

Then after the marathon, in the February to mid-April time frame I'll probably do a bike block leading up to the MS150. Here too, I feel like my cycling would benefit from some coaching and having a good road bike. But where/how do I get some bike coaching? And are there other events that I could enter to get faster on the bike? Lord knows the big, organized training rides are not conducive to building power and speed.

And I'd like to build a bike and learn the mechanical stuff, but where/how do I begin to to that? There's a great training course in Colorado Springs that I could take next summer, but that is after the MS150. Is there nowhere in Houston, the 4th or 5th largest metro area in the country, where I can learn how to be a passable bike mechanic?

I could And I can and probasbly should continue to work on my swimming during this time, but how? What to do, what to dooooo?

Then, after the bike block, around about April, it is time to start triathlon/Ironman training in earnest. Since both of the Ironman races I have targetd are flat this time, I'd like to try to really improve, and actually "race" (at least at my own level) rather than just participate. Do I need a coach? Online? In person? Who? How? And what races should I do? I want to race with friends, so where is the party next year? What to do, what to doooooo?

All the non-OCD, non-Ironman folks out there are probably just shaking their heads and saying, "you know, it wouldn't kill you just to be a bit normal, sleep in, eat pizza, do your job, come home, watch TV."

YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!!!!!

i'm sorry, i did not mean to shout. i can stop any time i want.

I've begun a little bit of a cure. It's amazing how much better I felt when I e-mailed our tri-club running coach on Friday, and he worked out a written marathon training plan for me. Seeing something on paper had remarkable, restorative effects.

And then there was the little, 63 mile, hilly, 90+ degree recovery ride I did with my homie who's training for Ironman Wisconsin.

Uhm. Yeah. Just good clean fun, that.

On Hay, Barns and Rebellion

I went sub-8 last night.

I wasn't working out. I was sleeping. And for the first time in MONTHS, I managed to get almost 8 hours of sleep at a stretch.

When people ask me how I fit in all this training and a law practice, and parental responsibilities, I could be the hero, or I could be honest. Honestly? I don't sleep much--ever. And during the peak period, I'm not a very good dad or a very sharp lawyer.

This has combined to make me just a leeeeeetle bit cranky lately, and not very rational. Could you tell? Uhm. Yeah.

That crankiness persisted this weekend. I was pissed that I had to call it a day at "only" 95 miles on my bike ride on a very hilly route in very high heat. I had nothing left. I barely made it back to the car, nearly passed out when I got off the bike, and scrubbed my transition run.

Which made me even more pissed.

Almost fell asleep in the car on the way home, then couldn't sleep when I got home because of the pounding of my pulse when I tried to relax.

Which made me even more pissed.

Then, Sunday, I was pissed that I had to walk it in from between 17 and 18 miles on my long run. I had planned 20 in three hours. I made it only 17 and a fraction in 2:58. Never mind that you needed gills to breathe the Houston humidity and there wasn't a breath of a breeze. Never mind the high temperatures and lingering problems from the previous ride. No, I was irritated.

And continued to be irritated because I could not MAKE myself swim outside in yet more sun. I napped and went to swim inside. 4000 yards--not meters--in a short course pool.

The very perceptive amongst you will have noticed that the link to my training log has disappeared from my sidebar. I put off logging a few workouts, and but now I'm in total rebellion. I have to bill my time in my job, I have to call and let people know when I'll be home, and at this point, I'll be damned if I account for duration and heart rates in my "me time."

I'll hit the workouts as best I can, but what kind of person feels guilty about riding "only" 95 hilly miles in high heat and humidity and then scrubbing the transition run? What kind of person gets irritated at himself for running "only" 17-18 miles in high heat, and coming 2 minutes short of the 3 hour workout goal? What kind of person feels inadequate having swum only 4000 yards (not meters) in a short course pool instead of in the open water because he could not bear to be in the sun one more minute?

Well, apparently it's the kind of person who logs his training and heart rates, pretty much exactly like me. So, I'm quitting. From now until the race, no more logging. No more heart rates. I know what "tempo" feels like, I know how hard is hard. Enough with the numbers and the guilt and the data. I'll give it my best for the next three weeks, but that's going to have to be enough.

Realistically, I did good, long workouts two weeks ago--112 on the bike, 18 on the run, and 4000 long course meters in the pool. I'd give my training to this point a B+ for duration and a B- for intensity. So, the hay is probably in the barn. The logical part of my canine brain knows the fatigue that I feel right now is a result of loading that hay, and not from lack of fitness. But the psyche is not wedded to reality, nor is it necessarily rational. It's not real, but it sure seems real.

Of course, if this Ironman thing were "rational," everyone would do it. It would be average. If it were, we wouldn't have any part of it. Average sucks.