One Blank at a Time Features: Two Events at a Time, Two Medical Tents at a Time

Don't expect to get something back from a race that you weren't prepared to give away freely. 

-Sonja Wieck

I heard Sonja's words (quote above) in an interview on the Endurance Planet podcast. She struck a deep chord, and I just loved what her words meant to me-- "...give away freely." Besides the sun, what else in the universe gives away freely?

For me, the temptation has too often been to expect or demand a simple payback. It's as if race day were some cosmic vending machine that I could just input X-quarters of training at Y-intensity and T-time and expect a commensurate Z-payback called "fun" or "win" or "six-pack".  What a cold and commodified un-relationship between mind, body, and experience. What arrogance and ignorance of the serendipity of the race gods who are more prone to doll out surprise packages as gifts and memorable stories more than textbook race executions. 

Previous race day surprise "gifts", be they diarrhea, wardrobe malfunctions, staples puncturing feet, or pothole crashes, but also from non-surprises like chronic self-over-pressuring, have taught me that it's essential to schedule two races at a time. Despite this blog's namesake, not all good things should be done one _____ at a time. When it comes to races, two are always better. This way, I never put too much pressure on the event at hand. For me, there is such a line that can be crossed that is too much zen, too much in-the-momentness, which can be paralyzingly scary. So, it helps to be able to look out past the ominous shadow that race day can cast. By always having two events on my calendar, I guarantee that the first event, if nothing else, will always have value as a learning opportunity for the second event. Also, the ever-present second event guarantees that I've committed to a long term lifestyle journey and not just a one-and-done fizzle.

TWO RACE REPORTS: The Flying Pig Marathon & American Triple T Triathlon. 

The Flying Pig
In the days prior to May 5th's Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, I was feeling extraordinarily grateful and accomplished despite having not even raced yet. Unlike previous races, for this event I had zero expectations. I was open to surprises.  That feeling of peace was new territory for me. For one, my training was drastically different than it's ever been. Basically, I just ran a lot of slow mileage with friends. We call it "smileage."  But this time, I was now excited to relish the adventure through the experience of others-- though a new community of runners and friends that I had just gotten to know and help coach through the studio. I had skin in the game! Watching them inspired me. Rooting for them, helped take my focus off of me. I liked it.

As it turns out, it was a wonderful day for most of them... and, oh yeah, I set a new PR by 33 minutes! I ran it in 3:05:10, just missing my Boston Qualifying time by 10 seconds. It wasn't even on my radar as a possibility. The fun part was running with friends in Harvey Lewis's pace group, which included Franklin Baker, Tim Westrich, and Laurah Turner, and for intermittent spells, the Tarahumara Indians from the bestselling book Born to Run by Christopher McDouggall. (This is one of the greatest books ever written. Shut up and read it!)

Harvey's all smiles as usual (in red), You can see Franklin's eyeball behind the dude in grey.  My mohawk is behind the balloon stick. And Laurah's woopin ass in the dude-pack. It turns out Tim had to drop back and later found out he had been running on a broken foot.

What's most ridiculous is that I ended up having to take both my shoes off once the laces untied themselves and became too floppy to run with. I shouldn't have messed with them at the start line, but I kept feeling like I had cat litter stuck between my toes, (which of course I had). One came undone as soon as we hit Riverside Dr. (~20 mi). A couple miles later, the other followed suit. WTF-- another gift from the race gods! At mile 23 or so, I was afraid I'd cramp up if I stopped to tie them, so, I just kicked them into the woods on the side of the road. This certainly put my mind at ease and made me run faster than I would have in my floppy shoes. Ironically, I ended up passing Miguel, one of the Tarahumara in final stretch, he was wearing running shoes (which they're famous for not wearing) while I was barefoot! It was hilarious.

Arnulfo, the star of Born To Run was also in and out of our pace group. Are those shoes he's wearing? Franklin just about plowed him over at an aid station like a linebacker.

As soon as I crossed the finish line, I dove for a wheelchair. I knew I was dehydrated because I was dizzy, had tunnel vision, and was cramping. The volunteers rushed me to the medical tent where I ended up spending the next hour, taking in three liters of fluids by IV and bottle. It was an awesome day.

I keep replaying my race in my head, looking for 10 seconds to make up. Was I not supposed to high five Elvis and slap people's butts? Of course I was! But I don't have time to dwell in that, because Event #2, The Triple T, was luckily just around the corner and it is a mother-bleeper of a hard race.

Triple T
It's a four triathlon stage race over one weekend in Portsmouth, Ohio. It is harder than Ironman, by my estimation. But, it's better in that it's grungier, less corporate, more scenic, and you can have teammates that make meals for you. Here's what makes it special:

TTT KA- Time to totally kick ass

Guac - for power

As it played out, race #1, Friday evening's super sprint, went flawlessly fast and according to plan at 23:46, which makes it very boring to write about, other than the guacamole. But lucky for you, race #2 had some gifts from the gods-- I rolled my ankle on the second dolphin dive of the swim while trying to do my best Baywatch water entrance.

One of the Triple T teams was named David Hasselhoff's Chest Hair. As you can see, they were a formidable opponent for me and Franklin's team, Sponsored by Manliness

I eeked out a swim with no kick, hobbled through T1, and decided to hammer the bike, knowing I'd probably be forced to walk the 6 mi trail run. This was only partially the case-- I did manage to run most of it. So I finished with a respectable time, somewhere around 2:25.

Saturday afternoon's Race #3 is usually the hardest of all the races. It's an inverted olympic distance race with monster hills (bike then swim then run), but it follows a tough morning of what is often approached with undisciplined redlining efforts, where one "burns all of their matches", as Russ would say. Since I had hurt myself so badly in race #2, I wasn't all that depleted, plus I squeezed in a nap, plus I tossed back a 12 banana smoothie after the morning's race, plus I was drugged up on Franklin's military-grade ibuprofen. I was ready and excited.

Race #3 begins in time-trial start procedure. Franklin and I were one of the last two to be released on our bikes, which meant we'd have the confidence boost of passing lots of other riders. We were casually budgeting our effort, proud of our matching patriotic outfits, taking 3-4 minute pulls in front of the other (draft legal). The out-and-back course was quite suitable to our tactic. On the way back in though, we were climbing the mother-slut-daddy of all hills, when suddenly, the gods unleashed Armageddon in the form of heavy sheets of rain. For 15 minutes or so, it dumped on us like a monsoon. This kinda injured the fatty pads under my eyes, but I endured it like a manly woman. It also served to bridle our effort since it was not even possible to use the breaks on any of the descents or turns, probably a good long term race strategy that we can't take credit for.

By the time we got back to the lake, the rain had passed. The idea was for me to hit the swim hard rather than try to keep a somewhat slower pace with Franklin. Then Franklin would barrel down and catch me on the run. Fortunately, the ibuprofen was working like a charm and my run felt like a pure run with no limp or injury. By the time Franklin caught me, I was able to hang on with him for the last several miles at  ~6:45 pace. Another respectable time 2:42, setting ourselves up for a great cumulative race.

Race #4 on Sunday was the final punctuation mark on the weekend. At ~20 mi, I crashed hard, hitting an unmarked pothole on a steep descent. Several athletes stopped to offer help, and fetch an ambulance, which was just down the road. When I realized none of my bones were broken, I told the tattooed brute hovering over me, "Don't worry-- nothing's broken, don't slow your race because of me." At that, he just guffawed, "C'mon man, this is Triple T-- this is what it's about." I tear up thinking about it.

Road rash on my shin. It felt like falling on razor blades of fire and acid and salt.

As the paramedics were finishing dressing my wounds, nothing could have prepared me for the violence of the crash that happened next. A woman hit the same pothole as me, but tumbled like a rag doll, smashing her face square on the pavement. It was absolutely horrific. Her helmet did nothing to soften the blow. Franklin, with all his ER experience was Jonny on the spot, of course, alerting the paramedics and joining their impromptu medical team to get this girl the hell to a hospital. Scores of riders stopped to offer assistance, to immobilize her head in case of spine or brain damage. It was madness and bloody and somber. Suddenly, I felt intimately connected to this complete stranger, who was now fighting for her life for following the exact same pathway as me. Why am I just scraped up a bit but her teeth are implanted in the roof of her mouth?

We found out from her teammates that the woman was named Teresa, from St. Louis. After the ambulance pulled her away, the crowd of riders silently went on their way.  It wasn't very race like. Franklin and Russ worked on fixing my bike, as I stood and watched 5-6 other riders hit the same pothole. Although they didn't crash, the sound of each bump put me on pins and needles and I started shivering uncontrollably. I knew my race was over. My first DNF. It's painful to have that finishers medal and T-shirt be out of reach. I usually just assume it's a given from the cosmic vending machine. Not so, Luke Skywalker.

We cruised back to the medical tent, praying for the woman, debriefing at the mayhem. I felt bad for Franklin that I ruined his race. But he was only worried about telling my wife the news. (I'm sorry I put you in these scary situations, babuh.) Besides being alive, the silver lining is that not finishing Triple T means less recovery needed, which means I may be able to attempt another Boston qualifier real soon. It also means I can ramp up my miles in preparation for Burning River 100.

We certainly have to ask ourselves what the point of all this training is. And the answer is that it's not training...not like it used to be. I'm not training in order to race. I'm not training for exercise. I'm finally learning to do what I'm doing in order to do what I'm doing. It's freedom. It's therapy. It's aliveness. It looks like guac with friends in the woods. It looks like big foot discussions with fellow collapsitarians in the rolling hills of Kentucky. It looks like photo-bombing people's marathons. If the stars align next month, it looks like a through-the-Friday-night run with friends to Yellow Springs, OH for breakfast and patchouli candles. It looks like smokin' hot dates with my wife on a trail run in Ault Park. It looks like cheering for friends and family who are courageous enough to try something new and impress the heck out of you at their first tri in a bikini speedo and a fixed gear bike. (Unreal Mike!)

My bro-in-law running his first tri, past the water slide that my sis-in-law's firm designed.

Specific Training Summary
Upon my friend Sandro's advice, I drank the Maffetone Kool-aid this year, whose credo sounds something like, "train slow to go fast." Dr. Phil Maffetone helped convince me that there is tremendous opportunity when one steps back from the precipice of the Cliffs of Insanity and balls-to-the-wall-intensity. Still, as much as I tried to train within the bandwidth of heart rate efforts that he proposes, I inevitably practiced much slower than was supposed to be my lower bound. So, by erring on the side of going slower but doing more miles, I ended up running and conversing with a lot of really cool people and actually have been performing quite well. The key is that this method is what's helped me finally stave off overuse injuries.

On the flip side, it really helps to know the Maffetone rules, so I know how to break them. Thus, I've incorporated some anti-Maffetone runs as well on Fridays with my training partners Franklin and Matt. We usually do 15-20 miles with some solid zone 3 or zone 4 pace or hills to interrupt our great conversations. I'm really looking forward to more powerline runs in Mt. Airy Forest. This is the closest thing we have in Cincinnati to mountains. Also, I continue to do at least one Spinning session on Mondays with Susie, which is usually a high intensity interval set. Sometimes I fake turning the resistance knob, but mostly it's just good practice at obeying my wife and jamming out to some great music. There's much less danger of road rash in her class.

The second difference to my training this year is I've incorporated functional strength session led by Sus on Wednesdays and Pilates on Mondays with either Alicia or Nicole. This is all about balancing my body, stablizing my hips, building a power-center. In years past, I've neglected these fundamentals in favor of mere "Baywatch workouts"-- pecs and abs, baby!

Third, and perhaps most importantly, for the last seven months, I've focused on helping others realize their athletic potential by assisting with my wife's annual Flying Pig training team. Coaching didn't allow me much time to myself for athletic penny pinching or recovery bean counting. Instead, it was spent showering attention and energy on others, many new runners and their needs and wants. It's what the sun would call "giving away freely." Not that it felt onerous or anything. But things change when your alarm goes off at 5am on a Tuesday and other people are actually counting on you to do your run through Ault Park. The situation really helped me rise to occasion.