My 1st Ironman - Lessons Learned & Sights Seen

11:49:42
793/2100 OA
80/244 AG

- The region surrounding the venue really wanted us to like this event: on our drive in Friday afternoon we passed municipal crews driving huge drum brush sweepers along the bike lanes, water-cannoning as they went. The entire 90km circuit was pristine.

My (Swag) Bag is Bigger Than Yours
Okay, so I am a sell-out. Shoot me. I can't help it if the Ironman Mont Tremblant (IMMT) swag bag given away at the pre-race sign-in is, in a word, terrific. Like any good transition bag it has multitudinous pockets, zipped sleeves, vented pouches, compartments I am still discovering, durable material and hardware, comfortable straps, generous roominess, the works. I guess I know what my price of devotion is now, and I've got to say it's far smaller than a Lamborghini than I expected. The trouble here is - the damn bag is a yeller; the graphics and text scream Ironman! from almost any angle. Fair enough, it's their party, their swag bag to give away. But the question becomes where & how to use it? If it's for swim gear at workouts I'd be embarrassed if real swimmers saw how slow & awkward this alleged "Ironman" swims. Carry all my crap to work with it? Naw, the graphics are so garish it'll look like I'm gloating... same if I use it to schlep the family's lunches, raincoats and camera to the zoo. And the holier than thou statement it would make if I used it as a real transition bag would pretty much oblige me to go out way too hard in each leg of my next event — as if to justify what it implies — dooming me to comprehensive cramps and the issuance of all the wrong fluids from all the wrong places.

So for now it will enjoy an exalted place high up in my closet, its high-contrast Helvetica embroidery yelling at me every time I open the door, as if to remind me to figure out what to do with its awesomeness. Perhaps I can give some hapless dinner guests a tour of the house some time, open the closet for some unfathomable reason, and let it break the ice for me.

- I arrived at the start line on the wings of Lady Luck: healthy and ready - felt like a victory before the cannon sounded!

- On the day prior, at bike check-in, if someone grabs your bike as you enter transition, don't fight them for it, they're likely the valet racking volunteer. Instead, smile and enjoy chatting them up while you get the royal treatment for a moment. They even photographed the bike's race-ready mug shot for security.


SWIM: 1:21:59 - yoiks!

- Even though you can't see the far turn buoys from shore due to the distance and the morning mist, they do eventually show up. They are just awfully far away.

- No matter how many swim lessons you take, nor how many drills and thousands of metres you put in each week, don't forget to practice putting goggles onto a dry face and getting a good seal. Three times in the first 400m or so I had to be That Guy who treads water stupidly, legs flailing, while he tries to re-jig his goggs. The third time I made the executive decision to rip off and discard my swim cap so I could get the positioning of everything Just So. In the meantime, practically everyone got past me, including the dreaded breaststrokers. I spent the next many minutes fighting off wayward feet, elbows, and guilty feelings that some poor volunteer might come across a lone swimmer's cap, think the worst, and call out the dive team...

How poetically symbolic - my swim exit pic. I am getting this sucker framed

The Red Carpet Treatment Not Lost on These Tender Hobbit Feet
My elation at finishing my first IM swim was fueled by the crowd, several people deep, that lined the ~800m run in to transition from the swim exit beach. Happily, this was paved in brand new, cushiony red carpet. As I jogged along to the cheers and cowbells I spied my elder son, and he ran with me where gaps in the crowd permitted; got a laugh from said crowd when I yelled back to him that everyone's going for a bike ride now! as if we were all in some enormous group treasure hunt. Which I guess we were, in a way.

I heard afterwards that a crew spent the entire next day just steam cleaning the carpet to pack up for next year. Well worth it, and very much appreciated!

- After a swim like that, passing nearly 700 people on the bike and the run doesn't seem particularly hectic if you take as long as I did to do it.


BIKE: 6:00:27

- It is possible to complete an IM without taking a single bite of anything; I went with all liquid nutrition, from start to finish. Maltodextrin, calcium carbonate, sea salt and water dissolve into a nice homebrewed glop that sits well in at least this person's stomach.

Re-filled the water between the handlebars at aid stations on the hour; the rear bottle (replaced at the halfway Special Needs stop) had the maltodextrin blend mixed at a squeezable 300 cals/hour.

- The town of St. Jovite is big enough to have a sewer system. That means pipes underground, and recessed manhole covers above. More than once (on the first loop only, bien sûr!) I dipped into a sun-dappled, camouflaged manhole cover and nearly had a moment.

- The winds across some of the bridges along highway 117 really do pick up on the 2nd loop at mid-day. Happily - outside of some of the steepest hills - it was the only time I needed to grab the bullhorns.

Note to self: run a length of clear packing tape across forehead next time to smooth out wrinkles for better aerodynamics

- People really need to up their race craft on the bike, especially where hills are concerned; I constantly found myself bombing past folks who were coasting downhill. I guess they do this for a rest? Trouble is, with a lower top speed they also end up pedalling more intensely to make it up the next hill. They save one match only to burn two later on, then they need a bigger rest on the next downhill, and so it continues...

Just When I Thought I Was Getting the Hang of This...
...at the far turnaround on highway 117 I was struck not only by the afternoon's stronger, gustier crosswinds, but also by some remarkable black clouds brewing over the transition zone dozens of kilometres away. I will always remember this sight squeezing a laugh out of me, along the lines of Bring it on! And boy did they ever bring it - the torrential, but mercifully brief, downpour we received on the run was heavy enough to soak me through, my shoes waterlogged to the point where it didn't matter whether I ran through the puddles and street-side rivers that formed or tried to skip around them.

- Having said that, I appreciated the overall sense I had that handling skills were above those found in some shorter distance events. Often found myself beside folks on roundabouts & turnarounds, with few concerns.

- Those industrial-strength traffic cones that divided our highway rides from cars were so ubiquitous that was easy to take their placements for granted. One cyclist just 50m ahead of me must have had a momentary distraction and clipped his base bar on one. He went down with a loud crashing slap - knocked the wind out of him, likely broke some ribs, collarbone, who knows - his day was almost certainly done.

Luckily this was right near volunteers and police so at least some qualified care was immediately on it. But still, these sorts of things can happen to any of us. One minute you're strolling along the Seine after a great meal, next thing you know you've tripped over the edge and the alligators get you.

- Although it took several more minutes in transitions, I am glad that, for my first time at this distance, I went from swim jammers to bike shorts to run shorts; the peace of mind this flexibility gave me added greatly to my serenity. Next time, though, I smash it with a trisuit or equivalent.


RUN: 4:08:20

- I have heard that a thoughtful gesture in these big races is to take a moment to hand off a note of devotion to your S/O when you start your run - something acknowledging your appreciation for their support, how much they mean to you, all that mushy stuff you were too tired to express over the previous half year of training. So I had something written up and, exiting the tent at T2, I scanned the fencing until I found her. Trouble was, she was standing back from the fence and the crowd, across the drainage ditch behind the crowd, up on a knoll to get a better view for taking pictures. Clearly a quick, romantic peck & hand-off wasn't in the cards. I held my note up helplessly, grimaced, she held her arms up, with a slight smile/WTF look, and I pulled up to a panic stop.

Luckily I'd printed my note up on some thick card stock, so I folded it in half like some two-year-old's idea of a paper airplane, leaned between some of the folks in the crowd, and Frisbee'd it as best I could in her direction. My years of playing Ultimate paid off - the dang thing sailed far enough to land on her shores of Isengard. The cool thing was, as she scrambled down the slope to retrieve it I could swear I heard the crowd around us collectively sigh & go, "Ahhhhhhh!"

- Forget the shoe ads. Something I could never know from running pristine trails through the escarpment while training: AC/DC's Highway to Hell, pumped out of a U2-sized sound system while a few hundred strangers clap and cheer is what actually makes me run fastest.

- If it has to rain when you're running, it may be best for the sky to just open up and pour. With a good pair of merino wool socks on, once you are thoroughly soaked, splashing through puddles and drainage rivulets won't make a difference and you get to feel like a kid again.

- Once again, Mizuno Precisions did the trick for me... never once thought about anything below my ankles (except when spectators cheered for the shoes' garish colour scheme - hey, I had my name on my LRS' waiting list for these and I wasn't going to get picky about what they pulled in from their distributors!)

- It is possible to complete an IM almost fully naked ;) ie. with no GPS, no power meter, no HRM. Just my trusty Timex wrist watch with a split time chronometer*.

* I am a living Timex commercial. What gives me chills, more than the lightning, thunder, and downpour at the end of the run, is that my watch's battery gave up the ghost just as I crossed the finish line. After more than five years of use, the display began to fade - of all times - on the second loop of the run, to the point where I could only see the main time numbers, not the small splits above it (at first, I mistook it as a sign I was either rapidly aging or about to lose consciousness). I even recall it working as I took a last glance rounding the final climb along Rue Kandahar in the pedestrian village before entering the downhill to the finish chute. Then, after crossing the line, I looked down to stop it as we approached the volunteer "catchers" and saw the display had gone blank. I kid you not. Timex Watches: Now With Batteries More Faithful Than the Family Dog...

Big discount at the post-race expo meant big-faced replacement... suitable for my limited Geezer Vision

Post-race: being soaked to the skin makes a long line-up for poutine just not appealing enough to endure - regardless of how good it is purported to be - so I caught up with my three drenched, indulgent family members and we retired to our nearby room. Screw the ice bath, I took a long warm soak.

- Just like I have heard, recovery really does feel easier than after a stand-alone marathon. It must be that I was so tuckered out from the swim and the bike that I couldn't muster enough speed to really trash my legs! (EDIT: Having said that - just over a week later, I bent over and twisted to pick up the soap in the shower and *doink* my sciatica shot a reminder through my lower vertebrae that I will always need to be vigilant. A week on and after a round of NSAIDs I am now able to sit and walk and talk like a human again. Ironman my ass... )

- The cost of staying in resort-calibre accommodations is quickly forgotten when you can take a gondola to & from the transition zones and you've got a view like this from your balcony:

- where else but in this locale can IronSherpas can be bribed with everything from crepes to a grocer selling boneless skinless chicken breasts, all within a stone's throw from the transition zone?!

each of my sons devoured one of these while their old man was floundering in Lac Tremblant.

- Lastly, and far from least: the locals and volunteers are insane. Their iron-calibre ability to cheer so loudly, so inventively, and so infectiously, for so many hours, even in the pouring rain, for heaven's sake, is truly inspiring. Thank you, everyone, who helped make this happen. It was truly epic, in no small part because of you.

IM Training Update #4

TODAY'S THEME:
Head to the woods to get out of the woods

Since overdoing it on my hot HIM run in early June (stoopid competitiveness > 2/35 AG and injured because of it), I'd been haunted by a relatively minor - but sore - ball of foot issue that I was worried might devolve into metatarsalgia, especially in this final peak training block. I've tried to be sensible since then, putting in just the right types of runs/week to keep the fitness, and baby the foot wherever possible, give a few extra days off here & there, keep swapping out shoes types, and so on. It seemed to be trending positively, but there was still the question of how the final few long runs would be (let alone the IM run itself).

Had a 2:45 run on the schedule for last Sunday, and I was determined to approach it as carefully as possible, so I wrapped the dog with old-school moleskin and this time drove myself to my favourite trails rather than run there as I usually do (which would have entailed running on pavement for 6 of the 32kms). I think it may have made all the difference to stay on dirt all the way: I sit here typing 3 days later with two intact feet! The moleskin came loose in the 1st hour so I stopped & removed it... the lion's share of the run was just "me and my shoes." I really focussed on mid-foot landings (which was counter-intuitive, perhaps, but I reckoned that using my full arch/instep skeletal suspension would cushion the ball of the foot better than landing further back and rolling onto the balls.)

Fingers crossed this sticks; I feel really lucky to be getting away with it - so far. For me this reinforces how we need to make our own reality checks and not rigidly adhere to routines when some common sense dictates otherwise.

Reminiscence: Crushing the Cream of the F1 Crop

As a 10 year old watching his 1st Formula 1 race, the 1969 Canadian Grand Prix at Mosport, I was on top of the moon. The daring heroes I'd read about in my few short years were there in front of me, literally screaming past a dozen metres from where I sat in the bleachers. Following the race we had an opportunity to walk along the track; thankfully my father was in no rush to leave, and I soon found myself on the hallowed ground the missiles flew over just minutes before. The same ground that vibrated in unison with my chest cavity as Lotuses and Ferraris swooped past, intercepted my life's orbit and launched me on a new trajectory.

Mr. Hill, airborne somewhere in Europe, c.1969

Like pilgrims toward Mecca, a group of us followed the asphalt path to the paddock, a staging area where the crews, vehicles and heroes gathered to prepare for, and recover from, the scheduled events. Transporters and tents defined the staked out zones for each team. In those days spectators could wander quite freely, the hard-core capitalism that recognized we'd gladly pay extra for getting close up to the cars and drivers hadn't yet caught hold with the organizers. I was like a kid in a candy store, and wasted no time harvesting the autographs of whichever drivers could be found milling about the area. I descended on Jackie Oliver straight away, then a few minutes' wait outside his trailer rewarded me with soon-to-be-champion Jackie Stewart's signature.

When it was clear our time was winding down, I scoured the area for any final opportunities. Just then an untied flap waved in the breeze behind one of the colossal garage tents, as if beckoning me to come closer. I obediently traipsed over and slowly peered through the gap. Cars were parked in various states of disassembly, being prepped for shipping, mechanics hunched over them going about their business. Peering the other way, I saw that only two figures were just standing and talking - lo and behold one of them was none other than reigning World Driving Champion and Hero of Mine, Graham Hill. This was a moment every kid dreams of... their superstar hero just a few steps away from them, free for the taking. Yes, he was talking to someone, but he could surely be dispatched with the boldness only found in a passionate 10 year old fan's heart (in retrospect, as I think about it, it was likely team manager, Lotus founder, and designer extraordinaire, Colin Chapman).

With no further ado, I barged through the opening, wound my way between the toolboxes and jack stands, and inserted myself between the two men as soon as there was a sentence break. I stepped right up to Graham Hill, Driving Champion of the World, thrust my paper and pen forward and said, "Mr. Hill, may I please have your autograph?"
I waited breathlessly.
I also learned an important lesson in comic timing from a master:
Graham Hill, World Driving Champion of the Entire Universe, sized me up, glanced to his mate with a smile and wink, his pencil-thin moustache debonairly arching wryly, and then turned back to me with his reply: "I will if you get off my bloody foot."

With the horror only someone who inadvertently pushed the Queen down a flight of stairs could relate to I looked down, and saw, indeed, my right foot squarely on top of his leather driving shoe - mercifully, the clutch foot, not the throttle one. Time stood still. My heart caught fire. As if from far off I heard Graham Hill, Supreme Champion Driver of Drivers and his sidekick Maybe Colin chuckle. I sprang back, mortified; I am certain a passerby at that moment would have confused me with one of those garden jockey sculptures frozen in a half stride holding a lantern.

Somehow in this tragic unravelling of my life, though I don't recall it happening, he must have taken the paper and pen from my petrified hand and signed off on my loutish visit, because to this day I still have his autograph as proof I didn't destroy him entirely. For the rest of that season I followed all of the remaining Formula One races religiously, hoping against hope Graham Hill OBE never had to retire from a race due to a sore clutch foot. I am only now able to talk about it. That is likely why, to this day, I can always be found wearing slippers or soft-soled running shoes, even if it's to weddings and funerals.

My Welland Half Iron - getting faster, and stupider

05:07:26
111/403 OA
7/35 AG

Bottom line: Really happy to have not over-cooked the 90k bike portion, allowing my 1:40:XX run time to come in just over 6% slower than my stand-alone half-marathon PB - 2nd out of 35 in my AG!

Overall I enjoyed myself quite a bit on Sunday in spite of my struggles with a passive-aggressive semi-conscious ambivalence for the swim that saw me forget yet again to pack my goggles. I usually rotate between a few pairs of ordinary, unremarkable goggs that are well broken in, straps just right, etc etc. You know the types:
This time around, as I scoured the expo for a quick fix, I decided I'll live life on the edge and spice up my growing collection of emergency acquisitions. I'd heard good things about the Aqua Sphere line, and when one merchant passed me his Vista model to try, I shoved it against my face and immediately heard a comforting farting sound as air whooshed out (not what you're thinking)(that was later, on the run) et voila! they stuck firm. I was sold - they stayed put without even their straps, plus the wide contact perimeter promised less vivid raccoon eyes, how could I go wrong?! I quickly donned my wetsuit and dove into the lake minutes before the start to see about setting the strap tension and getting in a brief warmup. The Vistas worked wonderfully... until I took a few strokes.

It would seem my cadaver-like lack of cheek meat meant these impostors just perched against my face in perfect conditions. Once I added in head rotations and sideways leans, the enchanting suction washed away in a flood of water.
A little (masochistic?) thrill of panic ensued. The shoreline of the canal was fairly steep, rocky and slimy underfoot, so I could hardly remain steady as the Race Director held up his tiny air horn like an executioner's axe and called out "Two minutes!" Each time I feverishly rammed the now-soaked Vistas against my face that same farting sound occurred but it was amplified by the wetness - as any self-respecting 11 year-old boy with a wet palm and open armpit would know - resulting in all sorts of offended looks from those treading water near me. They mostly swam closer to the start line, no doubt to avoid the risk of following me, just in case.
The horn blew. With a final shove-n-seal I gingerly took off, hoping against hope that "this time," if I was really clever about it and careful with not changing the shape of my face, and promised to do more volunteer work during holidays, things would hold together. That lasted all of about three strokes. I tried to convince myself it wasn't that bad, but the water sloshing against my eyeball told me otherwise. I instinctively closed my left eye and carried on stroking, evaluating my situation on the fly (as if I had a choice). It appeared that if I gave up bilateral breathing and continued to only roll to the right, my right eye might just stand a chance by remaining above the water surface the entire time. So Popeye the Sailor Man it was: I resigned myself to an overly-exaggerated roll, to one side only, for the entire 2000m. Once again, a whack of swim training sort of goes out the window, though I am sure if it weren't for the base fitness of all those laps I would have been in quite the dire straits. * To be fair to Aqua Sphere, I am certain that taking a reasonable amount of time to set these up right they'll be a fine pair of goggs.

Otherwise things went well enough. Lots of pelotons formed on the bike portion, helped in part by the flat course and the mass start, but at least the officials were doling out time penalties left & right (maybe next time they can be for > 2 mins. because the benefits could be seen as outweighing the drawbacks) The run was mercifully shaded along the canal, and when coupled with some overcast spells I think we collectively dodged a big hazard; nevertheless many many folks were walking by the time their second loop came around.

Great event, the volunteers bent over backwards for us, traffic control was tops - kudos to Multisport Canada, the organizers for this. But a note to them: Next year, please time it or route it differently from the Welland Rose Festival Parade. After queuing up for more than a half hour watching Shriners peeling around in their little go karts, and hearing the approaching thumps and tinkles from yet another marching band, I found myself wanting to tackle the next crowd-flashing clown blocking my exit from the parking lot.

Had I known, I might have climbed out from the start, tightened up my Vistas for a dry-eyed swim, and finished 10 minutes later.

IM Training update #3 - 1st Century Ride

On the heels of a 2.5 hour long run Saturday, I managed to sneak out the door extra early on Fathers' Day (thanks, boys!) & comfortably log about 163 hilly kms on Sunday morning. I quite enjoyed the experience. My home brew of maltodextrin kept me fueled with no apparent side fx, and it all fit into a still-squeezable 750ml bottle behind the seat... very likely I will go with this for Mt. Tremblant. Now if only I could figure out how to carry enough hydration on training rides to skip finding more every two hours I could avoid the nuisance of searching & stopping!

The new FLO wheels are excellent. I found them to be very true, stiff - thank heavens - and decently stable in cross winds. Only downside: the Conti Attack/Force tire combo was a bear to mount; I'll need to be doubly careful with any roadside repairs so as not to pinch the tubes (latex ones, at that = $$!)

Post mortem: the recovery was excellent! Lucky, lucky man. Now to gear up for the half-iron event in Welland this weekend...

How Slow Can I Go?

PROMENADE AUPRES DE LA SEINE AVEC NAGEUR LENT - the Impressionists understood swimming. Can you name even one who had a pair of goggles?

With swimming, I don't know if I've yet plumbed the lowest depths of the slowest speeds. I was reminded of this yesterday while thrashing thru my 2500m workout. Doing laps in the outer lane at my pool put me beside some large picture windows that gave out onto the parking lot. Well, yes... technically the majestic Niagara Escarpment filled the backdrop, but from water level all I could see were car bumpers. And unfortunately, I could also see all of the pedestrians walking between their cars and the gym. And they were, all of them, walking much faster than I was swimming. Really good swimmers will cut through the water at a rate you'd need to jog to keep up to. Decent swimmers can match an average walker. But yesterday, my fears were driven home by the steady parade of Joes Public who were inadvertently handing me my Speedo-swaddled butt; no matter who they were, I was swimming uphill in a silent race they were all unknowingly, uncaringly, winning. The toddler who slowed down, fascinated by his reflection in the glass was bad enough, but the last straw for me came when I breathed to the other side and saw a water-walking blue-rinser in the lane next to me with a noodle tied around his waist, putting time on me. Clearly, an attitude shift was due. I had reached bottom. (Figuratively speaking, of course, being in a pool and all, with another 800m of intervals still to do.)

Luckily, while drifting into and out of hallucinations, as I am wont to do when in oxygen debt, I had an epiphany, and suddenly life became much simpler: rather than constantly fight my years-long current of frustration with my swimming speed, I realized I could just choose to accept it. For instance, I will never again refer to my swim speed, as that loaded word just sets me up for disappointment; henceforth I will call it my swim pace. It makes it sound more like it is a choice... no one needs to know that I have the needle pegged while people on crutches saunter past me - at least not until I come up spitting and gasping for breath at the end of the lane. And rather than see myself as slower than most every other hominid on the planet, I would imagine myself transported to where walking means something else all together. And what better place would that be than the City of Lights, Love, and Locomotion: Paris, France. I recalled - yesterday, just before my 4x200m on 30 secs. rest - that some people actually walk slower than I even swim, and I took solace in that. I remembered back to that time in 1984, in Paris, when I sat on the wall of the Seine, and watched as idle strollers, couples arm in arm, were taking in the romance of that magical city. No doubt they had just finished a multi-course meal at a fine restaurant, a shared bottle of Cote du Rhone coursing through their bloodstreams, and they were just sort of... moving along. You could call it walking, sure, because if you compared their position at any given point from a half hour before they were definitely in a different place. Good enough for me... I now have my new standard to meet. I am no longer slower than absolutely everyone else on earth. I might not be faster than they are, but I think I could match them. Especially if the river's current is flowing in the right direction...

IM Training update #2

I made my own gel on the weekend... and it worked! (I shouldn't sound surprised, right?)
Some details:
- I managed to stuff about 1500 cal. of mostly maltodextrin into a 20oz. bottle for a five hour ride.
- included a few tablespoons of Gatorade for flavour, a half teaspoon of sea salt, a teaspoon of calcium carbonate, and... not quite enough water to make it easy to squeeze (more experimenting needed)
- it tasted nice, nowhere near as sickly sweet as packaged gels, was a fraction of the cost, gave me a consistent dose of energy and, most importantly, it earned my GI tract's Seal of Approval.
- in order to ensure the gel's isotonicity with my blood I calculated I'd need to quaff about 1 litre of water/hour, which is more than the 750mls I often get away with in the garage on the trainer. Will need to see what being outside, in warmer weather, under the stress of a race does to that volume.

Now here's one for the books... the five hour ride I did was on the trainer. You heard me correctly. Trainer. Five. Hours.

Pros to doing this:
- I'd never be more than a few steps from home in case the new malto brew didn't work out
- avoided some nasty winds and rains as well.
- got to see a few feature films and numerous episodes of Top Gear on Netflix.
- confirmed my Castelli bibs are divine. No chamois cream, yet no shower screams.

Cons: other than the profound restlessness of being on a fixed bike?! Not too much; even then it was better than staring at a line on the bottom of a pool!

In all honesty, I can confirm my suspicions that riding a trainer is harder on the body - the core, especially - than being just out on the road and my theory is that it is the absence of what I'd call "micro-adjustments." When on a trainer, we have no reason to move besides pedalling, whereas I think the fluid nature of cycling outdoors would engage/relax all of our body's other muscles just enough to break up their monotonous tension.

Looking forward to my first bike TT of the season this evening, a 20k route in a quiet area with a few good hills. It is nice to be able to sprinkle some events into the schedule to keep it exciting and intense.

Running's gone very well (knock on wood) and I must even say that the moments of good swimming "feel" are occurring more frequently and lasting longer. It doesn't mean I am getting faster, but if it means arriving @ T1 as less of a basket case than I was expecting to, I will be a happy camper.

Random thought that occurred to me as I sat today scarfing down a bowl of my favourite blend of GORP: once the IM is over I am going to be lost if I can't eat like a horse any time I want to. Oh, and the GORP blend? Salted peanuts, roast almonds, raw sunflower seeds, raisins, and dark chocolate chips. Come to think of it, I haven't had any for over an hour... excuse me a minute, will you?

What a Difference a Year Makes...

Ran the 20th Anniversary edition of the Sulphur Springs 10k Trail Run on Saturday with my 17 year old son, Graham. It was our second time there, and this was a far cry from last year's cool, damp conditions. Between another year of base-building, hitting a few more hill workouts, the dry conditions, and seeding ourselves closer to the front we really set ourselves up for success.

And what a success it turned out to be: 14th & 15th out of over 300 entrants. Not bad for a father/son team - but fully nine minutes faster than last year?! After the finish I even had to confirm with Joe Hewitt, the RD, that we took the right route at the foot of the final, killer, climb (we had.) The confusion stemmed from one runner just ahead of us who disappeared like a deer when she abruptly turned left at a ribbon we'd followed at the beginning of the run (it was a loop course.) A group of about six of us stopped in our tracks, second-guessing our judgment. We swivelled around, looking for a volunteer, an arrow pointing somewhere, a stack of rocks, anything but a ribbon from the start of the race when we were now just a kilometre from the finish! Standing still at a race: nope, never done that before...
Like a half dozen sweaty adventure tourists waiting at the wrong site for a helicopter rendezvous, we shared a few smiles and sentence fragments, "Aren't we supposed to... ?" "Do you think we should... ?" then we collectively shrugged and bolted for the hill home. This just added to the sense of the event's relative quaintness. The glorious weather, beautiful trails, and relaxed atmosphere made for a sublime running experience, one that I am looking forward to repeating next year (and perhaps at one of the longer distances, if I can just figure out how to convince Graham that extending our training runs is a really cool idea.)

a very neat participants' perk: New Balance sandals with a map of the course embossed on the soles! My son's pair is the bigger one...

Solving my #firstworldproblems One Pair of Shoes at a Time

In the whole scheme of things, I'll admit this is so trivial as to be practically embarrassing, and the day will surely come when I pray this was the greatest of my concerns. But this ain't that day - I am chuffed beyond belief, and no doubt anyone who has ever loved the feel of a pair of running shoes will be able to relate. After months of (casual! honestly!) searching I had given up hope of ever finding, anywhere in N. America, a pair of Mizuno Wave Precision 12s to replace the now-worn-out work horses that coddled my feet through their first marathon. The official word was that they were discontinued in anticipation of the June 2012 release of the Precision 13s.

Fine. I had clearly missed the boat for replacement and was doomed to train for Mont Tremblant in some other footwear; still, I hadn't felt emptiness like that since I was seven years old, when my teacher - who I had a crush on - moved away and her replacement turned out to be an old guy with stinky breath and boogers up his nostrils. My "flow" had been interrupted, and I've spent the past five months staggering through my longer runs with a variety of old shoes, rotating through them on mere whims because, really, what did it matter any more, when my favourites had gone AWOL?

Then, as luck would have it, I casually explained my ennui to Patty (my new best friend in the world, who works at my favourite LRS) and her eyes lit up, What size did you say you need? I told her, she made a beeline for the shelves, and produced what could well have been the only new pair of Precision 12s on the continent. Their Mizuno rep had swapped a batch of odds and ends with the store to balance out inventory, and I came out a winner this time, proving we should never give up hope, even if the "facts" seem to suggest otherwise.

Scheduled for a two hour run tomorrow, and can already feel the miles floating past...

First Ironman Training "Progress Report"

This IM training is difficult to schedule! I mean, I knew it would be, but being already at upwards of 15 hrs/wk, I find the impact on family time is remarkable compared to even half distance training; I'll clearly need to take more care scheduling things as Build & Peak stages arrive. Up before 5 this morning to squeeze in my first ever 4 hour ride - the 1st hr was in the garage on the trainer due to darkness. Something like 727m elevation change in the 3hrs outdoors. It was only about 4*C (39F) with a fair windchill, so I felt the full brunt of numb, frozen toes & hands... I could tell I was still pedalling because I wasn't falling over, and my shifting was a crapshoot! I know I may regret wishing for warm days come June and July, but this "Dude can't abide" with the way my feet thawed in the shower - not since childhood when we'd stay out 'til dusk on an icy pond curling with frozen dog turds have I felt such a burning sensation as I defrosted.

I'm lined up to do IMMT as my first, this August. I've done several sprints, an Oly, and a HIM in prior years, with numerous running events from 10ks thru marathon distance. I am lucky enough to have dodged injuries so far, and ungifted enough to have dodged the podiums (by a wide margin) as well. I'll be in the 50-54 AG @ Mont Tremblant.

Currently wrapping up my 7th week of following Matt Fitzgerald's Essential Week-By-Week Training Guide. I chose this 24-week plan because I had good success (for me) using his HIM plan to prep for the hilly Muskoka 70.3, so I figured if it ain't broke...

For those familiar with it, I am using level 4 for the swim and level 9 for the bike & run. My reasoning is that given how much I dislike swim training (though my attitude is improving in lockstep with my endurance in the pool) I don't want to invest the amount of time that would be needed at this stage to improve significantly. It's a bang for the buck consideration; I see my late-onset swimmer "style" as something of a finger print that I won't radically alter in the next few months, so while I will still keep up with my coached club swims and work on drills, I'm resigned to focus on increasing my distances to build up fitness & I'm pretty satisfied with that.

I will be looking to up my bike mileage whenever possible. I came to triathlon from a very modest biking background.

And since running has been on a steady rise through my three years in multi-sport - picking up speed & endurance without any injury (knock on wood) - the level 9 distances are not intimidating given what I've been used to in the past year+.

I splurged on a Castelli Free Aero Race bib - very nice... the Progetto X2 pad was absolutely "invisible." Thanks to folks on the Trifuel forum advocating bibs from their first-hand experience, this is now one less worry as I approach the longest of training weeks. After the ride I felt excellent - no screams in the shower when water hit the Joy Zone, and I never once had to do the R&R (Rise & Reposition) thing at any point in the four hours.

I'm not using a power meter - not that I am opposed to it, just can't justify the cost right now. I have had excellent results in the past three years solely based on RPE, with a touch of HR now and again as my version of a poor man's reality check. Fingers crossed I can carry this sense through the 140.6

Simple Pleasure this morning: I was reminded of that extreme feeling of thirst quenching I get from a glass of plain water ~ 20 mins after the initial recovery drink & shower. It's like the perfect moment of desire meeting with satisfaction.