The Mountains Win Again

In line with my previous hand-wringing over my future as an endurance athlete, I jumped into another pursuit with both feet. Well, hell, hiking mountains requires two feet (or a combination of feet and crutches, or something) so the metaphor makes more sense than you think.

So on my de-facto weekend (Monday and Tuesday) at the beginning of the month, I drove up to the Black Hills of South Dakota to catch up with a literarily-inclined buddy and climb Harney Peak, the highest point in South Dakota.

I'm not sure what prompted me to point my car northward, what with five weeks to go before my "A" race. If a DNF in what I considered ideal conditions and a bike wreck plus some minor physical injuries plus major psychological injuries doesn't say "You might try something else," I don't know what does. I hadn't been impulsive for quite some time (if ever, really), and this trip took shape in, maybe, two or three days before I left. A little bit impulsive, at least for me.

I drove up 85 through Torrington, Lusk, Lingle — places that get called in to the sports desk, but exist in a somewhat mythical plain. I met up with my buddy at a brewery in downtown Rapid City — a much cooler place than I thought it would be. After finagling some Marriott points for the LAST room at the Rapid City Fairfield, I took what amounted to a nap. Eventually I set off for Harney Peak.

Now, I'd heard about the Sylvan Lake Trail. I'd heard that the trail is a short-ish, solid line of people up to the top, so I found an alternative — Harney Peak Trail No. 9. It's a 2,200-foot gain for about a 10-mile round trip. The toughest part — well, two things gave me a little trouble. One, for some reason I thought 24 ounces of water, a gel packet, a banana and a Clif bar were enough to get me up and down the hill on an 85-degree day (trust me, it was no cooler on the summit than at the trailhead). I got up and down, but I was ready to siphon the gas out of my car, I was so thirsty when I got done. Two, beetle-killed aspens made the trail a little sportier than I'd anticipated. Crawled over most of those trunks, acquired some nice scratches, scrambled up some rocks and took selfies from the fire tower atop.

For the next week I piddled away my online time plotting the other 49 high points in the U.S. Nebraska's Panorama Point is about an hour from here. Wyoming's Gannett Peak is regarded as one of the toughest of the 50 high-point climbs because it's a 40-50-mile roundtrip hike from anything resembling a road. A bunch of those high points sit on private property and require at least a phone call to the owners to let them know what you want to do.

Then I remembered Colorado's 14ers, a few of which sit just a couple hours away. Last year, my friends Josh and Bree climbed Mount Bierstadt, and Josh said I'd probably crush it. Well, why not prove him right? I picked Grays and Torreys Peaks and left Cheyenne around 3:20 a.m. on July 17. I got to Exit 221 off I-70 at 5:40, parked in the paved lot and headed up the hill (this time with a Camelbak full of water). I summited Grays in around three hours, and then strolled over to Torreys in another 45 minutes. I had whatever meal you have at 10 a.m. when you've been awake since 3, and then headed back down. 

 The trail up Grays, which I almost had to myself.

Snow! On July 18!

Dani and Robert from Cañon City, Colo., had that banner made, and were kind enough to take my picture up top.

The Grays Peak summit — with about 20 other people.

Six days later I headed up to the aforementioned Mount Bierstadt. The plan was to do Bierstadt and Evans via the Sawtooth Ridge, until I saw a YouTube video that sufficiently freaked me out. I found an alternate route to do them both, which became the plan. Then I lost the trail to Evans from the Guanella Pass trailhead, headed back to the Bierstadt trail and did Bierstadt in about 1h45. Got up and down in around 3h.

 Driving up Guanella Pass at daybreak.

 The summit, a couple hours later.

 Hey, I was over there just last week!

Mountain goats — my inspiration. They're not impressed with me, obviously.

Evans is next. Maybe I'll climb Longs next year when I acquire some technical expertise. Pikes, for sure. Maybe camping out in the Elbert Wilderness to get Elbert and Massive. Or the Sangre de Cristos for assaults on Ellingwood, Blanca and Lindsey.

In any event, I found something else.

DNF and DNS: The year that isn't

Maybe next winter I'll jack around, get fat(ter), drink lots, read and write more. Then maybe I'll have the 2014 tri season of my dreams. Because after a winter in which I laid down more meters, minutes and miles than in any previous winter in memory, I can only determine that I angered the cosmos and derailed my 2013 season before it even started.

My cat died in January, the office keeps busting out the financial hatchet, and my two triathlons so far have ended in a Did Not Finish and a Did Not Start. First, the DNF, since that actually happened.

It's not my first DNF. I bailed on the Buffalo Springs Lake Triathlon, a half-Ironman in Lubbock, Texas, in June 2004 because I fucked up my nutrition and didn't get enough salt to process my electrolytes on a 90-plus day. I plodded through a mile of the run (the contents of my stomach sloshing like a half-full gas tank), couldn't come up with a compelling enough reason to continue, walked back to the staging area, dropped off my number and my timing chip, got my stuff from transition, loaded up the car and drove back to Wyoming that day.

In 2010, I bailed on the Rattlesnake Olympic Triathlon because I blew both my tires, got them both changed in good order, then discovered an empty CO2 canister in my saddle bag. With two flat tires, no amount of good will from those around (including an attractive pro woman who offered me a wheel) me could motivate me to continue so I caught a ride back to transition, loaded up the car, drove to my hotel room and engaged in retail therapy the rest of the weekend in Denver (i.e. found the cheap racks at what seemed like every Sports Authority, running store and bike shop in the 303). I drank a fair bit, too.

This time, I pulled the plug on the Revolution 3 Half-Iron Triathlon, in Knoxville, Tenn. Ostensibly, I flew down to Atlanta during the next-to-last snowfall of the season in Cheyenne to see my family and — hey, there's a race in Knoxville the same weekend. "Seeing family" even turned out to be a bust for any number of reasons. Theoretically, then, I could just focus on the race. Right.

Borrowing Di's Hyundai Santa Fe, mom, dad and I set off for Knoxville on a rainy Saturday morning. And we arrived on a rainy Saturday afternoon after six hours of transit (including stops for potty and lunch). I picked up my packet in the ghost town of a race village (you'd stay in, too, if it was mid-50s and rainy all day) and we retreated for the hotel, which turned out to be a half-mile from the start. We had dinner that night at the hotel and I attempted to sleep through my parents' snoring — failing miserably.

I must back up a bit. On Tuesday, when I left Cheyenne for DIA, the weather forecast for race day in Knoxville said 75 and fog, so I packed my race stuff with that in mind. By Thursday, the forecast was mid-50s and rain. True, I could have gone on a shopping spree for a jacket, beanie and shoe covers with money I didn't have, but I try to minimize the financial impact of my racing at all costs. Besides, I've thought for years about the fun of racing in imperfect conditions so I impulse-bought a pair of arm warmers and borrowed a pair of my nephew's gloves. In advance, both were absolutely useless.

On race morning the rain had stopped long enough for me to get in the car and let my parents drive down to the parking garage that served as transition. I wandered around and sat on the stairs by myself, tuning out with Pearl Jam's "Vitalogy." When the time came to walk down to the river for the swim, I pulled on my wetsuit and did so, just as it started to rain again. Mind you, I'd heard nothing about water temperature other than a note in the pre-race packet talking about 66-69 degrees on race day. I was glad to have my full suit and an extra cap, though I doubt either did me much good.

The swim was the highlight of the day, bar none. Even though the water felt a damned sight colder than 66-69, I still powered through and passed a lot of people in the wave ahead of me. I wore the arm warmers underneath the wetsuit so I wouldn't struggle with them in transition — so by the time I started peeling off on the half-mile run from the swim exit back to the G10 parking garage in the shadow of Neyland Stadium, they were already wet. I did the 1.2-mile swim in 30:30 or so. At least that's what my watch said.

During the half-mile run my feet went numb thanks to the combination of craggly asphalt underneath them and the cold water (turned out to be 59 degrees, so I heard after the race). I struggled with the gloves, my shoes and my helmet before heading out into the rain. This was not your gentle, Pacific Northwest-style mist. This was setting up my bike trainer in my tub and turning on the cold water. Add to that the half-inch rivers flowing across the pavement at some points on the course, and I had a fairly shitty day on my hands.

At 5 miles, I thought, "This is not pleasant." At 10 miles, my hands were numb and my shorts and singlet had soaked through. At 15 miles, a guy wearing an all-white kit passed me (ew). At 20 miles the race ceased being fun and I figured I'd finish the ride and decide whether to continue in transition. At 30 miles I knew I couldn't run. Between 20-30, I couldn't come up with one compelling reason to spend another two hours out in the rain. Maybe the run would have warmed me up, but I didn't want to find out. I was fucking cold, I couldn't work the shifters because my hands were numb, my shivering made it hard to control the bike (especially on the numerous screaming, semi-flooded descents), and I had stopped drinking because I knew I wouldn't go on.

I came into transition and stumbled on my numb feet immediately. I racked my bike, looked up at my parents (standing in front of the car, parked in view of my spot in transition, small favors and all), made a throat-slash gesture and turned in my chip. After sitting in the car for 45 minutes with the heat on full-blast, I had regained enough feeling to pick up my crap and head back to the hotel.

I refer again to the winter I had. By race day (May 5) I hadn't competed in anything since a swim meet in late February. I'd never trained harder in all three disciplines through a winter and now it was pretty much wasted. Yeah, I still have some of that fitness now and I could apply it to the rest of the season, but I thought I had a nice peak for that day. And then to have it all go by the wayside for something like weather, something out of my control, conditions I'd hoped and prayed for on some of the brutally hot days I've survived? Stuff-breakingly frustrating.

Fast-forward to this past Sunday. My training since sitting out the week after the race (which I'd planned because I needed a break) has been sporadic but I wasn't concerned thanks to the winter I had. One week off, even at my age, won't cost me a winter's worth of a fitness. I'd even started getting back into the disgusting pool while running and biking on alternate days; I don't log my bike rides to work, which resumed once the snow and ice cleared in mid-May (!!!), but I'm told I should. Whatever.

I woke up to a calm, warm day. The minuscule wind came straight out of the north, rather than the 90 degrees between southwest and northwest. Because of those prevailing winds I always head north, south or west. Sunday, I decided for an eastward out-route because I NEVER get to go that way. Fateful choice, as it turned out.

I went down Campstool Road past the refinery and past Sierra Trading Post. The road takes a hard turn to the right and goes underneath I-80. Just beyond the interchange sits a cattle guard. Nothing I haven't seen before. Except that this one had an 8-10 inch gap between the road and the first metal slat. I figured I could jump that gap like a set of railroad tracks (which I do all the time without penalty) and be OK on the guard itself. Wrong.

I pitched myself forward over my handlebars at 16-17 mph. I hit the ground and gashed up my hands and forearms, as well as the left knee I scarred up 10 years ago in my last wreck (believe me, I know I've lived on borrowed time, going 10 years between serious wrecks). I also bit down hard and took a chunk out of the inside of my upper lip, as well as a tiny shard out of the corner of my remaining front tooth. In the moment I figured I'd done way worse to my front tooth, but I hadn't, thankfully. The bike was OK, other than having blown my rear tire and bent my handlebars 45 degrees toward my front wheel. The bike was unrideable so after gathering myself I started the walk back toward town; 22 minutes into the ride I figure I was about 5 miles in. Gack.

A guy picked me up and got me back to town, but I still had more than three miles to walk. I didn't feel like calling anyone because I never know which of my night-owl friends are awake at that hour on a Sunday. During the long walk home I realized I had bruised something in my chest. And during the walk home I gave myself another minor "injury": blisters on the insides of my heels from walking all that way in cycling shoes.

Today, five days later, I still have that bruised feeling on my left pectoral, right above my heart, I suppose. It doesn't hurt to the touch but it hurt today when I raked yard clippings and it hurts when I simulate a running motion or the trunk rotation of swimming — or breathe moderately deep. The gashes have sealed up nicely and the blisters don't hurt as badly, but that bruise or whatever has me pondering a bailout on the Longmont Sprint Triathlon this Sunday. I've said it before, but I finally (after almost 25 years) realize what a big deal it is just to get to the start line healthy and fired up. It only gets tougher as I get older, I suppose, and I wonder if I can even pull together a season after two massive setbacks. 

And I still have a marathon to go in December. 

When no one's watching

Some sage coach said "Champions are made when nobody's watching."

It happens in the cold dark of morning, before the paper hits your doorstep. It happens outside when the rain blows horizontally, inside where the stench of sweaty bodies assaults your senses. It happens in an 86-degree pool on a subzero winter day, in a spare bedroom in front of an old TV playing years-old Ironman videos while the house shakes with bitter-cold wind.

My training mantra is "No one else does this." And watching Rocky Balboa run through the streets of Philadelphia in the pre-dawn chill brings that home better than any other scene from our media-saturated world.

I say that to myself as I deal with my first-world problems the only way I know how — by elevating the heart rate and getting sweaty. Even if I know it's a bald-faced lie —that everyone else has to train through a six-month winter in hopes of being ready when the gun fires in early May — I tell myself that no one else does what I do, day-in, day-out. Like Rocky. See how he has the streets to himself? See how the world sleeps while he gets ready to go the distance? See how he drags himself out of his warm bed to punish himself, so that he might punish someone else someday?

Don't worry, I'm reminding myself, too.

Thoughts on motivation, or lack thereof

The next-to-last race in the International Triathlon Union's World Championship Series took place in Yokohama, Japan, in late September. It's the top level of Olympic-distance (1.5k/40k/10k) racing in the world, and all the triathletes who competed in London in August also compete in this series. Universal Sports televises the races about two weeks after they run, neatly packaging the 1-hour, 48-minute (for the men) or 2-hour (women) races into a nice, little 90-minute package.

Anyway, the Yokohama event was the last race before this weekend's Grand Final. As most of those races do, it came down to the run. A group of eight off the bike became seven, then six, then five, then two in the final mile. Javier Gomez of Spain (the 2010 series champ and Olympic silver medalist) had to hold off João Silva of Portugal, who won the 2011 Yokohama race — and he didn't. Silva sprinted ahead with a kilometer to go but Gomez stayed in contact.

And this is what separates them from me.

If I were Silva, I'd have given it a hell of an effort. But the thought would have entered my head: "Dude, you're trying to hold off one of the best runners in the sport, a world champ, an Olympic medalist. There's no shame in getting run down by that guy."

Watching the final kilometer unfold, though, I could tell Silva had none of that. Fuck moral victories, he thought. I'm putting the pedal down and holding on, no matter how tired I am, how much lactic acid is accumulating in my body, how loud my brain screams to slow down. He beat the eventual winner of this weekend's grand final by 13 seconds. It goes without saying that winning and losing are both learned behaviors and at some point Silva learned to win, and called on those lessons when he needed them most. The difference between the two top spots on the podium is thousands of dollars, but take that away and you still figure the gold medal looks a lot better hanging from your neck then the silver. Or no medal at all.

***

At 23 years old, Canada's Paula Findlay has won five times on the WCS, a career's worth of accomplishment in a very short period of time. She won twice in 2010 and three times in 2011, but hobbled to a finish in the 2012 Olympics because of a hip injury (TORN labrum) that will require surgery this winter. This poor girl hadn't finished a race in months when she toed the line at the Olympics, determined to represent her country — and convinced she could win... something.

Getting to the start line on August 4^th was a feat in itself. Injuries, appeals, coaching changes, politics, and a less than ideal time frame to get into race shape. Despite all this, I wasn’t headed to the Olympics just to participate and call myself an Olympian. I wanted to be on the podium. I was aware that my chances of accomplishing this were significantly lower after my difficult year, but it never lessened my desire to be the best. I lined up against 54 of the worlds fastest triathletes wanting to beat them, and believing that maybe I could. If I didn’t believe that it could happen, then there’s no way it was going to happen. (Yeah I know, it didn’t happen). 

Another thing that separates them from me — that unshakable belief in one's self, one's training and one's abilities. You see that in professional team sports, athletes hanging on to that thread of belief that they can make the team. The pitcher has lost 5 mph from his fast ball but got guys out before and has no reason to believe he can't again. The quarterback won the Heisman Trophy in college and all his teammates are in the NFL, so why wouldn't he believe he can play the position at that level? The midfielder is one of the best set-piece players in the world, so of course he thinks he can still land a 40-yard free kick within five yards of the goal on to a teammate's head. He did it four years ago, didn't he? 

In Findlay's case, she had the benefit of knowing she'd beaten every one of those girls before. That said, she hadn't been close in nearly a year because of a fairly serious injury. She was, in the parlance of American sport, a game-time decision and I was surprised to even see her on the start list, given what was at stake for her future; why would she risk long-term health to compete in the Olympics at 23? Because she knew she could.

***

After my shite effort at Lake Placid — and ill-fated attempt at a run a week later, which led to a season-ending injury — I've had a lot of time to cobble together these examples. I've pondered my strength of belief and concluded it just isn't there.

As a professional journalist I deal in facts. At times I've pondered practicing law, because you use facts to build a case and beat someone over the head with them. An old girlfriend once accused me of unfairly wielding the "logic stick" in emotional matters. And I have absolutely no evidence in the bank to believe I can qualify for Kona or Boston. In 2007 I ran a 1:31:25 half-marathon; to qualify for Boston I'd need to do that twice, and I never felt like I could even-split at that rate of speed (6:58/mile). To qualify for Kona I need to cut two hours from my best Ironman time, which was done on a calm, cool day on a dead-flat course in ideal conditions. No race of any distance in the past six years shows that I've done anything right in this regard, and given how I've folded mentally when it got tough I don't know if I'll develop the toughness necessary to persevere through the tough training and racing days.

So begins yet another winter of soul-searching.

The Feather in my Whiskers/Final Thoughts pre-Placid

William Nack wrote the definitive eulogy for the legendary thoroughbred Secretariat for Sports Illustrated in a story called Pure Heart. Aside from being a phenomenal piece of writing, the headline came from the fact that, upon the autopsy, we learned that Secretariat had a much larger heart than the average racehorse, which the doctor figured enabled the horse to do what he did.

That's not why I bring it up, though that massive heart holds scores of parables for endurance athletes. I bring it up for an anecdote mentioned in the story, buried on the seventh page.

One afternoon I was folded in a chair outside the colt's stall when Secretariat came to the door shaking his head and stretching his neck, curling his upper lip like a camel does. "What's botherin' you, Red?" Sweat asked. The groom stepped forward, plucked something off the colt's whiskers and blew it in the air. "Just a pigeon feather itchin' him," said Sweat. 

I have a feather in my whiskers as well, and equally insignificant if I can think of it that way. It's a pin, millimeters wide and less than an inch long. It holds a watch band to the watch, and apparently Timex no longer makes them up to standard. After my second Ironman watch gave up the ghost last week after seven years, three Ironmans, three marathons and more miles than I can count, I bought a new one at REI in Fort Collins, thanks in part to my dividend. I got it home and put it on; this was last Thursday. On Friday, I took it off to hit the shower and the band popped out. I don't feel I put any more torque than normal on the band but that pin just popped. I spent most of the afternoon trying to put it back together and I just didn't have a tool fine enough to get it there. Saturday, I took it to a jeweler, who kindly put the band back in place for no charge. However, he handed me the watch and threw his hands up a little.

"It's plastic so I can't promise the band will stay on," he said. "I heard the pin snap in there but it's really flimsy."

Indeed, as I write this I wear the one I got during my senior year in high school. The labels have faded from the buttons on the face and the beep no longer works, but it keeps time and counts down. So if any 38-year-old was ever in a position to say "they don't make 'em like the used to," it's me.

That pin is the only thing keeping me from totally dialing in mentally. The main function of a timepiece in Ironman is to count down the 10 minutes between blasts of fluids and protect the pale racing stripe around my wrist. Otherwise, I can ballpark my elapsed time. And didn't I note a couple weeks ago the liberation of racing without a chronograph ticking away the minutes?

It's frustrating because I feel better about this training process than for any of the previous five Ironmans I've done. I've fueled myself well, I'll get to the line healthy and rested (notwithstanding the time of this post) and I'm excited to skip away from work at a crucial time to test myself against the day. And this little pin threatens to take down everything I've built.

But I won't let it. I'm bringing all three watches with me, and after I give the guy at the Timex booth an earful about his shoddy product, I'll decide which one gets the nod on Sunday. After all, it would be a training process without a a feather in my whiskers that I have to brush out of there myself.

Oh yeah, the real first race, or Turning Off Your Head

Maybe I left the eight of you hanging on what happened at the race that ended up being my first of 2012 after two false starts. Or maybe you were looking for beer recipes and stumbled in here thanks to my four-year-old photo. In any event, I apologize, something I've done quite a bit lately.

I've done the Loveland Lake-to-Lake Triathlon five times now, more than any other race. It's a 1.5K (.93 miles) swim, a 30-mile bike and a 10K run that starts in a lake near Loveland High School. The bike course is the highlight of the day, and normally it takes racers along some foothills between Loveland and Fort Collins, complete with a massive climb and a screaming descent around Horsetooth Reservoir before a long, flat hammer back to Loveland. The run is just a lap around Loveland Lake.

This year, because of the High Park Fire the course was modified and shortened so that it stayed down in the Loveland area, a flatter course with a couple of shorter climbs than the original. The run was changed because of construction around the lake, so no one could really compare past results to their performance on that day.

Which I welcomed, at least in the final analysis. I didn't start my watch because ... I don't know, it just didn't seem like the thing to do. My wave went last so I made a note of the time of day when each wave left, with it in mind to take a guess at the end of the race; we have timing chips, which get a more accurate time than any wristwatch, anyway.

The swim was the same 1500 meters and my time of 23 minutes and something stacked up with my previous performances. The chip time, however, is taken at the entrance to transition, a nice 400-yard run from the water's edge, which adds a couple minutes to everyone's swim time. Before the ride I set the watch's countdown timer to beep every 10 minutes so I knew when to drink electrolytes. Which I did. I passed a lot of people on the bike but dialed it back a little when I made the turn for the lake.

Only when I got my running shoes on did I start my watch — and it ran for about 30 seconds before it completely blanked and emitted this high-pitched beep for the remainder of the race. Even though I couldn't turn off the watch I turned off my head and monitored my pace by feel. I wanted to ditch the watch in the bushes or maybe toss it in the lake but at this point I'm protecting the 20-plus-year strip of white around my wrist from having worn a watch forever. Guess I'm more vain than I thought.

Anyway, at some point on the as-yet-undetermined-distance run, my legs took on some lactic acid, my turnover decreased and I just got my ass across the line. The run turned out to be 5.1 miles, and I averaged 7:46 per. The watch stopped beeping and completely reset after a while.

Nevertheless, I don't know if I'll ever start a watch with the gun again. I needed a race to get my head and my body on the same page and this might have been it. So we'll see what the blank-faced watch has in store going forward.

About that first race...

It wasn't to be. Hours after the last post, I got through almost an entire shift at work before I started shivering, sweating and hacking up pieces of lung tissue — actually it was self-created bright yellow stuff that doesn't biodegrade when expectorated on one's patio and dried out in the sun (I know, gross as hell but that's your fault for reading). I woke up Wednesday morning feeling worse and facing one more night of work, though I felt slightly better before I headed to work.

As the night went on I felt slightly better by the hour... but not well enough to take on a half-Ironman in less than 72 hours. Wednesday at work, after consulting via electronic communications with a couple of trusted peers, I decided to pull the plug. There was no way I could get through a five-hour race at no more than 50 percent, let alone one in the projected weather for race day — 50, rainy and windy. That would have put Ironman Lake Placid in jeopardy because of the whole compounding illness thing. You know what I mean, right?

So I ended up with a spare weekend on my hand, the last free weekend in Cheyenne for the foreseeable future. Meanwhile, not only did the weather pan out as expected but they shortened the cycling leg without shortening the other two. It turned out to be a 1.2-mile swim, a 12-mile bike and a 13.1-mile run! The ride was so short that a couple of the pros wore their wetsuits on the ride to the bike-to-run transition area. If a race ever fit my skillset, this was it. I was pissed the hell off, for sure, but rebooted with a nice weekend of social activity —which I might have needed more than a race.

Thursday was low-country boil, poker and NBA conference finals. Friday was a World Cup qualifier with friends and dog at home, beer and music on the plaza, dinner and a drinkie downtown and "Prometheus." Saturday was more beer and music on the plaza, a cold foo-foo coffee drink and a birthday barbecue.

I don't remember what Sunday was but none of those days involved working out or working. It pointed out the importance of recovery, of letting the illness run its course while bombing it with a couple kinds of juice, electrolytes, vitamins and water — OK, there was some beer involved, too. The virus didn't know what hit it. And on Monday, life returned to normal with a swim in my Petri dish. I was rested and stoked, all I really needed.