I'm Training for an Ironman!

If you're training for an Ironman, rest assured there's always someone more maniacal about his training than you. Like this guy. (Or maybe you'll find you're kindred spirits!)

-Erin

Ironman St. George--Funky

The inaugural Ironman St. George is this Saturday. The already brutal event currently has a weather forecast of possible rain.

Curious to see what my fit friends have gotten themselves into, I went to IM St. George's official site.

I was greeted by this interesting header:

The mesas of Utah have arms and legs! Run for your life before they run over to your general vicinity and sit on you!

It reminds me of Monty Python cartoons where things like clouds have arms and legs.

So, IM St. Georgers, when you need to dig deeper and run a little harder, imagine one of the mesas of Utah is running after you. Because, according to the WTC, it could happen. They have pictures to prove it.

Ironman Arizona 2009-The Photos

While I was running around shooting video, I shot a bunch of photos, too. Here are some of my favorites from IMAZ '09.

Triathlon Terms / Jargon For the Uninitiated

If you are new to the sport, or want to make it through this blog with your head on straight, there are some terms you need to know. And you should want to know them, because letting them slip at random in front of your non-tri-knowledgable buddies will make you seem infinitely cool.

(Note: There are a gazillion tri-terms to choose from. These are the fun ones.)

Let's start off easy. There are a lot of terms that describe the extent to which a triathlete feels like crud.

A brick (n.) is a bike-then-run workout. It is named thusly because that's what your legs feel like when you run after you bike. Triathletes love bricks.

ex: You: I just went swimming easy this morning 'cuz I have a huge brick planned tomorrow.

Your friend: Woah.

You hit the wall (v.t./n.) when you have nothing left. You gave it everything and you can't make yourself go any harder. Like running into a wall. There's nowhere left

to go. And it hurts.

ex: You: Man, I hit the wall at the end and Carlos kicked it in to the finish ahead of me.

Your friend: Carlos beat you? You wuss.

Maybe you hit the wall because you were about to bonk. You bonk (v.i.) when you screw up your nutrition and your body is eating itself to try to keep you going. Or it will start eating you if you don't eat something, like pure sugar. Avoid the bonk (n.).

ex: You: Man, I just totally bonked and limped home.

Your friend: I know, you were sucking my wheel all the way back and never took a pull. You jerk.

Time for some cycling terminology:

Wheel sucking (n/v) the art of riding with only centimeters between you and the person in front of you.

To take a pull (v.) to ride at the front of the peloton so the people behind you can draft off of you.

To draft (v.) to follow closely behind another cyclist(s) so they block the wind and do all of the work for you. The faster you go, the more you energy you save by making someone else pull you. That's why drafting is illegal in most amateur triathlons. Every triathlete for his/herself!

Peloton (n.) a large group of cyclists.

Tri-ton (n.) a large group of cyclists with aero bars.

Aero bars (n.) those funny things that stick out of some people's bikes where normal handlebars used to be so the rider can (comfortably) crouch down in a more aerodynamic position, thereby looking mean and fierce and letting the rider go all aggro if s/he wants.

Aggro (adv/adj) aggressive. You can go aggro. Or you can be aggro. Or some jerk in your

peloton can go all aggro on you and push you till you puke. In which case, if you can keep up for a few seconds an get alongside him, you can snot on him.

To snot (v.) the art of snot rocketing while on the bike. Cycling makes everyone have a runny nose. It's physics. Place your hand on nostril opposite the snot-loaded one, and blow.

ex: You: Dang it! I just snot on myself!

Your friend: Gross! You gotta work on that.

Your friend then proceeds to snot on you, and in trying to avoid the gelatinous projectile, you swerve and hit something, tacoing your wheel.

To taco a wheel (v/adj.) to whack something in such a manner that you bend your wheel in the shape of a taco. Your wheel is now tacoed.

Neapolitan tan (n.) what happens when you wear 2-3 different length bike shorts on separate rides and wind up with a progressive tan up your thigh. Like the shade gradation of Neapolitan ice cream.

T1 (n.) transition #1. Where you go to switch from swim to bike.

T2 (n.) transition #2. Where you go to switch from bike to run.

T3 (n.) transition #3. Where you go to switch from run to massage or food. This term is not as well-knwn as T1 and T2, but is equally as important.

Transition area (n.) where your stuff hangs out and waits for you while you're doing other things. Sometimes, they're in two places. At an Ironman, your stuff is in bags and thousands of volunteers grab it for you, help you change, put sunscreen on you and hand you your bike. It's like being a tri-celibrity.

Ironman (n.) a triathlon of this exact distance: 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile run. AKA an event that you do so you can brag for the rest of your life, and develop an entire wardrobe based on a corporate symbol: the M-Dot. Maybe even get some tattoos. (See below.)

70.3 or Half Ironman (n.) exactly half the distance of an Ironman (140.6). The World Triathlon Corporation (WTC) owns the Ironman and 70.3 names, so if you see a race that's called an Iron-distance triathlon, or a half-iron distance triathlon, it's 'cuz they'd get sued to call it an Ironman. Only official Ironman-distance races can qualify a triathlete for Kona.

Kona. (You know, the city in Hawaii?) The place every triathlete dreams of going. The holy grail of Ironman racing. It's where the Ironman started, and where you can't race unless you qualify by finishing another Ironman at the very tipity top of your age group. (Or you get a media slot, or win in a lottery.)

Olympic distance triathlon: the distance that was used in this year's olympics. This is the exact distance for any triathlon labeled "olympic distance": 1500 meter swim, 40K bike, 10K run.

Sprint triathlon: any combo of swim-bike-run at a shorter distance than an olympic distance tri.

Xterra: an off-road triathlon. They can be all different distances, but most championship races have a 1500 meter swim, about a 20 mile bike, and a 10K run. Just like the Ironman World Championship are in Kona, the Xterra World Championship is in Maui. Unlike Ironman, if you commit a long time in advance to the Maui race, you can race it without having to be the best in the world. ALthough the best in the world will be there, and they will crush you.

USAT: USA Triathlon. The governing body of triathlon racing in the United States.

So now the next time someone says to you: "Dude, I did a brick yesterday morning but I still did the 70.3 today and I went all aggro and hit the wall." You can nod your head in understanding. And not in an eyebrow-raising way as if to say, "Riiiiight. Sure you did."

I think that's enough for now. Let me know if I missed anything! More terms to come: dolphining, chain suck, DNF, mashing, and lube.

All Systems Pissed

Perhaps it was my decision to do an Ironman-style workout weekend last Saturday and Sunday--without any buildup--that led to my demise.

3 people joined me on a grand cycling loop from Stanford to the ocean and back last Saturday, totaling 70ish miles. I sent out an email to the Stanford Tri Team, and got lucky--the people who came were all excellent cyclists who proceeded to kick my bum.

In my mind, of course, I had excuses for my sluggishness: I just ran my first track workout of the last half a year on Friday, after doing a 1000 meter time trial in the pool, my first swim in a month.

Sufficiently fried Saturday night, I did not sleep. I'm not sure why. You'd think a few days like that would knock a girl out. I then woke up Sunday morning to go with two highly esteemed tri-team members to Castro Valley to run a 17-mile trail run.

Yes, I was prepared to do that--I'm training for the California International Marathon on Dec. 6. No, I wasn't prepared to do that within several hours of leg bashing in the pool, on the track, and all over the South Bay.

I'm in debt to the creators of Red Bull.

Here's the kicker: My legs are still pissed. In normal Ironman-training mode, this would not happen. I would recover. But in sleep-must-go-because-I'm-doing-super-cool-stuff-for-school-that-is-more-important-than-anything-else-but-I-will-not-cut-out-training-anyway mode, my body has imposed a 10-minute mile minimum on my legs.

This speed will not get me to Boston.

I now, however, have a much greater respect for the corporate bigwigs who do Ironman--fast. They are far more important and busy than I ever was while I was training for an Ironman, yet somehow manage to get their training in, then run a Boston-worthy marathon time to cap of their IM.

Amazing.

RAGE in the Sage Triathlons- They Cracked Me Up

BBSC Endurance Sports gets it. Like really gets it.

For a mere 160 bucks, I got to participate in the most idyllic, yet challenging, half ironman-distance event I have done to date.

Being a poor future-grad student, I appreciate not getting gouged on entry fees. Or on anything that goes along with racing. (Please, oh please stay down, gas prices!)

Coachubby and I picked the RAGE Half in place of Wildflower. Both courses are known to be difficult. But Wildflower has not only a longer drive, on top of a whopping $270-ish entry fee, it costs the most money an athlete could ever pay to sleep on a patch of dirt and share a few bathroom stalls with thousands of people.

For $50, we stayed 3 minutes away from RAGE's race start in the Hacienda Hotel and Casino, allowing for a little nappy nap after a 4:15am shove-breakfast-down-the hatch call.

A quick little descent led us to the freakishly long transition area, where about 100 of the 800 people there were setting up to do the Half. (Other options: Olympic and Sprint triathlons. Fun for the whole family!)

The charmingly humorous announcer guy then said something that cracked my cloud-9 feelings about RAGE: "The water is a lovely 56 degrees, folks!"

56! That's colder than it was at Coeur d'Alene...and I wore booties! Coachubby, did you hear what he said?!

"He said 65, right?"

I prayed the announcer was verbally dyslexic, not coachubby. But one toe in the water, and I ran back through the tall and skinny transition to grab another cap.

The start was chill. (Pun intended.) We all rounded one green buoy, then took the announcer's word for it that there was another green buoy out there marking the turn around. My inability to breathe to the right was rewarded, as the buoys had to stay to the left, and the chop created from the wind would've only flooded the mouths of right-side breathers. Sorry coachubby!

Just when I got sick of swimming, it was over. And I wasn't a frozen Erincicle. In fact, the air temperature was so pleasant, I couldn't have have been happier.

I set out on the gorgeous bike course, ready for the advertised 6000+ feet of climbing, with my original Ironman motto humming through my brain: Just chill. Add a little "spin to win" and that's pretty much all I thought about the whole way out.

I saw coachubby was in 5th place. Apparently I was, too. When I saw other women on the "back" section of the out and back, I wanted to get 'em. A few had passed me, but I wasn't about to blow my motto in an effort to catch ladies who may just blow up on the run as a result of pushing too hard on the bike.

Another woman passed me on the way into T2, so I threw Pinky on the rack, shoved my feet into vaselined running shoes, and bolted out ahead of her.

This is where the magic happened.

A 42 year old member of the Las Vegas Triathlon Club, whom I will 95% positively identify as one Geoffrey Clark (in case he Googles himself, as James Vicente did last week.), ran next to me at a pace I felt was perfect.

"What pace you goin'?" he asked.

I saw he was pacing himself with a Suunto.

"Don't tell me! I don't want to know! I go by how I feel!" I exclaimed like a psycho.

"This is a good pace," said Geoff.

Then I proceeded to run a few paces back of him for approximately the first 6 miles uphill. Geoff made conversation, and flexed his biceps for all of the middle-school girls womaning the aid stations, until coachubby ran the other way.

"That's my husband!" I exclaimed.


Coachubby told me I was in 5th place.

"Does that mean I'm fourth woman?" asked Geoff.

He took off a little faster. Then, right at mile 6, he told me to go forth and conquer. "If you shave :30 off of each mile back, you'll catch them!" he said. Then, according to his race results, he died, while I powered on, knowing gravity was on my side--it was mostly downhill the entire way back.

I crossed the line in my best half-ironman time to date, only to find out later I went 2 minutes slower than I had thought, because, according to the timing people, "the clock isn't synched with the chip system. It's just an approximation." Quelle bummer. It was still my best half time, even with 2 added minutes, and my best half-marathon ever. (In all fairness, the bike course was really more like 53.7 miles, not 56.)

Free massages awaited broken people at the finish. As did the most massive blisters known to mankind. Yes, foregoing socks was a brilliant way to get into the top 5. But now I'm paying for it. I couldn't walk right after I finished because of the massive blisters on my left foot.

I only realized yesterday that the blisters, once popped, were not to blame for my lame footedness.

I broke my foot.

Not broke broke. I fractured--hairline fractured--a sesamoid bone. It was evil enough to make my foot swell, and hurt to walk, and to make me go to the doctor to get an xray so I could see the tiny white line in the bone.

I believe the closest thing to what I've done is called "turf toe", only I did it without turf, cleats, or any football maneuvers.

So just after my most glorious run ever, thanks to the pacing efforts of Geoff, and the most beautiful, engaging run course known to mankind, I can't run anymore. At least, not for a while.

Phooey.

IN CONCLUSION: Do RAGE. Just make sure to bring your own Gatorade, because they use HEED on the course, and if you've ever had HEED, you probably know it tastes...unforgivably disgusting. Barf-inducingly disgusting.

If you have gastrointestional issues race morning, you'll be happy to know there was never, ever a portapotty line.

And they had very cool technical race shirts...unfortunately they ran out of my size before I arrived at packet pick up. I am eternally bummed. Normally, I'd think, "who needs another race shirt?" but these were truly neat-o.

And if you're really, really into awards ceremonies, you'll be gravely disappointed. The "ceremony" was conducted when only 5 people were still around to receive awards. However, the age-group awards (if you're coachubby and you get 3rd overall, you get a big ass trophy), are marvelous vouchers for a personalized plaque--complete with your choice of photo, your name, place, and time. Snazzy.

The course is stunning, the people fun, and the run course is fabulous. You'll run on what used to be an old railroad track, through several tunnels, and have great views of Lake Mead and the surrounding mountains.

And when you're done, you can ice bath in the freezing lake, then take the fam to see the Hoover Dam and the crazy bridge they're building just South of it.

Wishing you fractureless racing fun this season,

Erin

Has IM Triathlon Lost Its Mind?

$1300! Seriously!?

Are You Really Supposed to Be a Triathlete?

Boulder-based ATLAS Sports Genetics (ATLAS standing for Athletic Talent Laboratory Analysis System) believes they can determine which sports a person will excel in--even if that person is an infant.

Using genetic testing for the ATCN3 gene, dubbed the "sports gene", the guys over at ATLAS Sports say they can tell you if your kid is going to be better at endurance or power sports--for only $150! If you have two R577X variants in your ATCN3 gene, you're an endurance sports winner!

.

I'm not the only skeptic who believes this gives controlling, psycho parents one more reason to push their kids into something the kids might not want to do. What ever happened to the good ol' power of the human spirit in making ourselves what we want to be? Or to the character building and sense of accomplishment that comes from figuring out your strengths on your own?

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If you're a gearhead questioning your Kona bound probability, however, $150 is a lot less than an Ironman entry.

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I, for one, will keep dumping money down the M-Dot drain until I make it on my own will, double R577X variants or not!

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Check out this New York Times article, detailing the whole scenario.

The Silverman Triathlons: The Planet's Toughest Tris Just Got Tougher

Participants in Nevada's Silverman half and full iron-distance triathlons don't get t-shirts that say "World's Toughest Athlete" on them for no reason.

Each grueling race starts off with a plunge into Lake Mead, followed by endless climbs and descents on the bike and run courses. The full-distance participants will have climbed and descended 10,000 feet before starting the marathon.

But the gods didn't seem to think the course was tough enough on its own this year (either that, or they didn't appreciate the race announcer's endless sarcasm) , and threw some lightening, hail, torrential downpours, relentless headwinds, freezing temperatures, and wind gusts into the mix.

The beautiful, clear 75-degree day before the race was just a lure to get last-minute entries.

Coachubby and I were there to cheer on several friends--one of whom was brave enough to go for full-distance glory. That race started at 6:30am sharp. Though the skies looked dark, the water was calm and a comfortable 70 degrees. It all changed at the turn-around.

The wind started a strong current against the returning swimmers. Then came the rain, and the swimmers struggled to breathe with waves crashing into their faces.

Almost two hours after they started, the majority of the full-distance racers exited the water. The half start was postponed from 8am to 9am, but the weather continued to worsen.

Robyn, my full-distance superstar, looked beat up coming out of the lake. She said she was tired. Coachubby and I told her she'd feel better on the bike--hills are her element.

Then we sprinted to the car to get out of the cold and rain and watch Robyn take off in her little spandex outfit while our other friends awaited their race start.

Just as the half participants made it to their swim turn around, two huge bolts of lightening streaked across the sky.

When they had all finally mounted their bikes for the beautiful, but relentlessly hilly, desert ride, coachubby and I drove the course to find them so we could cheer them on, and I could play race photographer. Ah, the joys of an open course.

By the time we caught Robyn, she was already at mile 40 of the bike. She told us it had hailed on her, but she was feeling ok now--pretty impressive considering I immediately froze upon rolling down the car window to talk to Robyn, and she was wearing a soaking wet spandex outfit. The uphills were good for heating up, but the downhills would chill her to the bone.

Somewhere down the road, coachubby got food poisoning. So after cheering Robyn through the turn-around, he high-tailed it back to the hotel for some face time with the toilet, taking a few minutes to help a peppy guy named Aidan fix a flat.

After a pep talk with his gastrointestinal system, coachubby exited the bathroom so we could be there for Robyn for the rest of her epic journey.

At 4:30pm, she came in off the bike--with a new red cycling jacket. In a final act of chivalry, a fellow participant gave it to her when his legs perished at mile 100.

The sun set soon after, and although Robyn thought she might not be able to run when dismounting her bike, she charged out of the change tent and onto the run course just as the race announcer called out the names of several of our half-distance friends as they crossed the finish line.

With only 143 participants, the full-distance race gets pretty spread out by the time the run starts, accentuating coachubby's point that it's a mental race. You're all alone much of the day. There are no m-dot crowds. Just you, your thoughts, and a few close friends if you're lucky.

When Robyn came by on mile 17 of the run, we walked together for a little bit. The run course was amazingly calm. A strange lunar landscape popped up at the top of a hill, and the turn around was just a sign in the middle of a deserted, dark residential street. Descending a large hill, she could see all of the lights of the Las Vegas strip. It was awesome.

Robyn kicked it in the last half mile to ensure she'd beat the two dudes behind her.

Unfortunately, I could not find triathlon legend, Dave Scott, to get a picture with Robyn. It seems he pooped out a couple of hours before she finished!

All in all, Silverman is a first-class race. It captures the original spirit of triathlon--about friends coming together to enjoy the outdoors--without giving off the over-commercialized aura from which many other ironman events now suffer.

Silverman has better swag than any other race I have ever been to. Racers and spectators are encouraged to help an athlete in need. The course is tough enough, so it's ok to get out and help someone change a tire. He won't get disqualified. If you want to jog the run course with a friend who's racing and wants your support, you won't get your friend in trouble. If a racer throws her clothes at you in a rare heat wave, she won't get in trouble for "abandonment". And the food at the end of the race is for EVERYONE, not just the racers.

The race is about finishing and the spirit of the triathlon community. Don't be surprised to see a guy or three in basketball shorts, with platform pedals, and down-tube shifters taking on the full iron-distance course.

So if you can make it out to Silverman next year, and believe you have the mental and physical tenacity to brave whatever the gods throw at you then to make the course even more interesting, do it. You bet I will, provided the hambutt heals by then. (And that I learn to not be such a cold-weather wuss.)

Robyn, you are my hero.

Ironman World Championships 2008: Men's Fashion

A triathlon is the only forum where a hairless, greased-up man can wear a crop top and a speedo and still be revered as one of the manliest men on earth, by virtue of his athletic prowess. Case in point: Faris Al Sultan at this year's Ironman World Championships.

Ironman and Avon Spawn a Fragrance Child

In what seems like quite the unlikely partnership, Ironman and Avon have teamed up to bring us Ironman, "a signature men's fragrance collection". What does it smell like? Sweat and pee?

To anyone who has recently been lamenting the massive commercialization of the Ironman brand (and how commercialization has subsequently deflated the meaning of completing the event...and driven up entry fees to beyond ridiculous prices, like at an amusement park), the launch of an official Ironman stench is like a slap in the face.

To any man hoping to establish a sense of self through the Ironman brand, but who is on the fence about getting inked, the scent may be a godsend; he'll be able to emit "Ironman" more subtly now.

According to Bill Potts, Ironman's VP of Marketing and Business, "The Avon Ironman Collection will provide products for the Ironman in every man." Perhaps this is the fragrance Ironman wannabes will buy on their road to becoming actual Ironmen.

According to Drom fragrance house, the developers of the Ironman fragrance collection, the fragrance

is a victorious fusion of energizing citrus and exotic

spices spiked with rich woods. Top notes of ginger, sparkling lime and

violet mingle with mid notes of nutmeg, rain mist accord and vetiver, and

are grounded in a base of patchouli, cedarwood, wiliwood accord and tree

moss. The star of the collection, the Ironman fragrance, comes in a sleek

yet rugged bottle with an organic feel. The top is designed to look like a

bike grip, one of the disciplines seen in Ironman, evoking the athleticism

that inspires the fragrance. The powerful black-on-black carton features

icons of each of the triathlon sports, with a footprint representing

running, waves representing swimming, and tire tread representing cycling.

The bottle looks like a pock-marked scarab beetle to me.

In conclusion, if you're looking for a new way to emit an eau d'Ironman, because you've already bored friends, family, and coworkers with tales of your Ironman adventures, and showed everyone your M-Dot tattoo, look no further than the Ironman Signature Fragrance Collection. According to the manufacturers, it doesn't smell like sweat and pee after all.

"Why, what is that smell, Fred?"

"That's pure Ironman, baby."

(Pre-Ironman perfume, this response would've been funny. Next spring, it'll be pretentious.)

Manly Ironmen looking to buy the fragrance should contact their Avon representative around May, 2009. Maybe she'll deliver your rugged bottle of man-scent in a pink car.

For more information on this product partnership, read this.

How Long is Too Long to Wear Your Ironman Wristband?

This question is more complicated than it seems, as there is no concrete answer. Sure, pros might tell you it's ridiculous to wear the little plastic thing a day after the race is over. But those guys are just going to get another wristband in a few months, and probably already have an arsenal of M-Dot glory in the form of giant paychecks, and trophies. Age groupers can keep the wristband on to prolong their Ironman experience, which more than likely only comes once a year, or once in a lifetime.

Many factors contribute to the final decision to remove the wristband, including, but not limited to:

• M-Dot tattoos. If you already have one, the wristband is overkill. Unless it's a pretty color and you're keeping it on for fashion reasons, in which case don't be surprised if Stacy and Clinton from TLC's What Not To Wear show up at your door uninvited and ream you for more than just your wristband transgression. They might even slay you for your Crocs.


• Size. If the kind volunteer who put yours on made it too loose, it's bound to get all wrinkly and warped faster than if it fits nice and snug. When it looks like a piece of trash is on your left wrist, it's time to let it go.


• Color. This year's sparkly silver bands look much more like jewelry than IMAZ's hot green one from '07, making it easier to slip by your boss, clients, wife, etc...


• Meaning. If the Ironman's over but you still can't let it go, and don't want to commit to a tattoo, keep the bracelet on for a while. After about a week, it'll loose the writing, and become a personal symbol of triumph. Of course, if your motivation in keeping the thing on is to brag, you probably felt blessed to get the hot green wristband. However, after a few weeks, people will start asking what club was so cool that getting in warranted wearing the wristband for weeks--or even months. To which you can reply, "Ironman, baby!" (If you haven't already read the 6-step guide "How to Brag About Doing an Ironman, read it here.")


• IM quantity. A newly anointed Ironman will be more apt to wear the bracelet longer, get the tattoo, and wear all of his finisher gear every day. This fact is based on no scientific data whatsoever, just pure observation and experience. I kept my first IM bracelet on, in all of its hot green glory, from the day of the race until I had to cut it off for engagement photos or forever endure the wrath of my very fashionable mother. That was an entire 6 months. And to go completely "Clarissa Explains it All", I didn't take any race bracelets off for the entire year. (She had at least 3 large watches on her wrist in every episode. I thought she was so cool.) My left wrist was entirely impenetrable to the sun and looked like another person's skin when they all came off, making some interesting formal photos.

So to wear your wristband or to not wear your wristband? It's a very personal decision that cannot be taken lightly. Once you cut that sucker off, there's no getting it back.

Are you wearing it to brag? Alternatives to keeping your wristband on for bragging purposes are stocking up on temporary M-Dot tattoos (then putting them in very obvious places), wearing finisher stuff everywhere, or getting inked.

If you're just keeping it on for self-empowerment purposes, you could consider getting some temporary tattoos, and putting them in places only you see (oh la la!), drawing a little M-Dot on yourself somewhere with a Sharpie, wearing M-Dot socks, or not-so-subtly uploading your finisher photos to Facebook and setting the IM album to allow anybody and everyone on the net see it. For indirect bragging, Facebook's where it's at.

Happy training!

XOXO,

TriDiva

PS. Mine's still on from June...

How to Go from Ironman to Sad, Squishy Psychomaniac in One Week

No previous depressive experience required.

How is it possible to go from this feeling:

(Yea! I finished! I rock! And yes, that is the TriathleteDiva jersey, now available at TriathlonLAB!)

To this feeling:

(Ahhhhhhh!)

in only one week? (With a 2 year build up.)

By studying these simple steps, perhaps you'll be able to avoid any/all of them altogether to maintain the unflappable emotional levels of a happy-pill addict.

Or, perhaps, if you're like a certain someone around here, you'll follow them exactly because you enjoy life in all of its extremes. Even if the lows bring on an unending need for chocolate and a subsequent ballooning tummy squish.

1. Sign up for an Ironman. Spend one year training. Feel ripped.

2. Get engaged. Become obsessed with wedding TV programming.

3. Complete 1st Ironman. Feel like most bodacious person on planet.

4. Buy wedding dress. Attend many subsequent fittings. Feel like princess.

5. Sign up for Ironman #2. Begin plan to cut previous IM time to shreds.

6. Get married. Feel like most bodacious person on planet.

7. Go on honeymoon. Feel like only and hottest woman on planet.

8. Return to fabulous gifts with a glow.

9. Compete in Ironman #2. Revel in new PR. Feel like most bodacious person on planet.

10. Flatline one week later.

Why flatline? This is not an inevitable reaction to the end of 2 years dominated by monumental goals involving loads of planning and selfishness. However, final ginormous goal completion leaves a gaping void in the future called the “unknown” that has been proven to cause anxiety, which cannot currently be blasted away with training, as the recent Ironman’s body is broken, so it has chosen the next-best anxiety-busting remedy, as proven by the ancient Aztecs: chocolate. In all of its glorious forms.

And when said Ironman comes to think of it, becoming a chocolate connoisseur is not really a bad side goal for training downtime. Another Ironman will pop up soon, again becoming a shield for any unpleasantness thrown her way in the year leading up to it.

Maybe Ironman is my happy pill.

For more on post-Ironman depression, a condition that actually exists and that this Ironman did not, in fact, make up, even though she realizes she makes up a lot of things, go to this article at Ironman.com. And for an article on post Ironman blues by pro triathlete, Jason Shortis, go here.

Ironman Coeur d'Alene Rocks

Appendicitis. A 3rd degree sunburn from trying out my IM race kit. A monster cold 1.5 weeks out. A bug infestation that left me with itchy boob-like mounds all over my body. It seemed a higher power was trying to tell me something. But it must not have been that I shouldn't do Ironman Coeur d'Alene--the race was perfect.

Well, almost perfect.

It might thunderstorm! The water is frigid! The bike course is hilly! You might get attacked by a deer!

The strange things that people think about just before an Ironman are, in the words of Chaz Michael Michaels, bind-bottling. The day before the race, I heard it was supposed to rain right up until 5am on race day, so I outfitted Stealth Pinky (my bike) in a chic get-up of black trash bags (reminiscent of what Tilda Swinton wore to the Oscars...ok not so chic), rolled the top of my transition bags over so their contents wouldn't get soaked, then went on my merry way to stuff myself with whatever carbs I wanted.

I was excited. Nothing could deter me from having a killer day. After all I'd recently been through, a deer knocking me over on my bike and frozen solid phalanges could only add more comedy to the epic ride that was Ironman Coeur d’Alene training. And I didn’t have my “lady friend” like my best IM buddy (bless her evil uterus), which would’ve been cause for hysterics. And my husband was doing it with me as his first Ironman. That’s right, coachubby trained me and all of my friends for this race while still an Ironvirgin.

The Swim

The water temperature was a reported 59.5 degrees on race day--fudged a half-degree by the merciful race director so cold-wusses like me could still legally wear our swim booties.

The water felt good. The sun was shining. The beach was covered in bright pink and blue-capped competitors, which was a super-awesome cap color choice, indeed, after the brain fart at IMAZ last year in which the women had lake-colored caps, and the corner buoys were black.

The cannon went off and the race began! I swam with all my might to try to get out ahead of the crowd, but to no avail. Pretty shortly, I realized that the entire race had been staged to kill me. People had paid their entry fees to engage in some kind of sick Idaho-ian drowning ritual in which one unsuspecting young victim gets sent out into a cold lake, then the other participants try to swim on top of her, splash water down her throat, punch her in the face, kick her in the gut, grope her, and see how long it takes until she sinks to the bottom.

Little did they all know I have a great aversion to dying and will try not to at all costs. So I took a stroke, then doggie paddled to get air and to find holes in the enemy ranks. I did this over and over and over again until I reached the first turn-around where people started to spread out and I realized that most of them had given up on trying to knock me out. I’m a swimmer. I’m a swimmer. I’m a swimmer. My form came back to me and I cruised along. But the damage was already done. I noted the clock time coming out of the swim and was bummed. How had I gone so slowly? Ah yes, I didn’t swim the first quarter of the course; people were trying to kill me.

No matter. One of the coolest things about Ironman came just seconds later: wetsuit strippers. I ran over to one, leapt onto my butt, stuck my feet in the air and watched that sucker fly off. Then into the women’s change tent where I got 3 personal volunteers. I didn’t want to leave, it was so cool. Two of them held out my arm warmers, so I slid my arms right on in, while one of them put my race belt on me and off I ran in full Triathlete Diva glory—pink arm warmers, a Triathlete Diva jersey, and black socks that say “Foxy” on them in pink.

The Bike

I grabbed Pinky from her rack, and the bike began. I quickly came upon another girl in my age group. Heck no will she beat me! We traded positions for a while, then I let her go ahead, thinking I’d keep her in my sights, and she’d forget I was stalking her after a while. One problem: it’s hard to stalk people in a hot-pink flambé jersey, and hot-pink arm warmers. She was a bit stealthier and I lost sight of her after a while. But she had made me push the first 20 miles of the bike more than I thought I would, and I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Then I forgot all about it because I had to pee.

Where are the porta potties! Bahhh! I don’t see them anywhere. Just then, a woman in the 30-35 age group passes me, then slows way down and lets it flow.

“Darn it! I need to do that so bad!” I tell her.

“Just let it go, honey! I had to give it 2 solid efforts before I got it out.”

That’s it. I’m not stopping for no stinkin’ porta potty. If that woman can pee herself in front of me and hundreds of spectators, so can I. I pedal hard, coast, then let it flow, making sure my parents and my host family are not in view.

The hills come, and I dominate them. Take that hill #1! And that hill#s2,3,4,5,bazillion! A sign on hill number gagillion says, “#246, how’s your butt feelin’ now!” Mine feels like it is ready to model a bikini in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

After riding up enough short climbs to eliminate my butt altogether, a kind volunteer informs me that “it’s all downhill from here”. That is, until you come around for a second lap of bum and thigh sculpting. And while the ride back to Coeur d’Alene was pretty much all downhill, the wind picked up and made it quite a challenging little section of the course, where lesser human beings (probably the ones who signed up to kill me in the swim) succumbed to drafting.

The ride was so fun, everyone decided to do the bike course again. And while a few people ate pavement big time, I came off the bike relatively unscathed—I had an ultra-sore back and a mission to hunt down the two other girls in my age group who had passed me in the last 12 miles. I didn’t ride with them, because my race mantra was “just chill” as in “don’t go all out now then ruin your run” even though, in retrospect, staying with them at that point would’ve been a good idea.

A friendly volunteer took Pinky from me and I bolted through the women’s change tent, where I had something like 20 personal volunteers (there was nobody else racing in there), and sprang out onto the run course holding two “Just Plain” PowerGels and the fantasy of running a sub-4 hour marathon—with no watch or anything to pace myself other than intuition.

The Run

I had to run that fast if I was going to beat my time from IMAZ last year—my CDA swim was infinitely slower, and my bike was just fast enough to make up for my stupid swim, so now it was all up to my run to get me a PR. No pressure.

Now was not the time to dwell on my size 11, flat, overpronating feet and the 2 lbs of arch support in each of my shoes. I once read that Julie Ertel has the same kind of feet, and she’s lightening fast. So I will be too.

I chugged Gatorade at every station, made an attempt to down a gel every 3 miles, and took salt pills whenever the mood struck. For the first four miles, I thought my lower back was trying to secede from my body. That’s what I get for trying to swim heads up for half a mile. I ignored it.

The crowd was amazing. People everywhere, cheering for everyone. I got a lot of compliments on my jersey, which made me feel like a rock star. I was going to kick this marathon’s behind. Just then, a girl with a 23 on her leg and a pace like a gazelle leapt by me. There was no way I could stay on her. “Just chill, Erin” go your own pace. Keep running. Just chill.

At mile 13, I was feeling pretty good. Much better after a porta potty stop. I kept downing gels and was megahappy that I could, given that at IMAZ last year, I couldn’t eat a thing—my stomach was jacked up beyond belief. I passed the girl who I had tried to hang with early on the bike, upping my happiness by a factor of ginormosity.

Then the pain set in. Super pain. This is where it’s all mental. I had 8 miles to go. I tried some Coke and found it was most splendiferous. It was my new special treat. Instead of hunting down the at least 3 girls I knew were ahead of me in my age group, I had to change my game plan. The new mantra: DON’T WALK! I don’t care how slow you run, you are not allowed to walk. You didn’t walk last time. This is the RUN course, not the walk course. Triathlon is swim, bike, RUN. So, run, darn it! Don’t walk. Don’t walk. Jog it in, Erin. Jog it in.

I got to see all of my friends (I believe there were at least 15 of us in the race!) because the course was all out-and-back. That was super neat. I would not let them see me walk. If I walk, I loose. I want to win.

Finally, I turn the corner down the straight road to the finish. I see it. What does the time say? It’s too far away to tell. I think it says 11 something. Whoopee! I hear my parents and coachubby’s parents and our friends cheering. Holy goodness, the finish isn’t getting any closer. Bah! The black thing I thought was the finish wasn’t—I still have a few yards to go.

Wah hah! I did it! I finished! I didn’t walk! I beat my old time by a solid 24 minutes!

The Aftermath

The race doctor looks at me and asks if I’m ok.

“That hurt,” says I gleefully.

My own personal finish line volunteer hands me a medal, cap, space blanket, t-shirt, water, then asks me what I want. I have no idea what I want. What I’ve wanted for the past 7 months (besides to have a kick-ass wedding in March) was to finish this race. I just did. I have no other goals at this very moment. I don’t know! What do I want!?

“A massage? Food?” she asks.

“MASSAGE!”

“Ok, massage it is.”

How beautiful! They have free massages! I make it a point to not mention how many times I peed myself during the race to the kind massage volunteers. I am in awe of their ability to withstand putrid smells and germ phobia.

Coachubby finds me and informs me that he finished super wicked fast. Like in the top 3 percent. Like his finishing time was on the first page of results fast. Geez. I am briefly jealous of our future children’s genes.

I get the freezies. I make a space blanket outfit complete with skirt and cape and march over to the results. I made it onto the podium! Whoopee! My run was close to four hours, and my swim did, indeed, stink just as much as I had suspected.

My amazingly supportive and totally rad parents hug me, tell me they’re proud, then suggest I shower so I don’t smell like a sweaty porta john.

I do so, and contemplate how totally amazing the entire day was. The weather was absolutely perfect. I actually enjoyed the water temperature. The bike and run were picturesque. And the communities of Coeur d’Alene and Hayden Lake are bodacious. Everyone was out cheering. Every billboard in town said “Welcome Ironmen!”, and the towns themselves are stunningly gorgeous—a welcome break from the urban sprawl and the egos that make up LA.

I would like to do Ironman Coeur d’Alene again, but perhaps next year, I’ll be seeing you in Lake Placid?

XOXO,

TriDiva

PS. More photos coming soon!

Ironman Coeur D'Alene, Here I Come!

7 weeks ago, I got appendicitis

OK, I said, I am gonna fight this

Had the sucker out and then

Got faster than I'd ever been

1 week ago, got a real bad cold

went to the doc, and he wasn't sold

"You'll get over it soon," he said

Then Monday, I felt real dead

2 Days ago, started a Z-Pack

With a sore throat and my body feelin' wack

Still pretty tired with a swollen face

Nothing's gonna stop me from finishing this race

IM CDA here I come!

Throw your cold water at me and then some

I'm going to kick your ass

Because by Sunday, I'll feel FANTAS...TIC!

I'm off for IM #2. If you're in Idaho or racing, say "HI!" I'll be in the pink and black-flamed Triathlete Diva jersey. It's on.

XOXO,

TriDiva

Ironman Coeur D'Alene--Will it Make a Human Popsicle Out of You?

As of yesterday, the mean water temperature of Lake Coeur D'Alene is a frigid 53 degrees Fahrenheit. On this day last year, it was 60 degrees. The ocean in Redondo Beach was around 65 degrees a few days ago, and man was it chilly. So what's 12 degrees colder feel like?

Perhaps it won't feel like anything, if my body goes numb on contact with the water. That's what I'm hoping for. That, and that it won't be so cold that it'll freeze message delivery half way between my brain and limbs to make me stop kicking or taking strokes.

At Xterra USA Nationals last year, the water temperature was a reported 58 degrees, with the air warming up to 70. There was a blizzard the day before the race. It was awesomely hardcore. But with a .9 mile swim and a warm-up beach run in the middle, it was a different beast.

So, Lake Coeur D'Alene, all I'm asking is that you'll warm up to at least 58 degrees, because I feel that may be the coldest my desert-bred body can handle. Pretty please with a polyurethane cap on top? If so, I promise not to pee in you as often as might otherwise be necessary to warm myself up.

XOXO,

your super-excited future Ironman triathlete,

TriDiva

2 Ironman Arizonas?

In 2008, IMAZ is on...twice! Race organizers say that the "event is being moved to avoid high winds and warm temperatures that have plagued the first three years of the event, with each race held during April." Putting on two events next year will allow IMAZ to offer qualifying spots for Kona, which would disappear if there weren't a race between April 2008 and November 2009.

What are your thoughts? IMAZ was my first Ironman, so I am pretty bummed it won't continue as one of the early season races. There was something very hardcore about training in December and January, then racing in ridiculous headwinds, that made doing IMAZ extremely satisfying.

I suppose if you're one of those people who want everything to go perfectly, and would prefer a high temperature in the high '60s, the November race will be an ideal option. However, if you're like me, you loose all motivation around Thanksgiving, and would have to anticipate a 5-10lb pre-race weight gain.

Being from AZ, I prefer the warmer temperatures. The wind at last year's race was a definite advantage to those with rock solid mental skills (and ginormous quads). I suppose the possibility of racing 2 IMAZs in one year might make some crazy AZ-loving triathletes try to go for the double (then we can compare their times and try to deduce if the move to November really helped anybody out...not taking into account the possibility that said crazy triathletes could train their butts off and become infinitely faster between April and November...)

I suppose there is only one reason this makes me truly sad. It's like if you finally got to witness a New Orleans Mardi Gras, then a few years later, they moved it to November. Automatically, you get old person syndrome and start to say, "Well, I remember when Mardi Gras was in February!" (Obviously, this could never happen...and Mardi Gras has been going on for a little longer then IMAZ...but hopefully you get my point.)

And one more reason: I like Spring more than Winter/Fall. So as a personal preference, I'd rather go to Phoenix in April.

And one more reason: It's easier to get motivated to train right after I've gorged myself over Xmas and feel an itch to get back to super-triathlete mode than it is to get motivated after having already been training for several moths for other races.

What do you think? IMAZ at the end of November: good or bad?

How to Beat the Post-Ironman Blues

You planned your whole life around the event--maybe even for an entire year. Then it's all over in a single day. It's easy to feel lost and uncertain after the post-IM endorphins run their course. What's your purpose now? What are you doing? WHAT DO YOU DO WITH ALL THIS FREE TIME!?

Here are some suggestions, in absolutely no order of importance:

1. Plan a wedding. If it is yours, you won't even have a second to think about what you're doing with your time. Your new purpose: to be an Ironman Newlywed. And it's going to happen in style. Of course, you can always offer to help plan a friend's wedding--complete with bike-chain sculptures and FRS cocktails.


2. Try a sport you've never done before. Surfing? Mountain biking? Rollerblading? The thought of getting back on your road bike a week after IM could make your mind (or other places) go numb, so forget about "training" and just try something new.


3. Go to the gym and do some random machine (no treadmill!) like the elliptical or those silly walking dual treadmill things so you can show off all of your finisher gear to the gym rats. Wear your new jersey, hat, socks, shorts, and bring your IM waterbottle. You are so cool right now.


4. Invent a new sports food. In those weeks after your Ironman, the thought of eating another sports drink, bar, or gel will make your stomach turn. If you're TriDiva, the thought of eating massive amounts of anything chocolate or related to chocolate will make you salivate and jump for joy. Heck, you could even bake a chocolate cake and pass it off as the new super-fuel of 2007. You just finished an Ironman. Nobody is allowed to question your post-race re-fueling methods.


5. Sign up for another Ironman. Hey, if you know you're going to do one next year, you can continue to call whatever you're doing something related to your future Ironman. You are not being a fat, chocolate-eating slob right now, you are in recovery. When you go to the gym to show off your gear, you're not becoming a gym dork, you are "cross training" or "base-building".

You can beat the post-Ironman blues. Remember, it's a common affliction, and although TriDiva is not familiar with any PIB support groups, your triathlon buddies and family are here to help you through it, just like they were there for you all through your training. And all through race day...maybe you should bake them a chocolate cake...

Happy Recovery!

Ironman Arizona '07--The RUN

Only a marathon left. This day was going fast!

Right off the bat, I had to use the porta potty. Luckily, there was one just after exiting transition. I felt like I wasn’t going very fast. I stopped at all of the aid stations to make sure I got all the calories I could from their cups of Gatorade (the yummy yellow kind now, horray!) and part of a banana ever 3rd aid station.

The thought of eating another gel made me want to puke.

The course was 3 figure-8 loops, which I liked. It made it mentally easy to break it down, and I got to see my cheer squad. A lot. And eventually I got to see all of my friends, too, as I lapped them.

My mantra for the first loop? Just chill. Enjoy the scenery and sneaking up on my cheer squad. I don’t believe anything is cooler than deciding to do a crazy workout and having thousands of people around to help you do it. Strategically placed porta potties. Gatorade when you want it. Water. Food. Everything’s out there so you can get what you need and continue on your journey. When I would go for long runs in Phoenix, I’d have to wait until it was dark outside, so if I had to use the bathroom, I could hide in someone’s hedges and go. Or, I’d drive around, figure out which houses were under construction, had porta potties in the front yard, then wait until Sunday, when nobody would be working, to do my long run. No fun at all.

After completing the first loop, I decided my mantra for the second loop would be: Just chill. Yes, the same mantra. I figured I was at a pace I could hold, and considering I had never ever run more than 20 miles before, I wasn’t sure if I could ever push it and finish. Better play it safe.

My cheer squad was all over the place. Just after I crossed the bridge at Scottsdale Road, where I had to put my visor on backward since the wind was trying hard to knock it off my head and I didn’t want to loose it to the lake, I saw them. Cheering like maniacs. Then I saw them again under the Mill Avenue bridge. Then I saw them again on the North side of the bridge. And then I saw two of my friends walking together. They cheered for me.

Coachancé gave me a double “high 5!” and, here’s where biotch, well, um, “in the zone” TriDiva comes in. My thought at this point? Please, don’t let him run along side me. I will then realize how dreadfully slow I am going and be sad. Don’t let him jog beside me. Shoo!

Not a very kind thought toward the love of my life and the man who was currently carrying my ring for me in his Camelback so I could stick it on my bloated pinky as soon as I finished.

As the final loop approached, I became pretty euphoric. I AM going to be an Ironman. No doubt about it. And the coolest part? I’m going to do it before sunset just like I wanted. As long as I don’t walk.

All of that training, my cool coachancé me-specific training plans, all of those psycho runs in the Santa Monica mountains. Including that one time where I freaked out because I got dehydrated and got the freezies, but was instantly restored when I saw my coachancé cheering for me by the car as I finished. He has been cheering for me for months, and has cheered for me during every workout. I am so blessed, and all of those moments are culminating to this point, and I only have less than 9 miles left! I want to cry.

But first, I have to poo. Every time I’ve eaten a banana, I’ve gotten the most horrendous stomach cramps about 2 minutes afterward, fart a minute after that and feel better. But I don’t really want to eat anymore. I don’t want to wait in line for a porta-potty, but I can’t help it. There’s no way I’ll make it another mile without one.

For heaven’s sake! Get out of the porta-potty! I’m on a mission! Don’t mess this up for me people!

I’m in! I go to the bathroom, then I’m back out on the trail. (See the pissyness coming through?) I smile for the camera I’ve passed 2 times already. The biggest, most victorious smile I can muster.

Hey! There’s my Ironcheersquad again! They’re everywhere!

Apparently, my padre was surprised that I was still running. Well, duh! I wasn’t going to walk. I did train for this!

The little inspirational quotes on all of the mile markers came in handy now. “Pain is only weakness leaving the body.” Hell yea! And I don’t know if any of them actually said this, but I like “pain is only temporary”, and my other mantra (besides today’s “just chill”): “it’s supposed to hurt”. So no wussing out! Bring on the pain!

I was a little sad I’d never be coming back around this part of the run loop again. This was the last time I’d pass the aid station with the man with the loud speaker under the bridge. The last time I’d come over Scottsdale road and almost get blown into the lake.

All of the volunteers and other Ironcheerers kept saying, “Good pace! Keep it up!” which made me incredibly happy. Even if they said it to everyone, I was only concentrating on me now. Oh! There’s my cheer squad again! I’m too tired to smile. It takes too much of the energy I need to drive to my legs. Sorry.

A volunteer near mile 24 asks me if it’s my last lap, after saying, “Great pace!”

YES! I say.

“You’re going to finish early!”

Woo hoo! Whatever that means. But yes, I’m going to finish before sunset, darn it! Push it TriDiva, you’ve only got 2 miles to go! I haul as much bum as I can. The last 5 miles, I couldn’t eat anything at the aid stations. My stomach was sick of eating. And sick of processing everything. And probably wanted to cross the finish line more than my brain at this point.

Then I begin to cross the Mill Avenue bridge. This is it. It's all over. Unless I trip and fall on my face and break my entire body, I'm going to be an Ironman.

I kick it in. The crowd gathered around the chute is going wild for everyone. It is amazing. I hear coachancé and hairystomach screaming. This is it. I am done. It’s all over. I am an Ironman. I didn’t pause to take in the crowd. Oh, no. I sprinted down that chute. The girls at the end barely had enough time to grab ahold of the tape after the guy in front of me blew through it so I could get my finisher photo breaking the tape as well.

Oh crap! What am I gonna do to cross the finish line! Coachancé asked me about it before and told me I should think about it. I do a very generic, but empowering fists in the air pose as I run through the tape.

It’s over. Done. Kaput. I am an IRONMAN!

IM Arizona--The RUN

It's coming...

The final portion of IM AZ.

Will TriDiva become an Ironman?

Will her stomach hold out on the run?

Will she make it before sunset?

Check back tomorrow to find out.

Happy training!