Heritage Park Sprint Triathlon

I have heard that weekends are supposed to be for relaxing and recovering from your busy and stressful week.

How about that?

My weekend consisted of the following: FRIDAY - indoor trainer ride, bar shift until 3:30 am, two hours of sleep, SATURDAY - volunteering at the Perry Lake trail race from 7 am-1pm, an hour long nap(which was made possible by a friend picking up my packet for the next day's race), getting all spiffed up to attend Matt Sterling's wedding, having to leave RIGHT before they served dinner in order to make it to another wedding at which my band was performing until midnight, drive home, 3ish hours of sleep, SUNDAY - wake up, triathlon, become temporarily deceased.

I need to plan my weekends better.

This was only a sprint triathlon, so I wasn't too worried about the racing aspect, but I really just wanted to get a good rehearsal on my tri systems in general. When I got home from the gig Saturday night, I took a look at my packet for the first time. They had forgotten to put a wave-identifying swim cap in with the rest of my stuff, so I made a note to show up a tad early to grab one. I then started looking at the rest of the materials...a waiver I had to sign....a sheet listing ranges of bib numbers and the events they corresponded to(there was also a duathlon and team relay that day). I noticed that for some reason, my bib number corresponded to the duathlon, which was run-bike-run(no swim). I became more curious and decided to double check and make sure I was signed up for the correct event. I looked at my registration confirmation and found, to my surprise, that I had either accidentally signed up for the wrong event, or the website screwed up and PUT me in the wrong event. In either case, I was really pissed.

I began to obsess over what I was going to do in order to make sure I got to swim. I contemplated just casually asking for a green swim cap so I could start with my wave and not have unnecessary questions be asked of me. I didn't particularly care if my chip times were way out of whack. Keep in mind that at this point, it is 1:00 am and I haven't even laid out my race gear yet. Whatever...I pack everything, including a checkbook in the event a bribe was needed, and planned to race the triathlon by whatever means necessary.
<Fast forward 3-4 hours>
I woke up feeling shitty, to no surprise as I had gotten almost 7 hours of sleep in the past 48+ hours.  I loaded up the car and drove to the race site, rehearsing and obsessing over my plan to expertly haggle my way into the correct event. I walk up to a tent that appears to contain people who look like they know what's going on. I walk up to a table and very plainly state that I somehow ended up in the wrong event and was wondering if there was anything that could be done. They very quickly pointed to a lady sitting next to a bunch of boxes and paperwork and registrationy-looking things. In a matter of minutes, she had taken down my information and assigned me a new bib number for the triathlon.

....man...I sure am glad I spent all that time obsessing over this interaction. As it turned out, she had spent a good chunk of her morning switching people from the triathlon TO the duathlon, because of the chilly water temps(62 degrees), and was somewhat amused that I was switching the other way.

I then proceeded to head over to the transition areas and began to set up my stuff. This is where my morning got all odd and coincidental. I knew one other person who was racing that day, my good buddy and Bike MS pal, Alan Gore. Turns out he had already set up his transition area in the slot directly to my right. And what's more, the girl who set up in the slot directly to my left HAD MY OLD BIKE! Well....not MY bike, but she had the exact same yellow Specialized Allez that I used to have until the frame cracked and got replaced under warranty.

My old bike!!! Ah, memories.

I next went over to body marking, where I realized that a good number of these volunteers had likely never worked a triathlon before. The girl who offered to mark me appeared to be in high school and when I very casually dropped trou right in front of her, she giggled momentarily before marking me. Don't worry, I had a tri-suit on underneath my pants.

The Actual Race

Yes, I was eventually going to get to the racing part, but my morning was quite interesting and I couldn't resist sharing.

The Swim

I wasn't worried about the swim, and was actually looking forward to testing out my speed on a short course. I had been training in the pool quite a bit and had gotten my 1.2 mile split down to 40 minutes, so I figured I might be able to really scorch a 600 yard swim. I was also not concerned about the 62 degree water, as I had swam 2.4 miles in 60 degree water the previous summer. What I wasn't prepared for was the cold air. It turns out that the air temperature is what really makes you cold if you have a full wetsuit on. It is also the case that my mild exercise-induced asthma does not like cold air. Even before the horn sounded, I was shivering and breathing hard, so once the swim began it only got worse. I couldn't catch my breath for the entire swim, and I couldn't keep my face in the water for more than 3-4 strokes. I ended up doing a whole lot of breaststroke and gasping. About halfway through the swim, I became convinced that I was having the 2nd asthma attack of my entire life(the first being in 8th grade during football practice, after which I received the original diagnosis). I was actually wheezing and having a lot of trouble breathing. Luckily for me, it didn't get any worse and I was able to struggle my way through and reach the end of the swim. Overall, I have to say this was my worst triathlon swim EVER. I was out of the water and crossed the timing mat at 10:13.

My first transition was awkward, fumbling, and disorganized...which is pretty much how my T1's tend to be. I've never rehearsed a transition before so I can't really be surprised. I did finally decide that from now on, I'm just going to SIT DOWN to put on socks rather than wobble around on one leg while I repeatedly fail to put a sock onto a wet foot. T1 time - 5:12

The Bike

I finally got geared up, rolled my bike past the timing mat, mounted up, and took off. I was still wet, and the wind was COLD. My entire body still felt somewhat in shock from my swim debacle, but I slowly began to settle down and establish a rhythm through rolling hills and chilly breezes. About a mile into the bike portion, with no warning, my left foot came unclipped coming through the top of its stroke and violently kicked forward. I didn't lose control of the bike, luckily, but I reclipped it and began to wonder what was up. I tentatively pulled straight up on the left pedal and wouldn't you know it, it came unclipped again. Later upon examination, I found that my left cleat had cracked and broken. Ah, SNAKES! The remainder of the bike went smoothly, aside from the occasional unintentional unclip, and was somewhat hindered by the fact that I had to pedal very tentatively with the left leg and could not really crank with it. Final bike time: 11.5 miles in 38:10...roughly 18 mph pace.

The Run

My 2nd transition went smoothly enough(1:47) and I was off and running...literally. As expected, the legs were all catty-whompus at first. And my toes were numb from the cold still. So basically I could not feel anything below my waist. I felt like I was barely moving, but my Garmin informed me that I was moving at a sub-8:00 pace. Fine by me. I saw Alan on the first out-and-back stretch and we high-fived. I knew I would eventually catch him if it were a longer race, but this was only a 3 mile run. He was quite a few minutes in front of me due to his wave starting before mine, and the fact that he is much faster on a bike than I am. I concentrated on running my race and maybe attempting to catch him before the finish line. By mile 2, everything was warming back up and I was pleased to notice that my legs still had some oomph left. My first mile came in around 8:00, and each subsequent mile was faster. My 2nd mile was a 7:30, and my final mile was just under 7:00. My final run time was 22:20, an average pace of 7:27! The run was my best and favorite portion of the race.

Final time for the entire race - 1:17:41

For a little perspective, my swim split from Ironman Coeur d'Alene was 1:17:23.  Funny how things work out like that.

Alan and I at the finish...I almost caught him!

This was my first sprint distance triathlon ever, and it was interesting how different the preparation for it was. I was more focused on speed than any tri I've ever attempted, and aside from my swim, I was incredibly satisfied by how fast I was.

This is the part in my race report where I usually get all sentimental, wordy, and "big picture" about what the race "meant to me" and I reveal deep, dark things about myself in the process. If you came for enlightenment, I apologize. This was just another race. Happy trails to you all and thanks for reading!

Training Update

After my brother completed his first half-ironman at Wildflower this weekend, I went ahead and made the commitment and signed up for the Kansas 70.3. It will be interesting to revisit my first triathlon. I'm debating whether or not I am capable of a sub-6 hour finish, especially considering my nursing school time constraints. Yeah, I'm tired of hearing about those too.

So yeah...my brother has officially become a sick, twisted endurance sport addict just like me! And as proof, he has even started his own blog to write about his races. Can you believe that? It's funny, because he was asking me for advice on what to name his blog. Out of brotherly competition, I first suggested "I Want To Be Like Danny", but in all seriousness asked him if he had any good training mantras that he'd been using. As it turns out he found a title that fulfilled BOTH suggestions. His blog is entitled, "Well, Shit, if Danny can do it..." He has admitted to finding inspiration in some of the things I've done, but I'm more proud of him than anything for flipping a 180 on his formerly sedentary, smoking, and unhealthy eating lifestyle. All I did was start from "kinda in shape" and work my way up to "I haven't figured out exactly how far I can run, but it's at least 40 miles".

So, back to my stuff. I'm pretty confident that my run is in pretty decent shape, and I'm not concerned about it for the upcoming triathlon. My swim needs a little work. I did my first official training swim of the season today. I completed the entire race distance in a pool and it took me about 50 minutes, including breaks every 500 meters. Not too shabby for a baseline. I'm hoping to shoot for a 35 minute split on the 1.2 mile swim leg. The big concern for me is the bike. I have ridden TWICE since last September. In past half-iron distance races, I have had a goal of a 3 hour bike split, but I seriously don't think that is realistic, considering how little I've ridden, and how little time I'll have to ride in the next month. I'd be pretty thrilled with a 3:10-3:20 time(16-17 mph average) for the 56 mile bike portion. I'm assuming I'll be able to manage a sub 2-hour half marathon(9:00 min/mile pace).

So let's do some math. Assuming I meet my most modest projections...2 hour run+3:20 bike+35 minute swim=5:55. So I either will need to save a few minutes on either the bike(less likely) or the run(more likely), or I'll have to have lightning fast transitions. This is actually possibly a reality, considering I may choose not to wear a wetsuit for the swim.

Anyways, hopefully over the next few weeks I'll have some encouraging things to write about my training progress. As always, kill the f*cking bear ever day.

Can YOU do a triathlon without arms?

This guy can.

Now...with that in mind, think about your own limitations. And now forget them forever.

40 Miles: AKA "JUST the 40"

"If you can do 31 miles at WyCo, then you can do 40 miles at Clinton Lake."

That is pretty much the reason I did this. Because Sophie said I could. Whether that logic was appropriate or even rational is no longer the point. As with pretty much every other crazy new thing I've attempted, all it took was for that seed of belief to be planted in my head and I took care of the rest.

I honestly don't even remember when this conversation took place, or if it was before or after the 50k in February. Yes, the same 50k where I nearly passed out from hypoglycemia in the last mile. Regardless of how that race went, or more importantly how it felt, I decided...with some encouragement...that it was time once again to push the distance a little further for my next race. 40....that's only 9 more than 31. And it is true that Clinton Lake trails are nothing like the teeth-gnashing nightmare that you find at WyCo.

And so it was...

I had signed up for the marathon, but since I knew both race directors and was pretty certain I'd be 'voluntold' to help at packet pickup, I figured I'd probably be able to make the switcheroo to the 40 miler without too much difficulty. Sophie tried twice to convince me to bump up to the 100k race(61 miles). The first time was 3 weeks beforehand, during Brew 2 Brew, and the other I'll mention later. It didn't bother her that I would be exactly doubling the longest run of my life, nor that I wouldn't have time to put in the distance for it. When I finally mentioned my nagging achilles tendon issues, she relented(the first time).

Preparing for this race has been an entirely unique experience for me. In the past, I have always approached new distances with a great amount of apprehension and self-doubt. Not so this time around. Ultrarunners have a very laid back way of making huge physical undertakings seem like they're really not that big of a deal. Lately I've been sort of questioning whether or not I respect that philosophy or not. Especially considering I have seen bumper stickers that read "You did a marathon? How cute."

Personally, I love love LOVE seeing others getting active and exercising. My dad just ran his first half marathon, for example, and I couldn't be more proud. In my opinion, there is no distance too small for me to be proud of somebody for completing. If you did your first 5k, I'm thrilled. Two of my good friends just did their first marathons, and I am ecstatic for them. Coming into this race, aside from my non-runner friends who were all predictably slack-jawed at the prospect of what I was choosing to do, most of my runner friends pretty much had the attitude of "Cool. You'll do fine."

Not a big deal. Ok.

Packet pickup, which I helped out with, was a very similar experience for me.
"What race are you doing tomorrow?"
"Oh, JUST the 40 miler" or "Oh, JUST the marathon."

I'm not sure if it's a conscious thing, but the language that ultrarunners use can either be interpreted as very laid-back and supportive, or extremely pompous and elitist. I was having a hard time deciding which one it was, and thinking about it was leaving a bad taste in my mouth. More on that later...

The week of the race, I ended up getting sick...even had to miss a day of clinical, which is not necessarily a good thing. Questions started to arise about whether or not I'd be running, or if I'd just bump down a distance, or if I'd give it my all and if it came to a DNF, so be it. I realized I'd just have to see how I felt on raceday.

So to briefly summarize, I came into my first attempt at 40 miles realizing that it really wasn't a big deal, and fully prepared to fail if I had to. No pressure...literally. Perhaps that's why it went so well.

My last 50k had ended so poorly that I wanted to make sure that I stacked the odds in my favor as much as I could. I was bringing my big camelbak, plenty of food, and I even remembered sunscreen! I never remember sunscreen. The hydration lessons I learned from my triathlons last year would prove to be helpful, and I wanted to make sure and eat a LOT every chance I got. 

When I woke up on race morning, my nose and upper airways were full of gunk. I was coughing and sniffling, and I more or less felt miserable. I snoozed once and was about to call it quits, but I decided to get up and see if I could just get things rolling by being up and moving around. I hadn't actually decided if I was racing or not,  and I was still coughing up wads of stuff, but I went ahead and started gearing up to race. I lubed up my toes, heels, armpits, and thighs. I put on socks and compression sleeves..shoes, jersey w/ pre-pinned race bib, grabbed my drop bag, and headed out the door. Now that I think about it, I never actually decided "I'm racing today"...I just kinda got ready and went with the normal routine.

It was a beautiful morning. There was a slight chill in the air, no wind, and partial cloud cover. I arrived, checked in, and began stretching and doing the normal pre-race nervous thing. Except I wasn't really nervous. I really had nothing to lose except for maybe setting my recovery back a few days on my cold. I lined up with the other 100kers and the "just 40 mile"ers in an arbitrarily chosen spot that represented the starting line. Ben once again gave a very casual welcome speech with pre-race instructions, looked at his watch, and then said "go". So we went...down the hill on a gravel road and then a hairpin turn onto the trails.

I chose not to bring my Garmin for this race. I knew it would be inaccurate, it would crap out after 6 hours(and I'm not that fast), and I really had no interest in knowing how slow I was moving. So I ran the majority of the race with little idea of how far I had come except for a few obvious milestones along the way. A few miles in, I found myself in the middle of a decent sized "conga line" of runners, which is fairly uncommon in long trail races. Usually the pack spreads out pretty uniformly, but we had about 20-30 runners all strung along. At a certain point I realized that I was due for a salt-capsule and after deciding I really shouldn't put it off any longer, I exited the conga line and stepped to the side to access my camelbak. The group ran ahead and I never saw any of them again. That probably means they were going too fast for me anyways.

There were a few other runners that I would yo-yo back and forth with, but for the most part, I ran the next 5-6 miles in complete solitude. It was peaceful and calming to just tick off the miles one by one, with only the sounds of the forest to accompany me. I saw the occasional racer pass by going the opposite way, including one who shouted some very encouraging words to me..clearly a much slower runner than he was...and who I eventually recognized again when he later won the 100k race. Whatever ill thoughts I had about the ultrarunning community vanished into thin air as I once again was reminded why trail runners are the friendliest and toughest athletes out there. In an ultramarathon, it doesn't matter how fast you are...everybody suffers.

I had run on these trails numerous times, yet they seemed so foreign on this day in such a different setting. Occasionally I'd catch a hint of familiarity in a tree branch I remembered having to duck, or a particularly rocky section that I had to walk. I had been running or biking on these trails for a decade, but it all seemed new today. The Land's End aid station came and went. The Corps of Engineering building aid station came and went(I ate a lot of food). An insidious worry became solid after about 3.5 hours of running and roughly 17-18 miles. I hadn't peed yet. I realized that I was getting behind on hydration, or my kidneys were shutting down. I immediately thought of all the cold medicine I was on, trying to remember which ones were metabolized in the liver as opposed to the kidneys. I stopped to pee, just to see if anything came out. A little bit, but it was not encouraging. Very small volume, and darker than I hoped for. I made a note to keep drinking....and MORE!

I finished the first 20 mile lap in just under 4 hours, reapplied sunblock, took some ibuprofen, grabbed some more gels and a powerbar, then headed back out to the sounds of cheering from my friends. I ended up leaving the aid station with another guy named Joe and we ran quite a few miles together, exchanging stories and small talk. I talked about school and life in the midwest, and he talked about his grandkids and Texas humidity. He was doing the 100k, and as it turns out he was a race director in Austin. I dropped him a few times, and he caught up a few times, eventually passing me for good when I stopped to try and pee again. Still very little, and very dark. I was really REALLY starting to worry now. I felt ok for the moment, but I knew if I didn't start peeing soon, my day was going to go downhill very soon.

In nursing school, there are certain things they really hammer into your head. Therapeutic levels of certain key drugs, ideal ranges for sodium and potassium levels, etc...one of those things is the absolute minimum hourly urinary output. 30 milliliters per hour. That's basically a shot glass of pee every hour, otherwise medical folks start to get nervous. I had been running for about 5 hours, and I was pretty sure I hadn't peed 150 ml in that time. And the sun was coming out. As I rolled into the Land's End aid station for the 2nd time, I was concerned. I announced that, in addition to having my camelbak filled up, I needed to drink a LOT of fluid and fast. The aid station volunteers hopped to it and in no time I had downed 5-6 cups of water, eaten some fruit snacks, a banana, and some other munchies.

One lady at the aid station thought she recognized me. I started naming off things I do which she might recognize me from...no....no.....no.....she asked if I ever did Dog Days....yeah a few times....do you know Melissa Sigler? Oh yeah......then a thought occurred to me....have you heard of a band called Sellout? .....Yes....YES! You're that guy!..... I'm that guy....most of the other volunteers immediately also made the connection. One of them even said, "If you're in Sellout and somebody thinks they recognize you, why wouldn't you just say that first?".....I guess we're kinda popular or something? Who knew?

Satisfied that I had just given myself a sufficient bolus of fluid, I thanked the volunteers for their help and headed back down the trail. I was still very worried about my hydration, but 15 minutes later I stopped to relieve myself and was extremely relieved(durrr) at the clarity and volume of the fluid I voided. And for the rest of the day, it only got better. I was empowered by the fact that I had encountered and overcome such a threatening raceday situation. I got behind on fluid and was able to intelligently deal with it and catch back up. For great justice!!!

When I rolled into the Corps of Engineering building aid station, out of curiosity I asked how many miles were left. They informed me that it was 9 miles back to the main aid station. I had run 31 miles. 50 kilometers. Each additional step would constitute the furthest I had ever run. I glanced at my watch and it read just under 7 hours...if they had stopped timing right then, I would have a new PR for the 50k. I stuffed my face with food, thanked everyone, and set off towards the finish.

At this point, I began to make calculations in my mind. My goal was to finish in 10-11 hours. My brain's calculations were telling me I could do it in 9. I told my brain to shut up because this wasn't about time. My brain came back with "Come on.....9 hooooooooouuuuurs....you know you want it." I told my brain we would continue our current pace and reassess the situation at Land's End, which was 3 miles from the finish. I knew I had some kick left, but I didn't want to blow up early. So I continued. The legs were definitely getting heavy and of the 5-6 times I almost fell during this race, they were all in this last 9 mile stretch. The solitude was stunning. I knew there were tons of other runners out here, but I was having 45-60 minute stretches where I saw not a soul during my second lap.

I kept checking my watch, because my brain had more or less convinced me that we should finish in under 9 hours, and I knew Land's End was oh-so-close. I knew I was fine on fluids, so I wouldn't have to refill the camelbak. I downed one last gel and a salt cap for good measure and I finally arrived. A few other runners were there, including a young buck who looked fast and was doing the 100k. I grabbed a handful of chips and another banana, and we left the aid station together. I recognized him from packet pickup. His name was Alec. This was his first ever trail run....and people think I'M crazy. He admitted to me that he had bitten off more than he could chew, and had decided to finish 40 miles and call it a day. This trail running stuff is HARD, as it turns out. I asked him how he felt about finishing sub-9, and let him know that if we ran the last 3 miles faster than 15 minutes apiece, we'd make it. He didn't quite have any speed left in his legs, but he wished me well and I punched it.

It was the same as I felt nearing the end of the winter 50k, except this time I knew I had the calories to back it up. For some reason, when you know you're almost done, your body can do amazing things for you...assuming you have fed it properly. I burned up the last 3 miles in 34 minutes climbed the last hill up to the main aid station and crossed the finish line with a huge dorky grin on my face.

Final time: 8:48:37

I felt great. I felt amazing! My awful cold had been a complete non-factor for the entire day, and I'm pretty sure I coughed less when I was running than I would have had I not been running. I realized that at no point during the entire day had I ever been in distress of any kind, aside from being slightly low on fluids for awhile. If this was how 40 miles felt, I wonder how much more I could do? Remember when I said that Sophie had tried TWICE to convince me to do the 100k. The 2nd attempt happened at this exact moment. She told me that I should do another loop. She told me that conditions would never be better than they were right then. She told me somebody could pace me, it would be great, and I'd get a belt buckle(100k finishers get belt buckles instead of medals).

The crazy thing is that I actually considered it. Very briefly, but it didn't seem like the stupidest idea ever, and that amazes me. I realized that I really could have kept running, but my mind was already made up. I prepared myself to be done now, and I was done now. I know I was probably physically capable of grinding out another 20 miles, but that's not how I would have wanted it. It would have gotten ugly. And besides, I have thoroughly enjoyed the process of slowly and methodically challenging my knowledge of myself. Half-marathon? Sure. Marathon? Sure. 70.3...140.6? Yep. 50k? You got it......40 miles? Abso-freaking-lutely! Is a 50 next on my plate? Or maybe I try for some new PR's on old distances? Who knows?

I am currently not registered for a single race and that is somewhat liberating. There are a few races which I have mentally committed to, but aside from that, the remainder of my athletic season will be exactly what I make of it.

I saw a sign during my first ultramarathon that read, "It hurts more and more, and then it stops hurting more." Or as 100k finisher Joe put it, "It always never gets worse." This is what makes me believe in 50 miles...it makes me believe in 100 miles. Sure there is a lot more that goes into those distances, but from everything I've heard and experienced, the pain of an ultra builds up to a certain point, and then plateaus. The difference between 40 and 50 is simply the willingness to suffer through that pain for another 10 miles. Knowing this...someday I will run 100 miles.

Rock the Parkway Half Marathon

On Saturday, I ran the half marathon at Rock the Parkway in Kansas City. It was my slowest half marathon ever, and that includes my 13.1 times from both half-ironmans. I suspect it was slower than my 13.1 splits from the marathon in my full Ironman. I was not attempting to PR, but I was nervous for this distance for the first time since my first 13.1 in 2007. Having said all that, I still believe that this was my most meaningful half marathon ever. That is because this race wasn't for me.

This past weekend, my father, age 64, ran his first half marathon with me at his side.

To rewind a bit, this all started Thanksgiving 2009. I think I was doing a training run while I was home visiting and I somehow convinced my father to come along. He and I ran through Emerald Hills, up Soest Rd into town and turned around at Rolla Middle School. It was 6.2 miles...a 10k...a nice round number. It occurred to me that he had maintained a pretty decent pace and didn't seem too physically distressed afterwards, so I suggested to him that he could probably finish a half marathon with a little training. He tossed the idea around, and with the occasional prodding from me, he agreed that he would do it.

Well, he didn't really train much, or at all, and the following Spring he entered to run the 10k at Rock the Parkway, a distance he was familiar with and confident he could finish. Needless to say, with no training it was a bit physically taxing for him. Additionally, the weather was absolutely miserable. He ran that one by himself because I was busy PRing my half marathon at sub-1:40.

I can't say that I should have been surprised when he told me after the fact that he didn't think running was for him. I begrudgingly accepted that he had given it a fair shot, but that unfortunately I had not succeeded in converting my father into a runner. At the same time, in the back of my mind, I knew I owed it to him to try again someday. There was still hope.

The following summer, my brother completed his first half marathon and his first triathlon later that Fall. At some point over the course of watching me finish an Ironman and watching my brother do his first races, I suppose my father's brain started revisiting the idea of running. He mentioned to me at one point that he might decide to try a half marathon after all. That was all I needed...the blood was in the water and I was a shark.

I may have brought it up to him every time I spoke to him, but maybe not. All I know is that he signed up for his first half marathon early this year. He began to train...not just sporadically run...but he had a PLAN. Between my advice and online training plans, he pieced together an outline for how to build up to 13.1 miles.

He was initially very faithful to his plan, but I could tell that he was occasionally falling off the wagon. He was having pain. Sometimes during the runs, sometimes after, and sometimes lasting quite a while. I began to have concerns for my father. As much as I wanted to be an inspirational force in his life, I didn't want to injure him with my hair-brained schemes to make him a runner. I didn't want him to break something that perhaps wouldn't heal. I believe his longest run took him up to 9.2 miles, after which he took a break due to the pain he was experiencing. His intention was to rely on only short runs for the next month until raceday. As it turns out, he did almost no training for the last month before the race.

I was concerned that he might decide not to race. I was concerned that he might race and injure himself. I was concerned that he might race, not finish, and experience disappointment, both in himself, and for letting me down. I know that I'd have been proud of him either way, but he may not have seen it that way.

The plan was for me to pace him. We were going to shoot for 2:30, but race realistically if that didn't seem attainable. I simply planned to stick with the pace group if he was able to keep up. I gave him an idea of how the race would go, the overall pacing strategy, and some nutritional advice, but I decided that as his pacer, I would make sure all of these things happened so he could just focus on running and enjoying his day.

Race day rolled around and there we were, standing in a crowd of hopeful runners. I could tell that his nervousness was already beginning to fade, ever so slightly, with all of the positive energy flowing around at the event. We couldn't hear anything that was being said at the start line because we were so far back, but apparently there was a national anthem sung, and then the race started. I wouldn't have known except for the fact that they usually sing the national anthem, and I also observed that all the heads from way up front were beginning to bob up and down. That meant they were running now.

The wave of head bobbing slowly but surely swept through the field of runners until it got to us. So we followed suit and began slowly trotting forwards. It was several minutes before we actually arrived at the starting line, and I heard all the watches chirp as everybody began keeping track of their official times. The target pace was 11:26/mile, and the plan was to start around 12:00 for the first few miles. The pace group left us behind a little bit, but they were always within sight.

It was a cold morning, but it was clear and the sky was blue. I knew it was going to be a beautiful day once the sun came up. He wore my gloves for awhile, and once his hands warmed up, he gave them back to me so I could wear them. The first few miles were kinda quiet. I believe we were both deep in thought, but I was honestly a little uncomfortable. This was my father, and I was his son, his friend, his pacer, and his "distraction from the pain in his legs". I couldn't think of anything to talk about. This has never been a problem before, but suddenly my father was in my world...sharing it with me for the first time. I think those first few quiet miles I was simply reveling in the fact that this was happening! We eventually began talking about things, but I couldn't tell you what they were. It was just nice to have a chance for some man to man conversation.


After a few miles, our bodies were warmed up, and our muscles had begun utilizing glucose more efficiently, so we raised our pace ever so slightly and rejoined the pace group. I think my father had never done a training run where he started slowly, and he was surprised at how easy his target pace felt after having actually warmed up properly. The pace group leader opted to have the group walk some of the hills to conserve energy, so we followed suit. I will point out that at no point did my father walk out of necessity. I am confident he could have run the entire way without needing to stop and walk.


Miles and time passed and we continued running comfortably. I occasionally asked him how he was doing. Pain in one or both ankles came and went, but overall he at least claimed he was doing ok. I took him at his word and we continued running comfortably. Using my GPS device, I pointed out when we passed 9.2 miles...his longest run ever. I also pointed out when we passed his longest time running, but I forget what that mark was. We continued running comfortably.

The last few miles were gently downhill, which was a big mental hurdle out of the way for my father. With how good he felt, our current pace being quite a bit faster than his target, and having actually left the pace group behind, my father at some point Knew that he would finish. The rest was just style points, which I know was important for him. He wanted to finish strong, and a sprint to the finish line seemed just the way to do that. With just over a mile remaining, he dropped the hammer and I proceeded to be astounded to see how much speed this 64 year old man still had in the tank after 12 miles. He ran mile 13 in 9:17.


My father and I came within sight of the finish line and we made a break for it. I was happy to see several of my friends along the finish line who were cheering for my dad. We also passed my mother who was cheering as a proud mother and a loving wife. We crossed the finish line at 2:25:49. More than 4 minutes faster than my father's goal. 45 minutes slower than my PR from the same race a year ago, but this was so much more satisfying to me. I got to enjoy inspiring somebody, my own father, to visualize a goal, to believe it possible, and to achieve beyond their expectations. My father got to have a taste of that thing which I have come to crave. Not a legitimate chemical runner's high, but something much more common. Finish lines. What they represent to me, and to many runners, is proof positive that you have accomplished something great. Not to say that my father isn't an accomplished man...far from it. But I'd be willing to bet that a few years ago, he would have never seen himself standing breathless and exhilarated and admiring his ginormous new finisher's medal for a half marathon. I am fairly certain that he learned something new about himself through this entire process, and I'm just glad to have played a small part in his journey.

I am absolutely convinced that this man can finish a full marathon, but I'll leave that up to him...not to say I won't casually mention it from time to time. :-)

Congratulations, Dad!

Show some respect...and get f*cking inspired!

I have a friend who, in my eyes, is an utterly amazing athlete. She is running Boston in a few weeks and is shooting for sub-3 hours. She is also an amazingly inspiring person, not only because she does amazing things, but as a friend she is incredibly encouraging. I am reposting something a friend of hers posted and I will now be reconsidering some of the language I use when I describe her.


Most notably:

"I’m not a freak of nature. It’s taken me a long a** time and a lot of hard work to get here. People think I’m just a natural runner and naturally fast. That’s not fair to me to say that because it sort of negates all those workouts I did where my legs ached, my body was exhausted, and I wanted to quit because it hurt… It negates the sacrifice and the social life I gave up in order to get here. If it all came naturally to me I’d be racing marathons at a sub 2:30 pace by now."

...and also...

"Look at your most recent races and the challenges you faced — you still PRed. You wanted it. You did it, regardless. You want it. You do it, regardless."

First of all, I can identify with the freak of nature comment. From my perspective, some of the things she does seem freakish, but that's only because I haven't done them(yet?). I also know that many of my friends might hold the same opinion of me, because I have done things that seem freakish to them. None of them were easy for me either, but I have always tried to make it clear to my friends that all of these things are possible with hard work and belief in oneself.

Second, it really is true that we can do anything if we want it. Sometimes we need to be reminded of this, and my amazing friend is always willing to remind me.

Colorado: Day 5 - New Heights and Remembrance

Today Delaware and I woke up exceedingly early to do something I've never done before. Our goal for today was to climb a mountain. A 14,000 foot peak. I've never climbed a mountain, nor have I ever been higher than about 10,000 ft(not counting airplane rides or Loveland Pass on I-70). I have never done anything physically demanding above 10,000 ft. There, that's more accurate.

I had many concerns going in. First of all, 5 days ago I was in Kansas City, elevation 1000 ft. This is a recurring theme of my week...ALTITUDE! Secondly, I have no mountaineering experience, so an obvious first choice is to do at 14er that's covered in snow. Brilliant, Daniel! Other minor concerns had to do with the little things like layering and what to bring, and that all ended up working out just fine. I also did a quick bit of research on HAPE(High Altitude Pulmonary Edema), a life threatening acute syndrome. It turns out you'd have to spend several days at altitude and it only affects roughly 1% of the population. With all of those matters settled, Delaware and I headed out for the front range to have an adventure.

We started the hike in around 7ish. I didn't bring a watch. The road to the trailhead was impassable due to being buried in snow, so we had an extra few miles of uphill trudging just to get to the "start of the hike". We both wore yaktrax and they worked pretty well. It was slow going and I was definitely breathing hard. Once we reached the trailhead, we stopped for some touristy pictures and then strapped on our snowshoes because we found we were sinking thigh deep into the snow in spots.

Another First for Danny: Snowshoeing. Never done it. And it was mighty awkward at first. The video footage of me taking my first few steps in them is pretty classic. I'll have that video edited and posted as some point, but it's gonna take awhile(It's up now). I more or less was walking like a duck.

We snowshoed through a long gulley and around a large mound and then our prize came into sight. Grays Peak. The 9th highest peak in Colorado. It is said to be one of the easiest 14ers in Colorado, which makes it quite popular. I've heard it described as an "interstate highway" due to the usual amount of traffic going up and down it. These things are all true about this peak....during the Summer. As it was, on this particular day in March, it was covered in snow and we had the entire mountain to ourselves. This was both good and bad. Good because, you know, solitude, becoming one with nature, getting to yell silly things and listen for the echo. Bad because...well...we didn't exactly know where we were going and the trail was really hard to locate, especially since parts of it were under snow.

After snowshoeing for a few miles, we switched back to our yaktrax for the business end of the ascent. It was a mixture of snow and rocks and the showshoes would have just gotten in the way at that point. We also each had brought an ice axe. Neither of us had ever used one, but we understood the basic principles of its use and how to use one to arrest a fall down a steep snowy slope. I just hoped I wouldn't have to put that knowledge to the test.

The first technical section presented itself. A steeply slanted traverse on hard packed snow. It was difficult to kick footholds into the snow and there was much slipping, sliding, and possibly cursing. As the traverse progressed, the theoretical unpleasantness of a full-on fall increased dramatically. I was very nervous that I might actually have to put some of my unpracticed ice axe knowledge into use. Several times I stopped to contemplate exactly what the hell I was doing there. It was these moments when I would look to Delaware for some sign that he wanted to turn around as well. "What do you think?" "Is this the right way?" "Should be even be up here in these conditions?" From way back in our climbing days this was always the hierarchy. Jake and Del were always gung-ho and I was the voice of "reason", or the voice of "Will this kill us?". I presented legitimate concerns, and they always told me that we were all gonna be like The Fonz. And then they'd ask me "What's The Fonz like?". And I would respond, "He's cool." And they would then say, "Exactamundo. He's cool, and we're gonna be cool."

For some reason it always calmed me down, and we were always ok in the end, despite being in more than a handful of hairy situations.

This was no different. I was nervous and Delaware was reassuring. I decided we'd get to the end of this traverse and see what it looked like before we made any decisions. I think there were at least 5 separate moments like this during our day.

So we continued. As I mentioned before, the trail was difficult to follow sometimes, and we definitely got WAY off route on the way up. We followed a trail up to a rock cairn and then the trail disappeared. We contemplated mobbing this way or that way, but none of the options seemed any good, but we picked one and traversed across an unsettling and blank snow face. And then mobbed straight uphill on a rocky section until we found the real-deal trail. And keep in mind that I'm gasping for air the entire time and I've never done anything like this before. Ever. And definitely not at 13,000 feet.

Once we found The Trail, a cursory glance downward showed us where we had gone wrong and reassured us that the descent wouldn't be quite as much of a clusterf*ck. The new concern was this: "Uh, what time is it?"

1:30 pm. Our absolute fail-safe, no-questions-asked cutoff time was Summit By 2 pm. Or turn around. We were already well past 13k, but the summit still appeared to be so far away. I began worrying that the descent might take longer than we thought. I imagined getting stranded on the mountain overnight and dying of hypothermia. My mind was already creating the headlines, "Yahoo Midwesterner Dies During Winter Attempt Of His First 14er.".

We soldiered on anyways. Being on the correct trail was very reassuring however, and the final switchbacks came and went relatively quickly. Suddenly, we were on the ridge. It was a short 30-40 yards to the summit. I couldn't freaking believe it! We were there!

Delaware hung back and allowed me to summit first, meanwhile getting out his video camera to document the moment properly. I strode up to the small pile of rocks that represented the highest point on the mountain. I stepped on top of the pile and let out a hearty yell in celebration. I then swept the horizon and took in the view.

We had reached the summit at 1:45...15 minutes to spare! We took some triumphant summit photos and goofed around a little bit and then I remembered something that I hadn't thought about in a long time. An old climbing buddy.

Bowen Pope was a heck of a guy. Always smiling, always upbeat, always up for an adventure. I remembered on one particular climbing trip, we were all hiking around when he approached a small pile of rocks, climbed on top of them and proudly proclaimed, "I have summited." We all giggled, but he insisted that any time you stand on the highest point of any object, be it a mountain, a small hill, or a lowly pile of rocks...that constituted "summiting".

Bowen died of cancer in Fall 2008 at the age of 30. I decided at that exact moment that this summit, my first summit, my first 14er....this summit was for him. I made a little video dedication to him on the summit and then thought about him. And I thought about myself. And I thought about where I was, both at that moment as well as in life. I thought about what I was doing. Bowen's life was cut tragically short, yet I am fortunate enough to have incredible health and opportunities to do amazing things. I contemplated whether I was doing his memory justice in the way that I was living my life.

This moment for me was an emotional punch to the solar plexus as I was overwhelmed with these thoughts. I missed my old friend, I was thankful for the life I've been given, I felt humbled and awestruck by the beauty that surrounded me in every direction, and for just a moment, I broke down.

After I composed myself, Del and I pointed our feet downhill and began the descent. One thing I know for a fact is that more mountaineers die on the descent than on the ascent. This makes sense because of the fact that many climbers let their guards down and get careless after the "hard part" is over. I was eager to get back to the car because I was downright exhausted, but I kept this in mind...sorta. I found the descent to be 100% easier, both as far as exertion and as far as keeping my footing. Maybe that had to do with the fact that we were actually on the proper trail this time, but who could honestly tell? The descent FLEW by, with the exception that Delaware's yaktrax kept coming off. We marched down the hill, got through the first tricky traverse from earlier...this part was actually just as tricky the 2nd time through and I actually legitimately fell a few times, but I was able to avoid sliding down the slope due to my totally awesome ice axe skillzz. We got back to snowshoe territory, strapped in, and settled in for the long trudge back to the trailhead, down the snow-covered road, and back to the car. We were both exhausted and hungry but utterly satisfied with how our day had gone.

The weather was absolutely perfect. Chilly, but not too cold. Not a cloud in the sky. Occasional mild winds, and barely a light breeze on the summit. I will admit that we both overlooked sunscreen and we both are now incredibly sunburned on our faces.

Worth it.

I couldn't have asked for a better experience for my first time climbing a mountain, and I was thrilled to have a guy like Delaware along for the adventure.



Here's the GPS readout from our journey.

A good friend of mine, a below-the-knee amputee, is training for an Ironman and raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, so if you'd like to support the cause please make a donation in memory of Bowen Pope(or anybody else you know who has suffered from this horrible disease).


As always, thanks so much for reading! It has been one hell of a week, and it's back to the Midwest for me!

Danny Loental