Ryan Schneider is the IronMadMan

Perhaps I’ll be writing a bit more.

Besides, you know the old saying, “Those who can’t do, blog.”

It’s Saturday night. Steph and I are home, blissfully crossing off longstanding to-do list items. Primarily the fun kind. Well, at least mine are.  Write more.  Read more — just finished Tyler Hamilton’s Secret War about the rampant corruption in cycling during the height of the Lance Armstrong Years.  Visit more — hung out with my buddy TJ and new neighbor Ruben at my favorite local bar.

I grudgingly admit it, but maybe this bike crash has jarred my priorities back into order. Make no mistake, I will tackle training with a new level of anger and vengeance once I’m cleared to do so. I hate that an opportunity to improve during a vacation period was taken from me.  But, this brief period “off” has made me realize some of the lazy fun I’ve been missing in pursuit of my more ambitious (and riskier) fun.  For example, I slept in until 11 a.m. this morning. 11 A.M. IN THE MORNING!!!  On a Saturday!!!  Usually I’m 2.5 hours deep into a ride by then.  Today, Steph and I lounged around, took in a movie (Life of Pi, excellent!!!), visited with friends for an early dinner, and I hung out afterwards grabbing a beer.  After that I finished the Hamilton book and here we are, nearing midnight, writing while the knee is propped up on the couch.  I have no concerns about getting to bed early because of a training session tomorrow.  I must admit, this feeling is nice. Very nice.

Still, I hunger for the competition.  I hunger to play with and yes, beat or be beaten by my teammates.  I miss trying to get just a bit better each day. Getting out of bed wondering if I can push a bit farther today than I did yesterday. But at least I’ve been reminded that training at all is a gift.  So is life, for that matter. Everyone who hears my story about what happened cannot believe that I essentially walked away from the crash without any broken bones.  I appreciate that more and more, especially now that I have more time to reflect on such things.

Slowing down, just like in training, can sometimes cause the greatest gains.  In this case that doesn’t mean wattage. It means some (probably needed) perspective.

The center of the imploded windshield is where my helmet must have hit. It's cracked through the left temple.

If you’re an avid triathlete or cyclist, I’m sure you’ve heard this phrase at least once on a group ride: “There are two kinds of cyclists; those who have crashed…and those who haven’t crashed yet.”

I remember the first time I heard that phrase. It was a group ride with the San Fernando Valley Bike Club, a crusty group of veteran cyclists who didn’t have much interest in teaching a new kid like myself how to ride properly. I was mostly ignored…and dropped.

But, they were right about that phrase.  I’ve crashed twice now, the most recent being the result of a motorist either not paying attention to the road or on her cell phone.  We are still trying to sort out the details, but the short version is that my tri bike lost a fight with a Fiat, while I somehow managed to walk away — albeit with a bum knee and tight neck. (I won’t know the extent of damage done to my right knee until mid-next week, when the MRI results come in.)

I’m finding that the hardest part of a bike crash can often be the healing process. I should have known this considering my lengthy mental recovery from my tumble over Santa Susana Pass a couple years ago.  And it’s not even the physical part that sucks the most. It’s knowing that your fitness is leaking from your pores like a slow tire leak — only there’s nothing that can stop it except time itself.

What kind of sport is this where the majority of my cycling friends have been upended by vehicles, or stray pets?  Football players only have to deal with other people.  We have people, terrain, weather, vehicles and animals!!!  Oh my!!

It’s been just longer than a week since my accident.  I’m going stir crazy. I tried to hop back in the pool (moderate success) and on the bike trainer once (moderate failure).  I’m nowhere near ready to run yet — my body has flat-out said “NO!” to that in big capital letters after jogging a few steps.  I can now better imagine what my friend Caleb is going through after shattering a clavicle. He’s out for three months.  I expect I’ll be out six weeks with no activity based on the initial estimate given by the orthopedist at Southern California Orthopedic Institute this past Friday.

For now, I can only take the same advice I gave Caleb just a week ago. RELAX. It’s the off-season. There are no upcoming races. Enjoy sleeping in, staying up late, and drinking a bit more beer. Maybe I’ll go back to being “Two Beer” (my college nickname) instead of “One Beer” (my This is 40 nickname!).  This is the perfect time to get hit by a car, in other words — yep that’s gallows humor.  It’s probably good for me to have some time off to rest up in general. I’ve got 12 races next year and my triathlon season won’t start until May.  Though knowing me, I’ll probably wind up in LaQuinta for the Desert Triathlon in March.

For any of you out there enjoying a nice holiday break and thinking of a bike ride, please be careful.  Now is probably the worst time for motorists to spot us, as they’re minds are racing about New Year’s plans and getting to the mall before everyone else. And if you have any suggestions for how to cure the Winter Blues from sitting at home not being able to work out…I’m all ears.

A writer who’s afraid to write ain’t worth much.

I’ve written blog posts for three months, except the only problem was that I my brain doesn’t have a “tele-publish” button that sends my thoughts straight to this site.

In some ways, it’s like training.  You stop working out for a couple days, and next thing you know it’s been a weekend.  Then, it’s a week without packing a swim bag, and from there…who knows.  The hardest workout is the first one.

So here I am, back in front of the keyboard at home. Finally.  As I told a friend recently, just because we didn’t talk much doesn’t mean I didn’t have anything to say.

And let me tell you, I have a lot to say.  I just returned from a weekend scouting the Ironman Lake Tahoe course, since I signed up for Ironman No. 4 next September.  It also looks like Ironman No 5 lurks two months after that — a return visit to Tempe Town Lake and a bit of revenge on my mind.

It has been the most productive and successful triathlon season yet.  I’ve learned so much about myself as a racer and as a person.  Things that I hope to pour back into this blog, day by day, a little bit at a time once again. I’m going to try and blog as often as I can in anticipation of IM Lake Tahoe.  The countdown is back.  I figure that there are people whom I can help that are training for their first Ironman, and that gives me great joy.

Training to get faster is no longer enough.  I want more.

I have no right to ask anyone to follow me on Twitter or join me in another journey.  It’s hard to do that knowing I was such a flake this year with the blog.  But, maybe word will spread from the Lava Magazine writing and slowly but surely people will return.

I will do my best not to disappoint.

I don’t know why I stared blankly in the shower, afraid to write, riddled with guilt.

The first blog, or the first workout, is only the hardest because it holds our brains captive.

Typing on the keyboard here…it feels good.

Next up: A season recap and a sprucing up of the blog site. More to come.

I'm wearing a soaked rag on my head...and it felt great.

The good news with an Ironman marathon, when the race is going well, is knowing you can walk the damn thing and still finish before midnight.

That’s what I thought as I walked toward the T2 changing tent from the bike dismount after my 112-mile ride.  I couldn’t pick my legs up enough to run, still trying to process the day’s events to that point.  The idea of running 26.2 miles in that moment seemed not just ridiculous, but cruel. It was 82 degrees with no cloud cover, which meant with the asphalt heat rising it would feel closer to 87.

I entered the dark changing area with my running gear bag, which a helpful volunteer held out for me as I rummaged through it to put body glide on my feet to avoid blisters, then socks, then my shoes.  I took two Salt Stick canisters and a full packet of Pepto Bismal.  Just as I reached to put it in my back jersey pocket, I was greeted with a loud wretching noise nearby.  Another Ironman tribute was puking. “It’s been happening all day,” the volunteer said grimly.

I thanked the volunteer for his calm help and stepped outside the tent.  I didn’t realize how shady and cool the changing area was. An oasis. Then the best part of the oasis, a team of volunteers armed with nothing more than sunblock surrounded me, slathering me all at once.  I sighed with delight and relief, not knowing I was sporting a wicked sunburn on my shoulders and lat muscles where my tri suit didn’t cover.  Pouring bottles of water all over me on the bike to stay cool showered away any semblance of sun protection. But in that moment, the topical felt just as soothing as massage oil applied during a spa visit.

Time to test the legs out.  Would I be running or walking today?  Surprisingly, my legs responded well.  Not even a “This again?” squeal from my quads.  All systems go.  My body was getting used to this unique form of torture, even without solid food for nearly three hours.  I saw Steph as I begain the first loop of the three-loop course — the first of 10 times I’d have the privilege — gave her a kiss, and it was on.

I had to employ various tricks during the first 13 miles to keep my body moving at a consistent sub-10-minute mile pace.  The first trick is to break up the 13 miles into two 10k runs.  I run six miles all the time, this would be no different.  My brain knows it can handle this so my body follows.  Then, I reward my body at every aid station by throwing a cup of ice cold water into my face.  I’m getting very tired with each passing mile, so the water wakes me up and literally forces the breath out of me with the shocking chill.  I also stuff soaked sponges down my jersey, front and back. After that, my ritual includes pouring ice into the jersey opening down my chest.  My heart-rate strap acts as a sort of dam, so the ice centers and stops right over my heart and lungs.  As a result, my heart-rate hardly ever rises above zone 2 (roughly 146 beats per minute) through the entire run.

That keeps me cool, but what would keep me nourished?  Fool your mind, the body will follow.  But without fuel, both body and mind are toast.  Fortunately, I remembered the advice my Fortius teammate and friend Christina posted on my Facebook the night before the race. I’m convinced this single piece of advice saved my run, and enabled me to PR the marathon.

Christina told me that if I couldn’t eat anything during the marathon, try grapes.  ”Lifesavers,” she wrote.

They were. I ate at least five full bunches of grapes during my nearly 4.5 hour trek.  The grapes gave me enough sugar to persist, and I found entertainment rolling them around in my fingers, squishing them apart in my mouth.  Lifesavers they were.

There were other lifesavers on the course though.  First and foremost was my new friend Colleen, whom I shall refer to as the Mayor of St. George because of the constant cheering for her I heard on every street of the course.  Colleen lives in St. George, and was kind enough to reply to my St. George preview post from six weeks ago — warning me that the first 20 miles of the bike course were not to be taken for granted.

Oh, how right she turned out to be. If it wasn’t for her, I’m convinced I might not have been as mentally prepared.

Colleen and I seemed to be running the same marathon for the most part.  For most of the afternoon, we leap-frogged each other, always encouraging the other to keep running, keep pushing, keep pacing.  Unfortunately, Colleen was having some digestive issues that caused her to run at what probably was a slower pace for her — and I think it was hurting her outlook.  But since she is the Mayor of St. George, she had plenty of support to keep her on track.  One nice guy literally ran alongside the two of us for around a half-mile, giving her a pep talk during the second loop that probably helped me just as much.

When you’re sucking wind, you’ll take anybody’s encouraging words even if they’re not meant for you.

At the half-marathon point, I looked to the tall tower in the town square where the finisher’s chute was stationed.  If I could maintain my current pace, I’d definitely break 13 hours — which was my secondary personal goal.  My first goal was a 12:30:00 finish, weather permitting.  Well, the weather certainly did not permit.  The next-best thing was to break 13 hours.

It would be hard, but doable.

(The video below is the official Ironman St. George 2012 highlights video. It summarizes the entire day in case you’re sick of reading all this. Look for me at the 5:17 mark!)

My body wasn’t cooperating though.  The mile pace times started to creep into the 10:20 per mile range, then slower.  Soon, I was consistently running in the 10:10s and getting worried.  My heart rate was low, but so was my output.  I became scared that I was bonking with a whole lot more running to do.  Maybe I would have to walk?

The trick to finishing the second half of an Ironman marathon is to count backwards from 13 miles.  Twelve more miles to go.  Eleven.  Ten, and so on.  My goal is to get to that six-mile mark, knowing it’s “just” one last 10k.  Only by the time this 10k began, I was in danger of missing the 13-hour window.  I needed to pick up the pace.

Too bad though.  I had hit the wall. Miles 20 and 21 were almost at the 11-minute per mile pace.  Miles 23 and 24 were slower. My body was breaking down.  The lack of food was catching up to me.  Things got so bad that when spectators were high-fiving me, they were actually slowing down my pace.  Instead of giving me energy, fans were taking it with each slap of my hand.  But then I realized, this is it.  I was running the final two miles of my Ironman.  An Ironman that I originally worried would only have an asterisk next to it because it wasn’t on the same course as the first two brutally tough St. George events.  There would be no asterisk.  This course was giving me everything I could handle.  I had already made peace with my Tri-asshole nemesis from 2010.  Was he here racing?  Who knew?  Who cared?  I was.  Nobody could accuse me of taking the “easy” way out at an Ironman course.

All these thoughts invigorated me.  I wanted to give this remaining run everything I had left. To find strength I didn’t know existed.  So I made a promise to myself.  No. More. Stopping.  From mile 24 until the end of the race, I was going all-out.  Even through the toughest part of the course, a mile-long steady climb on Diagonal Street, I would not stop.  The faster I ran, the faster this torture would be over.  Plus, maybe I could salvage a sub-13-hour finish. It was possible, if I just kept on pushing.

My final two miles were 9:45 climbing and 8:40 descending.  Not record-breaking times but among my fastest miles of the day.  Heading down towards the final turnaround, I found Steph, told her to get ready, it was time for a victory celebration in the finisher’s chute.  Thinking of Chris McCormack and his awkward Ironman victory photos with sponges shoved in his chest, I got ready for my close up.  I flung out four sponges, and opened my jersey all the way to drain water and ice.

This was almost it.  Still, there was a quarter-mile to go.  The clock tower was out of sight and the last time I saw it, it read 7:55 p.m.  C’mon Ryan!  I implored…finish strong!  The turnaround came, the clock tower came back into view…12:56.  Four minutes to run make the right turn on Main Street and hear Mike Reilly call me an Ironman for the third time.

I liked my chances!

And so the celebration began.  My arms instinctively became airplane wings, and I flew from one side of the crowd to the other, accepting all the high-hives I could touch.  I never wanted this moment to end, and yet that’s all I wanted.

“Ryan Schneider, Sherman Oaks, California…You’re an Ironman!”

Number 3!!!

At the finish line, I looked at my watch: 4:26:11.  A marathon PR.  12:57:32.  Mission.  Accomplished.

I found Steph in the chute shortly thereafter.  She missed the finish because the course was blocked off and made it hard for her to cross the street from her personal cheering perch to get into the stands. Steph accepted a long embrace, and my apologies for telling her she’d be able to see me no problem at the finish.  We had a good laugh.

Once the euphoria of the race wore off, the chills set in.  I couldn’t stay warm.  My body was cold and required medical attention to warm up with several blankets, chicken broth and massage work.  After nearly an hour of recovery in the massage and medical area, it was time to go home.

The Ironman Games had concluded.  I survived.  I took everything the Gamesmakers threw at me and never panicked.  In some ways, I got to know myself better as a result.  And I appreciate myself a little more.  Tri-asshole is dead.  And the only asterisk next to this race is to signify that it was statistically the hardest Ironman in the history of the sport.

In Arizona, I left a piece of my heart and soul on that course.  Coeur d’Alene has my gratitude, but no scars to speak of.  St. George…that’s the place I’ll remember where I confirmed who I really am.  A fighter. And a finisher.

I finish what I start.  No matter what.  I finish.

I won my own version of the Ironman Games.

Beautiful but brutal ride. I was battling a headwind here but staying positive.

Wind is nature’s snake.  It’s unpredictable, can lash out and strike at any moment, wreak incredible damage, poison body and mind, then meekly slither away like a faint breeze.

If that’s the case, the wind on the first loop of the Ironman St. George bike course from Sandy Hollow Reservoir to and through Gunlock was a black mamba.  Merciless.  Sinister.  Overwhelming.   It was only something a Gamesmaker could have devised with a cackle from a remote location.  I’ve experienced black mamba wind before, mainly at Ironman Arizona in 2010, but only in roughly 20-minute bursts.  The constant 30-40 mph pounding we took on the bike after passing through the towns of Santa Clara and Ivins lasted more than an hour at a time before we received a brief respite — climbing the daunting Veyo Wall.

I’ve never looked more forward to climbing a nearly mile long, category 4, 6% steady grade.

The windy conditions never broke me physically, but there were more than a few times battling the elements when I wanted to park my bike, find a hole in the red rocks on the side of the road and just curl up.  Quitting wasn’t an option, but it became far more of a fantasy than finishing the race.  Later in the days following the race, I’ve heard that 170 Ironman tributes didn’t make it to the run.

With that in mind, my seven-hour, 112-mile, 6,000-foot suffer-fest once again taught me that good things come to those who persevere.  There were many times during the ride’s first 66 miles when I wanted to stop.  But then I wouldn’t have been rewarded with a blast-furnace tailwind for the return trip into St. George.  If the wind heading out of town was the snake, then during the loop back I became the charmer.  As you’ll see in my Strava data, I reached speeds approaching 50 mph!  There was one point where I was keeping pace with a convertible BMW on the trafficked highway lane next to me.  I was hunched in my aero position, staring back at three people sunning themselves in their luxury car.  They waved.  I sheepishly waved back quickly so as not to be blown completely off the road, unsure what else to do but laugh at the absurdity of this whole experience.

All I could think was, “The Gamesmaker Giveth, and the Gamesmaker Taketh Away.”

NOT a happy camper at this point on the ride. Starting Loop 2.

Before that hissing tailwind, I was on pace for an eight-hour Ironman bike ride.  My worst by nearly 1.5 hours.  But thanks to becoming the charmer and not suffering from the snake bites, I soared into town on pace for my target goal of seven hours.  Everything was back on track.

And then, I stopped being able to eat food.

I knew I swallowed a lot of water in the swim.  But why had it taken 4.5 hours for that to become a potential problem?  At the time, I figured it was the sweet and sticky Ironman Perform bottled drinks I was downing one after the other at each 15-mile aid station.  I correctly anticipated that I may have stomach issues based on past Ironmans so I packed Pepto Bismal in my Bento Box on the bike.  Consuming four tablets over the next three hours helped calm my gut, but it did nothing to spark my appetite.  All I could manage were a steady stream of Salt Stick capsules, water, and the occasional Gu Roctane.  At least I was hydrated, evidenced by twice being able to pee while remaining on the bike (sorry Santa Monica Mountain Cycles!).  My stomach issues almost became a blessing because they distracted me from the nasty headwinds picking up again on the Gunlock portion of the second loop.  Fortunately, I had company in the form of a 46-year-old triathlon coach from Boston, Richard.  We talked for around 20 minutes.  He said that he’s been to Kona for five world championships, yet this Ironman was the hardest by far he’s ever experienced.  We encouraged each other, talked about triathlon, race strategy for the rest of the day, and leap frogged back and forth.  Just knowing someone else — someone very fast — was suffering actually made me feel a little better in that I wasn’t the only one.  (That sounds terrible, I know.)  My conditioning didn’t suck.  The snake was biting everyone equally.  Of course, I didn’t have the benefit of knowing just how many people were snake-bitten at that moment.

By the six-hour mark, my pace steeply dropped heading up the three main Gunlock-Veyo climbs, and my willpower drained.  How could I possibly run a marathon still?  The crosswinds following the Veyo Wall are the worst part of the bike loop.  You can see the turn into town that will free you from the snake’s grip, yet getting there seems almost impossible.  The wind’s grip was too constricting.  Everything around me became a mirage.  Shade.  The smell of the Veyo Pies shop.  The next rest stop. Meanwhile, the winds are whipping me to the point that I’m riding across the road’s double yellow lines.  If I was walking, I would have looked like Rocky Balboa in the 15th round of a fight.  It wasn’t walking.  It wasn’t pedaling.  It was dragging and mashing.  Willpower, not pedal power.  Just. Pedal. A. Bit. More.

Finally, the snake loosened its choke hold.  The shade briefly revealed itself, and so did the tailwind — albeit much more mild than before.  I’d actually have to work a bit climbing the two miles before the steep descent to St. George, but who cares?  If I could rally and the winds cooperated, I knew I could reach the seven-hour mark.  I was still on track.  The day was not lost.  I pounded forward, pedaling when many were coasting besides me.  Seeing others crumble behind me — people who had stormed ahead of me earlier — fed my depleted confidence.  Pacing was my power.  Eventually I saw my Fortius buddy Matt about five to 10 minutes ahead of me going into the final two mile turnaround.  We hadn’t seen each other since connecting for about 15 minutes during the ferocious first loop.  I thought if Matt, who is a dramatically faster cyclist than me, is only several minutes ahead then today was way worse for everyone than I imagined. Despair turned to pride and something else…hope.

My ride came to a gentle end, like a faint breeze after a tempest.  The wind slowed down, and after a short but steep climb to Bluff Street I was giving my bike to a volunteer at T2.  I didn’t know it then, but my finishing time was 7:00:18.  Seven hours flat.  After all that worrying. After the battling.  After the snake charming.  I hit the lower end of what I expected to accomplish on the bike.

How I arrived to that time though…I never expected any of that.

I survived the water and the wind.  I survived the heat and my own intestinal mutiny.

What would the Ironman Gamesmakers think of for the run?

The calm before the storm...literally.

Be careful what you wish for.

That thought first crossed my mind midway through the first loop on the Ironman St. George bike course, right after sand blasts smacked my face from 30-40 mph wind gusts.  After the wind blew me literally from one side of the road to the other.  After the myriad leg-biting rolling hills yet before any of the three “big” climbs near the tiny towns of Gunlock and Veyo.

I wanted to tackle one of the toughest Ironman courses in North America — perhaps the world — to see how I’d respond.  I wanted to find my true physical and mental limits. Arizona and Coeur d’Alene tested me, but I was left hungry for more. Plus, those of you who have read my past posts know there’s more to it than that.  I never quite shook off the verbal assault laid upon me by Tri-asshole before my first Ironman in 2010.  Upon telling Tri-asshole I was training for Ironman Arizona, all I got back was a biting stare and, “You could have picked a harder one.”

I’ve been racing that guy in my mind ever since.

Midway through the second run loop this past Saturday at Ironman St. George, I finally passed him.  Looked him in the eye, told him to screw himself, and kept right on running.

Based on the 20% did not finish rate and the slowest recorded winning pro Ironman times, Ironman St. George 2012 is now officially the hardest Ironman race on record. Yet statistically I had my best race even though it was also my slowest Ironman finish time; I ranked top 19% in my age group (47/240).

I have nothing left to prove to anybody, and most important, I have nothing left to prove to myself.

What follows is my tale of what I’ll affectionately refer to as “The Ironman Games” — for that’s what it truly felt like at points when weather changed and worsened seemingly for no reason whatsoever.  I’d love to meet the Head Gamesmaker who concocted Saturday’s race.

PRE-RACE

Sandy Hollows Reservoir requires a 25-minute shuttle bus ride from the T2 and finisher’s chute in downtown St. George. That’s a long time to be cooped up with a bunch of nervous Ironman tributes.  To tune them out, I blasted my headphones with my usual array of Rocky soundtrack hits and some new stuff too (Fun, Florence and the Machines, The Heavy).  Between each song, I could hear two guys behind me talking about their split times, how they want to handle T1, what nutrition they’ll eat, etc.  I immediately put my phones back on to drown them out.  First-timers, I thought.  Then I laughed to myself how weird that comment was…it wasn’t so long ago I was them.  The tune that really got me jacked up and race-ready in the dark before dawn was Metallica’s cover of Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page.”  If you haven’t listened to that song, I think you’ll find the parallels between Seger’s ode to constant travel on the road and the moments before an Ironman oddly similar.

Once our bus pulled up to the race site, I pulled off my phones, got body marked and tried to find a porto potty.  I’ve learned they get filled (literally) the first.  Everything else can wait.  Unfortunately, many people had the same idea as me. Waiting for a toilet was like the tributes in Hunger Games plotting out what they were going to pluck from the Cornucopia.  Frenzied tension.

To calm down pre-race after the restroom visit, I lounged in the changing tent again with my headphones on.  The energy was palpable and draining.  Frank Sinatra crooned me back to a mellow state.  I guarantee I was the only guy at Ironman listening to Frankie before the race.

The sun came up, the glide came on, as did my wetsuit…and it was time to march with nearly 1,500 other people towards the water.

We had no idea what was waiting for us.

SWIM (AKA “The Tempest”)

This picture doesn't even do the actual scene justice.

During the walk into the lake, I started bobbing my head and dancing to the music.  I’ve learned to remember and savor every moment leading up to an Ironman as well as during it.  One guy behind me pretended he was drawing a syringe from my arm and said, “Dude, I need some of your energy for today.”  That felt good to hear.  If other people can feel my energy and draw strength from it, then it’s going to be a good day.

My Fortius Racing buddies Matt and David joined me in the reservoir and we leisurely floated and treaded water for what felt far longer than 15 minutes even though it wasn’t.  My mind and body felt as tranquil as the water in that moment.  Even the music that was supposed to excite us, even Mike Reilly shouting out if we were ready to be an Ironman didn’t faze me.  Honestly, I was laughing to myself “Been there, heard that.”  Had this gotten old for me already?

Then, the cannon boomed.  Nearly 1,500 Ironman tributes blasted off, kicking, grabbing, gouging, rolling and knocking into each other. I swam with my head up and out for the first 100 or 200 yards, just to be safe.  All you could see was white foam and bright green caps.  My only initial drama came when someone grabbed around my waist and started to pull me downward.  I put my arm around their waist, used my momentum to propel myself over their body and swam out of the way.  All I could think the first 500 yards or so was to stay calm, find a lane, relax and not go out too hard like I did at Ironman Couer d’Alene. Mission accomplished.  I settled into a fine groove, found feet to draft off thanks to super clear water, and cruised to the first turn buoy.

I was going to PR this swim by a longshot, I thought.

The Head Gamesmaker had other plans.

Upon making that turn and essentially heading back the way we came, it felt like a boat must have cruised across our swim line.  The wake was just too high to be anything else.  I was pushed several feet high and thrust back down again into the surf.

“What the fuck was that?!”  I yelled to nobody in particular.  Then, I looked up and all I could see were waves, mist, and hardly any other swimmers.  This was not the same water I had just spent about 15 minutes in.  This was far worse.  It reminded me of the LA Triathlon race in 2010 where the lifeguard boat bobbed around like a toy in the ocean.  Where we had to run 200 yards to the right of the entry point so the current would carry us vertically to the right turn buoy.

With that in mind, I reminded myself of two things: First, I’ve been here before. Second, my grandfather was with me.  It was the seventh anniversary of his funeral. Nothing was going to happen on his watch. Keep swimming.  Don’t panic.  Stay focused.

The next hour was more a battle of patience and will then it was an exercise in swimming technique. I’d swim down a swell, take three strokes, see when I was about to be pulverized by a wave, breast stroke up to the crest, seek some guidance on some buoy — ANY buoy — and swim towards that mark while trying not to swallow any more water.  Rarely did I have anyone within 15 yards of me.  I had never felt so alone in a swim, which is a terrible feeling when you think there are supposed to be 1,400-plus other swimmers in the water with you.  But where are they??? I simply couldn’t see them, and I could only see buoys every few minutes or so.  My spirits sank as I realized this would be a very slow swim, and that my goal of an Ironman PR were blowing away in the horrendous breeze.

Things got worse before they got better.  As I swam around the small island in the reservoir before the final turn towards shore, the current and chop were pushing me towards rocks.  I could see beneath me the outline of the earth and rock — I wasn’t scared but I was definitely concerned I was about to scrape up my body pretty bad if I kept getting pushed left.  I swam especially hard for at least 200 yards, head down, no sighting, just swimming towards where I thought the turn buoy should roughly be located.  Until that point I took what the tempest was giving me, but it was time to fight back or suffer real painful consequences.  I was around 20 yards from the turnaround buoy when I decided to abruptly turn left towards shore. I cleared the island and began to see green caps again.  Relieved, I picked up my pace and felt the waves picking me up from the backside now.  Then, it seemed like I was on a conveyor belt headed in the opposite direction.  Aren’t we supposed to be in a reservoir?  This was serious current!

Finally, mercifully, I reached the boat landing.  The wind was ripping and howling as banners looked like they were about to tear from their posts and fly away like magic carpets.  My fellow swimmers and I didn’t run onto the concrete and carpeting.  We staggered.  I was dazed.  What just happened?  Was that real?  What time is it?  The clock indicated I had been in the water one hour and 22 minutes.  That’s the longest single swim I’ve endured, three full minutes longer than my cramps-laden IM Coeur d’Alene swim last year. It was going to be a long, long day.

Then, I gazed into the bike racks at T1.  Most of the bikes were still there!  Did I actually have a good swim and just didn’t know it?

I later found out that between 200 and 300 Ironman tributes were pulled from the water — including an active duty Navy SEAL who missed the swim cutoff (he must’ve been from District 2).  I’ve also heard rumors that the swim cutoff was extended 15 minutes due to not being able to find all the athletes and so many being blown off course.  Moreover, according to my friend Colleen’s race report, 57 out of 60 kayak rescuers needed rescuing themselves!

I was the little volleyball from Castaway, and yet unlike the movie, somehow, someway I miraculously made it through unscathed — just dazed.

That was just the beginning of the day. I still had to get on the bike.

What does it mean to “get better” in triathlon?  Does it mean “go faster?”  I think that would be the obvious response.

But there’s something else, something deeper.

No, to me getting better in triathlon means being smarter.  By “smarter,” I mean developing an innate sense of body awareness that transcends the data we gather on our sophisticated training devices.

I believe this now more than ever, three days after participating in the Bandit Trail Run 30k in Simi Valley (my hometown).  The 30k race features 3,900 feet of climbing along some of the most treacherous paths I’ve ever run on.  If you’re not careful, you will get hurt.

I’m not the fastest of runners, nor one of the prettier-looking runners. I would describe my running style as “rumbling.”  My hips look like they’re bearing the weight of the world with every step I take. Some of my teammates look like gazelles on the track.  I envy them.  I probably look like a wildebeest.  Yet on race day, I tend to outperform my own expectations.  Why?  After analyzing Sunday’s run (which I’ve embedded here to check out) and past races I’ve competed in, I think there are two key factors.  First, I hate losing.  Whether that’s failing to meet my own expectations or losing even to my teammates who are good friends, it doesn’t matter.  If it’s a race and there’s a start and a finish, I want to win.  Which leads me to the second factor, and this is where I think I have a slight advantage: I’m willing to suffer to reach my goal.  For close to 3.5 hours on Sunday, my heart rate hovered in the mid-160s.  That’s high for me.  While it’s true I didn’t go anaerobic for long stretches (perhaps a better definition of suffering), I maintained a state of relative discomfort without any thought of slowing down or stopping.  I ran through annoying pebbles in my socks causing blisters on my left foot, and cramps in my calf muscles in the final two miles of the race.  If I saw someone in front of me on the course, I did everything possible to pass them.  I took offense to them even though they were total strangers.  Anger can be a powerful motivator.  Pain could wait.  I’d rather reach my goal and pay the physical price than coast and think about what could have been.

That’s what I enjoyed most about the Bandit Trail Run, along with spending a beautiful day with a throng of my Fortius teammates.  Rocky Peak Park gave me the perfect opportunity to see how hard I could push myself in hills I used to bike as a kid and come out victorious on the other side.  And instead of listening to my new Garmin Forerunner 910XT watch tell me that my heart-rate was too high, I ignored the data completely and just ran the race I wanted to run.  I ran as hard as I knew I was capable of running for 20 miles and left almost every ounce of energy I had on that course.  I ran hard, but never out of control of myself — and data never dictated my race strategy.

As a result, I beat my goal time by eight minutes and honestly think I couldn’t have run a better race.  There’s nothing I would have changed about that day.  I finished 18th out of 98 competitors, and fifth out of 17 in my age group. A couple years ago, I probably would have stared at my watch, panicked that my heart-rate was too high, slowed down or quit on myself all together.  That sums up my LA Marathon experience, in fact.  Now a couple years later, I know my body, what it’s capable of, shut out the pain, and just keep moving as fast as I can for as long as I can.

Smarter can sometimes outpace faster.  Combine that with sheer stubbornness and that’s what keeps me moving.

It ain’t pretty, but it’ll do.

There are always faster triathletes than me, no doubt.  But they’re beatable.  I think to be a better triathlete, sometimes you simply have to want it more than the other guy and have the guts to go after it — trusting that you know more about yourself than anything that overpriced racing watch can tell you.

Starting line at the Bandit Trail Run

Fortius represent! 18 team members raced the Bandit and all finished.

Gerardo (far left) actually stitched himself into this photo, which is why he kinda looks like a ghost.

There was a time in all our lives when we were instructed with nothing more than, “Get out of the house and go play!”  That was the only responsibility we had.  School was out.  We were too young to work.  So, we played.

That time ended for most of us around 12 or 13.  At least for me it did.  Newspaper routes, day camp jobs and ultimately being a cub news reporter filled the rest of my summers until college graduation.

I reclaimed a bit of my childhood during the last two weeks of December.  Our games studio closed for the holidays on December 15 and didn’t reopen its doors until January 4.  My wife had to remain at work during most of that time since we took an extended honeymoon in August and she was out of vacation days.

So there really was only one thing I could do…PLAY.

Instead of playing soccer, basketball or baseball like a did as a kid, I played triathlete.  Oh, and I played video games too, since you know, that’s a part of my job.  (So that part of my childhood didn’t change.)  I ran, swam and biked practically every day.  Though mostly I cycled, including eight outings in 10 days as part of an unofficial Fortius Racing Team winter training camp.  By the end of my “camp,” I saw massive improvement.  I felt stronger on hills, faster thanks to strenuous pace lines and sprint intervals, my descending skills improved and I found a great spot for scones at Griffith Park!  Yet I couldn’t really measure any of my progress officially since I STILL haven’t bought a computer watch to replace my lost Garmin.  I’m learning that sometimes what I can’t measure is more valuable than what I can measure.  If I can sense that I’m climbing a hill more powerfully (in the big chain for the first time) or descending a curvy road with more confidence (fewer brake squeezes), that’s good enough for me. And after capping my cycling camp with a sojourn from Glendora Mountain Road to the ski lifts at Mount Baldy, it didn’t matter what my watts were, what the elevation was or how fast I pedaled. All that mattered was that I made it to the top, saw beautiful scenery, hung out with my friends and enjoyed a new adventure.  Instead of losing the forest for the trees metaphorically, I appreciated them both literally.  In 20 years I won’t remember my average heart rate at Mt. Baldy, but I’ll remember the pain of the last two miles of the climb, the elation I felt hanging with Coach at the snowy ski lifts, and the rocket-ride descent back to the car.

I feel so fortunate that I could carve out a small block of time in my life at this age to play like a little kid again.  I realize how special those moments are and I truly savored every minute.  Yes, the training camp was hugely beneficial from a skills standpoint.  Coach Gerardo deserves a ton of credit (and probably some extra money!) for improving my cycling dramatically in such a short timespan.  But what I valued more was the opportunity to enjoy a cup of hot chocolate at 10 in the morning with my Fortius friends in the middle of a cycling break at Griffith Park.  I didn’t have to be anywhere.  I wasn’t missing a meeting.  I wasn’t disappointing friends or family by missing an event.  Everyone was accounted for.  I wasn’t missed.  I wasn’t missing anything.  I was caught up with bills, priorities, columns, life.

I had time to play. No strings attached.

For two weeks, I was 12 again.

You can go back to summer camp, even in the winter.

My grandmother is sick. In fact, she’s dying after a frustrating, heartbreaking battle with Alzheimer’s Disease.  She’s suffered from it for a few years now, going from someone who didn’t need a calculator to maintain the books at my family’s business for 50-plus years to not knowing who any of us are.

Of course, I remember many things about her, which I shared with her recently in a note I have no idea whether she understood let alone internalized. Yet we do these things not as much for the ill as for the living. Fortunately, my grandmother instilled in me her tough work ethic, never quit, never settle for anything less than the “A” mentality.  That’s what leads me to this past Saturday’s inaugural HITS series Olympic triathlon in La Quinta.

In the moment this race meant nothing. Ultimately though, it may come to mean everything.

For a week I teetered on whether I should race or stick around Los Angeles, waiting for the inevitable.  I visited my grandma during the week a couple times and saw that she was resting comfortably and without pain.  I made the hard choice to race knowing it was only a couple hours drive back to LA if things went south quickly.  Steph stayed at home for this race just to support the family in case that happened.

I drove down to La Quinta with mixed emotions.  It was selfish to race, yet I knew there was nothing else I could do but wring my hands.  In that regard, racing was the best thing I could do given the circumstances.  The one promise I made to myself driving down to the event was simple: This one was for Grandma.  That meant nothing but my absolute best effort, no excuses. No dumb errors.  Just me, the course, and a ton of fury.

RACE DAY RECAP

I almost broke my self-promise before the race ever started.  The night before I unexpectedly developed a stomach ache, an extreme rarity for me.  So much that I had to rush out from our Fortius pre-race team dinner to retrieve some Pepto Bismal from the store.  Minutes before getting ready to race, twinges of that ache returned, prompting me to pop some Pepto tablets I brought just in case.

Then, I went from stomach to headache, as the water temperature in Lake Cahuilla was a crisp 58 degrees.  Upon wading into the literally breath-taking water, my head froze and became tight at the temples.

Great, my Grandma is reaching me with guilt even from LA, I joked to myself.

Then the race director blew the whistle, and all aches and pains vanished.  I swam smoothly and confident, avoiding the mistakes I had made at the Turkey Tri with sighting and paced myself properly.  The water temp eventually felt terrific, and though there was chop on the return loop of the two-lap swim, I swam consistent and never without breath.  The result was a 1:36 pace, a full 10 seconds faster on a freshwater course than the Turkey Tri and my freshwater PR by 7 seconds (IMAZ ‘10, 1:43 pace).

BIKE

Since I’m still not wearing a race watch, I had no idea how my day was faring.  I didn’t know at the time I had just PR’d my swim, but I did know that I wasn’t swimming at the middle of the pack for a change.  I seemed to be out with the first 15 people, which was new for me.  Unfortunately, I left some time on the clock because my fingers and toes were so cold that I struggled with my new Rocket Science Carbon wetsuit and putting on my cycling shoes.  Still, I clocked out of T1 in 2:14. Not great, but not bad either.  I rocketed out of the transition area, pedaling past several people trying to catch their breath on the bike after a hard swim.

The first half of the bike course was with the wind, which was picking up to between 12-15 mph by my estimates.  Again, I didn’t have my watch so I had no idea of my pace.  All I knew was that I needed to pedal hard, DO NOT STOP PEDALING HARD.  This race was for Grandma, and it was the last race of the year.  I was going to leave everything I had on this course.  If I wasn’t absolutely exhausted and drained physically and mentally then I didn’t race hard enough. Then I started picking people off, one after another.  I must have passed about 10 people before someone passed me, a beefy guy in my age group. He rode alongside and I implored him to work together (not draft) to keep each other going strong.

He did that all right, passing by me and never looking back.

When I reached the bike turnaround, I realized why I had passed so many people: the tail wind.  As was the case at IMAZ last year, the turnaround was a rude awakening.  The wind slapped me in the face. Hard.  The next 12 miles were an exercise in sheer will as I became demoralized and contemplated quitting my frantic effort.  I was being blown all over the course, like a tiny paper boat on a lake in a windstorm.  Many of the people whom I passed on the way out to the turnaround passed me on the way back.  All seemed bigger, taller, more built, better bikes, better equipment.  Minutes before, I thought maybe I had a shot at my first podium.  Minutes later, I realized today would be the same race as all the others…just on the outside of the elites looking in.

At one point I screamed in frustration to nothing in particular.

Then I remembered Grandma, in that bed.  And all the lessons she had taught me.  She helped raise me to be better than this.  To study hard even when nobody is looking.  To always go for the “A”, no matter what.

I found my second wind in the headwind, and pushed onward back to T2. Again, at this point I thought my personal race for a USAT slot was over and had no idea once again I had PR’d on the bike, averaging 21.7 mph.  As I came out of T2 in 1:08, still not feeling my toes (no socks once again), I shouted at Coach Gerardo, “Am I still in the running?!”  He said definitely and that motivated me enough to make one last push for the 10k run.

RUN

Despite my feet feeling more like stumps, I felt fresh and focused on the run. Almost light on my feet.  Having no watch freed me to just run how I felt and as fast as I could sustain.  There were enough people in front of me to constantly have a “rabbit” to chase, which helped propel me forward.  The main rabbit was a 54-year-old guy whom I just couldn’t quite catch on the first 5k.  He constantly stayed about 15 yards ahead of me no matter what I tried.  Then, an even older guy whizzed by me. I tried to stay on his heels but he was just gone, blowing by the 54-year-old.  Another moment of deflation…geez I can’t even catch these guys more than 15 years older than me!  Still, I kept at it, focusing on my grandma and simply pushing myself to do this for her, and for me. It’s the last race, her last race, just keep going.

At the turnaround, I saw that I was ahead of the guy on the bike whom I was trying to work with before he left me.  How did that happen?  He must have had a slow T2.  Then, next thing I know he’s on me.  And ahead of me.  I’m on his heels.  I don’t want to lose this guy!  No age sticker on his calf, so he could very well be in my group.  I’m not going to let him beat me, no matter what.  I chase for a couple blocks, wondering if anybody on this street is in as much pain as I’m in.  My breathing is hard.  I can’t feel my toes.  My quads are begging me to stop the pounding.  Am I going to have a heart attack?  I have a secret fear about that during every run, that I’m going to drop dead on the spot. It scares me.  Does anyone else think that too?

It turns out the guy in front of me gave in to doubt and pain. He grabbed his calf and suddenly stopped, hobbling over to the side of the road to stretch.  I didn’t stop.  I didn’t even look at him.  I didn’t bother to ask if he was OK.  That’s not like me but I was in the heat of the moment and possessed.  Angry.  Defiant.  Motivated.  He didn’t work with me, I wasn’t working with him.  He went too hard on the bike, that’s his problem.  Next up was the 54-year old.  I drew closer, and closer, finally on his back.  I’m drafting and then realize he’s slowing and I’m gaining power and steam.  I’m 1.5 miles away from the finish.  It’s time to kick.  I pull alongside and told the man to get on my back and that we could pace each other to the finish.  I didn’t think I could sustain my pace, knowing I had two hills to climb, and wanted company to share in the misery.  I kept running, pushing.  Then after the first hill I turned slightly around to see who was chasing.  Was the older man with me?  Nobody.  I was on my own.

I ran as if I wasn’t alone.  There was no telling where I was ranked in terms of competitors.  I felt like I was in the top 5 in my age group but maybe I could pass more people. Besides, I wasn’t after Top 5 today.  I wanted more. So I kicked it up once more, with everything I had left.  All I could think about was both my grandparents and everything they had done for me.  Everything they had taught me.  The examples they had set.  I pounded through the final corner, up a hill, down a hill, a sharp left and a sharp right into the finisher’s chute. Gerardo, Mark and Caritta are there, along with Carly, to cheer me in.

I swear I hear the announcer call my name and say, “Ryan, from Sherman Oaks, finishing at 2:21.”

Here’s the thing though, my PR is 2:26:45.  There’s no way I beat my previous best when I was in Ironman shape by five minutes.

Right?  Seriously!?  I’m training half as much!

Well, I did.  And I had broken my personal best 10k time too with a 42:58 (previously 43:43).  That’s a sub-7:00/mi pace.

RECAP

As I write this final 2011 season recap, I can share that after reviewing the full results this morning, once again I’m on the outside looking in at a USAT Nationals slot.  Again, by one place (there’s a math error with the finisher in front of me as my time is faster than his but it still wouldn’t matter).  I finished top 10% overall among all finishers, but top 14% in my age group.  Fourth out of what appears to be 28 in my age group.  Maybe 29 with the leg cramp guy, who finished less than a minute behind me but still with no age attached to his results.

Instead of dwelling on what I missed out on again, I’m just so happy to have done my grandparents proud.  To have lived up to what they taught me.  To have showed them, and myself, that never giving up is the prize in itself.  This race changed me a lot.  I truly raced my heart out and nothing felt better even though I came short of my personal goal.  I can’t be upset if I PR’d by five minutes and it still wasn’t going to get me to Nationals.  I can live with that.  I ran unhinged and got faster as a result.

I’ll get faster next year.  I’m making progress every day.  And I’ve got great teachers, alive and gone, who inspire me.  I’m having more fun than ever too.

I’ll miss my grandmother so much.  But she’ll be with me.  She’ll be with me every time I want to stop short of reaching my potential.

Thank you, Grandma. I love you.

Who knew volunteering could be so much fun, and so exhausting!?

It’s appropriate that volunteering at Ironman Arizona this past weekend coincides with Thanksgiving.  As soon as I got home from Tempe yesterday, I called my parents and told them how truly grateful I was for their support last year along with the rest of my family.  Sure, I wasn’t as physically fatigued from volunteering, but still my feet cracked with pain, my lower back was on fire, my senses were overwhelmed and I darn near felt delirious as Mike Reilly started dancing down the finisher’s chute before midnight.

I think volunteers deserve a medal along with a T-shirt, free food and early admission to the following year’s race.  And I didn’t even have to endure rain, wind or hail!

Rather than go into a hour-by-hour recap of the weekend, I’d like to focus instead on some larger observations about the day (and night).  Just stuff I noticed.  For those of you who raced or also spectated, I’m curious if this is something you’ve encountered as well.

Observation #1: LOTS of full disc wheels this year.  It felt like roughly 1/3 of the bikes I saw roll through our special needs area had full disc wheels on the back.  They make the coolest sound when riding by, but not when you’re being passed.

Observation #2: 99% of Ironman participants are exceedingly polite even in the middle of a race.  My job (along with my Fortius teamates) was to retrieve racers’ special needs bags and hold them out for riders either to rummage through on the spot or grab and ride.  Most cyclists stopped but the faster riders grabbed the bag on the go.  No matter what, all but one cyclist (bib #1680, you’re rude!) thanked us volunteers, stopped to chat for a second if asked how they were doing, and thanked us again before taking off.  Now, a quick tip for future Ironmen: If you want your bag, make sure you give us plenty of time to get it!  Don’t ride by at 15 mph expecting us to be able to throw you your bag when we have two seconds to get it — are you listening bib #1680 — and then tell us we suck.

Observation #3: Ironman cyclists like their sandwiches.  The most popular food I saw riders who stopped at special needs to eat came in the form of white-bread sandwiches.  I thought this was funny only in that we’re obsessed with healthy food throughout the year and then we’re drinking cans of Coke and eating sugar bread at every break we can.  Yes, I get it…we need the sugar intake.  But still, I guess I would have expected more Clif Bars, Gu Chomps, etc.

Observation #4: I saw less compression gear on the bike this year.  There were fewer calf socks than I recall from the past two Ironmans I’ve done.  Maybe people are realizing that the studies are inconclusive at best on compression as performance enhancer (read Joe Friel’s blogs on this topic as he goes into depth on the research he’s analyzed).  I did see plenty of full compression socks during the marathon though, so who knows if that message is getting through.

Observation #5: Cyclists are unashamed to stick their hands down their pants…to apply body glide.  Right there, right in front of you… . The female contingent of volunteers often blushed and looked the other way when male cyclists would grab a packet of chamois butter and go to town right in front of them.  I suppose this carries over into real life, as I shared a hotel room over the weekend with three other triathlets, two female.  All of us changed in the room pretty much in front of each other, knowing we’ve all seen each other practically naked in lycra swimsuits or in the locker room already.  What’s the big deal, right?

How can you not smile when you've got this crazy group of volunteers yelling for you??

Observation #6: The slower the bike rider, the more they seem to smile on the course.  My team saw every cyclist pass the special needs area at least twice (pros once).  As the day wore on, as the faster cyclists sped by and hurtled toward their Kona slots, slower cyclists populated the special needs area more and more.  Each of them fed off our team’s screaming, chanting and cheering.  They were genuinely happy to simply become an Ironman regardless of how long it took to reach the finish.  These folks knew it was going to be a long day and didn’t seem to care one bit.  They appreciated us, our time, and most important, the moment itself.  That felt like the true Ironman spirit and something I’ll really take with me for future events.  People, it’s OK to smile even when you’re flying low to the ground.  (You just run a greater risk of getting a bug stuck in your teeth!)

Observation #7: Mike Reilly is a stud.  That man makes every single Ironman finisher feel special, and in the case of Ironman Arizona that meant close to 2,500 people.  He really gets going around 11 p.m., whipping the crowd into a frenzy with a towel and jumping up and down in the finisher’s chute imploring everyone to BRING THESE LAST FEW RACERS HOME!  It’s truly the best part of the Ironman experience.  If you don’t get goosebumps or well up with tears I challenge whether you’re actually a human being.

Observation #8: Paul Amey is a stud too.  The man raced his guts out and came up just two minutes short of winner Eneko Llanos’ sub-8:00 finish.  Still, he joined his girlfriend (full disclosure, a Fortius teammate and friend of mine) in the stands to watch other finishers come down the chute.  He was cheerful despite his fatigue level, like almost every pro triathlete I’ve ever met.  This truly is the greatest sport because the pros are every bit as classy as the 17-hour Ironman finishers.  Can you imagine Tiger Woods winning a tournament and coming back to the 18th hole to cheer in the rest of the pros? (OK, can you imagine Tiger Woods winning a tournament anymore?!)

Observation #9: Giving an athlete a high-five during the marathon equals a .05% pickup in speed.  Alright, that’s not scientifically proven.  But I observed that as the sky gets darker and the lights become brighter, runners need a little extra help and encouragement to keep them moving.  A high-five and a shout-out of encouragement can do just that.  Calling out their name on their bib helps too.  I remember it worked for me in the final lap of my Ironman Arizona journey last year.  Runners who aren’t smiling at all will crack a grin and extend their hand when they feel like someone cares about their journey and their struggle in that particular moment.  I fived a lot of folks, and I’d like to think they finished .05% faster because of me.

Observation #10: I’m done reminiscing about Ironman Arizona 2010.  Volunteering at IMAZ 2011 closed the door on one of the best days, one of the best years of my life.  For 365 days I got to live the life of a pro athlete and accomplish something I never thought possible.  I was, I am and will always be in the Ironman Arizona Class of 2010.  This year, I got to usher in the Class of 2011.  Originally, I had mixed feelings about the experience.  But when the time came to experience my race on the other side of the fence, I appreciated my own accomplishments that much more. I remembered the struggles, sacrifices and pain.  And that it’s my choice not to participate in Ironman Arizona 2012 even though I had early access to registration.  Despite the peer pressure among my friends, I resisted.  That meant two things. First, I’m not ready to commit to the sacrifice just yet.  Second, I don’t feel a need to validate myself through another Ironman.  I graduated.  Officially.

I will not write about Ironman Arizona again, except in passing.  It’s time to move on.  Now that I see everything through new eyes, there are other journeys to embark upon. New adventures.  Ironman Arizona won’t be one of them for a long, long time.

Congratulations to all the finishers on Sunday.  Welcome to the club!  I hope you give back at a race near you in the future.  It will be just as valuable an experience to volunteer, if not more so.