Since I have a mild amount of nearsightedness, corrective lenses help me see a little better at a distance. I want to be able to pick out the buoys in the ocean, so I don’t end up swimming across to Africa by mistake. A search on the Internet turns up an inexpensive pair of swim goggles with my prescription incorporated in the lenses. A little tint also helps since the swim is at daybreak and the rising sun could be a problem.
The main item I need to buy for the swim is a wetsuit. Since they are rarely needed in the warm waters of Mississippi, nobody sells them in my area. I check out several ads in the triathlon magazines and I search the Internet. The wetsuit manufacturers are marketing geniuses, they offer three basic models: Fast, Super Fast, and Ultra Fast. How can I lose?
I phone the 800 number, tell the man my height and weight, explain that I need a lot of help, and give him my credit card number. Three days later an Ultra Fast wetsuit arrives in the mail. The next morning I wear it for a swim in the pool. It’s great news, my legs no longer sink. I’m horizontal in the water, I don’t even need to kick. I’m going so much faster that I inadvertently bump into the wall at the end of the pool.
I’ve made the best investment a slow athlete can make, I’ve bought speed. It’s money well spent.
Next, I’ve got to figure out my plans for the bike. I know I’ll have to be more structured, more disciplined if I’m going to complete the race in Brazil. I survey all the training plans, and I perform a detailed statistical evaluation, using the same mathematical formula that I used for the swim. However, a major question arises. In figuring out my bike mileage, should I use the median number of miles or the mean number of miles? This is an unexpected obstacle, and I’m wracked with uncertainty. I ask my friends at the health club, I start to call the League of American Bicyclists; no one seems to know, some even laugh at me. Ultimately, I use the mean instead of the median and that magic number turns out to be 122 miles a week. Fair enough, that’s one long bike ride a week plus one or two additional short rides.
The bike leg of an IRONMAN® Triathlon is 112 miles, so I need to work in a couple of 100 mile–plus training rides before race day. In the past, I’ve done several 50 to 75 mile bike rides, so this seems in reach.
Early in my bike training I have to make a key decision. Am I going to do these long bike rides by myself, or am I going to do them with the Big Guys? During the actual race, I’ll be all alone on the bike. With my slow swim time I’m certain to be at the back of the pack at the start of the bike leg. There’s no drafting allowed, no riding in packs. The wind will be blowing directly in my face and the task of climbing hills will be mine alone. I estimate that I’ll need around 7 hours to finish the bike, but who knows. I’ve never ridden that far and there are so many variables on the bike; heat, wind, hills, all are potential problems. There’s a lot to worry about.
While training alone can be daunting and difficult, training with the Big Guys is often fun. You’re in a group, tucked out of the breeze, hugging the rear wheel of the rider in front of you, your mind and body are on autopilot. You’re going fast with a lot less effort. The Big Guys do the work, you’re the follower.
In some ways, the Big Guys are like a beautiful woman. They can be warm, exciting, entertaining, even seductive. “Hey, John, come go with us, we’re not riding that far.” “You’re doing great, I’m glad you decided to come.” “You’re riding well, when’s your next race?” On occasion you forget that they’re doing the work and you’re riding in their slipstream. You actually start to believe that you’re improving with age. In reality you’re barely hanging on, riding just a few bike lengths in front of the Grim Reaper.
On the other hand, riding with the Big Guys can also feel cold, distant, even cruel. “Are you sure you can ride that far?” “Where the hell have you been? We’ve been waiting 15 minutes for you to catch up.” “Try to keep up. We’ve got to get back before lunch.” Some days there’s little mercy for the slow and weak, you’re reminded that you’re in over your head. You struggle to keep up, eventually drop off exhausted and depleted, and hope for a better day in the future.
Unfortunately, the Big Guys are often forced to treat me as a special needs case. In my mind my old friend Butch has accrued tremendous moral capital. Whenever I’m dropped by the biking group, he comes back to get me, places me one inch from his rear wheel, and eases me back to the pack. As far as I’m concerned, this is a noble humanitarian gesture, like feeding the starving children in Darfur. It’s generous assistance from a kindhearted man to an old hearted man.
As fun as it can be training with a group, I have to face reality, there’ll be no Big Guys to shepherd me along in Brazil. They’ll be long gone by the time I finish the swim and head out on my bike. Being a permanent member of the rear end group isn’t fun, but it is something I’ll just have to deal with.
It’s settled. I’m going to do my long training rides alone. I wear my solitude as a badge of honor, no Big Guys, no drafting, just me and my bike.
It’s late February when I officially start my IRONMAN® training program. Less than three months to race day. The weather is still cold in Mississippi and I don’t have much experience riding in winter. Running in cold weather is great, there is no overheating, no dehydration. By contrast, cold weather can pose a problem when biking. It’s hard to stay warm, and hypothermia is a danger. Several of my friends tell me I should try to bike inside instead of fighting the cold weather. It’s a much more humane way to get a good workout, they say.
That makes sense to me, so one day I try the stationary bike at the local health club. It feels terrible. I move the seat up, down, in and out but I can’t get comfortable. Next I decide to buy a trainer, a couple of hundred bucks for a curious-looking device that attaches to my own bike. It allows me to sit on my bike inside my den and pedal like a demon without moving an inch. This turns out to be the most boring thing I’ve ever done in my life. Swimming laps seems positively thrilling compared to riding a trainer. Sometimes I watch television, sometimes I read, sometimes I go solo with my iPod, but nothing seems to help. Time moves at a glacial pace. Minutes seem like hours. If this is what immortality consists of, I don’t want any part of it. Saint Peter said it best: a day is like a thousand years. I’ve had my fill of the trainer. I’m doing all of my biking outside.
I start out one Saturday morning at daybreak with the temperature in the low thirties. My tires are pumped and my water bottles are full. I’ve got on so many clothes that my wife tells me I look like the Michelin Man. The wind and light drizzle feel like razor blades on my exposed face. There are just a few cars about and absolutely no cyclists; it’s a dog of a day.
Some thirty miles south of town I’m alone on rural roads. It’s mostly pasture and crop land with a few rolling hills. This is the rural South, the fields and forests broken only by an occasional house or trailer. The wind picks up but I’m still hanging tough. After all, I remind myself, I’m a budding IRONMAN® triathlete, I have to be able to handle anything.
An old, red pickup approaches from behind and a man in his sixties rolls down his window and flags me down. “Have you seen my bull?” he yells out, the sound disappearing in the wind.
I’m a little startled but I slowly recognize the voice and then the face. It’s one of my patients, a man I’ve seen for years in my practice.
“Cecil, what’s going on?” I ask. He stares at me, looks through my layers of clothes, discounts the funny looking bike helmet, and offers a glimmer of recognition.
“Doc, what the hell are you doing on that damn bicycle? Can’t you afford a car? Hey, I’m looking for my bull, he got out. Have you seen him?”
Cecil can’t be joking. Who would be driving around on a day like this just for the fun of it? What kind of bull would leave the friendly confines of the pasture or barn to go meandering about in the rain and cold? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.
“I haven’t seen him, but I’ll keep an eye out,” I reply.
Cecil offers me a ri
de home, but I beg off. I tell him I’m training for an IRONMAN® race. He’s not too sure what this, is but he doesn’t seem too impressed.
I’m wet and cold so I continue on, glad to get my motor running again, hoping to warm up, rethinking my IRONMAN journey, wishing I wasn’t so dedicated. Once you’re out in the boondocks on a bike you’re committed, you have to get back home one way or another. I know I could call my wife on my cell phone and ask her to come pick me up, but by the time she arrived I’d be frozen solid. So on I go, trying to pedal a little faster, wishing for a little sunshine.
A half mile later I turn right onto a small country lane. This is a short cut that should enable me to get home a little quicker. I go another half mile or so and suddenly there he is in the middle of the road, twenty-five yards away, Cecil’s bull, El Toro himself. An impressive beast, he must weigh tons. This is a real Big Guy, and he isn’t riding a bike, he’s staring right at me.
This bull is gigantic and he’s blocking the road. If I knew how to ride a bicycle backward, now would be the time to do it.
I slowly stop my bike, trying to do all my movements in a deliberate, non-threatening way. I smile at the bull, hoping to project courage and confidence rather than fear. This bull has probably seen very few men on a bicycle in his day. Maybe he’s as taken aback as I am, but then again maybe he’s not.
I swing my bike to the left attempting to turn around and head in the opposite direction. El Toro sees me moving and scampers backward for a few yards. For a moment I think he’s ready to charge, but he’s really moving away from me. I start up again and once more, he backs away.
It suddenly dawns on me. This bull is afraid of me. Maybe he’s heard I’m a big-time triathlete. News travels fast in small, rural counties.
Our little stop and go game continues. Instead of turning, I advance a little and El Toro retreats. I’ve forgotten how cold I am, bravery does indeed warm the blood. I feel like a courageous matador facing off a dangerous bull. It’s like an Ernest Hemingway novel set in Mississippi with me as the protagonist. Is that the sun starting to rise?
We’ve probably gone less than 200 yards when I spot a break in the fence lining the pasture on my right. It looks like the bull has stepped on a weak spot in the fence, crushed it with his huge body, and walked right out onto the road, oblivious to the oncoming bicycle traffic.
I move to my left on the bike, then swing back toward the right. The big brute lumbers toward the break in the fence. A few more passes and he is through the opening in the fence and back into the pasture.
There, I’ve done it, my first successful bull roundup. Hemingway would be proud. This bull is back where he belongs; South Mississippi can finally rest easy. I can already see the headlines: “IRONMAN® CONTENDER INTIMIDATES MONSTER BULL” or perhaps, “BRAIN TRIUMPHS OVER BRAWN.”
I’m still congratulating myself when I run into Cecil a bit later. I’m grinning, puffing out my chest, almost strutting. I describe what I did, omitting no details, maybe even embellishing my story a bit.
“Damn, Doc,” he says, “you must have grown up around cows.”
I’m still brimming with pride a few days later when Cecil and I again cross paths. He lets me know in a nice way that I’ve done battle with his polled Hereford bull. Polled Herefords are a breed of hornless beef cattle known for their docile temperaments. They are especially mild-mannered and easy to handle, the kind of bull everyone loves.
What a letdown. My monster has turned out to be one of the friendliest cows in the country. This big brute is the Ferdinand the Bull of South Mississippi.
Over the next couple of months the weather begins to warm, the countryside becomes green, and the bulls stay at home where they belong. There’s just one problem, it’s my old bicycle. I’m riding an aluminum bike, and I wonder if I couldn’t do a little better. Aluminum is definitely better than steel but none of the Big Guys ride aluminum bikes. Most of them have sleek machines with frames made of carbon fiber or titanium. These bikes sport fancy aerobars with gear shifters on the end, and they’re as light as a feather, many have giant disc wheels on the rear. They’re space age machines. My bicycle is an embarrassment, old and outdated, a tin can, a bucket of bolts, a leftover from the Leave It to Beaver era.
Racing on an aluminum bike is like entering the Kentucky Derby on a mule, I tell myself. It’s like bringing a knife to a gun fight. This isn’t entirely true—an aluminum bike is only slightly slower than a carbon bike—but these are some of the many exaggerations, misrepresentations, and lies that I use to justify buying a new bicycle.
New bike fever is very similar to new car fever. Each day you think of yet another reason to purchase a new bike. Any one of these reasons alone is more than enough justification to spend the money.
“I’ve been training hard, I deserve the best equipment.” “My buddies playing golf are spending a lot more money than I am.” “The kids are out of the house, it’s time to get what I want.” “This new bike will last so long that I can take it along when I go to the nursing home.”
After several days of back and forth, I decide to visit the showroom and check out this year’s models, an impressive row of thoroughbreds built for speed. I head to the local bike shop to see the owner, my old friend Drew.
I’ve known Drew for a long time. He and I would sometimes run together back in the 1970s, a time when the heart, lungs, and legs seemed to work as originally designed. Through the years Drew has evolved from a runner to a triathlete to a cyclist. He spends most of his days working at his bike shop, but he has managed to remain lean and fast.
Drew is a man of few words, not prone to praise or hyperbole, but I’m an eager customer and I want to be sold. So, I start tossing out open-ended statements hoping that he’ll encourage me to buy a new bike.
“Drew, I sure wish I could improve my bike time. I’d do anything to pick up a little speed.” “I’ve heard some of the newer bikes can make you go a lot faster.” “Steve got a new bike recently and now he’s way ahead of me.”
I’m all but begging him to tell me I need a new bike. If he’ll just dangle the hook, I’ll bite. All I need is a little encouragement.
Drew, an honest man, knows I’m asking for something he can’t deliver.
“John,” he says, “you don’t need to upgrade your bike, you need to upgrade your body. A new bike might help you a little, but not much.” I’m disappointed but not deterred.
“That sounds great,” I reply. “I’ll take it. I’d like the black one.”
A few days later I’ve got my top-of- the-line carbon fiber bike. It’s worth a lot more than the old pickup truck I carry it in, it may be worth more than my IRA.
My wife wonders if I haven’t gone a bit overboard with my new purchase, if I haven’t invested more than I should on my new wheels. She may be right but I quickly set her straight. In a moment worthy of Jerry Springer, I tell her, “If loving my bicycle is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.”
She’s not very amused.
A new bike helmet and biking shoes follow and I have the second leg of the triathlon all taken care of. The tab for this little project is growing by leaps and bounds; my credit card is under as much duress as my worn out body.
My training program is finally taking shape. I’ve got a handle on the swim and the bike and that leaves only the run.
I feel a little more confident with the running preparations. Years ago I ran several marathons. In those days it would take me at least 50 miles a week to prepare for the 26 mile event, but that kind of mileage is impossible for IRONMAN® training. It’s too many miles, too much time. Even the Big Guys recommend a lot less.
I decide to shoot for 3 to 4 runs a week with one being at least 10 miles long. I plan on increasing this long run each week, eventually reaching 18 miles. Most weeks I should be able to average 25 to 30 miles of running.
Fortunately, I don’t need any special gear for running; thank goodness they don’t make carbon fiber running shoes. I
’ve tried lots of models of shoes over the years, and I now look for as much cushion in the heels as possible. Instead of wearing one pair of shoes until it wears out, I rotate two or three different pairs. This seems to keep my legs fresher.
Elastic shoelaces are another necessity. They allow shoes to slip on and off quickly with no tying or untying, which makes for a faster transition. Socks and shorts are simple and inexpensive. I’m in good shape, I’ve got all the gear I need and I’ve managed to avoid bankruptcy and divorce.
I’ve created the basic 101 training program for completing an IRONMAN Triathlon and it’s as narrow as it is deep. My regimen consists of swimming, biking, and running but not much else. It’s a plan that’s numbingly unimaginative and middle of the road; I’d have a hard time selling it to anyone. There’s so much more I could do to prepare for this but I’m trying to keep my training as specific as possible. If I want to be a better swimmer, biker, and runner, I need to practice swimming, biking, and running. What could be simpler?
Unfortunately, I learn that it’s not that easy. Swimming, biking, and running to near complete exhaustion is just the beginning, it’s nowhere near enough to become a finisher. My friends tell me I need to consider weight training, yoga, Pilates, massage, meditation, stretching, and so on. This list seems endless, there’s barely time for eating and sleeping. If I do everything recommended, I’ll probably need to set aside some time for marital counseling. Still, I’ve never done an IRONMAN® Triathlon and I’ve got a nagging fear of the unknown, a dread of being unprepared. So I decide to check out some of these other essentials.
One day I visit the local health club and take a peek inside the weight room. It’s an intimidating place full of big men with massive biceps and bull-like necks. Most of the time these boys toss around huge barbells and make loud primate sounds. Any one of these great discs of iron would crush my frail body in a second; just watching them makes me a little nervous.
Against the Odds Page 5
