We all know the feeling. It is the sick side of anticipation, the feeling that something is coming, and it isn't necessarily the most welcome. Teachers know about this. It is the morning, sitting at your dining room table, coffee in hand, thinking about being in the classroom. They know what is coming. The train heads their way. But for that one moment, that tiniest of time, they are able to be still, Zen, pensive. They stay in that calm, the eye of the hurricane before they bravely step into a world where the outcome makes the effort worthwhile.
As a former teacher, I know this feeling. As a current training Ironman triathlete, I am experiencing this feeling. It is December 31st, the last day I will experience in the 2015 year. Tomorrow, my calendar begins. It isn't ornate. The calendar, that is. The calendar is just something I printed off of Google Images. It is a monthly calendar with a blank space to write on each day. Very simple.
Each day now has information. There is a B, or an S, or an R. Some days have two of those letters, some days have (ugh) three of those letters. Next to it, there is a number. The number might be 120 or 2800. It means something. By itself, it is calm, like the morning coffee at your dining room table. But in context, it means something else entirely. It means a workout.
I sit here, in my quiet living room and I look at the calendar. January and February don't feel so bad. My longest bike session is maybe two hours. My longest run: just over an hour. Though the storm is upon me during those times, the fear will not have set in. It is when I look to the months of May and June and see what is in store for me that it frankly raises my heart rate thinking about it. I am in for some miles. I am prepping for something really big.
When I see the entry for July 30th, it says Race Day. I added two exclamation points for emphasis. Then, feeling like I haven't given it justice, I highlighted it with a yellow highlighter. Now it is important. Color, against a black and white background. Importance. When I stare at that day, happily with my coffee and peace, my mind travels to that day, to that water. I have driven enough in the area to know what the coast will look like when the sun rises, peaking over the mountains. I know how it will look when it sets, silhouetting all of the land. I know I will see both of those moments in one race.
For now, I sit in my quiet solitude. Tomorrow, though, I must start to weather this storm.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Monday, December 28, 2015
Welcome to My Journey
The weather outside is frightful. That must mean it is training season. As I watch people shuffle along through the fogged windows of the gym, I am reminded that they aren't worried about July 30th. Maybe they are because that signifies the end of the world, or the nagging realization that the Cubs won't, once again, make the World Series.
I worry about it being a long day. My one-time coach and friend Marisa once told me, "Don't fear the race, fear the training." Simplistic in its delivery, it is vast to the mind of a triathlete. Come July 30, I should have nothing to fear. My preparation should be in place. Mike Reilly should say I am an Ironman. I should cross the finish line to see family and friends there to take me in, offer me congratulations and a victory beer. Or six. I should look back on the work I've done, the money I raised, the goal I achieved.
Should.
It is such a powerfully tiny word. Sitting here now, I see a distant future that seems unreal. Now, I see a present time, where running 7 miles is my maximum, where biking 35 miles is my maximum, where swimming is no worry at all. I see a present where I need to lose weight (as I have already) to get to race day. I see a present where soreness permeates my thoughts, flames my doubt, and makes me wonder how I will be able to accomplish so much in so little time.
Let me give you a background.
My life has been punctuated by the existence of endurance sports. I have, for many years, put my body to the test through various trials. There have been 24 hour mountain bike races, double centuries, duathlons, triathlons, and a slew of extreme activities that have honed my appreciation for the people who toe the line and have visions of finishing. I have never been competitive in the sense that I should win every time. I have won some small events, done well in my category, but that hasn't been my satisfying outcome. Finishing is. Standing on the finish line, looking back at the path I took to get there, kneeling to the ground and barrel rolling across the line is why I do it. I honor those who can't. I respect those who can. I know I can, and therefore I should.
Should. There it is again. Maybe there should be a t-shirt with it. But that tiny word, repeated a thousand times, becomes bigger. It is the word that will get me out of bed to run, get me past mile 15, push me up that hill, and motivate me when the sun goes down over the Sonoma Valley, silhouetting the grapevines nearly ready for harvest. Should will be the word I say when I am in my darkest moments, when inertia fights me, when fatigue makes me doubt. Should will be the word when I see somebody who can't, on the sidelines, wondering how great it must feel to be me, in motion, covering such a beautiful earth with strides, pedal turns and swim strokes. I should for them.
Should is for the volunteers. These are the ones at the aid stations, the finish lines, body marking, and just about every aspect of race day. Why are they there? They believe. They believe in me, they believe in making a difference. They believe in doing things for the charity they represent, they believe in the idea of one day that may define you and stamp an indelible image in your mind. They believe in helping, in cheering, in motivating.
They believe in a perfect stranger. They believe in this perfect stranger.
For that, I owe. I owe effort for them. Triathlon, a singularly selfish event. Triathlon, where sacrifices are made only for you. Your family and friends sacrifice time. Your world shifts from being selfless to selfish, and on that day you are pushed through a grueling event by people who don't know you, but cheer you as if you are their favorite sports hero.
Because of that, I decided that there was a reason to become an IMF racer. I wanted to give back, while so many are giving to me. I wanted to make sure the people who helped me the most were able to see it wasn't just about me. I currently have one IMF teammate for IM Vineman. I hope to have more. I hope we both raise our goal of 10,000, so the local communities can reap our efforts, feel our difference-making.
I can. I should. I will.
I worry about it being a long day. My one-time coach and friend Marisa once told me, "Don't fear the race, fear the training." Simplistic in its delivery, it is vast to the mind of a triathlete. Come July 30, I should have nothing to fear. My preparation should be in place. Mike Reilly should say I am an Ironman. I should cross the finish line to see family and friends there to take me in, offer me congratulations and a victory beer. Or six. I should look back on the work I've done, the money I raised, the goal I achieved.
Should.
It is such a powerfully tiny word. Sitting here now, I see a distant future that seems unreal. Now, I see a present time, where running 7 miles is my maximum, where biking 35 miles is my maximum, where swimming is no worry at all. I see a present where I need to lose weight (as I have already) to get to race day. I see a present where soreness permeates my thoughts, flames my doubt, and makes me wonder how I will be able to accomplish so much in so little time.
Let me give you a background.
My life has been punctuated by the existence of endurance sports. I have, for many years, put my body to the test through various trials. There have been 24 hour mountain bike races, double centuries, duathlons, triathlons, and a slew of extreme activities that have honed my appreciation for the people who toe the line and have visions of finishing. I have never been competitive in the sense that I should win every time. I have won some small events, done well in my category, but that hasn't been my satisfying outcome. Finishing is. Standing on the finish line, looking back at the path I took to get there, kneeling to the ground and barrel rolling across the line is why I do it. I honor those who can't. I respect those who can. I know I can, and therefore I should.
Should. There it is again. Maybe there should be a t-shirt with it. But that tiny word, repeated a thousand times, becomes bigger. It is the word that will get me out of bed to run, get me past mile 15, push me up that hill, and motivate me when the sun goes down over the Sonoma Valley, silhouetting the grapevines nearly ready for harvest. Should will be the word I say when I am in my darkest moments, when inertia fights me, when fatigue makes me doubt. Should will be the word when I see somebody who can't, on the sidelines, wondering how great it must feel to be me, in motion, covering such a beautiful earth with strides, pedal turns and swim strokes. I should for them.
Should is for the volunteers. These are the ones at the aid stations, the finish lines, body marking, and just about every aspect of race day. Why are they there? They believe. They believe in me, they believe in making a difference. They believe in doing things for the charity they represent, they believe in the idea of one day that may define you and stamp an indelible image in your mind. They believe in helping, in cheering, in motivating.
They believe in a perfect stranger. They believe in this perfect stranger.
For that, I owe. I owe effort for them. Triathlon, a singularly selfish event. Triathlon, where sacrifices are made only for you. Your family and friends sacrifice time. Your world shifts from being selfless to selfish, and on that day you are pushed through a grueling event by people who don't know you, but cheer you as if you are their favorite sports hero.
Because of that, I decided that there was a reason to become an IMF racer. I wanted to give back, while so many are giving to me. I wanted to make sure the people who helped me the most were able to see it wasn't just about me. I currently have one IMF teammate for IM Vineman. I hope to have more. I hope we both raise our goal of 10,000, so the local communities can reap our efforts, feel our difference-making.
I can. I should. I will.
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