Confessions of a first time Ironman (pt.2)

The city, I began to realize, was called Tem-PEE.  Not TEM-pee.  It was Friday night, and we were out here in Tempe Arts Park with 2400 other athletes at the pre-race banquet.  As each city and race official took their turn at the microphone proclaiming how Tem-PEE exemplified the spirit of Ironman, my mind began to wander.  It was a long day, the food was terrible, and the desert night air was cold.

Louis and I had gone to the expo earlier that day to pick up our race packets, which contained our timing chip, race bibs, swim cap, transition bags, and special needs bags.  As we drove into downtown Tempe and looked out upon the sidewalks, it was easy to pick out who was here to race.  Even if the bikes, running shoes, cycling jerseys, or Ironman shirts didn’t give them away, the lean bodies, toned shoulders, and ripped calf muscles let you know that triathletes were in town.  I felt a bit like an impostor.  :)

Why yes, Yes I do have my USA Triathlon membership card!

As we stood in line for our packets, we chatted with a married couple behind us who was racing in their 13th Ironman together.  Even the birth of two children didn’t seem to slow them down.  She was a real stud too.  Usually top 10 in her age group with IM finish times of slightly over 11 hours.  And how cool is it that they share this passion for triathlon?  It must be nice be able to train together, or not have to explain why they need to do that 6 hour brick on Saturday, or why they want that new bike or those Zipp wheels.  There were actually many Iron couples there that week.  There was the wife who was current “Head of Household” because she beat her husband by 57 seconds in last year’s race.  According to him, "It's ON" this year.  There was the other wife who is always behind after the bike, but never fails to reel in her husband on the run to win.  And at the finish on race day, I watched more than one couple cross the line hand in hand.  Awww.

Packet pickup!

Tasty bruschetta board for lunch.

After a fantastic lunch at a local wine bar, we scouted the bike course by driving the entire 37 mile loop. Afterwards, we went back to the expo to get body marked.  I've said this before, and I'll say it again.  I like getting body marked.  The simple act of stamping your race number onto your arms and your age onto your calf... in its own way legitimizes your claim to race day.  At most other triathlons, athletes get body marked on the morning of the race by volunteers with magic markers.  Ironman kicks it up a notch by offering the option to have the numbers stamped on days before the race.  It was a little ridiculous to have to wait an hour in line for this (there was a "stamping" line AND a "drying" line), but what else was I doing that day anyways?  Plus it looked cool!  Check it out...

741 Baby!  I'm HERE, and I'm LEGIT.  BRING IT!

Back to the banquet.  Mike Riley was talking now.  If you've ever seen videos of any Ironman race where you heard someone say "John Doe, you are an Ironman!", then you've heard Mike Riley's voice.  If you've ever signed up for any sort of race on Active.com, you're visiting the company he helped start.  Riley's been announcing Ironman finishes since 1989, and is pretty much a legend.  I thought it was pretty cool that he will be announcing MY name in 2 days if things go as planned.

Anyways, there's this thing he does at every Ironman banquet, where he asks everybody who's lost more than 30 pounds training for this race to stand up.  I only lost 20, so I didn't make the first cut, but many many other people did.  It was so inspiring to see how this race alone has transformed the lives of so many people in such a real way.  I actually got a bit emotional.  :)  Slowly, he asks people to start sitting down.  40 pounds.  50 pounds.  60.  By the time he got to 70 pounds, only one man and one woman remained standing.  80.  The man sits.  90.  100.  110.  The woman lost 110 pounds!  She only weighed 115 pounds that night!  Then we find out that she actually had weight loss surgery.  Honestly, I was a little disappointed.  Don't get me wrong.  I think it's awesome that she took control of her life and did what she did, but the guy who lost 70 pounds the old fashioned way should have gotten a bit more recognition!

Gear explosion in Deb's living room.

After the banquet, we drove out to Deb's house in Mesa, only 15 minutes away.  The dinner was so bad that we picked up some Arby's along the way.  Mmmm.  Arbys!  :)  Deb had a gorgeous house with 4 cats.  I love cats!  After packing up my transition bags, it was finally time for bed.  Tomorrow was bike check-in and transition bag drop off day.

Checking my lovely Cervelo one last time.

Confessions of a first time Ironman (pt.1)

It’s 1982.  Little fourth grade Stephen is watching the Hawaii Ironman triathlon on “ABC’s Wide World of Sports”.  Back then, marathons were something only crazy people did, while triathlon was pretty much unknown in the sporting consciousness.  Here they were, showing the craziest of triathlon of all.

Swim 2.4 miles in the roiling ocean.  Bike 112 miles over lava fields.  Run a 26.2 mile marathon.  All in one day.

It even had a cool name!  Ironman.  As I sat there transfixed by the drama unfolding on screen, my little brain struggled to comprehend those distances.  These athletes seemed superhuman.  I don’t remember who won the men’s race, but it was the women’s finish that branded Ironman in my mind forever:

It takes a special kind of sickness to watch that as a little kid and decide this is something you want to be able to do one day.

December 2009.  I’d already completed several triathlons of ever increasing distances that summer, maxing out at the “Olympic” distance.  I had a Half Ironman lined up for the following March, but making the leap to the full distance was still something I hadn’t yet seriously considered.  There were too many reasons why not.  The distances were mind boggling.  I’m a crappy swimmer.  I’d never run more than 6 miles in my life.  I didn't really know what the training involved, but I’d probably have to give up hiking, camping, dancing, and vacations in order to make time (yep, yup, yes, and... yeah).  The distances *still* weren’t getting any less mind boggling.

It might seem strange to hear this, but completing your first Ironman is actually relatively easy.  The hardest part?  Signing up.  You need to be in the right state of mind to be able to decide 10-12 months in advance to plunk down the $600 (in some cases $1200) non-refundable, non-transferrable entry fee.  Injured?  Too bad.  Pregnant?  Too bad.  Once you’re in, you’re in.  You're essentially making a promise to yourself to BE at that finish line.  For the longest time, I just wasn’t able to do that.

I felt my state of mind shift one morning while having dim sum with a table full of Ironman finishers.  People often ask me why I do triathlon.  I like to say that I fell in with the wrong crowd.  Well, this was the crowd.  People who schedule multiple marathons like social events.  Others with multiple IM finishes.  Still others who were racing multiple IMs in the same season.  Nobody actually tried to talk me into signing up for anything.  But what struck me was how normal everybody was.  Guys and gals of all different ages and body types, some of whom you'd never have guessed were IM finishers unless they told you.  I started to think that maybe I could do this too.

Dim sum with the wrong crowd.  One week before I signed up.

More dim sum with more of the wrong crowd.  One week before the race.

That night, I chatted a bit with my friend from high school who also had just completed an IM.  I needed one more push.  Just do it, he said.  No matter how many more shorter races you do, it’s never going to get easier to sign up.  Once you’re committed, everything else will take care of itself.  Two days later, I took the plunge.

11 months after that, I found myself jumping into the 61 degree waters of Tempe Town Lake, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

I Believe

I believe in signing up for swim races before signing up for swim classes, in long morning workouts followed by lazy afternoons, and that one day I’ll qualify for Boston and finish an Ironman triathlon.

I believe in Science over Religion, logic over zealotry, and NPR over Fox News.

I believe that religion is personal, but morality, kindness, and love are universal. The Mountains are MY cathedrals. I am baptized in alpine lakes.

I cannot believe we’ve spent over a trillion dollars on war while our schools lay off teachers.  It makes me feel sad and helpless.

I believe in ninjas (not pirates), narwhals, and bacon. Sweet, sweet bacon in all its forms. Prosciutto is a particularly fine incarnation.

I believe in USDA Prime pan fried on cast iron, in duck fat. Oh Boy do I believe that!

I believe I can teach anybody how to dance salsa.

I believe some beliefs aren’t socially acceptable and shouldn’t be shared on the Internets.

I believe in kissing in public, holding hands, and all sorts of mushy embarrassing things.

I believe in fun-crazy. Not drama-crazy. Much like the definition of porn, the line isn't clear, but I know it when I see it.

I believe in instant connections, effortless conversations, and writing love letters by hand.

I believe the best is yet to come.

Caged Birds

So I was walking around the musical instruments wing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Tuesday.  As I gawked over very old pianos, drums, woodwinds, horns, and violins, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit wistful.  The sad truth is, most of these instruments will probably never be played again. 

The way I see it, it’s one thing to hang Van Gogh’s “Wheat Field with Cypresses” on a wall.  

Paintings are meant to be viewed.  It’s another to display a Stadivarius cello behind a glass case.  An instrument like that is meant to be heard.  Don’t you think?

I’m a little bit torn because it IS pretty cool that there is a place like the Met where we can go and see these instruments up close.  But wouldn’t it be great if once a year or something, they could put on a demo concert with pieces from their collection?  Maybe invite musicians to come and play that cello...

that golden harpsichord...

or that crazy looking stringed thing from Africa.

How to Cross the Street...

... in New York City.

1) Ignore stoplight.

2) Ask yourself, “Will I get hit by anything if I try to cross the street now?” The answer usually involves looking down the opposite direction of a one-way street.

3) If the answer is “No”, then cross. If the answer is yes, time your crossing so that you don’t get hit, then cross.

For God's sake, don’t stand around waiting for the light to turn green, you noob.

Adventures in (Blind) Dating

So a friend of mine, let’s call him “Ben”, tried to set me up on a blind date yesterday.  I’m pretty cool about friends trying to set me up, so I was like, “Sure, let’s do this!”

I get the basics from him.  Been in LA for a few months.  Came from Taiwan.  Speaks some English.  Call her that night.

“Hi!  Is Nina there?” (in Chinese)

“…this is Nina.”

“Hi!  How are you?  I’m Stephen.  (in English now) I’m Ben’s friend.  I think you guys had dinner together last night?”

“Errr…” 

Silence.  Ok.  It’s rapidly becoming clear this girl speaks less English than Ben had let on.  No problem!  I speak Chinese!

“I’m Ben’s friend.  You guys had dinner together last night?”

“Errr…” 

Silence.  Ok.  Now there’s a problem.  This is pretty much on the ooopposite end of the spectrum from “OHAI !  Stephen right?  Ben said you’d call!”

This was the point when I realized that the call was going to go much differently than I’d planned. 

Listen up boys and girls.  If you ever set your friend up on a blind date, make sure the person being contacted is expecting to be contacted!  The difference between doing this and NOT doing this is the difference between "Anticipating a call from an intriguing stranger" vs. "Getting a random call out of the blue from some stalky creeper".  If you don’t set your friend up for success, don’t be surprised if you get an ear full from said friend the next day.

Back to the call.

I mean, my Chinese is pretty good, but not good enough to sweet talk my way out of something like this.  “Omg I’m sorry.  Did Ben not tell you I’d call?  This is awkward.  Haha!  …. Etc.”  It would have been an even proposition at best if she spoke English, but as it was, the best I could do was:

“Ben tells me you haven’t been in LA very long, and…"

(At this point I was trying to figure out how to say “…and that you didn’t know very many people, so I was thinking maybe I could take you out and show you around town?”  But the best I could come up with was...)

"...I was thinking, are you free this Sunday?”

Ya.  That was the best I could do on short notice in my second language.  You see, my English tool box has all sorts of cool things like tape measures, levels, and 96 piece Allen Wrench sets.  But when I reached into my Chinese tool box, I could only find this:

"Uhh... I thought he meant that we could all go out together sometime?  I think that way, there won't be as much pressure..."

At this point, I just wanted to get off the phone.  This is why I don’t like to talk on the phone.  Especially when it comes to this kind of stuff.  Writing is my weapon of choice.

"Oh!  No problem!  I totally understand.  Let me talk to Ben and maybe he can set something up, okay?  Okay.  Buh bye."

Lobstery

So I’m going to NYC over Labor Day weekend. Like a true geek, I’ve already got my food tour mapped out. On the list are two Jewish delis, two pizza places, and Mario Batali’s restaurant. Also on the list (for reasons that would take entirely too long to explain here) are three, count-em… *three* different places for lobster rolls. Is NY even known for lobster rolls? Shouldn’t I be going to Boston or Maine for that? It’s a good thing I like lobster and mayo.

In the spirit of science, I decided that I needed to eat some sort of baseline lobster roll in order for me to properly judge the awesomeness of its NY counterparts. As I was researching online for a suitable version in LA, I find out that this place I drive by all the time in Alhambra was having a “lobster fest”. They had lobster bisque, steamed lobster with butter, and of course lobster rolls. I pretty much went to try it that night.

Not recommended. Guys, this thing was so pitiful looking that I didn’t know whether to eat it… or bring it home, feed it, and take care of it until it grew into a proper lobster roll. I’ve had maybe one of these in my life (in Boston), but even I knew it wasn’t supposed to be this bad. First of all, the sandwich was tiny. For $11, was I wrong to expect something a bit more substantial? It also wasn’t very lobstery. When you’re selling a lobster sandwich as part of a “lobster fest”, you generally want to make sure that your sandwich contains recognizable pieces of you know… lobster. Even Rubio’s does a decent job with this with their lobster burrito. Now I’m not saying there wasn’t a legitimate amount of lobster in there. If this sandwich were a multiple choice question, lobster would definitely be an option. It’s just that the filling was so chopped up and mixed beyond all recognition that it took on this fibery consistency that actually reminded me of crab. Add to that the waaay overbuttered roll, and the whole experience was rather disappointing. The good new is that with this sad little guy as the baseline, my NY lobster extravaganza has nowhere to go but up.

[in case you were wondering, this post used the word “lobster” 16 times. 17 if you count “lobstery”.]