The Rematch … It’s On Devil’s Canyon … It’s So On. I’ve Got Backup This Time

It’s that time of year again … the time when I challenge my weary bones and muscles … the time of year when I pretend I can swim freestyle knowing full well that it never works and I just end up swimming the backstroke and floating my way to the finish line. It’s that time of year where I step out of the “mom” box and step into the badass frame of mind which lasts up to 24 hours, then I go back to being defeated. It’s … Tinman Triathlon time and Devil’s Canyon awaits.

Pinche Devil’s Canyon. It’s on … It is so on.

Image via Durtbagz.com

 

I’m counting down. I’ve got about two months to whip this Guat body into Tinman shape. Don’t get me wrong the Fight For Air Climb certainly put my quads where they belong, it’s just the rest of my body that needs to cooperate. Specifically, the old parts. The parts that take Glucosamine and something called CoQ10. But I’ve decided to add some yoga and stretching to the mix, because my lower back seems to be aging faster than any other part of my body. Although my knees are a close second, and I’m afraid I’m going to need both to conquer Devil’s Canyon. So if you have any pointers feel free to share them.

However this time, the Tinman experience will be different. The training will be different. I’ll have someone there. My son. My four-year old son has agreed to enter the Tiny Tots Tricycle Triathlon. A super miniature version of the race and I’m excited to see him cross the finish line.

This of course means that I’ll be doing double duty when training. I can’t really go at full speed when training with him, so I’ll have to do my training whenever I can get it. This usually means at the break of dawn, which sucks for a night person like myself, or it can happen in the dark of night where suspect people usually walk the streets and I have to keep my Hapkido skills on high alert. Win-win I guess, but at least I have one day during the weekends where I can get my muscles up to Tinman status.

My son is pretty much at Mini-Tinman status when it comes to biking and running. He’s pretty high energy all we have to do is extend the road he covers. However we do have to practice our swimming a bit more, so the Lightening McQueen floaties and goggles will be making an appearance.

We’re both excited about the event and all I’m hoping for is that he finishes the race. He doesn’t need to be first. He just needs to finish. As for me? I don’t need to be first either. I just need to conquer Devil’s Canyon. It kicked my ass last year and I’m hoping the incident doesn’t repeat itself. In truth all I want to do is finish my race before the Tiny Tinman race starts. I want to be at the starting line cheering him on and be part of his pit crew when he gets on his bike. So I definitely need to get into kick-Devil’s -Canyon’s-Ass Shape.  It’s a rematch. Definitely a “Thrilla in Manila” type of event.

Stay tuned.

 

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• Despite Devil’s Canyon, It Was The Best Hour and a Half I’ve Had This Year. I Am A TinMan

 

I’d Like to Thank the Creators of Icy Hot for Making This Possible …

Icy Hot … it rocks. This awesome combination of menthol and methyl salicylate allowed my 37-year-old ass to successfully complete my sprint triathlon this weekend.

I would’ve used Ben-Gay on my tweaked knee, but that really didn’t sound athletic enough. It just sounded like I was old and weary. And even though I may feel like that at times there’s no need to perpetuate that train of thought. I’m an athlete damn it — a triathlete. And it was this bad-ass athlete mentality that helped push me through the race — even through the water, which, as predicted, kicked my ass. But I pushed through.

People making their way to the starting line.

The fact that I had a couple of friends in the race made it even more enjoyable. Camaraderie always makes for a better race.

So after a quick morning drive to the coast we unloaded our bikes and made our way to registration and the starting line. Now as I mentioned in my last triathlon piece the starting line is where you get to see everyone’s pre-warm-up routine and athletic attire.

A little too athletic for me.

Sometimes people go too far. But it becomes a good distraction because you’re full of nervous adrenaline.

A little laughter helps. But why was I still a little nervous? Why? The clouds. I was so hoping it wouldn’t rain during the biking leg of the race because I knew I’d probably eat it and need some paramedic assistance. Asphalt is pretty hard stuff. But as I was praying for the rain gods to take a nap, I noticed the starter of the race.

Sugar Ray saying what up, Guat!

Dude.

Sugar Ray Leonard.

I smiled and did my most enthusiastic, what’s-up-hello-holy-crap-you’re-Sugar-Ray-how-you-doing greeting, you know, like we were friends, like if we had brunch the other day, like if he knew me. I held my camera up and he did his what’s-up-hello-I-am-Sugar-Ray good-morning greeting.

I was pumped. I was ready to go. Legendary Sugar Ray Leonard, who won an Olympic Gold Medal and world boxing titles in five weight divisions gave me a thumbs up. Rain or shine. Paramedic or no paramedic it was on.

Three-two-one … Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

We’re off!

Now everything seemed to be going well during the race. The typical fast pace at the beginning where everyone sprints out like they’re Jamaican runners, whizzing right passed me only to die out after the first mile. As I passed most of these sprinters, I couldn’t help but notice the massive amount of elementary-age kids that were chugging along — keeping pace.

The Hill that slowed many down.

I mean when I was in elementary school I was playing green light-red light and watching Thunder Cats or Looney Tunes. I wasn’t racing in triathlons. I mean they didn’t even look tired. Even when we went up the hill, you saw their little legs speeding along. Don’t know what they feed these kids by the beach, but I’m sure when they hit 37 they’re probably not going to need Icy Hot.

Apparently there was this one kid, Jack, who was getting cheers from spectators all around the course. I didn’t see him or hear the chants. I’d like to think it was because he was behind me, but you never know.

One of the nice surprises that I found between mile one and mile two.

In any case, the running and biking portions of the race were not as grueling as I had thought. I felt bionic. A combination of Jamie Sommers and the Six Million Dollar Man: Colonel Steve Austin. A superhero even. I think I even passed Jack. I was zooming it, thanks to the Icy-Hot and my son’s playlist. However, the transition period sucked. It should take you like a minute. Run. Get your helmet. Get the bike. Go.

No, not for the Guat. For some reason it took me over five minutes to get situated. It wasn’t like I changed shoes or anything. I had a mini iPod and there were headphone wires everywhere. At that point I missed my lucky shirt, but I got over it and moved on.

Here’s my friend, Gonzalez passing me.

And when I got to the pool, it was just as I had expected … Kryptonite. Everyone I had passed during the run and bike phase not only caught up to me, but swam right passed me.

No bionic powers at all, just basic Guat tendencies, like pretending I can freestyle swim.

You know, I don’t know why I even try to freestyle swim. I mean who am I kidding? Who am I trying to impress? Michael Phelps wasn’t there. It’s just not my stoke. Freestyle is a stroke for people whose dots in life are connected. Me … I’m an ass-backwards dots-are-no-where-near-each-other kind of person. I’m a backstroke chick. I actually go faster doing the backstroke, so why the hell did I start of with the freestyle? Who knows. Maybe I went with the fake-it-until-you-make-it mentality.

My reward.

Note to self … that does not work in the pool. You just go slow, with the possibility of cramping and drowning. Stick to the backstroke.

However, regardless of my freestyle attempts and doggie paddles, I backstroked the last two legs of the race and powered through to the finish line.

An hour and twenty minutes. WOO-HOO! An awesome hour and twenty minutes, the kind that makes you feel bad-ass all day.

And for this bad-ass feeling, I’d like to thank the makers of Icy Hot, my son’s playlist, and my stubborn Guatemalan blood for making this possible.

Going Shirtless

In truth, I’m a little nervous.

Is it because this is a new race? A new course? No. Not really.

Is it because it might rain tomorrow during the triathlon? No. Not really

Is it because my friend said she could do the swimming portion in seven minutes? No. Not really. That was more of a holy-crap moment.

Is it because I thought the race was next week and I had another seven days to train? Well … yeah … a little but that’s not the real reason.

Image via Durtbagz.com

It’s my shirt.

My shirt.

Every athlete is a little quirky, a little superstitious.  Before every competition, race, or game, they have their routine. They have their order. They have their groove. Baseball players may swing the bat and tap their cleats twice. Basketball players may bounce the ball three times and then spin it before shooting a free-throw. Football players may butt helmets and hit each others shoulder pads. Runners and swimmers may shake off their legs and do a couple of squats before taking the starting blocks.

Every athlete has their routine, their quirks. Mine … broken. This makes me nervous. It’s not like I was going for first place, but I’d like to not suck and this shirt … this shirt mattered. My “pre-warm-up” ritual … not the same. Doesn’t feel right. Literally.

It’s my shirt. It’s not a special triathlon shirt. It’s not a hundred-dollar Nike running shirt. It’s a black v-neck Addidas breathable fabric shirt. It’s been washed over and over and over again. It’s the shirt with no chaffing. It’s worn out in just the right places and it moves with me as I run.

Through 100-degree heat or fat drops of rain beating down on me, the shirt did well. It did well on a track. It did well on a bicycle. It did well in chlorinated water. It was an all-around bad-ass shirt — a can’t lose me shirt. So you could see why I’d be a little nervous. I don’t want to do two wardrobe changes as I transition sports.

Those of you saying why not just get another shirt?

Dude. Have you every played a sport?

This is the shirt.

I tried to find something else, something similar to it, but I had no luck.  The fabric was too clingy. The sleeves were too short. The material was not soft enough. The shirt didn’t feel right. It just didn’t. So I might just have to take multiple shirts in order to feel comfortable in every leg of the race. It’s probably all in my mind. But athletes are crazy and neurotic beings — well at least this Guat. And sports … dude it’s all about the mind.

When routine is broken, my comfort and confidence levels go down a notch. But I’m hoping these wardrobe changes will help even that out and set my mind at ease.

I’ll pack some chocolate just in case.

 

 

 

The Crazy Hill and The Mighty Stop Sign

It’s a stop sign. A red octagon with white letters. And normally this traffic sign is insignificant. It’s a stop sign. You stop, then go.  But this stop sign … this one, represented a woo-hoo! moment for me. A holy crap I can’t believe it.

It sits there at the top of a long, winding incline, practically at the top of a mountain. Taunting runners and bikers alike.

Had I attempted to reach the top before, during my previous triathlon training regiment? Yes. Did I make it? The first time I barely reached the 25 MPH sign. The second time … well … the second time I reached the deer-crossing sign and told myself I could do it. And I made it, huffing and puffing and gasping for air, but I made it. It took two attempts and many bike training sessions in between to build up enough endurance to reach the mighty stop sign.

I told myself that this time around I would make multiple trips over there, but seeing how it had been raining last week, and then hitting temperatures of 102 and 104 degrees Fahrenheit the week before, I hadn’t gotten around to as much bike riding as I wanted.

Image via Durtbagz.com

But I needed to cowboy up, because in my last triathlon Devil’s Canyon kicked my ass, and I didn’t want a repeat performance. Although I’m not sure what the bike course looks like in this race, I’m certain they’ve got hills and mountains. So this weekend I busted out my two-wheeler, with its new tires, and hit the pavement.

Now I wasn’t planning on visiting that crazy hill with its stop sign today. It had been a rough morning and emotions were running high in the Guat household. In truth, when I left the house I was thinking of riding  about five or six miles and then just heading over to the 7-11 for some chocolate, but found myself riding  to the state park instead, looking at that crazy hill and its mighty stop sign. As I stood there, I noticed all these racing bikes whiz right by me and I thought … oh hell no, even if I don’t have Gatorade I’m going up there.

I found myself pedaling towards that crazy hill and the stop sign.

Now once I got to the 25 MPH sign I thought yeah … I’m feeling pretty good. I haven’t even shifted gears, but once I got to the deer-crossing sign I began contemplating just turning around. My quads had not prepared for a ride of such magnitude and altitude. But I kept going. I kept saying, just one more sign, or just one more tree and I’ll turn back.

However, I just kept going. And in truth it wasn’t the upcoming triathlon that was fueling my inspiration to reach that pinche stop sign. It was the family drama that took place that very morning that pushed my Guat butt up that hill. My frustration and anger fueled me all the way to the top. All I could think was if I made it to the top at least something positive would have happened to me that morning. I would have a happy, triumphant moment among the crappiness.

And you know what? Anger works, man.

I reached the top passing all the racing bikes that had zoomed by me earlier. I got off my bike and smiled. I grabbed hold of that stop sign, while trying to catch my breath. I stood there for a moment. Red-faced, sweaty, huffing and puffing. And victorious. I had made it on my first attempt. And it felt good. Real good. I don’t know how it’s going to feel tomorrow, but today it felt good.

Some random couple drove by as I was feeling the thrill of conquering that crazy hill and reaching the mighty stop sign. They looked at the bike, then at me, and smiled. It felt pretty good to have a random stranger give me an imaginary high-five with a glance.

However as I was taking deep breaths, in order to try and catch my breath, I didn’t get a whiff of fresh mountain air that athletes need after such a victory. My oxygen was tainted. Tainted with the smell of fresh horse manure. And not just a little bit either. I think they were giving a group tour or something because there was a definite aroma in the vicinity.

So I grabbed my bike and made my way down hill. I wish I could have stayed a little bit longer and relish in the moment, you know, take it all in, but unfortunately horse crap isn’t really my thing. And it wasn’t great for my deep-breathing victorious moment either. Maybe next time will be better.

 

Even Though I Hate This Step It Gets Me One Step Closer.

Two miles. I’m up to two miles a day. Normally I would say, you’re out of your #$^&%@! mind to be running two miles a day. What’s a matter with you? You hate running. You hate it. But when it’s an integral part of a race, it kind of seems necessary. Essential even.

So it’s become part of my training regiment. A necessary evil. But that’s just me. There are hundreds of people who enjoy hitting the pavement at a brisk pace. Apparently some of my friends find it liberating. Rejuvenating. Calming. Stress relieving. A journey that clears your thoughts and centers your mind.

Image via Durtbagz.com

This does not happen to me.

Most people get to run in the morning. They wake up charged up and ready to go. However since my kids wake up at sunrise, and I’m not the greatest morning person, I’m never really in the wake up-charged up-ready to go kind of mood. I’m more in the holy-crap-I’m-exhausted-type-of mood.

I don’t get any “me” time until nine o’clock in the evening, when they’ve both gone to sleep for night.  So my runs happen at night. Not a good place to let your guard down and feel calm or relaxed. No rejuvenation going on here. Just paranoia. Most of the time you’re extremely aware of your surroundings, making sure nobody comes out of the bushes and tries to slash you. However I do get a couple of daylight workout hours during the weekend. But I prefer to bike on those days. Bikes and nighttime traffic don’t really mix.

So I try to liberate, rejuvenate, and calm myself by walking, swimming  or biking during weekend daylight hours.

Running. It’s not for everybody, but in my case it’s something that needs to be done. It’s step one on my path, a dreadful step one. But a very necessary one for success.

And for me, success in triathlons is the finish … making it to the finish. No need to be showboating and finish in first in the 35-40 chick category, the top three hundred is fine.

And what do I need to get there? Nonstop service from the starting line to the bike transition station. That’s the goal. So I’m just gonna cowboy up, lace up my shoes and hit the pavement. I dread thinking about it, even when I’m out the door I question myself. I question the insanity of running. But once I start, I keep going because I know it’s bringing me one step closer to my goal.

One step closer to not passing out when the running part is done. One step closer to not being that chick, you know, that chick that walks during the race.  One step closer … that idea is all it takes for me to keep running in the dark. Night after night I think “one step closer.” And if there’s chocolate waiting for me at the end … well then I’ll run a little faster. Incentives rock when you hate step one.

Pool Envy and a Triathlon Buddy

I don’t know if  it’s my 37 year-old body or the fact that it hit 103 degrees today, but my workouts have left me huffing and puffing. I’d like to think it was the heat and not my weary bones.

But I wasn’t crazy, I didn’t run in the 100-degree heat, I hit the track before it was an inferno. It may have only been about 90 degrees at that moment. But regardless of the heat, I had to put on those running shoes. The flu sidelined me for about two weeks and my body responded to all that non-exercise going around. So when I went back, slower than ever I might add, the heat wave began.

Image via Durtbagz.com

It’s times like this that I wish I had a pool. I wish I knew somebody nearby that had a pool. It would make training for this triathlon much easier. I envy the pool people.

Although sometimes they anger me because of my pool envy. You know, some of these people have a swimming pool just a few feet away and they could care less. Not even the Olympics inspires them enough to jump in and splash around. It’s the best exercise ever for people with bad knees like myself, not that I would know because I don’t do it regularly, but I read WebMD. I see the dirty pool, the leaves, the moss, and the slimy floaties hanging out.  Ugh. Burn.

I was so up in arms with my pool envy that I watched the Endless Pool infomercial the other night and thought … man I need that. Gotta have that, but it wasn’t happening. The patio may be too small, my mom might not have enjoyed the patio takeover even though she never hangs out there, and I don’t have thousands of dollars just lying around. So my endless pool fantasy died with a sigh and flip of the channel.

I resign to the possibility of training in my kid’s pool from Big Lots. But my 37 year-old body doesn’t quite fit in there. And you all know how I feel about public pools and swimming in other people’s urine. There’s just not enough chlorine.

So I must run my ass off and build enough endurance to make it happen in the pool.  However, this time I may not be splashing in the pool alone. A friend of mine decided she’d attempt her first triathlon and I was pretty happy that I wouldn’t be the loner. I even mentioned that the course was a lot shorter than the last time. A 5K run, only a 10K bike ride, and a 160 meter swim.

“I know you can do it. I mean look at you. You got that Sports Illustrated fitness going on, you belong to a gym, you got that New Year’s resolution. Dude it can all happen with a little jog, bike ride, and swim.”

“Cut it out.”

She eventually called me back and said yes, but I knew she was a little scared about the whole thing. I told her she could have her dude come along for moral support, or join us, or just be our pit crew.  But even with that, it was a hesitant yes. I’m hoping she’ll take the plunge and sign up. Once you sign up, that’s it … you’ve made a declaration. You’re in for the sixty bucks. It’s your ante for the big game.

But if she chickens out, it’s all good. I’ll understand. I’ll have a radio to pump me up this time. Singing the songs myself only worked for the first two miles the last time I ran one of these. Then after mile two, all I heard was my heavy breathing. I’m not into hearing my heavy breathing or the breathing of every one else. It may have slowed me down. And slow is something I’m trying to avoid this time around.

Giddy up!

 

With The Help of DayQuil, NyQuil, and Ricola I See A Lot of Checkmarks.

Those calendars days stare at me. They lay there bare naked, no checkmark. They mock me. Damn it.

I started off so well. I was bionic and I crossed off each day in victory — overcoming the lazy I-don’t-want-to-workout early stages of training. The calendar marked my awesome daily athletic progress with large checkmarks. I got an enormous sense of satisfaction marking those days off. But now … now I’m just a regular body filled up with DayQuil, NyQuil, Ricola Cough Drops, and empty calendar days.

Image via Durtbagz.com

The flu is a bastard.

Sleeping about three to four hours a night for the past few days kicked my ass. My enthusiasm for triathlon training went down hill. The sad thing is I didn’t even have the flu this week. It was my kids. That children’s Advil and Tylenol work their magic for about four hours and then it’s over. The crying, the bad moods, the coughing, the congestion, and the mucus set off the night shift alarm, and I’m the supervisor.

However now, not only am I the supervisor, but I’m also a patient. So, I’m all about the over-the-counter medicine traveling through my body. Vicks Vapor Rub, bring it on. Tea with honey and lemon to comfort my body, yes. Thai shrimp soup, spicy to sweat it out, most definitely. I’m trying all methods to make this 37-year old Guat body recover as soon as possible so that I can return to my exercise mode. When training for a triathlon, you need every day, well at least I do. I’m 37.

I look like crap and feel pretty much the way I look. No mineral makeup to cover up this mess. The flu is in my blood and seeing the three calendar days without check marks burns me out. Stupid virus.

Why? Why is it that whenever you decide to get all jazzed up about an event or adventure there is always something that gets in the way? The flu. No babysitter. Sprained ankle. A flat tire. Your period.

All these little impediments momentarily stopping you from succeeding. Don’t they — the Powers That Be, The Universe — know that the race itself contains plenty of obstacles that challenge your body. You don’t need any extra rings of fire. You don’t need anymore downers.

You really don’t.

But nevertheless it happens and you just have to lace up the shoes and move on. There’s nothing that can be done about those three check-less days. There’s nothing that can be done about the 72 hours I lost. They’re gone. I can’t look at the calendar without wincing. But at least September is coming up and I don’t have to look at the month of August. It mocks me.

But September is a new page on the calendar, and all I see is checkmarks in my future. With the help of DayQuil, NyQuil, and Ricola I see a lot of checkmarks.

Giddy up!

 

 

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• One step at a time. One pedal at a time. One splash at a time. (thewishfactor.wordpress.com)

One step at a time. One pedal at a time. One splash at a time.

I fell off the wagon. But today was day one. I’m back. And no matter what happens on day two or day forty-five, today I was back on the wagon. I’m on a roll. Yeah one day can qualify as being on a roll. I’m building momentum, here.

What has brought me back to sports bras and New Balance running shoes? The athletic surge of energy I got from the Olympics? Probably.  Those inspirational VISA commercials by Morgan Freeman and wishing he was talking about me? Maybe. An athletic challenge that meets the crazy competitive sporting nature at my humble Guat athletic level? Yes. Most definitely.

A challenge.

A mini-triathlon challenge … this one by the beach.

Image via Durtbagz.com

That’s all it took. This is what had me lacing up my shoes at 9:30 p.m. on a Thursday night. After undergoing a very long day where my four-year old son suffered a 100+ fever and crazy mood swings once the Advil wore off, I decided to take it to the streets. I know most people think that days last 24 hours, but when you’re sick or your kid is sick and you wake up and 5:44 a.m., for some reason the day is much longer. Much. I think it’s the mood swings and all the patience that drained out of my body.

So once the moon came out and both kids went to sleep the training began. I told myself this is it. You hate running. I know you hate running. For me it’s a pointless exercise unless I’m being chased by some slasher.  But running is an essential part of a triathlon. So I didn’t mind it much. As long as the running serves a purpose in the end, I’m all good.

And let me just clarify that even though I’ve probably gained like ten pounds from eating all those different forms of chocolate — pies, rocky road ice cream, cake, KitKats — the purpose here is not weight loss. The purpose is being able to finish the triathlon and possibly improve on my last performance. The purpose is to get that cartwheel feeling of excitement in accomplishing something I think is pretty awesome. The purpose is to get back on the wagon and feel good about myself. I’m sure I’ll feel pretty spectacular once I’ve crossed the finish line.

I’ve got two months to train my Guat body into amateur triathlon form. Today I took my first step. I’m pretty excited about my start. I know I’ll probably fall off the wagon again, considering my lack of available babysitters and my ability to work out at all. But 9:30 p.m. seemed to work out all right tonight. But I’m hoping not to make that time slot a habit, considering that suspect characters like to commit criminal activity during these hours. And even though I grew up in the barrio and have plenty of street smarts, it’s good to avoid dark streets with no lights. Even if you are a brown belt and carry mace, the dark of night may not always be a good workout schedule.

But I can’t get discouraged for having only sixty days to train, knowing full well that I may miss a day or two. I must think more along the lines of quality workouts instead of quantity. Granted I need at least four days, but four quality sweat-busting days. The kind of days where I need Gatorade. Here comes The Guat … one step at a time, one pedal at a time, one splash at a time.

Giddy up!

My Tinman Update #4

They were on fire. Burning. My quads. My sad little Guat quadriceps  were aching and yelling Spanish profanities at me.

But there I was huffing and puffing trying to pedal up the incline, while a sixty-something year old man in blue biker shorts and a red shirt raced passed me.

Image via Durtbagz.com

I need more practice.

Not only did the bad-ass senior citizen whoosh past me in his racing bike, I didn’t make it all the way up. Two reasons.

One: It took me longer than anticipated to bike all the way down to this park and I had to get back home. If I continued my quest up the incline, considering my speed, it might have gone well into the late hours of the evening. I might have come back home extremely late, and in the dark. I have coordination skills, but the night-time makes it harder for drivers to see me, which may cause untimely falls into a ditch while trying to avoid crazy drivers. So the darkness was the first contributing factor. 

Two: the steepness of this mountain. I was completely unprepared for this endeavor. So were my muscles. I was pedaling so slowly that people riding on horses were passing me. I stopped at the 25 MPH sign to assess the situation. Well … in truth I stopped to give my quads a break. Quads … they are a four-part muscle and let me tell you all the parts were burning and aching.

I definitely needed more practice. Not on straightaways, that I managed to be Lance Armstrong-like. I’m talking uphill. Uphill battles.

But then the question comes to mind. What the hell is a matter with you? Why would you try to bike up a crazy incline like that?

I know you’re in training, but get a grip. It’s not the Ironman, it’s the Tinman. Who does that to themselves?

Me. I do. The crazy Guat.

I’m playing catch-up with my training and feel the need to go a little extra on the running and biking parts of the race, because as you know I have yet to hit the water during my training sessions, and know that the swimming will probably sink me. I’ll try my best to float toward the finish line. So I’m hoping the biking, running, and conditioning will help build up enough endurance to help me splash around.

Training? Yes. But what’s up with the steep incline?

Well, it occurred to me that something called Devil’s Canyon probably possesses some kind of evil, malicious uphill battle that will test every part of my legs. I mean otherwise they wouldn’t mention it on the course map. I don’t know exactly what it entails, but I imagine it won’t be easy, otherwise they’d call it something else.

In any case I’m in preparations to get through Devil’s Canyon, without stopping. So, I decided to go up the mountain in hopes that it would assist me, but I only made it to the 25 MPH sign. Maybe next time I’ll make it to the no-parking sign. We’ll see. I’ve got three more weeks to make it to the top. One sign at a time, I guess. One sign at a time.

Giddy up!

 

My Tinman Update #3

It’s the public urination. I’m just not a fan of swimming in that.

But I know what your thinking. It’s called a triathlon because it features three sports. Three. But for some reason that still doesn’t encourage the public pool adventure. But I’ll have the opportunity to splash around in a private pool soon enough. I might be able to dunk myself at least three times this month. I should be doing it three times a week, but this is The Guat Life … this is how I roll. Makes for a more exciting challenge.

Image via Durtbagz.com

I don’t know if it’s possible for someone to train for a triathlon solely working on the running, biking,  and weight training, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m not a high roller, I don’t have a pool. But I do possess some bad ass will power. It’s the kind of will power that’s coupled with the Lero Lero Factor.

I know I’ll be hurting once I reach this water. I will have run a 5K, biked nine miles through something called Devil’s Canyon, which I imagine to be something steep and grueling, thus the name. But I can only guess. I’m sure my stomach cramps, out-of-breath body, wobbly knees, and burning quads will let me know.

After surviving my encounter with the steep, dangerous, unknown canyon I then splash in the water for a 100-yard swim — you know the size of a football field.

100 yards in the water. Maybe I’ll watch some Michael Phelps footage and get inspired.

It’s supposed to be over after the swim, right? That’s what I imagined. But no. Apparently I am supposed to take my Aquaman ass out of the water and make a mad dash to the finish line. I don’t think I’ll be dashing much, more like walking briskly. But you never know. Maybe I’ll have some crazy adrenaline and sprint toward the end.

In truth I’m hoping all the running and Glucosamine pills I’ve been taking will help me out. I hope I don’t get a cramp and drown, but I’ve been told life guards will be on duty just for that reason, so I figured my bases are covered.

Will I win my age bracket?

Probably not.

Considering my lack of swimming, I’m just hoping I don’t end up last. That’s the goal. Do not end up last and finish the race. I know what you’re thinking, I’m a total overachiever, aiming that high and all, a regular Olympian. But that’s how I roll. And even though I am triathlon impaired during training, I’m still going all the way. It’ll just take me longer to finish. But I’ll finish.

Baby steps. Baby steps.