I'm sweating, frustrated and puzzled. The drain's clogged. My shaver's clogged and running out of battery-life. It's generating enough heat to power a small village. There's hair everywhere. I look up, make eye-contact with the freshly sunburned face in the mirror and ask, "How the hell did I get here?"
"Easy enough: You took a direct flight from Oakland to Honolulu, then hopped over to Maui on a separate flight," the person in the mirror responds.
"Okay, dick," I respond. "Right, right. I meant, how did I end up here? In the bathroom trimming off 25 years of leg hair?"
"Another softball: your leg hair has completely taken over the lower half of your body," the freckled face in the mirror responds. "The months of chlorine exposure has taken its toll. The hair is frazzled, strung out, dried-out - complete shit. It absorbs any lotion application instantly without sharing any with your skin. It's like a dried-out cactus, snatching up any bit of moisture it can grab. You're here because you need this to stop. You're in Hawaii and your legs need moisture - they NEED protection!"
I take in a deep breath and let out a sigh while shaking my head. I didn't need to respond. I knew there wasn't just a simple, logical argument for why I was standing there in the middle of my own hairocolypse. And while the man in the mirror's logic might indeed be true, I knew it wasn't the whole story. I knew why I was here - or at least I knew what it meant.
This was the final step. The final plunge. The final conversion. I had just taken the irreversible head-first swan dive into the world of triathlon.
But still... how did it get to this point? (plug: read "On My First Tri Parts 1-3). Let's recap: run half marathon, start swimming, start losing weight, Pat Tilman inspires, start doing more mtn biking, yoga, think about wanting to do triathlon, brother John buys jersey for xmas, signs me up for race, do race on March 27th, win race. Okay; finish race. Love race, love everything about it, look forward to next race. So what's happened since the race to get me here?
After the race I was obviously exhausted. But more than anything I was energized - WE were energized. Tracy and I were buzzing after the event. We were both moved. We wanted to take our training to the next level. And not just because we somehow had the irrepressible desire to win or do well at these events. Honestly, our goal was - and still is - to simply finish these things. We were infected by the energy that surrounded us. In an important way, it made us feel less crazy for what we had been doing for the months leading up to that event. If anything, seeing these people made us feel like we weren't quite crazy enough. So we decided to notch up the crazy. We threw our heads back and swallowed the extra dosage of crazy.
We reorganized our schedules. All of the sudden our mornings no longer adhered to my religious ritual of the previous four years. No longer was I to be found at the coffee maker first thing in the morning, brewing the first pot of the morning before even turning off my alarm clock. No longer was I to be found sipping my coffee, reading the paper, and giving myself, at minimum, an hour to let things "begin their final descent" before I grabbed a banana and took off on a run.
Nope. All of the sudden I was slamming my alarm clock and foggily throwing on any running gear I could find and ten minutes later be reluctantly heading out the door with Trace by my side and the sun yet to rise. A fifty minute run before coffee? Before bowel movements? Before a little snack? Previously unheard of - unthought of. Sacrilegious. But all of the sudden, T and I were doing this a few mornings a week. It was horrible; but it was amazing. The first couple runs - oh man. I never fully appreciated my addiction to coffee until those mornings. On those first few runs, I could think of nothing else but coffee for the first half hour. The warmth; the chocolatey taste; the feeling of slowly embracing the day sip by sip. Each sip bringing me further and further from dreamland and bringing me closer to full functioning. I was like a car engine in sub-zero temps who needed a good twenty mins of warm-up before you could dare think to get me out of that driveway. But after a few weeks, I adapted.
After a few weeks, heading out the door for a pre-6 am run without coffee no longer felt like being kicked in the face and punched in the nuts while both hungover and half asleep. Our energy levels changed. We were able to perk up quicker than ever. The first few minutes of being out the door and we were like pups breaking free and embracing every smell (except my own).
But ultimately, the real reason we started doing this, was because of a book. A book that my brother John - who else? - bought and sent to us immediately after the triathlon. "The Triathlon Training Bible."
In taking a cue from the actual Bible, this Bible made us feel guilty too. We weren't doing enough. "You mean you only work out once a day?" the Bible impliedly asked us, judging, guilting us with each sentence. "Of course we only worked out once a day. Are you insane?" we would reply. But then we would keep reading. It wasn't long until we converted. When we then subscribed to "Triathlete" magazine and then proceeded to fight over it, I knew we were a lost cause.
"We probably should do weights twice a week," I would tell Trace. "We could do it on the days when we have our early morning runs." "Yea, I think you're right," Trace agreed. "But the way the Book recommends - a lot of reps, all full functional weight work outs." "Yea, totally T."
So we did. We started doing weights twice a week at the gym at USF. (This, on top of everything else: swimming twice a week, mountain biking, running, and yoga). Both of us hadn't been in the weight room for years. Or at least it felt like years. It hurt. A lot. But not quite as much as the painful reminder of the gym meatballs that I'd all but forgotten about since I stopped playing football. I think it hit us after the sixth gorilla grunt that was followed by earth shattering dumbbells crashing into the floor, followed by the two meatballs having a flex-off in the mirror.
The divide between the world of weight-lifting and triathlon was clear. The problem - the divide between the world of triathlon (cardio/running/biking/swimming/out-door activity) and the world of weight-lifting - is philosophy. The divide is image. The thing that had struck me on my first triathlon, and continues to strike me as I continue training, is the lack of image here -the fact that training for triathlon is not about how you look. At it's core, it's about how you feel. It's a lifestyle, not an outcome. It's not necessarily a means to an end. Its not about, "I put in so many workouts on so many days that I should look like this." It's about feeling good. It's not about comparison. It's about channeling the feeling you had as a child. That feeling of being outside and breaking free - the feeling of flight. Flight from work, school, stress - flight from yourself. And also flight to yourself. Flight to figuring out exactly what you can do when you push yourself. The feeling that nothing else in the world matters. The feeling of play. That's what running/biking/swimming/(yoga) can bring. It's an unquantifiable outcome. One that you don't flex to see in the mirror.
Tracy and I continued with our twice a week weight workouts for a few weeks. But the weight routine has slowly died out. As I write, I know they have helped strengthen key parts of my legs. And I'm glad we did the workouts. But I don't miss the flex-offs.
Final exams and vacations detoured our training a bit and we took some time off. Our routine became less routine and became more sporadic. But oddly, when our routine became less routine, our training made exponential gains. Our vacation ended up taking our training somewhere we hadn't planned - even though training is something that is supposed to be mechanically planned - or at least that's what the Bible tells us. On our flight back from Maui, it dawned on us both that we swam like fish on our vacation. Our "vacation" was filled with triathlon "training" - even though we hadn't planned training at all. Vacation and training - relaxation and exercise - had become synonymous. Five days of open-ocean water swims was our favorite part of our vacation day - especially because my family joined us too. The clear water, the exotic fish, the boats in the periphery while we took in a gasp for air, it was forty to sixty minutes of bliss. It didn't feel like work, slog, or "training." It was spiritual.
We knew we were ready. We knew we didn't haven't to abide by the words of the Bible to tell us if we were ready or not. We came back from Hawaii and without hesitation signed up for the Tahoe City Xterra, June 25th.
So that's how I ended up there in the Hawaii bathroom, in my own hair tornado (hairnado?) trimming off 25 years of leg hair. I had made the final step in my change from my football days. But at the same time I guess I hadn't. Training provided me the same childish joy and freedom that playing football had. Except the difference is now I wasn't squaring up on the line of scrimmage against a fellow meatball. This time I am side-by-side with my best friend, partner. Side-by-side in training; coffee withdrawals, 5 am runs, meatball exposure overdose, Hawaii ocean swims, and trimmed legs included. And side-by-side on Saturday, June 25th.
I think this is our new religion. For the Bible tells me so.
Now will you please say some prayers for us on Saturday?
