Triathlete Chronicles

Lapping everybody on the couch

2012-02-05T18:49:00.002+10:00

This morning's session was a solid three hours on the wind trainer followed by a 25 minute run/walk that was in some ways a little less convincing.

I'm building my running by combining walking and running and I feel self conscious about it. Although I knew the reality - that I'd been hard at it for over three hours - I was embarrassed by what others might be thinking. I was worried that I looked like just another middle aged lady, shuffling around the block, holding desperately on to a new year's resolution to shed a kilo or two.

Part of this is probably that I find walking for training purposes a bit tiresome and boring. I also have this niggling idea in the back of my mind that I'm wasting my time and I should just run.
First things first, let's get one thing out of the way - a reality check. I am a middle aged lady, and I'm very aware that I don't exactly run like Mirinda Carfrae. So my fear of what I might look like to passers by is probably not unfounded.

Sure, there are always some tell-tale signs that hint at something more - like my Ironman branded running hat and perhaps even my Garmin. But when it comes down to it, the embarrassment I feel is using up precious energy unnecessarily - not the least because in reality, most people probably don't give me a second glance.

Particularly in my current situation, I have to be confident that while I'm still strengthening my ankle, getting out there and walk/running is the best of three options.

I could, of course, listen to that little voice in my head, toughen up and just run properly. Despite that little voice that tries to tell me I'm being soft, the logical side of me wins out - this option seems a little risky with a middle aged body, particularly when time is not on my side. I do, after all, have an iron-distance race looming... which leads me to why I've discounted the third option, of doing no run training at all.

Marathon runner Lisa Weightman is on my side. When she was returning from injury last year, one of the rules she trained by was don't be afraid to walk. Breaking up jog reps with a minute or two of walking allowed her to get more miles into her legs more quickly than running alone.

Seems like endurance runner and coach Campbell Maffett is on the same tilt - he blogged recently about the lessons he's learned from running. Third on the list is time on your legs.

Lastly, I'm comforted by an inspirational quote Coach Troy (of recently Spinervals fame) posted. No matter how slow you go, you are still lapping everybody on the couch.

My "shuffle around the block" this morning may not have been pretty, but I reckon I lapped a lot of people.

Breaking up is hard to do

2012-01-24T21:57:00.000+10:00

We all know it. It's true. Breaking up IS hard to do.

Don't be fooled, KKB and I are fine. What I'm referring to is the grieving cycle I'm going through faced with little choice but to dump none other than S.K Warne.

I've forgiven him many an indiscretion, but this time I'm not sure I can.

Cricket is my favourite "other" sport. I love it. I can watch a whole test match without getting bored (and quite frankly, have been a bit disappointed that the matches in this current series V India hasn't gone the distance).

I've always seen Warnie as not only the "king of spin" but also one of the sport's best cricket minds. He can read any match like a book. He's been an excellent addition to the Wide World of Sport commentary team in my opinion, not only for his insights from having played alongside some of the current Australian team, but also the way he understands how cricket unfolds.

I know it's not the first time he's been a human headline for all the wrong reasons. Sure, he was caught smoking while a spokesperson for Nicorette. Not very bright. He served a two year drug suspension for taking a masking agent. Not his fault, apparently, his mother was helping him lose weight. Although he came out and said he didn't consider himself to be stupid, it seems to me that Warnie's not the sharpest tool in the shed.

Yes, I have read about his indiscretions, most notably via text, with a handful of young English beauties whilst on an Ashes tour. He's even come out more recently and admitted that he drank until 3am in the morning on this tour. This one was easy to overlook - he outperformed the rest of the Australian cricket team. He took the most wickets across both teams, and if my memory serves me well, he performed reasonably well with the bat as well.

I even posted on this very blog that I was pretty happy to be wearing his number in the Australia Day Beer Mile last year.

His recent rants via Twitter about cyclists though, are pretty hard to stomach.

Yes, I'm a cyclist and perhaps I'm taking it a bit too personally. But I think this time there's really more than that for me. Warnie's tweets just went too far for mine.

If you're not up with the scandal, a week or two back, @warnie888 had a twitter rant about cyclists. It was inspired by an incident with a cyclist, and as a result he publicly aired his pleas for cyclists to "act responsible" and "stay in file".

He retweeted everyone that agreed with him (and noone that didn't) then tweeted that 90% of people agree with him. I guess we'll have to trust you on that Warnie.

It's since been reported in the media that Warnie's version of events is very different to the reality after the cyclist involved told their story.

We may never know the facts. It seems to me that those who want to believe the cyclist will and those that want to believe Warnie will believe Warnie. Interestingly, the truth isn't actually all that important in my break-up with Warnie. What I can't forgive is his intolerance and the use of his public profile to stoke the coals of the motorist v cyclist debate. It's a lively enough debate already, thank you very much, and one that incites all kinds of feelings and misconceptions about a group that is a minority on our roads.

You only need to take a look back through Warnie's twitter feed to see the kind of attitudes he's encouraging by retweeting them. The intolerance it embodies puts lives at risk and yet he's seemingly been allowed to get away with it.

If his tweets had denigrated drivers of any particular ethnicity for their behaviour when sharing the road, I dare say the publicity machine would not be so forgiving. If he were tweeting away about religious minorities' choice of clothing the way he had a go at cyclists wearing lycra in cafes, he would be shunned by the media.

Then again, maybe we would have just accepted it all as more proof that Warnie just isn't all that bright.

I can't do that this time Warnie. I don't care what your excuse is this time. You're dumped.

You make your own luck

2012-01-17T22:00:00.001+10:00

I believe you do make your own luck.

My husband is a surprisingly superstitious man. Surprising because he's a man's man; not the type you'd expect to believe in old wives' tales. Generally, though, he's only suspicious when it comes to bad luck. I've told him that getting pooed on by a bird is good luck. He doesn't buy it.

The recent arrival of my Challenge Roth "participant" tshirt may be the deciding factor. Is it bad luck to wear it or not?
When I entered Roth, I did it quickly. It's the way of the iron-distance world these days - everything sells out in a blink of an eye so if you snooze, you lose.

I'm discovering that I took more time than I needed to when entering... I seemed to have ordered an astonishing amount of merchandise. I obviously didn't read the fine print, so I was surprised when my Challenge Roth branded towel arrived in the post late last year.

Maybe I'm a slow learner, because I was equally as surprised when my "participant" Tshirt arrived a week or so ago.

(I'm expecting my bottle opener and key ring next week...)

It's a nice shirt. I'll take a decent picture and post it some time. Nice cut (fits me perfectly), sport-style material (but not sure if it's quick dry), and nicely branded. As a really special gesture, each of the entrants names are printed as the background.

When it arrived, I opened it up and immediately pulled it over my head.

"What are you doing??!! You can't wear it, it's bad luck!" KKB's warning fell on deaf ears.

"Wow, it fits me perfectly. Isn't it cool? I've got to find my name!"

(I pulled it straight off and was a little disappointed to find my name partially obscured by the main print of the back of the shirt. Oh well, you can't win them all.)

"What do you mean I can't wear it. Of course I can wear it. I love it!"

"It's a race shirt. It's bad luck to wear it until you've done the race", KKB insisted.

I have to admit that since then I've deliberated on this. This morning though, it felt right. I slept in a little, then got up and dressed, went downstairs and announced to KKB that I was going for a walk.

"What, now?" (It was raining pretty hard this morning.)

"Sure. Why not. And look - I'm wearing the shirt."

I could easily have slept in. But I've resolved to think like an athlete for the next one-hundred-and-seventy-something days. That means getting out in the rain from time to time.

Challenge tshirt or no Challenge tshirt - I think this is my best chance to make my own luck. What do you think?

one-hundred-and-seventy-something-days

2012-01-15T18:41:00.000+10:00

So, I've been injured. I'm on the way back though. I'm swimming, water running, and slowly building up my time on the bike.

Coming back from injury, you can't generally expect much more than this. You need to build your strength and fitness up again and that takes time.

I'm very aware though, that time is ticking. I got a reminder just the other day via Facebook. 180 days to go until Challenge Roth. That makes it one-hundred-and-seventy-something days now. It doesn't seem that far away.

I had my first physio appointment since before Christmas the other day and I left full of optimism and armed with a to-do list.
1. Buy Theraband
2. Do a handful of exercises "every other day" (ie, every day)
3. Repeat Step 2.

OK, I said optimism. Not elation.

The good news was that there was no real need to rest my ankle anymore, so I can start doing most of the things I need to do to build strength and fitness for my next race*. I can do this the normal way, through regular triathlon training.

The bad news was that I will be banging my head against a brick wall trying to do this, until I build up all the little stabilising muscles in my ankle that have also weakened through inactivity. Unfortunately, I can't do this through regular triathlon training.

(Thus the Theraband and exercises every (other) day.)

I'm trying to be smart about how I build up my Ks, and most of I'll, I'm trying to stay focussed. After getting the go ahead from the physio to push a little harder in training, I decided that to get extra bang for my buck I'd do a swim followed by a WT on Saturday morning. This is the kind of session my coach usually prescribes for me at this time of my training to get your body ready for transitions and used to getting food down in the first half hour on the bike.

When Saturday morning rolled around, it all seemed a bit hard - packing my bike, plus the trainer, plus the swim gear, working out my swim set, and making sure I had the nutrition I needed to achieve what I wanted from the session. I nearly pulled the pin. Nearly.

When you're coming back from injury it's really easy to be half arsed about your training. You feel like you can't really train properly, so you start wondering why you're bothering.

(Or maybe that's just me?)

Instead I decided it was time for an attitude change. I decided to start thinking and acting like an athlete. I need to find and apply the consistency and dedication that I'd normally have when training for an ironman. Some days, I might only be able to focus it on my rehabilitation. But that's OK.

Roth is only one-hundred-and-seventy-something days away and I need every one of them.

*except running

First event of 2012. Done.

2012-01-08T14:10:00.001+10:00

A big contrast to 2011, which was completely event-less for the athletic powerhouse, a week in to 2012 I've already done my first race. I did the Dicky Beach Ocean Swim with a couple of friends on Monday.

I entered the ocean swim on a dare set down by a friend from Sydney. She had recently done a swim at Coogee and with a trip home planned for Christmas, thought the Dicky Beach event was too good an opportunity to miss.

So did I.

I'd only just gone back to swimming since spraining my ankle and could only swim with a pull buoy. After two swim sessions, the second of which I got through 1,500m with the pull buoy, I decided that with a few weeks up my sleeve before the race, I could be ready. My health professional's assessment in mid December that I could start swimming without a pull buoy was enough to prompt me to pay my $20 entry fee.

I kept the training up with a couple of swims a week. Over Christmas I tried to ignore the news about beaches being closed due to rough weather. Surely this would be over by New Year?

It wasn't quite - when race day rolled around, the surf was still fairly full on. We had stayed up the coast with friends over New Year and I knew that at least the temperature of the water was pleasant. A lot of these friends had also promised to come and watch me swim, which was a little overwhelming for just a 1k swim! I appreciated their support, but as the start time beckoned, I started to feel the nerves and pressure build.

I reveled in this feeling, truth be told. I've always felt that nerves are an important part of racing - when channeled well, they help you get the best out of yourself. Maybe, just maybe, I was back!

With my ankle still on the mend, I started from the back of the field so I could take my time getting in through the break. As soon as the water was deep enough I started swimming, diving under the waves when I needed to. It seemed to take ages to get out to the first turning can to start the rest of the circuit!

As soon as I did though, I found I started passing people. At some point along that straight I passed Damien, who was keeping his eye out for Nat. We swapped greetings and I kept swimming.

The buoys were fairly hard to sight in the swell, and I've never been good at keeping to a course in open water at the best of times. There were moments in this event when I thought I must have been dead last - there was not a sign of any other swimmers at all! Each time though, I'd push this doubt aside and just refocus on finding the next turning buoy and swim for it.

Sure enough, as I rounded the penultimate buoy to swim the last stretch along the beach, I came across some other competitors. Maybe I wasn't doing so badly after all.

I rounded the final can and headed for the beach. I probably over compensated for my dodgy ankle again on the way out of the water, tentatively picking my way through the breaking waves and back onto the beach. Like the start, it seemed to take forever. But finally, I could make my way up the beach and across the finish line.

Damien came in not long after me, and Nat finished soon after that.

My finish time isn't anything to write home about - 29:38 translates to a 1:54:00 ironman swim! But less than 36 hours into the new year, I'd already finished my first race of the year. It was only a small event, but seemed like a first big step towards Challenge Roth.

It felt good.

Desperately seeking... The Athletic Powerhouse

2012-01-01T09:49:00.000+10:00

Once upon a time, there was an athletic powerhouse. This athletic powerhouse would ride her bike, run, and even swim. She would train hard and push herself to her mental and physical abilities.

Reflecting on 2011, it's hard to believe that the athletic powerhouse I'm describing is me. I haven't raced this year, unless you count the Beer Mile of course! Many of you will not be surprised that according to my calendar, it's still April 2011. I visited a friend the other day and her parents asked me if I was still doing triathlons. I wasn't quite sure what to say.

"Yeah, but no, but yeah, but... "

As I sit here wondering where that athletic powerhouse has gone (and whether I'll get her back) I think about how the Athletic Powerhouse came to be in the first place. Not many people really know the story, so as I go into 2012 desperately seeking her, it might be a good time to reflect on the legend of the Athletic Powerhouse.

Regular readers of the Triathlete Chronicles know that I'm a back of the pack triathlete. My profile says as much, and I'm not being overly modest - my results speak for themselves. It's this status of a genuine BOTPer that leads many to assume that I branded myself as the "athletic powerhouse" because of little more than a healthy ability to laugh at my shortcomings. Others perhaps see it as a less than healthy symptom of self flagellation.

Both logical assumptions, and both are in some ways close to the mark. But there's more to this story than either of these explanations.

When I started out in triathlon, I joined a training group formed specifically for beginners. I had never done any formal swim training, had rarely done any kind of running or jogging, and hadn't ridden a bike since I was twelve. I'd never been a sporty kid - I have memories of coming dead last in running races in primary school, and of subsequently spending most of secondary school avoiding PE like the plague.

There had been a few contributing factors to my decision to take up triathlon; but it's probably suffice to say, it was on my bucket list. Given my unenviable lack of history as an athlete, it was no real surprise to me that I was the slowest in the training squad at everything. When I first started, completing any training session felt like a minor miracle and was perhaps right to be satisfied with this.

I got through my first couple of events - a 3k fun run before a sprint distance triathlon at Raby Bay - and to be honest, I was elated and astounded that I'd been able to pull it off. It was an achievement I'd never imagined possible, and I reveled in the satisfaction that comes from pushing yourself out of your comfort zone and succeeding.

By this time I was addicted. I bought myself a proper bike and joined the club's main training squad. I kept training but was still the slowest at everything and seemed destined to stay that way.

Over time my coach started seeing two things in me - physical potential to go faster, countered by complacence with just getting through. I, however, was perfectly happy. I'd settled comfortably into being the backmarker of the group. It was what I expected from myself, and true to group dynamics, it was what I thought others expected of me too.

Without even realising, I'd built a new comfort zone for myself - plodding along at the back of the pack.

My coach and I had many conversations about the situation and he encouraged me to try different tactics to overcome it. I started training with a heart rate monitor - not to restrain me to train within a zone, as is the case with many athletes, but to prompt me to train at a higher heart rate and therefore push myself harder.

At some stage we had a eureka moment. I admitted to my coach my fear of not making it home on long rides and runs. It was almost too simplistic to be true, but I genuinely underestimated my physical ability to complete each training session. With this in mind, it was perfectly reasonable that I wouldn't be pushing myself any harder than the minimum. I had no way of knowing what my physical limit was, as I'd never asked my body to deliver this kind of output.

I still don't think it was a conscious thing. There was some kind of inbuilt caution that prohibited me from going too hard - form a genuine of running out of steam. If I wanted to get past this, though, I needed to throw my caution to the wind.

My coach was a big believer in mantras and I invented the athletic powerhouse as a mantra to help me do just that:
"I am an athletic powerhouse. I will not let my mind limit what my body can achieve."

And with that, the Athletic Powerhouse came to be. And she was me.

Sure, I make jokes about the Athletic Powerhouse being my 'online alter-ego' (you can 'Like' The Athletic Powerhouse on Facebook and follow her on Twitter) and obviously I lapse in and out of talking about her in the third person. But there's no doubting that the idea of having an athletic powerhouse inside me got me out of that comfort zone at the back of the pack and led me on to finish ironman triathlons, a marathon, and even the odd adventure race.

She might have been a bit absent lately, but I'll find her again.

Recover, rebuild and hopefully reinvent

2011-11-05T16:41:00.000+10:00

My next blog post was meant to be about reinventing myself - about trying something new and challenging myself in a whole new way. You see, since my last post, I've enlisted a personal trainer to build strength, particularly core strength. I've had three sessions with Jojo at Northside Boxing Gym.

Right now I should be writing about how hard the first session was. I could have called it "Burpees are not my friend". It's true. They're not.

I could also have told you about how surprised Jojo is about my lack of core strength, me being an Ironman and all. I could be quoting him right now. "You've been neglecting your core." It's true. I have.

I rolled my ankle during the week, though, and have some ligament damage. So I've had to rethink this blog post... and it looks like I need to rethink some of this reinventing stuff.

I've been for my first round of physio and acupuncture with Sandra at Holistic Physio. There is a fair bit of swelling still, so first things first - recovery. I need to get the swelling down, let the ligament heal, and then get back into the business of rebuilding strength around the ankle.

This could take some time.

Intuitively, I feel that I can't afford to take risks this time. I've strained this ankle a couple of times before, and never really had it treated properly. It's always healed up OK, but it's always been there in the back of my mind. I've had a fear that it would come back to bite me. Sandra's diagnosis confirmed my sixth sense - a moderate tear.

As I lay in the treatment room I asked what my options were for training. I'd finally been starting to get some momentum and motivation after a lazy winter. The last thing I wanted to do now was go back to sitting on the couch.

"I guess riding is out of the question?"
"Yes, definitely."
"Can I swim?"
"No, you won't be able to kick. The water will put too much pressure on it."
"What about water running?"
She thought about this one for a while, and then answered, "no, I wouldn't do that just yet either."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Ummm"...

Even after close to ten years as a triathlete, I still find it somewhat surreal that I bargain with medical professionals like this. It's almost like an out of body experience. I can hear the words but still can't quite believe that it's me saying them, frantically looking for something I can do to keep me mobile when I'm sick or injured.

This time there wasn't much joy.

All I can feasibly do for the next couple of weeks is swim with a pull buoy. I'm also going to inflate the fit ball and do some work on that. There must be plenty I can do that isn't weight bearing. Right?

Sandra will work with me to get me active as soon as I can. Hopefully, I'll be able to water run in a couple of weeks, and soon after that start with short bike sessions on the home trainer. I'll have to rethink my weekly sessions with Jojo, at least until I can go back to weight bearing exercise. Obviously, once this happens I'll have specific exercises for my ankle as well.

While it's not what I expected to be doing, in a way it's a different kind of reinventing. I'm hopeful that if I attack the situation positively and with a plan, I can still come out the other side stronger than I went in.

And importantly, get this sorted out with enough time to rebuild for Roth next July.

Wish me luck. And better still, leave me your tips for recovering and rebuilding!

Worldwide Festival of Races: the Zen 10

2011-10-12T20:49:00.000+10:00

The Worldwide Festival of Races was here. Time to run with Speedy Reidy once again! Well, virtually, anyway.

I joined the Speedy Reidy Runners a couple of months ago when the challenge was first issued by Speedy. I needed something to aim for and given that you could choose to run anything between 5k and a marathon, aiming for the Zen 10K was achievable, while still being a challenge.

My goal was to run no slower than 7.5 minute Kms, but also given that it was a virtual run with Speedy, to also capture the experience for her and show off Brisbane to the world.

I chose a route that I'd run a few times with Speedy Reidy - along Kingsford Smith Drive from Brett's Wharf towards Newstead and Teneriffe. It was one of Speedy's favourite places to run when she lived in Brisbane - the photos I captured along the way probably show why.

Brisbane Citycat at Bretts Wharf, with the city skyline in the background.

Random fishermen at Newstead Park (This one's especially for you, Speedy Reidy.)

You can run almost all the way along the front from Newstead to the Gasworks development since we last ran there, Speedy. This is the parklands and one of the new apartment blocks.

The walkway leaves the river for a short time, but it runs through the parklands - not like the backstreets we used to run there, Speedy.

A pandanus tree not far from my turnaround point at Teneriffe. Quintessentially Queensland.


One of the woolshed-style buildings that line the River along Newstead and Teneriffe.

Riverside bikepath in Teneriffe

The damage from the floods earlier this year is still visible around Brisbane - the Teneriffe Ferry terminal still under repair

It's jacaranda season in Brisbane. (It's also magpie season, but that's another story.)

And this is just a shot of my shoes. I don't know why.

The upshot of the my effort at the Zen 10 is that I achieved my goal, just, with a run time of 1:14:29. A successful reunion run with Speedy Reidy. And as you can see, plenty of Zen.

One of THOSE people...

2011-10-05T08:49:00.003+10:00

I usually drive to work and as I drive home, I spot runners loaded up with their backpacks, running home from work. I admire them, and I admonish them.

I've never been an afternoon trainer. I find it really hard to motivate myself to train after a day at work. So usually, I look with envy at those afternoon trainers as they bob along beside those of us kept captive by our cars and peak hour chaos.

My car is at the panel beater this week, so with a choice between a bus/train combination and a 9k run, I became one of those people.

Training at this time of day is different. Your energy levels are different, your frame of mind is different, and the people you see along the way, well, they're different too.

Normally as I run, the day gets brighter. Yesterday, the sky got darker. Until I got out until the 'burbs proper, I was concerned that I might disappear without a trace. In a way, this was handy. I think I ran a little faster through the inner city commercial areas, just in case.

Usually, in the early morning, things are quieter. Running through peak hour traffic provides a bit more of a buzz. When I got home, I was surprised to feel that the hustle and bustle hadn't changed my ability to clear my head and think things through, the way I normally do on a run.

When it comes to the people, well, funnily enough, I only encountered one other commuter runner the whole way home. I did, however, encounter a pizza promoting pirate. True story.

I always seem to enjoy running as a means of transport. Along with everything else, it is really satisfying to have gotten somewhere on your own steam.

I don't know whether become one of "those" people permanently, but I'm thinking it'd be good to throw in a run home more often than I do now.

September Salvation: fail or forgivable?

2011-10-03T06:26:00.000+10:00

First weekend of October and I'm sure you've been dying to know how much fitter, leaner and stronger I am after my month of salvation.

Well, I dare say I am somewhat fitter. Maybe I'm a little stronger. The scales don't lie, and according to them I've lost a couple of kilos. But at the end of the day, I only exercised 20 out of the 30 days in September.

As a simple fraction, I could say 2 out of 3 ain't bad, but let's be honest, twenty is closer to the failing score of 14, than it is to the perfect score of thirty.

Of course, I have all kinds of reasons (ie, excuses) for my ten days of failure:

the inlaws were visiting x 1 (I know, it should have been the best excuse ever to get out of the house, right?)
wardrobe malfunction x 1 (forgot my running shoes for a session)
busy volunteering as an official x 3 (two races and a training session)
a sore throat that could have become something worse x4
a last minute decision to apply for my dream job at Cricket Australia x 1

Here's the summary:
Day 1 - half arsed session on home trainer
Day 2 - 20k ride
Day 3 - 35k river ride
Day 4 - 90min on home trainer
Day 5 - walk recovery
Day 6 - 1 hr on home trainer
Day 7 - 45min water run
Day 8 - FAIL
Day 9 - 35 minute ride
Day 10 - 30k ride
Day 11 - FAIL
Day 12 - FAIL
Day 13 - 50min on home trainer
Day 14 - 5k run
Day 15 - boot camp / circuit
Day 16 - 45 minute water run
Day 17 - FAIL
Day 18 - 2hr on home trainer and 20min run
Day 19 - walk recovery
Day 20 - 55min on home trainer
Day 21 - 6k run
Day 22 - 50min on home trainer
Day 23 - FAIL
Day 24 - 45k road ride
Day 25 - FAIL
Day 26 - 60min on home trainer
Day 27 - FAIL
Day 28 - FAIL
Day 29 - FAIL
Day 30 - FAIL

Most ways you look at it, twenty out of thirty is closer to failing than perfection. As the FAIL days started racking up in the middle of the month, that's exactly how I felt - a failure.

I made a concerted effort to get past this though. It's definitely my experience that negativity never helps you get back on the horse. You have to forgive yourself your sins, and refocus. And after all, that's what this month was all about - getting back on the horse.

I've had a bit of a cold this past week or so. Despite this, I am definitely more motivated and am physically more able to train. Instead of having a fleeting moment wondering if might train in the morning, I now ask myself what training I'll do.

Though I have to categorise September Salvation as a FAIL, if I allow myself a little forgiveness, I will stay focused and move further away from failure.

September Salvation: So far

2011-09-04T19:23:00.001+10:00

Since I first posted about September Salvation on Sunday 4th, I'm sure you're all dying to know how the first four days have gone.

Day 1 - doesn't really count, as I made my pledge sitting at the hairdressers at 8pm or so. Had done a very quick and half hearted session on the stationery trainer that morning. I'll make it up. Had fish and chips for dinner too. Double ouch.

Day 2 - rode 20ks at an average of 25k/hr. Now that I think about this, I'm not sure it meets the "one hour minimum" requirement...

Day 3 - 35k River Ride. Won't mention average but the cemetery hill got my heart rate well up. Bought hummus at the shop to substitute for butter.

Day 4 - 90 minutes on the stationery trainer watching Eat Yourself Sexy. Crap show, but got motivated to look at my diet as part of Salvation.

So now you know.

September Salvation

2011-09-04T19:01:00.001+10:00

Motivation comes from the strangest places at times.

I should be motivated by some of the events I've got on the horizon. I've committed to running with Speedy Reidy's team in the Worldwide Festival of Racing on October 9, and I really want to ride the 200k offering (rather than settling for the 110k version) of the Frank Papp Memorial Audax ride on 12 November.

Both of these events are personally meaningful to me, so I'm surprised that I've found my spark to get back into training from something that seems so much more frivolous. A friend posted on Facebook that she was going to exercise every day this month and completely on a whim I commented that I would too.

And then it was done: I committed myself to September Salvation.

This title might seem melodramatic. It's worth declaring that I made up this title for myself, and for that reason, it's not. It's a confession that I need saving.

I weigh five kilograms more than I did when I left Australia to compete in my last Ironman in June last year. Sadly, my current weight is only five kilograms less than my pre-triathlon, couch-potato weight.

Five kilograms isn't that much I guess, but with this perspective, 5kgs is halfway back to frumpy.

So I'm going to train every day this month. What counts as a training session?

Cycling for a minimum of an hour. Stationery trainer also counts.
Running at least 5kms.
Shorter run is OK if followed by specific strength session
Walking or water running for recovery sessions. Preferably only one per week.

I'm also going to make an effort to regulate what I eat. What will this mean?

No butter
Maximum of one alcoholic beverage, on a maximum of five nights per week
Eliminate unnecessary calories. As an example, a side salad consists of vegetables - no cheese or dressing.
Focus on portion size. Stop eating when I'm full rather than when my plate is empty.

I don't know how this will go. My friend Tyno completed a 30 in 30 challenge earlier this year, and I agreed entirely with the lessons he learned - for him doing 30 sessions "just because" didn't always result in quality sessions. (And as I look at his blog to find this post, I see that he has recently posted a similar confession to mine.)

At this stage, though, I'm willing to take that risk. I'm not training for a time at any of my upcoming events, so I can concentrate on some other things:

Running with Speedy Reidy. She lives on the other side of the world now, and we haven't run together for a while.
Trying to keep my Facebook friend honest on her goal for the month. No real reason for this, just because.
Honouring the life of my friend Frank. Because he believed in my ability to ride 200ks.

Now that I look at it written down like that, maybe my motivations aren't so strange after all.

Help! I have an "old mate"

2011-08-07T20:23:00.002+10:00

Come on, you’ve had one too. Most people have. That person in your life whose name completely eludes you. You see them all the time, and it’s embarrassing. You should know their name; after all, they know yours, and what’s worse, they use it all the time.

At first, you can let the situation go. But before too long, it’s out of control. Too much time has passed for you to just ask straight out. You could just take a stab, but there’s an almost 100% chance that you’ll be wrong.

Then, something happens and you know you can't let it go any longer.

I’ve long include water running in my regular training, and for the last 18 months or so, I've done this at the Healthstream pool at Kelvin Grove. Like most pools I’ve gone to, there aren't many frequent water runners. In fact, the only water runner I've encountered on a regular basis is my latest 'old mate'.

Even before ‘old mate’, I've always sensed a bit of a bond with fellow water runners, in the same way minorities tend to stick together. I think it’s safe to say that water runners are, by and large, looked down upon by swimmers, who are loathe to share their lane with us slow moving traffic. We really have to stick together.

With this water runner, its different. The bond has been greater.

My 'old mate' greets me every time, by name. If we haven’t seen each other for a while, he asks after me, wonders why I haven’t been around. (If we haven’t seen each other for a while, it’s always me that’s had the hiatus. ‘Old mate’ is like clockwork. The times he hasn’t been there when I’ve been there, I can probably count on one hand.)

Despite this bond, we don't actually talk that much. Mostly, we just bob up and down our shared lane. 'Old mate' wears headphones while he water runs. He puts his Discman in a Tupperware container, and it bobs up and down in the lane too.

We share knowing looks when a swimmer with bad technique throws a little too much water our way. (I secretly call them "splashers".)

On Friday, though, we had a long chat; a meaningful one. I hadn't been water running for a while, and we had a bit of catching up to do - my crash, Frank's crash, and from here we moved on to life after death, the value of faith (and our shared lack thereof). We talked about how, faith or no faith, how important it is to live a good life, and tell your partner that you love them. 'Old mate', it turns out, has been married for 38 years. He must know a thing or two about this stuff.

It was an enjoyable conversation; a conversation that was much too insightful and personal to have with someone whose name you can't remember.

So now, my embarrassment has turned to guilt, and I have to do something. Help me, people. What should I do?

1. Make KKB help me, the way I helped him.

KKB had an “old mate” not so long ago. He rode with down at the Nundah bike track most afternoons. One afternoon at the track KKB gave me a nudge, and I knew straight away that this guy was “old mate”. I introduced myself, and Rob introduced himself back. Problem solved. There's just one downfall to this plan, I'm not sure how amenable KKB is to water running just to humour me.

2. Take a punt and hope 'old mate' corrects me gracefully.

I think it might be Mark, or maybe Chris. But I'm not sure how many 60 year old Marks there are around the place... It's definitely risky, but maybe worth a go.

3. Confess my ignorance, and ask him to remind me.

Embarrassing as hell, but maybe not as embarrassing as making KKB bail me out in his Speedos.

4. Nothing.

I'm pretty sure he knows I can't remember his name. He's obviously OK with it. Maybe I should just let sleeping dogs lie.

5. Something else?

If you have any ideas, 'old mates', leave me a comment.

Are sportspeople heroes?

2011-07-31T23:01:00.001+10:00

There's been a bit of talk about this since Cadel Evans won the Tour de France last weekend.

A bit of a brouhaha involving a social/media commentator on a national breakfast TV show. It doesn't seem to be dying away just yet, and I don't want to breathe new life into the issue as it starts to flail, so I won't "name and shame". I've been stewing over it a bit though, and as a result this blog post has been writing itself all week. I've finally had the time to tap this out, belated and blown over as the issue might be.

The TV segment created such a flurry that the commentator has felt compelled to defend themselves on their blog not once, not twice, but three times since then. Here, they continue to emphasise their point that heroes are people who save lives, and that sports people, like others who achieve note in their individual fields, are not.

For anyone who missed this media circus, the commentator was asked on national breakfast TV to comment on Cadel's achievement the morning after he was pronounced the winner of the Tour de France. The first Australian ever to do so.

She was completely underwhelmed. Her inability to appreciate the achievement was based on her assessment that sportspeople aren't heroes. They aren't heroes because they don't save lives like actual heroes (doctors and firemen). Sportspeople are also apparently unable to wear the hero tag because they get paid a lot of money to do what they love. Apparently, being a hero is also dependent on your geographical location, because apparently Cadel Evans can't be a hero because he doesn't live in Australia.

All this aside, I think the basic problem with this commentator's opinion is a gross generalisation of sportspeople (and of those who pursue "heroic" employment choices).

I agree that not all sportspeople are heroes. Cricketers have made headlines for turning up to work drunk and setting a long-standing record for the consumption of alcohol on a long haul flight. A greater number of rugby league stars beat up their girlfriends and sexually abuse women. The world's greatest golfer spectacularly fell from grace last year for having a string of mistresses all over the globe, and Olympic hopeful swimmers get caught up in pub brawls.

For every Shane Warne, Nick Darcy and Glen Inglis, though, there's also a Hazim El Mazri, Glenn McGrath, and - dare I say it - a Cadel Evans. Sportspeople who are renowned for being standup people; who try to use their fame and position in the hearts and minds of the general public for good, not evil.

It is clear that this commentator knows nothing of Cadel's life or outlook. I don't know Cadel personally. I met him once and even got the chance to ask him a question at the launch of his biography Close to Flying, which I've since purchased and read.

Cadel grew up in a single parent family in rural Australia. His experience growing up in an indigenous community has inspired his advocacy for the Tibetan people. He worries that the Tibetans' culture is being taken away from them, in a way that he perceives has happened to Australia's indigenous peoples.

I had the honour of sitting on the slopes of Alpe d'Huez during the 2008 Tour de France as Cadel led a group of some of the best cyclists in the world past FREE TIBET emblazoned on the slope beside the road. Not long after this, there was a bit of publicity around whether Cadel would engage in some kind of protest about Tibet at the upcoming Beijing Olympic games. Cadel being the good guy that he is did no such thing. But he was satisfied that he could use his position as a cyclist of some renown to draw attention to this international issue.

Maybe, just maybe, Cadel is a hero to the Tibetan people.

So the next point about money. OK, so Cadel earns a lot of money. By many people's standards, doctors earn a lot of money. I'm sure there are many doctors were initially drawn to their profession to save lives. But I suspect there's a whole lot more who were drawn to it because of the paycheck that goes with it. Even worse, there are, I'm sure, plenty of medical practitioners may well be pushed into it by overzealous parents who see the same future paychecks. (I work at a university. It happens. A lot.)

And what of these other heroic jobs, like firemen, teachers and policemen and women. I'm sorry, but there are news stories every other week about people in these professions being arrested for child pornography and drug trafficking.

Maybe, just maybe, not all policemen, doctors and firemen are heroes. Even if they do save lives.

So let's talk about saving lives. Last Sunday, the day after Cadel earned the Tour de France title by dominating the time trial stage of the race, Brisbane's roads were packed with cyclists. Who knows how many middle aged men (and women for that matter) dusted off their treadley for the first time in months, reinvigorated to get out for a spin. Who knows how many will be inspired enough to keep it up, even for a little while. Who knows how many will keep it up long enough to lose a couple of kilos; get their heart pumping more healthily; and maybe even remain motivated enough to exercise regularly.

Maybe, just maybe, Cadel Evans has helped save a life or two.

I think though, the thing that stood out most for me in this commentator's apathy for Cadel's achievement - the thing that kept ticking away in my mind - is the blatant disregard of his hard work.

It's really easy to write off the work of a professional sportsperson by saying they get paid to do what they love. I'm sure there's some truth to it, somewhere along the line. But it just isn't that simple. By and large, the sportspeople that rise to the top are the ones that do more than cruise along earning an easy buck. The ones that achieve the most work hard physically, apply themselves mentally and devote everything they have and are to their ultimate goal.

The moments in sport we remember are those moments that are the culmination of all of this. Cathy Freeman's gold medal run in the 400m at the Sydney Olympics. Steve Waugh's perfect day at the Sydney Cricket Ground in January 2003. For many - me included - Cadel Evans' Tour de France win will also become one of those moments.

We admire these achievements not only for what they are in that moment, but for the sum total of what they have been - weeks, months, and years of hard work. We believe that if sportspeople can achieve their impossible dream, maybe we can too - even if our impossible dream isn't quite as grand as a cycling grand tour.

And that, friends, is what has got my knickers in a knot about this whole thing. I just can't fathom that this so called commentator can't see the value in this. They are obviously a successful person. Did they not have to work hard to achieve their success? If they did, why can't they admire that in another, regardless of their occupation?

Maybe, just maybe, it's OK to celebrate these individuals who inspire us, motivate us, and allow us to believe in ourselves. Maybe, it's even OK for those sportspeople to be our heroes. Especially when they show us that we can be heroes too.

Keep it simple, stupid.

2011-07-10T21:40:00.003+10:00

40ks on the bike last weekend. I gasped for breath the whole way. 5k run during the week. My muscles hurt so much the next day I was walking like a cowboy.

Sucker for punishment so went back for another 5k run yesterday. Coughed up a lung.

A few months off means I don't feel much like an athletic powerhouse these days. So where to from here?

Simple really. There's two options.

1. Back to the couch, and forget I ever left it. It's been nice and warm there this winter, and the Tour is only just getting started.

2. Back outside, and remember that 5k runs and 40k bike rides aren't actually normal. Most people build up to these distances, because when you start out, it hurts.

Someone asked me recently why I do this. She wasn't specific about, so I guess she wanted to know why I train; why I sign up for Ironman; why I think nothing of running for a couple of hours before working a full day at the office; why I think it's inevitable that I one day tackle an ultra-marathon.

My answer was simple. "It just feels so good. When I'm fit and ready to race, I feel good."

It sounds simple too. And that's how it should stay. It's easy to complicate it with an analysis of whether it's physical, emotional, psychological or all of the above. That's usually what I'm all about. Hell, that's what this blog is ALL about - philosophising, reflecting, contemplating and ruminating.

But for now, simplicity is good. When I start to think about how hard it will be to get that feeling back, all I need to think about is how good it will feel when I do.

And that's where to from here. Simple.

Lightning strikes

2011-06-25T22:11:00.002+10:00

Lightning is a thing of beauty, a vessel of awesome power. Mostly, lightning is some thing to behold. We marvel at it, and we appreciate it when it presents itself, for rarely is it around for long.

From time to time, tragedy accompanies this natural phenomenon and, out of nowhere, lives are turned upside down by a bolt from the blue. When this happens, we comfort ourselves that lightning never strikes twice in the same place.

It's strange that we're so reassured by this idiom. It is, after all, just a saying.

My friend Frank crashed his bike a few years back. He came down when riding in a criterium race.

I didn't know Frank then, but I know from others that did, that it had been serious. The injuries lingered, but he recovered well enough, and as soon as he could, he got back on his bike.

And he rode.

I recently read his perspective on that first crash, and his road back to riding. It made me realise the nature of his injuries and the degree to which he had fought to firstly survive, and then to ride again.

Two weeks ago, Frank came down again. This time there wasn't the chaos of bunch riding; no jostling for position; no cheers from the sideline. This time, there was just Frank and the road ahead. He was riding alone on a country road in northern New South Wales when a kangaroo leapt out at the wrong time to cross the road.

A bolt from the blue that has changed many lives forever. For Frank, and for all of us, lightning struck twice.

Now, that last paragraph in his story is eerie:

As bad as my injuries have been, I know there are others out there who have sustained worse and recovered. I take my hat off to them. I hope my story inspires others to just give it a go. You only get one chance in life, or in my case, two!

I can't help but think that he got that second chance because the world was meant to have him for a little bit longer. So we could appreciate his wonder and be thankful for his beauty. I for one am thankful for that time. One thing I'm certain of is that the world needs more people like Frank. His sudden departure means the world has one less good guy.

Frank, rest in peace knowing that you have inspired many of us, and will continue to do so. Not only in the way you rode, and through the passion that got you back on the bike, but also because of the way you lived your life, as a gentleman and a friend.

The doctors have said that the last thing Frank will remember is riding along that country road on his bike. I imagine the afternoon sun glistening over his shoulder, or perhaps filtering through the treetops to speckle the road ahead of him. I like to think that Frank was grinning that big grin that filled his face and made us all grin with him.

This, to me, is beautiful; a vision that is truly something to behold. One day, when this sadness passes, that vision will make me grin again.

Two months of Fabian

2011-05-29T21:02:00.001+10:00

So, it's the end of May, but my calendar still shows April.

There's a good reason for that. My Graham Watson cycling calendar. Appropriately, the month of April (the month of spring classics) features the man that dominated last year's Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix. The Brad Pitt of cycling, Fabian Cancellara.

KKB saw what was coming. When I opened up to April, he quipped straight away, "looks like it's going to be April 2011 for a while".

My admiration of Fabian, which, by the way, is not purely physical, has grown over the last year or two. Let's face it, what's not to like? He's the current Olympic champion, four time and current reigning world time trial champion, has worn yellow at the Tour de France, and is feared by the peleton when he lines up for one day races.

He won my heart last year when riding solo to the finish line of the Tour of Flanders. With the camera focused on him, he reached into his jersey pocket and pulled out a small gold angel charm, turned to the camera and kissed it, looking straight down the barrel to the TV audience. The commentator explained the significance of this.

The story goes that his daughter had asked him what he puts in his pockets when he rides. Fabian's answer wasn't very satisfactory to his toddler, and not long after she presented him with this charm so he had something to carry with him.

While part of me was just a little disappointed that his smile a few Ks out from the finish line wasn't just for me, most of me saw this gesture to his little girl was a sign of a good man. So, when we headed off to France just a few months later to follow the Tour de France, Fabian was on a very short list of cyclists I was keen to prioritise in those rare times when you can get up close to the circus.

Jens Voigt was also on my list of course, and the fact that they both rode for Saxobank would even make my stalking more manageable, particularly on the most convenient of stalking days, the time trial. We were in Bordeaux for the penultimate stage of the tour. The time trials are a good chance to get photos and watch the teams in action, as at the start the team buses set up warm up areas for the cyclists, and the mechanics set to work in preparing the bikes for the showiest of stages.

We arrived early to see just a handful of teams already set up. No surprise that the teams that looked most ready to go were the teams at the top of the race - BMC, Radio Shack, and of course, Saxobank. (Interestingly Contador's team, Astana, were conspicuously absent early on.)

The setups are amazing. Buses with laundries where the cargo hold usually is. Trailers filled with bikes and wheels which, when emptied of their precious cargo, transform into mechanic workshops. We even heard that one of the teams has converted a truck into a commercial kitchen, so they can prepare their own food whereever they are.

While some of the teams were easing into their day, the Saxobank bus was a hive of activity. The Schleck bikes were on display (Andy's of course the most blingy) as well as Fabian's time trial rig also on show, complete with the Olympic rings emblazoned on the saddle. The team had a lot to get ready for, being the team of both a general classification contender and the current world time trial champion.

Fabian arrived first. He was surrounded by team staff. He cruised on in, and greeted the team staff on his way up the steps of the bus. Soon after, it was back down the steps in cycling kit, iPod in. Also inserted were those bud things that you put up your nose to clear nasal passages. OK, so that took a few points off the hotness stakes. Quick, Fabian, get on the bike and start pedaling so I can see those thighs in action!

He got the royal treatment, with physios checking his posture, mechanics checking every detail of his bike, and support staff fussing over every other detail. After a good, long warmup, he was off - a whirlwind of support staff in tow and his pilot car in pursuit.

Not long after, along came Jens. He was all ready to go in his speed suit. After a few hellos he got straight on his bike on the trainer, circled his legs for just five minutes or so. Quite unceremoniously, he jumped on his time trial bike and rode away to his start.

As we were stationed at the start at Bordeaux, we had to rely on TV screens to find out that Fabian won the day, as expected.

I don't know where Jens came. It doesn't matter. It wasn't his job to do much more than ride the course within the cutoff time.

Phil's right, it might be April 2011 for a while. Unless of course he can find a Fabian Cancellara calendar.

Cyclists V Motorists: AP V The Old Man

2011-04-24T08:14:00.001+10:00

I've never really vented on this blog about the ongoing rift between cyclists and motorists. It's a a topic that seems to be close to the hearts of every road user - two wheeled or four wheeled - so perhaps it's over due.

I'll admit I've been tempted many a time after returning from rides where I needed the digits on both hands (and sometimes also feet) to count the close calls I've had. But, I try to keep Triathlete Chronicles more positive, and even refrained from commenting too much on the motorist when recounting my recent crash.

But something's changed. I've finally had enough. It's time to vent.

So what has brought this on?

The tipping point came when I finally plucked up the courage to tell my Dad about my crash.

Despite his only daughter being one, my Old Man is a long time cyclist antagonist. (He even drives a ute.) I kind of thought, though, that my recent battle in the Cyclist V Motorist war (me as the cyclist) might soften him up a bit.

Boy, was I wrong. No sooner had I given him a reasonably short version of what had happened, how it happened, and a summary of my ongoing rib discomfort, he opened with a doozy.

"Did you hear that more than 6,000 cyclists got tickets last year? Most of them for not wearing helmets."

Thanks for nothing Courier Mail.

It didn't stop there.

"You should see them down on the Corso, they ride all over the road and they yell at each other at the top of their voices. They should have some respect for the residents. No one asks to be woken up at 5am by people yelling out side their front window."

I tried pulled out a few of the tried and true lines, but none of them were any more convincing to The Old Man than they ever had been.

"Cyclists have to be safe, Dad. They have to communicate about upcoming hazards on the road."

"These guys are just talking about work, the footy, all kinds of stuff."

I don't know how he knows this much detail, this story is second hand. The Old Man doesn't live on the Corso.

"Isn't that a bit like moving to the Valley and complaining about the night life?"

"Some of these people have lived on the Corso since long before bicycles were around."

What, so they've lived there since the 1890's?

When I hung up the phone, I was really disappointed. I'd just told my father that I'd been hit by a car while riding my bike. Surely he was able to comprehend how lucky I'd been that there hadn't been any serious damage to my body, let alone any serious threat to my very existence?

If this couldn't make him stop and think about how important it is for cyclists and motorists to share the road, what can? And if this is the attitude of someone whose offspring is at risk from this ongoing conflict, what hope is there?

Over the years I've been lured into many discussions on the Cyclist V Motorist divide, not only with The Old Man, also with work colleagues, friends, random acquaintances and complete strangers. I've defended the position I hold - that, for the most part, cyclists just want to survive their next ride, and will do everything in their power to make that to happen. I would like to think that motorists, for the most part, want to share the road. I'm just not so convinced that that's true.

There are many practical ways I've tried to politely and hopefully unbiasedly point out the virtues of sharing the road.

These are some of my often-delivered arguments in favour of cyclists.

1. Let's open with the big one. Yes, of course, people who ride bikes do the wrong thing from time to time. Motorists do the wrong thing too. I would place a healthy wager that the majority of the 6,000 non-helmet-wearing-cyclists are cyclists that aren't the lycra-clad, road-bike-riding cyclists that are usually at the end of the wrath of motorists' road rage. Motorists don't seem to understand that this group is just one subset of a very broad cycling community.

2. This road rage often leads to the argument that cyclists should use bike paths, or even footpaths, rather than riding on the road. I'd also put money on most adult cyclists being car owners also - so because they do actually pay rego, why shouldn't they use the road? Particularly when riding on the footpath is illegal in some Australian states.

3. So let's talk about legalities. All road users are obliged to keep as far as practical to the left. There are, however, times when it does make sense for a cyclist to occupy the lane (and, heaven forbid, hold up some motorists for a short time). They need to move over in the immediate approach to a right turn, they need to be visible when negotiating roundabouts... and sometimes there isn't a shoulder for them to ride on, or it's in such a bad state of repair that it is more dangerous for them to ride there than it is closer to the flow of traffic.

4. So why aren't more taxpayer funds used to fix the roads? Well, the money is spent in other areas. Most would agree that the hospital system should get an even bigger slice of the pie. On this front - hooray for cyclists. In general, they are healthy living. They are therefore indirectly doing everyone a favour by reducing the burden on the long-suffering hospital system. I think of this every time there's a media story about smokers / drinkers / the morbidly obese, who very often have the finger of blame-seeking politicians pointed at them in this ongoing saga.

5. And if we're talking about finger pointing, it IS in fact legal for cyclists to ride two abreast, though yes, of course, there are time where common sense should prevail, and they should ride single file so they don't hold up traffic unnecessarily.

The list goes on. But really, every argument I can think of is really just a variation on the same theme. When it comes down to it, the Cyclist V Motorist debate should come down to common sense; all of the arguments are really just a matter of legality and mutual respect.

Like everything else in life, there's a legal tenet that stipulates the minimum acceptable behaviour. Our respect for one another and our inbuilt sense of what's right and wrong - let's call them morals - generally lifts our collective behaviour from the legal minimum to a higher, more civilised level.

Unfortunately, in the Cyclist V Motorist war, this doesn't happen, and if you ask me, we seem to be moving further and further from this ideal.

Perhaps it's just how society is these days. Perhaps the ongoing conflict of Cyclist V Motorist is just a prevalent symptom of the erosion of common sense and consideration towards others.

What do you think? Can we turn this around? Or has it gone too far?

....Vent over.

These shoes aren't made for walking

2011-04-13T17:42:00.001+10:00

My planned training for this morning was a walk.

I know. Walking is a cop out. As I write this, I am having a tough time using 'athletic powerhouse' and 'walk' in the same blog post, let alone sentence.

These days though, with my options limited through injury, I'll take walking above nothing. It at leasts gets me moving; gets the blood flowing. And I can always test myself out by punctuating my stroll with some short bursts of running.

Even with this in he back of my mind, when I got dressed, I chose clothing that wouldn't get my hopes up. My skins rather than the tri shorts I usually run in. I rugged up in a long sleeve running shirt, thinking I wouldn't warm up enough for anything cooler. I didn't take a water bottle or GU, which I never leave home without on a run.

When I went downstairs to put on my shoes, my first instinct was to wear one of my old, worn in pairs of running shoes. My latest running shoes, you see, are different.

My beautiful, black, badass Saucony Hurricanes. I love them. When I lace them up at the beginning of a long run, I feel invincible, untouchable. I truly feel like an Athletic Powerhouse.

I didn't feel like I deserved to wear them today. Not for a walk. These puppies are made for running, not walking.

In the end, I couldn't help myself. On went the badass shoes. What the hell. I was already wearing my Run Like Crazy singlet under my long sleeve. That wasn't made for walking either.

I set out on my walk, and felt pretty good. A bit bored, but good.

It only took 500m for me to want to try to run. I did. And it felt pretty good too.

I had planned to be out for 30 minutes. After 15 minutes, I was still running. I turned around and kept running. I got home, still running. My ribs didn't love every minute of it, but they didn't cry out too much either.

Seems like I'm not made for walking either.

Turning the corner

2011-04-08T19:08:00.011+10:00

It's been a tough few weeks for the Athletic Powerhouse. I've felt a malaise that is unfamiliar to me; a feeling that all is not as it should be in the universe.

I got a bit gun shy after my ill-timed return to the pool, and spent the next week and a half trying to figure out whether the pain had become good, healing pain, or whether it was still raw, recovery pain.

This week though, I've started to turn the corner. I'm back in the saddle, even if for now, it's only short stints at home on the mag trainer. It doesn't sound like much, but if the truth be known, it's been tough even getting to this stage.

Since my crash, I've felt really out of sorts in general. It's almost as if part of my identity has been stripped.

(Case in point, my only weekend outings for two weekends in a row has been to the local shops. Those who know me best know that normally, I'd rather stick a pencil in my eye.)

I had begun to wonder how I'd get my identity back, and more to the point, when I would be able to start this journey.

On impulse, on one of these trips to the shops, I bought Dean Karnazes journal of running 50 marathons in 50 days. I don't know why, I rarely get time to read these days, but maybe that was the point. Right now, I do have some time on my hands. Even though I couldn't do much through physical training, maybe the athlete in me would gain something by reading about 'the secrets of super endurance'.

I've read about a third of the book, and so far I am inspired to recapture the joy of running that this running legend seems to have in buckets. Given my current situation, this is a story for another day.

Last Saturday was the start of the turning point. I finally had the chance to catch up with my coach at the Tre-X off road triathlon. I gave him an update on my progress, including my doctor's prognosis of cracked ribs, and my disastrous attempt at swimming.

He reminded me that any exercise I can do will help get blood into my injured area, and ultimately help me heal. Even stretching would be beneficial.

Quite by coincidence, I had another conversation, with a complete stranger, that also got me thinking. She told me of her husband, who cracked his ribs while training for an Ironman. He couldn't swim, he couldn't run. He could get on his mag trainer though, so that's what he did. He did what he could, and on race day, he got through.

On Sunday, that's what I did. I got on my bike, on the home trainer. I did an hour, which, for a weekend session, felt like nothing. I had a little pain when I breathed hard, but nothing serious. After my trip to the pool, when everything felt worse afterward, I wasn't keen to push it. An hour would do, for today.

The recovery was fine, so I did the same thing on Tuesday. So far, so good.

Today, Friday, I had the same plan. I woke early, but fell back asleep almost immediately. It's been a long held belief of mine to listen to your body, and if you fall back to sleep in the morning, or sleep through your alarm, there's a reason for it.

When I woke up properly, I had time for a stretch before work. For the first time since the crash, I felt like I had enough freedom of movement to benefit from stretching.

My rib cage, though, didn't understand this benefit. It didn't like the yoga mat I usually stretch on. Granted, beneath the yoga mat are hard, cold tiles. Usually it’s fine, but in my current state, the slight padding the yoga mat provides just didn't cut it. I didn't expect this. I've been sleeping reasonably well, though sometimes it still takes some time to get comfortable.

Again, I persevered, and managed to release off my glutes, hamstrings and ITB with my trusty trigger ball. The discomfort I felt in my torso was worth it – I felt like a million bucks after just half an hour of stretching.

I can’t say I’ve made it back, not yet, but I’m definitely turning the corner.

Too soon? Yeah, too soon.

2011-03-27T10:58:00.000+10:00

When I announced at work during the week I was heading to the pool that evening, I was warned by all and sundry.

"The pool, what for?"
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"It's too soon!"

I wasn't sure it was a good idea either. I even thought that perhaps it was too soon. I wasn't sure I was ready to swim, but I was ready to find out.

I had a doctor appointment the following day and I thought it would be useful to test out my body so I could give an accurate summation of how I was shaping up.

So off I went, armed with my kick board, prepared to spend most of my time kicking, rather than stroking, up and down the lane.

I could feel it almost immediately I lay horizontal in the water. It wasn't even comfortable kicking with my arms stretched out in front of me holding my kick board. I rolled over onto my side and kicked that way for a while, with just my left arm outstretched. This felt a bit better.

As I warmed up my muscles started to feel better, but I could still feel every breath. It was all I could do to get through 15, perhaps 20, minutes.

15 minutes! The set I was scheduled to do would normally take me over an hour! Usually, when I do these sets, I see other swimmers who paddle up and down for less than half an hour, and wonder why they bother.

And now I'm one of them.

When you train for endurance events, it's easy to take for granted 3k swim sets, running for hours and riding all morning. But let's be real for a moment; that's not normal.

Swimming for half an hour, probably is normal.

I, however, have come to expect more of myself; of my body. When I'd had as much a I could handle, I got out, utterly disheartened.

I drove home, and as I made dinner I felt like I was back to square one - I was in more pain than I had been for the last couple of days.

The next day, my doctor advised me to assume I had some damaged ribs. With this new prognosis comes another couple of weeks of light duties at best. Limited cardio work and definitely no running.

I don't know where this leaves me for my Cairns Challenge plans. I guess I'll have to wait for a couple of weeks before assessing my options. Though KKB, always one to challenge the standard way of doing this, reckons I can pull off a finish even with this unplanned hiatus.

For me, well, it's a bit too soon to tell.

As good as it gets, after a crash

2011-03-18T08:33:00.000+10:00

I guess it was always going to happen. In some ways I'm lucky it hasn't happened before. Sure, I've had a couple of spills. Landed in a garden bed after going over my handlebars once. Went down like a bag of spuds once or twice too. But that's as spectacular as it's been, at least until Sunday.

It wasn't pretty. Crashing your bike never is. But there are reasons why Sunday wasn't the worst day of my life. All things told, they ended up as good as they can get.

I left home at 6am with a planned ride to Caboolture, via Petrie and returning via Scarborough and Redcliffe. I'd had a good training week and, now with 12 weeks till Challenge Cairns finally felt my mojo was back.

I'm usually a diligent cyclist - I scan for cars and try to predict their actions. Maybe that has added to my reasonable safety record over the years.

I'd taken a route I don't normally, following the railway line through Narangba and Burpengary then to Caboolture via Morayfield Road, then back the same way, but across Boundary Road to Deception Bay Road. Because of the unfamiliar route, I'd been on high alert for motorists.

I'd just hit 100ks and was cruising along the Hornibrook Esplanade when I lost my vigilance for just a moment. I was back in familiar territory, I felt safe. The day was turning into a delightful one and my mind started drifting off to the best way to get my ks up to my desired 140-150.

I didn't see the car until the last moment. The driver had failed to give way, and instead turned right directly across my line.

I pulled on my brakes, but it was too late. That moment passed both too quickly and also as if in slow motion. My bike pulled to the left and my right side slammed into the passenger side of the car.

The next thing I knew I'd rebounded and landed flat on my back on the road. I didn't know where my bike was, but I was no longer attached to it.

My thoughts went like this.

"Probably shouldn't get up, in case I'm really hurt."

"I have to get up, I'm in the middle of the road."

"Where's my bike, is he ok?"

And before I'd had time to process any of these thoughts and act on any of them, the helmeted head of a fellow cyclist popped into my sight.

"Hi. What's your name?"

I think I managed to respond.

"I'm Eddie," my new friend continued. "Don't worry about anything. I was right behind you, I saw it all. We'll look after you."

My new friend Eddie didn't have much choice. I grabbed his wrist with my good arm and squeezed it. I wasn't letting go. By now the pain had kicked in and I needed something to hold on to. I was a little relieved to at least be able to assess that the pain was coming mainly from my right side, not my head, neck, or back.

There was a swarm of heads entering my line of vision, mostly cyclists. They called an ambulance for me, while another new friend, Cherise, took charge, performing a first aid assessment and rallying passers by to direct traffic aound me rather than moving me from the hot bitumen road.

Someone picked up my bike, my beautiful Jens, and reported that he looked pretty good.

People came with towels and held a windscreen shade over me to try and keep me as comfortable as i could be. Someone phoned KKB and someone else who lived close by offered to take my bike home to keep it safe until I could collect it.

"My name's Melanie," she said. "My husband's a cyclist. I live in Margate. I'm going to take your bike home, and phone your husband. You can pick it up later on."

"OK," I replied. "can you leave your details here with me? Cherise, can you get Melanie's number for me?" I trusted Cherise. I didn't know whether to trust Melanie. Let's be real, I don't think I'd trust any stranger to just wander off with my beautiful Jens.

Time seemed to move slowly as I lay there waiting for the ambulance. Different heads popped in and out of my line of vision, which was straight up at the beautiful blue Brisbane sky. One of them looked vaguely familiar. I found out much later on that the group of cyclists behind me had sent someone ahead to catch the male cyclist who had passed me just before the crash. We'd passed each other a few times along the Peninsula foreshore, each time exchanging a greeting. We'd done so once again right before my crash, so it was understandable that someone had assumed we were together, and went ahead to catch him to tell him of my fate.

No wonder they'd looked at me a bit funny when I asked if someone could ring my husband...

Still, in all this time, the motorist stayed away from the action. I heard, though, that he was still on site. My new friends weren't letting him go anywhere...

Soon, the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over, doing many of the same checks Cherise had already done. They put a badly fitting neck brace on, and with the help of the fire crew who had also turned up, got me onto a stretcher ready for loading and transporting to hospital.

When I heard a fire crew had arrived, I asked whether there were any hot Firies. Sam, my attending paramedic, took offense to this. And rightly so I guess.

"Hot Firies, what about the hot Ambos you've got!?" I immediately felt terrible. I did have a hot Ambo crew, and not only did they look good, they were attentive, efficient, and caring. What else could a girl ask for?

In amongst this, a tow truck also arrived. One of the ladies jokingly asked whether I thought it was for me or my bike?!

I was happy to hear that the police had also arrived. Hopefully they would question the driver (and some of the witnesses), and issue him with a ticket. All too often, it seems, motorists get off without any charge when a cyclist is involved, which just isn't fair.

On the way to hospital there was time to readjust the neck brace which fitted me really poorly. Sam couldn't get it to adjust small enough to fit me so swapped it for a kids size. Perfect! I also got some pain relief in the form of an inhalable 'whistle', a strange contraption that unfortunately didn't seem to do much for me.

I was a bit hesitant to take anything anyway, because I was by myself and was already predicting the barrage of questions I'd get on arrival at the hospital. Name, address, date of birth, medical history.

Crap, was I going to get into the hospital? I didn't have my Medicare card.

"Sam, I don't have my Medicare card."

"Don't worry about that. It's not the kind of thing you carry around when you're cycling, is it?"

"No, that'd be a bit pessimistic wouldn't it. I've never needed it before."

The paramedic seemed pretty insistent that I get some pain relief, though, and I soon realised why. He revealed that, in fact, the impact my body had made with the car had shattered the car's passenger window and dented the door.

No wonder the driver was hanging around; the cynic in me thought he was probably thinking that I was liable to pay for the damage!

It was a short trip to Redcliffe Hospital emergency. I was wheeled in and it was action stations. I heard the short version of had happened as several people set to work. One getting my personal details, another putting a drip into my arm, others checking for other signs of injury, testing my reflexes (which made me laugh no end). I was hooked up to an ECG and had the first of many blood pressure tests.

They also started finding evidence of the broken window as they painstakingly removed my jersey to avoid cutting it off - there were shards of glass buried in my pockets and right sleeve.

The head doctor asked very specific questions about my pain, and I repeated that my pain was primarily in the right side of my torso. A more thorough physical examination revealed some quite localised pain in one of my neck vertebrae, so it was off for x-rays to my neck and chest. While these seemed clear, I still had the neck pain, so this time it was off for a CT scan. Apparently x-rays are only 85% accurate.

By this time it was apparent that my primary carers were doctor Ryan, who seemed to be a trainee or intern of some description (and reminded me of my cousin's husband Pete), and nurse Gwen. Ryan talked through exactly what he was doing, not for my benefit, but for his. He apologized for talking to himself, as he rattled through all the possible injuries I might have and what tests had already been done to rule them out.

I was fine with his seemingly endless ramblings. I found it reassuring, because to me, this thought process made him sound really thorough. From time to time he talked through his options with Ben, a more senior doctor. Again, to me, this was reassuring.

Nothing major seemed to be showing up in any of the scans, except, to my delight, an exceptional heart.

"That heart is beautiful," doctor Ben exclaimed after performing an ultra sound. I was also happy to hear that he didn't find any internal bleeding in amongst his viewing.

In amongst all of this mayhem I'd been visited by the attending police officers, one of whom was Ewan McGregor. No kidding! Unless they were joking. But surely the fuzz can't joke about their identity? I don't know. The other officer was S(ean) Irwin so I felt flattered that the celebrity duo had been sent to my aid.

I'm hoping that they didn't joke about issuing an infringement to the motorist. They had come with the intention of 'questioning' me, but it seemed that there wasn't much more for them to find out.

Things had settled down a little now and pretty soon I was wheeled around to a room out of the main emergency room. KKB had since arrived, still in his cycling gear. He'd been given a bunch of forms to fill in, and since we've only been married for just over two years, and it's the first time either of us has had to take this responsibility for one another. I was still flat on my back in a neck brace with instructions to keep still, as they we're still trying to clear me of neck damage. So, he stepped up and did his husbandly duty.

Finally, I was able to be administered some proper pain relief. A small dose of morphine was topped up a short time later, and at last the pain subsided. As this happened I became more aware of my body, and realised how uncomfortable it is to lay in one position for long periods of time. I'd been lying still for three or four hours by now.

I had a bit more time still to come, but finally, the CT scan to my neck came back clear, so they removed my neck brace, propped me up, and moved me once again to Emergency Medical for some more observation before sending me home.

I was glad to sit up, but movement still hurt. A least I could eat. KKB and I shared a sandwich and a serving of lasagna and salad that the hospital staff brought. (I thought sharing was the least I could do. He also hadn't eaten since his ride this morning, and by now it was well and truly evening.)

We were expecting the green light to go home at any moment now, unfortunately it wasn't to be. Dr Ryan was concerned at the amount of pain I was still feeling in my abdomen. He brought another doctor (who happened to be a fellow cyclist) around to perform an ultra sound and physical exam.

The ultra sound was clear but my abdomen was too tense to perform the physical exam. My punishment, back for another CT scan. Not only did this mean another wait of an indetereminant amount of time - it also meant I was back to nil by mouth.

I was still bloody hungry!

I sent KKB home to shower and change while I waited and importantly - to pick up my beloved Jens! I was not so worried about his wheereabouts by now; Melanie had been true to her word and had phoned KKB earlier today.

I dozed while I waited to be wheeled off again. This time, a new orderly, and another smiley face. Though this one wasn't a cyclist like the previous one had been.

I'd never had a CT scan and now I was lining up for my second in less than six hours. It's kind of disconcerting that the operator leaves the room, and that the voice that gives you directions when to breathe has an American accent. My first time I went in head first, this time I went feet first. Luckily, both times, most of my body protruded from the machine. I don't know how I would have gone had I been plunged deep into the bowels of this imposing cylinder.

It seemed like an eon before I got the results of the scan and was finally given the all clear go home. KKB had since returned with a hopeful prognosis on Jens, and the news that Melanie had not only proven herself worthy of the trust I was initially hesitant to assign her, she had loaded us up with a pasta meal to heat up when we got home.

I had a prescription for some serious pain relief, so the only remaining challenge was to find an open chemist. Even this proved quite simple.

So the day hadn't worked out as I'd planned. I hadn't got in all of my ride, and instead crashed my bike. Sadly, I'm down a cycling jersey and don't have a cool story to tell. "They had to cut it off me" sounds way cooler than "I lost it". Unfortunately, the latter is true.

The things that made it as good as it gets included:

No serious injury. Not even one scratch. How is that possible?

The cycling fraternity. I still don't know what I would have done without Eddie, Melanie, and the random guy that someone thought was my partner.

Cherise. I don't know whether Eddie, Melanie and the random guy would have known what to do without you.

KKB. Thank you for being the kind of husband you are, and not the kind of partner we encountered in Emergency.

Sam, George, and the other guy, the caring and hot Ambos. Yes, I forgive you for putting a child sized neck brace on me. I hope you forgive me for mistaking Firies as the hotties of the emergency services fraternity.

The comedy duo of Sgt Irwin and Ewan McGregor. Thanks for booking the guy.

The emergency staff at Redcliffe hospital, especially the constantly-talking-to-himself doctor Ryan.

Did I mention, no serious injury. The best possible outcome from what was a pretty serious crash. Though I've been slowed down a little this week, hopefully the car is the only thing that ended up dented and smashed, and my confidence and training mojo returns unscathed.

Blame it on the rain. And thank it.

2011-03-02T17:48:00.000+10:00

It's only been eight hours or so since my last blog post, and I'm already copping flack for copping out on my run because of the rain. You know who you are. (And now, so does the rest of the world. Tyno. KKB.)

Let it be recorded here and how that I am thankful for the rain and my decision not to run in it, for the decision to run would have brought nothing good.

My planned run was point to point, home to work. On Monday night I packed my bike into the car, along with three separate bags. Clothes and gear to shower at work yesterday; swim gear for last night's swim; and my gear for work today.

At least that's what I thought I packed.

This morning after updating my blog and doing a bit of core strength and stretching, I showered to get ready for work. As I perused my wardrobe for what to wear, a pair of black pants caught my eye.

Black pants? Aren't they at work? I pulled the hanger down and took a closer look. No, they're not at work. They're here.

Had I have run to work I would have arrived and had nothing to change into, on my bottom half at least. My options would have been limited:

Stay in my running gear for the day (1/10 - unprofessional and smelly)
Catch public transport home to shower and change (2/10 - embarrassing, inefficient and smelly)
Call KKB and beg him to pick me up (0/10 - based on the likelihood of KKB responding favourably to this request)
Catch a cab home to shower and change (4/10 - embarrassing and costly)
Run back home to shower and change (2/10 - ouch my knees, I'm not ready for the extra ks, even the direct route)
Run back home then call in sick (1/10 - see above, and I'm a terrible liar, I'd probably also get the sack.)

So, my best option following a run in the rain, rates 4/10, and is embarrassing and costly.

Thank you rain. It's your fault I avoided this disaster. Long run, I'll deal with you tomorrow.

14 weeks to go.... JFT!

2011-03-02T06:49:00.000+10:00

So with 14 weeks to go I'm ramping it up. I've even started swimming.

I have a much more relaxed attitude towards my preparation for Challenge Cairns. It remains to be seen whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.
My coach is taking on a traditional coach role - providing a roadmap of training and helping to keep me on track. What I do on a day to day basis though, is up to me to set and achieve.

I've been a lone trainer for a little while now, and I'm lining up for iron-distance race number five. Let's be really honest here - I've started to have my own opinions on how I should train and what works for me. In theory, all I really need is this overseeing type coach. Right?

Well, I guess we'll see. In the meantime, it's all go. JFT: just f*&%ing train!

This week's schedule:
Strength efforts on the bike - done
Swim - done
Long run - postponed until tomorrow due to rain
Recovery ride - hmmm... will I get this in now?
Water run - Friday
Swim/bike or Swim/run - Saturday
Long ride - 150ks Sunday

Wish me luck. And come and join me!

Beer Mile: Best / Worst

2011-02-13T16:50:00.003+10:00

Finally, after weeks of preparation, Australia Day was here and so was my chance to test not only my physical prowess... for today, I would also test my intestinal fortitude, literally.

In theory, it sounds like the perfect event. Drink beer, run a bit, drink more beer...

I'm an "athletic powerhouse" and I've always professed to have a cast iron stomach. Perfect event for me, and a great way to spend Australia Day. No?

When we got to Roy Harvey Park, the overgrown track was being mown in preparation. Let's be real, the Brisbane City Council have had a few other things to attend to lately. It's no surprise that manicuring suburban parks is low down the list of priorities, even for the now annual Queensland running of the Beer Mile.

Particularly because the organisers had decided to donate proceeds to the Premier's Flood Relief Appeal, it seemed fitting that this event was all DIY.

At registration we had to declare the vital stats of our beer of choice. "5% and 345mls, thanks." That research had come in handy.

I was given number 23 as my race number and decided immediately that having the number of Shane Warne couldn't hurt. Speedy Reidy's boyfriend pointed out that Michael Jordan wore 23... Now, of course, I can't deny there's sporting prowess there, but this event involves drinking beer. On that front, I think I'll stick with @warne888.

There was a great turnout of friends to watch us smash ourselves, including Mark, Megan, Megsy and family, Beck, Tracy... And, after several months of online stalking, it was excellent to meet Tyno Mite.

At 4pm the events started, kicking off with some races for the kids, before the Magnum mile and Coke mile was run. An honourable mention has to go to "the egg nog man", who had chosen DIY egg nog for his drop of choice. He started each of his four laps with three fresh eggs cracked into the top of a cup of milk.

I thought four beers was hard - this guy stomached a dozen eggs and a litre of milk, and finished intact in an official time of 7:23. Now that is a cast iron stomach!

Before too long, the starters for the first race of the beer mile were called. There were so many contestants that they had to split us into two starts - first up men under 50. The older men would race with all women, in the second start.

In the first race, JW, the Irish Connection, and Coach Craig took off on this most interesting of challenges. Coach Craig and the Irish Connection fared well, coming in in under 9 minutes. JW, however, who I thought just could be the dark horse of the trio based on beer drinking abilities, didn't fare so well. As I stood there and watched JW struggling with his third and fourth beers, I thought I was doomed.

Geoff, my friend's brother, who had conveniently backed out of running at the last minute, told me he wanted to place a bet on me vomiting in the third lap. (Secretly, I thought he was right on the money - probably why I didn't reopen the book for a last flutter.)

In the face of such little faith in my ability, I thought back on the training I'd done. I tried to block out the last minute training run for the Run Like Crazy marathon, when wine and cheese didn't sit so well. Instead I focused on how great I'd felt after downing two beers in record time at lunch the day before. Yes, it was a work day. Next time you have a meeting you're not looking forward to, I'd strongly recommend chugging a couple of beers before hand. Just make sure you have some backup going to the meeting with you. Otherwise, I guess it could be ugly.

I asked Coach Craig whether he had any tips.

"Run to the left of the track on the first 100m, there's a hole."

Right. I was hoping for something more about how I was going to avoid vomiting. But I guess avoiding a rolled ankle is also good...

As I chose my spot on the table my triathlon training came to the fore. I set up at the edge of the second table so I could easily spot my beers. Speedy Reidy sought me out so we could set up together. I insisted she set up to the left of me, on the edge of the first table, but realised later that I hadn't explained the tactics behind this, that the gap in the table would be easy to spot in the rush of transition.

And then we were off.

It was immediately obvious to me that my "training" had not been enough to convert me into a seasoned beer drinker. (Not that I'm surprised or disappointed by that.) I was last to start my first lap. I could already tell it wasn't going to be pretty.

My third beer was the hardest, and on this lap, my tactic of trying to burp out the extra gas for the first 100m of each lap kind of backfired. Let's just say, a little bit more than gas came up. Eewwww.

I was halfway through my fourth beer when Speedy Reidy came in to finish. I reached out to high five her as she went past, still chugging away. Finally, all the beer was out of the way. Just one last lap...

Speedy Reidy accompanied me for it and by this stage I was already feeling pretty tipsy. As we ran down the first 100m, me on the inside of the track and her to the right, I panicked...

"Don't run on the right, Speedy Reidy! There's a hole in the track!" As if she hadn't just run four laps of the track already. Clever, Athletic Powerhouse, clever...

We got around to the back straight and Coach Craig had dashed across to lend some moral support. When he asked how I was going, I said,

"I haven't stepped in the hole!"

Yep. Things were getting messy.

Finally I crossed the finish line. I thought I was last but my friends assured me there was another girl still to come. The official results show that they were right.

I don't know how to describe the aftermath of the race. About ten minutes after I finished, when I was deep in conversation, I all of a sudden realised just how smashed I was. I'm definitely a happy drunk, so I was having a great time, now that it was finished and especially since I'd realised that the threat of vomiting had long passed - I had felt extremely woeful a few times during the actual event. It was a novelty though, and in the end, we'd done it for a good cause, raising a few hundred dollars for flood relief.

Speedy Reidy probably best summed it up: "Best day ever. Worst day ever."

My friends, including KKB, have declared that the Australia Day Beer Mile is now an annual event for us.

I'm not so sure about that...

The day the Tour de France came to Brisbane

2011-01-27T07:47:00.001+10:00

This week's Ride with Relief was a fantastic spectacle for Brisbane. As a digital marketer and as an "athletic powerhouse", I have always wanted to participate in one of Lance's now famous Twitter rides, so I took the opportunity (and the morning of work).

It's a big call, likening it to the Tour de France, I know. Let's face it, it was just Lance Armstrong, Robbie McEwen, and Allan Davis, headlining a charity bike ride for a few thousand cyclists. How can that be compared to the spectacle of the world's largest sporting event?

The event was announced late last week, initially on Twitter by Lance Armstrong and Robbie McEwen but then covered by the Courier Mail, Channel 7, and Nova FM. When I registered online over the weekend, there was no information about how long the ride was, where it would go, or whether there was a speed expectation. All I knew was that it started at the RNA Showgrounds.

Many scenarios had played out in my head:

- What if it goes to Redcliffe... I'll never keep up for that long.

- What if it goes... where else can it go? They won't close the City down, surely.

- What if I get dropped off the back and can't get safely back to my car... I better take my house key as well.

By Sunday they had released the route as a 25k loop, traveling at a minimum of 25km/h, which I thought was achievable, even through the hills of Bulimba and Morningside.

I arrived at the RNA showgrounds early, expectant and ready for a long wait. I hadn't organised to meet anyone, today the Athletic Powerhouse was riding solo. I spotted a Merlo Coffee stall and set off to get a coffee to pass the time.

As I waited in the queue I chatted with an older lady who expressed the doubt she was feeling about keeping up with the 25ks an hour. She revealed, though, that even if she couldn't finish the ride, she felt compelled to show up and start for her husband, who had died of cancer. It is stories like this that remind you of the enormity of Lance Armstrong's influence; of the impact he's had on everyday people all over the world.

Now, as I looked around the thousands of quite serious looking cyclists, I started to feel a little overwhelmed, and to be honest, some of that doubt came trickling back. How was I going to keep up with some of the superstars of cycling? For the most part, the crowd looked pretty serious; though there were also some mountain bikes, folding bikes, and even a lady with a toddler in a bike seat.

The ride was scheduled to start at 10.30am but at this time we were still waiting for the main man to arrive. The hosts from Channel 7 didn't do too bad a job of entertaining us, they interviewed many of the other celebrities that had turned out to support the ride - including Sara Carrigan, Daniel MacPherson, Duncan Armstrong, and many more. To her credit, the Premier, Anna Bligh, had also donned the lycra to ride with Lance for the flood victims.

Finally, more than half an hour after the ride was supposed to start, the helicopters flying above signalled an imminent arrival.

I had positioned myself towards the back of the peleton (and near the Merlo Coffee stand) so although I couldn't see him personally, I heard what Lance had to say. His public persona is polished and yet personable. He complemented Queenslanders on their desire to volunteer, comparing it to Hurricane Katrina. He noted that after Katrina, there were traffic jams of people wanting to get out of New Orleans - but in Brisbane the traffic jams were caused by people wanting to get in to clean up.

He also talked about the LiveStrong philosophy, which started as an inspiration to cancer patients. Now, LiveStrong has morphed into a way to inspire people to live better, and more healthy lives.

Before too much longer, we were away!

I was immediately struck by the crowds of people lining the streets through Fortitude Valley - clapping, cheering, taking photos and capturing video. It was a great feeling and a fantastic sight. Even on the approach to the Story Bridge people had come out in their droves to see the spectacle.

It felt pretty awesome to ride over the Bridge - not somewhere I'd choose to ride in normal traffic conditions. We dropped down off the bridge onto Shaftson Avenue, and the people continued to cheer and clap along the way. The Queensland Police Service were doing a great job of keeping the traffic at bay and shepherding us along.

I had left my Garmin at home so I didn't know how fast we were travelling. It seemed a little faster than the predicted speed and those around me did our best to hang on the back of the main peleton.

As we dropped down into Bulimba, the support continued. Oxford Street was lined with spectators. We slowed a little as we wound through these streets, and it was here that it first struck me that Brisbane was experiencing its own Tour de France. This is how the French participate in their country's biggest sporting event - by setting up outside their homes and businesses to welcome the world's best cyclists into their communities, starting with the amateur cyclists who ride the course before the main event.

I smiled and waved at the people and thanked them for their support. I got the other cyclists around me doing the same - there was a great vibe in the air and it was fabulous!

It was around this time that I noticed someone on my wheel. He was an older man, and while at first I was surprised and a little alarmed, I decided it was about time I helped out a stranger, after all the old dudes that have helped me up mountains over the years...

Soon, the cyclists started to thin out a bit. It was obvious that we'd started to lose touch with the main field. Without my Garmin, though, I wasn't sure whether us at the back had dropped our speed or whether the frontrunners had picked it up. Probably, a bit of both.

After a quick 50 minutes, we were back at the RNA Showgrounds. Robbie McEwen and Allan Davis were being interviewed now, and an eager throng of cyclists awaited another interview with Lance. As I picked my way through them, the announcer was saying they were waiting on confirmation on whether he would speak again or not. I took that as a "not", so kept moving.

I made the right decision, it was revealed later that Lance left the event abruptly after being asked about the enquiry into doping that awaits him on his return to the US. The Courier Mail is running the original article and also a self defence article by the journalist in question, Mike Colman.

Monday's ride had it all - an adoring crowd, cyclists en masse, loads of hype, rolling road closures through communities united, and, unfortunately, a drug controversy. On some level, I can't blame Mike Colman for asking the question. It is his job and his defence makes some sense. But I can't help but be disappointed in the fact that this journalist has put a sour taste in the mouth of many, and for what outcome? To think that Lance would reveal anything on a day where his focus was charity work, was just plain folly.

Ah yes. Monday truly was the day the Tour de France came to Brisbane.

Beer Mile Flood Relief - guessing competition

2011-01-17T19:21:00.000+10:00

This year's blockbuster is coming to a Brisbane park near you!

For an awesome good cause, the Athletic Powerhouse and SpeedyReidy will star in:

The Beer Mile Flood Relief Appeal: Raising money for victims of Queensland’s flood disaster.

On 26th January 2010 at 4pm, the Athletic Powerhouse and SpeedyReidy will take part in the Australia Day Beer Mile at the corner of Shand and Byth Sts Stafford, Brisbane.

You can support them in raising money for Queensland’s flood victims by betting on how fast they can run the internationally renowned Beer Mile, which requires that they:

drink a beer (minimum 345ml / 5% alcohol)
run 400m
drink a beer
run 400m
drink a beer
run 400m
drink a beer
run 400m

Previous winning times last Australia Day:

Male: 7min 34sec
Female: 12 min 12 sec

The Athletic Powerhouse and SpeedyReidy are accomplished drinkers and have completed a couple of running races in their time. However, neither AP or SR have combined the two in such a feat of human prowess. (For a good reason!)

A bit more information

The Beer Mile world record for women is 6:42.
Note that your “guess” is not tax deductible, because this is a competition with a prize. Full Terms & Conditions are available on Facebook.
A penalty lap is run by competitors, should they vomit during the competition. Full race rules of the Beer Mile are published at http://www.beermile.com/faq.beer#rules

Place your bet: $10 per guess

Email your guess time to beermilebets@gmail.com stating your preferred contestant.
Deposit your $10 in the Beer Mile Flood Relief bank account
BSB 082991
A/C 373575624
Make sure your description identifies you and your competitor (either SR or AP)

What you can win

Those who guess closest to the race time for each contestant will receive 20% of the kitty; the rest will be donated to the Premier’s Flood Relief Appeal.

On your marks: start guessing!!

Raise it up!

We want as many people to pitch in as possible, so share this blog post with your friends using the links below and tell them to get on board! They can also 'like' SpeedyReidy and Athletic Powerhouse on Facebook for updates.

Want to come along and watch?

If you’re in town, come down to Roy Harvey Park, Stafford.

Lives on the street

2011-01-16T15:04:00.000+10:00

A slightly off topic post today following spending the day yesterday helping a friend salvage his flood ravaged house.

I'm choosing my language carefully, and using the term "house" deliberately. My friend's house is a shell - no walls, no ceiling, and most pertinently, none of the personal possessions that make a structure a "home".

He has family and friends that foresaw the devastation. I'm told the recovery mission to strip the house of furniture, clothing - and even the new bathroom vanity - was epic. Some of his neighbours, like others all over Brisbane, Queensland, and now Australia, have not been so fortunate in these floods.
I arrived on the scene early yesterday morning. I sensed that what I was seeing was the calm before the storm. I was stopped as I turned on to Queenscroft by an army officer who was clearing the area in preparation for the heavy machinery that was scheduled to arrive later in the day.

There was thick mud smeared across the street. I was lucky, as was the owner of a new 4WD, to avoid a crash as I lost control for several seconds as I drove and slid sideways down the road.

I continued on slowly, following the streets I usually cycle on the Brisbane River Ride. It seems it will be a while before local cyclists are able to once again complete this favourite ride.

I tried to concentrate on driving, but was distracted by the piles of debris that lined the footpaths. Seeing it on TV can't prepare you for seeing it up close. It's not just the smell, it's the realisation that people really have lost everything - in amongst the soaked plasterboard, whitegoods and ruined kitchen cabinetry, it was common to see framed pictures, bicycles and toys... curtains and blinds, books and lamps... all the things that make a "house", a "home".

We hear these items downplayed a lot in the news. They are just material possessions, and can be replaced.

They can be.

But when you see these piles of destruction up close, they strike you more as mountains of memories. While our possessions are just things, they are things that contribute to who we are. They are how we express ourselves. They are the means by which we live the life we choose for ourselves.

Regardless of our age, our possessions represent an accumulation of our life, whether we are ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred years.

As I drove the streets of Chelmer yesterday, I was struck by people's lives, sitting on the street, damaged, unkempt, waiting to be taken away by strangers, to God knows where.

I got to my friend's place and the pile of debris was large and overwhelming. Largely though, it was bland and colourless. His house was muddy, smelly, and dirty, and a large group of family and friends turned up throughout the morning to scrape, rake and hose the mud from his back yard, scoop the remaining mud from the eaves of his roof, strip nails and screws from the frame of the house, wash the walls and roof... the list of tasks seemed endless.

At the end of the day, the house was skeletal, but clean. It will be a large scale rebuild, and it will take time. But he still has some of the things that will make it his home once again; the things that define him and his life so far.

Practice makes perfect

2011-01-09T18:18:00.000+10:00

So, Speedy Reidy and I have made a pact to run the Beer Mile this Australia Day.

What is a Beer Mile? I'm glad you asked. Basically it goes like this:
Beer - run 400m - beer - run 400m - beer - run 400m - beer - run 400m.

"Is this serious?" I glad you asked this too. I asked the same thing, and was surprised (and also delighted) to find that the Beer Mile is globally regulated. There are proper rules, and official world records.

Like most events I enter, the Athletic Powerhouse has commenced a serious commitment to preparation.

Yeah, sure, I went for a run this morning.

More interestingly, I went to the bottle shop yesterday afternoon to start the search for my perfect beer. I found that the choices may be severely limited, given the rules. We have to provide our own beer, in stubbies of at least 341mls and no less than 5% alcohol. While many beers are more than 5% alcohol, most stubbies these days are only 330mls.

I studied every beer in the fridge, and James Boag's Premium Lager was the only one that was exactly 5%. Though Boag's is sold in 375ml stubbies, so I'm hoping I might find something in a smaller bottle between now and the event. The official rules also provide an exemption for standard Australian stubbies of 375ml, allowing this volume at 4.8%. This also invites further investigation.

I returned home with my six pack of Boag's, placed them on the kitchen bench, opened one and slammed it down as fast as I could. Which wasn't that fast. KKB looked at me with surprise, but also appreciation.

It is now my mission to drink beer in this manner as often as possible, in preparation for my next event.

It's going to be an interesting couple of weeks of "training".

The RunLikeCrazy (Half) Marathon

2011-01-09T16:38:00.002+10:00

After more than twelve months of following Tristan "T-Bone" Miller's Run Like Crazy adventure, the day was finally here.

Especially since I'd dropped back to the half marathon, I felt very little pressure, and could enjoy the day. I was looking forward to meeting Tristan, and to supporting Speedy Reidy to finish her first Marathon.

On reflection, my relaxed and cheerful readiness to run seemed a fitting way to approach being part of Tristan's remarkable achievement of running 52 marathons in 52 weeks, right across the world.

I registered quickly then very calmly set about my final preparations. It was a real change from my normal pre-race anxiety - secretly I think KKB preferred this to the usual routine, which includes tears at some point in the 24 hours leading up to a serious race.

As I was figuring out my timing chip, I spotted him.

It was the strangest feeling. After more than a year following Tristan online, admiring him from afar, there he was in the flesh. I felt like I knew him, and yet I was very aware that didn't know him at all.

I nudged KKB. "Should I go and introduce myself?"

"Yeah, what are you waiting for. Where's your camera?"

So I introduced myself, feeling like (and looking like) a nervous teenager. Tristan, being the ultimate good guy, said "I know who you are. How are you feeling?"

He'd posted on my Facebook page wishing me well, following my blog post about being sick for what seemed like forever? I was overwhelmed by his kindness, and in some bizarre way was also relieved that the person I felt I knew was as genuine as he'd seemed.

I can't recall what I said, but that's probably just as well. I suspect that none of it was all that impressive, or eloquent, or reminiscent of just how much I have enjoyed following the Run Like Crazy roadshow. If I had that moment again, I would congratulate Tristan on his running, and complement him on his storytelling.

Soon afterwards, Speedy Reidy arrived, already kitted out in her Wonder Woman outfit. It was a cool morning and I was still incognito under long pants and a jumper. Race time was approaching though, so I peeled off the layers in readiness.

The forecast maximum temperature was 15 degrees so I'd decided to wear long tights and arm warmers for the race. It meant I could wear my Wonder Woman silver bullet deflectors! Yeah!

Speedy Reidy's support crew were awesome. Miri was the designated 'media manager' and she went about her business very successfully. Not only did she get us interviewed by Channel Ten news, I understand that due to Miri's diligence there's quite a bit of video footage and photos for Speedy to plough through before posting to her blog.

Before too long it was time for the aerobic warm up. I joined in with Speedy Reidy, another departure from my race morning routine in which I conserve energy at all costs. And besides, I'm really uncoordinated.

We made the short trek over to the start line, and before we knew it, the race was on. After only a minute or so, I told Speedy Reidy to run at her own pace and not to wait for me. As she slowly crept ahead, I wished her a good run, knowing that with the multiple loop course I wouldn't see her until I finished.

Not long after that I found some more company, a couple of other women who ran at around my pace. Two were doing their first marathon, and another was doing the half like me. I chatted with one of the women for most of the first lap. She had a steely determination to finish, despite being very aware that she hadn't done the training normally associated with completing a marathon.

She had been ridiculed by more accomplished runners, who felt she didn't deserve to run a marathon she hadn't trained for. Although I felt that way about my decision not to run the full marathon, I believe that the decision to run a marathon is a personal one. It takes guts. It shouldn't be undermined or underestimated by others. At the end of the first lap, she stopped to stretch and started walking. I never saw her again during the day, but found out that night that she had finished, and I felt elated for her.

On the second lap I stopped for the first of a couple of coughing fits I succumbed to throughout the morning. I was close to the road on the far side of the lake, and as I was doubled over with my wonder woman cape and skirt waving in the wind, a car drove past and beeped. I found out later that it was my friend Sue-Ellen, who had come to cheer me on. I saw her further on in the run, and took the time to stop for a hug and some extra good vibes. Mark and Megan had also made the trip in to cheer me on. It was great to see them and was grateful for their friendship and support.

Towards the end of the second lap, what must have been the first of the half marathoners passed me, sprinting for the finish line. By this stage, I'd made a few pretty good efforts to make conversation with an older gent, dressed in flouro orange, who was power walking the marathon. Our pace was quite evenly matched, and we passed each other as each of us waxed and waned. This happened many, many times throughout the race, but though I persisted, I didn't get much out of him.

"Morning!"
"Hi again!"
"We'll have to stop meeting like this, people will talk." (Finally, acknowledgement and half a smile.)

Some time on the third lap he thought he'd lost me by ducking into a toilet, but he popped out just ahead of me. "Did you get behind me, did you?" Cheeky bloke.

Then on the fourth lap, my final one, I told him he'd miss me for the remainder of the day. He didn't confirm or deny.

I found out later on that he was doing his 11th marathon for the year. A great achievement.

Before long, my run was over. I just kept ticking over the Ks with the luxury of knowing that there was no real pressure. My primary goal was to run all the way, hopefully in 7:30min/ks. According to the Garmin, this was achieved, though official time tells another story - probably because of the couple of coughing fits and quick hug from Sue-Ellen.

Now all there was to do was wait for Tristan, and of course for Speedy Reidy. She came through on her fifth lap not long after I finished. I ran with her each time she came through the finish area. Though she said she didn't feel good, she looked strong and in control.

She finished in 4:45, a credible time for a first marathon. Unless you're supremely gifted, have run all your life, or both of the above!

Tristan had finished just over an hour earlier, and as he crossed the line the emotions of his gathered family and friends ran high. It was an honour to be there to witness him sharing this special moment with those closest to him, many of whom had banded together to put on an event that allowed him to run this finale in his home town.

The day after the race Tristan posted on the Run Like Crazy Facebook fanpage:
Well, you would have seen it on TV or read it in the papers and yes, it is all true.. I DID IT!! An amazing day yesterday, running the RunLikeCrazy Marathon as the final race of my 52 marathon year. I finished in 3:43. Thanks to EVERYONE around the world for your friendship & support this year. Thanks to those who braved the wind to join me yesterday. Thanks will never be enough... 2010...helluva year...

My comment:
Thanks, Tristan, for everything. You have shared your journey so honestly and openly, something that's not easy to do. Your many followers have shared your victories as well as your vulnerabilities, throughout this adventure. This, as well as your physical feats, will inspire me, and many others, for some time to come.

Indeed.

Crazy last run

2010-12-24T06:54:00.001+10:00

Yesterday afternoon I tried the Wonder Woman costume Speedy Reidy and I are wearing for the Run Like Crazy Marathon and after party at Honey Bar.

I tried both versions, the complete costume for the after party first. KKB kindly pointed out that I need to wear red briefs over my tights to get the required coverage. Damn cheap tights!

I then put on the version for the half marathon, including the red cape, and realised:

I hadn't done a practice run in it
I had meant to do a short run this afternoon, but then got distracted by a glass of red wine.

So dressed like this and with a glass of wine and soft cheese and crackers in my belly, I went for a run.

I drove down to punch out a few quick Ks on the Jim Soorley Bikeway. (I drove to take the safe option of not having to run through the suburban streets in costume, but now I think about it, should I have driven?)

There were some serious looking cyclists under the shelter at the Nundah Criterium Circuit, who tried not to notice me. I got a smile and a wave from a less serious looking cyclist though, and another couple who were walking along the path smiled as well.

It wasn't long before the red wine, tasty as it had been, felt really unstable in my tummy. I turned round after just over a K, satisfied that I'd at least tried out the costume, including the silver 'bullet deflectors' which Speedy Reidy had recommended against. They were a little hot and uncomfortable, so the jury is still outn them.

Perhaps, being 'bullet deflectors' and all, they will act as a reminder of my strength and help get me through on race day...

Yeah. Crazy.

Half and/or Half Arsed

2010-12-22T08:36:00.001+10:00

I've done it. I've relegated myself to the half at the Run Like Crazy Half Marathon.

It wasn't an easy decision. I'm not the kind of person or athlete that takes the easy way out. But, given I'm also not the kind of person or athlete that can just punch out a marathon, I know it's the right thing to do. It's simple. I haven't done the training I need.

Had I fronted up for the marathon, it would have been a half arsed effort at best. But copping out into the half marathon feels half arsed too.

My disappointment around not running is complex.

I was never going to do another marathon after I finished the Gold Coast Marathon in 2009. If I'm really honest about it, I only ever did the marathon it to tick it off my list. Random people at work who don't get triathlon always ask me how my 'marathons' are going. After completing the 42k distance a few times in Ironman, I thought it was about time I made it official.

But then, along came T-Bone, who had to go and Run Like Crazy, all around the world... When he put out the call late last year for 100 people to run his last marathon of 2010 in his home town in Melbourne, it was irresistible to me. Before I knew it I was Emailing Like Crazy to volunteer the Athletic Powerhouse's services.

All year I've been inspired not only by T-Bone's running, but also his ability to turn strangers into friends, his compassion for others, and his ability to convey the myriad of experiences he's had so honestly and openly through words. He's remarkable. I'm looking forward to meeting him and I'm desperately hoping he won't think I've copped out.

It seems I paid all this inspiration forward, because before too long, Speedy Reidy put her hand up to run her first marathon with us as well. I feel like I'm letting her down, but I guess that's not true. In some way I've helped her to get to the start line. She has trained hard, and prepared herself mentally. She doesn't need me, she has everything she needs to finish successfully within herself.

And that's the difference. If I lined up on the start line with Speedy Reidy next Monday, I'd feel like a phony. I haven't done the training. I don't deserve to be there. Sure, I could finish. I'd walk a lot, and I probably wouldn't make cut off, but I'd get there. But it wouldn't be doing the marathon, nor Speedy Reidy, justice. They both deserve more respect than that.

... my, how things have changed...! The Athletic Powerhouse is a "finisher" from way back! I've never been one of those athletes that pulls out of races because things didn't go to plan. I've always stuck it out, and I've (nearly) always finished. In many ways, that's been my defining quality - in the absence of any credible athletic ability, I've always opted to tough it out mentally and finish.

Maybe it was training for a time this year for Ironman Regensburg that changed me. Maybe it was my new coach, Andy from Phoenix Adventure.

Maybe I just want to do things less half arsed.

Next Monday when I line up for the Run Like Crazy Half Marathon, I'll have an expectation. I'll want to run all the way, at no less than 7.30 min/ks. If my cold clears up a little over the weekend, I think this is an achievable, though modest, goal.

If I had have lined up for the Marathon, my expectation would be to keep going until I finished. It wouldn't have been pretty.

So maybe, just maybe, the Half isn't so half arsed after all.

Worst run ever

2010-12-14T08:52:00.000+10:00

This Saturday's run was hard. It hurt when I started. It hurt when I finished. I don't remember much of it that didn't hurt along the way.

It wasn't the longest run I'd ever done. I ran a route I'd run many times before, so I hadn't misjudged the terrain. I had my trusty Garmin 310XT, so I didn't overestimate the distance. It was hot on Saturday, which of course didn't help.

I was ever hopeful after last weekend's run with Speedy Reidy, but the same bliss was not to be.

First things first, 22ks still isn't long enough for the final long run, two weeks out from a marathon. In my mind, I was desperate to succeed in this run. I felt that if I couldn't get through 22ks easily, I would need to seriously consider dropping back to the half at the Run Like Crazy marathon in a couple of weeks time.

I ran from home into work to pick up my car, which I'd left there after Friday's second of three work Christmas parties. Ironically, I ran past both locations of the parties already passed, and because I'd run to work, finished up on the doorstop of this coming Friday's party.

I know what you're thinking. The Powerhouse had a night out on the tiles... no wonder the run hurt. Happily, you're mistaken. I was home by 7.30, sober, filling my Fuel Belt bottles and organising GUs for the next day's adventure. (When I think about it now, though, my legs were sore from Thursday's massage and tired from standing up for most of Friday.)

I set out from home just under 12 hours later, initially buoyed by expectation. Before long, I became weighed down with this same self-expectation. I stopped frequently, to drink and to stretch, and sometimes to question what I was thinking. I persevered and just over three hours later, arrived at my destination.

I texted KKB from the Urban Village at Kelvin Grove: Worst run ever. Still got to get up the hill to car. Might eat first.

I didn't eat. I felt sick. I bought a water, gatorade and Ice Break from Woolworths (where the checkout operator asked me very politely whether I had an Everyday Rewards card... I guess she wouldn't have known I'd just run 22ks with limited pocket space...).

I don't know what the future is for my dream of running like crazy with T-Bone on December 27. I feel I have to seriously consider dropping back to the half, but this is not what I want.

My strategy, therefore, in the short term is to concentrate on all those things you know you should do when in training for an endurance event - stretch a lot, eat well, hydrate well, and get plenty of sleep. In doing that, I hope I'll be fresher than I was on Saturday, and that come December 27, I'll have the best run ever, instead.

Two hours of insanity

2010-12-06T17:47:00.000+10:00

Those of you who live in Brisbane know it was raining on Sunday morning. Not lightly, either.

I'd arranged to meet Speedy Reidy at the Powerhouse at 7.30 to accompany her on the last 15ks of her 35k long run. When my phone went off just after 5am I went downstairs to check it, correctly thinking it would be Speedy Reidy. I incorrectly predicted the contents of the message - 'Am running. See you at the powerhouse, AP.'

I went back up and announced to KKB, "this is going to be two hours of insanity".

When I parked at the Powerhouse, it was raining. I thought about it for a moment, then got out of the car and ran towards the City in search of Speedy Reidy. I'd worn my pink compression socks for extra visibility, so it was Speedy Reidy who first spotted me and waved as she rounded the corner near the New Farm Citycat stop.

"I didn't think you'd come in the rain - you're still sick!" she exclaimed.

We set off in the rain, wondering how many other people we would see running in this downpour. I'd seen six runners since leaving home, which didn't fill me with much confidence at all. Before too long, though, I'd forgotten about everyone else - I was wondering how much longer I could keep up with Speedy Reidy, who was still powering 20ks into her run. What a champ!

Not long after that, the sloshy conditions overtook all other thought processes. Although we were wet through, we picked our way gingerly around puddles on the path. (Why, I'll never know.)

It was my first run for a few weeks. Last time I donned the running shoes I'd struggled through 5ks. Sunday felt much more promising. Although I still had a cough like someone who's smoked a pack a day for the last 20 years, I could breathe. And despite the four hours on the mag trainer on Saturday, my legs felt fresh.

Before I knew it, I'd gotten through 11ks and opted to accompany Speedy Reidy for just a bit longer, rather than take the shortest route home.

I ended up with just over 17ks in my legs. Even if I get through a half marathon this weekend, I know it's not long enough to properly get me through my next race. Perhaps it's fitting that, for me at least, the Run Like Crazy marathon is shaping up to be just a little bit more insanity.

...with a little help from my friends

2010-11-29T17:54:00.000+10:00

Since my last blog post I've:

taken supplements
had a birthday, and received a post card and present from Speedy Reidy
got a public hurry up from Tyno Myte via my Facebook page
entered Challenge Cairns
had the first of what's bound to be many pep talks for Challenge Cairns, from Coach Andy
commenced a course of anti-biotics
taken supplements

I'm still taking supplements because I'm still sick.

I had a birthday and the first present I received was from Speedy Reidy. A personalised hat to match my compression socks and a really lovely card:

It was a great way to start my day at work... but I have to admit that I felt like a bit of a phony receiving the card. The truth is, Speedy Reidy has been taking on more than her fair share of inspiring and encouraging in this relationship this last few weeks.

Speedy Reidy encouraged me to enter Challenge Cairns when entries opened up last Tuesday. She told me not to put off re-enlisting the services of my coach by telling him I'd entered Challenge Cairns. She keeps telling me that I have the fitness and the muscle memory to get through the Run Like Crazy marathon.

I have doubted her on the last point, but since then I've followed her other advice and re-enlisted my coach. He has also reassured me that all I have to do, for now at least, is keep on moving. If running is causing me to cough up a lung, do what I can. Water run. Get the bike onto the mag trainer.Whatever. Just keep on moving.

I'm now supplementing my supplements with good old fashioned anti-biotics. Here's hoping something kicks in. Until then, I'll keep on moving. With a little help from my friends.

Supplements, anyone?

2010-11-12T06:30:00.000+10:00

The Athletic Powerhouse is desperate.

She's taking everything she can get her hands on.

Recommendations from friends, fellow athletes, even work colleagues all lead to another trip to the pharmacy or health food store, and another fifty bucks later, another herb, mineral or wonder drug to pop down the hatch.

I can't seem to kick this cold and I need to. It's only seven weeks till the Run Like Crazy marathon, and the longest run I've done is 24ks. It's not enough.

Morning and night I slam down a Bio C, coenzyme Q10, triple strength horseradish garlic and C, olive leaf extract, Blackmores Immune Defence, and a multivitamin for good measure. I'm washing it down with orange, apple and ginger juice. I'm trying to get to bed early.

I don't know whether any of this will help. What I do know, is that I need to run, and I need it to be more fun that Monday's 17ks. I had intended backing up with another 8ks on Monday afternoon, but that wasn't to be.

A long run tomorrow isn't looking good, and that will leave only six weeks. Any more suggestions?

I heart riding my bike

2010-11-08T20:01:00.000+10:00

So it turns out that 24ks really was too much last weekend, compression socks or not.

Perhaps it was the combination of a 24k run on Saturday; a mega-early start on Sunday to officiate at Noosa Triathlon; and a massive Melbourne Cup Day? Either way by Wednesday morning I was back to square one in fighting off my cold.

By Friday I was climbing the walls after no training for nearly a week, so I rugged up and ventured out for a walk. I followed it up with another walk on Saturday, hoping that Sunday would dawn with a little less phlegm. Not quite ready to run, but there would be no walking for me. On Sunday, it was time to ride.
There was no pressure. Just me and my bike, out on a Sunday morning.

I only clocked up 25ks to Nudgee Beach and back. Not normally what I'd even get out of bed for. But on Sunday, I rode, and I smiled.

I rode through a patch of rain on the way out. That didn't dull my smile.

Not even the headwind when I turned from home put much of a dent in it.

I have to admit, that when it comes down to it, I just love riding my bike. It feels good. When there is no pressure, it feels free, and it makes me smile. I heart it.

It ain't fashion...

2010-11-02T07:36:00.000+10:00

The Athletic Powerhouse is not known for her love of fashion. Case in point - I'm writing this on Melbourne Cup morning, and I don't have any shoes to match the frock I wanted to wear. I have a secret fear that if Trinny and Susannah do a series in Australia, my friends will dob me in for a makeover.

But I digress.

On my long run this weekend, I debuted my CEP compression socks, which are designed to "maximise power, boost energy, and speed recovery time". They aren't the kind of garment you buy for their looks, but I've got the hot pink ones. So do they count for fashion?

My run was 24ks, a bit ask given that I hadn't run for two weeks, had been sick for most of that time, and hadn't done a long run for three weeks. But, it's only eight weeks till the Run Like Crazy marathon. This is no time to take it slow.

I felt a little self conscious when I first started out in these fellas. They felt good - my muscles were supported really well, but in the warm spring morning in Brisbane, they felt a little hot.

Soon enough though, the pain kicked in and I didn't give my socks a second thought.

About 5ks in, I heard "nice socks" and looked around to see an old bloke that noone in their right mind would take fashion advice from, smiling and giving me a thumbs up. I cringed inwardly. On I ran, to get a few approving smiles and nods from fellow compression sock wearers along the river front at Teneriffe. But then, when I got to the City Botanic Gardens, a second complement from someone I'd rather not have got any attention from whatsoever.

I told myself I wasn't wearing the socks for their looks. It didn't matter what anyone thought. I also contemplated whether I should have just bought the black ones, which may have drawn less attention.

By now the run was becoming really hard. Everything hurt. Although my lower legs, less so. Perhaps it was the socks? My pace dropped to be consistently slower than 7.30 minute pace. I'd run along the river and brought money to allow me to catch a Citycat back to my car. I wasn't ready to bail out just yet though, so on I ploughed.

Before I knew it I was back to the Powerhouse, beyond the last Citycat stop. Although I was regularly stopping to rest a little, I was committed to the full 24k distance.

Just past the Teneriffe Ferry, I passed a couple with a small child. I heard the mother saying "good effort" and presumed she was providing some positive parenting to her offspring. I shuffled on.

She turned towards me as I ran past, "I saw you a couple of hours ago! Great effort!".

I was so surprised, I squealed with joy! I gave her a wave and a thank you.

Long runs often seem lonely, and you quickly become accustomed to anonymity amongst the crowd. As your runs become longer, you become resigned to the fact that you train for yourself, not for anyone else. If you don't run, noone else knows. If you put in the hard yards and run for a few hours, noone else recognises the achievement.

I was delighted with the acknowledgment I got on Saturday. I've thought about it, and all I can put it down to is the hot pink socks.

Still, as distinctive as they are, I don't think CEPs count as fashion.

France Retrospective: July 16, Mont Ventoux

2010-10-21T21:45:00.000+10:00

After saying goodbye to Morzine, and to Hayden, Sue and the kids, we drove a long day to Carpetras for an overnight stay to ride Mont Ventoux. Located smack back in the middle of Provence, a wine growing region, Carpentras is not where you'd expect to find a mountain like Ventoux, but I think that is part of its mystique - its bleak, treeless shape protrudes from the flat countryside around it like a pimple in the middle of your forehead.

Of course, Ventoux is one of the legendary climbs of the Tour de France, with names such as Eddy Merckx and Marco Pantani being some of the big names to have won a stage finish on top of Ventoux.

While I certainly didn't have ambitions of climbing like those guys, I was looking forward to experiencing this legendary mountain for myself.

We set off from Bedoin for the 22k climb, the most famous way the climb is ridden. KKB had studied the climbs in great detail - how long the climb is, the average gradient and where the hardest sections are. I of course had not, and I set off just knowing that the average gradient was 7.1%. Easy. Right?

The first few Ks though, were almost false flats, so I was feeling great, just riding along through the farm land. It was a little steeper through the first few villages but being early in the climb, quite manageable.

About a third of the way up, heading through the forest now, it started to kick up more dramatically. I sat back in the saddle and focussed on pushing my legs round in circles, keeping my upper body relaxed. There wasn't much of a view through this forested section of the climb, and because we'd started so early, there weren't too many other cyclists around. I rode alone in the calm and quiet of an early morning in Provence, France.

It's not too often I'll be be able to write stuff like that!

I stopped a couple of times on the way up to drink. Although it was early, it was already around 20 degrees and the area was heading for a high in the mid 30s. Summer at last! The gradient of the hill was steep enough and constant enough that I felt better stopping than struggling with drinks while plugging away at the slope.

Chalet Reynard, about two thirds of the way up, is about where the forest ends, and Mont Ventoux's famous naked mountain top begins. The area was deforested heavily many centuries ago and for whatever reason, the greenery has never returned. Instead, Mont Ventoux, the lone mountain amongst the farmlands of Provence, is likened to a moonscape.

I expected the environment at the top of Ventoux to be overwhelmingly eerie, and I'd expected to feel lonely and a little spooked up here. But it couldn't have been further from the truth. I felt nothing less than exhilarated to be riding this famous climb.

I had also expected it to be overwhelmingly difficult. Instead I was surprised at the relative ease with which I climbed. By Chalet Reynard I'd gotten through eight or nine kilometres of average gradients of nine and ten percent. Still I was feeling strong - a good thing with Ironman Regensburg only a couple of weeks away.

From here on, I could see the observatory on the top of Ventoux. At times it seemed close, and it others, it seemed further and further away. I toiled away, getting ever closer, and taking the time to check out the view. It was impressive.

I'd saved something for the last few ks. Just as well, they became quite brutal! But before too long, I reached the summit. I wasn't all that disappointed with my time of 2:28, with an average speed of just under 8.5ks per hour.

At the top I chatted to some cyclists from the Netherlands, who informed me that in this year's tour there were more Aussie starters than Dutchies. I knew it was a good year for the Australian contingent, but didn't know how we stacked up against other nations, particularly a cycling stalwart such as Holland! We joked about how the Dutchies will always turn up to the Tour even if they didn't have any countrymen to support - they love the Tour and the legions of orange clad fans are easy to spot for three weeks in July.

After taking in the view for a little longer, I began the descent. I passed slowly by the cyclists who stopped to pay homage at the memorial dedicated to British tour rider Tom Simpson, who died on the mountain. There were more and more cyclists ascending now, and the closer to the bottom I got, the more there were. Large groups, single cyclists, and others with their families and partners waiting by the side of the road, cheering them on and armed with cameras to record the momentous occasion of them cycling the great Mont Ventoux.

I became very aware of what I'd achieved and I smiled.

Blown away

2010-10-20T06:34:00.001+10:00

The wind on Saturday was overwhelming. So much so that I bailed after just a few Ks, running back to my car with my tail between my legs. I don't think I've ever felt like I would be blown off my feet before, but this weekend, it happened.

I'd run from Kingsford Smith Drive along past Newstead Park and into Teneriffe. When I turned back I knew the morning was a write off. I decided to stop along the way and smell the roses, so to speak. It's in doing this that I was truly blown away.

I'd run this route dozens of times and though I'd noticed the monuments and plaques through Newstead Park, I'd never taken the time to find out what they commemorated. On Saturday I learned that the plaques are devoted to wartime feats. An American eagle keeps watch over Lyndon Johnson Place, which also honours the alliance between Australia and the US and acknowledges the commitment US troops had to defending Australia during World War II.

There is a bit of a history lesson about the fleets who served during this time, and where they have served since. More recently, a plaque has been laid to honour those who served in the Vietnam. Closer to where I'd parked along Kingsford Smith Drive, there is an ANZAC memorial to the young men of Hamilton who lost their lives in the Great War of 1913-1918.

On Saturday I was touched by the sacrifices previous Australian generations have made, so that I have the freedom to run. You could say, I was blown away.

Here comes the sun

2010-10-14T07:22:00.000+10:00

The sunshine is back in Brisbane. In a fashion. The light filters down through a veil of cloud cover; sometimes brightly, and other times, less so. So, maybe the description at best, is that at least it isn't raining. For now.

It meant I could do my hill repeats dry yesterday. Not so for my long run last weekend, which I started in the rain, and finished in the rain.

There were a couple of brief periods when the rain paused. But mostly, it rained. I don't enjoy running in the rain but the thing that got me out the door was maths induced fear. As I lay in bed contemplating what lay ahead, I counted out on my fingers the weekends and long runs I've got left before my next race, the Run Like Crazy marathon on December 27.

Sunday 10; Sunday 17; Sunday 24; Sunday 31.... Sunday 7; Sunday 14; Sunday 21; Sunday 28. Then maybe the 5th of December, leaving a few weeks to taper.

Nine long runs. I'm only up to 21ks this week. Yep. I definitely had to go.

When I first set off I was gingerly picking my way through the puddles on the path. By the end of the run, I stomped through the puddles without even noticing the squishing and squelshing in my socks. There wasn't any point in pussy-footing around. Things were different. I was wet through - I couldn't get any wetter.

This was reflective of what was going on in my mind. The moment I stepped outside the front door and it was drizzing, I felt negative about the experience ahead of me.

Before too long I'd turned this around. After all, it's a pretty big win mentally to start running in the rain. When conditions are poor, it's really easy to just give it a miss. I held on to this, and by the end of the run, I felt like I'd won. It's as if every K is worth two in filling that bucket for race day.

Despite what you can take away from having the strength to punish yourself in such miserable conditions, while the sun is here, I'll enjoy it.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the forecast ahead isn't so good, but for now, the sun is back.

Morzine: The Depart

2010-07-13T22:45:00.003+10:00

The update from the Depart is all about the pictures. Wall to wall cyclists, everyone you can imagine.

Each member of the Lampre team accepted a prize for being the leading team on the tour, before the stars came out to the delight of the cycling fans, crammed shoulder to shoulder, jostling for position.

Cadel in yellow - taped up, and moving gingerly across the stage.

My two favourites, Fabian and Jens, signing on. They joked and laughed together and spent the time with the race officials. You can just tell they're good guys.

Andy Schleck signing on. A big cheer for the young Luxembourgian.

At long last, Robbie McEwen and Michael Rodgers. They climbed up on stage together like a couple of old women. Ten bucks for the best idea on what they're saying to each other in this shot?

Beware the tour Skoda Yeti!

2010-07-13T17:38:00.003+10:00

When I ran around Morzine on my first day in town, I wasn't quite sure how I'd find somewhere to do a VO2 session on the bike. It all seemed rather hilly.

I'd been on the lookout all week, and finally settled on the perfect stretch of road for a VO2 MAX session. I'd ridden it on my big ride on Saturday, and scoped it out on the way down to Lake Geneva. A nice long flat stretch, with enough straight to be able to turn safely.

So I felt fully prepared for a good session when I set out this morning. Little did I know that the Tour de France Publicity Caravan, not the impossible terrain, would be my downfall.
It was a quick ride out of Morzine towards Thonon les Bains, and it wasn't hard to settle into a rhythm for my efforts.

My first effort was somewhat uneventful, just one pass by a newspaper on wheels.

On my second effort, I was passed by a giraffe, getting ready for the day ahead with some undefined up-tempo music blaring.

A what?

All of these vehicles are part of 'Caravan Publicitaire' of the Tour de France. By Australian standards, kind of like a street carnival on speed.

It's a little known fact that the Tour de France was started as a national promotion for flailing sports newspaper L'Auto. The publicity caravan was introduced in 1930 to increase the revenue for tour organisers, who had to foot the bill for the new arrangement of national teams rather than sponsored teams.

These days, there's no doubt the caravan remains a revenue source for the organisers, but is also a handy way of keeping thousands of people entertained

In 2010, Tour de France organisers claim that 39% of all spectators are drawn by the caravan, not the cycling - the allure of free stuff is greater now than ever before, it seems.

By now I had visions of being flattened by the Skoda Yeti. Time to get out!

Viva la tour town - Morzine

2010-07-12T14:47:00.001+10:00

There is something special about a tour town.

When we arrived in Morzine on Thursday afternoon, it was alive with downhill mountainbikers. They rode around the streets all armoured up (but without their helmets... go figure...). Some of the local businesses had strung yellow cloth from their balconies and doors, but apart from that it seemed a world away from the hustle and bustle of the Tour de France.

Not for long, though, as the town transformed before the Avoriaz 'arrivee' on Sunday.

Over the weekend more and more of the yellow appeared around the town. Hotels started placing welcome signs in their windows. (One even disclosed the intended lodging of Lance Armstrong... really? He didn't seem to stay with the team at the Hilton for the Tour Down Under...).

The downhillers were still abundant, but before too long were outnumbered by their cousins in lycra. And before too much longer, the town was packed with the tour entourage - the trucks...

the cars, the team buses and... the cyclists. And, their bikes.

In Morzine, we found out what's in the back of the trucks. Apart from the mechanics' workshops, we found out that Team Saxobank uses one of their trucks to haul around a fully equipped commercial kitchen. And we found out that some LCL Lions, which are presented along with the yellow jersey to the leader of the general classification of the Tour each day, get the best seat in the team bus.

Cities right across France, and even in the surrounding countries, are chosen by tour organisers based on many criteria. Presumably their location and the surrounding terrain is a deciding factor, but in recent years cities have bid for the right to host the tour, most famously London in 2007. Cities as far away as Tokyo have expressed interest in hosting the Grand Depart to kick off the tour.

For these cities it's about attracting tourists. Morzine's effort this year was a test case for Annecy's bid for the 2018 Winter Olympics.

But more than anything, for French cities, hosting the Tour de France is a matter of pride. Yes, there's something special about a tour town...

Morzine-Avoriaz: TDF Stage 8 Aussie Gold

2010-07-11T22:30:00.006+10:00

After persevering with french commentary on TV for a week, at last, the tour was in town.

I don't know about anyone else, but I could hardly contain my excitement. I couldn't wait to get on my bike and ride the climb before the tour passed through.

And although we were hesitant to dwell on it too much, for fear of jinxing him, we were keenly aware that Cadel Evans was well placed to take the yellow jersey from unlikely tour leader Sylvain Chavanel. He was only 1:25 behind, with thirty seconds on the next best notable contender, Andy Schleck.

It was going to be a good day.

The boys and I set off in plenty of time to soak up the atmosphere on the Col de la Joux Verte. We left from Morzine to ride the tour route up to the ski resort of Avoriaz. As we expected the road was packed with campervans, cars, bikes and cycling fans.

This is what I'd come back for. The vibe was amazing - tens of thousands of people crammed onto 12kms of skinny mountain road. Most of them would have been there for a couple of days reserving their spot and this morning they were ready.

They called out to the cyclists as they passed and I was happy to receive their cheers and good wishes. I wasn't really needing it, the climb was fairly gentle and quite constant.

It's times like this I wished my French was better. I'm sure I'd have great conversations with fellow cyclists as we climbed on days like this. Everyone is happy, everyone is excited at the prospect of the peleton. it's times like these where the bond between cyclists is amplified.

A few ks from the top of the climb we stopped for a beer. Aussies can always find each other overseas. It wasn't long before we were in conversation with a young bloke who was on an extended European holiday with a mate. He was happy to hear our accent, and we traded war stories about the predicaments the language barrier can land you in...

We decided we needed to keep going if were going to watch from the top, so we continued on. At the top of the Col de la Joux Verte is a pub where we stopped for lunch and a beer before settling on the plan of attack for the day.

By this time the Gendamerie were starting to close down the roads to all traffic, so we decided to continue on foot to the finish line at the town of Avoriaz. Here we watched some of the team mechanics at work before finding a TV to watch the coverage of the tour.

We found an air conditioned bar and watched the carnage unfold. We found out that despite Cadel keeping with the group of favourites, he'd crashed early on in the stage. Lance had also crashed, but was faring much worse. He eventually finished more than 10 minutes behind the main contenders.

Meanwhile, Cadel was riding into the yellow jersey. Again, time to regroup and set on a plan of attack. We left the TV in time to get back to an appropriate vantage point to watch the finish.

Then back to the podium to watch Cadel climb the podium to don the leader's yellow jersey.

Yes, it had been a good day.

I wouldn't get out of bed for that... oh, wait....

2010-07-11T20:57:00.002+10:00

The morning after my wayward brick session, we drove to Lake Geneva where I planned to finish off my brick with a run along the waterfront. I knew I probably wouldn't get the whole 18ks I was supposed to do in, after all, it was tour day. We had limited time for running, there was riding to do.

I hitched a lift with Vennessa, and on the way she lamented that how her plan to complete the Run Like Crazy marathon with me was fading fast, and told me the story of how she came to the realisation that she might need to reset her goal to something more achievable.

The story started with a friend visiting Ness a few weeks before they'd left Australia and proudly announcing that she was going to train for the 5.7k run at the Melbourne Marathon Festival.

I was thinking "5.7ks... I don't get out of bed for 5.7 ks"! And immediately felt like one of those self sanctimonious runner types that I usually detest. So I was relieved when Ness said that she was suitably encouraging towards her friend, all the while thinking to herself... "who trains for a 5.7 K run?"

Ironically, it was in this moment that the truth snuck up on her. Her previous lofty goal of running a marathon on New Years Eve was quickly slipping away. It was already July and she hadn't come close to finding a way to fit in the time she'd need to train. The demands of being a stay at home Mum with two small boys are not to be underestimated.

Ness has since decided that perhaps she too should pick a shorter event to get her running legs back.

We got to Thonon on Lake Geneva and met up with the KKB and Michael for a quick coffee and croissant before they set off for the ride back to Morzine. We continued down to the lake front to find somewhere for the kids to play while I ran.

Everything was against me on my quest to run. I ran out of path along the waterfront in no time. Time had gotten away from us, and I was suffering from my long day yesterday.

I ran 3.01km at a slow pace, stopping frequently to stretch. Today, running was really hard. Some days are like that.

I felt suitably sheepish for my earlier judgments on what I would and wouldn't get out of bed for. It was good to be reminded that running is hard - it made me grateful for the days that it's not so hard.

The wayward brick

2010-07-10T22:31:00.016+10:00

The schedule for my last big brick session was 130ks on the bike and an 18k run. Although my program had been designed to get all the hard work done before I left home, I was looking forward to chalking up another long day in preparation for what is always a long day.

Things went a bit wayward though, through my own grand plans, advice from a friendly local, and a turn in the weather.

Coach Andy had provided a Bikely map of a route for me to ride but I decided (with KKB's encouragement) that it would be too easy to ride down Col du Joux Plane from Morzine. After all, this Col is where Lance Armstrong cracked in the Tour de France of 2000. I was here, I hadn't come to the Alpes to ride flats. I had to ride Joux Plane the right way, didn't I?

That decision made, I conscientiously prepared a new map of the same course in reverse direction, highlighting the route in crayon on a free tourist map; making notes of the towns I'd pass through and the road numbers to take. France has a well defined road system with numbers and letters, and after navigating our way for the last two weeks, I thought I had it dialled.

When I got to the outskirts of Thornon, though, I couldn't find the route number I needed anywhere, and couldn't find any reference to where I wanted to head. I stood at a roundabout for a few minutes weighing up my options, until a local cyclist approached me to help.

The language barrier wasn't enough to stop him telling me that the route I'd planned was "horrible" and "dangerous". He suggested another quite different route that would get me around to the base of Col du Joux Plane through the French country side and over a few "facile" Cols, instead of the motorway we had originally planned.

I thanked him for his help and he went on his way, then I began to wonder whether trusting a complete stranger was the right thing to do. Maybe he lured lone women cyclists on to deserted roads with the sole purpose of coming after them and attacking them???

I realised how silly this idea was, and also realised that I didn't have much choice. I couldn't find the road I'd planned to be on, so couldn't continue the way I'd set out. So I decided to dice with death and my route completely.

I am really happy I did. The new ride was mostly on country roads through beautiful little villages. It even allowed me to take the obligatory photos at the top of two cols - Col du Perret and Col de Saxel - before tackling Col de Joux Plane.

The ride wasn't going too fast though, not only because of the extra lumps but also because of the changed plans. I stopped constantly to check and recheck my location and directions, and also regularly texted KKB when I turned on to a new road. Even though I'd encountered plenty of cyclists (and hadn't encountered the original cyclist, so obviously his intentions were good not evil!) I thought it was important someone knew where I was!

Finally, after what seemed like (and was) the best part of the day, I was at Samoens, the base of the Col de Joux Plane. I didn't know what to be prepared for. All I knew was that, apart from Lance's experience here, it is rated as either a Category 1 or Hors Category in the Tour De France.

Similar to the advice I'd received from a local when I first climbed Galibier, KKB had saved me to save something for this climb. It only took a couple of Ks to see why. I stopped after a little over a K. It only takes one look at the gradient of the climb to see why - kilometre number 1 at an average of 8.5; then kilometre number 2 at an average of 12???

Of course I didn't know what was ahead of me but if it was all like this, I was screwed.

I got back on my way and it flattened out a little, but about half way up I was passed by a cyclist who started to struggle not far ahead of me. This guy looked fit. If he's struggling, and I'm only half way up, I'm screwed.

Again, another little break, before getting back on my bike and starting up the Col again. From there, I felt better and better. That was until the lightening started to illuminate the sky, punctuated by the rumble of summer thunder. I looked at the distance on my Garmin 310XT, desperately trying to do the maths. How much longer did I have to go?

Before too long, with the dramatic overhead lightshow, I saw the sign that announced my arrival at the summit.

The impending downpour wasn't enough to stop me from taking my traditional shot of Lance, but the photo shoot was quicker than usual. I hastily made my way to the cafe to take shelter from the storm. I got there just as the rain started bucketing down.

From here, I sent my final few texts of the day to KKB.

- I'm here
- Morzine?
- No, the Col
- Be careful baby. I'm proud of you.
- No chance of a pickup? Weather is poo.

And then silence.

I waited the storm out with eight more cyclists - two from Austria, three from Germany, and three from England. Every so often, I'd go to the door of the cafe in search of phone reception in the hopes of getting a reply.

Nothing.

When the rain started to settle down, all of the cyclists got ready for the descent. It had turned cold, so whatever clothing we had, we put on. One of the English blokes went on the hunt for old newspaper, and I managed to get some sheets from him to put down the front of my jersey. I was quite unprepared for a turn in the weather, with just a light vest and some arm warmers.

I was feeling apprehensive about the cold and the slippery conditions when one of the other English guys was having a whinge about the descent, and the newspaper guy told him to man up.

"That goes for you too, athletic powerhouse," I told myself. "Man up. Get out there. You don't need a sag wagon, electrical storm or not!"

The newspaper guy sensed my apprehension and offered for me to descend with them. I kindly declined, saying that I would be descending like a nanna today, so probably wouldn't be able to stay with them anyway, so I headed off before them.

I did descend like a nanna, even so, the newspaper guy was the only one who passed me, the others obviously didn't man up as much as he thought they might. He waited for them at the bottom and I stopped thanked him for his words of encouragement.

It was a dramatic end to a long day. After all of that, and in the continuing drizzle, there was no way I was going out for another 18ks on foot. The brick was well and truly wayward by now and there was no steadying it.

Time will tell whether the wayward brick will come back to haunt me on race day. I hope not.

Exploring a new town

2010-07-09T01:24:00.002+10:00

We got to Morzine after a long day in the car. First order of business - a long run of course!

It wasn't an ideal time to tackle a long run. It was stinking hot and I'd been sitting in the van all day in transit from La Grave. We'd driven the long way to see for ourselves what the Tour riders had in store on Col de la Madeleine a few days later. Let's just say it was frightening enough in a car.

So, armed with a map of our new home town and my phrase book in case of emergency, I set off in search of 24ks of semi flat terrain. It turned out to be an ideal way to explore.

I headed into the town and made a note of the locations of the boulangeries and fromageries. There were a few to choose from! There were also plenty of cafes and eateries to keep us fuelled up.

I was also keen to check out the status of the town's 50m pool. Would it be appropriate for lap swimming or a bit hit and miss like Alpe d'Huez? I ran down through the sport zone of the town, past not only the pool but also the equestrian centre and trails. My planned swim training didn't look promising in a pool full of holiday makers and children, screaming with delight in the cool water.

I looped around and headed back up towards Montriond until I ran out of footpath, so back down to the main town, then round and round, to make up the Ks.

I'd started my run just after 5pm, so as I got further and further into the run, the bars and restaurants in town were just starting to fill up, mainly with the hundreds of mountain bikers in town. I got a few admiring looks from some of them, so I must be getting down to an appropriate race weight...

I headed up the hill through town for the last time and saw on the town's electronic notice board that the temperature was still a toasty 27 degrees. No wonder this run hadn't felt so good... Here's hoping for milder temperatures when I explore the old town of Regensburg in a few weeks time.

Another day, another country

2010-07-07T12:39:00.001+10:00

We rode in to Italy today, climbing up Col Sastrierre form Cesana on the French / Italian border.

Tour trivia - Lance Armstrong won here in 1999. Needless to say, the Athletic Powerhouse's ascent of Sestriere was a little different. There were no crowds lining the mountain pass, it was a bright sunny day, I hadn't been riding for five hours before tackling the climb... oh and I probably took twice as long!

Of course we sought out a pizza slice and a proper Italian coffee at the top but were ill equipped to order it - we hadn't learned any Italian in preparation for our trip, only basic French! Lucky for us, "pizza" and "espresso" are fairly universal.

In the swim

2010-07-05T23:39:00.000+10:00

So I knew there'd be some differences in training in another country, but I was looking forward to pretending I was an elite athlete, finalising my preparation for an international Ironman race at altitude.

Apart from the obvious difference of riding on the right hand side of the road, the pool at Alpe d'Huez was my first such experience.

I paid my entry fee to the attendant, who asked me to remove my shoes before proceeding to the change room, and instructed me to put my belongings in a locker. Off with the crocs, into the locker room, where there were no toilets or showers, just rows of lockers and just a handful of cubicles for privacy for the few who desire it (this was Europe after all).

I changed into my togs, kept aside just my essentials (goggles, cap and water bottle) and placed everything else in a locker. I didn't have any change to pay for the locker though, as I'd given all my valuables to KKB for minding. I obediently left my belongings in an unsecured locker, as I was instructed to, and made my way out of the other end of the change room.

Around a rabbit warren of hallways, finally past the toilets (separate for men and women) and past a unisex shower room. That was going to be interesting later on...

Showers were obligitare (compulsory) so I braced for what I thought would be water straight from the glacier above (all of the water in the Alpes is freezing) and was pleasantly surprised with lovely warm water.

From here, out onto the pool deck, where to my surprise, everyone had their bags, towels, packed lunches, you name it. Maybe I didn't need to take the locker thing quite so literally!

The cool alpine air made me dread what the water would be like, but unnecessarily, it was heated to a lovely temperature. I stroked my way through my set in the unroped lanes, which made for a bit of a haphazard session, but a session completed nevertheless. I wasn't the lone trainer so I didn't feel so bad amongst the frolicking holiday makers.

I braced myself for the cool air before jumping out and reentering the pavilion through the shower area. I glanced around the showers to see that others were using soap and shampoo, and spotted some cubicles. Back past the toilets to the locker room; grab the body wash; return to the shower area to wash off. Back again, around the rabbit warren to the locker room to get changed, outside to the reception area, crocs back on.

Swim over. Whew.

Alpe d'Huez redemption

2010-07-05T19:11:00.003+10:00

After my VO2 session on the bike this morning it was time to finish off what I'd started on Friday with a climb up the Alpe.

The last time I'd ridden Alpe d'Huez I'd only done half the job in my failed attempt at the Alpe d'Huez triathlon. Last time, it was blisteringly hot. The heat radiated off the rock walls at the bottom of the climb. This time, the cooler mid-morning held the promise of a much more pleasant experience.

The first few of the 21 switchbacks are among the steepest and the longest of Alpe d'Huez. This morning's training session had deadened my legs just a little, so they felt it. Still, it seemed manageable and I knew the slope would flatten a little in a couple of Ks.

I settled into a rhythm, enjoying the cool mountain air. I was determined to make this climb feeling strong. Last time I was here, after being pulled from the bike course of the Alpe d'Huez triathlon, I was anything but strong. I was broken, physically and mentally.

Alpe d'Huez is a 'mythical mountain', to locals and to cyclists the world over. When we registered for the triathlon two years ago, I'd asked what the slogan of the event, "entrez le legende" meant. Although a literal translation was difficult for the volunteer, she indicated it was along the lines of being at one with the mountain.

On race day I was pulled from the bike course of the triathlon and sat in the sweep vehicle as they painstakingly collected each and every one of the course signs. I'd been allowed to continue riding from the top of Col d'Ornon, and as I approached Alpe d'Huez, I tried to muster everything I had.

I wanted to continue. I wanted to overcome my failure. I wanted to feel at one with the mountain.

The sun beat down upon me. I'd pushed my bike up the second half of each of the first few switchbacks before another of the event vehicles offered me a lift. I declined. Although my race was over, I wanted to prove to the mountain I was worthy. I rode for as long as I could, then stopped, walked, rested, and rode again.

I continued with this lunacy halfway up the climb. Finally, at the village of Huez, I relented. I admitted defeat and accepted a lift to top of the mountain.

So today, I had unfinished business. I owed the mountain. I'd failed to respect it in the past. Today I owed it to myself and to the mountain, to ride with honour.
The first few tougher switchbacks came and went more quickly than I expected. Before long, the climb evened out and I could enjoy it. (If you are supposed to enjoy climbing over 1,100m in just over 11Ks, that is.) I kept turning my legs over consistently and breathing evenly. As my heart rate climbed, I felt alive.

As I passed through the village of Huez I felt stronger than ever. Only a handful of switchbacks to go.

I entered the town and passed under the Arivee banner in 1:31, a faster time than I'd imagined and feeling better than I'd hoped.

Most importantly, I felt I'd redeemed myself.

Flat out

2010-07-05T18:38:00.001+10:00

I found a great location for my run speedwork today.

We'd been hunting for a flat since we arrived in La Grave. Short of going down to Bourg d'Oisan, the next best thing was a little road we found down by the river. Not a bad view, hey?

Well, as it turns out, looks aren't everything.

KKB and I had driven it and ascertained that there was definitely a slope, but in contrast to just about every other road around the Alpes, of course it seemed flat.

We should know that driving a course doesn't provide an appropriate perspective on things.

So what was meant to be 2k efforts at 6:50 min/ks turned into 2k efforts downhill at 5:50 and 2k efforts uphill at around 7.14s.

Not exactly ideal, but the right amounts of effort at pace are in the bank.

The Cols of Alpe D'Huez

2010-07-03T23:28:00.129+10:00

I had some unfinished business on the Cols of the Alpe d'Huez Triathlon course. I've never admitted it here on the Triathlete Chronicles, but this is the only race I've failed to finish. I was pulled from the bike course by a Frenchman who purported not to speak English and bundled into the sag wagon.

Adding insult to injury, although I promised to write a Chronicle about my experience, I failed at that as well. In many ways, this is understandable. But it's regrettable, because I look back on that experience with a range of emotions. Mostly, I feel the vulnerability, sadness, and shame of failure. But there are also glimmers of defiance and desperation that often accompanies the persistence I hoped to show.

Being back at the Alpe, I'm reliving it like it's yesterday.

Today's task was a 130k ride on the Alpe d'Huez triathlon bike course. I set off from our accommodation in La Grave, starting with a nice downhill to Bourg d'Oisan, then through the villages of Livet, Riouperoux and Gavet before turning off the main road at Sechilienne. Each time I looked up to my left, I felt just a little intimidated by the mountains that towered above. I don't know how to describe how tall, steep and imposing they seemed.

Even so, as I peeled off the main road, the only real apprehension I felt was whether I would get through this day without getting lost. I'd almost managed to ride off the bike course last time I was here, and that was on a supposedly marshalled course.

The climb to Col de Grand Serre started immediately, up through the town of St Bartholemy de Sechilienne. I wasn't sure from the tourist map I'd picked up (and couldn't recall from last time) whether I was supposed to go through the town, so when I saw a local, stopped to make sure I was on the right track.

I was, so on I went.

Or more accurately, onward and upward.

I cycled along the switchbacks, back and forth across the face of the mountain, and many times had flashbacks of the triathlon. Like race day, I was a solitary rider. Unlike last time, I climbed calmly and with purpose. There was a familiar feeling of the climb continuing endlessly, but an unfamiliar feeling of being in control, like I was dominating the climb rather than it getting the better of me.

There were some amazing views, and unlike race day, I noticed them, and appreciated them. After some time, the summit was in sight, and before too long, I reached the sunshine of the village of La Morte.

A quick map check and chat with some fellow cyclists and I was descending through the valley, following the river as it wound through Lavaldien and towards La Valette. Soon enough, I was rounding the bottom of the bike course and heading back towards Bourg d'Oisan towards the bottom of the Col d'Ornon climb.

Just past the town of Entraigues the climb of Col d'Ornon begins. It's quite a subtle climb, but long. In today's hot conditions, the sun was merciless. Again, the imposing mass of mountains ahead had me doubting myself; wondering what right I had to be here. It was somewhere around here that I had been pulled from the race. Maybe the race marshall was right, and I couldn't make it up.

I couldn't dwell on that. I was armed with everything this time - a phone, money, a map and a phrase book. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

More than anything, I was battling the heat. I hadn't counted on the midday Alpine summer sun when I was training away in a mild Brisbane winter. It was brutal. Because I didn't have sunscreen, I kept my arm warmers on for protection, and rather than baking, I boiled. I just kept trucking on though, and soon the 10k climb was behind me.

At the top of the climb is a bar which I remembered form my race. At this point, the Frenchman stopped, got out of the van, pointed to me and said "Velo". I didn't know what was going on. He repeated "velo?". This time with more of a question, pointing to my bike, and to me.

I realised he was offering for me to ride the descent.

"Yes! Oui!" I exclaimed. I grabbed Lance out of the back of the van, put my helmet back on and wasn't seen for dust.

I remember feeling so free riding that descent, thinking of my friend Donna, who once said to me when trying to explain why she rode and raced, "I just love riding my bike." That's exactly how I felt, on that day. I didn't come here to be cooped up in the back of a van. I came to ride. I absorbed the descent, and at the bottom, I rode as fast as I could back through Bourg d'Oisan, before contemplating the ride up Alpe d'Huez.

Today, I'd used up most of my 130ks by the time I got back to Bourg d'Oisan. I toyed with the idea of finishing it off, but by this time, I was at peace with what I'd achieved. I didn't need to tackle the Alpe today, I could savour that another day.

Travel hopefully

2010-07-01T05:43:00.007+10:00

There are many quotes about travel, but one of my favourites is by Robert Louis Stevenson:

"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour."

It pays to travel hopefully. After all, a lot can go wrong when you've got a cab ride, a flight, an adjoining flight, a cab ride, a car hire, and a 800k drive to get to your destination.

There is a lot ahead for the Athletic Powerhouse. There are physical challenges that require mental toughness. I didn't expect that the very act of travelling to prepare me for what's ahead but as it turns out, I've arrived more hopeful than I imagined.

The inflight entertainment had coverage of this year's Australian Ironman, as well as a documentary about James Castrission and Justin Jones kayaking across the ditch.

I'm probably just a sook, but every time I watch coverage of Ironman, I tear up. This time it happened in record time. Until this, I didn't think I'd spent all that much time thinking about the task ahead. Certainly, I wasn't feeling nervous, or even all that excited, about the trip ahead. But all it took was a couple of pros talking about their upcoming race, and the usual commentary about the amazing achievement of finishing an Ironman, and I couldn't help myself.

Obviously there was more going on in my head than I thought.

I really enjoyed hearing a little more about Tony Abbott's journey to Ironman. He felt under done, and given that he'd recently taken the reigns of the federal opposition, it's no wonder. It would have been really easy for him to withdraw from the event, but he went ahead with it. Perhaps he didn't do as well as he may have originally hoped, but he finished, and made a big impression on many of us by doing so.

Next up, Crossing the Ditch. What I loved about this doco was the humility of these two adventurers. They were the first to paddle the Tasman unassisted, but they emphasised that adventure isn't about being the first to do something amazing, it's about doing something outside of the ordinary - then bringing those experiences back to bear on your everyday life.

Both viewings had a profound impact, and might I say, just at the right time. In just under five weeks, I'll be attempting to finish my fourth Ironman triathlon. The good news is that the hard work is behind me. I've trained harder this time than ever before. If true success is to labour, then you could probably count me as a winner already.

This time though, that won't be enough. I'm apprehensive as hell. I've thought a lot about meeting the time goal I'll need to meet to succeed on the day.

So yes, I've travelled hopefully. While I arrived in La Grave this morning physically quite bereft from 48 hours of transit, psychologically and emotionally, I feel ready.

As much as anything, I'm hopeful that my labour will bring success.

Ready to roll

2010-06-29T13:01:00.001+10:00

The time has come. I'm sitting at the airport, looking forlornly at the Triathlete Chronicles, shaking my head at the irony of it. The more I train, the more I have to blog about. Sadly, the more I train, the less time I have to actually blog.

This last couple of weeks, I've done some of my best and worst training sessions, of this program, and perhaps ever. I've constructed perfect blog posts out there on the road, none of which have made their way to their rightful home.

Since my last blog post, I've

done my longest ever training ride
run 30ks before work (and rewarded myself with German Sausages for lunch. Thanks Matt!)
been massaged to within an inch of my life
had both my mental and physical well being saved by recovery week. (Man, I needed that so bad.)

It's just under five weeks to the big race. I'm on holidays from work and I'm looking forward to relaxing a little, and enjoying being able to just train for a couple of weeks, before tapering. As you can probably tell from list above, the hard work is in the bank. I can let my body recover for a bit now,

I won't make any promises, but I hope to also spend a little more time blogging. Maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to recreate some of the moments from the last few weeks. I hope But maybe I've got so much good stuff ahead, that I'll be busy just keeping up with what's to come:

Riding the Alpe d'Huez triathlon bike course
Chasing the Tour de France around the Alps and Pyrenees
Quality time with friends and KKB
Exploring the unknown

Wish me well, dear readers, and get ready for the ride.

This is how VO2 goes

2010-06-03T20:40:00.001+10:00

The goal of a VO2 session is... well I'm not quite sure what the goal of the session is. That's why I have a coach.
How it goes, is that you go flat out for a specified time. Then recover for a specified time. Then go flat out for a specified time, then recover, and repeat for the desired effect.

There are many theories on what the optimal intervals are. Actually, I don't really know, but my coach told me there was. He also told me that the intervals he gave me were the magic numbers, according to research. But I don't really know. That's why I have a coach.

What I do know is how a VO2 interval session goes.

You start your flat out bit. Your legs start hurting. Then your chest starts heaving, to try and get blood to your legs. Then you start gasping for breath, to get try to oxygen into your blood, which is pumping around your body at a frenetic speed.

You try not to think about how hard it is to suck in the breath. Breath, after all, is life. You want breathing to be easy, not hard. Best concentrate on something else.

But what? The possibility that your heart might beat through your chest; or the searing pain coursing through your quadriceps?

After what seems like the longest time, the interval is over and you can recover. For a surprisingly short time.

Then you start again. And that's how VO2 goes.

Something goes in there... it comes out different

2010-05-30T19:54:00.000+10:00

KKB and I planned a trip to Lennox Head this weekend, so I did my open water swim in an unfamiliar location, Lake Ainsworth. We'd stopped off at Byron Bay to find that the surf was larger than I'd like, and the pool closed for the winter.

When we checked in to our apartment we asked about the safety of swimming in Lake Ainsworth. He was forthcoming with a detailed explanation of how the water is therapeutic because of the abundance of Tea Trees in the area.

And that's how it started.

As I was getting into my wetsuit, KKB smiled at me and said, "Therapeutic. Maybe the water's like the water in the Boag's Draught ad, and you'll come out with big perky boobs."

It was one of those moments where a man says something and halfway through forming the words, it becomes apparent that he's now thought about what he's saying, and realises that his wife / girlfriend / other present female won't find it as funny as he did in his head. This time it was just as he was pursing his lips to begin uttering "perky".

I responded coolly under the circumstances. "Really? What else would you like me to come out with?"

"Nothing baby. You're perfect," the response came very quickly.

We started to talk about all the things I could come out with - the riding ability of Jens, legs like Fabian Cancellara. (Then I stopped, just for a moment, and thought a little more about Fabian Cancellara...) I even asked KKB whether he would mind if I came out like my "turn gay for" woman, Cameron Diaz. (Redundant question really.)

I realised this was only putting off the inevitable so I stopped talking and got down to business. I tentatively I eased myself into the water. It was cold. And dark. The helpful man at our apartments failed to mention that abundance of Tea Trees discolours the water a lovely tea-like brown.

I inched forward, up to my knees, thighs, hips, waist. Up to my chest, before pushing forward for my first stroke.

I could barely see my elbows through the water, let alone my forearms or hands. This water was dark.

It's often the swim that gets the better of triathletes, especially the fear of the unknown lurking beneath the water's surface. Although I've never really been too concerned about the presence of sea monsters or squirmy lake creatures, I still felt just a little proud of myself to be swimming blindly through this darkness by myself.

It was then that I realised that I'd never done an open water swim by myself before. Ever. I'd always done open water swims in larger groups. Like many things in life there is safety in numbers. Groups are more visible in the water than a solo swimmer, something that became increasingly important as a flotilla of small sailing boats launched into the lake and headed in a path that directly intersected my route. I easily avoided real danger, but when I returned to KKB I changed tack to avoid any catastrophe.

I crossed the lake a few more times, each time my face, arms and feet felt colder and colder; with each pass they bordered more and more on numbness. The air temperature that day was forecast as 21 degrees and I reckon the water could have been up to 5 degrees cooler. Not what the Athletic Powerhouse considers to be ideal training conditions.

It wasn't the most amazing training session, certainly it wasn't all that taxing physically. But there was something different about it.

I am usually an early morning trainer. This morning we woke to rain, and reorganised our day entirely - by the time I got to the edge of Lake Ainsworth, we were on to Plan D, and it was late in the day. The water was cold, and its colour was unsettling to say the least.

It would have been really easy to just give it a miss.

I didn't. I pushed through the cold, the glimmers of fear, and, just like in the beer ad, maybe I did come out different.

Not happy, (but then there was) Jan!

2010-05-26T19:42:00.001+10:00

Another record training run this morning, 26Kms, leaving from home and ending up at work.

It was a long time to be out there. I'd woken up with a bit of a sore throat and a sniffle, and even though part of the run took in the bike path along Coronation Drive, I was failing dismally in the popularity stakes. It isn't often I run or ride along there without seeing someone I know. When I got to the 20K mark, my chances were further diminished when I was diverted to the footpath of Coronation Drive, away from the cyclists, who are able to continue along beside the river.

Something had to turn this around, didn't it?

As I approached the 21K mark I found myself ruing the fact that I was running all this way, and still not getting a Tshirt. (I just have to get over that, I know.)

Out of nowhere, and quite unexpected, I heard my name. I looked over to spot an old training buddy, Jan, waving at me across several lanes of traffic.

There's a saying that decrees that if you need to get something done, give it to a busy person. Jan is the epitome of this. Not only does she train for triathlon, she has school aged kids (one of whom just did some serious damage to his knee), volunteers on the organising committee of the Brookfield Show, as well as many other community activities. I don't know whether Jan works, but I wouldn't be surprised to find out she fits in 9 to 5 in as well.

Jan is always one of the first to comment when I post any talk of long Ks on Facebook. So it's a little ironic that she was the one to help me get through today.

Still, it has to be said.

Thanks Jan, for making me happy.

$5 for a can of Coke, but no free Tshirt.

2010-05-22T20:27:00.013+10:00

Today was the last day of my recovery week. I've let my body "recover" by running the best part of a half marathon on Wednesday, and completing the equivalent of a Half Ironman today.

I know, followers of the Athletic Powerhouse, that you will share my disenchantment that no free Tshirts were forthcoming at the end of these efforts, the way there would be at the end of the real thing. I hope, though, that you will enjoy the story of how I happily parted with with $5 in exchange for a can of Coke.

Many of you will have been there I'm sure. There are plenty of times in long training sessions, or even races, where you would give any amount of cash for something you covet. A cold drink. A warm bed. A bucket of hot chips. Sometimes even, just to stop.

Today wasn't quite like that. Not for the most part anyway.

The focus of the session was to maintain a pace higher than I might normally hold in training, but not so much that I'd spend a week recovering. (After all, this session was part of recovery week...?) I was also to practice my race nutrition. Just as well I'd received my order of Powerbar Sportsdrink to practice with! (This is the drink they'll serve at aid stations at Regensburg. It's always handy to know what's in store so there's no nasty surprises on race day.)

It was an early start at Somerville House pool for a 1.9K swim. I was dressed and ready by 7.15 when Katherine met me for our 90K ride.

To try and replicate race conditions, I'd planned a ride of two 45Km loops, each including a lap of Mt Coot-tha. I'd then do a flat 21K run along the river. The ride was a bit stop-start. It often is when you ride in the city. Add into that a mixture of bike path and streets... oh, and a couple of 250m climbs, well, perhaps I shouldn't be too disappointed with my average pace? I guess my coach will be the judge of that.

The downside of a longer than expected time on the bike was that I set off on my run a lot later than I thought I would. Not that that was really a problem. I didn't have anywhere else to be. But it messed with my head.

Not only that, as I went through my transition from bike to run, I discovered I'd left my Fuelbelt at home. I had to take drinks with me, but I couldn't carry all four of the flasks I'd prepared. In fact I couldn't carry any in my jersey pocket, they bounced around far too much. So, while not ideal, I set off for my 21Ks, holding two water bottles in my hands. How is this going to go?

From South Brisbane I headed over the Goodwill Bridge and turned right through the Botanic Gardens, along the boardwalk past Eagle Street Pier, under the Story Bridge on the floating boardwalk, right around through New Farm, past the Powerhouse and up to Teneriffe. I stopped only to chug down a GU at the 7K mark, and continued up past the Gasworks, did a block in the Valley and headed back the way I'd come.

To compensate for carrying less hydration than normal, I'd stopped at water taps along the way, but I had run out of electrolyte early. Knowing that I normally rely heavily on the sugar from my drinks in the second half of the run, I knew I'd have to find a shop to restock on the way back.

The mere thought of stopping at a shop got me thinking about Coke.

Before too long, I couldn't stop thinking about the tart tang Coke gives on the lips.

I never drink Coke. Hold on, let me rephrase that. The only time I drink Coke is when I desperately need a lift in long races.

...yes, I needed Coke.

By the time I hit my turnaround point, I couldn't get my hands on it quick enough. I found a little coffee shop along Vernon Tce, got myself a can from the fridge and paid. I shook it a little to try and get rid of some of the fizz before opening it outside, downing half and stowing the other half in my empty Fuelbelt bottle for later. The staff were fantastic, refilling my other bottle with water, giving me a few Freckles to munch on, and gushing adoringly at how I was filling in my day.

The $2.20 price tag meant I had $2.80 in change, which I stowed in a Ziplock bag in my back pocket before heading off again.

Clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang.

If only the Coke was $2, or even $3.

Clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang........

When I got to the end of the boardwalk towards the Powerhouse, I came across a recreational cyclist who was eating a mandarin on a park bench. He looked up and said hello as I approached.

"Great day for a run," he said as I put my bottles down on the bench beside him.

"Sure is. Could you do me a favour? Can you take this change off my hands? It's rattling around in my pocket driving me insane."

While this would freak out many, this fellow didn't bat an eyelid. I could kind of tell he would be the type to appreciate the zen of the a random act of kindness.

"If you're sure. It's funny. I went to a Chinese temple this morning and they gave me fruit. It must be my lucky day."

Yep, I picked the right guy.

I thanked him (yes, thanked him) as I once again set off. Less than an hour now before today would be over, and another milestone reached.

But, sadly, no free Tshirt to show for it.

All kinds of states

2010-05-15T20:21:00.044+10:00

The picture's fairly explanatory really. I rode to New South Wales today. (Just from the Gold Coast. Not from Brisbane.)

Even so, it was another long day. Training was an open water swim followed by a 130k ride... topped and tailed by an hour's drive.

Geographically, I may only have covered two states, but emotionally, I was in all kinds of states.

We started with an open water swim at Lake Hugh Muntz, a freshwater lake tucked away at Mermaid Waters on the Gold Coast. An open water swim had seemed like a good idea when KKB first mentioned it a few weeks ago. Since then, though, it's gotten cold. This morning, when we arrived at the lake with the temperature barely in double figures, it seemed like a very bad idea.

We wiggled our way into our wetsuits. This served quite a warm up in itself. Whenever I look at my wetsuit, which looks like it was made for a Barbie doll, I wonder how on earth I come close to fitting in it.

I worked myself into a bit of a state just thinking about this. I felt constricted in the tight fitting neoprene. As we waddled down to the water, I found it difficult to breathe, and wondered how I would cope in the water. My cold feet stung with every footfall on the concrete path. My hands and face started feeling a little numb with the cold.

I don't know what had possessed me. I was preoccupied with all the negatives. By the time we got to the steps down to the water, I was incapable of focusing on the task at hand. It took me ten minutes or so to calm down enough to launch myself into the cool, still water and start swimming.

We stroked through what we estimated was 2.5Kms. (One of the big complaints I have about my Garmin 310XT is that it's marketed as a triathlete's Garmin, but doesn't work in water.... what the?).

After a quick change in the car park we got on the bikes to ride up through Springbrook, down through Natural Bridge. I just wasn't feeling it today, and even KKB's company didn't seem to help that much.

"How are you going?" he asked me when we stopped to refill drinks.

"OK. No, not really. I'm really not feeling great today", I responded like a resentful teenager.

"What about having me here, doesn't that help?" Nice sentiment, right, especially since we don't ride together much at all.

"Nup. Actually my head hurts. Got any Nurofen?"

A couple of Ks up the road, after KKB had ridden off into the sunshine, I really regretted this. Having him with me did help. It was actually a really nice way to spend a day, enjoying beautiful scenery with your husband.

Good work, Athletic Powerhouse. KKB isn't going to wait for you now. I felt alone and deserted, given I was out in the middle of nowhere and all. I tried to concentrate on the task at hand, continuing up the climb over the Queensland / NSW border, then descended into the Numinbah Valley. When I got to Chillingham to refill my drinks, I despaired at the fact that KKB really wasn't around; until I saw him stopped at the local shop, downing a pie and a can of Coke. Yes!

From here we rode together most of the way through the cane fields towards Murwillumbah, back up over Terranora, then back down to the hustle and bustle of the Gold Coast proper.

I think we were both in the same state of exhaustion when we got back to the car. We packed the bikes into the back of the car in what seemed like record time, before piling in and settling in for the drive home.

Another long day over. Hallelujah to that.

Mother, woman, lady or girl?

2010-05-09T18:43:00.106+10:00

It's Mothers Day today. Andy had a big day planned for me. 150Ks on the bike, including Mt Nebo, with a short run to follow. It would be the first training day where morning lapses into afternoon before you know it.

Halfway up Mt Nebo a fellow cyclist came up behind me, puffing as much as I was, and as she passed, slowly, she wished me a happy Mothers Day. I wished her the same, then asked her if she was a mother. She said she was, paused, then asked if I was. When I said I wasn't, she said cheerily, "Well, happy Mothers Day anyway".

This chance encounter, and an off hand remark, provided some food for thought as I ticked through some Ks in a very long day.

Initially, it served as quite a brutal reminder that my physical appearance is of a woman in her child bearing years, rather than the young girl I often still consider myself to be. I then thought about what it was to be a mother, rather than a woman; or come to think of it, a lady. Just days before I'd had a conversation at work about whether it was appropriate to refer to someone as a "lady", which most feminists consider to be a (presumably unflattering) male construct.

(I actually like the idea of being a lady. To me it infers someone who is impeccable, cultivated, wise, even powerful, but most of all worthy of respect. What's wrong with that? But I digress...)

My train of thought led eventually to the Chronicle of my first Ironman race, and some feedback and encouragement I received from an unlikely source. When I'd mentioned to my boss at the time that I'd written about my experience at Ironman and he seemed interested, I sent it through to him for a read. The response I received was surprising.

He told me how much he enjoyed reading such a story from a female perspective.

"While I was reading it I was trying to think of analogies and the only one that came to mind is the idea that for women the stories of their pregnancies and labours are their war stories. There are fewer opportunities for stories of women in the heroic mode - but you have found one and created something that I found moving and insightful."

Certainly, I was flattered at someone holding such high esteem for my writing. From time to time, though, I've also reflected on these words, and wondered whether the reason I persist at Ironman is to replace the experience of being a mother. I don't think it has; not consciously, anyway. For me, not having children is about my choice to commit to the love of my life, KKB.

So often though, as I inch my way to the finish line of whatever race I'm completing, there are plenty of women on the sidelines, cheering me on, urging me to "do it for the girls". It has often seemed to me that for many women, their identity becomes subsumed by those of their children, or their husbands.

Most Ironman competitor lists are weighted heavily in favour of male competitors. If my calculations are correct, the field of Ironman Regensburg is less than 15% women. As much as I love hearing little kids on the side of the road cheering on their Dads, I love it more when I hear a "Go Mummy!"

For words that are not directed at me, they still have an impact. I can't help but feel pride in the sisterhood, and admiration for those women, who are also mothers, getting out there and doing it. In my mind they're not only doing something for themselves, but setting an example to their kids that nothing is more important than your own sense of self.

I'm comfortable with the fact that any possible life I might have led as a mother is something that is only a reality in an alternate life in another parallel universe.* Increasingly, I'm also comfortable with my life as a woman (or a lady for that matter). I'm less inclined to see myself a young girl; and more and more, I feel comfortable with that.

It's nice to get the accolades that occasionally come my way from doing Ironman and writing stuff about it. But mostly, what's rewarding about this experience is about knowing myself.

*Yes, this is an unashamed homage to the final series of LOST. What the hell. It's not long now till we will find out about the whole alternate reality thing is about in LOST...

Fear and procrastination

2010-04-21T18:15:00.049+10:00

I know, this doesn't sound like the title of a very positive post. But hear me out.

My experience this morning might just show that they are the ultimate motivators: Fear of failure and procrastinating past the point of no return.

As I dressed to run this morning, I contemplated my choices and donned arm warmers for the cooler weather. As I drove to work to start my run it started to rain.

So when I parked, I sat.

And sat, and sat some more.

I didn't want to go out there. It was cold, and it was wet. Ok, so it was only 17 degrees. Hardly bone shattering cold, but it was spitting. Only just. But I'd been sick. Running in the cold and wet wouldn't help me kick the last of it.

There I was. Sitting. In the dark, in my car. At 5.30am. Make that 5.40am. No, make that 5.50.

What on earth was I doing? Was I going to just sit there until I could start work? Clearly, that wasn't a great option. It was... nearly 6am.

By now I didn't have time to get through the 18km I was supposed to run. So I had two choices. Go home, or run. Either way, I had to do something, now.

It only took a momentary thought of the 10km time trial that was scheduled for Friday, to help me decide to run. I hadn't run for over a week. I needed to run, or who knows what would happen.

So, fueled by fear and pushed by procrastination, run I did.

Forced recovery

2010-04-16T18:35:00.033+10:00

I've been on forced recovery this week... otherwise known as the 'common cold'!

Physically, I think I'm on the mend. Mentally and emotionally, I keep thinking about the 120k ride I should have done on Sunday, and the 22k run I should have done on Wednesday.
I'm starting to think about the Mt Nebo ride I'm supposed to do tomorrow.

Instead, all I've done this week is tried my luck on a short wind trainer session at recovery heart rate.

My coach is optimistic. I guess he's right, there are still 15 weeks until Ironman Regensburg so all is not lost. So, for now I just have to concentrate on getting better.

Paying it forward

2010-04-10T16:01:00.001+10:00

Befriending older gents is nothing new to the Athletic Powerhouse. I've previously documented on the Triathlete Chronicles how Lake Tinaroo local Bob provided me with ridiculous amounts of outside assistance at my first Half Ironman, and the way an unnamed Belgian man coached me through my ascent of Col du Galibier.

This morning I had the opportunity to pay it forward to a 50 year old woman I encountered trail running at Bunyaville state forest.

My recent trail run at Mt Coot-tha was not entirely unsuccessful, so I was optimistic about today's training session. It was a trail run with a twist though - 8ks wedged in between two 25k rides taking in Old Northern Road, Eatons Crossing, and Bunya Road.

My first cycle out of the way, I stowed my map safely in my pocket as a priority during the bike-run transition. I knew I'd need it.

I ran around the first section of sealed road, before searching for the gate at which I needed to turn left. I found it, and took a moment to figure out which left - kind of left or hard left? I saw a fellow runner out with her dog, we greeted each other before she set off on the trail to my hard left.

After not too much longer, I decided that was where I was headed and set off behind her.

She remained within sight for a couple of Ks, at which time I needed to again stop to check directions. Right or hard right? Hmmm. My new friend had stopped just ahead of me. I decided what the hell, and asked.

With the directions out of the way, she took a closer look at me and asked if I was a triathlete. Running in a bike jersey is usually a dead giveaway. When I confirmed her suspicion, she fired questions at me left right and centre. Do I wear socks in the run? How do you get used to running off the bike? I happily gave her a few tips.

"I'm 50. I'm doing my first triathlon in a couple of weeks, and my last. I think I'll stick to swimming."

She was training for the BRW Corporate Triathlon, and having been to that race and witnessed some very average performances by budding triathletes of all abilities, I was confident she'd do just fine. I told her she looked to me as if she was running strongly.

She followed up with, "Do you think? I feel like I'm shuffling along. I do all my running in the forest though, I think that might help."

Yes, I think that will.

Without my help or not, something tells me she'll do more than just fine. And, I wouldn't mind betting she'll be back for more.

Even superheroes have to shower

2010-04-07T18:57:00.008+10:00

When you're training for an Ironman and working full time, you have to find ways to manage your time super effectively.

Most days, this means I shower at work, after either training from work or on the way to work, or going straight to work after training. OK, so a shower isn't glamorous, or perhaps even remotely interesting. But it's one of the ways the Athletic Powerhouse comes into her own.

Lycra clad, sweaty, smelly, and sometimes covered in road grime, I sneak into the shower facility anonymously. Even when I see people I know - they rarely recognise me. It's like I'm in some kind of disguise, or shrouded in a super-hero-like invisibility shroud.

The transformations by Clark Kent into Superman, Peter Parker into Spiderman, even by Eric into Bananaman, are much more dramatic than me having a shower and dressing for work. (It kind of answers the question that's been hanging in my mind since I started writing this post - why don't they ever show super heroes morphing back to their mortal self?)

But I've started to treat it as a game. Will I see anyone I know today? Will they recognise me? Or will the Athletic Powerhouse transition unnoticed into her mild mannered alter ego?

Of course, I don't really have super powers, be they magical, mythical or physical. (Which reminds me. There's a story I haven't told yet on this blog, of how I became the Athletic Powerhouse in the first place.)

I know that the Athletic Powerhouse is a creation of my own fantasy. But that's the reason why this little game has become such a delight within my day. For those few moments between the car and the shower, the Athletic Powerhouse is real.

Lost in navigation

2010-04-02T13:04:00.001+10:00

Good Friday today so to earn the Humpty Dumpty egg KKB gave me I launched with gusto into the trail run that was set as a bit of a change to my regular Friday water run.

My coach is at home off road, but me not so much. Still, I had a map, on which I'd highlighted the route I was to take. I was running less than 10ks from the City at Mt Coot-tha so not much could go wrong.

To be fair, not much did go wrong, but I second guessed myself each time there was a possible turn, and referred to my map many times. It was a slow 8.8ks all up!

I've usually avoided trail running by myself for safety reasons, but I felt completely safe today. There were lots of people around, and I even ran into a fellow triathlon technical official who was out for a walk with a group. Embarrassingly for me, I was intently studying my map, trying to figure out my next move, when he came across me. I hadn't seen anyone else with a map and felt a bit foolish for needing one.

"Where are you trying to get to," Dave asked.

"I'm headed back to Slaughter Falls," I replied.

"This path will get you straight back to Samuel Griffith Drive, a bit further up than Slaughter Falls though. There's another path off to the right, but it's a bit more rough," he offered helpfully.

I thanked him and continued on my way. When I got to the path off to the right, it was much thinner and went straight down. It wasn't quite clear from my map whether this was the way Andy had intended for me to go, but by this stage it was fairly plain to me that the nice, broad, flatter fire trail wasn't either.

I stood there for a good minute or so. I looked longingly to my left, along my preferred route. I switched my gaze to stare down the steep, narrow trail to my right. I knew in my heart that this would be the route Andy wanted me to take. So, after a little more procrastination (and a few more wistful glances to my left), I bounded off.

Not for too much longer. The last few hundred metres before popping out to civilisation was an extremely steep downhill. Again, I felt kind of silly as the people I'd run past just moments before scampered down confidently, while I placed each footstep painstakingly, one by one, to avoid faceplanting. I cursed Andy for sending me down this death trap of a hill!

Andy was redeemed when I emerged from the forest and realised I was a good 500m up the road from where I'd parked. I'd stuffed up my directions somewhere along the line but who knows where? It didn't really matter, I'd had a bit of adventure along the way.

My trusty Garmin. I hope.

2010-03-31T20:26:00.014+10:00

My run Ks are starting to build and today after a recovery week last week, I was back up to 18Ks.

I ran a fairly flat run along the river this morning towards New Farm Park, familiar territory that I frequented a lot during last year's marathon training. As always I ran with my trusty Garmin. These days it's the only way I know how far I've run.

I don't remember feeling especially good this morning, or fast. But my Garmin tells me otherwise.

As it turns out, this morning I ran what must be a massive personal best. I couldn't believe when I looked up my training file and saw my average pace. Having said that, there are two caveats to declaring what I think is a new personal best.

Firstly, ignorance. The combination of a new Garmin and a new coach has made me a lot more aware of my heart rate and my speed. Maybe I have run sub 7 minute Ks, or even faster, and I've just never timed it. I've usually taken longer than this in both training and races though.

Secondly, technology. Please let my Garmin be right...

Like deja vu

2010-03-20T19:51:00.040+10:00

I am tired, emotional, and physically bereft. Today's ride took in two of south-east Queensland's best climbs, and was long, lonely and hilly.

It was my longest day in the saddle to date in my current training program; the first of more to come this time around. It felt reminiscent of the first long training ride I did for my first Ironman, a ride which my friends and I still look back on with pain, pride, and disbelief.

My first Ironman predates this blog, and I haven't spent much time tripping down memory lane. This story deserves to be told though, because it has become pivotal in forming not only my training mindset, but also my friendships with Annie and Jill (my fellow "Ironmoles"). It's one of our favourite war stories.

It was our first ride of more than 100ks in preparing for the Australian Ironman in 2006. About 15 of us from Phoenix Triathlon Squad were training for the race, and four of us set out for our ride exploring Mt Cotton and Redland Bay.

Miriam was the only one who knew the exact route we were to take, but early in the ride had a mechanical issue and had to be picked up. We wondered then if we should continue or also call for an early rescue? We decided on the more admiral path, so Annie, Jill and I got a quick overview of the directions from Miri. We'd all ridden out this way before, just not this particular ride.

Lesson number one. The value of knowing your route is not only in knowing directions, but also in planning refreshment stops. We sailed past a servo, all running low on drinks, thinking there would be another one around the corner. Wrong. It wasn't life-threatening - we were after all in the greater Brisbane area on reasonably main roads - but it took us a while to reach the next stop, by which time we really needed water. You have to maintain a healthy respect for Queensland's long hot summer.

With that problem solved we continued. We were still fairly sure we were on the right road, and knew we had to turn left somewhere to head back towards Brisbane. We started looking for the correct road, and failed miserably. Sure, the sign said "Brisbane". And Miri had said something about a roundabout. This had to be it. Wrong. We must have been 5ks up the wrong road before we started getting the feeling it wasn't right. But if we turned around, then what? At least we knew we were heading towards Brisbane. So, we kept going.

Jill started panicking about now, because we were taking longer than we'd expected and she had to be somewhere for lunch. It was a bit like the crew from Gilligan's Island, who'd headed off for a three hour cruise... Five hours later, we didn't know where we were or when we would get home.

As a stronger rider, Jill set off ahead but before too long, second guessed her sense of direction and called us for a second opinion. Neither Annie or I could help all that much. We knew we had to turn right somewhere, but didn't know what the road was called.

Lesson number two. It's OK for one person to take the lead in planning rides, but knowing the route is important for everyone. We really should have all taken responsibility for knowing where we were going.

Annie and I followed our nose through to the back of Mt Gravatt. We decided to pull over for more drinks and were astounded, and relieved, and very emotional, when we spotted Jill sitting on the steps of the corner shop we'd chosen, helmeted head in her hands, having a bit of a quiet cry.

She'd already called her Mum for a pickup. Annie and I were keen to do the same but we soon struck a dilemma. KKB wasn't available and Annie's boyfriend probably wouldn't be amenable to picking us up. I was going to ring Dad but the way Dads worry about their daughters, this is always a last option. Instead, Annie rang the manager of one of her local retail stores. We piled our bikes into the back of the delivery ute, piled ourselves in as well, and got the store manager to drive us back to our cars at UQ.

It was all just a little embarrassing.

When we regrouped a few days later though, we got over that shame. We'd learned our lesson, and from then on were better prepared. We'd gained a strength that we didn't know we had in us.

Today I experienced the same range of emotions. It was a long ride, a long way from home. At different times I felt confident, even exhilarated. At other times, I felt lonely and fearful. And at some point, not far from the top of O'Reilly's, I even shed a tear in sheer frustration.

Unlike that day back in 2006, I was alone today. I missed my friends - but thoughts of them gave me the opportunity to reflect on how far we'd come since that day. Our friendship really was cemented that day, through a shared experience that we still talk about.

At the moment, I'm predicting that I'll look back on this ride as a defining moment in my training for Ironman Regensburg. Maybe, though, there's another greater challenge ahead.

A lesson in history... and the value of hurting

2010-03-18T18:52:00.091+10:00

I stayed on the Moreton Bay Cycleway this morning to complete my ride with a high cadence. This is a recurring training session designed to build balance and strength on the bike by providing some instability.

I was approaching home when I started making ground on an older gent who was pedaling along at a decent pace. I thought twice about making the pass, because my session today wasn't about speed, and I always feel discouraged when someone I've passed gets me back. Given I was focusing on skill rather than speed, I thought it likely.

What I hadn't counted on was the conversation he sparked up with me when he did pass me back, and the food for thought he provided.

"It's good to see you keeping your cadence high," were his first words to me, as he came up beside me.

I started to explain that I found it hard work, and really frustrating, but yes, I usually tried to keep my cadence higher rather than grinding the bigger gears. I quickly realised that, like many older gents, he really just wanted to talk, not listen. So I shut up and listened. And kept pedaling.

"I've been riding all my life", he continued almost immediately. "At once stage I held the record as the highest placed Queenslander in the Grafton-Inverell bike race. Until the first Queenslander won it."

The first Queenslander, B Ryalls, won the race in 1969. So, if this bloke was competing at that level in the 60s, he had to be in his 70s. The race is known as the toughest one day classic in Australia, raced over 228kms, including climb over the Gibraltar Range. The first race was in 1961, the year after the bitumen road across this mountain pass was laid.

"I was exhausted when I finished. I had nothing left. I'd never ridden that far before, but I just kept going and kept pushing. When I finished, my handlers had to lift me off my bike. I didn't collapse, or faint. But I... I just relaxed."

"I think that some people just don't know how to hurt."

We traded a little bit of banter (me still mainly listening), but not long after that, I had to turn off home. I bid him farewell, wished him a good ride. And that was that. I never even found out his name.

But I've thought about his words many times since. I'm not sure that I know how to hurt, but I think I'm learning.

Commuting is fun!

2010-03-17T20:16:00.069+10:00

Yes, I know. Mostly, commuting isn't fun. If you drive, it's peak hour traffic and idiots switching lanes all over the shop. If you catch the bus or train, there's the too-loud-iPod guy, the loud talker on the mobile phone, or someone who's just so weird you can't look at them straight.

Today I'd planned ahead and my weekly long run served as my commute to work.

For some reason I felt a little apprehensive when I left home. I'm not quite sure why. If everything went pear shaped, I could easily hop onto a CityCat. There are stops right along the Brisbane River.

Perhaps I was mistaking my nervous energy for something negative, when really, what was welling in my stomach was a hint of adventure. As lacklustre as it is in reality, I love the idea of a point to point run. For some reason it feels risky. When you opt for an out and back - which is the norm for most runners - you can turn around any time you like, really.

I left home as the sky was starting to lighten with my Fuelbelt stocked and a small backpack with my wallet and phone. I'd planned ahead by leaving my shower gear and work clothes at the office.

On the contrary, I wasn't prepared enough to have plotted out how far the route from home to work actually was. I was scheduled for an 18k run, and I thought I would be fairly close - but as I progressed along the Brisbane River through Teneriffe I was checking the Garmin, estimating and calculating my goal. Should I continue following the river, or should I cut along Merthyr Road straight to the Floating Boardwalk?

Remembering that I had the CityCat as plan B if my Ks really blew out, I stayed on the river front. The scenery is just so much better along past the Powerhouse and New Farm Park.This ended up being a fairly good decision in terms of distance as well. I got to work in 17.4ks. Yes, I did run the extra few hundred metres and back to make up the distance.

After my day's work I boarded the CityCat for the ride home. The Cat is smooth and if you sit out the back you get a good view and some fresh air. A nice reward for the long run in.

Discovering Mt Coot-tha

2010-03-09T20:18:00.001+10:00

I know, I know. I'm always banging on about how I did something new or different, and how great it was, and how I shouldn't have been worried about it after all.

I won't put you through that same old story again. But I will write about my discovery of Mt Coot-tha.

To set the scene - I've been a cyclist in Brisbane for eight years or so and for most of those years I lived a maximum of five kilometres from the base of Mt Coot-tha. Although I've often ridden up the front, I hadn't, until this morning, ever been up the back. Many of my friends, including KKB, find it incomprehensible that I've never ridden up the back. So much so that it's almost become a joke around the posse.

It might be surprising to some of you that I tackled this 'first' by myself. When I was driving there, knowing I was riding alone, I considered many options that would get me out of this predicament. But I knew there was no way out, so I parked at Toowong and set off.

Across the overpass (another first), up the bottom bit past the Mt Coot-tha Gardens and Planetarium then on around past Slaughter Falls to the start of the climb. I don't know why I was surprised, but I was both surprised and delighted to be all of a sudden surrounded by many fellow cyclists, all toiling away up one of Brisbane's favourite training locations.

What I thought would be a lonely, onerous training session was, yes, physically demanding, but beyond that, a real buzz. Particularly after weeks being holed up at home on the home trainer due to rain.

An excellent discovery. And I'll be back. Next week in fact. And I may never ride up the front again.

Amazing, or not?

2010-03-05T19:36:00.001+10:00

Out on Mt Gravatt this morning for some reps. On my first trip up the hill I passed a woman running. I smiled at her on the way back down, and when I passed again on the second lap, she called out to me,

"You guys are amazing!"

I returned the compliment, calling out to her that I thought SHE was the amazing one. I have never even contemplated running up Mt Gravatt and can't imagine doing so. (Hope my coach doesn't read this and get some ideas...)

Thinking about it now though, I'm sure both of us really just felt that we were going about our business. Running, cycling, or even walking up any mountain, even if it is only a 2K suburban climb, may not be what most people do in a morning before work. But whether it's heroic enough to be considered "amazing"... I'm not sure. Any thoughts?

At the time, I gladly took the compliment, and without even thinking about it, offered the same encouragement in return. The support from this stranger helped keep me motivated and focused. It felt good. (Maybe even amazing.)

The Unknown

2010-03-03T19:17:00.014+10:00

My long runs are getting longer. Today when I set out on my 14k out and back, I had no idea that I'd end up at West Chermside! It seemed like a long way from home. (But I guess it was only 7ks...)

Even so, I got that feeling of accomplishment that you often get when you train somewhere new. Maybe it's something to do with overcoming the unknown?

When I got to the Prince Charles Hospital, that feeling grew. When I was a little kid, we'd always pass by on Webster Road when we came to Brisbane. My family would always remind me it was "my" hospital. I was too young to remember, but the Prince Charles Hospital is where I had my heart surgery as a toddler. I vaguely remember getting a day off school for a check up years later, but it's not something I even think off all that often.

From time to time people ask me what happened to my back. Sometimes I try to tell them that the scar is the result of a shark bite. (It's never really worked, unfortunately!) But there's been the odd occasion where, if the question is asked with a sense of urgency, or a tone of shock or surprise, it startles me. I forget about the scar and wonder what's happened that I should be worried about.

Even though I'm not all that aware of it, from time to time I think about what I've come through, and how lucky I am to be alive, let alone to train the way I do.

Yes, sometimes the unknown can spur you on to a new level.

Clem7 Tunnel Run: once in a lifetime

2010-02-28T12:32:00.003+10:00

Every city, once in a while, offers a once in a lifetime opportunity to its citizens. Brisbane offered that today. The Clem7 under river tunnel is just weeks away from opening to traffic so this morning we took the only chance we'll get to run the return journey of just over 10ks. It was a fun run to benefit the Royal Childrens' Hospital Working Wonders charity in Brisbane.

The event wasn't without its disappointments. The website promoted it as "approximately 10km long, and is an Athletics Australia Certified Accurate Course Distance". So, although it was accurately measured and certified, the actual distance wasn't published anywhere (that I could find anyway). Given that the race was 95% underground, it wasn't possible to track it personally via GPS technology.

I can live with that. I stopped and took photos along the way anyway, so actual time and distance weren't all that important.

What was more important, and became increasingly so as the race continued, was water. There were four aid stations set up and promoted for the event but by the time I got to the first one at 2k - there was no water left. The runners preceding me cleaned out the other water stations as well. OK, we were underground. It wasn't sunny, but the humidity down there was oppressive. It wasn't good enough. Before too long I found myself staring at those who'd had the foresight to bring their own hydration with nothing but unbridled envy.

The run had started at the Bowen Hills entrance and headed immediately down hill, for at least a kilometre. After that, there was an uphill before it seemed to level out a bit while we were actually passing under the river and the Gabba area.

Before too long - there was light at the end of the tunnel! We ran a small way in the sunshine before heading back down underground.

I decided I'd taken enough photos so for the return journey I concentrated on picking up the pace and maintaining it. I'm not sure whether I succeeded, but I did let myself really stride out on the downhills. Like other experiences in longer events, by this stage a lot of the people around me were walking so even when the uphill started again, I kept passing others.

Luckily, despite the extra exertion, I got to the finish line still feeling remarkably strong. It was a tough final kilometre - all uphill - and there were casualties. People had suffered without adequate supplies at the aid stations. I spotted a few getting medical attention in the final stretch to the line.

All I really wanted by this stage was water, but I happily accepted a commemorative finisher medal from the volunteers (although KKB walked straight past without realising that's what they were handing out).

Despite the serious shortcoming of the lack of hydration for the masses, I'm glad I experienced the Clem7 from a perspective I'll never be able to again.

Coast to Coast - more than most...

2010-02-24T19:04:00.014+10:00

This morning my coach ran with me for the 5ks to the turnaround for my 10k run, during which we chatted mainly about his latest adventure at the Speights Coast to Coast in New Zealand.

Andy has been an unofficial mentor throughout my Ironman journey and I always love hearing about his races. He's always a step or two ahead of me (and in this case I think he's gone somewhere that I'll never go). It ain't called coast to coast for nothing - you literally run, ride, run, ride, kayak, and run from one side of New Zealand to the other. I know, NZ isn't THAT big a place - 243kms across in fact - but still... It's huge.

For Andy, the experience had been a good one overall, but I think he feels he has unfinished business, as inclement weather gave the organisers little choice but to alter the traditional route quite substantially. A lot less paddling, a lot more riding. He said it ended up being kind of an Ironman in reverse - 35k mountain trail run, 140k bike, 20k paddle. There was, though a 3k run and 55k bike tacked on the front.

As I finished my session and drove out of the uni, I saw Bryn, on his beloved bike Jake the Snake. Bryn had also taken on the Coast to Coast, carrying an injury that he thought might count him out. The course changes didn't alter the fact that he would have to battle to finish.

He told me he valued his the finishers medal from this race more than any other, because he'd had no choice but to slog it out. He'd made one of the course cutoffs by only 45 minutes, something that's all too familiar to the Athletic Powerhouse, but not to an actual powerhouse like Bryn.

Before I knew what I was saying, I welcomed him to the club. I hope he didn't take it the wrong way; after all - it wasn't about me. At all. But at that moment, I felt like Bryn had perhaps had a race experience similar to some of the ones I've had - wondering whether I'd make the cutoffs, and in some cases, whether I'd make it even at all!

I've often pondered whether others who compete at a different level to me could ever understand that I'm grateful for this experience. After all, if all I wanted was a bit of exercise, I could take a more routine approach and start a netball team with my friends. But that wouldn't give me the chance to really test myself; to challenge what's 'normal'; and to prove to myself that anything is possible.

On hearing about my friends' experiences at Coast to Coast, I'm convinced that this kind of sentiment is a personal thing. Andy and Bryn did the same race on the same day. But they had vastly different experiences, and will look back on that day with different impressions.

Even so, on some level, endurance athletes of all abilities seem to have some kind of common ground. Although our war stories are our own to reflect on and, if we choose, to share, somehow they all add to our shared experience. Whether you came first or came last; whether you set a personal best or limped home. It all adds to who we are, as individuals and in some way, as a community.

My friends both had to deal with challenging conditions, an unexpected course change, and of course, kilometres of river, trail and road. They are both Coast to Coast finishers, and although to some it's just what we do - to most, it's more than what's possible.

Head AND Heart

2010-02-21T20:04:00.001+10:00

The Athletic Powerhouse has just started training with heart rate zones.

My coach has analysed the results from my maximum heart rate test to identify target heart rate zones for different sessions. So far I've had heart rates set for long sessions - so the heart rate required is E1. This heart rate isn't too full on - just enough to start puffing a bit and feel like you're actually exercising. It's going OK.

I know it won't always be like this. Just wait for the post about how my heart nearly beat out of my chest when when I start sprint sessions...

Even though I've never trained by heart rate before, I am welcoming the change. I'm excited to see what difference it might make. But apart from that, I like the idea of having something to occupy my mind out on the road. I've always done this with other funny little things, like calculating what time it will be when I reach my turnaround point, watching the time to make sure I eat and drink at the right times, trying to keep track of how long each K is taking. (All much easier since I got my Garmin!)

So, some more structure and more science... using the head AND the heart.

... and beyond

2010-02-16T21:28:00.000+10:00

Sunday's ride was up Mt Nebo. I was a little apprehensive. Believe it or not, I've never ridden all the way up Mt Nebo before. My only other attempt was a couple of years ago. I tagged along with KKB and his posse on one of my first rides back after a break from training.

(I know. What was I thinking?)

Unsurprisingly, it ended in tears, with me heading back down the hill after making it all but a few ks from the top. I was determined that this time would be different. I knew I was fitter. There was really no excuse.

We headed out through The Gap and started up the climb. At McAfee's Lookout a couple of the team turned back, but Megan and I continued on. (Megan had no excuse either. Her boyfriend had put a 27 tooth cluster on especially.)

Neither of us really took in the scenery, but we definitely appreciated being out in the bush instead of on suburban streets. I pointed out the exact spot I'd stopped last time, opposite a driveway on a bit of a gradient. It really was only about 4ks from the Cafe.

We got to the top in good time - we beat the boys who'd gone off-road via South Boundary Road. We didn't wait long, just replenished quickly and turned for home. The descent was nice - though there is a fair share of ups on the way down. We battled through the suburbs back to Park Road.

Although I didn't get up quite the Ks that I thought I might, it felt good to this time go beyond where I'd previously given up.

It's not being unfaithful... is it?

2010-02-12T20:12:00.001+10:00

So, I've got this bike, right. He's even got a name. (Lance.) He's a lovely sparkly gold, with matching gold tyres. He fits me perfectly, like we were meant to be together. We've had plenty of wonderful adventures together - three Ironman races, and an odyssey through the French Alps.

But just lately, I've noticed another bike. I first saw him in a bike shop in Adelaide, and although I've tried, I haven't been able to stop thinking about him.

I've browsed online, customising the componentry, accessories, and paint job. (If you like bikes and have some time to kill check out Trek's Project One.)

I don't know whether it's the lure of the shiny purple paint; or perhaps the fantasy of a slimmer (lighter), younger model. Maybe I'm just I'm thinking about the pain and regret that sometimes accompanies looking back and wondering about the one that got away...

I have pondered on my decision. I've talked about it at length. Even people who can't imagine spending this amount of money on a bike have encouraged me to stop thinking about it, and just do it.

So, tomorrow I'm going to see Marty at Planet Cycles to get a fit up, and hopefully, do a deal. I've bought all my bikes off Marty. You can't get more faithful than that, can you.

What a difference ten years makes...

2010-02-04T17:17:00.002+10:00

I did a Max HR test today. At 194, it means I'm theoretically 11 years younger than the 220 minus your age equation predicts.

I'm excited about training a little more scientifically than in the past, but of course also a bit apprehensive. What if my body just can't do what's expected of it? Then again... part of me thinks that that's whole idea. Most likely my body CAN do things that I don't realise yet.

Ironically, the things I ask of my body now, as a triathlete, are things I would never have dreamed were possible ten years ago.

Yep, there's a lot to look forward to.

"What would Jens do?"

2010-01-30T13:06:00.058+10:00

Monday marks the beginning of my official training program for Ironman Regensburg with new coach Andy Stewart. I know he'll expect a lot from me, but I feel ready for the challenge - physically and mentally.

I've enlisted German pro cyclist Jens Voigt to motivate me when things get tough. I'll admit that the inspiration came from some devoted Jens fans at the Tour Down Under, who had printed up shirts with "WHAT WOULD JENS DO?" I've decided that when things get hard to get out of bed in the morning, or during training, this is what I'll ask myself.

The answer of course is straightforward. Jens would train, he would hurt, he would accept the suffering that comes from hours on the bike. And would probably ask for more. If you need to see how tough Jens Voigt is, take a look at this crash in the Tour de France last year; and his video response to all his well wishers on YouTube.

Of course, Jens doesn't know that he's my motivator, but if he did, I'm guessing he'd accept the position with equal parts of humility and humour.

And so it begins. I hope you'll share my journey to Ironman number four.

TDU - Stage 5 Snapper Pt to Willunga

2010-01-23T19:50:00.010+10:00

The vibe of a stage start is awesome. Spectators have the opportunity to get up close to the cyclists, so the excitement is quite palpable. We were rewarded for our early start with a couple of great shots of Lance, George, Jens, and of David MacKenzie interviewing some of the Aussies for the live SBS coverage - Michael Rogers and Robbie McEwen.

The tour passed through the coastal village of Snapper Point twice more, but while most of the locals stayed put to soak up the atmosphere of the tour coming to their town, we make an escape to Wilunga Hill - after all that's where the race-winning escape may well come to pass.

I made my way to the top of the hill to an even more electric atmosphere. The top of the hill was packed with cycling fans. On the first pass there was a substantial breakaway with the young guns from Garmin and UniSA again making themselves known.

Somewhere on the second lap, things changed. It was exciting to see Cadel Evans lead the first breakaway up the climb for the last lap before the finish. What would happen next? HTC Columbia were still working hard to protect Andre's jersey...

We piled back into the Tarago for the trip back to Adelaide and found live radio coverage on ABC Grandstand. The commentators were beside themselves that Cadel might get the stage... and the tension filled the Tarago too... in the end, Luis Leon Sanchez, who'd tucked into the breakaway with Cadel and Alejandro Valverde, stole the victory.

Back to the Tour Village for more cyclist spotting. I scored the jackpot, getting photos with Matt White and Jens Voigt... what great guys!