Enough Procrastinating…..

It’s been a while since I posted here, so I’ll keep the summary quick:

Training so far this year has gone fairly well.  I’ve begun to take my education into the the sport of triathlon seriously, wanting to learn as much of the details as possible to become a better athlete.  I realized that the best way to enhance my own understanding of the proper triathlon training and fueling / hydration processes was to take a course.  I wasn’t sure which one of which one to start with – so I first needed to expand my field of mental vision: I needed to think bigger picture.  If I went through with this and pursued an education into the sport…what else could I do with it aside from getting my slow butt across an Ironman finish line (or two…or three…or four…)?

The result was signing up for the Certified Ironman Coach course.  The course itself was extremely detailed, and the two part final exam was not easy by any stretch of the imagination.  However, I worked hard, read a lot, and studied.  Part two of the final turned into a 21-page written exam that was VERY detailed and demanding.  I can’t honestly say how long it took me to complete – but just seeing it through to the end was a feat for me, so regardless of whether I passed for failed, I learned a TON.  When I found out I passed and scored my certification, I got really psyched.  You know how sometimes you need to score a win or two in order to get on a roll?  Well that’s what I hope this does for me.  Only time will tell.

Like I said: I want to use the information I learned to help myself, and if I can help others in the process – AWESOME.

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Now that I have taken this step, I’m going to continue my education into fitness by earning a Personal Trainer certification from the National academy of Sports Medicine.  I am also going to work toward my Level One Coaching certification from USA Triathlon.  These will take a bit more time – but this process has reminded me just how much I loved to learn and study.  So for now….one step at a time.

I was signed up for the New York City Triathlon on Sunday, July 16th….but some severe knee pain (something that I haven’t felt in a VERY long time) has resulted in some high-quality inflammation and a pain migraine caused me to defer to next year.  I am so disappointed about this.  However, I need to continue to think big-picture and heal now so that I can finish Marine Corps in October, the NYC Marathon and the NYC 60k in November, and the California International Marathon in December.  So I know I made the right call…..but I am not happy about it.  especially after going through the athlete briefing and picking up my gear, etc for it.  The expo got be psyched to take another shot at this Olympic-length race.

Moving on….another thing I have been busy working on is something I’ve kept to myself for a while – but now that it’s very close to completion, I wanted to share a little of it with you: I am in the process of finishing my first book.  It’s the story of the 500 mile endurance run I finished in 2015, from the Walt Disney Family Museum in the Presidio of San Francisco to the front gates of Disneyland for charity.  I’m hoping that the book will bring a little more attention to Do Away With SMA, a 501c-3 charity that tries to raise money and awareness to combat Spinal Muscular Atrophy – the number one genetic killer of kids under the age of two in the world.  This process has been tough….but enlightening.  I figured I’d share some of it with you.  Looking back on 2015, it was 18 of the toughest days of my life.  I was battered and bruised – but it was worth every ache.  I hope you like it……so without further adieu:

It was one of those days where nothing felt right.  My shoes were uncomfortable – the rough terrain took a toll on my feet.  My legs felt like lead due to the lack of practice I had running on soft dirt, high grass and uneven / rough ground.  I didn’t take in enough water as the miles added up, so dehydration slowly worked its way into this witch’s brew of frustration.  I have already logged well over 200 miles, I got a love-tap from a Toyota Forerunner, and I hissed at a mountain lion.  I knew the physical aspects of this long-distance would continue to show their ugly faces, but it was the mental part of this game that felt like it had grown out of control.  I couldn’t get out of my own head.  I kept thinking of my past, reliving every stupid thing I did – every dumb decision I made.  Every person I hurt as a result of my selfish character.  I wasn’t sleeping well.  I couldn’t get the visions out of my clouded skull.  While cranking out miles this morning, the mental and physical challenges decided to tag-team me.

Back home in New York City, I use training as a method of controlling other emotions.  If I feel depressed or melancholy, I put in some miles and let those wonderful endorphins work their magic.  If I wake up feeling a bit off, I run – and I come home with things feeling a bit clearer.  If something upsets me at work or otherwise, I put in miles on the bike or do some strength training in order to redirect my negativity.  The daily pounding handed out by the road over the past 200 miles shredded my ability to effectively utilize my normal attitude adjustment rituals.  I was used to being sore – it was the normal state of affairs.  I grew to love the dull ache that I lived with.  This, however, was different.  I was not sore; this, instead, was pain.  A pain that kept me up each night.  My ribs were still sore from getting hit by that truck.  My legs hurt to the touch.  My arms and back made trying to sleep extremely difficult due to the constant motion that comes with running more than 7-8 hours a day.  In short: I was worn out, and about 6 and a half hours in to my day I simply broke down on the side of the road.  As I sat there in the dust truly wanting to call it quits, I thought back to 2005 and my first marathon.  Yet another dark period that I couldn’t climb out of – but one that also provided me with a glimmer of hope that I desperately needed.

Looking back on it, November 6th 2005 was one of the greatest – and one of the worst – days of my life.   For on that Sunday morning, I finally felt like I had turned a corner from the darkest periods of my life, and began to feel a glimmer of inner peace I so desperately desired, by putting myself through a near-death experience over a course of 26.2 miles of pavement that lay between the Varrazanno Bridge and Tavern on the Green.  Emil Zatopek, the legendary Czech distance running champion, was once quoted as saying that “if you want to simply win something, go run 100 meters.  But if you want to experience a life-changing event, run a marathon”.  Truer words were never spoken.

A few years after my daughter was born, the ugliness that encased our small family unit came to a messy end.  I lost my wife to a peaceful yet extremely painful divorce.  I lost primary custody of my little buddy – my kiddo – my daughter (and losing custody of her felt like the 7th ring of Dante’s Inferno in and of itself).  I lost my home because I constantly over-promised and under-delivered, which resulted in severe financial over extension.  I lived in a small basement apartment and felt as though my life was worthless – as if I had nothing to offer anyone and was technically worth more dead than alive.  I attempted to end it all – and failed, and all manner of self-respect evaporated.  I was embarrassed to associate with friends, as I felt like I had failed them too – I wasn’t the same quality person they grew up on the baseball diamond and football field with.

Each day I woke up utterly rudderless, and climbed back into bed each evening feeling the same exact way.  Something needed to snap me out of this, because I wasn’t in the mental state to do it myself.

The failures that I experienced were not new to me.  I had seen these types of poor decision-making first hand on a number of occasions under my own roof growing up.  I was once the seven year-old child that watched my parents divorce under a horrid set of circumstances. I also played the part of a thirteen year-old boy that watched his father divorce his second wife and marry his third over the course of a summer.  As a 20 year-old, I watched from the bleacher seats as my father divorced wife number three and moved on to wife number four.

After experiencing the pain that an ugly divorce inflicts, I vowed to never let my children endure the same pain….and here I was.  The fear of putting my daughter in the same position that I experienced as a child raised its horrid head.

My ex-wife and my daughter moved to Queens, and my daughter enrolled in a more challenging Catholic school in Woodside.  The combination of a broken family and greater academic competition resulted in Chelsea feeling very discouraged, to the point that, one Friday evening when I picked her up for a Daddy-Kiddo weekend, she walked toward the car in tears.  We sat in my Jeep, and spoke about what troubled her.  “Dad”, she softly murmured, “…..this school is too hard.  I can’t do it.  I want to quit.”  If you ever heard your child utter those words, you know how they make a parent feel: it’s as if some villain from an X-Men movie reached through your skin and grabbed your heart in his malformed hand, and began to squeeze.  Those words were crushing….but they also woke me up out of a coma of self-pity.

That was the moment that reminded me that I have a duty to someone other than myself, to be a good parent regardless of what curveballs like throws at me.  My mom saw so many sliders in the dirt that she must have gotten furious in the batter’s box, wondering when the darn pitcher of life would throw her a nice fat fastball to crush.  She didn’t give up.  She didn’t try to off herself.  She saw what needed to be done and she DID it.  And here I was, trying to quit and take the easy way out for myself, leaving my daughter and my mom to grieve due to my cowardess.   Seeing my daughter’s tear roll down her dimpled cheeks was the wake-up call I needed.

As we sat there in the truck, I told her that I understood how hard school could be, and that every kid feels the way she felt at certain times.  I tried to console her, saying that she could do anything – there was nothing out of her reach in this life.  All she needed to do was work hard and try hard…and never quit.  At that moment, I went on to make her a simple deal: if Chelsea would do something hard for me – try harder, work harder, and study harder, then I would do something hard for her.  “…but Dad – what will you do?” she softly inquired.  I told her that she could elect the feat that I would strive toward.

Two weeks later, when I picked her up in front of her mom’s apartment on a Friday evening, Chelsea had a big smile on her face.  She cracked open the door to the Jeep and couldn’t wait to tell me the news – but first, a few questions needed to be answered.  The conversation went something like this:

“Dad….what’s a marathon?”

“Well kiddo, it’s a really long road race.  Like over 20 miles or something.  Why?”

“Do you think you can run one?”

“Well bud, anyone probably could, if they trained right.  …..why?”

“Dad, are there any marathons in New York?”

……..oh…….crap.  I see where this is going……..

“…why yes, kiddo.  The New York City Marathon is one of the biggest in the world.  It’s on TV and everything.  So again, I’ll ask……ummmmmm……WHY?”

“Well Dad, I made the decision.  I learned a little about the marathon today in school.  The whole thing about Greece, and that runner guy who ran to Athens…..and you know how you promised to do something hard for me? WEEEEEEELLL…….can you run the New York City Marathon?”

OK – this is the moment where I was a duck on the pond: I looked calm on the outside, but under the water my little webbed feet were moving 90 miles an hour trying to come up with any reason at all why this wasn’t a great idea. Aaaaaaaaaaaand…….NOTHING CAME TO MIND.


She very happily strapped herself in to the back seat and we set off for the Bronx.  I signed up for the marathon lottery that evening.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t selected through the lottery to run, so I took whatever money I had available and signed up to run for the New York Road Runners Foundation by making a specific donation to the charity.  I didn’t have much money in the bank – but what price can a parent place on being a role model for your kid?  I felt it was the right move at the time.

All summer and fall, I’d take myself out for simple runs in old sneakers.  Did I wear good running shoes?  Nope.  Did I know anything about nutrition?  Pizza is a food group – so I think you can make your own determination there.  Did I know anything about proper hydration?  I’ll just grab some water when I’m thirsty – what’s so hard about that?  Did I follow any type of training plans?  Put it this way: I went to Barnes & Noble and bought Marathon Running For Dummies…..and then proceeded to leave it on my coffee table for weeks at a time, assuming that I’d learn what needed to be done via osmosis.  By Halloween, the longest run I ever completed was somewhere around 8 miles.  But other than that….I was ready for this.

That morning in November of 2005, my alarm clock began its job at 4am.  At first, the slow-paced beep it exuded was polite in tone – as if to say, “Joseph, please awaken from your slumber – you have a long day ahead and you must get started”.  How gentle.  So gentle, in fact, that I ignored the little digital apparatus altogether.  I figured that it wouldn’t mind.  I figured wrong.

After a full minute of my clock’s polite banter, it began to get annoyed with my obvious laziness.  So it did what any parent does to a child that won’t come to the dinner table after several summons – it took a more stern tone with the object of its growing frustration.  The beeps became louder and quicker, as if to say “Look – I don’t like being ignored, Joe.  So get up.  Now.  I’m not joking.  Move it.  And don’t make me ask you again, or else….”  I hadn’t slept very well – I tossed and turned all night out of sheer nervousness and excitement.  I managed to fall asleep three hours prior – so this alarm clock was really being quite disrespectful and, as a result, did not deserve my attention, in my humble opinion.  So I covered my ears with a pillow, knowing that it had no snooze button (I had broken it by throwing a sneaker at it a month ago).  It had now become a battle of wills.

Then – it happened.  My clock lost all patience with me at exactly 4:02am.  The beeps became loud and fast enough to pierce the down pillows, enter my inner ear and travel down my spine.  It felt like being awakened by your worst enemy running his fingernails across a chalkboard.  “GET UP RIGHT NOW, YOU LAZY SCHMUCK” said the clock.  My resolve to stay hidden under warm blankets had finally been broken by Sony.  I slowly wiped the sleepers from my eyes, reached over and shut off the alarm.  The sudden silence was soothing.

Before I went to bed, I had laid out my running clothes: my extremely worn yet still functional black technical shirt, a pair of black running shorts, a pair of knit gloves, thick socks, and my weather-beaten running shoes.  The race bib was attached to my shirt already.  I had charged my Ipod.  I had done all of the prep work the night before – so this morning should be easy.  All I had to do was get up and get dressed.  I swung my legs over the side of the bed, saying to myself – “Motion creates emotion”.  The day I had had spent the past six months training for had arrived.  Sunday, November 6th, 2005: The ING New York City Marathon.

I jumped into the shower and basked in the soothing hot water that cascaded on my head and shoulders.  Realizing that I needed to wake myself up, I turned the water from hot to cold, and was jolted to life by the temperature change.  That got the heart pumping.  I finished my shower and went continued the Marathon Morning routine: I applied Body Glide to my inner thighs to defend against the chaffing that was bound to happen in a race of this kind, shaved, brushed my teeth and hair, and changed into my racing garments.  Knowing that the day’s temperature was expected to hit 60 degrees – but it was only 40 right now – I threw on an old jacket, grabbed my bag and bottles of Gatorade, and closed the front door behind me.  I inhaled a deep breath of the cold pre-dawn air and walked to the curb, to await my morning chauffer…my mother.

J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote that “it’s a dangerous thing, stepping out your front door”.  That exact quote rattled through my brain as I walked to the curb, and for good reason: the first person to ever complete the run that I was about to undertake dropped dead at the finish.  The legend is told that Emperor Darius of the Persians (circa 500 BC) attempted to take over ancient Greece through invasion.  The Athenians found out about the coming invasion, and sent troops to intercept.  Sure enough, Darius had his ships make ground in the Bay of Marathon and a great battle ensued.  The Athenians – fierce warriors who loved their country and the freedom it provided, defeated the mighty Persian army and drove the invaders back to the sea.  With the victory well in hand, the Athenian general dispatched a runner named Phillipedes to Athens with news of the triumph.  Phillipedes ran the twenty five miles from Marathon to Athens as fast as he could, arrived at the foot of the Athenian throne, and pronounced “Rejoice!  Victory!”….and then he dropped dead at the feet of his king.

Now – fast-forward approximately 2,300 years.  It’s 1896, and the first Olympic Games were being held in Athens.  It was decided that, on the last day of the Olympiad, a group of athletes would run in the footsteps of Phillipedes, from the town of Marathon to the Coliseum in Athens.  The winner of the first marathon was a Greek runner…and more than half of the athletes could not finish.  Word of the Greek runner’s victory spread throughout the country and stirred a sense of deep nationalism.  Word of the difficulty of the event spread throughout the world – and the allure of the event now called the marathon began to take shape.

As word of the marathon carried from city to city through newspaper reporting, cities began organizing their own marathons (in the United States, the first – and now widely considered the most prestigious – marathon was run in Boston).  Marathons run in other cities became very popular events to attend.  Interest in this form of long distance running began to take shape.

OK – grab your remote control again and fast forward 12 years.  It’s now 1908, and the games of the fourth Olympiad were being held in London, England.  The committee of people responsible for scheduling all of the events mapped out the twenty five mile course that would take the marathon runners through the streets of the great English city.  When the plans were laid in front of Queen Victoria, she demanded that the start of the race be moved back one mile and 385 yards so that the royal family could watch the start of the race from the balcony of Windsor Castle.  This change in the marathon route resulted in the current length of the modern day marathon: 26.2 miles.  (NOTE: if you ever find yourself on the sidelines of a marathon, cheering on the masses, I would recommend finding a spot near the mile 25 marker.  Why?  Because marathoners that know the race’s history tend to vocalize their disdain for the added 1.2 miles by yelling “God insert expletive here the Queen!)

My Mom had volunteered to drive me to Battery Park, where numerous buses waited to take thousands of runners from Manhattan to Fort Wadsworth in Staten Island – the staging area for the race.  As she hopped into her Mercedes to chauffer me down the East Side, I felt both guilt (at the fact that she was awake at 5am on a Sunday) and fear (because I wanted my effort today to make her proud, and I had no clue whether I’d be able to handle what was in store for me).  As we began to drive over the City Island Bridge on our way to the Bruckner Expressway, she asked me several times if I had everything I needed, including a MetroCard (just in case you cannot finish and you need a way home) and some money (just in case you cannot finish and you need to call everyone and let them know).  That’s my Mom – always worried about everyone else but herself.  Would help anyone in need.  Always wants to make sure that her family is taken care of and is safe.  She was nervous.  So was I.  So I simply told her not to worry, and that I had what I needed.  In a way, I lied.  But in a way, I didn’t.

I technically lied to her that morning because I made sure that I didn’t bring a MetroCard or money with me.  Why?  Because I wouldn’t need them.  I was going to finish.  I had my running shoes, good socks, a bottle of water, some horrid-tasting gels, and a ton of determination.  That was all I needed.  Or so I hoped.

We arrived at Battery Park at 5:50am – just minutes before the first starting line buses were scheduled to depart.  My Mom wished me luck, and I told her I’d see her at the finish line.  As I watched her drive away, I realized that I was really going through with this.  I was really about to embark on the second most difficult experience of my life – I was about to run the New York City Marathon.

I took a deep breath, turned on my heel and headed to the bus.  As I stood on line, waiting to board along with other nervous runners, I kept thinking to myself that if I could handle everything else that I went through over the prior couple of years, I could handle the ordeal that I was about to put myself through.  What could be worse than making so many foolish mistakes that it costs you your very soul?  I figured that if I was somehow able to handle that torment and still remember to breath in and out on a daily basis, my rather robust personal goals for this marathon should, in fact, be a piece of cake.  Famous last words.

The bus took an hour to make it to the runner drop-off point in Fort Wadsworth, in Staten Island.  For the next several hours, I tried to stay warm by hunkering down up against a tree and removing myself from the winds that carried with them that extra level of cold that seeps through your clothing.  The rolling start that followed was a long, cold march to the line, and then over the Varrazanno Bridge.  It is on the span of this structure where the runners are able to see the Manhattan skyline in the distance, putting the sheer distance of this race into optical perspective.  Once over the bridge, the runners pass through Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.  This is where the journey really begins, as fans 2-3 deep on both sides of the 4th Avenue yell and scream for a band of complete strangers during what some people refer to as the “Worst…..Parade…..Ever”.  Bands play every type of music you can think of short of yodeling.  New Yorkers basically turn this course into a 26 mile block party, and it’s a perfect illustration of why the Big Apple is so amazing: every race, color and creed are represented both in the field of runners and in the 2.5 million spectators and volunteers that line the streets.  No one cares if you are Irish, Black, Ecuadorian, Swiss.  We’re just all New Yorkers on that day, with 50,000 of them with the task of trying to make it 26.2 miles and 2.5 million of them with the collective goal of helping these people achieve a huge goal.  Seriously – it’s magical when you think about it.

I waddled through Brooklyn, and made it to Queens before my wheels started to come off.  I had never run this distance before, and I still had 12 miles to go.  For some reason, I had begun to chafe in some sensitive areas, and my shoulders were sore from the swinging motion of my arms.  By the time I got over the 59th Street Bridge and into Manhattan, I was in a world of hurt.  Blisters had begun to form on the sides of my feet, and I began to feel light-headed.  I definitely didn’t take in enough water, and all I had for breakfast was a single bagel and some water.  Hindsight being 20-20, I made most mistakes that runners could possibly make…..in a single race.  I managed to get myself across the Willis Avenue Bridge, where Mile 20 resided.  Mile 20 is technically referred to by the distance running community as The Wall, since it is estimated that most runners run out of efficient-burning fuel (carbohydrates) at this point.  The body flips a switch and begins burning fat, which is much less efficient – and this results in a whole array of funky things in runners.  Some get dizzy.  Some get weak.  Some have a hard time focusing.  Others power through it since they stuck to a fueling plan and took in the right amount of additional fuel during the race.  I’ll give you one guess as to how I felt at this point (and, keep in mind, I had never even tried a gel before this day).

Shortly after I passed the Mile 20 marker, there was a water stop.  I grabbed a cup of water out of sheer desperation, as the weariness and discomfort I had carried with me for the past couple of hours escalated into a level of pain that made me begin to panic.  Something was really wrong.  It hit me quick, with bad intentions – like a Mike Tyson left hook to the jaw.  I couldn’t focus.  I began to feel dizzy.  Really dizzy.  Things became blurry…..and then it happened.  As my right foot came down onto the street during this blurry few moments, I didn’t realize the small pothole that was directly in front of me.  As I was running very close to the curb, my foot went into the hole, and I fell forward, hitting my head on the concrete.  Things went black for a minute.

I had scraped my knees and the palms of my hands, and there was a bit of blood from a cut on my forehead, along with a decent-sized knot which immediately began to form.  I got to my hands and knees and paused for a moment….and it was in these few precious seconds that a very large Hispanic man kneeled next to me and, in Spanish, began to yell “GET UP!!!!!!  GET UP!!!!!!! LETS GO!!!!  GET UP!!!”  The voice was so loud and so close that it jarred me awake.  I shook the fall off, got back to my feet, and basically continued to waddle forward out of a knee-jerk reaction.

The rest of the marathon was a complete blur.  I don’t recall running through Harlem.  I don’t remember that amazing gospel choir at the base of the Fifth Avenue Hill.  I don’t have a single picture in my head of the Central Park hills on that day, Central Park South, or even the finish at Tavern on the Green.  I was a hobbling, bloody mess after 26.2 miles – but I survived.  A volunteer draped a medal over my head, and I waddled on to the UPS van that held my bag of dry clothes.  After I picked up my bag, I worked my way out of the park to the spot where I was supposed to meet my mom and my daughter.  When she saw me, my kiddo jumped into my arms and I got the single greatest hug a dad could ever score.  She then looked at me and uttered “ummmm Dad – you look crappy.” It was at this moment that I put her down, dropped to one knee and put my medal around her neck.  “Now, buddy – you can do anything if you don’t quit.  Got it?”

Well I think she got the point, because she went from a struggling student to straight A’s and entrance into a fairly strong high school.  My mission: accomplished.  Although I was battered, bruised and physically beaten, this was the day I fell in love with running.

Fast forward ten years.  Here I am fighting through some of the same pain that made my first marathon such a vivid memory all through the miles I logged.  I felt like quitting today.  Today the road beat me, badly.  It beat me physically and it tortured me emotionally.  That was when I found that vacant egg shack along the side of a dusty road and I stopped.  I dropped to the wooden floor of the shack and I broke down.  Robyn was on her way to me – I tried to describe where I was, and I had faith in her navigating talents – but I didn’t want her to find me so quickly.  I wanted to hide in this shack for a while and feel sorry for myself.  I was running out of gas, and I was running out of enthusiasm.  I trained for well over a year to handle the mileage, but I was not prepared for the emotional turmoil that came with this journey.  My daughter and Robyn’s daughter were coming to join the expedition in just a few days, so after several minutes of tears and sobbing, I tried to think of a way to fix my head.

After we returned to the hotel and we grabbed a hot meal, I retired to my room and spent some time doing emotional triage.  It was then that it hit me: I will pull a Jimmy Valvano.  His motto of “survive and advance” was my motto throughout the darkest days, and it would once again be called upon to get me through the next 200 miles.

Survive today.  Advance to tomorrow.  All the rest is white noise.

Kolinsky  2017


March 31st and April 1st 2017

So Friday was a self-imposed rest day.  All I focused on was my nutrition….but going out to a fairly awesome Italian restaurant doesn’t help matters.  Now I could sit here and say that I was disciplined – I ordered the branzino and fresh veggies for dinner instead of the fried calamari and fresh pasta with a delightful meat sauce……but that would be a lie.  Friday was a complete cheat day.  Workouts be damned.  Dietary discipline: screw you.  I did absolutely nothing right as it pertained to training for July 29th.  What is July 29th?  Glad you asked.

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It’s now referred to as Ironman Santa Rosa…but the race remains the same.  Swim 2.4 miles.  Bike 112 miles.  Run 26.2 miles.  Brag for the rest of your life.  I have to be able to swim 4,400 yards in less than 2 hours and twenty minutes.  I have to bike 112 miles and then be out there beginning the marathon by no later than 5:30pm.  I have top then finish the marathon before midnight.  That’s the task in front of me.  So why in the name of Zues’ hindquarters did I think that treating myself to that second glass of super tuscan and that awesome amaretto gelato (yeah, I had that too) was a good idea?  Because every once in a while, you need to reward yourself with something awesome.  Small victories deserve to be celebrated.  The only thing missing was a glass of amaretto.  (good thing I had a flask with me…)

This morning I was really dialed in.  I began with a strength training session where I keyed on upper body conditioning.  Upper body strength will be important because the stress of swimming that distance will wear out my shoulders and arms.  The bike’s 112 miles will sap strength from my chest, arms and back as I hold myself up on Maximus (that’s the name os my bike) (yes- I named my bike) (and yes, It’s named Maximus…I tell dudes that I got the name from the movie Gladiator, when I actually named it after the horse from the Disney animated film Tangled).  The run will require me to finish the long day by swinging my arms like pistons while bent at the elbow at a 90 degree angle for approximately 5 hours.  So lifting those weights really matters.

After I lifted , I hopped on the bike for an hour.  I did a 15 minute warm up, followed by 45 minutes of hard interval training.  I worked on 30-60 second extremely hard internals, because while on the bike, I need to be able to sprint past the bike in front of me within 30 seconds of making my move on a bike in front of me, or else I could be hit with a 5 minute penalty.  Today was one of those high quality sessions that showed me that I have the juice to get that portion of the job done – and done well.  I then hopped on the dreadmill for a quick 2 mile run just to make sure that my legs can transition from one discipline to the other with some form of efficiency.  Today’s training all had a purpose – and that made the difference in my performance.

It’s funny: a few weeks ago, I had a colonoscopy done at the age of 46.  It’s a few years early – but my dad had colorectal cancer more than once, so I have a genetic predisposition.  Two the things that had to be biopsied from this procedure took two separate testing sessions of testing before determining a benign status.  that 7-9 days of purgatory scared the crap out of me.  A few or to later, I am having a rather long needle jabbed into my chest to test a lump that resides in between my pectoral muscles.  The verdict is out – and another week spent in the in-between.

It’s funny: why does it take a 4″ syringe jabbed into your chest to remind you that yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today’s a gift…which is why it’s called a present.  Sometimes a person needs a swift kick in the glutes in order to dial in and focus on the tasks that need to be accomplished.  I’m sure the joy will come back with a positive verdict…however that’s not the point.  I shouldn’t need to be scared out of my wits in order to appreciate the here and now.

I need to take the lesson learned and allow it to further improve how I do what I do going forward.

(OK – so I read through this whole post, and realized that it was rather direct and not-so-funny.  So I’ll end it with a joke:A horse walks in to a bar. The bartender says “hey – why the long face?”)

(hmmm….that wasn’t so funny.  OK – I’ll try again.  Moses and Jesus are playing golf.  Moses pulls out the driver and crushes a drive 250 yards down the center of the fairway. He smiles at Jesus, and then says “you’re up”.  Jesus pulls out his driver and snap hooks his drive into the woods.  Moses lets out a laugh – “wow, the woods are lovely this time of year – have fun trying to find that one, you Ben Hogan wanna be!”  At that moment Jesus raises his arms to heavens….and then a stream appears to run across the fairway, originating from the woods.  And there, swimming in the stream, is a bass.  The bass has a golf ball in his mouth.  At that moment, a hawk swoops down, grabs the bass and takes off.  The bass drops the ball, it falls from the sky and lands on the green…where it rolls into the hole for a hole in one.  Jesus lowers his arms, looks at Moses and smiles.  Moses then pauses for a moment, and then blurts out “….OK LOOK – ARE WE GONNA PLAY GOLF OR ARE WE JUST GONNA FUCK AROUND????”)


….ok – now I can sign off for the evening.






March 30th 2017

So today was interesting, to say the least.  I had a simple medical procedure yesterday, so I’m a little sore still this morning.  My chest felt tight.  The morning workout consisted of a light run, followed by some upper body strength training.  My performance was…..well….lackluster at best.  It was if I was simply going through the motions.  The plan was to score a high quality running effort in the morning by crushing some hill repeats in Central Park.  That plan was quickly changed to a light run followed by upper body work due to the residual discomfort from having a decent-sized needle jabbed into my chest.  Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.  Hmmmm…..maybe that Mike Tyson has some wisdom after all…….

I took midday off, and focused on taking in more water and less calories.  Nutrition – otherwise known as The 4th Discipline (seriously, that sounds like the title of a crappy karate movie starring that dude that played Sho Nuff in the Last Dragon) was my in-office workout.

I spent a few hours in the gym this evening, starting with a strength workout for the legs, then a lite run of 2 miles with interval sprints baked in, and wrapping up with an hour on the bike.

The day started rough, and ended well.  And to celebrate: 2 slices of NYC pizza and a glass of wine.  Why?  Because I earned it.  (insert mic drop here).



March 29th 2017


I took the morning off from training today.

At midday, I worked in a short 40 minute dreadmill session, getting 3.8 miles in.

By 5pm, I was in the gym, doing a strength session before hopping on the bike for 90 minutes.


The 4th Discipline

Today’s focus was on nutrition – otherwise known as the fourth discipline of a triathlete.  This, by far, is the weakest part of my game (and that is definitely saying something, as my blood type is Ben & Jerry’s triple chocolate brownie).  So what I decided to do today was to jack up my metabolism by doing a midday workout, while dropping the total amount of calories consumed for the day.  The lack of calories would make a strong performance in my evening training session more challenging, so I eliminated the high quality portion of the session (an endurance swim) from the schedule, electing to perform some strength (to build up muscle mass), following by a cycling session (which burns calories efficiently).

By the time I got home, I was definitely hungry, and wanted to basically chow down on an entire package of tortellini (damn those things are tasty).  However, I remembered the old saying:


What I desire most is to shed the unnecessary fat and replace it with lean muscle.  The more weight I drop, the quicker I will get…and long as I keep training hard.  This is the tricky part of the game, as the body craves calories when you amp up the effort – and yet, in order to lose weight you basically need to take in less than you burn for the day.  I can’t fast and train – this much I know (plus, if I fast, I’ll become even more obnoxious than I already am).  So I am going to do two things:

  • I’ll continue to eat healthier, and…
  • I’ll distract myself midday (when I get cravings for empty calories) by going for a midday run or completely immersing myself in my work at my desk and removing references to a clock on my desktop (which distracts me from the actual time of day, thereby allowing me to work through those cravings without my stomach knowing that “It’s 2pm: time for junk!!!!)


Yes, I am going to bed slightly hungry – but I knew the beginning of this transition was going to be a challenge.  And what do I want most?  It sure isn’t another Oreo.  Not.  Any.  More.

Game on.

March 28th, 2017

Today’s Training Sessions


So I slept in this morning – I needed the rest and I didn’t get enough sleep last night.  So I planned to make up for it during the remainder of the day.  Note to self: get to bed at the planned time of 9:30pm.  I need to start thinking more about recovery.  I need to take rest seriously.



Squeezed in another 40 minute run on the treadmill.  Got the heart rate up.  Went back to the office with an elevated pulse, which was the plan.  This was my high quality work for the day, cranking out


5am Strength Training session focusing on the legs and core, then switch to a swim session (1200yds).  Finish up with a 6:30am cycling session, just to burn calories.  The goal was to focus on power.


How Did It Go?

The day was solid – by the end of spin class, I felt like I had accomplished something.  Swim – bike – run – get a tiny bit stronger.  Boom.

2 days down.  19 more to go until a positive habit takes hold.

March 27th 2017

Today’s Training Sessions


5am Strength Training session focusing on the Upper Body and Core

6:30am Cycling session – this is weekly HQ (high quality) cycling workout, focusing on high RPMs while maintaining strong wattage.


Squeeze in a 40 minute run on the treadmill.  Get the heart rate up.


Run session: tempo day.  Nice and steady, maintain pace.

Finish the day with 1200yds in the pool.  Turn up the heat here.

How Did It Go?

After a relaxing weekend, I jumped right back on the training horse and went to work early.  I realized that the morning routines that I had booked in my training program consisted of three legs: a run, followed by strength training, and wrapped up with cycling….and that was too much for a single session where quality is also a concern.  So I am trimming my morning training sessions to focus on 2 items at a time.  I began with a strength training session and added in some stretching.  Then I switching to cycling for about 55 minutes.  Burnt about 1,000 calories.  Left the gym feeling deliciously saucy.


Scored a light run in the middle of the day – about 30 minutes at an easy pace.  I’m using a quick trip to the closest Equinox to my office during lunch in order to take my mind off the midday hunger for Oreos and a chicken parm hero from Luigi’s.  Getting out of my office in the middle of the day did the trick.

I found a swim class offered by the gym this evening.  At first I had reservations about swimming with a group…but then I figured that taking spin classes has improved my upper leg strength and pace on the bike, so it was worth taking a shot.  Well……it was awesome.  A great workout, and it pushed my endurance (which shows me that I have a TON of work to do).  2.4 miles in less than 140 minutes.  I better step this up.  I finished off the evening with a lite run on the dreadmill, just to shake out the legs.

They say that in the sport of triathlon, there are actually 4 disciplines: swim….bike….run…and nutrition.  I need to work on that 4th discipline with a bit more consistency as well.

Hey…the first step in fixing a problem is admitting you have one, right??





The Experiment Continues…PART TWO: Power

The experiment continues.

Over the last couple of weeks, my plan has consisted of swimming, biking, running and strength training sessions.  I’ve logged the workouts in an app that I LOVE, called Training Peaks, recording within the application all of the data that comes along with 21st century technology (heart rate monitors, triathlon GPS watches, and my IPrecious).  I’ve completed a number of training sessions in all four disciplines, so that I have a fairly decent-sized sample in order to crunch some numbers that will actually mean something to my training and improvement.  This is the second post wherein I’d like to briefly talk about the data.  In this post, I’d like to elaborate on a number that stares me in the face every time I hop on my bike (I named him Maximus, after a horse from a Disney movie…and with that, let the lambasting commence within the comments…) or take a cycling class at my gym: Watts.

20130626-055155.jpg   (This is Maximus)

If you ride your bike a lot or go to spin classes, you can track the amount of power your legs are generating through the amount of watts shown on your GPS or the device attached to the stationary bike on which you take your spin classes.  Here’s what the device on the bikes used within my usual spin class look like:


My spin classes normally go for 45 minutes, but I try to get there early in the hope that they will turn on these devices 10-15 minutes before class starts.  In the example above, you can see that the device was only turned on about 5-6 minutes before the class began, so the only hard data I have to go on for the morning’s effort is captured here.  Normally, I’ll start my morning with a run of 45-60 minutes before transitioning to a spin class, so my legs have already been forced to work for a bit before this 45 minute cycling session begins.  This means I am warmed up and awake – but the tank of energy has already been depleted.  During triathlons I will already be tired by the time I hit the bike – a 2.4 mile swim can do some damage – so hopping on the bike not feeling 100% is a good thing.

When I first looked at this screen, I could understand RPMs (revolutions per minute – how fast those pedals were going around in a one minute time span), MPH (miles per hour, just like a car), heart rate (beats per minute – got that one), calories burned (say hello to an extra Oreo – oh hell yeah), time and miles covered.  The one data point I didn’t really understand was Watts.  So I did some reading and I asked a couple of Ironman athletes in my gym about how to use this data point in my training.  What I learned was freakin’ awesome.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, I focused all of my time and attention on average speed and miles covered.  I used these two pieces of training data to measure my performance.  The faster I went, the bigger my smile at the end of the 45 minute training session.  The other athletes poked holes in my analysis almost immediately.  Here’s the breakdown on what they shared:

  • average RPMS – a nice statistic to track, because the higher your average, the quicker your leg turnover.  That’s nice to know – but it’s not a predictor of future race performance because you aren’t pedaling in wind, rain, on uphills, downhills, etc.
  • average MPH – another fun little statistic – but don’t use it as a predictor because a) you are only going 20-23 miles in an hour on the stationary bike, and b) no elements, heat, hills.
  • Calories burned – nice if you want an excuse to eat another Oreo.  (I do.  I like this number.  So there.)
  • Miles covered – nice little piece of information, but it doesn’t mean you will rack up mileage even close to what you see on the screen when you are riding in a crowd of other athletes on race day.

So there I was, left with only one data point left: watts.  When I asked about this number, I got a solid lesson over awful cups of burnt coffee that left me re-thinking how I attack my cycling workouts from then on.  The average watts figure at the top of the picture above measures the average amount of pure power being created during the training session.  This figure is a more pure measurement of cycling strength because it is immune to the other variables.  It simply states how much power your legs are giving off.  The More power generated, the faster you go.  Simple.

OK – so how the name of Zues’ rear-end do I measure my average watts, comparing the power that I currently generate to the amount of power I need to generate over a 112 mile bike course (leaving some juice in the tank for a marathon)?  Well their obvious first answer was “just try to meet or exceed your average every time.” OK, well that’s easy enough to track.  But how does watts translate into speed in a race?  That’s where the conversation got a little gray.  However, they recommended looking at pro triathletes statistics on-line, since they usually share these data points post-race.  I followed their advice, using my Unicorn as the race of measurement (Ironman World Championships in Kona).

Ben Hoffman is an elite Ironman triathlete.  He came in fourth this year at the Ironman World Championships, as was the top American male finisher.  While I couldn’t find his 2016 stats, I was able to google his 2014 cycling statistics for this race, and the numbers blew me away.  Ben covered the 112 mile Kona bike course in 4 hours and 33 minutes.   He maintained an average speed of 24.4 miles per hour, with a cadence (RPMs) of 89.  He averaged 2:27 per mile.  The average watts he generated for this portion of the race was 274.


While I am not nearly looking to keep up with these beasts, at least it gives me an idea of how watts translates into speed.  Hoffman averaged 24.4 miles per hour and the average watts were 274.  While listening to the live coverage of this year’s Ironman World Championship, the announcers estimated that the leader on the bike (and eventual winner – Jan “Frodo” Frodeno – was probably putting out close to 290-300 watts on average.  He covered the bike course in 4:29.

Using the elite athletes’ numbers as a point of reference, I designed a couple of goals for myself going forward:

  • During these 45-50 minute spin classes, my primary goal is to generate an average watts figure that beats my prior workout.  In the picture above, I averaged 254 – so I know cranking out a 250 average watt session is possible.  My next goal will be 255…then 256…etc.
  • I’ll need to attach a power meter on Maximus, and then collect a sample of data to measure my watts for longer rides.  Obviously, the average will be lower than in my spin sessions.  However, I am hoping to begin at around 220 and then get stronger from there.
  • By the time next July rolls around, I am hoping to have an average of 230-240 watts for a 100 mile training ride under my belt.  That should get me back to the transition area in plenty of time to begin my 26.2 mile waddle to the finish line before the clock hits midnight.

The data matters.