Let's Go Soft Core And Talk About The Rock...

Fitting that a little time has passed since last Sunday, a little time to not get too caught up in the race, a little time to take a step back, realize that all I have is a lewd near nude post race photo to lead into how it went down. Fitting that I’m watching the movie on TNT right now, at the end of a quiet, ass-kicked week.

I had a strong race. Feels good to say that after getting stomped in St. George. I had arbitrary aims to finish in the top 100 after finishing around 250 last year out of around 2000. Came in at 103 overall. Something like 250 in the swim, 40 in the bike and 110 in the run. Overall, I took 10 minutes off last year’s time, which is significant on a course so short. It’s been a year since I began running triathlon and feel like I’ve come some way. Also, I’m beginning to see low numbers in my age group, like 3rd in the bike. Low numbers are good for the heart, good for seeing myself places in the future, like stumbling onto an eventual podium or reaching the world 70.3’s in Vegas, something I need to someday crack.

If I’m beginning to learn anything, it’s to let go of the fear. Fear of going into a race, fear of breaking down, fear of failing. Running always used to be my strength. Now, there’s soon to be a changing of the guard…if there hasn’t already been one. My experience is eventually going to level my times, that’s what I’m hoping. I think the day I find success is the day I find harmony between the three, and my understanding that I can hammer the swim and not fail the bike, hammer the bike and not fail the run, then hammer the run. This was a shorter race, 2:33, so it’s easy to talk composure. Still, I can feel my head shifting. I’ve been to ugly places now, and back (CamSur, Cozumel, St. George), and will continue to go to ugly places (Kona in October). Maybe someday I’ll become quite fast. Maybe not. In the meantime, there’s a 70.3 about 6 hours north of me called Vineman a couple weeks into July. I’m going to see if I can hammer for about 4.5, see how things hold up, see if my chin is still up at the end. It will be. I’m ready to fall in love with the 70.3.

Back To Alcatraz...

Sometime around May of 2010, I was standing in the general manager’s office of Equinox Westwood. I had just gone through the employee time trial for a shot at winning an entry in the prestigious Escape From Alcatraz Triathlon. My bike wasn’t calibrated exactly right, and my overall time slid below the national top 25 that would have gotten me into the race. I was begging this guy to understand what I was saying, that I was completely screwed by the computer (which was very true), and even rode the leg again on another bike to prove it. I was begging him to do the right thing, because I deserved it, because I needed it, because I was convinced that racing Alcatraz would somehow change my life. Somehow, I got in.

It’s May again and I’m about to go back to Alcatraz, the very thing that started it all. This year, to make damn certain there was no confusion on my invite, I somehow pulled in the Equinox National #1 time the night before the LA Marathon. That means a couple of things. First, after some TOUGH races, it was nice to see my name next to a number like that. Second, and far more important, it means that everyone I beat is hopefully saying something to themselves like I’m going to beat THAT fucker, especially the guy who lost by 1 second. I hope he’s pissed. I hope I can find him out there, shake his hand and then battle him. Honestly, all I’ve ever wanted to be in this world is THAT fucker, so it should be a fun, fast race. I need one. I’m really looking forward to it.

My whole life, I’ve been a somewhat high level athlete, but an athlete second. There has always been something else driving, something else incendiary inside. In the past, I’ve looked back on stretches of my life and deemed them not acceptable against the standards I’ve set before destroying my collected comfort by stepping into new worlds, usually about a dozen at a time, before returning, winding my clock, and starting anew. I mention this because Alcatraz has made me peek over my shoulder, wrap the year into a single box, and examine. It’s been a serious 12 months.

But I don't support indulgent satisfaction. Or falling off. Ever.