Ah, To Get a New Jersey...Just Stay Away From the Turnpike

Getting back into the fitness realm after a big event, and a good-sized break, can be a trying exercise in and of itself. But cross training is the key. Do something that is far away from what you were training for. If it was swimming, go run. If it was running, go swim. Go play soccer, basketball, softball, dodgeball - anything!

After thoroughly burning myself out last year around this time, I've been very careful not to let myself get crazy and go straight back into the training regimen I had before the Coolangatta Gold. But, well....I don't really know how to go at things in moderation; kind of an all-or-nothing type of person. So, after two-plus weeks off from anything resembling formal training, I decided to jump back in with two feet....both legs....torsoe...arms and head. A couple of Saturdays ago I decided to take a trip up to I. Martin Imports to see my friend Jaime (hi-may) - on my Bicycle!

I had chatted with Jaime previously about coming up to the shop. Jaime had helped my sister get fitted on her bike before her triathlon debut last month, and had given me some pointers on my riding technique, and I wanted to give him and the shop a bit of a shout out. I asked him if he had a jersey, or t-shirt, with i. martin blasted on it that I could sport while riding.

It's about a 25mile trip, one way, up to I. Martin in Beverly Hills, so I should have started early in the day. Nawp. A little sleep-in, some Watermans on the face, and I was out the door at around 1pm. A couple hours later and I was there. If you haven't had the opportunity, and you have any inclination to 2-wheeled adventures, I highly recommend a trip up (I also recommend a car, Figueroa gets pretty hectic). A treasure trove of wheeled-glory, 3-and-a-half rooms of any kind of bike you want or need. And, once in a while you see some recognizable people.

There was a movie...they made a couple of them...about these guys on boats....they dressed kinda funny....ummm...pirates?...Yeah, Pirates of the Caribbean! That's it! Mr. Orlando Bloom stopped by to pick-up a full suspension mountain bike to make use of the Santa Monica Mountain trails.

It was an interesting break in the day, but I was losing daylight and needed to bite the bullet and head back out. I picked up some nutrition and supplements, and looked for a jersey. Jaime pointed me to the back wall and told me to try one on (cycling gear is sized for little euro-guys, so you can't buy stuff without trying it on based on size). I threw the Sunkist Orange long-sleeved jersey on. Zipped it up. Wiggled around. Arms over the head. A few shadow-box punches. Yeah, it fit alright.

Then I heard a fantastic thing. "The jersey's yours, don't worry about it". A sponsor? A Sponsored rider? Me? EPIC!!! (I guess that means I have to start getting more rides in).

I rode home floating - elated from the experience - with only one hiccup along the way - La Brea Blvd. If you've never driven over the hill on La Brea, as it goes along side Kenneth Hahn Park, then you know what I'm talking about - there were no big gears used on this climb. But, after a 10minute ascent, it was 37mph descent on the other side. Its fun when you keep pace with, or pass, cars in traffic.

A 50mile round trip and I was back home. Just a nice little Saturday to break it back in. I was rooted on Sunday. Maybe next week I'll do a ROOT Ride.

For the Swimming Community

I graduated from Arizona State University in 2006 with a BA degree in Sociology and Education. My unofficial program of study, however, was swimming. As a member of the ASU Men's Swimming and Diving Team I endured countless hours of torture and pain - regularly receiving beatings from my teammates. However, these experiences of pain and suffering culminated in personal best performances in and out of the pool. I am a Sun Devil, and always will be. It is part of who I am.

So it goes without saying that when the ASU Athletic Director, Lisa Love, and the Athletic Department (ICA), announced that the Men's Swimming Team would be cut (without warning), I felt as though my heart had been ripped from my chest and beat upon with a bat by a guy named Guido.

But the Team would not be done away with so easily.

A foundation was started, and through continuous fundraising and educational efforts, the team was reinstated. However, funds still need to be raised to maintain OUR reinstatement.

On November 22nd at the Scottsdale Plaza Hotel, the Sun Devil Swimming Association will host the First Annual ASU Swimming Gala Dinner. The event will feature key note speaker Jason Lezak, and other prominent swimming personalities.

Please go to http://www.saveasuswimming.com/ for More information

The Coolangatta Gold Part VI, Works of Art

"There's gonna be heaps of people at Burleigh when you get off the board. They're gonna be cheering and tellin' ya ta pick it up. You're gonna wan'ta take off like a greyhound toward Miami. DO NOT SPRINT! Back OFF! Even if you think you're going too slow - build into this thing. You've made it this far, don't blow out your legs in the first kilometer of a 10km run. DON'T SPRINT!"

Again, Phil Clayton's words reverberated in my mind. I trotted into the transition area, grabbed my sunnies, gels, bloks, and water from BJ, and made my way back down toward the waterline - which was a much shorter trek than anyone would have liked. Ahead of me sat Miami headland, the only geographic interruption between Burleigh and Surfers, a quick stairmaster set before continuing on to the remaining 9km.

Up the winding walk-path. Bear right. Switchback to the left. Repeat. Waiting at the top was an event volunteer, red shirt ablaze under the high-hanging sun, signaling to another volunteer at the bottom of the other side of the hill to hold any pedestrian traffic. A concrete staircase, not wide enough to walk side-by-side with another person, weaved its way down the north side of Miami Hill. I was greeted at the base of the stairs with a few smiles from those who had been held up by the volunteers - a constant reminder of the thorough warmth of this place.

Back into the sand and back into rhythm. There would be no hard pack for this run. The tide had pushed up high enough so that the only straight-line run would be run in a mixture of soft sand and the upper fringe of semi-firm pack. a lower-leg killer. But this was it. Nothing left to save for.

I continued to "build" into the run, using the widely spaced lifeguard towers as short-distance visual targets; allowing me to focus on what was immediately in front of me - not getting lost in how far away the Q-1 Tower(and the finish) was. Each tower gave me a different point of technique for my mind to focus on. Head up. Shoulders back. Bring the knees up a bit. Add a little to the kick. Check back in with the shoulders, down and back. Breath. With every Surf Club that came, my stride opened a little more.

I had my handlers scheduled to meet me twice during this run. At the first stop, Mike and BJ gave me a small package of jelly beans, and a small bottle of flattened, and watered-down, coke. I still had half a package of energy/electrolyte bloks tucked in the side of my suit - giving me constant small doses of electrolytes. The jelly beans and coke - instant bursts of sugars, and caffeine (gives caffeine "kick", but also lessens perception of pain and delays fatigue onset).



As I progressed along the course, I tried to familiarize myself with the surroundings, looking for landmarks or buildings that I recognized from workouts I had done when I last trained at Kurrawa. Surfers Paradise is full of Tall buildings; apartments, hotels, offices, etc.. The farther away, however, the more scarce these tall buildings become. Two Apartment buildings jutted into the sky well away from the Surfer's skyline. A broad, yellow, vertical line ran the height of one of the buildings, visually separating the ocean-viewing apartments from the backside. It was set just inland of Kurrawa. Almost home.

There is a strange sensation that is "felt" when you push the body beyond pain. All athletes know the, all-to-familiar, "burn" in their muscles from the release and build up of lactic acid. And, any athlete who has had the misfortune of suffering an impingement injury also know the "piercing" pain associated with it. Maybe it is simply a tool utilized by my brain, unconsciously, to prevent some unknown (to me) consequence. But in the midst of the final leg of a 46.65km race, there was no real Pain - but "Hot" sensations flashing around my body.

As I approached my home club of Kurrawa, I could see some of my teammates shuffling around on their lifesaving patrols. Before I reached the drink station in front of the club, a voice cut through the monotonous, melodic, soundtrack of the surf and breeze. (In a very thick Welsh accent) "Com'on team America!!!" If my smile had faded, it was instantly renewed into an ear-to-ear grin. It was Jimmy, one of my flatmates from last season. He was a sprinter & flagger from Wales, and was working his patrol hours. Not un-like-minded with myself he shouted some abuse into my ear and gave me the "gitty-up" slap as I ran past. This was quickly followed by about one or two, dozen, cups of cold water being heaved at me by my clubmates (Thanks Pete). Laughter ensued. I gave them a shout back and, refreshed from the cold-shock, turned up the rate.

Three figures came into sight. They had passed me earlier and I had now moved back up to them. Broady Surf Club blurred beside me - and the first man with it. I looked for him to make an effort to hang on - nothing. Two more to go - at least. The white tents of the Start/Finish area became recognizable, and I was now into full stride - no turning back or turning off.

Northcliffe. A singlet in front of me. Next to me. Gone. No more water. No gels. Just the finish. And one more White TYR singlet (a relay runner). The gap continued to shrink in the final 500meters. Sweat, for the first time in the race, began to roll past my eyes, and fall off my lips - their salty taste a reward for my efforts. A grin cemented itself on my face.

With 100meters to go, the sand turned soft, feet buried completely on every stride. The turnover went up. The speed went down. The gap shrunk to 15meters as we ran uphill to the finish. A final push. There would not be a last-second rundown in Prefontaine fashion. The white singlet would hold me off. But there was no spoiling this moment.

Crossing the finish line - 5-hours 4-minutes and 46.65km later - its was done. The 2008 NIB Coolangatta Gold had claimed its share of victims - but I was not of that stock. My body and mind had carried me the distance. To my surprise, my legs felt as though they could have gone another 10km - although, I was very glad it was done. A gorgeous finisher's medal was placed around my neck, followed by two volunteers pouring cold water over my back. Mike and BJ were there. Jeff was there. Hugs, thank yous, congratulations were exchanged.

The finish area had the buzzing atmosphere of a NASCAR Finish, a dance party in the sand, a University Graduation, all under a clear Sapphire-blue sky in Surfer's Paradise Australia. (try piecing that one together in your head). Phil McGibbon was providing interviews and commentary with a local radio DJ from Hot Tomato. They Pulled me aside, and asked me what it was like being the only American to participate in this Iconic event.

I shouted out the event sponsors, gave thanks for the opportunity to come down and race with the best, and said that I was stoked to take part in such an Iconic and Historic event. Then the DJ asked if I would return for next year's Gold. After a slight dramatic pause, a simple yes exited my mouth.



This was my appetizer. My first hit. I was hooked. A race is a work of art that people can look at and be affected in as many ways they’re capable of understanding.

~Steve Prefontaine

This was not my masterpiece, but, rather, my first brushstrokes in seeking something bigger than myself. There will be more.

No race of this magnitude can be pursued - let alone completed -without an immense amount of support. First, I must thank my creator.
Then the list begins:
My Family who have always supported me in everything I have ever done.
NIB, TYR, Jeep, and all the race sponsors for putting on an amazing event.
Kurrawa Surf Club: Phil Clayton, Pete Milburn, Syb and Jess.
My Handlers - BJ and Mike, you guys rock!
The Janes Bro's.
Hayley and your crew.
All the boys & girls at the embassies.
Pete Stirling and Macon Brock @ Watermans Sunscreen.
Erin Howarth and John Boes @ TYR.
Mark @ Dolphin Surfcraft.
Surf Lifesaving Australia and Surf Lifesaving Queensland.
The South Bay Surf Club.
The Los Angeles County Fire Department Lifeguards
And everyone that I have ever raced with, or trained with, or talked with...you have all had an impact on me and my journey.

Thank you.


What will your Masterpiece Be?

The Coolangatta Gold Part V

Banana, gels and fluids still on there way down to my stomach, I powered out through the surf. A quick shift back. A few hard strokes. Pop the nose. Power over the top. Repeated a few times and I was out the back. Feeling surprisingly fresh, I paddled from my knees out and around the turn can.

There were a few boards sloughing to the inside about 1000 metres ahead. The Vic was dead-ahead 50 metres in front. Gamble the inside? Aim the straight-shot across Burleigh Head? Race the Vic? Anyone who has interacted with me at or around any competition should know the answer this. Gamble? Gambling is a gamble (but it can be fun). Racing, though, racing is always fun - No matter how much it hurts. Besides, what is pain? Just your body telling you you're alive.

(Or that maybe it's your body telling you you shouldn't be doing what you're doing right now - but if I cared what my body thought, I probably wouldn't have started this race, nor many others that I've done. And where's the fun in that?)

Up on the knees. Down on the belly. Up on the knees. Down on the belly. Rhythm keeps the train running on the tracks. Lose rhythm at a critical juncture, and watch the wheels come off faster than a "Hot Wheels" under a sledge hammer.

"Two up-two down" was a drill I had done many times in training throughout the year. Spending two-minutes up on your knees at race-pace, then dropping to your belly for two-minutes backing off the pace - but never stopping throughout the workout. My legs would be on fire during the "up". Then, a brief reprieve while prone paddling. But this was not training. And my legs were not what were on fire.

As I crossed the halfway mark of the paddle, I had built a substantial gap between myself and the Victorian. There were no more rabbits to hunt down. Just me, my board, and the water. And then there appeared a train of 4 guys closing in from behind with blinding efficiency. White, Blue, White, Gold.

Son of a Bitch! Not this again.

As they came within earshot I heard a surprising, yet-comforting voice. "I'll be up there in a sec Micah. Just jump in behind - We'll getcha there". DEAN! You Champion. Dean is another member of Kurrawa Surf Club, and I had spent more than a few hours training with him last season. He was on a relay, and, fresh, was powering through the paddle. Onto the wash I went, behind Dean and another paddler, with the Victorian in tow behind.

On my knees I could take a few strokes, sit up, breath, and then continue. However, like I said, this was not training, and my legs were not what were burning. I would drop down to my belly to give my legs a rest, only to be forced to spin my arms as fast as I could to keep pace with the train. Oxyacetylene welding torches had been ignited in my shoulders and traps, and seemed to be burning through my muscles and out my back. I was going flat-out while prone - and still falling off the pace. Back up to my knees, a few quick hard strokes and I was back on. Sit up, breath, keep paddling.

Why don't you just stay on your knees if that keeps you on the wash? Knee-paddling, even at a reduced effort, takes a heavy toll on the legs - the 10km run was still to come. So here we go again. My mind flashed back to the ski leg. I shuttered. "Time to grind" I told myself. As one of my best friends and training partners says: "Put your head down - and PADDLE!"

I held onto their wash for as long as I could, but fell off definitively with about 1km left to go. We paddled around Burleigh Head, a beautiful Emerald-colored headland. A virtual mini-rainforest, Burleigh displayed the great diversity of nature and climate in Australia; posing its green canopy against the shifting sands and breakers.

The Victorian now beside me, and more White relay singlets in chase, we headed for the final turn can - a white vinyl cone 3metres high, not to be confused with the red one 100metres beyond it. He went toward the red. I left-shouldered the white and headed toward shore with a White singlet to either side. Come on waves - gimme some love. A little push. Fall off the back. Breath. Kick it up. Nose scraping across the glass of my board. Pop pop pop. Onto a wave. Staying on my knees, pushing on the deck, shifting my weight forward, I crossed the gutter and was into the wave. Back down to my belly, the wave crashed down behind me - its whitewash providing welcome cooling as it enveloped my legs.

Onto wobbly legs I hopped off my board and into the final run: A 10km Grinder back to Surfer's Paradise.

High Tide Was Upon Us.

The Coolangatta Gold Part IV, Who Knew?

Small steps. Give the Hamstrings time before opening it up. Anyone who has ever run after swimming understands the difficulty in making this transition. Being in a horizontal position (swim) allows for wider distribution of lactic acid in the blood stream throughout the body, and a subsequently greater efficiency in the breakdown of it. Moving from that position to a run concentrates gravity's effect on blood - pushing it down into the legs, AND, with all the lactate that is in it.

Small strides carried me for the first few hundred meters. Then the strides opened up, and the speed increased with them. A single Gold TYR singlet in front of me, a bullseye emblazoned on its back, I went to work.

While racing and competition are things that I take seriously, they are not life-and-death matters. Words from a modern comedy-classic movie, Van Wilder, strike a grounding chord. "You can't take life too seriously....You'll never make it out alive." A smile was never far from my face as I was constantly reminded of the beauty around me. Small children and adults clapped as every competitor ran past. Nippers handing out water at support stations held out hands for hi-fives - I happily obliged them.

Shoes. He had shoes on. The waterlines reminisced of an old wooden roller coaster's silhouette: winding up and down in a rhythm known only to the waves that formed it. I was barefoot. No need to concern myself with waterlines and the incoming tide. Shoes? I saw his tracks weave an almost identical zig-zag to the waterline. Energy wasted. Keep everything moving forward - no wasted movements. This is especially true in settings like this. The bullseye grew larger.

Before half-way through the run "Shoes" had been dropped from the pace, and a new yellow target appeared. Open it up a little bit more. The board would be next, but I could prone paddle sections of it to rest my legs. As we approached a headland, I wondered how farther past it the run would end into the board.

I was slightly startled when I saw BJ (one of my amazing handlers) waiting for me with nutrition and water. Had I already run 4km? That can't be it, I thought to myself. It was. Half a banana, 2 gels, cup of water, cup of electrolyte drink - less than 30 seconds. The final seconds of my second run. In those last 30seconds I was close enough to the singlet in front of me to hear an inaudible name, and that he was from Victoria.
(Who knew swimmers could run: Run split time 4km @ 14m 31s)

I was not the only one shocked with my run. My board met me en route to the water, freshly off the trailer. A quick laugh, a high-step, and a skim and was underway. The aforementioned young man was half-way out to the turn can. God I love a challenge.

The Coolangatta Gold Part III, Handicap Control

Now, more than 2 hours into the race, the sun was high in the sky, radiation beating down on anything left in the open. Cool patches of water acted like intermittent sprinklers, helping to gradually bring down my body's temperature.

Get to the draft, I told myself, but don't spend it too early. There was still plenty of time to lose control and let the race get away from me. Focus.

Many people, after the race, said that the swim was their least favorite part of the event. Not because of the physical aspect of it, but because of the "Mind F@*#" that plagues many people. Looking down through crystal clear water, shadows from clouds or other objects are easily visible. Shadows, however, can be easily bent by the mind to resemble images of notorious fear. Add to this elixir idle time for the brain, and a front page picture of a 2.3metre Great White Shark from yesterday's paper, and the mind can play daunting tricks on you. (A juvenile great white shark was caught in the drum lines on Friday afternoon at Mermaid Beach.)

The space between the stand-up and myself was shrinking with surprising speed. A splash from someone's kick became visible behind me. Now past the stand-up and its respective swimmer, I scanned for a new target, a new draft. Two swimmers, 5 metres between them, swam side by side. Close the Gap. The splash behind me was now coming up on my left with frustrating speed. The sight of a White singlet gave slight piece of mind.

The relays were starting to catch up. Every category had its own colored singlet: Open Men, Gold; Open Women, Red; Masters Men, Blue; Relay Teams, White; and so on.

As we made our way past the first tall can, a 3-meter-high inflated vinyl cone, the first white singlet began pulling me along. One third of the swim now behind me, I worked the draft until I felt him up the pace. Another White singlet was moving up as well. Onto his wash. We worked past a few more swimmers before I fell off of his pace as well - but not before we passed the next tall can. Two-Thirds down. Let it roll. Hop-scotching my way from wash to wash (even passing a white jersey that had passed me earlier), I made my way to the final turn can. A left shoulder turn and in to shore.

Please be a wave. Any break is a welcome one. A small push, a burst of speed through the gutter, fall off the back. come-onnnnn, gimme somethin'! Another burst; a Quick breath in. Down the face I slid, briefly over-joyed by the small comforts of bodysurfing. Head back down; stroking the right arm, then the left and back to a streamline - not wanting to lose the wave and have to swim the rest of the way in.

3.5 km of swimming behind me, it was time to get back onto the legs. A water bottle's rinse. Some quick nutrition through the transition. Sunglasses and TYR Singlet back on, and I was into the "short run" - 4km.

The Coolangatta Gold Part II

The sun was steadily climbing higher to our left as the light wind angled steadily into our faces. keep sipping fluids - even if you are not thirsty.



Fifteen minutes into the ski I began sipping my electrolyte drink from my pack. Five minutes later, I was questioning my pre-race meal. Nausea started to creep in in subtle doses; not enough to vomit - but enough to make me want to. This made for a difficult time in staying on top of hydrating when not thirsty.



Racing in any competition of any distance requires particular mental states. The longer the race - the more paramount the state. In a race of this distance a poor mental state, or simply the loss of focus, can literally end your race. It is a culminating effect of training, and just living, that we learn how to cope with different situations. We form mental models* from trial and error, and use these to move through future events in a (hopefully) successful manner.



Compartmentalizing nausea and increments of pain, I focused on simply following the wash of a ski in front of me. This is where my fears of preparation rung alarmingly true. I jumped onto the wash in front of me, focusing on good ski technique - drive from the leg, twist through the core, hands eye-level. i managed to stay in a train of 10 or so skis for a few minutes before they pulled away, and the gap, where I once was located, had closed without me. I would then grind for a few minutes until another small group moved up to me, and I would jump on their wash - only to be dropped again a few minutes later.



When we hit Burleigh Head (~10k from Surfers) we rounded a can to our left and continued Southeast toward Coolangatta. I gauged this to be approximately halfway and noted the time on my watch, 0750. (I would later fall prey to this false assumption). At this point I had managed to line up on someone's wash who I felt I could hold onto for a while.



A sip here. Some nausea there. A knot in my left Glute, that felt like sitting on a golf ball, started to form. At the 1-hour-45 mark I began looking for a turn can at the end of the ski leg. Scanning the horizon I found what I wanted - a white 3meter high buoy, red shirts of the event on shore. Rejuvenated by the thought of getting off the ski, we closed in on the can - only to turn left and continue to some foreign point that I couldn't fathom. My mental model had fallen apart at the seams, and my mental state went, in the words of one of my Welsh teammates: "Down da shittah!" I was gutted. Gapped and dropped again.



I closed in on a surfboat I had seen earlier. They were dressed in the white singlets of the relay teams. As I settled into pace next to them, the noise of their oars cracking rhythmically in the locks provided a comfortable distraction to my ears, one boatie shouted over to me, "you're doin' a'right mate. Keep it up. Just a bit more to go."

Mentally gutted - get me off this F*%#ing ski, were the words that came to mind. Finally, the red final turn can came into sight. Thank you God! Rounding the can and heading to shore, a wave was the only thing I had on my mind.

Onto a wave. Off of the ski. Into the first of three (progressively longer) runs. Into the water for the 3.5km swim.

Already around the can on the swim was a man with a standup paddle-boarder for a paddler - A TARGET.

*Note: The concpets of "Mental Models" and their nature were taken from works by Lawrence Gonzales