Some background information on Lavaman….
Support is key when you’re facing a challenge like this one. So, upon hearing the news that I signed up for this race, my Dad offered the ever-encouraging words, “You’re nuts.”
He might be right.
The Lavaman is an Olympic-sized triathlon. It consists of a one-mile swim, a 25-mile bike ride and a 6.2-mile run. In that order. Each leg of this race is hard in a different way. The swim is in the ocean where we contend with waves, rip tides and reef sharks. The bike route is so notoriously windy that every year some poor cyclist is nearly blasted into the Pacific. And then there’s the run through lava fields which, logically so, makes it feel approximately twenty degrees hotter than the surface of the sun.
After perusing the Lavaman website I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. There were pictures at the finish line of all these extremely fit, athletic types with big muscles, lean torsos and huge smiles.
These are not my people.
My people run 5ks for the free beer at the end of it. My people consider boogie boarding a good workout. My people ride beach cruisers to the pub where they order buffalo wings. Needless to say, we’re a happy bunch.
Somehow, I have to bridge this gap between the athletes and the fun bunch.
I consulted my athletic friend Christy, an accomplished runner and triathlete who wins races instead of just finishing them without going into cardiac arrest (my humble goal). She strongly suggested we bike 50 miles one weekend and possibly do a half marathon.
One of the main reasons I chose to do a triathlon is because swimming in the open ocean and biking in high winds sounds MORE FUN than running 13.5 miles in a row.
So, no. I’m not doing that.
Even though it’s good advice. I’ve ignored good advice before and lived to tell about it. The message was clear, however. We need to train hard for long periods of time.
I’m working up to it slowly - running 3.2 miles three times a week right now, plus a bike or a swim where I can fit it in. This is a smart strategy at my age where snapping an Achilles or dislocating a shoulder is not wholly out of the question. At this rate, come March of next year, I should be able to survive the plane ride to Hawaii.
So, unlike many a training blog that catalogues physical triumphs and strange new diet regimens adopted by triathlete zombies trying to become superhuman for a day, I’m taking a different route.
I’m the new breed of athlete in training. The quasi-dedicated, retardedly optimistic, wine-loving, slow-training, life-enjoying one. You know me. You ARE me.
I’m counting on my will to survive. That should at least get me to the run. Then, I’m betting on my Finnish pride coupled with a deep desire for a cold beer to get me to the finish line.
At least that’s the theory.