Angkor Wat 2016

I return to Angkor Wat for my annual low-budget Southeast Asia end of the year trip (and run).

Like the Chiang Mai Marathon, I have seen Angkor Wat Half Marathon and 10k evolve from a small-scale race for a handful of serious runners into a colossal tourist industry event.  A staggering 9,000 runners descend on a narrow area in front of the entrance to the temple for the sunrise start.  It has to be the most visually impressive and sublime location to start a race in the world, but it is an absurdly congested area for this many participants starting a half marathon then a 10k.   As loudspeakers blared right in our ears and huge crowds of runners surged in on us from both directions I start to be overcome by panicked claustrophobia.  I manage to focus on taking a few breaths and am able to calm down and return my attention to the matter at hand - getting somewhere reasonably near the starting line of the 10k.  Gradually we weave our way somewhat closer to the line, but despite our pleading and rather restrained effort, we are still chastised by an expat woman for for trying to nudge our way past her (yeah, I did kind of wonder what place this woman ultimately finished in the race, but you know - she is entitled to her opinion, there is certainly no reason to be annoyed, and as always I tell myself not to be excessively competitive).

Starting the race 4 rows deep does make the first 500 meters rather scary and draining (very much like the cross country race's explosive starts that leave me struggling through the remainder of the course).  Still I am with Arnaud at 1k in a slow 3:50 and the lead pack of about 10 runners is within range at about 15 meters ahead.  I had hoped to just stay behind Arnaud and kick at the end, but when I gasp to Arnaud "Shall we catch pack?"  he grunts back that I should go ahead alone.  It is a wrenching decision given how bad I feel, but maintaining contact with the pack is my only shot at being able to declare any real triumph for the day.

So I reluctantly surge ahead of Arnaud and burst to catch the pack, clocking 3:40 for the second kilometer. 

As always I appreciate this aspect of the sport - mixing it up with the other athletes, testing myself, pushing myself, and it is an intriguing effort to try and capture one of the 3 overall podium positions.  But on this day it is not meant to be -- I am fading by the 5k turnaround mark, lose contact with the leaders, and at 8k with my leg protesting, I wait for Arnaud and we jog the final few kilometers. 

But the trip is really about continuing my global search for great running courses.  So from Angkor Wat I travel to Laos and the idyllic 4000 Islands - 4,000 automobile free islands. 
I dream of automobile free islands -- running and cycling on roads free of all those horrible cars, and relaxing amidst the laid-back vibe that emerges when cars are removed from your surroundings.   And in southern Laos, the Mekong River spreads out to form some 4,000 Islands - all 4,000 of them blessedly free of cars.  Granted there are some motorcycles puttering along the bumpy dirt roads and admittedly most all 4,000 of these islands are essentially just rock outcroppings amidst the rapids.   But there are several islands ideally sized for circumnavigating on a bike or run.

Cross Country 2016

I dreaded the prospect of joining the CNW team for last weekend’s Pacific Northwest Cross Country championship -- the frantic high-speed start down a slippery grass hillside, the tight muddy corners, the lung-searing pain on the climbs, the self-conscious pressure of struggling near the back of the field in the fish-bowl setting of Lower Woodland Park's 6k course (3 times over a 2k loop).   

Maybe I could just find some charity race to boost my ego?   But like three years ago, I told myself to step up and mix it up with the hard-core master's runners.   I have been seeking to do more team events — the fun and camaraderie of contributing on a team is what essentially brought me back to competitive running this past decade.  And CNW's Master's team is a juggernaut - finishing either first or second place in nationals over the last 8 years.  During warmup I ask some of the CNW teammates about their overall racing program for the year and am struck again by their focus on cross-country — “I didn’t do any events in 2016 until the autumn cross-country campaign” one of the guys tells me, and another elite runners scoffs at the very idea of doing road races, concentrating only on track and cross country.

I want to make excuses about my focusing on triathlon, but I mange to bite my tongue.  Who cares?  It is all about cross-country today. 

My first kilometer is in 3:37, while my remaining 5k are all around 4-minute per kilometer pace.  But this is cross-country where even masters runners start too fast, and so I actually mange to struggle past other runners throughout the run.   

I had lower expectations this year.  If you lower your expectations enough you are bound to do OK.  And sure enough, my time of 23:50 - a 5-second improvement over last year - felt like a triumph.  I manage even to be in the top 7 for my age-division on the juggernaut team, though am still a minute behind the top 5 pack.  

Off-Season 2016 - No rest for the weary, just more fun and bizarre endurance events

It is that time of year again; the leaves are turning color, the grapes are ripening on the vine, school is back in session, the weather outside is crisp and clear -- autumn has always been my favorite season.  And just like last year it is my "off-season" - supposedly a time of rest and recovery - a time when the experts recommend taking it easy, focusing on lifting weights, honing technical skills, sleeping...  

But just like last year my off-season calendar is filled with another weird assortment of endurance events:

Adidas World Battle Run 

One of my key endurance events during my off-season.  OK, the event was all of maybe 80 meters in length so it was hardly an "endurance event" -- perhaps one would call it a sprint event.  And I am not entirely comfortable calling it a sprint event ---  essentially the World Battle Run was an Adidas marketing shoot in which us participants were "extras" who were compensated with the cool t-shirts, fancy food and drink and a funky, high-tech party atmosphere. 

We were also spurred to jump through the obstacles with the always-enticing motivation of free shoes for the winning team. My team of largely middle-aged, male distance runners seemed especially incentivized by prospect of winning shoes. During the long build-up to the obstacle event my team grew increasingly confident-- confidence bordering on swaggering cockiness.  In retrospect I am not sure what gave my team such confidence.


Personally I knew that I was not in my league at all (this was another "No Race for Old Men" where my advanced age and years of long-distance running and cycling combined to render me embarrassingly clumsy and inept on an obstacle course that rewarded quickness and finesse).


My teammates (though also slow-twitch athletes) were clearly more agile than me, but still no match for the teams made up of young, co-ed  basketball and rugby players.

I was a bit relieved that we were hopelessly in last place when my turn toward last leg of relay arrived.  Still I gamely stumbled through the various obstacles as best I could even as I am being totally overtaken as you can see in the adjacent picture.

At the end I absolutely exhausted, but primarily just relieved that I did not pull any muscles.  Despite my pitiful showing in the Battle Run I come away feeling determined to enter other obstacle type races in the future - one because of the sheer fun of it and two because of obvious need to diversify the type of exercise that I do.

Vietnam Mountain Marathon


I had sought to visit Sapa since hearing a fellow traveler's captivating description of climbing Mount Fanispan a half dozen years ago.  

So at last second I register for the Vietnam Mountain Marathon, an event of increasing popularity that attracts a variety of different runners from all over the world to a remote mountain setting, and that requires an overnight train and dangerous van ride along winding mountain roads to reach Sapa. 

It is my second "once in a lifetime race experience" in just over a single month (including Australia Worlds)


There is a lot to be said for recent race specific training the experts say.  But once again I have to rely on long-term muscle memory, memory that has faded with lack of any running on trails.  

I power though the first 7k uphill portion of the race and move into 4th place.  But it is pretty much all downhill for me after that (and as I am sure you already guessed:  I mean downhill both literally and metaphorically).

Apparently a winner never quits, and quitter never wins.  But by 9k I have totally given up on placing well in the Vietnam Mountain Marathon.  

I must have looked pretty bad.  At the 17k I stop briefly and immediately a kindly fellow runner came to a halt and asked if I am OK.  I was getting out my phone and I looked up to tell him "I just need to get a selfie"  The look of deep disapproval on his face when I tell him this is a bit disconcerting.  

But hey the terraced rice fields are simply stunning and when am ever going to be back on these remote trails? 

Afterwards I am asked about my "running race" by the wildly ebullient guest house staff, and I am not sure that it is technically accurate to call what I did a "running race" given I had walked or climbed more than 50% of the course so it wasn't technically a "run" and I did not consider myself to be racing anyone.   I was too busy enjoying the mountain scenery and the wildlife along the course

Fruits Marathon 

I enjoy a triumphant podium finish  -- 

with a crowd of teammates cheering raucously and the race sponsors awarding me a huge box of grapes.

The run experience was great fun --- 

running through vineyards, 

dealing with a wicked sequence of hills,  

mixing it up with teammate Michael T 

and enjoying my last second kick finish....

..... the next morning I look on Strava results and compare Fruits Marathon with my results at last May's Fuji-Susono 10k and I notice that my time at  Fruits was 2 full minutes slower on a course with less than HALF the elevation gain....

.....but...


.....I will take any glory I can get these days (especially after my triathlon season) 

and moreover, look at all these grapes...  

World Half-Ironman Championships on the Sunshine Coast of Australia

The atmosphere on the morning of the half-ironman world championship feels absolutely electric.  The long-awaited event proves to be a surprisingly pleasant "victory lap" - a journey through the scenic Mooloolaba, Australia course in front of enthusiastic spectators with the most talented of fields I have competed against in many years. 

One of the charms of Ironman events is the upbeat, pop music piped in to fire participants up, along with announcers who motivate us with running commentary and encouragement --    the announcers keep reminding us how we are an exclusive, ultra-elite group -- the 3,000 triathletes to win these coveted spots from among the 130,000 entrants competing in worldwide Ironman 70.3 events over the past 12 months. 

The announcers also repeatedly talk of the 81 different countries represented in the race.  The Australian hosts qualify the most athletes with over 800 including the race winner and this reinforces my feeling that triathlon is something of an Australian national sport (wasn't it the Australians that got triathlon into the Olympics back at Sydney in 2000?).  However the American-based Ironman organization is keen to remind us of their Ironman Origin Story in a slickly produced video that opens with mystical images of Hawaiian lava and Polynesian music and a poetic account of the original 1978 Ironman.  I've read that various groups had the bright idea of combining swim, bike, and run races - some of which are documented as far back as 1920s in France - not terribly long after the bike was first invented. But not until the Ironman in Hawaii and its subsequent Wide World of Sports television coverage did the sport of triathlon become a "thing"

And at Mooloolaba it was serious, serious thing

The announcers estimated that the bike racks contained well over US$20 million worth of bicycles, an average of over $6,000 per bike (I must bring the average down quite a bit).  

I learn that my fellow championship competitors average over 15 hours per week of training (so again I am bringing the average down). 

In addition to all this investment in equipment and training, the triathletes seems a more competitive personality as well.  Runners qualify for the Boston Marathon by competing against the clock, and I have become accustomed to runners emphasizing how every race is an internal battle against ones' own will and denying any thought of competing directly with another runner.  Not these triathletes -- to get to Mooloolaba it all about the mano mano combat to vanquish a rival and earn the age-group rolldown slots in the Championship.   Even the spectators bring a more serious, take-no-prisoner, competitive spirit -- all along the course I saw signs with a do-or-die theme  - "The Pain is Temporary, Your Results Will Be With You Forever" "Push Beyond Your Limits" etc (none of that candy-ass 'just do your best/your family loves you' stuff I am used to seeing at charity runs) 

Somehow this pervasive seriousness made me more intent on doing all the little thoughtful and  sportsmanlike things I would strive to do at any event (not always 100% successfully as I grow tired), for example profusely thanking aid station workers, high-fiving every single child holding up their hand, encouraging runners who passed me, smiling and thanking all the spectators who are enthusiastically yelling out my name (which is printed on my race number bib).

And this pervasive seriousness seem to make me paradoxically less competitive and less concerned with my results.  Oddly for a person who had battled so ferociously against the small children and pets in the Pumpkin Push or the Dog Day Dash, here at the frigging triathlon championships I am strangely detached and content to just enjoy the experience. 

I had always figured I would not figure on the podium anyway, and it did not take long to confirm this.  Within seconds of my swim wave starting I begun losing ground, and by the first buoy most of the field is a pack of splashing arms in the far distance. I do hold my own through the first half of the bike which is an out-and-back on a smooth, straight expressway, but fade a bit in the latter half of the bike as my strength ebbs on the hills and turns.  And on the run?  You can see my bemused smile in accompanying picture -- as I hit the finish carpet I just slowed down to savor the moment.    

I still have not bothered to find out my precise finish results.  I do OK, and, I mean, hey I am a finisher in the world championship -- what difference do a few minutes or a few places one way or the other matter..  I surmise that I placed pretty much right in the middle of the field.

One of the most pleasant memories of the day is running into my old teammate Kyle from the Silicon Valley Triathlon Club for warm up in the sunrise swim before the race.  It was Kyle who 15 years ago had encouraged me to do a triathlon after listening to me talk about being a "long-time triathlete wanna-be" at a century charity bike ride and weekly Palo Alto runs.  I remember Kyle telling me to focus on counting my strokes in the moments before the Sandman Triathlon in Monterrey Bay as I stared with sheer terror at the waves I had to swim through in the 800-meter "sprint distance".   Now we are both in the World Championships (granted Kyle is far, far faster finishing an amazing 3rd in the age group).  

Much of my week-long triathlon travel experience in Australia itself is a blur of struggling to get enough sleep to recover from the overnight flight to Australia and be rested for the early event start, dealing with driving on left side of road through all the roundabouts and navigating way around the busy resort town.  All the usual triathlon logistics are magnified by the large scale of this event, and I am my typical unorganized and inefficient triathlon self   

The travel effort, expense, and training is certainly worthwhile though; the Mooloolaba event is a great memory and milestone for me. 

In Training - World Half-Ironman Championships!

Ever since last October I have milked the fact that I qualified for the Half-Ironman World Championship. For eleven months now I have coasted on the aura of preparing to do battle with the elite of the sport, I have been telling everyone I happen to meet how I will be duking it out at the very pinnacle of endurance athletic competition.  

Unfortunately time has flown by and now I have to actually go and do this stupid race in a matter of only 5 days.   

I really have tried to maintain the proper disciplined, competitive attitude like my ultra-serious triathlon teammates, but during the recent long training sessions I find my mind drifting to  less confidence-inducing thoughts:



1. I barely qualified for the World Championships and given my slow swim and late starting wave I may suffer the ignominy of being near last place and struggling to keep my spirits up as I try to fight my way from the back 

2.  I did almost zero bike training during my "running season" from last October until May.  I thought I could build the requisite endurance over four months but have found myself drained at the end of my long rides.   

3. Unlike running, I have seen limited correlation between triathlon training and triathlon race results.  

4. My two triathlon races in 2016 have seen discouraging results.  The World Championships is my only remaining race, and I feel strangely "oppressed" by feeling that my less enjoyable training sessions have been in vain and I have squandered another year which began with such high hopes... 

4b. I have a gnawing feeling that I should make the effort to do all those precious little things that all my more serious, gung-ho, real triathlete teammates simply relish -- practice transitions, shave my legs, lace my speed-laces onto my running shoes, attach my aero water bottle onto my front bars, carefully study course maps, purchase co2 cannisters and upgraded aero gear...  I suppose each one of these things offers chance to shave a few precious seconds off my time.... but somehow I just find them all too trivial and tiresome and for yet another race I feel that I just can't be bothered..  

5. I seemed to have grown soft and weak over the past few years training in "artificial" conditions:

• All my swimming in comfort of small, luxury spa pool with lane to myself
• All my cycling on indoor training in my apartment
• All my running on asphalt or on a track

All that said, hope springs eternal.   I fully intend to perform well in Australia in each of the three sports and achieve a PB for the distance.  

Toyama "race report" (or Lost Horizons 2)

So we travel to northern coast of Japan for the Toyama Triathlon last weekend.  Sunday’s race sees us swim in 29C. degree water, cycle up a mountain in sweltering 35C degree heat and run up and down the slopes of a ski resort in pouring rain.  

And that was the easy part of the weekend. 

We decide, "hey why not ride part of way back to Tokyo?", and on Monday morning we head out on a 145-kilometer journey over the spine of Japan’s central mountain range.  

We ride through beautiful mountain scenery, gradually ascending over 1,000 meters in the hot weather to the 100k mark of the ride (note that this is still the relatively easy part).  

It is at this point that we begin to climb the steep mountain pass and at this point that rain begins to fall.  At first the rain is a pleasant cooling drizzle, but as we crest the high mountain summit it turns into an absolute deluge (we learn later that trains and highways and factories are shut down throughout the area because of the massive amount of rainfall).  

I am really not adept at descending in any conditions.  Now I find myself riding in what has essentially become a fast-moving stream - more than an inch of water pouring across the road in places.  As I zig-zag down the brutally steep, mountain switchbacks, my arms begin to ache with the constant braking.  

And then I started getting cold.  Really, really cold to point that I am shaking uncontrollably as I struggle to steer my bike.  I am growing a bit concerned about simply surviving, and hope that maybe by some incredible luck a car will happen to go past that I could flag down.  But there are no other signs of life on the secluded, lonely mountain road.  

Suddenly, in the darkest deepest forest, with rain bucketing down, we round yet another sharp corner and if by magic, a luxurious hot-springs resort materializes on the hill-side in front of us.  

Are we seeing a mirage?  "Perhaps this is a dream?" we ask ourselves as we slam on our brakes and then stagger up steep stairs to the magnificent building looming above us, hoping the guardians of this ethereal mountain retreat will take pity on us and allow us to warm up.   

The resort is otherworldly luxury and it all feels like the Shangri-La of Lost Horizons, especially as the resort's "High Lama" greets us warmly, ushers us into the spacious entrance hall and escorts us across the opulent, high-ceiling lobby to the cliffside, hot-springs baths   — all the while minions faithfully follow along behind us with towels mopping up the trail of puddles we leave behind.    

We soak in steaming hot outdoor baths, gazing out over a stunning view of high mountain ranges that disappear in the distant horizon  

Later we roam the tranquil grounds of the retreat and memories of the dark mountain ride fades away in transcendent calm of the mountain sanctuary.  We start to lose track of time (perhaps time passes differently in this parallel mountain realm?), until Mark recalls vaguely that he has a job and a family back in the other world below. We reluctantly bid farewell to the “High Lama” and the postulants seeking enlightenment at our remote alpine oasis.   

Maybe like the characters in Lost Horizons we should have chosen to just stay and live out our days in the idyllic peace  and comfort of our isolated Shangri-La onsen resort, far removed from the danger and turmoil of the outside world.  

Because more danger and adventure lay in our paths -- the downhill stretch of highway into Matsumoto is punctuated by long, narrow tunnels.  We need to ride quickly to reach our destination before dark, and we race down the busy, wet highway.  Soon we find ourselves riding through seemingly endless tunnels with buses and huge trucks screaming down the mountainside behind us, the roar of their engines echoing throughout the tunnel and the vibration rattling off the walls and road.  We cycle at breakneck speed  to stay ahead of the buses bearing down on us, knowing that even the slightest mistake would instantly result in a grisly, violent death.  This goes on for miles until the highway emerges into the rice fields surrounding the town of Matsumoto and we coast to our destination. 

Oh, yeah... the triathlon event itself....it was a bit disappointing again...  I seem to have totally overheated in my wetsuit, and then I lamely struggled through the ride and run.  I think I was like 33rd place out of 200...  

Just Swim Faster

When I was a kid we would go to a nearby lake on hot summer days and, as boys would do, race each other.  Racing for me then simply entailed kicking my legs and swinging my arms faster (swimming with a “higher cadence” if you must).  Swimming faster was intuitively obvious.

Fast-forward three-plus decades to the start of my triathlon life: upon arriving at the pool for my first day of swim training, the coach took one horrified look at my frantic, gasping effort to swim the 25-meter length of the pool and told me emphatically how I needed to slow everything down and fundamentally streamline my swim stroke.  Over the next few years I did my best to learn to glide through the water like a fish with a strong, smooth stroke.

And it worked.  I went from being absolutely last place out of the swim in my first triathlon to more respectable middle of the pack position   

Well it worked up to a point.  Eventually my swim progression hit a plateau, and then inexplicably went into reverse (see previous blog post) The swim coaches have continued telling me to “relax”. Problem it seems is that now I am relaxing way, way too much during the triathlons.  Relaxing so much that I have become really, really slow – losing all sense of even trying to “race” – forgetting what was obvious to me at the age of 10.  

The swim is the shortest portion of the triathlon, but it costs me a huge 10-minutes off my goal pace.  I decide that I have to do something to get back to swimming 2-minutes per 100-meters, but what?  And why do I keep tying up 5-minutes into each swim session?   I asked my teammates and coaches and spent hours searching the internet and watching youtube swim videos.  I tried various adjustments to body position and hand position and hip rotation.  And then one day I saw some boys playing at the pool and in a blinding flash of deep insight it hit me - "I will just swim faster!"
 

So swim training the past month has been a short-term experiment --  an experiment with higher cadence, an experiment in  "damage minimization" --  Can I will myself back to a sub 2-minute per 100-meter race pace that I was swimming 3 years ago? At the start of each interval I just tell myself to stroke fast. Forget the drills and the science and any progressive adaptation.  Every training session I do 2-minute per 100-meters intervals on short rest.  I add another 100-meter each day (like adding one push-up per day).  Mentally and physically I want myself to register this pace as my swim speed.   For the moment I abandon my bilateral breathing and really abandon any focus on swim technique (hopefully there are no swim coaches reading this blog post). 

I have not completely forgot all the coaches advice to “relax”.  What  I do is to just tell myself that I am relaxed.  As I churn my arms with higher cadence, spiking the water, rapidly catching, driving forward and breathing harder, I blow out the words “I feeeeel reeeeelaaaaaxxxxxeeddddd”  into the bubbles as I exhale into the water.  I really do this.  I am not kidding.  Every interval.  And I swear it actually works -- reconciling some of the annoyingly conflicting swim advice I have received – I do feel stronger and more relaxed and that I can maintain this rapid cadence. 

Last week I entered the Hayama Open Water Swim to test if my little experiment was working at all

Giant waves pound the beach, and the race officials cut the race from a 3k double loop to a 1.3k out-and-back.   I am a little freaked out.

But I remember to be like the kid on a lake on a hot summer day. I leap in the water and start chopping rapidly through the surf. I strive to “spike the fish” (make short, choppy strokes) as I climb over the waves.  As I plunge over some big swells, get kicked, and struggle to sight the buoy,  I blow out words into the water --  “I feeeeeel soooooo reeeelaaaaxedddddddd” “haaaavvvvving fuuuuuuuuun”   “could do this allllllll daaaaaaaay”  

Ultimately my time of 26:30 is a faster pace than any of the swims I have done over the past 12 months.  And that is not even taking into account the waves and my poor sighting.

It is really satisfying to realize this rebound in swim performance and for the moment it is fun to power through my workouts with my eyes trained on the clock. But don't get me wrong - I am the last person that would advocate any swim technique.  And I look forward to the end of my triathlon season and going back to "zen swimming"  

Surely the swim will be canceled?

Dark, angry, waves crash on the pier in front of us.  

Surely the race officials will spare us swimming in these perilous seas?  I stand on the shore waiting for the announcement that the swim is being canceled and replaced with a 5k run. 

When the starting gun is fired I am still in denial - you can see me in this picture gingerly hobbling out over the sharp rocks and into the roiling ocean - I am in no hurry to plunge into the rough currents. 

Funny thing is, the Oshima race is touted as being welcoming for first-time triathlete. Welcoming because of the lack of cut-off times, not because of swim conditions. Swim conditions were certainly not welcoming.  On this day dozens of participants did not make it through the swim - some 20% are listed as "DNF" on the results.  Most of these poor newbie swimmers seem to have piled up in front of me when I arrived at the second buoy (the race's first turn). It felt like the sinking of the Titanic with the previous waves of swimmers in different colored caps, back-stroking and treading water.   

You can actually see my own struggles at the second buoy -- the squiggle in the upper left corner from this GPS image where the powerful waves pushed me back as I tried to get around all the drowning, flailing beginners and sight the buoy.
  

I begin to grow concerned myself that I would join all the DNFers being plucked from the seas. But I managed to calm down and remind myself that I have finished numerous open water swims and some were in even worse conditions. 
















After the slow swim I feel I am just absolutely blowing past these beginner triathletes around me on the bike - "Wow, be careful at such incredibly high speeds"  I tell myself, "I am soooo fast, I must be setting a land speed record"

But apparently I was really not cycling at incredibly high speeds.  

When I check my split after bike I am 3 minutes slower than my bike time at Oshima several years ago in similar conditions. 

So on the run I am just trying to maintain some effort, some intensity, some focus on the present ... though lamentably, I have largely given up on today's event and cannot keep my thoughts from drifting to future races..  

At this point, as you can see,  I have plenty of energy to high-five my fans  

I do manage to summon the will to at least break 40-minutes on the run.  

Splits:
Swim - 36:34
Bike -  1:13:22
Run -   39:45

2016 Training - The Zen of Swimming

 

In 2015 I was so diligent about swim training. 

So diligent, and yet my whole swim experience was of near-drowning, oxygen-deprived agony.  

I would desperately struggle to stay with my teammate for 100-meters, gasping and sputtering the whole way.   

And before I could recover, we would do another 100-meters.   And then another, and another... 

I lived in constant dread at the prospect of the next horrific, nightmarish swim session.

My whole life deteriorated into a miserable, joyless slog -- I would go to bed dreading the thought of having to do a swim workout the next day, suffer through nightmares about swimming, and awaken to a wave of fear and dread at the prospect of that day’s workout. 

And I didn't improve.  

In fact my swimming got slower.  My time of 43 minutes for the triathlon swim in Korea was far longer than the  38 minutes it took me to cover 1.9-kilometers at Frankfurt and the 36 minutes it took me in Taiwan. 



************************************************

So this year I just do 20-minute relaxed sessions at my Spa

I use a big, buoyant pull buoy.  I focus on a few simple mechanics — chest down, stomach in, hips up.  Follow-through.

I don't worry about the clock or competitive concerns. Rather I simply try to stay in that present moment.  

Much of my focus is on breathing.  Bilateral breathing —  stroke, stroke, breath left, stroke, stoke, breath right.  

During these swims I start to realize a state of blissful placid calm.  I find that I am even achieving some of the meditative serenity and mindfulness that has always eluded me in yoga 

I am at one with the water surrounding me.  I am the water. The water is me.  There is no separation.  (Okay, I am starting to exaggerate, but only just a bit.) 

Anyway, I am not certain that there exists any relationship between these swim sessions and the tumultuous swim legs of my upcoming triathlons. We will see. But no matter -  my 2016 training is much more consistent with my training philosophy