Three nights in a row I’ve watched Julie shop on the internet for boots. She wants a pair of black, dressy leather boots, and I’m certain that she’ll buy the first pair that she showed me. But first she has to show me every other pair of boots on the internet. I’ve long since lost interest and I can’t even tell the difference between the boots when she explains the nuances, which she invariably does to some length. I ought to just log onto her computer and buy the first pair she looked at. The box would arrive on the doorstep in a few nights, no doubt as she leaned across the couch with her computer to show me yet another pair; and hopefully end the madness.
I once bought a gown for the Marine Corps Ball to end a similar aggravating episode. I was a young lieutenant and Julie needed a gown for the USMC ball. We were in Washington, D.C. at the time, so we drove our ’86 Aries wagon with puppy poop brown paint up to the Fair Oaks Mall and commenced walking through every department store. Our first port of call was J.C. Penney’s. Julie tried on a black sheath dress which knocked my eyes out. She looked incredible, and the dress was on clearance for $88. Naturally, she placed it back on the hanger with a shake of her head and continued to flip through the racks. I saw where this was going; a long day of traipsing through stores while she jumped in and out of gowns, never finding exactly what she wanted, always fretting over what might be in the next store, until finally panicking with the realization that the first gown was perfect and a dash back to J.C. Penney to learn that it was purchased three hours earlier by a woman somewhat less manic. So, I bought the gown while she was trying on a different dress and had the salesperson hide it behind the counter.
Countless hours and stores later, my wife suddenly decided that her life would be incomplete unless we were able to buy the black dress back at J.C. Penneys. A last mad dash across the mall ended with me triumphantly pulling the dress bag from behind the cash register and holding it up like a fresh kill and expecting rewards, both immediate and later, for my forethought.
My wife’s reaction was not positive. “You just played along all day when you had already bought the dress!” she accused and expecting rewards, both immediate and later, for my forethought.
My wife’s reaction was not positive. “You just played along all day when you had already bought the dress!” she accused. Umm, yeah, ‘cause I love you? The ride back to our apartment was quiet, but she’s worn the dress for 10 years. It still fits, she still looks sensational, and I’ve never been rewarded for my good conduct.
So, I’m going to order the stupid boots and end this misery.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
IronKids Triathlon in St. Pete
My oldest daughter ran the IronKids Triathlon in St. Pete this year. She had a great time, but I'm not entirely sure that she realized that she was in a race. She was strong in the swim, partly because she spends entire afternoons splashing around in our pool, but mostly because she was excited to use her new pink goggles, which we purchased the day before. She probably passed 5-6 other kids during the one-lap swim portion of the triathlon.
Her transition to the bike leg of the race was less smooth. Being a concerned dad, I jogged over to her bike to make sure she didn't need help. Sydney was less than concerned about getting on her bike, but greatly concerned that her ponytail wasn't straight. After 5 minutes (and I'm not kidding; it was 5 minutes), she was finally satisfied with her appearance and pedaled out onto the bike course.
Ten mintues later, I was still waiting for her to return from the bike route. Most of the other kids in her group were already running, and children from the next group were starting to trickle into the transition area. Just as I began to worry that my little girl had crashed into a tree, or, more likely, ran across a dog she wanted to pet, I saw her cruise into the parking lot with a smile on her face. She wasn't in a great hurry, judging from her casual waves to the crowd.
While racking her bike, she noticed the finisher's snack table, and my spindly-legged daughter can move when treats are involved. She dashed through the run course, pausing only once to see how much distance she had put between herself and some boys she knew. Spotting the finish line, she dashed the final 100 yards and ran through a little, white winner's banner that a pair of volunteers held up before each child.
IronKids is a quality event; safe for kids and manned by kid-friendly volunteers. I would recommend it for any child who enjoys swimming, biking, and running around the neighborhood. The volunteers literally carried the day when things didn't go as planned. The picture above shows a set of volunteers holding up the transition banner when it deflated. They could have easily moved the banner to the side, but they chose to hold it until every child had passed beneath.
My only caution revolves around the parents. Whoever these people are who bound up and down the swimming pool bleachers and run amok through the transition area screaming for their child to "go faster" are; they need to relax or shut up. Frankly, I'd be fine if they would just shut up. It's hard to imagine that the joy their children are experiencing isn't being compromised by the corrections and "encouragement" that their parents are hurling at them. My guess is that the parents are more concerned with their own priorities of success and failure; or else they wouldn't be so excited about the performance of a 8-year old child.
My little girl is already talking about her next race, and my youngest needed the training wheels removed from her bike so that she could start training for next year. I can't wait to see them splash, pedal, and dash through the next IronKids Triathlon.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Saturday Afternoon on the Couch
“I could really go for some salty nuts right now,” my wife blurted as we sat on the couch watching football this afternoon. That’s typical of the kind of crap she spews with a straight face.
“I can probably help you with that,” I responded, to which she smiled and handed me a scrap of paper with a list of groceries.
“Cool. Can you get this other stuff, too? I don’t have my hair brushed and I don’t feel like spending 30 minutes getting ready, just for the neighborhood geezers.” I grabbed my shoes and started for the door. “Oh,” she added, “get me a box of tampons, too. My period started today.”
Amazing. In four sentences, my weekend afternoon went from okay to promising, back to okay, and then plummeted to discouraging. On the positive side, there’s no real reason to expend the effort impressing her with a bunch of housework if we’re just going straight to sleep tonight.
“I can probably help you with that,” I responded, to which she smiled and handed me a scrap of paper with a list of groceries.
“Cool. Can you get this other stuff, too? I don’t have my hair brushed and I don’t feel like spending 30 minutes getting ready, just for the neighborhood geezers.” I grabbed my shoes and started for the door. “Oh,” she added, “get me a box of tampons, too. My period started today.”
Amazing. In four sentences, my weekend afternoon went from okay to promising, back to okay, and then plummeted to discouraging. On the positive side, there’s no real reason to expend the effort impressing her with a bunch of housework if we’re just going straight to sleep tonight.
My Wife Krazy-Glue's her Hand
My wife is amazing. She is a wonderful, patient mother, a caring wife, an involved volunteer at for the kids’ schools; and, most importantly, she looks awesome in her tight, low-cut jeans. Graceful she is not. Twice in the last month she has poked me in the eye while sleeping. Or; at least she claims she was sleeping.
There are advantages to this lack of grace. For example, I always know her whereabouts in the house. The rattles and clangs produced by her normal routine serve as a kind of constant foghorn, alerting me to watch for a swinging laundry door or avoid the kitchen area. And I never, ever, venture into the garden when she’s slinging the hoe or rake around.
The latest adventurous mishap started yesterday afternoon. I was sitting in my office with a couple of coworkers, struggling with a problem of logic and importance, when Bel Biv Devoe’s “Poison” blared from my IPhone, announcing a call from my wife. “Yes, babe,” I answered.
“What’s your timeline for coming home?” Ugh. That is never, ever a good question to hear.
“That depends upon what you need, babe.” Translation: Tell me what you’ve done and I’ll decide whether I have to come fix it now or if it will wait until after work.
“I cut my hand... a little.”
“How ’little’?”
“Well, it’s been bleeding a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” This is a normal game, whereby my betrothed offers snippets of info and I guess what she’s talking about until either the truth is revealed or she decides that I’m not a good listener. It’s a blast.
“Maybe an hour…maybe a little longer.”
“How much longer,” I ask, masking my growing frustration.
“I don’t know…90 minutes or so.”
Huh? “You’ve been bleeding for a f**** hour and a half and haven’t done anything about it?”
“I’m calling you now.” I didn’t hear “dumbass” on the end of her sentence, but she left no doubt as to her meaning.
I finally surrendered, realizing that this call wasn’t going to result in progress. “I’m on my way.”
I home and ran in the door to find my wife walking around the house with toilet paper wrapped around her hand and the phone in her ear. Assuming she was talking to a doctor, I tried to get close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. My wife shook her head at me and walked a few steps away. “Well, yes,” she said into the phone, “when we re-did the kitchen, we had the tile floor done first so the cabinets could be put in on a new floor.” I waved my arms to get her attention, but she just shrugged me off. For ten minutes, I sat impotently on a stool, watching my wife walk around the house with the phone squeezed into the crook of her neck, debating the virtues of granite versus marble as a kitchen counter top, while wrestling with her blood-sodden hand wrap. She went through two bandages before hanging up and turning to me with a shrug.
“That was Jenny in Tennessee,” my wife said. Seeing the look on my face, she added, “She had questions about kitchen remodeling.” I continued to stare at her. “Well, she called me. I couldn’t just hang up.”
“How’s your hand?” I asked.
“Oh, that.” I’ve got an idea. I think I can superglue it.
“What the hell?” I thought as she dragged me to the kitchen sink. She stuck her hand under the cold water and I got my first glimpse of the crevasse she had sliced through her palm. “How did you do that?” I asked as she rinse away at the blood oozing from the gash.
“Can of peas,” she responded, pinching the gap together and handing me the tube of glue. “Now, put a thick bead of glue on it.”
“The glue will seal it. Now, quit yapping and glue my hand.” I was tempted to glue her palm to her mouth.
She was still bleeding enough that she had to hold a towel while I pinch the skin together and glued the seam. Naturally, I glued our hands together, which resulting in re-opening her wound as I pulled our appendages apart to her running commentary on my lack of home-surgery competence. The second attempt seemed to work, leaving her with a gummy, reddish streak across her hand. “You think I can run tonight,” she asked with a straight face. I walked to the bedroom to change.
I later learned that this medical technique had been emparted to my dearest by a doctor friend. Since he doesn’t like to read, I’m not sure how much faith to put into his advice. You would think that the medical annals would have something to say about advising a patient to avoid the emergency room by use of Krazy Glue. However, if a doctor doesn’t read, as this one states, then I suppose the threat of learning is considerably diminished.
The hand seems to be healing, with no sign of infection. Apparently, Krazy Glue is the money-saving miracle cure parents needs around the house. Julie can’t wait until our next mishap to test her skills. As long as the accident isn’t in the region of my crotch, I’ll let her give it a shot.
There are advantages to this lack of grace. For example, I always know her whereabouts in the house. The rattles and clangs produced by her normal routine serve as a kind of constant foghorn, alerting me to watch for a swinging laundry door or avoid the kitchen area. And I never, ever, venture into the garden when she’s slinging the hoe or rake around.
The latest adventurous mishap started yesterday afternoon. I was sitting in my office with a couple of coworkers, struggling with a problem of logic and importance, when Bel Biv Devoe’s “Poison” blared from my IPhone, announcing a call from my wife. “Yes, babe,” I answered.
“What’s your timeline for coming home?” Ugh. That is never, ever a good question to hear.
“That depends upon what you need, babe.” Translation: Tell me what you’ve done and I’ll decide whether I have to come fix it now or if it will wait until after work.
“I cut my hand... a little.”
“How ’little’?”
“Well, it’s been bleeding a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” This is a normal game, whereby my betrothed offers snippets of info and I guess what she’s talking about until either the truth is revealed or she decides that I’m not a good listener. It’s a blast.
“Maybe an hour…maybe a little longer.”
“How much longer,” I ask, masking my growing frustration.
“I don’t know…90 minutes or so.”
Huh? “You’ve been bleeding for a f**** hour and a half and haven’t done anything about it?”
“I’m calling you now.” I didn’t hear “dumbass” on the end of her sentence, but she left no doubt as to her meaning.
I finally surrendered, realizing that this call wasn’t going to result in progress. “I’m on my way.”
I home and ran in the door to find my wife walking around the house with toilet paper wrapped around her hand and the phone in her ear. Assuming she was talking to a doctor, I tried to get close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. My wife shook her head at me and walked a few steps away. “Well, yes,” she said into the phone, “when we re-did the kitchen, we had the tile floor done first so the cabinets could be put in on a new floor.” I waved my arms to get her attention, but she just shrugged me off. For ten minutes, I sat impotently on a stool, watching my wife walk around the house with the phone squeezed into the crook of her neck, debating the virtues of granite versus marble as a kitchen counter top, while wrestling with her blood-sodden hand wrap. She went through two bandages before hanging up and turning to me with a shrug.
“That was Jenny in Tennessee,” my wife said. Seeing the look on my face, she added, “She had questions about kitchen remodeling.” I continued to stare at her. “Well, she called me. I couldn’t just hang up.”
“How’s your hand?” I asked.
“Oh, that.” I’ve got an idea. I think I can superglue it.
“What the hell?” I thought as she dragged me to the kitchen sink. She stuck her hand under the cold water and I got my first glimpse of the crevasse she had sliced through her palm. “How did you do that?” I asked as she rinse away at the blood oozing from the gash.
“Can of peas,” she responded, pinching the gap together and handing me the tube of glue. “Now, put a thick bead of glue on it.”
“The glue will seal it. Now, quit yapping and glue my hand.” I was tempted to glue her palm to her mouth.
She was still bleeding enough that she had to hold a towel while I pinch the skin together and glued the seam. Naturally, I glued our hands together, which resulting in re-opening her wound as I pulled our appendages apart to her running commentary on my lack of home-surgery competence. The second attempt seemed to work, leaving her with a gummy, reddish streak across her hand. “You think I can run tonight,” she asked with a straight face. I walked to the bedroom to change.
I later learned that this medical technique had been emparted to my dearest by a doctor friend. Since he doesn’t like to read, I’m not sure how much faith to put into his advice. You would think that the medical annals would have something to say about advising a patient to avoid the emergency room by use of Krazy Glue. However, if a doctor doesn’t read, as this one states, then I suppose the threat of learning is considerably diminished.
The hand seems to be healing, with no sign of infection. Apparently, Krazy Glue is the money-saving miracle cure parents needs around the house. Julie can’t wait until our next mishap to test her skills. As long as the accident isn’t in the region of my crotch, I’ll let her give it a shot.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Brutal Triathlon in Clermont
The Florida Challenge Triathlon was far tougher than I expected. I was better prepared for this race than any event in my life, but the hills and heat tore the heart out of my performance. By the time I reached T2, I was badly dehydrated and in semi-shock from an encounter with a small alligator.
The swim was in the 88-degree, tea-colored water of Lake Minneola. No wind, no waves, complete boredom. The nightmare started exited T1, when I had to mount my bike and climb an immediate slope up to right turn to exit Clermont.
Within 10 miles, I was surfing up and down hills for which I don’t even own gears. I also have little experience shifting my front derailleur, leading to an unfortunate incident whereby I over-shifted, dropped the chain off the big ring, rolled onto the soft shoulder, and flipped over the aerobars and into the ditch. I found myself under a tree, so I relaxed for a few moments, enjoying the only shade I would experience all day.
Two hours later, I was finally nearing the end of the bike leg. I was celebrating a rare piece of level asphalt by stretching across my aerobars. I swerved to barely miss a piece of tire rubber and almost crapped myself when the “tire rubber” whirled around and hissed at me. I was 50 feet past the animal before I realized that I almost clipped a gator. A dull shriek cut the air as I crested the next hill. Hopefully, the rider behind me didn’t actually hit the little critter.
The Florida Challenge bike course is not for time trial bikes. Unique among Sunshine State triathlons, this course is nearly vertical. My Garmin GPS later told me that I rode over 5000 feet of elevation, and I felt every inch.
The heat was taking a toll by mile 50. I was able to fill my aerobottle four times, thanks to the great volunteers manning the aid stations. One result of the heat was swollen feet. The sharp pain finally overwhelmed me and I stopped and peeled off my socks in a driveway, laying them across a mailbox while I got readjusted on my bike. Just as I was ready to roll, I dropped my bike bottle, and had to start all over. I was a mile down the road, entering Clermont, when I realized that my nasty socks were still drying on the mailbox.
Things seemed to be going reasonably well as I entered T2, except when I racked my bike the rear wheel slipped off and clattered to the ground. I suppose the good news is that it didn’t slip off when I was careening down a hill at 50+ mph.
The heat struck as I launched into the half marathon. The course is a 6-mile, 2-loop jaunt with no shade. I felt fine for the first two miles, right up to the point, 30 feet shy of the Clermont cheerleaders aid station, when all the fluid in my stomach decided to revisit the outside world. “Ewwwww!” sang out a chorus of young voices. Staring down, I learned that Orange and Lime Gatorade mix to create a brown swirl. This epiphany motivated my stomach to hurl the rest of it’s contents onto the ground, to another chorus of young, feminine squeals.
The next ten miles passed in a haze of heat and misery, but I was able to cross the finish line and muster enough energy to pack my gear and point my truck back towards distant Tampa. My only real complaint was that after all the miles of discomfort, the race organizers ran out of large t-shirts, forcing me to accept a finisher’s shirt which is more of a mini-dress than a shirt. When I finally arrived home, my girls begged to go on a bike ride.
The swim was in the 88-degree, tea-colored water of Lake Minneola. No wind, no waves, complete boredom. The nightmare started exited T1, when I had to mount my bike and climb an immediate slope up to right turn to exit Clermont.
Within 10 miles, I was surfing up and down hills for which I don’t even own gears. I also have little experience shifting my front derailleur, leading to an unfortunate incident whereby I over-shifted, dropped the chain off the big ring, rolled onto the soft shoulder, and flipped over the aerobars and into the ditch. I found myself under a tree, so I relaxed for a few moments, enjoying the only shade I would experience all day.
Two hours later, I was finally nearing the end of the bike leg. I was celebrating a rare piece of level asphalt by stretching across my aerobars. I swerved to barely miss a piece of tire rubber and almost crapped myself when the “tire rubber” whirled around and hissed at me. I was 50 feet past the animal before I realized that I almost clipped a gator. A dull shriek cut the air as I crested the next hill. Hopefully, the rider behind me didn’t actually hit the little critter.
The Florida Challenge bike course is not for time trial bikes. Unique among Sunshine State triathlons, this course is nearly vertical. My Garmin GPS later told me that I rode over 5000 feet of elevation, and I felt every inch.
The heat was taking a toll by mile 50. I was able to fill my aerobottle four times, thanks to the great volunteers manning the aid stations. One result of the heat was swollen feet. The sharp pain finally overwhelmed me and I stopped and peeled off my socks in a driveway, laying them across a mailbox while I got readjusted on my bike. Just as I was ready to roll, I dropped my bike bottle, and had to start all over. I was a mile down the road, entering Clermont, when I realized that my nasty socks were still drying on the mailbox.
Things seemed to be going reasonably well as I entered T2, except when I racked my bike the rear wheel slipped off and clattered to the ground. I suppose the good news is that it didn’t slip off when I was careening down a hill at 50+ mph.
The heat struck as I launched into the half marathon. The course is a 6-mile, 2-loop jaunt with no shade. I felt fine for the first two miles, right up to the point, 30 feet shy of the Clermont cheerleaders aid station, when all the fluid in my stomach decided to revisit the outside world. “Ewwwww!” sang out a chorus of young voices. Staring down, I learned that Orange and Lime Gatorade mix to create a brown swirl. This epiphany motivated my stomach to hurl the rest of it’s contents onto the ground, to another chorus of young, feminine squeals.
The next ten miles passed in a haze of heat and misery, but I was able to cross the finish line and muster enough energy to pack my gear and point my truck back towards distant Tampa. My only real complaint was that after all the miles of discomfort, the race organizers ran out of large t-shirts, forcing me to accept a finisher’s shirt which is more of a mini-dress than a shirt. When I finally arrived home, my girls begged to go on a bike ride.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Intervals aren't Funny
Interval Training
Intervals are painful. Your legs muscles will strain until they turn to rubber. Your lungs will whistle as you pull air into your chest. After the first two sprints, your legs will weaken and threaten to rebel during each acceleration, requiring you to force yourself forward with your mind as much as your calves. And that’s all before the nausea settles into your guts and tries to evict whatever tenants arrived during your last meal.
Intervals are also the most powerful weapon in your arsenal for improving performance. A six week interval rotation will measurably lower your average pace by several seconds. It will also put a powerful kick into your weaponry, allowing you to accelerate through the last quarter-mile of your next race, leaving your competition in a puddle of shame and tears.
I have a weekly interval group run which starts and finishes at my house on Wednesday evenings. Eight of us bound out of the neighborhood like a New Kids reunion video, trotting down to the bay to kick into our interval patterns. I’m proud to say that we no longer run until someone vomits, but I’ve spent more than one late night in the bathroom with a good book and a garbage can.
Intervals build speed by training your mind and body to run harder. In a nutshell…you have to run faster in order to run faster.
Here is my three phase plan for interval training.
Definitions:
Speed percentages (%) - all speeds/paces are given as a percentage of your own maximum speed; the maximum speed that you can maintain for a half mile interval.
Phase One: Interval Base (6 Weeks x 1 workout/week)
Find a half-mile of uninterrupted pavement. Your goal is to train your body to conduct intervals, concentrating upon your form and cadence. This basing phase is critical to avoiding injury as you progress towards the more difficult phases of interval training.
· Jog 1 half-mile to warm up.
· Stretch your legs and relax your mind. Take a few deep breaths, and…
· Run 1 interval at about 70% of your maximum speed.
· Rest for 2 minutes
· Run your second interval at 80%
· Rest and repeat for 3 more intervals
· Run your last interval with everything you have in the tank, but maintaining proper form.
· Jog one interval and cool down with light stretching.
Phase Two: Interval Training (6 Weeks x 1-2 workouts/week)
· Jog 1-2 miles at a comfortable pace
· Interval Sequence (start with 6 and continue until you can run 10)
o 1 Minute at 80%
o 1 Minute rest interval
· Cool down jog
· Last 500 meters- accelerate and finish at 80% of maximum speed
Phase Three: Interval Training (10 Weeks x 1 workout/week)
· Jog 1-2 miles at a comfortable pace
· Interval sequence (start with 3 and continue until you can reach your goal. My goal is 4 sets)
o 3 Minutes at 80%
o 2 Minutes jogging for rest interval
· Cool down jog
· Last mile- accelerate to 80% of your maximum pace and leave everything on the road.
As your next race approaches, drop intervals from your training so that you can taper. I eliminate intervals from my schedule for the two weeks before any event.
Interval Tips:
1. Don’t sprint through your first fast interval. Odds are, you’ll bonk out before you finish your workout. Run your intervals consistently at 80% of your maximum speed. If you have extra gas in the tank, then burn it off in your cool-down leg and plan for faster intervals on your next workout.
2. Concentrate on a quick running cadence. This will keep your foot strike under your center of gravity. If you lengthen your stride, then you are using your fast-twitch, power muscles, which will burn out in minutes, not hours. A quick cadence trains your body to maintain a high heart rate and improves your aerobic capacity. That’s the key result of interval training and will translate into faster pacing for your next 10K or marathon.
3. Evening and nighttime interval workouts can interfere with your sleep pattern. It takes considerably longer to “come down” from the intensity of interval training. The good news is that your legs and body will have a wonderful, warm and relaxed feeling.
4. Monitor for injuries- Interval training is tough on the body. Watch for soreness in the soles of your feet. This will occur due to the increased strain that you put on your arches in the sprinting. If the soreness doesn’t dissipate, then take a couple of ibuprophen and a week off. Your heels are the other trouble spot. Be careful with your form and monitor your heels for bruising. If you experience tenderness that doesn’t fade after a day, then take a week off.
5. Concentrate upon your rest intervals. It is not only the sprint intervals that control the quality of your training. You will gain more by focusing upon your rest intervals, ensuring that you run your sprints with enough discipline that you are able to (barely) manage to hold a 60% pace on your rest cycles. This is where you make your money in interval training.
6. How do you know you’re ready to move to the next phase? When you can complete the sequence and comfortably maintain your rest pace at 50-60 percent of your maximum.Measure success by the gradual increase in distance covered through the intervals. As the weeks go by, you’ll notice that you run farther through your sequence; until you move to the next phase and start again.
Intervals are painful. Your legs muscles will strain until they turn to rubber. Your lungs will whistle as you pull air into your chest. After the first two sprints, your legs will weaken and threaten to rebel during each acceleration, requiring you to force yourself forward with your mind as much as your calves. And that’s all before the nausea settles into your guts and tries to evict whatever tenants arrived during your last meal.
Intervals are also the most powerful weapon in your arsenal for improving performance. A six week interval rotation will measurably lower your average pace by several seconds. It will also put a powerful kick into your weaponry, allowing you to accelerate through the last quarter-mile of your next race, leaving your competition in a puddle of shame and tears.
I have a weekly interval group run which starts and finishes at my house on Wednesday evenings. Eight of us bound out of the neighborhood like a New Kids reunion video, trotting down to the bay to kick into our interval patterns. I’m proud to say that we no longer run until someone vomits, but I’ve spent more than one late night in the bathroom with a good book and a garbage can.
Intervals build speed by training your mind and body to run harder. In a nutshell…you have to run faster in order to run faster.
Here is my three phase plan for interval training.
Definitions:
Speed percentages (%) - all speeds/paces are given as a percentage of your own maximum speed; the maximum speed that you can maintain for a half mile interval.
Phase One: Interval Base (6 Weeks x 1 workout/week)
Find a half-mile of uninterrupted pavement. Your goal is to train your body to conduct intervals, concentrating upon your form and cadence. This basing phase is critical to avoiding injury as you progress towards the more difficult phases of interval training.
· Jog 1 half-mile to warm up.
· Stretch your legs and relax your mind. Take a few deep breaths, and…
· Run 1 interval at about 70% of your maximum speed.
· Rest for 2 minutes
· Run your second interval at 80%
· Rest and repeat for 3 more intervals
· Run your last interval with everything you have in the tank, but maintaining proper form.
· Jog one interval and cool down with light stretching.
Phase Two: Interval Training (6 Weeks x 1-2 workouts/week)
· Jog 1-2 miles at a comfortable pace
· Interval Sequence (start with 6 and continue until you can run 10)
o 1 Minute at 80%
o 1 Minute rest interval
· Cool down jog
· Last 500 meters- accelerate and finish at 80% of maximum speed
Phase Three: Interval Training (10 Weeks x 1 workout/week)
· Jog 1-2 miles at a comfortable pace
· Interval sequence (start with 3 and continue until you can reach your goal. My goal is 4 sets)
o 3 Minutes at 80%
o 2 Minutes jogging for rest interval
· Cool down jog
· Last mile- accelerate to 80% of your maximum pace and leave everything on the road.
As your next race approaches, drop intervals from your training so that you can taper. I eliminate intervals from my schedule for the two weeks before any event.
Interval Tips:
1. Don’t sprint through your first fast interval. Odds are, you’ll bonk out before you finish your workout. Run your intervals consistently at 80% of your maximum speed. If you have extra gas in the tank, then burn it off in your cool-down leg and plan for faster intervals on your next workout.
2. Concentrate on a quick running cadence. This will keep your foot strike under your center of gravity. If you lengthen your stride, then you are using your fast-twitch, power muscles, which will burn out in minutes, not hours. A quick cadence trains your body to maintain a high heart rate and improves your aerobic capacity. That’s the key result of interval training and will translate into faster pacing for your next 10K or marathon.
3. Evening and nighttime interval workouts can interfere with your sleep pattern. It takes considerably longer to “come down” from the intensity of interval training. The good news is that your legs and body will have a wonderful, warm and relaxed feeling.
4. Monitor for injuries- Interval training is tough on the body. Watch for soreness in the soles of your feet. This will occur due to the increased strain that you put on your arches in the sprinting. If the soreness doesn’t dissipate, then take a couple of ibuprophen and a week off. Your heels are the other trouble spot. Be careful with your form and monitor your heels for bruising. If you experience tenderness that doesn’t fade after a day, then take a week off.
5. Concentrate upon your rest intervals. It is not only the sprint intervals that control the quality of your training. You will gain more by focusing upon your rest intervals, ensuring that you run your sprints with enough discipline that you are able to (barely) manage to hold a 60% pace on your rest cycles. This is where you make your money in interval training.
6. How do you know you’re ready to move to the next phase? When you can complete the sequence and comfortably maintain your rest pace at 50-60 percent of your maximum.Measure success by the gradual increase in distance covered through the intervals. As the weeks go by, you’ll notice that you run farther through your sequence; until you move to the next phase and start again.
Friday, August 27, 2010
I Buy a Bike Trainer
I bought a Kurt Kinetic trainer for my bike last week and set it up in the back room. (www.kurtkinetic.com) The instructions were easy and it took less than 15 minutes to mount my Specialized Allez road bike, setting it up facing the windows with a nice view of the pool. I’ve debated this investment for a long time. In the end, the reasons were overwhelming (translation: my wife wanted the trainer)
· Weather- I don’t like running my bike on wet roads because the dirt and grime wear on the expensive moving parts. In Florida, this causes me more than a little grief, due to all the freak’in geezers who have their sprinklers pointed at the road.
· Safety- There’s an obvious geezer reference here, but it’s really the newspaper guy that is the most dangerous foe on my morning workout. He almost took my life. About two years ago, I found myself head to head with a 10-year old Mitsubishi, reenacting the scene from Top Gun where Goose and Maverick go nose-to-nose with Viper over the desert floor, swerving at the last minute to avoid imminent death and maneuver for a missile shot and dinner with Kelly McGillis. My experience was the same, except the Mitsubishi driver had his dome light on and was driving from the passenger seat. Also, when I “broke right,” I crashed through two azalea bushes and a metal garbage can. It sounded like Animal, from the Muppets, beating his head on his cymbals. The newspaper guy never noticed, so he most likely has no clue why I scream at him and throw loose change whenever our paths cross.
· My wife can train- Actually, I don’t’ care about this, but it helped justify the cost of the trainer, thus preventing another expensive item from landing on the “toys for daddy” list which seems to count against me. Having a training tool for both my wife and I has proven more of a hindrance than a help. I’m forever adjusting the seat to her size and changing the pedals. Apparently, she can’t do these things. Apparently she isn’t sure how high to put the seat, and the pedals screw in the wrong way, and she’s suddenly afraid that she’ll scratch my bike, and…and…and she’s weak and math is hard. Whatever.
· I don’t need long, straight roads- I bike so that I can run triathlons. Therefore, I need long, uninterrupted stretches to work on my time trial strength. With the trainer I can put my head down, turn up some music on the Iphone, and rip out some miles without worrying about traffic, stop lights, or intersections.
To this point, the only bad thing about the indoor trainer is the lack of scenery. However, I can offset this by watching movies on my computer and listening to music. Judging from my heart monitor’s readings, an hour on the trainer is equal to about eighty minutes on the road. Of course that 20 minute advantage costs a couple of hundred dollars, but who can put a price on good health; or on getting to watch my wife spinning in her tight cycling shorts while I eat a turkey sandwich and drink a beer at the kitchen counter. Nice.
· Weather- I don’t like running my bike on wet roads because the dirt and grime wear on the expensive moving parts. In Florida, this causes me more than a little grief, due to all the freak’in geezers who have their sprinklers pointed at the road.
· Safety- There’s an obvious geezer reference here, but it’s really the newspaper guy that is the most dangerous foe on my morning workout. He almost took my life. About two years ago, I found myself head to head with a 10-year old Mitsubishi, reenacting the scene from Top Gun where Goose and Maverick go nose-to-nose with Viper over the desert floor, swerving at the last minute to avoid imminent death and maneuver for a missile shot and dinner with Kelly McGillis. My experience was the same, except the Mitsubishi driver had his dome light on and was driving from the passenger seat. Also, when I “broke right,” I crashed through two azalea bushes and a metal garbage can. It sounded like Animal, from the Muppets, beating his head on his cymbals. The newspaper guy never noticed, so he most likely has no clue why I scream at him and throw loose change whenever our paths cross.
· My wife can train- Actually, I don’t’ care about this, but it helped justify the cost of the trainer, thus preventing another expensive item from landing on the “toys for daddy” list which seems to count against me. Having a training tool for both my wife and I has proven more of a hindrance than a help. I’m forever adjusting the seat to her size and changing the pedals. Apparently, she can’t do these things. Apparently she isn’t sure how high to put the seat, and the pedals screw in the wrong way, and she’s suddenly afraid that she’ll scratch my bike, and…and…and she’s weak and math is hard. Whatever.
· I don’t need long, straight roads- I bike so that I can run triathlons. Therefore, I need long, uninterrupted stretches to work on my time trial strength. With the trainer I can put my head down, turn up some music on the Iphone, and rip out some miles without worrying about traffic, stop lights, or intersections.
To this point, the only bad thing about the indoor trainer is the lack of scenery. However, I can offset this by watching movies on my computer and listening to music. Judging from my heart monitor’s readings, an hour on the trainer is equal to about eighty minutes on the road. Of course that 20 minute advantage costs a couple of hundred dollars, but who can put a price on good health; or on getting to watch my wife spinning in her tight cycling shorts while I eat a turkey sandwich and drink a beer at the kitchen counter. Nice.
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