“A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”
            - John Steinbeck

At long last I have achieved this amazing goal in my life.  I am happy yet sore, wondering how I ever got to this point.  As many of you know, tackling a goal like a Full Distance Triathlon is one that takes much time and preparation.  My journey in the world of triathlons started in March of 2003 with a sprint triathlon in Charlotte before I even moved there.  On that final lap of the run I was overcome with emotion that I would finish.  It was a powerful feeling.  I have never forgotten that emotion and have kept it close to me through the four plus years of rollercoasting that would follow.

Following the conclusion of the 2006 season, I had completed five Half Ironman distance events.  Not a single one of them was easy, but I knew that the time had come to dream the next seemingly impossible event.  I have vivid memories of watching the Hawaii Ironman race at Kona as a boy.  Who can forget Julie Moss crawling across the finish line?  The agony of defeat.   While I will most likely never make it to Kona, being a part of that dream was possible, and it started at home.  The original contingent interested in Vineman met around the New Year to hear about the race and organize.  Right at the start of the event, race announcer Steve King jokingly stated

  “2.4 mile swim. 112 mile bike. 26.2 mile run.  It sounded like a good idea when you wrote the check!”

Who in their right mind puts hundreds and hundreds of dollars down on a race so ridiculous so far in the future?!?  I had thought of that rant, but I guess that was me.  There were three key events during my ramp-up for this event.  The first was the first sprint triathlon in the Charlotte area.  It was my first race with my new super Trek Madone 5.2 named “Holman” after the original Erik Weihenmayer, Brit James Holman who was known during the early 19^th century as the “Blind Traveler.”  Holman performed like a champ, and he better had since I could have bought another car with the money!  The next was my mid-April marathon.  Originally slated to be in St. Louis, I instead ended up running perhaps the most obscure marathon in America, located in Jackon, TN and of course named “The Andrew Jackson Marathon.”  Talk about giving up an otherwise normal life.  Instead of being at my friend’s wedding in the French countryside, I was in the Tennessee countryside being chased by dogs!  I was very sick before this race, and thought I could tap out an 8 minute mile.  With only 61 others, it was somewhat lacking in-field support.  Okay, so it wasn’t everything I had hoped for, but considering the circumstances I was happy with my accomplishment.  The training event was a Half Ironman in Georgia.  The swim went fine, and I was on fire with the bike and ended up with my best Half bike time.  That came at a great cost, as I suffered mightily under the sweltering Macon sun.  Quite easily the nadir of my year, I had won the battle but lost the war.  I would have to think and train smarter to make the leap I had only dreamed about.

The endless training and waiting game was the journey for me, ever present of the reality that I could very well not have the control any reasonable person could insist on when preparing for this event.  But the show went on, getting up at 5AM for hundred mile rides, always running after work, never stopping.  The run was the only portion I had accomplished before, so finally hitting that century mark was big for me.  I completed four such rides, three of which included a brick run afterwards to train the muscles and psyche.  The swim was a concern, but the least important of the three.  Despite my performance in Macon, I continued to put the top emphasis on the bike, if only for the sake of coming off with the endurance necessary to Galloway my way across the finish line.

Tapering for the race began three weeks before.  Even though the plane ticket had been bought a month or so ago and the motel arranged, it only really hit me when Holman was boxed up and shipped to Seattle what I had put myself into.  I was not particularly looking forward to the taper, especially for this extended period.  I do not play the waiting game all that well, and became relatively bored and anxious.  The only upside was this meant the race was that much closer.  Getting out at the 24 Hours of Booty event was great, but it was very restrictive as even with my 70 miles I knew I had gone too far.

Even packing turned me into a momentary OCD disaster!  I had one carry-on with all my ultra important items just in case my checked baggage was lost.  The wetsuit did not quite fit though.  The journey proper began on Thursday the 2^nd with an early morning flight to SFO via Atlanta.  Once through security with my bag I thought my worries were over. The flight was delayed thirty minutes, so I had to run like the wind through the Atlanta terminal.  I fretted about my big bag the whole way to SFO.  Thankfully my long legs were treated to exit rows on both legs and I had plenty of salty snacks to munch on through the day.  And then there was my bag on the carousel!!

Temps were noticeably cooler.  Naturally I had watched the Santa Rosa forecast like a hawk.  The trend was in my favor, there was a cooling trend that would put sun on Saturday, but only with a high of 80 degrees.  I took the hour plus journey north from SFO to Santa Rosa on a shuttle bus.  As we passed over the Golden Gate Bridge I remembered I had recently been reading about it on Wikipedia (but not on a Saturday night!), specifically the crisis phones they have placed to prevent suicides.  There they were!  And lots of tourists, happily biking, walking, and running across.  If only I felt happy about those things too!  At the Charles Schulz Sonoma County airport I was met by my parents, whom had driven down in their camper van.  Attached on the back was my ticket through nearly 80% of the mileage.  Holman had magically reappeared and been reassembled for this mighty task.  On the way out I couldn’t help but notice the barbecue that the air traffic controllers had hoisted to the top.  Now that’s a special touch!

Directly north of Santa Rosa is the town of Windsor.  The high school was the central T2 location of the Vineman triathlons.  Once there we took the time to drive the run course.  It snaked around the back end of the airport.  The road was very rural, and seemed to have decent shade from the overhanging eucalyptus.  There were three notable climbs.  Whoever told me the run was similar to running in Dilworth must have found a sharp-pitched monster of a rise that I have not yet found!  The course was simply 4.37 miles out.  This meant three laps, six times on each leg.  Ugh.

From there, we went to the motel then joined up with the other Vineman survivor from Charlotte, John Hoover.  He was staying at the garish Flamingo Hotel.  Our group then picked our way through Peanuts characters in the open area shopping area and finally decided on a steakhouse for dinner.  The sirloin I had was rather tasty.  And I forgot I did not have to say “unsweetened” ice tea when I ordered.

Friday was another long day of waiting, but thankfully the last.  My family (known as Team Bodien) waited for its final member, my brother Andrew who drove from Portland.  He arrived around the noon hour.  From there we drove the bike course.  This is the vine part of Vineman, endless miles of Sonoma County vineyards.  The start at T1 was along the Russian River in Guerneville.  It was cooler in this valley.  My parents related to me having watched the weather trends that there would most likely be several hours of fog/cloud cover on race day.  That should get me off the swim, and several hours into the bike.  Biking east from there put you past the Korbel vineyards, then on to a monstrous CW loop north through the Dry Creek Valley, up Canyon Road, and then south through the Alexander Valley.  The last major portion was the big hill on the course, Chalk Hill.  While not too exposed, it was definitely pitched enough to be tough.  I saw myself taking it strongly the first time around, but on the second loop and at mile 100, which would be another matter!

The pre-race meeting was in a jam-packed auditorium of the high school.  I really had no concrete idea how many people were doing this race.  There was no way to tell online how many were registered.  My guess was 300-400 people.  But being present with the others made me feel better.  It lifted me out of my anxiety-ridden experience – just enough.  Most of these people are just like me.  And to clarify, there was another main event being run concurrently.  Vineman is a number of races, the most popular being the open Half Ironman that was held two weeks earlier.  This race featured some of the biggest names in the sport.  There was another Half Ironman with my race, but it is a women’s only fundraiser event called “Barb’s Race.”  There was one Charlottean type that completed this race, a woman named Jen who I met on one of my training rides. 

After that we eventually found out way to a small corner Italian restaurant.  Luigi had some great food!  I tried hard not pig out, as I was following a specific plan.  For those not aware, nutrition plays a key role to determine whether you have a good day or not.  Unlike the big pasta gorging events for dinner the night before, I was trying to race smarter.  I was in bed sometime after 9 and was pleased to fall asleep relatively quickly given my anxious state.

My first alarm was at 2:30 for breakfast.  Four to five hours before race start about a 1000 calories.  Four cans of Ensure (am I 64 yet?  Is my name Norman?  Does my belt come up to chest?), bagel with peanut butter, a banana.  Deep breath.  Reset the alarm for five.  Fall asleep again. Up now, this time for real.  Re-check all the bags.  Move Holman into my brother’s car.  All systems go.  It is quiet, foggy, and quite cold outside.  We briefly head up 101 before heading west towards Guerneville.  

The first transition area is a gravel parking lot adjacent to Johnson’s Resort.  The stones are larger than average, and carpets are set to move traffic from the swim and out to the bike, but the inside where Holman is racked is stone.  I carefully prepare my site and then get in one of the longest lines I’ve seen raceday for the bathrooms.  I got marked while in line and the fretted away my time.  I came out of the bathroom dangerously close to the start.  It was here that Team Bodien shined, holding out exactly what I needed and I quickly jumped into my wetsuit.  I then ran to the gate.  As I passed a random man helped me zip up.  I threw on my swim cap, doused my goggles and waited towards the first wave, which had been waiting in the deep water area for numerous minutes.  This stress could have been a disaster.  Or was it worth it versus sitting around killing more time?  This was the big moment I had been prepping for all these months.  One last calm uttering of the Litany Against Fear.  Its effect was calming – no repeats were needed.  And then the airhorn I had waited forever to hear.

         “The hall’s been rented, the orchestra engaged.  It’s time to see if you can dance.”

The swim was in the Russian River.  The water temperature was 75 degrees, which made it wetsuit legal, but not by much.  It would have been my preference for much colder temperatures.  My main concern was overheating.  I had one or two swim workouts that got me close to two miles, but nothing closer.  The course followed the river upstream along the southern shore, under a major railroad and road crossing.  The morning fog and narrow channel was a new swimming experience for me.  Above all I stayed calm. The buoyancy of the suit allowed virtually no leg work.  Like any other triathlete I would burn my arms, only enough energy to hold on to the bike would be needed later that day.  The current was only slightly present.  I held back from my wave compatriots, all males under 40.  Nice and easy.  At the far end my hands struck gravel, they ended up getting banged up some.  Even though I had read the race reports I was shocked by the experience.  The journey back down to complete the first lap was rather pleasant for me.  On my right I could barely make out the crowds cheering the athletes on.  The prospect of another lap was daunting, but I continued focus on my technique and the relative unimportance of the swim.  Making my way up river once again was harder than I remembered.  Slowly different colored swim camps glided by me.  One of the biggest mistakes a neophyte like myself can make is to race another.  This was my race, and I was out to finish well.  At the turnaround I momentarily put my knees down to look at my watch.  It was turning to an hour.  That wasn’t particularly helpful, I still don’t understand why.  The last leg could have easily been frustrated, but I refused to let it get me down.  My main concern was the alacrity in which the sun was appearing.  We should have been afforded at least an hour or two of clouds on the bike.  I knew something was amiss with the forecast.  This was not going to be the 80 degree sunny day they talked about.  It simply could not be helped.  My training in the southern heat and humidity would pay off – I knew it deep down.  When my time came at the absolutely shallowest point I touched down and swung my legs in to steady myself up.  I looked at my watch and saw 1 hour 15 minutes.  This was at the low end of my conservative range.  Most excellent!  Each lap was only minutes slower than my 1.2 mile swim PR at the Grand Columbian last September.

For the first time in my triathlon career, I was not in a rush.  There was no running.  I walked up calm and collected towards my bike.  I did not like what I saw in front of me!  One of the bozos around me had knocked my beautiful Holman down!!  I saw my salt tablets strewn across my towel.  Without those I would be in horrible shape.  There was a flash of anger, tempered only by my top desire to see this thing through.  I carefully picked up the tablets I saw, taking two of them with some water.  I quickly looked over my bike, and then racked it again.  I grabbed my bike shorts and ducked my way under two sets of bars to the changing tent.  After returning I calmly put on the rest of my gear.  Following that I got in line to walk my bike along the mats.  Receiving encouragement from Team Bodien, I made my way to the timing mat.  My time in T1 was slightly less than the 8 minutes I had expected. 

There was a small hill to reach the main River Road.  Despite hearing the advice, unfortunately I was rushed that morning and had my bike still in a large gear.  I had several false starts and then struggled up to the big boys bike ride.  The bike course consists of two big clockwise loops.  The first five to ten miles east was to get to that loop.  It was mainly flat and mostly devoid of vineyards, the big exception being the Korbel estate.  Along this route I breathed deep and took nothing but water for the first hour.  The sun was already ablaze but most of this portion was in the riverside shade.  I returned to my big gear and kept it above 20mph until a very tricky quick right and left that was talked about before ad nauseam.  Right there afterwards was one tough pitch for not yet being in the zone.  It was only a matter of time before I hit the big loop, starting the odyssey north on Westside Road.  There began the vineyards in earnest, and virtually nothing but for most of the biking day.  At thirty minutes I began the ritual of one GU-gel to be repeated every half chased by water only.  On the hour I would take my salt tablets, although I was still able to count and see I was going to be short.

The course is best described as rolling hills with two tougher climbs.  Once on Dry Creek, but still heading north, it was a wider four lane road with more opportunities for the big gear hammering.  In the car I had not appreciated how difficult the Canyon Road climb was.  It was long, gradual, and exposed.  At the top one hurled down under Highway 101 and headed south towards Geysersville.  There after the aid-station was a one-time out-and-back portion needed to make the course exactly 112 miles.  I counted at least five women in front of me.  But why did that matter?  It was then a long journey southeast down the Alexander Valley.  Vineyards everywhere.  Once on the Chalk Hill road the route turned south and the ubiquitous vine became more of a novelty.  It was as if Chalk Hill started with a tester hill, which was rather tough.  Another plunge and then more winding before the big event.  I took it with a group of five to six bikers, and in stride.  Much more pitched, still relatively exposed, I climbed well.  The plunge down at the top wasn’t as prolonged, and there was another small climb and upward bend after the turn off before reaching the suburbs of Windsor.  At the end of Shiloh Road I spotted Team Bodien in place to take a few photos.  The final swing to the high school was prolonged but mostly flat.  I reached the 56 mile point shortly before the school in three hours and three minutes.  My PR for a Half was only ten minutes faster.  This was great news, and I knew keeping the constant pace was going to be key. 

By this point there was no respite from the hot sun.  It was out in all its fury.  I stopped at the special needs station and had my bag handed to me.  Unlike the others passing through, I put my bike up under a small tree.  I doused my head with some of the cold water provided and then tried to eat my PB&J.  I didn’t get too far; my body had neared the point where solid food intake was no longer possible.  I had eaten the first round of fig newtons.  I also put some more sunblock on my shoulders before finishing my five minute break.  It certainly felt good, as I started to really feel the life force in me wane on my approach to the high school. 

From this point on my stomach wasn’t exactly feeling good, so I laid off the Gatorade for some time and began to feel upset about the prospect of taking another GU-gel.  The course took me on Windsor-River, a winding no-so-easy portion.  The last leg to complete the loop was a short pitch up Wohler Road and then over a rickety-looking one lane bridge that spanned the Russian River.  There I was – ready to sweep up this course.  And on I pushed, passing through the vineyards gladly taking in the hot sun.  I wanted no such thing, but was going to deal with the cards played to me.  I slowly began to psyche myself up for the Canyon Road climb.  It was noticeably tougher this time – the exposure playing a huge part.  Perhaps the longest miserable stretch was southeast down the Alexander Valley.  My back was aching and I relished any opportunity to climb out of the saddle.  I silently cheered after turning onto Chalk Road!  My enthusiasm for Chalk Road was severely tested on the trainer hill though – the slog through the Alexander Valley was taking it tolls.  I continued to talk myself up on climbing over Chalk Hill for one last time, this time at mile 100.  And then it came.  Quickly into my extreme climbing gear, I ever so slowly labored and swayed my way, just cresting with the last of my climbing legs.  Power through the flats like Jan, climb gracefully like Alberto…  I lay silent as the other side of the hill enveloped me, saving the strength I did not have for the final couple of hills.  Somewhere around here I was passed by one guy who had obviously crashed earlier in the course.  His entire left arm was covered with a nasty rash.  I couldn’t help think of my Ironwoman hero Cheryl, who in 2005 was run off the road while we were doing the Duke Half Ironman.  She had way worse road rash, yet powered through the rest of the course and finished the run!  That’s guts and determination for you!  I was tired but prepared to do whatever.  It was going to take a couple of bouncers to grab me and pull me off this course!  Once again Team Bodien was stationed on Shiloh.  Once again in a big gear after climbing the Highway 101 overpass, I pushed myself hard through the small business center and past the golf course, around the cemetery corner, and up to the most welcomed site of Windsor High School.  I dismounted at 6:31.  With the five minute break, I lost twenty three minutes on the second half, which wasn’t all that bad.  I had estimated anywhere from six to seven hours to complete the bike portion.  Landing at the halfway was great, especially since I was above the 17mph average that I wanted to beat.

The prospect of running a marathon after all this would normally have been ridiculous.  But here I was, either out the T2 shoot or give up.  I racked Holman and thanked him for his great work, then ran over to change once again.  Instead of running in my bike shorts, I opted to once again take my time and change into something I wear for a marathon.  I wore my favorite Grand Columbian hat, retained the glasses, donned my Sharksbite singlet, and changed into my Duke socks before carefully lacing up my new Asics Evolution shoes.  I stopped for a spray of the hose then picked up a couple of drinks.  Once again I spent less than the allotted eight minutes.  I had thought about not running for some time, but even on the stretch out to the road I began my slow march of a run.

As described above, the run consisted of three loops.  At this point it was the hottest time of the day.  The last few hours of the bike were not punishment enough, for the first loop I would suffer mightily under the full force of Sol.  After leaving the high school, the route heads south on the fairly busy Windsor Road.  From there its another jaunt down Reiman Lane, which is a new suburbia area where people look at you curiously wondering why on earth you’re running back and forth.  There were aid stations every mile, which for the 4.37 mile jaunt out and back was great news.  The first was at the corner with Starr Rd, which stair-steps its way down south.  Favorites on my stomach were flat cola (Cheryl’s rocket fuel!), water, and Gatorade.  One station did have peaches, which I tolerated early on but quickly that was out.  Surprisingly I found green grapes to be quite palatable.  Ah, how fitting.  In vino veritas.  My game plan was to walk through aid stations giving me the time to actually drink everything.  All my other races are on the little less dilatory side.  Starr features two major climbs going out.  I won’t pretend I was a rock star and say I cruised up.  I walked.  That was the Galloway plan.  After hitting Mark West Station Road is the major climb, pitching up hard and twisting to the right.  No thank you.  Mr. Lame-0, who happened to be in the company of also lame-o types.  From there the stretch west to the turn-around was just blazing hot the first lap.  It was here that fellow Charlottean John caught up and passed me.  At each of the three times I turned around, I used the patented Bodien reverse spin perfected on many hikes as lad.  Each time I dazzled the audience, especially the woman who was wearing the butterfly wings. 

Reaching the first turnaround was key to reaching my goal.  It was very not published, but my calculation put me at the very real possibility of breaking fourteen hours.  By the time I started the run, it was about eight hours exactly.  I am exceptionally poor at math when I’m running, and so by this time thinking straight was just plain tough.  But these numbers were easy since there really six runs on this marathon.  I could take an hour on each and make my goal.  That was some good money in the bank!  I made my goal by eight minutes, so this was great news!  Just keep running on the flat to medium sections.   Another savior of the aid station was getting sprayed down.  All the other long distance triathlons I’ve done featured wet towels.  That was nice, but I found out this was better!!  Slowly I crawled my way back, so eager to receive my first wristband.  At the completion of each lap, each competitor gets a wristband.  After getting two, you are on the third and final lap.  I can’t tell you how hard it was to get the first, but how great it felt!!!  I passed through at 1:45, banking fifteen minutes on my goal, slightly over a 12 minute mile pace.

On the second lap it was slightly but noticeably cooler.  It was only a matter of time.  The slower I ran, the more I would be rewarded with temperature drops, but this could not be an end to itself.  By this time I had past John, who was starting to talk of GI troubles.  My stomach was definitely upset, but it was kept check at a tolerable level whereby minimizing the strong Gatorade Endurance I was not going to boil over.  I started to feel much stronger on the second lap.  I pushed myself further up to the toe of the hills before stopping.  I had been talking with one woman who was asking me about how to best combat an upset stomach.  Sometimes on these races I bond with someone on the bike, who is matched well to me.  We constantly leap-frog each, exchange challenges, and push the pace.  It really did not happen on this race.  She was the only one I talked to extensively, but by the second lap she was walking exclusively and I was feeling (relatively) too well to wait up.  I also saw the road rash guy, but he had been wrapped up.  His pace looked strong!  At the turn-around I noticed I was picking up even more time.  Great news!  Now I could finally feel the inevitable break in heat.  I ran further into the high school to triumphantly pick up my second bracelet.  When I was sprayed down that time it did soak my shoes, which did ire me some.  I had passed through at 1:42, which is a drop to an 11:42 minute mile pace.  I was starting to get more cheers from those lined up near the high school and my fellow runners.  I still could not take the two biggest hills, but I made inroads into the others.  The elation of the final turnaround was just awesome.  I began to thank everyone at all the aid stations, and for the last time contemplated buying one of the mini-goats for sale.  I never wanted to see them again!  Ha!  Coming into the final two miles I was now running relatively at a much faster rate, pausing only momentarily stopping for my ice one mile in.  I push hard on Rieman and then even harder on Windsor.  I could really feel the adrenaline and honestly felt like I had the endurance to go farther.  So what’s after the marathon run?!?  ;-)

The last stretch up Rieman, into the high school and down the stretch I put on a hell of a show.  I was running a five minute mile sprint easily and caused a huge roar in the crowd.  Yeah me!  I rose up my arms and flashed Churchill’s Victory signs as I crossed the finishing promenade made out of wine barrels.  The time put my last lap at 1:38, a further improvement to an 11:19 minute mile.  So for a total marathon that was an 11:43 minute mile pace for five hours and seven minutes.  That certainly sounds sad by itself, but I had to take that time with a big friggin’ grain of salt!  But what mattered was the big fat time above me.  Instead of barely breaking fourteen hours I was more close to just passing thirteen!  My final time was 13:09:22.

So there you have my recounting of this great race!  I highly recommend it to all the other “freaks” out there thinking about the making the big plunge.

We did hang around to wait for John’s finish.  I was touched to see at one person stop to roll across the finish line a la John Blais.  John Hoover came in about an hour later, struggling out a run at the last to also take his first Ironman.  From there my brother and I drove back to the motel while my parents retired to their camping spot on the Russian River.  It didn’t take me long to fall asleep, and go figure I was super sore the next morning.  We all had breakfast, and then Andrew had to begin his trip back to Portland.  The remaining Team Bodien eventually made our way out to Bodega Bay.  Contrary to rumors heard on the blogs I was not attacked by any birds.  The weather there, and also in Santa Rosa was 60 degrees and clouded in all day!  How unfair is that?!?  We continued south along Tomales Bay towards Point Reyes, and then out to Petaluma.  There I caught a shuttle back to SFO.

Once there I met up with my marching band friend Teresa.  She had just dropped her friends off after a weekend of wining and relaxing in the same area.  We had a deal she would booze it up while I swam, biked, and ran.  From there it was back to her apartment on Russian Hill.  There I met her new husband, Frenchman Fabrice Talbot.  How ironic it was their wedding that I missed in April to train for Vineman.  It all worked out in the end!!  Also visiting was Fabrice’s brother Jean-Francois.  I hung out with them that night.

At lunch the next day I made my way over to the Presidio for lunch with my Duke friends Megan and Jon, who work for the Pacific Forest Trust.  How cruel could those San Francisco hills be on my super sore body and blistered feet?  Very.  Still, it was a nice lunch.  Once back I crashed big time.  Too much effort, even if I took the bus most of the way!  That evening Megan came to pick up me and my stuff.  She took me back her apartment south of the Presidio, where we met up with her boyfriend and my long time friend Dan O who I lived with my first two years in Durham.  We had some great pizza and downed a whole pitcher of Anchor.  Once back we watched a movie and then I crashed for my final night out on the left coast. 

That morning I arranged a shuttle back to SFO and caught my plane to Salt Lake.  >From there I arrived back in Charlotte around midnight.  Thankfully I was graced with exit row seats once again!  Leaving the terminal was like stepping into an oven.  Just this morning it was 60 degrees and foggy, and my friends were wearing down vests.  And now into the fire!  Well, it was this fire that trained me to complete my first Ironman distance race!

Anyone who knows me is aware I’ve battled through a lot to get to this point, and boy is it sweet.  So I haven’t had all the control during this strangely wonderful journey, but I do have a lot of people to thank for getting me across the finish line.  Obviously Team Bodien deserves a lion-share of the credit, taking time out of their lives to see and help me accomplish something so great.  I also wanted to thank my original tri-friend, the one and only Alice!  She was the one that saw me biking and running, she was the one that put the points together, and she was the one with that delicate touch to convince me to revisit the swimming pool.  I remember my first 25-yard lap at Duke’s Brodie Gym pool.  I hung on for dear life!  Even at our first triathlon in Charlotte, feeling deathly afraid of 500 yards.  Funny how four plus years later I go to that same pool multiple times a week to swim at least 1300 meters, thinking nothing of it.  Thank you Alice.

So what’s up next?  Well, considering it’s 100 plus degrees out now and I just finished an Ironman, I’m going to pass on Disneyland and head straight for the couch.  But in September I’ll be on a 12 person team tackling the 208-mile Blue Ridge Relay.  In October it’s up to DC for the Marine Corps Marathon, and then a working vacation in December at Kiawah Resort for a half marathon.  Sounds like fun!

Scott