Cigarettes and Whiskey and Wild, Wild Women

Yes, faithful reader. It is that time again. There must be at least three or four people that watch this space for the Sunday evening recap of the training week, which is typically called "Whiskey and Chocolates." The decadent indulgence in single malt scotch and fine chocolate is a reward for work, well done.

Well, this weekend, all the spouses were gone, and it was boys gone wild for Triboomer, Brett and Greyhound. It was off the hook. And the night only started after we terroized the fourth largest city in the United States, rolling around H-Town on our Harleys -- going from strip club to strip club. The police were involved, women's underwear was strewn all over the LATC, and we trained a little bit in between keggers, binge drinking, and making farting noises with our hands. In the words of the old country song:

Cigarettes and whiskey, and wild, wild women,

They'll drive you crazy, they'll drive you insane . . .

****Remove Middle Aged Married Guy Boast-O-Meter*****

Even middle-aged married guys like to think they're at least a little bit dangerous; but, under truth serum, I'd have to admit the reality is not very dangerous.

Friday, Boomer was already at the house when I got home from work. Brett arrived later. I fixed the guys spaghetti, broccoli, and other healthy stuff to eat. (Yes, ladies, I cook. I am told it is my sexiest quality, but alas, you're too late. Some hottie already snagged me.)

Instead of cruising the "Richmond Strip," Boomer started to fall asleep at 8:15 and was in bed by 8:30. I followed about 9:00, and I think Brett was not far behind.

Saturday, I rolled out early and fixed pancakes and scrambled eggs for the Zentri Army before we repaired to Montgomery County for a ride in the hills. By mile 24, I was starting to despair a little about whether I could hang with the fellas. I was afraid I was holding them back, but by hour three in the ride, Carmen Tequilo and I found our rhythm and we had ourselves a little fun. Harder, faster, longer . . . the bike ride, that is. 58 miles.

But nothing is ever simple when you're an age grouper without a sponsor riding sag for you. The Boomermobile decided it didn't have the stomach for any more work, and wound up at the local dealership. Listen for the upcoming Zen and the Art of Triathlon episode for all the details.

But transportation be damned. It was off to the olympic standard Woodlands Athletic Center for the evening swim. We were observed by the surrounding pines and a gorgeous Texas sunsent. Thence, to the LATC for scientifically engineered recovery food--pepperoni pizza and Shiner Bock beer. One single malt scotch and then lights out by nine.

Sunday, we rolled out in a dense fog and drove to Brett's house for the coup de grace, 65 miles to finish off our weekend--or perhaps to finish us off. With us, apparently it must always be an adventure. Some wind, some hills, some harassment by law enforcement, some alleged wheel rubbing on the Zentri Master's TT02, and changing a flat on Carmen Tequilo. At the end of the day it was a very long ride.

So, the report: In bed by nine every night. 120 miles on the bike. About an hour in the pool. Two wonderful friendships cemented by miles in zone 2. These friendships will last 140.6 miles in Madison.

Triathlon is wonderful.