Suburban Moms Gone Wild or the Near Death Of A Former Ironman

Often times, my Sunday post to wrap up a training week will be entitled, "Whiskey and Chocolate," two rewards for a week well lived, or at least well-trained. This Sunday, I only had the energy to drink, not to post.

This weekend, some adjustments in the training schedule were necessary. Why? Because I was the officer of the watch, the only parent on deck.

Mrs. Greyhound was away with all of her mom friends at a scrap booking retreat. Supposedly, this involves a bunch of middle-aged suburban moms sitting around all weekend eating junk food, drinking wine, and "making memories" in their elaborate scrapbooks (read talking crap about their husbands).

I suspect it involves mojitos and naked pillow fights. She denies this, but methinks the lady doth protest too much.

Anyway, if you are officer of the watch, and your "men" are a solitary, ten-year-old daughter, you can't exactly take off all day to drive out and do a four hour bike ride in the country. And yet Coach Book said to ride four hours, and I try to meet or exceed the expectations of Coach Book.

So, on the most BEEEE YOUUUUUU TEEE FULLL cycling weekend ever in South Texas, I was forced to spend three hours of quality time with Coach Troy on the trainer in my garage, beginning at 0415, doing the "tough love" spinervals session.

Yeah. I know. Joy.

The production values were OK, I guess. The music sounded like a combination of the background music on the Weather Channel and what I imagine would be in high budget porn: unrecognizable, exciting in only an artificial way, nearly all electronic, and musically bereft of content. Would it kill you to get the rights to use some face melting pop or rock tunes?

Now I know why they have the option to turn off the music, an option that I will use next time and plug in my ipod to control my own tunage.

That said the workout was hard and effective and passed the time. By the middle of the second hour, I was starting to see things, and I'm pretty sure that Terri, the triathlete on the back row of the DVD cyclists, was making eye contact.

She was totally into me.

But by the end of three hours , I was afraid that Bruce, the triathlete in the front row, was also getting fresh.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So, I spent one manly hour of quality time with the "King Arthur" DVD, spinning out the legs at low zone two while watching hewn limbs and severed heads. And I'm certain by the end of hour four, Keira Knightly was totally giving me the look.

Maybe it was the caffeinated gels.

Coach Troy says that 3 hours on the trainer is equal to four hours on the road. Well, in order to do my dad duties, I spent four hours on the trainer, then added in a recovery run Saturday, 14 miles running Sunday and a long swim of 3100 yards.

By the time Mrs. Greyhound got home, I was unable to tell whether she gave me the look or not. I am still spent.

I am still not altogether sure that last year's Ironman still lives here.