Pig Iron

Superpounce came home from her sleepover feeling all gimpy. Gimpy turned to fever. Fever turned to fever with a headache and sore throat. Definitive scientific testing confirms that she has the swine flu. Never fear, she's already on the mend with Tamiflu, and the recent cases don't seem to be any big deal for people her age.

So far it does not seem to be affecting the grownups in the house very much. Pauline went from gimpy to fever on Friday, but she survived the 70s, so she may have had some previous immunity to the disease.

I haven't had anything except gimpy, and that may have had something to do with the four and a half hour bike ride on Saturday and the 10 mile run on Sunday. I did both at what would have been a massive PR Ironman pace and all 10 beats or more below lactate threshhold. I'm gonna chew through 140.6 miles like a knife through hot butter.

Ain't no pig flu coming to live in this body. The environment is too hostile, what with nearly 13 hours of racing and training last week and seven or so hours of training in the last three days. Ironman has no time for pig flu. Hurdle the weak, trample the dead.

**furiously knocking on wood***

Welcome to the Jungle

Welcome to the jungle

We got fun 'n' games

We got everything you want

Honey we know the names

When you're training for Ironman, Saturday morning is always time for the long ride. As I have chronicled, riding on the streets in Houston can be a bit of a struggle as slow-witted pachyderms in their SUVs and Pickup Trucks compete with you for habitat. But this particular Saturday, I only had one SUV that refused to yield place, and that probably out of ignorance or inattention rather than malice. Today's jungle excusion was difficult for a different reason.

In Houston, you know that the day is going to be a challenge if the windows are sweating with condensation before the sun comes up. This means that, in contrast to the interior of your home, which feels like a low-humidity meat locker, the outside environment is doing its best to mimic Equatorial Guinea. At 0530, when you stumble out to get the paper, the humidity clamps a hot, wet washcloth over your face, and you're cast into the sauna.

Perfect training conditions for Ironman Cozumel, to be sure, but unpleasant to say the least. Coach Kris ordered up a 2.5 hour ride followed by a 15 minute brick run, ordinarly plenty of work but nothing to write home about. This day, however, the sweat was dripping and flying off my bike helmet before I'd even made 15 minutes of work. And by the time I was running off the bike, the sun was in full force. I wimpered my way through the run-off (read "shuffle off") and headed for the AC. I had drunk 1.5 litres of fluid during the ride, and consumed 2 litres of fluid in the hours afterward, but there was little evidence of it. I was wrung. out.

But there was more jungle to come--actually the wildest and jugleiest jungle of them all. For you see, it was the day before mother's day, which means shopping is required. And this particular day, the recesison was nowhere in evidence. The traffic jams and parking lots were such that you would have thought it was the last shopping day before Christmas, except it was a billion degrees outside.

Yes, those of you with weak constitutions might want to skip the rest of the post, for Greyhound went shopping.

Even more, I took two girls shopping: Superpounce and her newly-teenaged friend Mini-KT.

OK, to say that I went shopping is to exaggerate, like many of the feats described herein. But this is my blog, and I at least get to be the hero of my own narrative. Actually, I mostly functioned like an undercover, surveillance detail from the NSA--watching from a distance and loitering outside stores as Superpounce and Mini-KT texted me about where they intended to shop next.

Between Aeropostale, American Eagle, the Food Court, and Justice, we were able to spend a little time at Macy's in order to find someing Mom-er-iffic for today.

And I survived the jungle by making it much of the way through the Weekend Journal.

The Biggest Winner

"I want to be muscular, like Jillian."

That's what Superpounce told me not long ago. I nearly jumped up and high-fived myself. And this may be the prime reason why every middle-aged man should run and exercise: so healthy habits of self-determination will rub off on the progeny.

You see, as the dad of a daughter, I've probably become a little bit more of a feminist than I otherwise would have been. Part of that has been an increased awareness of the differences between the difficulties faced by boys, and those faced by girls in their respective struggles to reach healthy adulthood. As a dad, I figure that a good portion of my job is to make myself obsolete--transport this child from helpless infancy to healthy adulthood where I'm nice to have around, but strictly speaking, no longer needed.

Either shortly before or shortly after Superpounce was born, I read several books about the unique challenges of bringing up girls and how important Dad's messages are to girl growing. One of those books was Reviving Ophelia by Mary Pipher, Ph.D. The book chronicles how girls enter a dark tunnel around age 13 or so, becoming less confident, more subservient to boys, less likely to learn, more likely to suffer from eating disorders, etc. It hypothesizes how media messages and other societal forces play a role in causing this tunneling, and (if I recall correctly) notes positive influences like sport and the influence of a father that combat those forces.

With that book on my mind these past 11 years, I have observed and influenced the objects of Superpounce's pop culture admiration to notice and impact what is influencing her. When she asked to be a cheerleader, for example, I declined. "Why cheer for someon else," I inquired, (especially boy football players). "Wouldn't it be better to be the one people are cheering for?"

I've also been trying to model good "dad" behavior by admiring strong women worthy of admiration--watching women's sport, avoiding air-headed pop culture fluff, surrounding 'Pounce and the family with good people, Ironman finishers and other athletes of all types, and of course doing my best to walk the walk with my own conditioning. None of this is in hopes that 'Pounce will be a scholarship athlete and live out any athletic fantasy of mine from days gone by. She does have my genetics, after all, and I can only smile when the small, skinny daughter of a 5'5" dad dreams of playing basketball.

The reason, in addition to my own health, is so that Superpounce will say something like the words I heard while watching Biggest Loser--as a family while she works out as she always does. "I want to be muscular, like Jillian." Those words carry more than admiration of a pop-culture icon. They also buy into her message self-worth and power and her rejection of victimhood. "I want to be muscular, like Jillian," is effectively the pop-culture opposit of "I wanna be rich like Paris Hilton" or "I wanna be skinny, like Lindsay Lohan," or "I wanna be a singer, like Brittany Spears." Those words made me feel like "The Biggest Winner."

Sure, she can be rich if that's in the cards. She can even be a knock out and a singer. She can be or do anything she wants. But she can do it from a position of physical and personal power rather than personal exploitation or pain.

Because she's muscular like Jillian. Look out, world.

Numbers

Very occasionally, only rarely in fact, do I feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. That happened once or twice when I was laid out on the floor of the nursery with toddler Superpounce bounding around or giggling or crawling on top of me. That happened once when infant Superpounce fell asleep right on my chest, and I drifted off to sleep feeling her heart beat against mine. This weekend, it happened again.

Weekends. Nine hundred thirty-six. That's an important number. If you figure you've got 18 years before your children go to college and move out of your house, and if you figure 52 weeks in a year, there are nine hundred and thirty-six weekends you have with them. That's well shy of a thousand--not that big of a number at all.

And it has to be far less than that. After the age of 14 there are probably a goodly number of weekends you don't have with them, even if (or especially if) you're doing your parenting right. If you're a good parent, they're more independent, they need you less, they have activities, and sometimes they can't stand the sight of you, because you're doing what a parent is supposed to do, like saying no and providing boundaries.

And in my case the number is still smaller because Superpounce is 11.5 years old--most of our pre-18 weekends are already in the past. If you figure we've got 6.5 years left of Superpounce at home, that's 338 more weekends. If I even optimistically get half of those weekends as she grows up, that's only 169 more weekends. It ain't at all funny how time slips away.

But this weekend, Superpounce and I spent both Saturday and Sunday at the neighborhood basketball court. On Sunday, we even took the dogs with us. The air was clean and cold as peppermint, the skies of cobalt blue, the wind bent the grass down low, and nothing stood between we little ants and heaven itself. And I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

She told me how she had passed her try-out and made it into the athletics class. She dreamed out loud about the sports she might try. And I tried not to chuckle on the outside as I smiled on the inside as this short, skinny girl dreamed of being a basketball player and sprinter. Having my genetics as she does, she is much more suited to soccer and distance.

But that is not a lesson for Dad to teach, especially on a day that is perfect where I find myself in that rarest of spots--the center of exactly where I am supposed to be. That is a lesson best learned on one's own. And she will.

Celestial Navigation

Superpounce and I went for a run the other night.

I have started doing some of my secondary running workouts from home in the evening. Every once in a while, she joins me on my warm up, jogging around the block with me before she returns to the house and I go out to do my thing.

This night, she was more enthusiastic than usual. Sometimes, I confess, persuasion to run may have felt like nagging, though I know if I nag, she will never discover her own love for running or exercise. But this night, I just asked and she immediately said yes and added, "Don't leave, DON'T LEAVE. I have to get my running shoes on."

Just after we began to run, she spilled the beans on her big piece of news, one which she obviously knew I would approve of.

"Dad! Guess what!"

"What?"

"I'm going to be in athletics at school!"

In her school, "Athletics" is the physical education prerequisite to school sports participation, and it involves actual conditioning and working out, in contrast to the rather silly games in regular P.E. that she disparaged in describing the two programs.

I tried not to bust my buttons while showing enthusiastic approval.

She went back to the house while I took the path less traveled by--30 more minutes around the neighborhood, into the new streets and dirt roads that have yet to be developed, while the gathering twilight became a blanket of warm evening. I almost became lost while turning over her conversation in my head--dreams of a small, skinny child to play basketball or volleyball or run track. While I had a Garmin on my wrist, I thought I might have to navigate by the stars just to make it home.

Considering it further, I concluded that starlight is best. I knew of no better navigating method for my child than looking to the stars.

[Don't] Be Sensible

Dad showing Superpounce how not to be sensible.

I'm a sensible person. To a fault. And I come from a long line of sensible people

Often times, that's good. We act like grownups. We're responsible. We live within our means. We are the ones carrying zero credit card balances in the worst credit crisis in history. We are the ones driving 10 year old cars on which we researched the safety rating and reviews in consumer reports. Convertibles need not apply.

But is there too much of a good thing? People like us were born old. We forgot how to play or played only carefully. We avoided some of the tragedies that befell our contemporaries in college, but we also never howled at the moon.

And somewhere along the line you wake up realizing that you didn't dream all night, or all day the day before. And you're a sensible taxpayer with a sensible job in a sensible suburb with a sensible sedan. No fault in that. But . . .

But what child lies on his or her back, looks up into the night sky, and dreams of being a dentist? Or an accountant? Or a lawyer? Not that there's anything wrong with that. But when do we give up being firemen or astronauts or race car drivers or ballerinas or princesses? And why do we have to? Because they're not sensible.

At one point in my life, I was a musician. I studied with the finest teachers, played with the finest conductors, gave concerts in New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami. I had, at one time, dreamed of being in the Chicago Symphony, the orchestra my heroes. Then, I got sensible. The odds were against it. It was a long shot. The more likely outcome was working in a non-living-wage orchestra and getting locked out by a labor dispute and selling insurance instead. So, I got sensible, and went to law school, did well, got a good job . . . . all in the family tradition.

Not a family tradition of practicing law, but a tradition of sensibility, of dreams deferred. I am the offspring of a sensible girl from Oklahoma who, after soloing with the Oklahoma City Symphony in the 1950s, turned down the opportunity, offered by the guest conductor, to study at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. Sensible girls did not do such things in the 1950s. They went to college, if at all, close to home, where they could find a husband and raise families. And she did. And it was good and sensible.

But was it great?

Sometimes, sensible people explode. They wake up in the suburbs and start dreaming again. Potentially those crazy dreams are destructive and you see sensible people "overcompensating" with expensive red convertibles or betraying the ones who depend upon them. Thankfully, not here. By God's grace alone, I'm still more sensible than that. I haven't exploded, and hope that I don't.

Other times, we simply shrug off the heavy load under which we were sagging. We find ourselves running in the dark, cool breeze before sunup while the sensible people are still asleep. While they sleep, we are dreaming of what might be, hours and minutes and seconds and distances, of limits and whether they are real. We think crazy thoughts about just how fast we might run for three hours, about swimming and biking and running all day. And this from lawyers and accountants and fully grown dentists "competing for the ultimate prize." Crazy. But sometimes good crazy.

Because life can't be caged. Because life needs a certain amount of craziness and creativity. It is conquest. It is adventure. Otherwise, it's not really life. It's just a couch. And it's beige.

I was thinking on these things Monday morning as I ran, and I thought about Superpounce, and I smiled. Her dolls and stuffed animals are turning up with new outfits that she designed and sewed herself. She made them on the sewing machine she just acquired, the one on which she is to begin sewing lessons on which she insisted (because neither I nor Mrs. Greyhound can sew). She is taking sewing lessons because she wants to be a fashion designer, and we told her she would have to learn how to sew. So she is. And a couple of weeks ago, at age 11, she was searching out colleges on the internet at which she could study fashion design. And she wants to take French. And she wants to go to Paris. And the colors in her world are alive.

It reminded me of these lines (from an old commercial, no less) that I heard on a fantastic fitness podcast:

Here’s to the crazy ones.

The misfits.
The rebels.
The troublemakers.
The round pegs in the square holes.
The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules.
And they have no respect for the status quo. You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them,
disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them.
About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them.
Because they change things.

They invent. They imagine. They heal.
They explore. They create. They inspire.
They push the human race forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.
How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art?
Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written?

Superpounce dreams big. God forbid that I ever conciously or unconciously communicate to her that she ought to be sensible. I'd rather catch her in my arms after she flies too close to the sun.

New School/Old School

Well, it's been a quiet week in Spring, Texas, my hometown, out on the edge of the Megalopolis. The Megalopolis, along with nearly all the Gulf Coast, was again in the "cone of death" representing the potential path of a hurricane, this time Hurricane Ike. Old School residents of the Megalopolis have not yet become concerned. They simply watch the local news, and when the man standing in front of the green screen tells them to be concerned, they just blink because they've seen this all before. On this one, I kind of tend toward the New School, haunting the weather underground online and comparing computer models. Those models have been shifting with alarming regularity, but it looks like we'll escape the worst of it again.

So, New School on that, but I had an Old School workout last night. I went to the track where my marathon plan coach had prescribed, after a warmup, 5x1000 at T pace on one minute's rest to be followed by 6x200 at R pace on :45 rest to be followed by a cool down. While that sounds very technical, I was without a watch or a heart rate monitor. So, I went decidedly old school. Run hard, rest as little as you can get by with, then run hard again. I would not have made the fifth 1000 were it not for the presence of Coach T and her main squeeze Scuba Steve running with me. Old School guys don't like to give up (or puke up) in front of the kids.

And the recovery nutrition? Also Old School: Pizza and Beer.

And the swim this morning? Old School again. Outside, in the dark as soon as the pool opens. First in. Swim hard. Don't even think about quitting until you've got at least 2k in the bank. And none of these "jammers" or "square leg" swimsuits for old guys without waists. Old School. Little black Speedo baby.

OK, that was way TMI. But I've rediscovered a couple of abs and some ribs in the last week or so, so I was all wild and crazy.

But two nights ago I went New School in the dad department. While Superpounce is a pretty adventurous eater for a kid, we have not been able to get her to eat anything with beans in it, particularly black beans. Now, an Old School dad would just put out the food and say, "You'll eat it and you'll like it. Either that or you'll go hungry." Actually, an Old School dad would not have cooked the food, but would be inquiring about the whereabouts of his meat loaf and potatos while watching Walter Cronkite from his La-Z-Boy, alternately drinking a Miller High Life and snoring.

Ahhhhhh . . . . those were the days.

Oops, did I say that out loud? Sorry, I digress.

A New School dad, however, not only cooks food, he resorts to strategerie to get his offspring to eat the healthy options he puts on the table.

I know 'Pounce enjoys spicy foods like my Black Beans and Quinoa, and I know she likes to cook with me. So, I figured she would eat it if she was the one who "cooked it." I was right. I prepared all the ingredients before hand--measured the cumin and cayenne pepper, chopped the onions, chopped the garlic, put the black beans and corn aside, gathered two cups of chicken broth and 3/4 cup of Quinoa, measured a couple table spoons of olive oil into the wok and called the 'Pounce any time it was time to saute, stir, pour, combine or "cook."

She loved it, both the cooking and the eating. And when Mrs. Greyhound commented on how good it tasted, 'Pounce tapped her chest like an NBA player who just sank a three point shot and said:

"I know--I cooked it."

And that's the news from Spring, Texas, where all the schools are exemplary, all the food is fast, and all the commutes, are below average.

Broken Wing

Some of you know that we have been vacationing in the Pacific Northwest after Ironman CdA. We picked Orcas Island because it has one of the best skate parks in the region, but skateboarding, like much that is worth doing, has its risks. 'Pounce was dropping into the bowl, missed her balance, and bwoke her widdow arm right near the wrist.

And the next day we went shopping to replace the helmet that had saved her from a head injury so that she'd be ready to go again when she healed. 'Cause that's how we roll.

Below The Neck (SFW)

I have been accused of overtraining in the past, and occasionally the accusation may have been true. I do train a lot,as in consistently, day after day, but I really don't brutalize myself to any great extent. Indeed, I am a great lover of rest days, recovery food, naps, stretching, the foam roller, and most of all, I LURVES me a massage.

And if I am accused of overtaining recently, I would have to plead not-guilty. I have been bouncing back from workouts very well, taking it easy on my easy days, and recording good improvements.

Nevertheless, my body has decided to go on strike. I have a head cold, and my illiacus and psoas major issue loud complaints any time I try to run.



At least this is my working hypothesis, because I don't think I've been running enough volume to risk a stress fracture and the doctor's office will not call me back so that I can either see my primary care physician or skip that unnecessary step and go straight to the orthopod for a proper diagnosis. After said diagnosis, I hold out the vain hope that they will actually embark on a rehabilitation regime rather than the typical, sedentary, lazy medical practitioner approach, namely: don't exercise so much.

Well, gosh, Dr. Obvious. If I wanted to be a pudgy waste of carbon like you, I'd have done that long ago. Forgive me for thinking that the function of your profession was to get my body to function properly, even if my idea of "properly" is a bit more demanding than yours.

But I'm not bitter.

Really, I'm not.

At this rate I will have rehabbed myself before the doctor ever calls me back. It appears to be getting better and is a lot less painful than last Tuesday when I could hardly walk. The only worrisome feature is that there is now minor, cramping pain referring from the illiacus to a different region below the neck:





So, uhm. Yeah. The discomfort is very minor, but I feel it in a place that I consider to be very, VERY important, my left testicle. (By the way, this is just an illustration. Mine does not have those painful hooks and pins in it. And the genuine article is much much more impressive in real life. Really. I swear.)

Everything is improving steadily, but I hope I don't have a hernia or something that requires a total cessation of training. Yes, I'm stretching. Yes, I'm foam rollering. Yes, I've had a massage. Yes, yes, yes. Amateur medical opinions are welcomed, because I can't seem to get a professional physician to pay attention to me.

But no worries, because this weekend I was engaging in "best practices" for anyone coming down with a cold and suffering from a potential orthopedic injury. I was sleeping on the ground in damp, cool weather. You see, Friday and Saturday was a scheduled campout with Superpounce and the YMCA Trail Guides. And when it comes to dad duty, you just gotta rub some dirt on it and HTFU. No excuses. Get the job done. As a result, Superpounce thinks I am the master of all things native American because I was able to fashion a bow for her using only a hatchet, a green branch and some string.

Parenting is not for sissies. If it was easy, anyone could do it.

The weekend also worked out great due to tag-team parenting assist from Mrs. Greyhound. Friday and Saturday she got to watch Jane Austen to her heart's content. But, Sunday morning she met me at the campground driving my car with the bike on board. We tagged, traded kid duty, and I repaired to my favorite hills in Montgomery and Grimes Counties for a 60 mile ride with Jane and Kelly (who really needs to start blogging so I don't have to link to this silly and lame picture). I got to hammer some of my favorite hills, ride some nice tempo, and claw into some nice wind. By the way, this is totally an inside joke, but since Chau is currently so intoxicated with LURVE that she can't train, is the Chelly (i.e., Chau and Kelly) no more? Is it now the "Jelly" (i.e., Jane and Kelly)?

"But Greyhound," I can hear you saying, "you were getting sick. Why were you training?"

Overtraining? Not guilty. You know the rule, if your symptoms are above the neck, you are safe to train. Biking did not cause any pain, and my symptoms were above the neck . . . .

Until we were in the middle of the ride, and then I got a cough every time I stopped. So, my solution? Don't stop.

OK, so I'll have to plead nolo contendre with regard to the swim workout after the bike, but I took it easy. I promise.

And afterwards, it was pizza and beer for everyone chez greyhound. If you're in the area, you should come next time.

Ever Feel Like You Wuz Being Watched?

Just a quick little story today.

So, Superpounce is working on some little essay questions to get herself into the gifted program at her new school, and I'm helping her outline her responses. One of the questions asks, "Name someone you admire and tell why you admire them." I thought she might pick me, if only to suck up. And of course, she says,

"My dad . . . .

"because he did an Ironman."

As if I finished in 8 hours or made the podium! But wait. It gets better.

"Describe one of your long term goals," the application inquires. And she answers:

"I want to do an Ironman."

Obviously, that goal (in the unlikely event it sticks) is at least 8 years in the future--more like 10 if I get my way. But little did I know how contagious this disease can be.



Kind of scary being a dad, they watch you so closely. But also nice. At least for a couple more years I'm not the village idiot and she wants to follow in my footsteps.

Declaration Of Intent

***FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE***
HOUSTON--SEPTEMBER 27, 2007

Team Greyhound released a statement from its headquarters in Houston, Texas late today, announcing the addition of a new member to its triathlete development program.

Superpounce Warming Up With Her Triathlon Coach

The extreme sports superstar known as Superpounce has joined Team Greyhound to train for the First Annual Sugar Tri Kidz Triathlon to be held on October 20, 2007.

Extreme Sports Superstar "Superpounce"

Mysterious and highly secretive, the athlete development and coaching program at Team Greyhound is a residential program in which athletes live under one roof, pursuing training methods that are said to involve such old-school techniques as "fun" and "play."

Late Afternoon Tempo Session At Team Greyhound Headquarters

It had long been rumored that Superpounce, also known simply as 'Pounce, would join the compound and turn her considerable talents for play toward the sport of triathlon.
Superpounce Pushes The Tempo On The Bike

In a late afternoon press conference, TriGreyhound, head play-er and director of fun, stated, "We are extremely pleased to have an athlete of the caliber of Superpounce involved in our program. In my view, she is the type of superstar that causes everyone around her to play to a higher level. We expect new and higher levels of fun in our program now that she is involved. She truly does treat training like recess, and she is training like mad for this event."

Superpounce Opens Up A Gap On Her Coach

When asked whether the Tri Kidz Triathlon would get sufficient attention, coming as it does a week after the Ironman World Championships, TriGreyhound responded, "I don't see the problem. I mean, who would want to watch Chris McCormack for 8 hours on a computer screen when you can ring cowbells for first time triathletes racing their hearts out on a Saturday morning? THIS is the climax of the triathlon season.


My New Training Partner

The Photo Album

A 1940 picture of Daddy
Holding his newborn babe.
Cradled in his strong hands, a daughter.
He cherishes the life that he’s made.

A lady, is how he’ll raise her,
All satin and laces and curls.
Dolls, ruffles, and tea sets,
Nothin’s too fine for his girl.

A 1942 picture of Daddy
Holdin' Miss Scally-Wag.
Little fingers in Daddy’s pocket,
Pullin' on the Bull Durham tag.

A 1946 picture of Daddy
Ridin' his big Walkin’ horse,
And taggin' along right behind him,
His darlin’ daughter, of course.
She’s ridin’ out hell bent for leather
Tall in the saddle like dad.
Old cowboy hat pulled down over her ears.
Best little partner he’s had.

A 1955 picture of Daddy
Watchin’ his little girl
Ridin’ like hell ‘round those barrels.
No satin, no lace and no curls.
He’s prouder than punch of this daughter,
More than he’ll ever say.
Sorry he never had a boy child?
Naw, look at her ridin’ that bay!

A 1960 picture of daughter,
Two years after dad died.
She’s ridin’ his Walker and workin’ the ranch.
She never broke down and cried.
‘Cause she knows her Daddy’s sittin’
On a spirit mount, right by her side.
No, she wasn’t Daddy’s fluffy , prissy girl.
She was his strength, his life and his pride!

--Rusty Calhoun

Dinner with Des

Superpounce had a great field trip last night. She had a close brush with (as she put it) someone "famous." Nine-year-old Americans think the greatest thing in the world is to be famous. The second greatest is to meet someone famous. As I've said before, I'd much rather give Superpounce a "famous" role model who is a powerful feminine achetype rather than mere arm bling that flounces an unhealthy body across a stage.

Des did not disappoint. She made a BIG deal of Superpounce and made her feel truly special. Thanks, Desiree. You are a real champion.

So here is how the night went.


Superpounce sitting in Dad's office before going to Tri On The Run and the Houston Racing & Triathlon Club meeting.






Superpounce getting an autograph at Tri On The Run.





Superpounce shadowing Des as she signed more books at the Houston Racing meeting.






Des telling us all the details of her experience at Kona last year.






And finally, Des, our triathlete, with dad and daughter.

Thanks again, Desiree. You know we'll be cheering when you drop the bomb this year.