Whiskey and Chocolates

Last night, it broke. The Houstonian death grip of heat and humidity broke, hopefully for good. The radar last night showed a line of thunderstorms stringing from the northwest tip of San Antonio to Lufkin. From dusk until the storms arrived at 9 p.m., you could see the lightning over the pines. The flashes of power told the story. Off in the darkness somewhere was the line between Houston summer suffering and autumn. The summer resisted. Waiting for the front to arrive, just standing there on the front porch, clammy sweat rolled down my spine and beaded on my forehead. I hate this place sometimes.

This morning, we were on the other side of the line. Instead of fetid, the air was fresh. Instead of wind from a convection oven, a cool breeze. Church, then a long run along the bayou--a pleasure in the middle of the day where 24 hours earlier it would have been hazardous due to the heat. End the day with a long, steady swim at dusk in an outdoor, olympic size pool with only three other swimmers. I almost shivered.

Sunday nights are a treat because the training for the week is done and Monday is a rest day. This night, two chocolate truffles and Tyrconnell single malt Irish whiskey, a reward for the progress so far, total relaxation after some long training. Tonight, they were particularly sweet.

Life is good.

Serenity

Bolder. You better sit down. In fact, you might ought to skip this post altogether. I don't think you can handle it.

For the past several weeks, I have been riding naked.

No. Not that kind of naked. I'm haven't suddenly gone all kinky. I mean without technology. **gasp** Oui, mon ami. Quelle horreure. Sans le technologie.

First, my rudimentary bike computer needed a battery. Then after replacing the battery, I needed to reset the wheel circumference, and none of the little numbers in the book matched the little numbers on my tires or rims. And then I forgot my timex heart rate monitor one week. It was just a human being and a bicycle. No satellite imagery. No numbers. No graphs.

Old.

School.

But today, the minimal electronic gizodry that I have was present and working, but I did not get the heart rate monitor started and stopped at the right times, so there is no accurate heart rate data from the ride. **gulp** I don't know if western civilization will continue. More to the point, while I was involuntarily old school, mother nature was full on intentionally old school. It was about 90 degrees, 90% humidity and winds gusting to 90 miles per hour.

Okay, so the winds were 30 miles per hour, but they would not be denied. Most of the second half of the ride involved climbing hills into a wind either straight in your face or off your front quarter. Stay down on the aero bars to avoid the wind, and the lack of stability blows you off line an interferes with your climbing. Sit up or stand to climb or gain better balance and you become a sail blowing your little boat the wrong way.

Odd, though. Last year, under conditions like that, I would have become worried whether I was going to finish the ride and would have been angry at having to ride in those conditions. Now, it was just, "so, this is the way it's going to be, is it?" Shrug, find a gear that I can spin at 85+ rpm, try to relax, and focus on that little white line. "Oh well."

Speed was way down, but effort was way up. The run-off was a death march, but . . . that's the way it's going to be.

I can't change it, but I can push through it.

You Are Not A Pro

You know you're not a pro when you have to skip you're workout, even though your packed bike shoes, running shoes, shower shoes and appropriate gear, but your bags do not contain black, wingtip dress shoes that go ever-so-professionally with the suit hanging in your car.

Nothing like doing the morning commute twice and missing the single best morning of weather since last April.

Plan B: 10k at lunch and swim after the day job.

Oh, Snap.

So, this was at the top of my computer screen this evening. It is what you get in response to successfully completing an Ironman registration. It seems so easy. You fill in the little boxes. You tell them what size t-shirt you want. You let them know of any medical conditions that might endanger you on the course. Fork over a wad o' money, then hit "submit."

Oh, wait. Did not check the waiver box. Let's see . . . I agree, warrant and covenant as follows:

"Doing an Ironman or Ironman 70.3 is a large commitment on the athlete's time and lifestyle. It is a serious venture that involves sacrifice and some risks." Duh.

"Doing an Ironman or Ironman 70.3 is a serious athletic endeavor." Duh, again. Hopefully, I am becoming a serious athlete.

* * *

"I am physically fit and have sufficiently trained for this competition and that my physical condition has been verified by a licensed medical doctor." Ok, perhaps it is time for a physical.

* * *

"I HEREBY RELEASE, WAIVE, DISCHARGE AND COVENANT NOT TO SUE FORD IRONMAN WISCONSIN, IRONMAN NORTH AMERICA TRIATHLON, INC., The WORLD TRIATHLON CORPORATION, USAT, . . . herein referred to as "releasees", from all liability to me, my personal representatives, assigns, heirs, and next of kin for any and all loss or damage, and any claim or demands therefore on account of injury to me or my property or resulting in my death, . . . ." **blink**

"I HEREBY ASSUME FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR RISK OF BODILY INJURY,DEATH OR PROPERTY DAMAGE . . . . ."

OK, they are really starting to annoy me with the whole "death" thing. And why do I keep envisioning the swim start every time that word comes up?

First in . . . .

Nuclear Proliferation

I am told that, in Ironman, your cycling should be like Nuclear weapons--you have to have a large and powerful arsenal in hopes that you will never have to use them. Since the person who made the statement is Chivalry Chris, a three time Ironman Wisconsin finisher--who PR'd in those hellish conditions--I am listening.

In theory, with the a huge nuclear cycling arsenal in the silo, one enters T2 with enough in the tank to tackle a marathon. And, if mother nature tries to spoil the party, there is a deep well from which to draw.

That is the theory. Today, practice started.

At 0430 this morning, it was pitch black, 80 degrees, not a breath of air moved, and the humidity was so thick that every window was opaque with gooey condensation. When the sun came up, I knew it would top 85 degrees with high humidity. A cyclist who wants decent conditions would have stayed at home.

Me? First in. Last out.

The ride started with the tri-club at 0700 on the Ironstar course. After spending last weekend in the cold rain, this weekend was 65 hot, very hilly, windy miles . . . . . and a run. Those hills will be done and re-done in all weather for the next 357 days, because that is how an arsenal is built. One weapon at a time.

Only time will tell if the arsenal is sufficient.

Miki y Ja (Miki and Me): First In, Last Out.

"DAIR EES . . . . DAH MAN! FIRST IN! LAST OUT!"

Thus bellowed the voice of Miki, my Serbian strength trainer Thursday morning.

"Huh??" was my uber-articulate reply.

"You arrrrrrrrrrrrrre . . . **pause grin** . . . . dah MAN! Firstone een da gym. Last one out."

Of course, it would be Miki who coins the phrase that will be the motto for Greyhound 2.0--the training. That is what I want my training to be. First In. Last Out. It is the mantra I repeated to myself this morning when I did not want to go to masters swim practice. "First In. Last Out." Swim, I did.

And in breaking news, Greyhound's workout yesterday included 5 sets of heavy lifts, in which Greyhound benchpressed 5 sets of 5 using the same weight that was his one rep max earlier this summer.

Greyhound started referring to himself in the third person when he began completing Eastern Bloc powerlifter workouts and asking his Serbian trainer to add some weight to the bar in the last sets.

WOOF!!

IMWI Weekend

The traffic lights on East Washington were blinking yellow in the predawn hours. There was no one to whom a signal would have been relevant. I was alone with my coffee, moving toward the State Capitol illuminated in the distance. I was not nervous, because I was not racing. I was there to have fun and enjoy my friends. I had never seen an Ironman race before, but I had some idea what the day had in store. Boy was I wrong. Ironman is real. Real does not confine itself to predictable outcomes.

It was hard to tell when daylight actually began at Monona Terrace that morning. The overcast was so thick and persistant that we never saw the sun or knew when it came up. As 0600 passed and race time got closer, it did not become light so much as it got less dark. Even that changed so slowly that you almost did not notice. The terrace was nevertheless awhirl. With all the athletes and volunteers and family members and the voice of Ironman stirring the organized chaos, I was lucky to run into Trisaratops and Iron Wil on their way to body marking. With a thumbs up and a hug they were off into the vortex.

As the appointed hour drew near, one got to see how people handle stress. Some people talked. Some were completely silent. Some sought out strangers. Some sought out solitude. With Reilly urging reluctant athletes into the water, I saw one male competitor who was obviously very fit and obviously had absorbed much training; yet he sat with his back to the wall of the Monona Terrace, his eyes fixed in a 1000 yard stare straight ahead as if he had a date with a hangman’s noose.

With much cajoling, all the competitors finally made it into the water. About this time, Trimama and Trihubby showed up for their volunteer station as wet suit strippers. For those of you who have met them, you will understand what I am about to say. I fell completely under their spell. Trihubby is a mensch who drinks my brand of scotch and Trimama simply rocks. Coolest mom on the block. No doubt. The whole long day we were together, I had only one complaint: they did not bring the tribe with them.

Soon thereafter, the gun went off. My first thought at seeing more than 2000 competitors clawing through the steel grey chop was base and simple. “[Expletive deleted], I’ll never be able to do this.” Although I went to Madison intending to register, I started to reject the idea out of hand. At one point, the swimming “peloton” stretched nearly all the way around the two loop course. I was on top of the terrace at that point and had time to think. That sight was early 1.2 miles of human beings representing countless hundreds of thousands of training hours and all the dreams invested in them.

As age groupers started to emerge from the water, I went to the swim exit looking for Wil and Sara. In an ominous omen on the day, the wind picked up and a drizzle began. The lake lapped at the rocks on shore and the weather began to look hostile. It was impossible not to shiver, both from the damp chill, and from anxiety. 138.2 miles left for these athletes, and conditions were getting worse, not better.

After the swim champs, the “ordinary” Ironmen (if there is such a thing) started to emerge from the water. From the fright of seeing the swim start, this was all encouragement. It makes you think, “maybe I can do this.” I kept an eye on my watch and kept looking for Wil’s telltale red, Orca wetsuit. (I looked hard for Sara, but did not know what her wetstuit looked like. I thought I saw her, but I was not sure.). Orca after Orca came out of the water as Wil’s top swim time came and went. I started to worry for her, but then I saw one last set of red, Orca arms. Her face turned toward me as she breathed and I recognized her at once. The volunteers grabbed her up out of the water like a baptism at a camp revival meeting and she was all smiles. Trihubby and Trimama yanked the wetsuit off her, and with a huge hug and an even bigger smile, she was off to T1.

I snagged some coffee and cookies for Trihubby and Trimama, because they were all wet from their duties, and there was still 40 minutes left in the swim. The emotions were raw as the swim cutoff approached. Out in the water, you could see the last few sets of arms cycling through their strokes, trying to make it in. With each swimmer, you wondered, “Is that the last guy? Or him? Will he make it?” Very soon we found out. With less than one minute to the cutoff, a female age grouper wept tears of joy and relief as she was informed that she made it. A spare few seconds later, two or three others wept tears of heartbreak when their chips were removed and they were not allowed to continue. The weeping was not in solitude. The volunteers cried. I cried.

Here, the weather really started to turn foul. The wind continued to climb as the temperature and the rain continued to fall. Trimama and Trihubby and I hopped in the car and took off for Verona to catch some of the bike route. The drizzle was now an honest rain. Elites and age groupers alike were suffering from the cold. You could see the suffering. Some, you could tell, had not gotten warm since emerging from the water. Yet, on they rode.

I got the tribe leaders back into town for their volunteer water stop duty and actually had to buy some sweats and another coat at the expo, just to keep warm. I saw the first two men out of T2 and cheered the incoming bikes for three hours. The suffering was right on the surface, even on the best athletes. Elites had been caught by some of the uberstrong age groupers, and some of the age groupers who are normally strong were limping in with blue lips and early hypothermia.

Then it was on to my volunteer station. I saw the first men and first women finish, but that is not nearly the most rewarding part of Ironman. I saw the middle and end of the bell curve come cross the line, and I was honored to carry their weight until they met weeping or cheering or screaming family members. A few just hobbled off into the night, alone and looking for dry clothes. I don’t know if they were lonely. It made me lonely.

These ironmen came in all types. The whooping 30 year old tri-stud, the dad who carries the kids across the line and collapses, the Irongrandpa, and the competitors who could not tell you their names and did not know where they were. The rain fell heavier and the temperature dropped further. Athletes who did not get inside were getting shocky and occasionally falling over. This was real. One young man sprinted for the line to break 11 hours, made his goal, and then promptly collapsed into our firemen’s carry. He did not open his eyes in the medical tent, but he could stammer that he had broken 11 hours. That was all he knew.

In the midst of this, all of us that were within electronic communication saw that Sara had made it in from the bike, but her time told the story of the day. Her average speed revealed just how hard the course was in those conditions. She was not far in advance of the cutoff, and still no news on Iron Wil. 5:30 came and 5:30 passed. We thought Wil had timed out and were crushed for her. Five minutes later ironmanlive (may it rot forever in hell) springs up with her bike split--just under the wire. Down turned to up. Trihubby ran out, saw her, and ran with her to the first breakpoint.

Somewhat later, we projected a finishing time for Sara based on her half-marathon split. We positioned ourselves so that she would have her own, personal, TBC finish line catchers. Those of you who know her in real life will not be surprised that she was all smiles, all gratitude, all grace. On a very hard day she did some very hard stuff. Wow. Just. Wow.

But by this time. Up had turned to down again. We knew Wil’s split for the first half of the marathon. We knew that hopes were dim, and we were extremely thankful that Stu was right along with her. She would tell you herself that she was in very good hands with Stu for the entire race. I know she must have been hurting much, much more than we, but we felt a sliver of the disappointment for her. She worked so hard. She did everything right. She was prepared. But there are no guarantees. You can do it right and still not finish. I sent her a text that night. I don’t know if she received it, and I don’t even know if the attention from out-of-state internet strangers was even entirely welcome, but the sentiment was as real as the race conditions that day.

“Trimama and Trihubby and I are feeling it with you, at least in a small way. Love and admiration are not born of what you do [or fail to do I will add now], but of who you are.”

I don’t really know Wil; but, I know who she is. Wil “is” a benediction, a “good word,” a blessing in motion. There are literally heart attacks that will not happen because of who she is. Her readers are inspired to “get on the bus” every morning, promptly at 4 a.m. There are pounds and eating disorders that no longer exist because of who she is. There are friendships that have formed, both with her and in her orbit because of who she is. That is “who” Iron Wil is.

Wil’s gravitational pull drags us along with her. It also continues to push her on. By 9:30 this morning, after her long, hard day yesterday, she stood with Run Bubba Run, Stu and Trihubby for a picture, all holding vouchers showing that they had signed up for Ironman Wisconsin 2007. Unfinished business.

Oh. And I stood with them. I have one of those vouchers too. Thanks, Wil.

Growing Pains

Any of you who have children already know the first thing my child asks when she is told she is going to the doctor. Say it with me now, "am I going to get a shot?" Trimama, I am sure, has heard it four times over as compared to me. Yet, at a very young age, we learn that sometimes the things we need will hurt. Mom or dad takes us to the doctor or the dentist, and we are told, "this might sting a little."

A LITTLE??!!

I tried to be brave then, and I try to be brave now, but there is still that inner struggle. Part of me intentionally seeks out those new experiences that take me out of my comfort zone. The pain or discomfort I experience tells me I am fully alive and still growing. Another part of me, though, likes things warm and comfortable.

As I write this, I am in a Panera Bread in Madison, Wisconsin, mere hours before my tri-blogger friends will plunge into Lake Menona at the sound of the gun for Ironman Wisconsin. The question on my mind is whether, next year, I will take the plunge with them. I have talked to the Stu-meister on the phone, and I have actually met Trisaratops. She is so infectiously high spirited, she made me want to grab a wetsuit and start right then and there.

Yet . . . this is going to hurt a little. Perhaps the greatest portion of the pain is just the anxiety about whether I can finish what I start, especially when I am not acting in secret, but someone like you is watching. It is one thing to burn out and give up anonymously. It is another to face the music and have someone know it.

I guess part of being a grownup is making the choice that is best, not just the choice that is easy.

Tomorrow, a gun will sound, a couple thousand people will take a great leap toward the fulfillment of a dream, and many hours later I will catch them at the finish line. I know I will feel like I am in the company of heroes.

Then . . . stay tuned.

For My Friends

Those of you toeing the line at Ironman Wisconsin this weekend, I have never yet been where you are going. But I offer a thought from someone who knew something about staying the course--the lion who roared when Britain stood alone.

"If you are going through hell, keep going."

• Sir Winston Churchill

I admire you guys so much, and hope that I may some day stand with you in the company of Ironmen.

Your Friend,

Greyhound

"Are You A Triathlete?"

I went to my third masters swim workout this morning, and there was a new coach to whom I had to introduce myself. She was a tough old grandma who obviously swims like a fish and diagnoses stroke deficiencies with the precision of a surgeon.

She asks me, "are you a triathlete?" and thinking she might have observed my lack of speed or lack of flip turns, I sheepishly answer, "yes" and kind of hang my head a little.

Then I realize that she had not seen me swim, but was looking at my newly found, 91% fat free, body-by-Miki physique.

"I thought so," she says. "You look like you're really in good shape."

Grandmas rock.

The Hill In Front of You

Sometimes it's good just to go back to the beginning. Years ago, when a friend of mine took me on my first "real" bike ride, I rode a relatively hilly route between Montgomery and Richards Texas, through the Sam Houston National forest. Although I was at least five years younger than I am today, and the weather was a lot cooler that October morning, I had to be rescued from the predictable "bonk." I thought I might never ride again.

Today part of my long ride covered that very same route, and a lot more besides. The morning woke warm and humid, You could almost see the air, especially when the newly risen sun sliced through pines of the forest. Sometimes it was so still, not a twig stirred. All I could hear was the sound of my chain, my tires, and my breathing.

This ride not only covered more miles than my first trip down that road; it covered more mental real estate as well. I've got a decision to make. Some of you who know me (or at least the blog me) might have an inkling what that decision is. For me it's a tough decision because it is dream and an effort I don't know that I am ready for. Moreover, it is a commitment that will affect other people besides myself. I haven't made the decision yet, but the ride gave me some tools that might come in handy.

1. Start where you are. It's the only place you can start. Watching the clock or wishing you were closer to your goal is wasted energy. Goals are only reached if you start. Ready or not, you can only start where you are.

2. Use what you have. Sure it might be nice to be bigger, stronger, faster . . . but all I've got is me, my bike and the stuff I brung with me. Waiting for perfect conditions results only in waiting.

3. Climb the hill in front of you. There are a lot of rollers and hills between Montgomery and Richards, but thinking about the one you see down the road or the one you know round the bend does not serve to get you up the hill that is under your tires. Those hills can only be climbed one at a time, and the best way to climb them is to have your brain and your body both climbing the same hill at the same time.

If I can manage that, maybe . . . just maybe. . .

The Truth About Cats and Dogs, Part 2

Number 3 is also true, but unfairly crafty. After I was 35, I had a case in The United States Supreme Court (capital "S" capital "C"), but attention to the docket would reveal that I did not argue it. It was argued by Miguel Estrada. Before I was 35, I had a case in another supreme court (lower case "s" lowe case "c"), i.e. the Supreme Court of Texas, which I was fortunate enough to argue. Iron Pol, who has devined my real identity, found my resume online and had all the facts in front of him, but alas, the devil is in the details.

By elimination, number 2, which sounds true, is false. Mrs. Greyhound was not my high school sweetheart, nor did we go to the same college. And this is a story in itself.

When I was a kid, we visited Mrs. Greyhound's home town once each summer for a family reunion. I dissed that little town once, and my mother, the Baptist prophetess remarked, "You don't know, you might actually marry a girl from this town some day." Moms are scarry, because through an improbable turn of events, that statement came true.

Mrs. Greyhound and I were both high school, classical instrumentalists in the State of Oklahoma. Given that we did not play steel guitar and sing about prison, trains and life on the farm, that is a fairly small circle of folks, so it is highly unusual that we never crossed paths. I was in the Oklahoma City Junior Syphony, and the year after I left to join the Oklahoma Youth Orchestra, Mrs. Greyhound joined the Junior Symphony. I was in the All State Band or Orchestra for three years. My senior year, Mrs. Greyhound was also in the orchestra and we knew some of the same people, but we never met. After graduation we went to different schools. Mrs. Greyhound went to OU, I went to Wisconsin.

After years of passing like ships in the night, we finally met through a mutual friend at the Aspen Music Festival, where we were both student musicians. It was an instant love affair of the deepest and most meaningful level (i.e., she thought my tookus looked cute in those 1980s little black running shorts and I thought she was hawt--we were only 21 after all). Although you might like to think I'm all Alan-Alda-kind-of-sensitive, at age 21 I was hearing no wedding bells. I was only slightly less disgusting than the average 21 year old college kid. But the age of miracles is not yet passed. For one brief shining moment, this introvert had enough game to get this hawtty interested in me instead of her grad student boyfriend back home.

SUH-WEET!

We kept in touch, grew a relationship through correspondence, visited when I was home for hollidays and returned to Aspen the next summer. About 10 days after I graduated from UW Madison in May of 1989 we were married and have remained so ever since--mostly through her tolerance and longsuffering nature. In introverted type A perfectionist can be a prickly life partner. Add triathlon to the picture and you have extended absences, but at least I'm usually too tired to be mean.

Congrats to Danielle and Tri-Mama who nailed the answer. Contact me by e-mail and tell me where to send the schwag. (I can deliver yours, tri-mama, at IMWI if you like). 21st Century Mom picked the right statement for the wrong reason and Fe-Lady picked the right statement with no specification of the falsehood. If you contact me by e-mail, I'll send you some schwag anyway, because that's just the kind of guy I am.

And now you know . . . the rest . . . of the story.

The Truth About Cats & Dogs, Part 1

Number 1 is true. This picture is a very young and very lucky greyhound, 23 years old, standing outside Carnegie Hall in New York City in December, 1989. Later that night, I got to sit on the stage and play Beethoven Symphony No. 7 with the New World Symphony of Miami Florida, conducted by Michael Tilson Thomas, our music director. That orchestra was the highlight of my musical life and I was lucky to be in it. As far as I know, I played only one good audition in my entire life, and it happened to be that one.

I prepared for the audition by traveling several times to Chicago to take extra coaching from Dale Clevenger, the principal horn of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Dale has a personality so huge it sucks the air out of the room when he enters, but I managed to improve during the first lesson, and he consented to another. At the second lesson Dale beckoned me into a room where he was not alone. The room was filled with students from his studio and the Chicago Civic Orchestra, training ground for the Chicago Symphony. They did not have their horns. They would be listening, not playing.

OH . . . . SNAP. I think I just pee’d . . . just a little.‘

Kind of like plunging in the water for that first open water race, I had to just take a deep breath and go. I managed not only to survive playing the excerpts in front of all these horn studs while Dale conducted and sang the orchestra parts, Dale actually banged his fist down a couple of times and bellowed, “now that’s the way I want to hear you guys play that.”

*gulp*

The day before the audition, however, I thought it was all for naught. Fever. Chills. Vomiting. Swollen glands. Classic flu. But some friends persuaded me to go take the audition with them “for the experience.” With absolutely nothing in my tank, I entered the hotel conference room where the audition was being held, and I played . . .

better than I ever had before and better than I had a right to expect. I slept on the floorboard of the car all the way back to Madison.

I made the call list, but there was no opening. So, I prepared to go to Northwestern to get my masters degree with Dale, accompanied by my new bride, Mrs. Greyhound. That summer, however, I received a letter. I had a job with the NWS and my job would include playing with the best young musicians in the country (aged 21-30), performing with the best conductors and the best soloists on the planet, and playing in Carnegie Hall.

My parents got to come--including my mother who passed on a piano scholarship at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia because sheltered, Baptist girls from Oklahoma did not pursue such ambitions back in the 1950s. They got to go to the “big city” and see me perform, but I got something even better. I got to go back stage and see pictures of those who had gone before me--Toscanini, Furtwangler, Solti, Karjan, Casals, Stern, Rubenstein, Horowitz. . . . . wow, and I get to walk out there too?? What a charmed life.

Little did Mom and Dad know, but this was the second time I had taken an unchaperoned trip to New York City with the girl who became Mrs. Greyhound. . . .*gasp* . . . but that’s another story.

Fun & Games: Update

Hmmmmmmm. There are some very clever people out there; but, remember, greyhound is exceedingly crafty--dare we even say, deceptive. There is still plenty of greyhound schwag available, so those of you who have not guessed the lie from the truth . . . .

PLAY ON!

IRL: Fun and Games

Trisaratops, in addition to being a wonderful writer, is the teacher that we all wish we had. (Unlike my history teachers, I bet Trisaratops manages not to get bogged down in the age of European exploration, forges past the Stamp Act, and manages to connect historical events to ideas and critical thinking that are vital to her students. But I'm not bitter. Really. I'm.Not.)

In order to break the ice in her new class, Trisaratops played the game where you list two truths and a lie about yourself, and your colleagues try to identify the lie. Inspired by her example, I thought it would be fun to play two truths and a lie in the blogosphere. Here's how it works.

I will list two truths and a lie about myself. You can guess in the comment section; BUT, there is a catch. If you guess, list two truths and a lie on your own blog, so that the game goes on and on, potentially taking the entire backbone of the world wide web offline. AND there is one more catch. I am a tricky little bastard. If you guess at a lie, identify the facts you think are false, and if you correctly do so, you will be entitled to receive astounding greyhound schwag (while supplies last).

So here goes. Identify the lie:

1. I played Carnegie Hall before I was 25 years old.

2. I have been married to Mrs. Greyhound, my highschool sweetheart, since 1989.

3. I argued a supreme court case before I was 35 years old.

Good luck.

Spirit of Triathlon: Friendship

What is it about this triathlon? Swimmers can be elitist and standoffish. Road cyclists can be really elitist and standoffish. Runners, especially the fast ones, can be darn intimidating. Yet, what happens when you squash all these prickly disciplines together?

Oddly enough, this "individual" sport of triathlon creates a really cool and welcoming community that is fertile for friendships. Some of those friendships are just people you greet from the handlebars. Sometimes it is the friendly assistance in setting up transition or figuring out that wetsuit for the first time. Sometimes it is nothing more earth shattering than post-race libations. But some of our friendships transcend this hobby or sport that we share. Why is that?

I am sure that I have neither the complete answer nor a corner on the market for insight, but I have a theory. Perhaps nothing is quite so toxic to community as pride. This sport will humble the proud. The swim champ is likely to get smoked by the cyclist. The uber roadie will leave his legs in T2, only to get smoked by every runner in his age group. The road racing champion first must avoid drowning and remember how to clip out before falling on his bike. All three of these might get smoked by the nutritionist who is smart enough to stay hydrated and fueled on the day.

At this stage in our sport's devleopment, none of us (or practically none of us) comes to triathlon having lettered in "triathlon." Many of us (especially us guys for some reason) come to the sport relatively late in life, as full grown adults. We don't come as "triathletes" per se, but maybe as runners, or swimmers, or cyclists, often having only recreational ability. We don't come because of our strengths; we come in spite of our weaknesses. None of us has it all together. Indeed, I bet if you interviewed the best professional triathletes, precious few of them would feel like they had it all together.

So what happens when you have a group of individuals that recognize their own shortcomings and the strengths to be gleaned from someone else? You have a community that creates friendships. Our tri club meetings are probably much like yours. The 30 something females, the 40 something males, the grandmas and grandpas, and the teens and twenties are all on the same footing. All share the fellowship of stupid mistakes, limited abilities, starting from wherever they are and moving onward and upward. After all, the ironman was the sprint tri newbie, not that long ago.

If it is true, as Saint Thomas Aquinas said, that "[t]here is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship," then it is also true in my case that there is no passtime on earth more to be prized than my sport, triathlon.

Breaking Up

Dear _______:
There comes a time in every relationship, when choices have to be made. I think that time is now. I think we should stop seeing each other. It’s not just a matter that you’re not meeting my needs, it’s just that we’ve grown apart.
I mean, when we started seeing each other, back in 1999, I was a completely different person. I was needy. I lacked confidence. I was unathletic. You held out promises, hope even. I took the bait. I committed to you. But nothing changed. It was empty. It wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be.
So I started running outside, in the park, seeing other people. I even made some friends. You didn’t seem to mind. You seemed to know that I would always return when things got too hot or too cold. I’d call on you in the dark. There would be indoor cardio again.
But the hope you offered for me was false hope. You just took and took and took. Whether it was charges for supplements, charges for drinks, charges for group exercise, it was always about you. You were a charge on my credit card every month.
But then I met the new gym. She was beautiful and new of course, but there was more. The people actually knew my name, and I learned theirs. They were happy to see me. They cheered for me--literally cheered when the marathon went right by their building. They stood on the sidewalk and cheered. They cheered for my marathon. They cheered for my increasingly leaner body. They cheered from my first triathlon all the way through my first season. Even the people who were not my trainers cheered for me.
You never cheered for me.
Yet you seemed so cocky. “She hasn’t got a pool,” I heard you say once. So, you knew that I’d come calling those dark mornings to get from you what you thought I could get nowhere else. I avoided you when I could swim anywhere else. But I’d always make the aquatic call eventually. You thought it would always be that way.
Yesterday, however, you decided that the pool is going to be closed every week, exactly when I need it for my mid-week swim. We just can’t go on like this. So, as of now, you are the health club that dare not speak its name. I wish you well, but you will never see me again. Don’t call.
Tomorrow morning, I am joining a master’s swim group. I just don’t need you anymore.
Sincerely,
greyhound

A Few Of My Favorite Things (NOT!)

This is the part of the show where you come to realize how whiny, petty, and judgmental Greyhound can be. But, it's my blog, and if you don't like it, then there is a little box with an "x" in the upper right hand corner that will solve our problem. If, however, you are inspired to vent your own little list of not-so-favorite things, that is what we have comments for.

NOT my favorite things:

1. Waking up at 2:15, 3:15 and 3:45 during a recovery week when I get to "sleep in" until quarter past four.

2. The smell of bacon wafting on the air when I know I will be eating oatmeal.

3. Humidity so stifling at 0500 that I need a shower after just walking out on my porch.

4. Sitting at my desk while a bead of perspiration rolls down my spine.

5. The phalanx of smokers outside the entrance to every downtown office building.

6. Knowing my health insurance rates include the mortality and disease data of the regiment of smokers waddling to and from their offices so they can pay for cable TV and a couch.

7. The phone ringing, again, and . . . again . . . . (wait for it) . . . . and again.

8. Stale coffee.

9. Smelling red beans and rice (with huge sausage link, cheese and onions) when I know I will be eating salad.

10. Houston in August (a sweating, smoking, cholesterol ingesting, incessant ringing, tepid stale coffee, inner ring of normality hell).

Spirit of Triathlon: No Beige Allowed

dare
• verb 1 have the courage to do. 2 defy or challenge to do.

From the Old English: durran "to brave danger,"

When was the last time you confronted a choice between courage and cowardice? Our kids probably encounter it with some regularity, at least in its most basic form. Everyone is taller than they are, they cannot get from place to place without help, every year they are put into a new classroom with new teachers and new information to master, and several times each day they have to go onto a playground. On the playground someone may ask them point blank, "whatsa matter? Are you chicken?" They might even get the "bock bock" clucking sound to go along with it. Someone may challenge them with "I dare you," or even break out the "double dog dare."

The average grownup, with a little forethought, can structure a life to avoid that kind of direct challenge. If you want, especially in America, you can live beige. You can get a reasonable education and a reasonable job with reasonable expectations and predictable scheduling, resulting in a predictable career, and predictable retirement and a predictable decline. You won't risk much failure, but how much victory will you taste? Life becomes sort of like bathwater that is too tepid to be hot, and way too short of cold to be felt.

Kids don't live beige, and neither do triathletes. It is impossible to live beige before a training session that is longer or more intense than you have ever done before. Dare you start, not knowing whether you can finish? It is impossible to live beige on the shoreline before the gun goes off. Some of us are standing there knowing that, in the near past, we could not swim with our faces in the water. Dare you cast yourself into this kicking, seething foreign environment?

No matter who the athlete is or how many races he or she has done, triathlon is a daily "double dog dare." The water, or the distance, or the weather, or our own physical limitations cast down the same kind of challenge, no matter who you are. "Are you chicken? Do you dare?"

We do dare. We loathe beige. Tepid sucks. An anesthetized march to dust is unacceptable. For us, like Teddy Roosevelt, it is "Far better . . . to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure . . . than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat."

Dare. Win. Triumph. Fail. Enjoy. Suffer. Shun beige. I double dog dare you.

Athena

Hmmm. Let's see. Time to research the competition a little bit. "Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, war, the arts, industry, justice and skill." Ok. . . . Nytro . . . wisdom . . . skill . . . . arts . . . yeah, not so much.

"Spung fully formed from the head of her father Zeus." Basically split him open because of the noise and pain caused by forging battle armor, helmet, breastplate and shield. Dad swallowed mom shortly after a round of supernatural copulation. Hmmm.. . . . Loud . . . brash . . . sometimes gives you a splitting headache. OK, now that's starting to sound like Nytro. Plus, if she tries to swim, bike and run with all that armor and whole Aegis and flowing robes thing, she's dead meat. I can do this.

"Her constant companion is Nike, the goddess of victory." OK that's not good. I'm definitely going have to find this Nike broad and take her out. I'm going to have to carry my old OLY pace over the length of a half-iron to have any chance of winning this bet. I don't need some skinny little type A tri-chica coming in and making this any harder. One girl with a weapon is quite enough.

I drank water and juice last night instead of having a beer or a glass of wine. I did not want to, but I'm being chased by an Athena.

I rolled out this morning at 0345 to have breakfast before my swim workout. I did not want to, but I'm being chased by an Athena.

I did my first hard swim workout since my "A" race last June. My lats, tris and delts were burning but I kept on. I did not want to, but I'm being chased by an Athena.

I ate oatmeal for breakfast instead of bacon egg and cheese breakfast tacos. I didn't want to, but I'm being chased by an Athena.

I will eat the healthy food I brought from home today instead of going for red beans and rice with a sausage link and cheese and. . . . . I don't want to, but I'm being chased by a potentially very angry Athena.

I'm running an hour this afternoon. I'm running like I'm being chased . . . by an Athena.

This can only end badly.

SOMA Celebrity Race

Nytro and Benny are very persuasive. Well, actually Nytro is. Benny is the governor that keeps persuasion from becoming coercion--most of the time.

Benny and Nytro told me they were doing "SOMA," and after explaining to me what it was, they encouraged me to come on out. So, the last weekend in October, Mrs. Greyhound and I will take the blog on the road and do the SOMA Half-Iron triathlon. I'll primarily be using the event as a long training day toward the end of my base period, but I know a lot of you will cap your seasons with this event.

I say "primarily" a training race because--if you haven't noticed--Nytro can be just a teeensy weeensy bit competitive. I dare not tug on Superman's cape, but we need to liven up the training. I think we need some type of "gentleman's wager" between Nytro and me--although admittedly no one would confuse Nytro for a gentleman. (OMG, did I say that out loud?) Of course the wager would have to be creative because young, healthy, strong and athletic Nytro is signed up for a mere quarter iron--unlike the short, middle-aged, band geek (and yet oddly Sean-Connery-like) Greyhound.

So, I put it to you Tri-bloggers. What should the wager be? Enter your suggestions in the comments, and be sure and tell me if you're coming to the race, if you're participating, and if you have any good race experiences to share.

Spirit of Triathlon: Get Off The Beach

Inspire: • verb 1 fill with the urge or ability to do or feel something. 2 create (a feeling) in a person. 3 give rise to. 4 inhale.

— ORIGIN Latin inspirare ‘breathe or blow into’.

--Oxford English Dictionary

Inspiration. The word has been used to describe weighty and mystical happenings, like when people are touched by God--when the Spirit of God is "breathed into" a person who is regenerated to new life. The word has also been trivialized, used to describe what people feel like after seeing a touching film or beautiful sunset. It temporarily gives the warm fuzzies but effects no real change.

We in the tri-blogosphere often use it to describe our effect on each other, as in, "Wil, you're so inspiring." Whether or not you and I share the same spiritual convictions, I am coming to the firm conclusion that we are using that word in that life-changing sort of way. Our sport and our participation in it "breathes" life into ourselves and our community.

Look around the blogosphere posts for this week alone. Jessi's post leaves no doubt that triathlon has changed who she is, from the inside out. The Jessi pictured in her mind is a different person from the Jessi of only a short time ago, and she attributes it to triathlon.

The Kahuna wrote about how an open water swim breathed life into an otherwise soul-sucking day. His reservations as he hit the Pacific Ocean made him observe, "You can't decide if that bit of fear makes you feel like a coward or that you are alive for the first time today. Probably both."

Iron Wil went on a mission to find her life, and she has succeeded through triathlon. She observed, "Most things I went looking for I discovered I already had. And simple things captivate me once again. My life is where I want it. And I'm who I want to be."

That pre-blogger, Henry David Thoreau, observed, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." (Walden, Ch. 1, Economy (1854)). Are we not doing somewhat the same thing? Do we not find life in the "deliberate" tempo we set in the water or over the land? Do we not breathe life from the "essential facts" of reaching for something we cannot yet do and then working until we do it? I think so.

Nytro would probably find it odd to be juxtaposed with Thoreau, but she went to her own "woods" and fronted "the essential facts of life" in her first olympic distance triathlon. Like each of us, she kept going when it would have been more comfortable to stop. Perhaps, like Thoreau, she did not want to discover that "she had not lived." She put it this way: "[I] kept telling myself that even if I was the last one out of the water, the beach was full of people who hadn't even tried."

This life is a beach full of people who may one day discover at the end of their lives that, by staying on the beach, they have not really lived. We are the happy few who have ventured off the beach and have inhaled deeply of life so we can breathe it into each other.

Hey! You there . . . on the beach. It doesn't have to be triathlon, but get off the beach. Do something hard. Do something simple. Try. Live.

Spirit of Triathlon: Manna from Heaven

According to Bolder from Boulder, it's all about the bike. He did not even know how right he was, and the bike doesn't need to be nearly as fancy as his beloved Cervelo. Second hand mountain bikes or hybrids will do.

A man from Namibia, where poverty and the AIDS pandemic rage, told me the other day that his second hand bicycle was "Manna from Heaven." Actually, he did not tell me, he told the world. His words were featured in the first of a series of stories on the BBC Radio archive entitled, "The Fall And Rise Of The Bicycle."

His bicycle had first been owned by someone in the UK or perhaps America who no longer had use for it. It had been donated through any number of bicycle charities who provided the bicycle to the Bicycle Empowerment Network--Namibia (BEN-Namibia), which refurbishes and repairs the bicycles, and then gives them to people who need them. Listen here.

Big deal? Actually, in places like Namibia it is. A child with a bicycle can make it to school on time, getting an education and remaining safe in the schoolhouse. An medical worker with a bicycle can travel the distances necessary to care for the appalling numbers of people in Namibia suffering from AIDS, making sure that they take their medications and are cared for with dignity. A farmer or artisan or small business person with a bicycle can travel and do commerce with others. Check out BEN-Namibia and their partner charities, including Bicycles for Humanity. You'll be astounded what a cheap mountain bike can become in the third world.

How many of us started our own triathlon journeys on mountain bikes or hybrids that we no longer have use for? The spirit of triathlon is the handshake in the transition area before the race, the encouragement on the course, and the slap on the back after the race. That spirit applied to our old bicycles means they no longer gather the dust of idleness in our garages, but gather the dust of use by people for whom they are "Manna from Heaven."

All You Need is . . .

"All you neeed ees . . (pause) . . . kettel bell . . . (smirk)"

That is what MIKI said near the end of our session. Sweat was dripping from every pore, I was drenched as thoroughly as if I had been dumped in a pond, and every muscle in my body was trembling. In fact, if there are typos in this post, blame it on the convulsions in my delts, pecs, biceps, hips, core, back, quads, ass, and pretty much everywhere except my metatarsals.

A kettel bell is the medieval torture device pictured above. It is manufactured still by the Chinese communists, and apparently is useful for training olympic athletes or tormenting political prisoners. It was the featured item for our circuit workout this morning.

I arrived early, did a little aerobic work to raise my core temperature and stretched before MIKI arrived. When he got there I proudly announced that I had warmed up and stretched. "Eees gooot. (shrug). Vee do special warmup. I'll get my toyssss . . (pause) . . . und vee begin."

The "special" warmup was a dumbell-enhanced core routine that might have been devised if Mark Verstegen had been fond of hurting small, furry animals. After 15, sweat popping minutes of that, the workout began.

MIKI broke out the cattle bells and proceeded to break out a circuit workout calculated to humble the proud and crumble the humble. Multimovement strength and power exercises involving arms, legs, back, core, chest . . . dang near everything else. Three sets. The first set was hard. The second was a lactic acid-dropping burn fest. The third . . . I have no clear memory of the third set.

Apprently, this was followed by an ab routine and some coach-assisted stretching. At least that is what I'm told. Someone may have to tell me about Greyhound 2.0--citius, altius, fortius. I may not live to see it.

Miki i Ja (Miki and Me)

I cannot predict the future. Normally. But I know something for certain. Tomorrow, I am going hurt. My quads will hurt. My chest will hurt. My abs will hurt. My back will hurt. Why? Because today I met

MIKI.

“Awwwwwww,” you say. “How cute. Who is she? What breed? Pomeranian? Shitzu?”

No, MIKI is Serbian. HE is married to a former pro triathlete and swim coach. It is said he used to train the Spetsnaz. I, for one, believe it.

MIKI tested my VO2 max. MIKI tested my percentage body fat. MIKI tested my upper body endurance. MIKI tested core endurance. MIKI tested max bench press. MIKI tested max leg press. Miki tested how many pullups, dips and pushups I could do until exhaustion. The body fat calipers kind of tickled. Nothing else did.

MIKI is super qualified and very nice, but he talks like that big Russian Rocky had to fight in Rocky IV. Get used to his voice, because you will hear him regularly on the blog. He has accepted the mission to create Greyhound 2.0--citius, altius, fortius. In MIKI’s words:

(**begin Eastern European accent**)

“Vee test, und see your veekneesses, yesss? . . . .Then, I make plan. Not just triathlon plan. I make special.

“Test show you need powah. Vee make powah.

“You need . . . muhskoolah . . . endoorahnce . . . Vee make muhskoolah endoorahnce.

“Upper bahdeee endoorahnce . . . ees (shrug) pretty goooot.

“Max pull ups, und dips . . . ees not too goooooot. With short bahdee, und light veyt, should be much more.

“Vee check dee V-O-too maxeemum . . . ees (shrug) OK. Vee make bettah.

“Yore bahdee fat. 9%. Eees Excellent . . . .”

(I smile)

“BAHT, . . . . ees NOT . . . COM-PET-IT-TIVE.

(I cease smiling)

“Vee make you . . . TOTAL . . . ATHLETE.”

We begin 0500 this Friday. This is gonna leave a mark.

One More Time, From The Top

It started today, the beginning of the new season. This year it started correctly, long and sloooooooooooooow, healed up from last year's efforts and a proper beginning to "Base 1," three weeks of long, aerobic efforts to build a foundation. Today was running with my heartrate in Zone 2 - 3 for 9 miles until the heartrate would not stay down any longer. Tomorrow it is two hours on the trainer at that low heartrate then a pool workout with the tri-club.

This is going to be a great year. In a little over a month, my friends that I have never met will meet their Ironman destiny in Wisconsin. I have watched the training (online) and I get to be there to shout myself hoarse and share the joy.

Coach T has been admitted to her graduate program, and her changed circumstance means she is going to run. She's going to run FAST because that is her gift. She will run the Houston half-marathon in January and I predict she will be one of (if not THE) first non-pro female finisher. I get to watch the training, and I get to shout myself hoarse and share the joy.

Oh, and me. This year is no longer about surviving and wondering whether I am a triathlete. This year is about potential. How light, fast, lean and powerful can I make this 5'4" frame? How much heart is in there? It's not yet time for full iron. I don't have "buy in" from Mrs. Greyhound or my puppy daddy self. But this year will have masters swim classes, strength training from a coach trained in the Eastern Block, a marathon, century rides, and half-irons.

Most importantly, it will have old friends and new friends, for whom I have a humble suggestion. Long about September 23 of next year, there is a triathlon festival in Vegas. It has the sprint. It has the Olympic distance. It has the half-iron. Something for everyone. Moreover, nearly everyone can get to Vegas without undue expense. Even non-triathlon spouses like Vegas. Sounds like the perfect place for a TBC convocation. What do you say?

Come along. Shout yourself hoarse. Share the joy.

Dream a Little Dream

It is time. Although I am a little depressed about it, it is time to return from the mountains to normal life. Beyond depressing, there is the worrisome prospect of returning to normal training conditions and wondering whether I still have the necessary motivation. For me, motivation requires goals, and that is where you, the Tri-Blogger Community ("TBC"), come in.

What events should I train for in the next year? I have some ideas, but I want my goal races to be events where I can go out to meet TBC members or they can come out and meet me. We can race, share war stories over food and drink, and hold each other accountable while training. I have some ideas about some good events that might make that possible, but I am going to leave this post up for several days so you can weigh in. I will be working on the pathetically out-of-date sidebar of this blog--and occasionally doing my job as well.

Who out there might be in for these events, and what other events should I consider placing on the calendar, either alongside or in lieu of these:

October 29, Montgomery, Texas: Iron Star-- a half-iron distance triathlon with open water swim in Lake Conroe. Has the advantage of being near my house and on a course where I typically train. Y'all come for the event or for massive training weekends.

January 6-7, Orlando Florida: Walt Disney World Marathon Weekend. I am considering doing the marathon while Mrs. Greyhound and the puppy are along for vacation. There is also a half marathon if that suits you better. Who's in?

January 14, Houston, Texas: Houston Marathon. (There is also a half marathon and a 5k). I will not be racing if I go to Florida, but I plan on being out there on the course supporting my local friends, and I can support you too. I train on the course all the time, and I'd be glad to give you the personal tour. If you are looking for a large, well run marathon with a great expo and great volunteers in a great city, this is the one for you. Who's in?

Early April, Galveston, Texas: (traditionally held first weekend in April) This is an event that has HUGE potential. There is a sprint distance event, an olympic distance, and a half-iron. Moreover, problems associated with the event are probably a thing of the past. The new race director does Timberman and knows what he is doing. No matter if you're a newbie or working toward an ironman, this early season event with open water ocean swim will get you going. And it is a mere hop skip and a jump away from Chez Greyhound. You like?

April 21-22, 2007, Houston to Austin: BP MS 150--the biggest and best in the nation. Ride with me from Houston to Austin, either over two days with the peloton of 13,000 people who will raise more than $11 million to fight multiple sclerosis or with the crazy triathletes (probably me included) who will attempt the 180 miles in one day. I can hook you up with the best training ride series and the best team in the city. AND I will defray the cost of all post-event, adult recovery beverages for whichever TBC members ride with me and raise more than $1000 to fight Mrs. Greyhound's condition.

Here is where it gets really murky. Do I do another half-iron from the 70.3 series? Do I do some big olympic events out of town? The answer might depend upon who toes the line with me. Here are some thoughts.

Early July: The Triple Bypass--120 miles over three massive climbs in the Rocky Mountains. I told Bold I would do it, so who's going with us? Kahuna? Benny? Nytro? Commodore? Anyone? Anyone?

Mid-July: Lifetime Fitness Triathlon: A super olympic event. Plus, if Trimama and the tribe are out in force, who am I to understimate the power of the force?

Late August: The Accenture Chicago Triathlon--the biggest olympic distance event on the planet. If Iron Wil and the Kahuna show up, how could I not, if only to carry their gear? Who else?

Ironman 70.3 Events: This is the big big question. One of these is likley to be the A event of the season. Buffalo Springs Lake again? Vineman? Timberman? Steelhead? Cancun? Clearwater? What to do, what to do? Who's going where?

Trail Run Proverbs

I ran today, for the first time since BSLT 70.3. Hey, its called an offseason. I ran a little under 3 miles. Big whoop, you say. Yeah, I know; but, I did run it at 9600 feet above sea level. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was the scenery, but I had all sorts of thoughts that were a revelation to me.

1. If you run the trails looking at your feet, you'll keep your footing, but miss the mountains and starve your soul. If you run the trails looking at the mountains, your soul will be satisfied . . . until you fall on your ass. Find balance. Know the foundation under your feet as well as the cathedral over your head.

2. You can numb some of the discomfort of running with an i-pod, but if you do, you'll miss the sound of the Blue River falling over rocks. Funny, you also won't be able to smell the wildflowers, spruce and pine floating in the breeze. Falling water and wildflowers are not mere background; they are food for the spirit.

3. Don't judge your run going uphill. Don't judge your run flying down with gravity. Mountaintops and valleys are both deceptive. The true quality of your efforts is average of the daily grind. 80% of that is just showing up.

4. People see you when you swim, bike or run. Some say, "I could never do that." Others, "I wish I could do that." Some of those will eventually say, "why not? I can do that." You never know who you're inspiring--if you show up.

5. 80% of inspring someone else is showing up.

6. Kids swim. Kids bike. Kids run. They do it for fun. Be a kid.

Bold And Gracious Celebrity Ride

People, my fine, fine people. This has truly been like a vacation with the stars. First, mere coincidence puts me on the same mountain as the Kahuna. And if I sound a little like Bold this evening, it is because I had an epic celebrity ride with a most gracious and excellent triblogger. Yah. I'll tell yah abooot it.



Bolder from Boulder made the trek to the Greyhounds' summer spread on top of the world in Breck--that's Breckenridge to the unwashed SLP masses back in sweaty Texas. (Don't get the wrong idea. We only rent a place for bit.) Not only was he cool enough to make quite a trek up from Boulder, he was completely gracious and never once complained on our ride about my SLP pace and inability to slip the gravitational pull of earth on our epic climbs.

I seriously doubt that Bold ever exceeded a comfortable zone 2, while my own heart rate was well into the redline, especially on the climbs. I may or may not have requested a pink Vespa once or twice. Prince to the core, Bold merely entertained and enjoyed a beautiful day in the mountains.

We did the only climb on the Triple Bypass that Bold had not yet accomplished. We screamed down from Breck to Frisco, hung a left, climbed to Copper Mountain, and then really started to work. It was well rewarded. A view like this is 10 times as special if you work for it.



Next summer, it is Triple Bypass time for the lot of us. Come on Kahuna. Come correct. You do it too. (And get that picture of the dude off your sidebar.) To the extent we have you, Kahuna, to thank for this triblogger phenomenon, a huge round of thank yous from me. Does it get any better? Not only do we all have a great sport in common, the values and the attributes that bring us to this sport connect us with people all over the country. And they call this an individual sport???? Not in my experience.

Where The Sidewalk Ends

(With apologies to Shel Silverstein and Dr. Suess)

This is John, G.I. John.
John can ride bikes on and on.



Ski instructor, E-M-T
John is what I want to be
Riding, free as he can be
he gets social security.

He met me me at the Starrbucks shop
And said, "let's ride, and let's not stop."
He pumped some iron for an hour
then hit the roads and climbed the towers.



Mountains, lakes, epic ascents,
Swan Mountain Road past Keystone then



up and up and up some more
to Montezuma, one little store.
The top of all the roads around,
the pavement ends, the views astound.

Then down we came like birds of prey
What a view, and what a day.


Haven't tried it? Well, you should.
Cause bikes are fun, and fun is good.

Superstar

Yes, I did actually meet the Trigeek Kahuna today--and his family. They were exactly as pictured, with the exception that the kids kind of looked at me like, "who is this man, and what is a Kahuna?" How cool to meet someone for the first time and have it not feel like meeting a stranger, and then to talk about people we had never met like Wil and TriSaratops as mutual friends.

That said, neither the Kahuna nor I were the superstar of the moment. No, the real star of the show in this part of the country is the background. Just take a look at this cyclist's heaven:



How lucky was I do go cycling in a landscape like this:



There are tons of things you can pay to do in Breck. The best thing of all is just sitting outside, watching this world change with the sun's path across the sky, and seeing your own kid find the facination of playing in a creek--for free and with no batteries.

Life is beautiful.

Greyhounds At Play

Weather much improved. This is the view from the hot spot where I blog, er, I mean work.




Mrs. Greyhound keeps an eye on the puppy at the World's gnarliest skate park in Edwards, Colorado.



Sk8r Gurl busts a move. Note the pink helmet with stickers applied to cover Barbie logos, which are so yesterday.



Sk8r Gurl takes a break. (She looks just like me, only she's really cute.)

Calendar Submissions

Apparently having learned nothing from his leg shaving and ugly foot contest experiences, the Kahuna has suggested a traithlete calendar--with the triblogger alliance sporting substantially less gear than one would typically race in. Notwithstanding a certain amount of added body confidence of late, this (thankfully) is the most skin one is likely to see from Greyhound.

Greyhound Survives The Swim
(I am the hobbit in the white cap, not the cave troll adjusting his goggles. Note iron dude in the pink cap and wheel chair. That guy was nails).



Greyhound climbs out of T1. Carmen Tequilo did not let me down.




Climbing the spiral staircase--the portion of the bike where I started pining for a pink Vespa scooter, not that there's anything wrong with that.


Going out on the run, apparently after dinner and a movie given my abyssmal T2 time.



Limping home.



WHOO HOO! WOOF WOOF! BOWOW!



So ended my first 70.3 and my first experiment posting photos from Flickr. Thanks to all who helped with both.

Courage, eh?

Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.

Sometimes you blog for the world at large, sometimes for your triathlete friends, sometimes for yourself, and sometimes in the hopes that one reader in particular will take heart.

If you have dropped by da Republic, you will have noted that Bold's Triple Bypass did not go as planned. While acknowledging the difficulty of the course and the supreme difficulty of the conditions on the day, I think he put too much emphasis on the letters DNF.

He need not be troubled by doubts of his ability to finish. The final climb to Vale Pass from the east is something I have done in my pre-triathlete SLP days as the third of three passes. He definitely has the physical resources to have finished on that day or any other. Fortunately, he also had the good judgment to realize that this was not the day to try.

I started down from Breckenridge in a cool drizzle and little wind. I hit Frisco before any of the participants in the Triple Bypass and started the climb up to Copper Mountain, intending to meet Bold and his posse on the slopes to Vale Pass. The weather got progressively colder and progressively more dangerous as time went on. At Copper Mountain, by the time I got the message that Team Bold had abandoned, the very first of the Bypass riders were making the climb in a wind driven rain.

The passes and the tops of the peaks were invisible. It was like something from Tolkien. Misty Mountains from which Saruman's voice of doom is carried on the wind. (Yah, that's how geeky I am). To descend was to take your life in your hands. The risk of hypothermia or a fatal touching of the pavement was very real. In particular, the west side of Vale pass is narrow, crooked, and very steep, right next to I-70, and likely covered with sand and debris washed from the highway. Better cyclists than us die on descents like that. Mother Nature is a Beyotch, and in the mountains, you trifle with her at your peril.

Read the Churchill quotes above. Bold has stated that he and his posse have unfinished business with the Triple Bypass. That statement alone means that this year is no failure; it is merely delayed success. I hope I get to share it.

Rock on Bold. Ironman awaits.

Greyhound Gets High

Duuuuuuuuuuude. This is, like, totally awesome. Sersly.

No, don't fret, Wil. It's not that kind of high. It's not that kind of high. It's the 9000+ feet above sea level kind of high.

Sersly.

I made my escape yesterday from the HELL that is Houston in July for some time away with the family and invited friends in Colorado while the housesitter watches our palacial suburban McEstate and the actual canines left behind. It was in the 40s this morning in Breckenridge. In dog temps, that is totally bliss me out cool. Mrs. Greyhound and the puppy are here for the whole month, me somewhat less, because someone has to pay for this junket.

And today I kick off the grand adventure with a mini celebrity ride of sorts. Later today, I mount Jessie "Go Jessie" Cannondale, my faithful roadie steed, and make my way down from Breck, hang a left at Frisco and climb part way up Vail Pass to cheer for the participants in the Triple Bypass. In particular, I will be meeting up with Bold. I will be his SLP domestique to the top of the pass. Actually, I'll probably be the pathetic lantern rouge because there is NO OXYGEN up here. Hopefully the six party talks between Boulderites and Ogdenites will proceed some time later in the summer.

I have a new digital snapshot camera and have absolutely no idea what I'm doing to get some pics on the blog, so with any luck I'll learn something and have some pics later.

Triathletes Gone Wild

I know it may be hard to believe, but with triathlon, as with most things, it is possible to have too much of a good thing. There are some signs of profound triathlon addiction that very clearly signal that you need some balance in your life. Primarily, they are behaviors that are meant to signal, "if you ain't a triathlete, you ain't [expletive deleted}." These behaviors are thought to be particularly prevalent at Ironman events, and some were actually observed by me and members of my group at the Buffalo Springs Lake Ironman 70.3 race.

If you notice any of these behaviors, you might consider taking up some additional hobbies, maybe scrap booking or stamp collecting.

1. Wearing spandex around the hotel and the expo, just because you look good in tight fitting clothing.

2. Vanity plates that say "IRNMN" or "140.6" or some such iteration.

3. Standing on your hotel balcony after the race in your tri shorts for purposes of baring your shaved torso to the adoring public. (Note, said tri shorts showed no salt stains and it is believed that the perpetrators involved showered and changed into fresh gear solely for purposes of the shaved-torso-strut.

Other warning signs would be:

Having the M-dot monogrammed on your business attire.

Wearing Ironman race t-shirt almost anywhere other than to do household chores or maybe to a triathlon club meeting

Wearing your Ironman finisher's medal at any time after taking your race gear off--especially in lieu of a tie. (Sersly, give it to your kids to play with or put it in a shadow box or something.)

Seriously considering having an M-dot tatooed somewhere that would be visible while wearing business attire (back of hand, both cheeks, center of forehead, etc.)

Insisting that your business colleagues call you "Iron Mike" or "Tri-Dude" etc.

M-dot bumper stickers

This sport and its positive self-image are potentially dangerous and addicting. Men. Women. Don't let this happen to you.

Declaration

Read the stories of age grouper triathletes and you will start to notice something that many of them have in common. They declared that they would no longer be bound by whatever impediment quashed their spirit. The impediments need not be the same. For some it is weight, or shyness, or fear, or lack of fitness, or grief. But the declartions are remarkably the same. As Wil put it on one of the GYGO episodes:

"This has got to change and it starts right now."

Making the declaration only once hardly suffices. We make it again and again when we live it out--every time we rise in the dark, conquer our fear of the water or our demons on the long ride or our pain on the run. In the blogosphere, every time we encourage each other, we pledge faith to that declaration.

Our declaration may be apolitical, but it is a close kissing cousin to that declaration of 230 years ago. By the power of that declaration we travel this country without identity papers, freely enter races, freely compete, and even blog without fear that King George X might be offended by our thoughts. Read a little bit of it again. Although the words are different, they declare, "this has got to change and it starts now," and then they pledge their "sacred honor" to their brethren. 230 years later, they would have been posting comments, "You can do it. Hang in there."

"When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.
* * *
"We, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, . . . . — And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

Triathlete Stud Part Deux

Peoples, my fine peoples. (Oh, wait, I am not going to channel Bolder from Boulder. Benny would understand. He's got a huge heart. But Nytro scares me.)

Popular demand (and my paralyzing need for female approval) has dictated that photos from the Ironman 70.3--Buffalo Springs Lake adventure be shared. Ladies, I am taken, so you will have to restrict your admiring sentiments to these photographs. Yet, I am willing to bear up under commentary that would make a lesser man feel like a piece of triathlete beefcake meat.

No need to thank me. I'm just here to . . . well you know the rest.

This is the swim start. I'm in the white cap. Did you see me? This is the only picture taken of me exiting the water. I'm the hobbit in the white cap behind the cave troll in the foreground. Nevertheless, it is proof positive that I did in fact complete the swim. (Note the physically challenged athlete to the left of the picture that I mentioned in my race reports. Those guys were everywhere and they were totally inspiring.)

Here is Greyhound and Carmen Tequilo climbing out of the transition area, and here is a shot in the aero bars. Here is the run out (gee it looks hot), and here is the return to the park late in the half-marathon (it is hot). HERE IS THE FINISH! WOO HOO! Finally, a picture of me with my lovely parting gifts--the finisher's medal made from some unknown precious metal.

I mentioned some of my team mates and companions in the race reports, so here is M&M on the bike and running through the finish. She will do Ironman Western Australia this year and is probably most responsible for giving me the confidence that I could do this distance. Finally, Robo-Christy at the swim exit (note the smile), on the bike (note the high wattage smile notwithstanding the 7.5% grade) and Robo-Christy on the run (she's still smiling). If you search her photos, you will note that she is also smiling at the finish, and had her medallion photo taken (while smiling) with a lady she undoubtedly chatted up (while running 8:09 pace) on the run course. At least we know of one triathlete wearing the USA gear that is guaranteed to be smiling at the ITU Long Course World Championships.

Finally, Natascha Badmann who finished a leeeeetle bit before I did, and Luke Bell who finished in under four hours. Only a little faster and we could have performed experiments in relativity or time travel or something.

Seriously, the experience has become more and more fun as it gets further in my rear view mirror. I can't wait to get back to training after a little rest and recreation.

Droopy Dog

I am working on a humorous post about triathlete idiosyncracies, and I was thinking of posting it tonight, but I can't do it. It's just not coming together. If you'll allow a little wallowing, I am in a real funk.

This has been a tough week. You all have probably experienced the blues or depression after a big race or when you back off your training. This was the week after my Ironman 70.3 race, and I have been resting and intentionally beginning a period of detraining. Add to this that Mrs. Greyhound and the puppy are away, and you can imagine why I'm a bit down.

Tonight, I was sitting at my desk trying to organize the bills as Pararie Home Companion was ending. I flahsed back, eighteen years ago, to a winter evening when I would have been listening to the same progam in my empty quarters at the University of Wisconsin. Most everyone else was out on State Street. I listened to their voices and watched the snow from my window. My afianced Mrs. Greyhound all the way across the country, just like she is tonight.

I am nearly twice as old as I was then, but I feel the same angst of youthful loneliness. In a sense, it is worse now. The Christian marriage liturgy talks of how man and wife become "one flesh." As a younger man, those words meant something primarily physical to me. As an older man, I know tonight that part of who I am--part of me--is not here tonight.